Chapter XIX (1)

That was a great day for the boys, but, before the close of it, Ford Foster had told his friends the news that Joe Hart and his brother Fuz had been invited to visit with him.

"Will they come?" asked Dab.

"Certainly. That kind of boy always comes. Nobody wants to keep him from coming."

"When do you look for them?"

"Right away. Vacation's most gone, you know."

"Wont they be ashamed to meet your sister!"

"Not a bit. They'll try their tricks even after they get here."

"All right. We'll help 'em all we know how. But, boys, I tell you what we must try for."

"What's that?"

"One grand, good sailing party, in the 'Swallow,' before they get here."

"Hurrah for that! Annie was wishing for one only yesterday."

"We'll have all of your folks and all of ours. The 'Swallow' 's plenty big enough."

"Mother wouldn't go and father can't, just now. He's trying a case. But there's Annie and Frank and me--"

"And my mother and Ham and Miranda and our girls. Ham'll go, sure. Then we must take Dick Lee along. It'd make him sick if we didn't."

"Of course. And aint I glad about him? Could we get ready and go to-morrow?"

"Guess not so quick as that. We might by the day after, if the weather's all right."

Exactly. There is always a large sized "if" to be put in where anything depends on the weather. Mrs. Kinzer took the matter up with enthusiasm, and so did the girls, Miranda included, and Ford Foster was right about his own part of the company.

But the weather!

It looked well enough to unpracticed eyes, but Ham Morris shook his head and went to consult his fishermen friends. Every human barometer among them warned him to wait a day or so.

"Such warm, nice weather," remonstrated Ford Foster, "and there isn't any wind to speak of."

"There's too much of it coming," was Ham's response, and there was no help for it. Not even when the mail brought word from "Aunt Maria" that her two boys would arrive in a day or so.

"Our last chance is gone, Annie," said Ford, when the news came.

"O, mother, what shall we do?"

"Have your sail, just the same, and invite your cousins."

"But the Kinzers--"

"Why, Annie! Mrs. Kinzer will not think of neglecting them. She's as kind as kind can be."

"And we are to pay her with Joe and Fuz," said Ford. "Well, I wish Ham Morris's storm would come along."

He only had to wait till next day for it, and he was quite contented to be on shore while it lasted. There was no use in laughing at the prophecies of the fishermen after it began to blow. Still, it was not a long one, and Ham Morris remarked: "This is only an outside edge of it. It's a good deal worse at sea. Glad we're not out in it."

Ford Foster thought the worst of it was when the afternoon train came in, and he had to show a pair of tired, moist and altogether unpleasant cousins to the room set apart for them. Just after tea a note came over from Mrs. Kinzer, asking the Hart boys to join the yachting party next morning.

"The storm may not be over," growled Ford.

"Oh," said Annie, "Mrs. Kinzer adds that the weather will surely be fine after such a blow, and the bay will be quite safe and smooth."

"Does she know the clerk of the weather," asked Joe Hart.

"Got one of her own," said Ford.

Fuz Hart laughed but said nothing. Both he and his brother felt a little "strange" as yet, and were almost inclined to try and behave themselves.

When morning came, however, sea and earth and sky seemed to be the better for what they had just been through. The grass and trees were greener and the bay seemed bluer, while the few clouds visible in the sky were very white and clean, as if all the storms had been washed out of them. Not a single thing went wrong in Mrs. Kinzer's management of the "setting out" of the party, and that was half the day now to begin with. Ford had some trouble in getting Joe and Fuz up so very early, but an intimation that "Ham Morris wouldn't wait five minutes for the Queen of England, or even me," was sufficient to rouse them.

"Joe," whispered Fuz, after they got on board, "are we to be gone a week?"

"Why? What's up?"

"Such piles of provisions as they've stowed away in that kennel!"

The bit of a water-tight cabin under the half-deck, at which Fuz pointed, was pretty well filled, beyond a doubt, but Mrs. Kinzer knew what she was about. She had provided lunch for most of that party before, and the effect of the sea-air was also to be taken into account.

"Dab," said Ford Foster, "you've forgotten to unhitch the 'Jenny.' Here she is, towing astern."

"That's all right. We may need her. She's too heavy to take on board."

A careful fellow was Mr. Hamilton Morris, and he knew very well the value of a row-boat to a picnic party. As for Joe and Fuz they were compelled to overcome a strong inclination to cast the boat loose. Such a joke it would have been, but Ham was in the way as long as he held the tiller.

The "Swallow" was "steady" enough to inspire even Annie Foster with a feeling of confidence, but Ford carefully explained to her the difference between slipping along over the little waves of the land-locked bay, and plunging into the great billows of the stormy Atlantic.

"I prefer this," said Annie.

"But I wouldn't have missed the other for anything," replied Ford. "Would you, Dick?"

Mr. Richard Lee had taken his full share in the work of starting, and had made himself singularly useful, but if all the rest had not been so busy they would have noticed his silence. Hardly a word had he uttered, that anybody could remember, and, now he was forced to say something, his mouth opened slowly, as if he had never tried to speak before and was not quite sure he knew how:

"No,-Mr.-Foster,-I-would-not-have-missed-that-trip-for-a-good-deal."

Every word by itself, and as different from Dick's ordinary talk as a cut stone is from a rough one. Ham Morris opened his eyes wide, and Ford puckered up his lips in a sort of a whistle, but Annie caught the meaning of it quicker than they did.

"Dick," she said, "are we to fish to-day?"

"May be,-but-that-depends-on-Mr.-Morris."

Every word slowly and carefully uttered, a good deal like a man counts over doubtful money, looking sharp for a counterfeit.

"Look here, Dick!" suddenly exclaimed Dab Kinzer, "I give it up. You can do it. But don't try to keep it up all day. Kill you, sure as anything, if you do."

"Did I say 'em all right, Cap'n Dab?" anxiously inquired Dick, with a happy look on his black, merry face.

"Every word," said Dab. "Well for you they were all short. Keep on practicing."

"I'll jest do dat, shuah!"

Practicing? Yes, that was it, and Dick himself joined heartily in the peal of laughter with which the success of his first attempt at "white folk's English" was received by the party. Dab explained that as soon as Dick found he was really to go to the academy he determined to teach his tongue new habits, and the whole company heartily approved, even while they joined Dab in advising him not to try too much at a time.

Plenty of talk and fun all around as the "Swallow" skimmed onward, and the long, low outlines of the narrow sand-island were rapidly becoming more distinct.

"Is that a light-house?" asked Annie of Dab.

"Yes, and there's a wrecking station close by."

"Men there all the while? Are there many wrecks on this coast?"

"Ever so many, and there used to be more of them. It was a bad place to run ashore, in those days. Almost as bad as Jersey."

"Why?"

"Because of the wreckers. The shore's bad enough, and the bar's a mean place to escape on, but the wreckers used to make it worse."

And Dab launched out into a slightly exaggerated description of the terrors of the Long Island coast in old times and new, and of the character of the men who were formerly the first to find out if anything or anybody had gone ashore.

"What a prize that French steamer would have been!" said Annie, "the one you took Frank Harley from."

"No, she wouldn't. Why, she wasn't wrecked at all. She only stuck her nose in the sand and lay still till the tugs pulled her off. That isn't a wreck. A wreck is where the ship is knocked to pieces and people are drowned, and all that sort of thing. Then the wreckers have a notion that everything that comes ashore belongs to them. Why, I've heard even some of our old fishermen--best kind of men, too--talk of how government has robbed 'em of their rights."

"By the new system?"

"By having wrecks prevented, and saving the property for the owners."

"Isn't that strange! Did you say they were good men?"

"Some of 'em. Honest as the day is long about everything else. But they weren't all so. There was old Peter, and he lives on the Island yet. There's his cabin now. You can just see it in the edge of that great sand-hill."

"What a queer thing it is!"

"Sometimes the storms drift the sand all over it, and old Peter has to dig it out again. He's snowed under two or three times every winter."

They were now coasting along the island, at no great distance, and, although it was not nearly noon, Dab heard Joe Hart say to his brother:

"Never was so hungry in all my life. Glad they did lay in a good stock of provisions."

"So am I," returned Fuz. "Isn't there any such thing as our getting into the cabin!"

No, there was not, so long as Mrs. Kinzer was the "stewardess" of that expedition, and Joe and Fuz were compelled to wait her motions.

(_To be continued._)

THE FOX AND THE TURKEYS; OR, CHARLEY AND THE OLD FOLKS.

By Susan Coolidge.

_Moral_.--It is unwise to concern one's self with the tricks and antics of mischievous persons.--_La Fontaine's Fables_.]]

It was midsummer at the old Brush Farm. When I say "midsummer," how many pretty things it means,--woods at their freshest and greenest, meadows sweet with newly cut hay, cinnamon-roses in the hedges and water-lilies in the ponds, bees buzzing in and out of the clove-pinks and larkspurs which edge the beds of cabbages and carrots in the kitchen-garden, a humming-bird at work in the scarlet trumpets of the honeysuckle on the porch,--everywhere the sense of fullness and growth, with no shadow as yet of rankness or decay. August is over-ripe. September's smile is sad, but midsummer is all rosy hope, the crown and blossom of the year.

Charley Brush lay under an apple-tree, face downward, and absorbed in "The Red Rover," a book he had read at least ten times before. Stories about ships and sea-life and freebooters and buccaneers were his favorite reading, and, unfortunately, what with illustrated papers and cheap novels, and so-called "Boys' books," plenty of such tales abound nowadays. I say unfortunately, for beside teaching him nothing, these books made Charley utterly dissatisfied with his life at home. Hoeing vegetables, chopping wood, and going to the district school, seemed dull work indeed to a boy who was longing to stand sword in hand on a blood-stained deck, in a gory uniform trimmed with skulls and cross-bones, and order his enemies to be thrown one by one into the sea. "The shark awaits your car-casses!" spouted the imaginary desperado with a vicious snap of his teeth; and when Aunt Greg interrupted by asking him to bring in an armful of kindling, he glared at her like the Red Rover himself. Poor Aunt Greg! how little she guessed what was passing in his mind!

"You look real pale to-day," she said. "I was afraid all that mince-pie for supper would be bad for you. Here, Charley, I'll mix you some ginger-and-water. That'll settle you, and make all right again."

"Mis-cre-ant!" was what Charley yearned to say, but instead he muttered, gruffly, "I aint sick, and I don't want no ginger." Very bad grammar, as you perceive; but grammar seemed such an unnecessary accomplishment for a would-be buccaneer, that Charley never could be induced to pay the least attention to it.

That afternoon, under the apple-tree, he made up his mind. A pirate he must and he would be, by fair means or by foul. He was cunning enough to know that the very word "pirate" would frighten his grandmother into fits, so he only asked her leave to go to sea. Going to sea was, to his mind, a necessary first step toward the noble profession he desired to enter.

"I want to so bad," he whined. "Please say I may."

Grandmother began to cry. Aunt Hitty was sure he must be out of his mind, and ran for the Epsom salts. Aunt Greg quoted, "There's no place like home," and told a story about a boy she once heard of who ran away to sea and never came back, "foundered or drowndered," she couldn't remember which. Aunt Prue seized his shoulders and gave him a sound shake. This was what came of idling over story-books all day long, she said,--he could just shut up and go and give the pig its supper, and not let her hear any more trash like that--making them all feel so bad about nothing.

Charley twisted his shoulder out of her grasp with a scowl, but he took the pail and went out to the pen. All the time that piggy ate, he was considering what to do. "I'll tease 'em," he decided, "and tease and tease, and then they'll let me go."

So he did tease, and plead and expostulate, but it was all in vain. Grandmother and the aunts could not be reached by any of his entreaties, and at the end of a week he seemed as far from his desire as ever.

You will wonder, perhaps, that Charley did not run away, as so many boys do in books, and a few out of them. Somehow he never thought of that. He was not a hardy, adventurous fellow at all. His desire to go to sea was a fancy born of foolish reading, and he wanted to have his going made easy for him.

"I must set to work in another way," he thought at last. "Asking of 'em aint no use. I must make 'em want to have me go." Then he fell to thinking how this could be done.

"Aunt Hitty wouldn't hold out long if the others didn't," he thought. "I could coax her into it as easy as fun. She'll do anything if I kiss and pet her a bit. Then there's Aunt Greg,--she thinks so much of poetry and such stuff. I'll hunt up the pieces in the 'Reader' about 'The sea, the sea, the deep blue sea,' and all that, and learn 'em and say 'em to her, and I'll tell her about coral groves and palm-trees, and make her think it's the jimmiest thing going to sail off and visit 'em. Grandmother's always bothering about my being sick, and afraid of this and afraid of that; so I'll just _be_ sick--so sick that nothing but a viyage'll cure me! As for Aunt Prue, 'taint no use trying to impose on _her_. I guess I'll have to be real hateful and troublesome to Aunt Prue. I'll tease pussy and slop on the pantry shelves, and track up the floor every time she mops it, and leave the dipper in the sink, and all the other things she don't like, and by and by she'll be just glad to see the last of me! Hi!--that'll fetch 'em all!" He ended his reflections with a chuckle. Charley wasn't really a bad boy,--not bad through and through, that is,--but he had a cunning, tricky side to his nature which made him like to play on the weaknesses of his grandmother and aunts. A sharp boy may prove more than a match for four unsuspecting old women; and though in this case they were in the right and he in the wrong, none the less was he likely to succeed in his crafty plans.

He waited a few days to let opposition subside, and then began his tricks. Charley's first victim was Aunt Hitty. She was a gentle, weak-minded person, easy to persuade, and when Charley put his head into her lap and called her coaxing names, and was sure she was too kind to disappoint him in the thing he was set upon, her heart softened, and she began to think that they all had been hard and unkind. "The dear boy wants to go awful bad," she told Aunt Greg, and to her surprise Aunt Greg did not fly out and scold as she had expected, but answered, with a sigh, "I suppose sailing on the ocean _is_ beautiful!" Aunt Greg had never seen the ocean in her life, but she was naturally romantic; and Charley, who had been hard at work at the "Reader," had crammed her with all sorts of poetical quotations and fancies concerning it. Flying fish, coral islands, pole stars, dolphins, gallant mariners, wet sheets and flowing seas, figured largely in these extracts, but there was no mention whatever of storms, sharks, drowning, hard work, or anything disagreeable. Aunt Greg could not see the charm of "wet sheets," but all the rest sounded delightful; and gradually a picture formed itself in her mind of a sea which was always blue and always smooth, and of Charley standing on the deck of a ship repeating poetry to himself in the moonlight; and her opposition grew feebler and feebler.

"Charley's got a lot of ideas in his head," she said one day when she and her sisters were slicing apples for drying. "He aint no common boy, Charley aint. He'll make a mark yet--see if he don't."

"Dear little fellow!" sighed Aunt Hitty. "_So_ lovin' and affectionate! He used to be a little worrisome in his ways at times, but he's got all over that!"

"Oh, has he?" snapped Aunt Prue. "I'd like to know when? He's been more of a plague the last six weeks than ever in his life before. When he upset that milk last night I could have cuffed him. It's the third time since Wednesday. Mark, indeed! The only mark he'll ever make is a dirt-mark on clean floors. The kitchen looks like Sancho at this moment. I've washed it up twice as often as ordinary, but as sure as I get it clean, in he comes stamping about with his muddy boots and tracks it from end to end. I believe he does it a-purpose."

"O, Prue!" began Aunt Hitty, in a pleading tone, while Aunt Greg broke in, indignantly:

"A-purpose! Well! Charley's mind is on other things, I can tell you, and it it's no wonder he sometimes forgets to wipe his feet."

"Other things! Getting off to sea, I suppose you mean?" remarked Aunt Prue, grimly. "He's pulled the wool over your eyes and Hitty's finely, I declare. As for me, if he's goin' on to behave as he has done for a spell back, the sooner he quits the better. I wash _my_ hands of him," and Aunt Prue flounced into the buttery just as Grandmother came in at the other door.

"Charley is it you was talking about?" she asked. "Did you hear him coughin' last night? I did, and I couldn't sleep a wink for worrying about it. A real deep cough it was. Do you suppose it the lungs, and what's good for him to take?"

"He's well enough except for mischief," put in Aunt Prue through the buttery door.

"Prue never thinks anything ails anybody," said Mrs. Brush, sinking her voice to a whisper. "I'm really consarned about Charley. He don't eat hardly anything at dinner. That aint a bit natural for a growin' boy. And he says he lies awake a great deal of nights. He thinks it's the air about here makes him feel bad, but I don't know if he's right about it. I wish we'd a doctor here to say if going off to sea--or somewhere--would be the best thing for him. I'm clean confused as to what we'd best do about it, but I'm real uneasy in my mind."

Charley, coming in just then, chuckled to himself as he heard her.

So things went on, and by October Charley had his wish. It was settled that he should go to sea. Aunt Greg drove over to Wachuset Center and consulted with old Mr. Greg, her father-in-law, who was the wise man of the neighborhood.

"Let him go--let him go," was Mr. Greg's advice. "When a chap like that gets the bit between his teeth, it's no use to keep yanking at the reins. Let him go for one long cruise, and see how he likes it. Ten to one he'll come back then and be glad to settle down. He aint the kind of boy to make a sailor of, I judge. There's Ben Bradley,--my first wife's cousin,--captain of one of them China traders; ship Charley with him. I'll write a line, and I guess Ben'll kind of keep an eye on him for the sake of the connection."

So, late in the fall, Charley went to sea. Grandmother and the aunts felt dreadfully sad when it came to the parting; but he was full of satisfaction and triumph, and never shed a tear. The "Helen Weeks," as Captain Bradley's ship was named, sailed from Boston on the second of November, and for fifteen months nobody at home heard a word of Charley.

Those were sad days at the old Brush Farm. Grandmother fell ill from anxiety, and even Aunt Prue looked white and miserable. Aunt Greg and Aunt Hitty spent their time crying in corners, and "Why did we let him go?" was the language of all their hearts. But in February, when everything was at its coldest and iciest, Charley came back,--Charley or his ghost, for the tall, thin, starved-looking ragged boy set down at the gate was very unlike the stout, rosy lad of the year before.

He was so weak and forlorn that it was several days before he recovered enough to explain what had happened to him, and then it was little by little, and not as I give it, in one connected story.

"I don't ever want to go to sea again," he began. "It aint a bit like what _we_ thought it was. I don't know why them chaps in the 'Reader' called it 'blue.' It's green and black and yellow, and all kinds of colors, but I never see it look blue exceptin' when folks was looking at it from the land. It's cold, too, and wet and nasty. I wasn't dry once for the first two months, it seems to me. Ugh! I hate it. Never let to sleep till you're rested, and such horrid stuff to eat, and sick--my, how sick I was! Captain Bradley was a fair enough sort of man, but he fell ill of China fever, and we had to leave him behind in Canton, and Bill Bunce, the first mate, took his place. After that we had a hard time enough. I thought it was bad at first, but it wasn't nothing to that. He was always walloping us boys, and swearing and kicking and cuffing us about. Then we had a storm, and lost our mainmast, and came near foundering; and then we were stuck in a calm for three weeks, and the water aboard ran short. That was the time I had the fever. I'd have died, I know, if it hadn't been for Tad Brice. He was one of the sailors, and a real nice man. His boy at home was just as old as I am, and he sort of took an interest in me from the start. He used to come in and feed me, and when we were put on allowance, he saved half his water ration for me; and when I got to crying, and thinking about home and you all, he'd--" Here Charley choked and was silent. Aunt Hitty, who sat next, possessed herself of his thin hand and wept silently over it.

"When I went away I meant to be a pirate, you know," went on Charley.

"A pirate!" cried Aunt Hitty and Aunt Greg in awe-struck voices.

"Yes. I didn't know much about what it meant, but it sounded somehow nice in the books, and I wanted to be one. But when I asked 'em about it aboard they roared and hooted and made fun, and they all called me Captain Kidd from that time on. And once, when we were in Shanghai" (Charley's voice sounded full of horror), "we saw two pirates. Tad Brice said they was pirates. The folks was taking 'em to jail. They was _dreadful_, black and ugly, and their eyes were so fierce and bad that it made me cold to look at 'em. I never wanted to be a pirate any more after that, but Bunce and the others, they all kept on calling me Captain Kidd just the same."

"You absurd, ridiculous boy!" began Aunt Prue, but Grandmother hushed her up.

"Now, Prue, I wont have poor Charley scolded when he's been so sick," she said--"He's only a boy, anyhow, and he's going to turn over a new leaf now; aint you, Charley? and go to school regular, and do his chores, and be the comfort of his granny's life. He's had enough of goin' to sea; haven't you, Charley? and he'll stay on the farm now, and we wont ever talk about this bad time he's had, and just be thankful to get him back home again."

Charley didn't answer in words, but he turned and gave Grandmother a big kiss, which she knew meant "yes," and they were all very happy that night as they sat together around the fire.

So you see that the fox, though he succeeded in his tricks, was not a particularly happy fox after all. Too much turkey may not be good for a fox, and too much of his own way is certainly not good for a boy.

HIDDY-DIDDY!

Hiddy-Diddy! Hiddy-diddy!--
Ten small chicks and one old biddy!
"Cluck!" says Biddy, "cluck, cluck, cluck!"
"Scratch as I do!--try your luck!"

How the chickens, one and all,
Crowd around her at her call!
One chick, missing, peeps to say:
"Chirp, chirp, chirp!--I've lost my way!"

Shrill and shriller, comes the sound!
"Chirp! chirp! chirp!--I shall be drowned!"
Biddy clucks, and bustles quick,--
"Where, oh, _where's_ my little chick?"

Mister Rooster bustles, too,
Screaming "Cock-a-doodle-doo!
Biddy, I just chanced to look,
And saw your bantling in the brook!"

"Gob!" shrieks Turkey, "gob, gob, gobble!
Mrs. Hen, you're in a hobble!
Why don't some one stir about,
And help your little chicken out?"

"Moo!" roars Sukey, "moo, moo, moo!
What is there that I can do?"
"Uff!" grunts Piggy, "uff, uff, uff!
Say you're sorry, that's enough."

"Quack!" says Ducky, "quack, quack, quack!
I have brought your chicken back!"
"Oh!" says Biddy, "cluck, cluck, cluck!
Thank you!--_thank you!_ Mrs. Duck!"

THE SQUIRRELS AND THE CHESTNUT-BURR.

Four squirrels once saw a chestnut-burr growing on a tree. They wanted the chestnuts in the burr, but were afraid to touch it, because it was full of sharp points. Just then, along came a flying-squirrel. "I will tell you what you must do," said he: "wait until the burr opens, and the chestnuts fall out. The burr always opens when the right time comes." So they waited, and got the chestnuts.

It is a good rule to wait until things are ready for us.

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

Vacation's over! School's begun! A splendid holiday time you've had, no doubt, my dears, and now you feel like setting to work again with earnest good-will. That's right. But don't try to do to much at first. Better start easily and keep up the pace, than make a quick run for a while only to falter and grow weary before you are half-way.

MOQUI PEEKEE.

Word is sent to me of a queer kind of bread called "Peekee," which is used by the Moqui American Indians. It comes in square loaves that are made by folding, twice across, several sheets of what looks like very thin bluish-green crust.

First, the meal is made by women, who grind it into flour between two stones, and then it is mixed with water until it is a thin blue paste or batter, when a little cedar-ash is sprinkled into it. The oven is a smooth-faced stone heated by kindling a fire under it. The batter is smeared over the hot stone, and is soon baked into a thin sheet, about two feet long and a foot and a half wide. Several sheets are folded, while yet warm and soft, to make a loaf, which is then set aside to dry.

This curious bread is very brittle and is eaten by breaking off little bits with the fingers. People who have never eaten it before soon become quite fond of it.

POTATO BLOSSOMS AS ORNAMENTS.

"Potato plants used to be grown, a very long time ago, in front yards on Broadway, New York, for the sake of the flowers, which were much prized for bouquets and other ornamental purposes. However, the potatoes themselves,"--I suppose this means the tubers,--"became such favorite food in a few years, that the plants were promoted backward from the flower-beds to the kitchen-gardens and open fields. The beauty of the blossoms was forgotten in the usefulness of their roots."

The moral of this paragram is: If you are merely good-looking, you will not be apt to get on in life, but will stay about where you are; and if it should be found out that you can be put to use, you will be planted in the open fields.

This doesn't seem to read quite right, somehow; but, dear me, what do we want with a moral all the time? I leave you to find out what it ought to be in this case, if you think it's worth while. Only, if you _do_ find out, I wish you would let me know.

SHARP-WITTED ROBINS.

Detroit, Michigan.

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: Z.R.B's anecdote, "A Congress of Birds," in
the July number, reminds me of an incident of which I was an
eye-witness:

A cherry-tree grew near the house, and was yearly full of luscious
cherries; but the robins scarcely allowed us to have one that did
not have their monogram picked in it. One year, however, my brother
determined to outwit the birds, and hung a large stuffed eagle from
one of the boughs. The birds assembled on a neighboring tree and
eyed the eagle sharply, while a grand consultation was held.
Finally, a courageous robin darted from the tree, swooped directly
under the eagle, and flew triumphantly back to tell the rest there
was nothing to be feared. At once the whole flock of robins flew to
the cherry-tree, and our hopes of a cherry-pie were doomed to
disappointment for that year.

H.P.B.

A VERY DEAD LANGUAGE.

I once heard of a green-colored South American parrot who was more than one hundred years old. This aged fellow could speak in a real language which was known to have been used by a tribe of South American Indians who, it is supposed, petted and taught him when he was young. One by one the Indians died, until there was no one left who could understand a word of their language. The poor old bird tried hard to keep cheerful, but there were sorry times when he would mope by himself and say over some of the words of the language that had been spoken by his earliest and dearest human friends.

That was a very dead language, indeed, my dears; so dead that it is no wonder it made the old green parrot blue to speak it now and then. However, by this time it is past all power to worry anybody else, let us hope.

A PLANT THAT WALKS UPSIDE DOWN.

Shrubs, trees, Jack-in-the-Pulpits, and all such plants, grow with their roots down in the ground; but I've lately heard that a man called a philosopher, once wrote of a plant that grows and walks with the roots upward!

Lord Francis Bacon is the man's name, and the plant he meant is Man. Only he wrote in Latin, I believe, and so, instead of calling Man "a plant upside down," he called him "planta inversa." He explained these words by saying that the brain in man, whence the nerves start, to spread like a net-work all through the body, corresponds to the roots in a plant.

If this is so, my dears, you are a kind of walking plants, only you are obliged to walk top-side down. This seems curious, but it is pleasant to think you are not so very different from a Jack-in-the-Pulpit after all.

THE SMALLEST INSECT KNOWN.

The Red Schoolhouse.

MY DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: No doubt, you have heard of the
"leaf-cutter" bees, who line their nests with small round pieces of
leaves, which they themselves cut and then fit together so exactly,
without gum, that they hold their stores of honey and do not leak a
bit. Well, a sharp-eyed observer has found, on one of these bees, an
insect whose body is no longer than the width of the dot of this "i"
(1-90th of an inch), and which is believed to be the smallest insect
known. It is called _Pteratomus_, a word which means "winged atom,"
and it lives entirely upon the body of the bee. It has beautiful
hairy wings, and long feelers, and its legs are rather like those of
a mosquito, though, of course, very much smaller. Its feet are so
small that they can only just be seen when magnified to four hundred
times their natural size! Now, for a full-grown insect, as it is, I
think the _Pteratomus_ is very small.--Sincerely yours,

THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA'AM.

A WATER-SPOUT.

Did any of you ever hear of water-spouts at sea? I don't know much about them myself, but the St. Nicholas artist will draw a picture of one for you, and the editors will kindly put it in. According to travelers, the water seems to come down from the clouds, or go up from the sea,--I don't know which,--and drives along, through the storm, in a great watery column. I have heard of whirlwinds, and I think this might be called a "whirl-water."

THE USES OF HAIR ON PLANTS.

M.E.K. writes, in answer to my question in July, that her "Botany" book says, "Hair on plants seems to afford them security against changes of weather, and plants with hair can stand more heat than bare ones." A.W. Ferris says:

"If a plant that needs much moisture is dug up from its native wet
home and planted in a dry spot, hairs will sprout on it and try to
get from the air the moisture that can no longer be drawn from the
earth. But if you put back this plant in its old home, it will lose
its hair--becoming bald. Sometimes, plant hairs are connected with
glands of poisonous liquid, as with the nettle, whose hairs we say
'sting,' because of the pain the poison gives when the skin is
pricked by them."

Frances and Margaret Bagley, also, write on this subject, and I'm much obliged to all four. Besides these letters, I've had word that plant-hair is put to the following uses: On some plants it catches insects and helps to eat them; in others, the hair sends out a kind of juice which keeps away insects that might harm the plant; on the mulleins, the stiff hairs are supposed to prevent cattle from browsing on them; and on yet others, the hairs suck in gases and liquids as part of the food of the plants. And there may be other uses for these hairs that I haven't heard of yet.

DARK SUNS.

Here's something strange,--so strange that, may be, you 'd better inquire further into it. I give you the paragram just as it comes to me:

"The bright star Sirius, itself a vast flaming sun, has a companion which is also a sun,--nearly seven times as large as our own,--but which is dark, and gives no light at all. This dark sun was seen through a very powerful telescope in 1862, and it is thought that there are a great many like it, although no others have been found."

THE LETTER-BOX.

_To the little girl who asks if Bryant wrote any poem that would
interest "us children" and to all young readers of_ ST. NICHOLAS:

Yes, indeed. You will find in the collected works of this beloved American writer many songs and poems that you can understand with ease and read with delight. A good, pure-hearted man, like William Cullen Bryant; a man so honest, so simple and earnest, so truly great, that with a deep knowledge of the world about him he worshiped God, honored his fellow-man, and loved nature as a child loves its mother--such a man could not be far removed from young sympathies. He could not be a poet without singing, sometimes, just the song that little folks would love to hear.

And children, themselves, were dear to him. More than once in the course of an acquaintance that dates back to our own early youth, we have seen his eyes light with pleasure at some incident of boy and girl life. Often his kindly interest and hearty words about St. Nicholas have given us better hope and courage to try to make the magazine just what it should be. "Good!" from his quiet lips was well worth striving for. His standard in everything was high. Hear "The Old Man's Counsel," which, through his own verse, he once gave to his own heart.

"Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long,
And this fair change of seasons passes slow,
Gather and treasure up the good they yield--
All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts
And kind affections, reverence for thy God
And for thy brethren; so when thou shalt come
Into these barren years, thou mayst not bring
A mind unfurnished and a withered heart."

But Bryant was not always solemn in his teaching. If you like playful, sprightly verses that yet are full of poetry, read his "Robert of Lincoln," where

"Merrily swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee."

And while the poet is telling you of these singers of the air, read "The Return of The Birds," written in the early spring of 1864, when, as you know, the country was in great trouble, and the birds saw many a sorry sight. If you like a beautiful fairy-tale in verse, all about children and the elves or sprites that children love, read his "Little People of The Snow." There also is the pretty legend of "The White-footed Deer"; or if you bigger boys and girls wish something more weird and exciting, read his tragic story of "The Strange Lady." Then, on some lovely autumn day, when "the melancholy days are come," and the procession of flowers has nearly passed by, read his verses "To the Fringed Gentian." There are other poems in the collection quite as easy to understand as these. Some of the most admired indeed, that would seem "hard" to many a tall youngster at the head of the school-class, were written in the poet's own boyhood. His most famous poem, "Thanatopsis," was composed when he was but eighteen years of age. When you, too, are eighteen you will more than enjoy it, if you do not do so already. But you will like a song of his youth,--lines "To a Waterfowl,"--and the beautiful poem entitled "June," which has been very much quoted of late because of the fulfillment of his wish that when he should come to lie at rest within the ground, he might be laid there

"in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound."

Another beautiful poem, called "Waiting by the Gate," will be quite clear to many of you; and one and all can understand "An Invitation to the Country," addressed to Julia, the poet's devoted daughter, the joy of his old age, who brightened his declining years, and to the last was the faithful companion of his home.

You remember the story of his boyhood days that Mr. Bryant told you in these pages nearly two years ago? Good as that story is, there is a picture in his lovely home at Roslyn that could tell you even better things. It is the portrait of his beautiful young mother, which for years has shone upon him from the walls of his bedroom with such a strong, sweet, loving look in her face that it makes one feel sure that he was reared in a happy home, that his noble, useful manhood sprang from a sunny, well-directed boyhood. Long ago the good mother passed from earth, and now the gate through which she passed has opened for him in his serene old age, the gate of which he wrote:

"And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,
And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near,
As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye
Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

"I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart,
Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;
And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me."

* * * * *

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: One of your little readers has found the word
"mutch" in one of my poems, and inquires its meaning, and I was
rather surprised, on looking into the dictionaries, to discover that
it was not there. I have heard it used from childhood,--applied to
anything tied around the head in kerchief fashion. The word is in
use in old legends, and possibly comes from the French mouchoir,
"handkerchief;" but some better linguist than myself must say
whether this suggestion is correct. To show, how the word is used, I
can refer my questioner to the little story of "Gertrude's Bird," or
the woodpecker, that is said to "fly about with a red mutch on her
head." The legend is in Dasent's "Popular Tales from the Norse."

And I may say here that I am almost glad I made that mistake about
the white-throated sparrow, since receiving a note from a lady who
writes from among the Berkshire hills, where the sweet call of this
bird is constantly repeated. It is very pleasant to know that a
little girl out in that beautiful region honors me so much as to
recite my verse when she hears the fresh note of this charming
songster, as this lady tells me her little daughter does.

Surely the songs of our wild birds are far better than any songs
that can be made about them; but if these serve to remind us how
delightful the winged singers of the deep forests and lonely
mountain-sides are, they are perhaps worth while.--Truly your
friend,

LUCY LARCOM.

* * * * *

Arlington Hotel, Cobourg, Canada, July 10, 1878.

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Do you remember the little boy who traveled
with you on the train last month from Meadville, Pa., to Jamestown,
N.Y., when you were returning from California, and who promised to
write you all about his visit to Niagara Falls? I have not forgotten
my promise, but we have only just settled down for the rest of the
summer at Cobourg, Canada. Well, we reached Niagara that night and
staid there two or three days, and I enjoyed it so much. The fall on
the American side is much smaller than the Canadian, and I
remembered what you told me about part of the rock having fallen
away, so that now, instead of being shaped like a horseshoe, it is
like a Y. The old table rock has fallen away too. We drove every day
over Goat Island, the new Park, around all the beautiful drives, and
across the bridges. The best view is on the Canadian side, just
after you cross the bridge, and then you have a grand view of all
the falls at once. We drove out to Lundy's Lane, and a man came out
and invited us to go up Scott's Tower and see the battle-field. Papa
and mamma had been up some years ago, so said they did not care to
go again, as the stairs were hard to climb.

I said I would go, so the man took me up and showed me the
battle-field and the lakes through an opera-glass. When I got into
the carriage I thanked him for his kindness, and you may imagine my
surprise when he asked me for fifty cents: of course I had to give
it to him, but it was all I had. Papa and mamma laughed at me all
the way home, but papa gave me the half dollar back afterward. We
spent a week at St. Catherine's Wells, visited Toronto, Belleville,
Napanee and Kingston, and went over on a lake steamer to spend the
Fourth of July at Oswego, such a pretty town in New York on Lake
Ontario. Cobourg is a pretty little town, too, right on the lake,
and the Arlington Hotel, where we are staying, is very nice, with
nice shade-trees and lawns. Do you know, dear St. Nicholas, I always
thought of you as an old gray-bearded man, like the pictures of
Santa Claus; but now that I know you and have talked to you, I shall
enjoy St. Nicholas more than ever.--Your friend and constant reader,

CALVERT WILSON.

* * * * *

New York.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I thought I would tell you about some people I
heard of who like to talk to each other, and everything they say
begins with the same letter. How queer it must sound. I send you a
sentence: Sarah said she saw Susy sewing small shoes swiftly. I wish
some of your scholars would try it, and see who could send you a
sentence with the words beginning with Z.--I remain, your loving

MAUD.

* * * * *

Albany, N.Y.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Perhaps some of your other boys, who, like
myself, wish to grow big and strong, would like to hear about the
largest human being ever known,--Goliath of Gath,--a person almost
large enough to need introduction by installments, but he is so well
known that the ceremony is needless.

As nearly as I can make out, he was between ten and eleven feet
high. When he went to battle he wore a coat-of-mail weighing one
hundred and fifty-six pounds,--as heavy as a good-sized man; and the
rest of his armor amounted to at least one hundred and fifteen
pounds more. The head of his spear weighed eighteen pounds,--as
heavy as six three-pound cans of preserved fruit,--and this he
carried at the end of a long and heavy shaft!

Think what might happen if a man equally big and strong should live
among us now, and insist on taking part in our games and sports! If
he joined a boat-club, a curious six-oared crew could be made up,
with him at one side and five other men opposite. And just imagine
him "booming along" on a velocipede! If he joined the champion Nine,
and hit a ball, where would that ball go to? If he called for a
"shoulder-high" ball, wouldn't the catcher have to climb a
stepladder to catch behind the giant? And if he threw a ball to a
baseman, wouldn't he be apt to throw it clean through him?

Probably no one can answer these questions, but they are
interesting, all the same, to yours sincerely,

R.V.D.

* * * * *

Lancaster, Pa.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Can you please tell me whether there are
fire-flies in England or not? We have had several discussions, and I
would like so much to know.--Yours truly,

AMY.

According to all accounts within our reach there are in England no fire-flies like those of the United States. But there are glow-worms there, and, sometimes, the male glow-worm (which has wings), has been called a "fire-fly." It belongs to a branch (genus) of the family _Lampyridæ_, which is also the family of its fire-fly cousins, but it is not shaped quite like them, and bears a different scientific name.

* * * * *

Philadelphia, Pa.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have seen so many little stories written by
girls of my age, that I thought I would write also--about iron. It
is a very useful metal, without which we would be very much at a
loss. Without iron, we could not cook very well; we could not build
such houses as we do, because the nails are made of iron, and some
of the tools; nor could we have gas, for the gas is conveyed through
the different parts of the houses and city by iron pipes. Nor could
we have steam-boats, for the machinery which makes them move is made
of iron. The buckets which we have to carry water in have iron
hoops. The doors have iron locks. The ink with which we write has
iron in it. Last, but not least, we have iron in our blood, enough
to make a ten-penny nail.

I will tell you of a trip we took to the lead mines. We were
spending the summer of 1877 in Wythville, Virginia, and there became
acquainted with a family boarding in the same hotel as ourselves.
One day they invited us to go with them to see the mines; we had a
very long but pleasant ride, and ate our lunch on the grass in the
woods, then went on, and at last arrived at the mines. The man who
was outside told us that he was "going to harness the ladies'
sleeping car;" the mouth of the cave was so low that a man of
ordinary height could hardly stand upright in it: when we started
they hitched two carts which were used to carry the ore out of the
mine, and put a little donkey to it; the man called the donkey
Jenny; we had two or three tallow candles which would not stay
lighted; as we advanced further, the water began to leak from the
rocks, and the car ran off track; but when we were inside the mine,
we were more than rewarded for what we had suffered. The men were
working in groups, each group having a lantern, and the lead itself
shined; a few men went up a pair of stairs to nearly the top of the
mine; but all these beauties could not induce me stay a minute
longer than I was obliged, and I can assure you we were all very
thankful when we arrived at the hotel, to find a nice supper and
warm beds waiting for us.--Your little friend,

JOYCE.

* * * * *

Junction City, Kansas.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I like to read you very much, especially "Under
the Lilacs" and "Dab Kinzer." I live in Junction City, and have a
very pleasant home. We have a great many wild flowers growing on the
prairies. One of them is called the soap plant. Our teacher says its
name is "Yucca." It has long slim leaves with sharp edges, and the
flower grows on all sides of the stalk, which sometimes is four feet
high: the flowers are white. Then we have a sensitive rose. The rose
looks like a round purple silk tassel. We have lots more of odd
flowers, which I will tell you about some other time.--Yours truly,

MARY KEYS.

* * * * *

Bunker Hill.