Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

VOL. III.--NO. 154. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday October 10, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration: "SHE'S HEADING RIGHT UP STREAM."]

A VERY NEW COW.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.


"Father," exclaimed Katy Chittenden, the moment the buggy stopped in
front of the gate, "Bun Gates and Rube Hollenhouser were here this
morning just after you went away, and they said all our cows were in Mr.
Gates's pasture lot."

Deacon Chittenden and his wife and his son William were all in the
buggy, and the seat did not look uncomfortably full either. All three of
them answered Katy in the same breath, with,

"How did they get in?"

"Oh, I don't know. They didn't say. Rube didn't say anything. It was
Bun. He wanted me to tell you."

"It's all that new cow's doings," groaned her father, and the news
seemed to make him slow in getting out of the buggy.

"Bun Gates and Rube Hollenhouser are the roughest pair of fellows,"
began William, but his father checked him.

"They drive my cows for me half the time, William. They drove 'em up to
the lot this morning. I'd never have trusted you with that new cow."

It was a serious matter, and it had been on Katy Chittenden's mind all
the morning. She had formed an extraordinary idea concerning the "new
cow" for which her father had paid so much. So costly a creature, with
such horns, and so dreadfully brindled, and that kicked the milk-pail at
least three feet, was to be regarded with awe.

Dinner was hardly over before the Deacon solemnly remarked: "William,
put on your apron. I will put on mine. You take the axe and I will carry
the maul and some nails. We must fix that fence."

The day was warm, and it was a good walk, over the bridge, along past
the wagon shop, and away up the hill road to the bars that let down into
the pasture lot. It was only twenty yards from these to the bars that
led into Mr. Gates's lot, and Mr. Hollenhouser pastured his cows there
also.

The bars were all up, and the fence looked all right as far as they
could see.

"We must follow it up," said the Deacon. "The break is further on."

It was a large, roomy pasture, and so was that of Mr. Gates at the side
of it, but it was because they were both very long, for they were not
very wide. They reached up and over the hill, away to the cross-roads on
the upper level, so that there was a great deal of fence between them.

It was good fence, too, and in perfect order, but for all that, before
they reached the top of the slope, William suddenly exclaimed:

"Father, there are Mr. Gates's cows in our lot. Both of them."

"I declare! So they are. And there are both of Mr. Hollenhouser's beyond
them. There must be a bad gap somewhere."

"Wonder where our cows are?"

"It's a wonder. I haven't seen one of them, and that new cow--"

He stopped there, as if he did not wish to say anything against her just
then; but the mystery was getting deeper. There was no hole in the
fence, nor any sign of his own cattle until they had nearly reached the
cross-roads at the upper end of the pasture.

"There they are, father. All three of 'em. In the corner."

"Yes, my son. I see them. But how did they get there? They're in Mr.
Gates's lot."

"Guess he or Mr. Hollenhouser's been up here and fixed the fence before
we got home. Rube and Bun would have told them, sure."

"Of course they would. I never thought of that. I should have asked them
about it before we came. I can't understand it exactly now."

There certainly was a mystery about it, and one that only Rube and Bun
could have explained.

Early that morning the Deacon had roused himself out of bed, so as not
to miss Rube and Bun when they let out their cows. He would not have
trusted his new cow with any other boys in that neighborhood. They were
up good and early too, and were just fairly out in the road, with two
cows apiece, when Deacon Chittenden came along, and Bun's first remark
was,

"That's his new cow. Hasn't she got a pair of horns, though!"

"She's a brindle. Wonder if she's a good milker?"

However that might be, they were quickly informed that she was an animal
of uncommon value, and that they could have the privilege of driving her
that morning.

"All right," said Bun. "She'll go right along with ours. We'll turn her
into the lot for you."

The Deacon explained that he had a trip to make which would keep him
away until dinner-time, and hurried away.

The new cow must have kept an eye on him, for she behaved very well
until he was out of sight. Even a cow might feel more orderly for
looking at Deacon Chittenden. This one, moreover, might have done very
well after he disappeared, and gone along under good influences, if it
had not been for Watch Hollenhouser.

That dog was always doing more than anybody asked of him. The other cows
were so well used to having him bark at them, from their own yard gates
down to the bridge over the creek, that if he had not been there they
would have missed him.

It was all a matter of course, therefore, with Rube's cows and Bun's and
the old two of Deacon Chittenden's; but Watch was as new to the new cow
as she was to him.

The distance to the creek was made in safety, a rod or so at a time, and
then the little drove had all its seven noses in the water at once. It
was only for a moment, indeed, and it was a good deal a matter of
custom. All the cows of Prome Centre preferred to take a drink and wade
across in warm weather. The creek was very wide there, and so it was
very shallow, and half the teams from both ways drove right through.

The six cows that were used to it were quickly on their way over, and
Watch had already crossed the bridge, and stood now on the opposite
shore waiting for them, with his bark in full operation.

"Rube," suddenly exclaimed Bun, "there goes the Deacon's new cow!"

"Yes, sir, and she's heading right up stream."

"You stand here, Rube, and pelt her if she tries to come ashore on this
side. I'll run for old Harms's boat and head her off. The water's too
cold yet for wading."

Bun Gates could do a thing about as quickly as some people could say
they were going to do it, and in half a minute more he was shoving an
old narrow-built punt of a boat after the slow but very wrong-headed
wading of the new cow. She had the whole length of the creek before her
when she started, but now Bun Gates and his boat were ahead of her in no
time, and Bun's troubles were just ahead of him.

The cow seemed determined to dodge past that boat. The water ran very
fast, and it was so shallow that even the punt ran aground every two
minutes. It was by no means easy to push a boat in a swift current and
drive a new cow at the same time.

"Run right against her," shouted Rube. "She'll have to turn then."

Bun did so, and the cow did turn down stream. It looked as if the battle
were half won, but the water was nearly three feet deep a little below.
Right there the cow slipped and floundered, and the punt received so
sudden a shove at one end from her, just as Bun gave it a sharp push at
the other end, that it also "turned." It turned so nearly over that the
best thing Bun could do was to jump. After that he did not care so much
whether he was in the boat or out of it, but he could drive the cow
better. He had a good deal of driving to do, but he got her out at last
on the right side of the creek.

"Is the water cold?" asked Rube.

"Awful cold. But I guess I'll keep that cow warm the rest of the way to
the pasture."

He pulled the boat ashore, and then Rube helped him, and so did Watch,
but it looked as if an unruly temper was spreading from Deacon
Chittenden's costly brindle all around among the other cows.

They did very well, but it was harder work than common, especially for
Watch, until they got within a few rods of the two sets of bars of the
pasture lots.

"Rube," said Bun, "I'll run ahead and let down the Deacon's bars and
ours. Don't you let that new cow get away from you."

The bars were down in a twinkling, and beyond them were acres and acres
of tempting green grass. Surely no cow in her senses would prefer the
dusty road to all that hill-side of breakfast.

Still, it might have occurred to Rube and Bun that cows could have
preferences. Their own, indeed, had always marched on into the right lot
without a blunder, and so had the Deacon's old ones. Even the new cow
might now have been rightly guided if it had not been for her disturbed
state of mind. So might all the rest but for the "worry" they were in.
As it was, however, Watch had no sooner made his last dash at the head
of the brindle than she made her last rush at him, and when she was met
by Bun Gates and a long stick, she wheeled sharply to the right. There
was the open gap before her. All the bars were down, and on she went
into Mr. Gates's pasture at a gallop that was full of angry
head-shaking. Both of Deacon Chittenden's orderly and sedate old cows
followed as if she had called them.

"There they go!" shouted Rube. "Run in, Bun, and drive 'em out."

It would have been better if he had attended only to his other cattle,
for Watch saw at once how badly things were going, and charged upon his
old acquaintances in the road as if the confusion were driving him
crazy.

The storm of bark he raised was enough to have made any cow nervous at
any time, and those four were already "so worried." Well, in ever so few
seconds Mr. Hollenhouser's cows and Mr. Gates's, all four of them, were
scampering up the hill-side in Deacon Chittenden's lot. All Bun Gates
could do over there beyond the partition fence only served to make the
Deacon's new prize and the two others scatter in three different
directions.

"What'll we do now?" shouted Rube.

"Put up the bars and go home," responded Bun, at the top of his voice.
"I want to get some breakfast, and dry myself. We'll swap grass with
Deacon Chittenden to-day."

That seemed fair; but after they had been to breakfast it looked like a
duty to leave word at Deacon Chittenden's where his cows were, and Bun
Gates did it. Rube did not see but what the news was told correctly, and
so Katy Chittenden's forenoon was just spoiled for her, and her father
and brother spent their afternoon looking for a gap that was not in the
pasture fence.

Even when the Deacon on his way home stopped to ask Mr. Gates about it,
all he learned was that Bun had complained that the new cow drove him
all around the creek in a boat, and upset him.

"But that does not account for her being in your lot."

"Yes," said Mr. Gates; "a cow that would do that would take down a fence
and let the other cows through, and then put it up after them."

It was a great mystery, and when Rube and Bun came along from school
that afternoon there was Katy Chittenden at the gate, and Bill
Chittenden was in the yard, and the Deacon was on the stoop, and Mrs.
Chittenden was at the window.

"Katy," asked Bun, "did you tell your father what I told you?"

"Yes; and he and William have been up there all the afternoon mending
the pasture."

"Audubon," exclaimed the Deacon, "how did those cows get mixed?"

"No, sir," said Bun; "the cows ain't mixed, it's the lots."

"How did they get in?"

"Through the bars. It's all that new cow. She tipped me into the creek,
and Watch Hollenhouser can't but just bark; but we can get 'em all right
when we go for 'em."

The Deacon looked puzzled even after that explanation, and so did Katy
and the rest; but it was soon made plain to them, and, after all, as
Rube Hollenhouser remarked, "It's only trading grass for one day."




CLIMBING PLANTS.

BY MRS. S. B. HERRICK.


Have you never wondered, when you looked at a tangle of grape-vine or
morning-glory stems, how they came to twist themselves together so?
Perhaps you had some sort of a notion that they got tangled up as a
bunch of silk or a skein of worsted lying loose might do. Examine any
vine which you can find growing near you, and see how different the
tangle is from a snarl of thread, there is a regular twist, the branches
coiling in the same direction. In some plants the turn is from right to
left, in others from left to right.

There must, of course, be some reason for this, and we can best find it
out by taking a young plant, a seedling, and watching what it does from
the start.

It would be very natural to think that plants moved only as stones do,
because something pulled or pushed them; but this would not be a true
conclusion. Every plant that we know much about is firmly fastened by
its root in the ground; the movements of its leaves and flowers seem
only caused by the blowing of the wind or the beating of the rain. But
though plants are anchored fast to the earth, they are all the while
moving as they grow.

[Illustration: Fig. 1.--THE BEAN. FIRST LEAVES IN DIFFERENT STAGES.]

[Illustration: Fig. 2.--MOVEMENT OF ROOT OF BLACK BEAN.

A, Position at nine o'clock.

B, Position half an hour later.]

Take some seed--beans will do--and after soaking them, plant them in the
ground about two inches deep. In a week or ten days you will see the
earth cracked all about. This is not because the growing plant acts like
a wedge and splits the earth open, but because in growing the first
little leaves move round and round, boring their way out of the ground
very much as a corkscrew works its way into a cork. The first leaves of
most plants--a bean, for instance--do not come straight up out of the
seed; but when the seed coat bursts from the swelling of the inner part
a little arch projects, which raises itself up. This arch is the stem,
and after a while the leaves are pulled out of the sheath, and the arch
widens out, and finally straightens up. You have often seen a man who
had a heavy weight to lift bow himself over and receive the weight, and
then lift it by straightening himself, as the stem does to lift the
leaves (Fig. 1, first leaves). The root burrows into the earth in very
much the same way as the stem revolves, by going around and around as it
grows (Fig. 2). Take a morning-glory vine, and let it lie without any
wire or trellis to catch hold of. After a while you will find the stems
and tendrils coiled round each other in a tight twist (Fig. 3); you
could not begin to twist them so tightly yourself without breaking the
stem.

[Illustration: Fig. 3.--MORNING-GLORIES.]

The tips of all growing plants, like the first leaves that pierce the
ground, move around; they are forever weaving their magic circles in the
air; they take many hours sometimes to make a single turn, but they are
as regular as the hands of a clock, and never forget and go backward. I
have been watching some wistaria branches lately, and have been very
much interested to see the new shoots, as they grew rapidly in the soft
warm air, taking a slow turn around the wire placed to support them very
much as you might wrap your arm about a swing rope to take a better
hold. If there is a post or a wire near, you do not have to give your
vines the twist they need to climb; they do their own twisting as they
grow, and always in this quiet, deliberate way.

[Illustration: Fig. 4.--VIRGINIA CREEPER.]

[Illustration: Fig. 5.--PADS THROUGH THE MICROSCOPE.]

You have no doubt noticed that a Virginia creeper does not need a wire
to climb by; it grows beautifully up any wall which has little
unevennesses. Now look, if you can get hold of a new shoot, what the
creeper has to help it along. It sends out tendrils that branch into
many ends, and each one of these ends swells and becomes a sort of
sticky pad, which glues itself to the wall (Fig. 4). These little pads,
when they find no wall to fasten themselves upon, remain small, and
finally wither away. Those on the vine in Fig. 4, which was trailing
from a vine, are so, some small and some quite gone; but look at the
pads in Fig. 5, which were detached from a painted board, and see how
they look through the microscope. Very much like a boy's India rubber
sucker, are not they? Some of these have the paint from the board still
sticking fast on them. Others are all sparkling with the dried mucilage,
which makes them look as if they had been sprinkled with sugar.

These little many-armed suckers give the plant a firm hold, while its
head waves around until it touches some surface again, and again the
pads lay hold for another upward stretch.

There must be some curious arrangement by which plants, that can not
_feel_ and _will_ as animals do, can move. They have no brains to think
with, no nerves to feel with; it is strange to believe that they really
do move with a reason. Mr. Darwin has examined the subject so closely
that he has taken nearly six hundred good-sized pages to tell all he has
found out about it. His ways of finding out are many. One method is
this: he takes a small stiff bristle and glues it on the growing part of
a shoot. By watching this shoot and comparing it with other shoots which
had no bristle attached, he could not detect any difference in the
movements. Above the little branch with the bristle attached he placed a
piece of glass that had been smoked, so that the bristle, as it moved
with the movement of the tip, would travel over the glass. He did not
need to stand by and watch the branch; he could go away and attend to
anything he chose, and when he came back there on the glass was a
history of the travels the shoot had made, written by itself. He managed
to hang up a sprouting bean or pea so that the root recorded its own
movements in the same way. There were other ways which he used, all of
them being ingenious, and requiring the greatest attention to get a
correct map of their movements. He found that every plant in growing
moved around as well as upward, but that some moved far more than
others; the ones that grew tall and slender and needed support would
send out shoots that swayed round in bigger and bigger circles until
they could reach something to sustain themselves by, or else they would
fall in helpless heaps on the ground.

Mr. Darwin was not a man to be satisfied with finding that a thing is
so. He never rested until he found just how it came about. I do not mean
to say that he was the only man who studied these things, for there were
many others who did; but he wrote about what he had studied in such a
clear and simple and interesting way that anybody could understand him,
and so people who don't pretend to be very wise in such matters read Mr.
Darwin's account and nobody's else, and are apt to forget, though he is
always careful to mention their names and what they have done, that any
one else deserves any of the credit.

[Illustration: Fig. 6.--DIAGRAM OF STRAIGHT AND CURVED STEMS.

_a_, Stretched cells; _b_, crowded cells.]

By closely studying the little cells of which the leaf or stem is made
up, he found that when, for any reason, a plant needed to turn in a
certain direction, the water in the stem rushed from the inner to the
outer part of the curve, making the cells on the inner side of the stem
a little smaller and those on the outer a little larger than usual.
After a while the stretching of the outer cells makes them grow and stay
larger (see in the figure how it must be, Fig. 6), and so the curve
remains. You can not straighten a stem curved in this way without
breaking it.

Every movement of stems and leaves comes from the movement of the water
that fills their cells. But besides the water, there is something else
just as important, and that is the sun. The water is only a servant,
which obeys the light as its master. Many flowers turn their bright
faces always to the light. They follow the sun as he moves through the
heavens all the day long from his rising to his setting. This comes from
the effect the sun has on the water in the stem, and not because the
flower is beginning to "take notice," as the baby's bright eyes do of a
lamp when it is moved about a room, though it does remind one of it.

The movement of climbing plants is only one of many curious movements
that are made by stems and roots and leaves and flowers, though the
cause is the same in all cases.




PLAYING CIRCUS.

BY JIMMY BROWN.


The circus came through our town three weeks ago, and me and Tom
McGinnis went to it. We didn't go together, for I went with father, and
Tom helped the circus men water the horses, and they let him in for
nothing. Father said that circuses were dreadfully demoralizing, unless
they were mixed with wild animals, and that the reason why he took me to
this particular circus was that there were elephants in it, and the
elephant is a Scripture animal, Jimmy, and it can not help but improve
your mind to see him. I agreed with father. If my mind had to be
improved, I thought going to the circus would be a good way to do it.

We had just an elegant time. I rode on the elephant, but it wasn't much
fun, for they wouldn't let me drive him. The trapeze was better than
anything else, though the Central African Chariot Races and the Queen of
the Arena, who rode on one foot, were gorgeous. The trapeze performances
were done by the Patagonian Brothers, and you'd think every minute they
were going to break their necks. Father said it was a most revolting
sight and do sit down and keep still Jimmy or I can't see what's going
on. I think father had a pretty good time, and improved his mind a good
deal, for he was just as nice as he could be, and gave me a whole pint
of pea-nuts.

Mr. Travers says that the Patagonian Brothers live on their trapezes,
and never come down to the ground except when a performance is going to
begin. They hook their legs around it at night, and sleep hanging with
their heads down, just like the bats, and they take their meals and
study their lessons sitting on the bar, without anything to lean
against. I don't believe it; for how could they get their food brought
up to them? and it's ridiculous to suppose that they have to study
lessons. It grieves me very much to say so, but I am beginning to think
that Mr. Travers doesn't always tell the truth. What did he mean by
telling Sue the other night that he loved cats, and that her cat was
perfectly beautiful, and then when she went into the other room he slung
the cat out of the window, clear over into the asparagus bed, and said
get out you brute? We can not be too careful about always telling the
truth, and never doing anything wrong.

Tom and I talked about the circus all the next day, and we agreed we'd
have a circus of our own, and travel all over the country, and make
heaps of money. We said we wouldn't let any of the other boys belong to
it, but we would do everything ourselves, except the elephants. So we
began to practice in Mr. McGinnis's barn every afternoon after school. I
was the Queen of the Arena, and dressed up in one of Sue's skirts, and
won't she be mad when she finds that I cut the bottom off of it!--only I
certainly meant to get her a new one with the very first money I made. I
wore an old umbrella under the skirt, which made it stick out
beautifully, and I know I should have looked splendid standing on Mr.
McGinnis's old horse, only he was so slippery that I couldn't stand on
him without falling off and sticking all the umbrella ribs into me.

Tom and I were the Madagascar Brothers, and we were going to do
everything that the Patagonian Brothers did. We practiced standing on
each other's head hours at a time, and I did it pretty well, only Tom he
slipped once when he was standing on my head, and sat down on it so hard
that I don't much believe that my hair will ever grow any more.

The barn floor was most too hard to practice on, so last Saturday Tom
said we'd go into the parlor, where there was a soft carpet, and we'd
put some pillows on the floor besides. All Tom's folks had gone out, and
there wasn't anybody in the house except the girl in the kitchen. So we
went into the parlor, and put about a dozen pillows and a feather-bed on
the floor. It was elegant fun turning somersaults backward from the top
of the table; but I say it ought to be spelled summersets, though Sue
says the other way is right.

We tried balancing things on our feet while we laid on our backs on the
floor. Tom balanced the musical box for ever so long before it fell; but
I don't think it was hurt much, for nothing except two or three little
wheels were smashed. And I balanced the water pitcher, and I shouldn't
have broken it if Tom hadn't spoken to me at the wrong minute.

[Illustration: THE TRAPEZE PERFORMANCE.]

We were getting tired, when I thought how nice it would be to do the
trapeze performance on the chandeliers. There was one in the front
parlor and one in the back parlor, and I meant to swing on one of them,
and let go and catch the other. I swung beautifully on the front-parlor
chandelier, when, just as I was going to let go of it, down it came with
an awful crash, and that parlor was just filled with broken glass, and
the gas began to smell dreadfully.

As it was about supper-time, and Tom's folks were expected home, I
thought I would say good-by to Tom, and not practice any more that day.
So we shut the parlor doors, and I went home, wondering what would
become of Tom, and whether I had done altogether right in practicing
with him in his parlor. There was an awful smell of gas in the house
that night, and when Mr. McGinnis opened the parlor door he found what
was the matter. He found the cat too. She was lying on the floor, just
as dead as she could be.

I'm going to see Mr. McGinnis to-day and tell him I broke the
chandelier. I suppose he will tell father, and then I shall wish that
everybody had never been born; but I did break that chandelier, though I
didn't mean to, and I've got to tell about it.




CHILDREN'S CHURCH.

BY E. M. TRAQUAIR.


  The church-bells for service are ringing,
    The parents gone forth on their way,
  And here on the door-step are sitting
    Three golden-haired children at play.

  The darlings, untiring and restless,
    Are still for the service too small;
  But yet they would fain be as pious
    As parents and uncles and all.

  So each from a hymn-book is singing--
    'Tis held upside down, it is true;
  Their sweet roguish voices are ringing
    As if every number they knew.

  But what they are singing they know not;
    Each sings in a different tone.
  Sing on, little children; your voices
    Will reach to the Heavenly Throne;

  For yonder your angels are standing,
    Who sing to the Father of all;
  He loves best the sound of His praises
    From children, though ever so small.

  Sing on! How the birds in the garden
    Are vying with you in your song,
  As, hopping among the young branches,
    They twitter on all the day long!

  Sing on! For in faith ye are singing,
    And that is enough in God's sight:
  A heart like the dove's, pure and guileless,
    Wings early to heaven its flight.

  Sing ever! We elders sing also;
    We read, and the words understand;
  Yet oft, too, alas! we are holding
    Our books upside down in the hand.

  Sing ever! We sing, as is fitting,
    From notes written carefully down;
  But ah! from the strife of the brethren
    How often has harmony flown!

  Sing on! From our lofty cathedrals
    What melodies glorious we hear!
  What are they?--a sweet childish lisping,
    A breath in the Mighty One's ear.




BITS OF ADVICE.

BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.

HOW TO MANAGE THE LITTLE ONES.


"I wouldn't mind being left to take care of the little ones," said
Fannie the other day, "if they would only mind me. But when mamma is
away they think they may do as they please, and they behave like little
witches."

"Mollie manages the nursery splendidly," said Kittie; "the children are
quite angelic under her, but I have not her magic. I seem to stir up the
naughtiness, and the more I tell them to be good, the worse they act."

Now, Fannie and Kittie and other worried elder sisters, let me tell you
the trouble with your management. When you can find the key to a problem
in arithmetic, the rest is easy work.

I think I can whisper in your ear the name of a certain key to your home
problem, when the small brothers and sisters say, as they sometimes do,
"You are not my mamma, you are only Fannie; I want to make a noise, and
you must not bother me."

The key is a word of four letters--TACT. It is a golden key, and is
warranted to fit any lock. You can not get along very well in life
without it. I am very sure that Mollie possesses this shining key.

You remember what a time you had with Willie, who was determined to have
Rosie's French doll as the passenger in his train of cars. Those cars
rush around the parlor at so rapid a rate that everything must get out
of their way or be crushed. Rosie was in great distress lest her pet's
head should be broken, but Willie shouted, blew his whistle, and started
his train just as usual. You snatched the doll away, and put her in the
closet, high out of reach of both children, saying, "When you two can
play without quarrelling, you shall have the doll again, and not until
then." Of course Willie stamped his feet, and Rosie screamed, and there
was a tempest.

You might have managed your little folks, had you only known how, so
that they would have been as obedient as well-trained soldiers, and as
peaceable as two doves in a nest.

I would have said, in your place: "Oh, Willie, what a nice train of cars
you have there, and what a good conductor you are! Is Cécile your
passenger? Oh no, I see she is not dressed for a journey. She has on an
evening dress. Here is Laura"--producing an older and less important
doll--"and she really needs a change of air. I'll slip on her Ulster in
a second, and she will be all ready. She's pining for the country. Here,
Rosie, you may take care of Cécile."

Both children would have been satisfied had you spoken to them in this
way, and the hour would not have been spoiled by crying and fretting.

In managing little ones, when you are not possessed of any real
authority, you must use a great deal of judgment. Humor the children by
entering into their plays. They "make believe" a great deal. You must
"make believe" too.

Many wee people can be led along by gentle words and merry looks, when
they can not be driven without very great trouble. If Susie has a
handsome book which you fear she will spoil, do not hurt her
self-respect by taking it suddenly from her, but bring a scrap-book, and
divert her attention to that. Then she will resign the other very
pleasantly.

Elder sisters and brothers should never be above coaxing the little
ones.




THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[1]

[1] Begun in No. 146, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

BY W. L. ALDEN,

AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," "THE CRUISE OF THE 'GHOST,'" ETC., ETC.


CHAPTER IX.

It was an easy matter to help Joe out of the old well. He had fallen
into it while running after the wild-cat, but a heap of decayed leaves
at the bottom broke the fall, and saved him from any serious injury.
Nevertheless, he must have been a little stunned at first, for he made
no outcry for some time, and it was his first call for help that was
heard by Charley.

The boys returned to their canoes, and as it was not yet midnight,
prepared to resume the sleep from which they had been so unceremoniously
awakened. They had little fear that the wild-cat would pay them another
visit, for it had undoubtedly been badly frightened. Still, it was not
pleasant to think that there was a wild beast within a few rods of them,
and the thought kept the canoeists awake for a long time.

The wild-cat did not pay them a second visit, and when they awoke the
next morning they were half inclined to think that their night's
adventure had been only a dream. There were, however, the marks made by
its claws on the varnished deck of Joe's canoe, and Joe's clothing was
torn and stained by his fall. With the daylight they became very
courageous, and decided that they had never been in the least afraid of
the animal. The so-called wild-cat of Canada, which is really a lynx,
is, however, a fierce and vicious animal, and is sometimes more than a
match for an unarmed man.

There was a strong west wind blowing when the fleet started, and Chambly
Basin was covered with white-caps. As the canoes were sailing in the
trough of the sea, they took in considerable water while skirting the
east shore of the Basin, but once in the narrow river, they found the
water perfectly smooth. This day the fleet made better progress than on
any previous day. Nothing could be more delightful than the scenery, and
the quaint little French towns along the river, every one of which was
named after some saint, were very interesting. The boys landed at one of
them, and got their dinner at a little tavern where no one spoke
English, and where Charley, who had studied French at Annapolis, won the
admiration of his comrades by the success with which he ordered the
dinner.

[Illustration: SAILING DOWN THE RICHELIEU RIVER.]

With the exception of the hour spent at dinner, the canoeists sailed,
from six o'clock in the morning until seven at night, at the rate of
nearly six miles an hour. The clocks of Sorel, the town at the mouth of
the Richelieu, were striking six as the canoes glided into the broad St.
Lawrence, and steered for a group of islands distant about a mile from
the south shore. It was while crossing the St. Lawrence that they first
made the acquaintance of screw-steamers, and learned how dangerous they
are to the careless canoeist. A big steamship, on her way to Montreal,
came up the river so noiselessly that the boys did not notice her until
they heard her hoarse whistle warning them to keep out of her way. A
paddle-wheel steamer can be heard while she is a long way off, but
screw-steamers glide along so stealthily that the English canoeists, who
constantly meet them on the Mersey, the Clyde, and the lower Thames,
have nicknamed them "sudden death."

Cramped and tired were the canoeists when they reached the nearest
island and went ashore to prepare a camp, but they were proud of having
sailed sixty miles in one day. As they sat around the fire after supper,
Harry said:

"Boys, we've had experience enough by this time to test our different
rigs. Let's talk about them a little."

"All right," said Joe. "I want it understood, however, that my lateen is
by all odds the best rig in the fleet."

"Charley," remarked Tom, "you said the other day that you liked Joe's
rig better than any other. Do you think so still?"

"Of course I do," answered Charley. "Joe's sails set flatter than any
lug-sail; he can set them and take them in quicker than we can handle
ours, and as they are triangular he has the most of his canvas at the
foot of the sail instead of at the head. But they're going to spill him
before the cruise is over, or I'm mistaken."

"In what way?" asked Joe.

"You are going to get yourself into a scrape some day by trying to take
in your sail when you are running before a stiff breeze. If you try to
get the sail down without coming up into the wind it will get overboard,
and either you will lose it or it will capsize you; you tried it
yesterday when a squall came up, and you very nearly came to grief."

"But you can say the same about any other rig," exclaimed Joe.

"Of course you can't very well get any sail down while the wind is in
it; but Tom can take in his sharpie-sail without much danger even when
he's running directly before the wind, and Harry and I can let go our
halyards and get our lugs down, after a fashion, if it is necessary.
Still, your lateen is the best cruising rig I've ever seen, though for
racing Harry's big, square-headed balance-lug is better."

"You may say what you will," said Tom, "but give me my sharpie-sails.
They set as flat as a board, and I can handle them easily enough to suit
me."

"The trouble with your rig," said Charley, "is that you have a mast
nearly fifteen feet high. Now, when Joe takes in his mainsail, he has
only two feet of mast left standing."

"How do you like your own rig?" asked Harry.

"Oh, it is good enough. I'm not sure that it isn't better than either
yours or Tom's; but it certainly isn't as handy as Joe's lateen."

"Now that you've settled that I've the best rig," said Joe, "you'd
better admit that I've the best canoe, and then turn in for the night.
After the work we've done to-day, and the fun we had last night, I'm
sleepy."

"Do you call sitting still in a canoe hard work?" inquired Tom.

"Is falling down a well your idea of fun?" asked Harry.

"It's too soon," said Charley, "to decide who has the best canoe. We'll
find that out by the time the cruise is over."

The island where the boys camped during their first night on the St.
Lawrence was situated at the head of Lake St. Peter. This lake is simply
an expansion of the St. Lawrence, and though it is thirty miles long,
and about ten miles wide at its widest part, it is so shallow that
steamboats can only pass through it by following an artificial channel
dredged out by the government at a vast expense. Its shores are lined
with a thick growth of reeds, which extend in many places fully a mile
into the lake, and are absolutely impassable, except where streams
flowing into the lake have kept channels open through the reeds.

On leaving the island in the morning the canoeists paddled down the
lake, for there was not a breath of wind. The sun was intensely hot, and
the heat reflected from the surface of the water and the varnished decks
of the canoes assisted in making the boys feel as if they were roasting
before a fire. Toward noon the heat became really intolerable, and the
Commodore gave the order to paddle over to the north shore in search of
shade.

It was disappointing to find instead of a shady shore an impenetrable
barrier of reeds. After resting a little while in the canoes, the boys
started to skirt the reeds, in hope of finding an opening; and the sun,
apparently taking pity on them, went under a cloud, so that they paddled
a mile or two in comparative comfort.

The friendly cloud was followed before long by a mass of thick black
clouds coming up from the south. Soon the thunder was heard in the
distance, and it dawned upon the tired boys that they were about to have
a thunder-storm without any opportunity of obtaining shelter.

They paddled steadily on, looking in vain for a path through the reeds,
and making up their minds to a good wetting. They found, however, that
the rain did not come alone. With it came a fierce gust of wind, which
quickly raised white-caps on the lake. Instead of dying out as soon as
the rain fell, the wind blew harder and harder, and in the course of
half an hour there was a heavy sea running.

The wind and sea coming from the south, while the canoes were steering
east, placed the boys in a very dangerous position. The seas struck the
canoes on the side and broke over them, and in spite of the aprons,
which to some extent protected the cockpits of all except the
_Twilight_, the water found its way below. It was soon no longer
possible to continue in the trough of the sea, and the canoes were
compelled to turn their bows to the wind and sea, the boys paddling just
sufficiently to keep themselves from drifting back into the reeds.

The _Sunshine_ and the _Midnight_ behaved admirably, taking very little
water over their decks. The _Twilight_ "slapped" heavily, and threw
showers of spray over herself, while the _Dawn_ showed a tendency to
dive bodily into the seas, and several times the whole of her forward
of the cockpit was under the water.

"What had we better do?" asked Harry, who, although Commodore, had the
good sense always to consult Charley in matters of seamanship.

"It's going to blow hard, and we can't sit here and paddle against it
all day without getting exhausted."

"But how are we going to help ourselves?" continued Harry.

"Your canoe and mine," replied Charley, "can live out the gale well
enough under sail. If we set our main-sails close-reefed, and keep the
canoes close to the wind, we shall be all right. It's the two other
canoes that I'm troubled about."

"My canoe suits me well enough," said Joe, "so long as she keeps on the
top of the water, but she seems to have made up her mind to dive under
it."

"Mine would be all right if I could stop paddling long enough to bail
her out, but I can't," remarked Tom. "She's nearly half full of water
now."

"We can't leave the other fellows," said Harry, "so what's the use of
our talking about getting sail on our canoes?"

"It's just possible that Tom's canoe would live under sail," resumed
Charley; "but it's certain that Joe's won't. What do you think about
those reeds, Tom? Can you get your canoe into them?"

"Of course I can, and that's what we'd better all do," exclaimed Tom.
"The reeds will break the force of the seas, and we can stay among them
till the wind goes down."

"Suppose you try it," suggested Charley, "and let us see how far you can
get into the reeds? I think they're going to help us out of a very bad
scrape."

Tom did not dare to turn his canoe around, so he backed water, and went
at the reeds stern first. They parted readily, and his canoe penetrated
without much difficulty some half-dozen yards into the reeds, where the
water was almost quiet. Unfortunately he shipped one heavy sea just as
he entered the reeds, which filled his canoe so full that another such
sea would certainly have sunk her, had she not been provided with the
bladders bought at Chambly.

Joe followed Tom's example, but the _Dawn_ perversely stuck in the reeds
just as she was entering them, and sea after sea broke over her before
Joe could drive her far enough into the reeds to be protected by them.

Joe and Tom were now perfectly safe, though miserably wet; but as the
rain had ceased, there was nothing to prevent them from getting dry
clothes out of their water-proof bags, and putting them on as soon as
they could bail the water out of their canoes. Harry and Charley, seeing
their comrades in safety, made haste to get up sail, and to stand out
into the lake, partly because they did not want to run the risk of being
swamped when entering the reeds, and partly because they wanted the
excitement of sailing in a gale of wind.

When the masts were stepped, the sails hoisted, and the sheets trimmed,
the two canoes, sailing close to the wind, began to creep away from the
reeds. They behaved wonderfully well. The boys had to watch them
closely, and to lean out to windward from time to time to hold them
right side up. The rudders were occasionally thrown out of the water,
but the boys took the precaution to steer with their paddles. The
excitement of sailing was so great that Charley and Harry forgot all
about the time, and sailed on for hours. Suddenly they discovered that
it was three o'clock, that they had had no lunch, and that the two
canoeists who had sought refuge in the reeds had absolutely nothing to
eat with them. Filled with pity, they resolved to return to them without
a moment's delay. It was then that it occurred to them that in order to
sail back they must turn their canoes around, bringing them while so
doing in the trough of the sea. Could they possibly do this without
being swamped? The question was a serious one, for they were fully four
miles from the shore, and the wind and sea were as high as ever.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




[Illustration: "BESIEGED."]




THE STEAMBOAT.--ROBERT FULTON.


Robert Fulton, the inventor of steamboats, was born on a farm in
Pennsylvania. His parents were Irish Protestants--a strong, laborious
race. Robert was a delicate, handsome boy, with a fine forehead and
brilliant eyes. Almost as a child he became a mechanic, inventing
machines and lingering around workshops. He was thought dull at school,
and made slow progress in the usual studies. But he was always
inventing.

One day, when Robert was about nine years old, he came late to school,
and when his teacher reproved him, produced a new lead-pencil which he
had been making while playing truant. The boys were all anxious to have
one of Fulton's pencils--they were better than any they had seen. In his
school days he made rockets to celebrate the Fourth of July, and in
1778, in the midst of the war, set them off in his native town. About
this time he made an air-gun and a boat moved by wheels. He had a strong
taste for drawing. His mother, who was now a widow and poor, wanted his
help.

Fulton was only seventeen, but he went up to Philadelphia, made money,
became acquainted with Dr. Franklin, and when he was twenty-one came
back to his mother with his earnings, and bought her a farm. Here she
lived happily for some years, watching and enjoying the rising
prosperity of her son. The deed by which Fulton at twenty-one gave the
farm to his mother is still preserved.

There are persons living who might have seen the first steamboat that
sailed on the Hudson. Many remember when the famous _De Witt Clinton_
and _North America_ were thought the wonders of navigation; when they
sailed over the tranquil river at the rate of sixteen miles an hour, and
left behind them thick clouds of black smoke that hung over the
landscape for miles. The _North America_ was long the pride of the river
navigation, the swiftest vessel in the world. The Hudson has always been
the favorite scene of steam navigation and enterprise. It is the
birth-place of the steamboat.

Here, in 1807, Robert Fulton, on board of the _Clermont_, his first
vessel, sailed in a day and a half from New York to Albany. He stopped
for a few hours at Clermont, and then in four more finished his voyage.
It was the signal for an entire change in the whole art of navigation.
From that time the steamboat has been slowly advancing, its size has
increased to immense proportions, its engines have become animated
giants, and Fulton's little vessel of one hundred and sixty tons is
converted into the _Furnessia_, the _Alaska_, and the _Great Eastern_.

Fulton, a fair, delicate, thoughtful young man, had gone to England, to
France, had become acquainted with many eminent inventors, and had
already planned a steamboat. He was the first to make one successful. He
came back to New York, and, aided by his friend Livingston, in 1806
began to build his boat. It was only a small vessel, rudely built; in it
he placed an engine made by James Watt, the English inventor; the
paddle-wheels he planned himself, and the imperfect machinery. It seems
now a very easy thing to build a steamboat, but it was then thought
impossible. Men called the boat Fulton's Folly. Hardly any one supposed
that a new era in navigation was about to begin, and that Fulton's
machine would at last cover the world with its discoveries. At last the
boat was finished.

The fires were lighted, the boilers hissed, the crank turned, the wheels
began to move, and the _Clermont_ made its way, at about five miles an
hour, from Charles Brown's dock-yard on the East River to Jersey City.
Once she stopped, and men cried, "There, it has failed!" But it was only
because Fulton was anxious to alter some part of his machine. The great
voyage was successful. The steamer reached Jersey City, and Fulton's
victory was won.

Soon the Hudson began to abound with Fulton's steamboats, the wonders of
the world. There was the famous _Paragon_, a vessel of the enormous size
of three hundred tons. One built for the Czar was called the _Emperor of
Russia_. A ferry-boat ran from New York to Jersey City. In the midst of
the war with England Fulton built the first war steamer. It was two
thousand tons burden, a fine shot-proof vessel, and sailed at the rate
of three miles an hour as far as Sandy Hook. Its size seemed immense,
its power irresistible, and it was told with alarm in London that Fulton
and New York had produced the most dangerous of warlike machines.
America now abounded in steamboats, but they were only slowly adopted in
Europe. London, Carlyle relates, was long without them.

The fair, pale, delicate inventor did not live long to enjoy his
success. His lungs were always weak. He was always at work. His patents
were infringed, and his invention only involved him in endless lawsuits.
At last he caught cold crossing the Hudson on a chill February day, and
died 1815, a good son, an inventor who has been useful to every one. He
has founded nations, and opened the distant seas to trade.




THE MAGIC SACK.

BY HENRY HATTON, MAGICIAN AND VENTRILOQUIST.


Yes, boys, real Simon-pure "magic." Just such tricks as you have seen
the "magician" do; just such tricks as some of you may have seen your
humble servant do. Many of these you can do yourselves--when you know
how; others require more practice than you ought to give to such
nonsense, and others again are too expensive. But there are some that
any boy--or girl, for that matter--can do with little rehearsing and at
slight expense. The magic sack trick, which I had the honor of
introducing to America in 1873, is as clever as it is simple.

A muslin sack large enough to contain a boy of fourteen is handed out
for examination, and after the audience are satisfied that the seams are
not only secure and perfect, but that its only opening is at the mouth,
the performer's assistant gets inside. The sack is gathered over his
head, and the mouth tied fast with a silk handkerchief, and then with a
tape, the knots of the latter being not only sealed in any way that
seems best to the audience, but the ends, which are left long, given to
some one to hold.

A screen is now placed between the audience and the boy in the sack, the
ends of the tape passing either over the top of the screen or through
holes in its side.

It would seem impossible for the person thus securely enveloped to get
out of the sack without cutting or untying the tape and handkerchief;
and yet, O mystery of mysteries! in a few seconds the screen is thrown
open, and the late occupant of the sack walks out, while the sack is
found still tied up, the knots not tampered with, and the seals
unbroken.

Surprising as this appears, there are needed but three requisites for
its successful accomplishment: first, an assistant upon whose secrecy
and faithfulness the young conjurer can rely, for he will require his
help in very many tricks; second, _two_ sacks, exactly alike, made of
very light material, so that they will fold into small compass; and
third, unlimited impudence, assurance, or whatever you may be pleased to
call it.

When about to exhibit the trick, the performer comes forward, holding a
silk handkerchief in one hand, and sack No. 1 in the other. The
assistant, who is to be tied up, has the duplicate, or sack No. 2,
concealed about him, say, inside his vest, or in some such suitable
place.

As soon as he gets fairly into No. 1, he whips out the duplicate, and
puts the mouth of it inside the mouth of No. 1. The exhibitor, who is
fumbling about as if to gather No. 1 over the assistant's head, seizes
No. 2, and drawing out about nine inches of it, at once wraps the silk
handkerchief over the two so as to cover the point where they meet.
This he does deliberately, as an appearance of haste would give rise to
suspicion among the audience. As it is now impossible for any one to
distinguish between the parts of the two sacks, the exhibitor turns to
his audience with the remark: "I have now tied up the mouth of the sack
in such a way as to make it next to impossible for the young man to get
out. But to make assurance doubly sure, I should like one of the
audience to tie it again; this time with a piece of tape." As he says
this, he produces the tape and ties it once around _the part between the
handkerchief and the mouth of No. 2_. The person selected from the
audience then draws the knots tight, seals them, and retains the ends of
the tape in his hand.

When the screen is placed in position--for home exhibition a
clothes-horse with a sheet over it makes an excellent substitute for a
screen--the assistant gently pulls on the mouth of No. 1, which is
readily drawn out from under the handkerchief, and steps out, leaving
the tape and handkerchief still closely wound around No. 2. It takes but
a second to fold up No. 1, conceal it, and then to walk out from behind
the screen to receive the applause of the audience.

This brief, but I trust clear, description can give but little idea of
the effect produced by this really surprising trick. I first saw it
exhibited by a performer calling himself Le Duc, at Stockholm, Sweden,
some twenty-five years ago, and at that time, though I knew considerable
about magic, I was completely mystified.




"THEIR GIRL."

A STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS.

BY JAMES OTIS,

AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," "TIM AND TIP," "MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER," ETC.


II.

Business, so far as Johnny and Jimmy were concerned, was almost entirely
neglected for two weeks after Katy was carried to the hospital. If they
sold any papers, it was only sufficient to pay Mother Brown for their
board, and nearly all their time was spent in remaining where they could
look at the gloomy walls of the building in which Katy yet remained.

Some of their friends in the newspaper business had attempted to make
sport of them for spending so much of their time simply looking at the
walls of a hospital; but the light in Johnny's eyes had warned them to
stop, and Jimmy had said, quietly, "We stay round here 'cause it would
make Katy feel good if she knew it."

Fully repaid for the long hours of watching by the knowledge that their
being there would please their friend if she could know it, the two
remained day after day, and far into each night, until the time came
when they were actually startled by the news that in another week, if
nothing happened to her, Katy would leave the hospital.

This good news came to them so suddenly that they were almost as
stupefied as they had been when the accident happened; but when they did
fully realize all the happiness contained in that announcement, they
gave vent to their joy in such extravagant antics that the old porter,
who chanced to see them, declared it to be his solemn belief that they
were "a couple of ijuts."

"Now what'll we do to show Katy how glad we are?" asked Johnny, when,
breathless from the severe exercise, they seated themselves on the
curb-stone to talk the matter over. "We've got to do somethin', you
know, an' what shall it be?"

Jimmy rubbed his chin vigorously, as if to call forth his most brilliant
ideas, and after an unusually long pause, replied, "I'll tell you jest
what we'll do: we'll scurry 'round an' get money enough to buy her one
of the stunnin'est dresses we can find, an' we'll carry it up to her the
day before she comes out."

It certainly seemed as if that idea was an inspiration, and Johnny was
so anxious to carry it into execution that he urged his friend along, on
the way down town to purchase a stock of papers, at the most furious
rate of speed.

They were not just certain how much money would be required to carry out
their plan, but when they had gotten together a fund of two dollars and
sixty cents, they were certain they could purchase almost any dress that
was displayed in the shop windows, and have enough left not only to buy
bracelets, but anything else in the jewelry line that they might chance
to fancy.

[Illustration: THE BOYS TRYING TO SELECT A DRESS FOR KATY.]

During one entire forenoon they went from one to another of the largest
stores in the city, peering in at the windows at the ready-made dresses
displayed, and not quite able to make up their minds which to choose.
The greater number of the garments appeared to be too large, while none
of them were quite bright enough in colors to suit them exactly.

"I'll tell you what it is," said Jimmy, after he had rubbed his chin
harder than usual in front of a delicate party dress of pink and white
silk with an enormous train, and had decided that it was not brilliant
enough in color to please them, "we'd better go to Bob Spratt's mother,
an' get her to come out with us to buy it. She'd know best what Katy'd
like."

"I'm afraid that's what we'll have to do," said Johnny, with a sigh,
fully convinced of the hopelessness of their succeeding unaided in their
task. "I don't see how folks get along that have to buy more'n one dress
a year; it must take 'em 'bout all their time pickin' 'em out."

"I s'pose they get kinder used to it, an' know jest what they want,"
said Jimmy, with an air of wisdom; and then, with just a shade of envy
toward those particularly fortunate people who know exactly what to
purchase, the newspaper merchant walked resolutely away from the
party-dress which he was convinced was not beautiful enough for Katy to
wear while selling pins on the street.

Mrs. Spratt was found, according to her way of expressing it, at her old
established place of business, on the corner of Vesey Street, where she
drove a flourishing trade in jackknives, candy, and other such necessary
articles.

Never before had either of them doubted Mrs. Spratt's wisdom and
superior judgment; but when she boldly declared that a silk dress could
not be purchased for two dollars and sixty cents, they began to have
suspicions that she was not the wise woman they had always believed her
to be. Those suspicions became a certainty when she added that even if
they could afford to buy such dresses as they had seen, they would not
be suitable for Katy to wear while plying her trade on the street.

It was not until after they had withdrawn to a convenient distance, and
there discussed the question of Mrs. Spratt's mental condition for fully
ten minutes, that they finally decided to ask her just what she thought
would be suitable for a dress for Katy, and within their means.

Even if Mrs. Spratt was not altogether right in her mind, and even if
she did have ridiculous ideas regarding color, she spoke just as if she
believed what she said when she told the boys that they could buy some
pretty, plain material, sufficient for a dress for Katy, for about a
dollar and a quarter, while with another dollar they could hire Mrs.
Isaacs to make it for them in the latest style.

Several more strictly private consultations between the partners were
necessary before they could make up their minds to trust to Mrs.
Spratt's taste and honesty in buying the dress, and then they placed the
entire matter in her hands, she generously offering to purchase the
goods that very afternoon, providing they would care for her stand while
she was away.

The boys had plenty of time in which to discuss the matter in all its
bearings while Mrs. Spratt was attending to the important business. It
was with deep sorrow that they admitted to each other that if the dress
was to cost two dollars and a quarter, it would be almost impossible
for them to buy any very large bracelets with the remaining thirty-five
cents.

It was a disappointment that caused Jimmy to rub his chin until it was
very red; but he bore up under the sorrow like a philosopher, his active
mind presenting another plan that seemed quite as brilliant as the
first.

"Johnny!" he cried, as he started up suddenly, at great danger of
overturning Mrs. Spratt's rather frail "old established place of
business."

"Wot?" asked Master Davis, moodily, for the impossibility of buying the
bracelets weighed heavily on his mind.

"Why can't we earn a little more money, an' the day Katy comes out of
the hospital, take her somewheres for a good time, jest like reg'lar
folks do?"

"Cricky!" exclaimed Johnny; and by that expressive word Jimmy knew that
he was impressed with the idea.

"I know a feller what carries 'round nuts an' candy on one of the Coney
Island boats, an' jest as likely as not he could fix it for us so we
could go down for half price. How Katy's eyes would stick out when she
got down there! Why, she'd jest roll over in the sand, she'd be so
tickled."

"Then good-by dress," said Johnny, feeling actually relieved that he had
been able to find some fault with Jimmy's plan, for he was almost
jealous of his partner's active brain.

"Well, of course I don't mean that she would really roll over if she had
the dress on," said Jimmy, quickly, conscious that he had colored his
picture a trifle too high, "but I mean she'd feel good enough to do it."

"When could we find that feller on the steamboat?" asked Johnny, anxious
to settle all the details of this very brilliant scheme at once.

"I guess we'd see him if we went down on the pier an' waited till his
boat come in."

"Then we'll go jest as soon as Mrs. Spratt comes back."

Johnny was not hindered very long by the absence of the owner of the
stand, for in a few moments afterward she returned, flushed and heated
by her unusual exertion, but wearing a triumphant look.

"I bought it," she said, as she tried unsuccessfully to fan herself with
one of her largest combs, "an' I thought I'd save time by carryin' it
right over to Mrs. Isaacs. But I brought a piece to show you what it is
like," she added, quickly, as she saw a look of disappointment come over
the boys' faces.

The goods was not exactly what they would have chosen, for it seemed
much too sober in color, and not "shiny enough," as Jimmy said; but it
was a soft, rather thin piece of blue material, which would make a very
becoming dress for "their girl."

"I got it for twelve cents a yard," said Mrs. Spratt, in a tone of
triumph, "an' I made the man throw in as much as ten inches extra, which
will give her a good dress pattern. Then I bought the buttons an' the
trimmings for twenty cents more, an' Mrs. Isaacs will find the thread,
an' make it for a dollar. It'll be as handsome a dress as you could get
anywhere for two dollars an' forty cents, an' a good deal better than
Katy ever had before."

Mrs. Isaacs had promised to have the garment ready the day before Katy
was to come from the hospital, and this most important business having
been attended to, the boys started out in search of their friend the
employé on the Coney Island boat.

The steamer which Ikey Moses graced with his presence and particularly
valuable services was not at the pier when the boys arrived there; but
what did two or three hours of waiting amount to when such an end was to
be gained? Absolutely nothing, so they thought, as they loitered around
the dock until, two hours later, the steamer arrived.

Ikey was on board, and in particularly good humor, having made twenty
cents extra that day on a private speculation in sassafras bark. And
being intrusted with his friends' secret, after he had solemnly crossed
his throat never to divulge it, he made of the question of getting
tickets at half price a very simple matter. In fact, he was quite
certain he could get tickets for nothing, and he promised to use all his
great influence in their behalf, providing they would pay him ten cents
in case he was successful.

As may be imagined, the boys readily agreed to do this, and Johnny even
generously promised that in case Ikey succeeded, they would give him all
their custom on the passage. This latter consideration was not a weighty
one with Master Moses, for, since his employer was the only one who had
eatables to sell on the boat, and since he was the only clerk, the boys
would be obliged to deal with him or go hungry.

All the details having thus been arranged, it only remained for the boys
to work industriously to procure the necessary funds.

Business was not remarkably good during the four days that intervened
before Katy's time in the hospital had expired; but they made enough to
pay Mother Brown for their board, and then have a cash capital of one
dollar on hand.

Ikey had succeeded in getting for them free passes, and they had paid
him the amount agreed upon. The dress had been finished, and on the
evening before Katy was to leave the hospital they carried it up to be
sent in to her, in order, as Jimmy said, "that they might jest knock her
eye out before she was stunned by the idea of the excursion."

"Tell her Jim an' John sent it in to her," said the latter, as he handed
the bundle to the porter, "an' that we want her to be all ready when we
come up here for her at nine o'clock to-morrow mornin'."

"That'll fix her," said Jimmy, triumphantly, as they left the hospital;
and during the remainder of that evening they enjoyed in anticipation
the royal time they were to have next day when they took "their girl" on
her first excursion.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




[Illustration]

  With gun upon his shoulder, Sir Beetle hunting goes,
  There is nothing in the larder, for a dreadful wind arose;
  It blew their cottage over, and the rain began to beat,
  They couldn't find their overshoes, or anything to eat.
  But Mrs. Beetle's thankful that after such a storm
  She has still a silk umbrella, and a fire to keep her warm.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

  Back from the forest we're bringing our sheaves--
  Armfuls of posies and bright Autumn leaves;
  Happy are we, though the chill wind may blow,
  The herald of Winter in garments of snow.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

  Oh, what a host of playmates has little Johnny Grey!
  He says that Puss and Rover know everything we say;
  And that the birds and squirrels always understand;
  So he's talking to the beetle that is crawling on his hand.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

  Mamma must work the long, long day,
  While I have lessons to learn and say;
  But Baby Blue Eyes, so bright and gay,
  Has nothing to do but laugh and play,
  Till the Sand Man works his wonderful charms,
  When he goes to sleep in somebody's arms.




[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]


Many of you will be very glad to hear again from Mrs. Richardson, whose
work among the poor people at Lincolnton has interested you very much.
For the information of new subscribers we will state that this lady has,
for several years, been trying to make the lives of the colored people
around her brighter and happier.

She began by teaching the children of Uncle Pete, her faithful friend
and servant, and once her slave. At present she is giving religious and
other instruction to a great many children and young people, and through
her self-denying efforts a little chapel has been built, where they
worship on Sundays.

The little readers of YOUNG PEOPLE have assisted Mrs. Richardson by
sending books, toys, and cast-off clothing to her for the use of her
protégées:

  WOODSIDE (NEAR LINCOLNTON), NORTH CAROLINA.

     MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS,--I have not written to you very often
     lately. The Post-office Box is always so full of interesting
     letters that I felt that it would be an imposition in me to take up
     space in it very often. Then, too, there has been nothing very
     interesting to tell you. The chapel is up (not yet finished, but
     covered), the floor laid, windows in (they look so pretty!), and
     the pews made; we can use it, though the door and a good deal of
     work is yet to be done. The chapel stands in a grove of pines and
     weeping-oaks. The branches of these oaks droop almost to the
     ground, and are very graceful and pretty, besides making delightful
     horses for the children to ride. You all, I guess, know just how
     far to creep up the limb, and then spring to make it go, and ride
     delightfully among the branches.

     I know you will be glad to know that the school has gone on
     regularly and well since it first began. The scholars have all
     improved very much; those who were learning their letters last
     summer are now using Second Readers. A great number of them are
     reading in the Testament--very poor reading in many cases, spelling
     many words, but still we find, with the explanations we give them
     as we go on, that going through the Gospels they understand a great
     deal of it. We feel that it must do them good. When they came they
     did not know anything of prayer; only three knew "Now I lay me."
     Now they all know that and the Lord's Prayer, almost all the Creed,
     and the Ten Commandments.

     Did I write you--no, I know I have not, for it was only a few weeks
     ago--that some kind, very kind, persons sent me an organ? I wish
     they could know and see the pleasure it gives us all. The scholars
     seem so delighted to sing that last Sunday we let them try chanting
     a psalm we had been reading, and they learned it very quickly. Then
     we tried the Creed and the Lord's Prayer to a tune in the choral
     service; that they did beautifully, all of them, even the tiny
     children, and all of them (over sixty) singing as with one voice,
     they naturally made a swell on the Amen that was truly beautiful.
     They were so happy singing these things over and over with the
     hymns they know, saying always, "Please, ma'am, one time more!"
     "Abide with me" they sing very well. "Jerusalem the Golden" is a
     great favorite too. When we thought we must stop, they begged so
     just to sing everything over once more that we did it, and found
     when we came home that we had been three hours at Sunday-school and
     singing. Two boys, or men, carry the little organ up there, and
     back again when we are done. We hope to have the door and lock this
     week.

     I would like very much to have a few primers, and also some readers
     and copy-books and pencils; there are many of them so anxious to
     learn to write. A few slates were sent--most of them broken a good
     deal in coming--but their copies and writing get rubbed out, so
     they do not get on very well with them.

     Oh, I do so wish you could be here and see how happy they are in
     Sunday-school, and in the singing after! My husband says they won't
     be any happier in paradise than they were last Sunday afternoon.
     Their black faces were filled with ecstasy, and we were almost as
     happy, seeing them so delighted. There are three children to be
     baptized next Sunday, when we will have service and a sermon after
     Sunday-school.

     I find they are counting the weeks already to Christmas. There are
     some little ones and babies the mothers have to bring, so we shall
     have to give them something. Presents for seventy! We will do all
     we can, but can not make a tree for so many unless we have help.
     Remember, in sending, that things you would not care for will
     delight them. Clothes you would think worn out will please them,
     and make them warm and comfortable; ribbons, etc., too much soiled
     for you to use will please them as well as new; shawls, no matter
     if old and faded, anything warm, will be of great service; quilt
     patches, needles, and thread--in fact, anything and everything will
     be of use in making a tree for them. They all are very, very fond
     of candy.

     One lady will give me some paper to help make cornucopias; that is
     all the help I know of yet for Christmas. Christmas is yet a long
     time off to you young people, but when one grows older the weeks
     just fly away, and Christmas always comes before we get ready for
     it. We are going to begin the 1st of November practicing the carols
     for Christmas, and hope they will all have as happy a day as they
     did last year.

     With a heart full of love to you all for the help you have so
     kindly given me before, and hoping, as the years roll on, I may see
     some of your dear faces, I am, now and always, gratefully and truly
     your friend,

  MRS. RICHARDSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  What does the brook say, flashing its feet
    Under the lilies' blue brimming bowls,
  Brightening the shades with its tender song,
    Cheering all drooping and sorrowful souls?
  It says not, "Be merry," but deep in the wood
  Rings back, "Little maiden, be good, be good."

  What does the wind say, pushing slow sails
    Over the great troubled path of the sea;
  Whirling the mill on the breezy height,
    Shaking the fruit from the orchard tree?
  It breathes not "Be happy," but sings loud and long,
  "O bright little maiden, be strong, be strong."

  What says the river, gliding along
    To its home on far-off Ocean's breast;
  Fretted by rushes, hindered by bars,
    Ever weary, but singing of rest?
  It says not, "Be bright," but in whisperings grave,
  "Dear little maiden, be patient, be brave."

  What do the stars say, keeping their watch
    Over the slumbers the long lone night,
  Never closing their bonnie bright eyes,
    Though great storms blind them, and tempests fright?
  They say not, "Be splendid," but write on the blue,
  In clear silver letters, "Maiden, be true."

       *       *       *       *       *

What a rainy time we have had, to be sure, children! I thought about my
little correspondents as the floods fell day after day, and I wondered
how those who have long, long walks to school contrived to get there
when the bridges were down, and the great trees were torn up by the
roots, and the paths, usually dry, were all covered with water.

Some years ago a friend of mine, waking up one morning, was saluted by
her cook with the news that the kitchen floor was so wet that she could
not prepare the breakfast. The water came over the poor woman's rubber
shoes. My friend thought she could manage to boil a cup of coffee and
make toast by the fire in the parlor; but later in the day Joe and
Frank, her sons, found it great fun to march about the wet kitchen on
stilts. They made the fire in the range, and, under Mary's directions,
produced omelet, broiled steak, and other things, so that the family did
not starve during the rainy day.

If any of you have met with adventures during the freshet, I shall
expect to hear all about them.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LINCOLN, NEBRASKA.

     School begins next week, and I would like to tell you about my
     first vacation. In June I went to Indiana to visit my cousins. When
     I came home I crossed the Mississippi and Missouri rivers for the
     fourteenth time. In two weeks papa and mamma and I started for
     Denver. We left Lincoln at noon, and the next morning I saw the
     mountains for the first time. How strange to see snow in July! We
     spent a few days in Denver, and then such a wild ride as we had
     through the mountains to Georgetown, where I can't tell you half of
     the fun I had. I fed the fish, and had a lovely row on Green Lake.
     I went one-third of a mile into the Colorado Mine in a little car,
     then down a shaft 250 feet, in a bucket with a miner, to see the
     men at work; but I did not buy a mine like the other little
     "tenderfoot" I read about in HARPER'S. But it was the most fun to
     ride on a burro. There were ten children and seven burros, and we
     had a fine ride on the mountain, and then had our pictures taken.
     The cutest picture was a burro with four children on his back.

     We went to Central over a queer railroad that runs almost up to the
     town at the foot of the mountain, then makes a loop and runs back a
     mile on the side of the mountain over the tops of the houses, then
     turns again and runs into the town--oh, ever so high up! And we
     went to the Bobtail Mine, and into the mill where they crush the
     ore and wash the gold out of it. It was very interesting. I had a
     nice play with a little new friend, Ethel S., whose papa owns lots
     of mines.

     And now I must tell you about our going up Pike's Peak. We left
     Manitou at seven in the morning on horses, and such a wild,
     beautiful ride I never had before. We had to go on a narrow path
     just wide enough for a horse to go, very carefully winding around
     the mountain-side, and we could hardly ever see to the top, and not
     to the bottom, it was so far down. The bright little creek that
     came splashing down through the rocks made the sweetest music that
     mamma ever heard. The flowers, too, were very bright. When we were
     near the top, papa let me pass him, and I was the first to get
     there. Then we had coffee made from the snow-bank near the house.
     But the going down! So tired we were, we were fit to fall.

     And now I am too tired to tell you about the Garden of the Gods,
     the Cave of the Winds, and the Denver Exposition. I am eight years
     old.

  JOY W.

     P. S.--It is twelve miles to the top of Pike's Peak.

I really felt, little Joy, as I read your letter, that some time or
other I too must climb those great mountains, and venture into those
mines, and maybe even ride on a burro, as, you did. But very likely the
burro would not care about carrying even a lady like me, unless,
perhaps, I could find the little fellow that had four on his back at
once. And what would become of the Post-office Box while I was climbing
the steep mountains? For the present I suppose I must be content to view
the snow-clad peaks through your bright eyes. Thanks, dear child, for
the lovely pressed flowers so prettily arranged.

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW KID GLOVES ARE MADE.

     "Oh, mamma, see how it is raining!" said little Lottie; "and it
     looks so dark, too, all around, that I fear it will keep on all the
     afternoon."

     "And then we can't go for the new kid gloves you promised us,"
     chimed in Helen. "Won't that be too bad?"

     And the two little sisters--Helen, eleven years of age, and Lottie,
     nine--were quite disposed to pout and feel very ill-humored at the
     prospect of a rainy Saturday afternoon, and the consequent
     postponement of their anticipated walk for the purpose of
     purchasing two pairs of new kid gloves.

     Mamma smiled at them. "Now, little folks, although you take so much
     pleasure in having and wearing kid gloves, I am sure you do not
     often think how many nice and careful operations these gloves have
     to go through, and how many hands are employed in their
     manufacture, before they can be put in the stores for sale. If you
     will sit down contentedly by me, with your cork-work or knitting, I
     will tell you, while I sew, much that is interesting about kid
     gloves, so that we can make this disappointment of a rainy
     afternoon as instructive and profitable as possible.

     "Well, to begin, then, the materials used in making a kid glove are
     either the skins of kids from six weeks to three months old, or the
     skins of the little lambs of about the same age; but those of the
     kid make the finest glove, while for a cheaper and of course poorer
     article the skins of sheep even quite full grown are used. The
     first thing to be done with the skins freshly stripped from the
     animal is called 'towing'--to get the hair or wool off; the best
     and easiest way is to put the skins in a mixture of lime-water,
     very strong, where they must remain for some time, after which they
     are taken out and placed in running water, to remove all the lime,
     and then with a blunt kind of scraper the hair is carefully
     removed. This last process has to be repeated two or three times,
     until every hair, and every particle of flesh which may stick to
     the fleshy side of the skin, is removed. Then the skins are placed
     in a mixture (or the 'pudding,' as it is sometimes called) of yolks
     of fresh eggs, well beaten, with fine white flour, alum, salt, and
     carefully filtered water, and are left in this compound for some
     weeks, or about thirty or forty days, until they absorb or take up
     as much of this mixture as they can contain. When the skins are
     taken from this bath they are white and very elastic and soft, and
     are now ready for the dyer.

     "The dyeing of kid gloves requires very skillful workers, and a
     very fine eye for the making of all the different and varied shades
     of color. The coloring matter is put on each and every skin
     separately with a brush, each needing from one to four applications
     of the dye, according to the shade desired. But the light or
     so-called evening gloves do not need quite so much care, as
     frequently two hundred or more skins can be put into the vat of
     dye, which will soak through every particle of the skin. Then they
     are well dried in a large room or space, where the heat must be at
     least 180 degrees of our ordinary thermometer.

     "And now the cutter begins his task of cutting the skins into
     square pieces of a certain size, which must be done very carefully,
     as all gloves have to be cut with the grain of the skin, to run
     from the head downward, and a great deal of the skin would, of
     course, be wasted if any but very skillful hands were employed. One
     fine skin will generally cut about three or four gloves, according
     to the size required, and often large sheep-skins turn out nine or
     ten gloves, but of a much poorer quality. After the squares are cut
     they are put up in packages of from six to twelve pairs of gloves,
     and by the use of a sharp punch and a very heavy press are cut out
     in all the different-shaped pieces required for the entire glove,
     usually from about twenty to twenty-three pieces. Then comes the
     sewing, which for all the best gloves is done entirely by hand, and
     requires the best of needlewomen, as over six thousand stitches are
     needed to sew a pair of ordinary-sized ladies' gloves.

     "Within a short time a machine has been put in use for sewing
     gloves, but even with this, which can only be used satisfactorily
     on low-grade gloves, not over a dozen pairs can be sewed in a day.
     Then putting on the buttons or hooks, dressing, and packing or
     assorting in numbers, colors, and sizes, passes the gloves through
     many more hands, until at last, after careful inspection of a
     skilled foreman, they are placed on sale, and forwarded to their
     many destinations."

     "Thank you, dear mamma, thank you," cried both the children in a
     breath. "But where does all this take place?"

     "Principally," answered mamma, "in France, Germany, and Italy,
     although some nice but heavy gloves come also from England; and
     here in our own country we are now beginning to manufacture some
     gloves which compare quite well with the imported, and as we in
     America generally succeed in all our undertakings, I think we shall
     soon be able to make first-class kid gloves."

  M. E. M.

       *       *       *       *       *

The two following letters are from a little sister and brother,
Americans, who are studying music and French in beautiful Paris:

  PARIS, FRANCE.

     We are always so glad to get HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. Papa sends it
     to my largest brother. I have a little brother with long curls.
     Sometimes he is taken for a girl, but he don't mind it. We have a
     picture of Mozart with long curls. We have five canaries. We had
     more, but sent three to papa, and we all sent a kiss by them to
     papa. They were so tame they would eat sugar out of my mouth. I
     have a big dollie; I call her Daisy; she is very lovely, and can
     put her arm around my neck. We go to school here in Paris, and like
     it very much, but not so much as I liked my school in Germany. I
     wore the blue ribbon for six months last session in school for
     getting the highest mark in music. We have vacation now. My large
     brother got a prize in drawing. He liked the piece in HARPER'S
     YOUNG PEOPLE about Michael Angelo. We go out in the country with
     him sometimes when he goes to paint, and we play while he is
     sketching. We went to St. Cloud a few days ago, and had a nice
     time. We go to Park Monceaux nearly every day with the girl and
     play, but it is not so nice as in the country. I like to read the
     letters written by the little girls that live in the country. I can
     not write a very good English letter, but I hope you will print it.
     I can write French, and some German. I am coming back to America
     next year, and will be glad to go to school again, but I suppose I
     will have to study very hard. My cousin Blanche went home to
     America last month in the big steamer _Servia_.

  ANNIE L. D.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PARIS, FRANCE.

     I send you a little Wiggle picture. I like the story of "Mr.
     Stubbs's Brother" very much. My little mother bird died after she
     had laid a little nest full of eggs three times, but only six of
     the little birdies lived. We buried our little birdie in Park
     Monceaux. I think she died because she was sorry we sent her three
     little birdies to papa. When my school closed I got a prize in
     arithmetic and conduct; it was a nice story-book. My sister read it
     to me. She can read French better than I, but I understand all the
     little story. I have a little violin, but I can't play much yet. I
     am tired now, as I have written a letter to my big brother to-day.

  ROBBIE LEE D.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BUFFALO, NEW YORK.

     I am a little boy four years old. My name is Clifford, but when any
     one calls me, they say Chippy. I have two brothers and a sister
     Bessie. We have a mamma kitty that is ours, and she has a family of
     six kittycats. She takes five of them away every evening, and
     leaves one there. We don't know where she goes to, but she comes
     back to get ready to go again. She pays no attention to the one she
     leaves. We are all good little boys, I and my brothers; never play
     in the dirt to get ourselves dirty, and yet we are never clean. We
     try awfully hard. Do you know why? We play circus in the barn.
     There are no horses there. We jump over the barrels and in the
     barrels, pull on a long rope, and do lots of tricks. Our grandma
     made us a clown's suit. She took white cloth, and cut out big
     flowers and animals out of some more cloth, then took some flour
     and water and pasted and sewed them all on the white cloth. It
     covers us over; and we have a big cap just like it. We have a
     circus, when the people will come; the people are Clinton and Emma
     and Winnie. My mamma sent me to Sunday-school to-day, but I did not
     get my Golden Text. All the other children said theirs, but I know
     a nice one that my auntie sent me in a little letter, "Little
     children, love one another." I like to say that every time; then I
     don't have to learn another. Please hurry up and put this into a
     little paper, so I can see how it looks. My mamma is writing this
     for me; but I can write, but nobody can read it, so I guess you
     couldn't, for I make little lines all over, and then put little
     round marks all over. I knew you wanted to hear from me, because I
     wanted to write to you; and mamma reads the little letters to me
     out of your nice paper every Sunday afternoon.

  CHIPPY H.

I know another little man about your age whose name is Clifford, and
what do you think they call him? Tupper. He gave himself this name when
he was learning to talk. Chippy is a very pretty pet name for a boy. I
would like to go to your circus, but, dear, if I were your Sunday-school
teacher, I think I would coax such a big and clever boy as you to learn
the Golden Text every week. Don't you think you can do so if you try?

       *       *       *       *       *

A dear child who lives in Titusville, Pennsylvania, incloses a verse
which she made up herself about her dog Bruno. Here it is:

  One Sunday morn the sky was blue,
  August the first, in Eighty-two,
  A little dog, both round and fat,
  Was brought to us, small as a rat.
  Old mother Gyp, so proud and wise,
  Smiled upon it with loving eyes.
  The dog is mine; I named it Bruno;
  But mother said to name it Uno.
  I said, "Oh no," and got my ball.
  The dog is mine; and that is all.

  MINNIE J. B.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here is another bit of rhyme from a little girl whose home is in
Berryville, but who forgot to tell her State. Her verse is so droll that
we will excuse her for that, however:

  Johnny Gray went astray;
  It was on a summer's day;
  He went so far, he met a car.
  And in it was his own papa.
  Papa jumped out, and John did pout,
  Because he wished to go for trout.
  This is the end, you may depend,
  Of Johnny Gray, who went astray
  Upon a lovely summer's day.

  LIZZIE S. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

  WESTPORT, CALIFORNIA.

     I have not written in a long time, because I wrote you two letters
     once before, and did not see either of them in the Post-office Box,
     and I thought I would wait a good while, and then perhaps you would
     have room for me. I like all the little letters so much! Especially
     I like to hear of all the pets each one has. It seems that I have
     had bad luck with all my pets. I had a pretty pony (her name was
     Daisy), and papa had me a nice saddle made to order in San
     Francisco, and I was very fond of horseback riding; but one night
     my dear Daisy was taken out of the field and stolen, and I never
     expect to see her more. The next pet I had was a pretty
     canary-bird, a present from my brother, with a new cage. I named
     him Dicky. One morning I was cleaning the cage, and he flew away
     just as I was putting the top on it. Oh, how badly I felt! But one
     of my school-mates caught me a wild bird, and I had it in the cage
     for some time; but it did not sing, and so I let it go.

     I have no playmates near me, and I am often very lonesome. How I
     should enjoy playing with the dear little girls who write to you! I
     have one brother older than I am; he is away at school. It is
     called the Boys' Home School, in San Mateo, twenty miles from San
     Francisco. My brother is twelve years of age, and reads in the
     Fifth Reader. I am nine, and read in the Fourth Reader. I am
     piecing up a bed quilt for my bed, and hope to finish it before I
     am ten years old, which will be in January. The name of it is
     Lincoln's Platform.

  ETTA M.

       *       *       *       *       *

  SOUTH HAVEN, MICHIGAN.

     I wrote a letter to YOUNG PEOPLE some time ago, and it wasn't
     printed, so I thought I would try again. I go to school now, and
     study reading, writing, grammar, arithmetic, geography, and
     spelling! I picked raspberries for papa this summer for two cents a
     quart, and blackberries for one and a half cents a quart, and got
     two dollars and ninety-two cents for all. We live on the bank of
     Lake Michigan. My two cousins from Iowa are here now; they are the
     only cousins I have. We have had a nice time. We make houses on the
     beach in the sand, and go in bathing. We had four cats, and
     yesterday morning we found one of them dead. My sister felt very
     badly about it; she cried like everything. We think the kitten had
     fits. I like the story of the "Cruise of the Canoe Club."

  MYRTA R.

You were a very industrious girl to earn so much money. It was a great
pity about the poor kitty. You see that Etta M., like yourself, has
written before, and has had to wait a good while before finding her
niche in the Post-office Box.

No little letter-writer must feel discouraged at delay in the
publication of a letter. Even if we can not print a letter, we are glad
to read it, and many loving thoughts are sent away to dear boys and
girls whose words are read only by the Post-mistress.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MORRISTOWN, NEW JERSEY.

     I have taken your nice paper since the first number, and have never
     written to you yet. I rode on the locomotive of an express train
     for the first time the other day. It was splendid, but I got shaken
     up a good deal. I sat three seats ahead of President Garfield in
     church at Long Branch the Sunday before he was shot. He looked like
     such a good man it was a shame he was shot. There is an old house
     here which General Washington had as his head-quarters during the
     winter of 1780-81. I have been through it a great many times, and
     my father (who is a clergyman) showed me the room which an old lady
     parishioner of his, who has been dead over twenty years, had when
     General Washington was occupying the house. She was his
     housekeeper, and papa was told about his life here. I would like to
     have known her; would not you? I am afraid my letter is too long.

  ALEXANDER R.

I have been in Washington's Head-quarters at Morristown, and felt, when
there, how much we owe as a nation to that great and good man, "first in
war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen."

       *       *       *       *       *

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

THREE DIAMONDS--(_To Count No Account_).

1.--1. A consonant. 2. A large cask. 3. Purport. 4. An insane person. 5.
Celebrated. 6. Freed. 7. A letter.

  EUREKA.

2.--1. A letter. 2. Pulp. 3. Furnished with panes. 4. A porter. 5.
Small. 6. A point. 7. A letter.

  JUNEBUG.

3.--1. A letter. 2. To bite. 3. One of the African race. 4. Penurious.
5. To chatter. 6. Mineral in the crude state. 7. A letter.

  JUNEBUG.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.

THREE EASY WORD SQUARES (_To Christine and Gretchen_).

  1.--1. More than one. 2. Married. 3. A poem.
  2.--1. Not old. 2. A sheep. 3. A protuberance.
  3.--1. A covering. 2. Fear. 3. A number.

  WALTER P. K.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

  I am composed of 8 letters.
  My 3, 4, 5, is a creature without a friend.
  My 5, 2, 7 is a favorite game with boys and girls.
  My 3, 8, 7, 1 is made into paper.
  My 7, 6, 2, 5 knows how to climb.
  My whole is a famous watering-place.

  CHARLES DE G.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 151.

No. 1.

Sphynx.

No. 2.

        P
      P A
    P A N
  P A N T

No. 3.

Edisto. Gila. Neuse. Yazoo. Rhone. Don. Racket. Po. Orange. Duna. Lena.
Obi. Mobile. Amos. Dwina. Loire. Thames. Pitchora. Tiber. Indus.
Madeira. Pearl. Ural. Nile. Flint. Elbe. Intysh.


No. 4.

Hot, rope, lot, pot, port, hope, trip, leper, hop. Heliotrope.

       *       *       *       *       *

Answer to Bishop of Oxford's Puzzle--1. Eyelids. 2. Knee-caps. 3. Drums
(of the ears). 4. Feet. 5. Nails. 6. Soles (of the feet). 7. Mussels
(muscles). 8. Palms. 9. Tulips (two lips). 10. Ears (of corn). 11.
Calves. 12. Hairs (hares). 13. Hart (heart). 14. Lashes. 15. Arms. 16.
Vanes (veins). 17. In(n)step. 18. Ayes and Noes (eyes and nose). 19. Two
pupils and ten dons. 20. Chest. 21. Temples. 22. Gum. 23. Iris (the
rainbow). 24. Crown. 25. Palette (palate). 26. Scull (skull). 27.
Bridge. 28. Shoulder-blades. 29. Teeth (of a saw). 30. Elbows. 31.
Locks.

       *       *       *       *       *

The answer to the Great Peach Puzzle on page 752 of No. 151 is as
follows: The morning rate was 7 peaches for 1 cent; the afternoon, 3
cents for 1 peach: each boy received 10 cents. Jack sold 7 peaches for 1
cent and 3 peaches at 3 cents each--10 cents; Tom sold 28 peaches at 7
for 1 cent and 2 peaches at 3 cents each--10 cents; Ned sold 49 peaches
at 7 for 1 cent and 1 peach at 3 cents--10 cents.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Walter P. Knight,
Harry Johnston, Effie May, Edith Ames, John Jackson, Elsie Hopgood,
Charles Mark Ellis, "Junebug," Jessie P. and Mamie Hull, M. W. A.,
Hammond Tubman, Tiny Rhodes, Bertie Walters, Susan Chase, William Van
Duser, Oliver Thompson, Benny Close, Frederick Lansing, Andrew Ward,
"Fuss and Feathers," Alice Fleming, Amy Leslie, "Fanchon," "Little
Buttercup," "Eureka," Flo Hanington, May Hanington, Grace P. Ford, Robin
Dyke, A. L. Taylor, and Alonzo L. Gibbs.

       *       *       *       *       *

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




[Illustration: "I WONDER IF THE BLOOD WILL RUN?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GAME OF HISTORIC CHARACTERS.

BY C. W. FISHER.

The game known by the above title is somewhat uncommon, and has afforded
so much enjoyment to children of an older growth that it can not fail to
entertain our young friends.

It is a round-table game, and may be played by any number of persons. A
watch, slate, and pencil are all the materials required.

One of the players, who is called the leader, selects the name of some
historical personage, and writes upon the slate several of the letters
forming it, in the order in which they occur.

The slate is then passed to the next player, who is allowed two minutes
to form some idea of the name chosen, and to write a single letter
either before or after those already upon the slate. If the letter so
added be the right one, the leader announces it correct, and the slate
is passed to No. 3. If, on the contrary, it is wrong, he calls it a
miss, passing the slate, as before, to the following player, but at the
same time placing to No. 2's credit, or rather discredit, in his score,
a mark to indicate the failure.

No. 3, who has had the advantage of studying the word during No. 2's
allotted time, now takes his turn, scoring or missing, as the case may
be; and so on around the table, only the misses being marked.

The leader is of course the judge of the correctness of the additions,
and must act as time-keeper and scorer as well. Capitals are never used,
and the period with which the word ends is regarded as a letter, with
the difference, however, that all subsequent additions must be prefixed.

Suppose, for example, that the leader, having in his mind Sir Walter
Raleigh, writes upon his slate the letters _eig_. No. 2, at the end of
his time, finds no clew to the word, takes a miss, and No. 3 tries his
hand. A happy thought strikes him: he adds an _l_, which is pronounced
correct; and No. 4 finds himself confronted with _leig_, and with a
thought perhaps of Lord Burleigh, boldly prefixes an _r_. His brilliancy
is rewarded with a demerit mark, and so the game goes on, until, when
the letters have grown to _aleigh_, the period is added, and almost any
one can easily guess the rest. The game is won by the player who at the
end of the sitting has the cleanest score. When one word has been
discovered, the second player becomes the leader, and after him the
others in turn.

No letters should be added at random even should they prove correct, and
any player having reason to suspect that this has been done may demand
the word of the person preceding him. If the latter can give any
historic name in which the letters occur as then written upon the slate,
even if it is not the leader's word, the person so calling is counted a
miss, and the player giving the name chooses anew. If, on the other
hand, he fail to do so, the miss is scored against his account, and the
game proceeds as before.

As it frequently happens that the same series of letters is to be found
in several or many words, one is very apt to get off the track, and the
results are confusing and amusing. The want of capitals also makes even
a completed word look so strange that all of a party have been
confounded by it until the leader, in his turn, added the lacking
period, and the disgust of his companions may be easily imagined. The
game may be pleasantly varied by using noted names in poetry or fiction,
authors, and the like, but it is well to confine it, during one sitting
at least, to a particular class.

All disputes--and there will be many--as to whether a name can properly
be called historical or not, and similar questions, must be decided by a
majority of the players.

The game gives excellent opportunity for the exercise of observation and
quickness, and leads to discussions and researches which prove as
instructive as they are entertaining.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

GREEDY JERRY.


  "Chowder? Why, bless your kindly heart, there's nothing so delicious;
  'Twould keep the very wildest cat from being cross or vicious.
  Of all things you could offer us at morning, noon, or night, ma'am,
  There isn't any other dish would give us such delight, ma'am."
  Thus to his mistress Tom did speak, then raised his sweet voice louder:
  "Jerry, you most ungrateful cat, come thank the dame for chowder."

  But greedy Jerry, full of glee, would never mind his brother;
  He sucked his spoon, and danced about on one foot and the other;
  He grinned and gasped and giggled out, and couldn't wait a minute,
  He wanted so to seize the dish, and get at what was in it;
  Which made his brother rage and rave, while, better bred and prouder,
  He bowed and scraped, and blandly smiled, and thanked the dame for
      chowder.

  Alas for evil-doers all, on two feet or on four feet,
  Or even if, like centipedes, they've twice as many more feet!
  No sooner were they left alone than, without judge or jury,
  Tom flew at greedy Jerry's throat, and beat him like a fury.
  Then, while the blows and caterwauls came ringing loud and louder,
  Oh, didn't greedy Jerry wish he'd thanked the dame for chowder!

  M. E. B.





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, October 10, 1882, by Various