



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

       *       *       *       *       *

VOL. III.--NO. 138. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, June 20, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.

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[Illustration: TOBY AND ABNER ATTENDING THE REHEARSAL.]

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 XII.

A REHEARSAL.


When Toby told Uncle Daniel that night of their intention to go on with
the work of the long-delayed circus, and that Abner was to ride up to
the pasture, where he could see everything that was going on, the old
gentleman shook his head doubtingly; as if he feared the consequence to
the invalid, who appeared very much exhausted even by the short ride he
had taken.

Abner, interpreting Uncle Daniel's shake of the head the same way Toby
did, pleaded hard to be allowed to go, insisting that he would be no
more tired sitting in the little carriage than he would in a chair at
home; and Aunt Olive joined in the boys' entreaty, promising to arrange
the pillows in such a manner that Abner could lie down or sit up as best
suited him.

"We'll see what the doctor has to say about it," replied Uncle Daniel,
and with much anxiety the boys awaited the physician's coming.

"Go? Why, of course he can go, and it will do him good to be
out-of-doors," said the medical gentleman when he made his regular
afternoon visit, and Uncle Daniel laid the case before him.

Toby insisted on bringing Mr. Stubbs's brother into the invalid's room
as a signal mark of rejoicing at the victory the doctor had won for
them, and Abner was so delighted with the funny pranks the monkey played
that it would have been difficult to tell by his face that the morning
ride had tired him.

Mr. Stubbs's brother was quite as mischievous as a monkey could be; he
capered around the room, picking at this thing and looking into that,
until Aunt Olive laughed herself tired, and Uncle Daniel declared that
if the other monkey was anything like this one, Toby was right when he
named him Steve Stubbs, so much did he resemble that gentleman in
inquisitiveness.

The day had been so exciting to the boy who had been confined to one
room for several weeks that he was quite ready to go to bed when Aunt
Olive suggested it; and Toby went about his evening's work with a
lighter heart than he had had since the night he found his crippled
friend lying so still and death-like in the circus wagon.

The next morning Toby was up some time before the sun peeped in through
the crevices of Uncle Daniel's barn to awaken the cows, and he groomed
the tiny ponies until their coats shone like satin. The carriage was
washed until every portion of it reflected one's face like a mirror, and
the harness, with its silver mountings, was free from the slightest
suspicion of dirt.

Then, after the cows had been driven to the pasture, Mr. Stubbs's
brother was treated to a bath, and was brushed and combed until, losing
all patience at such foolishness, he escaped from his too cleanly
disposed master, taking refuge on the top of the shed, where he
chattered and scolded at a furious rate as he tried to explain that he
had no idea of coming down until the curry-comb and brush had been put
away.

But when the pony-team was driven up to the door, and Toby decorated the
bridles of the little horses with some of Aunt Olive's roses, Mr.
Stubbs's brother came down from his high perch, and picked some of the
flowers for himself, putting them over his ears to imitate the ponies;
then he gravely seated himself in the carriage, and Toby had no
difficulty in fastening the cord to his collar again.

Aunt Olive nearly filled the little carriage with pillows so soft that a
very small boy would almost have sunk out of sight in them; and in the
midst of these Abner was carefully placed, looking for all the world, as
Toby said, like a chicken in a nest.

Mr. Stubbs's brother was fastened in the front in such a way that his
head came just above the dash-board, over which he looked in the most
comical manner possible.

Then Toby squeezed in on one side, declaring he had plenty of room,
although there was not more than three square inches of space left on
the seat, and even a portion of that was occupied by a fan and some
other things Aunt Olive had put in for Abner's use.

Both the boys were in the highest possible state of happiness, and Abner
was tucked in until he could hardly have been shaken had he been in a
cart instead of a carriage with springs.

"Be sure to keep Abner in the shade, and come home just as soon as he
begins to grow tired," cried Aunt Olive, as Toby spoke to the ponies,
and they dashed off like a couple of well-trained Newfoundland dogs.

"I'll take care of him like he was wax," cried Toby as they drove out
through the gateway, and Mr. Stubbs's brother screamed and chattered
with delight, while Abner lay back restful and happy.

It was just the kind of a morning for a ride, and Abner appeared to
enjoy it so much that Toby turned the little steeds in the direction of
the village, driving fully a mile before going to the pasture.

When they did arrive at the place where the first rehearsal was to be
held, they found the partners gathered in full force; and although it
was not even then nine o'clock, they had evidently been there some time.

Joe Robinson ran to let the bars down, while the ponies pranced into the
field as if they knew they were the objects of admiration from all that
party, and they shook their tiny heads until the petals fell from the
roses in a shower upon the grass.

Mr. Stubbs's brother stood as erect as possible, and was so excited by
the cheers of the boys that he seized the flowers he had tucked over his
ears, and flung them at the party in great glee.

The carriage was driven into the shade cast by the alders; the ponies
were unharnessed, and fastened where they could have a feast of grass;
and Toby was ready for business, or thought he was. But just as he was
about to consult with his partners, a scream from both Abner and the
monkey caused him to quickly turn toward the carriage.

From the moment they had entered the pasture, Mr. Stubbs's brother had
shown the greatest desire to be free; and when he saw his master walking
away, while he was still a prisoner, he made such efforts to release
himself that he got his body over the dash-board of the carriage, and
when Toby looked he was hanging there by the neck as if he had just
committed suicide.

Toby ran quickly to the relief of his pet; and when he had released him
from his uncomfortable position, the other boys pleaded so hard that
Toby gave him his freedom, which he celebrated by scampering across the
pasture on all four paws, with his tail curled up over his back like a
big letter O.

It seemed very much as if Mr. Stubbs's brother would break up the
rehearsal, for he did look so comical as he scampered around that all
the partners neglected their business to watch and laugh at him, until
Toby reminded them that he could not stay there very long because of
Abner's weakness.

Then Bob and Reddy straightened themselves up in a manner befitting
circus proprietors, and began their work.

"Leander is goin' to commence the show by playin' 'Yankee Doodle,'" said
Bob, as he consulted a few badly written words he had traced on the back
of one of his father's business cards, "an' while he's doin' it Joe'll
put in an' howl all he knows how, for that's the way the hyenas did at
the last circus."

The entire programme was evidently to be carried out that morning, for,
as Bob spoke, Leander marched with his accordion and a great deal of
dignity to a rock near where a line representing the ring had been cut
in the turf.

"Now you'll see how good he can do it," said Bob, with no small amount
of pride; and Leander, with his head held so high that it was almost
impossible to see his instrument, struck one or two notes as a prelude,
while Joe took his station at a point about as far distant from the ring
as the door of the tent would probably be.

Leander started with the first five or six notes all right, and Joe
began some of the most wonderful howling ever heard, which appeared to
disconcert the band, for he got entirely off the track of his original
tune, and mixed "Yankee Doodle" with "Old Dog Tray" in the most reckless
manner, Joe howling the louder at every false note.

Almost every one in that pasture, save possibly the performers
themselves, was astonished at the din made by these two small boys; and
Mr. Stubbs's brother, who had hung himself up on a tree by his tail,
dropped to his feet in the greatest alarm, adding his chatter of fear to
the general confusion.

Familiar as he was with circus life, nothing in the experience of Mr.
Stubbs's brother had prepared him for a rehearsal such as he now had the
honor to attend. There was an amount of noise and a peculiarity about
the acrobatic feats that completely upset his nerves.

But the two performers were not to be daunted by anything that could
occur; in fact, Joe felt rather proud that his howling was so savage as
to frighten the monkey, and he increased his efforts until his face was
as red as a nicely boiled beet.

For fully five minutes the overture was continued; then the band stopped
and looked around with an air of triumph, while Joe uttered two or three
more howls by way of effect, and to show that he could have kept it up
longer had it been necessary.

"There! what do you think of that?" asked Reddy, in delight. "You
couldn't get much more noise if you had a whole band, could you?"

"It's a good deal of noise," said Toby, not feeling quite at liberty to
express exactly his views regarding the music. "But what was it Leander
was playin'?"

"I played two tunes," replied Leander, proudly. "I can play 'Yankee
Doodle' with the whole of one hand; but I think it sounds better to play
that with my thumb an' two fingers, an' 'Old Dog Tray' with the other
two fingers. You see, I can give 'em both tunes at once that way."

The monkey went back to the tree as soon as the noise had subsided; but
from the way he looked over his shoulder now and then, one could fancy
he was getting ready to run at the first sign that it was to commence
again.

"Didn't that sound like a whole cageful of hyenas?" asked Joe, as he
wiped the perspiration from his face, and came toward his partners. "I
can keep that up about as long as Leander can play, only it's awful hard
work."

Toby had no doubt as to the truth of that statement; but before he could
make any reply, Bob said:

"Now this is where Ben comes in. He starts the show, an' he ends it, an'
I sing right after he gets through turnin' hand-springs this first time.
Now, Leander, you start the music jest as soon as Ben comes, an' keep it
up till he gets through."

Ben was prepared for his portion of the work. His trousers were belted
tightly around his waist by a very narrow leather belt, with an
enormously large buckle, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up as high as
he could get them, in order to give full play to his arms.

"He's been rubbin' goose-grease all over him for as much as two weeks,
an' he can bend almost any way," whispered Reddy to Toby, as Ben stood
swinging his arms at the entrance to the ring, as if limbering himself
for the work to be done.

Leander started "Yankee Doodle" in slow and solemn strains; Ben gathered
himself for a mighty effort, and began to go around the ring in a series
of hand-springs in true acrobatic style.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




THE THIRSTY FLOWERS.

BY MRS. SOPHIE B. HERRICK.


Fill a glass with water, and let a piece of common tape or a strip of
muslin hang so that its lower end shall dip into the water, and then
notice it: the liquid creeps slowly but surely up the strip. If the end
which you have in your hand is dropped on the table beside the glass,
the goblet may be entirely emptied, the water running up over the edge
of the glass before it runs down again. This behavior of water would
seem very queer if we had not noticed something of the kind all our
lives. It is caused by what is called capillary attraction. Whenever one
part of a material full of fine openings which lead through it is dipped
into a liquid, the fluid runs through the whole stuff, even if it has to
run upward. Try a lump of sugar: put one corner into your cup of tea or
hot milk, and watch it soak the lump through. The burning of a lamp is
upon the same principle. The wick serves to carry the oil from the globe
of the lamp to feed the flame. As soon as the oil gives out, the light
fades and dies away.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.--CELLS. A, Leaf of Geranium Flower; B, Leaf of
Sorrel.]

Every part of a plant needs water: it must be close around every little
cell. These cells are the tiny queer-shaped bags full of liquid that are
packed close together, and make up the leaves, stems, and flowers of
plants. In Fig. 1 you see the cells of a leaf of geranium flower, and
one of sorrel or sour grass, which, if you are like the children I know,
you have many a time eaten to get the pleasant sour taste. Well, every
one of these tiny cells must be kept wet all the time, or the plant will
die. The only way we can think of that water could get up into the
leaves and flowers from the earth is by capillary attraction, as it runs
up the slip of muslin. And if it were not for this singular behavior of
water, the only plants in the world would be those that grow in the seas
and rivers and lakes. The land would be as barren as the desert of
Sahara.

Now try to think of some plant with all the earth away--a tree, for
instance--and you will see that it is a sort of double growth; that
there is an upside-down tree in the ground, with its trunk and branches
and twigs, as well as one above the ground. The under-ground twigs do
not bear leaves, but each one of them wears on its head a little cap or
helmet to protect the tender growing part from being injured as it
pushes its way through the hard earth. The most important parts of a
tree are those that seem of least consequence, the rootlets and the
leaves. These are to the tree what our mouths and stomachs and our lungs
are to us: the roots are the feeders and the leaves the breathing
apparatus of plants.

As the under-ground tree grows, the tender little roots push their way
down into the darkness and cold of the deep soil; they find their way
around stones and through great clods of earth, anywhere and everywhere,
until they get their little noses into water or damp earth, and then
they begin to suck. Sometimes it is only pure water that they take up
from the earth, but generally it is a sort of broth--water with plant
food dissolved in it.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.--CORN STALK CUT ACROSS.]

The roots and stems and leaves are all full of little passageways
running upward and branching and dividing until they reach the leaves.
Fig. 2 shows a corn stalk cut across. You see some roundish holes,
marked _a_; these are the ends of tubes that run through the stalk. When
the corn begins to grow, take a stalk about two feet high, and cut it
across; you will see little white spots all over the cut place. This
figure is one of those white dots magnified.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.--PLANT MOUTHS.

A, Corn Leaf: B, Bean Leaf, with Mouth: C, Mouth seen Sidewise.]

When these tubes come into the leaves, they open into little spaces just
under the outside skin of the leaf. These spaces are like the hollow of
a mouth, and each one has generally two lips, that are sometimes open
and sometimes shut. Through these tiny mouths (Fig. 3) the plant
breathes. It draws in air, and it sends out, as you do, a mixture of air
and water. If you want to know how much water there is in your own
breath, try holding a piece of cold glass before your mouth.

Plants are not wasteful of the water so necessary to their lives. What
they do not use they give back to the air from which it was received, as
we make our thank-offerings to God of what He has given us. The roots
suck up the water, and each little cell takes a drink as the water
passes it, and hands on the rest to the cell just above it. And so the
water takes its course, supplying each thirsty cell with drink as it
passes, spreading through every part of the plant until it reaches the
little mouths. And there all that is left is breathed out in a fine
steam which you can not see until it touches some cold substances, and
is turned into water again.

Some one who wanted to know exactly how much water was given back to the
air by growing plants carefully examined a number of them, and found
that a single sunflower gave off in twelve hours a pound and a
quarter--enough to fill nearly to the brim three common table goblets.
Another plant, the wild cornel, was found to breathe but more than twice
its own weight of water in a day and a night.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.--WATER-CARRYING PLANTS.]

In order to find out what parts of the flowers were the principal
water-carriers, a deutzia, one of our most delicate and beautiful spring
flowers, which you probably know by sight if not by name, was put into
some very blue water,  with a mixture of what is called aniline,
and in a little while every vein of the flower was a beautiful dark
blue. The poor little blossom was, however, poisoned with its dose, and
wilted away in a few minutes (Fig. 4).

The quantity of water that plants breathe off is so great that it makes
an entire change in the climate when forests are cut down. Plants, like
grasses and small weeds that grow on the surface, of course do not make
the same difference, for their roots only go down a little way. But
trees are very important: unless the air is kept damp by the sea or some
large body of water, it depends very much upon trees for its moisture.
Where there are no trees, the rain that does fall sinks into the earth,
and runs away in little under-ground currents, and is lost. There are no
deep roots to stop this waste, to suck up the water, and restore a large
part of it to the air.

[Illustration: FIG. 5.--CACTUS.]

In places where the rain-fall is frequent, and the air is always kept
soft, plants may be as lavish of their water as we are in the great
cities where the supply never fails. Plants growing in such places very
often keep their mouths open all the time. If this were the habit of
those which grow in very dry places, they would soon perish of thirst.
On the high Western plains beyond the Mississippi only a few things are
able to live. Among these are some kinds of cactus plants, which you
have probably seen in greenhouses or as window plants (Fig. 5). The
reason why they manage to grow such bulgy leaves and fat stems where
there is so little moisture, is because this plant is so very stingy of
its water. It hoards it up as the travellers over the great African
deserts do, knowing how hard it will be to get more. The roots of the
cactus suck up every drop of water they can find, and the leaves keep
their millions of little mouths tight shut so as to hold it all. Only
such plants can grow on these plains as are able to do with very little
water, or else are wise enough to hoard up all they can get. This water
we have been talking about is not sap--that is the blood of the
plant--but it is like the water we drink, and which not only helps to
make the blood, but keeps all of the parts soft and moist so that it may
live. The largest part of every living thing is water. It is not without
good reason that the Bible so often speaks of the _Water of Life_, for
without water no life could exist for a single hour.




THESE MY LITTLE ONES.

BY MONA NOEL PATON.

I.


One very, very wet evening a forlorn little pigeon, with rumpled
feathers and weary wings, came knocking at the door of a nursery in
which were two children.

They heard the knock, and going to the window, saw to their
astonishment, the poor unhappy bird. It was not long before the sash was
thrown up, and the rain-soaked wanderer brought in, and fed and petted
to its heart's content.

"I wonder what brought the darling here?" said Donald, the elder of the
two children.

"It just _were_ a darlin'; 'at's why it camed," remarked Miss Baby.

"But I am sure it must have had some reason for coming. Baby," Donald
insisted. "It came for something."

"For its tea," suggested Baby, doubtfully.

"Oh, Baby, Baby, you're always thinking about your tea," said Donald,
with contempt.

"No, Donnie, me isn't. But you said it had camed for somesin."

"I meant, to tell us something."

"Do pigeons talk, Donnie?" Baby's eyes opened very wide.

"Yes, but we can't understand them. I feel that this pigeon wants to
speak to us. I wonder where it came from? I wonder whether mother will
let us keep it? Come down to the drawing-room, and we'll ask her."

Hand in hand the two proceeded to the drawing-room, Baby a little
anxious lest their elder brother should wish to "'sect" the treasure.
But Donald told her that only dead birds were dissected, not living
ones. The grown-up members of the family were as much surprised at and
pleased with the little stranger as the children had been. For the next
week it was warmly loved and tenderly taken care of, and at the end of
that time they found out all about it.

On Sunday, Auntie, who had been lunching with her nieces and nephews,
said: "Children, I am not going to church this afternoon. I shall stay
here and tell you a story I heard while visiting among my poor people
yesterday. Shall you like that?"

"Oh yes!" cried the children, rapturously.

"Will it be big?" inquired Baby.

"Yes; but you may go to sleep if you get tired."

"All right," said Baby, and Auntie began:

     In one of the dreariest parts of our old town there lived, not long
     ago, a widow with three little children, two girls and a boy. She
     had to work very hard to keep them in food and clothing. Every
     morning before it was light she had to go away to her work. She
     would creep softly out of bed, dress very quietly, tidy up the
     room, build the fire, and set out the children's breakfast, and
     then, with a kiss on each sleeping face, she would go away out into
     the cold.

     By-and-by the sun would find its way into the room, and the oldest
     girl would open her eyes, jump briskly up like a brave little
     woman, light the fire, and set on the kettle. Though only nine
     years old, she knew how to work, and believed, as very few seem to
     do, that whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well.

     When breakfast was almost ready, Nellie would call her brother, and
     then, stooping over the little sister, would kiss her pretty parted
     lips. Presently the dark lashes would rise, and a pair of deep gray
     eyes, very solemn for a moment, would stare into the loving face.
     And then the dimples would come, the dark eyes would twinkle, and
     the baby would be wide awake.

     The great trial of the day came after breakfast, for Nellie and
     Bill must go to school, and for three or four hours poor Bab,
     barely three years old, must stay all alone. Her mother and sister
     were very sorry to leave her by herself, but it could not be
     helped. The sweet child was so good about it that it comforted
     them.

     "What do you do when we are away?" said her mother one day.

     "Me fink you is comin' back," she answered, smiling, as usual.

     Before going to school Nellie always took the coals off the fire,
     and put them on the side to cool, set a tin cup of water and a
     little bit of bread on a chair for Bab, and with a final hug
     hurried off with her brother to the school at the bottom of the
     court.

     [Illustration: BAB AT THE WINDOW.]

     As the door closed, Bab always gave a very little sigh, and set to
     work to find some amusement. Sometimes she played for a long time
     with a wooden footstool which she called her boy; and sometimes, if
     she felt cold, she crept into bed and fell asleep. But she loved
     best to stand by the window. The top of her head just came to the
     lowest pane, and she could not see into the street, but only up
     into the sky and gaze at the clouds. How Bab loved those clouds!
     especially the great shining ones that lay still, like huge
     mountains far away on the horizon. She was a little afraid of the
     black clouds, but she would stretch out her arms to the bright
     ones and whisper, "Oh, you booful country! Bab would like to be in
     you, for always and always!"

     Sometimes she had not even the clouds to keep her company, for the
     whole sky would be one gray mass, and then Bab had hard work to
     keep from crying, and she wished and wished that her brother and
     sister would come home. The moment she heard them on the stairs she
     forgot her troubles, and when Nell looked in at the door she found
     a laughing face, and the jolly voice soon rang out louder than
     ever. The happy afternoon quite made up for the long weary morning.

     As soon as Nellie had cleared away their dinners she wrapped Bab up
     in a warm shawl, and the three took a walk to the big street which
     ran near by. At the corner of this street was a candy shop, which
     the children thought splendid. Sometimes they would spend nearly an
     hour peering in at the window, and telling each other what they
     would buy "when they were rich."

     Something else besides candy drew them to this corner. A nurse and
     two children, a boy and a girl, often passed up and down the
     street. The little boy wore a sailor suit, with bright buttons, and
     the little girl, just the age of Bab, had a lovely dress, trimmed
     with lace, and a Leghorn hat. Such a hat! Nellie used to think that
     if she could once see Bab dressed like that she would be perfectly
     happy.

     The poor children liked looking at the pretty clothes of their more
     fortunate brother and sister, but still more did they enjoy looking
     at their faces. They were so kind and bright, and often they smiled
     cheerily at their little admirers. Little did they know what a ray
     of sunshine these smiles shed into the lives of these little ones.
     A day seemed quite empty to Nellie and her charges when they did
     not catch a glimpse of their "little gentry."

     Sometimes Bill, Nellie, and Bab ventured farther than the candy
     shop. They liked to look at the grand windows, especially those of
     one wonderful toy shop. Nellie and Bab never complained because
     they could not possess the treasures displayed. It did not occur to
     them to desire them. They were perfectly contented just to look at
     them. But Bill's face was sometimes dark, and once he said to
     Nellie, with a frown:

     "Doesn't it seem hard that we get nothing, that even dear Bab can
     not have anything? I should like to give her something to play with
     when we are away."

     The grief that Bab had nothing to play with was an old one. Nellie
     and Bill had often tried to contrive some way of getting a
     plaything for Bab, and once they had enticed a stray dog into their
     room, but it soon escaped, and Bab was lonelier than ever. A cat,
     too, had been tried, but one fine night took her departure to the
     roof, never to return.

     "Never mind, Billy," answered Nellie, "we can look at the lovely
     things, and that is nearly as good as having them."

     Bill did not reply. His face was long. His eyes looked as if tears
     were not far off.

     "Nell," he said, "I don't see why it is that we can never have any
     of the beautiful things that other children have. I am sure we try
     to be good."

     "Oh, hush, Bill! here are the little gentry," whispered Nellie.

     "The little gentry" were standing gazing in at the window too, or
     at least the baby was. The boy was looking at Bill with a
     questioning expression.

     "Well," asked Nurse, "have you made up your minds what you are
     going to spend your money upon?"

     "Es," answered the baby.

     The little boy stood still, turning his shilling over and over in
     his hand.

     "Come along, Master Dreamer," cried Nurse, as she entered the shop.
     "Have you not made up your mind what to spend your shilling upon?"

     "Yes," answered the little fellow, with a sort of sigh.

     Nurse had disappeared. Blushing furiously, the boy pressed his
     bright shilling into Bill's rough little hand.

     "No, no," said Bill.

     "I would rather," stammered the little gentleman, not waiting for
     thanks. He ran into the store, and stood quietly by while the baby
     spent her shilling, and when Nurse asked why he did not spend his,
     he climbed on a chair and whispered something in her ear.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




WHAT TELEGRAPH POLES ARE MEANT FOR.

BY ELLA RODMAN CHURCH.


  In the island of Sumatra, at the bottom of the map,
  Where Asia holds such giant lands in her capacious lap,
  The Elephants rise fiercely, in the maddest kind of mob,
  When the telegraph employés have finished up a job,
  And joined by wires electric places very far away,
  For the purpose of conversing--if they've anything to say;
  These animals uproarious will throw upon the ground
  The telegraphic poles and wires wherever they are found,
  While wires and insulators are carried off to hide
  In the deep gloomy jungles where the angry beasts abide.
  All the labor goes for nothing when the poles are set again,
  For the Elephants are watching these persevering men,
  Who stick poles where they don't want them, across their "right of way,"
  And they tear down in the night-time what the men have done by day.

  With the Monkeys and Baboons it is quite another thing,
  For the telegraphic wires make the nicest kind of swing;
  And just the firmest tight-rope for any sort of antic.
  While rambling on "from pole to pole" sounds really quite romantic.
  It's a very cute arrangement, far better than the trees,
  Which do for common purposes, but not for such as these.
  "And those lovely  glasses!" says delighted Mrs. Ape,
  "This really looks like living in some decent sort of shape;
  The cocoa-nut shells hold water, which is all that one can say,
  But these glasses for the future shall cover my buffet."
  So the monkeys haste to gather all the prizes they can reach,
  And twist off every insulator with a triumphant screech,
  While they chatter and they gibber, and they dance and they play
  On the telegraphic wires all the night and all the day.

  We read in "Mother Goose" of quiet little Miss Muffet,
  Who was eating curds and whey, and sitting on a tuffet,
  When, in the midst of happiness, there came along a Spider,
  And, without waiting to be asked, sat down just beside her.
  Now the Spiders in Japan treat the telegraphic wires
  (Not daunted in the least by their being such high-flyers)
  As this Spider did Miss Muffet, and coolly took a seat
  On the pole, perhaps, beside the wires so high above the street;
  For they bring their spinning with them, so dainty and so fine,
  And they drop, to begin with, an experimental line.
  With such a handy frame-work as these telegraphic wires
  Mrs. Spider soon can weave a web that meets all her desires,
  With draperies for the parlor that's to catch the silly fly,
  And it is the prettiest parlor that ever you did spy.

  On the bare Western plains there's a dreadful lack of trees,
  And nothing for the Buffaloes to scratch themselves at ease;
  So a telegraphic pole proves a blessing in disguise,
  That brings the tears of gratitude to many hair-roofed eyes.
  Though first with some suspicion, "What ever is this thing?"
  Exclaims, in great perplexity, the dauntless prairie King;
  Then makes a sudden onslaught, as is his mighty way,
  To find a pole for scratching, and _not_ a foe at bay.
  "How jolly!" says King Buffalo--"how very kind of man
  To get up this convenience on such an easy plan!
  One grand good scratch, and then I'm off"--but so the pole is too,
  Off from its equilibrium--a sorry sight to view.
  That sudden rush of matter lays it flat upon the plain,
  Until the telegraphic men have set it up again;
  And when they seek with roughest nails to bristle it all o'er,
  The Buffalo pronounces them even kinder than before;
  For what are nails for but to scratch? and as scratching is his plan,
  He feels under obligations to the thoughtfulness of man.
  So he scratches all the poles down, rejoicing on his way,
  While the men who set them up again have something else to say;
  That something is not flattering to friend Buffalo at all,
  But he is off beyond the sound of voice or musket-ball.




LITTLE NYÂGÂNDI.


Nyâgândi is a little girl whose home is a mere hut on the shores of the
Ogawe River, in West Africa. A lady who has gone as a missionary to her
people has told a very pretty story about her, which we are sure our
girls will like to read.

Nyâgândi has never worn any clothing in her life, except a cloth tied
around her waist. It has been only lately that she has thought of
wearing anything else.

Since she has been attending school in the mission-house, and learning
to read, she is anxious to wear a dress like her kind friends, and so
with slow but patient fingers she is learning to make one out of some
bright calico.

She owns a canoe, in which she darts here and there over the creeks and
rivers like a graceful dusky bird.

One Saturday she paddled to the mission-house, and sold some bunches of
plantains to the ladies.

"Now, Nyâ," said one of them, "to-morrow will be Sunday, and you must
come to service."

"I surely will," she answered, "if I am alive."

Saturday night somebody stole Nyâ's canoe, and on Sunday nobody would
lend her another, yet she was in her place in church, and in time. Her
home was on the opposite shore of the river, at that place a third of a
mile wide, with a current flowing deep and strong. How had she crossed?

In the simplest way in the world--by swimming. Some of the boys had seen
the dark head bobbing up and down in the waves, or it is doubtful
whether she would have said a word about her performance.

But, little women, who sometimes pout at wearing an old bonnet or dress
to church, please think of the African girl, so anxious to keep her
promise that she swam the Ogawe on Sunday morning rather than be absent
when the good missionaries expected to see her at the Christian worship.




THE BRAVEST FEAT OF ALL.

BY DAVID KER.


"Warm work, eh, Pierre," said one French grenadier to another, as his
cap was knocked off by a bullet, while a second tore a strip of skin
from his shoulder.

"True enough, comrade," answered the other, wiping the blood from a
wound in his cheek; "but the Little Corporal will get us through it all
right."

The Little Corporal (otherwise called the Emperor Napoleon) was indeed
doing his best to get them through it; but honest Jacques might well say
that it was warm work. The great fight which was to be known in history
as the battle of Jena was at its hottest, and no one--among the common
soldiers at least--could yet say which side was likely to get the best
of it. True, the French were ninety thousand strong against forty
thousand Prussians, and had taken their enemies completely by surprise;
but, on the other hand, the Prussians were up on a high hill, where it
was not easy to get at them, and the centre of their line was covered by
a village, which they had fortified and filled with cannon, making it
altogether "a hard nut to crack."

Fighting their way through a terrible cannonade, the French had reached
the village, and burst into it; but they found all the streets
barricaded, and the houses crammed with musketeers, who kept up a
terrible fire upon them. Could they have brought their whole force to
bear at once, the affair would soon have been over; but by some
mischance the supports had been delayed, and all that the van-guard
could do was to intrench themselves in the houses which they had taken,
and wait for the main body to come up.

Foremost in the fight was a dashing captain of light-infantry--tall,
strong, black-browed, and terrible as any chief in Homer. He had the
name of being the strongest man and best swordsman in the whole
regiment, and liked nothing better than a chance of showing his strength
in a hand-to-hand fight. So when he found himself driven to stand behind
the corner of a wall, with nothing to do but watch the enemy's bullets
smashing the window-frames, or going "plug" into the timbers of the
house front, it was no wonder if "Captain Dreadnaught" (as his men had
justly nicknamed him) began to feel rather sulky.

"Pretty work for a soldier," growled he, under his huge black mustache;
"to be knocked on the head like a caged rat by a pack of rogues whom one
can't even see! Ah, if the rascals would only come out into the open,
and let us have a fair chance at them!"

But better luck was at hand. All at once a tremendous shout rose high
above all the din of the firing, and forward came the French supports at
a run, right up the <DW72> of the hill, and into the village. The moment
the blue frocks were seen advancing, Captain Dreadnaught, too eager even
to wait until he could get down to the door, leaped right out of the
window into the street, waving his sword and shouting like a madman. His
men followed him, and the nearest houses were cleared with a rush, and
every man in them killed or made prisoner.

Just then was heard a sudden crackling and hissing, while a fierce red
glare shot up over the roofs of the surrounding cottages. The shells had
set the village on fire, and what with sparks and hot ashes raining down
upon them, clouds of stifling smoke rolling around them on every side,
and blazing timbers crashing down close to their heads, the French
soldiers had anything but a comfortable time of it. However, they still
held their ground unflinchingly, although their smarting eyes could
hardly see to take aim, and every breath that they drew seemed to come
from the mouth of a furnace.

On a sudden a strange sound began to be heard in the distance, like rain
pattering on fallen leaves. Louder and nearer it came, until it swelled
into a deep hollow roll that seemed to shake the very earth; and out
from the smoke in front broke a mass of fierce men's faces, and horses'
heads, and gleaming sabres, and gay uniforms. The Prussian cavalry were
charging them. One hasty crackle of musketry, one clash and whirl of
sabres, and then the wave was upon them, and passed over them; and
nothing was left in its track but the dying and the dead.

Captain Dreadnaught, who had been flung aside into a doorway by the
shock of the charge, was just scrambling to his feet again when he saw
his color-sergeant fall under the sabre of a powerful trooper, who
seized the regimental colors. With one spring the Captain was out in the
middle of the street, and in another moment the Prussian went down in
his turn under a blow that might have cleft a rock, while Captain
Dreadnaught clutched the rescued standard, just as five of the enemy
fell upon him at once.

A sudden bound foiled the charge of the foremost two, while another good
sabre-cut rid him of the third. Firing his one remaining pistol through
the head of one assailant, he dealt the other a blow in the face with
the broken staff, which knocked out half his teeth. But in the mean time
the first two had reined up and faced about, and now they both made at
him at once.

Another moment and all would have been over with the daring Captain. But
just at that instant a fresh shout was heard behind, and one of the
Prussian troopers, struck by a bullet, fell heavily to the ground. The
other turned his horse and rode off, while the second line of French
infantry, against which the Prussian charge had broken itself, came on
in its turn, just as the Captain, still clasping the flag, sank
exhausted on the ground.

Three hours later all was over. The great battle had been fought and
lost; the splendid Prussian army had melted into a rabble of fugitives.
Napoleon, surrounded by his generals, was standing in triumph amid the
ruins of the village which had been the centre of the enemy's position.

"Sire," said a big, hard-faced man in the gorgeous uniform of a Marshal
of France, leading forward our friend the Captain, who, although very
pale, and with a blood-stained bandage around his forehead, looked as
fearless and resolute as ever, "this is the brave officer whom I saw
defending his regimental colors on foot against five mounted Prussians."

"Captain Dreadnaught, is it not?" said the Emperor, who seemed to know
by sight not merely every officer but even every private in his whole
army. "It is the best of all names for a French soldier, and no reward
is too great for the man who fears nothing. Wear this, _Colonel_" (and
he took from his breast the cross of the Legion of Honor, which he had
lately instituted), "as my gift to the bravest man in the regiment; and
let it remind you that you have a commander who never lets any gallant
deed go unrewarded."

Every one expected to see the new-made Colonel look overwhelmed with
joy; but except for the faint flush that crossed it, his dark face never
changed a whit.

"Sire," answered he, firmly, "this is the proudest moment of my life;
but I can not accept what does not belong to me."

A murmur of astonishment ran through the group, and even Napoleon's
marble face wore a look of surprise.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "You have fairly won this cross, and I
give it to you freely."

"Your Majesty has said," replied Dreadnaught, "that you give it to the
bravest in the regiment; and there is one who has this day done a far
braver deed than mine."

"Indeed?" said the Emperor. "Well, I should like to see the man who
could do that. Where is he?"

"Here," answered the officer, stepping suddenly back among his men, and
leading out a little drummer-boy barely twelve years old, whose blue
eyes widened into a stare of terrified wonder as he found himself, for
the first time in his life, face to face with the great Emperor.

"I saw this boy," said Dreadnaught, "drag two wounded soldiers out of a
burning house in the village yonder; and he had hardly got them out when
down came the roof, singeing his hair, as you see."

"Good!" growled Marshal Ney, rubbing his hands.

"And as if that was not enough," continued Dreadnaught, "he went into
the thickest of the fire to fetch water for our wounded; but as he was
coming back with it, a ball hit his leg, making him stumble and spill
the water. What does he do but hobble all the way back and fill his pail
again, with the blazing timbers falling on every side, and the enemy's
shot flying about his ears like hail!"

[Illustration: THE EMPEROR NAPOLEON PRESENTING THE CROSS OF THE LEGION
OF HONOR TO THE DRUMMER-BOY.]

The listening soldiers broke into a cheer that made the air ring, and
Napoleon, with a smile such as few men had ever seen him wear, stepped
forward and fixed the cross with his own hands upon the drummer-boy's
breast.

"I'll find _you_ another cross to-morrow, Colonel," said he; "but you
say truly that this fine fellow should go first. It's the first time
I've heard of him, but I'll warrant it won't be the last."

He was right; for, not many years later, the little drummer-boy had
become a General.




[Illustration: IN THE CORNER.]




A TROPICAL HURRICANE.

BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.


High noon in the little Anglo-Spanish town of Queenston, island of St.
Vincent: everything and everybody seem to be dozing quietly in the hot,
drowsy atmosphere.

"Why, all the people must be asleep or dead," mutters Ned Brandon,
discontentedly, as he stands on the corner of the one principal street
of Queenston, under the shade of a neat silk umbrella, and stares about
him. Truth to tell, Ned, who is something of a dandy, had before going
ashore dressed himself with exceeding care in his little state-room on
board the brig _Calypso_, owned by his father, and in which, under the
care of good Captain Hardy, he is making a vacation trip to the West
Indies.

He has on a dazzling suit of pure white linen, a handsome Panama hat, a
white neck-tie, low patent-leather shoes, and striped silk stockings.

"Well, I certainly took a great deal of trouble for nothing in this
matter of dressing," grumbles Ned, looking listlessly up and down the
almost deserted street.

Gayly painted shops, where one may buy anything from a penny roll to a
steam-boiler, alternate with small, one-story "bonnet-roof" houses, with
barred and jail-like windows. Past these an occasional group of
meek-looking yellow coolies, as much alike in appearance as a flock of
sheep, shuffle over the rude pavement. Occasionally the blackest kind of
a <DW64> from some neighboring plantation appears, driving before him
three or four diminutive donkeys laden with sugar-cane or panniers of
ripe fruit.

In the shade of the little stone custom-house, the open door of which is
guarded by a <DW64>, in tattered uniform, bearing a flint-lock musket,
sits a drowsy Creole woman on the edge of the pavement. Before her, on a
brazier of glowing coals, bubbles a pot of odorous soup, to be retailed
to possible customers at a penny per bowl. Whatever may be the remaining
ingredients of the compound, it is plainly evident that garlic
predominates.

The reason why there is no one to admire the elaborately dressed young
fellow on the corner is very simple. Queenston is taking its noonday
siesta.

In every little court-yard and inclosure swing sleeping forms in grass
hammocks, shaded by luxuriant growths of pawpaw, banana, and plantain,
orange, mango, and tamarind, while above all towers the beautiful
cocoa-palm with its clusters of golden green fruit.

"I might as well go down to the landing-steps and signal the _Calypso_
to send the boat ashore," mutters Ned, with a yawn, himself not
unaffected by the drowsy surroundings.

"Oh, I say!" suddenly exclaims a boyish voice behind him. Ned feels a
timid touch on his shoulder, and he wheels sharply round. "I'm Joe
Sampson," continues the new-comer, who is a young fellow a year or two
younger than Ned, speaking in an eager, hurried tone, "and I belong out
to Dedham, Massachusetts. I ran away from a Provincetown whaler. Don't
you think your Cap'n will give a fellow a chance to work his passage
back to the States?" And the gaunt, hollow-eyed, sun-browned face of the
speaker is lit up with eager anticipation as he breathlessly awaits the
other's answer.

Ordinarily Ned would have answered, "Of course he will," with hearty
cordiality. But the thermometer indicates ninety-two degrees in the
shade; he is hot, hungry, and irritable. Besides, Joe Sampson in his
rimless straw hat, coarse blue shirt, tattered trousers, and worn-out
shoes is anything but prepossessing as to outward appearance.

"I don't think Captain Hardy cares to ship a green hand," coldly begins
Ned, and is thoroughly ashamed of his words as soon as he has spoken.
But before he can mend them, Joe, with a mute gesture of despair, turns
the corner, and hurries off.

"Hi, there!" shouts Ned, remorsefully, "hold on a bit." But Joe either
can not or will not hear. He is walking along a narrow street of
picturesque but unclean <DW64> cabins--a street which ascending as it
leaves the town limits, widens into a mountain road, leading upward to
the heights which overhang Queenston on all but the harbor side.

Impulsive Ned stands for a few moments irresolute.

"Hungry no doubt, and homesick of course," he says, half aloud. "What a
wretch I am, to be sure!"

With the words he furls his umbrella, and unmindful of the scorching
rays of the sun, starts in rapid pursuit of the runaway, who is now out
of sight in a bend of the rising road.

Past the dirty suburbs Ned hastens, and now he is climbing the steep
side of Monte Rosa. On either hand are great thickets of tree-ferns,
which as he ascends give place to thickets of the wild-growing banana
festooned through and through with fragrant flowering vines where
humming-birds of gorgeous hue disport themselves. Across the reddish
earth of the roadway dart green and gold lizards with black beady eyes,
land-crabs scuttle hastily away from his hurrying footsteps, and once or
twice the ugly face of a harmless iguana leers at him from a way-side
stump.

Breathless, and dripping with perspiration at every pore, Ned reaches
the summit, but runaway Joe is nowhere in sight. The plateau at the left
is smooth and level, a crumbled stone parapet follows the edge of the
cliff, and the ruins of what was once a small fortress stand further
back. Perhaps Joe is hidden thereabouts.

"This is a pretty go; now isn't it?" exclaims Ned, in a disgusted tone,
as, tearing off his saturated collar and tie, he throws himself at full
length on the greensward under the shade of a cabbage-palm which grows
close to the parapet, to cool off a bit. Yet the wonderful outlook
almost repays him for the exhaustive climb. Before his gaze lies the
far-reaching Caribbean Sea, not sparkling and blue as is its wont,
however, but strangely calm, and of an oily smoothness, unbroken by a
ruffle of wind. There is a curious yellowish haze, too, which has been
creeping up from the distant horizon since morning, and is now tempering
the heat of the sun, which shines through it with a singularly brassy
effect.

"I think," drowsily remarked Ned, "that I'll take a bit of a nap, and
hunt for Joseph the unfortunate later."

So Ned, resigning himself to slumber, dreamed that he was the admiral of
a fleet manned by deserters from whaling vessels. This fleet was
anchored in Queenston Harbor, and was returning the fire from the guns
of the fortress above. The cannonading grew louder and louder, until Ned
awoke with a start.

But what is this?

Above him is a sky blacker than the ink with which the _Calypso_'s log
is written. Great sheets of rose- lightning shimmer continually
upward from the distant horizon like the rays of aurora borealis, while
rattling peals of thunder follow each other in quick succession. Then,
as he starts up in a fright, the heavens directly overhead are rent
asunder with one blinding flash, simultaneous with which comes a crash
of thunder that seems to jar his very brain. Then, as though this were a
pre-concerted signal, the sound of a mighty rushing wind, constantly
increasing in intensity, is heard, before which, hurtling through the
thickening gloom, come clouds of dust, branches of trees, and débris of
every sort. The force of the hurricane is not only sufficient to throw
Ned to the ground, but to pin him there as by giant hands, as it goes
roaring seaward with an awfulness of deafening roar which can not be
described in words.

"It is the Day of Judgment!" is the thought which sweeps through Ned's
bewildered mind. And then as suddenly as the storm arose there is a
lull, followed by an ominous silence as terrifying as the roar itself,
for the darkness seems if possible to grow more intense.

"The _Calypso_," thinks Ned; "where is she?" Crawling to the edge of the
parapet, he strains his eyes downward through the darkness. A momentary
flash illumines the gloom, and shows a phantom sail, which he hopes may
be the _Calypso_'s, scudding out of the harbor mouth.

And now the hurricane breaks forth from an almost opposite quarter,
bringing with it torrent upon torrent of driving rain, drenching Ned to
the skin, and fairly blinding him with its force. He is about to fly, he
knows not whither, when some one, dimly seen through the darkness,
clasps his hand.

"This way--quick!" exclaims the voice of Joe; and feeling himself urged
rapidly forward, Ned in a moment or two finds that at last he has
reached a place of shelter.

"I stop here nights," laconically observes Joe, as the two boys drop,
dripping and out of breath, on a pile of dry leaves and grasses in one
corner of what Ned sees by the continuous play of lightning is a low
circular stone cell, and which Joe explains was probably used as a sort
of powder-house before the fort was demolished.

For three long hours the hurricane swept above them, and the sea roared
beneath, while the crash of thunder, almost without cessation, seemed to
jar the stones about them. At last its violence subsided by degrees, and
as Ned and Joe finally emerged from their refuge, it was to see the
clouds rolling away in great rifted masses, through which shone the
beams of sunset.

"And now, if the _Calypso_ is only safe," said Ned, as they made their
way with difficulty down the mountain road, which had become the bed of
a small stream, "you shall have your passage back to the States, Joe,
and not work it either."

"Ah! _if_," returned Joe, soberly. He was wondering how they should live
until the brig arrived, even if she was safe; and what on earth would
become of them if she was lost! For the Queenston people do not take
kindly to penniless wanderers, as poor Ned found to his cost before
another twenty-four hours had passed over his head.

Fortunately for the companions in misfortune, fruit had been dislodged
by the hurricane in such quantities that it was to be had for the
taking. The boys supported life for a fortnight on oranges, ripe
bread-fruit, bananas, guavas, mami apples, and soursops, which are "all
very well for dessert," as Ned afterward remarked, "but for a steady
diet I prefer roast beef; fruit gets monotonous after the forty-fifth or
forty-sixth meal."

Thus for three weary weeks the boys wandered listlessly by day through
the streets of Queenston, and by night suffered innumerable tortures
from mosquitoes.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Tell those two dirty-looking <DW54>s to sheer off, Mr. Nason," sharply
said Captain Hardy, as with only the stump of her foretopmast standing,
and her bulwarks completely gone, the brig _Calypso_ slowly swung to her
moorings.

There had been a terrible struggle with tempest and storm, and it was
only after a succession of head-winds and exasperating calms of many
days' duration that the _Calypso_ had finally managed to work back to
the anchorage from which the hurricane had driven her so many miles out
to sea.

"Be off there!" gruffly commanded Mr. Nason, in obedience to his
Captain's orders, as a shore boat touched the vessel's side. "We don't
want yams or fruit, and we've got nothing for you to beg or steal."

"If you've only got something to eat, that's all _we_ want," replied a
familiar voice, whose owner sprang lightly over the rail, while his
companion followed more slowly.

"Upon my word!" ejaculated the Captain, in amazement. "Is that you, Ned,
and what do you look like?"

A white linen suit that has been soaked with rain or dew and dried in
the sun several times has a tendency to cling to its possessor's figure
with more closeness than ease; its hue becomes dingy by being slept in
and used to wipe fruit-stained fingers on. Such was the case with Ned's
once brilliant costume. He was also barefooted and nearly bare-headed,
while his face was burned to the color of shoe leather.

"I used to think," said Ned, helping himself to his fifth hot biscuit,
and passing the corned beef to Joe, who sat opposite him at the tea
table in the _Calypso_'s cabin that evening, "that it would be rather
nice to try a touch of vagabond life on some island in the tropics, but
I rather think I prefer my regular meals at a table, and all night in
bed--eh, Joe?"

And Joe, whose heart and mouth were too full for utterance, nodded an
emphatic assent.




ADVICE TO BOYS.

BY H. C. VAN GIESON, M.D.

CUTS AND BRUISES.


The boys of America are venturesome, but I do not think, as a rule, that
they rush into danger heedlessly. But in all the active pursuits of
life, in play as well as in business, accidents are liable to occur, and
it is well to know what to do, as thereby life may sometimes be saved.

It is my intention to tell boys what they should do under certain
circumstances, when there is no help near.

Many persons are alarmed at the sight of blood. Now cuts are very
common, but rarely are they very serious. If a simple cut is inflicted,
if no artery is severed, it is only necessary to tie a handkerchief wet
with cold water over the cut, and wait for an opportunity to get some
adhesive plaster, which should be cut into strips one-eighth to one-half
an inch wide, according to the size of the cut, and applied at right
angles to the line of the cut, drawing it together by this means.

But when the blood flows in spurts or jets of a bright red color, it
shows that an artery has been cut. An artery carries blood _from_ the
heart, and consequently, to control the bleeding, if the cut or wound is
on an arm or leg, pressure with the finger must be made _above_ the cut
toward the body, not toward the hand or foot. If the bleeding does not
stop with pressure continued a little while, then take a handkerchief,
tie a knot in it, and placing the knot above the cut, tie the
handkerchief firmly around the limb. Then take the injured person to the
nearest physician, that the artery may be tied. Simple bleeding from the
veins, which stops soon with a little pressure, needs only the
application of a cool wet cloth.

When a person becomes faint from the sight of blood, or the loss of any
considerable quantity, always place him flat on his back, with the head
level with the body. Don't raise him up or try to stand him up. Apply
cold water to the face, if available, or fan him with a hat.

Bruises are often very painful, but usually they are not dangerous. Cold
water or ice applied to a bruise when first received will allay pain and
prevent somewhat the swelling that follows. A bruise that is followed
quickly by a soft bluish tumor or swelling indicates the rupture of a
vein, and it should not be punctured or pricked, but should be allowed
to disappear by absorption; a bandage making moderate pressure will
hasten this process; and here let me say that any bandage should be
applied from the extremity to the point where it is needed, that is,
from the hand or foot to the parts on arm or leg where the bandage is
needed. This is to prevent swelling of the parts below, as the
circulation in the veins is impeded by any bandage between them and the
heart. A bandage, then, should always commence at the toes or the ends
of the fingers, and be applied smoothly and evenly up to and over the
injured parts.




[Illustration: PADDY AND THE FISH.]

PADDY RYAN'S BIG FISH.

BY W. M. LAFFAN.


A few weeks ago I tried to give some good advice to young anglers in
regard to trout fishing with hook and line. Now I am going to tell them
of one or two curious methods of capturing trout that are practiced by
fishermen on the other side of the Atlantic.

The trout in the rivers of Great Britain, as a general thing, attain a
larger size than ours do. Occasionally, however, exceptions may be made
to this rule, as, for instance, in the Rangeley Lakes, in the State of
Maine, where trout are taken that are as large as any in the finest
streams of England or Ireland.

The brook trout of the latter countries is usually from ten to fourteen
inches in length, but in certain streams it is occasionally found of a
much larger size, weighing in some instances seven or eight pounds. In
color it is yellowish-brown above, shading off to yellow on the sides,
the spots on the back being reddish-brown, while those on the sides are
bright red.

In certain wild parts of Ireland there is fine trout fishing, four and
five pound fish being frequently caught. There are two methods of
catching them practiced by the inhabitants--tickling and snaring. The
snare is a simple noose made of gray horse-hair, plaited, and of the
strength of perhaps a dozen hairs. This snare is fastened to the end of
a ten-foot pole, slender and springy, and the device is complete. Its
use requires great training of the hand, and even more of the eye. When
I was a boy I was in the County Tipperary, where so many tall Irishmen
come from, where some of the people still speak Gaelic, and where the
trout in the streams are free and frisky. The rivers of Tipperary flow
into the Shannon and the Suir, and the Shannon is a noble river, and an
immense one when you consider how small the accommodations of the
country are.

To snare a trout, you pick out the clear shallows where the water flows
softly over the yellow gravel. You approach the spot with great caution,
and with such slow and easy movement that the fish is not alarmed, or if
he does dart off to deeper water or some dark lurking-place, presently
returns, revealing himself by his flickering shadow, that seems even
more real than himself. Then, slow as the minute-hand of a clock,
descends the rod, and the horse-hair noose sinks under the surface. The
trout's nose points against the current, and down toward him drifts the
unseen loop of horse-hair. Unfailing must be the judgment of the
distance, and certain the estimate of the depth, and as it glides over
his shoulders a swift stroke sends him flying over your head into the
grass behind you. It is incredible how difficult this method of fishing
is, what great craft it needs, what subtlety of approach, and what fine
discernment in the execution. I have seen a Tipperary woman so skillful
that she could beat all comers in the number of trout she would take in
a day's fishing. It was a fine sight to see her on the bank, rigid as a
statue, with uncovered head crowned with jet-black hair, her bare feet
planted in the sod, and not a trace of movement to be seen until up went
her rod, and a fine flashing trout, as heavy perhaps as her plaited
noose would bear, went kicking through the air.

But tickling the trout is the more curious method, and is a practice
that has its origin doubtless in the character of the streams, which,
run for the most part by low grass-grown banks, which, being undermined,
shelve over on the edge of the current, or fall into it in great
_scraughs_, or sods. Beneath these lurk the trout of all sizes, sallying
out every now and then like sunbeams into the amber water to catch some
luckless victim passing by. On such an overhanging bank the skilled
Tipperary fisher lies at full length, with shirt sleeves rolled up, and
hands thrust as far beneath the bank as he can reach. If his fingers
touch a fish, away it flies, but only to return shortly and sidle up
against his hand, and be again alarmed. Over and over again this is
repeated, until the fish seems to lose all sense of fear, when the
stealthy, tickling, stroking fingers steal about the gills, and with a
sudden encircling clutch and murderous thrust of the thumb in the
gullet, that too confiding fish's day is ended.

The Tipperary men catch fine fish, and plenty of them in this way. It is
not a lofty style of angling, but it is a curious instance of the
application of means to ends, the end being the fish, the motive hunger,
and the means being confined to strong hands.

Many a fine catch of fish have I seen made by the fishermen of
Tipperary, but the most extraordinary was that of my friend Paddy Ryan.
Paddy had a way of his own, and it was better than snaring or tickling,
and it made Paddy famous as a brave and original fisher.

Up these little tributary streams that flow into the Shannon the salmon
come in the spawning season, ascending until the upper shallows are
reached, when they deposit their eggs, and then work their way back to
the ocean. Great fun it is, too, to watch these lordly fish at some
point where they must leap clear over some small water-fall or mill-dam
if they would pass further up. The water breaks with a mighty swish, and
out comes the salmon, his back like black velvet, and all the rest of
him like a flash of burnished silver, his tail uncurving from the strong
blow that he has struck in his leap, and his fine force and vigor
landing him in the top water, where one great whisk and splash carries
him clean over and out of all danger. Sometimes he falls short, or can
not strike fast enough to overcome the current, and so tumbles back; but
he goes at it again, and, making note of his experience, finally
succeeds.

Paddy Ryan was nine years old, and was a spectator while I cast flies
for trout; and although I was very far up the river, it was not
altogether above the spawning grounds that the salmon sought. I was
sitting on the parapet of an old bridge, and about one hundred feet down
the stream below me there crossed a rough stone dam that diverted some
part of the stream to the little mill owned by Paddy's father. Under the
dam was a deep pool; above it was another, and the water fell over the
dam along its whole length. But just inside the dam, and running
parallel with it for a short distance, was a bank of gravel, which the
last heavy freshet had thrown up. Paddy walked out on this gravel, and
stretched himself on it at full length in pure idleness and lazy
enjoyment of my useless fly-fishing. The trout were not in the humor to
rise, and I had about made up my mind to give up and go home, when all
at once I heard a splash and saw a great salmon come up with a mighty
curve over the dam, overleap it completely, and land in about three
inches of water on the gravel bank within a foot or two of Paddy.

The water flew in every direction, and all over Paddy, who turned with a
startled yell to see what had happened. In another instant he was on top
of the salmon, clutching it with arms and legs, while the powerful fish
struggled and kicked, and Paddy bawled and roared at the top of his
voice. Over rolled Paddy, and over rolled the fish, the water splashing
and the gravel flying so that you could not tell which had the best of
it. Paddy's mother, hearing the commotion, ran out of the cottage up
above the mill.

"Och, murther!" she screamed. "Dinnis! Dinnis! where are ye, Dinnis? an'
a fish atin' me child! Dinnis! Dinnis!"

Paddy's father heard her frantic screams, and came running up from the
mill.

"D'ye see yer child et up be a dirthy fish?" she yelled.

"Begorra!" said the astonished Denis, as he seized a pitchfork, cleared
the mill-race at a bound, ran along the dam, fell into the stream,
scrambled out on the gravel bank, and reached the scene of the conflict.

"Let go of him till I shtick him!" said he.

"I won't," spluttered Paddy; "he'll get away."

"Let go of him, I tell ye!"

"<DW8> him now, daddy, where he is;" and seeing his chance, <DW8> him
Denis did, and dragged him kicking out on the gravel bank, Paddy,
breathless and exhausted, still holding on to him.

It was a splendid salmon, and it weighed thirty-eight pounds, and I went
home, not feeling as if I cared to pursue fly-fishing any further that
day.




[Illustration]




[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]


As we happen to know that father and mother as well as the boys and
girls take a weekly peep at the contents of Our Post-office Box, we
insert for their benefit a paragraph which appeared in the Boston
_Journal_ of May 23. The _Journal_ has a very honorable and influential
place among American newspapers, and we are glad to have it express its
appreciation of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE in terms so cordial:

     "When this weekly, intended specially for young readers, was first
     started, we were somewhat curious regarding the special field it
     would make for itself. It seemed as if the reading public, old and
     young, was supplied with literature adapted to the diversified
     wants of all, but we felt assured that the Messrs. Harper were too
     thoroughly acquainted with their business as publishers to launch a
     craft without a knowledge of the demand which existed for its
     support. Time has shown that HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE was wanted to
     fill a vacancy. It is already welcomed every Saturday to thousands
     of New England homes. Its tone is pure, its articles are always
     interesting, and its illustrations are superior to anything ever
     attempted in juvenile literature of its class. While it is intended
     for the perusal of Rob and Mabel, of Sam and Lucy, we venture to
     say that it has been the experience of others, as it has been our
     own, that the older heads of the family find in its pages each week
     matter not at all beneath their notice on the score of information
     and general interest."

       *       *       *       *       *

  ROCHESTER, NEW YORK.

     I am a little boy eight years old. My papa has two hunting dogs
     named Steck and Rob, and I have a pet cat. The dogs are very gentle
     and kind, and let us tumble all over them; but when they have a
     bone given them, they fight terribly. Whenever Rob gets a chance he
     steals the cat's meat, and then she gives him a good scratch. My
     brother Harry is four years old. He has a little girl friend named
     Floy, whom he calls his little sweetheart. When I had the scarlet
     fever, and the doctor said my skin would peel off, Harry said,
     "Then, Georgie, when your skin peels off, I can see your soul,
     can't I?" I am sick, and mamma is writing this for me. I hope you
     will print it, so we can surprise papa, for we have not told him
     about it. He gave me HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE last Christmas, and I
     enjoy it more and more every week. Good-by.

  GEORGE B. M.

       *       *       *       *       *

  FRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAIN, GERMANY.

     We have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE from the beginning, and we
     enjoy it very much.

     It is just nine years since we left America. Six of these have been
     spent in Paris, one in Freiburg, in Baden, and two here. We like
     this city exceedingly. It is very beautiful and interesting. In the
     "Judengasse," the principal street of the old Jewish quarter of the
     town, in an ancient rickety house still standing, were born the
     ancestors of the wealthy Von Rothschilds. Near by, in a similar
     house, Boerne was born. Goethe's birth-house, in another street, is
     more respectable, and full of souvenirs of Germany's great poet.

     The opera-house here is as beautiful as the one in Paris. Other
     attractions are the Palmengarten, the Zoological Garden, the
     forest, the river, the cathedral, picture-galleries, museums,
     historical buildings, monuments, and the renowned and graceful
     sculpture of Ariadne on the lion's back, by Dannecker. The town is
     encircled by the "Promenade," a zigzaggy avenue of green woods,
     lovely lawns with flower beds, lakes, fountains, statues, etc., at
     the place of the old fortifications.

     There are numbers of Hebrews here. They have many noble traits of
     character, and some we know are more Christian-like than many
     Christians. Besides that, they are very intelligent and quick. We
     have plenty of friends among them, and we like them very much.

     I have two sisters and two brothers. We all go to school, except my
     elder sister, who studies at the Conservatory of Music, of which
     the great composer Joachim Raff is director, and which counts among
     its teachers Frau Clara Schumann and the violinist Hermann.

     My baby brother, who was born in Paris, understands perfectly
     French and English, but will speak nothing but German. He attends
     the Kindergarten. I take lessons on the violin, and in drawing,
     elocution, Italian, and "the grand dialect the prophets spake,"
     Hebrew.

     I love Longfellow, and I feel so grieved at his death! I have a
     precious autograph of his, written expressly for me; it is the
     first verse of his beautiful poem, "Excelsior," and his name.

     I think, upon the whole, that America is the best country in the
     world. However much we are attached to Europe, we will be glad to
     get home. Papa is now in New York; he has crossed the Atlantic
     Ocean twenty times.

     Would the editor or any of the readers please give me a list of all
     the different inventions and discoveries made by Americans, and
     oblige their loving compatriot,

  A. M. W.

A complete list of all the inventions and discoveries, small and great,
which have been made by Americans, would fill a very large space in Our
Post-office Box, even if printed in the closest and tiniest of type. Not
to speak of that fairy of the household, the sewing-machine, and of that
wizard, the electric telegraph, there are dozens of useful and beautiful
things to make life easier and homes more charming which the world owes
to our countrymen. We shall leave the question of A. M. W. to our bright
little correspondents, and we hope to print some replies to it before
long.

       *       *       *       *       *

BED-TIME.

BY LUCY RANDOLPH FLEMING.

  Tell you a story? Dear me!
    And which one shall I tell?
  How Tommy Green, in cruel sport,
    Dropped Pussy in the well?

  Shall I tell you of Dame Hubbard's dog,
    And the wonderful things he did;
  Or of poor Bo-Peep, who could not tell
    Where her wandering sheep were hid?

  Or shall I tell of the dreadful wolf
    Who met Red Riding-hood;
  Or will you hear the sad, sad tale
    Of the Children in the Wood?

  Of Cinderella, who sat by the fire,
    And wanted to go to the ball,
  And the nice old godmother who came
    With the slippers of glass, and all?

  Or shall I sing of the active cow
    Who jumped right over the moon?
  Perhaps she frightened the man up there,
    And made him come "down too soon."

  Or will you hear of the famous birds
    All baked in the royal pie?
  I think we could make a better dish
    With "a pocket full of rye."

  What! baby mine, you are going to sleep,
    And none of the stories are told?
  The blue eyes are shut, and the pillow waits
    For the touch of the curls of gold.

       *       *       *       *       *

  NASHUA, NEW HAMPSHIRE.

     I am a little girl ten years old. I have two pet rabbits; they are
     white, with pink eyes. We have a little toy terrier, all blue, with
     long silky hair; she is one of the smallest dogs in America or
     Europe. I have been taking music lessons ever since I was seven
     years old; I have been studying Mozart's sonatas. My grandpa has
     four kittens, and I play with them every day. We have three cages
     of birds, two in one cage, two in another, and fourteen in the
     third. I have two brothers. We go to school, and all study German.

  HARRIET E. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

  GIRARD, KANSAS.

     My brother and I have concluded to write a letter together. I am
     twelve, and he is a year and a half younger. Our aunt Minnie,
     living in Pennsylvania, made us a present of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
     this year. We think she is a good, kind aunt, although we have
     never seen her. We are going to get up a club next year, as we want
     all our school-mates to read it. Eddie and I signed the pledge
     during the Murphy movement never to use tobacco or profane
     language, and we intend to keep it, and hope our little friends
     will do the same. We live five miles from Girard, the county seat.
     My mamma came thirteen years ago, and saw the first house erected,
     and now the place has two railroads, and a population of 1731. We
     live near Lightning Creek, and have lots of fun fishing, although
     the fish are not so fine as some we read of, being mostly sunfish
     and catfish, although sometimes we get a nice bass. We have a nice
     garden, and had new potatoes and pease the 28th of May. Our two
     little brothers, named Colimo and Lew, love to look at the pictures
     in YOUNG PEOPLE. We do not go to school this summer, as there is
     none in our district; we had a six months' school last winter. But
     we are not idle; we weed and hoe in the garden, help to milk, chop
     wood, and do many other things. We have sixty-nine little chickens,
     and had fifteen little turkeys, but they have all died except four.
     Could any one tell us what was the cause of it? They seemed weak
     and drooping for several days. Mamma was advised to feed them with
     cooked food, and so she did, but it did no good.

  WILLIE D., EDDIE D., and MOTHER.

You were not more unsuccessful than many others with your flock of
turkeys. Young turkeys are very hard to raise, and sometimes their
mother takes them out into the wet grass, and they get tired, and take
cold. Should you have another brood at any time, be very careful to keep
them dry and warm. A friend who has had experience with turkeys tells
the Postmistress that the little ones require almost as careful tending
as babies do.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Postmistress wonders whether you ever heard of a young woman's
expecting to be paid for being so good as to learn to sew? Most of us
think we ought to pay those who are good enough to teach us anything, as
teachers really have to take more trouble than pupils do. Many years ago
a lady undertook to show some women in the South Sea Islands how to make
their own dresses. They were quite anxious to look like the missionary
ladies, who were the only Europeans they had ever seen. A young woman
attended very regularly for some weeks, and became quite skillful. One
Saturday night she presented herself with the native servants, and
begged to be paid her wages for learning to sew.

Mrs. Ellis said: "Why should I pay you? In our country those who learn
pay their teachers."

The woman answered, very earnestly: "You asked me to come and learn. I
have been here so long I have learned. It must be in some way an
advantage to you, or else you would not be so anxious about it. As I
have done it to please you, you ought to pay me for my goodness."

She was pacified by being engaged to sew for the missionaries.

       *       *       *       *       *

  GREENFIELD, ILLINOIS.

     I am a boy twelve years old. We live near the woods, and mamma is
     helping me to make a leaf-album. I have a good many sheets of paper
     covered with pressed leaves, such as elm, cotton-wood, plum,
     willow, etc. It is a very interesting occupation, and the leaves
     look very pretty when pressed out. It teaches us so much about the
     woods too. I have a small cabinet of curiosities also. We live near
     a school-house, and the other day I found a wren's nest in a
     rose-bush in the school yard. We watch it very closely to keep the
     boys away until the little ones can fly. We think it is a very
     pretty idea to build a nest among the roses. Don't you? YOUNG
     PEOPLE is the best of papers.

  JESS L. B.

Yes, indeed. Wrens are so sociable that they like to build close by
people, and probably the wee mother liked the rose-bush because it was
near the school-house. I wonder if she listens, while you boys recite
your lessons? A leaf-album is both interesting and instructive. It is a
good plan to write the name of each leaf under it, and the date of the
day it was gathered, as well as whatever you know about the place where
it was found.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SKIPPING-ROPE.

  Now all ye tearful children, come and listen while I tell
  About the little fairy folk, and what to them befell;
  And how three little fairies sat them down, one summer day,
  And cried among the grasses till the others flew away.

  They flew away bewildered, for it gave them such a fright
  To see the fairies crying, with the jolly sun in sight:
  And so they left them all alone, and there they sat and cried
  Six little streams of fairy tears, that trickled side by side.

  And looking down, the laughing sun among the drops did pass,
  And he laid a little rainbow beside them on the grass.
  Then quickly rose the fairies, and clapped their gleeful hands--
  "We've found the brightest skipping-rope in all the fairy lands."

  And there they jumped their tears away, and jumped their dimples in,
  And jumped until their laughter came--a tinkling, fairy din.
  What! you say you don't believe it, you saucy little elf?
  Then run and get your skipping-rope, and try it for yourself.

       *       *       *       *       *

  EAST ST. LOUIS, ILLINOIS.

     I am a little girl twelve years of age. I live in the country. I
     thought I would write and tell you about my pets. I have a little
     Alderney calf; its name is Baby Mine, and it follows me all around.
     I have a little colt two years old; its name is Celeste. My uncle
     is a stock raiser, and when my brother was eight years of age and I
     was six he took us to his pasture and told us each to pick out a
     colt. Those colts are now six years old. Mine is named Blaze. My
     brother has two colts, one named Rosalie T. and the other Roxie. I
     have a Spitz dog named Beauty; he got into a fight not long ago,
     and was badly hurt. I have two kittens named Budgy and Toddie. I
     have a ball with a string tied to it for my kittens. I have four
     canary-birds and a beautiful red-bird. I have been taking music
     lessons ever since I was eight years old. This is the first letter
     I have ever written.

  ROSALIE T.

       *       *       *       *       *

  OCEAN GROVE, NEW JERSEY.

     I am at Ocean Grove for the summer, and expect to stay until
     October. On my way down I saw the wrecked coffee ship _Pliny_. The
     coffee is washed all along the beach. The other day I went up the
     beach toward the wreck, and found five bags, each holding about two
     bushels. The coffee is green, that is, not roasted, and is now
     quite black in color. I emptied about ten bushels on the sand, and
     brought the bags home. The Captain of the wrecked vessel issued a
     circular warning people not to use the coffee, as there had been
     hides on the vessel which were cured with arsenic. There are piles
     of coffee on the sand.

     I will exchange an ounce of coffee from the wrecked vessel _Pliny_,
     for ten foreign stamps (no duplicates). Please inclose a 2-cent
     stamp for postage on coffee.

  HARRY C. CROSBY,
  Box 2104, Ocean Grove, N. J.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.

     In No. 130 of your paper a reader of the same asks if any one of
     your readers knows anything about a, book called _The Runaway_. We
     have it, and like it ever so much. The copy we have only says, "By
     the Author of _Mrs. Jerningham's Journal_," and it is published by
     Macmillan & Co., in London and New York, and our copy was published
     in 1872. We think it is so nice.

     I am one of the "little girls who have many pets." We have a
     beautiful English setter, and I have a lovely Maltese cat, two
     kittens, and a canary-bird--a very sweet singer. He is singing now.
     I would write about them, but it would only be to tell what so many
     little girls have already done, though I want to ever so much.

  BESSIE W.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ADAMS, MASSACHUSETTS.

     I am a little girl six years old; I live in Adams; and my sister is
     five, and her name is Clara. We have a good many dollies; my best
     one is a large wax doll named Ruth. I can not write, so my mamma is
     writing this for me. We have two kitties; mine was born without any
     tail. Mamma read to us about Jumbo in the YOUNG PEOPLE, and so we
     call my kitty Jumbo. Clara's kitty has a nice long tail, and her
     name is Cherrie. We do not go to school, but papa and mamma teach
     us at home. Papa takes HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for us, and we like to
     read the letters in the Post-office Box; and mamma reads us the
     stories. Papa says I may have a garden this summer all my own. I
     had one last summer, and I had beans in it, and mamma cooked them.

  HELEN W. H.

       *       *       *       *       *

  TARRYTOWN, NEW YORK.

     I am a little girl nearly six years old. My pet is a gray cat named
     Tiger, whom I love very much. Last fall my papa had two little
     kittens in his store, and Tiger was so jealous of them that he ran
     away, and staid six months, and then came home again. Mamma reads
     YOUNG PEOPLE to my brother and me every week, and she is writing
     this for me. Please print it.

  MARION M. D.

Thanks, dear, for the daisy and fern.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MOUNT VERNON, NEW YORK.

     I am sore (four) years old. Mamma is writing this sor (for) me, as
     I can not write. I have a white kitty with a black nose; mamma will
     tell you his long name (Don Tomosa Felini Blackernosa, or
     Backernoisa, as little four-year-old always calls him). I sit on a
     cushion at the table. This morning kitty sat on the same cushion by
     me, but he did not take any of my breakfast. Kitty has his supper
     on the soar (floor). Jack (our little Skye terrier) sleeps with
     kitty on a carpet chair. Jack bit the baby kitten (sister to Don)
     because she took his meat. Brother Bertie buried the little kitten.
     The kitten's mamma got shot in her paw. She was so sick we gave the
     baby kitty a little bottle with milk in it, and a little piece of
     sponge in it, so kitty could drink; she put both her little sont
     (front) paws on the bottle when she took the milk. It cried and ran
     after mamma when it was hungry. I like "Toby Tyler."

  C. HAROLD C.

     P.S.--My baby boy can not sound the f's at all.

  MAMMA.

       *       *       *       *       *

  NEWTON, IOWA.

     This is next to the last week of school, and we are anxiously
     waiting for our long summer vacation. We expect to have a nice
     time. My mother, brother, and I are going to Nebraska the week
     after school closes, as we have cousins living there. They have a
     little pony for the children, and each has a saddle of its own, and
     I expect to learn to ride horseback. As the town is only a few
     years old, it will seem almost like the country. The Postmistress
     said she would like to hear from the girls having flower beds. I
     have one. There are seven children in our neighborhood--two boys
     and five girls--who have each a flower bed, and want to see who can
     have the nicest. My auntie sent us HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE two years
     ago, and last year's are being bound for my brother Lewis, and this
     year's will be bound for me, and our names will be put on the backs
     of them. I thought that I would write a letter to have in mine, and
     have been expecting to write sooner. I enjoy reading the letters
     and continued pieces the most; also Jimmy Brown's--those about the
     animals, and the rest.

  CELIA L.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ELIZABETH, NEW JERSEY.

     I am a little girl nine years old, and have as funny a dog as ever
     you saw, only I do not own him. I have two brothers. One of them
     was my birthday present. I am going to the country soon, and you
     are to be sent to me every week. I like you ever so much, and would
     be very lonely without you, dear YOUNG PEOPLE.

  SOPHIE M. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

  TROY, NEW YORK.

     I am a little boy, and have a dear little brother George. I go to
     school, just the same as all the other little boys do that write
     you. I have taken your paper ever since it was first issued, and I
     have all the back numbers, and whenever any of my little friends
     come to see me, he or she always wants to look at them, they are so
     nice; and I sometimes send an armful over to the hospital for the
     poor little sick children to look at, and you can't imagine how
     pleased they are to get them. My paper is read every week by eight
     or ten persons, and some of them big folks too. The only fault I
     have to find with YOUNG PEOPLE is that it is not large enough.

  CLARENCE G.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.

Alice asked me why strawberries were so called. She was eating a
delicious plateful of them; and as they were heaped high on the dish,
sprinkled with sugar and covered with cream, they were very inviting.
But why were they strawberries, and not red-berries, or blush-berries,
or best-berries? Because, dear, I told her they grow on the ground on a
pretty running vine, and are found strewn, or strawn, among their green
leaves. From strewn or strawn berries the way is short to strawberries,
which name slips easily over the lips in our talk.

       *       *       *       *       *

FOR THE COMMONPLACE-BOOK.--Here, dear girls, is a picture from Mrs.
Browning for your busy pens to copy:

  She was not so pretty as women I know,
  And yet all your best, made of sunshine and snow.
  Drop to shade, melt to naught, in the long-trodden ways.
  While she's still remembered on warm and cold days-- My Kate.

  Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace,
  You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face;
  And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth,
  You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth-- My Kate.

  Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke
  You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke;
  When she did, so peculiar yet soft was her tone.
  Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone-- My Kate.

  I doubt if she said to you much that could act
  As a thought or suggestion; she did not attract
  In the sense of the brilliant or wise; I infer
  'Twas her thinking of others made you think of her-- My Kate.

       *       *       *       *       *

A BOY.--We will shortly publish an article giving you the information
you desire.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CHESTNUT HILL, PENNSYLVANIA.

     I wrote to YOUNG PEOPLE once before, but not finding my letter in
     print, I thought I would try again, hoping you will publish it. I
     am going to tell you something real funny. One morning at
     breakfast, while eating her mutton-chop, one of my friends said to
     her father, "Papa, this meat tastes sheepy." The next morning they
     had beef-steak, and her father said, "Do you think the meat tastes
     sheepy this morning?" But her little sister, about eight or nine
     years of age, said, "No; it tastes bully." Of course every one at
     the table laughed. But she did not mean it for a slang expression;
     she meant that it tasted sort of "beefy."

  BERTHA C.

       *       *       *       *       *

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to Mrs.
Herrick's article on botany entitled "The Thirsty Flowers," and to the
story of the heroic drummer-boy at the battle of Jena, which Mr. David
Ker tells under the title of "The Bravest Feat of All." In his sketch
entitled "Paddy Ryan's Big Fish," Mr. W. M. Laffan tells the boys about
curious methods of capturing trout that are practiced on the other side
of the Atlantic. Dr. Van Gieson gives them some sage advice about how to
treat the "Cuts and Bruises" that they are always inflicting upon
themselves in their eager pursuit of pleasure.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

GEOGRAPHICAL PUZZLE.

A gentleman named (a city in New Zealand), and whose Christian name was
(a city in Australia), went to (a town in Vermont) to attend a party.
His partner was a lady whose Christian name was (a river in Siberia),
and whose surname was (a town in Tasmania). During the evening he spoke
a great deal of (a cape on the coast of North America), about her dress,
which was composed of (a valley in Asia), trimmed with lace from (a city
in Belgium). Her shoes were made of (a city in Africa). Her hair was
dressed beautifully with (a river in Africa) flowers. After dancing they
strolled on the terrace, and she happened to step on (a city in
Germany), and fainted from (a cape east of the United States). He flew
for (a city in Europe) to revive her. When she had recovered she partook
of a plate of (islands in the Pacific Ocean), and also ate a whole
(county in New York State). She now said it was time to go home. They
said good-night to their hostess, and took a tender (cape of Greenland)
of each other at the lady's door.

  J. H. B.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.

ENIGMAS.

1.

  My first is in bracket, but not in rack.
  My second is in plunder, but not in sack.
  My third is in running, but not in fast.
  My fourth is in end, but not in last.
  My fifth is in sitting, but not in sat.
  My sixth is in kittens, but not in cat.
  My seventh is in gravel, but not in sand.
  My eighth is in water, but not in land.
  My ninth is in horse, but not in mule.
  My tenth is in cotton, but not in spool.
  My whole was a battle in time of old
  In which the oppressors lost their hold.

  G. B. B., JUN.

2.

  My first is in hen, but not in rat.
  My second is in boat, but not in flat.
  My third is in ship, not in scow.
  My fourth is in scare, but not in fear.
  My fifth is in courtesy, but not in bow.
  My sixth is in owl, but not in hen.
  My seventh is in tomtit, but not in wren.
  My eighth is in cat, but not in kitten.
  My ninth is in hand, but not in mitten.
  My whole is a game played by us boys,
  In which we often make a great noise.

  EDWARD DANA S.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.

TWO EASY DIAMONDS.

1.--1. A letter. 2. Time for work. 3. A bird. 4. A consent. 5. A letter.

  C. C.

2.--1. A letter. 2. A winged animal. 3. Large bundles. 4. A post-horse.
5. A name given to the earth. 6. A body of water. 7. A letter.

  ALLIE W. C.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.

WORD SQUARE.

1. A fright. 2. To expiate. 3. A story. 4. Dull. 5. An ancient people.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 135.

No. 1.

Princeton. United States.

No. 2.

Beatrice. Faustina.

No. 3.

  _T_ U  F  T
   P _O_ C  O
   P  L _U_ S
   D  O  R _R_
   C  O _M_ A
   B _A_ T  S
  _L_ I  E  U
   S  I_ L  O
   R  U _N_ E
   M  A  T _E_

No. 4.

      C       B
    L A R   O R A
  C A R I B R A D S
    R I B O A D D
      B O A T S
    I R A T E L K
  B R A S S L A I N
    A S H   K I N
      S       N

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from _George P. Taggart_,
Jerry Helsey, Florence Kahn, Hattie Kahn, Frank H. Powell, A. E.
Cressingham, Charles C. Jacobus, Georgie Wardell, "_I. Scycle_,"
Josephine Hopgood, Florence Chambers, Eloise, "Fuss and Feathers," Emily
Nelson, John P. Talbot, Eunice Dean, Frank Ellis, Fay Latimer, Bessie,
C. A. G., Louis Meyers, Emil Shultz, and Irene Prescott.

       *       *       *       *       *

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




[Illustration]




SOLUTION OF ASTRONOMICAL ACROSTIC PUZZLE.

(PUBLISHED ON PAGE 476 OF No. 134.)

PROLOGUE.

[Illustration: S]

  tars in th_e_ he_a_v_e_ns bri_g_htly sh_i_ne;
  t_a__r_s in _t_he t_h__e_at_r__e_ shout a_n_d str_i_d_e_;
  tars o_n_ o_u_r fl_a_gs alo_n_g _t_he _l__i_ne
  erv_e_d to _a_rou_s_e the _s_ol_d_iers' _p_r_i_de.

FIRST VERSE.

[Illustration: T]

  wi_n_klet_u_m Shi_n_e w_a_s a litt_l_e st_a__r_
  u_c_k_e_d in a f_a__r_-awa_y_ nook in t_h_e _s_ky;
  akin_g_ a loo_k_ at th_e_ world fro_m_ _a_fa_r_,
  hinki_n_g his _s_tation exc_e__e_dingly high.

SECOND VERSE.

[Illustration: A]

  _m__b_ition to _r_ise is _u_nknown in a st_a_r,
  nd Twinkletum fel_t_ _t_hat he w_a_nted to fa_l_l,
  -sh_o_oting h_e_ w_e_nt without asking his "_m_a_r_,"
  nd he shot d_o_wn h_e_ad first '_g_ainst a h_i_gh g_a__r_den wa_l__l_.

THIRD VERSE.

[Illustration: R]

  ec_a__l_l_e__d_ by a vi_e_w of com_p_an_i_on_s_ on high,
  eco_l__l_ection_s_ of hom_e_ c_a_me to Twink_l_etum _S_hine;
  e_m_o_r_se gn_a_we_d_ h_i_s _b__r_ea_s_t as he clung to _t_he _v_ine
  unn_i_ng _o_ve_r_ th_e_ _s_tone w_a__l__l_ 'way up t_o_ward th_e_ _s_ky.

FOURTH VERSE.

[Illustration: S]

  till no_t_ hig_h_ e_n_ough to reach his dea_r_ home,
  o t_h_e nau_g_h_t_y sta_r_, s_o_r_r_owi_n_g, fad_e_d a_n_d d_i_ed.
  ma_l_l _s_tars in the future s_h_ould no_t_ try to roam;
  u_s_pen_d_ed above, th_e__y_ s_h_ould be _s_atisfied.

The letters replacing stars are italics, and they will be found to make
the following names:

PROLOGUE.--First line, _e_ _a_ _e_ _r_ _g_ _i_; this, transposed, will
give the word Egeria, a primary planet. Second line, _a_ _r_ _t_ _h_ _e_
_r_ _e_ _n_ _i_ _e_ makes Irene and Earth, two planets. Third line, _n_
_u_ _a_ _o_ _n_ _t_ _l_ _i_, Lunation, applied to a movement of the
moon. Fourth line, _e_ _a_ _s_ _s_ _d_ _p_ _i_, Apsides, also relating
to movements of the moon.

FIRST VERSE.--First line, _n_ _u_ _n_ _a_ _l_ _a_ _r_ gives Annular,
when the sun is totally obscured except a bright ring around a dark body
in the centre (Mattison's _Primary Astronomy_, p. 118). Second, third,
and fourth lines, _c_ _e_ _a_ _r_ _y_ _h_ _e_ _s_ _g_ _k_ _e_ _m_ _a_
_r_ _n_ _s_ _c_ _e_ _e_, Ceres, Hygea, and Mars, planets; and Encke, an
astronomer who discovered an apparently oval comet (Mattison, p. 143).

SECOND VERSE.--First line, _m_ _b_ _r_ _u_ _a_ gives Umbra, a part of
the moon. Second line, _t_ _t_ _a_ _o_ _l_, Total, one form of eclipse.
Third and fourth lines, _o_ _e_ _e_ _m_ _r_ _o_ _e_ _g_ _i_ _a_ _r_ _l_
_l_, Galileo, who invented the telescope, and Roemer, a distinguished
foreign astronomer.

THIRD VERSE.--First line, _a_ _l_ _e_ _d_ _e_ _p_ _i_ _s_, Pleiades, a
cluster of stars. Second line, _l_ _l_ _s_ _e_ _a_ _l_ _s_, Lassell, who
discovered a satellite of Neptune (Mattison, p. 130). Third and fourth
lines, _m_ _r_ _a_ _d_ _i_ _b_ _r_ _s_ _t_ _v_ _i_ _o_ _r_ _e_ _s_ _a_
_l_ _l_ _o_ _e_ _s_, Variable, a term applied to stars which move in
unexpected directions; Lord Ross, a titled astronomer; and Metis, a
planet.

FOURTH VERSE.--First line, _t_ _h_ _n_ _o_ _r_, Thorn, Prussia, the
birth-place of Copernicus (Mattison, p. 10). Second and third lines, _h_
_g_ _t_ _r_ _o_ _r_ _n_ _e_ _n_ _i_ _l_ _s_ _h_ _t_, Northern Lights.
Fourth line, _s_ _d_ _e_ _y_ _h_ _a_, Hyades, a cluster of stars.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER SEQUENCES.

BY G. B. BARTLETT.

This little game consists in preparing a sentence or story in which the
letters of the alphabet are used in regular order.

When several persons are engaged upon it at the same time, the game may
be played in two ways. A certain amount of time may be allowed, and the
one who has the most complete and connected story being the winner. It
very often happens, however, when this plan is pursued that some one
with a special talent for remembering words will win every time. It may
be better, therefore, to have all the story when completed placed in a
hat or some other receptacle. Then let them be drawn out one by one and
read, the authorship remaining unknown.

When all have been read, a ballot is taken to decide upon their merits,
and the author of the one which receives the most votes is declared the
winner of the prize.

Of course these stories are not expected to be sensible, as a great part
of the fun consists rather in their absurdity. Ex may always be used in
place of X.

SPECIMEN STORY.--A braying, careless donkey eats green hay in June's
kind, lovely month. No opening posy quaintly roared, "Spare thou us,
vain warbler!" Excuse yours, zealously.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FUN ON THE POND--LAUNCHING THE RAFT.]





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, June 20, 1882, by Various

*** 