Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

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VOL. III.--NO. 111. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, December 13, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

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[Illustration: BEST GIRL IN AMERICA.]

LADY RAGS.

HOW THE WAR OF THE WOODS AND THE TINS--INCLUDING THE SHORTS--CAME TO AN
END.

BY MARGARET EYTINGE.


The fight, begun a little after three o'clock in the afternoon that 24th
of December, was still raging furiously when the hands of the big clock
on the market tower pointed to half past four, and the pale sun was
preparing to bid the world good-by until Christmas morning.

Snow-balls, some of them as hard as stones, were flying in every
direction.

The Tins, yelling like wild Indians, were rushing up on and scrambling
over the snow-covered piles of wood, brick, and mortar that lay in
front of the half-dug-out cellar of the new building that was to be in
Short Street.

The Woods, yelling like some more wild Indians, were sallying out from
the cellar--named "Fort Hurrah" for the occasion--and driving the enemy
back, every now and then capturing two or three of them, and dragging
them triumphantly into the fort.

There had been war between the Wood Street boys and the Tin Street boys
for more than a year. It originated in Tim Ashburner's taking Jack
Lubs's parrot--which Jack had lent to him for a week only--into the
country with him, and keeping it there all vacation.

Jack Lubs's father, who was a sea-captain, had brought this parrot from
some far-distant land, together with a monkey, which Mrs. Lubs said, the
moment she saw it, she would _not_ have in the house. "Parrots were bad
enough, but monkeys--no indeed!"

So Jack was obliged to sell Boomerang, and he sold it so many times--the
little creature being always returned on account of its mischievousness
and destructiveness--that he became the richest boy in marbles, balls,
knives, and nickels for blocks around. And when no other acquaintance
could be found anxious to secure Boom for a household companion, Jack
gave him to a showman, who had pitched his tent in an adjoining square,
for an order admitting "bearer and friends" to the show. But when
"bearer" presented that order shortly after, accompanied by "friends" to
the number of two-and-twenty, the showman opened his eyes very wide
indeed, and exclaimed, "Great elephants! I'll never be caught that way
again."

But it wasn't only the stealing--I mean the taking--of the parrot that
caused the trouble, for Ashburner brought it back in good condition, it
was the adding of insult to injury by teaching it to say, in a hoarse
voice, "Hi! Squint-eye, ho! Squint-eye, shiver your timbers, _please_."

This remark the lawful owner justly considered somewhat personal, he
being the son of a sailor, and having an eye that did not look as
straight ahead as its companion eye did. And after he had been sainted
with "Hi! Squint-eye, ho! Squint-eye, shiver your timbers, _please_" at
short intervals for an entire Saturday morning, he became very angry,
and the result of his anger was that he and four of his chummiest chums
decided to go round to Tin Street and demand satisfaction.

They went, and were met by Ashburner, who was on his way home from the
baker's with a pumpkin pie. As soon as he learned their errand, however,
he, in the most obliging manner, placed the pie on the nearest stoop,
and quickly mustering four of _his_ chummiest chums, gave them
"satisfaction"; that is, if a black eye for Jack, and sundry swollen
lips and noses for his comrades, can be called by that name. As for the
Ashburner party, with the exception of the pumpkin pie being squashed,
that received no injuries whatever.

This doesn't seem exactly right, for Lubs certainly had cause for
complaint in the first place. But Justice, they say, is blind, and I
suppose that is the reason why she makes mistakes once in a while.

Jack went home breathing vengeance, and his chums, feeling called upon
by the sacred voice of Friendship to breathe vengeance too, from that
day forth there was war between the Woods, under Captain Lubs, and the
Tins, under Captain Ashburner, first one side and then the other being
victorious.

The two companies took their names from the streets in which they lived.
These streets were on the outskirts of the city and only a block long,
and ran in such a way that they, with a very short block named Short
Street as a base, formed an isosceles triangle. At the point of this
triangle was a drug-store having two front doors, one on each street.

The Shorts were part of them "Woods" and part of them "Tins," and their
street faced the open square on the nearest side of which the new
building already mentioned had been begun.

"Such a splendid place for a fight we'll never get again," said
Lieutenant Rube Howell, to his captain. "The workmen have gone home, and
nobody passes that way 'count of the heaps of stuff. I say, Lubs, let's
have a last grand battle to end the old year with."

"You're right, Rube," said Lubs, and forthwith sent a challenge to the
Tins' commander, and soon a lively skirmish for the possession of the
fort--the half-dug-out cellar with a rough board fence around it--was
going on.

The Woods won it, and then the fight began in earnest.

Captain Lubs, waving his sword--a long lath--above his head, and his
lieutenant, backed by their men, mounted the fence, and derisively
requested the besiegers to "come on!" The besiegers, led by Captain
Ashburner, waving his sword--a broad strip of tin--above his head, and
his lieutenant, Jimmy Mullally, did come on.

Over the snowy hills they rushed, slipping, falling, and scrambling to
their feet again; swarming up the fence, to be knocked off by
well-directed blows; crawling under the fence in hopes of catching an
enemy by the legs, and being caught by the heads themselves, or making
narrow escapes, leaving behind them locks of hair, and taking away
scratches and bruises.

Lieutenant Mullally twisted his ankle, and sank down groaning behind an
embankment. Little Willie Bond's cheek was badly cut with a pebbled
snow-ball. A dozen other boys were more or less hurt.

The fight grew fast and furious. Neither side stopped to look after its
wounded, when small Bond, who had climbed a ladder leaning against a
pile of brick, and who was sitting on the topmost round nursing his
wounded face, called out, in his shrillest voice,

"Halloo! a flag of truce! H-a-l-l-o-o! a flag of truce is comin'."

"Don't belong to us," shouted the Woods.

"Don't belong to us," shouted the Tins.

"It's only a girl," said Mullally, getting up on one leg; whereupon his
captain, spying him, asked in an indignant tone,

"What are you shirkin' for, Lally? They've got ten of our men. Tins to
the rescue! Tins to the rescue!" And in his excitement he let his
flashing sword fall so suddenly on the head of the warrior next to him
that that warrior immediately bit the dust--snow, I should say. At the
same moment a scout flying in with the cry, "It's Lady Rags," fell over
him at the captain's feet.

"It's Lady Rags," ran through the ranks.

"It's Lady Rags," Lubs informed his soldiers from the ramparts, and
deserting the fort, they all joined him on the sidewalk, their prisoners
promptly seizing the chance to escape.

A young girl bearing a white flag made of a piece of muslin neatly
tacked to an old broom-handle came slowly toward them. She wore a skirt
of blue and red flannel, a black jacket, half silk and half cloth, and a
cap of three or four kinds of fur, bordered with soft swan's-down. Her
cheeks were glowing with the cold, her great brown eyes beamed with
frankness and innocence, and her hair, in two long golden braids, caught
the last ray of the setting sun.

"Boys," she said, in a clear, ringing voice, as she reached them, "I
want to speak to you."

"Great time to want to speak to fellers," growled Sandy Grip, "when
they're finishin' up the old year, and only got a few minutes to do it
in."

"You keep still, Grip," said Ashburner. "Guess you forget who prayed for
you when you had the diphtheria."

"And the Woods have got to be quiet, or get another captain," said Jack
Lubs, remembering the dear little sister who with her dying breath
begged him to always be good to "darling Lady."

"I couldn't wait till to-night to say what I have to say," said Lady,
"for my mothers need me at home, and so, as I knew I'd find you all here
fighting, I thought I'd bring a flag of truce, and you'd stop long
enough--oh, how I wish you'd stop forever!--to hear what I have to ask
of you."

"Go ahead, Lady," said the boys, with one accord.

And planting the flag-staff in the snow heap behind her, Lady Rags
folded her little red hands, and began.

But before I tell you what she said I must tell you something about
herself.

Just thirteen years before the day of the Tins' and Woods' battle, three
poor tired old women, who had been wandering about the city in search of
rags and what other things they could gather, met at the corner of the
street in which they lived.

As they plodded on together--it was fast growing dark--they stumbled
over something lying upon the sidewalk. Stooping to look at this
something, they found a woman with a baby in her arms.

"I am dying," she whispered, "of cold and starvation."

The three poor old women carried her to their own miserable home, where
she died in a short time.

"And what shall we do with the baby?" they asked each other. Then in one
voice they answered themselves,

"It is a Christmas gift to us. We'll keep it, with God's help." They
named the baby Adelaide, but that being too long a name for a tiny baby,
it was soon shortened to Lady, and so the child came to be known as
"Lady Rags."

After the coming of Lady Rags the shabby home grew brighter than any one
seeing it before could have believed possible. The windows, once
scarcely to be seen through for dust and cobwebs, were now washed often,
so that the sunshine could come in and dance on the white wall for Lady.
The floor was scrubbed almost every day, and a piece of red and green
carpet was spread in one corner for her to play on. Here she played from
morning until night with all the bright-colored rags and queer odds and
ends the old women found or had given them, as happy as many a child in
a splendid home with the costliest of toys. The three old crones gave up
quarrelling as they used to, for that would have frightened Lady, and
they learned to pray again--though they had forgotten how for long
years--to pray for Lady.

"My mothers" she called them when she began to talk, and ever after, and
they were so proud of the title that they tried their best to be worthy
of it. Their scant gray locks began to be always carefully combed and
half hidden beneath the whitest of caps; their well-worn garments were
neatly patched with patches of many colors, and bits of black, brown,
and other sober-hued ribbons were pinned at the wrinkled throats, and
all to do honor to Lady.

As the child grew she became so beautiful that, had she been a princess
instead of Lady Rags, her beauty would have been a wonder. And she was
as good and clever as she was beautiful, and because of her many
kindnesses to them, the boys of the triangle were her sworn subjects.
Many the cut fingers she had dressed, many the bruises she had bathed,
many the words of comfort and encouragement she had spoken, and many the
prayers she had offered for the sick and suffering.

"Her prayers go straight to Heaven," said Jack Lubs. "Some people's
don't."

But in one thing very near to her heart she had failed thus far. She
could not bring peace to the neighborhood. Much as the Woods and the
Tins and the Shorts loved her, the war still went on. And as we have
seen, when she appeared among them on this day before Christmas, in her
quaint costume, looking as though she had stepped from some lovely old
picture, they were in the midst of one of their hardest fights.

"Boys," said Lady Rags, "I have come to ask you all to be a surprise
party early to-morrow morning. You remember, the most of you, the poor
man who fell from the scaffolding while he was painting our house--"

"And bad enough it wanted painting," said Abe Wilson; "hadn't been
painted before, I guess, in a hundred years."

"--And was so badly hurt," Lady Rags went on, "that they took him to the
hospital. Well, he has been there ever since, and that's nearly two
months; but he's coming home to-morrow. And, oh! boys, do you know where
that home is?"

"In Mulkins's basement, 'way down in the ground, and dark as Egypt,"
said Sandy Grip.

"And yet five children without any mother live there," said Lady.

"Give 'em one of yours," suggested Sandy; "three's two too many for one
girl."

"Couldn't spare one, for all that," said Lady, smiling. "And as my
mothers and I have just found out, these children have had dreadful
times since their father went away. They have sold every bit of their
furniture, and they have been nearly starved and nearly frozen. And
Christmas is almost here--Christmas, when everybody ought to be merry;
and I can't bear to think of that poor father coming home to that
wretched place. And he must not, boys; you must not let him,
_brothers_."

"How can we help it?" asked both the captains, both the lieutenants, and
half the privates.

"By each doing something toward making that basement look a little like
merry Christmas. My mothers and I and the other girls have done all we
can. We have bought an old stove from Mr. Rust, and a new table from
Mr. Ashburner, and Mrs. Lubs has given us a bed, and Mrs. Bond some
blankets, and my Sunday-school teacher some clothes, and to-morrow
morning we hope a certain surprise party will do the rest."

"But, Lady Rags," said Jack Lubs, "my fellers haven't much cash, I know,
and what little they have left, after getting Christmas presents for
their own folks, they want to spend on you."

"Here too, Johnny," said Ashburner.

Jack glared at him. "Johnny!" he repeated.

"Well, Squint-eye, if you like it better. Shiver your timbers,
_please_."

Lubs raised his fist, but Lady sprang forward and seized his arm.

"Oh, boys! boys!" she cried, "you promised to listen." And as they
turned away from each other with shamed faces, she began again, "It's
very, very kind of you to think of buying me a Christmas present, for I
have no right to expect anything--"

"Guess you have, then," interrupted Jimmy Mullally.

"Got us out of lots of scrapes since last Christmas," said Abe Wilson.

"Mended my trousers when I tore 'em goin' down Hysen's coal-hole after
my cat, and granny never found it out," said Willie Bond.

"Best girl in America, 'land of the free and home of the brave!'" said
Jack Lubs.

"You bet!" chorused all the other boys.

"It's real good of you to think so," said Lady, "for I'm no better than
most girls, I am sure."

"There's where you make a mistake," said Rube Howell.

"Well, have your own way about that," said Lady, with a bright smile;
"but do let me have my way about the Christmas present. And, oh! boys,
the best present you could give me would be to spend all you can spare
yourselves, and beg all you can from others, for these poor Janvrins.
They haven't anything to eat, and if they had, they have no dishes nor
plates to eat from, no knives nor forks to eat with. And there's twin
babies only a year old, and they are all so pale and thin! Oh, boys,
what a blessed, blessed thing it would be to stop this wicked fight,
that has been going on so long, this very Christmas-eve, and begin
Christmas-day by doing an act of kindness together! Christmas-day should
be a day of love and kindness, for on that day the Saviour was born.
What a darling baby He must have been, lying on His mother's lap, with
the cows and horses (He was born in a stable, you know) looking at Him
with wondering eyes! And He was the best boy that ever lived. And when
He became a man He went about everywhere teaching Love, Mercy, and
Charity. How He must grieve when He looks down from heaven and sees you
fight so terribly! What pain His gentle heart must have felt when Ned
Prime, a few weeks ago, was taken home to his mother--and she a
widow--nearly blind from a blow got in one of your battles! You say you
care for me; you say I have been a help to you. Perhaps you would never
have known me if it had not been Christmas-time when my mothers found
me. They thought, as they took me in their arms--I know they did--of
that other Baby, sent to bless the world. And, oh, boys, I beg of you to
be friends. Jack Lubs and Tim Ashburner," she continued, clasping her
hands in entreaty, while the tears trembled on her long lashes, "you
began this war, and for such a silly cause--oh, do, _do_, DO end it!"

Lubs stepped toward Ashburner; Ashburner advanced to meet him. They
shook hands, and a cheer went up from the lookers-on, with the exception
of Sandy Grip, who growled, "That's the end of our fun--a lot of fellers
givin' in to a preachin' gal!" and was instantly rolled in the snow by
the boys nearest him.

"We'll meet in Ashburner's father's shop to-night," said Captain Lubs,
"and draw up a--a agreement."

"A treaty," corrected Abe Wilson.

"Yes, that's what I mean--a treaty of peace."

"To last forever?" asked Lady Bags, her face glowing with delight.

"Well, I s'pose so, between the Tins and Woods as Tins and Woods," said
Jack. "But if any one feller sasses another feller more than he can
stand, why, don't you see, Lady, we _can't_ promise peace forever
between the fellers as fellers, but we'll do the best we can. And we'll
be at Mulkins's basement to-morrow morning about nine o'clock."

And carrying the flag of truce between them, the two captains followed
Lady Rags--it was now dark, and the shop-keepers were beginning to light
their windows--their comrades following them, until they reached the
drug-store which united Wood and Tin streets, and which had two front
doors, one on either side.

Through one of these doors, and out of the other, Lady, in a spirit of
fun, led them all, much to the surprise of the druggist, who was
pounding something in a mortar. Indeed, so surprised was he that he
didn't recover presence of mind enough to ask, "What does this mean?"
until the last boy passed out on Tin Street; and so, of course, he got
no answer to his question.

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"Merry Christmas!" rang the bells--"merry, merry Christmas!" "Merry
Christmas!" shouted the little children, as out tumbled the toys and
goodies Santa Claus had put in their stockings; "Merry Christmas!"
echoed the big ones, as they found tokens of remembrance from fathers,
mothers, grandfathers, grandmothers, uncles, aunts, cousins, sisters,
brothers, and friends; "Merry Christmas!" cried the butcher, the baker,
the grocer, and the milkman; "Merry Christmas!" called the people on the
streets to each other; and "Merry Christmas!" mingled with the jingling
of the sleigh-bells as the sleighs sped quickly by.

In Mulkins's basement the old stove was glowing in the most cheerful
manner. A long wooden table stood in the middle of the floor, and a few
Christmas wreaths were tacked on the newly whitewashed walls. The
Janvrin children were gathered around the fire--poor things, they hadn't
been as comfortable in a long while--and Lady Rags, her cheeks as red as
roses, and a heavenly light in her beautiful brown eyes, stood at one of
the windows, looking up into the street.

"Oh, what serious faces you all have!" she turned to say to the group by
the fire. "Think of your dear father coming home, and smile right away."

And the children, smiling as she spoke, started to their feet as they
heard the beating of a drum directly in front of the house, and rushed
to the windows.

"You must not look out," said Lady Rags, gently driving them into the
corner behind the stove, and placing herself beside them.

A procession of boys, each with a sprig of cedar in his hat, led by
Hodge Wood with his drum and Willie Bond bearing an American flag, filed
down the area way and into the basement.

First came Captains Lubs and Ashburner, each having hold of one end of a
large dripping-pan, in which reposed a fine roasted turkey. Behind them,
Aris Black carried a new tin saucepan filled with gravy, and his brother
Ted another filled with cranberry sauce. Then followed Sandy Grip and
Rube Howell with bunches of celery worn as shields. Next in order were
Jimmy Mullally and Abe Wilson, tugging a great basket overflowing with
potatoes, onions, and turnips. Next, two boys with a shining dish-pan
heaped high with dishes, plates, and cups and saucers. Next, four boys
nursing four huge loaves of bread as though they were babies. Next, six
tall boys with chairs on their heads, and two short ones with high
chairs for the twins on _their_ heads. Next, eight small boys with
knives, forks, and spoons, worn as weapons at their sides. Next, two
boys with school satchels almost bursting with toys. And last, Ned Prime
with a tin basin for a helmet and a broom for a gun, and Jake Smith with
a brightly painted wooden pail in one hand and a coal-hod in the other,
one full of apples and oranges and the other with coal.

"Rub-a-dub-dub, rub-a-dub-dub," went the drum, "Hurrah!" shouted the
boys as they marched in. The turkey, the celery, the loaves of bread,
the pail of fruit, and the knives, forks, and spoons, were placed on the
table, and the coal-hod, broom, dish-pan, and satchels of toys under it.
The chairs were set down, and the boys ranged themselves around the
room, and at a signal from Jack Lubs they all shouted at the top of
their voices, "Merry Christmas!" And then what do you think Lady Bags
did--she who had told the Janvrin children they must smile? Burst out
crying as though her heart would break!

"Good gracious! what _is_ the matter now?" asked Tim.

"Girls is never satisfied," growled Sandy Grip.

"You hush!" said Abe Wilson, with more emphasis than politeness.

"The matter?" repeated Lady. "You dear, good, splendid boys, I cried for
joy! You can't think how happy I am. But I'm going to laugh all the rest
of the day."

"That's right," said Ashburner; "and now, if your Majesty will listen,
we have something to read to you."

And in the twinkling of an eye the huge basket was on the floor, and
Lady, blushing like a sweet wild rose, seated as on a throne in its
place.

"Attention, company!" called Jack Lubs, and mounting a chair, he
unfolded a paper, and read as follows:

"'We, the Woods and Tins'--which means the Shorts too--'do promise from
this Christmas-day, 25th of December, 1878, to fight no more battles,
but bury the tomahawk, and smoke the calumet of peace together
_forever_. And three cheers for Lady Rags!'"

Just at this moment Mr. Janvrin, the crippled painter, limped in. Then,
finding everything so jolly where he had expected nothing but gloom, he
joined in with all his might. And Lady's three mothers and some girl
friends, who had been looking on from the entry, joined in too.

Once more the drum beat, the flag was unfurled, and away went the boys,
as happy a throng of boys as ever got together on Christmas-day.

This is how the war of the Woods and the Tins--including the
Shorts--came to an end.




[Illustration: CHRISTMAS MORNING.]




THE FAIRY FUNGI.

BY SOPHIE B. HERRICK.


The hill-sides of the southern part of France are covered with
vineyards, where the luscious grapes round out under the late summer
sunshine into globes of delicious sweetness. When the grapes are ripe,
the peasants--men, women, and children--may be seen gayly trooping to
the vineyards to pick them for wine. In the famous Steinburger vineyard
the pickers are all girls about eighteen years old. Each girl has a row
to pick, and they begin together, and move forward as steadily and
evenly as a regiment of soldiers. With their gay petticoats looped up so
that they may not brush off the ripe grapes, and their bright stockings
and mittens, they make a very pretty picture moving along between the
rows, snipping the ripe grapes, and letting them drop into their
baskets. When the baskets are full they are emptied into a tub, which
the men lift by leathern straps and carry to the road-side press. The
juice which comes spurting out of the press is placed in vats or
barrels, and there left to ferment, which changes the juice, or _must_,
into wine. When the cook wants her bread to ferment, or rise, she plants
it with yeast; but the wine has nothing planted in it, and yet it
ferments.

Pasteur, the great French chemist, made up his mind to find why this
was. He was convinced from all his studies in fermentation that the
reason would be found in some little plant which was growing in the
juice and helping itself to whatever it needed to eat or to breathe. He
set to work to find out where the plants came from which turned the
grape juice into wine. All his experiments are so fully and clearly
explained that any one who is willing to take the pains can try them for
himself.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.--GRAPE FUNGUS.]

He found that there was no fungus growing inside the little closed bag
(which we call skin) in which the pulp, seed, and juice of the grape is
sealed up. There is no opening anywhere in a sound grape through which
spores (which are the fungus seed) could enter. But he found on the skin
of the grape, and thickly over the stem, little plants, something like
yeast and something like mould; these make up, in part, what is called
the bloom of the grape. He put some water, with these plants mixed
through it, into one tightly sealed bottle, and into another he put the
pure juice of the grapes which had none of the little plants through it,
and then waited to see what would happen. In a few days the water was
all yeasty, and the grape juice was unchanged. (Fig. 1.) He tried this
same thing over, and over, and over again, and in various ways, to be
sure that he was right. He thus found that the little magician that
turns the juice into wine is always waiting at the door of the sealed
chamber, ready to work its miracle as soon as it can reach the juice.

It is very different with beer. Pasteur gave a great deal of time and
attention to finding out why so many millions of gallons of beer were
every year spoiled in the making. The brewers could not tell why. They
prepared their wort in just the same way, and planted just the same
amount of yeast into the good beer as they did in what turned out to be
bad. He brought that wonderful microscope of his to bear upon the
subject. He found that whenever the wort was planted with yeast which
had certain curious little glassy rods mixed through it, the beer turned
sour. The brewer, when he put such yeast as this into his wort, was
planting, along with the seeds of the yeast plant, seeds of a
troublesome weed. The sour beer was really only a very queer kind of a
liquid garden, growing more weeds than useful plants.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.--POTATO FUNGUS.]

Vinegar is another thing made by these little fairy fungi. The cider out
of which it is made is set away in a cask to ferment. The spores that
work the change in this case are floating in the air, and manage somehow
to get into the open cask. Did you never notice the flakes of
muddy-looking substance at the bottom of a vinegar cruet? That is the
_mother_, the little plant that has made the cider into vinegar.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.--LEAF MILDEW.]

These are some of the useful things that are done by the fungi, and they
are certainly very valuable services. We owe to them our bread, and
wine, and beer, and vinegar. But they are not always benevolent fairies
by any means. Sometimes we are inclined to think that they are at the
bottom of pretty much all the mischief in the world. If they were not
sailing about in every breath of wind, getting into all sorts of places
where they are not wanted, we probably would never have any chills and
fever or diphtheria, and the yellow fever would not sweep off its
thousands and tens of thousands. If these little floating spores did not
get into every crack and cranny, wounds would not fester, damp linen
would not mildew, preserves and pickles would not mould, milk would not
sour, nothing would spoil or ferment or decay. There is an old proverb
that "the mother of mischief is no bigger than a midge's wing." I
sometimes wonder if the old-time people that made the proverbs did not
know something of these tiny mischiefs that only seem to be waiting the
chance to work their naughty will.

There is one case where this change takes place which you have probably
often seen. When I was a child I used to be very fond of getting from
the woods close to the house, or from the wood-pile, bits of shining
wood and bark, which we called "fox fire." The wood was always old and
decaying, and we thought it was shining because it was dying. But really
the perishing wood was covered all over with tiny mushrooms, which shone
with a light something like the glimmer of a fire-fly. In some countries
this brightness is very wonderful. In Australia people have been able to
read by the light of a shining stump overgrown with luminous fungi.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.--RYE SMUT.]

Some of the fungi have not even the manners to wait until their victims
are dead. They take possession of living plants and animals, and never
rest until they have destroyed them. The disease among potatoes called
the potato blight (Fig. 2), of which we hear so much, is caused by the
growth of a little fungous plant in the mouths, or breathing holes, on
the skin of the potato, and the blight and mildew (Fig. 3) and smut of
wheat and corn and rye (Fig. 4) are all due to the same cause. The
mouldy look upon vine leaves is nothing else. I put a leaf of Virginia
creeper which looked whitish and ugly under the microscope one day, and
found the whole surface covered with a net-work of silvery threads, with
a wonderful, fruit growing upon it. The fruits looked like peeled
oranges surrounded with threads of spun sugar, or occasionally like a
gigantic blackberry sparkling with crystals. This was only a common
mildew, but under the magnifier it seemed a wonderful garden, growing
conserves and fairy fruits, and was beautiful, beyond description. (Fig.
5.)

[Illustration: FIG. 5.--MILDEW ON VIRGINIA CREEPER.]

The silk-worm is attacked by a fungous plant (Fig. 6). It takes
possession of the worm just before it begins to spin its cocoon, and
some years ago it destroyed such multitudes that the French silk trade
was seriously threatened. The microscope was again brought into use, and
the cause of the trouble discovered, and the cure effected.

[Illustration: FIG. 6.--SILK-WORM FUNGUS.]

The untiring Pasteur studied up this and other diseases of the silk-worm
as he did those of wine and beer, and helped the silk-worm growers to
stamp out the disease when it appeared. It perhaps seems a small thing
for a man of genius like Pasteur to give his whole life to studying
these little plants through the microscope, but never was a life more
helpfully and patriotically spent. Hundreds of thousands of the French
peasants depended for daily food and shelter upon what they earned in
the wine and beer and silk trades, and these trades Pasteur's work has
saved from destruction or great loss. It has been said that his work
with the microscope has saved to France more than the awful French
Revolution cost her.




DOT'S CHIMNEY.

BY MRS. A. E. THOMAS.


  Briskly fell the snow's white plumage,
    Tossing o'er the barren moor,
  While Kris Kringle's jolly features
    So belied the weight he bore.
  Fast the pearly flakes were falling,
    Glad his hoary head to crown.
  Making darkness light about him,
    As though angels dropped them down.

  Sings his heart its sweetest carol.
    Twinkles his gray eyes so bright,
  As he pictures the sweet children
    In their happy homes to-night.
  What cares he that snow is drifting,
    And the cold is so intense,
  When he sees dear Dottie's chimney
    Peeping over yonder fence?

  Down the chimney now he's creeping,
    Dark and sooty, dim and drear,
  Yet his heart is light, though heavy
    On his back lies Christmas cheer.
  "Quite a journey I've accomplished,"
    As he shook himself quite free
  From the soot. "Now where's Dot's stocking?
    Here 'tis. But what do I see?

  "Whose is this, and this, and that one?
    One last year, but now three more.
  I am old, just turned of eighty,
    But can count--one, two, three, four.
  Well, I'll fill them," said Kris Kringle;
    "Maybe Dottie wants a pile
  Of nice goodies. Here they go in.
    Now, my boy, you're fixed in style."

  He guessed rightly; Dot was greedy,
    For he did love candies so.
  This was why he hung so shyly
    Four bright stockings in a row.
  Morning came; Dot was in raptures.
    What a pile of luscious things
  Hung within that old black chimney!
    But hark! now the door-bell rings.

  In came Neighbor Gray a-sighing.
    Times, he said, were very dull;
  And his little Sam grew weaker.
    Oh! his heart was very full.
  Wife, he said, had watched beside him
    Through the cold and bitter night,
  And he came to ask for something--
    Only "just a little mite."

  Up jumped Dottie with a stocking,
    Bursting with its festive bliss.
  "Here," he said, to that poor neighbor,
    "Give dear little Sammy this."
  Just then came the widow's children--
    Pretty, but so very poor--
  Mag and Mamie, nearly frozen.
    Travelling o'er the barren moor.

  "Come in quick," said little Dottie.
    "What's the matter? pray explain."
  "We are going for the doctor,
    'Cause the baby's got a pain."
  Mag and May each had a stocking
    When they left the farmer's door.
  Oh! 'twas well that little Dottie
    In his chimney hung up four.




A NOVEL PRESENT.

BY BERTHA WATSON.


Before you girls put on your thimbles, thread your needles, and puzzle
your brains about something to make for Christmas, let me tell you of a
beautiful present I once received, and how it was made.

It was an old woman who lived in a shoe, with so many children she
didn't know what to do.

[Illustration]

The only part at all difficult to make is the shoe or boot itself. My
boot was ten inches high, and eight from the toe to the heel, and it was
composed of five pieces of very stiff pasteboard, the two sides shaped
like No. 1, enlarged, the back like No. 2, and the sole like No. 3. No.
4 is the little strip in front of the heel. Each piece must be covered
with black velvet or cloth, all the pieces sewed strongly together, and
the top of the boot lined with green silk for three or four inches down.
Then bind the top and sides of the front with red braid, and tack a
strip of black velvet in the sides of the front for a tongue. Then take
a piece of the red braid, and catch it back and forth, like ordinary
shoe lacing.

As the boot is so long and narrow, it would be apt to tip over, so, to
steady it, put a bag of shot in the toe, and fill the rest with paper.

Now you have the house, and for the garden get a square pasteboard box
cover, and spread over it green silk to represent grass. As no ordinary
doll's face would be wrinkled and care-worn enough for this poor lady,
get one of the long-nosed, long-chinned, old women who sometimes come in
Jack-in-the-boxes. Cut her out, springs and all, and cover the springs
with a dark calico dress. Put a white kerchief round her neck, a white
cap on her head, and a bundle of switches in her hand.

You want as many children as you have the patience to dress; the more
the merrier. Get the little china dolls that come for a penny apiece,
and the larger wooden dolls that come, I think, for the same price. If
you can get two or three very small woolly dogs, they will look cunning
standing in the "garden." Dress the dolls in all the bright colors you
can find, and put them anywhere and everywhere, on the box cover,
climbing up the shoe lacing, in the mother's lap, and behind her back.

A very pretty addition to the whole is a small ladder leaning against
the side of the boot, with a doll on each round.




OUR NEW WALK.

BY JIMMY BROWN.


For once I have done right. I always used to think that if I stuck to
it, and tried to do what was right, I would hit it some day; but at last
I pretty nearly gave up all hope, and was beginning to believe that no
matter what I did, some of the grown-up folks would tell me that my
conduct was such. But I have done a real useful thing that was just what
father wanted, and he has said that he would overlook it this time.
Perhaps you think that this was not very encouraging to a boy; but if
you had been told to come up stairs with me my son as often as I have
been, just because you had tried to do right, and hadn't exactly managed
to suit people, you would be very glad to hear your father say that for
once he would overlook it.

Did you ever play you were a ghost? I don't think much of ghosts, and
wouldn't be a bit afraid if I was to see one. There was once a ghost
that used to frighten people dreadfully by hanging himself to a hook in
the wall. He was one of those tall white ghosts, and they are the very
worst kind there is. This one used to come into the spare bedroom of the
house where he lived before he was dead, and after walking round the
room, and making as if he was in dreadfully low spirits, he would take a
rope out of his pocket, and hang himself to a clothes-hook just opposite
the bed, and the person who was in the bed would faint away with fright,
and pull the bedclothes over his head, and lie in the most dreadful
agony until morning, when he would get up, and people would say, "Why
how dreadful you look your hair is all gray and you are whiternany
sheet." One time a man came to stay at the house who wasn't afraid of
anything, and he said, "I'll fix that ghost of yours; I'm a terror on
wooden wheels when any ghosts are around. I am." So he was put to sleep
in the room, and before he went to bed he loosened the hook, so that it
would come down very easy, and then he sat up in bed and read till
twelve o'clock. Just when the clock struck, the ghost came in and walked
up and down as usual, and finally got out his rope and hung himself; but
as soon as he kicked away the chair he stood on when he hung himself,
down came the hook, and the ghost fell all in a heap on the floor, and
sprained his ankle, and got up and limped away, dreadfully ashamed, and
nobody ever saw him again.

Father has been having the front garden walk fixed with an askfelt
pavement. Askfelt is something like molasses, only four times as sticky
when it is new. After a while it grows real hard, only ours hasn't grown
very hard yet. I watched the men put it down, and father said, "Be
careful and don't step on it until it gets hard or you'll stick fast in
it and can't ever get out again. I'd like to see half a dozen meddlesome
boys stuck in it and serve them right." As soon as I heard dear father
mention what he'd like, I determined that he should have his wish, for
there is nothing that is more delightful to a good boy than to please
his father.

That afternoon I mentioned to two or three boys that I knew were pretty
bad boys that our melons were ripe, and that father was going to pick
them in a day or two. The melon patch is at the back of the house, and
after dark I dressed myself in one of mother's night-gowns, and hid in
the wood-shed. About eleven o'clock I heard a noise, and looked out, and
there were six boys coming in the back gate, and going for the melon
patch. I waited till they were just ready to begin, and then I came out
and said, in a hollow and protuberant voice, "Beware!"

They dropped the melons, and started to run, but they couldn't get to
the back gate without passing close to me, and I knew they wouldn't try
that. So they started to run round the house to the front gate, and I
ran after them. When they reached the new front walk, they seemed to
stop all of a sudden, and two or three of them fell down. I didn't wait
to hear what they had to say, but went quietly back, and got into the
house through the kitchen window, and went up stairs to my room. I could
hear them whispering, and now and then one or two of them would cry a
little; but I thought it wouldn't be honorable to listen to them, so I
went to sleep.

[Illustration: PRYING THE BOYS OUT.]

In the morning there were five boys stuck in the askfelt, and frightened
'most to death. I got up early, and called father, and told him that
there seemed to be something the matter with his new walk. When he came
out and saw five boys caught in the pavement, and an extra pair of shoes
that belonged to another boy who had wriggled out of them and gone away
and left them, he was the most astonished man you ever saw. I told him
how I had caught the boys stealing melons, and had played I was a ghost
and frightened them away, and he said that if I'd help the coachman pry
the boys out, he would overlook it. So he sat upon the piazza and
overlooked the coachman and me while we pried the boys out, and they
came out awfully hard, and the askfelt is full of pieces of trousers and
things. I don't believe it will ever be a handsome walk; but whenever
father looks at it he will think what a good boy I have been, which will
give him more pleasure than a hundred new askfelt walks.




[Illustration: MORNING.]

[Illustration: EVENING.]

CHILDREN OF THE PANTOMIME.


In the great city of London one of the pleasures and delights of the
merry Christmas season, to which the children look forward with almost
as much eagerness as to the advent of Santa Claus, is the pantomime.

What a fairy-land is revealed to youthful eyes by this holiday
amusement! All the stories of Mother Goose become living realities. Jack
and Jill roll down the hill; Tom, the piper's son, suffers no end of
misfortunes as a punishment for his theft of the pig; Little Jack Horner
eats his Christmas pie; and in company with all these nursery heroes are
wonderful crowds of all-powerful fairies, who by a wave of their wands
give birds and beasts human intelligence, and render pots, kettles, and
pans animated. This gay assemblage appears in fairy grottoes glistening
with brilliant colors, sylvan dells flooded with soft moonlight, and
meadows on which fairies trace the magic ring and weave the figures of
their mystic dance.

The other side of the picture is less radiant. All these fairies with
spangled hair, these animated kettles and saucepans, these birds and
beasts which dance and hop about in such mirthful fashion, are the
little children of the poor, who in this way seek to earn a few
shillings for the sick mother, or the starving baby brother or sister,
in the dreary and desolate apartments which these poor families call
home.

Weeks before Christmas the parents of these children, and often the
children themselves, beg to be enrolled in the infantile army needed for
the pantomime. The number of applications is so large that the first
selection is made by height alone, no child over four feet being
received for examination. The smaller the child, the better, so long as
it is old enough to learn the duties required of it. The children thus
selected are then placed in a line, and told to put forward their left
feet and hold up their right hands.

Strange as it may seem, there are many poor children so ignorant as to
be unable to do this simple thing. All these are rejected; for a child
who does not know its right hand from its left would probably never be
able to learn the feats required of it in the pantomime. When the final
selection is made and the parts assigned, a crowd of the prettiest and
most graceful are set aside for dainty little fairies and elves. Others
are destined for hideous little gnomes, for animated vegetables and
utensils of all kinds, for cats, monkeys, beetles, and other creatures,
while to the most intelligent are assigned more important parts.

Then begins the task of training this youthful band for its work. The
drill-masters are, as a rule, as good-natured as possible under the
circumstances, but they are very strict, and require the most implicit
obedience to their directions. Many of these little boys and girls grow
very weary in the work of learning to act like fairies and elves, to
jump about as starlings, tomtits, or monkeys, or to march around as
kettles, saucepans, cabbages, and other odd figures which go to make up
the _dramatis personæ_ of a pantomime.

To the children, clad in soft warm garments, who watch all this
brilliant show, everything is beauty and happiness. The little audience,
which gathers with delight to witness the glittering spectacle, knows
nothing of the labor and suffering which these less fortunate children
have endured before everything could be in readiness for the grand
holiday performances. The Christmas holidays for them are a season of
work and anxiety.

The home of the poor children of the pantomime is not like the homes of
the readers of YOUNG PEOPLE, warm and comfortable, and at Christmas-time
gay with wreaths and branches of evergreen, with gifts from Santa Claus,
and with dinner tables groaning under the weight of great turkeys and
steaming plum-puddings; but it is some dismal little room up flights of
rickety stairs, where the cold wind blows through the cracks of the
uncarpeted floor, and where want and sorrow and misery are always
present.

These children rise to a day of toil. Honest little hard workers, many
of them do their best to assist the tired and weary mother to keep the
dismal home as clean and comfortable as possible. The hour for the
pantomime approaches, and clad in their scanty garments, these little
ones hurry away through the snow to appear as sparkling fairies,
carrying delight to thousands of hearts. Where are the fairies who bring
delight to them? When the performance is over, they leave the glistening
grottoes, go back to their comfortless homes, and sleep only to rise
again to new toils and anxieties.

There are poor children everywhere. They are the most numerous in great
cities like London and New York, but there is scarcely a village so
small where some can not be found. Christmas is near. Will the children
blessed with happy homes, and kind parents able to gratify their
slightest wish, leave these little ones with "empty stockings" on
Christmas morning? Remember how small a thing will make their eyes
sparkle with pleasure; and when your own Christmas gifts are showered
upon you by loving hands do not fail to learn by happy experience the
grandeur and truth of the words of the Lord Jesus: "It is more blessed
to give than to receive."




THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER XI.

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


How easy it would be even for large bodies of men to be quite near each
other without knowing it will be readily understood when the nature of
the country, full of sudden changes from mountain and table-land to
valleys and plains, is considered. Unless, indeed, they should send out
sharp-eyed scouts to find out about their neighbors, as did the miners
under Captain Skinner, and the Lipans of To-la-go-to-de, such a thing
might easily happen.

Neither of these "main bodies" remained in camp an hour longer than was
necessary, but even after they left their respective camps they moved
onward with some caution, half expecting at any moment to see one of
their scouts come riding back with important news.

"Motion" was decidedly the order of the day, even for the Apaches. To be
sure, there had been no known reason why they should bestir themselves
too early in the morning; but their chief himself had given orders the
night before, right after supper, that no more lodges should be set up,
and that all things should be in condition for a march.

He needed yet to make up his mind precisely in what direction the march
should be, and Rita's "talking leaves" had not given him a single hint
about that.

The fact that they had not was a trouble to him, but it was a little too
much to expect of a chief and warrior that he should seem to go for
counsel to a mere squaw, and not only a very young one, but a squaw of
the pale-faces at that. So Rita and Ni-ha-be had not been molested in
their lodge all the evening, and a grand talk they had of it all by
themselves, with Mother Dolores to listen.

Dolores had listened, but the girls had been almost surprised by the
fact that she asked almost no questions at all--not even about the
cavalry pictures.

She did not explain to them that her mind was all the while too
completely filled with the thought of the one picture which had spoken
to her, and made her shut her eyes and kneel down. There could not
possibly be any other which could do more than that, although it was a
great thing that Many Bears should have given them any attention.

Ni-ha-be had slept as soundly as usual that night, and Rita had "made
believe" do so, until her adopted sister ceased even to whisper to her,
and she could hear the loud breathing of Mother Dolores on the opposite
side of the lodge.

Then she opened her eyes in the darkness, and tried to recall all she
had seen in the three marvellous magazines, page by page.

How it all came back to her! Some of the words that she had not
understood began to have a meaning to her.

"They are talking now," she said to herself; "they are almost all
talking. They are helping me remember. I'm sure that was my mother, my
white mother. But where is my white father? He was not there at all. I
must look for him again to-morrow. We must ride off away from the camp,
where nobody can see us, and we can talk as much as we please."

"We" meant herself and Ni-ha-be, of course, but it also meant her three
prizes. She had brought them to bed with her on her soft buffalo-skin,
and she was hugging them now. It seemed to her as if they were alive,
and had come to tell her almost anything she could think to ask.

When morning came there was no need for Rita to propose a ride on
horseback. Ni-ha-be spoke of it first, and for the self-same reason; but
there was nothing unusual about it, for they almost lived in the saddle,
like genuine daughters of the great Apache nation.

For a while the very delight of galloping up and down the valley on such
swift and beautiful animals as they were riding almost drove out of
their minds the thought of the talking leaves. But when, a little later,
Many Bears slowly arose from a long fit of thinking there in front of
his lodge, and said to Red Wolf, "Call Rita," Rita was nowhere to be
seen.

"Find her. Tell her to come, and bring me the white men's medicine,
talking leaves."

Red Wolf sprang upon the nearest horse--and there were several standing
ready for sudden errands--and dashed away in search of his truant
sisters.

Mother Dolores could tell him nothing, but his loud, half-angry
questionings drew together a knot of squaws and children, two or three
of whom were ready to point toward the northeastern slope of the valley,
and tell him he would have to hunt in that direction.

He was ready for it, of course; but he reined in his mustang in front of
his father long enough to tell him the cause of the delay.

"Bring them back. They are as wild as rabbits. They will lose their
scalps some day."

The chief did not smile when he said that. He was beginning to feel
uneasy about the position of his affairs, and he could hardly have told
why. He said to himself, "Bad medicine. Can't see him. Great chief smell
him."

And then he gave sharp orders to his young braves to have all the ponies
caught and brought in from the pastures below, and the squaws to have
all their packs ready and their lodges taken down.

"Big talk come," he said again to himself. "Maybe big fight. Don't know.
Must be ready. Somebody catch the great chief asleep if he doesn't look
out."

Nobody had ever done that yet, for Many Bears had even a greater name
for his cunning than for his fighting.

Red Wolf was well mounted, and he darted away at full speed. His father
was not a man to forgive a slow messenger any more than a slow cook.

"I understand," he muttered. "Squaws not stay in valley. Go among trees
and rocks. Bears catch 'em some day. Eat 'em all up. Not afraid of
anything."

So he was really anxious about them, and afraid they would run into
danger?

Certainly.

The red man's family affection does not always show itself in the same
way with ours, but there is plenty of it. All the more in the case of a
young brave like Red Wolf, with every reason to be proud as well as fond
of his sister.

And of Rita?

He was thinking of her now, and wondering if she had learned anything
more about the cavalry from her talking leaves.

It was, for all the world, just as if he had been a young white man from
"one of the first families."

He galloped onward, keenly eying the fringes of the forest and the
broken bases of the ledges, until he came to the broad opening below the
gap, and here he suddenly stopped and sprang to the ground at a place
where the green sod was soft and deeply marked with the prints of
horses' hoofs.

"The blue-coat horsemen came out here. Their tracks are old. Ugh! Those
are fresh. Ni-ha-be and Rita."

He was on his horse again in an instant, galloping up the not very steep
slope of the pass.

The two girls had been in no hurry, and it was not long before Red Wolf
came in sight of them.

He put his hand to his mouth, and gave a long, peculiar whoop, that
meant: "I am after you. Come back."

They understood it well enough, and Rita might have obeyed if she had
been left to herself, but there was more than a little mischief behind
the black eyes of Ni-ha-be.

"Let him catch us. He won't do anything worse than scold. I'm not afraid
of Red Wolf."

Rita was, just a little, but she rode on beside her sister without
turning her head.

"We shall not read any of the leaves this morning."

"Read? What is that?"

"Just the same as a warrior when he finds a trail of a deer. Just like
the trail of the blue-coat cavalry. Father and the gray-heads read it."

"Is that the way the leaves talk to you? I guessed it was. It is all
signs, like tracks in the mud."

Rita had used the only Apache word she could think of that came at all
near to meaning what she wanted, but there was no word for "book," or
for any kind of book.

Again they heard the shout of Red Wolf behind them. It was nearer now,
and a little angry.

"He is coming, Ni-ha-be. Don't let us ride fast."

"He is saying ugly things. But we will laugh at him and tell him he can
not whoop loud enough to be heard."

Red Wolf was proud of his powerful voice, and that would be a sure way
to tease him.

"Rita! The great chief is angry. He calls for you."

He was close upon them by this time, and they reined in their horses.
Teasing Red Wolf was one thing, but disobeying Many Bears was quite
another. They had seen squaws beaten for smaller offenses than that.

"We have done wrong, Ni-ha-be."

"Oh, not much. We can ride back as fast as our ponies can carry us. Turn
and meet him."

It had been a very little bit of a "runaway" on the part of the two
girls, but it threatened to have serious consequences.

There was no time even for Red Wolf to scold them before the
consequences began to come.

They had ridden just to the end of the spot where the rocks and bushes
at the road-side were so thickset and made so perfect a cover for
anybody hiding among them.

"Look, Red Wolf, look!"

"Oh, who are they? Enemies!"

The young brave pulled in his mustang so sharply that he almost tumbled
him over, and turned his head.

"Pale-faces? How came they here?"

He could hardly have been more astonished if one of the granite bowlders
near him had stood up and said, "Good-morning." So far as he could have
guessed, the nearest white man was many hundreds of miles away, and his
nation was at peace with them for the time; but here were three of the
hated race standing in the road to cut off his retreat and that of his
sisters.

[Illustration: "THE FOREMOST LEVELLED HIS GUN STRAIGHT AT RED WOLF."]

Three tall, brawny, evil-looking pale-faces with rifles in their hands,
and the foremost of them was levelling his gun straight at Red Wolf, and
shouting, "Surrender, you red-skinned coyote, or I'll put a pill into
ye."

An Indian brave like the son of Many Bears might deem it an honor to be
named after the large, dangerous wolf he had killed in single fight,
with only his knife, but to be called a coyote, a miserable prairie
wolf, jackal, was a bitter insult, and that was what it was meant for.
He had left his carbine in the camp, but his long lance was in his hand,
and his knife and revolver were in his belt.

What could one young brave do against three such powerful and well-armed
white men?

"Ni-ha-be!" exclaimed Rita.

"I am an Apache girl. I can fight. You are a pale-face."

Rita was stung to her very heart by her sister's scornful reply, for she
had also brought her bow and arrows. They never stirred from camp
without them, and squaws were not permitted to carry fire-arms.

Ni-ha-be had an arrow already on the string, and Rita followed her
example like a flash.

"Red Wolf is a warrior. He is not a coyote. He will show the
pale-faces--"

Twang!

The sound of Ni-ha-be's bowstring cut Red Wolf's haughty reply in two in
the middle, and it was well for the miner "Bill" that he was quick in
dodging. As it was, he dropped his rifle, for there was an arrow through
his right arm above the elbow, and Ni-ha-be was fitting another.

Twang!

But the man at whom Rita aimed her arrow was an old Indian fighter, and
he parried it easily.

"Red Wolf, your pistol!"

"Boys," exclaimed Bill, "they're a lot of young wildcats! We'll jest
have to shoot. Pick off the red-skin, quick, and knock over the two
girls before they make a hole into ye."

The two parties were hardly twenty yards apart, and all this had
happened in a few seconds; but just then Red Wolf was exclaiming,

"Two more!"

And Rita said, excitedly,

"Stop, Ni-ha-be! See! They are fighting each other. These two are
friends. Don't shoot!"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




DOBBIN'S PERVERSITY.


  "What can we do on this bright summer's day,
    And what may our frolic be?
  Shall we play at wild outlaws by Robin Hood led,
    Just baby, and Bertie, and me?"

[Illustration]

  "Or stay, here's old Dobbin--why, children, you know
  We must gallop him off to the pond below.
  Poor Dobbin is thirsty--we nearly forgot;
  He's done lots of work, and he's tired and hot."

  Rattle and scamper--hurrah for the fun!--
  Three merry youngsters, see how they run!
  Fast go their heels, round go the wheels.
  Old Dobbin says nothing of all that he feels.
  Yet in his one eye lurks a mischievous wink,
  And brought to the water, old Dobbin _won't_ drink.

  Sir Toadie lies low by yon mossy gray stone--
  A worshipful toad is he!--
  A toad with a wise and wonderful mien,
  Solemnly wearing his coat of green,

[Illustration]

  Of what does this knowing Sir Toadie dream?
  Hark! he croaks to a passing bee
  Watching the scene--the scolding and petting
  A very queer steed on the bank is getting,
  Now ordered, now asked, now begged, "just one drop,"
  Next pushed all a-hurry, it tumbles in--flop!

[Illustration]

  Nidding and nodding his wise old head,
  These are the words that the toad has said,
  "Many may lead to the fair river's brink,
  But a horse must _will_, ere they make him drink."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

  Jes you stan' up, you queer old broom.
    And be as good as you can be;
  You see to-night is Christmas-eve,
    And you must be my Christmas-tree.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Rub-a-dub-dub on kettle and pan,
  Rub-a-dub-dub, make music who can.
  Our gay little party all sing out of tune;
  Tom of Puss in the Corner, and Ned of sweet June.
  While on the pail drumming Joe strikes with a will,
  Loud chanting the story of Jack and of Jill.

  Music you call it! I hear but a noise;
  But noise is sweet music to small girls and boys.
  Patience, grown people, remember the day
  When you were but children and rattled away,
  With a rub-a-dub-dub on kettle and pan,
  Rub-a-dub-dub, making music who can.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]


In this number of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE we have given our readers a good
foretaste of Christmas, just by way of preparation for all the
delightful things coming in the next. On December 20 we shall publish
our regular Christmas number, which will be entirely given up to matter
suitable to the joyous Christmas-tide. The C. Y. P. R. U. will not have
its attention drawn, as usual, to articles with sound facts for a basis;
the Postmistress will not have a word to say; there will be no
Exchanges; even the serial story will be dropped for a week. Our
Christmas number will thus be complete in itself, for YOUNG PEOPLE, like
its little patrons, has no room for other thoughts during one week in
the year than those which are connected with the day which celebrates
the birth of the Saviour of the world. The leading features will be a
charming fairy story, entitled "Shamruck; or, the Christmas Panniers,"
by Mr. Frank R. Stockton, illustrated by Mr. Alfred Fredericks; another
admirable story, entitled "A Perfect Christmas," by W. O. Stoddard, with
illustrations by Mr. Howard Pyle; and a most amusing pantomime, entitled
"The Magic Clock," by Mr. G. B. Bartlett, with an illustration by Mr.
F. S. Church. There will be a number of minor attractions, which we will
leave our readers to discover for themselves, and the whole will be
inclosed in an entirely novel and unique cover, ornamented by one of Mr.
Nast's most capital drawings.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CALUMET, MICHIGAN.

     We have had snow three times this winter, and it has gone off
     twice, but the weather is very stormy now, and I guess it will stay
     this time.

     I go to school. We have quite a large school-house, it being 190
     feet long, 100 feet wide, and 100 feet in height, from the ground
     to the top of the belfry. The foundation is sandstone, which
     extends for about eight feet above the ground. There are eighteen
     rooms in use as school-rooms. I am in the next room below the High
     School. I am ten years old, and study reading, writing, spelling,
     arithmetic, drawing, higher geography, and grammar.

     There are many curious things about the mines here. One shaft is
     2400 feet deep. I have not been through the mines since the new
     machinery was put in, but I have been told that it is a great deal
     stronger and larger than the old. They have built two new
     engine-houses, and rebuilt two old ones, and put new machinery in
     all. One of the boilers at the Hecla is thirty feet long, and there
     are two of that size at the Calumet.

  PERCY P.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MICHIGAN CITY, INDIANA.

     I am a little girl eleven years old. I have a pet dog which is part
     blood-hound, and was named after a famous fox-hound in
     Pennsylvania. I have ten dolls. Some are pretty old, and have
     retired from active life. My aunt Mate made most of their clothes.
     One is quite plain, and I call her the old maid. The beauty of my
     family I call Daisy. My mamma has been sick four years. I have a
     brother Charley, four years old last June. We have a bird whose
     name is Major. We call it that after papa; his friends always
     called him the Major. Then there is John, the cat, who is four
     years and a half old; he belonged to my sister, who died four years
     ago.

     This is a great locality for sand. We have a number of high hills;
     one called Hoosier Slide, covered with white sand, is over a
     hundred feet high. We have a nice harbor, which has been improved
     every year since we came here. We don't like it here as well as we
     did in Michigan. We sent a box of clothing to a little girl there
     who needed it very much.

  MAUD S.

       *       *       *       *       *

  COLLEGE GROVE, TENNESSEE.

     I am a little girl who has owned a great many cats. I lost the
     oldest one last November. His name was Mark Gray. He was fourteen
     years and eight months old. The first word I ever said was to call
     him "Tit-tat." Many persons said to me, "Anna, why don't you let
     that poor old cat be shot?" But I could not let him meet that fate.
     He had lost all his teeth, and I fed him on milk and biscuit till
     he died. I have had a great many dolls, but my favorite is a large
     one that Santa Claus brought me when I was three years old. I could
     not then lift her. She has a china head, a cloth body, and red kid
     gloves. I named her Lizzie M., for one of my young lady cousins,
     and when she married I changed the doll's name to Mrs. B. I raised
     twenty-four turkeys last year, and I take HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
     with part of my turkey money. I have twenty-three this year, nearly
     all white. I like white turkeys best, because I can see them better
     than those of any other color when they wander off to make a nest.
     I have no brothers and sisters, but we have a little black girl who
     plays with me and helps me to drive up my turkeys. They got wet
     twice, and I thought they were dead, but we put them under the
     stove, and they revived. I have a garden and a little pit. I have
     five rose-bushes; one has blossoms no larger than my finger-nail. I
     have a bed of sweet violets; they begin to bloom in February. I
     have a lovely species of white asclepias that grows wild here; it
     looks like wax. Mamma says if it had come from the Cape of Good
     Hope, people would go wild about it. My pit is three feet square
     and one and a half feet deep. I plant in it verbenas, feverfews,
     Japan pinks, and rose cuttings. I cover it with boards, and when it
     is very cold I put a rug on top. I kept my flowers safely last
     winter, although it was so cold. This is November 7, and we have
     not yet had any frost. The roses are as pretty as in spring-time,
     and the garden is gay with zinnias and chrysanthemums.

  ANNA MINER R.

       *       *       *       *       *

We ask attention to the letter from two little girls which follows this
paragraph. We have sent them a bound volume of YOUNG PEOPLE for 1881,
which we hope will help them in making the Christmas season a glad one
to their little friends the "Innocents."

     DEAR GIRLS AND BOYS,--Christmas is drawing near now, and you are
     all preparing for the Christmas tree, and lots of you are making
     pretty presents for your friends. We wish to ask you a favor, so
     now please give attention.... The pastor of the Trinity
     Episcopalian Church established a "Home for the Innocents." All
     poor little waifs are taken to this Home, and little ones are left
     whose mothers work out by the day. They have a nice time playing
     together, and some kind Sisters watch these little ones. But the
     church caught fire and burned down, and now the members (who are
     mostly poor people) are saving their money so we can build the
     church up again, and we are sadly afraid the little ones will lose
     their Christmas fun. The Sunday-school scholars have given up the
     tree, so they could help the church, but the "Innocents" will have
     _nothing_. Now won't you _all_ send us some toys, or brightly
     colored picture-books, or Christmas-tree ornaments. Rummage your
     closet shelves, and see if there are not broken toys or dolls you
     don't care about any more, and send them to _us_. Some of you write
     and tell of so many things you have; can't you spare one for these
     children? Please do, and after Christmas we will write again all
     about them.

  LYDIA BELLE HARGREAVES,
  LULU G. RUCKSTUHL,
  508 Wenzel St., Louisville, Ky.

Be particular, children, to send your gifts directly to Lydia or Lulu,
and not to Harper & Brothers.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LAWRENCE, KANSAS.

     I am a little Kansas boy who reads your paper regularly. I am very
     much interested in the Wiggle department of the YOUNG PEOPLE. I
     sent a wiggle for No. 95 and No. 104, and it made me very happy to
     see them in the paper. I shall send some more. I am eleven years
     old, and have been going to school four years, and am in the sixth
     grade. I live in Lawrence, and the University of Kansas is here.
     When I become old enough I will go there. I want to get a good
     education. Then, when I become a man, perhaps I may be an editor,
     or write story-books. West of Lawrence a few hundred miles are the
     great plains. The Indians used to live there, and hunt buffaloes.
     The Indians have gone now, and so, I suppose, have the buffaloes.

     Kansas is a good place for little boys. I used to live in
     Washington. D. C. But there the houses are too thick to fly a kite.
     Here on the prairies we boys often fly our kites to the height of
     two balls of twine. We have lots of room to run. Father has
     promised me a pony on my next birthday. He says thousands of people
     come to Kansas every year from the Eastern States. I wish lots of
     little boys from the East would come to Lawrence to live. I am very
     anxious to hear about Mr. Stubbs's brother.

  SIDNEY C. P.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

This little picture, represents a branch of oranges sent to the office
of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. It was cut by Mr. James Otis from an
orange-tree in Duval County, Florida, which this season has borne over
2000 oranges. We thank Mr. Otis for his kind remembrance.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MCKEESFORT, PENNSYLVANIA.

     I am six years old, and have a little brother John sixteen months
     old. He came Sunday night, July 4, and he bothers me a heap--wants
     all my playthings, and when he gets them, breaks them all up. At
     night, when I want papa to read me the stories in YOUNG PEOPLE, he
     screams and screams to see the pictures, and I have to wait for the
     stories till he goes to bed. I am going to start to school this
     week, and I will study hard and learn to read, so I can read the
     stories myself. My grandpa lives on a farm, and I go to see him
     nearly every day to get rides on the horses, and drive the cows,
     and to see the men working at the water-works basin which the town
     is building to get water from the Youghiogheny River. The only pet
     I have is an Alderney heifer named Bessie, which my grandma gave
     me. She is so quiet I can put my arms round her neck, and hold her
     by the horns.

  TOMMY E.

  WEST NEW BRIGHTON, NEW YORK.

     I am eight years old. I have a white cat with one blue and one
     green eye. We have a dog called Grip, a bull-terrier. He is very
     gentle and playful. I lost my dog called Pickles. My father is
     going to get me another. I go to school at New Brighton, and take
     French lessons, spelling, reading, and geography. I have a little
     brother nearly a month old, and two others. Perhaps I have said
     enough.

  DAVY B.

It is quite proper for little correspondents who have not yet learned to
write to do so by proxy; by which we mean to get their fathers or
mothers to write for them while they dictate the letters. Such letters
are always welcome. Master Davy B. signed his name very boldly to the
letter his father wrote for him, and probably Tommy E. will soon be able
to do the same.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I am a little boy seven years old last Valentine's Day. I have been
     taking HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE from No. 1 to the present time. I have
     had two volumes bound, and am saving up for the third volume. I
     have two numbers (duplicates), 20 and 76. I will _give_ them to any
     of the little readers that will send me his or her address. I have
     eight cats and three kittens, also an English pug-dog. Pug does not
     like the cats, but the kittens eat out of his dish with him. One
     Sunday Pug went to Sunday-school, and sat on the bench beside my
     sister Helen. I am so interested in the story, "The Talking
     Leaves."

  LOUIS N. W., JUN., Beverly, N. J.

       *       *       *       *       *

HARRY VAN N.--Your description of the industries of Minneapolis is very
interesting. A city where there is so much manufacturing, so much
enterprise, is a good place for an intelligent lad to live in.

       *       *       *       *       *

Six little girls at Pulaski, Tennessee, were directed by their teacher
to write letters to Our Post-office Box, and bring them to her instead
of their usual weekly compositions. The letters signed by S. K. A.,
Maggie J. A., F. W., A. B. A., M. R., and Julia R. have been sent to us,
and are very creditable to the little writers. Our thanks are due to
their kind teacher for her appreciation of our efforts in behalf of
young people.

       *       *       *       *       *

ALICE MCL.--For a boy of twelve who is fond of reading we know of no
more enchanting book than _What Mr. Darwin Saw in his Voyage Round the
World in the Ship Beagle_. This is a beautifully illustrated volume, and
its price is $3. THE BOYS OF '76, at the same price, is a fascinating
book which tells young Americans about the stirring scenes of the
Revolutionary war. There are three volumes of _Travel in the Far East_,
by Colonel Knox, each of which boys pronounce splendid. They relate the
adventures of youthful travellers in a journey to Japan and China, to
Siam and Java, and to Ceylon and India, and the books, which may be
purchased separately or together, cost $3 a volume. These books are all
published by Harper & Brothers. _Hector_, by Flora L. Shaw, published by
Roberts Brothers, and _Boys at Chequassett_, by Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney,
published by Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., are very charming books, smaller
than those we have placed first on the list.

A bright boy who already has a sled, skates, etc., might be pleased with
a well-furnished tool-chest or a printing-press. At twelve, boys no
longer care for toys which are merely playthings.

In addition to the pretty things you already have, make little mice and
pigs of white Canton flannel for your Christmas tree. If you can procure
some cotton as it grows, crystallize it with alum, and dispose clusters
of it here and there. There are bright little balls of different colors
which may be purchased for a few cents, and used to festoon the tree,
and if put away carefully they may be used for successive years. Have
plenty of little wax tapers, and your tree will repay your trouble.

       *       *       *       *       *

We desire to call the attention of exchangers to the notice which is
printed at the head of the Exchange list. Please make it a rule to
follow this in every instance. When a boy has five or six coins, two or
three hundred postmarks, or a few relics or curiosities, and calls
attention to them in these columns, many thousands of readers see the
notice, and he finds himself confronted with so many replies that his
embarrassment is very great. In the mere matter of postage he may find
himself burdened with considerable expense, perhaps more than his
pocket-money will pay, or than his parents will allow him to spend. This
inconvenience, and the further peril of being thought dishonorable, may
be avoided by having a correspondence by postal cards before sending any
precious things away.

It is not possible for us to rectify mistakes, nor to compel delinquent
exchangers to make proper returns. We prefer to think that all who avail
themselves of this privilege are worthy of it. We desire and hope that
every girl and boy who is numbered among our young people shall be true,
courteous, prompt, and obliging. Without the exercise of these
qualities, neither exchanging nor any other business can be
satisfactorily carried on.

Those who have saved their back numbers, as we think all ought to do,
will find a paragraph on this matter in the Post-office Box of Vol. II.,
No. 80. To this we refer the attention of Willie B. G., who writes to us
complaining of an apparently dishonest correspondent. We can not settle
difficulties which arise among exchangers, but we think careful
attention to preliminary correspondence, and to the full payment of
postage, would prevent much confusion.

Until after the Christmas number the pressure upon our columns will
prevent us from publishing all of the large accumulation of Exchanges we
have received, but we will print them as rapidly as we can when the
holidays are over.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.

PAPER.--How many varieties of paper do you think they manufacture in
Japan? Over sixty kinds are made from the fibres of various grasses and
plants. "Paper," says Miss Bird, in her interesting record of travel in
Japan, "is used for walls, windows, cups, pocket-handkerchiefs,
lanterns, string, wrappers, cloaks, hats, and baggage covers, and is
used domestically and professionally for all purposes for which we use
lint, bandages, and cloths. It is so tenacious as to be nearly
untearable, and even the finest kind, an exquisite and nearly diaphanous
fabric, soft like the most delicate silk crepe, in which fine gold
lacquer is usually wrapped, can only be torn with difficulty."

The same writer tells about the fine varnish or lacquer which we see on
the beautiful Japanese trays and bowls. It is a natural varnish, the
product of a tree, from which the sap is taken in the early spring. When
it comes from the tree it is of the color and thickness of cream, but it
darkens when exposed to the air. Lacquer is used for all kinds of
purposes, from the golden shrines in the temples to the rice bowl in
which the humblest cooly takes his meal.

       *       *       *       *       *

WORK FOR LITTLE FINGERS.

Is it not wonderful, when you think of it, that with four little fingers
and a thumb, two bright eyes, and the exercise of a subtle quality
called taste, so much may be done to make home attractive? The young
folks who have been asking the Postmistress what they should make for
Christmas gifts no doubt read Aunt Marjorie Precept's "Bits of Advice"
on the subject last week. But perhaps they will like to hear about some
of the pretty things the Postmistress saw when, one very stormy day, she
took a walk through some of the New York stores and bazars on their
account. She looked specially for easy and pretty things which could be
made by small but skillful fingers. A holder for the whisk-broom pleased
her fancy. A frame of willow was covered with maroon silk, over which
bands of black velvet were crossed, and embroidered with daisies. The
willow frame may be purchased, or an ingenious boy could easily make one
for his sister. A lining of old gold with bands of scarlet, or of pale
blue with garnet bands, would be very striking and harmonious, and such
a broom-holder is really artistic.

A graceful present for a young lady is a hair-pin box, mounted--of all
things in the world!--on a wheelbarrow. Here comes in the boy's
bracket-saw, to construct the barrow, into which the box must be very
neatly fitted. The box must be stuffed with sawdust, and tufted closely
with worsted, either by knitting-needles or with the crochet-hook, as
you please. The wheelbarrow may be made of any common wood, and gilded,
or it may be of black walnut, or basswood, without any other ornament
than its carving.

Very elegant wall-pockets are made of old hats. Indeed, the
possibilities of old or new straw hats are endless. You take a roughly
braided bathing-hat which you wore last summer at the beach, line it
with azure satin, twist it into any graceful shape you please, on the
upper surface of the flaring brim paint or embroider a group of flowers,
and to the lower attach a large bow of ribbon with broad loops, and you
have an ornament which sets off the wall splendidly. The deep crown
forms the pocket, and the brim makes the picturesque part, and you would
hardly suppose that with so little you could do so much toward the
brightening of a dull room. Father's summer straw hat (which you hid
away in the attic, so that he should be compelled to buy a new one) will
lend itself to your ideas of the beautiful very readily. Line it with
crimson flannel, fasten a cluster of wheat, a bunch of summer grasses,
or a few spears of oats to one side, and tack one bit of the brim down
with a bow, and there you are with the scrap-basket, which is just what
you need in the sitting-room or library.

Nothing provokes the neat housekeeper's anger like the scratching of
matches on the walls, and it is very hard to teach some people never to
deface the house in this way. Any little eight-year-old girl or boy can
make a splendid match-scratcher by taking a round piece of wood,
covering it with velvet, silk, morocco, or Java canvas, on which a
little pattern has been worked, and then gluing on its reverse side a
piece of sand-paper. Finish it with a loop of ribbon, and present to
Uncle John or Cousin Ralph, and while they may appreciate its delicate
hint, they will not resent it as personal.

A dozen sheets of blotting-paper, fastened together with a bow, and
bearing on the outside a dainty little pencil drawing, either a cute
little Kate Greenaway sort of picture, or a landscape, or a few wild
roses and ferns, with a motto, is an acceptable gift to either a lady or
a gentleman. Still prettier is this gift when a little panel picture,
wood or card-board covered with satin, and then painted, is laid on the
upper surface of the packet.

People who board are often quite bothered to find a good method of
keeping account of the weekly wash. A laundry-cushion, which is simply a
pincushion with the words shirts, collars, cuffs, handkerchiefs, etc.,
in a row down one side, with the numbers from one to a dozen
corresponding to the articles, is a very convenient device for them.
They need only stick a pin into the number of each article they have
sent away, and count the things when they are returned. The writing on
this cushion can be done with indelible ink.

A shaving-case, made of two pieces of pasteboard cut into the shape of a
mug, covered with silk, and filled with tissue-paper, a little
pasteboard handle at one side, is easily made, and will be acceptable to
almost any gentleman.

The pretty articles here described were seen at the Exchange for Women's
Work, No. 4 East Twentieth Street, New York city.

       *       *       *       *       *

KATHARINE R. MCD.--Thanks for your kindness in copying for us the
metrical table of the Kings and Queens of England. It will be better,
however, for the boys and girls to go to the history of England; and
follow the line of the royal succession for themselves. We prize most
what costs us most labor.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BEACON BEACH, ONEIDA LAKE, NEW YORK.

     DEAR POSTMISTRESS,--I am in the woods now, but am soon going up
     town to my home. I was ten years old a few weeks ago, and my papa
     has given me HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for a birthday present ever
     since it began. The other day my mamma and I took a walk in the
     woods, and found two kinds of fungus--one was the "earth star" (a
     good description of which is in _Appleton's Cyclopædia_), the other
     was tiny toadstools growing on oak leaves in the sand, with
     slender, shining stems, black as ebony, and whitish tops, which
     look as if designed for fairy parasols. Would you please tell me
     the name?

     I have a puzzle for the C. Y. P. R. U.'s that I found in a
     newspaper: "I went out in the woods and got it; after I got it, I
     looked for it; the more I looked for it the less I liked it; I
     brought it home in my hand because I couldn't find it."

  IRMA C. F.

Who can guess the answer to Irma's puzzle? I will give you three weeks
to think it over, and will tell you the answer in No. 114. I am sorry
that it is not possible from the description to identify the particular
kind of fungus which Irma has found. There are more than two hundred
fungi which infest the living oak, and myriads more which grow on dead
leaves. Even were the fairy parasol sent, it would probably be withered
by the time it reached this Post-office Box.

I am very much obliged to dear Irma for writing plainly on purpose to
save my eyes. The eyes of a busy Postmistress like myself have to work
pretty steadily, and they always feel thankful to such thoughtful little
girls. But you ought to see how indignantly they snap when some of the
pencilled letters arrive, almost faded out before the Postmistress gets
hold of them.

       *       *       *       *       *

The members of the C. Y. P. R. U. will find in this number, under the
title of "The Fairy Fungi," by Mrs. S. B. Herrick, a most interesting
account of the good and mischief worked by these strange little inmates
of the vegetable world. The article on "Children of the Pantomime," by
Mrs. Helen S. Conant, gives a striking and pathetic picture of the lives
led by the children who are employed by London managers in getting up
these entertainments. "A Novel Present" will help some of the girl
readers who are undecided what to make for some little friend for
Christmas.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

DOUBLE SQUARE.

Across.--1. Play. 2. A knot. 3. A place of public contest. 4. Reposes.
5. A ringlet.

Down.--1. The handle of a plough. 2. More perfect. 3. Fleshy. 4.
Schisms. 5. A volcanic earth.

  MILTIADES.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.

EASY ENIGMA.

      In eel, not in fish.
      In urn, not in dish.
      In gun, not in shot.
      In rope, not in knot.
      In cent, not in dollar.
      In necklace, not in collar.
  Look not in this for wealth or fame,
  But seek and find the writer's name.

  E.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.

TWO EASY DIAMONDS.

1.--1. A letter. 2. To jump. 3. A salutation. 4. A mark made by
pressure. 5. An insect. 6. A letter. Centrals read down and
across--Something which never comes after noon.

  BLANCHE S.

2.--1. A letter. 2. Evil. 3. A part of the body. 4. Something that is
never old. 5. A letter.

  EDWIN and MARIE S.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

  I am slow and easy-going, and never was known to hurry;
  You couldn't, if you should try your best, put me into a flurry.
  My 4, 5, 8, 7 is part of the human frame.
  My 7, 2, 3, 1 is what scholars a species name.
  And by 8 little letters I'll be handed down to fame.

  WILL A. METTE.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 108.

No. 1.

Magna-Charta.

No. 2.

        C
      B O W           S
    B O W I E       A T E
  C O W P E N S   S T A R S
    W I E R D       E R A
      E N D           S
        S

No. 3.

Ton, Eaton, Canton, pistol.

Constantinople.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from May Ridgway, May
Terry, Maggie J. Laurie, "Brooklyn Reader," Grace C. Hayes, Helen S.
Woodworth, Blanche Spinning, Jesse S. Godine, Frankie Wadsworth, Gracie
S., Grant K., Mabel Strickland.

       *       *       *       *       *

The answer to "What am I?" published in No. 109, is Bark; and to the
Enigma, Napkin.

       *       *       *       *       *

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




[Illustration: PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS.]




ENIGMA.


  I'm headless, mouthless, yet my back is handsome, too, and strong;
  I sometimes have a tail to boast, although it is not long;
              I'm wonderfully formed and well,
              As England's proudest ladies tell,
                That bear me up aloft;
                I'm useful, and for show.
              Some birds and insects know me well.
              Now try if you my name can tell.




TWO BOYS.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.


  "A fellow can't have any fun,"
    Says Harry, at the pane;
  "I wish the tiresome day were done--
    I hate the horrid rain.
  That boy looks jolly over there;
    His clothes are nice and old;
  I'm sure his mother doesn't care
    How often he takes cold."

  "Some fellows do have lots of fun,"
    Sighs Jimmy, in the street;
  "Up at the window there is one
    Who has enough to eat,
  And books to read, and clothes to wear,
    And pleasant things to see;
  I don't believe that boy would care
    To change awhile with me."




SCIENTIFIC PUZZLES.


[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

Fig. 1 is an illustration of centrifugal force, or the tendency of a
body revolving rapidly around a fixed centre to fly off from that
centre. A tumbler is placed upon a round piece of card-board, to which
strings are attached so that they hold the glass firmly in place. Some
water is poured into the glass, and it can then be swung round the head
without the water being spilled, even when the glass is upside down. For
the experiment shown in Fig. 2 a wine-glass, a piece of cork, a plate,
and some water will be needed. Pour the water on the plate, light a
piece of paper resting on the cork, and cover the flame with the glass
turned upside down. What follows? The water rises in the glass. The
reason is that the burning of the paper having consumed a part of the
oxygen in the air, its volume is diminished, and the pressure of the
outside atmosphere forces the water into the glass.




[Illustration: BEFORE DAYLIGHT--CHRISTMAS MORNING.

"Merry Christmas, Grandpa! What you going to give us?]