CHAPTER II.

[2] Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 101, October 4.

"Did you say, Murray, there were any higher mountains higher than these?"

"Higher'n these? Why, Steve, the mountains we crossed, away back there just this side of the Texas border, were twice as high, some of then."

"These are big enough. Are there any higher mountains in the world than ours? Did you ever see any?"

"I've seen some of them. I've heard it said the tallest are in India. South America can beat us. I've seen the Andes."

"I don't want to see anything that looks worse to climb than this range right ahead of us."

"Where the Apaches got through, Steve, we can. They're only a hunting party, too."

"More warriors than we have."

"Only Apaches, Steve. Ours are Lipans. There's a big difference in that, I tell you."

"The Lipans are your friends."

"Yours too, and you must let them think you are their friend, strong. The Apaches are everybody's enemies--mine, yours--only fit to be killed off."

"You've killed some of 'em."

"Not so many as I mean to kill. That's one thing I'm on this trip for. Old Two-Knives would almost have given it up if it hadn't been for me."

"I don't feel that way about the Lipans, if they did capture me. All I want of them is to get away, and go back to the settlements."

"Maybe your folks won't know you when you come."

Steve looked down at his fine muscular form from limb to limb, while the stern, wrinkled face of his companion almost put on a smile.

"I'd have to wash, that's a fact."

"Get off your war-paint. Put on some white men's clothing. Cut your hair."

"They'd know me then."

"You've grown a head taller since you was captured, and they've made a Lipan of you all over but in two places."

"What are they?"

"Your eyes and hair. They're as light as mine were when I was of your age."

"I'm not a Lipan inside, Murray, nor any other kind of Indian. It would take more than three years to do that."

"I've been among 'em seven. But then I never would paint."

The sun and the wind had painted him darkly enough, and if his hair had once been "light," it was now as white as the tops of the mountains he and Steve had been looking at.

Behind them, on a barren, sandy level, through which ran a narrow stream of ice-cold water, about threescore of wild-looking human beings were dismounted, almost in a circle, each holding the end of a long "lariat" of strong hide, at the other end of which was a horse.

Some seemed to have two and even three horses, as if they were on an errand which might use up one and call for another. That was quite likely, for Lipan warriors are terribly hard riders. Those who had now but one horse had probably worn out their first mount, and turned him adrift by the way-side, to be picked up, Indian fashion, on the way home. When a plains Indian leaves a horse in that way, and does not find him again, he tries his best to find some other man's horse to take his place.

More than sixty Indian warriors, all in their war-paint, armed to the teeth with knives, revolvers, repeating rifles, of the best and latest patterns, and each carrying a long steel-headed Mexican lance. Not a bow or arrow or war-club among them. All such weapons belong to the old, old times, or to poor miserable second-rate Indians who can not buy anything better. The fierce and haughty Lipans and Comanches, and other warlike tribes, insist on being armed as well as the United States troops, and even better.

What could a cavalryman do with a lance? About as much as an Indian with a sword, for that is one weapon the red men could never learn the use of from King Philip's day to this.

It was luncheon-time with that Lipan war party, and they were hard at work on their supplies of dried venison and cold roast buffalo meat. Their halt would not be a long one in a spot where there was no grass for their horses; but they could hold a council while they were eating, and they could listen to a speech from the short, broad, ugly-looking old chief, who now stood in the middle of the circle.

"To-la-go-to-de will not go back now till he has struck the Apaches. He has come too far. The squaws of his village would laugh at him if he rode through the mountains and came back to them with empty hands."

That was the substance of his address, put again and again, in different shapes, and it seemed to meet the approval of his listeners. There is nothing a Lipan brave is really afraid of except ridicule, and the dread of being laughed at was the strongest argument their leader could have used to spur them forward. Once, indeed, he made another sharp hit by pointing to the spot where Murray and Steve were standing.

"No Tongue has the heart of a Lipan. He says if we go back he will go on alone. He will take the Yellow Head with him. They will not be laughed at when they come back. Will the Lipans let their squaws tell them they are cowards, and dare not follow an old pale-face and a boy?"

A deep, half-angry "ugh" went around the circle.

To-la-go-to-de had won over all the grumblers in his audience, and need not have talked any more.

He might have stopped right there, and proceeded to eat another slice of buffalo meat; but when an Indian once learns to be an orator, he would rather talk than eat any day. In fact, they are such talkers at home and among themselves that Murray had earned the queer name given him by the chief in no other way than by his habitual silence. He rarely spoke to anybody, and so he was "No Tongue."

The chief himself had a name of which he was enormously proud, for he had won it on a battle-field. His horse had been killed under him in a battle with the Comanches when he was yet a young warrior, and he had fought on foot with a knife in each hand.

From that day forward he was To-la-go-to-de, or "the chief that fights with two knives." Any name he may have been known by before that was at once dropped and forgotten.

It is a noteworthy custom, but the English have something almost exactly like it. A man in England may be plain Mr. Smith or Mr. Disraeli for ever so many years, and then all of a sudden he becomes Lord So-and-So, and nobody ever speaks of him again by the name he carried when he was a mere "young brave." It is a great mistake to suppose the red men are altogether different from the white.

As for Steve, his hair was nearer chestnut than yellow, but it had given him his Indian name--one that would stick to him until, like To-la-go-to-de, he should distinguish himself in battle, and win a "war name" of his own.

He and Murray, however they might be regarded as members of the tribe and of that war party, had no rights in the "council." Only born Lipans could take part in that, except by special invitation.

It happened, on the present occasion, that they were both glad of it, for "No Tongue" had more than usual to say, and "Yellow Head" was very anxious to listen to him.

"That peak yonder would be an awful climb, Steve."

"I should say it would."

"But if you and I were up there, I'll tell you what we could do. We could look north and east into New Mexico, north and west into Arizona, and south, every way, into Mexico itself."

"Are we so near the border?"

"I think we are."

Something like a thunder-cloud seemed to be gathering on Murray's face, and the deep furrows grew deeper, in great rigid lines and curves, while his steel-blue eyes lighted up with a fire that made them unpleasant to look upon.

"You lived in Mexico once?"

"Did I? Did I ever tell you that?"

"Not exactly. I only guessed it from things you've dropped."

"I'll tell you now, then. I did live in Mexico. Down yonder in Chi-hua-hua."

"She-waw-waw?" said Steve, trying to follow the old man's rapid pronunciation of the strange musical name.

"Down there, more than a hundred miles south of the border. I thought we were safe. The mine was a good one. The hacienda was the prettiest place I could make of it. I thought I should never leave it. But the Apaches came one day--"

He stopped a moment, and seemed to be looking at the tops of the western mountains.

"Did you have a fight with them?" asked Steve.

"Fight? No. I was on a hunt in the Sierras that day. When I came home it was all gone."

"The Apaches?"

"The mine was there, but the works were all burned. So was the hacienda and the huts of the peons and workmen--everything that would burn."

"But the people?"

"Cattle, horses--all they could drive with them they carried away. We won't say anything about the people, Steve. My wife was among them. She was a Spanish-Mexican lady. She owned the mine and the land. We buried her before we set out after the Apaches. I've been following them ever since."

"Were the rest all killed?"

"All. They did not even leave me my little girl. I hadn't anything left to keep me there."

"So you joined the Lipans?"

"They're always at war with the Apaches. I'm pretty near to being an Indian now."

"I won't be one, then. I'll get away somehow. I'm white, and I'm almost a man."

"Steve, have you forgotten anything you knew the day they took you prisoner?"

"No, I haven't. I was fifteen then, and if there's one thing I've been afraid of it was that I would forget. I've repeated things over and over and over for fear they'd get away from me."

"That's all right. I've had an eye on you about that. But haven't you learned something?"

"You've taught me all about rocks and stones and ores and mining--"

"Yes, and you can ride like a Lipan, and shoot and hunt, and there isn't a young brave in the band that can throw you in a fair wrestle."

"That's all Indian--"

"Is it? Well, whether it is or not, you'll need it all before long."

"To fight Apaches?"

"Better'n that, Steve. It's been of no use for you to try to get away toward Texas. They watch you too closely; and besides, the Comanches are most of the time between us and the settlements. They won't watch you at all out here. That's why I insisted on bringing you along."

"Do you mean I'll have a chance to get away?"

"I don't mean you shall go back of the mountains again, Steve. You must wait patiently, but the time'll come. I tell you what, my boy, when you find yourself crossing the Arizona deserts and mountains all alone you'll be right glad you can ride and shoot and hunt and find your own way. It's all Indian knowledge, but it's wonderfully useful when you have to take care of yourself in an Indian country."

The dark cloud was very heavy on Murray's face yet, but an eager light was shining upon that of his young friend--the light of hope.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

TWO STORIES OF YOUTHFUL HEROISM.[3]

BY MARY A. BARR.

[3] The scene of the former of these heroic acts was in Boone County, Iowa; of the latter, Deal Lake, New Jersey. Kate Shelley is about seventeen years old, and the boy hero only twelve.

HOW KATE SHELLEY CROSSED THE BRIDGE.

Oh, but the night was wild and dark, and the wind blew fierce and high! Oh, but the lightning flashed and shot across the inky sky! While the hurtling thunder cracked and rolled, till down the black clouds came, And earth seemed nothing at all to sight but water, wind, and flame.

Kate Shelley stands at her cottage door, and peers out into the night, For she sees, slow creeping through the storm, the pilot-engine's light, And it must cross the trestle-bridge above the swollen creek: It stops--it runs--then down it drops, with one long fearsome shriek.

"Kate, stay!" the wailing mother cries; but the young soul rose high-- "Nay, mother, I must try to help, though I should fail or die." She finds the wreck, but can not save, yet from the deep below A man shouts up two frightened words. She answers him: "I know."

The train! the train! the swift express! the crowded Western train! How shall she quickest reach the wires? By Boone the hope is vain. But to Moingona's but a mile, and yet so wild and drear, To brave it through the stormy night the stoutest heart might fear.

Torn by the undergrowth, and drenched, the wind and rain defied, She reached the raging Des Moines, and the bridge that spans its tide: A bridge not built for human tread, but "On!" her spirit cries-- A bridge of full four hundred feet, nothing but rails and ties.

No plank the daring steps to hold, and if a step should miss, Down fifty feet below her rolls the watery abyss. So on her hands and knees she creeps, fighting the wind and rain, Staining the timbers with her blood, yet heeding not the pain.

Then on and on she bravely sped! Thick darkness round her lay, Save when the vivid lightning made a still more dreadful day; Yet raging stream, and roaring wind, and fiercely beating rain Delayed her not: one thought had she--to save the coming train.

At length the bridge is fairly crossed. Bleeding and out of breath, She yet has half a mile to run--a fearful race with Death: O'er fallen trees, o'er rocks, through creeks, until--O blessed sight!-- She sees the way-side station-house and its one glimmering light.

Then all forespent, with failing strength, she pushes wide the door; With gleaming eyes and parted lips, she stands upon the floor: "_The trestle's down! The engines wrecked! Oh, stop the coming train!_" The man springs to the saving wires--she has not come in vain.

Then tenderly they comfort her. They ask, "How did you come?" And, hearing, lift their hearts and hats, and are a moment dumb. No soul among them would have dared the passage dark and wild: Ah! but God's angels had a charge to keep this noble child.

O brave Kate Shelley! though hard toil thy daily portion be, Mothers with happy pride now name their daughters after thee; And every child that hears thy tale shares in thy noble strain, And dares that perilous pass with thee to save the coming train.

LITTLE CHARLIE WHITE.

Well, yes, ma'am, this is the lake, and the story is pleasant and true, Though Charlie White did nothing at all but what he'd been taught to do. Yet I count it honor enough, when a boy sees trouble and muss, Just to know what to do, _and do it_, without any talk or fuss.

You know what the August weather is, and children, for any sake, Will not keep out of the water: there were two that day in the lake. The one was near about eight, and the other was twelve years old-- Both just of that age, as you'll allow, when children are over-bold.

One moment I heard their merry laugh ring through the summer air, And the next their father's shout of "_Help!_"--their mother's shriek of despair. But being old and lame, as you see, I stood, dazed like, on the bank, Till Charlie White had put off a boat, and was rowing to where they sank.

'Twas done in a moment, quick as thought; and that, as I take it, ma'am, Makes all the odds between true courage and that which is half a sham; For while we were lost in fear and fright, little Charlie had got the boat, And when the children rose to the top, was there to keep them afloat.

For Charlie is but a little fellow, and hadn't the strength, you see, To lift the children into the boat, but he spoke cheerily, And held them up until help came; and so, with a happy heart, He left them safe, and went his way, just glad to have done his part.

And best of all, as I said before, though Charlie is noways rash, The deed was done, as such brave deeds are, rapid and prompt as a flash; And this, I think, is the children's way; _they_ never mind praise or gain: I guess you've read of that brave Kate Shelley that saved the Western train.

Well, Kate and Charlie are of one kind, and surely now I can see Why Jesus said to the wise and the great, "Like little children be." For though we may honor the men of war, who have their thousands slain, In a better world God's angels, perhaps, may count it a grander gain To succor a drowning boy and girl, or to save a loaded train.

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON TERRITORY.

I am a large girl eight years old. We take HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE--that is, Willie and Jessie and I--and we are very glad when papa brings to us a new number. I had a little fawn which came from British Columbia. It was three weeks old when papa bought it for us, and such a time as we had in teaching the spotted little baby deer to drink milk! It grew to know us, and became a darling pet and playmate. We have sent it on a great ship to a little boy in San Francisco. I cried to see Una go away; and she cried, so the man said, for us. We live upon a hill, and can look out upon Puget Sound, and see ships coming and going all the time. On a clear day we can always see the snowy mountains.

MINNIE R.

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POUGHKEEPSIE, NEW YORK.

I thought I would write again, and see whether my letter could find a place in Our Post-office Box this time. I came home a few weeks ago from my visit to the country. While I was at my grandpa's my sister and I had a real nice time playing by the creek which was below the house. We built a raft, and had some splendid rides on it. Last night I came home from Newburgh, where I went soon after my return from the country. On my way home with papa and mamma we saw a very large and very old-looking cat in the butcher's shop, and the butcher who owned him told papa he was twenty-three years old. He said he knew it to be so, because puss had been there with him for all that time. For the last four or five years they had chopped his meat fine for him, because he had but two teeth left, I think if he were mine I would be very proud of him--would not you?

ANNA V. H.

The cat was fortunate in having so kind an owner. Do you know that in India there are hospitals and asylums for aged and sick animals, where the greatest care is taken of and the highest honors are paid to them? Yet human life is not highly valued in some of the old lands where they are so tender of the lower orders of creation.

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NEW ROCHELLE, NEW YORK.

I enjoyed a nice vacation, and after it returned cheerfully to school. My father had said that he would give me a ring if I was promoted, so I studied hard last term, and am now in a higher class. I received four beautiful butterflies from Miss M. S. McC., of Washington, D. C. I have a branch covered with moss, and I have pinned the butterflies to it. I am much obliged to you for having printed my exchange.

BANKS H. B.

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884 MADISON AVENUE, ALBANY, NEW YORK.

We have a bird and a dog (ay, and a dog Yobbie, says Lida). The bird's name is Dixie, and he is not home. I have a little sister and brother (ay, and two boyers, says Lida). We had a real nice little kitten, but she died or ran away. She could box with her paws. Freddy tried to box with a visitor cat, but she would not, and Freddy was disgusted.

Wouldn't somebody send some tree leaves, for postage stamps? Papa has a lot of old foreign stamps, and we are making a leaf collection. I am nearly six, and I tell papa what to write for me.

ELBERTIE LAURA BRAMHALL.

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SANTA CLARA, CALIFORNIA.

We have a big Artesian well which flows over the pipe almost six inches, and is five hundred feet deep.

Not long ago we went to San Francisco on the cars, visited Woodward's Garden, and had a very nice time. I enjoyed the many sights, but was most delighted with the sea-lions and the monkeys. There is a place in the bay near San Francisco where the rocks are covered with sea-lions.

"Tim and Tip" is a splendid story.

ELBERT G. A.

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NEEDHAM, MASSACHUSETTS.

I have a very kind friend who gives me YOUNG PEOPLE every week, and I like "The Cruise of the 'Ghost,'" "Tim and Tip," and the stories that Jimmy Brown and George Cary Eggleston write. My father is away all day, as he is a railroad conductor, and every Sunday he asks me if I have read YOUNG PEOPLE this week. Last Saturday two other boys and myself went after wild grapes, and we each brought home a peck of them.

HARRY S. W.

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JAMAICA PLAIN, MASSACHUSETTS.

I am a little girl, twelve years old, and am over seven hundred miles from my home. To-day I went to the Public Garden in Boston, and had a ride in the swan boat on the little pond, and saw a lovely rainbow through a fountain. Then I saw on Boston Common four cunning little goats harnessed to a little wagon called Baby Mine. I have seen many new and pretty things I could tell you about, but I suppose you have so many little correspondents that I will not write any more this time.

MAY H. L.

The little matter of business to which you refer in your letter has been attended to, and we think you were kind and considerate. You might have told us more about Boston. Did you climb to the top of the Bunker Hill Monument, and did you visit the spacious Library? Perhaps you will tell us when you write again.

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UTICA, NEW YORK.

This is the first letter I have ever written to your dear little paper. I am twelve years old. I have a nice little pussy which I call Pansy, and my brother dipped her in a pail of dirty water. I don't think it was very kind of him; do you?

I have read "Toby Tyler," and I hope "Tim and Tip" will be as good.

LUCY CANTERBURY G.

It was very unkind in your brother to treat poor Pansy so. We hope he will not tease you in that way again. Boys often do such mischievous things, when they do not really mean to be cruel. They should remember that "evil is wrought by want of thought," and that the gentlest boys are usually the manliest.

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TUNKHANNOCK, PENNSYLVANIA.

I have never written a letter to Our Post-office Box, because I have been afraid they would laugh at me. But I see so many little letters that I am venturing at last. My papa is a printer, and once worked in New York, and I would dearly love to live there, because there are so many grand things I could learn in school, and music too. The girls tell you about their pets. I used to have a three-legged kitten, and it could run ever so fast, but the dogs caught it finally.

I now have a cat which is the exact image of a tiger. It runs after children, and frightens them by jumping at them. My papa took me to a picnic, and we danced the Schottisch. I live with my grandma, who is very good to me. My mamma is dead.

LENA W.

Nobody who writes to this Post-office Box need fear being laughed at. We would not be so impolite, and we love to see our children's letters, even when the little fingers have not learned to write so very well yet. It took us a long time to learn how ourselves. We have not forgotten our old copy-books, in which "Practice makes perfect" was so often set at the head of the page. For some reasons, it is very pleasant to live in New York, little Lena; but for others, we are quite sure it is equally desirable to live where your home is. You can learn "grand things" everywhere, if you try hard enough.

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MAQUOKETA, IOWA.

I am eight years old. I had three kits. One was named Susan; the other two were Jack and Jill. Susan ran away, and poor little Jill had dreadful fits, and we don't know whether she ran away or died in a fit. Jack is just a splendid cat. He is in my lap now.

DALE L.

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GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN.

I have seen a good many letters in Our Post-office Box, but only one from Grand Rapids. I am a little girl eight years old, and I like to read the letters very much. My brother takes the YOUNG PEOPLE, and we all like to read it. When school commenced I was promoted to another class. I have a little pet kitten who sometimes has fits. One day I fed it some cat-nip tea with a tea-spoon.

ANNIE AUDUBON W.

What a pity it is that Kitty should be often ill and fitty! Are you sure, dear Dale and Annie, that you do not feed your cats with too many sweets and fats? Or perhaps you pet them too much. Try a little more neglect. It may have a fine effect.

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WINNIPEG, MANITOBA.

The society mentioned in No. 93 is now being organized. We have five corresponding secretaries appointed, but we want one for each State and Province in North America. The rules, etc., will be printed as soon as all officers are appointed. It has been decided by a majority of the members to fix the annual dues as follows: boys, 20 cents; girls, 15 cents. All exchanges are to be made by mail. The name decided on for the society was the "International Curiosity Collectors' Club and Young People's Exchange." All are invited to join. Address ROBERT C. MANLY, Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, or HARRY BELDEN, Wellington, Lorain Co., Ohio.

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NEW YORK CITY.

I thank you for answering my letter in No. 98. You said I ought to go on a farm, and that is just the thing I wish to do. My father would not oppose it, but my mother will not consent. It is not money I want so much at present, as my parents could let me go and work for nothing a couple of years for the sake of learning, but it is the future that I am thinking about. I have never looked so much at the future as I have in the last two months. It is strange, I have often thought. I sit an hour at a time. I am thinking now. I think I see a farm-house; I am sitting by the door; my hair is white, and I am very old; children are clustering around my knees. It is a nice picture, and I wonder if it will ever come true. I hope it will. I would like to work on a farm very much; I think it so free. I like flowers, and our yard is very nice, full of them. I would like to be a florist if I could not be a farmer.

N. ENG. F.

There is not much profit in day-dreams, and while you are making romantic pictures of the future, you might better be employed in studying or using to good advantage the present. A bright active boy has a good many miles to go before he becomes a white-haired man. Farming is not easy work. The farmer who means to succeed must rise early, toil hard, content himself with small gains, and lead anything rather than a luxurious life. You will be wise to be guided by your mother in the choice of a profession or an occupation.

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MILWAUKEE, WISCONSIN.

I have never written to any magazine before, so I thought I would write and tell you how I like all the young people's letters. I think I like "Mildred's Bargain" best of any of the stories. I want to tell you about my pony Kitty. (Is not that a pretty name?) And also my dog Baby Belle. Well, when I come home from riding I put Baby Belle on Kitty, and she rides all over the yard, and you can not think how funny it looks.

G. C. S.

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TENAFLY, NEW JERSEY.

I have been spending my summer vacation at Canandaigua, New York. I had a very nice visit, and on my way home I became acquainted with two girls, who rode all the way to New York city with us. I am making a collection of picture cards, and any boy or girl who will exchange with me will please address

LILLIE SISSON.

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LEESBURG, NEW JERSEY.

I thought I would write to YOUNG PEOPLE, as I have never before written to a paper. Our school began the first Monday in September. I enjoyed our vacation very much indeed. My sister Lillie and I went from here to Woodbury, and from Woodbury to Atlantic City, alone on the cars, and after that we went to three other places, so we had a nice long visit. I have no particular pet, but we have a horse named Nellie, and we have two cats, one of whom we call Blackie, because he is black, and the other, "Lillie's cat," because he belongs to Lillie. We once had a cat named Malty, and we then had two kittens. Malty used to catch mice and rats and give them to the kittens. We thought her very nice. My father used to be a sea-captain. I have been as far South as St. Augustine, Florida. I have been to New York two or three times, but I never noticed the place where YOUNG PEOPLE is printed. I like the story of "Tim and Tip," and I think the stories of "Penelope," "Phil's Fairies," and "Toby Tyler" are splendid.

FLORENCE E. S.

As my sister is writing a letter, I think I will do the same. I have never written before. I thought I would like to have a letter of mine in print--I mean if it is nice enough. I am ten years old. I go to school, and a gentleman by the name of Mr. Woodruff is our teacher. I am in geography, and we are studying map-drawing; our lesson to-day is the construction lines of Asia. I can hardly wait for Tuesday to come to bring us our dear YOUNG PEOPLE. This summer, when we were at my uncle's, their birds got away. They were out in a storm. They expected to find them dead, but they recovered them next day, safe and sound.

LILLIAN R. S.

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BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.

I have a great deal of trouble in school this term because I sit with a girl who persists in making me laugh. She is a sweet girl, and I love her dearly, but she does do such funny things! yet she can keep her face perfectly straight, when I am giggling and receiving bad marks. My teacher is very strict, and she says I am as much to blame as Cora is, and that if I tried harder I would not get into disgrace so often. I hate to carry home a report, at the end of the week with "Not satisfactory" on it, for my mother looks so sad; but I can not seem to help myself. What do you think about it? Please tell me in Our Post-office Box.

GERTRUDE H. L.

We think your teacher would do well to let Cora and yourself sit farther apart. Two little girls who can not be trusted to control themselves in the class should be separated. But we are afraid that you do not endeavor to do what you ought in this matter. For the credit of the school and for your own honor, you should be above trifling in school-hours; and if you would only think that if there is a time for play, there is also a time for work, you would be able to behave better, and win your teachers approval.

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WINDSOR, ILLINOIS.

We had a pet once, a white squirrel, which we called Finny, but it died. Papa sent it to St. Louis, and had it stuffed and mounted for us. We now have a little gray one, a pair of white bantams, and six hens. I have a kitten all white but its tail. I have two sisters, both older than I; Lollie is sixteen, Lena is twelve, and I am nine. I hope papa will always take YOUNG PEOPLE.

E. V. G.

Do you never feel sad when you look at your stuffed squirrel? One day we were visiting a lady who had a canary-bird in a cage among vines and flowers. After a while we wondered that the bird did not sing, and then we noticed that it kept remarkably still. So we spoke of it, and then were told that Muff had died and been stuffed. And there it stood on its little perch.

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We hope Weir M. will be successful in raising his family of rabbits. Emily D. may be sure the Editor shall hear that she wants more "Pinafore Rhymes" in YOUNG PEOPLE. It does keep us busy to read so many letters, but Walter H. G. need not be afraid to send us another before long; Eva I. has our congratulations on her candy. She must try her hand at cake and bread. Jessie M. R., your hope about Tip is shared by very many. Willie Van B., who apologizes for his writing, for the reason that he has lately lost his right thumb, is assured of our sympathy; we think that, considering the misfortune, he writes wonderfully well.

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G. C. B.--You would do better not to attempt such a curtain as you describe. It is both difficult and expensive to arrange a curtain which can be raised and lowered swiftly in a hall for amateur performances. A curtain which is divided in the middle, and may be drawn quickly apart from both sides, will be more satisfactory, and can be easily adjusted.

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Box 185, Cumberland, Maryland, states that his coins are exhausted. He will return all superfluous stamps sent him on receipt of postage to do so.

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Our children will not forget Mrs. Richardson's little school, though we may not remind them of it every week. Here is another charming letter from her, acknowledging the receipt of needed gifts, and suggesting something for the future which will set many little fingers at work. Christmas is still a long distance from us, yet it is not too early to begin, in odd minutes, the pleasant work of making Christmas gifts. You will all enjoy the merry time the more if you take pains to give the little dark-eyed boys and girls at Woodside a jolly Christmas-tree.

WOODSIDE, NEAR LINCOLNTON, NORTH CAROLINA.

MY DEAR FRIENDS,--Once more let me thank you for the little parcels that have come since I wrote last, from Glenn Woolfenden, Nashoa, Mo.; Anna Dearburne, Big Stone City, Dakota; Miss Gertrude Guion, Elmira, N. Y.; Charley Brink, Aniaga, A. T.; Mrs. Ellen Burke, Blue Mound, Ill.; Teddy Smith, ----; Miss Mary O'Neil, Miss Hattie Burgess, Miss Etta Coulter, Rochester, N. Y.; Charles R. Crowther, Bridgeport, Conn.; F. H. Day, Norwood, Massachusetts; W. A. Lewis, Lewistown, Penn.; N. A. Miller, Tarrytown, N. Y.; Miss Emma Joiner, Easton, Md. Among these parcels were two boxes of very useful books. You have helped us so generously that we have now books and papers to last us for some months to come. Of course I could in the neighborhood find use for almost any number, but that would be too big a work for either you or for us to undertake. We have decided that it will be best to build the school-house on land of its own, and so we will make a deed of the land upon which it is to be built to that effect. We will teach the school, and do all as I have promised. If your kind hearts still wish to help, you can do so by sending me some old clothes, hats, hoods, shoes, shawls; dolls and toys--no matter if they are broken: they will be acceptable and lovely to these little ones, who have never owned a "store doll" in their lives. They all are fond of candy, from Uncle Pete down to the youngest child. They will be very poor this winter, owing to the dry summer, and failure in the cotton crop. We will be so glad if the Christmas tree can have gifts that will warm up their cold little bodies! We will make and frost a large cake that will cut into forty-two generous slices; then have, without stint, cookies and hot coffee in the kitchen; when they have enjoyed this, show them the tree. If we succeed, I will write you about it. With my heart full of gratitude to you all, I am truly yours,

MRS. RICHARDSON.

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I would like to tell you of a parrot my grandmother has. My uncle used to go away every Saturday evening, and return Monday morning. The parrot used to know when Monday morning came, and at seven o'clock she used to take her stand on the railing of the stairway, and when he arrived would fly down to meet him. Once she had her wings clipped so that she could not fly. The next Monday she took her stand as usual, and losing her balance, fell down stairs. She has never tried again to fly.

E. T.

Poor Polly!

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NEWBURGH, NEW YORK.

I am eleven years old, and this is the first time I ever wrote to any paper. I take three other papers besides this, but I like HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE the best. Jimmy Brown's stories are very funny. I wish he would write more. I think Mr. Otis is a charming author.

We have a black dog named Beaver, and a black horse named Frank, who performs circus tricks like the horses in Barnum's.

EMILY L.

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C. Y. P. R. U.

These letters stand for Chautauqua Young People's Reading Union, and indicate, as was explained last week, that the readers of this column are a branch of the great society which meets at Chautauqua every summer for study, recreation, and training in usefulness. Whoever shall take a part in contributing to the budget of the Postmistress may write C. Y. after his or her name, on the best authority. The column will be a sort of miscellany, and you may feel entirely at liberty to send anything to it that you please. For instance, here is a letter from a boy who, in studying natural history, has happened across a pleasant incident in the experience of a traveller in the East:

MILLBROOK, NEW YORK.

DEAR POSTMISTRESS,--My teacher gave me as a prize for improvement in reading, a very entertaining book by E. Warren Clarke. Its title is _From Hong-Kong to the Himalayas_. I was much interested in the author's description of his first ride on an elephant. He and a friend went together, and on the neck of each animal sat a Hindoo driver, who guided its movements, and punished it when he chose with a cruel iron instrument, heavy, sharp, and dull, shaped something like the head of a harpoon. Mr. Clarke found the motion of the elephant very much like the rolling of a ship at sea. The elephants moved noiselessly along, picking their steps and avoiding holes, and sometimes they gathered grasses, leaves, and twigs with their trunks, and threw them skillfully into their mouths.

"The largest elephant became very thirsty," says Mr. Clarke, "and as he was quite warm, and we would not allow him to stop and drink, he made a peculiar plaintive utterance, which seemed to be understood by the other elephant; the latter came deliberately up, and placed his trunk in the open mouth of the thirsty one, and gave him to drink from his own stomach, or some unseen reservoir with which, like a camel, he appeared to be provided."

Wasn't that kind? I should have loved such a good elephant.

Now, Postmistress, I'll tell you one thing more, and then I'll stop. This author says that wild elephants do very little harm, and show good dispositions, not attacking you unless you disturb them; but an elephant which has once been tamed, and after that relapses into a wild state, is very dangerous indeed. He acts as if he hated mankind, and had been made bitter by his dwelling with them; and so the natives call such a fellow a "rogue" elephant.

JOE J. H.

Your letter pleases me very much, for it shows me that you are learning how to study. Some boys think that they can learn all that is essential about a branch or a study from their school text-books. On the contrary, the most that a text-book can do is to give outlines and arbitrary facts or lay down principles. A full and rounded scholarship implies a great deal of side study. The ambitious pupil will find something to bear on what he is learning in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, in the books he finds at a friend's house or in his father's library, and in the daily paper. When the attention is duly called to it, it is wonderful how all sorts of things seem to come to your help in the special line of study you have adopted. If the C. Y.'s will notice this, they will be surprised to observe how many curious coincidences there are to aid progress when people are very earnestly bent on one pursuit.

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Will the Postmistress please tell me why unmarried ladies are sometimes called spinsters? It never seems to me like a title of respect.

JENNIE F.

It is a very honorable title, because it suggests that the person bearing it is not an idler, but a useful woman. In olden times--a hundred years ago, for instance--in every household there would be a spinning-wheel and a loom, and part of the regular work of the daughters of the house was to spin, weave, bleach, dye, and prepare the garments of the family. To be a spinster was to be an important member of the community.

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Is it right to say party when you mean person?

ALICE B.

No. The use of party in the sense of person is inelegant and vulgar. Never say, "I must see a party," when you mean that you must consult a lady or a gentleman about business or pleasure.

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What is the origin of Tam o' Shanta?

"Tam o' Shanter," not Shanta, is the title of a humorous poem by Robert Burns.

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Please remember that your letters to C. Y. P. R. U. are always to be addressed plainly to the Postmistress. When you are reading, and you find something which you fancy the Postmistress would like to see, take the trouble to copy it for her. She would advise you all to keep little note-books and pencils in your pockets, or in some convenient place, and whenever a happy idea occurs to you, or you learn something new, make a brief record on the spot. There is no better way than this of fixing a fact definitely in your mind.

We call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. to the following articles in this number as particularly designed for them:

"The Sea" (Illustrated).--The first article of a series on the "World of Waters," by Charles Barnard.

"Sir Isaac Newton"--a biographical sketch.

A sketch of the early life of President Garfield, with portraits of his three eldest children.

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PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

TANGLE--(_To Cal I. Forney_).

I am an African cape. Change my head, and I become successively a weight, an heir, to peruse, to dress, gained, yonder, a cycle, an electrical chemical element, and a negative.

LODESTAR.

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No. 2.

DOUBLE ENIGMA.

In binding, not in tying. In laughing, not in crying. In attraction, not in power. In thunder, not in shower. In expel, but not in banish. In Brazilian, not in Spanish. In poetic, not in rhyme. In duration, not in time. In prisons, not in towers. My whole two way-side flowers.

DAME DURDEN.

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No. 3.

NATURE'S CONCLUSION.--FILL UP THE BLANKS.

One ---- ---- in the early ---- mother ---- was very busy. She was ---- ---- ---- ----, and thinking what she could ---- in the ---- ---- new ---- for her ----. When she ---- ---- ---- of it, she ---- that the ---- ---- ---- quite ---- ----. As for ----, she said, "Nothing ---- ---- style so well ---- ---- ----." ---- is lovely in ----, and lilies ---- ---- in white. The ---- rose ---- ---- ---- ---- except ----, and the ---- must ---- ---- with a ----centre and ---- ---- ---- in ---- or ---- is equally sweet, and as for ---- ----, she ---- not ---- who ---- butter, if I ---- ---- ----any other ---- ---- ----. Late in the ---- my ---- ---- delicate ---- ---- will be ---- the ---- and ---- the ----. They may -------- ---- please. As for the ----, they always come to ---- festival in ---- and ---- petticoats. They are stiff and ---- yet I pardon ----, for they ---- ---- ---- ----, and many -------- them. Dearest ---- ---- ---- ---- in ---- ---- ---- will bloom after ---- ---- ---- and ---- have all faded away at the ---- ---- ---- ----.

AGNES.

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No. 4.

PI.

Keta arec fo het enenpis, dan teh sudnop lilw etka arec fo hetsevselm.

WILLIAM A. L.

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No. 5.

ENIGMA.

First in bake, not in fry. Second in cake, not in pie. Third in nail, not in board. Fourth in gun, not in sword. Fifth in orange, not in plum. Sixth in subtraction, not in sum. If this puzzle you shall gain, You will find a place in Maine.

EDWARD E. P.

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ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 99.

No. 1.

D G B E D M A R L A C E D M A N E S B A S I L A R M A N G L E S D E C I M A T E S G A N G R E N E S D E L A Y E D R E L E A S E D A T E S S E N S E R E D S E E S S

No. 2.

B E A R E L B E A B L E R E E D

No. 3.

Spare the rod and spoil the child.

No. 4.

Babylon.

No. 5.

Cheyenne, Pechele, Mediterranean, Keweenan, Celebes.

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Correct answers to puzzles have been received from "Phil I. Pene," Ashbel Green, "Queen Bess," Lizzie Webster, Grace Maynard, AUGUSTA LOW PARKE, S. Whitlock, E. A. Cushing, Jun., Lucretia Davis, William A. Lewis, Sadie Rubina, Harry Dietz.

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SENTENCE-MAKING, ON PAGE 752.--The sentences of Harry's father: The monarch, weary of the cares of state, resolved to _abdicate_, determining to _bequeath_ the crown to his son, for whom he had _planned_ a life easier and more brilliant than his own. But his _design_ was frustrated by enemies, who, in the interest of a rival faction, were ready to _encroach_ on the royal prerogative. They did not _foresee_ a long period of war, in which great _glory_ should be gained by the _hero_, and during which _impassioned_ orators should place themselves in _jeopardy_ while defending the _King_, thus earning the _laurel_ of fame.

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[_For exchanges, see third page of cover._]

THE KING'S LABYRINTH.

Once upon a time an Eastern sovereign formed a labyrinth of high walls, placed in the innermost recess (B) a large bag of gold, and invited all the officers of the court to explore the maze, declaring that the man who could reach the gold should have it. The Grand Vizier was the first to attempt the task; and when, after several hours, he was rescued by a rope let down from the top of the walls, he was so worn out that he had to be kept in bed and fed on oatmeal gruel and gum-arabic for three weeks. All the other court officials, from the Keeper of the King's Umbrella down to the youngest turnspit in the kitchen, tried for the prize; but all failed, and had to be taken out from above. Then the King issued a proclamation calling upon any or every one of his subjects to come and try his skill or luck, and so many persons attempted the feat that the stones on the floor of the passages began to wear away, even though none of the people wore anything harder than sandals.

One day a pilgrim, who was rather old, and not very sprightly, entered the labyrinth, and not being heard from for several hours, the attendants went in search of him, and at last found him--coolly counting the coins in the bag of gold. Who can trace the pilgrim's steps?

THE GAME OF PERSONATION.

Any number of children may join in this game, and it may be played in any room, or on a lawn or field. All join hands, and go around singing, to the tune "Buy a Broom," these words: "When I was a lady, a lady, a lady--when I was a lady, a lady was I." All then let go of hands, and march around in single file, singing this chorus: "'Twas this way and that way, 'twas this way and that way, 'twas this way and that way, 'twas this way and that." During the singing of the chorus each child imitates as nearly as possible the attitudes and action of the person denoted in the first part of the song, which is changed every time by introducing a different character. All act together, and try to make the various parts as funny and as distinct as they can, and each one must look as sober as possible during the marching and acting. While they sing about the lady they must walk with mincing steps, and hold the dress daintily with the left hand, while the right seems to be waving a fan, and the head is turned archly sideways. All then go around again, joining hands in the ring, singing, "When I was a gentleman, a gentleman, a gentleman--when I was a gentleman, a gentleman was I. 'Twas this way and that way," etc., as before. In this, as in all the choruses, they imitate the person, and they strut along with heads thrown back, the forefinger and thumb of the left hand making an eyeglass, and the right hand twirling an imaginary cane. Next they use the word school-boy, and pretend to march slowly to school with folded hands and unwilling steps. The teacher is denoted by holding an imaginary book in the left and making signs with the right hand; the pianist, by playing on imaginary keys; the shoemaker, by driving pegs into the shoes; and the chore-woman, by kneeling down and scrubbing the floor or ground with both hands. The grandmother goes slowly with knitting-work in her shaking hands, and grandpa, leaning his bent form on an imaginary cane, usually brings up the rear, and ends the long procession.

End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, October 11, 1881, by Various