Chapter III: On Tumble Ridge (1)

Although Uncle Nathan was eager to arm his own people and seek a meeting with the "miscreants," who, he declared, were endeavoring to ruin him, Mr. Wyeth's cool counsels and Uncle Daniel's restraining voice prevailed, and nothing had been done.

But Nathaniel Frothingham refused to go to bed, and paced the floor all night. At daybreak he and his brother, with Cloud, the overseer, and Mr. Wyeth, made their way up on the ridge. At first nothing appeared amiss, but when they had gone a short way into the shaft they came upon a scene of havoc.

The Hewes' Mine and the Frothinghams' had been joined into one big excavation that was filled with the débris of the timbers and great masses of ore.

It was true! For some months the Frothinghams had been working upon the other's property. They had been separated only by a thin wall of rock, and it was this intervening partition that had been blown up in the night.

The Hewes' shaft was deserted; but Uncle Nathan, when he reached the air, climbed to a high point where he could look into the eastern valley.

He shook his fist out over the silent woods and meadows. "I'll be even with you, you cowardly rascals!" he exclaimed. "You'll account to me for every bit of it, Mason Hewes, I'll warrant ye." He dashed his hat and his wig upon the ground, and stamped upon them in his wrath.

Suddenly from behind a clump of bushes came three men, walking quickly forward. They were Mr. Mason Hewes, his cousin the tall man carrying the rifle, and a stranger.

They came quite close before a word was said. In the mean time Daniel Frothingham and Mr. Wyeth had placed themselves on Uncle Nathan's either hand, while Cloud had thrown back his coat, showing a big horse-pistol thrust into his belt.

"I beg pardon," said Mr. Hewes, stepping ahead of the others. "But some one called my name a moment since; have any of you gentlemen aught to say to me?" He bowed politely, but his face was pale, and it was evident that he was restraining himself only by a great effort.

Uncle Nathan put his hand to his bald head. The absence of his wig appeared to disconcert him, and it was his brother who answered first.

"Yes," said Uncle Daniel. "Here is one who has something plain to say. You are a villain, sir. I am Daniel Frothingham, much at your service."

Again Mr. Hewes bowed. "You are an old man," he said. "But guard your words, I pray of you."

"I need guard no words when talking to a traitor," half shouted Uncle Daniel.

"A traitor to what or whom, may I inquire?" said Mr. Hewes, lifting his eyebrows.

"To your King," was the rejoinder. "I have heard of your rebellious speech."

"We may have no King here shortly," replied Mr. Hewes; "and in saying so I am but far-sighted. Still I warn you, guard your words!"

Nathaniel had by this time recovered his wig and his composure, although he looked redder than ever.

"This is _my_ quarrel, brother," he said, turning first to Daniel and then to his hated neighbor. "Look here, you sneering rebel, _I_ am not too old, and _my_ words shall not be guarded at your orders," he added.

"Hold," said Mr. Hewes; "no need of further talk; do you mean to force a meeting with me?"

"Whenever and wherever you may choose," responded Uncle Nathan.

"This is my cousin and my young friend, Lemuel Roberts; they will wait upon you," said Mr. Hewes, waving his hand towards his companions.

Stilted recognitions followed, and some whispering.

"To-morrow morning, then, at the spring in yonder hollow," announced one of the suddenly appointed seconds. Bows were exchanged, and the two parties walked away and descended the opposite slopes of the hill.

Cloud, the overseer, was evidently delighted with the unexpected turn of affairs. But the rest of the party walked on in silence.

When they reached the house, Nathaniel Frothingham called to Cato, who came into the hall. "Cato," he said, "get out those ebony-handled pistols, and bring them on the lawn."

What fun the twins had that afternoon, and how their uncle rose in their estimation, for at the first shot the stem of a wine-glass placed against a tree-trunk had been shattered, and Uncle Nathan had turned, saying, "I have not forgotten how--eh, Daniel?"

One thing the twins could not understand was why every one should be so glum over a little pistol practice, or why their aunt Clarissa should sit upstairs with her finger-tips in her ears, and her eyes red from weeping.

Something unusual was in the wind, it was easy to see that, but what it was the boys could not determine.

After supper they had made their way to the foundry. From the door of the smelting furnace a huge red beam shot out into the evening twilight, throwing into strong relief the figures of the workmen, who with their puddling-irons were turning the molten streams into the rough sand moulds.

The twins stood there talking softly to one another.

"I say, George," said William, "isn't it time we went back to the house, think ye?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied the other. "Let's go around to the pond first. We'll see if there's anything in the traps."

They darted out of the glare of the furnaces and climbed the fence into the road. The pond lay still and quiet in the shadowy gray light, and the twins carefully picked their way across the dam and entered a clump of alders on the other side.

They had not gone more than a dozen steps when a strange apparition appeared to rise out of the very mud at their feet. A tall bent figure with long hair hanging down over its broad shoulders, a pair of deep-set, restless eyes, and a large good-humored mouth, parted in a grin.

"How!" said the apparition, in a deep chest tone.

The boys had recovered from their sudden start. "How, Adam!" they returned.

Adam Bent Knee was one of the few surviving members of the once powerful tribe of Indians that had years before harassed the settlers of New Jersey, and had moved northward and westward before the advancing tide of civilization, leaving a few of its descendants to earn a precarious existence by fishing and trading in small ways with the whites.

The boys had long known the old Indian, and had often greeted him as he passed through the woods tending his traps, or bringing strings of fish down to the settlement to be exchanged for tobacco or a few ounces of sugar. He seldom spoke to the older people, but he always had seemed glad to meet the twins.

As they looked at him after he had arisen from the log on which he had been seated, they saw he held in his hands the ends of two long night-lines whose floats bobbed up and down some distance out on the surface of the pond.

"Any luck this evening, Adam?" inquired George, cheerfully.

"Luck no good now," replied the old man; "luck no good anywhere. Tell old man," said he, suddenly bending forward, "luck no good for him. Tell him look out," the old Indian went on. "Fire, all, everywhere. War! Three red moons! War! Men kill!" He swept his hand about his head, as if indulging in some occult warning.

The boys looked at one another, and, taking hands, passed on. The Indian, without a further word, seated himself again on the log.

A few steps further up the bank the twins glanced at a rough trap near the roots of a huge sumach-bush, and seeing that luck here was also against them, they skirted the bend and quickly crossed the old bridge back to the house. They stole up to bed through the kitchen entrance. A light was burning in their uncle's office. The three gentlemen were in there, and Uncle Nathan was putting his name to a big paper, which the others witnessed with their signatures. It was his will.

* * * * *

Early the next morning the Frothingham twins made their way to the summit of Tumble Ridge on a tour of inspection of their own.

They looked down into the yawning mouth of the pit, but did not descend and could not see the mischief that the big blast had played with the mine that their uncle had reckoned his best bit of property.

The Frothinghams' shaft was not in use, but George thought he heard the rumble of the Hewes' ore cars descending their side of the hill.

So the boys walked over to the fence, climbed to the top and looked down the further slope, then, balancing themselves, they walked along the rail.

Suddenly they stopped. There, only a short distance from them, leaning against the trunk of a stunted oak, was the hated Carter Hewes. He was looking at them fixedly. "Where's your black nurse?" he said, grinning.

"I suppose you mean our body-servant, sir," said George, keeping his balance with an effort on the rickety top rail.

The larger boy laughed. "You ought not to be out alone," he said.

"We are able to take care of ourselves, and you, too, I'll warrant," said William, who also maintained his post of vantage with some difficulty.

"I dare you to come over on our property," said Carter, moving toward them, menacingly.

Whether the top rail slipped, or whether the challenge was too much for the young Frothingham blood is not to be told, but in an instant both boys were down upon the ground. Carter had removed his coat.

"I'll fight you both," he said.

William plucked George by the sleeve. "Me first," he whispered, removing his hat and turning up his sleeves.

George stepped to one side, and in an instant the two boys were at it without another word.

Some blows were exchanged, and then the combatants clinched and rolled upon the ground, first one on top, and then the other, scratching and striking with all their might.

George danced about them, scarcely refraining from taking a hand himself, and shouting encouragingly.

"You have him, William! You have him!" he cried, waving his brother's hat as well as his own, about his head. "Don't let him hold you down!"

But size and superior strength told at last, and the fighters for an instant separated and rose to their feet. Then it was seen that William had much the worst of the affair. One of his eyes was blackened, and he could scarcely close his small fists, but he faced his opponent bravely, and said, "Come on, come on, sir!" He was panting furiously, and snuffling to keep back the angry sobs. Carter, too, was breathing hard, sharp breaths. His lips were tightly pressed over his teeth, and the corner of his mouth was bleeding slightly. There was another rush, and William went down and lay there, for a blow had caught him squarely on the point of the chin.

George threw down the hats and tore off his coat.

"You said you'd fight us both," he shouted to the older boy, and drove at him, with both arms threshing like a small wind-mill. Carter could not resist the impetus of this fresh onslaught. Tired with his first struggle, inside a minute he cried, "Enough, enough. Two to one is too much for me. I've had enough, I say!"

He had tripped over a branch and had fallen on the ground. George stood over him, and William, recovering, was shouting encouragement in turn.

But further fighting was interrupted just here by a strange appearance. There was something that sounded like a laugh, and, looking up, the three boys saw, standing close to them, the bent form of the old Indian.

"Ugh!" he said. "Heap fight. Great chiefs." Then he came closer. "No more fight," he said. "Good friends now. Great chiefs."

He held in his fingers a short red clay pipe, from which the smoke was curling.

"I've had enough," repeated Carter, glancing up at George.

The old Indian made a funny gesture with his open hand. "No more fight," he said, at the same time turning round and striking the ground sharply with his moccasined feet.

Something was so amusing in the old man's expression that George half smiled, and Carter, getting up, brushed the dirt from his knees and elbows.

"Let's smoke the 'Pipe of Peace,'" he said.

The old Indian seemed to understand him, for soon he sat upon the ground, and motioned the boys to join him.

The four seated themselves in a circle.

Old Adam gravely drew three puffs and made a guttural exclamation, at the same time passing the short clay pipe to George, who took a whiff. It made him cough, and the tears came into his eyes as he passed it on to Carter, who, still breathless, put it to his lips, and inhaled a little of the smoke. He immediately fell to coughing also, but handed the pipe to William, whose left eye was fast closing. William drew a long inhalation, and almost exploded, the smoke coming from his nose, and the tears running down his grimy face.

Contrary to what is supposed to be the usual custom of the Indian, Adam Bent Knee laughed aloud. "Great chiefs," he said.

Quickly, however, he recovered his composure, and passed the pipe again.

If honors were equally divided in the former contest, the pipe had all the glory of the second encounter, for the boys refused to touch it.

Still dizzy from the effects of the strong tobacco, they stood up and put on their coats.

"Let's go over to the spring and wash our faces," said Carter. "There's no use fighting any more."

No one would have thought that hostilities could be so soon forgotten; but boys forgive easily if they have no mean action cherished against one another.

Old Adam left them, striding off through the trees with a parting injunction to "no more fight."

When the late combatants reached the spring they threw themselves flat in the green soft grass, and washed their heated faces, and there was cemented a friendship between the younger branches of the rival families that was destined to bear most unlooked-for results.

As they lay there talking together they heard the sound of voices, and George arose. "Why, look here!" he said. "Here's our two uncles and your father, Carter; and Dr. Grubb, from the cross-ways, with a big box under his arm. What are they about?"

Looking through the bushes the three lads saw a strange sight.

Uncle Nathan was standing with his arms folded quite alone, and a short distance away was Mr. Hewes, who was stripping the leaves from a twig he held in his hand. Beneath a tree a discussion was being held in low tones between four other gentlemen, and the doctor off to one side was mopping his forehead with a great handkerchief.

The trio of new friends walked boldly out into the open. But they were not prepared for the consternation that their appearance created.

The doctor stopped polishing his brow, and adjusted his old brown wig. Mr. Hewes dropped both his hands, and the group under the tree looked like school-boys caught robbing an orchard.

Nathaniel Frothingham cleared his throat nervously. "What are you doing here, and what have you been at?"

"We've been fighting," said William, promptly. "But we are good friends now, and we've smoked the pipe of peace; have we not, Carter?"

No one spoke, and again an awkward silence followed. At last the Doctor spoke. "A capital idea," he said. "Have you it with you?--ah, eh?--the pipe, I mean."

"No," said Carter. "It belonged to Adam Bent Knee, and it made us all most dreadful sick."

At this Mr. Wyeth laughed, and Mr. Hewes's pale face broadened into a smile.

"Now, I think me that a snuff-box might make an excellent substitute," said the Doctor, walking up to Mr. Hewes and extending a big horn-case.

Mr. Hewes took a pinch, and then with reluctance Uncle Nathan followed suit. Then pinches of the powdered tobacco were exchanged all round.

The Doctor broke out into a roaring sneeze. "Well, gentlemen, methinks the conference is over," he said, and started off with the case under his arm.

Mr. Hewes picked up another box much like it and went away into the woods. The gentlemen lifted their hats to one another, and the party broke up.

"Good-by, Carter," called back the twins. Carter waved his hand. "Good-morrow," he said. "We'll meet again."

After the young Frothinghams had gone to bed that night Aunt Clarissa came up to their room. She kissed them both over and over again.

This display of affection was most disconcerting, and to the twins quite inexplicable, but what she said astonished them also.

"You must have Carter Hewes come to Stanham and see you," said Aunt Clarissa.

After she had left them William rose up on his pillow and shook his brother's shoulder, whispering:

"Uncle Daniel is going to take one of us back with him to London. I overheard him say it. We won't go unless he takes us both. What say you?"

"Agreed," said George, sleepily. "What a strange day it has been, to be sure! They haven't said a word to us for fighting Carter Hewes; and wasn't it funny how we met them all up there? How polite they were to one another, eh?"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE GOOD LITTLE BOY.

BY L. A. TEREBEL.

When first we moved into this street
My Mamma wouldn't let me meet
The other little girls and boys
Out on the sidewalk with their toys.

She said perhaps some naughty child
Would teach me to be bad and wild;
And so for several weeks I stood
At the window being good.

Until a lady came to see
My Mamma, and she said to me:
"_My_ little boy is good and sweet;
We live near by, across the street."

She told my Mamma I must meet
Her little boy across the street;
And so they sent me out one day
To find that little boy and play.

They said he was so very good
He could not be bad if he would.
I almost thought he must have wings,
And other holy sorts of things.

But when the nurse left us at play,
He said to me: "Let's run away;
I know a pond where, if you please,
We both can wade up to our knees!"

THE GIRL WHO COMES TO EARN A LIVING IN NEW YORK.

BY ELIZABETH BISLAND.

To-day in many families of modest means the daughters, as well as the sons, begin, as the school days draw to a close, to consider seriously the question of a career and the best means of earning a living. Every wise girl interests herself not only in the possibilities for success held out by the various professions, but the best method of so ordering her working life that it may result not only in success, but in pleasure and happiness as well. The one does not necessarily imply the other. One may rise in one's profession and earn an excellent income, and yet miss happiness and fail of true success. A wise old lady writing to a young girl of great wealth about to make her début in society, said:

"The really important matter is to _succeed_. Don't make the mistake of thinking that I mean mere success of fashion, money, and rank--though they are all most desirable and delightful things too. I am speaking of the success of being loved, of being popular, useful, and important. To my mind a woman is a success when she holds such a place in the world that her going out of it, at any age, is a severe loss to many people. There must be many so dependent upon her for love, for help, for advice, for pleasure and amusement, that her death leaves a wide gap and a bitter grief. Thousands of women die every day whose going affects no one deeply, except, perhaps, with a sense of relief, and such women I consider failures, whether they were rich or poor, humble or proud."

This is an excellent piece of advice for the girl about to enter on a life of labor, as well as for one destined for a fashionable career. Let a girl then fix her ambition upon a real all-round success, and be content with nothing less.

The most important thing to settle in the beginning is her way of living, which--while the style of it depends in large measure upon her earnings; or upon the allowance she receives from home while she is preparing herself to earn--is capable of infinite variations between the levels of comfort and discomfort, according to her own skill.

There are some so-called women's hotels in New York, but these are, without exception, to be avoided by a young girl with all her might. They are very cheap, but are dirty, squalid, and vulgar. They contain no provision for decent privacy, for adequate bathing, or for proper cleanliness; the food is unwholesome and uninviting, and the society no better than the accommodations, being composed in large part of broken-down failures of the sex, who are little likely to inspire a young girl with hopefulness or high ideals. Their one recommendation is the exclusion of men, which is not, after all, a matter of importance, since there is no reason why a self-respecting girl should not meet men and enjoy their acquaintance when circumstances and the proprieties admit of it. There is an enterprise on foot to build a woman's apartment-house, where the rooms and flats will be rented only to women working for a living who can furnish adequate and respectable references; where the rent will be low, the accommodations pleasant and pretty, and a restaurant of moderate prices in the building; but as yet this admirable scheme remains unrealized in New York, though similar Ladies' Chambers are settled and profitable institutions in London.

Perhaps the best thing a girl unacquainted with New York can do is to write and secure a room for two weeks at the Margaret-Louisa Home in East Seventeenth Street. This home--one of the many admirable foundations made by the Vanderbilt family--was built for the purpose of providing a safe and comfortable stopping-place for women of small means, and is closely connected with the Young Women's Christian Association in the next street. Owing to the constant demand for admission, no one person may remain longer than two weeks, which, after all, allows quite sufficient time for the search of a permanent abiding-place. In the interim one pays $3 a week for a room, and finds meals in the restaurant below at very moderate prices. That is to say, one can live there, with economy, at the rate of about seventy-five cents a day.

The best permanent arrangement for a girl young and alone is to find lodgings in a boarding-house. Excellent accommodations in the pleasantest quarters of the city can be had for $10 a week. This means a small hall room, the use of the bath-room and of the drawing-room, light, heat, attendance, and three meals a day. Two girls can usually arrange to lessen their expenses and double their comfort by taking a double room at $16. This plan is advisable, because it gives one a home in a clean, healthy, and agreeable part of town; provides ample food, which a girl hard at work requires; and insures attendance and consideration in case of illness. From a social point of view it provides her with entire protection and respectability; she meets and makes friends with a nice class of men and women living in the house, and has a pleasant reception-room in which to receive visits. Madison Avenue and the side streets leading out of Fifth Avenue contain a rich choice of such boarding-houses, but here and there certain streets are considered undesirable places to live, and it is well to select a boarding-house which appears quiet and dignified in its aspect, and whose landlady has the same appearance.

Another method is to take a room in a house that furnishes merely lodgings, where one can be housed for a sum ranging between $3 and $5 a week. A small gas-stove will serve for preparing breakfast and a light supper at night, and the hearty meal of the day can be had at a restaurant at one o'clock, when others are lunching. When two girls club together this is not a bad plan. The quickly cooked oatmeal, an egg, and a cup of tea will serve for breakfast; jam, a roll, and a glass of milk make a supper; and there are many cheap restaurants where a table d'hôte midday dinner of the most ample description is to be had for fifty cents, and one portion is ample for two. There are, of course, in the less-fashionable quarters of town, plain, cheap boarding-houses where everything is included for from $6 to $7 a week, but these rarely give the use of a general drawing-room, and the accommodations are very plain. Still, in Washington Square, Lafayette Place, and similar places one may by careful search sometimes find excellent lodgings at a most reasonable rate.

Still another method is to rent a large empty room somewhere, usually a sort of loft at the top of a house, and furnish it one's self. This is a popular plan among the girls in the art schools who wish a home and studio combined. They divide off the corners of the room by cheap screens into bedrooms and kitchen, and leave the centre for sitting and work room. They paint their floor to save a carpet, content themselves with a divan or two, a table, and a few chairs, and they do "light housekeeping" by the aid of a gas-stove, tinned goods, and the delicatessen stores, where one can find all manner of cooked dishes needing only to be warmed. When two or three girls combine on such a scheme they can keep their expenses down to about $18 or $20 a month each, and have a very good time of it.

There is also apartment life, which is not very dear, and is often most agreeable. Indeed, if it can be afforded, it is the pleasantest of all, since no one appreciates the pleasant privacy and relaxation of home life more than the woman who must face the world and fight her own battle. These housekeeping flats may be had all the way from $25 a month up, according to size, location, and convenience. A maid-of-all-work will serve as laundress, cook, and house-maid for from $12 to $15 a month, and the other expenses can be regulated according to one's means; but when two or three share the expenses, and the pennies are looked after closely, this is not an expensive mode of life.

Dress is possibly the next most important point for consideration, for nowhere is a woman judged more by her appearance than in New York. This does not imply that a girl unable to dress expensively need ever suffer from that fact, but it does mean that gewgaws, frippery, loud colors, affectations of masculinity, slovenliness, or eccentricities of costume will severely militate against the success, socially and financially, of a girl who comes to New York to earn her living. New-Yorkers possibly more than others are very sensitive as to the appearance of persons they are seen with, and many a pleasant clever girl has found it hard to get on here because she could not or would not realize that people did not like to be seen walking with her in the street, and shrank from presenting her to their friends because her appearance seemed to require an explanation on their part that she was better than she looked.

It is not infrequent that a high-spirited girl, when warned of this, replies proudly that those who judge her by her clothes are unworthy of her consideration, and are no loss as friends, but such an answer, though natural perhaps, is certainly foolish. Strangers and new acquaintances are necessarily ignorant of her qualities of mind and heart, and their only clew to her character is her outward appearance. Very properly they reason that a dignified, well-bred girl would be likely to dress with quiet, inconspicuous neatness, and if they find no such outward indication of refinement, they see no particular reason to continue the acquaintance on the possible chance of their being mistaken. Of course capable women can conquer this prejudice in time, but it certainly seems hardly worth while to deliberately place in one's path an obstacle to be overcome.

Avoid fierce frizzy untidy fringes, fluttering ribbons, cheap finery, high-heeled shoes; flee the short-haired, mannish, hands-in-pocket swagger, the dirty plush and draggled cheese-cloth attempt at æstheticism, and, above all, eschew the still more unforgivable offence of dingy fingernails, greasy skin, unbrushed skirt edges, and unblackened shoes. There is still another type of girl who needs a suggestion. She of plain appearance, who apparently has become convinced of the uselessness of any attempt to beautify herself, and who screws her hair into an uncompromising knot at the most unbecoming angle; wears, if she is near-sighted, great steel-bowed spectacles instead of _pince-nez_, and arrays herself in colors and costumes which seem specially chosen for their unsuitability to her coloring and figure. Each and all of these need to be reminded that success in life consists as much in being a charming and agreeable-looking woman, sought after as an acquaintance and companion by refined and pleasant people, as in winning fame and money by one's own efforts.

The wardrobe needed by a girl who is in New York for work instead of play is very simple, and not at all expensive. The serge or cloth tailor gown, consisting of a skirt and coat, has grown to be as much a uniform of the well-dressed business woman as the simple regulation morning suit is that of the business man. These can be had at prices ranging from $12 to $30, ready made in the big shops, or can be ordered from a tailor for about $35 or $40. The latter is the more advisable purchase, as the material is so good and the cut so recent that a serge gown, if of medium weight, can be worn summer and winter for two years. An addition of a heavy outer coat or cape makes such a costume sufficiently warm for any weather one is exposed to in New York, and by leaving off the coat and wearing the skirt with a bodice, the hottest weather of summer can be endured. If, added to this, one possesses a pretty silk costume, with one high-necked and one low-necked bodice, one is provided to meet all social as well as work-a-day demands upon one's wardrobe. In New York one either wears street dress and a bonnet, or else full dress. A demi-toilet is not necessary except when one can afford to indulge one's tastes regardless of economy. To the theatre, to restaurants in the evening, for calling, at afternoon teas or luncheons, for any social event, in fact, that occurs in the daytime or in a public place one wears a street dress and bonnet or hat. For even the simplest dinner parties--unless, indeed, one is the only guest and the invitation is impromptu--evening dress is the correct wear, and if by chance one has an invitation to a box at the opera, it is again customary to wear evening dress. Sitting in the orchestra stalls in the opera one would wear street dress and bonnet.

For morning and business wear the tailor skirt and coat, worn with a quiet-colored bodice, would be accompanied by a plain walking hat, with no more trimming than a few cocks' plumes, low-heeled walking shoes, and heavy dark gloves. If one's business lay in an office there should be worn as few rings or jewelry of any description as possible. It is considered a sign of great carelessness to go upon the street with no gloves, or with gloves half on, or not tidily buttoned; and nothing has a more provincial appearance than to have one's feet crowded into high-heeled boots.

Certainly New York provides as much innocent and inexpensive amusement for the girl who earns her living as any other city in this country--if one knows where to look for it. Two girls can go alone together to the theatre at night in perfect safety--that is, if their manner is quiet and dignified, and not such as to attract attention. A very respectable and respectful class of neighbors is found up in the cheap, fifty-cent galleries of the better class of theatres, and one may see all the best actors for small sums and in perfect comfort. The Sunday night concerts at Carnegie Hall and the Berkeley Lyceum afford one a chance to hear the best music and listen to the most famous soloists and singers for prices ranging from two dollars to fifty cents; and here again it is quite correct to go in couples without other escort.

A little pains will keep one cognizant of the many free lectures. Five dollars is the cost of a yearly subscription to the Mercantile Library, and provides one with the best books, and the Astor and Lenox libraries are open without charge to those who have time to use their reading-rooms. The Museum of Art, with its ever-growing collection of pictures, models from the antique, gems, statues, musical instruments, silver, laces, tapestry, etc., is open without charge five days of the week, and this museum, the zoo, and the Museum of Natural History are all in Central Park, which affords one all the loveliness of nature, as well as tennis, skating, and boating.

In summer a few cents will make one very familiar with New York Harbor by means of its many ferry lines to all the various points, and for tiny sums one can go by the elevated trains and their continuations, in the form of steam trains and trolleys, upon fifty charming country excursions. There are a number of working-girls' clubs, where one can find companionship of one's own age, and can join classes for learning to make one's own dresses, trim one's bonnets, typewrite, embroider, dance, and endless other accomplishments. The churches offer, beside spiritual help and benefit, the best music, the most inspired eloquence, and in many instances splendid ceremonials and treasures of art. Much is said about the loneliness of strangers in New York, but loneliness and ennui in such a city simply arise from laziness and lack of intelligence. A girl with only half a dozen acquaintances here can still find some expedition, some delightful musical, artistic, dramatic, or literary experience, to fill every moment that she can spare from her work.

Socially New York is a delightful place for a girl of small means who is yet agreeable, intelligent, and refined. But let her from the first carefully refrain from making the mistake of forming intimacies without discrimination. She should make up her mind as to the class of persons she wishes to know, and wait for that class. The easy conquest of an inferior grade of social life will only prevent her ever gratifying her better ambitions, for acquaintances once made are not easily got rid of, and she will be unfavorably judged by those she wishes to know when they see her associates. Let her fill her life with such pleasures as are to be had for the taking, and let her wait for the natural course of events to bring her friends. The first year is always the hardest and loneliest, but suddenly one finds after about a twelvemonth that people have become aware of one's existence, and begin to recognize whatever one may possess of amiability or cleverness. Then one's "good times" begin. The New-Yorkers are generous, hospitable, and friendly, and are glad to offer all the pleasantest forms of amusement and hospitality to an agreeable girl who looks neat and attractive and is amiable and vivacious.

In conclusion, it may be suggested that a girl would do well to connect herself with some church and interest herself in some charity. There are none so poor and so friendless that others do not need their aid, and apart from all the moral help and restraint to be found in serving others, such work brings one in contact with the very best and noblest women, from whom one learns to form noble ideals, and to discriminate between apparent and real success in life.

BY CAROLINE A. CREEVEY AND MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING.

_CHARACTERS:_

ETHEL FORRESTER.
ELISE FORRESTER, _sister of_ ETHEL.
FIRST FAIRY.
SECOND FAIRY.
ELGIN, _a fairy messenger_.
GENIUS OF THANKSGIVING.
PURVEYOR OF TURKEYS (_a boy_).
MISS MAIZE.
MISS CORN TASSEL.
ROSY-CHEEKED APPLE (_a girl_).
GOLDEN PUMPKIN (_a boy_).
NUTS AND RAISINS (_a boy_).
RED CRANBERRY (_a girl_).
BEETS, CARROTS, AND TURNIPS (_a boy_).
MISS GRAPE.
MISS MINCE PIE.
MISS CELERY.

SCENE.--Ethel's _bedroom_.

_Enter_ Ethel Forrester. _She throws off her hat and shawl, and
sits upon her cot-bed._

_Ethel_. So tired! So tired! Shall I ever get rested? To-morrow is a holiday, but for me a sad one. I have no nice dinner for mamma and Elise. I hoped something would turn up. But nothing has. After all, things don't turn up. You have to wade right through things. It's foolish to expect, for instance, a nice dinner to drop from the clouds for us, mamma and Elise and me; yet unless one does we shall not stand much chance of anything except bread and tea. Here are my car fares, though. I will buy an orange for mamma, and two apples for Elise. They've got to be content with that. What time is it? (_Clock strikes outside._) Twelve, I do declare. Well, I'm too tired to undress. I am sleepy--and hungry. To-morrow is--Thanksgiv-- [_Falls on the bed, and sleeps._]

_Enter two_ Fairies. _They stand, one on each side of_ Ethel's
_head, wave wands over her, and sing "The Fairies' Sleep Charm_."

Sleep, dear one, sleep, and close thy tired eyelids;
Good angels wake and watch till morning light.
Love sees the trouble and the brave endurance,
And soon, for thee, dear child, will all be bright.

_First Fairy_. She seems quite exhausted.

_Second Fairy_. She does indeed.

_First Fairy_. A brave little struggler?

_Second Fairy_. She is.

_First Fairy_. But she is trying to carry too big a burden.

_Second Fairy_. Much too big.

_First Fairy_. I love to see her rest.

_Second Fairy_. She is smiling now, and reposing.

[_The_ Fairies _walk away from the bed and sit down_.]

_First Fairy_. Do you know why she is so late in getting to bed?

_Second Fairy_. No.

_First Fairy_. She carried a bonnet to Miss Van Noir, with strict orders to see the lady herself, and find out whether the bonnet suited. Miss Van Noir was at dinner with a party of friends, and the maid would not disturb her. It was ten o'clock before the lady saw the little girl and tried on the bonnet. After that, to save her car fare, Ethel walked home. So, no wonder she is late and tired.

_Second Fairy_. I see no preparations for a Thanksgiving dinner in this house.

_First Fairy_. Ethel's mother is ill. She has lain in bed some weeks, and may never get well. If she could go to the hospital and have good nursing, she might recover. But she will not leave her little girls. She thinks she can look after them, although so ill. But there is no prospect of a Thanksgiving dinner here. That is plain to see.

_Second Fairy_. What does Ethel do to earn money?

_First Fairy_. She is cash-girl and errand-girl in a milliner's establishment. Every one in the house wants her, and sends her on countless errands, so that madame herself is not so tired sometimes at night as my little Ethel there.

_Second Fairy_. Poor little soul! How much better off she would be if she were a fairy! I never heard of a sick or tired fairy. Did you?

_First Fairy_. No. But though we never feel fatigue nor suffer hardship, we sympathize with mortals.

_Second Fairy_. Oh yes, we do!

_First Fairy_. Now I am thinking.

_Second Fairy_. What?

_First Fairy_. Could we get somebody to give these little girls a home and put their mother in a hospital, how nice it would be!

_Second Fairy_. Nice indeed.

_First Fairy_. I will summon the elfin messenger, and see what can be done.

_Second Fairy_. Count on my assistance.

[Fairies _arise, make motions with their hands, and repeat,_]

Hither hasten, lovely boy,
Whom we fairy-folk employ;
Here are errands to be done,
Finished ere to-morrow's sun.

_Enter_ Elgin, _the messenger, a boy of six to eight years_.

_Elgin_ (_bowing_).

Fairies dear, I heard your call;
Elgin is my name.

_First Fairy_. Come hither, good Elgin. Wilt run errands in the air for us to-night?

_Elgin_.

Only let me know your wish,
I will do that same.

_First Fairy_. Behold yon sleeping child.

_Second Fairy_. She sleeps sweetly under our loving enchantment. Do you see her?

_Elgin_. Fairies, I do. 'Tis a young and gentle face.

_First Fairy_. Knowest thou a lady rich and lonely who would give a home to this girl and her sister?

_Elgin_.

You ask a most uncommon thing.
Most mortals are so cold and hard,
To wealth and luxury they cling,
And if they give, they seek reward.

_Second Fairy_. But, Elgin, think. Rich, lonely, and with loving hearts. Are there no such among mortals?

_Elgin_.

A few, no doubt;
To find one out,
That is the enterprise.
One can but try,
And that will I
Beneath the starry skies.

_First Fairy_. But prithee think quickly, Elgin, boy. Time waits not.

_Elgin_ (_musing_). Idle and frivolous--she won't do. How would a maiden lady do? I know one living in a large and beautiful house, her father's dying gift. She has no one to love her, and no one to love. Shall I go to her, Fairies? One can but try.

_First Fairy_. Now you are my sweet Elgin. Ask her in dreams to-night. And, dear boy, on thy way bid hither the Genius of Thanksgiving and many of his sprites. We can arrange a little dinner for to-morrow.

_Elgin_. Depend on me, good fairies dear. [_Exit._]

_Second Fairy_ (_walking to_ Ethel). She sleeps and smiles. Rest, sweet one.

_Enter_ Rosy-cheeked Apple, _a girl dressed in red cheese-cloth,
and_ Golden Pumpkin, _a boy in yellow_.

_Both Fairies_. Welcome, sprites--Rosy-cheeked Apple and Golden Pumpkin. We have work for you to-night.

_Rosy-cheeked Apple_. It's frosty out to-night, so we ran and tumbled, and Golden Pumpkin there, jolly boy, rolled till we came hither.

_Golden Pumpkin_. 'Twas a merry game of tag, sister, and I won.

_Rosy-cheeked Apple_. Naughty boy, I won. Last tag was mine.

_Golden Pumpkin_. Well, then it's mine now.

[_Touches her, and together they play tag around the room, nearly
knocking over_ Nuts and Raisins, Red Cranberry, _and_ Beets,
Carrots and Turnips, _who enter_.]

_Nuts and Raisins_ (_dressed in brown_). Why, here's fun! Let's join the game.

[_All play tag._]

[_Enter_ Genius of Thanksgiving, _fat, jolly, corn-husks for hair,
trimmed in any fantastic way with pop-corn, strings of raisins,
apples, etc._]

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Tut, tut, sprites! Not so fast, my fine fellows. Here, now. Peace! Silence!

[_Catches one by the ear, shakes another, and soon the sprites are
quiet._]

_Nuts and Raisins_. We were but having a little game of tag, master.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Another time, sprites. Now there's work to be done. Have you made your manners to the ladies? Oh, saucy children! Fairies, forgive them.

_First Fairy_. Since the sleeping child was not disturbed, 'twas of no consequence, sir. You were kind to come at our call, Genius of Thanksgiving. Here is a family that you have overlooked. There is no dinner provided for to-morrow. Is it too late?

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Why, how comes that? (_Looks over a long list of names._) No, the name--what is it, Forrester?--is not here. Well, that's a sad omission. No, ma'am, it's not too late. Sprites, you must hustle and bustle, and get up a first-class dinner for the Forresters. Do you hear?

_Sprites all_. We hear--we will.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Are we all present? No. [_Impatiently taps on the floor._]

_Enter_ Purveyor of Turkeys, _strutting. He gobbles._

_Purveyor of Turkeys_. Good-evening, master, and you, Fairies.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Sirrah, Purveyor of Turkeys, you're late. Have you a fine fat turkey left?

_Purveyor of Turkeys_. I have, sir. The demand was terrible this year, but I have laid by a few, thinking they would be wanted for late dinners.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Save us a good one, then--twelve-pound weight. Is that big enough, Fairies? The family is small, I believe.

_First Fairy_. That will do, sir.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Will you have it cooked or uncooked.

_Second Fairy_. Uncooked. But pray do not forget the stuffing.

_Enter_ Miss Maize _and_ Miss Corn Tassel, _dressed in white and
yellow_.

_Miss Maize_. Who speaks of turkey stuffing? I will attend to that.

_Miss Corn Tassel_. Yes, we will furnish the bread and biscuit, the butter and thyme, and I can add the eggs.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Miss Maize and Miss Corn Tassel, young ladies, you are late. But there are others later still.

_Enter_ Miss Grape, _elegantly attired in purple_.

_Nuts and Raisins_. Ah! See Miss Grape, our purple sprite. So pretty, so graceful! Did Master Frost speak with thee, child?

_Miss Grape_. He did indeed take my hand, and waltz me hither.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Nay, I warrant me, he stopped not there.

_Miss Grape_. He pressed a kiss upon my cheek. He said 'twould give it a richer bloom.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Well, naughty, pretty child, canst give us grapes for our Thanksgiving dinner?

_Miss Grape_. That can I, both white and black, pretty to look upon, sweet to taste, and no harm within.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. So? Good! Child, do. And you shall have my thanks.

_Enter_ Miss Mince Pie, _dressed in mixed black and white_.

_All shout_. Oh, late Mince Pie! What has made thee late?

_Miss Mince Pie_. Your honor, I got lost. I thought I would take a short way hither, and it proved thrice as long as the other. I came whizzing, and nearly left my breath behind me.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Next time, Miss Mince Pie, take your shortening in your crust, and don't put it into your feet. But listen. Have you spices and boiled cider, apples and beef, so as to make us a right merry mince pie to eat after the Forresters' turkey to-morrow? Good heavens! It's to-day. The night is waning. We must hasten.

_Miss Mince Pie_. Your honor, as fine a mince pie as ever went on a Thanksgiving table shall be ready for Ethel Forrester's dinner to-morrow.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Thanks. And now where is the cranberry jelly?

_Red Cranberry_. Your honor, I have a fine mould ready.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Ah! Red Cranberry, you are just the sprite to attend to that. And Beets, Carrots, and Turnips?

_Beets, Carrots, and Turnips_. Here, sir. I will furnish a goodly array of vegetables.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Golden Pumpkin, a pie from you, rich, thick, and yellow. Plenty of cream and eggs, sirrah.

_Golden Pumpkin_. I know a good pie when I see it.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. Rosy-cheeked Apple, some of your best, please?

_Rosy-cheeked Apple_. I have beauties, sir.

_Enter_ Elgin.

_Elgin_. Good-morning, your honor, and you, sprites. I was hurrying here, and passed a beautiful young lady combing her hair. She seemed nowise in a hurry. Miss Celery--

_All_. Miss Celery! Where is she? No dinner can be complete on Thanksgiving day without her.

_Enter_ Miss Celery, _dressed in white and green_.

_Miss Celery_. Did you call? I did but sleep a little, but methought you called.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_ (_sternly_). We did call. 'Tis no time to sleep, the night before Thanksgiving. Have you, miss, two nice crisp bunches of celery?

_Miss Celery_. Yes, your honor, four if you like.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_. No, two. But your very best. And now, Fairies, the dinner is arranged. The night passes. My sprites must be busy. Go, children, weave a spell over the ovens. Let nothing burn. Have everything well baked. See to the dinners of the poor as well as the rich. Let no one go hungry on Thanksgiving day. And see to it that Ethel Forrester's dinner is complete.

_First Fairy_. Dear good Genius of Thanksgiving! How can we thank you enough?

_Second Fairy_. Dear friend, how old are you? Pardon the question, but I am mystified--you seem so old and so young.

_Genius of Thanksgiving_.

Ah! ask me an easier question;
I am older than any one thinks.
Why, I've perched on the eaves of Palmyra,
And slept on the breast of the Sphynx.
But yet I am young as the youngest,
With a heart that can never grow old,
For my work is Love's own inspiration,
Defiant of hunger and cold.
So, Fairies, to you let me bow my adieu.
Come, sprites, with a whir and a flurry,
To get this well done will be jolly great fun,
But I tell you we'll all have to hurry.

[_Exeunt_ Genius _and sprites_.]

_First Fairy_. What a splendid fellow Genius of Thanksgiving is! So well preserved!

_Second Fairy_. Doubtless he may live a thousand years yet.

_First Fairy_. I hope he may.

_Elgin_. As fine a fellow as ever breathed. But, Fairies, the morning dawns. Have you further commands for your most willing servant?

_First Fairy_. No, thank you, boy. You have nobly done. We can only thank you.

_Elgin_. The Fairies' thanks are sweet reward. I go, then, to my mountain cave, where all the day I lie and sleep, and when night comes I wake again and fly and run in the sparkling night air. [_Exit_ Elgin.]

_Second Fairy_. This night's work could not have been done save for that merry boy.

_First Fairy_. True. He is a treasure. But now we must remove the charm from Ethel, and waken her.

[_Both advance to the bed, and stand one on each side of_ Ethel.
Fairies _repeat the waking charm_:]

Wake, dear one, wake; unclose thy rested eyelids;
The night is gone, the beauteous morning breaks.
The angels know the day will bring you gladness,
So please accept the gifts that Heaven makes.

[Ethel _stirs, the_ Fairies _step lightly towards the door_.]

_Second Fairy_. They say mortals do not believe in us.

_First Fairy_. Perhaps Ethel will when she sees the basket of good things which even now I hear the sprites leaving at the door. But let us hasten--the dawn will come.

[_Exeunt_ Fairies. Ethel _moves, sits up on the bed, looks around
the room, rubs her eyes, and seems bewildered_.]

_Ethel_. Are they all gone? How beautiful--fairies and sprites in my poor little room! (_Smiles._) Only a dream, I suppose. But so real. What a funny old Genius of Thanksgiving it was! [_Laughs aloud._]

_Enter_ Elise _with a note_.

_Elise_. Oh, sister, I heard you laugh, so I knew you were awake; otherwise I would not have disturbed you, for you, poor thing, were so tired last night. But, Ethel, a most wonderful thing has happened. So wonderful, it seems like a dream.

_Ethel_. The night abounds in dreams. I have had one. I must tell it, if I can.

_Elise_. But hear mine first, dear. I think it was about two o'clock when I heard feet in the passageway and a noise at the door. I was frightened, but did not alarm mother; for why should burglars visit our poor home? After a while the noise ceased, and I ventured to get out of bed and softly open the door. There stood--what do you think, Ethel?

_Ethel_. I know.

_Elise_. No, you don't, you goose.

_Ethel_. I do know.

_Elise_. Silly child. Listen, a large basket--

_Ethel_. With our Thanksgiving dinner in it--a turkey and cranberry jelly. Oh, how pretty Red Cranberry was in her bright dress--and Nuts and Raisins--and Beets, Carrots, and Turnips--what a funny boy he was.

_Elise_. Ethel! are you ill?

_Ethel_. No, dear. And Miss Mince Pie was late, but she got there, and Golden Pumpkin was to make a pumpkin pie--

_Elise_. You are out of your head! Oh, my poor sister! you are coming down with a fever on Thanksgiving day--[_Begins to cry._]

_Ethel_. Nonsense, darling. It was my dream. But I will wait and tell you about it later. Go on with your story. I am not ill.

_Elise_. Are you sure? You talk so strangely.

_Ethel_. I'll prove it soon by helping to eat the best dinner in all the land. Oh, Elise, we will have as good a dinner as the queen! [_They hug each other._]

_Elise_. Well, there's everything nice in that basket. I was so impatient, I put my hand in and felt to the bottom.

_Ethel_. Are the grapes and celery there?

_Elise_. There are black grapes and white, dear--mamma will like those--and two lovely bunches of celery.

_Ethel_ (_laughs_). Excuse me, but Miss Celery was late because she was combing her hair and taking a nap.

_Elise_. Sister!

_Ethel_. That's in the dream too. But it was funny. What is that note?