Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

       *       *       *       *       *

VOL. III.--NO. 155. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, October 17, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

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[Illustration: UNDER WAY FOR CONEY ISLAND.]

"THEIR GIRL."

A STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS.

BY JAMES OTIS,

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


III.

The morning on which the famous excursion was to be made dawned as
bright and clear as the most exacting boy could have wished, and Johnny
and Jimmy were in the best possible spirits.

The boat on which they were to start was to leave the pier at ten
o'clock, and as early as six they had concluded the most elaborate of
toilets. They were dressed so much that the effort to move about in such
a manner as not to destroy their general elegance really cost them no
little pain.

Johnny had been up some time before it was light, making such a racket
as he moved about the house, bent on getting this thing or that which
would add to his general appearance, that Mother Brown had jumped out of
bed twice in the greatest alarm, believing burglars were in the house.
He had not only made his own toilet, but he had aided Jimmy in his,
until both were in such a state of gorgeousness that they almost feared
to walk through the streets because of the excitement they might cause.

The night previous Johnny had invested five cents in butter, greatly to
the mystification of Jimmy, and when the work of dressing began, he
brought it forward triumphantly, bestowing such liberal quantities upon
his own head and Jimmy's that each particular hair lay down so flat that
the most furious gust of wind could not have disturbed it. It was fully
half an hour before Johnny, with the aid of an old shoe-brush, could
arrange this portion of the toilet to please him; but it was
accomplished at last, and the remainder of the work begun.

During the first week of the summer Jimmy had taken the place, for one
day, of a friend who sold papers on the Harlem Railroad, and in order
that he might improve his personal appearance somewhat had purchased a
paper collar. Of course he had worn it until it was so thoroughly soiled
that it would have been difficult to have said what its original color
was.

This Johnny used for a pattern, and from a piece of white paper had made
two collars, which had the merit of being clean, even if they did not
fit as well as they might have done. They were rather high in the back
and low in front, with a decided tendency to wrinkle; but those little
defects Johnny was certain would not be noticed in the general beauty of
the whole.

Jimmy's coat, which he had borrowed from Tom Dowling for this special
occasion, had originally been brown, trimmed with fur, and many sizes
too large for him. In the years that had passed since it was new it had
not grown smaller, but the color had departed from it, and what had once
been fur now looked like strips of very poor leather. But Jimmy was
perfectly satisfied with it, since it was large enough to enable him to
conceal the lack of vest, and short enough to leave fully three inches
of his linen trousers exposed to view.

He wore a felt hat with an abundance of brim and a sad deficiency of
crown, while his neck-tie was a modest and unassuming one, with
alternate red and yellow stripes about an inch wide. With the exception,
perhaps, of his coat, it was in his shoes that he took the greatest
pride. It is true that there were several holes in them, but he had
blackened them and his feet so skillfully that an ordinarily careless
glance would have failed to show that they were other than whole.

While Jimmy believed that he looked thoroughly genteel, he freely
admitted that Johnny would have carried away the prize for fashionable
attire had any been offered. Not because his clothes were any more
expensive than were his partner's, but because it might be said they
were more seasonable.

Johnny was clothed entirely in brown linen. Mother Brown had on hand a
suit belonging to her son, who had inadvertently left it at home when he
ran away to sea, and this she sold to Johnny for thirty cents, to be
paid in ten weekly installments.

Young Brown must have been very tall, or else his clothes had been made
in expectation of his growing very rapidly, for the coat, in its
original condition, nearly dragged on the ground when Johnny tried it
on. Mrs. Brown had remedied this defect, however, by making a fold about
five inches wide across the entire garment, which both the boys thought
a great improvement. The trousers had simply been cut off at the bottom,
so that they were a good fit so far as length was concerned, and it was
very little trouble to fold them in around the waist.

Mrs. Brown, without extra charge, had starched the garments very stiff,
so that they would stand out boldly without betraying the fact that the
wearer did not occupy all the space in them he might have done had he
been about twice as large as he was. When Johnny had the clothes on,
with a brilliant green neck-tie to enhance the effect, it must have been
a prejudiced party who would not have admitted that it was a striking
costume. His shoes were not blackened quite as brilliantly as were his
partner's, but the reason for this apparent neglect was that, not having
as many holes in them as Jimmy's had, there was no reason for quite so
high a polish.

As they had anticipated, they did attract considerable attention as they
walked into the City Hall Park, with so much time at their disposal that
they were not obliged to hurry in order to keep their engagement. Even
the men looked at them with no slight degree of interest, while the boys
proved their admiration by greeting them with all kinds of criticism,
some less complimentary than others. Some of the boys Johnny spoke with
kindly, as if to show that even if he was magnificent, he was not proud;
but others he paid no attention to whatever, giving as a reason to Jimmy
that when they were dressed as they were he thought that some
distinction should be made by them between the reputable newspaper
merchants and those whose credit had been impaired by their own
misdeeds.

Very many of their acquaintances in business knew about "their girl,"
and also knew of the accident she had met with, therefore they readily
understood by the display of costumes that Katy was to be released from
the hospital. Nearly all of them sent some message of congratulation to
the black-pin girl that her recovery was complete, and one even offered
to loan the boys ten cents, without other security than their word, if
they were going to take "their girl" out for a good time.

Jimmy would have accepted this offer eagerly, for their funds were so
limited that even the slightest addition would have been welcome; but
Johnny prevented him at once by saying to the would-be lender:

"We're much obliged to yer, Jack, and we'll do the same for you some
time; but yer see we couldn't think of takin' Katy out on borrowed
money, for she wouldn't have as good a time if she knew it."

Then the boys walked directly to the hospital, arriving there some time
before eight o'clock, and for more than an hour were they obliged to
wait in the street, suffering greatly from the heat and their fear lest
they should disarrange their carefully made toilets.

It seemed as if Katy must have been as impatient for the meeting as they
were, for just at nine o'clock she came out of the hospital gates,
looking pale and worn, but as happy as she ever was in her life. She had
on the new dress, and even though it was not made in the latest fashion,
nor of the richest materials, the boys were very much surprised by the
improvement in her appearance.

"You look like a reg'lar swell!" exclaimed Johnny, approvingly, and then
he turned slowly around in front of her, that she might see and admire
him.

"I hain't sure but the dress looks jest as well as if it was red," said
Jimmy, too much "dressed up" even to rub his chin, and then he too began
to revolve for Katy's benefit. For some moments it was truly a mutual
admiration society of three members.

Then after they had sufficiently complimented each other, and after Katy
had vainly tried to thank the boys for their kindness, Johnny announced
the programme for the day, explaining that the excursion was necessary
as a means of showing their thankfulness for the recovery of "their
girl."

"We're goin' to be reg'lar folks, ain't we?" cried Katy, when, to her
great pleasure, the boys led the way to the nearest elevated railroad
station, thus giving her the opportunity of having such a ride as she
had long desired.

"I guess you'll think so before we get back," replied Johnny, decidedly;
and when he paid thirty cents for the ride, thereby diminishing their
funds sadly, he looked at Katy in a satisfied way, happy at being able
to give her so much pleasure.

At the steamboat pier they mingled with the crowd that would probably
spend more money than they, but yet have less enjoyment, and it was as
much as Katy could do to see everything around her, so many times did
she look at her dress--new and whole.

During the sail Ikey Moses had no reason to complain that the boys did
not keep their word in regard to patronizing him, for hardly five
minutes went by without their making a purchase of some kind. Katy had
pea-nuts, apples, candy, and cakes piled up on the seat in front of her
until it seemed certain that if she ate them all she would be obliged to
return to the hospital.

When the boys were not gladdening Ikey Moses' heart by buying his wares,
they were busily engaged in pointing out to Katy the different points of
interest in the harbor, or in telling her of the wonderful things she
was to see; and in this way the time passed so rapidly that before it
seemed possible they could have been away from the pier ten minutes they
were at Coney Island.

Having spent so much of their wealth on the steamer, it was necessary
for them to be careful of their money if they expected to get any
dinner, and in order that the purchases might be made more judiciously,
Jimmy gave his portion of the funds to Johnny, thereby making him
responsible for the manner in which the forty remaining cents were
spent.

If they did not have quite as much money, they felt of just as much
importance as any one on the beach, and they walked along in all the
glory of good clothes and a contented mind. They would have enjoyed a
swim--at least the boys would--but bathing suits were necessary; and
after Johnny had vainly tried to persuade the man at the bath-house that
ten cents ought to be enough for the hire of three suits, they concluded
that perhaps they ought not waste so much time in the water, when they
could be sight-seeing.

Never before had the three been on an excursion "dressed up," and they
enjoyed their own condition quite as much as they did that which they
saw. Even the dinner was a success, for Johnny bought one plate of
chowder, with crackers for three, and on the clean though rather warm
sand they sat around the one plate, quite as contented as if they had
had all that money could buy.

It was not until the last trip of the boat on which Ikey Moses was
employed that they started for home, and then they gave their friend no
extra work in waiting upon them, for they had such a trifling sum in the
treasury--that is to say, in Johnny's pockets--that they would be able
to buy only a small stock of papers the next morning.

But they insisted on introducing Ikey to Katy, and obliged him to hear a
detailed account of the manner in which they celebrated the release of
"their girl" from the hospital. Katy very obligingly stood up that
Master Moses could see her dress from every point of view, and long and
loud was the discussion the boys entered into as to what color would
have been the most beautiful, for they all condemned Mrs. Spratt's taste
in the matter.

It was well that they had not arranged to spend more than one day at the
sea-shore, for the costume of the boys was not well calculated to stand
much service. As it was, the starch had departed so entirely from
Johnny's clothes that they hung limp and in folds around him, while the
improvised paper collars were such a wreck that they were discarded
before the party reached home.

By some means the secret of where they were going had been discovered by
their friends, and when they landed they found as many as twenty waiting
to greet Katy, as well as to learn all the particulars of this excursion
which had been made in such a fashionable manner, so far as clothes were
concerned.

It was not until a late hour that night that Mother Brown's boarders
retired, and just before they did go to bed they startled the old lady
out of her first sleep and a portion of her senses by giving three
rousing cheers for Johnny, Jimmy, and "their girl."

THE END.




"JUST LIKE A COMET!"

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.


  A little maid, so wondrous wise
  In speech, and with observing eyes,
  Was wakened at the early morn,
  And to an eastern window borne,
  That she might see the comet bright,
  And nevermore forget the sight.

  The shining star was pointed out,
  Its head with splendor rayed about,
  And then, outspreading like a dress,
  Its train of dazzling loveliness,
  And all the points that made it far
  More beautiful than any star.

  The little maiden gazed, and gazed;
  At such a wonder much amazed;
  And never had she seen before
  The morning sky so spangled o'er,
  Or fancied that the silver moon
  Staid out so late, or rose so soon.

  The stars kept winking overhead,
  As if they longed to be in bed,
  And two bright orbs in mamma's lap
  Were closed to finish out their nap,
  While still the comet swept the skies,
  The marvel of admiring eyes.

  Next day within the nursery
  The little maiden chanced to be,
  When baby was on dress parade,
  Its pretty finery well displayed,
  As high in nurse's arms 'twas held
  With all its frowns and fears dispelled.

  Its flaxen head, with aureole bright,
  Its lengthy train of dazzling white,
  Were noted by the maid so wise,
  Who stood, with widely opened eyes,
  And said, "It looks"--her speech was slow--
  "_Just like a comet!_" And 'twas so.




[Illustration: "I DO LOVE DOLLY SO MUCH!"]




THE IGUANA.

BY HELEN S. CONANT.


The iguana is a very large and very ugly-looking lizard, which is found
all through the American tropics. It measures fully five feet in length,
its body being over two feet, and its long tapering tail nearly three.
It is covered with scales, and its usual color is green shaded with
brown. Iguanas possess, however, to an extent exceeded only by the
chameleon, the power of changing their colors, the brilliant green
becoming transformed in an instant, through the influence of fear or
anger, into darker hues, or even into black.

The eyes of the iguana are large, as is also its head, while a pouch,
serrated in front, depends from the lower jaw. It also has a serrated
tuft, like a comb, extending along its back and half the length of its
tail. Its legs are long, and its feet are armed with strong claws, which
enable it to climb about among the branches of the trees with the
greatest rapidity.

One would think that so large a creature would be slow and clumsy in its
movements, but no squirrel or small lizard could be lighter and more
active than the iguana. It is as much at home in the water as on the
land, and can remain under the surface a long time without coming up to
breathe. When swimming, it propels itself ahead with marvellous
quickness by waving its long tail from side to side, and using its paws
very much in the manner that a boy would use his arms.

A singular instance of the power and velocity of the iguana is related
by an English traveller. On the bank of a river he came suddenly upon
one of these huge lizards lying concealed in the tall grass. Alarmed by
the appearance of a man, whom the iguana recognizes as its deadly enemy,
the creature sprang into the water; but in place of swimming, so great
was the force of its spring that it skimmed across the broad river,
scarcely touching the surface with its feet. In two minutes it reached
the sand-banks of the opposite shore, and vanished among the bushes.

Although of such immense size, the weight of the iguana is scarcely ten
pounds, which fact probably accounts for its extreme lightness of
motion.

It is not very pleasant for a person of civilized taste to think of
eating a lizard, but the flesh of the iguana is considered a great
delicacy. Indians hunt it with bows and arrows, and when brought to
market it is sold for a high price. Another method of catching it is to
slip a noose around its neck as it sits in fancied security upon the
branch of a tree. The country people roast it in hot ashes, and the meat
is said to be tender and juicy, and very delicate in flavor. The eggs,
too, which are rich and oily, are favorite eating. They are about as
large as a dove's eggs, and of a glistening white. The iguana buries
them, eighteen or twenty together, in a hole in the sand, and leaves
them to be hatched by the sun.

The little ones are left to take care of themselves as best they can.
Humboldt, the great traveller and naturalist, found nests of young
iguanas which were apparently just hatched. They were not over four
inches long, and were very spry little things, and much prettier than
later on in their lizard life.

The iguana will never attack an enemy, but when cornered, is a valiant
fighter. It will hiss and spit like a cat, and erecting the comb on its
back, it will spring at its enemy, dealing powerful blows with its tail,
and biting with its sharp teeth. The following story is told by an
Australian settler of an encounter between an iguana and a snake: "I saw
a heavy fight the other day between a large iguana and a tree-snake
about five feet long. They were both going to pay a visit to a ''possum'
which lived in a big hole in a tree. Each went up a different side of
the tree, and met at the entrance to the hole, and then the row began.
The great lizard squealed in a most defiant manner, and the snake was in
no way behindhand in hissing. In fact, strong reptile language filled
the air for fully ten minutes before the fight commenced; then they went
at it. But the iguana was too much for the snake, and killed him in a
few minutes, seeming to take no notice of a good many bites, for the
snake fought pluckily. The ''possum' profited by this chance to escape
to a top limb of the tree, where he sat blinking in the sunlight, till
presently a great eagle-hawk came swooping down on him, and was carrying
him off, when I put in a word, or rather a charge of shot, and so earned
2_s._ 6_d._, that is, head-money."

Iguanas which have been captured have at first acted in a most violent
manner, hissing and snapping at everything which approached the cage;
but they soon grow accustomed to captivity, and will become so tame as
to take lettuce leaves and other food from the hands of the keeper. But
confinement is not healthy for these large creatures, and they lie
sluggishly in their cages, taking no notice of their surroundings, and
doing nothing but eat, until by degrees they shrivel up and die.

[Illustration: THE IGUANA.]




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 X.

Charley and Harry took in their sails, keeping the canoes head to sea
with an occasional stroke of the paddle. When all was made snug, and the
moment for turning the canoes had arrived, they realized that they were
about to attempt the most hazardous feat of the whole cruise.

"Can we do it?" asked Harry, doubtfully.

"We've got to do it," replied Charley.

"Why can't we unship our rudders and back water till we get to the
reeds?"

"It might be possible, but the chances are that we would be swamped. The
seas would overtake us, and we couldn't keep out of the way of them. No,
we've got to turn around and sail back in the regular way."

"You know best, of course," said Harry; "but what's the use of taking in
our sails before we turn around? We'll have trouble in setting them
again with the wind astern."

"We can turn the canoes quicker without sails than we could with the
sails set, and every second that we can gain is worth something.
Besides, if we are capsized, it will be an advantage to have the sails
furled. But we're wasting time. Let your canoe get right astern of mine,
so that mine will keep a little of the sea off of you; then watch for
two or three big seas, and turn your canoe when they have passed."

Harry followed his friend's instructions, and succeeded in turning his
canoe without accident. Then Charley, getting into the lee of the
_Sunshine_, did his best to imitate Harry's successful feat. He managed
to turn the canoe, but while in the act a heavy sea rolled into the
cockpit and filled the _Midnight_ absolutely full. The beef bladders,
however, kept the canoe afloat, but she lay like a log on the water, and
every successive wave swept over her.

Charley did not lose his presence of mind. He shouted to Harry to run up
his sail and keep his canoe out of the way of the seas, and then he
busied himself shaking out the reef of his mainsail, so that he could
set the whole sail. The moment the canoe felt the strain of her canvas
she began to rush through the water in spite of her great weight, and no
more seas came aboard her. Steering with one hand, Charley bailed with
his hat with such energy that he soon freed the canoe of water.
Meanwhile he rapidly overtook Harry, and reached the reeds, while the
_Sunshine_ was a quarter of a mile behind him.

Tom and Joe were found sitting in their canoes and suffering the pangs
of hunger. Charley put on dry clothes, while Harry prepared a lunch of
dried beef and crackers, after which the canoeists resigned themselves
as cheerfully as they could to spending the rest of the afternoon and
the night in the reeds. It was not a pleasant place, but the wind kept
the mosquitoes away, and the boys managed to fall asleep soon after
sunset. The wind died out during the night, and the boys found, the next
morning, that only a few rods below the place where they had spent the
night there was an open channel by which they could easily have reached
the shore. This was rather aggravating, and it increased the disgust
with which they remembered Lake St. Peter and its reed-lined shores.

The voyage down the St. Lawrence seemed monotonous after the excitement
of running the Magog rapids, and the various adventures of the sail down
the Richelieu. The St. Lawrence has very little shade along its banks,
for, owing to the direction in which it runs, the sun shines on the
water all day long. The weather was exceedingly hot while the boys were
on the river, and on the third day after leaving Lake St. Peter they
suffered so greatly that they were afraid to stay on the water lest they
should be sunstruck. Going ashore on the low sandy bank, they were
unable to find a single tree, or even a hillock large enough to afford
any shade. They thought of drawing the canoes ashore, and sitting in the
shade of them, but there was not a breath of air stirring, and the very
ground was so hot that it almost scorched their feet. Half a mile away
on a meadow they saw a tree, but it was far too hot to think of walking
that distance. They decided at last to get into their canoes and to
paddle a few rods farther, to a place where a small stream joined the
river, and where they hoped to find the water somewhat cooler for
bathing.

On reaching the mouth of the little stream the bows of the canoes were
run ashore, so that they would not float away, and the boys, hastily
undressing, sprang into the water. They had a delightful bath, and it
was not until they began to feel chilly that they thought of coming out
and dressing. Tom was the first to go ashore, and as he was wading out
of the water, he suddenly felt himself sinking in the sand. Harry and
Joe attempted to land a few yards from the place where Tom was trying to
drag his feet out of the clinging sand, and they too found themselves in
the same difficulty. Harry at once perceived what was the matter, and,
making frantic efforts to get to the shore, cried out to his comrades
that they were caught in a quicksand.

The struggles made by the three boys were all in vain. When they tried
to lift one foot out of the sand, the other foot would sink still
deeper. It was impossible for them to throw themselves at full length on
the quicksand, for there were nearly two feet of water over it, and they
were not close enough together to give one another any assistance. By
the time Charley fully understood the peril they were in, Tom had sunk
above his knees in the sand, and Joe and Harry, finding that they could
not extricate themselves, were waiting with white faces and trembling
lips for Charley to come to their help.

Charley knew perfectly well that if he ventured too near the other boys,
he would himself be caught in the quicksand, and there would be no hope
that any of them could escape. Keeping his presence of mind, he swam to
the stern of one of the canoes, set it afloat, and pushed it toward Tom,
so that the latter could get hold of its bow. He then brought two other
canoes to the help of Joe and Harry; and when each of the three
unfortunate canoeists was thus furnished with something to cling to, he
climbed into his own canoe.

"What are we to do now?" asked Harry.

"Just hold on to your canoes until I can tow them out into the stream.
You can't sink while you hang on to them."

"Won't the canoes sink with us?" asked Tom.

"Not a bit of it. You wouldn't sink yourselves if you could lie down
flat on the quicksand. I was caught in a quicksand once, and that's the
way I saved myself."

"I hope it's all right," exclaimed Joe; "but it seems to me that you'll
have to get a derrick to hoist me out. But I'm not complaining. I can
hang on to my canoe all day, only I don't want to be drowned and buried
both at the same time."

Charley, meanwhile, was busily making his canoe fast to Tom's canoe with
his painter. When this was done, he paddled away from the shore with all
his might, while Tom tried to lift himself out of the quicksand by
throwing the weight of his body on the canoe. Slowly Tom and his canoe
yielded to the vigorous strokes of Charley's paddle, and were towed out
into deep water. By the same means Joe and Harry were rescued, and then
the entire fleet--Charley paddling, and the others swimming and pushing
their canoes--floated a short distance down stream, and finally landed
where the sand was firm and hard.

"What should we have done if you'd got into the quicksand, as we did?"
said Harry to Charley, as they were dressing.

"By this time we should all have disappeared," replied Charley.

"I shall never go ashore again while we're on this river without making
sure that I'm not walking into a quicksand," continued Harry. "It was
awful to find myself sinking deeper and deeper, and to know that I
couldn't help myself."

"Very likely there isn't another quicksand the whole length of the St.
Lawrence," said Charley. "However, it's well enough to be careful where
we land. I've noticed that where a little stream joins a big one the
bottom is likely to be soft; but, after all, a regular dangerous
quicksand isn't often met. I never saw but one before."

"Tell us about it," suggested Joe.

"No; we've talked enough about quicksands, and the subject isn't a
cheerful one. Do you see that pile of boards? Let's make a board shanty,
and go to sleep in it after we've had some lunch. It will be too hot to
paddle before the end of the afternoon."

A shanty was easily made by leaning a dozen planks against the top of
the pile of boards, and after a comfortable lunch the boys took a long
nap. When they awoke they were disgusted to find that their canoes were
high and dry two rods from the edge of the water. They had reached a
part of the river where the tide was felt, and without knowing it they
had gone ashore at high tide. They had to carry the canoes, with all
their contents, down to the water, and as the receding tide had left a
muddy and slippery surface to walk over, the task was not a pleasant
one. They congratulated themselves that they had not gone ashore at low
tide, in which case the rising of the water during the night would have
carried away the canoes.

Sailing down the river with a gentle breeze, and with the help of the
ebbing tide, the canoeists came to the mouth of a small river which
entered the St. Lawrence from the north. They knew by means of the map
that the small river was the Jacques Cartier. It was a swift, shallow,
and noisy stream, flowing between high, precipitous banks, and spanned
by a lofty and picturesque bridge. Taking in their sails, the boys
entered the Jacques Cartier, picking their way carefully among the
rocks, and making headway very slowly against the rapid current. They
stopped under the bridge, just above which there was an impassable
rapid, and went ashore for lunch.

Near by there was a saw-mill, and from one of the workmen who came to
look at the canoes the boys heard wonderful reports of the fish to be
caught in the stream. It was full of salmon--so the man said--and about
nine miles from its mouth there was a pool where the trout actually
clamored to be caught. The enthusiasm of the canoeists was kindled; and
they resolved to make a camp on the bank of the stream, and to spend a
few days in fishing.

After having thus excited his young hearers, the workman cruelly told
them that the right to fish for salmon was owned by a man living in
Montreal, and that any one catching a salmon without permission would be
heavily fined. The trout, however, belonged to nobody, and the boys,
though greatly disappointed about the salmon, would not give up their
plan of trout fishing. They hired two carts from a farmer living a short
distance from the river, and placing their canoes on the carts, walked
beside them over a wretchedly rough road until they reached a place deep
in the woods, where a little stream, icy cold, joined the Jacques
Cartier. Just before entering the latter the little stream formed a
quiet pool, in which the trout could be seen jumping. The point of land
between the trout stream and the river was covered with a carpet of soft
grass, and on this the canoes were placed and made ready to be slept in.

The workman at the mouth of the Jacques Cartier had not exaggerated the
number of trout in the pool. It was alive with fish. The boys were
charmed with the beauty of their camping ground and the luxury of their
table. It was rather tiresome to walk two miles every day to the nearest
farm-house for milk, but with the milk rice griddle-cakes were made, and
upon these and fresh-killed trout the canoeists feasted for three
delightful days.

[Illustration: "THEY FOUND A BEAR FEASTING UPON THE REMAINS OF THEIR
BREAKFAST."]

They had one real adventure while on the Jacques Cartier. One day when
they returned to their camp from an exploration of the upper part of the
trout stream, they found a bear feasting upon the remains of their
breakfast and their bottle of maple syrup, which he had upset and
broken. The animal was full-grown, and looked like a very ugly customer;
but no sooner did he see the boys than he started on a rapid run for the
woods. By the time the boys had found their pistols and were ready to
follow him, the bear had disappeared, and though they hunted for him all
the rest of the day they could not find him. Had the bear taken it into
his head to hunt the boys, he would probably have been much more
successful, for their pistol-bullets would have had little effect upon
him, except to sharpen his appetite for tender and wholesome boy's-meat.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




HANDICRAFT.

BY HUGH CRAIG.


It is the practice in some families to have each child taught some
common useful work or handicraft. There are two families which in regard
to wealth and social position may be said to stand as high as any in
this world where great attention is paid to this kind of training.

The young Rothschilds are all made to use their hands, and the sons and
grandsons of the Emperor of Germany have been regularly instructed in
various trades. The old Kaiser has a room in his palace at Berlin where
he can read books that have been bound by the Crown Prince, and sit in
chairs made by his grandson.

I often think we would all be happier if we followed the example thus
set. I do not fancy that either the kings of men or the kings of money
have educated their children in this way under any belief that they
might be compelled to get their living by the labor of their hands. If
the Rothschilds were to be bankrupt, and the Hohenzollerns driven into
exile, the former could always make a livelihood as business men, and
the latter as officers and commanders in an army.

It is not, then, to provide against any possible accidents to their
fortunes that they have been taught other work than that which they are
called on as princes and bankers to spend their lives in doing. It has
been rather to teach them habits of patience and industry in doing work
where no hope of gain or fame is present to urge the worker on. We can
all take pains when we want to make money or get some reputation, but
very few of us think that whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing
well and in a workman-like manner, although it is merely a pastime.

There is another view of the question which must not be left out of
sight. We are all of us very fond of using our hands, and if we do not
use them to make something, we use them to destroy something. In this
respect girls are generally better educated than boys, for they all
learn sewing without any idea of ever being seamstresses.

Give a girl a needle and thread, and she amuses herself with a hundred
useful things. Give a boy a jackknife, and he first cuts his fingers,
and then cuts the school-desks. Even when we have a box of tools given
us, we are never made to learn how to use them properly. Jig-saws and
the like never seemed to quite satisfy the boyish mind; the work was too
"finicking," and not varied enough; in fact, it was to real work what
fancy embroidery is to plain needle-work, and struck one as being nearly
useless.

Handicrafts differ in one peculiar respect from the labors to which most
of us will have to give our time. We have in everything we do to use our
hands and our brains, but in most cases we shall have to use our hands
to carry out the work of our brains. In handicrafts we have to use our
brains to guide and direct our hands, and our minds, instead of being
continually on the strain, have merely to superintend a mechanical
operation. Our thoughts are employed without the trouble of thinking.




THE BATTLE OF LAKE BORGNE.

HOW THE BRITISH MADE A LANDING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

BY GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON.


When the British made up their minds, near the end of the year 1814, to
take New Orleans, and thus to get control of the Mississippi River,
there seemed to be very little difficulty in their way.

So far as anybody on either side could see, their only trouble was
likely to be in making a landing. If they could once get their splendid
army on shore anywhere near the city, there was very little to prevent
them from taking the town, and if they had taken it, it is easy to see
that the whole history of the United States would have been changed.

They did make a landing, but they did not take New Orleans, and perhaps
I shall hereafter tell how and why they failed. At present I want to
tell how they landed.

The expedition consisted of a large fleet bearing a large army. At first
the intention was to sail up the Mississippi River, but General Jackson
made that impossible by building strong forts on the stream, and so it
was necessary to try some other plan.

It happens that New Orleans has two entrances from the sea. The river
flows in front of the city, and by that route it is about a hundred
miles from the city to the sea; but just behind the town, only a few
miles away, lies a great bay called Lake Pontchartrain. This bay is
connected by a narrow strait with another bay called Lake Borgne, which
is connected directly with the sea.

Lake Borgne is very shallow, but the British knew little about it. They
only knew that if they could land anywhere on the banks of Lake Borgne
or Lake Pontchartrain they would be within an easy march of New Orleans.

Accordingly, the fleet bearing the British army, instead of entering the
mouth of the Mississippi, and trying to get to New Orleans in front,
sailed in by the back way, and anchored near the entrance of Lake
Borgne.

Here the British had their first sight of the preparations made to
resist them. Six little gun-boats, carrying twenty-three guns in all,
were afloat on the lake under command of Lieutenant Thomas Ap Catesby
Jones. These gun-boats were mere mosquitoes in comparison with the great
British men-of-war, and when they made their appearance in the track of
the invading fleet, the British laughed and wondered at the
foolhardiness of the American commander in sending such vessels there.

Lieutenant Thomas Ap Catesby Jones knew what he was about, however, as
the British soon found out. He sailed up almost within cannon-shot of
the enemy's ships, and they, of course, gave chase to him. Then he
nimbly sailed away, with the fleet after him. Very soon a large
man-of-war ran aground; then another and another struck the bottom, and
the British Admiral began to understand the trick. It was evident that
Lake Borgne was much too shallow for the large ships, and so the
commander called a halt, and transferred the troops to the smaller
vessels of the fleet.

When this was done the chase was begun again by the smaller ships, and
for a time with every prospect of success; but presently even these
ships were hard aground, and the whole British fleet which had been
intended to carry the army across the lake was stuck fast in the mud
near the entrance, and thirty miles from the point at which the landing
was to be made.

The British commander was at his wits' end. It was clear that the ships
could not cross the lake, and the only thing to be done was to transport
the army across little by little in the ships' boats, and make a landing
in that way. But to do that while Lieutenant Jones and his gun-boats
were afloat was manifestly impossible. If it had been attempted, the
little gun-boats, which could sail anywhere on the lake, would have
destroyed the British army by boat-loads.

There was nothing to be done until the saucy little fleet was out of the
way, and to put it out of the way was not easy.

Lieutenant Jones was an officer very much given to hard fighting, and in
this case the British saw that they must fight him at a disadvantage. As
they could not get to him in their ships, they must make an attack in
open boats, which, of course, was a very dangerous thing to do, as the
American gun-boats were armed with cannon.

The British commander wanted his bravest men for such work, and so he
called for volunteers to man the boats. A thousand gallant fellows
offered themselves, and were placed in fifty boats, under command of
Captain Lockyer. Each boat was armed with a carronade--a kind of small
cannon--but the men well knew that the real fighting was not to be done
with carronades. The only hope of success lay in a sudden, determined
attack. The only way to capture the American gun-boats was to row up to
them in the face of their fire, climb over their sides, and take them by
force in a hand-to-hand fight.

When the flotilla set sail, on the 14th of December, Lieutenant Jones
knew what their mode of attack would be quite as well as Captain Lockyer
did. If he let them attack him in the open lake he knew very well that
the British could overpower him and capture his fleet; but he did not
intend to be attacked in the open lake if he could help it. His plan was
to sail slowly, keeping just out of reach of the row-boats, and
gradually draw them to the mouth of the strait which leads into Lake
Pontchartrain. At that point there was a well-armed fort, and if he
could anchor his gun-boats across the narrow channel, he believed he
could destroy the British flotilla with the aid of the fort, and thus
beat off the expedition from New Orleans.

Unluckily while the fleet was yet far from the mouth of the strait the
wind failed entirely, and the gun-boats were helpless. They could not
sail without wind, and they must receive the attack right where they
were.

At daylight on the morning of December 15, the British flotilla was
about nine miles away, but was rapidly drawing nearer, the boats being
propelled by oars. Lieutenant Jones called the commanders of his
gun-boats together, gave them instructions, and informed them of his
purpose to make as obstinate a fight as possible. His case was hopeless;
his fleet would be captured, but by fighting obstinately he could at
least gain time for General Jackson at New Orleans, and time was greatly
needed there.

Meanwhile the British boats, carrying a thousand men, all hardened to
desperate fighting, approached and anchored just out of gunshot. Captain
Lockyer wished his men to go into action in the best condition, and
therefore he came to anchor to rest the oarsmen, and to give the men
time for breakfast.

At half past ten o'clock the British weighed anchor, and, forming in
line, began the advance. As soon as they came within range the American
gun-boats opened fire, but with little effect at first. Of course the
British could not reply at such a distance, but being under fire, their
chief need was to go forward as fast and come to close quarters as
quickly as possible. The sailors bent to their oars, and the boats flew
over the water. Soon the men at the bows began to fire the carronades in
reply to the American cannon. Then, as the boats drew nearer, small-arms
came into use, and the battle grew fiercer with every moment. The
British boats were with difficulty kept in line, and their advance grew
slower. Oarsmen were killed, and time was lost in putting others into
their places. Still the line was preserved, and the battle went on, the
attacking boats still slowly and steadily advancing.

[Illustration: BOARDING THE GUN-BOATS.]

Two of the American gun-boats had drifted out of place, and were
considerably in advance of the rest. Seeing this, Captain Lockyer
ordered the men commanding the boats to surround them, and a few minutes
later the British were climbing over the sides of these vessels.

Their attack was stoutly resisted. The American sailors above them fired
volleys into their faces, and beat them back with handspikes. Scores of
the British fell back into the water, dead or wounded, while their
comrades pressed forward to fill their places. There were so many of
them that in spite of all the Americans could do to beat them off they
swarmed over the gunwales and gained the decks. Their work was not yet
done, however. The Americans fiercely contested every inch of their
advance, and the two parties hewed each other down with cutlasses, the
Americans being slowly beaten back by superior numbers, but still
obstinately fighting until they could fight no more.

One by one all the gun-boats were taken in this way, Lieutenant Jones's
vessel holding out longest, and the Lieutenant himself fighting till he
was stricken down with a severe wound.

Having thus cleared Lake Borgne, the British were free to begin the work
of landing. It was a terrible undertaking, however--scarcely less so
than the fight itself. The whole army had to be carried thirty miles in
open boats and landed in a swamp. The men were drenched with rain, and a
frost coming on, their clothes were frozen on their bodies. There was no
fuel to be had on the island where they made their first landing, and to
their sufferings from cold was added severe suffering from hunger before
supplies of food could be brought to them. Some of the sailors who were
engaged in rowing the boats were kept at work for four days and nights
without relief.

The landing was secured, however, and the British cared little for the
sufferings it had cost them. They believed then that they had little
more to do except to march twelve miles and take possession of the city,
with its one hundred and fifty thousand bales of cotton and its ten
thousand hogsheads of sugar. How it came about that they were
disappointed I shall hope to tell you next time.




[Illustration: "I WANT SOMEBODY TO PLAY WITH."]




WHO WON THE BICYCLE?

BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.


"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Bimb! bang! boom!" and as they shouted out the
school cheer, a group of Vilney boys flung up their caps and danced
about to catch them again in a fashion that showed they felt much too
jolly to keep them decorously on their heads.

It was the first Friday after the fall opening of the High School, and
the cause of the cheering was the fact that the next day was the date of
the Boys' Olympic Games at the Fair Grounds. The entertainment was quite
a novel one, as none but school-boys were allowed to take part, and the
prizes offered were pocket-knives, archery sets, tennis outfits, and
last, but by no means least, an elegant full-nickel bicycle of the
finest make. Cups, silver services, gold medals, and embroidered banners
were all cast into the shade by the latter magnificent inducement, to be
presented to the winner of the three-mile bicycle race.

The games had been organized and the prizes provided by a wealthy young
bachelor who had lately come to reside in the town, and who was
exceedingly fond of boys. Nearly every member of the Vilney High School
was entered for one or more of the contests, and Olympic Games had been
the absorbing topic of conversation for weeks.

One especially interested was Alec Barsbey. He was the son of a farmer
who seemed never to make more than enough to support his family, minus
luxuries, which perhaps may be accounted for by the fact that he ought
not to have been a farmer at all, but a lawyer or minister, for he was
so extremely fond of books. Alec inherited his father's taste for
learning--a taste which Mr. Barsbey resolved should be cultivated by the
best schooling, to be followed by a college course. He was now in his
fifteenth year, nearly ready to enter upon the latter, but the severe
study had begun to tell upon his health, when he luckily conceived a
strong and sudden fondness for bicycling (for as a rule he did not care
for sports or games), and on his friend Murray Hart's machine took now
and then an invigorating "spin."

Murray lived just across the road from the Barsbeys, and when the rage
for "wheels" broke out in town, he was among the first to own one.
However, being also the happy possessor of a pony, he divided his time
out-of-doors between the two, and as he was a fast friend of Alec's, he
was only too happy when he could prevail upon the latter to accept the
loan of his machine.

But if the Barsbeys were poor in purse, they were wealthy in a spirit of
independence, and it was only after repeated urgings on the part of
Murray that Alec could be induced to ride another's property. Yet even
with the limited amount of practice he allowed himself, he speedily
became an expert "'cyclist," although this fact was not an unmixed
pleasure to him, as it only increased his desire to have a machine of
his own, which in the present state of the Barsbey finances was quite
out of the question.

Now, however, the Olympic Games presented a possible means of obtaining
a splendid one, and Alec made haste to hire at the "bi" head-quarters a
trusty wheel on which to practice and ride the race.

But while we have been making this lengthy explanation, Friday has
passed, and Saturday morning dawned cool and clear.

What a babble of boys' tongues there was in the dressing-room under the
grand stand, and what a crush of boys, girls, fathers, mothers, and
cousins on top of it!

Mr. Lancewood, the young bachelor, who was as jolly as he was generous,
bustled about from performers to public, boys to girls, grown people to
children, until everybody began to believe there must be two of him.

Suddenly he stopped, looked at his watch, and then waved his
handkerchief. Instantly a clear-toned trumpet proclaimed the opening of
the games, and a brass band rattled off a lively air, at the close of
which ten boys in flannel shirts and polo caps walked out from the
dressing-rooms and toed the mark for the hundred-yard dash. Mr.
Lancewood took his station behind them, pistol in hand, while at the
other end of the course two young men held a broad reel ribbon between
them to indicate the goal.

"One, two, three! Are you ready? [_Bang._] Go!" and off shot the ten as
if from the pistol itself.

The spectators sprang to their feet in the excitement. But it only lasts
an instant; for Charley Brown has distanced Jack Merks by a pace or two,
and now comes panting back, with the ribbon streaming from his
shoulders.

Then follows the sack race, in which Ed Primstone falls and rolls two
steps for every one he attempts to walk, to the irrepressible mirth of
all the small boys, and the consternation of his mother.

Next came the potato race, in which each boy was provided with a basket
and a row of potatoes, the latter being placed about three feet apart,
all the rows of course being of equal length. The task consisted in
trying who could first transfer a row of potatoes from the ground to the
basket.

But we have not time to further describe this nor the succeeding
three-legged race, in which the right and left legs of two boys were
tied together, and their arms placed around one another's necks, the
object being to run faster than other pairs similarly fettered. We must
hasten on to the grand feature of the programme, the bicycle race, the
riders in which presently made their appearance on the track trundling
their machines.

There were five entries for the contest--Frank Le Grand, Harry Clare,
Dick Summers, Murray Hart, and Alec Barsbey. The latter is pale but
determined-looking, and there is that in the ease with which he slides
into his seat that causes a by-stander to remark, "That slim young
fellow in the blue shirt doesn't make much show, but he has the look of
both speed and endurance."

The start was to be from the saddle, and the distance twenty-one times
around the track, which latter was simply marked out with lime, as a
barrier offering any resistance was apt to prove dangerous.

Quickly and quietly the five lads range themselves in line, with the
help of their friends, and when the word is given, off they glide, all
abreast, on their smooth-running steeds. Very soon, however, Harry Clare
shoots ahead, and a great shout goes up from the spectators as he keeps
the lead for the remainder of the first lap.

But sharp eyes can see that he is overexerting himself too early in the
race, and now the applause of the multitude inspires him to an
additional spurt, which so exhausts him that he is soon obliged to
materially slacken his speed.

Alec and Murray Hart keep together for round after round, and it is
evident that both are saving themselves for the finish.

Frank Le Grand comes next, not far behind; but poor Dick Summers is soon
dropped "out of sight," so to speak, and before making the tenth lap he
rides outside the line, dismounts, and resting his elbow on the saddle,
good-naturedly turns his attention to cheering on the others.

By this time Alec has left Murray, and is rapidly gaining on Clare, who
now reaps the fruits of his over-enthusiasm at the start. He loses inch
after inch of his lead, until finally Alec dashes past him amid the wild
cheers of the spectators and a special burst of brass from the band.

Harry, however, has no intention of giving up so easily; for after his
friends have provided him with a match or two to chew on, he appears to
feel re-inspired, and rolls around the track with old-time swiftness.

And now the excitement begins in earnest. Frank Le Grand having followed
Dick's example, there are only three competitors left; and as Murray
seems to be taking things pretty comfortably, all eyes are centred on
Alec and Harry. The former is exerting every nerve, resolved not to
take second place again, while Clare seems as determined that he shall.

Around and around they fly, their noiseless movements lending an
additional interest to the race. They look neither to the right nor
left, except that Alec, every time he approaches a certain spot opposite
the grand stand, gives a single glance toward one corner of it.

"Keep it up, Harry!"

"Go it, Alec!"

"Catch 'em, Murray!"

These and other cries, sent forth with the full power of youthful lungs,
urge their subjects on to victory, and presently keen observers can
trace a gradual widening of the breach between Barsbey and his pursuer.
Both boys are working terribly hard, and an on-looker not accustomed to
such contests, and ignorant of the careful training that is supposed to
precede them, might expect to see one or both lads fall in their tracks.

Suddenly Alec gives an extra spurt, and an instant later reaches the
point where he is in the habit of throwing his strange glance toward the
grand stand. True to his custom, he raises his eyes, and at once a
troubled expression overspreads his face. Then, instead of continuing on
for his triumphant eighteenth lap, to the amazement of all he steers
into the centre field and quickly dismounts. He leaves his machine lying
on the grass, runs back across the track, and disappears among the crowd
on the stand.

What can it mean? He has certainly not given out, or he could not have
moved about so easily. A number of the boys, in their curiosity, hurry
over to examine Alec's machine, but a warning shout from Murray turns
the general attention back to the race between the only two now
remaining in it.

Harry seems to be completely exhausted, while Hart, who is only half a
lap behind now, appears to be almost as fresh as at the start. Harry
makes a feeble final effort, and thus causes the race, amid the wildest
excitement, to result in a tie.

What was to be done? The bicycle could not be presented to both, nor
could the race be repeated later on, as the games were now over.

In the midst of the discussion Murray disappeared, for he was anxious to
find out what had happened to Alec. Somebody had seen him leave the
grounds; so, tired as he was, Hart mounted his machine and posted off to
the Barsbeys'. He met Alec at the gate, just coming out.

"Who won?" was the latter's first question; but Murray did not answer
it.

"Tell me, Alec Barsbey," he exclaimed, "why on earth you dropped out of
that race?"

The other colored, glanced back toward the house, and then linking arms
with his friend, drew him out toward the orchard as he replied: "I'll
tell you, Murray, but don't look so fierce about it. You know how
nervous mother is? Well, I told her she'd better not come to the games
if she thought she'd worry about me; but she declared she'd worry worse
if she didn't keep me in sight. She's never very well, and any
overexcitement may bring on one of her bad turns. At first I didn't know
what to do about it. I hated to give up the race, although I knew that
was the safest plan, and at the same time didn't want to run the risk of
frightening mother into another sick spell. Then I thought of a way to
fix matters, which was to have mother go with father, and take a seat
near the entrance where I could see her every time I came around. She
was to carry in her pocket a green silk handkerchief, which I believe
once belonged to some Irish ancestor of the family, and when she found
the excitement was becoming too much for her nerves she was to wave it,
and I would stop at once--which I did, as you saw, and just in time,
too, for she hated to give the sign, and had nearly fainted. Father and
I helped her out, brought her home, and now she's all right. Of course
I'm no end sorry to have missed the finish, but then it would have been
dreadful to have gone on and let mother suffer. And now tell me who's
won the machine."

"You have," cried Murray; "and if you'll go up to your room and rest,
and promise not to stir out of it until I come back in about fifteen
minutes, I'll have it brought over and duly presented."

"But why can't I go--" began Alec.

"Hush! not a word!" returned his friend, authoritatively. "Imagine your
mother's feelings if you should go near those grounds again to-day! Now
go in and tell her the good news, with my compliments."

"But I don't see how I could have won, when--" but Murray was already
speeding off on his "wheel," and Alec could do nothing else than wait
patiently for him to come back.

When Mr. Lancewood heard the story of the green silk handkerchief he
hailed it as the best solution possible of the difficulty caused by the
tie to announce Alexander Barsbey as winner of the bicycle.

Harry Clare declared that no way of settling the matter could have
pleased him better, while as for Murray, he hurried back to the
Barsbeys' so eagerly that he took two "headers" in one block.

Of course the machine itself could not be presented until the size of
the winner was known. Murray had forgotten this fact when he promised
Alec to return with the prize, but the precious slip of paper Mr.
Lancewood had given him to deliver answered every purpose.

The bicycle, which was truly a beauty, arrived early the next week, and
all Vilney affirms that it was most bravely won.




AUTUMN LEAVES.

BY A. W. ROBERTS.


Last year hundreds of persons obtained from the Superintendent of
Central Park, in New York, special permits to gather autumn leaves,
_from the ground only_, in any part of the Park. These leaves, when
dried, are used by artists and designers as types of nature's beautiful
forms and color-work, also by botanists and wax-flower workers, and for
home decoration, or are disposed of to city florists, at so much per
hundred leaves, to be worked up in various floral designs. Thousands of
"American Autumn Leaves" are sent every year to Europe, where they are
highly prized.

Among some of the best varieties of leaves as regards color, form, and
durability are those of the maples, sweet gum, sumac, dogwood, Virginia
creeper, and crane's-bill geranium. The popular idea that an early frost
is needed to insure the brilliancy and perfection of autumn foliage is a
mistake. A lingering and moist fall is all that is required to produce
the most brilliant colors.

When gathering leaves, always select those that are fully matured, and
are leathery and fibrous. It is always best to secure them in small
bunches, each bunch to contain several leaves attached to a small twig.
Be careful also not to have the twig so long or thick that it will
interfere with the pressing. I have found a small and light box with a
close-fitting cover very useful when collecting leaves. A layer of damp
(not wet) moss or grass should be placed on the bottom of the box to
keep the air moist, and thus prevent the drying up or wilting of the
leaves.

For drying the leaves, old and smooth newspapers, useless books, old
sheet music, and old account-books will answer just as well as the most
expensive botanical dryers. When arranging the leaves in the dryers, try
and place those of the same thickness together, so that there may be a
uniform pressure when the weights are applied. I have found a soap-box,
filled with stones or other heavy material, and placed on the dryers,
one of the best of make-shifts in the way of a well-ordered botanical
press.

The time required for drying the leaves is governed by the amount of sap
they contain, and the dryness of the atmosphere. Never attempt what is
known as "hot-pressing"--that is, pressing with a hot flat-iron--unless
you wish to sacrifice the delicate tints of the leaves, and turn to an
unpleasant brown the masses of heavy and strong color. I have found by
experience that coating the surfaces of the leaves with varnish,
bees-wax, and other materials of a waxy nature, is not an advantage.
This is particularly true of varnish, which gives to the leaves a glossy
and unnatural look, while bees-wax, stearine, and spermaceti cause dust
to adhere, which soon disfigures and obscures their beautiful colors.

Some years ago I became acquainted with a large number of children who
lived on "our block," and their mothers and their fathers; in fact, I
was one of the fathers. As a rule, they were all pleasant young people,
and it became a pastime with me to entertain, amuse, and find them
something to do, particularly during holidays and on Saturdays. In
course of time two large and vacant rooms were secured in one of the
houses, and I received a sort of standing commission from the parents of
the children to fit up and furnish the two rooms as a play house. The
following description will give a pretty fair idea as to how the walls
were furnished.

First a reliable and communicative colored kalsominer was called in to
kalsomine the walls of one room in alternate perpendicular bands of a
very light blue and a very quiet gray tint, each band or stripe of color
being nine inches in width. The other room was papered with a cheap
wall-paper which cost about nine cents a roll. This paper was twenty
inches wide; the pattern consisted of several styles of imitation
chestnut-wood graining. Having on hand a very large quantity of autumn
leaves, we set to work disposing of them on the walls of the rooms in
the following manner:

[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

First two glue-pots were made, as shown in Fig. 1, from empty fruit
cans, the inner or smaller can to contain the glue, and the outer or
larger boiling water. To the outer can a wire handle is attached. With
the two cans a constant supply of hot glue was always on hand.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

[Illustration: FIG. 3.]

To the grained paper the leaves and tendrils of the Virginia creeper
were fastened as shown in the right hand part of Fig. 2. The design,
which is here horizontal, will of course be upright on the wall. To
every other stripe of graining the leaves of the Virginia creeper
without the tendrils were fastened, so as to avoid too much sameness. In
this room the top bordering consisted of sumac leaves and berries, as
shown in Fig. 3.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.]

[Illustration: FIG. 5.]

To the blue and gray bands of kalsomine were fastened the brilliant
leaves and clusters of the crimson berries of the staghorn sumac, as
shown in Fig. 4, and a top bordering of sumac and maple leaves, as shown
in Fig. 5.

The leaves were used in a bold and vigorous manner; all fine and close
work was avoided, as it would be lost, and the general effect spoiled.
For the amount of time expended and the labor and trouble this work
cost, we felt well repaid, and every one decided that the result was a
great success, and that we had certainly discovered a novel and
beautiful use for autumn leaves.




THE DARING MICE.

BY PALMER COX.


  Some mice in council met one night,
    And vowed by this and that
  That they would arm themselves for fight,
    And brave the tyrant cat.

[Illustration]

  Said they: "Why longer fear her power?
    'Tis time our strength to try.
  We'll hang her by the neck this hour,
    Or in the effort die!"

[Illustration]

  Two pistols and a carving-knife,
    A rifle and a rope,
  Were instruments of war enough
    To justify their hope.

  So with the Captain in the front,
    The hangman in the rear,
  They started out to search for puss
    Without a thought of fear.

  Through silent halls and broken walls
    With cautious step and slow,
  And furtive glances right and left,
    From room to room they go.

  Now pausing by a nook or sill,
    Where trouble might be found,
  Now crowding close and closer still
    At every trifling sound.

[Illustration]

  But when before an open door
    The cat appeared in sight,
  The very instruments they bore
    Seemed paralyzed with fright.

  The Captain shrinking in the van,
    The hangman crouched behind,
  The pistol-shot and rifleman
    Had but a single mind.

  In doubt and dread they turned and fled,
    And lucky mice were they
  To find a hole so large that all
    At once could run away.




[Illustration: TWILIGHT.]

OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.


  NEW YORK CITY.

     DEAR READERS OF THE POST-OFFICE BOX,--I have a story to tell you
     which will certainly please all those who have cute little kittens
     to pet and play with. I hope, too, it will put into some of your
     hearts a sweet thought of imitating the children I am going to
     write about. I think I will call the story

     PUSSY'S CONTRIBUTION.

     "That ends it; not another one will I make! Bother! just to break
     off when I wanted it! Well, I don't care."

     The speaker was a boy about fourteen, sitting in a scantily
     furnished room, busily cutting sticks by the light of a small lamp,
     and surrounded by a plentiful supply of chips. On a bed in one
     corner was a little girl some four years younger, the last of a
     family who had moved out West, father, mother, and some older
     children having died, leaving only these two. The little girl had
     been for some years a cripple with spinal trouble, and the boy the
     worker and care-taker.

     Very pale looked the little face, and sad the voice sounded that
     called just then,

     "Andrew, can you come here a minute?"

     "Yes, Jessie. What's the matter?"

     As he sat down on the bed she took his hand, saying:

     "What was it broke? Your knife? I was afraid that was it. What will
     you do?"

     "Do? Nothing, except give you a nice blaze with those old sticks.
     You don't often have one."

     "And give up the Cot? Oh, Andrew!" and her dark eyes spoke the
     disappointment even more than her voice.

     "Well," said Andrew, a little upset by her distress, "what's the
     use? My knife's broken; I can't pay to have it mended, nor buy
     another, and even if I wanted to, I don't know where I could borrow
     one, and then, when I get my sticks all made, it will be only a
     dollar, which great sum won't go far to help buy the Cot that the
     paper wants. Besides, after all, it will really be Mrs. Fuller's
     money, for I know she could get them made cheaper at the
     carpenter's. I heard her say to her daughter the day she gave me
     the order, 'Nellie, as Andrew is wishing to make some money to give
     to Young People's Cot, I will let him make the flower sticks for me
     instead of giving them to Mr. Dawson, and he will have that to
     give--ten dozen, at ten cents a dozen.' I suppose you told Miss
     Nellie what I was wishing for?"

     "Yes, after she brought the paper asking for the money for the Cot.
     Don't you remember, you read it to me, and how we were wishing we
     could make some money to give? I think it is very kind of Mrs.
     Fuller to think of you."

     "Well, at first I thought so too; but to-night, as I sat working at
     the sticks, I felt as she was somehow _giving_ it to me, and just
     taking the sticks to make believe I was working for the money, and
     it made me feel angry. Then I have only six dozen finished, and it
     is tiresome, after working hard all day, to spend the evening
     working too, and I don't believe it worth all the trouble, just for
     one dollar."

     Throwing himself on the bed, he looked as if he considered the
     matter settled.

     Not so Jessie, the little comforter.

     "Why, Andrew, Miss Nellie said the other day, when she was here,
     how fast you had worked, and how nicely the sticks looked tied up
     in bundles, and I should not wonder if she could mend your knife. I
     think she can do almost anything."

     "Why, Jessie," said Andrew, laughing merrily, "she couldn't do
     that. Girls can't mend knives."

     "Miss Nellie is not a girl, Andrew. You should not speak so of
     her."

     "Well, she's a young lady, and that's pretty much the same. They
     can't do much."

     "Oh, Andrew, how can you speak so?" said Jessie, indignantly. "I
     should like to know who it was persuaded Mr. Fuller to give you the
     place in his office, and often gives you shoes and clothes, but
     Miss Nellie, and who lent us money to help pay the rent the time
     you were sick, and comes to see me so often, bringing books,
     papers, and many things, but a _young lady_, even Miss Nellie. You
     ought to be ashamed of yourself." And the voice which began so
     strongly to fight Miss Nellie's battle ended in a sob.

     In a moment Andrew, who was really a kind-hearted, manly boy, only
     just now tired and disappointed, had his arm around the little
     girl.

     "There, don't cry, Jessie; you know I didn't mean anything. I know
     Miss Nellie is very good to us. I don't know what we would do
     without her, only I'm sure she couldn't mend a knife," boy-like,
     not willing to give up his opinion.

     "Well, Andrew, I don't know about that, only I wish I could be just
     such a young lady as she is, and I'm sorry I spoke so cross, and
     just when we were trying to work for the good of others; that's a
     poor way to copy Miss Nellie."

     "Meow, meow," now sounded in very decided tones from somewhere
     below the quilt.

     "Oh, Andrew, I forgot kitty," said Jessie, pulling out from under
     the covers a very pretty little Maltese kitten, with a blue ribbon
     on its neck, the latter a present from the famous Miss Nellie!

     The kitten had strayed into the room some weeks before, and staid
     with Jessie ever since then, a much-loved companion to the lonely
     little girl. At present she had been occupying her usual abode
     under the covers near Jessie, and in the making up of the children
     had rather suffered from close quarters. When pussy had been made
     comfortable again, Jessie said:

     "Andrew, I want to tell you a secret. Put your head down on the
     pillow by me, but don't hurt Twilight"--the name Jessie had chosen
     for her cat because of its color and its coming to her at that time
     of day. "I was talking to Miss Nellie the day she was speaking of
     the Cot, and wished I could do something for it, but could not, as
     I was not able to work. She said perhaps I could find something to
     give up that would bring some money, something to bear instead of
     do, and said she would try and think, and so must I. Well, she had
     not been gone more than an hour when there was a knock on the door,
     and in came a lovely-looking little girl about my age, holding
     Twilight in her arms, and saying, 'Is this your kitty? Will you
     sell her to me? I'll give you a dollar for her. I just want a
     little cat, and saw this one as I passed, and came in to see if you
     would let me have her. My name is Helen Lathrop, and I live in that
     big house on the hill that you see from here.' 'Sell my kitty!' I
     said; catching her rather roughly, I am afraid, out of her hands,
     'no, indeed, not for any money,' and at once I put Twilight under
     the covers for fear she might take her away. 'I think you might,'
     she said; 'I will take such good care of her--better than you can
     here,' looking round the room. Then turning to me, she said, 'Why
     don't you get up, and not lie in bed this time of day; it is 'most
     three o'clock?' When I told her I was sick, and could not get up,
     she seemed very sorry, and said she would not ask any more for
     kitty, only if I ever wanted to sell her, she would buy her, and
     went away. When she was gone I gave Twilight a scolding for being
     out, and then had a good cry to think how near I came to losing
     kitty, and was so startled with my strange visitor. After I got
     quiet I lay looking at the house on the hill, and telling kitty all
     my trouble, but she seemed quite happy, and would shut her eyes and
     then open them partly, just, I think, to let me know she was
     listening, and finally went to sleep, but I could not, I felt so
     upset. While I lay looking at the house suddenly a thought seemed
     to jump into my mind: 'You were wishing to make some money for the
     Cot. Here is a chance--sell Twilight.'"

     "Oh, Jessie, you wouldn't, would you?" for besides Jessie's
     pleasure, Andrew had a soft little corner in his own heart for
     kitty.

     "Wait, Andrew, until I tell you. I said nothing to you, and Miss
     Nellie did not come for a few days, so I just thought and talked to
     Twilight. At first it seemed so hard I told her I would never let
     her go, and then I would think of all Miss Nellie told me of the
     poor little sick children in New York so much worse off than I
     am--you know, she used to live there--and how comfortable they were
     made at St. Mary's Hospital. So I thought and thought in the
     daytime, and dreamed about it at night, until Miss Nellie came, and
     we had a long talk about it, and Miss Nellie said she thought it
     would be a great deal for me to do, and told me the story of the
     widow's mite, and said it would be something like that, though I
     couldn't see exactly why, as I don't think kitty a mite, but a
     great deal, so I made up my mind, and kitty must go. I couldn't
     help crying over her some, Andrew. You know I shall miss her so!
     And I think Miss Nellie was sorry to lose her too, for I saw tears
     in her eyes as she kissed me good-by, and she is going to write a
     note to Helen Lathrop, and tell her she can buy dear Twilight."

     "Jessie, you must not give puss away. How can you get along without
     her? she is all you have to love," said Andrew, taking one of the
     little dark paws lying out of the covers and rubbing it softly.
     Puss blinked her eyes, as much as to say she knew very well how
     important she was.

     "Oh, Andrew, don't say that. You know, first, I have Jesus, who
     loves and takes care of me, and helps me bear my pain," said
     Jessie, reverently; "and dear Miss Nellie, who taught me to love
     Him and all that is good; and then this dear boy, who is always so
     kind and loving to me--I can't sell you at any price," putting her
     thin little hand lovingly on his face, the fear of hurting kitty
     preventing a kiss; "and even Mrs. O'Brian upstairs, when she comes
     to 'cheer me up like,' as she says, 'with a wee bit of a story,'
     although she 'most always tells such queer ones, I feel frightened
     when she goes away. And then, Andrew, you know Twilight will be so
     much better off--I suppose live on cream and sleep on a silk
     cushion. And you know sometimes when you are away she gets into
     trouble, and I can't help her, like the day the cross boy threw
     stones at her. So, Andrew, won't you finish your sticks? and then
     we can send two dollars to the Cot."

     "Well, Jessie, I rather guess I will, indeed, and perhaps I can
     grind my knife enough to use. I will run over now to Mr. Hammond,
     who is still working, and see," said Andrew, getting up; and I
     think, if the light had been stronger, Jessie would have thought
     Andrew sorry to lose kitty too, for there were a good many tears in
     his eyes. And as he went out he thought to himself: "Well, I ought
     to feel ashamed. Here is Jessie, only a girl, as I often say, and a
     sick one at that, setting me such an example of unselfishness. Dear
     little thing, I don't wonder Miss Nellie loves her so."

     In one acknowledgment of the Cot in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE appeared
     the following: "Twilight, $1, Andrew Thornton, $1, Seneca,
     Kansas."

  AUNT EDNA.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LA GRANGE, ILLINOIS.

     Perhaps some little readers, less fortunate than I, may like to
     hear about my pleasant trip this summer to Denver, Colorado. We
     were forty-two hours in the cars between Chicago and Denver, and I
     was tired crossing the plains, as there is nothing to see but
     prairie grass, and it was so dusty, but when we arrived at our
     destination I was quite delighted. Denver is a fine city, and has
     some buildings as pretty as those in Chicago, and then the
     mountains are so near!

     We took a trip up Clear Creek Cañon to Idaho Springs, thirty-eight
     miles through the Rocky Mountains, and the scenery was just awfully
     grand--mountains above mountains, with lots of gold and silver in
     them! The air is light and clear, and this mountain refuge stands
     about eight thousand feet above the sea-level. It was funny to see
     the hot springs; the water was so warm that I could not hold my
     hand in it. And then there are ice-cold soda springs; but the water
     does not taste good, although they say it is wholesome to drink it.
     I would rather have lake water. We climbed up a good way, and got
     some nice stones with silver and gold in them.

     My papa also took us to the great mining exposition, and, oh, my!
     it would have done your readers good to see the great chunks of
     gold ore. One big piece was valued at twenty-seven thousand
     dollars. And then there were so many pretty stones and
     metals--gold, silver, galena, copper, iron, lead, zinc, tin, soda,
     salt, granite, marble, and coal. It is built of stone, and is
     outside of the city. You get there by the steam-cars for ten cents.
     It is a permanent structure, and will be in better order next year.

     It would take too much space to tell all we saw, but I would urge
     on all who can to take a trip to Colorado. We intend going next
     year again, and until then adieu.

  ELIZA B. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LOCKLAND, OHIO.

     I have taken your paper only a short time, beginning August 15. I
     have two kitties--one Snip, and the other Tabbie. I have some
     chickens. I think a good deal of one I call Bess. She knows her
     name, and will come to me when I call her. I have a little
     curly-headed brother, who is the sunshine of the whole house. I
     have a swing, and Albert, the little darling, likes to swing. I
     have to hold him in my lap. He is two and a half and I am thirteen
     years, and we are the only children. I want to take music lessons,
     but we have no piano. Papa does not know I am writing this letter,
     and it will please him very much to see it in print. Mamma always
     looks over my letters, so of course she knows this is the first
     letter I have ever written to you.

  GRACE M. S.

If I were you, I would learn to read music, and then when you have a
piano, as I hope you will some day, you will be all ready to begin your
study in earnest.

       *       *       *       *       *

  NEW YORK CITY.

     As I see so many little girls and boys writing to YOUNG PEOPLE, I
     thought I would like to write too, and tell you how I have enjoyed
     myself in the country this summer. We went to Pine Plains, a place
     up the Hudson River, about one hundred miles from New York city.
     Pine Plains is in a beautiful part of Dutchess County; the country
     is very mountainous, some mountains rising to the height of one
     thousand feet. There are also some very nice lakes, where we found
     beautiful pond-lilies growing.

     In the village there are four churches, and a free library, which
     contains a great many interesting books. The library is in the
     Post-office Building, and close by is the Pine Plains Bank. The
     main street is about half a mile long, beautifully shaded by large
     trees, beyond which is a lovely valley, in which was situated the
     house where we were staying, entirely secluded from the village by
     trees.

     We had a croquet lawn in front of the house, and a short distance
     back of it was a splendid running brook, where we spent a great
     deal of our time wading in the water, and amused ourselves by
     building a dam. In some parts the water was deep enough for us to
     go in bathing, which we enjoyed very much.

     I could write of many other things we did while there, but fear to
     make my letter too long.

  GRACE PASCALL F.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ELLERSHOUSE, NOVA SCOTIA.

     I was writing a letter last March to tell you how much we all liked
     HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, but before I had it finished we were taken
     ill with diphtheria, and one of my little brothers died. His name
     was Herbert; he was six years old, and he liked HARPER'S YOUNG
     PEOPLE too. I had three brothers and a little baby sister. Now I
     have two brothers. Arthur is eight years old, Cecil is three and a
     half, and baby is two and a half. I will be ten on the 1st of
     January. We live in the country, and have a governess. We are
     saving all the HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLES to have them bound. We had a
     little pet squirrel, and kept it for a little while, and then let
     it go, as it did not seem happy.

  FRANKIE C.

You did right to set your squirrel free if he seemed to long for
liberty. I am sorry to hear that you have lost a dear little brother.

       *       *       *       *       *

  FOND DU LAC, WISCONSIN.

     I had two little kittens--one was white and yellow, and the other
     was white and gray--but I lost them both, for they ran away. I go
     to school, and am number seven in my class, and I am seven years
     old. I have a box of tools, and make little boats, and sell them to
     my playmates for pins. Last Saturday papa took me out in the
     country, and we gathered some hickory and hazel nuts. We had a fine
     time. I have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE nearly a year, and I enjoy
     the stories so much, and the letters also. Mamma is writing this
     letter for me, as I can not. Please try and print it. Good-by.

  HARRY S.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CAHTO, MENDOCINO COUNTY, CALIFORNIA.

     The picture in the Post-office Box of August 1 looks very much like
     my sister Sophia. In your answer to our letters you said, "Did we
     ever forget to come to dinner?" Very often. Brother Ed has been out
     hunting again. You told me to persuade him not to go unless we
     needed a deer for food. He killed a fat deer. While he was thinking
     how he could get his deer on the horse to fetch it home, he heard a
     noise in the tree above him, and looking up, he saw a swarm of bees
     that had come out of a hollow in the tree.

     After that he succeeded in getting his deer on the horse, came
     home, and told father his luck of finding a bee tree and killing
     his deer. Father went with him to cut the tree down and get the
     honey. Only going prepared to get a gallon, when the tree was cut
     it had over one hundred pounds of honey. Oh dear! nothing to save
     it in, and five miles from any one else!

  ALLIE R.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I live in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and Aunt Maria, who lives near
     Buffalo, New York, sends us YOUNG PEOPLE. When it comes we all call
     out, "HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for me first!" Ross, my little brother,
     likes the funny page best. I go for Jimmy Brown's stories, but I
     like "The Cruise of the Canoe Club" very much. We have two
     mocking-birds and a kitten. We have a horse too, but we don't pet
     him much.

  ACKLAND J.

       *       *       *       *       *

  XENIA, OHIO.

     I am a little girl eleven years of age. My sister Fanny gave me
     YOUNG PEOPLE for a New-Year's gift, and you can not imagine what an
     amount of pleasure I get out of it. My sister Mary takes _St.
     Nicholas_, and I your paper, and we have such good times reading
     them. All the boys and girls tell about their pets, and so I
     thought I would tell you about an old cat that stays here. One
     morning father met her in the hall, and the minute she saw him she
     ran upstairs and stood by one of the doors and mewed. Father opened
     the door, and she ran in. After breakfast my little sister and I
     went upstairs, and we found two kittens with her--wee little ones.
     Afterward she hid them, and we could not find them, until just the
     other day, when we found them in a covered box in a shed. Papa
     thinks she was afraid of us. I have a beautiful wax doll; her name
     is Violet. I think of all the stories I like "Mr. Stubbs's Brother"
     the best.

  BESSIE DE M.

       *       *       *       *       *

  FORT MCKAVETT, TEXAS.

     I have been at this post since April, and like it here very much.
     Papa was on a leave of absence, and we were staying in
     Philadelphia. When his leave was over he was ordered to Fort
     McKavett. We had a very pleasant trip out here. We came as far as
     San Antonio in the cars. When we were in the cars we passed cotton
     fields and sugar plantations; they were the first I had ever seen.
     From San Antonio we came by stage. We started at eight o'clock in
     the morning, and rode until ten at night. The next morning we
     started at about half past six, and rode until six o'clock the next
     morning. We were all very tired when we got here, and it took us
     two or three days to get rested.

     I brought my little canary-bird all the way with me, and he stood
     the stage trip very well. There are lots of funny little horned
     toads about here, and plenty of prairie-dogs. When we go out riding
     we see whole towns of them. One day, when my sister and a friend
     and I were out riding, the driver killed a large rattlesnake. It
     had eight rattles. We killed two tarantulas in our dining-room one
     evening.

  HATTIE J.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some of my little friends ask me to tell them of interesting games for
the long evenings. Here are two, one of which you will find instructive,
and the other amusing. Please try both:

JUDGE AND JURY.

The players elect a judge and three jurors.

Before the game begins, the players, except the judge and jury, take the
names of historical personages, as Alfred the Great, Queen Philippa,
etc. The judge calls up a player, and asks questions about his or her
reign or life.

The player must pay a forfeit for any mistake in answering.

We will suppose a number of children engaged in this play. Edith is the
judge. She reads from a paper handed to her:

"I find on my list Sir Philip Sidney, Semiramis, Philippa, Joan of Arc,
Margaret of Anjou, Elizabeth, and Mary of Scotland. Come before us, Sir
Philip Sidney, and tell us in whose reign you lived."

ANTHONY (_as Sir Philip Sidney_). I lived in the reign of the great
Queen Elizabeth, and my home was in Kent.

JUDGE. What did you do in your lifetime?

ANTHONY. I wrote books, and I fought and fell at Zutphen.

JUDGE. On which action of your past life can you look back with most
pleasure?

ANTHONY. Giving a cup of cold water to a dying soldier on the field of
battle.

JUDGE. You may go without a forfeit. Now, Semiramis, what have you to
say for yourself?

MARY. I was very ambitious, and have no good to say of myself.

JUDGE. Where did you live?

MARY. In Nineveh and Babylon. I built Babylon chiefly myself.

JUDGE. Relate your story as well as you can.

MARY. I showed King Ninus how to take a city, but he must have been very
stupid not to think of such an easy plan himself. He married me. I asked
him to let me be Queen for a day, and the first use I made of my power
was to cut off his head. I fought a great deal when I became Queen all
alone, but at last I was killed.

JUDGE. Your story is quite correct, I believe, but the jury wish to say
something.

JURY. We think Mary must pay a forfeit for choosing the name of so bad a
Queen. (_Mary pays it._)

JUDGE. Queen Philippa, come forward.

Queen Philippa relates her story, but as she forgot her favorite poet,
Chaucer, when she was questioned about him, she had to pay a forfeit.

Joan of Arc forgot the name of the King for whom she fought, and had to
pay a forfeit.

Queen Margaret could not repeat the names of her twelve battles, and
paid a forfeit.

Elizabeth was correct in all matters, like a wise Queen as she was.

Mary of Scotland forgot where she had been brought up, and also paid a
forfeit.

After this the judge and jury may be changed.

It is always a good plan to prepare beforehand for this game, as it is
mortifying to little students to make too many mistakes.

ADONIS PUT UP AT AUCTION.

In this game two players--the Auctioneer and the Salesman--agree as to
the thing to be offered in exchange for Adonis, but this they keep
secret between themselves.

Then as many slips of paper are cut as there are players. On one the
name of Adonis is written. They are folded up and put into a bag. The
players draw them, and he or she who draws Adonis is seated on a chair
in the middle of the circle (the Auctioneer beside him), and is put up
for sale by auction.

The Auctioneer says: "Here is Adonis, remarkable for his great beauty
and love of hunting. What will you bid for him?"

Each player has five bids alternately, but none must bid money.

FIRST PLAYER. I will give a bunch of roses for Adonis.

AUCTIONEER. A bunch of roses. Who bids for Adonis? Going, going, for a
bunch of roses. (_He raises his hammer, which may be a pencil._)

SECOND PLAYER. I will bid a lump of sugar.

AUCTIONEER. A lump of sugar for Adonis. Going, going, for a lump of
sugar.

THIRD PLAYER. I will bid an old gray goose.

AUCTIONEER. Going, going, etc., etc.

FOURTH PLAYER. I will bid a postage stamp.

And thus they go on bidding, until one of the players says, "I will bid
a looking-glass," which being the thing the auctioneer and seller had
this time agreed on, Adonis is knocked down to her, and is bound to do
whatever she commands, such as sing a song, tell a story, hop round the
room, etc., etc. Should the right price not be given by the time the
bidding has gone round five times, the Auctioneer tells what it is, and
says, "I have bought Adonis in with a ring," a bouquet, or whatever else
has been fixed on between him and the seller. Then all the circle have
to pay forfeits to Adonis.

       *       *       *       *       *

PHILO.--It was not possible to insert your exchange at the time you
requested. If you still desire its publication, please send it again,
with your new address, and it shall duly appear.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

TWO DOUBLE ACROSTICS.

1.--1. A household utensil. 2. Inactive. 3. Pure. 4. Not distant. 5.
Rest. 6. An extremity. Primals compose the name of a land, and finals of
a sea-bird.

  JUNE BUG.

2.--1. A fruit. 2. A heavenly body. 3. A sort of down. 4. A building. 5.
A girl's name. 6. A precious stone. Primals and finals compose the names
of two articles in favor with ladies.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.

TWO WORD SQUARES.

1.--1. Something to burn. 2. A fabled giant. 3. Minerals. 4. A piece of
school furniture.

2.--1. Small animals. 2. An image. 3. Something found in mines. 4. A
girl's name.

  ARTHUR G. B.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.

A RIDDLE.

  Nobody sees me,
    I'm everywhere seen;
  You were never without me,
    Or peasant or queen.
  All live by my help,
    Yet catch me who can,
  I can outrun the fastest,
    My dear little man.
  Now riddle-me-ree,
  Whoever you be,
    And tell me my name if you can.

  MOTHER BUNCH.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.

THREE DIAMONDS.

1.--1. A letter. 2. An enemy. 3. A weight. 4. A stopping-place. 5. A
letter.

2.--1. A letter. 2. Part of a verb. 3. Not sadly. 4. Cunning. 5. In
parchment.

3.--1. In plush. 2. A covering. 3. Something essential to HARPER'S YOUNG
PEOPLE. 4. A beverage. 5. A letter.

  CHRISTINE and GRETCHEN.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 152.

No. 1.

  P E R I L    L U N E T
  E B O N Y    U N I T E
  R O V E R    N I T E R
  I N E Y E    E T E R N
  L Y R E S    T E R N S

  A T O M    E D E N
  T Y N E    D O V E
  O N C E    E V E R
  M E E K    N E R O

No. 2.

King-fisher. Looking-glass.

No. 3.

        L                C
      F A T            C A P
    F A C E D        C A I R O
  L A C O N I C    C A I T I F F
    T E N S E        P R I N T
      D I E            O F T
        C                F

No. 4.

  G L A R E
  L O S E
  A S K
  R E
  E

  E V E N T    B R I E R
  V I N E      R A C E
  E N D        I C E
  N E          E E
  T            R

       *       *       *       *       *

Answer to Enigma on page 784.--A share.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been sent by Christine and Gretchen,
C. P. Sutton, Birdie Bell, Edgar Coe, Tom Duncan, William A. Lewis,
R. T. A., Charles St. Clare, Benny Dunn, Fanny Chester, Archie Hughes,
Anne C., Daisy Dean, Johnston & Co., Dora Payne, Thomas B., Lawrence
Fisher, and Maud Marian Thompson.

       *       *       *       *       *

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




[ILLUSTRATION: FOUR GOATS.--A PUZZLE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

WHO WAS HE, AND WHAT DID HE INVENT?

BY I. R. OQUOIS.

He was born on the 9th day of June, 1781, in a small village eight miles
west of a large town whose name occurs in an old and well-known saying
about carrying coals.

His father, who went by the name of "Old Bob," and was fireman of the
pumping engine in a colliery, was a hard-working man, and so poor that
the floor of the house in which he lived was of clay, and the walls and
ceiling unplastered.

He was the next to the eldest in a family of six children.

When he was eight years old his father moved to Dewly Burn. After they
went there he soon began earning twopence a day for herding Widow
Ainslie's cows. He was anxious to work in the colliery, and before long
he obtained a position there. When he was fourteen he was assistant to
his father. His wages were a shilling a day, and he was so afraid he
would be thought too young for the work that he would hide whenever the
owner came to the mines. He was always happy and good-natured about his
work, and full of fun. When he was seventeen he had advanced until he
was receiving twelve shillings a week, but he was not able to read. He
was fond of studying machinery, and had a decided taste for inventing
and improving, but he could not do much without books, so he attended
night school three nights in the week. At the age of twenty he added to
his other earnings by shoe-making.

He was married when he was twenty-one. He devoted all his spare time to
the study of mechanics and to inventing, but none of his inventions were
successful as yet. He devoted his evenings to mending clocks and watches
to get the means to send his only son to school.

Before 1812 he was deeply interested in and at work on the invention
which afterward made him famous. His invention was tried in 1814, and
proved a failure.

He still worked on, and after various experiments made great
improvements in it. In 1825 his invention was declared a success, and in
1829 he received a prize of £500 for it.

Ho soon became wealthy and famous. His invention came into common use,
and is seen every day by most of the readers of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

He died on the 12th day of August, 1848.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TOMB OF AN EMPRESS.

Should you ever visit Agra, in India, you would see one of the most
beautiful tombs in the world. It is called the Taj Mahal, and was built
by the Emperor Shah Jehan in memory of his beautiful and dearly loved
wife.

He began to erect it in 1630, and it was not finished until 1647, though
twenty thousand workmen were employed on it during those seventeen
years. One hundred and forty thousand cart-loads of pink sandstone and
marble were used in this mausoleum, and every province in the empire
sent jewels to adorn it.

From the Punjab came jasper, from Broach carnelians, from Thibet
turquoises, from Yemen agates, from Ceylon lapis lazuli, from Arabia
coral, from Bundelcund garnets, from Punnah diamonds, from Persia onyx,
from Malwah rock-crystal, and from Colombo sapphires.

The tomb stands on the bank of the Jumna, its golden crescent rising two
hundred and seventy feet above the level of the river. The garden in
front of it is surrounded by high walls, with a pavilion at each corner.

At the end of a wide avenue bordered by cypress-trees stands the Taj, a
dazzling mountain of white marble, uplifted from a terrace of pink
sandstone. In shape it is an irregular octagon, the longest sides of
which measure one hundred and twenty feet, with a terraced roof, and a
magnificent dome in the centre.

From base to summit the edifice is inlaid with arabesques, inscriptions,
and mosaics as dainty and delicate as the finest lace. Bishop Heber said
of this tomb that it was "built by Titans and finished by goldsmiths."

Within, the ceiling walls and tombstones are a mass of precious stones
representing flowers, fruits, and birds. The windows are rose-tinted.

Through the silence steals now and then a faint and musical echo, caused
by the dome, which being closed by the ceiling of the hall, forms a
whispering-gallery.

All this magnificence commemorates an Empress whose goodness and
loveliness were such that her name is honored throughout the East.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MONKEY AND THE SUGAR.

I remember once in India giving a tame monkey a lump of sugar inside a
corked bottle. The monkey was of an inquiring mind, and it nearly killed
it. Sometimes in an impulse of disgust it would throw the bottle away,
out of its own reach, and then be distracted until it was given back to
it.

At others it would sit with a countenance of the most intense dejection,
contemplating the bottled sugar, and then, as if pulling itself together
for another effort at solution, would sternly take up the problem
afresh, and gaze into it. It would tilt it up one way and try to drink
the sugar out of the neck, and then, suddenly reversing it, try to catch
it as it fell out at the bottom.

Under the impression that it could capture it by a surprise, it kept
rasping its teeth against the glass in futile bites, and warming to the
pursuit of the revolving lump, used to tie itself into regular knots
round the bottle. Fits of the most ludicrous melancholy would alternate
with spasm of delight as a new idea seemed to suggest itself, followed
by a fresh series of experiments.

Nothing availed, however, until one day a light was shed upon the
problem by a jar of olives falling from the table with a crash, and the
fruit rolling about in all directions. His monkeyship contemplated the
catastrophe, and reasoned upon it with the intelligence of a Humboldt.
Lifting the bottle high in his claws, he brought it down upon the floor
with a tremendous noise, smashing the glass into fragments, after which
he calmly transferred the sugar to his mouth and munched it with much
satisfaction.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FUN AT RECESS.--"THE TUG OF WAR."]





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, October 17, 1882, by Various