Chapter XVI: Leading the Army (2)

We were often visited by city people boarding at some one of the farmhouses within a radius of ten or twelve miles. Some of these visitors came often, and apparently found considerable satisfaction in observing the details of camp life. Some of us knew a number of Boston and New York people at one of the most popular of these boarding-houses, and one day these friends gave us a most enjoyable entertainment, consisting of a lawn-party, a tennis tournament, and a supper. At another time, we went to a sheet-and-pillow-case party at the same place. Later on, some friends at another boarding-house delighted us with a series of tableaux and charades, followed by supper.

Several business partnerships were formed among the boys. Contracts for work were awarded to the firms making the lowest bids. The successful bidders would hire other boys to help them. The specifications had to be strictly observed. Among other things, a new wharf was built, one of the cabins shingled, and another covered with tar-paper.

Boys could do as they pleased with money earned in this way. Idleness was not popular.

One fine day, we took a long tramp up Mount Monadnock. An early start was made, and by noon we had covered more than half the distance. Halt was ordered in a shady grove, and before long our wagon arrived with blankets, rubber coats, cooking utensils, provisions, and various tools. We had a substantial lunch while resting on the banks of a pretty brook, before we resumed our march.

We soon reached the base of the mountain, and then the climb began. But it is a long lane that knows no turning, and rest came at last. We drove stakes in a picturesque glen on a plateau just below the summit,--a well-chosen spot, shielded from the wind. A bountiful supply of fuel and of pine boughs for bedding was immediately secured. A fireplace was built, and our supper soon began to stew in the great kettle which hung from a tripod. One of our favorite dishes was flapjacks. Numerous visitors came from the fashionable hotel down the mountain, where, the next evening, an impromptu entertainment was given to us. We were on the mountain three days, and they were full of incident and pleasure. At night, we slept around the blazing logs, and two boys were assigned to stand watch each hour, so that no one was deprived of much sleep. Every fellow washed his own plate, cup, knife, and spoon after each meal, and submitted them for inspection to one of the boys who acted as assistant-master. We all were sorry to leave the old mountain. But it was good to plant foot once more upon our native heath. And Camp Harvard was always dearer than ever when we returned to it after such an expedition.

Until he could swim a certain distance, no camper was allowed in the boats. All of the boys were soon quite at home in and on the water. One of the Philadelphia boys made the best mile record. There were various organizations in camp, such as cricket, base-ball, tennis, and rowing clubs, and a society of naturalists. Then there were various committees. The steward of the Charity Fund was very energetic, and before we broke up camp, he had collected a great quantity of used clothing, which we voted to divide between the newsboys of New York and Boston.

On August 13 and 14 came the annual athletic meeting. There were all sorts of exercises, with first and second prizes in each, and entries closed on the 12th. Crowds of visitors came each day. The tennis tournament was hotly contested in both singles and doubles, but the boat races and tug-of-war were the most exciting events. Long and short distance walking and running; sack and obstacle races; throwing the hammer; climbing; running, standing, and broad jumps; diving; swimming contests,--all were included in the programme. On the night of the 14th, we entertained a large company of visitors at supper, and a lady very gracefully presented the prizes. Then followed fireworks and music. I had won either first or second prizes in several events, and experienced the proud distinction of having my name telegraphed to a Boston paper, whose editor was rusticating near by. Some of the records were very good, considering that the boys, with the single exception of myself, were only from ten to fourteen years old.

There was not a single case of serious accident or illness for the camp diary to record. We were all healthily bronzed, and were as hardy as only life in the open air can make boys; and I am sure that camp life enabled us all to do better work at school during the winter.

We broke camp on the morning of September 1. The night before, we had as guests our neighbors for miles around. Our good friends the Deacon and the Captain each made touching speeches, and the camp resounded again and again with three times three "'rahs" for them and other summer friends, each named in turn. The night was very cold, but every heart was warm. Sky-rockets shot through the air, bombs, flower-pots, and other fireworks exploded, and Lake Monomonock looked almost like a sheet of fire. Then amid this blaze of glory our guests departed to the tune of our favorite song. Lake Monomonock settled down to its somber stillness; old cloud-capped Monadnock loomed above us like the great pyramid, and now came a realizing sense of the sad parting which the morrow threatened to bring us.

Morning came at last. The wind blew fresh and made the air as clear as crystal. Four-horse teams were in readiness, horns were produced, and with one long last look, off we started. Our woodland home never seemed so fair as when we turned our faces away from it. Those fragrant pine-trees had heard boys cheer before, but never until now with such lusty vigor and manifest feeling had come forth that inspiring watch-cry of:

"'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! CAMP HARVARD!"

ROBIN'S RETURN.

BY EDITH M. THOMAS.

Robin on the tilting bough,
Red-breast rover, tell me how
You the weary time have passed
Since we saw and heard you last.

"In a green and pleasant land,
By a summer sea-breeze fanned,
Orange-trees with fruit are bent;
There the weary time I've spent."

Robin rover, there, no doubt,
Your best music you poured out;
Piping to a stranger's ear,
You forgot your lovers here.

"Little lady, on my word,
You do wrong a true-heart bird!
Not one ditty would I sing,
'Mong the leaves or on the wing,
In the sun or in the rain;
Stranger's ear would list in vain.
If I ever tried a note,
Something rose within my throat.

'Twas because my heart was true
To the North and spring-time new;

My mind's eye a nest could see
In yon old, forked apple-tree!"

(NOTE.--It is said that the robin does not sing during its winter stay in the South.)

LITTLE MISS MABEL

BY DAISY JONES.

Little Miss Mabel,
Brimming with play,
Turned into Grandmamma
All in a day.
"Now, children, you see
How I look," said she,
"And Grandmamma Harris
Looked just like me.
They always do; it's the natural way.
All children take after their Grandmas, they say."

MOTHER'S IDEA.

Mr. Atherton has been the master of the Centreville Academy ever since I can remember. A few months ago, however, he was offered a better position in the city, and he decided to leave Centreville. We were very sorry, for we all liked him; and now that he has left, it really seems as if a part of the building itself had been taken away.

We were to have a public examination during the last two days of his stay, and Florence Grantley had thought of a beautiful project. She always has good ideas, though I must say they are generally rather expensive. But then her father is rich, and I suppose she never has to think twice before spending a dollar, as some of us are obliged to do. Her plan was to buy an album, put all our pictures in it, and present it to Mr. Atherton before the company, after he had closed the school. The girls wished me to make the presentation address. Of course I was enthusiastic about it, and went home thinking over what I should say and should wear, and all that. There are fifteen girls in our class, and Florence said she knew of a lovely album, one we wouldn't be ashamed to give him. It would cost only eleven dollars and twenty-five cents; and that, you see, would be only seventy-five cents apiece. I went in to dinner full of the new project, and began to talk about it at the table.

But Father vetoed it at once. He said he didn't believe in the idea at all. It would be too expensive for some of us, and he did not wish to hear another word about it.

When Father takes that tone, of course there's no more to be said. I am too old to cry before everybody, but I didn't wish any more dinner, and as soon as possible I went up to my room and had a good cry.

Mother came upstairs as quickly as she could. I knew she would. Mother is a born comforter. Oh, what do girls do who have no mother? She told me I must remember how hard Father had to work for every dollar, and that although what he said sometimes sounded harsh, it was only because his business troubles made him worry, and it added to them to have us wish for things he felt he couldn't afford. Dear Mother! I wonder if she ever wishes for things she doesn't get.

Then I told Mother all about it; that it was not merely that one plan, but that I could never join in any project that came up. All the other girls had birthday parties and I went, but never gave one in return. "Of course I don't expect that," said I, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as I saw the look on Mother's face. "Birthdays are so common in this family, of course we can't notice them; but I thought this time we had found something Father could sympathize with. He so often speaks of Mr. Atherton, and the respect he has for him--but of course that's all over now. If I can't, I can't; it _does_ seem hard though never to do as the others do."

"I know it, child," Mother said, softly touching my hair. "Many things are hard. You are old enough now to know a little of the life of your elders," she went on; "and you must remember that it is absolute necessity, and not lack of sympathy, that forces Papa to say no, as he sometimes does."

"Well, if he would only soften it a little," I couldn't help saying. "A blunt no is a great deal harder to bear."

"I know, dear," Mother said, with a sigh; "but Father thinks he does what is best."

"But what can I say, Mother. I must let them know I can't contribute. This very afternoon they'll all be talking of it."

"Tell them nothing positively. Say as little as possible; and give me time to think."

At this, my mind was relieved immediately. I was sure the trouble would somehow end in just the right way, though I knew Mother couldn't squeeze the money from the housekeeping allowance, even if she could think it right to do so after what Father had said. But I had faith that Mother would manage for me, so I went to school, feeling very confident, and said as little as possible.

That night Mother came to my room and told me to invite all of my class to spend Thursday evening with us. "You know Grandpa sent us a barrel of apples," she said, "a bushel of nuts, and some corn to pop. May be I'll make a cake or two, and the coffee will not cost much. Fortunately, we have dishes enough. That will offset the birthday parties a little, and make you have a good time, too. If you know any really nice boys, invite them, and may be Papa'll get out his violin, and you can have a little dance."

You see, Mother was a girl herself once. She doesn't forget her feelings, and she talks over such things with me just as though she were another girl. Of course I was only too delighted to obey, but still, I must confess, although it was very nice, it didn't help me out of the real difficulty a bit. It gave the girls something fresh to talk about, however; and as it would be three weeks before Mr. Atherton would leave, the subject of his present dropped out of sight for a few days.

But that matter of the boys troubled me a great deal. We girls are all about fourteen and fifteen, and really, while we are almost young ladies, boys at that age are very boyish. They don't know what to do with their hands, nor how to ask one to dance, nor to do anything nicely. I mean the generality of boys; of course my brothers do, but then they have had Mamma to train them, and sisters to practice with ever since they were little, which, of course, makes a difference. If it were not that I hated to give up the dancing, and if it wasn't such a bother to dance with a girl with a handkerchief tied on her arm--because she keeps forgetting she is a boy, and taking the wrong hand and everything is put out--I should have given up the idea of asking any boys.

Again I flew to my never-failing refuge in time of trouble, and Mother drew out her needle slowly from the stocking she was darning, and began to consider the matter.

"You see, Mother, it isn't a grand affair, but I want it to be as pleasant a time of its kind as possible, and a lot of awkward boys would just spoil it."

"Now, don't decry the boys, my dear; they are a very good institution in their place."

"Yes, indeed, but their place is sliding downhill, or skating, not in a girls' party trying to be agreeable; and they have sense enough to know it. You know yourself how impossible it is to get Joe to go anywhere with me, and he is a model of politeness, compared with most of his associates."

"Well, it wouldn't be quite fair to punish the boys, and girls, too, in trying to amuse them," Mother replied. "There are boys enough who would be interested in this little gathering of yours. There are those three lads at the minister's, who are fitting themselves for college. They are not more than sixteen years old, and ought not to be above a little informal party. Besides, Mrs. Grey told me she wished they knew some people who would make their stay pleasanter for them. Then there is young Mr. Adams, at Dr. Preston's, I know he would come, and his mother wrote me, asking me to be good to him."

"Oh, what a dear mother you are, _that_ puts the success of the thing beyond doubt!"

"There are four good names, then, to start with," said Mother; "and those, with John and Sam, Father's young friends, will be a good beginning. As for the rest, let the girls themselves invite them; there's nothing like making people responsible for the success of a thing."

Well, the next day being Wednesday I took the class into my confidence, and between us all we made out a list of gentlemanly and agreeable boyfriends; but the four that Mother took it upon herself to invite were the best of all.

Well, every one came; not one of the thirty was missing. Through all Father's troubles, we had kept our house, because Mother's father gave it to her when she married. It was a large old-fashioned house with a wide hall that went right through it; two sets could dance there and one in each parlor. When I was tired, Mother took my place at the piano; and with Father at the violin we had as good music as one could wish for dancing. All the girls wore their best dresses but without finery, and everything went off beautifully. At eleven we had our simple refreshments. Mother had cut up a sheet of mottoes and scattered them among the popped corn, and they made ever so much fun. When that was over and we were standing about before beginning anything else, Father suddenly spoke up, saying that there was a little matter to which he would like to call attention; he supposed that the masculine portion of his audience would hardly be thrilled, but the girls, he knew, would be deeply interested. Then he went on to say that there had been some talk among the young ladies of getting up a surprise present for their teacher, and that an album had been spoken of; but he said he had a scheme that seemed to him much better. Then he brought out a sheet of Bristol board, beautifully ornamented with scroll work, and handsomely engrossed upon it was a set of resolutions saying how sorry we were that Mr. Atherton was going to leave, how much we had profited by his stay with us, and expressing our best wishes for his future. I don't, of course, give all this in Father's words, but after he had read the testimonial, he made a capital, witty speech. Then he called on us all to sign the testimonial if we approved it. He told us, too, that he could have the sheet nicely framed for three dollars, which would involve a cost of only twenty cents to each subscriber; and he would venture to say that Mr. Atherton would be even better pleased with the testimonial proposed than with something more expensive.

Of course it "took" immediately; all the girls were delighted and signed it there and then, in their very best handwriting, and most of them paid their twenty cents at once. We empowered Father to have it framed, and they voted that I should make the presentation. But the fact that Father had entered into it so well and done so much just for my pleasure touched me more than all. I knew that he had given a great deal of attention to ornamental penmanship, but I had no idea he could make so handsome a scroll as that testimonial. I always knew, of course, that Father loved his children. If any of us are sick, he is as tender as a woman; and he daily makes all manner of sacrifices for us; but here he showed that he had a great deal of sympathy with all our hopes and plans.

Of course, with the cake and coffee and everything, the entertainment cost more than my contribution and picture would have done, but it seems that Mother had been planning for some time to do something for me which should help me pay my party obligations, and that was not the only time when she proved that she has "the happy faculty of common sense," as Father says.

I do believe my little party was more talked about than those of many of the other girls, though they cost many times as much money as did mine.

Well, examination day came, and when I presented the testimonial to Mr. Atherton, though I said only a word or two, he could hardly speak at all, and he told Father afterward that we couldn't have pleased him better. It seems that he had heard some whispers about a present, and had a fear that it was going to be something expensive, and felt troubled about it; for, as he told Father, he couldn't refuse a thing before it was offered him, and he didn't know what to do; but the testimonial he could accept with real pleasure and satisfaction.

You can hardly imagine what a different position I have occupied in school since that affair. I was never really unpopular, but I was seldom appealed to. Now, however, I am consulted about everything, and my opinion has a great deal of weight with the girls.--But I know where the honor really belongs, and I always say it is because Father so well carried out Mother's idea.

THE SATCHEL.

BY TUDOR JENKS.

I was just graduated from college, when I received a letter from my uncle Ralph, which surprised me very much, as I had never known him except by name. I had always been told by my mother that he was very eccentric, and certainly the letter was queer; for it read:

"Nephew Dick (if that's your name):

"I want an assistant in my laboratory. I will pay you well. Answer at
once.

"UNCLE RALPH."

I was puzzled what to say in reply. I had no profession in view, and didn't like to throw away what might be a good chance. I talked it over with my mother, and she said she thought it would be worth trying and could certainly do no harm. So, not to be outdone in brevity, I answered:

"Dear Uncle Ralph:

"If terms suit, I'll try.

"Your nephew DICK."

I think he was pleased with the answer, for he received me very cordially, though he didn't say much. My salary was quickly and satisfactorily settled, and I took a room near my uncle's house and began my work.

At first I had so much to learn that I couldn't have earned my salt; but before very long I began to see my way clearly, and I really think I made myself useful--still I could not be sure.

Strangely enough, I never could tell what my uncle was trying to accomplish. I made many mixtures of chemicals, prepared all sorts of apparatus, but was never allowed to see what my uncle was about. Whenever I had prepared any materials, he would carry them off into a little private room of which he always kept the key upon his watch-chain. No one was allowed to enter this room, and I soon learned that it was wisest to say nothing concerning it. Not being inquisitive, I did not pry into the mystery, but did whatever I was told to do, without asking any questions.

As time went on, I could see that my uncle was becoming very nervous and irritable over his work. Always a silent man, he now seldom spoke a word.

One day he sent me to buy him some chemicals, giving me a list which he had written out for me. Upon examining the list I found that the articles would make a large package, so I picked up my little traveling-bag and started out.

Some of the substances required were rare, and I was obliged to ask at a number of places before I succeeded in finding them; and it was dusk when I reached the house.

I heard my uncle calling me as I came in, and found him very impatient.

"Did you get them all?" he asked, as soon as he saw me.

"Yes; after some trouble," I replied.

"Where are they?" he inquired.

"Here," I said, and I handed him the bag.

He took it without a word, and immediately retired into his private room.

During his absence, I busied myself in the laboratory in putting everything in order. I worked away for a long while--how long I can not exactly tell--when suddenly I heard an explosion in my uncle's little room, followed by a cry.

I rushed to the door and knocked.

"What is it?" he growled.

"What is the matter?" I cried.

"Nothing! Don't be foolish!" said my uncle. "Nothing can hurt me!"

I went back to the laboratory, and, having nothing further to do, sat down to wait for his coming.

Again came the explosion, followed by the same cry.

I started up and, before I thought, I cried aloud, "You're not hurt, are you?"

The door opened suddenly, and my uncle came out, looking very much excited.

"Dick!" said he, "go home. Here is your bag. I shan't need your help to-night."

I took what I thought was my bag, and went home to my room.

When I lighted my student-lamp I saw that, instead of my traveling-bag, my uncle had given me an old, dusty, wrinkled and battered leather satchel, which looked as though it might be a century old.

I laughed, and tried to open it. It was locked. After puzzling over the lock until I was tired, I opened my closet door and flung the satchel upon the highest shelf.

"To-morrow," said I, "I'll exchange it for my own bag."

I am afraid Uncle Ralph's treatment was beginning to affect my temper. I didn't like the way he had treated me that night. Then he hadn't paid me my salary for a long time, and my bills were coming in faster than I could pay them.

It is very discouraging to do other men's work, especially when you are not allowed to see the results of your labor; and I had worked some months without a single hint of what I was about. I began to believe I had made a mistake. What good would it do me to work away in the dark, learning little or nothing, and without hope of doing better? My uncle would tell me nothing, and was provoked by being even questioned.

I became very much discouraged over my prospects, and wondered whether I ought not to confess I had made a mistake, and to begin the study of some regular profession.

How long I sat thinking, I can not tell; but I was aroused by the faint flicker of my fire as it went out, leaving me in perfect darkness.

As I groped about my room, looking for matches, I heard a rustling which seemed to come from the other side of the room. Then came tiny knockings, irregularly, and muffled shouting, as though far away.

By listening more intently I heard the sounds plainly enough to distinguish the squeaking of mice and--could I be mistaken?--a scream; very faint, it is true, but still a scream of fright.

"Ah!" said I to myself, "there must be mice in the closet! But what can the scream be?"

I went to the closet, and, opening the door, was amazed to see that the upper part was faintly lighted, as though by a big fire-fly. Puzzled at this, I brought a chair, and, climbing upon it, saw--a grand battle. Upon one end of the shelf was a flying host of mice. How they scurried away! Some jumped to the floor; some seemed to merely vanish, and they were gone!

While smiling at their panic, what was my surprise to hear from the other end of the shelf some one addressing me in a piping, little voice.

"Eh?" I exclaimed; "did any one speak?"

"I had the honor!" the voice replied.

Turning, I saw upon the shelf a diminutive figure carrying a little lantern in one hand, and something like a needle in the other.

Before I could recover from my astonishment, and not before I had been asked sarcastically whether I should know him the next time we met, the little man went on:

"This is a pretty way to treat me,--isn't it?"

"What in the world--what can this mean?" I blundered out.

"Well! I like that," replied the pigmy in a scornful tone; "asking what this can mean, after having kept me shut up in that old leather satchel for over two thousand years!--Why, I should have been starved before long; my provisions were almost gone, I can tell you! Perhaps you think I'm not hungry now? Oh, no! of course not!--and you want to know what this means?"

Here he burst out laughing so loudly that I plainly heard it.

"I should be glad to do anything in my power to aid you," I began, wishing to do my best to pacify the little fellow; "but as for having kept you shut up for twenty centuries, why, my dear fellow, that's simply absurd, for I am only twenty-three years old now!"

"Oh, see here," he answered scornfully, "that's a little more than I can stand! You've played the innocent game long enough; you can't fool me that way again. Why, I suppose you will deny that your name is Trancastro, next?" and he hopped up and down in a rage.

"Tran----which? Tran----what?" I began.

"That's right, that's right!" cried the little imp in a perfect fury. "Go on--deny everything!"

"See here!" I cried, now out of patience with his whims, "I don't know anything about you or your Tran-what-you-may-call-him, and if you hadn't kicked up such a racket in my closet I never would have come near you!--I wish I hadn't, and then the mice would have finished you--and a good riddance!"

As I paused for breath the little man held his lantern as near my face as possible, and after a long, earnest look, said with great gravity and deliberation:

"I think I must have made a mistake!"

Then, turning suddenly, he gave a great skip and shouted out, "And then--I am free!"

"Certainly you are, so far as I am concerned," I replied carelessly; "but I can't imagine what all this fuss is about. So long as you are pleased, I suppose I must be satisfied."

Meanwhile he had continued to jump and whirl about, until he dropped his lantern and it went out, leaving us in the dark. Then he calmed down enough to say, "What can _you_ know about it? You--only twenty-three years old!" He chuckled as though this were a great joke at my expense, and went on, "If you will offer me a chair and something to eat, I'll tell you the whole story."

So I stepped down from the chair, lighted my student-lamp, and offered my little guest my hand. Into it he climbed, and I deposited him upon the table under the light, where I could see him plainly.

He was about six inches in height and dressed in what seemed to be mouse-skin. He wore a little belt and a helmet the size of a thimble. His face was unwrinkled, but intelligent enough for any age.

Seeing he was unwilling to be stared at, I broke the silence by saying, "I am sorry I can not offer you a chair--but mine are too large, I am afraid." I feared he might be hurt by the hint.

"Not at all!" he replied politely, now that he had convinced himself I was not that awful Tran-somebody, "see here!"

He beckoned to my favorite easy-chair. At once it rose gently into the air, and, dwindling down to a size suitable for the little wretch, dropped softly down upon the table beside him.

Ignoring my exclamations, he seated himself comfortably within it, and, looking up at me, said, as though nothing had happened, "I said I would tell you all about it, didn't I?"

"Yes," I answered, leaning eagerly forward.

"Well, I'll not!" said he bluntly.

"You'll not?--and why not?" I asked.

"Oh," said he, calmly crossing his little legs, "you couldn't understand it."

"Perhaps I could," I replied, smiling indulgently. "Just try me."

"Do you know what _dnax_ is?" he asked, apparently hoping that I might.

"No, I can't say I do--exactly," I confessed unwillingly.

"Then of course you couldn't understand it--for that's the very beginning of it!--But no matter. Let's change the subject. Is there anything I can do for you in return for your hospitality to a hungry guest?"

"I beg your pardon--I quite forgot," and I rang the bell.

When the servant came, I ordered supper for two. This strange order caused the servant to gape in silent astonishment. I repeated the order, however, and she hurried away without asking any questions. Returning, she placed the supper upon the table, without seeing the frantic retreat of the little man as she approached the table with the heavy tray.

"What an awkward blockhead!" exclaimed the angry little fellow. I made no answer, being puzzled over the proper way to ask my small friend to eat with a knife and fork larger than himself.

But, as I hesitated, the mysterious beckoning process again took place, and one-half the contents of the tray diminished to a size convenient for his use. He ate almost greedily, like a starving man. I watched him in silent wonder until he seemed to be satisfied.

Then, pushing back his chair, he said gratefully: "A very nice supper! I should like to return your kindness in some way. You little know what a service you have done me in releasing me from that cruel Trancast----"

Here he broke off suddenly and remained in a brown study. He seemed so melancholy that I interrupted his thoughts by asking:

"And what could you do for me?" He brightened up again as I spoke, and answered:

"Who can tell? What are your troubles?"

"Well," said I thoughtfully, "I haven't many. But I should like the advice of some one older and wiser than I am."

"I shall not say how _wise_ I may be," said the little man soberly; "but perhaps, having lived forty centuries, I may be old enough to advise a young man of twenty-three."

I looked up, expecting to see him smiling, but he was as sober as a judge. So I told him all about my uncle and my work, and concluded by asking him what he thought I ought to do. He seemed intensely interested, and remained silent some moments after I had finished. I waited more anxiously for his opinion than I should have liked to admit.

At length he said solemnly, "Bring your uncle to me!"

"Bring----" I repeated, in amazement, "bring my----"

"Bring your uncle to me!" he repeated firmly, and so solemnly that I never thought of resisting.

"Oh, very well," I said hastily; "but how in the world am I to do it?"

"Easily enough!" he explained; "write him a note!"

"But what shall I say?" I asked helplessly.

"You said he was interested in chemistry?" asked the strange little fellow.

"I believe he cares for nothing else," I replied.

"Very well. Now write this: 'I have made a discovery to-night such as you never dreamed of. Come at once!' That will bring him," said my guest.

Why I was so easily bullied by the manikin I can not tell; but I wrote the note and sent it at once.

"Now," resumed my little guest, "what else can I do for you?"

"Nothing," I replied, laughing; "unless you will pay my bills for me!"

"With pleasure," he answered gravely; "let me see them."

I brought the bills, and he went over them very carefully.

"Hm--hm--very good!" he said, when he had finished his examination. "You have not been very extravagant. I'll reduce them for you!"

He began beckoning, as he had beckoned to the chair and the tea-tray, and I smiled, expecting to see the papers grow smaller and smaller. But when he stopped I could see no change, although he seated himself as though well satisfied. As he said nothing, I finally ventured to say:

"Well!"

"Well," he replied; "look at your bills!"

I picked them up and was astonished to see that the amounts had dwindled from dollars to cents, until each bill was for only a hundredth part of what it had been.

"But that is nonsense!" I said, looking up angrily. "I'm not a baby! What good will that do?"

"You're only twenty-three," he said, doubtfully; and smiling as a knock was heard at the door, he made me a sign to open it.

I did so, and there stood my tailor, Mr. Mewlett. I frowned, for I owed him more than a hundred dollars. But he smiled politely, saying, "Could you oblige me with that dollar or two you owe me? I need a little change to-night."

I stared at him in wonder; but, thinking it wise to ask no questions, I took his bill from the pile on the table and handed it to him.

He read it aloud: "One dollar and fourteen cents."

I counted out the money. He receipted the bill and left me, seeming perfectly contented.

I dropped into a chair, too much puzzled to say a word.

Just then the door banged open wide, and in came my uncle, puffing and blowing with the exertion of climbing the stairs.

"Well, on what fool's errand have you brought me here----" he began; but suddenly I heard a shriek from the pigmy on the table. As I turned, he began beckoning--beckoning--beckoning, as if he were frantic.

I turned to look at my uncle.

He was gone.

Then I turned again to the little man on the table--What a sight met my eyes!

There stood upon the table the miniature image of my uncle, staring with wide-open eyes at the little figure of my guest.

For a moment they glared at each other--and then, before I could interfere, they were fighting for their lives.

It was over in a second.

My uncle was too old and feeble to be a match for the wiry little warrior in leather.

As they separated, my uncle seemed to be wounded, for he staggered an instant, and then fell backward, staining the cloth like an overturned bottle of red ink.

"You scoundrel!" I cried, starting forward in anger; "what have you done?"

For a moment the little fellow had no breath to answer. He panted helplessly, and at length gasped out:

"It is--but--justice! It is Trancastro!"

"Trancastro!" I exclaimed--"that was my uncle! Explain!--I can not understand!"

"Do you know what _dnax_ is?" he asked, as he wiped his sword on a napkin.

"No!" I shouted.

"Then you _couldn't_ understand," he said, mournfully shaking his head.

Enraged by his answer, I rushed for the table; but, before I could reach them, my uncle struggled to his feet and resumed the conflict, using his umbrella most valiantly. I paused a moment, hoping he might yet conquer--but the fight was too unequal. By a skillful twist of his opponent's wrist my uncle's umbrella was sent flying out of his hand. Being disarmed, he sank upon one knee and begged for mercy.

"Trancastro!" cried the victor, "you deserve no better fate than the cruel death you meant for me!"

"Oh, have mercy!" cried my uncle.

I could not stand this. The honor of the family forbade me to remain neutral. I rushed to the table, crying, "Here! here!--this has gone quite far enough!"

Again the beckoning! I became in a moment a third pigmy upon my own table!

"Now," exclaimed the triumphant warrior, "we are upon equal terms! Come on!"

I had no weapon. I dared not interfere. While I stood hesitating, the little tyrant made a slipknot from one of my curtain-cords, threw the noose over my uncle's neck, and rose into the air, dragging his victim after him. I heard a breaking of glass, and, regaining my natural size in a moment, rushed to the window only to see them flying away!

All that remained to convince me that I could not be mistaken was the stain upon the cloth, the little arm-chair, and the miniature supper. I searched the room, but found nothing.

Until now I have never told the story--for who would have believed it? But any one who believes my story, and would like to see what remains of Trancastro and his victim, has only to open the battered little satchel, and there can still be seen the little chair, the little knife and fork, and all the relics left by my guest. No unbeliever shall ever see them.

WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

BY HENRY ECKFORD.

FOURTH PAPER.

You would hardly believe it possible that there are so many alphabets in the world which seem to have nothing to do with one another--neither coming one from another by borrowing, nor descending, apparently, from the same alphabet thousands of years ago. The numbers of existing nations and of men to-day are as nothing compared with those that have perished. So the number of existing alphabets and syllabaries are but as a handful compared to those that have passed away and left no trace whatever. Writings on paper and bark can remain only as long as the paper and bark hold together; even in Egypt, where, owing to the dryness of the climate, paper lasts longer than elsewhere, it can last only a few thousand years. Nations that once for long periods possessed writings are now completely unknown, and with them their alphabets also have perished, because no record of their existence was left on rock, brick, or pottery. What looks, therefore, like an abundance of material by which to read the life of alphabets is really very little compared to what we ought to have.

You remember how nations like the Phoenicians, when adopting a new series of letters, name these letters according to their own fancy, just as we sometimes teach children their alphabet by saying, "A was an Archer" (or we may prefer to have A stand for an Apple, or some other word beginning with A); and "B was a Butcher," or "a Bear," or some other word beginning with B. There is no doubt that both the Romans and the Greeks had lists of words useful to remind children of their letters. Now, our alphabet came directly to us from the Irish missionaries and professors of religion and wisdom, who taught Christianity to the heathen Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Goths, Germans, Danes, and Swedes, several centuries after the death of our Lord. They did not learn from the Phoenicians, although they have traditions that seem to point to settlers in Ireland bearing a similar name. Instead of using the Latin names for the letters taken from the Christian Romans, they gave them names of their own. Their wise and pious men had been members of, or were the pupils of, a class of learned heathens called the Druids. In ancient Ireland, a _druï_ was prophet, priest, doctor, and magician, and the name seems to be connected with our word tree. It was against the rule of the Druids to write things down. They were in the habit of retiring to the deepest woods for meditation and study, sometimes attended by pupils. That is probably the reason why the Irish, among whom the Druids retained their power the longest,--because Ireland was the hardest to reach of all the great islands thereabouts, and the last to feel the changes taking place elsewhere in Europe,--chose this pretty system of naming the letters of the Latin alphabet when it became common. Instead of calling A, _alpha_, as the Latins usually did, they said A, _ailm_, the word which stood in their language for palm-tree and came, in sound, nearest to _alpha_, and began with an _A_. Instead of _beta_ they said _beith_, the word for birch-tree, almost the same in sound as the Phoenician, but quite different in meaning. And so with the other letters: _Coll_, hazel; _duir_, oak; _eadha_, aspen; _fearan_, alder; _gort_, ivy; _huath_, whitethorn; _iogha_, yew; _luis_, mountain-ash; _muin_, vine; _nuin_, ash; _oir_, broom; _peith_, dwarf-elder; _suil_, willow; _teine_, furze; _ur_, heath. They called this alphabet _bethluisnion_, choosing out the letters B, L, and N, instead of the letters A and B, to form a name. Another term, more nearly like the word alphabet, was _aibcitie_, or A-B-C order, the syllable _tie_ meaning order, or sequence. Living in wooden houses, in lands mostly covered with trees, the people of Ireland were specially fond of plants, and so named their letters from plants alone. Such a method may possibly point to an early syllabic system among these races, founded on pictures of trees and plants, on leaves, on hunting-tools, and things connected with woodcraft; but at present we can only make this guess. It is very unlikely that so early and rude a writing would be placed on stone or metal, and so come down to us. The Egyptians used trees or plants but seldom, either in their symbolic or alphabetic hieroglyphics. Our S alone, of the letters, comes from a little picture of growing plants, which is supposed to represent a garden overflowed by the Nile. Egypt was peculiarly wanting in forests. Population was dense and animals abounded. On the other hand, a partiality for trees is found in all the Celtic tribes. The intense love of nature shown in the modern literature of Germany, France, and Italy, of Great Britain and the United States, may be traced to the Highland Scotch, and from this may be derived the still more modern passion for pictures of landscape.

OLD IRISH ALPHABET.
---------------------------------------------------
_Capitals._ _Small letters._ | _Name._ | _English._
-----------------------------+---------+-----------
{A} {a} | Ailm. | a
| |
{B} {b} | Beith. | b
| |
{C} {c} | Coll. | c
| |
{D} {d} | Duir. | d
| |
{E} {e} | Eadha. | e
| |
{F} {f} | Fearan. | f
| |
{G} {g} | Gort. | g
| |
{H} {h} | Huath. | h
| |
{I} {i} | Iogha. | i
| |
{L} {l} | Luis. | l
| |
{M} {m} | Muin. | m
| |
{N} {n} | Nuin. | n
| |
{O} {o} | Oir. | o
| |
{P} {p} | Peith. | p
| |
{R} {r} | Ruis. | r
| |
{S} {s} | Suil. | s
| |
{T} {t} | Teine. | t
| |
{U} {u} | Ur. | u

The clans of Scotland, blood relations and descendants of the Irish, chose for emblems, or "badges," either a plant or its flower. Thus, the MacKays chose the bulrush. The general badge for Irishmen, as you know, is a little plant like the sorrel, called the shamrock; while that for Scotland is, appropriately enough, the hardy, prickly, but not unbeautiful thistle. The English, too, show traces of the same idea; their race-badge is the rose, a foreign plant, perhaps because they were more thoroughly subjugated by the Normans than were the Scotch and Irish; perhaps because their land is like a rose-garden for cultivation. Now, some Irishmen have claimed that the Phoenicians made settlements in Ireland many centuries before Christ. If they ever taught their alphabet to the tribes of that island, it has been crowded out by others, or has fallen into disuse. Some kind of writing had existed before the Christians introduced the _bethluisnion_; there is hardly a doubt that altered Greek letters, known as Runes, were used in Ireland; but with the exception of the mysterious Oghans, which will be noticed further on, none are to be found; for, just as nations have been struggling with nations from the earliest period to which we can look back, and forms of government with other forms, and languages with languages, so systems of writing have been struggling with systems of writing. Sooner or later the best, that is to say, the most convenient, alphabet wins the day. Within a few centuries, the rounded and perfected form of the Christian alphabet has taken the place of the old Irish alphabet, which was itself an earlier form of the very same Christian letters.

You have traced your letters back through the Irish missionaries to the Christians of Rome; but how did they come to Rome? You must know that among the great and renowned cities founded by the Phoenicians in Greece was Chalkis, a town in the island of Euboea. This island is close to the mainland of Greece, and its inhabitants are called Boeotians. Now the Athenians, who considered themselves very smart people, used to make all manner of fun about the stupidity of the Boeotians. But just why the Boeotians were thought very stupid folk, unless through jealousy or rivalry, I do not see, for one of the greatest poets of the world, called Pindar, was a Boeotian, and many famous generals, artists, architects, painters, and writers came from the ranks of this so-called stupid folk. And for all the fun they liked to make of these island people, the rest of Greece, including Athens, very likely had to come to the Boeotians for the alphabet. But you are not to suppose that the Phoenicians came to Euboea in the flourishing days of Athens, when the marvelous sculptors lived. It was long before. And the Latins of Italy, in their turn, took their letters from the Greek-Phoenicians of Chalkis long, long before Rome became a famous town. And it was because of great wars and the attacks of Asiatic nations that the people who had the best alphabet came to Europe at all.

The Phoenicians were driven out of Asia Minor by the armies of other nations, which, under different names, are mentioned in the Bible, and perhaps among these were the Jews, in whose language the Bible has come down to us. It is more than probable that the ambition of great nations still farther to the eastward, drove the nearer nations of Syria upon the Phoenicians, who held the sea coast. But there was another inducement. The Phoenicians became very rich from their trading voyages; and also, I fear, from their plundering and kidnapping of slaves, for the Mediterranean was the haunt of buccaneers until the Romans frightened pirates into some kind of peaceableness. Even in this century it was necessary for the United States to send a fleet against the pirates that sailed from ports in Northern Africa. The riches of the Phoenician towns must have tempted the neighboring tribes to attack them. At any rate, having already made many settlements elsewhere, the Phoenicians began to give way more than a thousand years B. C., and to take refuge in their old or new colonies. Some old Greek traditions tell how Kadmus, a mighty leader and a very wise man in all the arts and sciences, came over from Asia and taught the Boeotians letters. In Phoenician the word Kadmus means the East-man, while the word Europe, which gradually was applied to a vast extent of land, a continent, at first belonged only to the land just across from the island of Euboea, on the other side of the narrow strait called Euripus, and means, in Phoenician, the West-land. So when you read of Kadmus coming to Europe it is the East-man coming to the Westland. Over and over again in history we find names to which all sorts of fanciful derivations have been given, and beautiful legends and myths have been attached, turning out to be the simplest kind of words. Thus, Ireland also means the Westland, and it comes from the Celtic word _iar_ and our word _land_; _iar_ meaning the West. _Iar_, before being used to denote the West, meant the back, and that fact lets us into an important secret concerning the religion of the Celts who first came over the Irish sea to the Emerald Island. It tells us that those early men named the points of the compass according to the other directions when the observer faced toward the East. So the East was named from front, or forward, the West from back or behind, the North from left hand, and the South from right hand. That means that the early Celts worshiped the Dawn and the Sunrise. And so faithfully have the old traditions remained in men's minds in that big western island of the British Empire that, to this day, the emblem on the coat of arms of Ireland is a sunburst, or rising sun.

Another curious thing is that it is more than probable that the Irish preference of the color green, for their flag and their sashes, arose from a mistake among those who had lost a thorough knowledge of the old Irish language. The sun, in Irish, is called by a word pronounced like our word "green"; and it is likely that the Irish fondness for that color arose from the word's exact likeness in sound to their word for the sun. In the same way, when we talk about greenhouses, we think they are called so because the plants are kept green in them during winter. Yet it is far more probable that "green," here, is the Irish word meaning, not the color, but the sun; because greenhouses are built so as to catch the sun's rays and store them up while it is hidden by clouds, as happens more than half the time in showery Ireland.