Chapter II: Part 2

Red lips quivered--he wanted it soon;
Then--_one more baby cried for the moon_!
But mamma brought him his milk and bread,
And patted his dear little curly head.

Then quickly he smiled and forgot the moon,
And laughed at his face in his silver spoon.
O happy Neddie! so easy to smile;
Your life will be glad, if all the while

As the years go on you can turn away
From all that you want when God says "Nay,"
And laugh, and thank Him for what He may give--
That is the way for His child to live.

O manly boys, and sweet little girls!
With all your colors of eyes and curls,
If you would have life like a summer day,
Be content with the things that are in your way.

Seek ever the things that are pure and high,
As planets that move in the evening sky,
But if you can't have the shining moon,
Be glad when God offers the silver spoon.
EMILY BAKER SMALLE.

_Volume 13, Number 33._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_June 19, 1886._

THE PANSY.

WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.

IN the first place, I took a walk. It was a March day, but I wore a sun hat and carried a sun umbrella. Crossing the road in front of my cottage, I went through a little gate, ran down a hill under great spreading pines, and walked along the shore of a lovely lake, stopping now and then to pick white violets, and whortleberry blossoms with which to adorn my hat. Then I sat me down in a rustic seat, and read a letter from some friends in Ohio, telling about a snow storm, and a wind storm, and a frost frolic, and I know not what not of sulky, boisterous weather. Over my head, meanwhile, the mocking birds sang merrily, now pretending that they were robins, now bobolinks, and now nothing but common chirping birds!

Yes, I was in a different country; and you are guessing rightly, that it was in sunny Florida.

But it was time to go on; the great tabernacle bell was ringing, and I wanted to be in at the opening, for we were promised some curious sights that day. After all, I was late; some friends who had been in the woods stopped to show me some pitcher plants, and to divide great sprays of sweet-scented Southern jessamine with me, and when I tiptoed into the tabernacle, work had commenced.

Certainly the sight was curious enough. Men and women, some of them gray-headed and spectacled, each of them with a bit of paper in hand about four inches square; red, or yellow, or blue, or golden, as the case might be; all the colors of the rainbow seemed to be there. Each of these grave men and women were bent over their papers, carefully folding, and creasing, and re-folding, according to the direction of the leader, until they had each made what a small woman of six, sitting near me, called "a little birdie with wings!" but what her gray-haired aunt sitting beside her, pronounced to be a "strictly correct geometrical figure." "Geometry," was that the subject? Well, that is for grown people, surely. No, playing at boat and bird building. Was that the subject? But that is for _children_.

Well, you are both right; it _was_ Geometry, and it was _play_. And the name of it is Kindergarten.

Call it what you will, not a Blossom of you but would have liked to be there, and help fold that paper; and your mothers would have enjoyed it, at least, almost as well. Why? Well, principally because of the little dots at home, which they saw they could delightfully entertain, as well as teach, in this way; and because of the tall boy, who yet is a trifle puzzled over fractions. It would be so easy with those nice sticks, which followed the papers, to show him how to do it. Then the blocks, cunning little squares, and triangles, and all sorts of shapes; and what delightful things they would build, to be sure! Do you know, I fancied I saw every Blossom of mine, who has a sister or brother, four, five, six years old, who must be entertained very often by your puzzled selves, sitting in that tabernacle, eager listeners and workers, getting new and bright thoughts every minute as to how you could combine pleasure with instruction; and while little sister thought she was having a "perfectly splendid time" in your care, she would really be learning lessons which would help her all her life.

Didn't I wish you were there! But since you were not, and I couldn't reach to call you, why, I will tell you about it now, and fill your hearts with vain regrets.

Listen, my Blossoms. Kindergarten; that is the name, remember. Is there one in the city where you go, sometimes, to visit? By all means take a morning or two, and visit it, and run away with some pretty ideas to help you amuse the little sisters. Or perhaps it is in the very city where you live, but too far away for the little sister or brother to attend; still, by all means, go _you_, as a guest occasionally; and my word for it, you will be richly repaid. Such wonders can be done with bright paper, and blocks, and a strong needle with bright-colored silks.

Miss Ross was our teacher, in Florida, last winter; and much did we enjoy the privilege of hearing her. She is going to hold Normal Kindergarten Conventions through the States, next fall; look out for her name, and hear her if you can.

Miss Matilda K. Ross of Chicago.

PANSY.

A LETTER FROM FATHER.

"I WONDER if we will get a letter from father to-night."

It was Essie Carter who spoke. Her mother sat by the window sewing, while Gracie played with her dolls upon the doorstep. Essie was just starting for the post-office.

"I think," she continued, "that I will go across the pasture lot, it is more shady that way and it is very warm this afternoon."

At mention of the pasture lot Gracie sprang up and said in her lisping tones, "Gracie go too!"

"Gracie may go as far as the fence and wait for Essie there," said her mother. And clinging to her sister's hand, carrying her favorite doll, the little one went down the lawn, across the meadow and there cheerfully relinquished her hold and set about hunting violets while Essie went on to the country post-office, where she secured the coveted letter. On her return she found Gracie hanging upon the fence.

"Did you get a letter?" she asked.

"Yes; and now we will hurry home and mamma will read it to us."

"Did my papa write it?" asked the child.

"Yes, dear; papa wrote it to us, maybe there will be a little letter in it for Gracie."

"With what did he write it?"

"With a pen, of course."

"What is a pen?" asked the little questioner.

"O Gracie Carter! you can ask the most questions of any child that ever was born, I do believe!" exclaimed Essie.

"But what is a pen?" persisted Gracie.

"A pen is a thing to write with," replied Essie despairing of evading the questions.

"Who made a pen?"

"I don't know," was Essie's frank reply.

And then she fell to thinking unheeding Grade's questions. After the letter had been read and talked over Essie said:

"Mamma, Gracie wanted to know who made pens, and I couldn't tell her; a thing we use so constantly too! I would like to know something about them myself."

"Well, dear, can't you find out?"

"If we were at home I could study it up in the library, but we haven't any books here excepting poems and Bibles and the dictionary."

"Is that the way you rank your books?" asked Mrs. Carter smiling.

"No; but it is such a matter of course to have the Bible that I was not going to mention it, then I just happened to think of the dictionary."

"Well, go to the dictionary and see what you find there."

Essie turned over the pages and read, "An instrument used for writing, formerly made of the quill of a goose or other bird, but now also of other materials, as gold and steel."

"Why, mamma, is that true, pens can be made of a quill? I never heard of such a thing."

"There _are_ a few things that my daughter has never yet heard of."

"Now, mamma, you are laughing at me! But truly I never heard of a pen being made of a quill. Dear me, I wish I had a cyclopædia. The next time we come out here I mean to bring a whole set!"

"Perhaps I could tell you something about pens," said Mrs. Carter quietly.

"O mamma! I beg your pardon," exclaimed Essie coloring slightly. "I ought to have known that you could! I have heard papa call you a walking cyclopædia."

"Your uncle Horace was at one time employed in a gold pen manufactory and I learned a great deal at that time, and we studied up the history of pens. If I remember rightly the first pens used were made of iron or steel and were not used with ink, but the letters were cut in stone, or clay, and afterwards the same sort of an instrument was used to write upon waxed tablets; then when parchment and paper began to be used pens were made of reeds, and of course the people must have had ink of some sort. Now about quill pens. It was probably more than a thousand years ago that some one discovered that the quills of birds made better pens for writing on paper than could be made of reeds, and people have used quill pens more or less ever since."

"Why do we not use them? Did you ever use one?"

"Two questions at once! I'll answer the last one first. Yes, I remember using quill pens when I first began to go to school. My father had never used any other and he had a prejudice against steel pens, which had already come into use, and as we kept a flock of geese we always had a supply of quills. It was considered in my father's day one of the necessary qualifications of a schoolteacher that he should be able to make a good quill pen. Such steel pens as we use may be classed among _modern inventions_. It is said that they were first introduced about the beginning of the nineteenth century, but they were not a success and very little progress was made in the manufacture for more than a quarter of a century. One thing will surprise you, I think. The first pens made, in an English factory about the time they were successfully introduced, sold for nearly twenty-five cents apiece at wholesale rates."

"At that rate it would cost papa a fortune to keep me in pens! Why, I use up a box in a little while."

"Probably; you are apt to use up things."

"I wish papa would give me a gold pen; I believe I could keep one a long time," said Essie.

"Probably the best steel pens are made in England, but American gold pens are the best. A great amount of labor is bestowed upon them. Every one is carefully tested before it is put into the market. When a person buys a gold pen he pays a good price for it and expects it to last a long time, and this is the reason that they are so carefully tested. If half the steel pens in your box prove to be worthless, the remainder are still cheap."

"But, mamma, you have not told me why people do not use quill pens nowadays."

"I suppose principally because metal pens are more durable. Quill pens require to be mended often and one who writes much would find it quite a task to make and mend his pens. I should not wonder if we would find a bunch of quills hanging from the rafters in the attic of this old house and I should like to make a quill pen for you that you may write with a pen like the one your grandfather always used. And now, Essie, if you will pay attention to your father's request you shall have a gold pen when we go back home," said mamma, smiling kindly.

"You mean about taking pains with my writing?"

"Yes; I have sometimes thought that in nothing does culture or want of culture show itself more than in a person's penmanship."

MRS. J. H. FOSTER.

THE FOX FAMILY.

IN 1840 there lived a man in Kinderhook, N. Y., who was a smart politician and his party often put him up for office; somehow he had a way often of being elected, as many popular men do nowadays. He was nominated for the Presidency. Can you guess his name? There was great excitement on both sides. The Whigs had put up General Harrison for their candidate and were singing songs about Log Cabins and Hard Cider, because General Harrison lived in one and drank the other. They said many things against the Kinderhook man. Parties always do say hard things against their opponents.

Among other hard names they called him a "Little Fox," and no doubt some voted against him, thinking if he was anything like a fox he was not fit to be President of the United States.

People are prejudiced against this animal because he is so sly and tricky.

Queer stories are told about his smartness.

He loves (to eat) fowl. He will swim toward a duck _e. g._ with turf in the mouth, so as to be concealed, then, being near, the unsuspecting duck is "nabbed" for Mr. Fox's dinner.

He goes limping with his head down, as if eating clover, till near enough to seize a hare. When caught stealing hens, he will pretend to be dead, though kicked roughly about, till he gets a chance to "up and off." When traps are arranged around his hole, he will stay in for days, hungry, or make a new outlet rather than expose himself to a trap. He knows how to fire off a gun that has been set for him without being hit.

In Northern climes he can pull up the fish-line that has been placed by the fisherman over night through a hole in the ice. The man comes early to get a morning fish breakfast but only to find an empty hook lying near the hole and Mr. Fox galloping off in the distance with the game.

The above is what "They say." Many more strange things are said about the Fox family.

Certain it is they are a shrewd set, smarter in providing delicious repasts for their children than many of their neighbors, the farmers, who treat them as thieves.

The Whigs did almost or quite call the Kinderhook man a sly thief. They probably _now_ think he was as honest, perhaps more suited to the Presidency than was Gen. Harrison. Very different from the "Fox" of Kinderhook was Charles James Fox of England who died a hundred years ago. Strangely enough he was a great Whig, though Whig in England was not the same as Whig in the United States. He was a fine scholar and high statesman; some say, "the greatest debater the world ever saw."

Different still was George Fox of England who died two hundred years ago--one of the purest, best men that ever lived. The Quakers or Friends started from him. He went everywhere preaching the simple teaching of the Bible and against trusting to forms and ceremonies. Enemies arose against him and had him put in loathsome dungeons. But he came out of the prison (though not just as Saint Peter did, by the help of an angel) but only to forgive his cruel persecutors and go right on preaching God's free and simple grace.

John Foxe was another grand man. He wrote "Foxe's Book of Martyrs." Have you ever read it? He died three hundred years ago. Thus you see the Foxes are not all so sly and tricky as those in the picture "look to be." See what queer eyes they have. Somewhat upside down.

C.

SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.

N.--NEWELL, HARRIET ATWOOD.

UPON the platform in Tremont Temple, Boston, at the meeting of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, last October, there was placed a little mahogany table, old-fashioned in form and dark with age. It was an object of great interest from the fact that around that small table, three feet by two--or, when the leaves were spread, three by five--there sat, seventy-five years ago, the five men who formed the American Board at that date. The first meeting held in the parlor of the little parsonage in Farmington, Ct., was a small beginning, and who could have guessed that Tremont Temple, Music Hall, and one or two churches would have been filled to overflowing by the crowds that would come to the seventy-fifth anniversary! We who live in this missionary age cannot realize the weight of that undertaking, nor can we who are saying farewell to friends and acquaintances who go out in fast-sailing steam ships with many a comfort and convenience unknown in those days, and in comparative safety, realize what it meant to those five young men and their wives who were the first sent out by the newly-formed board, to bid adieu to home and friends with scarce a hope of ever returning to their native land. Rev. Samuel J. Newell was one of the five, and the subject of this sketch was his devoted young wife. Harriet Newell was the first woman who went out to India as a missionary. She was scarcely beyond girlhood, only eighteen years old when she said good-by to her widowed mother and went out to tell the people of India about the Friend who waited to receive them.

Mrs. Newell's early home was at Haverhill, Mass. She was educated at Bradford Academy. It was while she was at school that she determined to consecrate her life to the service of Christ, though I do not gather from any account of her life that she had at that time any thoughts of becoming a missionary. Her letters written at that early period evince a rare thoughtfulness and uncommon maturity of mind. Indeed, it would seem that she early put away childish things. Neither have we any account of her having any of the good times of girlhood; yet I suppose she was not altogether unlike other girls, but we have only the story of her inner life. She has told us in her journal of her conflicts with sin and of her victories; we can see the rapid development of her Christian character, from the time she first engaged in the service of God to the hour when she "consecrated herself to the establishment of the kingdom of Christ in Pagan lands. To this great and glorious object all her thoughts and studies, her desires and prayers tended. It was only with a view to this that she considered her talents and acquirements of any special importance."

Mrs. Newell exhibited in her short life great force and decision of character. When, after earnest deliberation, mingled with prayer for wisdom, the question of duty had been settled, she moved forward without hesitation. Let me give you the words of one who knew her well:

"The character of Mrs. Newell had an excellence above the reach of mere human nature; behold her, united to friends and country by a thousand ties, a woman of refined education, with delightful prospects in her own country, resigning all for a distant Pagan land; all these sacrifices she made calmly, with a sober deliberation, with steady, unyielding firmness, and this not for wealth, or fame, or any earthly object, but to make known among the heathen the unsearchable riches of Christ."

And now what will you say when I tell you that this remarkable woman, remarkable for her talents, her personal gifts, remarkable for her Christian development, was to meet with disappointment at the outset and was to be denied the privilege of engaging in the work for which she had left home and friends. They were ordered away from India by the government and decided to attempt to establish a mission upon the Isle of France. Nearly a year from the time of leaving America they reached this place, having spent nearly all that time on ship-board. It would seem that now their troubles might be at an end; and so Mrs. Newell's were. For in about three weeks after they landed she was called to go to her mansion above. At nineteen her work was finished--finished, as it seemed, before it was fairly begun! Yet her example of devotion, of fortitude, of love for the cause, her submission and patience under trial may have accomplished far more than she living could have done. When the news of her triumphant death came to America, other noble-hearted, earnest women were found ready to take the place of this first woman of our land who was ready to give her life to the people of India. To-day, after seventy-five years, scores are in the field, more waiting to be sent, and I know not how many among the PANSY readers getting ready for the Master's work in foreign lands. God grant that there may be many such!

F. H.

OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

Q.--QUINCY, JOSIAH.

COUNTING back for five generations, we find in the Quincy family a Josiah. The great-great-grandfather of the present Josiah Quincy was a merchant, and we are told that he was a zealous patriot in Revolutionary times, and you all know that meant a great deal.

His son, who was called Josiah Junior, became a celebrated lawyer, and was prominent as an advocate of liberty. It was he who with Samuel Adams addressed the people when the British ships anchored in Boston Harbor with the cargo of tea. But notwithstanding his reputation for patriotism, his action in defending the soldiers who fired upon the mob in what is known as the Boston Massacre, brought him into unpopularity.

Yet I think that if you study the facts carefully, and weigh them well, you will see that although the presence of the British soldiers was an outrage, and justly obnoxious to the people, yet upon that occasion there was some excuse for their action. And John Adams and Josiah Quincy should not be condemned for undertaking their defence.

Afterwards both did good service in the interest of Colonial Independence. Quincy went to England doing much to promote the good of his country.

He died upon the homeward voyage in 1775, in sight of American shores. His son Josiah, three years old at the time of his father's death, was educated at Harvard University, became a lawyer, a member of Congress, and having filled acceptably various other offices, was at length elected President of Harvard, which position he held for fifteen years, He had a son Josiah, also a graduate of Harvard, and again the fifth Josiah in the line is a graduate of the same institution.

There are other Quincys of this family who have attained celebrity. I might tell you of Edmund Quincy, who was prominent in anti-slavery circles, but I think you will find plenty of occupation for this month if you study up all these Josiahs.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

_Volume 13, Number 34._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_June 26, 1886._

THE PANSY.

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.

BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

VIII.

A BOY, breathless from long running, rushed into Mrs. Allen's arms as she turned away from the sitting-room window with a sigh.

"Why, here you are!" she exclaimed in a joyous burst.

"The fellows are in some sort of a scrape," gasped the boy, careful of his words; "can't get home--I'm going to tell their mothers--"

Mrs. Allen looked at her empty arms, turned and went out to the kitchen.

"Ann, you may put on the tea; we will not wait for George Edward."

"Land! he just raced in, red as a boiled lobster," cried Ann with the privilege of a favored servant.

"I know; but he is off again, on an errand that had to be attended to--put on the tea, and ring the bell."

It was some time before the son of the family made his appearance in the Allen household again. When he did come, it was to bring a face so utterly miserable, and a pair of feet so incapacitated for further movement, that his mother began to seriously question if she had done the wise thing to allow him to be the deliverer of the several messages.

The first thing to do now, however, was to get the boy to bed; so with the aid of Ann's hot oatmeal gruel, George Edward was assisted by father and mother on either side, up to his pretty room, where he was rubbed down, pretty much as one would perform that same operation on a tired horse, till each separate and distinct joint seemed supple and elastic as was their ordinary condition, and the boy was tumbled into bed, fast asleep before his head touched the pillow. Mr. and Mrs. Allen looked at each other as they sat down in the library, and drew a long breath.

"What shall we do with such a boy?" cried the mother. "He seems to carry the burdens of other boys, old people, animals, and everything that comes in his way."

"Let him alone," said Father Allen shortly.

"Oh! I wouldn't dare say anything," exclaimed Mother Allen, alarmed at being misunderstood; "I was only mentioning the fact."

"You asked a question," said Father Allen, who was nothing if not exact; "you asked 'What shall we do with him?'"

"And I ask it again," said Mrs. Allen, rubbing her forehead in a perplexed way, "whatever in the world shall we do with him?"

"And I answer in the same words that the immortal Mr. Dick employed on a similar occasion to Miss Betsey Trotwood's question, 'Wash him and put him to bed.'"

"We have done that," said his wife with a laugh, "now, what next?"

"Oh! as to that," replied Father Allen with a yawn, "I must confess, I don't see my way clear to furnishing you with an additional answer. The only one I should suggest is, let _us_ go to bed."

So the matter was left precisely as it always remained, for George Edward to follow out his own instincts, and grow up in his own way to solve life's greatest problem, "How can I best serve mankind, and carry out Christ's command 'To do unto others as I would that they should do to me.'"

This narrative, more devoted to the interests of St. George and his doings, than to records of any other boys, will simply state that the morrow's morning train brought home the recreant crowd to the bosoms of their waiting families. The boys of this crowd always mentioned the old farmer who had passed the night with them, with an air, though not of fondness, of great respect. What he did to them to thus inspire them, I am in no position to know--I can only relate that he had great satisfaction in his part of the evening's entertainment, and that he simply remarked to Betsey on his return, "I don't think they'll do that thing again right away," and that Thomas when recalling the event, would often pause in his work to allow himself the brief respite of a smile after careful observation that revealed no on-looker.

* * * * *

"I don't think it pays," some voice at my elbow might say, as a pair of bright young eyes have traced thus far George Edward's career, "to be always watching to help other people out of scrapes. 'Look out for yourself' is going to be my motto."

Just wait, dear little friend. The "boy is father to the man" we are told, and we recognize the fact from the first time we meet the phrase in our readers and copy books. Isn't it better to be a good father, and turn out a worthy representative of your family name, that no chance in life will make one ashamed to meet in after life? What you call "fun" and "a good time" and "looking out for yourself" now, will perhaps carry a different name ten or twenty years later. It may possibly be known among men as selfishness, indifference to public good; or uglier still, sharp, shrewd handling of moneyed interests committed to your care, to make them yield benefits to the one who manipulates them. It may get even to be found deserving the name of a man who recognizes only the Ego of human existence, than which, you will quite agree with me, there is no more hateful being under the sun. Think well before you give up the habit of doing the good you can now to those who are your neighbors, whether at home or at school.

And this brings me to a second period of George Edward's life, which was fraught with new responsibilities and pleasures, and which brought him into a wider field of boyish activity. He was to go away to boarding-school; the narrow educational advantages of his home demanding it.

Before the important decision was reached--where to send their boy--Mr. and Mrs. Allen allowed themselves a whole year to consideration of the matter. There was not a school of prominence in the length and breadth of the land, that in some way did not pass under the keen-eyed watchfulness of the two parents. Not that they personally visited them all--oh dear, no! how could they? But that in some way, reliable information of the different school methods, and the principles and standing of the instructors, was given into their keeping.

"We never shall find a school where we can say confidently we will place our boy; never in all this world," cried Mrs. Allen one day, when a letter from a friend upset an almost decided plan of accepting the "Halloway School for Boys" as the arena for George Edward's activity. The letter was from a good friend whom they could trust. It said, "Don't you do it; the system of instruction is faulty, and the knowledge obtained is shallow."

Father Allen only said, "Don't worry," buttoned up his coat and went out to try other fields.

At last came the day when those interested could announce the thing settled. "George Edward Allen is going to Doctor Bugbee's school in Rockboro," and great grief and lamentation fell upon his old friends--and who in that town in which his life was spent, was not glad to claim that friendship?

THE CAMEO SET.

AGAIN the jewel-case was brought out. Lucy Ansted's brother had arrived for a short visit, and taking advantage of this addition to her forces, Annie Burton determined to have a tableau party. Grandma Burton, always interested in whatever the "the children were up to," offered the girls her old-fashioned jewels for the occasion. But no sooner was the jewel-case opened than they forgot all about the tableaux and fell to admiring and asking questions. "These the only cameos I ever saw that I thought pretty," said Annie, holding up a handsome set.

"Those _are_ handsome!" said Lucy. "Mamma has cameos, but they are common-looking things. Seems to me they cannot be the same kind; I think there is a difference in the color."

"Very likely," replied Mrs. Burton. "I presume your mother's are shell cameos. The most of the modern cameos are made from sea shells. The shells have two layers of different colors. Usually the outside is white and the inner layer brown or coffee-colored. I once had an opportunity of visiting a cameo cutter's workshop. It was not easy to get admission, but an artist friend of your grandfather's took me there."

"Can you tell us about the process?"

"It was many years ago, and my impressions of what I saw have grown somewhat dim, still I can tell you something about it. I remember that he told me that the shell he was cutting came from the coast of Brazil. Another which he showed me was from the Bahamas, and he said that some of those used came from the Indies, both East and West, and also from the African coast."

"Are the shells used of a peculiar sort?"

"They are the ordinary conch-shell. In each one there is material for only a single cameo, large or small. The available part is sawed out by persons employed for that work, who also shape the cameo by grinding the piece upon a grindstone, making it square or oval as desired; then it is ready to be handed over to the artist. The cutter fastens the shell into a small block of wood, of a size convenient for grasping firmly with the left hand. He then draws the outline of the figure he wishes to put upon it with a pencil. When the work is outlined upon the white surface, he begins to scratch the line with a fine steel needle, following his pencil mark very carefully. The artist I saw at work inspected his scratches with a magnifying glass at almost every scratch of his needle. I call it a needle because that describes the fine steel tool which he used. After he had finished the outline he began to work with small, sharp chisels, cutting away the white layer of shell around the figure he had outlined. He worked away carefully, chipping and scraping until it was all removed, leaving the portrait of some old Roman a raised white figure upon a dark ground. It seems simple enough to hear about it, or to see it done, but it requires a skilful hand and a practised eye. There is a finishing process of polishing with putty powder. This is applied with a stiff brush and is said to be a very delicate operation, though it seems as easy as the polishing of a silver spoon."

Lucy had been turning over the articles in one of the compartments of the jewel-case and now held up a small cameo pin.

"That is a shell cameo!" said Grandma; "I had quite forgotten it. Now if you will observe, you will see that the edges of the raised white part are left square-cut, not rounded or sloped."

"Why is that?" asked Lucy.

"If the white layer were cut thinner by the rounding or sloping of the edges, the dark layer would show through, and the outline would be less clearly defined."

"I see! A very simple explanation."

"A great many things are plain after you know the whys and wherefores."

"But, grandma," said Lucy, "this set of yours--is this a shell cameo?"

"No; I was going to tell you about that. It is very old, and somewhat rare in design and workmanship. It belonged to your great-grandmother Burton. It is an onyx. The art of cutting shell cameos is a modern one. I think it is not a hundred years since shell cameos were introduced, but the art of cutting precious stones like the onyx and agate, in fact, any stone which has layers of different colors, is very ancient. The Greeks and Romans understood the art, and even in Babylonish days it was practised, and used for the ornamenting of vases, cups, urns."

"There are a few very fine specimens of antique cameos to be found in Europe. One in Paris is twelve inches long by ten inches wide. And the Gonzaga Cameo in St. Petersburg is one of the finest." It was Grandpa Burton who said this, joining for the first time in the talk which drifted to other topics, in which we have just now no special interest. But Mrs. Burton noticed that Lucy laid aside the cameos for the tableau party.

WILMOT CONDEE.

THE ROSE-GAME.

I WANT to tell you, dear Pansies, of a lovely little game for the most beautiful month in the year--the month of roses. It is played out-of-doors, of course, in the long, beautiful sweet evening, when father and mother, and the older members of the family circle who do not care to participate actively, can sit on the porch, or by the open window, and see the pretty fun go on.

Make a chain of roses, just as one makes a daisy chain, or a chain of any other flowers. Use all kinds and colors of roses--being careful to distribute shades nicely. String on strong enough cord or ribbon to support the flowers.

Now choose your leader, either a boy or girl. Let all players assemble under a tree, or on the porch. The leader holding chain, comes up to them, and if addressing a girl, says, bowing low, "Pretty maid, wilt join us?"

(If to a boy)

"Pretty sir, wilt join us?"

When you have as many as can comfortably take hold of chain, move off to the smooth lawn. And here let me say, you better calculate before making your chain, how many children will take part in the game. Do not, I beg, crowd out any who would like to play. Always remember that a slight like this, or a disappointment, would make you feel very badly, and remembering this, make your games to bring pleasure to every one, and only productive of happy memories.

Now then, you are on the lawn. The leader gives the word. All take hold by both hands of rose-chain, and dance around, singing,

Ring around-a-rosy,
Jack must get a posy,

or,

Sue must get a posy,

or whatever the name of child who is first sent. As quick as lightning, Jack or Sue must leave chain and dancers, rush off into the garden, pick a flower, no matter what kind, and fly back, the others holding chain, dancing and singing,

Ring around-a-rosy,
Jack will bring a posy.

When the posy is brought, Jack throws it into the centre of ring, on the lawn. Do this until all players have brought a flower. If gone longer than they ought to be, they forfeit their places. When all have brought flowers, the ring dance around once more, singing,

Ring around-a-rosy,
Each has brought a posy.

Then the leader gives signal to stop. He picks up the heap of flowers, and, leading the way, he conducts all players to the porch, where with a low bow he presents to mother the posy heap, all singing,

Ring around-a-rosy,
Each brings you now a posy,

the leader throwing the rose chain around mamma's neck--which _entre nous_, I think she will always preserve in her best rose jar.

May the sweetest, longest June evening be made very happy in playing this Rose-Game.

MARGARET SIDNEY.

THE FLOWER CHORUS.

THIS may be arranged for twenty, or more, quite little girls, say in groups of five; representing roses, lilies, daisies, and pansies. It would be well to have the children decorated as much as possible with the flowers they represent, and let each carry a bouquet of the same.

(_Concert Recitation; children arranged in a semicircle._)

We are Jesus' little Blossoms
Blooming in his bowers;
And He watches us and loves us,
His little human flowers.
Blooming, blooming everywhere,
Each of priceless worth,
And he bids us reach out
Over all the earth.

(_As the last line is given, let the children make a waving motion outward, with the hand that holds the flowers._)

THE ROSES.

(_Let the five or more children who represent them, step slightly forward, and hold their bouquets just before them, looking down at them, and appearing to get their perfume as they speak._)

Our Heavenly Father's roses
Are very sweet and bright;
And we should bloom just like them,
From morning until night.
Blooming, blooming everywhere,
Each of priceless worth,
So he bids us blossom
Over all the earth.

If roses are plenty, it makes a very effective addition to this recitation, for each of the children to toss out toward the audience, roses, here and there, as they give the last two lines; not, however, disturbing their bouquets.

THE LILIES.

Our Saviour's precious lilies
Grew, lovely, at His feet;
Oh would that we could blossom
As beautiful and sweet!
Blooming, blooming everywhere,
Each of priceless worth,
So He bids us scatter
Over all the earth.

(_As the last four lines are given, let the roses join with the lilies in recitation, waving their flowers, and scattering them abroad, if this is feasible._)

THE DAISIES.

And these are God's fair daisies
That bloom on plain and hill;
We too would blossom like them,
And do our Father's will.
Blooming, blooming everywhere,
Each of priceless worth,
So He bids us blossom
Over all the earth.

(_Let the roses and lilies join, and obey the directions given above._)

THE PANSIES.

Our Father's lovely pansies
Look up, with tender grace;
And we would blossom like them,
A joy in every place.
Blooming, blooming everywhere,
Each of priceless worth,
So he bids us blossom
Over all the earth.

(_All join in the last four lines, as before; then form in a circle, holding up their bouquets in a compact mass, like a wreath, or crown, and give the last verse in concert._)

We are all our Father's flowers,
Blooming in His bowers,
And we want to blossom
In valley, plain, or meadow,
In sunshine, storm, or shadow,
Just as sweetly still,
And do our Father's will.

(_Then let them quickly form a procession, and march around the platform, or down the aisle, or in any direction in which they are to make their exit, scattering roses, lilies, daisies and pansies from their bouquets as they march, singing the refrain:_)

Blooming, blooming everywhere,
Each of priceless worth,
So He bids us blossom
Over all the earth.

(_The refrain can be repeated as many times as it is necessary, in passing out; any simple tune which the children know, can be used in singing it._)

MRS. C. E. FISHER.

BEN, DAN, AND JACK.

THEY lived in a long, low, rambling house; it might have been built a century ago, so queer and old-fashioned was it. But little cared the boys; they had good times. Mr. and Mrs. Prentice believed in boys; and they believed in boys having good times, always provided the good did not mean bad. For one thing, the Prentice boys were allowed to go barefooted. Now every boy knows that it is fun to go barefoot. They wore palm leaf hats in summer, which were not too good to play "pitch and toss" with. They were allowed to despoil the squash vines for leaf stalks to make "squawk pipes," and nice golden pumpkins from the field were not too precious in the eyes of Farmer Prentice to be used in making jack-o'-lanterns; they were allowed to go a-fishing; to go a-berrying, and to make up nutting parties, and, best fun of all, when all the neighborhood turned out to hunt the coons which were destroying the corn crop, the boys were allowed to join in the hunt.

How good the green corn roasted by that midnight fire down in the old pasture lot, just over the fence from the corn lot, tasted. And that was the time they learned the secret of roasting eggs and potatoes in the hot ashes. How carefully they rolled the eggs in many layers of brown paper, and then wetting them thoroughly laid them in the bed made ready, and covering with the heated ashes they listened for the cracking of the shells which would tell that the eggs were done. But these boys did not spend all their time in just having "good times." Now and then as they gathered around the kitchen fire in winter or were grouped in the yard, they would forget their popping corn or their jack-o'-lantern and fall to talking over the last book they had read.

There was no lack of books in the Prentice home. For if Mr. and Mrs. Prentice believed in boys, they also believed in books for boys.

"Any gunpowder under that?" asked Dan one morning, coming around the corner of the house and seeing a great pile of kindling wood which Jack was splitting.

"Not a keg!" was the reply.

"I thought you must be plotting some mischief or you would never have stuck to the work long enough to split such a pile as that," continued Dan.

"There is a plot, that's a fact," returned Jack; "but it is not a Gunpowder Plot. I am going to ask father to let me go with Johnson when he goes after those cattle, and we shall be gone three days, so I thought it would advance my cause a little if the kindlings were all ready beforehand."

"You are a sharp fellow," said Dan, laughing, "a very sharp fellow."

"But wasn't that Gunpowder Plot a scheme though!" said Jack.

"Well, I confess I don't know much about it," replied Ben, who had in his lazy fashion thrown himself on the ground. "Just tell a fellow about it and save him the trouble of reading it."

"That is what Jack is aching to do," said Dan, laughing. "Jack is the orator of the family, you know."

"Go ahead, old fellow," and Ben shifted his weight from one elbow to the other.

"It was in the reign of James the First; he was James the Sixth of Scotland; he was the son of Mary Stuart, and as she was a Catholic, the Catholics of England supposed her son would restore, or at least tolerate, the Catholic faith in England. But they were bitterly disappointed in this expectation; the old laws against it were put into execution and others more severe passed by Parliament. And it was out of this intolerance that the famous Gunpowder Plot grew. The scheme was to blow up with gunpowder the Parliament House, while Parliament was in session, and so destroy the king and members of Parliament. There was a vault under the building which the conspirators hired as a salesroom for wood and coal. They put in stealthily thirty-six barrels of gunpowder and then covered these with the wood and prepared a train so that the whole could be fired at once. They had a ship ready to take Fawkes on board--"

"You've got ahead of your story! tell us who was Fawkes."

"He was one of the conspirators, a Spanish officer who superintended the business and was to touch it off. Authorities do not quite agree as to how the secret leaked out. It is supposed that one of the conspirators wanted to save some of his friends and so warned them to keep away from the Parliament House on the day set for the execution of the plot, and suspicion was thus aroused, and Guy Fawkes was arrested just as he was about to apply the match to the train. He was tried and executed along with several others. The day set for the horrible deed was the fifth of November, 1605, and it has ever since been observed as a holiday in England."

"You've done well," said Dan. "But you left out a lot; you forgot to tell how they first hired a house next to the place where Parliament was held and tried to dig through the walls."

"I did not forget it, but it amounted to nothing and they abandoned that plan, and I thought Ben could read that up for himself. I have noticed that if you tell him a part of a story he will go and find out the rest. The best way is, to tell him just enough to whet his curiosity."

Dan was half-way to the barn before this remark was ended, but glancing back he saw Ben and Jack down on the grass _having it out_ in a regular "rough and tumble."

F. H.

DEAR PANSIES:

Will every one of you put on your "thinking caps" and give careful attention to what I am about to say? All summer I am to be away from home; in Kansas, Wisconsin, Nebraska, and I hardly know where else; flitting from one city to another, only a few days in a place. As a consequence, unless you pay close attention, I shall not be able to hear from you. Because letters will fail to reach me. But I shall have a secretary who will stay all summer at Chautauqua, Chautauqua Co., N. Y. If you address me _at that place_, she will get the letters, attend to the business part of them, and see that they are sent to me. Will you remember, and send letters to me at Chautauqua, instead of Cincinnati, or Carbondale, or any other place?

This direction holds good for the months of June, July, August and September. After that, I will give you other information.

Another thing, _do not send subscription money for_ THE PANSY _to me; but always to D. Lothrop & Co., Boston_.

When you want badges, send name and pledge to me; also ten cents in postage stamps, unless you are a subscriber. Subscribers are entitled to badges free of charge. All letters about THE PANSY, or about your work or plans, all questions connected with the P. S. are to be sent to my address; but _remember_, when you want to subscribe for THE PANSY, send your dollar directly to Boston.

Years ago we used to have a department in THE PANSY which met with much favor. This was a letter or article by the Editor, containing all the words which had been misspelled or improperly used during the month, by young correspondents; of course no names were mentioned.

We have determined to begin in July, a similar exercise, continuing it so long as there shall be any call for it. If, during any month, all letters received have been correct as to spelling, punctuation, capitals, grammar, etc., you may know it by the absence of the "queer-looking" article the following month.

Each member of the P. S. is expected to carefully read and correct the article. If you choose to report to me your success, I shall be glad; but this is not a rule.

A good plan would be to have an exercise in your local societies, the president giving out the words from THE PANSY, and each member writing them, as he or she thinks they ought to be; then let the papers be exchanged and read, first appointing an umpire, dictionary in hand, to decide as to correctness.

Look out for my first letter, next month.

Lovingly, PANSY.

DEAR PANSIES:

Through the bright summer months, while away at seashore, or mountains, we know there will come many idle moments when it is too hot to play, and when books do not engross. In these moments, may you hear the voices of those patient little ones, who, too sick and suffering to play out of doors, are lying on beds of suffering, only knowing of the green fields, and cool brooks, and lovely summer-tide places, from their memories, or from what others tell them. At such moments, oh, dear Pansies, let your fingers be busy in making those things that you know children like them would enjoy, and your tongues be active, interesting the other children of the hotel or the boarding-house in this ministry of love. It is now some four years since the Pansy Society was formed. Its members are legion, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and it has done much noble work. But we aim for great results, and we mean this summer to accomplish much good. We wonder which of our workers will lead.

M. S.

_Walter_ from Virginia. Another sunshiny face will give light in the home, if you keep your pledge, my boy, as I seem to feel sure you will. It is easy to find something to look cross at; almost anybody can do that; but the people are rather few who can look pleasant when things do not go just right. The few who do this, are among the most helpful people we have in the world.

_Clara_ from Nova Scotia. A five-year-old Pansy blooming in Nova Scotia! Isn't that delightful? She is just like all the other little Blossoms, too; troubled with weeds; doesn't like to obey promptly, and "wants her own sweet little way, sometimes, instead of mamma's." But like a brave Blossom she is going to try to get rid of these weeds and grow beautifully for the great Gardener. We welcome you heartily to the P. S., and hope you will train "Agnes" and "Margaret" so well, that they will join us very soon.

_May_ from Virginia. Little seven-year-old May flower, I give you greeting. It is such an easy thing for bright little tongues to "answer back!" How glad I am that now, while you are so young, you are going to overcome the bad habit! Why, here is brother Chester in your letter! We are glad to welcome him. What a large pledge he has taken! Part of it you are very glad to hear, I know. Chester, my boy, I hope you will succeed. Write and let me know how you are getting on.