Chapter XIII: Part II (6)

“There is time enough,” said Jessie, yawning. “I can’t do anything but read a story book; it is impossible to settle to anything when mother is so near home as she must be by this time. I haven’t done a thing this afternoon; I couldn’t. I don’t see how Elsie can bend over that stupid History, just as if nothing unusual was going to happen.”

This made Elsie raise her eyes; they were pretty brown ones. She was a little girl of about ten, in a neat blue dress, and with her hair in perfect order. “I thought it would be a good plan to get my history ready for to-morrow while I was waiting,” she said, “then I will not have to study this evening, when I want to listen to mother. I should think you would like to get your examples done; and anyhow, Jessie, you ought to comb your hair; it looks like a fright.”

“I mean to, of course,” said Jessie. “I dare say there is time enough. Father can’t drive fast on such a warm afternoon; and besides, Mary said she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he should have to wait for the evening train. Wouldn’t that be just horrid! If it were not for the lovely story I am reading I couldn’t endure this waiting another minute.”

“It’s easier to wait when you are at work doing what ought to be done,” said Elsie, with the air of a philosopher.

“Oh! you are a regular Miss Prim,” said Helen, laughing, as she stooped to pick little Joe out of another piece of carefully planned mischief; “for my part, I think it is horrid to have anything that ought to be done at such a time. Joe, you little nuisance, I do wish you would go to sleep, and give me a chance to watch for mother. I hope I shall get all the things picked up and put to rights that you have upset before mother comes; she will not be charmed with the looks of the room if I don’t. However, there really must be oceans of time yet.”

“Then why did you race down to the gate every few minutes to see if they were coming?” Jessie asked.

“Oh! because I did not know what else to do,” said Helen; “I knew better, of course. Take care, Joe! There, I declare! he has done it now.”

Sure enough he had! Jerked at the table spread where Helen herself had set the inkstand, intending to put it away in a few minutes, and sent a black stream not only over his own white dress, but on the carpet as well. Mary, who still sat studying the letter, and thinking of the things which she meant to accomplish before her mother came, having by this time decided that it was entirely probable that they must wait for the evening train, heard the exclamations of dismay from the other room, and rose up to see what was the trouble; but at that instant an eager cry from Elsie: “There they come!” sounded on the ears of all. Helen gathered up the screaming Joe under one arm, and calling to Mary to look out for the ink on the carpet, ran out of one door, just as Jessie scurried out of another, eager to dash upstairs and brush her hair before her father saw her; for his last charge had been to her to see to it that she did not appear before her mother in that plight. Mary, burning with shame and disappointment over the little last things which she meant to have ready, waited to mop up the ink, while Elsie, closing the door on the disordered room, went forward to meet the beloved mother.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

IN THE CABIN OF THE MAYFLOWER.

THIS is a company of Pilgrims in the cabin of the blessed ship _Mayflower_, on their way over a stormy sea from Plymouth, England, to find a place in America where they may worship God “according to the dictates of their own consciences.”

This was two hundred and seventy years ago. Of course the people did not dress then just as they do now, as you can well see by noticing their broad collars and queer trousers. How queer our dress will look to our great-grandchildren.

The dear _Mayflower_ was not such a grand ship as the Cunarder. It had to depend—not upon steam—but upon a favoring wind, and the wind does not always seem to favor, so it took her weeks to cross the stormy Atlantic, and the passengers (Puritans they were called) were very sick; but because they had suffered so much from cruel people in England they did not complain, as they believed God held the waves in his hand, and he was guiding the _Mayflower_ as much as he did the Israelites to Palestine—“a land flowing with milk and honey.” So they patiently and cheerfully waited in the _Mayflower’s_ small cabin, often singing hymns and praying and encouraging each other.

At last on Monday, December 21, 1620, they landed on Plymouth Rock, Mass., happy as birds escaped from a cage.

They had much trouble with the Indians; but after a time they began to build, with other Pilgrims, at other points, our great nation.

L.

* * * * *

THERE is a woman living in Manchester, England, who is said to have a Bible two feet long and nearly two feet wide. At the top of each page is printed in red ink: “This is a history.” The Bible is two hundred years old, and is the largest one in the world, it is supposed.

BABY’S CORNER.

BABY’S CLOCK.

NOBODY finks I can tell the time of day, but I can.

The first hour is five o’clock in the morning.

That’s the time the birds begin to peep. I lie still and hear them sing:

“Tweet, tweet, tweet!
Chee, chee, chee!”

But mamma is fast asleep. Nobody awake in all the world but just me and the birds.

Bimeby the sun gets up and it’s six o’clock in the morning.

Then mamma opens one eye and I can hear her say:

“Where’s my baby?”

N’en I keep still—jus’ as still as a mouse, an’ she keeps saying:

“Where’s my baby?”

N’en all at once I go “Boo!” and she laughs and hugs me, and says “I’m a precious.”

Mamma’s nice, and I love her ’cept when she washes my face too hard and pulls my hair with the comb.

Seven o’clock!

That’s when the bell goes jingle, jingle, and we have breakfast.

All the eight an’ nine an’ ten an’ ’leven hours I play.

I run after butterflies and squirrels, and swing, and read my picture book, and sometimes I cry—jus’ a little bit.

Twelve o’clock!

That’s a bu’ful hour. The clock strikes a lot of times, and the big whistle goes, and the bell rings, and papa comes home, and dinner’s ready!

The one and two hours are lost. Mamma always carries me off to take a nap. I don’t like naps. They waste time.

When we wake up the clock strikes three. N’en I have on my pink dress, and we go walking or riding.

And so the three and four and five hours are gone.

At six o’clock Bossy comes home, and I have my drink of warm milk.

N’en I put on my white gown, and kiss everybody “good-night,” and say “Now I lay me,” and get into my bed.

Mamma says:

“Now the sun and the birdies and my little baby are all gone to bed, and to sleep, sleep, sleep.”

So I shut my eyes tight, and next you know ’tis morning!

An’ ’nat’s all the time there is.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

OCTOBER’S PARTY.

OCTOBER gave a party—
The leaves by hundreds came—
The Chestnuts, Oaks and Maples,
And leaves of every name;

The sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand;
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow,
The Oaks in crimson dressed;
The lovely Misses Maple
In scarlet looked their best.

All balanced to their partners,
And gaily fluttered by;
The sight was like a rainbow
New-fallen from the sky.

Then in the rustic hollows
At hide-and-seek they played.
The party closed at sundown,
And everybody staid.

Professor Wind played louder,
They flew along the ground,
And then the party ended
In “hands across, all round.”
_From “Song Stories for Little People.”_

FIVE-MINUTE ACQUAINTANCES.

(_Character Studies._)

IT was a bright cool morning that we were riding down Delaware Avenue in a street car which had very few passengers. It gave me a chance to study human nature. I began the study with a very handsomely dressed boy. Jacket and collar and necktie and hair all showed that very careful people had planned for him, and that they had plenty of money to spend on him. They came into the car just after I was seated, the boy and his mother. She was tall and pale, and in deep mourning; I wondered if her husband were dead, and if this boy were the only one she had to think about or care for her. If so she was to be pitied, poor woman! for it soon became evident that the young man thought about and cared for himself. His first exhibition was to fling his heavy overcoat on his mother’s lap as he said: “Here, mamma, hold that, and give me the tickets for the conductor.”

“I haven’t tickets, dear,” she said; “I shall have to buy some.”

“O, well! all right, give me your pocket-book and let me buy them.”

“No, dear, there is a good deal of money in my pocket-book, and some valuable papers.”

“What of that?” he said, in a tone loud enough for all the passengers to hear; “I ain’t going to lose them; don’t I know how to take care of things? Give me the purse.” It was passed over without more words.

“Take a quarter from the silver money,” the mother advised a moment later.

“O, no, mamma! I want to give him a bill, to see if he makes the right change. Here’s a five; that will do; no, let me see.” He jerked his arm suddenly away from the mother’s hand, which reached after the pocket-book, and several pieces of silver flew out and rolled around on the floor.

“There!” he said, in a reproachful tone, “see what you have made me do; now you have lost some of your money.”

“Pick it up, Harold, that’s a good boy.”

He stooped and picked up a twenty-five cent piece, then said:

“Never mind the rest. It has rolled round under the seat somewhere, and it is all dust; I can’t get down on my knees and hunt; never mind, let it go. Say, mamma, give me that box of candy.”

“Not now; I would rather you did not eat any more candy, Harold, until we get home.”

“Why not? I don’t want to wait; I haven’t eaten much. Come, it’s my candy, and I want it. You bought it for me, and I think you are mean not to let me have it.”

“Hush, Harold! do not talk so loud. Hold your overcoat, dear; it is too heavy for mamma.”

“Oh! I can’t, it is too hot. I did not need that great big overcoat anyhow, and I told you so. I’m not going to hold it. Drop it on the floor if you don’t want to keep it. But give me that box of candy. O, mamma! there’s a procession coming down the street—soldiers, and everything. I’m going out on the platform to see them.”

He made a dash forward, and the pale, anxious mother reached after him, trying to arrest his steps, dropping as she did so not only the overcoat, but the pocket-book again. The pennies and the ten-cent pieces rolled around freely, while Harold, looking behind him, gave a mocking laugh, and was out on the platform.

They had not been in the car over five minutes. And yet I was quite as well acquainted with Harold as I had any desire to be.

At the North Street corner the pale little mother left the car with the heavy overcoat over one arm, and the pocket-book, with what change she had been able to find, in her hand, while Harold, tugging at her sleeve, was heard to say, “Mamma, I want that candy this minute!”

At Reed Street came three passengers, a boy about the size of the one who had left us, and two little girls, one perhaps seven, and the other not over four. The boy was freckled-faced, and by no means so handsome as Harold. His clothes were very neat, but of the coarse, common sort worn by children of the moderately poor. The little girls beside him were as neat as wax—faces and hands and hair in perfect order; but their sacks and hats were of last year’s fashion—perhaps older still than that—and I fancy Harold would have laughed outright at the little old overcoat which hung over the boy’s arm.

They took their seats quietly, and made no disturbance of any sort. But there were so few in the car, and we were passing at that time through such a quiet street, that I could hear distinctly the words they spoke to one another.

“Better put on your sack, Janie,” said the boy, with a thoughtful air, looking at the older sister, “the wind blows in pretty strong here.” Janie immediately arose and began tugging at her sack. The boy, with the manners of a gentleman accustomed to the work, took hold of it at the shoulders and skillfully steered the little arms into place, pulling it down behind, and bestowing meanwhile side glances upon the little sister.

“Sit still, Bessie, that’s a good girl. No, don’t stand, dear; mamma wouldn’t like you to stand, the cars shake so.”

Down sat Bessie again, trying to put herself squarely on the seat. Failing in this her protector turned next to her, lifted her plump little form into place, then straightened her hat and returned a confiding smile which she gave him. Meantime the car was filling up, and in a few minutes every seat was taken. There came next a middle-aged woman, black of face, and very shabby as to toilet, with a market basket on her arm. Quick as thought the little gentleman arose, and touching her arm motioned her to his seat. Then Janie reached forward for his overcoat. “Let me hold your overcoat, Charlie,” she said, “because you haven’t any seat.”

“O, no!” said Charlie, smiling back at her, “I can carry it as well as not. Bessie dear, don’t climb up that way, you will fall.”

Down sat Bessie, who had mounted on her fat little knees to look out of the window.

“Now, Janie,” said the little man at last, when they were near the Dean Street crossing, “we are to get out at this corner. I will take Bessie’s hand and go ahead, and you keep close to me. We will stand still on the sidewalk until the car passes, then I will take you both across.”

Away they went, and I watched them making their way carefully across the crowded street, the brother’s arm thrown protectingly around Bessie, and his eyes on the watch for any possible danger to either of his charges. I had made his acquaintance in five minutes, too, and knew more about him than he would have imagined possible.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

THINGS WHICH SOME PEOPLE REGRET.

THE “Regret” which we give you this month comes from a very high source. Almost every scholar of ancient languages will recognize the name. It is a very pleasant thought that these great men out of their busy lives have stopped to give us a glimpse of their past, in order to help the young people of to-day, who will be the men and women of to-morrow, to avoid the mistakes which they did not. We hope and believe that the Pansies will receive great benefit from these glimpses from the youth of great people.

“I regret that I have not better acquired the art of
pleasantly acknowledging the kindnesses shown me, and
of showing my appreciation of people whom I really do
appreciate. My influence with many would be greatly
increased if I could but make them understand how
warmly my heart goes out to them.”

WILLIS J. BEECHER.

DR. W. J. BEECHER, _Professor of Hebrew in Auburn
Theological Seminary_.

(_Luke_ ix. 23; xiv. 27.)

AND didst thou hear the Master say
He that would my disciple be,
Let him deny himself each day,
Take up his cross, and follow me?
Oh! wondrous love, that did devise
For us this “straight and narrow way,”
Beyond which, in the distance, lies
The realms of pure and perfect day.

A HAPPY BOY.

HIS name is Willie Addis, and he lives in Plainfield, N. J. A few weeks ago his mother turned down the wicks of her kerosene stove, and leaned over it to blow out the flame, when the stove exploded, and in an instant she was in flames. With one bound Willie was in the kitchen, seizing the large woolen mat from the floor as he ran, and in less time than it takes me to tell it, he had wrapped the mat about his mother and extinguished the flames! The kitchen furniture was burned, but that was about all, and the dear mother was saved by her quick-witted ten-year-old son, who had heard somewhere that woolen wrapped closely about a burning object so as to exclude the air, will put out the fire. It is not every boy of his age who knows that fact; and there are many who, knowing it, would not have had presence of mind enough to have applied their knowledge promptly. Willie did, and he has his mother. Certainly I think he must be a happy boy, and I am sure she is a glad, proud mother.

How is one to help hoping and praying that he may never be other than a joy to her in the years to come?

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

I AM very fond of the little ones, and like to have them around me, and as the puppies are in the majority it will be their turn to have a short story this time.

If you do not have to go home too soon perhaps I will have time to tell you more than one; we will see. Oh! the children are to stay to tea, are they? All right. Now, attention!

All those who would like to hear a story about a chicken—“a real truly story,” as the children say—wag your tails.

Those opposed, bark. Carried. The vote for the chicken story is about unanimous.

I suppose some of you have very poor opinions of chickens and hens; you think because they have but two legs, and are so easily frightened, they don’t amount to much; but the master and mistress think quite differently when they eat the nice fresh eggs which the hens furnish. Why, some of those proud young crowers have hearts as well as we. I remember so well a little old white blind hen which my master once had, and how kindly she was treated. (She could see just a little with one eye, but we called her blind.)

The young man who worked upon the place took a fancy to “Old Whitey,” as they called her, and when master wanted to send her to market this fellow pretended he couldn’t find her, so she was kept till very old.

The gallant young crowers which roosted in the same shed with her would never fight this old “grandmother,” but were just as kind to her as they knew how to be. Sometimes when one of them had found a nice lot of worms under something he had scratched over, “Whitey” would come along hungry, and he would leave the nice mess for her, and look further for himself.

Was not that gallant and kind? Would all of you do as well as that? Be as unselfish?

But this is not the chicken I was to tell you about. He was a poor orphan, his mother having died when he was but a little yellow ball upon two little pins of legs.

I had not much to do with this pet, only as I visited his home occasionally, and saw and played with him a little.

It was my cousin Tip who had most to do with this bright feathered fellow, and to whom he was indebted for most of his education.

Tip was a great favorite; in fact, his mistress was fond of all sorts of pets; had a name for each of her cows, and for every one of her hens, so she had a name for this chicken.

Tip used to go about wherever he pleased, and so did the chicken. My cousin was in the habit of taking almost anything he could find, and dragging it to the spot where he wished to lie, then make a bed of it and go to sleep.

His little friend the chicken for awhile watched him with envious eyes—for I regret to say Cousin Tip was too selfish to provide a bed for any one besides himself.

But this chicken evidently thought “what had been done could be done,” so he asserted his independence, and gathered up what he could carry or drag; put the articles—stockings, handkerchiefs or rags—in a heap near Tip’s bed, and would then tread them down as he had seen Tip do, and squat upon them for a make-believe nap. Now wasn’t that a pretty bright chicken, and was not Tip a pretty successful teacher for one so young?

No, that lesson wouldn’t be much for a bright little dog to learn; but we do not expect much intelligence in a hen or rooster.

I suppose they cannot understand what people say to them as we do. And some people do not seem to think we understand what they tell us to do or not to do, even when they tell us we have done well.

I remember so well when I was young, though almost as large as I am now, how I astonished a lady by acting as though I understood what she said to me.

It was in the country, where the houses were quite a distance apart. I had been caring for this woman’s little girl for more than a week, and had kept her out of lots of mischief, and prevented her from getting many an ugly fall, though I had never been asked to do it.

One day little Cynthia (that was her name) wanted to go over to see her grandmother, who lived in the next house, nearly a quarter of a mile away. The mother told her there was no one to go with her. She said she could go alone, and coaxed so hard that the mother said she might go. So Cynthia put her little hat on, and her mother kissed her good-by, and she started. Then her mother turned to me and said: “Major, you go with her and take good care of my darling; don’t you let anything hurt her.”

How proud I was! I went right by her side all the way, and never left her for one moment until she was safe at home.

Then the lady called me a “good, faithful fellow,” and I was very happy. But when the men came in at night and she told them what I had done, I felt ashamed to hear her say, “He acted just as though he knew what I told him.”

The idea! Why shouldn’t I understand, I would like to know? They talk about things which I do not understand, but when they give me such a plain direction as that I guess I can hear it, and know what they mean, too.

There goes the whistle, and you must scamper. Good-by!

G. R. A.

A CAREFUL MOTHER.

A TRUSTWORTHY writer in one of our exchanges says that last summer near his room a humming-bird built her tiny nest and reared her family. One day when there was a heavy shower coming up, just as the first drops fell the mother came fluttering home, seized a large leaf which grew on the tree near her nest, drew it over the nest in a way to completely cover it, then went back to whatever work she had been about when the coming storm disturbed her. The amused watchers from the window wondered why the leaf did not blow away, and finally reached out and examined it; they found it hooked to a tiny stick which was just inside the nest, as if it had been built in for that purpose! The storm lasted but a few minutes, and after it was over home came the mother, unhooked the green curtain she had so carefully put up, and found her babies perfectly dry.

CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR SAINTS.

(_Something for Mamma._)

NOT something to make, this time, but to buy. It is a lovely new book bound in blue and silver, and the title is “Christian Endeavor Saints.”

It is written by Dr. F. E. Clark, the father of all the Christian Endeavor societies. If your mamma is not a member of that society it will make no difference, she will like the book very much; it has a great many short bright articles in it, not too long for a busy mother to read when she sits down for a minute or two of rest. The first part of the book has short letters addressed to different saints.

One, for instance, to “St. Neighborly,” another to “St. Hopeful,” another to “St. Speakwell,” and so on.

Then there are many “Golden Rule Recipes” for the cure of all sorts of troubles, as well as what is perhaps better, for the prevention of many.

Let me give you one which is called:

A RECIPE FOR A HAPPY DAY.

“At the very beginning of the day take a large
amount of good nature, and double the quantity of
determination to make the best of things, a heaping
measure of bodily vigor, and mix well in the mortar
of gratitude with the pestle of the remembrance of
past mercies. A season of prayer and praise is always
necessary to the proper mixture of these ingredients.
Then add to this a considerable, but not too large,
portion of well-regulated tongue, a slice of charity
that thinketh no evil and is not easily provoked, a
portion of hopefulness for the future, and a large
measure of faith in God and fellowmen. Season this with
the salt of shrewdness and thrift, and sweeten with
plenty of the sugar of love for all God’s creatures.
Put in a large handful of plums of parental or filial
affection, and a number of pieces of neighborly
friendliness; and somewhere in the day conceal one
special service for the Lord’s poor. Slide this
good deed into the mixture quietly, without saying
anything about it. Do not use any of the sour milk of
disappointed hopes, or brooding cares, for this will
spoil the whole; and while there should be a pinch
of the pepper of fun, and considerable sweet oil of
joviality, do not use any of the mustard of backbiting,
or the table sauce of slander.

“Let the mixture boil gently, but do not let it boil
over, for the delicate flavor of the ingredients is
injured by too much heat.

“This recipe has been tried in a hundred thousand
households, and has never been known to fail.”

There are many more recipes quite as unique and as helpful as this.

Then follows a series of “Golden Rule Sermons” on all sorts of important topics, such as “Getting Muddled with the Unimportant,” on “Living as we Sing,” on “Poor Excuses,” and the like. Finally there are letters addressed to “Grandmother Lois,” “Mrs. Neataswax,” “Miss Youngheart,” “Mrs. Vitriol,” and a host of other people whom we have met.

From one, addressed to “The Birds that can Sing, and won’t Sing,” I want to quote a little:

MY DEAR BIRDS:

“I watched you last Wednesday evening in the mid-week
prayer meeting, and none of you moved your lips, even
when we sang ‘Rock of Ages’ and ‘Jesus, Lover of my
Soul.’ The singing was weak and languid and thin, when
your voices might have put body and life and strength
into it. I know that you can sing if you have a mind
to, for do I not hear you every Sunday in the church
choir? . . . Did I not hear you sing, too, at Miss Flora
McFlimsey’s birthday party the other evening? Yes,
indeed; you gathered around the piano, and the way
you warbled forth the glees and college songs did my
heart good. But there you were at the church prayer
meeting, members of the church, members of the Society
of Christian Endeavor; you had promised more than once
to do your duty faithfully, and yet you kept still,
simply because the singing wasn’t very artistic, or
because somebody behind you ‘screeched so,’ as you
inelegantly expressed it, or because the old deacon on
the front seat dragged, and ‘put you all out.’ Now, my
dear birds, pardon the plain words of an old man, and
your pastor at that. The prayer meeting singing is just
as important a part of worship, and just as acceptable
in God’s sight, as your choir or solo singing with all
its frills and furbelows. The ‘screecher’ and the old
deacon are both doing the best they can; and if you
did the best you could their voices would not be so
prominent, and the music would be far better. Then,
too, do you not think it indicates a little touch of
conceit to sing only when your voices will show off to
advantage, and let the poor prayer meeting suffer for
lack of them? I am sure, my dear birds, that you never
thought of the matter in that light, for after all you
mean to be conscientious as well as tuneful birds; and
I am quite confident that when, next Wednesday evening,
I give out ‘Rock of Ages,’ you will ‘raise it’ on your
clear strong voices, and give the prayer meeting such a
start and uplift as it has not had for many a day.”

I did not mean to quote it all, but it was so good I could not find a place to stop. I think you will enjoy it, and so will mamma, or your older sister, or indeed any one who loves to read bright, pure, helpful thoughts.

The book has about two hundred and fifty pages. I really do not know how much it costs, but your bookseller can easily find out for you.

PANSY.

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xviii. 2.)

NOW does this mean that all children are good Christians, and are surely in the Kingdom of Heaven? But you know many who are not good. They are profane; they break the Sabbath, and all the other holy commands of God. Some are so very bad that their parents send them to reformatories, which are a sort of prison.

Some years ago a boy by the name of Jesse Pomeroy, when he was quite young, began to torture children when he could get them into his power. As he grew a little older and stronger he would get children away from home and lead them out into some desolate place, and bind them to a tree and do dreadful things to them.

It is thought that this wicked boy caused the death of several children.

There are more Jesse Pomeroys. Jesus did not mean that all children are perfectly good. Indeed every one—children, too—must be born again—that is, converted—to get into the Kingdom of Heaven.

What, then, did Jesus mean in this verse? Why, simply that all must “humble” themselves; must repent and trust in him to be saved. Every true child is ready to do this, much more so than grown-up folks.

Grown-up people do not like to confess that they are sinners. They—most of them—refuse to humble themselves, as most very young folks do.

Now have you really humbled yourself?

L.

* * * * *

’TIS easy to be gentle when
Death’s silence shames our clamor,
And easy to discern the best
Through memory’s mystic glamour;
But wise it were for thee and me,
Ere love is past forgiving,
To take the tender lesson home—
Be patient with the living.
—_Selected._

ABOUT ST. LOUIS.

BY THE PANSIES.

THE biggest thing in St. Louis is the bridge by which you get to it. It has three arches, each over five hundred feet long, and it makes a road over fifty feet wide. My uncle says it is a big thing, and he knows, for he is a bridge builder. There is a tunnel under it, and a railroad track. I rode into St. Louis once through this tunnel; it is a mile long. It is lighted with electricity, and they say it has ventilating shafts; but they don’t give you much air to breathe, that I know. Father had to fan mother every minute, and we were afraid she would faint. I think I should have found it hard work to breathe myself, if I hadn’t been so dreadfully worried about mother that I forgot all about it. But for all that it is a splendid thing—the tunnel is, I mean. The piers of the bridge are built on a rock, and they go down more than a hundred feet below the surface. This bridge cost over six millions of dollars. I could tell you more things, for I staid in St. Louis a whole week, but mother says my letter is long enough.

WILLARD J. MOONEY.

* * * * *

ALL the Pansies tell how the city they are writing about got its name. I cannot find out about St. Louis, but I know the first settlement there was made by Pierre Laclede Liguest. I was wondering if they did not put pieces of his queer name together, and make a word which in time came to be St. Louis? Anyhow, I am glad they did not name the place for him, it would have been so hard to pronounce. That is only about a hundred and thirty years ago. St. Louis did not grow very fast; for a long time nobody thought it was going to be a city, and fifty years ago there were only about sixteen thousand inhabitants; but it has grown fast enough since. There are more than five hundred thousand people there now, and large, beautiful buildings, and everything which helps to make a city handsome. It is hot there, though; at least my auntie thinks so. She used to have to wait three hours in a St. Louis depot for a train every time she came home for her summer vacation, and went back in September, and she says the warmest she has ever been in her life was during those hours; and she never in five years struck a cool day! So she says she cannot help thinking that St. Louis is always warm. But probably if she had been there in January, instead of June or September, she would have thought differently. Women are apt to think that things stay always just as they happened to find them.

ROBERT CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

THE prettiest place to go to in St. Louis is “Shaw’s Garden.” It has other names, “The Missouri Botanical Gardens,” and “Tower Grove Park,” which is a piece of the gardens, but when I was there everybody said “Shaw’s Garden.” The land was presented by Mr. Henry Shaw, an Englishman, and he used to keep the lovely great park in order at his own expense; I don’t know whether he does now or not. There are more than two hundred and fifty acres just in Tower Grove Park. I have never been to Central Park, that some of the Pansies told about, but I do not see how it could be prettier than Tower Grove Park. There is a statue of Shakespeare, and another of Humboldt in the park, and they cost over a million of dollars. I don’t see why; I didn’t admire them very much; but that is what the gentleman said who went with us. There are a great many other parks in St. Louis—about twenty, I think—but none are so beautiful as this; and the Botanical Gardens are said to have the finest collection of plants of any city in the United States. My brother Roger says that cities always say such things about themselves, and that he doesn’t suppose it is finer than can be found in New York and Chicago, but that is what they told us.

NELLIE SHERMANN.

* * * * *

I READ a description of the St. Louis Court House which was very interesting. It is built in the form of a Greek cross, and has a splendid dome whose lantern can be seen as much as twenty miles away. It cost a good deal over a million dollars—the building did, not the lantern. Aunt Kate told me to put that sentence in: I don’t see why; of course you would know that a lantern did not cost all that! I like handsome buildings; I am going to be an architect.

I study all the different forms of buildings; I like the Greek cross style very well, but I don’t know how it would look for a private house. Aunt Kate says all that has nothing to do with St. Louis, but I don’t care. You don’t mind my telling what interests me, do you?

ARTHUR BLAKEMAN.

* * * * *

THERE is a building in St. Louis called “Four Courts,” named after the “Four Courts” of Dublin. But I think it was queer to name it Four Courts, and then have only three courts held in it. It is a stone building, and cost a good deal of money. Stone buildings always do; I suppose that is because they last so long; things that last always cost a great deal. I have hunted and hunted to find something interesting about St. Louis that everybody else would not be likely to tell, and the only thing I could find was this about the Four Courts. I don’t know as that is interesting, but it is the best I could do.

MARY BLAKEMAN.

* * * * *

THEY have a splendid Public-school Library in St. Louis. My father said when he was there ten years ago there were over fifty thousand volumes in it—books to help teachers and scholars. My father says he thinks other cities might copy after them in this. Colleges have libraries on purpose for their students, why should not public schools?

WILL VANDENBERG.

* * * * *

THEY have a splendid Custom House and Post-Office in St. Louis. Father says the building cost half a million. He was there when it was being built, and he says there is something grand-looking about it. And father says they have splendid schools there; not only public schools, but lots of private ones. The Washington University is there, and so, of course, is the St. Louis University; and they have the finest kindergartens there, I think, to be found outside of Germany. My uncle says I might as well leave that sentence out, for the kindergartens in the United States are better than those in Germany. But I am not going to leave it out; I don’t like crossed-out lines in a letter, and I haven’t time to copy this. Besides, lots of people think that things in other countries are nicer than our own, of course.

CHARLES J. PRESCOTT, JR.

* * * * *

RITA was riding on a road that went winding up hill and
down dale, when she remarked, “Well, I never did saw
such a curly road.”

A SEED THAT BLOSSOMED.

ELISE was spending the afternoon with Miss Dora Turner. Miss Turner was several years older than Elise, but she had come to the country to live among strangers, and Elise had known her in her city home, and was lonely like herself, so they became intimate friends. Elise told all her sorrows and perplexities, as well as her joys, to this young lady. She was in Miss Turner’s room now, waiting for her to rearrange her hair and make some additions to her toilet, then they were going for a walk.

“I don’t know where we can go, I am sure,” said Elise; “we have used up all the pretty walks near by. I wish it was early enough to go for a long tramp; I would like to do something different this afternoon. I feel tired of all the things I ever did.”

“Poor little old lady!” said Miss Turner, laughing, “there will have to be a new world made for you, Elise.” Then, as she turned, she caught the flash of the diamond at Elise’s throat, and said: “How lovely your pin is! It seems too lovely and too costly for a young girl.”

“It was mamma’s,” said Elise gravely, “and papa promised mamma he would give it to me on my fourteenth birthday. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Why, no, indeed. That explains it. I wondered that your father should send you a diamond pin at your age; but it is beautiful for you to have your mother’s pin to wear. Why didn’t you tell me, Elise?”

“Because,” said Elise, “there was a part to it that I did not understand, and I suppose I did not want to speak of it. Mamma sent me a message with it; at least papa said that the words inside were her message; she had them engraved on it before she died, so it seems like mamma’s last words to me, and indeed it is; but I do not understand it, nor know how to do it, nor anything. I don’t suppose you could show me?”

The question was asked with a half-laugh, and not at all as though Elise supposed that she could get any help from this quarter.

Miss Turner’s fair face flushed. “I don’t suppose I could,” she answered gravely; “I don’t know much about such things, Elise.”

What she meant by “such things” perhaps would have been difficult for her to explain. But the thought in her mind was, that “last messages” from dying mothers would not be such as she could explain. Elise’s mother had been dead for many years; at least they seemed many to Elise, though she could remember her beautiful mother distinctly; and when she thought it all over, as she often did in the twilight, could seem to feel her mother’s kiss upon her lips, and the pressure of her mother’s hand on the yellow curls which used to be hers in those days. She was not yet six years old when her mother went away, but there were times when it seemed to her that she had seen her only yesterday. And at other times the years which stretched between seemed very, very long. Her father was in India in the Government employ; had been there for five years. And Elise, who received long letters from him, and elegant presents, and talked a great deal about him, yet felt sometimes that she really knew him less than she did her beautiful pale mother, who used to love her so, and kiss her so tenderly. Elise lived with an aunt who was very fond of her, and did everything to supply her mother’s place, and her uncle called her his adopted daughter; yet sometimes she cried when she was tucked up in bed for the night, because she longed so to have a mamma and papa and a home of her own, like other girls. It was perhaps because Miss Turner had no mother that she had felt drawn toward her in the first place.

“What is the message?” her friend asked. “May I see it, Elise? I am half-surprised that you do not understand it; you are such a thoughtful young person, and seem older than you are; I have a feeling that you can understand what most others do.”

Elise made no reply save to unclasp the pin and pass it to her friend. Miss Turner moved toward the window, where the light would fall upon it. It was a lovely arch of gold, a tiny diamond flashing in its center, and on the reverse side was engraved, in small but distinct letters, the words: “Keep His covenant.” “Why, Elise!” she said, “how beautiful this is. I should think you would like it very much.”

“I do,” said Elise, “of course; only it gives me a strange feeling, as though mamma had sent me word to do something that I could not do; and I have always thought that I would like to do things to please mamma, if I only knew just what she wanted done.”

“Well, but, dear,” said Miss Turner hesitatingly, “surely you can find out what this means, in a general way.”

Elise smiled sadly. “I remember mamma very well,” she said, “and she always wanted me to do exactly as she said.”

“Well,” said Miss Turner again, after an embarrassed pause, “this is exact enough; she means you to live a good life, you know.”

“I don’t know what it means,” said Elise, moving restlessly. “As for being good, I am not, and I don’t know how to be; I cannot keep my temper a single day. You know I never get through a day without having a tiff of some sort with Cousin Annie; and there are ever so many people who vex me and worry me so that I cannot feel right toward them. That is not being good. Besides, the words seem to me to mean something more than that—something different. I would like to know exactly what they mean, but there is nobody that I can ask. Papa does not understand such things, and uncle and auntie do not. I don’t seem to have any friends who could help in that way.”

Miss Turner gave back the pin, looking very thoughtful indeed. She ought to know more about those things than Elise did, she told herself; her father was not a Christian, and her mother had died when her little girl was six years old, whereas Miss Turner had lived always in a home where the father and mother were earnest Christians, and she knew at this very moment that the greatest desire of their hearts was to see her doing this very thing—“keeping His covenant.” Yet she knew as little about it practically as Elise Burton did; so little, that although she was at least six years older than Elise, she did not know in the least how to help her this afternoon. It was very humiliating. She could help her with her music, and with her French lessons, and her drawing, and to have this most important of all lessons beyond her, seemed strange and wrong. She was still for several minutes, then she said, speaking very gently:

“Elise dear, I can imagine how you feel with this message from your mother; I wish I knew how to help you. But there is a way to learn what it means. There is a verse in the Bible somewhere that explains its meaning.”

Elise looked up quickly. “Where?” she asked. “The Bible is such a big book, and I do not know much about it. I did try last Sunday to find something about covenants that would help me. I went away back to Noah and the rainbow, but I did not get any good out of it for me.”

Miss Dora went to her table and took up an elegantly bound reference Bible, full of help which she did not understand, and turning in a half-bewildered, half-embarrassed manner to the Concordance, ran her eye down the list of words marked “covenant.” Elise watched her curiously. She had no Concordance in her Bible, and did not know how to use one. At last Miss Dora turned to a verse.

“This explains a little of it,” she said, and read aloud: “This shall be the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel in those days, saith the Lord; I will put my law in their inward parts, and write it in their hearts, and will be their God and they shall be my people.” As she read a curious light came into her eyes.

“It is very strange,” she said; “that is the verse that they are going to talk about this afternoon at the covenant meeting.”

“What is a covenant meeting?” asked Elise eagerly.

“It is the young people’s quarterly meeting at the church where I am attending. Every three months their Christian Endeavor Society have a gathering which they call a covenant meeting. I don’t know much about it; I have not been; but they talk together about such things; the pastor comes and talks to them. They say the meetings are interesting. What if we should walk in that direction, Elise, and go in a little while? Mr. Westfield invited me to come, but I did not have an idea that I should do so. I do not attend such meetings much, you know. But if you would like to go, Elise, and find out about your pin, I will go with you.”

“Well,” said Elise, starting up with more energy than she had shown before for several days, “I will. I want to know about ‘His covenant.’ I do, truly. Mamma asked me to, you know; and perhaps if I understood it it would tell me just exactly what she wanted me to do all the time, and I should be so glad to do it.”

“We will go and find out,” said Miss Turner gravely.

Thus the little seed dropped by the loving mother’s hand took root and blossomed in two lives, though the hand which sowed the seed had been dust for many years.

PANSY.

A SCARECROW.

ALEX HAINES and Eva were promised a piece of ground as their very own if they would cultivate (what is that?) it.

Each took a hoe and began. By night Alex and Eva had planted a rod square to corn.

Then they watched the corn; that is, they watched for the corn. After a few days, sure enough, the spots where the corn was planted—that is, the hills—began to swell as though something wanted to get out. Then up came a bit of a green leaf. Higher it grew, and they came often to see it.

One day they came and found some of the hills pulled up, and while they wondered what thief had been about, they heard from the top of a tree, “Caw, caw, caw!”

The thief was a crow.

So they must scare the crows away, or the corn will be all pulled up, and their labor will be in vain.

Crows are afraid of men; but men cannot stay all the time in the field to scare the crows off. So something that looks like a man must be set up in the corn patch to scare the crows away.

With a pair of pants, a coat, a hat, and three old brooms, they are making a man! When it is all done it will not look much like a man. It has neither eyes, nose nor mouth. It can not walk nor talk. The scarecrow has no heart or soul, but it can scare crows away from the corn.

The gods of the heathen have eyes, but they can’t see. They can’t see or hear or feel or think.

They are made gods, and those who make such gods worship them. They think such things can scare away evil and do them good!

But such gods just scare the heathen, and of course cannot save them.

Ah! if the poor, deceived people knew of Him “who so loved the world that He gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

What Pansy among you will go and tell them, or help send a preacher to them?

L.

* * * * *

THERE is a grand temperance organization in Sweden, which is trying to get rid of the saloon. Last year their Government appropriated twenty-five thousand crowns, a portion of which was set apart to be used as awards for the best essays on the different phases of the temperance question, with suggestions as to how soonest to rid the country of the curse of alcohol.

A DOUBLE LESSON.

“THERE!” said Davie Campbell, flinging as he spoke a large, sharp-pointed stick right where his brother stood, “take that; I don’t care if it does hurt you. I hate you, George Campbell!”

The stick was aimed even more surely than Davie in his blind rage imagined. It struck his brother’s side face, making an ugly wound, from which the blood flowed freely.