PART II.

“WHAT did you say?” This last sentence was addressed to a customer who had been standing for some seconds. “Green braid? No, we haven’t any to match that.”

“Are you sure?” questioned the young girl anxiously. “Haven’t you a little darker, then? that will do.”

“No, we haven’t!” sharp-voiced and spiteful.

“Saucy thing!” she added, as the girl turned away; “I told her I hadn’t; what business had she to ask again?”

“O, Nellie! I don’t think you are sure. I think I found some in your upper row of boxes yesterday which would answer for the sample.”

“Nonsense! as if you could tell without looking. I know I haven’t; I tumbled the whole lot over yesterday for a fussy woman, and I remember every shade in it. It is of no consequence, anyhow; a seven-cent braid!

“O, Jean! look here; let me see your photographs. Are they good?”

She had darted away to the counter below.

Marion stood for a moment irresolute, then moved toward the girl. “Let me see it, please; I think I can match it.”

The woman to whom she had sold a spool of thread turned at the sound of her voice and smiled on the girl. “Give it to her, Jennie, she will match it; she knows how,” she said. Marion answered the smile; her heart was warm over the simple words of commendation. She sought among the upper row of boxes for the one which her memory associated with yesterday’s shades, and found it. The girl made her seven-cent purchase and went away pleased, just as Nellie came back from her photographs.

“Such a stupid day!” she yawned toward its close. “Not a person of importance has even passed our counter. I’ve sold about a dollar’s worth of goods to-day. How much have you done?”

“Hardly that,” said Marion, smiling. “It has all been spools of cotton and darning needles. It has rained, you know, all day.”

The next morning’s sun shone brightly, and the large store was thronged early in the day with shoppers. Both Marion and Nellie were busy, the latter not much pleasanter than she had been the day before; it all seemed such trivial work to her.

“Are you sure you are not mistaken in the name?” one of the chiefs was saying, in a perplexed tone, to a lady who stood near Marion’s counter. “We have but one clerk of that name, and she is the youngest in the store.”

“This one is quite young, and she sells spool cotton,” said the lady, catching Marion’s eye and smiling a recognition. She had laid aside the long gossamer, and was carefully dressed. “I have a fancy to be waited on by her.”

“Marion,” said the chief, turning to her, “this lady wants to look at the light trimming silks; do you know anything about them?”

“Yes, sir,” said Marion promptly; “I know the shades and prices.”

“I thought so,” the lady said, and Marion moved down the archway at her side.

“I have a fancy that you can match silks,” the lady said; “at least I think you will patiently try. A girl who could do her best on a rainy day for a spool of cotton, can be depended upon for silk, I believe.”

From the silk department they went to the glove counter, and from there to the millinery, in each of which departments the young girl with wide-open eyes and deft fingers and careful taste gave satisfaction. “You ought to be in this room,” said the head milliner, smiling on her as she saw her select the right shade of velvet. “Where do you belong?” She laughed when told, and said that the spool-cotton department was fortunate.

“That Marion Wilkes,” said the chief on Saturday evening, “what about her?” The clerk told briefly what he knew about her.

“Promote her,” said the chief briefly. “Keep watch of her; if she succeeds in other departments as well, keep pushing her. She has been worth several hundred dollars to us this week. Miss Lamson told me she had expected to buy her niece’s outfit over at Breck’s, but was attracted here by that little girl selling her a spool of cotton on a rainy day. And Jennie Packard brought her mother here for the winter supplies for their family, because that girl matched a dress braid; in fact, I have heard half a dozen stories of the kind about her. She is valuable; we cannot spare her for spool cotton.”

It was four years ago that this true story happened. Last Saturday, as I stood near the spool counter in the fashionable store, I heard a voice ask: “And what has become of Marion Wilkes? She used to be here next to you, didn’t she, Nellie?”

“Why, yes, she was the spool-cotton girl; but she didn’t stay here long; she got to be a favorite with the proprietors somehow. I never understood it. She was a sly little thing; they promoted her all the while; you never saw anything like it. She gets the largest salary of any saleswoman in the store now, and I heard last week that they were going to put her at the head of the art department. That’s just the way with some people, always in luck. Here I have been at this tape and braid counter for years, and expect to be until my eyes are too dim to pick out the stupid things. I told you I had no tape of that width; what is the use in asking again?” This last sentence was addressed to a little girl who was waiting to be served.

PANSY.

THE SPOILED FACE.

(_Character Studies._)

“ISN’T he lovely?” asked Miss Henderson, as we three stood in front of Charlie’s portrait, which had just come from the artist’s hand. “He has such great expressive eyes, so soft, and yet so full of intelligence. The artist has caught the very expression. I think I never saw a more beautiful boy.”

“I think I never saw a greater nuisance,” said Miss Maylie, speaking with a good deal of energy and with a slight frown on her face, as though some unpleasant memory was stirred by the sight of the lovely face in the frame. We both turned and looked at her in surprise.

“Nuisance!” repeated Miss Henderson. “Why, what can you mean? I have heard that his character is as lovely as his face. He is one of the most generous little fellows, always dividing his goodies with the children.”

“Oh! I don’t doubt it,” said Miss Maylie; “but there are other traits in children to be sought after besides that of dividing their goodies.” Then she laughed, as if half-ashamed of the warmth of her manner, and said: “I’ve been a recent victim to one of his habits, and feel somewhat deeply, perhaps. I had an important engagement with his mother yesterday—a business matter for which I had asked an interview—and told her I was pressed for time, and had but a half-hour. I suppose we had been together about two minutes when the door opened without the ceremony of a knock, and Charlie appeared to ask if he might go over to Uncle Harry’s. He was told that he could not, it looked too much like rain; and he argued the matter, assuring his mother that the wind had changed and was blowing from the west; that the cook said it was not going to rain any more; that he would put on his rubbers and bundle up, and I don’t know what else. He was listened to patiently by his mother, and impatiently by me, for my precious half-hour was slipping away. He shut the door at last with a frown on his face which, if it had been painted, would have made this picture much less beautiful, but I am afraid more natural.

“It was certainly not five minutes before he was back, and this time it was, ‘Mamma, may I call Jerry to bring in the kittens?’

“‘O, no, dear! not this afternoon; you are dressed for dinner, you know.’

“‘That won’t make any difference; I won’t soil my clothes. The kittens haven’t been out in the mud. Do, mamma, let me.’

“‘No, Charlie; I do not want them in the parlor, you know.’

“‘Then I’ll go to the kitchen and play with them; Jane won’t care.’

“‘Yes, Jane cares very much; the kittens annoy her. Charlie will have to get along without them this afternoon.’

“Another slam to the door, with the scowl deepened. But we were by no means to be left in peace. I was just in the midst of the most intricate part of my business explanation, when Charlie arrived again. Now he was hungry; could not wait another minute, and wanted some bread and butter and syrup, and a piece of cake and a glass of milk. It was carefully explained to him that dinner would be served within the hour, and that syrup was not good for him, the doctor said—to which he replied that he did not care what the old doctor said—and that cake would be given him at the table when it was passed to the others. To each of these explanations he returned an answer which had to be answered, and when all was settled, he began over again to coax for something to eat! The fourth time he came he wanted the gas lighted in the library, and the fifth he wanted a certain great book which he could not lift placed conveniently for him to look at the pictures. When at last even his mother felt the strain on her patience and told him he must run away and not interrupt her again, he burst into a loud howl, and slammed the door after him so that my nerves all shivered at the jar.

“I must say it would be difficult for me to admire his face to-day; my annoyances are too recent. Seven times during a single half-hour to be interrupted by a little boy, when you are trying to transact important business with his mother, has spoiled his face for me. If he had wanted one single thing which it was important to have at that moment, it would have made a difference.”

“They all seemed important to him, I suppose,” said gentle Miss Henderson, who always tried to apologize for everybody.

“Yes, they did,” said Miss Maylie; “that is just the trouble; he evidently considered himself a very important person, and thought that his mother should leave her business and her caller and attend to him. I should call him a spoiled child.”

MYRA SPAFFORD.

MY LITTLE MAID.

THIS is my little maid, Eva ——, though that is not her Chinese name. She will be a woman one of these bright days, and who knows but she may become a real princess or empress of great China?

“What of that?”

Much every way, if she now loves the Lord Jesus, and grows up a noble Christian woman. Can’t you see how she could help the Gospel among her people if she had the great power of an empress? I hope you remember how the good Queen of Madagascar led her nation to give up idolatry and choose the Bible. And now they are doing things so cruel to their neighbors who have become Christians we wish our little Eva were the grand good empress to stop these wicked Chinese doings.

L.

* * * * *

THINK well over your important steps in life; having made up your mind never look behind.

SACRED ANIMALS.

SOME nations think certain animals sacred; that is, they are so much better than other animals that they must not be harmed; of course they must not be killed. If they can they treat them almost as if they were human beings, dressing them up nicely, even richly. Just think of one of our bull-dogs dressed and fed and housed almost as well as a king!

“Why do certain tribes of Africa almost worship the Lion of Lhiamba?”

Perhaps because he is so strong and wise and terrible. He seems like a very god to them, they fear him so.

“Now maybe,” they say to themselves, “if we respect this great, fierce beast, never lifting a hand to harm him, maybe he will not harm us.”

“Does he ever harm them?”

Always, if they cross his path when he is hungry.

“Are there any other sacred animals?”

Yes; the bull, the white elephant, the monkey, even the serpent, and how many more it is hard to say.

Maybe you can guess which is sacred to the Egyptians, Chinese, etc.

We should not needlessly harm any animal. Shooting birds for mere fun is wrong. Animals have a hard time in this world. Let us not make it harder. But we must worship God only.

They are mere creatures, passing away after a short stay here; God lives forever. “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.”

L.

* * * * *

EACH one of us is bound to make the little circle in which he lives better and happier; each of us is bound to see that out of that small circle the widest good may flow; each of us may have fixed in his mind the thought that out of a single household may flow influences that shall stimulate the whole commonwealth and the whole civilized world.—_Selected._

SADIE’S “HEATHEN.”

NOBODY knew or even dreamed how large a thought was puzzling the brains of little Sadie Wilmot. It had begun at family worship that morning. Or no; perhaps it began back of that, at the meeting of “Cheerful Givers,” on Thursday. Mr. Wilmot said it was an absurd idea for such little dots as Sadie to be going to missionary meeting, but grandmamma quoted to him: “As the twig is bent, the tree is inclined,” and herself dressed Sadie for the gathering. Then Miss Harlowe, the leader, had told a story about a little heathen boy who prayed to an ugly little wooden image, with a hideous face; she showed a model of the little heathen’s god, and Sadie was shocked and distressed. She thought about the heathen a good deal that day. Now, this Saturday morning grandfather, at family worship, had read a Psalm. Sadie had not been listening very closely; in fact, it was hard for her to listen to Bible reading, some way, unless it had a story in it. This was not in the least like a story, and Sadie’s thoughts were, if the truth must be told, upon her dollie’s new hat and how she should make it, when she heard these words: “Ask of me, and I will give thee the heathen for thine inheritance.” It was that word “heathen” which caught her ear. Who was talking? To whom were the heathen to be given? Had some naughty king given them away to a bad man, and was that why they prayed to ugly wooden dollies? Sadie’s thoughts were in a turmoil; she could hardly wait until the prayer was over, before she was at grandpapa’s knee questioning.

“Why, child,” said grandpapa, with a puzzled air, for he was not used to explaining the Bible to little people, “it means what it says; the heathen are to be given to Jesus.”

“Given to Jesus!” said Sadie, amazed, “then why do they pray to ugly wooden dollies?”

“Because He hasn’t got them yet; they don’t know they belong to him.”

“Why doesn’t somebody tell them?”

“They do. People are at work telling them. Did you never hear about the missionaries, child? I thought you belonged to a Mission Band?”

Of course she did, and had heard about missionaries, and assured her grandfather that she gave five cents a month to support them. He did not say that that was a larger sum than he gave regularly for the same purpose; for some reason he did not care to do so; he only said:

“Very well, then, you understand all about it. The Bible says the heathen will be given to Jesus, and the missionaries have gone over there to tell them about it, and show them how to serve the Lord.”

“Has every single one of them heard it?” questioned Sadie, in great earnestness.

“Well, no,” said grandfather; “I believe they haven’t yet.”

“Why don’t they do it faster? Why don’t lots more missionaries go, and take Bibles, and hurry? Because maybe some of them will die before they hear it.”

Sadie was in intense earnest, but her father laughed, and said: “That’s the question, father. Puts some of you Christians in a tight place, doesn’t it?”

Sadie could not imagine what he meant; her grandfather sat at ease in his big leather-covered chair, and was not in a tight place at all. But she was disappointed at his telling her to run away and not ask any more questions for five minutes. If she only had a mamma, Sadie thought, she would ask her all the questions she pleased, for her friend Trudie Brown said that mammas never got tired of answering. But Sadie’s mamma went to heaven when she was a wee baby.

She went away to think it over, as she had to do with so many of her puzzles, only to have it added to presently by words from her grandmother.

“I declare!” said that good woman, coming in from the back yard, where she had been talking to Tony, the errand-boy, “that boy is a perfect heathen.”

Sadie nearly dropped her dollie with a china head on the floor, in her dismay. “Is he truly, Grandma?” she asked.

“Yes, he is,” said grandmamma, with emphasis; “I don’t believe there is a greater heathen in the depths of Africa than Tony. I have been trying to explain the simplest matter to him, and he does not understand me as well as a child of three ought to.”

“How should he?” asked grandfather, to whom this sentence was chiefly addressed; “he has never had any chance to learn. The whole settlement over there where he came from live like heathen, and know no better.”

Then came one of Sadie’s startling questions: “Grandfather, is he one of those who were given to Jesus?”

“What?” asked grandfather, in astonishment. He had already forgotten the morning’s questions.

“Why, isn’t he one that you read about, out of the Bible, that was given to Jesus?”

“Oh!” said grandfather, “I suppose so; why, yes, child, certainly. Jesus came to save him, as well as other heathen.”

“Does he know it?”

“What a child you are!” said grandmother; but as this was no answer Sadie waited, looking at her grandfather.

“I doubt if he does,” he said at last, “or would understand if he was told.”

“Why, then he ought to be told over and over, ever so many times, as you said you had to do with Bruce before he understood that he was to stand on his hind feet and ask for a bone, oughtn’t he?”

Both grandfather and grandmother began to laugh, though Sadie had no knowledge of what there was to laugh about; she was often treated in this way, and did not understand it. She turned away with a dignified air, a trifle hurt that her logic should produce only laughter; but there was decision as well as dignity in the tone in which she said: “I mean to tell him.”

That was the beginning of effort for Tony Black, as he was called for convenience, though his full name was Antony Blackwell.

Faithfully did Sadie pour information on him and ply him with questions until, from staring and being stupidly amused, and then half-vexed with her, he at last became interested, and listened and asked questions himself, and began to think. “Sadie’s heathen,” he was familiarly called by certain amused friends, who were told the story.

He was called so long after the name had ceased to fit him; for this is a true story of something which happened years ago. The years went by, and Tony Black became so utterly changed that people forgot that they had ever called him heathen, or even Tony. “Young Blackwell” was the name by which he began to be known; then, after a time, “Mr. Blackwell.” And one evening, when there was a great meeting in one of the largest churches of a certain city, he was introduced as “The Rev. Mr. Blackwell, who is under appointment to go to Africa as a missionary.” Who do you think went with him? Sadie herself! He told on the platform something of his story; of the time when he was called “Sadie’s heathen,” and of his joy and pride in having the name altered, until now, by her friends, he was called “Sadie’s minister.” But by mere acquaintances they were spoken of as Rev. and Mrs. Antony Blackwell.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

QUEER CREATURES.

THIS is a scene in Africa. Those queer creatures scampering up the tree, are monkeys, to be sure; the other big lizards are crocodiles, you see. The way of it was that one of the crocodiles was sleeping—or pretending to sleep—on the bank of the river, when along came a careless little monkey, and his eyes were not where they should have been, or they did not look sharply at this thing that seemed to be but a log; when, before he knew what he was about, this “log” opened his big mouth, and with a sudden flap of his tail, in went the thoughtless monkey. That was the end of that young monkey. That’s about the way the saloons swallow folks. Don’t go near them!

“But tell the rest. What did the mother monkey say?”

She was mad as—“a setting hen.” She shouted at the top of her voice, and a great army of monkeys came galloping to her to know what was the matter. Now one monkey knows just how to tell the others what’s the matter; so they all set up such a hue and cry as you never heard. They scolded and insulted the crocodile, and twitched their faces and shook their fists at him, and jabbered such a bedlam that all the crocodiles ran together to see what was to pay. Upon the bank out of the water they climbed, and with open mouths and loud hisses, hurried after the scampering monkeys; but those spry creatures bounded up that big high tree, and from the lofty limbs looked down and scolded with all their might and main, and again shook their fists and snapped their long finger-nails to show how they would tear every hair out of the crock’s hide if they could get a chance—if there were any hair.

It would have been better if they all, monks and crocks, had come kindly together and asked one another’s pardon and settled their differences, and signed a pledge never to eat or scold one another any more. Read this:

“We had a grand temperance rally here last night. The children marched around the neighborhood, before the meeting, with banner and song. The church was beautifully decorated with vines, branches of palm-trees, maidenhair ferns, calla lilies, white orchid blossoms, etc. The place was filled. . . . There were songs, dialogues, temperance catechism, temperance stories and speeches. Over twenty came forward and took the blue ribbon. One had been a ‘hard case.’ Among the natives pledging is almost equal to coming to Christ. . . . Every day began with a sunrise prayer meeting. A chorus of young people, the girls dressed in white, occupied the platform. They enjoy music.”

So writes Rev. Mr. Dorward of Umzumbe, Africa. You see there is a difference between the young folks of Africa and the monks and crocks. What is the difference? And which of the two meetings do you prefer?

L.

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xiii. 57.)

YOU would think people would be proud of a neighbor who does well. They are often jealous of him. When he becomes very great they often are all the more jealous, and say hard things about him, and he must sometimes actually get away to get peace and respect. When Columbus told his neighbors he was sure he could get to the East Indies by sailing westward they laughed him to scorn. He asked his own nation for ships and men to sail away on a voyage of discovery. He got nothing but opposition. He was compelled to go away to Spain for honor and ships.

Jesus’ neighbors ought to have been proud of him; but they drove him away. They tried even to kill him, so jealous were they of him. But he got honor elsewhere. So it usually is. Do you honor him or drive him away?

L.

WHAT HE COULD DO.

I READ not long ago of a little fellow who was employed in a Boston office as errand boy. Four young men had the office together, and liked to spend their leisure moments in teasing the boy, who was very small for his years.

One day, after they had been chatting together, and using many oaths, with which they were in the habit of mixing their conversation, one of them turned to the boy and said: “Dick, what do you expect to do for a living, anyhow? You can’t be a business man; there is no sort of business that you can do; you are too small. The fact is you’ll be a dwarf, and I don’t see how you are to get your living.”

Said Dick, “I can do something now which you four gentlemen can’t do.”

“You can, eh? What in the world is that?”

“I can keep from swearing,” said the boy, in a firm, clear voice.

One of the young men laughed, another whistled, and all turned and walked away, leaving Dick master of the situation.

EASTER.

LONG nights she wept! Sad days and weary weeks went by, And life resumed its routine mournfully; The tasks that once were easy to perform Did seem vast mountains to the strength so worn; And if the sun did shine, or if it not, In shadow’s dwelt her heart; no ray, no spot Of light or hope did penetrate the gloom— This life seemed sadder far than death or tomb.

And still she wept! ’Till to her tear-washed eyes there came, Like “bow of promise” after summer rain, A vision beauteous from that “other land”— Sleep and a “maiden” walking hand in hand. They passed among those homes of “silent dead,” They found “her darling’s grave,” the “name” they read, Then, bending on her soulful, tender eyes, The “maiden” whispered: “Did our dear Lord rise? Then wherefore fall these teardrops from thine eyes? If ‘Christ is risen indeed,’ then shall not we, His ‘friends,’ his ‘heirs,’ live through eternity?

“Why should the Christians fear, who thus believe? Why will they not the ‘Comforter’ receive? I come each year to raise the drooping head, To whisper to the mourner, Is Christ dead, That you so mourn your loved? Look upward, sing! Behold yon butterfly on gorgeous wing! Know that this grave is but the chrysalis— Then light, and glory, where the Saviour is; And ‘where I am, there ye shall also be’; ‘Come, weary, heavy laden, come to me!’”

The vision fled, But to her heart there softly came Abiding faith in Jesus’ precious name; A joy, that all her sorrow she could rest Upon her Saviour’s sympathizing breast, And, in the place of gloom and fear, was born A perfect trust—on that fair Easter morn. —_Exchange._

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

ABOUT three hundred years ago England’s great queen died. She was not very beautiful. Some said this was a great trial to her, and that she took marvelous pains to “fix” herself up to look as well as any lady in the land. Fine feathers often make pretty birds, but all Queen Bess’ efforts failed to make her handsome. However, as she had royal power she had many admirers. They called her “charming,” “lovely,” “lily,” “rose,” and such other words to flatter her. She liked it, and persuaded herself that after all her features and complexion were nearly exquisite.

However that be she had not a few offers of marriage. But none suited her, or may be she, as a queen, did not want to be bothered with a husband, who would be continually interfering in the government.

It is sad to think of some things this woman did. Of course you will read about it. Sometimes she would have outbursts of anger so great that she would actually box the ears of those around her, no matter how distinguished they were.

The great stain upon her character was her treatment of Mary, Queen of Scots, her own relative. Mary was imprisoned eighteen years, then put to death on charge of conspiracy.

But England arose to extraordinary prosperity under the long reign of “Queen Bess.” There were great scholars in her day, and she encouraged all sorts of improvements. You Pansy girls must some day dress your P. S. President up in the Elizabethan style and say if you would like it nowadays.

L.

* * * * *

(_Sent with the gift of a Canary Bird in Cage._)

IN memory of the birdlings fair Who from your nest have flown, To try in Heaven’s serener air The wings earth could not own. M. S. B.

ELSIE’S PLAN.—I.

(_Something for Mamma._)

THE thought grew in Elsie’s mind, nourished by three remarks made by her mother and sisters. They were all at work except Irma, who was trying to teach Leoline to jump gracefully from her shoulder, instead of giving such a rude bound. Leoline was the cat. Irma was not apt to be at work, if the truth must be told; she was the only one of the little household who did not seem to understand the need for being industrious. She was two years older than Elsie, but the grown-up sisters often said of her that Elsie was at least three years ahead of Irma in judgment. I have sometimes thought if they had said in conscientiousness it would have been nearer the truth.

At this particular time, while Irma struggled with the cat’s education, Elsie took neat stitches in the apron she was mending, her face looking thoughtful the while. Margaret, the oldest sister, was sewing swiftly on a dress of Irma’s, setting in new sleeves, and in other ways trying to make the half-worn garment look like a new one. Nannie came in, dustpan in hand, and with a handkerchief bound about her hair to protect it from the dust, just as her mother opened the door of the kitchen, with her hands filled with soiled napkins and towels.

“Mother, where can I put that roll of matting?” Nannie asked, a touch of irritation in her voice; “I have reached the end of my resources in tucking things away. If I ever do build a house I will have all the closets I want; good-sized ones, too—and if there is any space left for rooms, there may be a few tucked in; but the closets I will have.”

Mrs. Harding sighed. “Closets are certainly very scarce in this house,” she said wearily, “as well as many other things. I don’t know what to do with the soiled clothes; we need a clothes hamper very much. There is a corner in the upper back hall where one might stand, if we had it.” The sentence ended as it had begun, with a little sigh.

Irma echoed the sigh in a sort of groan. “I saw such a pretty one, mother, last night, at Turner’s. It was only two dollars; I thought of you when I saw them unpacking it. And to think that we cannot afford even two dollars for a basket!”

“There are worse trials in life than even that, I suspect,” said Nannie, darting an angry glance at Irma, as she saw the flush spread and deepen over her mother’s face. Margaret made haste to change the subject.

“We each have our perplexities, it seems,” she said, with a light laugh; “mine has to do with dress. I don’t know what to do with that light sateen of mine; it is too gay to wear about the house at work, even if it were long enough, which it isn’t. It is not worth giving away, it is too good to throw into the rag bag, and there isn’t room for it in my closet. Now what is to be done in such a case?”

Then Elsie spoke for the first time, eagerly, a bright look flashing over her face, as though some perplexity had just then been delightfully solved. “O, Margaret! will you give the dress to me to do just what I please with?”

“To you, child! what can you do with it? It isn’t just the thing for a dollie, I should say.”

“No,” said Irma scornfully, “I should think not. Do let us have our dolls dressed in good taste and decent style, even if we cannot afford anything for ourselves.”

“I don’t want it for my doll, Margaret. I have a plan, a real nice one, if you will let me have the dress, and if mother will give me the matting Nannie cannot find a place for. Will you, mother? There is only a little of it left.”

“Is it the yellow plaid, Nannie? Why, yes, dear, if there is any pleasure to be gotten out of that yard and a half of cheap matting, by all means use it; especially since there is no place to store it.”

Then Mrs. Harding left the room, giving Nannie a chance to say what she was longing to.

“I never saw such a girl as you are, Irma; you omit no opportunity to remind mother of our poverty. Even so trivial a thing as a soiled clothes hamper must draw from you a woe-begone sigh. Why can’t you remember that it is hard enough for mother, at the best, without trying to keep the thought of our troubles ever before her?”

“Why, dear me!” said Irma, “what did I say? Mother knew before I spoke of it that we could not afford even two dollars to buy a clothes hamper. I don’t think she is very likely to forget that we have lost our money.”

“Not if you are around,” answered Nannie angrily. “I think you are a selfish girl; you do nothing but groan and regret, for your share. Well, I can’t help it,” she added, in answer to Margaret’s warning look; “that child’s selfish frettings do try me so!”

“We must not expect old heads on young shoulders, remember,” Margaret said gently, as Irma put Leoline down with a decided bounce, and slammed the door the least bit after her, as she left the room.

“It is the contrast that makes one notice it so,” answered Nannie, with a significant nod of her head toward Elsie. But Elsie neither heard the words, nor saw the nod; her mind was busy elsewhere.

“O, Margaret!” she said eagerly, “I have the loveliest plan. You know to-morrow will be mother’s birthday, and I was all the evening wondering what I could give her; now I know. Nannie, I will take the matting out of your way. I mean to make a clothes hamper for mother out of that and Margaret’s dress.”

Nannie laughed outright, and even Margaret smiled as she said: “Why, dear child, how can you? I am afraid that is a very large undertaking.”

“No,” said Elsie positively; “I see just how I can do it. The plan flashed into my mind as soon as you and Nannie began to talk about the two things in the way. I almost know I can do it. If you will help to keep mother away from our room this afternoon, and she won’t give me anything special to do, I can make it and have it ready for to-morrow morning. I know just how to go to work.”

“Let her try it,” said Nannie, with a wise nod of her head. “The child will make something; I never knew her to fail when she had undertaken to do a thing, and mother’s birthday ought to be noticed in some way, even though we cannot do as we used. I’m going to fix over her sewing-chair; I believe in useful presents myself. We will agree to keep mother in order, Elsie, and the sooner the matting disappears from the front hall the better.”

So the little room occupied by the two younger girls was locked all the afternoon, while Elsie worked steadily, and Irma lounged on the bed with a book, encouraging her sister occasionally with: “You never can do it in the world, Elsie Harding! I don’t see any sense in trying. For my part I would rather give her no present than a bungling thing like that. You can’t sew matting decently; it ravels so.”

PANSY.

* * * * *

ABOUT NEW YORK.

BY THE PANSIES.

I READ about it when it was called New Amsterdam. A thousand people, and it was just a straggling little town. Pearl Street they called “De Perel Straat.” The folks were very proud of this street; there were forty-three houses on it! One man thought his fortune was made because he had bought a lot two years before for fifty dollars, and was offered two hundred and fifty for it. And the lot was thirty feet wide and over a hundred feet deep! Think of a New York man to-day buying a lot of that size for two hundred and fifty dollars! My father says it would take a fortune to buy such a lot.

HENRY STUART.

* * * * *

MY cousin and I had great fun reading about a family who took a long journey from New York to Albany. They went on a river steamer; started at daylight and reached Albany at sunset, and thought they had done a big thing. There were no railroads to ride on; not a single train going out of New York City! That was in 1827. It seems strange that such wonderful things can take place in one century. I think this is the grandest century we ever had.

ROBERT CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

I SPENT a week in New York, and boarded very near Madison Square. I was on Twenty-third Street, pretty near to Fifth Avenue, and Broadway streaks across the city right there, so I had a chance to see almost everything; because those who know anything about New York City know that if you see what is on those streets, why, you have seen a good deal. It is Broadway and Fifth Avenue going criss-cross that make Madison Square. There are lots of hotels around there. The park is just magnificent; I like it better than Central Park, because it is right there, you know. There is a splendid fountain in the middle, and a drinking fountain somewhere else, and statues of Seward and Farragut. Seward is sitting down, and looks as though he didn’t care.

If I had room I could tell you lots of things about Madison Square; but since you only let us have a few lines, what will a fellow do? I’m going to the Christian Endeavor meeting in July, and that will give a good chance to study up that part of the city, because the meeting is to be in Madison Square.

DAVID G. DUNLAP.

* * * * *

MY mother used to be a pupil in Cooper Institute, and when I went to New York a few months ago father took me to see it. It is very large; it cost more than six hundred thousand dollars. Peter Cooper built it about thirty-five years ago; and then he gave three hundred thousand dollars to keep the free library going which belongs to it. They have all sorts of schools in the building. You can learn how to telegraph, and to write on the type-writer, and how to draw and paint. My mother was in the painting school, and she paints beautifully. We went up to the reading-room; it is on the third floor; there are rows and rows and rows of books! It makes me dizzy to think of so many. The books are all covered, so they don’t look very pretty. There are long tables and lots of chairs; you are given a check made of brass, or tin, or something, when you go into the room; then if you want a book or magazine you go to the desk and ask for it, and give that check in return; you cannot get out of the room without that check, so you are apt to carry your book back when you are done with it, and get your check again. After all there are only about twenty thousand books on the shelves. I was disappointed; I thought there were millions.

EMMELINE ANDREWS.

* * * * *

DICK WALTERS is in our “General Information” class, and when Trinity Church was talked about Dick declared he had been in the old building which was put there in 1697. I knew better, because my great-grandfather told about its being burned in the fire of 1776. But we couldn’t make Dick Walters give up the notion that he was in the very identical church built two hundred years ago. At last Professor Townley explained that it was the old site, but a new church built in 1846. Since we had our fuss about it I have been there myself. It is a splendid building, I think, if it isn’t two hundred years old. The steeple is two hundred and eighty-four feet high, and the chimes are lovely. It is an old brown church, and looks solemn and still; it is right on Broadway, but when you step inside it seems just as still! You can hear the birds chirp on the trees in the churchyard, though there is a terrible roar of noise outside. Alexander Hamilton is buried in Trinity churchyard.

ROBERT PAXTON.

* * * * *

I SUPPOSE everybody will write about Central Park; but I can’t help it, I want to tell some things about it myself. I was there in June. We went up to Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue and took a carriage. We drove through the Scholars’ Gate; this took us straight to the menagerie, and we saw the bear-pits and everything, though they say they don’t have the menagerie there any more. We took a row on the lake, and we saw the Bethesda Fountain with its real angel—well, I mean a carved one, of course—bending over the water. Then we walked through The Ramble, which I think is the loveliest part of the park, only they won’t let you break off the least little speck of a flower or leaf. There are lots of birds, and they seemed busier and happier than any birds I ever saw. We saw a sign directing us to the “Dairy,” so we went there and got some splendid milk and some bread and butter. We children wanted to go to “The Carousal”; that is a sign which points out the way to the children’s playground, where there are swings and everything; but father said we hadn’t time, and that we could have “carousals” enough at home.

LAURA J. WESTOVER.

* * * * *

LAURA has written a letter about Central Park, and hasn’t mentioned the obelisk. Ho, ho! if that isn’t just like a girl. I have studied up about it since I was there. They had an awful time bringing it over here from Egypt. They had to cut a hole in the bow of the boat that brought it to get it in; and then mend the hole, of course, before they could start. And when the steamer reached New York it took thirty-two horses to draw just the pedestal down to Central Park!

The carvings on the obelisk are called hieroglyphics, and used to mean writing; but scholars have had a great time trying to find out what the writing says. They don’t agree about it, but they think it is a lot of stuff about some heathen gods. There are carved hawks on the top of the column, and these are said to be the birds that belonged to one of the gods, because they could fly the highest and could look at the sun. The obelisk is sixty-nine feet high, and it weighs three hundred and twenty tons. I don’t exactly see what we wanted of it; but it is rather nice to look at it and think it came all the way from Egypt and was presented to us by Ismail Pasha.

REUBEN T. WESTOVER.

* * * * *

THE nicest ride I had while in New York was along Fifth Avenue. We started at Washington Square and went up to Central Park. It is almost three miles, and all the way there were such beautiful houses and churches to look at, and the road was as smooth as the floor. We passed the white marble house built by A. T. Stewart; it cost three million dollars, and the people who now rent it pay thirty-seven thousand dollars a year for it. Only think! and we get three hundred a year for our house, and call it a good rent; but then, it didn’t cost three millions. Then we passed the elegant Vanderbilt houses, and the magnificent Lenox Library building, and O, dear! I can’t think what others. I thought I knew a great deal about them when I began, but they are all mixed up in my mind. But what I wanted to say was, that the drive from Washington Square away up to Eighty-first Street must certainly be the very splendidest in the world. I know I never saw so many beautiful buildings before; and I do like grand houses and grand churches and everything.

KATE W. GLOVER.

[It has been very difficult to select items for this paper, because of the wealth of objects to choose from. We could make the article twice as long just as well as not, out of the material we have, if there were only room for it in the magazine. Also, some of the best and brightest items have been omitted, and others perhaps not quite so interesting chosen in their place, because they spoke of some building which we could show you in picture. The Pansies will understand, I hope, that we fully appreciate their efforts to help us, and that we enjoy the many items which we do not use quite as much as those we select. But do please be more prompt with your letters.—EDITORS.]

THE MORROW.

OF all the tender guards which Jesus drew About our frail humanity, to stay The pressure and the jostle that alway Are ready to disturb, whate’er we do, And mar the work our hands would carry through, None more than this environs us each day With kindly wardenship—“Therefore, I say, Take no thought for the morrow.” Yet we pay The wisdom scanty heed, and impotent To bear the burden of the imperious Now, Assume the future’s exigence unsent. God grants no overplus of power; ’tis shed Like morning manna. Yet we dare to bow And ask, “Give us to-day our morrow’s bread!” —_Selected._

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

III.

IT is a nice light night, and if you youngsters have stared long enough at the moon, since neighbor Sport has come to call we will try to be a little more social.

Pet and Spot and Curley may play on the lawn if they choose, and have as good a time as they like.

You have come to ask my advice, have you, Sport?

Well, it doesn’t cost much to give advice, but it isn’t always so easy to take it.

What is the question in mind?

Have been slighted and abused, have you? Tell us about it.

Scolded you after you hunted birds all day for him, and then forgot to give you any supper. That was pretty hard; pretty mean treatment, I should say.

Had your master been drinking?

No? How came it about?

“Why, just before time to start for home I found a big flock of quail, and showed him just where they were; and he crept up, gun in hand, and tried to fire, but for some reason the gun did not go off.

“That put him out of humor, and he scolded the gun, and by that frightened the birds so they flew away.

“Then he sent me to find them, and I could get no snuff of them, hunt as hard as I could. Then he spoke to me as he never did before, and throwing the gun upon his shoulder started for the house, never noticing me by any word, whistle or sign.

“Well, I dropped my tail between my legs, and followed at a good distance.

“He didn’t forget the cow, or the pig, or the pony, but took no notice of me, and I don’t believe I could eat now if I had a chance.”

Poor fellow! come here and lie down by me. Never mind, never mind; these men seem sometimes to have no heart for us, no matter how faithful we have been.

I am so thankful we have a master of another kind.

One of you run and bring some of that supper that was left.

We had a very nice supply this evening, and there is enough for two hungry fellows yet.

You just say no more till you have had the meat from that bone, and see if you don’t feel better. Things hurt worse when one is tired and hungry.

There, now rest a while, and I will tell you a story about a great-uncle of mine, who lived in Groton.

He was pretty well educated, and did a great many things that some of his four-footed friends would not be trusted to do, even if they knew enough.

Well, Diamond—that was his name—was pretty good-natured, but a little sensitive. Being very affectionate, it was easy for those whom he loved to hurt his feelings.

His master was a mechanic, and had to go to his shop every day. The distance was so great that he did not come home to dinner; so his wife would prepare his dinner, put it in a pail, or in a basket, as it might happen, lay in the bottom a nice bone for Diamond, and give it all to him to take to his master. That he would do as faithfully as any one.

When the master had finished eating what had been brought, or as much as he wanted, he would take the bone, and any scraps left, and give them to his faithful carrier, who had been, the while, lying under the bench, patiently waiting.

But one day there was a break. The mistress said she was going shopping that day, and would take the dinner to her husband herself.

That rather hurt Diamond’s feelings, though he said nothing, but followed on, and lay down in his usual place to wait for his bone. The master sat down to his dinner with no word for his faithful servant who was not permitted to bring the basket, finished his meal, closed the basket, and handed it to his wife.

No bone was there, nothing for the one who had been waiting, hungry, but patient. The only notice taken of him was a call to follow the lady and carry the empty basket. With a heavy heart and drooping tail he obeyed. When the purchases were made and put into the basket, Diamond was ordered to go ahead of his mistress and take the burden home.

On he trudged until he neared a bridge which they must cross, when a thought came suddenly into Diamond’s mind, and quickly darting forward to the middle of the bridge he went to one side of it, and deliberately let the basket and its contents fall into the stream; then ran for home as fast as his four legs could carry him.

I am not telling you this because I think he did right, but that you may see that others are treated as badly as you have been.

I suppose I am sorry that a relative of mine ever resorted to revenge; but it does sometimes seem very strange to me that more dogs do not revenge themselves in some way for the hard treatment they so often receive.

You would not like to be guilty of such an act as that?

Well, I am glad of it. Indeed, I think my kinsman was soon sorry for what he had done.

Let me tell you how he proved it. His master had been out nearly all day with Diamond hunting. The next morning he discovered that he had somewhere lost a key. So he showed Diamond another, and told him his trouble, and ordered him to go and hunt for it.

Off he went, and at three o’clock that afternoon returned, bringing the lost key.

He was tired and hungry, but a good dinner was ready for him, and kind words soon made him forget his fatigue.

In fact, I believe both master and dog were ashamed and sorry for the past, and inwardly determined to do right in the future.

Now after these true stories of my great-uncle, I hope you feel better, and will go home, not to plan how you can be revenged, but how you can be true and faithful, and, if possible, win better treatment in future.

R.

* * * * *

OF the four hundred and thirteen species of trees in the United States sixteen will sink in water. The heaviest is the black-iron wood of Southern California.

BARNYARD ILLUSIONS.

SOMEBODY in one of our exchanges tells an amusing story of his attempt at studying human nature in the barnyard. He placed a large piece of looking-glass against the trunk of a tree, and scattered corn in front of it, then took a convenient position and watched. Some of the hens came up with cautious tread, to meet what they supposed were new acquaintances, and were simply astonished and bewildered by the result. Others pecked at the glass, and were anxious to get up a fight with the supposed intruders.

The high-stepping rooster was bent on a victory. He advanced with skillful side steps, according to rooster fashion, and was amazed to lose sight of his enemy. Of course he had stepped too far to the left or right, and so gotten out of range of the glass, but this he did not understand. He gave an astonished crow, looked about him fiercely, saw no one, finally gave up and went back for a kernel of corn; behold, just in front of it was that other rooster, looking fierce. He made another attempt for a fight, with exactly the same result as before; but the second surrender to mystery brought him quite near to the mirror and his enemy. He ruffled his feathers, so did the other rooster. He made a dash forward, so did the other, and—the rooster was astonished; but you are prepared to hear that the mirror was broken into bits. The question which seemed to puzzle that rooster for hours afterwards was, What became of his enemy, that he could not find even a feather of him lying about the yard?

* * * * *

A GOOD man in France is said to have invented an instrument with a very fine tube to be inserted into the ear, by means of which sounds can be heard by the deaf.

Professor Dussouchet saw the experiment tried upon many deaf mutes, and in every case with success. Sounds are sent into a large bell-shaped contrivance; thence they pass down the fine tube and strike the tympanum (ear drum).

L.

THE BOYHOOD OF TITIAN (_Tish’-yan_).

_Pœta nascitur, non fit._

THERE, that is not Greek or German, but Latin, and some day your Pansy tongue will talk it off as readily, no doubt, as it now casts English to your cat. Won’t it be just splendid for you to be in the High School—and not at the foot of your class, either—reading Cæsar or Cicero or Horace?

“But what does that Latin mean?”

It means, “A poet is born, not made.”

“So is every one ‘born.’”

No, not born a poet, neither can be made into a poet by study; that is, a real true poet. Almost everybody can read poetry, and love it and make rhymes; but that is not being a poet.

You might just as well now learn that bit of Latin and surprise your mamma some day at the dinner-table by saying: “_Pœta nascitur, non fit._” The next time you can say: “_Orator nascitur, non fit,_” for that is true too. It is true of an artist, and many, many others. We all have different gifts at birth. (See Rom. xii. 6.) Johnny Brown can sing and play upon almost any instrument. He is a born musician. His brother can’t play even upon a jew’s-harp, but he can make one. He can make a watch. His fingers can do all sorts of wonderful things such as Johnny’s cannot. Boys differ; girls differ. They can’t be made alike. One has one gift, one another.

Titian was born an artist.

What do you suppose he is doing there, one hand upon the limb of that tree?

“Going up for chestnuts.”

No; try again.

“Going to climb for a crow’s nest.”

Not he. See that bit of a branch in his right hand. He is looking at it to see its shape, the form and color of the leaves, and all about it. He will paint that whole tree in a little while—no, no; paint one on canvas just like it. When he is a few years older he will paint portraits, then great elegant pictures.

He was an Italian boy, born in 1477.

Columbus was then about thirty-five years old. He had just made his great voyage to Iceland and got back when Titian was a baby. I guess Titian saw the born voyager and discoverer, and as likely as not painted his portrait or ships. But one of his masterpieces, or greatest works, is St. Peter, Martyr; another, The Presentation of the Virgin.

L.

HANNIBAL’S VOW.

MANY hundred years ago there were two magnificent cities on opposite sides of the Mediterranean Sea. One was Carthage and the other was Rome. But they were jealous of each other, and shook their fists at each other and went to war, each trying to do the other all the harm it was possible.

In Carthage was a man by the name of Hannibal. He hated Rome bitterly.

A little before his death he took his son out to the altar, where they burned sacrifice to the gods, and made him lift up his hands in a vow or promise to always hate and harm the Romans.

It was an awful thing for any one to do, but how dreadful for a dying man. So young Hannibal swore by the gods, Jupiter, Juno, Apollo, Hercules, Mars, Triton and Neptune, and all the other Dæmons.

The old man died. When young Hannibal was now twenty-four he was made commander of the troops, and, dressed in a coat of armor, he started from Carthage with a mighty army. Away he marched toward Spain, conquering and slaying his enemies on the way. On and on he went, over rivers and highest mountains. The Romans, when they heard that he was in Spain, laughed at the thought of his coming to Rome; they said none but gods could do such a thing. But they had not long to laugh. He and his conquering host clambered over the Pyrenees, then over the high steep Alps, then “down upon the soft and smiling plains of Italy.” Then all was excitement in great Rome. Every one became a soldier of some sort. “To arms! to arms!” was the cry. The city was turned into a fort. Mighty armies went out to meet Hannibal, but one after another was slaughtered or put to flight. In one of the great battles forty thousand Romans were slain!

The Roman general, Fabius, was a great man, but he was compelled to retreat before Hannibal. But just then, when the people in the great city were trembling lest Hannibal would be upon them to burn the whole city and put the inhabitants to death, word came from Carthage that he must hurry home with his army and save Carthage from a Roman army coming upon it, led by a wonderful general, Scipio. Soon these two conquering hosts met at Zama, not far from Carthage, and here for the first time poor Hannibal was defeated, and in the course of time proud Carthage was utterly destroyed.

L.

THE WAR OF THE ROSES.

FIVE hundred years ago began very troublous times in England, and it went on many bloody years. You see, there were two great parties, as in this country, each struggling to rule. In this country they fight it out at the ballot box, with bits of paper upon which names are printed. The man or party which gets the greater number of ballots rules. In England years ago they fought it out with blows. The party which could strike the harder blows ruled.

The names of these two great parties were York and Lancaster. The Yorkers wore the white rose, the Lancastrians the red rose, so it was called the War of the Roses. Oh! the fierce battles, the groans of the dying and the banners rolled in blood; neighbors, sometimes brothers, killing each other.

And their homes, the mothers and children, what happened to them during all those hundred years? You must not know. But what must the Lord Jesus have thought of it all?

If it had been for some great good—to put an end to stealing, cruelty, drunkenness or some such dreadful thing—it would not seem so bad; but it was just to get upon a throne and then to be cruel to the defeated party. The great trouble was that this man or that wanted to be king just as in America a man wants to be president. Richard the Third wanted it so much that he caused his two little nephews to be smothered to death while asleep, lest they would grow up and trouble him! This was four hundred years ago.

L.

BABY’S CORNER.

COME TO SUPPER.

ONE pleasant summer day Jamie’s mamma said they would have tea out under the trees, because it was papa’s birthday.

She spread a pink cloth on the table, and brought out some pretty dishes. Jamie thought it was fine fun.

He helped to carry out the biscuits and strawberries, and he put the knives and spoons by the side of the plates.

They had to hurry, because pretty soon the five o’clock train would come in, and papa would be on it.

When mamma went into the house to make the tea she gave Jamie a piece of cake and told him to sit down on the grass and rest his tired little feet.

Jamie liked to sit in that pretty spot. There were green grass and daisies and buttercups all about him, and oh! how good the cake tasted.

Pretty soon the old rooster saw that Jamie was alone, and that he had something good to eat.

So he called to his family: “Come quick! come to supper.”

Then the gray hen and the yellow hen and the speckled hen and the white banties came running as fast as they could run to get some of Jamie’s cake.

Old Speckle got the first bite, a great big one, and carried it off to eat it. Then Old Yellow came up one side and the rooster came the other side, and one took a bite, and the other took a bite.

Jamie began to cry. Mamma heard him. She came out, and said: “Shoo! shoo!”

And away went the chickabiddies as fast as they could fly, and no more supper for them that night.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

* * * * *

OUT in the garden, wee Elsie Was gathering flowers for me; “O, mamma!” she cried, “hurry, hurry, Here’s something I want you to see.” I went to the window; before her A velvet-winged butterfly flew, And the pansies themselves were not brighter Than the beautiful creature in hue. “Oh! isn’t it pretty?” cried Elsie, With eager and wondering eyes, As she watched it soar lazily upward Against the soft blue of the skies. “I know what it is, don’t you, mamma?” Oh! the wisdom of these little things When the soul of a poet is in them. “It’s a pansy—a pansy with wings.” —_Selected._

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xiii. 12.)

NO, it does not seem fair at all to give to him that has something, and to refuse it to one that hasn’t anything scarcely, and even to take away what little that one has! Just think of giving a rich Pansy five hundred dollars more, and then snatching away the last penny from a poor Pansy!

Surely you don’t suppose the loving, gentle, merciful Lord Jesus meant any such thing? Of course he didn’t.

“What did He mean?” Why, simply this, my dear; that one who makes good use of his gifts will have more gifts. He will grow wiser and better, and go up higher all the time, just like a tree that uses well the good ground and good air and good dew around it. And the tree, that for some reason won’t send its roots down and this way and that and set every one of its leaves to breathing, such a lazy tree will lose all its life and die, the first wide-awake tree sucking up that very life.

It may be just so with two Pansies. One is good, true, active, the other one isn’t; how one will go up and the other down; how one will increase and the other decrease until one seems to have all the good, even the little the other started out with.

You borrow from a bank one hundred dollars and pay it back with interest when your note is due, and quite likely the bank will loan you two hundred dollars then, if you want it, and so on, increasing it just as you are faithful. But if you don’t pay as you promised, because you were lazy, your one hundred dollars will be taken from you and loaned to one who may have ten thousand dollars, because he makes good use of it. We are all on trial. How happy we should be to be trusted by the Lord! It’s a fearful thing when he will not loan us any more.

L.

* * * * *

GOOD temper, like a sunny day, sheds brightness over everything. It is the sweetener of toil and the soother of disquietude.

INASMUCH.

“IF I had dwelt”—so mused a tender woman, All fine emotions stirred Through pondering o’er that Life, divine yet human, Told in the sacred Word—

“If I had dwelt of old, a Jewish maiden, In some Judean street, Where Jesus walked, and heard his word so laden With comfort strangely sweet,

“And seen the face where utmost pity blended, With each rebuke of wrong; I would have left my lattice and descended, And followed with the throng.

“If I had been the daughter, jewel-girdled, Of some rich rabbi there; Seeing the sick, blind, halt, my blood had curdled At the sight of such despair.

“And I had wrenched the sapphires from my fillet, Nor let one spark remain; Snatched up my gold, amid the crowd to spill it, For pity of their pain.

“I would have let the palsied fingers hold me; I would have walked between The Marys and Salome, while they told me About the Magdalene.

“‘Foxes have holes’—I think my heart had broken To hear the words so said, While Christ had not—were sadder ever spoken?— ‘A place to lay his head.’

“I would have flung abroad my doors before Him, And in my joy have been First on the threshold, eager to adore Him, And crave his entrance in!”

Ah, would you so? Without a recognition You passed Him yesterday; Jostled aside, unhelped his mute petition, And calmly went your way.

With warmth and comfort garmented and girdled, Before your window-sill Sweep heart-sick crowds; and if your blood is curdled You wear your jewels still.

You catch aside your robes, lest want should clutch them In its imploring wild; Or else some woful penitent might touch them, And you be thus defiled.

O, dreamers! dreaming that your faith is keeping All service free from blot, Christ daily walks your streets, sick, suffering, weeping, And ye perceive him not! M. J. PRESTON, _in The Independent_.

* * * * *

I READ of a boy who had a remarkable dream. He thought that the richest man in town came to him and said: “I am tired of my house and grounds; come and take care of them and I will give them to you.” Then came an honored judge and said: “I want you to take my place; I am weary of being in court day after day; I will give you my seat on the bench if you will do my work.”

Then the doctor proposed that he take his extensive practice and let him rest, and so on. At last up shambled old Tommy, and said: “I’m wanted to fill a drunkard’s grave; I have come to see if you will take my place in these saloons and on these streets?”

Harold laughed about his dream, but somebody who knew how Harold was being brought up, said: “Do you know, I shouldn’t be surprised if of all the offers he accepted the last? He has talent enough to become a judge, or a physician, or to make his fortune, but I am afraid he will grow up to take old Tommy’s place.”

Who is willing to help fill “Old Tommy’s” place?

FROM BIRDLAND.

IF we only knew how to understand bird language, I fancy we might be made acquainted with a great many pretty secrets which now they keep to themselves.

I have been reading lately about a gentleman in New York who has a collection of birds, and who makes a study of those who flit about his home in summer. At one time he had a blind sparrow among his collection, and a little bird named Dick seemed to have adopted it. He waited at the door of its house for it to come out, calling it with tender little chirps, and when the blind one finally appeared he would lead the way to the seeds and water.

When his friend was ready to return home to rest Dick would shove him gently along the perch until he was opposite his own door, then give a chirp which seemed to say: “There you are, jump in,” and in would spring the little sparrow, safe at home. Surely Dick ought to be elected as at least an honorary member of the “Helping Hand Society.” What if he hasn’t any hands? He succeeds in being a very efficient helper.

EFIL SREDNOW.

* * * * *

THERE are a few who make their life “a song,” A silvery call to urge tired souls along, A clear bell o’er the cope Of the steep mountain they have had to climb With such a patience, they have made sublime The soul’s forlornest hope. And when these dear ones hidden pass adown “The other side,” beyond the mountain’s crown, The silvery tinkling vein Of gladness comes aback to touch us so— New courage in our sinking heart doth grow, We urge us on again. —_Selected._

ANGIE’S CROSS.—I.

(_Character Studies._)

EVERYBODY said Angie Conran had a “perfectly lovely voice,” extremely well cultivated for one so young. Her music teacher was in the habit of patting her hand in a patronizing way, at the close of almost every lesson, and saying, in broken French: “Mees Angie, you will make what you Americans call a mark in the world; remember I tell you.”

Angie was a member of the choir, and a very faithful one; a member of the “Choral Club,” and practiced early and late to help make it a success. On the particular evening of which I wish to tell you she was seated at the piano, giving a last half-hour of practice to the anthem before she went to rehearsal. Her mother and I sat in the back parlor, where we could have the full benefit of the music. How the exquisite melody filled the room, and how distinctly was every word spoken.

“Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee, E’en though it be a cross That raiseth me; Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee!”

“That is as good as a recitation,” I said. “How very distinctly Angie speaks her words.”

“Yes,” said the proud mother; “she prides herself on being heard. She says she would never have any pleasure in singing Italian songs; that she would want the words as well as the music to be uplifting. Angie prefers sacred music, I think; her heart seems to echo the sentiment of the words. What she is practicing now is to be sung to-morrow morning, just before the sermon. Our pastor requested it. This is a new arrangement, with solo and quartette, and Angie takes the solo. If the other parts are as beautiful as the soprano, I think it will be lovely. Angie dear, isn’t it time you were going?”

“In a minute, mamma; I want to try this minor strain first.” The sweet, tender sounds filled the room:

“Though like a wanderer, Daylight all gone, Darkness be over me, My rest a stone.”

“Isn’t that exquisite?” whispered the mother, when the last notes had died away. Then, in almost the same breath, “Angie dear, it is beginning to rain; are you prepared for rain?”

“O, dear, how provoking! No, ma’am, I can’t say I am in the least prepared for it.”

The mother arose and moved toward the music-room. “Why, dear child!” she said, in surprise, “you ought not to have that dress on to-night. Even if it were not a rainy evening it is not suitable to wear to a rehearsal.”

“Why not, pray? ever so many people come to the rehearsals. I want to be as well dressed as I am on Sunday.”

“My dear, that is a pretty evening dress, and the rain will spot it, you know. You would have to wear your gossamer, and that would crush the trimmings. Besides, it doesn’t look at all suitable for this evening. If you were going out to a social gathering you could not dress more than that. Do go and change it, dear; it won’t take you long.”

“I assure you, mamma, it is quite out of the question that I should change my dress now. It is already late; you just said I ought to be going. It was quite a work of art to get this dress on, and I haven’t the least desire to change it; I am not at all afraid of it.”

“But, my dear child, just consider how unsuitable it is. Those laces at the neck and wrists are real, you know, and as fine as cobwebs; you certainly could not dress more than that if you were going to a reception.”

“O, mamma! how absurd. As though anybody would take notice of me, or care whether my laces were real or not. They fit the dress, any way, and as long as I don’t object to them I don’t see why anybody else should.”

“My daughter, your mother objects to them. Moreover, the dress is lower in the neck than you have been wearing all day, and it is quite a cool evening; that in itself should be sufficient to make you change it. I really must insist on your putting on a more proper dress.”

Angie’s pretty fingers came down upon the keys with a crash which made me start in my chair; then she whirled herself about on the music-stool. “Really, mamma,” she said, and the voice was so sharp it hardly seemed possible that it could be the same which had filled the room with melody, “I should think I was old enough to decide what dress to wear; I am almost fifteen, and I think I might have the privilege of choosing my own clothes once in a while.”

“Do not speak in that tone, dear,” said her mother gently. “You shall have all the privileges I can give you; but we haven’t time to discuss it now. Run and slip on your gray cashmere, it is in order; I fixed that place in the sleeve this morning, and brushed it and got it all ready to put on.”

“Mamma Conran! that old gray cashmere. As if I would go out in it to-night! Why, the Barnards come to rehearsal, and the Needhams, and their cousin from New York. The idea of rigging up in that old thing and standing out there to sing, the most prominent person in the choir. I just can’t do it! If I can’t wear the dress I have on I’m not going at all.”

“My daughter, don’t be so foolish; the rehearsal surely doesn’t depend upon the dress you wear. You are wasting time; I cannot think of letting you go in that dress. If I had noticed it before I should have called your attention to it; but I hadn’t the least idea you would think of putting it on. The gray cashmere is entirely suitable, my dear. Your mother has not lost all sense of propriety, even though she is older than fifteen. You must allow yourself to be guided by her. I would not make a scene if I were you, and spoil the beauty of the music you have given us. There is ample time just to slip on another dress. Run along, and I will get out your wraps and have them ready for you when you come down.”

“Mamma, I’m not going to do it. I told you if I had to wear that old cashmere dress I shouldn’t go out of the house to-night, and I meant it. Other girls can wear decent dresses. Carrie Wheeler wears a white silk to rehearsal often, and here I have got to rig up like an old woman and sing the leading part. You don’t know anything about it, mamma; it is so long since you were a girl you don’t realize how girls dress now. I wouldn’t hurt this dress and you know it. It is just too mean for anything. You always spoil my pleasure.”

“Angeline!”—the mother’s gentle voice was growing stern at last—“I cannot allow you to speak to your mother in that way. There are the Wheeler girls coming up the walk now, to call for you. If you will go immediately and change your dress I will explain to them that you will be down in a few minutes.”

A loud, angry cry from Angie, a sound like that from a naughty child who had lost all control of herself, and between the sobs she managed to get out: “I won’t go a single step, and you can tell them so; and you can tell them the reason, if you choose; then they will understand just what hard times I have.” And with another jarring crash of the keys the angry girl left the room, slamming the door after her.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

ELSIE’S PLAN.—II.

(_Something for Mamma._)

“I’M going to stop its raveling,” said Elsie serenely. “I’m going to overcast it, as mother does dress seams, and then line it with Margaret’s dress skirt; that is real strong, and will make it stand up beautifully.”

Sure enough, by dint of patient, painstaking effort, a circle of matting measuring nearly a yard around was cut off, the raw edges “overcast” with a large needle and strong linen thread, then the dress skirt was ripped and carefully smoothed. A journey to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hobbs, the woman who washed and ironed on the same day for this fallen family, was at work. Elsie hinted that it would save her time if Irma would see to the ironing, but at that moment Irma was in the depths of her book, and seemed to be deaf. Back again with her ironed skirt, the yard of matting was laid on the floor, the cloth spread over it and neatly tacked at sides and ends; then the long side seam was sewed, amid statements from Irma that it could not be done, because whose arms could be expected to reach down such a ridiculous cylinder as that to sew! It was hard work. Twice Elsie gave up with a sigh, and once was on the point of going to Margaret for advice, but the strong desire to do the work herself held her, and she actually did accomplish it! To stand the cylinder on one end, and draw with white chalk a “head” for it, and then another a trifle larger for a cover, was comparatively easy. These two were lined by cutting out a circle of cloth three inches larger than the matting circle, running a strong gathering string around the edge, and drawing it up around the matting.

“What is the use of that?” Irma demanded; and upon being informed that it was for strength and also to give something substantial to sew to, she said, with a little sniff, “Such a lot of trouble for what will only be an ugly bungle when you get it done.”

“It will be a bungle that will hold the clothes nicely,” Elsie said merrily.

She was so sure now of succeeding that she could afford to be merry.

The small patient fingers sewed away, and Irma, watching, grew interested in spite of herself. “You are not making a true round for the cover,” she presently exclaimed. “The thing wiggles in and out so, it is hard to make a true circle; you ought to cut a paper pattern first, and work at it until you get it true, then cut the matting by it. Here, I’ll make a pattern for you; and if I were you I would wire the creature around the top; that would make it stay in place.”

“That is an excellent idea,” Elsie said, “and I know just where there is a bit of wire that will do; I’ll run and get it.” She smothered a wee sigh as she went; it was a good plan to cut a pattern, and Irma’s eye for cutting was better than her own, but she had wanted to do this work entirely herself. The pattern was troublesome, but at last a fair circle was made, an edge of matting four inches deep sewed around it, the whole carefully lined, and the thing was done.

“It really looks very well,” Irma said, “and will do to stand in the back hall. That wire around the top was a good scheme.”

“Yes,” said Elsie heartily, “it was.”

Mrs. Harding gave no faint praise the next morning when the matting “hamper,” duly addressed and wrapped, stood close to her seat at table. She examined the workmanship most minutely, declared that the idea was original, and the completed work most useful.

“You have no idea how much more precious it is to me than anything bought with money could possibly be,” she said, kissing again the rosy cheeks of her youngest daughter, while the others looked on, smiling. Then truthful Elsie bethought herself. “Irma helped me,” she said quickly; “she made the circle true, and planned the wire for the top; it would not have been nearly so nice without her help.”

“I didn’t do the least thing, mother, except to cut a paper pattern for her, and to propose that some wire be sewed around the top. She had it nearly done before I said a word. It is all nonsense to say I helped. All I did was to give a little advice.”

The older daughters laughed merrily, for Irma was very fond of giving advice; but Mrs. Harding drew Irma to her side and kissed her lovingly, while she said: “There spoke my truthful girl. She is not going to be commended for what she has not done.”

“Oh! but, mother, she did truly help,” was Elsie’s eager explanation.

“Of course she did,” declared Margaret; “I have seen the time when I needed a little good advice more than any other kind of help.”

PANSY.

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY

IV.

I AM glad you do not get tired of my talking so much about myself, and what I have seen and heard. It shows how you have been brought up, so far; and if we old dogs live a great deal in the past you may pick up a little wisdom from us, after all, and be none the worse for what we say, if you only learn to profit by our experiences and avoid our mistakes.

You want to hear more? Well, let me see, what shall I tell you about this time? I am reminded by the talk I overheard about the family going to the seaside, of the summer when I was two years old. I spent it with my old master at a place on the New Jersey coast. There did not seem to be any one with whom I could well stay at home; besides, my young master’s little girl was very anxious to have me go with them, so they finally agreed to it, and were not sorry afterwards.

As I remember, I enjoyed the bathing as well as any of the party, or would have done so had I not been anxious all the time about little Lucy’s drowning. When those big waves would roll in, it seemed to me they meant to carry my little friend out of my sight forever.

The summer proved to be one which we could all remember without trying. For the first few weeks there was nothing very unusual happened, and some seemed to think it was going to be very dull and monotonous. But it “is a long road that has no turn,” and a “turn” finally came which was exciting enough for all of us.

The old settlers near the beach said we were to have a storm which would afford us a chance for a vacation in our bathing, and give us a sight of some “big seas,” for we would probably see the Atlantic in one of his angry moods before many hours.

We felt ready for the change, and lay down at night thinking what a good time we would have the next day looking at the great waves roll in.

I knew the wind was blowing pretty fresh, but had such a protected place that I did not know how the storm had arisen until towards morning I heard the sound of a big gun. It sounded again and again, and then there was a noise in the house, and a general turn out and rush for the beach. Of course I followed the crowd, and soon learned what was the matter. There was a ship in distress, and being driven upon the shore.

The men were there with the life-saving apparatus, and soon a line was got out to the ship, and they were running a kind of boat back and forth upon it, bringing the passengers from the ship to the shore.

Well, the people were all safety landed, but there was a splendid big dog on that ship, and no one had seemed to think of or to care for him. O, yes! he knew how to swim, but that was a terribly angry water, and the distance was great, and they said there was an ugly undertow. That means that water which has come pouring in upon the shore runs back on the bottom with such power sometimes as to carry anything with it that it can get hold of.

Poor Hercules—that was the dog’s name—had seen himself left there alone, the while the great waves were breaking all over the ship. If the poor fellow had been a fool he might have suffered less, for he would have thrown himself into the water at once; but as it was he knew the danger. Why, we could hear his howl above the noise of the breakers! and some of the men were almost wild with anxiety to try to save him. I suppose none of them thought the poor dog would know enough to get into that little car which had brought the people to the shore; and if he had he could not have shut himself in. So there he was. His owner, having several children besides his wife and the nurse to look after, had entirely forgotten the dog.

Hercules ran up and down the deck until there finally came a wave much bigger than any which had preceded it, and he was washed overboard. Of course he did then the best he could, and that was saying a great deal, for he was a powerful fellow; but those were terrible waves, and what could anything but a fish do in such a sea? We could see him now and then upon the crest of a wave, and then he would disappear. Every time we saw him he seemed to be nearer the shore, and we had a little hope that some big sea would throw him near enough for us to help him.

But the women and children must be cared for, so the people were soon gone, only a few of the boarders remaining to watch the sea, all believing the four-footed passenger to have been drowned. Looking steadily, I thought I caught sight of the fellow once, then again, and much nearer the shore. Yes, there he was, and a big wave landed him so near that his body actually rolled over on the sand, as the waves ran back to their home again. He was too weak to help himself; but I ran down, and before the next wave came seized him by the back of the neck and stopped his rolling; but he was too heavy for me to drag alone. My presence, however, seemed to give him courage, and he got upon his feet again; then came another wave and covered us both. This did not prove to be so heavy as most of them, and the men came to our assistance, so brave Hercules was saved.

Those who had remained to see this part of the scene sent up a rousing shout, and both of us were petted at a great rate.

I have never seen many happier moments in my long life than those which followed for a little while. I was so glad to see this stranger safe, and glad that I had been able to help save him!

He understood it all, too, though he did not understand English very well. I need not tell you that we were together that summer all we could be. The man who owned the dog had gone off and left him, and my master said that Hercules belonged to him more than to any one else, because I had been the means of saving his life.

But after a while the dog’s master came down there from New York to look after the wreck, and see if he could not find anything of value washed ashore which belonged to him. The place proved so pleasant that he sent for his family to come and spend a few weeks. They had experienced such a fright from the ocean the day of the wreck that at first they were very shy of the water, but it was not long before they were in with the others, enjoying the bathing.

This lasted for some time, and the children became very careless, venturing out where they ought not. My new friend and his master had not met since the day of the storm, as they were bathing at another part of the beach. For some reason my master decided not to go into the water one day, and we took a stroll along the beach to where those people were bathing. We had hardly reached the place, and my master seated himself in a comfortable position to watch the bathers, when Hercules gave a loud bark, as much as to say “Come,” and bounded into the breakers. Of course I followed fast after him, on, on, out into the sea; and he had his master’s little Gretchen by the back of her bathing-suit and was starting for the shore. It was a hard struggle; it was all both of us could do to save her.

The poor child was almost gone when we got to her, for no one had noticed her trouble and danger except Hercules.

Well, there was a scene on the shore again, and for a time one could hardly tell which the father was most rejoiced over, the saving of his child, or the sight of the dog who had saved her life.

Yes, we had a good time the rest of the summer, and then we had to part; for of course the man had his dog back again.

How I have wished I might see the brave fellow once more. I think he will never be forsaken again.

They went away from the coast a little earlier than we did. The children all bade me good-by, and Hercules’ master invited me to go with them. We had a long visit the night before they went, and both of us felt very sorry to part company; but some way people do not think that we dogs have much heart, or ever mourn for absent friends. There, excuse that tear, but it always makes me feel badly to talk of Hercules, and that delightful summer by the sea.

R.

FLY-LEAF WISDOM FOUND IN AN OLD BOOK.

READ slowly, pause frequently, Think seriously, Keep cleanly, return daily, With the corners of the leaves Not turned down.

ABOUT CHICAGO.

BY THE PANSIES.

I THINK it is great fun to go to Chicago on a visit, and then come back and hear about it as it used to be. My grandfather went there in 1833. He was just a boy, but he remembers lots of queer things. He went to church in a kind of a barn; the front part was the church, and there was a curtain in the middle, and behind it the minister lived—slept, you know, and ate, and everything. Think of that for Chicago! There was a school kept in a little room on Water Street; the woman who taught it had twenty scholars. The mail was brought once a week by a man on horseback, and the postmaster had a row of old boots nailed up on the wall for mail boxes. Grandfather says the place had begun to grow real fast when he went there, and as many as two hundred frame houses were built within a short time. He was there when they voted to make it a regular town, with officers and laws. One law was that pigs must not run in the streets, and that people must not cut holes in their outside walls and poke stove-pipe through them.

ROBERT CHAPPELL.

* * * * *

THE word “Chicago” used to be spelled “Chicagoux.” Some people think it was named for the “Cheagomeinan River,” which is the Indian name for the Chicago River. The Indians called the Mississippi River “Chacaqua,” which means “divine river,” and I think they worked the name Chicago out of all these notions. My uncle says the name of the French fort in 1688 was Fort Checagou. I like to study about names, and find what they mean, and how many changes they have had before we got hold of them. I have never been to Chicago, but I expect to attend the Columbian Exposition. If you will wait until after that I will tell you something about the city. It is larger than it used to be.

THOMAS L. WOOD, JR.

* * * * *

MY father knows about a man who bought a lot in Chicago in the year 1832 for one hundred dollars, and sold it again about three years afterwards for fifteen thousand dollars! I think that tells a boy better than anything else could, how fast the town grew for a while. Of course it was a nice choice lot, in what suddenly became the business part of the town. I know I should like to have been its first owner.

ROBERT TOWNSEND.

* * * * *

I READ about how Chicago came to be called the “Garden City.” It grew out of hard times. They had what is called a business panic, when everybody owed everybody else, and could not pay them, and business was awfully dull, and people thought the town was going to ruin. The most people had to do was to take care of their grounds. They whitewashed the fences, cleaned up the yards, planted fruits and vines, and did everything they could think of to make their places look pretty. I suppose they hoped somebody would come along and buy them. And that is the way they got the name of “Garden City.”

ALICE PETERSON.

* * * * *

THE people who lived in Chicago about the year 1843 certainly could not have had so high an opinion of the city as people do who live there now. A Mr. Miltimore built a schoolhouse on Madison Street which was called “Miltimore’s Folly,” because people did not believe that there would ever be children enough in the town to fill so large a building. The mayor of the city urged the Council to have it turned into an insane asylum, or sold, and the money from it used to build and care for a smaller building, suited to the present and future needs of the city! I don’t think he could have been a very bright man, because in less than four years from that time the building was not only crowded with scholars, but three others had to be opened in different parts of the city.

ROGER SHERMANN.

* * * * *

CHICAGO is a great place for manufactories. It seems to me as though almost everything was made there. I know they make brooms, and bricks, and boilers, and hats and caps, and saws, and scales, and nails, and paint, and gloves, and carpets, and I am sure I don’t know what else; I guess they make everything. Once I went to the car-wheel factory where they make three hundred wheels every day. It was great fun to see the men work. I like to see things made, and that is what I am going to do when I am a man.

ROBBIE WILSON.

[We are almost certain Robbie means that when he is a man he is going to help make things; not merely stand still and see them made. Good for Robbie! What would become of us if all the people who are hard at work making things should grow tired of their work, and conclude to—write books, for instance, instead?—EDITORS.]

* * * * *

WE are reading in school about the Chicago fire, which was in 1871. I think it is perfectly dreadful to read about it. Just think! it all came from a woman milking after dark, when she ought to have done it before, I suppose; or maybe her little boy ought to have done it for her, and did not come home in time—well, the cow kicked her lamp over and set the hay in the barn on fire, and all that awful ruin came!

I think that woman must have felt dreadfully. As for the cow, I don’t suppose she cared a bit.

LAURA JONES.

* * * * *

I KNOW a man who was in Chicago at the time of the fire, and he paid fifteen dollars for a hack to drive him half a mile! He says a hundred thousand people were made homeless that night. Folks ran through the streets as if they were crazy. Everybody was trying to carry something of theirs to a safe place. One woman tried to save her sewing-machine; she dragged it through the streets a long distance. One man walked along quietly, carrying an ice-pitcher. He said it was all he had left in the world.

The poor man had been made crazy by his losses, and did not know what he was about.

THOMAS JONES.

* * * * *

WE lived in Terre Haute, Ind., at the time of the great Chicago fire—at least my folks did—and my father says that on Monday, the ninth, while the fire was still burning, a train loaded full of provisions went out of Terre Haute for them. I think that was nice. There is a boy in school who says that his folks, who lived in Pittsburg, raised a hundred thousand dollars before Wednesday night, and sent it to the Chicago sufferers, and another fellow said that was nothing; that his uncle in Louisville raised most a hundred thousand within ten hours after the fire began! He talked as though his uncle did it all, but I suppose some others helped.

WILLARD J. MOONEY.

* * * * *

I THINK the great big splendid temperance temple is the grandest building in Chicago, and I helped build it. I gave two dollars and seventeen cents that I earned myself, for it. In 1893 I am going to see it, and some other things. I think you ought to have waited until after the Columbian Exposition for letters about Chicago. Then we could have told lots of things.

MARY CLARKSON.

* * * * *

I WENT to Chicago with my grown-up sisters when the Y. P. S. C. E. had its big meeting there. We stopped at the Sherman House. That is one of the nicest hotels in the city. At seven o’clock Sunday morning we had a prayer meeting in the billiard-room; more than a hundred young ladies and gentlemen spoke at that meeting in less than a half-hour, and the singing was lovely. The big meetings were held in Battery D. Ever so many thousand people were there all the time. Some of the speeches were splendid. Chicago is very large. My cousin and I took a ride on a street car as far as it went, then got out and took another line and went as far as its route, just to see the city. They have very tall buildings. I went to the Herald office; that is the handsomest newspaper building in the world, I guess.

LUCY J. HARTMANN.

* * * * *

ONCE I went to the church where Mr. Moody used to preach. I heard the Rev. Charles Goss; he is young. I liked him. I went to a splendid store, but I don’t remember where it was. There was a newsboys’ dinner given while we were there, and I went to look at the boys eating their cake and cream. There were hundreds of them, and they ate fast and seemed to like it.

A great many benevolent things like that are done in Chicago, but I think they need a temperance temple; I saw lots of drunken men, and one drunken woman.

ALICE PETERS.

[We have still more, about incidents which happened in Chicago rather than about the city itself, but we have already crowded our space. If the Pansies could be induced to get their letters in earlier they would stand a better chance of being selected from.—EDITORS.]

THINGS WHICH SOME PEOPLE REGRET.

HOW many of the Pansies have heard the “silver-tongued orator” lecture on his special theme, Temperance? All of you who have will be sure to hear him again at the first opportunity. Those of you who have not, let me urge to keep on the watch for a chance. Meantime, listen to his hint, which ought to help every boy who reads it to be a better educated man.

“I regret that the many hours of youth I gave to idle pleasures were not used in storing my mind with useful knowledge.”

Yours truly, GEORGE W. BAIN.

THE LAPPS.

FRANCE is “sunny.” It loves shade-trees, fans and fountains. Laplanders must need have furs and fire and fat food. Of course you know why. Those Lapp faces would look equally well as Mr. William’s, if they were to exchange dresses, putting a Lapp where the Emperor now sits so loftily. Give the Lapp the very same chance, and maybe he would make just as wise a ruler of Prussia. People are not so unlike, after all. When God would raise up the greatest Prophet that ever appeared on the earth, he found him in the despised Nazareth. Maybe he is nursing a little child of one of these Lapps who will one day be as great as young Master Wilhelm of Prussia.

L.

* * * * *

ALTHOUGH the printing presses at Beirut are working night and day they cannot supply the demand for the Arabic Bible.

EDMUND SPENSER.

(_English Literature Papers._)

JUST three hundred years ago, and just one hundred years after Columbus discovered America and planted his flag on San Salvador, there stood in the middle of a wide, boggy Irish plain a building better than most of those anywhere near it, called Kilcolman Castle. It was a time when the English Government was having a hard time to keep the Irish under their control, and we shall see after a while how the poor people of the castle suffered on account of this fact. But there lived at Kilcolman, in those days from 1586 to 1598, one of the most celebrated of the poets about whom we shall talk in our English Literature Papers. It was Edmund Spenser, and the old picture of him that has come down to us shows him to be a kind, gentle looking man, with a long thin nose and a high forehead, dressed in a black robe, and with a great lace collar coming up above his ears, which must have been very uncomfortable in warm weather.

Spenser was born in a part of London called East Smithfield, right under the shadow of the great Tower; and it is a very disagreeable fact to one who is trying to write about him, that we know almost nothing about the little events of his life, and especially of his boyhood. Three hundred years ago, you know, people did not take notes of themselves so much as we do nowadays, or as they did even in the last century; or if they did they have not been kept for us. Just a few people have told us anything about Edmund Spenser, and the probability is that even his picture is not any better than many of those which we see nowadays in the newspapers.

One of the few things which we find about him was that he entered one of the colleges at Cambridge when he was seventeen, as what was then called a “sizar.” These sizars were the poorer students, who had to work for their living in a much more disagreeable way than any students do now, by waiting on the older and richer ones at their meals and elsewhere, and were paid by their tuition in the college and the fragments of food which their employers left for them. I suppose if the student on whom Edmund Spenser waited could come back to earth for a little while he would be considerably surprised and perplexed to find that the only reason why the world would like to know more about him would be on account of the little sizar whom he used to have at Cambridge!

When he had left college, in which we find that he was a very good scholar, Spenser taught for a while in the northern part of England, and began to write the first poetry which made him at all famous; it was a long poem in twelve parts, about the twelve months of the year, and he called it at first “The Poet’s Year,” and afterward the name by which we know it, “The Shepherd’s Calendar.” It was a very pretty poem, and described the scenery and the country life of England in a way that made all good Englishmen like the author. So Spenser fell in with some good friends, and was introduced to Queen Elizabeth. It is a curious thing that in those days the best writers did not depend for their payment upon the number of books which were sold, or what their publishers paid them; but it was the custom of the king or queen, whenever an especially good writer appeared, to support him at the royal court or elsewhere, in return for which the writer served his sovereign in any way he could, especially by paying him any number of compliments in his writings. It is as though whenever a promising young author should appear in New York or Boston, he should find a Congressman who would introduce him to the President at Washington; and if he found that he was likely to be a pleasing writer and a convenient friend to have near him, he should invite him to stay in the city, and should see that he had all the money he needed.

But we shall be sorry to find that although Queen Elizabeth received Spenser very pleasantly, and although he paid her any number of pretty compliments in his after life, she never did very much for him. The first piece of good fortune which seemed to come to him was when he was appointed secretary to Lord Grey de Wilton, who was the Governor of Ireland. After that he was also given Kilcolman Castle, which we spoke of at the beginning, where he spent so many years. We shall see that he did a good deal of writing while there, and also acted as the agent of the English Government, in looking after whatever matters needed his attention. It was this that probably made the Irishmen dislike him, rather than any one thing which he did, for when he had been there twelve years there was a rebellion among them, and they burned the castle and forced the poet to run away to England. The saddest thing about it was that his baby was burned at the same time, and they tell us that the lonely father never recovered from his sorrow over this event. At any rate he died the next year in London, in a small lodging-house, and probably with very little money left. It was with him as with so many, many others, both in those days and now: the people did not begin to think enough of him until he was dead, and then they gave him a magnificent funeral, and buried him in Westminster Abbey, where the graves of all the greatest Englishmen are.

We know nothing but what is good about Edmund Spenser; he seems to have been a kind man, loving everything true and beautiful, and when we have a chance to read his writings we shall feel certain that this is so. Besides the “Shepherd’s Calendar” he wrote a book in prose about Ireland while he was there, and it was also at Kilcolman Castle that his great poem, “The Faery Queene,” or as we should say “The Fairy Queen,” was written. This is a long, long poem, and was planned to be written in twelve parts, but it is probable that only six of them were ever finished. At any rate that is all which has come down to us; and some one has said that in this work “the half is better than the whole,” meaning that although Spenser wrote six very nice books, he could scarcely have written six more anywhere nearly so good.

The “Fairy Queen” is what people call an allegory; those of us who have read “The Pilgrim’s Progress” have probably found out what is meant by that. In allegories the story seems to be about real people, but all the time the people stand for good or bad qualities, or something of that sort—like Christian and Mr. Greatheart, or the Fairy Queen and the Red Cross Knight. If we look in Webster’s Dictionary under “allegory,” we shall find that the “Pilgrim’s Progress” and “The Faery Queene” are spoken of as the most celebrated examples.

I am sorry to say that we shall find the “Faery Queene” rather hard reading; not because the story is not interesting, but because there were so many good English words in those days that we have forgotten all about now. Then the spelling, as we have already guessed from the name of the poem, seems more like one of our PANSY “Queer Stories” than anything else. We will try to read just one very pretty verse, at the beginning of the second Canto, which describes the sunrise. Spenser put quaint little rhymed headings at the top of his cantos; the one here is—

“The guilefull great Enchaunter parts The Redcrosse Knight from Truth: Into whose stead faire Falshood steps, And workes him woefull ruth.”

In reading the description of the sunrise we shall want to remember that there was an old story that the sun was a golden wagon driven up the sky by the god Phœbus, and also that “chanticleer,” or “chaunticlere,” was the old-fashioned word for rooster. Here is the verse, and we will bid Spenser good-by with it:

“By this the northerne wagoner had set His sevenfold teme behind the stedfast starre That was in ocean waves yet never wet, But firme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre To all that in the wide deepe wandring arre: And chearefull Chaunticlere with his note shrill Had warned once that Phœbus’ fiery carre In hast was climbing up the easterne hill, Full envious that night so long his roome did fill.” ELIZABETH ABBOTT.

* * * * *

AN Englishman visiting Sweden and noticing their care for children, who were gathered up from the streets and highways and placed in school, inquired if it was not costly. “Yes,” was the answer, “it is costly, but not dear. We are not rich enough to allow a child to grow up in ignorance, misery and crime, to become a scourge to society as well as a disgrace to himself.”

A COMING RULER.

THE little fellow at the left of the man on a big dark horse, is the one for you to study. He looks like a prince already. He certainly rides like a soldier.

What is the color of his eyes, the shape of his nose, or the kind of clothes on his back, and many more such things you would like to know. Perhaps you will know these and many more things about him when you see him in Boston, New York, San Francisco or at the Chicago World’s Fair.

“Will he be there?”

As likely as not.

“But who is he?”

Ah! now you ask something. He is Master Friedrich Wilhelm, the Crown Prince of Germany. If he live long enough, he will do something more than hold the reins of that pretty, proud white pony; he will hold the reins of Prussia, one of the most powerful nations of Europe.

His grandfather, Emperor William, died a few years ago, at a great age, greatly beloved by all Germans, and respected by other nations.

That man, sitting in the carriage, dressed like a soldier, with folded arms and a stern look on his face, is the present Emperor William.

There is the mother, the Empress, with the other children. Their faces are all turned toward you, so you can get a good look at them. But you need not expect to see so many princes and princesses at Chicago.

It is the fashion nowadays for kings, rulers and coming rulers to visit other lands. Which of our presidents went around the world?

L.

* * * * *

IT is said that the native Christians in Japan, with less than one shilling a day as an average for wages, contributed last year twenty-five thousand dollars to mission work.

BABY’S CORNER.

ROSY POSY.

AT last July came, and Rose went to grandpapa’s to stay a week.

She loved to go to the farm, because grandmamma let her work.

Rose could shell peas and sweep the floor with a pretty little broom. She took up the dust on a bright new dust-pan.

The first day she went out in the field with grandpapa and raked hay.

Then she took a little watering-pot and wet the flowers.

By and by Grandmamma put the kettle on to boil.

“Now we will get supper,” she said.

She spread a white cloth on the table, and Rose put on the cups and plates and spoons and knives and forks.

They had apples and cream for supper.

When the clock struck eight Grandmamma lighted a candle and went upstairs with Rose to put her to bed.

Grandpapa said, “Good-night, dear Rosy Posy.”

Rose lay still as a mouse, and soon she was fast asleep.

In the morning when Rose opened her eyes the sun was shining in at the window. There was a big fly buzzing about trying to warm himself in the sunlight. Rose liked to watch him.

And then a funny voice cried out: “Get up, Rosy Posy.”

It was Poll. Grandpapa had taught her to say it.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xiv. 1-10.)

HEROD seemed to think one must keep a promise, no matter what it is, so he put good, honest John the Baptist to death! One reason he gave was because of what his guests would say. But how did he know but they would say it was right for him to break such a bad promise? But why did he not think: “What will people all the coming years say to this wicked deed? What will the angels say? What will the holy mighty God say?”

“But shouldn’t one keep his promises?”

You see Herod should not in this case. Suppose the girl had said: “Give me your crown,” or “Let me cut your head or tongue off,” how then about Mr. Herod’s keeping his promise? Guess he would have found a way—not to keep his oath.

No, it is never right to keep a wrong promise. That would be doing two wrong things instead of one. Herod had no business to take such an oath. How could he know what this artful dancer might ask? No one may make a promise about which one cannot know.

Don’t ever do such a thing.

“If you have done it?” Break it. Break it, and repent over your rashness. Beware of the state of your mind when you make a pledge. See that you know what you are about.

Perhaps Herod would never have taken such an awful oath had he not been intoxicated with wine and this dancing girl. “When wine is in wit is out.” Many a person has lost his reason and committed some great crime by being in such society. Wine and dancing never helped any one heavenward.

Take care!

L.

* * * * *

MANY blessings will occur to him who is in search of them. Let us dwell lovingly and gratefully upon these; let us weigh and consider how to make the most of them, by neglecting no opportunity and shutting out nothing from our life that can brighten and invigorate it.

ANGIE’S CROSS.—II.

(_Character Studies._)

I WAS sorry for the mother. I heard her gentle, troubled voice in the hall, trying to make explanations. “Not going!” was the startled response of the girls; “what is the matter? O, dear me! what shall we do without her? Celia Lewis might sing the part if she had only known; but she thought she wouldn’t be needed, and she isn’t feeling very well, so she didn’t come out. Dear Mrs. Conran, cannot you coax Angie to come? I am afraid we shall have to give up the anthem altogether if you don’t. Harold says he cannot sing it without having one rehearsal.”

“I am very sorry,” said gentle Mrs. Conran, “but I am afraid it is quite out of the question, Angie is so sure she cannot go to-night. Perhaps you can arrange a rehearsal early in the morning?”

“No, ma’am, we can’t do that, because the Bible classes occupy the room, you know, until the last minute. O, dear! how I wish we had known it before. I don’t know what we shall do. Is Angie feeling very ill, Mrs. Conran?”

“N-o,” said the mother hesitatingly, and I knew that her face flushed to her temples; “she isn’t sick, but she is very much—out of sorts. I regret it exceedingly, but you know how Angie is. When she once settles in her own mind that she can’t do a thing it doesn’t seem possible for her to get the consent of her will to do it.”

“Well,” they said, turning away, “it seems too bad, when Dr. Brand asked for that particular anthem, and Angie is the only one who has sung it; but I suppose we shall manage some way. Good-evening.”

Mrs. Conran closed the door after them and came slowly back to the parlor, I, meantime, wishing there had been some excuse for me to slip away, so that she need not have the embarrassment of meeting me. There was a weary attempt at a smile on her face, which had grown pale again, and she said apologetically:

“Poor Angie! she is the victim of her own strong will. I sometimes feel very sorry that she matured in some things so early; she has an idea that her mother does not know what is suitable for young people to wear, and is growing a little too fond of dress, I am afraid. She has been put forward so much in her music that it has injured her. It seems strange that a sweet voice should lead one into temptation, doesn’t it?”

I murmured something about girls being fond of their own way and about their having to learn by experience, the more to give the mother a chance to recover herself than because I felt that I had anything worth saying. I do not think she heard all I said, but the words “learn by experience” caught her attention.

“Yes,” she said, after a moment, speaking with a long-drawn sigh, “that is it. Poor child! she must learn by experience, and experience is a bitter teacher sometimes. Often, when I hear her sweet voice roll out on those solemn words:

“‘Nearer, my God, to thee, . . . . . . E’en though it be a cross That leadeth me,’

I wonder what the ‘cross’ will be that will lead Angie to think less of her own will and more of Christ. She is so strong-willed, so passionate, and has such a way of giving vent to the thoughts that come into her mind at the moment, without stopping to realize how they will sound.

“In some way the child must be taught. It seems to me I have tried hard to teach her, but I have failed. I do not often speak in this way of her,” she added, with a sad smile; “I do not like to talk about her faults before any one, but to-night you heard all the talk, and I want you to understand that her words do not mean all they seem to. She would be startled and frightened at herself if she could have them photographed in some way and spread out before her.

“But every exhibition of this kind only proves to me more clearly that she is in need of a solemn lesson, and I do not know how it is coming.

“‘Though like a wanderer, Daylight all gone, Darkness be over me, My rest a stone.’

“It makes my heart ache sometimes to hear her sing those words, because I cannot help wondering if she must have the ‘darkness’ and the ‘stone’ to bring her to the true Light.”

I did not know what to say to the pale mother, so I said nothing; but as I thought of her unnatural pallor, in sharp contrast with the two burning spots on her wasted cheeks, and remembered how constantly that little cough annoyed her, I felt sorry for Angie. I thought I could see the way in which the “cross” must come.

I could feel how much heavier she was making it for herself; because some day, perhaps soon, her memory would recall with bitter tears the harsh, cruel words she had spoken to her mother, absorbed as she was in the eager desire to have her own way. If she would only consent to be led “nearer” by a pleasanter path!

MYRA SPAFFORD.

THINGS WHICH SOME PEOPLE REGRET.

NOW we have something unique. Read the “Regrets” over carefully, and you will discover that we have had nothing like this. You recognize the writer, I presume, as an author who has interested a great many people. Let us hope that he will never have occasion to regret the regret which he has so kindly given us.

“I have regrets for the past, of course; but I have rarely expressed regrets without afterward regretting that I had expressed them.”

Yours truly, GEORGE W. CABLE.

THE FIRST FLAG.

WOULD the Pansies like to see a picture of the first United States flag which ever floated from a vessel? Count the stars. Why do you suppose there are only twelve, when everybody knows that thirteen was the original number? The explanation is said to be that at the time this particular flag was made—that is in 1779—the Legislature of Maryland had not yet formally joined the Union, so her star was omitted.

The flag was made by some Philadelphia ladies, and presented to Captain Jones. For a time it sailed proudly up and down the Schuylkill, fresh and beautiful. Then it went to war, and was shot and fell into the sea. A young lieutenant, Stafford by name, jumped overboard to save the flag. When it fell the British thought the Yankees had “struck their colors,” but in a little time it waved aloft again, trimmed with bullet holes. You must read in our United States history about the great victory which Captain Jones and his brave vessel, the _Bonhomme Richard_, gained at that time.

When the war was over the flag was sent to Lieutenant Stafford as a memento of his faithfulness and bravery. It has been kept in the Stafford family ever since, although they have been urged many times to sell it, and as many as three thousand dollars have been offered for it.

When the lieutenant’s daughter Sarah died the old flag was draped about her coffin. When President Harrison was inaugurated it came to Washington, and was carried by one of the Stafford family in the procession.

We show you, also, the picture of Mrs. James Bayard Stafford, the wife of the lieutenant. She was over eighty years old when this picture was taken, but the face shows a sweet brave woman, strong for the right and the true, which was the character she bore. I do not know whether she is still living, but a few years ago she was the light of the home in Cottage City, Mass., and guarded the old historic flag as a sacred relic.

PANSY.

* * * * *

AN Indian arrow is quite a work of art. The head, or point, is made from a barrel hoop about three inches long, tapered to a point, and sharpened on both sides. In a bunch of arrows these points are absolutely uniform. The shaft is made of ash about twenty-three inches long. The feathers are glued on and lashed at each end with sinew. The head or point is inserted in the wood, and also lashed with sinew. And running along the arrow are three wave-like grooves from the head to the feathers. This, the Indians explain, is to make the arrow go straight. The bow is also made of ash, and with a string of twisted sinew taken from along the back of a beef. So that with an ordinary butcher knife and a file, if it is to be had, an Indian can make his own arms.

The penetrating force of an arrow is wonderful. An Indian can shoot an arrow right through a buffalo. I have heard it stated that bows and arrows would be much more effective weapons in the hands of Indians than such guns as they surrendered to General Miles.—_Selected._

ABOUT BUFFALO.

BY THE PANSIES.

I HAVE been waiting for the time to come to write about Buffalo, because I knew something queer to write. Three of the nice streets there are named Niagara St., Erie St., and Church St.; but their names used to be Schimmelpennick Avenue, Vollenhoven Avenue and Stadnitski Avenue! Isn’t it a good thing they were changed?

MARGARET L. JOHNSON.

* * * * *

THE Indian name for Buffalo is Teosahway. I think it is much prettier than Buffalo. Some people say the city was named for an old Indian chief who lived in a hut in the center of where the main business part is now located; the Indian’s name was Buffaloe. But others think it was named after the “creek,” where the buffaloes used to come in droves.

HENRY RICE.

* * * * *

THE city of Buffalo used to be spelled with an _e_, and the citizens had a great time getting rid of that final _e_. Father says that years after it had been dropped the city of Binghamton, N. Y., which used to be spelled “Binghampton,” set to work to get rid of that unnecessary _p_. Buffalo, forgetting the trouble it had had, was the last to remember the change; long after others were pretty well educated, the Buffalo postmaster would send the Binghamton mail in a package marked “Bingham_p_ton.” At last the Binghamton postmaster made up a package for Buffalo and addressed it in very large letters, “Buffalop,” then wrote underneath: “If you are so fond of the letter _p_ take it.” Father says he believes this cured them.

SARAH H. ATCHISON.

* * * * *

MY grandmother used to live in Buffalo when the water supply was very different from what it is now. There used to be an old man whom they called “Water John.” He had a cart and an old horse, and he used to fill a hogshead with water at the lake, and go through the streets peddling it for a shilling a barrel. A shilling was twelve and a half cents. Grandmother says they always used to have to give Water John thirteen cents; and I don’t see why they did not call it thirteen cents a barrel, instead of a price which nobody could exactly pay.

LAURA HOLMAN.

* * * * *

I HAD a great-uncle who used to live in Buffalo when there were only about forty houses there, all built of logs; and I have an uncle living in Buffalo now who went there in 1825, when there were about two thousand inhabitants, and has seen it grow to its present size—about two hundred and fifty thousand; some say more than that. It must be a great thing to be able to look back on such changes.

JAMES CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

MY grandmother went to Buffalo when she was a little girl and took a ride on the “Black Rock Railroad”; that was what they called it, but it was just a street car. Grandmother thinks it was the first horse railroad used in this country. There was a car for pleasant weather and one for storms. The pleasant weather one was like a great box, with an outside seat for the driver. The seats were just boards with straight backs. There was no cover, and the sun could pelt down on you as much as it pleased. For bad weather they had one with a top, and canvas curtains that buttoned down. The car was drawn by one horse, and Grandmother says they did not use any time table, but came along just whenever it happened. The fare was a shilling.

LUCY STEVENSON.

* * * * *

IT is great fun to read about Buffalo as it used to be. I was there last summer and stopped at an elegant hotel. I forget its name, but I know they said it was the handsomest in the city, and it was just splendid, I tell you! A little while after I came home I read about “The Farmers’ Hotel,” which was the grand hotel of Buffalo in 1832. I saw a picture of it; the queerest looking little old building you ever saw, with a bell on the top like a great cow bell; it was rung by a rope, and that is the way people used to be called to their meals. The book I was reading said it was a very useful bell, for it not only told when breakfast or dinner was ready at the Farmers’ Hotel, but was useful as a time-keeper in every house in the neighborhood; for there were very few people indeed in those days who carried watches, and clocks were very rare and costly.

REUBEN S. BENTON.

* * * * *

I HAVE a letter which was written to my grandmother in 1836, by a lady who lived in Buffalo. Grandmother lived in New York, and the amount of postage which it took to carry the letter from Buffalo to New York was two shillings. This was marked in red ink on the outside of the letter; not on an envelope, for none were used, but one side of the paper was left blank, and the letter was folded in a curious way, and marked “Paid 2 s.” Grandmother said her sister in Albany used to get letters from the same lady, and hers were marked: “Paid 18¾.” At that time it cost less to write from Buffalo to Albany than it did from Buffalo to New York; and I must say that seems reasonable. Why should letters be two cents now, whether they travel ten miles or a thousand? But I am glad they are not twenty-five cents.

CARRIE FOSTER.

* * * * *

BUFFALO is a great city. You can start from it and go anywhere you want to, at most any hour of the day or night. There are as many as thirteen different railroad lines to choose from, to say nothing of steamboats and all that sort of thing. But it is the queerest laid out city in this country. A man Ellicott planned it almost a century ago, and meant to build a palace for himself right in the center, but he never did.

JOHN JONES.

* * * * *

MOTHER says I ought to be able to write you a letter about Buffalo, because I’ve been there lots of times. But I can’t. What is there to write about a city, I should like to know? They are all alike; great long streets with big houses on both sides, or big stores or something, and churches every little way, and crowds of people in the streets getting in a fellow’s way all the time, and carts running over you, and carriages that you want to take a ride in and can’t; and an awful noise and smoke and hurly-burly. I’d rather spend one afternoon in the country in an apple orchard or a strawberry field, or by a trout stream, than to be a whole week in any city I ever saw. Buffalo has some splendid-looking houses and parks, and there is a lunatic asylum that I was interested in, because the people acted so queer. I don’t like Buffalo, however, nor any other big place.

TOM HURST.

* * * * *

I THINK they must make flour enough in Buffalo to supply the world with bread. My father says that twelve years ago there were eleven great flouring mills there, and he doesn’t know how many more have been started since. At that time they made every year about two hundred and fifty thousand barrels of flour; but dear me! it would take more flour than that to feed the world, wouldn’t it? What a lot of things we do have to eat!

JIMMIE TUCKER.

* * * * *

I SHOULD think Buffalo would be called the “City of Churches.” There must be hundreds of churches there. I went with my uncle and brother to look at different ones, and it took us two days just to see those which were on three streets of the city. Some of them are lovely, and some were great, dark-looking buildings, like jails.

LUCY STONE.

* * * * *

[On the whole we consider these Buffalo letters decidedly unique. A little ahead of anything in that line which the Pansies have yet given us. Certainly some rather original ideas in regard to cities in general have been advanced, and we have been given a better chance than usual to mark the progress which time has made. We are somewhat surprised that no one has described a ride to or from the city on one of the canal packets. That is a vivid memory of our childhood which we would like to tell you about were there time.

Our material is as usual not exhausted, but our space is. I presume Buffalo will fare like the cities which have preceded it—that is, some of the best letters will come too late to use. If our Pansies could only learn to start three months ahead!—EDITORS.]

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

V.

THIS is a beautiful moonlight evening, but you would rather listen to me than bark at the moon?

All right; I don’t mind talking when I have good listeners, but to try to tell a story and be constantly reminded that those to whom you talk are thinking of something else, is not pleasant.

What shall I talk about to-night?

“Something concerning our relatives away back?”

So you want to know what kind of blood there is in our veins? That is an interesting theme for some, and why not for us?

It is not three days since I heard our master boast that he had descended from the Pilgrim Fathers. We do not all claim to be related, but we are of one family now, and so interested in each other.

I like to think that some of my relatives have done good and been faithful; so I think I will tell you what one of my great-great-great-uncles did a long time ago.

His name was Sport, and at the time to which I refer he lived with a man by the name of Stillman. He was thought much of for hunting, and because of his skill in this direction he had a chance to earn the reputation which so many envied; that is, to earn it in just the way he did.

I want my young friends to remember that the way is always open for any dog to get a good name if he will only try. Why, even a little insignificant poodle can be of use. There is our neighbor, Mr. Fellows; he had two or three dog sentinels all about his place, and the other night a man got clear to his front door, and none of these big fellows said or knew any thing of it; but the moment the man reached the door little Tip, the poodle, notified the whole house.

Well, this dog Sport was taken by his master, one fall, away off into the wood. They went miles and miles beyond where anybody pretended to live, and there in a little hut they staid for days and days, the master hunting and fishing and resting.

This was all well enough so long as nothing unusual occurred, though it was pretty lonesome for the four-footed one. The master seemed to take it for granted that his dog knew nothing but how to follow game, so said little to him, sometimes hardly noticing him from morning till night.

As I said, matters moved on very well for a time, but there came a change. Mr. Stillman awoke one night feeling very ill, and by morning was sick enough.

He took such medicine as he had, but grew worse and worse. The poor man could not sit up to write, and if he could have written, who would be mail carrier for him?

He lay there and thought, and tried to plan. “If I only had a St. Bernard dog I might send him for help; but Sport is nothing but a hunting dog, and he cannot understand anything but how to follow a track.”

In the meantime Sport was feeling badly, and trying to think what he might do, for his master was getting worse all the time. Walking around the room he saw an envelope with something in it, and while his master was seemingly asleep, he took the package in his mouth and started upon the run in the direction in which they came into the woods.

He made pretty fast time for eight or ten miles; then he came to a trail, and knew a party had passed there not long before. So, putting his nose to the ground, he soon learned which way they had gone, and followed them at good speed.

Fortunately he came upon them where they had encamped for the night. It proved to be quite a large party with an experienced guide.

Sport dashed in among them and laid down his package and barked, to call their attention to it. The men examined the writing, and while it did not tell them how it was sent—it not having been sent—it seemed to be an attempt of some one to leave on record the condition he was in, his name and address, so that if he should die, any one finding this might be able to inform his friends.

No one of those who first composed the party knew what to think of the paper, for there was little of it which could be read, more than the name; but the guide was not long in interpreting Sport’s meaning, and told them that the faithful dog had without doubt come from some one in distress, and that they must try to find him.

“If I don’t miss my guess by a shot or two this four-legged mail-carrier will be dreadful glad to pilot us back the way he came; won’t you, old fellow?”

Sport showed his readiness by jumping up and starting; but Simpkins—that was the guide’s name—called him back, patted him on the head, and gave him something to eat, promising to go with him pretty soon.

The guide told the party to remain there, all but one or two, till he should return. One of their number was a doctor, who was taking his vacation, and he volunteered to be one of the company to make the search for the supposed sufferer. Although all had believed themselves to be tired, yet they were soon off, Sport taking the lead, and so eager that he let his followers only just keep in sight. It was dark some time before the little hut was reached.

When the men told the story afterward, they said it was a great wonder they kept on following a dog in that way, though the guide never hesitated; and the men probably preferred following him to being left alone.

As they neared the place on the main trail, Sport would run ahead and bark, and then come back to the guide and whine.

Well, they got to the hut at last, and it appeared as though the sick man had not moved while his faithful friend was gone; and what is more, the doctor said he never would have moved if help had not come.

The men rubbed him and gave him medicine, and towards morning he opened his eyes. It took him a little while to make out what it all meant, but when Sport heard his voice he sprang to his side, and seemed wild with delight.

There is a great deal more to this story which I will not take time to tell. The doctor tried hard to buy Sport after that, but his master said he would sooner let him have one of his hands; he kept him until he died of old age.

Before he died Mr. Stillman had his picture painted by a fine artist. Master and dog have been dead for years, but I have seen both their pictures, made by the same man. Saw them often when I was little. Our folks used to tell the story to people who visited them, and then point to me and say: “This little fellow is related to that noble dog, and we hope he will be like him.” Then I would be so proud of the relationship, and resolve to be just as good if I could not be as smart.

Now it is time to look around and see that everything is all right. If they have not forgotten to shut the hen-house door, we can take our places as usual till morning.

No, I never had such a chance as old Uncle Sport had for making a name, but I have done what I could, and my master is not slow to show that he loves me.

R.

JACK’S DECISION.

JACK was in a very doleful frame of mind. It was Sabbath morning, and as bright a day as even July could furnish to that part of the world. The birds in the trees, the leaves as they rustled, and the sweet odors in the air, all seemed to whisper that it was a perfect Sunday. Jack wanted to go to church. Not that he was devoted to church-going, either. The sermon often seemed long to him, and he sometimes grew very tired of counting the bits of stained glass of which the large round window was made; but on this particular morning, as he sat curled up in the large armchair with a great pillow at his back, he made himself believe that there was nothing in life he wanted so much as to go to church that day. It was not simply that the new carriage was to be used for the first time, and that Prince and Tony were harnessed together before it, and would look splendid, but in addition to these excellent reasons Jack had not been out of the house for nearly a week, and had not had a ride since last Sabbath, and it seemed to him he should fly if he had to stay in much longer. But then, Jack had the mumps, so it couldn’t be helped.

Uncle Jack was to stay with him; or rather he was to stay with Uncle Jack, which was pleasant, for although this favorite uncle always staid at home on Sundays, and could not take a single step without somebody on either side to help, yet his nephew considered him the “jolliest kind of a companion.” This may have been partly owing to the fact that Jack the uncle was quite young to have that title—only a boy of twenty—and he was as sunshiny, in fact more so than many boys of ten contrive to be.

On this particular day he exerted himself to his utmost to entertain his namesake, and succeeded so well that when the clock struck twelve the boy said, in round-eyed wonder: “Why, who would have thought it was so late? They will be home in a little while, won’t they?”

“That’s a fact,” said Uncle Jack. “I think there will be just time for us to have our Bible story together, and a little talk about it before they come. You know that was to finish the morning’s programme, Jack.”

“All right,” said Jack, settling back on his pillow, “go ahead; I like to hear you read the Bible better than anybody else, except mother, of course.”

This was no wonder, for Uncle Jack had a way of reading between the lines, something after this fashion: “‘And a certain man, lame from his mother’s womb, was carried.’ Just think of that, my boy! Forty years old, and never had walked a step! That is worse than being lame for two years, isn’t it?”

“How do you know he was forty years old? It doesn’t say so.”

“It does in another place; I hunted it up once, to see how long he had been a burden on his friends. And just listen to this as the best they could do for him: ‘Whom they laid daily at the gate of the temple, which is called Beautiful, to ask alms of them that entered into the temple.’”

“They were a mean lot,” said Jack; “they might have kept him at home and taken care of him.”

“Ah, my boy! that is much the way it is to-day in countries where Jesus Christ does not reign; still, we must not be too hard on these friends of his; they may have been miserably poor, and to carry the man to the gate and leave him there may have been the utmost that was in their power to give.”

“Then they ought to have taken him to the hospital.”

“There was none, Jackie. No provision whatever was made in that country for the suffering poor; such things belong to Christianity. Well, ‘Who, seeing Peter and John about to go into the temple, asked an alms.’ He liked the appearance of those ministers, I fancy. I suppose he said, ‘They look kind, and I shouldn’t wonder if they would give me quite a lift.’”

“I should say they did,” chuckled Jack, who knew the outcome of the story. Reading in this way you can see how long it might take them to get through with even a short story; but Jack thought it a “tip-top” way to read.

He sat lost in thought for some minutes after the lame man had gone leaping into the temple, then said, half-doubtfully, as though not sure whether it were just the proper thing to say: “Uncle Jack, wouldn’t it be a splendid thing if Peter were alive now, and should come home from church with the folks, and cure you so you could run all around?”

Uncle Jack turned bright smiling eyes on his nephew. “You forget,” he said briskly; “it wasn’t Peter who did it; he was only the instrument. You might as well call the cup in which you take your beef tea the food, as to call Peter the physician in this case.”

“Well, then,” said Jack, looking resolute, “I don’t understand why he doesn’t cure folks now—Jesus, I mean. People say he is here all the time, though we can’t see him, and that he is just the same as ever he was; why don’t he cure you, Uncle Jack, just as he cured the man at the temple gate?”

“He has,” said Uncle Jack promptly; “He has performed a much greater cure for me than He did for the man at the gate.”

And then Jack looked astounded. As though he did not know that his Uncle Jack had not taken a step in two years, and even the great surgeon from the city could not be sure if he ever would.

The gay young uncle laughed over his astonishment, then said: “I see I shall have to tell you something, Jackie. Before I was hurt I was in a bad way—lame not only in my feet, but in my will power, which is much worse. I was making a headlong rush toward ruin, and when the accident happened which laid me flat on my back, I knew before many weeks that it was Jesus Christ trying to cure me.”

Little Jack stared. “Couldn’t He have done it without that?” he asked.

“No,” said his uncle confidently; “I don’t believe He could. I wouldn’t let Him, you see. He had called me hundreds of times, and urged me to let Him do the best things for me, but I wouldn’t. My will power, as I told you, was lame, sick—deathly sick; I couldn’t seem to want to be cured, nor to do any of my part of the work. There is always our part to do in a cure, you know.” Jack nodded, and remembered the bitter medicine which he had rebelled against swallowing. “Well, I wouldn’t do my part; refused out and out, and kept on refusing until I was placed on my back. I suppose the Lord Jesus knew that that only would bring me to my senses, and give him a chance to cure my heart sickness, so he let it come to me. Understand?”

Jack was not disposed to answer. He was thinking. “Why doesn’t He cure your back now?” he asked, speaking part of his thought.

His uncle’s voice was a trifle lower, and hinted at strong feeling which was being controlled. “I believe he will, Jackie, just as soon as it is best for me to be cured. I think I am going to get quite well; indeed, I may say I am almost sure of it, though the surgeon is not. I believe the Lord Jesus has decided to let me be well and strong again, so I can be a witness for him, as the lame man was, you remember. Why, we didn’t finish the story, did we? And there is no time now. Here come the people from church. You look that up, Jackie, in your Bible sometime, and see what an unanswerable argument the man was.”

Jack the younger thought over the entire story later, while he was eating his beef tea. Thought and thought, and by a way which was clear to himself, came at last to this point: “I wonder if He let me have the mumps so as to stop me from doing different from what mother says? If I hadn’t thought it wouldn’t do any harm to run into Judge Howell’s a few minutes, even after she had told me not to stop anywhere, why, I suppose I shouldn’t have had these horrid old mumps. Maybe He knows it was the only way to cure me. Well, I tell you what it is; I believe I’ll be cured. I guess, after this, I’ll do just exactly as I’m told, and be a ‘witness’ myself, so that folks will begin to say of me: ‘Jack Campbell won’t do it; his folks told him not to, and you can’t move Jack after that any more than you could a stone wall.’ I declare, that will be tip-top fun. I’ll do it!”

PANSY.

CLAUDE’S STORY.

CLAUDE TALMAN was ten years old. He lived in a marble house. Its floors had costly carpets, and all the furniture was elegant. His clothes were fine and rich; his food came from almost all parts of the world. How soft was his bed. Tenderly was he watched over. He seemed to have more than heart could wish—not his heart, however.

One day as he looked from his elegant window he saw a poor boy passing drawn in a little wagon by a goat; then he set up a loud cry that he must have that very wagon and goat. It did no good for his mother to promise him just as good an one if it could be found in the Central Market, where almost everything could be bought. No, he must have that. That boy must sell it to him or it must be taken from him. What right had that poor boy to something that he (Claude) didn’t have? His mother reasoned with him, but all to no purpose; he stormed about, stamping his foot, saying he would have it if he had to kill the boy to get it. When he got over his rage somewhat his mother said: “You remind me of another Claude, only his real name was Claudius.”

Then Master Claude quieted down and listened, for he was fond of stories, and now he knew his mother had one for him. So she went on thus: “Two thousand years ago there lived a large family in the country that is now called England. Their name was Briton. They were not the handsomest or wisest folks in the world, nor were they always gentle among themselves. Their houses were mere huts and their dress was the skins of wild animals. They were a brave people, but generally minded their own business. The great father of this family—I should say one of the big brothers—was Caractacus. He was strong and fearless, and very wise and good in his way. When they were in trouble they went to him, and somehow he always knew just what to do. So they thought of him just as American people think of Washington.

“Miles and miles away across the great waters lived another family in an elegant marble palace”—

“Now you are going to tell a story about me,” interrupted Claude.

—“in an elegant marble palace. Everything without as well as within this beautiful mansion was costly and wonderful. There was nothing just like it on all the face of the earth.

“But they were unhappy. They wanted something more. One day while they were sitting and feasting, dressed in purple and fine linen, and bands of music were playing, word came from one of their travelers about a fair island far away, and about this Briton family who owned it, and were living there so contentedly.

“Then uprose the father of the Roman family—for that was their name—and the music ceased, the feasting was over, and the men put off their showy dress and put on their soldier clothes, and the father or big brother, whose name was Claudius”—

“Now, mother, more about me?”

“His name was Claudius, and he mounted his war horse and blew a loud blast that made the marble halls ring again, and with waving banners and peals of music away marched this Roman family to conquer the Briton family and make them give up their”—

“Little wagon and goat?”

—“give up their beautiful farm. On they went on foot and on horse and by boats till they landed one dark night and stole up to the back yard of the Britons.

“Then of a sudden the dogs set up an awful barking. The Britons—women as well as men and children—sprang up in a jiffy, and a fierce fight followed. Sometimes the Romans got the better, sometimes the Britons; but after a long, long time, when many were killed on both sides, six of Claudius’ biggest brothers saw Caractacus fall, and the blood was streaming from his side by an arrow wound, and they leaped upon him and bound his hands behind him, and led him as best they could to Claudius. But Caractaca, his poor wife, followed, begging the soldiers not to harm her suffering husband.

“When the brave Britons saw their leader fall, and knew he was now a prisoner, their hearts failed them, and they fled, many of them, far away into the forests.

“But Caractacus and his sad wife were taken from their home and carried far away to the Roman palace as prisoners.

“Now when they looked around this grand home and saw all its richness and glory they drew a deep sigh, Caractaca begging Claudius to send them back to their home, the brave Caractacus only saying he did not see why such a rich family cared for the plain hut he lived in.”

Master Claude never again insisted upon having the little wagon and goat. Nay, he helped him to better ones.

L.

THE LONGEST DAY.

IT is quite important, when speaking of the longest day in the year, to say what part of the world we are talking about, as will be seen by reading the following list, which tells the length of the longest day in several different places. How unfortunate are the children in Tornea, Finland, where Christmas Day is less than three hours in length!

At Stockholm, Sweden, it is eighteen and one half hours in length. At Spitzbergen the longest day is three and one half months. At London, England, and Bremen, Prussia, the longest day has sixteen and one half hours. At Hamburg in Germany, and Dantzig in Prussia, the longest day has seventeen hours. At Wardbury, Norway, the longest day lasts from May 21 to July 22, without interruption. At St. Petersburg, Russia, and Tobolsk, Siberia, the longest day is nineteen hours, and the shortest five hours. At Tornea, Finland, June 21 brings a day nearly twenty-two hours long, and Christmas one less than three hours in length. At New York the longest day is about fifteen hours, and at Montreal, Canada, it is sixteen.—_Selected._

THREE YOUNG MISSIONARIES.

“WHO are they?”

The one with his hat off and flag in hand—his name is Judson. The neat little Miss, her fingers tucked in that warm muff, and her satisfied face saying: “See what a nice big snowball we’ve made,” she is Miss Emily Chubbuck, to be sure. The third—wouldn’t you give a penny to see his face?—he looks like a young Scotch Highlander in plaids. He it is who fixed up the funny mouth, nose and eyes, and is now putting something sweeter than a nasty cigarette into his snow mouth; well, this one is Master Carey. Now they look only like children having fun. Not a hundred years after they became missionaries. Heard you ever of Carey? Of Adoniram Judson? Of his wife, Emily Chubbuck?

L.

FIRST TIME AT CHURCH.

A GRAVE sweet wonder in thy baby face, And look of mingled dignity and grace, Such as a painter hand might love to trace.

A pair of trusting innocent blue eyes, That higher than the stained-glass window rise, Into the fair and cloudless summer skies.

The people round her sing, “Above the sky There’s rest for little children when they die.” To her, thus gazing up, that rest seems nigh.

The organ peals; she must not look around, Although with wonderment her pulses bound— The place whereon she stands is holy ground.

The sermon over, and the blessing said, She bows, as “mother” does, her golden head, And thinks of little sister who is dead.

She knows that now she dwells above the sky, Where holy children enter when they die, And prays God take her there too, by and by.

Pet, may He keep you in the faith alway, And bring you to that home for which you pray, Where all shall have their child hearts back one day! —_Selected._

AN IDEA THAT GREW.

IT was Nancy and the book together which put the idea into Clara’s mind. They were slipping along in the shadows of the quiet river, she and Wallace. It was the Fourth of July, and most of the boys and girls of the region were busy with what firecrackers they could get—those of them who had not taken a five-mile tramp to the village to attend the celebration.

But Clara was too old to care for firecrackers, and Wallace had had enough of them before he came; he was only here for a few days, and preferred a visit with his sister to all the Fourth of July celebrations that could be planned. She was reading aloud to him bits from a new book which he had brought her as a birthday present; for the Fourth of July was not only the birthday of freedom, it was also Clara’s birthday.

“O, Wallace!” she said, “this is a lovely book.” She had said the same thing at least a dozen times that day. “Just see what queer ideas she had,” Clara continued, meaning the girl in the book; “she was very good—better than anybody I ever knew. I should think it would be lovely to do half the nice things she did. One plan was to pick out a friend—another girl—and try to help her in every way she could. Pray for her, you know, and talk with her, and influence her, until at last the girl would be converted; then they two would choose two others to help in the same way, and they were going to see how large a circle they could make of that kind. She thought perhaps she could reach all around the world; she was only a young girl, and she thought if she lived to be a woman perhaps she could. Wallace, what are you laughing at?”

“At the modesty of the young woman and her ideas,” said Wallace, laughing afresh. “She hasn’t gotten around the world yet, I take it; I’ve never seen anything of her.”

“I am sure the idea is beautiful,” said Clara, half-inclined to be vexed with Wallace for making sport of it. “And of course one could do a great deal of good in that way. I would just like to try it.”

“Why don’t you?” Wallace asked, his eyes twinkling; “I’m sure you have a good field for work of the sort here among the natives. Look at that specimen on the bank at this moment. Her eyes are as large as sunflowers, and she looks as though she might take any amount of doing good to and not be hurt by it.”

Clara turned around and stared back at Nancy on the shore.

A little girl with a sallow, wistful face, and great mournful-looking eyes. She had on a worn and faded dress, an apron which was much too long for her, but seemed to have been put on to cover the deficiencies of the dress. She wore neither shoes nor stockings, and was hanging tightly by the two strings to her pink gingham sunbonnet, and gazing at the people in the boat with the most unutterable longing in her eyes that Clara had ever seen.

“Poor thing!” said Clara; “she envies us our row. I wonder if she never has a chance to take a row on the river? Only see how hungry her eyes look.”

“It is more probable that she envies you your hat and dress,” said Wallace; “she keeps her eyes on them. She has an eye to the beautiful, that is what is the matter with her. I am not sure but it is your hair she wants most, after all, though hers is arranged elaborately. She would make an excellent beginning for your scheme, Clara.”

“I am not sure but she would.” Wallace was teasing, but his sister was grave and in earnest. “Row toward the shore, Wallace, and let me speak to her; I never saw a child who had such a wistful look.

“Good afternoon, little girl,” she said pleasantly, as Wallace obeyed directions and the boat drew near, “are you having a pleasant Fourth of July?”

“No,” said the child, without hesitation or ceremony.

“Not? I am very sorry. What has been the trouble?”

“Nothing,” said the child, as promptly as before. Then, seeming to consider something more necessary, added: “Nothing more than always is. We don’t never have no pleasant times to our house.”

“You see,” said Wallace, in low tones, nodding significantly to his sister, “she is in perishing need of being chosen.”

“So she is. Wallace, you are simply making fun, but I am in earnest. I wonder what I could do for the poor little thing? I have been here for two months, and haven’t done a thing for anybody. I have tried to get acquainted with a few of the girls of my age, but they are shy of me; this child does not seem to be shy.”

“Not in the least,” said Wallace. “Very well, how shall we commence? Shall I invite her to sail with us this afternoon as a sort of entering wedge?”

“Do you mean it?” Clara asked, well pleased, and she turned again to Nancy. “Do you ever go rowing on the river?”

“No.”

“Why not? Would not you like to?”

“Never had no chance. We ain’t got no boat, and nobody won’t lend us poor folks any; and we don’t never go nowheres, me and Billy.”

“Poor little girl! Who is Billy? your little brother? Would you like to take a ride with us this afternoon? If you would you may come down to the landing and get in the boat.”

The child stared for a moment as though she felt her ears were not to be trusted, then turned and made a dash for the landing below. Wallace laughed and steered the boat in the same direction. A few moments more and they were off, with the barefooted Nancy seated comfortably beside Clara.

It is only the very beginning of this story that I have space for. I am wondering if you Pansies cannot sit down thoughtfully and think it out for yourselves, perhaps write it out. The story is true, and it happened years ago. Such a girl as Clara, who was spending a summer in a backwoods region, for reasons which I need not stop here to explain, and such a girl as Nancy met first in the way I have described; and in the course of that afternoon ride Clara heard enough about the home where they “never had no pleasant times,” to make her heart ache. The beautiful idea in the book kept coming to her, or rather staid with her and kept asking if she could not do something of the kind with this Nancy. To be sure Nancy was not like the girl chosen in the book; she had been of about the same age and station as her friend. “But then,” said Clara to herself, “she did not need help half so much as this one does; and I think with this kind of people I might help one younger than myself better than one of my own age. At least I can pray for her.”

Now the story for you to work out is begun, and I will give you just a few more facts, and then jump to the end of it—that is so far as I know it—leaving you to fill up the blank space. It was a stony, hilly, desolate country side, where the people were very poor, and were cursed with more rum saloons than with any other form of business; where the nearest church was five miles away; where there was no Sunday-school, and no day-school except for three months in the winter. And Nancy, being questioned, showed that she not only did not know what Fourth of July meant, but she did not know what Sunday meant in the true sense of the word; nor did she know about Jesus Christ, save as she had heard “Pap swear his name sometimes!” Did ever girl need helping more?

Now for the end, so far as it can be said to be ended, for the people are still living. Nancy is a young woman who wears the neatest of dresses and hats, and the nicest fitting boots and gloves. She is herself a teacher in the day-school in that part of the country where her home has always been. The school is in session nine months of the year. She is a teacher in the Sunday-school, which has a room of its own, opening from the pretty church where every Sabbath day the people gather to hear of Jesus Christ. And Nancy’s father is the superintendent of the Sunday-school! And there is not a saloon left within two miles of the neighborhood; and the change began that Fourth of July afternoon, when Clara, reading from her new book, caught an idea which grew.

You will perhaps be glad to hear that Wallace, although he professed to be only amused, was much more than that, and helped to form Clara’s “circle” so effectually that he preaches in the little church whenever he comes to this part of the world for a few weeks of vacation. “You haven’t reached around the world yet,” he said to Clara not long ago; “but I am not sure but you will. Do you know that boy Billy wants to be a missionary and go to China?”

Billy is Nancy’s youngest brother.

Now see if you can plan ways by which Clara may have helped to bring about such changes. No, better than that; look about you and see what you can do to make a circle of good that shall reach—as far as it can.

PANSY.

TEACHING THE CHINESE.

AND so you thought the Chinese do not know anything?

Look into this school; see wise Mr. Ah Lee sitting before his thirteen youngsters. See how bright they look. And surely they know how to get as much fun out of a cat’s tail and get rapped over the knuckles as hard as any American boy. Yes, they sit upon the floor, and they don’t seem to have blackboards and maps and many other nice school contrivances, but they manage somehow to learn one of the most difficult languages in the world.

Our poor missionaries do have such a time in mastering Chinese so they can converse with the people and preach the Gospel to them. The trouble is that a word may mean one of a dozen different things, just as you happen to give it this tone (sound) or that.

A Mr. Meadows once wished to say “bargain money” to a Chinaman. He used the proper Chinese word for it, but pronounced it as though it meant to the Chinaman “Do you hear? do you hear?” And what said John Chinaman? Just nothing at all, but came nearer and nearer to Mr. Meadows, turning one side of his head then the other to listen.

Once Mr. Pohlman asked a Chinese family if they drank wine, but he pronounced the word wine (_tsén_) so it sounded to them like their word for land (_t’sēn_).

At another time he asked a mourning family if they had buried (_tái_) the body of their dead grandmother. But he sounded it _t’ai_, which means to kill. Imagine their looks.

But the missionaries work away at the queer Chinese words and tones until they can tell the “old story” plainly—and hundreds have heard and understood, and now believe.

You know how hard it is for the Chinaman to speak our language. He says “Amelican” for American, our _r_ is so difficult for him to get.

But the time is coming when every one of God’s family will know the one great language, and there will be no hard schoolmaster to scold or whip it into them.

L.

WHEN HE WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD.

OUR little lad, our bonnie twelve-year-old, Has journeyed to the city of the King; Our happy boy—ere heart could grow a-cold, Or soul turn bitter—in youth’s joyous spring, Went up to keep the feast in that bright place, City of Peace, where restful mansions be; And straightway looking on the dear King’s face, Remembered naught but joy that face to see!

Long time ago, when He was twelve years old, The Holy Child climbed fair Judea’s hills, And his young mother in her heart did hold Strange words concerning him, whose mystery fills Her soul with wonder.—On their homeward way, The reverent pilgrims haste; and sorrowing She seeks her Son, and lo, in calm delay, He lingered in the temple of the King!

She, coming to the sacred portal, waits With tear-wan face; her fair first-born she seeks; Weary and grief-worn, at the shining gates, With faltering lips his sweet home-name she speaks, And He is in her arms!—With tender word Of gentlest chiding, each to each revealed The love that to the depths of feeling stirred Hearts that brief absence near and dearer sealed.

O mother, mourning for thy fair first-born, He tarries in his Father’s House of Light, With God’s beloved; and thou in some glad morn, Finding the glorious gates beyond the night, Shalt breathe his name, and ere it leaves thy lips, In thy dear arms, aglow with life and joy, All strong and beautiful—death’s long eclipse Forgotten in the first kiss of thy boy! ROSA EVANGELINE ANGEL.

* * * * *

MISS HALSEY read a letter from Miss Patton, of India, who after wittily describing some of the daily trials of housekeeping there, between her rising hour, five o’clock, and that of reaching her first school, says:

“This school, over a mile away, is upstairs in a large house in an alley. The children looked so nice and bright this morning, I wish you could see them. Prayers are over, so I begin by taking the wee tots in the first class and teach them the Lord’s Prayer. Then I take class after class until half-past nine, when with pony and queer little two-wheeled tonga I go on about half a mile to the other school. There I teach until nearly eleven and then drive home to breakfast, after which we have English prayers. By that time the gun has gone off, and that means twelve o’clock. The gun is the signal for our servants and native Christians living near to come in and have Marathi prayers.

“Then I teach my servants to read, and ask a few questions in the Catechism, then teach the Christian girls and young women whom we want to train for Bible women, from two until three P. M. At three o’clock we have a cup of tea and some bread and butter; then I am free to settle ‘cases’ and hear ‘tales of woe’ until half-past four, when I go into town to teach the women and girls in the zenanas. I get home in time to have a good bath and get into a fresh dress before dinner at half-past seven. After dinner we talk over our experiences and plans of work, and sometimes one reads aloud while the rest of us sew until it is time to retire, generally an early hour.”—_Interior._

YOUNG FOLKS OF ALASKA.

THIS face is not like yours, but more like some of the young folks of Alaska. Of course you want to know a bit about the boys and girls away off there.

Here it is from Mrs. Cady, who was there not long ago:

“Mr. Austin, the missionary, and these boys dragged all the timber by ropes to build the first house.

“The Sabbath evening service was opened by a fine anthem, these boys and girls being among the singers. Mr. Austin read a Psalm in English, which was interpreted by a boy fourteen years old.

“He asked a girl twelve years old to offer the closing prayer, and she expressed it beautifully in English.

“They are very polite. If a boy taps at the door his hat is off before the door is opened. Their table manners are good. One boy is head waiter.

“He can offer thanks or call upon some other boy to do so, or sing a blessing.”

Of course you ought to know just how the grandmothers of these bright Alaska children look. Our picture will enable you to judge somewhat of their appearance.

L.

BABY’S CORNER.

POOR TABBY.

TABBY thought she was a very smart cat, but there were some rats living in the barn who knew almost as much as Tabby did herself.

One morning Tabby went to the barn. She had tried for days to catch a rat, but just as she got her paw out to strike one off he scampered. “To-day I shall get the old gray rat, see if I don’t,” said Tabby to herself as she walked down the path.

She stepped softly into the door. But what was this new shining thing she saw?

Why, Farmer Jones had put a big trap there to catch the rats.

Now Tabby had never seen a trap, and she said to herself:

“Why, here is a pretty little house! It must be for me; I will walk right in. How nice!”

So she stepped in. Snap! went the door, shut! and there poor Puss was in prison.

She tried to get out, but she could not. She cried, but nobody came to let her out.

While she sat there feeling sad, two rats came and looked at her. The old gray one, as he stood on his hind legs, said:

“Aha! I see; I see! Anybody who goes into that door does not come out. I shall never go in.”

By and by Tommy Jones missed his pussy and went to the barn to look for her.

Oh! was not Tabby glad to see him coming?

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

DAVIE’S WITNESSES.

IT was Fourth of July morning, and Davie Carson had been up since a good while before the sun, not firing crackers and torpedoes, nor watching the firing of the great cannon, but doing the chores. He was in tremendous haste. An entire holiday was a thing he did not have twice in a year. A hard-working boy was Davie, with not only his own bread to earn, but with a great longing in his heart to help earn the bread of two sisters and a brother younger than himself. He lived in a small village where there was little chance of a boy of his age earning much. The best that he had been able to do, so far, was to seize odd jobs as they happened along; or rather as he hunted them out. Not very pleasant jobs, all of them. Davie liked horses, and was glad of a chance to lead Dr. Bristol’s to water; but to like to clean out their stalls was another thing. But he knew how to do this work, and did it well, and had put on his great work apron this morning for the purpose of taking that job next.

It was his last one for the morning; after that breakfast, and then a four-mile brisk run to the next village to the Fourth of July celebration. His mother had not made the least objection to his staying to the celebration. On the contrary she had said heartily: “I am glad the doctor wants an errand done there; it will give you a good excuse for going. Of course you may stay, and welcome; and I’ll put you up a nice Fourth of July lunch; and if there is something to see, or to buy, that doesn’t cost more than ten cents, you just have it, or see it, whichever it is. You deserve a treat, Davie.”

Davie laughed gleefully. It was pleasant to hear his mother speak such words, but he had a very different plan. Hurried as he had been that morning, he leaned on his spade and thought it all out. In the village where the celebration was to be was a large book store, where he had once or twice been sent on errands for Dr. Bristol, and had feasted his eyes upon the rows and rows of books and magazines, and thought what a thing it would be to have a chance to handle them. The day before, while holding the horses and waiting for the doctor, his eyes had rested on an advertisement in the paper—WANTED: A BOY. Then had followed a brief statement of the kind of boy, and what his duties would be, and the whole was signed by the proprietor of the book store.

Davie’s cheeks had glowed so while reading it, that the doctor, returning just then, had looked hard at him, and asked him if he was getting up a fever. The splendid plan which the boy had thought out leaning on his shovel was, that he would clip around to the book store the moment the doctor’s errand was done, and try for that place!

To be sure there was hardly a possibility that he would succeed, but then he might, and certainly he would never accomplish anything if he did not try. But he did not mean to let any body know of his ambitions, so he had only a laugh for his mother’s suggestion.

“If I get a chance to see the procession and hear the music and a few such things it will be all the lark I want,” he said cheerily, “except the lunch; I’ll be sure to want that. You are sure you can get along without me for such a long time?”

“O, yes, indeed!” the mother said, smiling back on him. It was so like her Davie to think of mother.

Davie made good speed over the road, though it was up hill and dusty, and the day was warm. He believed himself to be in ample time to see the parade which was to be made in honor of the day. At the corner he halted and glanced wistfully toward the book store; it was within half a block of him, and who knew but that if he should appear so early in the day he might get ahead of somebody?

“No, it can’t be done,” he said at last, speaking aloud and firmly. “Davie Carson, I am ashamed of you! A package of medicine in your pocket that the doctor said an old lady was anxiously waiting for, and you thinking about stopping on an errand of your own. Just march down to Coleman Street as fast as your feet can carry you!”

And the order was meekly obeyed. Here he was detained for minutes which seemed like hours to him. The sound of martial music was heard in the near distance, and people all along the streets were dodging to the doors to see if anything was to be seen; but the old lady’s daughter wanted to write a note to the doctor to send back by Davie. She would not be a minute, she said; but she was.

“I might call for the note on my way home,” Davie timidly suggested. But she said, “O, no! that was not worth while; she could just as well write it now, and make sure of it; she would have it ready very soon.” And the sound of music drew nearer and nearer, until it passed the corner and faded in the distance; and the note was ready at last.

Davie crowded it into his pocket, tried to listen respectfully to several messages besides, and went down the stairs three steps at a time to follow that fading music. The street was nearly deserted; all the boys had rushed out of sight with the procession. Davie took long strides in the same direction, and wondered if it would be improper to break into a run.

Appearing at that moment around the corner ahead of him was a belated group—a father, mother and two children; odd-looking people, queerly dressed, and seeming to be entirely out of place in a town.

“Halloo! what’s the matter now?” Another corner had been reached and turned by the people ahead of him, with the exception of the youngest of the group, who had tumbled down; it was her outcry which roused him. He picked her up, brushing the dust and soil from her clothes, straightening the much bent sunbonnet, and urging her not to cry, that they would find the others in a jiffy. She stopped crying the moment she discovered herself in kind hands, and looked confidingly at Davie out of great blue eyes, and slipped her small brown hand into his with great satisfaction. Then they two turned the corner, and were at once in a crowd. The thing which astonished and troubled him was, that the father and mother and older sister of his little girl seemed to have disappeared. For a weary half-hour the two jostled against the crowd and stared and hunted. At last there darted toward him an angry father, talking broken English in loud tones, followed by an angrier mother and a crying little girl. “What was he doing with Gretchen? How dare he steal their Gretchen and make off with her! Bad, wicked boy! The police should know all about it, that they should!” In vain Davie tried to explain; they were too excited and frightened to listen to explanations. In the midst of Davie’s attempts two well-dressed boys standing near, broke into laughter, and so confused him that he stopped short, and the enraged family trudged away, his little girl in his arms, and the father shaking his head at Davie. But the little girl looked back and smiled lovingly on him.

Then Davie found that the crowd were trying to get near the band stand.

“Come this way,” said one of the boys who had laughed, touching his shoulder; “there is a chance to slip in behind here and get a first-rate position.” Davie thanked them, and was just going to slip in, when a little girl who was flying past, going in the opposite direction from the pushing crowd, jostled against him, and as she did so dropped from under her arm a small package. Davie picked it up and looked eagerly after the girl, shouting, “Hold on, you’ve lost something!” But she flew like the wind.

“You can’t catch her,” said a man; “she is lost in the jam by this time. You may as well pocket the bundle and call it Fourth of July luck.”

“And you will lose your chance in here if you don’t come this minute,” said one of the boys, trying to keep a way open for him.

“Thank you,” said Davie, “but I think I ought to find the little girl,” saying which he struck into the crowd, and began his search.

It was several hours afterwards that a boy who was very tired, and who, if he had not been so disappointed, would have been hungry, came out of the handsome book store and with slow steps started for his long walk home. He had delivered the medicine for which he came in the first place; he had the note for the doctor safe in his pocket; he had picked up a little German girl, and after much trouble given her back to a father who was angry at him about it; he had followed a little girl, or rather followed the road over which she vanished, for two weary hours, and at last found her and restored the lost parcel, only to hear her laugh gleefully and declare that there was nothing in it but some dried-up sandwiches, which he was welcome to if he wanted them. And not a glimpse of procession, or sound of martial music or voice of public speaker had he seen or heard that day, save the few strains in the distance which had lured him in the morning.

Moreover, he had called at the book store only to have the proprietor shake his head and say: “Of course, my boy, I couldn’t engage you for such a place as this without references. For whom do you work when you are at home?”

Davie explained that they had been but a short time in that part of the country; he had no regular place, but did odd jobs for Dr. Bristol—cleaned out the stable and such things. No, Dr. Bristol did not know much about him—nobody did but mother—and he had not known that a recommendation would be needed.

“I might just as well have staid at home and helped mother,” said Davie, as he walked slowly, with head down. “I’ve lost a day, and gained nothing at all. I wish I had—no, I don’t either. I did what I thought was right. I’m glad I did it.” Whereupon Davie whistled.

“Who was that boy, father, and what did he want?” A young man asked the question of the bookseller as he came back to his parlor; he liked the looks of the boy.

“Do you know anything about him?” replied the father, and before he could answer a bright-faced little girl chimed in: “O, Uncle Edward! what is his name? Don’t you know? I’m so sorry if you don’t; papa wants to know it.”

“No, sir,” said the young man; “I don’t know him; but he is the chap I was telling you about who wandered around with that little German girl, and took patiently a hard scolding from the father afterwards, and a laugh from two well-dressed, thoughtless boys.”

“Is he, indeed?” said the father; “I wish I had known it.”

Then the little girl: “And O, Uncle Edward! don’t you think he is the very same boy who hunted after me for two hours to give me those sandwiches. Papa said I was a little dunce not to ask his name; that he ought to be rewarded for honesty and faithfulness.”

“I know his name,” said Uncle Edward, “and I believe I will reward him.”

The next morning, when Davie was out in the little garden hoeing and whistling, a strange thing happened to him; he received a letter—the first letter with his name on the envelope which he had ever received. It was short and to the point:

After you left me yesterday two witnesses to your honesty and faithfulness, as well as to your good temper under provocation, called upon me, and made me decide to give you a month’s trial in the store if you still wish the situation. Call on me to-day if possible; if not, to-morrow will do.

Yours sincerely, EDWARD HAMMOND.

“Mother,” said Davie, as they went all over the plans for the third time, “who could have called on him who knows anything about me? I can’t imagine.”

PANSY.

ABOUT ST. AUGUSTINE.

BY THE PANSIES.

THE way it came to be called St. Augustine was this: it used to be named Seloy on the river Dolphins. That was when it belonged to the Indians. The French people named the river, and they gave it that name because they saw a great many dolphins playing in the mouth of the river. After awhile the Spaniards came and took the town on the day which was sacred to their saint, Augustine, so they named both town and river San Augustin.

RUFUS HUNTER.

* * * * *

IN the American Revolution Florida was the only colony which was loyal to the king. When they heard the news of the Declaration of Independence they burned John Hancock and Samuel Adams in effigy, calling them rebels. After that some of the “Liberty Boys,” as our soldiers were called, stole powder from the British brig _Betsey_, which lay at anchor at San Augustin and slipped away with it, to be used at Bunker Hill.

HARVEY DENNISON.

* * * * *

I READ about the services which they used to hold in St. Augustine on Palm Sunday. They marched from the church to the platform of the convent, where was a beautiful altar trimmed with flowers and fruits. The congregation knelt on the ground while the priest said mass, then the nuns took baskets of rose petals which were brought by many little children in the procession, and strewed them before the altar in honor of the Virgin.

LAURA EASTMAN.

* * * * *

I LIKE to read about St. Augustine when it was a walled town with earthworks and batteries; when you had to enter the town through the great gate or by the drawbridge. At sunset a gun was fired, which meant that the bridge was raised, the gate barred, and both were guarded by soldiers. I can imagine them pacing back and forth challenging people who passed. “_Centinela alerta_,” they said, and “_Alerta esta_,” answered the outsider if he knew enough. I think it must have been great fun. I should like to understand the Spanish language, the words have such a musical sound. But the outsider might say “_Alerta esta_” as much as he liked, after the gates were closed he could not get into the town until next morning, no matter if his home was just the other side of the gate. Once in a long time came a messenger with news for the governor so important that for him they would open the gate; but this was very unusual.

JOHN L. PARKER.

* * * * *

THEY had one fashion in St. Augustine in the early days when the town was ruled by Spaniards which might work pretty well nowadays in some places. When a fellow became a great nuisance, would not work, and disturbed people by making noises in the streets, and things of that kind, they used to make him dress himself in some ridiculous fashion, put him at the head of a procession made up of anybody who wanted to join it and help make fun of him; then the drum and fife started up and he was marched out of the town, and he could not come back again.

HELEN DUNNING.

* * * * *

I WENT with my father and mother to St. Augustine only last winter. We went through the Ponce de Leon, which I think must be the finest hotel in the world. It is built of some kind of stuff that glitters in the sun, and looks in the shade as if it were blue, and the trimmings are of terra cotta. The floors of the halls are inlaid with little bits of marble, and the marble columns everywhere make you think for a minute that you are stepping into an art gallery instead of a hotel. The rotunda is just lovely! It has eight oak pillars to support it, each beautifully carved. The rotunda is four stories high, and has corridors on each story with more columns and lovely arches. The dome has wonderful paintings and carved figures, giving in pictures the history of Spain and France. You can look straight up through an opening to the great copper columns which form the lantern at the top. The large parlor is perfectly splendid. It is a hundred and four feet long, and fifty-three feet wide; but there are arches and portières, so that it can be divided into five rooms whenever the people wish. It is magnificently furnished. I think, however, that the great dining-room is really more beautiful than the parlor. More than eight hundred people can take dinner there at one time, and you can look out of the windows at lovely orange groves, and hear the mockingbirds singing, and there is a band of music which always plays while the dinner is being served.

ANNA WHEELER AUSTIN.

* * * * *

A BAND of singers used to go about the streets of old St. Augustine on Easter eve, playing on their violins and guitars, and stopping under the windows to sing:

“_Disciarem lu doi, Cantarem anb alagria, Y n’arem a da Las pascuas a Maria._”

It seems almost impossible to sing such queer-sounding words, but translated they mean:

“Ended the days of sadness, Grief gives place to singing; We come with joy and gladness, Our gifts to Mary bringing.” MARY GEDDIS.

* * * * *

IN the year 1821 Spain gave Florida to the United States, the old yellow flag of Spain was taken down forever, and in its place our own beautiful stars and stripes floated over the old town. I wonder if the people living there knew enough to shout for joy?

HENRY STUART.

* * * * *

IT is all very well for my brother to talk about the people shouting for joy when the stars and stripes floated over their town; but I guess he forgets what an awful time they had only about fifteen years later, when the Seminole War broke out. That was because the new people who had come in wanted the lands which had always belonged to the Indians, and wanted them driven further West. For the next seven years I think the people had reason to be sorry that they had ever seen the stars and stripes. Not but that I love the old flag as well as my brother does, but I think the Indians were ill-treated. It makes me very sad to read how they were at last cheated into a surrender, and carried away by force from the land they loved so well.

CHARLES MORTON STUART.

* * * * *

MY sister Anna thought the hotel was the nicest part of St. Augustine, but I liked the old fort the best. It used to be Fort San Marco, but when the United States got hold of it they named it Fort Marion, after General Francis Marion. I would like to describe it, but I don’t understand just how. It is in shape what is called a polygon, and has a moat all around it. The stone or shell of which it is built is used a great deal in St. Augustine, or used to be; it is called coquina. I think the narrow streets and queer-looking old houses are much more interesting than the new streets, which are just like any other city. At least I liked them better; but girls always like elegant hotels and splendid furniture and all such things.

GEORGE WHEELER AUSTIN.

* * * * *

MY mother used to live in St. Augustine years ago. She has told me a good deal about the streets, and the sea wall, and the little old houses. She has described St. George Street and Tolomato Street until it seems to me I could find my way up and down them almost as well as she could. But mother says things are very much changed since she was there; she reads in the papers about the beautiful new hotels, and says it does not seem possible they are in old St. Augustine. The old streets were very narrow; I suppose they are still. Next winter I am going there to see things for myself.

SARAH CASTLETON.

[The Pansies have seemed chiefly interested this month in the history of old St. Augustine, rather than in a description of the city. But I think our readers will agree with me that they have managed to crowd a good deal of information into a small space. Sorry we have not room for all they said.—EDITORS.]

REUBEN AS AN ERRAND BOY.

(_Character Studies._)

REUBEN MINOR was in his own room in his shirt sleeves, and the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His paste pot was on the table, sheets of paper and scraps of pasteboard were on the floor, and Reuben, with a queer-shaped box before him, was in what Maria called “a brown study.”

The stair door opened, and his Aunt Mary’s voice called, “Reuben!”

“Yes’m.”

“Don’t you forget those errands that you’ve got to do in town. Have you got ’em all in your mind?”

“Yes’m.”

“There’s only the eggs and the kerosene and the vinegar, you know, so you won’t need to have ’em written down—just three things.”

“All right.”

Silence for a few minutes, during which Reuben turned the box endwise and squinted at it. “Let’s see,” he said, leaning his elbow on the table and his head on his hand, “I wonder how that would do?” Then he started for his row of shelves, seized upon a good-sized book in the corner, and dived into its pages. Something was not clear. The stair door opened again, and his aunt’s voice sounded: “Reuben!”

“Yes’m.”

“You must take that next car, you know, because there isn’t another for an hour, and I’m in a hurry for the eggs; if I don’t have them by noon there’ll be no pumpkin pie for Sunday. Are you all ready for the car?”

“I will be in a minute, Aunt Mary.”

“Well, you better get ready right straight off, then there won’t be any mistake; it will be along now in a little while.”

There was no reply to this, and the door closed again, Reuben, meantime, deep in his book. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, then a sudden, sharp call from below: “Reuben, there’s the car coming. Hurry, now! don’t you miss it for anything.”

Reuben hurried. He made a frantic dash for his coat, ran his fingers through his hair by way of combing, concluded to go without a necktie, and tore down the stairs and out of the kitchen door and across the lawn, to the tune of his aunt’s words: “I believe in my heart you’ll lose that car, after all!”

No, he didn’t. He hailed it, panting and breathless, some minutes after it had passed the corner, and at last was seated in it, mopping his wet forehead, for the morning was warm. But he had not forgotten the big book. Four miles in a street car, with not many passengers at that hour, gave him a good chance to study up that puzzling portion which he could not get through his mind. So he studied and puzzled, and the car rumbled on, and stopped, and went on again many times, and people came in and went out, and Reuben knew nothing about them. At last he looked up; he believed he could make that box now, partitions and all, if he were only at home. Halloo! they were in town already, and were passing Porter’s. Why! then they must have passed the corner grocery where Aunt Mary always traded. What a nuisance! Now perhaps he could not get this car on its return trip. He must try for it. So he pulled the check, and made what speed he could back, three, four, five blocks, to the corner grocery. As he left the car he wondered how they managed the flap that made the fastening of the inner box, and still puzzling over it, presented himself at the counter of the city grocery.

“Well, sir,” said the clerk, after waiting a minute for orders, “what can I do for you?”

What indeed? Reuben stared at him, grew red in the face, stammered, mopped his face with his handkerchief, gazed up and down the rows and rows of crowded shelves, gazed about him everywhere. What had he come for? That was the awful question. What had Aunt Mary said? She had said several things, he remembered. He tried to recall the all-important one. Butter? No, of course not; they made their own butter. Flour, perhaps, or starch—women were always wanting flour and starch—or it might have been tea. He was sure he did not know, and the longer he thought the more confused he seemed to get. And there was the return car! Unless he took that he would have to wait a solid hour, and for what? Was there any likelihood that he would remember? Reuben asked himself that question in a most searching manner, then sorrowfully shook his head as he owned to himself that he did not believe he ever knew; he had not paid any attention to that part of the business.

Aunt Mary was watching for the return car. “Reuben has come,” she called out to Maria in the kitchen, as she caught a glimpse of him. “I must say I am relieved; I don’t know how we could have managed without those eggs. If I ever get hold of any hens that lay again, I’ll venture to say I won’t sell all my eggs to my neighbors and have to depend on store ones for myself. Why, what in the world has the boy done with them? He seems to be empty-handed! Hurry up, Reuben, we are waiting for the eggs. Where are your things?”

Poor red-faced, shamefaced Reuben! It was hard work, but there was nothing for it but to own that the first he had heard of eggs was at that moment; and as for the “things,” he had no more idea than the man in the moon what they were.

“I believe that boy is half-witted,” the clerk at the corner grocery had said, after watching him for a few minutes, and seeing him make a dash for the return car, not having bought a thing. But bless your heart, he wasn’t. He had wits enough. “Too many of ’em,” his Aunt Mary said. The trouble with Reuben was that he had never learned to withdraw his thoughts from the thing which wanted to absorb them, and fix them for the time being, instead, on the thing which ought to claim his attention.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

THE ADOPTED FAMILY.

IT was a beautiful summer day when the Westwoods arrived at their country home, most of them very glad indeed to see the dear old place. They had staid in town very late that season, Mr. Westwood’s business being such that there was a time when he feared he could not get away at all. Now here they were turning the corner which brought the house into view; the great wagon following close behind, piled high with baggage, and every one was glad, save Herbert. He was eleven years old, and fond of his city home, and of the school which he attended, and of the boys in his class, and felt very lonely and desolate. He “did not know a single boy out here,” he confided to his mother, “that he ever cared to see again.” “And when a fellow hasn’t any friends,” he said dolefully, “it is very lonesome.”

“Poor boy!” said Mrs. Westwood, when he was out of hearing, “I am sorry for him; I wish he liked the country as I used to; the long bright summer days were just crowded with happiness for me; but then I had sister Fanny to play with, and brother Will. Perhaps it would have been different if I had been all alone.”

“Children must learn to make friends of the birds, and the squirrels, and all sorts of living things,” answered his father. “When I was Herbert’s age, I used to know the note of every bird in the woods, and I don’t believe he can tell even a robin when he sees it.”

“No,” said his mother; “he has but little chance for that sort of education; and moreover he has no taste for anything of the kind; I wish he had.”

The carriage which had been winding up the drive, stopped in front of the old-fashioned, wide piazzaed country home. It did seem a pity that anybody should feel doleful coming to such a pleasant place as that; but Herbert felt doleful; as he stood with his hand in his pockets, and stared down the country road, he winked hard to keep back the tears, when he thought of the boys in town having their military drill at this hour. Meanwhile his father and mother, and Peter and Hannah, bustled about, opening doors and windows, and planning where the luggage should be set down. Presently Herbert heard an exclamation from his mother. “For pity’s sake!” she said—and in the next breath—

“Herbert, come here and see what I have found!”

So Herbert swallowed hard, and brushed away a tear or two, and went round to the side piazza from where his mother’s voice had sounded, and saw a sight which made him go on tiptoe and gaze in delight.

Pushed back, well under shelter from the summer storms, in the southeast corner of the piazza, was an old, somewhat dilapidated willow chair, large and very comfortable in its time, but which had long since been assigned to the piazza, and not considered worth bringing in out of the dews or the rain. In the fall when the family closed the house, the old chair had been forgotten. It had stood there all winter, deserted and lonely. But in the spring it had evidently been mistaken by a certain family as a house which was for rent, and they had rented it and moved in and set up housekeeping on a splendid scale; the consequences were, that fastened ingeniously to the back of the chair was a luxurious nest, most carefully woven, and within it at this moment were three of the prettiest speckled eggs that Herbert had ever seen. In fact his knowledge of birds’ eggs was limited; he had seen but very few.

“O, mother!” he said softly, “how pretty it is. There is one of the birds on the branches near by—a splendid fellow. Where is his mate, do you suppose?”

“Not far away, you may depend,” said his mother. “What a cunning place it is in which to build a house. How fortunate that the chair is so near that door instead of the other one. We can get along for awhile without opening that door at all, and they can raise their family without having trouble. If I were you, Herbert, I would adopt them and look after their interests and help to bring up their young ones; wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Well,” said Herbert, with more glee than he had shown since he had left his city home, “I believe I will. I will call that fellow up there on the bush Denny, and he and I will be companions this summer.”

“That will be splendid,” said Mrs. Westwood, very much pleased, for Denny was the short for “Denison,” her boy’s best friend in town. It was certainly a delicate compliment to name the bird after him, and showed to the mother the degree of friendship which Herbert meant to cultivate.

“We shall get along comfortably now,” she said to her husband laughingly; “he has adopted the birds in the old chair, and named the singer ‘Denny,’ so he will not lack for companionship.”

Ah! I wish I could tell you about the lovely summer. Never was a brighter, more congenial companion than Denny. He sang his sweetest songs for the lonesome boy, and accepted his overtures of friendship in the most genial manner possible. Before the season was over not only he but his wife would allow Herbert to come close enough to the old chair to drop special dainties into the nest for the children, and were voluble in their thanks. More than that, Denny actually learned to come and perch himself on Herbert’s finger and eat sugar out of his hand. And one of the children grew so fond of Herbert that she took many a walk perched on his shoulder, chirping occasionally to let him know that she was there, and was happy.

“I never knew that birds could be so pleasant,” Herbert said to his mother; “they are better than boys and girls in some respects; they never get vexed at a fellow, you know, and refuse to speak to him for days together. Even Denny got mad at me once, and wouldn’t speak for a whole day. Now this Denny never forgets to say ‘How do you do?’ even if I haven’t been out of his sight longer than five minutes.”

On the whole the birds did a good thing for Herbert Westwood that summer; they turned what they thought would be a weariness into a season of great delight, and of daily increasing interest. More than that, he did a good thing for the birds. Before the season was over he had made the acquaintance of dozens of boys in the neighborhood and formed a society, the pledge of which was protection to the birds. No stones were to be thrown, no snares to be set by these boys or any whom they recognized as friends; neither were any nests to be molested, and not a few of the boys became so interested in Denny and his family that they determined for another season to adopt a family of their own, and study birds.

“They are wonderful creatures,” said Herbert thoughtfully, as he was reporting to his mother some of the bird stories which had been told in the society that afternoon, “just wonderful creatures! I don’t know how I ever came to pass them by without thinking anything about them. I tell you what, mother, God must have thought about them a great deal.”

EFIL SREDNOW.

* * * * *

GOD’S promises are fulfilled a hundred cents on a dollar.

A PRETTY GIFT.

(_Something for Mamma._)

THE materials needed for this gift are a smooth thin board about two feet long and six inches wide, some bright-colored plush, some pretty cretonne, a dozen or more brass hooks of varying sizes, none of them very large, a couple of “cock eyes” such as are used for hanging small picture frames, and a yard or two of ribbon, color to match the plush, or contrast nicely with it.

The smooth board is to be covered on one side with the plush, on the other with the cretonne, the edges neatly sewed; then the hooks are to be screwed in at regular intervals on the plush side, the ribbon drawn through the rings or “cock eyes,” and tied in a bow ready for hanging, and your work is done.

When it comes into mamma’s possession she will select a convenient spot on her wall, and hang it as though it were a picture. Then on the little hooks she will hang her glove buttoner, her small scissors which are forever slipping out of sight, her shoe buttoner, her watch, perhaps, when it is not in use, and it may be her favorite ring which she removes when she washes her hands. I am sure I could not enumerate the little bits of useful articles which she will be only too glad to hang on such convenient hooks, that she will find not a disfigurement but an ornament to her room.

Now having told you just what and how, let me go carefully over the story again and remind you of its possibilities. For I can well imagine a little girl who wants to make her mother a neat and convenient present, but who has no plush nor ribbon, and does not even know how to get the right kind of a board.

My dear, you are just the one I want to help. About the board; it need not be exactly two feet long and six inches wide; it may be of the length and width which you find convenient, and which you decide will look well in the space where it is to hang. There are light boards used by wholesale merchants in packing certain goods which are just the thing, and they can often be had for the asking at the store where your mother does most of her shopping. Neither is plush a necessity. I have a friend who made a pretty “Wall Toilet” such as I have described, out of a bit of soft silk a friend had given her to dress her dollie. The silk was old, but she smoothed it neatly, padded it with a sheet of white cotton padding, and it looked very nice; but you may not happen to have the silk? Never mind, don’t you remember those pieces of turkey red calico in your auntie’s piece bag? They are just the thing, and your little friend who wants to make one, and has no turkey red calico, has some bright blue cambric which will be very pretty. All thin material will look better if the board is first padded with the cotton I spoke of. The brass hooks are quite cheap, and so useful that I think we must have them; but a red cord, or a neat band of cretonne, or some tidy cotton twisted into a cord, finished with tassels made out of it, will take the place of the ribbon very nicely indeed. In short, the old motto, “Where there is a will there is a way,” will serve you well in making this gift, as indeed it will in almost any emergency in life.

I know by experience how useful the little contrivances are, and I earnestly hope that many a mother will have her birthday enriched this season by one of them, made by her own little daughter’s thoughtful hand.

PANSY.

OR MISS MOON’S FACES.

TRUTH to tell she does make up faces, very different and queer ones, and no one Pansy sees exactly the same one at the same time, and since there are ten thousand Pansies, more or less, you see Miss Nancy Moon is smarter in “making faces” than some of you.

Another “truth to tell” is that the “moon’s phases” means appearances, or looks, and so why is it not quite the same as Nancy Moon’s faces? We’ll think it is.

Every Pansy knows some astronomy or—ought to. Come, then, and from this time on till you are a hundred years old know that astronomy means star-law, or all about the bright worlds in the sky. Now you know some astronomy. The moon is one of these worlds, and is very near our world—only two hundred and forty thousand miles away—and is one of the lamps to light it up. You must begin to learn about it. That you may call moonology. One of the first things to learn in moonology is how she makes so many faces; once a month a long, narrow bent face, then a little fatter, and so on till it is full as a—beer keg. Of course you mustn’t think she really drinks that stuff. I guess there is no license in Moontown.

If you will study the picture with all your might and main a half-hour to-day, another to-morrow, and so on, and then get grandpapa to put on his specs and help—you’ll surely answer the riddle, how the faces (or phases) are made.

Then some day you may become a great astronomer—like Tycho Brahe or John Kepler.

L.

* * * * *

WHEN you’ve got a thing to say, Say it! Don’t take half a day. When your tale’s got little in it, Crowd the whole thing in a minute! Life is short—a fleeting vapor— Don’t fill up a ream of paper With a tale, which, at a pinch, Could be cornered in an inch! Boil it down until it simmers; Polish it until it glimmers. When you’ve got a thing to say, Say it! Don’t take half a day. —_Selected._

BABY’S CORNER.

JOHNNY’S PILLOW.

ONE day Johnny was taking a walk in the orchard with Nurse.

He was hunting for berries, and what do you think he found?

He found some big white eggs hidden in the tall grass!

Johnny wanted to put the pretty eggs in his basket and take them home to mamma.

But Nurse said:

“No, no, come away, dear. That is a nest. Hush! there comes the old goose. She will sit on the eggs and keep them warm, and by and by she will have some pretty goslings.”

After that Johnny went with Nurse every day to take a peep at the gray goose sitting on her eggs.

She sat and sat a good many days, and then one morning when Johnny went to look, sure enough, the goslings had come!

They had no feathers on, and they had long, ugly necks and big feet.

“I don’t like ’em,” said Johnny.

The little goslings grew fast. They had a nice farmyard to live in, and a little brook to paddle in.

At night the farmer shut them up in the barn, so that the cats and dogs could not eat them up.

In a few days they were all covered with pretty feathers.

Then Johnny liked them.

By and by the little goslings were old enough to go with their father and mother and aunts and uncles to swim in a big lake. That made them very, very happy.

Then they grew to be big geese, and wore a lot of feathers, and Johnny had a pillow, which he enjoyed very much, made from the soft down that grew on their white breasts.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

WHO WAS TO BLAME?

“NOW you see, Emeline Frances,” said Celia, pushing herself up among the pillows and speaking in slow, stern tones to the dollie lying on her arm, “it is really your fault, and no other person’s; if you hadn’t been bound and determined to go out this afternoon, why, we shouldn’t have gone, that’s all. It had been raining, of course it had, and the walks were all damp, and you had no rubbers to wear over these shoes. Besides all that, you had been told that you must not go out this afternoon; but you were so vain of your new dress and hat, and so anxious to show them to Lulu Parks, that you would insist on going, and making me get my feet wet. Now here we are! A whole hour yet before it will be dark, and just a lovely time to play, and company downstairs in the parlor, and just the kind of cake for tea that I like the best, and we have to come upstairs and go to bed! I hope you are satisfied, Emeline Frances, with your afternoon’s work. I shouldn’t have thought of going out if you hadn’t have been so crazy to show your new hat. It is just a pity that you think so much of fine clothes. The dampness took the curl all out of your new feather, and it will never be so pretty again; but you had your own way, and will have to take the consequences. The worst of it is that you make me suffer with you. If this were the first time you had disobeyed perhaps I shouldn’t feel so badly, but as it is, I am almost discouraged. I do not see how you can be so naughty and forgetful.”

The lecture closed with one of Celia’s longest sighs. The door which led from her room to her brother Stuart’s was ajar, and he, sitting at his desk supposed to be studying his Latin for the next day, listened with the most unqualified amusement to the whole of it. He repeated the story downstairs at the tea-table, amid bursts of laughter from the entire family, his mother excepted.

“Mamma looks as grave as a judge over it,” Stuart said at last, when the laugh had subsided. “What’s the matter, mamma? Don’t you think the poor baby’s version of her troubles is funny?”

“It has its funny side,” said Mrs. Campbell, with a grave smile upon her face, “but really, it has its sad side too. You are a very good mimic, my son, and gave Celia’s voice and manner to perfection, in doing which you have reminded me of her besetting sin. Have you never noticed that the child, in her own estimation, is always led into trouble through the fault of others? If she cannot blame Nora, or Josie, or some of her playmates, why then poor Emeline Frances has to bear it. I am really very much troubled by this habit of hers. To judge from Celia’s statement of the case, she is forever led astray by the evil propensities of other people. If it were true, it would be sad enough, to have a child so easily led in the wrong way; but sometimes there is as much foundation for her theory as there is in this case, when the vanity of poor Emeline Frances is supposed to have caused all the trouble. I have tried to reason the child out of such excuses, but when she reaches the folly of actually blaming the doll for leading her astray, I hardly know what to think of her.”

“It is a curious development,” said Celia’s father, “but I have known older and wiser people than she to indulge in it; I knew a young man once, who charged a moonlight night of unusual beauty with all the folly of which he was guilty that evening.”

After this sentence Stuart Campbell finished his supper in silence, with his eyes on his plate; but perhaps no one but his father knew that his cheeks were redder than usual.

PANSY.

A VERITABLE POEM OF POEMS.

A LADY of San Francisco is said to have occupied a year in hunting up and fitting together the following thirty-eight lines from thirty-eight English-speaking poets. The names of the authors are given below:

1. Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 2. Life’s a short summer, man a flower; 3. By turns we catch the vital breath, and die; 4. The cradle and the tomb, alas! so nigh. 5. To be is better far than not to be, 6. ’Though all man’s life may seem a tragedy; 7. But light cares speak when mighty cares are dumb, 8. The bottom is but shallow whence they come. 9. Your fate is but the common fate of all; 10. Unmingled joys here to no man befall. 11. Nature to each allots her proper sphere, 12. Fortune makes folly her peculiar care; 13. Custom does often reason overrule, 14. And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool. 15. Live well, how long, how short, permit to heaven, 16. They who forgive most shall be most forgiven. 17. Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its face— 18. Vile intercourse where virtue has not place; 19. Then keep each passion down, however dear; 20. Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear; 21. Her sensual snares, let faithless Pleasure lay 22. With craft and skill to ruin and betray; 23. Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise. 24. We masters grow of all that we despise. 25. Oh! then, renounce that impious self-esteem; 26. Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 27. Think not ambition wise because ’tis brave, 28. The path of glory leads but to the grave. 29. What is ambition? ’Tis a glorious cheat, 30. Only destructive to the brave and great. 31. What’s all the gaudy glitter of a crown? 32. The way to bliss lies not on beds of down. 33. How long we live, not years, but actions tell; 34. That man lives twice who lives the first life well. 35. Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend, 36. Whom Christians worship, yet not comprehend. 37. The trust that’s given guard, and to yourself be just; 38. For, live we how we can, yet die we must.

1, Young; 2, Dr. Johnson; 3, Pope; 4, Prior; 5, Sewell; 6, Spenser; 7, Daniel; 8, Sir Walter Raleigh; 9, Longfellow; 10, Southwell; 11, Congreve; 12, Churchill; 13, Rochester; 14, Armstrong; 15, Milton; 16, Baily; 17, Trench; 18, Somerville; 19, Thompson; 20, Byron; 21, Smollett; 22, Crabbe; 23, Massinger; 24, Crowley; 25, Beattie; 26, Cowper; 27, Sir Walter Davenant; 28, Gray; 29, Willis; 30, Addison; 31, Dryden; 32, Francis Quarles; 33, Watkins; 34, Herrick; 35, William Mason; 36, Hill; 37, Dana; 38, Shakespeare.

LITTLE LENA.

DID the Pansies read in the papers about Lena Haupt?

She was only five years old when her mother died, and three months afterwards her father, who had kept her with him by the kind help of a neighbor, fell from a building where he had been working, and was so badly injured that in a short time he died. He had his little girl with him a few hours before his death, and explained to her as well as he could that he was going where her mamma had gone, but could not take her with him yet. She must be a good little girl; she had an uncle and aunt and little cousins in Chicago, and they would take care of her and love her if she was good.

Only a few days after that Lena started alone on her long journey. Her uncle had telegraphed to “send her on,” and he would meet her at the Chicago depot. There was a card tied around her neck by a ribbon, and on the card was written: “Please take care of me.” There was a letter, also, fastened to the same ribbon, which told Lena’s sad little story, and asked the passengers to be kind to her, but to please not give her any candy. She had a wee purse fastened to the buckle of her belt which had nearly two dollars in it.

As for her ticket, it had been bought and paid for, and the conductor had it in charge. Before night of that long day almost every passenger on the crowded train had called on Lena, and her wee purse was filled to its utmost capacity with shining quarters and half-dollars. She herself made a great many journeys in the porter’s arms to the parlor car, to visit with some ladies. And at last, as night was coming on, and Lena’s eyes were beginning to droop, and the conductor was considering how he could make her comfortable for the night, came a lady and gentleman and begged to have her transferred to their sleeper, where they bought a berth for her and put her to bed.

And all along the line little Lena found loving friends. I think her father and mother in Heaven must have been glad to see how warm were the hearts of even strangers toward their darling.

POSITIVE PEOPLE.

I WANT to call the attention of all Pansies to a statement made by Benjamin Franklin in his story of his life. He says he tried to form the habit of expressing himself always with great modesty. He was careful not to use the word “certainly” or “undoubtedly,” or any of those words which give an air of positiveness, when the subject was one which might be disputed. He tried always to say, “It appears to me,” or “If I am not mistaken,” or “I should think that,” etc. He declared this habit to be of great use to him in persuading others to think as he did, and that moreover it gave him a chance to learn a great deal more than he would otherwise have had; for he said he had noticed that people did not care to give information to those who acted as though they already knew all that it was possible to learn.

In many respects Benjamin Franklin was a wise man, and perhaps in no small way could he have shown his knowledge of human nature better than by adopting such rules. But I really do not think he has many followers. Just watch the conversation of even quite young people for awhile, with this thought in mind, and see how many of them seem to be absolutely sure of their position, even in regard to subjects where wise men differ. If we could have more doubt about things which have not yet been decided, and more certainty about things which God and the Bible have decided for us, we should have a much better, as well as a much pleasanter world.

HANNAH HEARALL.

OFF FOR BOYLAND.

HO! All aboard? A traveler Sets sail from Babyland! Before my eyes there comes a blur; But still I kiss my hand, And try to smile as off he goes, My bonny, winsome boy! Yes, _bon voyage_! God only knows How much I wish thee joy!

Oh! tell me; have you heard of him? He wore a sailor’s hat All silver-corded round the brim, And—stranger e’en than that— A wondrous suit of navy blue, With pockets deep and wide; Oh! tell me, sailors, tell me true, How fares he on the tide?

We’ve now no baby in the house; ’Twas but this very morn, He doffed his dainty ’broidered blouse, With skirts of snowy lawn; And shook a mass of silken curls From off his sunny brow; They fretted him—“so like a girl’s,” Mamma can have them now.

He owned a brand-new pocket-book, But that he could not find; A knife and string were all he took. What did he leave behind? A heap of blocks, with letters gay, And here and there a toy; I cannot pick them up to-day, My heart is with my boy.

Ho! Ship ahoy! At boyhood’s town Cast anchor strong and deep. What! tears upon this little gown, Left for mamma to keep? Weep not, but smile; for through the air A merry message rings— “Just sell it to the rag man there; I’ve done with baby things!” EMMA HUNTINGTON NASON. */

THE OLD WORLD TOO.

AMERICA is still the “New World.” Each day pick up something new about it. It is your world now. But there is an “Old World.” You must know about that too. If you could go and see it, so much the better. The eye is a little contrivance, but large enough to take in all England, Ireland, Scotland and any other land it gets a chance to see.

If you go abroad you must sail. There is no railroad or cable to carry you yet. A hundred years hence people may cross the Atlantic in balloons. But you can’t wait so long. Why should you? Here is the good ship Majestic—not exactly the one shown in the picture on the first page—which will take you over from New York to Liverpool in less than six days.

Once it took weeks. Sometimes a big iceberg came sailing along right across the ship’s path. Then there was a crash. Perhaps the poor little ship went to splinters and the passengers—well, you know what happened then. Sometimes a dreadful storm came down upon the ocean and the waves went up and down, looking like mountains and valleys. Not every frail ship could stand it. There was a wreck. But in spite of all these dreadful things most passengers get there and see the sights, and have a good time and get safely home. A friend has crossed the Atlantic nearly seventy times safely.

L.

CASHMERE SHAWLS.

IT is said that sixteen thousand looms are kept in constant employment in Cashmere, producing annually about thirty thousand shawls. The shawls are woven on rudely-constructed looms, a pair of shawls sometimes occupying three or four men a whole year in weaving. The Cashmere goat, which furnishes the material, is found in Thibet, the hair of it being fine, silky and about eighteen inches long. It takes the fleece of ten goats to manufacture a shawl a yard and a half square.—_Selected._

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

VI.

WHILE the folks are gone to the fair, and we have nothing to do but watch around the place and see that no tramp gets in, we might as well have a good time, and I will tell you about my brother Nero. You must not forget, though, but keep eyes, ears and nose open while I am talking.

To begin with, there was a very large family of us, or would have been if we had all been kept together. There were brothers and sisters older, and a good many younger than we. We were of the same age, and there were three others just our age, too; but they had gone to live with other families, and Nero and I were all there were left with mother. Poor, dear mother! I remember well how she used to feel when her children were taken away from her, though I was too young at that time to realize it.

When we were alone she would sigh, and many a tear have I seen fall from her eyes, as she would lap us and think of her darlings whose faces she knew not that she would ever see again.

She, poor mother, seemed to lavish all her love upon us after the other three were gone.

Mr. Bryant, our master, had a daughter—only one—whose name was Fanny. Her father and mother seemed to think the world of her; and the thing that puzzled mother was, that Mrs. Bryant, being a mother herself, should not feel more for her four-footed friend, who was a mother also. She fed us enough, and never abused us in the ways in which so many abuse their dogs; but when it came to parting mother and children it never seemed to occur to her that a mother with four feet, and that couldn’t talk, could have any motherly feelings, or care what became of her little ones.

I remember little Fanny was not so. She would cry every time one of my brothers or sisters was taken away, and after one was gone would come out with us and put her arms around mother’s silky neck and cry as though her heart would break.

Well, one day while we were quite small a man came to the house. I think he was some kind of agent. He saw mother, and could not help admiring her glossy coat and beautiful eyes, and so was anxious to get one of our family. He wanted mother herself, but soon found that money could not buy her. Fanny overheard them talking about us, and then slipped quietly out of the room, and came in great haste to where we were, and with one of us under each arm fled to a place of safety. Down through the orchard she went till she came to an old building which was used to store hay in; there, in a hole which she and some of her playmates had made to hide in, she put us, and covered us up with soft straw, and fixed it so that we could not possibly crawl out, then closed the door and went off under a sweet apple-tree to hunt for apples as though nothing had happened.

Now I suppose men will think she did not act just as she should, and perhaps she was guilty of disobedience for not telling where we were when they were hunting for us; but we were very grateful to her, and whined with delight when we heard the man drive away, and learned that he was not likely to come over that road again.

Fanny felt badly about it, and that night when she was going to bed told her mother what she had done, crying almost as hard as though we had been sold.

Fanny’s mother explained to her how it was wicked to be disobedient, and that it was disobedience to not do what she would be required to do, if all the circumstances were known, and that doing wrong that good might come of it was never right.

Then after Fanny was asleep her mother told Mr. Bryant why they had failed to find us, and after he heard the whole story he said: “Bless her dear heart; for her sake we will keep the little fellows, and Bess” (that was mother’s name) “will look at us with less sadness in her great eyes.”

So Mrs. Bryant told Fanny that they had decided to keep us both until we were much bigger, at least, and she need not worry any more about our being sold.

When they told mother you should have seen her leap for joy; she sprang up upon her hind feet, and put her fore paws upon Mr. Bryant’s breast, forgetting in her great joy that her feet were not clean; but he, good man, only patted her and let her lick his cheek, and called her “Good old Bess,” and then told her to go and look after her children and give them their supper.

I heard her say to one of the neighbors some months after, as she was telling her experience with us, that that was the first time she had lain down with any peace of mind for weeks.

Well, the bigger we grew the more Fanny loved us, and so we did her. We never let her go down in the orchard, or out into the woods, or to fish in the brook but what we went with her, and we drove everything and everybody away, unless she told us not to.

After awhile she decided that she wanted one of us in her room nights. To that arrangement her mother at first strongly objected; but her father plead for her, and the mother finally consented.

When the cold weather came on Fanny got a rug, and had Nero sleep on that rug on the foot of her bed, “to keep her feet warm,” she said.

This had been going on for some time when Mr. and Mrs. Bryant went out to visit a neighbor’s at some kind of a gathering, and left mother and me outside in our kennel to watch, and Nero to remain in the room with our little friend Fanny.

The hired man and the cook, instead of remaining at home as they were expected to, went to spend the evening with a neighbor, thinking it would be all right with Fanny, as she was asleep. But it had been ironing day, and the clothes had been left hanging in the kitchen to air, and how it was no one will ever know, but in some way they took fire. Mother was the first to discover it, and began to bark with all her might to awaken Fanny and Nero. I remember that I barked too, just as hard and loud as I could.

Soon Nero heard it, and began to feel that something must be the matter somewhere. His first thought was that he ought to awaken his young mistress, and he went at the job as best he knew. But she was too sound asleep to be awakened by barking, do the best he could; so he sprang upon her shoulder and began to pull at her nightdress, and finally took her by the ear, and pulled so hard that it almost started the blood. Then she awakened in a great fright, for a bright light was shining so she could see everything in her room.

Pulling on her shoes and stockings, and wrapping around her some of the blankets from her bed, she opened the door, which fortunately was near the stairs.

With the help of Nero she made her way through the smoke to the street, about the time the neighbors began to arrive. They were too late to have been of any help to Fanny, for the flames would have overtaken her before they reached there, but for Nero. By the time Mr. and Mrs. Bryant reached home the house was far gone. When they saw the flames they seemed almost crazy with fright; for they remembered that they had left their only child asleep in the second story. It was some minutes before they could be made to understand that Fanny was safe.

She and Nero had been hurried to the house of a neighbor, and when they found them Fanny had her arms around Nero’s neck.

When Fanny was being tucked into bed for a second time that night she said to her mother: “Are you not glad that I kept Nero from being sold? Because if he had not been there to wake me up you wouldn’t have had any little girl now.”

From that time Nero was a great pet, and I was very proud of him, though I could not help being a little bit vexed because nobody gave mother and me any credit for awakening him. One day I said something about it to her, and she said: “Never mind, Major; we know ourselves that we did our duty, and that is the important thing.”

R.

HOW TO MAKE A SCREEN BAG.

(_Something for Mamma._)

IT is my opinion that the little girl who makes this convenient thing which I am about to describe, will need to have an accommodating brother who owns a box of tools and knows how to use them. Or she may have a good friend among the carpenters who are at work on the next corner. Still another way would be to get papa enlisted and agree to divide mamma’s birthday present with him; that is, let him share the honor of getting it up.

However that part may be managed here is yours, my dear, industrious little girl.

The name of the article is Screen Bag. I have no doubt you know how fond mamma is of bags, of all shapes and sizes, for keeping her unmended stockings, or perhaps, more truthfully speaking, your and your brothers’ and sisters’ unmended stockings, for balls of cord, and rolls of tape, and papers of hooks and eyes, and I have not room to tell how many other things. Well, this Screen Bag is just the thing. First get your frames made of common pine wood, three of them, of about the right height to furnish a comfortable screen for mamma if she wishes to keep the wind from blowing on her, or the firelight from burning her face. Indeed, you must decide where she will be likely to want to use the screen, and plan its size accordingly. Then you want some bright cloth of a pretty color; perhaps red, if that harmonizes best with the colors in your mother’s room, or possibly blue or a soft rich brown; what you will, so that it is strong. Cretonne is good, so is the striped cotton furniture cloth which may be found at any upholsterer’s, and in nearly all large city stores. You want two kinds; one for the front and one for the back of your screen. The back or lining side need not be made of such strong material. English cambric or common calico will do nicely. Of course the amount of material needed will depend upon the size of your frames; some careful measurements with a tape line will be necessary. Now get your “pockets” ready, as many as you have room for, and of whatever size you think the most useful. The first or lower row should be a little larger than the ones above. The screen I have in mind had two good-sized pockets below, three smaller ones above, four above them, and five tiny ones at the top. These may be made of the same cloth as the screen, or of different colors, according to your taste and the variety of material at command. They should be hemmed neatly at the top and stitched firmly to the cloth; first basted, then sewed in the machine, to insure strength; or, if you do not understand a sewing machine, and want to do all the work yourself, you can take strong thread, and make a back stitch for every third or fourth one, and do the whole by hand.

Now you want some brass-headed nails—round heads, you know. Finally, your frames are ready for the brass hinges on which they are to swing. You will need four of these, and when they are screwed into their places your Bag Screen will be finished. Fifty-two pockets! My word for it, if your mamma does not feel richer than she ever did in her life, after she has her conveniences packed away in those delightful pockets, which besides holding them, are at work screening her from the heat, or sun, or wind, I shall be very much astonished.

I shall hope to hear that some of the Pansies have tried this experiment.

PANSY.

ABOUT MINNEAPOLIS.

BY THE PANSIES.

A GOOD many years ago there used to be a city named St. Anthony. It was built on the east side of the Mississippi River; then a city grew up on the west side named Minneapolis, and after awhile it swallowed St. Anthony and made one big city of itself on both sides of the river. I think St. Anthony would have been a prettier name for the city, on account of the Falls of St. Anthony being right there. But Minneapolis is pretty, too. I have never been there, but my brother has, and some day he is going to take me a long journey all over the West; then we will visit Minneapolis, and I will write to the Pansies about it.

HELEN M. LEEDS.

* * * * *

THE flouring mills of Minneapolis are the largest in the world. They can make thirty-eight thousand barrels of flour in a day if they want to; and I guess they want to, for their flour is famous all over the country. I order flour for my grandmother, and she won’t have a barrel which does not say “Minneapolis” on it. I should think the coopers would all get rich out there. I read in a book that in one year they sold pretty nearly three million barrels!

JOHN WILLIS LEEDS.

* * * * *

I DON’T know what I can write about Minneapolis. I think it is just like any other great big city, with electric lights, and street cars, and parks, and all those things, of course. I think cities are all alike; I like the country myself. But Minneapolis grows faster than many cities do. My grandfather was there in 1860, and there were only about six thousand inhabitants; now there are two hundred and twenty-five thousand. Some say more, but I think that is enough.

HARVEY CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

I AM so glad it has come time to write about Minneapolis, because I went there myself only a year ago. I do think it is the loveliest place I was ever in. It seems more like a great big beautiful town than a city. The houses are not crowded together in great ugly-looking brick rows, all just alike, as they are in Philadelphia, and on some streets in New York; but almost all of them have lovely grounds, and trees, and flowers, and pretty lawns. Oh! I liked it all so much. We had a picnic out at the Falls of Minnehaha, the prettiest place I ever saw in my life. There is a magnificent park out there of more than a hundred acres, and the drive all the way through the city to the park is perfectly beautiful. Then of course the falls themselves are just too lovely! We had Mr. Dickson the elocutionist with us, and after lunch he recited parts of Longfellow’s poem about “Minnehaha, Laughing Water.” I had never read “Hiawatha” then, but I have since, and I know several pages of it by heart. But you cannot think how lovely it was to have Mr. Dickson recite it right at the falls. We took a great many lovely drives while we were in the city. We stopped at West Hotel, which is one of the finest in the United States, or for that matter in the world. It can accommodate twelve hundred guests, and it seemed as though there must be that number in the house while we were there. When we met in the great dining-room it seemed queer to think that there were more people there than can be found in the village where I live. Still I like our little village in the summer, and would not exchange it for a city. I would like to describe West Hotel, but I cannot, except to say that the furniture was grand, and everything was elegant. We rode past Senator Washburn’s house a great many times. It is out on Twenty-second Street and Third Avenue, and has ten acres of the most charming grounds, so that it is just the same to him as living in the country. The house is built of a kind of stone which is called kasota, and is very beautiful. I did not mean to make my letter so long, but there is a great deal to tell.

ALICE WASHBURNE MILLS.

* * * * *

I HAVE an aunt who is very fond of visiting churches. When she goes to a new place, if it is only a village, she wants to see all the churches and know about them. When she was in Minneapolis first, years ago, it was a little bit of a place, and my aunt is an old lady, and does not read the newspapers much, and did not realize that Minneapolis had grown a great deal. She went there last spring to visit a nephew. She reached there in the night, and was taken in a carriage to her nephew’s house, and did not realize the changes at all. The next morning at breakfast, when her nephew asked her what she would like to see in the city, she said she would like to visit the different churches if she could, and that perhaps as the day was pleasant they could go that morning.

“Very well,” said her nephew; “to which ones shall we go?”

“Oh! to all of them,” answered my aunt; “we can take a few minutes for each and see them all this forenoon, can we not?”

“Certainly,” said her nephew; “just as well as not. There are only about a hundred and sixty, I believe.”

And that was the first time my aunt knew that she was in a big city instead of the little town she had left thirty years or so before. But I don’t think her nephew was very polite to an old lady. She saw a good many of the churches, among them Dr. Wayland Hoyt’s, which she said she liked the best of all. It is the First Baptist Church of Minneapolis, and cost two hundred thousand dollars. It will seat about fifteen hundred people. I thought the Pansies would like to hear about it, because Dr. Hoyt wrote one of our “Regret” letters for us.

MINNIE ANDREWS.

* * * * *

MY uncle is a lawyer and lives in Minneapolis. He says the City Hall is just splendid. It cost three million dollars. Its great tower is three hundred and forty-five feet high, and there are only two others in the United States which can get above that. There isn’t any danger that this building will ever burn up, for it is made fire proof. I wonder why they don’t make all buildings fire proof? Then we would not have to buy engines, and pay firemen, and keep great splendid horses doing nothing all day long but wait for fires. This City Hall which I began to tell you about is three hundred feet square, and fills up a great block on four streets. I should like to see it. My uncle has a photograph of it, and it looks magnificent. I am going to be a lawyer, and I shall have an office in Minneapolis.

HARRY DENNING.

* * * * *

MY father was acquainted with Governor Washburn, who gave three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars for the Washburn Memorial Orphan Asylum in Minneapolis. My father has been there to see the asylum. He says it is in a beautiful place, with lovely trees and plants in the grounds. There were fifty-seven orphans there when father visited it. I am glad they have such a nice place. I would like to be rich, like Governor Washburn, and give lots of money to something. I think I shall be, and I shall found an orphan asylum somewhere, but not in Minneapolis, because they don’t need another.

HORACE WEBSTER.

* * * * *

MINNEAPOLIS was started about the same time that St. Anthony was. They grew about the same for awhile, then Minneapolis got to growing so fast that about all which could be heard in that city was the pounding of hammers. Afterwards St. Anthony and Minneapolis were united.

Minneapolis was naturally a very pretty place, and until the last few years it was called the prettiest city in Minnesota, but now St. Paul is prettier.

MILLIE ROWELL.

* * * * *

I ATTENDED the International Christian Endeavor Convention when it met in Minneapolis. I was a Junior delegate. We had a splendid time. The convention was held in the great Exposition building, which is three hundred and fifty feet square. That is, they made a big hall for the convention inside the building, and it held more than ten thousand people.

My sister and I visited the Public Library. It is a very handsome building. They say it cost a good deal over three hundred thousand dollars. We sat in one of the elegant reading-rooms and read books while our uncle was looking up something in books of reference. There are thousands and thousands of volumes there; I did know how many, but have forgotten. The street cars in Minneapolis are all electric. My sister did not like to ride on them when there was a thunderstorm, but I was not afraid. There are lots of lakes all around that part of the country, and of course the Falls of St. Anthony are there. It is queer to have a splendid falls in the midst of a city.

I think I like Minneapolis better than any place I was ever in. I may go to stay with my uncle and attend the University of Minnesota, which is there. That is what I want to do. If I go I shall know more about Minneapolis, and will write again.

THOMAS BAILEY ATWOOD.

THE OSBORNE HOME.

(_Character Studies._)

ALL day long the Osborne home had been in a state of excitement. It had been very difficult for the family to attend to its usual duties. The little girls had at first declared that they could not go to school at all; and then, being convinced that they must, it had been nearly impossible to get them ready in time. Even the baby had caught the unrest, and refused to take his long morning nap and give the seventeen-year-old sister Mary a chance to attend to the work. The explanation was that mother was coming home. She had been away a whole month, an unheard-of thing in the history of the family before this season.

The fact is, Mrs. Osborne was one of those mothers who would never have been persuaded to leave her home and her children had it not become a serious duty to do so. She had been in poor health for several months, and grandmamma had written and coaxed and urged, and at last almost commanded that she should come back to the old home and the old physician, and see if he could not help her. One terrible thing about it was, that this same physician refused to allow her to bring her baby along. “I know just how it will be,” he said, shaking his gray head and looking wise. “The baby is a strong, healthy little fellow, and a perfect tyrant as they all are, and he will be carried, and put to sleep, and fed, and petted by his mother and nobody else; he will be more positive about it than usual, being among strangers, and he will just keep her worn out. There is no use in talking, Mrs. Fuller, I know your daughter Mary of old, and I will not consent to try to help her unless she will leave that fellow at home and come away from all care for a month.”

Well, the doctor had had his way, as he nearly always did, and Mrs. Osborne, having declared that it would be utterly impossible to go away from home and leave Baby and the little girls, and only Mary to look after them all, had been gotten ready and carried to the cars. And a whole month had passed, and she, wonderfully improved, was coming home to-day. Father had driven to the depot three miles away to meet her, and the house was in commotion.

Mary, the housekeeper, nurse and mother-in-charge, had had a busy day. There were still a dozen things which she meant to have done before mother came, not the least among them being to get herself in order; for her apron was torn, her slippers were down at the heel, her hair was what her father called “frowsly,” and, in short, she did not look in the least as she meant to when the mother should put her arms around her. Then there were last things to be done all over the house, and the table to be set for the early tea-dinner which was to do honor to the traveler’s newly-found appetite. Yet, notwithstanding all this, Mary, feeling sure that the time must now be short, allowed herself to drop down into the chair which she had been dusting, draw from her pocket the mother’s last letter, whose contents she knew by heart, and glancing at it, go to studying for the dozenth time the possibility that her mother might have meant the evening train instead of the afternoon, in which case she would not be there for several hours.

“Let me see; I almost believe that is the way, after all,” she said, biting the feather end of the old quill which she had picked up somewhere in her dusting, and looking vexed and disheartened. “I am sure I don’t know how I am to keep the children from growing wild, if they have to wait three hours longer.”

Meantime, the children, in the other room, were in various stages of excitement. Helen, the older of the three, in whose charge Baby Joe was especially put, occupied herself in racing to the front gate every few minutes to see if she could not get a glimpse of her father’s horse and wagon climbing the hill; and Baby Joe, each time she went, either reached after and tumbled over something which he ought not to have touched, or tumbled down, in his eager haste to follow to the gate. In this way the room was being put into more or less disorder.

“How perfectly silly you are!” said Jessie, looking up from the book she was reading, as Helen came back panting for the third time. “Just as though racing to the gate every few minutes would bring them any quicker! and look at Joe; he has tipped the spools all out of mother’s box. A nice tangle they will be in.”

“Why didn’t you keep him from them then?” asked Helen irritably; “you are doing nothing but pore over a story book. I should think you would go and comb your hair and change your dress. Mother will not like to see you in such a tangle, I can tell you.”

“There is time enough,” said Jessie, yawning. “I can’t do anything but read a story book; it is impossible to settle to anything when mother is so near home as she must be by this time. I haven’t done a thing this afternoon; I couldn’t. I don’t see how Elsie can bend over that stupid History, just as if nothing unusual was going to happen.”

This made Elsie raise her eyes; they were pretty brown ones. She was a little girl of about ten, in a neat blue dress, and with her hair in perfect order. “I thought it would be a good plan to get my history ready for to-morrow while I was waiting,” she said, “then I will not have to study this evening, when I want to listen to mother. I should think you would like to get your examples done; and anyhow, Jessie, you ought to comb your hair; it looks like a fright.”

“I mean to, of course,” said Jessie. “I dare say there is time enough. Father can’t drive fast on such a warm afternoon; and besides, Mary said she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he should have to wait for the evening train. Wouldn’t that be just horrid! If it were not for the lovely story I am reading I couldn’t endure this waiting another minute.”

“It’s easier to wait when you are at work doing what ought to be done,” said Elsie, with the air of a philosopher.

“Oh! you are a regular Miss Prim,” said Helen, laughing, as she stooped to pick little Joe out of another piece of carefully planned mischief; “for my part, I think it is horrid to have anything that ought to be done at such a time. Joe, you little nuisance, I do wish you would go to sleep, and give me a chance to watch for mother. I hope I shall get all the things picked up and put to rights that you have upset before mother comes; she will not be charmed with the looks of the room if I don’t. However, there really must be oceans of time yet.”

“Then why did you race down to the gate every few minutes to see if they were coming?” Jessie asked.

“Oh! because I did not know what else to do,” said Helen; “I knew better, of course. Take care, Joe! There, I declare! he has done it now.”

Sure enough he had! Jerked at the table spread where Helen herself had set the inkstand, intending to put it away in a few minutes, and sent a black stream not only over his own white dress, but on the carpet as well. Mary, who still sat studying the letter, and thinking of the things which she meant to accomplish before her mother came, having by this time decided that it was entirely probable that they must wait for the evening train, heard the exclamations of dismay from the other room, and rose up to see what was the trouble; but at that instant an eager cry from Elsie: “There they come!” sounded on the ears of all. Helen gathered up the screaming Joe under one arm, and calling to Mary to look out for the ink on the carpet, ran out of one door, just as Jessie scurried out of another, eager to dash upstairs and brush her hair before her father saw her; for his last charge had been to her to see to it that she did not appear before her mother in that plight. Mary, burning with shame and disappointment over the little last things which she meant to have ready, waited to mop up the ink, while Elsie, closing the door on the disordered room, went forward to meet the beloved mother.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

IN THE CABIN OF THE MAYFLOWER.

THIS is a company of Pilgrims in the cabin of the blessed ship _Mayflower_, on their way over a stormy sea from Plymouth, England, to find a place in America where they may worship God “according to the dictates of their own consciences.”

This was two hundred and seventy years ago. Of course the people did not dress then just as they do now, as you can well see by noticing their broad collars and queer trousers. How queer our dress will look to our great-grandchildren.

The dear _Mayflower_ was not such a grand ship as the Cunarder. It had to depend—not upon steam—but upon a favoring wind, and the wind does not always seem to favor, so it took her weeks to cross the stormy Atlantic, and the passengers (Puritans they were called) were very sick; but because they had suffered so much from cruel people in England they did not complain, as they believed God held the waves in his hand, and he was guiding the _Mayflower_ as much as he did the Israelites to Palestine—“a land flowing with milk and honey.” So they patiently and cheerfully waited in the _Mayflower’s_ small cabin, often singing hymns and praying and encouraging each other.

At last on Monday, December 21, 1620, they landed on Plymouth Rock, Mass., happy as birds escaped from a cage.

They had much trouble with the Indians; but after a time they began to build, with other Pilgrims, at other points, our great nation.

L.

* * * * *

THERE is a woman living in Manchester, England, who is said to have a Bible two feet long and nearly two feet wide. At the top of each page is printed in red ink: “This is a history.” The Bible is two hundred years old, and is the largest one in the world, it is supposed.

BABY’S CORNER.

BABY’S CLOCK.

NOBODY finks I can tell the time of day, but I can.

The first hour is five o’clock in the morning.

That’s the time the birds begin to peep. I lie still and hear them sing:

“Tweet, tweet, tweet! Chee, chee, chee!”

But mamma is fast asleep. Nobody awake in all the world but just me and the birds.

Bimeby the sun gets up and it’s six o’clock in the morning.

Then mamma opens one eye and I can hear her say:

“Where’s my baby?”

N’en I keep still—jus’ as still as a mouse, an’ she keeps saying:

“Where’s my baby?”

N’en all at once I go “Boo!” and she laughs and hugs me, and says “I’m a precious.”

Mamma’s nice, and I love her ’cept when she washes my face too hard and pulls my hair with the comb.

Seven o’clock!

That’s when the bell goes jingle, jingle, and we have breakfast.

All the eight an’ nine an’ ten an’ ’leven hours I play.

I run after butterflies and squirrels, and swing, and read my picture book, and sometimes I cry—jus’ a little bit.

Twelve o’clock!

That’s a bu’ful hour. The clock strikes a lot of times, and the big whistle goes, and the bell rings, and papa comes home, and dinner’s ready!

The one and two hours are lost. Mamma always carries me off to take a nap. I don’t like naps. They waste time.

When we wake up the clock strikes three. N’en I have on my pink dress, and we go walking or riding.

And so the three and four and five hours are gone.

At six o’clock Bossy comes home, and I have my drink of warm milk.

N’en I put on my white gown, and kiss everybody “good-night,” and say “Now I lay me,” and get into my bed.

Mamma says:

“Now the sun and the birdies and my little baby are all gone to bed, and to sleep, sleep, sleep.”

So I shut my eyes tight, and next you know ’tis morning!

An’ ’nat’s all the time there is.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

OCTOBER’S PARTY.

OCTOBER gave a party— The leaves by hundreds came— The Chestnuts, Oaks and Maples, And leaves of every name;

The sunshine spread a carpet, And everything was grand; Miss Weather led the dancing, Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow, The Oaks in crimson dressed; The lovely Misses Maple In scarlet looked their best.

All balanced to their partners, And gaily fluttered by; The sight was like a rainbow New-fallen from the sky.

Then in the rustic hollows At hide-and-seek they played. The party closed at sundown, And everybody staid.

Professor Wind played louder, They flew along the ground, And then the party ended In “hands across, all round.” _From “Song Stories for Little People.”_

FIVE-MINUTE ACQUAINTANCES.

(_Character Studies._)

IT was a bright cool morning that we were riding down Delaware Avenue in a street car which had very few passengers. It gave me a chance to study human nature. I began the study with a very handsomely dressed boy. Jacket and collar and necktie and hair all showed that very careful people had planned for him, and that they had plenty of money to spend on him. They came into the car just after I was seated, the boy and his mother. She was tall and pale, and in deep mourning; I wondered if her husband were dead, and if this boy were the only one she had to think about or care for her. If so she was to be pitied, poor woman! for it soon became evident that the young man thought about and cared for himself. His first exhibition was to fling his heavy overcoat on his mother’s lap as he said: “Here, mamma, hold that, and give me the tickets for the conductor.”

“I haven’t tickets, dear,” she said; “I shall have to buy some.”

“O, well! all right, give me your pocket-book and let me buy them.”

“No, dear, there is a good deal of money in my pocket-book, and some valuable papers.”

“What of that?” he said, in a tone loud enough for all the passengers to hear; “I ain’t going to lose them; don’t I know how to take care of things? Give me the purse.” It was passed over without more words.

“Take a quarter from the silver money,” the mother advised a moment later.

“O, no, mamma! I want to give him a bill, to see if he makes the right change. Here’s a five; that will do; no, let me see.” He jerked his arm suddenly away from the mother’s hand, which reached after the pocket-book, and several pieces of silver flew out and rolled around on the floor.

“There!” he said, in a reproachful tone, “see what you have made me do; now you have lost some of your money.”

“Pick it up, Harold, that’s a good boy.”

He stooped and picked up a twenty-five cent piece, then said:

“Never mind the rest. It has rolled round under the seat somewhere, and it is all dust; I can’t get down on my knees and hunt; never mind, let it go. Say, mamma, give me that box of candy.”

“Not now; I would rather you did not eat any more candy, Harold, until we get home.”

“Why not? I don’t want to wait; I haven’t eaten much. Come, it’s my candy, and I want it. You bought it for me, and I think you are mean not to let me have it.”

“Hush, Harold! do not talk so loud. Hold your overcoat, dear; it is too heavy for mamma.”

“Oh! I can’t, it is too hot. I did not need that great big overcoat anyhow, and I told you so. I’m not going to hold it. Drop it on the floor if you don’t want to keep it. But give me that box of candy. O, mamma! there’s a procession coming down the street—soldiers, and everything. I’m going out on the platform to see them.”

He made a dash forward, and the pale, anxious mother reached after him, trying to arrest his steps, dropping as she did so not only the overcoat, but the pocket-book again. The pennies and the ten-cent pieces rolled around freely, while Harold, looking behind him, gave a mocking laugh, and was out on the platform.

They had not been in the car over five minutes. And yet I was quite as well acquainted with Harold as I had any desire to be.

At the North Street corner the pale little mother left the car with the heavy overcoat over one arm, and the pocket-book, with what change she had been able to find, in her hand, while Harold, tugging at her sleeve, was heard to say, “Mamma, I want that candy this minute!”

At Reed Street came three passengers, a boy about the size of the one who had left us, and two little girls, one perhaps seven, and the other not over four. The boy was freckled-faced, and by no means so handsome as Harold. His clothes were very neat, but of the coarse, common sort worn by children of the moderately poor. The little girls beside him were as neat as wax—faces and hands and hair in perfect order; but their sacks and hats were of last year’s fashion—perhaps older still than that—and I fancy Harold would have laughed outright at the little old overcoat which hung over the boy’s arm.

They took their seats quietly, and made no disturbance of any sort. But there were so few in the car, and we were passing at that time through such a quiet street, that I could hear distinctly the words they spoke to one another.

“Better put on your sack, Janie,” said the boy, with a thoughtful air, looking at the older sister, “the wind blows in pretty strong here.” Janie immediately arose and began tugging at her sack. The boy, with the manners of a gentleman accustomed to the work, took hold of it at the shoulders and skillfully steered the little arms into place, pulling it down behind, and bestowing meanwhile side glances upon the little sister.

“Sit still, Bessie, that’s a good girl. No, don’t stand, dear; mamma wouldn’t like you to stand, the cars shake so.”

Down sat Bessie again, trying to put herself squarely on the seat. Failing in this her protector turned next to her, lifted her plump little form into place, then straightened her hat and returned a confiding smile which she gave him. Meantime the car was filling up, and in a few minutes every seat was taken. There came next a middle-aged woman, black of face, and very shabby as to toilet, with a market basket on her arm. Quick as thought the little gentleman arose, and touching her arm motioned her to his seat. Then Janie reached forward for his overcoat. “Let me hold your overcoat, Charlie,” she said, “because you haven’t any seat.”

“O, no!” said Charlie, smiling back at her, “I can carry it as well as not. Bessie dear, don’t climb up that way, you will fall.”

Down sat Bessie, who had mounted on her fat little knees to look out of the window.

“Now, Janie,” said the little man at last, when they were near the Dean Street crossing, “we are to get out at this corner. I will take Bessie’s hand and go ahead, and you keep close to me. We will stand still on the sidewalk until the car passes, then I will take you both across.”

Away they went, and I watched them making their way carefully across the crowded street, the brother’s arm thrown protectingly around Bessie, and his eyes on the watch for any possible danger to either of his charges. I had made his acquaintance in five minutes, too, and knew more about him than he would have imagined possible.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

THINGS WHICH SOME PEOPLE REGRET.

THE “Regret” which we give you this month comes from a very high source. Almost every scholar of ancient languages will recognize the name. It is a very pleasant thought that these great men out of their busy lives have stopped to give us a glimpse of their past, in order to help the young people of to-day, who will be the men and women of to-morrow, to avoid the mistakes which they did not. We hope and believe that the Pansies will receive great benefit from these glimpses from the youth of great people.

“I regret that I have not better acquired the art of pleasantly acknowledging the kindnesses shown me, and of showing my appreciation of people whom I really do appreciate. My influence with many would be greatly increased if I could but make them understand how warmly my heart goes out to them.”

WILLIS J. BEECHER.

DR. W. J. BEECHER, _Professor of Hebrew in Auburn Theological Seminary_.

(_Luke_ ix. 23; xiv. 27.)

AND didst thou hear the Master say He that would my disciple be, Let him deny himself each day, Take up his cross, and follow me? Oh! wondrous love, that did devise For us this “straight and narrow way,” Beyond which, in the distance, lies The realms of pure and perfect day.

A HAPPY BOY.

HIS name is Willie Addis, and he lives in Plainfield, N. J. A few weeks ago his mother turned down the wicks of her kerosene stove, and leaned over it to blow out the flame, when the stove exploded, and in an instant she was in flames. With one bound Willie was in the kitchen, seizing the large woolen mat from the floor as he ran, and in less time than it takes me to tell it, he had wrapped the mat about his mother and extinguished the flames! The kitchen furniture was burned, but that was about all, and the dear mother was saved by her quick-witted ten-year-old son, who had heard somewhere that woolen wrapped closely about a burning object so as to exclude the air, will put out the fire. It is not every boy of his age who knows that fact; and there are many who, knowing it, would not have had presence of mind enough to have applied their knowledge promptly. Willie did, and he has his mother. Certainly I think he must be a happy boy, and I am sure she is a glad, proud mother.

How is one to help hoping and praying that he may never be other than a joy to her in the years to come?

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

I AM very fond of the little ones, and like to have them around me, and as the puppies are in the majority it will be their turn to have a short story this time.

If you do not have to go home too soon perhaps I will have time to tell you more than one; we will see. Oh! the children are to stay to tea, are they? All right. Now, attention!

All those who would like to hear a story about a chicken—“a real truly story,” as the children say—wag your tails.

Those opposed, bark. Carried. The vote for the chicken story is about unanimous.

I suppose some of you have very poor opinions of chickens and hens; you think because they have but two legs, and are so easily frightened, they don’t amount to much; but the master and mistress think quite differently when they eat the nice fresh eggs which the hens furnish. Why, some of those proud young crowers have hearts as well as we. I remember so well a little old white blind hen which my master once had, and how kindly she was treated. (She could see just a little with one eye, but we called her blind.)

The young man who worked upon the place took a fancy to “Old Whitey,” as they called her, and when master wanted to send her to market this fellow pretended he couldn’t find her, so she was kept till very old.

The gallant young crowers which roosted in the same shed with her would never fight this old “grandmother,” but were just as kind to her as they knew how to be. Sometimes when one of them had found a nice lot of worms under something he had scratched over, “Whitey” would come along hungry, and he would leave the nice mess for her, and look further for himself.

Was not that gallant and kind? Would all of you do as well as that? Be as unselfish?

But this is not the chicken I was to tell you about. He was a poor orphan, his mother having died when he was but a little yellow ball upon two little pins of legs.

I had not much to do with this pet, only as I visited his home occasionally, and saw and played with him a little.

It was my cousin Tip who had most to do with this bright feathered fellow, and to whom he was indebted for most of his education.

Tip was a great favorite; in fact, his mistress was fond of all sorts of pets; had a name for each of her cows, and for every one of her hens, so she had a name for this chicken.

Tip used to go about wherever he pleased, and so did the chicken. My cousin was in the habit of taking almost anything he could find, and dragging it to the spot where he wished to lie, then make a bed of it and go to sleep.

His little friend the chicken for awhile watched him with envious eyes—for I regret to say Cousin Tip was too selfish to provide a bed for any one besides himself.

But this chicken evidently thought “what had been done could be done,” so he asserted his independence, and gathered up what he could carry or drag; put the articles—stockings, handkerchiefs or rags—in a heap near Tip’s bed, and would then tread them down as he had seen Tip do, and squat upon them for a make-believe nap. Now wasn’t that a pretty bright chicken, and was not Tip a pretty successful teacher for one so young?

No, that lesson wouldn’t be much for a bright little dog to learn; but we do not expect much intelligence in a hen or rooster.

I suppose they cannot understand what people say to them as we do. And some people do not seem to think we understand what they tell us to do or not to do, even when they tell us we have done well.

I remember so well when I was young, though almost as large as I am now, how I astonished a lady by acting as though I understood what she said to me.

It was in the country, where the houses were quite a distance apart. I had been caring for this woman’s little girl for more than a week, and had kept her out of lots of mischief, and prevented her from getting many an ugly fall, though I had never been asked to do it.

One day little Cynthia (that was her name) wanted to go over to see her grandmother, who lived in the next house, nearly a quarter of a mile away. The mother told her there was no one to go with her. She said she could go alone, and coaxed so hard that the mother said she might go. So Cynthia put her little hat on, and her mother kissed her good-by, and she started. Then her mother turned to me and said: “Major, you go with her and take good care of my darling; don’t you let anything hurt her.”

How proud I was! I went right by her side all the way, and never left her for one moment until she was safe at home.

Then the lady called me a “good, faithful fellow,” and I was very happy. But when the men came in at night and she told them what I had done, I felt ashamed to hear her say, “He acted just as though he knew what I told him.”

The idea! Why shouldn’t I understand, I would like to know? They talk about things which I do not understand, but when they give me such a plain direction as that I guess I can hear it, and know what they mean, too.

There goes the whistle, and you must scamper. Good-by!

G. R. A.

A CAREFUL MOTHER.

A TRUSTWORTHY writer in one of our exchanges says that last summer near his room a humming-bird built her tiny nest and reared her family. One day when there was a heavy shower coming up, just as the first drops fell the mother came fluttering home, seized a large leaf which grew on the tree near her nest, drew it over the nest in a way to completely cover it, then went back to whatever work she had been about when the coming storm disturbed her. The amused watchers from the window wondered why the leaf did not blow away, and finally reached out and examined it; they found it hooked to a tiny stick which was just inside the nest, as if it had been built in for that purpose! The storm lasted but a few minutes, and after it was over home came the mother, unhooked the green curtain she had so carefully put up, and found her babies perfectly dry.

CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR SAINTS.

(_Something for Mamma._)

NOT something to make, this time, but to buy. It is a lovely new book bound in blue and silver, and the title is “Christian Endeavor Saints.”

It is written by Dr. F. E. Clark, the father of all the Christian Endeavor societies. If your mamma is not a member of that society it will make no difference, she will like the book very much; it has a great many short bright articles in it, not too long for a busy mother to read when she sits down for a minute or two of rest. The first part of the book has short letters addressed to different saints.

One, for instance, to “St. Neighborly,” another to “St. Hopeful,” another to “St. Speakwell,” and so on.

Then there are many “Golden Rule Recipes” for the cure of all sorts of troubles, as well as what is perhaps better, for the prevention of many.

Let me give you one which is called:

A RECIPE FOR A HAPPY DAY.

“At the very beginning of the day take a large amount of good nature, and double the quantity of determination to make the best of things, a heaping measure of bodily vigor, and mix well in the mortar of gratitude with the pestle of the remembrance of past mercies. A season of prayer and praise is always necessary to the proper mixture of these ingredients. Then add to this a considerable, but not too large, portion of well-regulated tongue, a slice of charity that thinketh no evil and is not easily provoked, a portion of hopefulness for the future, and a large measure of faith in God and fellowmen. Season this with the salt of shrewdness and thrift, and sweeten with plenty of the sugar of love for all God’s creatures. Put in a large handful of plums of parental or filial affection, and a number of pieces of neighborly friendliness; and somewhere in the day conceal one special service for the Lord’s poor. Slide this good deed into the mixture quietly, without saying anything about it. Do not use any of the sour milk of disappointed hopes, or brooding cares, for this will spoil the whole; and while there should be a pinch of the pepper of fun, and considerable sweet oil of joviality, do not use any of the mustard of backbiting, or the table sauce of slander.

“Let the mixture boil gently, but do not let it boil over, for the delicate flavor of the ingredients is injured by too much heat.

“This recipe has been tried in a hundred thousand households, and has never been known to fail.”

There are many more recipes quite as unique and as helpful as this.

Then follows a series of “Golden Rule Sermons” on all sorts of important topics, such as “Getting Muddled with the Unimportant,” on “Living as we Sing,” on “Poor Excuses,” and the like. Finally there are letters addressed to “Grandmother Lois,” “Mrs. Neataswax,” “Miss Youngheart,” “Mrs. Vitriol,” and a host of other people whom we have met.

From one, addressed to “The Birds that can Sing, and won’t Sing,” I want to quote a little:

MY DEAR BIRDS:

“I watched you last Wednesday evening in the mid-week prayer meeting, and none of you moved your lips, even when we sang ‘Rock of Ages’ and ‘Jesus, Lover of my Soul.’ The singing was weak and languid and thin, when your voices might have put body and life and strength into it. I know that you can sing if you have a mind to, for do I not hear you every Sunday in the church choir? . . . Did I not hear you sing, too, at Miss Flora McFlimsey’s birthday party the other evening? Yes, indeed; you gathered around the piano, and the way you warbled forth the glees and college songs did my heart good. But there you were at the church prayer meeting, members of the church, members of the Society of Christian Endeavor; you had promised more than once to do your duty faithfully, and yet you kept still, simply because the singing wasn’t very artistic, or because somebody behind you ‘screeched so,’ as you inelegantly expressed it, or because the old deacon on the front seat dragged, and ‘put you all out.’ Now, my dear birds, pardon the plain words of an old man, and your pastor at that. The prayer meeting singing is just as important a part of worship, and just as acceptable in God’s sight, as your choir or solo singing with all its frills and furbelows. The ‘screecher’ and the old deacon are both doing the best they can; and if you did the best you could their voices would not be so prominent, and the music would be far better. Then, too, do you not think it indicates a little touch of conceit to sing only when your voices will show off to advantage, and let the poor prayer meeting suffer for lack of them? I am sure, my dear birds, that you never thought of the matter in that light, for after all you mean to be conscientious as well as tuneful birds; and I am quite confident that when, next Wednesday evening, I give out ‘Rock of Ages,’ you will ‘raise it’ on your clear strong voices, and give the prayer meeting such a start and uplift as it has not had for many a day.”

I did not mean to quote it all, but it was so good I could not find a place to stop. I think you will enjoy it, and so will mamma, or your older sister, or indeed any one who loves to read bright, pure, helpful thoughts.

The book has about two hundred and fifty pages. I really do not know how much it costs, but your bookseller can easily find out for you.

PANSY.

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xviii. 2.)

NOW does this mean that all children are good Christians, and are surely in the Kingdom of Heaven? But you know many who are not good. They are profane; they break the Sabbath, and all the other holy commands of God. Some are so very bad that their parents send them to reformatories, which are a sort of prison.

Some years ago a boy by the name of Jesse Pomeroy, when he was quite young, began to torture children when he could get them into his power. As he grew a little older and stronger he would get children away from home and lead them out into some desolate place, and bind them to a tree and do dreadful things to them.

It is thought that this wicked boy caused the death of several children.

There are more Jesse Pomeroys. Jesus did not mean that all children are perfectly good. Indeed every one—children, too—must be born again—that is, converted—to get into the Kingdom of Heaven.

What, then, did Jesus mean in this verse? Why, simply that all must “humble” themselves; must repent and trust in him to be saved. Every true child is ready to do this, much more so than grown-up folks.

Grown-up people do not like to confess that they are sinners. They—most of them—refuse to humble themselves, as most very young folks do.

Now have you really humbled yourself?

L.

* * * * *

’TIS easy to be gentle when Death’s silence shames our clamor, And easy to discern the best Through memory’s mystic glamour; But wise it were for thee and me, Ere love is past forgiving, To take the tender lesson home— Be patient with the living. —_Selected._

ABOUT ST. LOUIS.

BY THE PANSIES.

THE biggest thing in St. Louis is the bridge by which you get to it. It has three arches, each over five hundred feet long, and it makes a road over fifty feet wide. My uncle says it is a big thing, and he knows, for he is a bridge builder. There is a tunnel under it, and a railroad track. I rode into St. Louis once through this tunnel; it is a mile long. It is lighted with electricity, and they say it has ventilating shafts; but they don’t give you much air to breathe, that I know. Father had to fan mother every minute, and we were afraid she would faint. I think I should have found it hard work to breathe myself, if I hadn’t been so dreadfully worried about mother that I forgot all about it. But for all that it is a splendid thing—the tunnel is, I mean. The piers of the bridge are built on a rock, and they go down more than a hundred feet below the surface. This bridge cost over six millions of dollars. I could tell you more things, for I staid in St. Louis a whole week, but mother says my letter is long enough.

WILLARD J. MOONEY.

* * * * *

ALL the Pansies tell how the city they are writing about got its name. I cannot find out about St. Louis, but I know the first settlement there was made by Pierre Laclede Liguest. I was wondering if they did not put pieces of his queer name together, and make a word which in time came to be St. Louis? Anyhow, I am glad they did not name the place for him, it would have been so hard to pronounce. That is only about a hundred and thirty years ago. St. Louis did not grow very fast; for a long time nobody thought it was going to be a city, and fifty years ago there were only about sixteen thousand inhabitants; but it has grown fast enough since. There are more than five hundred thousand people there now, and large, beautiful buildings, and everything which helps to make a city handsome. It is hot there, though; at least my auntie thinks so. She used to have to wait three hours in a St. Louis depot for a train every time she came home for her summer vacation, and went back in September, and she says the warmest she has ever been in her life was during those hours; and she never in five years struck a cool day! So she says she cannot help thinking that St. Louis is always warm. But probably if she had been there in January, instead of June or September, she would have thought differently. Women are apt to think that things stay always just as they happened to find them.

ROBERT CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

THE prettiest place to go to in St. Louis is “Shaw’s Garden.” It has other names, “The Missouri Botanical Gardens,” and “Tower Grove Park,” which is a piece of the gardens, but when I was there everybody said “Shaw’s Garden.” The land was presented by Mr. Henry Shaw, an Englishman, and he used to keep the lovely great park in order at his own expense; I don’t know whether he does now or not. There are more than two hundred and fifty acres just in Tower Grove Park. I have never been to Central Park, that some of the Pansies told about, but I do not see how it could be prettier than Tower Grove Park. There is a statue of Shakespeare, and another of Humboldt in the park, and they cost over a million of dollars. I don’t see why; I didn’t admire them very much; but that is what the gentleman said who went with us. There are a great many other parks in St. Louis—about twenty, I think—but none are so beautiful as this; and the Botanical Gardens are said to have the finest collection of plants of any city in the United States. My brother Roger says that cities always say such things about themselves, and that he doesn’t suppose it is finer than can be found in New York and Chicago, but that is what they told us.

NELLIE SHERMANN.

* * * * *

I READ a description of the St. Louis Court House which was very interesting. It is built in the form of a Greek cross, and has a splendid dome whose lantern can be seen as much as twenty miles away. It cost a good deal over a million dollars—the building did, not the lantern. Aunt Kate told me to put that sentence in: I don’t see why; of course you would know that a lantern did not cost all that! I like handsome buildings; I am going to be an architect.

I study all the different forms of buildings; I like the Greek cross style very well, but I don’t know how it would look for a private house. Aunt Kate says all that has nothing to do with St. Louis, but I don’t care. You don’t mind my telling what interests me, do you?

ARTHUR BLAKEMAN.

* * * * *

THERE is a building in St. Louis called “Four Courts,” named after the “Four Courts” of Dublin. But I think it was queer to name it Four Courts, and then have only three courts held in it. It is a stone building, and cost a good deal of money. Stone buildings always do; I suppose that is because they last so long; things that last always cost a great deal. I have hunted and hunted to find something interesting about St. Louis that everybody else would not be likely to tell, and the only thing I could find was this about the Four Courts. I don’t know as that is interesting, but it is the best I could do.

MARY BLAKEMAN.

* * * * *

THEY have a splendid Public-school Library in St. Louis. My father said when he was there ten years ago there were over fifty thousand volumes in it—books to help teachers and scholars. My father says he thinks other cities might copy after them in this. Colleges have libraries on purpose for their students, why should not public schools?

WILL VANDENBERG.

* * * * *

THEY have a splendid Custom House and Post-Office in St. Louis. Father says the building cost half a million. He was there when it was being built, and he says there is something grand-looking about it. And father says they have splendid schools there; not only public schools, but lots of private ones. The Washington University is there, and so, of course, is the St. Louis University; and they have the finest kindergartens there, I think, to be found outside of Germany. My uncle says I might as well leave that sentence out, for the kindergartens in the United States are better than those in Germany. But I am not going to leave it out; I don’t like crossed-out lines in a letter, and I haven’t time to copy this. Besides, lots of people think that things in other countries are nicer than our own, of course.

CHARLES J. PRESCOTT, JR.

* * * * *

RITA was riding on a road that went winding up hill and down dale, when she remarked, “Well, I never did saw such a curly road.”

A SEED THAT BLOSSOMED.

ELISE was spending the afternoon with Miss Dora Turner. Miss Turner was several years older than Elise, but she had come to the country to live among strangers, and Elise had known her in her city home, and was lonely like herself, so they became intimate friends. Elise told all her sorrows and perplexities, as well as her joys, to this young lady. She was in Miss Turner’s room now, waiting for her to rearrange her hair and make some additions to her toilet, then they were going for a walk.

“I don’t know where we can go, I am sure,” said Elise; “we have used up all the pretty walks near by. I wish it was early enough to go for a long tramp; I would like to do something different this afternoon. I feel tired of all the things I ever did.”

“Poor little old lady!” said Miss Turner, laughing, “there will have to be a new world made for you, Elise.” Then, as she turned, she caught the flash of the diamond at Elise’s throat, and said: “How lovely your pin is! It seems too lovely and too costly for a young girl.”

“It was mamma’s,” said Elise gravely, “and papa promised mamma he would give it to me on my fourteenth birthday. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Why, no, indeed. That explains it. I wondered that your father should send you a diamond pin at your age; but it is beautiful for you to have your mother’s pin to wear. Why didn’t you tell me, Elise?”

“Because,” said Elise, “there was a part to it that I did not understand, and I suppose I did not want to speak of it. Mamma sent me a message with it; at least papa said that the words inside were her message; she had them engraved on it before she died, so it seems like mamma’s last words to me, and indeed it is; but I do not understand it, nor know how to do it, nor anything. I don’t suppose you could show me?”

The question was asked with a half-laugh, and not at all as though Elise supposed that she could get any help from this quarter.

Miss Turner’s fair face flushed. “I don’t suppose I could,” she answered gravely; “I don’t know much about such things, Elise.”

What she meant by “such things” perhaps would have been difficult for her to explain. But the thought in her mind was, that “last messages” from dying mothers would not be such as she could explain. Elise’s mother had been dead for many years; at least they seemed many to Elise, though she could remember her beautiful mother distinctly; and when she thought it all over, as she often did in the twilight, could seem to feel her mother’s kiss upon her lips, and the pressure of her mother’s hand on the yellow curls which used to be hers in those days. She was not yet six years old when her mother went away, but there were times when it seemed to her that she had seen her only yesterday. And at other times the years which stretched between seemed very, very long. Her father was in India in the Government employ; had been there for five years. And Elise, who received long letters from him, and elegant presents, and talked a great deal about him, yet felt sometimes that she really knew him less than she did her beautiful pale mother, who used to love her so, and kiss her so tenderly. Elise lived with an aunt who was very fond of her, and did everything to supply her mother’s place, and her uncle called her his adopted daughter; yet sometimes she cried when she was tucked up in bed for the night, because she longed so to have a mamma and papa and a home of her own, like other girls. It was perhaps because Miss Turner had no mother that she had felt drawn toward her in the first place.

“What is the message?” her friend asked. “May I see it, Elise? I am half-surprised that you do not understand it; you are such a thoughtful young person, and seem older than you are; I have a feeling that you can understand what most others do.”

Elise made no reply save to unclasp the pin and pass it to her friend. Miss Turner moved toward the window, where the light would fall upon it. It was a lovely arch of gold, a tiny diamond flashing in its center, and on the reverse side was engraved, in small but distinct letters, the words: “Keep His covenant.” “Why, Elise!” she said, “how beautiful this is. I should think you would like it very much.”

“I do,” said Elise, “of course; only it gives me a strange feeling, as though mamma had sent me word to do something that I could not do; and I have always thought that I would like to do things to please mamma, if I only knew just what she wanted done.”

“Well, but, dear,” said Miss Turner hesitatingly, “surely you can find out what this means, in a general way.”

Elise smiled sadly. “I remember mamma very well,” she said, “and she always wanted me to do exactly as she said.”

“Well,” said Miss Turner again, after an embarrassed pause, “this is exact enough; she means you to live a good life, you know.”

“I don’t know what it means,” said Elise, moving restlessly. “As for being good, I am not, and I don’t know how to be; I cannot keep my temper a single day. You know I never get through a day without having a tiff of some sort with Cousin Annie; and there are ever so many people who vex me and worry me so that I cannot feel right toward them. That is not being good. Besides, the words seem to me to mean something more than that—something different. I would like to know exactly what they mean, but there is nobody that I can ask. Papa does not understand such things, and uncle and auntie do not. I don’t seem to have any friends who could help in that way.”

Miss Turner gave back the pin, looking very thoughtful indeed. She ought to know more about those things than Elise did, she told herself; her father was not a Christian, and her mother had died when her little girl was six years old, whereas Miss Turner had lived always in a home where the father and mother were earnest Christians, and she knew at this very moment that the greatest desire of their hearts was to see her doing this very thing—“keeping His covenant.” Yet she knew as little about it practically as Elise Burton did; so little, that although she was at least six years older than Elise, she did not know in the least how to help her this afternoon. It was very humiliating. She could help her with her music, and with her French lessons, and her drawing, and to have this most important of all lessons beyond her, seemed strange and wrong. She was still for several minutes, then she said, speaking very gently:

“Elise dear, I can imagine how you feel with this message from your mother; I wish I knew how to help you. But there is a way to learn what it means. There is a verse in the Bible somewhere that explains its meaning.”

Elise looked up quickly. “Where?” she asked. “The Bible is such a big book, and I do not know much about it. I did try last Sunday to find something about covenants that would help me. I went away back to Noah and the rainbow, but I did not get any good out of it for me.”

Miss Dora went to her table and took up an elegantly bound reference Bible, full of help which she did not understand, and turning in a half-bewildered, half-embarrassed manner to the Concordance, ran her eye down the list of words marked “covenant.” Elise watched her curiously. She had no Concordance in her Bible, and did not know how to use one. At last Miss Dora turned to a verse.

“This explains a little of it,” she said, and read aloud: “This shall be the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel in those days, saith the Lord; I will put my law in their inward parts, and write it in their hearts, and will be their God and they shall be my people.” As she read a curious light came into her eyes.

“It is very strange,” she said; “that is the verse that they are going to talk about this afternoon at the covenant meeting.”

“What is a covenant meeting?” asked Elise eagerly.

“It is the young people’s quarterly meeting at the church where I am attending. Every three months their Christian Endeavor Society have a gathering which they call a covenant meeting. I don’t know much about it; I have not been; but they talk together about such things; the pastor comes and talks to them. They say the meetings are interesting. What if we should walk in that direction, Elise, and go in a little while? Mr. Westfield invited me to come, but I did not have an idea that I should do so. I do not attend such meetings much, you know. But if you would like to go, Elise, and find out about your pin, I will go with you.”

“Well,” said Elise, starting up with more energy than she had shown before for several days, “I will. I want to know about ‘His covenant.’ I do, truly. Mamma asked me to, you know; and perhaps if I understood it it would tell me just exactly what she wanted me to do all the time, and I should be so glad to do it.”

“We will go and find out,” said Miss Turner gravely.

Thus the little seed dropped by the loving mother’s hand took root and blossomed in two lives, though the hand which sowed the seed had been dust for many years.

PANSY.

A SCARECROW.

ALEX HAINES and Eva were promised a piece of ground as their very own if they would cultivate (what is that?) it.

Each took a hoe and began. By night Alex and Eva had planted a rod square to corn.

Then they watched the corn; that is, they watched for the corn. After a few days, sure enough, the spots where the corn was planted—that is, the hills—began to swell as though something wanted to get out. Then up came a bit of a green leaf. Higher it grew, and they came often to see it.

One day they came and found some of the hills pulled up, and while they wondered what thief had been about, they heard from the top of a tree, “Caw, caw, caw!”

The thief was a crow.

So they must scare the crows away, or the corn will be all pulled up, and their labor will be in vain.

Crows are afraid of men; but men cannot stay all the time in the field to scare the crows off. So something that looks like a man must be set up in the corn patch to scare the crows away.

With a pair of pants, a coat, a hat, and three old brooms, they are making a man! When it is all done it will not look much like a man. It has neither eyes, nose nor mouth. It can not walk nor talk. The scarecrow has no heart or soul, but it can scare crows away from the corn.

The gods of the heathen have eyes, but they can’t see. They can’t see or hear or feel or think.

They are made gods, and those who make such gods worship them. They think such things can scare away evil and do them good!

But such gods just scare the heathen, and of course cannot save them.

Ah! if the poor, deceived people knew of Him “who so loved the world that He gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

What Pansy among you will go and tell them, or help send a preacher to them?

L.

* * * * *

THERE is a grand temperance organization in Sweden, which is trying to get rid of the saloon. Last year their Government appropriated twenty-five thousand crowns, a portion of which was set apart to be used as awards for the best essays on the different phases of the temperance question, with suggestions as to how soonest to rid the country of the curse of alcohol.

A DOUBLE LESSON.

“THERE!” said Davie Campbell, flinging as he spoke a large, sharp-pointed stick right where his brother stood, “take that; I don’t care if it does hurt you. I hate you, George Campbell!”

The stick was aimed even more surely than Davie in his blind rage imagined. It struck his brother’s side face, making an ugly wound, from which the blood flowed freely.

“Ah, ha!” said George, as he turned to the pump and began to bathe the wound, “look what you have done now. What will mother say to you, young man? And as for me, that will make a scar, and I will wear it all my life to remember you by. You will like that, won’t you? You will just enjoy having people ask me where I got that scar, and me having to tell that my beloved brother did it on purpose, because he hated me. Oh, ho! you are a jewel, you are,” and George Campbell laughed, and dodged just in time to escape a stone from his angry brother’s hand; then went off down the street, leaving Davie in a perfect rage.

He was three years younger than his brother, and was said by the neighbors to have a great deal worse disposition than George, but I never felt sure of that. However, it is quite true that instead of being master of his temper he let it master him. He had, also, a wretched habit of throwing anything he might happen to have in his hand when the angry fit seized him, letting it strike wherever it might. In this way he had narrowly escaped doing serious mischief, and he had promised himself hundreds of times that he would never, never throw things again, and yet, as soon as he grew angry, so settled was that habit upon him, that the stick or stone was apt to fly through the air. As for George, I think he was quite as easily angered as his brother, but his habit was to laugh, or sneer, or say the most taunting words imaginable, with a sort of superior smile on his face the while. On the whole, I am not sure that George appeared any better in the sight of Him who can read hearts than did his brother Davie.

They were not the worst boys in the world, by any means; they did not quarrel all the time. For days together they would succeed in being very friendly, and in having good times, but it must be confessed that George had discovered certain directions in which his young brother could be easily teased, and that he delighted to tease him.

“Davie is such a little spitfire,” he used to say to his Aunt Mary, when she argued with him about the sin of such a habit. “Why does he want to go off like a pop gun the first word that is said to him? I never do.”

“No,” said Aunt Mary; “you laugh—a laugh which makes him feel more angry than he did before, and you say something to increase his rage. Is that really being any better than he?” But these questions George did not like to answer.

On this particular morning, after having stopped the blood from his wound, he had sauntered away to see two of his friends who worked in the paper factory near at hand. There he mounted their work table and answered the questions which they eagerly put to him as to how he happened to get hurt.

“Oh! it is Davie’s work; he’s a great boy. If he had had an open jack-knife in his hand it would have been all the same; it would have been flung at me when he got mad. I hope when he grows up he will never take a notion to carry a pistol, for if he does he will shoot the first fellow who laughs at him, or who laughs when he is within hearing.”

“Why, George,” said one of the boys, “that will make an ugly scar.”

“I dare say it will. I will carry it all my life to remember him by.”

“It is a pity that he is such a little tiger; I wouldn’t stand it if I were you,” said the other boy. “You are a good deal older than he; why don’t you make him behave himself?”

In this way poor Davie was discussed by the three, George telling story after story about his brother, led on by the sympathy which the two professed, into making Davie the one always to blame, and himself the injured, long-suffering elder brother. The boys did not know Davie very well, and George had always been good-natured with them, so of course they were on his side, and ready to sympathize with him for having such a wicked little brother. The longer George talked the more of a martyr he grew to considering himself; he racked his brain for illustrations of Davie’s ill temper, and was in the midst of a very harrowing story when Joe Winters appeared, breathless with running, and panted out: “Is George Campbell here? I say, George Campbell, your folks want you to come home just as fast as you can. Davie has tumbled from the scaffolding of the big barn and killed himself! or—well, he ain’t dead; but he lies there still; can’t stir nor speak, and they have sent for two doctors, and everybody thinks he is going to die.”

Poor George Campbell! To have seen the look on his face when he heard this dreadful piece of news you would not have imagined that he could have had so hard an opinion of his little brother as he had been trying to show for the last hour. He jumped from the table, and made a dash for the door before Joe had finished his panting sentences, but paused with the door in his hand to say: “O, boys! it isn’t half of it true—what I have been telling you; I have been worse than Davie every time. If I hadn’t laughed at him, and teased him, and made fun of him, he never would have got angry at me. O, boys! if he dies it will kill me.” Then he ran.

What hours those were which followed, while the little brother lay on his bed, moaning steadily, but unconscious, so the doctors declared, and they shook their heads gravely in answer to questions, and would not give one ray of hope that he might by and by open his eyes and know them. Truth to tell, they thought he was going to die, and that very soon. But doctors are sometimes mistaken, and these were. Davie did not die; he lay day after day moaning with pain, not knowing any of the dear friends who bent over him; staring at George with wild, unnatural eyes, as if he were some comical object, instead of the brother who hovered about him, longing, oh! so eagerly for just one glance of recognition.

There came a day when the doctors said it was possible—just barely possible—that Davie might awaken from the long sleep into which he had fallen, and know his friends. How still they kept the house, and how silently the mother sat hour after hour by his bedside, relieved only by the little sister, who came on tiptoe to take her place, that she might go out and drink a cup of tea to help her bear the nervous strain. Even then she only went into the next room, separated from Davie’s by a curtain, and came back when she had got half-way across the room because she thought she heard a sound behind those curtains. There was no sound; Jennie was sitting quietly at her post, a wise little nurse; she held up a warning hand, ready to motion anybody back into silence who might be tiptoeing toward them. She had imagined it was George, for he, poor fellow, hovered near, looking almost as pale and worn as the boy with his head on the pillow.

Terrible days these had been to George. He was not sure that he ever prayed in his life before, but during those days he prayed with terrible earnestness, that Davie might not go away with those last words of his ringing in his ears. “If he could only know me long enough for me to ask him to forgive me!” said poor George to himself, while the tears rolled down his cheeks. “Then I think I would be almost willing to have him die. O, God! let me just tell him that I am sorry, and that I will not remember him in any such way, but I will think of the thousands of good and loving things he has done for me.”

I am sure you will be glad to know that his prayer was answered. Davie awoke from his long sleep with a look of quiet astonishment in his eyes, to think that he was lying in bed, and mother and Jennie were sitting beside him, and that George was standing over by the window. He did not remember any of the days that had passed between. He did not remember at first the fall from the scaffolding. He was by no means out of danger, the doctor said, yet there was a thread, just a thread of hope that he might rally. And so the days which followed were quite as full of anxiety and care as those in which he had been unconscious.

But Davie steadily gained, and there came a bright morning in midsummer when George was permitted to take care of him alone, while his mother attended to some household duties, and Jennie swept the dining-room and set the table. It was George’s opportunity. He had longed for it, but he did not know how to use it. How should he begin? While he considered, Davie began for him.

“It did leave a scar, didn’t it?” he said mournfully. “O, George! I remember all about it; it came to me just a few days ago. Wasn’t it awful? George, the hardest part has been to think that maybe I should die and leave that scar for you to remember me by.”

“Don’t,” said George, who had not the least idea that he should cry any more about this thing, yet who felt the tears starting in his eyes. “O, don’t, Davie! forget those horrid hateful things I said to you. You can’t think how many nice things I had to remember of you—hundreds and hundreds of them.”

“No,” said Davie mournfully; “I have always been throwing sticks and stones and hurting things. Don’t you remember how I lamed the cat, and killed a bird once, and then made that scar on your face? That is the worst of all. O, George! if I had died what a way to be remembered. Think of the lots of things that people could have told of me like that.”

George winced visibly, for these were some of the things he had told the boys in the paper factory that day.

“I tell you what it is,” he said, swallowing hard to try and speak without a tremble in his voice, “you and I have both had a lesson, Davie. If you had died I could never have forgiven myself for having teased you for getting angry, and then having said that I would remember you by this little scar, which doesn’t amount to anything, anyhow. It wasn’t true, Davie; I wouldn’t have remembered you that way.”

“I don’t see how you could have helped it,” said Davie mournfully; “but I am truly and surely going to be different after this. If you see me getting angry and acting as if I was going to throw things, I wish you would tie up my hands, or hold them, or something.”

“We will both be different,” said George. “It won’t do to plan such things as we had to remember. We will begin now and plan to have nice pleasant things, so that when—that when”—But his voice trembled and broke; he had been too near parting with Davie forever to put in words the thought that some time the parting would surely come.

But I fancy that they must have kept their words and begun over again, for this happened several years ago. George and Davie are young men now, and yesterday I heard them called “model brothers.” They really seem to be planning to have only pleasant things to remember of each other when the time comes for one of them to go away.

PANSY.

MUSIC AND WAR.

GEORGE NOYES—that is not his real name—is now in Europe sightseeing. He spends one week in beautiful Paris, where the people talk French, and do not do everything quite as do Americans or Englishmen.

George is learning to speak French. He has got on so far that he can tell in French to the waiters just what he will have of the bill of fare.

Yesterday he and his Uncle Fred went to Pont Neuf, a bridge more than a thousand feet long, and three hundred years old. King Henry the Fourth had it built. Visitors of Paris must needs see this wonderful bridge, or they have not seen Paris. That’s what they say.

While George was looking this way and that from the bridge, and thinking of the war times of kings and princes, he heard sweet music, and turning to see whence it came, he saw a company of boys playing on drums and bugles, under the leadership of a soldier and one of their own companions.

There they drill every pleasant afternoon, and delight the multitudes who gather on Pont Neuf.

However, it is not all for fun they are playing charming French music, and among the rest the Marseillaise Hymn. They are getting ready for war times, for fierce battles and blood and death.

Most nations have had many wars, and millions of their people have been slain, and no words can tell the suffering. Some day I fear those nice French boys, grown to be men, will be playing the Marseillaise Hymn on some awful battle field, while thousands of French and Germans, or some other people, will be falling and dying!

All this because one nation wants some of the other nation’s land, or for some other wicked cause.

“Blessed are the peace makers, for”—

L.

JEAN.

COME now, the good ship _City of Paris_ sails in a few days, so let us away over the ocean to France.

Here we are in Paris, the most beautiful, though not the best city in the world, they say.

But after six days sightseeing we’ll hurry to another place, and here we are in Domremy. Here we’ll roam over the hills and think. See that cluster of trees? We must sit under them and upon that very stone. There on that grassy bank where the flowers are blooming, and at whose foot runs a gentle brook, we must spend an hour and think, think who sat upon that very spot nearly five hundred years ago and watched her father’s flock of sheep or listened to the singing birds or talked with God through the sweet roses she holds. Now she looks up at the great sun, now at a passing cloud; now a soft wind fans her face; a shepherd dog lies at her feet; just yonder some lambs are nestled together.

She is but thirteen years old, but she loves to speak to God as though he were by her side—and is he not?

Late one evening she comes leading the sheep home. Sitting alone looking out into the moonlight, Jeanne’s mother inquires: “My child, what keeps you so long in the field? You must come home earlier, my darling, or something will happen to you.”

“But, mamma, I’ve heard voices in the fields, and they seem to come from the roses and the rocks and the robins and in every wind, and they tell me of my native land and my home and God, that I must love _ma belle France_, and save it out of the hands of all its enemies, and this is what keeps me so late, my sweet, dear mamma.”

“Voices, child?”

“Aye, mamma, voices from Heaven speaking in my heart. Your Jeanne hears them loud, in my heart, at least, and they say I must save my poor sad country.”

Jeanne’s mother could say nothing, but wonder if the child was out of her mind, or if she had really had a vision of angels, as in olden times they came to the shepherds while they watched their flocks.

So the years went by, Jeanne always saying that these heavenly voices were calling her to save her unhappy country, her friends and neighbors sometimes calling her crazy.

She was now seventeen, a lovely pure girl, sorrowing much over the wars and troubles of her own beloved France. Ah! they were dark days indeed; this one wanted to be king, and that one said he must rule; armies met and fought, and some of the young men who went from Domremy, and with whom Jeanne had played, were brought back from the battle fields wounded and dying.

Then came a great army over from England, and city after city of France fell before its awful march. The frightened King Charles the Seventh feared all was lost. He knew not whither to fly with his sad little army. But just when he was going to give up word came to him about the girl of Domremy, our sweet Jeanne. Quickly a messenger was dispatched to her plain little home, and out into the fields he hastened to find her feeding her flock. He urged her to come to her king with all speed. She knew what it meant; she knew her hour was now come to save her “_la belle France_.”

Bidding her mother to pray for her, and covering her neck with kisses, she was soon galloping off with the messenger to the camp of the king. A smile of hope lit up his anxious face as she came into his presence. She told him about the “voices,” and said she was sure she could lead his army to victory if he would give her soldiers.

So then and there he put upon her the strong armor of commander, and giving her a sword and a war horse she led her little band against the English. They had heard of her, and thought she was sent of God, and fear fell upon them, and they threw down their arms and fled away in dismay.

Meanwhile, though Jeanne waved her flashing sword she never struck a blow with it, but she was again and again wounded.

At last came complete victory, and Jeanne saw the enemies of her beloved France fleeing from Orleans before her rejoicing army. For this she was called “_La Pucelle d’Orleans_,” or the Maid of Orleans. But she is usually called Joan of Arc.

After so much triumph she pleaded with her king to let her return to her dear Domremy home, but he would not consent. Meanwhile some of the great captains envied her all her victories, and managed to let her be taken prisoner. Now comes the sad, sad thing to tell. After this noble girl had saved her country, her king and the others let her be put into prison, tried, condemned, and burned to death as a witch! This is not the only case in which the best friend a country ever had was cruelly treated by that country. Jesus was crucified, crucified by his own people, whom he came to save. But scarcely had twenty years gone by before all the bitter persecutors of this dear brave Jeanne came to violent deaths, and the people, instead of calling her a witch, proclaimed her innocent, and a statue was erected to her memory on the very spot where she was burned, and her family was promoted by the king.

L.

HEATHEN WOMEN.

ONE of the two is smoking. She likes it, too. Men say it is nice to smoke and chew tobacco; why should not the women have as good a time as the men? Or why is it any worse for a woman than a man? And yet if the girls and women of America should begin to smoke and race horses, and do similar things they would be called heathenish.

So it is, women in heathen lands all have bad times and fall into bad wars. If they ever dress themselves, and behave themselves as they ought, and have good, lovely homes, and care tenderly for their children, it will be when they learn about Jesus, who came and died to save a lost world. How can they learn without a preacher?

L.

“FAX AND FIGGERS.”

WE clip from the Union Signal a remarkable “queer story,” joined to an arithmetical problem. The story has a moral well worth considering, and a “sum” worth doing.

“I hav of lait got at sum stubbun fax and figgers. 2 siggars a day, costing oanly a nikkle eech, for 20 yeers at 1st Site appeers to Bee a smol matter. Let us figger the cost. 10 sents daly for 365 daze reeches the sum ov $36.50. We will not rekkon interrist the first yeer, but the interrist on $36.50 for 19 yeers at 6 purr sent is $73.92, and the Totle ov prinsipple and interrist at 6 Purr sent, kompoundid yeerly, at the end ov 20 yeers maiks the neet little Sum ov $1,338.54. That izzn’t a grate eel, but it wood Bi 200 barrils ov good flower, and in Sum sekshuns ov the kuntry wood maik wun the oaner ov a good farm, with houce, barn, wel, sisstern, froot treeze and wood-lot on it, possibly a jurzy cow and sum Uther niknax throne into the bargin. But my expeeryunce has tot me that fax and figgers prodoose but a Slite impresshun on wun who has fully dessidid to maik bacon ov his Branes bi turning his mouth into a smoakhouce. He communly prefurs the hi and eggzaltid privvylige ov bloin smoak thru hiz noze to having enny uther erthly pozeshun.”

A PUZZLE.

IF an S and an I and an O and a U, With an X at the end spell Su; And an E and a Y and an E spell I, Pray what is a speller to do?

Then, if also an S and an I and a G And an H, E, D spell cide, There’s nothing much left for a speller to do But to go and commit siouxeyesighed. —_Selected._

CELIA’S EASTER OFFERING.

CELIA’S share of the flowers was lovely. She buried her face in the blooms again and again, and seemed unable to get enough of their sweetness.

They had spent the entire morning in the woods hunting for treasures, she and her particular friend, Helen Beardsley. Helen attended another Sunday-school, so they had carefully divided the flowers, for they were to be used in decorating the church for the Easter service.

“You will smell all the sweetness out of those things, child,” said Miss Agatha Foster, looking up from the bit of satin she was carefully embroidering. Miss Agatha was Celia’s oldest sister.

“O, no, I won’t!” said Celia, laughing; “they have all the sweetness of the woods in them. You can’t think how the woods smelled this morning! It seemed just like heaven.”

Agatha and the middle sister, Lorene, looked at each other and laughed.

“What an idea!” said Lorene; “it is the first time I ever heard the woods compared to heaven.”

Mrs. Foster came into the room at that moment, and stopped by the table near the door to arrange the books; there was a tired, somewhat troubled look on her face. “Poor Hester has had to be disappointed again about going home,” she said.

“Why, mother,” said Agatha, “that is really too bad. It is the third Saturday she has missed, and their baby is sick, you know.”

“I know it,” said Mrs. Foster, looking more troubled still; “but what can I do? There will be company to tea, and cook cannot leave the kitchen to answer the bell; she can not even attend to the downstairs bell; it rings every few minutes on Saturdays; besides, there is extra work for her to do, and somebody must set the table for her. I don’t suppose either of you could give her a lift, could you, and let Hester go?”

There was inquiry in the mother’s tone, but no expectation. Agatha lifted her eyebrows, but there was a difficult spot in her embroidery just then, so she made no reply; but Lorene turned quite away from the piano to answer:

“Why, mother, how could we? I have my practicing to do; I have to sing twice to-morrow, you know. Of course that would not take me long, but we couldn’t run to the door every time the bell rang, could we, and receive callers at the same time?”

“And as for setting the table,” said Agatha, who had righted her embroidery and was taking neat stitches, “I never could get all the things on a table. It wouldn’t be possible for me to set it for company.”

“I suppose it cannot be arranged,” said Mrs. Foster. “I must finish Grandma’s cap so she can wear it this evening; her other is really unfit, and I have several stitches to take for Celia, as well. Hester must wait another week. I told her so; but she seemed so disappointed that I wondered if there were not some way to plan it.”

“Perhaps she can run down there after tea to see how the baby is,” Lorene said, but Mrs. Foster shook her head. “Cook will need her to look after things in the kitchen while she waits on table, and it will be quite dark before we shall be through; she could not go alone after dark.”

It was Agatha’s turn to sigh. “We need a second girl,” she said; “it is ridiculous for a family of our size to try to get along with only cook, and that little bit of a Hester.”

“We shall certainly have to get along,” was her mother’s answer, spoken with quiet positiveness; “you know as well as I that we can not afford more help this season.”

Meantime Celia, her fingers still busy with the masses of flowers she was trying to arrange in a basket for carrying, had listened, her face growing more and more gravely thoughtful.

It was Sabbath evening in her thoughts, and she was in the Christian Endeavor meeting, listening to Agatha’s voice while she quoted from some grand old writer a thought like this: “We plan our Easter offerings, and beautify His temple for the glad day, and that is well; but we are to remember that as there would have been no Easter had He not given Himself, so the highest and best offering we can bring to Him is our unselfish consecrated selves.” Celia remembered the thrill with which she had listened. Agatha’s voice was like music, and the thoughts had seemed to fit her voice and make a poem of them, which had thrilled the beauty-loving heart of her young sister.

That was a week ago. Why should the words come back to her this afternoon, and ring in her heart like soft bells, calling her?

What had they to do with Hester, and the door-bells to answer, and the table to set for company, and a sick baby at home? “The highest and best offering we can bring to Him is our unselfish consecrated selves,” rang the bells in her heart, and her lips spoke: “Mother, may I take Hester’s place this afternoon, and let her go home? I can set the table; cook said I did it beautifully the last time.”

“You!” said her mother, in surprise, and both the sisters exclaimed. “Why, I thought, dear, your class was to meet at Marion’s to help arrange the flowers for the Easter service?”

“And I thought you were all invited to stay to tea at Marion’s?” added Agatha.

“So we are,” said Celia, answering them both in one; “but the girls can get along well enough without me. There are eight of them, and Marion’s Aunt Laura is going to show them how to arrange everything; and as for staying to tea, why, I can do that another time; and the baby is sick, and Hester is worried about him, I know. I should like to stay, mother, truly, if you will let me.”

“Let you, child! I shall be thankful for your help. To tell the truth, it seemed really selfish to keep Hester this afternoon, only I did not know how to plan; I was sure cook could not get along without help, though she was willing to try, because she felt sorry for Hester.”

“May I tell Hester about it, mother?” Celia asked, her eyes shining; “and she can carry my flowers and leave them at Marion’s.”

The flowers and their owner went away together, followed by Mrs. Foster. As for the young ladies, Agatha took pretty pink silk stitches on the lovely white satin and said not a word, while Lorene, turning to the piano, played a few bars, and sang softly:

“Low in the grave he lay, Jesus my Saviour,”

breaking off to say: “Celia is a strange little girl, isn’t she?”

“Very strange,” answered Agatha, and she finished a pink bud as she spoke. She was making an Easter offering.

Nobody, it is safe to say, was more surprised at the turn of affairs than was Hester. She thought about it while she hurriedly combed the tangle of hair before her bit of broken glass, and made ready for going home. She was worried about the baby, but she divided her thoughts with this strange offering from Celia. She knew all about the Easter flowers, and the plans for the afternoon, and the high tea together at Marion’s lovely home. Celia’s talk had been full of it for the past two days. “I’d just like to know what made her do it, anyhow,” was Hester’s concluding question, offered aloud to the tin basin, in which she energetically washed her hands when the hair was done.

Easter morning was beautiful with sunshine and the song of birds, when Celia, looking from her window, saw Hester tripping around to the back door. She had been allowed to stay at home all night.

“O, Hester!” called Celia, “how is the baby?”

Hester looked up with a glad smile. “He is better,” she said, “ever so much better. Mother would have sent me word, only she expected me. He laughed and crowed as soon as he saw me, and you can’t think what a lovely time I had with him. Say, Celia, I want to know what made you do it?”

Celia’s sensitive face flushed, and she hesitated. How was she to tell Hester why she did it? From the next room came the notes of Lorene’s voice, as clear as any bird’s, rising high and pure:

“Low in the grave he lay, Jesus my Saviour.”

“It was that,” she said simply.

“What?” asked Hester; “I don’t know what you mean.”

“That that Lorene is singing. He ‘lay in the grave,’ you know, for us. That is why it is Easter. I wanted to do something for somebody, and I hadn’t any big thing.”

“It was a big thing to me,” Hester said, and went inside the back door. Celia’s face was just a trifle shadowed. Despite every effort to put it away, the thought would come: “After all, I needn’t have given it up. The baby is better, and her mother would have sent her word, and another Saturday would have done just as well; and I missed all the beauty and the fun. I know how to arrange flowers.”

The shadow staid just a little during the Sunday-school hour. The girls were eager over the delights of the day before—eager to know how she could possibly have staid away. The lovely cross made largely of her own flowers, and bearing on their green background in pure white blossoms the words, “He is risen,” was the most beautiful floral decoration in the church. “Aunt Laura made it,” Marion said. “You did not deserve to have it arranged so beautifully; we thought you ought to have had interest enough to have come and seen it, anyhow. Why didn’t you?”

“Never mind now,” said Celia; “I cannot explain, only I thought I could not go.” Her offering seemed to her small and uncalled-for; she could not talk about it. Yet, before the morning prayer in church was over, the shadow had lifted. “I did it truly for Him,” said Celia softly, to herself; “He knows I did, and whether it was of use or not, it is all right.” And when Lorene sang, in a voice like an angel’s:

“Low in the grave he lay, Jesus my Saviour,”

she could not help being glad that she did it.

That evening, when they were coming out of the Christian Endeavor meeting, the minister, who was shaking hands with the young people on every side, held in his left hand a single calla lily of rare beauty. As he held out his hand to Celia he laid the lily against her cheek and said: “That is for you, little girl. A token from the Master, I think, since he made it. Let me tell you something which will make it bloom for you forever. Hester came to me this evening to say that she wanted to belong to Jesus, and learn how to grow like him, just as you had.”

PANSY.

WHITE AS WOOL.

WOOL is not always white. Its owner sometimes is black—was born black. It can’t help it, you see. Sometimes, however, it gets into the dirt, and the snowy wool becomes dirty.

Sometimes it creeps among the burned stumps and logs, and soon looks as black as the stump itself.

Now what happens? The shearer does not want to clip off such stuff, and the merchant can’t sell dirty wool, nor can the weaver weave a nice shawl from it; and, if he did, no clean Pansy would want to put it on week days or Sundays.

What then? It must be washed. The dirty black sheep must be put into the water, and washed and washed and washed.

Then let him go up from the water and give himself a good shaking and stand in the green grass and let the warm, shining sun dry its hair—I mean wool.

Now it is white and soft and beautiful, and if Mr. Sheep could see himself in the looking-glass he might be proud of his beauty.

The blood of Jesus Christ cleanses from all sin. Sin is a dirty thing—worse than mud. Heathenism is a dreadfully dirty, filthy thing. The Gospel we send them is like water for the dirty wool.

The Bible says to the worst sinner there is in the world:

“Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson they shall be as wool.” (Is. i. 18.)

L.

EASTER GREETING.

BE thy risen Lord, to-day, All thy help and all thy stay; All thy comfort in the night; All thy gladness in the light; Filling, with his love divine, Every hungering of thine! ALICE F. DUNLAP.

MISS LOUISE JOHNSON’S LETTER.

SHE wrote it from Lien Chow, China. It was published in “Woman’s Work for Woman.”

Here it is:

“We expect to be packed into smaller boats this P. M. to go the last ten miles up the Sam Kong River. People are looking at the windows. Women are expressing astonishment that I can write. . . .

“We have had a charming trip. The beauty of the country grows upon me. Many of the clear crystal waterfalls were several hundred feet in descent. The river winds around the bases of mountains, and so seems to be a succession of beautiful lakes. It reminds one of Delaware Water Gap.

“We traveled in the daytime, stopping an hour or two. Then came the sick to our Dr. Machle. We gave tracts to the people. At one place the women came in little boats. I stood at the window and read to them. They listened, and thanked me for ‘teaching’ them.

“I want to write more letters, though I now write many. It takes three months for a letter and its reply from New York to Canton; four months to Sam Kong. I like to write, and am delighted to get letters. Some of the best have been from strangers. So all my dear young friends may continue to write me; I will answer as soon as I can get time.”

BABY’S CORNER.

A MAY MORNING.

IN a green yard stands a gray old house. In the house live six happy children. They have many things to make them glad and happy.

All around are green fields and hills and tall trees. Every day they see the pretty pictures which the sun makes in the sky when he gets up and goes to bed. There are no big houses in the way to hide the red and pink clouds.

A little brook goes dancing by at the foot of the hill. You can see the little white stones through the water.

They have a great many pets—colts and calves and chickens and rabbits and cats.

And there are ever so many nice things for them to do. They fish in the brook or take off their shoes and stockings and wade in the water. They hunt in the grass for red berries. They swing in the big swing under the maple-tree. They go after the cows and hunt butterflies, and tumble on the hay in the barn.

Such good times!

This bright May morning mamma and all six of them are out in the orchard. The apple-trees are full of pink and white flowers, and the cherry-trees are all white, like pop corn.

What a pretty sight!

The air is sweet with the breath of the blossoms. Everything is gay and happy. The brook is tinkling, the bees are humming, the birds are singing.

Little children must sing, too. Hark! hear them.

It is a little song which begins:

“Blooming May Makes all gay.”

And this little song ends like this—the children all like to sing it:

“Tra la la la la la la. Tra la la la.”

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

KITTY KNEW ABOUT SHEEP.

“SEVEN sheep were standing By the pasture wall. Tell me,” said the teacher, To her scholars small, “One poor sheep was frightened, Jumped and ran away. One from seven—how many Woolly sheep would stay?”

Up went Kitty’s fingers— A farmer’s daughter she, Not so bright at figures As she ought to be. “Please, ma’am”—“Well, then, Kitty, Tell us, if you know.” “Please, if one jumped over All the rest would go.”

* * * * *

SAID Willie: “The Man in the Moon In Mother Goose came down too soon, For I’ve read it over and over; But he’d done a sillier thing to-day, When Flossie and I went out to play And roll in the field of clover. For up in the sky, right overhead, When every star had gone to bed, And the sun was shining bright, We saw his moon, looking pale and thin, Because he’d forgotten to take it in, After hanging there all night!” —_Selected._

THE BEE’S WISDOM.

SAID a wandering little maiden To a bee with honey laden, “Bee, at all the flowers you work, Yet in some does poison lurk.”

“That I know, my pretty maiden,” Said the bee with honey laden, “But the poison I forsake, And the honey only take.”

“Cunning bee, with honey laden, That is right,” replied the maiden; “So will I, from all I meet, Only draw the good and sweet.” —_Selected._

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xii. 34.)

“O GENERATION of vipers.”

Thus Jesus called the Jews or their leaders. Put this with other names he gave them—“hypocrites,” “fools and blind,” “serpents” (read the twenty-third chapter of Matthew)—and maybe you will wonder how he, so gentle and forgiving, could do it.

“Yes,” you say, “they did provoke Him; they treated Him most outrageously, calling Him all sorts of bad names, and finally putting Him to death in the most cruel manner. But it does not seem quite right for Him to call them vile names back again. It looks as though He lost his temper and became awfully angry with his enemies.”

Indeed it does say He once looked around upon them with anger. So you are right with that word, but its real meaning is indignation, the righteous feeling every one should have against wrong. Thus you ought to feel against swearing, stealing, the liquor business and all such things. It would be wicked for you to smile at such things. So much for anger—the anger of Jesus. Now about “calling names.”

You must remember Jesus knew the hearts of these Pharisee Jews—how black, how vile they were, while they thought themselves quite good and beautiful. Gentle talk to them did no good. To have them see themselves as they really were, he must be plain; he must speak out. What he did was not “calling names” as one boy does to another, when he is “mad” with him and hates him. Jesus did not hate them, bad as they were. He would save them if they would repent and come to him. So he must warn them by telling them the awful truth.

So it was; Jesus could draw some by gentle, loving words and ways; others, if saved at all, must be driven. Jesus acted according to the kind of people he was speaking to.

May we sometimes deal this terrible way with sinners? May ministers do it? Some years ago Rev. C. G. Finney did often speak to many who came out to oppose him and make fun of religion—he did speak very plainly and severely. It is said Mr. Moody once rebuked a wicked man this very way. But not every one can wisely do it. It must be done with great sorrow. No doubt it almost broke Jesus’ heart to say such plain things. A parent sometimes must punish a naughty child; it hurts him to do it, however. He often weeps more than the punished child.

L.

SOMETHING FOR PAPA.

BY this time you are feeling that papa is being neglected, and that mamma and sister are having all the gifts; though I believe papa would like the nice writing-case with pockets which we planned in November quite as well, perhaps, as any member of the family. However, I am sure of one thing he will like, and it is something which you, my girl, can make, with some industry and very little expense. I do hope you know how to knit, the nice old-fashioned knitting which our dear grandmothers understood so well? If you do not, my first advice to you is to master that fine art which has of late years gone so nearly out of fashion; it is coming to the front again, and there is no end to the neat little comforts which you can make with the aid of a ball of tidy cotton and two large knitting needles. I will not attempt to teach you the stitch on paper, though if you sat by my side I could show it to you with very little trouble. If there is not a dear white-haired grandmother in your home, as I hope there is, borrow one of some friend, and beg her to teach you how to knit. Of course it is just possible that mamma herself understands the stitch; you might try her.

Having learned it—which I am sure you can do in an hour—get two large-size needles of steel, or ivory, or wood—I like to use wood—and a ball of the very coarsest tidy cotton you can find, and set to work. Cast on as many stitches as the needle will conveniently carry, and knit back and forth, back and forth industriously, until you have a strip a yard long. Oh! it will require patience and industry; I told you that in the beginning, you know. Having finished the strip begin again, and make another precisely like it; then a third, and perhaps, if your needles are not very long, a fourth—you might consult with mamma or Auntie as to that. When the four are finished—in order to be sure to have the article large enough we will say four—fold the side edges of two neatly together, and knit them together with a crochet hook, or sew them with a needle and some of the tidy cotton, as you will; add the third and fourth in the same manner, and when all is complete if you do not have a bath towel which will please papa better than any Turkish towel he ever bought, I shall be astonished and disappointed. For fear of discouraging you at the outset, I mentioned a yard as the length, but let me whisper to you, entirely in confidence, that if you should make it a yard and a half long, or even a trifle longer, papa would like it better still. You see I have heard the gentlemen groan over short bathing towels, and I know all about it.

You see with how very little expense such an article could be made, and I really do not know of any one thing which will add more to the comfort of the toilet. Some gentlemen like very coarse and rough bathing towels, in which case macremé cord is sometimes used instead of tidy cotton; probably mamma could advise you wisely in this direction, also.

If you undertake such a gift, I hope you will have the kindness to write and tell me how you succeeded, when and how the gift was presented, what was said, and all about it.

Your friend, PANSY.

* * * * *

IF anything unkind you hear About some one you know, my dear, Do not, I pray you, it repeat When you that some one chance to meet; For such news has a leaden way Of clouding o’er a sunny day. But if you something pleasant hear About some one you know, my dear, Make haste—to make great haste ’twere well, To her or him the same to tell; For such news has a golden way Of lighting up a cloudy day.—_Selected._

A Walking Wonder

Sir Geoffrey had a little son Who liked to strut about And wave a sword or shoot a bow And raise a martial shout.

One day he saw a sight like this [Helmet walking with four legs and a tail] And did he run? Oh, no! He caught this walking helmet fast And raised the visor so! [Cat under helmet]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

The title for “A DELIGHTFUL WRITER” was taken from the page header as the story itself began with only the illustration.

HOWARD’S WAY: “attemped” changed to “attempted” (once attempted to answer)

WHEN HE WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD: “mysstery” changed to “mystery” (whose mystery fills)