Chapter IV: The Verdict (2)

Grandma thought Johnny was unusually still--she thought, "and is asleep on the lounge." So she was not alarmed when she saw the little empty chair, but when no Johnny appeared on the lounge or anywhere in the room, she felt worried.

"Johnny!" she called all through the house and wood-shed. Then she missed the little coat, cap, and comforter.

"If he has gone to meet his grandpa, he'll freeze to death. Oh, why didn't I amuse him till his grandpa came," she thought. She opened the door and tried to call, but a cloud of snow beat her back. Wrapping herself comfortably, she started down the white road she thought Johnny had taken.

She called and called his name, and in her excitement expected every moment to find him frozen. She promised the wind and snow that, if they would only spare her Johnny, her dead daughter's baby, that in place of his impatient old grandma there should be one as patient as Job!

She had nearly reached the depot. She heard the evening train, she saw the glare of the great lamp on the engine though the glass that covered it was half hidden by the blinding snow. She heard a sleigh coming toward her, and said to herself, "No matter who it is, I will stop him, and he shall help me." The bells came nearer and nearer, and the sleigh stopped. "Where are you going, my good woman? It is a rough night, isn't it, for a woman to be out?"

Any other time, how grandma would have laughed!--grandpa didn't know his own wife!

"Take her in, father," said another voice. Poor grandma! It was Johnny's father who spoke.

"Oh, Johnny's lost!" she cried, as she tottered into the sleigh. "He will freeze before we can find him."

The old lady was taken home, and grandpa and Johnny's father started off, quite naturally in the wrong direction, for Johnny.

* * * * *

For a while, Johnny went on manfully; but soon his little fingers and toes began to beg him to go back. He refused to notice their petition, and wished grandma could see him, as the wind whirled him round and round and almost buried him in the snow. He thought he had gone about ten miles, when he heard bells. He turned to one side for the sleigh to pass, when he heard a voice he knew.

"Oh, Jerry," he cried, "please take me in!"

Jerry stopped, and asked, "Who are ye?"

"I'm Johnny," said our small hero, quite meekly.

"And where may ye be bound to, Johnny?" said Jerry.

"To the depot. I'm going to New York," said Johnny, who thought this a mild way to tell Jerry he was running away.

"This road niver took any one to the depot, Jacky. If I hadn't come this way, yer'd been froze stiff in the mornin'."

Here Jerry rolled his eyes in a dreadful manner, and trembled like one terribly frightened. Johnny would have cried hard, but he remembered how brave Jerry was when he ran away, so he winked hard to keep back the tears, and said:

"Do you think I shall 'froze' now, Jerry?"

Jerry thought not, if he minded him. So he lifted him into the sleigh, and they drove on.

"Is this the depot?" asked Johnny, when they stopped.

"Ye be hard on the depot. This is my house." said Jerry.

As he opened the door, his mother said, "I've looked afther yez since the dark, and what have ye there?" as she saw Johnny.

Mike, Jerry's father, sat by the stove, and there was a baby on the floor. Johnny thought he never had seen such a funny place.

He liked the baby best, although its yellow flannel night-dress was dirty; but it wasn't quite his idea of a baby.

"What shall we do wid him, Mike?" said the lady of the house, as she saw Johnny's head bobbing and his eyes closing.

"I thought ye'd kape him here till the next train for New York," said Jerry, laughing.

Mike laid down his pipe, and began to put on his coat.

"Is it to go out again that yez will, this arful night, Mike?" said Maggie.

"Lay him out on the bed; lave him to slape here to-night, Maggie. I'll go and make it aisy wid the old folks," said Mike.

He found grandma sitting before the fire-place. Bottles of all sizes stood on the table, and blankets hung on chairs by the fire. The old lady's face was pale, and Mike afterward told Maggie, "The hands of her shook like a lafe, and she had the same look on her that she had when they tould her Johnny's mother was dead. And when I tould her the boy was safe wid yez here--Ah, Maggie, she's a leddy!" said Mike, lowering his voice.

"Well, what did she say?" said Maggie.

"She said I betther sit down an' ate some supper, to warm meself," said Mike.

Poor grandma! She declared afterward she didn't know Mike was such a good-looking man, and so kind-hearted, too. But she didn't keep him long to praise him, but hurried him off to find grandpa.

Mike found the brilliant pair, going over and over the same ground. You need not laugh, little reader; that's just what your father would do, if you were lost.

Five minutes after they had learned where Johnny was, they were standing over him in Mike's house--standing over him, and the baby in the yellow flannel night-dress, for they were both in one bed, and Johnny's father saw them about as clearly as Johnny had seen the candle.

The family were thanked individually and collectively, from Mike down to the baby, who, when Johnny left, was covered with sweetmeats and toys, brought from New York to Johnny.

The next morning, at breakfast, Johnny learned many things, among them that it was very wrong to run away, and he must be punished, and grandma should decide how severely.

"I will punish him myself," said grandma, "by removing all temptation to do so again."

Johnny is too young now to appreciate his pleasant sentence, but in after years, when his sins are heavier, he will miss his gentle judge.

He was to leave Plowfield the next day for New York; but he was to come back again with the summer, and many were the promises he made of good behavior.

When the time came for him to go, he clung so to his grandma that his father said:

"You need not go, Johnny, if you would rather stay."

"No," said Johnny, "I want to go; but why don't they have drandmas and fathers live in the same house?"

At last, he was all tucked in the sleigh, and grandpa had started.

"Stop! wait!" said Johnny, "I forgot something."

He jumped out of the sleigh, ran back to grandma, clasped his arms around her neck, and whispered in her ear:

"I'm sorry, drandma, 'cause I spilt the cream, and I'm awfil glad I didn't smash the bowl."

A MONUMENT WITH A STORY.

BY FANNIE ROPER FEUDGE.

Many times have I heard English people say, as if they really pitied us: "Your country has no monuments yet; but then she is so young--only two hundred years old--and, of course, cannot be expected to have either monuments or a history." Yet we have some monuments, and a chapter or two of history, that the mother-country does not too fondly or frequently remember. But I am not going to write now of the Bunker Hill Monument, nor of the achievement at New Orleans, nor of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown. I want to tell of another land nearer its infancy than ours, with a history scarcely three-quarters of a century old, but with one monument, at least, that is well worth seeing, and that cannot be thought of without emotions of loving admiration and reverence. The memorial is of bronze, and tells a story of privation and suffering, but of glorious heroism, and victory even in death.

Everybody knows something of the great island, Australia, the largest in the world, reckoned by some geographers as the fifth continent. I might almost have said its age is less than one-quarter of a century, instead of three. It was visited by the great adventurer, William Dampier, about the year 1690, and again, eighty years after, by Cook, on his first voyage around the world. It is only within the present generation that we have come to know it well. England's penal colony there, and Cook's stories of the marvelous beauty and fertility of the land, were never wholly forgotten; but almost nothing was done in the way of exploration, especially of the interior, and the world remained ignorant of both its extent and its resources until 1860, in August of which year two brave-hearted young men, by name Burke and Wills, determined to find out all that they could of the unknown central regions. It is in memory of these men that Australia's first monument has been erected. Let me tell you their story.

Burke was in the prime of life, a strong, brave man, who delighted in daring and even dangerous exploits. Wills, an astronomer, was younger, and not so ardent, but prudent, wise, sagacious, and thus well fitted to be the companion of the adventurous Burke. Their object was to trace a course from south to north of Australia, and explore the interior, where hitherto no European had set foot.

Fifteen hardy adventurers were induced to form the little company; twenty-seven camels were imported from India, for carrying the tents, provisions and implements needed upon such a journey, a fifteen-months' supply of provisions was laid in, and large vessels were provided for holding ample stores of water, whenever the route should lie through arid regions.

Thus burdened with baggage and equipments, the explorers started out. Their progress was necessarily slow, but the greatest difficulty with which the leaders had to contend was a spirit of envy and discontent among their followers. This led to an entire change in Burke's plans, and perhaps also to the sad catastrophe which ended them.

Instead of keeping his men together, as at first intended, he divided the company into three squads. Assigning the command of two of these to Lieutenants Wright and Brahe, and leaving them behind at an early stage of the journey, together with most of the baggage and provisions, Burke took Wills, with two others of the most resolute of his company, and pushed boldly forward, determined to reach the northern coast if possible, but, at any rate, not to return unless the want of water and provisions should compel him.

A place called Cooper's Creek, about the center of the Australian continent, was to serve as a rendezvous for the entire company; one of the squads was directed to remain at this point for three months, and longer if practicable; another squad was told to rest a while at Menindie, and then join the first; while Burke, Wills, Gray and King were to prosecute their journey northward, do their utmost to accomplish the main object of the expedition, and return to Cooper's Creek. Had this plan been faithfully executed, all might have gone well. But hardly had Burke taken his departure when quarrels for pre-eminence broke out among the men he had left behind; then sickness and death thinned the ranks and disheartened the survivors, and they failed to carry out the programme Burke had laid down. Wright stayed at Menindie until the last of January before setting out for the rendezvous; while Brahe, who had charge of most of the provisions, instead of remaining for three months at Cooper's Creek, deserted that post long before the time arranged, and left behind neither water nor provisions.

In two months Burke and his companions reached the borders of the Gulf of Carpentaria, at the extreme north of the continent, having solved the problem, and found a pathway to the North Pacific. Then, worn and weary, they set out to return. Their forward march had been exhausting, as the frequent attacks of bands of savage natives and the many deadly serpents had made it dangerous to halt for rest either by day or night. The heat, too, was excessive, and sometimes for days together the travelers were almost without water, while but sparing use could be made of the few provisions they had been able to carry. Feeling sure of relief at Cooper's Creek, however, and jubilant at their success, the four almost starving men turned about and pressed bravely on, but they arrived only to find the post deserted, and neither water nor provisions left to fill their pressing need.

In utter dismay, they sat down to consider what could be done, when one of the party happened to see the word "dig" cut on the bark of a tree, and digging below it, they found a casket containing a letter from Brahe, which showed that he had left the post that very morning, and that our travelers had arrived just _seven hours too late_!

Imagine, if you can, how terribly tantalizing was this news, and how hard it must have seemed to these heroic men, after having suffered so much, braved so many dangers, and tasted the first sweets of success, to die of starvation just at the time when they had hoped relief would be at hand--to be so nearly saved, and to miss the certainty of rescue by only a few hours! Eagerly they searched in every direction for some trace of their comrades, and called loudly their names, but the echo of their own voices was the only answer. As a last effort for relief, they attempted to reach Mount Despair, a cattle station one hundred and fifty leagues away, but they finally gave up in complete discouragement, when one more day's march might have brought them to the summit and saved their lives.

For several weeks these brave fellows fought off their terrible fate, sometimes hoping, oftener despairing, and at last, one after another, they lay down far apart in the dreary solitude of the wilderness, to die of starvation.

All this and more was learned by Captain Howitt, who commanded an expedition of search sent out from Melbourne, some nine months after the departure of Burke and his company, not a word of news having been received concerning them, and many fears being felt for the safety of the little band. On Howitt's arrival at Cooper's Creek he, too, found the word "dig," where the four despairing men had seen it; and beneath the tree was buried, not only the paper left by Brahe, but Burke's journal, giving the details of the journey to the coast, discoveries made, and the terrible last scenes.

At every step of Burke's pathway new objects of interest had elicited his surprise and admiration. Not only were there fertile plains and beautiful, flower-dotted prairies, but lagoons of salt water, hills of red sand, and vast mounds that seemed to tell of a time when the region was thickly populated, though now it was all but untrod by man. A range of lofty mountains, discovered by Burke in the north, he called the Standish Mountains, and a lovely valley outspread at their foot he named the Land of Promise.

But alas! Great portions of Burke's journey had to be made through rugged and barren regions, destitute of water, and with nothing that could serve as food for man or beast. Driven to extremities by hunger, the pioneers devoured the venomous reptiles they killed, and on one occasion Burke came near dying from the poison of a snake he had eaten. All their horses were killed for food, and all their camels but two. Perhaps these also went at a later day, for toward the last the records in the journal became short, and were written at long intervals.

Once the party was obliged to halt with poor Gray, and wait till he had breathed his last, when the three mourning survivors went on in silence without their comrade.

A letter from young Wills, addressed to his father, is dated June 29th. The words are few, but they are full of meaning.

"My death here, within a few hours, is certain, but my soul is calm," he wrote.

The next day he died, as was supposed by the last record; though the precise time could not be known, as he had gone forth alone to make one more search for relief, and had met his solitary fate calmly, as a hero should. Howitt, after long search, found the remains of his friend stretched on the sand, and nearly covered with leaves.

The closing sentence in Burke's journal is dated one day earlier than young Wills's letter. It runs:

"We have gained the shores of the ocean, but we have been aband--"

It is not, of course, known why the last word was never finished. It may have been that he felt too keenly the cruelty of his companions' desertion of him to bring himself to write the word; or perhaps the death agony overtook him before he could finish it. At any rate, it speaks a whole crushing world of reproach to those whose disregard of duty cost their noble leader's life. It has its lessons for us all.

Burke's skeleton also was found, covered with leaves and boughs that had been placed there, it is supposed, by the pitying natives, who found the dead hero where, in bitter loneliness, he heaved his dying sigh, unflinching to the last.

Howitt wrapped the remains in the flag of his country, and left them in their resting-place. Then he returned to Melbourne, and made preparations for their removal and subsequent burial. They rest now in that beautiful city near the sea, beneath the great bronze monument. There are two figures, rather larger than life, Burke standing, Wills in a sitting posture. On the pedestal are three bass-reliefs, one showing the return to Cooper's Creek, another the death of Burke, and the third the finding of his remains. This is a fitting tribute to the memory of the brave explorers, but a far nobler and more enduring memorial exists in the rapid growth and present prosperous condition of that vast island, results that are largely the fruit of their labors and devotion.

King survived, but he was wasted almost to a skeleton, and it was months before he could tell the story of suffering he alone knew.

TWO WAYS.

BY MARY C. BARTLETT.

"If I had a fortune," quoth bright little Win,
"I'd spend it in Sunday-schools. Then, don't you see,
Wicked boys would be taught that to steal is a sin,
And would leave all our apples for you and for me."

"If _I_ had a fortune," quoth twin-brother Will,
"I'd spend it in fruit-orchards. Then, don't you see,
Wicked boys should all pick till they'd eaten their fill,
And they wouldn't _want_ apples from you or from me."

A HORSE AT SEA.

[SEE FRONTISPIECE.]

His name is Charley. A common name for a horse, and yet he was a most uncommon horse, of a sweet and cheerful disposition, and celebrated for his travels over the sea. This is his portrait, taken the day before he left America, for the benefit of sorrowing friends. He looks as if he thought he was going abroad. There is something in his eye and the expressive flirt of his tail that seems to suggest strange doings. Charley is going to Scotland, over the sea, and he is having his feet cared for by the Doctor. He stands very steady now, even on three legs. When he afterward went aboard the good steamship "California" it was as much as he could do to keep steady on all four.

Poor Charley! He was dreadfully sick on the voyage. He had a fine state-room, but the motion of the ship was too much for his nerves, and he was very ill. So they had to bring him, bed and all, on deck. The steamer was rolling from side to side, for the waves ran high, and the tall masts swayed this way and that with a slow and solemn motion. Poor Charley didn't appreciate the beauty of the sea, and thought the whole voyage a most unhappy experience. Then he had to be hoisted out of the hatchway in a most undignified manner. The frontispiece shows you how this was done. They put him in his box and put a rope round it and fastened the rope to the donkey engine, a little steam-engine which is used for hoisting and such purposes. How humiliating for a horse to be dragged aloft by a donkey engine! The captain stood near to give the signal when the steamer rested for a moment on a level keel. The donkey engine puffed, and the sailors stood ready to steer the patient upward, just as you see in the picture.

Charley grew very serious as he rose higher and higher, but a man held him by the head and whispered comfort in his ear. At last, he reached the deck in safety, and they gave him a place in a breezy nook beside some other four-footed passengers, and he immediately recovered.

TIDY AND VIOLET; OR, THE TWO DONKEYS.

There was once a little boy who was not very strong, and it was thought right that he should be a great deal in the open air, and therefore it was also thought right that he should have a donkey.

The plan was for this little boy to take long rides, and for his mamma to ride on another donkey, and for his papa to walk by the side of both.

The two donkeys that were procured for this purpose had belonged to poor people, and had lived hard lives lately, out upon the common, because the poor people had no employment for them, and so could get no money to give the donkeys better food. They were glad, therefore, when the gentleman said that he wanted to buy a donkey for his little boy, and that he would try these two for a time, and then take the one he liked best.

So the gentleman and the lady and the boy took their excursion day after day with the two donkeys.

Now, one of these was a thin-looking white donkey, and the other was a stout black donkey; and one was called "Violet" and the other "Tidy."

The little boy liked the black donkey best, because he was bigger and handsomer, "I like Tidy," he said; "dear papa, I like Tidy."

"Stop!" said his papa. "Let us wait a bit; let us try them a little longer."

The party did not go out every day; sometimes the gentleman and lady were engaged, and the donkeys remained idly in the gentleman's field.

And then, when they had done eating, they used sometimes to talk.

"Is not this happiness?" said the meek white donkey. "Instead of the dry grass of the common, to have this rich, green, juicy grass, and this clear stream of water, and these shady trees; and then, instead of doing hard work and being beaten, to go out only now and then with a kind lady and gentleman, and a dear little boy, for a quiet walk:--is it not a happy change, Tidy?"

"Yes," said Tidy, flinging his hind-legs high in the air.

"Oh!" said Violet, "I hope you will not do that when the young gentleman is on your back."

"Why not?" said Tidy.

"Because," said Violet, "you may throw him off, and perhaps kill him; and consider how cruel that would be, after all his kindness to us."

"Oh," said Tidy, "people always call us donkeys stupid and lazy and slow, and they praise the horse for being spirited and lively; and so the horses get corn and hay and everything that is good, and we get nothing but grass. But I intend to be lively and spirited and get corn."

"Take care what you do, Tidy," said Violet. "The gentleman wishes to buy a quiet donkey, to carry his little boy gently. If we do not behave ourselves well, he surely will send us back to the common."

But Tidy was foolish and proud, and, the next time he went out, he began to frisk about very gayly.

"I fear," said the gentleman, "that the good grass has spoiled Tidy."

Tidy heard this, but, like other young and foolish things, he would not learn. Soon, the little dog Grip passed by, and Tidy laid his ears back on his neck and rushed at Grip to bite him.

"Really," said the gentleman, "Tidy is getting quite vicious. When we get home, we will send Tidy away, and we will keep Violet."

Tidy, as you may believe, was sorry enough then. But it was too late. He was sent away to the bare common. But Violet still lives in the gentleman's field, eats nice grass, goes easy journeys, and is plump and happy.

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

Poets have a great deal to answer for, and they should be careful what they say, for they've no idea what an influence they have. Now, I'm told that about one hundred and fifty years ago, one by the name of Thomson (Thomson without a _p_) sang:

"Hail, gentle Spring! Ethereal mildness, hail!"

and made no end of trouble, of course. March being the first spring month, was the first to hear the command, and so, ever since, she has been trying her best to hail. Failing in this, as she nearly always does, her only recourse is to blow; and blow she does, with a will. So don't blame her, my chicks, if she deals roughly with you this year, blows your hair into your eyes, and nearly takes you off your feet. It's all the fault of that poet Thomson.

I suppose if he had sung to our great American cataract, he would have told it to trickle, or drip, or something of that sort; and then what would have become of all the wedding tours? Mrs. Sigourney, my birds tell me, was a poet of the right sort. She sang, "Roll on, Niagara!"--and it has rolled on ever since.

Talking of fluids, here's a letter telling

HOW CHERRY PLAYED WITH WATER.

A good friend sends Jack this true horse-story:

At my summer home, the very coolest and pleasantest spot to be
found on a hot day is a grassy knoll, shaded by a great tree. Close
by is the horse-trough, which is supplied with water from the well
a few rods off. One sultry day, my little boy and I went to play
under the shade of this tree. The trough was full of clean,
sparkling water, and I lingered there even after the two horses,
"Cherry" and "Dash," had been brought out and tied to the tree; for
they, too, had found their house uncomfortable, and had begged with
their expressive eyes to be taken out-of-doors.

Now, the water in the trough looked very tempting, and soon my boy
Willy put his little hand in, and then rolling up his sleeve,
plunged in his arm and began to splash the water, throwing it
around, wetting us all, horses included. We left the tree, and were
going into the house, when we heard a loud thumping, and splashing;
turning round, we saw Cherry, with his fore-leg in the trough,
knocking his great iron shoe against the side of it, sending the
water flying in all directions, and making the water in the trough
all black and muddy. Now, these horses had drunk from this trough
three times a day for two months, and spent many a morning under
that very tree, and it had never occurred to either of them to play
such a trick until they had seen Willy do it.

Willy was so much pleased that he gave Cherry several lumps of
sugar to reward him for his naughtiness; but James, the coachman,
took a different view, and gave him a sound scolding, and I am
afraid whipped him; although I protested that Willy was more to
blame than poor Cherry, who had only imitated his little master.

C.C.B.

THREE SPIDERS.

Another enemy to my friends the birds! This time it's a spider. He lives near the Amazon River, they tell me, builds a strong web across a deep hole in a tree, and waits at the back of the hole until a bird or a lizard is caught in the meshes. Then out he pounces, and kills his prey by poison. And yet this dreadful creature has a body only an inch and a half in length!

Then there's a spider named Kara-Kurt, who lives in Turkestan; and, though he is no bigger than a finger-nail, he can jump several feet. He hides in the grass, and his bite is poisonous; but I'm glad to say he doesn't kill birds.

In the same country is a long-legged spider, who has long hair and a body as big as a hen's egg. When he walks he seems as large as a man's double fists. What a fellow to meet on a narrow pathway! I think most people would be polite enough to let him have the whole of the walk. Little Miss Muffett would have been scared out of her senses if such a huge spider had "sat down beside her."

SPECIAL DISPATCH.

The Little Schoolma'am says Thomson didn't say "_Hail_, gentle Spring!" He said, "Come, gentle Spring!" Dear, dear! I beg his pardon. But, like as not, some other poet said it, if Thomson didn't. Or perhaps they've sung so much about Spring that March, taking it all to herself, thinks she may as well blow her own trumpet, too.

Poor March! In old times she used to be the first month of the year,--and now she is only the third. May be, that is what troubles her. Nobody likes to be put back in that way.

ABOUT PARROTS.

Deacon Green was talking about parrots the other day. He said he once knew a parrot that was not as polite as "Pippity," the one mentioned in a story called "Tower-Mountain." The parrot that he knew would swear whenever he opened his bill. It had been taught by the sailors on board the ship in which it had come from South America. When the deacon knew it, it belonged to the widow of a very strict minister. It had been brought to her by her nephew, a midshipman, as a Christmas present. It was lucky for him, just then, that the old lady was stone deaf. She was very cross with the neighbors when they told her what wicked words the bird used. It was a great pet, and she would not believe anything bad about it. But at last it swore at a visitor who was a bishop, and soon after, it was no more.

Since the Deacon told that story I have had a paragram about another parrot; one that lived in Edinburgh, Scotland, five years ago. This one could laugh, weep, sing songs, make a noise like "smacking the lips," and talk. His talking was not merely by rote; he would speak at the right times, and say what was just right to be said then and there. He spoke the words plainly, bowed, nodded, shook his head, winked, rolled from side to side, or made other motions suited to the sense of what he was saying. His voice was full and clear, and he could pitch it high or low, and make it seem joyful or sad. Many curious tales, are told of him, but the most remarkable thing about him is that he actually lived and really did the things named.

That's what the paragram says. Stop--let me think a moment. May be that parrot himself sent it? But no; he wasn't smart enough for _that_; I remember, now, the signature was "Chambers."

THE WRITING OF THE PULSE.

Did you ever hear of a sphygmograph? Of course not. Well, in its present improved state, it is something new and very wonderful. It takes its name from two Greek words, _sphugmos_, the pulse, and _grapho_, I describe. It is an implement to be used by physicians, and forces the patient's pulse to tell its own story, or, in other words, make a full confession of all its ups and downs and irregularities. Not only make a confession, my beloveds, but actually _write_ it down in plain black and white!

So you see that a man's pulse in Maine may write a letter to a physician in Mexico, telling him just what it's about, and precisely in what manner its owner's heart beats--how fast or slow, and, in fact, ever so much more.

Now, isn't that queer? Should you like to see some specimens of pulse-writing? Here they are:

No. 1, according to the doctors, writes that he is the pulse of a strong, healthy boy, and that his owner is getting on admirably. No. 2 writes that his proprietor has trouble with his heart. No. 3 tells a sad story of typhoid fever; and No. 4 says that his owner is dying.

I am only a Jack-in-the-Pulpit, you know, quite dependent upon what the birds and other bipeds tell me, so you cannot expect a full description and explanation of the sphygmograph here. Ask your papas and friends about it.

There's a great deal going on in the world that you and I know very little about; but such things as the sphygmograph give us a hint of the achievements of science in its efforts to help God's children out of their many ills and pains.

The deacon says that, wonderful as the sphygmograph is, the pulse itself is more wonderful still--a fact which no good ST. NICHOLAS child will deny.

A PERUVIAN BONANZA.

You've heard, I suppose, that they expect soon to open up a new and wonderfully rich deposit of silver in the mines of Peru? No! Well, then, it's high time you were warned about it. Take your Jack's advice, my youngsters, and be very careful about things. Why, if they go on finding big bonanzas in this reckless way, silver will be too cheap for use as money! And then what will they do? They'll have to use something in place of it, of course; but there's no telling what it will be. Only think, they might choose double-almonds, or something of that kind!

But don't allow yourselves to be cast down about it, my dears. Try to keep up your spirits, and remember that, if the worst comes to the worst, good children will never be so plenty that people will cease to appreciate a good child. That's a bit of solid comfort for you, any way.

LUMBER AND TIMBER.

Which of you can state the exact distinction, if there is any, between lumber and timber, without consulting the dictionary?

QUEER NAMES FOR TOWNS.

Now, what am I to do with this? If the Little Schoolma'am sees it, she may want to give the boys and girls of the Red School-house a new sort of geography lesson, or perhaps a spelling task to her dictation. That would be a little hard on them: so perhaps I'd better turn over the letter to you just as it is, my chicks.

Washington, D.C.

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: Here are the names of some towns in the
United States. They are so funny that I send them to you, and I
hope you will like it. Do you think the Little Schoolma'am would
know where all these places are?

Toby Guzzle, Ouray, Kickapoo, T.B., Ono, O.Z., Doe Gully Run, Omio,
Nippenose, Eau Gallie, Need More, Kandiyohi, Nobob, Cob Moo Sa, We
Wo Ka, Ty Ty, Osakis, Why Not, Happy Jack, U Bet, Choptack,
Fussville, Good Thunder's Ford, Apopka, Burnt Ordinary, Crum Elbow,
Busti, Cheektowaga, Yuba Dam, Dycusburgh, Chuckatuck, Ni Wot, Buck
Snort, What Cheer, Forks of Little Sandy, Towash, Sopchoppy, Thiry
Daems, Vicar's Switch, Omph Ghent, Peculiar.

I have found a great many more, but these are the queerest I could
pick out.--Yours truly,

WILLIAM B.

ANSWERS TO RIDDLES.

Here are two answers, out of the three, to the riddles I gave you last month: TOBACCO, and CARES (Caress). The archbishop's puzzle has been too much for you, I'm afraid, my dears. I'll give you until next month. Then we'll see.

THE LETTER-BOX.

Washington, D.C.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Not long ago I read in your delightful magazine
a poem, entitled "Red Riding Hood," by John G. Whittier. It
recalled to me some visits which I made to the great and good poet,
my friend of many years.

My acquaintance with him began when I was a school-girl in Salem.
Then he lived in Amesbury, on the "shining Merrimack," as he calls
it, with his sister, a most beautiful and lovable person.

I remember distinctly my first visit to them. The little white
house, with green blinds, on Friend street, looked very quiet and
home-like, and when I received the warm welcome of the poet and his
sister I felt that peace dwelt there. At one side of the house
there was a little vine-wreathed porch, upon which opened the
glass-door of the "garden room," the poet's favorite sitting room,
the windows of which looked out upon a pleasant, old-fashioned
garden. Against the walls were books and some pictures, among which
were "Whittier's Birthplace in Haverhill," and "The Barefoot Boy,"
the latter illustrating the sweet little poem of that name.

In the parlor hung a picture of the loved and cherished mother, who
had died some years before, a lovely, aged face, full of strength
and sweet repose. In a case were some specimens of the bird
referred to in "The Cry of a Lost Soul," a poem which so pleased
the Emperor of Brazil that he sent these birds to the poet.

At the head of the staircase hung a pictured cluster of pansies,
painted by a lady, a friend of the poet. He called my attention to
their wonderful resemblance to human faces. In the chamber assigned
to me hung a large portrait of Whittier, painted in his youth. It
was just as I had heard him described in my childhood. There were
the clustering curls, the smooth brow, the brilliant dark eyes, the
firm, resolute mouth.

We spent a very pleasant evening in the little garden room, in
quiet, cheerful conversation. The poet and his sister talked of
their life on the old farm, which Whittier has described in "Snow
Bound," and he showed me a quaint old book written by Thomas
Elwood, a friend of Milton. It was the only book of poetry that
Whittier had been able to get to read when a boy.

Like all distinguished writers, Whittier has a large number of
letters from persons whom he does not know, and many strangers go
to see him. Miss Whittier said that one evening the bell rang, and
Whittier went to the door. A young man in officer's uniform stood
there. "Is this Mr. Whittier?" he asked. "Yes," was the answer. "I
only wanted to shake hands with you, sir," and grasping the poet's
hand he shook it warmly, and hastened away.

Some years after my first visit a great sorrow befell Whittier in
the loss of his sister. After that, a niece kept house for him. She
is now married, and he spends most of his time with some cousins at
"Oak Knoll," a delightful place near Danvers. It was there that I
last had the pleasure of seeing him, one golden day in October. The
house is situated on an eminence, surrounded by fine trees, which
were then clad in their richest robes of crimson and bronze and
gold. Through the glowing leaves we caught glimpses of the deep
blue sky and the distant hills. We had a pleasant walk through the
orchard, in which lay heaps of rosy apples, and across fields and
meadows, where we gathered grasses and wild flowers. And we saw the
pigs and cows and horses, and had the company of three splendid
dogs, great favorites of the host. We had also for a companion a
dear, bright little girl, a cousin of the poet. She is the "little
lass," the "Red Riding Hood" of his poem.

After a most enjoyable day I came away reluctantly, but happy at
leaving my friend in such a pleasant home, and among the charming
and refreshing country scenes that he loves so well.--Yours truly,

C.L.F.

* * * * *

AGNES'S MOTHER, whose letter was printed in the "Letter-Box" for January last, will oblige the Editors by sending them Agnes's address.

* * * * *

Uxbridge, Mass.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Last summer, we stayed a week on Prudence
Island, in Narragansett Bay, where the blackberries sprinkle
thickly the ground, and mosquitoes, in some parts of the island,
sprinkle thickly the air. Prudence, Patience, Hope, and Despair are
four islands near together; they were named by the owner after his
daughters. Prudence has some twelve or fifteen houses; but in
Revolutionary times there were, it is said, seventy families on the
island. The British set fire to everything, and the island was
devastated. One old hornbeam-tree is pointed out as the only tree
that escaped destruction. The wood of this kind of tree is so hard
that it does not burn easily. This tree is sometimes called "iron
wood," and "lever wood," as the wood is used to make levers. This
old tree has all its branches at the top, umbrella-wise, as if the
lower branches had been destroyed in some way, for it is not the
nature of the tree to grow in this fashion. I could barely reach
one little twig of pale, discolored leaves, to bring home as a
memento. Prudence is the largest of the four islands, Patience,
next in size, lies a little north of it. Hope, on the west side, is
a picturesque mass of rock; and Despair lies just north of Hope, a
solid rock, nearly or quite covered at high tide.

ADDY L. FARNUM.

* * * * *

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have a question to ask you, and if you will
answer it you will greatly oblige me. This is the question: May
leaves be of any size to make a folio or quarto?--Yours truly, K.

A sheet of paper of any size, folded in two equal parts, makes two leaves of folio size; folded evenly once more, four leaves of quarto size. But book-publishers use these words arbitrarily. With them a sheet about 19 by 24 inches is supposed to be the proper size, unless otherwise specified. A folio leaf is, consequently, about 12 by 19 inches; a quarto leaf, about 9 by 12 inches: an octavo leaf, about 6 by 9 inches.

* * * * *

Fordham, N. Y.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have a Polish rooster, I wonder if you have
ever seen one? If not, I will describe it. It has a very large
top-knot, very much larger than a duck's, although it is not at all
like it.

WILLIE A. RICHARDSON.

* * * * *

Here is a letter that was sent to Santa Claus, last Christmas:

MR. SANTA CLAUSES,
NEW YORK CITY.

I don't know your number, but I gest you will get it.

MY DEAR OLD SANTA CLAUSES: I know you are awful poor for Mama sed
so but I do want so Many things and when I Commence to Writting to
you I feel like crying. Cause you know my papa is dead and mama is
auful poor to but I do want a Dolly so bad not like they give of
the Christmas tree but a real Dolly that open and shut it eyes but
O I want so many other things but I wont ask for them for you will
Think I am auful selfage and want to Take evythink from others
little Girls but when you ben all around if you have one picture
Book left pleas send it to me. Dear Santa Clauses plese don't
forget me because I live in Perth Amboy.

From

GRACE L.T.

* * * * *

New York City.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am reading a history of the late Civil War,
and often come across names of different parts of an army. I would
like to ask you two questions:

1. How many men usually are there in a corps, division, brigade,
and company?

2. How many guns are there in a field-battery?

If you will answer these, you will greatly oblige your friend and
reader,

GRANT SQUIRES.

In the United States service, the "company," in time of war, contains 98 non-commissioned officers and privates, and 3 officers; total, 101. The regiment consists of ten companies. A brigade usually consists of four regiments, and, if the ranks are full, should contain about 4,000 men. It sometimes happens that five or six regiments may be comprised in one brigade. A division contains usually three, sometimes four, brigades, and with full ranks would number from 12,000 to 15,000 men. A corps contains three divisions, and should number, say, 45,000 men. In actual conflict, these figures will, of course, widely vary; regiments being reduced by losses to, perhaps, an average of 300 men each, and the brigades, divisions, etc., to numbers correspondingly smaller. A field-battery has either four or six guns, in the United States service usually the latter number, and from 150 to 250 men. The English and French Armies are not very dissimilar from our own in the matter of organization; but in the German army the company contains 250 men, and the regiment 3,000, and they have but two regiments in a brigade.

* * * * *

Pittsburg, Pa.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you What a nice time I had on
vacation. I enjoyed the holidays so much that it makes me happy to
tell everybody. Our Sunday-school gave a treat on Christmas night,
and the church was very handsomely decorated. Above the center, in
amongst the evergreen wreaths, was a shining star made by jets of
gas. The pastor, Mr. Vincent, said this was to represent the Star
of Bethlehem. Then the large Christmas-tree was loaded with gifts,
and when lighted up I pretty near thought I was going to see
Aladdin's wonderful lamp and Cinderella from fairy-land. I am sure
every one felt happy, and we sang the Christmas carols louder than
ever, so loudly that the church trembled. But may be it was the
organ made it tremble.

LILLIE S.

* * * * *

MR. EDWIN HODDER, the author of the new serial, "Drifted into Port," which begins in this number, is an English gentleman, and he wrote this story, not only to tell the adventures of his heroes and his heroines, but to give American boys and girls an idea of life at an English school. We think that the doings of Howard, Digby, Madelaine, and the rest, will be greatly interesting to our readers, especially as these young people leave the school after a while, and have adventures of a novel kind in some romantic, sea-girt islands.

* * * * *

BESSIE G.--Your letter is not such a one as we are apt to answer in the "Letter-Box." But the best possible message we can send you, and one that you will understand, and apply to your own case, is a beautiful little poem which will interest all readers. We shall give it to you entire. We take it from a treasured old newspaper slip, and regret that we do not know the author's name.

THE SINGING-LESSON.

A nightingale made a mistake;
She sang a few notes out of tune,
Her heart was ready to break,
And she hid from the moon.
She wrung her claws, poor thing,
But was far too proud to speak.
She tucked her head under her wing,
And pretended to be asleep.

A lark, arm-in-arm with a thrush,
Came sauntering up to the place;
The nightingale felt herself blush,
Though feathers hid her face.
She knew they had heard her song,
She FELT them snicker and sneer,
She thought this life was too long,
And wished she could skip a year.

"O nightingale!" cooed a dove,
"O nightingale, what's the use,
You bird of beauty and love,
Why behave like a goose?
Don't skulk away from our sight,
Like a common, contemptible fowl:
You bird of joy and delight,
Why behave like an owl?

"Only think of all you have done;
Only think of all you can do;
A false note is really fun,
From such a bird as you!
Lift up your proud little crest;
Open your musical beak;
Other birds have to do their best,
You need only SPEAK."

The nightingale shyly took
Her head from under her wing,
And, giving the dove a look,
Straightway began to sing.
There was never a bird could pass;
The night was divinely calm;
And the people stood on the grass
To hear that wonderful psalm!

The nightingale did not care,
She only sang to the skies;
Her song ascended there,
And there she fixed her eyes.
The people that stood below
She knew but little about;
And this story's a moral, I know,
If you'll try to find it out!

* * * * *

Northern Vermont.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: "Little Joanna" is only three years and a half
old, but her father and mother take the ST. NICHOLAS for her; and
although she is so very young, she enjoys it as much as the older
ones. She liked the little poem called "Cricket on the Hearth," and
has learned to repeat some of it. In the December number she liked
the poem about the tea-kettle; she cries every time she hears
about poor "Little Tweet," and laughs at the "Magician and his
Bee," and at Polly's stopping the horses with the big green
umbrella. But she laughs the hardest at the picture of the little
girl who was so afraid of the turtle, and Edna, the kitchen-girl,
told her if the turtle should get hold of the little girl's toe, he
wouldn't let go till it thundered. After "Little Joanna" has seen
the pictures and heard the stories she can understand, her mamma
sends the ST. NICHOLAS to some little cousins in Massachusetts, who
in their turn forward it to some more cousins in far away Iowa. So
we all feel the ST. NICHOLAS merits the heartiest welcome of any
magazine.--Yours,

"LITTLE JOANNA'S" AUNTIE.

* * * * *

Dayton, O.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I like your "Letter-Box" so much, and I always
read it first. My brother and I fight which shall read ST. NICHOLAS
first. He always speaks for it the month before. Then sister reads
it out loud to keep us quiet. I wish we had had more of the
Pattikins. I liked them real well.

The biggest thing in Dayton is the Soldiers' Home, three miles from
town. It is the largest of all the Homes, though they have a small
one at Milwaukee, Wis., and several others. They have three
thousand disabled soldiers here, and a big hospital, a church built
of stone, barracks, stores, dining-room, library, and everything
just like a little town. Then lovely lawns, gardens, lakes,
fountains, rustic bridges, etc. Lots of people say it is much
prettier than Central Park, and I think so, too. The soldiers have
most all of them lost their legs or arms, and some both. Lots of
blind ones lost their sight in battle, from the powder. They get
tipsy, too,--I guess because they get tired and feel sick. Nobody
cares, only they get locked up and fined. Papa says he don't
believe blue ribbon will keep them sober. Everybody wears blue
ribbon here, but I don't, because I don't want to get tipsy anyhow.

General Butler is the big boss of the Home. He comes every fall,
and walks around. They always have an arch for him. Colonel Brown
is Governor. He only has one arm, and was in Libby Prison. I wish
the boys and girls could all come and spend the day here. They have
a big deer-park, and lots of animals of all kinds, as good as a
show, and a splendid band that gives concerts, and they have dress
parades by the Brown Guards. I asked Papa how much it cost to run
it a year, and he wrote down for me, so I would not forget,
$360,740.81, last year. Hope you will find room to publish this.
Harry says you wont. Harry is my brother.--Your friend,

CLARENCE SNYDER.

* * * * *

Trenton, N.J.