Chapter II: Part 2

AS we were clearing out the attic last spring we came across an old clock; one of those old-fashioned high clocks that had been hidden away in that dark corner of the attic many years. Not that we didn't know of its existence; every annual housecleaning it had been remarked upon; but last spring Tom said, "See here, Nell; don't you know these old clocks are all the rage?"

"Yes, I know, but that old thing won't go."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't, only I should suppose if it hadn't been past its usefulness, Grandfather Bradley would not have bought a new one in its place."

"O, people do not always use things until they are worn out; did I not hear you tell aunt Mary that our centre-table looked so shabby and old-fashioned that although it was strong and not broken at all you intended to send it to the attic and have a new one? Now I suppose that either aunt Mary or aunt Charlotte thought the same thing about the old clock, and when some 'Yankee peddler' came along with a new-fashioned Connecticut clock, they coaxed grandfather to buy one and sent this old one to this dark corner. Now I am going to investigate." Indeed Tom was soon ready to report. "See here, Nell! I believe that the old thing only needs cleaning and oiling to put it in running order. Let's take it down to Lampson and see what can be done."

By this time I was interested; to have that old clock down in the hall would be to excite the wonder, admiration and envy of the neighborhood. The old man laughed when he saw it.

"I remember that clock. I sold your grandfather the one which took its place. I was a young fellow then, and I remember that your aunts wanted a new clock while the old gentleman thought the old one was good enough; but the girls always had their way with their father. I have wondered about this old clock lately and meant to try to get hold of it and make my fortune out of it;" and the old man laughed heartily; "but you young ones have got the start of me. Yes, it is all right; I can make it run about as well as ever. It will outlast half a dozen modern clocks. Thirty years? Yes, more'n that. It's nigher fifty years since I used to sell clocks, hereabouts. Well, changes have come about that would astonish one to know, since then.

"Tom," said the old man suddenly, after a pause in which his thoughts seemed busy with the past, "when I was a young fellow like you I did not think that at seventy I should be just an old tinker; there's a place over across the river that used to just suit my fancy and it was my ambition to get rich enough to buy it and take a sweet girl I knew in those days over there and live out my time, growing old, respected and looked up to as your grandfather was. Do you know why I failed? My boy, I threw away just thirty years of my life! That is why I failed. Your father can tell you how he has seen me reeling through the streets in those days. There were half a dozen of us fellows and I am the only one left--the only one who has escaped a drunkard's grave. And I have only just escaped. It was after I had squandered my money, broken my wife's heart, made my children outcasts and ruined my health that I was saved. All the rest went down, drinking to the last. I tell you, my boy, never touch it! _Never tamper with temptation!_ Yes, I can fix the old clock and make it run about as well as ever, but you can't mend up an old drunkard and make him tell off the remaining hours of his life with any certainty. Whiskey somehow uses up the inside works and it is a poor sort of a service that a worn-out old rum drinker can render his Master. And Tom, I say, let rum alone! And Nellie, don't have anything to do with a young fellow that will not sign a pledge!"

The old clock adorns our lower hall, is much looked at and admired; but to Tom and me, every stroke as it tells off the hours comes as a warning voice, and we seem to hear the old man saying, "Never tamper with temptation."

F. H.

_Volume 13, Number 20._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_March 20, 1886._

THE PANSY.

WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.

NOT a long journey this time. It was a bright Sabbath afternoon, and I walked own Gilbert avenue, then McMillan avenue, then Kibbe street, until I came to a large new building into which all the world seemed to be trying to crowd. We were late; the sound of many voices in song made us try to hasten, but the crowd was so great that this was not easy to do. On the way, Sabbath though it was, we had passed many crowds of a different sort. Men and women pushing into street cars, talking loud and laughing gayly, on their way to park, or garden, or theatre. On the corners were crowds of boys, talking, spitting, swearing; we passed saloons out of which reeled drunken men; in short, we passed places and people which did not make us think of Sunday at all. But this was different. The singing was very sweet; the room was large, and had many windows; the walls were white, and everything was fresh and new. The floor was carpeted, and seated with chairs, and every chair was filled; so also were the aisles, and the doorways leading into the side rooms. But the great evergreen letters on the space opposite the main door, said--

WELCOME.

And the ushers came forward cordially and motioned us in, saying cheerily, "Always room here for one more." So we elbowed and wedged our way.

What was going on? Why, this was the dedication of Bethany Chapel, the room for which the young men and the young women up on these Hills have been working for years. Yesterday it was in order. On the wall hung a motto at which everybody looked and smiled. It was a very pretty motto:

FAITH IN ACTION.

Those were the words; and looking about the pretty room, one could not help feeling that there must have been a good deal of it in action to have given us such results. But I noticed that people looked beyond the motto at the nail from which it hung. A gold nail! Very large, and entirely covered with gold. That was certainly a new kind of nail. I wondered what it meant; presently the superintendent of the school told us about it. It seems that, a long time before, the teachers had explained to their scholars just what was to be done, and just how much money, and time, and work, it would take, and how much help would be needed. Among others, the primary teacher had explained very carefully to her little bits, and had said: "Now we all want to help; every little girl and every little boy must do something; I am sure you each want a nail in the new building. Don't you?"

Then of course every one of them said "Yes, ma'am," in their eager little voices; and then I suppose some of them went home and forgot all about it. Not so little Faith whose story I am going to tell you. She thought it over, fixing all the powers of her mind on it. She talked it over with her particular friend Robbie, as he worked with the scissors and a sheet of paper trying to cut a pattern for a new kind of cart wheel which he intended to make.

"How should she get a nail to put in the new Sunday-school room? It ought to be a _very_ big nail, Robbie," she explained. "Because, you see, I should want it to help hold something; and I should want it to hold real hard, or else I would be ashamed of it."

Robbie agreed, but was too busy with his wheel to say much. "And where do you s'pose I could get one?" said Faith. "If I only had some money I could buy a great big one; but I haven't a single cent."

It took days of thinking and planning, and hunting, but at last, oh, joy! Faith found the object of her desire; a great big nail! Very rusty and a trifle bent, but so large that it filled her heart with delight. Never was a happier maiden than the one who carried the precious nail to her teacher, all neatly wrapped in paper. Some of the scholars laughed, and said it was not good for anything; but that was because they did not know any better. That blessed superintendent did not laugh. He received the gift with smiles and thanks, and he took it down town and had it straightened, and covered with gold; so that the unsightly rusty thing glowed with beauty, and then it was used to hold the motto; and is to fill its place in Bethany Chapel so long as the building stands. Will anybody say little Faith did not do what she could?

But I want to tell you about the meeting. There were many speeches and much singing. When Doctor Hays began to speak, all the little children straightened themselves and made ready to listen; there was something in his voice which made them think he was worth listening to.

"Children," he began, "how many know what I have in my hand?" Hundreds of voices answered that he had a watch.

"Is there anything about it in the Bible?"

This they did not know; so he told them he wanted them to be sure to remember his text, for it was that one word, "Watch," and they would find it in Mark, thirteenth chapter and last verse. He had quite a time getting them to remember where it was, and they laughed a little at their mistakes; but at last I think every boy and girl there could give it correctly. He had a good deal to say about a watch; how the "little fellow" inside of it worked away all day and all night, and day after day, never stopping to fret because it had so much to do; never resolving that it would begin to-morrow morning and do great things, and being content because of that resolve to do nothing, for awhile; it just worked away, a tick at a time. Then he said there were three things he wanted to tie to their memories by the help of that watch. First, they were to watch for scholars for their Sabbath-school. Every boy and girl there ought to be on the watch for those who went nowhere else, and nab them.

Second, they were to be on the watch against sin. He knew a very little boy who once prayed this prayer: "Dear Lord, make Satan look just like Satan every time he comes after me, so I will know who he is, and fight." That was a good prayer, said Doctor Hays. "You see to it that you know who Satan is, every time, when he comes after you. When he comes whining to you that it isn't a very bad thing to hang around the street corners, and play, or to disobey your mother, or to tell what isn't true, say to him '_You are Satan_: I know you; and I am not going to have anything to do with you.'"

Thirdly, they were to be on the watch for opportunities to do good. There was a very earnest little talk about that, which I have not room for; and besides, I cannot tell it as Doctor Hays said it; I wish I could. But the three heads to his sermon I remember, because of the watch on which he hung them. What made him think of the watch? Because, when the disciples of Jesus were talking with him, one day, he said that word, not only for his disciples, but for you and me: "And what I say unto you, I say unto _all, watch_." And after he was through talking with them, he went to Bethany. So as the new school was named Bethany, the doctor thought the scholars would remember his sermon and text better if he told it in that way.

There were some little boys and girls who recited Bible verses about the House of the Lord, each bringing an evergreen letter which commenced their verse, and when the letters were hung on the wire waiting for them, they spelled

OUR SABBATH-SCHOOL.

I began to copy the verses for you. Then I decided not to do any such thing. I said: I will tell the Pansies about it, and ask them to hunt out verses for themselves which will spell the same; verses that they think would fit their Sabbath-school, or describe what their lives ought to be, or that they like very much, for some reason. Then they will have an acrostic of verses of their own. How many will do it? What is the use of our going to so many places together, if we don't learn some new nice things to do when we get home?

PANSY.

* * * * *

Two little pussy cats wrapped in fur
Sit on the wall and they mew and purr
Mew! mew! mew!

If you listen you'll hear the black one say
"I like the night much better than day."
If you listen you'll hear the white reply,
"You're quite right, pussy, and so do I."
Mew! mew! mew!

So they sit on the wall and mew and purr
These two little pussy cats, wrapped in fur.
--_St. Nicholas._

"OLD SNOOKS."

THUS the boys built of the snow what they pleased. Sometimes it was "Old Snooks." He was the village drunkard, with a big brandy nose and ragged coat.

When it was done and declared to be a good likeness, each fellow armed himself with snowballs, and, standing a little way off, the command was given to fire, and "Old Snooks" received a merciless pelting, one ball hitting him squarely in the eye, another on the nose, another knocking off an ear, until the image was completely demolished amid shouts of triumph.

Then somebody else was set up for a mark. But usually the most fun was in building a fort and laying siege to it--or rather storming and taking it.

Once the real "Old Snooks" himself came staggering by while the boys were raising the breastworks. He stopped a moment to swear as he usually did, when one of the little "rascals" took deliberate aim and fired, and Snooks' old hat was lifted into the air and landed over the fence into a big snowbank.

Now when the boys saw the rage of the old man, and that he was making for them as fast as his poor legs would let him, away they ran. But all that night and the next day they trembled and kept out of the way, fearing the wrath of Old Snooks.

The wretched man found it easier to catch his hat than scampering boys. So he gave up the chase and urged his way homeward.

But the track was drifted, and his limbs chilled. Soon he fell, but was picked up by a passing neighbor and carried to his miserable home.

Not long after the village bell tolled for his funeral. Those boys were thoroughly sobered when they remembered that their fun had something to do with Old Snooks' death; so they resolved that, whatever they did, they would never find pleasure again over the misery or sin of any one.

One day when their snow fortress was done and besiegers and besieged were about to see which party was master of the situation, several of General Gage's soldiers came along. This was more than one hundred years ago, and the "village" was Boston; the playground Boston Common; Gage, the British general in command. It was a time when almost every American man, woman and child, was "mad" at England because of taxes or the "Stamp Act."

The wise old men said with an ominous shake of the head that trouble was coming. The boys heard it and began to talk war and "play soldier." They were at it now. Those in the fort were "British;" those about to storm it, "Americans."

The passing soldiers heard the words, "Drive the Britishers out;" "shoot them;" "kill the tyrants." Though it was all in play, the words stung them, and coming suddenly upon the boys, they handled them roughly, calling them "young rebels," and demolishing the fort.

This did not make the boys less "rebel." They spread the news of their bad treatment by General Gage's soldiers. Teachers, parents, everybody, was angry.

The next day a procession of boys, headed by one of the "storming party," marched through the Common and halted before General Gage's headquarters. Three of the number were admitted to his presence and asked what it all meant. Nothing frightened by being surrounded by officers, glittering with armor, the young "captain," looking the great general full in the face, recounted the affair about the destroying of their fort by the soldiers.

General Gage patiently heard the statement and promised to reprove his men and see their sport should not be spoiled again in that way.

So the procession departed in triumph. The boys were no more molested.

But the Revolution soon came on, and instead of snowballs and snow forts and the sport of children, there were musket balls and roaring cannon, there were stone forts and "banners rolled in blood."

Seven years of war followed, in which the sword, the bayonet, the bullet, fire and famine, played their awful part, and--"the Britishers" went home to England.

America was free!

How many of those boys who snowballed "Old Snooks" and visited General Gage became Congressmen, I have never heard. Yet I dare say some of them got into the high places of the new nation.

But one of the best "resolutions" ever passed was theirs:

Never to have fun at the expense of such creatures as "Old Snooks."

UNCLE C.

MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE.

BY PARANETE.

V.--THE SAD FATE OF AN ENGLISHMAN.

"I CONFESS," the pin went on, "that I was not sorry I had been brought along. The beautiful, boundless sea was around me everywhere. It was exhilarating. Most people talked about the refreshing odor, but the sight and sound was enough for me. And the day that we had the tempest, when everyone seemed so frightened, I thought it was delightful to watch the giant waves as they raised and lowered the ship.

"Finally we reached the shore. I did not know where we were. We got in a train, and after a few hours' ride, changed to a carriage, and drove through the streets. The rest of the party seemed greatly interested in the signs over the store doors, but as I had never learned to read, I saw nothing strange about them. We reached a large building, and were ushered into a fine 'suite of rooms.' That was what they called them. As I was the only pin on the cushion, my mistress sent for some more, and soon several were placed with me. From them I learned that we were in Paris, in the country of France, though it was with difficulty that they made me understand, and doubtless we could not have talked together at all, only they had met an English pin, who had taught them some of his language. They were Parisians, as they told me with much haughtiness, but if they were, I did not like them for they were very proud. My dear young friend, if you ever expect to be agreeable company, you must not be proud.

"By some chance, a disconsolate-looking, and acting pin was put on the cushion, after the Parisians had all gone. He told me he was English; and gave me the story of his life, which was a very sad one. He said he did not care what happened to him now, and that the first chance he could get, he should make away with himself. I advised him not to do so, and tried to console him a little. But it was useless. He said that without friends, life was but a burden to him.

"When I told him how I was made into a pin, he seemed much amazed, and said the wire that he had been made of had been softened by heating, and then had been pounded and twisted like a horseshoe into the right shape. He said that that was the way with all his former English friends, and he sighed. Then I was proud (I confess it) of my country; proud that I was an American, and did not have to go through all English pins did! While my creation only lasted ten seconds, his took many minutes.

"Just as we were discussing the different methods by which we were made, my mistress (and his) came into the room, and he hurriedly said good-by.

"'You will never see me again. She will take me, and not you. Mine has been a sad life, and it will have a sad end. I hope that you will be happy. You are the only one that has ever tried to comfort me since all my friends were taken away from me; but you could not. Good-by!' And with that, my mistress took him away.

"She went over to the marble basin with the silver faucets, and turned some water in, while she held the pin, not very securely, I suppose, for he tried with all his strength, and gave a leap into the basin. The water carried him swiftly through the hole, and he was seen no more!

"O how I felt! To see one of my own race go to destruction before my eyes was hard to bear! I would have wept, but you know that is impossible to me, but whenever I think of the sad, sad fate of him with whom I was acquainted, for so short time, my brassy heart aches, as it were, and I feel as if I must go and comfort him, lie he in sewer or sea!"

(Just here the pin seemed much moved, and trembled so violently that I put my hand on the edge of the desk, to keep him from falling off.)

Presently he continued: "Let this be a lesson to you, my dear young friend, never to be discouraged, whatever be your lot in life, or you will meet with a sad fate, like my poor acquaintance, the English pin.

"It must have been for about a week then, that my life was rather dull. I was sorry for this; I longed for something to divert my mind from the sad scene I had witnessed. All I could do was to gaze disconsolately at the shining marble basin in the corner of the room, feeling that it was a sort of tombstone erected over the body of my friend, and make a solemn resolve never to become so discouraged with that which it was my duty to bear, as to desire to put an end to my existence, but always to bear patiently the task set before me. And you, my boy, will find your life much happier, if you make the same resolve.

"One day while my mistress' little girl was sitting reading by the window, a gentleman came in who had made his appearance during the last few days, and whom the children called uncle. He invited her to take a walk. She hastily brushed her hair, and hunting around for a smaller pin, evidently, took me reluctantly, to pin her sash with, and hurried down to meet her uncle, who was waiting at the hotel door; for that I had learned was the name of the building.

"They walked along down many streets, until finally they came to one where stores were. Into one of these the little girl went, and bought a paper of pins; as soon as they reached a quieter street, she took me out, so as to fill my place with a smaller pin, and would have thrown me into the gutter, but her uncle stopped her, saying:

"'Give it to me, if you don't want it. Never throw away even so small a thing as a pin, my girl, or you may want one very much, some day.'

"She laughed, and handed me to him, and he put me on the inside of his coat. When they reached home, or rather the hotel, he bade all the family good-by, and that evening boarded a train, and travelled till we reached another large city, where he took a steamer the next day, and I learned from some of his remarks that he was going back to America. I was very glad, I can assure you, for by this time I had grown homesick. The ride back was just about the same as the ride away from home had been, the only incident of any importance, that I remember, being that my master once fell overboard while I was on his coat, which was exceedingly disagreeable for both of us, until the sailors rescued us, and though I suppose those same brave men did not even know of my existence, I think I was really as thankful to them as was my master.

"When the steamer reached New York, the gentleman took a train, which, after a few hours' ride, brought us to a small town, where we found at the depot a carriage waiting for my master, with a gentleman in it, who greeted him warmly.

"During the ride to the stranger's house, he suddenly exclaimed:

"'Will, my cuff has come unpinned, and the pin has mysteriously disappeared. Have you another for me?'

"So my master put his hand to his coat, where I had been ever since we left Paris, and gave me to the gentleman. He, of course, fastened his cuff with me, and I remained in it till night, when, as he was taking it off when making ready for bed, he (whom I had so faithfully served) accidently dropped me from the open window, and I fell into a crack in the sidewalk!"

DOES ALCOHOL WARM US?

A PATIENT was arguing with his doctor the necessity of his taking a stimulant. He urged that he was weak and needed it. Said he:

"But, doctor, I _must_ have some kind of a stimulant. I am cold, and it warms me."

"Precisely," came the doctor's crusty answer. "See here, this stick is cold," taking up a stick of wood from the box beside the hearth and tossing it into the fire, "now it is warm; but is the stick benefited?"

The sick man watched the wood first send out little puffs of smoke, and then burst into flame, and replied: "Of course not: it is burning itself!"

"And so are you when you warm yourself with alcohol; you are literally burning up the delicate tissues of your stomach and brain."

Yes, alcohol will warm you, but who finds the _fuel_? When you take food, that is fuel, and as it burns out, you keep warm. But when you take alcohol to warm you, you are like a man who sets his house on fire and warms his fingers by it as it burns.--_Temperance Banner._

_Volume 13, Number 21._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_March 27, 1886._

THE PANSY.

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.

BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

V.

IT seemed an age to the three frantic passengers before the train ran into Brigham--but it was in reality five minutes ahead of time. St. George and his faithful adherent bade good-by with a heavy heart to Thomas, longing to stay and help him, but knowing that home they must go. Thomas tumbled out on the snowy platform more dead than alive from fear, and realizing that betrayal of a trust wasn't after all so productive of ease as it might be thought to be, he gathered himself up and walked uncertainly to the waiting-room door; a man standing within eyed him narrowly.

"We don't allow drunken people in here," he said coldly, "you'll have to stay outside."

"I ain't drunk," cried Thomas, roused to action; "I'm blest if I am; I'm only unfortunate."

The man laughed loud and long, and called to another, "See here; here's a chap got off his train--not half seas over, you know, oh no! only he's unfortunate."

Thomas' face blazed in an instant. That he, Mr. Bang's man, who had filled one place for a good dozen years, and was saving and industrious, with no taste for the company of low-lived fellows and no leaning toward their habits, should be brought face to face with one of them in this unlucky moment of his life when courage was at its lowest ebb, seemed to him the cruelest blow of Fate, and it deprived him of what little remaining sense he had.

"If anyone says that to me again I'll pitch right into him," he shouted.

"Good--hurrah! he knows what's what!" cried the fellow, a stalwart lounger whose only interest had been in seeing the train come in and depart. When that was over, he had nothing else for his active mind to work upon, and he hailed with delight this new excitement. "Come on, fellows, this chap is _de_termined to fight. So we won't disappoint him. You're a drunken, good-for-nothing sot," he cried in Thomas' face.

Thomas gave one plunge and struck the quarrelsome man squarely in the face.

"Take that, and that, and that," he cried, beside himself in a passion. Never in his life engaged in a quarrel involving blows, now that he was in one, it was purely delicious to give free rein to his anger, and for the first few moments he felt a man indeed.

The young fellow thus struck and two or three other men now closed around him, and he was soon occupied in warding off as best he might the shower of blows, kicks and cuffs that fell to his portion. The noise brought speedily to the spot, the depot officials, one or two farmers riding by, and all the boys in the vicinity.

"Stop--hold--I won't have any of that!" cried the ticket agent, puffing up in authority.

"Oh! won't you?" cried one of the men whose blood was up, and pounding away at Thomas, whom they had succeeded in getting to the ground.

"No, I won't," cried the ticket agent, "I'll have you all arrested."

"Who's going to do it, I'd like to know," asked another man derisively.

Meanwhile Thomas was shouting out his case, and succeeded in catching the ear of a farmer who sitting on the bags of meal in his wagon had paused to see what the trouble was about.

"It's my opinion," said the farmer deliberately, and stopping to clear his throat now and then with a sharp _Hem!_ "that you want me to give you three chaps a poundin' that man, a taste of my whip, and it's also my opinion that I shall do it." With that he sprang from his wagon with surprising alertness considering he looked so old, and, whip in hand, he advanced upon the crowd.

They all fell back. He had "whip" in his eye, and beside, every one knew Jacob Bassett, and that there was no reason to think he would fail to do as he said.

Before all could desert Thomas, however, the last man had the benefit of the leather lash, and he ran off rubbing his leg, and uttering several ejaculations as if he had received enough.

"My man," said Farmer Bassett, tucking up his long whip under his arm and helping Thomas to his feet, "now what's the matter with you?"

"I'm in trouble," said Thomas briefly.

"So I should think," said the old farmer with a wise nod.

"I don't care about myself," said Thomas not regarding certain flapping portions of his once neat suit, nor mindful of the other signs of his predicament, "but it's young master and those other boys who were left to my care." At mention of them, he became helpless once more, and began to bemoan his fate.

"Hah!" said the old farmer. He had boys of his own, not so very long ago either, although he looked so old, and though they were all but one out in the world and promising to be successful men, his heart went back to the time when they were little chaps and running about the farm.

The one who was not out in the world was safe at rest from all temptation and suffering. There was a tiny grave on the hill-top back of the old homestead, and here the farmer often stole in an odd moment, and Betsey his wife went of an afternoon when the work was done up, for a quiet time with her darling--the little Richard, so early folded away from her care, and Sundays they always went together to get peace and resignation for the coming week.

"What's the trouble with the boys?" asked the farmer, quickly.

Thomas looked into his face and the first gleam of hope he had known, now radiated his own countenance. Here was a man who evidently meant to help, and that right speedily.

"Oh sir," he cried, "they're over at Sachem Hill, and locked out of their house."

"Over at Sachem Hill and locked out of their house," repeated the farmer. "How did that happen?"

"'Twas me," cried Thomas miserably, and then he laid bare his confession.

Farmer Bassett said never a word, only as Thomas finished, "Come," he commanded, and motioning him to the green wagon, he climbed in, and seated himself again on his bags.

"I'm goin' to stop a minute an' tell Betsey to put us up a few things, an' while she's doin' it, I'll hitch into the sleigh. I took the wagon to mill, as 'twas poor draggin' along one piece o' bare ground--an' then, says I, we'll be off for them youngsters of yours."

Thomas gave a long breath of relief--and the wagon rolled on in silence till it came to a stop before a large red house.

OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

N.--NEWTON, SIR ISAAC.

"EVERY body in nature attracts every other body with a force directly as its mass and inversely as the square of its distance." This has been called "The magnificent theory of universal gravitation which was the crowning glory of Newton's life." I doubt not many of you have struggled manfully with this law as laid down in your school-books, and, having conquered it, and fixed the principle in your minds to stay, you may like to know something about the philosopher himself. In 1642, a puny, sickly baby was supposed to be moaning away its young life in Lincolnshire, England.

This child's name was Isaac Newton. He belonged to a country gentleman's family. His father having died, his mother's second marriage occasioned the giving of the child into the care of his grandmother. As he grew older he gained in health and was sent to school. Having inherited a small estate, as soon as he had acquired an education which was considered sufficient to enable him to attend to the duties of one in his position, he was removed from school and entrusted with the management of his estate. However, this young Newton developed a passion for mathematical studies which led him to neglect the business connected with his estate. He busied himself in the construction of toys illustrating the principles of mechanics. These were not the clumsy work which might be expected from the hands of a schoolboy, but were finished with exceeding care and delicacy. It is said there is still in existence two at least of these toys; one is an hour-glass kept in the rooms of the Royal Society in London.

Isaac Newton's mother was a wise woman in that she did not discourage his desire for the pursuing of his studies and for investigation. She did not say, "Now, my son, you must put away these notions and attend to your business. You have a property here which it is your duty to manage and enjoy. You should find satisfaction in your position as a country squire and consider that you have no need of further study." On the contrary, this mother allowed her son to continue his studies; he was prepared for and entered the college at Cambridge when he was eighteen. From that period until his death, at eighty-five, he devoted himself unweariedly to mathematical and philosophical studies.

You all know the story of the falling apple. He had been driven by the plague in London to spend some time at his country-seat in Woolstrop, and while resting one day in his garden he saw an apple fall to the ground. Suddenly the question occurred, Why should the apple fall to the ground? Why, when detached from the branch, did it not fly off in some other direction?

And where do you suppose he found the answer? Read the first sentence of this article and see if _you_ find it there! The truth had been the controlling power of all the falling apples since the creation, but it had never before been understood or formulated; perhaps this discovery of the law of universal gravitation gave him more renown than all his other labors put together.

He met with a sad misfortune, later, when, by the accidental upsetting of a lighted candle, the work of twenty years was destroyed. The story as told by a biographer is, that Sir Isaac left his pet dog alone in his study for a few moments, and during this brief absence the dog overturned the candle amongst the papers on the study table. It is further told as an evidence of the calmness and patience of the great man, that he only said, "Ah! Fido, you little know of the mischief you have done!"

But although he was so quiet under the great loss, the trial was almost too much for him; for a time his health seemed to give way, and his mental powers suffered from the effects of the shock. He died in 1725, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.

K.--KAUFFMAN, MARIA ANNA ANGELICA.

AMONG the women of history we find not a few artists; and of these Anna Maria Angelica Kauffman gained no mean reputation. She lived and worked and suffered during the latter half of the eighteenth century, dying in 1807. Her early life was spent in Switzerland, that land of romantic scenery. She opened her eyes in this world first among the mountains that rise above the beautiful and fertile valleys whose southern slopes teem with vines, whose highlands afford pasturage for the flocks of the farmers. Our artist's father was a travelling painter. Of his work we have no account. He is known to us only as the father of a gifted woman. Inheriting a love of art, she found in her father a ready sympathizer and willing helper. He gave her such instruction as he was able, and when he could carry her no farther in her studies, the family removed to Milan that she might have the opportunity of studying under more competent teachers. She had, however, before this--and she was only thirteen years old when they went to Milan--painted a portrait of the Bishop of Como, which gave her quite a reputation. At Milan she had an opportunity of mingling with other artists, and also the privilege of copying the finest pictures.

She excelled in portrait painting; when she went to London she was engaged to paint the portraits of "the most distinguished and beautiful ladies of the court." She everywhere received much attention, both on account of her talents as an artist, and her beauty and charming manner. Some of her pictures are in the Royal Gallery in Dresden; others may be seen in the Louvre in Paris.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

SIR JOHN AND THE EREBUS.

II.

FORTY years ago last May, England fitted Sir John out with two fine ships. They were the _Erebus_ and _Terror_.

Away they sailed from the wharf where many came to see them off, among them Lady Franklin, Sir John's wife.

Away they pushed through the sea toward the North. On they went, further and further from their home, to see if they could find the North Pole or what was called the "Northwest Passage."

Soon they met icebergs, or great mountain castles, moving down from the north. But the _Erebus_ and _Terror_ turned aside and sailed north, north, north, hundreds of miles.

Then the winter came on. The two ships were soon hedged in by the ice. They could neither go forward nor backward. The ice became thicker and thicker; the nights longer and colder. The men were clothed in fur, and there were stoves in the ships, but they shivered with the cold. No word came to them from their friends. They, however, tried to be cheerful, hoping for spring and the breaking up of the ice so they could sail out of their prison and find the Northwest Passage.

They sang, told stories, read, celebrated each other's birthday; good Sir John read sermons and prayers to his men as was his custom and exhorted them to be of good cheer. It was a joyful thought to them of making wonderful discoveries in that strange land and then coming back some day with the news.

But the spring came and went, another and another, but no tidings of Sir John. Then there was alarm. Meetings were called, speeches made, great sums of money raised; brave captains and crews offered to go in search of him. Vessel after vessel went and came, only to report failure.

Five years passed; seven; nine; ten--Hope was dying--eleven. Lady Franklin did not give up, but fitted out, at her own expense, a little ship.

Captain and sailors bid good-by to wives and friends, not knowing they would ever see them again, as they resolved not to come back till they found out something as to the fate of Sir John.

So this little ship disappeared far away northward, and, like the others, in a few weeks, was in the midst of majestic palaces of ice.

But it worked its way on, when, lo! one day as the captain was hunting here and there, he came upon parts of a ship, and he knew it was Sir John's. He also found Sir John's own handwriting and many other things that told of great sufferings and death.

It appeared that he had died June 11th, 1847; but he was not found till 1857. All had perished.

He was a noble Christian man, with a heart tender as a woman's.

When the little ship came back with the news, England mourned as did this nation over the fate of Sir John Franklin.

C. M. L.

FOLLOW MY LEADER.

HAVE each of the company put on a sheet, securing it around himself like the pictures of a Roman toga. Put on his head a pillowslip, making it assume any fanciful shape desired, and bringing it closely around his face, concealing features as much as possible. All this must be done _before_ assembling, as it is the object to have players disguised as far as possible from each other. Have your Leader chosen. Then you must follow him implicitly; whoever fails to, must be counted out of the game. Those who do not wish to dress in sheet-and-pillow-case costume must form audience. The Leader must wear high above his pillow-case-enveloped head, a small United States flag, so that all can recognize him as Leader.

(You will remember that the fourth of March is always the Inauguration Day, when the President of the United States goes into the White House as Leader for four years.)

Now let the Leader start to music from the piano--through the parlors, halls, dining-room--perhaps if the cook is pleasant, to the kitchen. These little games do a great deal to draw all the family together with a happy feeling. If he stops a minute to examine anything, the company following him in Indian file must stop too and imitate his movements, as if examining something closely. If he says in the course of his travels "ooh--ooh!" just like a pig, each one of the pillow-slip-and-sheet brigade must say "ooh--ooh!" also in the same tone _without smiling_, unless he laughs. If he says "cock-a-doodle-_doo-o!_" each one must say it. Whoever fails to follow his Leader imitating him in everything, and whoever smiles or laughs, or says anything unless the Leader does, must be pointed out by the audience, dropped out of ranks, set up in a corner, told to stand there until the game is played out, and all take off sheets and pillow-slips--to sit down and laugh over it all, before plates of apples and cracked walnuts.

May you have a jolly time with your March game. I wish I could play one with the Pansies.

MARGARET SIDNEY.

SIR EDWIN LANDSEER.

YEARS ago, a man now living in Cincinnati was sent by the President to South America to look after the interests of our country there. The people were very kind to him, and, among other gifts, presented him a parrot on his return home.

I spent a day at his house and had many funny talks with Poll; parrots can talk after a fashion.

She was a fine lady, not so large as some you may have seen at the New Orleans Exposition. Some of them were from two to three feet long. One was perfectly green; another, white; a third, nearly all bright colors.

The one I saw in Cincinnati was fond of her friends, but sulky and cross to me, a stranger.

She had learned many wicked words from passers-by, swearing words even. When she could not have her own way and, like other folks, was out of humor, she would "let fly" her worst opinions of people and things in her bad language.

At such times she did not seem so beautiful with all her gay plumage. Few folks do appear well when out of sorts, no matter how rich and fashionable their clothes. Remember that.

In the picture you see a parrot sitting upon a perch. It is another one and there is a long story about it. But all stories can't be put into THE PANSY without bursting its covers. However, you may hear a little about this one and think out the rest when your thinkers get time.

This Pol came from a distant land. She had such rich feathers, and could talk and sing so well, and, withal, her manners and behavior were so correct that she made friends of everybody.

So in due time Pol was treated like one of the family and as one of the first ladies in society--so far as a parrot could be. Her bread and drink and bed were all any bird could wish. She had the freedom of the house. Without asking, she could go up stairs or down, out door, into the barn, to the top of the highest trees, sometimes to the neighbors. She always came home at meal and bed time. Every one, nearly, knew her and treated her politely. Thus she forgot her far-away relations and became happy "as happy can be." She was now a maiden lady of sixty years. Some parrots live to be one hundred. Pol's life had been pleasant as a June morning. But June doesn't last forever. Trouble came.

One day she went out to call and was quietly walking home. A bad boy met her and made some provoking remarks. Instead of paying no attention to such creatures and going right on her way, she stopped, listened, lost her temper and "sauced him back." Then what should the fellow do but strike Pol and tear out some of her finest feathers and, leaving her half-dead, went his way. Pol managed to drag herself home, and, as best she could, tell what had happened.

How grieved they all were and wondered who could have treated her so cruelly. They suspected who had done it; for that boy was given to such things. Some seem to delight in giving pain to animals. I need not say what was done to that hateful boy. He deserved punishment and received it. But Poor Pol, what of her? She was tenderly washed and coaxed to eat and tell more about it. Her appetite left her in spite of all that could be done and she became sad and silent and wished to retire to bed.

It was hoped that she would feel better in the morning; but when morning came, there she sat, her wings drooping and her eyes cast down like one that is passing through great sorrow.

Near by lived a lad by the name of Eddie Landseer. He thought the world of Pol. As soon as he heard of her misfortune he came running in with a playmate, a bright little girl, to see what they could do for their afflicted neighbor.

Eddie was a great lover of horses, dogs, birds and almost all animals. Some say that when he went into the woods he would always carry something good for animals to eat and he would somehow call the squirrels and birds down around him from the trees. They would come and eat from his hands and let him handle them as tame animals do. He really seemed to know just how some animals feel and to cheer them in trouble. He took pains to study them as you do your Sunday-school lesson. So in he came with a most dainty dish for Pol.

He and his little friend were prettily dressed, not to show themselves, but to please Pol, for Eddie believed that she had an eye for beautiful clothes like her own. But when he saw Pol, how sad her countenance was and how she mourned over her lost feathers, he and Bertha could hardly keep back their tears.

However, they put on cheerful faces and sang so sweetly and begged so hard Pol actually got out of bed, arranged her feathers neatly, talking away as though nothing had happened.

Now, what if I should tell you that this Eddie became a great painter of animals! When he was but five years old he could draw pretty good pictures of cows and pigs; at eighteen he made that famous picture "Dogs of St. Gothard rescuing Travellers." Queen Victoria was so pleased with it she put honor upon his name and everywhere he was called Sir Edwin Landseer.

Some day you may see his famous picture "Peace and War." Ten years ago was seen in Philadelphia his wonderful painting "The Sick Monkey." Many people would stop a long while looking at it; the mother monkey had the sick one in her arms. The poor thing seemed ready to cry, while all the other monkeys looked at the sick one with such sad eyes. It is said no artist has done so much to teach us how to love animals.

Did you ever hear of Mr. Henry Bergh? He has spent many years writing, speaking and pleading with law-makers to pass laws to protect animals from cruelty. I suppose if the horses of New York City, where he lives, could speak, they would all daily shout to him as they see him on Broadway, "Thank you, dear friend Bergh. No living man has ever cared so much for our race as you have."

If they knew how, they would surely shake hands with him, and when he comes to die build a grand monument to his memory. It would seem as though God's love is in his heart. Jesus came to save the worst people, even those who nailed him to the cruel cross. Surely Jesus pitied the poor helpless animals. Not one sparrow falls to the ground without his notice. Try to be a friend to animals, won't you?

C. M. L.

ARE you having a good time with the March winds, my Blossoms? But then, you are so scattered that you can have all sorts of times. Some of you may be blowing around the street corners in a way to make you think of balloons, while others of you are picking wild-wood flowers in the sunny South; and away down in Maine, the boys are snowballing, while away on the southern slopes of California the girls are gathering roses! What a wonderful world it is!