Chapter IX: Part II (2)

Now after these true stories of my great-uncle, I hope you feel better, and will go home, not to plan how you can be revenged, but how you can be true and faithful, and, if possible, win better treatment in future.

R.

* * * * *

OF the four hundred and thirteen species of trees in
the United States sixteen will sink in water. The
heaviest is the black-iron wood of Southern California.

BARNYARD ILLUSIONS.

SOMEBODY in one of our exchanges tells an amusing story of his attempt at studying human nature in the barnyard. He placed a large piece of looking-glass against the trunk of a tree, and scattered corn in front of it, then took a convenient position and watched. Some of the hens came up with cautious tread, to meet what they supposed were new acquaintances, and were simply astonished and bewildered by the result. Others pecked at the glass, and were anxious to get up a fight with the supposed intruders.

The high-stepping rooster was bent on a victory. He advanced with skillful side steps, according to rooster fashion, and was amazed to lose sight of his enemy. Of course he had stepped too far to the left or right, and so gotten out of range of the glass, but this he did not understand. He gave an astonished crow, looked about him fiercely, saw no one, finally gave up and went back for a kernel of corn; behold, just in front of it was that other rooster, looking fierce. He made another attempt for a fight, with exactly the same result as before; but the second surrender to mystery brought him quite near to the mirror and his enemy. He ruffled his feathers, so did the other rooster. He made a dash forward, so did the other, and—the rooster was astonished; but you are prepared to hear that the mirror was broken into bits. The question which seemed to puzzle that rooster for hours afterwards was, What became of his enemy, that he could not find even a feather of him lying about the yard?

* * * * *

A GOOD man in France is said to have invented an instrument with a very fine tube to be inserted into the ear, by means of which sounds can be heard by the deaf.

Professor Dussouchet saw the experiment tried upon many deaf mutes, and in every case with success. Sounds are sent into a large bell-shaped contrivance; thence they pass down the fine tube and strike the tympanum (ear drum).

L.

THE BOYHOOD OF TITIAN (_Tish’-yan_).

_Pœta nascitur, non fit._

THERE, that is not Greek or German, but Latin, and some day your Pansy tongue will talk it off as readily, no doubt, as it now casts English to your cat. Won’t it be just splendid for you to be in the High School—and not at the foot of your class, either—reading Cæsar or Cicero or Horace?

“But what does that Latin mean?”

It means, “A poet is born, not made.”

“So is every one ‘born.’”

No, not born a poet, neither can be made into a poet by study; that is, a real true poet. Almost everybody can read poetry, and love it and make rhymes; but that is not being a poet.

You might just as well now learn that bit of Latin and surprise your mamma some day at the dinner-table by saying: “_Pœta nascitur, non fit._” The next time you can say: “_Orator nascitur, non fit,_” for that is true too. It is true of an artist, and many, many others. We all have different gifts at birth. (See Rom. xii. 6.) Johnny Brown can sing and play upon almost any instrument. He is a born musician. His brother can’t play even upon a jew’s-harp, but he can make one. He can make a watch. His fingers can do all sorts of wonderful things such as Johnny’s cannot. Boys differ; girls differ. They can’t be made alike. One has one gift, one another.

Titian was born an artist.

What do you suppose he is doing there, one hand upon the limb of that tree?

“Going up for chestnuts.”

No; try again.

“Going to climb for a crow’s nest.”

Not he. See that bit of a branch in his right hand. He is looking at it to see its shape, the form and color of the leaves, and all about it. He will paint that whole tree in a little while—no, no; paint one on canvas just like it. When he is a few years older he will paint portraits, then great elegant pictures.

He was an Italian boy, born in 1477.

Columbus was then about thirty-five years old. He had just made his great voyage to Iceland and got back when Titian was a baby. I guess Titian saw the born voyager and discoverer, and as likely as not painted his portrait or ships. But one of his masterpieces, or greatest works, is St. Peter, Martyr; another, The Presentation of the Virgin.

L.

HANNIBAL’S VOW.

MANY hundred years ago there were two magnificent cities on opposite sides of the Mediterranean Sea. One was Carthage and the other was Rome. But they were jealous of each other, and shook their fists at each other and went to war, each trying to do the other all the harm it was possible.

In Carthage was a man by the name of Hannibal. He hated Rome bitterly.

A little before his death he took his son out to the altar, where they burned sacrifice to the gods, and made him lift up his hands in a vow or promise to always hate and harm the Romans.

It was an awful thing for any one to do, but how dreadful for a dying man. So young Hannibal swore by the gods, Jupiter, Juno, Apollo, Hercules, Mars, Triton and Neptune, and all the other Dæmons.

The old man died. When young Hannibal was now twenty-four he was made commander of the troops, and, dressed in a coat of armor, he started from Carthage with a mighty army. Away he marched toward Spain, conquering and slaying his enemies on the way. On and on he went, over rivers and highest mountains. The Romans, when they heard that he was in Spain, laughed at the thought of his coming to Rome; they said none but gods could do such a thing. But they had not long to laugh. He and his conquering host clambered over the Pyrenees, then over the high steep Alps, then “down upon the soft and smiling plains of Italy.” Then all was excitement in great Rome. Every one became a soldier of some sort. “To arms! to arms!” was the cry. The city was turned into a fort. Mighty armies went out to meet Hannibal, but one after another was slaughtered or put to flight. In one of the great battles forty thousand Romans were slain!

The Roman general, Fabius, was a great man, but he was compelled to retreat before Hannibal. But just then, when the people in the great city were trembling lest Hannibal would be upon them to burn the whole city and put the inhabitants to death, word came from Carthage that he must hurry home with his army and save Carthage from a Roman army coming upon it, led by a wonderful general, Scipio. Soon these two conquering hosts met at Zama, not far from Carthage, and here for the first time poor Hannibal was defeated, and in the course of time proud Carthage was utterly destroyed.

L.

THE WAR OF THE ROSES.

FIVE hundred years ago began very troublous times in England, and it went on many bloody years. You see, there were two great parties, as in this country, each struggling to rule. In this country they fight it out at the ballot box, with bits of paper upon which names are printed. The man or party which gets the greater number of ballots rules. In England years ago they fought it out with blows. The party which could strike the harder blows ruled.

The names of these two great parties were York and Lancaster. The Yorkers wore the white rose, the Lancastrians the red rose, so it was called the War of the Roses. Oh! the fierce battles, the groans of the dying and the banners rolled in blood; neighbors, sometimes brothers, killing each other.

And their homes, the mothers and children, what happened to them during all those hundred years? You must not know. But what must the Lord Jesus have thought of it all?

If it had been for some great good—to put an end to stealing, cruelty, drunkenness or some such dreadful thing—it would not seem so bad; but it was just to get upon a throne and then to be cruel to the defeated party. The great trouble was that this man or that wanted to be king just as in America a man wants to be president. Richard the Third wanted it so much that he caused his two little nephews to be smothered to death while asleep, lest they would grow up and trouble him! This was four hundred years ago.

L.

BABY’S CORNER.

COME TO SUPPER.

ONE pleasant summer day Jamie’s mamma said they would have tea out under the trees, because it was papa’s birthday.

She spread a pink cloth on the table, and brought out some pretty dishes. Jamie thought it was fine fun.

He helped to carry out the biscuits and strawberries, and he put the knives and spoons by the side of the plates.

They had to hurry, because pretty soon the five o’clock train would come in, and papa would be on it.

When mamma went into the house to make the tea she gave Jamie a piece of cake and told him to sit down on the grass and rest his tired little feet.

Jamie liked to sit in that pretty spot. There were green grass and daisies and buttercups all about him, and oh! how good the cake tasted.

Pretty soon the old rooster saw that Jamie was alone, and that he had something good to eat.

So he called to his family: “Come quick! come to supper.”

Then the gray hen and the yellow hen and the speckled hen and the white banties came running as fast as they could run to get some of Jamie’s cake.

Old Speckle got the first bite, a great big one, and carried it off to eat it. Then Old Yellow came up one side and the rooster came the other side, and one took a bite, and the other took a bite.

Jamie began to cry. Mamma heard him. She came out, and said: “Shoo! shoo!”

And away went the chickabiddies as fast as they could fly, and no more supper for them that night.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

* * * * *

OUT in the garden, wee Elsie
Was gathering flowers for me;
“O, mamma!” she cried, “hurry, hurry,
Here’s something I want you to see.”
I went to the window; before her
A velvet-winged butterfly flew,
And the pansies themselves were not brighter
Than the beautiful creature in hue.
“Oh! isn’t it pretty?” cried Elsie,
With eager and wondering eyes,
As she watched it soar lazily upward
Against the soft blue of the skies.
“I know what it is, don’t you, mamma?”
Oh! the wisdom of these little things
When the soul of a poet is in them.
“It’s a pansy—a pansy with wings.”
—_Selected._

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xiii. 12.)

NO, it does not seem fair at all to give to him that has something, and to refuse it to one that hasn’t anything scarcely, and even to take away what little that one has! Just think of giving a rich Pansy five hundred dollars more, and then snatching away the last penny from a poor Pansy!

Surely you don’t suppose the loving, gentle, merciful Lord Jesus meant any such thing? Of course he didn’t.

“What did He mean?” Why, simply this, my dear; that one who makes good use of his gifts will have more gifts. He will grow wiser and better, and go up higher all the time, just like a tree that uses well the good ground and good air and good dew around it. And the tree, that for some reason won’t send its roots down and this way and that and set every one of its leaves to breathing, such a lazy tree will lose all its life and die, the first wide-awake tree sucking up that very life.

It may be just so with two Pansies. One is good, true, active, the other one isn’t; how one will go up and the other down; how one will increase and the other decrease until one seems to have all the good, even the little the other started out with.

You borrow from a bank one hundred dollars and pay it back with interest when your note is due, and quite likely the bank will loan you two hundred dollars then, if you want it, and so on, increasing it just as you are faithful. But if you don’t pay as you promised, because you were lazy, your one hundred dollars will be taken from you and loaned to one who may have ten thousand dollars, because he makes good use of it. We are all on trial. How happy we should be to be trusted by the Lord! It’s a fearful thing when he will not loan us any more.

L.

* * * * *

GOOD temper, like a sunny day, sheds brightness over
everything. It is the sweetener of toil and the soother
of disquietude.

INASMUCH.

“IF I had dwelt”—so mused a tender woman,
All fine emotions stirred
Through pondering o’er that Life, divine yet human,
Told in the sacred Word—

“If I had dwelt of old, a Jewish maiden,
In some Judean street,
Where Jesus walked, and heard his word so laden
With comfort strangely sweet,

“And seen the face where utmost pity blended,
With each rebuke of wrong;
I would have left my lattice and descended,
And followed with the throng.

“If I had been the daughter, jewel-girdled,
Of some rich rabbi there;
Seeing the sick, blind, halt, my blood had curdled
At the sight of such despair.

“And I had wrenched the sapphires from my fillet,
Nor let one spark remain;
Snatched up my gold, amid the crowd to spill it,
For pity of their pain.

“I would have let the palsied fingers hold me;
I would have walked between
The Marys and Salome, while they told me
About the Magdalene.

“‘Foxes have holes’—I think my heart had broken
To hear the words so said,
While Christ had not—were sadder ever spoken?—
‘A place to lay his head.’

“I would have flung abroad my doors before Him,
And in my joy have been
First on the threshold, eager to adore Him,
And crave his entrance in!”

Ah, would you so? Without a recognition
You passed Him yesterday;
Jostled aside, unhelped his mute petition,
And calmly went your way.

With warmth and comfort garmented and girdled,
Before your window-sill
Sweep heart-sick crowds; and if your blood is curdled
You wear your jewels still.

You catch aside your robes, lest want should clutch them
In its imploring wild;
Or else some woful penitent might touch them,
And you be thus defiled.

O, dreamers! dreaming that your faith is keeping
All service free from blot,
Christ daily walks your streets, sick, suffering, weeping,
And ye perceive him not!
M. J. PRESTON, _in The Independent_.

* * * * *

I READ of a boy who had a remarkable dream. He thought that the richest man in town came to him and said: “I am tired of my house and grounds; come and take care of them and I will give them to you.” Then came an honored judge and said: “I want you to take my place; I am weary of being in court day after day; I will give you my seat on the bench if you will do my work.”

Then the doctor proposed that he take his extensive practice and let him rest, and so on. At last up shambled old Tommy, and said: “I’m wanted to fill a drunkard’s grave; I have come to see if you will take my place in these saloons and on these streets?”

Harold laughed about his dream, but somebody who knew how Harold was being brought up, said: “Do you know, I shouldn’t be surprised if of all the offers he accepted the last? He has talent enough to become a judge, or a physician, or to make his fortune, but I am afraid he will grow up to take old Tommy’s place.”

Who is willing to help fill “Old Tommy’s” place?

FROM BIRDLAND.

IF we only knew how to understand bird language, I fancy we might be made acquainted with a great many pretty secrets which now they keep to themselves.

I have been reading lately about a gentleman in New York who has a collection of birds, and who makes a study of those who flit about his home in summer. At one time he had a blind sparrow among his collection, and a little bird named Dick seemed to have adopted it. He waited at the door of its house for it to come out, calling it with tender little chirps, and when the blind one finally appeared he would lead the way to the seeds and water.

When his friend was ready to return home to rest Dick would shove him gently along the perch until he was opposite his own door, then give a chirp which seemed to say: “There you are, jump in,” and in would spring the little sparrow, safe at home. Surely Dick ought to be elected as at least an honorary member of the “Helping Hand Society.” What if he hasn’t any hands? He succeeds in being a very efficient helper.

EFIL SREDNOW.

* * * * *

THERE are a few who make their life “a song,”
A silvery call to urge tired souls along,
A clear bell o’er the cope
Of the steep mountain they have had to climb
With such a patience, they have made sublime
The soul’s forlornest hope.
And when these dear ones hidden pass adown
“The other side,” beyond the mountain’s crown,
The silvery tinkling vein
Of gladness comes aback to touch us so—
New courage in our sinking heart doth grow,
We urge us on again.
—_Selected._

ANGIE’S CROSS.—I.

(_Character Studies._)

EVERYBODY said Angie Conran had a “perfectly lovely voice,” extremely well cultivated for one so young. Her music teacher was in the habit of patting her hand in a patronizing way, at the close of almost every lesson, and saying, in broken French: “Mees Angie, you will make what you Americans call a mark in the world; remember I tell you.”

Angie was a member of the choir, and a very faithful one; a member of the “Choral Club,” and practiced early and late to help make it a success. On the particular evening of which I wish to tell you she was seated at the piano, giving a last half-hour of practice to the anthem before she went to rehearsal. Her mother and I sat in the back parlor, where we could have the full benefit of the music. How the exquisite melody filled the room, and how distinctly was every word spoken.

“Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee,
E’en though it be a cross
That raiseth me;
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee!”

“That is as good as a recitation,” I said. “How very distinctly Angie speaks her words.”

“Yes,” said the proud mother; “she prides herself on being heard. She says she would never have any pleasure in singing Italian songs; that she would want the words as well as the music to be uplifting. Angie prefers sacred music, I think; her heart seems to echo the sentiment of the words. What she is practicing now is to be sung to-morrow morning, just before the sermon. Our pastor requested it. This is a new arrangement, with solo and quartette, and Angie takes the solo. If the other parts are as beautiful as the soprano, I think it will be lovely. Angie dear, isn’t it time you were going?”

“In a minute, mamma; I want to try this minor strain first.” The sweet, tender sounds filled the room:

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

“Isn’t that exquisite?” whispered the mother, when the last notes had died away. Then, in almost the same breath, “Angie dear, it is beginning to rain; are you prepared for rain?”

“O, dear, how provoking! No, ma’am, I can’t say I am in the least prepared for it.”

The mother arose and moved toward the music-room. “Why, dear child!” she said, in surprise, “you ought not to have that dress on to-night. Even if it were not a rainy evening it is not suitable to wear to a rehearsal.”

“Why not, pray? ever so many people come to the rehearsals. I want to be as well dressed as I am on Sunday.”

“My dear, that is a pretty evening dress, and the rain will spot it, you know. You would have to wear your gossamer, and that would crush the trimmings. Besides, it doesn’t look at all suitable for this evening. If you were going out to a social gathering you could not dress more than that. Do go and change it, dear; it won’t take you long.”

“I assure you, mamma, it is quite out of the question that I should change my dress now. It is already late; you just said I ought to be going. It was quite a work of art to get this dress on, and I haven’t the least desire to change it; I am not at all afraid of it.”

“But, my dear child, just consider how unsuitable it is. Those laces at the neck and wrists are real, you know, and as fine as cobwebs; you certainly could not dress more than that if you were going to a reception.”

“O, mamma! how absurd. As though anybody would take notice of me, or care whether my laces were real or not. They fit the dress, any way, and as long as I don’t object to them I don’t see why anybody else should.”

“My daughter, your mother objects to them. Moreover, the dress is lower in the neck than you have been wearing all day, and it is quite a cool evening; that in itself should be sufficient to make you change it. I really must insist on your putting on a more proper dress.”

Angie’s pretty fingers came down upon the keys with a crash which made me start in my chair; then she whirled herself about on the music-stool. “Really, mamma,” she said, and the voice was so sharp it hardly seemed possible that it could be the same which had filled the room with melody, “I should think I was old enough to decide what dress to wear; I am almost fifteen, and I think I might have the privilege of choosing my own clothes once in a while.”

“Do not speak in that tone, dear,” said her mother gently. “You shall have all the privileges I can give you; but we haven’t time to discuss it now. Run and slip on your gray cashmere, it is in order; I fixed that place in the sleeve this morning, and brushed it and got it all ready to put on.”

“Mamma Conran! that old gray cashmere. As if I would go out in it to-night! Why, the Barnards come to rehearsal, and the Needhams, and their cousin from New York. The idea of rigging up in that old thing and standing out there to sing, the most prominent person in the choir. I just can’t do it! If I can’t wear the dress I have on I’m not going at all.”

“My daughter, don’t be so foolish; the rehearsal surely doesn’t depend upon the dress you wear. You are wasting time; I cannot think of letting you go in that dress. If I had noticed it before I should have called your attention to it; but I hadn’t the least idea you would think of putting it on. The gray cashmere is entirely suitable, my dear. Your mother has not lost all sense of propriety, even though she is older than fifteen. You must allow yourself to be guided by her. I would not make a scene if I were you, and spoil the beauty of the music you have given us. There is ample time just to slip on another dress. Run along, and I will get out your wraps and have them ready for you when you come down.”

“Mamma, I’m not going to do it. I told you if I had to wear that old cashmere dress I shouldn’t go out of the house to-night, and I meant it. Other girls can wear decent dresses. Carrie Wheeler wears a white silk to rehearsal often, and here I have got to rig up like an old woman and sing the leading part. You don’t know anything about it, mamma; it is so long since you were a girl you don’t realize how girls dress now. I wouldn’t hurt this dress and you know it. It is just too mean for anything. You always spoil my pleasure.”

“Angeline!”—the mother’s gentle voice was growing stern at last—“I cannot allow you to speak to your mother in that way. There are the Wheeler girls coming up the walk now, to call for you. If you will go immediately and change your dress I will explain to them that you will be down in a few minutes.”

A loud, angry cry from Angie, a sound like that from a naughty child who had lost all control of herself, and between the sobs she managed to get out: “I won’t go a single step, and you can tell them so; and you can tell them the reason, if you choose; then they will understand just what hard times I have.” And with another jarring crash of the keys the angry girl left the room, slamming the door after her.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

ELSIE’S PLAN.—II.

(_Something for Mamma._)

“I’M going to stop its raveling,” said Elsie serenely. “I’m going to overcast it, as mother does dress seams, and then line it with Margaret’s dress skirt; that is real strong, and will make it stand up beautifully.”

Sure enough, by dint of patient, painstaking effort, a circle of matting measuring nearly a yard around was cut off, the raw edges “overcast” with a large needle and strong linen thread, then the dress skirt was ripped and carefully smoothed. A journey to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hobbs, the woman who washed and ironed on the same day for this fallen family, was at work. Elsie hinted that it would save her time if Irma would see to the ironing, but at that moment Irma was in the depths of her book, and seemed to be deaf. Back again with her ironed skirt, the yard of matting was laid on the floor, the cloth spread over it and neatly tacked at sides and ends; then the long side seam was sewed, amid statements from Irma that it could not be done, because whose arms could be expected to reach down such a ridiculous cylinder as that to sew! It was hard work. Twice Elsie gave up with a sigh, and once was on the point of going to Margaret for advice, but the strong desire to do the work herself held her, and she actually did accomplish it! To stand the cylinder on one end, and draw with white chalk a “head” for it, and then another a trifle larger for a cover, was comparatively easy. These two were lined by cutting out a circle of cloth three inches larger than the matting circle, running a strong gathering string around the edge, and drawing it up around the matting.

“What is the use of that?” Irma demanded; and upon being informed that it was for strength and also to give something substantial to sew to, she said, with a little sniff, “Such a lot of trouble for what will only be an ugly bungle when you get it done.”

“It will be a bungle that will hold the clothes nicely,” Elsie said merrily.

She was so sure now of succeeding that she could afford to be merry.

The small patient fingers sewed away, and Irma, watching, grew interested in spite of herself. “You are not making a true round for the cover,” she presently exclaimed. “The thing wiggles in and out so, it is hard to make a true circle; you ought to cut a paper pattern first, and work at it until you get it true, then cut the matting by it. Here, I’ll make a pattern for you; and if I were you I would wire the creature around the top; that would make it stay in place.”

“That is an excellent idea,” Elsie said, “and I know just where there is a bit of wire that will do; I’ll run and get it.” She smothered a wee sigh as she went; it was a good plan to cut a pattern, and Irma’s eye for cutting was better than her own, but she had wanted to do this work entirely herself. The pattern was troublesome, but at last a fair circle was made, an edge of matting four inches deep sewed around it, the whole carefully lined, and the thing was done.

“It really looks very well,” Irma said, “and will do to stand in the back hall. That wire around the top was a good scheme.”

“Yes,” said Elsie heartily, “it was.”

Mrs. Harding gave no faint praise the next morning when the matting “hamper,” duly addressed and wrapped, stood close to her seat at table. She examined the workmanship most minutely, declared that the idea was original, and the completed work most useful.

“You have no idea how much more precious it is to me than anything bought with money could possibly be,” she said, kissing again the rosy cheeks of her youngest daughter, while the others looked on, smiling. Then truthful Elsie bethought herself. “Irma helped me,” she said quickly; “she made the circle true, and planned the wire for the top; it would not have been nearly so nice without her help.”

“I didn’t do the least thing, mother, except to cut a paper pattern for her, and to propose that some wire be sewed around the top. She had it nearly done before I said a word. It is all nonsense to say I helped. All I did was to give a little advice.”

The older daughters laughed merrily, for Irma was very fond of giving advice; but Mrs. Harding drew Irma to her side and kissed her lovingly, while she said: “There spoke my truthful girl. She is not going to be commended for what she has not done.”

“Oh! but, mother, she did truly help,” was Elsie’s eager explanation.

“Of course she did,” declared Margaret; “I have seen the time when I needed a little good advice more than any other kind of help.”

PANSY.

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY

IV.

I AM glad you do not get tired of my talking so much about myself, and what I have seen and heard. It shows how you have been brought up, so far; and if we old dogs live a great deal in the past you may pick up a little wisdom from us, after all, and be none the worse for what we say, if you only learn to profit by our experiences and avoid our mistakes.

You want to hear more? Well, let me see, what shall I tell you about this time? I am reminded by the talk I overheard about the family going to the seaside, of the summer when I was two years old. I spent it with my old master at a place on the New Jersey coast. There did not seem to be any one with whom I could well stay at home; besides, my young master’s little girl was very anxious to have me go with them, so they finally agreed to it, and were not sorry afterwards.

As I remember, I enjoyed the bathing as well as any of the party, or would have done so had I not been anxious all the time about little Lucy’s drowning. When those big waves would roll in, it seemed to me they meant to carry my little friend out of my sight forever.

The summer proved to be one which we could all remember without trying. For the first few weeks there was nothing very unusual happened, and some seemed to think it was going to be very dull and monotonous. But it “is a long road that has no turn,” and a “turn” finally came which was exciting enough for all of us.

The old settlers near the beach said we were to have a storm which would afford us a chance for a vacation in our bathing, and give us a sight of some “big seas,” for we would probably see the Atlantic in one of his angry moods before many hours.

We felt ready for the change, and lay down at night thinking what a good time we would have the next day looking at the great waves roll in.

I knew the wind was blowing pretty fresh, but had such a protected place that I did not know how the storm had arisen until towards morning I heard the sound of a big gun. It sounded again and again, and then there was a noise in the house, and a general turn out and rush for the beach. Of course I followed the crowd, and soon learned what was the matter. There was a ship in distress, and being driven upon the shore.

The men were there with the life-saving apparatus, and soon a line was got out to the ship, and they were running a kind of boat back and forth upon it, bringing the passengers from the ship to the shore.

Well, the people were all safety landed, but there was a splendid big dog on that ship, and no one had seemed to think of or to care for him. O, yes! he knew how to swim, but that was a terribly angry water, and the distance was great, and they said there was an ugly undertow. That means that water which has come pouring in upon the shore runs back on the bottom with such power sometimes as to carry anything with it that it can get hold of.

Poor Hercules—that was the dog’s name—had seen himself left there alone, the while the great waves were breaking all over the ship. If the poor fellow had been a fool he might have suffered less, for he would have thrown himself into the water at once; but as it was he knew the danger. Why, we could hear his howl above the noise of the breakers! and some of the men were almost wild with anxiety to try to save him. I suppose none of them thought the poor dog would know enough to get into that little car which had brought the people to the shore; and if he had he could not have shut himself in. So there he was. His owner, having several children besides his wife and the nurse to look after, had entirely forgotten the dog.

Hercules ran up and down the deck until there finally came a wave much bigger than any which had preceded it, and he was washed overboard. Of course he did then the best he could, and that was saying a great deal, for he was a powerful fellow; but those were terrible waves, and what could anything but a fish do in such a sea? We could see him now and then upon the crest of a wave, and then he would disappear. Every time we saw him he seemed to be nearer the shore, and we had a little hope that some big sea would throw him near enough for us to help him.

But the women and children must be cared for, so the people were soon gone, only a few of the boarders remaining to watch the sea, all believing the four-footed passenger to have been drowned. Looking steadily, I thought I caught sight of the fellow once, then again, and much nearer the shore. Yes, there he was, and a big wave landed him so near that his body actually rolled over on the sand, as the waves ran back to their home again. He was too weak to help himself; but I ran down, and before the next wave came seized him by the back of the neck and stopped his rolling; but he was too heavy for me to drag alone. My presence, however, seemed to give him courage, and he got upon his feet again; then came another wave and covered us both. This did not prove to be so heavy as most of them, and the men came to our assistance, so brave Hercules was saved.

Those who had remained to see this part of the scene sent up a rousing shout, and both of us were petted at a great rate.

I have never seen many happier moments in my long life than those which followed for a little while. I was so glad to see this stranger safe, and glad that I had been able to help save him!

He understood it all, too, though he did not understand English very well. I need not tell you that we were together that summer all we could be. The man who owned the dog had gone off and left him, and my master said that Hercules belonged to him more than to any one else, because I had been the means of saving his life.

But after a while the dog’s master came down there from New York to look after the wreck, and see if he could not find anything of value washed ashore which belonged to him. The place proved so pleasant that he sent for his family to come and spend a few weeks. They had experienced such a fright from the ocean the day of the wreck that at first they were very shy of the water, but it was not long before they were in with the others, enjoying the bathing.

This lasted for some time, and the children became very careless, venturing out where they ought not. My new friend and his master had not met since the day of the storm, as they were bathing at another part of the beach. For some reason my master decided not to go into the water one day, and we took a stroll along the beach to where those people were bathing. We had hardly reached the place, and my master seated himself in a comfortable position to watch the bathers, when Hercules gave a loud bark, as much as to say “Come,” and bounded into the breakers. Of course I followed fast after him, on, on, out into the sea; and he had his master’s little Gretchen by the back of her bathing-suit and was starting for the shore. It was a hard struggle; it was all both of us could do to save her.

The poor child was almost gone when we got to her, for no one had noticed her trouble and danger except Hercules.

Well, there was a scene on the shore again, and for a time one could hardly tell which the father was most rejoiced over, the saving of his child, or the sight of the dog who had saved her life.

Yes, we had a good time the rest of the summer, and then we had to part; for of course the man had his dog back again.

How I have wished I might see the brave fellow once more. I think he will never be forsaken again.

They went away from the coast a little earlier than we did. The children all bade me good-by, and Hercules’ master invited me to go with them. We had a long visit the night before they went, and both of us felt very sorry to part company; but some way people do not think that we dogs have much heart, or ever mourn for absent friends. There, excuse that tear, but it always makes me feel badly to talk of Hercules, and that delightful summer by the sea.

R.

FLY-LEAF WISDOM FOUND IN AN OLD BOOK.

READ slowly, pause frequently,
Think seriously,
Keep cleanly, return daily,
With the corners of the leaves
Not turned down.

ABOUT CHICAGO.

BY THE PANSIES.

I THINK it is great fun to go to Chicago on a visit, and then come back and hear about it as it used to be. My grandfather went there in 1833. He was just a boy, but he remembers lots of queer things. He went to church in a kind of a barn; the front part was the church, and there was a curtain in the middle, and behind it the minister lived—slept, you know, and ate, and everything. Think of that for Chicago! There was a school kept in a little room on Water Street; the woman who taught it had twenty scholars. The mail was brought once a week by a man on horseback, and the postmaster had a row of old boots nailed up on the wall for mail boxes. Grandfather says the place had begun to grow real fast when he went there, and as many as two hundred frame houses were built within a short time. He was there when they voted to make it a regular town, with officers and laws. One law was that pigs must not run in the streets, and that people must not cut holes in their outside walls and poke stove-pipe through them.

ROBERT CHAPPELL.

* * * * *

THE word “Chicago” used to be spelled “Chicagoux.” Some people think it was named for the “Cheagomeinan River,” which is the Indian name for the Chicago River. The Indians called the Mississippi River “Chacaqua,” which means “divine river,” and I think they worked the name Chicago out of all these notions. My uncle says the name of the French fort in 1688 was Fort Checagou. I like to study about names, and find what they mean, and how many changes they have had before we got hold of them. I have never been to Chicago, but I expect to attend the Columbian Exposition. If you will wait until after that I will tell you something about the city. It is larger than it used to be.

THOMAS L. WOOD, JR.

* * * * *

MY father knows about a man who bought a lot in Chicago in the year 1832 for one hundred dollars, and sold it again about three years afterwards for fifteen thousand dollars! I think that tells a boy better than anything else could, how fast the town grew for a while. Of course it was a nice choice lot, in what suddenly became the business part of the town. I know I should like to have been its first owner.

ROBERT TOWNSEND.

* * * * *

I READ about how Chicago came to be called the “Garden City.” It grew out of hard times. They had what is called a business panic, when everybody owed everybody else, and could not pay them, and business was awfully dull, and people thought the town was going to ruin. The most people had to do was to take care of their grounds. They whitewashed the fences, cleaned up the yards, planted fruits and vines, and did everything they could think of to make their places look pretty. I suppose they hoped somebody would come along and buy them. And that is the way they got the name of “Garden City.”

ALICE PETERSON.

* * * * *

THE people who lived in Chicago about the year 1843 certainly could not have had so high an opinion of the city as people do who live there now. A Mr. Miltimore built a schoolhouse on Madison Street which was called “Miltimore’s Folly,” because people did not believe that there would ever be children enough in the town to fill so large a building. The mayor of the city urged the Council to have it turned into an insane asylum, or sold, and the money from it used to build and care for a smaller building, suited to the present and future needs of the city! I don’t think he could have been a very bright man, because in less than four years from that time the building was not only crowded with scholars, but three others had to be opened in different parts of the city.

ROGER SHERMANN.

* * * * *

CHICAGO is a great place for manufactories. It seems to me as though almost everything was made there. I know they make brooms, and bricks, and boilers, and hats and caps, and saws, and scales, and nails, and paint, and gloves, and carpets, and I am sure I don’t know what else; I guess they make everything. Once I went to the car-wheel factory where they make three hundred wheels every day. It was great fun to see the men work. I like to see things made, and that is what I am going to do when I am a man.

ROBBIE WILSON.

[We are almost certain Robbie means that when he is
a man he is going to help make things; not merely
stand still and see them made. Good for Robbie! What
would become of us if all the people who are hard
at work making things should grow tired of their
work, and conclude to—write books, for instance,
instead?—EDITORS.]

* * * * *

WE are reading in school about the Chicago fire, which was in 1871. I think it is perfectly dreadful to read about it. Just think! it all came from a woman milking after dark, when she ought to have done it before, I suppose; or maybe her little boy ought to have done it for her, and did not come home in time—well, the cow kicked her lamp over and set the hay in the barn on fire, and all that awful ruin came!

I think that woman must have felt dreadfully. As for the cow, I don’t suppose she cared a bit.

LAURA JONES.

* * * * *

I KNOW a man who was in Chicago at the time of the fire, and he paid fifteen dollars for a hack to drive him half a mile! He says a hundred thousand people were made homeless that night. Folks ran through the streets as if they were crazy. Everybody was trying to carry something of theirs to a safe place. One woman tried to save her sewing-machine; she dragged it through the streets a long distance. One man walked along quietly, carrying an ice-pitcher. He said it was all he had left in the world.

PALMER HOUSE

STATE ST. LOOKING So.

COURT-HOUSE & CITY HALL

CUSTOM HOUSE & POST-OFFICE

CHICAGO RIVER

NO. SIDE WATER WORKS]

The poor man had been made crazy by his losses, and did not know what he was about.

THOMAS JONES.

* * * * *

WE lived in Terre Haute, Ind., at the time of the great Chicago fire—at least my folks did—and my father says that on Monday, the ninth, while the fire was still burning, a train loaded full of provisions went out of Terre Haute for them. I think that was nice. There is a boy in school who says that his folks, who lived in Pittsburg, raised a hundred thousand dollars before Wednesday night, and sent it to the Chicago sufferers, and another fellow said that was nothing; that his uncle in Louisville raised most a hundred thousand within ten hours after the fire began! He talked as though his uncle did it all, but I suppose some others helped.

WILLARD J. MOONEY.

* * * * *

I THINK the great big splendid temperance temple is the grandest building in Chicago, and I helped build it. I gave two dollars and seventeen cents that I earned myself, for it. In 1893 I am going to see it, and some other things. I think you ought to have waited until after the Columbian Exposition for letters about Chicago. Then we could have told lots of things.

MARY CLARKSON.

* * * * *

I WENT to Chicago with my grown-up sisters when the Y. P. S. C. E. had its big meeting there. We stopped at the Sherman House. That is one of the nicest hotels in the city. At seven o’clock Sunday morning we had a prayer meeting in the billiard-room; more than a hundred young ladies and gentlemen spoke at that meeting in less than a half-hour, and the singing was lovely. The big meetings were held in Battery D. Ever so many thousand people were there all the time. Some of the speeches were splendid. Chicago is very large. My cousin and I took a ride on a street car as far as it went, then got out and took another line and went as far as its route, just to see the city. They have very tall buildings. I went to the Herald office; that is the handsomest newspaper building in the world, I guess.

LUCY J. HARTMANN.

* * * * *

ONCE I went to the church where Mr. Moody used to preach. I heard the Rev. Charles Goss; he is young. I liked him. I went to a splendid store, but I don’t remember where it was. There was a newsboys’ dinner given while we were there, and I went to look at the boys eating their cake and cream. There were hundreds of them, and they ate fast and seemed to like it.

A great many benevolent things like that are done in Chicago, but I think they need a temperance temple; I saw lots of drunken men, and one drunken woman.

ALICE PETERS.

[We have still more, about incidents which happened
in Chicago rather than about the city itself, but we
have already crowded our space. If the Pansies could
be induced to get their letters in earlier they would
stand a better chance of being selected from.—EDITORS.]

THINGS WHICH SOME PEOPLE REGRET.

HOW many of the Pansies have heard the “silver-tongued orator” lecture on his special theme, Temperance? All of you who have will be sure to hear him again at the first opportunity. Those of you who have not, let me urge to keep on the watch for a chance. Meantime, listen to his hint, which ought to help every boy who reads it to be a better educated man.

“I regret that the many hours of youth I gave to idle
pleasures were not used in storing my mind with useful
knowledge.”

Yours truly,
GEORGE W. BAIN.

THE LAPPS.

FRANCE is “sunny.” It loves shade-trees, fans and fountains. Laplanders must need have furs and fire and fat food. Of course you know why. Those Lapp faces would look equally well as Mr. William’s, if they were to exchange dresses, putting a Lapp where the Emperor now sits so loftily. Give the Lapp the very same chance, and maybe he would make just as wise a ruler of Prussia. People are not so unlike, after all. When God would raise up the greatest Prophet that ever appeared on the earth, he found him in the despised Nazareth. Maybe he is nursing a little child of one of these Lapps who will one day be as great as young Master Wilhelm of Prussia.

L.

* * * * *

ALTHOUGH the printing presses at Beirut are working
night and day they cannot supply the demand for the
Arabic Bible.

EDMUND SPENSER.

(_English Literature Papers._)

JUST three hundred years ago, and just one hundred years after Columbus discovered America and planted his flag on San Salvador, there stood in the middle of a wide, boggy Irish plain a building better than most of those anywhere near it, called Kilcolman Castle. It was a time when the English Government was having a hard time to keep the Irish under their control, and we shall see after a while how the poor people of the castle suffered on account of this fact. But there lived at Kilcolman, in those days from 1586 to 1598, one of the most celebrated of the poets about whom we shall talk in our English Literature Papers. It was Edmund Spenser, and the old picture of him that has come down to us shows him to be a kind, gentle looking man, with a long thin nose and a high forehead, dressed in a black robe, and with a great lace collar coming up above his ears, which must have been very uncomfortable in warm weather.