Part 3

ALL roses were white, in the long ago, According to flower lore; But one day an angel passed by that way As a message of love he bore

To a sorrowful soul bowed down by woe, And weary with ceaseless pain, And as he noticed the fragrant white flowers, He poised on the wing amain,

And quickly approaching those roses sweet, A beautiful bud to pick, He whispered, "I'll take it with word of love I bear to the lonely sick."

But as he plucked the beauteous flower, Whose soft cheek was pale as death, He said, "As my errand this time brings life-- I will warm it with my breath."

So he kissed the cheek of the fair white rose, Which 'neath his thrilling touch blushed, And with message of love, and pink rose of hope, The sighs of the sick one he hushed.

And ever since then, when a rose is red, Or blushes with delicate tint, A kiss, from some angel of love and life, On its cheek has left its imprint. LYDIA HOYT FARMER.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

IN December, 1821, a man with his wife and child were riding in a sleigh over the mountains of Vermont. At last the horse refused to proceed. The man set off to look for help, but soon he perished in the cold. The mother set off to look for him, with her baby in her arms, but she was found dead near the sleigh, next morning. The babe, however, was living, for that mother had wrapped it in her shawl. There is a sweet poem written about it. This proves to you the deep love that wells up in the mother's heart. Any mother would have done the same for her child.

How earnestly should every child strive to love and please his dear parents.

RINGWOOD.

WANTED--THE MOON.

THE Moon rose early, and Baby Ned Was rather late in going to bed. Not two years old, this dear little fellow, With head so round, and bright, and yellow,

With his eyes so brown, and mouth so sweet, His fair little hands, and dainty feet-- Wee feet, that have barely learned to walk-- And his wise, quaint, broken, baby talk.

He was perched that night on grandma's knee, The place where the small king loved to be. Where the wise brown eyes saw something new Through the window, up there in the blue.

Over the top of the tallest hill, Round and silvery, fair, and still, God's grand old moon! that for ages past Has held its way in the night-sky vast.

And Neddie wanted that shining ball To hold in his hands so soft and small, And nobody went and took it down. He wrinkled his face to a little frown;

Red lips quivered--he wanted it soon; Then--_one more baby cried for the moon_! But mamma brought him his milk and bread, And patted his dear little curly head.

Then quickly he smiled and forgot the moon, And laughed at his face in his silver spoon. O happy Neddie! so easy to smile; Your life will be glad, if all the while

As the years go on you can turn away From all that you want when God says "Nay," And laugh, and thank Him for what He may give-- That is the way for His child to live.

O manly boys, and sweet little girls! With all your colors of eyes and curls, If you would have life like a summer day, Be content with the things that are in your way.

Seek ever the things that are pure and high, As planets that move in the evening sky, But if you can't have the shining moon, Be glad when God offers the silver spoon. EMILY BAKER SMALLE.

_Volume 13, Number 33._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO. _June 19, 1886._

THE PANSY.

WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.

IN the first place, I took a walk. It was a March day, but I wore a sun hat and carried a sun umbrella. Crossing the road in front of my cottage, I went through a little gate, ran down a hill under great spreading pines, and walked along the shore of a lovely lake, stopping now and then to pick white violets, and whortleberry blossoms with which to adorn my hat. Then I sat me down in a rustic seat, and read a letter from some friends in Ohio, telling about a snow storm, and a wind storm, and a frost frolic, and I know not what not of sulky, boisterous weather. Over my head, meanwhile, the mocking birds sang merrily, now pretending that they were robins, now bobolinks, and now nothing but common chirping birds!

Yes, I was in a different country; and you are guessing rightly, that it was in sunny Florida.

But it was time to go on; the great tabernacle bell was ringing, and I wanted to be in at the opening, for we were promised some curious sights that day. After all, I was late; some friends who had been in the woods stopped to show me some pitcher plants, and to divide great sprays of sweet-scented Southern jessamine with me, and when I tiptoed into the tabernacle, work had commenced.

Certainly the sight was curious enough. Men and women, some of them gray-headed and spectacled, each of them with a bit of paper in hand about four inches square; red, or yellow, or blue, or golden, as the case might be; all the colors of the rainbow seemed to be there. Each of these grave men and women were bent over their papers, carefully folding, and creasing, and re-folding, according to the direction of the leader, until they had each made what a small woman of six, sitting near me, called "a little birdie with wings!" but what her gray-haired aunt sitting beside her, pronounced to be a "strictly correct geometrical figure." "Geometry," was that the subject? Well, that is for grown people, surely. No, playing at boat and bird building. Was that the subject? But that is for _children_.

Well, you are both right; it _was_ Geometry, and it was _play_. And the name of it is Kindergarten.

Call it what you will, not a Blossom of you but would have liked to be there, and help fold that paper; and your mothers would have enjoyed it, at least, almost as well. Why? Well, principally because of the little dots at home, which they saw they could delightfully entertain, as well as teach, in this way; and because of the tall boy, who yet is a trifle puzzled over fractions. It would be so easy with those nice sticks, which followed the papers, to show him how to do it. Then the blocks, cunning little squares, and triangles, and all sorts of shapes; and what delightful things they would build, to be sure! Do you know, I fancied I saw every Blossom of mine, who has a sister or brother, four, five, six years old, who must be entertained very often by your puzzled selves, sitting in that tabernacle, eager listeners and workers, getting new and bright thoughts every minute as to how you could combine pleasure with instruction; and while little sister thought she was having a "perfectly splendid time" in your care, she would really be learning lessons which would help her all her life.

Didn't I wish you were there! But since you were not, and I couldn't reach to call you, why, I will tell you about it now, and fill your hearts with vain regrets.

Listen, my Blossoms. Kindergarten; that is the name, remember. Is there one in the city where you go, sometimes, to visit? By all means take a morning or two, and visit it, and run away with some pretty ideas to help you amuse the little sisters. Or perhaps it is in the very city where you live, but too far away for the little sister or brother to attend; still, by all means, go _you_, as a guest occasionally; and my word for it, you will be richly repaid. Such wonders can be done with bright paper, and blocks, and a strong needle with bright-colored silks.

Miss Ross was our teacher, in Florida, last winter; and much did we enjoy the privilege of hearing her. She is going to hold Normal Kindergarten Conventions through the States, next fall; look out for her name, and hear her if you can.

Miss Matilda K. Ross of Chicago.

PANSY.

A LETTER FROM FATHER.

"I WONDER if we will get a letter from father to-night."

It was Essie Carter who spoke. Her mother sat by the window sewing, while Gracie played with her dolls upon the doorstep. Essie was just starting for the post-office.

"I think," she continued, "that I will go across the pasture lot, it is more shady that way and it is very warm this afternoon."

At mention of the pasture lot Gracie sprang up and said in her lisping tones, "Gracie go too!"

"Gracie may go as far as the fence and wait for Essie there," said her mother. And clinging to her sister's hand, carrying her favorite doll, the little one went down the lawn, across the meadow and there cheerfully relinquished her hold and set about hunting violets while Essie went on to the country post-office, where she secured the coveted letter. On her return she found Gracie hanging upon the fence.

"Did you get a letter?" she asked.

"Yes; and now we will hurry home and mamma will read it to us."

"Did my papa write it?" asked the child.

"Yes, dear; papa wrote it to us, maybe there will be a little letter in it for Gracie."

"With what did he write it?"

"With a pen, of course."

"What is a pen?" asked the little questioner.

"O Gracie Carter! you can ask the most questions of any child that ever was born, I do believe!" exclaimed Essie.

"But what is a pen?" persisted Gracie.

"A pen is a thing to write with," replied Essie despairing of evading the questions.

"Who made a pen?"

"I don't know," was Essie's frank reply.

And then she fell to thinking unheeding Grade's questions. After the letter had been read and talked over Essie said:

"Mamma, Gracie wanted to know who made pens, and I couldn't tell her; a thing we use so constantly too! I would like to know something about them myself."

"Well, dear, can't you find out?"

"If we were at home I could study it up in the library, but we haven't any books here excepting poems and Bibles and the dictionary."

"Is that the way you rank your books?" asked Mrs. Carter smiling.

"No; but it is such a matter of course to have the Bible that I was not going to mention it, then I just happened to think of the dictionary."

"Well, go to the dictionary and see what you find there."

Essie turned over the pages and read, "An instrument used for writing, formerly made of the quill of a goose or other bird, but now also of other materials, as gold and steel."

"Why, mamma, is that true, pens can be made of a quill? I never heard of such a thing."

"There _are_ a few things that my daughter has never yet heard of."

"Now, mamma, you are laughing at me! But truly I never heard of a pen being made of a quill. Dear me, I wish I had a cyclopædia. The next time we come out here I mean to bring a whole set!"

"Perhaps I could tell you something about pens," said Mrs. Carter quietly.

"O mamma! I beg your pardon," exclaimed Essie coloring slightly. "I ought to have known that you could! I have heard papa call you a walking cyclopædia."

"Your uncle Horace was at one time employed in a gold pen manufactory and I learned a great deal at that time, and we studied up the history of pens. If I remember rightly the first pens used were made of iron or steel and were not used with ink, but the letters were cut in stone, or clay, and afterwards the same sort of an instrument was used to write upon waxed tablets; then when parchment and paper began to be used pens were made of reeds, and of course the people must have had ink of some sort. Now about quill pens. It was probably more than a thousand years ago that some one discovered that the quills of birds made better pens for writing on paper than could be made of reeds, and people have used quill pens more or less ever since."

"Why do we not use them? Did you ever use one?"

"Two questions at once! I'll answer the last one first. Yes, I remember using quill pens when I first began to go to school. My father had never used any other and he had a prejudice against steel pens, which had already come into use, and as we kept a flock of geese we always had a supply of quills. It was considered in my father's day one of the necessary qualifications of a schoolteacher that he should be able to make a good quill pen. Such steel pens as we use may be classed among _modern inventions_. It is said that they were first introduced about the beginning of the nineteenth century, but they were not a success and very little progress was made in the manufacture for more than a quarter of a century. One thing will surprise you, I think. The first pens made, in an English factory about the time they were successfully introduced, sold for nearly twenty-five cents apiece at wholesale rates."

"At that rate it would cost papa a fortune to keep me in pens! Why, I use up a box in a little while."

"Probably; you are apt to use up things."

"I wish papa would give me a gold pen; I believe I could keep one a long time," said Essie.

"Probably the best steel pens are made in England, but American gold pens are the best. A great amount of labor is bestowed upon them. Every one is carefully tested before it is put into the market. When a person buys a gold pen he pays a good price for it and expects it to last a long time, and this is the reason that they are so carefully tested. If half the steel pens in your box prove to be worthless, the remainder are still cheap."

"But, mamma, you have not told me why people do not use quill pens nowadays."

"I suppose principally because metal pens are more durable. Quill pens require to be mended often and one who writes much would find it quite a task to make and mend his pens. I should not wonder if we would find a bunch of quills hanging from the rafters in the attic of this old house and I should like to make a quill pen for you that you may write with a pen like the one your grandfather always used. And now, Essie, if you will pay attention to your father's request you shall have a gold pen when we go back home," said mamma, smiling kindly.

"You mean about taking pains with my writing?"

"Yes; I have sometimes thought that in nothing does culture or want of culture show itself more than in a person's penmanship."

MRS. J. H. FOSTER.

THE FOX FAMILY.

IN 1840 there lived a man in Kinderhook, N. Y., who was a smart politician and his party often put him up for office; somehow he had a way often of being elected, as many popular men do nowadays. He was nominated for the Presidency. Can you guess his name? There was great excitement on both sides. The Whigs had put up General Harrison for their candidate and were singing songs about Log Cabins and Hard Cider, because General Harrison lived in one and drank the other. They said many things against the Kinderhook man. Parties always do say hard things against their opponents.

Among other hard names they called him a "Little Fox," and no doubt some voted against him, thinking if he was anything like a fox he was not fit to be President of the United States.

People are prejudiced against this animal because he is so sly and tricky.

Queer stories are told about his smartness.

He loves (to eat) fowl. He will swim toward a duck _e. g._ with turf in the mouth, so as to be concealed, then, being near, the unsuspecting duck is "nabbed" for Mr. Fox's dinner.

He goes limping with his head down, as if eating clover, till near enough to seize a hare. When caught stealing hens, he will pretend to be dead, though kicked roughly about, till he gets a chance to "up and off." When traps are arranged around his hole, he will stay in for days, hungry, or make a new outlet rather than expose himself to a trap. He knows how to fire off a gun that has been set for him without being hit.

In Northern climes he can pull up the fish-line that has been placed by the fisherman over night through a hole in the ice. The man comes early to get a morning fish breakfast but only to find an empty hook lying near the hole and Mr. Fox galloping off in the distance with the game.

The above is what "They say." Many more strange things are said about the Fox family.

Certain it is they are a shrewd set, smarter in providing delicious repasts for their children than many of their neighbors, the farmers, who treat them as thieves.

The Whigs did almost or quite call the Kinderhook man a sly thief. They probably _now_ think he was as honest, perhaps more suited to the Presidency than was Gen. Harrison. Very different from the "Fox" of Kinderhook was Charles James Fox of England who died a hundred years ago. Strangely enough he was a great Whig, though Whig in England was not the same as Whig in the United States. He was a fine scholar and high statesman; some say, "the greatest debater the world ever saw."

Different still was George Fox of England who died two hundred years ago--one of the purest, best men that ever lived. The Quakers or Friends started from him. He went everywhere preaching the simple teaching of the Bible and against trusting to forms and ceremonies. Enemies arose against him and had him put in loathsome dungeons. But he came out of the prison (though not just as Saint Peter did, by the help of an angel) but only to forgive his cruel persecutors and go right on preaching God's free and simple grace.

John Foxe was another grand man. He wrote "Foxe's Book of Martyrs." Have you ever read it? He died three hundred years ago. Thus you see the Foxes are not all so sly and tricky as those in the picture "look to be." See what queer eyes they have. Somewhat upside down.

C.

SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.

N.--NEWELL, HARRIET ATWOOD.

UPON the platform in Tremont Temple, Boston, at the meeting of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, last October, there was placed a little mahogany table, old-fashioned in form and dark with age. It was an object of great interest from the fact that around that small table, three feet by two--or, when the leaves were spread, three by five--there sat, seventy-five years ago, the five men who formed the American Board at that date. The first meeting held in the parlor of the little parsonage in Farmington, Ct., was a small beginning, and who could have guessed that Tremont Temple, Music Hall, and one or two churches would have been filled to overflowing by the crowds that would come to the seventy-fifth anniversary! We who live in this missionary age cannot realize the weight of that undertaking, nor can we who are saying farewell to friends and acquaintances who go out in fast-sailing steam ships with many a comfort and convenience unknown in those days, and in comparative safety, realize what it meant to those five young men and their wives who were the first sent out by the newly-formed board, to bid adieu to home and friends with scarce a hope of ever returning to their native land. Rev. Samuel J. Newell was one of the five, and the subject of this sketch was his devoted young wife. Harriet Newell was the first woman who went out to India as a missionary. She was scarcely beyond girlhood, only eighteen years old when she said good-by to her widowed mother and went out to tell the people of India about the Friend who waited to receive them.

Mrs. Newell's early home was at Haverhill, Mass. She was educated at Bradford Academy. It was while she was at school that she determined to consecrate her life to the service of Christ, though I do not gather from any account of her life that she had at that time any thoughts of becoming a missionary. Her letters written at that early period evince a rare thoughtfulness and uncommon maturity of mind. Indeed, it would seem that she early put away childish things. Neither have we any account of her having any of the good times of girlhood; yet I suppose she was not altogether unlike other girls, but we have only the story of her inner life. She has told us in her journal of her conflicts with sin and of her victories; we can see the rapid development of her Christian character, from the time she first engaged in the service of God to the hour when she "consecrated herself to the establishment of the kingdom of Christ in Pagan lands. To this great and glorious object all her thoughts and studies, her desires and prayers tended. It was only with a view to this that she considered her talents and acquirements of any special importance."

Mrs. Newell exhibited in her short life great force and decision of character. When, after earnest deliberation, mingled with prayer for wisdom, the question of duty had been settled, she moved forward without hesitation. Let me give you the words of one who knew her well:

"The character of Mrs. Newell had an excellence above the reach of mere human nature; behold her, united to friends and country by a thousand ties, a woman of refined education, with delightful prospects in her own country, resigning all for a distant Pagan land; all these sacrifices she made calmly, with a sober deliberation, with steady, unyielding firmness, and this not for wealth, or fame, or any earthly object, but to make known among the heathen the unsearchable riches of Christ."

And now what will you say when I tell you that this remarkable woman, remarkable for her talents, her personal gifts, remarkable for her Christian development, was to meet with disappointment at the outset and was to be denied the privilege of engaging in the work for which she had left home and friends. They were ordered away from India by the government and decided to attempt to establish a mission upon the Isle of France. Nearly a year from the time of leaving America they reached this place, having spent nearly all that time on ship-board. It would seem that now their troubles might be at an end; and so Mrs. Newell's were. For in about three weeks after they landed she was called to go to her mansion above. At nineteen her work was finished--finished, as it seemed, before it was fairly begun! Yet her example of devotion, of fortitude, of love for the cause, her submission and patience under trial may have accomplished far more than she living could have done. When the news of her triumphant death came to America, other noble-hearted, earnest women were found ready to take the place of this first woman of our land who was ready to give her life to the people of India. To-day, after seventy-five years, scores are in the field, more waiting to be sent, and I know not how many among the PANSY readers getting ready for the Master's work in foreign lands. God grant that there may be many such!

F. H.

OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

Q.--QUINCY, JOSIAH.

COUNTING back for five generations, we find in the Quincy family a Josiah. The great-great-grandfather of the present Josiah Quincy was a merchant, and we are told that he was a zealous patriot in Revolutionary times, and you all know that meant a great deal.

His son, who was called Josiah Junior, became a celebrated lawyer, and was prominent as an advocate of liberty. It was he who with Samuel Adams addressed the people when the British ships anchored in Boston Harbor with the cargo of tea. But notwithstanding his reputation for patriotism, his action in defending the soldiers who fired upon the mob in what is known as the Boston Massacre, brought him into unpopularity.

Yet I think that if you study the facts carefully, and weigh them well, you will see that although the presence of the British soldiers was an outrage, and justly obnoxious to the people, yet upon that occasion there was some excuse for their action. And John Adams and Josiah Quincy should not be condemned for undertaking their defence.

Afterwards both did good service in the interest of Colonial Independence. Quincy went to England doing much to promote the good of his country.