Chapter II: Part 2

The perils of the rest were by no means at an end. The most fortunate crawled to the edge of the ledge and waited for the rope held by two strong men at the very brink of the cliff. Other ropes were tied about them and fastened to an iron bar fixed in the ground. Four other men, standing behind these, also held the rope which was let down, and we may be sure that they pulled with a will when the word was given.

Many of the poor shipwrecked souls, however, were too benumbed and weak to help themselves even thus far; and for these the rope, with a strong loop at the end of it, had to be let down. The force of the wind blew the rope into the cavern, when whoever was so fortunate as to catch it put the noose round his body and was drawn up. Many even of these perished from nervousness or loss of presence of mind. One especially, who lost his hold, fell into the sea, and being a strong swimmer, added to the general distress by dying, as it were, by inches before the eyes of the survivors.

It was evening before they found themselves in safety; indeed, one poor fellow, a soldier, remained in this perilous position until the next morning. On being mustered at the steward's house, they were found to number seventy-four out of a crew of two hundred and fifty.

They were treated with the utmost hospitality, and word of their coming was sent to the towns through which they would have to pass on their way to London, that they might be helped along. "It is worthy of commemoration," says the biographer, in which all my readers will agree, "that the landlord of the Brown Inn at Blandford not only refreshed all these distressed seamen at his house, but presented each with half a crown."

As one lies on the cliff-top above Peverel Point in the summer sun, with the blue sea below smiling so smoothly, it is difficult to imagine what took place in that unseen cavern beneath, or even the tears of joy which were shed by those who, after such a night of horror, set foot for the first time upon that grassy slope.

THE SPECKLED PIG.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

"I'm glad spring's come," remarked Grandmother Gates, as she looked out through the kitchen window, "if it's only so that boy can spend his time out-of-doors. There isn't any house can hold him."

"What, Bun?" said Aunt Dorcas, while the skimmer in her hand was dripping over the soap-kettle. "He's all spring and India rubber. What's he doing now?"

"Doing?" said grandmother. "I'd say so! If he hasn't rigged some leathers and strings, and he's trying to harness that little speckled pig into his wagon. Can't you hear the pig squeal?"

"He's always a-squealing," said Mrs. Gates, from the milk-room. She was a large, motherly looking woman; but now she hurried to the door, and shouted, "Audubon, my son, what are you doing to that poor critter?"

"Why, mother, spring's come, and it's time he did something. I can drive him if I can once get him harnessed. He's half in now; but he does just plunge around!"

The speckled pig was a small one, truly, and he was well acquainted with Bun Gates; but his present occupation was new to him. The wagon matched him fairly well as to size, and it was only a little too plain that he had strength enough to haul it anywhere the moment he should have a fair chance. The best he could do at that moment was to make music, and his voice was uncommonly clear and shrill.

"Dorcas! mother!" exclaimed Mrs. Gates, "do come here and look at that boy."

"I see him," said grandma, but Aunt Dorcas put down her skimmer, and came to the door just as another boy, a head shorter than Bun, trotted up the garden walk to see what was the matter with the pig.

"Harnessed! harnessed! Oh, what a horse! I'll get in for a ride."

"Jump in, Jeff," said Bun. "You take the reins that belong to his head, and I'll hold on to the rein that goes to his hind-leg. We'll break him in."

Jeff was hardly more than eight years old, while his stoutly built and chubby elder brother was at least thirteen. There was "boy" enough in either of them, but the "spring" was tremendously developed in Bun. He was so full of it that he could hardly stand still. Neither could the pig stand still, and while the women at the kitchen door and window were laughing until the tears came into their eyes, the speckled unfortunate was dodging in every direction in a desperate effort to regain his freedom. Bun had deceived him when he enticed him from the barn-yard. The gate through which he had consented to be driven was well known to Speckle as leading into the garden, and all the free rooting to be desired of any pig could be had there. He had marched through the gate meekly enough, and he had looked over the "promised land," with its neatly kept walks and beds, and with all its green things just coming up, and yet here he was with a rope still restraining his hind-leg and a queer net-work of pig harness all over him. No part of that harness worked as a muzzle, and Speckle did what he could with his voice to express his opinion of the matter.

"Don't you let him get away from you," said Aunt Dorcas. "There's no telling what he'd do."

Jeff was in the wagon now, and grandmother was on the point of remarking, "Do?--why, he might run away with that there child, and break his precious neck," when the precise help Bun Gates was wishing for came hurrying through the front gate.

"What you got there, Bun? I'm a-coming. Hold him."

"You hold the shaft on that side, Rube, till we get him aimed right. I want to point him for the front gate, and drive him into the street. We'll have more room there to train him."

"Biggest kind of an idea ever was," said Rube. "I saw a learned pig once. He could play checkers, and count twenty. Smoke a pipe too. He was bigger'n this one."

"This one knows more'n most people now."

"Can't he squeal, though!"

"Audubon," said Mrs. Gates, "I want you to go to the store for me pretty soon. You'll have to take your wagon."

"All right," said Bun.

"Stand back, Rube. Hold on tight, Jeff. He'll make things rattle. Look, mother!"

She looked, and so did Grandmother Gates and Aunt Dorcas, but it was half a minute before there was anything to see, and Bun punched his queer "horse" with a long stick to set him going. A short sharp grunt replied to the punch, and suddenly the speckled pig made a plunging dart forward, and the wagon went with him.

"See!" shouted Bun. "That harness is just beautiful. It pulls first-rate. He'll go anywhere."

The pig felt about it in that way exactly, and the only drawback, so far as he was concerned, was the strong cord that was so well knotted around his left hind-leg. It had been a very strong cord in its day, and it was so now in many places, but there was about an inch of it, not a foot away from the pig's leg, that had seen its best and cordiest days. It was frayed and worn out and weak, and it had been severely tested all that morning. Fibre after fibre and strand after strand had given way, until now it needed but one more long, strong, willful tug with a boy pulling one way and an angry pig another, and the cord parted at its weak spot.

His first rush was straight forward for several yards; but the wagon did not seem to hinder him at all, even with Jeff pulling his best upon the "reins." He would have had to pull that pig's head nearly off before he could have stopped him in that manner, and it was fastened on too strongly.

"Stop him!" shouted Jeff. "He's running away; he's dodging."

That meant that he was making a sudden wheel across the grass-plot, under the big cherry-tree, and that brought him in full view of the garden.

The pig knew where he wanted to go now, and he sprang away in that direction with all his might and main. The boys were after him; but Rube's first attempt at heading him off only made him give so sudden a side rush that poor Jeff was pitched out, as the wagon keeled over, right into the middle of the raspberry bushes. The kick he gave as he landed set the wagon back on its wheels again, and it was easier running for the pig after that.

"Oh, my son!" was all Mrs. Gates could say, and nobody could guess whether she meant Bun or Jeff; but Jeff himself was remarking at that very moment, "Oh, that pig!" and it was plain enough of whom he was speaking. Aunt Dorcas and Grandmother Gates were at the same instant, as with one united voice, saying the same words, and Aunt Dorcas added:

"The garden'll just be ruined. There he goes, right through the tomato plants, and they ain't but just been sot out."

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Bun. "He's stopped in the spinach bed, and he's gone to rooting right away."

"Never mind," said Rube. "The wagon's all right. He might have broken that."

"We must get him out somehow."

Yes, that was precisely the task they had before them; but the pig was in the garden, and he knew it, and believed that he too had duties to perform. He could run, and he could dodge, and he could change work from one bed to another, but at any moment when he got at all away from those boys, he found uses for his long, busy, root-hunting nose.

Jeff crept out from among the raspberry bushes right away, and when his mother and the two other women reached that spot, he was able to answer them: "No, I ain't hurt a bit, but I'm scratched the worst kind. Oh, that pig!"

"Run, Jeff," said Aunt Dorcas, "and hold the barn-yard gate open. Don't let any other pigs get in. There are three more out of the pen. Must be Bun let 'em out when he went for that one."

The pig was now making a stand among the young beets; but suddenly an idea came to Bun, and he sprang forward. In an instant he was seated in the wagon, and was goading his victim with the sharp end of his long stick.

"Got him, Rube! I've got him, mother! He'll have to go now."

"Oh, my son! Yes, Dorcas, he's starting off. Look, mother; if he isn't pulling wagon and all!"

"He's going for the barn-yard gate, too," said Rube. "Punch him, Bun. We'll train him in the barn-yard."

Jeff was holding the gate open, but he was also shouting loudly at the other pigs, and it was an open question--as wide open as the gate itself--whether or not all three of them would not soon be at work in the garden. Very likely they would have been but for Bun's presence of mind in getting into the wagon. That puzzled the speckled pig, and the sharp stick made it worse for him. He saw the open gate, and he made a desperate rush for it. There was a deep drain furrow just before he reached it, and Bun was thinking, "He can't pull me over that," when the fore-wheels went down into it. The pig uttered the loudest squeal he had squealed all that morning as he struggled forward. The three women shouted in one breath, "Oh, Bun!"

Rube Hollenhauser stooped down to pick up a stone, and Bun punched harder than ever; but the pig had the best of it. That harness had not been calculated for any such strain. There was a faint snap, then another, and the pig was free.

He did not pause to look back at the garden he had lost, but he dashed wildly through the open gate, and Jeff banged it shut after him.

"Mother," said Bun, "I believe I can train him to draw."

"Draw?" exclaimed Aunt Dorcas. "He draws well enough now. The trouble is to steer him. What'll your father say to that garden?"

"I'll tell him my 'horse' ran away," said Bun.

"Well," said his mother, "don't you bring him into this yard again. Do your pig-training on the pigs' side of the fence. Come, now; it's time you went on your errand."

"Come on, Rube," remarked Bun. "We'll see about a better harness."

"May I go too?" asked Jeff. "I'm all scratched up."

"Come on, then. You may haul the wagon if you want to."

In a few minutes more they were all away up the street; but the speckled pig over in the barn-yard seemed to be in a manner grunting his morning's experiences for the information of his three relatives. Every now and then, too, one of them answered him with a grunt that seemed to have surprise in it, for neither of them had ever before heard of or from a pig in harness.

How the Postmistress wishes, on these bright May mornings, that she could turn herself into a fairy godmother!

"What would she do then," do you ask?

Why, print ever so many more of the dear little letters, bright stories, and tangled puzzles which every day are dropped for her into Uncle Sam's great mail-bags by the children's hands.

Her heart almost aches sometimes when she has to put aside so many clever, amusing, and affectionate letters which can not possibly be crowded into Our Post-office Box. Still, the dear little folks are too sensible to be vexed at the Postmistress, when she can not possibly help herself. You all know she must try to be fair in her treatment of each of her host of correspondents.

When you have anything interesting to write, do not mind even though you may have sent two or three letters already and they have not appeared. Write again.

Now for a word to the Exchangers. I am sorry that several complaints have come about careless little people who forget, when they send their exchanges, to inclose plain directions as to where they live; and, worse still, stories have been told about some who appear to be dishonorable. I will _not_ believe that a single boy who reads YOUNG PEOPLE ever willfully cheats another boy. I am sure this can not happen. But I fear that some lads do not attend as they ought to the standing notice at the head of our exchange list, and I think some may not be sufficiently careful to fully prepay the postage on their budgets, and so the pretty treasures and rare curiosities are sent away to the Dead-letter Office.

Please be very careful about this in future.

* * * * *

Charlie's letter has been waiting its turn a long time, but his pleasant way of telling about what he saw on the other side of the Atlantic has lost nothing of its freshness, while lying in the Postmistress's drawer:

NEW YORK CITY.

I went up to the top of Mount Vesuvius, and it burned my feet, and
almost suffocated me with smoke. We were about three hours going
up. First we rode in a carriage for two hours, and then we took a
car, something like the car at Mount Washington, except that the
engine did not go along with us, but was left at the station from
which we started, and we were pulled up by a wire rope. When we got
out of the car, mamma and papa were carried in chairs on men's
shoulders, but as I am only nine years old, a man took me on his
back and carried me up. I had been carried in Switzerland on a
man's back before this, when we crossed the Mer de Glace (that is
French for sea of ice). The man said I was a heavy boy, but I think
I am not so fat now as then.

I brought home a lot of foreign coin and stamps and curiosities. A
little girl gave me a bullet at Waterloo that she said she found in
the field. I drove over the road that Napoleon built across the
Alps, and saw at the house where the monks live the big dogs that
go out and find travellers when lost in the snow. I like to read
about Napoleon. I went to his tomb when we were in Paris; it is all
built of marble, and the church too.

We had awful bad weather coming home, and I had a big pitcher of
water thrown all over me when asleep in my berth.

CHARLIE P. R.

* * * * *

CARLINVILLE, ILLINOIS.

I would like to tell Wickie J. M., of Ann Arbor, about two little
brothers who are as fond of playing marbles as he is. Their names
are Harry and Louis W., of this place. I am Harry. Mamma does not
think marbles a very nice game, because we wear such big holes in
the knees of our pants and stockings. We don't intend to play it
very often any more, but are trying to get a collection of pretty
ones. I would like to take a peep into that bag of beautiful
marbles of yours, Wickie. We never play keeps.

Louis is six and I am eight years of age. We both go to school, and
take lessons on the piano. The only pets we have now are four
little kittens, whose eyes are just open. We once had two rabbits,
but they were killed by dogs. The mother of our little kittens is a
beautiful tortoise-shell and white cat. She does not like children
very much, but she catches rats and mice. She always wants mamma to
notice her when she has a mouse, and when she can will bring it to
her and purr and rub around her until she speaks to her.

There are apple-trees in our yard, and every spring a great many
robins and other birds come and build in them. Louis and I often
feed them. One day we put some bread in some empty cigar-boxes and
set them on the ground for the birds; but they did not eat out of
the boxes, so we emptied the bread off the ground, and very soon we
saw a number of birds eating it. I think they did not like the
smell of tobacco which was about the boxes. Last year two robins
had a nest of young ones in one of the trees. The old cat killed
the mother, and the father fed and took care of the little robins
until they were grown. The cat killed so many birds last year that
we had to keep her shut up in the chicken-coop a great deal of the
time.

I must tell you that we have a dear little blue-eyed brother nearly
three years old, named Willis, whom we all think lovelier and
sweeter than any other pet.

Mamma wishes me to tell you of a few funny things that Louis has
said. One day, when he was about five years old, mamma was teaching
him his Sunday-school lesson, and she asked the question, "How did
Adam and Eve feel when the angel drove them out of the garden?" He
answered, "Dus spendid." He had been told a story of a little boy
who was lost. After the parents and friends had searched the woods
and town in vain, he was found in the hay-loft fast asleep. Louis
said, "When a little boy is lost, you must always look in the
hay-loft, for that is a _specially_ place for boys." One very warm
and dusty day, while at play, Louis in some way got the top of his
head quite covered with dirt and ashes. When mamma saw it, she
said, "Why, Louis, I believe I could plant potatoes on the top of
your head." He said, "But you mustn't; for if you should, when I go
up town everybody would say, 'Hello, garden!'"

I have not learned to write with a pen, and I suppose you will
think my letter is not written very nicely. If it will do to put in
the Post-office Box, it will surprise and please my papa very much
to see it there.

HARRY W.

If the four new kittens should resemble their mother, I'm afraid the robins will have to fly away from your apple-trees, Harry. Thank your mamma for remembering those nice stories about Louis. Next time she must tell us some of your droll little speeches.

* * * * *

LATE.

The minute-hand points to the quarter,
And Jennie is there at the gate;
The clock is too fast, I am certain--
It always is fast when I'm late.
There! Jennie has gone on without me.
Mean thing! pray why couldn't she wait?

Has any one seen my examples?
Please, mother, help look for my slate.
I wonder who last had the shoe-hook;
My pencil has dropped in the grate.
How everything hinders a person
So sure as a person is late!

* * * * *

GLENDALE, OHIO.

As I have never seen a letter from this place. I thought I would
write one to Our Post-office Box.

We are to have our school picnic next month, and we shall have a
Queen and King. We have not selected them yet, but intend doing so
in about two weeks. We will have a May-pole dance and a band of
music. All the scholars are looking forward to the day with great
pleasure. I will write again after the picnic, and tell you all
about it.

CARRIE C.

Are the King and Queen chosen to their positions for their beauty, their scholarship, or their winning ways? I suppose the other pupils vote for them. Do you remember the story of "Susie Kingman's Decision," and has anything like it ever happened in your school? When I was a little girl I used to look forward to our May party just as you do. We elected our Queen and her Maids of Honor, but had no King, as our only boy school-mates were little fellows just tall enough to make the sweetest small pages you ever saw. The Queen's crown was a wreath of roses, and two of the girls carried it between them to the woods on a board.

* * * * *

INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA.

I am a little boy eight years old. I have taken your paper almost
two years. I like every story in it, and think they are all good. I
like to read the letters. I go to school every day, and am in the
Third Reader, and like my teacher. Every time it rains very hard
here White River overflows. This is the capital of the State, and
they are building a new State-house of stone. They have been
working on it for the last three years, and it will take them three
more at least to finish it. I have but one pet, a bird, which we
call Trouble, because he was so hard to raise. He is a very pretty
singer. I would like to see this published, as it is the second
letter I have written to you. My ma is writing this for me, as I am
sick.

H. R. C.

It is a new idea to call a bird Trouble, after the trouble he gave, isn't it? It would be fair to change his name to Pleasure, now that he sings so well. I hope, dear, that you have by this time quite recovered from your illness.

* * * * *

BIRDIE M.--Please pardon me for not having sooner thanked you for the pretty daffodil which you sent in your letter all the way from Cherokee, Kansas. Now, to pay you for it, let me give you a pretty poem from the poet Wordsworth, to copy into your little book of extracts. In fact, I would be glad to hear that a great many of my little friends had done the same. It is a good plan to copy gems of thought from great authors into little books of our own. Even though you may not quite understand the poet's meaning in these verses, you will like their musical sound, and, believe me, that when you are older the meaning will be plain to you:

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of the bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company.
I gazed and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

* * * * *

A LITTLE BOY'S COMPOSITION.--The subject assigned by mamma was "Quadrupeds." Ernest retired to the attic, and wrote very patiently until he had finished this, which is not so bad for a first attempt:

"Quadrupeds are animals. Animals live on grass, hay, oats, bran,
and water. A quadruped is anything that has four legs."

That was all Ernest could possibly think of. But mamma, who sends it, wants the children to say whether everything with four legs is, of course, a quadruped.

Here is another little composition, by a wee girlie, who writes about kittens:

"I have a little kitty, jet-black, full of frisking and fun, and I
hope she will _never_ get to be a dreadful old cat, and run away.
She plays with my apron strings, and likes a red ball best of any.
My sister Lucy, when she went to the store, asked the shoe man for
a pair of shoes for a baby without any heels on. This is all I can
write about kittens.

"LOTTIE (aged 8)."

* * * * *

OSAKIS, MINNESOTA.

My aunt sends me YOUNG PEOPLE, and I read it as soon as it comes
from the Post-office. We live on the bank of the most beautiful
lake in the world. The lake is twelve miles long, and is full of
fish. Boat-riding and fishing are our chief amusements. I am the
only girl in the family, and my papa says that I am the prettiest
girl in the Northwest.

LUNETTA E. C.

Don't let papa make you vain, dear. That would be a great misfortune, wouldn't it? Do you tell him that he is the best and handsomest papa in the whole United States? I am sure you think so.

* * * * *

CLARKSTOWN, NEW YORK.

We thought we would like to tell about our pets. We each have a
rabbit. One is black with a white breast, and the other two are
white and gray. We give them apple-wood, and they peel the bark off
so clean! We have two cats, both gray. One of them is very old; we
call her Kitty Gray. The other is a kitten, and is named
Christopher. He will run up my dress to fetch a piece of bread
which I hold as high as I can. We have eight bantams; one of them
is blind. We ourselves write a paper called "The Monthly Budget";
we compose it all. We like YOUNG PEOPLE very much. I am ten. Robert
is eight, and Pauline is five. We can all read.

MARIANNE W.

Send me a copy of your "Budget," please. I would like to have a peep at it.

* * * * *

HUNTINGTON, WEST VIRGINIA.

The boiler in a flour mill here blew up the other day. It lifted
the large chimney away up in the air, and that came down with an
awful crash. When the boiler blew up it shook all the houses near
it. It blew the large water tank that was on the roof clear up into
the air. Pieces of the boiler and engine were blown across the
street. Some bricks and large pieces of timber were blown over the
street, and burst in the side of a house. There was a real large
barrel factory that caught fire here, and the fire-engine worked
from seven until eleven o'clock, but could not stop it, it had got
under headway so much. It rained almost every day in the next week,
but the fire kept on smoking. We have good teachers at our day
school. I am ten years old, and study spelling, reading,
arithmetic, grammar, and geography.

CHARLIE A. P.

What an exciting time you have had between the explosion and the fire! I am afraid you boys enjoyed the fun more than you thought about the calamities.

Not long ago I saw an explosion of a different kind. Some boys were playing marbles near my house, and a quarrel had arisen. One little man jumped up, shook his fist at another, and with blazing eyes said, "You just get me mad, now, and see what I'll do!" He looked as though he might turn into a torpedo on the spot. It made me think of a Bible verse which I like very much: "Better is he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city." I fear the angry boy had not learned that verse by heart, if, indeed, he had ever heard of it.

* * * * *

GRATTAN, MICHIGAN.

Although I am thirteen years old, I am not too old to write to a
young people's paper. I went to school in the winter, but just a
week before school closed the school-house burned. My papa owns a
hop yard, and in the fall we have a number of girls to pick hops. I
like to pick quite well, but when the sun is hot the hops settle,
and you don't get your box full so quickly. I have only two pets.
One is a large, playful yellow-dog, and the other is a ferret. Her
name is Jennie, and she is very nice. She looks very much like a
weasel, only her fur is yellow and black. She likes bread and milk
very much, and if we give her a cracker she will run and hide it.
We can take a saucer of milk and hold it up a foot and a half from
the floor, and she will jump and catch hold of the edge of the
saucer and eat. I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE for about four months,
and like it real well. This is the first letter I have ever written
to a paper.

OLLIE L. W.

So even a ferret appreciates kindness! It must be a pretty sight when the girls go out to pick the hops. I am sure they have a happy time over their work. Are they paid according to the number of boxes they fill in a day?

* * * * *

JOSIE E. L.--For a little girl still in the Primary Department your letter is very well written indeed. I hope the new Maltese kitten will be as cunning and as great a pet as the one that died.

* * * * *

MARGARET S. S.--Your account of your travels almost took away my breath. Twice across the continent; twice from New York, by Panama, and thence by steamer, to San Francisco; and then, last summer in the Yosemite! You are a fortunate girl to have seen so many places. Well, dear, when you grow up you will have many pleasant and some droll things to remember, and you will not be a timid or fussy traveller, making every one around you uncomfortable. Your room must be very beautiful, decorated as you describe it. I presume your sister and you are both fond of natural history.

* * * * *

C. Y. P. R. U.

EFFIE D.--Pot-pourri is a French word which means a mixture. In music it is used to describe a piece or a series of pieces in which fragments of various melodies are oddly contrasted. But its prettier meaning, and the one which you will probably like to carry out for yourself, is that by which it was known to our grandmothers when they were young. The pot-pourri was a vase or jar into which rose petals, sprigs of lavender, bits of fern, and other delicate flowers were thrown, often with perfumes and essences, and all the year round it shed a faint sweetness through the parlor where it stood.

* * * * *

The Postmistress was much interested, not long ago, in the description given by an English lady residing in Pekin of the funeral of a Chinese Empress. The manners and customs of China are not at all like our own. Their way of showing their love and respect for the dead is quite different from ours, as you will see by reading about the procession which followed the lady Tung-tai-how to her resting-place in the Imperial Tombs. Her body was inclosed in a splendid coffin, and the tablet telling her name and the story of her life was hung in a niche in the Temple of Ancestors. The road to the Tombs was spread with yellow earth, and banners were hung across it at intervals, while blue cloth was festooned at crossings, and wherever there was danger that the curious eyes of the common people should peep at the tablet. In complete silence came the imperial umbrella, flag, and Sedan-chair, all of beautiful yellow satin. The chair containing the tablet was carried by eight bearers in crimson dresses with yellow spots. It was followed by a train of Mandarins in court dress, their garments glittering with embroidery. After them came a troop of spearmen, wearing yellow jackets with black sleeves, and bearing long slender lances.

On arriving at the Temple of Ancestors, which is within the palace, the procession was met by some of the ministers of state and the princes. The tablet was lifted to its place of honor, and then the ceremonies were over for the time, though offerings will be placed before it, as before the tablets of other ancestors, whenever any event of importance takes place in the royal family.

Perhaps some of you do not know that the Chinese worship their ancestors. They fancy that the souls of the dead linger around these tablets, and so they place food, clothing, and money near them. Even the poorest consider this a sacred duty. Every home has its tablets, if not its ancestral hall. It is their idea that the spiritual part only of the food is eaten by the dead, and so, after a while, most families use the rice and fruit themselves. Money and clothing are represented by paper, which, at stated periods, is very devoutly burned before the shrines.

* * * * *

TWO AMUSING GAMES.--By the same mail which brought the Postmistress a letter from the pupils of the Prairie Mound School, Watkins, Iowa, asking her to tell them of a nice game to play at recess, came another letter from St. Louis, Missouri, telling of two games. So what can be better than to let Olga answer the Prairie-Mounders? The Postmistress is sure they were thinking of games for rainy days. On fine days top, ball, I-spy, and tag usually enlist active boys and girls, and those are the best plays for them which give them wholesome exercise in the open air:

I have two very interesting games that may be played in-doors--one
is called "Cross-Purposes," and the other is "The Cook who likes no
Peas." The first is played in the following manner: One player goes
around among the circle, and whispers in each one's ear an answer
which he is to make to the next player who shall come after him
asking questions. For instance, Charles goes around to Nos. 1, 2,
3, and 4. To No. 1 he whispers, "Hot, sweet, and strong," to No. 2,
"With pepper and vinegar," to No. 3, "With my best love," and to
No. 4, "No, indeed." Jane comes after Charles to ask any questions
her own wit may suggest. She asks No. 1, "What kind of a week have
you passed?" No. 1 answers, "Hot, sweet, and strong." She asks No.
2, "Shall you ever marry?" No. 2 answers, "With pepper and
vinegar." To No. 3, "How will you keep house on these?" No. 3
answers, "With my best love." To No. 4, "Where do you live?" No. 4
answers, "No, indeed." Much amusement is sometimes made by the
total variance of the questions and answers, and sometimes a very
hard blow is administered to some of the company, but of course no
offense can be taken.

Now for "The Cook who likes no Peas." The leader of the game must
put the following question to his right-hand neighbor, and also to
all the players in succession: "My cook likes no peas; what shall I
give her to eat?" If any player replies, "Potatoes, apples, and
parsnips," the other answers, "She does not like them--pay a
forfeit." But if another says, "Onions, carrots, veal," she likes
them, and consequently no forfeit is required of the player. The
trick of this game is evident: it is the letter "p" that must be
avoided. Thus, to escape the penalty of a forfeit, it is necessary
that the player should propose some kind of food in which the
letter "p" does not occur.

OLGA C. B.

* * * * *

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to the article, by Sarah Cooper, entitled "How Jelly-Fish Live and Move"; to the story of shipwreck entitled the "Loss of the HALSEWELL," and told under the head of "Peril and Privation" by Mr. James Payn; and to the article on fencing, by Sherwood Ryse, entitled "A Princely Art."

* * * * *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from "Fleur-de-lis," Kitty Hoyt, Jennie Belknap, Jack Hayes, Robbie Keyes, Mary Jane Nichols, "Lodestar," H. W. B., "Bo-Peep," Mary Stansbery, Emily Atkinson, G. P. Taggart, Samuel S. Wolfsohn, S. May, Herman Metz, William H. Shine, B. J. Lautz, L. E. C., Caspar Van Gieson, Lillie D., Willie T. Blew, Smith Olcott, Lulu Payne, Dudley Long, Henry Clayton, Fanny Grey, John Hobson, Archie McIntosh, Dick Fanshaw, Thomas B. Irons, Elsie V. Bess, Mollie Ramsay, "I. Scycle," D. Herman Winter, Jun., Allie E. Cressingham, "Benny Fishel," Eddie Lawler, and Everett C. F.

* * * * *

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

CHARADE.

1. A little pool (so called in England).

2. A little pool (so called in Scotland).

Whole--A city in Ireland.

J. P. B.

* * * * *

No. 2.

WORDS WITHIN WORDS (GEOGRAPHICAL).

(The word defined is contained, without transposition, between the first and last letters of the second).

1. An ancient city in an ancient plain.
2. A passage in a church in a large town in Scotland.
3. A girl in a town in Switzerland.
4. An attorney in a town in Italy.
5. Always in a river of England.
6. An Austrian river in trouble.
7. A domestic animal in a lake of Russia.

J. P. B.

* * * * *

No. 3.

ENIGMA.

In bed, but not in sleep,
In boil, but not in steep.
In can't, but not in could.
In bark, but not in wood.
In stay, but not in stood.
My whole, though a great trouble,
Is a book that all should keep.

MABEL M. S.

* * * * *

No. 4.

GEOGRAPHICAL PUZZLE.

I am the name of a favorite English novelist, and am composed of
fourteen letters.
My 2, 6, 5, 12, 13, 3 is a city in Arkansas.
My 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 is a cape on the Atlantic coast.
My 4, 6, 8 is a river in Louisiana.
My 14, 13, 3, 11, 12 is a river in Idaho.
My 6, 4, 9, 12 is one of the great lakes.
My 10, 5, 9, 13, 10, 2 is a river in Virginia.

OLIVETTE.

* * * * *

No. 5.

TWO DIAMONDS.

1.--1. A letter. 2. A tag. 3. Emaciation. 4. A stout satin-striped silk. 5. The slanting bank opposite the tow-path. 6. To perceive. 7. A letter.

2.--1. A letter. 2. A receptacle. 3. Pipes. 4. Hollow. 5. To beat. 6. A boy's nickname. 7. A letter.

FOSSIL.

* * * * *

No. 6.

BEHEADINGS.

1. I am a home; behead me, and I am a fluid.
2. I measure time; behead me, and I am a fastening.
3. I am burnt; behead me, and I am a conjunction.
4. I am a factory; behead me, and I am sick.
5. I am a being; behead me, and I am a part of speech.
6. I am a pleasant pastime; behead me, and I am a girl's name.
7. I am used in hunting; behead me, and I indicate the summer.
8. I am a boy's name; behead me, and I am part of a verb.
9. I am a mechanical instrument; behead me, and I never end.

P. F. S.

* * * * *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 129.

No. 1.

T opmos T
I ndian A
T ormen T
T aproo T
L itera L
E pidot E

No. 2.

Eli Whitney. Victor Hugo. Boy.

No. 3.

C R E S T
R E A C H
E A G E R
S C E N E
T H R E E

No. 4

P C
P I G T H E
P I A N O C H I N A
G N U E N D
O A

P
P A D
P A N I C
D I N
C

* * * * *

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

HOW THE DANDELIONS GROW.

How do they grow? Why, little sprites
Pop up from the ground on starry nights;
One, with a candle, sits aloft,
Another rakes till all is soft;
Then one little elf a bellows wields;
He scatters the seed o'er dewy fields.
And now, small people, you surely know
The way that the dandelions grow.

* * * * *

A DOG WHO LIKED CATS.

Poodles are, in some respects, the most intelligent of all species of dogs. This is the reason why the performing dogs who are taught to do all sorts of curious tricks are almost always poodles. There was a lady who owned a large poodle which was very fond of walking with her. Every day at about ten o'clock he would find the articles of dress that he thought she ought to wear out-of-doors, and would bring them to her, and bark loudly until she would put them on. He always insisted that she should wear rubber overshoes, no matter what the weather might be, but he never brought her an umbrella except when it rained. It was very nice in him to wait on his mistress; but sometimes, when he would drag her best bonnet by one string down stairs and through the whole house until he found her, she would not remember to thank him as heartily as he imagined that he deserved.

Unlike most dogs, this poodle liked cats. He had intelligence enough to perceive that cats had their uses, and that it was much better to use them than to waste them recklessly by killing them. In the family where he lived there were at one time two large cats. Now the poodle was not allowed to wear any wool except on his head, fore-quarters, tail, and legs, and the consequence was that in the winter he suffered from the cold. He therefore made friends with the cats by giving them scraps of his dinner, and so induced them to come and lie down by him when he wanted a nap. With one cat on each side of him he was quite warm and comfortable, and when the cats showed signs of wakefulness he would put them to sleep by licking their fur with his rough tongue.

The two cats finally died or ran away, and a small kitten took their place. The dog did not think it worth while to waste bones on the kitten, as she was a weak, foolish little beast, who fancied that she must do whatever the poodle wanted. When he felt sleepy, he would go into the kitchen and find his kitten. Picking her up in his mouth, he would walk slowly through the house until he found a nice sunny spot on a soft carpet, when he would lie down, placing the kitten close to him. If any one called him while he was walking about with the kitten in his mouth, he would throw her away with a toss of his head, never caring where she might land. This rough treatment, together with the fact that he would sometimes pick the kitten up by the tail or the head, and carry her for several minutes in a most trying position, proved too much for the meek little animal's constitution, and one day, to his great disappointment, the dog found her dead, and so cold that she was no longer of the slightest use to him.

It is a great pity that other dogs have not discovered that cats can be put to good use if dogs only take a little pains to win their friendship and develop their useful qualities. But dogs are too often reckless and thoughtless, and prefer to waste valuable cats in order to enjoy for a few moments the pleasures of the chase.

* * * * *

AN EVENING AMUSEMENT.

DROPPING MELTED LEAD.

From far-away Russia we may learn of a pretty custom which Florence and Fanny might propose some evening when the cousins and school-mates have gathered for an hour or two of fun. It forms one of the traditional amusements of the New-Year festival, but you might try it at any period of the year.

Pin a large white sheet against the wall. Have ready a basin of cold water, and over the fire melt a quantity of lead. Let some one drop this liquid lead by spoonfuls into the water. It of course cools quickly, and hardens into shape. Hold it up, and observe the shadow it casts on the sheet. If this is like a boat, or a sleigh, or a horse and phaeton, it is a sign that somebody in the company will soon start on a journey. Should it assume the shape of a blossoming bough, it betokens the speedy convalescence of a friend who is ill; if it resembles a dove, you may be sure that Albert and Elsie, who have quarrelled, will soon be reconciled. In short, by the aid of a vivid imagination, you may fancy that the lead tells you almost anything you wish to hear.

* * * * *

End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, May 9, 1882, by Various