Chapter X: Part II (3)

Spenser was born in a part of London called East Smithfield, right under the shadow of the great Tower; and it is a very disagreeable fact to one who is trying to write about him, that we know almost nothing about the little events of his life, and especially of his boyhood. Three hundred years ago, you know, people did not take notes of themselves so much as we do nowadays, or as they did even in the last century; or if they did they have not been kept for us. Just a few people have told us anything about Edmund Spenser, and the probability is that even his picture is not any better than many of those which we see nowadays in the newspapers.

One of the few things which we find about him was that he entered one of the colleges at Cambridge when he was seventeen, as what was then called a “sizar.” These sizars were the poorer students, who had to work for their living in a much more disagreeable way than any students do now, by waiting on the older and richer ones at their meals and elsewhere, and were paid by their tuition in the college and the fragments of food which their employers left for them. I suppose if the student on whom Edmund Spenser waited could come back to earth for a little while he would be considerably surprised and perplexed to find that the only reason why the world would like to know more about him would be on account of the little sizar whom he used to have at Cambridge!

When he had left college, in which we find that he was a very good scholar, Spenser taught for a while in the northern part of England, and began to write the first poetry which made him at all famous; it was a long poem in twelve parts, about the twelve months of the year, and he called it at first “The Poet’s Year,” and afterward the name by which we know it, “The Shepherd’s Calendar.” It was a very pretty poem, and described the scenery and the country life of England in a way that made all good Englishmen like the author. So Spenser fell in with some good friends, and was introduced to Queen Elizabeth. It is a curious thing that in those days the best writers did not depend for their payment upon the number of books which were sold, or what their publishers paid them; but it was the custom of the king or queen, whenever an especially good writer appeared, to support him at the royal court or elsewhere, in return for which the writer served his sovereign in any way he could, especially by paying him any number of compliments in his writings. It is as though whenever a promising young author should appear in New York or Boston, he should find a Congressman who would introduce him to the President at Washington; and if he found that he was likely to be a pleasing writer and a convenient friend to have near him, he should invite him to stay in the city, and should see that he had all the money he needed.

But we shall be sorry to find that although Queen Elizabeth received Spenser very pleasantly, and although he paid her any number of pretty compliments in his after life, she never did very much for him. The first piece of good fortune which seemed to come to him was when he was appointed secretary to Lord Grey de Wilton, who was the Governor of Ireland. After that he was also given Kilcolman Castle, which we spoke of at the beginning, where he spent so many years. We shall see that he did a good deal of writing while there, and also acted as the agent of the English Government, in looking after whatever matters needed his attention. It was this that probably made the Irishmen dislike him, rather than any one thing which he did, for when he had been there twelve years there was a rebellion among them, and they burned the castle and forced the poet to run away to England. The saddest thing about it was that his baby was burned at the same time, and they tell us that the lonely father never recovered from his sorrow over this event. At any rate he died the next year in London, in a small lodging-house, and probably with very little money left. It was with him as with so many, many others, both in those days and now: the people did not begin to think enough of him until he was dead, and then they gave him a magnificent funeral, and buried him in Westminster Abbey, where the graves of all the greatest Englishmen are.

We know nothing but what is good about Edmund Spenser; he seems to have been a kind man, loving everything true and beautiful, and when we have a chance to read his writings we shall feel certain that this is so. Besides the “Shepherd’s Calendar” he wrote a book in prose about Ireland while he was there, and it was also at Kilcolman Castle that his great poem, “The Faery Queene,” or as we should say “The Fairy Queen,” was written. This is a long, long poem, and was planned to be written in twelve parts, but it is probable that only six of them were ever finished. At any rate that is all which has come down to us; and some one has said that in this work “the half is better than the whole,” meaning that although Spenser wrote six very nice books, he could scarcely have written six more anywhere nearly so good.

The “Fairy Queen” is what people call an allegory; those of us who have read “The Pilgrim’s Progress” have probably found out what is meant by that. In allegories the story seems to be about real people, but all the time the people stand for good or bad qualities, or something of that sort—like Christian and Mr. Greatheart, or the Fairy Queen and the Red Cross Knight. If we look in Webster’s Dictionary under “allegory,” we shall find that the “Pilgrim’s Progress” and “The Faery Queene” are spoken of as the most celebrated examples.

I am sorry to say that we shall find the “Faery Queene” rather hard reading; not because the story is not interesting, but because there were so many good English words in those days that we have forgotten all about now. Then the spelling, as we have already guessed from the name of the poem, seems more like one of our PANSY “Queer Stories” than anything else. We will try to read just one very pretty verse, at the beginning of the second Canto, which describes the sunrise. Spenser put quaint little rhymed headings at the top of his cantos; the one here is—

“The guilefull great Enchaunter parts
The Redcrosse Knight from Truth:
Into whose stead faire Falshood steps,
And workes him woefull ruth.”

In reading the description of the sunrise we shall want to remember that there was an old story that the sun was a golden wagon driven up the sky by the god Phœbus, and also that “chanticleer,” or “chaunticlere,” was the old-fashioned word for rooster. Here is the verse, and we will bid Spenser good-by with it:

“By this the northerne wagoner had set
His sevenfold teme behind the stedfast starre
That was in ocean waves yet never wet,
But firme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre
To all that in the wide deepe wandring arre:
And chearefull Chaunticlere with his note shrill
Had warned once that Phœbus’ fiery carre
In hast was climbing up the easterne hill,
Full envious that night so long his roome did fill.”
ELIZABETH ABBOTT.

* * * * *

AN Englishman visiting Sweden and noticing their care for children, who were gathered up from the streets and highways and placed in school, inquired if it was not costly. “Yes,” was the answer, “it is costly, but not dear. We are not rich enough to allow a child to grow up in ignorance, misery and crime, to become a scourge to society as well as a disgrace to himself.”

A COMING RULER.

THE little fellow at the left of the man on a big dark horse, is the one for you to study. He looks like a prince already. He certainly rides like a soldier.

What is the color of his eyes, the shape of his nose, or the kind of clothes on his back, and many more such things you would like to know. Perhaps you will know these and many more things about him when you see him in Boston, New York, San Francisco or at the Chicago World’s Fair.

“Will he be there?”

As likely as not.

“But who is he?”

Ah! now you ask something. He is Master Friedrich Wilhelm, the Crown Prince of Germany. If he live long enough, he will do something more than hold the reins of that pretty, proud white pony; he will hold the reins of Prussia, one of the most powerful nations of Europe.

His grandfather, Emperor William, died a few years ago, at a great age, greatly beloved by all Germans, and respected by other nations.

That man, sitting in the carriage, dressed like a soldier, with folded arms and a stern look on his face, is the present Emperor William.

There is the mother, the Empress, with the other children. Their faces are all turned toward you, so you can get a good look at them. But you need not expect to see so many princes and princesses at Chicago.

It is the fashion nowadays for kings, rulers and coming rulers to visit other lands. Which of our presidents went around the world?

L.

* * * * *

IT is said that the native Christians in Japan, with less than one shilling a day as an average for wages, contributed last year twenty-five thousand dollars to mission work.

BABY’S CORNER.

ROSY POSY.

AT last July came, and Rose went to grandpapa’s to stay a week.

She loved to go to the farm, because grandmamma let her work.

Rose could shell peas and sweep the floor with a pretty little broom. She took up the dust on a bright new dust-pan.

The first day she went out in the field with grandpapa and raked hay.

Then she took a little watering-pot and wet the flowers.

By and by Grandmamma put the kettle on to boil.

“Now we will get supper,” she said.

She spread a white cloth on the table, and Rose put on the cups and plates and spoons and knives and forks.

They had apples and cream for supper.

When the clock struck eight Grandmamma lighted a candle and went upstairs with Rose to put her to bed.

Grandpapa said, “Good-night, dear Rosy Posy.”

Rose lay still as a mouse, and soon she was fast asleep.

In the morning when Rose opened her eyes the sun was shining in at the window. There was a big fly buzzing about trying to warm himself in the sunlight. Rose liked to watch him.

And then a funny voice cried out: “Get up, Rosy Posy.”

It was Poll. Grandpapa had taught her to say it.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xiv. 1-10.)

HEROD seemed to think one must keep a promise, no matter what it is, so he put good, honest John the Baptist to death! One reason he gave was because of what his guests would say. But how did he know but they would say it was right for him to break such a bad promise? But why did he not think: “What will people all the coming years say to this wicked deed? What will the angels say? What will the holy mighty God say?”

“But shouldn’t one keep his promises?”

You see Herod should not in this case. Suppose the girl had said: “Give me your crown,” or “Let me cut your head or tongue off,” how then about Mr. Herod’s keeping his promise? Guess he would have found a way—not to keep his oath.

No, it is never right to keep a wrong promise. That would be doing two wrong things instead of one. Herod had no business to take such an oath. How could he know what this artful dancer might ask? No one may make a promise about which one cannot know.

Don’t ever do such a thing.

“If you have done it?” Break it. Break it, and repent over your rashness. Beware of the state of your mind when you make a pledge. See that you know what you are about.

Perhaps Herod would never have taken such an awful oath had he not been intoxicated with wine and this dancing girl. “When wine is in wit is out.” Many a person has lost his reason and committed some great crime by being in such society. Wine and dancing never helped any one heavenward.

Take care!

L.

* * * * *

MANY blessings will occur to him who is in search of
them. Let us dwell lovingly and gratefully upon these;
let us weigh and consider how to make the most of them,
by neglecting no opportunity and shutting out nothing
from our life that can brighten and invigorate it.

ANGIE’S CROSS.—II.

(_Character Studies._)

I WAS sorry for the mother. I heard her gentle, troubled voice in the hall, trying to make explanations. “Not going!” was the startled response of the girls; “what is the matter? O, dear me! what shall we do without her? Celia Lewis might sing the part if she had only known; but she thought she wouldn’t be needed, and she isn’t feeling very well, so she didn’t come out. Dear Mrs. Conran, cannot you coax Angie to come? I am afraid we shall have to give up the anthem altogether if you don’t. Harold says he cannot sing it without having one rehearsal.”

“I am very sorry,” said gentle Mrs. Conran, “but I am afraid it is quite out of the question, Angie is so sure she cannot go to-night. Perhaps you can arrange a rehearsal early in the morning?”

“No, ma’am, we can’t do that, because the Bible classes occupy the room, you know, until the last minute. O, dear! how I wish we had known it before. I don’t know what we shall do. Is Angie feeling very ill, Mrs. Conran?”

“N-o,” said the mother hesitatingly, and I knew that her face flushed to her temples; “she isn’t sick, but she is very much—out of sorts. I regret it exceedingly, but you know how Angie is. When she once settles in her own mind that she can’t do a thing it doesn’t seem possible for her to get the consent of her will to do it.”

“Well,” they said, turning away, “it seems too bad, when Dr. Brand asked for that particular anthem, and Angie is the only one who has sung it; but I suppose we shall manage some way. Good-evening.”

Mrs. Conran closed the door after them and came slowly back to the parlor, I, meantime, wishing there had been some excuse for me to slip away, so that she need not have the embarrassment of meeting me. There was a weary attempt at a smile on her face, which had grown pale again, and she said apologetically:

“Poor Angie! she is the victim of her own strong will. I sometimes feel very sorry that she matured in some things so early; she has an idea that her mother does not know what is suitable for young people to wear, and is growing a little too fond of dress, I am afraid. She has been put forward so much in her music that it has injured her. It seems strange that a sweet voice should lead one into temptation, doesn’t it?”

I murmured something about girls being fond of their own way and about their having to learn by experience, the more to give the mother a chance to recover herself than because I felt that I had anything worth saying. I do not think she heard all I said, but the words “learn by experience” caught her attention.

“Yes,” she said, after a moment, speaking with a long-drawn sigh, “that is it. Poor child! she must learn by experience, and experience is a bitter teacher sometimes. Often, when I hear her sweet voice roll out on those solemn words:

“‘Nearer, my God, to thee,
. . . . . .
E’en though it be a cross
That leadeth me,’

I wonder what the ‘cross’ will be that will lead Angie to think less of her own will and more of Christ. She is so strong-willed, so passionate, and has such a way of giving vent to the thoughts that come into her mind at the moment, without stopping to realize how they will sound.

“In some way the child must be taught. It seems to me I have tried hard to teach her, but I have failed. I do not often speak in this way of her,” she added, with a sad smile; “I do not like to talk about her faults before any one, but to-night you heard all the talk, and I want you to understand that her words do not mean all they seem to. She would be startled and frightened at herself if she could have them photographed in some way and spread out before her.

“But every exhibition of this kind only proves to me more clearly that she is in need of a solemn lesson, and I do not know how it is coming.

“‘Though like a wanderer,
Daylight all gone,
Darkness be over me,
My rest a stone.’

“It makes my heart ache sometimes to hear her sing those words, because I cannot help wondering if she must have the ‘darkness’ and the ‘stone’ to bring her to the true Light.”

I did not know what to say to the pale mother, so I said nothing; but as I thought of her unnatural pallor, in sharp contrast with the two burning spots on her wasted cheeks, and remembered how constantly that little cough annoyed her, I felt sorry for Angie. I thought I could see the way in which the “cross” must come.

I could feel how much heavier she was making it for herself; because some day, perhaps soon, her memory would recall with bitter tears the harsh, cruel words she had spoken to her mother, absorbed as she was in the eager desire to have her own way. If she would only consent to be led “nearer” by a pleasanter path!

MYRA SPAFFORD.

THINGS WHICH SOME PEOPLE REGRET.

NOW we have something unique. Read the “Regrets” over carefully, and you will discover that we have had nothing like this. You recognize the writer, I presume, as an author who has interested a great many people. Let us hope that he will never have occasion to regret the regret which he has so kindly given us.

“I have regrets for the past, of course; but I have
rarely expressed regrets without afterward regretting
that I had expressed them.”

Yours truly,
GEORGE W. CABLE.

THE FIRST FLAG.

WOULD the Pansies like to see a picture of the first United States flag which ever floated from a vessel? Count the stars. Why do you suppose there are only twelve, when everybody knows that thirteen was the original number? The explanation is said to be that at the time this particular flag was made—that is in 1779—the Legislature of Maryland had not yet formally joined the Union, so her star was omitted.

The flag was made by some Philadelphia ladies, and presented to Captain Jones. For a time it sailed proudly up and down the Schuylkill, fresh and beautiful. Then it went to war, and was shot and fell into the sea. A young lieutenant, Stafford by name, jumped overboard to save the flag. When it fell the British thought the Yankees had “struck their colors,” but in a little time it waved aloft again, trimmed with bullet holes. You must read in our United States history about the great victory which Captain Jones and his brave vessel, the _Bonhomme Richard_, gained at that time.

When the war was over the flag was sent to Lieutenant Stafford as a memento of his faithfulness and bravery. It has been kept in the Stafford family ever since, although they have been urged many times to sell it, and as many as three thousand dollars have been offered for it.

When the lieutenant’s daughter Sarah died the old flag was draped about her coffin. When President Harrison was inaugurated it came to Washington, and was carried by one of the Stafford family in the procession.

We show you, also, the picture of Mrs. James Bayard Stafford, the wife of the lieutenant. She was over eighty years old when this picture was taken, but the face shows a sweet brave woman, strong for the right and the true, which was the character she bore. I do not know whether she is still living, but a few years ago she was the light of the home in Cottage City, Mass., and guarded the old historic flag as a sacred relic.

PANSY.

* * * * *

AN Indian arrow is quite a work of art. The head, or point, is made from a barrel hoop about three inches long, tapered to a point, and sharpened on both sides. In a bunch of arrows these points are absolutely uniform. The shaft is made of ash about twenty-three inches long. The feathers are glued on and lashed at each end with sinew. The head or point is inserted in the wood, and also lashed with sinew. And running along the arrow are three wave-like grooves from the head to the feathers. This, the Indians explain, is to make the arrow go straight. The bow is also made of ash, and with a string of twisted sinew taken from along the back of a beef. So that with an ordinary butcher knife and a file, if it is to be had, an Indian can make his own arms.

The penetrating force of an arrow is wonderful. An Indian can shoot an arrow right through a buffalo. I have heard it stated that bows and arrows would be much more effective weapons in the hands of Indians than such guns as they surrendered to General Miles.—_Selected._

ABOUT BUFFALO.

BY THE PANSIES.

I HAVE been waiting for the time to come to write about Buffalo, because I knew something queer to write. Three of the nice streets there are named Niagara St., Erie St., and Church St.; but their names used to be Schimmelpennick Avenue, Vollenhoven Avenue and Stadnitski Avenue! Isn’t it a good thing they were changed?

MARGARET L. JOHNSON.

* * * * *

THE Indian name for Buffalo is Teosahway. I think it is much prettier than Buffalo. Some people say the city was named for an old Indian chief who lived in a hut in the center of where the main business part is now located; the Indian’s name was Buffaloe. But others think it was named after the “creek,” where the buffaloes used to come in droves.

HENRY RICE.

* * * * *

THE city of Buffalo used to be spelled with an _e_, and the citizens had a great time getting rid of that final _e_. Father says that years after it had been dropped the city of Binghamton, N. Y., which used to be spelled “Binghampton,” set to work to get rid of that unnecessary _p_. Buffalo, forgetting the trouble it had had, was the last to remember the change; long after others were pretty well educated, the Buffalo postmaster would send the Binghamton mail in a package marked “Bingham_p_ton.” At last the Binghamton postmaster made up a package for Buffalo and addressed it in very large letters, “Buffalop,” then wrote underneath: “If you are so fond of the letter _p_ take it.” Father says he believes this cured them.

SARAH H. ATCHISON.

* * * * *

MY grandmother used to live in Buffalo when the water supply was very different from what it is now. There used to be an old man whom they called “Water John.” He had a cart and an old horse, and he used to fill a hogshead with water at the lake, and go through the streets peddling it for a shilling a barrel. A shilling was twelve and a half cents. Grandmother says they always used to have to give Water John thirteen cents; and I don’t see why they did not call it thirteen cents a barrel, instead of a price which nobody could exactly pay.

LAURA HOLMAN.

* * * * *

I HAD a great-uncle who used to live in Buffalo when there were only about forty houses there, all built of logs; and I have an uncle living in Buffalo now who went there in 1825, when there were about two thousand inhabitants, and has seen it grow to its present size—about two hundred and fifty thousand; some say more than that. It must be a great thing to be able to look back on such changes.

JAMES CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

MY grandmother went to Buffalo when she was a little girl and took a ride on the “Black Rock Railroad”; that was what they called it, but it was just a street car. Grandmother thinks it was the first horse railroad used in this country. There was a car for pleasant weather and one for storms. The pleasant weather one was like a great box, with an outside seat for the driver. The seats were just boards with straight backs. There was no cover, and the sun could pelt down on you as much as it pleased. For bad weather they had one with a top, and canvas curtains that buttoned down. The car was drawn by one horse, and Grandmother says they did not use any time table, but came along just whenever it happened. The fare was a shilling.

LUCY STEVENSON.

* * * * *

IT is great fun to read about Buffalo as it used to be. I was there last summer and stopped at an elegant hotel. I forget its name, but I know they said it was the handsomest in the city, and it was just splendid, I tell you! A little while after I came home I read about “The Farmers’ Hotel,” which was the grand hotel of Buffalo in 1832. I saw a picture of it; the queerest looking little old building you ever saw, with a bell on the top like a great cow bell; it was rung by a rope, and that is the way people used to be called to their meals. The book I was reading said it was a very useful bell, for it not only told when breakfast or dinner was ready at the Farmers’ Hotel, but was useful as a time-keeper in every house in the neighborhood; for there were very few people indeed in those days who carried watches, and clocks were very rare and costly.

REUBEN S. BENTON.

* * * * *

I HAVE a letter which was written to my grandmother in 1836, by a lady who lived in Buffalo. Grandmother lived in New York, and the amount of postage which it took to carry the letter from Buffalo to New York was two shillings. This was marked in red ink on the outside of the letter; not on an envelope, for none were used, but one side of the paper was left blank, and the letter was folded in a curious way, and marked “Paid 2 s.” Grandmother said her sister in Albany used to get letters from the same lady, and hers were marked: “Paid 18¾.” At that time it cost less to write from Buffalo to Albany than it did from Buffalo to New York; and I must say that seems reasonable. Why should letters be two cents now, whether they travel ten miles or a thousand? But I am glad they are not twenty-five cents.

CARRIE FOSTER.

* * * * *

BUFFALO is a great city. You can start from it and go anywhere you want to, at most any hour of the day or night. There are as many as thirteen different railroad lines to choose from, to say nothing of steamboats and all that sort of thing. But it is the queerest laid out city in this country. A man Ellicott planned it almost a century ago, and meant to build a palace for himself right in the center, but he never did.

JOHN JONES.

* * * * *

MOTHER says I ought to be able to write you a letter about Buffalo, because I’ve been there lots of times. But I can’t. What is there to write about a city, I should like to know? They are all alike; great long streets with big houses on both sides, or big stores or something, and churches every little way, and crowds of people in the streets getting in a fellow’s way all the time, and carts running over you, and carriages that you want to take a ride in and can’t; and an awful noise and smoke and hurly-burly. I’d rather spend one afternoon in the country in an apple orchard or a strawberry field, or by a trout stream, than to be a whole week in any city I ever saw. Buffalo has some splendid-looking houses and parks, and there is a lunatic asylum that I was interested in, because the people acted so queer. I don’t like Buffalo, however, nor any other big place.

TOM HURST.

* * * * *

I THINK they must make flour enough in Buffalo to supply the world with bread. My father says that twelve years ago there were eleven great flouring mills there, and he doesn’t know how many more have been started since. At that time they made every year about two hundred and fifty thousand barrels of flour; but dear me! it would take more flour than that to feed the world, wouldn’t it? What a lot of things we do have to eat!

JIMMIE TUCKER.

* * * * *

I SHOULD think Buffalo would be called the “City of Churches.” There must be hundreds of churches there. I went with my uncle and brother to look at different ones, and it took us two days just to see those which were on three streets of the city. Some of them are lovely, and some were great, dark-looking buildings, like jails.

LUCY STONE.

* * * * *

[On the whole we consider these Buffalo letters
decidedly unique. A little ahead of anything in that
line which the Pansies have yet given us. Certainly
some rather original ideas in regard to cities in
general have been advanced, and we have been given a
better chance than usual to mark the progress which
time has made. We are somewhat surprised that no one
has described a ride to or from the city on one of the
canal packets. That is a vivid memory of our childhood
which we would like to tell you about were there time.

Our material is as usual not exhausted, but our space
is. I presume Buffalo will fare like the cities which
have preceded it—that is, some of the best letters will
come too late to use. If our Pansies could only learn
to start three months ahead!—EDITORS.]

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

V.

THIS is a beautiful moonlight evening, but you would rather listen to me than bark at the moon?

All right; I don’t mind talking when I have good listeners, but to try to tell a story and be constantly reminded that those to whom you talk are thinking of something else, is not pleasant.

What shall I talk about to-night?

“Something concerning our relatives away back?”

So you want to know what kind of blood there is in our veins? That is an interesting theme for some, and why not for us?

It is not three days since I heard our master boast that he had descended from the Pilgrim Fathers. We do not all claim to be related, but we are of one family now, and so interested in each other.

I like to think that some of my relatives have done good and been faithful; so I think I will tell you what one of my great-great-great-uncles did a long time ago.

His name was Sport, and at the time to which I refer he lived with a man by the name of Stillman. He was thought much of for hunting, and because of his skill in this direction he had a chance to earn the reputation which so many envied; that is, to earn it in just the way he did.

I want my young friends to remember that the way is always open for any dog to get a good name if he will only try. Why, even a little insignificant poodle can be of use. There is our neighbor, Mr. Fellows; he had two or three dog sentinels all about his place, and the other night a man got clear to his front door, and none of these big fellows said or knew any thing of it; but the moment the man reached the door little Tip, the poodle, notified the whole house.

Well, this dog Sport was taken by his master, one fall, away off into the wood. They went miles and miles beyond where anybody pretended to live, and there in a little hut they staid for days and days, the master hunting and fishing and resting.

This was all well enough so long as nothing unusual occurred, though it was pretty lonesome for the four-footed one. The master seemed to take it for granted that his dog knew nothing but how to follow game, so said little to him, sometimes hardly noticing him from morning till night.

As I said, matters moved on very well for a time, but there came a change. Mr. Stillman awoke one night feeling very ill, and by morning was sick enough.

He took such medicine as he had, but grew worse and worse. The poor man could not sit up to write, and if he could have written, who would be mail carrier for him?

He lay there and thought, and tried to plan. “If I only had a St. Bernard dog I might send him for help; but Sport is nothing but a hunting dog, and he cannot understand anything but how to follow a track.”

In the meantime Sport was feeling badly, and trying to think what he might do, for his master was getting worse all the time. Walking around the room he saw an envelope with something in it, and while his master was seemingly asleep, he took the package in his mouth and started upon the run in the direction in which they came into the woods.

He made pretty fast time for eight or ten miles; then he came to a trail, and knew a party had passed there not long before. So, putting his nose to the ground, he soon learned which way they had gone, and followed them at good speed.

Fortunately he came upon them where they had encamped for the night. It proved to be quite a large party with an experienced guide.

Sport dashed in among them and laid down his package and barked, to call their attention to it. The men examined the writing, and while it did not tell them how it was sent—it not having been sent—it seemed to be an attempt of some one to leave on record the condition he was in, his name and address, so that if he should die, any one finding this might be able to inform his friends.

No one of those who first composed the party knew what to think of the paper, for there was little of it which could be read, more than the name; but the guide was not long in interpreting Sport’s meaning, and told them that the faithful dog had without doubt come from some one in distress, and that they must try to find him.

“If I don’t miss my guess by a shot or two this four-legged mail-carrier will be dreadful glad to pilot us back the way he came; won’t you, old fellow?”

Sport showed his readiness by jumping up and starting; but Simpkins—that was the guide’s name—called him back, patted him on the head, and gave him something to eat, promising to go with him pretty soon.

The guide told the party to remain there, all but one or two, till he should return. One of their number was a doctor, who was taking his vacation, and he volunteered to be one of the company to make the search for the supposed sufferer. Although all had believed themselves to be tired, yet they were soon off, Sport taking the lead, and so eager that he let his followers only just keep in sight. It was dark some time before the little hut was reached.

When the men told the story afterward, they said it was a great wonder they kept on following a dog in that way, though the guide never hesitated; and the men probably preferred following him to being left alone.

As they neared the place on the main trail, Sport would run ahead and bark, and then come back to the guide and whine.

Well, they got to the hut at last, and it appeared as though the sick man had not moved while his faithful friend was gone; and what is more, the doctor said he never would have moved if help had not come.

The men rubbed him and gave him medicine, and towards morning he opened his eyes. It took him a little while to make out what it all meant, but when Sport heard his voice he sprang to his side, and seemed wild with delight.

There is a great deal more to this story which I will not take time to tell. The doctor tried hard to buy Sport after that, but his master said he would sooner let him have one of his hands; he kept him until he died of old age.

Before he died Mr. Stillman had his picture painted by a fine artist. Master and dog have been dead for years, but I have seen both their pictures, made by the same man. Saw them often when I was little. Our folks used to tell the story to people who visited them, and then point to me and say: “This little fellow is related to that noble dog, and we hope he will be like him.” Then I would be so proud of the relationship, and resolve to be just as good if I could not be as smart.

Now it is time to look around and see that everything is all right. If they have not forgotten to shut the hen-house door, we can take our places as usual till morning.

No, I never had such a chance as old Uncle Sport had for making a name, but I have done what I could, and my master is not slow to show that he loves me.

R.

JACK’S DECISION.

JACK was in a very doleful frame of mind. It was Sabbath morning, and as bright a day as even July could furnish to that part of the world. The birds in the trees, the leaves as they rustled, and the sweet odors in the air, all seemed to whisper that it was a perfect Sunday. Jack wanted to go to church. Not that he was devoted to church-going, either. The sermon often seemed long to him, and he sometimes grew very tired of counting the bits of stained glass of which the large round window was made; but on this particular morning, as he sat curled up in the large armchair with a great pillow at his back, he made himself believe that there was nothing in life he wanted so much as to go to church that day. It was not simply that the new carriage was to be used for the first time, and that Prince and Tony were harnessed together before it, and would look splendid, but in addition to these excellent reasons Jack had not been out of the house for nearly a week, and had not had a ride since last Sabbath, and it seemed to him he should fly if he had to stay in much longer. But then, Jack had the mumps, so it couldn’t be helped.

Uncle Jack was to stay with him; or rather he was to stay with Uncle Jack, which was pleasant, for although this favorite uncle always staid at home on Sundays, and could not take a single step without somebody on either side to help, yet his nephew considered him the “jolliest kind of a companion.” This may have been partly owing to the fact that Jack the uncle was quite young to have that title—only a boy of twenty—and he was as sunshiny, in fact more so than many boys of ten contrive to be.

On this particular day he exerted himself to his utmost to entertain his namesake, and succeeded so well that when the clock struck twelve the boy said, in round-eyed wonder: “Why, who would have thought it was so late? They will be home in a little while, won’t they?”

“That’s a fact,” said Uncle Jack. “I think there will be just time for us to have our Bible story together, and a little talk about it before they come. You know that was to finish the morning’s programme, Jack.”

“All right,” said Jack, settling back on his pillow, “go ahead; I like to hear you read the Bible better than anybody else, except mother, of course.”

This was no wonder, for Uncle Jack had a way of reading between the lines, something after this fashion: “‘And a certain man, lame from his mother’s womb, was carried.’ Just think of that, my boy! Forty years old, and never had walked a step! That is worse than being lame for two years, isn’t it?”

“How do you know he was forty years old? It doesn’t say so.”

“It does in another place; I hunted it up once, to see how long he had been a burden on his friends. And just listen to this as the best they could do for him: ‘Whom they laid daily at the gate of the temple, which is called Beautiful, to ask alms of them that entered into the temple.’”

“They were a mean lot,” said Jack; “they might have kept him at home and taken care of him.”

“Ah, my boy! that is much the way it is to-day in countries where Jesus Christ does not reign; still, we must not be too hard on these friends of his; they may have been miserably poor, and to carry the man to the gate and leave him there may have been the utmost that was in their power to give.”

“Then they ought to have taken him to the hospital.”

“There was none, Jackie. No provision whatever was made in that country for the suffering poor; such things belong to Christianity. Well, ‘Who, seeing Peter and John about to go into the temple, asked an alms.’ He liked the appearance of those ministers, I fancy. I suppose he said, ‘They look kind, and I shouldn’t wonder if they would give me quite a lift.’”

“I should say they did,” chuckled Jack, who knew the outcome of the story. Reading in this way you can see how long it might take them to get through with even a short story; but Jack thought it a “tip-top” way to read.

He sat lost in thought for some minutes after the lame man had gone leaping into the temple, then said, half-doubtfully, as though not sure whether it were just the proper thing to say: “Uncle Jack, wouldn’t it be a splendid thing if Peter were alive now, and should come home from church with the folks, and cure you so you could run all around?”

Uncle Jack turned bright smiling eyes on his nephew. “You forget,” he said briskly; “it wasn’t Peter who did it; he was only the instrument. You might as well call the cup in which you take your beef tea the food, as to call Peter the physician in this case.”

“Well, then,” said Jack, looking resolute, “I don’t understand why he doesn’t cure folks now—Jesus, I mean. People say he is here all the time, though we can’t see him, and that he is just the same as ever he was; why don’t he cure you, Uncle Jack, just as he cured the man at the temple gate?”

“He has,” said Uncle Jack promptly; “He has performed a much greater cure for me than He did for the man at the gate.”

And then Jack looked astounded. As though he did not know that his Uncle Jack had not taken a step in two years, and even the great surgeon from the city could not be sure if he ever would.

The gay young uncle laughed over his astonishment, then said: “I see I shall have to tell you something, Jackie. Before I was hurt I was in a bad way—lame not only in my feet, but in my will power, which is much worse. I was making a headlong rush toward ruin, and when the accident happened which laid me flat on my back, I knew before many weeks that it was Jesus Christ trying to cure me.”

Little Jack stared. “Couldn’t He have done it without that?” he asked.

“No,” said his uncle confidently; “I don’t believe He could. I wouldn’t let Him, you see. He had called me hundreds of times, and urged me to let Him do the best things for me, but I wouldn’t. My will power, as I told you, was lame, sick—deathly sick; I couldn’t seem to want to be cured, nor to do any of my part of the work. There is always our part to do in a cure, you know.” Jack nodded, and remembered the bitter medicine which he had rebelled against swallowing. “Well, I wouldn’t do my part; refused out and out, and kept on refusing until I was placed on my back. I suppose the Lord Jesus knew that that only would bring me to my senses, and give him a chance to cure my heart sickness, so he let it come to me. Understand?”

Jack was not disposed to answer. He was thinking. “Why doesn’t He cure your back now?” he asked, speaking part of his thought.

His uncle’s voice was a trifle lower, and hinted at strong feeling which was being controlled. “I believe he will, Jackie, just as soon as it is best for me to be cured. I think I am going to get quite well; indeed, I may say I am almost sure of it, though the surgeon is not. I believe the Lord Jesus has decided to let me be well and strong again, so I can be a witness for him, as the lame man was, you remember. Why, we didn’t finish the story, did we? And there is no time now. Here come the people from church. You look that up, Jackie, in your Bible sometime, and see what an unanswerable argument the man was.”

Jack the younger thought over the entire story later, while he was eating his beef tea. Thought and thought, and by a way which was clear to himself, came at last to this point: “I wonder if He let me have the mumps so as to stop me from doing different from what mother says? If I hadn’t thought it wouldn’t do any harm to run into Judge Howell’s a few minutes, even after she had told me not to stop anywhere, why, I suppose I shouldn’t have had these horrid old mumps. Maybe He knows it was the only way to cure me. Well, I tell you what it is; I believe I’ll be cured. I guess, after this, I’ll do just exactly as I’m told, and be a ‘witness’ myself, so that folks will begin to say of me: ‘Jack Campbell won’t do it; his folks told him not to, and you can’t move Jack after that any more than you could a stone wall.’ I declare, that will be tip-top fun. I’ll do it!”

PANSY.

CLAUDE’S STORY.

CLAUDE TALMAN was ten years old. He lived in a marble house. Its floors had costly carpets, and all the furniture was elegant. His clothes were fine and rich; his food came from almost all parts of the world. How soft was his bed. Tenderly was he watched over. He seemed to have more than heart could wish—not his heart, however.

One day as he looked from his elegant window he saw a poor boy passing drawn in a little wagon by a goat; then he set up a loud cry that he must have that very wagon and goat. It did no good for his mother to promise him just as good an one if it could be found in the Central Market, where almost everything could be bought. No, he must have that. That boy must sell it to him or it must be taken from him. What right had that poor boy to something that he (Claude) didn’t have? His mother reasoned with him, but all to no purpose; he stormed about, stamping his foot, saying he would have it if he had to kill the boy to get it. When he got over his rage somewhat his mother said: “You remind me of another Claude, only his real name was Claudius.”

Then Master Claude quieted down and listened, for he was fond of stories, and now he knew his mother had one for him. So she went on thus: “Two thousand years ago there lived a large family in the country that is now called England. Their name was Briton. They were not the handsomest or wisest folks in the world, nor were they always gentle among themselves. Their houses were mere huts and their dress was the skins of wild animals. They were a brave people, but generally minded their own business. The great father of this family—I should say one of the big brothers—was Caractacus. He was strong and fearless, and very wise and good in his way. When they were in trouble they went to him, and somehow he always knew just what to do. So they thought of him just as American people think of Washington.

“Miles and miles away across the great waters lived another family in an elegant marble palace”—

“Now you are going to tell a story about me,” interrupted Claude.

—“in an elegant marble palace. Everything without as well as within this beautiful mansion was costly and wonderful. There was nothing just like it on all the face of the earth.

“But they were unhappy. They wanted something more. One day while they were sitting and feasting, dressed in purple and fine linen, and bands of music were playing, word came from one of their travelers about a fair island far away, and about this Briton family who owned it, and were living there so contentedly.

“Then uprose the father of the Roman family—for that was their name—and the music ceased, the feasting was over, and the men put off their showy dress and put on their soldier clothes, and the father or big brother, whose name was Claudius”—

“Now, mother, more about me?”

“His name was Claudius, and he mounted his war horse and blew a loud blast that made the marble halls ring again, and with waving banners and peals of music away marched this Roman family to conquer the Briton family and make them give up their”—

“Little wagon and goat?”

—“give up their beautiful farm. On they went on foot and on horse and by boats till they landed one dark night and stole up to the back yard of the Britons.

“Then of a sudden the dogs set up an awful barking. The Britons—women as well as men and children—sprang up in a jiffy, and a fierce fight followed. Sometimes the Romans got the better, sometimes the Britons; but after a long, long time, when many were killed on both sides, six of Claudius’ biggest brothers saw Caractacus fall, and the blood was streaming from his side by an arrow wound, and they leaped upon him and bound his hands behind him, and led him as best they could to Claudius. But Caractaca, his poor wife, followed, begging the soldiers not to harm her suffering husband.

“When the brave Britons saw their leader fall, and knew he was now a prisoner, their hearts failed them, and they fled, many of them, far away into the forests.

“But Caractacus and his sad wife were taken from their home and carried far away to the Roman palace as prisoners.