



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

       *       *       *       *       *

VOL. II.--NO. 102. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, October 11, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ISAAC NEWTON AT THE AGE OF TWELVE.]

NEWTON'S CHILDHOOD.


Sir Isaac Newton is the greatest of modern philosophers and mechanics.
When he was born, December 25, 1642, three months after his father's
death, he was so small and feeble that no one supposed he would live a
day; but the weak infant grew to be a healthy, robust man, who lived
until he was eighty-four years old. He began to invent or contrive
machines and to show his taste for mechanics in early childhood. He
inherited some property from his father, and his mother, who had married
a second time, sent him to the best schools, and to the University of
Cambridge. At school he soon showed his natural taste; he amused himself
with little saws, hatchets, hammers, and different tools, and when his
companions were at play spent his time in making machines and toys. He
made a wooden clock when he was twelve years old, and the model of a
windmill, and in his mill he put a mouse, which he called his miller,
and which turned the wheels by running around its cage. He made a
water-clock four feet high, and a cart with four wheels, not unlike a
velocipede, in which he could drive himself by turning a windlass.

His love of mechanics often interrupted his studies at school, and he
was sometimes making clocks and carriages when he ought to have been
construing Latin and Greek. But his mind was so active that he easily
caught up again with his fellow-scholars, and was always fond of every
kind of knowledge. He taught the school-boys how to make paper kites; he
made paper lanterns by which to go to school in the dark winter
mornings; and sometimes at night he would alarm the whole country round
by raising his kites in the air with a paper lantern attached to the
tail; they would shine like meteors in the distance, and the country
people, at that time very ignorant, would fancy them omens of evil, and
celestial lights.

He was never idle for a moment. He learned to draw and sketch; he made
little tables and sideboards for the children to play with; he watched
the motions of the sun by means of pegs he had fixed in the wall of the
house where he lived, and marked every hour.

At last, when he was about sixteen, his mother placed him in charge of a
farm, and every Saturday he went with a servant to Grantham market to
sell his corn and vegetables. But the affairs of the farm did not
prosper; the young philosopher hid himself away in a room in a garret
which he hired, studying mechanics and inventing a water-wheel or a new
model, while the sheep wandered away in the field, and the cattle
devoured his corn.

Next he went to Cambridge University, and became a famous scholar. At
the age of twenty-four he began his study of the spectrum, as
philosophers call that brilliant picture of the colors of the rainbow,
which is shown by the sun's rays shining through a three-sided piece of
glass, called a prism. It is one of the most beautiful objects in
science or nature, and Newton's study of its splendid colors led to his
greatest discoveries in _optics_, or the science of the sight. In our
own time the use of the prism and its spectrum has shown us of what the
sun and moon are composed.

One day, as Newton sat musing in his garden at his retired country home,
an apple fell from a tree to the ground. A great idea at once arose in
his mind, and he conceived the plan of the universe and of the law of
gravitation, as it is called. He was the first to discover that famous
law. He showed that the heavier body always attracts the lighter; that
as the apple falls to the earth, so the earth is drawn toward the sun;
that all the planets feel the law of gravitation, and that all the
universe seems to obey one will. Newton soon became the most famous of
living philosophers. But at the same time he was the most modest of men;
he never knew that he had done anything more than others, nor felt that
he was any more studious or busy. Yet he never ceased to show, even in
late old age, the same love for mechanical pursuits and the study of
nature he had shown when a boy. His most famous work, the _Principia_,
proving the law of gravitation and the motion of the planets, appeared
in 1687. He made beautiful prisms of glass and other substances, and
fine reflecting telescopes, the best that were yet known. He wrote
valuable histories and works. He was always a devout Christian and
scholar. He died in 1727, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.

Thus the puny babe that was scarcely thought worth the care of his
nurses became an active and healthy boy and man, with the clearest mind
of his time. He was stout, ruddy, healthy, and never, it is said, lost a
tooth. But he preserved his health by avoiding all that was hurtful. He
was a philosopher at twelve years old, and the world owes much of its
progress to Newton's well-spent childhood.




TIM AND TIP;

OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY AND A DOG.[1]

BY JAMES OTIS,

AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," ETC.

CHAPTER XI.

ONE COOK SPOILS THE BROTH.

[1] Begun in No. 92 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, August 2.


The question of what was to make up the dinner bill of fare appeared to
be an important one to all, and many were the suggestions made to the
cooks. Some proposed that the work of raising the tent be intrusted to
other hands, so that Bill and Tip could go out and bring in a deer or a
bear; others thought the old hen should be killed at once, and served up
as a roast; while one portion of the party seemed to think it Captain
Jimmy's duty to get his ship under way, and go after some fish for a
chowder.

But Tim and Bobby did not allow any of these remarks to trouble them;
they were the legally elected cooks, and they proposed to do the work in
their own way.

"We'll get the dinner," said Tim, with some dignity, "an' after it's
done, if you fellers don't like it, you can cook one to suit
yourselves."

But the cooks did listen to what Bill had to say, since he was one of
the high officials, and he was strongly in favor of making the first
dinner in camp a "big" one, even going so far as to propose in all
earnestness that the hen be killed.

"We might jest as well eat her," he said, as he looked murderously
toward the unhappy fowl, which was struggling to free herself from her
bonds at the risk of breaking her leg. "'Cause jest as likely as not
she'll get away, an' then we sha'n't so much as have a smell of her."

"It will take us too long to fix her up for dinner," said Tim, who was
just the least bit afraid that he was not cook enough to serve the hen
properly. "We can get enough to eat to-day without havin' so much fuss."

"I don't care how long it takes; what we want is a bang-up dinner, an' I
go in for havin' it now," said Bill, decidedly.

Bobby was on the point of throwing the weight of his opinion against the
proposed feast, when a bark of triumph was heard from Tip, and the
question was settled without further discussion. The dog, which had been
struggling to get free from the time he had been tied so near the hen,
to which he seemed to think he had a perfect right, finally succeeded in
releasing himself. There was a sudden rush on his part, a loud cackling
protest from poor Biddy, and then she was tossed in the air a dead
chicken.

Bill had presence of mind enough, fortunately for the dinner prospects,
to seize his hen before Tip made his lunch from her, and he said, as he
handed her to Tim:

"There, you see Tip knew we ought to kill her, an' so he did it for us.
Now we can have a good dinner."

Tim made no reply, and perhaps for the first time in his life he was
angry with Tip for having meddled in matters which did not concern him.
It was necessary now to cook the hen, and as he stood with her in his
hand the terrible thought came to him that he did not even know enough
to prepare her for cooking.

"Do you think we had better have her roasted or boiled?" he asked, in a
low, reckless way, of Bobby.

Now this other cook was quite as perplexed about the matter as Tim was,
and he was thoroughly well pleased that he had allowed his partner to
take the lead in other matters, so that the latter would now be obliged
to take all the responsibility of the hen's appearance at the dinner
table.

"I think we had better roast her," he said, in a careless sort of way,
as if to him one style of cooking was as easy as another.

Again was Tim disappointed. He had hoped Bobby would propose boiling
her, in which case all he would be obliged to do would be to pop her in
the kettle, letting her stay there until she was done. But since Bobby
was so cruel as to propose the hardest way of cooking the hen, roasted
it must be, or gone was his reputation as cook.

"I'll pick the feathers off," said Bill, gleefully; and Tim handed him
the fowl.

"I don't seem to see how we're goin' to get along," said Tim to Bobby.
"We ain't got any dishes to cook her in."

"We don't want any, do we?" asked his assistant, in some surprise. "I
always thought when folks that were campin' out cooked anything, they
stuck it on a stick in front of the fire an' let it sizzle."

"We can do it so now," he exclaimed; and since this suggestion had been
made, roasting chickens did not appear to be any very hard matter after
all.

He piled the wood on until he had a fire large enough to roast a pig,
cut a long sharp stick on which to spit the hen, and had hardly
completed these preparations when Bill Thompson re-appeared with the now
featherless victim of Tip's blood-thirsty nature.

Bill's work might have been done more neatly; but what did a few
feathers amount to when a dozen hungry boys were waiting to be fed? Tim
was not quite sure whether he had better cut off the head and legs or
not; but as they did not seem to be in the way, he concluded they might
as well be cooked. Neither did he think any cleaning necessary, but
plunged the stick through her, and stuck one end in the ground in front
of the fire with all the grace of an experienced cook.

The remainder of the party watched this work with hungry eagerness; and
when Tim filled the kettle with potatoes, they settled themselves down
contentedly to wait for the "bang-up" dinner, which they in a measure
owed to Tip.

The water in the pot bubbled and boiled merrily; the murdered hen began
to steam and sizzle, until every boy's mouth watered; while Tim and
Bobby bustled around in an important manner, feeling that they were
looked up to as the head men of the party, and enjoying the honor
immensely.

They piled on the wood, stirred the potatoes, as if that was the
important part of cooking that vegetable, while every few moments Tim
would smell of the hen, nearly singeing the hair from his head each
time. They were certainly good cooks, if keeping up a big fire could
make them so.

[Illustration: PREPARING THE GREAT FEAST.]

The hen did not appear to be revengeful at having been so suddenly
deprived of life, for in a short time her rather lean body began to turn
brown, and a most delicious odor arose on the air, even if she was
thickly crusted with ashes.

As Tim turned her carefully, he thought with surprise that he was a
really good cook, and blamed himself for having been so distrustful of
his own ability.

Thus matters went on, successfully but slowly, until some of the boys
showed such plain signs of impatience that Tim thought it necessary to
display more evidences of the dinner, even though the hen was far from
being roasted.

He and Bobby selected from the cooked provisions enough in the way of
pies and cake to make twice as large a party feel very uncomfortable.
They spread this feast at one side of the fire, where it would be out of
the way of the smoke, and Tim was trying to calculate how it would be
possible to cut an apple pie in eleven pieces, and have them all of
equal size, when a sound as of water thrown on fire, accompanied by a
cry of dismay from Bill Thompson, caused him to start violently.

The sight that met his startled gaze was a sad one, and it did not seem
any less so to him than it did to all the others of that hungry party.

The kettle of potatoes had been hung to the pole by a rope, which had
burned slowly, until it broke, letting the potatoes, water, and kettle
into the fire, deluging the half-roasted hen, and basting it with
cinders, until it looked like a huge ball of mud.

The steam and smoke were so dense that it was impossible to attempt any
rescue. All that could be done was to wait a few moments, and Tim spent
that time dancing around the ruins like a crazy Indian.

It was a horror-stricken party that stood around the drowned fire,
watching the cooks as they fished up first the muddy hen, and then the
potatoes, all looking very sorry for their plunge into the ashes.

"Now all you've got to do," said Bill Thompson, with the air of one who
knew, "is to put the potatoes right back, an' wash the hen. They'll cook
jest as well as ever, only it'll take a little longer, that's all."

Surely there was nothing so serious about the accident, if it could be
repaired with so little trouble, and the spirits of that party rose as
rapidly as they had fallen. The hen was given a sea bath, which took
nearly all the ashes off, and those which remained, Bill Thompson
thought, would make her taste the better. The potatoes did not need any
cleansing, so Tim thought, and were put into the pot again, looking
quite dirty, but in very nearly a cooked condition.

Another fire was built, rocks were placed in such a way around it that
the kettle could rest on them, the hen was put on another stick, and
again the chances for dinner looked promising.

The food which had been spread out on the ground looked very tempting to
the idle ones of that hungry party, and every now and then one would try
to get a piece of pie or cake, until Tim, who was determined that no one
should have anything to eat until all could be served, was almost at his
wits' end to prevent them from making a perfect raid on the larder.

Finally, worn out with running from the fire to the table every time he
saw one of the party moving innocently up that way, he told Bobby to
keep strict guard over the food, and that young gentleman wiped the
ashes and perspiration from his face with an air of relief, as he seated
himself near the largest pie, prepared to act the part of watch-dog.

Tip, who had been running about in everybody's way, and seriously
troubling his master, now came toward the fire, and sat down on his
little stubbed tail in such a suspicious manner that Tim felt reasonably
certain it was his purpose to steal the hen whenever a good opportunity
presented itself.

Such base action on Tip's part caused Tim more delay, as he tied him
securely to a tree out of reach of temptation, and by the time the tired
cook got back to his work again, a great commotion was raised by
Captain Jimmy and Bobby.

When Bill Thompson had quelled the tumult, it was learned that Captain
Jim had doubted Bobby's honesty from the first moment he had been
appointed guardian of the food, and had watched him from behind a tree.
He stated positively that he saw Bobby's eyes fixed on the apple-pie in
such a way as no officer of the company should look at a pie, unless the
time had come to eat it, and at a time when he thought no one was
looking, Jim was sure he saw him put his fingers under the crust, pull
out two slices of apple, and eat them.

Of course such a charge as this caused intense excitement, and the
majority of the party thought Bobby ought to be punished in some way as
a warning to others, and more especially to show that the officers of
the party should be above reproach, or, failing in their duty, be
punished severely.

Some of the party proposed that the culprit be condemned to go without
his dinner; others, not quite so blood-thirsty, believed he should be
deprived of his office, while there were those who believed that to
forbid him eating any pie would be punishment enough.

It is hard to say just how Bobby would have been obliged to atone for
the sin if the hand of justice had not been stayed by the dinner itself.

"You'll have to let him go this time, for he must help me," said Tim.
"We'll make him work all the harder to pay for what he's done."

Once more over the smoky fire and amid the flying ashes Bobby labored
for the good of others, working out the punishment for his sin.

The kettle of potatoes was taken from the fire, and while Bobby picked
out the pieces--for they had boiled until they were discouraged, and had
burst their skins--arranging them on two shingles, Tim took the
well-blackened remains of poor Biddy from the spit, laying them on a
short bit of board in great triumph.

Then the hungry party gathered around the place which represented the
table, and waited impatiently to be served to some of the savory roast.

Bill Thompson, with his hunting knife, proceeded to carve the fowl,
which was a work of some time, owing to its exceeding toughness.

In order to show proper respect for the office he held, Bill waited on
Captain Jimmy first, and that young gentleman did not waste much time
before he began to eat.

The roast was quite raw inside, even though it was burned outside, but
that, in Captain Jimmy's hungry condition, made very little difference.
He cut off the first mouthful and began to eat in a ravenous manner,
when suddenly he stopped, looking very queer.

"What is the matter?" asked Tim, anxiously, quick to notice the change
in the Captain's face.

"I dunno," said Jim; "but it tastes kind o' funny."

"That's 'cause you ain't used to hen," said Bill, almost savagely, not
pleased that any one should find fault with his fowl.

Just then another of the party, who had received his portion and begun
eating, laid down his knife and fork with an unmistakable air of
discomfort.

"Perhaps you don't like hen," said Bill, now growing angry that food of
his providing should be refused.

By this time several of the party had shown signs of disliking the
roast, and Bill proceeded to taste and try for himself.

He cut off a large mouthful, and began eating it with the air of one who
thinks he knows just what he is about to taste, and has made up his mind
beforehand to be pleased. But he stopped as suddenly as the others had,
and looking sternly at Tim, he asked,

"What did you put on this hen?"

"Nothin'; perhaps it tastes queer 'cause the taters tipped over on it."

"It don't taste like taters," said Bill; "it tastes a good deal worse."

Then he examined the uncarved portion of the fowl, and the mystery was
explained.

"I know what the matter is, an' I don't think you're much of a cook, Tim
Babbige. You've cooked the hen without cleanin' her, an' of course she's
spoiled."

Tim could make no reply, for as soon as Bill spoke he remembered how
chickens ought to look when ready to be roasted, and he knew he could no
longer hope to be considered a good cook.

That day the party made their dinner of boiled potatoes and pastry,
while Tip feasted on the half-roasted fowl he had so ruthlessly slain.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




THE SEA.

BY CHARLES BARNARD.


I.

[Illustration: THE SEA.]

Here is a view of the sea. In front is a splendid wave just ready to put
on its creamy cap, and to fall over with a glorious roar upon the shore.
How the spray will fly as the white water rushes up the beach with a
soft hissing sound, or dashes over those brown rocks! Behind is the
level floor of the water, and far away the sky and water meet at that
beautiful line called the horizon.

Did you ever see the ocean? Have you been to that most wonderful place
in the world, the sea-shore? If you live in the interior, and have not
seen the salt-water, save all your spare pennies, and resolve that some
day you will travel east or west, and look at least once in your
lifetime upon the great and wide sea. Perhaps you have seen it. All the
better. You know how the waves look, how the sea-birds skim over the
water, how beautiful the sky and clouds that rest on the horizon, how
sweet the air, what grand sights and sounds you may find where the land
and water meet.

If you live near the sea, take this book in your hand, and let us go
down by the water. If you live far away from the sea, look at the
picture, and at any other pictures like it you can find, and try to
remember what you read, that when some day you do see the real ocean,
you may perhaps understand it better, and learn to love it as do all
those who see it every day. First, be careful. Do not be disappointed.
Do not expect too much. You can see only a mere speck of the sea at
once. As you stand by the shore, the vast circle of water seems to be
immense, yet it is only a very little space on the wide sea. It is this
that disappoints people who see the water for the first time. They
expect too much, so that they do not really understand it.

Look at the big wave just ready to break. Where did it come from? How
long have these waves been pounding on the shore? How old is the sea?
When did it begin, and what does it all mean? If you wait here a little
while, you will observe that the waves are slowly coming nearer and
nearer, or are moving off, leaving the beach bare. Taste the water. It
is bitter and salt, like brine. These are strange things, and perhaps if
you sit here by the water for a while, we may learn something of what
they mean.

The world is like a splendid picture-book, full of stories more
wonderful than any fairy tale. The boy or girl who has eyes to see can
read this book as he walks over the great pages. The sea is one of the
best pictures in the book, its history and its work the strangest story
you ever heard. This water you see from the eastern shore of the United
States is a part of the Atlantic Ocean. If an ocean steam-ship should
sail straight away toward the horizon at a speed of three hundred miles
a day, she would be ten days in crossing to Europe. Yet this ocean is
only a long gulf between the continents. Outside of this gulf is the
real ocean, covering three-fourths of the entire surface of the earth,
or, as they measure it, about 146,000,000 square miles of water.

How old is the sea? Thousands of millions would fail to tell the number
of years that the sea has covered the earth. Before there was any dry
land, as we see it to-day, there was water everywhere. The land sprang
from the sea. These waves helped to build up the hills and rocks. The
tides helped to carve out the continents. Nearly all the surface of the
dry land was once dissolved in the sea, just as to-day we find salt
dissolved in the sea-water.

Men who have studied the sea and the land feel sure that at one time, so
long ago no one can imagine the number of years, the world was red-hot,
and all the water hung in thick clouds of steam above the melting rocks.
Showers of scalding rain fell on the glowing earth, and gathered in
ponds and lakes of boiling water. As the earth cooled, more and more
water fell from the steaming sky, and slowly the pools grew larger and
became united, until at last all the waters were gathered together in
one place. Just as now salt is dissolved in the sea-water, so many of
the elements of which the dry land is composed were dissolved in the hot
seas, or were suspended as soft mud in the swift currents that flowed
hither and thither under the cloudy skies where the sun never shone.

In time the rain ceased, and the blue sky appeared. Then more wonderful
things happened. The muddy water began to grow clear and cool. The
materials dissolved or suspended in the water fell down to the bottom
and covered the floor of the sea, and a new kind of rock began to be
made. The soft mud became hard and firm. Earthquakes tore up the beds of
hardened mud, twisted them into new shapes, and lifted them above the
water into the air. Then the dry land appeared. Rocky, rough, and wild,
without trees or grass. Much of it was the remains of the older fiery
days before there were any seas, but much also came out of the water,
and was once dissolved in it, just as salt is now dissolved. Iron,
silver, gold, limestone, chalk, and slate, with many other things that
go to make the land, were once drifting about in those old oceans, or
lay as mud upon the bottom.

Then the waves began to work, tearing and rending the rocks, knocking
off bits and pieces only to throw them about in every tide, grinding and
rolling them together in the surf, and then appeared that strange thing
under your feet--the sand. Pools and little bays were formed on that old
shore, and the sand and mud settled in quiet corners. The rain fell on
the soft mud, and every drop left its little mark where it fell. To-day
we can see this very mud turned to stone with every splashing rain-drop
printed on it. These pools and bays afterward became dry land, only to
be turned over, twisted, and bent out of shape by earthquakes, or torn
up by floating icebergs drifting on those ancient seas.

This has been the work of the sea--to create the dry land. To-day, even
while you are looking on, the sea is at work. The waves are always
tearing down and building up. The water holds countless millions of
living creatures, each in its tiny shell. Each one drinks the water, and
extracts from it the lime he uses to build his house. Millions of these
creatures die every day, and their tiny houses sink down like a white
snow-storm of shells and skeletons to the bottom of the ocean. Deep
under the Atlantic these shells cover the bottom with a soft mud called
ooze. Perhaps this ooze will in some long-distant time be lifted above
the sea to form a new dry land, just as ages ago the bones of other
creatures made vast ranges of hills along the shore.

The water is the great land builder, and these waves are the hammer with
which it grinds and pounds the rocks into sand. The tides and currents
shift the sand about, making new beaches where the birds gather to find
their food, and children come to play. Day by day, summer and winter,
the work goes on. The sea is never idle, never hurries, never stops. The
beach to-day is different from yesterday. To-morrow it will be different
still. You may not see the change, but the change goes on, and will go
on for countless years on years to come.




MAX RANDER'S WAR STORY.

BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.


It was a year ago last fall. I was only eleven then, and we were all
travelling over in Europe--father, mother, Thad, and I.

Thad's my little brother, you know, two years younger than I am.

Well, we had been to London, with its jolly cabs, and to Paris, with its
funny sewers, and were on our way back from little Switzerland, with its
big mountains, when father took it into his head to stop for a week in a
poky old town somewhere in Germany.

Here we staid at a dreadfully quiet hotel on a narrow street, which Thad
called an alley; but father liked it because it was right opposite a
house where he used to board in a professor's family when he was a boy.

We had been in this dismal place for three or four days, when one
morning mother woke up with one of her nervous spells, so instead of our
all going off for a long walk in the country, father staid home with
mother, and sent Thad and me to take a stroll through the streets near
the hotel, where there was not any danger of our getting lost.

Well, we started out and walked twice around the market-place, stood
gazing for five minutes at some dusty cakes and candy in the
confectioner's window, and spent ten minutes more in watching the German
boys play their stupid games during recess at the Gymnasium, which is
not a gymnasium at all, but a grammar school. Then when they all went
back to their books again, we were left out in the roughly paved street
with no sidewalks, nobody in it to look at, no horse-cars to ride on,
and the sun shining as brightly as if we were having a jolly good time,
and were hoping it would not rain.

"Oh, how these stones hurt my feet!" exclaimed Thad, when we had
stumbled along in an aimless sort of way for a block or so. "Let's go
out in the country." And into the country we went, keeping on in the
same street until it changed from a street into a road on which we had
never been before, with tall trees in a straight line on each side of
it, and nice green grass all along the edge.

I was pretty positive, to be sure, that father would not have approved
of our going outside the town, but what else could we do to amuse
ourselves?

"It's better than bothering mother, anyway," I finally decided; and so
we walked and ran, played tag and counted trees, until we grew tired,
when, spying a nice shady spot under the brow of a hill, I told Thad
that we had better rest there awhile before starting back again for
dinner.

"It's a valley, isn't it, Max?" observed my brother, as we stretched
ourselves out beneath a large tree. He had just begun the study of
geography, and feeling that I should never neglect any opportunity of
training his young mind in useful knowledge, I at once began to point
out all the geographical divisions within view, and was much encouraged
by the respectful attention Thad appeared to pay, until I suddenly
discovered that he was asleep.

"Poor little chap!" I muttered; "I wonder if I oughtn't to wake him up;"
and while I was trying to guess whether we had come one mile or three,
in order to reckon how long it would take us to return to town, I--well,
I must have fallen asleep too, for the blue sky, and the green grass,
and the yellow sun finally got so mixed up in my mind that I wasn't sure
of any one of them, and then all was a blank, as authors say in books
when they don't exactly know how to describe a person's feelings in an
upset or a runaway.

Well, I lay there in that sort of a hollow place in the bank, with the
tree in front of me, and Thad at my side, for an hour or two, I guess.

Of course I don't know what went on around me during that time, so I
sha'n't attempt to tell; all I know is that when I had the natural use
of my senses once more, I heard such a horrible noise right over my head
as nearly made me lose them again.

Bang, bang, bang, and boom, b-r-r-r, bang!

What on earth could it all mean? I rubbed my eyes and felt of my ears to
make sure they were in good working order, and then ventured to peek out
around the tree which I have said stood directly in front of the little
hollow in the side of the hill which I had chosen for a resting-place.

Goodness! didn't my heart beat like sixty when I saw what it was that
made the racket. Soldiers!

There they were, whole regiments of them, standing on the edge of the
field opposite, just where it sloped down to form the valley Thad had
spoken about.

He had been waked up too by this time, and when he saw the troops over
there blazing away right for the spot almost where we were crouching, he
looked pretty well scared, I can tell you.

"What are they doing, Max?" he asked, grabbing hold of my jacket, and
squeezing up closer to me.

"I guess they're fighting," I replied.

"Who are they fighting with?" But just then another bang, bang, banging
over our heads answered the question, and revealed to us the terrible
fact that we were between two fires.

I won't pretend to say that I wasn't frightened, for I was, and I'll put
it to any other fellow of eleven if he would not feel sort of trembly
about the knees to wake up from a nap and suddenly find himself between
two armies firing away at one another for dear life.

"But I didn't know there was any war here now," continued my brother,
when there was a slight pause in the hostilities, as the newspaper
writers say.

"Oh, you never can calculate on countries over here," I returned, as I
wiped the perspiration from my forehead. "I s'pose the Emperor's got mad
with France again, and they're going to kill off several thousand poor
chaps, who don't feel mad a bit, to fix matters. Those are Germans over
there; I can tell by the uniforms, so of course the French must be on
our side. Now--" But at that instant the firing began again worse than
ever.

The smoke filled the little valley in clouds, so we couldn't see how
many men fell; and when it blew away, there was nobody lying on the
ground, so we concluded they must have cleared the field of the killed
and wounded under its protection.

Sometimes in the pauses of the shooting we could hear the captains and
generals shouting, and the drums beating, and see the flashing bayonets,
and the flags flying proudly.

"Perhaps they won't find us, after all," said Thad, during one of these
peaceful lulls; and indeed I had already begun to indulge myself in the
same hope, when what should the Germans do but rush down the opposite
bank, and prepare to charge right for our tree.

On they came, plunging over stones and ditches, swords waving, bayonets
flashing, fury gleaming from their eyes.

"Don't cry, Thad," I whispered, when there was only a few feet left
between us and the advancing army. "Come, let's stand out in front of
them, so they won't trample on us, anyway;" and summoning all my
courage, I took my brother by the hand, and stepped out from behind the
tree, facing the whole battle front.

As soon as the Colonel or Captain, whichever it was, caught sight of us,
he shouted out at the top of his voice; but of course neither Thad nor I
understood a word, although I supposed he was calling on us to
surrender.

Thinking this a much more comfortable way of ending matters than by
being put to the sword, I screamed out, as bold as I could: "If you
please, sir, we're Americans, and I hope you'll whip the Frenchmen all
to pieces."

I didn't expect he'd understand all I said, of course, although I was
pretty certain of America's being nearly the same in German as in
English.

But what do you think the man did? He said something to the soldiers;
then turning to me, he pointed to an opening in the ranks he had caused
to be made just in front of us, and at once understanding what he meant,
Thad and I ran for it, never stopping until we had left the soldiers far
behind us, when I thought it would be as well to call a halt, and
consider as to the quickest way of getting back to the hotel, for it was
by this time long after the dinner hour.

However, we managed to find the road after a while, and then we made for
the town as fast as ever we could. Of course we got a scolding for
having staid out so late; but when the story of the exciting adventure
we had passed through was told, I felt sure we'd both be looked upon
with more respect.

Well, father and mother listened breathlessly, and when I had finished I
asked father if he had heard anything about the invasion of the French
army. At that he broke out into the most frightful fit of laughter, and
really for a minute I thought that my account of the danger Thad and I
had been in had made him kind of hysterical (I always used to think it
ought to be _her_-terical, as men don't often get that way), until he
caught his breath long enough to say: "Oh, Max, Max! there wasn't any
French army there. The whole affair was merely a sham battle between two
of the German regiments for practice, and the only reason you didn't get
hit was because the guns were only loaded with powder."




[Illustration]

THE GAME OF POLO.


[Illustration]

The Polo family have always been great travellers. The adventurous
Venetian, Marco Polo, who started Eastward long enough before Columbus
thought of discovering America--or, indeed, before anybody thought of
Columbus--was the first of the long line to make himself known
throughout the world. This was about the year 1280, or more than six
hundred years ago; and almost as long ago as that, according to all
accounts, another branch of this distinguished family, which we have
come to know as the game of Polo, was known and liked in other parts of
the Orient. Travellers tell us that for centuries the inhabitants of
certain districts of India have played the game, and liked it so well
that they gave it a name signifying in their language "the game of all
games." This game was born in a country where there were no telegraphs,
no railroads, not even an old-fashioned stage-coach. All travelling was
done on horseback, and all business depended upon the skill and fidelity
of the horsemen. A game that taught the dusky lads to be good horsemen
was more than an amusement--it was a national blessing. Polo was for
ages, and is still, the national game of these districts. The boys are
hardly large enough to lay their hand on a pony's back before they learn
to play Polo. The English in India have taken up the game, but even with
their superior ponies and equipments they can not vanquish the natives
in a friendly contest with the ball and mallet. This is because the
Indians from their earliest boyhood are taught to play the game, just as
we, at a similar age, are taught the beauties of the Latin grammar. The
English are almost as fond of good horsemanship as the East Indians, and
as soon as their soldiers in India saw the game, they learned it and
played it. Thus Polo travelled from India to England. Five or six years
ago it took a trip to America; and although it still makes New York its
head-quarters on this side the Atlantic, it has travelled all over the
United States, visiting nearly every principal city, and generally
making a long stay.

[Illustration]

The only thing to prevent American boys from learning to play this
exciting game is the great lack of ponies. While an East Indian boy
would have a pony, even if he were too poor to have a coat, many an
American boy with plenty of coats is not able to have a pony. But with
the ponies once at hand, and boys who can ride them well, the game is
easily learned. It is no more, indeed, than "shinny" on horseback, and
if there is any American boy who does not know how to play shinny, he is
yet to be heard from. Ordinary horses are too large for Polo, even when
the players are full-grown men, for the higher a player is from the
ground, the more difficult it is for him to strike the ball. The smaller
the pony, the better for the player; and it should be as gentle as a
kitten, as quick as a flash, and as swift as a deer. The ponies
generally used in New York and Newport are brought from Texas and
Mexico, and, as most boys know, these animals do not unite all the good
qualities of the Arabian steed. They are a little too fond of kicking,
and of stopping suddenly, and smiling with their ears, while their rider
slides over their head. Sometimes, however, a young member of the party
appears mounted upon a Shetland pony, a shining, bright-eyed little
animal, as gentle as it is beautiful. These ponies are scarce, and often
expensive; but it will be good news to some of the boys to hear that a
gentleman has recently stocked a farm with them in Westchester County,
only a few miles from New York, and that he intends to raise hundreds of
them for sale.

[Illustration: A GAME OF POLO.--DRAWN BY J. E. KELLY.]

The Polo costume is a very bright one, generally consisting of a 
shirt, tight-fitting cloth pantaloons, and gaiters, with the small cap
that is well known as a "Polo cap." There may be any number of players
on a side, from one to a dozen. The ball is made of wood, painted white,
and looks like a base-ball. The mallet, which is called a "stick," has a
handle six or seven feet long, and is used to drive the ball into the
home of the enemy. Each side has its goal, made by driving two poles
into the ground about six feet apart. The ball is laid in the centre of
the ground, and at a signal the players make a dash for it. Whichever
side succeeds in driving it through the goal of its opponents is the
victor. The games that are played on the Polo Grounds in the upper part
of New York city are usually very pretty sights. They are attended
almost always by a number of ladies and gentlemen of fashion, who drive
out in four-horse coaches, and are shielded from the sun either by the
stationary awning, or by bright- tents, often made of the finest
materials. In the heat of the summer the Polo centre is changed from New
York to Newport, where most of the players are gathered. The last game
at Newport for this season was played only a few days ago. A number of
the fortunate New York boys who have spent the summer at Newport have
been practicing frequently, with a view to making their first appearance
in public in this city next spring. Some of them by a few months'
practice have become very expert players.




GARFIELD'S BOYHOOD.


The late President Garfield was born in a log-cabin--a real cabin, for
it had only one room. The roof was of rude split shingles, and the floor
of puncheons. His father died while the boy was still a baby, leaving
the mother very poor, with four children to bring up as best she could.
The country, Northern Ohio, was wild and new, and the boys had small
opportunity for education, and few companions of their own age. Except
the Bible, there were almost no books in that region, and there were no
periodicals for young people then, so that even if the young Garfields
had been able to spare time for reading, they had nothing to read.

[Illustration: MOLLIE GARFIELD.

FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY J. F. RYDER, CLEVELAND, OHIO.]

The boy who afterward became President of the United States found
himself born apparently to a life of hard country work. As soon as he
could do anything on the farm, he began to help, and as he grew older,
the only change that came to him was a steady increase in the amount and
difficulty of the work he had to do. It was only by hard work, indeed,
that the family could live at all. His mother--the dear, brave old lady
to whom we have all become attached--not only attended to all her
household duties, but toiled hard besides. She made the clothes for her
family, and took in sewing from the neighbors. She worked in the fields,
too, and even helped in the clearing of timber land, her boys working
with her.

[Illustration: HARRY A. GARFIELD.

FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY C. M. BELL, WASHINGTON, D.C.]

James went to the country school to learn to read and spell and cipher a
little; for very little more than this could be learned in country
schools then. It is said that he had many fights there, frequently
having battles with lads larger than himself; and throughout his boyhood
he showed as much pluck and spirit in the discharge of duty as he did in
these school battles. In the haying season he would walk ten miles to
get a day's work to do, and he was always ready to do whatever there was
to be done. He labored sometimes as a carpenter, and once, when he had
no money, and wanted to attend a boarding-school, he hired himself out
to a carpenter, and earned enough to pay his way by the labor of his
hands on Saturdays.

At one time he hired himself to the owner of an ashery, at nine dollars
a month, and worked in ashes until the ends of his hair were bleached.
He next undertook to chop one hundred cords of hard oak wood for fifty
dollars, and did it. He tried to secure employment as a sailor on the
lakes, but failing in that, he took a place as driver to a canal-boat.
No work was too hard or too humble for him, if only it were honest, and
promised him a little money.

[Illustration: JAMES R. GARFIELD.

FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY C. M. BELL, WASHINGTON, D.C.]

After his canal-boat experience he fell sick, and before he got well
again he had spent all the money he had, and more--for he was in debt
for his doctor's bill. He set to work to save money, and soon paid off
his debt. Meantime the thirst for knowledge had been awakened in him,
and he began that severe struggle for education which ended only when he
had accomplished his purpose. At first he dreamed of nothing more than
going through the studies taught in the little academy at Chester, Ohio;
and truly that seemed task enough to set himself, for he had neither
money nor friends able to help him, and he must earn with his hands all
that it would cost him for board, lodging, and tuition. He began with
only seventeen dollars. This was spent during the first term. All that
he could earn during vacation went to pay off the old score of his
doctor, and he began the second term with but a sixpence in his pocket.
Dropping this into the contribution box at church, he left himself
actually penniless; but difficulties of this kind did not appall the
brave, resolute boy. Had he not always earned all that he spent? He had
provided for himself in the past by the labor of his hands, and he would
do the same now. It was then that he hired himself to the carpenter as
has been related already.

During the next winter young Garfield undertook to control and teach the
school in a district from which the last teacher had been driven away by
unruly boys. It was a brave thing to do, for he was scarcely more than a
boy himself, and it was certain that the young bullies of the district
would contest the question of mastery with him. There was danger of
defeat and failure, but he braved all and took the school. The question
whether he or the big boys were to control the school was soon brought
to a test. The largest, strongest, and most daring boy became unruly,
and after the custom of that time the teacher must chastise him, or the
discipline of the school would have been utterly broken up. It was a
question whether Garfield would thrash the boy or the boy thrash
Garfield, and the school was much interested in its decision. There was
a severe struggle, at the end of which there was no longer any doubt who
was master of that school, for the big boy had had his thrashing, and
"Jim Garfield," whom the boys had regarded as a raw youth, was ever
afterward respected as "Mr. Garfield, the teacher."

It was not long after this that young Garfield began to entertain larger
hopes in the matter of education. He was earning his way through the
academy at Chester: why might he not earn his way also through a
preparatory school, and finally through college? Young Garfield was
willing and glad to be a country school-master so long as that seemed
necessary, just as he was always willing to do any honest work that came
in his way; but he was not content to be a half-educated school-teacher
all his life, if a fuller education could be had; and after looking into
the matter he was convinced that a complete college training was not
beyond his reach. It would require patience, hard work, and close
economy to accomplish this, but it could be accomplished, and for this
resolute young fellow, with his stout heart and strong arms, that was
enough. As nearly as he could tell, it would take him twelve years to
fit himself for college and to go through the college course, for he
must work and teach one year to earn his school or college expenses
during the next. But the thought of twelve years of toil, economy, and
study did not daunt him in the least, and so he set to work at once.

How he accomplished more than he had thought possible, doing in three
years what he had planned to do in four, and otherwise getting on faster
and better than he had expected, is too long a story to tell here; but
it is to be wished that every reader of YOUNG PEOPLE would read not only
about Mr. Garfield's youth, but the whole story of his life, in the
biographies that have been written of him.

It is very interesting and very profitable reading, not because Mr.
Garfield was a Major-General, a member of Congress, a distinguished
statesman, and finally President, but because he was always a man of
high character and great courage; because he knew, even in boyhood, how
to master himself; because he made his own way in life by patience,
perseverance, and conscientious industry; because all the high honors
that have been heaped upon him were his by right of his worth. This
whole great country of fifty millions of people is in real mourning for
his death, not because he was President, but because every one of the
fifty millions has learned to honor and love the man for his noble
character.

Mr. Garfield left five children, two others having died. We give
portraits of the two elder boys and of the only girl. Mollie, who is a
bright, winning lass of about thirteen years, has come to be the pet of
the whole American people. On the very day of his death Mr. Garfield
asked especially to have Mollie sit with him, and he and she talked
together until he grew drowsy. Then, still to bear him company, Mollie
sat down near the foot of the bed, where, after a little while, she
fainted, and was carried out of the room. That was her last visit to her
father's bed-side, the last time she spoke to him or heard him speak.

Harry and James Garfield were with their father when he was shot, and
their manly bearing and tender devotion to their parents during these
many sad days have won for them the love and admiration of the country.
Harry is said to be a fine musician. Both are at Williams College, where
the late President graduated nearly thirty years ago. The younger
children, Irwin and Abram, remained at Mentor with their aged
grandmother during the whole time of their father's fatal illness.




A BIT OF POVERTY.

BY W. T. PETERS.


  I know a little maiden
    In a most tremendous bonnet,
  All manufactured out of black,
    With nodding poppies on it.

  Her shoes are two old rubbers,
    Full of many a hole and leak,
  And--bless you--these are only worn
    On one day of the week.

  But her laugh is molten silver,
    And her hair is burnished gold,
  And the treasures in her jewelled eyes
    Are riches manifold.

  And no one on the broad round earth
    Is happier than she,
  Although this little maiden
    Is as poor as she can be.




THE TALKING LEAVES.[2]

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER II.

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


"Did you say, Murray, there were any higher mountains higher than these?"

"Higher'n these? Why, Steve, the mountains we crossed, away back there
just this side of the Texas border, were twice as high, some of then."

"These are big enough. Are there any higher mountains in the world than
ours? Did you ever see any?"

"I've seen some of them. I've heard it said the tallest are in India.
South America can beat us. I've seen the Andes."

"I don't want to see anything that looks worse to climb than this range
right ahead of us."

"Where the Apaches got through, Steve, we can. They're only a hunting
party, too."

"More warriors than we have."

"Only Apaches, Steve. Ours are Lipans. There's a big difference in that,
I tell you."

"The Lipans are your friends."

"Yours too, and you must let them think you are their friend, strong.
The Apaches are everybody's enemies--mine, yours--only fit to be killed
off."

"You've killed some of 'em."

"Not so many as I mean to kill. That's one thing I'm on this trip for.
Old Two-Knives would almost have given it up if it hadn't been for me."

"I don't feel that way about the Lipans, if they did capture me. All I
want of them is to get away, and go back to the settlements."

"Maybe your folks won't know you when you come."

Steve looked down at his fine muscular form from limb to limb, while the
stern, wrinkled face of his companion almost put on a smile.

"I'd have to wash, that's a fact."

"Get off your war-paint. Put on some white men's clothing. Cut your
hair."

"They'd know me then."

"You've grown a head taller since you was captured, and they've made a
Lipan of you all over but in two places."

"What are they?"

"Your eyes and hair. They're as light as mine were when I was of your
age."

"I'm not a Lipan inside, Murray, nor any other kind of Indian. It would
take more than three years to do that."

"I've been among 'em seven. But then I never would paint."

The sun and the wind had painted him darkly enough, and if his hair had
once been "light," it was now as white as the tops of the mountains he
and Steve had been looking at.

Behind them, on a barren, sandy level, through which ran a narrow stream
of ice-cold water, about threescore of wild-looking human beings were
dismounted, almost in a circle, each holding the end of a long "lariat"
of strong hide, at the other end of which was a horse.

Some seemed to have two and even three horses, as if they were on an
errand which might use up one and call for another. That was quite
likely, for Lipan warriors are terribly hard riders. Those who had now
but one horse had probably worn out their first mount, and turned him
adrift by the way-side, to be picked up, Indian fashion, on the way
home. When a plains Indian leaves a horse in that way, and does not find
him again, he tries his best to find some other man's horse to take his
place.

More than sixty Indian warriors, all in their war-paint, armed to the
teeth with knives, revolvers, repeating rifles, of the best and latest
patterns, and each carrying a long steel-headed Mexican lance. Not a bow
or arrow or war-club among them. All such weapons belong to the old, old
times, or to poor miserable second-rate Indians who can not buy anything
better. The fierce and haughty Lipans and Comanches, and other warlike
tribes, insist on being armed as well as the United States troops, and
even better.

What could a cavalryman do with a lance? About as much as an Indian with
a sword, for that is one weapon the red men could never learn the use of
from King Philip's day to this.

[Illustration: THE COUNCIL OF WAR.]

It was luncheon-time with that Lipan war party, and they were hard at
work on their supplies of dried venison and cold roast buffalo meat.
Their halt would not be a long one in a spot where there was no grass
for their horses; but they could hold a council while they were eating,
and they could listen to a speech from the short, broad, ugly-looking
old chief, who now stood in the middle of the circle.

"To-la-go-to-de will not go back now till he has struck the Apaches. He
has come too far. The squaws of his village would laugh at him if he
rode through the mountains and came back to them with empty hands."

That was the substance of his address, put again and again, in different
shapes, and it seemed to meet the approval of his listeners. There is
nothing a Lipan brave is really afraid of except ridicule, and the dread
of being laughed at was the strongest argument their leader could have
used to spur them forward. Once, indeed, he made another sharp hit by
pointing to the spot where Murray and Steve were standing.

"No Tongue has the heart of a Lipan. He says if we go back he will go on
alone. He will take the Yellow Head with him. They will not be laughed
at when they come back. Will the Lipans let their squaws tell them they
are cowards, and dare not follow an old pale-face and a boy?"

A deep, half-angry "ugh" went around the circle.

To-la-go-to-de had won over all the grumblers in his audience, and need
not have talked any more.

He might have stopped right there, and proceeded to eat another slice of
buffalo meat; but when an Indian once learns to be an orator, he would
rather talk than eat any day. In fact, they are such talkers at home and
among themselves that Murray had earned the queer name given him by the
chief in no other way than by his habitual silence. He rarely spoke to
anybody, and so he was "No Tongue."

The chief himself had a name of which he was enormously proud, for he
had won it on a battle-field. His horse had been killed under him in a
battle with the Comanches when he was yet a young warrior, and he had
fought on foot with a knife in each hand.

From that day forward he was To-la-go-to-de, or "the chief that fights
with two knives." Any name he may have been known by before that was at
once dropped and forgotten.

It is a noteworthy custom, but the English have something almost exactly
like it. A man in England may be plain Mr. Smith or Mr. Disraeli for
ever so many years, and then all of a sudden he becomes Lord So-and-So,
and nobody ever speaks of him again by the name he carried when he was a
mere "young brave." It is a great mistake to suppose the red men are
altogether different from the white.

As for Steve, his hair was nearer chestnut than yellow, but it had given
him his Indian name--one that would stick to him until, like
To-la-go-to-de, he should distinguish himself in battle, and win a "war
name" of his own.

He and Murray, however they might be regarded as members of the tribe
and of that war party, had no rights in the "council." Only born Lipans
could take part in that, except by special invitation.

It happened, on the present occasion, that they were both glad of it,
for "No Tongue" had more than usual to say, and "Yellow Head" was very
anxious to listen to him.

"That peak yonder would be an awful climb, Steve."

"I should say it would."

"But if you and I were up there, I'll tell you what we could do. We
could look north and east into New Mexico, north and west into Arizona,
and south, every way, into Mexico itself."

"Are we so near the border?"

"I think we are."

Something like a thunder-cloud seemed to be gathering on Murray's face,
and the deep furrows grew deeper, in great rigid lines and curves, while
his steel-blue eyes lighted up with a fire that made them unpleasant to
look upon.

"You lived in Mexico once?"

"Did I? Did I ever tell you that?"

"Not exactly. I only guessed it from things you've dropped."

"I'll tell you now, then. I did live in Mexico. Down yonder in
Chi-hua-hua."

"She-waw-waw?" said Steve, trying to follow the old man's rapid
pronunciation of the strange musical name.

"Down there, more than a hundred miles south of the border. I thought we
were safe. The mine was a good one. The hacienda was the prettiest place
I could make of it. I thought I should never leave it. But the Apaches
came one day--"

He stopped a moment, and seemed to be looking at the tops of the western
mountains.

"Did you have a fight with them?" asked Steve.

"Fight? No. I was on a hunt in the Sierras that day. When I came home it
was all gone."

"The Apaches?"

"The mine was there, but the works were all burned. So was the hacienda
and the huts of the peons and workmen--everything that would burn."

"But the people?"

"Cattle, horses--all they could drive with them they carried away. We
won't say anything about the people, Steve. My wife was among them. She
was a Spanish-Mexican lady. She owned the mine and the land. We buried
her before we set out after the Apaches. I've been following them ever
since."

"Were the rest all killed?"

"All. They did not even leave me my little girl. I hadn't anything left
to keep me there."

"So you joined the Lipans?"

"They're always at war with the Apaches. I'm pretty near to being an
Indian now."

"I won't be one, then. I'll get away somehow. I'm white, and I'm almost
a man."

"Steve, have you forgotten anything you knew the day they took you
prisoner?"

"No, I haven't. I was fifteen then, and if there's one thing I've been
afraid of it was that I would forget. I've repeated things over and over
and over for fear they'd get away from me."

"That's all right. I've had an eye on you about that. But haven't you
learned something?"

"You've taught me all about rocks and stones and ores and mining--"

"Yes, and you can ride like a Lipan, and shoot and hunt, and there isn't
a young brave in the band that can throw you in a fair wrestle."

"That's all Indian--"

"Is it? Well, whether it is or not, you'll need it all before long."

"To fight Apaches?"

"Better'n that, Steve. It's been of no use for you to try to get away
toward Texas. They watch you too closely; and besides, the Comanches are
most of the time between us and the settlements. They won't watch you at
all out here. That's why I insisted on bringing you along."

"Do you mean I'll have a chance to get away?"

"I don't mean you shall go back of the mountains again, Steve. You must
wait patiently, but the time'll come. I tell you what, my boy, when you
find yourself crossing the Arizona deserts and mountains all alone
you'll be right glad you can ride and shoot and hunt and find your own
way. It's all Indian knowledge, but it's wonderfully useful when you
have to take care of yourself in an Indian country."

The dark cloud was very heavy on Murray's face yet, but an eager light
was shining upon that of his young friend--the light of hope.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




TWO STORIES OF YOUTHFUL HEROISM.[3]

BY MARY A. BARR.

[3] The scene of the former of these heroic acts was in Boone County,
Iowa; of the latter, Deal Lake, New Jersey. Kate Shelley is about
seventeen years old, and the boy hero only twelve.


HOW KATE SHELLEY CROSSED THE BRIDGE.


[Illustration: KATE SHELLEY.

FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY J. PAUL MARTIN, BOONE, IOWA.]

  Oh, but the night was wild and dark, and the wind blew fierce and high!
  Oh, but the lightning flashed and shot across the inky sky!
  While the hurtling thunder cracked and rolled, till down the black
      clouds came,
  And earth seemed nothing at all to sight but water, wind, and flame.

  Kate Shelley stands at her cottage door, and peers out into the night,
  For she sees, slow creeping through the storm, the pilot-engine's light,
  And it must cross the trestle-bridge above the swollen creek:
  It stops--it runs--then down it drops, with one long fearsome shriek.

  "Kate, stay!" the wailing mother cries; but the young soul rose high--
  "Nay, mother, I must try to help, though I should fail or die."
  She finds the wreck, but can not save, yet from the deep below
  A man shouts up two frightened words. She answers him: "I know."

  The train! the train! the swift express! the crowded Western train!
  How shall she quickest reach the wires? By Boone the hope is vain.
  But to Moingona's but a mile, and yet so wild and drear,
  To brave it through the stormy night the stoutest heart might fear.

  Torn by the undergrowth, and drenched, the wind and rain defied,
  She reached the raging Des Moines, and the bridge that spans its tide:
  A bridge not built for human tread, but "On!" her spirit cries--
  A bridge of full four hundred feet, nothing but rails and ties.

  No plank the daring steps to hold, and if a step should miss,
  Down fifty feet below her rolls the watery abyss.
  So on her hands and knees she creeps, fighting the wind and rain,
  Staining the timbers with her blood, yet heeding not the pain.

  Then on and on she bravely sped! Thick darkness round her lay,
  Save when the vivid lightning made a still more dreadful day;
  Yet raging stream, and roaring wind, and fiercely beating rain
  Delayed her not: one thought had she--to save the coming train.

  At length the bridge is fairly crossed. Bleeding and out of breath,
  She yet has half a mile to run--a fearful race with Death:
  O'er fallen trees, o'er rocks, through creeks, until--O blessed sight!--
  She sees the way-side station-house and its one glimmering light.

  Then all forespent, with failing strength, she pushes wide the door;
  With gleaming eyes and parted lips, she stands upon the floor:
  "_The trestle's down! The engines wrecked! Oh, stop the coming train!_"
  The man springs to the saving wires--she has not come in vain.

  Then tenderly they comfort her. They ask, "How did you come?"
  And, hearing, lift their hearts and hats, and are a moment dumb.
  No soul among them would have dared the passage dark and wild:
  Ah! but God's angels had a charge to keep this noble child.

  O brave Kate Shelley! though hard toil thy daily portion be,
  Mothers with happy pride now name their daughters after thee;
  And every child that hears thy tale shares in thy noble strain,
  And dares that perilous pass with thee to save the coming train.


LITTLE CHARLIE WHITE.


[Illustration: CHARLIE WHITE.

FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY STAUFFER, ASBURY PARK, NEW JERSEY.]

  Well, yes, ma'am, this is the lake, and the story is pleasant and true,
  Though Charlie White did nothing at all but what he'd been taught to do.
  Yet I count it honor enough, when a boy sees trouble and muss,
  Just to know what to do, _and do it_, without any talk or fuss.

  You know what the August weather is, and children, for any sake,
  Will not keep out of the water: there were two that day in the lake.
  The one was near about eight, and the other was twelve years old--
  Both just of that age, as you'll allow, when children are over-bold.

  One moment I heard their merry laugh ring through the summer air,
  And the next their father's shout of "_Help!_"--their mother's shriek
      of despair.
  But being old and lame, as you see, I stood, dazed like, on the bank,
  Till Charlie White had put off a boat, and was rowing to where
      they sank.

  'Twas done in a moment, quick as thought; and that, as I take it, ma'am,
  Makes all the odds between true courage and that which is half a sham;
  For while we were lost in fear and fright, little Charlie had got
      the boat,
  And when the children rose to the top, was there to keep them afloat.

  For Charlie is but a little fellow, and hadn't the strength, you see,
  To lift the children into the boat, but he spoke cheerily,
  And held them up until help came; and so, with a happy heart,
  He left them safe, and went his way, just glad to have done his part.

  And best of all, as I said before, though Charlie is noways rash,
  The deed was done, as such brave deeds are, rapid and prompt as a flash;
  And this, I think, is the children's way; _they_ never mind praise
      or gain:
  I guess you've read of that brave Kate Shelley that saved the Western
      train.

  Well, Kate and Charlie are of one kind, and surely now I can see
  Why Jesus said to the wise and the great, "Like little children be."
  For though we may honor the men of war, who have their thousands slain,
  In a better world God's angels, perhaps, may count it a grander gain
  To succor a drowning boy and girl, or to save a loaded train.




[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]


  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON TERRITORY.

     I am a large girl eight years old. We take HARPER'S YOUNG
     PEOPLE--that is, Willie and Jessie and I--and we are very glad when
     papa brings to us a new number. I had a little fawn which came from
     British Columbia. It was three weeks old when papa bought it for
     us, and such a time as we had in teaching the spotted little baby
     deer to drink milk! It grew to know us, and became a darling pet
     and playmate. We have sent it on a great ship to a little boy in
     San Francisco. I cried to see Una go away; and she cried, so the
     man said, for us. We live upon a hill, and can look out upon Puget
     Sound, and see ships coming and going all the time. On a clear day
     we can always see the snowy mountains.

  MINNIE R.

       *       *       *       *       *

  POUGHKEEPSIE, NEW YORK.

     I thought I would write again, and see whether my letter could find
     a place in Our Post-office Box this time. I came home a few weeks
     ago from my visit to the country. While I was at my grandpa's my
     sister and I had a real nice time playing by the creek which was
     below the house. We built a raft, and had some splendid rides on
     it. Last night I came home from Newburgh, where I went soon after
     my return from the country. On my way home with papa and mamma we
     saw a very large and very old-looking cat in the butcher's shop,
     and the butcher who owned him told papa he was twenty-three years
     old. He said he knew it to be so, because puss had been there with
     him for all that time. For the last four or five years they had
     chopped his meat fine for him, because he had but two teeth left, I
     think if he were mine I would be very proud of him--would not you?

  ANNA V. H.

The cat was fortunate in having so kind an owner. Do you know that in
India there are hospitals and asylums for aged and sick animals, where
the greatest care is taken of and the highest honors are paid to them?
Yet human life is not highly valued in some of the old lands where they
are so tender of the lower orders of creation.

       *       *       *       *       *

  NEW ROCHELLE, NEW YORK.

     I enjoyed a nice vacation, and after it returned cheerfully to
     school. My father had said that he would give me a ring if I was
     promoted, so I studied hard last term, and am now in a higher
     class. I received four beautiful butterflies from Miss M. S. McC.,
     of Washington, D. C. I have a branch covered with moss, and I have
     pinned the butterflies to it. I am much obliged to you for having
     printed my exchange.

  BANKS H. B.

       *       *       *       *       *

  884 MADISON AVENUE, ALBANY, NEW YORK.

     We have a bird and a dog (ay, and a dog Yobbie, says Lida). The
     bird's name is Dixie, and he is not home. I have a little sister
     and brother (ay, and two boyers, says Lida). We had a real nice
     little kitten, but she died or ran away. She could box with her
     paws. Freddy tried to box with a visitor cat, but she would not,
     and Freddy was disgusted.

     Wouldn't somebody send some tree leaves, for postage stamps? Papa
     has a lot of old foreign stamps, and we are making a leaf
     collection. I am nearly six, and I tell papa what to write for me.

  ELBERTIE LAURA BRAMHALL.

       *       *       *       *       *

  SANTA CLARA, CALIFORNIA.

     We have a big Artesian well which flows over the pipe almost six
     inches, and is five hundred feet deep.

     Not long ago we went to San Francisco on the cars, visited
     Woodward's Garden, and had a very nice time. I enjoyed the many
     sights, but was most delighted with the sea-lions and the monkeys.
     There is a place in the bay near San Francisco where the rocks are
     covered with sea-lions.

     "Tim and Tip" is a splendid story.

  ELBERT G. A.

       *       *       *       *       *

  NEEDHAM, MASSACHUSETTS.

     I have a very kind friend who gives me YOUNG PEOPLE every week, and
     I like "The Cruise of the 'Ghost,'" "Tim and Tip," and the stories
     that Jimmy Brown and George Cary Eggleston write. My father is away
     all day, as he is a railroad conductor, and every Sunday he asks me
     if I have read YOUNG PEOPLE this week. Last Saturday two other boys
     and myself went after wild grapes, and we each brought home a peck
     of them.

  HARRY S. W.

       *       *       *       *       *

  JAMAICA PLAIN, MASSACHUSETTS.

     I am a little girl, twelve years old, and am over seven hundred
     miles from my home. To-day I went to the Public Garden in Boston,
     and had a ride in the swan boat on the little pond, and saw a
     lovely rainbow through a fountain. Then I saw on Boston Common four
     cunning little goats harnessed to a little wagon called Baby Mine.
     I have seen many new and pretty things I could tell you about, but
     I suppose you have so many little correspondents that I will not
     write any more this time.

  MAY H. L.

The little matter of business to which you refer in your letter has been
attended to, and we think you were kind and considerate. You might have
told us more about Boston. Did you climb to the top of the Bunker Hill
Monument, and did you visit the spacious Library? Perhaps you will tell
us when you write again.

       *       *       *       *       *

  UTICA, NEW YORK.

     This is the first letter I have ever written to your dear little
     paper. I am twelve years old. I have a nice little pussy which I
     call <DW29>, and my brother dipped her in a pail of dirty water. I
     don't think it was very kind of him; do you?

     I have read "Toby Tyler," and I hope "Tim and Tip" will be as good.

  LUCY CANTERBURY G.

It was very unkind in your brother to treat poor <DW29> so. We hope he
will not tease you in that way again. Boys often do such mischievous
things, when they do not really mean to be cruel. They should remember
that "evil is wrought by want of thought," and that the gentlest boys
are usually the manliest.

       *       *       *       *       *

  TUNKHANNOCK, PENNSYLVANIA.

     I have never written a letter to Our Post-office Box, because I
     have been afraid they would laugh at me. But I see so many little
     letters that I am venturing at last. My papa is a printer, and once
     worked in New York, and I would dearly love to live there, because
     there are so many grand things I could learn in school, and music
     too. The girls tell you about their pets. I used to have a
     three-legged kitten, and it could run ever so fast, but the dogs
     caught it finally.

     I now have a cat which is the exact image of a tiger. It runs after
     children, and frightens them by jumping at them. My papa took me to
     a picnic, and we danced the Schottisch. I live with my grandma, who
     is very good to me. My mamma is dead.

  LENA W.

Nobody who writes to this Post-office Box need fear being laughed at. We
would not be so impolite, and we love to see our children's letters,
even when the little fingers have not learned to write so very well yet.
It took us a long time to learn how ourselves. We have not forgotten our
old copy-books, in which "Practice makes perfect" was so often set at
the head of the page. For some reasons, it is very pleasant to live in
New York, little Lena; but for others, we are quite sure it is equally
desirable to live where your home is. You can learn "grand things"
everywhere, if you try hard enough.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MAQUOKETA, IOWA.

     I am eight years old. I had three kits. One was named Susan; the
     other two were Jack and Jill. Susan ran away, and poor little Jill
     had dreadful fits, and we don't know whether she ran away or died
     in a fit. Jack is just a splendid cat. He is in my lap now.

  DALE L.

       *       *       *       *       *

  GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN.

     I have seen a good many letters in Our Post-office Box, but only
     one from Grand Rapids. I am a little girl eight years old, and I
     like to read the letters very much. My brother takes the YOUNG
     PEOPLE, and we all like to read it. When school commenced I was
     promoted to another class. I have a little pet kitten who sometimes
     has fits. One day I fed it some cat-nip tea with a tea-spoon.

  ANNIE AUDUBON W.

What a pity it is that Kitty should be often ill and fitty! Are you
sure, dear Dale and Annie, that you do not feed your cats with too many
sweets and fats? Or perhaps you pet them too much. Try a little more
neglect. It may have a fine effect.

       *       *       *       *       *

  WINNIPEG, MANITOBA.

     The society mentioned in No. 93 is now being organized. We have
     five corresponding secretaries appointed, but we want one for each
     State and Province in North America. The rules, etc., will be
     printed as soon as all officers are appointed. It has been decided
     by a majority of the members to fix the annual dues as follows:
     boys, 20 cents; girls, 15 cents. All exchanges are to be made by
     mail. The name decided on for the society was the "International
     Curiosity Collectors' Club and Young People's Exchange." All are
     invited to join. Address ROBERT C. MANLY, Winnipeg, Manitoba,
     Canada, or HARRY BELDEN, Wellington, Lorain Co., Ohio.

       *       *       *       *       *

  NEW YORK CITY.

     I thank you for answering my letter in No. 98. You said I ought to
     go on a farm, and that is just the thing I wish to do. My father
     would not oppose it, but my mother will not consent. It is not
     money I want so much at present, as my parents could let me go and
     work for nothing a couple of years for the sake of learning, but it
     is the future that I am thinking about. I have never looked so much
     at the future as I have in the last two months. It is strange, I
     have often thought. I sit an hour at a time. I am thinking now. I
     think I see a farm-house; I am sitting by the door; my hair is
     white, and I am very old; children are clustering around my knees.
     It is a nice picture, and I wonder if it will ever come true. I
     hope it will. I would like to work on a farm very much; I think it
     so free. I like flowers, and our yard is very nice, full of them. I
     would like to be a florist if I could not be a farmer.

  N. ENG. F.

There is not much profit in day-dreams, and while you are making
romantic pictures of the future, you might better be employed in
studying or using to good advantage the present. A bright active boy has
a good many miles to go before he becomes a white-haired man. Farming is
not easy work. The farmer who means to succeed must rise early, toil
hard, content himself with small gains, and lead anything rather than a
luxurious life. You will be wise to be guided by your mother in the
choice of a profession or an occupation.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MILWAUKEE, WISCONSIN.

     I have never written to any magazine before, so I thought I would
     write and tell you how I like all the young people's letters. I
     think I like "Mildred's Bargain" best of any of the stories. I want
     to tell you about my pony Kitty. (Is not that a pretty name?) And
     also my dog Baby Belle. Well, when I come home from riding I put
     Baby Belle on Kitty, and she rides all over the yard, and you can
     not think how funny it looks.

  G. C. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

  TENAFLY, NEW JERSEY.

     I have been spending my summer vacation at Canandaigua, New York. I
     had a very nice visit, and on my way home I became acquainted with
     two girls, who rode all the way to New York city with us. I am
     making a collection of picture cards, and any boy or girl who will
     exchange with me will please address

  LILLIE SISSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LEESBURG, NEW JERSEY.

     I thought I would write to YOUNG PEOPLE, as I have never before
     written to a paper. Our school began the first Monday in September.
     I enjoyed our vacation very much indeed. My sister Lillie and I
     went from here to Woodbury, and from Woodbury to Atlantic City,
     alone on the cars, and after that we went to three other places, so
     we had a nice long visit. I have no particular pet, but we have a
     horse named Nellie, and we have two cats, one of whom we call
     Blackie, because he is black, and the other, "Lillie's cat,"
     because he belongs to Lillie. We once had a cat named Malty, and we
     then had two kittens. Malty used to catch mice and rats and give
     them to the kittens. We thought her very nice. My father used to be
     a sea-captain. I have been as far South as St. Augustine, Florida.
     I have been to New York two or three times, but I never noticed the
     place where YOUNG PEOPLE is printed. I like the story of "Tim and
     Tip," and I think the stories of "Penelope," "Phil's Fairies," and
     "Toby Tyler" are splendid.

  FLORENCE E. S.

     As my sister is writing a letter, I think I will do the same. I
     have never written before. I thought I would like to have a letter
     of mine in print--I mean if it is nice enough. I am ten years old.
     I go to school, and a gentleman by the name of Mr. Woodruff is our
     teacher. I am in geography, and we are studying map-drawing; our
     lesson to-day is the construction lines of Asia. I can hardly wait
     for Tuesday to come to bring us our dear YOUNG PEOPLE. This summer,
     when we were at my uncle's, their birds got away. They were out in
     a storm. They expected to find them dead, but they recovered them
     next day, safe and sound.

  LILLIAN R. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.

     I have a great deal of trouble in school this term because I sit
     with a girl who persists in making me laugh. She is a sweet girl,
     and I love her dearly, but she does do such funny things! yet she
     can keep her face perfectly straight, when I am giggling and
     receiving bad marks. My teacher is very strict, and she says I am
     as much to blame as Cora is, and that if I tried harder I would not
     get into disgrace so often. I hate to carry home a report, at the
     end of the week with "Not satisfactory" on it, for my mother looks
     so sad; but I can not seem to help myself. What do you think about
     it? Please tell me in Our Post-office Box.

  GERTRUDE H. L.

We think your teacher would do well to let Cora and yourself sit farther
apart. Two little girls who can not be trusted to control themselves in
the class should be separated. But we are afraid that you do not
endeavor to do what you ought in this matter. For the credit of the
school and for your own honor, you should be above trifling in
school-hours; and if you would only think that if there is a time for
play, there is also a time for work, you would be able to behave better,
and win your teachers approval.

       *       *       *       *       *

  WINDSOR, ILLINOIS.

     We had a pet once, a white squirrel, which we called Finny, but it
     died. Papa sent it to St. Louis, and had it stuffed and mounted for
     us. We now have a little gray one, a pair of white bantams, and six
     hens. I have a kitten all white but its tail. I have two sisters,
     both older than I; Lollie is sixteen, Lena is twelve, and I am
     nine. I hope papa will always take YOUNG PEOPLE.

  E. V. G.

Do you never feel sad when you look at your stuffed squirrel? One day we
were visiting a lady who had a canary-bird in a cage among vines and
flowers. After a while we wondered that the bird did not sing, and then
we noticed that it kept remarkably still. So we spoke of it, and then
were told that Muff had died and been stuffed. And there it stood on its
little perch.

       *       *       *       *       *

We hope Weir M. will be successful in raising his family of rabbits.
Emily D. may be sure the Editor shall hear that she wants more "Pinafore
Rhymes" in YOUNG PEOPLE. It does keep us busy to read so many letters,
but Walter H. G. need not be afraid to send us another before long; Eva
I. has our congratulations on her candy. She must try her hand at cake
and bread. Jessie M. R., your hope about Tip is shared by very many.
Willie Van B., who apologizes for his writing, for the reason that he
has lately lost his right thumb, is assured of our sympathy; we think
that, considering the misfortune, he writes wonderfully well.

       *       *       *       *       *

G. C. B.--You would do better not to attempt such a curtain as you
describe. It is both difficult and expensive to arrange a curtain which
can be raised and lowered swiftly in a hall for amateur performances. A
curtain which is divided in the middle, and may be drawn quickly apart
from both sides, will be more satisfactory, and can be easily adjusted.

       *       *       *       *       *

Box 185, Cumberland, Maryland, states that his coins are exhausted. He
will return all superfluous stamps sent him on receipt of postage to do
so.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our children will not forget Mrs. Richardson's little school, though we
may not remind them of it every week. Here is another charming letter
from her, acknowledging the receipt of needed gifts, and suggesting
something for the future which will set many little fingers at work.
Christmas is still a long distance from us, yet it is not too early to
begin, in odd minutes, the pleasant work of making Christmas gifts. You
will all enjoy the merry time the more if you take pains to give the
little dark-eyed boys and girls at Woodside a jolly Christmas-tree.

  WOODSIDE, NEAR LINCOLNTON, NORTH CAROLINA.

     MY DEAR FRIENDS,--Once more let me thank you for the little parcels
     that have come since I wrote last, from Glenn Woolfenden, Nashoa,
     Mo.; Anna Dearburne, Big Stone City, Dakota; Miss Gertrude Guion,
     Elmira, N. Y.; Charley Brink, Aniaga, A. T.; Mrs. Ellen Burke, Blue
     Mound, Ill.; Teddy Smith, ----; Miss Mary O'Neil, Miss Hattie
     Burgess, Miss Etta Coulter, Rochester, N. Y.; Charles R. Crowther,
     Bridgeport, Conn.; F. H. Day, Norwood, Massachusetts; W. A. Lewis,
     Lewistown, Penn.; N. A. Miller, Tarrytown, N. Y.; Miss Emma Joiner,
     Easton, Md. Among these parcels were two boxes of very useful
     books. You have helped us so generously that we have now books and
     papers to last us for some months to come. Of course I could in the
     neighborhood find use for almost any number, but that would be too
     big a work for either you or for us to undertake. We have decided
     that it will be best to build the school-house on land of its own,
     and so we will make a deed of the land upon which it is to be built
     to that effect. We will teach the school, and do all as I have
     promised. If your kind hearts still wish to help, you can do so by
     sending me some old clothes, hats, hoods, shoes, shawls; dolls and
     toys--no matter if they are broken: they will be acceptable and
     lovely to these little ones, who have never owned a "store doll" in
     their lives. They all are fond of candy, from Uncle Pete down to
     the youngest child. They will be very poor this winter, owing to
     the dry summer, and failure in the cotton crop. We will be so glad
     if the Christmas tree can have gifts that will warm up their cold
     little bodies! We will make and frost a large cake that will cut
     into forty-two generous slices; then have, without stint, cookies
     and hot coffee in the kitchen; when they have enjoyed this, show
     them the tree. If we succeed, I will write you about it. With my
     heart full of gratitude to you all, I am truly yours,

  MRS. RICHARDSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I would like to tell you of a parrot my grandmother has. My uncle
     used to go away every Saturday evening, and return Monday morning.
     The parrot used to know when Monday morning came, and at seven
     o'clock she used to take her stand on the railing of the stairway,
     and when he arrived would fly down to meet him. Once she had her
     wings clipped so that she could not fly. The next Monday she took
     her stand as usual, and losing her balance, fell down stairs. She
     has never tried again to fly.

  E. T.

Poor Polly!

       *       *       *       *       *

  NEWBURGH, NEW YORK.

     I am eleven years old, and this is the first time I ever wrote to
     any paper. I take three other papers besides this, but I like
     HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE the best. Jimmy Brown's stories are very
     funny. I wish he would write more. I think Mr. Otis is a charming
     author.

     We have a black dog named Beaver, and a black horse named Frank,
     who performs circus tricks like the horses in Barnum's.

  EMILY L.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.

These letters stand for Chautauqua Young People's Reading Union, and
indicate, as was explained last week, that the readers of this column
are a branch of the great society which meets at Chautauqua every summer
for study, recreation, and training in usefulness. Whoever shall take a
part in contributing to the budget of the Postmistress may write C. Y.
after his or her name, on the best authority. The column will be a sort
of miscellany, and you may feel entirely at liberty to send anything to
it that you please. For instance, here is a letter from a boy who, in
studying natural history, has happened across a pleasant incident in the
experience of a traveller in the East:

  MILLBROOK, NEW YORK.

     DEAR POSTMISTRESS,--My teacher gave me as a prize for improvement
     in reading, a very entertaining book by E. Warren Clarke. Its title
     is _From Hong-Kong to the Himalayas_. I was much interested in the
     author's description of his first ride on an elephant. He and a
     friend went together, and on the neck of each animal sat a Hindoo
     driver, who guided its movements, and punished it when he chose
     with a cruel iron instrument, heavy, sharp, and dull, shaped
     something like the head of a harpoon. Mr. Clarke found the motion
     of the elephant very much like the rolling of a ship at sea. The
     elephants moved noiselessly along, picking their steps and avoiding
     holes, and sometimes they gathered grasses, leaves, and twigs with
     their trunks, and threw them skillfully into their mouths.

     "The largest elephant became very thirsty," says Mr. Clarke, "and
     as he was quite warm, and we would not allow him to stop and drink,
     he made a peculiar plaintive utterance, which seemed to be
     understood by the other elephant; the latter came deliberately up,
     and placed his trunk in the open mouth of the thirsty one, and gave
     him to drink from his own stomach, or some unseen reservoir with
     which, like a camel, he appeared to be provided."

     Wasn't that kind? I should have loved such a good elephant.

     Now, Postmistress, I'll tell you one thing more, and then I'll
     stop. This author says that wild elephants do very little harm, and
     show good dispositions, not attacking you unless you disturb them;
     but an elephant which has once been tamed, and after that relapses
     into a wild state, is very dangerous indeed. He acts as if he hated
     mankind, and had been made bitter by his dwelling with them; and so
     the natives call such a fellow a "rogue" elephant.

  JOE J. H.

Your letter pleases me very much, for it shows me that you are learning
how to study. Some boys think that they can learn all that is essential
about a branch or a study from their school text-books. On the contrary,
the most that a text-book can do is to give outlines and arbitrary facts
or lay down principles. A full and rounded scholarship implies a great
deal of side study. The ambitious pupil will find something to bear on
what he is learning in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, in the books he finds at a
friend's house or in his father's library, and in the daily paper. When
the attention is duly called to it, it is wonderful how all sorts of
things seem to come to your help in the special line of study you have
adopted. If the C. Y.'s will notice this, they will be surprised to
observe how many curious coincidences there are to aid progress when
people are very earnestly bent on one pursuit.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Will the Postmistress please tell me why unmarried ladies are
     sometimes called spinsters? It never seems to me like a title of
     respect.

  JENNIE F.

It is a very honorable title, because it suggests that the person
bearing it is not an idler, but a useful woman. In olden times--a
hundred years ago, for instance--in every household there would be a
spinning-wheel and a loom, and part of the regular work of the daughters
of the house was to spin, weave, bleach, dye, and prepare the garments
of the family. To be a spinster was to be an important member of the
community.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Is it right to say party when you mean person?

  ALICE B.

No. The use of party in the sense of person is inelegant and vulgar.
Never say, "I must see a party," when you mean that you must consult a
lady or a gentleman about business or pleasure.

       *       *       *       *       *

     What is the origin of Tam o' Shanta?

"Tam o' Shanter," not Shanta, is the title of a humorous poem by Robert
Burns.

       *       *       *       *       *

Please remember that your letters to C. Y. P. R. U. are always to be
addressed plainly to the Postmistress. When you are reading, and you
find something which you fancy the Postmistress would like to see, take
the trouble to copy it for her. She would advise you all to keep little
note-books and pencils in your pockets, or in some convenient place, and
whenever a happy idea occurs to you, or you learn something new, make a
brief record on the spot. There is no better way than this of fixing a
fact definitely in your mind.

We call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. to the following articles in
this number as particularly designed for them:

"The Sea" (Illustrated).--The first article of a series on the "World of
Waters," by Charles Barnard.

"Sir Isaac Newton"--a biographical sketch.

A sketch of the early life of President Garfield, with portraits of his
three eldest children.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

TANGLE--(_To Cal I. Forney_).

I am an African cape. Change my head, and I become successively a
weight, an heir, to peruse, to dress, gained, yonder, a cycle, an
electrical chemical element, and a negative.

  LODESTAR.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.

DOUBLE ENIGMA.

  In binding, not in tying.
  In laughing, not in crying.
  In attraction, not in power.
  In thunder, not in shower.
  In expel, but not in banish.
  In Brazilian, not in Spanish.
  In poetic, not in rhyme.
  In duration, not in time.
  In prisons, not in towers.
  My whole two way-side flowers.

  DAME DURDEN.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.

NATURE'S CONCLUSION.--FILL UP THE BLANKS.

One ---- ---- in the early ---- mother ---- was very busy. She was ----
---- ---- ----, and thinking what she could ---- in the ---- ---- new
---- for her ----. When she ---- ---- ---- of it, she ---- that the ----
---- ---- quite ---- ----. As for ----, she said, "Nothing ---- ----
style so well ---- ---- ----." ---- is lovely in ----, and lilies ----
---- in white. The ---- rose ---- ---- ---- ---- except ----, and the
---- must ---- ---- with a ----centre and ---- ---- ---- in ---- or ----
is equally sweet, and as for ---- ----, she ---- not ---- who ----
butter, if I ---- ---- ----any other ---- ---- ----. Late in the ---- my
---- ---- delicate ---- ---- will be ---- the ---- and ---- the ----.
They may -------- ---- please. As for the ----, they always come to
---- festival in ---- and ---- petticoats. They are stiff and ---- yet I
pardon ----, for they ---- ---- ---- ----, and many -------- them.
Dearest ---- ---- ---- ---- in ---- ---- ---- will bloom after ---- ----
---- and ---- have all faded away at the ---- ---- ---- ----.

  AGNES.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.

PI.

Keta arec fo het enenpis, dan teh sudnop lilw etka arec fo hetsevselm.

  WILLIAM A. L.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 5.

ENIGMA.

  First in bake, not in fry.
  Second in cake, not in pie.
  Third in nail, not in board.
  Fourth in gun, not in sword.
  Fifth in orange, not in plum.
  Sixth in subtraction, not in sum.
  If this puzzle you shall gain,
  You will find a place in Maine.

  EDWARD E. P.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 99.

No. 1.

          D                   G
        B E D               M A R
      L A C E D           M A N E S
    B A S I L A R       M A N G L E S
  D E C I M A T E S   G A N G R E N E S
    D E L A Y E D       R E L E A S E
      D A T E S           S E N S E
        R E D               S E E
          S                   S

No. 2.

  B E A R
  E L B E
  A B L E
  R E E D

No. 3.

Spare the rod and spoil the child.

No. 4.

Babylon.

No. 5.

Cheyenne, Pechele, Mediterranean, Keweenan, Celebes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from "Phil I. Pene,"
Ashbel Green, "Queen Bess," Lizzie Webster, Grace Maynard, AUGUSTA LOW
PARKE, S. Whitlock, E. A. Cushing, Jun., Lucretia Davis, William A.
Lewis, Sadie Rubina, Harry Dietz.

       *       *       *       *       *

SENTENCE-MAKING, ON PAGE 752.--The sentences of Harry's father: The
monarch, weary of the cares of state, resolved to _abdicate_,
determining to _bequeath_ the crown to his son, for whom he had
_planned_ a life easier and more brilliant than his own. But his
_design_ was frustrated by enemies, who, in the interest of a rival
faction, were ready to _encroach_ on the royal prerogative. They did not
_foresee_ a long period of war, in which great _glory_ should be gained
by the _hero_, and during which _impassioned_ orators should place
themselves in _jeopardy_ while defending the _King_, thus earning the
_laurel_ of fame.

       *       *       *       *       *

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




[Illustration]

THE KING'S LABYRINTH.


Once upon a time an Eastern sovereign formed a labyrinth of high walls,
placed in the innermost recess (B) a large bag of gold, and invited all
the officers of the court to explore the maze, declaring that the man
who could reach the gold should have it. The Grand Vizier was the first
to attempt the task; and when, after several hours, he was rescued by a
rope let down from the top of the walls, he was so worn out that he had
to be kept in bed and fed on oatmeal gruel and gum-arabic for three
weeks. All the other court officials, from the Keeper of the King's
Umbrella down to the youngest turnspit in the kitchen, tried for the
prize; but all failed, and had to be taken out from above. Then the King
issued a proclamation calling upon any or every one of his subjects to
come and try his skill or luck, and so many persons attempted the feat
that the stones on the floor of the passages began to wear away, even
though none of the people wore anything harder than sandals.

One day a pilgrim, who was rather old, and not very sprightly, entered
the labyrinth, and not being heard from for several hours, the
attendants went in search of him, and at last found him--coolly counting
the coins in the bag of gold. Who can trace the pilgrim's steps?




THE GAME OF PERSONATION.


Any number of children may join in this game, and it may be played in
any room, or on a lawn or field. All join hands, and go around singing,
to the tune "Buy a Broom," these words: "When I was a lady, a lady, a
lady--when I was a lady, a lady was I." All then let go of hands, and
march around in single file, singing this chorus: "'Twas this way and
that way, 'twas this way and that way, 'twas this way and that way,
'twas this way and that." During the singing of the chorus each child
imitates as nearly as possible the attitudes and action of the person
denoted in the first part of the song, which is changed every time by
introducing a different character. All act together, and try to make the
various parts as funny and as distinct as they can, and each one must
look as sober as possible during the marching and acting. While they
sing about the lady they must walk with mincing steps, and hold the
dress daintily with the left hand, while the right seems to be waving a
fan, and the head is turned archly sideways. All then go around again,
joining hands in the ring, singing, "When I was a gentleman, a
gentleman, a gentleman--when I was a gentleman, a gentleman was I. 'Twas
this way and that way," etc., as before. In this, as in all the
choruses, they imitate the person, and they strut along with heads
thrown back, the forefinger and thumb of the left hand making an
eyeglass, and the right hand twirling an imaginary cane. Next they use
the word school-boy, and pretend to march slowly to school with folded
hands and unwilling steps. The teacher is denoted by holding an
imaginary book in the left and making signs with the right hand; the
pianist, by playing on imaginary keys; the shoemaker, by driving pegs
into the shoes; and the chore-woman, by kneeling down and scrubbing the
floor or ground with both hands. The grandmother goes slowly with
knitting-work in her shaking hands, and grandpa, leaning his bent form
on an imaginary cane, usually brings up the rear, and ends the long
procession.




[Illustration: "TRAIN UP A CHILD," ETC.

YOUNG LADY. "Look here, Boatman, my Sister and I can Row, but we want
somebody to Steer us."

BOATMAN. "Well, Miss, this 'ere young Gentleman might. I'm sure it's
time he knew how, by the looks of 'im!"]





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, October 11, 1881, by Various

*** 