Chapter XII: Part II (5)

“Well,” said Herbert, with more glee than he had shown since he had left his city home, “I believe I will. I will call that fellow up there on the bush Denny, and he and I will be companions this summer.”

“That will be splendid,” said Mrs. Westwood, very much pleased, for Denny was the short for “Denison,” her boy’s best friend in town. It was certainly a delicate compliment to name the bird after him, and showed to the mother the degree of friendship which Herbert meant to cultivate.

“We shall get along comfortably now,” she said to her husband laughingly; “he has adopted the birds in the old chair, and named the singer ‘Denny,’ so he will not lack for companionship.”

Ah! I wish I could tell you about the lovely summer. Never was a brighter, more congenial companion than Denny. He sang his sweetest songs for the lonesome boy, and accepted his overtures of friendship in the most genial manner possible. Before the season was over not only he but his wife would allow Herbert to come close enough to the old chair to drop special dainties into the nest for the children, and were voluble in their thanks. More than that, Denny actually learned to come and perch himself on Herbert’s finger and eat sugar out of his hand. And one of the children grew so fond of Herbert that she took many a walk perched on his shoulder, chirping occasionally to let him know that she was there, and was happy.

“I never knew that birds could be so pleasant,” Herbert said to his mother; “they are better than boys and girls in some respects; they never get vexed at a fellow, you know, and refuse to speak to him for days together. Even Denny got mad at me once, and wouldn’t speak for a whole day. Now this Denny never forgets to say ‘How do you do?’ even if I haven’t been out of his sight longer than five minutes.”

On the whole the birds did a good thing for Herbert Westwood that summer; they turned what they thought would be a weariness into a season of great delight, and of daily increasing interest. More than that, he did a good thing for the birds. Before the season was over he had made the acquaintance of dozens of boys in the neighborhood and formed a society, the pledge of which was protection to the birds. No stones were to be thrown, no snares to be set by these boys or any whom they recognized as friends; neither were any nests to be molested, and not a few of the boys became so interested in Denny and his family that they determined for another season to adopt a family of their own, and study birds.

“They are wonderful creatures,” said Herbert thoughtfully, as he was reporting to his mother some of the bird stories which had been told in the society that afternoon, “just wonderful creatures! I don’t know how I ever came to pass them by without thinking anything about them. I tell you what, mother, God must have thought about them a great deal.”

EFIL SREDNOW.

* * * * *

GOD’S promises are fulfilled a hundred cents on a
dollar.

A PRETTY GIFT.

(_Something for Mamma._)

THE materials needed for this gift are a smooth thin board about two feet long and six inches wide, some bright-colored plush, some pretty cretonne, a dozen or more brass hooks of varying sizes, none of them very large, a couple of “cock eyes” such as are used for hanging small picture frames, and a yard or two of ribbon, color to match the plush, or contrast nicely with it.

The smooth board is to be covered on one side with the plush, on the other with the cretonne, the edges neatly sewed; then the hooks are to be screwed in at regular intervals on the plush side, the ribbon drawn through the rings or “cock eyes,” and tied in a bow ready for hanging, and your work is done.

When it comes into mamma’s possession she will select a convenient spot on her wall, and hang it as though it were a picture. Then on the little hooks she will hang her glove buttoner, her small scissors which are forever slipping out of sight, her shoe buttoner, her watch, perhaps, when it is not in use, and it may be her favorite ring which she removes when she washes her hands. I am sure I could not enumerate the little bits of useful articles which she will be only too glad to hang on such convenient hooks, that she will find not a disfigurement but an ornament to her room.

Now having told you just what and how, let me go carefully over the story again and remind you of its possibilities. For I can well imagine a little girl who wants to make her mother a neat and convenient present, but who has no plush nor ribbon, and does not even know how to get the right kind of a board.

My dear, you are just the one I want to help. About the board; it need not be exactly two feet long and six inches wide; it may be of the length and width which you find convenient, and which you decide will look well in the space where it is to hang. There are light boards used by wholesale merchants in packing certain goods which are just the thing, and they can often be had for the asking at the store where your mother does most of her shopping. Neither is plush a necessity. I have a friend who made a pretty “Wall Toilet” such as I have described, out of a bit of soft silk a friend had given her to dress her dollie. The silk was old, but she smoothed it neatly, padded it with a sheet of white cotton padding, and it looked very nice; but you may not happen to have the silk? Never mind, don’t you remember those pieces of turkey red calico in your auntie’s piece bag? They are just the thing, and your little friend who wants to make one, and has no turkey red calico, has some bright blue cambric which will be very pretty. All thin material will look better if the board is first padded with the cotton I spoke of. The brass hooks are quite cheap, and so useful that I think we must have them; but a red cord, or a neat band of cretonne, or some tidy cotton twisted into a cord, finished with tassels made out of it, will take the place of the ribbon very nicely indeed. In short, the old motto, “Where there is a will there is a way,” will serve you well in making this gift, as indeed it will in almost any emergency in life.

I know by experience how useful the little contrivances are, and I earnestly hope that many a mother will have her birthday enriched this season by one of them, made by her own little daughter’s thoughtful hand.

PANSY.

OR MISS MOON’S FACES.

TRUTH to tell she does make up faces, very different and queer ones, and no one Pansy sees exactly the same one at the same time, and since there are ten thousand Pansies, more or less, you see Miss Nancy Moon is smarter in “making faces” than some of you.

Another “truth to tell” is that the “moon’s phases” means appearances, or looks, and so why is it not quite the same as Nancy Moon’s faces? We’ll think it is.

Every Pansy knows some astronomy or—ought to. Come, then, and from this time on till you are a hundred years old know that astronomy means star-law, or all about the bright worlds in the sky. Now you know some astronomy. The moon is one of these worlds, and is very near our world—only two hundred and forty thousand miles away—and is one of the lamps to light it up. You must begin to learn about it. That you may call moonology. One of the first things to learn in moonology is how she makes so many faces; once a month a long, narrow bent face, then a little fatter, and so on till it is full as a—beer keg. Of course you mustn’t think she really drinks that stuff. I guess there is no license in Moontown.

If you will study the picture with all your might and main a half-hour to-day, another to-morrow, and so on, and then get grandpapa to put on his specs and help—you’ll surely answer the riddle, how the faces (or phases) are made.

Then some day you may become a great astronomer—like Tycho Brahe or John Kepler.

L.

* * * * *

WHEN you’ve got a thing to say,
Say it! Don’t take half a day.
When your tale’s got little in it,
Crowd the whole thing in a minute!
Life is short—a fleeting vapor—
Don’t fill up a ream of paper
With a tale, which, at a pinch,
Could be cornered in an inch!
Boil it down until it simmers;
Polish it until it glimmers.
When you’ve got a thing to say,
Say it! Don’t take half a day.
—_Selected._

BABY’S CORNER.

JOHNNY’S PILLOW.

ONE day Johnny was taking a walk in the orchard with Nurse.

He was hunting for berries, and what do you think he found?

He found some big white eggs hidden in the tall grass!

Johnny wanted to put the pretty eggs in his basket and take them home to mamma.

But Nurse said:

“No, no, come away, dear. That is a nest. Hush! there comes the old goose. She will sit on the eggs and keep them warm, and by and by she will have some pretty goslings.”

After that Johnny went with Nurse every day to take a peep at the gray goose sitting on her eggs.

She sat and sat a good many days, and then one morning when Johnny went to look, sure enough, the goslings had come!

They had no feathers on, and they had long, ugly necks and big feet.

“I don’t like ’em,” said Johnny.

The little goslings grew fast. They had a nice farmyard to live in, and a little brook to paddle in.

At night the farmer shut them up in the barn, so that the cats and dogs could not eat them up.

In a few days they were all covered with pretty feathers.

Then Johnny liked them.

By and by the little goslings were old enough to go with their father and mother and aunts and uncles to swim in a big lake. That made them very, very happy.

Then they grew to be big geese, and wore a lot of feathers, and Johnny had a pillow, which he enjoyed very much, made from the soft down that grew on their white breasts.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

WHO WAS TO BLAME?

“NOW you see, Emeline Frances,” said Celia, pushing herself up among the pillows and speaking in slow, stern tones to the dollie lying on her arm, “it is really your fault, and no other person’s; if you hadn’t been bound and determined to go out this afternoon, why, we shouldn’t have gone, that’s all. It had been raining, of course it had, and the walks were all damp, and you had no rubbers to wear over these shoes. Besides all that, you had been told that you must not go out this afternoon; but you were so vain of your new dress and hat, and so anxious to show them to Lulu Parks, that you would insist on going, and making me get my feet wet. Now here we are! A whole hour yet before it will be dark, and just a lovely time to play, and company downstairs in the parlor, and just the kind of cake for tea that I like the best, and we have to come upstairs and go to bed! I hope you are satisfied, Emeline Frances, with your afternoon’s work. I shouldn’t have thought of going out if you hadn’t have been so crazy to show your new hat. It is just a pity that you think so much of fine clothes. The dampness took the curl all out of your new feather, and it will never be so pretty again; but you had your own way, and will have to take the consequences. The worst of it is that you make me suffer with you. If this were the first time you had disobeyed perhaps I shouldn’t feel so badly, but as it is, I am almost discouraged. I do not see how you can be so naughty and forgetful.”

The lecture closed with one of Celia’s longest sighs. The door which led from her room to her brother Stuart’s was ajar, and he, sitting at his desk supposed to be studying his Latin for the next day, listened with the most unqualified amusement to the whole of it. He repeated the story downstairs at the tea-table, amid bursts of laughter from the entire family, his mother excepted.

“Mamma looks as grave as a judge over it,” Stuart said at last, when the laugh had subsided. “What’s the matter, mamma? Don’t you think the poor baby’s version of her troubles is funny?”

“It has its funny side,” said Mrs. Campbell, with a grave smile upon her face, “but really, it has its sad side too. You are a very good mimic, my son, and gave Celia’s voice and manner to perfection, in doing which you have reminded me of her besetting sin. Have you never noticed that the child, in her own estimation, is always led into trouble through the fault of others? If she cannot blame Nora, or Josie, or some of her playmates, why then poor Emeline Frances has to bear it. I am really very much troubled by this habit of hers. To judge from Celia’s statement of the case, she is forever led astray by the evil propensities of other people. If it were true, it would be sad enough, to have a child so easily led in the wrong way; but sometimes there is as much foundation for her theory as there is in this case, when the vanity of poor Emeline Frances is supposed to have caused all the trouble. I have tried to reason the child out of such excuses, but when she reaches the folly of actually blaming the doll for leading her astray, I hardly know what to think of her.”

“It is a curious development,” said Celia’s father, “but I have known older and wiser people than she to indulge in it; I knew a young man once, who charged a moonlight night of unusual beauty with all the folly of which he was guilty that evening.”

After this sentence Stuart Campbell finished his supper in silence, with his eyes on his plate; but perhaps no one but his father knew that his cheeks were redder than usual.

PANSY.

A VERITABLE POEM OF POEMS.

A LADY of San Francisco is said to have occupied a year in hunting up and fitting together the following thirty-eight lines from thirty-eight English-speaking poets. The names of the authors are given below:

1. Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?
2. Life’s a short summer, man a flower;
3. By turns we catch the vital breath, and die;
4. The cradle and the tomb, alas! so nigh.
5. To be is better far than not to be,
6. ’Though all man’s life may seem a tragedy;
7. But light cares speak when mighty cares are dumb,
8. The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
9. Your fate is but the common fate of all;
10. Unmingled joys here to no man befall.
11. Nature to each allots her proper sphere,
12. Fortune makes folly her peculiar care;
13. Custom does often reason overrule,
14. And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool.
15. Live well, how long, how short, permit to heaven,
16. They who forgive most shall be most forgiven.
17. Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its face—
18. Vile intercourse where virtue has not place;
19. Then keep each passion down, however dear;
20. Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear;
21. Her sensual snares, let faithless Pleasure lay
22. With craft and skill to ruin and betray;
23. Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise.
24. We masters grow of all that we despise.
25. Oh! then, renounce that impious self-esteem;
26. Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.
27. Think not ambition wise because ’tis brave,
28. The path of glory leads but to the grave.
29. What is ambition? ’Tis a glorious cheat,
30. Only destructive to the brave and great.
31. What’s all the gaudy glitter of a crown?
32. The way to bliss lies not on beds of down.
33. How long we live, not years, but actions tell;
34. That man lives twice who lives the first life well.
35. Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend,
36. Whom Christians worship, yet not comprehend.
37. The trust that’s given guard, and to yourself be just;
38. For, live we how we can, yet die we must.

1, Young; 2, Dr. Johnson; 3, Pope; 4, Prior; 5, Sewell; 6, Spenser; 7, Daniel; 8, Sir Walter Raleigh; 9, Longfellow; 10, Southwell; 11, Congreve; 12, Churchill; 13, Rochester; 14, Armstrong; 15, Milton; 16, Baily; 17, Trench; 18, Somerville; 19, Thompson; 20, Byron; 21, Smollett; 22, Crabbe; 23, Massinger; 24, Crowley; 25, Beattie; 26, Cowper; 27, Sir Walter Davenant; 28, Gray; 29, Willis; 30, Addison; 31, Dryden; 32, Francis Quarles; 33, Watkins; 34, Herrick; 35, William Mason; 36, Hill; 37, Dana; 38, Shakespeare.

LITTLE LENA.

DID the Pansies read in the papers about Lena Haupt?

She was only five years old when her mother died, and three months afterwards her father, who had kept her with him by the kind help of a neighbor, fell from a building where he had been working, and was so badly injured that in a short time he died. He had his little girl with him a few hours before his death, and explained to her as well as he could that he was going where her mamma had gone, but could not take her with him yet. She must be a good little girl; she had an uncle and aunt and little cousins in Chicago, and they would take care of her and love her if she was good.

Only a few days after that Lena started alone on her long journey. Her uncle had telegraphed to “send her on,” and he would meet her at the Chicago depot. There was a card tied around her neck by a ribbon, and on the card was written: “Please take care of me.” There was a letter, also, fastened to the same ribbon, which told Lena’s sad little story, and asked the passengers to be kind to her, but to please not give her any candy. She had a wee purse fastened to the buckle of her belt which had nearly two dollars in it.

As for her ticket, it had been bought and paid for, and the conductor had it in charge. Before night of that long day almost every passenger on the crowded train had called on Lena, and her wee purse was filled to its utmost capacity with shining quarters and half-dollars. She herself made a great many journeys in the porter’s arms to the parlor car, to visit with some ladies. And at last, as night was coming on, and Lena’s eyes were beginning to droop, and the conductor was considering how he could make her comfortable for the night, came a lady and gentleman and begged to have her transferred to their sleeper, where they bought a berth for her and put her to bed.

And all along the line little Lena found loving friends. I think her father and mother in Heaven must have been glad to see how warm were the hearts of even strangers toward their darling.

POSITIVE PEOPLE.

I WANT to call the attention of all Pansies to a statement made by Benjamin Franklin in his story of his life. He says he tried to form the habit of expressing himself always with great modesty. He was careful not to use the word “certainly” or “undoubtedly,” or any of those words which give an air of positiveness, when the subject was one which might be disputed. He tried always to say, “It appears to me,” or “If I am not mistaken,” or “I should think that,” etc. He declared this habit to be of great use to him in persuading others to think as he did, and that moreover it gave him a chance to learn a great deal more than he would otherwise have had; for he said he had noticed that people did not care to give information to those who acted as though they already knew all that it was possible to learn.

In many respects Benjamin Franklin was a wise man, and perhaps in no small way could he have shown his knowledge of human nature better than by adopting such rules. But I really do not think he has many followers. Just watch the conversation of even quite young people for awhile, with this thought in mind, and see how many of them seem to be absolutely sure of their position, even in regard to subjects where wise men differ. If we could have more doubt about things which have not yet been decided, and more certainty about things which God and the Bible have decided for us, we should have a much better, as well as a much pleasanter world.

HANNAH HEARALL.

OFF FOR BOYLAND.

HO! All aboard? A traveler Sets sail from Babyland! Before my eyes there comes a blur; But still I kiss my hand, And try to smile as off he goes, My bonny, winsome boy! Yes, _bon voyage_! God only knows How much I wish thee joy!

Oh! tell me; have you heard of him? He wore a sailor’s hat All silver-corded round the brim, And—stranger e’en than that— A wondrous suit of navy blue, With pockets deep and wide; Oh! tell me, sailors, tell me true, How fares he on the tide?

We’ve now no baby in the house; ’Twas but this very morn, He doffed his dainty ’broidered blouse, With skirts of snowy lawn; And shook a mass of silken curls From off his sunny brow; They fretted him—“so like a girl’s,” Mamma can have them now.

He owned a brand-new pocket-book, But that he could not find; A knife and string were all he took. What did he leave behind? A heap of blocks, with letters gay, And here and there a toy; I cannot pick them up to-day, My heart is with my boy.

Ho! Ship ahoy! At boyhood’s town Cast anchor strong and deep. What! tears upon this little gown, Left for mamma to keep? Weep not, but smile; for through the air A merry message rings— “Just sell it to the rag man there; I’ve done with baby things!” EMMA HUNTINGTON NASON. */

THE OLD WORLD TOO.

AMERICA is still the “New World.” Each day pick up something new about it. It is your world now. But there is an “Old World.” You must know about that too. If you could go and see it, so much the better. The eye is a little contrivance, but large enough to take in all England, Ireland, Scotland and any other land it gets a chance to see.

If you go abroad you must sail. There is no railroad or cable to carry you yet. A hundred years hence people may cross the Atlantic in balloons. But you can’t wait so long. Why should you? Here is the good ship Majestic—not exactly the one shown in the picture on the first page—which will take you over from New York to Liverpool in less than six days.

Once it took weeks. Sometimes a big iceberg came sailing along right across the ship’s path. Then there was a crash. Perhaps the poor little ship went to splinters and the passengers—well, you know what happened then. Sometimes a dreadful storm came down upon the ocean and the waves went up and down, looking like mountains and valleys. Not every frail ship could stand it. There was a wreck. But in spite of all these dreadful things most passengers get there and see the sights, and have a good time and get safely home. A friend has crossed the Atlantic nearly seventy times safely.

L.

CASHMERE SHAWLS.

IT is said that sixteen thousand looms are kept in constant employment in Cashmere, producing annually about thirty thousand shawls. The shawls are woven on rudely-constructed looms, a pair of shawls sometimes occupying three or four men a whole year in weaving. The Cashmere goat, which furnishes the material, is found in Thibet, the hair of it being fine, silky and about eighteen inches long. It takes the fleece of ten goats to manufacture a shawl a yard and a half square.—_Selected._

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

VI.

WHILE the folks are gone to the fair, and we have nothing to do but watch around the place and see that no tramp gets in, we might as well have a good time, and I will tell you about my brother Nero. You must not forget, though, but keep eyes, ears and nose open while I am talking.

To begin with, there was a very large family of us, or would have been if we had all been kept together. There were brothers and sisters older, and a good many younger than we. We were of the same age, and there were three others just our age, too; but they had gone to live with other families, and Nero and I were all there were left with mother. Poor, dear mother! I remember well how she used to feel when her children were taken away from her, though I was too young at that time to realize it.

When we were alone she would sigh, and many a tear have I seen fall from her eyes, as she would lap us and think of her darlings whose faces she knew not that she would ever see again.

She, poor mother, seemed to lavish all her love upon us after the other three were gone.

Mr. Bryant, our master, had a daughter—only one—whose name was Fanny. Her father and mother seemed to think the world of her; and the thing that puzzled mother was, that Mrs. Bryant, being a mother herself, should not feel more for her four-footed friend, who was a mother also. She fed us enough, and never abused us in the ways in which so many abuse their dogs; but when it came to parting mother and children it never seemed to occur to her that a mother with four feet, and that couldn’t talk, could have any motherly feelings, or care what became of her little ones.

I remember little Fanny was not so. She would cry every time one of my brothers or sisters was taken away, and after one was gone would come out with us and put her arms around mother’s silky neck and cry as though her heart would break.

Well, one day while we were quite small a man came to the house. I think he was some kind of agent. He saw mother, and could not help admiring her glossy coat and beautiful eyes, and so was anxious to get one of our family. He wanted mother herself, but soon found that money could not buy her. Fanny overheard them talking about us, and then slipped quietly out of the room, and came in great haste to where we were, and with one of us under each arm fled to a place of safety. Down through the orchard she went till she came to an old building which was used to store hay in; there, in a hole which she and some of her playmates had made to hide in, she put us, and covered us up with soft straw, and fixed it so that we could not possibly crawl out, then closed the door and went off under a sweet apple-tree to hunt for apples as though nothing had happened.

Now I suppose men will think she did not act just as she should, and perhaps she was guilty of disobedience for not telling where we were when they were hunting for us; but we were very grateful to her, and whined with delight when we heard the man drive away, and learned that he was not likely to come over that road again.

Fanny felt badly about it, and that night when she was going to bed told her mother what she had done, crying almost as hard as though we had been sold.

Fanny’s mother explained to her how it was wicked to be disobedient, and that it was disobedience to not do what she would be required to do, if all the circumstances were known, and that doing wrong that good might come of it was never right.

Then after Fanny was asleep her mother told Mr. Bryant why they had failed to find us, and after he heard the whole story he said: “Bless her dear heart; for her sake we will keep the little fellows, and Bess” (that was mother’s name) “will look at us with less sadness in her great eyes.”

So Mrs. Bryant told Fanny that they had decided to keep us both until we were much bigger, at least, and she need not worry any more about our being sold.

When they told mother you should have seen her leap for joy; she sprang up upon her hind feet, and put her fore paws upon Mr. Bryant’s breast, forgetting in her great joy that her feet were not clean; but he, good man, only patted her and let her lick his cheek, and called her “Good old Bess,” and then told her to go and look after her children and give them their supper.

I heard her say to one of the neighbors some months after, as she was telling her experience with us, that that was the first time she had lain down with any peace of mind for weeks.

Well, the bigger we grew the more Fanny loved us, and so we did her. We never let her go down in the orchard, or out into the woods, or to fish in the brook but what we went with her, and we drove everything and everybody away, unless she told us not to.

After awhile she decided that she wanted one of us in her room nights. To that arrangement her mother at first strongly objected; but her father plead for her, and the mother finally consented.

When the cold weather came on Fanny got a rug, and had Nero sleep on that rug on the foot of her bed, “to keep her feet warm,” she said.

This had been going on for some time when Mr. and Mrs. Bryant went out to visit a neighbor’s at some kind of a gathering, and left mother and me outside in our kennel to watch, and Nero to remain in the room with our little friend Fanny.

The hired man and the cook, instead of remaining at home as they were expected to, went to spend the evening with a neighbor, thinking it would be all right with Fanny, as she was asleep. But it had been ironing day, and the clothes had been left hanging in the kitchen to air, and how it was no one will ever know, but in some way they took fire. Mother was the first to discover it, and began to bark with all her might to awaken Fanny and Nero. I remember that I barked too, just as hard and loud as I could.

Soon Nero heard it, and began to feel that something must be the matter somewhere. His first thought was that he ought to awaken his young mistress, and he went at the job as best he knew. But she was too sound asleep to be awakened by barking, do the best he could; so he sprang upon her shoulder and began to pull at her nightdress, and finally took her by the ear, and pulled so hard that it almost started the blood. Then she awakened in a great fright, for a bright light was shining so she could see everything in her room.

Pulling on her shoes and stockings, and wrapping around her some of the blankets from her bed, she opened the door, which fortunately was near the stairs.

With the help of Nero she made her way through the smoke to the street, about the time the neighbors began to arrive. They were too late to have been of any help to Fanny, for the flames would have overtaken her before they reached there, but for Nero. By the time Mr. and Mrs. Bryant reached home the house was far gone. When they saw the flames they seemed almost crazy with fright; for they remembered that they had left their only child asleep in the second story. It was some minutes before they could be made to understand that Fanny was safe.

She and Nero had been hurried to the house of a neighbor, and when they found them Fanny had her arms around Nero’s neck.

When Fanny was being tucked into bed for a second time that night she said to her mother: “Are you not glad that I kept Nero from being sold? Because if he had not been there to wake me up you wouldn’t have had any little girl now.”

From that time Nero was a great pet, and I was very proud of him, though I could not help being a little bit vexed because nobody gave mother and me any credit for awakening him. One day I said something about it to her, and she said: “Never mind, Major; we know ourselves that we did our duty, and that is the important thing.”

R.

HOW TO MAKE A SCREEN BAG.

(_Something for Mamma._)

IT is my opinion that the little girl who makes this convenient thing which I am about to describe, will need to have an accommodating brother who owns a box of tools and knows how to use them. Or she may have a good friend among the carpenters who are at work on the next corner. Still another way would be to get papa enlisted and agree to divide mamma’s birthday present with him; that is, let him share the honor of getting it up.

However that part may be managed here is yours, my dear, industrious little girl.

The name of the article is Screen Bag. I have no doubt you know how fond mamma is of bags, of all shapes and sizes, for keeping her unmended stockings, or perhaps, more truthfully speaking, your and your brothers’ and sisters’ unmended stockings, for balls of cord, and rolls of tape, and papers of hooks and eyes, and I have not room to tell how many other things. Well, this Screen Bag is just the thing. First get your frames made of common pine wood, three of them, of about the right height to furnish a comfortable screen for mamma if she wishes to keep the wind from blowing on her, or the firelight from burning her face. Indeed, you must decide where she will be likely to want to use the screen, and plan its size accordingly. Then you want some bright cloth of a pretty color; perhaps red, if that harmonizes best with the colors in your mother’s room, or possibly blue or a soft rich brown; what you will, so that it is strong. Cretonne is good, so is the striped cotton furniture cloth which may be found at any upholsterer’s, and in nearly all large city stores. You want two kinds; one for the front and one for the back of your screen. The back or lining side need not be made of such strong material. English cambric or common calico will do nicely. Of course the amount of material needed will depend upon the size of your frames; some careful measurements with a tape line will be necessary. Now get your “pockets” ready, as many as you have room for, and of whatever size you think the most useful. The first or lower row should be a little larger than the ones above. The screen I have in mind had two good-sized pockets below, three smaller ones above, four above them, and five tiny ones at the top. These may be made of the same cloth as the screen, or of different colors, according to your taste and the variety of material at command. They should be hemmed neatly at the top and stitched firmly to the cloth; first basted, then sewed in the machine, to insure strength; or, if you do not understand a sewing machine, and want to do all the work yourself, you can take strong thread, and make a back stitch for every third or fourth one, and do the whole by hand.

Now you want some brass-headed nails—round heads, you know. Finally, your frames are ready for the brass hinges on which they are to swing. You will need four of these, and when they are screwed into their places your Bag Screen will be finished. Fifty-two pockets! My word for it, if your mamma does not feel richer than she ever did in her life, after she has her conveniences packed away in those delightful pockets, which besides holding them, are at work screening her from the heat, or sun, or wind, I shall be very much astonished.

I shall hope to hear that some of the Pansies have tried this experiment.

PANSY.

ABOUT MINNEAPOLIS.

BY THE PANSIES.

A GOOD many years ago there used to be a city named St. Anthony. It was built on the east side of the Mississippi River; then a city grew up on the west side named Minneapolis, and after awhile it swallowed St. Anthony and made one big city of itself on both sides of the river. I think St. Anthony would have been a prettier name for the city, on account of the Falls of St. Anthony being right there. But Minneapolis is pretty, too. I have never been there, but my brother has, and some day he is going to take me a long journey all over the West; then we will visit Minneapolis, and I will write to the Pansies about it.

HELEN M. LEEDS.

* * * * *

THE flouring mills of Minneapolis are the largest in the world. They can make thirty-eight thousand barrels of flour in a day if they want to; and I guess they want to, for their flour is famous all over the country. I order flour for my grandmother, and she won’t have a barrel which does not say “Minneapolis” on it. I should think the coopers would all get rich out there. I read in a book that in one year they sold pretty nearly three million barrels!

JOHN WILLIS LEEDS.

* * * * *

I DON’T know what I can write about Minneapolis. I think it is just like any other great big city, with electric lights, and street cars, and parks, and all those things, of course. I think cities are all alike; I like the country myself. But Minneapolis grows faster than many cities do. My grandfather was there in 1860, and there were only about six thousand inhabitants; now there are two hundred and twenty-five thousand. Some say more, but I think that is enough.

HARVEY CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

I AM so glad it has come time to write about Minneapolis, because I went there myself only a year ago. I do think it is the loveliest place I was ever in. It seems more like a great big beautiful town than a city. The houses are not crowded together in great ugly-looking brick rows, all just alike, as they are in Philadelphia, and on some streets in New York; but almost all of them have lovely grounds, and trees, and flowers, and pretty lawns. Oh! I liked it all so much. We had a picnic out at the Falls of Minnehaha, the prettiest place I ever saw in my life. There is a magnificent park out there of more than a hundred acres, and the drive all the way through the city to the park is perfectly beautiful. Then of course the falls themselves are just too lovely! We had Mr. Dickson the elocutionist with us, and after lunch he recited parts of Longfellow’s poem about “Minnehaha, Laughing Water.” I had never read “Hiawatha” then, but I have since, and I know several pages of it by heart. But you cannot think how lovely it was to have Mr. Dickson recite it right at the falls. We took a great many lovely drives while we were in the city. We stopped at West Hotel, which is one of the finest in the United States, or for that matter in the world. It can accommodate twelve hundred guests, and it seemed as though there must be that number in the house while we were there. When we met in the great dining-room it seemed queer to think that there were more people there than can be found in the village where I live. Still I like our little village in the summer, and would not exchange it for a city. I would like to describe West Hotel, but I cannot, except to say that the furniture was grand, and everything was elegant. We rode past Senator Washburn’s house a great many times. It is out on Twenty-second Street and Third Avenue, and has ten acres of the most charming grounds, so that it is just the same to him as living in the country. The house is built of a kind of stone which is called kasota, and is very beautiful. I did not mean to make my letter so long, but there is a great deal to tell.

ALICE WASHBURNE MILLS.

* * * * *

I HAVE an aunt who is very fond of visiting churches. When she goes to a new place, if it is only a village, she wants to see all the churches and know about them. When she was in Minneapolis first, years ago, it was a little bit of a place, and my aunt is an old lady, and does not read the newspapers much, and did not realize that Minneapolis had grown a great deal. She went there last spring to visit a nephew. She reached there in the night, and was taken in a carriage to her nephew’s house, and did not realize the changes at all. The next morning at breakfast, when her nephew asked her what she would like to see in the city, she said she would like to visit the different churches if she could, and that perhaps as the day was pleasant they could go that morning.

“Very well,” said her nephew; “to which ones shall we go?”

“Oh! to all of them,” answered my aunt; “we can take a few minutes for each and see them all this forenoon, can we not?”

“Certainly,” said her nephew; “just as well as not. There are only about a hundred and sixty, I believe.”

And that was the first time my aunt knew that she was in a big city instead of the little town she had left thirty years or so before. But I don’t think her nephew was very polite to an old lady. She saw a good many of the churches, among them Dr. Wayland Hoyt’s, which she said she liked the best of all. It is the First Baptist Church of Minneapolis, and cost two hundred thousand dollars. It will seat about fifteen hundred people. I thought the Pansies would like to hear about it, because Dr. Hoyt wrote one of our “Regret” letters for us.

MINNIE ANDREWS.

* * * * *

MY uncle is a lawyer and lives in Minneapolis. He says the City Hall is just splendid. It cost three million dollars. Its great tower is three hundred and forty-five feet high, and there are only two others in the United States which can get above that. There isn’t any danger that this building will ever burn up, for it is made fire proof. I wonder why they don’t make all buildings fire proof? Then we would not have to buy engines, and pay firemen, and keep great splendid horses doing nothing all day long but wait for fires. This City Hall which I began to tell you about is three hundred feet square, and fills up a great block on four streets. I should like to see it. My uncle has a photograph of it, and it looks magnificent. I am going to be a lawyer, and I shall have an office in Minneapolis.

HARRY DENNING.

* * * * *

MY father was acquainted with Governor Washburn, who gave three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars for the Washburn Memorial Orphan Asylum in Minneapolis. My father has been there to see the asylum. He says it is in a beautiful place, with lovely trees and plants in the grounds. There were fifty-seven orphans there when father visited it. I am glad they have such a nice place. I would like to be rich, like Governor Washburn, and give lots of money to something. I think I shall be, and I shall found an orphan asylum somewhere, but not in Minneapolis, because they don’t need another.

HORACE WEBSTER.

* * * * *

MINNEAPOLIS was started about the same time that St. Anthony was. They grew about the same for awhile, then Minneapolis got to growing so fast that about all which could be heard in that city was the pounding of hammers. Afterwards St. Anthony and Minneapolis were united.

Minneapolis was naturally a very pretty place, and until the last few years it was called the prettiest city in Minnesota, but now St. Paul is prettier.

MILLIE ROWELL.

* * * * *

I ATTENDED the International Christian Endeavor Convention when it met in Minneapolis. I was a Junior delegate. We had a splendid time. The convention was held in the great Exposition building, which is three hundred and fifty feet square. That is, they made a big hall for the convention inside the building, and it held more than ten thousand people.

My sister and I visited the Public Library. It is a very handsome building. They say it cost a good deal over three hundred thousand dollars. We sat in one of the elegant reading-rooms and read books while our uncle was looking up something in books of reference. There are thousands and thousands of volumes there; I did know how many, but have forgotten. The street cars in Minneapolis are all electric. My sister did not like to ride on them when there was a thunderstorm, but I was not afraid. There are lots of lakes all around that part of the country, and of course the Falls of St. Anthony are there. It is queer to have a splendid falls in the midst of a city.

I think I like Minneapolis better than any place I was ever in. I may go to stay with my uncle and attend the University of Minnesota, which is there. That is what I want to do. If I go I shall know more about Minneapolis, and will write again.

THOMAS BAILEY ATWOOD.

THE OSBORNE HOME.

(_Character Studies._)

ALL day long the Osborne home had been in a state of excitement. It had been very difficult for the family to attend to its usual duties. The little girls had at first declared that they could not go to school at all; and then, being convinced that they must, it had been nearly impossible to get them ready in time. Even the baby had caught the unrest, and refused to take his long morning nap and give the seventeen-year-old sister Mary a chance to attend to the work. The explanation was that mother was coming home. She had been away a whole month, an unheard-of thing in the history of the family before this season.

The fact is, Mrs. Osborne was one of those mothers who would never have been persuaded to leave her home and her children had it not become a serious duty to do so. She had been in poor health for several months, and grandmamma had written and coaxed and urged, and at last almost commanded that she should come back to the old home and the old physician, and see if he could not help her. One terrible thing about it was, that this same physician refused to allow her to bring her baby along. “I know just how it will be,” he said, shaking his gray head and looking wise. “The baby is a strong, healthy little fellow, and a perfect tyrant as they all are, and he will be carried, and put to sleep, and fed, and petted by his mother and nobody else; he will be more positive about it than usual, being among strangers, and he will just keep her worn out. There is no use in talking, Mrs. Fuller, I know your daughter Mary of old, and I will not consent to try to help her unless she will leave that fellow at home and come away from all care for a month.”

Well, the doctor had had his way, as he nearly always did, and Mrs. Osborne, having declared that it would be utterly impossible to go away from home and leave Baby and the little girls, and only Mary to look after them all, had been gotten ready and carried to the cars. And a whole month had passed, and she, wonderfully improved, was coming home to-day. Father had driven to the depot three miles away to meet her, and the house was in commotion.

Mary, the housekeeper, nurse and mother-in-charge, had had a busy day. There were still a dozen things which she meant to have done before mother came, not the least among them being to get herself in order; for her apron was torn, her slippers were down at the heel, her hair was what her father called “frowsly,” and, in short, she did not look in the least as she meant to when the mother should put her arms around her. Then there were last things to be done all over the house, and the table to be set for the early tea-dinner which was to do honor to the traveler’s newly-found appetite. Yet, notwithstanding all this, Mary, feeling sure that the time must now be short, allowed herself to drop down into the chair which she had been dusting, draw from her pocket the mother’s last letter, whose contents she knew by heart, and glancing at it, go to studying for the dozenth time the possibility that her mother might have meant the evening train instead of the afternoon, in which case she would not be there for several hours.

“Let me see; I almost believe that is the way, after all,” she said, biting the feather end of the old quill which she had picked up somewhere in her dusting, and looking vexed and disheartened. “I am sure I don’t know how I am to keep the children from growing wild, if they have to wait three hours longer.”

Meantime, the children, in the other room, were in various stages of excitement. Helen, the older of the three, in whose charge Baby Joe was especially put, occupied herself in racing to the front gate every few minutes to see if she could not get a glimpse of her father’s horse and wagon climbing the hill; and Baby Joe, each time she went, either reached after and tumbled over something which he ought not to have touched, or tumbled down, in his eager haste to follow to the gate. In this way the room was being put into more or less disorder.

“How perfectly silly you are!” said Jessie, looking up from the book she was reading, as Helen came back panting for the third time. “Just as though racing to the gate every few minutes would bring them any quicker! and look at Joe; he has tipped the spools all out of mother’s box. A nice tangle they will be in.”

“Why didn’t you keep him from them then?” asked Helen irritably; “you are doing nothing but pore over a story book. I should think you would go and comb your hair and change your dress. Mother will not like to see you in such a tangle, I can tell you.”