    Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, February 28, 1882, by Various

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    Title: Harper's Young People, February 28, 1882
           An Illustrated Weekly

    Author: Various

    Release Date: April 8, 2017 [EBook #54513]

    Language: English

    Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

    *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, FEB 18, 1882 ***

    Produced by Annie R. McGuire

THE LITTLE FROST QUEEN.
CHARLEY OTIS'S RIDE.
A BRAVE LITTLE SISTER.
PERIL AND PRIVATION.
THE TALKING LEAVES.
MR. THOMPSON AND A BIRD WITH A LANTERN.
"THINK AND THANK."
"GOOD-BY, WINTER."
BARNUM'S SHOW IN WINTER-QUARTERS.
NINE MEN'S MORRIS.
THE CHILDREN'S CARNIVAL.
OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

[Pg 273]

vol. iii.—no. 122. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents.
Tuesday, February 28, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance.

THE LITTLE FROST QUEEN.

[Pg 274]

## THE LITTLE FROST QUEEN.

Sparkling and light
Are the snow-drifts white
In the glow of the winter's morning,
And the icicles gleam
In the sun's bright beam,
Each tree and shrub adorning.
Rosy and fair
In the frosty air
Are the cheeks of the little maiden,
And merry and gay
With the happy day
Is her heart with the sunshine laden.
Where is she bound
O'er the frosty ground?
Ah, that is beyond our knowing.
But wherever she goes,
We may fairly suppose
The sunshine will surely be going.

## CHARLEY OTIS'S RIDE.

### AS TOLD BY HIS GRANDSON.

He is my grandfather now—Charley Otis is—and he told my brother Hal and me this story. He's a regular fine old gentleman, is my grandfather Otis. There isn't a bit of old fogy about him, and he likes to see us boys have any amount of fun. He isn't hard on a fellow either, when he gets into trouble through some of his mischief; though he looked pretty sober when Hal and I and Uncle Timothy's boys painted Squire Dexter's Chester Whites one time, and the Squire caught us at it, and thrashed us, and made father and Uncle Timothy pay ten dollars apiece to get out of having a lawsuit.

"Don't have any more of that sort of fun, boys," says grandfather.

"No, sir," says we; and we don't mean to, for there isn't any fun in it. Some folks in story-books are all the time preaching up how funny it is to paint pigs. It isn't. If it is, it is mean fun, and I don't like that kind. For besides making a fellow feel cheap, there's almost always something not so nice to top off with.

"Boys will be boys, Susan." That's what grandfather says to mother time and again.

"Well, they needn't be wild Indians," says mother. But she doesn't tell father that time. You see, my grandfather was a boy once himself, and he knows we can't keep bottled up all the time. We have to "let nature caper"—that's what grandfather calls it—once in a while, or we would burst, Hal and I, and go off like two rockets maybe. I hope when I grow up I'll be just the kind of a grandfather my grandfather is.

Last Washington's Birthday we boys had planned to have no end of fun, skating on the pond, and snapping crackers at folks, and playing shinney. But when Hal and I got up in the morning, everything was dull gray; and when breakfast was over, it was snowing as if the witches were emptying all their feather-beds at once up in the sky.

Hal looked out of the window, and turned away, and shut his lips. Then I looked out, and—well, I'm not very old, and small of my age—and I cried. At that grandfather put down his paper.

"Hoity-toity!" said he; "what's all this about?"

We told him.

"Well," said grandfather, "this snow will make first-rate coasting, and while you're waiting for enough of it to come, I'll tell you a story."

So here is the story. You ought to have heard Grandfather Otis tell it, though, with his funny twinkles and wrinkles to set it off; but because you couldn't, I'm going to tell it my own way, in regular story-book style:

Early one Twenty-second of February, more than fifty years ago, my grandfather and my two great-uncles, Stephen and Samuel, were out looking for something to have fun with. "Trouble was," says grandfather, "there was ice enough, but we hadn't a pair of skates to our feet." Pretty soon, while they were standing around on the door-step, a man came along leading a horse and sleigh, and hitched it to the fence. The man's name was Mr. Nutt.

"Good-morning," said the boys, wondering to themselves what made him walk and lead the horse, instead of riding. Catch a boy doing it!

"Mornin'," said Mr. Nutt. "Father to home, boys?"

"Yes, sir," said they.

"I'm going after the doctor," said Mr. Nutt, "and that critter runs away so'st I can't do nothin' with him. It's Lawyer Chadbourne's horse, down to Westport, 'at I took for his keep, and that's more'n I'll get out 'n him. S'pose I can get your father's team, boys?"

"Wouldn't wonder," said they. "Father's chopping wood in the north lot."

With that Mr. Nutt started off across the field, and the boys walked down to the gate to look at the horse. He was a red horse, with "three-white-feet-and-a-white-nose—take-off-his-shoes-and-give-him-to-the-crows."

The boys walked around him, and looked at him, and felt of the harness.

"Looks kind enough," said Steve.

"Don't believe he'll run away," said Sam.

"The harness is stout," said Charley.

Then they all looked at each other and laughed.

"S'pose we do," said they; "and be spry about it."

So Sam and Charley got into the sleigh, and Steve unhitched the horse, and got on behind, with one foot on each runner, and Charley took the reins, and away they all went. The horse didn't go so very fast at first, but he kept going faster and faster and faster; and pretty soon the sleigh hit his heels. Then didn't he go!

"Stop him!" yelled Sam. "Whoa!"

"Whoa!" sung out Steve, a-hanging on to the sleigh back for dear life. "We've go-go-gone far enough."

But there wasn't any whoa to that horse. And Steve made up his mind that he'd ridden about as long as he wanted to, and so he dropped off. He fell flat, and slid for as much as a rod on the ice before he stopped. "Took every one of his wesket buttons off," says grandfather, "slick and clean as you'd cut 'em with a knife."

But that didn't stop the horse—no, sir! On he went, with the old sleigh clattering at his heels, and the ice his shoes cut up flew like sleet into the faces of the two boys. All Charley could do was to keep him in the road, and that's more than a good many would, I say. And the horse kept going faster and faster.

"Whe-ew!" said Sam, catching his breath. And he jumped out, and turned two first-class summersets before he struck on his head in a snow-bank beside the road. And there he was.

Then Charley, my grandfather, was left all alone. That's why I call it "Charley Otis's Ride." And the horse kept going faster and faster. And Charley couldn't see a rod ahead of him, for the wind blowing and the bits of ice flying, until, pretty soon, he began to go up a little hill. And because for a minute the ice didn't fly so thick, Charley saw, just ahead, and hobbling along as fast as his two poor shaky legs and his knotty cane would carry him, old Grandsir Herrin, who wasn't anybody's grandfather really, though everybody called him so. And Grandsir Herrin was as deaf as the deafest kind of a post—and right in the middle of the road! Now, sir—

No use to ask me what I'd have done if I'd been there. I wasn't there. But I can tell you what Charley did, and I don't believe anybody could have done any better. His heart thumped so he could almost hear it through all the noise of the bells. But, quick as a flash, he put all his strength on the right rein, and pulled that horse with a flying jump into a big bank of snow drifted up against the road fence. And Charley kept right along.

[Pg 275]

He picked himself up in a minute, and looked around. The horse was deep in the snow, standing quiet enough, but trembling like a leaf. Charley unharnessed him and got him out of the snow, and turned the sleigh, and harnessed up again, and led the horse back to where he started from. Sam and Steve were waiting by the gate.

Charley hitched the horse, and just then another man drove along, and stopped.

"It's Lawyer Chadbourne," whispered Sam.

"Who left that horse there?" said the man, in a deep-down, pie-crusty kind of a voice.

"Mr. Nutt, sir," answered Charley; "and he said he would run away. But he don't look like he would."

"Well, well, I'm glad of it," growled the lawyer, and away he went. And—

"Hello!" said grandfather, breaking off right here.

There was a thundering noise in the hall, and the door flew open.

"It's the Broomstick Brigade!" cried grandfather; for there were the May boys and the Berry boys and Uncle Timothy's boys, and each one of 'em carried a broom.

"Come along with you," said Ben May; "we're going to sweep the ice. It's stopped snowing."

So it had, though we hadn't noticed. And so we took our skates and brooms, and went along, Hal and I; and grandfather took up his paper again.

## A BRAVE LITTLE SISTER.

One cold day this winter, as it was growing late, Mrs. Ivy, whose home is in Pictou, Nova Scotia, was obliged to go out, leaving her two children alone. Their father was dead.

Little Alice was only seven and Henry was five years old. They played together awhile, and Alice told Henry stories, and they tried to think that the time was slipping away very fast, and that mother would soon be back.

But presently it began to get dark in the room where the careful mother had left them, locking them in for safety. The stars were twinkling in the sky, and the lamps were lighted in the street. Alice knew where the matches were kept, and she had often seen her mother light their lamp, so she thought she would do it now.

Unfortunately neither she nor little Henry observed that they had set the burning lamp very near their mother's working dress and Alice's white apron, which were hanging quite close to the mantel.

The first thing they knew, these had caught fire, and the room was in a blaze.

What should little Alice do? How could she save Henry? She never thought about her own danger. The key was in the lock, alas! on the other side of the door.

Quick as a flash she raised the window, and creeping out to the end of the projecting shelf, lowered herself till she hung at arm's-length, and then dropped to the ground.

It was a distance of thirty-five feet, but the air buoyed up her clothing, something as it does that of a little girl when she whirls round and drops down in what we used to call a pot-cheese. Alice reached the ground unhurt.

She flew up stairs and unlocked the door. No Henry was there. Frightened and desperate, she screamed and cried so that the neighbors came running to see what had happened.

They found the little fellow on the ground, where he had fallen, having crawled out on the window-sill to see what had become of his sister. It was a mercy that he too had escaped with only a few bruises.

Brave little Alice Ivy! She showed unselfish love, courage, and promptness in action. We think she was a heroine. Do you agree with us? Her behavior was the more worthy of praise that she had to do something at once, and that she did the best thing under the circumstances. We are sure her mother felt thankful for such a noble daughter.

## PERIL AND PRIVATION.

### BY JAMES PAYN.

### I.—ON THE KEYS OF HONDURAS.

Most readers know well the adventures of what real personage the admirable story of Robinson Crusoe was founded; and in the history of disaster connected with the sea there are the materials of ten such tales, had we only another Defoe to write them. Still, not even the mind of that master of fiction, the man of all others who knew how "to paint the thing that is not as the thing that is," could have conceived such events as it is now my purpose to describe. His fine sense of what was life-like would have resented them as being too amazing and extraordinary to have happened to the same person, and that too on a single voyage.

To be seized by pirates; to become one of them by force; to escape at the peril of one's life, but only to find one's self upon an uninhabited island, "remote from the track of navigation," and to remain there for sixteen months alone—seems too sensational to be crowded into three years of existence. Yet these things happened to Philip Ashton, an Englishman, little more than a century and a half ago.

The schooner which Ashton, who hailed from Salem, Massachusetts, was on board was seized in Port Rossaway by the famous—or infamous—Ned Low. In The Lives of Highwaymen and Robbers, which I am sorry to say was one of my favorite books when I was a boy, the story of Low's life is told, but his behavior in pirate life is not described. Ashton gives some curious particulars of it. In some respects this "bold bad" rover of the seas was by no means so black as he is painted. For example, on our hero's being carried on board Low's vessel, "which had two great guns, four swivels, and about forty men," that gentleman comes up to him with a pistol in each hand, with the inquiry, "Are you a married man?"

Terrified, not without reason, "lest there should be any hidden meaning in his words," Ashton did not reply. He did not know whether it would be wiser to say he was married or a bachelor. You see, it was very important to make a favorable impression.

"'YOU DOG, WHY DON'T YOU ANSWER?' CRIED LOW."

"You dog, why don't you answer?" cried Low, cocking one of the pistols and putting it to the other's ear. Thus compelled, and yet not knowing what to say, Ashton hesitated no longer, but did what he might have done at firsthand which is always the best thing to do—he told the truth.

"I am a bachelor," he said, whereupon Low appeared to be satisfied, and turned away.

The fact was that this scoundrel, who seemed so heartless, had had a wife of his own, whom he had loved tenderly, but who was dead. She had left him a child, now in the care of trustworthy people at Boston, for whom he felt such tenderness that on any mention of him, in quieter moments—that is, "when he was not drinking or revelling"—he would sit down and shed tears. Judging others by himself, he would never impress in his service married men, who had ties, such as a wife and children, to render them desirous of leaving it.

Moreover, Low would never suffer his men to work on Sunday. What is still more strange, Ashton tells us that he has even "seen some of them sit down to read a good book upon that day."

For all that, he had to join the ship's company, and become a pirate like them, or die. His name was accordingly entered on their books; whereas, when opportunity offered, the married men who had been captured were put on shore.

Ashton was sometimes fired at, and slashed with cutlasses,[Pg 276] upon the supposition—which was quite a correct one—that he was planning how to escape. Otherwise he was not, on the whole, ill-treated. He assisted, much against his own will, in the capture of many vessels.

Though very successful in her depredations, the pirate ship was at one time pursued by The Mermaid, an English man-of-war, when Ashton's feelings were more uncomfortable than they had ever been, "for I concluded that we should certainly be taken, and that I, being found in such company, should be hung with the rest, so true are the words of Solomon, 'A companion of fools shall be destroyed.'"

However, one of the ship's men showed Low a sand bar over which his vessel could pass and The Mermaid could not.

"So we escaped the gallows on this occasion." Nor was it only hanging that was to be feared, for it was proposed by these desperate fellows that in case their capture became certain, they should "set foot to foot and blow out each other's brains"—a suggestion which, though he pretended to approve of it, did not please Ashton.

There was now a plot among the more honest portion of the crew to overpower the rest. It was unfortunately discovered, and one Farrington Spriggs, the second in command, informed Ashton that he should "swing like a dog at the yard-arm," as being one of the conspirators. To this our hero meekly replied that he had had no intention of injuring any one on board, but should be glad if he could be allowed to go away quietly.

Perhaps this soft answer had the effect of turning away Mr. Farrington Spriggs's wrath, for Ashton presently remarks, "In the end this flame was quenched, and, through the goodness of Providence, I escaped destruction."

About this time they were in the Bay of Honduras, which is full of small wooded islands, generally known in that part of the world as "keys."

At one of these, which lay altogether out of the track of ships, the pirate touched for water, and the long-boat was sent ashore with casks to get a supply. Low had sworn that Ashton "should never set foot on shore again," but that chieftain was not on board at the time, and the cooper, who was in charge of the boat, granted his request to go with the party. As to running away, there was nowhere, as he reflected, for the man to run to.

When they first landed, Ashton made himself very busy in helping to get the casks out of the boat and in rolling them to the spring; but presently he began to stroll along the beach, picking up shells. On getting out of musket-shot, he made for a thick wood.

"Where are you going?" cried the cooper.

"Only for cocoa-nuts," was Ashton's reply, pointing to where some were hanging.

When once out of sight he ran as fast as the thickness of the bushes and his naked feet permitted him. His clothing was "an Osnaburgh frock and trousers and a knitted cap, but neither shirt, shoes, stockings, nor anything else."

The wood was so thick that he could hear the voices of the party while he himself was quite invisible and secure.

When they had filled their casks they hallooed for him loudly; and then said to one another, "The dog"—they always called him the dog—"is lost in the wood, and can't get out again." In a short time they put off without him.

Then came reflections very similar to those we read in Robinson Crusoe: "Thus was I left on a desolate island, destitute of all help, and remote from the track of navigators, but, compared with the state and society I had quitted, I considered the wilderness hospitable and the solitude interesting. True, I was in a place there was no means of leaving; my clothing was scanty, and it was impossible to procure a supply. With the trifling exception of cocoa-nuts, I was altogether destitute of provisions, nor could I tell how my life was to be supported. But as it had pleased God to grant my wishes in being liberated from those whose occupation was to devise mischief against their neighbors, I resolved to account every hardship light."

In five days the pirate vessel set sail without him, and Philip Ashton found himself alone.

#### [to be continued.]

[Pg 277]

## THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]

#### An Indian Story.

### BY W. O. STODDARD.

### Chapter XXI.

or his own part, To-la-go-to-de had decided upon the policy he should follow. He had told his older warriors,

"The pale-faces are cunning. The Lipans must be wise. Suppose the Apaches kill many pale-faces? Ugh! Good. Lipans kill rest of them very easy. Not so many to kill."

He was right about the Captain's "cunning," for it was a good deal like his own "wisdom," and it had been expressed to his men in the same way.

"The Apaches are strong enough to beat them, and us too, and they'll be on the look-out. We mustn't throw ourselves away, boys. We must get separated somehow. There won't be enough Lipans left to follow us far."

He and Two Knives, therefore, had about the same object in view when they rode out together in advance of their combined force after supper.

The miners were all mounted, and nobody would have guessed how much extra weight they were carrying. They were drawn up now in a close rank in front of their little camp, in which they had not left a single guard.

Two Knives asked about that.

"What for?" replied Skinner. "What good to leave men? If the Lipans want to rob wagon, they kill the men we leave. Suppose Lipans do as they agree, camp safe, then. Better take all the men we've got to fight the Apaches."

That was good sense, and Two Knives only said "Ugh!" to it, but his next question meant more.

"How about fight? Tell chief what do."

"No, I won't. It's your fight more than mine. If you want us to go ahead, we will go. If you say we are to keep back and let you go ahead, all right. If we say we want to do anything, you will think it is crooked. Better not say. You say."

The chief had been expecting to hear some plan of action, and to find something "crooked" in it. Captain Skinner had beaten him at once and completely.

"Then you ride along with Lipans."

"No. The hearts of your young braves are hot and bitter. My men are angry. Must keep apart. Have fight among ourselves. No good."

There was no denying the good sense of that, and Two Knives had no fear at all but that his pale-face allies would come back after their wagon, extra horses, and mules. Of course they would stick to property for which they had shown themselves so ready to fight, and he could not suspect that they now had the best part of it carefully stowed away around them.

"Ugh! Pale-faces can't go ahead. Not stay behind. What then?"

"You say. We go."

"Ride left hand, then. Away off there. Not too far. We go this way. Both find Apaches. Come together then."

"All right. That'll suit us. Send some braves along to see that we don't run away."

Two Knives would have done so if Captain Skinner had not asked for it, but he instantly suspected a cunning plot for the destruction of as many braves as he might send, and he replied:

"Ugh! No good. Pale-faces take care of themselves to-night."

So both of them got what they wanted.

Two Knives believed that by keeping to the right he should make a circuit and surprise the Apache camp, while the miners would be sure to meet any outlying force by riding toward it in a straight line.

Captain Skinner's one idea was to get as far as possible from the Lipans, he hardly cared in what direction. To the "left" was also to the southward; and so he was better off than he had hoped for.

"Go slow, boys," he said to his men. "We must go right across every stream we come to. The more water we can put behind us, the better."

The Lipans also advanced with caution at first, keenly watching the distrusted miners until they were hidden[Pg 278] from them by the rolling prairie and the increasing darkness.

The line on which the Captain was leading them slanted away more and more toward the south, but not so much as yet that it need have aroused the suspicions of To-la-go-to-de's keen-eyed spies who were keeping track of them.

They reached a good-sized brook, and the moment they were over it the Captain shouted: "That gets bigger, or it runs into something before it's gone far. That's our chance, boys."

Nothing could be more sure, for all the brooks in the world do that very thing. Besides, that brook was running in the direction in which the miners wanted to go, and they now pushed forward more rapidly.

"If I knew where the Apache village was," said the Captain, "I'd go near enough to see if we could pick up some ponies. But we won't waste any time looking for it."

The brook was a true guide. In due time it led the miners to the place where it poured its little contribution into the larger stream, and that looked wider and gloomier by night than by day.

"No ford right here, boys. The water runs too still and quiet. We must follow it down."

Every pair of eyes among them was now busy peering into the darkness as they rode along the bank.

If they could but find a ford!

They thought they found one once, and a tall horseman wheeled his horse down the bank, and into the placid water.

"Careful now. Feel your way a foot at a time," shouted Skinner.

"Tain't three feet deep yet, and it's a good bottom."

It did not seem to get any deeper until he was half-way across and the rest were getting ready to follow him, when his horse seemed to stumble and plunge forward.

There was a splash and a smothered cry, and that was all. Days afterward an Apache hunter found a stray horse, all saddled and bridled, feeding on the bank near the spot where he had swum ashore, but nobody ever saw any more of his rider. He had too many pounds of stolen gold about him, heavier than lead, and it had carried him to the bottom instantly.

"Boys," said Captain Skinner, "I'll try the next ford myself. I was half afraid of that."

Every man of them understood just what had happened, and knew that it was of no use for them to do anything but ride along down the bank.

There was not a great deal further to go before a sharp string of exclamations ran along the line.

"See there?"

"Camp fires yonder!"

"That's the Apache village!"

"It's on the other shore."

"Hark, boys! Hear that? Off to the northward? There's a fight going on. Ride now. We're away in behind it."

Captain Skinner was right again. By pushing on along the bank of the river he was soon in full view of the village. At the same time, just because he was so near it, he ran almost no risk at all of meeting any strong force of Apaches. The sound of far-away fighting had somehow ceased, but the Captain did not care to know any more about it.

"Silence, boys. Forward. Our chance has come."

THE MINERS CROSSING THE FORD.

He never dreamed of looking for a ford there by the village, and there were no squaws to find it for him and point it out. More than a mile below he came to the broad rippling shallow the Apache warriors had reported to their chief, and into this he led his men without a moment's hesitation.

"Steady, boys; pick your tracks. Where the ripples show, the bottom isn't far down, but it may be a little rough."

A large part of it was rough enough, but Captain Skinner seemed to be able to steer clear of anything really dangerous, and in a few minutes more he was leading them out on the southerly shore.

"Now, boys," he said, "do you see what we've done?"

"We've got across the river," said Bill, "without any more of us gettin' drownded."

"That's so, but we've done a heap more than that. We've put the Apache village between us and the Lipans, and all we've got to do is to strike for the Mexican line."

At the end of a few more hours of hard riding the foremost man sent back a loud shout of "Here's another river!"

"That's all right," said Captain Skinner. "Now I know where we are."

"Where is it, then?" said Bill.

"The first river we forded was the north fork of the Yaqui, and this is the other fork. When we're on the other bank of that, we're in Mexico. We can go in any line we please, then."

The whole band broke out into a chorus of cheers.

Whatever may have been their reason for wishing to get out of the United States, particularly that part of it, it must have been strong enough to make them anxious. They were not contented for a moment until this second "fork" was also forded.

Then a good place for a camp was selected, and the weary horses were unsaddled.

#### [to be continued.]

## MR. THOMPSON AND A BIRD WITH A LANTERN.

### BY ALLAN FORMAN.

"Pooh!" said Mr. Thompson, after examining a dark lantern I had purchased for the skating season—"pooh! there is nothing new about a dark lantern; they are very common. Why, down on Long Island, where I spent last summer, even the birds carry them."

As I was about to exclaim, he interrupted me with:

"Not all the birds, of course; but there is a kind of heron, a Qua bird—a mighty intelligent fellow he is, too. He carries a lantern when he goes fishing at night—'fire-lighting,' you know. A nice bird, and a bright talker."

"Did you talk with him?" I ventured to ask.

"Of course I did. Long talk. Funny time. I'll tell you about it," replied Mr. Thompson, good-naturedly.

I will not try to repeat the story in Mr. Thompson's own language, for his sentences are somewhat disconnected, but the gist of it is as follows:

Mr. Thompson lay on the shore of a little creek down on the east end of Long Island. He had fled from the farm-house where he was boarding, partly on account of the heat, but principally to escape the sewing circle which met at the house that evening. He had been lying on the bank for some time, and was just beginning to feel cold, when he saw two queer-looking lights bobbing along the shore, and moving toward him.

"Somebody trying to steal Farmer Brown's oysters," he murmured, and prepared to give the intruders a good scare. But the lights came so slowly that his mind wandered off, and he was only aroused from his musings when he heard a peculiar voice near the shore remark:

"It's a man, but he's asleep, and he hasn't any gun."

"Hack!" replied the other, in a guttural tone; "he couldn't hit us if he had a gun."

"No," said the first. "He's a pretty good sort. I've seen him before, and he don't go shooting much."

Just at this moment the cold was too much for Mr. Thompson, and he gave way to a prolonged "Achew!"

"Hark!" screamed both voices. Then one remarked:

"He's a nice man," and he spoke then almost like one of the noble family of Ardea. "Say!" he continued, addressing[Pg 279] Mr. Thompson, "what did you come out here for?"

Mr. Thompson was not surprised at having them speak to him, and he answered, politely,

"I came into the country to escape the heat of the city."

"Just what we came from Florida for."

Mr. Thompson looked carefully at the two speakers, and could see dimly outlined against the water the dark forms of two birds. They had long legs and necks, and long sharp bills. Mr. Thompson immediately concluded from their appearance, and the reference to the family of Ardea, that they were a species of heron.

The birds noticed Mr. Thompson's look, and one of them said, kindly,

"I suppose that you want to have a good look at us, so I'll just light my lantern, and introduce myself," saying which he threw aside the long feathers on his breast, and disclosed a ball of light, very much like that which is seen on the common fire-fly. This light he obligingly turned full upon his companion, while the other performed the same office for him. In the flood of pale phosphorescent light Mr. Thompson was able to see them perfectly.

The first speaker was about three feet high, with a black head and back, and tail and wings of ashy blue; his legs and bill were long like a crane's, and his throat and breast were cream white; on the top of his head were three long white feathers. His companion was the same, with the exception of the feathers on the head. After Mr. Thompson had looked at them for a few minutes, the one with the plumes on his head said: "Now, I suppose that you would like to know our names. In Florida and the Southern States we are called Qua birds; in Virginia they call us Lamp-lighters; when we come up here to Long Island, we are Quaks; and if we go further north, into Connecticut, they add an s, and call us Squaks. But we don't like those appellations: our proper name is Ardea Nycticorax. I am Mr. Nycticorax, and this is my wife, Mrs. N."

Mr. Thompson bowed gallantly, and introduced himself as Mr. John Thompson, of New York. Then he continued: "I don't like to be inquisitive, but your having a lantern makes me peculiarly interested in you; would you mind telling me something about yourself?"

"Certainly not," answered the bird: "I should be most happy to do so. I was born in Florida. We live there in great villages of five or six thousand families, and we generally take a trip every summer for our health. We stop along by the way, and some prefer to spend the summer in one place and some in another, so you see that by the time we get here we are pretty well scattered. When we get here we go to housekeeping. But," he added, deftly snapping up a fish in his long bill, and tossing it to Mr. Thompson, "just eat that, and I'll show you the rest."

Mr. Thompson swallowed the fish without thinking. In a moment he began to experience the most peculiar sensations. His neck began to stretch, his nose to elongate, his hands and arms became covered with feathers. Almost before he knew it he was a full-grown Quak.

"Now," remarked Mr. Nycticorax, "you look something like other people. If you will just follow me, I will introduce you to some of my friends who are keeping house over here in the woods. Come."

"Come," urged Mrs. Nycticorax, and the two flapped their wings and flew rapidly over toward the woods. Mr. Thompson followed, and soon they alighted on the top branch of a tall tree. Just beneath them was a large nest built of twigs; on it was seated a motley-looking Quak, who welcomed Mr. Thompson cordially.

She raised herself a little, and proudly showed four light green eggs. In another tree was a small family about three weeks old. They could not fly yet, but had climbed out of the nest with the aid of their strong bills and claws, and were perched comfortably on a high limb waiting for their parents to return from a fishing excursion.

After Mr. Thompson had talked for some little time, he suddenly remembered that his friends at the farm-house would be worried at his prolonged absence. As he was about to excuse himself, his friend said, "I will go back with you as far as where we first met."

Soon they were again on the shore of the creek, and Mr. Nycticorax was saying good-night, when Mr. Thompson detained him.

"One more question," said that unwearied searcher after knowledge. "What is your lantern composed of?"

"Some kind of phosphorus or other," replied the bird, and at the same time threw back his breast feathers.

Mr. Thompson stretched out his hand to feel of it.

"Ouch! you tickle!" screamed the bird, and flew away. At the same moment Mr. Thompson felt some one grasp his shoulder, and a familiar voice remarked,

"Wa'al, now, I reckon you've ketched a powerful cold, sleepin' here." It was 'Lisha, one of the farm hands.

Mr. Thompson insists that he did not go to sleep; but his fellow-boarders are rather inclined to believe 'Lisha's statement, to the effect that "Mr. Thompson was a-sneezin' and a-snorin', and a-snorin' and a-sneezin'; and ef I hadn't waked him up, he'd 'a ketched his death."

Certain it is that Mr. Thompson has suffered with a tremendous cold in the head ever since.

"WINTER."—From a Painting by Laura Alma Tadema.

## "THINK AND THANK."

### BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.

"Granny, please tell me more about my father," pleaded a little voice in the gathering darkness.

"Ah, child, it hurts me to talk of him. The sea has been his bed, I doubt not, this many a long day."

"But you were telling me how blithe and brave he was, and what merry songs he sang. What made him go to sea?"

"All lads think they can do well on the water. They tire of the fields and the plough. But your father was no fool to think a sailor's life an easy one. He did not go until your mother died, and then he was not brave enough to bear sorrow as we poor women have to do."

The child asked no more, but knit away at the stocking her grandmother had set up for her.

Presently the old woman said, with a shiver: "It's growing cold; there's snow in the air. Put some more sticks on, Peggy."

The child arose and made a pretense of adding to the fire, for there was no more wood, and she had not the heart to say so. Then taking off a little shawl from her shoulders, she put it about those of her granny.

But the old woman had that keenness of perception which is so often a merciful compensation to the blind.

"Child," she said, "you are robbing yourself. The warmth of your own little heart is in this shawl. Is there no more wood?"

"No more, Granny."

"And the flour, does it hold yet, Peggy?"

"It is all gone, Granny; but there's oat-cake enough for the breakfast, and we've a nice sup of porridge on the fire."

"Let us eat it then, and be thankful," said the old woman, solemnly.

The child divided her portion with the cat, and then, with what seemed like careless indifference to the grandmother began to play about the room with her pet.

"Peggy, Peggy, how can you be so light-hearted when we have no food for the morrow?"

Peggy stopped playing, and began to look grave. Suddenly her face lighted up, and she clapped her hands.

"To-morrow is dole-day. Granny; don't you remember? They give out the loaves at church, and your turn began last week."

"Sure enough, yes. To think that I should have lived[Pg 280] to be one of the oldest people of the parish, as well as one of the poorest! Ah me!—I who began life so well!"

"And you shall end it well, too. I can do something."

"You remind me much of your father, lassie. You're a brave little woman. God forgive me for despairing!" Then they went to bed as the easiest way to keep warm.

The Sunday was late in dawning. Daylight came slowly, and the weather was cold and windy and cheerless. The old woman wondered to hear her child singing hymns in a high clear voice that had no rhythm of hunger. But Peggy, like the boy who "whistled for want of thought," was singing to keep up her courage. She was hungry, and wished it was afternoon, that they might have their nice loaf of white bread from the church. Then she began to wonder what she should do when the loaf was gone. How would the old cat taste if they killed her for broth? "Oh, what an awful thought!" and then she hugged and kissed her old pussy, and whispered in her ear that she was sorry she had no breakfast for her, and she must hunt for a mouse.

But the day wore on. They went to church, and, after the second service they staid with the other old people to whom the bread was due, and received, besides, several yards of good warm flannel.

Peggy was now in haste to be home. She did not envy the nicely dressed little children in the church-yard, for she was proud to have her dear old Granny lean upon her, and tell her all about the Bruces, from whom the dole of bread had come, and how their family motto was "Think and Thank." Granny said it meant consideration for the poor, and gratitude for everything. But as they neared their cottage, Granny stopped and listened.

"What is it, Granny?"

"I hear a strange step, child."

As she spoke, a man with a big bunch of bananas over his shoulder, and a silk handkerchief in which were golden oranges, stopped at their very door-step.

"Oh, dear Granny, it is a strange man," said Peggy, giving her loaf a little tighter hug.

"We must ask him in to supper, Peggy," said Granny, firmly.

"But, Granny, we've so little," said the child, "I am ashamed."

"Never be that, Peggy, unless you have done wrong. What does the man look like?"

"A traveller; he's brown and funny-looking."

"For the sake of my son, we must be kind to all that sort; but perhaps he can tell me about Tom."

At that moment the man spoke: "Can you give me a night's lodging, madam?"

Granny stood for a moment as if she had become a statue—fixed, immovable. Then with a cry she rushed at the man, and put her trembling fingers on his head and face and hands. Then she fell sobbing on his shoulder, for Tom had come back, her dear son Tom, whom she had so long supposed to be drowned.

And then came a long tale of suffering and shipwreck and privation. Granny in her turn had to tell how she had lost her sight. And then Tom kissed Peggy, whom he had left as a baby, and promised never again to leave her.

Ah, it was a happy time—and how Peggy did enjoy the oranges!—great juicy globes of nectar.

After that there was no more hunger. The cottage looked like a little bower, with its blooming plants, its warm curtains, and its cheerful blaze on the hearth. Peggy had white bread enough and to spare. Her father brought her home a canary and a parrot; the latter she taught to say "Think and Thank," and every time she remembered her thought of making broth of old pussy, she gave her an extra bowl of milk thick with cream.

It may not be generally known that the custom of a weekly dole of bread is still observed in Trinity parish, New York. Sixty-seven loaves of bread are given to the poor every Saturday at St. John's Chapel. A bequest for this purpose was made thirty years ago by John Leake, Esq.

[Pg 281]

## "GOOD-BY, WINTER."

### BY M. D. BRINE.

Good-by, old Winter, good-by once more;
At twelve to-night will your reign be o'er.
We're tired of you and your sleet and snow,
We're tired of hearing your chill winds blow;
We long for breezes that fill the air
With the scent of the Spring-time flowers fair;
We long for meadows where daisies white
Lift up their heads in the warm sunlight,
And where the grasses are nodding all day.
With the Spring-time breezes forever at play.
Good-by, old Winter. We're sorry for you,
But we're glad your season is nearly through.
You brought us plenty of fun, we know,
For sleighing and snow-balling come with snow;
But O for a breath of the Spring-time sweet,
When the earth and the sky in beauty meet!
And O for the trees where the birds all day
Are singing the golden hours away!
Good-by, old Winter; the Spring is near,
And you may sleep for another year.

BARNUM'S SHOW IN WINTER-QUARTERS.

[Pg 282]

## BARNUM'S SHOW IN WINTER-QUARTERS.

### BY J. C. BEARD.

Last week, boys, I was too busy to tell you anything myself about my experiences among the birds and beasts so snugly located in the "Winter-Quarters." This time I am able to talk to you a little, as well as draw you some pictures.

Suppose we take a look at this party of cranes and pelicans and other queer birds. In spite of his long legs and clumsy bill, the pelican has more or less beauty to recommend him. The prevailing color of his feathers is a lovely rose shading off to white, while his breast wears an orange tinge. The cranes are also really handsome birds, in spite of their long thin legs. They have soft gray plumage, with snow-white crests, and two gracefully flowing plumes besides on the head.

But if you want to see a homely bird, look at the adjutant. Certainly the one that roams so confidently about the inclosure is the most hideous creature I ever saw. A great clumsy body, long legs, thick bare neck, and bare, ragged head make up a sum total of amazing ugliness. The adjutant's beak is the most remarkable feature about him, being nearly a yard long, and thick in proportion. This huge beak is strong enough to kill a man with one blow. As you see in our illustration, the keeper when feeding these birds is obliged to carry the dish of food upon his head; if held in his hands, those enormous beaks would make short work of dish, meat, and all. The adjutant acts the part of watch-dog, and cats and other stray animals that value their lives are careful to avoid this yard.

One of these birds reminded me of an expert at base-ball. Especially is he a good "catcher." The keeper stood fully fifteen feet from him, and tossed great pieces of meat toward him. Each time the bird's great beak opened exactly at the right moment, and closed with a snap upon the huge piece of raw meat. The bird seemed to enjoy the sport fully as much as the by-standers.

The adjutant in the lower sketch, whom we see apparently holding a confidential chat with his keeper, is a little fellow, quite tame, and even socially inclined. This position upon the keeper's knee, as the latter sits by the fire, is a favorite one with him.

The monkeys in Mr. Barnum's collection are well worth seeing. They are of various kinds. A blue-faced baboon named Napper is evidently the leader of monkey society at Bridgeport. He is a brilliant object to look at, for his cheeks are blue, his nose and eyebrows are bright scarlet, while his pointed beard is yellow. He is not a monkey of good character, and has actually been known to get intoxicated. Mr. Hodges, the keeper, is very fond of Napper, who seems to return affection. He will sit for hours upon his friend's knee before the fire, turning himself from side to side that he may receive the full benefit of the welcome heat. The monkeys suffer dreadfully from cold draughts, and are very apt to die of consumption.

Mr. Hodges assured me that most if not all of the cageful of monkeys would be dead before spring, and seemed much affected by the loss of his pets. Some of them seemed to be in the last stages now, coughing violently, and holding their slender hands affectedly to their chests. If the monkeys could be clothed, they would better endure the cold; but a jacket in the cage would remain whole on the back of the wearer just about five seconds.

A keeper fed the monkeys while I was there, and it was a funny sight. He put the pan of rice and sugar inside the cage, and I expected a general scramble, but instead of this I found the distribution of food to be a most orderly process. The big fellows calmly served themselves first. They ate as much as they could, then crammed their cheeks full, and grasping as much as their hands would hold, retired to a corner to finish at their leisure. The smaller monkeys now modestly proceeded to dine in the same fashion. They follow the example set them by their elders, and all is done in the most orderly manner.

Feeding the monkeys with pea-nuts is great fun. The instant they see a pea-nut they rush pell-mell to the front of the cage, eager to reach through the bars and catch the delicious morsel. The fortunate possessor retires with his prize to a corner, proceeds to crack the shell, and eats it with quite as much delight as you would, if presented with something you particularly like.

Aard-vark, or the "hog with a wart," is not a pretty name, and he is not a pretty animal. The domestic hog is quite a beauty in comparison, as this one has enormous tusks, stiff bristles, scarcely any eyes at all, and hideous lumps on his face and head; not one wart, but plenty of them. But he eats the pailful of carrots with as much relish as if he were the handsomest beast in the world.

The coach-dog which is such a favorite with the elephants is named Denver, and the huge animals take the entire charge of him. A gentleman saw the keeper put a piece of meat before one of the elephants near him, and the great creature seized it in his trunk, and gave the "mother-call" for Denver. This mother-call is the sound they make in calling their young ones. Denver understood in a moment, and rushed toward them; the elephant gently laid the meat on the ground before the dog, and watched him with great interest while he devoured it.

Denver was lost once for two weeks, and the elephants would not perform until he was found. The welcome he received from his huge friends on his return was nearly the death of him. They caressed him with their trunks, rolled him over and over, "purring" all the while like distant thunder, and stuffed him with all the meat he could eat.

The Bridgeport boys are very careful about their behavior to Denver, for if a howl of pain or annoyance is heard from him on the outside of the building, the elephants inside become so enraged that there is danger of their breaking their chains and avenging their favorite.

As I left the "quarters" I found a crowd of Bridgeport boys gathered about a small Irish jaunting-car with a beautiful striped zebra harnessed before it. This zebra's name is Sheik, and is often seen in the streets of the city, with some of the ladies belonging to the circus driving him. Sheik is gentle, swift, and has as much endurance as a mule. Zebras are generally supposed to be untamable, and Sheik's keeper deserves great credit for the wonderful manner in which he has succeeded in training this wild creature. Sheik is not, however, a "true zebra," but one of the species called asinus Burchelii. A "true zebra" has never been brought to this country. Bridgeport boys think Sheik driven in the jaunting-car a fine show.

[Pg 283]

## NINE MEN'S MORRIS.

### BY JAMES OTIS.

As an in-door amusement, a very interesting game is that of Nine Men's Morris, or Shepherd's Game, as it is known by some. A board may be made of anything at a moment's notice, and bits of paper, peas, beans, or anything of that sort may be used for men.

To make the board, draw three squares, one within the other, with a space of at least an inch between them; then draw four lines to connect each of the sides, and it is complete.

Each player has nine men, it making no difference what they are made of, so long as one set may be readily distinguished from the other.

Then each player places alternately a man on any one of the intersections, which on the plan are numbered from 1 to 24 simply for the purpose of better explaining the game. The first point is for one of the players to get three men in a line; that is to say, have them on three direct stations, as 16, 17, 18, or 10, 11, 12, but not on the angles, as at 1, 4, 7. If either player succeed in so placing his men, he can remove one of his adversary's men from the board; this is called pounding. One of three men in a line can not be pounded, provided there are any others on the board.

As the game is really divided into three distinct phases of playing, it may be well to illustrate each phase, taking the work of placing the men first, and allowing Black to open the game:

Black. | White.
9 | 11
13 | 18
14 | 15
8 | 7
5 | 2
6 | 4
21 pounds 11 | 16
12 | 17 pounds 12
12 | 24

By this play White has the best of the game, and then the moving begins, which consists in moving a man from one intersection to another which is not occupied, never passing over a man or out of the direct lines. For example, a man at 11 might move to 10, 19, 4, or 12, provided those stations were not occupied.

To continue the game illustrated: Black has only one man which he can move, and that is from 21 to 20. White moves 2 to 3, and pounds 20, selecting that one because 6, 14, or 20 must be removed, or a line could be made by Black, who would have pounded 7, and had the advantage. Black then moves 14 to 21; White, 15 to 14; Black, 21 to 20; White, 3 to 2—White now being able to make a line at 3, 15, or 24 whenever he chooses, despite Black. Black now moves 20 to 21. At this point it would be possible for White to block the game by moving 17 to 20; but in the hope of winning, even though he gives his adversary an advantage, he moves 2 to 3; then—

Black. | White.
5 to 2 | 4 to 5
21 " 20 | 14 " 15 pounds 20
13 " 14 | 17 " 20
9 " 13 | 24 " 23
14 " 21 | 18 " 17 pounds 21
8 " 9 | 23 " 24 pounds 12
6 " 14 | 24 " 23 pounds 13

Black has now but three men; and when either party is so reduced in numbers he can jump to any part of the board, regardless of men or intersections, provided the station at which he wishes to stop is not occupied.

To illustrate this latter portion of the game: Give White seven men, on stations 3, 6, 8, 9, 11, 17, and 18, and Black three men, at 7, 12, and 15. White moves from 6 to 14; Black, 7 to 13; White, 17 to 20; Black, 15 to 7. By this last move of Black's he can jump to 16, make a line, and pound. White moves 3 to 15; Black, 13 to 16, and pounds 14.

When Black is reduced to two men he loses the game, and this would have occurred had he pounded any other man but 14, as otherwise White could have made a line by the next move.

The game is continued by—

White. | Black.
15 to 14 | 16 to 13
20 " 21 | 13 " 16 pounds 9
8 " 9 | 7 " 13
11 " 19 | 13 " 7 pounds 9
18 " 17 | 7 " 20

This portion of the game calls for the most skillful playing, since White can also jump when he has but three men left; and as his men stand now, he could complete a line in one or two moves despite Black, provided he could jump. Black must therefore play to gain the advantage of position rather than to pound:

White. | Black.
14 to 6 | 12 to 18
21 " 14 | 16 " 21
17 " 16 | 18 " 17
6 " 5

Now if Black should make his line by jumping from 21 to 23, and pound one of White's men, White could make a line in two moves by jumping to 6, 11, or 12, and thus win the game; but in such a position, between equal players, the game should be a draw.

It is possible to display quite as much skill in Morris as in checkers. But the one, although it looks so simple, requires quite as much study as the other.

In playing, avoid crowding all your men on two squares. If you have the first move, take the corners, and try to make a cross with three men. Keep your adversary blocked as much as possible, and leave your own men free to move. Do not try too hard to form a line while placing the men, or your adversary will have an opportunity to place his for position, and you will be beaten easily when the moving begins.

When possible, try to arrange men so that you can make two or three lines by successive moves, as, for example, men on 9, 13, 18, 20, and 23. Then 18 can move to 17 and make a line, back to 18 for another, and so on.

Before reducing your adversary to three men, and thus giving him an opportunity to jump, try to arrange your men so that you will be able to form your lines in successive moves. For example: Black has eight men, at 2, 11, 13, 15, 16, 19, 21, and 24; White has four, at 3, 9, 12, and 22. Black moves 24 to 23; White, 22 to 10. If Black made a line at 14 or 20, White, being reduced to three men, could jump either to 20 or 14, whichever was vacant, and thus prevent the second line from being made; but if Black moves 2 to 5, White can not prevent him from making a line either at 4, 14, or 20, even if he can jump.

[Pg 284]

THE MUSIC-ROOM.

## THE CHILDREN'S CARNIVAL.

There are matter-of-fact people nowadays who do not believe in the Arabian Nights, and fairies, and Mother Goose, and the wonderful things that we have all read about and heard stories about. I confess that I was one of those people; but I have gone back to dear old Mother Goose, and Aladdin, and Sindbad the Sailor. From henceforth I am Prince Carnival's most devoted subject. And now I will tell you why.

But suppose I ask you to fancy that you are with me at the Academy of Music in New York on the eve of St. Valentine's Day. Beautiful music is heard in the distance, and presently a gauzy curtain is lifted up, and disappears out of sight. Then the music grows louder, as an immense army of fairies and goblins is seen, from the midst of whom a graceful figure issues forth, and dances along in front until he comes to a huge hen's nest, on which is lying a great white egg. The Court Jester—for that is his name—stops when he comes to the egg, hits it with his staff, and, lo! the top falls off, and Prince Carnival, a ruddy little fellow about six years old, is seen waving his wand for the fun to begin.

And thus it began: First came the Court Jester, dancing and bowing and leaping with the utmost grace; then followed three clowns; after them came three Shanghai chickens, each about as big as a horse, and dancing as gayly as if they knew they were too big to be eaten. Then came Prince Carnival himself, in his broken egg on the nest, which was drawn by his attendants in fantastic costumes. After him came an old rooster and an old hen.

Then came a carriage drawn by two live white goats, containing a boy and girl gorgeously dressed, and after them a band of Gypsy Maidens. But what have we here? A lot of little old things with blue-gray gowns and red hoods and blue-gray beards, and behind them a wonderful being, riding on a chariot of gray rocks in which the gold dust glitters. Surely this is the Queen of Fairy-land.

Then came Aurora, the rosy Goddess of Dawn; Zuleika, the beautiful Grecian Princess; and behind her were actually twenty babies in their night dresses and night-caps, with pink sashes. What little things they were! Some of them were so small that they could hardly toddle fast enough to keep up with the procession. And last of all came the Gardener in his cart, drawn by a live donkey, and attended by a group of Flower Maidens.

Then the dancing began. Whenever Prince Carnival waved his hand, a beautiful being stepped forward and danced in the most enchanting fashion, until the whole building rang with the applause that greeted each. There was the Queen, of Fairy-land, who came without her little gray-bearded attendants, and danced beautifully. But the little gnomes soon missed her, for before she had finished they ran up and huddled themselves together to watch her. Then, when she rested, they began their dance. It was just such a dance as you would expect little imps of mischief to perform. They didn't dance at all. They simply romped. They played "snap-the-whip," chased each other about the floor, and at last left the stage more on their heads than their feet, for they all turned head over heels time after time, until they were back among the crowd of fairy folk again.

A little later, the twenty babies in their night dresses came on, and they tried to dance, and were doing very nicely until, as they were all standing in a line, the end one fell, and so they all fell and knocked one another over, just like a row of tin soldiers. After that they gave up dancing, and just frolicked as the gnomes had done, until five little soldiers came, when they retreated in just such another head-over-heels fashion as the gnomes had.

The most wonderful dancing of all was that of Zuleika, the Grecian Princess, who was about twelve years old, and was dressed in a beautiful costume of blue and white satin. She was attended by a group of Grecian maidens who performed the brilliant cymbal-dance. The applause was loud and long, and hardly had Zuleika collected the beautiful bouquets, when little Prince Carnival waved his wand, and five mysterious figures appeared, arrayed in long cloaks covering them from head to foot. The Prince stepped forward, and going from one to another, he waved his wand over them, and they threw off their long cloaks, and appeared as five beautiful little fairies, representing the Five Continents—Europe, Asia, Africa, America, and Australia. Then each came forward and danced, but the prettiest dance of all was danced by America, who had a bow and arrow, like an Indian.

It was not long after this that Fairy-land broke loose. I was standing watching the brilliant scene, and wishing that I might remain in Fairy-land forever, when I heard a sweet little voice saying, "Please let me pass." I looked round, and it was—could I be awake, or was I dreaming?—yes, it was the Queen of Fairy-land herself asking me to let her pass. I drew back, and she went right up to a beautiful lady, who called her "My child," and kissed her. Happy lady to be the mother of the Queen of Fairy-land!

And so they were not fairies, after all, but real children, and they had mothers, who kissed them, and called them "My child," "My darling!"

[Pg 285]

Did the fairies we read about have mothers? I think not. So much the happier, then, these fairies. And since they are prettier far than any of the fairies the story-books tell us about, and dance more gracefully, and are altogether far more wonderful, therefore I believe in fairies—this kind of fairies—from this time forth, and swear allegiance to my sovereign lord Prince Carnival and all his merry band.

THE CHILDREN'S CARNIVAL.

[Pg 286]

SLEEPING IN THE MEADOW.

## OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

Newark, New Jersey.

> There are four of us children in this house to enjoy Harper's Young People, besides our little wee baby, and we gave four subscriptions on Christmas-day as presents to our little cousins, and they enjoy the papers so much! But what we want to tell you about is our little brother M., who is only four years old. A few days ago he took his papa's mucilage bottle and brush, and pasted it all over his little sister's face. They thought it was fine fun at first, but lying down almost immediately to take a nap, when she woke up she was fast to her pillow. Her crying brought us, and when we saw what was the matter, we made him quite ashamed of what he had done, and he didn't want us to tell his papa when he came home from business. When he said his prayers at night he said, "Dear Dod, pease dive me more ense [sense] o me won't do my little ister o any more."

Lena and Eulalie McD.

Fort Apache, Arizona.

> My papa is in the army, and we travel about a good deal. We have no schools out here, but I study with papa. I have a big sister, who rides on horseback. There are lots of Indians about these mountains. The soldiers had a battle with them last August. I suppose you read about it in the papers. General Carr was in command. My papa was wounded, but he is well now. I take Young People, and love it very much. My sister takes St. Nicholas. We have only one mail a week; the mail-day is Wednesday. There are not any girls here, or even boys. I like the story called "Talking Leaves" very much. I am afraid my letter is too long, so good-by.

Bessie G.

Your letter is not too long, dear. You might have told us how you amuse yourself without any little companions. How glad you must be that your papa's wound is healed!

Monroe, Iowa.

> My name is Johnny. I am eight years old. I have a little brother, Joe, six years old. We both have the whooping-cough badly. I have to stay[Pg 287] at home from school, and don't like it a bit. I have a big cat that looks just like a tiger. She has no name yet. What shall I call her? I can set type just a little for papa's paper.

Johnny V.

We are very sorry that you and Joe have the whooping-cough. It is one of the few things it is right to be very selfish about. You must be ever so careful not to give any of it away, you know, and that's why you have to stay at home from school. One comfort is that next winter your mamma will say, "I am not afraid of whooping-cough any more, for my boys have had it." At least she will not be afraid of your having it very severely again. Perhaps some of the little correspondents will send you a name for Madame Puss. We think Mouser is as good as any. Is it difficult to set type?

Nachitoches, Louisiana.

> I have been going to school ever since the new year began. Our teacher is good; she has twelve scholars. We are doing very well. I read all of the letters in the Post-office Box, and I thought I would write to you. I have a horse and gun, and go hunting very often. The river runs right in front of our house, and the ducks are plentiful. Recently my brother and I went hunting, and brought home a good many ducks. I have three brothers and one sister. She is just learning her letters. I think she is anxious to learn. Our teacher has a little book in which she marks off our lessons. She has a page which she calls the Black List. She has not marked me yet, and I am not going to get on that list. I spent my Christmas holidays at home. Our greatest fun was in popping fire-crackers. The river rises every winter, so we have to use a boat to cross. This is tiresome to little boys who are lazy.

Elisha W. B.

Has that good teacher a Roll of Honor for the well-behaved as well as a Black List for the naughty scholars? We hope so, because we are sure that if she has, your name will appear on that.

Dobbs Ferry, New York.

> I am a little girl nearly nine years old. I do not take Harper's Young People, but my grandma does. I have a little sister who was three weeks old yesterday. I hold her very often. She is a real sweet little thing. She is ever so fat. And she can smile, too. I heard that the Editor wants all the little girls to tell about their pets and dolls. I have no pets except two cats, a mother cat and a kitten. The mother's name is Mollie, and the kitten's name is Dot. I have a beautiful doll that I got on Christmas. She has lovely golden curls, and little pink socks, and everything to complete a baby's toilet. We haven't very good coasting, for the snow is so deep. We have in front of our house a great big snow-drift that is higher than a man.

Isabella T. N.

Foochow, China.

> I shall be eight years old next month. I came here from Massachusetts a year ago with my mamma and two little brothers to stay with my papa, who has been in Foochow a good many years. Our house is on the river, and we can see a great many sampans and junks. When we go out to ride, we go in a chair on two poles, and it is carried by two or three coolies. We had ten rabbits, but we gave away the three old ones, and now have the seven young ones left. It is not cold enough for snow or ice here, so there is no chance for coasting or sliding, but the flowers blossom all winter.

> I am getting a lot of nice stamps for my book; I have over three hundred. I like Harper's Young People very much, and get two or three by every mail, twice a month.

Amy C J.

We felt the more interested, Amy, in your little letter, which left Foochow just before Christmas, because the very day it came we had been talking with a lady who had spent many years in China, and who told us some very interesting things about its people. We will be pleased to have you write again, and tell us whether you intend to learn to speak and write Chinese while you are in the Flowery Land. We would try to do so if we were there, difficult as it is.

Georgetown, D. C.

> Can you make room for a stranger who would like very much to see her letter in the Post-office Box? I think one of the nicest stories in your paper is "The Little Dolls' Dressmaker." In No. 118 there was a short article called "Home Gymnastics for Stormy Days," which I think I shall try. I am a little girl just twelve years old, and have one brother and one sister, both grown-upers.

Virginie T. B.

Eutawville, South Carolina.

> I am a boy of nine. I am spending the winter at my grandfather's plantation in South Carolina, but my home is in the Pennsylvania mountains. The Santee River is near here, and a deep swamp with bears in it. There are many young lambs here, and one day the buzzards caught two little weak ones. Another boy and I drove them off from getting another. The birds are very gay, and the woodpeckers tap on the house like mad. Love to the Editor.

E. B. C. Jun.

Poor little lambs! We are so glad you and your friend were in time to drive off the cruel buzzards before they carried away any more of them. Have you ever happened to meet a bear, or do they hide themselves in the swamp? What would you do if one came along? And are you studying the habits of the birds, so that when you go home again you will have acquired a fund of information about the warblers of the South?

#### C. Y. P. R. U.

Perhaps some of you would like to know how to make pretty scrap-books, either for your own pleasure or to give to little friends. These scrap-books are sources of enjoyment to children who have been ill and are getting stronger—who are what we call convalescent—and some of us know crippled children, or even grown people, who are shut in from busy life by weakness or disease. We ought to try to brighten their lives if we can. Gather together all the illustrated newspapers and books with pictures that you can command. Black and white pictures are as good as colored, and the two look well together. Cut these out neatly and carefully, with smooth edges. Torn and worn-out picture-books usually have something left which will do to cut out, and be thus saved from being wholly lost. Then there are the Christmas, New-Year, and birthday cards, of which nearly all of us have some. Take for the pages of your book, paper, muslin, or common glazed cambric; cut this into pieces ten inches long and eight inches wide. Three or four pages will make a book large enough to begin with. The cambric may be all white, or any color you prefer—pink, blue, red, or a part of each color. On these pages paste the pictures neatly on both sides, using your taste as to which pictures look well together and fit in nicely. The covers may be made of the cambric, neatly lined; but if you aim at durability, take light pasteboard covered on both sides with cambric, and sewed together over and over, or what is better, in button-hole stitch in colored worsted. Then with the scissors make holes through all, and tie the covers and pages together with a narrow ribbon or twisted worsted.

We are sure that none of you who can play and sing will neglect to learn the beautiful melody which we give you in this week's Post-office Box. We shall think we hear you singing it as we follow the paper in its flight over land and sea to the thousands of homes where little hands are outreached to welcome its arrival.

Here is a bit of wise counsel from Charles Kingsley about the best way to study history:

> "If you would understand history, you must first try to understand men and women. For history is the history of men and women, nothing else; and she who knows men and women thoroughly will best understand the past work of the world, and be best able to take a share in its work now.... If, therefore, any of you ask me how to study history, I should answer: 'Take, by all means, biographies—wheresoever possible, autobiographies—and study them. Fill your mind with live human figures, people of like passions with yourselves; see how they lived and worked in the time and place in which God put them.' Believe me that when you have thus made a friend of the dead, and brought them to life again, and let them teach you to see with their eyes and feel with their hearts, you will begin to understand more of their generation and their circumstances than all the mere history books of the period would teach you."

A. C.—St. Mary's Free Hospital is an Episcopal institution. We can not answer your first question.

We offer the C. Y. P. R. U. this week a variety of articles from which to choose. Mr. James Payn begins another of his thrilling stories of "Peril and Privation" on the great deep; the presence of mind and courage shown by little Alice Ivy will appeal to readers of all ages; Mr. Allan Forman gives us a glimpse into ornithology in his amusing article on "Mr. Thompson and the Bird with a Lantern"; and there is no small amount of information in regard to natural history to be gleaned from Mr. J. C. Beard's article on "Mr. Barnum's Show in Winter-Quarters." Capital entertainment for long evenings will be found in the game of "Nine Men's Morris," which Mr. James Otis gives us full and clear directions how to play.

### PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

### No. 1.

### A DIAMOND CROSS.

Centre diamond.—1. A letter. 2. To strike. 3. Expanded sheets. 4. A fold. 5. A letter.

Upper left-hand diamond.—1. A letter. 2. An animal. 3. Parts of a ship. 4. To mistake. 5. A letter.

Upper right-hand diamond.—1. A letter. 2. To sup. 3. Edges. 4. A plant and its fruit. 5. A letter.

Lower left-hand diamond.—1. A letter. 2. A surface. 3. Bottoms. 4. A favorite. 5. A letter.

Lower right-hand diamond.—1. A letter. 2. An affirmative. 3. Marine animals. 4. Cunning. 5. A letter.

Bob.

### No. 2.

### ENIGMA.

Find my first in church, but not in building,
And in barn my second, not in house.
Find my third in crayon, not in pencil,
And my fourth in bread, but not in cake,
And my fifth in sleep, but not in wake,
And my sixth in squirrel, not in rabbit.
Only little children need my whole.

Willie B. W. (aged 7).

### No. 3.

### RHOMBOID.

Across.—1. A priest. 2. Small reptiles. 3. Fast. 4. To gain knowledge. 5. Started with fright.

Down.—1. A letter. 2. A preposition. 3. A dowry. 4. A small bird. 5. Outer surfaces, 6. A Persian monarch. 7. A Latin numeral. 8. A French adverb. 9. A letter.

Buster Benzine.

### ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 119.

### No. 1.

Satisfactory.

### No. 2.

Y | I | E | L | D
I | D | L | E | R
E | L | E | G | Y
L | E | G | A | L
D | R | Y | L | Y

### No. 3.

Lexington. Abraham Lincoln. Franklin. Australia. Yenisei. Erie. Ticonderoga. Texas. Egypt.

Lafayette.

### No. 4.

It was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Roland brought a lily-white doe
To give his cousin Lady Clare.

### No. 5.

Ethel. Lethe.

### No. 6.

|  |  | H
|  | C | O | T
| C | A | N | E | S
H | O | N | E | S | T | Y
| T | E | S | T | Y
|  | S | T | Y
|  |  | Y

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from N. Y. C., Flora C. McGregor, Murray Cheston Boyer, "Lodestar," Clara, Bertha, Mary E. Nesmith, William A. Lewis, Harry H. Rousseau, "Sam Weller, Jun.," Charley Lamprey, Florence Cox, E. Knowles Webster, "Little Violet," Guilford D. Eggleston, Mallie M., Edward Lee Haines, Istalina Beach, Stella Scofield, Edward S. Lea, A. H., H. V. Gunnere, Willie Volckhausen, Edith E. Grice, Willie Curtis, Percy Brotherhood, "Fill Buster," Leland Burr, Maud M. Chambers, Louis R. Little, Albert Earle, Georgie Wardell, Mary Wardell, Francis, Harry A. McCarthy, Johnnie W. King, M. S. French, "Queen Bess," Horace M. Dobbins, J. U. Merrick, Mitford D. Rogers, Willie B. Wood, Ruby Wickersham, Arthur F. Dornin, Fred. W. Loudon, Emma L. Gilbert, Katrina, C. Will Eggers, Eva Darlington, Elsie C. Ruggles, Alice Blandford, Addie Goodnow, Sallie Rose, Kate Wily, Paul Renno Heyl, Louis Starrett, "Lora," M. F. Tomes, Hattie E. Conant, Lizzie Hill, Mrs. Nesmith, Hattie Wiesel, Connie W. Smith, Newton D. Holbrook, Jun., Ernest L. Meeker, Eloise, Josephine Harrison, Marie Blanche Y. Shannon, Charley Graves, Cyrus Hill, Annie E. Little, Ruth Shirley Hawkins, "Robin Redbreast," Katie Huckaus, Harold B. Fobes, William Cowan, "A Regular Subscriber," Laura C. Brinton, Felix S. Meigs, Augusta Low Parkes, Mamie B. Purdy, Henry Berlan, Jun., Ella E. Atwater, Melvin S. Rosenthal, Mattie Ingalls, Harry D. Schwartzchild, Belle R. McGahey, Mabel V. Darrighues, Percy L. McDermott, "Reader," "Al. Bert," "Al-fa-ra-ta," G. C. L., Emma Roehm, Mary Agnes Hale, Thomas Mullett, Emily Atkinson, Lawrence La Forge, J. A. E., Mannie G. Hagur, Mattie and Eleanor Smith, C. C. Jacobus, Harry J. Guntzer, "Æsthetic," Kate M., H. A. S., Laura Williams, Clare B. Bird, and Rosa M. Benedict.

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

[Pg 288]

SOME ANSWERS TO WIGGLE No. 24, OUR ARTIST'S IDEA, AND NEW WIGGLE, No. 25.

### FOOTNOTES:

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

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