CARBO: HIS STORY.
A ROLL OF HONOR.
THE CHILD AND THE BIRD.
PIANO-PLAYING IN THE TIME OF MOZART AND BEETHOVEN.
THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.
SOME HINTS ON DOG TEACHING.
BESSY'S FAIRY GODMOTHER.
THE CITY OF THE CALIPHS.
OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

[Pg 817]

vol. iii.—no. 156. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents.
Tuesday October 24, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance.

"WAIT A FEW MINUTES, PUSSY."

[Pg 818]

## CARBO: HIS STORY.

### BY SHERWOOD RYSE.

One raw, disagreeable night last spring I was set down by a local train at a little junction on a Western railroad to wait for the eastward-bound express. The dépôt house was a little place lighted by an oil lamp which gave out a choking smell, and heated by a big stove that devoured every breath of fresh air that found its way into the close room.

Turning away from it, I began pacing the platform in order to keep warm, and had passed an engine that was taking a rest on a side track, but panting heavily all the time, when, as I came back, I thought I saw a queer little face at the window of the cab. I stopped, and the queer little face again showed itself. It was, without doubt, a monkey. As I stopped and made signs to him he began to chatter and to rap on the glass with his fingers, and the next moment the engineer's face appeared above his.

"You have a strange passenger there," said I.

"Well, yes, p'r'aps so," replied the engineer, and he picked up a lighted lantern and threw the light upon my face. "Yes, it may seem queer to strangers," he went on, "but it's natural to me now. We've travelled many a hundred miles together. Eh, Carbo?" addressing his companion.

"I think there must be a story connected with that monkey," I said. "Would you mind telling it to me if there is?"

"Are you waiting for the express?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, come up into the cab. It's warm in here. Carbo, you selfish rascal, give up that seat to the stranger. There, there, I know you're fond of me," he added, "but you needn't keep on kissing me.

"Well, sir, it's wonderful the intelligence of these monkeys. When I first knew Carbo he was in the coal business, and that's why I call him Carbo. Yes, you may laugh, but it's a fact. He had a coal-yard right at the dépôt at K——, a little junction where every train but two expresses a day has to stop. He wasn't the proprietor of that yard. He was a salaried employé, like what merchants call a 'buyer.' He bought the coal, and the chap that owned the yard sold it again at a big profit—at least I guess he must have sold some of it."

"And pray what sort of money did Carbo pay for it?" I asked.

"Antics, sir," replied the engineer, disengaging Carbo's fingers from his beard, which the attentive little fellow was carefully combing; "antics, sir, and pranks. This was the how of it: Carbo lived, as I say, with a man that owned a little house and yard right where the engines mostly stopped at K—— Junction. Coal was dear that winter, and so this man lighted on a dodge to make Carbo keep him in coal free of all expense.

"He set up a pole, in the middle of his yard, twenty feet high, and on top of it he set a little platform with a little roof over it, and on that platform he tied this here monkey. Well, sir, that man knew human nature well, for he reckoned that not an engine would stop there but the engineer and his mate would have a shot with a chunk of coal at that chattering monkey on the pole, and every chunk would fall into his yard. And I guess the old man—he wasn't so old either, but he was a dry kind of a chap as always had a sly grin on his face, as if he was chuckling at the way we boys slinged good coal into his yard—I guess he reckoned aright. Many's the time when I've chucked half a dozen lumps of coal at this little chap, never thinking how I was a-feeding the old man's stove with the company's coal. I reckon Carbo must have made as much as two hundred-weight of coal a week. It seems a heap to give away, but, bless you! I never guessed that any other engineer but me ever threw coal at that monkey. But I thought a good deal of it afterward, and I made up my mind that every one of 'em did, and their mates too—such is human nature. Not that we wanted to hurt the little beast, but he was such a good mark, though I never heard that any one ever hit him, he was so quick."

"Well, sir," I said, as the engineer paused to light his pipe, "that is the best true monkey story I've heard yet, and I guess it is true. But how did you come to get him? I should think he would have been too valuable to be parted with."

"There's a story to that, too, Colonel," he replied. "It was a year ago, just about this time, that the family that Carbo lived with got burned out one windy night. P'r'aps they'd been using coal too free, seeing as they came by it so easy. Anyway, I came up one morning on my engine, and there the little house and the cow-shed and the little corn-crib was all a heap of smoking ashes. It had caught fire in the night, and burned down in twenty minutes, so the neighbors said. The poor old man was so badly burned trying to get his cow out of the shed that he died inside of two days; and his wife and daughters escaped in their night clothes, but that was all they had. The neighbors took them in, but everything they owned, except a few acres of run-down land, was burned up.

"Of course it got talked of along the line, and by-and-by it came out that every engineer and fireman as come along had chucked chunks of coal at that monkey on his pole. Well, the agent at K—— was a kind-hearted chap, and no fool either, and he thought he'd get up a benefit to help the poor old woman. So he had a handbill printed, telling how the family had been burned out, and the old man killed, and how that all they had left was a pet monkey. Then it went on to say that the monkey would be raffled for at two dollars a share, and called upon every engineer and fireman who had thrown the company's coal at the monkey to take a share for the benefit of the widow and orphans.

"Well, sir, that handbill was circulated all along the line, and the boys came to think how they'd been throwing away the company's coal (for the neighbors told the whole story when the old man was dead), and they felt mean. Then the company refused to take any shares when it was brought to their notice, so the boys thought they'd make it right with their consciences by buying a share with what they owed the company for coal they'd thrown at the monkey.

"And so, as every train came up after pay-day, the boys handed in two dollars apiece without a growl, and some of us took two shares apiece. Then the handbill had got into the cars, and some of the passengers who read the story bought shares; and so, when it came to be footed up, the value of this little chap here was found to be five hundred dollars, all paid up.

"Well, sir, we appointed a committee to conduct the raffle, and one night I got a dispatch from Perkins, the dépôt agent at K——, saying: 'Monkey is yours. Will you take twenty dollars for him?' I wired back: 'No, nor two hundred. Keep him until I come up with No. 12.' So next day I got him. You see, I'd been thinking a deal about this monkey, and now I'd won him I thought he'd keep me in luck. Well, I've had him nigh on to a year now, and I wouldn't part with him for as much money as he brought the widow."

"I don't wonder at that," I said; "and he seems very fond of you, too. But what became of the widow and orphans?"

"Oh, she's done finely. She bought out a small grocery, and she got so well known, owing to her misfortune, that all the folks came to trade with her. I drop in on her sometimes when I have to lay over for an hour or two, and she always asks after Jocko, as she calls him; but it's such a common monkey name that I called him Carbo, which means something; and then she mostly cries a[Pg 819] little, thinking of the old man. I don't know as she thinks Carbo brought her much luck altogether, but he kept the family in coal for a whole winter—no one would ever have thought of throwing at a dog, even on top of a pole—and he brought five hundred dollars that saved 'em from the poor-house.

"But here's the express signaled, so I guess you'd better get down. I've told that story a hundred times, I reckon, and I'm 'most tired of telling it; but I saw you was a stranger in these parts, so I didn't mind telling it to you. Good-night to you, sir, and a pleasant journey!"

## A ROLL OF HONOR.

### BY G. T. LANIGAN.

Our young readers are already familiar with the stories of Kate Shelley, Edith Baxter, and the young hero of the Wardley coal mine, which have been told within a short time in Young People. Here are some other names that may be added to this noble list.

Every year, on the occasion of the national fêtes, the Belgian government makes a public distribution of rewards to persons who have displayed remarkable courage in a good cause. At the last festival at Brussels the Home Minister pinned a medal on the breast of a little boy of nine, whom he rightly called "a young hero." Genin, while playing in a field near the Sambre, had seen a little girl fall into the river, and jumping in after her, saved her, with much difficulty, and then found that it was his little sister that he had rescued. She had been playing on the river's edge against their parents' strict command, and to save her from punishment he took the blame of her disobedience on himself, and received a severe beating like a little Spartan. His sister, however, could not bear to see him suffer, and told the truth; and the story being confirmed by the evidence of an eye-witness, little Genin was sent for to Brussels, and decorated amid the cheers of a hundred thousand people.

Charles Mahony was a boy of twelve, who was playing on the banks of the Aire, in May last, with his two brothers, aged five and two, when they fell into the stream, swollen with the spring floods. Charles plunged in and brought the younger child to shore, and then swam for the elder one, who was drowning in the middle of the torrent, but the current was too powerful and the water too cold, and though he reached him, it was only to sink with him.

At Ashton-under-Lyne, Edward Wilcox, a peasant boy of fourteen, heard one night not long ago cries of distress from a canal near the house where he lived, and running out found a woman drowning, while two men were looking on, terrified and incapable of aiding her. Jumping into the water, he seized her as she was sinking, and brought her ashore and placed her in the warm bed he had just left, until he could run off for assistance. He thus earned the medal given him by the Humane Society.

During the holiday season two American girls have shown how useful an accomplishment swimming is. One was Fannie Coman, of Harlem, a slim blue-eyed girl of fourteen, who, when a little girl fell from the wharf into the river where both current and tide were strong, called to those on shore to come to her help, and diving into the stream, brought the child up and placed her in a boat moored off the wharf, and then swam off to recover her slipper. The second was Emma Hamilton, a girl of fifteen, living at Northport, Long Island, who made a gallant though fruitless effort to save her cousin when he was seized with a cramp while bathing, and at last recovered his body.

Two other heroes, the youngest of all, remain to be mentioned. One was a five-year-old boy at Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, named Carey, who, when a playmate fell into the water, held him up by the hair till assistance reached them. The other was the elder of two very young brothers who broke through the ice while skating at Cincinnati, and were clinging desperately to the slippery floes while the rescuers were toiling to reach them. "Be sure you take Willie out first!" were the only words the elder brother said; but before assistance came the little fellows sank together in the icy water.

These are the stories of brave boys and girls, the youngest five, the eldest only fifteen, born some in Europe and some in America, some city bred and delicately reared, others the children of farmers and rude laborers. Upon each devolved, without an instant's warning, the most sacred and awful of responsibilities—the saving of the lives of others at the risk of one's own life. In not one case did childhood falter, and in every instance the bravest thing was done in the wisest way.

Some of the children, doubtless, had read and admired the histories of patriots and brave soldiers, and had wondered whether such heroes lived nowadays, or such heroic deeds could ever again be done. And when the need came the hero was found, and the hero was the child that had read and wondered.

## THE CHILD AND THE BIRD.

### BY MARGARET SANGSTER.

"Oh, where are you going, my dear little bird?
And why do you hurry away?
Not a leaf on the pretty red maple has stirred,
In the sweet golden sunshine to-day."
"I know, little maiden, the sunshine is bright,
And the leaves are asleep on the tree,
But three times the dream of a cold winter's night
Has come to my children and me.
"So good-by to you, darling, for off we must go,
To the land where the oranges bloom,
For we birdies would freeze in the storms and the snow,
And forget how to sing in the gloom."
"Will you ever come back to your own little nest?"
"Ah, yes, when the blossoms are here,
We'll return to the orchard we all love the best,
And then we will sing to you, dear."

## PIANO-PLAYING IN THE TIME OF MOZART AND BEETHOVEN.

### BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

I hope that some of my readers will remember the history of the piano-forte in a former number of Young People. Since then we have looked somewhat into the lives of great composers. Now let us see to what degree piano-forte playing had progressed when Mozart died, in 1792, and when the great master Ludwig von Beethoven was a young man just entering on his career of work.

To begin with, let us look at the pianos of that day. Although the harpsichord had been greatly improved upon, the keys and strings yet needed something to aid elasticity of touch. In Bach's day it had been the custom to strike the key, drawing the fingers inward slightly, and a suppleness of wrist, which masters think so much of at present, was not considered valuable. But with Haydn and Mozart came a need of something finer in the piano-forte itself, and musicians felt strongly the necessity of an improvement in the instrument whereby they could make more gradual effects. Many efforts to alter the strings and hammers for this purpose proved unsuccessful, but at last the main difficulties were overcome, and before Beethoven's death, in 1827, pianos of various degrees of excellence were in use, with all the desired improvements. To this more than to anything else we owe the improvement in piano-forte playing.

LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN.

At concerts during this period the piano was largely used, and also in private houses; but lessons from the best masters were rare, and, unless the pupil designed to pursue a musical career, few except the leading people of society[Pg 820] studied piano-forte music. In general, the interest in it was not great. Poor Beethoven used often to writhe under what he considered personal slights. A story is told of his once being at the house of Prince —— with Ries, the famous musician. They were invited to play together, and while in the midst of their performance a young nobleman at the lower end of the salon talked quite loudly with his companion. Beethoven glared at him once or twice in vain, and finally lifting Ries's hands from the piano, he called out, "Stop! I will not play for such dogs!" and away he went in spite of every attempt to an apology.

Such interruptions to music in a drawing-room occur often enough now, but in the beginning of this century, as I said, piano-forte performances were confined to a much smaller number, and naturally appreciation was not general. On the other hand, if a child showed any ability, it was kept very closely to study. Mozart had pupils who thought nothing of five hours' practice a day, and Beethoven, when a boy, was kept to the piano for hours by means of a good beating every time he left it.

The misery of a musical career at that time was certainly lack of general understanding of the art. Musicians had to procure for themselves noble patrons—rich ladies or gentlemen who would help them on in their divine art, patronize their concerts, get pensions for them, or in some cases offer them homes where they might work unmolested by debt and other domestic trouble. In this way Beethoven lived a great part of the time at the house of Princess Lichnowsky in Vienna. Mozart was also indebted to some friends for hospitality and influence, and indeed where the public were so often unappreciative, private patronage had to be sought for, in order that the world might have many of the noble harmonies we possess to-day.

In those days the famous composers or musicians were the only teachers, so that any young student who cared for his work had admirable opportunity to improve. Mozart gave lessons of great length, and seems to have enjoyed them heartily. Haydn had many pupils, one of whom was Beethoven, and we read that he paid Haydn eighteen cents a lesson!

During that period which includes the last years of Mozart's life and the first of Beethoven's, between 1780 and 1792, the way was being laid for Beethoven's grandest work, and yet we can hardly call it a transition state; that is to say, a period of time when any art is undergoing a change which shall effect its whole purpose. But with Beethoven came the perfection of the Sonata and the Symphony, and all performers, whether in public or private, who attempted his works, were compelled to understand technique and the use of their fingers on the keyboard, so that we may say, justly enough, that with Beethoven we seem almost to begin a new era in piano-forte music.

I have told you the step upward old Bach made; then Haydn went still further, preparing the way for Beethoven's perfect work. Mozart's brilliancy and delicacy both as a performer and a composer helped the movement on in every way, and during the first quarter of this century a number of men came into fame as masters in execution and composition as well. Indeed, with the beginning of this century piano-playing had reached a period of excellence which allowed a master to indulge all his feelings and ideas in composing for this instrument.

In 1787, Beethoven, then a lad of about seventeen, visited Mozart in Vienna. It was about the time that Don Giovanni was being produced, and Mozart's mind was full of its importance, so that the visit seemed of much less consequence to him than to Beethoven. The latter seated himself at the piano, Mozart standing by waiting good-humoredly for one of the usual performances of "prodigies" whose parents destine them for the public. But the lad played so brilliantly that Mozart could not but believe that he was executing a well-prepared piece. Beethoven felt this, and eagerly begged Mozart to give him a theme and let him vary upon it.

To this Mozart consented, and presently the room seemed to vibrate with the rush of harmony beneath Beethoven's touch. Mozart listened in silent admiration, and going softly upon tiptoe into the next room, said to some friends assembled there:

"Pay attention to him. He will make a noise in the world some day or other"[1]—a prophecy soon fulfilled.

Beethoven's touch was strong and masterly, but rather heavy, and as his deafness increased, his performances on the piano were almost painful to listen to. His left hand often remained unconsciously on the wrong chord. Mozart never lost the brilliancy of his playing. Haydn, it is said, made the piano "sing," but to the musicians who followed Beethoven we owe the perfection of piano-forte playing and instruction. Moscheles, Mendelssohn, Chopin, and others realized the highest art in execution. Not very long ago a lady was recounting to me scenes in which, according to her description, Mendelssohn and Moscheles performed actual marvels at the piano, the delicacy and lightness of both their styles reminding her "of a forest full of delicious birds."

In the period of which I speak now—that is, the beginning of this century—you will remember how little public appreciation of art existed, and how hard the greatest men toiled for all they obtained. But love of art is powerful. It will carry any one of you over the roughest places, and in looking at your well-arranged exercises, try to remember those patient, eager students of eighty years ago, to whom every bit of help came so slowly that we of to-day ought to think our pathway cleared of every thorn.

[Pg 821]

## THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[2]

### BY W. L. ALDEN,

Author of "The Moral Pirates," "The Cruise of the 'Ghost,'" etc., etc.

### Chapter XI.

It sometimes blows very hard on the St. Lawrence. It blew especially hard the morning the young canoeists returned to the banks of the great river from their excursion up the Jacques Cartier. As far as they could see, the St. Lawrence was covered with white-caps. The wind blew directly up the river, and a heavy sea was breaking on the little island which lay opposite the mouth of the Jacques Cartier. Paddling against such a wind and sea would have been nearly impossible, and the boys resolved to wait until the wind should go down.

The day was a long one, for there was nothing to do but to watch the men at work in the saw-mill, and to look out on the river to see if the wind and sea had gone down. It continued to blow hard all day and all night, and when Harry awoke his comrades at five o'clock the next morning it was blowing as hard as ever.

Nobody wanted to spend another day at the saw-mill. Although the wind was blowing up the river, the tide was ebbing, and would help the canoes to make some little progress, in spite of the wind and sea. So after a hurried breakfast the fleet got under way at six o'clock, and gallantly breasted the waves.

The boys found that paddling against so strong a head-wind was harder than they had imagined that it could be. It was almost impossible to force the upper blade of the paddle through the air when trying to make a stroke, and it was only by turning the two paddle-blades at right angles to one another, so that the upper blade would present its edge to the wind, that this could be done. The seas were so large that the two canoes which were leading would often be entirely invisible to the other canoes, though they were but a few yards apart. The Twilight, as was her habit when driven against head-seas, threw spray all over herself, and the Dawn exhibited her old vice of trying to dive through the seas. The other canoes were dry enough, but they presented more resistance to the wind, and hence were harder to paddle.

Little was said during the first half-hour, for everybody was working too hard at the paddle to have any breath to spare for talking; but finally Harry, who was in the advance with Charley, slackened his stroke, and hailing Joe and Tom, asked them how they were getting along.

"Wet as usual," replied Joe. "The water is pretty near up to my waist in the canoe, and two waves out of three wash right over her. But I don't care; I'll paddle as long as anybody else will."

"My canoe will float, unless the bladders burst," said Tom, "but I'll have to stop and bail out before long, or she'll be so heavy that I can't stir her."

"Never mind," cried Joe. "Look at the splendid time we're making. We've come nearly a quarter of a mile, and that means that we're paddling at the rate of half a mile an hour. At this rate we'll get somewhere in the course of the summer."

"There isn't any use in tiring ourselves out for nothing," exclaimed Harry. "Boys, we'll make that sand-spit right ahead of us, and wait there till the wind goes down."

"All right," said Joe. "Only it's a pity to go ashore when the tide is helping us along so beautifully. That is, the Commodore said it would help us, and of course he is right."

"No reflections on the Commodore will be allowed," cried Harry. "Bail out your canoes, you two fellows, and Charley and I will wait for you."

Joe was very anxious to go ashore and rest, for he was nearly tired out; but he was not willing to let Harry know that he was tired. The two boys had been disputing while on the Jacques Cartier as to their respective strength, and Harry had boasted that he could endure twice as much fatigue as Joe. This was true enough, for Harry was older and much more muscular, but Joe was determined to paddle as long as he could swing his arms rather than admit that he was the weaker.

The sandy spit where Harry proposed to rest was half a mile farther on, but before it was reached poor Joe managed to sprain the muscles of his left wrist. He was compelled to stop paddling except just hard enough to keep the Dawn's head to the sea, and to call out to the Commodore that he must be allowed to go ashore at once.

Now the north shore of the river, near which the canoes[Pg 822] were paddling, was a rocky precipice, rising perpendicularly directly from the water, and at least two hundred feet high. To land on such a shore was of course impossible, and the sandy spit toward which the fleet was paddling was the only possible landing-place within sight, unless the canoes were to turn round and run back to the Jacques Cartier.

In this state of things Harry, after consulting with Charley and Tom, resolved to tow the Dawn. Her painter was made fast to the stern-post of the Sunshine, and Harry, bracing his feet and setting his teeth tight together, began the task of forcing two heavy canoes through the rough water. He found that he could make progress slowly, but Joe could not steer the Dawn except by paddling, and as he was able to do very little of that, she kept yawing about in a most unpleasant way, which greatly added to Harry's labor.

Suddenly Joe had a happy thought: he set his "dandy" and hauled the sheet taut, so that the boom was parallel with the keel. The effect of this was that whenever the canoe's head fell off, the sail filled and brought her up again. Joe was relieved of the task of steering, and Harry was able to tow the Dawn much more easily than before.

The other canoeists followed Joe's example, and, setting their "dandies," greatly lessened their labor. The canoes kept their heads to the wind of their own accord, and everybody wondered why so obvious a method of fighting a head-wind had not sooner been thought of.

It was eight o'clock when the sandy spit was reached. The tide had been ebbing for some hours, and the sand was warm and dry, except near the edge of the water. The canoes were hauled some distance over the sand to a spot where there was a clump of bushes, and where it was reasonable to suppose that they would be perfectly safe even at high tide. A second breakfast was then cooked and eaten, after which the boys set out to explore their camping-ground.

It was simply a low sand-bank, about a hundred feet wide at widest part, and running out two or three hundred feet into the river. As has been said, the north bank of the river was a perpendicular precipice, but now that the tide was out, there was a path at the foot of the rocks by means of which any one could walk from the sand-spit to a ravine a quarter of a mile away, and thus reach the meadows lying back of the precipice. This path was covered with water at high tide; but as it was sure to be passable for three or four hours, Harry and Tom set out to procure provisions for the day.

The fleet was wind-bound all that day, for neither the wind nor the sea showed the slightest intention of going down. Harry and Tom returned, after an hour's absence, with bread, butter, eggs, milk, and strawberries, and with the cheerful information that, in the opinion of a gloomy farmer, the wind would continue to blow for at least two days more.

After resting and sleeping on the soft sand, the boys began to find the time hang heavily on their hands. They overhauled their sails and rigging, putting them in complete order. Charley mended a pair of trousers belonging to Joe in a really artistic way, and Joe, with his left arm in a sling, played "mumble-te-peg" with Harry. Tom collected fire-wood, and when he had got together more than enough to cook two or three meals, occupied himself by trying to roll a heavy log into a position near the canoes, where it could be used as a seat or a table.

The sand was strewn with logs, big and little, and Harry proposed that as many logs as possible should be got together, so that an enormous camp fire could be started. It was a happy idea, for it gave the boys employment for the greater part of the day. It became a matter of pride with them to bring the biggest and heaviest of the logs up to the fire-place. Some of them could only be stirred with levers, and moved with the help of rollers cut from smaller logs. Whenever a particularly big log was successfully moved, the boys were encouraged to attack a still bigger one. Thus they finally collected an amount of fire-wood sufficient to make a blaze bright enough to be seen a dozen miles at night.

When they were tired of rolling logs, Tom went fishing, but caught nothing, while Charley cooked the dinner and watched the rising tide, half afraid that the water would reach the fire and put it out before he could get dinner ready. The tide rose so high that it came within two or three yards of the fire, and almost as near to the canoes, but it spared the dinner. When the tide was nearly full, only a small part of the sand-spit was out of water, and the path along the foot of the precipice was completely covered, so that the waves broke directly against the rocks.

AROUND THE CAMP FIRE.

"It's lucky for us that the tide doesn't cover the whole of this place," remarked Charley, as he placed the dinner on a large log which served as a table, and beat a tattoo on the frying-pan as a signal to Tom to give up fishing and come to dinner. "I should hate to have to take to the canoes again in this wind."

"It's lucky that the tide will ebb again," said Harry, "for we're cut off from the shore as the tide is now, unless we could climb up the rocks, and I don't believe we could."

"It's all right," said Tom, putting his fishing-tackle in his canoe, "provided the tide doesn't come up in the night and float the canoes off."

"Oh, that can't happen," exclaimed Harry. "The tide's turned already, and doesn't reach the canoes."

"I'm going to sleep on the sand," remarked Joe. "It's softer than the bottom of my canoe, and there isn't any sign of rain."

"You don't catch me sleeping anywhere except in my canoe," said Harry. "There isn't any bed more comfortable than the Sunshine."

"Can you turn over in her at night?" asked Joe.

"Well, yes; that is, if I do it very slow and easy."

"The bottom board is a nice soft piece of wood, isn't it?" continued Joe.

"It's pine-wood," replied Harry, shortly. "Besides, I sleep on cushions."

"And you like to lie stretched out perfectly straight, don't you?"

"I like it well enough—much better than I like to see a young officer trying to chaff his Commodore," returned Harry, trying to look very stern.

"Oh, I'm not trying to chaff anybody!" exclaimed Joe. "I was only wondering if your canoe was as comfortable as a coffin would be, and I believe it is—every bit as comfortable."

When the time came for "turning in," Joe spread his water-proof blanket on the sand close by the side of his canoe. He had dragged her several yards away from the rest of the fleet, so as to be able to make his bed on the highest and driest part of the sand, and to shelter himself from the wind by lying in the lee of his boat. The other boys preferred to sleep in their canoes, which were placed side by side and close together. The blazing logs made the camp almost as light as if the sun were shining, and the boys lay awake a long while talking together, and hoping that the wind would die out before morning.

Joe, whose sprained wrist pained him a little, was the last to fall asleep. While he had expressed no fears about the tide (for he did not wish to be thought nervous), he was a little uneasy about it. He had noticed that when the tide rose during the day it would have completely covered the sand-spit had it risen only a few inches higher. Long after his comrades had fallen asleep it occurred to Joe that it would have been a wise precaution to make the canoes fast to the bushes, so that they could not be carried away; but he did not venture to wake the boys[Pg 823] merely in order to give them advice which they probably would not accept. So he kept silent, and toward ten o'clock fell asleep.

In the course of the night he began to dream. He thought that he was a member of an expedition trying to reach the North Pole in canoes, and that he was sleeping on the ice. He felt that his feet and back were slowly freezing, and that a polar-bear was nudging him in the ribs occasionally, to see if he was alive and ready to be eaten. This was such an uncomfortable situation that Joe woke up, and for a few moments could not understand where he was.

The wind had gone down, the stars had come out, and the tide had come up. Joe was lying in a shallow pool of water, and his canoe, which was almost afloat, was gently rubbing against him. He sprung up and called to his companions. There was no answer. The fire was out, but by the starlight Joe could see that the whole sand-spit was covered with water, and that neither the other boys nor their canoes were in sight. The tide was still rising, and Joe's canoe was beginning to float away, when he seized her, threw his blankets into her, and stepping aboard, sat down, and was gently floated away.

#### [to be continued.]

## SOME HINTS ON DOG TEACHING.

### BY EDWARD I. STEVENSON.

Any reader of the Young People who owns a dog, and who truly appreciates that animal's best qualities, should not suppose that the great end in educating his pet is getting him so familiar with half a dozen "tricks" that he will meekly perform them to the end of his life. Tricks are well enough as far as they go, but the grand object in teaching Towser or Jack should be the development in him of just as much general wide-awakeness and intelligence as is possible. One does not want by his chair in the winter, or on a summer-day's stroll a French performing poodle. He wants an affectionate, obedient, honest comrade—a comrade occasionally a servant, but always a friend.

This platform being adopted by Jack's master, let Jack himself from the first moment that he is taken in hand be made to feel two things. First, that the teaching is thoroughly a business that you and he are together interested in, and that its processes are all good fun and frolic, not work; secondly, that it is an affair of rewards and punishments. Jack's teaching must also be carried on with great regularity from day to day, and during only a few minutes of each day; no more. That Jack's teacher must be patient and good-tempered at his task, and that he must try to bring to it all the tact he possesses, need scarcely be said.

Let us suppose that one of the readers of the Young People has bought or has had given him a puppy of any species whatsoever—one need not here go into the much-vexed question of the relative intelligence of different breeds. Any dog, even if it be a "cur of low degree," is capable of high education, provided his schooling is begun early enough. You may begin to teach your puppy just as soon as you notice that he is running about freely and playing either by himself or with his kennel kin. Do not try to teach him earlier. If he be of the Newfoundland, the mastiff, or the St. Bernard species, his thirteenth week should mark the beginning of his education. Before this date you must content yourself with letting your pet see as much of you as possible each day. Permit him to scramble over you; feed him yourself; talk to him all that you can, so that he may early become entirely accustomed to the sound of your voice and his own name. When he is disposed to play, do you play with him.

The first direct step in his education should be to teach him, as a matter of duty, to come to you whenever called. As a matter of liking he has probably acquired this habit already. Take a dozen bits of cracker, stand fifteen or twenty feet distant, and call him by name, as "Come here, Jack." If he comes without delay, give him at once one of the pieces of cracker, pet him very enthusiastically, and make as much ado as possible over his arrival. Next walk off as before and repeat the process. If, however, he refuses to come after you have called him twice or thrice, say very decidedly, "Jack, if you do not come I shall whip you." Go up to him and administer one single cut with your whip. It is well to use one whip throughout all your dog's pupilage, to let him know by sight that particular whip, and also that the words "whip" and "whipping" refer to it.

After you have struck him once, go directly back to where you were standing, and call him as kindly as you can, holding out his reward. Now he may be afraid to come to you, recollecting the incident of a moment earlier. But he must never be whipped twice in succession. Go to him without anger in your face, pet him, play with him (I don't mean romp with him), until you see that his temporary dread of his master is gone, and that his spirits are recovered. Thereupon leave him, and try the cracker persuasion as before. He will probably come readily enough now. If not, you may this time use your whip; but recollect that while he is so young, his punishments should be alternated, as I have suggested, or you may do any high-spirited animal mischief without remedy.

When your dog is grown older, and has had time to develop actual stubbornness, the case is different. Be exceedingly careful not to cow the spirit of a young and high-bred dog when little past puppyhood by harsh words or chastisement. In fact, all dog teaching perfectly illustrates the old phrase that "love is better than lashes."

After being taught to come at call, Jack should be schooled to lie down on command. Stand beside him; put one hand on each side of his head gently but firmly, then say, very quietly and clearly, "Jack, lie down; lie down, Jack," at the same time, pressing steadily downward upon his head. He will perhaps somewhat reluctantly crouch and settle upon the ground. Place his fore-paws out in position before him, his nose lying between them; allow him to remain thus a few seconds, if necessary keeping your hands upon his head; follow this with a decisive "Get up, Jack," which act he will probably perform of his own accord. If not, put your hand gently under him, and raise him on all fours. Do not use your whip in teaching a dog to lie down or rise.

Let us suppose that Jack's fourth acquirement is to be the familiar one called "fetching and carrying." Speak the name of the article employed as distinctly and frequently as possible during the lesson. Show it to him in your hands, if, for example, it be a stick, a hat, or an umbrella, saying several times over, chattily, "That is a stick, Jack; see the stick." Open his mouth, and closing his jaw upon the stick, let him learn how to hold it. After this, walk along a little distance, he accompanying you with the stick. If he drops it, replace it. Be exceedingly patient as to this particular misdemeanor. Then throw the cane, stick, or hat to a point a few yards beyond. Go with Jack to it, telling him what you are about, pick it up, put it in his mouth gently, and return with him to the starting-place. Throw aside the article, reward and encourage. Repeat this process ten times in the morning and ten in the evening. The whip is not to be used in this lesson. When he is older, and exhibits laziness, you may refer to it or get it, and, with discretion, refresh his memory.

None of the foregoing first lessons must be repeated more than ten times of a morning or evening; you will perplex and confuse him otherwise. One must also be on guard for signs of this in the pet while teaching, and give[Pg 824] him ever the idea that you are disposed to meet him halfway in such a difficulty.

Leaping over a cane, going to find and close an open door whence a draught assails you, letter-carrying, and all more elaborate acts are to be taught a dog on this same principle of talking about the feat to him, and going and doing it with him in the first instances, then dividing the matter between you, lastly seeing that he does it alone, rewarding and punishing throughout. See to it that punishment be one or two cuts with a whip, not too stinging, and that you drop the whip immediately they are given. Never teach with whip in hand.

"Speaking" is a matter entirely of rewards. The whip is useless. You can also readily get him to use a particular whimper when he is thirsty, with a little tact and pains. Be absolutely truthful with Jack. Never ask him if he wants to walk, to drink, to have his dinner, or anything of the sort, unless you intend gratifying him at once.

Try and keep him at your side as much as possible during the day, and talk to him—I had nearly said with him—all you can. Before long you will get to feeling that if you should happen to remark to any person near you, "What a beautiful day!" you would not fall over in astonishment to hear Jack or Carlo quietly lift up his great head, and reply, "Yes, splendid; and I should like to take a walk with you."

A FIRST GLIMPSE INTO THE WORLD.

## BESSY'S FAIRY GODMOTHER.

### BY JULIA K. HILDRETH.

Little Bessy believed in fairies, although her mother smiled and shook her head when she asked, "Did you ever see a fairy?"

At the time my story begins Bessy sat on the window-sill with a great book open on her knee, straining her eyes to catch the last words of the most delightful story she had ever read. It was all about fairy godmothers, shoes filled with gold, and other wonderful things to be found in such books.

As the light died out of the sky, and a soft purple mist settled down upon the hill-tops, she sighed, and closed her book, for the story was finished.

Bessy's father and mother were away from home, and she was alone that evening. The sound of voices and the rattling of dishes came from the kitchen. The crickets had begun their evening song; the lanes were growing dim and mysterious. Bessy could imagine a fairy head peeping from every tall flower by the garden gate, and the Queen of them all seemed to bow to her from the tall white lily in the pansy bed.

Bessy thought if ever fairy appeared to mortal child, it would be on such a night as this. And now, to crown all, just at the end of the lane appeared a light, moving backward and forward. First it would bob down, and then up quite high among the bushes.

At last Bessy could bear it no longer, and made up her mind to solve the mystery. So she stepped out of the window on the porch, and then, softly over the grass, for she was afraid Ann would hear her and call her back. She said to herself, "If it should be a fairy glow-worm lighting the fairies to their dancing ground, Ann would frighten them away, she is so big and heavy."

So down the path she went on tiptoe. Hardly daring to breathe, she pushed open the gate, and looked down the lane.

Bessy thought the light had disappeared. But by-and-by it came again, moving in the same strange manner. Although she trembled a great deal, she went bravely on. It was only a short lane leading to the main road, and shut in on one side by a large clump of trees. It was at the foot of one of these trees that the light seemed to be standing now.

At first Bessy crept softly on, keeping it in sight. How dark it had grown! The light shone from the bushes like a fallen star. When Bessy was within a few feet of the light, she was astonished to see a face peering out of the darkness, its eyes fixed on her with anything but a pleasant expression. The light went out, and Bessy, wishing she[Pg 825] was safe at home, turned to scamper back, when a heavy hand was laid on her shoulder, and the light flashed in her face.

She now saw it was a lantern carried by a very small and disagreeable old woman dressed in black, and her head covered with a red handkerchief. In one hand she held the lantern, and under her arm was a crooked stick.

Now when Bessy saw the stick, she was sure it was a fairy godmother, for the old woman was exactly like the description of the fairy in her new book. The ugly black stick was her wand. So she whispered, timidly,

"Are you a fairy godmother?"

"A what?" growled the old woman.

"A fairy godmother," repeated Bessy.

"Oh, yes, yes; to be sure I'm a fairy. If you tell any one you saw me, I'll bring bad luck on your house."

"Please, please don't," sobbed Bessy. "I'll never, never tell any one."

"Well, shut up, then," said the fairy, "and don't make such a noise."

Bessy was not frightened now, for she remembered that fairy godmothers were always cross, and said hateful things just before they granted three wishes. So she said, softly,

"Will you please give me three wishes, madam?"

"I'll give you three slaps if you don't get out right off," grumbled the old fairy.

"Please, please," prayed Bessy. "I'll do anything you tell me if you will give me three wishes."

"I don't believe you. You ain't got spunk enough."

"Oh yes, I have," said Bessy. "Try me."

"Where do you live?" asked the fairy.

"Just down the lane, close by."

"You do, do you? I didn't see no house," said the fairy, in a startled voice.

"That's because mother and father are out, and there's no light in the front room," replied Bessy.

"Are you all alone?" asked the fairy.

"No," replied Bessy; "Ann and Lucy are at home."

"Who's them?"

"Mamma's two servants."

"Any men at the house?"

"Not now," answered Bessy. "Mother took Peter to drive. They'll be back soon, I think."

The old fairy turned out the light and sat down on the ground; then she pulled Bessy down by her, and put her hand on the little girl's shoulder. "Now remember," she began, "you promise never to tell nobody."

[Pg 826]

"I promise true and sure I never will, if you'll give me three wishes to-night."

But Bessy wondered if all fairies smelled so of tobacco.

"Will you do just what I tell you?" asked the fairy.

"Yes," said Bessy, nodding her head very hard, "I will."

"Let's hear your three wishes, then," growled the fairy.

"First, I want my shoes and papa's and mamma's filled with gold. Then I want an invisible cap for myself, and then—"

"Now stop," interrupted the old fairy; "you've had four a'ready."

"No," answered Bessy, "that's only two. Papa's and mamma's and my shoes filled with gold is one wish, you know."

"Well, go on."

"Let me see," pondered Bessy. "I guess you may give me happiness for the rest of my life, and that's all."

"All right," returned the fairy godmother, "you'll find them waiting for you at three in the morning, if you do what I tell you to."

"I'm ready," said Bessy.

"You just run home, and bring me the big key of the front door."

"But papa said I must not touch that. Besides, he would miss it, for he always locks the door himself, and hangs the key up by the hat stand."

"I sha'n't keep it," said the fairy. "I'll give it right back. You see, if I didn't know the size of the key-hole, I mightn't send a fairy small enough to go through."

"Oh!" said Bessy.

"Is the door fastened any other way?" asked the old fairy.

"Yes," said Bessy; "a big bolt at the bottom, but it's broken. Papa said he must send a man to fix it, but he didn't."

"All right. You run as fast as you can, and don't let any one see you, or the spell will be broken. Remember."

"I know," replied Bessy; and she sprang up and flew down the lane, through the gate, and up the steps. She could hear Ann and Lucy still talking and laughing in the kitchen, but no one seemed to be thinking of her; so she drew the key out softly, and ran back, thinking how delighted her father and mother would be in the morning. Bessy found the old fairy waiting in the same place.

"SHE SNATCHED THE KEY, AND SAID, 'I'LL BE BACK IN A MOMENT.'"

She snatched the key, and said, "I'll be back in a moment," and vanished into the darkness. Bessy was almost wild with excitement, but she kept as quiet as she could, and presently the fairy re-appeared.

Her first words astonished Bessy:

"Have you a dog?"

"Yes," answered Bessy, "but he's the best dog that ever lived. He never bites any but bad people, and his name is Watch."

"What do you do with him at night?"

"Why, we let him run around the garden to keep away thieves."

"You do, do you? That's right," said the old fairy. "You just give him this fairy meat; it will keep him from barking at the fairy I send, and scaring her away."

"Yes, Madam Fairy," returned Bessy; "I'll remember, and I'll put my shoes and papa's and mamma's all in a row by the door, and please tell your fairy servant to fill them up to the brim with gold. Remember."

"Good-by," said the old fairy, and when Bessy looked around she was alone. So she scampered back, and meeting Watch by the gate, whispered in his ear,

"Here is a piece of meat the fairy sent you. Now be a good dog, and don't bark when she comes to-night."

Watch took the meat, ate, and growled over it.

Bessy put the key back softly. Then feeling very lonely and excited, she crept softly around to the kitchen door for light and companionship. There stood Lucy kneading bread for breakfast, while Ann sat by the door knitting a long cotton stocking.

Bessy came close up to her and stood still, looking into the kitchen. With everything shining and clean, so cozy and comfortable, it was quite delightful after the mysterious lane, and the old fairy who smelled of tobacco.

"Why, you darling," said Ann, "I was just coming to look for you. Where have you been? You look as scared as a cat, and as wild as a witch. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," answered Bessy. "I wish mother would come. What time is it?"

"Half past eight," said Lucy, looking at the clock. "She'll be along soon now. Don't fret, and I'll give you a big piece of cake."

Bessy was as fond of cake as other little girls; so she sat down on the door-step to eat the cake, and listened for the wheels of the carriage.

At last they came, and Bessy flew down to meet her parents with delight, for she felt lonesome and queer.

Mamma called Ann to light the big lamp on the round table; then she looked at her little girl, sat down, and took her on her lap, saying:

"Well, what have you been doing, little one? You look tired and cold. Have you had your tea?"

How Bessy longed to tell them of the wonderful good luck in store for them! But she remembered her promise, and only answered:

"Yes, mamma. I am sleepy."

So mamma took a candle from the mantel-piece, and led Bessy to bed, undressed her, and listened to her little prayer, and tucked in the quilt; then she said:

"I'll be back for the light after I have had my supper. Shut your eyes, like a good girl, and go to sleep."

As soon as her mother left the room Bessy slid off of the bed and into the next room, which was her mother's, to hunt for two pairs of shoes. After some fumbling, she found a pair of slippers of her mother's and a large pair of boots of her father's. She put them in a row by the door, and then jumped into bed again.

It was not until after what seemed to Bessy a long, long time that she heard her father and mother come out of the dining-room. Then she heard papa say:

"Why, what's the matter with the key? I can't turn it." She heard the key taken out, and papa say again: "What is this in the key? It looks like wax."

After a little, she heard her father turn the key and hang it up on the hook. Pretty soon mamma came into Bessy's room. Bessy closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. She felt mamma kiss her, and heard her close the door.

How long she slept she never knew; but suddenly she started up wide awake, to find the stars shining down on her through the window. Everything was as still as it could be. Bessy wondered if the fairies had come yet.

She stepped out of bed and across the room, and put her hand into the big boots. They were empty; so were her own little shoes and mamma's slippers.

"Well, they haven't come yet," she whispered.

She was about to return, when her attention was attracted by a flash of light in the hall. Bessy peeped out, thinking it might be the fairy; but what was her surprise at seeing two large men, in stocking feet, coming up the lower stairs on tiptoe. The one behind carried a lantern, and was making it flash backward and forward, up and down, as the old fairy did in the lane.

What could they want? she wondered.

The first man carried a sack over his shoulder, and pointed toward the closet where Bessy knew all the silver-ware was kept. Then the man with the lantern began pushing what looked like an enormous nail between the lock and the door, stopping every now and then to listen.

[Pg 827]

In a few moments the door flew open, and both went in together. Then Bessy saw them take down the beautiful silver pitchers, tea-pots, trays, and forks and spoons, and put them into the bag. They did it so softly that there was not even the least little chink from them.

Though Bessy was a very little girl, and believed in fairies, she knew these men had no right to take papa's silver. So she thought she must tell him. She ran to the door between their rooms, and pushed it open a little way.

"Papa! papa!" she cried, "two big men are in the house. They have taken everything in the silver closet. Take a stick and drive them away."

Up jumped papa, seizing a pair of great pistols, and made a rush for the stairs, with Bessy behind him.

They had not reached the first step when the two men darted out of the room below.

But on seeing papa with a pistol in each hand, they dropped the bag and ran toward the open hall door, and were out of sight in a moment.

Mamma, awakened by the noise, came hurrying out to see what was the matter, and found Bessy crying in the corner, and papa rushing through the house with a pair of pistols. Bessy's mother clasped her very closely in her arms.

In a little while papa came back, looking very serious. The men had disappeared, and Watch lay dead on the mat outside of the door.

By the time they had emptied the bag, and put everything in its place, it was quite daylight, and Bessy knew the fairy had been frightened away. So she climbed up in her mother's lap and began sobbing softly. Then, when her mother coaxed her to tell what ailed her, she pointed to the shoes, and told her about the old fairy in the lane and the key.

Bessy had to tell that story ever so many times that day. And for a long time her mamma did not leave her alone in the evenings; so that Bessy never saw the fairy godmother again.

## THE CITY OF THE CALIPHS.

### BY LIEUTENANT E. W. STURDY, U.S.N.

It was impossible for our friend Master Tom Fairweather not to indulge in a chuckle when he opened his eyes upon the harbor of Bagdad the morning after his arrival at that ancient city.

The passengers of the Blosse Lynch were being carried ashore by the basketful in the kufas which swarmed about the steamer, and which, made of wicker-work, and round in shape, reminded our young friend of peach and strawberry baskets.

It was not long, however, before Mr. Jollytarre and himself were likewise progressing shoreward, whereupon the humor of the situation considerably diminished. It is never as funny to do a thing ourselves as to see other people do it.

Immediately on landing Mr. Jollytarre was presented with a note by an important personage, who in a fez cap stood by while the Lieutenant read the missive. Having done so, he said, "Tom, you are in luck. One of the most influential merchants of Bagdad has invited us to lunch with him at twelve to-day. We shall have lots of time before then to walk through the bazars, and get, in fact, a general idea of the city. After lunch we can do more sight-seeing. Would you like to go?"

"I suppose there are no ladies," demurred Tom, doubtfully.

"I am afraid not," and the Lieutenant shook his head sadly.

"Then I'd like to go," agreed Tom, cheering up.

The Lieutenant smiled at him. "You will hold different views one of these days. But let me see; here, I'll write a line on my card;" and pulling out his card-case he wrote with a flourish,

"Accept with pleasure.

"Jack Jollytarre."

Then they started for the bazars, which they found to be long and broad, and moderately full of pretty things. The streets were cleaner than in most Eastern towns. The houses bore a family resemblance to each other—a square court-yard in the centre, around the four sides of which the rooms were built, sometimes to the height of three stories, and some of them being quite open to the sun and air of the court-yard, there being, as a rule, no windows on the dark narrow streets. The roofs are generally flat, and the people sleep on them during the hot summer. In fact, while the great heat lasts, the citizens of Bagdad spend the day in the serdaubs, or as we would call them, cellars.

Tom and Mr. Jollytarre in their walk stood gazing into one of these cellars through one of their grated windows.

"'Serdaub,'" read the Lieutenant from his guide-book, which he always carried like a devoted traveller, "'means cold water.' The Bagdadese call their cellars by this name because they keep cold water stored there. In short, these cellars might be called during the hot months the watering-places of Bagdad, when it is too intolerably hot to remain above-ground. But the nights almost always cool off, and then the frequenters of these summer resorts go up to spend their evenings on the roof by way of variety. This I should consider a change decidedly for the better, as venomous reptiles abound in the serdaubs, which do not make very pleasant companions. Besides which, the air is damp and the ventilation bad."

As they walked on, Tom said: "The air above-ground is good enough, though, isn't it?"

"Oh yes, delightful; no better air or climate in the East. The wind is always blowing over the city fresh from the surrounding desert. For six or eight months the climate is as pleasant as in any place on earth. In midwinter it is cold enough to form ice. The spring and autumn are particularly delightful. But the summer sets in early. In May, for instance, there are such swarms of insects as to render life almost insupportable. We are here, however, in the very nick of time—April."

"Such lots of flowers!" commented Tom. "I know what those little yellow flowers are in that garden—crocuses; and those are violets just like ours at home; and did you ever smell anything so sweet as those orange blossoms? That's something I never saw in our garden."

Here Tom and Jollytarre stood stock-still like two girls to stare in at the flowers in the Bagdad gardens, and up at the birds, and turtle-doves, and ring-doves on the mosques and minarets around them.

"There's a fine view from the top of that minaret," said Mr. Jollytarre, pointing to a very tall one in the middle of the city. "Shall we climb it?"

Of course Tom said yes, and off they started.

"The view is really very fine," exclaimed the Lieutenant, on their way up, "of the city, the gardens, the river, the plain of Mesopotamia, and the Persian hills; and the minaret itself is worth a visit on its own account, having been standing since the year 1235, more than six hundred years. It is, moreover, not only the oldest but the highest of any minaret in Bagdad. It is lucky for us that although unbelievers are not allowed entrance to Turkish minarets in general, this one being partly in ruins, and being besides unattached to any mosque, is therefore open to us dogs of Gentiles."

The entrance was high up, as in most minarets. A ladder was placed against the wall, and our friends climbed up and scrambled into the doorway over their heads.

From the top of the minaret Bagdad looked like a level plain made of the flat roofs of the houses, honey-combed[Pg 828] by narrow ditches—the ditches, of course, being actually the streets.

Out of this plain of flat roofs rose mountain heights and peaks of mosques and minarets, which glittered in the sun with their gaudy covering of tiles, generally either blue or green.

THE BRIDGE OF BOATS.

From their lofty position our travellers made out the fact that the town was divided into two parts, one on the eastern and one on the western bank of the Tigris. A certain freshness and beauty was given to the river by the mulberry and date-palm trees growing in the court-yards of many of the houses. The eastern and western portions of Bagdad were connected by a pretty bridge of boats. Up and down the course of the river groves and gardens follow the flow of its waters northward and southward. But away from it to the east and west trees disappear and deserts stretch out into trackless wastes.

Eastward of Bagdad are the old walls, now for the most part dismantled. Long ago the bricks of which this wall was built were given to the soldiers of the Caliph's army to eke out their pay, but the soldiers of to-day are more fairly treated.

Tom made a visit to the citadel and barracks, which were in exceptionally good order. The soldiers appeared very young-looking, but steady and enduring. They wore a blue Zouave uniform.

Their lunch hour approaching, after leaving the barracks Tom and Mr. Jollytarre now turned their steps in the direction of the house of their host.

They found this house built around a court-yard, as you have been told is generally the case in Bagdad. In this particular court, however, they found a number of hawks, which their owner kept for sport. They are used to hunt down gazelles and antelopes, which they either kill outright, or else keep at bay until the hounds come up and put an end to them. The general effect of the house was European. The walls, to be sure, were plainly whitewashed, but other details were handsome and artistic. For instance, the ceilings were handsomely decorated, and the floors were carpeted. One large room was furnished as a billiard-room. In others were handsome mirrors. The lunch table was laid in accordance with our notions or prejudices; that is, with a cloth, knives, forks, and plates. But there all sense of familiarity ceased. The fare was thoroughly Oriental. First of all a sheep, roasted whole and elaborately stuffed, was brought in on a tray and carried around to every one at table. Next came a roast turkey, served in the same way. Then a goose, then a gazelle, and then dishes and dishes of unknown names and composition. Such was the menu. Besides all of which, the table was laden with countless dishes of fruit and sweetmeats.

Tom, of course, being only a small boy, was admitted on sufferance, and sat perfectly still, and did not once contribute a word to the conversation. But he looked and listened all the harder, and I do not believe he missed a single point in the entertainment. Still, he was not particularly amused, and was certainly greatly relieved when the feast was over, and Mr. Jollytarre and himself were once more in the streets of Bagdad.

"They have the plague here frequently," said the Lieutenant, as they strolled along, an Arab whom they had picked up for a guide at their heels, "and the mortality is fearful. Once the authorities decided to try the plan of shutting up every one in any house where the plague broke out. But this plan was bitterly opposed, as it meant certain death to all in the house. The Jewish rabbis proposed another plan. They persuaded their people to emigrate to the desert, and live there until the plague was stayed, or at least until they had themselves got rid of it, having left it behind in the filth and foul air of the city. Some Christians and Mussulmans followed their example. There is one curious fact about the plague: hardly a person has ever been attacked who slept on a bedstead, even when persons sleeping on the floor in the same room have caught the disease and died."

"I suppose it is a summer disease," said Tom.

"No; on the contrary, it disappears with the fierce heats of summer, only to perhaps re-appear in the fall."

"I should hate to live in a place where there was danger of such a vile disease breaking out. But look at the troops of children—just out of school, I suppose. Do you know whether schools are found here?"

[Pg 829]

"Excellent, I am told. The gentleman with whom we lunched just now told me that these Bagdad children are taught to be good linguists, for one thing. They learn to speak Arabic, Syriac, and Turkish, as well as French and English, with fluency, in a Jewish school which was started not long ago. When this school was first opened the Turkish parents would not send their children. Now, however, they see the advantage, and the attendance is very good, especially among the boys."

"They look very knowing in their little fez caps," said Tom. "But how they stare! And did you ever see such black eyes? Are there no Turkish schools?"

"Yes, one or two, and pretty good ones, besides a few others not so good."

As they stood near the wharves, watching the shipment of grain, Tom remarked that he supposed a great deal of the grain went out of the country.

"Yes," said Mr. Jollytarre. "Bagdad ships immense quantities—last year as much as 50,000 tons. Every now and then there is a grain riot here, when the people take it into their heads there will be a failure of the next harvest. They insist that the government shall put a stop to the exportation of the grain. Sometimes these demands are yielded to, when there is any prospect of a famine. The government does not give in often, to be sure, but the thing has been done."

"Hello!" said Tom; "here's the Blosse Lynch."

"Yes, and it is time we were on board, for we've done a good day's work, haven't we?"

The naughty little girl that cries,
And rubs her fingers in her eyes,
And pouts and frets all day,
A ragged hat and gown must wear,
And in the garden stand, to scare
The thievish birds away.

Have a jolly gallop
Over sticks and stones;
Do not get a tumble,
Or you'll break your bones.
That was a bouncer—
Very much too high—
But my little horseman
Is too brave to cry.

Trippitty trip, trippitty trip,
Round and round we merrily skip;
Hippitty hop, hippitty hop,
Oh, 'tis such fun we never can stop!

Up in the clouds little angel hands
Are shaking their beds so the feathers fly.
They flutter down through the frosty air,
Till soft and white on the ground they lie.
Oh, fair little angels, come and keep
A watch while the baby lies asleep!

[Pg 830]

LITTLE GOSSIPS.

## OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

Yosemite Valley, California.

> I thought I would write you, as you might like to receive a letter from the Yosemite Valley. I am a little boy eleven years old. I have never written to you, but have taken Harper's Young People from the beginning. I like it very much. I like the story of "Talking Leaves" best. I live at Merced Falls, Merced County, California. I came here for my health. I have not many pets, but have a goat, which I harness to my wagon, and take a ride. They caught a bear here in the valley a few nights ago. They set a trap for him, and he got in it, and dragged it into the river, and was drowned. It was a cinnamon bear. There are some big bears around here, and there are deer in the mountains around the valley. There is a little pet fawn here.

> The valley is ten miles long and three wide, with high mountains around it averaging 4000 feet in height. The valley itself is 4000 feet above the sea. One big mountain here is called Clouds' Rest, which is 6450 feet high. I have not been on the top of it yet, but expect to go. One other is called South or Half Dome, and is 6000 feet high. You have to climb a rope-ladder 900 feet high to get to the top of the mountain. I think it is dangerous climbing there, but quite a number of ladies and gentlemen have been to the top. I have been to Glacier Point, another mountain, which is 3700 feet above the valley. It is four and a half miles up a zigzag trail. I walked up. Most of the tourists go there, as a very fine view of the valley and the Vernal and Nevada falls can be had from this point. These are the upper falls, and you go up a trail to get to them.

> Vernal Fall is 400 and Nevada 700 feet high. The Merced River forms these falls, and flows on through the valley. I have been to these falls, and think them very pretty. There is a valley called Little Yosemite above Nevada Fall. Yosemite and Bridal Veil are two other falls in the valley. Yosemite, which is 2634 feet high, is nearly dry now. Bridal Veil Fall is 900 feet high. I have been to Mirror Lake, which the guides call Looking-glass Lake, because its waters reflect the mountains around its shore.

> When you enter the valley you pass the mountain El Capitan, which the Indians call the Great Chief of the Valley. There is an Indian one hundred and six years old, the last of the Yosemite tribe, who lives here. Last Saturday it snowed nearly all day long. The mountains are covered with snow now, but in the valley it has melted. On one of the roads to the valley eighteen inches of snow fell.

Willie F. O.

Chicago, Illinois.

> About one month ago my papa and myself were visiting out on a farm about fifty miles west of Chicago, where the folks were getting in hay. They have an old dog named Major, and he and I had lots of fun killing field-mice and moles that would run out of the hay when it was stirred up. He would swallow the mice, and hardly chew them at all. The moles he would not eat, neither will cats eat moles. At last Major grabbed a large frog that jumped out of the hay, and bit and shook him until we thought Mr. Frog was dead, when I took him up and set him on the end of the hay-rack, letting his long hind-legs hang down, and he looked just like many frog pictures I have seen. He never tried to get away or appeared to be alive for at least half an hour, and I was just saying what a fine funeral Ernest and I would have with the frog when Ernest came home from school, when, just as we were crossing a bridge on our way home, and I was holding froggy by his hind-legs, he gave a jerk and slipped out of my hands to the bridge, and then jumped into the creek below, looking up, as much as to say, "I've spoiled your funeral this time." Do you think he was partly killed, or was he playing 'possum, as I have heard people say?

> My papa is writing this, as I can't write well enough for printers to read. He brings me Young People every week, and I like it.

Marvie.

Wouldn't I have given Major a shake for his treatment of the frog if I had been there? I am so glad poor froggy revived, and went leaping off. I suppose he was quite exhausted by Major's rough play, and revived when he felt his native air as you crossed the bridge. Long life to him!

### A NUTTING FROLIC.

Come, Robin and Lulu, Cornelia and Fred,
And Daisy and Mollie, and Tommy and Ned,
Call Rover and Fido, and hurry away;
The nuts are just ripe for our frolic to-day.
The frost on the pasture this morning is white;
For sharp was the cold in the silence of night.
All the better; we'll race just to keep ourselves warm,
And rush to the woods like the winds in a storm.
Poor Bunny will scamper far out of our sight,
And watch our proceedings with eyes shining bright.
We'll spare him a feast, for we couldn't be mean,
And leave nothing there for a squirrel to glean.
Bring baskets and buckets and poles, if you please;
We all will take turns at a shake of the trees;
But the boys will work hardest, and laugh at the toil,
And the girls shall go home with the best of the spoil.
Too bad we can't carry our lame little Ted,
And that we have such fun, while he's lying in bed.
I'll tell you, we'll save just the finest for him,
And give him three cheers when the day's growing dim.
Then home over lots with the stores we have won,
For long winter evenings of frolic and fun,
When we'll study our lessons, or merrily play,
And eat the sweet nuts that we'll gather to-day.

I think some of the older readers of the Post-office Box will enjoy this beautiful description of the bells for which the little Roman children listen every winter evening. Some of you who have been abroad have heard them, and others who have never been across the sea are ready to learn all they can about the grand old city which once was the mistress of the whole known world:

### THE BELLS OF SANTA MARIA MAGGIORE.

> Any one who has been in Rome and lived on the Esquiline Hill must have been struck by the beautifully toned bells of Santa Maria Maggiore, the largest and finest church of the district. According to the legend, it was built in the year 354, on the spot where a miraculous shower of snow fell during the month of August—a most unlikely time for snow to fall anywhere, and most of all in Rome, where the heat is generally unbearable at that time. There is no end to the freaks of legend, or to the simplicity of credulous people who take legend for history. This legendary fall of snow is actually commemorated in the church at the present day by a service in the course of which white rose leaves are showered down from the roof of a side chapel to imitate falling snow.

> To return to the bells. The stranger dwelling on the Esquiline must not only have been struck by their beauty when they rung at the usual hours during the day, he must have been also surprised by hearing a sonorous peal ringing out on the clear winter air two hours after dark. This is a most unusual time for the church bells to ring, as in the large churches of Rome there is, generally speaking, no evening service. Two hours after sunset in winter is a very convenient time for putting little children to bed; so the Roman mothers inhabiting the Esquiline are accustomed to tell their little ones that it is the Madonna, who is ringing the bells and calling out in bell-language, "Bambini, a letto!" or "Babies, to bed!" Then the little dark-eyed, curly-haired Roman cherubs, however much inclined to be refractory otherwise, are contented to let their mothers undress them. Then they say their little prayers, and go quietly to bed. If you ask seriously about the cause of the bells ringing at that unusual hour, the following pretty story about the campanile, or bell tower, which is of later date than the church itself, will be told you.

> One dark winter night a wealthy Roman citizen was out late, and lost his way in the Campagna, or waste land outside the city. The Campagna is rather a dangerous place to get lost in, as it is wild and uncultivated, full of ruins and deep pits. It was infested at that time, besides, by robbers and lawless people of every kind. He wandered about for some time in darkness so thick that he could not see his finger before him. Sometimes he thought he had discovered some well-known landmark, and fancied that now he would soon find the right path, but after groping about for a while in the black darkness he would suddenly discover that he had been moving about in a circle, and was no nearer the goal than before. Weary, exhausted, and utterly discouraged, dreading, besides, with every step he took, to fall into some pit and break his neck, he almost resolved in despair to give up the effort to reach home that night. It was a starless, inclement night, and bitterly cold. He was just about to sink upon the wet ground, and yield to the sleep brought on by cold and exhaustion, from which he would probably never have wakened more; already his eyes were closing. Suddenly he thought he heard the tinkle of a well-known bell. He listened intently, and recognized the bells of the new bell tower of Santa Maria Maggiore, which were being rung that evening for some unknown cause. This sound revived his drooping courage. He knew now where he was. After some more groping, guided still by the sound of the bells, he succeeded in finding the highway, and reached his home at last in safety. In grateful remembrance of his escape, being a wealthy man, he bequeathed a large sum of money forever to the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore; it was to be employed to pay the ringers to ring a peal every evening, two hours after dark, during six months of the year. This has been done faithfully during many centuries. So should any poor wayfarer lose his way in the wild Campagna on a gloomy winter night, he may have a chance of finding it again in safety. They are very beautiful bells, and when they ring out full and clear about half past seven on a winter evening, the Roman mothers, as I mentioned above, say to their little children: "Hark to the bells, which say, Babies, to bed! Pray for all poor wanderers this night."

E. M. Traquair.

Table Rock, Nebraska.

> I have been wanting to write a letter to you for a long time, but have never done it until now. I have five brothers, and I am the only girl in the family. Papa has taken Harper's Young People for us ever since it began. I want to tell you about our circulating library. There are three families of us. We all take magazines, and exchange. There were four families, but one went to Falls City to live. We take Harper's Monthly and Young People. I would tell you what the rest take, only I am afraid if I did my letter would be too long to print. I like the Wiggles very much. I think our artist's idea of Wiggle No. 28 is so cute. I hope you can print this, and surprise my brothers.

Gertie B.

I think this idea of exchanging magazines and papers, as the families in Gertie's neighborhood do, is a very good one. I am sure the little circulating library will give pleasure to both young and old in the three homes. An only sister who has five brothers to love is in a very important place. Think of all the mittens she must mend, the strings she must fasten, the knots she must untie, and the gentle words she must speak. I hope she has a great many rides on brothers' sleds, and is taken care of and admired by all the boys, as she ought to be.

Fort Craig, New Mexico.

> You asked me, a long time ago, to explain what a bucking bronco was. Well, I'll try to do so now. Ha! ha! ha! I should think you could hear me laugh. Why, a bronco is a horse that has never been broken to ride or drive, and when you get on for the first time, the bronco is generally sure to buck. Now when a bronco bucks he just looks like a big billy-goat, with long goatee and chin whiskers, spreading himself in front of a big looking-glass, and jumping up in the air, striking the ground stiff-legged.

> Now what else do I learn besides riding and shooting? Why, until a week ago we had a splendid teacher, Mr. S. He's just the best teacher. And talk about playing the fiddle!—he can make it talk, and so he can make the guitar almost sing. Sister Eva is studying the guitar, and I am studying the violin. Professor S. teaches school and music, but he went off in the mountains lately for a trip with an officer of the army, and he will not be back for a couple of weeks. Since he left, our Mexican boy herder did the same, and now I am up every morning at five, and off with the horses and cattle before six, and only take a lunch with me, and stay out until sundown. I ride a good horse, have a shepherd dog, and go about three to four miles to good water and grass.

> And you think Sis and I might sketch. Well, so we do. I did not know what you meant by botanize until papa told me. He just loves flowers, and has devoted a great deal of time to cultivating some this summer. He has succeeded, after planting about one hundred plants and several million seeds. We can—with a magnifying-glass—discover one or two pumpkin vines which were sent him from the East as "beautiful climbers," and one or two morning-glories. Some of the geraniums have done well, but all the rose-trees died. As to a cabinet, we have none; but we have some of the most beautiful specimens of minerals, crystallized quartz, copper, galena, spar, "white and black" silver, silver glance, native gold and silver, and all kinds of carbonates.

> [Pg 831]

> And now I think I have said almost too much for one time. So, with best wishes to all the little folks—and big folks too—who read Young People, I will say adios.

Harry W. C.

> P.S.—You may think that I wrote all of this letter, but I did not. I asked papa to copy it for me, and he said things different from what I had it, and more of it too. Next time I will only ask him to punctuate and correct the spelling. It took me four nights to write this letter.

Harry.

Trotty trot, trotty trot, trotty trot, trot!—
What a fit of the fidgets that youngster has got!
From the dawning of morning till dew wets the ground
He's trotting and dancing and skipping around,
With his wagon behind him, his dog at his side,
Or with whip in his paddy, my old cane astride.
His boots are bedusted, his hair in a fright;
He's the picture of healthy unbounded delight.
Oh! a package of steel springs, a bundle of joy,
Is this gay romping Charlie, our own bouncing boy.

W. W. Runyan.
Marion, New York.

New York City.

> I am a little girl eleven years old. I take lessons and feel a great interest in music, but I find it very difficult. I have several pets—a dove, a cat, a doll, and a sweet little sister named Selma. On Wednesday my teacher was teaching us botany, and she said if you should take a glass or tumbler and fill it with water, and put some white cotton-batting in it, and sprinkle some seeds on the cotton, they would soon take root. So the first thing I did when I got home was to fix it, and the next week I looked and there were little stems coming up from the seeds. I love the Post-office Box, and I think some stories very interesting. I like "The Cruise of the Canoe Club" very much. This is the first letter I ever attempted to write.

Lillie V. P.

Northview, Dakota Territory.

> You will be glad, dear Postmistress, to hear from one of your twelve-year-old boys. I live in Dakota, on Section 20, Town 142, Range 54. This is a good country. My father has in 200 acres of wheat this year. The St. Paul, Minneapolis, and Manitoba Railroad runs near our place. The Northview Post-office is kept here; mamma is postmistress. My cousin takes Harper's Young People. I read it as soon as he does. We have a little dog and cat; the dog's name is Carlo. Carlo and the cat will drink milk together. I have a pet crane; his name is Dick; he is about half-grown.

A. B. R.

Boston, Massachusetts.

> My name is Alice, and I am ten years old. I have a sister nine years old. She don't take Harper's Young People, but I do. She can not read much yet. We both go to school, but not to the same one. Next year we may go together. I am always sorry when school begins, for I don't like to go at all. Good-by,

Alice S.

Why, Alice, what can be the reason you do not like to go to school? Perhaps you will enjoy it more when you are a little older.

Matagorda, Texas.

> As it seems to be the fashion for children to write to the paper, I will try to do so. I live in the country, and can ride horseback, milk cows, climb trees, and do various other things that only country children know how to do. My papa has a boat, and we sometimes go down with him to Matagorda Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. We went on a fishing excursion this summer, and saw the snowy sand mounds on the Peninsula, and went bathing in the Gulf.

Cherry.

Hartwick, Michigan.

> I saw a deer a few days ago in our woods. It was very pretty. Papa saw an old bear and two cubs about a mile from here last July, and a few days ago a neighbor saw one in the same place.

Guy L. S.

I would advise you to keep away from those woods, Guy, unless you have a strong party of friends with you, for Madame Bear is sometimes a dangerous person to meet.

Jacksonville, Illinois.

> I am a boy nine years old, but will soon be ten. My brother, who is in the United States army, sends me Harper's Young People for a Christmas present. I think it is the best paper ever published for little boys and girls. I have a great many pets. I have a mocking-bird, an Esquimaux dog, a horse, a cow, two pigs, and a great many chickens. Please print this letter; it is the first I have ever written.

A. L. W.

Coatopa Station, Alabama.

> Though no longer young, nor by any means small, I read Young People with as much interest as my children, and think I can place no better book in their hands.

> I read with much interest Arthur Lindsley's article on humming-birds, and must differ with him about their food. I have caught them—the ruby-throat and another, which I will describe hereafter—several times, and they never fail to get over their fright in a few minutes, and drink eagerly of sugar and water offered to them in a spoon. I have held them in my open hand, and had them to chirp and flutter their wings as they sipped from the spoon, just as they do when hovering over a flower. We have a large mimosa-tree which when in bloom is the resort of hundreds of "flying sunbeams," as we call them. The kind referred to above is a bird in every particular except the bill, which is that of a butterfly, long and tightly curled.

V. S. Parker.

Wappinger's Falls, New York.

> I am a little boy eight years old the 2d of October. I have three brothers—Johnnie, Watson, and Bertie. Johnnie and I go to school. I am learning to read and write. I tried to write this letter, but I thought you could not read it, so I got papa to write it for me. I like papa to read those letters that are in Young People for me, and some of the stories. I have no pets, but I have a cunning little brother Bertie, four months old; Johnnie is five years and Watson three years. We had lots of rain a week ago. It rained two days, and it flooded our basement, and the creek was very full.

Henry C.

Brooklyn, New York.

> I am a little boy nine years old. I have two pet rabbits, and their names are Snowflake and Killy, and they both are as white as snow. I feed them on cabbage, carrots, plantain, corn bread, grass, clover, and apples. I also have two white mice; I feed them on bread and milk. The other day I was cleaning their cage, and one of them escaped, but I soon caught him again.

Harry L. W.

This week the Postmistress suggests two more games which the young people may try:

### CATCHING THE MOUSE.

Nine players lay their hands one on the top of the other. The one whose hand is lowest draws it out and puts it at the top, saying, "One!" The next lowest draws out hers, puts it at the top, and cries, "Two!" And so on until "Nine!" is cried. This last player seizes one of the hands which lie beneath her own (or more if she can), crying, "I have caught the mouse!" and then the hand caught pays a forfeit.

But it is not easy to catch one. At the word "Nine!" all snatch away their hands as quickly as possible.

This game must be played very quickly to be funny.

### EVEN OR ODD?

This game is the most ancient, I think, that we know. The children who played in the streets of Athens and in the Roman Forum in early ages knew and loved it, and little children find amusement in it still. It is played in this manner: One child hides in her hand a few beans, nuts, almonds, or even bits of paper, and asks her companion to guess if they are odd or even.

If the playfellow guesses odd, and on opening her hand the other displays an odd number, she forfeits the articles to the guesser, who hides them in her turn; but if the guess is odd, and the number even, the guesser pays a forfeit, and the first hider retains the beans, etc. The guess must be right to win.

Little Marion W., who is five years old, and lives in Newtonville, Massachusetts, wants a pretty name for her baby brother, who is just two months old, and ever so cunning! Who will send a name which will fit this dear little man.

Marion printed the letter and directed it herself in quite a wonderful way for such a tiny correspondent. Will she kiss the baby for the Postmistress?

### PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

### No. 1.

### WORD SQUARE.

1. A boy's name. 2. A girl's name. 3. A reward of merit. 4. Gay and happy. 5. A town in Massachusetts.

Junebug.

### No. 2.

### DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

My primals and finals which puzzle your head
Give the name of a great book whose author is dead.
First cross-word—A native of the desert.
Second cross-word—A fruit of the desert.
Third cross-word—Emotion caused by grandeur.
Fourth cross-word implies possession.
Nutshell.

### No. 3.

### TWO EASY ENIGMAS.

### 1.

First in clouds, not in sky.
Second in low, not in high.
Third in chick, not in egg.
Fourth in ankle, not in leg.
Whole is needed in every house,
Though vain to frighten rat or mouse.

May Laria.

### 2.

First in pin, not in ring.
Second in queen, not in king.
Third in east, not in west.
Fourth in coat, not in vest.
Fifth in harp, not in flute.
Whole is a delicious fruit.

Hattie Landon.

### No. 4.

### WHO KNOWS?

What word is that from which if the first letter or the last letter, or the first and last letters, be taken, a word in each case remains? Also the first and last letters form a word.

Musa.

### No. 5.

### CHARADE—(To Will A. Mette).

My first is a vessel you often have seen,
Without my second 'twould broken have been.
My whole is a place where school-boys find
Articles dainty and much to their mind.

Edgar Seeman.

### No. 6.

### AN EASY DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

1. A four-footed friend. 2. A river in Siberia. 3. Something very strong and durable. 4. Calm. Primal is dearly loved by final.

### No. 7.

### THREE EASY DIAMONDS.

1.—1. A letter. 2. A serpent. 3. To attempt. 4. A caress. 5. A letter.

2.—1. A letter. 2. A shelter. 3. A bird. 4. A metal. 5. A letter.

Puss in Boots.

3.—1. A letter. 2. To plunder. 3. A purchasing medium. 4. A piece of furniture. 5. A letter.

Edith M. L.

### ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 153.

### No. 1.

Umbrella. Catamaran. Kosciuski.

### No. 2.

Adding insult to injury.

Add. In. Gin. Insult. Rout. Jury.

### No. 3.

Y | O | U | N | G
O | W | N | E | R
U | N | C | L | E
N | E | L | L | Y
G | R | E | Y | S

### No. 4.

|  | C | U | D
| C | A | N | E | D
C | A | L | T | R | O | P
U | N | T | W | I | N | E
D | E | R | I | D | E | R
| D | O | N | E | E
|  | P | E | R

### No. 5.

|  | H |  |  |  |  |  |  |  | W |  |  |  |  |  |  |  | T
| W | E | D |  |  |  |  |  | W | H | O |  |  |  |  |  | B | I | N
H | E | L | E | N |  |  |  | W | H | A | L | E |  |  |  | T | I | G | E | R
| D | E | W |  |  |  |  |  | O | L | D |  |  |  |  |  | N | E | T
|  | N |  |  |  |  |  |  |  | E |  |  |  |  |  |  |  | R

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Archy Damer, Tip Laurence, Lucie S. Downing, Clara Roe, Nettie Rice, John Brown, Alfred M. Bloomingdale, Little Fay, William A. Lewis, M. E. F., Alice Ashe, T. C. S. D., "Fanchon," Bessie B., Mattie Colt, Eugene Ripley, Samuel Dorr, Emily Van Lown, Arthur May, L. Corbet, Doroville S. Coe, Helen M. Everett, L. Bridge, Josie Willett, Alice Comstock, Emily Bradford, Guido T., Frank and Benny, and Archy D.

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

### A NEW SERIAL.

## NAN.

### By MRS. JOHN LILLIE,

Author of "Mildred's Bargain," "Aunt Ruth's Temptation," etc.

Our girl readers will be glad to hear that they are about to have a fresh and delightful story from the pen of their favorite author, Mrs. Lillie. The new serial will be begun in the next number of Young People, and will occupy a prominent place in our paper for several weeks. "Nan" is a "girl's story," but we venture to say that there is no one of our boy readers but will be delighted to follow this charming little heroine through the various adventures and difficult experiences she meets with, and in which she carries herself with such true heroism and noble patience.

[Pg 832]

## TOO BAD!

### BY MARGARET EYTINGE.

Beneath the old tree near the well
Wee Molly, Dolly, Polly Gray
A lovely red-cheeked apple found
One beautiful October day.
She looked at it with longing eyes
A moment, then she gave a sigh,
And sitting down upon the ground
Straightway began to cry.
With hurried steps her mother came,
"What is the matter, child?" to say.
"Oh dear! this apple is so big,"
Sobbed Molly, Dolly, Polly Gray;
"And"—faster fell her tears, as though
Hers was the saddest of all plights—
"My mouf's so small I've got to take
Such—very—little—bites."

### THOSE SQUIRRELS.

### BY ALLAN FORMAN.

"Say, Tom, the kitten's are gone," announced my brother Charlie, peering into the manger where we had a few days before discovered Madame Puss and her family snugly installed.

"Is Puss there?" I asked.

"Yes, and she seems awful lonesome," was the reply.

After a few moments' consultation we decided to ask Pat if he had seen anything of the kittens.

"Sure they may have strayed away in the night."

"But they couldn't walk. They were only three days old," I objected.

"That's thrue, Mister Tom; but thin a cat's a cunnin' cratur. To see wan of thim blinkin' by the fire all day ye'd niver think they could make the noise they do at night; and they'd be concealin' their strength in the daytime to use it at night," answered Pat.

Plainly there was nothing to be learned from Pat.

After thinking it over for a while, Charlie suggested that we hunt up the young ones. We started toward the grove behind the barn with a vague idea that people generally got lost in forests, and that it would be quite possible for the kittens to have lost themselves in the grove.

"Maybe they have hid in the tree," suggested Charlie.

"They couldn't get there," I answered.

"But Pat said that they could do more in the night," urged Charlie.

I was eleven years old, and was half inclined to doubt Pat's reasoning, the more that I remembered hearing my father exclaim when we announced the discovery of the kittens:

"Goodness! we can't have four more cats. I don't get any too much sleep as it is, and an addition of a quartette to our nightly concert is not to be thought of."

Charlie was my junior by two years, and his faith in Patrick was unshaken, so he said,

"I'm going up to see, anyhow." He thrust his hand into the hole, and pulled it out again, triumphantly shouting, "What did I tell you? Here is the"—he paused to examine his prize, and continued in a crest-fallen tone—"a young squirrel."

"Give it to me, and get the rest," I directed.

They were very young, and were queer fuzzy-looking animals. Charlie and I examined them, and then the thought struck me that we might give them to the cat in place of her lost kittens.

We ran back to the barn and placed them in the manger. Madame Puss looked puzzled for a moment, first gazing at the squirrels, then at us, as if hardly knowing what to do. But she soon decided, and with a comical purr, as if to say, "I suppose it is all right, but those children have certainly changed," she drew the squirrels toward her, and washed first one, then another, and finally went to sleep with her strange family cuddled close to her.

After that she took the best of care of her adopted children. The squirrels grew, and began to climb out of the manger and run around the barn. Madame Puss was at first distressed by this, but she soon got used to it, and seemed rather to take delight in her precocious children who could climb so much better than she could herself. Her first real trouble came when, after patient waiting, she caught a mouse and carried it to the barn in triumph.

The squirrels looked on in perfect indifference, and absolutely refused to touch the dainty morsel. Puss was surprised, but a few days later she brought in a bird; but when they paid not the slightest attention to it she was in despair. Had she, then, brought up a family which was to be of no use to the world? For a day or two she tried everything—meat, bits of fish, pieces of cold potato, until some happy inspiration led her to take them an almond which had fallen from the dinner table. After that she carried them bits of bread, corn, and nuts, until they grew large enough to come to the house themselves. Then they ranged the place from cellar to garret, dropping asleep in mother's work-basket, in father's pockets, and in bureau drawer, until they became a perfect nuisance. At last the crisis came: one of them went to sleep in father's boot, and bit his toe severely when he went to put it on; the squirrels were sent to New York to be sold, and Charlie and I each had a pair of skates from the proceeds of the sale.

MEASURING THE BABY.

### FOOTNOTES:

[1] This story is told in many ways, often more elaborately, but this seems to be the correct version.

[2] Begun in No. 146, Harper's Young People.