Part 3

The home will be called "St. Mary's by the Sea." It will be opened early next summer, and the inmates will be very glad to receive a visit from any of their friends who are interested in the work.

PEOPLE WE HEAR ABOUT.

WILLIAM S. GILBERT.

If the name of the author of _Pinafore_ were as widely known as is his work, William S. Gilbert would be one of the most celebrated of living persons. This gentleman, to whom we owe that delightful comic opera, is forty-five years of age, and a lawyer by profession, though he does not now practice law. Unlike "Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B.," Mr. Gilbert does not "stick close to his desk," but does "go to sea." In fact, he wrote a great deal of _Pinafore_ on board the yacht _Pleione_, of which he is the owner and captain, and doubtless "a right good captain, too." He has a companion who never leaves him, whose name is Roy. Roy, of course, is a dog, and besides being a dog he is also a capital sailor, for his master never goes to sea without him.

It must not be supposed that when Mr. Gilbert and his friend Arthur Sullivan have finished their opera, and placed it in the theatre manager's hands, their work is done. If you were to call at Mr. Gilbert's house while an opera is in preparation at the theatre, you might find him in his library, with two or three other persons, having a private performance on their own account.

These are actors who have proved themselves so dull in learning the business of their parts that, rather than have the performance injured by poor acting, the author is giving them private instruction. For besides being the inventor and author of _Pinafore_, the _Pirates_, and _Patience_, Mr. Gilbert designs all the costumes and scenery, drills the actors, and is as particular about everything on the stage being ship-shape as if he were really the captain of a man-of-war.

In addition to the operas named above, Mr. Gilbert has written _The Sorcerer_, and _Trial by Jury_, several plays, and _The Bab Ballads_, a book of most delightful nonsense. It may seem an easy thing to make people laugh, but the author of _Pinafore_ really works very hard. It is pleasant to think, however, that hard work agrees with him, for it certainly does not spoil his good-humor.

A LITTLE FAIRY.

BY MRS. M. E. SANGSTER.

We have a little fairy, Who flits about the house, As gleeful as a cricket, As quiet as a mouse. She brings papa his slippers, She runs up stairs and down, The dearest little fairy In all the busy town.

THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER IX.

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

There had been a very good reason why neither Steve Harrison nor Murray came back with the Lipan braves who were sent to bring home the game. They had been preparing to do so, when they were summoned into the presence of To-la-go-to-de.

"No Tongue is a great hunter," said the dark-browed leader as they came forward. "Cougar, big-horn, deer all good. Apache heap better."

"That's what I came for."

"Go find them. Eat a heap. Take Yellow Head. Go all night."

"Any warriors go with me?"

"No. Maybe Apache dog see you. See pale-faces, and not think of Lipans. Dress Yellow Head. Wash off paint."

It was a genuine stroke of Indian war cunning. The two pale-faces were to act as scouts in the advance. If the Apaches should happen to see them, their presence would not suggest the dangerous nearness of a band of hostile Indians.

It may be the wise old chief added to himself that if both of them were killed on their perilous errand, the loss to his tribe would be of less consequence than that of two full-blooded Lipans. His pride of race would prevent his admitting that he had no brave in his band who was as well fitted to follow and find Apaches as was No Tongue.

"Now, Steve, we must eat all we know how, and then I'll fix you."

It had not harmed the young hunter in the opinion of his red friends that he had been unable to conceal his delight at the prospect before him.

"Young brave," they said, with approving nods. "Glad all over. Make good warrior some day."

He was indeed "glad all over"; but Murray cautioned him by a look, and he said nothing.

He was almost too glad to eat, but his appetite came back to him while he and Murray were cooking. He had eaten nothing since morning, and mountain air is a very hungry sort of air.

"That's right, my boy. There's no saying when you may get your next square meal. There's hard work before you and me, and plenty of it."

The next thing that came to Steve was a surprise.

Murray had never worn paint or adopted any more of Indian ways than he could help, but it was a wonder how soon he made himself look like a white man. There was more in the pack on his spare pony than Steve had imagined.

A few minutes' work with a pair of small scissors made a remarkable change in his hair and beard, and then the long locks of Yellow Head himself had to suffer.

"Go and scrub off every spot of paint, while I'm rigging my hunting shirt and leggings. You won't know me when you come back."

That was saying a little too much, but To-la-go-to-de himself expressed his admiration. He had seen wilder-looking white men by the hundred among the border settlements. No eyes in the world would suspect No Tongue of being a Lipan.

The transformation in Steve's appearance was shortly even greater, for Murray was able to furnish him with a "check" shirt and a black silk neckkerchief.

"Buckskin trousers'll have to do, my boy. No boots in camp; but I can knock the wrinkles out of this headpiece for you."

It was a black felt hat, and not very badly worn. Murray himself always wore one, but the supply had not been good enough for a long time to allow Steve to do the same.

"Now, Steve, I'm going to make old Two Knives give you the best mount in camp. Good as mine."

Such a war party never carries any slow horses with it, but there were some better than others, and the chief was as anxious as Steve that his scouts should be well mounted. Otherwise they might not be able to get back to him with any information they might pick up.

"Plenty of ammunition, Steve. Never mind any other kind of baggage, except some jerked meat. We may have to live on that."

There was no need for To-la-go-to-de to urge them. Not a minute was thrown away in their rapid preparations, and then the whole band turned out to see them ride away.

"I tell you what, Steve," said Murray, "we're not dressed in the latest fashion, but I haven't felt so much like a white man for years. I'll act like one too."

There was a flash of pain in his eyes as he said that. Could it be he had ever done anything unworthy of his race and training?

Perhaps, for he had ridden on a great many war-paths with the fierce and merciless Lipans.

The latter would not follow till morning, and would move less rapidly than their two scouts, but their progress was not likely to be at all slow.

Steve Harrison rode on by the side of his friend for some distance without saying a word.

"What's the matter, Steve?"

"Murray, I don't mean ever to go back to the Lipans."

"Not unless it's necessary."

"It won't be necessary."

"Can't say, Steve. All this country's full of Apaches. We may get a sight of 'em any minute. I don't much care how soon we do, either."

"I'm not Indian enough for some things, Murray."

"Couldn't you fight Apaches?"

"I suppose I could, if they came to fight me. But I don't want to kill anybody. I thought you said you were feeling more like a white man."

"Steve, I don't know how I'd feel if I had a white shirt on, and a suit of civilized clothes. I'm a good deal of a savage yet, as it is."

"I never saw anything very savage about you."

"I'm on the war-path now, Steve, after my old enemies. Let's make as good time as we can before dark. After that, we'll have to go carefully till the moon's up."

They were advancing a good deal more rapidly than the Apaches had been able to do over that same pass, hindered by their long train of tired pack-ponies, and their women and children.

It was not a difficult trail to follow, for the lodge-pole ends, dragging on the ground, had so deeply marked it that a man like Murray could have found it in the dark.

That was precisely what he did, after the sun sank behind the western mountains, and the deep shadows crept up from the ravines and covered everything.

After the moon rose it was easier work, and Steve thought he had never seen anything more beautiful than was the moonlight on the quartz cliffs, and the forest, and the little lakes in the deep valleys, and on the foaming streams which came tumbling down the mountain-sides from the regions of perpetual snow above.

Perhaps he was right, for hardly anybody has ever seen anything more beautiful in its way than such a moonlight view as that.

There was no time to stop and gaze, for Murray pushed on as fast as possible without using up their tough and wiry mustangs.

"We may need all the legs they've got to-morrow, Steve. We must find grass and water for them before daybreak."

It was a good three hours before sunrise, and the moon had again left them in darkness, when they almost groped their way down a steep declivity into a small hollow.

"Can't say how much there is of it, Steve, but this'll do. The Apache ponies have been cropping this very grass within twenty-four hours. Look at that."

"I can't see it very well."

"Feel of it, then. Don't you understand such a sign as that?"

"It's only a tuft of grass."

"Yes, but I found it ready pulled off, and it hasn't had time to more than wilt a little. The man that pulled it was here yesterday."

Murray did not know it, but no man had pulled that grass. It was a bunch Ni-ha-be had gathered for her pony, and then had thrown at Rita. Still, the guess about the time of it was nearly right, and that was a good enough place to rest in until daylight.

"No cooking this morning, I suppose?" remarked Steve, when Murray shook him out of the nice nap he had snatched, wrapped in his "serape," or Mexican blanket. "No breakfast, eh?"

"You don't know what tales a smoke might tell, or to whom it might tell 'em. Cold meat'll have to do for this time, and glad to get it. After that, Steve, you'll do the most dangerous riding ever you did."

"Why, are they so near?"

"Can't be many miles. Our first hunt, though, will be for a place to hide our horses in."

"Why not leave 'em here?"

"I thought of that, but we may need 'em."

Their morning ride was a longer one than Murray imagined, but before noon he was able to say,

"The backbone of the pass is miles behind us, Steve. All the rest of the way'll be down hill, or kind of up and down."

"Up and down" it was; but they had barely advanced another half-mile before Steve exclaimed,

"There they are, Murray!"

"There they are. What a valley it is, too! But, Steve, they don't mean to stay there--"

"A spy-glass! I didn't know you had one. How do you tell that they won't stay?"

"The glass? It's a double one. Some army officer owned it once, I suppose. I got it of old Two Knives himself. Nobody knows how it came to him. Look through it."

Steve had seen such things before, but had known very little about them. He did not even know how very good a glass that was with which he was now peering down upon the camp of the Apaches.

"See the lodge-poles lying there? In a dozen places?"

"They've put up some lodges."

"If they meant to stay, they'd put up the others. No use for us to go back. The Lipans are coming along."

"But how can we get any further? We can't ride right through them."

"I should say not. Nor over them, either. But if we can get into that pine forest over there on the north slope, without being seen, we can ride around them."

"I'll risk it, Murray."

"So will I, Steve. I'd never let you try a thing like that alone."

"I could do it."

"Perhaps. And you'll have a good many things of that kind to do before you reach the settlements; but I guess I'll go with you this time."

"You'd better go with me all the way."

Murray said nothing, but he sprang from his horse, and Steve imitated him.

Men on foot were not so likely to be seen from the Apache camp.

There was nothing in or about the camp which Murray did not carefully study through his glass, and it showed him what was going on more clearly and perfectly than even the wonderfully keen black eyes of Ni-ha-be had seen it from almost the same spot the day before.

"It's a hunting camp, Steve, but it's a very strong party."

"Too strong for our Lipans?"

"I don't know about that. If we could surprise them, by night, we might do something with them."

"I'm no Lipan, Murray. None of those people down there ever did me any harm. Did they ever do you any? I don't mean any other Apaches; I'm just speaking of that camp."

"Well, no, I'm not sure about that. I don't know that I've any special grudge against this lot."

"Seems to me it's a good deal like an Indian to kill one man for what another man did. I'm only a boy, and I've been among the Lipans three years, but I've made up my mind to stay white."

Steve spoke with a good deal of energy, and his robust form seemed to stand up straighter.

"You're right, Steve--don't you do a thing that isn't fit for your color. I won't say anything more about myself just now."

If anybody had been listening to those two that morning, or indeed at any other time, he might have noticed something curious about the way Steve Harrison talked. It was not to be wondered at that a veteran like Murray should be slow of speech, and it suited well with his white hair and his wrinkles.

There was a good reason for it. Except when talking with Murray, Steve had not heard a word of English for three years.

Yes, there had been one other exception. Whenever he had found himself all alone, he had talked to himself, asking and answering questions, and listening to his own pronunciation of the words.

"I shall get among white men some day," he thought, "and it would be a dreadful thing to be white myself and not to talk white. Anyhow, I've learned Mexican Spanish since I've been out here, and I'll be glad enough to forget all I know of Indian talk."

He did not know it, but some things he said sounded ten years older and wiser just for his manner of saying them. Besides, he had had to think a great deal, and to keep most of his thoughts to himself. Not a great many boys do that.

"Come on, Steve. That ledge isn't badly broken. Horses can follow it, and it heads away right into the pine forest. We must try it."

"We can get almost down into the valley without being seen."

"Yes, and we can find out if any good gap opens out of the valley to the northward."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

CHRISTMAS PREPARATIONS.

Now that Thanksgiving is over, the little folks are of course beginning to think about Christmas. And how many presents there are to make! And what are they to be?

The question is so bewildering that we know some of our girl readers will be glad to receive a suggestion. Who will make a warm pair of mittens for some cold pair of little hands? If the following directions are only followed, there will be no trouble:

These mittens are worked with white zephyr worsted and steel knitting-needles of suitable size. The knitted part is all plain, with the exception of a round of holes, through which is run a cord finished with balls. The cuff is crocheted in Afghan stitch, and is set on the mitten. For the mitten make a foundation of 36 stitches; close these in a ring, and knit, always forward, as follows: 1st and 2d rounds--all knit plain. 3d round--all purled. 4th round.--Always alternately throw the thread over, knit two stitches together. 5th round--like the 3d round. 6th to 50th rounds--all knit plain. But for the thumb gore in the 7th round widen 1 stitch on each side of the first stitch, working 1 knit, 1 purled, on each stitch before and after this stitch. In the 10th, 13th, 16th, 19th, and 21st rounds work one widening in a straight direction above the widening in the preceding round, the number of stitches between the widenings increasing by 2 in each round. In the 22d round take up the stitch of the gore and the stitches on both sides on separate needles, and finish the thumb in 12 rounds, working always forward. In the last 4 rounds close the thumb, narrowing three times, one above another, in a straight direction, at regular intervals, and work off the remaining 3 stitches together. Lay on the thread anew at the main part, and finish the mitten, narrowing in the last 8 of the 50 rounds four times at regular intervals, one above another, in a straight direction, so that in the last round all the stitches are used up. For the cuff, worked crosswise, make a foundation of 9 stitches, and on these work 3 pattern rows in Afghan stitch. The 4th pattern row is worked on the lower vertical veins of the pattern row before the last, and thus becomes raised. The 6th pattern row is worked on the third, and the 6th on the 5th pattern row. Repeat always the 4th to 6th pattern rows until the cuff is of suitable width. Join the stitches of the last pattern row with the foundation stitches, and edge the cuff with 1 round as follows: * 1 single crochet on the first edge stitch between the next 2 pattern rows, 4 chain stitches, 1 single crochet on the fifth following vein below, 4 chain stitches, 1 slip stitch on the first of the 4 chain stitches before the last, 4 chain stitches, and repeat from *; finally, 1 slip on the first single crochet in this round.

BUBBLE BUBBLE BUBBLE

BY MARY A. BARR.

Bubble, bubble, bubble, For the little babies; Good oatmeal and milk, Fit for lords and ladies. Jenny, set the table With the spoons and dishes: Soon my bonnie bairnies Shall have all their wishes.

Take your places, children; Keep the table steady. Are your aprons fastened? Are your dishes ready? And such hungry children No doubt will want double; So, good pot, keep boiling, Bubble, bubble, bubble.

Some of our little friends seem to have the impression that there is a charge made for publishing letters in this Post-office Box, and that theirs will be published if they send the money to pay for them. This is a mistake which we wish to correct. No charge is made for either the letters or exchanges we publish in this department. But even with the enlarged space now devoted to our young correspondents, we can print only a selection from the thousands of letters we receive. If we were to leave out all the bright stories and droll rhymes and all the instructive articles, and make up HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE of letters only, we are sure our boys and girls would protest against such a proceeding. We want them to understand that we are trying to make the very best Post-office Box that we can, and if the first little letter they send does not find a niche, they must wait awhile, and then write a second, and a third.

Scholars in the Latin class must adopt "Dum spiro, spero" as their motto, and pupils who have not yet begun Latin may take four little letters, H O P E, for theirs.

Please, when you write to us on business, be careful to sign your names in full, and give also your full post-office address. Do this in every case.

Continue to be patient, even if your exchanges do not appear. If only you knew how fast the exchanges come crowding in, you would understand why it is that we must keep some of them lying in a pigeon-hole when we desire very much indeed to have them translated into type.

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FORT CUSTER, MONTANA.

I am a boy thirteen years of age, and live on the Little Horn River, about ten miles from Custer's battle-field. We have quite a number of cattle and a few horses. There are a great many elk, deer, bears, buffaloes, wolves, and coyotes around here, though not so many as there were a few years ago. There were a great many Indians here in the spring. Two years ago the Crow scouts were encamping about five hundred yards from our house, and one morning about one o'clock the Sioux Indians came and stole all their ponies. They exchanged about one hundred shots, but no one was killed. The Crows all came over to our house, and were afraid to go back to their tents until daylight. Next morning several soldiers started in pursuit of the Sioux, and followed them for nearly three weeks before they overtook them. They then had a fight; the sergeant was killed, and they captured five Indians, and secured the stolen ponies. I have never been out of Montana. I have never seen a railroad car in my life.

I have two brothers and one sister, and a number of pets. My brothers hunt antelopes in the winter.

N. H. D.

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WISSAHICKON, PENNSYLVANIA.

I want to tell you about our bird Hensie. He is very cunning. He is a young canary-bird, and likes soaked cracker. One morning my aunt put a dry cracker in his cage. He took a piece of it in his bill, hopped upon his bath-tub, and dropped the cracker in the water. He watched it, and when it was soft, took it out and put it on the floor of his cage, and began eating it. He has done this several times since then. He tries very hard to sing, and imitates the notes of the other canary-bird.

ROBBIE S. S.

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BOUND BROOK, NEW JERSEY.

I live on the bank of the Raritan River. Am eight years old, and have a nephew fifteen years old, who shot six wild-ducks the other day. I had nine pigeons, but they all went away except two. We had a dog named Duke, and a man shot him. This is the first time I have written to HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. A friend of mamma's in Brooklyn has sent it to us ever since it was published. There are lots of robins around here. Give my respects to Jimmy Brown.

PAUL Q. O.

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CHIMACUM, WASHINGTON TERRITORY.

I live in a lovely valley surrounded by high hills and mountains. It is a very pleasant place in summer, but very dreary in winter, as nothing can then be seen except snow in every direction. The nearest town is called Port Townsend; it is about ten miles from here. The Coast Range of mountains looms up in the west, and they are really magnificent when the sun shines on them. There is quite a large creek flowing through my father's farm, from which we get large speckled trout. Many people come from the towns to fish in the summer. There is a smelting furnace at the "Beach," two miles from here, where iron ore is melted. The place is called Irondale, and is the nearest post-office to this valley. There is a great amount of bog ore in this valley, and as it is only a foot below the surface of the ground, it is easily mined.

BARTON R.

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DEAR SANTA CLAUS,--Will you please give me a drum for a Christmas present? I won't drum with it in the house, and I'll let my brothers drum too. Papa said if I wrote to HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, maybe you would see it, and send me one. I am seven years old, and my name is Hammond W. I live in Monticello, Sullivan Co., N. Y.

Papa has taken YOUNG PEOPLE for us for two years, and this year it is mine. Please put this in, so I can get the drum.

HAMMOND W.

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