Chapter II: Part 2

Then Norm came back to every-day life, and flushed and stammered. "No, he hadn't, and was not likely to;" and wondered what they would think if they were to see the corner grocery where he spent most of his leisure time.

The questioner laughed pleasantly. "Oh, I'm not so sure of that. I have a friend who plays the violin in a way to bring tears to people's eyes, and he never touched one until he was thirty years old; hadn't time until then. He was an apprentice, and had his trade to master, and himself to get well started in it before he had time for music; but when he came to leisure, he made music a delight to himself and to others."

"A great deal can be done with leisure time," said another of the guests. "Mr. Sherrill, you remember Myers, your college classmate? He did not learn to read, you know, until he was seventeen."

"What?" said Norm, astonished out of his diffidence; "didn't know how to read!"

"No," repeated the gentleman, "not until he was seventeen. He had a hard childhood--was kicked about in the world, with no leisure and no help, had to work evenings as well as days, but when he was seventeen he fell into kinder hands, and had a couple of hours each evening all to himself, and he mastered reading, not only, but all the common studies, and graduated from college with honor when he was twenty-six."

Now Norm had all his evenings to lounge about in, and had not known what to do with them; and he could read quite well.

THE TWO LITTLE PIGS.

ONE bright summer morning as I was strolling toward the beach, on the island of Mackinac, I saw a short distance ahead of me, two little pigs, one perfectly white and the other perfectly black, both the same size, trudging along side by side in the same direction as myself, seemingly engaged in earnest conversation. They seemed so out of place, and I was so curious to know whither they were bound, that I followed them unobserved.

They did not walk aimlessly, but as if they had some special object in view, and some definite destination. I wondered what they would do when they reached the water. I was not long in being answered. Without a moment's hesitation, they plunged into the waves, side by side, and swam out and away toward another island, six miles distant. I stood and watched them until their two little heads looked like balls bobbing up and down, side by side all the time.

When I related the incident to the landlord, a little later, he looked astonished and annoyed.

"Those pigs," he said, "were to have been served up for dinner to-day. They were brought here this morning in a boat from that island, six miles away, and we thought we might allow them their freedom for the short time they had to live, never thinking of their making an attempt to return home. And did you notice," he continued, "they chose the point of land nearest the island where they came from, to enter the water? Singular, the little animals should have been so bright? And, furthermore, they weren't landed there; that makes it more strange."

I, too, left the island that day, and I have never heard whether those brave little pigs ever reached their destination or not.--_Harper's Young People._

DECORATION DAY.

YES, little daughter, we go again,
One glad bright hour in May,
To cover with bloom the quiet graves
Where sleep the "Blue and Gray."

I think I have told you many times
The sacred reason why,
But mamma often likes to speak
Of the sad, sad days gone by.

I have told you how your grandpa
Fell in the ranks of the Blue,
When I was a wee maid, Barbara,
Not nearly as large as you.

Fell 'neath the dear old banner
At the battle of "Cedar Creek,"
In the days when uncle Charley
Was a baby small and weak.

I well remember him, darling,
So true, and noble, and bold,
Though I was such a small, small girlie,
Not quite turned eight years old.

He told me we of the Northland
Were forced to enter the fight,
How _we_, not our Southern brother,
Were battling for God and right,

How they of the fiery Southland
Were striving to tear apart
The States cemented by life-blood,
From many a loyal heart.

And I ever was staunchly loyal,
For when my baby came,
I called her the name our Quaker bard
Has given to deathless fame.

Of her who so bravely held the flag,
Out in the morning air
Baring to rebel bullets
The crown of her grand white hair.

But grandpa dwells where he knows to-day
The truth between Gray and Blue
Better than they of that far-off time
Who thought they alone were true,

And mamma has learned that noble men
Were there on the conquered side,
As any that ever suffered,
Suffered and bravely died.

So, little maiden Barbara,
On that sunny time in May,
Let us seek to honor the lonely graves
Of the men who wore the Gray.

EMILY BAKER SMALLE.

_Volume 13, Number 28._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_May 15, 1886._

THE PANSY.

MONUMENTS.

IT was my first visit to New York. A few days after my arrival uncle took me to Greenwood, the most beautiful cemetery I ever saw. We visited the many points of interest. As we stood gazing at the fireman's monument, uncle told me the story of his heroism; how in one of the fierce fires this brave man lost his life while rescuing a woman from the flames. Then we spent a long time looking at the monument to Miss Conda, the beautiful young heiress who was thrown from a carriage and killed; and her fortune was built up in this wonderful marble.

The next morning aunt said, "You will go with me to-day to another Greenwood and see grander monuments than any you saw yesterday."

I wondered how that could be. But we were soon on our way. At length we turned into narrow, dirty streets, growing worse and worse. I shuddered at such sights and sounds of human beings, never before dreaming that in grand New York there could be so much wretchedness. I drew closer and closer to aunt, fearing one of the human demons that leered at us would seize me and carry me off.

Such people! such places to live in! Such language! Why, it almost makes my hair stand on end to think of it. Aunt did not seem to mind them. May be they knew her, for every one stood aside for us to pass. "Here it is," she said at length. "Here is the other Greenwood."

"This?" I answered, looking around for gravestones and monuments, and seeing nothing but dreadful houses and miserable objects. "This Greenwood!"

She simply answered, "Yes; come right in and you shall see the monuments."

I could only follow, wondering all the while if aunt was not losing her mind.

A sweet-faced girl met us with a warm welcome to aunt and an earnest look at me. As she led the way within, aunt whispered:

"One of the monuments, Clara."

"What? I don't know what you mean."

"Her name is Maggie," she quickly whispered back; "used to be called 'wild Maggie;' was one of the worst girls in this region. Never mind now, will tell you more hereafter. Take a good look at her, you'll see her again."

Then I heard singing like the songs of many angels. A door swung open. We entered. It was a great company of children, black and white, some with sweet sad faces; others with evil looks, but all singing. Soon Maggie came in from another door and sat among them and I could hear her voice ring out in joyful strains, leading the rest.

There was prayer and Bible reading, and such a good talk by a gentleman. It seemed like heaven, while many of the children, some partly blind, some lame, some pale and sad-faced, gathered around after meeting was out and seized aunt Joanna's hand, and seemed so happy. Another lady was there to whom they all pressed for a smile and a word.

"That lady," said aunt, "is Sir Christopher Wren."

"What _can_ you mean?" I asked. "Sir Christopher Wren was a _man_ who died in England more than a hundred years ago."

Aunt Joanna only laughed and said, "And came to life again, my child. This is he, only greater."

"What?" said I, more and more bewildered.

But she went on: "Look around here at the Monuments. You knew Sir Christopher was the architect of the great Westminster Abbey of London, and that kings and statesmen and poets are buried there, and their names and deeds are written there; but if any one inquires for Sir Christopher Wren's monument, he is told to look at the wonderful building of which he was the architect."

"I see," said I, "that lady has 'built up' Maggie."

"Exactly," said aunt Joanna, "and more than one hundred other miserable, sick and wicked children. See that frail girl over there coming toward her? It would take a book to tell how this lady used to come daily here and bend over her crib, sometimes holding her in her arms for hours fearing each moment would be her last. But come and I will introduce you and you shall see a greater than Christopher Wren."

After we were on our way home, aunt told me the story of this lady; how one day curiosity led her to go through this worst part of New York. Her heart was so touched at the wretchedness of the people that she resolved to do something for them. Her friends tried to dissuade her. Some said the people would kill her; some said it was no use to try to help them. But she went right forward, and now after years of labor and sorrow there is her monument, saved children.

Before my return home in the country, aunt Joanna gave a treat to the children of the Home all at her own expense.

Maggie, once "Wild Maggie," and I served. How many sandwiches I passed around, how many cups of milk Maggie filled, how some of the urchins were dressed, how they laughed, or chattered, or stared, what they all said to aunt Joanna about the "treat," would fill a book.

CLARA.

MONKEY POCKETS.

I SUPPOSE you did not know that monkeys had any pockets, save those in the little green coats they sometimes wear. But that is a mistake; their real pockets are in their cheeks. The other evening, I travelled in the next compartment to a little becoated monkey and his master.

The little creature's day's work was over, and, perched up on the sill of the carriage window, he produced his supper from those stow-away pockets of his, and commenced to munch it with great enjoyment. Several times the platform had to be cleared of the girls and boys who had come to see the little friend off on his journey. At length a porter, whose heart was warm toward little folks, allowed them to slip in and remain.

The officials felt the attraction of that window; and the stoker addressed the monkey as "mate." Even the station-master as he passed cast a sly glance toward the monkey, and a cheer was raised when the train was set in motion, and the monkey glided away from big and little spectators.

I heard the other day of a pet monkey called Hag, a creature no larger than a guinea-pig, whose master once found in his cheek pockets a steel thimble, his own gold ring, a pair of sleeve-links, a farthing, a button, a shilling, and a bit of candy. Monkeys, I am sorry to say, are given to stealing, and they use these pockets to hide the articles which they have stolen.--_Selected._

MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE.

BY PARANETE.

VII.--IN WHICH THE STORY IS FINISHED.

"AN easy carriage came to the border of the woods," my acquaintance continued, "and the poor boy who had been shot was put on a couch that had been fixed in it, and carried home. All the other boys went home too. They didn't feel like having any more fun. The boy who had so carelessly fired the last time could hardly be comforted, and nobody blamed him, but every one pitied him.

"I learned from day to day, from Fred and the other members of the family, how the sick boy was getting along. He was fast improving, it seemed.

"I was soon transferred to the cushion from which I had been taken, where I remained for some time, until fall, indeed. From time to time, though, I was used for little things by different members of the family, but nothing special occurred in my presence, and I was seldom taken from my resting-place, for I was so long, that it was seldom that any one wanted to use me." (Moral: If you are _long_ about doing things, no one will want your help.)

"One day trunks were being packed, there was a general air of 'going away' about the house, and I learned that the lady, Fred's mother, was going away to be gone for some time. The children were to remain at home with their father. The last day I, or, more properly speaking, the pincushion on which I was, was packed in a satchel, and taken to the depot, and I knew no more of where I was for a good while, except by the rocking and noise of the train. Soon the satchel I was in was picked up, I felt the motion of a carriage again, and when light was let in upon me, we were in a room in a hotel, and my mistress placed my pincushion on the bureau, where I could see the busy street of a large city. The pins that were with me were pretty good company, and we remained in the city (that is, my mistress did) for some weeks, when one day, to our amazement, she packed up and went off, leaving us behind!

"Well, during that winter the room was occupied by various persons, thus affording me opportunity to study human nature, but I will not tire you with the results of the study, for I am simply telling you the story of my life. None of these persons touched me, but finally all the other pins were gone from the cushion, and I was left alone, and consequently was rather lonesome. The room was hired by a mother and her baby, a father and his baby, a young couple taking their wedding trip, I judged, and divers and sundry other people, who, as I remarked before, paid no attention to me. I grew more and more lonely, and was almost despairing of ever getting out of the hotel, when, one day, a fat old gentleman was led into the room by the colored porter, and established himself there. He was an author"--

"The one that boards here now?" I interrupted.

"Never mind," responded the pin, "don't interrupt me, please. This gentleman was an author, as I said before. He had papers and papers and papers! He had pens and pens and pens! He had stylographic pens, Mackinnon pens, and Paragon pens, and Todd's pens, and other pens! He came there to be quiet, he said, but he made more noise than anybody else in the house, except the solo singer, who roomed at our right, and the elocutionist (female, of course) who roomed at our left.

"One day the old gentleman announced to the porter that he couldn't stand it in that horrid place any longer, and he must help him get away the very next day. So he went. And as he was packing up, he found one roll of manuscript that wasn't pinned together, and so he drew me out from my long resting-place, much to my joy, and fastened the roll together with me.

"I was packed up in his satchel, and we journeyed quite a while. When it was opened, we were in a pleasant little room in a country boarding-house"--

"My mother's!" I again interrupted.

"Will you please be so kind as not to interrupt me again?" said the pin, his sharp voice growing sharper than ever. "I found myself, as I remarked before, in a pleasant little room in a country boarding-house. The scenery all around was very beautiful. There were fields, a meadow, a brook and some woods." (I very much wanted to interrupt again, but I bit my tongue, and squealed instead.)

"My master took long walks, and would sit down every little while on stone, stump, or fence, and write. One day as he was going out he asked the lady of the house to give him some lunch, as he would probably not be back for a good while"--

"My mother!" I burst forth.

"I think you are very impolite," the pin replied. "However, to pacify you, I will tell you that you are correct--it was your mother, and she put him up a nice lunch. He took quite a little walk, meditating the while, and every few moments he would lift up his arms, and discourse enthusiastically on the beauty of Nature. These talks were very uninteresting to me, as I felt quite competent to decide for myself what I thought of Nature, but I listened silently and patiently. At one point in the road the gentleman saw a good seat ahead, in the form of a stump, and so he slung his satchel on his arm, after getting some papers out, which he commenced to pin together with me. But at this point, as he was not engaged in looking where he was going, his toe unfortunately collided with the root of a stump which was firmly fixed in the ground, and he fell flat! A breeze coming up at the time, his papers, and so forth, were scattered to the four winds as you might say (though there was but one at the time), and he probably will never find the most of them again. His pens flew into a hollow stump near by, I flew over to the roots of another stump, and he fell on the satchel of lunch that your mother had prepared for him, squeezing it all out on the ground. Then he picked himself up and went home.

"As for me, I remained where I fell until you kindly brought me home with you this afternoon.

"Now, my young friend, I will conclude. I have done my work in this world, so far, as faithfully as I knew how, and I think I have fulfilled the purposes for which I was made. I hope I have proved to you that pins are of some importance, for I came very near causing the death of one person and saved the life of another. If you do your work, no matter how small it may be, as well as I have, you will be as happy as I am, perhaps not joyful, but you will at least be satisfied with yourself, which is a great deal better than being satisfied with others. I am through."

The pin stopped.

"Now shall I take you back to the stump?" I asked. But there was no answer given. I repeated the question, but still I received no reply.

Then I took my acquaintance up carefully, and carried it back to the stump, laying it in a place sheltered from the wet, as that worthy had requested.

"Here is your friend the pin," I said. But the stump made no reply. So I turned sadly and went home, and up to my room, to meditate on the singular silence of both the pin and the stump.

The supper bell startled me and I arose from my chair and my reverie, and hastened down stairs.

As I entered the dining-room, one of the boarders said: "Why, where have you been all the afternoon?"

"Oh, I took a walk down to Racket Brook, and then I stayed up in my room the rest of the time."

(_I_ was not going to tell about the pin and his story.)

"Are you sure you didn't come down again after you went up just after dinner?"

"Yes, I did," I indignantly replied.

"I peeped into your room this afternoon, and you were asleep by your desk."

"You were, I know," assented my little brother. "I saw you way down in the orchard, and you were asleep with your head on the window sill."

I made no reply, but went up to my room as soon as I had finished my supper, and spent the evening in writing my composition. And what do you think it was? Why, just the story of the pin as he told it to me that afternoon. The children wanted to know if it was true, after I had come down from the platform, having been greatly applauded by the audience (the fat author being in it). I replied that, every word of it was true, and went with them to the shore of the brook, where we found the identical stump with the young beech-tree growing beside it. Where was the pin? I do not know. It wasn't there, though, much to my chagrin.

When I got home, the fat author wanted to know if I would let him have my composition for one chapter of his book. I was perfectly willing, but when he showed me the chapter afterward it was headed "A Boy's Dream." And he had it that a boy had gone to sleep on the window-sill, and had dreamed--my composition!

When I returned it to him he asked me what I thought of it.

"I like it."

"And the title?"

I was silent for a moment--then I said,

"Perhaps it is so."

NOTE TO ALL THE PANSIES.--In my composition about the
pin, I mentioned several interesting things about the
early history of his family, etc., which he probably
didn't know, or he would have told me. If you would
like to know about them, just hunt up the word "pin" in
the encyclopædia, and it will tell you.

PARANETE.

OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

P.--PENN, WILLIAM.

THE other day I was looking at a map of Philadelphia, and at once my thoughts went back to my schooldays and the primary geography in which occurred the question, "What can you say of Philadelphia?" And the answer, "It is regularly laid out, the streets crossing each other at right angles like the lines on a checker-board." And again, "What is Philadelphia sometimes called?" Answer, "The City of Brotherly Love."

And now I wish I could set before you the calm, sweet, yet strong face of the man who founded and named this city, who truly desired it to be a city of love.

William Penn was a native of London. He was born nearly a quarter of a century after the Pilgrims landed upon Plymouth Rock; he belonged to a good family, his father being Admiral Sir William Penn of the British Navy. It appears that the son was of a religious turn of mind, and when he was a boy of twelve years he believed himself to have been specially called to a life of holiness. He was very carefully educated, but he offended his father by joining the Quakers; indeed, it seems that several times in the course of his life his father became very much displeased with him, but a reconciliation always followed, and at last the Admiral left all his estate to the son who had been such a trial to him. While a student at the University, Penn and his Quaker friends rebelled against the authority of the college and was expelled. The occasion of the rebellion was in the matter of wearing surplices and of uncovering the head in the presence of superiors. You know that the Quakers always keep their hats on, thinking it wrong to show to man the honor which they consider belongs only to God. And this reminds me to tell you that in the _Wide Awake_ for February, I think, Mr. Brooks has told a pretty story of William Penn and St. Valentine's Day, in which he mentions this refusal to uncover in the presence of the king even, as one cause of trouble between the father and son.

I cannot follow with you all the vicissitudes of Penn's life; after leaving the University he travelled upon the Continent. Afterwards he studied law in London; he became a soldier. This strikes us as being somewhat curious when we remember that the sect to which he belonged are opposed to war, and preach the doctrine of love and peace. However, he was not long in service, and meeting a noted Quaker preacher he became firmly fixed in his devotion to the society of Friends, and was ever after a strong advocate of its doctrines; nothing could turn him from the path he had chosen. He was several times imprisoned on account of his religious opinions and suffered persecution and abuse. Through all he adhered to his views, and stood by his Quaker friends in the dark days of persecution. He had inherited from his father a claim against the British Government of several thousand pounds, and in settlement of this claim he received a large tract of land in the then New World. With the title to the land he secured the privilege of founding a colony upon principles in accordance with his religious views. And in 1682 he came to America and laid the foundations not only of the City of Brotherly Love, but of the State of Pennsylvania. His object was to provide a place of refuge for the oppressed of his own sect, but all denominations were welcomed, and many Swedes as well as English people came. While other colonies suffered from the attacks of the Indians, for more than seventy years, so long as the colony was under the control of the Quakers, no Indian ever raised his hatchet against a Pennsylvania settler. Under a great elm-tree, long known as Penn's elm, he met the Indians in council, soon after his arrival in the territory which had been ceded to him. He said to them:

"My friends, we have met on the broad pathway of good faith. We are all one flesh and blood. Being brethren, no advantage shall be taken on either side. Between us there shall be nothing but openness and love."

And they replied, "While the rivers run and the sun shines, we will live in peace with the children of William Penn."

It has been said that this is the only treaty never sworn to and never broken.

William Penn lived to see his enterprise achieve a grand success. Philadelphia had grown to be a city of no small dimensions and no little importance. The colony had grown to be a strong, self-supporting State, capable of self-government.

"I will found a free colony for all mankind," said William Penn. Were these the words of a great man?

Unswerving integrity, undaunted courage, adherence to duty, and devotion to the service of God--are these the characteristics of a great man? Then William Penn may well be placed in our Alphabet of Great Men.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

MY GIFT.

ARBUTUS SENDS GREETING TO PANSY.

A GIFT she held from the Father;
It was pansies fresh with dew;
Sweet messengers of Heaven,
They bear a blessing true.

But her hand too lightly clasped,
And could not hold them all,
So to the ground unheeded,
She let the fairest fall.

The uplifted lips of the flower
Did not mutely plead in vain;
From the dust the blossom I raised,
And gave to the owner again.

Sweet Pansy's robe is purple,
Her crown of the purest gold;
All hearts who know, enthrone her,
All love her who behold.

But I'll away to the forest,
And seek my treasures there;
'Tis there Arbutus hideth,
Her blossoms I may wear.

This is my gift from the Father,
Arbutus buds are mine;
I'll sing their modest beauty,
In them read Heaven's design.

And I will bear to the Giver
The fragrance and the song
That fills my life with blessing--
To Him my blooms belong.

ROCKVILLE, MASS. _With love of_ ARBUTUS.

_Volume 13, Number 29._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO
_May 22, 1886._

THE PANSY.

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.

BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

VII.

MEANWHILE what of St. George and his faithful comrade? Speeding on in the railroad train, after the departure of the luckless Thomas, they had ample time to bemoan the annoyance of the boys left to the cold comfort of a night on Sachem Hill, and the distress of all the parents when the condition of things became known.

"I'm awfully glad we knew enough to cut and run," exclaimed Phipps Benton, hugging himself in his cosey car-corner, "at least that _you_ knew enough," he corrected himself honestly; "that last skate cost those chaps something. Won't Pa Bangs give it to Wilfred though!"

He couldn't help the shrug of delight as this thought seized him. Wilfred, to state it mildly, was not a boy to be loved dearly, and circumstances now seemed likely to make him anything but an object of envy.

"For shame!" cried St. George hotly, "we've just been there, and he's treated us well."

Phipps flushed all over his brown little face, and looked out of the window into the gathering night. St. George jumped out of his seat, and walked rapidly and unsteadily down the aisle to shake off some of his excitement. That he was going home to his mother all right, warm and safe to a capital supper such as only she knew how to get up for a hungry boy, tired and cold after a long winter-day frolic, made it all the worse that other boys who had so little while ago been the larger part of his laughing, noisy troop, should be at this very minute, shivering, half-starved and cross, at their wits' end how to pass the night. He could almost see Bridget setting on the supper things, smell the delicious coffee permeating the house, and hear his mother say, "Come, it is almost time for my boy to be here, you better begin to mix your cake-batter," and his mouth almost watered as he thought of the toothsome, smoking hot cakes that would before long be piled upon his plate.

But suddenly he stopped. No cakes for him that night--perhaps not even coffee. Who would tell those parents of the fifteen or so boys stranded on Sachem Hill why they were not to come bounding into their several homes on the arrival of the six o'clock train in the B. and A. Depot? George Edward and Phipps must do all those errands before they could hope to enjoy any supper that night.

_Whew!_ He drew himself up with a long breath, turned and rushed back to his seat.

"See here," he cried, throwing himself down, "you can take all the places nearest to your house--and I'll do the same."

Phipps turned and regarded him with a stare.

"To tell the fathers and mothers," explained St. George with a nod, "no other way, you see, why the chaps don't get home."

"Good gracious!" cried Phipps explosively, "I never thought of that. We can't! We're as hungry as beavers."

"We must." St. George laughed gayly, now that the struggle was over, and indulged in a smart pinch on his companion's shoulder. "Wake up, old fellow."

"You let me be," cried Phipps crossly, shaking him off, "and you get out with your 'musts.' I don't know any, I can tell you, and as for going around to tell a lot of people what's none of my business, you won't see me doing it. I'm going home myself."

"Who will do it then?" demanded St. George just as sharply.

"Don't know," said Phipps doggedly, "only I know I won't, that's all." He returned the look his companion gave him with another no pleasanter, and every whit as determined.

"And you mean to let those fathers and mothers go all night without knowing where in creation the chaps are?" cried the other boy in the seat, every feature ablaze with indignation. "Say?"

"They should have come along; it's their own fault they got left."

"But the fathers and mothers aren't to blame," insisted St. George vehemently. "Yours would go most crazy if you didn't turn up at the right time."

Phipps, however, was not to allow his feelings to be worked upon in this way. He now found himself very cold, decidedly hungry, and violently cross, and, giving St. George a push, he declared, "I tell you I won't do a single thing, nor take a single step. I can't hardly move, and I shall go straight home."

"Of course," said St. George, brightening up, and relaxing a bit, "so shall I, to tell my folks."

"I shall _stay_ there," said Phipps obstinately. With that he turned again to the window.

"Do!" burst out St. George in high scorn, "and save your stingy, mean, little pinched-up carcass!"

"Boys," said an old gentleman back of them, leaning forward to bring his stern face over into the excitement, "I should think if you must fight, you could find some other place a little more appropriate than a crowded rail-car."

St. George brought his flushed face over against that of the old gentleman, and sprang to his feet, reaching for the skates dangling from the rack overhead, while he shivered all over with anger and mortification. Phipps did not turn his head.

The old gentleman seeing that his shaft had struck home, wounding at least one individual, put himself back in his own seat, well pleased, and St. George summarily retreated to the rear of the car, full of reflections the farthest removed from agreeable ones.

Here he was in a quarrel, and just a moment before he had been giving advice how to spare the feelings of others, and he couldn't control his own, but must anger Phipps with whom he had never had the least falling out. _Faugh!_ He was so disgusted with himself, he would have thanked any one who would take him one side, and give him that castigation he felt he so richly deserved. And there were the eyes of all the passengers in the car directed to him, as if he were a person whose movements were singular, to say the least, and would bear watching. Half of them had heard the old gentleman's sharp, ringing rebuke even if they had not been listeners to the quarrel itself, and the other half were now, he felt, staring at him and whispering over him as he stood pretending to look out of the door, while their eyes seemed burning holes into his jacket.

It was interminable, that hour before they could reach the B. and A. Depot, and the only relief he experienced was in pulling out his watch every five moments to see what time it was.

At last, in the train swept to the depot. St. George looked back quickly, intending to rush back, bestow a thwack on Phipps' back, say he was sorry, and make up. But the throng was great and a woman with a baby asked him to help her off the car, so by the time he got free most of the passengers had filed out and were hurrying along the platform. St. George caught a flying glimpse of the boy he sought, some little distance ahead, and he bounded after him.

"Phipps," he cried, darting in and out between the people, and dodging an expressman with a barrow, "wait, old chap."

St. George was positive that his call was heard, but the boy in front now gathered up his skates to a tighter clasp and broke into a run.

St. George chased him so long as he saw the least chance of gaining on him, then suddenly pulled up.

"All right," he gasped, "if you want it that way, you may have it. I don't care."

A WAIF FROM THE SKIES.

IN throwing out ballast or any small article from a balloon, a certain degree of caution is requisite, as a bottle or any similar object falls with such velocity that were it to strike the roof of a cottage, it would go right through it. We are told that Gray-Lussac, in an ascent in 1804, threw out a common deal chair from a height of twenty-three thousand feet. It fell beside a country girl, who was tending some sheep in a field, and, as the balloon was invisible, she concluded, and so did wiser heads than hers, that the chair must have fallen straight down from heaven.

No one was skeptical enough to deny it, for there was the chair, or rather its remains. The most the incredulous could venture to do was to criticise the coarse workmanship of the miraculous seat, and they were busy carping and fault-finding with the celestial upholstery, when an account of M. Gray-Lussac's voyage was published, and extinguished at once the discussion and the miracle.--_Chambers' Journal._

"THE HUMPY THING."

"I never would have made a camel, that's certain," remarked a wise (?) lad, after taking a slight look at the ungainly beast.

"Probably not," answered his wiser father. "You would have put the same material into pop-guns or ponies."

"But see what an ugly thing he is; not a handsome feature about him," still urged the boy.

"Handsome is that handsome does," came back to him.

"Look at those abominable humps on his back. Why must he be disfigured in that way?"

"Does a trunk disfigure a traveller?" quietly asked the father.

"But what has that ill-looking hump to do with a trunk, I'd like to know?" continued his questioner.

"There are many more things you ought to 'like to know.' That ill-looking hump is his trunk, which his master sees is well packed with--fat--before he starts on the long journey over the deserts where he can't be sure of any grass or shrubs for days and days. But there is that trunk full on his back from which the camel picnics on the weary way."

"Oh! you don't say he carries water there too!"

"No; but near by, in another trunk or bottle. He has an extra supply in his stomach. Those 'clumsy' feet are _beautifully_ formed for travelling the desert. Scientific folks might have studied for ages without discovering and patenting such a marvel of a desert foot.

"You see no beauty in his eyelashes and queer nose, but you would, after a day in the burning sun or flying sand of the desert. Why, my boy, there's no beast like him for use in his own land.

"Just see him, knelt there for his load of one thousand or fifteen hundred pounds, and objecting as plainly as a camel can, when a little too much is put upon him. Then rising up and moving on his way in such dignified patience, on and on, hour after hour, seventy-five or one hundred miles a day. Know of a horse that could do that, my boy?

"He is justly called the 'Ship of the Desert.'"

"'Ugly beast,' indeed!" repeated his father. "Think you Gordon called him so?"

"Gordon? Who did you say?"

"General Gordon. That brave, grand man who went to Khartoom to save the garrison and people there from falling into the hands of the false prophet?

"It almost seems as if the noble camel that carried him hundreds of miles on the way, knew what General Gordon was going for; he just hurried right on without a word of complaint, till he could not move a step further; then another gladly took his place and pushed on day and night till Charles James Gordon passed through the gates and the city shouted for joy.

"Now can't you see some beauty in this beast?"

C. M. L.

SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.

M.--MITFORD, MARY RUSSEL.

"OUR village!" Do you suppose you could write a book about your village? Could you find enough matters of interest to make one book? And yet Miss Mitford wrote five with that title. She wrote about the houses and the people, the shops, the children, about life in an English country village, and delightful reading her sketches are. She wrote as no one had ever before written, and perhaps I might say that no one since has ever written such charming bits of description of rural life.

She wrote other books, _Atherton, and Other Tales_, _Country Stories_, and then she wrote such delightful letters to her friends. You will find some of these in her _Life and Correspondence_. She was the daughter of wealthy parents, who later in life became poor. So that from a life of luxury our gifted author was reduced to poverty.

The latter part of her life must have contrasted painfully with the days of her childhood, yet she kept through all her trials her sweet serenity of mind, her habit of making the best of everything. She is described as a short, stout woman, with a face shining with quiet happiness and unselfishness. The appreciation with which her sketches were received gave her much pleasure, and the fact that her writings were re-printed in America afforded her the greatest gratification, while it was a surprise to her.

She was a delightful person to meet socially, having charming ways and a soft, sweet voice. She died in a wee bit of a house, in 1855, at the age of sixty-eight.

Do you ask why I have chosen to place Miss Mitford in our list of Remarkable Women? To begin with, she was the first to discover and set before us in prose writing the beauty in every-day things. She had written poems and tried her hand at writing tragedy, but with indifferent success, and at length when poverty stared her in the face she took up the then new line of writing and tried with grand success to show to the world the beauty there is in common things. Then all through her long life with its sad changes she kept that wonderful serenity of mind, and that happy faculty of living above the vexations of life. Many a woman when forced by growing poverty to move from place to place, each time going to a poorer home, would have grown faint and weary of life, and given up in despair.

If we cultivate the habit of making the best of everything, we shall be the better prepared to meet the vicissitudes of life.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

I SHOULD suggest, dear Pansies, for this lovely month of May, a little evening festival. Winter is over with its long, delightfully cosey evenings. Spring is nearly done, with its shorter evenings, and now we are fairly launched into the flower months--when all life seems an holiday, and every moment that is possible is to be passed out of doors.

To get ready for my little proposed festival, everybody must go a-Maying. With baskets, and fern cases, let the children, papa and mamma, nursey, aunt Grace, uncle Fred, and indeed every one who will drop books and work, and go off to the woods for the wild treasures that are playing hide-and-seek there. We do not want on this lovely May festival, any flowers but wild ones that have grown silently all winter under the snow, waiting for us. Their reign is short indeed. We will give them one evening all to themselves before we turn to June with her wealth of roses, and all other sweet and glowing blossoms.

Let us gather them all--the hepaticas, the anemones, darling little forget-me-nots, violets, Solomon's seal, and--but the name is legion--and the varieties multiply as we dig and prowl in the damp moss, and explore behind rocks and in crannies. Put them all in the baskets and cases, surrounded by their own moss to keep them green, not forgetting to bring as many roots as possible, cover all with lovely vines, and come home, flowers in the baskets, and flowers in your cheeks.

Amy and Ruth have been very busy. No one exactly knew why they got up so early in the morning. No one but the cook, and she promised not to tell. But in the cake-box is a toothsome collection of sugar wafers, ready to be put on the flower-crowned table, and the two little girls have every little while that pleasant "woodsy morning," as Ruth called it, flown at each other in the secret places, when resting from their flower-digging, and something like this might have been heard, if there had been ears to hear. But there were none, only those of the squirrels, and they looked wise, and determined not to tell. "Oh, I _hope_ they will be good."

"Our new receipt. Just think, if they shouldn't like them!"

Bob has a secret too. Why can't boys as well as girls have one, pray tell. That is, no one but papa knows it, but then papa has a fashion without ever asking, of being informed of his boy's movements.

Bob's twenty-five cents hoarded for two weeks, went into the grocer's till only yesterday, and Bob has twelve bright yellow lemons instead, waiting as patiently as lemons will, to be sacrificed to a thirsty group who stand around the same flower-crowned table. Bob's papa is to give the sugar, and moreover he has promised to tie on another apron and help the boy make the loveliest lemonade on that very same night. So Bob and his papa must of necessity go off together on this "woodsy morning" to hunt for flowers, for there is danger if they staid with the large group that they would let the whole thing out. Oh, what fun, to have papa to one's self and a secret!

Now then, after your invitations to two or three neighbors, and a little friend or two who hasn't many pleasures of her own, are given out for this evening, and your wood-treasures are ready, and you have had a good lunch and are all bathed and rested, you have nothing to do but to arrange your table with banks of moss, flowers and vines, get uncle Fred who is to give the little talk on "Plants and their Habits," to settle his microscope and specimens just where he wants them in the evening, Mary puts out the music on the piano-rack that she has promised to play, the two secrets are out, because there are the trays laden with sugar wafers, and two bright-faced, white-capped young girls, one with blue ribbons and the other with pink, to pass them around, and there's the lemonade table in the corner, with a big pail covered with green moss, a little well sweep to which is fastened the Baby's tiny pail for a bucket, and Bob stands back of it all with a beaming face ready to serve you to glassesfull from the "old oaken bucket."

Oh, it is rare fun, this dainty May festival--the best part after all being the "Plant talk," and the wonders to which the company, young and old, are brought to see through the microscope. Each small spear of green has its delicate meaning--each blossom its tender message. Nothing has been lost there so long under the snow, and the good Giver tells anew to these awakened minds, his story of creative love. Dear children, I hope you will have in each family a "May festival," and my most loving wish is that it may be a happy, bright, and joyous one.

MARGARET SIDNEY.

JACK-IN-THE-BOX.

YOU want a story, another story,
One you have never heard before?
Stories don't come when you call them, always;
I do not know any more.
"Jack and the Bean-Stalk," "Goldilocks,"
"Bright Prince Charming," "Reynard the Fox,"
And now you ask for a "spandy-new" one,
About your Jack-In-The-Box!

Poor little Jack-In-The-Box, who never
Can open his door himself;
Whose house is so small that it almost pinches,
With neither cupboard nor shelf.
Dark, beside, with a varnishy smell,
Enough to keep him from feeling well,
And a crick in his back that must surely hurt him,
If he could only tell!

Now, let's pretend; when he first was finished,
This rosy-cheeked little Jack,
He stood up straight, with his hands beside him,
And never a crick in his back.
Oh, what a beautiful world of toys!
Little doll-girls and little doll-boys;
Drums and trumpets, and everything lovely
For making a splendid noise!

Ah, but wait--he is not quite finished;
Poor little rosy Jack!
A knife, some glue, some muslin, some paper--
_Now_ there's a crick in his back!
Oh, but the hot glue made him smart;
How near the sharp knife went to his heart;
And for five dreadful, dreadful minutes,
His head and feet were apart!

Now for the box--it is very pretty,
Painted a charming red.
In he goes, his feet are fastened;
Down comes the lid on his head!
Oh, he knew he was going to smother!
He'd have called mamma if he'd owned a mother,
But he'd nobody nearer than distant cousins,
Neither sister nor brother.

Frantic his struggles for fifteen minutes,
But it seemed, the more he tried,
The tighter his house grew; then his courage
Failed; and he cried and cried.
Then he heard laughter, soft and low;
His door flew up, and he heard an "Oh!"
And a dear little face was bent above him--
Your little face, you know.

Over and over the darkness caught him,
The lid came down on him tight;
But he soon found out that after the darkness
Always would come the light.
He was a hero! Up he went
Whenever the lid rose; not content
With merely rising, he came up smiling,
Though all of his strength was spent.

That was the story. Grave and silent
Sat my small Goldilocks,
Looking down with a tender pity,
At brave Jack-In-The-Box.
"Thank you, auntie," was all she said.
But I found that night, when she'd gone to bed,
Jack's box in the grate, and Jack on her pillow,
Close to the golden head.

M. VANDERGRIFT, _in Youth's Companion_.

_Volume 13, Number 30._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_May 29, 1886._

THE PANSY.

PATTY PLUMMER'S TRIAL.

PATTY PLUMMER awoke one lovely August morning with a delightful feeling that something nice was going to happen that day. The sun was shining in on the rough board walls of her little chamber, and she could see the bits of broken china and glass glitter in her playhouse--a corner of the room outside. Then she thought of her dream! Patty laughed aloud as she dressed herself, at the thought of her old broken dolly Lulu Jane chasing her round the house, and squeezing through a tiny crack when she tried to shut her in the sitting-room!

"Aha! I just know why I dreamed that! I know what makes me so happy!" and she danced round in her stocking feet, singing her gayest song, quite forgetful of the old saying,

Sing before eating
And you'll cry before sleeping!

"Oh! I do hope she'll bring it to-day," Patty cried as she put on her slippers and ran out to her play-house, where in a parlor gorgeous with yellow paper carpet and green pasteboard chairs, stood an old accordion as a doll's piano, with a gayly-dressed rag lady sitting before it on a velvet-covered spool, and a fine gentleman by her side in blue paper trousers and black silk jacket.

Now the "she" of Patty's remarks was her clever cousin Charlotte who had taken home the "it"--no other than broken-headed, torn-to-pieces old Lulu Jane herself--to make therefrom, as she declared to Patty the day before, "the finest rag doll she ever saw!"

"I do b'leeve she'll bring it home this very afternoon," happy Patty kept saying to herself, as she flew out of doors after breakfast and worship was over. Everything seemed lovelier than ever this one fair morning. The little rock-basin filled by water trickling down from a higher one, which Charlotte had named "the fountain," seemed the most wonderful thing that ever was; the hollyhocks and lady-delights fairly smiled as she bent over the flower mound to admire them--all was cheerful and gay.

How Patty loved to go over by herself the events of a pleasant play-day with Charlotte! There was the little stone oven place with a mock fire of sticks, where they had played at boiling a pudding made of mud and tied in a rag, while the pot was a hollow ribbon block from old Miss Simpkins' store! there hung the swing her father had made between two ash-trees for her and her cousin. She climbed on the notched board and swayed to and fro, every now and then looking up the pasture hill to see if Charlotte was coming down the path from uncle Nathan's.