Chapter II: Part 2

Away went the cloak for dolly,
And away went dolly too,
As again she eagerly questioned,
With eyes so earnest and blue:

"Is it like birthdays or Christmas--
Or like Thanksgiving Day;
Do we just be good like Sunday,
Or run and frolic and play?

"I know there's flowers to it,
And that is most all I know;
I've got a lovely rosebush,
And a bud begins to grow."

Then in words most few and simple
I told to the gentle child
The story whose end is Easter--
The Life of the Undefiled.

Told of the manger of Bethlehem,
And about the glittering star
That guided the feet of the shepherds
Watching their flocks from afar,

Told of the lovely Mother,
And the Baby who was born
To live on the earth among us
Bearing its sorrows and scorn.

And then I told of the life He lived
Those wonderful thirty years,
Sad, weary, troubled, forsaken,
In this world of sin and tears,

Until I came to the shameful death
That the Lord of Glory died,
Then the tender little maiden
Uplifted her voice and cried.

I came at length to the garden
Where they laid His form away,
And then in the course of telling
I came to the Easter day--

The day when sorrowing women
Came there to the grave to moan,
And the lovely shining angels
Had rolled away the stone.

I think I made her understand
As well as childhood can,
About the glorified risen life
Of him who was God and Man.

This year the fair Easter lilies
Will gleam through a mist of tears,
For I shall not see sweet Bessie
In all of the coming years.

When the snow lay white and thickest
She quietly went away
To learn from the lips of angels
The meaning of Easter day.

We put on the little body
The garments worn in life,
And laid her deep in the frozen earth
Away from all noise and strife.

We took all the dainty playthings,
And the dollies new and old,
And placed them in a sacred spot
With a tress of shining gold.

Were it not for the star of Bethlehem,
And the dawn of Easter day,
It would be to us most bitter
To put our darling away.

But we know that as the hard brown earth
Holds lilies regal and white,
So the lifeless, empty, useless clay
Held once an angel of light.

And I hope on the Easter morning
To look from the grave away,
Thinking not of the child that _was_,
But the child that _is_ to-day.
EMILY BAKER SMALLE.

_Volume 13, Number 24._ Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co.
_April 17, 1886._

THE PANSY.

WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.

FIRST, through some of the busiest, narrowest, noisiest, dirtiest streets of New York City; if you have never hurried down them, you have no idea how much that means. A ferry boat, a bit of a ride, and I was in New York no more, but in New Jersey. The Jersey Central train stood waiting.

"All aboard for Long Branch," shouted an official. I did not want to go to Long Branch, but I hurried along as fast as though I did; the truth was, I knew my stopping place was not far away from that famous spot. In a few minutes we were off; not long before the smell of old ocean began to steal in at the windows, and at last we caught glimpses of beach stretching away in the distance.

Not a long ride, only a matter of a couple of hours on an express train, despite the many stations called out: "Matawan," and "Red Bank," and "Little Silver," and I know not how many more. At last, "Long Branch" and "Elberon;" then, in a few minutes more, "Ocean Grove and Asbury Park." At this, a great company of us began to scurry around and find our shawl straps, and lunch baskets, and what not.

I'm not going to tell you about Asbury Park; at least not much. Some other time I may say a good deal about this pretty city by the sea, but just now I'm anxious to tell of what happened at night. The day had been pleasant enough; not summer, but late spring, bright and sunshiny; we rejoiced over the thought of getting sight of the beautiful beach; reminding each other how lovely the sea looked by moonlight.

Alas, there was no moon for us that night! At least she did not once show her silver face; instead, the sky was black with clouds, and the sea took on its sullen look, and roared as it lashed the shore constantly with great angry waves. We shivered and tugged at our wraps as the wind tried to whirl them away, and said, as we turned to go home, how glad we were that we had no friends at sea. "The ocean looks cruel," said Grace; "I don't like him to-night."

Then we went home to our bright room; drew the curtains, closed the shutters, stirred the fire to a cheery blaze, and chatted and laughed and were happy, quite shutting out the roar of the angry sea. But he did not calm; the waves ran high, and the sullen roar kept increasing, until, by midnight, we knew it was what seamen call a gale. Occasionally we heard the fog bell toll out, and once more we were glad that we had no dear ones at sea.

Somebody had, though; and while we slept quietly, knowing nothing of it, brave men were awake and at work. A danger signal was seen just off shore; what excitement there was! How did the men of the life-saving crew know that they were needed? They had been disbanded for the summer, the dangerous season being supposed to be over; and here was blowing one of the worst storms of the winter! I don't know how they heard the news. Their hearts waked and watched, perhaps; anyway, they came, great stalwart men, and in a twinkling opened their boathouse, and got out their apparatus which had been carefully put away, and before the third signal went up through the stormy water, were ready for action.

I don't know how they did it. At this time of which I write, they had no regular lifeboat such as is now in use; they were not regularly manned for work in any way. Never mind, they did it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Oh, I do not know how many people rode, some way, over the stormy water, on a rope, and reached the shore. Drenched, powerless, almost breathless, yet alive! Who do you think was one of the first to arrive that night? Why, a little baby less than three months old! What! _She_ did not cling to ropes! Oh, no. All she did was to lie in utmost quiet in the hands of a great strong man; he was lashed to the rope in such a way that the men on shore could pull him in, but the baby he held in his two strong hands, as high above the fury of the waves as the hands would reach. What if he had dropped her? Then the sea would have swallowed her in an instant? An awful journey, but the baby did not know it. She must have gasped a little for breath, and she may have cried, but no one heard her; the roaring ocean took care of that.

You don't see how she lived through it? They did not think she could; not even the mother, when she took a second to kiss her, before she gave her into the strong arms, thought that she should ever see her darling again. But it was the only possible way of escape; they could but try. So the baby rode into shore, and I think as many as a hundred mothers stood waiting to receive her, with hot blankets enough to smother her, and warm milk enough to drown her in; for it had gotten abroad in some way that a baby was on board the sinking ship. If you could have heard the shout that went up when the baby was landed in the arms of one mother, who said, after a second of solemn hush: "Yes, she is living!" you would have felt as though you almost knew what a life was worth.

The next morning what a walk we had along the coast! How still the sea lay; the waves crept up softly one after another as if so ashamed of their last night's work that they would a little rather not be seen or heard at all. Bits of board, and old tarred rope, and barrel staves and seaweed lined the beach for miles, and coffee sacks by the hundred kept washing in to shore. The vessel had been laden with coffee. People were very busy putting the beach in order, planning how to reach the wreck, wondering whether she could be gotten off, or would have to lie half-buried in the sand and slowly fall to pieces. Here and there were groups of people, listening, while one man talked excitedly; he was a sailor and had his wonderful story to tell of danger and escape. But the happiest man on the beach that morning was one who rubbed his hands in actual glee, and smiling broadly on every one who came up to him, would say in a loud, glad voice, "Yes, I lost everything I had in the world, but my wife and children are all here; yes, baby and all!" and then he would wipe the great tears from his eyes, and laugh so loud and glad a laugh that all the people around would have to join it.

All his children safe! They clustered around him, several sturdy-looking boys, and I watched them with eager interest. _Were_ they all safe? Could the father be sure? The ocean had not swallowed them, but suppose some awful rum saloon caught them in its clutches and drew them in and in until they went down in a storm of drunkenness to utter ruin! What was an ocean storm to that? Pitiless ocean, rave as it might, could not touch the soul; but the rum saloon has power to destroy both body and soul. What joy there was over the three-months-old baby! and yet she may live to be a drunkard's wife, and a drunkard's mother, and to cry out in bitterness of soul because the ocean did not swallow her that night. Isn't it strange and sad to think of? The father thought his children safe, and yet so many oceans of temptation lay ready to engulf them! none more bitter, more fierce, more wide-spread in its raging, than this ocean of alcohol. Dear boys and girls, what can we do to help save the children for their fathers? Will you all join the life-saving crew, and work with a will, to rescue victims from this ocean?

PANSY.

"FATHER'S OLD BOOTS ARE THERE."

MANY a picture of moving pathos appears in the dark gallery of drunkenness. We have seen but few more touching ones than this from the pen of Mrs. M. A. Kidder. She describes little Benny, the son of a drunken father, sitting in a room with his mother and little sister. By looking at this sad and thoughtful face one would have taken him to be ten years of age, yet he was but six. No wonder. For four years this almost baby had been used to seeing a drunken father go in and out of the cottage. He scarcely remembers anything from him but cruelty and abuse. But now he is dead! The green sod had lain on his grave a week or so, but the terrible effects of his conduct were not buried with him. The poor children would start with a shudder at every uncertain step on the walk outside, and at every hesitating hand upon the latch. On the day mentioned Benny's mother was getting dinner. "Will my little son go to the wood-shed, and get mother a few sticks to finish boiling the kettle?"

"I don't like to go to the wood-shed, mamma."

"Why, my son?"

"Because there is a pair of father's old boots out there, and I don't like to see them."

"Why do you mind the old boots, Benny, any more than the old coat and hat upstairs?"

"Because," said Benny, tears filling his blue eyes, "they look as if they wanted to kick me."

Oh the dreadful after-influence of a drunken father to innocent children! what an awful memory to bear through life!--_Richmond Christian Advocate._

MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE.

BY PARANETE.

VI.--MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE SAVES A LIFE.

"WHEN morning came," continued my friend, "how disconsolate I was! In all my wanderings I had never had the misfortune to be cast out and trodden under foot of men before! The sun was shining beautifully, the dew was glittering on the blades of grass, the birds were singing, and the flowers were blooming sweetly, but I was unhappy.

"Suddenly a little boy and girl turned the corner, and walked swiftly up towards that part of the walk where I was. The little girl uttered an exclamation:

"'Good luck, Fred! I've found a pin!' and she picked me up and put me in her belt. They walked along, talking merrily, when a butterfly flew along the walk. The little boy ran after it, and soon had it under his hat. 'Let me have that pin, Bess,' he said, and when she had given me to him he pinned his handkerchief over the hat, with me and another pin that he had, and walked home bareheaded.

"Reaching their house, he went up to his room, threw the other poor pin out of the window, and, much to my dismay, impaled the butterfly on me. How horrid I felt! I would have shuddered if I could, for how cruel was the boy to make me the innocent instrument of the death of a poor winged insect, that had been so bright and happy but a few moments before!

"But just then his sister came along, and seeing the butterfly fluttering on me, gradually losing its strength, she uttered an exclamation of horror, and let the poor thing go, placing me where she had before. Her brother Fred came in.

"'Now, Bess, that's mean! What possessed you to let my butterfly go?'

"'Because it was so cruel, Fred dear. I couldn't bear to see it struggling so!' and a tear came into her eye.

"Her brother muttered something about girls' tender feelings.

"That day as Bessie and her mother were sitting sewing on the piazza of their house, her mother wanted a pin, and so she speedily delivered me into the lady's hands. She used me for some sewing a little while, and then put me on a little pincushion in her work-box, where I remained for about a week.

"Then there was a commotion in the house. I learned from various talks that Fred with a good many other boys, was going camping into the woods, and they were busy getting ready for his departure. He was off at last. He had a gun, a satchel full of clothing, and an umbrella. Just as he was going out of the door, and his mother was kissing him good-by, she said:

"'Fred, wait a moment. I didn't give you any pins, and you may need some.'

"So saying, she took me and a few others from the cushion in her work-box, and putting them hastily on Fred's coat, bade him good-by again, and he started.

"I cannot tell you all the fun that the boys had in the woods; they seemed perfectly happy, and fished, and shot poor animals, and climbed, all the time. Wherever Fred went, I went too.

"At night they would go into the tents, and lie down, sleeping soundly all night, and getting up early in the morning, to eat what they had caught latest the day before. All night I kept watch over Fred's pillow, in his coat that was hanging on a nail driven into one of the tent-poles.

"One day one of the dogs came to the place where the boys were taking dinner, sniffing around their legs, and showing as plainly as possible that he had discovered something. The boys hastily finished their dinner, and followed the noble animal into the woods. Soon the dog stopped, and looking ahead, they saw, by a pool, a splendid deer drinking, little suspecting what danger there was near.

"'Fire!' said the boys' leader; and a dozen shots went crashing into the poor deer's side. It fell down dying. One of the boys went over to examine it. When he reached it, it gave one faint struggle, and expired. But a boy that had remained thought it was yet alive, and fired another shot, taking care not to aim at the one who had gone forward. But he was just bending over to examine the horns of the animal, and the shot went crashing into his leg! Then there was an uproar! The boys all rushed forward, my master among them, and examined the poor boy's leg, which was bleeding very badly.

"'Where is a bandage?' said some one. So the leader took out of his pocket a very large handkerchief, and wound it tightly just above the wound. The blood stopped flowing. 'Where is a string to tie it with?' he said. No one had one, but Fred put his hand to his coat, and taking me from it, said, 'Here is a pin, Tom. Pin it quick!'

"So the handkerchief was pinned tightly around the leg, and the blood didn't ooze out any more. However, the wound pained the poor boy very much. The others fixed him pretty comfortably on the soft body of the deer, while two of them went for a doctor as fast as possible.

"It was two hours before he came.

"'Not very serious,' he said, at which every body drew a long breath of relief. 'But it would have been,' he continued, 'if you hadn't pinned this bandage on so securely. He would certainly have bled to death.'

"You may imagine that I felt proud then. I had saved a life! If it had not been for me the boy would have died! To be sure, another pin would have done, but then it was--_me_! I felt that I was doing wrong to be so proud, and like everyone who sins, I got my punishment. When the doctor undid the bandage, he carelessly threw me on the ground, and paid no more attention to me, for when he replaced a better bandage on the limb, he used a wide strip of cloth to fasten it with.

"You can not imagine my feelings then! There I was, cast on the ground in the woods, where nobody would ever find me. I would rust, and fall to pieces! I would never be moved from that lonesome, dreary place. And it was my fault! I felt that it was my punishment for feeling so proud. To be sure, the doctor did not know that I was proud when he threw me on ground, but I felt 'in my bones,' as it were, that it was my punishment for feeling so lofty because I had been the humble means of saving a life. The agony of those few moments will be a lesson to me through life, and if I ever feel lofty and haughty again, I shall be surprised.

"I say 'those few moments,' for soon, some of the boys came to remove the body of the deer, and Fred, who was among them, happening to see me on the ground said:

"'Halloo! I guess I'll pick you up. I've learned how useful a pin may be.'

"So my stay on the ground in the woods was not long, for he returned me to the lining of his coat."

TO PANSY.

GOD loves Pansies, with their child-like faces
Looking up, catching every ray of light,
Seeking to be fair in the Father's sight.
One who owneth all their charms and graces,
Lighting up, like them, earth's desert places,
Claims sweet sisterhood with these blossoms bright;
Hears God's voice saying to her, "Pansy, write!"
In letters purple with love, she traces
With golden pen the Saviour's message true;
Myriad voices in Heaven will repeat,
"Pansy, lessons of love they've learned from you;
And lay their crowns with you, at Jesus' feet."
From your sweet Pansy blooms of purest thought
My soul a glimpse of Heaven's joy hath caught.

ROCKVILLE, MASS. _With the love of_ ARBUTUS.

SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.

L.--LYON, MARY.

FROM 1797 until 1849, a period of fifty-two years, Mary Lyon lived upon this earth. Some lives seem too short. To us they appear to be broken off at the wrong place--in the midst of earnest successful work--and we wonder how the world can get along without them. And so I suppose it must have seemed to those interested in the grand work of education in which Mary Lyon was engaged when she at the command of the Master laid down the burden and slept the last sleep. For thirty-five years she had been using her talents and her energies in training up young girls for noble womanhood. Like others in our list of Remarkable Women, her early home was among the New England hills. As another has expressed it, "On the little mountain farm the child saw the flax grow to make her single summer dress, and herself petted and fed the lambs and sheep which gave the wool to keep her warm in winter. The fairy flax flowers, blue as heaven, delighted her eyes." And we may believe that later she watched the process of preparing the flax for the wheel and loom, and we are told that the little girl in her homespun dress which made her no oddity in the old-time country school, was earnest and diligent in her studies, standing at the head of her classes and steadily advancing in scholarship. Mary Lyon early realized that life was not meant for a play-day, and when at the age of seventeen she became a teacher, she took with her into the schoolroom a strong faith and earnest endeavor for the highest development of her pupils. She sought more than mental progress--even moral and spiritual growth. Though she taught, leaving her impress for good in other places, Mt. Holyoke Seminary, at South Hadley, stands as her monument. The founding of this school was her great work, and in thousands of homes her influence is still felt. Many of our mothers and grandmothers are living lives of usefulness, the inspiration of which was drawn from lessons learned of this most remarkable of teachers. Mary Lyon was one of the great teachers of this world. If there should be among the girls who read this article those who expect to become teachers, let me urge you to study the life of Mary Lyon. See if you can find out the secret of her success; go over the record of her struggle with the difficulties encountered in those days when Mt. Holyoke Seminary was getting a foothold. One has said that "the story of Mary Lyon and her work should be read by every young girl who desires to know the meaning of a noble and consecrated life." I think you will find the secret of her successful life lies in the fact of its being a consecrated life; consecrated to the high and noble purpose for which she labored. Believing "that Christian women inspired with Christian zeal would be powerful promoters of the kingdom of Christ in this world," she sought to perfect a plan whereby young girls might be brought under the influences which would tend to inspire their hearts, awaken their powers, and prepare them for the positions of influence which they might be called to occupy. With a sublime faith in the leadership of Christ, a belief that she was called to do this thing, she fought out the battle, accomplished her mission and left behind her in many hearts a spirit akin to her own. Out from the sweet, sacred influences of this first collegiate school for girls established in this country, have gone thousands of noble women. Some have gone to carry the word of life into the dark places of earth, showing the beauty of a Christian home as contrasted with the heathen homes; some have gone out to establish other schools of like character; and on mission fields, in homes everywhere and in schools and in society, the spirit which so long ago found expression in that consecrated life is still influencing the world for good.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

OLD ROVER.

YOU naughty old dog
Just run right away!
For Annie and I
Are going to play.
And then Minnie struck
Old Rover's thick hide
With her dimpled hand
As he stood at her side.

"Why, Minnie! how can you?"
Said sweet Annie May.
"Have you never been told
Of that terrible day
When the waters went mad
With foaming and strife,
And Rover, good dog,
Saved your dear little life?

"All night the Delaware
Rose; and then
While papa was gone
For boats and for men,
Mamma, she cuddled you
Safe and warm,
And left you for Rover
To guard from harm

"While she tried to save
A few things more.
But when she returned
Through the water's roar,
Your cradle was gone!
And old Rover, too.
Poor mamma! she cried
'_Oh what shall I do!_'

"Papa came back and took us away,
Searching for you
The rest of the day.
At night, a fisherman
Sailed o'er the deep,
With you in your cradle
Fast asleep!

"He found old Rover
Towing you down
To a little island
Near the town.
All day careful vigil
Rover had kept,
While you, all unconscious,
Had smiled and slept."

Now Rover was hugged!
And blue eyes were wet,
As Minnie said, low,
"I shall never forget!
When I've anything good
He shall have a big part;
And a _great big place_
All his own, in my heart."

S. R. SILL.

_Volume 13, Number 25._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_April 24, 1886._

THE PANSY.

Deep within the frozen earth,
Fairest seeds of bloom are sleeping.
Waiting May's re-echoing mirth--
April's days of tender weeping.

Palest blooms and richest dyes
In these close-shut cells are hidden
Fragrance rare, all breathless lies,
E'en its gentlest sigh forbidden.

Are there not lives sad and drear
Fairest seeds of heart bloom holding,
Waiting for kind words of cheer,
Waiting Love for their unfolding?

LINDA M. DUVALL.

HIDDEN BEAUTY.]

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.

BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

VI.

BETSEY, the farmer's wife, put up a lunch large enough to last a couple of voyagers for a two days' journey, and bustled around in her quickest style, so that she ran out to the barn with her big basket as Farmer Bassett drew a long breath and declared himself ready to start.

"Do hurry, John," she begged, setting her basket within the sleigh, "those poor creeters must be half-starved, let alone their crying theirselves eenamost to death."

Then her motherly heart that had taken up entirely the cause of the boys, allowed throbs of pity to be felt on Thomas' account as she saw the effect of her words upon him, and she hastened to add--"You'll make pretty quick time after you git on the road, and boys always know how to have a good time as long as daylight lasts, at any rate."

"You better believe, Betsey," declared Farmer Bassett, "that we will not let the grass, or the snow rather, accumulate under our feet, will we, Jack?" caressing his horse. "There, Mr. ---- what'd you say your name was?" turning to the man beside him.

"Thomas, sir--Thomas Bradley. But I'm better known as Mr. Bangs' man, bad luck to the day I shirked a bit. But I'll catch it enough when I get home, though"--

"And serves you quite right, Thomas," observed Farmer Bassett; "well, get in, and we'll be off. Good-by, mother!" He didn't kiss her; it was not the New England way in which they had both been reared, but he did look at her round, comely face with such an expression in his gray eyes that a smile went back to him from the lips firmly folded together--"Take care of yourself now, an' the house, I'll be along in the mornin'."

Then he got into the sleigh, and tucking up the well-worn robes around his companion and himself, signified to Jack by a loud "_g'lang!_" that he was expected to start.

"I s'pose you're going to talk to me now," said Thomas awkwardly, after they had turned the corner from which the last view of the comfortable red farmhouse could be seen, "and give me a piece of your mind for leaving them chaps and disobeying master. You've a good right, I'm sure, being as you're getting me out o' the scrape."

"I ain't one to do preachin' to other folks," said the farmer shortly. "I have enough to do to take care o' my own sins."

Thomas stared in amazement into the tough, leathery face. That any one who could claim the least right, should let slip to "give it to" another man caught in a peccadillo, he could not understand, and he took the only way to find relief that came to his mind. When he finished scratching his head in a perplexed way, he relapsed into silence that was not broken till at least half the distance to Sachem Hill was traversed.

Then the old farmer began to converse, but on general topics, and in such a cheery way, that his travelling companion came a bit out of his shamefaced despondency feeling as if there might be a chance even for him in the world once more.

By the time that Jack jingled them into the vicinity of Mr. Bangs' summer cottage, the two were in such a good state of mind that any one meeting them would have said it was only a pleasure excursion that drew them out to enjoy the night.

And now Thomas sat erect and drew his breath fast, while his eyes, strained to their utmost, pierced the gathering darkness for the first glimpse of the house.

"Turn here up this lane, master," he begged suddenly, "it's a short cut," and the old farmer lashed Jack, all the time begging the astonished animal's pardon, while he hurried up the back way as directed.

"Good--oh!" groaned Thomas, pulling his arm, and pointing with a shaking hand. Farmer Bassett more intent on the feelings of the faithful horse, and on getting on, had not glanced up. At this cry of distress he did, and now saw with Thomas a bright light gleaming from one of the upper windows of the Bangs' cottage.

"It's FIRE!" said Thomas hoarsely, plucking him by the arm again. "We must 'a' left somethin' smoulderin' in the fire-place"--

"Nonsense," said the farmer reassuringly. Nevertheless he gave Jack another cut that made him jounce at a fearful rate up to the back veranda.

Thomas leaped out and sped up the steps. Farmer Bassett tarried only long enough to fasten Jack to the hitching-post, throw his blanket over him, and give one pat on his head, then followed.

"_Boys!_" screamed Thomas, racing up and down the veranda, and shaking the doors, "are you in there?"

But only the branches of the trees creaked in the cold wind for answer. Thomas stamped in very fury.

"See here," said the old farmer, down on the ground and pointing up, "look at their heads. They're all safe an' sound, an' not half as cold as you an' I."

With that he sent out such a halloo that Thomas on the veranda clapped his hands to his ears. It had the effect desired, for at least two of the windows in the gable end of the cottage were thrown up, and as many boys' heads as could possibly be accommodated, were thrust out.

"Halloo, Thomas, halloo," called one voice in derision, "don't you wish you were here too?"

"You're a nice one," said Master Wingate, "and won't you catch it, though, when you get home. You'll be place-hunting as soon as you can say 'Jack Robinson'"--

"See here, you young scamp," shouted the old farmer, "it will be for your interest to end that sort of talk, now I tell you. You just step down lively an' open one of these doors. We've cooled our heels enough comin' to look for you an' don't propose to stand here any longer. Hurry up, now."

The boys stared in astonishment down into as much of his face as the darkness would permit them to see, and recognizing from the quality of his voice that a parley would not be acceptable, drew in their heads and proceeded to obey the order.

"Who is the old party?" cried one of the boys as they ran over the stairs.

"I don't know," returned Wingate, "I'm sure."

"Don't let us open the door then," urged another boy; "see here, Wingate," laying a detaining hand on his arm, "you are not obliged to--nobody has a right to order you to unlock your father's house. Don't do it; we'll lose all the fun of keeping Thomas out till we've had the fun of scaring him all we want to."

Master Wingate hesitated. But a vigorous rap on the dining-room door at the foot of the staircase, made him start, and a loud imperative--"Hurry up, there," caused him to redouble his speed.

"I guess we better let 'em in," he said, and slid back the bolt.

THE DESERT MIRAGE.

I SUPPOSE you all have heard of the mirage, which is a delusion of the eye, and which often deceives the poor traveller across the weary, pathless desert. Sometimes, when the caravan is about to give up, and lie down to die of weariness and thirst, they will suddenly feel their courage revived by the sight, as they suppose, of a lovely oasis, with lofty palms and silvery fountains.

Not long since I was reading an account of a whole regiment who when the Egyptians first conquered Nubia were destroyed. The poor creatures saw this mirage, and ordered their guide to take them thither. He insisted that it was only the delusive mirage, and, in their anger, they fell upon and killed him. The regiment then rushed for the supposed lake. Faint and weary they hurried over the hot sands. Oh! how those sparkling silvery waters allured them on!

But soon the cooling lake turned into sand! And the whole regiment lay down on the burning sands, and when found by Arabs, sent to search for them, they were all dead.

Now, dear little friends, there are some so-called pleasures in life which allure us like the mirage--but let us not be deceived. Let us choose the better part, which can never be taken from us. J.

AGNES HEDENSTROM.

THIS is something as Miss Agnes Hedenstrom looked when she was eight years old, and living among her wealthy relatives in Upsala. She was an orphan, petted by everybody and allowed to have her own way.

Thus she grew up, apparently a spoiled child.

She was not happy, however, though indulged with whatever she wished. She felt the need of something else.

One day she heard a Swedish minister preach, and soon after Agnes gave her heart to Jesus. Strangely enough, she began herself to preach to her people, now in schoolhouses, now in great halls.

Often she would address on the streets of London great crowds of the worst sort of people.

For years she thus toiled on among the wretched and wicked and dangerous people who infested East London.

Once she was speaking alone in an awful place to twenty drunken sailors while they yelled and blasphemed. Still she continued as best she could to tell them the wondrous story of redeeming love. Think of the "spoiled Agnes" coming to be such a brave, true woman! She still shudders to remember those awful moments when she did not know but those wretches would tear her to pieces. They did not. They became quiet and subdued. The next evening they came, bringing some of their comrades with them.

Then came a lecture room by her efforts; then a larger one. A few years ago Miss Agnes went among the good people of London and told them about the wretched people among whom she was laboring, especially the wicked sailors.

They gave her money to build a Home for sailors, when they come on shore without friends and an army of saloons to tempt them to drink and waste all their earnings in "riotous living."

Well, after waiting some months for the builders to finish the work, she clapped her hands--not on her guitar as when she was a child--but _together_ as she walked through this Home.

She is sole manager of the sailors' boarding-house. There she sees that the beds are clean and the meals good. She has books and papers, and best of all, her dear Master Jesus in this Home.

More than a thousand sailors are thought to have been saved from their awfully wicked ways through this wonderful Agnes Hedenstrom.

Some one has said that God can thresh a mountain with a worm. Would not you like to be the worm in his hand?

C. M. L.

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An English acre consists of 6,272,640 square inches; and an inch deep of rain on an acre yields 6,272,640 cubic inches of water, which at 277,274 cubic inches to the gallon makes 22,622.5 gallons; and as a gallon of distilled water weighs 10 lbs., the rainfall on an acre is 226,225 lbs. avoirdupois; counting 2,240 lbs, as a ton, an inch deep of rain weighs 100.993 tons, or nearly 101 tons per acre. For every hundredth of an inch a ton of water falls per acre.

OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

O.--OBOOKIAH, HENRY.

A FEW years ago I copied from a marble slab, imbedded in the earth upon a grave in a quiet country cemetery at Cornwall, Ct., the following inscription:

HENRY OBOOKIAH OF OWHYEE,
DIED FEBRUARY 17, 1818, AGED 26.

His arrival in this country gave rise to the Foreign Mission School of which he was a worthy member. He was once an idolator and designed for a Pagan priest; but by the grace of God, and by the prayers and instructions of pious friends, he became a Christian. He was eminent for piety and missionary zeal; was almost prepared to return to his native island to preach the Gospel when God called him. In his last moments he wept and prayed for his "Ow-hy-hee," but was submissive to the will of God and died without fear, with a heavenly smile on his face and glory in his soul.

This remarkable young man was early made an orphan by the cruel massacre of both father and mother during a fearful struggle of two parties for the control of his native island, Hawaii. His younger brother was also slain while the boy of our sketch was endeavoring to save him by carrying him upon his back in his flight. Obookiah was taken prisoner and made a member of the family of the man who had murdered his parents. After a year or two he was discovered by an uncle, and his release from the hands of his enemy secured. His uncle was a priest and he entered upon the work of preparing his young nephew for the same service. This preparation was very different from the preparation of young men in Christian lands for the work of the Gospel ministry. One part of his duty was to learn and to repeat long prayers; sometimes he was forced to spend the greater part of the night in repeating these prayers in the temple before the idols. But Henry was not happy; he had seen his parents and little brother cruelly murdered, and thoughts of the terrible scene and of his own lonely and orphaned condition preyed upon his mind continually. But he had passed through still another sad experience. Before peace was restored in the island he was again taken prisoner together with his father's sister. He succeeded in making his escape the very day which had been appointed for his death. His aunt was killed by the enemy, and this made him feel more sad and lonely than before, and he resolved to leave the island, hoping that if he should succeed in getting away from the place where everything reminded him of his loss he might find peace if not happiness; and this is how he was to be brought under Christian influences in Christian America. He sailed with Captain Britnall and landed in New York in the year 1809. He remained for some time in the family of his friend the captain, at New Haven. And here he became acquainted with several of the students in Yale College, who were at once interested in this young foreigner, and from one of these friends he learned to read and write.

His appearance was not prepossessing or promising. His clothes were those of a rough sailor and his countenance dull and expressionless. But he soon showed that he was neither dull nor lacking in mental power.

For some time, while Obookiah improved in the knowledge of English, making good progress in his studies, he was unwilling to hear any talk about the true God. He was amiable and quite willing to be taught, and drank in eagerly the instruction given on other subjects, but after some months he began to pray to the true God. He had a friend, also a Hawaiian and his first prayer in the presence of another was made in company with his friend. A copy of this prayer has been preserved and I copy it for you to show how even in the beginning of his own interest in Gospel truth, his thoughts turned towards his native country.

"Great and eternal God--make heaven--make earth--make everything--have mercy on me--make me understand the Bible--make me good--great God, have mercy on Thomas--make him good--make Thomas and me go back to Hawaii--tell folks in Hawaii no more pray to stone god--make some good man go with me to Hawaii, tell folks in Hawaii about heaven"--

From this time until he died his one longing was to go back to his early home and tell the people about God. He used to talk with his friend Thomas about it and plan the work. In his diary he wrote at one time:

"We conversed about what we would do first at our return, how we should begin to teach our poor brethren about the religion of Jesus Christ. We thought we must first go to the king or else we must keep a school and educate the children and get them to have some knowledge of the Scriptures and give them some idea of God. The most thought that come into my mind was to leave all in the hand of Almighty God; as he seeth fit. The means may be easily done by us, but to make others believe, no one could do it but God only."

In April, 1817, a Foreign Mission School was opened at Cornwall. And Obookiah became a pupil in this school, intending to finish his preparation for work among his own people as soon as practicable. A description of this Sandwich Islander as given of him at that time may be of interest: "He was a little less than six feet in height, well-proportioned, erect, graceful and dignified. His countenance had lost every trace of dullness, and was in an unusual degree sprightly and intelligent. His features were strongly marked, expressive of a sound and penetrating mind; he had a piercing eye, a prominent Roman nose, and a chin considerably projected. His complexion was olive, differing equally from the blackness of the African and the redness of the Indian. His black hair was dressed after the manner of Americans."

As a scholar he was persevering and thorough. After he had gained some knowledge of English, he conceived the idea of reducing his native language to writing. As it was merely a spoken language, everything was to be done. He had succeeded in translating the Book of Genesis and made some progress in the work of making a grammar and dictionary. But the work he had planned was not to be finished by his own hand. Within a year from the time he entered the school at Cornwall he was called home. As recorded upon the marble slab, his last thoughts were for his native island; his last earthly longing was, that the Gospel might be preached to his own countrymen. One of our popular cyclopædias gives a brief mention of this remarkable young man and makes this statement: "He was the cause of the establishment of American Missions in the Sandwich Islands."

To have so lived, and by his earnestness and zeal so inspired others that upon his death they were ready to take up and carry forward the work he had planned, was to have accomplished even more than he could had he been permitted to enter upon the work for which he was preparing.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

DISASTER.

A HOLE in the pocket's a very bad thing,
And brings a boy trouble faster
Than anything under the sun, I think.
My mother, she calls it disaster.
For all in one day,
I lost, I may say,
Through a hole not as big as a dollar,
A number of things,
Including some rings
From a chain Fido wore as a collar,

My knife, a steel pen, a nice little note
That my dear cousin Annie had sent me.
The boy who found that, pinned it on to his hat,
And tries all the time to torment me.
I'd lost a new dime
That very same time,
But it lodged in the heel of my stocking;
And one thing beside,
Which to you I confide,
Though I fear you may think it quite shocking:

The doctor had made some nice little pills
For me to take home to the baby;
But, when I reached there, I was quite in despair,
They had slipped through my pocket, it may be.
Aunt Sallie, she,
As cool as can be,
Said, a hole in a boy's reputation,
Is harder to cure,
And worse to endure,
Than all pockets unsound in the nation.

Still a hole in the pocket's a very bad thing,
And I am sure a real cause of disaster.
But baby is well; so you must never tell;
Perhaps he got well all the faster.
--GWINNET HOWARD, _in Independent_.

AND now we must begin to confess, very reluctantly it is true, that the long evenings we have had the past few months around the Family Lamp are slowly growing shorter and shorter. Before we can have time to realize it very deeply somebody will say, "Oh! don't light the lamp just yet, it is so much pleasanter to sit in the twilight," and then it won't seem but about ten minutes, and the children and young folks will be whisked off to bed, and the games will be crowded entirely off the programme, and the Family will feel as if it had no good-night frolic at all. So we must get all the fun we can, and to-night we propose as a grand bit of sport--

A BUBBLE PARTY.

Choose all your players if you can beforehand, so as to have each one select his and her color. As far as possible, wear as much of that color, _putting away all other colors_, on dress, in button-hole of coat, or scarf around in Highland fashion on the boys' coats, and be sure to tie a bright bow of ribbon of same color on stem of pipe. A player can decorate himself or herself in any way he or she chooses. Variety makes the game all the more brilliant. A cap trimmed with one's color is always pretty for the girls, and toques or soldier caps for the boys.

Dissolve a quarter of an ounce of Castile or oil soap cut up in small pieces, in three quarters of a pint of water, and boil for two or three minutes; then add five ounces of glycerine. When cold, this fluid will produce the best and most lasting bubbles that can be blown.

Now make your soap-bubbles in a big bowl, and choose your sides, an equal number on each, and range them opposite each other, and begin. The side that can make and keep unbroken the largest number of bubbles, is the winner. To keep tally, one of the party must be chosen as judge. You will have plenty of sport. I wish some of you would write me all about your fun.

MARGARET SIDNEY.

THE CHURCH ROBINS.

ONE pleasant April Sabbath, the parish clerk of a church in Wiltshire, England, stood at his reading-desk turning to the morning "lesson" in the great Prayer-Book. The congregation waited to give the responses, but he did not begin as soon as usual. Something curious had caught his eye, partly hidden under the Bible-rack, a small, slanting ledge or platform, slightly raised above the main desk. He looked more closely, and there, directly beneath the great Bible, he saw a robin-redbreast's nest, with two pretty blue eggs in it. Mrs. Redbreast and her mate had found a hole left by a small missing pane in one of the quaint old leaden windows, and entered the sacred house to make their little home where the sparrow and the swallow did that the sons of Korah sing of in the eighty-fourth Psalm. The clerk could not resent so pretty an intrusion, and did not disturb the nest; and when one of the birds flew in before the close of service, neither he nor any one of the congregation thought of doing anything to frighten it. And there the nest remained through the rest of April and nearly the whole of May, the redbreasts becoming so tame that the gathering of the worshippers and the voices and music of the service on Sundays or other days did not alarm them away. The sitting bird would stay, quietly brooding her eggs, while the clerk was reading, almost directly over her head. After the young were hatched, the male robin would fly in with worms in his bill to feed them, and his coming never disturbed the people's litany or the rector's sermon. This pleasant sanctuary partnership lasted till the full-fledged young were able to leave the church and trust to their own wings. Everybody felt that the birds had brought a blessing with them, and were sorry when they went away.--_Selected._

Merry Jack Frost and his fairy elves
Came by for a raid one night
When the spring was young, and a rosebud fair,
In a sheltered nook, which the perfumed air
And the sunbeams, warm and bright,
Had wooed for a month, 'till its dainty brow
Was bright as the flush of dawn,
Shone fair 'neath the moon; "'Tis a goodly sight!
I'll cover it o'er with a veil of white,"
Quoth Jack; "ha! ha! and the morning light
Will shine on its glory, gone!"
He gathered his elves for the mischievous prank,
When lo! with a mournful sigh,
The south wind called to a pitying cloud,
"O look! they're weaving the rosebud's shroud."
She paused in the midnight sky,
And glanced at the rose. "Is her doom so near?
Poor bud!" and his tears fell fast.
Oh! the elves were caught in a mournful plight,
And the south wind laughed, and the frost-king's flight
Was a sight to see through the dusk of night,
For the cloud's soft tears overwhelmed him quite
As they fell on his vestments fine and white;
And the lovely Dawn, with her shafts of light,
Looked down on _his glory, past_!

MAY M. ANDERSON.

MY Blossoms all, I wish you a sunshiny April. I know she is apt to shed many tears, but for that very reason we must try to keep our faces unusually bright, for contrast.

I have given you this month several letters from our Blossoms. This, in the future, will be a special feature for our P. S. Corner. I have been selfish in keeping all the sweet bright little letters to myself. There is room for only a very few out of the hundreds which come each month, but you may take them as specimens of the rest. I wish we had room to print them all, for your enjoyment. Meantime, send them on for me to read, that I may keep posted as to what you are doing, and discover in what ways I can best help you.

Lovingly, PANSY.

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