Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

The children certainly did bear the privations we underwent well, but Katie said to me privately one night, “I never did want something good to eat as badly in my life. I am real glad Thanksgiving Day is so near.” But when the day before Thanksgiving came, and mother asked if I should get anything different for dinner next day, father shook his head with such a decided “no” that there was nothing more to be said, but it was undoubtedly a change; we had never known what it was not to have turkey and pudding then. I was most grieved, however, at the thought of not having my usual present for Miss Judith. I had always, on that day, carried her in her dinner, and on the waiter a five dollar bill; but as I went up stairs at night, father slipped five dollars into my hand, saying, “This is for Miss Judith, Annie. We must not forget, in our efforts to retrench, the debt we owe our Heavenly Father.”

That was enough to put me in a proper frame for the next day, even if I had not already had sufficient to be thankful for. I had quite made up my mind that mother was to go to church, and let me mind Harry, but there was a great deal of persuading necessary to get her up to the point. However, I succeeded at last, and after they were all gone and I had washed up the breakfast things, Master Harry began to show symptoms of sleepiness, so I tucked him in his little cradle, and began rocking him to and fro, singing all the while one of Miss Judith’s favorite hymns:—

“One by one thy duties wait thee,
With thy whole strength go to each,
Let no future dreams elate thee,
Learn thou first what these may teach.

Do not look at life’s long sorrow,
See how short each moment’s pain,
God will help thee for the morrow,
Every day begin again.”

Over and over I sang it, till at last the white lids closed, and I was getting up softly to slip away, when ting-a-ling! went the door-bell, with such a sound through the house that Harry stirred, then opened his blue eyes to their fullest extent, and I was obliged to get him quiet again before answering the bell. When at last I did go down, lo! not a creature was to be seen: only a hamper-basket covered with a white cloth with a paper pinned on top, on which was written: “For Mr. Gray; from a friend.”

It was just as much as I could do to get the basket into the kitchen, and then, oh! the good things that met my eyes. First of all, a turkey ready dressed, then a roll of golden butter, then several jars of sausage-meat and jelly, then a bunch of celery, and last a great iced cake. This completed the contents, but no; as I lifted out the lower cloth there lay a sealed envelope directed, as the basket had been, to father. This I laid aside till his return, but what to do about the other things was puzzling. They are clearly intended for father’s Thanksgiving dinner, I thought, but unless the turkey is put to roast right away it won’t be done in time. Shall I, or shall I not? I said to myself. Then I remembered how feeble dear mother looked when she set out; how she feared the services would be too much for her strength. Yes, I said decidedly, by way of answering my doubts, a warm nourishing dinner will be just what she needs, and so, without more ado, I set to work. The baby (bless his little heart!) was real good, and let me, get well “under way” before he waked up. There was no keeping the secret of the dinner, however, when the front door was once entered, for the savory odor of the roasting turkey told the tale at once, and the whole party hurried into the kitchen to find out what it meant.

“O, father!” I said, when the exclamations over the first part of my recital had sufficiently subsided to admit of my getting in a word, “there was a letter for you in the basket, too.”

“This will give us the name of the donor,” said he, as he opened it. But, no indeed, there was no name inside, only some notes neatly folded. “Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five dollars,” said father, counting them out on the table. “God be praised for all His mercies, and God bless the giver!” said he, fervently, while mother turned away to get Miss Judith’s dinner ready, and hide her tears, for poor mother was actually crying.

“Take this, too, Annie,” said father, putting another five on the one already lying on the waiter, when at last it was ready for me to take in. Of course I had to stop and tell Miss Judith the wonderful news about the basket, and when I got back again mother was putting the last dish on the table; then, going to our places, we stood with bowed heads while father said the grace I had always been accustomed to hear, but which seemed to have gained new meaning and beauty,—

“Supply the wants of others, O Lord, and give us grateful hearts, for Christ’s sake.”

We never knew the secret of that Thanksgiving basket, nor did we ever inquire into it, but we all had a notion that Dr. Armstrong could have thrown light upon the subject if he had chosen to.

G. S. W.

_Volume 15, Number 2._ Copyright, 1887, by D. LOTHROP COMPANY.
_November 12, 1887._

THE PANSY.

A SEVENFOLD TROUBLE.

(_Told by Seven People who Knew of it._)

BY GRACE LIVINGSTON.

MARGARET threw an old shawl over her head and went out the side door. This had been a hard day. Weston had been very cross, and insisted upon having her run a great many errands for him, some of them unnecessary.

This, too, was the first day of the fall term of school, and Margaret had so wanted to be early at school to secure her old seat; for she had heard that Helen Marcy was going to try to get it first. She had almost forgotten her new resolves in the morning when her step-mother had told her she would have to stay home to-day and help her.

As the tears came into Margaret’s eyes, Mrs. Moore had remarked: “Now’s a good time to show your religion. A girl that’s joined the church shouldn’t go around pouting all day because she’s asked to do a little work; especially when she’s been off doing nothing at the seashore.”

It was all true, Margaret knew it, but it seemed so hateful of her to say it. It had been so hard to bear.

After tea she walked down to the gate and stood staring out into the darkness.

It was a very hard life, all just as black and unlovely as that dark autumn evening.

She glanced back at the house. There was Johnnie bending over his books, the gaslight above him brought him out in clear relief against the dark room. Naughty Johnnie! How he had teased her every time he came near her that day! Nobody cared for her much. She gazed down the street. Here and there a light gleamed out. Across the way there was a bright fire in the fireplace, and the family seemed to be having a happy time, sitting around the table, sewing, reading, laughing and talking. The little girl was sitting in her father’s lap. How Margaret longed for such a pleasant evening in their home. She turned involuntarily back to the house. Her father and Mr. Wakefield, the minister, had gone out just after tea, and Mrs. Moore had gone to her own room directly after the dishes were washed. The house was all dark, save Johnnie’s one gas jet. It was just unbearable. No other girl in the world had such a hard lot. It couldn’t possibly be any worse.

Yes, she really thought so, this poor silly little girl.

But she did not altogether forget her Heavenly Father. She remembered presently, with a glad thrill of joy, that she belonged to the rich King of all the earth. He could help her. She would ask Him.

Down went her head on the gate-post, and she told her Father in Heaven all about it, and how she could not possibly stand it.

Then she raised her head with a confident feeling that now all would be well, and fell to planning different ways in which her prayer might be answered.

She didn’t exactly want her step-mother to die! She was rather shocked at the thought. That was a very wrong thought for a Christian girl to have.

Poor little Margaret! She thought she loved Jesus, and was trying with all her might to serve him, but she still had to learn the command: “Honor thy father and thy mother.”

Throwing that disagreeable thought aside, she went on. How _could_ it all be changed? Perhaps some rich, unheard-of relative of her mother’s would die and leave a vast fortune to her as her mother’s only daughter. Then what would she do? She would give her father enough so that he wouldn’t have to work anymore. She would—yes, she would show a very Christian spirit toward Mrs. Moore. She would re-furnish the house, and hire several servants for her, and give her enough to buy beautiful dresses. The boys should be sent to college, and she,—she would go off to boarding-school and study as much as she liked, and never have to stay home and wash dishes. She would have plenty of money to give away. She would buy a great many flowers to give to poor sick people. Her room should be beautifully furnished, and she would invite all the poor girls in school there and give them nice times.

She was just treating those imaginary girls to chocolate creams and marshmallow drops, when she heard her father’s step coming swiftly down the street, and his voice say: “Margaret, you should not be out in this chilly night air.” Then she turned and followed him into the house. She had to give up her musings for a while and help Johnnie with his arithmetic lesson, but she promised herself more castle-building when she went to her own room, before she slept.

But presently her father called her. “Margaret,” he said, “I have a letter here from your Aunt Cornelia. She wishes you to come and spend the winter with her and attend school. Would you like to go?”

Margaret’s heart bounded with joy. Not alone with the pleasure of going to Aunt Cornelia, but with a sort of triumphant feeling that her prayer was answered, and that so soon. She resolved complacently that she should always pray for everything. Poor child! She thought her faith was very great.

It was quite dark in the room and Margaret could not see her father’s face as he said this, but his voice was very kind. The door into the hall was partly open, and the streak of light which came from it fell upon the sofa, and showed the dim outlines of Mrs. Moore lying there with her head bound up in a handkerchief. There was a faint odor of camphor and vinegar pervading the room and Margaret’s conscience smote her as she remembered her hard thoughts out by the gate. Perhaps Mrs. Moore had been suffering all day from a sick headache, and that was why she was so severe. The little girl’s heart softened and she resolved to pray that the headache be cured, which, however, she forgot to do. You must remember how full her heart was of excitement, and pity this poor young Christian.

It was all settled that evening that she should go in a week, and she went up to her room to write a letter overflowing with thanks to dear Aunt Cornelia, and then went to bed to dream of the new life.

How easy it would be to be a Christian, living with Aunt Cornelia, she thought, while she was dressing the next morning. God must have seen how utterly impossible it was for her to serve him truly here in her home, and so planned this for her. But her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her door, and Johnnie called out:

“Say, Mag, _she’s_ sick, an’ father’s gone for the doctor, an’ he said you must come an’ get some breakfast, an’ West’s cross, an’ it rains like sixty, an’ the wood’s all wet, an’ I can’t make the fire burn. Can’t you come quick?”

Had Margaret known all the trials that were to come to her that day, she would have stopped, in that little minute that stood between her bright hopes of the night before, and the unknown future, to ask her Heavenly Father for strength for what was to come. But she did not. Perhaps it was some shadow of coming trouble that made her reach out her hand and push the letter she had written into her upper bureau drawer. Then she hastened down-stairs. Desolation reigned there. Johnnie’s books and slate were scattered over the dining-room table, just as he had left them the night before. Weston had added to the confusion by spending his evening in cutting bits out of several newspapers for his scrap-book, and little white snips were scattered thick over the floor. Margaret remembered that the dining-room always before looked nice when she came down in the morning. It _did_ make a difference to have a mother around, even if she _was_ only a step-mother.

Out in the kitchen Johnnie was rattling the stove and the smoke was pouring out of every crevice.

It was late that morning before the new minister got his breakfast, and the steak was smoky and the coffee muddy-looking, but he smiled pleasantly at Margaret’s red face and told her that she had done well for the first time.

While they were at breakfast, Mr. Moore came in with the doctor.

They went directly up-stairs, but soon came down again, the doctor taking out his medicine-case and calling for glasses and water. Mr. Moore looked anxious and worried. Margaret tried to hear the doctor’s replies to her father’s troubled questions, but she only caught words now and then:

“Inflammatory rheumatism.” “System completely run down.” “Rest for several months.”

These were the bits of phrases that came to Margaret through the open kitchen door, as she stood by the faucet drawing water for the doctor. The rest of the sentences were drowned by the rush of the water, but Margaret could easily imagine it, and her heart stood still.

She knew that this meant many things that the doctor did not say.

It meant that she could not go to Aunt Cornelia’s; that she must spend the winter at home; that she must be the one who must constantly wait on the sick woman. She could even now hear the irritable words which she imagined her step-mother would use to her when she didn’t do everything just right.

Then a great rebellion arose in her heart.

“God hasn’t answered my prayer at all,” she said to herself, and the great disappointment made her hand shake as she set the water-pitcher down before the doctor.

Mr. Moore didn’t think his little girl had heard the doctor’s words, and he looked after her with a troubled sigh as she went back to the kitchen. How should he tell her? Would she storm and cry as she had been wont to do when her will was crossed? He decided that he would not tell her that day.

The breakfast dishes washed, Johnnie at school, and her father up-stairs, Margaret betook herself to the kitchen to wail out her sorrow and pity herself. She dared not go to her own room, lest she should be heard. Rebellion was in her soul, and the more she cried the more she pitied herself and cried again. Mr. Wakefield, coming to the kitchen to ask for some warm water, found Margaret with her arms on the table, and her head on her arms, sobbing great angry, disappointed sobs. He stopped in dismay.

“Why, Margaret, what is the matter? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, there isn’t! God hasn’t answered my prayer! You said he would! Now I’ve got to stay at home and wait on _her_! I don’t believe he heard me at all!”

Margaret fairly screamed this out. She had worked herself into such a state that she scarcely knew what she was saying. Was this the gentle, humble Christian he had received into the church but two days before? This thought passed through the minister’s mind, but he was too wise to express it to the excited little girl. He only asked quietly:

“Margaret, does your father always say ‘yes’ to you when you ask for something?”

“Why, no; of course not!” she said, in surprise.

“And suppose you should ask for something, and he should say No, would you come and tell me that your father would not answer you?”

She did not answer this time, and Mr. Wakefield went on:

“Suppose your father knows that what you ask would be very hurtful to you, would you think him cruel to refuse you?”

“But this isn’t hurtful! It’s best for me! God wants me to be a Christian, and I never can be one in this house!” she burst out.

“Margaret, which do you think knows best, you who know so little, or God who made you, and who sees all things that ever have happened or ever will happen in your life? My little friend, I am afraid you didn’t pray in the right spirit,”—

“O, yes, I did!” she interrupted eagerly. “I believed. I thought of course He would give it to me.”

“But believing is not the only thing. You forgot to put one little sentence in, ‘Thy will be done.’ If you had put it in words your prayer would sound something like this: ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Margaret Moore’s will be done,’”—

At this Margaret couldn’t help smiling through her tears.

“Your kind Heavenly Father didn’t give you just what you asked for, because he saw that it would not be best for you. Perhaps he saw that his servant must learn patiently to serve him at home, among trials, before she would ever make the right kind of servant out in the world. He will answer your prayer in some other way than the one you had planned, Margaret. He loves you a great deal better than you love yourself. Can’t you trust him?”

And then the minister went away without his hot water. Went back to his room to pray for the poor little troubled disciple down-stairs. And Margaret sat and thought. She saw now just how foolish and wicked she had been. She had a long struggle with her rebellious heart, kneeling on the bare floor with her head on the kitchen table, but she conquered at last, and the peace of God filled her heart. She was resolved now to give up her own way and try to do God’s way. “But, dear Jesus,” she prayed, “I’ll have to be helped a great deal, for I can’t do it alone, and I know I shall cry if they say much about Aunt Cornelia.”

Margaret had found the right way to do all she could herself and trust in Jesus for the rest, and to give up her life, her will, her whole self into his keeping.

But she remembered that she had other duties and that her father might be down-stairs at any moment, so she hastened to her room to wash away the traces of tears.

Half-way down the stairs she paused. “Would not it please Jesus if she were to knock at mother’s door and ask if there was anything she could do?”

She retraced her steps softly and gave a very gentle knock. Her father came from the darkened room, his face so careworn that it almost startled her. “Father, please don’t look so worried. Everything will be all right. I can keep house,” she said.

Her father regarded her with a tender, sorrowful look.

“Does my little girl know that she cannot go away this winter?”

“Yes, sir; I know it. Never mind that. It’s all right, father.”

Mr. Moore was so amazed and pleased at this new character exhibited by his daughter that he scarcely knew what to say.

“I am very sorry it is so, Margaret, but your mother is very sick. She has been under a great strain this summer. You will have to wait on her and be a general help. I would hire some one else to do it if I could afford it, but I cannot. Your mother’s sister, Amelia, who has been living in Brierly with her brother, will come, I think, and keep house, and then the minister need not go away, for we need all the money we can get now to pay the doctor’s bills.”

Margaret’s face fell.

“Must we have her? Isn’t there some one else we can have?” she said, lowering her voice.

“Not without paying for it,” said her father, sadly.

“Couldn’t I do the work?” she asked.

“No, Margaret; you will have all you can do to wait on your mother, and,” he added, “I am afraid you cannot even go to school here at home,—for a time, at least. I am sorry, but I don’t see any other way out just now.”

Margaret felt very much like bursting into tears again, but a glance at her father’s worn face changed her feelings.

“Never mind, father, I’ll do all I can, and be as good as I can.” And she wound her arms around her father’s neck and kissed him.

If she only could have known how much that kiss comforted her father. He went back into the darkened room with a lightened heart and a feeling that there must be something in religion, for it had changed Margaret wonderfully.

Margaret snatched the first hour that came to her to write a letter to Aunt Cornelia, telling her how impossible it was for her to come to her, and how very sorry she was, and soon there came a long, sympathetic, helpful answer, and with it a little book bound in green and silver. “To help you when you feel discouraged,” the good auntie wrote.

On the first page Margaret opened, her eyes met these words:

“God’s will is like a cliff of stone,
My will is like the sea.
Each murmuring thought is only thrown
Tenderly back to me.

God’s will and mine are one this day,
And ever more shall be,
And there’s a calm in life’s tossed bay,
And the waves sleep quietly.”

And they sang a little tune in her heart as she thought of all she must bear that long winter.

THE FIRST LOAD.

IT was a warm, sunny Sunday morning, and consequently Robbie Ellsworth was allowed to go to church. This was quite a luxury to him, because he had but recently recovered from the measles, and his mother was rather afraid to have him go.

The notices were all given out, at least so the people thought, when the minister announced that there would be a meeting of the congregation the next day, to raise money for a new church. That building, they saw, was altogether too small, and he did hope they would get a new one started very soon, as a lot was donated in a fine location.

Then came the sermon. It was about little things. Robbie listened attentively, as the minister told how many great things had been started and helped by little boys and girls, and by people with little money or talent.

At the dinner table Robbie’s father remarked, “How anxious Dr. Sullivan is for a new church! But he won’t get it—not very soon, anyway. The people don’t care enough about it, though I’m sure they need one badly.”

“Dear me!” thought Robbie to himself, “I do wish Dr. Sullivan could get the new church. I’m sure he ought to have it if he wants it.”

“He wants a brick one,” Mr. Ellsworth continued, “but in my opinion a frame building would do this time. Brick costs too much.”

“I wish he could have a brick church,” thought Robbie. “It would be so much nicer.”

Then he went to thinking about what Dr. Sullivan said in his sermon, and pretty soon he began to wonder if he couldn’t help with the new church. All the afternoon he thought about it, and finally a plan came into his little mind, which he thought of so much that he could hardly sleep that night. But he didn’t want anybody to know anything about it, so he went to sleep as fast as he could.

Fortunately for his plans, Monday was as pleasant as Sunday, and about ten o’clock Robbie went to Mrs. Ellsworth.

“Mamma, I want to go take a walk,” he said.

“Why, Robbie dear, you would get lost.”

“But I only want to go around to Uncle Will’s,” pleaded the little fellow.

Now Uncle Will was a doctor, a great favorite with his little nephew, and he lived only around the corner, in the new house which he had just built.

“I think you may go, then,” said Mrs. Ellsworth, “as you don’t have to cross the street to get there. I am going down to papa’s office, and will tell him to stop for you when he comes home.”

“No, mamma,” said Robbie, “I’d rather not. I have a very much reason for wanting to come home alone.”

That was his way of saying he had a very good, and, in his eyes, important reason, which he didn’t want to give. So his mother agreed, kissed him good-by, and he started out, first getting his little green wheelbarrow from the hall closet.

He trudged along down one street, up another, till he stopped on the stone steps of “Uncle Will’s house,” and gave the bell such a pull as only a boy of about Robbie’s size knows how.

Aunt Flora greeted her small visitor very warmly, laughing at his wheelbarrow, but he pushed right by her, and trudged into Uncle Will’s office, pushing his wheelbarrow before him. Uncle Will was engaged in discussing the cholera germ with a brother physician, but he turned and welcomed his nephew cheerily:

“Well, my man! What can I do for you to-day? Will you cart a wheelbarrow of books around to the library for me?”

“Mamma wouldn’t let me,” said Robbie. “I came to see if you would let me have one wheelbarrowful of the bricks that were left over—out in the back yard.”

“Certainly,” said Uncle Will. “You can go right out and get them.”

So Robbie turned again, too eager to even thank his uncle, pushed his wheelbarrow through the dining-room, and was soon taking down bricks from the pile by the back stoop.

His barrow didn’t hold but about a half-dozen, and soon Irish Mary was lifting it up the steps, and he arrived again before his uncle’s door.

“Are they my very own, Uncle Will,” he asked, as that gentleman turned to look at his load, “to use just as I want to?”

“Your very own,” said the doctor, “to do what you please with. If you wish, you may throw them in the cistern. But what are they for?”

“I would rather not tell, Uncle Will.”

“Very well, sir. Success to your project, whatever it is.”

Down the steps bumped the wheelbarrow, with its owner behind, and down the street they went again, though this time on the other side of the block. There were not many pedestrians on the street, but the few Robbie met smiled at him and his load of bricks. He looked at all the houses attentively, and finally mounted the steps of one with difficulty, all the time afraid his bricks would fall out, and rang the bell a little more gently than he had at his uncle’s.

The Rev. Dr. Sullivan came to the door. He knew Robbie. “Good-morning, young man!” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing,” said Robbie. “I’ve brought you the first load of bricks for the new church.”

“The new church!” said the doctor.

“Yes, sir. You said yesterday you wanted one, and papa said you wanted a brick one. So I’ve brought the first load. They’re my very own, sir, to use just as I want to.”

“Well, well!” said Dr. Sullivan, “I am very much obliged to you,” and Robbie thought his voice sounded almost as his did when he had the croup. Moreover, he took out his handkerchief and rubbed his eyes. Then he took the wheelbarrow in his arms, and having deposited the contents in his backyard, returned it to the owner. “The bricks shall be used, young man,” he said, “every one of them, for the new church. Thank you very much for your help.”

Then Robbie returned home, jubilant at having been able to help his minister.

As for the minister, he took a paper, and went out. The first man he met was Mr. Lawrence, the wealthiest person in his church.

“Mr. Lawrence,” he said, “we have started, and the first load of bricks for the new church has arrived.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Lawrence, and after a little more talk he put down his name for quite a sum of money. Dr. Sullivan went on telling every one that the first load of bricks had arrived, and it was astonishing how encouraging those bricks were! When the congregation met that afternoon, their pastor announced that some hundred dollars had been raised for the church, and that the first load of bricks had come.

Of course it was a good while before the church was really built, for there were architects and masons and carpenters to be consulted; but it was really built, and it was not till then that the minister told who had furnished “the first load of bricks,” and how he really started the whole thing.

And the six bricks that Robbie had brought in his little wheelbarrow were built into the wall of the church, and everybody thanked him for his part of the work.

Now the best thing about this story is that it is all true. The minister’s name may not have been Dr. Sullivan, and the boy’s name may not have been Robbie Ellsworth, and his wheelbarrow may not have been green, but it brought the bricks that are in the “Brick Church,” as it is called, of one of the largest cities in the Eastern States.

PARANETE.

_Volume 15, Number 3._ Copyright, 1887, by D. LOTHROP COMPANY.
_November 19, 1887._

THE PANSY.

A WORLD OF LITTLE PEOPLE.

BY PARANETE.

FROM the further corner of the fence, one end fastened to a bush near by, hung a spider’s silken web, regular as if made on geometrical principles. In the centre of this sat a good-sized spider, the proprietress, who had just finished devouring the most of an unwary fly, whose bloodless remains lay at her side. Up to the spider came two ants—Zed and Zoo.

“Excuse me,” said the spider, looking at them suspiciously, “for having any doubts as to the safety of making your acquaintance. But you have just been communicating with my greatest enemy, the wasp, and have been watching with heartless interest the destruction of one of my family. I am sure I hope you have no personal designs upon my life. The wasp is such a very daring foe, that I fear you, even though you are so small.”

“I assure you,” replied Zed, “that our interest in the wasp’s doings was wholly due to ignorance, and we are no friends of hers, nor have we any design against you.”

“Very well,” replied the spider, whose name was Luxz, “I am very glad. I feel in a pretty good humor this morning, having just finished a most delicious fly. I say finished, or I would offer you some. All spiders like flies. I had a most unpleasant disappointment yesterday. I was over on the window-sill of the house yonder, and saw a large fly resting on a piece of paper. Of course I sprang after him, but there was no fly there! I walked over and over him, too! One of my neighbors suggests that it was a picture; as if an intelligent spider couldn’t tell the difference between a picture and a fly!”

The two ants nodded their assent to this highly probable statement.

“You spin a great deal, I suppose?” asked Zoo.

“O, yes!” said Luxz; “I am as busy as can be. I can spin little fine threads, and coarser ones, and dance and swing all around on them. But of course the most of my time is occupied with work. It is a good deal of work to make a web, although you might not think so. There were some boys coming past here to school as I had just finished a nice web, quite a while ago, and they knocked it all down. I built another, then another, but every time those wicked creatures would destroy it, and then laugh at my dismay. Finally my pockets were as empty as could be, and I was all out of silk, so I had to go and kill another spider, and occupy her web for a time. But this I built myself.”

“You catch a good many flies?”

“Yes, indeed. They are not very sagacious animals, though sometimes I will find one that I can’t entice into my web after the greatest endeavors. We are all very cunning, but we have to look out for some of the birds. A neighbor of mine was swinging one morning, as fine as could be, and a swallow came along, that had his nest up under the eaves, and—well, that was the last of her. The wasps, as I have already mentioned, are very bad. If one of them gets caught in our webs, we unfasten the threads as quickly as we can, and let her go, fearing that if we don’t, we shall get the worst of it.

“Our threads are very convenient,” Luxz continued, after a moment’s pause, “for we can let one end of them float out, and they stick to anything they touch, making a thoroughfare for us. I remember once those same boys put me on a chip in a large tub of water, and again laughed at my discomfiture. But I was equal to the emergency, and had soon spun out a thread the outer end of which a draught of air floated to the side of the tub, and when my tormentors were not looking, I escaped along it. We can fasten the end of our thread to the top of anything, and let ourselves down by spinning out more, or rise by pulling it in.”

“Have you any children?” asked Zed.

“O, yes!” replied Luxz, “I have some just hatching. As you go around the corner of that board you can see the nest—all fuzzy, like cotton. A few are just crawling out. They are very small as yet.”

Then the ants bade the spider good-day, and went down the fence, stopping as they passed it to see the nest, where the little wee spiders were just taking their first few steps among the delicate filmy threads surrounding their eggs. How many there were!

A fly was the next insect which absorbed the attention of our travellers, as he was poised on a grease-spot at the edge of a board along which they were walking. It was just a common house-fly, but as they were not very familiar to Zed and Zoo, he was an object of as great interest to them as any which they had met in their peregrinations.

“Good-morning,” he buzzed, “I am searching for something to eat. I have just been driven out of the house yonder, by some immense people with great cloths in their hands. They have put up frames in the windows with wire ropes in them, and I can’t get into that well-filled table. There is a man there with a bald head, too,—just the place for an enterprising fly. But these people do hate us!”

“Too bad,” said Zed sympathetically; “but if you lazy flies would make homes of your own, as ants do, and not go about where you’re not wanted, you and others would be far more contented.”

“Well,” said the fly thoughtfully, “I’m sure I don’t see why we don’t. Possibly no fly ever thought of it. It doesn’t seem to be intended that we should. I never could work out in the hot sun the way you do. The people don’t molest very often,—not as much as they’d like to; we have too sharp eyes, and too many of them. We each have hundreds and hundreds of little eyes, and every one moves and looks in a different way. It’s rather difficult to come up behind us, as the elephant did.”

“How was that?” asked Zoo.

“Don’t you know?

“‘A grasshopper sat on a sweet-potato vine,
Sweet-potato vine, sweet-potato vine,
A great big elephant came up behind,
And knocked him off that sweet-potato vine.’

“I’m not sure about the story; it’s just possible that it may be taken from the New York paper, but, anyway, we believe it, and often laugh at the grasshopper.”

“What do you eat?” asked Zed.

“Anything I find, almost. Flies are not at all particular. We can enjoy anything that any one does. Our mouths are hollow tubes, through which we suck whatever we wish to eat. This is a very convenient way.”

“You have enemies,” remarked Zoo. “We have just been calling on a spider who is longing for a taste of some of you.”

“You don’t say so!” cried the fly. “She is not very near here, is she? Those spider-webs are the great torment of our lives. I have had several friends caught and eaten by the spiders. The way they wind their fine, yet strong threads about one, is something remarkable. I know a pretty good verse about them, too:

“‘The spider wears a plain brown dress,
And she’s a steady spinner;
To see her, quiet as a mouse,
Going about her silver house,
You’d never, never, never guess
The way she gets her dinner.’

That’s real pathetic, isn’t it, now?”

“Very,” answered Zed and Zoo, together.

“I met a Southern fly once,” continued the talkative fly, “and they have more enemies down there than we do in the North. Take the lizards and chameleons, for instance—”

“Oh! we know about them,” cried the little ants.

“And then the walking-sticks,” continued the fly, not pausing at the interruption, but rather looking severely at his visitors; “now, a man up here couldn’t hit on one of us with a walking-stick if he tried all day. But it’s quite different down there! A walking-stick is not a stick by the aid of which people walk, but a walking-stick, that is, a stick that walks. It is a very strange insect, and is so exactly like the broken twig of a tree, with the little branches and all, that the most sagacious person can’t tell them apart, without seeing them walk. They are called ‘devil’s walking-sticks’ by some, and we flies think it very appropriate, for they are dreadful for us—that is, for Southern flies. The people will put a walking-stick in a room full of flies, and in a short time he will have killed them all! Think how dreadful!”

“Do you know any more poetry?” asked Zed, who was rather of a literary disposition.

“Well, now, I do know a real cute little song about a fly, written by some man or other, who evidently had a baby. I will sing it for you.”

And the fly buzzed:

“Baby bye, here’s a fly:
Let us watch him, you and I.
How he crawls up the walls,
Yet he never falls!

Don’t you think, with six such legs,
You and I could walk on eggs?
There he goes, on his toes,
Tickling baby’s nose.

Spots of red dot his head;
Rainbows on his back are spread;
He is laced ’round his waist:
I admire his taste!

I can tell you, if you choose,
Where to look to find his shoes:
Three small pairs, made of hairs;
These he always wears.

But, though tight his clothes are made,
He will lose them, I’m afraid,
If to-night he gets sight
Of the candle-light.

In the sun webs are spun:
What if he gets into one!
—That small speck is his neck;
See him nod and beck!

Tongues to talk have you and I:
God has given the little fly
No such things, so he sings
With his buzzing wings.”

THE POPLAR ST. PANSY SOCIETY.

BY C. M. L.