CHAPTER III.

[2] Begun in No. 92 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, August 2.

"Talking leaves?" said Ni-ha-be, as she turned over another page of the pamphlet in her lap, and stared at the illustrations. "Can you hear what they say?"

"With my eyes."

"Then they are better than mine. I am an Apache. You were born white."

There was a little bit of a flash in the black eyes of the Indian maiden. She had not the least idea but that it was the finest thing in all the world to be the daughter of Many Bears, and it did not please her to find a mere white girl, only Indian by adoption, able to see or hear more than she could.

Rita did not reply for a moment, and a strange sort of paleness crept across her face, until Ni-ha-be exclaimed:

"It hurts you, Rita! It is bad medicine. Throw it away."

"No, it does not hurt."

"It makes you sick?"

"No, not sick. It says too much. It will take many days to hear it all."

"Does it speak Apache?"

"No, not a word."

"Nor the tongue of the Mexican pony men?"

"No. All it says is in the tongue of the blue-coated white men of the North."

"Ugh!" Even Ni-ha-be's pretty face could express the hatred felt by her people for the only race of men they were at all afraid of.

There were many braves in her father's band who had learned to talk Mexican-Spanish. She herself could do so very well, but neither she nor any of her friends or relatives could speak more than a few words of broken English, and she had never heard Rita use one.

"There are many pictures."

"Ugh! Yes. That's a mountain, like those up yonder. There are lodges, too, in the valley. But nobody ever made lodges in such a shape as that."

"Yes, or nobody could have painted a talking picture of them."

"It tells a lie, Rita. And nobody ever saw a bear like that."

"It isn't a bear, Ni-ha-be. The talking leaf says it's a lion."

"What's that? A white man's bear?"

Rita knew no more about lions than did her adopted sister, but by the time they had turned over a few more pages their curiosity was aroused to a high degree.

Even Ni-ha-be wanted to hear all that the "talking leaves" might have to say in explanation of those wonderful pictures.

It was too bad of Rita to have been "born white" and not to be able to explain the work of her own people at sight.

"What shall we do with them, Ni-ha-be?"

"Show them to father."

"Why not ask Red Wolf?"

"He would take them away and burn them. He hates the pale-faces more and more every day."

"I don't believe he hates me."

"Of course not. You're an Apache now, just as much as Mother Dolores, and she's forgotten that she was ever white."

"She isn't very white, Ni-ha-be. She's darker than almost any other woman in the tribe."

"We won't show her the talking leaves till father says we may keep them. Then she'll be afraid to touch them. She hates me."

"No, she doesn't. She likes me best, that's all."

"She'd better not hate me, Rita. I'll have her beaten if she isn't good to me. I'm an Apache."

The black-eyed daughter of the great chief had plenty of self-will and temper. There could be no doubt of that. She sprang upon her mustang with a quick, impatient bound, and Rita followed, clinging to her prizes, wondering what would be the decision of Many Bears and his councillors as to the ownership of them.

A few minutes of swift riding brought the two girls to the border of the camp.

"Rita, Red Wolf!"

"I see him. He is coming to meet us, but he does not want us to think so."

That was a correct guess. The tall, hawk-nosed young warrior, who was now riding toward them, was a perfect embodiment of Indian haughtiness, and even his sister was a mere "squaw" in his eyes. As for Rita, she was not only a squaw, but was not even a full-blooded Apache, and was to be looked down upon accordingly.

He was an Indian and a warrior, and would one day be a chief like his father. Still, he had so far laid aside his usual cold dignity as to turn to meet that sisterly pair, if only to find out why they were in such a hurry.

"What scared you?"

"We're not scared. We've found something. Pale-face sign."

"Apache warriors do not ask squaws if there are pale-faces near them. The chiefs know all. Their camp was by the spring."

"Was it?" exclaimed Ni-ha-be. "We have found some of their talking leaves. Rita must show them to father."

"Show them to me."

"No. You are an Apache. You can not hear what they say. Rita can. She is white."

"Ugh! Show leaves now."

Ni-ha-be was a squaw, but she was also something of a spoiled child, and was less afraid of her brother than he may have imagined. Besides, the well-known rule of the camp, or of any Indian camp, was in her favor. All "signs" were to be reported to the chief by the finder, and Ni-ha-be would make her report to her father like a warrior.

Rita was wise enough to say nothing, and Red Wolf was compelled to soften his tone a little. He even led the way to the spot near the spring where the squaws of Many Bears were already putting up his "lodge."

There was plenty of grass and water in that valley, and it had been decided to rest the horses there for three days before pushing on deeper into the Apache country.

The proud old chief was not lowering his dignity to any such work as lodge pitching. He would have slept on the bare ground without a blanket before he would have touched one pole with a finger. That was "work for squaws," and all that could be expected of him was that he should stand near and say "Ugh!" pleasantly when things were going to please him, and to say it in a different tone if they were not.

Ni-ha-be and Rita were favorites of the scarred and wrinkled warrior, however, and when they rode up with Red Wolf, and the latter briefly stated the facts of the case--all he knew of them--the face of Many Bears relaxed into a grim smile.

"Squaw find sign. Ugh! Good!"

"Rita says they are talking leaves. Much picture. Many words. See!"

Her father took from Ni-ha-be and then from Rita the strange objects they held out so excitedly, but to their surprise he did not seem to share in their estimate of them.

"No good. See them before. No tell anything true. Big lie."

Many Bears had been among the forts and border settlements of the white men in his day. He had talked with army officers, and missionaries, and government agents. He had seen many written papers and printed papers, and had had books given him, and there was no more to be told or taught him about nonsense of that kind. He had once imitated a pale-face friend of his, and looked steadily at a newspaper for an hour at a time, and it had not spoken a word to him.

So now he turned over the three magazines in his hard brown hand with a look of dull curiosity mixed with a good deal of contempt.

"Ugh! Young squaws keep them. No good for warriors. Bad medicine. Ugh!"

Down they went upon the grass, and Rita was free to pick up her despised treasures, and do with them as she would. As for Red Wolf, after such a decision by his terrible father, he would have deemed it beneath him to pay any further attention to the "pale-face signs" brought into camp by two young squaws.

Another lodge of poles and skins had been pitched at the same time with that of Many Bears, and not a great distance from it. In fact, this also was his own property, although it was to cover the heads of only a part of his family.

In front of the loose "flap" opening which served for the door of this lodge stood a stout, middle-aged woman, who seemed to be waiting for Ni-ha-be and Rita to approach. She had witnessed their conference with Many Bears, and she knew by the merry laugh with which they gathered up their fallen prizes that all was well between them and their father. All the more for that, it may be, her mind was exercised as to what they had brought home with them which should have needed the chief's inspection.

"Rita!"

"What, Ni-ha-be?"

"Don't tell Mother Dolores a word. See if she can hear for herself."

"The leaves won't talk to her. She's Mexican white, not white from the North."

Nobody would have said, to look at her, that the fat, surly-faced squaw of Many Bears was a white woman of any sort. Her eyes were as black and her long jetty hair was as thick and coarse and her skin was every shade as dark as were those of any Apache housekeeper among the scattered lodges of that hunting party. She was not the mother of Ni-ha-be. She had not a drop of Apache blood in her veins, although she was one of the half-dozen squaws of Many Bears. Mother Dolores was a pure Mexican, and therefore as much of an Indian, really, as any Apache or Lipan or Comanche--only a different kind of Indian, that was all.

Her greeting to her two young charges--for such they were--was somewhat gruff and brief, and there was nothing very respectful in the manner of their reply. An elderly squaw, even though the wife of a chief, is never considered as anything better than a sort of servant, to be valued according to the kind and quantity of the work she can do.

Dolores could do a great deal, and was therefore more than usually respectable, and she had quite enough force of will to preserve her authority over two such half-wild creatures as Ni-ha-be and Rita.

"You are late. Come in. Tell me what it is."

Rita was as eager now as Ni-ha-be had been with her father and Red Wolf; but even while she was talking, Dolores pulled them both into the lodge.

"Talking leaves!"

Not Many Bears himself could have treated those poor magazines with greater contempt than did the portly dame from Mexico.

To be sure, it was many a long year since she had been taken a prisoner and brought across the Mexican border, and reading had not been among the things she had learned before coming.

"Rita can tell us all they say by-and-by, Mother Dolores. She can hear what they say."

"Let her, then. Ugh!"

She turned page after page in a doubtful way, as if it were quite possible one of them might bite her; but suddenly her whole manner changed.

"Ugh!"

"Rita," exclaimed Ni-ha-be, "the leaves have spoken to her."

She had certainly kissed one of them. Then she made a quick motion with one hand across her brow and breast.

"Give it to me, Rita; you must give it to me."

Rita held out her hand for the book, and both the girls leaned forward with open mouths to learn what could have so disturbed the mind of Dolores.

It was a picture: a sort of richly carved and ornamented doorway, but with no house behind it, and in it a lady with a baby in her arms, and over it a great cross of stone.

"Yes, Dolores," said Rita, "we will give you that leaf."

It was quickly cut out, and the two girls wondered more and more to see how the fingers of Dolores trembled as they closed upon that bit of paper.

She looked at the picture again with increasing earnestness. Her lips moved silently, as if trying to utter words her mind had lost. Then her great fiery black eyes slowly closed, and the amazement of Ni-ha-be and Rita was greater than they could have expressed, for Mother Dolores sank upon her knees, hugging that picture. She had been an Apache Indian for long years, and was thoroughly "Indianized"; but upon that page had been printed a very beautiful representation of a Spanish "Way-side Shrine of the Virgin."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A FOREST FIRE.

This year the forest fires have been more extensive and more destructive than usual, especially in Michigan, where not a drop of rain had fallen for nearly eighty days. The fire, when once started, rushed on through green trees and dry trees, through corn fields and clover fields, at the rate of twenty miles an hour. Swamps full of stagnant water were dried up in a flash. Horses galloped wildly before the flame, but were overtaken by it, and left roasting on the ground. Trees two miles distant from the flames had their leaves withered by the heat. Some sailors who were out on the lake found the heat uncomfortable when they were seven miles from shore. Of course, wherever the lake was near, people tried to reach it. One farmer put all his family into his wagon, and started off. The fire was so close that the sparks burned holes in the children's dresses. Just then the tire came off one of the wheels. Usually, when this accident happens, the wagon has to stop, for the best of wheels generally fall to pieces in a few rods when they have lost their tires; but this wheel stood seven miles of jolting and bumping, up hill and down, over roots and ruts, while the frightened horses were galloping like mad creatures. Another farmer had gathered his neighbors about him to assist him in threshing his wheat. While the great machine was doing its work, the alarm was given that the woods were on fire. Hastily putting horses to the machine and to a wagon, the farmer and his friends abandoned homestead and newly gathered crop, and made an effort to save the valuable threshing-machine, even if all else must go. Before they gained the road a mare with a colt at her heels came madly galloping toward them, and becoming entangled among the horses attached to the machine, blocked their progress. The fire was almost upon them. The men cut the traces and let the horses go, but the great threshing-machine, to whose very existence fire was a necessity, had to be abandoned to the fury of the devouring element.

In the lake, people waded into the water up to the neck; then they were safe indeed from the flame, but almost choked by the smoke, while the sparks fell on them like snow-flakes in a heavy storm. Thousands of land-birds were suffocated as they flew before the flames, or were drowned in the lake. Bears and deer in their terror sought the company of man. A man and a bear stood together up to their necks in water all night, and the man said that the bear was as quiet as a dog. Two other bears came and stood close to a well from which a farmer was flinging water over his house. Our artist saw a very pathetic scene: the flames had swept away the homestead, and when the wave of fire had passed, no living thing remained but the faithful house-dog, which had crouched down in a ditch. It went again to its old place, and neither hunger nor solitude could persuade it to quit the ruins where its master had perished. It stood at its post, faithfully guarding the charred timbers of what a short time before had been a happy home.

A FOLDING CAMP-STOOL.

Girls and boys who are looking for a useful and tasteful holiday gift for mother, aunt, or elder sister, may unite in the making of the folding camp-stool, which we illustrate below. It is made of black walnut rods, joined, with hinges and with a broad cross-bar. On the top of the cross-bar is fastened a leather handle, by which to carry the stool when folded (Fig. 2). The upright wooden rods in the back are hinged to and support the cane seat, as shown by Fig. 1. The other upper rods are pushed into the notches on the under side of the seat in unfolding the chair. A leather satchel may be added, as in the engraving, but this is not necessary. The seat is covered with a four-cornered piece of brown woollen Java canvas, embroidered in cross stitch with fawn-colored filling silk in three shades. Ravel out the threads of the canvas from the last cross stitch row to a depth of an inch and a quarter, fold down the canvas on the wrong side so as to form loops a quarter of an inch deep on the edge, and catch every ten such loops together with a strand of fawn-colored silk in three shades, for a tassel, which is tied with similar silk. Cut the tassels even, and underlay the cover with a thin cushion.

Have dolls gone out of fashion? Very few of our little girls mention them in their letters. We hope that there are dolls and play houses and lovely little tea sets, just as there used to be, and we shall be glad to have the younger ones write about them. How many of you are learning to decorate china, and which little girls have painted the prettiest cups and saucers for mamma's birthday? What are the boys doing in these bright days of autumn? Marbles, tops, balls, hoops, and such toys are always the style, we know, among the boys. Which boy has drawn the best map? Who has made the finest work-box or bracket with his scroll-saw? Write about these things.

Now that the long evenings are coming, you may tell us, if you please, about your home amusements. Hands up! Every uplifted hand is the sign that its owner knows a pleasant evening game, and Our Post-office Box will be delighted to hear how it is played, so that all the young people may play it if they wish to do so.

And now one word more to exchangers. Listen, please. Try to confine your exchanges to useful, unique, valuable, or beautiful things of which you are making collections. As we have said before, in every case exchangers should write to each other, and arrange the exchange, settle the postage, and determine the details before they trust their articles to the mail or express. Every day brings us complaints, and some of them very bitter ones, from boys and girls who accuse others of having treated them unfairly. This would be made impossible if there were always an exchange of views before the exchange of goods. Hereafter we shall publish no notices of withdrawal from our exchange list. When your supplies are exhausted it would be well for you to notify your correspondents, for the reason that several weeks must elapse before we can publish your notice of withdrawal, and all that time you, though innocent, are exposed to the suspicion of being either dishonest or careless.

* * * * *

EAGLE GROVE, IOWA.

Not seeing any letters from this place, I thought I would write and tell you about my pets. I am a little girl nine years old, and live on a farm, and have to depend on my pets for playmates, as my little brother is dead, and I have no sister. I have a little gray kitten which I call Maggie, and my dog is a shepherd, and I call him Brave. He will speak for something to eat, and shake hands with me, and when I am at school, will watch until school is out, and then come and meet me. I have a little colt named Rosa, and a little calf named Mera, and a black cow named Mink. Our hired man takes YOUNG PEOPLE this year, and I want to take it next. I read all the little letters, and I think that "Susie Kingman's Decision" was splendid, and I hope "Tim and Tip" will be as good. I thought Jimmy Brown's monkey was funny. I do wish he would tell us some more of the monkey's tricks. My ma is writing this for me, but I tell her what to say, as it is such hard work for me to write.

ETHELYN I. G.

It is in order for any little girl to employ her mother as an amanuensis, and if she dictates the letter, we consider it her own.

* * * * *

PARIS, FRANCE.

We left Lucerne August 2, and crossed the Brünig Pass as far as Sarnen, where the horses were watered. We only stopped there fifteen minutes. The next place we slopped at was Lungern, and we reached Brienz for the night. We took a funny big row-boat, and two men to row it across to Giessbach Falls, and reached Interlachen August 3. We drove to Grindelwald, and saw two glaciers; and August 11 we came to Berne, saw the Bears' Den, the distant snow mountains, and the Cathedral clock. We heard the organ, which was the finest I ever heard, more beautiful than the organ in Lucerne. We drove one afternoon in the woods, and saw some chamois that are kept by the city. We left Berne, and came back to Lucerne. There we staid till the snow fell on all the mountains near the lake, and it was very cold.

September 1, we left Lucerne, and came to Bâle. On the journey, part of the way the train went in the water, for it had rained a long time, and the country was flooded. The peasants stood about talking and trying to save their gardens and fences. Two or three little children at one of the houses were being carried along over the water on a big horse. There was one little village saved from flooding by their cutting large drains through the principal roads.

When we reached Bâle the river Rhine was overflowing its banks, and it was rushing down and carrying great trees, parts of houses, fences, etc., along with it. There was great fear that it would carry away the old bridge, and the firemen of the city put large piles of railroad irons to weight it down, so that it should not be floated down the river, and carried away from its supports. The cellar of one of the buildings was full of stores, iron safes, etc., and they bricked up the doors to keep out the water. One street was so flooded that they made a board plank-walk above the water.

We saw the Münster, and the cloister walk, and curiosities in the tower of the Münster. In one room they had old musical instruments, and books, with the music in them written in all the old ways. In the Museum we saw Holbein's sketches. He was born in Bâle, and they are proud of his pictures. We liked a sketch of two lambs and a bat. At the Zoological Gardens we saw a fish-otter. He twirled round and round in the water, would dive and swim and turn somersaults.

September 4, we left Bâle by the night train for Troyes, France. There we got into a funny little "'bus," drove to a little hotel, and had our coffee and milk. We saw the Cathedral, and then took the train for Foutainebleau.

HARRY G.

* * * * *

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA.

We take HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, and like it very much. We liked the "Two-headed Family," but wished it had been a continued story. "Tim and Tip" is a very nice story so far, but I hope it will not end so sadly as "Toby Tyler" did, by Tip's getting killed. I liked "Phil's Fairies" very much, and "Aunt Ruth's Temptation." We would like to have the violin which some one offered for exchange, but have not got enough curiosities to make four or five dollars' worth. This is our first letter to YOUNG PEOPLE. We have taken it from the first number. I have two King Charles spaniels, and they are very clever. I have a great deal of pleasure in teaching them tricks.

HELEN T. F. and JOSEPH M. N.

* * * * *

WASHINGTON, D. C.

I have returned from my summer vacation, which I spent in Virginia. My baby brother was very glad to see me. I have four pets--a red bird, goat, pigeons, and a little dog. I drive my little brother out in my goat-wagon. When papa left me in the country, on his way home, the cars ran off the track, and smashed the tender, and he was six hours detained in the hot sun. I was waiting every day to hear from home, to know whether he was hurt, but no one was injured. When my brother and I were coming home, a mule got on the track, and delayed the freight train, so that we were seven hours behind time, and I did not get home in time to see the President's funeral.

W. H. T.

How thankful you must be that your dear father escaped unhurt!

* * * * *

HILLHURST, WASHINGTON TERRITORY.

I am a little girl seven years old. I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE since Christmas, and like it ever so much. This is the first letter I have ever written. I have lived in New Tacoma ever since I was one year old, until about two months ago. I am now living in the country, fourteen miles from New Tacoma. I like it much better than I did in town, for there are so many pretty ferns, leaves, and mosses, and other things too. I read so many letters from little boys and girls who write to YOUNG PEOPLE, I thought I would write one. I hope you will print this. I want to surprise papa. He does not know I am writing this. I will show it to him when it is printed.

ANNA S. H.

Your writing was so large and plain, dear, that we enjoyed reading your first letter.

* * * * *

WEST WINSTED, CONNECTICUT.

Have you room for another in Our Post-office Box? As I was picking grapes yesterday morning, I was surprised at finding a double one about one inch long. I must tell you of a kitten that I found last evening. I was sitting out-of-doors, and I heard a poor little kitten mew. It was nearly dead with hunger. I took it in and fed it, and now it is getting so that it feels itself quite at home. I like YOUNG PEOPLE very much, and am very eager for it to come. I only wish that it would come every day instead of every week. I _hope_ this will be published, as I have never seen one of my letters in print.

HENRY J.

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LEBANON, PENNSYLVANIA.

I am thirteen years old, and live in Lebanon. There is a small creek running near our house, and there I go to procure subjects for my microscope. I do a great deal of experimenting in philosophy. I examined a specimen of larvæ of a dragon-fly, so my teacher said. But it don't look a bit like larvæ. It was about half an inch long, and the size (in thickness) of a cambric needle. Under a microscope it presents an appearance I could not describe. I would like to send it to the President of the Natural History Society, but it must be kept in water, and so could not be easily sent.

I like YOUNG PEOPLE very much, particularly "Tim and Tip." I don't think Tip was so much of a bear-dog, after all.

FRANK B.

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BARABOO, WISCONSIN.

Papa says YOUNG PEOPLE has been a great benefit to us children, and I for one think the world of it. I have been intending to write to the Post-office Box for a long time. I will be eleven years old next New-Year's, and I have a little sister who will soon be able to read YOUNG PEOPLE too.

We children are now busy gathering hickory-nuts and butternuts and the beautiful autumn leaves, and when these pleasures are over, our out-door fun will be about finished until coasting-time. It is delightful out-of-doors now. Papa often goes out with us. We find lovely flowers in the early spring, as soon as the snow goes away, and later we search for wild strawberries, and then in their turns come the raspberries, plums, and blackberries, so that all the year there is something sweet and bright to invite us under the blue sky. The birds sing for us on our rambles, and we often see squirrels frisking around in the trees, and sometimes we startle a rabbit, and see him run for his home. Last spring a beautiful red fox fled past us, not more than twenty feet away. Papa said the hounds were after him, and as he was near his den in the rocks, he did not mind our presence.

Yesterday we observed as the funeral day of our dead President, and it was very mournful. The two posts of the G. A. R., and all the other societies, with brass music, fifes, and drums, marched through the streets, and great crowds of people gathered in the court-house and church, as the day was rainy. I suppose it was a sad day over the whole country, but nobody could feel as sorrowful as the President's children and their mamma and grandma were feeling.

NETTIE J.

We hope that poor hunted fox escaped in safety to his home, and we are of the opinion that he had nothing to fear from you. You have given us a very pleasant sketch of your life. You ought to have bright eyes and plump rosy cheeks after so much exercise in the fresh air and sunshine. Did you find the beautiful bitter-sweet, with its clustering berries, on your autumnal expeditions, and did you bring home great bunches of golden-rod and aster, as well as of autumn leaves? We always load our arms with more treasures than we know what to do with when we go to the woods or the pleasant country lanes at this season. Far back in our memory are pictures of autumn walks we used to take with our little companions on Friday afternoons, a kind teacher going with us, and helping us discover the most charming places. Only those pupils who had been perfect the whole week were allowed to join these delightful parties. We learned a good deal about botany in our walks, and our love for nature grew deep and true.

* * * * *

In reply to the Holly Springs branch of the Natural History Society I give below a brief synopsis of the katydid.

The katydid is an American grasshopper of a transparent green color, named from the sound of its note. The song that the katydid sings is produced by a pair of taborets, one in the overlapping portion of each wing-cover, and formed by a thin transparent membrane stretched in a strong frame. The friction of the frames of the taborets against each other, as the insect opens and shuts its wings, produces the sound. During the day it hides among the leaves of the trees and bushes, but at early twilight its notes come forth from the groves and forests, continuing till dawn of day. These insects are now comparatively rare in the Atlantic States, though the writer has heard their noise at night, indicating that they were not rare in the hills back of Nyack and Verdritge Hook, better known as Rockland Lake Point, on the Hudson River. In some parts of the West their incessant noise at night deprives people of their sleep. From good authority I can state that katydids are found only in North America. They are called "grasshopper-birds" by the Indians, who are in the habit of roasting and grinding them into a flour, from which they make cakes, considered by them as delicacies. The katydid is interesting in captivity, and if fed on fruits, will live thus for several weeks. Like other grasshoppers, after the warm season they rapidly become old, the voice ceases, and they soon perish.

I would suggest that some of our members learn all they can about the golden-rod, and send what they find out about it to the Post-office Box.

President C. H. WILLIAMSON, 293 Eckford St., Brooklyn, N. Y.

* * * * *

Most of you have known what it is to be awakened in the night by the tolling of fire-bells, or perhaps you have been frightened by hearing somebody rushing past the door shouting "Fire! fire!" at the top of his voice. It is always an alarming and thrilling experience, and none of us ever grow used to it. But if you have read in this number the article entitled "A Forest Fire," and have looked at the picture of the lonely dog lingering beside the ruins of his home, you are sure that no fire you have ever seen was so dreadful as that. Think of the poor birds scorched, or blown to sea and drowned, and the wild animals so terrified that for the time they grew tame! One little girl of whom we heard was determined to save her canary-bird, so she took it with her, under some carpet which her father kept wet while the family crowded close together beneath its thick folds. The poor pet was dead when they at last were able to stir from their shelter. Hundreds of children who had comfortable homes like yours were deprived of them during those dreadful days of smoke and wind and flame.

We are permitted to make some quotations from a private letter written by a young lady to a friend in Brooklyn:

PORT SANILAC, MICHIGAN.

You asked some of us to write a vivid account of the fire to you, but to do so goes entirely beyond the power of my pen. It was simply _awful_! During those dreadful days I was too frightened to know what I was doing. I cried every time I would think that just as we had got a home it would all be swept away in a minute. I was nearly sick when the danger and excitement were over.

The heat was perfectly unbearable. It seemed as if we would suffocate unless we could get a free breath of fresh air. The air was just as if it had come from an oven, and the leaves on our trees in front of the house are as brown as if they had been put into an oven and baked, and this even after all the rain we have had since.

It was so dark here on the Monday after you left that we lit our lamps at two o'clock, and at five I went out of the door to go into the office, and I could not see my hand before my face, and so hot! It was enough to make stouter hearts than mine quail. Most of the people here had their trunks packed. We did not, because we felt, if our house went, we did not care for anything else. My eyes ache so that I can not see to write much in the evenings now, or to do any work. I send you some papers giving fuller descriptions of the calamity than I can.

EVA.

There is a great deal of suffering in this part of Michigan, and it will take a great many hands and heads to relieve it. It will be a long time before the farms can be in good order again, the homes rebuilt, the schools and churches once more erected. Cold weather is coming. We hope you will ask your parents and teachers if they can not suggest to you some way of helping the poor people there. They need tools, books, food, clothing, and in fact everything which makes life comfortable. Boys and girls can have a share in the privilege of aiding them, if they really wish it, for in a great undertaking like this we can all help if we try.

* * * * *

TROY, ALABAMA.

This is my second letter to YOUNG PEOPLE. Everybody here is so sorry about the death of the President. Our post-office and court-house are draped in mourning. All the business of the town was suspended on Friday, September 23, and there were addresses in the evening by some of the orators of the place.

EDDIE M.

The sorrow at the death of our dear President has been universal. We are sure all the boys who read Our Post-office Box will grow up better and stronger men if they learn all they can about James A. Garfield, who was a noble boy before he became a great and good man.

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VERONA, NEW JERSEY.

I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE for a long time, and like it very much, as I think everybody must who reads it. The stories that I prefer are "Aunt Ruth's Temptation," "Penelope," "The Violet Velvet Suit," "A Bit of Foolishness," the Jimmy Brown stories, and Aunt Marjorie's "Bits of Advice." I have spent the summer at Verona, but am soon going home to Brooklyn. I have two brothers and one sister, all younger than myself. I will be very much obliged if you will tell me what Queen Victoria's last name was both after and before her marriage?

ETTA.

The family name of the royal family of England is Guelph, and the Queen, being a queen, did not take her husband's name when she was married, as other ladies do. We do not wonder that you did not know the Queen's name, as neither she nor any of her family ever use it. And we do not wonder that you feel an interest in knowing all you can about this good Queen, who has won every American heart by the sympathy she has shown us in our great trouble this summer.

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SOUTH GLASTENBURY, CONNECTICUT.

Most of the girls who write to you seem to love cats. I hate them. I think they are very treacherous, and incapable of caring for anything but their own comfort. I have never had one, and never mean to. My pet is a noble St. Bernard dog, named Bruno.

AUGUSTA C.

You are in good company in your liking for dogs. Prince Bismarck has a magnificent hound, which accompanies him everywhere. Sir Walter Scott was devoted to dogs, so that he grieved very deeply if any of his favorites died. But why hate poor puss? She has her good points too, and we hope some of the girls who love her will write us a letter or two in her defense.

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KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI.

I have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE from the first, and have all the numbers except one or two. I liked "Toby Tyler" ever so much, and think the new story is fully as good. I have a canary-bird that I am trying to tame. I let him fly around in the room for five or ten minutes every day. But as this is my first letter, I will say good-by for this time.

LIDA K.

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WESTFIELD, NEW JERSEY.

We live in a small town on the Central Railroad of New Jersey. We moved here last spring. My brother and I planted potatoes, corn, peas, and other vegetables. The corn did very nicely, but the drought spoiled everything else. We planted on shares with papa, and he paid us for half the vegetables we raised. My brother takes YOUNG PEOPLE, and I always read it all through, and enjoy Our Post-office Box very much indeed. While we were up the Hudson last summer, a little bird built a nest between the sash and blind, and the hen laid four eggs in it, but did not brood them, because my sister put her hand in the nest. I have five cats; their names are Brian, Peggy, Lulu, Daisy, and Satan. I have no doubt you think Satan a very funny name, but the reason we called him that is because when he was a very small kitten he caught a young chicken, and he is perfectly black. I think I will close, as I am tired of writing, and think my letter long enough.

WILLIAM D. W. L.

No doubt the money which you earned by your labor was more precious than an equal amount would have been had it simply been given you by your father.

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I have a little incident for Our Post-office Box. One day mamma sent to the store for some raisins. When she received them, she began to look them over and select some for her cake, and in them she found a snail shell. Mamma put it in her fernery, and the next morning was surprised to find that the shell was resting upon a twig of cranberries. She thought papa had taken great pains to put it there, and she looked more closely. She saw that there was a live snail in it. The new-comer lived in the fernery three months. One day, when the glass was off, it crawled away, and was lost. Do you suppose it was a Spanish snail?

Shell marl or pitcher-plants (Sarracenia, mamma says), for pressed sea-weeds or shells from the Gulf of Mexico. Please write to arrange exchange.

ANGIE B. WOOD, Westbury, Cayuga Co., N. Y.

If your raisins came from Spain, no doubt your little guest came from the same place.

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NANCY.--Thanks for your little story, but the adventure is hardly of sufficient importance to print. If you wish the manuscript returned, please send your address.

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C. Y. P. R. U.

The Postmistress has looked into the history of the word _hoiden_, concerning which a correspondent inquires. It is derived from the German _heyde_, which means heath or country place. Originally used to describe a rude (in the sense of rustic or home-bred) fellow, it has come to mean a wild, awkward, and romping girl. The received modern spelling is hoiden, but Churchill, Young, and Milton spelled it hoyden.

The study of language is very interesting. Words are pictures conveying ideas to the eye of the mind almost as vividly as the artist's brush and colors convey them to the eye. From one generation to another, words change their social positions. _Fellow_, for instance, was once highly respectable. It is now a term of contempt. A very thoughtful writer says that "words once refined, elegant, and even solemn, come in process of time to suggest trivial, vulgar, or ludicrous thoughts or images." In fact, words are continually dropping out of use or gradually altering their signification, and, more slowly, new words, like new coins from the mint, are finding their way into circulation.

The Postmistress was in a public conveyance one day, no matter when, no matter where. She was in a brown-study. But it was not so brown that her eyes and ears were shut to her neighbors. Beside her sat two fine-looking young people, who were making the most of spare moments. He was listening; she was reading. She read charmingly, with the right shadings to her phrases, and the tones of her voice were very musical. Still the Postmistress thought they had made a mistake in bringing their book with them, and reading aloud then and there. The persons themselves enjoyed it, but some of their neighbors were annoyed. An old gentleman who was reading the morning paper was disturbed by her inflections, and more than one young gentleman stared fiercely at him. It would have been better for both to have conversed in a low tone over the reading of the past or about the reading of the future than in the reading of the present to have in any way infringed on the rights of the travelling public.

Have any of you ever kept a home journal? It is a very pleasant thing to have a family book in which every day somebody writes the interesting events of the day. It is not necessary that the writing shall be done by one person in particular, although, for the sake of convenience, a sister or brother may be the chief scribe. The book should be kept in the sitting-room, free to all; and if the lesser and larger family happenings are set down in it from day to day, it will deepen in interest as time goes on. Keep a list of visitors, a record of excursions, a notice of birthdays, and, in brief, the story of your family life, in this home journal, and you will find it worth the trouble.

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The articles in this number specially designed for the C. Y. P. R. U. are "The Story of the Negro Fort" (illustrated), by George Cary Eggleston; an article on "Cameos" (illustrated), by Barnet Phillips; and a pretty piece of fancy work for boys and girls, with two illustrations.

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PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

HIDDEN FLOWERS.

1. Put the bread in the pan, Sibyl. 2. Flo, "Xerxes" is our subject in composition to-morrow. 3. Oh, Maggie, do you know what's on your lip? Ink. 4. "Don't pop Pyrenees Mountains into Switzerland," said a country teacher to a rather stupid pupil. 5. "What is the reason of your mild temperament, Paddy?" said a gentleman to an Irish laborer. "Well, sir, the fact is, I take the world aisy, as it goes." 6. "Forever Ben and I will live together," said the devoted little sister. 7. Kate, Alice, Rose, Mary, and I were all up early this morning. 8. "Jess, am I never to see your face again?" exclaimed a poor child, who had wandered from home, as he thought of his kind elder sister.

OTTAWA.

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No. 2.

ENIGMA.

In red, not in blue. In three, not in two. In ice, not in snow. In wind, not in blow. In east, not in north, As I gayly go forth. My whole is a river in Europe, my dears, And few among rivers I count as my peers.

NED EMPKHE.

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No. 3.

THREE EASY CHARADES.

1. My first I am. My second the tiger is.

2. My first is hard. My second is soft. My whole is sweet, and accounted a treat.

3. My first is a tree. My second is the product of a tree. My whole is a fruit which resembles the fruit of my first.

JER. Z. CITY.

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No. 4.

BEHEADINGS.

Behead a careless action, and leave a medicine. Behead an edible root, and leave a neuter verb. Behead a small room, and leave a beast of burden. Behead a piece of neglect, and leave an important errand. Behead a hurry, and leave grain. Behead what is firm, and leave an article of furniture.

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No. 5.

DIAMOND.

1. A consonant. 2. The cry of a sheep. 3. A rod for measuring. 4. A generation. 5. A vowel.

A. H. E.

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No. 6.

CHARADE.

A word of five letters I am, Come puzzle me out if you can. My first and last are alike, I declare. My second and fourth are also a pair. Spell backward or forward, I read both alike. Behead and curtail me, I'll come before night.

G. W.

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ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 100.

No. 1.

Nat, rat, mat, bat, cat, hat, fat, sat.

No. 2.

Aztec.

No. 3.

G E A L E A D A G L A R E E D W I N E R R A I D E N

No. 4.

The River Path.

No. 5.

Catamount.

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Correct answers to puzzles have been received from F. K. Durham, "Prince," "Aged Fifteen," C. T., "Queen Bess," Rose, A. R. Slade, Charlie B., Alice B., Maggie S., Albert J. Bulson, William H. White, John H. Busch, Jun.

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

A GREEDY SNAKE.

Our garden in Ceylon had been laid out by a Dutch gentleman, and consisted of terraces upon terraces out upon a hill-side. On these terraces grew the most splendid mango and nutmeg trees. The garden was famous then, and is still, for its wealth of fruit and spice trees. One morning I was walking leisurely down the stone steps leading from an upper terrace, when I saw at the foot a most horrible sight, that made me quickly retrace my steps. But curiosity and pity mastered disgust, and I turned to look at what I had fled from. I crept silently toward the snake, and threw a stone at it; but it never moved, for it was busily engaged swallowing a frog. I thought to release its unfortunate prey, and threw another stone, with more force than before, but the snake--a cobra, as I discovered--steadily continued its meal. Finding I could do nothing, and dreading what the cobra might do when its appetite was appeased, I slowly ascended the stone steps. When I reached the top I turned to look again. Every vestige of the poor frog had vanished, and the snake was gliding sleepily away. About three months afterward my husband killed a snake, and from the description he gave me of it--for I was ill at the time--I fancy it must have been the same greedy snake that I had seen devouring the unhappy frog.

Now one more story, and I have done. Snakes are very fond of eggs, and are great enemies to poultry. We noticed that a wise old hen used to lay her eggs in the clothes-basket, or sometimes on the top of the bed, and wondered at the reason. Often we discovered whole shells of eggs that were quite empty, and could not account for so strange a fact, nor could we get any eggs but those the wise old hen laid in the clothes-basket or on the bed-top. The poultry-house was very comfortably arranged for the convenience of its occupants. Baskets full of straw were made for the hens, but still this wise old hen preferred laying her eggs in a more public place. The reason we discovered at last, for we set a servant to watch. A snake had hidden itself in the leafy roof that covered the hen-house, and would watch its opportunity. As soon as the hen had deposited her egg and left the basket, it glided down and sucked its contents, leaving the empty shell with a small hole from which it had drawn the juicy meat.

Probably the wise old hen had discovered her enemy, and sought refuge in the clothes-basket. Much as she disliked the intrusion of human folk, she preferred their presence to the snake's. But the reptile was doomed. We watched for him, and had him quickly dispatched.

We no longer had to complain after this, and the wise old hen left off paying visits to the basket, and we were no longer disturbed by her cackle.

THE YORKTOWN PUZZLE.

BY J. NUGENT.

To solve this puzzle, first find the names of the nineteen different articles composing the picture. Then write these names under one another in such a manner that the initials from the top downward shall spell the day and month on which the battle of Yorktown was fought. When this is done, take every letter composing the names of the nineteen articles, and, using each letter only once, spell the names of sixteen notable officers who fought for the American cause in the Revolution.

End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, October 18, 1881, by Various