Chapter II: Part 2

Well, we'd played it half a dozen times, and had high old fun, when one day we had a holiday (a half-holiday, I mean) 'cause--but I won't say any more on that subject; that's Al Smith's story--and all the other fellows had cut and run as soon as they'd had their dinner, but I staid behind to finish some Latin exercises. Hen Rowe was getting ahead of me, and the Professor and Mrs. Weston were out in the strawberry patch. And when I was through I started off to join the boys, and just got to the gate, when the Professor called me back and asked me if I would carry a basket of berries to the little lame boy that lived in Cedar Lane.

Well, it was quite a distance beyond the place where the fellows were to wait for me, and I was a quarter of an hour behind time now. But I didn't think of that a minute, for there never was a better master than ours, and I'd 'a given him the whole afternoon if he'd wanted it. So I says, "Yes, sir, with pleasure," and I takes the basket, and then I suddenly remembered that the cobbler lived in Cedar Lane too, and my best shoes wanted half-soling, and I went to my room and got 'em, and was a-going out of the gate once more, when Professor Weston calls out again, "Morningstar," and comes down the path.

"Tell the boys not to play Hare and Hounds to-day. Some of the farmers have sent complaints here by Michael Snow, and Snow himself says his early pease were all trodden down. He has just gone, and I promised there should be no more trouble of the kind. If the boys have commenced playing, stop them as soon as you can. And we'll talk over the matter to-morrow; for it's a fine game, and I don't want to stop it altogether. In fact, I think of joining in myself some day, but we must manage to avoid annoying our neighbors."

"You can depend upon me, sir," says I; and off I starts again, basket of strawberries on one arm and shoes under the other. When I got almost to Michael Snow's grounds I saw the boys standing in a crowd round Harry Hunter under the big tree outside of the fence. Hunter was just strapping the bag of papers under his left arm--the bag meant a good long run; pockets, a short one--and when they caught sight of me they set up a shout like a pack of wild Indians.

"Hi! hello! here's Morningstar. Now look out for yourself, Mr. Hare."

"He won't catch me to-day, I bet," says Harry. "Rule Britannia, and Rowell forever!" and off he goes.

Down went the strawberries and shoes under the tree.

"Hail, Columbia! and Yankee Doodle! and Fourth of July!" I yelled, and away I go after him, and all the rest after me.

Over Snow's fence vaults Harry, and over it the hounds vault too. Through the apple orchard, down to the bean patch, in and out among the bean poles, behind the barn, over a pile of empty flower-pots--and such a smash!--until the other end of the farm was reached, where there was a stone wall, but some of the stones had fallen in one place near the ground, and left quite a big hole. The hare flattened himself as flat as a pancake, and was on the other side in a jiffy. And I flattened myself, wondering why the other fellows had stopped a-hollering behind me, and I was half-way under, when somebody grabbed me by the heels and jerked me out again, and in another minute I was standing before Michael Snow and Professor Weston. All of a sudden--it had gone clean out of my head until then--I remembered I had promised the Professor.

"_Upon my word and honor_, sir," said I, looking straight into his eyes--he's got awful nice eyes, only kind of stern sometimes, and this was one of the times--with a cold shiver running down my back, "I forgot. They were just starting as I came along, and Harry Hunter hurrahed for 'Britannia and Rowell,' and I hurrahed for 'Hail, Columbia.'"

"And 'Yankee Doodle, and Fourth of July,'" says Snow, with a grin, and the Professor's eyes began to twinkle.

"You needn't say any more, Morningstar," says he, "for I know when one of my boys gives his word of honor he is telling nothing but the truth. But your memory must have a lesson. It needs cultivating. Go back to the school-room. I will arrange matters with Mr. Snow, and be there in half an hour."

Back I went, feeling bad enough, to the tree where I'd left the berries and shoes. Jerry O'Neill was sprawling on the grass--he's the fellow that eats everything he can get hold of, you know--and he handed me the empty basket. "I ate 'em," says he; "I thought they was yours, and you wouldn't mind." The shoes were gone. "I guess a tramp I met took 'em," says Jerry. "He had a bundle sticking out of one of his coat pockets."

When the Professor came in he told the boys himself what I had promised to tell them, and then he said: "I'm sorry to punish Morningstar, but, as I told him a short time ago, his memory needs a lesson. And so I shall be obliged to ask him to go every play-hour to Michael Snow's grounds and give him his services, until such time as Snow shall consider himself repaid for the damage done to-day."

"Oh, I say now, that won't do at all," blurts out Harry Hunter, turning very red, "I beg pardon, sir, but what I'd like to say is this: Morningstar forgot his promise in his wish to uphold the honor of his country, sir--"

"And we'll all go with him this very afternoon, sir," says Walt Ray, "with your permission, and by night-fall the Snow place will be as good as ever."

"And we'll pay for the broken flower-pots, sir," says little Al Smith--the best little chap in the world--can't bear to see any one punished.

The Professor smiled. That was enough. We all smiled, and then we gave him a rousing cheer, and rushed down to Snow's.

Snow wasn't half bad. He laughed right out when he saw us coming, and in less than two hours, we'd done all the work he said _he_ wanted us to do, and were eating fresh-baked gingerbread--Mrs. Snow made it--and drinking milk in the barn. Jerry O'Neill ate so much that he had awful dreams that night--thought a whole procession of elephants was walking over him.

And I've never forgotten a promise since that Hare-and-Hounds day. It was the best lesson _my_ memory ever got.

HOW TO MAKE A MAGIC LANTERN.

After the lens has once been procured, which may be purchased from any optician, the price ranging from fifty cents upward, according to the size and quality of the glass, a magic lantern may be constructed out of a few simple materials by an ingenious boy.

Procure from a tinman several sheets of tin and a small piece of tin pipe, into which the lens will fit nicely. Then go to work with a soldering-iron and construct a square box, the dimensions of which may be a foot or a foot and a half each way. There must be a round opening on one side into which the pipe holding the lens is fitted, a door at the back to admit a lamp, and a hole in the top for a chimney. A reflector fits in the opposite side to the door, and can be drawn forward at pleasure; and a space is left to allow the introduction of the slides.

The room, when prepared for exhibiting, must be entirely darkened, and the slides, are then slipped in, upside down. The lens brilliantly reflects and magnifies the figures, previously painted on the glass, on to a white sheet suspended from the ceiling. Thus any subjects--landscapes, figures, or animals--become enlarged, according to the distance the lantern is removed from the sheet, and the size and quality of the lens.

Now for the slides. These require some artistic talent, but not a vast amount. If a youth has a vein of comic talent, it will add to the fun, or he may easily procure prints from which to copy. Some, however, prefer scenery, natural objects, etc., all of which, if well painted, show well in the magic lantern.

First procure the glass, cut to the size required, so that it will slip easily into the opening in the lantern; then trace the outline, after having the colors ready, which can be purchased of any artists' colorman.

Observe that the dry colors must be ground very fine, and mixed with spirits of turpentine, and worked in with mastic varnish. Especial care must be taken that enough varnish be used to moisten the color sufficiently, and prevent its being limpy while working on the glass; also great judgment is necessary in laying on the colors, as they ought to be as transparent as possible.

In the event of the picture being humorous and a part of it movable, the latter must be managed by a long slip of glass affixed to the slide, previously framed round--for instance, a barber shaving a man. The whole of the painting should be executed on the slide, except the barber's arm, which must be traced and colored on the narrow slip, and then arranged so as to complete the figure. This is easily done, by the slip fastening into the frame. Then by a quick movement of the narrow piece of glass, backward and forward, while exhibiting, an appearance of reality is given, and the operation of shaving is successfully performed.

PUNCHINELLO.

HIS EXTRAORDINARY LIFE AND MARVELLOUS ADVENTURES.

III.

The next day, early in the morning, Punchinello came on deck to see the sun rise.

"A storm is rising," he announced.

The Captain laughed at Punchinello's prediction, and so did the crew.

But suddenly the sky became black, the waves grew larger, and the ship commenced to roll dangerously.

"I told you, sir, that you would be drowned," said Punchinello.

The Captain, furious, instead of attending to the management of his ship, thought only of revenging himself on Punchinello.

"You scoundrel!" cried he, "if I am going to be drowned, you shall be so first."

Immediately poor Punchinello was lifted up and held between the sky and the sea. But even in this terrible situation he did not lose his presence of mind.

"Mercy on you, my good people!" said he. "You will not have long to rejoice over my death, for I see some one coming who will avenge me."

All eyes were turned in the direction which Punchinello indicated. About a mile off, the fire of the cannons of a Turkish pirate ship was to be seen.

"Horror upon horrors!" screamed the Captain, "we shall all be killed." So saying, he rolled about the deck, weeping.

"As I happen to know the Turkish language perfectly," said Punchinello, "I shall be able to save you." He then withdrew to his cabin, and dressed himself like a Turk, which gave him the most extraordinary appearance you can imagine. This done, he saturated his garments with a strong and disagreeable odor that he had obtained from the juice of a sickly plant.

In this guise did he approach the Turkish vessel, and was hoisted on board. At the sight of this mountebank, or on account of the horrible odor, the pirates showed much surprise, and could not resist holding their noses.

"It really is nothing," said Punchinello. "Friend Pasha, I have come from that miserable Spanish ship, which I trust you will soon take possession of."

"But," interrupted the Pasha, "Brother Hunchback, what ever is this dreadful smell?"

"It is nothing, my lord," replied Punchinello. "A number of the men on the Spanish vessel are ill. The physician has said that it might be the plague. Thus we use these ill-smelling things to protect us from the disease."

"The plague!" roared the Pasha, rising hastily. "The wretch has the plague. Throw him into his boat. Let us get away as fast as we can. Friends, they have all got the plague."

The Pasha had not said this before Punchinello jumped into his boat and returned to his own quarters, where he was received with transports of delight, for the pirates had already fled, and were soon out of sight.

Directly he landed at Marseilles, Punchinello sought for a horse to take him to Paris. While he was purchasing his animal, a big black cat came and rubbed itself against his legs.

"That cat," said the owner of the horse, "knows the way to Paris as well as any one; and I have given him as guide to several travellers."

"Ho! ho! I shall take him with me, then, if that is the case, just to find out what a rogue you are, my fine fellow."

Punchinello galloped at full speed toward Paris, and was much astonished to see the big cat run on before him with marvellous rapidity. But his surprise soon changed to uneasiness when he observed that the speed of the cat was rapidly increasing, and that his horse was following it at the same rate. Both seemed to have gone mad.

"This is horrible!" cried Punchinello. "Friend Puss, good creature, are we not going to have some dinner somewhere? What is the matter with you? Whoa! Faith, my clothes are all falling off me!" But this discourse only spurred on the cat. Suddenly, when they were going at the same rate through a dark forest of chestnuts, all at once the whole cavalcade sank into the earth, and disappeared as if enchanted.

Punchinello now found himself, with his feet in the air, in the midst of about thirty persons of the most forbidding appearance possible. They were in reality thieves of the worst character.

"Lord Punchinello," said the Captain of the band, "I hope you will consent to remain with us; for if you refuse, I shall have you put in a pot and boil you alive."

"I understand that I should not be worth much boiled," said Punchinello; "therefore I am at your service, sirs."

Punchinello saw that he was a prisoner, and therefore began at once to plan how to escape. The Captain, whose name was Ronflard, departed that very evening, thus giving him an opportunity too good to be lost.

The next day he said, laughing: "Comrades, you lead a jolly life down here, but I confess that I can't help regretting the delightful amusement that always enchanted the Neapolitan Court after dinner."

"What was it?" cried the whole band at once.

"It consists," said Punchinello, "in descending a steep hill in little sledges, going one after the other, and running on rails. Nothing would be easier than to arrange the same sort of thing on the slope that I descended yesterday evening to get here."

"That is the thing to suit us exactly," cried the brigands on all sides. "Friends, to work at once and build some sledges!"

Soon all was ready. Each of the twenty brigands got into his own sledge upon the platform that was just at the top of the staircase underneath the trap-door.

Punchinello remained at the bottom of the staircase. The brigands in their twenty sledges set off, descending the slope with terrible rapidity; but, lo and behold! as soon as they were going at full speed, Punchinello drew a huge skewer, about thirty feet long, from behind his back, and held the point toward the tops of the sledges, which were descending with immense rapidity. Horror was depicted on the faces of the brigands. Their cries were piteous. However, whether they would or no, they were obliged to fall upon the skewer. They went rolling down zigzag; the first brigand arrived like lightning, and thirty feet of steel went through his body. The others came rolling down, and were impaled, one after the other--a horrible death, but a fitting end to their guilty lives.

Punchinello then put the skewer, with his extraordinary game, on a cart, harnessed six horses to it, and arrived in less than two hours at the town of Chartres. He immediately inquired the address of the magistrate.

Directly Punchinello entered the low room where this personage awaited him, he was almost dazed at recognizing in the nose of this official the counterpart of the one he had seen the night before on Captain Ronflard's face. Indeed, such a nose was not to be forgotten when once seen. Its length was so great that it made its appearance, so to speak, about a quarter of an hour before its owner. It stretched straight out like a staff, or the shaft of a carriage.

Of course Punchinello understood at once that the magistrate, by a bold appropriation of two offices, united the power of a justice with his horrible trade of chief of a band of robbers. With great self-command, he pretended not to have recognized Ronflard in his magistrate's robes. The latter had the account of Punchinello's escape related to him, and, caressing his big cat, he complimented Punchinello upon his courage, and begged him to sup with him.

What passed during the meal was never quite cleared up, as Punchinello confessed that he did not know himself. Some have concluded that he must have swallowed some terrible drug. What is known for certain is that the next morning Punchinello found himself in a damp prison. He began to think over his past life, until, remembering the look of regret that his donkey had given him when he said good-by to him forever, tears fell from his eyes.

"Who is that that is complaining over there?" said a voice suddenly, quite close to Punchinello.

"It is the poor son of a fisherman," replied he, "who is deformed in front and behind. But who are you?"

"I am the Goodman Patience," replied the voice, "and my trade is to show puppets gratis to amuse poor people and little children."

"By my wig--" cried Punchinello. But he was cut short by the prison door groaning on its hinges; and the magistrate entered, followed by his black cat. By the light of a torch Ronflard read their sentence, in which they were condemned to be hanged in an hour's time.

When Punchinello wished to remonstrate, the magistrate withdrew, grinning. Punchinello, enraged, noticed the big cat that was going out after its master, and shut the door with such violence that the tail of the animal was cut clean off at the root. Immediately it was transformed into a long rope.

"Ha! ha!" cried Punchinello, "I move that we make this tail useful. I see my way to an escape."

Punchinello mounted the tail, of which he held the tuft as a bridle, whilst Patience placed himself behind.

"Good!" cried Punchinello. "One, two, three--and away to Paris!"

Punchinello had hardly time to realize that he was travelling when he was set down, with his companion, in the middle of the Champs Elysées. It was on a beautiful day in spring, about noon.

"Listen," said Patience: "I have an idea in my head. I will establish my little theatre here, and if you will appear as an actor, it can not fail to prosper. There is no question but that your wit, added to your funny appearance, will attract numbers of spectators."

"Well, perhaps so," said Punchinello; "and I confess that I thought of that myself. As I have only found envy and malice amongst the great, what better use could I make of the wit that has been given me than to employ it in amusing poor people, and little children who are always innocent and good? I am poor myself and of lowly rank. I will make them laugh, and I will bring roses to the cheeks of all the sweet little children that pass, for in so doing I shall reap a blessing."

In the course of time Punchinello made the acquaintance of Judy, and married her. She has been a great help to him in his performances, as you will all allow. If you are puzzled as to how he manages to be in so many countries and at so many different places at the same time, it is because he still retains the rope made of the cat's tail, which carries him anywhere at a moment's notice.

THE END.

OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

CAHTO, CALIFORNIA.

I am a little girl twelve years old. My mother on my birthday gave
me $1.50 for my birthday present, with which I subscribed for
HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. I have a pet deer, and it is very cute. I
have a little brother four years old, who enjoys hearing YOUNG
PEOPLE read to him. He calls it singing. He repeats many of the
verses in "Pinafore Rhymes." I have another brother, sixteen years
old, who likes to hunt deer. He shot one and went to cut its
throat, and it jumped up and ran off. My brother is trapping now;
he caught an owl in his trap this morning, which I would like to
keep for a pet. My brother and I enjoy reading HARPER'S YOUNG
PEOPLE very much, and could not do without it.

ALLIE R.

We can not help feeling glad the poor deer was able to run away. Hunting seems like cruel sport, unless it is necessary to secure food. Try to persuade your brother not to go out with his gun and knife, but to trap wild creatures instead, and then let you have them for pets.

* * * * *

QUENEMO, KANSAS.

Quenemo is an Indian name, and means "something beautiful." It is
situated on the Marais des Cygnes River, which means the Marsh of
the White Swan. Down in Missouri the same river is known as the
Osage, and it finally empties into the Missouri River near
Jefferson City. Santa Claus must have been very poor this year, at
least in this region, for he did not leave us very many things.
Perhaps he had part of his goods blown away in the cyclone which
passed through here last June. Anyway, it took all the money we had
to build a new house. I do not want to see any more cyclones, for
it is not much fun to have your house blown down while you are in
it.

ROBERT W. M.

We never had a house blown down while we were in it, but we can imagine that it must be very disturbing to one's nerves. Was it not fortunate that it happened in June, and not in December? And did not Robert work like a beaver, or, better still, like a brave manly boy, while the new home was building? As for old Santa Claus, he may be more generous this year than he was last.

* * * * *

WORTENDYKE, NEW JERSEY.

My sister and I are going to write a letter together. We have not
taken your paper very long, but like it very much. We have a little
brother only a week old, and we all love him very much. We were all
vaccinated a little while ago, and as there are nine of us
children, we had a good many sore arms. I know Ina J. P., who wrote
a letter to YOUNG PEOPLE for January 10; she lives next door to us.
We have got a very nice cat; she catches a good many rats. A
gentleman gave us a dog, but he became homesick, and cried so that
we had to let him run away.

There is quite a large silk-mill here, and the silk looks very
pretty while it is being woven. We go to school here, and like the
school very much, though it is not very large. We have not read any
of Jimmy Brown's stories, but think they must be very nice. We have
read quite a good deal about dolls in the letters to YOUNG PEOPLE,
but we don't care very much for them. We are collecting
advertisement cards, and have about two hundred and fifty. We have
a lovely grape arbor at the side of our house; it is very long, and
in the summer it is very shady there, and the vine bears splendid
grapes. We have a great big barn on our place, and we have lots of
fun playing on the high lofts.

JULIA J. B.
and EMILY L. B.

Nine children all vaccinated at once! Nine to sit under the grape arbor, and climb the hay lofts, and have a good time generally! The baby brother does not know what fun he will have when he is old enough to enjoy himself with his brothers and sisters, does he? Though there are so many of you, the Postmistress is sure father and mother could not spare even one.

* * * * *

HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI.

I am a little boy, and can not write very nicely, so I have begged
my mamma to write this letter for me. I live away down South in
Mississippi. Sherwood Bonner, one of your contributors, lives near
us on the same street. She and my mamma were school-mates. Her
little daughter Lillian and I waited on a young lady and gentleman
who were married, when we were only four years old.

This is a lovely spring-like day, and our hyacinths have all come
up in the yard, and will bloom before long.

I have two sisters and one brother. My little sister, who is only
four years old, enjoys your paper as much as any of us, and runs to
be the first to take it from father when he brings it home. Then,
when we are all gathered around a cheerful fire, mamma reads it
aloud to us.

DABNEY H. C.

You and Lillian must have looked like dear little fairy pages at the wedding you speak of. We would have enjoyed a peep at you both.

* * * * *

ORONOCO, MINNESOTA.

I live in the State of Minnesota, in the small village of Oronoco,
which is situated on the banks of the Zumbro River. I live on the
north side, and my school-house is situated on the south bank, and
it is a very beautiful place here. The people from Rochester, which
is a city eleven miles from here, visit here often to catch fish
and have picnic dinners in the groves. Nearly every autumn I gather
butternuts out of our grove; last autumn I gathered two bagfuls.
There are a great many nice fish caught here--black bass, pickerel,
and many other kinds--and in the winter you can see fish-houses
scattered all along on the ice. I have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
for three years, and I will take it three years more I guess.

BLANCHE A.

* * * * *

BARCLAY, KANSAS.

My papa gave YOUNG PEOPLE to me for a birthday present when I was
ten years old, and now I am eleven, and he has sent for it again,
for we all think that we could not do without it. I have one sister
named Virginia, after mamma's native State, and we call her Virgie.
She is nine years old.

I have lots of pets. Our pigeons are so tame that they will eat out
of my hand or lap. We have two cats, named Tom and Dick, and they
are real cunning, but I can not tell all their tricks. It would
take too much space. Our dog Shep will beg for apples and melons to
eat. She comes into the house, and when pa plays the violin she
sings or howls, and the higher the notes he makes, the louder she
sings. Has anybody else a dog that can do that?

When we came to this farm, three years ago, we bought some hens. A
speckled one sat, and hatched out a flock of chickens, and what do
you think?--she tried to kill all but the black ones. Last summer
we had a white hen that acted the same way. Was it not strange?

Every spring since we have lived here papa has found, while
working, a number of grubs, dead and callous, and having
sprouts--some of them six inches long--growing out of where their
eyes had been. A gentleman explained it by saying that the worm was
infested with a vegetable parasite, which caused its death.

I have solved a number of puzzles, but never sent any to you. I
have been sick for two months, but am better now. We go a mile and
a half to school. Most of our school-mates are Quakers, and our
teachers are too. I should be so pleased if you would publish this
letter. Good-by.

L. PEARLIE S.

Well, dear, the Postmistress thinks those were very naughty hens. The other day she was reading about a great man, named Bishop Thirlwall. The good Bishop was very fond of animals, and very kind to them. In a pond on his grounds were three pike, which are rather savage fish. One morning when the Bishop went to look at them there were only two fish there. Mr. P. had devoured his wife, and was swimming about with his daughter. A day or two after, Miss P. shared her mother's fate. The Bishop wrote sadly to a friend: "I shall never look at the pike again. I can not endure a monster who would eat up his own family." Your dog must be quite musical, but we fancy at times your papa would prefer somebody else to sing to his accompaniment. The Postmistress hopes that you will acquire the gentle ways of the Friends, and imitate their quietness and patience, since you have them for teachers. Be sure and send the answers you find to the puzzles next time.

* * * * *

MILLIE'S DREAM.

BY J. L. R. (AGED TWELVE).

"I don't believe it ever will be spring, the flowers take so long to bloom; but I am going out into the woods to see if I can just find a few," said Millie Horton to her bosom-friend Dora Merton.

"I'm not going," said Dora. "We will only get tired out. Our feet will be muddy. There are no flowers yet."

"Well, I'm going. I'll see how near they are to blooming." And Millie turned and walked away in the direction of the woods.

She walked on and on, and after reaching the woods and going a little way in, she saw a number of little crocus flowers.

"Oh, you lovely little darlings!" she cried. "I knew I would find some of you in bloom, and here you are, yellow, purple, and white."

She gathered them all, and ran on until she found some violets, then some pussy willow near a little stream, and then under some pine needles the sweet trailing arbutus. At last, tired out, she seated herself upon a log, and fell asleep.

Suddenly she heard a little shrill voice call out, "Say, you Bluebell you, move over a little; you are leaning over on my little sister."

Millie thought she opened her eyes wide, and looked into the basket, and there were the flowers all turned into little ladies and gentlemen.

She was just going to utter an exclamation, when another voice called out: "This is a very close place; I never was so crowded before, and the sun is just pouring in on me. Do take your feet off my face; and if that Spring-beauty does not stop screaming at the top of his voice just because he happens to have the ear-ache, I do not know what I shall do." And a cross yellow Buttercup gave the little Spring-beauty a very rude push.

"Let's have a concert," said a peace-making Dog-tooth violet, lifting up her little head.

"All right," "All right," came from all the flowers.

"Well, then," continued little Miss Dog-tooth, laughing, "you all seem to want to take part, so let Mr. Jack-in-the-pulpit make a speech."

"I am not well prepared to make a speech, but I will do my best," said Mr. Jack, looking very much flattered, as he straightened his collar. And thus he began, "My dear friends--ahem! ahem!--I want you all to do your best--"

He had gone no farther, when the shrill voice of a wild Columbine called out: "I'd like to know what you know about it, telling us to do our best, indeed! Better 'practice what you preach,' I say. You talk as though you knew everything, when you don't know any more than that baby Cowslip there!" and Mother Columbine subsided, her voice trembling with rage.

A little Anemone then cried out, "We did not want to have a quarrel right away, Madam Columbine."

"Noa; boot of course Matham Columpine con't vell rest unless she's quarrelling," retorted a fat little Dutch Tulip in white breeches and striped coat.

"Well, I won't make a speech before such an audience," cried Mr. Jack, as he stepped down from his pulpit.

Then everything was in confusion from top to bottom of the basket, and suddenly Millie felt herself lifted up, and heard her father saying, "She is found." She opened her eyes, and saw the stars twinkling, and she knew that it was night.

She was too tired to tell anything that night, but she related her dream the next day, and they laughed at her; but still Millie feels quite sure that she did hear the flowers talk.

* * * * *

RACINE, WISCONSIN.

At the Taylor Orphan Asylum, where I live, I have very nice times.
Christmas we had a lovely tree, all lit up with candles, and a
great many presents on it. I got a very large bag of candy and a
book. My brother and sister gave me something too.

We have a new little baby here, a little boy. He is a very brave
little boy. When he falls down he begins to laugh as hard as he
can. He is so funny! He was brought here a week ago, and seems very
happy to be here. When he comes down to his meals he begins to
scream out and laugh.

I am getting along nicely in school studying Long Division, and can
do the examples very well. I have learned all of the United States
and Mexico, and most all of British America.

There is a very large pond out here, and we have so much fun on it!
Sometimes we chase each other all over. By-and-by we take off our
skates, and run around and play. We enjoy ourselves ever so much.
They are all very kind to me here. We have not had any snow this
winter. When snow is on the ground they take us out sleighing in a
big sleigh. Some of us have little sleds, and we coast down hill on
them. In summer we play house out-of-doors, and we go out riding
too in a big wagon with a seat all round it. Sometimes we go
nutting, and we get the old lumber wagon full of nuts, and then
coming home we put the horse-blanket over the nuts and some large
boards across, and we all sit on the top. When the horses go up
hill, we all get off and run behind. Last winter we had ninety
bushels of nuts.

I learned the States of Central America in school to-day by heart;
then I had three columns of spelling. This afternoon I worked my
examples; then I began this letter to you.

We have HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE every week, and at night some of the
large girls read to us out of it. We like the paper very much, and
hope we shall always have it. I think the big girls are very kind
to read to us. I hope you will like my letter.

MAGGIE S.

Your letter is very interesting, especially the part about the new baby boy. He is very young to be an orphan, and we are glad that he and all the other children whose parents are dead are living in so pleasant a home as you describe. The secret of happiness, after all, is in being unselfish.

Little deeds of kindness,
Little words of love,
Make our earth an Eden,
Like the heaven above.

* * * * *

SCHENECTADY, NEW YORK.

I have seen a number of letters from little girls about their cats,
but I do not think any of them can be nicer than mine, although Joe
W. K.'s knows more tricks. My cat is a large blue Maltese, and his
name is Ted. He is not quite two years old, and weighs ten and a
half pounds. We have scales with a top just large enough for him to
sit on, and he sits very still while he is getting weighed. He sits
at the table in a high chair, and has a little piece of oil-cloth
on which he rests his paws, and waits patiently until we give him
something to eat. If we give him anything he does not like, he
jumps right down. There is a piece of carpet on the kitchen floor,
and when we give him some milk out there we often put his saucer on
it, and when he has finished eating he pulls the carpet all over
the saucer, and then peeks around to see if it is all covered up.
He has a round basket in which he curls up and goes to sleep. He
had his picture taken the other day, and he sat very still. There
is a large rocking-chair in the parlor which he seems to think is
his, and if it is occupied, he will walk around it, and if the
person does not get up, he will jump in his or her lap. Good-by.

ALICE C.

* * * * *

NEWARK, NEW JERSEY.

I am a little girl seven years old. I do not go to school, as my
mamma teaches me at home. I can read, spell, and cipher nicely. My
brother Waldo takes HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, and my papa has taken
HARPER'S MAGAZINE for years. I love to look at the bound volumes. I
have looked at them as far as Vol. LIII. I had nine dolls, and I
got two more last Christmas; one of these was a boy doll. I put
them all to bed every night, and kiss them good-night. My papa says
he can not remember all their names, but I can. There are three
little girls in the street whom I play with. I have not written
this letter myself, as I can not write well enough yet, but I told
my mamma what to say. Good-by.

ANNA M. G.

Of course the little mother remembers the names of her dollies. Have any of them ever had the mumps or the measles? and are they ever naughty, or do they always behave like good children? Do you have any trouble with the boy doll, and why didn't you tell the Postmistress his name?

* * * * *

We repeat that there is no charge for publishing exchanges.

* * * * *

Eddie W. Curtis, 78 Rush Street, Brooklyn, New York, would like to hear again from a little correspondent in Salt Lake City, who sent him a nice letter containing ten foreign stamps, but having neither name nor address appended. Eddie would like to reply, but can not do so until he shall receive further information.

* * * * *

C. Y. P. R. U.

The Postmistress has a particular request to make of her young gentleman friends, particularly of those who write to her of their success with guns and bows and arrows. It is that they will read and think about this tender little poem, written by a lover of birds, who found a poor little bobolink dead in her nest on his lawn:

WHO KILLED ROBERT OF LINCOLN?

BY NATHANIEL NILES.

Robert of Lincoln went searching for food
To take to his love on her nest;
From bush and tree-top, from meadow and wood,
To pick it, and bring her the best.

He sprang from the edge of her nest below,
And sat on a twig that was nigh,
To sing her a song before he could go--
But sang her his last good-by.

* * * * *

Far out on the meadow a lad that day
Had gone to take sport with his gun,
Cheerily shooting the birds on his way,
And--Robert of Lincoln was one.

Since Robert of Lincoln went out to the wood
Three suns have gone down in the west:
And weary of waiting for him to bring food,
She died without leaving her nest.

* * * * *

Some of you have been very much interested in the pretty fan drills and broom drills which have been in fashion lately. Now let me tell you about the _mékés_, or dances of Feejee, of which an interesting description is given by Miss C. F. Gordon Cumming in her book _At Home in Feejee_.

"In one very odd dance," she says, "a queer, fluttering creature, with a huge fan in each hand to represent wings, kept dancing round and round a covey of cowering children, whom he bowled over two at a time. Then, as they lay prone, he fanned them to life again, and so drove them along to join the orchestra." The idea was supposed to be that of a bird of prey providing for her young.

In another méké half the men carry fans adorned with long blue and white streamers, and the other half brandish spears. At the end of every movement each dancer holds his fan high above his head, and all together utter a wild, piercing cry. After a while the fan half and the spear half separate into opposing lines, and have a sham fight. In this the spearsmen are defeated, and fall down as if dead, when the fan-bearers bend over and fan them until they spring to their feet again.

In some of the movements the dancers are armed with the old carved war clubs, which were their terrible weapons when the Feejeeans were cannibals. During the last forty years Christianity has been introduced into the islands, and the people who used to be fierce and cruel beyond belief are now the meek and gentle followers of the Saviour.

But in their houses they still have the heirlooms which belonged to their savage ancestors, and which the older ones have themselves fought with when they were young. The missionaries have never tried to induce them to abandon their graceful national games, and so they still practice these beautiful dances, and they are a great feature at the missionary meetings, to which the islanders throng, each bringing his offering with him to present when the contributions are asked for.

One lovely dance represents the breaking of waves on a coral reef. In this they leap and toss their heads, on which they wear loose turbans of soft white native cloth, finished with floating scarf-like ends, which flutter in the breeze. When they begin, it is usually slowly, and with such precision that in the long lines the spears, clubs, or fans are raised and lowered as if held by one man. In every dance they follow a leader, and the leader is often a tiny child, quaintly dressed, and executing every manoeuvre perfectly.

* * * * *

Members of the C. Y. P. R. U. will find in this number another one of the interesting series of articles on music, by Mrs. John Lillie, entitled "The Story of the Opera." Under the title of "The Titmouse Family," Mrs. Helen S. Conant describes the characteristic habits and ways of these merry and saucy little inhabitants of the bird world. Then you must read about Prince Bismarck. Fancy one of the greatest statesmen the world has ever known having been born on April-fools' Day! We wonder how many of the boys will undertake to construct a magic lantern from the directions given? To those that do we would say that they must not get out of patience if they have trouble in making the soldering-iron work effectively at first. A little patience will overcome all difficulties.

* * * * *

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

A WORD SQUARE.

1. A piece of timber. 2. A wild animal. 3. A pointer. 4. A perfume. 5. Compositions on which notes are written.

EMPIRE CITY.

* * * * *

No. 2.

THREE DIAMONDS.

1.--1. In hat. 2. A meadow. 3. Part of the body. 4. Skill. 5. In tar.

AL. E. GHANY.

2.--1. A letter. 2. A cape. 3. A tent. 4. A verb. 5. A letter.

3.--1. A letter. 2. An animal. 3. A piece of furniture. 4. A tree. 5. A letter.

W. CRAMER.

* * * * *

No. 3.

A HALF-SQUARE.

1. Large. 2. A package. 3. To devour. 4. An auxiliary of a verb. 5. In night.

AL. E. GHANY.

* * * * *

No. 4.

TWO ENIGMAS.

1. My whole is a bird.
My first is in noble, but not in bright.
My second is in scurry, but not in fright.
My third is in stone, but not in rock.
My fourth is in dress, and also in frock.
My fifth is in rise, but not in stand.
My sixth is in scratch, but not in brand.
My seventh is in Harry, but not in Fred.
Now tell my name, Mollie, Winnie, and Ned.

S. BIRDIE DONNAN.

2. First in vine, but not in tree.
Second in river, not in sea.
Third in ace, but not in jack.
Fourth in plenty, not in lack.
Fifth in old, but not in young.
Sixth in rhyme, but not in song.
Seventh in idle, not in good.
Eighth in scarf, but not in hood.
Oh, a lovely lady's name
Is my whole, as all proclaim.

MARY L.

* * * * *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 123.

No. 1.

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good."
"Many hands make light work."

No. 2.

One morning I was awakened by the _Cook_ telling me that my cousin _James_ was waiting for me at the gate. I got up, dressed, and went and met my cousin with a _Little Rock_ in his hand, which he was about to hurl at what he thought was a _Great Bear_. Just as he threw it I saw Mr. _Madison_ with a _Good_ gun. The great bear turned out to be a _White_ cow. After this adventure we went to our homes, which are on _Franklin_ Street, in _Marshall_, Illinois.

No. 3.

R E S T
E V E R
S E R E
T R E E

No. 4.

The letter E.

* * * * *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Ida Demarest, Lottie White, Hugh Carter, Charles F. Wagner, Blanche P. Heywood, "Fort Lee," "Fill Buster," Elsie Dean, Margaret Clyde, Alex. McKinney, Robbie Craig, Alice West, Francis Payson, Eugenie, Rose Tupperman, "Jack Tar," William P. Gale, Victor E. T., "Lodestar," James Eugene M., Augusta Cranmer, Thomas Hutchings, and Lulu Benson.

* * * * *

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

OUR NEW SERIAL.

In No. 127 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, issued April 4, will appear the first installment of a new and most interesting serial story, under the title of

"MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER,"

A Sequel to "Toby Tyler,"

By JAMES OTIS,

author of "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," etc.

The readers of "Toby Tyler" will remember well the sad event of Mr. Stubbs's death. A number of the little folks felt so badly that they wrote us quite melancholy letters about it. Now we hope they will take an equal interest in his brother. It is, of course, unnecessary to say that there is a very great family likeness between them, and that the hero of our new serial is quite as intelligent and amusing as his deceased relative. We feel sure that he will be quite as great a favorite.

PARLOR MAGIC.

HOW TO GET A RING OUT OF A HANDKERCHIEF.

Bend a piece of wire into the form of a ring, having previously sharpened both ends. You have a real ring made of the same sort of wire, and, concealing the false ring in the corner of your hand, offer the real one to be inspected.

When it is returned, borrow a handkerchief, and while taking it from the lender, slip the real one into your left hand, and take the false one at its point of junction. Throw the handkerchief over the ring, and give it to some one to hold between his finger and thumb. Let the handkerchief fall over it, and give a piece of string to a second spectator, directing him to tie it round the handkerchief about two inches below the ring, so as to inclose it in a bag, and tell him to do so as tightly as he can.

While he is doing this, take up your conjuring wand--a rod of some hard wood, about eighteen inches long--and when the knot is tied, step forward, passing the rod into your left hand, taking care to slip over it the real ring, which has lain concealed there. Slip your left hand to the centre of the rod, and direct each of the two persons to hold one end of it in his right hand. Then tell the one who has the ring and handkerchief to lay them on your left hand, which you immediately cover with your right. Then tell them to spread another handkerchief over your hands, and to say after you any nonsense that you like to invent. While they are so doing, unbend the false ring, and draw it through the handkerchiefs by one of its points, carefully rubbing between the thumb and finger the place where it came through.

Hang the empty handkerchief over the ring which is on the rod, and take away your hands, which you exhibit empty, as you have stuck the false ring inside the cuff. Take away the upper handkerchief, and let a third person come to examine, when he will find the ring gone out of the handkerchief, and hung upon the rod.

ENIGMA.

Proudly I'm borne o'er the billowy sea,
And far-distant nations have trembled at me;
Yet my office at times is so mean and so low
I am subject to many an insult and blow.

By the side of the mill-stream I fearlessly rest,
And gracefully bend o'er the lake's glassy breast;
Yet the glory of England I bear far and wide,
And under me thousands have fought and have died.

Though 'tis true that, whene'er I appear in the street,
I am trampled in scorn by the crowd's busy feet,
I am often exalted in station and place,
And to strike me has ever been held a disgrace!

How often I claim your attention and care,
And repay you with smiles in your blooming parterre!
Then what can I be, who am known near and far,
And so gentle in peace, and so fearful in war?

* * * * *

=A Musical Spider.=--His appreciation of music may have been a compensation for what we may fairly suppose must have been considered in the spider world a deformity. He had but seven legs. This gave us an excuse for calling him Seven-foot. Evening after evening he would come creeping out of his hole the minute the Doctor struck up a waltz. It was really curious to watch the long-legged thing come scurrying up for his evening concert. For half one winter, perhaps, he did this, taking up his post on top of the piano as regularly as the Doctor sat down to play. It is said that all spiders have a decided taste and liking for music. If this is true, this creature must have been the Mendelssohn of his race. Finally, however, to the regret of all who used to watch for his coming, Seven-foot failed to appear. Whether he had got a surfeit of music, or whether Louise, in wielding her dust-brush, had unwittingly brought him to an untimely end, nobody was ever able to discover. I only know he vanished as suddenly as he came, leaving a large circle of acquaintances behind him to mourn his departure.

"Now, then, Jimmy, stop squirmin' so, an' if the string don't break, it'll be just as good as a balloon ascension for you."]

End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, March 28, 1882, by Various