Chapter L: B. P (1)

A NEGRO MELODIST.

It has often been remarked that in the bird world the rule is for the males to have the brilliant plumage, with all the beautiful colors and for the females to be the dowdy ones--a rule which would entail a revolution in fashions, startling and ludicrous, if it were to be introduced for variety among our own kind. Again, gaily-dressed birds have the least pleasing song--the screaming jay bearing an unfavorable comparison with the thrush--and the modestly-attired nightingale having furnished, in all ages, a brilliant example of virtue unadorned. The nightingale, however, leaving before the climate has become objectionable, we must praise its musical accomplishments rather as being those of a distinguished guest, or foreign _prima donna_, than of an indigenous artist. But we have another bird who _is_ always here, facing winter's blasts in addition to summer's bloom, who in voice stands unrivaled; no competitor approaching any where near him for fluency, richness, and liquid melody of song--to wit, the blackbird.

This negro melodist seldom spares his lungs at all until winter is far advanced into its New Year months; and even amid the bitter mornings of January, his rich, unfaltering notes can sometimes be heard. His coat is a glossy black, always cleanly brushed, and in the case of one family, sometimes called the "Red-wing," with a gorgeous scarlet lapel on either side.

TIME ENOUGH.

Two little rabbits out in the sun;
One gathered food, the other had none.
"Time enough yet," his constant refrain;
"Summer is still just on the wane."

Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate:
He roused him at last, but he roused him too late.
Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud,
And gave little rabbit a spotless white shroud.

Two little boys in a school-room were placed;
One always perfect, the other disgraced.
"Time enough yet for my learning," he said;
"I will climb by-and-by, from the foot to the head."

Listen, my darling--their locks are turned gray;
One, as a governor, sitteth to-day.
The other, a pauper, looks out at the door
Of the alms-house, and idles his days as of yore.

Two kinds of people we meet every day;
One is at work, the other at play,
Living uncared for, dying unknown.--
The busiest hive hath ever a drone.

Tell me, my child, if the rabbits have taught,
The lesson I longed to impart in your thought.
Answer me this, and my story is done,
Which of the two will you be, little one?

THE MOUSE WEDDING.

Dick Sly was the smartest mouse in Mousetown. He knew any kind of a new trap that was set to catch him, and he always warned the rest. The houses in Mousetown are called "holes," you know. Next to the hole where Dick lived with his parents was the hole where pretty Nan Spry lived. She could run faster than any mouse in Mousetown; even Dick could not catch her, if she tried to run away from him. At last it was told in Mousetown that Dick and Nan were to be married, and every body said, "What a grand pair they'll make." Judge Mouse, who married them, put on his best gold spectacles, and they were married on a big wedding cake, which some folks called a "cheese." Every one in Mousetown had a bit of it, and declared it to be the best wedding cake they had ever eaten.

SHE HAD NEVER SEEN A TREE.

They took the little London girl, from out the city street,
To where the grass was growing green, the birds were singing sweet;
And every thing along the road, so filled her with surprise,
The look of wonder fixed itself, within her violet eyes.

The breezes ran to welcome her; they kissed her on each cheek,
And tried in every way they could, their ecstacy to speak,
Inviting her to romp with them, and tumbling up her curls,
Expecting she would laugh or scold, like other little girls.

But she didn't--no she didn't; for this crippled little child
Had lived within a dingy court, where sunshine never smiled;
And for weary, weary days and months, the little one had lain
Confined within a narrow room, and on a couch of pain.

The out-door world was strange to her--the broad expanse of sky,
The soft, green grass, the pretty flowers, the stream that trickled by;
But all at once she saw a sight, that made her hold her breath,
And shake and tremble as if she were frightened near to death.

Oh, like some horrid monster, of which the child had dreamed,
With nodding head, and waving arms, the angry creature seemed;
It threatened her, it mocked at her, with gestures and grimace
That made her shrink with terror, from its serpent-like embrace.

They kissed the trembling little one; they held her in their arms,
And tried in every way they could to quiet her alarms,
And said, "Oh, what a foolish little girl you are, to be
So nervous and so terrified, at nothing but a tree!"

They made her go up close to it, and put her arms around
The trunk, and see how firmly it was fastened in the ground;
They told her all about the roots, that clung down deeper yet,
And spoke of other curious things, she never would forget.

Oh, I have heard of many, very many girls and boys
Who have to do without the sight, of pretty books and toys--
Who have never seen the ocean; but the saddest thought to me
Is that any where there lives a child, who never saw a tree.

A FUNNY HORSE.

Knock! Knock! Knock! I've been before this block
More than half an hour, I should say;
I am standing in the sun, while Miss Lucy lingers on,
Talking of the fashions of the day.

It is a trick you know, she taught me long ago,
But now I am in earnest, not in play;
And the world is very wide, to a horse that isn't tied,
I've a mind to go and ask the price of hay.

There's a nail in my shoe that needs fixing too,
And I want a drink more than I can say;
How I could run, with my dandy harness on!
But it's such a mean thing to run away.

Rap! Tap! Tap! That's enough to break a nap--
There she comes, and is laughing at the way
I brought her to the door, when she wouldn't come before,
That's a trick worth playing any day.

MRS. GIMSON'S SUMMER BOARDERS.

It was recess at the school-house at the cross roads, and three country girls gathered round a companion, whose unhappy face showed that something had gone wrong.

"Is this your last day at school, Lucindy?" asked Carrie Hess, a girl of fifteen, and the eldest of the three sisters.

"Yes, this is my last day, thanks to the summer boarders. I can't bear to think of them. I hate them!"

"Will you have to work harder than you do now?" asked Freda, who was next younger to Carrie.

"I don't mind the work so much as I do their impudent airs, and their stuck-up ways. I wont be ordered around, and if Auntie thinks I'm going to be a black slave, she'll find she's mistaken."

Lucindy's face flushed, and she appeared to be greatly in earnest.

"I'd be glad to have them come to our house, they have such nice clothes," said Lena, the youngest and most mischievous.

"Yes, it's very nice, I must say, to go around in old duds, and have a girl that's not a whit better in any way than you, only she's been to a city school and has a rich father, turn up her nose at you, and perhaps make fun of you, with her white dresses and her silk dresses, and her gaiter boots."

"Can't we come to your house any more? Can't we come to play?" asked Carrie.

"Oh, can't we come?" said the other two, almost in a breath.

"No, Auntie told me this morning, that I must tell you and the rest of the girls, that it wouldn't be convenient to have you come, as you have done; you are not stylish enough for Miss Hattie Randolph to associate with, I suppose."

The girls looked really disappointed. Lucindy was a great favorite, and a leader, fearless and successful in all escapades that required originality and coolness, and her company would be sorely missed. Her aunt had indulged her in all the dress and amusement she could afford, and her companions had always been welcome to visit at the house, but now there was a necessity for her services, and play could not be indulged in so often for the rest of the summer, as the household needed the avails, if not the presence of summer boarders.

"Is she older than we?" asked Carrie.

"No, but she's lived all her life in the city, and feels above everybody. She and her brother and her mother will just take possession of our piazza and door-yard, and our swing; and I can wash dishes, and sit on the back door-step, and never see a girl from one month's end to another." Here Lucindy burst out crying.

"It's too bad," said Carrie.

The little Lena, ever fertile in invention, crept near, and putting her arms around Lucindy's neck, whispered:

"We'll come to see you on the sly, and we can go down in the fields and have fun, when your Auntie goes out for an afternoon."

"I wish you would," said Lucindy. "And I'll bring down some cake and pickles, and some honey, and we'll have a pic-nic in spite of Mrs. Randolph!"

This was a solution of the unhappy problem, and it seemed to throw a ray of sunlight slantwise into the gloomy picture of the coming summer.

The progress of the afternoon at the school-house was not marked by any unusual occurrence, and at the close, the little company of schoolmates proceeded together, until they came to the road leading to Lucindy's home. Here they parted, with many professions of everlasting friendship; Lucindy, walking backwards, watched her companions until the turn in the road hid them from view.

Then she sat down upon a bank by the roadside under an old tree. Throwing her slate and books down on the grass, she snatched a few daisies that grew near, and thought of many things of a disquieting nature, pulling the flowers to pieces.

"I feel mad enough to run away!" she thought. "I could earn my living easy enough in the city, and not have to work so hard either. Miss Hunter can't teach me any thing more. I've learned all she knows. It's just too bad not to be able to get more education. I'll just take my own way, if Auntie crowds me too much. I don't care if she don't like it. If my father and mother were alive, she wouldn't be my boss. I can get on in another place with what I know about a good many things.

"But oh, that girl that's coming has so much better times than I. Those lovely city schools! no one can help learning there, they take such pains with you."

She looked down the road upon which the slanting red light of the declining sun was shining, and there she saw a cloud of dust. This road was not a great thoroughfare, and she knew that was the stage, and it probably would bring the undesired summer guests.

She shrank visibly back into the shadow of the tree as it came on, and smoothed out her faded calico dress and pulled her sun-bonnet farther over her face.

The coach came rolling past, and a girl in the back seat directed the attention of a fashionably-dressed lady to herself, she thought, and laughed as though immensely pleased, at the same time pointing at her. A little boy, who sat in the front seat with the driver, and who was playing upon a harmonica, stopped, and looking in her direction, laughed too.

"It's my outlandish sun-bonnet they're making fun of," she thought. "I suppose this is the beginning of it."

Now this ungentle girl was mistaken in her surmise, as she was about many things that caused her unhappiness. What the people in the stage were really interested and amused with were a couple of lambs in the field back of Lucindy, and their playful gyrations were a novel sight to them, and they had come for the very purpose of being pleased with country sights and experiences. Lucindy felt sure these were the summer boarders, and, taking a short cut across the fields, arrived at her aunt's just as the guests were alighting.

Lucindy stood at the back corner of the house, and heard the sprightly talk of Mrs. Randolph and the merry laugh of the daughter, as her aunt bade them welcome, and she knew they were being conducted to the upper rooms that had been prepared with such thoughtful reference to their comfort.

Her aunt came down very soon, and seeing Lucindy, bade her wash her hands and smooth her hair, and put on a white apron, and prepare to get ready the tea. This duty Lucindy had always done, and a little curiosity, mingled with her other feelings, came to her, as to how the boarders would like her aunt's puffy biscuit, and if the cold custard and raspberry jam wouldn't be to their taste. If coffee and fricasseed chicken would not be just the thing after an all-day ride, and remarked to herself: "If they don't like such fare, let them go where they'll get better."

The tea passed off with great good feeling; the new people making a most favorable impression upon her aunt, and impressing Lucindy with the discovery that polite manners were a recommend to strangers, for her aunt made gratified remarks from time to time as she came into the kitchen. Lucindy would not wait upon the table the first evening, a convenient head-ache being the excuse.

Mrs. Gimson was a most kindly disposed person, and endeavored, in every way, to make the time pass pleasantly to her guests; but all she could say in their favor did nothing toward disposing the mind of her niece to regard them with any toleration. She performed the household duties that fell to her with a stolid indifference, or with an openly expressed reluctance, and her aunt bore all kindly, explaining and smoothing away what she could, promising Lucindy that she should have a nice present of money when the guests departed.

Hattie Randolph had not taken any notice of her, never really having seen her, for Lucindy had positively refused to wait upon the table; and had kept herself in the back-ground, thus making her life at home more of a discipline than was necessary. She envied Hattie's graceful ways and refined conversation; and her apparel was a revelation, not of beauty, but of another source of jealous envy to the country girl, for in putting the guests' rooms in order, she examined, critically, the pretty things in the wardrobe.

The city people found so much to interest them in the beauties of the surrounding neighborhood, that they were out nearly all the time, and when the evening came, Mrs. Randolph, with her son and daughter, made a pleasant addition to Mrs. Gimson's parlors, with their graceful talk, and numberless resources of entertainment.

Lucindy, observant and sullen, kept herself informed of all their movements, and was continually having the blush brought to her cheek and the bitterness of comparison to her heart, as she noted the wide difference there was between herself and them. It never once occurred to this foolish girl, that this difference was growing more and more every day, by the fostering of pride and an ignorant stubbornness, which prevented her, utterly, from ever cultivating their envied characteristics.

It was a long time since she had seen any of her playmates from the school, but by an ingenious contrivance, that had been thought out by Lucindy, a tin box had been inserted into an old tree in a fence corner, about midway between her home and the school-house, and in this they deposited their notes to each other.

This was a solace to Lucindy, as all the happenings at the school could be reported, and many a mis-spelled, soiled missive found its way to the eager hands of the absent one. Not less interesting was the news as to the doings of the boarders. Nothing, however trivial, that happened not to accord with Lucindy's notions was overlooked in her setting forth of grievances, and she found ready sympathizers in the Hess girls. Carrie Hess stood under the old tree, one lovely morning, overstaying her time in doing so, as the warning bell had rung at the school-house, reading a note she had taken from the tree post-office. Among other things, it communicated the welcome news, that herself and sisters might come to the pretty knoll behind the house that afternoon, and that Lucindy would take the occasion to make a holiday for herself, as her aunt was going, after dinner, to look up fresh butter and eggs, and would be gone until near tea time.

Mrs. Randolph had hired a team, and with her family would be gone the same length of time, for a ride.

Carrie took a race to school, very much elated at the prospect of enjoying Lucindy's company once more. Recess came, and after eating their very generous lunch, they prepared to quietly put a considerable distance between themselves and the precincts over which Miss Hunter's authority extended. They were "skipping," as they termed it, and as their parents would not know of it, they reveled in the forbidden freedom. They proceeded over fences and across stubble fields, and soon reached the coveted meeting-place. A wide-spreading tree, with a wreath of apples upon it, just turning to a ruddy hue, was almost completely surrounded at its trunk with hazel bushes, but on one side they did not grow; this was away from the house, and toward the wheat field. It was a natural bower, and into this they crept to await the coming of Lucindy.

They were not kept long in suspense, and when she appeared what a hugging and kissing were gone through with!

"Have your boarders gone for their ride?" asked Carrie.

"Yes, and I thought they'd never get off. Old Mrs. Randolph fusses so, you'd think she was going to a party every time she goes to ride. I wonder who she expects to see on a country road?"

"Sure enough. How was the girl dressed, Lu?"

"Oh, she had on a light check silk, and a lovely brown jockey, trimmed with pink satin ribbon rosettes and long ends at the back, and a lovely, wide collar."

"Don't you like her better than her mother?" asked Lena.

"Well, she doesn't put on as many airs as her mother, and she's acted, two or three times, as if she were going to speak to me, but I managed not to let her. I don't want her acquaintance. I don't want any of her coming down to me!"

"I suppose they have nice things, that they've brought with them, in their rooms," said Carrie.

"Yes, Mrs. Randolph has an elegant blue satin pin-cushion, with morning-glories and apple-blossoms painted on it, and a dressing-case with white ivory combs and brushes, and they do your hair up lovely, for I fixed mine in her room yesterday with them." This caused much merriment.

Lucindy proceeded to take from her pocket a pack of children's cards, illuminated with gaily-dressed ladies and gentlemen, and queer-looking figures of all kinds. These caused a sensation; they looked incredulously at Lucindy, as she said:

"These are the things that make them laugh evenings. If we knew how to play them, we could have some of their kind of fun."

They passed them to one another and examined them. They threw them aside presently, and returned to the subject of never-failing interest--the wardrobe of the boarders.

Carrie and Lena intimated more than once, that if they could only see something that city people really considered elegant, they would be satisfied, and forever indebted to Lucindy for the sight.

"Oh, dear, if that will please you so much," said Lucindy, entirely willing to gratify them, "I'll go and get one of Mrs. Randolph's prettiest dresses and show you. It wont take me a minute."

"Oh, do, Lucindy! we're just crazy to see it! She'll never know it," said Carrie, with eagerness.

Lucindy had no scruples whatever in procuring so coveted a pleasure for her dear friends. She ran back to the house and up into Mrs. Randolph's room. She fumbled over the dresses, and thinking it was as well to take out two or three, that they might feast their eyes upon a variety, she piled two silk dresses and an India mull upon her arm, and hurried out.

They dragged considerably upon the dusty path, but this was not noticed, and the wild delight of the girls, when they really had them in their hands, amply repaid Lucindy for any risk, she thought.

They fingered them over, the bead embroideries and lace trimmings, and examined the fashion of each with untiring interest.

"Let's put them on!" said Carrie, "and see how we would look in them."

"We'll look sweetly stylish," said Freda.

"Oh, do let us, Lucindy! Mrs. Randolph wont be back until evening. It'll be such fun!" insisted Carrie.

"All right, let us; I don't care how much fun we have with them, the more the better," returned Lucindy. No sooner said than done; over their clothing they stretched the dresses, and jerked and settled them into the proper set. Shouts of laughter greeted every ridiculous pose and awkward stumble, and certainly nothing could be more provocative of merriment than their appearance. They trailed the dresses over the stubble in mock dignity; they improvised a dance, and went through all the grotesque changes they could invent. Their comments and jokes were most spicy and personal, and in all Lucindy led.

After a good time enjoyed in this way, the fun lost its point and novelty, and they threw the dresses in a heap on the grass, and sat and chatted over the gossip connected with the school at the cross roads. The afternoon was wearing on, and Lucindy thought it time to produce her good things, and taking up the dresses, ran along to the house.

In getting through the bars she dropped the mull overskirt and did not perceive her loss. Gretchen saw it, and running after, brought it back. Lucindy hung the dresses up in their places, certainly not improved by the airing they had had; but chancing to look out of an upper window, she was horrified to see down the road the identical team that Mrs. Randolph had hired, and as true as the world, they were coming home!

She rushed down, and abandoning the lunch, ran as fast as she could to the field, and as she approached, this was the sight that met her gaze:

Gretchen was strutting about with a dock leaf held over her head for a parasol, and trailing the beautiful mull overskirt on the ground, endeavoring to realize the feelings of a fine lady in a trailed dress.

"Gretchen! Gretchen!" screamed Lucindy, as loudly as she dared. "Hide it! hide it! Mrs. Randolph has come home!"

Carrie jumped, and lifting Gretchen from it, secured the skirt, and Lucindy grasped it and rolled it in a small ball and hid it in the hazel bushes. Then they held a hurried consultation, and decided it was best for Lucindy to go back immediately; but, as it was now impossible to restore the skirt to its place in the wardrobe, they urged her to put it in some unfrequented spot, until a favorable opportunity came to get it back. Lucindy now feared her aunt would arrive without warning, and, although loth to part without the long anticipated treat, they walked quickly down the path by the fence toward the road.

"What on the face of the earth will I ever do with this thing?" whispered Lucindy, for the first time betraying fear. "I can't get it back to-night, that's as plain as the nose on your face. Oh, grief! she may inquire after it as soon as I go in! It'll be just like my luck for her to want to wear it to-night. Maybe she expects some one to spend the evening with them, and that's what brought them back so early. Let me see--Auntie will find it if I put it anywhere about the house or barn; I must not be found out in this, because if I am, Auntie wont give me the present she promised. I'll tell you, Carrie, you take it and put it down the hole in the tree, under the tin box. No one has ever found out that place; it will be safe there until I go for it to-morrow."

This was immediately decided upon, and the girls went sulkily home. The skirt was forced down into the tree, and the tin box placed on top, and they trudged slowly homeward.

As Lucindy approached the house, she began to see more and more the serious dilemma in which she was placed, and her face hardened visibly as she thought.

"I'll deny the whole thing if I'm cornered; perhaps Mrs. Randolph will live through the disappointment of not wearing her dress for once. I have to live all the time without such dresses."

Just then she heard her aunt calling her, and she knew that some unlooked-for occasion had brought them home before evening.

"Lucindy, we must hurry up the tea; the folks are going to spend the evening at Judge Brander's. The team is waiting to take them there. Mrs. Randolph saw me in the village, and told me."

Lucindy did not answer, but went in and about her duties as usual. Presently Mrs. Randolph called for Mrs. Gimson to come up stairs, as she wished to speak to her. Lucindy felt that now the discovery had been made, and strengthening her purpose, to deny all, worked on, quietly waiting for developments.

In a few moments, her aunt came down in great excitement, and told her that someone had been in the house, while they were away, and had stolen Mrs. Randolph's elegant India mull overskirt, and had almost ruined her other dresses, as the trimmings were broken and destroyed, and some of them were gone entirely.

"It must have been when I went for water; I noticed that there were two tramps going down the road, a man and woman."

"Oh, Lucindy, you should have locked the door!"

"Why, aunt, I never lock the doors when I go after water. I suppose you'll put the blame of it on me!" Here Lucindy began to cry. "I think you are a very strange woman to leave no one but a girl alone in a house, with such valuable things; it's a wonder the robbers didn't kill me; my coming in frightened them away. I've no doubt they thought it was the hired man," Lucindy continued to cry.

Mrs. Gimson never suspected her niece of such systematic deception. The well was a short distance from the house, and that accounted for the fact that nothing else was missing, as they had not had time, and also that the other dresses had been rudely dragged to get them down.

She believed Lucindy's story. Mrs. Randolph could not account for the plight in which she found her clothing, and bewailed her loss, as being particularly annoying at this juncture.

Nothing more was said, and, after taking tea, they started for the Judge's, leaving Mrs. Gimson in a greatly perturbed state of mind. She knew that this unfortunate thing would get abroad and discourage patrons. Desirable boarders would avoid her house in future.

Lucindy, never uttering a comforting word to her aunt, went up to her room with an air of injured innocence that hurt her aunt quite as much as any thing she had undergone. During the early part of the evening a violent thunder storm came up, and Mrs. Randolph did not return. The next morning it still rained, and there was no excuse for Lucindy's going out, and the dress could not be secured. Mrs. Randolph returned at noon, and informed Mrs. Gimson that she had been invited to visit, for the rest of the summer, at Judge Brander's, and would leave Mrs. Gimson's the next day.

Just as soon as Lucindy could be spared, she ran down to the tree post-office, put a note into the tin box, and returned. This, Carrie Hess got as soon as recess came, and the scheme worked out successfully, as the event proved.

Barry, Hattie's brother, was standing by the shrubbery gate, when a little barefoot boy sidled up, and attracted his attention by his curious behavior--he finally spoke:

"I say, them Hitalyans stuffed yer mother's clothes inter a tree down here; I found it this mornin'."

"What do you mean?" asked Barry, not fully understanding the boy.

"That ere tree, don't yer see?" and the boy pointed to the girls' post-office, that stood out dimly down the road.

"Is it there now?" asked Barry.

"I do'no, I seed it there this mornin'."

"Wait till I go and tell my mother," said Barry, and he ran into the house.

In a moment Mrs. Randolph and Mrs. Gimson were at the gate, but the boy had disappeared. "Go down, Barry, and see if what he says is true," said his mother. He ran off, and returning after a little time, brought the overskirt, rolled up in a soiled bundle, as the rain had soaked it and the decayed wood had stained it.

"Yes, I think it must have been those tramps," said Mrs. Randolph. "They hid it there, expecting to come for the rest of it the next day. They'll be disappointed. I'll be gone."

The boy was Carrie Hess's brother, and the ruse had worked; entirely turning off all suspicion from Lucindy.

Mrs. Gimson lost her summer boarders and Lucindy returned to school. This unprincipled girl, however, learned the hard lesson, in her after life, that ingratitude to benefactors, and unfaithfulness to trust, meet a sure retribution, even if they appear to succeed.

AS NIGHT CAME DARKLY DOWN.

The night came darkly down;
The birdies' mother said,
"Peep! peep!
You ought to be asleep!
'Tis time my little ones were safe in bed!"
So, sheltered by her wings in downy nest,
The weary little birdlings took their rest.

The night came darkly down;
The baby's mother said,
"Bye-low!
You musn't frolic so!
You should have been asleep an hour ago!"
And, nestling closer to its mother's breast,
The merry prattler sank to quiet rest.

Then in the cradle soft
'Twas laid with tenderest care.
"Good-night!
Sleep till the morning light!"
Whispered the mother as she breathed a prayer.
Night settled down; the gates of day were barred
And only loving angels were on guard.

JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

GRANDMOTHER'S CLOCK.

It stands in the corner of Grandma's room;
From the ceiling it reaches the floor;
"Tick-tock," it keeps saying the whole day long,
"Tick-tock," and nothing more.

Grandma says the clock is old, like herself;
But dear Grandma is wrinkled and gray,
While the face of the clock is smooth as my hand,
And painted with flowers so gay!

Backwards and forwards, this way and that,
You can see the big pendulum rock:
"Tick-tock," it keeps saying the whole day long,
"Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock!"

The clock never sleeps, and its hands never rest
As they slowly go moving around;
And it strikes the hours with a ding, ding, ding,
Ding, ding, and a whirring sound.

I wonder if this is the same old clock
That the mousie ran up in the night,
And played hide-and-seek till the clock struck one,
And then ran down in a fright.

Backwards and forwards, this way and that,
You can see the big pendulum rock;
"Tick-tock," it keeps saying the whole day long,
"Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock!"

NELLIE M. GARABRANT.

A STUFFED JUMBO.

Yesterday, Alice met the stuffed Jumbo, her former mate. She walked slowly up to him, and then stood for a few moments, evidently surveying him with wonder. Then she swung her trunk so as to reach Jumbo's mouth. She also touched his trunk in a cautious manner, and then turning her back upon him, gave vent to a groan that made the roof of the garden tremble. William Newman, the elephant trainer, Frank Hyatt, the superintendent, and "Toddy" Hamilton, talked to her in their usual winning way, and she again faced Jumbo. She fondled his trunk, looked straight into his eyes, and again she groaned, and then walked away as though disgusted with the old partner of her joys and sorrows. She went back to her quarters and continued to mourn. Her keeper, Scott, was appealed to by the spectators. He was asked whether he believed that she recognized Jumbo, and he replied in all seriousness, "Of course she did. She told me so." At another time he said, "I can understand elephant talk, and Alice told me she recognized Jumbo." Scott seemed very much affected by the meeting. He was Jumbo's old keeper.--_Humane Journal._

THE TREES IN SILVER LAND.

O softly falling flakes of snow
That fill the wintry air,--
A thickening cloud on every side,
Each flake a wonder rare.

"Are they from trees in Silver Land?"
My child is asking me.
He claps his hands, he laughs, he begs,
"One leaf from silver tree."

Such questions as he asks in vain
About the leaf-like snow!
He might as well talk of the tides
That strangely come and go.

"Who plants those fairy trees?" he asks,
"With tops that reach so high?"
Oh, answer, Garden of Delight,
All in the cloudy sky!

"Who shakes those trees and sends their leaves
On field and wood and town?
Is it the Gardener living there,
Or winds that blow them down?"

O child, look up and see yourself,
The clouds are Silver Land.
Who made those flakes, He scatters them;
They fall at His command.

They fall, they melt, they come again.
And His the gardener's hand
That gently shakes the silver trees
Which grow in Silver Land.

REV. EDWARD A. RAND.

SMALL BEGINNINGS.

Did you ever think of how lowly was the start in life of many of our great men? Read the pages of history and you will find that fully seven out of ten of the great men were really poor. Bonaparte used to be a book agent, Gould was a surveyor, Franklin was a printer, Garfield worked on the tow path, Lincoln was a rail splitter, Grant was a tanner, Poe was always in financial distress; Crome, the great artist, used to pull hair from his cat's tail to make his brushes; Astor came to New York with nothing as the foundation of his fortunes. The list is almost endless.

To us, there is much encouragement in these facts. By looking into the lives of such men we find the secret of success. Lincoln was a poor Illinois farmer, with no visionary dreams of his great future. He was poor and unlearned. Of the poverty he was not ashamed; of his lack of learning he was by no means satisfied. He resolved to gain knowledge. He studied, studied hard, and at a time in his life when other men felt they had passed the age of schooling. Of his work, we find he always tried to give an honest day's labor; his motto was to do well everything he put his hands to. It was this trait of character that attracted the attention of his neighbors, and this it was that first started him on the road to great success.

Look at the early days of Grant. There was no indication of unusual brightness in him. At West Point, where he was sent to military school, he did not stand at the head of his classes. He only seemed an earnest worker, with plenty of determination. Later, when he lived on his little Illinois farm, there was nothing about him that pointed him out as the future great general. It was only when the great civil war broke out that he had an opportunity to show the kind of a man he was. His only thought was to accomplish the task assigned him, be it ever so difficult. This naturally found him in the line of promotion, and step by step he climbed higher, earning by hard work every step he gained, until he reached the highest office in the land.

Take Edison, the inventor. He was only a tramp telegrapher, but he was not satisfied with being anything but the best, and many are the stories of speed he attained in sending or receiving messages. He was inquisitive--wanted to know more of the mysteries of the electricity that carried his messages. He began experimenting, and by close application to his studies, has astonished the world with his telephone, phonograph and other inventions.

Now, these great men are not merely the products of chance. Not at all. Study each of them and you will find they were workers, gaining by just such struggles as you and I can make. We may not reach such distinction as these have reached, but rest assured there is just as great a demand now as ever for good, earnest men, and earnest, successful men grow from painstaking boys. The boy who, as clerk in the counting-house, watches after the interests of his employers, will be the coming merchant; the young man on the farm who slights not the work assigned him, will own a farm of his own.

Let this lesson make an impression. The road to success may be rugged, but it is not so steep but that enough steps, if in the right direction, be they ever so short, will in time carry you a long way toward the top.

GARDEN OF THE GODS.

This, one of the grandest of American natural sceneries, is located along the Colorado River. The river, in its years and years of flowing, has washed out the soil, and owing to the peculiar composition of the ground has washed it away unevenly, and these standing peaks are so numerous and so fantastic in form, that this location has been called the Garden of the Gods. It is most impressive and inspiring grandeur. A trip will well repay a journey from the most remote parts of our country to see this view, only a little of which is in the engraving.

YOUNG ARTIST.

Albert, the blacksmith's son, will be an artist some day. While other boys are playing ball or skating, or other amusements, Albert is using his time making pictures. He seems to delight in it, and even when quite a small boy, many were the scoldings he received from his parents for a too free use of his chalk and pencil, leaving his rude drawings on wall and fences; and in school his troubles were only increased, for his books always contained pictures, sometimes of horses, or dogs, or of his friends. This habit did not correspond with his teachers' ideas of tidiness, and punishment followed punishment. It did not help matters, though, and his drawing continued. In time he became quite apt and could make pictures that very closely resembled the objects he drew. His companions called him the "artist," and they would have him make pictures of them. Some of his methods were odd enough. To make an outline of a boy's face he would tack a piece of paper on the side of a door in his father's shop, and by placing the boy between the paper and a lighted lamp, would trace with pencil the outline of the shadow as it fell on the paper. Soon he tried painting with paint and brush. At first his efforts were crude, and to anyone less determined and enthusiastic, discouraging. Not so to Albert. He worked along day after day, and in time could paint well enough to attract some notice in his little village.

About this time a great artist from the city, spending the summer in this part of the country, heard of Albert, and by accident met him. Quick to perceive the natural talent of the boy, and being generously inclined, he offered to take him to his city home and give him training in his studio. The parents, though loth to be separated from their son, saw here an opportunity to educate him in his favorite study, and so accepted the offer.

You can well imagine Albert's surprise and delight when he first entered the studio and saw the work of the master. How the great paintings filled him with wonder. He proved an apt student, a true artist, and year after year worked with patience and determination, and became a noted painter.

He often thinks of his early days--of the pictures he made in the old blacksmith shop. He thinks, too, of the years spent since then in attaining prominence in his calling, but no regrets come to him.

The true story of how one boy succeeded can be of use to others. It only takes this same perseverance and pluck to succeed in any other calling. Had he complained because he could not paint like the master, and not been contented to study on during these years, he could not now lay claim to his present success and eminence as an artist. Let others, in reading this, see in it an object, and may it bring to them new resolve to succeed in the life work they have started on.

Life is what we make it, and not a matter of chance. By marking out a future success we expect to accomplish,--by sticking closely to this one idea, and bending every energy to attain it, we can come approximately near accomplishing our undertaking.

A CHANCE WORD.

Ralph and Lily had one game of which they never tired, and that was "horses." It was really a convenient game, for it could be played on wet or fine days, in the nursery or on the road. Perhaps it was best fun on the road, "like real horses;" but I am not sure, for it was very delightful to sit on the nursery table, with the box of bricks for a coachman's seat, and from that elevated position to drive the spirited four horses represented by the four chairs, to which the reins would be fastened.

One day--a fine day--the two children were playing at their usual game on the turnpike road, and waiting for nurse, who had gone into a cottage near by to speak to the washerwoman. Nurse was a long time, and Ralph, who was horse, was quite out of breath with his long trot on the hard road. Lily touched him up with the whip, but all to no avail--he could run no more.

"I've no breath left," said the poor horse, sinking down exhausted on a heap of stones.

Lily put down the whip and patted his head to encourage him. "Soh! soh!" she said, in as good an imitation as she could manage of the way the groom spoke to their father's horse; "you are quite done, I see. You must rest, and have a handful of oats," and she dived into her pocket and produced a bit of biscuit, which the horse ate with great satisfaction, and soon professed himself ready to go on again. "Ah!" said Lily, sagely, "I knew you'd be all right soon; there's nothing like food and kindness for horses when they're tired."

A tinker, with a cart and a poor, ill-fed beast harnessed to it, happened to be passing, and heard the little girl's words. He stared after her, for she seemed very small to speak so wisely, and the tinker did not, of course, know that she was only repeating what she had heard her father say.

"Well, I'm dazed!" exclaimed the tinker, looking after the children; "wherever did little Missy learn that?"

He said no more then; but Lily's words stuck to him, and his poor horse had reason to bless Lily for them, for from that day forward he got, not only more food, but more kindness and fewer blows and so he became a better horse, and the tinker the better man in consequence.

A LITTLE DANCE.

Oh, it is fun! Oh, it is fun!
To dress ourselves up, as Grandma has done.
See how we go! See how we go!
Forward and back, heel and toe.

Lighter than down, our feet come down
Mind all your steps, and hold out your gown;
Faster than that, whatever may hap,
Cherry red waist and blue speckled cap.

Hi! Master John! Ho! Master John!
Don't go to sleep, while the music goes on;
Faster than that! Faster than that!
Hold up your head, and flourish your hat!

How she trips it along, that bright little maid,
With her dainty blue skirt and spotted brocade;
And that one in yellow, who wears the red rose
How she keeps her mouth shut and turns out her toes.

How they do spin! when they truly begin;
Each dancer as airy and bright as a doll;
While the music complete, keeps time to their feet,
With its fiddle-dee-diddle and tol-de-rol-ol!

Oh, it is fun! Oh, it is fun!
To dance, when every duty is done;
Forward and back, or all in a ring,
A quick little dance is a very gay thing.

LOOKING OUT FOR NUMBER ONE.

OLIVE A. WADSWORTH.

Joey was a country boy,
Father's help and mother's joy;
In the morning he rose early,--
That's what made his hair so curly;
Early went to bed at night,--
That's what made his eyes so bright;
Ruddy as a red-cheeked apple;
Playful as his pony, Dapple;
Even the nature of the rose
Wasn't quite as sweet as Joe's.

Charley was a city boy,
Father's pet and mother's joy;
Always lay in bed till late;
That's what made his hair so straight,
Late he sat up every night,--
That's what made his cheeks so white;
Always had whate'er he wanted,
He but asked, and mother granted;
Cakes and comfits made him snarly,
Sweets but soured this poor Charley.

Charley, dressed quite like a beau,
Went, one day, to visit Joe.
"Come," said Joey, "let's go walking;
As we wander, we'll be talking;
And, besides, there's something growing
In the garden, worth your knowing."
"Ha!" said Charley, "I'm your guest;
Therefore I must have the best.
All the _inner_ part I choose,
And the _outer_ you can use."

Joey gave a little laugh;
"Let's," said he, "go half and half."
"No, you don't!" was Charley's answer,
"I look out for number one, sir."
But when they arrived, behold,
On the tree a peach of gold,
All without, fair, ripe and yellow,
Fragrant, juicy, tempting, mellow,
And, within, a gnarly stone.
"There," said Joey, "that's your own;
As you choose, by right of guest,
Keep your choice--I'll eat the rest."

Charley looked as black as thunder,
Scarce could keep his temper under.
"'Twas too bad, I think," said Joe;
"Through the cornfield let us go,
Something there, perhaps we'll see
That will suit you to a T."
"Yes," said Charles, with accent nipping,
"Twice you will not catch me tripping;
Since I lost the fruit before,
You now owe me ten times more.
Now the _outer_ part I choose,
And the _inner_ you can use."

Joey gave another laugh;
"Better call it half and half."
"No, indeed!" was Charley's answer,
"I look out for number one, sir!
Well I know what I'm about,--
For you, what's in; for me what's out!"
On they went, and on a slope
Lay a luscious cantaloupe,
Rich and rare, with all the rays
From the August suns that blaze;
Quite _within_ its sweets you find,
And _without_ the rugged rind.

Charley gazed in blank despair,
Deeply vexed and shamed his air.
"Well," said Joey, "since you would
Choose the bad and leave the good;
Since you claimed the outer part,
And disdained the juicy heart,--
Yours the rind, and mine the rest;
But as you're my friend and guest,
Charley, man, cheer up and laugh,
And we'll share it half and half;
Looking out for number one
Doesn't always bring the fun."

WOODCROFT.

Woodcroft to be sold!--like a knell of doom the words fell on our ears--it could not be! Our dear old home, the only one we children had ever known, to be taken from us. We sat in the bright little sitting-room, blankly looking at one another, in dumb astonishment. Louise, who was always the thoughtful one, soon roused herself from the stupor which seemed to have come upon us all, and going over to the lounge, began comforting--as best she could, poor child--our gentle little mother, upon whom this blow had fallen most heavily. Presently she sat up, and in trembling tones told us, as we clustered at her knee, the particulars of our misfortune.

There were three of us--Louise, Cal and I, who rejoiced in the quaint cognomen of Pen, named for a rich, eccentric, old aunt, who had never left me any money because she never died.

"Now, Marmo, out with all the trouble and let us share it," said matter-of-fact Cal. And then she told how, after papa's sudden death a year before, she had discovered a mortgage to be on the place, small, but now due and no money to meet it; the creditor was pressing, and the home to be sold. We felt sad, but cheered her up, and talked over ways and means as never before.

"Even though he consents to renew it, where would the yearly interest money come from," she wailed.

We urged her to lie down and rest, and, following Cal's beckoning finger, tip-toed out of the room.

"Now, girls," said she, "_something's_ got to be done, and _we've_ got to do it."

One thing after another was proposed and rejected; we knew, if the home were sold, after the demands were met, there would be but a mere pittance left for four females to live on. Finally I broke in:

"Girls, my brain is not usually fertile, but a thought has been growing--we are all well educated, but teaching is out of the question, the supply is greater than the demand, but Lou, here, is skilled with pencil and brush, and Cal has a genius for contrivance; now why could you not paint and decorate some of the dainty trifles you often make as gifts, and _sell_ them. _I_ always did have a notion for cookery, which I shall proceed to put in practice, dismissing the servants." Having delivered this little speech, I paused, breathless.

Cal clapped her hands, and Lou's brown eyes glowed. "Pen, you little duck," and Cal pounced on me in an excess of joy.

"But," faltered Lou, "the mortgage."

"I thought of that too--our lady-like Louise shall go to that crusty old creditor, and beg him to _renew_ it, and with what you girls earn and what we save from the rent of the farm land (for we must live economically) we will pay him the interest promptly." I will add, that she did that very thing, and completely won over the hard-hearted fellow with her sweet, earnest manner.

So to work we went, and the sitting-room was converted into a studio, littered with papers, books, gay ribbons and glue-pots. But some exquisite creations came out of that chaos. I had visited the aforesaid Aunt Pen the previous winter, in New York city, and at the American Specialty House had been enchanted with the many novel and beautiful pieces of decorated work. All would be entirely new in _this_ part of the world, and our idea was, to take orders from the near towns for their Holiday trade. It was now only May and we would have plenty of time. Cal, who, with her brusque, honest ways, determined face, and curly, short hair, was our man of business, took samples of our work in to the various towns, receiving large orders in almost every instance.

Happy and busy as bees we worked, and began to feel quite important, as the pile grew high, of white boxes, filled with delicate satin souvenirs for wedding and birthdays, Christmas tokens of lovely design, little poems with dainty painted covers, blotters and thought books, beautifully decorated, all of which found ready sale. The little mother's sad eyes began to brighten, and Cal would say:

"Marmo, we can take care of you almost as good as sons, can't we?"

"God bless my daughters," would be the reply.

Louise had established her studio under the old apple-tree one warm June day, and, running out to call her to lunch, I found she had gone down in the garden, but I saw the cutest, prettiest sight! I beckoned her to come softly. There, on her sketch-book, opened against the tree, and on which was a half-finished painting of birds, hopped around two brown sparrows, peeping and twittering as contentedly as possible. It was too cunning! as though they had recognized their portraits and felt at home.

"A tribute to your genius, Lou," said I. "Like the famous artist of old, who painted cherries so naturally, the birds flew down and pecked at the canvas."