



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

       *       *       *       *       *

VOL. III.--NO. 142. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, July 18, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration]

THE SHEEP AT GRANDPA'S FARM.


  Of all the lovely things we do, my sister Maud and I,
  In summer days, at grandpa's farm, where hills are green and high,
  There's nothing that we like so well as being sent to keep,
  All through the shady afternoon, a flock of milk-white sheep.
  You see, each lambkin knows its name; and when we call aloud,
  From every corner of the field the fleecy darlings crowd.

  At twilight when the sun goes down, to let the stars outshine,
  We bend for them some willow boughs, or dainty budding vine.
  And grandma bids us give them salt; they think it quite a treat,
  Just as we think of sugar-plums, or bonbons nice and sweet.
  But when the frisky little ones eat quick and run away,
  "Excuse them, please, they're very young," their mothers seem to say.

  I wonder people think them dumb. I'm sure the wise old ewes
  Could tell some things to giddy girls who have no wit to lose.
  How patiently they pace along, and let the lambkins play,
  And chase their shadows on the grass, and skip about all day.
  One never sees them looking cross; and that's what grandpa meant--
  That "silly" once, in older days, was pure and innocent.

  And in the Good Book Maud and I together love to read
  Of pastures green and waters still, where happy flocks may feed.
  We know the Shepherd loves the lambs, and oft we pray to Him
  At eve low kneeling by our beds, when all the earth is dim;
  And when we wake and laugh and play, and when we go to sleep,
  We trust that He will keep us safe, as we have kept the sheep.




DARE'S CRUISE;

OR, THE DORY THAT FOUND ITS WAY HOME.

BY ELIOT McCORMICK.


"What a pretty boy!"

Dare laughed and blushed as she jammed down the tiller of her little
dory to let the larger boat, from which the remark had come, pass by.

"That ain't a boy," she heard a rude voice reply; "that's that Peters
girl from Star Island."

Dare's laugh died out, and the flush turned into an angry red. The first
speaker she did not know. It was a girl--a little younger than herself,
Dare thought--with a frank, pleasant face and winning voice. But the
other was a familiar foe, who had tormented Dare for ten years. Tom
Suydam, she verily believed, was the most hateful boy that ever lived.
Because he was a rich man's son, and boarded at the hotel every summer,
while she was a fisherman's daughter who lived on the beach, he seemed
to feel at liberty to tease and annoy her in every possible way. When
she was a little girl he had amused himself by destroying her castles in
the sand; and now that she was thirteen years old, and did not build
sand castles, he would make uncomplimentary remarks loud enough for her
to overhear. Dare almost hated Tom Suydam.

It was not surprising that she should be mistaken for a boy. Her short
clustering hair, firm mouth, and ruddy complexion gave her face a boyish
look, while the sailor hat, and blue flannel waist open sailorwise at
the throat, added to the illusion. The costume was nothing more than a
girl's bathing suit; but Dare found it convenient for boating, and not
in the way when the boat capsized, as had once or twice happened,
notwithstanding her good seamanship, and she had to swim. She could sail
a boat, Captain Peters proudly declared, better than any boy around the
Shoals, and there wasn't a trick of the wind she did not know. In this
respect, at any rate, Dare felt a sense of superiority over Tom Suydam.
He might be richer, and know more, but he couldn't manage even a
row-boat. Dare wondered, as she looked back over her shoulder, and saw
the little skiff driving ahead under the fresh southeasterly breeze, how
the sweet-faced, gentle-voiced girl who was his companion would trust
herself to his care, and how, indeed, she could go with him at all. Dare
knew that Tom had no sisters. "She must be his cousin," the girl
concluded, as she hauled over the sail on the other tack.

Dare was going back to the Island, having taken her father over to
Portsmouth on his way to Boston. The wind was against her, and she had
had to beat down the river, and was now going on a long tack to the
north. It was not a steady wind, but a fitful gusty blow that warned
Dare to keep her hand on the tiller and her eye on the sail. She knew
precisely how much wind the boat would take, and she knew too that one's
calculations might be upset by an unexpected puff. She looked up at the
sky critically, and decided that the wind was shifting. There were
clouds in the west indicating a thunder-storm. "It will blow me straight
to the Shoals," Dare reflected, bringing the boat a little closer to the
wind. The slight change of direction brought into view Tom Suydam's
skiff, which, as she looked, seemed to have put about, and to be running
on the same tack as herself. Tom had no doubt seen the clouds, and was
making for home. It was now a race between the two boats, at a distance
of perhaps half a mile apart.

Meanwhile, with every instant the sky darkened and the wind grew fresh.
Dare took a reef in the sail, and kept the halyards free, so that she
could drop it at the slightest warning. The other boat, however, kept on
under a full head of canvas. Was Tom Suydam crazy? Dare wondered. She
had hardly framed the thought before a gust struck his boat, and laid it
so far over on its side that the mast seemed to touch the water. It
righted, however, while Tom, evidently uncertain what to do, hauled the
sail over, and attempted to run on the opposite tack. For an instant the
sail napped in the wind; then it suddenly filled, and for a second time
careened until Dare never expected to see it come up again.

"They'll surely be drowned!" she cried, letting out her own sail another
point, while she steered the dory so as to intercept the other's course.
The skiff had righted once more, but was lurching wildly, and
threatening to capsize with every gust.

"Drop your sail!" she cried, excitedly; but at that instant the skiff
lay over again, and Dare saw that this time it would not come up. Dare
had already skillfully brought her boat up within a few yards of the
skiff, and dropping her sail, she now steered it close enough to take in
Tom and the girl, who, though, in the water, had succeeded in clinging
to the wreck.

"Well!" she exclaimed, when the two were safely on board, "Tom Suydam, I
should think you had lost all the little sense you ever had."

For once Tom was humbled.

"Oh, I say, Dare," he cried, "don't hit a fellow when he's down. Just
look after my cousin Mollie, won't you? She's all broke up. I'll sail
the boat for you," he added.

Dare gave him a warning look. "You go sit in the bow," she said. "When I
ask you to sail a boat for me, I guess you'll know it. There's nothing
to be afraid of now," she said, re-assuringly, turning to Tom's cousin,
who was shivering with fear and cold. "Only I wonder you ever went out
with him. He doesn't even know how to row. Take my coat," she said,
producing a heavy jacket from a locker underneath the seat. "I sha'n't
need it, and you're just soaked through."

The impulsive little stranger threw her arms around Dare's neck and
kissed her.

"You're a dear," she said. "I thought so the minute I laid eyes on
you--only I supposed you were a boy."

Dare laughed.

"I heard what you said," she replied, softly. "Now if you will sit here
with me at the stern, it will trim the boat, and we can make for home."

But the wind, with the uncertainty of a thunder-storm, had shifted
further to the north, and it was apparent even to Mollie that they were
being driven far away from the Shoals.

"Why don't you hoist your sail," cried Tom, from his seat in the bow,
"and steer for the Island? You'll go to Boston if you keep on this way."

Just then a fresh squall drove the boat ahead with such force that the
water broke over the bow, and Tom was for the time suppressed.
Fortunately the dory was stanch and seaworthy. It rode the waves
lightly, and so long as Dare could keep it before the wind she had no
fears of its capsizing. But every breath of wind carried them further
away from home. Presently the rain began to fall; and then Mollie, that
Dare might not be wet, insisted upon covering her shoulders with the
jacket also.

"But I never take cold," Dare protested. "I'm wet through half the time
when I'm out in the dory, and don't know what it is to be sick."

"But I sha'n't feel right unless you take part of it," the other
declared. "I'll sit close to you, dear, like this, and there'll be
enough for both of us."

So Dare did not resist. It was a new experience for her to be
affectionately treated, and she did not need the jacket to make her feel
warm. As Mollie's arm crept round her waist, and the girl's little head
rested on her shoulder, she felt that something had come to her which
all her life had lacked. Leaning over, she kissed the upturned forehead.

"You're not frightened, dear?" she asked.

Just then a sharp flash of lightning forked across the sky, followed
almost immediately by a deafening peal of thunder. Mollie hid her face
in Dare's dress.

"Oh yes, I am," she cried; "I'm awfully frightened. Do you think the
boat can stand it, Dare? Do you think we will ever get home?"

Dare looked out toward the horizon. The rain was falling even more
heavily; the wind was blowing steadily from the north, and the darkness
was shutting down. It was an angry-looking night, and Dare had to fight
hard to shake off a thrill of terror from herself.

"There's no danger, dear," she said, bravely. "I've been out in a
heavier blow than this, and so long as we can keep her before the wind
we're all right. Only I'm afraid, Mollie, we'll have to spend the night
out here. But you needn't mind that. You needn't even be hungry, for
I've got some biscuit and a can of water in the locker; and in the
morning we'll run in somewhere down the coast, or, if the wind has
changed, come straight home. I wouldn't dare put up the sail until after
the storm is over," she added.

They ate the biscuits and drank the water; and then, as the night grew
darker and darker, and finally shut out all surrounding objects, Dare
insisted that Tom and Mollie should go to sleep. Tom could lie down in
the bow, using one of the seat cushions for a pillow, and Mollie in the
stern, resting her head in Dare's lap. Dare would watch, she said. Tom,
who was quite used up by exposure and fear, at once accepted the
suggestion; and Mollie, after some persuasion, also consented to it,
though she insisted that Dare should keep the jacket for herself. Before
she lay down she hesitated a moment.

"May I say my prayers?" she asked, softly.

Dare bent over her and took the little folded hands in her own.

"Say them for me too," she whispered.

So Mollie said her prayers; and then, while the wind roared and the boat
rocked and the rain fell, she went peacefully to sleep, covered by the
jacket which, without her knowing it, Dare had taken off and transferred
to Mollie's thinly clad shoulders. For a long time Dare watched the
quiet little form, resting one hand protectingly on the child's wavy
hair, while with the other she held the tiller and kept the boat still
before the wind. By-and-by, however, the clouds broke and the wind
veered. The water gradually calmed, the boat rocked less and less, and
Dare too had fallen asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

Early the next morning Mrs. Peters came to the door of the little
cottage on Star Island, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked out
over the sea. It promised to be a fair day. The storm had cleared off in
the night, and a fresh breeze was blowing from the southwest. Nothing,
however, could be seen of the dory, and as the dory ought to have been
home the afternoon before, Mrs. Peters began to be a little worried. She
had not worried until now, because Dare could not be expected to come
home in a storm. The child had no doubt put into Kittery Point, and
staid all night with the Grays, as she had done before under like
circumstances. But in that case she ought to be coming home now. Mrs.
Peters looked toward the little cove where the dory was accustomed to
lie; and to her great surprise discovered a mast-head rising above the
intervening rocks. The mast was not rocking, as it would be if the dory
were in the water. The boat must be drawn up on the beach. But who had
done that? Had Dare come home in the night? With a quick beating at her
heart, Mrs. Peters ran over the rocks down toward the beach. There was
the dory sure enough. How had it got there, and who was in it?

Dare was in it for one. Her head, from which the hat had fallen off,
rested on the gunwale; her eyes were closed in sleep; and though the
position must have been very uncomfortable, her lips were parted in a
half-smile. On her lap rested the head of another girl, whom Mrs. Peters
did not know, but who was also sleeping, while a boy reposed in the bow.
What did it all mean? With an unusual display of feeling, Mrs. Peters
leaned over and kissed Dare.

The girl opened her eyes.

"Is it time to get up?" she asked, dreamily.

"I should think it was," said Mrs. Peters, briskly. "And what I want to
know is how you got here."

Dare looked around in bewildered surprise. "Why, we must have drifted,"
she exclaimed. "We were miles away from here last night. Mollie dear,"
she cried, leaning over and kissing the head that rested in her lap,
"it's morning, and we've got home."

Mollie sprang up, rubbing her eyes. "Why did you let me sleep so long?"
she cried, penitently. "I might have helped you with the sail."

Dare laughed. "I've been asleep myself all night," she confessed, "and
the dory found its own way home."

Nobody could ever understand by what peculiar conjunction of wind and
current the little boat had been carried on through the darkness to the
strip of sandy beach that formed its haven. "It wouldn't happen once in
a million times," Captain Peters exclaimed, when he was told the story;
while Mrs. Peters declared, with equal emphasis, that no one could make
her believe that it wasn't a providence. As for Mollie's father and
mother, they didn't care how it happened, so long as Mollie was safe;
and when they had satisfied themselves as to that, they began to look
about for ways in which to express their gratitude to Dare. And though
Dare declares that she does not want any thanks, and that it is pleasure
enough for her to know Mollie, it is quite likely that something will be
done for her benefit. For one thing, she is going to spend next winter
with Mollie, and go to school in New York--a prospect which delights
Mollie not less than it does Dare. "Only I'm afraid," Mollie remarks,
apprehensively, when they are discussing the arrangement, "that Tom
won't be civil."

And Dare, to whom Tom has already shown several awkward attentions,
answers, with a smile and a blush: "Oh, Tom is such a goose! But I think
he'll be civil, dear."




A BRAVE BOY.


Evvie Jerome is a little New York boy who is spending the summer at
Bath, Long Island. There is a beautiful shelving beach at this place,
and the children have good times there wading in the surf, digging in
the sand, and building mimic bridges and forts with snowy clam shells.

On Friday, July 7, a merry group was playing on the shore as usual, when
suddenly there was a scream of fright and horror. A great wave had come
rolling in, and had caught and carried out of sight a sweet little girl.

There was not a man within reach. The ladies were paralyzed with fear.
The bright head had gone down under the dark waters.

But there was a little boy there who had the heart and courage of a man,
though he was only seven years old. He had what many men have not--the
sense to see what ought to be done, and the will to do it quickly.

Evvie Jerome caught hold of the life-rope, and by wading and swimming
reached the place where the little girl had gone under.

The spectators watching the young hero saw him dive. Up he came,
dragging the child with him. Clinging to her with one hand, and to the
friendly rope with the other, he brought her, half-drowned but safe, to
her mother's arms.

All honor, says HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, to so noble a boy.




[Illustration: THE YOUNG BAGGAGE-SMASHER.]




HARRY MILLER'S STURGEON.

BY BENJAMIN KARR.


Thirty-four years ago, boys who lived on the shores of Lake Champlain
were very fond of catching the big sturgeons that abounded in its clear
waters. Not more so, perhaps, than boys would be now if fine fish were
as plenty and as easily captured; but then other sports were not so
common in that day, and fishing had much less competition. Often six or
seven would go out together with long seines, and some famous catches
they used to make.

One spring day several lads about eighteen years old hauled in a
splendid sturgeon, whose good nature and intelligence won him quite a
local fame, and whose story ought to have been written long ago.

He was such a fine handsome fellow that Harry Miller, a kind-hearted boy
who was fond of pets, determined to take him home and try to tame him.

The rest of the party were all willing to give up their share in the
prize, so the big captive's fate was settled then and there. Harry took
him to his home at Cedar Point, near Port Henry, and put him in a box
which he had sunk in the water, and fastened to a landing at the edge of
the lake.

The box was about eight feet wide and thirteen feet long, so that a
sturgeon could have plenty of room, even if he was over three and a half
feet long, and weighed about one hundred and fifteen pounds, as this one
did. Harry was careful that there should be plenty of chance for the
fresh lake water to flow all through this novel aquarium, so that it was
always fresh and pure. He also made a door which could be securely
locked, so that he could take his pet out when he wished, and yet be
sure that no one would steal him.

The next thing was a name, and commonplace Tom was chosen, just as it
might be for a horse or a dog. It did not take Tom long to learn his
name, and as he had all the worms, meat, and kitchen scraps he could
eat, and was always treated kindly, he soon grew very tame and fat. He
was ready whenever any one came to feed him, and when his master
playfully patted his sides, he would roll over just as roguishly as a
pet puss might.

A Frenchman who lived near Harry Miller's home was wonderfully skillful
in training animals, and he persuaded Harry to let him see what he could
do with Tom. He found a most docile pupil, and succeeded amazingly, to
Harry's intense delight. After several weeks, he considered his task
accomplished, and returned his charge to his young owner.

Tom was now ready to do something practical in return for his master's
kindness; in fact, he had become a real "sea-horse," well broken to
harness, or rather to rope, for that is all he needed to pull a boat.

A heavy ring was fastened through the thick cartilage just behind the
dorsal or back fin, and a stout rope was snapped into this ring when Tom
was "hitched up," just as a rein often is into a bit.

The other end of the rope was held or made fast in the boat, so that all
one had to do to have a fine ride was to attend to the steering. A long
pole did duty for reins, and a slap on the water either side of Tom
would turn him in the opposite direction.

If he grew lazy, as he sometimes did, a sharp splash just behind would
quicken him up. There was never any trouble about getting home after a
ride. Just as soon as Tom had a chance to turn around, he would start
straight for his box, and swim with all his might until he was once more
snugly housed.

While Tom was being trained, he was allowed only about six feet of rope,
but after Harry felt sure that he could trust his pet, he let him go
twenty or thirty feet from the boat, and instead of short rides he used
to stay out as long as three or four hours.

Just think, boys, of going fishing with a fish to do the sculling!
Naturally Tom was kept quite busy towing fishing parties, and he worked
all the better when he had plenty to do. A vacation of two or three days
would make him behave like a colt the next time he went out.

At first he would rush off at a great rate, drawing two men in a
good-sized boat nearly as fast as one could row, but he would soon cool
down until he hardly wanted to stir at all.

Work every day was what Tom needed to make him willing and steady, and
if he had it he was a model of good behavior.

Of course a great many other boys thought it would be fine to have a
trained fish, and many sturgeons were caught and petted, but all in
vain. None of them could be induced to work, and Harry Miller's Tom
remained without a rival, the pride of his master, and the envy of other
boys.

Most of the sturgeons which boys tried to train killed themselves by
staying too long under water when they were taken out into the lake, and
others pined away and died before any progress could be made.

For three years Tom did his young master good and faithful service, but
at last he changed owners, and nothing is known of his history from the
time he was sold. Harry was forced to part with his pet because the
Millers moved away from the lake, but the twenty-five dollars he
received was a poor recompense to him for the loss of such an
accomplished fish.

But though he never heard of him again, he has always cherished his
memory.

Mr. Harry Miller is now a middle-aged gentleman, living in the town of
Warren, Pennsylvania, where he often entertains his young friends with
the story of his wonderful sturgeon Tom, every word of which is strictly
true.




MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]

[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

BY JAMES OTIS,

AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," "TIM AND TIP," ETC.

CHAPTER XVI.

A LOST MONKEY.


When they reached the kitchen, the sounds which came from the hen-house
told plainly that the party they were in search of had not ceased his
work because the household had been alarmed. The snapping of wood could
be heard, and if Aunt Olive had not been thoroughly aroused before, she
was then, for laths were being broken, and one of her choicest broods of
ducks was secured only by such frail barrier against either two or four
legged thieves.

"Stop them quick, or all the ducks will be out," she screamed; and, thus
urged, Uncle Daniel made a bold stand.

"Get behind me, and hold your hand over the light," he whispered; and
then he shouted, as he brought the gun up to his shoulder in a very
threatening manner, "Come out here, and give yourselves up at once."

There was no answer made to this peremptory command, and, strangely
enough, the work of destruction was continued as vigorously as if Uncle
Daniel and his broken gun were a thousand miles away, instead of on the
spot and ready for action.

"Come away from there instantly, and save yourself any further trouble,"
shouted Uncle Daniel, in a louder voice, stamping his foot, while Aunt
Olive brandished the fire-shovel to give emphasis to his words.

There was silence for a moment, as if the burglar had stopped to
consider the matter, and then the work was continued with greater energy
than before.

"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Uncle Daniel, as he brought the butt of his
gun down on his own foot with such force that he was obliged to give
immediate attention to the wounded member.

Toby had always had a wholesome dread of a gun; but his fear became
greater than ever when he saw how much mischief could be done with one
as near a total wreck as that was, for Uncle Daniel had seated himself
on the grass, regardless of the dew, and was hugging his foot as if he
feared he should lose it.

Even though her husband was wounded, Aunt Olive could not stop to offer
any aid while her precious ducks were in such peril, as the breaking of
the laths proved them to be; and she started forward alone and unarmed,
save with the shovel, until a loud quacking indicated that the robber
had made at least one prisoner. Dropping the shovel, but still clinging
to the candle, Aunt Olive seized the gun, and dragging it along by the
muzzle, she cried:

"I'll shoot you if you don't let them ducks alone, and go right straight
away from here!"

The loud quacking of another duck proved that she had not alarmed the
burglar; and as she was now quite near the bold robber, by holding her
candle above her head she could discern in the darkness what looked like
a boy, with a duck tightly clutched in each hand.

"It's only a boy," she cried to Uncle Daniel, who had given over
attending to his foot, and was coming up; and then, as she ran toward
the thief, she cried, "Put down them ducks, you little rascal, or I will
whip you soundly!"

The boy did not put the ducks down, nor did he stay for the whipping;
but, with both the noisy prizes held in one hand, he began to climb the
hen-house in a manner surprising in one so small.

By this time both Toby and Uncle Daniel were on the spot, and the former
saw that the supposed boy was using a long tail in his work of climbing
the hen-house.

"It's Mr. Stubbs's brother; don't shoot him!" he cried, forgetting, in
his excitement, that the gun was dangerous only when dropped on one's
foot; and then he too tried to climb upon the hen-house.

"The monkey?" cried Uncle Daniel, as he felt on his forehead for his
spectacles, to enable him to see better. Aunt Olive made use of almost
the same words; but instead of feeling for her spectacles, she ran
toward the building, as if she fancied it to be the easiest thing in the
world to catch a mischievous monkey.

Toby knew, if Aunt Olive did not, that it would be the work of some time
to catch Mr. Stubbs's brother, and that no threats would induce him to
come down. Therefore he put forth all his energies in the vain hope of
overtaking him.

Although the monkey was encumbered by the two ducks he had stolen, he
could climb twice as fast as Toby could, and Aunt Olive realized the
fact very soon.

"Scare him till he drops the ducks," she cried to Toby; and then, to do
her portion of the "scaring," she brandished the fire-shovel, and cried
"shoo!" in a very energetic manner.

Uncle Daniel waved his arms, and shouted, "Come down! come down!" as he
ran from one side of the building to the other; but the only reply to
his shout was the quacking of the half-strangled ducks.

"Catch him, Toby, catch him, before he kills the ducks!" cried Aunt
Olive, in an agony of fear lest these particular inmates of her
poultry-yard should be killed.

"That's what I'm tryin' to do," panted Toby, as he chased Mr. Stubbs's
brother from one end of the roof to the other, without even a chance of
catching him.

The quacking of the ducks was growing fainter every moment, and knowing
that something must be done at once, Uncle Daniel hunted around until he
found a long pole, with which he struck at the monkey.

This had the desired effect, for Mr. Stubbs's brother was so nearly hit
two or three times that he dropped the almost dead ducks, curled his
tail over his back, and leaped to the ground. He alighted so near Aunt
Olive that she uttered a loud shriek, nearly falling backward over the
wood-pile; but the monkey was out of sight in an instant, going in the
direction of the road.

As his pet disappeared in the darkness, Toby scrambled down from the
roof of the building and started in pursuit; but before he had gone far
he heard Uncle Daniel calling to him, while at the same time he realized
that pursuit would be useless under the circumstances.

"He's run away, an' I won't ever find him again," he said, in so
mournful a tone that Uncle Daniel knew the tears were very near his
eyelids.

"He won't go very far, Toby boy," said Uncle Daniel, consolingly, "and
you can soon find him after the sun rises."

"He'll be more'n seven miles off by that time," said Toby, as he choked
back his sobs, and tried to speak firmly.

"I don't know much about the nature of monkeys," replied Uncle Daniel,
speaking very slowly; "but I am inclined to the belief that he will
remain near here, since he has come to consider this his home. But it
will be daylight in less than an hour, and then you can start after him.
I will drive the cows to the pasture, so that you will have nothing to
delay you."

Aunt Olive had caught up the ducks as soon as Mr. Stubbs's brother had
dropped them, and believing it was yet possible to save their lives, she
had started toward the house for the purpose of applying some remedies.

"It's so near morning that I sha'n't go to bed again," she said; "and
I'll get you something to eat, and put up a lunch for you, so you can
stay out until you find him."

This offer on Aunt Olive's part seemed doubly kind, since the monkey had
done so much mischief among her pets, and Toby realized that it would be
ungrateful in him to complain, more especially as Uncle Daniel and Aunt
Olive were willing to do all in their power to enable him to catch the
fugitive.

"I'll mend the cluck pen," he said, resolutely putting from his mind the
thought of Mr. Stubbs's brother, who he firmly believed was trudging up
the road in the direction taken by the circus when it left town.

Uncle Daniel thought it would be just as well to remain up also, and he
dragged the wreck of the gun into the house, putting it carefully away
lest some one should be injured by it, before he commenced to build the
fire.

Mr. Stubbs's brother had labored industriously when he set about
reducing the cluck pen to kindling-wood; and although Toby worked as
fast as possible, it was nearly time for the sun to rise before he
finished the job of repairing it.

By that time Aunt Olive had a nice breakfast ready for him, and a
generous lunch done up neatly in paper.

Abner had not wakened, therefore Toby was obliged to go away without
knowing whether he was better or worse; but Aunt Olive told him that she
thought he need have no fear regarding the invalid, for she felt certain
he would be much better when he awoke.

Toby ate his breakfast very hurriedly, and then started down the road in
the direction of his partners' homes, for he thought there would be a
better chance of capturing the runaway if four or five boys set out in
pursuit than if he went out alone.

Fully two hours were spent in arousing his partners, explaining what had
happened, and waiting for them to get their breakfast; but at the end of
that time every one of the circus managers was ready for the search.

There was a decided difference of opinion among them as to which
direction they should take, some believing the monkey had gone one way,
and some another, and the only plan by which the matter could be settled
was to divide the force into two parties.

Bob, Reddy, and Ben formed one division, and they started into the woods
in a nearly straight line from Uncle Daniel's house. Toby, Joe, and
Leander, making up the other party, went up the road. Toby insisted on
this course because he was sure that Mr. Stubbs's brother would attempt
to follow the circus of which he had once been a member, although so
many weeks had elapsed since it had passed along there.

Leander was of the opinion that they ought to have borrowed a dog, with
which to track the monkey more easily, and even offered to go back to
get one; but Toby thought that would be a waste of valuable time, more
especially as it was by no means certain that Leander could procure the
dog if he did go back.

Joe thought each inch of the road should be examined with a view to
finding traces of the monkey; but that plan was given up in a very few
moments after it was tried, for the good reason that the boys could not
distinguish even their own footprints, the road was beaten so hard. They
could only walk straight ahead, hoping to come up with the fugitive, or
to hear some news of him.

[Illustration: THE BOYS INQUIRING FOR MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.]

At each house on the road they stopped to ask if a stray monkey had been
seen; but they could hear nothing encouraging until they had walked
nearly three miles, and were just beginning to think it would have been
wiser to remain with the party who went into the woods.

At last, however, a farmer told them that he had seen an animal come up
the main road, just about sunrise, and that it had gone up through his
field into an oak grove. He had had no idea at the time that it was a
monkey, and had intended to take his gun and go in search of it as soon
as he could spare the time.

Toby trembled as the man said this, for Mr. Stubbs's death was too vivid
in his mind for him to think without a shudder of any one going in
search of this monkey with a gun. He started for the grove at full
speed, fearing that some one with more time at his disposal had seen his
pet, and might even now be in pursuit of him.

Of course the boys did not know certainly that the animal the farmer had
seen was Mr. Stubbs's brother, but all were quite sure it was; and
before they had been in the oak grove ten minutes they saw the monkey
himself, hanging by his tail and one paw from the branch of a tree.

Toby was so delighted at seeing his pet safe and alive that he set up a
great shout; and the monkey, thus warned that boys who would chain him
down to the drudgery of a circus ring were on his track, started off at
full speed, scolding furiously as he went.

To catch a monkey in the woods was even a harder task than to "scrape"
him from the tent, or to capture him on the roof of the hen-house; but
he must be caught, and the three boys started after him, fully aware of
the difficult task before them.

To Mr. Stubbs's brother this flight and pursuit was simply the wildest
kind of a frolic, and he fairly screamed with delight as he leaped from
one tree to another, sometimes allowing them to touch him, and then
starting off, at full speed until nearly out of sight.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




AMUSING "HIS HIGHNESS."

BY MARY D. BRINE.

  His little Highness sits in state
    Upon his rightful throne,
  And from his kingly brow all sign
    Of royal care has flown.
  His little Highness smiles at us
    Who kneel before him there,
  The while we kiss his gracious hand
    And bonny face so fair.

  His little Highness, it is plain,
    His subjects should amuse;
  And of all entertainments, pray
    Which will his Highness choose?
  There's "This wee pig to market went,"
    Played with his royal toes;
  And "Trot, trot, trot, on mother's knee,
    To Boston baby goes";

  And "Patty-cake, O baker's man!"
    Played with the dimpled hands;
  And many another game like that
    Which baby understands.
  But best of all his Majesty
    His mother's kiss prefers;
  For though we dearly love our king,
    There is no love like hers.

  So in her arms she clasps him tight,
    He and his dignity.
  He's only baby, after all,
    And sleepy as can be.
  His throne into a cradle turns--
    'Tis mother's knee, you know--
  And presently to slumber-land
    His Majesty will go.




CATCHING BUTTERFLIES.

BY HELEN S. CONANT.


The boy or girl who wishes to form a valuable and pretty collection of
butterflies must set about it in the right way. The first thing is to
prepare a net. The brass rings with handles sold by all dealers in
sportsmen's goods for landing-nets for fish will answer the purpose, but
any ingenious boy can make his own frame. Get a smooth, light hoop about
fifteen inches in diameter. If you can not find one small enough, make
it from a barrel hoop. Bind the hoop firmly to a rod about three feet
long. Now go to mamma and ask her to cut out a round piece of mosquito
netting about three-quarters of a yard in diameter, and fasten it to the
hoop. Now the net is ready.

[Illustration]

The permanent case for your specimens must be a neat shallow box of some
pretty wood, with a glass cover. Thin pieces of cork should be glued on
the bottom at intervals, according to the size of your butterflies, upon
these the insects are mounted by a slender pin which runs through the
body. When the case is full, it should be sealed air-tight, for if there
is the finest crack, moths will get in and ruin your collection.

You can not take your case to the fields, so you must have some small
paper boxes in which you can mount your specimens until the wings are
dry, and they are ready to place in the case.

The best thing for a youthful naturalist to use to kill the butterfly is
ether. As it evaporates very quickly, it does not injure the color or
texture of the beautiful insect, and it ends the life of the butterfly
instantly, and without giving pain. There are other things often used by
naturalists, such as cyanide of potassium, but they are dangerous
chemicals for little folks to handle, and we recommend ether as being
safe, and sure to kill the butterfly.

Now swing your net over your shoulder, take the ether which should be in
a bottle with a glass stopper to prevent evaporation, the box for
mounting specimens, and some fine pins, and let us start out in search
of butterflies. We will go first for some of the large ones that fly
about the fields and by the road-side.

Down in the old lane by the stone wall is a great clump of milkweed
(_Asclepias syriaca_), and in June there were some big black, white, and
yellow caterpillars crawling about among the leaves. Two weeks ago they
changed into green chrysalides spotted with black and gold, and it is
time now to look for the great _Danias archippus_ butterflies, which
will come out of the chrysalides in these hot July days. Yes, there is
one now perched on the Asclepias, its large wings opening and shutting
in the sun. Go softly, for it is a shy fellow. A quick throw of the net,
and--off goes the butterfly sailing away across the sunny field. Hurry
over the wall and give chase after it. The boy who would intrap a
butterfly must follow where it leads, and stop neither for walls,
ditches, nor swamps, or the prize will be lost. There are few
butterflies so strong on the wing as the Archippus. But it is worn out
at last, and stops to rest for an instant on a field lily--a fatal
instant for the butterfly, for now the net descends skillfully, and the
great insect is fluttering in its meshes. Gather the net carefully in
your hand so that the creature will have no room to flutter and break
its wings. Now pour a very little ether on its head--two drops are
enough--and it lies motionless. As the Archippus is a very strong
fellow--you have already, perhaps, felt the tight grip of its tiny feet
on your finger--it may be necessary to repeat the dose of ether, but for
ordinary butterflies one dose is sufficient.

Take the dead insect in your hand, touching the wings as little as
possible, as the delicate down is easily injured, and passing a pin
through its body, fasten it in the bottom of your box. Open the wings
carefully, and arrange them at once while they are soft and flexible. A
pin fastened between the wings, not through them, will hold them in
place until they are dry.

Examine the Archippus carefully, for it is a very beautiful creature.
Its wings expand over four inches. They are tawny orange veined with
black, and with a black border ornamented with rows of white dots. On
the front border of the fore-wings are several yellow and white spots.
The under side of the wings is deep yellow, veined and bordered the same
as the upper side. Be very careful not to injure the antennas, or
feelers, which project from the head; they are very delicate and easily
broken. But do not be discouraged if your first attempt to mount and
arrange a butterfly is unsuccessful. The first butterfly will no doubt
be a forlorn-looking creature, its wings twisted and broken. Persevere,
and your fingers will soon become skillful, and you will arrange the
wings as neatly as an experienced naturalist could do it.

[Illustration]

The dark butterfly in the background of the engraving is an Archippus,
and the large one in front, with bands crossing its wings, and with
little tails on its hind-wings, is the _Papilio turnus_--a brilliant
yellow butterfly marked with black and blue. The latter is usually found
in old apple orchards. It leaves the chrysalis early in June, which is
the best time to capture it, as the specimens found fluttering about
late in the season are too faded and dilapidated to be valuable in a
collection. But there is another very beautiful member of this same
family called _Papilio asterias_, which may be found in country gardens
all through the month of July. It is usually fluttering over
sweet-scented phlox and parley beds, because it is on these plants that
it deposits its eggs, from which the caterpillar, commonly known as the
parley worm, is hatched. The _papilio asterias_ is a large butterfly,
with black velvety wings, dotted with yellow on the margin. The
hind-wings are tailed like those of the _Papilio turnus_, and ornamented
with seven blue spots between two rows of yellow spots, and at the hind
angle with an orange-colored eye with a black centre.

There are two pretty butterflies of the genus Nymphalis, which are found
all through the summer. The _Nymphalis disippe_ is very similar in color
and markings to the great Archippus, but it is much smaller, as its
wings expand only about three inches. Look for it near willows and
poplars, for it is on those trees that its caterpillar lives and forms
its chrysalis.

Its sister, the _Nymphalis ephestion_, is a creature entirely different
in appearance. The caterpillars and chrysalides of both are similar,
but, except in size and form of the wings, the gorgeous orange and black
Disippe bears no resemblance to the Ephestion in its suit of dark navy
blue with black and white trimmings.

Another beautiful butterfly is the _Argynnis idalia_. Its hind-wings are
blue-black, with two rows of cream-colored and orange spots, while the
fore-wings, which expand over three inches, are tawny-orange spotted
with black. The under side of its wings, like those of nearly all
butterflies of the genus Argynnis, is ornamented with silvery spots in a
black border. The Idalia loves grassy fields and way-side flowers, and
is not difficult to capture.

The tiny butterfly with bluish-brown and copper-colored wings ornamented
with black, which is found in great numbers all through the summer
fluttering over the grass and white clover by the road-side, is the
_Lycæna americana_; and the small yellow butterfly with black markings
on its wings, which flies in such quantities over clover fields that a
single throw of the net will often intrap a dozen, is the _Colias
philodice_. These two are the most common of our small butterflies,
although there are many more you will find in your rambles through woods
and fields. There are the skippers (_Hesperiadæ_), of which there are
said to be more than eighty varieties, that fly near the ground with a
jerking motion, as if they were skipping instead of flying from flower
to flower. A peculiarity of the skipper is that when at rest it erects
only the fore-wings, the hind pair remaining horizontal like those of a
moth.

During the latter part of summer a family of delicate brown butterflies
may be seen in the shady woods fluttering about beds of fern and moss.
They, are called Hipparchians, and are the only butterflies which love
shade better than sunshine. Their wings are very fragile, and the net
should be thrown over them as gently as possible, as they are broken and
ruined by careless handling. The _Hipparchia alope_ is one of the
largest of this pretty family. Its brown wings expand a little over two
inches. Near the margin of the fore-wings is a broad yellow band in
which are two round black spots with a blue centre. The _Hipparchia
eurytris_ is a delicate little beauty. It is smaller than the Alope, and
each of its little pale brown wings is ornamented with two black spots
with a tiny lead-colored centre.

Through the summer and autumn there are so many butterflies fluttering
away their short lives in the sunshine that a description of them all
would fill many pages of YOUNG PEOPLE. But catch all the different kinds
you can find, and preserve them carefully; and if you have no good
illustrated text-book in the country, you can obtain one next winter,
and spend many long evenings in classifying your collection, and
studying the habits of these pretty inhabitants of the fields and
woods.




[Illustration: A SWEET KISS FROM DOLLY.]




TOM FAIRWEATHER GOES TO BASSORAH, THE HOME OF SINDBAD THE SAILOR.

BY LIEUTENANT E. W. STURDY.


Tom awoke late one morning, to his disappointment, because the night
before his father had told him that the next day they would anchor off
the Shat-el-Arab River. He sprang on deck eagerly. "Land! Land!" had an
ever-fresh fascination for him.

But where was the land? He gazed about him in surprise. The ship was
anchored, by all the signs, but anchored apparently in mid-ocean.
Directly ahead of them, however, was a black buoy, which, as Tom knew,
was not an ordinary feature of mid-ocean scenery.

Tom pointed out this buoy to his father. "What a queer place for a buoy,
father!"

"Not at all. It is put there to mark the middle of the river channel.
But I see what you mean. You don't realize that is the mouth of a river.
Water, water everywhere, and no land in view, eh? Nevertheless this is
the Shat-el-Arab River, which we now propose to ascend. Here comes the
pilot."

Do you remember, Young People, that the Shat-el-Arab is at the head of
the Persian Gulf? Tom realized this distinctly, as they had been
steaming up this Gulf for the past week. But could that be indeed a
river-mouth?

It was not until they were under way, and had been running along for an
hour, that the river narrowed sufficiently for its banks to become
visible. At this point it might fairly be termed a magnificent river,
with a depth of from thirty to forty feet, whereas at its bar, off which
they had first anchored, there was but eleven or twelve feet of water.
Yes, a splendid river all the way along its splendid course of a hundred
and fifty miles, to the place where the Euphrates and Tigris mingle
their floods with its own.

But Tom's ship stops short of this point, at Bassorah, with which city
Tom had most vivid associations, for was it not from here that Sindbad
the Sailor had set forth on his wonderful voyages?

It was late in the afternoon when they neared the shore, but not too
late to distinctly note the character of the place. It was very much
better built, and with more of an air of civilization about it, than
other Eastern towns Tom had seen lately. The buildings were, some of
them, of brick, with glass windows facing the outer world. In short,
Bassorah gave evidence on its face of being a prosperous city.

"It is a great grain dépôt," one of the officers said to another. "Those
high buildings are grain warehouses."

"Yes, and they are almost always well stocked with grain," Captain
Fairweather remarked. "A perpetual contest is going on between the grain
merchants and the rats in consequence. The warehouses are in a constant
state of siege by the rats trying to get in. Every now and then the rats
win the day. They undermine the foundations, and over goes a warehouse."

"How I wish they'd do it while we are here!" cried Tom, fervently.

"Perhaps they may," returned Tom's especial Lieutenant, in an
encouraging tone.

The next morning Captain Fairweather made up a party, of which Tom was
one, to visit the shore. He pulled to the creek leading to the town, and
then embarked in a long narrow native boat. Tom inspected it curiously
when he had taken his seat.

"They call this boat a bellem," said his father. "It is hewn out of a
tree. Something like canoe-riding, isn't it?"

Two lithe, active Arabs shoved the bellem forward with long bamboos,
which they thrust against the bottom or the banks of the creek--or
perhaps I might better say canal.

When they left the bellem, one of the boatmen went with them as a guide
through the town, and first of all through the bazars.

The bazars were well-built structures, vaulted over with brick. But they
were dismally dark, being lighted only by very small windows at the top.
A large trade in grain was in progress. They saw thousands of tons of
wheat in open spaces, the heaps being covered over with mats.

"Do they only trade in grain here?" Tom asked.

"No, but the season for the grain trade comes first; then comes the wool
trade, and later on the trade in dates. First one thing and then
another."

As they walked out, Mr. Jollytarre said to the guide: "What dirty
streets! Do you ever sweep them?"

"When the Pasha he come," replied the boatman.

"How they do smell!" said Tom, sniffing the air.

"And they will go on smelling," said the Captain, "until some fine day
the plague comes and makes a clean sweep of the town. The only clean
sweep it ever gets, some one has said."

"The plague!" cried Tom, in horror.

"Yes, the plague. All these filthy Oriental towns are scourged by it
every now and then; Bassorah has had its share in the visitation. A long
time ago Bassorah had a large population--as high as 800,000, they say,
but that is an Oriental way of saying it was very populous. But
pestilence, and war, and capture by the Persians, and recapture by the
Imam of Muscat for the Sultan, have reduced it to very modest
proportions indeed. The Turks founded it, to begin with. One of their
early Caliphs gave it the first start 'way back--let me see--in the
seventh century."

"Six hundred A.D.," put in Tom.

"Yes; the Turks wanted to keep the way open for trade to the Gulf. These
Turks generally know what they are about. But of course the best
business men in Bassorah are the Jews."

Here a curious coincidence occurred. A procession slowly approached,
coming down the narrow street.

"Jew funeral," said the Arab boatman.

The officers and our Tom gave way, crowding themselves against the
houses, as the procession advanced. In front of them it halted. The
corpse about to be buried lay in an open coffin placed on a bier hung
with black. The persons comprising the procession had been chanting
doleful funeral songs, but when they halted they ceased singing, and
instead repeated in a mournful monotone funeral prayers as they all
marched around the coffin. On the corpse was placed an urn, and as each
person passed it he threw into it a piece of money. Seven halts were
made, the routine being the same in each instance. At the final one the
priest who was conducting the ceremonies uplifted the urn and said, in
solemn tones: "We know that no one in the world is free from the sin
Sera Lebathalah. We therefore give to thee this money, in order that
thou mayst let his body and his soul rest in peace. In the name of the
Eternal and His Holy Word, and with the consent of the members of the
congregation here present, we lay upon thee the Anathema, which shall
compel thee to flee into wild and solitary regions, where thou canst no
more persecute any one."

As a matter of course Tom was completely mystified. The Lieutenant had
been studying his guide-book. "It's this way, Tom," he explained. "This
Jewish community have this curious custom peculiar to themselves. That
great long word Sera Lebathalah is the name of a mystic sin or spirit,
who is said to be the father of countless dark fiends who torment a man
after his death, under the pretext that they are his children and ought
to have part of his inheritance. Anathema is a Greek word, signifying
that a thing shall be condemned or devoted to destruction. So the
friends of the dead buy off this spirit as you have seen, and get rid of
him in that way."

"But what becomes of the money?" asked Tom.

"That's more than I can say," said his friend. "But here we are at the
grave."

The procession marched solemnly around the grave, and having placed the
body in it returned to the town.

Tom and the Lieutenant had quite a walk to take before they again fell
in with their companions. They discovered that the next feature on the
programme was a further pull up the canal, in accordance with which
arrangement they again embarked in the bellem. The canal was full of
other boats, which passed them going and coming, the boatmen singing
Arab ditties. Great loads of grain came down the stream.

"A good deal of that grain," said the Captain, "goes to Jeddah, and is
sold to the pilgrims arriving at that port for Mecca."

In places remote from the Shat-el-Arab or the Tigris it is difficult and
expensive to find means of transportation, so a large quantity of grain
is used for fuel, and some rots away, or is consumed by rats in the
granaries.

"Look at that," cried Mr. Jollytarre, pointing toward a warehouse close
to the river-bank, tottering to its fall, as though an earthquake had
suddenly overtaken it. "The rats have been having a fine time there."

As he spoke, the building he had pointed out fell with a loud crash.

"Pull ashore," cried the Captain. "We must see what all this means.
Jollytarre, you must be dreaming. Rats, indeed!" Hastily running ashore,
they came up against a sedate, imperturbable Turkish official, who
re-assured them: "It is only one of the government grain stores that has
fallen. It often happens. The rats undermine the walls to get at the
grain, and from time to time a building gives way."

"Extraordinary!" cried Tom's father. "Well, I don't see that we can do
anything here." So they re-embarked.

"These embankments are very well built," remarked some one, when they
were again moving up the creek.

The boatman told them they were built by Nassir, a powerful Sheik; that
he made a general levy of laborers for the purpose, without pay,
although, to be sure, the villages around were compelled to provide
food. The laborers made a strike for regular pay, whereupon Nassir built
a few of the refractory men into the embankment, and declared he would
construct it all of the bodies of the strikers if they did not at once
go on with their work. There the strike ended. "As well it might, with
such an employer," said the Captain. "And now," he added, "we'll turn
around, for if you propose to start for Bagdad to-morrow, Tom, you'd
better have a rest."




JOB'S TURKEY.

BY J. R. GALBRAITH.


"De ole speckle hane's done gone en keel ober, missus. Wot's we gwine
ter do wid de young turkey?"

These words were addressed to me one fine spring morning by a small and
very black boy, whose name was Job. Job always took a great interest in
the poultry, and, indeed, was of no little assistance to me in its care.
To be sure, he sometimes caused a great deal of trouble, when the
chickens were hatching, by his great anxiety to know how they were
getting on. He would lift up the hens to see if the little chicks were
all out of their shells, and would even try to assist them in breaking
the latter open, by which kind-hearted operation he invariably caused
their death.

The speckled hen to which he referred that morning had been so
unfortunate as to lose all her brood of young turkeys except one, and
now she herself was dead. What to do with the young turkey was indeed a
puzzling question. It was too young to take care of itself, and none of
the other hens would take it, because their broods were not of the same
age.

"Well, Job," I said, "I really do not know what we will do with the poor
little thing: there is no mother for it."

"Dat's so," said Job; "but it make me feel moughty bad ter see dat
leetle turkey a-cryin' roun' de dade hane. De ole rooster-cock he go er
crowin' roun' jes ez big ez ef nuffin ain't done gone en happen. Oh,
he's a precious vilyen, is dat same ole rooster-cock!"

I reflected a few moments, and then I said, "Job, you may have that
little turkey, and when it gets big enough to sell, you can have the
money all for your own."

"You don't mean dat, do you, missus?"

"Yes."

"Well, den, dat ar turkey ain't gwine ter die, not ef dis chile kin help
it."

Any one who is familiar with poultry knows what delicate little things
young turkeys are, and how difficult they are to raise under the most
favorable circumstances. What, then, were Job's chances? Not one in a
thousand.

[Illustration: JOB WATCHING HIS TURKEY.]

Job went at once and put the young turkey in a coop by itself. He then
procured some soft grass, with which he covered the floor; and having
placed some water and food where the little thing could get at them, he
spent the remainder of the day in lying on the ground before the coop,
looking in at his new possession.

That night when I went out to superintend the feeding of the young
chickens, which duty had devolved upon Job, he informed me that it was
necessary to be very careful in regard to the rooster, and from what he
said I inferred that he believed that fowl entertained some wicked
scheme against not only all the young of its own kind, but all young
poultry in general.

"De ole rooster-cock," said Job, as we paused before the coop that held
the young turkey, "he come up en look through de slats at dat ar
turkey--he did, sho. I hez ter keep a moughty close watch out, I duz.
'Member de time w'en he picked de young goslin' en de leetle chicken ter
def, kaze dey wanted ter foller him. He'd do jes dat ar way wid de
turkey ef he had half a chance. Oh, he's a precious vilyen, is dat same
ole rooster-cock!"

To the surprise of us all, Job's turkey lived to be a full-grown bird,
and, unlike the traditional Job's turkey, grew as plump and fat as any
turkey need wish to be.

Yes, it lived and grew fat, but perhaps, after all, it was an unenviable
kind of life, for it lost that which is the pride of all young
gobblers--its tail. There was not a single feather of it left. Job in
catching it had so often pulled out so many tail feathers that at last
they were all gone.

Nor was this the only trial it had to bear. Job was continually shutting
it up, and then changing his mind and letting it out again. One morning,
when his mother was picking geese, Job caught his turkey, and gave it to
his grandmother to hold until he could fix a coop to put it in. His
grandmother, who was entirely blind, thinking that it was a goose,
picked almost every feather from its body.

One day Job's father invited a few friends to take dinner with him. The
dinner was to be given on the Fourth of July, and Job was very much
afraid that his turkey would be sacrificed to the occasion.

"I's moughty feerd dat pap is gwine ter kill dat turkey," he said. "Ef
he do, I won't hab no way ter git no money, kaze I won't hab nuffin ter
sell w'en de hux'er comes roun'. I hope you won't let him kill dat
turkey, missus, he am sich a fine gobbler. Ef 'twas de ole rooster-cock
I wo'dn't keer, kaze eberybody knows he ain't no 'count. All he duz is
ter walk roun' en 'tend like he's foun' suthin, en scratch up de groun'.
Ef he'd git inter de yard, he'd scratch up all de flowers--he wo'd,
sho."

"Oh, I guess he'll hardly kill your turkey, Job," I said, trying to
re-assure him.

"I don' know," said Job; "I's feerd he will. Yuther day Elder Sales wuz
ter our house, en a-readin' outer de Bible 'bout Job. Pap he tole me ter
lissen how de man wot I woz named after wuz 'flicted. Den presently he
axed de elder whar wuz de passage wot tole 'bout 'Job's turkey.' De
elder said he didn't know jes zactly, but he 'lowed he'd soon fin' it.
Dey look en dey look, but dey didn't fin' whar 'twas. 'Well,' sez pap
atter a while, 'I knows a boy wot's got a turkey, ennyhow, en it's dat
ar _Job_ dar; en a moughty fine fat one too. It'll make a good ros' fer
us some dese yere days.'"

From a remark that I overheard Old Dick make, I found that he actually
did intend to kill Job's turkey. It was too bad, after the trouble the
boy had taken to raise it. So that evening when I saw Old Dick, I told
him not to kill Job's turkey, and that I would give him one. He bowed
and made a great to-do thanking me.

"I'll kill de turkey to-morrow ebenin', so's ter hab it all ready in
good season."

Job, who had been weeding a flower bed near by, came up just in time to
hear this, and I noticed a peculiar expression on his face, but thought
nothing of it at the time. Old Dick then made a low bow, and making Job
do the same, the two departed in the direction of their cabin.

Everything went on as usual until about dusk the next day, when Old Dick
made his appearance at the sitting-room window, and informed me that Job
was missing.

"I's looked ebery whar, high en low, en I can't fin' de po' boy no'ers,"
he said.

"Oh, he will turn up before long; don't be frightened," I said. "Very
likely he has climbed up into the haymow and fallen asleep. You remember
we found him there once."

"I clar, missus, I's done look all fro de barn; but I'll go look agin ef
yer say so. I 'members now I didn't look in de ole mangers in de
wagon-house; but I don't reckon he'd git in dem hardly."

I went about my work, having little doubt but that Job would turn up all
right, as he always had done before. But in a few minutes, happening to
glance out of the window, I saw Old Dick running toward the house,
having lost his hat, and making wild gestures with his arms. As soon as
he caught sight of me he commenced to cry: "Oh, missus! Oh! oh! oh!
Joby's done gone en fell in de barn well."

I ran out to him at once. "You must be mistaken," I said.

"Oh dear no, missus; I wisht I wuz. De bucket wuz hangin' down de well,
en I jes let it down inter de water, thinkin' I'd draw up a leetle, w'en
I heerd him a-splashin' roun' down dar."

"It was only the bucket when it struck the water."

"Oh no, 'twan't; I drawed de bucket up, en could atterwa'ds hear de po'
boy. Can't nobody help me git him out? De po' boy is drownin' down
dar--he is sho'. Whar _is_ Mr. Williams? Oh, missus, whar _is_ Mr.
Williams?"

Great excitement ensued. Dinah, the cook, having seen Old Dick come
running toward the house, had come out to see what was the matter. Now
she ran back to my husband's study, and addressed him in these words.
"De Lord help us, Marster Williams, Job's done gone en fell in de barn
well."

He jumped up at once, and came running out in his dressing-gown, which,
being of light material, was taken up by the wind and floated out behind
him like a streamer. We three repaired to the well, where Old Dick had
preceded us. Dinah was armed with the rolling-pin, my husband had the
notes of a prospective sermon in his hands, which were scattered to the
four winds, and I had some fancy-work, which, in my excitement, I had
forgotten to lay aside. Truly we were well equipped for extricating a
drowning boy from a well.

When we arrived at the well, it had begun to grow dark, and when we
looked down into it, it appeared a deep black hole that might extend to
the centre of the earth. Old Dick was leaning over the frame gazing into
the dark depths below.

"Joby," he cried, "jes keep yo' hade 'bove water till we git down to
yer. Hole onter de stones on de side, Joby. Does yer hear me, honey?"

No response from the well.

"Joby," he cried, in a louder voice, "does yer hear me?"

This was succeeded by a confused splashing at the bottom of the well.

"Oh, de po' boy!" cried Old Dick, wringing his hands; "he'll be drown',
sho! Joby, o-o-oh, Joby, does yer hear me, honey?"

[Illustration: "HE WOULD HAVE PITCHED HEADLONG INTO THE WELL."]

Here Old Dick leaned so far over the well frame that if Mr. Williams had
not caught him he would have pitched headlong into the well.

Mr. Williams, having detached the rope from the bucket, fastened it
around his waist, and telling Old Dick to hold on to the crank and let
the rope unwind slowly, began to descend into the well, holding on to
the sides with his hands and feet.

"Oh, dear me!" muttered Old Dick, as he unwound the rope; "ef he wuz ter
lose his holt, en de cord wuz ter break, wot wo'd become ob po' Joby
den?"

"Here he is!" Mr. Williams cried from the bottom of the well.

"Dade, I reckon?" said Old Dick.

"No," said Mr. Williams; "for a wonder he is alive. Wind up the rope,
Richard."

Old Dick slowly wound up the rope. We were leaning over the well frame,
peering anxiously into its black depths, when Mr. Williams came in
sight, bearing in his arms poor Job? No. What? Job's turkey.

Dinah and I shouted with laughter, but Old Dick looked more distressed
than ever.

"Where's Joby?" he cried. "You ain't gone en lef him dade at de bottom
ob de well?"

"No," said Mr. Williams; "he is not there."

Old Dick could not seem to realize this at first. When he did, his
features broadened into a smile. "Well, I thought," he said. Then he
suddenly became grave again, as he remembered that, after all, we had
not found Job.

We hunted all over the premises, and Old Dick went around to the
neighbors and made inquiries, but it was all in vain. Job was nowhere to
be found.

The next day, as I was passing through an unoccupied room at the back
part of the house, I thought I heard a noise, like something falling, in
a long disused closet. I opened the door to see what it was. All that I
could see was a pair of bright eyes peering out from the cave-like
blackness of the closet. I started back in fear.

"Don't be skeered, missus."

"Job!" I cried.

The boy tumbled out on to the floor at my feet.

"Don't whip me, missus, please don't whip me."

"Whip you, Job? of course not."

"Is de turkey alibe, missus?"

"Yes. What ever put it into your head to play such a trick as this?"

"Well, yer see, missus, I heerd pap say he wuz gwine ter kill dat turkey
las' night. I had tole him 'twa'n't no fittin' time ob year ter eat
turkey, but he boun' ter kill it er bust. Well, I seed dat dar wuz water
nuff drawd fer de hoss, en I jes cotch dat turkey, en chuck him in de
well bucket tight, so he can't git out, en let him down de well."

When Old Dick was informed of Job's whereabouts it was with great
difficulty that I prevailed upon him not to whip the boy. He, however,
at length consented to let him off that time.

"But ef eber I heers ob sich cuttins up agin I'll larrop him sho. A
pirty-lookin' creeter he is, a-skeerin' his mammy en me half outen our
senses!"

Job's turkey lived without any more adventures until he sold it for a
good price to the huxter. He took the money and bought himself a pair of
red-top boots, and when he put them on and walked about the yard he was
indeed a happy boy.




[Illustration]

KITTY'S DREAM.


  Little Kitty Martin
    Had a vision in her slumbers
  Of little cherub kitty cats
    In most prodigious numbers.

  They looked just like her own gray pets--
    She saw them all quite clearly;
  And still she wasn't frightened,
    Because she loved them dearly.




[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]


Ever so many letters, which the Postmistress reads with great pleasure,
have to be left out of Our Post-office Box every week. The little
writers must not be discouraged, but try again. The Postmistress has
many a hearty laugh over droll letters for which she can not find room
in print; and sometimes she cries, all by herself, over some that are
sorrowful, wishing so much that she could help the dear children who
have troubles of their own to bear.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BUTTERNUT, WISCONSIN.

     I live on a beautiful lake five miles long, but I do not know quite
     how wide. Our mountain-ash tree has been just lovely, all in bloom.
     I wish I could send you all the flowers I have seen this summer.
     What kind of a school-house do you think I go to? A little
     log-cabin--not hewed logs either--with unplaned seats and desks,
     and a floor which has large cracks in it. We have a "scoop roof,"
     and for a teacher's desk we have a large box, and for a water bench
     only a block of wood. There are two windows and one door. We had in
     the city a red brick school-house, and everything was very nice
     there. Oh! I forgot to tell you how many scholars we have--six
     girls and three boys. My sister Fannie and I both go. I would like
     to have a photograph of you, the one who likes to darn stockings,
     for I do too. Our lake is pretty rough to-day.

  KATE BELLE M.

Well, dear, there are more luxurious school-houses than yours, but some
of the best and greatest men our country has ever had, and those whose
names we most honor, attended just such plain, homely little
school-houses. It is the sort of teaching and of learning which goes on
in school which is of the most importance. A dunce would not gain much
on a velvet carpet and at a rose-wood desk, and a bright, diligent girl
may learn much that is worth knowing, even in a rough, unplaned
building. I think that you girls and boys might coax your papas and big
brothers to plant vines and shrubs around the school-house, and make a
garden in front of it. The teacher's desk might be covered with
maroon-colored muslin, on which bright pictures might be pasted. Wreaths
of evergreen, and after a while garlands of autumn leaves, might be hung
upon the bare walls. Train some German ivy, which grows rapidly, around
the windows. If I were there, I could help you make the place pretty I
am sure. I am glad you are fond of darning stockings, but I can not send
you my photograph, because I am one of the people who never happen to
get a good likeness when I sit down before the camera.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I have been sick a long time, and am not able to get out of bed, so
     I have not much to do but read or paste stamps in my book, when I
     have them. One of my friends lends me HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. I
     would like to exchange an Indian, a Hong-Kong, a Cape of Good Hope,
     or a Brazilian stamp, for a 10, 24, 30, or 90 cent of the 1869
     issue, the 24 or 90 cent of the 1870-71 issue of U.S. stamps, or
     the 10, 30, or 90 cent unpaid letter stamps, or any of the U.S.
     periodical, State, Navy, or Treasury Department stamps except the
     lowest denominations.

  D. J. HAINES,
  Cheltenham, Montgomery Co., Penn.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.

     I am not a girl, but a boy ten years old. I saw in Our Post-office
     Box of No. 139 a letter from a little girl who wanted to know what
     kind of a pet she should have. I think a bird or a cat would be the
     thing. I wish the Postmistress would please tell Jimmy Brown to
     write some more of his stories.

  JOSEPH A. B.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS.

     It is very nice where I live. There are trees in front of every
     house on the block. We have cool winds from Lake Michigan. Chicago
     has a great many gardens, and it is called the Garden City of the
     West. I have three pets. Their mother is a rat terrier; her name is
     Fanny. I like them very much. They have their eyes open already.
     They are very fat, and have little feet that can hardly carry their
     bodies about. I go to school, and learn reading, arithmetic,
     geography, spelling, and writing. I am just half-way through the
     school. This is a very large school; it has twenty rooms in it.
     There is a building in Chicago that is eleven stories high. We will
     have vacation in a few days, and then all the school-children will
     be glad. We boys go down to the lake and bathe ourselves, and have
     a jolly time. We are allowed to fish in Humboldt Park on Saturday;
     I go there almost every Saturday. It has a very clear lake; there
     are sunfish, trout, and bull-heads in it.

  ALVIN H.

Of course you are now in the full tide of vacation. Is Saturday the only
day when the boys are allowed to fish, or do you go to the Park on other
days, now that school is over for a while?

       *       *       *       *       *

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN.

     We have a canary-bird, and a dog, and some chickens. The dog's name
     is Dan, and he chases the chickens all over the yard. We have the
     darlingest baby you ever did see. She is so sweet! She loves the
     chickens. I am nine years old.

  R. J. R.

       *       *       *       *       *

LITTLE PATTY.

  Cross little Patty sat under a tree,
  As fretful as ever a child could be.

  "Keep still!" to a singing-bird she said;
  "You are out of tune, and you hurt my head."

  "Do stop!" she cried, to a dancing brook.
  A lamb and a pussy cat came to look

  At cross little Patty beneath the tree,
  As fretful as ever a child could be.

  The pussy cat wondered to see her pout,
  And the frisky lambkin skipped about;

  But the brook tripped on over stones and moss,
  And never found out that Patty was cross.

  The bird in the tree-top sang away,
  And these were the words she meant to say:

  "You poor little girl, why can't you see
  That there's nothing at all the matter with me?

  "Mend your manners, my dearie, soon,
  Or you'll find the whole world out of tune."

  Somehow the wind in the leafy tree,
  And the rippling water so wild and free,

  The bird on the bough, and the snow-white lamb,
  And the gentle pussy so mild and calm,

  Made Patty ashamed of her naughty mood;
  She shook herself well, and said, "I'll be good."

  And, presto! the Patty beneath the tree
  Was just as sweet as a child could be.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BRANDY STATION, VIRGINIA.

     I am nine years old, but will soon be ten. I thought I would tell
     Kate E. what pet to get. I think a pony would be very nice. I have
     written to HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE several times, but my letters
     never have been printed. I hope you will print this. My sister was
     taken sick yesterday. I have no pets, but my sister Emily has a pet
     cat. It is very cunning. Papa is having the porch fixed up.
     Good-by.

  RENA LOUISA S.

       *       *       *       *       *

  EDEN, DAKOTA TERRITORY.

     My papa came here thirteen years ago, when only savages inhabited
     this part of Dakota. I can remember, when a very small child, how
     the Indians used to come to our house, and beg for corn and fresh
     meat, for we used to kill lots of pigs. Papa named this town. Eden
     is situated in the southeastern part of Dakota, on the Big Sioux
     River, fifty miles above Sioux City. I have only one sister, nine
     years old, and I am eleven. Mamma promised me a birthday party, but
     as I have an invalid grandpa, and my birthday comes in the cold,
     cold month of December, and we could not go out-of-doors to play,
     mamma said I might have a lawn party instead this summer, as we
     have a beautiful grove to play in. I have taken HARPER'S YOUNG
     PEOPLE for nearly two years, and am very much pleased with it.

  M. ELSIE W.

       *       *       *       *       *

  HOWE, ILLINOIS.

     I am a little boy nearly seven years old. I have never been at
     school, but recite my lessons at home. I have one Maltese cat I
     call John Crawford, and another Jerusha (I call her Jerry for
     short). Jerry has two little kittens; they are just as funny as
     they can be. I have a shepherd dog named Jack; he and the cats and
     kittens eat from the same dish, and do not quarrel one bit. Then I
     have a cow and two little calves, and two colts. My colts are named
     Dick and Daisy; they are one year old, and my papa says I may ride
     them next fall. The last, and almost the least, is my little pig
     Bessie. Papa says my brother Jo and I will bankrupt him yet feeding
     our stock. Jo is my only brother; he is thirteen. My papa has been
     real sick almost a year; he expects to go to the sea-shore this
     summer.

     I do hope you will print this letter. I have not seen any from this
     part of Illinois. If you do, in my next I will tell you about a
     rat-hunt my grandpapa and I had. I like HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE best
     of all.

  CHARLIE W.

       *       *       *       *       *

  DES MOINES, IOWA.

     I am a little girl ten years old. I have lived in Des Moines for
     nearly one year. I do not like Des Moines very much. I have written
     three letters to YOUNG PEOPLE, but as none of them have been
     published, I thought I would write again. On the 18th of June a
     cyclone passed here, and on the 22d of June a cyclone passed not
     far from our house, and mamma said it would have been here if it
     had not been for the rain. In Kansas, when they see a cyclone
     coming, they all go to large holes in the ground, and stay there
     until it is all over, and then they come out again to their houses.
     I have a cousin in Germany, and she takes HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
     too. I have been taking it ever since the first number. I am very
     glad that the vacation months have come, it has been so warm here
     ever since the 1st of June.

  E. K.

       *       *       *       *       *

  JACKSONVILLE, ILLINOIS.

  Ma says I may write a letter too,
  As many of the little boys and girls do;
  So I will try and write, and see
  How it will look in poetry.
  I'm a little girl just twice six and one,
  With this world's work just begun.
  My father is a farmer, and bridge-builder too,
  So, you have guessed wisely, there is plenty to do.
  We all help to plant, to dig, and to hoe;
  To be sure, in time we've plenty to mow;
  For of all good times for children to play,
  The best of all is on hay-making day.
  Now 'tis our old house I must tell you about:
  'Twas built for a tavern, all on a stage route;
  Great trees of walnut were cut and hauled,
  And placed together firmly to make these old walls;
  It looks very old and ancient to some,
  But yet it is a very dear and comfortable home.
  My grandpa says, near sixty years ago or more
  He made latches and hinges for these very doors.
  The things that were made then were made to wear,
  But now things of that kind you'll find very rare.
  He had his shop where he could get the breeze,
  And he hung his bellows between two trees,
  But now his locks are silvery and gray,
  And his house is the best place for children to play.
  Dear Postmistress, should you be weary and need rest,
  The best of all places is near the Athens of the West.
  We take HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, think it grand indeed,
  And take great pleasure when your stories we read.
  If you will please print my letter,
  I will close by signing my name.

  NINETTA.

I wonder if I can match this poetical letter by some jingles. Let me
try:

  An epistle, dear Netta, so charmingly rhymed,
  For weather like this I think very well timed.
  I'm glad that at grandpa's, when lessons are done,
  Yourself and your friends can have plenty of fun.
  And I hope you will try to be thorough, my dear,
  So that your work, like his, may last many a year.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND.

     I look forward to the day HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE comes with very
     much pleasure. The stories are very amusing, and the letters are
     very nice indeed. All seem to like "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" very
     much. I like it too. I am nine years old, and I have had three
     birds. One poisoned itself eating the leaves of the trumpet-vine;
     another broke its leg; the other died a natural death. And now my
     other little bird is living, and is very tame. I have never written
     to HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE before, but I hope my first trial will be
     successful.

  LYDIA D. D.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MINEOLA, TEXAS.

     I am a little girl seven years old. I want to tell you about my
     pets. I have two kitties; one is named Tabby, the other is named
     Jumbo. I did have a little rabbit, but Tabby caught it and ate it.
     I can play four tunes on the organ. As this is my first, please
     publish it.

  ANNIE H. N.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PLAINFIELD, NEW JERSEY.

     I have only taken YOUNG PEOPLE a little while, and I like it very
     much. I have a little sister named Alice, and a little cousin named
     Marie. One day Alice did something that Marie did not like, and
     looking up in Alice's face, she said, "Lallie, you make me
     nervous." Grandma gave me a year's subscription of YOUNG PEOPLE for
     a philopena present, and my uncle gave me a bound copy for the year
     1881.

  E. U. O.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS.

     I went to New York with mamma to see my grandpa, and had a good
     time. I liked the elevated railroad very much; I wasn't afraid at
     all. I went to Central Park, and saw some monkeys, birds,
     buffaloes, a polar bear, and lots of other things. One bird picked
     the other bird's feathers out. A man put his finger right in the
     buffalo's mouth, and another man let the birds eat pea-nuts out of
     his mouth. I used to have curls, and they were cut off when I was
     in New York. My sister thinks I look like a monkey, but I think I
     look nice. We are all going to Barnum's Circus to see Jumbo. I saw
     the picture of him in the paper that you send us. My sister wrote
     this letter for me, because I couldn't print it good enough.

  GEORGE L. W.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MARENGO, ILLINOIS.

     I am twelve years old, and live on a farm of one hundred and one
     acres. I have lots of fun on the farm. I have a few pets; they are
     rabbits, tame canaries, a dog, a cow, and a little calf. I had a
     horse, or one that I called mine. One day my dog Fido--for that is
     his name--went into the barn to catch rats, and he got caught in a
     steel trap, and it took two of us to set him free, and his foot was
     almost crushed.

  JOHN R. W.

I am very sorry for Fido's misfortune.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHERRIES.

  Under the tree the farmer said,
  Smiling, and shaking his wise old head:
  "Cherries are ripe! but then, you know,
  There's the grass to cut and the corn to hoe;
  We can gather the cherries any day.
  But when the sun shines we must make our hay.
  To-night, when the work has all been done,
  We'll muster the boys, for fruit and fun."

  Up in the tree a robin said,
  Perking and cocking his saucy head:
  "Cherries are ripe! and so to-day
  We'll gather them while you make the hay;
  For we are the boys with no corn to hoe,
  No cows to milk, and no grass to mow."
  At night the farmer said: "Here's a trick!
  Those roguish robins have had their pick."

       *       *       *       *       *

  PEOLI, OHIO.

     I live in the country, and we have many kinds of birds, but I want
     you to tell me why they change so. A few years ago there were lots
     of peewees and wrens. Now there are none of them at all, and the
     birds that used to be so shy are building close by, the redbird in
     the bushes near the front door, the winter king in a hole in an old
     peach-tree by the back door. There is going to be a picnic just a
     few rods from our house. I am ten years old, and have no little
     brothers or sisters. I have two brothers. One is married; the other
     is older than I. He can draw nice pictures of our house and barn,
     and lots of other things. We have two canaries, and they go to
     setting as soon as they lay one egg. We have had lots of pets. One
     was a crow, which could do the most mischievous things, and was
     very funny. We have only a dog named Bran, some kittens, and a pet
     lamb. Bran will stand with his mouth open for Fred to milk in it,
     and sit before us on a horse to ride. I have a cousin Nelly coming
     to spend vacation with me. We shall have bathing-dresses, and will
     play in the brook. There is not enough water to swim in. I wish
     there was.

  ROBBA M.

The new birds must have driven the wrens and peewees away to find other
homes. Perhaps you may be able to coax them back again.

       *       *       *       *       *

A few Sundays ago, while service was in progress in the Presbyterian
church at Rome, New York, what should walk demurely up the aisle but a
little gray kitten. She stood on the pulpit steps, and looked at the
boys and girls, who were in quite a flutter for fear somebody would say
"scat," or pick kitty up and carry her out-doors. But nobody troubled
her, and presently the little thing jumped up to one of the chairs in
front of the pulpit, laid her head on her paws, and fell asleep. There
she staid until church was out.

       *       *       *       *       *

N. P. G.--Messrs. Harper & Brother's will send _Toby Tyler_, or any
other volume on their list, to any address on receipt of the published
price. It is necessary only to direct your order to Harper & Brothers,
Franklin Square, New York. Letters designed for the various periodicals,
or for any department in either of them, should be addressed in the same
way.

       *       *       *       *       *

A SUBSCRIBER.--I can not recommend any manual on the subject to which
you refer. A few lessons from a good teacher are indispensable.

       *       *       *       *       *

A lady of Yonkers, New York, lately sent to the Flower Mission in New
York City two thousand clove pinks tied in bunches of fifty each. On
account of their sweet, spicy fragrance these were sent to the blind
sufferers in hospitals.

       *       *       *       *       *

Little lovers of birds will send their good wishes to the kind Mr. and
Mrs. Robin of whom this pretty story is told. A gentleman in Milton,
Massachusetts, owns a mocking-bird, whose cage hangs under the piazza.
Near by is a nest containing young robins. The parent birds are busy all
day bringing worms to their young family. Twice, says the observer, the
robins have been seen to pause on their way to their brood, and drop
worms through the bars of the cage to the little prisoner.

       *       *       *       *       *

ELSIE G.--Your cat is really a gifted creature, but if I were papa, I
would not like him to be quite so familiar. Did you ever dress him up
with a paper cap, and a ruff around his neck?

       *       *       *       *       *

GERTIE AND LOTTIE B.--Such a century plant as yours is a treasure worth
owning.

       *       *       *       *       *

BESSIE H. B.--I am glad that you find it a pleasant occupation to help
mamma in her garden. You forgot to tell me what you are raising besides
strawberries. Did they turn out well, and repay you for your labor?

       *       *       *       *       *

COUNT RUMFORD.--The ball of the foot must be on the pedal of the
bicycle.

       *       *       *       *       *

MAX L.--The story of "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" began in HARPER'S YOUNG
PEOPLE, Vol. III., No. 127, published April 4, 1882.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.

GREAT PAUL.--Great Paul is an enormous bell which was cast for St.
Paul's, in London, and has lately been hung in its belfry. It measures
ten feet across the mouth, and weighs sixteen tons. You may imagine what
deep tones will issue from this immense bell when it is rung on
occasions of joy or grief. Large as Great Paul is, however, there are
bigger bells in the world. The largest one in actual use is at Moscow,
and it weighs nearly a hundred and thirty tons. The next largest is in
Pekin, where there is a bell which weighs fifty tons. At Notre Dame, in
Paris, there is a bell which weighs seventeen tons. The true test of a
bell is its strength of sound. How far can you hear it? is the question,
not how heavy it may be. High up in the steeple and on an elevation a
bell ought to be heard for miles. In old times the bells summoned the
people to gatherings called folk-motes. If anything of importance was to
be decided, if an enemy's ship appeared in the offing, or there were
rumors of an invasion on the coast, the solemn call of the bell hurried
the men to a council. On the bell of St. Mary's, at Oxford, this line is
inscribed, "Keepe tyme in anye case."

       *       *       *       *       *

ARAB BREAD.--It is made of coarse flour resembling our Graham flour, and
the loaves, which are very thin, are round, and about fifteen inches in
diameter. It is placed on the table in piles, and is broken by those who
wish to partake of it, not cut in slices like our bread.

       *       *       *       *       *

FLO.--You are quite right in asking the Postmistress about any little
thing that puzzles you. If you and cousin Theodore are both going
up-stairs, you must let him go first. In going down-stairs he should
step aside and let you go before him. Introduce your little visitor to
your mother, mentioning mamma's name first.

       *       *       *       *       *

A pleasant amusement in summer, when people are coming and going, is
found in the game of Preferences. It is played in this manner:

Keep a blank book of sufficient size on the parlor table, and ask each
guest to write out answers to the following questions:

  Who is your favorite hero in history?
  Who is your favorite heroine in history?
  Who is your favorite King in history?
  Who is your favorite Queen in history?
  What is your favorite male Christian name?
  What is your favorite female Christian name?
  What is your favorite flower?
  What is your favorite color?
  What is your favorite style of music?
  What is your favorite style of climate?
  What is your favorite study?
  What is your favorite exercise?
  What is your favorite book? etc., etc.

       *       *       *       *       *

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. to Mrs. Helen Conant's
admirable article on "Catching Butterflies." Not only does it contain
clear and simple directions for making a collection of these beautiful
insects, but much is to be learned from it of their various
characteristics and habits. There is a most interesting article on
travel by Lieutenant E. W. Sturdy, entitled "Tom Fairweather goes to
Bassorah, the Home of Sindbad the Sailor." The boys and girls both may
learn a valuable lesson of presence of mind and heroism from the little
incident told under the title of "A Brave Boy."

       *       *       *       *       *

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

  I am composed of 13 letters and 2 words. My name is known to all lovers
      of art.
  My 1, 2, 7, 7 is a manufactory.
  My 1, 2, 7, 6 is a measure of distance.
  My 8, 9, 10, 6, 7 is a messenger.
  My 1, 5, 1, 1, 5 is a sweet word.
  My 1, 5, 2, 7 is a defense.
  My 5, 9, 9, 2, 6 is a girl's name.
  My 4, 13 is an exclamation.
  My 2, 3, 11 is used both in summer and winter.

  GEORGE E.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.

FIVE EASY DIAMONDS.

1.--1. A letter. 2. A bed. 3. A friend. 4. A beverage. 5. A letter.

2.--1. A letter. 2. A speck. 3. A shelter. 4. A number. 5. A letter.

  EDGAR S.

3.--1. In sauce. 2. A trap. 3. A number. 4. Another number. 5. In snow.

4.--1. In chicks. 2. A vessel. 3. A darling. 4. Something good to eat.
5. In ducks.

5.--1. A letter. 2. A limb. 3. A state. 4. An opening. 5. A letter.

  R. B. B.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.

BEHEADINGS.

1.

  1. I am a metal; behead me, and I am infirm.
  2. I am a garment; behead me, and I am a grain.
  3. I am something to use; behead me, and I am elevated.
  4. I am not good; behead me, I am not out.
  5. I am a flavor; behead me, and I am a fluid.
  6. I am part of the body: behead me, and I am a part of speech.
  7. I am a boy's name; behead me, and I am a color; again, and I am
        again a boy's name.

  HELEN U. G.

2.

  1. I am part of an apple; beheaded, I am a metal.
  2. I am useful around the fire; beheaded, I am a home.
  3. I am part of time; beheaded, I am necessary to hearing.
  4. I am sometimes used for bad boys; beheaded, I am a familiar sound.
  5. I am something to wear; beheaded, I am a useful implement.

  GEORGIE.

3.

  1. I am in a lady's work-stand; behead me, and I am out-of-doors.
  2. I am a clever device; behead me, and I stand in the field.
  3. I am a medicine; behead me, I am under-foot.

  MADGE.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.

TRANSPOSITION.

  A redyra clpea dlowu eb sith htrea,
   Rewe ethre on tilelt elpoep ni ti;
  Eht gnos fo ilef lduow eols sti htrim,
   Erwe ethre on lichnerd ot ebign ti.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 139.

No. 1.

  W A S T E   S A I N T
  A D O R N   A I M E R
  S O L I D   I M A G E
  T R I C E   N E G U S
  E N D E R   T R E S S

No. 2.

Buckram.

No. 3.

HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. Harp. Eagle. You. Sugar. Poe.

No. 4.

  J  es   C
  U   u   A
  L  eav  E
  I  vie  S
  U   n   A
  S teame R

No. 5.

      A           D           S
    I C E       L I E       D U E
  A C O R N   D I A R Y   S U N N Y
    E R A       E R R       E N D
      N           Y           Y

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from "Fay," "Fern
Heather," Lucie Timpson, Emil Hirsh, Eddie S. Hequembourg, Annie Meeker,
Maud Mary Chambers, Florence V. Williams, Benjamin Smith, Lottie Hope,
Ernest Pullen, Norman Cary, Elsie, "Rose-bud," "Fuss and Feathers,"
"Bright Eyes," C. J. C., Leslie Meigs, "Empire City," Annis Temple, John
P. Mott, Emma Ray, Louise Prescott, Guy Paynter, Viola C., Ray M.,
Evarts Folsom, Etta Wheelock, and Flossie Dean.

       *       *       *       *       *

[_For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover._]




[Illustration: THE PLAYMATES.--FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY SINGHI.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FOX'S DINNER PARTY.

BY F. CASSIDY.


One of the funniest animal stories I ever heard was lately told by a
sober Quaker gentleman from New Jersey, who said it was related to him
by the eye-witness himself. He was one day in a field near a stream,
where several geese were swimming. Presently he observed one of them
disappear under water with a sudden jerk. While he looked for her to
rise again he saw a fox emerge from the water, and trot off to the woods
with the unfortunate goose in his mouth.

The fox chanced to go in a direction where it was easy to watch his
movements. He carried his burden to a recess under an overhanging rock.
Here he scratched away a mass of dry leaves, made a hole, hid his
treasure within, and covered it up very carefully. Then off he went to
the stream again, entered behind the flock of geese, and floated
noiselessly along, with merely the tip of his nose visible above the
surface. But this time he was not so fortunate in his manoeuvre. The
geese by some means took the alarm, and flew away with a loud cackling.

The fox, finding himself defeated, walked off in the direction opposite
to the place where his victim was buried. The man went to the place,
uncovered the hole, put the goose in his basket, replaced the leaves
carefully, and stood patiently at a distance to watch further
proceedings. The sly thief soon returned with another fox, whom he had
apparently invited to dine with him. They trotted along right merrily,
swinging their tails, snuffing the air, and smacking their lips in
expectation of a rich repast.

When they arrived under the rocks, Reynard eagerly scratched away the
leaves; but, lo! his dinner had disappeared. He looked at his companion,
and plainly saw by his countenance that he more than doubted whether any
goose was ever there at all. Appearances were certainly very much
against the host. His tail slunk between his legs, and he held his head
down, looking sideways, with a timid glance, at his disappointed
companion. Indignant at what he supposed to be an attempt to get up a
character for generosity on false pretenses, the offended guest seized
his unlucky associate and cuffed him most unmercifully. Poor Reynard
bore the infliction with the utmost patience and sneaked off, as if
aware that he received no more than might naturally be expected under
the peculiar circumstances.

       *       *       *       *       *

PARLOR MAGIC.

HOW TO MAKE A QUARTER PASS INTO A BALL OF WORSTED.

Procure a ball of worsted, and also a piece of tin about three inches
long and about an inch and a quarter broad, and turn up one-eighth of an
inch of it on each side at an angle inward, and roll the worsted round
this piece of tin until you make a ball, taking care to leave that part
of the ball where one end of the tin slide is open so as to enable you
to drop the quarter into it.

The ball of worsted is now placed on the table, and having borrowed a
quarter, which you get the owner to mark, you turn to the table, and
take up the worsted ball, dropping the marked quarter quickly down the
slide or tube, which you then secretly withdraw from the ball. Now turn
to the audience, and show them the ball of worsted (the hole where the
tube was taken from will not be visible), and hold up a quarter (another
one) which you have had secreted in your right hand until now, or which
you can have fastened to an elastic attached to the inside of your
sleeve, and inform them you will pass the coin into the ball.

Now get one of the company to cover the ball of worsted with a tumbler;
hold up the quarter, and say, "Presto, go, fly!" then pretend to throw
the quarter to the ball. Give one end of the worsted to the company to
unwind, when the marked quarter will be found in the centre of the ball.




[Illustration: THE THERMOMETER AT 100°--ENJOYING FREE(ZE) SEATS.]





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, July 18, 1882, by Various

*** 