Part 4

"'Give it to me, if you don't want it. Never throw away even so small a thing as a pin, my girl, or you may want one very much, some day.'

"She laughed, and handed me to him, and he put me on the inside of his coat. When they reached home, or rather the hotel, he bade all the family good-by, and that evening boarded a train, and travelled till we reached another large city, where he took a steamer the next day, and I learned from some of his remarks that he was going back to America. I was very glad, I can assure you, for by this time I had grown homesick. The ride back was just about the same as the ride away from home had been, the only incident of any importance, that I remember, being that my master once fell overboard while I was on his coat, which was exceedingly disagreeable for both of us, until the sailors rescued us, and though I suppose those same brave men did not even know of my existence, I think I was really as thankful to them as was my master.

"When the steamer reached New York, the gentleman took a train, which, after a few hours' ride, brought us to a small town, where we found at the depot a carriage waiting for my master, with a gentleman in it, who greeted him warmly.

"During the ride to the stranger's house, he suddenly exclaimed:

"'Will, my cuff has come unpinned, and the pin has mysteriously disappeared. Have you another for me?'

"So my master put his hand to his coat, where I had been ever since we left Paris, and gave me to the gentleman. He, of course, fastened his cuff with me, and I remained in it till night, when, as he was taking it off when making ready for bed, he (whom I had so faithfully served) accidently dropped me from the open window, and I fell into a crack in the sidewalk!"

DOES ALCOHOL WARM US?

A PATIENT was arguing with his doctor the necessity of his taking a stimulant. He urged that he was weak and needed it. Said he:

"But, doctor, I _must_ have some kind of a stimulant. I am cold, and it warms me."

"Precisely," came the doctor's crusty answer. "See here, this stick is cold," taking up a stick of wood from the box beside the hearth and tossing it into the fire, "now it is warm; but is the stick benefited?"

The sick man watched the wood first send out little puffs of smoke, and then burst into flame, and replied: "Of course not: it is burning itself!"

"And so are you when you warm yourself with alcohol; you are literally burning up the delicate tissues of your stomach and brain."

Yes, alcohol will warm you, but who finds the _fuel_? When you take food, that is fuel, and as it burns out, you keep warm. But when you take alcohol to warm you, you are like a man who sets his house on fire and warms his fingers by it as it burns.--_Temperance Banner._

_Volume 13, Number 21._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO. _March 27, 1886._

THE PANSY.

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.

BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

V.

IT seemed an age to the three frantic passengers before the train ran into Brigham--but it was in reality five minutes ahead of time. St. George and his faithful adherent bade good-by with a heavy heart to Thomas, longing to stay and help him, but knowing that home they must go. Thomas tumbled out on the snowy platform more dead than alive from fear, and realizing that betrayal of a trust wasn't after all so productive of ease as it might be thought to be, he gathered himself up and walked uncertainly to the waiting-room door; a man standing within eyed him narrowly.

"We don't allow drunken people in here," he said coldly, "you'll have to stay outside."

"I ain't drunk," cried Thomas, roused to action; "I'm blest if I am; I'm only unfortunate."

The man laughed loud and long, and called to another, "See here; here's a chap got off his train--not half seas over, you know, oh no! only he's unfortunate."

Thomas' face blazed in an instant. That he, Mr. Bang's man, who had filled one place for a good dozen years, and was saving and industrious, with no taste for the company of low-lived fellows and no leaning toward their habits, should be brought face to face with one of them in this unlucky moment of his life when courage was at its lowest ebb, seemed to him the cruelest blow of Fate, and it deprived him of what little remaining sense he had.

"If anyone says that to me again I'll pitch right into him," he shouted.

"Good--hurrah! he knows what's what!" cried the fellow, a stalwart lounger whose only interest had been in seeing the train come in and depart. When that was over, he had nothing else for his active mind to work upon, and he hailed with delight this new excitement. "Come on, fellows, this chap is _de_termined to fight. So we won't disappoint him. You're a drunken, good-for-nothing sot," he cried in Thomas' face.

Thomas gave one plunge and struck the quarrelsome man squarely in the face.

"Take that, and that, and that," he cried, beside himself in a passion. Never in his life engaged in a quarrel involving blows, now that he was in one, it was purely delicious to give free rein to his anger, and for the first few moments he felt a man indeed.

The young fellow thus struck and two or three other men now closed around him, and he was soon occupied in warding off as best he might the shower of blows, kicks and cuffs that fell to his portion. The noise brought speedily to the spot, the depot officials, one or two farmers riding by, and all the boys in the vicinity.

"Stop--hold--I won't have any of that!" cried the ticket agent, puffing up in authority.

"Oh! won't you?" cried one of the men whose blood was up, and pounding away at Thomas, whom they had succeeded in getting to the ground.

"No, I won't," cried the ticket agent, "I'll have you all arrested."

"Who's going to do it, I'd like to know," asked another man derisively.

Meanwhile Thomas was shouting out his case, and succeeded in catching the ear of a farmer who sitting on the bags of meal in his wagon had paused to see what the trouble was about.

"It's my opinion," said the farmer deliberately, and stopping to clear his throat now and then with a sharp _Hem!_ "that you want me to give you three chaps a poundin' that man, a taste of my whip, and it's also my opinion that I shall do it." With that he sprang from his wagon with surprising alertness considering he looked so old, and, whip in hand, he advanced upon the crowd.

They all fell back. He had "whip" in his eye, and beside, every one knew Jacob Bassett, and that there was no reason to think he would fail to do as he said.

Before all could desert Thomas, however, the last man had the benefit of the leather lash, and he ran off rubbing his leg, and uttering several ejaculations as if he had received enough.

"My man," said Farmer Bassett, tucking up his long whip under his arm and helping Thomas to his feet, "now what's the matter with you?"

"I'm in trouble," said Thomas briefly.

"So I should think," said the old farmer with a wise nod.

"I don't care about myself," said Thomas not regarding certain flapping portions of his once neat suit, nor mindful of the other signs of his predicament, "but it's young master and those other boys who were left to my care." At mention of them, he became helpless once more, and began to bemoan his fate.

"Hah!" said the old farmer. He had boys of his own, not so very long ago either, although he looked so old, and though they were all but one out in the world and promising to be successful men, his heart went back to the time when they were little chaps and running about the farm.

The one who was not out in the world was safe at rest from all temptation and suffering. There was a tiny grave on the hill-top back of the old homestead, and here the farmer often stole in an odd moment, and Betsey his wife went of an afternoon when the work was done up, for a quiet time with her darling--the little Richard, so early folded away from her care, and Sundays they always went together to get peace and resignation for the coming week.

"What's the trouble with the boys?" asked the farmer, quickly.

Thomas looked into his face and the first gleam of hope he had known, now radiated his own countenance. Here was a man who evidently meant to help, and that right speedily.

"Oh sir," he cried, "they're over at Sachem Hill, and locked out of their house."

"Over at Sachem Hill and locked out of their house," repeated the farmer. "How did that happen?"

"'Twas me," cried Thomas miserably, and then he laid bare his confession.

Farmer Bassett said never a word, only as Thomas finished, "Come," he commanded, and motioning him to the green wagon, he climbed in, and seated himself again on his bags.

"I'm goin' to stop a minute an' tell Betsey to put us up a few things, an' while she's doin' it, I'll hitch into the sleigh. I took the wagon to mill, as 'twas poor draggin' along one piece o' bare ground--an' then, says I, we'll be off for them youngsters of yours."

Thomas gave a long breath of relief--and the wagon rolled on in silence till it came to a stop before a large red house.

OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

N.--NEWTON, SIR ISAAC.

"EVERY body in nature attracts every other body with a force directly as its mass and inversely as the square of its distance." This has been called "The magnificent theory of universal gravitation which was the crowning glory of Newton's life." I doubt not many of you have struggled manfully with this law as laid down in your school-books, and, having conquered it, and fixed the principle in your minds to stay, you may like to know something about the philosopher himself. In 1642, a puny, sickly baby was supposed to be moaning away its young life in Lincolnshire, England.

This child's name was Isaac Newton. He belonged to a country gentleman's family. His father having died, his mother's second marriage occasioned the giving of the child into the care of his grandmother. As he grew older he gained in health and was sent to school. Having inherited a small estate, as soon as he had acquired an education which was considered sufficient to enable him to attend to the duties of one in his position, he was removed from school and entrusted with the management of his estate. However, this young Newton developed a passion for mathematical studies which led him to neglect the business connected with his estate. He busied himself in the construction of toys illustrating the principles of mechanics. These were not the clumsy work which might be expected from the hands of a schoolboy, but were finished with exceeding care and delicacy. It is said there is still in existence two at least of these toys; one is an hour-glass kept in the rooms of the Royal Society in London.

Isaac Newton's mother was a wise woman in that she did not discourage his desire for the pursuing of his studies and for investigation. She did not say, "Now, my son, you must put away these notions and attend to your business. You have a property here which it is your duty to manage and enjoy. You should find satisfaction in your position as a country squire and consider that you have no need of further study." On the contrary, this mother allowed her son to continue his studies; he was prepared for and entered the college at Cambridge when he was eighteen. From that period until his death, at eighty-five, he devoted himself unweariedly to mathematical and philosophical studies.

You all know the story of the falling apple. He had been driven by the plague in London to spend some time at his country-seat in Woolstrop, and while resting one day in his garden he saw an apple fall to the ground. Suddenly the question occurred, Why should the apple fall to the ground? Why, when detached from the branch, did it not fly off in some other direction?

And where do you suppose he found the answer? Read the first sentence of this article and see if _you_ find it there! The truth had been the controlling power of all the falling apples since the creation, but it had never before been understood or formulated; perhaps this discovery of the law of universal gravitation gave him more renown than all his other labors put together.

He met with a sad misfortune, later, when, by the accidental upsetting of a lighted candle, the work of twenty years was destroyed. The story as told by a biographer is, that Sir Isaac left his pet dog alone in his study for a few moments, and during this brief absence the dog overturned the candle amongst the papers on the study table. It is further told as an evidence of the calmness and patience of the great man, that he only said, "Ah! Fido, you little know of the mischief you have done!"

But although he was so quiet under the great loss, the trial was almost too much for him; for a time his health seemed to give way, and his mental powers suffered from the effects of the shock. He died in 1725, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.

K.--KAUFFMAN, MARIA ANNA ANGELICA.

AMONG the women of history we find not a few artists; and of these Anna Maria Angelica Kauffman gained no mean reputation. She lived and worked and suffered during the latter half of the eighteenth century, dying in 1807. Her early life was spent in Switzerland, that land of romantic scenery. She opened her eyes in this world first among the mountains that rise above the beautiful and fertile valleys whose southern slopes teem with vines, whose highlands afford pasturage for the flocks of the farmers. Our artist's father was a travelling painter. Of his work we have no account. He is known to us only as the father of a gifted woman. Inheriting a love of art, she found in her father a ready sympathizer and willing helper. He gave her such instruction as he was able, and when he could carry her no farther in her studies, the family removed to Milan that she might have the opportunity of studying under more competent teachers. She had, however, before this--and she was only thirteen years old when they went to Milan--painted a portrait of the Bishop of Como, which gave her quite a reputation. At Milan she had an opportunity of mingling with other artists, and also the privilege of copying the finest pictures.

She excelled in portrait painting; when she went to London she was engaged to paint the portraits of "the most distinguished and beautiful ladies of the court." She everywhere received much attention, both on account of her talents as an artist, and her beauty and charming manner. Some of her pictures are in the Royal Gallery in Dresden; others may be seen in the Louvre in Paris.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

SIR JOHN AND THE EREBUS.

II.

FORTY years ago last May, England fitted Sir John out with two fine ships. They were the _Erebus_ and _Terror_.

Away they sailed from the wharf where many came to see them off, among them Lady Franklin, Sir John's wife.

Away they pushed through the sea toward the North. On they went, further and further from their home, to see if they could find the North Pole or what was called the "Northwest Passage."

Soon they met icebergs, or great mountain castles, moving down from the north. But the _Erebus_ and _Terror_ turned aside and sailed north, north, north, hundreds of miles.

Then the winter came on. The two ships were soon hedged in by the ice. They could neither go forward nor backward. The ice became thicker and thicker; the nights longer and colder. The men were clothed in fur, and there were stoves in the ships, but they shivered with the cold. No word came to them from their friends. They, however, tried to be cheerful, hoping for spring and the breaking up of the ice so they could sail out of their prison and find the Northwest Passage.

They sang, told stories, read, celebrated each other's birthday; good Sir John read sermons and prayers to his men as was his custom and exhorted them to be of good cheer. It was a joyful thought to them of making wonderful discoveries in that strange land and then coming back some day with the news.

But the spring came and went, another and another, but no tidings of Sir John. Then there was alarm. Meetings were called, speeches made, great sums of money raised; brave captains and crews offered to go in search of him. Vessel after vessel went and came, only to report failure.

Five years passed; seven; nine; ten--Hope was dying--eleven. Lady Franklin did not give up, but fitted out, at her own expense, a little ship.

Captain and sailors bid good-by to wives and friends, not knowing they would ever see them again, as they resolved not to come back till they found out something as to the fate of Sir John.

So this little ship disappeared far away northward, and, like the others, in a few weeks, was in the midst of majestic palaces of ice.

But it worked its way on, when, lo! one day as the captain was hunting here and there, he came upon parts of a ship, and he knew it was Sir John's. He also found Sir John's own handwriting and many other things that told of great sufferings and death.

It appeared that he had died June 11th, 1847; but he was not found till 1857. All had perished.

He was a noble Christian man, with a heart tender as a woman's.

When the little ship came back with the news, England mourned as did this nation over the fate of Sir John Franklin.

C. M. L.

FOLLOW MY LEADER.

HAVE each of the company put on a sheet, securing it around himself like the pictures of a Roman toga. Put on his head a pillowslip, making it assume any fanciful shape desired, and bringing it closely around his face, concealing features as much as possible. All this must be done _before_ assembling, as it is the object to have players disguised as far as possible from each other. Have your Leader chosen. Then you must follow him implicitly; whoever fails to, must be counted out of the game. Those who do not wish to dress in sheet-and-pillow-case costume must form audience. The Leader must wear high above his pillow-case-enveloped head, a small United States flag, so that all can recognize him as Leader.

(You will remember that the fourth of March is always the Inauguration Day, when the President of the United States goes into the White House as Leader for four years.)

Now let the Leader start to music from the piano--through the parlors, halls, dining-room--perhaps if the cook is pleasant, to the kitchen. These little games do a great deal to draw all the family together with a happy feeling. If he stops a minute to examine anything, the company following him in Indian file must stop too and imitate his movements, as if examining something closely. If he says in the course of his travels "ooh--ooh!" just like a pig, each one of the pillow-slip-and-sheet brigade must say "ooh--ooh!" also in the same tone _without smiling_, unless he laughs. If he says "cock-a-doodle-_doo-o!_" each one must say it. Whoever fails to follow his Leader imitating him in everything, and whoever smiles or laughs, or says anything unless the Leader does, must be pointed out by the audience, dropped out of ranks, set up in a corner, told to stand there until the game is played out, and all take off sheets and pillow-slips--to sit down and laugh over it all, before plates of apples and cracked walnuts.

May you have a jolly time with your March game. I wish I could play one with the Pansies.

MARGARET SIDNEY.

SIR EDWIN LANDSEER.

YEARS ago, a man now living in Cincinnati was sent by the President to South America to look after the interests of our country there. The people were very kind to him, and, among other gifts, presented him a parrot on his return home.

I spent a day at his house and had many funny talks with Poll; parrots can talk after a fashion.

She was a fine lady, not so large as some you may have seen at the New Orleans Exposition. Some of them were from two to three feet long. One was perfectly green; another, white; a third, nearly all bright colors.

The one I saw in Cincinnati was fond of her friends, but sulky and cross to me, a stranger.

She had learned many wicked words from passers-by, swearing words even. When she could not have her own way and, like other folks, was out of humor, she would "let fly" her worst opinions of people and things in her bad language.

At such times she did not seem so beautiful with all her gay plumage. Few folks do appear well when out of sorts, no matter how rich and fashionable their clothes. Remember that.

In the picture you see a parrot sitting upon a perch. It is another one and there is a long story about it. But all stories can't be put into THE PANSY without bursting its covers. However, you may hear a little about this one and think out the rest when your thinkers get time.

This Pol came from a distant land. She had such rich feathers, and could talk and sing so well, and, withal, her manners and behavior were so correct that she made friends of everybody.

So in due time Pol was treated like one of the family and as one of the first ladies in society--so far as a parrot could be. Her bread and drink and bed were all any bird could wish. She had the freedom of the house. Without asking, she could go up stairs or down, out door, into the barn, to the top of the highest trees, sometimes to the neighbors. She always came home at meal and bed time. Every one, nearly, knew her and treated her politely. Thus she forgot her far-away relations and became happy "as happy can be." She was now a maiden lady of sixty years. Some parrots live to be one hundred. Pol's life had been pleasant as a June morning. But June doesn't last forever. Trouble came.

One day she went out to call and was quietly walking home. A bad boy met her and made some provoking remarks. Instead of paying no attention to such creatures and going right on her way, she stopped, listened, lost her temper and "sauced him back." Then what should the fellow do but strike Pol and tear out some of her finest feathers and, leaving her half-dead, went his way. Pol managed to drag herself home, and, as best she could, tell what had happened.

How grieved they all were and wondered who could have treated her so cruelly. They suspected who had done it; for that boy was given to such things. Some seem to delight in giving pain to animals. I need not say what was done to that hateful boy. He deserved punishment and received it. But Poor Pol, what of her? She was tenderly washed and coaxed to eat and tell more about it. Her appetite left her in spite of all that could be done and she became sad and silent and wished to retire to bed.

It was hoped that she would feel better in the morning; but when morning came, there she sat, her wings drooping and her eyes cast down like one that is passing through great sorrow.

Near by lived a lad by the name of Eddie Landseer. He thought the world of Pol. As soon as he heard of her misfortune he came running in with a playmate, a bright little girl, to see what they could do for their afflicted neighbor.

Eddie was a great lover of horses, dogs, birds and almost all animals. Some say that when he went into the woods he would always carry something good for animals to eat and he would somehow call the squirrels and birds down around him from the trees. They would come and eat from his hands and let him handle them as tame animals do. He really seemed to know just how some animals feel and to cheer them in trouble. He took pains to study them as you do your Sunday-school lesson. So in he came with a most dainty dish for Pol.

He and his little friend were prettily dressed, not to show themselves, but to please Pol, for Eddie believed that she had an eye for beautiful clothes like her own. But when he saw Pol, how sad her countenance was and how she mourned over her lost feathers, he and Bertha could hardly keep back their tears.