Part 2

As the door closed, Bab always gave a very little sigh, and set to work to find some amusement. Sometimes she played for a long time with a wooden footstool which she called her boy; and sometimes, if she felt cold, she crept into bed and fell asleep. But she loved best to stand by the window. The top of her head just came to the lowest pane, and she could not see into the street, but only up into the sky and gaze at the clouds. How Bab loved those clouds! especially the great shining ones that lay still, like huge mountains far away on the horizon. She was a little afraid of the black clouds, but she would stretch out her arms to the bright ones and whisper, "Oh, you booful country! Bab would like to be in you, for always and always!"

Sometimes she had not even the clouds to keep her company, for the whole sky would be one gray mass, and then Bab had hard work to keep from crying, and she wished and wished that her brother and sister would come home. The moment she heard them on the stairs she forgot her troubles, and when Nell looked in at the door she found a laughing face, and the jolly voice soon rang out louder than ever. The happy afternoon quite made up for the long weary morning.

As soon as Nellie had cleared away their dinners she wrapped Bab up in a warm shawl, and the three took a walk to the big street which ran near by. At the corner of this street was a candy shop, which the children thought splendid. Sometimes they would spend nearly an hour peering in at the window, and telling each other what they would buy "when they were rich."

Something else besides candy drew them to this corner. A nurse and two children, a boy and a girl, often passed up and down the street. The little boy wore a sailor suit, with bright buttons, and the little girl, just the age of Bab, had a lovely dress, trimmed with lace, and a Leghorn hat. Such a hat! Nellie used to think that if she could once see Bab dressed like that she would be perfectly happy.

The poor children liked looking at the pretty clothes of their more fortunate brother and sister, but still more did they enjoy looking at their faces. They were so kind and bright, and often they smiled cheerily at their little admirers. Little did they know what a ray of sunshine these smiles shed into the lives of these little ones. A day seemed quite empty to Nellie and her charges when they did not catch a glimpse of their "little gentry."

Sometimes Bill, Nellie, and Bab ventured farther than the candy shop. They liked to look at the grand windows, especially those of one wonderful toy shop. Nellie and Bab never complained because they could not possess the treasures displayed. It did not occur to them to desire them. They were perfectly contented just to look at them. But Bill's face was sometimes dark, and once he said to Nellie, with a frown:

"Doesn't it seem hard that we get nothing, that even dear Bab can not have anything? I should like to give her something to play with when we are away."

The grief that Bab had nothing to play with was an old one. Nellie and Bill had often tried to contrive some way of getting a plaything for Bab, and once they had enticed a stray dog into their room, but it soon escaped, and Bab was lonelier than ever. A cat, too, had been tried, but one fine night took her departure to the roof, never to return.

"Never mind, Billy," answered Nellie, "we can look at the lovely things, and that is nearly as good as having them."

Bill did not reply. His face was long. His eyes looked as if tears were not far off.

"Nell," he said, "I don't see why it is that we can never have any of the beautiful things that other children have. I am sure we try to be good."

"Oh, hush, Bill! here are the little gentry," whispered Nellie.

"The little gentry" were standing gazing in at the window too, or at least the baby was. The boy was looking at Bill with a questioning expression.

"Well," asked Nurse, "have you made up your minds what you are going to spend your money upon?"

"Es," answered the baby.

The little boy stood still, turning his shilling over and over in his hand.

"Come along, Master Dreamer," cried Nurse, as she entered the shop. "Have you not made up your mind what to spend your shilling upon?"

"Yes," answered the little fellow, with a sort of sigh.

Nurse had disappeared. Blushing furiously, the boy pressed his bright shilling into Bill's rough little hand.

"No, no," said Bill.

"I would rather," stammered the little gentleman, not waiting for thanks. He ran into the store, and stood quietly by while the baby spent her shilling, and when Nurse asked why he did not spend his, he climbed on a chair and whispered something in her ear.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

WHAT TELEGRAPH POLES ARE MEANT FOR.

BY ELLA RODMAN CHURCH.

In the island of Sumatra, at the bottom of the map, Where Asia holds such giant lands in her capacious lap, The Elephants rise fiercely, in the maddest kind of mob, When the telegraph employés have finished up a job, And joined by wires electric places very far away, For the purpose of conversing--if they've anything to say; These animals uproarious will throw upon the ground The telegraphic poles and wires wherever they are found, While wires and insulators are carried off to hide In the deep gloomy jungles where the angry beasts abide. All the labor goes for nothing when the poles are set again, For the Elephants are watching these persevering men, Who stick poles where they don't want them, across their "right of way," And they tear down in the night-time what the men have done by day.

With the Monkeys and Baboons it is quite another thing, For the telegraphic wires make the nicest kind of swing; And just the firmest tight-rope for any sort of antic. While rambling on "from pole to pole" sounds really quite romantic. It's a very cute arrangement, far better than the trees, Which do for common purposes, but not for such as these. "And those lovely colored glasses!" says delighted Mrs. Ape, "This really looks like living in some decent sort of shape; The cocoa-nut shells hold water, which is all that one can say, But these glasses for the future shall cover my buffet." So the monkeys haste to gather all the prizes they can reach, And twist off every insulator with a triumphant screech, While they chatter and they gibber, and they dance and they play On the telegraphic wires all the night and all the day.

We read in "Mother Goose" of quiet little Miss Muffet, Who was eating curds and whey, and sitting on a tuffet, When, in the midst of happiness, there came along a Spider, And, without waiting to be asked, sat down just beside her. Now the Spiders in Japan treat the telegraphic wires (Not daunted in the least by their being such high-flyers) As this Spider did Miss Muffet, and coolly took a seat On the pole, perhaps, beside the wires so high above the street; For they bring their spinning with them, so dainty and so fine, And they drop, to begin with, an experimental line. With such a handy frame-work as these telegraphic wires Mrs. Spider soon can weave a web that meets all her desires, With draperies for the parlor that's to catch the silly fly, And it is the prettiest parlor that ever you did spy.

On the bare Western plains there's a dreadful lack of trees, And nothing for the Buffaloes to scratch themselves at ease; So a telegraphic pole proves a blessing in disguise, That brings the tears of gratitude to many hair-roofed eyes. Though first with some suspicion, "What ever is this thing?" Exclaims, in great perplexity, the dauntless prairie King; Then makes a sudden onslaught, as is his mighty way, To find a pole for scratching, and _not_ a foe at bay. "How jolly!" says King Buffalo--"how very kind of man To get up this convenience on such an easy plan! One grand good scratch, and then I'm off"--but so the pole is too, Off from its equilibrium--a sorry sight to view. That sudden rush of matter lays it flat upon the plain, Until the telegraphic men have set it up again; And when they seek with roughest nails to bristle it all o'er, The Buffalo pronounces them even kinder than before; For what are nails for but to scratch? and as scratching is his plan, He feels under obligations to the thoughtfulness of man. So he scratches all the poles down, rejoicing on his way, While the men who set them up again have something else to say; That something is not flattering to friend Buffalo at all, But he is off beyond the sound of voice or musket-ball.

LITTLE NYÂGÂNDI.

Nyâgândi is a little girl whose home is a mere hut on the shores of the Ogawe River, in West Africa. A lady who has gone as a missionary to her people has told a very pretty story about her, which we are sure our girls will like to read.

Nyâgândi has never worn any clothing in her life, except a cloth tied around her waist. It has been only lately that she has thought of wearing anything else.

Since she has been attending school in the mission-house, and learning to read, she is anxious to wear a dress like her kind friends, and so with slow but patient fingers she is learning to make one out of some bright calico.

She owns a canoe, in which she darts here and there over the creeks and rivers like a graceful dusky bird.

One Saturday she paddled to the mission-house, and sold some bunches of plantains to the ladies.

"Now, Nyâ," said one of them, "to-morrow will be Sunday, and you must come to service."

"I surely will," she answered, "if I am alive."

Saturday night somebody stole Nyâ's canoe, and on Sunday nobody would lend her another, yet she was in her place in church, and in time. Her home was on the opposite shore of the river, at that place a third of a mile wide, with a current flowing deep and strong. How had she crossed?

In the simplest way in the world--by swimming. Some of the boys had seen the dark head bobbing up and down in the waves, or it is doubtful whether she would have said a word about her performance.

But, little women, who sometimes pout at wearing an old bonnet or dress to church, please think of the African girl, so anxious to keep her promise that she swam the Ogawe on Sunday morning rather than be absent when the good missionaries expected to see her at the Christian worship.

THE BRAVEST FEAT OF ALL.

BY DAVID KER.

"Warm work, eh, Pierre," said one French grenadier to another, as his cap was knocked off by a bullet, while a second tore a strip of skin from his shoulder.

"True enough, comrade," answered the other, wiping the blood from a wound in his cheek; "but the Little Corporal will get us through it all right."

The Little Corporal (otherwise called the Emperor Napoleon) was indeed doing his best to get them through it; but honest Jacques might well say that it was warm work. The great fight which was to be known in history as the battle of Jena was at its hottest, and no one--among the common soldiers at least--could yet say which side was likely to get the best of it. True, the French were ninety thousand strong against forty thousand Prussians, and had taken their enemies completely by surprise; but, on the other hand, the Prussians were up on a high hill, where it was not easy to get at them, and the centre of their line was covered by a village, which they had fortified and filled with cannon, making it altogether "a hard nut to crack."

Fighting their way through a terrible cannonade, the French had reached the village, and burst into it; but they found all the streets barricaded, and the houses crammed with musketeers, who kept up a terrible fire upon them. Could they have brought their whole force to bear at once, the affair would soon have been over; but by some mischance the supports had been delayed, and all that the van-guard could do was to intrench themselves in the houses which they had taken, and wait for the main body to come up.

Foremost in the fight was a dashing captain of light-infantry--tall, strong, black-browed, and terrible as any chief in Homer. He had the name of being the strongest man and best swordsman in the whole regiment, and liked nothing better than a chance of showing his strength in a hand-to-hand fight. So when he found himself driven to stand behind the corner of a wall, with nothing to do but watch the enemy's bullets smashing the window-frames, or going "plug" into the timbers of the house front, it was no wonder if "Captain Dreadnaught" (as his men had justly nicknamed him) began to feel rather sulky.

"Pretty work for a soldier," growled he, under his huge black mustache; "to be knocked on the head like a caged rat by a pack of rogues whom one can't even see! Ah, if the rascals would only come out into the open, and let us have a fair chance at them!"

But better luck was at hand. All at once a tremendous shout rose high above all the din of the firing, and forward came the French supports at a run, right up the slope of the hill, and into the village. The moment the blue frocks were seen advancing, Captain Dreadnaught, too eager even to wait until he could get down to the door, leaped right out of the window into the street, waving his sword and shouting like a madman. His men followed him, and the nearest houses were cleared with a rush, and every man in them killed or made prisoner.

Just then was heard a sudden crackling and hissing, while a fierce red glare shot up over the roofs of the surrounding cottages. The shells had set the village on fire, and what with sparks and hot ashes raining down upon them, clouds of stifling smoke rolling around them on every side, and blazing timbers crashing down close to their heads, the French soldiers had anything but a comfortable time of it. However, they still held their ground unflinchingly, although their smarting eyes could hardly see to take aim, and every breath that they drew seemed to come from the mouth of a furnace.

On a sudden a strange sound began to be heard in the distance, like rain pattering on fallen leaves. Louder and nearer it came, until it swelled into a deep hollow roll that seemed to shake the very earth; and out from the smoke in front broke a mass of fierce men's faces, and horses' heads, and gleaming sabres, and gay uniforms. The Prussian cavalry were charging them. One hasty crackle of musketry, one clash and whirl of sabres, and then the wave was upon them, and passed over them; and nothing was left in its track but the dying and the dead.

Captain Dreadnaught, who had been flung aside into a doorway by the shock of the charge, was just scrambling to his feet again when he saw his color-sergeant fall under the sabre of a powerful trooper, who seized the regimental colors. With one spring the Captain was out in the middle of the street, and in another moment the Prussian went down in his turn under a blow that might have cleft a rock, while Captain Dreadnaught clutched the rescued standard, just as five of the enemy fell upon him at once.

A sudden bound foiled the charge of the foremost two, while another good sabre-cut rid him of the third. Firing his one remaining pistol through the head of one assailant, he dealt the other a blow in the face with the broken staff, which knocked out half his teeth. But in the mean time the first two had reined up and faced about, and now they both made at him at once.

Another moment and all would have been over with the daring Captain. But just at that instant a fresh shout was heard behind, and one of the Prussian troopers, struck by a bullet, fell heavily to the ground. The other turned his horse and rode off, while the second line of French infantry, against which the Prussian charge had broken itself, came on in its turn, just as the Captain, still clasping the flag, sank exhausted on the ground.

Three hours later all was over. The great battle had been fought and lost; the splendid Prussian army had melted into a rabble of fugitives. Napoleon, surrounded by his generals, was standing in triumph amid the ruins of the village which had been the centre of the enemy's position.

"Sire," said a big, hard-faced man in the gorgeous uniform of a Marshal of France, leading forward our friend the Captain, who, although very pale, and with a blood-stained bandage around his forehead, looked as fearless and resolute as ever, "this is the brave officer whom I saw defending his regimental colors on foot against five mounted Prussians."

"Captain Dreadnaught, is it not?" said the Emperor, who seemed to know by sight not merely every officer but even every private in his whole army. "It is the best of all names for a French soldier, and no reward is too great for the man who fears nothing. Wear this, _Colonel_" (and he took from his breast the cross of the Legion of Honor, which he had lately instituted), "as my gift to the bravest man in the regiment; and let it remind you that you have a commander who never lets any gallant deed go unrewarded."

Every one expected to see the new-made Colonel look overwhelmed with joy; but except for the faint flush that crossed it, his dark face never changed a whit.

"Sire," answered he, firmly, "this is the proudest moment of my life; but I can not accept what does not belong to me."

A murmur of astonishment ran through the group, and even Napoleon's marble face wore a look of surprise.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "You have fairly won this cross, and I give it to you freely."

"Your Majesty has said," replied Dreadnaught, "that you give it to the bravest in the regiment; and there is one who has this day done a far braver deed than mine."

"Indeed?" said the Emperor. "Well, I should like to see the man who could do that. Where is he?"

"Here," answered the officer, stepping suddenly back among his men, and leading out a little drummer-boy barely twelve years old, whose blue eyes widened into a stare of terrified wonder as he found himself, for the first time in his life, face to face with the great Emperor.

"I saw this boy," said Dreadnaught, "drag two wounded soldiers out of a burning house in the village yonder; and he had hardly got them out when down came the roof, singeing his hair, as you see."

"Good!" growled Marshal Ney, rubbing his hands.

"And as if that was not enough," continued Dreadnaught, "he went into the thickest of the fire to fetch water for our wounded; but as he was coming back with it, a ball hit his leg, making him stumble and spill the water. What does he do but hobble all the way back and fill his pail again, with the blazing timbers falling on every side, and the enemy's shot flying about his ears like hail!"

The listening soldiers broke into a cheer that made the air ring, and Napoleon, with a smile such as few men had ever seen him wear, stepped forward and fixed the cross with his own hands upon the drummer-boy's breast.

"I'll find _you_ another cross to-morrow, Colonel," said he; "but you say truly that this fine fellow should go first. It's the first time I've heard of him, but I'll warrant it won't be the last."

He was right; for, not many years later, the little drummer-boy had become a General.

A TROPICAL HURRICANE.

BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.

High noon in the little Anglo-Spanish town of Queenston, island of St. Vincent: everything and everybody seem to be dozing quietly in the hot, drowsy atmosphere.

"Why, all the people must be asleep or dead," mutters Ned Brandon, discontentedly, as he stands on the corner of the one principal street of Queenston, under the shade of a neat silk umbrella, and stares about him. Truth to tell, Ned, who is something of a dandy, had before going ashore dressed himself with exceeding care in his little state-room on board the brig _Calypso_, owned by his father, and in which, under the care of good Captain Hardy, he is making a vacation trip to the West Indies.

He has on a dazzling suit of pure white linen, a handsome Panama hat, a white neck-tie, low patent-leather shoes, and striped silk stockings.

"Well, I certainly took a great deal of trouble for nothing in this matter of dressing," grumbles Ned, looking listlessly up and down the almost deserted street.

Gayly painted shops, where one may buy anything from a penny roll to a steam-boiler, alternate with small, one-story "bonnet-roof" houses, with barred and jail-like windows. Past these an occasional group of meek-looking yellow coolies, as much alike in appearance as a flock of sheep, shuffle over the rude pavement. Occasionally the blackest kind of a negro from some neighboring plantation appears, driving before him three or four diminutive donkeys laden with sugar-cane or panniers of ripe fruit.

In the shade of the little stone custom-house, the open door of which is guarded by a negro, in tattered uniform, bearing a flint-lock musket, sits a drowsy Creole woman on the edge of the pavement. Before her, on a brazier of glowing coals, bubbles a pot of odorous soup, to be retailed to possible customers at a penny per bowl. Whatever may be the remaining ingredients of the compound, it is plainly evident that garlic predominates.

The reason why there is no one to admire the elaborately dressed young fellow on the corner is very simple. Queenston is taking its noonday siesta.

In every little court-yard and inclosure swing sleeping forms in grass hammocks, shaded by luxuriant growths of pawpaw, banana, and plantain, orange, mango, and tamarind, while above all towers the beautiful cocoa-palm with its clusters of golden green fruit.

"I might as well go down to the landing-steps and signal the _Calypso_ to send the boat ashore," mutters Ned, with a yawn, himself not unaffected by the drowsy surroundings.

"Oh, I say!" suddenly exclaims a boyish voice behind him. Ned feels a timid touch on his shoulder, and he wheels sharply round. "I'm Joe Sampson," continues the new-comer, who is a young fellow a year or two younger than Ned, speaking in an eager, hurried tone, "and I belong out to Dedham, Massachusetts. I ran away from a Provincetown whaler. Don't you think your Cap'n will give a fellow a chance to work his passage back to the States?" And the gaunt, hollow-eyed, sun-browned face of the speaker is lit up with eager anticipation as he breathlessly awaits the other's answer.

Ordinarily Ned would have answered, "Of course he will," with hearty cordiality. But the thermometer indicates ninety-two degrees in the shade; he is hot, hungry, and irritable. Besides, Joe Sampson in his rimless straw hat, coarse blue shirt, tattered trousers, and worn-out shoes is anything but prepossessing as to outward appearance.

"I don't think Captain Hardy cares to ship a green hand," coldly begins Ned, and is thoroughly ashamed of his words as soon as he has spoken. But before he can mend them, Joe, with a mute gesture of despair, turns the corner, and hurries off.

"Hi, there!" shouts Ned, remorsefully, "hold on a bit." But Joe either can not or will not hear. He is walking along a narrow street of picturesque but unclean negro cabins--a street which ascending as it leaves the town limits, widens into a mountain road, leading upward to the heights which overhang Queenston on all but the harbor side.

Impulsive Ned stands for a few moments irresolute.

"Hungry no doubt, and homesick of course," he says, half aloud. "What a wretch I am, to be sure!"