Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

The Alhambra--the great royal castle--a town in itself--is built on a lovely tree-embowered height, its many towers rising high above the mass of foliage. From these towers one looks across the vale of the Vega to the spot where Columbus is said to have turned back, recalled by Isabella, on his way to seek English aid in his discovery of a New World. From these towers, too, can be seen the valley in the distance, where Boabdil, last of the Moorish Kings, looked back on Granada for the last time; and across the river, one gazes upon the sombre region of the gypsy quarter, a swarming town of caves in the hillside.

Two relics of Alhambra housekeeping still remain; a great oven, and a fine well. Both are utilized by the custodian of the palace. The palace itself has many beautiful patios. The finest is known as the Court of Lions, named from the sculptured figures which support the fountain in the centre. Another is known sometimes as the Court of the Lake, and sometimes as the Court of the Myrtles; and still another, entered by subterranean ways, is the Hall of Divans, the special retreat of the Favorites. There are many others, and all these patios and halls are bewilderingly beautiful with arabesques, mosaics, inscriptions and wondrous arches and columns, porticos, vistas, alcoves and temples--and everywhere elegance of effect indescribable.

At Granada, whenever it is desired, the proprietor of the Washington Irving Hotel will engage the Gypsy King to come with his daughters and dance the national dance at the house of one of the guides. This dance is a most wild and weird performance. There is an incessant clapping of hands and clatter of castañets, a sharp stamping of heels, an agonized swaying of the body and the arms; and often the castañets and guitar are accompanied by a wild and mournful wail from the dancers. The king of the Granada gypsies is said to be the best guitar player in Spain.

The climb from the city up to the vast Gypsy Quarter, known as the suburb of the Albaycin, is an adventure of a nightmare sort. The squalor and horror of the life to be witnessed on the way up along narrow streets swarming with the weirdest and dirtiest of brown beggars, may not be painted, may not be written; yet now and then one goes under a superb Arab arch, passes a door rich with arabesques, or comes upon a group of elegant columns supporting a roof of mud and rock. The long hillside seems honeycombed with the denlike habitations of the gitanos, many of whom, among the men, are blacksmiths, while others work at pottery, turning out very handsome plates and water jars, while the women weave cloth, and do a rude kind of embroidery, all selling their wares in the streets--in fact the spinning and weaving and sewing is often carried on in the street itself.

But the little ones too (_las niñas_) add largely to the family income, as they dance for the visitor; the traveller and his guide being always invited to enter the caves. These gypsy children dance with much spirit, and they also sing many beautiful old ballads of Spanish prowess. The most beautiful ones among the girls are early trained to practice fortune-telling.

With their dances, their songs, their fortune-telling, their importunate, imperious begging, and their rude industries, these Granada gypsies live here from century to century, in swarms of thousands, never attempting to improve their condition, but boasting, instead, of the comfort of their dismal caves as being cool in summer and warm in winter. It is plain that they consider themselves and their Quarter “a part of the show,” and hardly second in interest to the Alhambra itself.

Hardly is there a Spanish town of note, that does not possess its great Bull Ring; and there are scores of inferior Bull Circuses throughout Spain. There is but a slight public sentiment against the brutal sport which is the favorite Sunday recreation of the whole nation. Spanish kings and queens for many centuries have sat in the royal boxes to applaud, and many of the Spanish noblemen of the present time breed choice fighting bulls on their farms, and there is the same mad admiration of the agile, skilful _espado_ or bull slayer, as a hundred years ago. To be a fine _picador_ or _banderillo_, is to be sure of the praise and the presents of the entire populace. Men, women and children go; the amphitheatre is always crowded and always the crowd will sit breathless and happy to see six or eight bulls killed, and three times that count of horses--the rich and the nobles on the shady side under the awnings, the peasants sweltering and burning in the sun. It is the _picador_ who rides on horseback to invite with his lance the attacks of the bull as he enters the arena; it is the _capeador_ who springs into the arena with his cloak of maddening red or yellow, to distract the bull’s attention from the fallen horseman; it is the _banderillo_ who taunts the wounded creature with metal-tipped arrows, the barbs of which cannot be extracted, or with his long pole leaps tauntingly over the back of the confused creature; but it is the gorgeous _espado_ with his sword, entering the arena, at last, who draws all eyes. With his red flag he plays with the bull as a cat with the mouse, until the amphitheatre is mad for life blood; then with a swift, graceful stroke he ends all, his superb foe lies dead, and he turns from him to meet the wild shower of hats, cigars, flowers, fans, purses that beats upon him from all sides--it is a scene of unimaginable exultation, for there are glad cries and plaudits, and royalty itself throws the bull-slayer a golden purse and a pleased smile, and the beautiful Spanish señoritas lavish upon him the most bewildering attentions.

The Spanish boy is born with a thirst for this sport. Their favorite game is _Toro_. One lad mounts on his fellow’s back to take the part of the _picador_ and his horse; another, with horns of sticks, represents the bull; and the rest are _capeadors_, _banderillos_, and _escodas_, while the audience of adult loungers look on with fierce excitement. It is in this fierce, popular street sport that the future champions of the Bull Ring are trained and developed--to be an _escoda_ is usually the height of a Spanish boy’s ambition.

Nowhere in Spain are you refreshed with the restful sound of water, sometimes soft, sometimes gay, as in Granada. You hear the flow of the Darro over its stones and rocks, you hear the splash of fountains, the gay hurry of mountain brooks, the soft sound of springs--everywhere flow, or gurgle, or drip. You hear it on the tree-bordered and bowered Alameda in your moonlit walks, and you hear it through the windows of your _fonda_, or hotel, when you wake. It is everywhere about the Alhambra heights, and the Generalife terraces. The Spaniards call this continuous water-sound, “The Sigh of the Moor.”

Most of the young Spanish women as well as the men, are accomplished guitar-players. The guitar belongs in story to the Señorita, along with her mantilla and her fan. It usually hangs on her casement, brave with ribbons and gay wool tufts and all manner of decorations, and by moonlight she will come out upon the balcony to answer her cavelier’s serenade with a song as sweet as his own. You feel the atmosphere of the Spanish night vibrating all about you, as you stroll along the moonlit street, with the low, soft, delicate twinkle of a hundred guitars, the players half-hidden in the dim patio balconies.

It is often the custom to drive the goats from door to door to be milked, and often an accustomed goat, tinkling its bells, will go along the street, stopping of its own will and knowledge at the doors of its customers, and knocking smartly with its horns should no one appear. The servant of the house comes out into the street and milks the desired quantity, while the “milkman” lounges near by with his cigarette.

Often it is as amusing to watch the dogs of the beggars by the churches as the men themselves. While the noble _Caballeros_, Don Miguel and Don Pedro, exhausted with the saying of prayers and the much asking of centimos, have fallen asleep in the shade, their respective dogs remain awake to glare at each other with true professional jealousy, and to growl and snap, should a chance stranger drop a coin in one hat and not in the other. The beggar is the last sight, as well as the first, which greets the traveler in Spain.

QUEEN LOUISA AND THE CHILDREN.

BY MARY STUART SMITH.

Queen Louisa of Prussia was the mother of William I., Emperor of Germany, and although she has been dead over sixty years her one hundredth birthday was celebrated elaborately throughout her son’s dominions, with almost as many rejoicings as we made here over the one hundredth birthday of these United States.

When a child Louisa was very beautiful, and as she grew up did not disappoint the promise of those early days.

She was married to Frederick William, Crown Prince of Prussia, when only seventeen years of age, and brought down upon herself a sharp rebuke from the proud mistress of ceremonies for the love she showed to a little child as she was making her public entry into Berlin, preparatory to the solmnization of her marriage. It happened thus:

The streets were thronged with people who had come to catch a glimpse of the fair young bride, while every now and then select persons would step forward and present complimentary poems of welcome, or some pretty gift. A sweet little girl advanced to give the queen a bunch of flowers, and Louisa was so struck with the child’s loveliness that she stooped down and kissed her on the forehead. “Mein Gott!” exclaimed the horrified mistress of ceremonies. “What has your majesty done?” Louisa was as artless and simple as a child herself. “What?” said she, “is that wrong? Must I never do so again?”

But the prince, her husband, was no fonder of show and ceremony than herself, and asserted manfully the right of his wife and himself to act like other affectionate people, in spite of being king and queen.

This royal pair had eight children, and upon these children was lavished every care and attention. It is said that every night the king and queen went together to visit their sleeping children after they had been put into their little beds, and many a time were they surprised by a bright pair of wide-awake eyes smiling back upon them a look of love in return. Queen Louisa used to say, “The children’s world is my world,” nor were the little creatures slow to reciprocate the love she gave.

You know Christmas is observed in Germany with peculiar reverence, and is a season set apart for mirthful recreation among all classes, but more especially for the enjoyment of children. Berlin is gay with Christmas trees and a brilliant array of toys etc., for at least a week beforehand.

Like other parents the king and queen found delight in preparing pleasant surprises for their little ones. While engaged in choosing presents for them, on one occasion they entered a top-shop where a citizen’s wife was busy making purchases, but recognizing the new-comers she bowed respectfully and retired. The queen addressed her in her peculiarly winning way and sweet voice. “Stop, dear lady, what will the stall-keeper say if we drive away his customers?” She then inquired if the lady had come to buy toys for her children, and asked how many little ones she had. Hearing there was a son about the age of the Crown Prince, the queen bought some toys and gave them to the mother, saying, “Take them, dear lady, and give them to your crown prince in the name of mine.”

But I must tell you a yet prettier story, showing the queen’s fondness for making children happy.

There lived in Berlin a father and mother, who from some cause were so poor, and low-spirited besides, that when the holiday came which all children love best, they quietly resigned themselves to having nothing to give their little ones. What can be more sad than a house which no Kriss Kringle visits? Just think of it! They told their children that there was to be no Christmas tree for them this year. The little boy and his sister had been led to believe that the _Christ-kind_ or Christ-child provides the tree and the gifts which are placed on tables round it; only ornaments, sweets and tapers are hung upon the branches. Under this disappointment the children, in the innocent simplicity of their faith, sought the aid of the good _Christ-kind_ in their own way.

Christmas Eve came, and the poor troubled parents looked on with wonder as they beheld their children hopping and skipping about with joy, although they were to be the only children for whom no Christmas tree would be lighted, nor pretty gifts provided. Still in high spirits they watched at the window, and clapped their hands when the door-bell rang, exclaiming: “Here it comes!” The door was opened and a man-servant appeared, laden with a gay tree and several packets, each addressed to some member of the family.

“There must be some mistake!” said the mother.

“No, no!” cried the boy, “it is all right. I wrote to the good _Christ-kind_, and told him what we wanted, and that you could not buy anything this year.”

The parents enjoyed the evening with their children and afterwards unravelled the mystery. The postmaster, astonished by a letter evidently written by a very young scribe and addressed to the _Christ-kind_, had sent it to the palace with a respectful inquiry as to what should be done with a letter so strangely directed. Queen Louisa read it and, as a handmaid of the _Christ-kind_, she answered his little children.[1]

[1] Mrs. Hudson’s Life of Queen Louisa.

Louisa’s sympathies were ever ready to flow for the sorrows of childhood, which so many grown people will not stoop to even notice.

One day as the king and queen were entering a town, a band of young girls came forward to strew flowers and to present a nosegay. Her majesty inquired how many little girls there were. “Nineteen,” replied the artless child; “there would have been twenty of us but one was sent back home because she was too ugly.”

The kind queen feeling for the child’s mortification sent for her and requested that she might by all means be allowed to join in the festivities of the day.

Nor did Louisa slight the boys.

She was one day walking in the streets of Charlottenburg, attended by a lady-in-waiting; a number of boys were running and tumbling and playing somewhat rudely, and one of them ran up against the queen. Her lady reproved him sharply, and the little fellow looked frightened and abashed. The queen patted his rosy cheek, saying: “Boys will be a little wild; never mind, my dear boy, I am not angry.” She then asked his name and bade him give her compliments to his mother. The child knew who the lady was, and besides having the pleasant memory of her gracious speech and looks received a lesson in politeness which he never forgot.

Sometimes the royal children were allowed to have a party, and this indulgence young princes and princesses enjoy just as much as other juveniles. A queer anecdote is told of the only daughter of the famous Madame de Stael, in relation to one of these entertainments.

The little lady was about ten years of age, but had already imbibed many opinions and prejudices. At all events she had a high idea of her own importance, and was totally wanting in respect for her superiors in rank. She was apt to be very rude in her manners and in her remarks. On this occasion she took offence at something which the little Crown Prince said or did to her, and very coolly gave him a sharp box on the ear, upon which he ran crying to his mother and hid his face in the folds of her dress. As mademoiselle, when remonstrated with, showed not a particle of concern, and refused to say she was sorry, she was not invited again, and her learned mamma found that she must keep her daughter at home until she taught her better manners.[2]

[2] Sir George Jackson.

The annual fair at Paretz, the king’s beloved country home, took place during the merry harvest-time. A number of booths were then put up near the village, and besides buying and selling there was a great deal or dancing and singing going on, and all sorts of games and sports. It was then that the wheel of fortune was turned for the children’s lottery. Lots of cakes and fruit were set round in order, which were given away according to the movements of a pointer, turned by the wheel.

Queen Louisa encouraged the children to crowd around her on these occasions; she could not bear to see them afraid of her, and placed herself beside the wheel, in order to secure fair play and to watch carefully that she might make some amends for the unkindness of fortune. She had her own ample store of good things which she dispensed among the unlucky children, many of whom thought more of the sweet words and looks of the queen than of anything else she could give them. Moreover she was glad to have a chance of leading even one of her little subjects to be generous and self-denying. For, while she liked to see them all happy, she at the same time interested herself in giving pleasantly little hints as to conduct that might be of lasting benefit.

All her life Queen Louisa watched beside the wheel in a higher sense. She overlooked the whole circle of which she was the centre, anxiously seeking to hold out a helping hand to any whom she saw likely to be ruined by losses in the great lottery of real life.

Is it matter for wonder then that German children still cherish her memory, and delight to place flowers upon vase or tomb that bears her name?

THE PLAYTHING OF AN EMPRESS.

BY M. S. P.

Doubtless the readers of GRAMMAR SCHOOL have heard it said that “Men and Women are only children of a larger growth.” No matter how stately the grand ladies that we often meet with may appear, you may be very sure that they sometimes envy the pleasures of children, who have no thoughts about fine houses and servants, and a hundred other cares. Even wearing a crown does not bring happiness; the dignity it entails often becomes burdensome.

Once a young prince, who had everything that he could possibly want given him,--books, jewels, playthings of inconceivable variety, horses and dogs, in fact all the nice things that you can imagine to bring him pleasure,--was observed by his attendants to be standing by the window, crying. When asked the cause of his tears he replied that he was unhappy because he could not join the boys in the street who were making mud pies!

The Indians who use the bow and arrow say that the proper way to keep the strength of their bows is to unstring them after use and let them relax. So it is with those whose minds or bodies are engaged in one long strain of work; they must be relaxed or they become useless. The late Pope of Rome was a very dignified old man, and was also surrounded by learned and great men. He rode in a gilded coach drawn by four horses, and was in public a very grand and stately person. But I read the other day that the old gentleman and some of his cardinals were once seen playing ball in his garden, for the purpose of amusing a little boy.

More than a hundred years ago the great country east of Germany, known as Russia, was ruled by the Empress Anne. It is a very cold country and the winter is very long. The capital is St. Petersburg, and through it the river Neva runs. This river freezes in winter, and the ice is frequently so solid that it will bear up an army of several thousand men with all their heavy guns and mortars, and these be discharged without so much as cracking the ice.

At the close of the year 1739, during an extremely cold winter, the empress ordered one of her architects to build an _Ice Palace_. The great square in front of the royal palace was chosen for its site. Blocks of the clearest ice were selected, carefully measured and even ornamented with architectural designs. They were raised with cranes and carefully placed in position, and were cemented together by the pouring of water over them. The water soon froze and made the blocks one solid wall of ice. The palace was fifty-six feet long, seventeen and one half feet wide, and twenty-one feet high. Can you imagine anything more beautiful than such a building made of transparent ice and sparkling in the sun?

It was surrounded by a balustrade, behind which were placed six ice cannon on carriages. These cannon were exactly like real metal ones, and were so hard and solid that powder could be fired in them. The charge used was a quarter of a pound of powder and a ball of oakum. At the first trial of the cannon an iron ball was used. The empress with all her court was present, and the ball was fired. It pierced a plank two inches thick at a distance of sixty feet.

Besides these six cannon in front of the palace there were two ice mortars which carried iron balls weighing eighty pounds with a charge of one quarter of a pound of powder. Then, too, there were two ice dolphins, from whose mouths a flame of burning naptha was thrown at night with most wonderful effect. Between the cannon and dolphins, in front of the palace, there was a balustrade of ice ornamented with square pillars. Along the top of the palace there was a gallery and a balustrade which was ornamented with round balls. In the centre of this stood four beautiful ice statues.

The frames of the doors and windows were painted green to imitate marble. There were two entrances to the palace, on opposite sides, leading into a square vestibule which had four windows. All the windows were made of perfectly transparent ice, and at night they were hung with linen shades on which grotesque figures were painted, and illuminated by a great number of candles.

Before entering the palace one naturally stopped to admire the pots of flowers on the balustrade, and the orange trees on whose branches birds were perching. Think of the labor and patience required to make such perfect imitations of nature _in ice_!

Standing in the vestibule, facing one entrance and having another behind, one could see a door on either hand. Let us imagine ourselves in the room on the left. It is a sleeping-room apparently, but if you stop to think that every article in it is made of ice you will hardly care to spend a night there; and yet it is said that two persons actually slept on the bed there for an entire night. On one side is a toilet-table. Over it hangs a mirror, on each side of which are candelabra with ice candles. Sometimes at night these candles were lit by being dipped in naptha. On the table is a watch-pocket, and a variety of vases, boxes, and ornaments of curious and beautiful design. At the other side of the room we see the bed hung with curtains, furnished with sheets and a coverlid and two pillows, on which are placed two night-caps. By the side of the bed on a foot-stool are two pairs of slippers. Opposite the bed is the fireplace which is beautifully carved and ornamented. In the grate lie sticks of wood also made of ice, which are sometimes lighted like the candles by having naptha poured over them.

The opposite room is a dining-room. In the centre stands a table on which is a clock of most wonderful workmanship. The ice used is so transparent that all the wheels and works are visible. On each side of this table two beautifully carved sofas are placed, and in the corners of the room there are statues. On one side we see a sideboard covered with a variety of ornaments. We open the doors and find inside a tea-set, glasses and plates which contain a variety of fruits and vegetables, all made of ice but painted in imitation of nature.

Let us now go through the opposite door and notice the other curious things outside the palace. At each end of the balustrade we see a pyramid with an opening in each side like the dial of a clock. These pyramids are hollow, and at night a man stands inside of them and exhibits illuminated pictures at the grand openings.

Perhaps the greatest curiosity of all is the life-like elephant at the right of the palace. On his back sits a Persian holding a battle-axe, and by his side stand two men as large as life. The elephant, too, is hollow, and is so constructed that in the daytime a stream of water is thrown from his trunk to a height of twenty-four feet, and at night a flame of burning naptha. In addition to this, the wonderful animal is so arranged that from time to time he utters the most natural cries. This is done by means of pipes into which air is forced.

On the left of the palace stands a small house, built of round blocks of ice resembling logs, interlaced one with another. This is the bath-house, without which no Russian establishment is complete. This bath-house was actually heated and used on several occasions.

When this wonderful ice-palace was completed it was thrown open to the public, and such crowds came to see it that sentinels were stationed in the house to prevent disorder.

This beautiful palace stood from the beginning of January until the end of March. Then, as the weather became warmer, it began to melt on the south side; but even after it lost its beauty and symmetry as a palace it did not become entirely useless, for the largest blocks of ice were transferred to the ice-houses of the imperial palace, and thus afforded grateful refreshment during the summer, as well as a pleasant reminder of “_The Plaything of an Empress_.”

CHARLIE’S WEEK IN BOSTON.

BY CHARLES E. HURD.

Charlie was going to Boston.

The ceaseless clatter of his little copper-toed boots over all the bare places in the house, and the pertinacious hammering he kept up upon everything capable of emitting sound, rendered it impossible for his mamma or the new baby to get any rest, and so it was that the decision came about. Aunt Mary, who had lent her presence to the household for the preceding fortnight, was to return home the following day, and with her, after infinite discussion, it was decided that he was to go for a week.

The momentous news was withheld from Charlie until the next morning, for fear of the result upon his night’s sleep, but it was injudiciously let out by Aunt Mary before breakfast, the effect being to at once plunge the young gentleman into the highest state of excitement. He had played “go to Boston” a thousand times with his little cart and wheelbarrow, but to take such a journey in reality was something he could hardly imagine possible.

“Am I going to Boston, real ’live?” he wildly inquired. “Where’s my rubber boots, and my little chair, and my cart, and I want my piece of gum mamma tooked away, and where’s my sled?”

“But, Charlie,” said Aunt Mary, persuasively, “you are not going now, and you don’t want to take all those things. There isn’t any snow in Boston, and good little boys don’t chew gum. You must have some breakfast.”

“I don’t want any breakfast. I want to go to Boston. I got to go, now you said so.”

“Yes, but you must have something to eat first. It would make you sick to ride so far without eating. And then you must have a nice bath, and put on your new suit that papa bought last week. You’ve plenty of time.”

But Charlie, generally good to mind, was thoroughly demoralized by the new turn in affairs, and had to be brought to the table by main force.

“It’s like taking a horse to water,” said Aunt Mary. “You can get him to the trough, but you can’t make him drink without he likes. Charlie, have a nice large griddle-cake?”

Griddle-cakes were Charlie’s weak point, but in a time like this he rose superior to the temptation.

“Don’t want griddle-cakes; don’t want bread; don’t want toast; don’t want anything. I want to get right down out of my little chair, and go to Boston, awful quick!”

“The child will be down sick if he goes away on an empty stomach,” said grandma from her bedroom, where she could see all that transpired at the table. “Can’t you make him eat?”

“It’s all very well to say ‘Make him eat,’ but he won’t,” said Aunt Mary. “You might just as well make a squirrel sit down and eat in a respectable manner.”

“Let him go till he gets hungry, then,” said his father. “He’ll come to it soon enough. There’s no danger of his starving.”

If Charlie had been a grown man, with whiskers, and going to some European Court as Minister Extraordinary, he couldn’t have felt the importance of his prospective journey more, or been more weighed down by the preparations for it. The train which was to carry him did not start until two o’clock, and in the six hours which intervened his little tongue was in constant motion, and his little feet tramping up and down stairs, “getting ready.”

“But you’re only going to stay for a week, you know, Charlie,” said Aunt Mary, dismayed at the heap of toys he had industriously gathered in a corner of the sitting-room for transportation, “and you’ll see so many pretty things that you won’t care for any of these.”

“I want to carry my wheelbarrow. I will be cross if I don’t carry my wheelbarrow. And my cunnin’ little cunnin’ watlin’ pot, and my high chair, and some more.”

But Aunt Mary couldn’t get them into her trunk, and the railroad man wouldn’t let Charlie take them into the cars. “Put them all away nicely, and then Charlie will have them when he comes home.”

It required a great deal of judicious argument, intermingled with promises, to gain the point, and final success was only achieved by a formal agreement, to which grandma was made a witness, by virtue of which Charlie was to become the possessor of “a speckled rocking-horse, just like Johnny Baker’s, with real hair ears, and a tight tail, that boys couldn’t pull out.” This compact having been made, Charlie submitted to the washing and dressing process with comparative good grace.

An exceedingly light dinner preceded the start, varied by excursions to the front door to see if the depot stage was coming. It came at last, and, after the leave-taking, Charlie and Aunt Mary were packed in among half a dozen others. The whip cracked, the coach gave a sudden lurch, and then dashed down the street at the heels of the horses, who seemed anxious to get to the station at the earliest possible moment. There was just time to get tickets and seats before the train started.

If Charlie was unmanageable before, he was doubly so now. At every stopping-place he made desperate efforts to get out of the car, and once or twice, in spite of Aunt Mary’s efforts, very nearly succeeded. He dropped his hat out of the window; he dirtied his face beyond redemption with dust and cinders; he put cake crumbs down the neck of an old lady who had fallen asleep on the seat just in front, and horrified the more staid portion of the passengers in the car by a series of acts highly inconsistent with the rules of good breeding, and the character of a nice boy.

Boston was reached at last, and the perils of procuring a hack and getting safely home in it were surmounted. So thankful was Aunt Mary that she could have dropped upon her knees on the sidewalk in front of the door; but she managed to control her feelings, paid the hackman his dollar, still keeping a tight grip upon Charlie, and, despite his struggles to join the distant audience of a hand-organ, managed to get him safely into the house, where he was at once delivered over to the other members of the household.

“I never, never, _never_ will go out of the house with that child again!” she declared, half crying, and sinking into a chair without taking her bonnet off. “He’s enough to kill anyone outright. No wonder they wanted to get rid of him at home! It’ll be a mercy if he don’t drive us all crazy before the week is out. One thing is certain, they’ll have to send for him. _I’ll_ never take him home again.”

“Why didn’t you drug him, Aunt Mary,” asked Tom, with a great show of sympathy. “_I_ would.”

“I declare I would have done anything, if I had only known how he was going to act! You may laugh and think it’s all very funny, but I just wish you’d some of you try it yourselves. Where is he now? If he’s out of sight a single minute he’ll be in some mischief. There he goes now!”

The last declaration of Aunt Mary was preceded by a series of violent bumps, followed by a loud scream from the bottom of the basement stairs. A grand rush to the spot revealed Charlie lying at the foot, beating the air with his legs, with a vigor that at once dispelled all fears as to his serious injury. He was picked up and borne into the kitchen by the cook, where the gift of a doughnut soon dried his tears, and he was returned to the sitting-room to await the ringing of the bell for tea.

“Has he had a nap to-day?” asked grandmother.

“Nap! I should think the child would be dead for want of sleep. I don’t believe he’s winked to-day!”

“He looks like it now, anyway,” said Tom, who was holding him in his arms.

Sure enough, his eyelids were beginning to droop, and a moment after the half-eaten doughnut dropped from his loosened fingers upon the carpet.

“Carry him up to my room, Tom, and lay him upon my bed. Don’t for mercy’s sake hit his head against anything. We shan’t have any peace if he gets awake again.”

Slowly and carefully Tom staggered under his little burden up-stairs, and laid it upon the clean white coverlet of Aunt Mary’s bed.

“That will do,” said Aunt Mary, who had followed close behind. “He’s thoroughly tired out, and no wonder. You may go down now and I will take care of him, dear little fellow.”

With careful fingers she untied the laces of his little boots, and pulled them off. The stockings came next, and the hot little feet were released from confinement. The tiny jacket was then removed, the tangled hair put back, and then, with a sponge wet in cool water, the dirty, sweaty little face was softly bathed until it became quite presentable again.

“There!” she said at last, surveying him with a feeling of satisfaction, “he will sleep at least a couple of hours. By that time I shall get rested, and can manage him better. I suppose it’s because he’s so tired, and everything is new.”

With this apology for Charlie in her heart, and a half remorseful feeling for her lately displayed impatience, she descended the stairs to the dining-room, where the rest of the family were already seated at the table.

A few minutes later, and while she was deep in an account of matters and things at Charlie’s home, the cook came up-stairs in something of a fluster.

“Plaze, ma’am, there’s something on the house.”

“Something on the house?”

“Yes. McKillop’s boarders across the way are all at the windows, an’ the men is laughin’ and the women frightened.”

With one accord a sudden and informal adjournment to the parlor window was made, the result being a verification of the cook’s statement.

“What on earth can be the matter?” said grandmother.

At this moment Mrs. McKillop, after a series of incomprehensible gestures, which nobody could translate with any clearness, dispatched her girl across the street.

“There’s a child, ma’am,” she exclaimed, in breathless excitement, “a baby, walking about on the outside of your house like a fly! he’s-- Howly Father!”

This sudden exclamation was caused by the descent of a flower pot, which, coming with the swiftness of a meteor, missed the head of the speaker by less than a hand’s-breadth, and crashed into a thousand pieces on the front steps.

The situation was taken in at once. With a succession of screams Aunt Mary flew up the stairs two at a time. By this a crowd was rapidly gathering.

“Bring out something to catch him in if he falls,” shouted a fat old gentleman, pushing his way to the front.

Grandmother caught a tidy from the arm of the sofa, and, snatching a volume of Tennyson from the centre-table, rushed frantically into the street, closely followed by Tom with a feather duster.

A single glance told the whole story. There sat Charlie, utterly innocent of clothing save a shirt of exceeding scantness, on the very edge of the broad projection below the third-story window, his legs dangling in space, watching with delighted interest the proceedings of the excited crowd in the street below. No one knows what might have happened, for, at that moment, while a hot discussion was being carried on among the gathered spectators, as to the propriety of sounding a fire alarm for a hook and ladder company, the arms of Aunt Mary came through the window, and closed upon him like a pair of animated pincers. There was a brief struggle, productive of a perfect shower of flower-pots, and then, amid a hurricane of shouts and cheers, the little white body and kicking legs disappeared within the room. When, two minutes later, the entire household, with a fair sprinkling of the McKillop boarders, had reached the scene, they found Charlie shut up in the wardrobe, and Aunt Mary in hysterics, with her back against the door.

“If he stays here a week we shall have to board up the windows, and keep a policeman,” said grandmother, that night, after Charlie had been guarded to sleep on the sitting-room lounge, with the door locked. “We shall have to have watchers for him, for I would no more dare to go to sleep without some one awake with him than I would trust him with a card of matches and a keg of gunpowder. And that makes me think: we musn’t leave matches where he can get them; and, father, you’ll have to go down town the first thing in the morning, and see about an insurance.”

Notwithstanding the universally expressed fears, Charlie slept like a top all night, and really behaved so well the next morning that it was deemed safe to give him an airing, and introduce him to the sights of Boston. Right after dinner he was taken in hand, and dressed and curled and frilled as he never had been before, creating serious doubts in his own mind as to whether he was really himself, or another boy of about the same size and general make.

At half-past two o’clock the party set out, Aunt Mary on one side, tightly grasping Charlie’s hand, and on the other a female friend, especially engaged for the occasion. Tom followed on behind as a sort of rear guard, ready to be called upon in case of emergency.

First the Public Garden was visited. Hardly had half the circuit of the lake been made, when Charlie, attracted by one of the gayly painted boats which was moored a few feet from the shore, broke loose and made a sudden dash to reach it, to the utter ruin of his stockings and gaiters. In vain Aunt Mary coaxed and remonstrated and threatened; in vain she attempted to hook him out with the handle of her parasol; he was just out of reach and he kept there. He was brought out by one of the gardeners at last, who seemed to look upon it as an excellent joke. Tom, who had lagged behind, was sent back after dry stockings and Charlie’s second-best shoes, which, when brought, were changed in the vestibule of the Public Library, and the line of march again taken up. The deer on the Common were fed, Punch and Judy viewed and criticized, and the thousand and one various objects in the vicinity visited. Charlie was delighted with everything, but through and above all one grand desire and determination rode rampant--the desire and determination to enter into possession of the promised, but as yet unrealized, “wocking-horse.”

Down Winter Street to Washington, in the great, sweeping crowd of men, women and children; past the gorgeous dry goods stores; past candy and apple stands; past all sorts of strange and funny and bewildering things, Charlie was slowly dragged, a helpless and unwilling prisoner. He only broke silence once. Passing a window filled with braids and chignons, and doubtless taking them for scalps, he inquired with considerable interest if “Indians kept store there.”

“Oh! what a lovely silk!” ejaculated Aunt Mary’s friend, coming to a sudden stop before one of the great dry goods emporiums on Washington Street.

Aunt Mary stopped, too. The pattern was too gorgeous to be lightly passed. She raised her hand to remove her vail, forgot her charge for a moment, and when she looked again Charlie had disappeared.

“Charlie! Charlie! Why, where is he?” she exclaimed, pale with fright. “I thought you had hold of him!”

“I dropped his hand not a minute ago, to be sure my pocket hadn’t been picked. I thought you would look out for him.”

In vain they searched; in vain they questioned clerks and policemen and apple-women. Nobody had seen such a boy, and yet everybody seemed to think that they certainly should remember if they had. It was now half past four. And Tom, who might have helped them so much, was gone!

“Perhaps,” suggested a pitying apothecary’s clerk, with a very small moustache and very smooth hair, “perhaps the young man Tom has taken him home.”

There was a small spark of comfort in this suggestion and, though unbelieving, the two hurried homewards, only to find Tom sitting on the doorstep, lazily fanning himself, and hear his surprised ejaculation:

“Why! what have you done with Charlie?”

“He’s lost!” said Aunt Mary, bursting into tears. “He’ll get run over, or carried away, or something terrible will happen to him. I shall never have another minute’s peace while I live!”

Tom listened impatiently to the details of the story, told by both together, and, tossing his fan into the hall, started down the steps.

“Don’t fret till I come back. He’s all right somewhere, and I’ll bring him home with me.”

“I’m going back. I can’t stay here. I can help search,” said Aunt Mary, still in tears, and her loyal companion avowed her determination to stand by her.

Tom had hurried away without stopping to listen, and was now out of sight; but the two wretched women, heated, footsore and wearied, followed resolutely after. The scene of the mysterious disappearance was at last reached, and again the oft repeated inquiries were made, but with the same result.

“Here is where I was intending to bring him,” said Aunt Mary, pausing mournfully before the window of a toy-bazar crowded with drums, guns, trumpets and wooden monkeys. “He had talked so much about his rocking-horse, the poor lost lamb! And now--”

The sentence was never finished, for, with a half hysterical shriek, she dropped her parasol upon the sidewalk and rushed into the store, where the apparition of a curly head of flaxen hair, slowly oscillating back and forth, had that instant caught her eye. It was Charlie, sure enough, in the highest feather, mounted upon the back of the largest and realest-looking horse in the entire stock of the establishment, whose speed he was endeavoring to accelerate by the aid of divers kicks and cluckings, while the proprietor and unemployed clerks looked admiringly on.

Aunt Mary, despite her regard for appearances, hugged him and cried over him without stint, and finally made a brave attempt to scold him, but her heart failed her, at the very outset.

“He’s been here nigh upon two hours,” said the proprietor, as he made change for the coveted horse. “He came in alone and went right to that horse, and there he’s stuck ever since. I don’t let boys handle ’em much without I know they’re going to buy, but he made me think so much of a little fellow I lost a year ago that I let him do just as he liked.”

No mishap occurred in getting Charlie home this time. The toyman’s boy was sent for a hack, and, with the rocking-horse perched up by the side of the driver, and the doors tightly closed, nothing happened beyond what happens to ordinary boys who are carried about in hacks. Some little difficulty was experienced in getting him out on arrival home, for it appeared that he had formed the plan on the way of taking his horse into the coach and making a tour of the city by himself. He could not in any manner be satisfied of the impossibility of such an arrangement, and was at last taken out in a high state of indignation by the driver, who expressed a vehement wish to himself that “_he_ had such a young one!” Nothing took place worthy of mention before bed-time, with the exception, perhaps, of the breaking of the carving-knife, and the ruin of Aunt Mary’s gold pen in an attempt to vaccinate his new acquisition.

For three days peace--comparative peace--reigned in the household. From morning till night, in season and out of season, Charlie was busy with his horse, astride of it, or feeding it, or leading it to water, or punishing it for imaginary kicks and bites, and so keeping out of mischief; but with the dawn of the fourth he awoke, apparently for the first time, to a realization of the fact that he was not lying in his own little bed, and a sudden flood of homesickness rolled over his soul, drowning out rocking-horse, hand-organs, Tom’s music-box, and each and every Bostonian delight which, until that moment, had led him captive.

From that moment his mourning was as incessant and obstinate as that of Rachael. He sat on the top stair, and filled the house with wailings. Cakes, candy and coaxings were alike in vain, and even a desperate promise of Tom’s--to show him a whole drove of elephants, had no more effect upon him, to use the cook’s simile, “than the wind that blows.”

“No human being can endure it any longer,” declared grandma, and in that statement every member of the household cordially agreed.

That fact having been established without discussion, but one thing remained to do; to get him home in as good condition as when he left there.

“One can hardly do that,” said Tom. “He’s got a rag on every finger but one, and I don’t know how much court-plaster about him.”

Notwithstanding, the afternoon train saw Charlie on board, under the double guardianship of Aunt Mary and Tom, and at five o’clock he was in his mother’s arms.

“The silence in the house was a thousand times worse than the sound of his little feet,” she said, with her eyes full of tears, “and made me think of that possible time when I should never hear them any more.”

A WONDERFUL TRIO.

BY JANE HOWARD.

In a little stone hut among the mountains lived Gredel and her son Peterkin, and this is how they lived: They kept about a dozen goats; and all they had to do was to watch them browse, milk them, and make the butter and cheese, which they partly ate and partly sold down in the village, or, rather, exchanged for bread. They were content with bread, butter, and cheese; and all they thought about was the goats. As for their clothes, it would be impossible to speak of them with patience. They had no ambition, no hope, no thought beyond the day, and no sense of gratitude towards yesterday. So they lived, doing no harm, and effecting little good; careless of the future, and not honestly proud of anything they had done in the past.

But one day Gredel (who was the widow of a shepherd that had dropped over the edge of a cliff) sat slowly churning the previous day’s milk, while Peterkin sat near her, doing nothing at all, thinking nothing at all, because he had nothing to ponder over, and looking at nothing at all, for the goats were an everyday sight, and they took such capital care of themselves that Peterkin always stared away over their heads.

“Heigho!” suddenly exclaimed Gredel, stopping in her churning; and Peterkin dropped his stick, looked at his mother slowly, and obediently repeated, “Heigho!”

“The sun rises,” said Gredel, “and the sun sets; the day comes, and the day goes; and we were yesterday, and we are to-day, and we shall be for some tomorrows; and that is all, all, all.”

Said Peterkin, “Mother, what is there in the world?”

“Men and women,” repeated the wise parent; “goats, and many other things.”

“But is it the end of life to get up, watch goats, eat and drink, and fall asleep again? Sometimes I wonder what is on the other side of the hill.”

“Who can say what is the end of life?” asked slow-thoughted Gredel. “Are you not happy?”

“Yes. But there is something more.”

“Do you not love me--your mother?”

“Yes. But still I think--think--think.”

“Love is enough,” said Gredel, who had passed more than half way through life, and was content to rest.

“Then it must be,” said Peterkin, “that I want more than enough.”

“If so, you must be wicked,” remarked Gredel; “for I am at peace in loving you, and you should be content in loving me. What more do you want? You have enough to eat--a warm bed in winter--and your mother who loves you.”

Peterkin shook his head.

“It will rain to-night,” said Gredel; “and you will be warm while many will be shivering in the wet.”

Gredel was quite right; for when the sun had set, and the heavens were all of one dead, sad color, down came the rain, and the inside of the hut looked very warm and comfortable.

Nevertheless, Peterkin still thought of the something beyond the mountain, and wondered what it might be. Had some wise one whispered in his ear, he must have learnt that it was healthy ambition, which helped the world and the worker at the same time.

Soon it began to thunder, and Peterkin lazily opened the wooden shutters to look at the lightning.

By this time Gredel, having thanked Providence for a large bowl of black bread steeped in hot goat’s milk, was nodding and bobbing towards the flaming wood fire.

“Mother mother! here comes something from this world!”

“And what comes from the world?”

“Something like three aged women, older than you are a very great deal. Let me wait for another flash of lightening. Ha! The first has a big stick; the second has a great pair of round things on her eyes; and the third has a sack on her back, but it is as flat as the palm of my hand, and can have nothing in it.”

“Is there enough bread, and cheese, and milk, and salt in the house?--We must consider.”

“Aye,” answered Peterkin; “there is plenty of each and all.”

“Then let them come in, if they will,” said Gredel. “But they shall knock at the door first, for we go not out on the highways and in the byways to help others. Let them come to us--good. But let us not go to them, for they have their business, and we have ours; and so the world goes round!”

“They are near the door,” whispered Peterkin, “and very good old women they look.”

The next moment there was a very soft and civil tapping at the door.

“Who goes there?” asked Peterkin.

“Three honest old women,” cried a voice.

“And what do three honest old women want?” called Gredel.