Chapter XIV: The Continental Congress (2)

The natural lace is not so regular in formation as the material called illusion, so much worn by ladies in summer; but it is as soft and white, and will bear washing, which is not true of illusion. In Jamaica and Central America, this wonderful lace is put to all the uses mentioned by the native to our traveler, and to more uses besides. In fact, among the poorer people it supplies the place of manufactured cloth, which they can not afford to buy; and the wealthier classes do not by any means scorn it for ornamental use.

Long before the white man found his way to this part of the world, the Indians had known and used this vegetable cloth; so that what was so new and wonderful to King Charles and Governor Sir Thomas Lynch was an old story to the natives. Some time after King Charles received his vegetable necktie, Sir Hans Sloane, whose art-collection and library were the foundation of the British Museum, visited Jamaica. He described the tree fully, and was the first person who told the civilized world about it. The tree is commonly called the lace-bark tree. Its botanical name is _Lagetto lintearia_.

WOE TO THE FOREIGN DOLLY!

ST. NICHOLAS DOG STORIES.

X.--A CLEVER LITTLE YELLOW DOG.

BY JOHN R. CORYELL.

One cold winter night, not long ago, I took pity on a poor little dejected-looking yellow puppy, and invited him into my house. Having once taken him in, it was quite out of the question to think of turning him out again. I was not afraid that I might be robbing anybody, for he was the kind of dog that very few persons care to have. He was dirty-yellow in color, very lank of body, and he seemed to be made up of ill-assorted parts of different kinds of dogs. His legs, particularly, seemed intended for some other dog and acted as if they never would become reconciled to carrying the queer body to which they were joined.

I should have preferred a handsome dog, but since I had no choice, I determined to do my duty by the little outcast, and to give him such an education that in the beauties of his mind the ugliness of his body would be overlooked.

The first thing needed for him was a name; and I tried to think of something appropriate, but soon gave it up, and in default of a better title called him Bob. To teach him the name was easy. I merely called out the word "Bob!" every time I fed him. As it was important that he should learn to look to me as the source of all his happiness and instruction, I permitted no one else to feed him. It took him about a week to learn his name, and to recognize the fact that all the blandishments he could lavish on the cook would be of no avail, and that his only hope was in me.

At the very outset, I had made up my mind that under no circumstances should he receive angry words or blows. He was a broken-spirited, affectionate little puppy, and I was resolved that if there was no way of teaching him except by brutality, he should remain ignorant all his life. The abject way in which, to this day, he runs from a child makes me feel sad. I fancy that much of his early life was spent in dodging stones or snow-balls thrown by boys--not cruel, but thoughtless boys.

It was necessary to control him, and I quickly discovered an easy way. He was such a sensitive little fellow that when he once learned to love me, he seemed to know by the tones of my voice whether I was pleased with him, and to have me pleased seemed to be the one object of his life. Therefore, if I saw him doing anything wrong, I had only to say sharply and firmly, "No, Bob!" and down would go the tail and ears, and he would slink shame-facedly to his special corner and from there watch me until I would call him to me and pat his head.

After a while, a quiet "No, Bob!" would effect the same result. This was a great victory, and made most of the subsequent teaching merely a matter of patience.

The first real lesson was when I undertook to make him sit up. If he had only known what I wished him to do, he would gladly have done it; but the words "Sit up!" meant nothing to him. He was almost too willing, for when I took hold of him to put him into a sitting position, he became as limp as a wet rag, and seemed to be trying to put himself into a condition to be twisted into any shape I chose.

Then I put him into a corner and set him up, saying continually, "Sit up! Sit up!" I held him up for a while and then took my hand away, but at once he collapsed as if all the stiffening had suddenly left his back-bone. Then I showed him a piece of sugar, of which he was very fond, and immediately he was himself again. Once more, and many times more, I put him in position in the corner, until at last, seemingly by accident, he failed to fall over when I took my hand away. I did not tax his endurance, but at once gave him the sugar.

It took him about three days to grasp the idea that "sit up!" meant a special performance, and that to achieve it meant a lump of sugar. Then I put him through the same process in the middle of the room. He missed the support of the wall at first, and fell over; whereupon he looked foolish. One fact was evidently firmly fixed in his mind, however,--the fact that there was sugar to be had if only he could do as I wished him to do. All the time that he was struggling for balance, he kept his eye on the lump of sugar, which I had on the floor beside me. Finally that lesson was learned, and he could sit up if I would put him in position. He knew, too, what "sit up!" meant.

After that, I would not feed him until he had first sat up; but it was a long time before he gained sufficient confidence in himself to sit up without help. At first I helped him up by both paws; then I helped by holding only one paw; then I merely touched one paw; then I only motioned, as if about to touch the paw; and finally I simply said, "Sit up!"

I think Bob reasoned this all out in his own mind and concluded that there must be some strange and beautiful power in the words "sit up!" for he could see that whenever he did it, he had something to eat. I am obliged to confess that Bob loved to eat; and after he had learned to sit up, he was inclined to perform the feat morning, noon, and night, and it was, of course, impossible to make him go away without first giving him a morsel, however small, of food.

Lessons in standing up, walking and waltzing followed, and they were all easily taught. In teaching him anything, I was always careful to associate the action required of him with certain words. Standing, walking on his hind legs, and waltzing were always "stand up!" "walk!" "waltz about!" I never taught him more than one thing at a time, so that there should be no possibility of his misunderstanding the meaning of the word or words used.

In teaching him to stand up, I first made him sit; then by holding a piece of sugar over his head, I induced him to stand erect,--while I kept repeating, "Stand up!" "Stand up!" After he had learned this lesson, I made him first sit, then stand, and then, by going from him and saying "Walk!" I made him follow me until he understood the connection between the words and the action, even when I was at the other end of the room. I taught him to "waltz" by making him go around and around after a piece of sugar held over his head when he was standing up.

To make him go to his corner and lie down, without hurting his feelings, was difficult. If I said sharply, "Go to your corner and lie down!" he would go; but he would feel so badly that he could not play for half an hour. But by repeating the command in gradually softening tones and by giving him a piece of sugar each time, he eventually learned that he was not thereby in disgrace.

Seeing, however, how a sharp word would make his ears and tail droop, I took advantage of this fact, and whenever he had done wrong I would always say "Naughty!" a dozen times over, until at last I had only to whisper "Naughty!"--and down would go those ensigns in a moment. On the other hand, if I said "Good dog!" he was immediately on the alert, ears up, head cocked to one side, and tail wagging, ready for any kind of sport.

After he had learned to walk, I taught him to go slowly when I said "like a gentleman!" and quickly when I said "like a schoolboy!" To teach him these things required patience principally; but I found that to teach him some things taxed my ingenuity as well.

I wished him to speak both softly and loudly; but how to make him do it puzzled me. For Bob seldom barked except when engaged in uproarious play, and at such times he was not susceptible to instruction. One day, however, he had been playing with a little rubber ball, running after it and bringing it to me until I was tired, a condition in which he never seemed to be.

To stop the game I put my foot on the ball, and picked up a book to read. Bob waited a few moments to see what I was going to do, and finding I was not going to play, tried to push my foot away with his nose. Failing in that, he pulled with one paw. That also failed, and Bob was puzzled. He retired a few steps, placed his head between his forepaws on the floor and looked at me. I pretended not to see him, curious to know what he would do. He remained perfectly still for nearly a minute, and then, as if determined to attract my attention somehow, he barked.

There was my clew; I gave him the ball at once. In a few moments I again placed my foot on the ball, and waited until I saw he was about to bark, when I said, "Shout! Shout!" He barked, and I gave him the ball. I repeated this several times a day, and day after day, until he learned to bark whenever he wanted the ball and I said "Shout!" Then I made him shout for his meals, and finally, he would "shout" whenever I told him to do so.

To make him speak softly, I took advantage of a fashion he had of whining when he wished to go into the yard for a frolic. I would go to the door and say, "Want to go out?" Bob would at once respond by preparing to rush out the moment the door was opened. Then I would say, "Speak softly!" and keep repeating the words until he whined. After a while he would whine the moment I said, "Speak softly!"

Another thing that I taught him was to fall down and lie motionless when I said, "Dead!" This I accomplished by taking hold of his forefeet in one hand and his hindfeet in the other, and suddenly dropping him on his side on the floor, as I said the word "Dead!" several times.

At first, Bob thought I was playing some new game with him, and prepared for a good time, but I had only to say "No!" to him to make him sedate at once. By this time he had learned that when I repeated a thing several times, it was because he was to learn something; and the little fellow really seemed to try to understand what I wished him to do.

After I had pulled his feet from under him a number of times, and had made him lie still until I said, "Alive!" I tried tapping a hindfoot and a forefoot, at the same time saying "Dead!" He was a long time learning this trick; and several times when I thought he had learned to do it when I simply tapped his feet, I was obliged to go back and pull his feet from under him. In time, however, he learned to fall the moment I touched the side of one hindfoot. From that to motioning at the foot, and finally, merely saying "Dead!" the progress was quick. To make him jump up, I always said "Alive!"

To make him go "lame" was very easy. I tied a long string to one forefoot, and by saying, "Lame!" and at the same time making him walk, while I prevented him from putting the tied foot down, he soon learned to go on three legs.

One of the funniest things he learned to do was to take his piece of carpet, shake it well, and put it back in its place. It was through an accident that I thought of teaching him to do this. I had been accustomed to shake out his carpet in the yard every morning. One morning I threw it on the grass to air. In a moment Bob had it in his mouth and was worrying it, shaking it, and growling. He was playing, but I saw that I could teach him something, and at once said, "Make your bed!" By repeating this, morning after morning, he at last learned to pick up his carpet, carry it out into the yard, shake it, and carry it back. I could never teach him to lay it down properly, however; he seemed to think it was as good in a heap as if nicely smoothed out.

After I had taught Bob a number of tricks, I determined to write a play for him. I do not believe that any human actor ever had audiences more appreciative than his, when he performed in his "play." His little friends were always ready to give him sugar by the handful if I did not interfere, and Bob was always ready to take all that was offered. The "play" was nothing more than a simple little story into which were introduced the words which I used in commanding him to perform his various tricks. I would repeat the story, and when I came to a word of command, such as "dead," I would emphasize it so that Bob would at once do whatever he had been taught to do at the sound of that word. The play I wrote was about as follows:--

"Once upon a time there was a little dog named _Bob_ [here Bob would run to me, and wait expectantly]. Usually he was a very _good dog_ [wag, wag, would go his tail], but once in a while he was very _naughty_ [down would drop ears and tail]. When he was a _good dog_ [happy again], he would _sit up_ and show any little boy or girl how to behave. At such times, he would _speak softly_ [prolonged whine], as a polite dog should, though once in a while he would become excited, and _shout, shout, shout_ [furious barking], as impolite children are sometimes apt to do.

"When a lady entered the room where he was, he would always _stand_ up, ready to give her his chair if she wished it; or if she preferred to go into the garden or the street, he would go with her and _walk like a gentleman_. When he played, however, he could run _like a schoolboy_. But once he was in the ball-room, he could _waltz about_ as well as the best dancer there.

"If any one ever said to him, '_go to your corner and lie down_' he would do so at once like the well bred dog he was. But he was always obedient and would come immediately as soon as one said _Bob_.

"I was very sorry to hear one day that this remarkable dog was _dead_. I felt so badly that I went to his house, but was pleasantly surprised when I reached there, to find that he was very much _alive_."

What will be the limit of Bob's education I do not know, for he continues to learn with increasing ease every day. In addition to all that has been described, he can now, at the proper order of command, sneeze, catch a piece of meat from his nose at the word "three," jump over a cane, turn a somersault, and play tag.

XI.--A DOG THAT COULD COUNT.

BY E. P. ROE.

Old Fetch was a shepherd dog and lived in the Highlands of the Hudson. His master kept nearly a dozen cows, and they ranged at will among the hills during the day. When the sun was low in the west, his master would say to his dog, "Bring the cows home"; and it was because the dog did this task so well, that he was called Fetch. He would run to a flat rock and hold his ear down close to it, having learned that he could thus catch the far-off tinkle of the cow-bells better than in any other way. If he could not hear them he would range about until he did, and then he was off like a shot in the direction of the sound.

One sultry day he departed as usual upon his evening task. From scattered, shady, and grassy nooks, he at last gathered all the cattle into a mountain road, leading to the distant barnyard.

Switching off the flies with their tails, the cows jogged slowly homeward, the tinkle of their bells gradually becoming more and more distinct to the milkmaid who was awaiting them. One of the cows was known to be a little perverse, and on that evening she gave fresh evidence of willfulness. One part of the road ran through a low, moist spot bordered by a thicket of black alder, and into this the cow pushed her way, and stood quietly. The others passed on, followed some distance in the rear by Fetch. He was panting from his exertions in the hot evening, his tongue lolling from his mouth as he slowly and languidly pursued his way.

Indeed he had quite discarded his usual vigilance, and the perverse cow took advantage of it.

As the cows approached the barnyard gate, he quickened his pace, and hurried forward, as if to say, "I'm here, attending to business." But his complacency was disturbed as the cows filed through the gate. He whined a little, and growled a little, attracting his master's attention. Then he went to the high fence surrounding the yard, and standing on his hindfeet peered between two of the rails. After looking at the herd carefully for a time, he started off down the road again on a full run. His master now observed that one of the cows was missing, and he sat down on a rock to see what Fetch was going to do about it. Before very long he heard the furious tinkling of a bell, and soon Fetch appeared bringing in the perverse cow at a rapid pace, hastening her on by frequently leaping up and catching her ear in his teeth. The gate was again thrown open, and the cow, shaking her head from the pain of the dog's rough reminders, was led through it in a way that she did not soon forget. Fetch looked after her a moment with the air of one remarking to himself, "You'll not try that trick again," and then he lay down quietly to cool off in time for supper.

XII.--A CLEVER SHEEP DOG.

A recent English writer tells the following story of an ingenious sheep-dog that, when the flock took a wrong road, would turn them back without worrying them. His owner had hesitated for some time before he made up his mind to have a dog, as he had often seen dogs ill-use the poor sheep. But believing that in most cases the dogs' harshness toward the sheep was due to bad training, and not to their naturally evil dispositions, he resolved to make trial of one. The dog he procured was young; and he trained it after his own ideas. He soon found the docile creature a very useful helper in driving a flock from one pasture to another. The sheep often took a wrong turn, and then scampered off as fast as they could go. At such times, most shepherds who had dogs were accustomed to send the dog after the flock, at the top of its speed. Of course, it soon overtook them, but the sheep were often much frightened, and not infrequently hurt by falling down or by rushing against one another. To prevent this, the shepherd mentioned would order his dog "Smart" to go to the other side of the hedge, saying, "Now, go ahead, and bring 'em back!" Smart would promptly obey, and would noiselessly run along behind the hedge, sometimes even climbing a little slope by the roadway, whence he could overlook the flock and see just where each sheep was moving. As soon as Smart, by peeping over or through the hedge, had satisfied himself that he was ahead of all the sheep, he would come coolly out of the hedge and bring them back down the lane so gently as not to cause them the least alarm. Smart never attempted to get ahead of a flock in the way common to most of the dogs in that vicinity,--by rushing past them and frightening them; but looking at his master and wagging his tail, he would cross the hedge, overtake them, and quietly drive them back into the right road.

XIII.--A STORY OF TWO BUCKETS.

BY CHARLOTTE M. VAILE.

There they were hanging, one of them out of sight in the cool, deep water, and the other swinging empty in the sunshine, as Daisy Hadley and her dog Bruno came up to the well. The little girl and the big dog had been rambling about all the morning, following the brook through fields of sunflowers and poppies, or climbing the rocks on the sides of the mountains; but they were tired and thirsty now, and Daisy looked wistfully at the empty bucket, wishing she were strong enough to pull it down and bring the other, full and dripping, up in its place.

"Bruno," she said reproachfully, "I wish you could draw me some water." Bruno was a great, shaggy Newfoundland, that had been Daisy's play-mate ever since she could remember. He was a wonderful dog. Daisy herself would have told you that there were only a few things he could not do, but unfortunately managing that well was one of them. So there was no help for it, and Daisy was turning reluctantly away when she caught sight of Mr. Paul Gregg, one of the other summer boarders in the Park.

If he had not come up just then, there would have been no story to tell, and the buckets might have gone up and down in the well to this day without taking part in any more remarkable event. But he _did_ come up; and Daisy's face brightened, for they were great friends, though she was only a little girl in the Kindergarten, and he was a tall young student. He stopped when Daisy said she wanted some water; and putting down his botanical box, he began to draw some gloves over his rather soft hands.

"I don't like this kind of a well at all," said Daisy. "It isn't half as nice as the one at my grandfather's. _That_ had only one bucket, with a rope that went 'round and 'round a great roller; and there was a handle that I could turn myself."

"This is a very old and respectable kind of a well, though," said Mr. Gregg, taking hold of the rope. "There must have been such wells as long ago as Shakspere's time."

"How do you know?" asked Daisy, who was sure that Shakspere lived a great while ago, though she could not have told when.

"Shakspere, you know, Daisy," said Mr. Gregg, "was a great poet who lived hundreds of years ago, and in a play he wrote, called 'King Richard II.,' he tells about just such a well as this. Richard was one of the kings of England, and a very unlucky king he was, though I can't deny that he brought his troubles on himself, for he was anything but a wise and prudent ruler. At last his cousin Prince Henry raised a great army and forced Richard to give up the crown. Poor King Richard did not show much spirit when his troubles came; but, according to Shakspere, he made a very neat speech, when his clever cousin Henry told him that he had decided to become King himself. Among other things, Richard said that the crown he must give up was

'Like a deep well
That owns two buckets filling one another;
The emptier ever dancing in the air,
The other down, unseen, and full of water;
That bucket down, and full of tears, am I,
Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.'"

While Mr. Gregg was talking, the buckets in the well had changed places. The one which had swung in the air so lightly at first had gone down out of sight, and the other had come up ready to be emptied and to take its place in the sunshine.

Mr. Gregg paused now as he poured out some of the water. Daisy was silent too, trying to understand it all.

"What became of King Richard?" she asked presently.

"He died in prison," said Mr. Gregg. "Some say his cousin Henry, who took his place as king, had him put to death; and now," he added, turning away from the well, "I think that I will see if your mother is ready to go to dinner with us."

Then he turned toward the cottage and left Daisy standing by the well. She had not understood it all, but she felt very sorry for the unhappy king, and she thought she knew why he said he was like the bucket in the deep, dark water when he sank under his grief and shame never to see any more bright days.

She was leaning on the side of the well, with her hand upon the rope, thinking very earnestly of it all and trying to catch a glimpse of the bucket that was hanging there in the dark, when something dreadful happened. Before she knew it, she had leaned over too far. She lost her balance and fell over the side of the well. Down, down went the bucket, more swiftly than it had ever gone before, and with it, but holding desperately to the rope, went Daisy! There was only time for one terrible cry--and she was out of sight in the well!

There was no one there to save her,--Yes, there was Bruno! He heard the cry. He saw his little friend go down, and with a bark that rang across to the mountains, he rushed to the well. He leaped frantically against the low wooden side just as the bucket which had been in the water rose even with its edge. Somehow he managed to fling his heavy paws on it, then his whole body, and then, all at once, it was Bruno that was going down, down, but clinging to the bucket and howling as he went,--and Daisy was coming up!

It was only for a minute, therefore, that Daisy was in the water. The next moment, thanks to the sudden pull at the other end of the rope, she was rising again; and just as Bruno, loosened his hold of the bucket, and dropped heavily into the water, Mr. Paul Gregg reached the side of the well, seized the rope and drew Daisy to the top, gasping, shivering, and frightened almost to death.

As soon as Daisy could speak, she said, "Save Bruno!" But they had already begun to do that, and they did save him, of course. The brave old fellow was none the worse for his adventure. He dried himself in the sunshine, and then lay down beside the rocking-chair where Daisy sat folded in a soft wrap, with vaseline on her blistered hands.

Daisy was none the worse for it either, in the end; though at first, when her mother asked her how it happened and she tried to say something about a "poor king," and "a bucket-full of tears," the poor lady was afraid the plunge had affected her daughter's mind, and to this day she is in doubt whether Shakspere or King Henry or Mr. Paul Gregg was responsible for the accident.

One thing however, was clear. It was Bruno who had saved her. Had he really meant to go down with the bucket and rescue her? Daisy never had a doubt of it herself. For the rest of the season he was the hero of the Park. The summer guests bought him a silver collar beautifully engraved, and Mr. Paul Gregg declared that he should propose his name as an honorary member of the Humane Society.

But Bruno's head was not turned with all those honors. He rambled through the fields with Daisy as he had done before, and when she put her arms around his neck, and said that he should be her dearest friend forever, he was happier than if his collar had been made of gold, or than if he had been elected president of the Humane Society.

THE SMALLEST CIRCUS IN THE WORLD.

BY C. F. HOLDER.

In a former number of ST. NICHOLAS the largest circus in the world was described, and the curious animal actors were shown in many of their tricks and performances. We now wish to exhibit another circus, the smallest in the world, the performers in which, numbering several hundreds, could all be carried about in a cherry-stone--in fact, a circus of fleas, of such remarkable intelligence that in their various feats they were quite equal to many of the larger trained animals with which we are familiar.

But before showing what the flea can do, let us look at its antecedents. We know that it is a wingless fly,--a cousin to the house-flies on one side, and to the crane-flies on the other; and a more knightly-looking little creature you can not possibly imagine. Under the microscope we see it covered with a rich polished armor resembling tortoise-shell. The head is small, and supports two _antennæ_ or feelers, composed of five joints, and between these is the proboscis, a terrible affair. Upon close examination with a powerful glass, what an array of piercing and cutting blades are seen,--long, narrow, transparent knives, each edge armed with a double row of glistening points that extend outward and then are hooked backward! These are known as the mandibles, and fit closely together, concealing another and smaller blade that has a similar but single row of points. Besides all this, there are two cutting-blades; the under edges are as sharp as sharp can be, while the upper are thick and set with bristles. Do you wonder then that the flea is so sharp a biter?

On its armored head are two large eyes; and the entire body is seen to be made up of a series of elastic armor-like bands wonderfully jointed, and armed with bristling spines like the steel points on the armor of olden times. The legs are six in number, jointed in so remarkable a manner that they can be folded up one within another. When the flea makes its prodigious leaps, these six legs all unfold at once, hurling the little fellow high into the air.

The baby flea is produced from a minute egg that in six days hatches into a tiny worm. In about ten days, the worm changes into a chrysalis, and in twelve days more it appears a perfect flea, ready for warfare upon anything or anybody.

Who first discovered that the flea was susceptible to education and kind treatment is not known; but the fact remains that on their small heads there is a thinking-cap capable of accomplishing great results. In the selection of fleas for training, however, the same care must be taken as with human beings, as the greatest difference is found in them. Some are exceedingly apt scholars, while others never can learn, and so it is that great numbers of fleas are experimented with before a troupe is accepted. The Flea Circus here described was exhibited a few years ago and was composed of about two hundred of the most distinguished and intelligent fleas in the entire family.

One of the first lessons taught the flea, is to control its jumping powers, for if its great leaps should be taken in the middle of a performance, there would be a sudden ending to the circus. To insure against such a misfortune, the student flea is first placed in a glass phial, and encouraged to jump as much as possible. Every leap here made brings the polished head of the flea against the glass, hurling the insect back, and throwing it this way and that, until, after a long and sorry experience, and perhaps many head-aches, it makes up its mind never to unfold its legs suddenly again. When it has proved this by refusing to jump in the open air, the first and most important lesson is complete, and it joins the troupe, and is daily harnessed and trained, until, finally, it is pronounced ready to go on the stage or in the ring.

The famous Flea Circus was placed on an ordinary table, and resembled in size and shape a common dinner plate. A rim several inches high encircled the outer edge, and around the circle stood a number of small wooden boxes--the houses of the performers, and the stables for their carriages. The signal being given, the audience, consisting of one human being, would take in hand the large magnifying glass, hold it over the ring, and the performance would begin. At the word of command from the director, a very jolly, red-faced old gentleman, armed with a pair of pincers, a tiny trap-door in one of the wooden houses sprang open and a number of fleas filed out. They passed around the circle in a dignified manner, appearing through the glass about as large as wasps or bees. Each flea had a gold cord about its waist, and this was the grand entry always seen at the circus. Having completed the circuit, they returned to their quarters, and the performance proper commenced. Five fleas, each adorned with a different color, stepped from another house, and after running about here and there, and being admonished by the director, ranged themselves in a line, and at the word "go!" started on a rush around the circle; running into each other, rolling over and over, and making frantic leaps over one another. Only after half the course had been gone over, did they move in regular order, and strive fairly for the goal. In another moment, a large flea would have won the race had not two laggards almost at the last instant, as if made reckless by their evident risk of defeat, taken a desperate leap and landed far beyond the winning-post. Forthwith they were taken up in the pincers, and placed in solitary confinement in the glass phial, where it was supposed they had learned not to jump.

A dance was next announced and at a signal from the manager there came tumbling out from the third house probably the most ludicrous band of performers ever witnessed. Each dancer was in full regalia, like the ladies who ride the padded horses in the regular circus, their dresses of tissue paper being ornamented with purple, gold, and red hues. The glass was placed in position, the spectator looked through it, the performers were lifted in by the pincers, and the dance began--a mixture of the Highland-fling, the sailor's hornpipe, and a "regular" break-down.

The little creatures bobbed up and down, now on one claw, now on all six, hopping, leaping, bowing, and scraping, moving forward and back, bumping into one another, now up, now down, until they seemed utterly exhausted, and several that had fallen down, and were kept by their voluminous skirts from getting up, had to be carried off by the aid of the ever-ready pincers.

Next came a hurdle-race. Hurdles of thin silver wire were arranged, over which two fleas were supposed to leap. One, however, was evidently very lazy or very cunning, as it won the last race by crawling under the wire.

A clown flea now appeared in the ring, and crawled about in a comical manner with a white clown's cap on its diminutive head. A moment later out came a number of fleas all harnessed with gold wire trappings, and the several vehicles were taken from the stables. There was a tally-ho coach, smaller than a very small pea, an Eskimo sled, about a quarter of an inch long, with wire runners, a trotting sulky, evidently made from hair or bristles, and other gorgeous equipages. The tally-ho team of four frantic fleas, evidently fiery steeds, was harnessed to the coach, and on the top were placed four phlegmatic fleas that had probably been booked as outsiders, while the insides were two others fleas, which, we are sorry to say, were obliged to get in through the window, and acted very much as if they wished to get out again. The other vehicles were each provided with a steed and rider, and then all were drawn up in a row. At the word of command, off they started pell-mell! The tally-ho leaders evidently jumped their traces at first, but finally they were off with a rush, running over the clown, knocking off his hat, and, for the moment, creating a dreadful panic. The sled team threw its driver, and the sulky ran away, the flea trotter actually leaping into the air, sulky and all. But order was soon restored, and as the track was arranged on the downhill principle, the racers made rapid time. In two minutes the circuit was completed, the tally-ho coming in ahead, without, however, its outside passengers, who were thrown off as the coach was rounding the curve, and at once crawled into the nearest place of refuge.

The last act of this wonderful circus was perhaps the best. The manager arranged the stage by placing two very fine entomological pins about four inches apart, connecting them by a slender silver wire, and then announced that Signor _Pulex Irritanici_, the world-renowned tight-rope performer, would attempt his wonderful feat of dancing upon the wire at a "dizzy height" (compared to the size of the performer). The Signor was then brought out in a small bottle of cut-glass; his only ornament was a little jacket of tissue-paper. When fished out and placed upon the pin-head, he boldly started out upon the wire over which his little clawed toes seemed to fit. In the middle, and over the terrific abyss, he balanced up and down for a second, stood upon his longest legs, and then moved on, crossing in safety, and thus ending the circus, at least for that occasion.

ROCK-A-BYE.

BY MARY N. PRESCOTT.

"Rock-a-bye, babies, upon the tree-top,"
To her young the mother-bird sings,
"When the wind's still, the rocking will stop,
And then you may all use your wings."

"Rock-a-bye, babies, under the eaves,"
The swallow croons to her brood,
"Here you are safer, my children, from thieves
Than if I had built in the wood."

"Rock-a-bye, babies, the river runs deep,"
The reed-bird trills to her flock,
"The river stirs only to sing you to sleep,
The wind your green cradle to rock!"

WHAT BERTIE SAW IN THE FLOWERS.

BY L. G. R.

Buttercup! Buttercup!
Hold your shining clusters up!
In each little house of gold,
What is this that I behold?
Twenty soldiers, straight and slim,
Golden-helmeted and prim.
All day long so still they stand,
Never turning head or hand;
No one guesses where they stray
In the moonlight nights of May.
When the fairies are abroad,
These small men keep watch and ward;
Round the fairy ring they pace
All night long, to guard the place;
But when morning comes again,
Back are all the little men.

KEEPING THE CREAM OF ONE'S READING.

BY MARGARET MEREDITH.

My plan dates from a few delightful weeks which I spent with a girl friend, long ago. We were devoted to poetry and to reading aloud; and in that occupation we had the aid of a brilliant, accomplished young woman. She selected for us from Coleridge, Shelley, and several other authors, whose entire works she knew we would not care to read, all the specially fine poems or passages, and these we read and discussed with her over our fancy-work. It was charming. At last, she suggested that, as I was soon to go away and leave the books and clippings with which I had been growing familiar, it would be helpful for me to write down the choicest bits, and try in that way to keep in some degree what I had gained. This I did, putting the extracts in a school copy-book which our friend dubbed "Snippers,"--from an odd seamstress word which she had picked up by chance.

Other "snipper" books followed when that one, years after, had been filled.

My system is an orderly one. All my books are broad-paged and wide-lined, thus preventing the cramped and crowded writing which often makes such books unreadable. When I find anything which strikes me as worth keeping, I note on a slip of paper, somewhat longer than the book I am reading, the number of the page and make a perpendicular line beneath it, with a cross line indicating the relative position of the sentence which I wish to keep, thus:

If the page is in columns, I make, instead of the single line, a rough parallelogram, and note within it by square dots the relative positions of the sentences chosen for preservation, thus:

This slip of paper I use as a book-mark until it is filled or the book is finished, noting upon it, as indicated, the choicest passages and their positions on the pages. When I have finished the book I go carefully over these selected sentences. Many are discarded; the rest go into my "snippers." Below the first entry and to the right, I place the name of the book and its author, both heavily underscored; below the others, the word "Ibid" or "ditto," underscored. At the top of each page I note the year, and at the head of each batch of extracts the month or day.

Paragraphs cut from newspapers, which are worth saving, are pasted as a fly-leaf to the inner edge of the page, or even slipped under the binding thread.

In carrying out my plan I am always content with hasty work,--but I write plainly, and if possible with ink, as much fingering destroys pencil-marks. I once tried classifying the extracts, but this scarcely paid for the trouble.

I used sometimes to wonder whether these books of selections were of any real value. But I have grown now to prize them greatly. Many a time I go to them for a dimly remembered phrase or passage. Sometimes, too, I read them over, for of course they give me the essence of what I most like and admire in my reading. A short time since I lent one to a literary friend, and was surprised to find she enjoyed it so greatly that she was almost unwilling to give it back.

I am very glad that I began this practice in my young days. It gives very little trouble, and that little is a pleasure.

There is a familiar expression about an "embarrassment of riches." This is the greatest disappointment I experience with my "snippers." For, occasionally, a book has too many good things in it to be easily copied, and then my only relief is to own it and, marking it vol. _X_, add it to my row of extract-books.

WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

BY HENRY ECKFORD.

THIRD PAPER.

Perhaps you have never given a thought to the fact that, because you were born into a nation using an alphabet that came down from the Phoenicians, you are saved a world of trouble. But consider the Chinese. If a Chinese boy and an American boy begin to learn their letters at the same time, each studying his own writing, then by the time the American is ten years old he has advanced as far in the use of letters as the Chinese boy will have advanced in the use of his when he is twenty years old. That is the same as saying that Chinese writing is three or four times as hard to learn as English. Think of spending the years between ten and twenty in learning to read! On the other hand, the long apprenticeship of Chinese and Japanese boys to their letters does them good in one way. They paint their letters with a brush on soft paper. By this means they learn very early to be skillful with the brush, which is one reason why Chinese and Japanese artists are so very dexterous with their brushes.

All writing, let it be remembered, must have begun with pictures. It is largely Chinese writing which has explained how all sorts of letters were gradually changed from pictures to an alphabet, in which hardly a single letter tells from what picture it started. The Japanese tongue is quite different from the Chinese. But the use by the Japanese of signs employed ages before by the Chinese explains another step in the progress of language. The writing of the Mexican Indians also helps us to understand the growth of alphabets. When, ages ago, the Chinese began to write, they drew little pictures of the things they wished to represent, as did the Egyptians before them in their picture-writing; and from picture-writing they made some advance in the direction of sound-writing, or rebuses. Then the little rebus-pictures were so much altered that it became very difficult to see what they once meant.

Now Chinese is a queer language. All its words are only one syllable long. But the sounds in the Chinese language are not very many, some four hundred and sixty-five at most, and their written language contains about eighty thousand pictures, each picture representing a thing or idea. And these pictures must be committed to memory. This is hard work, and not even the wisest Chinese professor can learn them all. But now comes a difficulty. For, of course, where there are so many words and so few sounds, many different words have to be called by the same sound. How then are they to tell, when several different things have exactly the same name which of them is meant?

1. A Month. (From a picture of the moon.) 2. The Eye. 3. A Horse. 4. An Ax. 5. Rain. 6. Face. 7. A Dragon. 8. Bamboo. 9. Rhinoceros. 10. Dawn. (From the rising sun.)]

We have such words. For instance, there is Bill, the name of a boy; and bill, the beak of a bird; there is bill, an old weapon, and bill, a piece of money; there is bill, an article over which legislatures debate, and bill, a claim for payment of money; besides bills of exchange, bills of lading, and so forth. But Chinese is full of such words of a single syllable, _yen_, for instance, which, like bill, means many very different things. So they chose a number of little pictures, and agreed that these should be used as "keys." The Chinese "keys" were used like the Egyptian "determinative signs," of which I told you. Each "key" meant that the sign or signs near which it stood belonged to some large general set of things, like things of the vegetable, mineral, or animal kingdom, forests, mines, or seas, air, or water, or of persons, like gods or men. It was like the game called Throwing Light, in which you guess the article by narrowing down the field until certain what it is.

But there Chinese writing stopped short, thousands of years ago. There it is to-day. There are now two hundred and fourteen of these "keys," and, by intense application, Chinamen learn to use their method with surprising quickness and success.

The Japanese acted toward Chinese writing much as the Phoenicians did toward Egyptian writing. The Japanese, a very intelligent people, made what you have learned to know as a syllabary, out of signs taken from the Chinese symbols. It is called a syllabary, you remember, because each sign stood in their language for a syllable. They had to do this, because, while Chinese is all short syllables, Japanese is a language of much longer words even than ours. They cut down and simplified the Chinese signs, giving them names of their own. In this way they manage to write very swiftly. And, while not so clumsy as the Chinese fashion, the Japanese method is clumsier than is the use of an alphabet. In late years, a society has been started in Japan to do away altogether with their old-time writing, and adopt our alphabet.