Part 2

Patty hesitated. Good and kind as Aunt Polly always was, her sharp eyes and sharper voice were awe-inspiring to her small niece. But George, whose bravery was the glory of his sister, looked up at the tall woman with his fearless gray eyes, and told the story of that morning's adventures and their resolution, adding:

"An' we were just a-wonderin', Aunt Polly, how we'd get the things down there, an' if you'd let Mike go with us, maybe, 'cause you know you say you don't like us to go where you don't know the folks."

"That'll be all right," his aunt said, simply, "an' I'm glad you thought of it, childern. 'It's more blessed to give,' you know. George, I wisht you'd get me some chips."

So she turned the subject then; but that evening, as Mr. and Mrs. Andrews sat together over the kitchen fire, with their charges asleep up stairs, Aunt Polly retold George's story, keenly watching her husband's face as she did so, although her eyes were apparently fixed upon her knitting.

Uncle Amasa took his pipe out of his mouth and drew a long breath. "Bless them childern," he said, heartily. "I vum, now, Polly, that makes me feel putty small--don't it you? To think o' their thinkin' of it, an' they a-lookin' forward to Thanksgivin'-day so long!"

"Well, what kin we do, Amasa?" was his wife's quiet question.

"Massy! I don't know. But we'll send that widder her dinner anyway, an' we won't rob them little childern o' theirn neither."

"But, Amasa"--Aunt Polly laid down her knitting--"don't you see that won't be the _childern's_ givin'? I don't want to take away their dinners, dear knows; but 'twouldn't be right, after all, you know, for them to be gen'rous and keep their turkey too."

Uncle Amasa mused a moment. "That's so!" he said, ruefully, at last. "I tell ye, Polly, woman, we'll give 'em the hull turkey, an' we'll throw in the pies. I guess we won't starve on bacon an' cabbage, an' on Chris'mas I'll manage so's they can hev a turkey, 'n' we too. I love my dinner's much 's the next 'un, but I swan to massy them babies o' ourn make me feel putty small--putty small!"

And gathering up his boots and pipe, Uncle Amasa strode off to bed.

And so it came to pass that on Thanksgiving-eve George and Patty, accompanied by Uncle Amasa, not Mike, again followed the lame turkey under the hill to Uncle Jake's old place. But this time the recreant fowl was borne on their uncle's shoulders, in the huge market-basket, in company with potatoes and onions and golden pies and rosy cranberries; in short, with the party's Thanksgiving dinner.

Uncle Amasa first placed the basket on the cracked door-step, and then he and George concealed themselves in the darkness behind the brush heap, while Patty, the lightest and fleetest of the three, knocked at the door, and then ran swiftly to the common hiding-place.

A faint streak of light came from the doorway as Sally appeared holding a tallow candle aloft. A moment's silence while she stared at the basket, and kneeling by it explored the contents; then--

"Oh, mother! 'Melia!" she screamed, "it's a turkey, and it's pies, an'--oh, come quick an' see!"

There was the hurry of other footsteps, and a cry from 'Melia: "Just to look at the onions! Oh, I _do_ love them!" and then some one upset and extinguished the candle, and under cover of the darkness Uncle Amasa drew the eager children away.

As they went up the hill together George remarked, "I'm glad she likes onions; so do I."

But Uncle Amasa drew his rough hand across his eyes, murmuring, in a choked sort of voice: "Well I swan, if between them two sets o' childern, them that gives 'n' them that takes, I don't feel putty small! Yes, I do that, put-ty small!"

BITS OF ADVICE.

BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.

A TALK ABOUT SURPRISE PARTIES.

"What's this?" said I. "Let me put on my glasses, please," as a bevy of nieces and nephews clustered around me, holding out square-shaped notes, which bore a resemblance on the outside to invitations. Invitations they were, to a surprise party at the residence of Miss Nellie E----, to be held on an appointed evening. Four or five signatures in rather scrawly hands were appended to them, and at the bottom of each billet I read a mysterious word, as, for instance, on Cora's, the word Lemons; on Kitty's, Sugar; on Rebecca's, Cake; and on Edwin's, Money. These were the articles which, it was explained, the guests were to bring with them to furnish the entertainment. Miss Nellie knew nothing about the honor in store for her, although an elder sister, who had been consulted, "did not object," said Alfred, "to our coming."

"But," added honest little Mary, "she did not seem very glad to have us."

"Children," said I, "there are several objections to surprise parties. People who wish to give parties usually prefer to name the time and select their guests themselves. It may be very inconvenient to a little girl's mother to have her house seized by a merry set of young folks, who enter it for the purpose of having a good time. The parents who are to provide lemon, sugar, and cake, or to supply the young gentlemen with pocket-money, may not wish to have their money or their goods used in that way. And, as a rule, gay evening parties, surprise or otherwise, interfere seriously with school duties, and therefore are not precisely the right things for boys and girls.

"Still, if you must surprise any one, Aunt Marjorie would advise you to politely decline these invitations, and look about for the poorest and neediest person you can find. Take the sugar, the lemons, the bread, the ham, and the little packets of pocket-money, put them safely in a basket, and set them down at the door of the crippled girl, or the lonely boy whose mother and father are dead. You will enjoy such a surprise party for months after it is over."

THE FALL OF A MOUNTAIN.

BY DAVID KER.

Some seventy years ago an old man sat at the door of his cottage in the Swiss village of Goldau enjoying the warmth of the summer sunshine, and the view of the fresh green valley dappled here and there with dark clumps of trees. All around the great purple mountains stood up against the sky, as if keeping guard over the pretty little village in their midst, with its tiny log-huts clustered beneath the shadow of the neat white church, like chickens nestling under the wing of the mother hen.

A big, florid, jolly-looking man came striding up the path, and held out his hand to the old peasant, with a hearty "Good-day, Neighbor Kraus."

"Good-day, Neighbor Schwartz. Fine weather to-day."

"Beautiful. We'll have a famous harvest this year, please God."

"I hope so, neighbor. Won't you sit down a minute? It's warm walking."

"Thanks; I will. Holloa! what's the matter over yonder?"

Right opposite them, five thousand feet overhead, towered the dark mass of the Rossberg, the highest of the surrounding mountains. Just as Schwartz spoke, its huge outline seemed to be agitated by a slight tremulous motion, like the nodding of a plume of feathers.

"Well, my friend, what are you staring at? Did you never see the trees shaking in the wind before?"

"Of course; but it seemed to me somehow as if it wasn't only the trees that shook, but the whole mountain."

"You're easily scared," chuckled the old man. "I suppose you're thinking of the old saying that the Rossberg is to fall some day. Bah! they've been saying so ever since I was a child, and it hasn't fallen yet."

Schwartz laughed, and the two friends went on talking. But suddenly the visitor started up with a look of unmistakable terror; and no wonder. His spiked staff, which he had stuck carelessly into the ground beside him when he sat down, was _moving to and fro of itself_!

"Good gracious! do you see that, Father Kraus? And look at those birds yonder, flying screaming away from the trees on the Rossberg! Something is wrong, say what you will."

At that moment Hans Godrel, the miller, came flying past, shouting: "Run for your lives! The stream's dried up, and that always comes before an earthquake or an avalanche. Run!"

"Pooh! I'll have time to fill my pipe again," said old Kraus, coolly producing his tobacco pouch.

But Schwartz was too thoroughly frightened to wait another moment. Down the hill he flew like a madman, and had barely got clear of the village when the earth shook under his feet so violently as to throw him down. He sprang up again just in time to see poor old Kraus's cottage vanish in a whirl of dust like a bursting bubble.

The next moment there came a terrific crash, followed by another so much louder that it seemed to shake the very sky. In a moment all was dark as night, and amid the gloom could be heard a medley of fearful sounds--the rending of strong timbers, the hollow rumble of falling rocks and gravel, the crash of wrecked buildings, the shrieks of the doomed inmates, and the roar of angry waves from the lake below, as if all its waters were breaking loose at once.

The last house of the village, on the side farthest from the Rossberg, was that of Antoine Sepel, the wood-cutter, who at the first alarm snatched up two of his children, and made for the opposite hill-side, calling to his wife to follow with the other two. But the youngest, Marianne, a little girl of six, had just run back into the house, and before her mother could reach her, the first crash came. The terrified woman seized the other girl, and fled without looking behind her.

But the old servant, Françoise, could think of her little favorite even under the shadow of coming destruction. She darted into the house, and had just caught the child in her arms, when the tremendous din of the final crash told her that it was too late. In an instant the house was lifted bodily from its place, and spun round like a top. The child was torn from her clasp, and she felt herself thrown violently forward, the strong timbers falling to pieces around her like a pack of cards. Still, however, the brave woman struggled to free herself; but the weight that kept her down defied her utmost strength. For her own safety she cared little, although a violent pain in her head and a numbness along her left arm told her that she was severely hurt. But where was the child?

"Marianne!" cried she, in desperation.

"Here I am," answered a tiny voice, seemingly not far from her. "I'm not hurt a bit, only there's something holding me down; and I can see light overhead quite plain. Won't they come and take us out soon?"

"No, there's no hope of that," said the old woman, feebly; "this is the day of doom for us all. Say your prayers, darling, and commend yourself to God."

And upward through the universal ruin, amid shattered rocks and uprooted mountains, stole the child's clear sweet voice, praying the prayer that she had learned at her mother's knee. It rose from that grim chaos of destruction like Jonah's prayer from the depths of the sea, and like it was heard and answered.

How long the two prisoners remained pent up in that living grave they could never have told; but all at once Marianne thought she heard a voice calling her name, and held her breath to listen. Yes, she was not mistaken; there _was_ a voice calling to her, and it was the voice of her father!

Sepel, having seen his wife and the other three children placed in safety far up the opposite hill-side, had hurried back to seek the missing girl. But it was in vain that he looked for any trace of the village or even of the valley itself. The green, sunny uplands, where the laborers had been working and the children frolicking but a few hours before, were now one hideous disorder of fallen rocks, bare gravel, and black cindery dust, amid which he wandered at random, calling despairingly upon his lost darling.

But the answer came at last: a clear, musical call, which rose from a shapeless heap of ruin that even he had failed to recognize as his pretty little cottage. Hurrying to the spot, he began to tear away the rubbish with the strength of a giant, and speedily drew forth the child _unhurt_, the falling timbers, as if by miracle, having formed a kind of arch over her, completely protecting her from injury.

Brave old Françoise had been less fortunate. Her left arm was so badly hurt that she never recovered the use of it, and to the end of her life she was always timid and nervous from the effects of that terrible night. But, compared with the rest of the ill-fated villagers, she might well esteem herself fortunate. Four-fifths of them were killed on the spot, many more crippled for life, and those who escaped found themselves reduced to absolute beggary. Of Goldau itself nothing remained but the bell of its steeple, which was found more than a mile away. The lower end of Lake Lowertz, farther down the valley, was completely choked up by the falling rocks; and the water thus dislodged rushed in a mighty wave seventy feet high over the island in the centre, sweeping away every living thing upon it. The once happy and beautiful valley is still a frightful desert, and here and there among the surrounding hills you may find some white-haired grandfather who himself witnessed the calamity and will tell you, in his quaint mountain speech, how the Rossberg fell upon Goldau.

PEOPLE WE HEAR ABOUT.

I.--ARTHUR SULLIVAN.

There is hardly a boy or girl in this country who does not know some of the tunes in _Pinafore_ by heart--few, indeed, among our readers who have not heard the opera--and all will be interested in hearing something about the composer of that delightful music.

Arthur Sullivan is a bright-eyed, dark-haired man thirty-seven years of age. When quite a little fellow he was a choir-boy in the chapel of St. James's Palace in London, and at thirteen years he had made such progress in musical studies that he composed an anthem that was sung in the chapel before the Queen. On this occasion, he relates, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, the Bishop of London patted him on the head, and gave him ten shillings. At the age of fourteen, Arthur Sullivan won the Mendelssohn Scholarship in the Royal Academy of Music, being the youngest of those who tried for it, and was sent to Leipsic, in Germany, to study under the most famous musicians of the time.

Strange though it may seem, the name of the composer of _Pinafore_ first became known by a sacred oratorio, called the _Prodigal Son_. Since that time Mr. Sullivan has written other oratorios, as well as a great many songs that are sung everywhere; and there is hardly a hymn-book that does not contain several hymns by this same great musician. The composer of _Pinafore_ has followed up his success in that opera with two others (also commencing with a P), the _Pirates of Penzance_ and _Patience_, and it is said that he is already at work upon yet another one.

It may be said that comic operas are very light work for a great musician to devote himself to; but those which Arthur Sullivan has composed are the best of their kind, and the man who makes people glad-hearted does as much good as he who makes them wise.

MICE AS PETS.

There is one kind of pets, and a very amusing kind they are too, which every boy can have simply by setting a trap, and no one will object to the snaring of them, or speak of the cruelty of depriving them of their liberty. These pets are little bright-eyed, long-tailed mice, which can be induced to display quite as much affection as any other pet, and which are wonderfully interesting whether at play or at work.

Mice are not difficult to tame; they show great fondness for the one who feeds them, and if their cage be properly cared for, are as cleanly pets as one could wish to have.

To deprive mice of their liberty hardly seems cruel, since they are so mischievous and destructive, and the boy who makes pets of them, provided he catches them at home, takes away just so many provoking bits of mischief from his mother's pantry, which is much better than to snare birds or squirrels.

Mice will live and breed in a cage, and be quite as happy as when enjoying their liberty, for they are accustomed to make a home of such tiny places that they do not suffer in confinement, as pets do who find their greatest pleasure in roaming.

It is possible to buy white mice at any bird-fancier's, but there are reasons why it is better to have at least half your pets of the ordinary house mice rather than to have them all white. One is that your mother will look with more favor upon your mouse pet if it is one the less from the number that annoy her.

There is hardly any necessity of telling a boy how to set a mouse-trap, and in almost every house his labor will be very quickly rewarded with as many as he can care for.

But once the industrious little fellows are caught and caged, do not make the cruel mistake of thinking because they are only mice they do not need any care. As long as they were in the walls, or under the floors, they could take care of themselves, for they knew to the fraction of an inch on which particular portion of the shelf the cheese was placed, and exactly how to get at the bread. But when they have been deprived of their liberty, it becomes the duty of their captor to see that they want for nothing. What is true of any pet is equally true of mice; they are entitled to all the care and attention they need as soon as they are deprived of the power to care for themselves.

If one wants to have very tame mice, so tame that they can be taught to come out of their cage at the word of command, and return to it when the play is over, he should catch young ones, and put them in a cage with wire front and solid back and sides.

Almost any kind of a hard-wood box, not less than twelve inches long and wide, and eight inches high, can be made into a good cage by running wires about the size of an ordinary knitting-needle up and down the front, about a quarter of an inch apart. Then cut a small sliding door at one side, and have the back made to slide up and down for purposes of cleanliness. If at one end a small run-around, made of stout wire set very closely together, be placed, the pets will have such a home as they will be perfectly contented and happy in.

At one corner of the cage should be some rags for a nest, and unless there are little ones in it, this nest must be removed at least once each week. The entire cage should be washed quite as often, and every care must be taken to keep it sweet and clean. Dry sand or sawdust is a good thing to scatter over the floor of the house, as it can then be cleaned readily by simply scraping the old sand out and pouring in fresh.

Mice when at liberty are great builders, and have many curious ways of providing snug quarters for their young. In one instance a number of empty bottles had been stowed away upon a shelf, and among them was found one which was tenanted by a mouse. The little creature had considered that the bottle would afford a suitable home for her young, and had therefore conveyed into it a quantity of bedding which she made into a nest. The bottle was filled with the nest, and the eccentric architect had taken the precaution to leave a round hole corresponding to the neck of the bottle. In this remarkable domicile the young were placed; and it is a fact worthy of notice that no attempt had been made to shut out the light. Nothing would have been easier than to have formed the cavity at the under side, so that the soft materials of the nest would exclude the light; but the mouse had simply formed a comfortable hollow for her young, and therein she had placed them.

The rapidity with which a mouse can make a nest is somewhat surprising. Some few years ago, in a farmer's house, a loaf of newly baked bread was placed upon a shelf, according to custom. Next day a hole was observed in the loaf; and when it was cut open a mouse and her nest were discovered within, the latter being made of paper. On examination, the material of the habitation was found to have been obtained from a copy-book, which had been torn into shreds and arranged in the form of a nest. Within this curious home were nine new-born mice. Thus in the space of thirty-six hours at most the loaf must have cooled, the interior been excavated, the book found and cut into suitable pieces, the nest made, and the young brought into the world.

If you have started your mouse menagerie with young mice, they should be given a soft warm nest, and fed on bread and milk until they are grown, when almost anything may be given them. Water should always be provided for them, and the dish in which it is kept must be shallow, or they may drown themselves.

If you whistle or make some peculiar noise when you feed them, they will soon learn to associate the sound with the pleasure of eating, and come out of their nest at the summons. To make them eat from the hand, exclude cheese from their bill of fare several days, and then hold a bit that is toasted where they can get it. The temptation will be so strong that at the second trial they will take it from their master, and after that they will eat from his hand very readily.

Young mice are great acrobats, and the antics of the little climbers and leapers are very amusing when they have space sufficient in which to display their skill.

Several instances are recorded of mice that made musical sounds something like a soft low warble, and it has been thought by some that this musical power might be cultivated so that they really could become singing mice! But this is open to very many doubts, their vocal organs being so entirely different from birds.

The most reasonable supposition is that the mice that are reported as having sung were affected with some disease in the lungs or air-passages, which caused the piping noise called music.

THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER VIII.

[1] Begun in No. 101, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

A refusal to go out with the hunters was a strange thing to come from Red Wolf. No other young brave in that band of Apaches had a better reputation for killing deer and buffaloes. It was a common saying among the older squaws that when he came to have a lodge of his own "there would always be plenty of meat in it." He was not, therefore, "a lazy Indian," and it was something he had on his mind that kept him in the camp that day. It had also made him beckon to Ni-ha-be, and look very hard after Rita when she hurried away toward the bushes with her three magazines of "talking leaves." Red Wolf was curious. He hardly liked to say as much to a squaw, even such a young squaw as Ni-ha-be, and his own sister, but he had some questions to ask her nevertheless.

He might have asked some of them of his father, but the great war chief of that band of Apaches was now busily watching Dolores and her saucepan, and everybody knew better than to speak to him just before supper. Ni-ha-be saw at a glance what was the matter with her haughty brother, and she was glad enough to tell him all there was to know of how and where the talking leaves had been found.

"Did they speak to you?"

"No; but I saw pictures."

"Pictures of what?"

"Mountains, big lodges, trees, braves, pale-face squaws, pappooses, white men's bears, and pictures that lied. Not like anything."

"Ugh! Bad medicine. Talk too much. So blue-coat soldier throw them away."

"They talk to Rita."

"What say to her?"

"I don't know. She'll tell me. She'll tell you if you ask her."

"Ugh! No. Red Wolf is a warrior. Not want any squaw talk about pictures. You ask Rita some things?"

"What things?"

"Make the talking leaves tell where all blue-coat soldiers go. All that camped here. Know then whether we follow 'em."

"Maybe they won't tell."