Harper's Young People, March 28, 1882 / An Illustrated Weekly
Date: 2018-02-23T00:00:00+00:00
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Young People, March 28, 1882

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Title: Harper's Young People, March 28, 1882

Author: Various

Release date: February 23, 2018 [eBook #56629]

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, MARCH 28, 1882 ***

DOING SOMETHING.
AN APRIL JOKE.
THE STORY OF THE OPERA.
THE TALKING LEAVES.
"RAILWAY JACK."
PEOPLE WE HEAR ABOUT.
THE MOTH DANCE.
APRIL-FOOLS' DAY.
THE TITMOUSE FAMILY.
HARE AND HOUNDS.
HOW TO MAKE A MAGIC LANTERN.
PUNCHINELLO.
OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.
PARLOR MAGIC.
ENIGMA.

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.

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.

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.

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.

WHAT THE SPRING BROUGHT TO LITTLE LAME ELSIE.

THE TALKING LEAVES.[2]

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

Chapter XXV.

mong 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.

"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.]

"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.

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."

"Spring, the sweet Spring, is the King of the Year."—Nash.

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 colored 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.

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."

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.

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.

"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."

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 slope 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 slope 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.

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.

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.

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 manœuvre 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.

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.

"RIDE A COCK-HORSE TO BANBURY CROSS."

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."

FOOTNOTES:

[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.

[2] Begun in No. 101, Harper's Young People.

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Table of Contents

- DOING SOMETHING.

- AN APRIL JOKE.

- THE STORY OF THE OPERA.

- THE TALKING LEAVES.[2]

- An Indian Story.

- [to be continued.]

- "RAILWAY JACK."

- PEOPLE WE HEAR ABOUT.

- BISMARCK.

- THE MOTH DANCE.

- APRIL-FOOLS' DAY.

- THE TITMOUSE FAMILY.

- HARE AND HOUNDS.

- NED MORNINGSTAR'S STORY. BY M. EYTINGE.

- HOW TO MAKE A MAGIC LANTERN.

- PUNCHINELLO.

- HIS EXTRAORDINARY LIFE AND MARVELLOUS ADVENTURES. III.

- the end.

- OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

- MILLIE'S DREAM. BY J. L. R. (AGED TWELVE).

- C. Y. P. R. U.

- WHO KILLED ROBERT OF LINCOLN? BY NATHANIEL NILES.

- PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS. No. 1. A WORD SQUARE.

- No. 2. THREE DIAMONDS.

- No. 3. A HALF-SQUARE.

- No. 4. TWO ENIGMAS.

- ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 123. No. 1.

- No. 2.

- No. 3.

- No. 4.

- OUR NEW SERIAL.

- "MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER,"

- A Sequel to "Toby Tyler,"

- PARLOR MAGIC.

- HOW TO GET A RING OUT OF A HANDKERCHIEF.

- ENIGMA.

- FOOTNOTES:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE