Chapter V: Part II (2)

They left all to follow Jesus—fathers, mothers, everybody, everything, “for Jesus’ sake,” for wild America.

“And how did most of the people in America look when they got here?”

How does this creature on the following page look? or that one?

“Now you don’t mean that the Americans then were such objects?”

The very same. And our two sweet, beautiful missionaries came to them and learned their language and lived among them, and taught them of the true God, and Jesus Christ, the Saviour.

“Did they stay more than a year that way?”

They lived and died among them. Then their children took up the work, and they have been carrying it on ever since!

“And what came of it all?”

Why, many of those fierce savages put off their war paint and wild ways, and settled down in good homes like nice Christian people, with churches and Sunday-schools and ministers of their own. Some of them now look almost as sweet as the two sweet faces of the Two Missionaries. That’s the way it often works when God puts his grace into a rough heart. It really changes the face too into beauty. God can make everything beautiful.

“But what about the picture on the next page?”

You mean that queer-looking man going ahead with a child in his arms and a big boy by his side?

“It is a family on a journey somewhere.”

The “somewhere” is America. They are peasants (the poor working folks) of—Denmark, maybe.

They have heard of America—what a goodly land it is for the poor and homeless, and where they can be free to worship God—so they have sold the cow and poultry and a few other things, and putting into bundles what they have over, and saying a sad good-by to the dear old hut where they have always lived, they are on their march to the sea. They will soon be aboard the ship, Safety; then, after two months—

“Two months! why, the Teutonic of the White Star Line has just crossed the Atlantic in five days, sixteen hours and a few seconds.”

Yes, but this was long ago.

But the two months are gone; they have landed at Castle Garden, New York, and now those nine have become ninety thousand. You see, no sooner had they got nicely settled upon a little spot of land, and in a neat cottage, and two or three cows about them, and a patch of potatoes growing near by, when away went a letter back to Denmark to their cousins to pack up and come too.

Well, ever since the ships have grown larger and faster, bringing loads and loads of peasants, five hundred thousand some years, from almost every nation on the other side of the ocean.

“And those two sweet-faced missionaries, did they teach all these low people the good ways of God?”

Yes; they and their children. Don’t you see, they stand for all good missionaries whom Jesus sends? They are all beautiful in his eyes. Where in the Bible does it say something like “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings; that publisheth peace, etc?” If beautiful feet, beautiful everything—so beautiful that all among whom they go with these tidings become beautiful too!

See those children in the opening picture, coming down the road with bundles under their arms? Look them over, and say if you think they live in a palace, and if they wear silks or furs.

No, no, poor things! a sorry dinner they’ve had. A bed of straw for them to-night. But in a few years some cousins in America will send them some money; then they will be here, and somehow they must be made beautiful as those two sweet-faced ones. Oh! so much work in this land for Jesus, to meet these heathen at Castle Garden with the good news and make them beautiful. Oh! for more home missionaries. What say you?

L.

DOLLIES TO THE FRONT.

I CAME across an old paper which told a pretty story that ought not to grow old. It was about a “doll’s reception” which a certain Mission Band gave. The dollies were lent by the members and their friends, and the friends of their friends, until there was a great army of them. Then they were arrayed in choice robes and grouped with artistic skill. On the piano, under a lovely marriage bell of sweet-smelling flowers, were two bridal groups, dressed in satin and old lace regardless of expense. The friends of the bride and groom were numerous. Some of them were old, appearing in costumes of sixty years before; some were in Mother Hubbard dress, and one very large rag doll, with lips made of beet juice and eyes of black beads, came to the wedding in the little wooden cradle which had belonged to her mother’s grandmother.

There was an “old ladies’” group arranged on a round table, two of them dressed in Quaker attire, the others in the sweet old fashion of our great-grandmothers. Then there was a babies’ group, and a group of children fresh from the schoolroom; there was a German table, a French table, and I do not know what all.

One hundred and thirty dolls were lent for the occasion. The description of each group was printed in rhyme made by the friends of the Band, and from time to time, as a crowd gathered near any of the tables, one member stepped forward and recited the descriptive poem. Ten cents admission was charged, and the hall was thronged on two afternoons. There was not a cent of expense in the entire affair, and there was nothing to sell. Over forty dollars were taken in at the door, and the Mission Band went home happy in the thought that they and their dollies had enriched a certain school in Japan by that amount.

WHAT HAVE I DONE?

I LAY my finger on time’s wrist to score
The forward-surging moments as they roll;
Each pulse seems quicker than the one before;
And lo! my days pile up against my soul
As clouds pile up against the golden sun.
Alas! what have I done? What have I done?

I never steep the rosy hours in sleep,
Or hide my soul, as in a gloomy crypt;
No idle hands into my bosom creep;
And yet, as water-drops from house-eaves drip,
So, viewless, melt my days, and from me run;
Alas! what have I done? What have I done?

I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers,
Or scorned the music of the flowing rills,
Whose numerous liquid tongues sing to the hours;
Yet rise my days behind me, like the hills
Unstayed by light of mighty triumphs won;
Alas! what have I done? What have I done?

Be still, my soul, restrain thy lips from woe!
Cease thy lament! for life is but the flower,
The fruit comes after death; how can’st thou know
The roundness of its form, its depth of power?
Death is life’s morning. When thy work’s begun,
Then ask thyself—what yet is to be done?
LILLIAN BLANCHE FEARING,
_In Home Mission Monthly._

WHEN ST. CHRYSOSTOM PRAYED.

’TWAS not enough to kneel in prayer,
And pur his very soul away
In fervid wrestlings, night and day,
For those who owned his shepherd care;
But faith and works went hand in hand,
As test of each petition made,
And saints were helped throughout the land
When St. Chrysostom prayed.

Within the closet where he knelt
A box of Bethlehem’s olive wood—
“For Christ” engraved upon it—stood;
And ever as he daily felt
The pressure of the church’s need,
Therein the daily gift was laid;
For word had instant proof of deed
When St. Chrysostom prayed.

Beneath his folded hands he placed
Whatever gold was his; and when
He travailed for the souls of men,
So long by pagan rites debased,
The more he agonized, the more
The burden on his spirit weighed;
And piece by piece went all his store
When St. Chrysostom prayed.

O, golden mother! let this thine alms
Rouse us to shame who daily bow
Within our sacred places now,
With outstretched yet with empty palms!
We supplicate indeed; but has
Our faith brought answering works to aid?
Have words by deeds been proven, as
When St. Chrysostom prayed?
MARGARET J. PRESTON,
_in Missionary World._

PUT TO SHAME.

THEY were sitting in the window-seat, Magdalene and Mabel, busy with their work, and talking. “The Mission Band meets this week, you know,” said Mabel.

“I know it,” Magdalene said, with a scowl on her face; “I’ve got to go, I suppose, but I don’t want to a bit; I haven’t any money to spare to give; I’m not going to give but a cent, anyhow, I just can’t afford it. Isn’t this blue silk sash lovely, Mabel? It just fits my dollie’s eyes. It was horridly expensive; I had to give twenty cents just for this little piece.”

“Nell is going to Mission Band,” said that small woman from the carpet, where she played with her dollie. “Nell knows all about it; mamma told her. Nell doesn’t want to be a selfish little girl and not give to the heathens; Nell is going to give her bestest thing.”

Magdalene nudged her friend’s elbow to call attention to what her darling little sister was saying, and the two listened.

“What are you going to give, Pet?” asked Magdalene at last, as the baby voice ceased its talking.

The little girl looked up with surprised eyes; she had not supposed anybody was paying attention to her.

“What are you going to give to the Mission Band for the heathens?”

“I’m going to give my bestest thing,” said the baby, with sweet gravity; “I shall give my wubber dollie, that I love.”

Mabel laughed, but Magdalene looked sober. Nobody understood better than she how the “wubber dollie” was loved, and she knew that Baby Nell meant what she said.

“I think I will give my twenty-five cents, after all,” she said, after a moment’s silence, “and let my doll go without a fur cape; there is a lovely fur cape for sale at the doll store for twenty-five cents, and I meant to have it; but I believe I won’t.”

“You want to match Nell’s ‘wubber dollie,’” said Mabel, with a good-natured laugh; “but I don’t believe you can.”

* * * * *

SOME summer day you may be in Saratoga, N. Y. Among other sights you may see Indian encampments. Thither they come to sell their curious manufactures—bows, arrows, bead bags and many other queer things.

The squaws (women) will be among them, dressed as Indian women have always dressed, but hardly so well as “Teweelema.”

If you wish to see her you can now find her on her goodly farm near Lakeville, Mass., or traveling among the neighboring villages selling her wares—moccasins, necklaces of shells and beads, etc. She can chop a tree down or spade up the ground, and do almost any man’s work. She and her sister manage the farm. Her name is Wootonekanuske.

At Oneida, N. Y., you may always see a few Indian women on the cars or at the station, looking something like Teweelema.

But in a few more years there may not be any Indians left east of the Mississippi River. The Gospel is now among them, and maybe you will never again read of so fierce a warrior as Sitting-Bull or King Philip, Teweelema’s great, great, greatest grandfather.

L.

CARL HAMMOND’S LESSON.

FOR a boy who was usually happy, Carl Hammond certainly spent a very uncomfortable winter. It is true it was his first away from home, and some people thought he was young to be sent from home, but that was not the trouble. He was with Aunt Mary, which was almost the same as being with mother; and the schools where Aunt Mary lived were so much better than at Carl’s own home, that his mother had made the sacrifice, and sent him away.

His unhappiness had to do with a certain September day which was as bright and beautiful as a sunny day in early autumn can be. Carl remembered every little thing about that afternoon—just how his father’s desk looked, and what books were piled on the table at its left, and above all, just how Bunce looked when he bounded in at the window. He was writing to Aunt Mary then, he remembered, telling her on what train to expect him, and he had held the pen in hand and turned to laugh at Bunce because he was so ridiculously glad over having found him. He had leaned over and patted the dog’s eager head, and had asked him how he was going to manage to get along without his playmate all winter; and Bunce had begun to run around his chair in that absurd fashion he had when especially pleased, and had bumped against the table just as Carl had shouted to him to “take care!” The shout came too late. Bunce succeeded in jostling the table, so that a ponderous book set too near the edge tumbled off, taking the great cut-glass inkstand with it, and the contents of that dreadful inkstand spread itself not only over the costly book, but the handsome carpet as well. If it had happened but the day before, Carl could not have remembered every little particular more vividly.

Especially what followed; there is no denying that Carl was very much frightened. It seems a strange thing to say, but the truth is, he was not very well acquainted with his father. Mr. Hammond was connected with a business firm which sent him every year, and sometimes two or three times a year, to Europe; and between times he had to go South and West, and Carl hardly knew where else, on business; so that he was not often at home for many days together, and when there, was so crowded with business as to have little leisure for his family. Carl had once complained that whenever his father was at home for an hour or two it was always after he had gone to bed. Perhaps on this account he was the more frightened; for his father had great respect for books, and was particularly careful of the large one that Bunce had ruined. Carl could seem to hear his quick firm voice giving directions:

“Remember, my son, you are on no account to allow Bunce in the study; he is a dangerous fellow in such a place; he can hardly move without doing injury. Be careful always to close the sash window when you go there, lest he might follow you.” And Carl had been in the study on the day in question for a half hour, with the sash window wide open. Not that he had forgotten, but he believed Bunce to be a mile away taking a walk with his young mistress; and he said to himself: “It is very much pleasanter with the window open, and of course papa does not care when Bunce is away.” As if Bunce could not return at any moment! which he presently did. Even then Carl might have ordered him instantly out and closed the sash, but the dear fellow was so absurdly glad to see him, and ran around in such a funny fashion to show his joy that it seemed too bad to dismiss him at once. Therefore the result which I have given you.

But this was not the end of the story. Carl arose in great alarm, and without even attempting to repair damages, which indeed would have been beyond his skill, made all haste from the room, taking Bunce with him and closing the sash window carefully. Then, an hour afterwards, when his father’s stern voice questioned: “Carl, do you know anything about the accident in the study?” What did Carl do but ask: “What accident, sir?”

“The overturning and breaking of the large inkstand and the spoiling of a very valuable book. Did you have anything to do with it?”

“No, sir,” said Carl; “I had not.”

The poor fellow told his conscience that he really did not have a thing to do with it, that the dog did all the mischief while he sat perfectly still, and that his father was the one who had left the book open on the table so dangerously near the edge. But his conscience had been better taught than that, and would have nothing to do with such flimsiness. It told him plainly before he slept that night, that the name of such talk, in plain English, was lying!

Nobody questioned Carl further; his friends were in the habit of believing his word, and his father had been almost immediately called away by a telegram, so that indeed there had been no time to investigate. Two days afterwards, Carl himself left home. Now you know why his winter had been uncomfortable. The simple truth was, that he was an honorable, truth-loving boy, who had been astonished and dismayed at himself for telling what was not true, and who could not help despising himself for it. Moreover, he knew that if there was one sin more than another which his father hated with all his earnest nature, it was the sin of lying.

It may be surprising to think that a boy like Carl should be half the winter making up his mind to tell the exact truth; nevertheless such was the case. The longer he put it off, the more impossible it seemed to him to write to his father and explain his share in the mischief. But at last, one snowy winter day, only two weeks before the holidays, he did it. He felt better as soon as the letter was mailed. He told himself that no matter what his father said in reply, he knew he had at last done right, and should be glad over it. Still he watched for the home letter more anxiously than ever before. It was from his mother, with a little note enclosed, for Carl’s private reading, from his father.

“A fellow couldn’t have a better letter,” said Carl, wiping his eyes, and feeling a warm glow in his heart for the dear father who had been so kind and gentle, and yet honest and plain-spoken. Less than a week afterwards, Carl was on his way home. His mind was in a strange confusion as the train neared the home station. He could not help feeling just a little sorry that his father was at home. “Of course he will punish me,” thought the poor fellow. “I suppose he must; he always punishes disobedience. What if he should not let me see mother to-night! Or perhaps he will not let me go to Grandma’s with the family to-morrow. I’d most rather he would whip me, and perhaps he will!”

Over this thought the twelve-year-old boy’s heart almost stood still. His father had not often punished him in this way, but on the very rare occasions when it had to be done, it was managed in such a manner that Carl distinctly remembered it. By the time the train ran into the station he had succeeded in working himself up to such a pitch of excitement that he was almost tempted to run away, to avoid the disgrace of this home-coming. But his father was there, waiting.

“Here’s my boy!” Carl heard him say, and in a minute more the father’s arms were around him, and the father’s kiss was on his cheeks. Mother was waiting in the carriage, and not a word during the quick ride home, nor at the joyous supper table afterwards, was said to him about his fault. They went to Grandma’s the next day in great happiness, and the next day they went to Uncle Will’s. “I am having a holiday,” his father explained, “in honor of my boy’s home-coming. I am taking a longer vacation from business than I have had before in two years.” The days passed, and not a word was said to Carl about his disobedience and falseness. Nobody could be kinder or more thoughtful for his comfort and pleasure than his father, yet Carl could not help wondering when and how his punishment was to come. At last, one evening, when they were alone together for a few minutes, he resolved to discover. “Father,” he said, and his voice trembled a little, “when are you going to punish me?”

His father turned astonished eyes upon him. “Punish you, my dear boy! For what?”

Carl’s cheeks were very red. “Why, father, don’t you know—surely you remember? I wrote about it.”

“But surely, my boy, I wrote you about it! Did I not tell you I forgave you utterly?”

“O, yes, sir! but then I thought—that you would think”—Carl stopped in confusion.

“You thought I must remember the sin, and punish the sinner, even though I had forgiven him? Is that it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Carl, low-voiced and troubled.

“No,” said Mr. Hammond, and Carl noticed how tender his voice was; “I do not remember anything about it in the sense which you mean. Do you remember my telling you once that God meant fathers to be object lessons to their children, giving them some faint idea, at least, of what kind of a father God would be to those who trusted him?”

“Yes, sir,” said Carl.

“Very well, then, here on this card, which I would like you to keep in your Bible, is my answer to your question.”

The card was a lovely blue celluloid, and had printed on it in gold letters, the words, “I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more.”

One evening, when Carl was twenty years old, he repeated that verse in a Christian Endeavor prayer meeting, and said that his father’s commentary on it had made him understand it. Then he told, in brief, the story which I have given you.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

HOWARD’S WAY.

(_Character Studies._)

THEY were all in the library after dinner, and were all talking at once, as the Edwards family were inclined to be. “I don’t see why we always have so much more to say than other people seem to,” Lora Edwards had once remarked, setting them all into shouts of laughter. Howard was not talking; his head was bent low over a Latin dictionary. They were waiting for some of the family, because they always gathered at this hour in the library for evening prayers; but Howard, while he waited, saved the minutes, remembering the hard lesson of the morning, and the liability to be interrupted in his study hour.

The back parlor door was pushed open and Uncle Edward’s handsome form appeared. “Where is Ashman Square?” he inquired.

Several voices at once attempted to answer him. “It is just off of Second Street,” said Lora. And Emma in the same breath said, “It is over by the river somewhere; near Park Street, isn’t it?” Then Dickie, “Why, Lora, it can’t be near Second Street, because Wyeth Avenue runs in there.”

“No, it doesn’t; Wyeth Avenue crosses at Third Street.”

Then exclamations from at least four: “Why, Lora Edwards! Wyeth Avenue isn’t near Third Street. I think Ashman Square is down by the Lincoln Statue; isn’t it, papa?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” said papa, who just then entered the room. “The city changes so rapidly and adds so many fancy names that I cannot keep track of it. Who wants to know—Edward? There is a map about somewhere. I shouldn’t wonder if Ashman Square was down near the old Ashman place, towards the river.”

“There!” said Emma, “I was sure it was near the river.”

“But the river is quite a stream, my dear niece,” Uncle Edward said, smiling.

“Yes; but Ashman Square is not very far down; it is near the Westfield car line.”

Then a perfect babel of voices ensued.

“O, Emma, no!”

“Emma Edwards! it is a quarter of a mile from the Eastman line, I am certain.”

“I don’t think Ashman Square is on this side at all; I think you are all confused.”

“Yes, it is; I pass it every day, but I don’t remember on which side of the avenue it is. I go down one way and come up another, and so get things mixed.”

“I don’t think any of you know much about it,” said Uncle Edward, and this time he laughed. Several voices began again in eager disclaimer, but Father Edwards silenced them: “See here, children, we must have prayers at once; I have an important engagement at seven. Afterwards, one of you can find a map and settle your discussion.”

Lora struck the chord and the entire family joined in:

“While Thee I seek, protecting Power,
Be my vain wishes stilled.”

In the momentary lull which there was as they rose from their knees, Howard spoke, for the first time that evening.

“Uncle Edward.”

“Yes.”

“About Ashman Square—do you know where the Station D post-office is?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, Ashman Square begins two blocks east of that.”

“So it does!” declared Lora; “why in the world didn’t some of us think of the post-office? that would have located it.”

“I never noticed how near it was to the post-office,” said Emma. “What I would like to know is, why Howard did not speak before, and save us all this talk.”

“Sure enough!” said Dickie. “Did you find the answer to that conundrum in your Latin dictionary? Why didn’t you look up, old fellow, and join the colloquy?”

“Couldn’t get a chance,” said Howard, with a good-natured smile; “you all had a great deal to say, and were bent on saying it, all at once; I thought I would keep still until the shower was over, and in the meantime a grain of fact might be evolved out of it; but there wasn’t.”

“Howard always waits until there is clear sailing,” said Lora. “I’ve noticed that he is the only one in our family who isn’t apparently burning to speak at the same moment when some one else is.”

“And when he does speak it is to the point,” said Uncle Edward. “Much obliged, my boy; you have saved me a bewildering tramp in the effort to follow the directions of these voluble young ladies.”

MYRA SPAFFORD.

ABOUT BOSTON.

BY THE PANSIES.

MAMMA told me why it was named Boston. There was once in old England a man so good and kind to sailors, and to people in distress on the water, that he was named St. Botolph, because the word “Botolph” is made from two words, which mean boat help. After a while the word “Boston” grew out of the name, and the place where this man had lived and died was called so. And Boston in New England was named for it.

LUCY STEVENSON.

* * * * *

I SAW a picture of the first house that was ever built in Boston. It is very homely. There are only a few windows, and one door, I think; and it looks like some of the log cabins of the West. A man named William Blackstone lived in this house all alone. It was built on a hill, and the place where it stood is now part of a handsome street in Boston. But the town was not called Boston when William Blackstone lived there; it was Shawmut.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

* * * * *

THEY used to have very strict laws in Boston about the Sabbath. From Saturday at midnight until six o’clock on Sunday evening no hired carriage could leave or enter the city, and during the hours of public service no wagon of any sort was allowed to move through the streets faster than a walk. Soon after the laws against using the bath-houses on Sunday were made, a person who thought himself witty had printed in the paper the following rhyme:

“In superstition’s day, ’tis said,
Hens laid two eggs on Monday;
Because a hen would lose her head
Who laid an egg on Sunday.
Now our wise rulers and the law
Say none shall wash on Sunday,
So Boston folks must dirty go,
And wash them twice on Monday!”
REUBEN S. BENTON.

* * * * *

I READ about a town meeting which was held in Boston in 1789, in which they voted that there should be “One writing school at the south part of the town, one at the center, and one at the north part; and that in these schools the children of both sexes shall be taught writing, and also arithmetic in its various branches, including vulgar and decimal fractions.”

Another law passed at the same meeting was, that there should be “A reading school in the north part of the town and one in the south part, and that the children of both sexes should be taught to spell, accent and read, both prose and verse.” Girls were allowed to attend these schools only half the year—from April to October—but boys could go in winter. This latter rule was changed in 1828, and the girls were allowed to attend through the year until they were sixteen; boys could attend only until they were fourteen. The Bible was the only reader then in use.

HELEN WESTOVER.

* * * * *

I WENT to Boston once to visit my grandfather, and he took me to lots of places, and showed me the picture of Ann Pollard; she lived to be a hundred and five years old, and she was the first to jump from the boat when the colonists came over from Charlestown; she was only ten years old then, and she gave a spring from the boat just as it was touching the shore, and landed. Grandfather showed her to me, and told me about her, because my name is Annie Pollard, and he said I had a little of the spunk of my old ancestor.

ANNIE POLLARD.

* * * * *

WE have been studying in school about John Hancock and his times, and our teacher told us about his wife’s breakfast party at the old Hancock House. It was in 1778, and a French fleet came into Boston harbor. Governor Hancock proposed that the officers be invited to breakfast; so his wife had her table set for thirty officers, and instead all the under officers of the fleet came also—a hundred and twenty more than were expected! Mrs. Hancock must have been in a panic for a few minutes, but she got out of her difficulties. First, she ordered all the cows on the Common milked, and the milk brought to her; then she sent among her friends and borrowed cakes and other things to help out, and gave them all a very nice breakfast.

The French count who commanded the fleet was very much pleased, and invited the governor and his wife to visit his fleet and bring their friends. This was Mrs. Hancock’s chance to be politely revenged upon him for bringing so many people to breakfast; she invited five hundred friends to go with her to the fleet! But they were politely received and entertained elegantly.

FANNIE BROOKS.

* * * * *

WE have a picture in our library of the old Hancock House. It isn’t much of a house as those things go nowadays, but when Governor Hancock lived there I suppose it looked fine. I like old John Hancock; it is great fun to read about him. Of course it was all nonsense for him to think that Washington ought to call on him first, that time when Washington went to Boston to visit in 1789, but for all that I think it was awfully cute, the way in which Hancock finally backed down. He had the gout, you know, so he did himself up in flannel and had his men carry him on their shoulders to call on Washington. If he had got to make the first call he meant to do it in state, and he did.

JOHN STUART WINTHROP.

* * * * *

WHEN I was just eight years old, my father spent a week in Boston with me, and showed me the Museum, the Navy Yard, the School for the Blind (I remember Laura Bridgman), the Idiot School, etc. He took me to the top of Bunker Hill Monument; I remember I counted the two hundred and ninety-seven steps. Not every father thinks that a child of eight could appreciate such things. Many and many a time since then, have I thanked my father for helping me to enjoy the remembrance of things which I never expect to see again. During that visit to Boston a boy ten years old took from my grandfather’s library a copy of one of the “Jonas” books which he coveted. The book was never missed, but twenty years afterwards the boy returned it with compound interest and apologies; his heart had never been at rest about it.

MRS. OLIVIA C. WARNE.

* * * * *

MY father was in Boston when the statue of John Winthrop was unveiled; he walked in that great procession, and heard the speech made in the Old South Church. I have been to Boston myself, and walked around that very statue. It is in Scollay Square. Governor Winthrop is dressed just as they used to dress in his time; he has a Bible in one hand, and a copy of the king’s charter in the other. There is a carved rope wound around a carved tree which stands for the ship that brought him over. I went to the beautiful State House, too. It is the one which was begun in Governor Hancock’s pasture! But it does not look much like a pasture where it stands now.

HARRY WESTFIELD.

* * * * *

ONCE I went to the old North Church in Boston. I went up the tower to the steeple, where General Gage stood and watched Charlestown burn. On the steeple is the date “1723.” The chime of bells on this church are just lovely! I heard them play. One of them has on it these words: “We are the first ring of bells cast for the British Empire in North America.” Another bell says: “Since generosity has opened our mouths, our tongues shall ring aloud its praise.” Inside the church are some queer wooden angels. The pews are very old-fashioned. The Bible in the desk was the one that George the Second gave to the church. After making this visit I learned “Paul Revere” and recited it at school; you know the signal lights which warned him shone from the steeple of the Old North.

MARY WINTHROP SMITH.

[For want of space, we must bring this very interesting
bit of history about old Boston to a close. It is
certainly not for want of material that we do so, and
our hearty thanks are due the Pansies and their friends
for the letters full of interesting items which have
come to us. It is noticeable that the young people of
to-day are interested in Boston’s past, which is a wise
thing, for its history is full of suggestion for the
future.

We earnestly hope that the city which we take up next,
viz.: Washington, D. C., may call out as many items of
interest from the young people.—EDITORS THE PANSY.]

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

IF Bose and Fido and Sport and the rest will keep still long enough, I will tell you some things about myself which I should like you to remember.

I am growing old pretty fast, and if I had not the kindest master in the world I would stand a slim chance.

My smelling is good yet, and things taste nice enough, but my teeth are nearly gone. Bones which once would have been a luxury, now do me little good. The best I can do is to lap off a little of the meat and grease.

Yes, I can bark loud enough yet, but it vexes me terribly when I see the cattle in the field where they do not belong, or some wicked boys in the orchard stealing apples, to know that about all I can do is to bark.

I do not pretend that I have been a perfect dog, but I have had a great deal of experience in my day, and am not without the hope that you, my young friends, may profit by what I have seen and heard and felt myself, and known in the lives of others.

No, I shall not try to tell it all to-day; I have no wish to bore you with “long yarns,” as the sailors say. Besides, there would not be time before Fido might be wanted to go with his mistress across the pasture when she takes that beef tea to Willie Jones. She never seems afraid with her pet along. Bose, too, will be wanted to drive home the cows; so I will tell you only a little to-day, and more another time.

Where I was born I really do not know, but I am inclined to think it was a great way from here, perhaps in another country; we will never know, I suppose, though it seems to me it must be nice to know where one came into the world, and what kind of father and mother he had. But, dear me, I have seen some dogs, and folks too, who would have been happier if they had never known their parents!

I can just remember seeing my mother once. I think she must have been beautiful. The man who took me away from her often said in my hearing that I had her hair and eyes.

I can remember how mother cried when they carried me away. I had never seen her cry before, and though I was awfully frightened, yet I felt sorry for her.

I was petted enough, and had plenty to eat, but the journey was long, and shut up in that little box I was dreadfully lonesome.

But finally we reached home; then I had a warm bed, and a nice place; but some nights I was terribly scared there in the dark all alone. The boys had a pet donkey, and the first night I was there that fellow made his horrid bray. My! I thought I should die with fright. Well, when I had got a little used to the donkey, what should I hear in the tree over my head but a horrid “To hoo! to who?”

Yes, Sport, you may wag your tail and laugh; you know “who,” for you are a full-grown dog, and know all about the great staring owl, but with me it was a different matter.

As I remarked before, I think, my master was kind, and so was mistress, and they had no very small children to torment a little pup. Their little girl was so sweet and kind, it was always a pleasure to kiss her soft cheek; I do not believe she ever had any nice thing to eat that she did not wish to share with me.

Her brother was a noble fellow, too. Not always so thoughtful as his sister, and sometimes pretty rough; but so long as he did not mean to be ugly and hurt me, I could bear it.

The worst, I remember, was when their cousins and some of the neighbors’ children would come for the afternoon on a visit.

At first I was glad to see so many little children, but I soon found that all children had not such sweet dispositions as my master’s, or else their parents had not taught them so carefully.

We all ran and romped, and for a time it was jolly enough; but when my young master and mistress were out of sight, one of those rough boys would do something to torment me. He pulled my ears and my tail; once he boxed my ears so hard that I cried right out.

Then they put me on that donkey’s back, and while I was held there, the creature made one of those dreadful noises! Then I cried so loud my little mistress came and took me away.

Once I was so frightened by those rude children that I hid under the barn. I could hear them call my name and whistle for me, but I did not mean to come out till the children had gone.

It seemed a long time, but they finally went—I mean the visitors—and then I was only too ready to get out, for it was growing pretty dark where I was.

We were all very much frightened, but when master came home he took a big iron bar and pried a stone out, and made a hole big enough for me to crawl through as easy as need be.

I cannot make myself believe that those children remembered with pleasure what they had done to me that day. They never looked sweet and happy like little Lucy and her brother.

I long ago came to the conclusion that if one would be happy he must try to make others so; and I do not believe it makes much difference whether he walks upon two legs or four.

Another thing, I believe one’s usefulness depends very much upon whether he keeps his eyes open or not. Why, one does not need to be a full-grown dog to be able to make himself useful, and so thought a great deal of.

Take my case, for example: As I was saying, even when I was quite small the hired man used to take me when he went after the cows at night.

I suppose this was to give me the pleasure of a run in the pasture; they took old Sport along to do the work of driving. He, poor fellow, was getting pretty old, and could not run fast; but he was a good dog, and was well educated.

I did not at first understand how he could know so much—how he could tell the oxen from the cows, and the cows from the steers; and when there were other cattle mixed up with our master’s, on the road or anywhere, how he could know which ones to drive in, and which to leave or drive away.

One day as we were waiting for the hired man to fix a little place in the fence, Sport said something that astonished me greatly.

I think I had been saying how I wished I knew as much as he, and could do what he did. Then he gave me this hint. Said he, “I think our good master is planning to have you take my place in a few months. Soon I shall not be able to do the work, and if you watch out you will be able to do all that I have done. Even now,” said he, “you are beginning to save me a great many steps by starting up the cattle which are lagging behind, or that get out of the way.”

I shall never forget how pleased I was. I almost felt like another dog, and was so glad to think that I could do anything worth any one’s notice. I feel sure it was a great help to me to have him speak like that, and cannot but think that a great many others might be encouraged in the same way.

Proud little puppy that I was, I almost split my throat barking at the cattle that afternoon, and was much pleased to see that I could help.

Well, it was not many weeks after that, when one day the hired man went off fishing, and the master was all alone at home. It was late in the afternoon, and he was resting upon the front steps, looking very tired, for he was not well. I remember I had been wishing for the time to come when I could do something, and would be big enough to watch things. You see the fishing party had taken Sport with them to watch the wagon. I was thought too young to be taken off so far.

I had felt pretty sober all the morning, but the master had spoken very kindly to me several times, and while sitting there had called me to him and patted my head, and called me a nice little fellow. Finally he looked up from the paper he had been reading and said, “Well, Major, it is about time to go for the cows.”

“Now is your chance,” I said to myself, and off over the big stone wall I went. About the only thing I feared was that he would call me back, but he seemed too much surprised for that; so I ran away as fast as my four feet could carry me.

I did not know so well then where to look for the cows, but scampered around so fast that I soon caught sight of them and quickly had the whole lot on their way to the yard.

My only mistake was in doing my job too well, for I drove up the oxen and steers and yearlings as well as the cows.

When I had them all near the gate then I barked as hard as I could, and the master came and let down the bars, and drove in the cows and let the others go back.

Then I remembered how it was generally done, and felt much ashamed of my blunder. But master called me to him and petted me, and told me I had been a good fellow. Then late in the evening, when the others came home, he told them how I had surprised him by driving up the cows, and never said a word about my mistake in driving up the other cattle. I think that was so kind of him! I know a great many who would have been either so thoughtless or unkind as to have made fun of a youngster’s little blunder when trying to do his best. But he was not that kind of a man. You may be sure I never made that mistake again.

Then old Sport came over to my kennel, and congratulated me heartily on driving up the cows. All I could do was to thank him, and tell him it was because of the way he had encouraged me, helping me to think I might do something.

There have been many changes in farming since I can remember, but the cows have to be got and milked just as ever, only there seem to be more of them, and so I must not keep you any longer this time.

R.

* * * * *

BABY’S CORNER.

A HAPPY LITTLE GIRL.

BESSIE has good times. She lives in the country where the hills are white with snow.

Every morning after breakfast she puts on her long cloak and her warm hood and mittens, and goes to school with her brothers. The schoolhouse is half a mile away, but she loves to go.

Sometimes she runs and draws her sled. It is a new one, painted red, and is one of her Christmas presents.

Sometimes she sits on the sled, and her brothers give her a nice ride. They play they are ponies, and run very fast. Then Bessie shouts and laughs, and is happy.

Their home is in that little house beyond the hill. You can see the roof, and the smoke curling up from the chimney.

They are on their way home from school now.

Just as they got to the top of the hill Carlo came to meet them. He wagged his tail and licked Bessie’s hand, he was so glad to see her, for Carlo gets lonely without playmates all day.

The boys saw a rabbit run through the fence, and they went up to watch for it.

“Carlo shall have a ride,” said Bessie. So she took him in her arms and got upon the sled at the top of the hill.

She gave it a little push, and away they went, whiz! down the long hill so swiftly and smoothly. Oh! it was good fun.

Two more rides they took, then Charlie picked up the bag and said, “Come, Bess.”

When they get home mamma will have a nice warm supper ready for them.

After that they will go out and ride down hill until dark.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

THE SAND MAN.

EACH night a man goes round our town,
And into eyes of blue and brown,
He sprinkles, with a careful hand,
The finest, softest grains of sand.

Then as sweet blossoms close at night,
O’er shining eyes fall curtains white;
For all these precious grains of sand
Are gathered up in Slumber Land.

’Tis there the peaceful river gleams
Where children sail in happy dreams;
The Sand Man takes them in his boat,
So off my little pet must float.
MYRA GOODWIN PLANTZ.

“IF I ONLY HADN’T!”

NOBODY could have started out with better intentions than did Teddy Brockway that bright spring morning. It is true it was only March, but Teddy lived so far South that the month of March meant spring; he was dressed in a neat spring suit, had his little sister Margaret by the hand, and Sally Amelia, her dollie, under his special care, and was started for a trip all by themselves to old Auntie Blaikslee’s, almost a half-mile away!

“Aren’t you afraid to let those two babies go off alone?” Grandmamma asked, looking up from her knitting with a somewhat troubled face.

Mrs. Brockway smiled as she answered: “O, no! what could harm them? Teddy knows every foot of the way as well as I do, and every neighbor along the road; and everybody knows him. Besides, he is seven years old, and I must begin to trust him.” However, she went to the door and called after them: “Remember, Teddy, I trust Margaret to you. It isn’t every little boy of your age who can be depended upon to take care of his sister. And, Teddy, remember you are not to ride with any strange person who may ask you.”

“Course not!” said Teddy, with dignity; “not unless he is Uncle Ben or Deacon West. I can ride with Deacon West—can’t we, muvver?”

“O, yes!” said Mrs. Brockway, smiling. “He is not much more likely to meet Deacon West on this road than he is to meet the man in the moon,” she said laughingly to grandma, “but he has to provide for all the possibilities.”

Two hours afterwards Teddy and Margaret, with Sally Amelia somewhat the worse for being handled by all the grandchildren of old Auntie Blaikslee, were trudging back in triumph. The errand entrusted to them had been carefully done, and Teddy had said over the message he was to give his mother until he knew it by heart, and had bravely resisted two invitations from good-natured teamsters to have a ride. He was almost within sight of the corner where they turned into their own grounds, and Margaret had been good and minded beautifully. Truth to tell, Teddy’s heart was swelling with importance; he had never before been sent on so long a trip with only Margaret for company. He felt at least ten years old. At the top of the hill he came to a halt. There, just in front of them, jogging comfortably along, was Jake Winchell, Judge Aker’s hired man. Everybody knew Jake and his old horse and cart, but nobody, or at least Teddy, had ever happened to meet him in that direction before; his road always lay the other way.

“Halloo!” he said, getting out to fix something about the harness, and spying the children as he did so, “here’s luck; an almost empty cart and two nice passengers to have a ride in it down the hill. Don’t you want to jump in?”

Teddy never wanted anything worse. For a small minute he hesitated. What was that “muvver” had said? “You are not to ride with any strange person who may ask you.” “Course not!” said Teddy again, indignant with himself; “just as though Jake was a strange person.” But even while his heart said the words, a voice away down deep contradicted it: “Teddy Brockway, don’t you know she meant anybody you are not used to riding with? And you never had a ride with Jake.”

“What of that?” said Teddy’s other thought, still impatiently; “that’s because he never comes the way we live; but I’ve talked with him, and muvver said she thought he was kind to boys, and patient with them, and everything. Just as if she would care for Margaret and me to ride down hill to the gate! We’re most there; and it is a bad hard hill for Margaret; and she has had a long walk.”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” he said aloud to Jake, smiling and bowing like a gentleman. “I should like to ride ever so much, for Margaret’s sake; she is tired.”

“All right,” said Jake, with a good-natured chuckle; “climb in and I’ll tuck her in after you, and take you a few miles on your road as well as not.”