Chapter VI: A Circulating Library (3)

Drawing on hood and shawl, she went down-stairs and stood before her father with the money in her hand. He was seated at the table, bending over a large account-book, with Debby's frown deepened at the corner of his bushy eyebrow, and his fingers in his ears to shut out the baby's cries that reached him from the bedroom. As soon as she caught sight of what he was doing, Debby's hopes fell, for reckoning up the yearly expenses always made him cross for a week.

"Where are you off to now?" he asked, glancing up at her.

"To the Fair. The boys are there to come home with me. And here," her voice faltering, "is the change from the school-books."

"Don't stay late," he replied, turning away and dropping the precious money into his vest-pocket.

With a bursting heart, Debby stumbled out into the windy starlight and walked rapidly along the rough road, with her mittened fingers in her mouth to prevent her crying aloud.

How bitterly she wished she had never heard of the Fair! She was ashamed to go back into the house with no reason for returning, yet the thought of attending the Fair with no money to spend was torturing to her.

"There's Debby! Merry Christmas! Ride with us! Jump in, Debby!" called several voices, as a wagon full of boys and girls stopped beside her.

"I don't want to; I'd rather walk," answered Debby, swallowing her sobs.

"_Walk_, then!" replied Harry Williams, snapping his whip. "I guess you got a switch in your stocking this morning!"

Laughing thoughtlessly, the party rattled past her, leaving her crying harder than before. But a walk full of dread comes to an end some time, and Debby soon found herself at the entrance to the Fair.

Slipping in behind a group of men, she stood confused by the light and noise.

It was a grand and exciting scene to the little country maiden, this long, low room, trimmed with evergreens and flags, and illuminated by all the lamps in the neighborhood.

A table extended across each of three sides of the room. One, used for a supper-table, was filled with people eating and drinking noisily; on another was displayed the handiwork of the sewing society for the past year; and the third, which appeared the most attractive, was laden with cake, confectionery, and ice-cream.

Debby rubbed her swollen eyes, and was gazing about her in admiring astonishment, when her neighbor, Annie Williams, shouted "Merry Christmas" in her ear.

"Oh! Thank you," replied the startled Debby.

"Come and take off your things," suggested Annie. "You may put them with mine behind the apron and necktie end of the table. Mother tends that, you know."

Annie tucked the wraps carefully away, and then drew Debby through the crowd over to the stove, screened off in the corner behind the supper-table, where the good aunties of the village were heating their faces and spotting their Sunday dresses while cooking oysters and making coffee for the benefit of the church. But these ladies looked so annoyed by seeing the girls stand around the stove that Debby hurried away. Possibly they thought that the church would not be benefited by Debby's warming her fingers and toes.

Elbowing their way back, with arms clasped around each other's waist, they encountered and stepped on the toes of a big German boy, who convulsed them by pointing down at them with both forefingers, exclaiming: "See the two craz-z-z-y! See the two craz-z-z-y!" And Debby's laugh was as light-hearted as if she could buy everything in the room, and her mother had nineteen silk dresses.

"Now come and get some ice-cream," urged Annie, as they were pushed toward it. "I have had three saucers, and think it is lovely. I ought to be a judge, don't you think so?"

"Not now," said Debby, hastily. "I want to look at the needle-books your mother made."

"It's pokey over there! But I'll humor you, because it is Christmas," laughed Annie.

So they dodged under elbows, and slipped between young men and their sweethearts, until they reached the other end of the room, where Debby admired pen-holders with spiders and mice on them, cushions representing the old lady who lived in a shoe, and needle-books made like wheelbarrows, wondering if there had been anything at the Centennial more beautiful than these. But when a group of girls claimed Annie's attention, she eagerly seized the opportunity to slip away and sit on the bench behind Mrs. Williams's table.

"Tired so soon?" inquired Mrs. Williams, kindly. "But why didn't your mother come?"

"She didn't have--I don't mean--I mean she didn't speak of coming," stammered Debby, with burning cheeks.

"Never mind," replied Mrs. Williams, "you will have a good time, I know; and you must be sure to ride home with us."

Soothed by her sympathetic words, Debby almost forgot her troubles, and sat watching the moving picture with great amusement, until she espied her brothers helping Mr. Williams pass the saucers of cream.

"Oh, I hope they wont be tempted to _take_ any," she thought, her heart full of a wordless prayer for them. But her anxiety was soon relieved by seeing Sam forcing his way toward her with a plate of cream.

"He gave it to me for helping," he whispered; "but you take it. Jim ate his right up."

"Eat it yourself, Sammy," she said, drawing back the hand she had stretched out for it. "I don't care so _very_ much about it, because I am older, you know."

"Don't you, now, 'truly, truly, black and bluely, lay me down and cut me in twoly?'" he asked, with the air of a magistrate about to "swear" a witness.

"I would very much rather you should eat it," evaded Debby.

"Then I will," he answered, brightly, "for I _do_ want it awfully."

"Eat it, then; but don't be tempted to take any," she cautioned.

"Catch me taking--I'm not a thief!" and he hastened away.

Debby was thirteen years old, but she could have cried for that ice-cream.

"Oh, _here_ you are at last!" cried Annie, running up to her a few minutes afterward. "I couldn't imagine where you had got to. Now, just read my letter," placing a tiny sheet of pink paper in her hand. "That box all trimmed up at the end of the candy-table is the post-office," she explained, "and we give them five cents and ask for a letter. Just read mine."

Debby read, written in a large, clear hand:

"And shouldst thou ask my judgment of that which hath most profit
in the world, For answer take thou this: The prudent penning of a
letter."

"It's lovely!" was Debby's comment. "If I should have one, I wonder what it would be!"

"I'll run and get you one," volunteered Annie.

"No, no!" cried Debby, in terror. "I have no money to pay for it."

"Have you spent it all so soon?" asked Annie, curiously. "But we must go now and get our ice-cream; for, do you know, Mr. James has promised to treat all our class. So come along, for the more we eat the richer the church will grow."

"No," refused Debby, shaking off Annie's hand, "I wont do any such thing," and she shrank back into her corner.

"How queerly you act! You wont do anything I ask you," pouted Annie, turning away.

"I couldn't take it," Debby excused to herself. "I want it so much that I'd feel like a beggar in taking it from him. Annie can't understand, because she has bought it for herself, and will only eat it now for fun. I wish there was something for me to do."

Her thought was scarcely finished before it was answered by Mrs. White, in the handsome alpaca Debby's mother so admired.

"What am I to do with this child?" she asked, stopping before Mrs. Williams with a sleeping baby in her arms. "Phil wants me to go to supper with him, but what can I do?"

"I'll hold her," said Debby, eagerly. "I have a nice quiet place here."

"Much obliged, I'm sure," answered Mrs. White, placing the baby carefully in her arms.

With something to take care of, Debby grew so comfortable that when Mrs. White returned from supper she begged to keep the baby longer.

"Every one is so busy here that I'd like to have something to do, too," she said, arranging a paper so as to shade the baby's eyes from the light, remembering with a throb of gratitude the oranges Mrs. White sent her when she was sick last fall.

"If you don't really care to run about, it would be a great favor to me," returned Mrs. White, "for there are so many people here that I shall not see again for a year, and I want to speak to them all. But a baby is not the most convenient article to carry in a crowd."

The handsome alpaca disappeared, and Debby kept her guard for an hour, watching the young people who visited the post-office or joked over the neckties and aprons.

"Here's an industrious young lady who has had no supper," declared a bald-headed old gentleman, stopping before her with a large bell in his hand.

"I've had my supper," quickly answered Debby.

"I don't remember counting you at the table," he replied, wiping the perspiration from his forehead as he passed on, loudly ringing the bell.

"I didn't tell a story," sighed Debby, "for I've had my supper; but I'd like people to think I'd had it here. It looks so nice to sit at the table," she added, catching a glimpse of Annie's blue ribbons as she sat at the table next her brother.

"How thoughtless I _have_ been!" cried Mrs. White, returning in a fluster. "I forgot all about you; you must be tired to death."

"Only a little tired," said Debby, "and I am so glad to do anything for you."

"Well, you must come and see me," invited Mrs. White, with her mouth full of pins, as she rolled the baby into a large shawl, "and perhaps I can find something for you to read."

But when Debby stood up she felt more stiff and tired than she had acknowledged, and, fearing that she had stayed too late, she hurried on her wraps, and with much persuasion induced her brothers to go home with her.

"It wouldn't do us any good to stay and see the auction," she reasoned, closing the door upon the noisy scene with a heart lighter than when she had entered it. "Now let us see how fast we can trot home in the moonlight."

Giving a hand to each of the boys, they walked swiftly toward the little red farm-house, where, although their parents had retired, a lamp and a bright fire awaited them.

The kitchen seemed very quiet after the hubbub they had left, with the clock on the stroke of nine and the cat asleep in the wood-box.

There were three pieces of pumpkin-pie on the table, left as a lunch for them, and these they ate, talking in whispers; and then Debby unfastened the boys' neckties, and followed them upstairs, too tired and sleepy to be very glad or very sorry about anything.

But as she snuggled down under the blankets, with the "merry din" still ringing in her ears, she thought:

"I have not made much Christmas for any one to-day, but, when I'm grown-up, _wont_ I make Merry Christmas for little girls!"

THE COOLEST MAN IN RUSSIA.

(_An Old Soldier's Reminiscence._)

BY DAVID KER.

"I've seen many a brave man in my time, sure enough," said old Ivan Starikoff, removing his short pipe to puff out a volume of smoke from beneath his long white moustache. "Many and many a one have I seen; for, thank Heaven, the children of holy Russia are never wanting in _that_ way; but all of them put together wouldn't make one such man as our old colonel, Count Pavel Petrovitch[1] Severin. It wasn't only that he faced danger like a man,--all the others did that,--but he never seemed to know that there _was_ any danger at all. It was as good as a re-enforcement of ten battalions to have him among us in the thick of a fight, and to see his grand, tall figure drawn up to its full height, and his firm face and keen gray eye turned straight upon the smoke of the enemy's line, as if defying them to hurt him. And when the very earth was shaking with the cannonade, and balls were flying thick as hail, and the hot, stifling smoke closed us in like the shadow of death, with a flash and a roar breaking through it every now and then, and the whole air filled with the rush of the shot, like the wind sweeping through a forest in autumn,--then Petrovitch would light a cigarette and hum a snatch of a song, as coolly as if he were at a dinner-party in the English Club at Moscow. And it really seemed as if the bullets ran away from _him_, instead of his running from them; for he never got hit. But if he saw any of us beginning to waver, he would call out cheerily: 'Never fear, lads--remember what the song says!' For in those days we had an old camp-song that we were fond of singing, and the chorus of it was this:

"'Then fear not swords that brightly shine,
Nor towers that grimly frown;
For God shall march before our line,
And tread our foemen down.'

"He said this so often, that at last he got the nickname among us of 'Ne-Boisya' (Don't fear), and he deserved it, if ever man did yet. Why, Father Nikolai Pavlovitch himself (the Emperor Nicholas) gave him the Cross of St. George[2] with his own hand (the St. George from the emperor's own hand--think of that!) at the siege of Varna, in the year '28. You see, our battery had been terribly cut up by the Turkish fire, so at last there were only about half a dozen of us left on our feet. It was as hot work as I ever was in,--shot pelting, earth-works crumbling, gabions crashing, guns and gun-carriages tumbling over together, men falling on every side like leaves, till, all at once, a shot went slap through our flag-staff, and down came the colors!

"Quick as lightning, Pavel Petrovitch was up on the parapet, caught the flag as it fell, and _held_ it, right in the face of all the Turkish guns, while I and another man spliced the pole with our belts. You may think how the unbelievers let fly at him when they saw him standing there on the top of the breastwork, just as if he'd been set up for a mark; and all at once I saw one fellow (an Albanian by his dress, and you know what deadly shots _they_ are) creep along to the very angle of the wall, and take steady aim at him!

"I made a spring to drag the colonel down (I was his servant, you know, and whoever hurt him hurt _me_); but before I could reach him I saw the flash of the Albanian's piece, and Pavel Petrovitch's cap went spinning into the air, with a hole right through it just above the forehead. And what do you think the colonel did? Why, he just snapped his fingers at the fellow, and called out to him, in some jibber-jabber tongue only fit to talk to a Turk in:

"'Can't you aim better than that, you fool? If _I_ were your officer, I'd give you thirty lashes for wasting the government ammunition!'

"Well, as I said, he got the St. George, and of course everbody congratulated him, and there was a great shaking of hands, and giving of good wishes, and drinking his health in _mavro tchai_,--that's a horrid mess of eggs, and scraped cheese, and sour milk, and Moldavian wine, which these Danube fellows have the impudence to call 'black tea,' as if it was anything like the good old tea that we Russians drink at home! (I've always thought, for my part, that tea ought to grow in Russia; for it's a shame that those Chinese idolaters should have such grand stuff all to themselves.)

"Well, just in the height of the talk, Pavel Petrovitch takes the cross off his neck, and holds it out in his hand--just so--and says:

"'Well, gentlemen, you say I'm the coolest man in the regiment, but perhaps everybody wouldn't agree with you. Now, just to show that I want nothing but fair play, if I ever meet my match in that way, I'll give him this cross of mine!'

"Now, among the officers who stood around him was a young fellow who had lately joined--a quiet, modest lad, quite a boy to look at, with light curly hair, and a face as smooth as any lady's. But when he heard what the colonel said, he looked up suddenly, and there came a flash from his clear blue eyes like the sun striking a bayonet. And then I thought to myself:

"'It wont be an easy thing to match Pavel Petrovitch; but if it _can_ be done, here's the man to do it!'

"I think that campaign was the hardest I ever served. Before I was enlisted, I had often heard it said that the Turks had no winter; but I had always thought that this was only a 'yarn,' though, indeed, it would be only a just judgment upon the unbelievers to lose the finest part of the whole year. But when I went down there I found it true, sure enough. Instead of a good, honest, cracking frost to freshen everything up, as our proverb says,

"'Na zimni kholod
Vsiaki molod'--

(in winter's cold every one is young), it was all chill, sneaking rain, wetting us through and through, and making the hill-sides so slippery that we could hardly climb them, and turning all the low grounds into a regular lake of mud, through which it was a terrible job to drag our cannon. Many a time in after days, when I've heard spruce young cadets at home, who had never smelt powder in their lives, talking big about 'glorious war' and all that, I've said to myself, 'Aha, my fine fellows! if you had been where _I_ have, marching for days and days over ankles in mud, with nothing to eat but stale black bread, so hard that you had to soak it before you could get it down; and if you'd had to drink water through which hundreds of horses had just been trampling; and to scramble up and down steep hills under a roasting sun, with your feet so swollen and sore that every step was like a knife going into you; and to lie all night in the rain, longing for the sun to rise that you might dry yourself a bit,--perhaps _then_ you wouldn't talk quite so loud about "glorious war!"

"However, we drove the Turks across the Balkans at last, and got down to Yamboli, a little town at the foot of the mountains, which commands the high-road to Adrianople. And there the unbelievers made a stand, and fought right well. I _will_ say that for 'em; for they knew that if Adrianople were lost, all was over. But God fought for us, and we beat them; though, indeed, with half our men sick, and our clothes all in rags, and our arms rusted, and our powder mixed with sand by those rogues of army-contractors, it was a wonder that we could fight at all.

"Toward afternoon, just as the enemy were beginning to give way, I saw Pavel Petrovitch (who was a general by this time) looking very hard at a mortar-battery about a hundred yards to our right; and all at once he struck his knee fiercely with his hand, and shouted:

"'What do the fellows mean by firing like that? They might as well pelt the Turks with potatoes! _I_'ll soon settle them! Here, Vanya (Ivan)!'

"Away he went, I after him; and he burst into the battery like a storm, and roared out:

"'Where's the blockhead who commands this battery?'

"A young officer stepped forward and saluted; and who should this be but the light-haired lad with the blue eyes, whom I had noticed that night at Varna.

"'Well, you wont command it to-morrow, my fine fellow, for I'll have you turned out this very day. Do you know that not a single shell that you've thrown since I've been watching you has exploded at all?'

"'With your excellency's leave,' said the young fellow, respectfully, but pretty firmly too, 'the fault is none of mine. These fuses are ill-made, and will not burn down to the powder.'

"'Fuses!' roared the general. 'Don't talk to _me_ of fuses; I'm too old for that rubbish! Isn't it enough for you to bungle your work, but you must tell me a lie into the bargain?'

"At the word 'lie,' the young officer's face seemed to turn red-hot all in a moment, and I saw his hand clench as if he would drive his fingers through the flesh. He made one stride to the heap of bomb-shells, and, taking one up in his arms, struck a match on it.

"'Now,' said he, quietly, 'your excellency can judge for yourself. I'm going to light this fuse; if your excellency will please to stand by and watch it burn, you will see whether I have "lied" or not.'

"The general started, as well he might. Not that he was afraid--you may be pretty sure of _that_; but to hear this quiet, bashful lad, who looked as if he had nothing in him, coolly propose to hold a lighted shell in his arms to see if it would go off, and ask _him_ to stand by and watch it, was enough to startle anybody. However, he wasn't one to think twice about accepting a challenge; so he folded his arms and stood there like a statue. The young officer lighted the fuse, and it began to burn.

"As for me and the other men, you may fancy what _we_ felt like. Of course, we couldn't run while our officers were standing their ground; but we knew that if the shell _did_ go off, it would blow every man of us to bits, and it wasn't pleasant to have to stand still and wait for it. I saw the men set their teeth hard as the flame caught the fuse; and as for me, I wished with all my heart and soul that if there _were_ any good fuses in the heap, this might turn out to be one of the bad ones!

"But no--it burned away merrily enough, and came down, and down, and down, nearer and nearer to the powder! The young officer never moved a muscle, but stood looking steadily at the general, and the general at him. At last, the red spark got close to the metal of the shell; and then I shut my eyes, and prayed God to receive my soul.

"Just at that moment, I heard the man next me give a quick gasp, as if he had just come up from a plunge under water; and I opened my eyes again just in time to see the fuse _out_, and the young officer letting drop the shell at the general's feet, without a word.

"For a moment, the general stood stock still, looking as if he didn't quite know whether to knock the young fellow down, or to hug him in his arms like a son; but, at last, he held out his hand to him, saying:

"'Well, it's a true proverb, that every one meets his match some day; and I've met mine to-day, there's no denying it. There's the St. George for you, my boy, and right well you deserve it; for if I'm "the coolest man in the regiment," you're the coolest in all Russia!'

"And so said all the rest, when the story got abroad; and the commander-in-chief himself, the great Count Diebitsch, sent for the lad, and said a few kind words to him that made his face flush up like a young girl's. But in after days he became one of the best officers we ever had; and I've seen him, with my own eyes, complimented by the emperor himself, in presence of the whole army. And from that day forth, the whole lot of us, officers and men alike, never spoke of him by any other name but _Khladnokrovni_ ('the cool-blooded one')."

NOTE.--Two other versions of this story, differing somewhat in detail, are current in the Russian army; but the one in the text is the more probable, as well as the more generally received.

[Footnote 1: Indecipherable in original text.]

[Footnote 2: The highest Russian decoration.]

SKATING

BY THEODORE WINTHROP.

[Never before printed.]

A BOUNDING gallop is good
Over wide plains;
A wild free sail is good
'Mid gales and rains;
A dashing dance is good
Broad halls along,
Clasping and whirling on
Through the gay throng.
But better than these,
When the great lakes freeze,
By the clear sharp light
Of a starry night,
O'er the ice spinning
With a long free sweep,
Cutting and ringing
Forward we keep!
On 'round and around,
With a sharp clear sound,
To fly like a fish in the sea!--
Ah, this is the sport for me!

THREE SMART LITTLE FOXES.

There were once three little foxes who lived in a hole in a bank. It was a large, comfortable hole, and these three little foxes (two of them were brothers and one was a sister) could lie down and put their heads out of the hole, and see what was going on in the neighborhood.

One afternoon one of the brother foxes slipped out by himself for a little walk, and when he came back he called the other two, and said: "Oh, come here! I will show you something, and tell you all about it."

So they all lay down close together, and looked out of the hole.

"Now then," said the brother fox who had been out, "you see that fence down there?"

"Oh yes," said his brother and sister.

"Well, on the other side of that fence is a splendid chicken-yard. I went down there and saw it myself. I peeped through the fence. And in that yard there is a row of chicken-coops, all with chickens in."

"Oh!" said the others. They began to feel hungry already.

"Yes, all with chickens in, and I heard a little girl say that the row of coops was called Pullet Row, Chicken Avenue, and that all the houses were taken. The first coop had an old hen and eleven little puffy chickens in it, and the second one held a whole lot of small chickens who were big enough to take care of themselves; and the next coop had in it an old rooster who had hurt his foot, and who had to be shut up. I think it's funny that neither mother nor father ever found out this splendid chicken-yard, so near us too! As soon as it gets to be a little dark we must go down there and get some of those chickens."

"All right," said the sister fox; "we'll go, and I'll take the first coop with the little chickens."

"And I'll take the coop with the young chickens who are big enough to take-care of themselves," said one of the brother foxes.

"I'll take the big old rooster," said the other brother fox. "I like lots of chickens when I eat any."

At the back of the hole the old Mother Fox was lying down. Her children thought she was asleep, but she was not, and she heard all that they had been talking about.

She now came forward and said: "That is certainly a very nice place that you see down there, and you, my son, were very smart, no doubt, to discover it. But when you go down there, this evening, take a look at a small house near the chicken-yard. A dog lives there--a big black and white fellow--named Bruce. He is let into the chicken-yard every night at dark. If you think that he wont see you, when you go inside, or that he can't run fast enough to catch you, it might be a very good idea for you to go down there this evening and get some chickens."

The three little foxes looked at each other, and concluded that they would not go. It was a long time after that before they were heard to boast of being smarter than their father and mother.

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

Happy 1878! Happy New Year to all Jack's little friends! And now let us begin our year's talk with something about

A GARDEN IN WINTER.

Deacon Green took a ride early last month, my dears, and he tells me of a wonderful garden which he saw from a window as he went whirling by on a railroad.

Can you guess what was growing in a garden in December?

No, it was not in a Southern State; so your guess of oranges isn't right--though they tell me that oranges do grow in winter-time in Florida.

It was a garden of Christmas-trees, set out in even rows, and looking as spruce and gay and happy as if they knew that they were almost old enough to hold a candle in each of their thousand hands, and a bright gift or token of good-will on each of their thousand arms. I fancy that the gardener who has his mind filled with the care of a garden of Christmas-trees must be a very cheery, kind-hearted fellow indeed. Don't you?

OVENS IN THE FIELDS.

In Mecklenburg, Northern Germany, as I'm told, fuel is scarce and dear: and, as the peasants are very poor, they take an odd way to save wood. It is this:

Each village has one or two large ovens in which the baking for a number of people can be done at one time. These ovens look from a little distance as if they were small hillocks, and they are built in the open fields. Why they are placed away from the village I was not told; but I would like to know. They have very much the look of underground dairy-cellars, and are built of great stones covered with turf. One or two men can go into an oven quite comfortably.

In each oven a great fire is made, to heat the stones, and when these are hot enough the fire and ashes are swept out, and the bread is put in to bake. Then a stone door is put over the mouth until it is time to take out the loaves. There is no chimney or opening, and the heat stays in well--even for some time after the bread has been taken out; so that it is no strange thing for a belated traveler to use the shelter or warmth of one of these empty ovens on some cold and stormy night when far from his home.

So much for fire-places out-of-doors. Now for a word about

PERSIAN STOVES.

I've just heard of the queer way the Persians have of keeping themselves warm in their houses during cold weather. They place in the middle of the room a pan of burning charcoal under a sort of table or frame which holds up a large wadded quilt that reaches the floor on all sides, like a tent. This must look almost like keeping the fire warm. Then the family sit around the droll stove, with their legs and arms under the quilt; and when they wish to go to sleep, they put themselves half under the quilt, and so keep nice and warm until the morning. That's easy enough for Persians to do, because, as I'm told, they never undress at night, but just roll themselves in coverings and lie down anywhere.

Perhaps you would not find such arrangements in your homes quite as comfortable as soft beds and cozy blankets in well-warmed rooms. However, the Persian winter is not as cold as ours, I suppose.

LIGHT THROUGH METAL.

Here's an odd thing! My wise old wide-awake friend the owl tells me that a Yale College professor has found out a way to make a layer of metal so thin that it will readily show the color of a light-beam sent through it. That professor will be showing us how to see through a mill-stone next, may be.

GOOD AS AN EXPERIMENT.

Dear Jack: I have a little friend, called Jack, too, who is
generally the most sweet-tempered boy I know. But one day he came
to play in my rooms, as usual, for I always keep his toys there, in
repair and order. He soon grew tired of them, and came to me for a
story. I was busy with reading, and refused, telling him to wait
until I had leisure. Then he grew impatient, and put my book down
with a coaxing "_Please_, Fred." I could not humor him then, and
gently told him to stop. Then--I am sorry to say it--he became very
angry, and gave me a blow in my face. Now, Jack, don't pass your
sentence yet--remember, it was the first and _only_ act of that
kind. But guess what I did.

I stooped over him and kissed him, saying: "Is this my little boy?"
He looked at me and went into a corner--ashamed and weeping. Was
not that a sweet victory? I wish some little sisters or brothers
would try it. You may believe me this is truth. Some future day I
will tell you how I made him some toys.--Yours,

FRED.

EDIBLE NESTS.

Did you ever hear of such an article of food as bird's-nest soup? Well, this soup does not take its name from its looks, as bird's-nest pudding gets its title, but it is actually made from real birds'-nests.

In the island of Java, I'm told, there is a species of sea-swallow which makes a nest much like that of our chimney-swallow, and fastens it to the rocky walls of caves. These nests are made almost entirely of a glue-like substance, mixed with a little grass or hair and a few sticks, and they are carefully gathered and sent to China, where they are sold as food.

The nests are soaked in water until the glue becomes soft, when the sticks and straws are picked out and thrown away. The jelly which remains is then dried and preserved, to be used in making the bird's-nest soup. This is considered a great delicacy, and the nests are sold in the Chinese markets for twenty-five dollars a pound. Of course, at this price, none but rich folks can indulge in them, and they are therefore a very fashionable dish. Although they are usually made into soup, they are sometimes cooked in other ways.

It's my opinion that the nest of the chimney-swallow might be used as food in the same way; for although it has more sticks and hay in it than the edible nest, there is a good deal of glue, too, and each nest might yield quite a large pot of soup. If the time shall ever come when our own country will have as many people in it as there are in China at the present time, many things little thought of now will be turned to use as articles of food. But at present there is no need of robbing the birds; so let them keep cheerful while they may, poor dears!

BIRD RAILROAD-TRAVELERS.

Now that we're talking about birds'-nests, I may as well tell you some news that has come to me all the way from East Cosham, in Hampshire, England.

On a small piece of frame-work under a third-class "smoking" carriage on the London and South-Western Railway, a water-wagtail built her nest and reared a young and thriving family of four. The train traveled regularly about forty miles a day, and the station-master at East Cosham says that, during every absence of it, the male bird kept close to the spot, awaiting with great anxiety the return of his wayfaring family.

Now, in my opinion, that water-wagtail mother made a queer choice for her home-place. But if the little ones get no other advantage from it, they are sure to be well trained. What do you think about it, my chicks?

THE LETTER-BOX.

The following is Dr. J. G. Holland's answer to his "Double Riddle," published in our last number:

La, man! I see your little game:
'Tis "la" itself in song or aria
That piercing dear Maria's name
Transforms it to _Malaria_.
And "la" itself, as all men know,
Raises the _sol_ to _si_ and _do_.

* * * * *

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have made up a nice little story, and I want you to know it. It is called "Laziness."

Once upon a time there was a little boy and his name was James. He was very lazy. One day he was going out to play when his mother called him back. "James," said she, "I went up to your room to make your bed, for the maid was too busy, and your room is very disorderly. Unless you promise to keep it in order, and have it in order by next week, I will send you from home. I am very sorry to say this; but it must be said. Now you may go; that is all I wanted you for." Next week came very soon, and the room was still in disorder. The mother went up and looked in; she threw herself on her knees, and prayed that Heaven would not let her send her boy away. James went away, and his mother never saw him again.

Now, children, learn a lesson from this, and don't be driven from home by laziness.

I am eleven years old, and I want you to give my love to Jack-in-the-Pulpit and the School-mistress.

JENNIE MOORE.

* * * * *

THE BLIND-CLERK'S PUZZLE.

This is what the "Blind-clerk" made of the puzzling address that M. B. T. gave in a letter to Jack-in-the-Pulpit, published last month:

"Servant Girl, No. 40 Queen's parade, London."

And that turned out to be the right address, too. Another friend says that this same blind-clerk once had referred to him a letter addressed like this:

"To my uncle tom, london."

That was too much. The letter never reached "my uncle tom."

* * * * *

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken ST. NICHOLAS for several years, and like it better every year. I often read over the old numbers, and find many things that seem almost new to me. One of these was "John Spooner's Human Menagerie," in the number for April, 1875, and I have been trying to get up a "menagerie" like John's. I can make most of the wonderful living curiosities, but I do not know how to make a curtain that will "go up with a flourish." I have made one to draw sideways, but I want one to go up. Please inform me how to construct it.--Yours truly,

FRED R. MARTIN.

Here is a tolerably easy way to make a stage-curtain that will "go up with a flourish," and come down either quickly or slowly, as may be wished. It is easily kept in order, and readily repaired when damaged.

Above the stage, at the front, set up a stout cross-beam. Let the curtain be of some opaque stuff that will fold well. Fasten its upper edge firmly to the front of the cross-beam. Weight the lower edge of the curtain with a long roller some inches wider than the curtain. Sew to the curtain, on its wrong side, perpendicular rows of rings set at suitable distances apart, and in level lines across. The more rows, the more evenly will the curtain fold. Tie a strong thin cord about the roller in a line with each perpendicular row of rings, and pass each cord through its proper rings. On the bottom of the cross-beam above the several rows of rings, fasten large smooth rings to be used instead of pullies. Pass the cords up through the large rings, and gather them at one end of the beam. Then fasten the ends of the cords to a rope, taking care while doing this that the curtain is down, and hanging properly, and that all the cords are drawn equally tense. There should be a stout pin or hook at the side of the curtain, to which the rope is to be fastened when the curtain is drawn up. Take notice that the cords are of different lengths and must be free from knots. The curtain should not touch the stage, and may be kept in place by fixing the ends of the roller in iron rings or between pegs.

* * * * *

TWO WAYS OF CARRYING THE MAIL.

The frontispiece to this number of ST. NICHOLAS shows how the mails were carried in winter over the Rocky Mountains and the Sierra Nevada before the Union Pacific Railroad was finished (1869), and how they are carried now. In 1867, to the perils of the snow and wind and of mountain travel, were added dangers from desperadoes, white as well as red, so that mail deliveries were few and far between, and very irregular, while too often both the carriers and their packs were lost. Slow as the old way was, however, the snow sometimes makes the new way even slower. In spite of miles and miles of snow-sheds and snow-fences, and ever so many steam snow-plows, the railroad is blocked now and then until a way can be dug through huge heaps of drift. Thus, sometimes, whole days are lost on the steam road, when a man might be speeding and coasting on his queer foot-gear, over the snow-crust like the wind, to reach the destination perhaps a week ahead of the snorting snowed-up monster. However, year by year, as sheds and fences and other preventions are multiplied, railroad delays caused by snow become fewer and fewer.

* * * * *

Georgetown, D. C.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I was so much pleased with the little figure of a nun in the November number, that I made eight like it. I have been taking the ST. NICHOLAS ever since it came out, and think it gets nicer every time it is published. I am not quite seven years old, but I composed all of this letter.

JOHN WM. MITCHELL.

* * * * *

MY VERY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We really don't know what we should do without you. We took the "Young Folks" for a great many years, and have taken you ever since you were first established.

We went, a short time ago, to see a man who swallowed swords for a profession. Now, can any of our ST. NICHOLAS friends tell us whether he really swallowed them or not, and explain how it is done?--Your loving friends and devoted readers,

FANNIE CHANDLER,
MARY WHITE.

* * * * *

Painesville, Ohio.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: My children learn the names of English kings and queens, the books of the Old Testament in their order, and other matters of importance to remember, through having found and committed to memory certain rhymes containing them. I have seen several embodying the books of the New Testament, but they all have been too difficult or long for children to learn. I inclose an easy one, written for my own children which may prove useful to your large family of young folks.

W.

BOOKS OF THE NEW TESTAMENT.

In the New Testament we find
Matthew and Mark leading,
With St. Luke and St. John
The books next succeeding.
Acts and Romans have place
Before Corinthians and Galatians;
In them we can trace
Good news for all nations.
Ephesians and Philippians
In order are next;
Colossians, Thessalonians,
With hard names and good text.
Timothy, Titus, and Philemon
Fill up some pages,
And with Hebrews continue
The lessons of ages.
James, Peter, and John
Finish then the good story
With Jude, and Revelations
To add to its glory.

* * * * *

Mount Desert.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have seen a good many receipts for candy in the "Letter-Box," but not one for chocolate creams. Here is one I have tried a great many times, and it has always been successful:

Two cups of sugar to half a cup of boiling water. Put on the stove, and let it boil ten minutes. Grate a quarter of a square of Baker's chocolate. Place this on the top of a steaming-kettle; leave it there until soft. Meanwhile, take off the cream and beat it until perfectly white. Roll into little round balls, and dip them in the chocolate. Put the balls into a dish, and set them away to cool.

Hoping you will print this receipt, I remain your devoted admirer,

CAROLINE G. BLODGET.

P. S.--The sugar must be powdered.

* * * * *

MOLLIE.--We do not know. One always has to make sure, too, that no speck of envy lurks in the wish to have justice done.

* * * * *

A friend sends us the following Kindergarten song:

THE TIME-TABLE.

One, two, three!
Now please listen to me:
A minute is sixty seconds long;
Sixty minutes to an hour belong.
One, two, three!
Learning is easy, you see.

Four, five, six!
'Tis easy as picking up sticks.
Twenty-four hours make one long day;
Seven days in a week we say.
One, two, three!
Learning is easy, you see.

Seven, eight, nine!
Never cry or whine.
The years are only twelve months long;
There is no time for doing wrong.
One, two, three!
Learning is easy, you see.

Tick, tack, tock!
Only look at the clock.
He works away the whole day long,
And every hour he sings a song.
Ding, dong, ding!
So we'll work and sing.

A. E. L.

* * * * *

Elizabeth, N. J.

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Would you please tell me something about the Drawing Classes of the School of Design at the Cooper Institute; and what forms have to be gone through before a pupil can enter; and how old a pupil has to be? Good-by, dear ST. NICHOLAS.--Your faithful reader,

SARAH D. O.

The "Woman's Art School" of the Cooper Union, about which Sarah D. O. makes inquiry, is for pupils between the ages of sixteen and thirty-five.

Applications for admission should be made, personally or in writing, to the Principal, Mrs. Sarah N. Carter, giving a responsible written reference as to character, fitness, etc.

The free school holds session from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. There is a "paying" class that meets three times a week in the afternoon, under the charge of the first assistant in drawing of the "Woman's Art School" and of the clerk of the school, and the general superintendence of the principal. But the "paying" class is only for those who wish to study art merely as an accomplishment.

* * * * *

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I thought you would like to hear about a little girl who is very fond of you. She always took ST. NICHOLAS until last autumn, then the times were so hard we were unable to get it for her; so she has read and re-read the old ones. Mamma has been sick a great deal for two years, and Agnes, who is ten years old and the oldest of the family, has learned to do a great many things. She can make bread, biscuit, pies and cake,--but her chief accomplishment is toast-making. Last fall, when berries were ripe, she picked and dried some currants, raspberries and blackberries, and put them carefully away. Ever since, when any one is sick, she puts some of her berries in a cup and cooks them nicely; then she makes such a nice piece of toast, so delicate, never scorched or raw. She has no fruit-closet of delicacies to go to, but the common things she has are so nicely prepared that they become luxurious, and often make mamma think of Bayard Taylor's little rhymes about mush and milk, a couplet of which reads:

"And common things that seem most nigh,
Both purse and heart may satisfy."

Her little brother, eighteen months old, claims much of her care, and in return loves her as much as he does mamma. He calls her Tee, and misses her sadly if she is out of sight an hour.

When Agnes was three years old, she said one day:

"Papa, how I love you!"

"What makes you love him? See how homely he is," teasingly answered mamma.

The little one took a good look at papa, and throwing her arms around his neck again, she said:

"Well, he's pretty in his heart."

Mamma thinks the little girl who can be so thoughtful for ever-tired mamma, so kind to the sick, and so tender of little baby brother, must be pretty in her heart.

AGNES'S MOTHER.

* * * * *

Here is an enigma made by a little girl eight years of age:

CROSS-WORD ENIGMA.

My first is in spin, but not in weave;
My second in part, but not in leave;
My third is in rain, but not in storm;
My fourth in chilly, but not in warm;
My fifth in hen, but not in coop;
My whole is a country of Europe.

Answer: Spain.

* * * * *

Easton, Md.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Will you please tell me from which of Shakspeare's plays the following quotation is taken?

"Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head."

--Yours truly,

MARY H. WILSON.

The quotation is from "As You Like It," Act II., Scene 1.; and the whole passage reads:

"Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything."

The beauty is marred, and the aptness of the illustration is lost sight of, by omitting the second half of this admirable sentence; therefore we quote it entire.

* * * * *

"Fairfax," San Rafael, Cal.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have seen letters from San Francisco, Oakland, and other places in California, but I do not think any one has written to you from San Rafael, a beautiful little town near San Francisco.

"Fairfax" is about three miles from the town. The ride here is very pleasant, especially in winter and spring time, when the hills are green and the wild flowers are in bloom.

The house resembles the old Fairfax house in Virginia, called Greenway Court, except that this is perhaps more rambling and the other lacks our wide-spreading bay-trees. It faces the garden and orchard, and beyond these is the hill, a mine of wonder and beauty.

We all enjoy climbing that hill and looking for ferns. In some parts we hardly dare step, for fear of crushing something beautiful. We look down upon a bank of green moss, and find snowy, shell-like fungi, so delicate that we hold our breath lest they should float away. Farther on are orange-colored ones, and some shaped like callas, translucent, and in color a pale pink carnelian. Wandering on, we enter a grove of pine-trees, in the midst of which a spring is bubbling up, and the ground is covered with a carpet of ferns, mosses, and wild flowers. By the time we are ready to go home, our baskets are well filled; and then, after we get home, we have the delight of arranging the flowers and ferns, examining the fungi with the microscope, and preparing imposing baskets of specimens to send to two delightful members of the Academy of Science in San Francisco, who are making fungi a specialty in their researches.

One day last summer my brother came running into the house, saying, in a very loud whisper, "There's a deer in the creek! There's a deer in the creek!" We all rushed out in time to see Uncle George, up to his waist in water, struggling with an immense buck. The dogs were there, too, barking as loudly as they could. It was very exciting. My sympathies were entirely with the deer, who made a noble fight before he was conquered. Deer are plentiful around here. Often we are awakened by the baying of the deer-hounds, and we can see the hunting parties on their horses galloping over the hill, and the dogs running to and fro.

The boys catch a good many large fish in our creek, and my uncle once caught a ten-pound salmon-trout that was very pretty; it had two delicate pink bands running along its sides.

The hills are crimson, a little before Christmas, with a holly peculiar to California; and we have many merry excursions in a wagon that we children call our "chariot," in which we go to gather holly for our Christmas festivities.

I have written too much, and yet I would like to tell more, our days are so full of pleasant change.--Your affectionate reader,

MAY D. BIGELOW (fifteen years old).

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