Chapter VIII: Like Seeks Like (1)

Howard Pemberton had thought often of his future, even in early school-boy days, and many a time he and Martin had talked together about the great battle of life, and how to fight it.

They both were indebted to dear old Doctor Brier for one thing; he had always insisted that the basis of all achievement worth achieving was in character, and that the basis of character must be a disciplined and educated sense of honor; the utter despising from the heart of everything mean.

Howard was certainly one of those of whom it might be predicted, that he was sure to succeed. And he accepted the responsibilities of success, and determined to make the best he could of his life. From his first start, he had thrown his heart into his business, and common figures, and dull routine, were to his mind invested with a power which could help him in his pursuit,--not the mere pursuit of making money, but of being something. Before a twelvemonth had passed, he had made himself master of every detail in his business; at the end of his second year, he was so invaluable that he was intrusted with duties which the firm had never before placed in the hands of any clerk; and, at the end of his third year, the period of which I now write, he had been told that on the retirement of the senior partner he would be taken into the concern.

I must, for the purposes of my story, relate some of the principal incidents, which in the three years that have elapsed, have helped to make up the true life of Howard.

In the first place, his friend, Martin Venables, has been his constant companion. Growing weary of school-life, and longing to plunge, as he had said, into the great stream of life, he had happened to mention his wish, on his visit to Mr. Morton, and that gentleman, having taken a great interest in Martin, had been successful in procuring for him a good government appointment, in an office where he found scope for honest labor, with vistas of future promotion, dependent upon his own exertions, and he was as happy as the day was long in his new sphere of work.

He took up his abode near to Howard, and scarcely an evening passed, except when he was at the Mortons, which they did not spend together. Madeleine was still at Ashley House "on a visit," but with a few intervals, it had lasted for three years, and Martin was a frequent visitor there, especially after Mr. Morton's return from Italy. A strong friendship had sprung up between the two, and Mr. Morton certainly looked forward as eagerly to the visits as did Martin.

And Howard, too, was a visitor at Ashley House.

At first, there was a great prejudice against Howard in the Morton family. Ethel could not bear to hear his name, for it was painfully associated in her mind with poor Digby's death.

But after a time, through the quiet influence of Madeleine's conversations about Howard and Martin's evident affection for him, this prejudice died away, and Martin was invited to bring his friend to Ashley House.

Acquaintance ripened into a true and earnest friendship, and, under the influence of the young people, Mr. Morton found sources of happiness which he never had dreamed life could yield to him; and even Mrs. Morton had so far thrown off her listlessness, as to be able to take an interest in their plans and purposes.

It was a lovely summer evening, toward the end of July, that the party of friends were all together upon the lawn; they had drawn the garden chairs up, and, after the game of croquet in which Madeleine and Howard had succeeded in beating Ethel and Martin, were prepared to devote the remainder of the evening to chat. Seeing this, Mr. Morton had put away his book, and drawn up his chair beside them, while Mrs. Morton, regardless of falling dews and rising damp, had followed the example of her husband.

"Now," said Mr. Morton, "short holidays, like this Saturday afternoon, are good; but are not long holidays better? And now that everybody is thinking of taking a trip somewhere or other, should not we 'do as Rome does,' and think of the same thing?"

"I suppose, sir, we all have been thinking of it, more or less, for the past year," said Martin; "and I for one must think of it seriously, for my holidays are fixed by official rules, and begin very soon."

"And yours, Howard?" inquired Mr. Morton.

"I can take a holiday now, or later," he answered. "But I do not generally get a month straight off, as these government officials do. However, I shall try for a longer holiday this year than I had last."

"Well, now," said Mr. Morton, drawing up his chair more closely to the group, "don't you think we might make up a party, and all go somewhere together?"

A burst of assents went up like a flight of rockets. It was just the very thing that all the young people wanted. And then began such a storm of questions; such a variety of wild and improbable suggestions; such a catalogue of countries as would take years to explore, and such merry banter and repartee, that even Mrs. Morton caught the enthusiasm, and threw herself into the proposal with a vigor that caused her husband to open his eyes wide in a gratified astonishment.

After discussing places, from Siberia to the Sandwich Islands, the votes were unanimous in favor of a tour to the North of Scotland, including Skye and the Shetland Isles.

(_To be continued._)

THE THREE WISE WOMEN.

BY MRS. E. T. CORBETT.

Three wise old women were they, were they,
Who went to walk on a winter day.
One carried a basket, to hold some berries;
One carried a ladder, to climb for cherries;
The third, and she was the wisest one,
Carried a fan to keep off the sun!

"Dear, dear!" said one. "A bear I see!
I think we'd better all climb a tree!"
But there wasn't a tree for miles around.
They were too frightened to stay on the ground;
So they climbed their ladder up to the top,
And sat there screaming, "We'll drop! we'll drop!"

But the wind was strong as wind could be,
And blew their ladder right out to sea!
Soon the three wise women were all afloat
In a leaky ladder, instead of a boat!
And every time the waves rolled in,
Of course the poor things were wet to the skin.

Then they took their basket, the water to bail;
They put up their fan, to make a sail;
But what became of the wise women then,--
Whether they ever got home again,
Whether they saw any bears or no,--
_You_ must find out, for _I_ don't know.

ALWAYS BEHINDHAND.

BY M. D. K.

Supper was ready and waiting. Our guest had not arrived, but there was another train an hour later. Should the family wait for my friend, or should I alone, who was the personage especially to be visited? My father paced the floor nervously, as was his wont when he felt disturbed. He had the evening papers to read, and he never opened them until after tea. This was a habit of his. He was very fixed--or, as some express it, "set"--in his little ways. It was Bridget's evening out, and she had begun to show a darkened visage. Bridget was no friend to "company," and it was policy to conciliate her. So the family seated themselves at the table, and I sat near, waiting until brother John should be ready to accompany me a second time to the station.

"What about this young lady friend of yours, Nelly?" asked my father. "Is she one of the unreliable sort--a little addicted to tardiness, that is?"

"I am obliged to confess, papa, that at boarding-school, where I longest knew Jeannette, she was inclined to be dilatory; but that was years ago. It is to be hoped that she has changed since then."

"I should wish to have very little to do with a behindhand person," said my father, shaking his head very gravely.

"Oh, papa!" I remonstrated, "you will not condemn a dear friend for one single fault. Jeannette is beautiful and accomplished, sensible and good-tempered. Everybody thinks she is splendid."

"She may have very pleasant qualities, but I tell you, girls," he added with sudden emphasis, "that a want of punctuality vitiates the whole character. No one is good for much who cannot be depended upon; and what dependence is to be placed on a man who is not up to his engagements? In business, such a man is nowhere; and in social life a dawdling, dilatory man or woman is simply a pest. But mind, my child, I am not characterizing your friend; we cannot tell about her till we see."

The later train brought my friend. She was profuse in her regrets; she had been belated by a mistake in the time; her watch was slow. As she was pouring forth a torrent of regrets and apologies, I observed my father bestowing glances of evident admiration at the fair speaker, while the rich color came and went in her cheeks and her eyes kindled with animation. Truly, beauty covers a multitude of faults. Sister Bell, who was as punctual as my father, was appeased, and promised to take care of the tea-things and let Bridget go out. My father good-naturedly offered to regulate the halting watch by the true time.

To her chamber we went together, to talk as girls do talk when they meet in this way, after a long separation. Folding me in her arms, she told me all about her recent engagement to George Allibone; showed me her engagement ring, and her lover's photograph. It was a noble head finely posed, and a most engaging face, and my ready and cordial admiration was a new bond of sympathy. It took until nearly midnight to say all that we girls, aged twenty, had to say to each other; and this, in addition to the fatigues of travel, was accepted as an excuse for Jenny's tardiness at breakfast. She really had meant to be early.

But this was only the beginning. Throughout the whole three weeks of her visit, she was scarcely punctual in a single case where time was definitely appointed. She was late in rising, late at meals, late at church and for excursions, and, to our profound mortification, late for dinner appointments, even when parties were made especially on her account. She seemed sorry and mortified, but on each occasion she would do the same thing over again.

"What _can_ she be doing?" my mother sometimes asked in perplexity, when my sister and I were ready and waiting.

"Doing her hair, mother," we answered, "and she will do it over until it suits her, be it early or late."

"Oh, these hair-works!" sighed my mother. "How much tardiness at church and elsewhere is due to over-fastidious hair-dressing! What is that line of good George Herbert's? 'Stay not for the other pin.' I think he must have meant hair-pins."

My sister and I sometimes agreed between ourselves to compel her to readiness by standing by, to help her in her preparations; but in vain. She must write a letter or finish a story before making her toilet. Why not accomplish the toilet first, to be sure of it--any time remaining, for the other purposes? She didn't _like_ to do so. No philosopher could tell why. It is an unaccountable, mysterious something, rooted deep in some people's natures--this aversion to being beforehand. I have seen it in other people since the time when it so puzzled and troubled me in Jenny. It marred the pleasure of the visit most miserably. I was continually fearing the displeasure of my father and the discomfort of my mother. The whole household were disturbed by what seemed to them downright rudeness.

"Now, Jenny," I would plead, "do be early, dear, when papa comes with the carriage. It annoys him dreadfully to wait."

She would promise to "try."

"But pray, Jenny, why need you have to try. It is easy enough. For my part, I never will make any one wait for me. I go without being ready, if need be, or I stay behind."

I had come to talk very plainly to her, out of love and good-will, as well as, sometimes, from vexation of spirit. For the twentieth time she would tell me how truly she had meant to be punctual in some given case, and that she should have been so but that she was hindered when nearly ready by some unforeseen occurrence.

"But, my dear, unforeseen hindrances will often occur, and you must lay your account with them, and give yourself extra time. You will run the risk of meeting some great calamity by trusting, as you do, to the last minute."

And the calamity did befall her. Mr. Allibone spent a day with us. We were anticipating with great pleasure a second visit, when a telegram arrived requesting Jenny to meet him in Boston on the succeeding morning. A business emergency had summoned him abroad very suddenly, and he was to embark for Liverpool in the evening.

We all sympathized with Jenny in the startling effect of this sudden announcement, and offered her every sort of help when the hour for her departure was at hand. She had only to compose herself and prepare for the journey. Sister Bell would arrange her hair and bring her dress, and she would be spared all effort. She seemed grateful, but was sure she could be ready without troubling any one. She dreamed not how much she was, even then, troubling us, for we were beginning to tremble lest she should somehow manage to be late for this, her only train.

She kissed us all twice over when the hackman arrived at the door; but, suddenly glancing in the mirror and observing how ashen was her usually brilliant complexion, she declared against wearing the gray cashmere in which she was dressed, of a hue so like her face. George must not meet her thus. She seized her black silk, with which, in spite of remonstrances, she proceeded to array herself. There was time enough; the carriage must surely be too early. Alas! for the ripping out of gathers, in the violence of her haste, and for the loopings of her skirt, not to be dispensed with! Horses could not be made to do the work of five minutes in three.

She saw the cars move off without her!

No words were called for. My mother carried a glass of elderberry wine to the poor girl, and left her alone to her tears. They would do her good.

We ourselves needed rest, after the troubled scene of hurry and excitement, and we sat down, feeling as if a whirlwind had passed.

"It is beyond my comprehension," said my father, when he came home to dinner. "I can understand tardiness," he continued, categorically, "as the result of indolence. Lazy people dread effort and postpone it. There is a man in my employ who continues to work sometimes after hours. The men tell me that he is actually too lazy to leave off work and put away his tools. But Miss Jeannette seems active and energetic."

"She miscalculates, papa," I said. "She always imagines there is plenty of time until the last minute."

"But herein is the mystery," persisted my father. "Whence this _uniformity_ of dereliction? Why not sometimes too early and sometimes just in the right time, instead of always and everywhere late, and making others late?"

"Poor girl!" said my mother, whose compassion was uppermost. "I pity her with all my heart; yet it is not a case of life and death. This trial may be attended with beneficial results. We will hope so."

I am sorry that this hope was apparently not to be realized. The lesson failed to be read aright. Jeannette recovered her serenity, and resumed her tardy ways. A yet severer lesson was needed, and it came.

The steamer in which, after an absence of ten or twelve weeks, George Allibone was to embark for home, was lost, and not a passenger saved.

My father took me at once to my poor stricken friend, in her distant home. Pale and dumb with grief, yet with tearless eyes, she let us take her almost lifeless hand. From her bloodless lips came only the low, anguished cry, "If only I had said farewell!"

What comfort in words? We offered none. My father's eyes brimmed over, and my heart was breaking for my poor Jeannette.

But relief came speedily. The joyful news was received that George was safe, having made a necessary change in his plans, and would arrive in a fortnight. Jeannette came up from the depths. What should her thank-offering be? She made the resolution to become at once faithful to her appointments, prompt and reliable. It was not that she would _try_--she would speak the commanding words "I will."

She has kept her resolution. Writing to me, after a lapse of years, she said: "You will hardly know your dilatory friend. I remember and practice your advice of former years, to be first ready for my appointments, and to reserve other work for the interval of waiting after I am ready. It is surprising how often I find not a moment left for waiting. Still, I feel the old tendency to procrastinate, and I am obliged steadfastly to resist it. 'Delays are dangerous,' as our old writing-copies used to run; the sentiment is hackneyed, but oh, how true! George says he owes you ten thousand thanks for your faithful counsel, and we shall speak them when you make us the visit of which we feel so sure, because your promises, as I well know, are faithfully kept."

THE THREE HORSE-SHOES; OR, MARSHAL DE SAXE AND THE DUTCH BLACKSMITH.

BY DAVID KER.

Maurice de Saxe was a son of the King of Saxony, and a fine lad he was--tall and strong and handsome, and as brave as a lion. But the king, like a certain old woman of whom you may have heard, had so many children that he didn't know what to do; and so, as Maurice had such a lot of elder brothers as to have not much chance of inheriting the crown, or anything else that would keep him in bread and butter, his father sent him out to seek his fortune, like many another prince in those days. So he went over to France, and entered the army of King Louis XV.

Now, at that time there was always a war going on somewhere or other, and the French armies were fighting in every part of Europe; and the king cared very little who his officers were, or where they came from, if they were only brave men and clever fighters, and ready to go wherever he liked to send them. So, as you may think, it was not long before our friend Maurice, who was quite as brave as any of them, and a good deal cleverer than most, began to make his way. First, he got to be a lieutenant, then a captain, then a major, then a colonel, and at last, while he was still quite a young man, he came out as Count de Saxe, and Field-Marshal of the Army of Flanders, with fifty thousand men under him! That was pretty good promotion, wasn't it?

But, although he had got on so fast, no one could say that it was more than he deserved; for he was by far the best general that France had had for many a day. He beat the Germans, and he beat the Flemings, and he beat the English, though they fought against him as stoutly as men could; and, at last, his soldiers got to have such faith in him, that whenever he appeared the battle seemed to turn at once, as if the very sight of him brought good fortune along with it. And a gallant sight it was to see him prancing along on his fine black horse in front of the line of battle, with his plumed hat and laced coat glittering in the sunshine, and his sword gleaming in his hand, and his dark handsome face and large black eyes kindling like fire the moment the first gun was heard. Every picture-shop in Paris had his likeness in the window; and King Louis himself had the marshal's portrait hung up in his cabinet, and liked nothing better than to invite him to dinner, and hear him tell of all the battles that he had won. Indeed, such a favorite did he become at court, that at last nothing would serve the king but he must go to the war too, and see how his friend Monsieur de Saxe disposed of the enemy. Saxe gained the victory, as usual; and after all was over, there was a great supper on the battle-field, and the king himself hung the Cross of St. Louis around the marshal's neck, and the marshal sat at his right hand in triumph, and thought himself the finest fellow in the whole world.

But, curiously enough, the one thing that this great general specially prided himself upon was neither his skill in warfare nor his favor at court, but simply his strength. There was nothing he enjoyed so much as showing off the power of his muscles, and astonishing the people about him by bending an iron bar, or felling a horse with one blow of his fist; and he was fond of saying that he would give his purse and all the money in it to any man who was stronger than himself, if he could ever fall in with him.

Now, it happened that, one day, while the French and German armies were lying pretty close to each other, Marshal de Saxe sent a message to the enemy's camp, asking some of the German officers to dine with him; and after the meal he began to boast of his strength, as usual, till at last an old German general, who sat at his left, said that he would like to see a specimen of what his Excellency could do. Saxe made no answer, but took up a large silver dish, which was standing before him, in his strong white fingers (for, big and powerful as his hands were, they were white and smooth as any lady's, and he was very proud of them), and, without more ado, rolled it up like a sheet of paper!

"Can your Honor unroll that dish again?" asked he, handing it to the German; and, although the general was a strong man, and tried his best, he found the task too hard for him, and was forced to own himself beaten.

"Your Excellency's strength is very great," said he, "but, nevertheless, I venture to think that there is one man in Flanders who can match it."

"And who may he be?" asked Saxe, frowning.

"A blacksmith in the village of Scheveningen, Dirk Hogan by name. All the country around knows of his exploits; and when I met with him myself I saw such things as I should have thought impossible, had my own eyes not witnessed them."

When the marshal heard this, he looked blacker than ever; and the first thing he did next morning was to send off messengers in every direction to inquire for a village called Scheveningen, and a man named Dirk Hogan. And, sure enough, some of them came back with news that there was such a village, and that Dirk Hogan, the smith, had been living there till quite lately; but that now he had sold his forge and gone away, and nobody knew what had become of him.

This was a decided disappointment for our friend Saxe, but he had something else to think of just then. The enemy's army had lately received strong re-enforcements, and seemed inclined to attack him; and he was riding out one morning to reconnoiter their position, when suddenly his horse stumbled and cast a shoe.

"There's a village just ahead of us, your Excellency," said one of his officers. "Shall I ride on and see if I can find a blacksmith?"

"Do so," answered Saxe; and the officer came back presently to say that he had found what he wanted. So the horse was led up to the door of the smithy, and the smith himself came out to have a look at it.

The moment he appeared, the marshal fastened his eyes upon him as if he would look him right through. And well he might; for this smith was such a man as one does not see every day--very nearly as tall as Saxe himself, and even broader across the shoulders, while upon his bare arms the huge muscles stood out under the tanned skin like coils of rope. The marshal felt at once that he could never be comfortable till he had had a trial of strength with this sturdy-looking fellow; so he bade him bring out one of his best horse-shoes.

The smith did so; and Saxe, looking at it, said quietly: "This ware of yours is but poor stuff, my friend; it will not stand work. Look here!"

He took it in his strong hands, and with one twist broke the iron like a biscuit.

The smith looked at him for a moment, and then, without seeming at all taken aback, brought out a second horse-shoe, and a third; but Saxe broke them as easily as he had broken the first.

"Come," said he, "I see it's no use picking and choosing among such a trashy lot; give me the first shoe that comes to hand, and we'll cry quits."

The smith produced a fourth shoe, and fitted it on; and Saxe tossed him a French crown--a coin about the size of a silver dollar. The Dutchman held it up to the light, and shook his head.

"This coin of yours is but poor metal, mynheer," said he, saying the words just as the marshal had spoken his. "It wont stand work. Look here!"

He took the coin between his finger and thumb, and with one pinch cracked it in two like a wafer.[B]

It was now the marshal's turn to stare; and the officers exchanged winks behind his back, as much as to say that their champion had met his match at last. Saxe brought out another crown, and then a third; but the smith served them in like manner.

"Come," said he, imitating the marshal's voice to perfection, "I see it's no use picking and choosing among such a trashy lot. Give me the first crown that comes to hand, and we'll cry quits."

The Frenchman looked at the Dutchman--the Dutchman looked at the Frenchman--and then both burst into a roar of laughter, so loud and hearty that the officers who stood by could not help joining in.

"Fairly caught!" cried the marshal, suddenly, and added, "What's your name, my fine fellow?"

"Dirk Hogan, from Scheveningen."

"Dirk Hogan!" cried Saxe. "The very man I've been looking for! But I've found him in a way I didn't expect!"

"So it seems," said the smith, grinning. "I needn't ask who _you_ are--you're the Count de Saxe, who was always wanting to meet with a stronger man than himself. Does it seem to you as if you had met with him now?"

"Well, I rather think it does," quoth Saxe, shrugging his shoulders; "and as I promised to give him my purse whenever I _did_ meet with him, here it is. And now, if you'll come along with me, and serve as farrier to my head-quarters' staff, I promise you that you shall never have cause to repent of having met with Maurice de Saxe."

And the marshal was as good as his word.

[B] ...[missing text]... Hercules" is said to have achieved a similar
feat more than once.

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

It is beginning to feel something like spring. However, we mustn't be too certain, for April is the month for little tricks of all kinds. Let us be careful and not be caught by make-believe spring weather.

HAIR-BRAIDS IN THE OLDEN TIME.

I'm told that, eight centuries ago, girls and women wore their hair in braids. Each woman had two braids, which she slipped separately into long, narrow cases of silk, or some other material, and wound with ribbon. They hung like base-ball bats. On the statue of a queen of those times, the braids, cased in this style, reached lower than the knees.

Years ago, every British sailor dressed his hair in a pigtail at the back, so that it hung

"Long and bushy and thick,
Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick."

I heard of one sailor whose mates did his hair so tightly that he couldn't shut his eyes, and he nearly got punished for staring at his commanding officer,--a hair-breadth escape, as somebody called it.

KNOTS AND THE NORTH POLE.

My feathered friends tell me of a bird called the knot, something like a snipe in shape, whose color is ashen gray in winter and bright Indian red in summer. They say he is very particular about the weather, and likes best fine bracing days with sunshine and a moderate breeze; so, in winter he flies south, but in summer he goes farther north than man has yet been able to go.

Now, I've been told that the farther north you go, the colder is the climate; but this bird, who likes pleasant weather so much, goes beyond the coldest places known! Perhaps he has found a cheerful and comfortable summer home, bright and bracing, somewhere near the North Pole, on which somebody will find him, may be, one of these days, quietly perched, preening himself, and looking at a distance like a bit of red cloth on a broomstick. If he _has_ found a cozy spot away up there, he's smarter than any Arctic explorer I ever heard of.

THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.

Johnstown, Pa., March, 1878.

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: Some of your other chicks may like to hear
what my uncle has just told me about the mayflower, or trailing
arbutus, so as to know where to hunt for it as soon as spring
comes. It grows chiefly in New England, New York, and Pennsylvania,
and is always to be found among mountains, hills, and high lands.
Late in March or early in April, under the brown and withered
leaves of last year, you will find it--cool, shiny, fragrant, with
clusters of star-like blossoms, the color being of all shades of
pink from very deep to a pinkish white. Yet farther under the
leaves you will find the trailing stems. I hope many will join in
the search for this first sweet flower of spring.--Your true
friend, AMANDA S. K.

MIRA IN CYGNUS.

On clear nights, during the first half of this month, my dears, the star called Mira, in the constellation Cygnus (or "The Swan"), can be seen in full luster. This is what the owl tells me; and he adds that it is one of those strange stars which vary in brightness. It shines for about a fortnight very brightly indeed; then by degrees it fades away, until, at the end of three months, it cannot be seen. After remaining five months out of sight, it gradually brightens up again. May be you've heard all about this before; but now is your time to see Mira twinkle her bright eye at you. I'll take a peep at her from my pulpit, myself, if I can manage to catch sight of her.

A RARE SPECIMEN.

Brookline, Mass.

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: Did you ever hear this story about
Agassiz? If not, please show it to the other boys and girls.--Yours
truly, NELLIE CHASE.

One day, a man put together parts of various insects and submitted
them to Agassiz as a rare specimen. He also pretended not to know
to what species it belonged, and asked the professor to tell him.
It was April Fools' Day. Agassiz gave a single glance at the object
and, looking up, said "Hum-bug."

A SARDONIC GRIN.

Here's a bit of advice which Deacon Green once gave to the boys of the red school-house. It came back to me all at once the other day as I was watching a plump little darkey eating a sour pickle, and making very wry faces.

The Deacon said: "Whenever you come across a word that you don't understand thoroughly, don't rest until you have found out all you can about it."

Sometimes words grow out of queer things and in very odd ways. There's "sardonic," for instance. As applied to a grin, it means one that a man makes if he is forced to laugh when he doesn't want to, or tries to smile when he really is ready to cry out with pain.

Now, the birds tell me that in the island called Sardinia there used to grow a plant with a very disagreeable taste; and whenever a piece of it was put into anybody's mouth, it made his face pucker up into a broad, unwilling smile--made him "laugh the wrong side of his mouth," as I've heard boys say. Well, in course of time, the name of the island was given to the plant, and then, with a slight change, it was used to describe the wry face the taster made.

So you see, my dears, some words are like puzzles. By the way, I'd like to know what you yourselves can find out about this same word "sardonic," for it may be that those chattering little friends of mine, the birds, have been trying to make an April fool of your Jack,--perhaps, just to see if I can smile a "sardonic" smile when I find out what they've done.

A POSER FROM THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA'AM.

This letter, and the picture I give you with it, have just come to me. Now let's see what your wits are worth, my dears.

The Red School-house.

MY DEAR JACK: I have a favor to ask of you. Will you please show to
your chicks a copy of the picture which I now send to you, and ask
them to give you the one word which will express the meaning of it.
You can tell them, as a clue, if you like, that by means of what
the picture means they can find out what it means.--Truly your
friend, THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA'AM.

GREENLAND.

Letters have come from Andrew A. Bateman, Frank Polley, M. E. Andrews, Edward Liddon Patterson, Bessie B. Roelafson, and Horatio Warren, all telling much the same story--that a man named Eric sailed from Iceland in the year 983, and, reaching the west coast of Greenland, saw there large herds of reindeer browsing on the meadows. This pleased him, and he called the country "Greenland."

The Little Schoolma'am says that this is correct, and adds that in some parts Greenland is much colder than it used to be. She wants to know if you can give any reason why.

THE FEAST OF KITES.

In Japan, the 23d of April is a splendid day for boys, I should think. I'm told that the Feast of Kites is held on that day, with kite-fights and kite-dances, and all sorts of good fun. Who knows anything more about this?

ANSWERS to the "Tobacco" and "Cares" riddles were sent by W. P., N. E., W. L. and F. H. Amerman, Nellie J. Towle, A. B. Easton, "Ned," L. C. L., E. E. B., Nessie E. Stevens, "Mione," Mary H. Barnett, "Bessie," "Lucy and Annie," A. R. S., and Wm. V. F. Several sent amended versions of both riddles, but no one has given a satisfactory answer to Archbishop Whately's rhymed puzzle. "Lucy and Annie" send this verse as the solution:

"To him who cons the matter o'er,
A little thought reveals,--
He heard it first who went before
Two pair of _soles_ and _'eels_."

I'm afraid it is not the right answer, and I'm beginning to think that the archbishop made the riddle on the First of April!

TABBY'S RIDE.

Tabby was a great traveler. She knew every spot about the house--from attic to cellar--and just where everything that she liked was kept. There was hardly a rat or a mouse on the place that could hide from her. She crawled into every dark corner of the barn; could tell the number of eggs in each hen's nest; and often she took long walks through the fields, creeping through every hole in the fence that was as big as her body.

Besides all this, she rode about the farm-yard a great many times. She had merry rides with little Harry in his baby-carriage, with Johnny and Fred as horses; she had lain curled up on the great load of hay when Mr. Dorr and the men drove in from the fields; and she had traveled ever so many miles in the empty wagon, when the boys played it was a train of cars. She liked this railroad journey best; but Fred always waked her up at every station by his loud Too-oo-oo-t! At other times, she did not know that they were moving, even when Fred said they were dashing along at a terrible rate!

But such a ride as the one I shall tell about, she never had had before in all her life! Indeed, she would never have taken it--but she could not help it. Ponto made her go. You see, Ponto and Tabby were good friends. They lived and ate together; they ran races and played all sorts of nice games; and they liked each other very much. Sometimes they had little quarrels; but they soon forgot their anger and were friends again.

Every evening, when Ponto came into the yard, the two friends would run down one little hill from the house and up another little hill to the barn where Mary was milking. Ponto would keep the pigs out of the yard, and Tabby would watch every hole in the barn floor for a rat or a mouse. Then, when Mary was done milking, she would pour some fresh milk into a pan for Tabby to drink.

But, after a while, there came a long rain-storm. Ponto had to stay in the yard for two or three days. Tabby did nothing but doze! It seemed as if it never would stop raining! But it did at last; and when Ponto and Tabby ran down the hill again, they saw at the bottom--a pond deep enough to drown them both!

Tabby did not know what to do. In all her travels she had never crossed a pond of water. She was frightened, and would have gone back to the house, but she looked toward the barn, and saw Mary and the pan of milk waiting for her beside the door.

Ponto did not care for the water, for he could swim. So when they came to the edge of the pond, he plunged in and was soon across. Then he looked back to see what had become of Tabby. He thought she would be at his heels.

But no! There she was on the bank where he had left her. Her back was curled up till it looked as if it were broken, and her tail was waving over it! What in the world was the matter? She never looked so except when she was angry.

Now, Ponto thought Tabby was a wonderful cat. He had seen her catch rats, and he knew that she could do some things that even he could not. "Surely she can cross that pond," thought he. He did not know what to make of it.

He called to her, with a bark, to "Jump in and swim across." But she only replied with a cross "Meouw," which he did not hear. Then he said again, "It's easy to swim across--come on!"

"As easy as for you to climb a tree," said Tabby, in an angry way.

This was too much for Ponto! He could not climb a tree, and Tabby knew it. When he was too rough in his play, she would run up into the apple-tree, and there she was safe. So this reply made him angry. Tabby should not have said it--but then, she wanted the milk!

"It is so easy that I can swim across and carry you, too," thought Ponto, and then he plunged into the water again. When he reached the shore, he seized Tabby by the back of the neck with his teeth, and rushed back into the water. Poor Tabby! She thought she certainly would be drowned.

But Ponto knew better. He held his head so high that the water hardly touched her pretty little paws. So she kept quiet and did not struggle. It was not so bad after all! And besides, there was the milk!

When they landed, Tabby had a stiff neck for a while, and Ponto had to shake his great shaggy sides until they were dry. Then they ran up the hill as fast as they could go, and into the barn,--and almost into the milk-pail before they could stop.

Tabby was very thankful to Ponto for this ride. She said to herself that she would help him to climb a tree the next time that he tried. But as she drank her milk, she was glad that they both could follow Mary home by the long path through the orchard.

Tabby did not forget her strange ride. But she has never taught Ponto how to climb a tree! She has not even helped him up to the lowest limb. Do you think she ever will?

LULLABY.

Little boy John is sleepy,
Little boy John can rest,
Now that the sun all its labor has done,
And gone to its bed in the west.

Rattle goes into the closet,
Letter-blocks go there too;
Wait till the morn for the cow in the corn,
And the horn of the Little Boy Blue.

Into the crib with Johnny,
As soon as his prayers are said;
Tuck him all in from the toes to the chin,
Alone in his soft, downy bed.

Then in the morning early,
Soon as the sun shall rise,
Little boy John, with the coming of dawn,
Will open his pretty blue eyes.

Butterflies in the garden,
Roses, and lilies fair,
Birds in the trees, and the big bumble-bees,
Shall welcome our little one there.

Yet if the day be rainy,
Dreary and dark the sky,
Still there is fun for our own little one,
In the nursery cozy and dry.

Beat a big drum all morning,
Build a card-house till noon,
Play after that with the dog and the cat,
Will keep little Johnny in tune.

Little boy John is sleepy,
Winks with his two little eyes,
Nods with his head--so we put him to bed,
And under the cover he lies.

THE LETTER-BOX.

The readers of ST. NICHOLAS are so familiar, by this time, with the new cover of the magazine, that they can understand, better perhaps than at first, how much this cover, which Mr. Walter Crane has so carefully and thoughtfully drawn, is meant to express. The girl or boy who will take the trouble to study the meaning of the many distinct parts of which the design is composed, will see that pretty much every subject that ST. NICHOLAS thinks it well to talk about, is, in some way, symbolized in the smaller pictures.

The department "For Very Little Folks" is represented by a baby in a cradle, with a youthful nurse reading to it. Below this scene, "Jack-in-the-Pulpit" holding forth to his hearers; and, in the next picture, the poetry of the magazine is personified by a boy mounted on Pegasus, the fabled winged horse that poets ride. A young hunter, who shakes hands with a friendly gorilla, indicates that stories of travel, in strange and distant countries, are to be found within.

In the upper picture, on the other side, two youngsters with telescope and globe show that scientific subjects may be treated of in such a way as to interest boys and girls; and a young artist, hard at work, illustrates how industriously and earnestly our artists work to make good pictures for the magazine. Sports and games are represented by the little fellow playing cricket, which, as well as base-ball, is an excellent game, and often played in this country, though not to so great an extent as in England, where Walter Crane lives. The young sailor in his canoe, starting out on the wide ocean in search of adventure, gives a good idea of how the readers of ST. NICHOLAS go all over the world and see strange sights, in company with the writers of our stories of fun and adventure.

There are still other things to be noticed on this cover. At the very top, you will see a figure of young Time, probably the son of old Tempus, who holds out a tablet to let us know what month the number is for; and, at the bottom, are two round faces, like young worlds, which show that children, in both the eastern and western hemispheres, are always on the lookout for the coming of ST. NICHOLAS.

At the top are the muses of Literature and Art, who see to it that we have plenty of good articles and pictures; while at the bottom are the two griffins, who keep out everything that is bad.

In the center is St. Nicholas himself, the good old patron of girls and boys.

Down at the bottom of this central picture, in the left-hand corner, just behind the girl's foot, there is a curious little design. That is the artist's distinctive mark, which he often puts on his pictures. INV. stands for invented, or designed, and under this are two V's. In Old-English, V is the same letter as U, and these two V's stand for double-u, or W--for Walter. Then there is a little picture of a crane. And so we can easily see that the meaning of the sign is, "Designed by Walter Crane."

Thus we have shown that this cover tells quite a story, and, if we study it longer, we may see more in it than is mentioned here.

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Roxbury, Mass.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We have formed a club for playing battledoor and shuttlecock. Our highest scores are 5084, 4556, 3545, and 3496. Will you ask your subscribers, through the "Letter-Box," if they know of any higher scores?--Yours truly, THE BROTHERS OF THE BATTLEDOOR.

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Cincinnati, Ohio.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am very busy now putting pictures on Easter eggs, the insides of which have been blown out and replaced by very fine caraway-seed candy, put in through a little hole at one end and then covered by a picture. The money I get for these eggs is for my Easter offering. Duck-eggs are the prettiest to use, because they are of such a lovely greenish-blue tint. May be some of your other readers may like to make some of these Easter eggs. Mamma says she could scarcely keep house without the ST. NICHOLAS now, and I think so too.--Your friend, GEORGE M. A.

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Chicago, Ill.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Will you be so kind as to tell a little Scottish girl where to find the date when England claimed Scotland, as Mrs. Weiss says, in her story about the "Arms of Great Britain," in the January number of your magazine? I cannot find any such date. King Edward I., I know, claimed it, but Robert the Bruce disputed it so successfully that none have ever claimed it since--Yours respectfully, AGGIE NICOL.

William the Conqueror, in A. D. 1072, subdued Malcolm III. of Scotland, and received his homage. This was the first time England claimed, and exercised, sovereignty over Scotland.

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STELLA C.--Homer is the "Blind Man of Smyrna."

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DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Will you please print this poem? It was written for my brother Bertie, by a well-known authoress, within five minutes, by my father's watch, and with the alteration of but one word. I must tell you we gave her the subject. Hoping you will print this poem, I remain yours truly, CHARLES H. M.

BERT'S FUTURE WIFE.

Do you wish to see her--
Bertie's future wife,
The maid who'll share his fortune,
Brighten all his life?

This is how I see her,
In my fancy's eye:
Tall and fair and slender,
Cheerful, good and spry;

Eyes as deep as pansies,
Lips like cherries red,
And a wealth of sunshine
Growing on her head.

Kind her voice, and gentle,
Sweet her merry laugh,--
There, I've told you wonders,
Yet not told you half.

Nothing could be better
Than this lovely maid,
Now let's see him get her:--
Hard work, I'm afraid.

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Monroeville, O.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have for some time been anxious to take the ST. NICHOLAS, but did not have the money. I was told that if I would gather hickory-nuts enough to amount to the sum, I might take it. I gathered three bushels, sold them, sent for the magazine, and, last evening, received two numbers, with which I was very much pleased.--Your faithful reader, CLARA LINDSLEY.

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Danbury, Ct.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: A party of us boys read about "Hare and Hounds" in the October number, and we tried the game the Saturday after. We all spent the day at my cousin's; he lives on a farm where there is plenty of room for us to run. Our "hare" got a good start, and though we ran hard and followed up the "scent" well, we did not catch him. We caught our next "hare" though. We treat to apples instead of candy. We think the game is great fun.

I have taken ST. NICHOLAS for two years and I think it is splendid. I liked the "Bass Cove Sketches," and mamma laughed heartily when I read them to her. I am ten years old, and I hope to take you till I am twenty.--Your constant reader, WILLIE H. ALLEN.

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A CORRESPONDENT sends us the following account of some incidents of the great flood in Virginia last November:

After several days of rain, the James and other rivers rose very suddenly, and caused great destruction of life and property, carrying away houses, bridges, crops, and cattle, and covering large sections of the country with water.

There were no lives lost where the flood came during daylight, though many families lost food, clothing, and their homes; but where the sudden rage of the waters burst forth at night, many people were swept away and drowned.

Some one saw among the poor animals struggling with the waters, a poor, frightened little rabbit, on a plank, running from side to side, as it tossed and pitched up and down on the waves.

A queer instance of characteristic nature in an animal is worth recording, although the creature could scarcely be considered a sufferer from the flood. One man, whose house was swept away and lodged on an embankment lower down, had a pet hog, whose dwelling had been under the house. Of course the man imagined him drowned, as no one had thought of him in the haste of the flight. The day after, when the fury of the waters was somewhat spent, the man and his son paddled out to the house to see if anything had escaped. On going in through the upstairs window, they found that the hog had coolly walked in and up the stairs, and, selecting a feather-bed, was now reclining very comfortably in the very middle of it, entirely unhurt!

But only this gentleman of ease and the wreckers profited by the great flood. To others it came like a cruel and stealthy foe, sweeping all before its merciless rush. One little girl, two years old, snatched from her bed and barely saved, said the next day, with a little face still sunshiny, as she pointed to their roof, just seen, with the upper windows above the waters: "Dess see! The flood came, and it dess took everysing--dollies and all!" M.

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SEVERAL correspondents write kindly correcting an error in the February "Letter-Box," page 301, in the item about "King Alfred and the Cakes." It was "Prince William, son of Henry I.," not "of Henry II.," who was drowned.

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Athens, Ohio.