Part 3

You see this boy knew that his rights had been interfered with, and he went to the one having authority to redress his wrongs. He did not throw stones or say naughty words, but in a manly, dignified way demanded his rights.--_Selected._

HOW THE FIRST PANSY WAS MADE.

AN angel's thought flew down to earth, Borne on a golden beam of light; And pausing, rested in the heart Of a sweet, blue-eyed violet bright.

And finding there a flower-soul Free from all taint of earthly pride, The angel's thought would fain remain, And in the Pansy still doth hide.

And so these gold and purple flowers, The soft-eyed Pansies which we love, Sprang from the violet which received An angel's thought from heaven above. LYDIA HOYT FARMER.

POEM FOR RECITATION.

EASTER.

My sweet little neighbor Bessie I thought was busy with play, When she turned, and brightly questioned, "Say, what is the Easter day?"

"Has nobody told you, darling-- Do they 'Feed His Lambs' like this?" I gathered her to my bosom, And gave her a tender kiss.

Away went the cloak for dolly, And away went dolly too, As again she eagerly questioned, With eyes so earnest and blue:

"Is it like birthdays or Christmas-- Or like Thanksgiving Day; Do we just be good like Sunday, Or run and frolic and play?

"I know there's flowers to it, And that is most all I know; I've got a lovely rosebush, And a bud begins to grow."

Then in words most few and simple I told to the gentle child The story whose end is Easter-- The Life of the Undefiled.

Told of the manger of Bethlehem, And about the glittering star That guided the feet of the shepherds Watching their flocks from afar,

Told of the lovely Mother, And the Baby who was born To live on the earth among us Bearing its sorrows and scorn.

And then I told of the life He lived Those wonderful thirty years, Sad, weary, troubled, forsaken, In this world of sin and tears,

Until I came to the shameful death That the Lord of Glory died, Then the tender little maiden Uplifted her voice and cried.

I came at length to the garden Where they laid His form away, And then in the course of telling I came to the Easter day--

The day when sorrowing women Came there to the grave to moan, And the lovely shining angels Had rolled away the stone.

I think I made her understand As well as childhood can, About the glorified risen life Of him who was God and Man.

This year the fair Easter lilies Will gleam through a mist of tears, For I shall not see sweet Bessie In all of the coming years.

When the snow lay white and thickest She quietly went away To learn from the lips of angels The meaning of Easter day.

We put on the little body The garments worn in life, And laid her deep in the frozen earth Away from all noise and strife.

We took all the dainty playthings, And the dollies new and old, And placed them in a sacred spot With a tress of shining gold.

Were it not for the star of Bethlehem, And the dawn of Easter day, It would be to us most bitter To put our darling away.

But we know that as the hard brown earth Holds lilies regal and white, So the lifeless, empty, useless clay Held once an angel of light.

And I hope on the Easter morning To look from the grave away, Thinking not of the child that _was_, But the child that _is_ to-day. EMILY BAKER SMALLE.

_Volume 13, Number 24._ Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co. _April 17, 1886._

THE PANSY.

WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.

FIRST, through some of the busiest, narrowest, noisiest, dirtiest streets of New York City; if you have never hurried down them, you have no idea how much that means. A ferry boat, a bit of a ride, and I was in New York no more, but in New Jersey. The Jersey Central train stood waiting.

"All aboard for Long Branch," shouted an official. I did not want to go to Long Branch, but I hurried along as fast as though I did; the truth was, I knew my stopping place was not far away from that famous spot. In a few minutes we were off; not long before the smell of old ocean began to steal in at the windows, and at last we caught glimpses of beach stretching away in the distance.

Not a long ride, only a matter of a couple of hours on an express train, despite the many stations called out: "Matawan," and "Red Bank," and "Little Silver," and I know not how many more. At last, "Long Branch" and "Elberon;" then, in a few minutes more, "Ocean Grove and Asbury Park." At this, a great company of us began to scurry around and find our shawl straps, and lunch baskets, and what not.

I'm not going to tell you about Asbury Park; at least not much. Some other time I may say a good deal about this pretty city by the sea, but just now I'm anxious to tell of what happened at night. The day had been pleasant enough; not summer, but late spring, bright and sunshiny; we rejoiced over the thought of getting sight of the beautiful beach; reminding each other how lovely the sea looked by moonlight.

Alas, there was no moon for us that night! At least she did not once show her silver face; instead, the sky was black with clouds, and the sea took on its sullen look, and roared as it lashed the shore constantly with great angry waves. We shivered and tugged at our wraps as the wind tried to whirl them away, and said, as we turned to go home, how glad we were that we had no friends at sea. "The ocean looks cruel," said Grace; "I don't like him to-night."

Then we went home to our bright room; drew the curtains, closed the shutters, stirred the fire to a cheery blaze, and chatted and laughed and were happy, quite shutting out the roar of the angry sea. But he did not calm; the waves ran high, and the sullen roar kept increasing, until, by midnight, we knew it was what seamen call a gale. Occasionally we heard the fog bell toll out, and once more we were glad that we had no dear ones at sea.

Somebody had, though; and while we slept quietly, knowing nothing of it, brave men were awake and at work. A danger signal was seen just off shore; what excitement there was! How did the men of the life-saving crew know that they were needed? They had been disbanded for the summer, the dangerous season being supposed to be over; and here was blowing one of the worst storms of the winter! I don't know how they heard the news. Their hearts waked and watched, perhaps; anyway, they came, great stalwart men, and in a twinkling opened their boathouse, and got out their apparatus which had been carefully put away, and before the third signal went up through the stormy water, were ready for action.

I don't know how they did it. At this time of which I write, they had no regular lifeboat such as is now in use; they were not regularly manned for work in any way. Never mind, they did it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Oh, I do not know how many people rode, some way, over the stormy water, on a rope, and reached the shore. Drenched, powerless, almost breathless, yet alive! Who do you think was one of the first to arrive that night? Why, a little baby less than three months old! What! _She_ did not cling to ropes! Oh, no. All she did was to lie in utmost quiet in the hands of a great strong man; he was lashed to the rope in such a way that the men on shore could pull him in, but the baby he held in his two strong hands, as high above the fury of the waves as the hands would reach. What if he had dropped her? Then the sea would have swallowed her in an instant? An awful journey, but the baby did not know it. She must have gasped a little for breath, and she may have cried, but no one heard her; the roaring ocean took care of that.

You don't see how she lived through it? They did not think she could; not even the mother, when she took a second to kiss her, before she gave her into the strong arms, thought that she should ever see her darling again. But it was the only possible way of escape; they could but try. So the baby rode into shore, and I think as many as a hundred mothers stood waiting to receive her, with hot blankets enough to smother her, and warm milk enough to drown her in; for it had gotten abroad in some way that a baby was on board the sinking ship. If you could have heard the shout that went up when the baby was landed in the arms of one mother, who said, after a second of solemn hush: "Yes, she is living!" you would have felt as though you almost knew what a life was worth.

The next morning what a walk we had along the coast! How still the sea lay; the waves crept up softly one after another as if so ashamed of their last night's work that they would a little rather not be seen or heard at all. Bits of board, and old tarred rope, and barrel staves and seaweed lined the beach for miles, and coffee sacks by the hundred kept washing in to shore. The vessel had been laden with coffee. People were very busy putting the beach in order, planning how to reach the wreck, wondering whether she could be gotten off, or would have to lie half-buried in the sand and slowly fall to pieces. Here and there were groups of people, listening, while one man talked excitedly; he was a sailor and had his wonderful story to tell of danger and escape. But the happiest man on the beach that morning was one who rubbed his hands in actual glee, and smiling broadly on every one who came up to him, would say in a loud, glad voice, "Yes, I lost everything I had in the world, but my wife and children are all here; yes, baby and all!" and then he would wipe the great tears from his eyes, and laugh so loud and glad a laugh that all the people around would have to join it.

All his children safe! They clustered around him, several sturdy-looking boys, and I watched them with eager interest. _Were_ they all safe? Could the father be sure? The ocean had not swallowed them, but suppose some awful rum saloon caught them in its clutches and drew them in and in until they went down in a storm of drunkenness to utter ruin! What was an ocean storm to that? Pitiless ocean, rave as it might, could not touch the soul; but the rum saloon has power to destroy both body and soul. What joy there was over the three-months-old baby! and yet she may live to be a drunkard's wife, and a drunkard's mother, and to cry out in bitterness of soul because the ocean did not swallow her that night. Isn't it strange and sad to think of? The father thought his children safe, and yet so many oceans of temptation lay ready to engulf them! none more bitter, more fierce, more wide-spread in its raging, than this ocean of alcohol. Dear boys and girls, what can we do to help save the children for their fathers? Will you all join the life-saving crew, and work with a will, to rescue victims from this ocean?

PANSY.

"FATHER'S OLD BOOTS ARE THERE."

MANY a picture of moving pathos appears in the dark gallery of drunkenness. We have seen but few more touching ones than this from the pen of Mrs. M. A. Kidder. She describes little Benny, the son of a drunken father, sitting in a room with his mother and little sister. By looking at this sad and thoughtful face one would have taken him to be ten years of age, yet he was but six. No wonder. For four years this almost baby had been used to seeing a drunken father go in and out of the cottage. He scarcely remembers anything from him but cruelty and abuse. But now he is dead! The green sod had lain on his grave a week or so, but the terrible effects of his conduct were not buried with him. The poor children would start with a shudder at every uncertain step on the walk outside, and at every hesitating hand upon the latch. On the day mentioned Benny's mother was getting dinner. "Will my little son go to the wood-shed, and get mother a few sticks to finish boiling the kettle?"

"I don't like to go to the wood-shed, mamma."

"Why, my son?"

"Because there is a pair of father's old boots out there, and I don't like to see them."

"Why do you mind the old boots, Benny, any more than the old coat and hat upstairs?"

"Because," said Benny, tears filling his blue eyes, "they look as if they wanted to kick me."

Oh the dreadful after-influence of a drunken father to innocent children! what an awful memory to bear through life!--_Richmond Christian Advocate._

MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE.

BY PARANETE.

VI.--MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE SAVES A LIFE.

"WHEN morning came," continued my friend, "how disconsolate I was! In all my wanderings I had never had the misfortune to be cast out and trodden under foot of men before! The sun was shining beautifully, the dew was glittering on the blades of grass, the birds were singing, and the flowers were blooming sweetly, but I was unhappy.

"Suddenly a little boy and girl turned the corner, and walked swiftly up towards that part of the walk where I was. The little girl uttered an exclamation:

"'Good luck, Fred! I've found a pin!' and she picked me up and put me in her belt. They walked along, talking merrily, when a butterfly flew along the walk. The little boy ran after it, and soon had it under his hat. 'Let me have that pin, Bess,' he said, and when she had given me to him he pinned his handkerchief over the hat, with me and another pin that he had, and walked home bareheaded.

"Reaching their house, he went up to his room, threw the other poor pin out of the window, and, much to my dismay, impaled the butterfly on me. How horrid I felt! I would have shuddered if I could, for how cruel was the boy to make me the innocent instrument of the death of a poor winged insect, that had been so bright and happy but a few moments before!

"But just then his sister came along, and seeing the butterfly fluttering on me, gradually losing its strength, she uttered an exclamation of horror, and let the poor thing go, placing me where she had before. Her brother Fred came in.

"'Now, Bess, that's mean! What possessed you to let my butterfly go?'

"'Because it was so cruel, Fred dear. I couldn't bear to see it struggling so!' and a tear came into her eye.

"Her brother muttered something about girls' tender feelings.

"That day as Bessie and her mother were sitting sewing on the piazza of their house, her mother wanted a pin, and so she speedily delivered me into the lady's hands. She used me for some sewing a little while, and then put me on a little pincushion in her work-box, where I remained for about a week.

"Then there was a commotion in the house. I learned from various talks that Fred with a good many other boys, was going camping into the woods, and they were busy getting ready for his departure. He was off at last. He had a gun, a satchel full of clothing, and an umbrella. Just as he was going out of the door, and his mother was kissing him good-by, she said:

"'Fred, wait a moment. I didn't give you any pins, and you may need some.'

"So saying, she took me and a few others from the cushion in her work-box, and putting them hastily on Fred's coat, bade him good-by again, and he started.

"I cannot tell you all the fun that the boys had in the woods; they seemed perfectly happy, and fished, and shot poor animals, and climbed, all the time. Wherever Fred went, I went too.

"At night they would go into the tents, and lie down, sleeping soundly all night, and getting up early in the morning, to eat what they had caught latest the day before. All night I kept watch over Fred's pillow, in his coat that was hanging on a nail driven into one of the tent-poles.

"One day one of the dogs came to the place where the boys were taking dinner, sniffing around their legs, and showing as plainly as possible that he had discovered something. The boys hastily finished their dinner, and followed the noble animal into the woods. Soon the dog stopped, and looking ahead, they saw, by a pool, a splendid deer drinking, little suspecting what danger there was near.

"'Fire!' said the boys' leader; and a dozen shots went crashing into the poor deer's side. It fell down dying. One of the boys went over to examine it. When he reached it, it gave one faint struggle, and expired. But a boy that had remained thought it was yet alive, and fired another shot, taking care not to aim at the one who had gone forward. But he was just bending over to examine the horns of the animal, and the shot went crashing into his leg! Then there was an uproar! The boys all rushed forward, my master among them, and examined the poor boy's leg, which was bleeding very badly.

"'Where is a bandage?' said some one. So the leader took out of his pocket a very large handkerchief, and wound it tightly just above the wound. The blood stopped flowing. 'Where is a string to tie it with?' he said. No one had one, but Fred put his hand to his coat, and taking me from it, said, 'Here is a pin, Tom. Pin it quick!'

"So the handkerchief was pinned tightly around the leg, and the blood didn't ooze out any more. However, the wound pained the poor boy very much. The others fixed him pretty comfortably on the soft body of the deer, while two of them went for a doctor as fast as possible.

"It was two hours before he came.

"'Not very serious,' he said, at which every body drew a long breath of relief. 'But it would have been,' he continued, 'if you hadn't pinned this bandage on so securely. He would certainly have bled to death.'

"You may imagine that I felt proud then. I had saved a life! If it had not been for me the boy would have died! To be sure, another pin would have done, but then it was--_me_! I felt that I was doing wrong to be so proud, and like everyone who sins, I got my punishment. When the doctor undid the bandage, he carelessly threw me on the ground, and paid no more attention to me, for when he replaced a better bandage on the limb, he used a wide strip of cloth to fasten it with.

"You can not imagine my feelings then! There I was, cast on the ground in the woods, where nobody would ever find me. I would rust, and fall to pieces! I would never be moved from that lonesome, dreary place. And it was my fault! I felt that it was my punishment for feeling so proud. To be sure, the doctor did not know that I was proud when he threw me on ground, but I felt 'in my bones,' as it were, that it was my punishment for feeling so lofty because I had been the humble means of saving a life. The agony of those few moments will be a lesson to me through life, and if I ever feel lofty and haughty again, I shall be surprised.

"I say 'those few moments,' for soon, some of the boys came to remove the body of the deer, and Fred, who was among them, happening to see me on the ground said:

"'Halloo! I guess I'll pick you up. I've learned how useful a pin may be.'

"So my stay on the ground in the woods was not long, for he returned me to the lining of his coat."

TO PANSY.

GOD loves Pansies, with their child-like faces Looking up, catching every ray of light, Seeking to be fair in the Father's sight. One who owneth all their charms and graces, Lighting up, like them, earth's desert places, Claims sweet sisterhood with these blossoms bright; Hears God's voice saying to her, "Pansy, write!" In letters purple with love, she traces With golden pen the Saviour's message true; Myriad voices in Heaven will repeat, "Pansy, lessons of love they've learned from you; And lay their crowns with you, at Jesus' feet." From your sweet Pansy blooms of purest thought My soul a glimpse of Heaven's joy hath caught.

ROCKVILLE, MASS. _With the love of_ ARBUTUS.

SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.

L.--LYON, MARY.

FROM 1797 until 1849, a period of fifty-two years, Mary Lyon lived upon this earth. Some lives seem too short. To us they appear to be broken off at the wrong place--in the midst of earnest successful work--and we wonder how the world can get along without them. And so I suppose it must have seemed to those interested in the grand work of education in which Mary Lyon was engaged when she at the command of the Master laid down the burden and slept the last sleep. For thirty-five years she had been using her talents and her energies in training up young girls for noble womanhood. Like others in our list of Remarkable Women, her early home was among the New England hills. As another has expressed it, "On the little mountain farm the child saw the flax grow to make her single summer dress, and herself petted and fed the lambs and sheep which gave the wool to keep her warm in winter. The fairy flax flowers, blue as heaven, delighted her eyes." And we may believe that later she watched the process of preparing the flax for the wheel and loom, and we are told that the little girl in her homespun dress which made her no oddity in the old-time country school, was earnest and diligent in her studies, standing at the head of her classes and steadily advancing in scholarship. Mary Lyon early realized that life was not meant for a play-day, and when at the age of seventeen she became a teacher, she took with her into the schoolroom a strong faith and earnest endeavor for the highest development of her pupils. She sought more than mental progress--even moral and spiritual growth. Though she taught, leaving her impress for good in other places, Mt. Holyoke Seminary, at South Hadley, stands as her monument. The founding of this school was her great work, and in thousands of homes her influence is still felt. Many of our mothers and grandmothers are living lives of usefulness, the inspiration of which was drawn from lessons learned of this most remarkable of teachers. Mary Lyon was one of the great teachers of this world. If there should be among the girls who read this article those who expect to become teachers, let me urge you to study the life of Mary Lyon. See if you can find out the secret of her success; go over the record of her struggle with the difficulties encountered in those days when Mt. Holyoke Seminary was getting a foothold. One has said that "the story of Mary Lyon and her work should be read by every young girl who desires to know the meaning of a noble and consecrated life." I think you will find the secret of her successful life lies in the fact of its being a consecrated life; consecrated to the high and noble purpose for which she labored. Believing "that Christian women inspired with Christian zeal would be powerful promoters of the kingdom of Christ in this world," she sought to perfect a plan whereby young girls might be brought under the influences which would tend to inspire their hearts, awaken their powers, and prepare them for the positions of influence which they might be called to occupy. With a sublime faith in the leadership of Christ, a belief that she was called to do this thing, she fought out the battle, accomplished her mission and left behind her in many hearts a spirit akin to her own. Out from the sweet, sacred influences of this first collegiate school for girls established in this country, have gone thousands of noble women. Some have gone to carry the word of life into the dark places of earth, showing the beauty of a Christian home as contrasted with the heathen homes; some have gone out to establish other schools of like character; and on mission fields, in homes everywhere and in schools and in society, the spirit which so long ago found expression in that consecrated life is still influencing the world for good.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

OLD ROVER.