Chapter 9

The night came darkly down; The baby's mother said, "Bye-low! You musn't frolic so! You should have been asleep an hour ago!" And, nestling closer to its mother's breast, The merry prattler sank to quiet rest.

Then in the cradle soft 'Twas laid with tenderest care. "Good-night! Sleep till the morning light!" Whispered the mother as she breathed a prayer. Night settled down; the gates of day were barred And only loving angels were on guard.

JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

GRANDMOTHER'S CLOCK.

It stands in the corner of Grandma's room; From the ceiling it reaches the floor; "Tick-tock," it keeps saying the whole day long, "Tick-tock," and nothing more.

Grandma says the clock is old, like herself; But dear Grandma is wrinkled and gray, While the face of the clock is smooth as my hand, And painted with flowers so gay!

Backwards and forwards, this way and that, You can see the big pendulum rock: "Tick-tock," it keeps saying the whole day long, "Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock!"

The clock never sleeps, and its hands never rest As they slowly go moving around; And it strikes the hours with a ding, ding, ding, Ding, ding, and a whirring sound.

I wonder if this is the same old clock That the mousie ran up in the night, And played hide-and-seek till the clock struck one, And then ran down in a fright.

Backwards and forwards, this way and that, You can see the big pendulum rock; "Tick-tock," it keeps saying the whole day long, "Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock!"

NELLIE M. GARABRANT.

A STUFFED JUMBO.

Yesterday, Alice met the stuffed Jumbo, her former mate. She walked slowly up to him, and then stood for a few moments, evidently surveying him with wonder. Then she swung her trunk so as to reach Jumbo's mouth. She also touched his trunk in a cautious manner, and then turning her back upon him, gave vent to a groan that made the roof of the garden tremble. William Newman, the elephant trainer, Frank Hyatt, the superintendent, and "Toddy" Hamilton, talked to her in their usual winning way, and she again faced Jumbo. She fondled his trunk, looked straight into his eyes, and again she groaned, and then walked away as though disgusted with the old partner of her joys and sorrows. She went back to her quarters and continued to mourn. Her keeper, Scott, was appealed to by the spectators. He was asked whether he believed that she recognized Jumbo, and he replied in all seriousness, "Of course she did. She told me so." At another time he said, "I can understand elephant talk, and Alice told me she recognized Jumbo." Scott seemed very much affected by the meeting. He was Jumbo's old keeper.--_Humane Journal._

THE TREES IN SILVER LAND.

O softly falling flakes of snow That fill the wintry air,-- A thickening cloud on every side, Each flake a wonder rare.

"Are they from trees in Silver Land?" My child is asking me. He claps his hands, he laughs, he begs, "One leaf from silver tree."

Such questions as he asks in vain About the leaf-like snow! He might as well talk of the tides That strangely come and go.

"Who plants those fairy trees?" he asks, "With tops that reach so high?" Oh, answer, Garden of Delight, All in the cloudy sky!

"Who shakes those trees and sends their leaves On field and wood and town? Is it the Gardener living there, Or winds that blow them down?"

O child, look up and see yourself, The clouds are Silver Land. Who made those flakes, He scatters them; They fall at His command.

They fall, they melt, they come again. And His the gardener's hand That gently shakes the silver trees Which grow in Silver Land.

REV. EDWARD A. RAND.

SMALL BEGINNINGS.

Did you ever think of how lowly was the start in life of many of our great men? Read the pages of history and you will find that fully seven out of ten of the great men were really poor. Bonaparte used to be a book agent, Gould was a surveyor, Franklin was a printer, Garfield worked on the tow path, Lincoln was a rail splitter, Grant was a tanner, Poe was always in financial distress; Crome, the great artist, used to pull hair from his cat's tail to make his brushes; Astor came to New York with nothing as the foundation of his fortunes. The list is almost endless.

To us, there is much encouragement in these facts. By looking into the lives of such men we find the secret of success. Lincoln was a poor Illinois farmer, with no visionary dreams of his great future. He was poor and unlearned. Of the poverty he was not ashamed; of his lack of learning he was by no means satisfied. He resolved to gain knowledge. He studied, studied hard, and at a time in his life when other men felt they had passed the age of schooling. Of his work, we find he always tried to give an honest day's labor; his motto was to do well everything he put his hands to. It was this trait of character that attracted the attention of his neighbors, and this it was that first started him on the road to great success.

Look at the early days of Grant. There was no indication of unusual brightness in him. At West Point, where he was sent to military school, he did not stand at the head of his classes. He only seemed an earnest worker, with plenty of determination. Later, when he lived on his little Illinois farm, there was nothing about him that pointed him out as the future great general. It was only when the great civil war broke out that he had an opportunity to show the kind of a man he was. His only thought was to accomplish the task assigned him, be it ever so difficult. This naturally found him in the line of promotion, and step by step he climbed higher, earning by hard work every step he gained, until he reached the highest office in the land.

Take Edison, the inventor. He was only a tramp telegrapher, but he was not satisfied with being anything but the best, and many are the stories of speed he attained in sending or receiving messages. He was inquisitive--wanted to know more of the mysteries of the electricity that carried his messages. He began experimenting, and by close application to his studies, has astonished the world with his telephone, phonograph and other inventions.

Now, these great men are not merely the products of chance. Not at all. Study each of them and you will find they were workers, gaining by just such struggles as you and I can make. We may not reach such distinction as these have reached, but rest assured there is just as great a demand now as ever for good, earnest men, and earnest, successful men grow from painstaking boys. The boy who, as clerk in the counting-house, watches after the interests of his employers, will be the coming merchant; the young man on the farm who slights not the work assigned him, will own a farm of his own.

Let this lesson make an impression. The road to success may be rugged, but it is not so steep but that enough steps, if in the right direction, be they ever so short, will in time carry you a long way toward the top.

GARDEN OF THE GODS.

This, one of the grandest of American natural sceneries, is located along the Colorado River. The river, in its years and years of flowing, has washed out the soil, and owing to the peculiar composition of the ground has washed it away unevenly, and these standing peaks are so numerous and so fantastic in form, that this location has been called the Garden of the Gods. It is most impressive and inspiring grandeur. A trip will well repay a journey from the most remote parts of our country to see this view, only a little of which is in the engraving.

YOUNG ARTIST.

Albert, the blacksmith's son, will be an artist some day. While other boys are playing ball or skating, or other amusements, Albert is using his time making pictures. He seems to delight in it, and even when quite a small boy, many were the scoldings he received from his parents for a too free use of his chalk and pencil, leaving his rude drawings on wall and fences; and in school his troubles were only increased, for his books always contained pictures, sometimes of horses, or dogs, or of his friends. This habit did not correspond with his teachers' ideas of tidiness, and punishment followed punishment. It did not help matters, though, and his drawing continued. In time he became quite apt and could make pictures that very closely resembled the objects he drew. His companions called him the "artist," and they would have him make pictures of them. Some of his methods were odd enough. To make an outline of a boy's face he would tack a piece of paper on the side of a door in his father's shop, and by placing the boy between the paper and a lighted lamp, would trace with pencil the outline of the shadow as it fell on the paper. Soon he tried painting with paint and brush. At first his efforts were crude, and to anyone less determined and enthusiastic, discouraging. Not so to Albert. He worked along day after day, and in time could paint well enough to attract some notice in his little village.

About this time a great artist from the city, spending the summer in this part of the country, heard of Albert, and by accident met him. Quick to perceive the natural talent of the boy, and being generously inclined, he offered to take him to his city home and give him training in his studio. The parents, though loth to be separated from their son, saw here an opportunity to educate him in his favorite study, and so accepted the offer.

You can well imagine Albert's surprise and delight when he first entered the studio and saw the work of the master. How the great paintings filled him with wonder. He proved an apt student, a true artist, and year after year worked with patience and determination, and became a noted painter.

He often thinks of his early days--of the pictures he made in the old blacksmith shop. He thinks, too, of the years spent since then in attaining prominence in his calling, but no regrets come to him.

The true story of how one boy succeeded can be of use to others. It only takes this same perseverance and pluck to succeed in any other calling. Had he complained because he could not paint like the master, and not been contented to study on during these years, he could not now lay claim to his present success and eminence as an artist. Let others, in reading this, see in it an object, and may it bring to them new resolve to succeed in the life work they have started on.

Life is what we make it, and not a matter of chance. By marking out a future success we expect to accomplish,--by sticking closely to this one idea, and bending every energy to attain it, we can come approximately near accomplishing our undertaking.

A CHANCE WORD.

Ralph and Lily had one game of which they never tired, and that was "horses." It was really a convenient game, for it could be played on wet or fine days, in the nursery or on the road. Perhaps it was best fun on the road, "like real horses;" but I am not sure, for it was very delightful to sit on the nursery table, with the box of bricks for a coachman's seat, and from that elevated position to drive the spirited four horses represented by the four chairs, to which the reins would be fastened.

One day--a fine day--the two children were playing at their usual game on the turnpike road, and waiting for nurse, who had gone into a cottage near by to speak to the washerwoman. Nurse was a long time, and Ralph, who was horse, was quite out of breath with his long trot on the hard road. Lily touched him up with the whip, but all to no avail--he could run no more.

"I've no breath left," said the poor horse, sinking down exhausted on a heap of stones.

Lily put down the whip and patted his head to encourage him. "Soh! soh!" she said, in as good an imitation as she could manage of the way the groom spoke to their father's horse; "you are quite done, I see. You must rest, and have a handful of oats," and she dived into her pocket and produced a bit of biscuit, which the horse ate with great satisfaction, and soon professed himself ready to go on again. "Ah!" said Lily, sagely, "I knew you'd be all right soon; there's nothing like food and kindness for horses when they're tired."

A tinker, with a cart and a poor, ill-fed beast harnessed to it, happened to be passing, and heard the little girl's words. He stared after her, for she seemed very small to speak so wisely, and the tinker did not, of course, know that she was only repeating what she had heard her father say.

"Well, I'm dazed!" exclaimed the tinker, looking after the children; "wherever did little Missy learn that?"

He said no more then; but Lily's words stuck to him, and his poor horse had reason to bless Lily for them, for from that day forward he got, not only more food, but more kindness and fewer blows and so he became a better horse, and the tinker the better man in consequence.

A LITTLE DANCE.

Oh, it is fun! Oh, it is fun! To dress ourselves up, as Grandma has done. See how we go! See how we go! Forward and back, heel and toe.

Lighter than down, our feet come down Mind all your steps, and hold out your gown; Faster than that, whatever may hap, Cherry red waist and blue speckled cap.

Hi! Master John! Ho! Master John! Don't go to sleep, while the music goes on; Faster than that! Faster than that! Hold up your head, and flourish your hat!

How she trips it along, that bright little maid, With her dainty blue skirt and spotted brocade; And that one in yellow, who wears the red rose How she keeps her mouth shut and turns out her toes.

How they do spin! when they truly begin; Each dancer as airy and bright as a doll; While the music complete, keeps time to their feet, With its fiddle-dee-diddle and tol-de-rol-ol!

Oh, it is fun! Oh, it is fun! To dance, when every duty is done; Forward and back, or all in a ring, A quick little dance is a very gay thing.

LOOKING OUT FOR NUMBER ONE.

OLIVE A. WADSWORTH.

Joey was a country boy, Father's help and mother's joy; In the morning he rose early,-- That's what made his hair so curly; Early went to bed at night,-- That's what made his eyes so bright; Ruddy as a red-cheeked apple; Playful as his pony, Dapple; Even the nature of the rose Wasn't quite as sweet as Joe's.

Charley was a city boy, Father's pet and mother's joy; Always lay in bed till late; That's what made his hair so straight, Late he sat up every night,-- That's what made his cheeks so white; Always had whate'er he wanted, He but asked, and mother granted; Cakes and comfits made him snarly, Sweets but soured this poor Charley.

Charley, dressed quite like a beau, Went, one day, to visit Joe. "Come," said Joey, "let's go walking; As we wander, we'll be talking; And, besides, there's something growing In the garden, worth your knowing." "Ha!" said Charley, "I'm your guest; Therefore I must have the best. All the _inner_ part I choose, And the _outer_ you can use."

Joey gave a little laugh; "Let's," said he, "go half and half." "No, you don't!" was Charley's answer, "I look out for number one, sir." But when they arrived, behold, On the tree a peach of gold, All without, fair, ripe and yellow, Fragrant, juicy, tempting, mellow, And, within, a gnarly stone. "There," said Joey, "that's your own; As you choose, by right of guest, Keep your choice--I'll eat the rest."

Charley looked as black as thunder, Scarce could keep his temper under. "'Twas too bad, I think," said Joe; "Through the cornfield let us go, Something there, perhaps we'll see That will suit you to a T." "Yes," said Charles, with accent nipping, "Twice you will not catch me tripping; Since I lost the fruit before, You now owe me ten times more. Now the _outer_ part I choose, And the _inner_ you can use."

Joey gave another laugh; "Better call it half and half." "No, indeed!" was Charley's answer, "I look out for number one, sir! Well I know what I'm about,-- For you, what's in; for me what's out!" On they went, and on a slope Lay a luscious cantaloupe, Rich and rare, with all the rays From the August suns that blaze; Quite _within_ its sweets you find, And _without_ the rugged rind.

Charley gazed in blank despair, Deeply vexed and shamed his air. "Well," said Joey, "since you would Choose the bad and leave the good; Since you claimed the outer part, And disdained the juicy heart,-- Yours the rind, and mine the rest; But as you're my friend and guest, Charley, man, cheer up and laugh, And we'll share it half and half; Looking out for number one Doesn't always bring the fun."

WOODCROFT.

Woodcroft to be sold!--like a knell of doom the words fell on our ears--it could not be! Our dear old home, the only one we children had ever known, to be taken from us. We sat in the bright little sitting-room, blankly looking at one another, in dumb astonishment. Louise, who was always the thoughtful one, soon roused herself from the stupor which seemed to have come upon us all, and going over to the lounge, began comforting--as best she could, poor child--our gentle little mother, upon whom this blow had fallen most heavily. Presently she sat up, and in trembling tones told us, as we clustered at her knee, the particulars of our misfortune.

There were three of us--Louise, Cal and I, who rejoiced in the quaint cognomen of Pen, named for a rich, eccentric, old aunt, who had never left me any money because she never died.

"Now, Marmo, out with all the trouble and let us share it," said matter-of-fact Cal. And then she told how, after papa's sudden death a year before, she had discovered a mortgage to be on the place, small, but now due and no money to meet it; the creditor was pressing, and the home to be sold. We felt sad, but cheered her up, and talked over ways and means as never before.

"Even though he consents to renew it, where would the yearly interest money come from," she wailed.

We urged her to lie down and rest, and, following Cal's beckoning finger, tip-toed out of the room.

"Now, girls," said she, "_something's_ got to be done, and _we've_ got to do it."

One thing after another was proposed and rejected; we knew, if the home were sold, after the demands were met, there would be but a mere pittance left for four females to live on. Finally I broke in:

"Girls, my brain is not usually fertile, but a thought has been growing--we are all well educated, but teaching is out of the question, the supply is greater than the demand, but Lou, here, is skilled with pencil and brush, and Cal has a genius for contrivance; now why could you not paint and decorate some of the dainty trifles you often make as gifts, and _sell_ them. _I_ always did have a notion for cookery, which I shall proceed to put in practice, dismissing the servants." Having delivered this little speech, I paused, breathless.

Cal clapped her hands, and Lou's brown eyes glowed. "Pen, you little duck," and Cal pounced on me in an excess of joy.

"But," faltered Lou, "the mortgage."

"I thought of that too--our lady-like Louise shall go to that crusty old creditor, and beg him to _renew_ it, and with what you girls earn and what we save from the rent of the farm land (for we must live economically) we will pay him the interest promptly." I will add, that she did that very thing, and completely won over the hard-hearted fellow with her sweet, earnest manner.

So to work we went, and the sitting-room was converted into a studio, littered with papers, books, gay ribbons and glue-pots. But some exquisite creations came out of that chaos. I had visited the aforesaid Aunt Pen the previous winter, in New York city, and at the American Specialty House had been enchanted with the many novel and beautiful pieces of decorated work. All would be entirely new in _this_ part of the world, and our idea was, to take orders from the near towns for their Holiday trade. It was now only May and we would have plenty of time. Cal, who, with her brusque, honest ways, determined face, and curly, short hair, was our man of business, took samples of our work in to the various towns, receiving large orders in almost every instance.

Happy and busy as bees we worked, and began to feel quite important, as the pile grew high, of white boxes, filled with delicate satin souvenirs for wedding and birthdays, Christmas tokens of lovely design, little poems with dainty painted covers, blotters and thought books, beautifully decorated, all of which found ready sale. The little mother's sad eyes began to brighten, and Cal would say:

"Marmo, we can take care of you almost as good as sons, can't we?"

"God bless my daughters," would be the reply.

Louise had established her studio under the old apple-tree one warm June day, and, running out to call her to lunch, I found she had gone down in the garden, but I saw the cutest, prettiest sight! I beckoned her to come softly. There, on her sketch-book, opened against the tree, and on which was a half-finished painting of birds, hopped around two brown sparrows, peeping and twittering as contentedly as possible. It was too cunning! as though they had recognized their portraits and felt at home.

"A tribute to your genius, Lou," said I. "Like the famous artist of old, who painted cherries so naturally, the birds flew down and pecked at the canvas."

"I fear I shall have to dispel the illusion, dear. I guess they were more eager to pick up some cake crumbs I left than to admire my work."

Readers, you will be glad to know that the girls' work continued successful, and that the "crusty old creditor" turned out a good friend, from sheer admiration of their pluck and courage.

IN THE WOODS.

Merryvale was not a very lively place for any one except a couple of young colts, and as many calves, jumping around after their mothers.

The bees seemed to be making a good deal of fun for themselves, if stinging us children amused them, and buzzing into every pretty, bright flower, so that no one could pick it with safety.

The crows, too, collected in great gossiping parties, in the pines, over on the shore of the pond, and they always seemed to be congratulating themselves over something immensely satisfactory.

But we children, especially the girls, found it very dull after we had seen the few sights of the farm. The boys were trying to hunt and fish; but Lib and I talked that over, and we came to the conclusion, after much laughing and many caustic remarks, that the only amusement we had was, laughing at their failures.