Chapter L: B. P (3)

The next day, Edwin, provided with a long board and other means of rescuing the distressed stranger, started for the pond. Just as he left the house, with Florence calling out from the porch some parting injunctions of carefulness, what was their astonishment to see Woggy coming along the road with the kitten in his mouth; the sagacious dog had evidently thought that his keepless little charge needed more care than he could give her, and brought her unharmed to his mistress. When he had deposited the kitten at her feet, he looked up in her eyes as though he wanted to tell her something, and he really looked as if he could almost talk. When Florence took up the pretty thing she exclaimed, "You poor little waif! Where did you come from?" The little waif could not tell, but looked as if she wanted to. She was pure white in color, with a water-stained ribbon and tiny silver bell around her neck. Edwin said she should be called Waif, and Waif she was ever after called in that house.

"MAY I GO WITH YOU?"

"May I go with you, Auntie?"

"No, Jo, I do not wish for any company this morning; here's a kiss, and you may feed my poodle if you like." So saying, Aunt Millie, who was spending her vacation at the farm, tied on her garden hat, and sallied forth for a walk, leaving behind her a very disappointed little swain, for Jo generally accompanied her in her rambles, and he and Aunt Millie were sworn allies. Lately she had run off several times without him, and he certainly felt quite disconsolate to-day. But he could not doubt her love and goodness, so he whistled away his blues.

Jo was only five years old, and it is no wonder he soon forgot his grievances. About lunch-time he thought he would go down in the meadow, to see if the first strawberries were ripening, as he intended them for mamma's birthday.

Threading his way carefully through the tall grass and nodding daisies, he suddenly came upon the queerest looking "machine"--as he called it--in front of which sat Auntie.

"Why, Jo!"

"Aunt Millie, what _are_ you doing?" as he caught sight of a photograph of himself, and a large copy on the easel.

"I am crayoning--and" (this last a trifle averse) "I _had_ intended it as a surprise for mamma, to-morrow."

The big blue eyes raised to hers had a suspicion of tears in them--she bent down quickly and gathered the little fellow in her arms.

"Never mind, pet! I was a bit vexed, that you had discovered my secret."

"Is it a _secret_?" in an awed tone; "well, I'll _keep_ it."

"Do you think you really can, Jo?"

"Yes," he said; "and _you_ can keep my strawberries," forgetting he had told her a dozen times before.

"Well, I'll trust you."

Would you believe it, the child _did_ keep his word, although burning many times to tell; and he succeeded in surprising Aunt Millie, as much as he did mamma.

A SUMMER AT WILLOW-SPRING.

The trunks were strapped on the back of the carriage; we children, with Nurse, were bundled inside; the door shut--the driver snapped his whip--and without any time for last good-byes, we were whirled away to the station. How excited and glad we were, for Papa and Mamma were to follow us next day, and we left the city far behind to spend the whole beautiful summer at Willow-spring. The very first day after our arrival, we were out--Willie, my brother, Elsie, our little four-year-old sister, and myself--scouring the premises, and I guess there were not a nook or corner we had not visited by night. It was a lovely place, with broad shady walks through which we raced, or Willie drove us as two spirited young colts, for like most boys he was rather masterful.

I wish I could tell you of the grand time we had that summer. We formed the acquaintance of several little neighbor children, who proved pleasant playmates, and together we would wander through the cool leafy woods, or roam the sunny meadows gathering sweet wild strawberries and armsful of golden-eyed daisies, and taking our treasures home, would have a little treat on the shady veranda, and garland ourselves with long daisy chains, making believe we were woodland fairies. Once in a while the rabbits from the near wood ran across the garden path, timid and shy little creatures at first--they grew quite tame from our feeding--and Elsie dearly loved her bunnies, as she called them.

Rapidly the days flew by, and the time for our departure was at hand. We felt sorry to leave, but Mamma, to console us in part, planned a little out-door feast for the day before our going, to which our little friends were all invited, and a happy, merry band of children played out under the trees, and ate the goodies so generously provided. Just before breaking up, we all joined in playing our favorite game of "snap the whip," and with screams and laughter, one after another of the weakest ones rolled over in the soft grass. The last night at Willow-spring wound up with a grand frolic, in which all took part.

GREAT EXPECTATIONS.

Every little grape, dear, that clings unto the vine,
Expects some day to ripen its little drops of wine.
Every little girl, I think, expects in time to be
Exactly like her own mamma--as sweet and good as she.
Every little boy who has a pocket of his own,
Expects to be the biggest man the world has ever known.
Every little lambkin, too, that frisks upon the green,
Expects to be the finest sheep that ever yet was seen.
Every little baby colt expects to be a horse;
Every little puppy hopes to be a dog, of course.
Every little kitten pet, so tender and so nice,
Expects to be a grown-up cat and live on rats and mice.
Every little fluffy chick, in downy yellow dressed,
Expects some day to crow and strut or cackle at his best.
Every little baby bird that peeps from out its nest,
Expects some day to cross the sky from glowing east to west.
Now every hope I've mentioned here will bring its sure event,
Provided nothing happens, dear, to hinder or prevent.

"WHERE'S SOPHIE?"

Sophie climbed the garden trellis,
Plucked the finest grapes in view;
How they shone with red and amber,
As the sun came glinting through.

She was taking painting lessons,
And she paused and gazed at them;
"Oh," she said, "a pretty picture,
Grapes and green leaves on a stem.

"I will leave them here, unbroken,
Close beside the garden walk;
Look!" she said, to Cousin Mary,
"Just anear this broken stalk."

Off they went through pleasant pathways;
Staying longer than they knew,
By a russet, leaf-strewn border,
With its asters, pink and blue.

Then their friendly gossip over,
Homeward as they turned to go;
"Oh, the grapes!" said Sophie, quickly,
"We must go for those, you know."

When they reached the precious cluster,
Five bold sparrows pertly stood,
Pecking at the grapes beside them,
Chattering in a wanton mood.

"Look! Oh, look!" said cousin Mary,
"Sparrows at your luscious store!"
"Shoo!" said Sophie, "was there ever
Such a piece of work before?"

Pilfering sparrows, you have taught me,
By this loss, a lesson true;
When a bunch of grapes I gather,
Just to keep them safe from you.

"IF I CAN, I WILL."

I knew a boy who was preparing to enter the junior class of the New York University. He was studying trigonometry, and I gave him three examples for his next lesson. The following day he came into my room to demonstrate his problems. Two of them he understood; but the third--a very difficult one--he had not performed. I said to him,--"Shall I help you?"

"No, sir! I can and will do it, if you give me time."

I said: "I will give you all the time you wish."

The next day he came into my room to recite another lesson in the same study.

"Well, Simon, have you worked that example?"

"No, sir," he answered; "but I can and will do it, if you will give me a little more time."

"Certainly, you shall have all the time you desire."

I always like those boys who are determined to do their own work, for they make our best scholars, and men too. The third morning you should have seen Simon enter my room. I knew he had it, for his whole face told the story of his success. Yes, he had it, notwithstanding it had cost him many hours of severest mental labor. Not only had he solved the problem, but, what was of infinitely greater importance to him, he had begun to develop mathematical powers which, under the inspiration of "I can and I will," he has continued to cultivate, until to-day he is professor of mathematics in one of our largest colleges, and one of the ablest mathematicians of his years in our country.

My young friends, let your motto ever be,--"If I can, I will."

WINDSOR CASTLE.

This ancient and splendid pile is a fitting residence for the sovereigns of England. It impresses one with the idea of supreme grandeur and formidable strength, but it has reached its present magnificence by constant embellishments and additions by successive sovereigns.

It owes its origin to William the Conqueror, that bold and progressive Norman, who created here a fortified hunting seat, where he and his brave barons could enjoy themselves after the "hunting of the deer" in the wild glades of Windsor forest.

The castle stands upon a hill on the bank of the river Thames, twenty-three miles from London, with which it is connected by railway. It is surrounded on all sides, except to the east, by a noble terrace above two thousand five hundred feet in extent, faced by a strong rampart of hewn stone, and having, at intervals, easy slopes leading down to the park.

The terrace is a most delightful walk, commanding charming views of the extensive domain and the surrounding country. Everywhere are evidences of royal expenditure, of watchful care and tasteful ornamentation.

The park abounds in woodland scenery of exquisite beauty, and it does seem as if the "English sunshine" was nowhere more satisfying or refreshing than in these delightful avenues. The deer roam at will, and streamlets trickle and English violets and other wild flowers blossom, the praises of whose delicate perfumes and beauties have been sung by Wordsworth and Keats.

There is a stately walk, three miles long, bordered by double rows of trees, which leads from the lodge to these delightful precincts, and at the entrance stretch away in gorgeous array, the Queen's gardens, in which very beautiful and rare productions of floral culture find a congenial home.

The castle consists of two courts, having a large, round tower between them, and covers more than twelve acres of land, being defended by batteries and towers. The upper court is a spacious quadrangle, having a round tower on the west, the private apartments of the sovereigns on the south and east, the State apartments and St. George's Hall and the chapel royal on the north.

The royal apartments are reached by an imposing vestibule. The first room, the Queen's guard chamber, contains a grand array of warlike implements, and glittering weapons, and its walls are rich in paintings.

The Queen's presence chamber contains the rarest furniture and hangings, with an array of artistic works by the most celebrated masters.

The ball-room is hung with tapestry, representing the twelve months of the year, and upon its ceiling is pictured Charles II, giving freedom to England. There is here an immense table of solid silver.

In the Queen's bed-chamber is the State bed, said to have cost $70,000, designed for Queen Charlotte. The Queen's dressing-room, hung with British tapestry, contains the closet in which is deposited the banner of France. The same closet contains the tea-equipage of Queen Anne.

An elegant saloon is called the "Room of Beauties," and contains fourteen portraits of ladies who were "most fair" in the court of Charles II. Their lovely faces and rich apparel, quaint and oddly fashioned, make the most delightful and instructive study.

The audience chamber contains the throne and is enriched with historical paintings of events in the reign of Henry III. Another guard chamber contains an immense collection of warlike instruments, fancifully arranged, and also the flag sent by the Duke of Wellington in commemoration of the battle of Waterloo.

St. George's Hall, which is one hundred and eight feet long, is set apart for the illustrious "Order of the Garter." It is superbly decorated with allegorical paintings. The chapel is a fine specimen of the florid Gothic. The roof is elliptical and is composed of stone; the whole ceiling is ornamented with emblazoned arms of many sovereigns and knights of the Garter. The stalls of the sovereigns and knights exhibit a profusion of rare carving. The chapel is the burial place of many royal and illustrious persons; Edward IV, Henry IV, Henry VIII and Charles I having been interred here.

THE LITTLE PRINCES.

Among the sad episodes in the illustrated history of English sovereigns, not one is more pathetic or impressive than the story of the two little Princes, sons of Edward IV. This King had an ambitious and unscrupulous brother, called Richard, Duke of Gloucester.

At the time of the King's death, this man was at the head of an army in Scotland, which was entirely devoted to him, and he felt strong and equal to undertaking any bold and unlawful measure to obtain the crown, which rightfully belonged to Edward's son, the young Prince of Wales.

Upon receiving the news of his brother's death, Richard clothed himself and his large retinue in deep mourning and proceeded in great haste to London, taking the oath of loyalty on the way, and making many protestations of interest and affection for the fatherless boys.

The young Prince of Wales received him with many expressions of regard and respectful consideration, as befitted a paternal uncle, and placed undoubted faith in his suggestions; the Duke thus found it an easy matter to direct his movements, and the selection of his counselors and servants. Two of these, who were favorite and loyal friends, he caused to be seized on a frivolous accusation, and they were taken to a distant castle as prisoners. Other measures were taken to isolate him, and in a few days the young King was completely in the hands of the terrible Duke of Gloucester.

From one high-handed act of usurpation to another, assisted by unprincipled, ambitious men, he proceeded, evidently aiming to secure the crown for his own head.

Under pretense of placing the Prince in greater safety, and removing him from persons who might influence him, to the detriment of the peace and welfare of the kingdom, he was conducted, in great state, to the Tower; his uncle assuming the office of Lord Protector of the King.

Upon gaining the entire custody of the royal lad, he sent a large number of dignitaries to the royal mother, to persuade her to allow the other little boy to be taken to the Tower to keep his brother company. The Prince was allowed to proceed thither, and Richard, now having them both at his mercy, determined upon their death.

The Governor of the Tower was, it seems, a man of at least human feelings, and when he was ordered by Richard, "In some wise to put the children to death," utterly refused to perform so dangerous and horrible an act.

Richard then sent for the keys of the Tower, to keep in his possession twenty-four hours, and gave them, and the command of the Tower for that time, to Sir James Tyrrel, his master of horse.

This man procured two assassins, who proceeded, at dead of night, to the chamber of the sleeping Princes. They lay in each other's arms, as though they had fallen asleep comforting one another; and the assassins, falling upon them with their ruffian strength, smothered them with the bed-clothes, "Keeping the feather pillows hard upon their mouths."

When the deed was done, Tyrrel stepped into the chamber, to take a hasty view of the dead bodies, which were then, by his orders, buried at the stair-foot, under a heap of stones.

Richard, Duke of Gloucester, had no further obstacle in assuming the purple, and was crowned King of England with all pomp and ceremony, and known to unenviable fame as Richard III.

This account has come down to us with all the authority of historical verity, and subsequent evidences of its accuracy have been discovered. The age was characterized by inhumanity of the most barbarous kind, and this crime was in keeping with it.

The English people in this nineteenth century rejoice in a sovereign who is noble in the highest sense; beloved by her subjects, achieving for herself the universal plaudit of a "most humane and gracious lady."

THE TOWER OF LONDON.

This ancient edifice is situated on the north bank of the Thames, at the extremity of the city of London.

The antiquity of the building has been a subject of much inquiry, but the present fortress is believed to have been built by William the Conqueror, and garrisoned with Normans to secure the allegiance of his subjects; although it appears that the Romans had a fort on this spot, if a dim tradition can be credited. The building is governed by the "Constable of the Tower," who, at coronations and other State ceremonies, has the custody of the regalia.

The principal entrance is on the west, and consists of two gates, at which are stationed guards. The keys are kept, during the day, at the warder's hall, but deposited every night at the Governor's house. Cannon are placed at intervals around the great wall, and command every avenue leading to Tower Hill.

On the south side is an arch, called "Traitors' Gate," through which State prisoners were formerly brought from the river. Near the Traitors' Gate is the "Bloody Tower," in which it is supposed the two young Princes, Edward V and his brother, were smothered by order of Richard III.

In the south-west angle of the inclosure were the royal apartments, for the Tower was a palace for nearly five hundred years, and only ceased to be so on the accession of Elizabeth.

The principal buildings within the walls are the church, the white tower, the ordnance office, the jewel office, the horse armory. The church is called "St. Peter in Vincules," and is remarkable as the depository of the headless bodies of numerous illustrious personages who suffered either in the Tower or on the hill. Among these were Anna Boleyn, Thomas Cromwell, Catharine Howard, the Duke of Somerset and the Duke of Monmouth.

The jewel office is a strong, stone room, in which are kept the crown jewels, regalia, such as the golden orb, the golden sceptre with the dove, St. Edward's staff, State salt-cellar, sword of mercy, golden spurs, the golden eagle and golden spoons, also the silver font used at the baptism of the royal family, the State crown worn by her Majesty in Parliament. A large collection of ancient plate is also kept here.

The horse armory is a brick building east of the white tower, adorned with suits of armor of almost every description; but the most striking are the effigies of the English kings on horseback, armed cap-a-pie. The line of mounted celebrities commences with William the Conqueror and ends with George II. Several of the cuirasses and helmets taken at Waterloo are kept here. In the armory are also shown a representation of Queen Elizabeth in armor; the axe which severed the head of Anna Boleyn, as well as that of the Earl of Essex; the invincible banner taken from the Spanish Armada, and the wooden cannon used by Henry VIII at the siege of Boulogne.

The Beauchamp Tower is noted for the illustrious personages formerly confined within its walls.

MARY AND HER LAMB.

This is the title of one of the most familiar poems in the English language, but few people know its history.

Most of our young readers will be surprised to hear that the well-known nursery song of "Mary had a Little Lamb" is a true story, and that "Mary" is still living, says an exchange.

About seventy years ago she was a little girl, the daughter of a farmer in Worcester county, Mass. She was very fond of going with her father to the fields to see the sheep, and one day they found a baby lamb, which was thought to be dead.

Kind-hearted little Mary, however, lifted it up in her arms, and as it seemed to breathe she carried it home, made it a warm bed near the stove, and nursed it tenderly. Great was her delight when, after weeks of careful feeding and watching, her little patient began to grow well and strong, and soon after it was able to run about. It knew its young mistress perfectly, always came at her call, and was happy only when at her side.

One day it followed her to the village school, and not knowing what else to do with it, she put it under her desk and covered it with her shawl.

There it stayed until Mary was called up to the teacher's desk to say her lesson, and then the lamb walked quietly after her, and the other children burst out laughing. So the teacher had to shut the little girl's pet in the woodshed until school was out. Soon after this, a young student, named John Rollstone, wrote a little poem about Mary and her lamb and presented it to her. The lamb grew to be a sheep and lived for many years, and when at last it died Mary grieved so much for it that her mother took some of its wool, which was as "white as snow," and knitted a pair of stockings for her, to wear in remembrance of her darling.

Some years after the lamb's death, Mrs. Sarah Hall, a celebrated woman who wrote books, composed some verses about Mary's lamb and added them to those written by John Rollstone, making the complete poem as we know it. Mary took such good care of the stockings made of her lamb's fleece that when she was a grown-up woman she gave one of them to a church fair in Boston.

As soon as it became known that the stocking was made from the fleece of "Mary's little lamb," every one wanted a piece of it; so the stocking was raveled out, and the yarn cut into small pieces. Each piece was tied to a card on which "Mary" wrote her full name, and these cards sold so well that they brought the large sum of $140 in the Old South Church.--_Our Sunday Afternoon._

JAMIE'S GARDEN.

"I shall have the nicest kind of a garden," said Jamie, one morning. "I'm going to make it in that pretty little spot just over the bank. I mean to have some flowers in pots and some in beds just like the gardener; and then you can have fresh ones every day, mamma. I'm going right over there now."

Jamie started off bravely with his spade on his shoulder; but when, after an hour, mamma went to see how he was getting on, she found him lying on the grass, with the ground untouched.

"Why, Jamie, where is your garden?"

"I was just lying here, and thinking how nice it will look when it is all done," said Jamie.

Mamma shook her head. "But that will not dig ground, nor make the flowers grow, little boy. No good deed was ever done by only lying still and thinking about it."

CAMP TRIO.

A. DE G. H.

Hurrah! Hurrah! only two days more to vacation, and then!----

If the crowning whistle, and energetic _bang_ with which the strapped books came down, were any indication of what was coming after the "then!" it must be something unusual. And so it was--for Ned, Tom and Con, who were the greatest of chums, as well as the noisiest, merriest boys in Curryville Academy--were to go into camp for the next two weeks, by way of spending part of their vacation. They could hardly wait for school to close, and over the pages of Greenleaf danced, those last two days, unknown quantities of fishing tackle, tents, and the regular regalia of a camping out-fit. They talked of it by day and dreamed of it by night.

At last the great day dawned--dawned upon three of the most grotesque-looking specimens of boyhood, arrayed in the oldest and worst fitting clothes they could find; for, as they said, in the most expressive boy language--"We are in for a rattlin' good time, and don't want to be togged out." They and their effects were taken by wagon over to the Lake Shore, about four miles distant, to establish their camp under the shadow of old Rumble Sides, a lofty crag or boulder.

Boys, I wish you could have seen them that night, in their little woodland home; really, it was quite attractive. They worked like beavers all day--cutting away the brush, driving stakes to tie down the little white tent, digging a trench all around in case of rain, and building a fire-place of stone, with a tall, forked stick on which to hang the kettle. A long board, under the shady trees, served as table.

Too tired to make a fire that night, they ate a cold lunch, and threw themselves on their bed--which was a blanket thrown over pine boughs--untied the tent flaps to let in air, and slept a happy, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, early, they were up, and, after taking a cold plunge in the lake, built a brisk fire, boiled coffee, and roasted potatoes for breakfast. They then bailed out the punt, which was their only sailing craft, and put off for an all-day's fishing excursion. Several days, with fine weather, passed, and the boys declared they were having a royal time, and that camping was the only life to lead.

They had much difficulty to settle upon a name, but finally decided that "Camp Trio" was most appropriate.

One night they were suddenly awakened by a deep, roaring sound; the wind blew fiercely, it rained hard, but the noise was not of thunder, it seemed almost human; nearer and nearer it came! The three lads sat up in the semi-darkness, and peered at each other with scared faces.

"It's Old Rumble broke loose and coming down on us," said Con, in a ghostly whisper. "Hush!" and the trio clutched in a cold shiver, as a crackling of twigs was heard outside, a heavy tread, a long, low moan, a horrible silence.

"It was the Leviathan, I guess," said Tom, with a ghastly attempt at smiling, as the early morning light stole through the flaps. At length they moved their stiffened limbs and peeped out. Oh, how it did pour! No fire, no fishing, no any thing to-day. Pretty soon a shout from Ned, who had been cautiously prowling around to find the cause of their late fright.

"Oh, boys, it's too rich! Why, it was Potter's old cow, down here last night, bawling for her calf that was after our towels, as usual--look here!" and he held up three or four dingy, chewed-looking articles, which had hung on a tree to dry, and might have been towels once. The boys broke into a hearty laugh at their own expense. The day was very long and dull, and the next, stories and jokes fell flat, cold victuals didn't relish, they began to feel quite blue. The third day Farmer Potter appeared upon the scene.

"What on airth ye doin' here; trespassin' on other folks' grounds? Mebby ye don't know it's agin the law!"

The boys felt a trifle uneasy, but answered him politely.

"Hevin' _fun_, be ye! Wall, I'll vow, settin' in the wet, eatin' cold rations, haint _my_ idee of _fun_." And away he stalked.

The boys looked at each other.

"I say, fellers," said Con, "a piece of pie and a hunk of fresh bread _wouldn't_ go bad--eh?"

The two answered with a hungry look.

"But let's tough it out over Sunday, or they'll all laugh at us." And so they did; but it was the longest, dreariest Sabbath they ever spent.

"I'd rather learn ten chapters in Chronicles," Tom affirmed, "than put in another such a Sunday."

They had, in the main, a jolly time, but the ending was not as brilliant as they had looked for. They never regretted going, but the next year took a larger party, and went for a shorter time.

THE SENTIMENTAL FOX.

"Oh, beautiful wild duck, it pains me to see,
You flying aloft in that gone sort of way,
Sweet one, fare you well. I could shed many tears,
But my deepest emotions I never betray.

"I've always admired you, wonderful bird,
By the light of the sun and the rays of the moon;
I tell you 'tis more than a fox can endure,
To know that you take your departure so soon.

"I snatched a few feathers, in memory of you;
I desired a whole wing, but you baffled my plan;
Oh, what a memento to hang in my den!
And in very hot weather to use as a fan.

"Descend, O, thou beautiful creature, to earth!
There's nothing I would not perform for your sake;
If once in awhile I could see you down here,
I'd never get tired of the shores of this lake!"

"Cheer up, Mr. Fox," said the duck, flying higher,
"The parting of such friends is sometimes a boon;
When they get far away, and have time to reflect,
They see that it came not a moment too soon.

"You wanted a wild wing to fan yourself with;
You see if I granted that favor to you,
'Twould have left me but one, which is hardly enough,
As I find it convenient, just now, to have two."

Then she faded away, a dark speck on the sky.
"That's a very shrewd bird," said the fox in dismay!
"I shall have to look round for my dinner, again,
And I fancy it will not be wild duck to-day."

EARTHEN VESSELS.

Spring time had come, with its blossoms and birds; and Mrs. Rossiter threw up the sash of the east window, and pushed open the blinds, and drew a long deep breath of morning air, and morning sunshine.

"I think, Bridget," she said, "that we might venture to bring the house-plants out-doors to-day. There can hardly be another frost, this year."

"Oh! may I help?" asked little Charley, "I'll be very careful."

"On that condition, that you be very careful, you may bring the little ones," answered his mother.

The work progressed safely and rapidly for awhile. Geraniums, roses, fuchsias, heliotropes, and so following, came forth in profusion, many in bloom, and were placed in rows along the garden borders, ready to be transferred to the beds, for the summer. At last the little ones were all brought by Charley, and only larger ones remained.

"I'll carry just this one big one," he said to himself: "I'm stronger than mother thinks I am." But the pot full of earth, was heavier than Charley had thought it, and before he reached the place to set it down it had grown very heavy indeed; and, glad to get it out of his aching arms as quickly as possible, he placed it on the curb so suddenly, that with a loud crash it parted in the middle and lay in pieces at his feet. Glancing quickly at his mother and seeing in her face impending reproach, he forestalled it by exclaiming:

"Well, that pot broke itself very easily. What's it made of, any how?"

The mother couldn't help but smile at this attempted shifting of the blame to the pot, but she answered, in a moment, gravely:

"The pot, Charley, was made of clay; the same weak material from which little boys are made; who, when they forget to obey their mothers, are as likely to meet disaster as the earthen pot."

Charley didn't care just then to discuss disobedient boys, so he turned at once to the subject of the pot.

"Made of clay," he exclaimed, "well, I'd like to see a man make a thing like that of clay."

"And so would I," said sister Mary, who, from an upper window, had listened to the conversation.

"And so you shall, if I have no further reminders of this sort, that my children are made of the same unreliable material."

That afternoon, the three, started for the pottery works. Mr. Sands, the proprietor, kindly received them, and fully explained all his processes. First he pointed out what seemed to Charley a heap of dry hard common dirt; taking a little piece of this he dipped it into a basin of water and then squeezing and pressing it in his hand it soon became soft, and plastic, so that it could be wrought to any shape. He then led the party to another room where a young man was engaged in thus softening large masses. He would first crumble the hard earth into fine pieces; then wet and pack it together into a "loaf," so Charley called it, and then raising it over his head throw it again with all his might upon the table before him until it became soft and smooth through all its bulk. This, Mr. Sands said, was called "wedging the clay," and that it was now ready for "throwing" into shape.

"Will it come into shape if you just throw it?" said Charley.

Mr. Sands laughed heartily at this, and answered, "come and see;" and taking up one of the softened "loaves," to use Charley's word for them, he led the way to the next room. The young man who had been "wedging" now followed and placed himself at a large wheel which was connected by a strap or belt with a table at which Mr. Sands seated himself.

Upon the table was another little table, round and low, and upon this Mr. Sands placed his "loaf." Then the young man began to turn the wheel and the loaf began to spin round very rapidly. Mr. Sands next pressed his finger right through the middle of the clay, so farming the hole which we always see at the bottom of flower-pots. Then, as it spun round, he worked the clay gradually upwards and sloped it outwards, using both hands, and holding the edges with his fingers and thumbs.

Before Charley could express his surprise, the little roll of clay was changed into a flower-pot. With a square iron tool called a _rib_ it was smoothed outside, and then the pot was lifted on a board. One after another followed till a long row was ready and they were carried off to be dried.

"How do you know when to leave off stretching it?" asked Mary of the potter.

He laughed, and pointed to a small iron gauge on the table. As soon as the pot reached this he knew he must leave off stretching it out. This iron is of course put higher or lower according to the size required.

"Now I'll make you a pitcher, missie," said the good-natured man, and with the same kind of clay, just rounding it a bit and giving a cunning little pinch to form the spout, he made quite a pretty jug.

"Where's the handle?" asked Charley.

"Oh, that can't go on yet, sir! We must wait till the jug is dry, for we could not press it tight enough to make it stick."

Bread-pans and washing-pans are made in exactly the same way as flower-pots, being moulded by the hand into different forms. When the pots and pans leave the potter's wheel they are taken, as we saw, to dry, and great care is required to keep them at a certain heat, for if the frost gets to them now they crack and are useless.

"Here's a comical little pot!" exclaimed Charley, holding up a wee one.

"We call them _long Toms_," said Mr. Sands. "They are mostly used by nursery-gardeners, because they take so little room."

"How long do they take to dry?" asked Mary, looking longingly at her little jug.

"About a day; so we will leave your jug with the others, and go to the kiln to see how they will be burnt to-morrow."

The kiln was round, with a big doorway, called a wicket.

The pots and pans are put inside, great care being taken that they should not touch each other, or they would stick like loaves of bread. Pans are first glazed with a mixture of blue or red lead. The fire is burning below, and there are holes to allow the flames to pass upwards amongst the pottery. When the kiln is full the wicket is bricked up and daubed over with road-mud.

"Fancy using such dirty stuff!" said Mary.

"The manure in it makes it stick, just as hair does in mortar. Clay would crack with the heat. So you see, dear, there's nothing so dirty or so common that it may not be of some use in the world."

"How do you know when they are cooked enough?" asked Charley.

"I'll show you," said Mr. Sands, and he immediately led us to a small door, which opened some way up the kiln.

"This is called the crown," said Mr. Sands.

It was a flat surface, with four holes which showed the red heat below, and looked like little volcanoes in a good temper.

"Do you see those iron rods hanging like walking-sticks in the furnace?" asked our guide. "Well, those are called _trials_, and at the end of each is a lump of clay and glaze. If the glaze is burnt enough we suppose that the whole batch is done, but we sometimes make a mistake and spoil a lot."

"What is done next?" asked Charley.

"If they are properly burnt, they are allowed to cool gradually, and are then ready for sale."

By this time all were pretty well tired, and so they said good morning to Mr. Sands and went home.

"Mother," said Charley, as they sat down to dinner, "I shall ask how it's done oftener than ever, now, for I like going over factories. What's to be the next one, I wonder."

"Bread," exclaimed Mary, as she cut a big slice for herself. "Shall it be bread, mother?"

"Yes, if you like, but I propose we go to see the flour made first. So the next place we explore will be a flour-mill."

E. M. W.

BIRDIE'S BREAKFAST.

MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.

Take your breakfast, little birdie,--
Cracker-crumbs, and seeds so yellow,
Bits of sponge-cake, sweet and mellow;
Come quite near me;
Do not fear me.
I can hear your happy twitter,
Although winter winds are bitter;
Take your breakfast, little birdie.

Come! Oh, come and tell me birdie!
All night long the snow was falling;
Long ago, I heard you calling;
Tell me, dearie,
Are you weary?
Can you sleep, when winds are blowing?
Frosts are biting, clouds are snowing?
Come! Oh, come and tell me, birdie!

Take your food, and trust me, birdie;
Daily food the Father giveth;
Bread to every thing that liveth.
Come quite near me;
Do not fear me.
Come each day, and bring your fellow,
For your bread, so sweet and mellow;
Take your food, and trust me, birdie.

A BATTLE.

Do you like accounts of battles? Here is one for you. I shall have to tell of a well-disciplined army, and some hard fighting, as well as of a victory.

The scene is a quiet country district, with fields and hedge-rows, not looking a bit like war and bloodshed, and the time is a summer afternoon, hot, for it is July, and a haze is over the mountains, which rise a little way behind, as silent witnesses of the fray. The sun begins to decline, and as the air grows cooler the army has orders to start. There is a short delay of preparations, and then the warriors pour forth; not in confusion, but in a compact, unbroken column, each keeping to the ranks in perfect order, and never diverging from them. At first the army follows the high road, but ere long it passes through an opening in the hedge, and crosses the field on the other side. Still the soldiers march on, never hindered, never straggling out of place. It must have been a clever commander-in-chief to have trained them into such admirable obedience.

Presently a fortress rises before them--_that_ is the object of their expedition; rather, it is something within the citadel that they are sent to get, and have it they _will_. Not without a struggle, though, for the enemy is on guard, and when he sees the hostile army approaching, he sallies out to battle. He has no idea of surrendering without a fight for it.

The invaders gather up their forces and charge bravely up the hill, and in an instant, hand to hand, or something very like it, the foes are locked together in desperate conflict. Neither have they any guns, but they carry sharp weapons with them, and soon the field is strewn with the dead and dying.

The fight thickens--the issue is doubtful, but not long--the defenders are routed, and the assailants press forward to the citadel. Most skillful are they, for with neither cannon nor battering-rams they speedily make a breach in the walls, and in they rush, pouring through the street and lanes of the devoted city. Yet they do not destroy it--they do not kill the inhabitants--they do not even stay within the walls so hardly won. In a very short space of time they return as they came, save that each bears a portion of the spoil for which they came. They form in order once again, they march in line, they regain their own quarters, but each one carrying--would you believe it?--a _young slave_.

Yes, the army did not care to conquer the strange city; the expedition was organized solely and entirely that they might steal the young and bring them up in their own colony as slaves. For, through the long influence of evil habits, the race to which these warriors belong have lost their natural powers, and so have now to be waited on, fed, and altogether taken care of by its slaves. With food before them they would starve unless the slaves put it into their mouths.

If they want to change their abode, the slaves must make the new habitation ready, and then carry their masters on their backs to reach it. If the children have to be taken care of, the slaves must be the nurses. In fact, _fighting_ is the one single thing they _can_ do, and that, as we have seen, they do well. As the supply of slaves is necessary to their existence, every now and then they have to go and help themselves in the way we have just seen them do; and though the idea of slavery is abhorrent to every mind, we must allow that they are brave soldiers, and under excellent discipline.

Now, can you tell me who the soldiers are? Go back to your history stories and think. Some old Roman race, perhaps, or the early inhabitants of Britain, when people knew no better? Or some tribe of savages in America, or the South Sea islands at the present time? Nay, you must guess again, or shall I tell you? Yes, you give it up. Well, then, it is a people "not strong;" small and insignificant, yet wise, for this is what the Bible says, "Go to the ANT, consider her ways and be wise."--Prov. vi:10.

This race of warriors is none other than the slave-keeping ant, (_Polyergus rufescens_). I do not think you would meet with it in our woods, but in Switzerland and other countries it is common. Huber, who wrote so much about bees and ants, first witnessed an attack near Geneva. I should tell you that the young which they carry off are the larva or young grubs, which, transferred to the nests of the conquerors, soon become ants, and live the rest of their lives in serving them, and waiting on them, as slaves or servants would their masters.

How extraordinary! Do they pine for their own kind? Are they happy in their bondage? We do not know, but as far as we can judge they render a willing and cheerful service, forgetting themselves in what they do for others. Then, of course, they are happy; we need not repeat the question; we are only lost in wonder at this strange and interesting page in Nature's book.