Part 3

Of course this Latin does not bother the big boys, but for the benefit of little Puss in the Corner, I'll translate it. It means that Elizabeth, the Queen, was a lamb to the English and a lion to the Spanish, which the latter no doubt thought was true when the great ships that composed their wonderful "Armada" went to pieces on her coast.

In very, very old times there was an idea that an anagram really possessed the power to tell a person's character. But that was mere nonsense. It is only a dainty trifle, like a cross-word, an acrostic, or any other puzzle.

There was once a Lady Eleanor Davies, who annoyed the community by preaching in the streets of London. She was very likely insane, but she thought herself a prophetess. The police arrested her, and she was taken before the English Court of High Commission to answer for her misbehavior.

She said she knew God wished her to preach, because she had found in her name this anagram:

Eleanor Davies--. Reveal, O Daniel.

Now she ought to have had here an _s_, and she had an _l_ to which she had no right, so her anagram was not correct. It rather impressed the by-standers, though, and the judges would have found it hard to persuade the poor lady to promise to keep still in future, if she had not been crushed by another anagram which somebody made up on the spot,

Dame Eleanor Davies-- Never so mad a ladie!

From that moment she yielded to her fate.

Nobody was ever more hated than Napoleon Bonaparte in England in the beginning of this century. Therefore he was a popular man who was the author of this:

Napoleon Bonaparte-- Bona rapta leno pone.

"Rascal, yield up your stolen possessions."

There are two very good anagrams on two of Napoleon's conquerors, Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, and Horatio Nelson. The first is, "Let well-foiled Gaul secure thy renown." Gaul is the ancient name of France. The second is in Latin:

Horatio Nelson-- Honor est a Nilo.

"There is honor from the Nile." The battle of the Nile was the first in which Lord Nelson won a great victory, when he was highest in command.

Many of you have read in history, and in the novels of Sir Walter Scott, about that unfortunate Prince, Charles James Stuart, who was called the Pretender. The brave Highlanders rallied around him, and gave their lives and fortunes in the attempt to restore him to his father's throne, partly because they had great faith in two anagrams. One was:

Charles James Stuart-- He asserts a true claim.

The other,

James Stuart-- A just master.

Alas, for "bonnie Prince Chairlie!" the charm was in vain. He never sat on England's throne. He died without a kingdom, a broken-hearted man.

The question asked by the Roman Governor, Pilate, of our Saviour, who stood before him a prisoner, "What is truth?" is, in Latin, "Quid est Veritas?" It has been rendered, "Vir est qui adest," the Man who is before you.

You remember Florence Nightingale, who went with a band of nurses to take care of the poor soldiers wounded in the Crimea, or sick with fever in the wretched camps of the allied armies. They called her "the lady with the lamp," and all England--yes, all the world--loves her. Is not this a pretty anagram on her sweet name:

Florence Nightingale-- Flit on, cheering angel?

It is curious what _pat_ anagrams you may make on certain words which relate to things. For instance, _Presbyterian_, by a shake like a turn of the kaleidoscope, is "best in prayer," and _Penitentiary_, "nay, I repent it." _Old England_ easily becomes "Golden Land," and what could better describe the state of busy _editors_ than "so tired" of reading and writing? _Astronomers_ are "moon-starers," of course; and is not the _telegraph_ "a great help"?

We wonder who will succeed best in this anagram building, father and mother or the young folks? If some of the latter succeed in making very happy anagrams, they will not regret their revival of this old-fashioned amusement.

PUNCHINELLO.

HIS EXTRAORDINARY LIFE AND MARVELLOUS ADVENTURES.

I.

Every one of you little folks who has been to Naples knows Punchinello, and those who have not extended their travels as far as that beautiful city are well acquainted, I am sure, with "Punch and Judy."

Well, Punchinello, which, after all, only means "Little Punch," and who is the same Punch that we all know and like so well, was born on the shore of the Bay of Naples, and this is his wonderful history:

There was once upon a time a boatman named Pulci, who lived in a little white house with his wife quite near the shore where his boat was moored. Now these two good people always longed for a little child, and were quite unhappy because they did not have any.

But one day when they were sitting quite alone a big cat, black as soot, appeared to jump from under the bed, and ran between Pulci's legs, completely upsetting him. After which it rushed out at the half-open door. At the same time there came an odd cry from the cradle.

"Wife, go and see what it is," said the trembling Pulci.

Accordingly the poor woman approached the cradle, and nearly cried with joy when she saw a little human being inside.

"Husband! husband!" she cried, "what a pretty child!"

A mother's eyes are indulgent, and in a deformity more or less they never find anything to complain of. However, this pretty child only had two defects--one in front, his stomach being shaped like a comma, and the other on his back, which was like a note of exclamation. As far as his face went, there was nothing to object to, unless it might be that his nose was rather like a parrot's beak, the point of which very nearly joined his turned-up chin.

At the end of six weeks one would have certainly said that Punchinello was sixteen years old, so quickly did he grow, and so extraordinary was his intelligence. His father, seeing how advanced he was, resolved to make a street porter of him.

"Oh, dear me, no!" said Punchinello, with all due respect. "I have quite another idea in my head."

"Well, what is it?" said his father.

"I want to go to Court."

"What next?" cried the good man, laughing.

"The reason is," replied Punchinello, "that being deformed, and having a hump in front and a hump behind, I had better learn to read and write. I will be a scholar. You are too poor to attend to my education, and that is why the King ought to look after it. I am sure to succeed in making him do so, but for that I must have a donkey."

"A donkey!" cried father and mother; "but where are we to look for a donkey? Don't you know, my dear Punchinello, it is no easy matter to pick up a donkey?"

"Oh! never mind that. Sell your cottage. I will undertake to provide you with a much bigger one."

After arguing for an hour, Pulci was persuaded by Punchinello. He sold his house and bought the donkey.

Punchinello was no sooner master of a donkey than he was on its back, riding straight to the King's palace, and followed by a crowd of people and a dozen dogs.

"Sire," said Punchinello, with his funny, hoarse voice--"sire, my lords and ladies, and you good people all, I have the honor to announce to you that, with the permission of your Majesty, my donkey here will dance upon a tight-rope before your Highnesses. Your humble servant Punchinello will remain on the donkey's back during this marvellous performance."

The King was astonished. "But when is this to be, my funny fellow? I confess I am curious to witness this feat."

"Sire," replied Punchinello, "it will take place this very evening at seven o'clock, if your Majesty will be good enough to order your major-domo to provide me with all that I may require."

"Certainly," replied the King.

I must tell you, my friends, that this major-domo, who was named Bugolin, was universally hated throughout the kingdom for his wickedness and cruelty. For example, shortly before, he had ordered Punchinello's father to be beaten, giving as a reason that the poor old man had been seen treading on one of his Highness's horse's feet.

"Lord Bugolin," said the King, "I charge you to supply all that is necessary for this little man's performance. If by any chance we should be disappointed of this entertainment through your neglect, I will have you hanged upon the spot; but if Punchinello has undertaken a thing that he can't perform, he shall suffer the punishment instead."

"Sire, I agree," said Punchinello.

Evening came at last. Thanks to the efforts of the major-domo, two poles fifty-one feet high were erected in the court-yard of the palace, and a rope was stretched from one to the other. The whole Court was stationed on platforms, and the King was seated on his throne in the middle of the centre pavilion. Punchinello arrived on his donkey, mounted the ladder which was placed against one of the posts, and began to bow and wave his hat.

"Now then, friend Punchinello," cried the King, "that's quite enough bowing. Begin your performance, for I am tired of waiting."

"Sire," replied Punchinello, "I am quite ready. I am waiting for the donkey."

"What, waiting for the donkey!" replied the King, getting furious. "Are you making fun of me? Didn't you promise me to make him dance upon the tight-rope?"

"And I still promise to make him do it, sire," replied Punchinello, "only I request that he may be brought to me here where I am now, for although I know exactly how to make my donkey dance on the rope, I haven't the least idea how to make him come up the ladder. That is your major-domo's business. He promised that everything should be on the spot ready, and now he won't let me have my donkey."

At these words the whole Court began to laugh, for every one was pleased at Lord Bugolin's embarrassment.

"But, sire--" said the major-domo, who could hardly contain his rage.

"No arguing," interrupted the King. "Make the donkey climb the ladder."

Lord Bugolin accordingly pulled the donkey to the foot of the ladder, and tried to get him to mount it, but the donkey wouldn't hear of such a thing.

"Come along! Get up, you obstinate animal!" cried my lord.

"Hi-haw! hi-haw! hi-haw!" answered the donkey, beginning to bray with all his might and main.

"You wretched beast," cried the major-domo, "will you go up or not?"

"Hi-haw! hi-haw! hi-haw!" answered the donkey, who stood firm as a rock.

"Get along, will you?" cried Lord Bugolin, showering blows on the donkey's back. But the donkey, out of patience, escaped all further indignity by kicking the grand major-domo so that he lay sprawling on the ground.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the people, and the courtiers could not contain their delight.

However, Punchinello came down the ladder, and went to assist Lord Bugolin, who had not been seriously hurt. He then ran at once to the royal pavilion, and throwing himself on his knees, asked the King's pardon with such a droll air of penitence that his Majesty said to him:

"Well, my little fellow, I grant it, but only on condition that you help me out of the difficulty I am in about my daughter's marriage."

The difficulty of which the King spoke was this: Some years before, the King being threatened in his capital with an invasion of the Turks, had begged the King of the Negroes for assistance. The latter had complied, on condition that he should be given the hand of the Princess of Naples. The bargain was made, and the Turks had been driven out by the troops of the two sovereigns. But now there was great lamentation, for the Princess was beautiful and amiable, and the Negro King was known to be ugly, ill-shapen, and of a nature to correspond. But what was to be done, as the King had given his word and pledged his honor?

"What!" replied Punchinello, "does the treaty only mention your promises, sire? and hasn't the King of the Negroes promised anything on his side?"

"Nothing, alas!" Then he added: "In order to amuse himself at my expense, my future son-in-law added a clause to the treaty, namely, that he would give a pair of slippers to the Princess for a wedding present, made of the most costly materials that she may feel disposed to select."

"Hurrah!" cried Punchinello. "Dry your eyes, Princess. The King of the Negroes shall not even touch the tip of your little finger. Sire, let me speak with the Ambassador, whom they say has just arrived."

The King at once caused the Ambassador to be summoned. As soon as he arrived, Punchinello said to him:

"Now, my Lord Ambassador, are not you bound, according to the treaty, to present a pair of slippers, of whatever kind she may choose, to the Princess?"

"Yes," said the Ambassador, "provided that the material is to be found under the sun."

"And if you refuse the slippers, no wedding, of course?"

"Certainly not," was the reply, with great insolence.

"Very good, my Lord Ambassador. The Princess has the good taste to be of opinion that nothing as beautiful as the skin of your fat cheeks is to be found on earth, as its blackness is only to be equalled by its lustre. Will you therefore have the goodness to see that a pair of slippers is made of this precious material? If you prefer keeping your skin for personal use, go home and tell your master so."

The Ambassador, who doubtless had his reasons for not wishing to have his cheeks skinned, replied by getting away as quickly as he could, followed by his five hundred negroes, and sailed from Naples without further delay.

Punchinello was the object of innumerable demonstrations of friendship from the King, who charged him to make any request he chose in return for what he had done.

"Sire," said Punchinello, "I desire to be allowed to kiss the hand of the Princess."

Every one marvelled at the tact of Punchinello. The Princess, smiling joyfully, held out her hand to the happy little hunchback, who kissed her four fingers, and then coming to the thumb, the ceremony was over.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

There was once a little girl who had a garden of her own, in which she planted a great many seeds. But somehow her seeds did not grow into flowers very fast. Do you know why?

It was because she kept digging them up every day, to make them show her the new leaves and buds. She vexed Mother Nature so by her worry and hurry that the wise old lady frowned until her cap ruffles shook, and said:

"That child shall have no flowers this year. When she plants her seeds, she must trust me to make them grow, and not peep into my work-shop so often."

The little girl who owns the flower-pot we give you this week will not put the good old mother in a pet. She knows that Nature is very busy waking up the sleeping flowers, and making their new spring dresses. And of course when the rain comes pit-a-pat on the roofs, and the wind goes racing along, driving the surf on the shore, that little girl knows that Dame Nature is full of her annual house-cleaning. When she is done, how everything will shine! The world will look as bright as a new penny. So let us all say,

"Little old woman, whither so high?"

Hark! What was that voice which came down the chimney?

"To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky."

To be sure! Now whose is this pretty flower-pot?

"Mine," says Dot. "Mine," says Fanny. "Yours," says Lulu to her little sick brother.

Somehow Lulu seems to deserve it most, but the Postmistress thinks we will all share the flowers together.

* * * * *

ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN.

I am a little boy almost seven years old. My papa gave me HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for a present last Christmas. I enjoy hearing my grandmamma read it very much. I live in Ann Arbor, where the Michigan University is located. I go to school every day, and I expect, if I live, to go by-and-by to the university. Would it not be strange and pleasant if I should there meet some of the little friends that write such interesting letters for the Post-office Box? I live with my grandpapa and grandmamma, for my dear mamma died when I was four months old. I have not many pets, but I love to play marbles. Do not some of the little boys I read about like to play with them too? I had a large bag of the most beautiful marbles ever seen sent me from my uncle living in California.

WICKER J. M.

Playing marbles is delightful if you will only return the marbles you win to their former owners when your game is over. Playing marbles _for fair_ makes some little fellows so unhappy that the Postmistress does not approve of it, unless both parties agree on playing "for fun" only. What does Wicker's grandmamma say on the subject?

* * * * *

STRASBURG, ALSACE.

I don't believe that any of the American subscribers of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE enjoy reading it more than I do, though I am not an American girl, but an Alsatian, like my father. Mamma was born in New Orleans, Louisiana, but I have never been to America, though I would much like to see for myself what are the customs and habits of the American people. It is mamma's sister, who dwells in Galveston, Texas, who has the kindness to send me this nice paper. I like especially to read the stories about French people, like the one of King Louis XVI. of France and Queen Marie Antoinette, which appeared in one of your numbers, and the beautiful story of Charlotte Corday, who was one of my countrywomen too; for the Alsacians are French, and though the Germans took our poor land and separated us from our dear country, they never can take our hearts, which will always remain French.

I hope this letter will be published, for it would be a pity that, coming from so far away, it should be put into that doleful pigeon-hole, which must surely be the terror of every one who contributes to swell the number of the Post-office Box letters.

As I saw that many of the correspondents tell about their pets, I too will write about my nice canary-birds. One of them papa gave me for my birthday, and the other-- Why, one cold winter day, as we were at dinner, we heard a little noise at the window, and there was the poor little thing. Of course we made it come in, and it just flew into the opened cage and ate some seeds, for it was nearly starved to death and frozen. Since then it lives with us, and we call it "Bienvenu," which means in English "welcome." Last spring it laid five eggs in a basket I gave it as a nest, and I rejoiced at the thought of having little birds, but Bienvenu was cruel enough to eat all her eggs before they were hatched.

ELIZA T.

It pleases us very much when our far-away little readers send us letters to tell us what they have most enjoyed. It was too bad that little Bienvenu behaved so strangely. But another time she may consent to sit upon the tiny eggs instead of making her dinner of them.

* * * * *

"BO-PEEP."

THE STORY OF DOLLY AND POLLY.

Dear little Rosa had bright golden hair, And she sang so sweetly to Dolly; But "Little Bo-peep, little Bo-peep," Was re-echoed incessant from Polly, Who swung in his cage, as happy as she, And free from all care as Miss Dolly; He seemed to enjoy her innocent glee. But Rosa grew angry with Polly:

"You have no right at all thus to mock me," she said; "Besides, you're disturbing my Dolly;" And then she threw over the bird's scarlet head Her apron, and silent was Polly. Gayly the lullaby music she trilled, Triumphantly swaying her rocker, While poor disgraced Poll, in his dark cage stilled, Did nothing but think of his _cracker_.

At last little Rosa, with soft pinky cheek, Slept, twining her arms around Dolly, Forgetting in dreams that real naughty freak She had just had with poor banished Polly. While he, growing tired of the dark cloistered cell, And missing the sound of the rocker, Concluded the world was under a spell, Because no one had brought him a cracker.

Then screeched he in loud and parroty voice. Rosa started, and down went her Dolly, All broken--her beautiful holiday choice! Still she blamed not the bird, but her folly. Shut up in the dark, so gloomy, while she Sang "Little Bo-peep" blithe and jolly. "How I wish I had let you sing too, pretty bird! Then I would not have broken my Dolly."

A. E. T.

* * * * *

ELKMONT, ALABAMA.

I live in a little railroad town in the northern part of Alabama. I have a black rabbit and a white one. Their names are Jesse and Bessie. They are very cunning. I keep them in a little paled yard. They have a little house in the centre of the yard. I have a cat named Ed. When he wants to come in, he will shake the door until some one lets him in. When I roll a rock on the ground, he will run after it. I have seventeen chickens. I went fishing to-day, and caught fifty-one, but they were little fellows.

ERNEST W.

* * * * *

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND.

Last year mamma gave me HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for a birthday present, and this year my papa gave it to me. I am so happy to see it every week. Papa always reads "Talking Leaves" to me; I am delighted with it. Mamma or one of my aunties reads the other stories and letters. We are all pleased with "The Dolls' Dressmaker" (little Jenny Wren), but I did love "Toby Tyler" best of all, and wish Mr. Otis would hurry up the new story he has promised us.

So many of the children tell you of their pets! I have two; both of them are cats--one a big Maltese named Cann, the other a little gray and white kitten named Pocahontas. She does not love old Cann, and fights him every time she finds a chance. He never fights her back. My little gray cat comes to my room every morning, and cries until I let her in, and then we have fine fun for awhile.

I am too small a boy to write, so mamma is writing this letter for me. I am the only pet mamma and papa have. I can read a little, and hope soon to be able to write.

CARLTON R. B.

Just a little patience, dear! The Postmistress saw Mr. Otis yesterday. Keep a bright lookout until April comes, and then when the showers are falling, and the buds are springing, "Mr. Stubbs's Brother," with his queer little eyes, flat nose, and funny long tail, will make his appearance in YOUNG PEOPLE.

* * * * *

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA.

I have been wanting to write to this dear little paper for a long time, but did not know that you published the letters of those who did not subscribe. My papa brings me a paper regularly every week.

I have no little pets, like most children, and even if I had, I would not have time to play with them, as I go to school, take lessons in chenille embroidery, and practice on the piano.

I spent three months in the Eastern States last summer, and visited a great many places in New York State, Connecticut, Ohio, and Illinois. I saw many wonderful beauties of nature, among which was the Devil's Slide, which was two perpendicular walls one hundred feet high, and twenty feet apart, coming down the steep side of a mountain. The Devil's Gate is a stream of water flowing under a mountain. Witches' Rocks are five rocks that look like ladies. Pulpit Rock is the place where Brigham Young preached his first sermon in Utah. They are both in Echo Canon, which is a canon that throws the echo back when you speak very loud. Cape Horn is in California, and is a mountain rising up from the American River about 2500 feet, and has a railroad cut around the side of it. I wish all the readers of the YOUNG PEOPLE could see all the beautiful things I did last summer.