did. If he let them attack him in the open lake he knew very well that

the British could overpower him and capture his fleet; but he did not intend to be attacked in the open lake if he could help it. His plan was to sail slowly, keeping just out of reach of the row-boats, and gradually draw them to the mouth of the strait which leads into Lake Pontchartrain. At that point there was a well-armed fort, and if he could anchor his gun-boats across the narrow channel, he believed he could destroy the British flotilla with the aid of the fort, and thus beat off the expedition from New Orleans.

Unluckily while the fleet was yet far from the mouth of the strait the wind failed entirely, and the gun-boats were helpless. They could not sail without wind, and they must receive the attack right where they were.

At daylight on the morning of December 15, the British flotilla was about nine miles away, but was rapidly drawing nearer, the boats being propelled by oars. Lieutenant Jones called the commanders of his gun-boats together, gave them instructions, and informed them of his purpose to make as obstinate a fight as possible. His case was hopeless; his fleet would be captured, but by fighting obstinately he could at least gain time for General Jackson at New Orleans, and time was greatly needed there.

Meanwhile the British boats, carrying a thousand men, all hardened to desperate fighting, approached and anchored just out of gunshot. Captain Lockyer wished his men to go into action in the best condition, and therefore he came to anchor to rest the oarsmen, and to give the men time for breakfast.

At half past ten o'clock the British weighed anchor, and, forming in line, began the advance. As soon as they came within range the American gun-boats opened fire, but with little effect at first. Of course the British could not reply at such a distance, but being under fire, their chief need was to go forward as fast and come to close quarters as quickly as possible. The sailors bent to their oars, and the boats flew over the water. Soon the men at the bows began to fire the carronades in reply to the American cannon. Then, as the boats drew nearer, small-arms came into use, and the battle grew fiercer with every moment. The British boats were with difficulty kept in line, and their advance grew slower. Oarsmen were killed, and time was lost in putting others into their places. Still the line was preserved, and the battle went on, the attacking boats still slowly and steadily advancing.

Two of the American gun-boats had drifted out of place, and were considerably in advance of the rest. Seeing this, Captain Lockyer ordered the men commanding the boats to surround them, and a few minutes later the British were climbing over the sides of these vessels.

Their attack was stoutly resisted. The American sailors above them fired volleys into their faces, and beat them back with handspikes. Scores of the British fell back into the water, dead or wounded, while their comrades pressed forward to fill their places. There were so many of them that in spite of all the Americans could do to beat them off they swarmed over the gunwales and gained the decks. Their work was not yet done, however. The Americans fiercely contested every inch of their advance, and the two parties hewed each other down with cutlasses, the Americans being slowly beaten back by superior numbers, but still obstinately fighting until they could fight no more.

One by one all the gun-boats were taken in this way, Lieutenant Jones's vessel holding out longest, and the Lieutenant himself fighting till he was stricken down with a severe wound.

Having thus cleared Lake Borgne, the British were free to begin the work of landing. It was a terrible undertaking, however--scarcely less so than the fight itself. The whole army had to be carried thirty miles in open boats and landed in a swamp. The men were drenched with rain, and a frost coming on, their clothes were frozen on their bodies. There was no fuel to be had on the island where they made their first landing, and to their sufferings from cold was added severe suffering from hunger before supplies of food could be brought to them. Some of the sailors who were engaged in rowing the boats were kept at work for four days and nights without relief.

The landing was secured, however, and the British cared little for the sufferings it had cost them. They believed then that they had little more to do except to march twelve miles and take possession of the city, with its one hundred and fifty thousand bales of cotton and its ten thousand hogsheads of sugar. How it came about that they were disappointed I shall hope to tell you next time.

WHO WON THE BICYCLE?

BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Bimb! bang! boom!" and as they shouted out the school cheer, a group of Vilney boys flung up their caps and danced about to catch them again in a fashion that showed they felt much too jolly to keep them decorously on their heads.

It was the first Friday after the fall opening of the High School, and the cause of the cheering was the fact that the next day was the date of the Boys' Olympic Games at the Fair Grounds. The entertainment was quite a novel one, as none but school-boys were allowed to take part, and the prizes offered were pocket-knives, archery sets, tennis outfits, and last, but by no means least, an elegant full-nickel bicycle of the finest make. Cups, silver services, gold medals, and embroidered banners were all cast into the shade by the latter magnificent inducement, to be presented to the winner of the three-mile bicycle race.

The games had been organized and the prizes provided by a wealthy young bachelor who had lately come to reside in the town, and who was exceedingly fond of boys. Nearly every member of the Vilney High School was entered for one or more of the contests, and Olympic Games had been the absorbing topic of conversation for weeks.

One especially interested was Alec Barsbey. He was the son of a farmer who seemed never to make more than enough to support his family, minus luxuries, which perhaps may be accounted for by the fact that he ought not to have been a farmer at all, but a lawyer or minister, for he was so extremely fond of books. Alec inherited his father's taste for learning--a taste which Mr. Barsbey resolved should be cultivated by the best schooling, to be followed by a college course. He was now in his fifteenth year, nearly ready to enter upon the latter, but the severe study had begun to tell upon his health, when he luckily conceived a strong and sudden fondness for bicycling (for as a rule he did not care for sports or games), and on his friend Murray Hart's machine took now and then an invigorating "spin."

Murray lived just across the road from the Barsbeys, and when the rage for "wheels" broke out in town, he was among the first to own one. However, being also the happy possessor of a pony, he divided his time out-of-doors between the two, and as he was a fast friend of Alec's, he was only too happy when he could prevail upon the latter to accept the loan of his machine.

But if the Barsbeys were poor in purse, they were wealthy in a spirit of independence, and it was only after repeated urgings on the part of Murray that Alec could be induced to ride another's property. Yet even with the limited amount of practice he allowed himself, he speedily became an expert "'cyclist," although this fact was not an unmixed pleasure to him, as it only increased his desire to have a machine of his own, which in the present state of the Barsbey finances was quite out of the question.

Now, however, the Olympic Games presented a possible means of obtaining a splendid one, and Alec made haste to hire at the "bi" head-quarters a trusty wheel on which to practice and ride the race.

But while we have been making this lengthy explanation, Friday has passed, and Saturday morning dawned cool and clear.

What a babble of boys' tongues there was in the dressing-room under the grand stand, and what a crush of boys, girls, fathers, mothers, and cousins on top of it!

Mr. Lancewood, the young bachelor, who was as jolly as he was generous, bustled about from performers to public, boys to girls, grown people to children, until everybody began to believe there must be two of him.

Suddenly he stopped, looked at his watch, and then waved his handkerchief. Instantly a clear-toned trumpet proclaimed the opening of the games, and a brass band rattled off a lively air, at the close of which ten boys in flannel shirts and polo caps walked out from the dressing-rooms and toed the mark for the hundred-yard dash. Mr. Lancewood took his station behind them, pistol in hand, while at the other end of the course two young men held a broad reel ribbon between them to indicate the goal.

"One, two, three! Are you ready? [_Bang._] Go!" and off shot the ten as if from the pistol itself.

The spectators sprang to their feet in the excitement. But it only lasts an instant; for Charley Brown has distanced Jack Merks by a pace or two, and now comes panting back, with the ribbon streaming from his shoulders.

Then follows the sack race, in which Ed Primstone falls and rolls two steps for every one he attempts to walk, to the irrepressible mirth of all the small boys, and the consternation of his mother.

Next came the potato race, in which each boy was provided with a basket and a row of potatoes, the latter being placed about three feet apart, all the rows of course being of equal length. The task consisted in trying who could first transfer a row of potatoes from the ground to the basket.

But we have not time to further describe this nor the succeeding three-legged race, in which the right and left legs of two boys were tied together, and their arms placed around one another's necks, the object being to run faster than other pairs similarly fettered. We must hasten on to the grand feature of the programme, the bicycle race, the riders in which presently made their appearance on the track trundling their machines.

There were five entries for the contest--Frank Le Grand, Harry Clare, Dick Summers, Murray Hart, and Alec Barsbey. The latter is pale but determined-looking, and there is that in the ease with which he slides into his seat that causes a by-stander to remark, "That slim young fellow in the blue shirt doesn't make much show, but he has the look of both speed and endurance."

The start was to be from the saddle, and the distance twenty-one times around the track, which latter was simply marked out with lime, as a barrier offering any resistance was apt to prove dangerous.

Quickly and quietly the five lads range themselves in line, with the help of their friends, and when the word is given, off they glide, all abreast, on their smooth-running steeds. Very soon, however, Harry Clare shoots ahead, and a great shout goes up from the spectators as he keeps the lead for the remainder of the first lap.

But sharp eyes can see that he is overexerting himself too early in the race, and now the applause of the multitude inspires him to an additional spurt, which so exhausts him that he is soon obliged to materially slacken his speed.

Alec and Murray Hart keep together for round after round, and it is evident that both are saving themselves for the finish.

Frank Le Grand comes next, not far behind; but poor Dick Summers is soon dropped "out of sight," so to speak, and before making the tenth lap he rides outside the line, dismounts, and resting his elbow on the saddle, good-naturedly turns his attention to cheering on the others.

By this time Alec has left Murray, and is rapidly gaining on Clare, who now reaps the fruits of his over-enthusiasm at the start. He loses inch after inch of his lead, until finally Alec dashes past him amid the wild cheers of the spectators and a special burst of brass from the band.

Harry, however, has no intention of giving up so easily; for after his friends have provided him with a match or two to chew on, he appears to feel re-inspired, and rolls around the track with old-time swiftness.

And now the excitement begins in earnest. Frank Le Grand having followed Dick's example, there are only three competitors left; and as Murray seems to be taking things pretty comfortably, all eyes are centred on Alec and Harry. The former is exerting every nerve, resolved not to take second place again, while Clare seems as determined that he shall.

Around and around they fly, their noiseless movements lending an additional interest to the race. They look neither to the right nor left, except that Alec, every time he approaches a certain spot opposite the grand stand, gives a single glance toward one corner of it.

"Keep it up, Harry!"

"Go it, Alec!"

"Catch 'em, Murray!"

These and other cries, sent forth with the full power of youthful lungs, urge their subjects on to victory, and presently keen observers can trace a gradual widening of the breach between Barsbey and his pursuer. Both boys are working terribly hard, and an on-looker not accustomed to such contests, and ignorant of the careful training that is supposed to precede them, might expect to see one or both lads fall in their tracks.

Suddenly Alec gives an extra spurt, and an instant later reaches the point where he is in the habit of throwing his strange glance toward the grand stand. True to his custom, he raises his eyes, and at once a troubled expression overspreads his face. Then, instead of continuing on for his triumphant eighteenth lap, to the amazement of all he steers into the centre field and quickly dismounts. He leaves his machine lying on the grass, runs back across the track, and disappears among the crowd on the stand.

What can it mean? He has certainly not given out, or he could not have moved about so easily. A number of the boys, in their curiosity, hurry over to examine Alec's machine, but a warning shout from Murray turns the general attention back to the race between the only two now remaining in it.

Harry seems to be completely exhausted, while Hart, who is only half a lap behind now, appears to be almost as fresh as at the start. Harry makes a feeble final effort, and thus causes the race, amid the wildest excitement, to result in a tie.

What was to be done? The bicycle could not be presented to both, nor could the race be repeated later on, as the games were now over.

In the midst of the discussion Murray disappeared, for he was anxious to find out what had happened to Alec. Somebody had seen him leave the grounds; so, tired as he was, Hart mounted his machine and posted off to the Barsbeys'. He met Alec at the gate, just coming out.

"Who won?" was the latter's first question; but Murray did not answer it.

"Tell me, Alec Barsbey," he exclaimed, "why on earth you dropped out of that race?"

The other colored, glanced back toward the house, and then linking arms with his friend, drew him out toward the orchard as he replied: "I'll tell you, Murray, but don't look so fierce about it. You know how nervous mother is? Well, I told her she'd better not come to the games if she thought she'd worry about me; but she declared she'd worry worse if she didn't keep me in sight. She's never very well, and any overexcitement may bring on one of her bad turns. At first I didn't know what to do about it. I hated to give up the race, although I knew that was the safest plan, and at the same time didn't want to run the risk of frightening mother into another sick spell. Then I thought of a way to fix matters, which was to have mother go with father, and take a seat near the entrance where I could see her every time I came around. She was to carry in her pocket a green silk handkerchief, which I believe once belonged to some Irish ancestor of the family, and when she found the excitement was becoming too much for her nerves she was to wave it, and I would stop at once--which I did, as you saw, and just in time, too, for she hated to give the sign, and had nearly fainted. Father and I helped her out, brought her home, and now she's all right. Of course I'm no end sorry to have missed the finish, but then it would have been dreadful to have gone on and let mother suffer. And now tell me who's won the machine."

"You have," cried Murray; "and if you'll go up to your room and rest, and promise not to stir out of it until I come back in about fifteen minutes, I'll have it brought over and duly presented."

"But why can't I go--" began Alec.

"Hush! not a word!" returned his friend, authoritatively. "Imagine your mother's feelings if you should go near those grounds again to-day! Now go in and tell her the good news, with my compliments."

"But I don't see how I could have won, when--" but Murray was already speeding off on his "wheel," and Alec could do nothing else than wait patiently for him to come back.

When Mr. Lancewood heard the story of the green silk handkerchief he hailed it as the best solution possible of the difficulty caused by the tie to announce Alexander Barsbey as winner of the bicycle.

Harry Clare declared that no way of settling the matter could have pleased him better, while as for Murray, he hurried back to the Barsbeys' so eagerly that he took two "headers" in one block.

Of course the machine itself could not be presented until the size of the winner was known. Murray had forgotten this fact when he promised Alec to return with the prize, but the precious slip of paper Mr. Lancewood had given him to deliver answered every purpose.

The bicycle, which was truly a beauty, arrived early the next week, and all Vilney affirms that it was most bravely won.

AUTUMN LEAVES.

BY A. W. ROBERTS.

Last year hundreds of persons obtained from the Superintendent of Central Park, in New York, special permits to gather autumn leaves, _from the ground only_, in any part of the Park. These leaves, when dried, are used by artists and designers as types of nature's beautiful forms and color-work, also by botanists and wax-flower workers, and for home decoration, or are disposed of to city florists, at so much per hundred leaves, to be worked up in various floral designs. Thousands of "American Autumn Leaves" are sent every year to Europe, where they are highly prized.

Among some of the best varieties of leaves as regards color, form, and durability are those of the maples, sweet gum, sumac, dogwood, Virginia creeper, and crane's-bill geranium. The popular idea that an early frost is needed to insure the brilliancy and perfection of autumn foliage is a mistake. A lingering and moist fall is all that is required to produce the most brilliant colors.

When gathering leaves, always select those that are fully matured, and are leathery and fibrous. It is always best to secure them in small bunches, each bunch to contain several leaves attached to a small twig. Be careful also not to have the twig so long or thick that it will interfere with the pressing. I have found a small and light box with a close-fitting cover very useful when collecting leaves. A layer of damp (not wet) moss or grass should be placed on the bottom of the box to keep the air moist, and thus prevent the drying up or wilting of the leaves.

For drying the leaves, old and smooth newspapers, useless books, old sheet music, and old account-books will answer just as well as the most expensive botanical dryers. When arranging the leaves in the dryers, try and place those of the same thickness together, so that there may be a uniform pressure when the weights are applied. I have found a soap-box, filled with stones or other heavy material, and placed on the dryers, one of the best of make-shifts in the way of a well-ordered botanical press.

The time required for drying the leaves is governed by the amount of sap they contain, and the dryness of the atmosphere. Never attempt what is known as "hot-pressing"--that is, pressing with a hot flat-iron--unless you wish to sacrifice the delicate tints of the leaves, and turn to an unpleasant brown the masses of heavy and strong color. I have found by experience that coating the surfaces of the leaves with varnish, bees-wax, and other materials of a waxy nature, is not an advantage. This is particularly true of varnish, which gives to the leaves a glossy and unnatural look, while bees-wax, stearine, and spermaceti cause dust to adhere, which soon disfigures and obscures their beautiful colors.

Some years ago I became acquainted with a large number of children who lived on "our block," and their mothers and their fathers; in fact, I was one of the fathers. As a rule, they were all pleasant young people, and it became a pastime with me to entertain, amuse, and find them something to do, particularly during holidays and on Saturdays. In course of time two large and vacant rooms were secured in one of the houses, and I received a sort of standing commission from the parents of the children to fit up and furnish the two rooms as a play house. The following description will give a pretty fair idea as to how the walls were furnished.

First a reliable and communicative colored kalsominer was called in to kalsomine the walls of one room in alternate perpendicular bands of a very light blue and a very quiet gray tint, each band or stripe of color being nine inches in width. The other room was papered with a cheap wall-paper which cost about nine cents a roll. This paper was twenty inches wide; the pattern consisted of several styles of imitation chestnut-wood graining. Having on hand a very large quantity of autumn leaves, we set to work disposing of them on the walls of the rooms in the following manner:

First two glue-pots were made, as shown in Fig. 1, from empty fruit cans, the inner or smaller can to contain the glue, and the outer or larger boiling water. To the outer can a wire handle is attached. With the two cans a constant supply of hot glue was always on hand.

To the grained paper the leaves and tendrils of the Virginia creeper were fastened as shown in the right hand part of Fig. 2. The design, which is here horizontal, will of course be upright on the wall. To every other stripe of graining the leaves of the Virginia creeper without the tendrils were fastened, so as to avoid too much sameness. In this room the top bordering consisted of sumac leaves and berries, as shown in Fig. 3.

To the blue and gray bands of kalsomine were fastened the brilliant leaves and clusters of the crimson berries of the staghorn sumac, as shown in Fig. 4, and a top bordering of sumac and maple leaves, as shown in Fig. 5.

The leaves were used in a bold and vigorous manner; all fine and close work was avoided, as it would be lost, and the general effect spoiled. For the amount of time expended and the labor and trouble this work cost, we felt well repaid, and every one decided that the result was a great success, and that we had certainly discovered a novel and beautiful use for autumn leaves.

THE DARING MICE.

BY PALMER COX.

Some mice in council met one night, And vowed by this and that That they would arm themselves for fight, And brave the tyrant cat.

Said they: "Why longer fear her power? 'Tis time our strength to try. We'll hang her by the neck this hour, Or in the effort die!"

Two pistols and a carving-knife, A rifle and a rope, Were instruments of war enough To justify their hope.

So with the Captain in the front, The hangman in the rear, They started out to search for puss Without a thought of fear.

Through silent halls and broken walls With cautious step and slow, And furtive glances right and left, From room to room they go.

Now pausing by a nook or sill, Where trouble might be found, Now crowding close and closer still At every trifling sound.

But when before an open door The cat appeared in sight, The very instruments they bore Seemed paralyzed with fright.

The Captain shrinking in the van, The hangman crouched behind, The pistol-shot and rifleman Had but a single mind.

In doubt and dread they turned and fled, And lucky mice were they To find a hole so large that all At once could run away.

OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

NEW YORK CITY.

DEAR READERS OF THE POST-OFFICE BOX,--I have a story to tell you which will certainly please all those who have cute little kittens to pet and play with. I hope, too, it will put into some of your hearts a sweet thought of imitating the children I am going to write about. I think I will call the story

PUSSY'S CONTRIBUTION.

"That ends it; not another one will I make! Bother! just to break off when I wanted it! Well, I don't care."

The speaker was a boy about fourteen, sitting in a scantily furnished room, busily cutting sticks by the light of a small lamp, and surrounded by a plentiful supply of chips. On a bed in one corner was a little girl some four years younger, the last of a family who had moved out West, father, mother, and some older children having died, leaving only these two. The little girl had been for some years a cripple with spinal trouble, and the boy the worker and care-taker.

Very pale looked the little face, and sad the voice sounded that called just then,

"Andrew, can you come here a minute?"

"Yes, Jessie. What's the matter?"

As he sat down on the bed she took his hand, saying:

"What was it broke? Your knife? I was afraid that was it. What will you do?"

"Do? Nothing, except give you a nice blaze with those old sticks. You don't often have one."

"And give up the Cot? Oh, Andrew!" and her dark eyes spoke the disappointment even more than her voice.

"Well," said Andrew, a little upset by her distress, "what's the use? My knife's broken; I can't pay to have it mended, nor buy another, and even if I wanted to, I don't know where I could borrow one, and then, when I get my sticks all made, it will be only a dollar, which great sum won't go far to help buy the Cot that the paper wants. Besides, after all, it will really be Mrs. Fuller's money, for I know she could get them made cheaper at the carpenter's. I heard her say to her daughter the day she gave me the order, 'Nellie, as Andrew is wishing to make some money to give to Young People's Cot, I will let him make the flower sticks for me instead of giving them to Mr. Dawson, and he will have that to give--ten dozen, at ten cents a dozen.' I suppose you told Miss Nellie what I was wishing for?"

"Yes, after she brought the paper asking for the money for the Cot. Don't you remember, you read it to me, and how we were wishing we could make some money to give? I think it is very kind of Mrs. Fuller to think of you."

"Well, at first I thought so too; but to-night, as I sat working at the sticks, I felt as she was somehow _giving_ it to me, and just taking the sticks to make believe I was working for the money, and it made me feel angry. Then I have only six dozen finished, and it is tiresome, after working hard all day, to spend the evening working too, and I don't believe it worth all the trouble, just for one dollar."

Throwing himself on the bed, he looked as if he considered the matter settled.

Not so Jessie, the little comforter.

"Why, Andrew, Miss Nellie said the other day, when she was here, how fast you had worked, and how nicely the sticks looked tied up in bundles, and I should not wonder if she could mend your knife. I think she can do almost anything."

"Why, Jessie," said Andrew, laughing merrily, "she couldn't do that. Girls can't mend knives."

"Miss Nellie is not a girl, Andrew. You should not speak so of her."

"Well, she's a young lady, and that's pretty much the same. They can't do much."

"Oh, Andrew, how can you speak so?" said Jessie, indignantly. "I should like to know who it was persuaded Mr. Fuller to give you the place in his office, and often gives you shoes and clothes, but Miss Nellie, and who lent us money to help pay the rent the time you were sick, and comes to see me so often, bringing books, papers, and many things, but a _young lady_, even Miss Nellie. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." And the voice which began so strongly to fight Miss Nellie's battle ended in a sob.

In a moment Andrew, who was really a kind-hearted, manly boy, only just now tired and disappointed, had his arm around the little girl.

"There, don't cry, Jessie; you know I didn't mean anything. I know Miss Nellie is very good to us. I don't know what we would do without her, only I'm sure she couldn't mend a knife," boy-like, not willing to give up his opinion.

"Well, Andrew, I don't know about that, only I wish I could be just such a young lady as she is, and I'm sorry I spoke so cross, and just when we were trying to work for the good of others; that's a poor way to copy Miss Nellie."

"Meow, meow," now sounded in very decided tones from somewhere below the quilt.

"Oh, Andrew, I forgot kitty," said Jessie, pulling out from under the covers a very pretty little Maltese kitten, with a blue ribbon on its neck, the latter a present from the famous Miss Nellie!

The kitten had strayed into the room some weeks before, and staid with Jessie ever since then, a much-loved companion to the lonely little girl. At present she had been occupying her usual abode under the covers near Jessie, and in the making up of the children had rather suffered from close quarters. When pussy had been made comfortable again, Jessie said:

"Andrew, I want to tell you a secret. Put your head down on the pillow by me, but don't hurt Twilight"--the name Jessie had chosen for her cat because of its color and its coming to her at that time of day. "I was talking to Miss Nellie the day she was speaking of the Cot, and wished I could do something for it, but could not, as I was not able to work. She said perhaps I could find something to give up that would bring some money, something to bear instead of do, and said she would try and think, and so must I. Well, she had not been gone more than an hour when there was a knock on the door, and in came a lovely-looking little girl about my age, holding Twilight in her arms, and saying, 'Is this your kitty? Will you sell her to me? I'll give you a dollar for her. I just want a little cat, and saw this one as I passed, and came in to see if you would let me have her. My name is Helen Lathrop, and I live in that big house on the hill that you see from here.' 'Sell my kitty!' I said; catching her rather roughly, I am afraid, out of her hands, 'no, indeed, not for any money,' and at once I put Twilight under the covers for fear she might take her away. 'I think you might,' she said; 'I will take such good care of her--better than you can here,' looking round the room. Then turning to me, she said, 'Why don't you get up, and not lie in bed this time of day; it is 'most three o'clock?' When I told her I was sick, and could not get up, she seemed very sorry, and said she would not ask any more for kitty, only if I ever wanted to sell her, she would buy her, and went away. When she was gone I gave Twilight a scolding for being out, and then had a good cry to think how near I came to losing kitty, and was so startled with my strange visitor. After I got quiet I lay looking at the house on the hill, and telling kitty all my trouble, but she seemed quite happy, and would shut her eyes and then open them partly, just, I think, to let me know she was listening, and finally went to sleep, but I could not, I felt so upset. While I lay looking at the house suddenly a thought seemed to jump into my mind: 'You were wishing to make some money for the Cot. Here is a chance--sell Twilight.'"

"Oh, Jessie, you wouldn't, would you?" for besides Jessie's pleasure, Andrew had a soft little corner in his own heart for kitty.

"Wait, Andrew, until I tell you. I said nothing to you, and Miss Nellie did not come for a few days, so I just thought and talked to Twilight. At first it seemed so hard I told her I would never let her go, and then I would think of all Miss Nellie told me of the poor little sick children in New York so much worse off than I am--you know, she used to live there--and how comfortable they were made at St. Mary's Hospital. So I thought and thought in the daytime, and dreamed about it at night, until Miss Nellie came, and we had a long talk about it, and Miss Nellie said she thought it would be a great deal for me to do, and told me the story of the widow's mite, and said it would be something like that, though I couldn't see exactly why, as I don't think kitty a mite, but a great deal, so I made up my mind, and kitty must go. I couldn't help crying over her some, Andrew. You know I shall miss her so! And I think Miss Nellie was sorry to lose her too, for I saw tears in her eyes as she kissed me good-by, and she is going to write a note to Helen Lathrop, and tell her she can buy dear Twilight."

"Jessie, you must not give puss away. How can you get along without her? she is all you have to love," said Andrew, taking one of the little dark paws lying out of the covers and rubbing it softly. Puss blinked her eyes, as much as to say she knew very well how important she was.

"Oh, Andrew, don't say that. You know, first, I have Jesus, who loves and takes care of me, and helps me bear my pain," said Jessie, reverently; "and dear Miss Nellie, who taught me to love Him and all that is good; and then this dear boy, who is always so kind and loving to me--I can't sell you at any price," putting her thin little hand lovingly on his face, the fear of hurting kitty preventing a kiss; "and even Mrs. O'Brian upstairs, when she comes to 'cheer me up like,' as she says, 'with a wee bit of a story,' although she 'most always tells such queer ones, I feel frightened when she goes away. And then, Andrew, you know Twilight will be so much better off--I suppose live on cream and sleep on a silk cushion. And you know sometimes when you are away she gets into trouble, and I can't help her, like the day the cross boy threw stones at her. So, Andrew, won't you finish your sticks? and then we can send two dollars to the Cot."

"Well, Jessie, I rather guess I will, indeed, and perhaps I can grind my knife enough to use. I will run over now to Mr. Hammond, who is still working, and see," said Andrew, getting up; and I think, if the light had been stronger, Jessie would have thought Andrew sorry to lose kitty too, for there were a good many tears in his eyes. And as he went out he thought to himself: "Well, I ought to feel ashamed. Here is Jessie, only a girl, as I often say, and a sick one at that, setting me such an example of unselfishness. Dear little thing, I don't wonder Miss Nellie loves her so."

In one acknowledgment of the Cot in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE appeared the following: "Twilight, $1, Andrew Thornton, $1, Seneca, Kansas."

AUNT EDNA.

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LA GRANGE, ILLINOIS.

Perhaps some little readers, less fortunate than I, may like to hear about my pleasant trip this summer to Denver, Colorado. We were forty-two hours in the cars between Chicago and Denver, and I was tired crossing the plains, as there is nothing to see but prairie grass, and it was so dusty, but when we arrived at our destination I was quite delighted. Denver is a fine city, and has some buildings as pretty as those in Chicago, and then the mountains are so near!

We took a trip up Clear Creek Cañon to Idaho Springs, thirty-eight miles through the Rocky Mountains, and the scenery was just awfully grand--mountains above mountains, with lots of gold and silver in them! The air is light and clear, and this mountain refuge stands about eight thousand feet above the sea-level. It was funny to see the hot springs; the water was so warm that I could not hold my hand in it. And then there are ice-cold soda springs; but the water does not taste good, although they say it is wholesome to drink it. I would rather have lake water. We climbed up a good way, and got some nice stones with silver and gold in them.

My papa also took us to the great mining exposition, and, oh, my! it would have done your readers good to see the great chunks of gold ore. One big piece was valued at twenty-seven thousand dollars. And then there were so many pretty stones and metals--gold, silver, galena, copper, iron, lead, zinc, tin, soda, salt, granite, marble, and coal. It is built of stone, and is outside of the city. You get there by the steam-cars for ten cents. It is a permanent structure, and will be in better order next year.

It would take too much space to tell all we saw, but I would urge on all who can to take a trip to Colorado. We intend going next year again, and until then adieu.

ELIZA B. S.

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LOCKLAND, OHIO.

I have taken your paper only a short time, beginning August 15. I have two kitties--one Snip, and the other Tabbie. I have some chickens. I think a good deal of one I call Bess. She knows her name, and will come to me when I call her. I have a little curly-headed brother, who is the sunshine of the whole house. I have a swing, and Albert, the little darling, likes to swing. I have to hold him in my lap. He is two and a half and I am thirteen years, and we are the only children. I want to take music lessons, but we have no piano. Papa does not know I am writing this letter, and it will please him very much to see it in print. Mamma always looks over my letters, so of course she knows this is the first