Chapter XI: Sunday (2)

"O no! But long before you were born I became a gardener. When I was a young man I had a good many different employments. Being a serf, I paid a yearly sum to my master, and then I went where I pleased. Sometimes I was well off, and sometimes I was badly off. I have been out on the lonely steppes in winter, often only three or four of us together, with our horses and carts, when the snow came down so fast, and the wind blew so fiercely, that we could scarcely make our way through the storm; and even the colts that were following us could hardly keep their feet in the deep drifts. Sometimes, we would lose our way in these storms,--when we could see nothing a hundred feet from us,--and then we should have wandered about until we died, if we had not given up everything to the horses. They could always find their way home, even in the worst storms. And then," said old Nicolai, knocking from the rake a tooth that was cracked (for the new one was finished and hammered in), "I used to drive a sledge on a post-road. That was harder, perhaps, than plunging through the snow-storms on the steppes, for I used to have to drive sometimes by day and sometimes by night, in the coldest weather; and a wind that is cold enough when you are standing still, or going along the same road that it is taking, is fifty times worse when you are driving, as fast as you can, right into the teeth of it. I used to be glad enough when we reached a post-house and I could crowd myself up against the great brick stove and try and get some little feeling into my stiffened fingers. The winter that I drove a sledge was the worst winter I have ever known. I did not care to try this hard life another season, so I went to Moscow, and there I became servant to a young fellow who was the greatest fool I ever knew."

"What did he do?" asked Martin. "Why was he a fool?"

"Oh! he was a boy without sense--the only Russian boy I ever knew who had no sense at all. If he had belonged to some other nation, I should not have wondered so much. This fellow was about fifteen or sixteen, and ought to have known something of the world, but he knew nothing. He was going to the university when I was with him, but you might have thought he was a pupil at a mad-house. Whatever came into his cracked brain, came out of his mouth; and whatever he wanted to do, he did, without waiting to think whether it would be proper or not. The biggest fool could cheat him; and when anybody did cheat him, and his friends found it out and wanted to punish the rascal, this little fool of mine would come, with tears in his eyes, to beg for the poor wretch, who must feel already such remorse and such shame at being found out! Bah! I can hardly bear to think of him. Why, there was once a house afire, in a neighborhood where one of his friends lived, and what does this young fool do but jump out of his bed, in the middle of a stormy night, and run to this fire, with nothing but his night-clothes on!"

"This is very curious," said Martin, laughing. "Nicolai Petrovitch, do you know----"

"Well, as I was going on to tell you," said the old man, who seemed thoroughly wrapped up in his subject, "I couldn't stand any such folly as that, and so I soon left him and went to live with Colonel Rasteryaieff. I stayed there a long, long time. There I became a gardener, and there I learned almost all the poetry that I know. The colonel had a daughter, who was a little child when I went there; but when she grew old enough, she became a girl of great sense, and she liked poetry, and used to come and read to me, out of the books she had. I always tried to get at some work which would let me listen to her, during the hour that she would come to me in the afternoon. She read better than my little Axinia. I used to wish I was a poet, so that I could hear her read some of my songs."

"But, Nicolai Petrovitch," cried Martin, his eyes fairly sparkling with a discovery he had made, "do you know that I believe that that fool of a boy you lived with was the poet who wrote the songs and the poetry that you like best--that he wrote the 'Dushenka,' which Axinia Nicolaievna is reading to you?"

"What!" said the old gardener, laying down his knife and the piece of wood he was cutting.

"I mean what I say," said Martin. "Wasn't his name Bogdanovitch?"

"Bog-dan-ovitch!" repeated Nicolai, his eyes wide open in surprise. "Yes--that was his name. How did you know him? It was nearly fifty years ago since I lived with him."

"Oh yes!" said Martin, still laughing, "it must have been that long ago. I read his life only a short time since, in the edition of 'Dushenka' which we have. It was surely Bogdanovitch whom you lived with. Why, Nicolai Petrovitch, you ought to be proud of having had such a master! He was one of our great poets. He wrote the song of the shepherdess, and he wrote the 'Dushenka.' He might have acted very simply when he was young, but he certainly became a great poet."

"So he wrote the shepherdess song, did he?" said Nicolai.

"Yes, he wrote that, and many other good things, and he became quite a famous man. Queen Catharine thought a great deal of him, and the people at court paid him many honors. They did not consider him a fool, as you did. If you would like to know all about what happened to this young boy who was such a simpleton, I will lend you the book with his life in it, and Axinia Nicolaievna can read it to you."

"My little Martin Ivanovitch," said the old man, picking up his knife and the yet unfinished rake, "I do not believe that I ever could have become a poet, even if I had known how to read and write. It would have been impossible for me to have gone to a fire in my night-clothes!"

THE PROFESSOR.

BY CLARENCE COOK.

The Professor seated himself at the luncheon-table with an air of importance. He was twelve years old, but he might have been taken for six, or even for three, he looked so wise. The children's nurse poured herself out a cup of tea. The teapot was too full, and a large drop fell upon the shining mahogany table. The Professor looked at the drop with evident pleasure.

"Stop, nurse!" he cried, as she was about to wipe it up with her napkin. "Let's see who can take up that tea without touching it, and leave the table dry!"

"Thuck it up," said Pip.

"Mamma doesn't like you to drink tea," said nurse.

"Besides, that would be touching it," said Tom.

"Take it up with a thpoon," said Pip.

"You couldn't do it; it would spread all over," said the Professor.

"And that would be touching it just as much," said Bob.

"Don't fink it can be done!" said Pip, shaking her head.

"All shut your eyes," said the Professor. "You, nurse, shut yours, too. Don't any of you look."

Nurse shut both her eyes, hard. Pip put her two fat little fists into her eyes, and listened. Tom laid his head down sideways on the table, and curled his arms round it. Bob declared that he wouldn't shut his eyes; he was going to see that the Professor acted fair.

"Now open your eyes," said the Professor.

They all looked up, and there stood the sage, who had covered the drop with a little blue bowl. He lifted the bowl, and, on the spot where had been the drop of tea, stood a lump of loaf-sugar holding up the tea in its paws, or pores, whichever you please.

Nurse picked up the lump of sugar and ate it. The table was as dry as a bone.

"Oh, my!" said Pip.

* * *

The Professor walked over to the window.

"Oh, nurse!" said he, "why don't you make Bridget wash this paint off the glass?"

"She has tried to get it off," said nurse, "but she can't do it."

"What loths of little thpots!" said Pip.

"What careless fellows those painters were!" said Tom.

"Who knows how to get it off?" said the Professor.

"Take a thpunge and thum thope," said Pip.

"'T wont do," said nurse; "Bridget has tried."

"Oh, I know!" said Bob. "Kerosene!"

"Thath dangeruth," said Pip, "and thmells bad, bethides."

"Nurse," said the Professor, "what will you give me if I will show you how to take it off?"

"I'll give you a cent," said nurse.

"Give me a cent and I'll do it," said the Professor. "But I must be paid in advance." He took the cent. "Now look, all of you," he said; and, laying it flat on the glass, he held it with the tips of the first and second fingers, and rubbed it briskly over the pane. Off went the spots like buckwheat cakes of a cold winter-morning!

"Oh, how nithe!" said Pip.

"Any feller could do that," said Bob.

"Yeth," said Pip, "if they'd theen anybody do it before."

* * *

"Why, Tom!" cried nurse, "where did you get that paint on your sleeve?"

"There! I told Fred Mason he'd get me all over paint, if he didn't stop fooling," said Tom.

"It'th a wewy big thpot," said Pip.

"It'll never come off," said Tom; "and it's my new jacket, too! Mason pushed me against the door."

"Well," said the Professor, "there's no use crying over spilt milk."

"Oh," said Pip, "is it milk in the paint that makth it so white?"

"Nonsense, Pip! The thing to do now is to get the paint off Tom's coat. Who knows how to do it?"

"Don't fink anybody duth," said Pip.

"Hold out your arm," said the Professor. And, with the sleeve of his own coat, he briskly rubbed the sleeve of Tom's; and away went the spot of paint in a jiffy.

"He's wubbed it onto his own thleeve," said Pip.

But no; the Professor's sleeve was as clean as Tom's.

"Where ith it went to?" said Pip. "Oh, nurse! Ithn't that thingler?"

"I say," said Bob, "you couldn't have got it off if it had dried on your coat."

"Perhaps not," said the Professor.

* * *

It was again luncheon-time, and Pip, Tom, and Bob were in the dining-room, where nurse Charlotte, seated at the head of the table, was already pouring herself out a cup of tea. She had cut bread and butter for the children, filled their tumblers with milk, and was ready, when they should be ready, to help them to the apple-and-sago pudding--"just the nithest pudding in the world," as merry little Pip used to say every time it came on table.

All the children were there but the Professor; the others did not know where he was. Pip was the first one to see him coming across the lawn.

"How queer!" said Pip. "He'th all mud, and what hath he got in hith hand?"

"It's a turtle," says Tom.

"It'th a bird," says Pip.

"Perhaps it's a turtle-dove," says nurse.

"Should say 't was a mud-turtle by the looks of his legs," said Bob.

"Nurth, do turtle-doves live in the mud?" said Pip.

"Nonsense," said Bob, "as if birds ever lived in the mud!"

"Well," said Pip, "thum thwallows, I _know_, make their neths of mud, and then they live in their neths, and that's living in mud. But here comth the Profethor; let's see what heeth found. It's thumthin in a glath."

The Professor came up, walking very slowly across the grass; then stepped carefully up upon the piazza, and, as he passed the window, he called for some one to come and open the front door.

All the children ran together, and opened the door with such a flourish, the Professor was obliged to call out, "Stand off! Hands off!"

"Will it splode?" said Pip.

"Will it bite?" said Bob.

"Will it fly away?" said Tom.

"It will splode," said the Professor, "and it will fly away; but it won't bite."

"Oh my!" said Pip, "what can it be? I never heard of any creature splodin!"

The Professor looked pleased; his face was red, his hair was tumbled, his coat was torn, and his boots and trousers were muddy.

"You look as if you had had a hard time catching the creature, whatever it is," said nurse. "You'd better leave it out-of-doors now, and clean yourself, and come and eat your luncheon."

"Oh, please, nurse, let's see it now!" said all the children; and nurse, who wanted to see it herself, agreed.

"You can't see it," said the Professor; "it's invisible! You can't see it till it disappears!"

"Oh dear," said Pip, "I just ache to know about it."

"Well," said the Professor, "light mamma's wax-taper."

"I don't see what good lighting a taper will do, if the creature's invisible," said Bob.

The Professor set his burden down on the table. It was a saucer filled with water, and in the water stood a tumbler upside down. There was nothing to be seen in the tumbler.

The Professor struck an attitude.

"What I have in this tumbler, nurse and children, was obtained with great difficulty. I've been about it ever since lesson-time."

"Where did you find it?" says Pip.

"How came you to know about it?" says Tom.

"I should think it would be hard to catch nothing," says Bob.

"I found it in the water, in the little pool in our woods. I saw it first the other night in the dark, and I caught it to-day when it was hiding. I took a long stick and gently stirred up the dead leaves that lie rotting on the bottom, and he began to come up--first one, then another--now here, and now there."

"Ho! ho!" says Bob. "How could that be? How could _he_ come up in pieces, and in different places?"

"Poor thing!" said Pip. "He wath dead!"

"Oh, if he's dead I don't care about him," says Bob.

"He's far from dead," said the Professor; "and though he was in pieces, he's all together now, and safe in this tumbler." And then, seizing the lighted taper, he turned up the tumbler, held the taper quickly to its mouth, and--Pop! went something, with a quick flash.

"Oh, fire-works!" says Bob.

"Oh, tell us truly about it!" says Tom. "Where did you buy it? Let's have some for the Fourth!"

"Children," said the Professor, "I have told you the truth about it. It's gas. It's carbureted hydrogen. I found it in the pond. 'Carbureted hydrogen' is its science name. Its poetry name is 'Will-o'-the-wisp,' and there's another name besides."

"I should think two names were enough for nothing," says Bob.

"What'th the other name?" said Pip.

"_Ignis fatuus_," said the Professor. "It means 'Cheating-fire.' Sometimes this gas, rising to the top of the water in bubbles, takes fire (by what they call spontaneous combustion, or by mixing with some other gas, or in some other way), and then, as one bubble after another takes fire and goes flickering along, it looks as if some one were walking through the woods with a lantern."

"And thath how it cheat-th, isn't it?" said Pip. "But I don't thee how it is thet afire. Perhapth, now--perhapth it's the fire-flyth!"

"Oh, good for you!" said the Professor; and he chased her round the table, and caught her, and kissed her.

"Well, how did you ever get it with that tumbler?" said Tom.

"Well, easy enough. First, I filled the tumbler with water. Then I laid the saucer over the top. Then I plunged the whole under the water, holding tumbler and saucer with both hands firm, and turned them over in the water, and drew them out. The saucer, as well as the tumbler, was then full of water, and though the tumbler was upside down the water couldn't fall out."

"What hindered it, I'd like to know?" said Bob.

"Atmospheric pressure," said the Professor, pushing the words out slowly. "The whole atmosphere weighs down on the water in the saucer and balances the water in the tumbler and keeps it in."

"It had all leaked out before you reached home, anyway," said Bob.

"The gas pushed it out," said the Professor, "I told you how I stirred up the bottom of the pool. It was all covered with dead leaves. These as they rot give out gas, but it cannot easily escape from the bottom, and stays down among the leaves and slime till it is stirred up. Then the little bubbles of gas come popping up, and as they mount I am ready with my tumbler and saucer. I slip them both softly into the water a little way off, draw out the saucer, slide the inverted tumbler over the bubbles before they break; and the gas mounts into the tumbler, each bubble of gas displacing a little water; then over more bubbles, and more and more, until all the water in the tumbler is out and the gas is in its place; then I fill the saucer with water again, slide it under the tumbler, and bring it home."

"Come to your luncheon, children," cried nurse. "The pudding will be cold."

"Oh, wait a minute," said Tom. "You said the gas drove out the water in the tumbler. Why don't it drive out the water in the saucer?"

The Professor looked puzzled.

"Well, it would in time, I suppose. But you see, its nature is to push upward, because it's light----"

"Oh, now, it pushes the same every way," said Tom.

"There's something we don't know," said Bob.

"Oh, yeth, I am afwaid we don't know it all," said Pip.

"Well," drawled the Professor, "I don't know, only I guess it's because the water is too dense--too close together, for one thing; and the same atmospheric pressure that kept the water in keeps the gas in, for another."

"There, I do believe that's it," said Pip. "Oh, how nice it did pop off! Like a vewy small fwier-cracker a great way off. Now let's have some pudding. Apple and sago! Just the nithest pudding in the world!"

One day an ant went to visit her neighbor;
She found her quite busy with all sorts of labor;
So she didn't go in, but stopped at the sill;
Left her respects, and went back to her hill.

FOUR CHARADES.[A]

BY C. P. CRANCH.

I.

When swiftly in my first you glide along,
Naught ruffles up the temper of your mind;
All goes as smoothly as a summer song,
All objects flit beside you like the wind.

But if you should be stopped in your career,
And forced to linger when you fain would fly,
You'll leave my first, and, very much I fear,
Will fall into my second speedily.

Till in some snug and comfortable room
Your friends receive you as a welcome guest,
You'll own that Winter's robbed of half his gloom,
When on my whole your feet in slippers rest.

II.

MY FIRST.

I sunder friends, yet give to laws
A place to stand and plead their cause.
Though justice and sobriety
Still find their safest ground in me,
I spread temptation in man's way,
And rob and ruin every day.

MY SECOND.

Success and power are in my name,
Men strive for me far more than fame.
One thing I am unto the wise,
But quite another in fools' eyes,
Through me the world is rich and strong,
Yet too much love of me is wrong.

MY WHOLE.

My first and second when they meet,
As lawyers' fees, my whole complete.
And yet my first too oft enjoyed,
Is sure to make my second void.
My whole is good and bad by turns,
As every merchant daily learns.

III.

My first the stout Hibernian wields
On banks and streets and stubborn fields,
To earn the bread that labor yields.

My second is a name for one
Whose youth and age together run,
A leader all good people shun.

My whole in summer-time is sweet,
When youths and maids together meet
Beneath some shady grove's retreat.

(So simple is this short charade,
That I am very much afraid
You'll guess at once, without my aid.)

IV.

When I was a little boy, how welcome was my first;
When tired of play I went to bed, my lessons all rehearsed.
How soundly all the night I slept, without a care or sorrow,
And waked when sunshine lit the room, and robins sang good-morrow.

When I was a little boy, what joy it was to see
My second waiting at the door for Willy and for me;
And how we trotted off to bring ripe apples from the farm,
And piled our bags on Nellie's back, nor felt the least alarm.

But when I was a little boy, I had an ugly dream,
A huge black bear was in my bed, I gave a dreadful scream,
And roused the house; they brought in lights, and put my whole to
flight,
Since then I made a vow to eat no supper late at night.

[A] The answers will be given in the "Letter-Box" for May, 1878.

WISE CATHERINE AND THE KABOUTERMANNEKEN.

BY HOWARD PYLE.

In old times, there was once a quaint little dwarf, who was known as the Kaboutermanneken of Kaboutermannekensburg.

In the very ancient times of good King Broderic and Frederic Barbarossa, he constantly lived above ground, and many times was seen trudging along through the moonlit forest with a bag over his shoulder. What was in the bag nobody exactly knew, but most people supposed it to be gold.

The Kaboutermanneken was a peppery little fellow, and at the slightest word his rage would fire up hotly. Since he was quite able, small as he was, to thrash the strongest man, he was very generally avoided.

It is a well-assured fact that, as churches increase, dwarfs and elfin-folk diminish; so, at last, when the town of Kaboutermannekensburg was founded, and a church built, the Kaboutermanneken was fairly driven to the wall, or, rather, into the ground, where he lived in the bowels of the earth, and only appeared at intervals of a hundred years. But, upon the last day that terminated each of these series of a hundred years, he would re-appear in his old haunts, and, I believe, continues the practice to the present day, in spite of railroads, steam-engines, and all the paraphernalia of progress, so destructive to fairy lore.

I.--THE GOLDEN CUP.

Once upon a time, after the Kaboutermanneken's visits had become events of such rarity, there lived a worthy wood-chopper, who had a daughter named Catherine; a pretty little maiden of sixteen, and yet the wisest woman in the kingdom of Kaboutermannekensburg. Shrewd as she was, she had yet the best, the kindest, and the most guileless heart in the world; and many a sick man, troubled woman, and grieved child had cause to bless her and her wisdom. One winter, when labor was cheap and bread expensive, the wood-chopper, whose name was Peter Kurtz, chopped his hand instead of the stump he was aiming a blow at, and, in consequence, rendered himself unfit for work for many a day. During his sickness, the whole care of the family devolved upon Kate; for Peter's wife had died nearly two years before; so it was Kate who tended the baby, dressed Johann, mended Wilhelm's small-clothes, and attended to the wants of her father; for in those days a sick man was more complaining than a child two years old. Beside these acts of labor, she had to cook the meals, wash the dishes, sweep the house, run of errands, chop the wood, make the fire, and many other little odd duties of the kind; so that, upon the whole, her time was pretty well occupied.

There seemed a probability now, however, that one of these duties would be dispensed with, namely, cooking the meals; not that there was any indolence upon Catherine's part, but because the necessary materials were not forthcoming. Indeed, the extent of the larder at present consisted of half a bowl of cold gravy, and about a quarter of a loaf of bread.

When Catherine, that cold morning, inspected the woeful emptiness of the cupboard, she wrung her cold blue hands in despair; but, wring her poor little hands ever so much, she could not squeeze good bread and meat out of them; something must be done, and that immediately, if she would save the children from starving. At length she bethought herself that many rich people of Kaboutermannekensburg were fond of burning pine-cones instead of rough logs, not only on account of the bright, warm and crackling fire they produced, but also because of the sweet resinous odor that they threw out, filling the house with a perfume like that which arose from the censers in the cathedral.

It was woeful weather for Catherine to go hunting for pine-cones. The snow lay a good foot deep over the glossy brown treasures, and she herself was but thinly clad; yet the children must have bread. Not having eaten any breakfast that morning, she slipped the remnant of the loaf into the basket to serve as lunch, and then started to face the wind toward the forest.

Bitterly cold blew the wind from the bleak north; tearing through the moaning pine forest, that tossed and swayed before the tempest, gnawing Catherine's nose and fingers, and snatching up, as it were, handfuls of snow, and hurling them in a rage through the air. Poor Catherine was nearly frozen, yet she struggled bravely on through the drifting snow. Suddenly she caught sight of a quaint little cottage that she had never seen before, much as she had traveled this portion of the forest; but a more welcome sight still was the gleam of a cheery fire within, that illuminated the frost-covered panes with a ruddy glow.

Catherine, stumbling, sliding, struggling through the drifts, reached the cottage at last, raised the latch, and entered a door-way so low that even she, small as she was, had to stoop her head in passing.

"Shut the door!" shrieked a shrill voice, with startling abruptness; and, for the first time, Kate perceived a very little old man seated in a very large chair, and smoking a very long pipe. A great beard reached below his dangling feet and touched the floor.

"May I warm myself at your fire, kind gentleman?" said Kate, dropping a courtesy. The little old man grunted without looking at her.

"May I warm myself at your fire, sir?" repeated Kate, in a louder voice, supposing he must be deaf.

"I heard you!" growled the old dwarf, with sudden rage. "You don't suppose I'm deaf, do you? I said yes. You don't want to argue, do you?"

Kate murmured her thanks, feeling much astonished and very uncomfortable at the old gentleman's conduct. Thus they sat in silence for a long while, the little old man smoking like a volcano. At length:

"Are you hungry?" said he, abruptly.

"Yes, sir," said Kate, bethinking herself of her bread.

"So am I!" said the old man, shortly, at the same time resuming his smoking. Removing his pipe after another pause, "I haven't had anything to eat for one hundred years; I feel kind of empty," said he.

"I should think so," thought Kate to herself; then, after regarding him in silence for a few minutes, she said, timidly, "I--I have a--a piece of bread in my basket, sir, if you would like to have it?"

"Like to have it? You speak as though you had no sense. Of course, I should like to have it! Why didn't you offer it to me sooner?"

Kate, in spite of her hunger, that had recommenced gnawing her, now that she was warm, handed him the piece of bread. The old man seized it ravenously, opened his mouth to an astonishing extent, bolted the large morsel as one does a pill, and then resumed his smoking as though nothing of any note had occurred. Kate regarded him with silent astonishment.

"What are you doing out in this kind of weather?" said the old man, suddenly.

"I came to gather pine-cones to sell in the town," said Kate.

"You're a fool!" snapped the old man. "How do you suppose you can gather pine-cones in twelve inches of snow, not to mention the drifts?"

"Nevertheless, sir, I have to get the children something to eat, and father----"

"Oh! don't bother me with that story!" said the old man, impatiently. "I know all about it. Your father's Peter Kurtz, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir."

"Umph!" grunted the dwarf. Then, after another pause, "go to the closet yonder, and take one of the cups there, in return for the bread you gave me."

"Indeed, sir," said Kate, earnestly, "I do not care for any return for----"

"Do as I tell you!" bellowed the dwarf, in a fury.

Kate crossed the room, opened the cupboard, and--what a sight met her eyes! All the dishes, bowls, cups and saucers were of pure gold.

"Take one of the cups?" said Kate, in breathless doubt.

"That's what I said, wasn't it?" snarled the dwarf. "You are just like all women, never contented with what you receive."

Catherine was far too wise to answer foolish abuse with useless excuse; she silently took one of the beautiful cups and put it in her basket. She was so overcome that she did not think of any word of thanks until she had reached the door; then, turning: "May heaven bless you, sir, for----"

"Shut the door!" screamed the dwarf.

Kate hurried home, but before reaching the town she wisely covered the cup with snow, that no gossiping neighbor might catch sight of it; for she well knew that gossip was like the snow-ball that the little boys start rolling from the top of a hill--small in the commencement, but sure to grow before it ends its course.

"Where have you been all this time?" whined Peter.

When Kate recounted her adventure, her father could hardly believe her, and when she had carefully removed the snow from the cup, he could hardly believe his eyes. He placed it upon the table, and then, sitting down in front of it, he examined it with breathless astonishment and delight.

The cup was of solid gold, heavy and massive; carved upon it in bold relief was a group of figures representing a host of little elves at a banquet. So exquisitely were they engraved that they appeared actually to move, and it seemed as though one could almost hear their laughter and talk. A glittering, carved golden snake, curled around the brim of the cup, served as a handle; its eyes were two diamonds. After Peter Kurtz had feasted his eyes upon this treasure for a long time, he arose suddenly, and, without saying a word, wrapped up the cup in a napkin, drew his cowl more closely around his face, and, taking his staff, prepared to leave the house.

"Where are you going, father?" said Kate.

"I am going," said Peter, "to take this cup to our master, the Baron von Dunderhead; that will be far more to our advantage than selling it to some petty goldsmith or other."

"Take care what you do, father!" said Kate, quickly. "I foresee that danger will come of it, if you fulfill your intention."

"Bah!" said Peter, and, without deigning another word, he marched out of the house; for Peter, like a great many men in those days, had a very poor opinion of the feminine intellect, and a very good opinion of his own. So off he marched boldly toward castle Dunderhead.

When Peter presented the golden cup to the baron, with a low bow, that nobleman could not find sufficient words to express his admiration. He sighed with rapture, and examined the cup from every side with the utmost minuteness.

"Give this worthy man," said he, "four bags of guilders; money is nothing to the acquisition of such a treasure of beauty."

Here Peter secretly hugged himself, and chuckled at his daughter's warning. Meanwhile, the baron examined the cup with huge satisfaction. Suddenly turning to Peter, "Where is the saucer?" said he.

"The saucer?" repeated Peter, blankly. "Please you, my lord, it never had a saucer!"

"Never had a saucer?" repeated the baron. "You don't mean to tell me that such a cup as that was ever made without a saucer to go with it!"

"Nevertheless, my lord, _I_ have no saucer," said Peter, humbly.

"You are deceiving me," said the baron, sternly. Then, fixing his eye upon poor Peter, "Where did you get that cup?" said he, abruptly. "Me-thinks you are rather a poor man to possess such a treasure."

"Oh, good my lord!" cried poor Peter, "I will tell you the whole truth. An old man in the forest gave it to my daughter Kate."

"Do you expect me to believe such a story as that?" exclaimed the baron. "You stole it, you thief!" he roared, at the same time seizing Peter by the collar. "Ho! guards! Arrest this man, and throw him into the dungeon," cried he to his attendants.

"Mercy! mercy, my lord!" cried poor Peter, falling on his knees. But the guards dragged him off in spite of his cries, and popped him into a dungeon, where he was left to meditate over his folly in not heeding his daughter's advice.

II.--THE GOOSE THAT WAS TO LAY THE GOLDEN EGG.

Catherine waited anxiously for her father's return, but her fears told her all when night came and he came not.

After she had put the children to bed, having given them each a piece of bread, which she had borrowed from a kind neighbor, she threw a shawl around her head and started off in the direction of Castle Dunderhead, where her fears told her only too plainly her father was. The bars of the dungeon windows came upon a level with the ground, like those of a cellar.

"Father!" murmured Catherine.

"Oh, Kate!" was the response, followed immediately by the sound of violent crying, and Catherine knew her father was there. "Oh, Kate! if I--I had but l-listened to you!" sobbed the poor fellow; for, now that the discovery was too late to avail him, he felt perfectly sure of his daughter's superior intelligence. Then, with much sobbing, he recounted all the particulars of his interview with the baron. "Can't you do something to get your poor old father out?" continued he.

Kate was thoughtful for a moment. "I'll try, father," said she, at length; and, bidding him a hasty adieu, she hurried off. She ran, without stopping, to where the little cottage stood in the forest; but, as you have already probably guessed, the old man was the Kaboutermanneken, his day's visit was over, and he had descended once more into the obscurity of the earth; consequently Catherine, much to her perplexity, could not discover the little cottage. After vainly seeking for some time, she at length saw the hopelessness of her task, and wended her way sorrowfully homeward. She lay awake nearly all night, vainly cudgeling her brains for some plan by which to deliver her father from his confinement. At length an idea occurred to her, and, smiling to herself, she turned on her pillow and fell asleep until the sun shining in her eyes awakened her. Then, arising, she donned her best frock and neatest cap, and proceeded to the Castle Dunderhead. She was directly presented to the baron.

"My lord!" said she, falling upon her knees.

"Well, my pretty damsel," said he; for Kate looked very sweet in her saucy cap.

"My lord," continued she, and the tears rose to her eyes as she spoke; "you have my father in custody."

"Ha!" exclaimed the baron, frowning,--"Peter Kurtz?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Bring forth Peter Kurtz!" cried the baron to the guard, and soon Peter made his appearance, crying like a good fellow. "Now that I have you confronted with each other," continued the baron, "where did your father get that cup?"

"_He_ did not get it, my lord; an old man in the forest gave it to me," answered Catherine.

"Humph!" grunted the baron. "Your father has taught you prettily."

"My lord," resumed Catherine, "I came to buy my father's liberty."

"Ha!" cried the baron, eagerly, "have you brought the saucer?"

"No, my lord." The baron's countenance fell. "But, if you release my father, we have a goose at home that I will give you, and every egg it will lay for you shall be of pure gold." The baron's countenance lifted again. "This, my lord, I offer you."

Peter's eyes had been opening in wide astonishment as Kate proceeded.

"Why, Kate," exclaimed he, "_I_ don't know about----"

"Be quiet, father!" said Catherine.

The baron thought Peter's exclamation arose from his regret at parting with such a treasure; so his eagerness arose in proportion.

"Can you swear to the truth of this?" asked the baron.

"I can!" said Kate, firmly.

Peter could contain himself no longer.

"Why, Kate! how can you----"

"Be quiet, father!" interrupted Catherine, again.

"He shall have his freedom," cried the baron, eagerly, "and the cup to boot."

"We do not want the cup, my lord," answered wise Catherine.

"Yes, but we do!" cried Peter; for, as the prospect of his pardon increased, respect for his daughter's wisdom diminished in direct ratio.

"You shall have it!" cried the baron; "release him, guards!"

"One thing more," said Catherine; "a proclamation must be issued stating that you will never arrest my father again in connection with this affair."

"It shall be done!" said the baron; upon which he dismissed them both with the golden cup, which Peter had accepted in spite of his daughter's protestations.

That same afternoon the proclamation was issued, and Catherine carried a large gray goose to Castle Dunderhead.

"Father," said she, when she returned, "since you have accepted the golden cup, you must leave this place, for the baron will always look enviously upon you. Had you left it with him he would have paid no more attention to you, but now it is different."

"Why so?" said Peter; "hasn't the baron given his promise that he will never arrest me or mine again? And about that goose----"

"Never mind the goose, father," interrupted Kate. "I say again that every egg the goose lays _shall_ be of pure gold."

"Well, I'm sure I don't understand it," said Peter, testily; "and, moreover, I am _not_ going to leave Kaboutermannekensburg. The idea of _your_ trying to teach _me_ wisdom!"

"No, I could never do that," murmured Kate, with a sigh.

"No, I should think not, indeed!" said Peter, pompously.

The baron could not make enough of his goose. He had a splendid pen made for it, of ebony inlaid with silver, the nest was of purest eider-down, and a special page was appointed to escort it every morning to the water and back. It was fed upon sweet herbs and sponge-cake; it grew enormously fat; and, as time went on, its voice, its appetite, and its healthy condition increased to an astonishing extent. Only one thing troubled the baron, and that was it did not lay. Every day he himself went to the nest expecting to find the much-looked-for golden egg, and every day he did _not_ find it. So matters continued for a long time.

One morning, as Kate and her father were at breakfast, a squad of soldiers, headed by the high-sheriff, marched into the house.

"Peter Kurtz and Catherine Kurtz, you are to consider yourselves under arrest," said the sheriff.

"But the baron has issued a proclamation that he will never arrest me again," said poor Peter.

"You are arrested," continued the sheriff, without paying the slightest attention to Peter, "in the king's name, upon suit of the Baron von Dunderhead, for obtaining goods under false pretense."

Catherine said never a word--not even "I told you so"--but submitted, whilst poor Peter cried like a very child.

They were thrown into separate dungeons, in default of bail. Not many days elapsed, however, before they were brought forth to be tried by the grand tribunal.

The king sat upon a chair of state, with a learned judge at each side, to decide the extraordinary cases that were brought before him.

Peter and Catherine were led up to the bar, the latter calm and collected, the former weeping bitterly, and continually crying, "if I had but minded her! if I had but minded her!"

This doleful cry, which was continued in spite of the violent vociferations of "order in the court!" at length aroused the king's curiosity, and he inquired what he meant. Amid many sobs, Peter contrived to tell the king the whole story. "Had I minded," said he, in conclusion, "when she advised me not to take the cup to the baron; had I minded when she advised me not to receive it back again; or, had I minded when she advised me to leave Kaboutermannekensburg, I had never gotten myself into this trouble--miserable wretch that I am!" Here he commenced sobbing afresh with great vehemence.

The king put on his spectacles and looked at Catherine. "Faith!" said he, "thou art much wiser than most girls of thy age, and--ahem! very pretty, too, I vow!" Then, turning to the baron, "Prefer your charge, baron," said he. Hereupon the baron told how Catherine had given him the goose for her father's freedom and the golden cup, and how she had sworn that every egg it should lay would be of pure gold.

"Well," said the king, "did she forswear herself?"

"N-no, not exactly," hesitated the baron.

"I said that every egg it laid for you should be of pure gold, did I not?" said Kate to the baron.

"Yes, you did," snarled the baron, whose anger was commencing to boil.

"And I say again," said Kate, calmly, "that every egg it lays for you _shall_ be of pure gold."

"Well, then, what _is_ the matter?" said the king, scratching his nose in great perplexity.

"Why, your majesty," bellowed the baron, losing all control of himself, "_it is a gander_!"

The king burst into a roar of laughter.

"Faith!" said he, turning to Kate, "thou art the shrewdest maiden in the world." Then, to the baron: "The maid was right, and every egg the goose lays shall be of pure gold." And so Baron Von Dunderhead and his case were dismissed.

Catherine had made a great impression upon the king, both on account of her shrewdness and beauty; so, being a jolly monarch, he conceived the notion of marrying her to the heir apparent. The heir apparent had no objection, and so the ceremony was consummated with great state.

Even to this day the good folk of the kingdom of Kaboutermannekensburg look back with longing to the time when Catherine the Wise was queen, and ruled not only her husband, but his kingdom also.

As for Peter, he was appointed lord chief justice, for one did not have to be very wise to be a judge in those days.

Open the snowy little bed,
And put the baby in it;
Lay down her pretty curly head,
She'll go to sleep in a minute.

Tuck the sheet down round her neck,
And cover the dimples over,
Till she looks like a rose-bud peeping out
From a bed of sweet white clover.

HOW THE STONE-AGE CHILDREN PLAYED.

BY CHARLES C. ABBOTT.

Not long since I wandered along a pretty brook that rippled through a narrow valley. I was on the lookout for whatever birds might be wandering that way, but saw nothing of special interest. So, to while away the time, I commenced geologizing; and, as I plodded along my lonely way, I saw everywhere traces of an older time, when the sparkling rivulet that now only harbors pretty salamanders was a deep creek, tenanted by many of our larger fishes.

How fast the earth from the valley's slopes may have been loosened by frost and washed by freshet, and carried down to fill up the old bed of the stream, we will not stop to inquire; for other traces of this older time were also met with here. As I turned over the loose earth by the brook-side, and gathered here and there a pretty pebble, I chanced upon a little arrow-point.

Whoever has made a collection, be it of postage stamps or birds' eggs, knows full well how securing one coveted specimen but increases eagerness for others; and so was it with me, that pleasant afternoon. Just one pretty arrow-point cured me of my laziness, banished every trace of fatigue, and filled me with the interest of eager search; and I dug and sifted and washed the sandy soil for yards along the brook-side, until I had gathered at least a score of curious relics of the long-departed red men, or rather of the games and sports and pastimes of the red men's hardy and active children.

For centuries before Columbus discovered San Salvador, the red men (or Indians, as they are usually called) roamed over all the great continent of North America, and, having no knowledge of iron as a metal, they were forced to make of stone or bone all their weapons, hunting and household implements. From this fact they are called, when referring to those early times, a stone-age people, and so, of course, the boys and girls of that time were stone-age children.

But it is not to be supposed that because the children of savages they were altogether unlike the youngsters of to-day. In one respect, at least, they were quite the same--they were very fond of play.

Their play, however, was not like the games of to-day, as you may see by the pictures of their toys. We might, perhaps, call the principal game of the boys "Playing Man," for the little stone implements, here pictured, are only miniatures of the great stone axes and long spear-points of their fathers.

In one particular these old-time children were really in advance of the youngsters of to-day; they not only did, in play, what their parents did in earnest, but they realized, in part, the results of their playful labor. A good old Moravian missionary, who labored hard to convert these Indians to Christianity, says: "Little boys are frequently seen wading in shallow brooks, shooting small fishes with their bows and arrows." Going a-fishing, then, as now, was good fun; but to shoot fishes with a bow and arrow is not an easy thing to do, and this is one way these stone-age children played, and played to better advantage than most of my young readers can.

Among the stone-age children's toys that I gathered that afternoon, were those of which we have pictures. The first is a very pretty stone hatchet, very carefully shaped, and still quite sharp. It has been worked out from a porphyry pebble, and in every way, except size, is the same as hundreds that still are to be found lying about the fields.

No red man would ever deign to use such an insignificant-looking ax, and so we must suppose it to have been a toy hatchet for some little fellow that chopped away at saplings, or, perhaps, knocked over some poor squirrel or rabbit; for our good old Moravian friend, the missionary, also tells us that "the boys learn to climb trees when very young, both to catch birds and to exercise their sight, which, by this method, is rendered so quick that in hunting they see objects at an amazing distance." Their play, then, became an excellent schooling for them; and if they did nothing but play it was not a loss of time.

The five little arrow-points figured in the second picture are among those I found in the valley. The ax was not far away, and both it and they may have belonged to the same bold and active young hunter. All of these arrow-points are very neatly made.

The same missionary tells us that these young red men of the forest "exercise themselves very early with bows and arrows, and in shooting at a mark. As they grow up, they acquire a remarkable dexterity in shooting birds, squirrels, and small game."

Every boy remembers his first pen-knife, and, whether it had one or three blades, was proud enough of it; but how different the fortune of the stone-age children, in this matter of a pocket-knife.

In the third picture is shown a piece of flint that was doubtless chipped into this shape that it might be used as a knife.

I have found scores of such knives in the fields that extend along the little valley, and a few came to light in my search that afternoon in the brook-side sands and gravel. So, if this chipped flint is a knife, then, as in modern times, the children were whittlers.

Of course, our boys nowadays would be puzzled to cut a willow whistle or mend the baby's go-cart with such a knife as this; but still, it will not do to despise stone cutlery. Remember the big canoe at the Centennial, that took up so much room in the Government building. That boat, sixty feet long, was made in quite recent times, and only stone knives and hatchets were used in the process.

I found, too, in that afternoon walk, some curiously shaped splinters of jasper, which at first did not seem very well adapted to any purpose; and yet, although mere fragments, they had every appearance of having been purposely shaped, and not of accidental resemblances to a hook or sickle blade. When I got home, I read that perfect specimens, mine being certainly pieces of the same form, had been found away off in Norway; and Professor Nilsson, who has carefully studied the whole subject, says they are fish-hooks.

Instead of my broken ones, we have in the fourth illustration some uninjured specimens of these fish-hooks from Norway. Two are made of flint, the largest one being bone; and hooks of exactly the same patterns really have been found within half a mile of the little valley I worked in that afternoon.

The fish-hooks shown in our picture have been thought to be best adapted for, and really used in, capturing cod-fish in salt water, and perch and pike in inland lakes. The broken hooks I found were fully as large; and so the little brook that now ripples down the valley, when a large stream, must have had a good many big fishes in it, or the stone-age fishermen would not have brought their fishing-hooks, and have lost them, along this remnant of a larger stream.

But it must not be supposed that only children in this by-gone era, did the fishing for their tribe. Just as the men captured the larger game, so they took the bigger fishes; but it is scarcely probable that the boys who waded the little brooks with bows and arrows would remain content with that, and, long before they were men, doubtless they were adepts in catching the more valuable fishes that abounded, in Indian times, in all our rivers.

So, fishing, I think, was another way in which the stone-age children played.

THE MAN WHO DIDN'T KNOW WHEN TO STOP.

BY M. M. D.

A very fair singer was Mynheer Schwop,
Except that he never knew when to stop;
He would sing, and sing, and sing away,
And sing half the night and all of the day--
This "pretty bit" and that "sweet air,"
This "little thing from Tootovere."
Ah! it was fearful the number he knew,
And fearful his way of singing them through.
At first, the people would kindly say:
"Ah, sing it again, Mynheer, we pray"--
[This "pretty bit," or that "sweet air,"
This "little thing from Tootovere"].
They listened a while, but wearied soon,
And, like the professor, they changed their tune.
Vainly they coughed and a-hemmed and stirred;
Only the harder he trilled and slurred,
Until, in despair, and rather than grieve
The willing professor, they took their leave,
And left him singing this "sweet air,"
And that "pretty bit from Tootovere;"
And then the hostess, in sorry plight,
While yet he sang with all his might,
Let down the blinds, put out the light,
With "Thanks, Mynheer! Good-night! good-night!"

My moral, dear singers, lies plainly a-top:
Be always obliging, and willing--to stop.
The same will apply, my dear children, to you;
Whenever you've any performing to do,
Your friends to divert (which is quite proper, too),
Do the best that you can--_and stop when you're through_.

PUCK PARKER. BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.

"Boom-er-oom, a boom-er-oom, a boom, boom, boom!
Zim-er-oom, a zim-er-oom, a zim, zim, zim!"