Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Now Mollie as a girl had always been a very good jumper, so she resolved at once to try the leap, and have the report of her valiant deed carried back to Mr. John. She joined the boys, and seeing that one after another went down safely, she soon asked for a turn. She was gravely remonstrated with. She was overwhelmed with sage masculine advice, but she swept her way clear and jumped--with all the recklessness of her reckless mood. She knew well enough the backward inclination proper for her head, what the relative positions of her knees and chin should be, and if she had taken the least forethought might have redeemed the declining reputation of her boyhood. The knowledge flashed across her in her swift descent that her spine had not preserved the proper perpendicular, and that she was coming down wrong. Chin and knees knocked together as she fell in a heap on the grass below.

It was a caving in of skull, she thought, that made that horrible crashing pain and that sent lightning dancing on a black background before her eyes, then blinded her quite. Nothing but a general chaos of skull and brain could make such terrible pain. She wondered if her friends would be able to recognize one dear lineament in the jumble of her features. She thought what a sad fate it was to die young. She wondered how Mr. John would feel now! and then she found that light dawned upon her and that she had an eye open. In a moment she discovered that the sense of hearing, too, had not abandoned her; for the boys had reached her by this time, and she heard Mr. John's nephew, John, saying:

"She's knocked her teeth through her lip, that's all. I did it once when I jumped wrong and hit my chin on my knee. She'll soon be all right."

Two eyes open now, and she saw a bloody frock, and what seemed an army of boys; for there was something still the matter with her vision which caused it to multiply.

"Boys, boys, nothing but boys!" thought Mollie, dropping her lids. "Where did they all come from, I wonder? There must be a thousand. I never want to see another. I wouldn't be one for the world. I wish they'd go away."

Then she felt some one bathing her face gently, and when the water had refreshed her, she ventured another peep at the world. Boys around her still; but she could see now that their number was only four, and the faces those of friends.

"Cheer up, Mollie," said John, jr. "You got a hard knock, but you're coming on. Bob's gone for the phaeton, and we'll have you home in no time."

They propped her up against a tree, and continued to bathe her head with water from Jerry's felt hat, filled at the little brook close by.

All this while Mr. John had been accounting for their absence by supposing that Mollie was taking some sort of revenge on him, and he would permit none of the girls to go in search of the wanderers. Not until Bob and the phaeton appeared did news of Mollie's valiant deed reach him. Then he went to her at once, and saw her pale and bloody.

But to display weakness now might be to lose all, reflected Mr. John; so he kept back the words of sympathy that were on his lips as he leaned down and offered to carry her to the phaeton.

"I prefer to walk, thank you," said Mollie, her pride giving her strength to rise and take the arm which John, jr., stood ready to offer. However, Mr. John forcibly made an exchange, and, in spite of Mollie, half led and half carried her to the road.

"Don't be discouraged, Mollie," he said as he put her in, while Bob was busy at the halter. "The next time you'll jump like a man."

"That nonsense is all over, thank you," said Mollie, very loftily, though not very clearly, because of her swollen lips. "Think what you please of me," she mumbled. "It is all ended; and it might have ended sooner, too, if I'd taken better advice."

"With better advice it never would have ended, you contrary little minx," said Mr. John to himself as she drove away.

The doctor came and Mollie was ordered to bed; but even his opiate did not make her sleep. It was soothing, indeed, to lie there in the twilight with her hand in her mother's, and feel that she was her little girl entirely, no more to be her boy while life should last. And pleasant visions of a Gothic school-house, where she should some day be mistress of sweet, rosy-cheeked children, rose gracefully on the ruins of her manly aspirations.

By and by the bell rang, and her mother brought a lamp, and a package which Mollie sat up and opened. There, with a note pinned on the left leg of her trousers and a box of Mollie's best-beloved candies clasped on her jacket, lay Helena.

"I have never been to the ash-man's house, Mother Mollie," said the note. "I have been visiting Mr. John's cuffs and collars in the bureau-drawer. I want my girls' clothes on to-morrow. I claim it as my right. We all have our rights. Put me in dresses and take me home to the play-room. You have your rights too, and I wouldn't let any one tell me that I hadn't a right to be a girl. It is my opinion that if you had been meant for a boy you would have been made one. Come, mother, cuddle me up, and let's go to sleep and have sweet dreams, and a blithe waking to girlhood in the morning, when we will make up with Mr. John; for he sends these chocolate-creams to let you know that he is sorry."

"So we will, dear," said Mollie, tucking Helena's head under her chin. "You were always wiser than your mother, child."

THE LARGEST VOLCANO IN THE WORLD

BY SARAH COAN.

"Why, it isn't on the top of a mountain at all! What a humbug my
geography must have been!"

So wrote a little fellow to a young friend in America.

He was right. It isn't on the top of a mountain, though the geographies do say, "A volcano is a mountain sending forth fire, smoke and lava," and give the picture of a mountain smoking at the top.

This volcano is nothing of the kind; but is a hideous, yawning black pit at the bottom of a mountain, and big enough to stow away a large city.

Of course you want to know, first, where this wonder is. Get out the map of the Western Hemisphere, put your finger on any of the lines running north and south, through North America, and called meridians; follow it south until you come to the Tropic of Cancer, running east and west; then "left-about-face!" and, following the tropic, sail out into the calm Pacific. After a voyage of about two thousand miles, you'll run ashore on one of a group of islands marked Sandwich. We will call them Hawaiian, for that is their true name. Not one of the brown, native inhabitants would call them "Sandwich." An English sailor gave them that name, out of compliment to a certain Lord Sandwich.

On the largest of these islands, Hawaii--pronounced "Ha-y-e"--is the volcano, Kilauea, the largest volcano in the world.

We have seen it a great many times, and that you may see it as clearly as possible, you shall have a letter from the very spot. The letter reads:

"Here we are, a large party of us, looking into Kilauea, which is
nine miles in circumference, and a thousand feet below us--a pit
about seven times as deep as Niagara Falls are high. We came
to-day, on horseback, from Hilo, a ride of thirty miles. Hilo is a
beautiful sea-shore village, the largest on the island of Hawaii,
and from it all visitors to Kilauea make their start.

"The road over which we came is nothing but a bridle-path, and a
very rough one at that, traversing miles and miles of old lava
flows. We had almost ridden to the crater's brink before we
discovered, in the dim twilight, the awful abyss.

"Before us is the immense pit which, in the day-time, shows only a
floor of black lava, looking as smooth as satin; and, miles away,
rising out of this floor, are a few slender columns of smoke.

"At night, everything is changed; and you can't conceive of the
lurid, demoniacal effect. Each slender column of smoke becomes
a pillar of fire that rolls upward, throbbing as it moves, and
spreads itself out above the crater like an immense canopy, all
ablaze.

"Ships a hundred miles from land see the glow, and we here, on the
precipice above, can read ordinary print by its lurid light.

"No wonder the natives worshiped the volcano. They thought it the
home of a goddess, whom they named Pélé, and in times of unusual
activity believed her to be very angry with them. Then they came
in long processions, from the seashore villages, bringing pigs,
dogs, fowls, and sometimes human beings, for sacrifice. These they
threw into the crater, to appease her wrath.

"A small berry, called the ohélo, grows on the banks of the pit,
and of these the natives never dared to eat until Pélé had first
had her share. Very polite, were they not? And if ever they
forgot their manners, I dare say she gave them a shaking up by an
earthquake, as a reminder.

"Sandal-wood and strawberries grow all about here--and fleas, too!
wicked fleas, that bite voraciously, to keep themselves warm, I
think, for here, so far from Pélé's hearth, it is cold, and we sit
by a log fire of our own.

"The day after our arrival we went into the crater, starting
immediately after an early breakfast. There is but one entrance,
a narrow ledge, formed by the gradual crumbling and falling in of
the precipice. Along this ledge we slipped and scrambled, making
the descent on foot--for no ridden animal has ever been able to
descend the trail. Holding on to bushes and snags when the path
was dangerously steep, we finally landed below on the black satin
floor of lava.

"Satin! What had looked so smooth and tempting from a thousand
feet above, turned out to be a surface more troubled and uneven
than the ocean in the most violent storm. And that tiny thread
of smoke, toward which our faces were set, lay three miles
distant--three miles that were worse than nine on an ordinary
road.

"How we worked that passage! up hill and down hill, over hard
pointed lava that cut through our shoes like knife blades; over
light, crumbled lava into which we sank up to our knees; over
hills of lava that were, themselves, covered with smaller hills;
into ravines and over steam-cracks, some of which we could jump
with the aid of our long poles, and some of which we had to find
our way around; steam-cracks whose depths we could not see, and
into which we thrust our walking-sticks, drawing them out charred
black or aflame; over lava so hot that we ran as rapidly and
lightly as possible, to prevent our shoes being scorched.
Three hours of this kind of work for the three miles, and
_Hale-mau-mau_, or 'House of Everlasting Fire,' lay spitting and
moaning at our feet!

"A lake of boiling lava is what the column of smoke marked out to
us,--a pit within a pit,--a lake of raging lava fifty feet below
us, of which you have here the picture taken 'from life.'

"It was so hot and suffocating on the brink of this lake that we
cut eye-holes in our pocket-handkerchiefs and wore them as masks.
Even then we had to run back every few moments for a breath of
fresher air, though we were on the windward side of the lake. The
gases on the leeward side would suffocate one instantly. Oh, the
glory! This Hale-mau-mau, whose fire never goes out, is a huge
lake of liquid lava, heaving with groans and thunderings that
cannot be described. Around its edge, as you see in the picture,
the red lava was spouting furiously. Now and then the center of
the lake cooled over, forming a thin crust of black lava, which,
suddenly cracking in a hundred directions, let the blood-red fluid
ooze up through the seams, looking like fiery snakes.

"Look at the picture, and imagine these enormous slabs of cooled
lava slowly rising themselves on end, as if alive, and with
a stately motion plunging beneath the sea of fire, with an
indescribable roar.

"For three hours we gazed, spell-bound, though it seemed but a few
moments: we were chained to the spot, as is every one else who
visits Kilauea.

"The wind, as the jets rose in air, spun the molten drops of lava
into fine threads, which the natives call Pélé's hair, and very
like hair it is.

"All this time, under our feet were rumblings and explosions that
made us start and run now and then, for fear of being blown up;
coming back again after each fright, unwilling to leave the spot.

"Occasionally, the embankment of the lake cracked off and fell
in, being immediately devoured by the hungry flood. These ledges
around Hale-mau-mau are very dangerous to stand upon. A whole
family came near losing their lives on one. A loud report beneath
their feet and a sudden trembling of the crust made them run for
life; and hardly had they jumped the fissure that separated
the ledge on which they were standing from more solid
footing--separated life from death--than crash went the ledge into
the boiling lake!

"Sometimes the lake boils over, like a pot of molasses, and then
you can dip up the liquid lava with a long pole. You get quite
a lump of it, and by quickly rolling it on the ground mold a
cylinder the size of the end of the pole, and about six inches
long. Or you can drop a coin into the lava to be imprisoned as it
cools.

"A foreigner once imbedded a silver dollar in the hot lava, and
gave the specimen to a native; but he immediately threw it on the
ground, breaking the lava, of course, and liberating the dollar,
which he pocketed, exclaiming: 'Volcano plenty enough, but me not
get dollar every day.'

"One of our party collected lava specimens from around
Hale-mau-mau, and tied them up in her pocket-handkerchief. Imagine
her astonishment on finding, later, they had burned through the
linen, and one by one dropped out.

"Terrible as old Pélé is, she makes herself useful, and is an
excellent cook. She keeps a great many ovens heated for the use of
her guests, and no two at the same temperature, so that you may
select one of any heat you wish. In these ovens (steam-cracks) she
boils tea, coffee and eggs; or cooks omelets and meats. You wrap
the beef or chicken, or whatever meat you may wish to cook, in
leaves, and lay it in the steam-crack. Soon it is thoroughly
cooked, and deliciously, too.

"She also keeps a tub of warm water always ready for bathers.

"She doesn't mean to be laughed at, though, for doing this kind of
work, and doing it in an original kind of way. After she has given
you one or two sound shakings, which she generally does, you'll
have great respect for the old lady, and feel quite like taking
off your hat to her. With the shakings and the thunderings
under-foot, and now and then the opening of a long steam-crack,
she keeps her visitors quite in awe of her powers, though she is
probably several hundred years old.

"Not far from the little hut where we sleep, close to the
precipice, is Pélé's great laboratory, where she makes sulphur. We
wear our straw hats to the sulphur banks, and she bleaches them
for us.

"Well, this is a strange, strange land, old Pélé being only one of
its many curiosities.

"I only hope you may all see the active old goddess before she
dies. She hasn't finished her work yet. Once in a while she runs
down to the shore, to bathe and look at the Pacific Ocean, and
when there she generally gives a new cape to Hawaii by running out
into the sea."

Majestic old Pélé! Long may she live!

MAKING IT SKIP

"I'll make it skip!"
Cried Charley, seizing a bit of stone.
And, in a trice, from our Charley's hand,
With scarce a dip,
Over the water it danced alone,
While we were watching it from the land--
Skip! skip! skip!

"I'll make it skip!"
Now, somehow, that is our Charley's way:
He takes little troubles that vex one so,
Not worth a flip,
And makes them seem to frolic and play
Just by his way of making them go
Skip! skip! skip!

THE WILLOW WAND. BY A.E.W.

I have a little brother,
And his name is Little Lewy;
His starry eyes are bright as flowers
And they are twice as dewy.
Sometimes the dew o'erflows them,
And trickles down his cheeks;
And then he cries so hard, you'd think
He wouldn't stop for weeks.
Then my other little brother,
A bough of willow bringing,
Drives all the dew-drops far away,
By waving it and singing:

"One, two, free, fo', five, six, _seven_ tears!
You'll be as old as farver in forty sousand years.
Drate big men don't have tears, so let me wipe 'em dry;
In forty sousand years from now you'll never, never cry."

This other little brother,
Whose name is Little Bert,
Frowns in a dreadful manner
Whenever he is hurt;
The wrinkles right above his nose
Look like the letter M,
He keeps them there so long, he must
Be very fond of them.
Then my little brother Lewy,
The branch of willow bringing,
Sends all the naughty frowns away,
By waving it and singing:

"A, B, C, D, E, F, G;
How many wrinkles are there? One, two, three!
We'll send them all off quickly, or they'll climb up to your hair,
And then to-morrow morning you'll have lots of tangles there."

Sometimes our little Lewy
Loses all his pretty smiles;
He says they're very far away;
At least a hundred miles.
He looks as sober as a judge,
As stately as a king,
As solemn as a parson and
As still as anything.
And then our little Bertie,
The witching willow bringing,
Sends all the smiles safe home again,
By waving it and singing:

"I want to buy a smile, sir, if you have some about;
I'll draw this leaf across your lips, and that will bring them out.
And if you cannot spare me one, just let me take a half.
Oh, here they come and there they come, and now we'll have a laugh."

On every "morrow morning,"
This funny little Bertie
Doesn't want to have his face washed
Because it don't feel dirty;
He runs half-dressed 'way out-of-doors,
Safe hidden from our view;
We search and call, hunt up and down,
And don't know what to do,
Until we see our little Lu
The wand of willow bringing,
And leading Bertie back to us,
While all the time he's singing:

"Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si.
You look like a very small heathen Chinee.
Get the sleep all washed off and hang it up to dry,
And then you'll look as fresh as if you'd just come from the sky."

When all the stars are shining,
Each little sleepy-head
Is lying in a funny bunch
Within the little bed.
Their eyes are so wide open,
They stay awake so long,
They're calling me to tell to them
A story or a song.
So up the stairs again I come,
The magic willow bringing,
And wave it here and wave it there,
While o'er and o'er I'm singing:

"Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep;
Sailing away on the dreamy deep;
Sister to watch you and angels to keep;
Sailing away and away and away,
Away on the d-r-e-a-m-y deep;
Sleep, sleep, s-l-e-e-p, sleep."

THE STORY THAT WOULDN'T BE TOLD.

BY LOUISE STOCKTON.

"Do tell me one more story; just _one_ more!" said the little boy.

It certainly was getting late. The fire lighted the room, the shadows danced in the corners. Down in the kitchen they were hurrying with the dinner, and in a moment nurse would come in to take the boy to bed. But all this made him want to stay. He was very comfortable in his mamma's lap, and he was in no haste to go upstairs to Maggie and the nursery.

Then his mamma kissed him right on the tip of his little nose, and she said:

"But you must go to bed sometime."

"Please, mamma dear," he said, pushing his curly head almost under her arm, "just one little story."

"Just one! You can choose it, but mind, a little one!"

"You know what one I want. Of course about the giant Tancankeroareous, and how he stole the slipper of the princess for a snuff-box, and how the Prince Limberlocks climbed up a cherry-tree into the giant's room. That is the story _I_ like!"

"And it must be the 'amen story' to-night. Well: Once upon a time the Princess Thistleblossom stood on one foot, while--"

"No, no," interrupted The Story, "you need not tell _me_! Tell some other story. I am tired of being said over and over. Every night, as soon as your bed-time comes, and you are so sleepy that you don't want to go to bed, you ask for me, and I have to be told. I am sick of it, and I want to rest."

"But I want you," said the boy. "I like you best of all my stories. I like that part where the giant comes in and calls out 'PORTER!' in such a loud voice that the gate shakes all the bolts loose."

"I suppose you do like it," said The Story; "anybody would. I am a very good story, and very fit to be told last, although I cannot see why that is any reason for calling me the 'amen story.' That is foolish, _I_ think! But at any rate, that is no reason for telling me _every_ night. Let your mamma tell you Cock Robin, or Jack the Giant-Killer. They are plenty good enough."

"I don't want them," said the little boy, beginning to cry; "I want _you!_ I wont go to sleep all night if mamma don't tell you."

"_I_ don't care!" replied The Story; "you needn't cry for me. I've made up my mind. You wont hear me to-night. That as as sure as your name is Paul."

And it was just as The Story said. There was no use in the boy's crying, for off went The Story, and it was _not_ told that night; but it is my private opinion that the boy did go to sleep after all.

POLLY: A BEFORE-CHRISTMAS STORY.

BY HOPE LEDYARD.

"Santa Claus!" exclaimed Ned, half mockingly.

"Yes," insisted Mamie, "what's he going to bring you, Ned?"

"I don't know, and I don't care much," he answered, "for there isn't any Santa Claus."

"Why, Ned!" cried Mamie, in astonishment. "Even my big brother Harry believes in Santa Claus. He's coming home from school to-night, and we're going to hang up our stockings."

"Pshaw!" said Ned, "I must go home. Good-bye."

Merry little Mamie stood in amazement, and then ran in-doors to her mother with her perplexity.

"Why, mother!" she cried, "Ned Huntley said there wasn't any Santa Claus--and he was real cross about it, too."

"Well, Mamie," said her mother, "I wouldn't take any notice of Ned's being cross about Christmas-time. The Huntleys don't keep Christmas."

"Don't keep Christmas!" exclaimed Mamie, astonished beyond measure.

Seeing that her mother was busy, she took her doll, Helena Margaret Constance Victorine, in her arms, and talked the matter over with her.

"What do you think, my dear," said she, "they don't keep Christmas at Ned Huntley's house! I don't know just what mother means by not keeping it, for you know Santa Claus comes down the chimney, and so he can get in during the night and leave Christmas there. Oh, yes, but they don't keep it. They turn it out, I suppose, just like mother told me they acted about the dear little baby Savior; they hadn't any room for him, and I guess Mrs. Huntley hasn't any room to keep Christmas in. I wonder what she does with the Christmas things Santa Claus brings? I wonder if she throws 'em away? I mean to go and ask her;" and putting her child carefully in its cradle, Mamie started.

There was some truth in what Mrs. Gaston had told her little daughter; the Huntleys did not keep Christmas in a loving, hearty way. They kept it in so far that on this very afternoon Mrs. Huntley was busy making the mince pies, dressing the turkey, and doing all she could to be beforehand with the extra Christmas dinner. Mr. Huntley had just stepped into the kitchen for a moment to say to his wife, "What have you settled on for Ned's Christmas?"

"I've bought him a pair of arctics--he needed 'em; and if you want to spend more than common, you might get him half a dozen handkerchiefs."

"Well, wife, I was thinking that perhaps"--the farmer tried to be particular about his words, for Mrs. Huntley did not seem in a very good humor--"I was remembering how you used to enjoy giving the young ones candies and toys; so, perhaps--"

"Now, Noah Huntley, I'm surprised at you! Buy candies and toys for a great lumbering boy like Ned? Why, you must be crazy, man! The next thing will be that you'll want a Christmas-tree yourself!"

"Well, and it wouldn't be a bad idea," thought the father. "There's my man, Fritz, he has been to the woods and cut a little tree for his children, and he seems to get a heap of pleasure out of it. Ah! if only little Polly had lived!" Strangely enough, the wife was thinking the same thing, as she sliced and sifted and weighed. "If little Polly had lived it would have been different, but we can't throw away money on nonsense for Ned."

A little red cloak flashed by the window, a little bright face, just about the age of "our little Polly's," peeped in at the door, and Mamie asked, "May I come in, Mrs. Huntley?"

"Certainly, child. Here's a fresh cookie. I suppose you're full of Christmas over at your house?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am! And I'm so sorry you don't keep it. What's the reason?"

"Don't keep it! Why, we have a regular Christmas dinner as sure as the 25th of December comes round, and Pa gives me a new dress, or something that I need, and we give Ned a suit of clothes, or shoes, or something that he needs."

"Well," said Mamie, "but I like our way best. May I tell you how we keep Christmas?"

"Talk away. I can listen."

"Well, you see, a good while before Christmas my mother begins to get ready, and I often see her hide up something quick when I come in, and then she laughs, and I think, 'Oh, yes, something's coming,' and then mother takes me in her lap and tells me how Jesus is coming, and how He did come. Do you know, Mrs. Huntley?"

"You can tell me, child?"

"You see, He came a long, long time ago as a little baby. Mamma says that he began at the beginning, so that no little child could say, 'I can't be like Jesus, for Jesus never was so little as me.' That first birthday of His, there wasn't any room for Him at the tavern, and when the dear little baby Jesus was sleepy, they laid Him right in a stable manger, and the shepherds found Him lying there. Christmas is His Birthday, and I suppose they give all the children presents because Jesus loved little children, and then Santa Claus--Oh, Mrs. Huntley, that's what I came about, and I 'most forgot! If you don't keep Christmas--I mean as we do," she added, as Mrs. Huntley frowned, "and if you don't use the things that Santa Claus leaves here, can't I come over and get 'em? Only I'd rather Ned should have 'em."

"Child alive! How your tongue runs! Here, now, take these cookies home with you, I guess Ned's too busy to play with you."

"Thank you, ma'am. And you'll remember about Santa Claus?" said little Mamie, as she walked away with her cookies.

Mrs. Huntley worked on for a few minutes longer, and then, leaving her dishes, she went to her own room and opened a bureau drawer. There lay a bright little dress and pretty white apron,--Polly's best things,--the little clothes in which she used to look so lovely. There were the last Christmas toys the mother had ever bought,--only a little tin bank, a paper cornucopia, and a doll; but she remembered that Christmas so well! Could it be that it was only three years ago? How Polly had laughed and chattered over her stocking! And Ned,--now that she thought about it,--she remembered that they bought him a pair of skates that year. He had made a great time over those skates, and had taken his little sister out to see him try to use them. Ned was so loving and gentle in those days. And then the mother's heart reproached her. Could she blame her boy because he seemed to care so little for his parents and his home, when she had nursed her grief for the loss of her baby-girl, and taken no pains to be bright or cheerful with him? She thought how clearly Mamie had told the story of the Savior's birthday. Could her boy, who was six years older, do as well? He went to Sunday-school sometimes, but she had never talked with him about Jesus--never since God took her Polly. And her eyes filled as she shut the drawer.

Mrs. Huntley went back to the kitchen, but the room seemed different to her. Ned brought in the milk, and looked at his mother curiously at hearing her say, "Thank you, Ned." Wonders would never end, Ned thought, when, after tea, she said, "Father, it's a moonlight night; couldn't you and I drive to the village? Ned will excuse our leaving him alone."

"Excuse!" When had his mother ever asked him to excuse her? And then, as mother waited for the wagon to be got ready, she asked him to read about the Savior's birth, and surely there were tears in her eyes as father came in, just as Ned read, "And they came with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger."

Mr. Huntley was bewildered, too. To start off for the village at seven o'clock in the evening! When had such a thing happened?

On the road Mrs. Huntley told her husband what Mamie had said to her, and she added, "Perhaps, as I tell it, it don't seem much, but it made me think of our Polly, and"--the woman's voice broke, and the father, saddened too, said, comfortingly, "She's safe, my dear, in heaven."

"Yes, father, but I'm thinking of the one that's left, for all I cried a little. I guess you were near right about getting him something nice. He's but a boy yet, and he'd think more of Christmas, and perhaps of the child that was born on Christmas, if we show him that Jesus has made our hearts a little more tender."

What it cost that hard, reserved woman to say that, none knew, but I think her husband felt dimly how she must have fought with herself, and he was silent for some time. At last he said, with a tone of gladness in his voice, "My dear, I'm glad to get him something. He's a good boy, Ned is."

What a pleasant time they had, and how they caught the spirit of Christmas! They bought a sled and skates, a book or two, and candies, and Mrs. Huntley found a jack-knife that was just the thing Ned wanted. Then she said to her husband:

"I'd like to buy something for Mamie. It will be nice to buy a girl's present."

Their hearts ached a little, as they chose a wonderful little wash-tub and board, with a clothes-horse to match. How Polly's eyes would have shone at these!

Meantime, Ned mused over his mother's tears and her strangely kind tones, and thought: "I wonder if she's going to be as good to me as she was to Polly! I hated to hear Mamie talk about Santa Claus. Polly used to talk just that way, and we did have such good times. I used to get skates and things at Christmas, but now I get some handkerchiefs or a lot of shirts! It makes me mad." Then Ned fell asleep, and so the mother found him. She woke him gently and he went off to bed, bewildered by more kind words.

Morning dawned and Ned hurried down to light the fire in the kitchen, but he went no further than the sitting-room. There was a sled,--a splendid one,--a pair of skates, and books! He put his hands in his pockets to take a long stare, and felt something strange in one of them. Why! There was a beautiful knife!

Mother came in and watched his face, but at sight of her the boy fairly broke down. Laying his head on her shoulder, "It's like Polly coming back," he said.

And so it was, and so it continued to be.

THE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON'S SHOW.

BY JENNIE A. OWEN.

"Aunt Jennie," said my little godson Willie, a few days ago, "wont you go with us to see the Lord Mayor's show? There'll be thirteen elephants and eight clowns, and an elephant picks a man up with his trunk and holds him there. And then mamma's going to take me to Sampson's. Do you know Sampson, Aunt Jennie?"

"I know about Samson in the Bible, Willie."

"Oh, not that one; our Sampson is a man in a shop in Oxford street, and he makes such nice boys' clothes, and he's the master."

I have just come home from the Sandwich Islands, where I have been living; I spent a few years, too, in New Zealand and Tahiti, and so have seen many wonderful things on the land and sea; but a Lord Mayor going to be sworn in to his duties, attended by thirteen elephants and a London crowd, would be a novelty to me. I thought, too, that certain little boys and girls in the Sandwich Islands and the United States, who also call me Aunt Jennie, would like to hear all about it.

This has been an exciting week for the London children. The fifth of November fell on Sunday, and Guy Fawkes had to wait till Monday to make his appearance. All that day he was carried about the streets in various shapes and forms, and the naughty, ignorant little boys, in spite of enlightened school-board teaching, sang at our doors:

"A ha'penny loaf to feed the Pope,
A penn'orth of cheese to choke him,
A pint of beer to wash it all down,
And a jolly good fire to burn him."

"Oh, papa," said Willie, as he ran into the breakfast-room for pennies, "aren't you glad you're a real man and not a pope?"

At last the ninth, the Lord Mayor's day, came. It is also the Prince of Wales' birthday, so the city would be very gay-looking with all the flags flying.

Alas! it was a dark, dull morning, and a heavy fog hung all over the city. Alas for the gilt coaches, the steel armor and other braveries! and then the elephants, how could they possibly feel their way all round the city in a thick, yellow fog? But, happily, by eleven the weather cleared, and the sun shone out brightly. Such a crowd as there was at our railway dépôt! So many bonny, happy little children never went on the same morning to the busy old town before. It was something new for great elephants to be seen walking through the prosy business streets. Once before, twenty-seven years ago, when Sir John Musgrave was Lord Mayor, not only elephants, but camels, deer, negroes, beehives, a ship in full sail, and Britannia seated on a car drawn by six horses, had made part of the show; since then, however, no Lord Mayor had been thoughtful enough of little and big children's pleasure to order out such delightful things, and so this year everybody must go. To quote from the _Daily News:_

"Since the reign of Henry III., when, by that monarch's gracious
act the Lord Mayor of London was permitted to present himself
before the Barons of Exchequer at Westminster instead of submitting
the citizens' choice for the king's personal approval, there has
been no Lord Mayor's show at which so great a concourse of
spectators assembled."

We crowd into the cars and are soon in Cannon street. At the gates a boy meets us with little books for sale, shouting, "Thirteen elephants for a penny! the other boys'll only give you twelve, but I'll give you thirteen. Sold again! Thirteen elephants for a penny!" This wonderful book consists of a series of common gaudily colored pictures, supposed to represent the procession, which has done service at the show from time immemorial, but it is each year as welcome as ever to the children who each have a penny to buy one. Through the streets we have passing visions of pink silk stockings, canary-colored breeches, and dark green coats and gold lace, also tri-colored rosettes as large as saucers; and pass by shop-windows full of sweet, eager little faces, in the place of hose, shirts, sewing-machines, etc.

At last we arrive at our destination in Cheapside, where, through the kindness of a friend, a window on the first floor of a large building is waiting for us. How impatient we are until we hear the band of the Grenadier Guards, which heads the procession. After this band and that of the Royal London Militia, come the Worshipful Company of Loriners, preceded by jolly watermen in blue and white striped jerseys and white trousers, bearing banners; more watermen follow to relieve them; the beadle of the company with his staff of office; the clerk in his chariot; the wardens, wearing silk cloaks trimmed with sables, in their carriages, and amongst them Sir John Bennett, the great watch-maker in Cheapside, a charming-looking old gentleman with rosy cheeks and profuse gray curls; his face lights up with smiles as the shouts of "Bravo, Bennett," show how popular he is.

Then comes a grand yellow coach, in which rides the Master of the Company, attended by his chaplain. After the Loriners come the Farriers, the band of the First Life Guards, banners, beadle and mace clerk, wardens and master. After them the Broderers. As these pass slowly along, an excitement is caused by the behavior of the horse of a hussar, who is mounting guard. It does not like the proceedings at all, and still less the greasy asphalt on which it stands, dances round, backs into the Worshipful Master of Broderers' carriage, and finally rears and falls, unseating its rider. The hussar is quite cool and quiet, soon reseats himself, and rejects the offer of a fussy little man in red to hold his horse.

And now comes the Worshipful Company of Bakers, preceded by their banner, with its good old motto, "Praise God for all." These are really very jolly and well-favored looking companions, most of the members bearing large bouquets of flowers. After them the Vintners' Company, with the band of the Royal Artillery; ten Commissioners, each bearing a shield; eight master porters in vintner's dress; the Bargemaster in full uniform, and the Swan Uppers. These are men who look after the swans belonging to the corporation of London, which build their nests along the banks of the Thames, and they mark the young swans each spring.

The "Uppers" look very well in their dress, consisting of dark cloth jackets slashed with white, blue and white striped jerseys and white trousers.

After this company had passed, a grand shout announced the coming of the elephants. These, as some small boy has observed, are "curious animals, with two tails--one before and one behind." First came a number of large ones, with Mr. Sanger, their owner, who was mounted on a curiously spotted horse. They were gorgeous with oriental trappings and howdahs. On the foremost one rode a man representing a grand Indian prince. He had a reddish mustache, wore spectacles, a magnificent purple and white turban, and showy oriental costume. He produced a great impression on the crowd. In other howdahs sat one, two or three splendid Hindoos, whose dress was past description. Then came several young elephants ridden by boys; one of these was seized with a desire to lie down, and had to be vigorously roused; but, on the whole, they behaved in a wonderfully correct and dignified manner--now and then gracefully swinging round their trunks amongst the sympathizing crowd, in search of refreshment.

The elephants were escorted by equestrians in state costumes, and followed by six knights in steel armor, with lances and pennons, mounted on chargers. One of these "wouldn't go," and had to be dragged on ignominiously by a policeman. Then the Epping Forest rangers came. They were picturesquely dressed in green velvet coats, broad-brimmed hats and long feathers. After these, trumpeters, under-sheriffs in their state carriages, aldermen, the Recorder, more trumpeters, and then a most gorgeous coach--with hammer-cloth of red and gold, men in liveries too splendid to describe, and four fine horses--brings the late lord mayor. The mounted band of household cavalry follows. These really look splendid in crimson coats covered with gold embroidery and velvet caps, riding handsome white horses.

There is a stoppage just as they come up. They are rapturously greeted by the crowd, and requested to "play up." The mayor's servants, in state liveries, follow on foot. After them rides a very important person, the city marshal, on horseback. The city trumpeters come now, preceding the right honorable the lord mayor's most gorgeous gilt coach, drawn by six horses. In it sits Sir Thomas White, supported by his chaplain, and attended by his sword-bearer and the common crier. An escort of the 21st Hussars brings up the rear. Policemen follow, and after them a stray mail-cart, a butcher's boy with his tray; after that, not just the deluge, but the crowd.

"Oh, mamma!" says Willie, "the beefeaters didn't come! Nine of them there are in my book, and a grand one going in front, blowing a trumpet. And the man holding his thumb to his nose at the sheriffs; and the policeman knocking a thief down with a staff! And the lord mayor had no spectacles on. That's not fair! Do beefeaters eat lots of beef, mamma?"

"Oh, no," says Charlie, with a superior air, "they are only sideboard chaps."

Willie is still more puzzled, until he is told that in the olden time servants so costumed used to stand by the sideboard, or buffet, as it was called, at feasts, and so got the name of buffetiers, and by degrees the name became changed into beefeaters, which was more easily remembered by the people.

From our window we could not, of course, follow the procession on its winding way, nor had we seen it start. On looking at the paper next morning, we read that at first it was feared that the elephants had failed to keep their appointment. It was almost time to set out, and no elephants were to be seen. What must be done? The people ought not to be cheated out of the best part of the show; and yet, on the other hand, how undignified for a lord mayor to be kept waiting for thirteen elephants! I am sorry to say the police were rather glad. They had been very much afraid that the animals might prove troublesome during so long and unusual a walk; or else, coming from a circus, might, at any sudden pause, imagine themselves in the arena, and take it into their grave heads to perform on two legs and terrify the horses, or possibly annoy the lord mayor and his chaplain by putting their long trunks into his coach. But, happily for us, the police were disappointed. Such dignified creatures could not be expected to come early and be kept waiting.

Just at the right time they came leisurely up, and gravely taking their proper place, marched on with their proverbial sagacity--waiting outside Westminster Hall, whilst the lord mayor swore to do his duty, as quietly as though they were at home--and afterward left the procession at Blackfriars Bridge, to go to their own quarters and eat their well-earned dinner. It is to be hoped that the lord mayor ordered something specially good for them.

The elephants having left, the **embassadors, her majesty's ministers of state, the nobility, judges, and other persons of distinction, joined the procession, and proceeded to feast with his lordship and the lady mayoress at Guildhall.

[*sic]

* * * * *

MY GIRL

BY JOHN S. ADAMS.

I.

A little corner with its crib,
A little mug, a spoon, a bib,
A little tooth so pearly white,
A little rubber ring to bite.

II.

A little plate all lettered round,
A little rattle to resound,
A little creeping--see! she stands!
A little step 'twixt outstretched hands.

III.

A little doll with flaxen hair,
A little willow rocking-chair,
A little dress of richest hue,
A little pair of gaiters blue.