



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

       *       *       *       *       *

VOL. III.--NO. 105. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, November 1, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration: BEN BUTTLES'S GREAT CATCH.--DRAWN BY M. J. BURNS.]

THE SURPRISING EXPERIENCE OF BEN BUTTLES.

BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.

Part First.


Every boy realizes the fascination of fishing, even if he gets nothing
but bites--mosquito bites at that. It is the anticipation of what one
_may_ catch which heightens the every charm of the sport itself.

But taking flounders from the wharf, or trout in the mill-stream, is
quite a different thing from cod or pollock fishing in thirty fathoms of
green sea. The one may sometimes be the pursuit of pleasure under
difficulties; the other is generally the pursuit of business under
danger. So at least most of you would have said had you seen "the widow
Buttles's Ben" at the time when my story begins.

He was standing upright in a fourteen-foot dory, and I may add that the
dory, generally speaking, was also standing upright, which is not so
surprising, for, in the first place, the wind was blowing half a gale;
in the second place, Ben's boat was anchored, with fifty fathom of scope
near the "Breaking Shoals," and by chart Breaking Shoals bear E.N.E.
from Covert Point, distance three and a quarter miles, with nothing
nearer than Europe to check the force of the Atlantic billows.

"No idea it was so late," muttered Ben, a little anxiously, as he began
to reel up one of the lines. "Looks baddish to wind'ard, and the sea is
getting up," he added, with a rapid glance from the cloud-bank behind
which the sun had set to the heaving ocean about him. A landsman would
have supposed that the sea had already got up. How Ben kept his balance
so easily, as the dory "ran" on the <DW72>s of the great waves, which
slipped from under its flat bottom with such startling suddenness, would
seem marvellous to any one except a person living alongshore. But Ben
Buttles was perfectly at home in his dory; for in the little sea-board
village of Covert, whose distant lights were just visible through the
gathering darkness, every man owned some kind of a boat, while every
other man was "Cap'n" or "Skipper." Hence the most that troubled Ben was
the thought that he had been so taken up with fishing as to forget that
the sun had begun to set, the tide to ebb, and a gale to rise.

"And I promised mother to be home by dark-- _Gorry-buster!_"

This last untranslatable word was called forth by a tremendous tug at
his other line, which he had just taken up.

"Why, I must have hooked on to an anchor," gasped Ben, as he pulled and
panted. But an anchor would never have darted off like mad when it was
near the surface, taking thirty or forty fathoms of his line before he
could check it. And as Ben, who was sturdy and strong for his age, began
to haul in his line by main force a fathom at a time, he well knew what
it was he had hooked.

"I never caught one, but I know just how it's done," he said, setting
his teeth firmly together, as the great fish, now nearly alongside,
began to show signs of being exhausted by its struggles.

Holding his shortened line firmly in his left hand, Ben picked up his
"gaff"--a short pole, to one end of which a stout hook is affixed. As
the dory sank into a great chasm of water, he threw his weight on one
side, pressing the gunwale level with the water, so that it almost
touched the side of his finny prey. One dexterous movement of both hands
and knees, and the halibut--for this was the kind of fish he had
secured--was fairly "scooped" into the dory, where it was quickly
stunned by a blow on the head.

Ben was exultant, but there was little time in which to pat himself on
the shoulder. The gale had been growing and the gloom increasing while
he was absorbed in his exciting sport. The dory was tugging at her
"killock" like a mad thing, as though realizing the necessity for making
an immediate change of base.

He lost no time in getting his anchor, with which he also got a thorough
drenching, and began to pull vigorously toward Covert Light, which was
streaming out through the storm and gloom. But, alas! hardly had he
taken a dozen strokes when his starboard oar snapped off close to the
blade, where he had spliced it the day before.

To think was to act with the widow's Ben. Backing water with the other
oar to keep the dory "head on" for a moment, he drew it rapidly inboard.
Seizing the end of the bow painter, he made a clove-hitch round the
middle of the whole oar and the disabled one, lashing the two firmly
together. Then, just as the dory was on the point of swinging broadside
to the waves (in which case she would have capsized in a twinkling), he
threw the whole arrangement over the weather bow.

The resistance of this temporary drag in the water brought the dory head
on to the terrible sea, but Ben saw at a glance that she did not ride
easy.

"Too much dead weight amidships," he said. And with a sigh he launched
the big halibut over the rail, following it with the twenty or more
large cod and pollock that he had also taken. This had the desired
effect, and now the buoyant craft began to ride the great rollers,
scarcely taking any water on board, except the spray blown from the wave
crests by the force of the wind, which was now coming in heavy gusts
from the northwest.

As Ben sat huddled in the dory's stern, his thoughts were not
particularly cheerful. Not that he was utterly cast down, or had given
up all hope of being saved--oh no, Ben Buttles was more than ordinarily
courageous, or, as his mother used to say, "He was dretful ventur'some."

But he knew the chances were against him. He had forgotten it, but it
suddenly occurred to him that it was the 18th of October, and this
storm, therefore, was undoubtedly the "line gale." He was drifting
seaward before it on the ebb tide, about three knots an hour. Even if
the dory lived through the night, the prospect of being picked up next
day in such a gale was _very_ small. If anything happened to him, the
two-hundred-dollar mortgage on the little brown house would never be
paid, interest or principal.

"And mother would have to go," thought Ben, swallowing violently at a
hard lump in his throat. For Mr. Travis, who held the mortgage, wanted
to get their little house into his possession, and tear it down, that he
might build a summer hotel on its site. Mrs. Buttles would have no one
but God to look to if Benjie should be taken away. Husband and three
sons were all sleeping under the billows. No wonder, then, that while
her storm-tossed boy, recalling these things, was praying in his heart,
"Lord, comfort and care for mother," she, kneeling by the bed-side at
home, was crying out in agony, "Lord, save my boy."

Blacker grew the night, wilder the billows, and louder the voice of the
storm. No boat that was ever built could live much longer in such a sea.
The wave crests were constantly breaking over the dory's gunwale,
forcing Ben to bail continually.

"She can't stand this much longer," said Ben, despairingly, as the dory
rose on an awful sea, and he felt for a moment the full force of the
gale. But what was the ghostly red glare which suddenly shone into Ben's
white face through the gloom? What but the side-light of the brig
_Calypso_, hove to on the starboard tack! And as a wild cry rose to the
boy's lips, the dory was swept with terrible force against the black
hull of the vessel itself, shattering the frail craft as though it had
been made of egg-shell china.

Clutching frantically at the brig's smooth slippery sides as he was
swept past, Ben's fingers grasped one of the iron chain-plates of the
main-channel, as the brig sank in the trough of the sea. Seizing its
fellow with his other hand, he clung to it with a death-grasp. As the
brig began slowly to rise on the great <DW72> of black water towering
above her, Ben summoned all his remaining strength. Half scrambling,
half climbing, he pulled himself up on the weather-rail; from thence he
was thrown inboard by a lurch of the brig, at the very feet of Captain
Bob Adams. Captain Bob, who had been reared in the navy, was not only a
cool man, but also a thorough disciplinarian. Ben's appearance was so
sudden, and unexpected that Captain Adams took him for one of his own
crew who had violated the rules of sea etiquette in coming aft on the
weather-quarter, which is sacred to ship's officers alone. And as the
boy scrambled to his feet, Captain Bob's energetic words surprised him
even more than the fact of his own strange deliverance.

"But I couldn't help it, sir," shouted the bewildered Ben (for between
the roar of wind and sea, one could hardly hear himself think), wiping
the spray from his eyes; "I was laying to in my dory by a drag, and she
drifted foul of the brig."

"Oh," replied Captain Bob, who was never known to express surprise at
anything, "_that_ was it, eh? Well, go below, and the steward will give
you some hot coffee. Go to loo'ard, too," he roared, as Ben proceeded to
obey.

The steward, who was a <DW52> gentleman, grumbled at the order, but of
course dared not refuse. And after Ben had swallowed a pint or so of the
invigorating fluid, and got into a dry shirt and trousers furnished by
the second mate, he began to feel perfectly at home. He found that the
brig was from Bangor, Maine, bound to Savannah, in ballast.

"And likely enough it will moderate by to-morrow, so I can put you on
board some in-bound fisherman," said Captain Bob, who, despite his gruff
voice, was one of the kindest-hearted men in the world. But the mercury
kept falling in the barometer, and the wind, suddenly veering round into
the northeast, blew harder than ever before morning, and by daybreak
there was nothing left but to "scud" before the heaviest gale that had
visited our coast for years. Under a fore storm-stay-sail, close-reefed
foretopsail and main stay-sail, the _Calypso_ sped over and through the
storm-tossed sea at a rate which made Ben hold his breath.

"You'll, have to make the voyage with us, youngster, whether or no,"
said the Captain, grimly, and Ben only nodded.

If his mother could have known of his safety, he would rather have
enjoyed the novelty of the situation, for Ben was a born sailor. But
there was no help for it, and he accepted the situation with the best
possible grace. It is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the
equinoctial gale blew them clear by stormy Cape Hatteras before it was
fairly exhausted. Then came the strong but steady breathings of the
trade-wind to fill the _Calypso_'s every sail. And ten days later, as
Mrs. Buttles was dropping hot tears on some rusty bits of crape with
which she was trimming her Sunday bonnet, she was nearly thrown into
convulsions of joy by the receipt of a telegram reading thus:

  "SAVANNAH, _October_ 28, 187-.

     "Picked up by brig CALYPSO. Will write soon.

  "BENJAMIN J. BUTTLES."

"For this an' all other mercies, thank the Lord!" reverently exclaimed
the good woman, wiping her glasses. "But I _do_ hope," she added, a
moment later, "that Ben won't go to gettin' into no scrapes down to
Savannah, for he's sech a _dretful_ ventur'some creeter." Whether he
did, and if so, how he did it, remains to be told in the next number.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




THE HOME OF THE REINDEER.

BY JOHN HABBERTON.


Fully a million American boys have read one or more of Paul Du Chaillu's
stories of African travel, and then, like Oliver Twist, demanded more;
for the first civilized discoverer of the gorilla seemed to have a
peculiar faculty for writing about just those things that boys enjoy.
The wishes of these youthful readers are about to be gratified, and in
very generous measure, for the author is soon to publish a book of
nearly a thousand pages about a country almost as distant and little
known by Americans as Equatorial Africa. The title of the work is _The
Land of the Midnight Sun_, and from the numerous pictures it contains we
have selected the two illustrations given on the next page.

The people of this wonderful land, which consists of Norway, Sweden,
Lapland, and Finland, have comfortable homes, wear good clothes, and
always have enough to eat; but between the climate, the shape of the
land, and the fact that they see but little of either travellers or
tramps, they have many customs that are unusual enough to seem sometimes
funny, and always curious.

[Illustration: A CHRISTMAS SCENE IN SCANDINAVIA.]

The boys of Scandinavia have very good times; there is excellent fishing
nearly everywhere, and water suitable for boating is not far distant
from any home. In some parts of the country the water is frozen during
nine months of the year, but in part of this time the skating is good,
without any danger of the ice breaking; and when the snow hides the ice,
it covers the hills--and such hills! High, steep, and well covered with
snow, a hill in Norway or Sweden is the place of all places for
coasting, for even on the roads there is very little danger of meeting a
wagon while rounding a curve, or of dashing unexpectedly across a
railroad track just as a locomotive comes thundering along. Besides, the
favorite method of coasting over there is about ten times as exciting as
that which is enjoyed here, for the boys descend hills on show-shoes.
These shoes resemble the American snow-shoe about as closely as a
miniature yacht resembles a chip with a splinter mast and paper sail.
They are narrow instead of broad, so a person wearing them does not look
awkward, or tire easily, and they are just about as long as their owners
are tall. In using them the wearer slides his feet instead of lifting
them, and if he wants to hurry, he pushes himself along with a couple of
sticks, the lower ends of which are wrapped or shod so that they push
against the surface of the snow instead of sinking into it. To descend a
hill, the wearer places his feet close together, the shoes being exactly
parallel, squats as low as possible, and lets himself go. If the hill is
long and steep, he reaches the bottom about as rapidly as a bird could.
This style of coasting seems so ridiculously easy that boys sometimes
try it slyly rather than wait until their fathers can get time to teach
them, and the usual results are a scratched face, and a general bruising
all over. The least variation of either shoe from a position parallel to
the other shoe is sufficient to cause all of these discomforts, and
sometimes more, for occasionally when a boy leans forward a little too
much in going over a snow-covered stone or other "bumper," he starts for
a somersault which is only prevented by the toes of the shoes burying
themselves in the snow, and suspending the boy by the feet with his face
downward.

American boys who do not like to go to bed would in Northern Norway or
Sweden imagine they had a capital excuse for sitting up, for no boy of
spirit can endure to retire by daylight, and in a part of the far
Northern summer daylight does not end at all during the twenty-four
hours, and even during the month preceding and following this strange
period there is only an hour or two of darkness. For a day or two the
sun may be seen at midnight, and during several months the only way of
discovering bed-time is to look at the clock. This wealth of daylight
has some disadvantages; for while it lasts, the mosquitoes never sleep
at all, but attend strictly to business, and when they alight upon a
toothsome boy, their conduct is gluttonous to a disgraceful degree. It
is an unsettled question, however, whether the boys do not object even
more to retiring during the winter nights, which are as long as the
summer days. In midwinter, day dawns at eleven o'clock, and night
follows within two hours; but the moon and stars shine brighter than
they ever do here, and American boys would consider it sinful to waste
such splendid opportunities for skating or sleighing.

The operation of dressing in cold weather in the far North is so
elaborate that it is difficult to understand how a deliberate boy or
girl in Lapland can be ready for breakfast before dinner-time. First,
two suits of thick woollen under-clothing are put on, and over these
goes a shirt of reindeer-skin, with cloth bands to fasten at the wrists;
sometimes two of these shirts, or kaptas, are worn, and a reindeer-skin
vest beneath them. The trousers are of reindeer-skin also. Two pairs of
heavy woollen stockings are worn, and the child who puts these on when
they are damp is sure to have trouble with his feet. Around the feet a
peculiar grass, well dried, is carefully wound, and over all this goes
the shoe. Buttons and hooks and eyes are scarce in Lapland; all clothing
is fastened by strings, and it is dreadful to think of all the "hard
knots" that Lapp children have fumbled over while too sleepy to be
amiable.

[Illustration: REINDEER AND PACK, WITH LAPP DRIVER.]

One special distinction is enjoyed by the Lapp boy and girl over all
other children in the world: each is sure of owning a reindeer if the
family live in the reindeer region. When a child is born, a deer is set
apart for him at once, and by the time the pride of the family is old
enough to drive, his animal will have been trained for him. How much
time and trouble this training has cost, the boy never can realize until
he becomes a man, and breaks deer to harness himself. It would seem to
any sensible person that as the harness consists only of a collar, a
thong (or trace), and a single rein, the animal might easily become
accustomed to them, particularly as the sleigh has neither pole nor
shafts; but the deer does not regard the subject in the same light. He
forgets whatever he learns, just as if he were a lazy school-boy. Even
after two years of education he seldom can be depended upon to do the
right thing at the right time.

It would never do to tell a Laplander the story of Santa Claus's famous
team of reindeer, for as one of the species is all that a skillful
driver can manage, how could any old fellow manage so many? The only
point of resemblance between a reindeer sleigh and other sleighs is that
they are all made to run on the snow, for the Lapp sleigh is really a
boat, short, narrow, and graceful, and it rests on a broad keel instead
of two runners. It closely resembles in appearance and size one-half of
a canoe. It holds but one person, who must divide his attention between
driving the deer and acting as ballast. The driving is the easiest part
of the work, because when the animal is fairly started, he goes straight
ahead, and there are no street corners in Lapland. There are curves,
however, and as a spirited deer will travel fifteen miles an hour, and
can not be coaxed to slacken his speed, it is about twice as hard to
keep the sleigh on a level keel in rounding a well-beaten curve of the
road as to avoid capsizing while "jibing" a small boat in a brisk
breeze. The reindeer makes no trouble in the stable, for he never enters
one. He prefers to find his own food, which consists almost entirely of
moss. This may be under the snow, but he knows how to dig his way down
to it; and if the snow is deep, the only way of finding a deer that is
wanted is to go from hole to hole. As the moss grows very slowly,
moving-days are frequent in Lapp families, for the people must go
wherever the deer can find food.

To juvenile collectors of antiquities and curiosities, Scandinavia is
the rarest land in the world. Not only are there many arrow-heads,
something like those once used by the American Indians, but the swords,
shields, spears, and armor of the earlier inhabitants are often found.
But the list does not end with these: Wisby, a Swedish city, was many
hundred years ago the centre of trade in Northern Europe, and many
thousands of coins and jewels found there came from far-away places like
Greece, Rome, Persia, and India. Still more, the famous sea-rovers,
known as Northmen or Vikings were mostly from Norway and Sweden, and
when they went on expeditions to other countries, they were as
industrious as the Greeks and Romans, or, later, the French, English,
and Spanish explorers, in carrying home whatever was worth stealing.

But many numbers of YOUNG PEOPLE might be filled with stories of what
Mr. Du Chaillu saw, heard, and enjoyed. Every part of the country is
described: the wonderful fiords, or bays, that were hollowed from lofty
mountains by great glaciers; the castles and palaces that were built
when Sweden was so rich and powerful that all Europe feared her; the
feasts that last for days, and the Christmas fun that is kept up for a
fortnight--are all described in the entertaining manner which has made
the author so well known among boys. Instead of hurrying from one point
to another, Mr. Du Chaillu travelled leisurely, and thus he saw and
heard a great deal that will be new even to people who have visited
Scandinavia, and imagine that they know all about it.




THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER V.

[1] Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 101, October 4.


But to return to Ni-ha-be and Rita, whom we left sitting with Mother
Dolores in Many Bears' lodge. It was a large round tent that they were
sitting in, upheld by strong slender poles that came together at the top
so as to leave a small opening. On the outside the covering was painted
in bright colors, with a great many rude figures of men and animals.
There was no furniture, but some buffalo and bear skins and some
blankets were spread upon the ground, and it was a very comfortable
lodge, for any weather that was likely to come in that region.

In such a bright day as that, all the light needed came through the open
door, for the "flap" was still thrown back. The two girls, therefore,
could see every change on the dark face of the great chief's Mexican
squaw.

A good many changes came, for Dolores was very busily "remembering," and
it was full five minutes before the thoughts brought to her by that
picture of the "Way-side Shrine" began to fade away, so that she was
again an Indian.

"Rita," whispered Ni-ha-be, "did it say anything to you?"

"Yes. A little. I saw something like it long ago. But I don't know what
it means."

"Rita? Ni-ha-be?"

"What is it, Dolores?"

"Go. You will be in my way. I must cook supper for the chief. He is
hungry. You must not go beyond the camp."

"What did the talking leaf say to you?" asked Ni-ha-be.

"Nothing. It is a great medicine leaf. I shall keep it. Perhaps it will
say more to Rita by-and-by. Go."

The Apaches, like other Indians, know very little about cookery. They
can roast meat and broil it, after a fashion, and they have several ways
of cooking fish. They know how to boil when they are rich enough to have
kettles, and they can make a miserable kind of corn-bread with Indian
corn, dried or parched and pounded fine.

The one strong point in the character of Dolores, so far as the good
opinion of old Many Bears went, was that she was the best cook in his
band. She had not quite forgotten some things of that kind that she had
learned before she became a squaw. Nobody else, therefore, was permitted
to cook supper for the hungry chief. It was a source of many jealousies
among his other squaws, but then he was almost always hungry, and none
of them knew how to cook as she did.

She was proud of it too, and neither Ni-ha-be nor her adopted sister
dreamed of disputing with her after she had uttered the word "supper."

They hurried out of the lodge, therefore, and Dolores was left alone.

She had no fire to kindle. That would be lighted in the open air by
other female members of the family.

There were no pots and saucepans to be washed, although the one round,
shallow, sheet-iron "fryer," such as soldiers sometimes use in camp,
which she dragged from under a buffalo-skin in the corner, would have
been none the worse for a little scrubbing.

She brought it out, and then she dropped it and sat down to take another
look at that wonderful "talking leaf."

"What made me kneel down and shut my eyes? I could remember then. It is
all gone now. It went away as soon as I got up again."

She folded the leaf carefully, and hid it in the folds of her deer-skin
dress, but she was evidently a good deal puzzled.

"Maria Santisima--yes, I do remember that. It will all come back to me
by-and-by. No! I don't want it to. It makes me afraid. I will cook
supper, and forget all about it."

A Mexican woman of the lower class, unable to read, ignorant of almost
everything but a little plain cookery, has less to forget than have most
American children of six years old. But why should it frighten her, if
the little she knew and had lost began to come back to her mind?

She did not stop to answer any such questions as that, but poured some
pounded corn, a coarse uneven meal, into a battered tin pan. To this was
added a little salt, some water was stirred in until a thick paste was
made, and then the best cook of the Apaches was ready to carry her
batter to the fire. Envious black eyes watched her while she heated her
saucepan on the coals she raked out. Then she melted a carefully
measured piece of buffalo tallow, and began to fry for her husband and
master the cakes no other of his squaws could so well prepare.

When the cakes were done brown, the same fryer and a little water would
serve to take the toughness out of some strips of dried venison before
she broiled them, and the great chief would be the best-fed man in camp,
until the hunters should return from the valley below with fresh game.

They were quite likely to do that before night, but Many Bears was a man
who never waited long for something to eat after a hard day's march.

If Dolores had been a little alarmed at the prospect of being forced to
"remember," a very different feeling had entered the mind of Rita when
she and her sister came out of the lodge.

"What shall we do, Ni-ha-be?"

"Red Wolf told me he had something to say to me. There he is now. He
beckons me to come. He does not want you."

"I am glad of it. There are trees and bushes down there beyond the
corral. I will go and be alone."

"You will tell me all the talking leaves say to you?"

"Yes, but they will talk very slowly, I'm afraid."

Even the harsher sounds of the Apache tongue had a pleasant ring in the
sweet, clear voices of the two girls, and the softer syllables, of which
there were many, rippled after each other like water in a brook. It
seemed, too, as if they said quite as much to each other by signs as by
words. That is always so among people who live a great deal
out-of-doors, or in narrow quarters, where other people can easily hear
ordinary conversation.

The one peculiar thing about the signs used by the American Indians is
that they mean so much and express it so clearly. Men of different
tribes, not able to understand a word of each other's spoken tongue,
will meet and talk together by the hour in "sign language," as
intelligently as two well-trained deaf-mutes among the whites.

Perhaps one reason more for so much "sign-talking" is that there are so
many tribes, each with a very rough tongue of its own, that is not easy
for other tribes to pick up.

Red Wolf was again beckoning to Ni-ha-be, and there was an impatient
look on his dark, self-willed face. It was time for her to make haste,
therefore, and Rita put the three magazines under the light folds of her
broad antelope-skin cape, and tripped away toward the bit of bushy grove
just beyond the "corral."

What is that?

In the language of the very "far West" it is any spot or place where
horses are gathered and kept, outside of a stable.

[Illustration: THE CORRAL.]

The great Apache nation does not own a single stable or barn, although
it does own multitudes of horses, ponies, mules, and even horned cattle.
All these, therefore, have to be "corralled," except when they are
running loose among their unfenced pastures; there are no fences in that
part of the world any more than barns.

Immediately on going into camp the long train of pack mules and ponies
had been relieved of their burdens, and they and most of the
saddle-horses had been sent off, under the care of mounted herders, to
pick their dinners for themselves in the rich green grass of the valley.

Chiefs and warriors, however, never walk if they can help it, and so, as
some one of them might wish to go here or there at any moment, several
dozens of the freshest animals were kept on the spot between the camp
and the grove, tethered by long hide lariats, and compelled to wait
their turn for something to eat.

There was a warrior on guard at the "corral," as a matter of course, but
he hardly gave a glance to the pretty adopted daughter of Many Bears as
she tripped hurriedly past him. It was his business to look out for the
horses, and not for giddy young squaws who might find "talking leaves."

Rita could not have told him, if he had asked her, why it was that her
prizes were making her heart beat so fast as she held them against it.

She was not frightened. She knew that very well. But she was glad to be
alone, without even the company of Ni-ha-be.

The bushes were very thick around the spot where she at last threw
herself upon the grass. She had never lived in any lodge where there
were doors to shut behind her, or if she had, houses and doors were
alike forgotten; but she knew that her quick ears would give her notice
of any approaching footsteps.

There they lay now before her, the three magazines, and it seemed to
Rita as if they had come on purpose to see her, and were looking at her.

No two of them were alike. They did not even belong to the same family.
She could tell that by their faces.

Slowly and half timidly she turned the first leaf; it was the cover-leaf
of the nearest.

A sharp exclamation sprang to her lips. "I have seen her! Oh, so long
ago! It is me, Rita. I wore a dress like that once. And the tall squaw
behind her, with the robe that drags on the ground, I remember her too.
How did they know she was my mother?"

Rita's face had been growing very white, and now she covered it with
both her hands, and began to cry.

The picture was one of a fine-looking lady and a little girl of it might
be seven or eight years. Not Rita and her mother, surely, for the lady
wore a coronet upon her head, and carried a sceptre in her hand, but the
little girl looked very much as Rita must have looked at her age. It was
a picture of some Spanish princess and her daughter, but like many
pictures of such people that are printed, it would have served as well
for a portrait of almost anybody else. Particularly, as it seemed to
Rita, of herself and her mother.

"He is not there. Why did they not put him in? I loved him best. Oh, he
was so good to me! He had plenty of talking leaves, too, and he taught
them to speak to me. I will look and see if he is here."

Rita was talking aloud to herself, but her own voice sounded strange to
her, with its Indian words, and ways of expression. She was listening
without knowing it for another voice, for several of them, and none of
them spoke Apache.

She turned leaf after leaf with fluttering haste in her eager search for
that other face she had spoken of.

In a moment more she paused, as the full-length picture of a man gazed
at her from the paper.

"No, not him. He is too old. My father was not old. And he was handsome,
and he was not dark at all."

She shut the book for a moment, and her face was full of puzzle and of
pain.

"I said it. I was not talking Apache then. And I understood what I was
saying."

She had indeed, when she mentioned her father, spoken pretty clearly in
English.

Was it her mother-tongue, and had it come back to her?

She turned over the leaves more eagerly than ever now, and she found in
that and the two other magazines many pictured faces of men of all ages,
but each one brought her a fresh disappointment.

"He is not here," she said, mournfully, "and it was he who taught me
to--to--to _read_--_books_."

She had found two words now that were like little windows, for through
them she could see a world of wonderful things that she had not seen
before--"read" and "books."

The three magazines were no longer "talking leaves" to her, although
they were really beginning to talk. Her head ached, and her eyes were
burning hot, as she gazed so intently at word after word of the page
which happened to be open before her. It was not printed like the rest.
Less closely, and not in such a thronging mass of little black spots of
letters. It was a piece of very simple poetry, in short lines and brief
stanzas, and Rita was staring at its title.

The letters slowly came to her one by one, bringing behind them the
first word of the title; but they seemed to Rita to be in her own brain
more than on the paper. It was a hard moment for Rita.

"He made me say them one word at a time. He was so good to me! Yes, I
can say them now. I know what they mean. Oh, so long ago! so long ago!"

There was no longer any doubt about it. Rita could read English. Not
very easily or rapidly at first, and many of the words she came to
puzzled her exceedingly. Perhaps some of them also would come back to
her after a while. Some of them had always been strangers, for the very
brightest little girls of seven or eight, even when they read well, and
have their fathers to help them, are but at the beginning of their
acquaintance with "hard words."

"I shall know what the pictures mean now. But I will not tell anybody a
word about it. Only Ni-ha-be."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




THE MAN WHO CARED FOR NOBODY.

BY LILLIE E. BARR.


  This is the song the miller sang,
    The selfish miller of Dee:
  "I care for nobody, no, not I,
    And nobody cares for me."
  He ate and drank, and worked and slept,
    Money and land had he,
  But never a poorer mortal slept
    Than the selfish miller of Dee.

  The village maids grew good and fair,
    But they grew not near his life;
  His hearth-stone only held one chair--
    He had no room for a wife.
  No woman's footstep, quick and light,
    Came down the silent stair
  To bless him every morn and night
    With kisses unaware.

  The village lads and lasses knew
    The charm of the old mill-race;
  Oh, what a happy little crew
    Oft made it their playing-place!
  But none of them climbed the miller's knee
    When the evening shades fell dim;
  He cared for nobody, no, not he,
    And nobody cared for him.

  So he lived alone, he had no kin;
    And in all the country-side
  There wasn't a mortal cared a pin
    Whether he lived or he died.
  The women gave him never a smile,
    The men had nothing to say,
  No friend e'er crossed his garden stile,
    No stranger wished him good-day.

  He lived alone, and he died alone,
    So his selfish life was sped;
  They found him cold on his cold hearth-stone--
    The miller of Dee was dead.
  And no one cared to see his face,
    No eye for him grew dim;
  He cared for nobody, no, not he,
    And nobody cared for him.

  To share our life is to double our life;
    And what if it double its care?
  Loving can lighten the hardest strife,
    Loving can make it fair.
  Better to love, though love should die,
    Than say, like the miller of Dee,
  "I care for nobody, no, not I,
    And nobody cares for me."




[Illustration: "THE TWO FAMILIES."--FROM THE PAINTING BY MICHAEL
MUNKACSY.]




BITS OF ADVICE.

BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.

ABOUT USING ODD MINUTES.


I have a friend who is a very busy woman, but she reads many good books,
knows what is going on in the world, and manages to do a great deal of
very beautiful fancy-work. One day I asked her how it happened that she
accomplished so much more than some other people could, and she said,
"Oh, I look out for the odd minutes."

I have no doubt that among my readers there are girls and boys who have
so much real work to do that they have not a great deal of leisure.
Johnny finds weeding and hoeing very tiresome, and as for wood-chopping
and the running of errands, he has his full share of both. Sophy, too,
would have good times if it were not that there is always the baby to be
taken care of, the old sheets to be turned, the parlors to be dusted, or
the messages to be carried to the minister's wife.

How both John and Sophy, and ever so many other young people, dislike
kind old ladies and gentlemen, who have a way of glaring at them through
their spectacles, and observing: "Dear, me! how you grow, to be sure!
You must be quite a help to your mother by this time." Or, worse still,
they inquire about the school and the studies, and propose some problem
or other in mental arithmetic quite different from anything in the book.
Now please don't think Aunt Marjorie is that sort of an old lady, or has
any greater liking for that sort of old gentleman than you have,
children. But listen to her advice. Suppose for the next month you keep
a definite bit of work on hand just for odd times. Let it be a volume of
history, and read it in the nows and thens when you are waiting for
father to finish a note; let it be a piece of embroidery or
crochet-work, and take it up when there is time for only a few stitches
at once. At the end of the month you will be surprised to see how much
you have gained by using these odd minutes.


HOW TO INTRODUCE PEOPLE.

"I do dislike to introduce people to each other," said Eva to me one day
last week.

"Why, pray?" I asked. "It seems to me a very simple thing."

"Well, when I have it to do, I stammer and blush, and feel so awkward, I
never know who should be mentioned first, and I wish myself out of the
room."

"I think I can make it plain to you," I said. "You invite Mabel Tompkins
to spend an afternoon with you. She has never been at your home before,
and your mother has never met her. When you enter the sitting-room, all
you have to do is to say, 'Mother, this is my friend Mabel; Mabel, my
mother.' If you wish to be more elaborate, you may say to your aunt
Lucy, 'Aunt Lucy, permit me to present Miss Mabel Tompkins; Miss
Tompkins, Mrs. Templeton.' But while you introduce Mabel to your father,
or the minister, or an elderly gentleman, naming the most distinguished
personage first, you present your brother, his chum, and your cousin
Fred to the young lady, naming her first. Fix it in your mind that among
persons of equal station the younger are introduced to the older, and
that inferiors in age, position, or influence are presented to
superiors. Be very cordial when, in your own house, you are introduced
to a guest, and offer your hand. If away from home, a bow is commonly
sufficient recognition of an introduction. Please, in performing an
introduction, speak both names with perfect distinctness."




[Illustration: "WHAT YER LAUGHIN' AT?"--FROM A PAINTING BY PHILIP B.
HAUS.]




A Story of All-Hallow-Eve.

BY AGNES REPPLIER.


I wonder how many of the children who roast chestnuts or duck for apples
on All-hallow-eve have any idea how venerable are the games they play,
or how, all the world over, young people are amusing themselves in
pretty much the same fashion? In England, girls are strewing the ashes
that are expected, though vainly, I fear, to spell the names of whoever
loves them best. In Scotland, they are slyly sowing the hemp that their
future husbands must come and gather. In Germany, they are making merry
efforts to learn their fate with the help of the looking-glass that
hangs by their bed. And many of these sports have been played for
centuries, and were old even at the time of my story.

More than eighty years ago three little English children were solemnly
arranging their mystic games for All-hallow-eve. They were alone in a
tiny cottage, nearly half a mile from any neighbor, for father and
mother had gone to the town of Ware, taking the baby with them, and
would not be back before the next night; so Rupert, Margery, and little
Nance, left to each other's company, were preparing without a shadow of
fear to amuse themselves in their own fashion. Two big lumps of lead
were ready to be melted, and then poured into water, there to assume
hundreds of quaint little shapes; the chestnuts, carefully matched and
named, were hopping gayly about on the fire-place; and half a dozen
rosy-cheeked apples floated tantalizingly in a tub of water, waiting for
a courageous diver.

Rupert, a strong and active boy of twelve, captured his apple at every
plunge, thrusting his curly head fairly into the tub, and never bringing
it out until his teeth were firmly fixed in its glossy sides; Margery,
who did not fancy getting wet, only nibbled at hers, and sent it bobbing
about the surface of the water; while poor little Nance would dive
boldly down, and come up gasping and choking, her blue eyes tight shut,
the water streaming from her fair hair, and looking more like a
half-drowned kitten than a little girl who had not succeeded in catching
a slippery apple.

"It's no use, Nance," said her sister; "you will never get one, if you
keep on soaking yourself all night. Let us see now who will be married
and who will die. Rupert, you go into the garden, and bring me in some
earth on a plate, while I get the ashes and water."

The boy took a dish of yellow stone-ware, and went out to dig up the
mould. It was a clear night, but blowing hard, and wild scraps of cloud
came flying before the face of the moon, while to his left he saw the
white banks of the river Lea, and could hear the rush of the waters as
they swept angrily by. How high the river looked! thought Rupert,
watching it, trowel in hand, and how loudly it sounded. He had never
seen or heard it like that before, and for a moment he stood wondering
what had caused this sudden rise. Then Margery's voice calling for the
earth made him forget all about it, and in another minute he was back in
the warm, bright kitchen, without a thought of the foaming torrent
outside.

The little girl placed side by side on the table the three dishes; one
of which held the mould, the other ashes, and the third clear water.
Then she bound a handkerchief tightly over Nance's eyes, and after
turning her around a couple of times to bewilder her, bade her go and
put her hand in one of the plates. If she touched the water, she would
be married; if her fingers wandered into the ashes, she was doomed to be
an old maid; but if she reached the earth first, then she would surely
die before the next All-hallow-eve.

Fully impressed with the solemnity of this awful rite, Nance slowly
groped her way to the table, and after a moment's indecision put her
little fat fingers softly down, when plump they went right into the
water. Margery gave a shout of pleasure, and with a sigh of profound
relief that her future was so securely settled, Nance unbound the
handkerchief and handed it over to her sister. But with her matters were
not so promising, for advancing with a great show of confidence, her
evil genius led her straight to the ashes, greatly to her own disgust
and Rupert's undisguised delight. It was his turn now; but just as his
eyes were being bandaged, little Nance called out, "Look! Margery, look!
the floor is all wet!"

With a bound the boy sprang to the door and opened it. Nothing but water
met his eyes--water as yet but a couple of inches deep, but which was
softly, steadily rising in the moonlight, while the rush of the river
sounded now as if it were close by his side. In an instant he realized
what had happened. The Lea, swollen by heavy rains, had overflowed its
banks, and the water was gaining on them fast. Already it had entered
the room where the frightened children stood, only half understanding
their great danger.

"Go up stairs," shouted Rupert to his sisters; "and if the flood rises
that high, we will climb out on the roof. Go quick!"

But Margery stood still, her brown eyes filling with tears. "Oh,
Rupert," she cried, "the poor little baby ducks and chickens! They will
all be drowned; and what ever will mother say when she comes back?"

Rupert never heeded her. The water by this time reached to their ankles,
and to close the door was impossible. Thoroughly alarmed, he drew the
little girls up the ladder-like staircase into their low attic. It would
not take long for the waves to mount that high, and their only hope of
safety lay in climbing on to the steep sloping roof. Opening the window,
he crawled cautiously out, and then helped Nance and Margery to follow
him. Side by side stood the three children, and saw the sullen waters,
white and foaming in the moonlight, surge and sway around them. Where
could they look for help? Their father gone, their neighbors ignorant
that they were alone in the house, and perhaps in the general terror
forgetting all about them. Abandoned in their great peril, with only a
boy of twelve to aid and save them!

Poor little Nance sobbed and shivered as she crept closer to her
brother's side; Margery, bewildered with fright, stood as if frozen into
stone; but Rupert, with fast-beating heart and a despairing light in his
blue eyes, watched the cruel waters as they rose, and tried to think how
best to act for his sisters' sake and for his own. He could hear in the
distance cries and shouts, and could see bonfires blazing on many
roofs--signals of the common danger. He knew that along the outskirts of
the town, and through the scattered parish of Ware, relief boats were
even now rowing from house to house to save those who lived in cottages
too low to shelter them. He called until he was exhausted, but the only
answer was the sullen roar of the Lea and the beating of the waves
around him. Already they were lapping against the attic windows.
Something must be done, and quickly, if he would save his sisters from
perishing.

"Margery," he said at last, "would you be very much afraid to stay here
alone with Nance, while I try and get some help?"

"Oh, Rupert!" shrieked the child, throwing her arms around him, "you
would surely be drowned, and so would we. What can you do in such an
awful flood?"

"I could try and swim to the manor farm," said the boy. "It is not more
than half a mile off at furthest, and there are plenty of floating
boughs and fences in the water to rest me if I tire out. Margery, I must
go, or we shall all drown together; and you know," he added, with a sob,
"I promised father that I would take care of you."

"But to leave us here alone! Oh, Rupert, I should die!"

But Rupert's mind was made up. "It must be done at once," he said, "or
it will be too late. Margery, try and be a little brave, and keep tight
hold of Nance if the waves reach you before I can come back. Please God,
I will save you yet." Then throwing off his shoes and jacket, he said
once more, "Remember to keep tight hold of Nance," and plunged into the
seething waters, in which no man could hope to live.

Margery's shriek died into silence, and clutching her little sister, she
watched the slight figure tossed on the cruel billows as the boy swam
bravely on. How long could his young strength avail against their mighty
power?

In a minute he was swept out of sight, and with an awful feeling of
loneliness, she crouched on the roof, holding Nance in her arms. Each
moment passed slowly as an hour, while the waves crept ever higher and
higher, until they washed against the children's feet as they clung
closely together. What had become of Rupert? What would become of them?
Nance's sobs were hushed from sheer exhaustion, and she only moaned and
shivered slightly when the crawling water gained on them inch by inch.
Some of her brother's courage had entered Margery's breast in this
extremity of peril, and mingling with her broken prayers for aid were
words of comfort to her little sister.

But every minute it became plainer to her that they could not keep their
hold much longer. Chilled to the heart, their stiffened arms were
gradually relaxing. The morning was beginning to break, and its dull
gray light showed her nothing but the angry waves on every side.
Familiar landmarks were all gone, and the child's lonely heart grew
despairing in the midst of so much desolation. All hope was dying fast,
when far in the distance came a dark speck, moving steadily over the
solid waters, and growing larger and clearer every moment. It was a boat
rowed by strong arms that shot forward to help them.

"Nance! Nance!" she sobbed, "they are coming! they are coming! Rupert
has sent them, after all. He has saved us, as he said he would."

Another minute, and the two cramped and wearied little figures were
lifted down from their perilous resting-place, and laid gently in the
boat, Nance hardly conscious, but Margery trembling with the question
she scarcely dared to ask.

"Where is Rupert?" she cried. "He sent you, I know; but where is he
now?"

The men, two laborers from the manor farm, looked at each other with
troubled eyes, but made no answer. Margery's pitiful glance wandered
from one down-cast face to the other, as she strove to understand what
this silence meant.

"He must have sent you to us," she said, slowly, and as if talking to
herself; "else how would you have thought to come?"

"Ay, that he did," answered one of the rowers. "He sent us truly, but he
spoke no words to tell his tale. If we had not been a parcel of
frightened fools, we would have remembered you before."

He stopped, and Margery looked at him with dazed and startled eyes. As
gently as he could he told her how, two hours before, the drowned body
of a little fair-haired boy had been swept by the torrent past the
windows of the manor farm. Every effort had been made to bring back some
spark of life, but it was too late. Struggling alone through the night
in the great waters, the child's slight strength had long since given
out, and the waves tossed their light burden hither and thither in cruel
sport. He had striven with all his might, for his sisters' sake, and he
had rescued them; for when the little dead body was recognized, all
remembered the helpless family in the cottage cut off from any
assistance, and a boat was sent out instantly for those who might still
be alive. Here they were, just in time, and Margery and her little
sister were that day restored safe and well to their mother's arms.

And long years after, when children of her own gathered around her knee,
Margery would tell them on each All-hallow-eve the story of that
dreadful night, and of their brave little uncle Rupert, who with boyish
courage had risked and lost his life to save the sisters committed to
his care.




ANECDOTES OF COUNTRY LIFE.


We once had a piping bullfinch that was given to my mother as a birthday
present. Bully was very tame, and used to fly about the room every
morning, settling now and then upon somebody's head; but he loved his
mistress much more than any one else, and was never so happy as when
perched on her shoulder, piping his little song, or pecking seeds from
her lips. He once showed his love for her in a very pretty way. She had
spent several days away from home, which made poor Bully very dull and
sad, and returning late one evening, long after children and birds had
shut their eyes for the night, went into the room, and spoke to him.
Bully woke up, and was so delighted at the sight of his mistress that he
at once began piping his tune in joyful welcome to her. The poor little
bird had a sad end. It is, I believe, a well-known fact that bullfinches
often die of grief or jealousy, but we did not know it at the time; and
when we had the large cage of birds, our pretty bright Bully was put
into it. He was so much vexed at seeing them share his mistress's
attention that he sickened and died in a few days.

One summer we noticed that regularly every morning when the dining-room
window was open, a small wasp used to fly in, generally with something
in its mouth, and settle on the writing-table. On the side of the table
nearest the window there were only sham drawers; but they had key-holes,
and into one of them the wasp always crawled, coming out again in a few
minutes, and flying away. But it was sure to come back several times,
and occupy itself very busily in the hole. In a few days a little white
wall gradually rose up in front of the opening, and at last quite closed
it, as though it had been built up with a fine cement. About the same
time several other key-holes in different parts of the house were closed
in this manner, and that so effectually, that no key could be introduced
into them. We once opened one with a sharp-pointed instrument, and found
inside some fat green caterpillars. The wasp had laid its eggs inside
the little house, and imprisoned the caterpillars to serve as food for
its young ones as soon as they were hatched. We often wondered how the
caterpillars lived so long, when there was apparently no food provided
for them. But I have since read in some book of natural history that the
wasp, when carrying them by their necks to their prison, sends them into
a kind of stupor, which, fortunately for themselves, lasts until the end
of their lives.




WINDOW GARDENING.

BY A. W. ROBERTS.


A window containing a collection of healthy and blooming plants stamps
the owner as one possessing refined tastes and a kind disposition,
together with a love for all that is beautiful in nature. Window boxes
ornamented with English or American tiles, and lined inside with zinc,
are too costly for the size of young people's pockets. Besides, there
does not begin to be as much fun in a "store" window box as is
contained in one made at home with the assistance of father or big
brother.

A well-made window box for the cultivation of plants during the winter
and summer months will last a number of years with ordinary care.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.--WINDOW BOX COMPLETE.]

Fig. 1 represents a home-made window box when completed. The box
consists of well-seasoned one-inch white pine thoroughly nailed
together. At one end of the box (A) a hole is bored to allow all surplus
water to drain off and into the pan, also shown at A. To prevent the
water and moisture contained in the soil from rotting and warping the
wood-work, several coats of hot asphalt are applied with an old
paint-brush--asphalt varnish will also answer--thus closing up all
possible leaks, and thoroughly protecting the wood-work. There is no
rule for the proportion of window boxes; the requirements of the plants
used and the widths of windows and sills govern the proportion of the
boxes. If the windows intended for boxes are very wide, braces of wood
should be fastened across the tops and bottoms of the boxes to
strengthen them, and extra feet nailed on to support them.

All boxes as well as flower-pots containing growing plants should have a
thorough "bottom drainage." This is accomplished by placing on the
bottom of the box a layer of broken earthenware or old bones broken into
small pieces. The bones answer a double purpose, that of drainage and a
supply of plant food (ammonia, etc.).

[Illustration: FIG. 2.--SPRUCE-WOOD PANEL.]

Fig. 2 is a spruce-wood panel. A square is first drawn on the outside of
the window box; this square is painted a light green, to contrast with
the brown of the spruce twigs. After the paint has dried, the guide
lines are ruled from corner to corner through the centre. Small twigs of
dried spruce-wood of a uniform thickness (about that of a lead-pencil)
are selected. If the leaves do not fall off readily, the twigs are
placed in an oven and thoroughly dried, so that they fall off at the
slightest touch. The twigs are bevelled at the ends, as shown in the
engraving. In the centre of the panel is nailed a square of wood equal
in thickness to the spruce-wood twigs. This square is painted white, and
is also ornamented with spruce twigs and the small cones of the spruce,
the intention being to produce an elevated centre to the panel. The
spruce twigs are firmly fastened with small brads. Over all two or three
coats of furniture varnish are applied to develop the rich colors of the
spruce-wood, as well as to protect it from outside moisture.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.--CONE PANEL.]

Fig. 3 is a cone panel. The outer border is composed of the burrs of the
liquid-amber tree ("alligator-wood"), with corners of pine cones. The
next line consists of a band of spruce branches with the cones attached.
The centre is a sheet of white-birch bark, with hemlock cone corners.
The ground consists of two coats of paint of a cream-white tint. The
cones are fastened on with small brads, or pins that have been shortened
to a convenient length.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.--GRAPE-VINE PANEL.]

Fig. 4 is a tasteful grape-vine panel. The canes are first softened in
boiling water or steam to make them pliable for bending into curves. The
shorter curved branches consist of short sections neatly joined to the
leading curves. The centre is composed of a frame-work of liquid-amber
wood, with grape-vine monogram or other device. The grain of the white
pine when brought out with the varnish answers for a groundwork.

[Illustration: FIG. 5.--OIL-CLOTH PANEL.]

Fig. 5 is a panel covered with marbled oil-cloth (such as is used for
covering tables and desks) of a light tint. It is first cut exactly the
size of the panel, on which it is glued, the edges being secured by
nailing on to them narrow strips of floor oil-cloth of a checkered or
vine pattern. The corner pieces and centre consist of simple and neat
patterns in oil-cloth, but rich in contrasts of colors. Brilliant
oil-colors can be used for borderings and framing in lines; intense
blacks, reds, and whites are best. Over all, a coat of varnish is
applied. In Fig. 6, the materials consist of "clinkers," or slag, from
furnaces, stoves, glass-house furnaces, and iron foundries. These are
fastened to the wood-work of the box by means of hot asphalt.

[Illustration: FIG. 6.--CLINKER PANEL.]

The corner-pieces in the illustration are composed of clinkers of a
light color. The central group consists of vitrified clinkers from an
iron foundry or glass-house. The handsomest clinkers are to be obtained
from glass-houses, as they are composed of more or less glass of
different colors.

After the groups of clinkers are firmly fastened in position, a coating
consisting of varnish, mixed with any of the chrome greens is applied to
all parts of the exposed wood-work. The clinkers look much more
brilliant when touched up here and there with gold or copper bronze.
This is accomplished by applying varnish to the clinkers, which before
it dries, touch on the bronze with a clabber of cotton or wool.

[Illustration: FIG. 7.--MOSAIC PANEL.]

Fig. 7 consists of cross sections of various kinds of woods, which are
well seasoned previous to being glued together.

Straight branches of red cedar, black walnut, red birch, etc., etc., are
selected; these are cut into uniform lengths, and tightly bound together
with strong cord or wire, after which a sufficient quantity of _very_
hot glue is poured on one end of the bundle to fill up all the spaces
and join the branches together. After the glue has become dry and hard,
the bundle is sawn into cross sections of one-half inch thickness.

These cross sections are smoothed down with emery paper and sawn into
strips, which are glued on to the window box when forming the panel. The
centre of the panel is composed of various kinds of woods, polished to
bring out the grain, after which they are inlaid, the spaces between
being filled in with glue. Over all, several coats of varnish are
applied.

A handsome panel may be made of plaster of Paris. On a sheet of wrapping
paper, exactly the size of the panel, draw the design to be worked in
plaster.

In mixing the plaster a solution of glue and water is used; the glue is
for the purpose of delaying the setting of the plaster, in order to gain
time to trim up the plaster when necessary. To the glue and water is
added the coloring material. A small quantity of plaster is mixed with
the glue water at a time, to the consistency of a thick paste. The
plaster is urged from the point of the spoon with which it is applied
with a pointed stick that has been thoroughly oiled to prevent the
plaster from adhering to it. Some practice is required to guide the
plaster so as to keep it within the outlines of the drawing. Another way
is to make a coil or cornucopia of stout, well-glazed, and thoroughly
greased writing-paper, made small at the point. A quantity of the
plaster is placed in the coil, and by gently squeezing the top of the
horn a continuous stream is forced out; this may, by moving the horn in
straight or curved lines, be made to fill in any pattern drawn. After
the plaster patterns have thoroughly dried they are glued in position in
the window box and well varnished.




[Illustration: THE PRINCE'S FIRST RIDE.]




[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]


  NORWALK, CONNECTICUT.

     When I was in Palatka, Florida, last winter, my mamma wrote a
     letter for me, which was published in YOUNG PEOPLE. I have always
     been very much pleased and interested by the children's letters,
     and have begged mamma to write again for me.

     So many have written of their little pets, I want to tell of our
     little pet robin. It fell from the nest when very small, and we
     thought it would die; but my auntie made a nest for it in a basket,
     and fed it often with meal and water, and it grew to be quite tame,
     and when big enough would eat worms, taking them down whole, until
     it could hold no more. It would fly across the room, and alight on
     my auntie's thumb, and stand quietly if she was paring fruit. We
     were all very much attached to it, and were hoping to be able to
     have it when a full-grown pet; but one day it flew over a kettle on
     the stove, and the steam scalded it, though how badly we did not
     know until it died a week later. We buried it in a little box, and
     really felt very lonely without it. I now have a pretty Maltese
     kitten, which, like several other readers of YOUNG PEOPLE, I have
     named Toby.

  BERTHA S.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MONTICELLO, ILLINOIS.

     I was visiting in Chicago this fall. I went to the Exposition, and
     at night I attended the Grand Opera, and saw the electric light. I
     went to Lincoln Park, and saw a petrified alligator lying on the
     bank of a pond, with its mouth wide open, and I kept close to mamma
     till the lady we were with said it was dead. There were two live
     alligators in the same pond, but they were small ones. I saw a live
     buffalo. There were some swans there, and I poked my parasol at
     one, and it ran at me. I saw some panthers and bears, and two
     sea-lions, which would stick their heads up out of the water, and
     bark like dogs. A gentleman was pointing at something in the water,
     and a sea-lion, being hungry, thought he was going to feed it, and
     it jumped almost out of the water. I went to visit the greenhouse,
     and there was a parrot which would talk, and a whole cage full of
     other kinds of birds. I talked to the parrot, and said, "Robin,"
     and it repeated the word after me. Not long ago I saw a letter
     signed Lena W., and as I have sent two other letters which have not
     been published, I thought it was my own name until I read the
     letter. I am ten years old.

  LENA W.

       *       *       *       *       *

  NEUCHÂTEL, SWITZERLAND.

     There is a very large museum here that was founded by Agassiz. One
     room is entirely devoted to the fauna of Neuchâtel. Among the
     animals is a beautiful flamingo, and a very huge wolf and a very
     small bear. There used to be people here who lived in houses that
     were built on piles driven into the lake.

     A few years ago Lake Neuchâtel was lowered seven feet, and many
     remains of the lake-dwellers were found. Among them was a boat,
     supposed to have been used by them. Everything that was wooden when
     found had turned black, and glistened just like tar.

     My sister and I have some Alpine flowers that we would like to
     exchange for pressed flowers from the Southern, Northern, or very
     far Western States, but not from Illinois.

     Please write before sending, and state whether you want them on
     cards or not. We do not want ours on cards.

     Pressed ferns and small autumn leaves desired, and also maiden-hair
     ferns.

  KENNETH BROWN,
  Care Messrs. Munroe & Co.,
  No. 7 Rue Scribe, Paris, France.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following two letters are in direct contrast with each other, and
are illustrations of the different experiences of exchangers.

  SENECA, KANSAS.

     I wonder if all the boys who patronize the "exchange" column have
     had the experience I have. I advertised to exchange some pictures I
     had for stamps, and received about sixty letters. I could exchange
     with only one, and to the rest I have written, and sent their
     stamps back. Those six stamps have cost me about two dollars. I
     think hereafter I will buy what stamps I want. I hope I shall not
     receive any more stamps.

     I enjoy the YOUNG PEOPLE very much. My papa is a printer, and I
     have learned to set type. We have fine times going out in the woods
     after wild plums and grapes.

  PAUL WILKINSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CENTRE, ALABAMA.

     I have been taking YOUNG PEOPLE two years. I like it very much. I
     wait for its coming eagerly every week. There are so many pleasant
     things with which it is associated. Last spring you published a
     note from me desiring to exchange. That little note has given me
     many pleasant moments--I had nearly said pleasant acquaintances. It
     brought me many letters, from every part of the country. I have
     answered all, I think. I have yet some quartz crystals, country
     postmarks in Southern States, strange rocks or petrifactions cut or
     shaped like iron screws, small cones gathered from swamp pines, to
     exchange for stalactites, ocean shells, or other curiosities.

  SCHELE DE VERE MCCONNELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BERKSHIRE, VERMONT.

     I have had a rabbit die. My sister Flora found it dead. I have a
     little kitty. It is mine and my little brother's. We have a dog
     named Rover. I have dug thirty-seven bushels of potatoes this year.
     My papa is going to pay me for digging them.

     I am eight years old. My name is

  SAMUEL SYLVESTER D., JUN., per Mamma.

       *       *       *       *       *

  FRIENDSHIP, NEW YORK.

     I am a little girl of seven. My sister and I have YOUNG PEOPLE by
     the kindness of our uncle living in Long Island City. I think Jimmy
     Brown a funny boy. I cried when Mr. Stubbs was shot. I live on a
     farm, and have a horse twenty-one years old, which I ride after the
     cows. Her name is Pet. Our mamma teaches us at home. My sister
     writes for me. I hope "Tim and Tip" will end well.

  MARY C. E.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PITTSFIELD, NEW HAMPSHIRE.

     As so many of the children write about their pets, I think I will
     write about mine. I have a gray and black kitty which came to us
     three years ago. When he appeared some one called him Tramp, which
     made me cry; so mother would not let his name be Tramp, but called
     him Puffy. Now he is a very handsome cat, and walks in and out in
     the most dignified manner. I have two snow-white kittens, and I
     love them very much.

     My brother has a dog three months old named Carlo. He is very
     playful and mischievous, and teases the kittens, until they get out
     of patience, and give him a cuff on the ear for his insolence. I
     have also a canary-bird that sings beautifully.

     Dearest of all my pets is my horse. His name is Jerry, and I
     harness him when I please, and some of the rides I take over our
     beautiful hills and around our little village would do all the
     young people good. I wish they could ride with me some bright, cool
     morning. They would return with good appetites for dinner. I am
     thirteen years old.

  ROSA M. F.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ROSEVILLE, NEW JERSEY.

     I have been spending the summer in Dutchess County, New York. I
     have a fine Maltese cat whose name is Velvet. I brought him from
     the country; he weighs ten pounds. I earned the money to pay for
     YOUNG PEOPLE by rising at half past five in the morning for seven
     weeks. I am ten years old. Last year, when in the country, I had
     eight cats.

     We have a baby boy six weeks old named Jasper. He was born on my
     sister's sixth birthday.

  EDNA B. D.

       *       *       *       *       *

  HOUSTON, TEXAS.

     We are two little sisters, eight and four years old, and have taken
     YOUNG PEOPLE ever since the first number, and enjoy it very much.
     We liked the story of "Toby Tyler" best of all. "Mildred's
     Bargain," "The Moral Pirates," and "The Daisy Cot" were splendid,
     and we look for Jimmy Brown's stories every week. Our baby sister
     says she likes "Tim and Tip" ever so much.

     We have a dear little pet rabbit, some pigeons, and two sweet
     little calves. We have a doll house and fifteen dolls. We hope our
     letter is not too long.

  LOTTIE and LILLIE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA.

     I have just returned from an excursion to Watkins Glen, Niagara,
     Montreal, Quebec, the White Mountains, and Boston.

     I want to tell you about a curiosity which I saw at Watkins, and
     which amused me very much. It was a blind bat from Havana. The cage
     was covered with a cloth on which was a label that read, "A blind
     bat from Havana."

     I lifted the curtain expecting to find a great curiosity, but
     instead of that, I brought to view a brick suspended by a wire from
     the top of the cage. It was a "brickbat," and it came from Havana,
     a neighboring town, where there are brick-yards.

  C. B. F.

       *       *       *       *       *

  HENRIETTA, NEW YORK.

     I have been wanting to write you a letter for a long time, for I
     see so many letters in the Post-office Box from little girls who
     are about the same age as myself. I am thirteen years old. I can
     play on the violin, organ, and piano. All my sisters play the organ
     also. I have four sisters, two older and two younger than myself.
     Their names are Fanny, Carrie, Martha, and Alice.

     I am learning to ride horseback. Our pony's name is Billy. I do not
     go to school, and we have had no school since June. We have an
     aquarium, and in it we have a fish, a bull-head. We have had three
     mud-turtles. The one we have now is about as large as a silver
     dollar. I like the story about Toby Tyler and "Aunt Ruth's
     Temptation" the best. I think "Tim and Tip" promises to be a very
     good one. I think Jimmy Brown's stories are very funny. I hope he
     will soon favor us with another story about his misfortunes.

  ELLA J. N.

       *       *       *       *       *

  JEFFERSON, IOWA.

     I enjoy reading the letters in the Post-office Box very much. I am
     eight years old. I have no brother nor sister, and no pets except a
     canary-bird. I go to school, and I have been promoted into the
     Intermediate Department. My teacher's name is Miss F----, and I
     like her, though she does give black marks. I haven't had any yet
     that I know of. When we went to the Centennial Exhibition we
     visited New York, and mamma, papa, and I went all over Harper's
     Building, but they didn't print HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE then. I take
     music lessons every Saturday. My lesson is in four sharps. I don't
     like sharps. My music-teacher's name is Mrs. L----, and she intends
     to teach me a little song when I shall have taken half a term.
     Mamma says that editors like short letters, so I will stop.

  NETTIE L. F.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I live at Round Mountain, Alabama. My papa has an iron furnace. It
     is such a pretty sight to see the iron running into the beds of
     sand to make pig-iron. I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE one year, and I
     like it so much that mamma says I can take it another year. I liked
     "Toby Tyler" so much, and think "Tim and Tip" is a splendid story.
     I am eight years old.

  BOLLING S.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BUFFALO, NEW YORK.

     Two of my little friends have written to this dear paper, and so I
     thought I would. I live in the city of Buffalo, and I would not
     change to any other city for anything.

     My sister will visit New York this winter, and she is going through
     the building where HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE is published; and then I
     will write another letter, and tell you how she likes it.

     I have taken this paper ever since the first number; and even papa
     and mamma like to read it.

     My brother has a piece of wood off Washington's house at Mount
     Vernon, and a piece of bomb-shell which was thrown from Fort Porter
     over to Fort Erie; and he has a piece of rope that was cut off the
     bell of an old Dutch church, New York, at the time of the
     Revolution. My grandpapa can remember when Canal Street, New York,
     was nothing but a canal.

  GERTRUDE HESTER C.

       *       *       *       *       *

SEVERAL INQUIRIES.--Harper & Brothers can not bind YOUNG PEOPLE, but
they will furnish a beautifully illuminated cover for thirty-five cents.
If by mail, thirteen cents extra. Any book-binder will put it on for you
at a trifling expense.

       *       *       *       *       *

BERTIE AND CORINNE R.--We will publish your exchange as soon as we
possibly can; but, dear children, there are ever so many whose exchanges
must go in before yours, so be patient. We agree with you both about
"Tim and Tip."

       *       *       *       *       *

G. M.--We would like to see the gray and white kitty, and we think Totty
a very pretty name indeed for her.

       *       *       *       *       *

FRANKIE D.--If you will write something kind and polite about your
sister Emma, we will be glad to print it, but we are afraid, judging
from the present letter, that you are very fond of teasing her. You
surely do not expect a young lady to be very fond of pigs.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.

I said last week that I would try to think of some other pleasant
evening entertainment for the little club which asked the Postmistress
to help them in that way. Here is the game of RHYMING. It may be played
by any number of persons. The leader begins by saying to the company,
"What do I think of which rhymes with ----?" any word of one syllable
which he or she may select. We will suppose the word to be hop. The
question will then be, "What do I think of which rhymes with hop?" The
person next will then inquire, "Is it an upper surface?" and the
questioner will reply, "It is not _top_." "Is it an undignified
movement?" the next may ask, and the answer will be, "It is not _flop_."
"Is it an implement?" somebody else may say, and the reply will be, "It
is not _mop_." And so on, until some fortunate inquirer guesses the word
which is in the leader's mind, which may be <DW2>, lop, stop, or any other
word which rhymes with hop. This game will furnish a circle of bright
young people with fun and good-humored amusement for an hour or two, and
will, besides, give them an exercise in definitions which will help to
increase their vocabulary.

       *       *       *       *       *

A PREDICAMENT.--The other evening Charlie and I were reading the life of
an eminent English artist, David Cox. At one time he gave lessons in
drawing, and as his pupils' houses were quite distant from each other,
he bought a pony to carry him from place to place. "The pony had
previously belonged to an apothecary, and was accustomed to go round
with the lad who took out medicines to the residences in the
neighborhood. Having been often employed on this business, he knew the
connection well, and did not need to be told where to stop. This
knowledge had not forsaken him when Mr. Cox became his owner, and when
the drawing-master mounted him to go to his teaching, he fancied that he
was taking out medicines still. Accordingly, often during the journey he
pulled up short at somebody's door where he had been used to deliver the
pills and lotions, and his rider had much difficulty in getting him to
proceed. On one occasion Mr. Cox was actually obliged to dismount, hitch
the bridle to a gate, and make a pretense of going up to the house,
before the pony could be persuaded to budge an inch."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Postmistress wants you to tell her which English poet it was who
wrote the history of a kind of chair. You know chairs have a history,
and a very interesting one too. In which of his works can you find the
passage referred to? What can you tell about himself, and what were the
names of three dear little friends of his who never spoke a word in
their lives?

The Postmistress will print in No. 108 the names of all who send answers
to these questions. She will also publish the best and most complete
answer which she shall receive to these three questions.

       *       *       *       *       *

K. MCD.--To become an expert in the art of illustration, severe and
thorough study is the essential thing. You must be an excellent
draughtsman, and that no one can become without practice and training.
Learn to discipline the hand and to use the eye. Study anatomy, and try
to show the varying expressions of the human face, as played upon by
passion, sorrow, delight, content, or despair. Endeavor to catch the
salient points in a situation, and make a picture which shall emphasize
and add to the effect of the descriptive narrative. Your natural talent
for sketching will be a great help to you, but nothing will make you
really successful except patient and persevering study of drawing, and
entire forgetfulness of yourself in your work.

       *       *       *       *       *

  COHASSET, MASSACHUSETTS.

     DEAR POSTMISTRESS,--Will you please tell me how to make a leaf
     album? I have heard of them, and thought I would like to make one,
     but do not know how.

     Could you tell me of some nice books? I like histories ever so
     much.

     I shall be ever so much obliged if you answer my questions in Our
     Post-office Box.

  E. LULU F.

There are several ways in which a beautiful leaf album might be made. I
once possessed one which was composed of card pictures, every one of
which represented either a single leaf or a cluster of leaves, with
descriptions printed under each picture. A person with skill in painting
could make a very lovely album by copying the leaves in their fresh or
ripened tints. But probably the best way for you will be to gather
leaves and press them carefully, and then fasten them upon your pages
either with mucilage or by cutting a little slit in the paper large
enough to hold the stem of each leaf. Write under every leaf the name of
the species, the place where it grew, and the date of gathering it. You
might also write a stanza of poetry on every page, selecting from
American or English authors as you prefer. Any blank-book of convenient
size will do for an album.

I am very glad you like history. As I do not know what books you have
already read, I can give you only the names of some which I like. _The
Life and Letters of Lord Macaulay_, by G. Otto Trevelyan, is a charming
biography, and after reading it you will not rest until you have read
Macaulay's _History of England_. Green's _Short History of the English
People_, in one volume, is a book which will charm you from the first to
the last page. I hope you read Shakspeare, especially the historical
plays. And I advise you to read, by way of informing yourself about
American history, Miss Eliza Robins's _Tales from American History_, and
Thatcher's _Tales of the American Revolution_. Lossing's _Field-Book of
the Revolution_ is delightful reading. You will say, "Please,
Postmistress, stop," and I will do so, because I might fill a column
with the names of books which an intelligent young person would enjoy
reading. One thing let me add, and that is, that a good school text-book
is always an excellent book to keep at hand for reference when you are
reading larger histories.

The careful perusal of YOUNG PEOPLE will help you to learn about
out-of-the-way episodes in history, which you might have to look over
many volumes to find.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following articles in this number are specially designed for the
C. Y. P. R. U.: "The Home of the Reindeer" (illustrated), by John
Habberton; "Bits of Advice"; and "Window Gardening," with several
illustrations.

       *       *       *       *       *

Contributions received for Young People's Cot in Holy Innocent's Ward,
St. Mary's Free Hospital for Children, 407 West Thirty-fourth Street,
New York:

Rev. John G. Smith, Chicago, $1; Amy Fownes, Alleghany, 51c.; Annie
Rothery, Matteawan, $1.25; D. W. Bishop, Jun., Lenox, 50c.; C. F.
Bishop, Lenox, 50c.; Frank L. Cisco, Staten Island, $1; May Cisco,
Staten Island, $1; Walter E. Saunders, Washington, N. J., 50c.; Grace C.
Hayes, Clinton, N. Y., 51c.; Grace and Willie Fyfield, Yocumville,
$2.50; J. Clarke Burrell, New York, $1; proceeds of a fair held by Lulie
Lawrence, Lulie H. Fox, Gertrude Birch, Adelia F. Doolittle, Jennie I.
Baxter, Josie A. Lawrence, Mamie Doolittle, and Carrie H. Lawrence, of
Linden, Montgomery Co., Md., $6.75; Gerald Morton Bliss, East
Providence, 27c.; Alma L. and Kleber A. Campbell, West Rutland, Vt., $1;
Anna and Levi Rassow, Reading, Penn., $1; Jamie and Freddie Miller,
Mamaroneck, $1; Amy Cohen, Albany, 25c.; Willie Needham, New Bedford,
Mass., 35c.; Maude and Carrie Cooke, Cheltenham, Penn., $1; Marguerite
Laquer, Mendrisio, Switzerland, $2; Dudley A. Williams, Hackensack,
50c.; Allie Bales, Philadelphia, 1c.; A Reader of YOUNG PEOPLE,
Flushing, $1; L. D. C., Chicago, $2; "Little Ada," Cincinnati, 20c.;
Hope Kishlar, Goodland, Ind., 50c.; Grace V. C., Watertown, N. Y., 25c.;
total, $28.35. Previously acknowledged, $138.61; grand total, $166.96.

  E. AUGUSTA FANSHAWE, Treasurer, 43 New St.
  _October_ 15, 1881.

       *       *       *       *       *

  GOODLAND, INDIANA.

     I ride down to the pump on Billy, and lead Charlie. Papa or George
     pumps the water. I have a tabby cat, but think my Billy horse is
     the nicest pet. I asked mamma if I could shake some money out of my
     bank for the Cot. I shook out fifty cents. I was five years old
     last April. My little playmate, Mamie Harper, is very sick. My
     aunty wrote this for me. I told her what to say.

  HOPE KISHLAR.

       *       *       *       *       *

  EAST PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND.

     My little son is very anxious to send his contribution, which he
     has earned himself, for the Young People's Cot in St. Mary's
     Hospital, New York. He has just recovered from sickness, is eight
     years of age, and his name is Gerald Morton Bliss. Wishing you
     success in your good work, I am, yours truly,

  T. A. BLISS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ALLEGHANY, PENNSYLVANIA.

     I am a little girl two years old. I live with my grandparents. My
     aunt has been telling me about the cot in St. Mary's Free Hospital,
     and I want to send my money for the poor little sick girls and boys
     who have nobody to take care of them. My grandpa and grandma give
     me money, and I put it into a pretty little shell purse I have. I
     send you all I have in my purse now, and maybe I will send you some
     more another time.

  AMY FOWNES + Her mark.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I inclose fifty cents, the contents of my bank, which I wish to
     give for the Young People's Cot. I work for mamma, gathering up
     dead leaves, which she pays me for, and I will try and save some
     more money to send to you before winter comes. I am seven years
     old, and live in Hackensack, New Jersey.

  DUDLEY A. WILLIAMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  WEST RUTLAND, VERMONT.

     Inclosed find one dollar for the Young People's Cot from Alma L.
     and Kleber A. Campbell, of West Rutland, Vermont. They were so
     interested in the account of it they saw in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
     that they have gladly been without candy to earn the dollar to
     send.

  A. C. CAMPBELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LINDEN, MARYLAND.

     We take the YOUNG PEOPLE (my two little sisters and myself), and we
     read in the Post-office Box your letter to the children, asking us
     to help endow a cot in the little folks' ward, to be called the
     Young People's Cot. We wanted to do something to help you, so we
     called our little neighbors together, and read them your letter. We
     talked it over, and concluded to have a little fair. We did not
     expect to make much, as there were so few of us; but we did the
     best we could, and held our little fair Thursday, September 15. We
     inclose the proceeds, $6.75, hoping it will help you in the good
     work. It will please us very much, if you have received this, to
     let us know through the YOUNG PEOPLE.

  LULIE LAWRENCE,
  LULIE H. FOX,
  GERTRUDE BIRCH,
  ADELIA F. DOOLITTLE,
  JENNIE I. BAXTER,
  JOSIE A. LAWRENCE,
  MAMIE DOOLITTLE,
  CARRIE H. LAWRENCE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  NEW BEDFORD, MASSACHUSETTS.

     I have been saving my pennies till I have twenty-five cents, which
     I send to Young People's Cot. My mother has given me ten cents,
     making in all thirty-five cents, for which amount you will find
     stamps inclosed. I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE nearly a year, and like
     it very much.

  WILLIE NEEDHAM (8 years).

       *       *       *       *       *

N. B.--_The History of a Mountain_, by Élisée Reclus, translated by
Bertha Ness and John Lillie, and profusely illustrated with fine
engravings, will be sent to the boy or girl who shall send the best
puzzle to Our Post-office Box between November 1 and December 7. This
book is one which will be an addition to any library, and we hope our
puzzlers will try to earn it. Obsolete words must not be used in the
puzzles submitted for the prize.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Alfred C. Gondie,
"Dolly Varden," J. Knight Durham, E. E. Steele, George Sylvester, <DW29>
Elcton, Thecla Clark, Jenny C. Ridgway, Susie M. Farrell, Maggie A.
Farrell, Alice M. Southworth, "Queen Bess," W. W. S. Hoffman, Willie
Volckhausen, Emma Roehm, G. E. H., J. Marks, Jemima Beeston, Leo Marks,
Alice and Katharine, "Lodestar," "Blizzard," Eddie S. Hequembourg, Frank
S. Davis, Joseph C. Welch, "Dandy," _Henry Elliott Johnston_.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

EASY HALF-SQUARE AND DIAMOND.

1.--1. A guide. 2. A boy's name. 3. A gum. 4. Above. 5. A letter.

2.--1. A letter. 2. A nickname. 3. To prevent. 4. A mound of earth. 5. A
letter.

  CAPTAIN HAL.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.

DIAMOND--(_To Lodestar, with regards_).

1. A letter. 2. Dull. 3. Begot. 4. Forms with lines of differing colors.
5. Appropriate to a siren. 6. Mealy. 7. Painting. 8. To delude. 9. A
river. 10. To drag. 11. A letter.

  AEROLITE.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.

ENIGMA.

  In virtue, not in beauty.
  In play, but not in duty.
  In glory, not in fame.
  In hero, not in name.
  In action, not in deed.
  In flower, not in weed.
  In flame, not in fire.
  In harp, not in lyre.
  By whole is the home celestial
    Of the brave in battle slain,
  Where all is peace and triumph,
    And never is sorrow or pain.

  NITA.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.

EASY NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

  I am composed of 21 letters, and am the title of a poem by Bret Harte.
  My 7, 19, 4 does not mean to sail.
  My 15, 20, 6, 14, 3 will always prevail.
  My 11, 10, 12 obscures the sight.
  My 9, 6, 8 is an orb of light.
  My 1, 2, 16 is caused by pleasure.
  My 7, 13, 17, 14 is a time of leisure.
  My 5, 6, 18 is the nickname of a boy.
  My 9, 2, 4, 21 sometimes expresses joy.

  HARRY THORNE.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 5.

DIAMOND.

1. A letter. 2. An abbreviation. 3. Has beginning. 4. Destroys. 5. A
bicarbonate of potash. 6. Decides. 7. Hangers on. 8. Obstinacy. 9.
Suitors. 10. An abbreviation. 11. A letter.

  PRINCE CHARLIE.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 102.

No. 1.

Bon, ton, son, con, don, won, yon, eon, ion, non.

No. 2.

Dandelion, Buttercup.

No. 3.

One chill day in the early spring, Mother Nature was very busy. She was
looking over her patterns, and thinking what she could procure in the
way of new dresses for her children. When she came to think of it, she
decided that the old ones were quite pretty enough. "As for Dandelion,"
she said, "nothing suits her style so well as bright yellow. Larkspur is
lovely in blue, and Lilies are queenly in white. The beautiful Rose can
wear any color except black, and the Daisy must always appear with a
gold centre and white fringe. Clover in crimson or white is equally
sweet; and as for dainty Buttercup, she could not tell who loved butter
if I dressed her in any other shade than yellow. Late in the season my
Morning-Glories--delicate, sweet darlings--will be climbing the fences
and garlanding the trellises. They may dress as they please. As for the
Dahlias, they always come to Autumn's festival in crimps and tinted
petticoats. They are stiff and stately, yet I pardon it, for they are
bright, showy creatures, and many people like them. Dearest of all, my
Chrysanthemums, in white, crimson, and yellow, will bloom after Blue
Gentian, Aster, and Golden-Rod have all faded away at the breath of the
frost."

No. 4.

Take care of the pennies, and the pounds will take care of themselves.

No. 5.

Bangor.

       *       *       *       *       *

[_For Exchanges, see third page of cover._]




BALANCING A CORK.


[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

Here is a curious experiment in equilibrium (Fig. 1), which is easily
done. Two forks are stuck into a cork, and the cork is placed on the
brim of the neck of a bottle. The forks and the cork form a whole, of
which the centre of gravity is fixed over the point of support. We can
bend the bottle--empty it even, if it contains fluid--without the little
construction over its mouth being in the least disturbed from its
balance. The vertical line of the centre of gravity passes through the
point of support, and the forks move with the cork, which serves as
their support, thus forming a movable structure, but much more stable
than one is inclined to suppose. This curious experiment is often
performed by conjurers, who inform their audience that they will
undertake to empty the bottle without disturbing the cork.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

If a woodcock has been served for dinner, or any other bird with a long
beak, take off the head at the extreme end of the neck; then split a
cork so that you can insert into it the neck of the bird, which must be
tightly clipped to keep it in place; two forks are then, fixed into the
cork exactly as in the preceding example, and into the bottom of the
cork a pin is inserted. This little contrivance is next placed on a
piece of money, which has been put on the opening of the neck of the
bottle, and when it is fairly balanced we make it spin round by pushing
one of the forks as rapidly as we please, but as much as possible
without any jerk. We then see the two forks, and the cork surmounted by
the woodcock's head, turning on the slender pivot of a pin (Fig. 2).
Nothing can be more comical than to witness the long beak of the bird
turning round and round, successively facing all the company assembled
round the table, sometimes with a little oscillation, which gives it an
almost life-like appearance.




HUNTING (CITY IN NEW YORK).

BY C. E. M.


My friend (mountain in Massachusetts) and I, accompanied by a (islands
in the Pacific) (river in New York) (Territory in the United States) as
guide, started from the little (river in Germany), where we had been
spending our two weeks' vacation together, in search of (city in New
York); for as (mountain in Massachusetts) said, it would never do to
return to the (cape in Asia) without some trophy of our skill and
prowess.

Having donned our (river in Scotland) hunting suits, we launched the
canoe, and were soon gliding swiftly down the river, through whose (lake
in British America) one could distinctly see the (cape in Australia)
bottom.

We succeeded in shooting the (city in Michigan) without mishap, though
our frail craft bobbed about like a (city in Ireland); and having
reached our landing-place, we scrambled up the (town in New Jersey), and
came upon what seemed to be the ruins of some old (island in Rhode
Island) house.

This we passed, and the hunting ground being now close at hand, we sent
the guide forward to reconnoitre, while we patiently awaited his
re-appearance.

We had not (island in New York) to wait, for the (Territory in the
United States) quickly and noiselessly hastened back to us, and, without
speaking, pointed eagerly toward the (cape in Asia), where we could
distinctly make out a small group of (river in New York) objects,
apparently motionless.

"We are in (city in India)," whispered my friend.

And as the animals seemed to be unconscious of our presence, we crept
cautiously through the long grass until we were near enough to get a
(island off the coast of Scotland) aim.

I singled out a fine bull, and fired.

With a loud bellow of (cape in Scotland) and (town in Ohio), the animal
turned to (river in New Guinea); but quickly reloading, I aimed again,
and this second (strait in Australia) was more successful, for, with a
bound like a (bay in Australia), he fell dead, while the rest of the
herd galloped away in (cape in North Carolina). Our guide uttered a
(island off the coast of Scotland) of delight; and as he was provided
with (river in Georgia) and tinder, we were soon feasting luxuriously on
(city in France) tender (city in New York) steaks. Leaving the larger
share of our prize as a feast for the (bay in Massachusetts), we started
for home, after fruitless attempts to detach a (cape in South America)
from the animal's head.




SOLUTION OF LABYRINTH PUZZLE IN No. 102.


Enter at the gate, pass to the third space, turn to the left, then make
first turn to the right. Turn upward, then to the right, thence
downward, thence across to the left until _forced_ to turn upward. Then
to the right, then downward. Then to the right almost across the puzzle,
upward, to left, and the remainder of the course is easy.




SAD, BUT JUST.

BY MARGARET EYTINGE.


  A monkey and a porcupine
    Went out to walk one night--
  'Twas in September, and the moon
    And stars were shining bright--
  When, in a garden near the road,
    They spied a splendid tree,
  As full of peaches, round and red,
    As ever it could be.

  The topmost branch that monkey reached
    In one astounding bound,
  And soon the ripest peaches there
    Were strewn upon the ground;
  And '<DW41> them rolled the porcupine
    With porcupiney skill,
  And when he left that spot he bore
    A peach upon each quill.

[Illustration]

  And how they laughed, the monkey and
    His very sharp young chum,
  When, safe at home, they ate them all!
    But soon they looked quite glum;
  And ere the night had passed they vowed
    They'd never steal again;
  For "Oh!" they groaned, and "Oh!" they moaned,
    "We've got a peachy pain."

[Illustration]





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, November 1, 1881, by Various

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