Chapter XVI: Leading the Army (3)

But to return to Kadmus, the man, or the representation of the men, who to the ancient Greeks seemed to come out of the East. There was in Greece an ancient people whom men called the Pelasgi, or sea-people, because they seemed to live on the sea, so easy and so much at home were they on board their long black ships. Moreover, "sea-people" was a ready enough name for those who dwelt so much on islands. This Pelasgian folk at one time conquered the half of Egypt with their fleets, and with the aid of other nations. Now, when in the course of centuries, the Greeks had learned a great many things besides masonry and seacraft from the Pelasgians, and letters and seamanship from the Phoenicians,--they too, like the Syrian nations, began to push the people who had been their teachers out of their islands and towns. Doubtless the Phoenicians were very arrogant and imperious people, who fancied that their riches made them the superiors of all poorer folk, and that justice only existed for the rich. By that time they had made many flourishing settlements in Italy, Spain, and Northern Africa, and they became famous for the last time in their towns of Northern Africa, where they left numerous different alphabets. Finally the Romans, jealous of their commerce and wealth, managed to ruin their navies, defeat their armies, and sack and destroy their cities, among which the greatest was Carthage, meaning, in Phoenician, New Town. Some day, if you have not yet studied it, you can learn in Roman history all about the Roman destruction of Carthage and the time of the Punic wars. When those wars occurred, the Carthaginians were making a last effort to remain masters of the western parts of what are now called Europe and Africa, then the most western portion of the civilized world.

ST. NICHOLAS DOG STORIES.

XIV.--THE LEFT-FIELD OF THE LINCOLN NINE.

BY C. F. H.

"Pay his fare in, please, Mister!"

The speaker was a ragged little urchin, with a bright, jolly face, who stood at the entrance of a base-ball ground. By his side sat a great black poodle. The dog looked up at me with such a solemn and woe-begone expression that I laughed outright, whereupon the boy took courage and repeated his request: "Pass him in, Mister; it's only a dime. We're under age."

"Do you mean the dog?" I asked.

"Yes," was the reply. "He's a base-baller. He hasn't missed a game this season; and," the boy continued earnestly, "I wouldn't have him miss one, either. But, you see, Mother's rent's due to-day, so we've no extra cash,--have we, Major?" And the big poodle wagged its tail and showed its teeth in a broad dog-laugh.

It certainly was the most remarkable-looking poodle I had ever seen. It was a pure black, with the back part of its body shaved to the skin except where, on the top, the hair had been left in the shape of an anchor. A tuft only was left at the end of the tail; the feet had bracelets or anklets of hair, and as the dog's head and chest were not clipped it looked like a lion from the front; but from the side it was the most comical-looking object you can possibly imagine, while in looking down upon it, the symbol of hope was always presented; and this anchor, as I learned afterward, was emblematical of the Major's chief characteristic.

"What're the chances, Mister?" asked his owner, after I had examined the dog for a few moments.

"I think they are good," I replied. "But why do you wish him to go in? Does he belong to either nine?"

"No, he doesn't," responded my new acquaintance; "but," confidentially, "he's left-field in the 'Lincolns,' and if you knew how badly he'd feel to miss this game, you'd pass him in."

"Can he play?" I inquired in an incredulous tone.

"Can he play?" the youngster retorted indignantly, adding, "Can you, Major?" as he turned to the dog. The animal showed all its teeth, and cast up its solemn eyes, saying "yes," as plainly as possible.

"You just come with me a minute, Mister," continued the small speaker; and leading me around the corner, away from the crowd, he drew a well-worn base-ball from a dilapidated pocket, and tossed it to me. "He does best at a fly-catch," he remarked; "and when I say he's left-field of our nine, it's as much as to say he isn't a muffer."

Curious to see what the dog would do, I tossed the ball at him, and it landed fair in his capacious mouth, and was held there.

"That's not what he wants, Mister," said Major's young master. "Throw it up high,--just as high as you can."

I drew back my arm and looked up; and on the instant Major had become like another dog. His ears stood up, his eyes flashed, and the hairy emblem of hope seemed to wriggle like a snake as he danced backward, barking in loud, jubilant tones. This time I threw the ball as high as I could. Up it went, so high, in fact, that I doubt if I could have caught it myself, as it is some years since I severed my connection with a base-ball nine. But the moment it left my hand, Major seemed to know where it was going to fall; he watched it for a second, then ran back about twenty feet, and as it turned in the air, he was directly under it.

Down it came, right over the dog, which stood with legs braced apart, and tail wagging slowly; then a red mouth opened, a row of white teeth glistened and----Major had caught the ball! A few seconds later he delivered it to me, with a wag of his tail that said plainly, "You're out, Mister."

So good a player certainly deserved to see the game, and we were soon within the high fence. At once Major took up his stand behind the scorer, and watched the game with the greatest gravity, occasionally, when a heavy strike was made, running out, as if to see who caught it, and uttering a single bark of satisfaction. Everybody seemed to know him, and had a friendly pat or word for him; in fact, it was evident that the dog was one of the base-ball fraternity.

When the game broke up, Major's master invited me to be present at a match-game of the "Lincolns," on the ensuing Saturday. The rival nines were made up of boys under thirteen, black and white, and Major. As I reached the ground, it was his inning, and his master, who claimed the privilege of striking for him, was at the bat. The dog was right behind with one paw in advance, and his eyes on the striker. In came the twisters, and Major made several false starts; but, finally, as the ball went scudding from the bat, off he rushed for first base, his ears flapping, his plumelike tail out straight behind. But the short-stop was too nimble for the dog, and just before he reached the base, the ball arrived there, and he came slowly back, his tail hanging low, and a very mournful expression in his great eyes.

"Maje's out,--side out!" cried the boys, and immediately conceiving a method by which he could retrieve this disaster, the dog seemed to regain his spirits, dashed into the field, and was speedily in his position as left-fielder, before any of the others had reached their places.

In the preliminary "pass around" that preceded the play, Major was not left out, and I saw that the balls that were thrown at him directly were quite as swift as those delivered from base to base; and in justice to him, I never saw him "muff." When a ball was thrown at him, he settled back, and dropped his great lower jaw, into which the projectile seemed to fit; then, with tail wagging, he would hasten to carry the ball to the next player. He was equally proficient with low balls, either catching them in his mouth or stopping them with his broad chest, and in fielding he could not be outdone. When he caught a ball, he carried it at full speed to the nearest thrower, and not a few players were put out by his quick motions and activity.

But perhaps the strangest part of it all was the delight and pleasure that Major took in the game. He showed it in every motion, speaking with his tail as well as his eyes and mouth, and I doubt if any of the boys had a greater interest in the sport.

Major's accomplishments were not confined to base-ball playing. He could perform numerous tricks, and understood, or pretended to understand, everything that was said; and if the gentleman in London who is so industriously endeavoring to teach dogs to talk, could only borrow Major, he might achieve success.

Major would take a ten-cent piece to the baker, and bring home a loaf of bread, and no such tricks as giving him the wrong change or a bogus loaf could be successfully played upon him by the neighbors. I was told that one day when given a counterfeit quarter, Major gravely bit it, smiled a contemptuous smile, and wagged his head in disapproval; but this I will not vouch for. He did so many wonderful things, however, that one would hardly be surprised at any feat attributed to him.

"How came you to clip him in such a fashion?" I asked of his master.

"Because he's so hopeful," answered my new acquaintance. "When we first came to town we were very, very poor. We're not so very rich now," he added, confidentially; "but in those times we had only a dollar or two at a time, for all of us, and Mother used to sit and cry, and you'd have thought there wasn't any hope for us. But Major was never discouraged. Whenever Mother began to cry, he'd walk up to her, and laugh, and show his teeth, and then she'd almost always look up and put her arms around his neck and say, 'Maje, your'e tryin' to cheer us up; you're doing your best; I know you are;" and it seemed to make us all hopeful-like. And _he_ hadn't anything to be cheerful for, either. One day we were at our worst; there wasn't anything in the house; and cold! You wouldn't believe how cold it was, Mister! Maje had run out, and Mother was in the big chair, and I was ready to cry, because she looked so solemn; when there came a scratchin' at the door--and what d'ye s'pose? I pulled it open, and there was Maje with a basket in his mouth and a bundle tied on his back, and I never saw him more cheerful and hopeful in my life. Well, Mother broke out cryin', just at the time she ought to ha' been laughin', and she put her arms 'round Maje's neck. There was meat and cake and ever so much more in the basket, and it kept us from starvin'.

"Where did he get them? Why, that's the cur'ous part of it. We never could find it out from Maje; but there was a paper in the basket sayin': 'From a Friend.' But how Maje came to be acquainted with him just at that time, I don't see--do you, Mister?"

* * * * *

It often happens that dogs of no special breed, poor outcasts of the canine family, show the most remarkable characteristics.

A fire company in New York had for years a dog that was as faithful in its duties as any of the men, and on several occasions it called the attention of patrolmen to places where fires were smoldering. A certain drayman in the same city had a dog that spent its time upon the horse's back, and seemed to delight in exhibiting its equestrian skill. I have often seen the dray going down Broadway, the dog on the horse's back but keeping his place with difficulty when the horse moved rapidly.

XV.--A DOG THAT COULD CLIMB TREES.

BY C. F. H.

A friend of mine who lived in the Sierra Madre Mountains had a collie that was an inveterate tree-climber, and woe to the squirrel that climbed up a trunk that Jack could scale. Of course straight trees were out of the question; but one that grew at an angle of forty-five degrees, and had a rough bark, was quickly mounted by the collie.

This curious habit was the result of his passion for squirrel-hunting, and the moment one of those little animals would dart up a favorable tree, Jack was after it, scrambling up so high that he was often found by his master thirty or forty feet from the ground, barking fiercely at the squirrel, which had sought refuge on a limb beyond the reach of the dog. In returning, Jack would settle close to the tree-trunk, and back down, inch by inch, exercising great precaution, well knowing that with his short claws he was at a disadvantage. When within a few feet of the bottom he would slide and scramble to the ground.

XVI.--A SOCIABLE, SENSIBLE DOG.

BY E. P. ROE.

I once knew a dog, and he had earned his good name honestly. He was so genuine a sea-dog that he had been named Surf, and there was not a better sailor on the Maine island where he lived. Surf knew nearly all the islanders, and they knew him. Whenever he met any of them, he wagged his tail genially. It was his mode of saying good morning, or how-d'ye-do; and the people would always return his friendly greeting. There's an old saying, that "It's better to have the good-will than the ill-will of a dog." There were a few boys whom Surf snarled at, and you may rest assured that they were very rough, mean boys. The best young fellows thought Surf a fine comrade, with whom they could enjoy a romp almost as well as if he were a schoolmate. If his master or any of the family were going out in a boat, Surf was the first on board; and taking his place in the extreme bow, he saluted every one within hailing distance. No matter how hard it blew, or how blinding the spray, he maintained his place, vigilant and fearless. Thus he came to be the best-known and most popular dog on the island. Everybody had a smile for him; everybody had a good word for him. Many boys who go to school and can read and write are not so true and kind as was Surf.

So abounding in good nature was Surf that he made friends even of the people who passed by the island, and many passed every day. The channel followed by steamers was not far distant from the point on which his master, Mr. Andrews, lived. When a boat was nearly opposite this point Surf went down to the water's edge and barked, not in a spiteful, malicious way, but in cheery tones, as if calling out "How are you, old fellow!" The spirit in which anything is done is soon known, and the pilots of the steamboats began to answer his barking with the steam whistle. At this, Surf would wag his tail as if the proper courtesies had been exchanged, and return quietly to the house. So it came about that captains and crews and not a few of the passengers expected a salutation from Surf, whenever the boat neared the point.

Surf was not spoiled, however, by his popularity. He put on no airs whatever, and was just as ready to play with little Bob Andrews, and follow him about, as he was to "pass the time of day," after his fashion, with the captain of a steamer, or the richest man on the island. Bob was a reckless little mortal, and Surf appeared to have the impression that the boy needed looking after. Like many people who live by the sea, the Andrews family had the feeling that they could never be drowned, and no one was more venturesome than Bob in clambering over the rocks about the ocean's edge.

One day, however, he ventured too far and too carelessly, for he fell with a splash into deep water. The little fellow could not swim, and his bubbling cry for help could scarcely have been heard on the rock from which he fell, so loud was the noise of the dashing waves. Surf's tail became rigid with the stress of the emergency; then over the rock he went after his playmate. Seizing the boy by the coat-collar, he swam around the rock to a gravelly beach, and soon had him high, but not dry, on the shore. Indeed, the little fellow had taken so much water inside as well as out that he lay helpless and insensible, though beyond the breaking waves.

For a moment, Surf was puzzled. He knew his task was not finished; but what should he do next? A bright thought struck him. The day was windy, and the boy had pulled his little cap down over his ears so tightly that the waves had not washed it off. But Surf pulled it off with his teeth and ran at full speed with it to the house. The family was just gathering around the dinner-table when the great, wet dog bounded in and laid the well known cap on Mr. Andrews' chair.

"Merciful Heaven!" cried the father, seizing the cap and rushing out, followed by his wife and all the family.

Surf led the way, whining in a low tone, to where Bob lay, pale indeed, but already showing signs of life. Fortunately, Mr. Andrews was an intelligent man and knew just what to do. And so, within an hour, Bob was in his high chair at the table with the rest. But he shared his dinner, that day, with the brave dog that had saved his life.

Surf entered so heartily into the family rejoicing, and was so elated at the praise he received, that there seemed to be some danger that he would wag his tail off before the day ended.

Yet, even after this heroic act, Surf never so much as hinted by his manner, "See what a good dog I am!"

XVII.

A DOG WHOSE FEELINGS WERE HURT.

BY E. P. ROE.

Carlo felt himself to be one of the family. From his puppyhood days, he had been treated with great kindness and allowed to come into the house under certain restrictions. He also had accorded to the different members of the household various marks of his favor, according to his estimate of their deserts; but for his mistress and her sister he had unbounded affection. Whenever they walked abroad, he was their self-appointed guardian, and never had ladies a more attentive and gallant escort. Not only did he respond gratefully to any favor or notice that he received, but he was also ready to prove himself no carpet-knight should danger threaten the ladies.

Now Carlo felt that he was not a mere watch or churning dog--an animal kept for a purpose. By ties of long association and deep affection, he was one of the family. That he had his three meals daily did not suffice; he observed all that was going on, and noted any change that occurred. The absence of his mistress and her sister quite depressed his spirits, and when they returned his joy was great indeed.

They had been away, and they returned one summer evening. As they were greeting the members of the household, Carlo heard their voices, and came bounding in, intent on the most frisky, hearty and demonstrative of welcomes. At that critical moment, however, a flea on his back gave him a most venomous, distracting bite, and, half frantic from pain, Carlo turned his head so suddenly to return the bite, that he tumbled down on his nose and rolled over, cutting so awkward and ridiculous a figure that every one burst out laughing.

Carlo rose, and having given his mistress a look of reproach, walked with great dignity out of the room. And many were the apologies that had to be made before his wounded feelings were soothed and the old cordial relations resumed.

XVIII.--A DOG THAT REPAID A TRICK.

A gentleman in Bristol, England, owned a dog remarkable both for intelligence and devotion. The dog had been taught to run errands. It was a part of his daily duty to go to the meat-market, carrying a basket in which was the money to pay for the meat. One day his master thought he would put a new test to the dog's faithfulness and intelligence. He ordered the man who kept the market to take the money as usual, but to refuse the meat and order the dog to go home without it. This the market-man did, and the poor dog returned to the house dejected, melancholy, slow, with ears and tail hanging, and with the basket empty. Seeing his master, he seemed to try to put on an air of cheerfulness, evidently hoping that the situation would be understood. But, no; the master frowned upon him, scolded him harshly, and bade him go out of his sight. This was almost more than the poor fellow could bear, and sneaking out he crept under a table in an outer shed, where he lay for two days to all appearances in a state of gloomy despair. On the third day, his master called him out, speaking kindly to him again, and the dog was wild with joy. Again his master sent him to the market with the money in his basket. The dog went in, but this time he placed the money on the floor and put his paw on it, before he allowed the market-man to take the basket. When the man gave him the meat, the dog quickly whisked the money back into the basket and trotted off home with both meat and money, giving them to his master with an air of decided triumph.

XIX.--MEPHISTOPHELES.

BY ANNA GARDNER.

In that beautiful suburb of Philadelphia known as Germantown, lived a beautiful little gray Skye terrier with a very long name,--Mephistopheles. He was called Meph, for short; and a remarkably intelligent dog he was.

At one time Meph's master, who is a well known physician of Germantown, was ill. In the middle of the night, the dog bounded to the side of the bed, and laying its paw upon the arm of its master endeavored to awaken him. Having succeeded, it tried in various ways to attract his attention to the opposite side of the room; repeatedly leaving the bed and returning.

Unwilling to be disturbed, the invalid remained some time without noticing his little pet. But the animal became so importunate that the doctor could no longer remain impassive. He arose, and, following the dog to the bay-window on the other side of the room, he found, to his astonishment, that a goldfish had leaped out of the aquarium, and was panting almost lifeless on the carpet.

Meph evinced much joy when his master restored the fish to its watery home; and the doctor fondly caressed Meph, who quietly returned to his cushion bed, seeming perfectly satisfied with having performed his mission and saved the life of the fish.

He must have evolved the idea that all was not right--that the fish was "out of its sphere."

This dog met an untimely death through the cruelty of a man, who, on account of some trivial annoyance, put an end to poor Meph's career. The man might have learned a lesson of kindness from the little creature he wantonly murdered.

A RECIPE.

BY M. A. L.

'Pothecary, 'pothecary, living in the rose,
Tell us how to make the scent that everybody knows.

"A penny's worth of nectar; a dozen drops of dew;
A little compound sunshine that's slowly filtered through;
A sun-glass made of diamond, and then--the mixing done--
Set out a little flask of it to simmer in the sun."

'Pothecary, 'pothecary, is there nothing more?
"Yes, it taketh industry to make the summer's store.
So, my lad and lady, run off now and play;--
This, like every day in June, is my busy day."

RIDDLES FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS.

Who knows what a riddle is? A riddle is something to be guessed. Well, here is a riddle in a picture, all about pretty painted bridges.

Who can guess it? The bridges are not real bridges, and they are not really painted,--yet every summer we see them. Now, what kind of bridges are they? Nobody over seven years of age need try to guess these riddles.

* * * * *

Now you shall have another riddle,--this time about sheep, but they are not the real sheep shown in the picture. On almost any sunny day you can see the kind of sheep that this riddle means. Many of these riddle sheep are white as snow, and they keep moving, moving, when the wind blows. Did you ever see them? Perhaps if you look out of your window now you may see some of the same sort. But it must be at noon time, or in the morning when the sky is blue, or when you wake up in the night and see the moon softly stealing in and out among them. Do not look for them when it is time for little folk to say "good-night!" Then these sheep sometimes change into bright red and yellow banners stretching across the sky and floating over the place where the sun is going to sleep.

* * * * *

And now comes the very last riddle,--about Dormio Hill. What can the white ground of Dormio Hill be? It is in the land of Nod, and if you wish to find it, I do believe the Sand-man can take you to the very spot.

And who is the Sand-man? Ah, that is another riddle which Mamma can answer for you.

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

We will open the meeting this month, my hearers, with "A Bumble Grumble" sent to you by my friend Harold W. Raymond.

A bumble-bee sat on the wild-rose tree,
And grumbled because he was big and fat;
"Just look at yon butterfly light," quoth he,
"I wish I were airy and graceful like that!
O ho!
I know
'Tis hard to be heavy, and huge, and slow!"

A mischievous boy the butterfly caught,
And in his rough grasp it fluttered and died.
Sir Bumble his dagger drew out, and thought
That his end had come; but he boldly cried:
"Come on!
My son;
This stinger and I weigh nearly a ton."

"You'll have to excuse me, sir," said the lad,
"I know the weight of your little barbed spear.
Were your logic less pungent I'd be most glad
To meet you in conflict and vanquish you here.
Good-day!
I'll say;
For I fear 'twould unhealthy prove to stay."

The bumble-bee laughed a stitch in his side
When he saw the youngster in full retreat;
Then he stretched himself in a new-born pride
And threw out his chest with martial conceit.
"Dear me!"
Said the bee,
"'Tis easy to see
An ounce of sting
Is better than yards of butterfly-wing."

And now you shall have a story that isn't in verse, though there's poetry in it. "Turn about is fair play," and this will interest you in the butterflies.

PRETTY DUSTY WINGS.

DEAR JACK: Please let me tell you this true story:

Dusty Wings is the name of a charming little pet of mine; and he is so curious a thing to have for a pet, that if it were not for his name, I don't believe you could ever guess what he is.

One day in the early part of November, as I sat by the window, I noticed lying on the piazza a beautiful butterfly, with his gorgeous wings outspread. He was apparently stunned by the cold, as he did not attempt to fly away when I went to pick him up. I brought him into the warm room, when he soon became very lively.

His body is dark brown, covered with fine hairs, which look like feathers when put under a magnifying glass. The wings show all the colors of the rainbow, arranged in the most artistic manner. The wings themselves are transparent, like those of a fly, and the color is given to them by fine scales, which come off very easily. The _antennæ_ which grow from each side of the head are black and white.

Although you all have probably seen many butterflies as beautiful as my pet, I don't believe you ever watched one eat, and that is a very interesting process. Dusty Wings alights on my finger and clings to it as if he really loved me. I then put a drop of sugar in front of him. Immediately a long trunk (it is hollow, like an elephant's) unwinds and feels about until it finds the liquid, which gradually disappears; and then Mr. Dusty Wings slowly coils his trunk around and stows it away in a vertical opening in the center of his head. The trunk is so delicate that when it is coiled up, it looks like a fine watch-spring. If he has not had enough, he lets me know by waving this trunk in the air. The first time I fed him, he seemed shy and only ate very little; now he is not at all afraid.

I made him a house with plenty of air-holes, and there he stays most of the time on a warm corner of the mantel. I do not like to let him out very often to fly about, as I am afraid he might be stepped on. If I wear a flower he will crawl up my dress until he comes to it, and there he will stay, showing that he has not forgotten his old life.

Yours sincerely,
ADA C. ASHFIELD.

TREES THAT RAIN.

MEMPHIS, TENN., January 10, 1886.

DEAR JACK: I thought some of your readers might be able to answer my question.

There had been no rain here for about three weeks; it was in the fall, and our school went to see a tree that had been raining for two or three days; this tree was a sycamore. I saw two more trees that rained. One was a box-elder, and the other an elm. The elm was in the woods. The drops tasted like water, and dried up as quickly.

Can any one explain this to me?

Your constant reader,
JULIA S.

All look out, my friends, for raining trees, and report the results of your observations. I've seen no such instance in my meadow as the one Julia describes. But you all may go searching the groves and the books, and see what you can discover.

SHOOTING STARS.

NEW YORK, March 1, 1886.

DEAR JACK: I frequently have read of shooting stars, but never of anything like this that I saw. About four summers ago, I was staying at a village on Long Island. One evening as I was about to go into the house, I glanced up at the heavens. Myriads of stars were shining brightly, but no moon. As I was looking directly overhead, there was a sudden, intense light, and a star burst into fragments. The pieces slid a short distance and then disappeared, as all shooting stars do. The utter noiselessness of the whole occurrence made it even more impressive and startling. Will you please ask your readers whether they ever have seen such a thing or read of anything like it?

Yours respectfully,
SUSAN A.

COASTING IN AUGUST.

GARDINER, MAINE.

DEAR JACK: I meant to have written to you before, telling how we boys coast in August, as I was reminded of it by reading the story about coasting down the grass-covered hills, in ST. NICHOLAS for August, 1885.

Along the Kennebec river are many huge ice-houses. The ice is sent away in big ships in summer. It is raised high in the air and swung on a sloping plank which reaches to the ship's deck. Block after block is dispatched in this way very quickly. We boys used to get pieces of old carpeting and put on the ice. Then each boy would seat himself on a carpet-covered block of ice, and, in something less than a wink, we would find ourselves on the ship. We did this, the boys and I, till our mothers found it out. _Then we stopped._

Your constant reader,
JOHN W.

MORE ABOUT TURTLES.

DEAR JACK: I saw some letters about turtles in your department, and so I thought I would write to you about something I noticed. I have a small turtle, and I have seen that the shell scales off in little pieces just the shape of the divisions on its back. It shuts its eyes by raising the lower lid. Has any one else noticed the first peculiarity?

Your reader,
W. I. L.

A FISH THAT WEAVES ITS NEST.

MR. C. F. HOLDER, I hear, is to tell you in the June ST. NICHOLAS about some fishes and their young, so this is a good time to show you this letter from my friend Ernest Ingersoll, concerning a fish that weaves its nest.

DEAR JACK: Among the small fishes that inhabit the streams and ditches along the Atlantic coast of the Northern States, is the four-spined stickleback. Like the rest of the sticklebacks, this species makes a nest in which the eggs are deposited. The male fish makes the nest himself and defends it with great spirit. It is about half an inch high and three-eighths of an inch in thickness. It is composed of stalks of water-weeds and small stuff of that kind, bound together by a glutinous thread which the fish spins out from a gland in his body, and which is wound round and round the nest to bind it together. It frequently happens, however, that in poking apart the straws with his nose this living bobbin will pass his body through the nest and back again, thus weaving the thread he reels out into the substance of the nest and sewing it tightly together.

Yours truly,
ERNEST INGERSOLL.

A CLEVER HUMMING-BIRD.

You all remember, I am sure, "Robin's Umbrella," which was described and shown to you from this pulpit two months ago. Now I'll tell you about the way in which a clever humming-bird shielded her little ones from the rain. There they were, a nestful, and the rain beginning to fall. The people who had watched the nest out of their window were concerned about the young birds, but the mother-bird evidently was prepared for the emergency. Near the nest grew a large leaf,--it was a butternut tree,--and on one side of the nest a small twig stuck out. When the drops began to fall, she came quickly, and with many tugs pulled the leaf over the little nest, for a roof, and hooked it by the twig on the other side, which held it firmly.

Thus the half-feathered babies were kept as dry under their green roof as if their house had been built by a carpenter, like the sparrow-houses all around on the trees.

When the rain was over, the mother came back and unhooked the leaf.

EDITORIAL NOTES.

Contributors are respectfully informed that, between the 1st of June and the 15th of September, manuscripts can not conveniently be examined at the office of ST. NICHOLAS. Consequently, those who desire to favor the magazine with contributions will please postpone sending their MSS. until after the last-named date.

The Audubon Society, of which Jack-in-the-Pulpit informed our readers last month, takes its name from that of the great naturalist J. J. Audubon. It has been established for the purpose of fostering an interest in the protection of wild birds from destruction for millinery and other commercial purposes. The head-quarters of the society are at 40 Park Row, New York City. It invites the coöperation of young folk in every part of the country.

All of our readers who are interested in the handiwork of children, will remember Mr. Charles G. Leland's valuable papers concerning Brass-Work and Leather-Work for young folk, published in this magazine, and will be glad to know that ST. NICHOLAS intends to print, before the close of the summer, an illustrated account of the Children's Industrial Exhibition held in New York City last April.

THE LETTER-BOX.

We have the pleasure of beginning the Letter-Box this month with five letters from the other side of the world. First of all, comes one sent from Clermont, France, by "Georgine and Sybille," whose letter is very charming and welcome even though they _may_ not "yet write well English."

CLERMONT, FRANCE.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: If this will reach you but we don't know your addres. We have been having very pleasure to read you. We understant it better than much books in English. We think little Lord Fauntleroy very fine. If we tell you a fine tale you will print it? A fine dog lives in the village named Turc, he had hunger so he went to the châlet and pulled the cord with his patte, and when the domestique came she gave him to eat, and Turc goes all the days now and is given to eat. do you not think Turc is very clever? We are very sorry to terminate our letter, but we are fearful it be too long. You will give us very joy to print this. Mamma says we do not yet write well English.

GEORGINE AND SYBILLE.

BOITSFORT, BELGIUM.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I receive your paper every month since November, when mother took it for a birthday present to me. I see that many children write to you. Perhaps you will publish my letter because it comes from a little Belgian girl. We live in a pretty place called Boitsfort, quite near Brussels, and quite near the Forêt de Seignes, where we take pleasant rides, I on my pony, my brother and sister on the two donkeys. My brother Louis is nine, my sister Tata is six, and I am eleven. My cousin Helen, who is nineteen, traveled all over America last year with her father, and likes very much your country and the ways of the people there. She brought several papers for children, and we decided that ST. NICHOLAS was the best; that's why mother gave it me. I hope I too will go once to the United States. Believe me, dear ST. NICHOLAS, yours sincerely,

ALICE SOLVAY.

SAN REMO, ITALY.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Some of your readers might like to know what an Italian peasant's house is like. On the ground floor the donkey lives, on the second and third floors the people live, and on the roof the chickens live.

If you wish to go and see them, you have to go up some narrow stairs that are very dark, but when you come out on the roof there is the most beautiful view of the quaint old town, with its red roofs, and the sky and sea. We went to walk to-day, and found violets, blue hyacinths, and daisies growing wild under the olive-trees.

I get my ST. NICHOLAS from London, but I am a little American girl from Cleveland, Ohio.

Your loving reader,
LILY MAY Z.

POLAND.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I live at Warsaw in the winter. I am ten years old. I have nine dolls and a King Charles dog, named Beauty, and she has a great antipathy to music. I am Polish, and have been learning English for two years. Mamma takes you for me, and I like your stories much.

I hope this letter is not too long to print.

INA KOMAR.

PRINKIPO, SEA OF MARMORA, TURKEY.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I must tell you something about my life in Turkey. I am an English girl, about thirteen years of age. I have been living in Turkey for twelve years. In the summer we go to the country, to the Island of Prinkipo, in the Sea of Marmora. It is very small and pretty. We have great fun there in the summer. We go out sailing and rowing. There are a great many donkeys at Prinkipo; we often go out for rides on them. We generally go around the island, so you can imagine how small it is. It takes about one hour to ride around it on donkeys, and about one hour and a half to go around it on foot.

The people here are mostly Greeks. Of course there are some Turks and Armenians. At the back of the island there are the ruins of the monastery of the Greek Empress Irene, who lived a long time ago.

I will tell you a little story about the dogs of this place. In Constantinople and the villages near it, there are a great number of dogs. All these dogs have their own quarters, and quarrel very much with those of other quarters. At San Stephano, about two years ago, some wolves came down from the mountains, and then all these dogs united and chased the wolves right back to the mountains. And then they went home to their quarrels again. What I mean is, that although they had their differences amongst themselves, they were ready to join together against the wolves. I hope my letter will be good enough to interest the other little girls who write to you, and who have never lived in Turkey.

Your interested reader,
MURIEL P.

BROOKLYN.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you about our performance of your comedy for children, "Dicky Dot and Dotty Dick." We got it up in our Cozy Club. I was stage manager. I am ten years old. My sister Christine was Dotty. She is six. A little boy named Sidney was Dicky. He is six and a half. They both knew their parts perfectly, and did so well that everybody said it was too cute for anything, and I felt very much pleased. We all love ST. NICHOLAS.

GERALDINE.

KANSAS CITY, MO.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I was wishing for you before Christmas, because all the girls at school say you are so interesting. I never had a hope of getting you. But what do you think! On Christmas, to my great surprise, among my presents was a ST. NICHOLAS. I jumped around with glee. I sat down, left all my other presents, and commenced reading you. I am eleven years old. I think the covering of you very pretty. The picture in front is "Apollo, the god of the sun." I am very fond of mythology. Mamma is going to have my ST. NICHOLAS bound when this year is out, and I am going to take you next year. Hoping this letter will be printed, I remain, your devoted reader,

ETTA K.

PALISADES.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I live in the country, very high up on the Hudson River Palisades. The woods are all about us, and my nurse takes me to the edge of the great cliffs to look down on the shining river, and see the steamers and the lovely white sails far over on Long Island Sound.

We have a baby colt in the pasture with his mamma, whose name is Aniline, because her glossy coat shines in bright tints when the sun strikes it. The colt follows us about like a large dog. Papa has taught him not to be afraid.

At night when it grows dark, and I am undressed for bed, we hear Owen calling the cows, "Here, Dolly! Dolly! Here, Jenny! Jenny! Jenny!"

Then he sits down to milk them, and the three cats all gather around him, watching and waiting for a sip.

The katydids sing a great deal up here, and this is what Mamma has sung to me at bed-time, and you will guess from it, dear ST. NICHOLAS, what my name is:

Out-of-doors the air is full
Of voices small;
List to what they're talking of,
So busy all:
"Did little Katy do to-day
As she was bid?"
Something hastens to reply,
"Katy did!"
Katy didn't! Katy did;
She did! she did! she did!

Who this morn played in the hay?
Katy did!
Who pulled pussy's tail to-day?
Katy did!
Did she eat all Grandma's cakes?
Katy didn't! Yes, she did!
Did she sometimes make mistakes?
Katy did, she did!

Did she sup on milk and bread?
Katy did;
Did she run away to bed?
Katy did;
Said her prayers at Mamma's knee!
Katy did! Katy did!
And fell asleep! ah, dreary me!
Katy did, she did!
Katy didn't! Katy did!
She did! she did! she did!

FULTON, ILLINOIS.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We have been taking you ever since you first started, and I can never tell you how we all love and admire every feature you possess.

I have two brothers and two sisters. My youngest brother is only seven, so you see we will have to take you several years yet.

Papa and Mamma read you almost as much as they read their grown-up magazines.

I live on a farm in the western part of Whiteside County, Illinois, about four miles from the Mississippi. We think it is a beautiful country here with the bluffs, trees, and farming lands on the bottoms. Our picture gallery is all outdoors. From your faithful reader,

D. E. H.

WOODMONT, CONN.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: My Uncle gave you to me for my birthday present, and I like your pages very much; and I have two other friends that like you very much. I like the story named "Oh, Dear!" very much, and my sister liked the story "Davy and the Goblin." We have a very cunning cat, and we call it Blaine. I hope my letter will be printed, as it is the first one I ever wrote, and I am anxious to see it in the magazine.

Your little reader,
AVIS N.

HINGHAM, MASS.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have written several letters before, but none of them have been printed; but I hope that this one will be. I have a very nice time here in summer. My home is within forty feet of the water. I have a boat, and can row, swim, dive or fish. I am just learning to ride on horseback. In the winter I live in Boston, and I have a governess to teach me algebra, English history, physiology, and the common branches, and I study French and Latin at Mrs. Newhall's. I have taken you for five years.

ELAINA T.

HARTFORD, CONN.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: In one of your nice magazines last summer, you gave an account of how to make a string house. I thought it would be very nice to make one; so my sister and I tried it. We made it exactly according to the directions; it took us three whole days. We enjoyed reading and playing in it very much. We made a kind of porch in front, so as not to make it look so much like a tent.

We have been taking you ever since 1880, and we like you better than any other book. I think your best stories are, "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and "From Bach to Wagner."

Hoping you will print my letter, for my sister would not write--(she said you would not print it, but I hope to show her that you will) I remain,

Your devoted reader,
N. C.

NEW YORK.

DEAR "ST. NICK" (as you are nick-named among us): I have taken you ever since I was a very "small girl," and now, I am sorry to say, I am a very large one of eighteen. I am told that I ought to abandon dear old "ST. NICK" for some "grown-up magazine," and I feel that it is indeed sad to grow old if giving up ST. NICHOLAS is one of the penalties, which I shall take care that it shall not be. I have just fallen in love with "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and I wish the "small boy" of the present day would copy after him, but I fear that would be too "pretty a state of things." I am afraid to keep on lest I lose the opportunity of seeing myself in print and of boring the readers of the Letter-box; so I shall close to avoid such a calamity.

Faithfully yours,
YUM YUM.

NEW ORLEANS.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am one of your constant readers, having taken ST. NICHOLAS from the first number, and I do not think that a more interesting magazine for boys and girls can be found. I live in the quaint old Creole City of Nouvelle Orleans, as the Creoles call it. I was born here, and I expect to live here all my life. I do not think that you have any correspondents from New Orleans, at least I have seen none in the Letter-box, so I take the liberty of writing to you. I tell you, dear old ST. NICK, it would do you good to come and see our Carnival here in March; many children are dominoed and masked in fearful and fantastic costumes. Rex, King of the Carnival, enters in grand procession the day before Mardi-Gras, usually coming up the river on a steamboat, gayly decked in bunting. All the military turn out to escort him to the Royal Palace. The artillery battalions salute him on the levee, and then he parades through all the principal streets. Generally there are three night processions--those of Momus, Comus, and Proteus--and they are gorgeous beyond description, and there is one day procession--that of Rex--which is also magnificent; there are also a great many Burlesque organizations--I. O. O. M. (Independent Order of the Moon), and the Phunny Phorty Phellows are the principal ones, I hope you will publish this, as I think it will interest the boy and girl readers of ST. NICHOLAS; it is my first letter. I forgot to say that King Rex also parades the day after his arrival.

Your loving reader,
WILLIAM S. P.

NEWPORT, R. I.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have often wanted to write to you before, to tell you how much I like your stories. In the July number of 1885, there was a story in which the training-ship "New Hampshire" was mentioned. I liked the story very much, because I can see the "New Hampshire" from my window.

I am deeply interested in "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and I liked Miss Alcott's Spinning-wheel Stories very much. I hope to see my letter in print.

Your constant reader,
MAMIE S. W

COLORADO.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I live on a ranch in Colorado and I look forward every month with great pleasure for the ST. NICHOLAS. I am going to tell you about a donkey we had once; we hitched him in a sled and tried to make him go, but he would not stir from home; after a little while we succeeded, and when we turned around he went like the wind, so that we could hardly hold him. The same afternoon he ran into a post and broke the sled to pieces.

We have coyotes here, and they kill our sheep. One day I saw the herd running as fast as they could, and what do you think was after them? A horrid coyote, which was so thin that it looked as if it was going to die from hunger. The coyote is not a brave animal; it will sneak around and kill sheep, but it will never fight dogs. This is the first letter I have ever written to a magazine. Good-bye, dear ST. NICHOLAS. I am, ever your friend,

IDA R. F.

P. S.--I am eleven years old, and live eleven miles from a school. I have gained my education from reading ST. NICHOLAS, and studying at home.

BUFFALO, N. Y.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: In your February issue, there was a communication concerning "curve-pitching," and a diagram was used to explain why a ball curves in a certain direction.

I beg leave to call attention to what I believe to be a mistake in the explanation. The writer says that the curve must be "toward the retarded side." I think it must be _from_ the retarded side; for, the ball while advancing is also revolving in a horizontal plane,--we will say from right to left.

In its rapid flight, the ball condenses the air in front and tends to form a vacuum behind, and the condensed air in front attempts to flow around the sides of the ball to fill the vacuum behind.

Now, in the diagram mentioned, the side B, the rotation of which conspires _with_ the motion of translation, resists, by friction, the attempt of the air to flow back; while the side D, in which the motion of rotation is opposite to the motion of translation, offers no resistance to the air in flowing around its side. For that reason the ball meets with most resistance in front of B, and least in front of D. Hence, taking the direction of least resistance, it curves toward D or _from_ the side of most resistance.

Very respectfully,
ELMER STORR.

"THE FRANKLIN," WASHINGTON, D. C.