Chapter II: Part 2

And Jimmy blew three of his fingers to bits--
The way a toy pistol always hits;
I ate so much I was nearly dead,
And had a most awful pain in my head,

And was just as tired as I could be--
That was the way it finished with me.
I think I've remembered 'bout enough;
If that is fun, it is pretty "rough."

I might go tell mother this very minute
I don't see a bit of "reason" in it--
I, Thomas, was named for the hero of all--
That gentleman wouldn't own me at all.

But I know I'll try to do better this year,
If all the fellows do call me queer.
This year, I, "Thomas Jefferson" Gray,
Will celebrate in a rational way.
EMILY BAKER SMALLE.

_Volume 13, Number 37._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_July 17, 1886._

THE PANSY.

WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.

WE will start from New York City. Did you ever take a ride on the elevated railway? No? Then we will take it this morning. Mount the long flight of stairs, hurry your ticket into the box in waiting, and push on rapidly, for the train is coming, and it is always in a hurry. There stands the man on the platform, ready to open the iron door for us. Spring on, get your seats, for others are crowding in. Now the door is shut; "toot! toot! whiz!" we are off again!

We make a great many stops. "Fourteenth street," shouts the man at the gate, and there is a rush of people to get off, and a rush of people to get on, and away we go; and in almost less time than it takes to get our breath, Twenty-third street, or some other, is shouted, and we stop again.

At last Forty-second street is called, and we hurry off; everybody in New York is in a hurry. Yet we have reached a quiet place; the New York Central Depot. "A railroad depot a quiet place!" That astonishes you, does it? Still it is the truth; I am not sure but you would think yourself in a great public library, where people move quietly, and speak low. There is no rush, nor bustle; and the room which we have entered is so large that there can hardly be a crowd, even when many people are there. Many doors line one side, and large clock-faces are set over them; but they keep curious time; no two are alike. If you watch, however, you will discover that the doors and the clocks are all named. One is "N. Y. C. & H. R." another is "N. Y. & N. H." and another is--something else.

The hands of the clock point to the hour and moment that the next train on that particular road will be ready to leave the depot. All we have to do is to look for the name of the road on which we want to travel, and then study the clock over the door. Here is ours, "N. Y. & N. H." We have still fifteen minutes. Before that time, the door is quietly opened, and a man whose duty it is to see that we, by no possibility, make a blunder and board the wrong train, takes his station behind it, and looks carefully at our tickets as we pass; we are seated and away.

The train moves very rapidly, and the sensation is pleasant. No rocking motion, and not nearly so much noise as we sometimes find. We chat together pleasantly, without the feeling that we are talking in a locomotive boiler, where work is going on. We make frequent stops at pleasant villages, where green fields stretch out, on either side, and where the air is sweet with the breath of flowers. One name is called which makes us stretch our necks from the open windows to get as good a view as we can. This is New Haven, "the city of elms," and the seat of Yale College. It is a beautiful city; we can be sure of that, even from the depot view. But we have not time to linger. Some day we will stop there, and take a walk around the college. Now we must make all speed to our destination. At last we hear the name: "Ansonia." And we seize our wraps, and satchels, and umbrellas, and lunch boxes, and make haste. What a pretty village! And what a strange one! The river cuts it in two; makes another village on the other side, which, after all, is the same village, or looks like it. There are many trees, hiding nice old-fashioned houses, near which we get glimpses of many flowers. But the buildings which most attract us to-day are not dwelling houses; unless indeed a race of giants live in them. They are so large! Manufactories? Yes, you have guessed it; the State of Connecticut, you know, is famous for its industry. We have spent so much time in getting here, that we will not be able to stay long in the great building to-day. Still, let us stop a few minutes before this queer machine; it is apparently eating wire. What a stomach it must have! Long coils of fine wire rush into its mouth with such speed that one can hardly see the process. How fast it eats! Such large mouthfuls as it takes! about eight inches of wire at a bite. Now what? No, it doesn't swallow the wire, it simply bites it off, and sends it on. Not far, for as the wire is scurrying by a corner, some one of the wicked people who dwell in this machine, seizes it and bends it double! Poor thing! But as you would naturally expect, it hurries the faster now. Not two inches away, it meets another enemy who in sheer ill humor, apparently, seizes it and in an instant of time has given it such a pinch that its right side is all crinkled; it will bear the marks of that grasp all its life! It scuds on, without a groan, intent apparently on getting out of that country as soon as possible. But no, it is seized again, and the two ends of its poor body are rubbed hastily and mercilessly against a rough surface, until they are like needles for sharpness. It takes but a second, and then the wicked sprite seems to have had revenge enough, and lets the poor wire pass. There is a little open place for which the wire is evidently making; it hopes to slip down there out of sight--hurry! almost there! Alas no, one more sprite reaches out a long finger, and gives that horrid pinch to the other side! "Maimed for life!" the poor wire groans, and at last, at _last_, having suffered a life-time of torture, so it thinks, though really its whole journey has not taken more than half a minute, it drops breathless and exhausted into the box below. Let us go around and look at it, poor thing! Why, how it shines! And what a merry company it has gotten among! Not alone any more; literally millions of friends of the same outward appearance as itself. "Hairpins!" you exclaim. Yes, indeed; hairpins for the million. Can it be possible that the world will ever want them all? But how pretty they are; and how smooth and fine their points are! Besides, those horrible pinches which we thought were simply vents for ill-humor, were to put those convenient crinkles into the pins, and help them perform their duty in life. In short, the dabs, and pinches, and grindings, hard as they were to bear, were the very things which shaped a mere bit of wire into a useful member of society.

And, when one thinks of it, what a bit of time it took--this preparation--compared with the time which they will now spend in usefulness! No wonder the hairpins in the great box shone brightly when at last they began to understand it all. The question is, little Pansy Blossoms, can you and I, as we stand looking at them, and thinking of all this, learn a lesson which will apply to our _human_ rubs, and pinches, and sharp places? If this be so, then we shall be well repaid for going, and seeing, and thinking.

"OLD ABE."

SOME years ago a man in the West saw an eagle lighting frequently upon a spot high among the rocks. Observing her movements he saw her nest was there and she was raising her family in that palace of rocks. "Now," he thought, "is the time for me to find out if this grand bird can be tamed." His neighbors said it could not be done.

He quietly resolved to try. But how to get an eaglet was the question. Day after day he would go alone and examine the rocks to see if there was not some way of getting to the nest. There seemed to be none. It was a ledge, almost smooth, and one hundred feet high where the nest was. No ladder would reach it, and if he should go around and climb to the top, he would not be near, as it was many feet down.

One night as he lay thinking the thing over, a thought struck him. "I will go to the top, fasten a rope and let myself down and capture one and climb up again."

In the morning he was a bit wiser and said: "Now if something _should_ happen while I am down there pocketing a young eagle, I might need both hands; in that case how could I climb up? I'll tell the secret to John and Joe Grimes." So they went around to the top of the ledge where they could look over down to the nest.

The old eagle was gone; but there were the five children, talking together at a great rate, not thinking who were near by listening to their conversation and about to knock at their door.

The next moment as they looked up they saw a man coming down by a rope fastened about his body. He seized one and was being drawn up when suddenly the Mother Eagle seeing from far away in the sky an enemy enter her home, and, coming like a flash, dashed upon the robber and would have torn his eyes out; but he fought desperately with his long, sharp knife.

One of his blows almost severed the rope. John and Joe, however, tugged bravely at the other end and their friend with his prize was soon safe but panting at their feet. It is said that when he saw how nearly he came to cutting the rope in two and falling a hundred feet, his hair became instantly white from terror.

The young eagle was taken home and tenderly raised and became as tame as any fowl in the barnyard. It grew to immense size--would fly away out of sight among the clouds, but always return at meal-time and behave like any respectable person. He thought much of his friends; not so much of his friends' enemies. And he had his way of showing his friendship.

And now you need not be surprised to be told about the queer things that the eagle, "Old Abe," did in the War of the Rebellion in 1861-65; how he actually went South with a Western regiment in which were some of his friends, and during battles would fly high and hover over his favorite regiment to cheer it on!

After the battle he would come down and walk among the soldiers and line with them.

The war over, he came back with his regiment and was received like any loyal soldier, with great honor; and his State appropriated a sum to maintain him comfortably in his after years.

There are over thirty references in the Bible to eagles. They are remarkable. A concordance can point them all out. Hunt them up.

M.

A PACKAGE FOR ROSE.

NO. I.

AUNT ALICE was going away for a visit of two or three weeks.

Her trunk was on the little front porch waiting for Farmer Dodds, whenever, with his fat white horse and rattling spring wagon he should make his appearance coming over the hill.

Rose seated herself on the trunk, and lightly tapping her heels against the side, looked off in a dreamy way toward the dusty road that wound down from among tree-covered hills, on its way past their own white cottage with rose-vines climbing over the small square windows, and so prettily set down in the midst of an old-fashioned garden, with a broad, straight path leading from the gate to the porch, and at that season bordered with asters of all colors.

Farmer Dodds was not in sight, and Rose, now turning toward the left, followed with her eyes the line of the road, where, having left the slope of hill behind, it struck out across the level. Stubble fields down there were yellow, the green of the meadows was turning into a soft pale brown, and far off the horizon was like a rising mist of purple.

"Aunt Alice," said Rose, stopping the tapping of her heels, "some way the sunshine down yonder looks almost as if you could take it in your hands."

"Tangible light?" said Miss Alice, coming to the porch to look abroad.

"What's that?" asked Rose.

"Why, just the opposite of 'darkness that could be felt', I think."

"Is it?" said Rose gravely. "But, aunt Alice," she continued, "I wonder what I'll do without you here to ask questions of. And how will I ever get along without the Saturday afternoon talks--I've got so used to them, you know. I'll just be awfully lonesome."

"We'll have to plan a way to help that," returned her aunt. "Let me see--how would you like to write a letter to me on the first Saturday? Only you must be careful to write what you would be most apt to talk about if I were here."

"Oh! I'd like to do that," interrupted Rose.

"And then," continued Miss Alice, "I could have a little packet for you at the post-office. Perhaps grandma would let you ride to town with Mr. Dodds, when he goes for his mail, and you could have the pleasure of getting the packet yourself."

"That's a splendid idea!" cried Rose. "But what will you put in the packet?"

"I don't know yet," replied her aunt. "That will depend upon the letter you write to me. It may be some trifling present, or perhaps a single Bible verse, such as I often give you on Saturday evening. But of one thing you may be sure, there will be something in it that will be a true answer to your letter."

While they were talking Mr. Dodds' wagon had come rattling up to the gate. Immediately everything was in a bustle. Grandma came out to see the trunk lifted into the wagon--aunt Alice found that she had left her gloves upstairs and must go after them at the last minute--and there came Priscilla Carter running up the road with a great bunch of bitter-sweet, which Miss Alice was to take to a friend. Rose thought it was delightful, and kept skipping up and down the path, wishing all the time that she were aunt Alice, with a new trunk and going to have a trip on the cars. But at last good-bys were said, the wagon rattled and jingled off, and Mrs. Harrison, Rose and Priscilla were left standing quietly by the white picket gate in the pleasant autumn sunshine.

When Saturday afternoon came around Rose asked her grandmother for pen and ink. Then drawing a square writing-table out to the porch, where it was shady, she began the task of writing a letter that would tell all that had been going on since her aunt went away. Mrs. Harrison was sitting by the window sewing, and for nearly an hour there was no sound save the scratching of her little granddaughter's pen, or now and then a question from her as to how a word should be spelled.

But by and by Rose threw down her pen and pushed her chair noisily back, exclaiming as she did so:

"Well, grandma, I declare! I've got it done at last! Wouldn't you like me to read it to you?"

"Of course, dearie, I should like it very much," answered Mrs. Harrison, glancing up from her sewing.

So Rose sat down on the doorstep and began to read as follows:

DEAR AUNT ALICE:

I started to school Tuesday, and I'm awfully sorry I
was not there the first day, for my seat isn't one bit
nice. I'd a _great deal_ rather have the one Altie
Crawford is in. She can look out the window and see
everybody drive by. There's a real hateful girl sits
just behind me too. She is always twisting my curls
around her finger; or if she isn't doing that, why, she
is borrowing my white-handled knife--the one Mr. Dodds
gave me. Miss Milton has a new blue dress. Priscilla
took her a _great big_ bunch of white chrysanthemums
to put in her belt, and she looked lovely. She is the
meanest teacher, though, that I ever had. She won't
listen to a word you say to her, and she makes me lend
my eraser to everybody in school.

I don't think that's one bit nice of her, and its
most worn out, too! She just does it because it is a
pretty one. There's a new boy named Robert Wilkie, just
started to school, and Miss Milton pets him to death.
She is always holding him up for an example, but I
think he don't know his lessons any better than the
rest of us. I told the girls that you were going to
send me a packet, and they were all as _excited_ trying
to guess what would be in it!

I've been trying to be real good, and I help grandma
wash the dishes most every day, _especially_ when she
looks tired. Last evening I got supper all by myself. I
fried potato cakes. The edges were a speck jagged, but
they were just as brown and nice!

Now I'll have to stop. I've thought and thought, but
there isn't anything else to write about. I wonder
what you'll put in the packet. I told Priscilla I most
thought it would be a ribbon. She's crazy to see what
is in it.

Your loving niece,
ROSE.

P. S. Priscilla says she can't bear that new boy
either. Miss Milton sent her love to you.

"I think that is quite a nice letter," said Mrs. Harrison, when Rose had come to the end. "But however your aunt is to answer it is more than I can guess."

"Don't it seem a long time to wait until Saturday?" said Rose as she folded the letter carefully and put it in an envelope which she brought to her grandmother to address.

"The more patiently you wait the shorter the time will seem," returned Mrs. Harrison.

Rose did wait patiently and cheerfully, and on Saturday afternoon it was a happy girl who rode home beside Farmer Dodds in the spring wagon.

As they drew near the white picket gate she saw Priscilla sitting on the horseblock.

"Have you got it?" cried Priscilla, jumping down, and running to meet the wagon.

For answer Rose held up a square package wrapped in white paper.

"I don't know yet what is in it," said Rose when they drew nearer, "for grandma told me not to open it until I got home. It feels flat, and then there's something round, like a stick of candy, only its pretty large."

The white horse had come to a decided stop by this time and Priscilla held out her hand for the package, while Rose clambered down from the wagon.

"I thank you for the ride, Mr. Dodds," said she, when she reached the ground, "and I'll tell you what is in my packet the next time you come by."

"All right," replied Mr. Dodds, with a sort of merry chuckle, "but be a leetle careful how ye open it. It _might_ be candy, and it _might_ be red pepper."

So saying, he drove off uphill.

"There might be something you wouldn't like," suggested Priscilla, looking a little doubtfully at the package.

"O pshaw!" retorted Rose; "I know better than that. Let's get the scissors."

HAZLETT.

OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

R.--RUSH, BENJAMIN.

LAST year, all over this land, we celebrated a centennial. It was not in commemoration of a victory upon the battlefield, it was not the celebration of a victory, but rather as we observe with fitting ceremonies the anniversaries of the firing of the first guns in any contest of right against wrong, so in this last centennial year we commemorated the first booming of cannon in the great war against the rum traffic, the beginning of a war that is not ended yet; all along down the century the booming has been heard, and to-day this moral fight is waging fiercely.

About one hundred and forty years ago, near the city of Philadelphia, a boy named Benjamin Rush was growing up. It is said of him that as he advanced from childhood to boyhood his love of study was unusual, amounting to a passion. He graduated from Princeton College when only fifteen years old, and with high honors. He began the study of medicine in Philadelphia, but went abroad to complete his medical education and studied under the first physicians in Edinburgh, London and Paris; thus the best opportunities for gaining knowledge of his chosen profession were added to natural abilities and the spirit of research. He became a practising physician in Philadelphia, and was soon after chosen professor of chemistry in a medical college in the same city. While he is now at the distance of a century, best known as one who struck the first blow for temperance reform, yet it is interesting to know that when in 1776, he was a member of the Provincial Assembly of Pennsylvania, he was the mover of the first resolution to consider the expediency of a Declaration of Independence on the part of the American Colonies. He was made chairman of a committee appointed to consider the matter. Afterwards he was a member of the Continental Congress, and was one of the devoted band who in Independence Hall affixed their names to the immortal document which cut the colonies loose from their moorings and swung them out upon a sea of blood, to bring them at last into the harbor of freedom and independence. As was said of him at the meeting in Philadelphia, last year: "He was a great controlling force in all that pertained to the successful struggle of the colonies for national independence." We are told that "He was one of the most active, original and famous men of his times; an enthusiast, a philanthropist, a man of immense grasp in the work-day world, as well as a polished scholar, and a scientist of the most exact methods."

He was interested in educational enterprises; he wrote upon epidemic diseases, and won great honor for himself, so that the kings of other lands bestowed upon him the medals which they are wont to give to those whom they desire to honor. And now let me quote again from one who appreciates the character of this truly great man:

"This matchless physician, eminent scholar and pure patriot blent all his wise rare gifts in one tribute and cast them at the feet of his Master. He was a devout Christian."

At length his soul was stirred within him as he witnessed the increasing evils of intemperance, and he wrote and published his celebrated essay upon "The Effects of ardent Spirits upon the Human Body and Mind, with an account of the means of preventing them, and of the remedies for curing them." This is said to have been the first temperance treatise ever published--the beginning of a temperance literature. One hundred years ago, just one pamphlet of less than fifty pages; now, whole libraries of bound books, besides scores upon scores of pamphlets, leaflets and many periodicals devoted exclusively to the cause of temperance! and nearly three quarters of a century after this good man had gone to his rest, men and women from all over the land thronged the city of his birth "To recount the victories won in the war--and to strike glad hands of fellowship."

And now what made Doctor Rush great? What is the best thing said of him?

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.

O.--OSSOLI. (MARGARET FULLER.)

IF the young readers of THE PANSY had lived forty years ago, and had been readers of the _New York Tribune_, they would, without doubt, have been interested in certain letters upon art and literature written by Margaret Fuller; or, if you are so fortunate as to belong to a grandfather who stored away his files of the _Tribune_ in some now long-forgotten chest in the attic, you may find in the old, yellow and musty papers these same letters, and may read them now. I do not like musty old papers very much! What's the use, when we have fresh ones in such numbers that we cannot begin to read all that are taken by the different members of the family?

Sarah Margaret Fuller was a native of Cambridgeport, Mass. Very early in life she gave promise of the brilliant literary career which she afterwards ran. She was a fine scholar even in childhood, especially in the languages, and in general literature. Her education was carried on in private. After she entered her teens, she became a teacher of the languages in classes in Boston, and in Mr. Alcott's school, and was at one time the principal of a school in Providence. While she was a contributor to the _Tribune_, she was a member of the family of Horace Greeley. Her views of life were modelled after the philosophy of Ralph Waldo Emerson, and about the year 1839, or 1840, she gave a series of lectures, or talks, though I believe they were called _conversazioni_, especially for ladies, the object being the propagation of then somewhat novel ideas. She also became the editor of a paper. She wrote much, and with considerable brilliancy. Her "Summer on the Lakes" gives pictures of the Lake Superior region. Her "Woman in the Nineteenth Century" has to do with some phases of the "Woman's Rights Question." In 1846 she went abroad, and married, in Rome, a nobleman, Giovanni Angelo Ossoli. But she bore the name and the title attached to it only a few years. For when she was returning to America, accompanied by her husband, both lost their lives in a shipwreck. She was a woman of strong passions, indeed it has been said of her that "She was noted for her eccentricities and her ungovernable passions." Not just what I would wish to be written of any of my young friends of THE PANSY. It is a sad thing when a great and gifted woman misses the happiness of a quiet spirit.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

_Volume 13, Number 38._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_July 24, 1886._

THE PANSY.

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.

BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

IX.

"YOU'RE in luck!"

Wilfred's voice was harsh and unpleasant, and he looked at St. George in a way decidedly disagreeable.

George Edward went on whittling.

"Allen, it's no use to pretend that I'm not in an awful scrape by that little affair over at Sachem Hill. Goodness! why don't you speak to a chap?"

"I've nothing to say," observed St. George, proceeding with his work.

"Your tongue is ready enough generally," retorted Wilfred in a temper. "Now, if it suits you to be an oyster, it don't me. I'd rather you'd preach, infinitely."

"I don't do that," cried St. George, throwing down knife and stick, and turning a countenance by no means saintly upon his visitor. "You sha'n't stand there and throw that at me," he declared in a heat.

"I didn't say you did," said Wilfred coolly, "I only said I'd rather you would. So go on."

"It's none of my business what you do," cried St. George, "I'm not going to say a word about it."

"Confound you!" cried Wilfred irritably, flinging his long figure on the bench amongst the shavings, and pushing aside the tools that lay in the way. "Well, hear me, then--I'm in for it, and no mistake. Father is so angry just because I didn't report in time that night, that he threatens to pack me off to boarding-school. In fact, it's as good as decided, and I go next week. Now, you've got the whole."

He threw himself down to the floor as abruptly, plunged his hands in his pockets, and walked to the window.

St. George stood aghast, looking after him.

"Did your mother say so?" he asked at length, hoping, from his knowledge of the Bangs family, that a reprieve might yet arrive from the true head of affairs there.

"Yes," said Wilfred gloomily, "she's worse than father about it, and determined that he sha'n't give in." St. George looked pityingly at him.

"Well, it can't be helped," he said, longing to bestow something better.

"Of course it can't," cried Wilfred, whirling around; "a plague upon you for saying that."

"You wanted me to say something," contributed St. George.

"I know it. But why don't you say 'I told you so,' or, 'If you hadn't been a first-class idiot you'd have dropped that last confounded skate!' Then I could fight you. As it is now, there isn't anything to strike against."

"I'm as sorry as you are," said St. George dubiously, overlooking his ill-success in the matter of conversationally pleasing his friend; "whatever shall I do without you?" There was such genuine regret in his voice and manner, that Wilfred forgot his irritation, and began to look mollified.

"We've had awful good times," he said, coming up to the work-bench again.

"I should think we had," declared St. George in that hearty way of his that made all the boys willing to call him "capital."

"And it's perfectly horrid to begin again with new boys, I tell you. I'd rather run away to sea!" Wilfred's courage failing him once more, he looked the picture of despair.

St. George seeing it, left his own part of the trouble, and turned comforter:

"We're in for it, so all that is left is to face the music."

"Only half-yearly vacations," threw in Wilfred.

St. George's face fell.

"And no boxes from home allowed."

St. George had no words of comfort.

"And no extra 'outs' ever given for good behavior. If there were, I'd set up for a saint," added the victim savagely.

St. George was still silent.

"And all letters must pass through preceptor's hands. Oh! I've seen the bill," said Wilfred in the depths, "besides hearing father and mother read it a good half dozen times. It's just as bad as it can be--a regular old hole of a prison, is Doctor Gowan's Select School for Boys," throwing into his voice as much animosity as he was capable of.

St. George indulged in one or two uneasy turns about the room--his workshop, made out of a part of the generous garret that crowned the old house.

Was not this a terrible punishment indeed for a boy's misdemeanor? Too terrible, it seemed to him, and he felt a growing bitterness in his heart toward the parents who could plan and carry it out, and thus mar, not only the happiness of their own son, but that of a large circle of boys who were to lose a jolly companion.

But at last conscience spoke: "You are wrong. You _know_ that Wilfred has done many things of late that have tried the patience of his father, his mother, and his teachers. You _know_ that they have borne with his increasing unfaithfulness--that they have labored with the boy, hoping and praying for better things. You _know_ they take this course feeling it best for him, and while it is hard for him and for you, it must be borne, realizing it to be the result of the boy's own course. You _know_ all this, now give the case the justice in your own mind that is its due."

St. George turned around and frankly put out his hand.

"It's right you go," he said quite simply, "we'll all try to get along till vacation, old boy."

Wilfred, finding no pity forthcoming, put his hand within the brown palm, waiting for it.

"Keep the rest of the chums together," he begged.

"I'll do my best."

"And remember, we're to go to the same college."

"All right."

"And chum it there."

"All right."

"And I wish," Wilfred looked steadily into the blue eyes gazing into his, "I hadn't done it--dallied over those old skates--but minded father."

St. George bit his lip, but yet he would _not_ preach.

"I'll give you my word it's the last time I'll ever get caught that way."

The blue eyes leaped into sudden fire, and Wilfred's hand was wrung hard.

"All _right_, old fellow."

A GAME OF ENGLISH HISTORY.

THEY sat around a small table, half a dozen bright boys and girls. Questions and answers flew back and forth, literally, for were they not printed upon slips of pasteboard which were handed about with exceeding rapidity? Upon listening carefully, it was discoverable that they were playing a game of English history.

Mr. Dalton, the father of the boy who was the host of the evening, stood behind his son's chair looking on and smiling at their eagerness. Presently he said, during a pause in the game;

"Well, boys, you do well; you certainly have a number of interesting facts and dates fastened in your memories, but it occurs to me to wonder if you know anything more than the mere fact. For instance, take this question which is the first that comes to mind, 'What two remarkable events in the reign of Charles the Second?' and the answer, 'The Great Plague and Fire in London.' Now what more do you know of those events?"

Fred Dalton looked up quickly. "I know a little about the Fire, but I do not know about the Plague. I suppose that there was a sort of epidemic raged in London at that time."

"And it must have raged extensively or it would not have been called the Great Plague, and have got into history," said Will Ely.

"You are both very good at supposing," said Mr. Dalton, laughing, "but it is sometimes better to _know_ about a thing than to guess at it."

"I have read an account of the Plague," said Fred Smith. "It raged several months, all one summer, and one third of the people of the city died. Great numbers fled from the city, and so many died that they could not have any burial service, but just buried them in a great pit in the night. They built great bonfires in the streets hoping that the fire and smoke would prevent the spread of the disease, but heavy rains put out the fires. It was a dreadful time!"

"Indeed it was," said Mr. Dalton; "the accounts of it are harrowing. And now what do you know of the Great Fire, Fred?"

"I know that it started in a baker's shop near London Bridge, and that it burned over about five sixths of the city. It burned three days and nights. It was in September, after a very hot and dry summer, so that the houses built of wood were in a well-seasoned state, and made first-rate kindling wood. And then there was a wind that fanned the fire and carried sparks and cinders a long distance, so that new fires kept breaking out in different parts of the city. It is said that there were two hundred thousand people who lost their homes, and that the streets leading out of the city were barricaded with broken-down wagons which the people flying from the fire had overloaded with their goods."

"It was a terrible calamity," said Mr. Dalton; "but like many another it proved a blessing, for the new London was much better built."

"Was the fire set by bad men, or was it an accident?" asked one of the boys.

"Without doubt it was set accidentally, though many people thought otherwise. A monument was erected near the place where the fire started in memory of those who lost their lives in that terrible time, and there was an inscription upon the monument charging the Papists with the crime, but this unjust accusation was afterwards removed by the order of the public authorities. But I will not hinder your game any longer."

"We like this sort of hindering," said one of the boys. "It makes it more interesting."

Mr. Dalton soon returned to say, "Boys, there is a 'Great Fire' in the kitchen, and a pan of corn waiting to be popped, and a Bridget there who does not think boys a 'Great Plague.'"

In less than half a minute there were no boys sitting around that table!

F. H.

BABY HARRY.

BABY HARRY, three years old;
Eyes of blue and hair of gold;
Rosy cheeks which dimples grace;
Loving, trustful little face
Of my boy.

"Mamma, please me wants a drink,
Can 'oo get it, does 'oo fink?"
Questioned thus my baby boy,
As he dropped his book and toy
Carelessly.

"Mamma's busy, she must sew;
Can't my darling baby go
And ask Bridget for a cup?
Tell her, 'Please to fill it up
Full of milk.'"

Twilight shadows crept apace,
Slowly lengthened on his face
As he whispered: "I'se afraid,"
And the curly head was laid
On my knee.

"But," I whispered, "God, you know,
Leads you everywhere you go,
In the darkness or the light,
And He'll make the way all bright
For my boy."

Straight he went through room and hall,
And I heard his sweet voice call:
"Don't let nothin' hurt me, Dod,
Don't let nothin' hurt me, Dod,"
Rev'rently.

And my heart prayed, "Father, teach
My boy to bring to Thee each
Trouble, be it great or small;
Be to him his 'All in All,'
Throughout life."

Oh! for childlike faith, so bright,
That through sorrow's darkest night
We can journey toward that land,
Holding to our Father's hand
Trustingly.
"ERVANIE."

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

I HAVE seldom known a boy who was not interested in the history of Napoleon. To me his story is like a novel, and no character ever charmed me more than that of his wife, the Empress Josephine. But I cannot find it in my heart to admire a man who so ruthlessly shed human blood. He stopped at nothing for his own personal advancement. Never has any conqueror fought more battles perhaps than he.

All Europe seemed draped in the weeds of mourning during the years of his power and greatness. I have often thought his reflections must have been sad indeed, when, during the last five years of his life, he was a weary exile on the little gum-tree island of St. Helena, with only a few friends around him, and subjected to great unkindness from the governor of the island.

St. Helena is an island in the South Atlantic Ocean, belonging to the British. It acquired celebrity from being the place of Napoleon's banishment. From the ocean it has the appearance of a lofty pyramidal mass of a dark-gray color, rising abruptly from out its depths.

But on approaching, a number of openings are discovered, forming the mouths of narrow valleys or ravines, leading gradually up to a central plateau. On these, at all openings where a landing might be effected, military works have been erected for the purpose of making it secure.

What a contrast does his life there present, to the time when great continents trembled before the power of his triumphant armies.

Napoleon Bonaparte was born in Corsica, 1769, and died at St. Helena, 1821, where he was buried beneath a weeping willow, for nineteen years, when France demanded his remains, and gave such a funeral as few perhaps have ever witnessed.

R.

FOR the lovely midsummer evenings I should propose two games, one for July and one for August. The July one is

THE CARNIVAL OF THE BOATS.

If any of the Pansies live near a river or lake, and are accustomed to row over the clear, shining surface, they can enter heartily into this most delightful of games. I should first seriously recommend that father or big brother John be invited to take charge of the boat, or if there are not enough big brothers to go around so that every boat can be under trusty guidance, there always is a big cousin or an uncle, or perchance a paid boatman who is competent to assume such a responsibility.

This being all arranged, the fun of trimming the small craft begins. Let each boatload keep all matters secret, so that the grand surprises that come out when the Carnival takes place, may form one of the pleasantest features of the occasion.

Get Chinese lanterns, fasten a pole at either end of row-boat, low enough so that the boats can pass safely under bridges if necessary. Two poles at either end are pretty when decorated with gay lanterns. Pass strings from one pole to another, and across from bow to stern. Hang on these bright bits of tinsel, silver, or any other trifle that will sparkle in the moonlight. Put tinsel or silver bands around top of oars above the hands--and a band around the rower's arms, and around caps. Let the girls wear white, with bright colors, and fancy hats or jaunty caps, carrying garlands.

When all is ready, the forward boat must carry one who rings a bell as the signal to start, also if possible some boys who can play on flutes or horns. There should be sweet voices on all the boats that can sing by a preconcerted plan, something in unison. As the boat sweeps around curves, and dips into bays, and shallows, one could never witness a prettier sight than the carnival presents. It is a regular game of "Follow my Leader" on the water. There must be complete obedience to the one who is leading, great good-nature, and a positive determination on the part of every child who enters into the sport to try his or her best to make all the others enjoy it.

After sailing around and around, singing and playing until tired, the Carnival ends with tying the boats fast, and "following the Leader" over the fields home, dropping the flowers at the doors of those who were not able to take part in the sport.

May you enjoy this Carnival of the Boats, dear Pansies, making it a bright spot in the lives of many, and a memory to gladden the heart.

MARGARET SIDNEY.

NAMES OF THE MONTHS.

JANUARY was so called from Janus, an old Italian king, and comes from a Latin word Januarius. February comes from februe, meaning to purify, because in that month the Romans offered sacrifices for purifying the people. March comes from Mars, the God of War. April comes from the word Aprilus, which means opening, because then the world buds and blossoms forth. May, from Majores, so called by Romulus, in respect to the Senators. June, from the Latin, Junius, or the younger sort of the people. July, from Julius Cæsar. August, called from Augustus. September, from the Latin, septem, meaning seven, being the seventh month from March. October, from Latin, octo, eight; November, from novem, nine, the ninth month from March. December, from the Latin, decem, ten, being the tenth month from March, which was formerly the manner of beginning the year.

R.

KINGS AND QUEENS.

OH where are kings and queens of earth?
The monarchs born to rule?
They are here, and there, and everywhere--
At home, at church, at school.

The kings and queens in glad array
A conquering army stand;
Bright, glad-hearted boys,
Full of frolic and noise,
Laughing-eyed girls
With their sun-kissed curls,
An army born to command.

Why are they kings and queens, you say?
Bend low, then, while I tell;
They are the kings whose hearts are true;
Who love their parents, and honor them too;
Who haste at the sound of father's voice;
Whose truthful words make mother rejoice;
Who not only _mean_ to do the right,
But are doing it _now_, with all their might,
Soldiers who love to do well.

And why are the fair-faced girls the queens?
My friend, they are royal born.
They are loving to mother,
To sister and brother,
To father a shining light.
They feel above doing wrong,
And with smiling and song
Make the dear home nest bright.

O dear little kings and queens of earth,
March on to conquer and win.
Lift up the fallen, comfort the sad,
Shine in the lives of the weary and bad,
Help raise the sorrowing, pitiful earth
Nearer the land where love had its birth,
Till as saintly kings and queens at last,
The burdens all borne, the trials past,
You joyfully wait, at the palace gate,
For King Jesus to let you in.
MRS. CHARLOTTE E. FISHER.

- - - - - -

PAPER made of cotton rags was in use, 1000; that of linen rags, in 1170; the manufactory, introduced into England, at Dartford, 1588.

THE DOG AND CHILD.

MR. ELIHU BURRITT gives in his book called "A Walk from London to Land's End and Back," the touching illustration of the affection of a dog in Truro: "I was sitting at the breakfast table of a friend, who was a druggist, when he was called into the shop by a neighbor, who had come for medical aid in a very remarkable and affecting case.

"He described it briefly and simply, but it would fill a volume of beautiful meaning.

"His family dog had made the acquaintance of a neighbor's child on the other side of the street.

"While lying on the door-stone, he had noticed this little thing sometimes at the chamber window, and sometimes on the pavement, in a little carriage.

"During one of his walks on that side of the street, he met the baby, and looked over the rim of the carriage, as a loving dog can look, straight into a pair of baby eyes, and said, 'Good morning!' as well as he could.

"Little by little, day by day and week by week, this companionship went on growing with the growth and strengthening with the strength of the little one. The dog, doubtless because his master had no young child of his own, came at last to transfer frequently his watch and ward to the door-stone on the other side of the street, and to follow as a guard of honor to the baby's carriage on its daily airings. He gave himself up to all the peltings, and little rude rompings, and rough and tumblings of those baby hands.

"One day, as the dog lay in watch by the door-stone, the child, peeping out of the window above, lost its balance, and fell on the stone pavement below. It was taken up quite dead! The red drops of the young life had bespattered the feet and face of the dog as he sprang to the rescue. His heart died out within him in one long, whining howl of grief. From that moment he refused to eat. He refused to be comforted by his master's voice and by his master's home. Day by day and night by night he lay upon the spot where the child fell.

"This was the neighbor's errand. He told it in a few simple words. He had come to my friend, the druggist, for a prescription for his dog--something to bring back his appetite."

_Volume 13, Number 39._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_July 31, 1886._

THE PANSY.

HOW SOME MISSIONARIES TRAVEL.

(_Extract from a letter written by Pauline Root, M. D., Medical missionary in Madura, India._)

MY DEAR FRIEND:

Have you any sort of an idea what it is to travel in a bullock bandy? The wagon itself I suppose to be somewhat like what the Western emigrants used, in days gone by. It is supposed to be very comfortable, and sometimes three or four persons occupy one; but how they do it, is a mystery to me, for my two trips have been by myself, and I certainly had no room to spare.

My first experience was in going to visit a sick missionary thirty-eight miles away. It was during the rainy season. I took with me a servant, who spoke English, and if it had not been for that, I don't know what I should have done.

Bullocks were supposed to be posted along the road, but at the first changing place, none could be hired. We went on, four miles, and there succeeded in getting a pair so frisky that I seemed at times in danger of losing my life. How they _did_ behave! One was especially unwilling to be tied. More than once the bandy bumped down with me, and one bullock ran away up the road, leaving the other beside himself with fear. However, we got started at last, but I was afraid of something happening all the time we had those animals.

The river, which in the dry season is simply a great bed of sand, in the rainy season is sometimes so high that bandys cannot cross, except on rafts, and sometimes not at all, because of the very swift current.

On our return trip the river was nearly its full width, and was rushing along with a tremendous sweep. It was not very deep, however, and I decided not to wait the river's pleasure, but to risk crossing it. It took twenty-one men to get us across that river! Pudchi, my servant, piled all my boxes on the board, which, in a bandy, is the bed, and he and I perched ourselves on them, balancing as best we could. One man went ahead to sound the river, two guided the bullocks' heads, two drove, eight took the wheels, five pushed, and the others steadied us; for more than once it seemed as if the current would sweep us over. However, after the first scare, I felt safe, and rather enjoyed my ride. Landed on the other side of the river, the water was emptied out of the bandy, and we went on, for hours, through the palm-tree forests and the banyan-lined avenues. The moonlight was almost dazzling, and the banyan and palm-trees glittered like silver.

Would you like to know the cost of getting over that river? It cost two cents a man! The roads were so muddy that we had occasionally to get help, to push the bandy along. Once, in getting out of a hole, the wheel was thrown over the bank of a tauk; the driver did not dare try going on, with me inside, so I crawled out over the wheel! We were thirteen hours in making the thirty-eight miles. Part of the time I arranged my pillows and tried to be comfortable; but what comfort can you take when, even by bracing yourself, you cannot keep quiet for a moment?

After part of the thirteen hours were spent, I found I was indulging in a headache. I did my head up in a wet towel, and tried to apply "Mentholine" to my forehead; but the jolting of the bandy caused me, when aiming at one temple, to thrust the instrument into the opposite eye. After some experiments I thought it might be safer to make a dive for an eye in the first place, and see where the cone would land, but concluded not to try it.

MY HAND IN HIS.

A LITTLE boy who came before the pastor to be received into the church, was asked how he expected to lead a Christian life, and he sweetly replied, "I will put my hand in Jesus' hand, and I know He will lead me right." This is just the thing, my little ones, for us _all_ to do, and if we did it, we should not so often stumble and fall. We are so apt to try to walk _alone_! But this we cannot do, in this dark world.

I called to see a dear friend lately, and she repeated to me a lovely poem in which these two lines occurred:

I'd rather walk with Him in the dark
Than to walk alone in the light.

And I assure you the former is far safer for us than the latter. He never lets us fall, if we hold His hand!

"WHAT SHE COULD."

ALICE MERWYN felt as though she had stepped into a new world that Monday morning when she began her summer's work at Lime Rock. An entire stranger in the neighborhood, expected to teach and manage twenty restless and judging from appearances hitherto unmanageable children, and she only seventeen, she was nearly overwhelmed.

And yet Alice Merwyn was not easily discouraged; she had a certain self-poise which some people called self-conceit, others named self-confidence, but which, name it as you will, grew out of a knowledge of her powers coupled with a strong faith in her Leader.