



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

       *       *       *       *       *

VOL. III.--NO. 126. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, March 28, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration]

DOING SOMETHING.

BY ADA CARLETON.


"Something'll have to be done," said Merry; and he put his elbows on the
table, and dropped his chin into his palms.

Beside Merry's elbows stood the remains of a very scanty breakfast. The
remains were scanty too, consisting of a single roasted potato, a dish
of salt, and a bit of bread. This was all the food there was in the
little brown house by the creek where America Andrew and his mother
lived. The rent, too, was a whole quarter in arrears, and Mr. Colley,
their landlord, was beginning to screw up his lips and frown whenever he
met them.

So, with all this in mind, it was small wonder that Merry, with his
elbows on the table and his chin in his palms, decided "Something'll
have to be done!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Andrew, looking into Merry's bright face which poverty
had not been able to make a whit less plump or rosy, as if in hopes to
catch a gleam of sunshine there.

Merry saw this, for he smiled a brave, bright smile back into his
mother's faded blue eyes and care-worn face.

"Now don't you worry, mother. Summer's coming right along. Folks will be
wanting their yards cleaned up. Mrs. Quipp told me last night, you know,
if I'd clean hers up she'd have Mr. Quipp give credit for twenty-five
cents on the grocery account. I'll go now, and I'll bring you half--the
biggest half--of my dinner, sure."

With that Merry left a kiss on his mother's cheek, for he hadn't got
over showing that he loved her very dearly, and trudged away up the
hill, whistling "Bonnie Dundee" in his own merry way.

When he had left the gate a little way behind he heard the whistle of
the down train, and it occurred to him that he would go round by way of
the station and see if there wasn't a portmanteau to carry for somebody.
There was not much hope of it, since the occasional stranger which the
on-going train dropped into the sleepy old town usually preferred to
carry his own luggage. But to-day, strange to relate, a gentleman stood
on the platform with a large portmanteau in one hand, and a still larger
valise in the other.

"Hello, my man!" he called; "can you give me a lift?"

"Yes, sir," answered Merry, shouldering the portmanteau and trying to
appear as if carrying large packages were an every-day affair with him.
This one, however, happened to be very heavy, even for its size, and he
shifted it once or twice uneasily. The strange gentleman looked down at
him with a quizzical twinkle, which Merry did not see.

"Don't do that again," said a very small voice from the interior of the
portmanteau. "I've got feelings as well as other folks."

"Eh?" ejaculated Merry, gazing about in wide-eyed amazement.

"Yes, I have," pursued the small voice; "and I've a mind to punch your
head for banging me so."

Merry gave a little gasp, and stopped. He put the portmanteau down
gently, so astonished that he could not speak, because he never in all
his life had heard a ventriloquist, and this Professor Wagner happened
to be a remarkably good one.

"Well?" said the Professor, with an inquiring smile.

"I--I can't carry it," stammered Merry.

Professor Wagner laughed until his deep-set blue eyes were twinkling
like stars on a frosty night.

"Never mind," said he; "Jack sha'n't trouble you any more; so pick up
the portmanteau again, my lad. I show here to-night. Haven't you seen
the bills?"

Merry, taking up his load, began to understand. He had seen the bills.

"Was it you, sir?" he asked, doubtfully.

"I think it was," answered the Professor, who was a very kind, genial
gentleman. When they reached the hotel the Professor gave Merry a silver
quarter. Then he said, with a laugh, "I think you've earned something
more;" and he took from his pocket two sky-blue complimentary tickets.
"Bring your mother, if she'll come," said he.

But Merry's mother shook her head at sight of the sky-blue tickets; and
it was little Jack Hennessey whom one of them carried into enchanted
land--little Jack, who might otherwise as well have wished for a trip to
the moon.

How funny and fine it all was! How Merry held his breath, and clapped
his hands, and laughed aloud, by turns, in his excitement, to see his
friend the Professor pick eggs by the dozen from Mr. Colley's hat; and
follow the eggs with feathers enough for a bed; and send Mr. Quipp's
watch into Deacon Wilson's pocket, to the great discomfiture of the
Deacon, and the great enjoyment of everybody else; and perform all
manner of impossible feats with the ease of a veritable magician! And to
cap the climax of his delight, Merry heard again the small voice which
had spoken to him from the portmanteau--only now it was the very gruff
voice of a very sleepy landlord whom the Professor was vainly trying to
arouse.

Oh, it was wonderful! and Merry rehearsed it so faithfully to his mother
that she declared it was much better than seeing it herself with not
half the trouble. And he went over it all again in dreams, and his mind
was still full of it when he ran up to the hotel next morning to carry
the Professor's portmanteau to the station. The Professor, walking along
beside him, and looking down at Merry's face, laughed to see the
unfeigned admiration in the black eyes.

"Why don't you get up something of the sort," he asked, "and ask the
boys round five cents a-piece to go in? I used to earn a good many dimes
that way when I was a youngster." And when they reached the station, and
found that the train was not in, the Professor emphasized his advice by
one or two simple lessons in sleight-of-hand. "Now all you need is
practice on that," said he. "Here's my train. Good-by. Be a good boy,
and take care of your mother." And that was the last of Professor
Wagner.

But it wasn't the last of the Professor's idea, which grew and grew
until it filled Merry's head completely, and ran over at his lips when
he stopped to expend the precious thirty-five cents at Mr. Quipp's
counter on his way home. And Mr. Quipp, who might not have been
altogether disinterested, said:

"You'd better tidy up my place overhead, Merry, and use that for your
fandango. I've been wantin' it cleared out this good while."

Well, I haven't space to tell you of all the doings in all the days that
followed--how Merry, after having obtained his mother's consent to a
trial of his project, went to work with Jack Hennessey and one or two
other boys; how he soon became well skilled in a few simple
sleight-of-hand performances; how Mr. Quipp's place was tidied up, and a
little platform arranged at one end, after the Professor's model; how at
length the boy public came to understand, by means of an immense placard
printed in burnt cork, that Merry Andrew would give an entertainment, to
include speeches, recitations, sleight-of-hand tricks, and
ventriloquism, in Mr. Quipp's chamber, on the night of April 1; that the
admission price would be five cents for boys, and ten cents for grown
folks, and that if anybody _was not satisfied he should have his money
back_.

Everybody was interested, for Merry was well liked by everybody in town;
and when the first night of April came, there were not a few people in
the little room over Mr. Quipp's shop.

Merry's heart jumped into his throat, choking him, and bringing the
tears to his eyes, when he stood on the little platform behind the lamp
which Mr. Quipp had loaned for the occasion. But he went bravely through
with his simple performances--with the ring trick, and the magic coin
trick, in which a big copper could never be found when looked for, but
turned up in the most unexpected places. Then there were speeches, some
funny and some otherwise. Then there was more sleight-of-hand. And how
everybody laughed when Merry, having gained a great deal of courage,
borrowed Mr. Colley's hat, and pulled out of it a pair of stockings, a
bunch of feathers, a green silk handkerchief, and several other things.

The entertainment was pretty well concluded, but on the platform was a
box, bottom up, not more than eight inches high, but perhaps twice eight
inches square. Upon this box Merry, his eyes shining with excitement,
knocked.

"Hello, Jack," said he.

"What do you want?"

How everybody started, and leaned forward, and stared at everybody else
then!

"I want my cat," said Merry.

"I ain't got yer cat."

"Yes you have. Hear that?" and Merry turned triumphantly to his
audience, as there sounded an unmistakable "Me-ow."

"I tell you that boy's a genius," whispered Mr. Colley, excitedly, to
Mr. Quipp. "He might make a fortune. He beats Wagner all to pieces."

The mock dialogue went briskly on; and Merry's eyes sparkled as his
demand for his cat grew more and more eager, and Jack's refusal grew
more and more decided, and the cat added her voice to the general
tumult, and the whole small audience got upon its feet with a rustling,
excited murmur, and at last--

"You're a coward," cried Merry, with a great deal of make-believe anger.
"Take it up, if you dare."

Quick as a flash away went the box, and out popped, like a veritable
Jack-in-the-box, the head and shoulders of Jack Hennessey, who, getting
very much in earnest, had forgotten his part, and let his temper run
away with him.

"Take yer cat, then!" he cried, and he pulled a big black cat up through
the hole in the platform, where he was standing, and flung her at Merry.
And then, because his temper had suddenly cooled, he doubled himself
into his place again; but not before the murmur had grown into a
rushing, roaring shout, which threatened to carry Mr. Quipp's roof
completely away. And somebody called out, "Fraud!"

"It isn't fraud," cried Merry, in his loudest tone. "Jack was going to
show himself, though not so soon. It was only for fun and an April-fool.
That's why I said I'd pay back if anybody wanted me to."

But nobody wanted him to. The first day of April was a day of jokes in
Cherrythorpe. Even Mrs. Quipp, who was old enough to know better, had
given Mr. Quipp cornmeal mustard on his boiled beef for dinner; and Mrs.
Deacon Wilson had treated her family to a baked saw-dust pudding.

And Merry--surely Merry had fooled them all with his "Jack" and his cat.

"How about that fortune Merry's going to make, eh, neighbor?" cried Mr.
Quipp, clapping Mr. Colley's shoulder. "Well, well, I don't say he won't
do it some day."

Mr. Quipp was right. The little store of dimes and half-dimes helped
Merry and his mother over the hard places and into smoother ways. And
years after, when Merry's industry and genial ways had carried him
through school, and made him a great business man, the day came when the
people of the State in which he lived called him "Governor Andrew."




AN APRIL JOKE.

BY M. D. BRINE.


  Master Ned on the door-step sat,
    Busily thinking away.
  "Now what shall I plan for a clever trick
    For an April-fool to play?
  There's Tom, he's mean as a boy can be,
    And he never can pass me by
  Without a word that is rude and cross,
    And maybe a punch on the sly.

  "Some trick I'll find that'll pay him off
    And teach him a lesson too."
  So Master Ned he pondered awhile,
    Till the dimples grew and grew,
  And he laughed at last as away he ran.
    "I'll make him sorry," thought he,
  "For the many times he has done his best
    To tease and to trouble me."

  On April first, with the early dawn,
    Was found at Tommy's door
  A package tied, and "Master Tom"
    Was the only address it bore.
  "'Tis only a trick of Ned's," said Tom;
    "He owes me many a one;
  But I'll match him yet--he'd better beware--
    Before the day is done."

  Then Tom peeped in at his package. Oh,
    What a shamefaced fellow was he!
  A handsome book, and a line which read,
    "Accept this, Tom, from me."
  And this was the way in which Tom was "fooled";
    And afterward, meeting Ned,
  "Your trick has beaten all mine for good--
    Forgive me, old fellow," he said.




THE STORY OF THE OPERA.

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.


One evening toward the close of the sixteenth century, a group of
gentlemen were hurrying up the staircases and along the corridors of a
house in Florence.

They were richly dressed, according to the custom of the time. But they
were all students, all deeply absorbed in music, and they were on their
way to the salons of one Giovanni Bardi, Conte di Vernio, for the
purpose of discussing a new idea in their beloved art.

Now if we followed these gentlemen, what should we hear and see?
Something very interesting, but, from our point of view to-day, very
strange; for they were determined to develop _opera_, yet they had but
the vaguest idea how it should be done.

Opera in its present form had so far been unheard of. The only idea
these Italian gentlemen had of it was from the Greek lyrical dramas. You
know that in ancient Athens there was a famous theatre where plays were
given, accompanied by an orchestra of lyres and flutes. The chorus of
the _Agamemnon_ was sung, and some of the dialogue was given in a sort
of recitative. Then, in early English times, music, or recitatives was
introduced into the simple plays usually performed in the public
streets. People in various countries had been gifted with some
perception of the beauty of music and dialogue, but a regular opera, as
I have said, was unknown.

Our Italian gentlemen discussed this idea over and over again, and some
efforts were made to carry it out. One of these gentlemen, named
Caccini, wrote a series of songs or "pieces," which he sang at Bardi's
house one evening, accompanying himself on the lute. He had a beautiful
voice, and every one was delighted.

Little by little the idea of a musical drama gathered strength, and one
of the first performances we read of was at Mantua, in 1594, when a
curious sort of work called _L'Amfiparnasso_ was given. We who have seen
opera in its perfection would be, I am sure, highly amused could we hear
_L'Amfiparnasso_ given just as it was then.

There were five voices, no overture, and no instrumental accompaniment
of any kind. But when two singers were on the stage, the remaining three
stood behind the scenes singing a sort of accompaniment. Everybody in
Mantua was delighted, and _L'Amfiparnasso_ was a great success.

What would dear old Master Vecchio, who wrote it, have said had he
looked ahead nearly three hundred years, and seen the great Bayreuth
Festival, where Wagner's operas were produced with such a wealth of
orchestra and voices?

I think it safe to say that the first true Italian opera, on which all
others have been founded, was _Euridice_, by Peri, and this was produced
in 1600, when Henry IV. married Mary of Medicis. Several noblemen
performed in it. Behind the scenes they had a sort of orchestra: a
harpsichord, a chitarone,[1] a sort of viol, and a large lute. Three
flutes were added to this little orchestra. I have just been reading
part of the score, and it has much delicacy and spirit.

[1] A very long double-necked lute with wire strings and two sets of
tuning-pegs. An old chitarone is preserved in the South Kensington
Museum.

I have not space to tell you of the progress of the opera in Italy and
Germany and France, but it advanced steadily, and in France, where a
composer named Lulli lived in 1650, it reached a great height. Lulli had
been brought from Florence as a page at the court of Louis XIV. He
served the King's niece, Mademoiselle De Montpensier, and no doubt heard
all the finest music in her boudoir. He it was who established the opera
in France.

Among Italian composers of this early period, the man who seems to me
most interesting was Alessandro Scarlatti. He made many improvements in
the form of the opera, varying its monotony in very original ways.

Another famous Italian of the same period was Stradella, whose church
music we hear now much more than formerly. Poor Stradella's life was a
terribly sad one. He was a gentleman of great refinement, but he was not
of the highest rank, so that when he fell in love with one of his
pupils, whose rank was above his, there was a great deal of excitement
over it in Venice. Stradella married his fair pupil, and for some years
led a life of terror, as assassins pursued him. Once, we are told, three
of these men, hired to kill him, followed him to the Church of St. John,
in Rome, where he was to sing, and there, listening to his heavenly
voice, their purpose changed. His music took away all their
blood-thirsty feelings. But he was not destined to escape the vengeance
of his wife's friends. In Genoa, after repeated attempts on Stradella's
life, he and his wife were both cruelly stabbed to death, the assassins
escaping. Stradella was only in his thirtieth year, but he had written
some of the finest music in Italy.

I could tell you much of the rise and progress of opera in England, but
in our short space must group a few facts about some one centre. The
English seemed from very early times to delight in combining music with
dialogue. They used, as I have said, to give performances in the public
streets. The singers stood in large carts, around which crowds of people
collected. With all their grotesqueness and absurdity there was a
dignity about them which impressed their rude audiences.

[Illustration]

In 1658 was born in London a boy named Henry Purcell. Music seemed to
grow with him. When he was very young he was put into the choir school
at Westminster Abbey, and it was only the other day I was standing in
the old school-room where the boy Purcell sat, and looking at a quaint
old picture of him which hangs upon the wall.

The Westminster boys were taught music very fairly by old Cook and
Humphries. It must have been a cheerful life. To-day the school has been
enlarged and beautified, but even then it surely possessed the charm of
peace, and yet great harmonies, for it stands almost in the shelter of
the Abbey, and all day long the boys had the dear old cloisters to run
about in, and twice a day they listened to glorious music on the organ.
Purcell grew full of musical fire, and when he was eighteen he was
appointed organist of the great Abbey. He wrote constantly--catches,
glees, songs, and hymns, which to this day are listened to and sung with
delight.

It was when Purcell was about nineteen that he one day received an
invitation from a school-master to call, on musical business, at his
house in Chelsea. Thither he went. He found a young ladies' school, and
an energetic master who wished his pupils to perform something operatic.
So Purcell wrote the music, and Tate the words, of _Dido and Æneas_, a
little operetta, in which he himself performed, and which was so
successful that henceforth he wrote chiefly for the stage.

But all the time everybody in London was singing or playing his glees
and madrigals. In Westminster was a famous old tavern known as Purcell's
Head, and clubs used to meet there to sing his music. Meanwhile we can
fancy Milton as a youth playing his most solemn music in that quaint
room of his with its faded hangings and grand organ, and at the theatre
elaborate performances of _The Tempest_, _The Indian Queen_, and other
plays, to which was added "Mr. Purcell's musicke."

Those were rollicking and riotous times. Purcell's sweet music seems to
come in with some feeling of soothing sounds, but had the times been
better, he would have done more, I am sure, in his noblest direction.
Everything at court and around it was careless and reckless. Dryden, the
poet, who wrote many of the plays for which Purcell furnished music,
bitterly regretted when he was older that he had wasted so much time
amusing an ungodly people. Purcell seems only to have thought of his
music, and certainly at this date, two hundred years after his death,
his sweetness and charm are as strongly felt. In 1695 he died, and his
tomb is in the Abbey where his childish feet so often passed and
repassed, and beneath the organ where he so often played in his most
innocent and most happy years.

Opera seems from the end of the seventeenth century to have gone on
gaining new force and beauty in every country, and to-day it is supposed
by some critics to have attained its highest form in Wagner's music. I
fear those eager Italian gentlemen who used to meet in Conte Vernio's
brilliant rooms would be very much alarmed by some of the German operas
of to-day, and I own that, with all love of Wagner's great music, there
is a peculiar charm in the old airs of operas which people try to scoff
at now. Ten minutes ago an organ-grinder stopped under my window and
began droning out "Ai nostri morte," that sweet air in Verdi's
_Trovatore_, and I felt as if it was very near the Italy of the
seventeenth century. But this must not make you think that Wagner has
not science and strength and the utmost beauty on his side.




[Illustration: WHAT THE SPRING BROUGHT TO LITTLE LAME ELSIE.]




THE TALKING LEAVES.[2]

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

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER XXV.


Among the number of persons who had wondered "what had become of those
miners," no one had so much as guessed at the exact truth, although
Murray had come nearer to it than anybody else.

That sunrise found them, as they thought, once for all, safe within the
boundary of the "foreign country," where no one would ask them any ugly
questions about the stolen gold they had brought there. In fact, the
first thing they did after finishing their hearty breakfast of fresh
beef was to "unpack themselves." Every man was anxious to know if he had
lost anything on the way. It seemed as if they all spoke together when
they tried to express their regret at having been compelled to leave any
of their treasure behind.

"No use to think of going back for it now, boys. Some day we'll take
another look at that mine, but there won't be a thing worth going for in
that wagon."

"What do ye mean to do next, Cap?" asked Bill.

"I told you before. Give our horses a chance to feed, and then push
right on. We can afford to use 'em all up now. Three days of hard
riding'll carry us out of harm's way."

"And then we can go jest whar we please."

There was a wonderful deal of comfort in that for men who had been
"running away" so long as they had, and over so very rough a country.

It was not long before the stern summons of Captain Skinner called them
to mount once more, and they were all ready to obey. All their troubles,
they thought, were behind them, and they cared very little for those of
the country they had gotten into. It was impossible, however, not to
think and talk about the Apaches, and to "wonder how the Lipans came out
of their attack on that village."

Captain Skinner's comment was: "I don't reckon a great many of 'em came
out at all. The chances were against them. Old Two Knives made a mistake
for once, and I shouldn't wonder he'd had to pay for it."

Well, so he had, but not so heavily as the Captain imagined. At that
very moment he was leading through the homeward pass just about half of
his original war party, all that "had come out of the attack on that
village."

The village itself was in a high state of fermentation that morning.
There was mourning in some of the lodges over braves who had fallen in
that brief, sharp battle with the Lipans, but there were only five of
these in all, so great had been the advantage of superior numbers in the
fight, and of holding the ground of it afterward.

The bitterest disgrace of To-la-go-to-de and his warriors had been their
failure to carry off the bodies of their friends who had fallen.

At least twenty of the Apaches had been more or less wounded, and every
man of them was as proud of it as a school-boy who has been "promoted."
A scar received in battle is a badge of honor to an Indian warrior, and
he is apt to make a show of it on every fair opportunity.

There was no need, therefore, of throwing away any pity on those who had
been cut by the lances or "barked" by the bullets of the Lipans. Red
Wolf himself had concealed a smart scar of a lance thrust along his left
side, for fear he might be forbidden to go on that second war-path. Even
now he refused to consider it as amounting to anything, and his sister's
face glowed with family pride as she said to Rita:

"Red Wolf is a true Apache. He is a warrior already. He will be a great
chief some day. Knotted Cord is white. He has no scars. He has never
been on a war-path."

She was speaking in her brother's hearing, and Steve was at no great
distance, at that very moment, talking in a low, earnest tone with
Murray.

Their conversation could not be overheard by their friends, but it must
have been of more than a little importance, to judge by the expressions
that came and went upon their faces. Dolores was busy at the camp fire,
as usual, with her frying-pan, and they were looking at her.

"How old do you think she is, Steve?"

"It's hard to guess, Murray. Maybe she's forty-five."

"She is not much above thirty. The Mexican women grow old sooner than
white ones. She was not much above twenty when she cooked for my miners
on the Santa Rita mine."

"Do you feel perfectly sure about that?"

"I've watched her. There's no doubt left in my mind. Still, I may ask
her a few more questions. Then there is one thing more I want to make
sure of."

"Will it keep us here long?"

"It may keep me, Steve."

"Then it will keep me, Murray. You will need me if you have anything on
hand. I am anxious enough to get off, but I will not leave you behind.
I'll stay and help."

Murray held out his hand. "It's a fact, Steve. I may need all the help
you can give."

"Take care. Here comes Many Bears himself and two of his cunningest old
councillors."

"More advice wanted," thought Murray; but it was not asked for so soon
as he expected. Many Bears had something very heavy on his mind that
morning, and in order to get rid of it he had to tell the whole story of
the buffalo hunt his band had made away beyond the mountains, and into
the country claimed by the Lipans. That was the way they came to be
followed so closely by Two Knives and his warriors.

Murray and Steve listened closely, for the chief spoke in very good
Mexican-Spanish most of the time, and they both understood him. Then
came the story of the return through the pass, and it wound up with the
finding of the Talking Leaves by Rita.

"Send Warning knows the rest."

"No," said Murray, "I have not seen the Talking Leaves."

"Great medicine. Tell Apache chief about miners. Tell about old fight.
Tell about blue-coat soldiers come and where go. Tell about big talk and
treaty and presents. Many Bears want to hear more."

"Ask young squaw."

"Can't hear all. Send Warning listen. Say what he hears."

"All right. Bring young squaw."

Ni-ha-be and Rita were near enough to hear, and the latter at once
darted into the lodge for her treasures. She was gone but a moment, and
her whole body seemed to glow and tremble with excitement as she held
out the three magazines to Murray.

"Take one, Steve. You haven't forgotten your reading, have you?"

"Send Warning hear leaves," said Many Bears, anxiously. "The Knotted
Cord is young."

"He is white. He can hear. The great chief will listen."

"There, Murray," said Steve, "the chief was right. There's a picture of
cavalry. All the others he spoke of are here. Here is the picture of the
big talk and the treaty."

"Here is the mining fight--" And just there Murray paused, as if he
could say no more, and the Indians looked at him in undisguised
astonishment. His breast was heaving, his lips were quivering, and the
hands that held the magazine were trembling as if their owner had an
ague fit.

"What find?" exclaimed Many Bears. "Is it bad medicine?"

It was some seconds before Murray could trust himself to speak, but he
was thinking very fast.

"The Talking Leaves have told Many Bears the truth. Now Send Warning is
troubled in his mind."

They could all see that, and it made them not a little anxious.

"What want? What do?"

"Go into lodge with young squaw. Knotted Cord stay and talk with Apache
chief. Nobody come into lodge. Take a little time. Then tell what hear."

It was an unusual request, but there could be no objection, in view of
the fact that there was "great medicine" to be looked into. An Indian
conjurer always required the absence of all observers for the
performance of his most important jugglery. It was at once decided that
Send Warning should have his way. Rita listened, pale and serious, while
Ni-ha-be looked on in jealous amazement.

"I am an Apache girl. Why can he not teach me to hear the Talking
Leaves?"

No doubt he could have done so, if she would have given him plenty of
time, and been willing to begin with A B C, as Rita had done long years
before.

How should all that A B C business have come back to her as it did when
she found herself alone in her lodge with that white-headed old
pale-face warrior?

Not a human eye was looking upon them, but Rita had suddenly covered her
face with her hands.

"Speak," she said, earnestly. "I remember better when I do not see."

She was talking English, just as he had done, only more slowly, and
almost as if it hurt her.

"I will read the first word, dear. Then you may spell it. M-i-n-e, mine.
That means a gold mine, like ours, dear. Spell it, Rita, my darling!"

"Our mine?--darling? Oh, if I could see my father!"

Murray sprang to his feet as if he were a boy. His mouth opened and
closed as if he were keeping back a great shout, and the tears came
pouring down over his cheeks.

[Illustration: "RITA, RITA, MY DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER!"]

"Rita! Rita! My dear little daughter! Here I am!"

"Father!"

His arms were around her now, and he was kissing her almost frantically.

Slowly she opened her eyes. "I know it is you when you speak, and when
my eyes are shut. When I open them, you are very old. My father was
young and handsome. His hair was not white."

"Rita darling, it has been just as white as it is now ever since the
morning after I came home and found that the Apaches had carried you
away. They killed your mother, and I heard that they had killed you too.
I have been an old man ever since, but I think I shall grow young again
now."

Time was precious. They could only spare enough for a few hurried
questions and answers, and Murray glanced rapidly over the pages of the
three magazines.

"Let me take them," he said. "I would like to read them carefully. I
shall know what to say to the chief. You must not let anybody know I am
your father. Not until the right time comes."

"Oh, why not?"

"Because the Apaches would know then that I am their enemy, and have
good reason to be. Even if they did not kill me at once, they would not
trust me, and I want them to do that. It is my only hope of carrying you
away with me. Stay here in the lodge until you are sure your face will
not betray you."

She had been crying more copiously than her father, and that would have
been a thing to be explained to Ni-ha-be and Dolores.

Rita therefore remained in the lodge, while Murray with a great effort
recovered his usual calm self-control, and walked slowly and dignifiedly
out. He needed to put on all the dignity he was master of for his heart
was thump, thumping against his ribs, and his brain was in a whirl as to
when and how he should be able to claim and carry off the great treasure
he had found.

Treasure?

The Buckhorn Mine, piled mountain high with twenty-dollar pieces, was
nothing to it.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




[Illustration]

"RAILWAY JACK."


About three years ago, a rather large dog of the fox-terrier variety
entered the guard's carriage of a train that was just starting from
Brighton, England, for Horsham station. He had no ticket, and did not
explain his business; but the guard seeing that he was a respectable dog
decided to let him ride free.

From that day to this the dog, who is now well known all over England by
the name of "Railway Jack," has constantly travelled on railway trains.
For the first year or two he confined himself strictly to the trains of
the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway.

This road has a great many branches, and a great many trains run over it
every day, but Jack knew the time-table perfectly, and never troubled
the ticket agents by asking them, "How can I go to such and such a
place?" or "When does the next train start?" He took lodgings in a
waste-paper basket in the station-house at Lewes station, and wherever
he went he never failed to catch the last train from Brighton to Lewes.

It was at first believed that Jack travelled in connection with some
private business of his own; that he was, for example, engaged in
organizing a "United Terriers' Society for the Destruction of Rats," or
was an agent for some "Co-operative Bone Store," that proposed to supply
dogs with the best quality of bones at less than ordinary prices. It was
soon found, however, that he was engaged in inspecting the railway.

While on the train he sat close to the window, and carefully watched to
see if there were any signs that the embankments at the side of the
track were out of order, or that the bridges needed repairs. He would
stop at a station, and inspect the switches and the signals, and would
then take the next train for some other station, where he would inspect
the eating-room and test the quality of the food. It was thus very
evident that he had appointed himself Inspector of the London, Brighton,
and South Coast Railway, and every one connected with the company
recognized him as a faithful and efficient officer.

One day a lady presented him with a collar with the inscription, "I am
Jack, the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway dog. Please give me
a drink of water. This collar was presented by Mrs. J. P. Knight,
Brockley." Jack seemed to feel that in gratitude for this present he
ought to increase his labors. He therefore made a practice of taking
frequent trips all over England to see if he could discover anything in
the management of other railways which he could recommend his own
railway company to copy. Sometimes he went as far as Scotland, and on
one occasion when he visited London, and went to the Isle of Dogs to see
if there was any good reason for its name, he lost his way, and was
absent for some weeks.

A few days after he had been found and brought back to the railway, one
of the men employed by the company died, and was buried at Hastings. On
the day of the funeral, Jack arrived by the noon train, and went to the
church, where he reverently listened to the funeral service, and then
followed the coffin to the grave. He also attended the funeral of
another railway servant at Lewes, and showed that he felt that the
company had sustained a powerful loss.

A short time ago Jack met with a serious accident, which very nearly
proved fatal. He was crossing the track late one evening at one of the
stations of his own railway, when he slipped and fell just as a train
rushed by, crushing one of his fore-legs. He was carried home to Lewes,
where chloroform was given to him, and his leg was cut off close to the
shoulder. There is no doubt that he was a little careless in crossing
the track when a train was approaching; but although he had just
returned from attending a wedding at Berwick, Scotland, it is admitted
by every one that he was perfectly sober.

Jack bore the loss of his leg very well; but a day or two afterward he
took off the bandages while his nurse was absent from the room, and very
nearly bled to death before he could receive proper attention. Since
then he has steadily improved, although his anxiety to return to duty
has made him a little feverish at times. The fact that no accident has
occurred on the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway since he was
injured has been a great consolation to him, and he feels that it is due
to the thorough way in which his work of inspection has been done.

Hereafter poor Jack will have to limp on three legs, for nobody has yet
invented artificial legs for dogs. He will, however, be able to do his
work, and will undoubtedly be more careful in avoiding danger than he
was before the accident. His photograph--the one from which the picture
in this number of YOUNG PEOPLE was taken--is considered to be an
excellent one, and though it can not be called a beautiful picture, it
is the portrait of an upright, faithful, and universally respected dog.




PEOPLE WE HEAR ABOUT.

BISMARCK.


The first day of April--"All-Fools' Day"--is the birthday of one who has
done more to change the map of Europe than any man now living.

Otto von Bismarck was born in 1815, the year of the battle of Waterloo.
When quite a little fellow he was sent away to boarding-school. The boys
were badly fed and strictly ruled, and the lad who, many years
afterward, was called "the man of blood and iron" was a "home boy," and
did not like school. At the university, however, he seems to have
overcome his gentleness in some degree, for he was always in mischief,
and very popular.

It is not until he is thirty-three years old that we find him in public
life as a member of the Prussian Diet, or parliament. His sympathies
were with the King as against the people, because he thought that
Germany could only exist as a kingdom. Of course his views on this
subject brought him plenty of enemies. He complains in a letter to his
wife that he is "famous, but not popular." On two occasions he has been
shot at and wounded, and the first of these would-be assassins he seized
with his own hands, gave him into charge of the police, and then
returned home to a dinner party in his own house.

Though Bismarck is a statesman by profession, and not a soldier, he has
seen much of war. The short but decisive campaign between Prussia and
Austria in 1866 was Bismarck's doing, and his forethought hastened on
the great war between France and Germany in 1870, for he knew that the
Germans would win.

In 1871, Count von Bismarck was appointed Chancellor of the German
Empire, and created a Prince. No man in Europe wields greater power than
he, and yet in his tastes he is extremely simple, being fond of country
life and sports.




[Illustration]

THE MOTH DANCE.


  Little moth maidens, stop in your flight:
  Where did you come from out of the night?
  Why do you never come in the day,
  Like the dear butterflies? Where do you stay?

  Little moth maidens, look to your wings:
  Candles are pretty but dangerous things.
  Waltzing so airily round and around,
  Where could two daintier coquettes be found?

  Silly moth maidens, why so unwise?
  Have you no sense, then--nothing but eyes?
  Beating the mirror, fanning the flame,
  Blinded and dying, and--who is to blame?




APRIL-FOOLS' DAY.


For a longer time than any one can remember, the 1st of April has been
known as April-fools' Day, but why, no one seems to know. In old times,
April-fooling was quite a serious thing; and people were made so
uncomfortable by senseless jokes that they went out of fashion. It is a
very poor kind of enjoyment that consists in giving pain to others, and
telling untruths besides; and sport of this kind is always carried too
far.

But on one occasion, in France, the well-known practices of April-fools'
Day were the means of saving the lives of a noble couple. The Duke and
Duchess of Lorraine, who were prisoners at Nantes, made their escape
merely because it was the 1st of April, when every one was trying to
send his neighbor on some ridiculous errand.

The story reads that the Duke and his wife disguised themselves as
peasants, the gentleman carrying a hod on his noble shoulder as
naturally as possible, while the elegant court lady had a basket of
rubbish bound fast to her back. At a very early hour in the morning of
April-fools' Day they passed through the city gates. But early as it
was, a woman who knew them by sight happened to meet them, and she
hurried off to the guard to give notice that the Duke and Duchess were
escaping in disguise.

The soldier, however, remembered the day of the month, and he was not to
be taken in so easily. "April-fool!" was the only answer he made to the
excited woman, and then all the guard shouted "April-fool!" and the
messenger was laughed at for her pains. Finally the story came, as a
good joke, to the Governor's ears, and he thought it just as well to
inquire into the matter. By this time the Duke and Duchess were quite
out of reach, and a great many men had made fools of themselves in their
anxiety not to let any one else do it for them.

The April-fool is not confined to any one land or any one language. In
Scotland he is called the "April-gowk," and in France the "Poisson
d'Avril" (April-fish). Sweden has her April-fools, for a great Swedish
traveller named Toreen writes, "We set sail on the 1st of April, and the
wind made April-fools of us." In fact, each and every country seems to
have had its idea of giving one day at least to the business of being
foolish, or making other people so. In Spain people play the fool in
various ways on the Sunday and Monday preceding the holy season of Lent.
Before very long, however, all April-fooling in civilized countries will
probably be a thing of the past. As the world grows older, and people
learn wisdom and common-sense, they discover so many better and more
reasonable ways of enjoying themselves that such ridiculous practices
are given up by common consent.

A very old legend of an instance in which folly served a good purpose is
that of the "wise fools of Gotham," though it will hardly do to place
too much confidence in its truth. Gotham was a village in England that
fell under the displeasure of King John, who sent messengers to inquire
into their conduct in preventing him from passing that way.

Being afraid of punishment, the people concluded to act like fools, to
excuse themselves; and the King's messengers found them employed in all
sorts of ridiculous ways. Some were trying to drown an eel in a pond,
some were dragging their carts and wagons to the top of a barn to shade
a wood from the sun, some were rolling cheeses down a hill to find their
way to market, and some were hedging in a cuckoo that had perched upon a
bush, as though he couldn't fly off at the top.

The report taken back to the King was that none but fools lived in
Gotham, and fools were of course unworthy of a king's notice. But they
thought themselves wise, and so came to be called "the wise fools of
Gotham."




[Illustration: "Spring, the sweet Spring, is the King of the
Year."--_Nash_.]




[Illustration]

THE TITMOUSE FAMILY.


A small bird, with a grayish-white head, black wings, and a dull brown
coat, a soft puffy little creature, may be found at all seasons hopping
merrily about in the hedge-rows and orchards of England and France.

It is known as the long-tailed titmouse, and is one of the most
remarkable members of the great titmouse family, which numbers more than
eighty-seven varieties.

Its nest is a wonderful specimen of bird-architecture. The little birds
work industriously, and at the end of fifteen days the beautiful home is
finished and ready to receive the small speckled eggs. The nest is
fastened to twigs covered with thick foliage, and a location near a
small water-course is usually selected. It is shaped like a large egg.
The little round door is at one side near the top, and some nests have
been found with a similar opening on the other side, lower down. As the
birds can not speak and explain this freak in the construction of their
house, the reason has never been found out. Some naturalists think it is
for better ventilation.

To weave its nest the bird collects bits of wood, soft moss, and the
strong silken winding of certain cocoons, which it twists together in
thick impenetrable walls, within which its little ones may lie secure
from rain and storm and cold. The exterior of the nest is artistically
covered with beautiful lichens and bits of soft bark, which make it in
color and outward texture so much like the branches to which it is
secured that a very sharp eye is needed to distinguish it.

When the little house is complete, it is furnished with a soft thick bed
of downy feathers, and the mother begins to brood over seven or eight
little rose-white eggs delicately specked with red.

These long-tailed titmice are the most faithful of all bird-parents.
They keep their children near them until they are a year old, and as two
broods are born during the warm weather, with seven or eight in each
brood, a whole titmouse family--papa, mamma, and as many as sixteen
little ones--may often be seen hopping about together and scouring the
hedges in search of food.

They are ravenous little creatures, and always hunting from morning till
night, and as they are very sociable, they go in large flocks,
twittering and chirping gleefully as they spy a swarm of fat flies, or
discover among old stone heaps or in the bark of trees the hiding-places
where tiny worms are lying asleep in a chrysalis shroud. They will also
eat beech-nuts, acorns, hemp, and other oily seeds.

English boys call these birds tomtits, and consider them the most
impertinent of all the feathered inhabitants of the country; for small
and graceful as they are, there are few birds which possess such a
violent temper or such cruel instincts. They will fight furiously with
each other for the possession of a plump insect or some other dainty
morsel, and--sad to relate--they show no mercy toward a poor wounded or
sick bird. No matter whether it is one of their own kind or of some
other species, the titmice set upon it and kill it with sharp blows from
their strong little beaks. When it is dead, they pick open its skull and
eat its brains.

In France titmice are often captured in snares, but unless the specimen
is very young, it will make a savage attack on the hands of the hunter
who takes it from the net. It is not difficult to tame them. They make
very wise and amusing pets, and if allowed to fly about will quickly
clear a room of flies and mosquitoes. But they should never be put in a
cage with other birds, for they will harass and worry them to death.

Titmice are very useful inhabitants of gardens and orchards, as they
wage continual war on all kinds of saw-flies and other small insects,
which do much injury to fruit-bearing trees and shrubs, and a wise
gardener will allow the saucy tomtit full liberty to hop and jump about
in search of a breakfast for himself and his numerous family.

In the United States ten varieties of titmice have been found, and there
are no doubt more. The most familiar among them is the chickadee, which
may be heard any sunny day during our long northern winter trilling its
merry chickadee-dee-dee in the fields and woods. It is one of the few
birds that remain with us during the entire year, and is always the same
lively, blithe little creature.




HARE AND HOUNDS.

NED MORNINGSTAR'S STORY.

BY M. EYTINGE.


This ain't much of a story, only you fellows say I've got to tell
something, and I can't think of anything else.

Harry Hunter was the one that first started the game. He came there just
after Professor Weston had taken Merrit's place in the academy. He was a
first-rate fellow, and a reg'lar out-and-out Englisher. He didn't really
drop his h's, but it suited us to pretend he did, 'cause some English
fellows do, you know.

Ben Price--he's near-sighted--came in one Monday morning with two pairs
of eyeglasses on his nose, one pair over the other, and he looked under
all the desks and into every corner.

"What ever are you looking for?" says Hunter.

"Some of those h's you dropped last week," says Price. "I'm afraid we
won't have enough for this week's lessons if we don't find a few of
'em."

"No fear of that," says I. "Harry picks 'em all up as he goes along, and
hangs them on to all sorts of words wherever they'll fit handy."

One thing about Hunter was he never got mad when he was chaffed, but
just laughed with the rest of us.

But the riddle he gave us one recess when we were guessing conundrums
and things!--it was just awful. "Why is that dog," he asked, "that I
just saw run up the road, like an article in general use in country
places after night-fall?" And when we all shook our heads, says he, as
grave as a judge, "Because he is the cur-I-seen." Well, I rolled off my
seat at that. It certainly was the worst conundrum I ever heard.

Well, Harry taught us how to play Hare and Hounds.

"An Irish game, I suppose," says Charley Bennet. "It sounds very like
something I've heard our gardener say, and he's just over from the 'gem
of the sea.'"

"No gem of the sea about it," says Hunter. "It belongs to merry old
England."

Hare and Hounds is the correct thing. S'pose most of you fellows know
it, but I'll explain if there's any that don't. You see we take pieces
of rather thick paper--tearing up old copy-books and compositions is the
best, 'cause thin paper would fly too much. That's for the scent. Then
the hare stuffs his pockets, or a little bag he carries slung over his
left shoulder, and away he starts, dropping a handful here and a handful
there, and the rest of the boys--the hounds, you know--follow him by the
scent, and catch him if they can. They're bound to follow wherever he
leads, and he darts behind trees, and doubles, and does all sorts of
things to put them off his track. If they don't catch him, he wins, and
the hounds all sit down in a row and bark mournfully. Roy Wheeler added
the mournful bark part. Harry Hunter and I were the best hares in
school, and the hounds used to find it awful hard to catch us.

Well, we'd played it half a dozen times, and had high old fun, when one
day we had a holiday (a half-holiday, I mean) 'cause--but I won't say
any more on that subject; that's Al Smith's story--and all the other
fellows had cut and run as soon as they'd had their dinner, but I staid
behind to finish some Latin exercises. Hen Rowe was getting ahead of me,
and the Professor and Mrs. Weston were out in the strawberry patch. And
when I was through I started off to join the boys, and just got to the
gate, when the Professor called me back and asked me if I would carry a
basket of berries to the little lame boy that lived in Cedar Lane.

Well, it was quite a distance beyond the place where the fellows were to
wait for me, and I was a quarter of an hour behind time now. But I
didn't think of that a minute, for there never was a better master than
ours, and I'd 'a given him the whole afternoon if he'd wanted it. So I
says, "Yes, sir, with pleasure," and I takes the basket, and then I
suddenly remembered that the cobbler lived in Cedar Lane too, and my
best shoes wanted half-soling, and I went to my room and got 'em, and
was a-going out of the gate once more, when Professor Weston calls out
again, "Morningstar," and comes down the path.

"Tell the boys not to play Hare and Hounds to-day. Some of the farmers
have sent complaints here by Michael Snow, and Snow himself says his
early pease were all trodden down. He has just gone, and I promised
there should be no more trouble of the kind. If the boys have commenced
playing, stop them as soon as you can. And we'll talk over the matter
to-morrow; for it's a fine game, and I don't want to stop it altogether.
In fact, I think of joining in myself some day, but we must manage to
avoid annoying our neighbors."

"You can depend upon me, sir," says I; and off I starts again, basket of
strawberries on one arm and shoes under the other. When I got almost to
Michael Snow's grounds I saw the boys standing in a crowd round Harry
Hunter under the big tree outside of the fence. Hunter was just
strapping the bag of papers under his left arm--the bag meant a good
long run; pockets, a short one--and when they caught sight of me they
set up a shout like a pack of wild Indians.

"Hi! hello! here's Morningstar. Now look out for yourself, Mr. Hare."

"He won't catch me to-day, I bet," says Harry. "Rule Britannia, and
Rowell forever!" and off he goes.

Down went the strawberries and shoes under the tree.

"Hail, Columbia! and Yankee Doodle! and Fourth of July!" I yelled, and
away I go after him, and all the rest after me.

Over Snow's fence vaults Harry, and over it the hounds vault too.
Through the apple orchard, down to the bean patch, in and out among the
bean poles, behind the barn, over a pile of empty flower-pots--and such
a smash!--until the other end of the farm was reached, where there was a
stone wall, but some of the stones had fallen in one place near the
ground, and left quite a big hole. The hare flattened himself as flat as
a pancake, and was on the other side in a jiffy. And I flattened myself,
wondering why the other fellows had stopped a-hollering behind me, and I
was half-way under, when somebody grabbed me by the heels and jerked me
out again, and in another minute I was standing before Michael Snow and
Professor Weston. All of a sudden--it had gone clean out of my head
until then--I remembered I had promised the Professor.

"_Upon my word and honor_, sir," said I, looking straight into his
eyes--he's got awful nice eyes, only kind of stern sometimes, and this
was one of the times--with a cold shiver running down my back, "I
forgot. They were just starting as I came along, and Harry Hunter
hurrahed for 'Britannia and Rowell,' and I hurrahed for 'Hail,
Columbia.'"

"And 'Yankee Doodle, and Fourth of July,'" says Snow, with a grin, and
the Professor's eyes began to twinkle.

"You needn't say any more, Morningstar," says he, "for I know when one
of my boys gives his word of honor he is telling nothing but the truth.
But your memory must have a lesson. It needs cultivating. Go back to the
school-room. I will arrange matters with Mr. Snow, and be there in half
an hour."

Back I went, feeling bad enough, to the tree where I'd left the berries
and shoes. Jerry O'Neill was sprawling on the grass--he's the fellow
that eats everything he can get hold of, you know--and he handed me the
empty basket. "I ate 'em," says he; "I thought they was yours, and you
wouldn't mind." The shoes were gone. "I guess a tramp I met took 'em,"
says Jerry. "He had a bundle sticking out of one of his coat pockets."

When the Professor came in he told the boys himself what I had promised
to tell them, and then he said: "I'm sorry to punish Morningstar, but,
as I told him a short time ago, his memory needs a lesson. And so I
shall be obliged to ask him to go every play-hour to Michael Snow's
grounds and give him his services, until such time as Snow shall
consider himself repaid for the damage done to-day."

"Oh, I say now, that won't do at all," blurts out Harry Hunter, turning
very red, "I beg pardon, sir, but what I'd like to say is this:
Morningstar forgot his promise in his wish to uphold the honor of his
country, sir--"

"And we'll all go with him this very afternoon, sir," says Walt Ray,
"with your permission, and by night-fall the Snow place will be as good
as ever."

"And we'll pay for the broken flower-pots, sir," says little Al
Smith--the best little chap in the world--can't bear to see any one
punished.

The Professor smiled. That was enough. We all smiled, and then we gave
him a rousing cheer, and rushed down to Snow's.

Snow wasn't half bad. He laughed right out when he saw us coming, and in
less than two hours, we'd done all the work he said _he_ wanted us to
do, and were eating fresh-baked gingerbread--Mrs. Snow made it--and
drinking milk in the barn. Jerry O'Neill ate so much that he had awful
dreams that night--thought a whole procession of elephants was walking
over him.

And I've never forgotten a promise since that Hare-and-Hounds day. It
was the best lesson _my_ memory ever got.




HOW TO MAKE A MAGIC LANTERN.


After the lens has once been procured, which may be purchased from any
optician, the price ranging from fifty cents upward, according to the
size and quality of the glass, a magic lantern may be constructed out of
a few simple materials by an ingenious boy.

Procure from a tinman several sheets of tin and a small piece of tin
pipe, into which the lens will fit nicely. Then go to work with a
soldering-iron and construct a square box, the dimensions of which may
be a foot or a foot and a half each way. There must be a round opening
on one side into which the pipe holding the lens is fitted, a door at
the back to admit a lamp, and a hole in the top for a chimney. A
reflector fits in the opposite side to the door, and can be drawn
forward at pleasure; and a space is left to allow the introduction of
the slides.

The room, when prepared for exhibiting, must be entirely darkened, and
the slides, are then slipped in, upside down. The lens brilliantly
reflects and magnifies the figures, previously painted on the glass,
on to a white sheet suspended from the ceiling. Thus any
subjects--landscapes, figures, or animals--become enlarged, according to
the distance the lantern is removed from the sheet, and the size and
quality of the lens.

Now for the slides. These require some artistic talent, but not a vast
amount. If a youth has a vein of comic talent, it will add to the fun,
or he may easily procure prints from which to copy. Some, however,
prefer scenery, natural objects, etc., all of which, if well painted,
show well in the magic lantern.

First procure the glass, cut to the size required, so that it will slip
easily into the opening in the lantern; then trace the outline, after
having the colors ready, which can be purchased of any artists'
colorman.

Observe that the dry colors must be ground very fine, and mixed with
spirits of turpentine, and worked in with mastic varnish. Especial care
must be taken that enough varnish be used to moisten the color
sufficiently, and prevent its being limpy while working on the glass;
also great judgment is necessary in laying on the colors, as they ought
to be as transparent as possible.

In the event of the picture being humorous and a part of it movable, the
latter must be managed by a long slip of glass affixed to the slide,
previously framed round--for instance, a barber shaving a man. The whole
of the painting should be executed on the slide, except the barber's
arm, which must be traced and  on the narrow slip, and then
arranged so as to complete the figure. This is easily done, by the slip
fastening into the frame. Then by a quick movement of the narrow piece
of glass, backward and forward, while exhibiting, an appearance of
reality is given, and the operation of shaving is successfully
performed.




PUNCHINELLO.

HIS EXTRAORDINARY LIFE AND MARVELLOUS ADVENTURES.


III.

[Illustration]

The next day, early in the morning, Punchinello came on deck to see the
sun rise.

"A storm is rising," he announced.

The Captain laughed at Punchinello's prediction, and so did the crew.

But suddenly the sky became black, the waves grew larger, and the ship
commenced to roll dangerously.

"I told you, sir, that you would be drowned," said Punchinello.

The Captain, furious, instead of attending to the management of his
ship, thought only of revenging himself on Punchinello.

"You scoundrel!" cried he, "if I am going to be drowned, you shall be so
first."

[Illustration]

Immediately poor Punchinello was lifted up and held between the sky and
the sea. But even in this terrible situation he did not lose his
presence of mind.

"Mercy on you, my good people!" said he. "You will not have long to
rejoice over my death, for I see some one coming who will avenge me."

All eyes were turned in the direction which Punchinello indicated. About
a mile off, the fire of the cannons of a Turkish pirate ship was to be
seen.

"Horror upon horrors!" screamed the Captain, "we shall all be killed."
So saying, he rolled about the deck, weeping.

"As I happen to know the Turkish language perfectly," said Punchinello,
"I shall be able to save you." He then withdrew to his cabin, and
dressed himself like a Turk, which gave him the most extraordinary
appearance you can imagine. This done, he saturated his garments with a
strong and disagreeable odor that he had obtained from the juice of a
sickly plant.

[Illustration]

In this guise did he approach the Turkish vessel, and was hoisted on
board. At the sight of this mountebank, or on account of the horrible
odor, the pirates showed much surprise, and could not resist holding
their noses.

"It really is nothing," said Punchinello. "Friend Pasha, I have come
from that miserable Spanish ship, which I trust you will soon take
possession of."

"But," interrupted the Pasha, "Brother Hunchback, what ever is this
dreadful smell?"

"It is nothing, my lord," replied Punchinello. "A number of the men on
the Spanish vessel are ill. The physician has said that it might be the
plague. Thus we use these ill-smelling things to protect us from the
disease."

"The plague!" roared the Pasha, rising hastily. "The wretch has the
plague. Throw him into his boat. Let us get away as fast as we can.
Friends, they have all got the plague."

The Pasha had not said this before Punchinello jumped into his boat and
returned to his own quarters, where he was received with transports of
delight, for the pirates had already fled, and were soon out of sight.

Directly he landed at Marseilles, Punchinello sought for a horse to take
him to Paris. While he was purchasing his animal, a big black cat came
and rubbed itself against his legs.

[Illustration]

"That cat," said the owner of the horse, "knows the way to Paris as well
as any one; and I have given him as guide to several travellers."

"Ho! ho! I shall take him with me, then, if that is the case, just to
find out what a rogue you are, my fine fellow."

[Illustration]

Punchinello galloped at full speed toward Paris, and was much astonished
to see the big cat run on before him with marvellous rapidity. But his
surprise soon changed to uneasiness when he observed that the speed of
the cat was rapidly increasing, and that his horse was following it at
the same rate. Both seemed to have gone mad.

"This is horrible!" cried Punchinello. "Friend Puss, good creature, are
we not going to have some dinner somewhere? What is the matter with you?
Whoa! Faith, my clothes are all falling off me!" But this discourse only
spurred on the cat. Suddenly, when they were going at the same rate
through a dark forest of chestnuts, all at once the whole cavalcade sank
into the earth, and disappeared as if enchanted.

Punchinello now found himself, with his feet in the air, in the midst of
about thirty persons of the most forbidding appearance possible. They
were in reality thieves of the worst character.

"Lord Punchinello," said the Captain of the band, "I hope you will
consent to remain with us; for if you refuse, I shall have you put in a
pot and boil you alive."

"I understand that I should not be worth much boiled," said Punchinello;
"therefore I am at your service, sirs."

Punchinello saw that he was a prisoner, and therefore began at once to
plan how to escape. The Captain, whose name was Ronflard, departed that
very evening, thus giving him an opportunity too good to be lost.

The next day he said, laughing: "Comrades, you lead a jolly life down
here, but I confess that I can't help regretting the delightful
amusement that always enchanted the Neapolitan Court after dinner."

"What was it?" cried the whole band at once.

"It consists," said Punchinello, "in descending a steep hill in little
sledges, going one after the other, and running on rails. Nothing would
be easier than to arrange the same sort of thing on the <DW72> that I
descended yesterday evening to get here."

"That is the thing to suit us exactly," cried the brigands on all sides.
"Friends, to work at once and build some sledges!"

Soon all was ready. Each of the twenty brigands got into his own sledge
upon the platform that was just at the top of the staircase underneath
the trap-door.

Punchinello remained at the bottom of the staircase. The brigands in
their twenty sledges set off, descending the <DW72> with terrible
rapidity; but, lo and behold! as soon as they were going at full speed,
Punchinello drew a huge skewer, about thirty feet long, from behind his
back, and held the point toward the tops of the sledges, which were
descending with immense rapidity. Horror was depicted on the faces of
the brigands. Their cries were piteous. However, whether they would or
no, they were obliged to fall upon the skewer. They went rolling down
zigzag; the first brigand arrived like lightning, and thirty feet of
steel went through his body. The others came rolling down, and were
impaled, one after the other--a horrible death, but a fitting end to
their guilty lives.

[Illustration]

Punchinello then put the skewer, with his extraordinary game, on a cart,
harnessed six horses to it, and arrived in less than two hours at the
town of Chartres. He immediately inquired the address of the magistrate.

[Illustration]

Directly Punchinello entered the low room where this personage awaited
him, he was almost dazed at recognizing in the nose of this official the
counterpart of the one he had seen the night before on Captain
Ronflard's face. Indeed, such a nose was not to be forgotten when once
seen. Its length was so great that it made its appearance, so to speak,
about a quarter of an hour before its owner. It stretched straight out
like a staff, or the shaft of a carriage.

Of course Punchinello understood at once that the magistrate, by a bold
appropriation of two offices, united the power of a justice with his
horrible trade of chief of a band of robbers. With great self-command,
he pretended not to have recognized Ronflard in his magistrate's robes.
The latter had the account of Punchinello's escape related to him, and,
caressing his big cat, he complimented Punchinello upon his courage, and
begged him to sup with him.

What passed during the meal was never quite cleared up, as Punchinello
confessed that he did not know himself. Some have concluded that he must
have swallowed some terrible drug. What is known for certain is that the
next morning Punchinello found himself in a damp prison. He began to
think over his past life, until, remembering the look of regret that his
donkey had given him when he said good-by to him forever, tears fell
from his eyes.

"Who is that that is complaining over there?" said a voice suddenly,
quite close to Punchinello.

"It is the poor son of a fisherman," replied he, "who is deformed in
front and behind. But who are you?"

"I am the Goodman Patience," replied the voice, "and my trade is to show
puppets gratis to amuse poor people and little children."

"By my wig--" cried Punchinello. But he was cut short by the prison door
groaning on its hinges; and the magistrate entered, followed by his
black cat. By the light of a torch Ronflard read their sentence, in
which they were condemned to be hanged in an hour's time.

When Punchinello wished to remonstrate, the magistrate withdrew,
grinning. Punchinello, enraged, noticed the big cat that was going out
after its master, and shut the door with such violence that the tail of
the animal was cut clean off at the root. Immediately it was transformed
into a long rope.

"Ha! ha!" cried Punchinello, "I move that we make this tail useful. I
see my way to an escape."

Punchinello mounted the tail, of which he held the tuft as a bridle,
whilst Patience placed himself behind.

"Good!" cried Punchinello. "One, two, three--and away to Paris!"

Punchinello had hardly time to realize that he was travelling when he
was set down, with his companion, in the middle of the Champs Elysées.
It was on a beautiful day in spring, about noon.

"Listen," said Patience: "I have an idea in my head. I will establish my
little theatre here, and if you will appear as an actor, it can not fail
to prosper. There is no question but that your wit, added to your funny
appearance, will attract numbers of spectators."

"Well, perhaps so," said Punchinello; "and I confess that I thought of
that myself. As I have only found envy and malice amongst the great,
what better use could I make of the wit that has been given me than to
employ it in amusing poor people, and little children who are always
innocent and good? I am poor myself and of lowly rank. I will make them
laugh, and I will bring roses to the cheeks of all the sweet little
children that pass, for in so doing I shall reap a blessing."

In the course of time Punchinello made the acquaintance of Judy, and
married her. She has been a great help to him in his performances, as
you will all allow. If you are puzzled as to how he manages to be in so
many countries and at so many different places at the same time, it is
because he still retains the rope made of the cat's tail, which carries
him anywhere at a moment's notice.

THE END.




[Illustration: OUT FOR A WALK.]




OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.


  CAHTO, CALIFORNIA.

     I am a little girl twelve years old. My mother on my birthday gave
     me $1.50 for my birthday present, with which I subscribed for
     HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. I have a pet deer, and it is very cute. I
     have a little brother four years old, who enjoys hearing YOUNG
     PEOPLE read to him. He calls it singing. He repeats many of the
     verses in "Pinafore Rhymes." I have another brother, sixteen years
     old, who likes to hunt deer. He shot one and went to cut its
     throat, and it jumped up and ran off. My brother is trapping now;
     he caught an owl in his trap this morning, which I would like to
     keep for a pet. My brother and I enjoy reading HARPER'S YOUNG
     PEOPLE very much, and could not do without it.

  ALLIE R.

We can not help feeling glad the poor deer was able to run away. Hunting
seems like cruel sport, unless it is necessary to secure food. Try to
persuade your brother not to go out with his gun and knife, but to trap
wild creatures instead, and then let you have them for pets.

       *       *       *       *       *

  QUENEMO, KANSAS.

     Quenemo is an Indian name, and means "something beautiful." It is
     situated on the Marais des Cygnes River, which means the Marsh of
     the White Swan. Down in Missouri the same river is known as the
     Osage, and it finally empties into the Missouri River near
     Jefferson City. Santa Claus must have been very poor this year, at
     least in this region, for he did not leave us very many things.
     Perhaps he had part of his goods blown away in the cyclone which
     passed through here last June. Anyway, it took all the money we had
     to build a new house. I do not want to see any more cyclones, for
     it is not much fun to have your house blown down while you are in
     it.

  ROBERT W. M.

We never had a house blown down while we were in it, but we can imagine
that it must be very disturbing to one's nerves. Was it not fortunate
that it happened in June, and not in December? And did not Robert work
like a beaver, or, better still, like a brave manly boy, while the new
home was building? As for old Santa Claus, he may be more generous this
year than he was last.

       *       *       *       *       *

  WORTENDYKE, NEW JERSEY.

     My sister and I are going to write a letter together. We have not
     taken your paper very long, but like it very much. We have a little
     brother only a week old, and we all love him very much. We were all
     vaccinated a little while ago, and as there are nine of us
     children, we had a good many sore arms. I know Ina J. P., who wrote
     a letter to YOUNG PEOPLE for January 10; she lives next door to us.
     We have got a very nice cat; she catches a good many rats. A
     gentleman gave us a dog, but he became homesick, and cried so that
     we had to let him run away.

     There is quite a large silk-mill here, and the silk looks very
     pretty while it is being woven. We go to school here, and like the
     school very much, though it is not very large. We have not read any
     of Jimmy Brown's stories, but think they must be very nice. We have
     read quite a good deal about dolls in the letters to YOUNG PEOPLE,
     but we don't care very much for them. We are collecting
     advertisement cards, and have about two hundred and fifty. We have
     a lovely grape arbor at the side of our house; it is very long, and
     in the summer it is very shady there, and the vine bears splendid
     grapes. We have a great big barn on our place, and we have lots of
     fun playing on the high lofts.

  JULIA J. B.
  and EMILY L. B.

Nine children all vaccinated at once! Nine to sit under the grape arbor,
and climb the hay lofts, and have a good time generally! The baby
brother does not know what fun he will have when he is old enough to
enjoy himself with his brothers and sisters, does he? Though there are
so many of you, the Postmistress is sure father and mother could not
spare even one.

       *       *       *       *       *

  HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI.

     I am a little boy, and can not write very nicely, so I have begged
     my mamma to write this letter for me. I live away down South in
     Mississippi. Sherwood Bonner, one of your contributors, lives near
     us on the same street. She and my mamma were school-mates. Her
     little daughter Lillian and I waited on a young lady and gentleman
     who were married, when we were only four years old.

     This is a lovely spring-like day, and our hyacinths have all come
     up in the yard, and will bloom before long.

     I have two sisters and one brother. My little sister, who is only
     four years old, enjoys your paper as much as any of us, and runs to
     be the first to take it from father when he brings it home. Then,
     when we are all gathered around a cheerful fire, mamma reads it
     aloud to us.

  DABNEY H. C.

You and Lillian must have looked like dear little fairy pages at the
wedding you speak of. We would have enjoyed a peep at you both.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ORONOCO, MINNESOTA.

     I live in the State of Minnesota, in the small village of Oronoco,
     which is situated on the banks of the Zumbro River. I live on the
     north side, and my school-house is situated on the south bank, and
     it is a very beautiful place here. The people from Rochester, which
     is a city eleven miles from here, visit here often to catch fish
     and have picnic dinners in the groves. Nearly every autumn I gather
     butternuts out of our grove; last autumn I gathered two bagfuls.
     There are a great many nice fish caught here--black bass, pickerel,
     and many other kinds--and in the winter you can see fish-houses
     scattered all along on the ice. I have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
     for three years, and I will take it three years more I guess.

  BLANCHE A.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BARCLAY, KANSAS.

     My papa gave YOUNG PEOPLE to me for a birthday present when I was
     ten years old, and now I am eleven, and he has sent for it again,
     for we all think that we could not do without it. I have one sister
     named Virginia, after mamma's native State, and we call her Virgie.
     She is nine years old.

     I have lots of pets. Our pigeons are so tame that they will eat out
     of my hand or lap. We have two cats, named Tom and Dick, and they
     are real cunning, but I can not tell all their tricks. It would
     take too much space. Our dog Shep will beg for apples and melons to
     eat. She comes into the house, and when pa plays the violin she
     sings or howls, and the higher the notes he makes, the louder she
     sings. Has anybody else a dog that can do that?

     When we came to this farm, three years ago, we bought some hens. A
     speckled one sat, and hatched out a flock of chickens, and what do
     you think?--she tried to kill all but the black ones. Last summer
     we had a white hen that acted the same way. Was it not strange?

     Every spring since we have lived here papa has found, while
     working, a number of grubs, dead and callous, and having
     sprouts--some of them six inches long--growing out of where their
     eyes had been. A gentleman explained it by saying that the worm was
     infested with a vegetable parasite, which caused its death.

     I have solved a number of puzzles, but never sent any to you. I
     have been sick for two months, but am better now. We go a mile and
     a half to school. Most of our school-mates are Quakers, and our
     teachers are too. I should be so pleased if you would publish this
     letter. Good-by.

  L. PEARLIE S.

Well, dear, the Postmistress thinks those were very naughty hens. The
other day she was reading about a great man, named Bishop Thirlwall. The
good Bishop was very fond of animals, and very kind to them. In a pond
on his grounds were three pike, which are rather savage fish. One
morning when the Bishop went to look at them there were only two fish
there. Mr. P. had devoured his wife, and was swimming about with his
daughter. A day or two after, Miss P. shared her mother's fate. The
Bishop wrote sadly to a friend: "I shall never look at the pike again. I
can not endure a monster who would eat up his own family." Your dog must
be quite musical, but we fancy at times your papa would prefer somebody
else to sing to his accompaniment. The Postmistress hopes that you will
acquire the gentle ways of the Friends, and imitate their quietness and
patience, since you have them for teachers. Be sure and send the answers
you find to the puzzles next time.

       *       *       *       *       *

MILLIE'S DREAM.

BY J. L. R. (AGED TWELVE).

"I don't believe it ever will be spring, the flowers take so long to
bloom; but I am going out into the woods to see if I can just find a
few," said Millie Horton to her bosom-friend Dora Merton.

"I'm not going," said Dora. "We will only get tired out. Our feet will
be muddy. There are no flowers yet."

"Well, I'm going. I'll see how near they are to blooming." And Millie
turned and walked away in the direction of the woods.

She walked on and on, and after reaching the woods and going a little
way in, she saw a number of little crocus flowers.

"Oh, you lovely little darlings!" she cried. "I knew I would find some
of you in bloom, and here you are, yellow, purple, and white."

She gathered them all, and ran on until she found some violets, then
some pussy willow near a little stream, and then under some pine needles
the sweet trailing arbutus. At last, tired out, she seated herself upon
a log, and fell asleep.

Suddenly she heard a little shrill voice call out, "Say, you Bluebell
you, move over a little; you are leaning over on my little sister."

Millie thought she opened her eyes wide, and looked into the basket, and
there were the flowers all turned into little ladies and gentlemen.

She was just going to utter an exclamation, when another voice called
out: "This is a very close place; I never was so crowded before, and the
sun is just pouring in on me. Do take your feet off my face; and if that
Spring-beauty does not stop screaming at the top of his voice just
because he happens to have the ear-ache, I do not know what I shall do."
And a cross yellow Buttercup gave the little Spring-beauty a very rude
push.

"Let's have a concert," said a peace-making Dog-tooth violet, lifting up
her little head.

"All right," "All right," came from all the flowers.

"Well, then," continued little Miss Dog-tooth, laughing, "you all seem
to want to take part, so let Mr. Jack-in-the-pulpit make a speech."

"I am not well prepared to make a speech, but I will do my best," said
Mr. Jack, looking very much flattered, as he straightened his collar.
And thus he began, "My dear friends--ahem! ahem!--I want you all to do
your best--"

He had gone no farther, when the shrill voice of a wild Columbine called
out: "I'd like to know what you know about it, telling us to do our
best, indeed! Better 'practice what you preach,' I say. You talk as
though you knew everything, when you don't know any more than that baby
Cowslip there!" and Mother Columbine subsided, her voice trembling with
rage.

A little Anemone then cried out, "We did not want to have a quarrel
right away, Madam Columbine."

"Noa; boot of course Matham Columpine con't vell rest unless she's
quarrelling," retorted a fat little Dutch Tulip in white breeches and
striped coat.

"Well, I won't make a speech before such an audience," cried Mr. Jack,
as he stepped down from his pulpit.

Then everything was in confusion from top to bottom of the basket, and
suddenly Millie felt herself lifted up, and heard her father saying,
"She is found." She opened her eyes, and saw the stars twinkling, and
she knew that it was night.

She was too tired to tell anything that night, but she related her dream
the next day, and they laughed at her; but still Millie feels quite sure
that she did hear the flowers talk.

       *       *       *       *       *

  RACINE, WISCONSIN.

     At the Taylor Orphan Asylum, where I live, I have very nice times.
     Christmas we had a lovely tree, all lit up with candles, and a
     great many presents on it. I got a very large bag of candy and a
     book. My brother and sister gave me something too.

     We have a new little baby here, a little boy. He is a very brave
     little boy. When he falls down he begins to laugh as hard as he
     can. He is so funny! He was brought here a week ago, and seems very
     happy to be here. When he comes down to his meals he begins to
     scream out and laugh.

     I am getting along nicely in school studying Long Division, and can
     do the examples very well. I have learned all of the United States
     and Mexico, and most all of British America.

     There is a very large pond out here, and we have so much fun on it!
     Sometimes we chase each other all over. By-and-by we take off our
     skates, and run around and play. We enjoy ourselves ever so much.
     They are all very kind to me here. We have not had any snow this
     winter. When snow is on the ground they take us out sleighing in a
     big sleigh. Some of us have little sleds, and we coast down hill on
     them. In summer we play house out-of-doors, and we go out riding
     too in a big wagon with a seat all round it. Sometimes we go
     nutting, and we get the old lumber wagon full of nuts, and then
     coming home we put the horse-blanket over the nuts and some large
     boards across, and we all sit on the top. When the horses go up
     hill, we all get off and run behind. Last winter we had ninety
     bushels of nuts.

     I learned the States of Central America in school to-day by heart;
     then I had three columns of spelling. This afternoon I worked my
     examples; then I began this letter to you.

     We have HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE every week, and at night some of the
     large girls read to us out of it. We like the paper very much, and
     hope we shall always have it. I think the big girls are very kind
     to read to us. I hope you will like my letter.

  MAGGIE S.

Your letter is very interesting, especially the part about the new baby
boy. He is very young to be an orphan, and we are glad that he and all
the other children whose parents are dead are living in so pleasant a
home as you describe. The secret of happiness, after all, is in being
unselfish.

  Little deeds of kindness,
    Little words of love,
  Make our earth an Eden,
    Like the heaven above.

       *       *       *       *       *

  SCHENECTADY, NEW YORK.

     I have seen a number of letters from little girls about their cats,
     but I do not think any of them can be nicer than mine, although Joe
     W. K.'s knows more tricks. My cat is a large blue Maltese, and his
     name is Ted. He is not quite two years old, and weighs ten and a
     half pounds. We have scales with a top just large enough for him to
     sit on, and he sits very still while he is getting weighed. He sits
     at the table in a high chair, and has a little piece of oil-cloth
     on which he rests his paws, and waits patiently until we give him
     something to eat. If we give him anything he does not like, he
     jumps right down. There is a piece of carpet on the kitchen floor,
     and when we give him some milk out there we often put his saucer on
     it, and when he has finished eating he pulls the carpet all over
     the saucer, and then peeks around to see if it is all covered up.
     He has a round basket in which he curls up and goes to sleep. He
     had his picture taken the other day, and he sat very still. There
     is a large rocking-chair in the parlor which he seems to think is
     his, and if it is occupied, he will walk around it, and if the
     person does not get up, he will jump in his or her lap. Good-by.

  ALICE C.

       *       *       *       *       *

  NEWARK, NEW JERSEY.

     I am a little girl seven years old. I do not go to school, as my
     mamma teaches me at home. I can read, spell, and cipher nicely. My
     brother Waldo takes HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, and my papa has taken
     HARPER'S MAGAZINE for years. I love to look at the bound volumes. I
     have looked at them as far as Vol. LIII. I had nine dolls, and I
     got two more last Christmas; one of these was a boy doll. I put
     them all to bed every night, and kiss them good-night. My papa says
     he can not remember all their names, but I can. There are three
     little girls in the street whom I play with. I have not written
     this letter myself, as I can not write well enough yet, but I told
     my mamma what to say. Good-by.

  ANNA M. G.

Of course the little mother remembers the names of her dollies. Have any
of them ever had the mumps or the measles? and are they ever naughty, or
do they always behave like good children? Do you have any trouble with
the boy doll, and why didn't you tell the Postmistress his name?

       *       *       *       *       *

We repeat that there is no charge for publishing exchanges.

       *       *       *       *       *

Eddie W. Curtis, 78 Rush Street, Brooklyn, New York, would like to hear
again from a little correspondent in Salt Lake City, who sent him a nice
letter containing ten foreign stamps, but having neither name nor
address appended. Eddie would like to reply, but can not do so until he
shall receive further information.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.

The Postmistress has a particular request to make of her young gentleman
friends, particularly of those who write to her of their success with
guns and bows and arrows. It is that they will read and think about this
tender little poem, written by a lover of birds, who found a poor little
bobolink dead in her nest on his lawn:

WHO KILLED ROBERT OF LINCOLN?

BY NATHANIEL NILES.

  Robert of Lincoln went searching for food
    To take to his love on her nest;
  From bush and tree-top, from meadow and wood,
    To pick it, and bring her the best.

  He sprang from the edge of her nest below,
    And sat on a twig that was nigh,
  To sing her a song before he could go--
    But sang her his last good-by.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Far out on the meadow a lad that day
    Had gone to take sport with his gun,
  Cheerily shooting the birds on his way,
    And--Robert of Lincoln was one.

  Since Robert of Lincoln went out to the wood
    Three suns have gone down in the west:
  And weary of waiting for him to bring food,
    She died without leaving her nest.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some of you have been very much interested in the pretty fan drills and
broom drills which have been in fashion lately. Now let me tell you
about the _mékés_, or dances of Feejee, of which an interesting
description is given by Miss C. F. Gordon Cumming in her book _At Home
in Feejee_.

"In one very odd dance," she says, "a queer, fluttering creature, with a
huge fan in each hand to represent wings, kept dancing round and round a
covey of cowering children, whom he bowled over two at a time. Then, as
they lay prone, he fanned them to life again, and so drove them along to
join the orchestra." The idea was supposed to be that of a bird of prey
providing for her young.

In another méké half the men carry fans adorned with long blue and white
streamers, and the other half brandish spears. At the end of every
movement each dancer holds his fan high above his head, and all together
utter a wild, piercing cry. After a while the fan half and the spear
half separate into opposing lines, and have a sham fight. In this the
spearsmen are defeated, and fall down as if dead, when the fan-bearers
bend over and fan them until they spring to their feet again.

In some of the movements the dancers are armed with the old carved war
clubs, which were their terrible weapons when the Feejeeans were
cannibals. During the last forty years Christianity has been introduced
into the islands, and the people who used to be fierce and cruel beyond
belief are now the meek and gentle followers of the Saviour.

But in their houses they still have the heirlooms which belonged to
their savage ancestors, and which the older ones have themselves fought
with when they were young. The missionaries have never tried to induce
them to abandon their graceful national games, and so they still
practice these beautiful dances, and they are a great feature at the
missionary meetings, to which the islanders throng, each bringing his
offering with him to present when the contributions are asked for.

One lovely dance represents the breaking of waves on a coral reef. In
this they leap and toss their heads, on which they wear loose turbans of
soft white native cloth, finished with floating scarf-like ends, which
flutter in the breeze. When they begin, it is usually slowly, and with
such precision that in the long lines the spears, clubs, or fans are
raised and lowered as if held by one man. In every dance they follow a
leader, and the leader is often a tiny child, quaintly dressed, and
executing every manoeuvre perfectly.

       *       *       *       *       *

Members of the C. Y. P. R. U. will find in this number another one of
the interesting series of articles on music, by Mrs. John Lillie,
entitled "The Story of the Opera." Under the title of "The Titmouse
Family," Mrs. Helen S. Conant describes the characteristic habits and
ways of these merry and saucy little inhabitants of the bird world. Then
you must read about Prince Bismarck. Fancy one of the greatest statesmen
the world has ever known having been born on April-fools' Day! We wonder
how many of the boys will undertake to construct a magic lantern from
the directions given? To those that do we would say that they must not
get out of patience if they have trouble in making the soldering-iron
work effectively at first. A little patience will overcome all
difficulties.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

A WORD SQUARE.

1. A piece of timber. 2. A wild animal. 3. A pointer. 4. A perfume. 5.
Compositions on which notes are written.

  EMPIRE CITY.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.

THREE DIAMONDS.

1.--1. In hat. 2. A meadow. 3. Part of the body. 4. Skill. 5. In tar.

  AL. E. GHANY.

2.--1. A letter. 2. A cape. 3. A tent. 4. A verb. 5. A letter.

3.--1. A letter. 2. An animal. 3. A piece of furniture. 4. A tree. 5. A
letter.

  W. CRAMER.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.

A HALF-SQUARE.

1. Large. 2. A package. 3. To devour. 4. An auxiliary of a verb. 5. In
night.

  AL. E. GHANY.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.

TWO ENIGMAS.

  1. My whole is a bird.
  My first is in noble, but not in bright.
  My second is in scurry, but not in fright.
  My third is in stone, but not in rock.
  My fourth is in dress, and also in frock.
  My fifth is in rise, but not in stand.
  My sixth is in scratch, but not in brand.
  My seventh is in Harry, but not in Fred.
  Now tell my name, Mollie, Winnie, and Ned.

  S. BIRDIE DONNAN.

  2. First in vine, but not in tree.
  Second in river, not in sea.
  Third in ace, but not in jack.
  Fourth in plenty, not in lack.
  Fifth in old, but not in young.
  Sixth in rhyme, but not in song.
  Seventh in idle, not in good.
  Eighth in scarf, but not in hood.
  Oh, a lovely lady's name
  Is my whole, as all proclaim.

  MARY L.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 123.

No. 1.

  "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good."
  "Many hands make light work."

No. 2.

One morning I was awakened by the _Cook_ telling me that my cousin
_James_ was waiting for me at the gate. I got up, dressed, and went and
met my cousin with a _Little Rock_ in his hand, which he was about to
hurl at what he thought was a _Great Bear_. Just as he threw it I saw
Mr. _Madison_ with a _Good_ gun. The great bear turned out to be a
_White_ cow. After this adventure we went to our homes, which are on
_Franklin_ Street, in _Marshall_, Illinois.

No. 3.

  R E S T
  E V E R
  S E R E
  T R E E

No. 4.

The letter E.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Ida Demarest, Lottie
White, Hugh Carter, Charles F. Wagner, Blanche P. Heywood, "Fort Lee,"
"Fill Buster," Elsie Dean, Margaret Clyde, Alex. McKinney, Robbie Craig,
Alice West, Francis Payson, Eugenie, Rose Tupperman, "Jack Tar," William
P. Gale, Victor E. T., "Lodestar," James Eugene M., Augusta Cranmer,
Thomas Hutchings, and Lulu Benson.

       *       *       *       *       *

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




OUR NEW SERIAL.


In No. 127 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, issued April 4, will appear the
first installment of a new and most interesting serial story, under the
title of

"MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER,"

A Sequel to "Toby Tyler,"

By JAMES OTIS,

author of "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," etc.

The readers of "Toby Tyler" will remember well the sad event of Mr.
Stubbs's death. A number of the little folks felt so badly that they
wrote us quite melancholy letters about it. Now we hope they will take
an equal interest in his brother. It is, of course, unnecessary to say
that there is a very great family likeness between them, and that the
hero of our new serial is quite as intelligent and amusing as his
deceased relative. We feel sure that he will be quite as great a
favorite.




[Illustration: AN ANIMATED BOUQUET.]




PARLOR MAGIC.

HOW TO GET A RING OUT OF A HANDKERCHIEF.


Bend a piece of wire into the form of a ring, having previously
sharpened both ends. You have a real ring made of the same sort of wire,
and, concealing the false ring in the corner of your hand, offer the
real one to be inspected.

When it is returned, borrow a handkerchief, and while taking it from the
lender, slip the real one into your left hand, and take the false one at
its point of junction. Throw the handkerchief over the ring, and give it
to some one to hold between his finger and thumb. Let the handkerchief
fall over it, and give a piece of string to a second spectator,
directing him to tie it round the handkerchief about two inches below
the ring, so as to inclose it in a bag, and tell him to do so as tightly
as he can.

While he is doing this, take up your conjuring wand--a rod of some hard
wood, about eighteen inches long--and when the knot is tied, step
forward, passing the rod into your left hand, taking care to slip over
it the real ring, which has lain concealed there. Slip your left hand to
the centre of the rod, and direct each of the two persons to hold one
end of it in his right hand. Then tell the one who has the ring and
handkerchief to lay them on your left hand, which you immediately cover
with your right. Then tell them to spread another handkerchief over your
hands, and to say after you any nonsense that you like to invent. While
they are so doing, unbend the false ring, and draw it through the
handkerchiefs by one of its points, carefully rubbing between the thumb
and finger the place where it came through.

Hang the empty handkerchief over the ring which is on the rod, and take
away your hands, which you exhibit empty, as you have stuck the false
ring inside the cuff. Take away the upper handkerchief, and let a third
person come to examine, when he will find the ring gone out of the
handkerchief, and hung upon the rod.




ENIGMA.


  Proudly I'm borne o'er the billowy sea,
  And far-distant nations have trembled at me;
  Yet my office at times is so mean and so low
  I am subject to many an insult and blow.

  By the side of the mill-stream I fearlessly rest,
  And gracefully bend o'er the lake's glassy breast;
  Yet the glory of England I bear far and wide,
  And under me thousands have fought and have died.

  Though 'tis true that, whene'er I appear in the street,
  I am trampled in scorn by the crowd's busy feet,
  I am often exalted in station and place,
  And to strike me has ever been held a disgrace!

  How often I claim your attention and care,
  And repay you with smiles in your blooming parterre!
  Then what can I be, who am known near and far,
  And so gentle in peace, and so fearful in war?

       *       *       *       *       *

=A Musical Spider.=--His appreciation of music may have been a
compensation for what we may fairly suppose must have been considered in
the spider world a deformity. He had but seven legs. This gave us an
excuse for calling him Seven-foot. Evening after evening he would come
creeping out of his hole the minute the Doctor struck up a waltz. It was
really curious to watch the long-legged thing come scurrying up for his
evening concert. For half one winter, perhaps, he did this, taking up
his post on top of the piano as regularly as the Doctor sat down to
play. It is said that all spiders have a decided taste and liking for
music. If this is true, this creature must have been the Mendelssohn of
his race. Finally, however, to the regret of all who used to watch for
his coming, Seven-foot failed to appear. Whether he had got a surfeit of
music, or whether Louise, in wielding her dust-brush, had unwittingly
brought him to an untimely end, nobody was ever able to discover. I only
know he vanished as suddenly as he came, leaving a large circle of
acquaintances behind him to mourn his departure.




[Illustration: "RIDE A COCK-HORSE TO BANBURY CROSS."]




[Illustration: KITE-TIME.

"Now, then, Jimmy, stop squirmin' so, an' if the string don't break,
it'll be just as good as a balloon ascension for you."]





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, March 28, 1882, by Various

*** 