Part 4

YOU naughty old dog Just run right away! For Annie and I Are going to play. And then Minnie struck Old Rover's thick hide With her dimpled hand As he stood at her side.

"Why, Minnie! how can you?" Said sweet Annie May. "Have you never been told Of that terrible day When the waters went mad With foaming and strife, And Rover, good dog, Saved your dear little life?

"All night the Delaware Rose; and then While papa was gone For boats and for men, Mamma, she cuddled you Safe and warm, And left you for Rover To guard from harm

"While she tried to save A few things more. But when she returned Through the water's roar, Your cradle was gone! And old Rover, too. Poor mamma! she cried '_Oh what shall I do!_'

"Papa came back and took us away, Searching for you The rest of the day. At night, a fisherman Sailed o'er the deep, With you in your cradle Fast asleep!

"He found old Rover Towing you down To a little island Near the town. All day careful vigil Rover had kept, While you, all unconscious, Had smiled and slept."

Now Rover was hugged! And blue eyes were wet, As Minnie said, low, "I shall never forget! When I've anything good He shall have a big part; And a _great big place_ All his own, in my heart."

S. R. SILL.

_Volume 13, Number 25._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO. _April 24, 1886._

THE PANSY.

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.

BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

VI.

BETSEY, the farmer's wife, put up a lunch large enough to last a couple of voyagers for a two days' journey, and bustled around in her quickest style, so that she ran out to the barn with her big basket as Farmer Bassett drew a long breath and declared himself ready to start.

"Do hurry, John," she begged, setting her basket within the sleigh, "those poor creeters must be half-starved, let alone their crying theirselves eenamost to death."

Then her motherly heart that had taken up entirely the cause of the boys, allowed throbs of pity to be felt on Thomas' account as she saw the effect of her words upon him, and she hastened to add--"You'll make pretty quick time after you git on the road, and boys always know how to have a good time as long as daylight lasts, at any rate."

"You better believe, Betsey," declared Farmer Bassett, "that we will not let the grass, or the snow rather, accumulate under our feet, will we, Jack?" caressing his horse. "There, Mr. ---- what'd you say your name was?" turning to the man beside him.

"Thomas, sir--Thomas Bradley. But I'm better known as Mr. Bangs' man, bad luck to the day I shirked a bit. But I'll catch it enough when I get home, though"--

"And serves you quite right, Thomas," observed Farmer Bassett; "well, get in, and we'll be off. Good-by, mother!" He didn't kiss her; it was not the New England way in which they had both been reared, but he did look at her round, comely face with such an expression in his gray eyes that a smile went back to him from the lips firmly folded together--"Take care of yourself now, an' the house, I'll be along in the mornin'."

Then he got into the sleigh, and tucking up the well-worn robes around his companion and himself, signified to Jack by a loud "_g'lang!_" that he was expected to start.

"I s'pose you're going to talk to me now," said Thomas awkwardly, after they had turned the corner from which the last view of the comfortable red farmhouse could be seen, "and give me a piece of your mind for leaving them chaps and disobeying master. You've a good right, I'm sure, being as you're getting me out o' the scrape."

"I ain't one to do preachin' to other folks," said the farmer shortly. "I have enough to do to take care o' my own sins."

Thomas stared in amazement into the tough, leathery face. That any one who could claim the least right, should let slip to "give it to" another man caught in a peccadillo, he could not understand, and he took the only way to find relief that came to his mind. When he finished scratching his head in a perplexed way, he relapsed into silence that was not broken till at least half the distance to Sachem Hill was traversed.

Then the old farmer began to converse, but on general topics, and in such a cheery way, that his travelling companion came a bit out of his shamefaced despondency feeling as if there might be a chance even for him in the world once more.

By the time that Jack jingled them into the vicinity of Mr. Bangs' summer cottage, the two were in such a good state of mind that any one meeting them would have said it was only a pleasure excursion that drew them out to enjoy the night.

And now Thomas sat erect and drew his breath fast, while his eyes, strained to their utmost, pierced the gathering darkness for the first glimpse of the house.

"Turn here up this lane, master," he begged suddenly, "it's a short cut," and the old farmer lashed Jack, all the time begging the astonished animal's pardon, while he hurried up the back way as directed.

"Good--oh!" groaned Thomas, pulling his arm, and pointing with a shaking hand. Farmer Bassett more intent on the feelings of the faithful horse, and on getting on, had not glanced up. At this cry of distress he did, and now saw with Thomas a bright light gleaming from one of the upper windows of the Bangs' cottage.

"It's FIRE!" said Thomas hoarsely, plucking him by the arm again. "We must 'a' left somethin' smoulderin' in the fire-place"--

"Nonsense," said the farmer reassuringly. Nevertheless he gave Jack another cut that made him jounce at a fearful rate up to the back veranda.

Thomas leaped out and sped up the steps. Farmer Bassett tarried only long enough to fasten Jack to the hitching-post, throw his blanket over him, and give one pat on his head, then followed.

"_Boys!_" screamed Thomas, racing up and down the veranda, and shaking the doors, "are you in there?"

But only the branches of the trees creaked in the cold wind for answer. Thomas stamped in very fury.

"See here," said the old farmer, down on the ground and pointing up, "look at their heads. They're all safe an' sound, an' not half as cold as you an' I."

With that he sent out such a halloo that Thomas on the veranda clapped his hands to his ears. It had the effect desired, for at least two of the windows in the gable end of the cottage were thrown up, and as many boys' heads as could possibly be accommodated, were thrust out.

"Halloo, Thomas, halloo," called one voice in derision, "don't you wish you were here too?"

"You're a nice one," said Master Wingate, "and won't you catch it, though, when you get home. You'll be place-hunting as soon as you can say 'Jack Robinson'"--

"See here, you young scamp," shouted the old farmer, "it will be for your interest to end that sort of talk, now I tell you. You just step down lively an' open one of these doors. We've cooled our heels enough comin' to look for you an' don't propose to stand here any longer. Hurry up, now."

The boys stared in astonishment down into as much of his face as the darkness would permit them to see, and recognizing from the quality of his voice that a parley would not be acceptable, drew in their heads and proceeded to obey the order.

"Who is the old party?" cried one of the boys as they ran over the stairs.

"I don't know," returned Wingate, "I'm sure."

"Don't let us open the door then," urged another boy; "see here, Wingate," laying a detaining hand on his arm, "you are not obliged to--nobody has a right to order you to unlock your father's house. Don't do it; we'll lose all the fun of keeping Thomas out till we've had the fun of scaring him all we want to."

Master Wingate hesitated. But a vigorous rap on the dining-room door at the foot of the staircase, made him start, and a loud imperative--"Hurry up, there," caused him to redouble his speed.

"I guess we better let 'em in," he said, and slid back the bolt.

THE DESERT MIRAGE.

I SUPPOSE you all have heard of the mirage, which is a delusion of the eye, and which often deceives the poor traveller across the weary, pathless desert. Sometimes, when the caravan is about to give up, and lie down to die of weariness and thirst, they will suddenly feel their courage revived by the sight, as they suppose, of a lovely oasis, with lofty palms and silvery fountains.

Not long since I was reading an account of a whole regiment who when the Egyptians first conquered Nubia were destroyed. The poor creatures saw this mirage, and ordered their guide to take them thither. He insisted that it was only the delusive mirage, and, in their anger, they fell upon and killed him. The regiment then rushed for the supposed lake. Faint and weary they hurried over the hot sands. Oh! how those sparkling silvery waters allured them on!

But soon the cooling lake turned into sand! And the whole regiment lay down on the burning sands, and when found by Arabs, sent to search for them, they were all dead.

Now, dear little friends, there are some so-called pleasures in life which allure us like the mirage--but let us not be deceived. Let us choose the better part, which can never be taken from us. J.

AGNES HEDENSTROM.

THIS is something as Miss Agnes Hedenstrom looked when she was eight years old, and living among her wealthy relatives in Upsala. She was an orphan, petted by everybody and allowed to have her own way.

Thus she grew up, apparently a spoiled child.

She was not happy, however, though indulged with whatever she wished. She felt the need of something else.

One day she heard a Swedish minister preach, and soon after Agnes gave her heart to Jesus. Strangely enough, she began herself to preach to her people, now in schoolhouses, now in great halls.

Often she would address on the streets of London great crowds of the worst sort of people.

For years she thus toiled on among the wretched and wicked and dangerous people who infested East London.

Once she was speaking alone in an awful place to twenty drunken sailors while they yelled and blasphemed. Still she continued as best she could to tell them the wondrous story of redeeming love. Think of the "spoiled Agnes" coming to be such a brave, true woman! She still shudders to remember those awful moments when she did not know but those wretches would tear her to pieces. They did not. They became quiet and subdued. The next evening they came, bringing some of their comrades with them.

Then came a lecture room by her efforts; then a larger one. A few years ago Miss Agnes went among the good people of London and told them about the wretched people among whom she was laboring, especially the wicked sailors.

They gave her money to build a Home for sailors, when they come on shore without friends and an army of saloons to tempt them to drink and waste all their earnings in "riotous living."

Well, after waiting some months for the builders to finish the work, she clapped her hands--not on her guitar as when she was a child--but _together_ as she walked through this Home.

She is sole manager of the sailors' boarding-house. There she sees that the beds are clean and the meals good. She has books and papers, and best of all, her dear Master Jesus in this Home.

More than a thousand sailors are thought to have been saved from their awfully wicked ways through this wonderful Agnes Hedenstrom.

Some one has said that God can thresh a mountain with a worm. Would not you like to be the worm in his hand?

C. M. L.

- - - - - - -

An English acre consists of 6,272,640 square inches; and an inch deep of rain on an acre yields 6,272,640 cubic inches of water, which at 277,274 cubic inches to the gallon makes 22,622.5 gallons; and as a gallon of distilled water weighs 10 lbs., the rainfall on an acre is 226,225 lbs. avoirdupois; counting 2,240 lbs, as a ton, an inch deep of rain weighs 100.993 tons, or nearly 101 tons per acre. For every hundredth of an inch a ton of water falls per acre.

OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

O.--OBOOKIAH, HENRY.

A FEW years ago I copied from a marble slab, imbedded in the earth upon a grave in a quiet country cemetery at Cornwall, Ct., the following inscription:

HENRY OBOOKIAH OF OWHYEE, DIED FEBRUARY 17, 1818, AGED 26.

His arrival in this country gave rise to the Foreign Mission School of which he was a worthy member. He was once an idolator and designed for a Pagan priest; but by the grace of God, and by the prayers and instructions of pious friends, he became a Christian. He was eminent for piety and missionary zeal; was almost prepared to return to his native island to preach the Gospel when God called him. In his last moments he wept and prayed for his "Ow-hy-hee," but was submissive to the will of God and died without fear, with a heavenly smile on his face and glory in his soul.

This remarkable young man was early made an orphan by the cruel massacre of both father and mother during a fearful struggle of two parties for the control of his native island, Hawaii. His younger brother was also slain while the boy of our sketch was endeavoring to save him by carrying him upon his back in his flight. Obookiah was taken prisoner and made a member of the family of the man who had murdered his parents. After a year or two he was discovered by an uncle, and his release from the hands of his enemy secured. His uncle was a priest and he entered upon the work of preparing his young nephew for the same service. This preparation was very different from the preparation of young men in Christian lands for the work of the Gospel ministry. One part of his duty was to learn and to repeat long prayers; sometimes he was forced to spend the greater part of the night in repeating these prayers in the temple before the idols. But Henry was not happy; he had seen his parents and little brother cruelly murdered, and thoughts of the terrible scene and of his own lonely and orphaned condition preyed upon his mind continually. But he had passed through still another sad experience. Before peace was restored in the island he was again taken prisoner together with his father's sister. He succeeded in making his escape the very day which had been appointed for his death. His aunt was killed by the enemy, and this made him feel more sad and lonely than before, and he resolved to leave the island, hoping that if he should succeed in getting away from the place where everything reminded him of his loss he might find peace if not happiness; and this is how he was to be brought under Christian influences in Christian America. He sailed with Captain Britnall and landed in New York in the year 1809. He remained for some time in the family of his friend the captain, at New Haven. And here he became acquainted with several of the students in Yale College, who were at once interested in this young foreigner, and from one of these friends he learned to read and write.

His appearance was not prepossessing or promising. His clothes were those of a rough sailor and his countenance dull and expressionless. But he soon showed that he was neither dull nor lacking in mental power.

For some time, while Obookiah improved in the knowledge of English, making good progress in his studies, he was unwilling to hear any talk about the true God. He was amiable and quite willing to be taught, and drank in eagerly the instruction given on other subjects, but after some months he began to pray to the true God. He had a friend, also a Hawaiian and his first prayer in the presence of another was made in company with his friend. A copy of this prayer has been preserved and I copy it for you to show how even in the beginning of his own interest in Gospel truth, his thoughts turned towards his native country.

"Great and eternal God--make heaven--make earth--make everything--have mercy on me--make me understand the Bible--make me good--great God, have mercy on Thomas--make him good--make Thomas and me go back to Hawaii--tell folks in Hawaii no more pray to stone god--make some good man go with me to Hawaii, tell folks in Hawaii about heaven"--

From this time until he died his one longing was to go back to his early home and tell the people about God. He used to talk with his friend Thomas about it and plan the work. In his diary he wrote at one time:

"We conversed about what we would do first at our return, how we should begin to teach our poor brethren about the religion of Jesus Christ. We thought we must first go to the king or else we must keep a school and educate the children and get them to have some knowledge of the Scriptures and give them some idea of God. The most thought that come into my mind was to leave all in the hand of Almighty God; as he seeth fit. The means may be easily done by us, but to make others believe, no one could do it but God only."

In April, 1817, a Foreign Mission School was opened at Cornwall. And Obookiah became a pupil in this school, intending to finish his preparation for work among his own people as soon as practicable. A description of this Sandwich Islander as given of him at that time may be of interest: "He was a little less than six feet in height, well-proportioned, erect, graceful and dignified. His countenance had lost every trace of dullness, and was in an unusual degree sprightly and intelligent. His features were strongly marked, expressive of a sound and penetrating mind; he had a piercing eye, a prominent Roman nose, and a chin considerably projected. His complexion was olive, differing equally from the blackness of the African and the redness of the Indian. His black hair was dressed after the manner of Americans."

As a scholar he was persevering and thorough. After he had gained some knowledge of English, he conceived the idea of reducing his native language to writing. As it was merely a spoken language, everything was to be done. He had succeeded in translating the Book of Genesis and made some progress in the work of making a grammar and dictionary. But the work he had planned was not to be finished by his own hand. Within a year from the time he entered the school at Cornwall he was called home. As recorded upon the marble slab, his last thoughts were for his native island; his last earthly longing was, that the Gospel might be preached to his own countrymen. One of our popular cyclopædias gives a brief mention of this remarkable young man and makes this statement: "He was the cause of the establishment of American Missions in the Sandwich Islands."

To have so lived, and by his earnestness and zeal so inspired others that upon his death they were ready to take up and carry forward the work he had planned, was to have accomplished even more than he could had he been permitted to enter upon the work for which he was preparing.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

DISASTER.

A HOLE in the pocket's a very bad thing, And brings a boy trouble faster Than anything under the sun, I think. My mother, she calls it disaster. For all in one day, I lost, I may say, Through a hole not as big as a dollar, A number of things, Including some rings From a chain Fido wore as a collar,

My knife, a steel pen, a nice little note That my dear cousin Annie had sent me. The boy who found that, pinned it on to his hat, And tries all the time to torment me. I'd lost a new dime That very same time, But it lodged in the heel of my stocking; And one thing beside, Which to you I confide, Though I fear you may think it quite shocking:

The doctor had made some nice little pills For me to take home to the baby; But, when I reached there, I was quite in despair, They had slipped through my pocket, it may be. Aunt Sallie, she, As cool as can be, Said, a hole in a boy's reputation, Is harder to cure, And worse to endure, Than all pockets unsound in the nation.

Still a hole in the pocket's a very bad thing, And I am sure a real cause of disaster. But baby is well; so you must never tell; Perhaps he got well all the faster. --GWINNET HOWARD, _in Independent_.

AND now we must begin to confess, very reluctantly it is true, that the long evenings we have had the past few months around the Family Lamp are slowly growing shorter and shorter. Before we can have time to realize it very deeply somebody will say, "Oh! don't light the lamp just yet, it is so much pleasanter to sit in the twilight," and then it won't seem but about ten minutes, and the children and young folks will be whisked off to bed, and the games will be crowded entirely off the programme, and the Family will feel as if it had no good-night frolic at all. So we must get all the fun we can, and to-night we propose as a grand bit of sport--

A BUBBLE PARTY.

Choose all your players if you can beforehand, so as to have each one select his and her color. As far as possible, wear as much of that color, _putting away all other colors_, on dress, in button-hole of coat, or scarf around in Highland fashion on the boys' coats, and be sure to tie a bright bow of ribbon of same color on stem of pipe. A player can decorate himself or herself in any way he or she chooses. Variety makes the game all the more brilliant. A cap trimmed with one's color is always pretty for the girls, and toques or soldier caps for the boys.

Dissolve a quarter of an ounce of Castile or oil soap cut up in small pieces, in three quarters of a pint of water, and boil for two or three minutes; then add five ounces of glycerine. When cold, this fluid will produce the best and most lasting bubbles that can be blown.

Now make your soap-bubbles in a big bowl, and choose your sides, an equal number on each, and range them opposite each other, and begin. The side that can make and keep unbroken the largest number of bubbles, is the winner. To keep tally, one of the party must be chosen as judge. You will have plenty of sport. I wish some of you would write me all about your fun.

MARGARET SIDNEY.

THE CHURCH ROBINS.