Chapter I (1)

THE air was clear and fresh; a slight fall of snow just conveniently stopping at the point of becoming higher than the overshoes of the pedestrians, lay on the ground. It was an early fall, as the old farmers say when there is snow at Thanksgiving, and every sign gave promise of winter shutting in rapidly.

The old gray house set back from Cherryfield high road, had its chimney smoking by break of day, for Mother Brimmer tied on her baking apron as soon as she had told Rosalie how to prepare the simple breakfast “to hurry forward those pies,” as she said.

“All that can be done to-day, Rosy,” she observed, in the midst of the bustle that now ensued, “is clear gain toward to-morrow. Always remember that, child; don’t leave a lot of odds and ends to do when you’re going to have company, thinking you’ll have time. You never do; and the last minute catches you before you know it.”

“It’s such fun,” hummed the one girl of the family, stirring the cornmeal mush in the kettle vigorously, “to have company. I don’t ever remember having any before.”

“You forget the parson coming to tea,” said Mrs. Brimmer, bringing out her pie-plates from the pantry. “Let me see; I shall make four mince ones.”

“He isn’t company!” cried Rosy. “Mr. Higginson isn’t; I ain’t a bit afraid of him.”

“No more you should be,” exclaimed Mrs. Brimmer, setting down her pie-plates; “and then again, child, there isn’t any call to be afraid of any one, so long as you haven’t been doing anything wrong.”

“But it scares me to think something don’t look nice, or I don’t know how to do things,” said Rosy.

“Well, that’s very silly,” observed Mrs. Brimmer, going for her pastry-board; “do the best you can, Rosy, and then let it go.”

Rosy turned her little anxious face toward her mother, and smiled. “Anyway, this company is to be nice, and the things will be nice, too, I guess, ma.”

“We’ll try to make ’em so,” declared her mother, energetically stirring up her mince-meat in the stone jar.

“What will Miss Clorinda say to see the goose that I’m going to roast all myself?” cried Rosy, deserting her mush-kettle, to go over with this important question to the baking-table. “Say, ma?”

“I’m sure I don’t know!” cried Mrs. Brimmer, with pride. “She’ll say, ‘Was there ever such a goose!’ like as not, though, Rosy.”

“Do you suppose she really will!” cried the girl in delight, the color coming into her cheeks. When she looked like this, the boys, her brothers Jack and Cornelius, always called her “Wild Rose,” and it was their secret delight to summon the lovely bloom in as many startling ways as they could.

“But you’d better fly back to that mush,” said Mother Brimmer presently, “and get breakfast as you’d ought to, and not look ahead to to-morrow. That’ll take care of itself.”

“So it will!” cried Rosy merrily.

Jack and Cornelius, now hurrying in to breakfast, the small maid-of-all-work had to desert her delightful anticipations of to-morrow’s good times and fly to the work in hand. It was presently on the table—the steaming dish of mush, the baked potatoes, and the large pitcher of milk, and Mother Brimmer being summoned from her work, wiped her hands, took off her apron, and joined the others at their simple meal.

For the good woman, although her children were “in business and doing for themselves,” as she proudly expressed it, observed the same frugality as when times were hard and the future looked dark. “We won’t give up our plain breakfasts; they’ve always done us good, and we don’t need any other food,” she would say when the boys urged her to have a “bit of meat for herself, at least.”

“No, no; I don’t want it,” she said, “mother’s tough and hearty. As long as I’ve such perfect health, you needn’t worry, children.”

So the money that would have gone into the butcher’s till for the beefsteak or mutton chop, went instead into the bank to Brimmer Brothers and Company’s credit.

And the economy observed in the matter of breakfasts went into all the other details of daily life. The only thing in which the family indulged themselves was in the matter of books and magazines; and occasionally Mrs. Brimmer would send the young people off of an evening to a good lecture or concert in the Town Hall, or she would go with some of them, one always being obliged to remain with Roly Poly, who was called “the baby,” although rejoicing in the dignity of five years.

The business conducted by Brimmer Brothers and Company was a grocery and general trade carried on in a little red building on their grounds, that had formerly been an old tool-house, in which the farmer who then lived in the big gray house mended up his farming utensils, and kept his tools when he had done the jobs. The business was started because the little money left by Father Brimmer when he died had, despite all the watchful care of it, dwindled till now there was only a pittance left. The old weather-beaten house would last them their lifetime, and the ground was theirs, but the growing family would need more each year to support them, and make them able to take their proper place in the world. And the children, who had silently worried over the problem, how to help the mother they had seen working for them early and late ever since they could remember, were at last one day helped out by the little old red tool-house.

“Here I am,” it seemed to say. “Your mother has given me to you for a play-house; now use me to help her.”

It was an inspiration in the first of it, to be followed by hard and grinding work, much of it in the face of half-laughing opposition and downright sneers of friends and townsfolk. But Brimmer Brothers and Company having begun to face the world never once thought of shirking any of the duties which they met there, but just the same as if everybody believed that they could make a success of the business, they determined in their own minds to do so, and behaved accordingly. And Rosy, the most timid little thing before strangers, forgot all her fears now, and as Company of the new concern developed a resoluteness and self-possession that amazed the boys.

All this was two years before this Thanksgiving; and now Mother Brimmer and the successful business firm and Roly Poly were to have a party!

After the breakfast dishes were cleared away, the boys hurrying off to the shop, as they anticipated a rushing trade for the day, the old kitchen began to assume the aspect of getting ready for some great festivity, while it smelt of spices and boiling sweets clear out beyond the lilacs and down to the front gate. Every passer-by must have known that it was Thanksgiving, and suspected pies and such other accompaniments of the national holiday at once.

The stoning of raisins and buttering of cake-pans fell to Rosy to do, who was excused from shop duty for the morning to help the mother in her unwonted tasks; and patiently the little girl performed it all, secretly planning, as she waited on the busy housewife, taking the thousand and one necessary steps in and out the buttery and pantry, if one of her little wood-gardens remained unsold in the shop, to take it to dress the dinner-table on the morrow.

“They can’t all be sold,” thought Rosy, almost wishing for the moment that there was not quite such a demand for them. “If the red partridge-berries could only stay at home, what a party we would have!”

But when Cornelius ran in to dinner, Jack staying behind to mind the shop, he shouted out gleefully, “Rosy, every single one of your gardens is gone, and we could have sold two more if we’d had ’em!” Rosy gave a great sigh, and then reproached herself for even wishing it otherwise.

“Rosy’ll make more money than any of us,” declared Cornelius, generally called “Corny,” between his mouthfuls. “How I wish I’d thought about fixing up roots and ferns and such things in old cracked saucers.”

“But you help me,” cried Rosy. “I couldn’t even dig the roots without you, Corny.”

“And me, too!” cried Roly Poly, or Primrose, which was her real name. “I always go with you, Rosy, you know,” and she laid down the little bone she was slowly picking to regard her sister gravely.

“So you do!” cried Rosy and Cornelius together. “I’m sure we couldn’t ever get along without you, Pet;” whereat the baby of the family felt happy, and smilingly resumed her bone once more.

But that night a rap sounded on the outer door, sharp and decided.

“Run and see who it is, Jack,” said Mother Brimmer, looking up from her stocking-mending.

Jack came hurrying back, a large parcel with white paper loosely folded over it, in his hand.

“It’s for Rosy,” he said, setting it down.

“For me?” cried Rosy, too astonished to open it; but Cornelius helped her, and at last the paper was torn off.

“It’s your old red wood-garden!” exclaimed Corny, dreadfully disappointed, at least expecting a big cake.

“Oh!” Rosy clasped her hands, and took an ecstatic little spin in the middle of the floor. “Now it isn’t wicked to want it!” she cried, dreadfully excited.

“If I’d known you wanted to keep one,” said Jack slowly, “so bad, I never’d sold it.”

“Who bought it?” asked his mother.

“Mrs. Higginson.”

“I wonder what other people do who haven’t got such a minister, and his wife,” observed Mrs. Brimmer, wiping her eyes, as Rosy fell to oh-ing over her treasure, and fondling each leaf. “Folks ought to be good who sit under their preaching,” she added.

“We’ll be good to-morrow, anyway,” declared Cornelius. “My! don’t it seem funny to go to church in the middle of the week!”

But on the morrow, wasn’t that a festive scene? The table was laid in the keeping-room, whose door opened into the kitchen; knives and forks were laid for seven guests: Mr. and Mrs. Higginson, the minister and his good wife; Miss Clorinda Peaseley, a staunch friend of the family; old Widow Tucker and her spinster daughter who went out tailoring, and lived down in the Hollow; not because they would be such pleasant additions to the party, as that Mother Brimmer felt sure that no other invitations would be sent to them, bidding them to a Thanksgiving dinner; and lame Joey Clark and his sister, for the same reason, and because the children had begged to ask them.

Rosy’s wood-garden had the place of honor in the centre of the table, and it did seem as if there never was such a number of bright little berries to cast a glow over the neat cloth, done up in Mother Brimmer’s best style! How they shone among their green leaves!

And the goose! The cheeks of the little maid who cooked it rivalled her partridge berries in coloring, at all the compliments that were showered upon her; while the chicken pie, and spare-rib, and plum pudding, and pies, were declared the best ever eaten; and the hickory nuts and butter nuts, cracked by the boys, received most honorable mention.

And old Widow Tucker’s thin face began to lose some of its worn lines, and she forgot to make any uncharitable remarks about other people, to which she was a little prone, and her daughter, Miss Mary Jane, seeing her ma so happy, came out from behind her spectacles and began to be pleasant, too.

And the minister told the most delightful stories! and when he got tired, then there was Miss Clorinda to set the ball of conversation to rolling again. Everybody laughed, even lame Joey Clark, and, altogether, there was no family party in all Cherryfield so merry and festive.

And as they at last arose from the table, everybody protesting that they could not eat a bit more, Rosy pulled her mother’s gown and whispered, “I want to send a basketful of goodies down to the Four Corners boys; may I, ma?”

DON’T GOSSIP.

CHILDREN, avoid this evil. I am pained every day at seeing the work which mischief-makers do. Some one has compared this evil to pin-making. “There is sometimes some truth, which I call the wire. As this passes from hand to hand, one gives it a polish, another a point, others make and put on the head, and at last the pin is done.” The Bible speaks much against mischief-making, and I would advise you to collect all the verses in this book, bearing on this subject, and commit them to memory, and then I do not think you will ever be guilty of this sin. Remember, my little friends, that you can never gather up the mischief you may do by gossip.

R.

WILD ANIMALS AND THE TELEGRAPH.

SOME interesting facts have been brought out in a paper by M. C. Nielsen of Christiana, on the impression produced upon animals by the resonance of the vibration of telegraph wires. It is found that the black and green woodpeckers, for example, which hunt for insects in the bark and in the heart of decaying trees, often peck inside the circular hole made transversely through telegraph posts, generally near the top. The phenomenon is attributed to the resonance produced in the post by the vibration of the wire, which the bird mistakes as the result of the operation of worms and insects in the interior of the post. Every one knows the fondness of bears for honey. It has been noticed that in mountainous districts they seem to mistake the vibratory sound of the telegraph wires for the grateful humming of bees, and, rushing to the post, look about for the hive. Not finding it on the post they scatter the stones at its base which help to support it, and, disappointed in their search, give the post a parting pat with their paw, thus showing their determination at least to kill any bees that might be about it. Indisputable traces of bears about prostrate posts and scattered stones prove that this really happens. With regard to wolves, again, M. Nielsen states that when a vote was asked at the time for the first great telegraph lines, a member of the Storthing said that although his district had no direct interest in the line proposed, he would give his vote in its favor, because he knew the lines would drive the wolves from the districts through which they passed. It is well known that to keep off the ravages of hungry wolves in winter the farmers in Norway set up poles connected together by a line or rope, under which the wolves would not dare to pass. “And it is a fact,” M. Nielsen states, “that when, twenty or more years ago, telegraph lines were carried over the mountains and along the valleys, the wolves totally disappeared, and a specimen is now a rarity.” Whether the two circumstances are casually connected, M. Nielsen does not venture to say.—_Nature.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

IN 1590 the armies of Henry the Fourth, of France, and of the Duke of Mayenne, assembled near Ivry, which is not far from Paris. It was in March, and the weather was very stormy. As night came, the vast hordes of soldiers dragging their cannon through the deep mire, took position for the awful conflict about to open. Henry had about twelve thousand men, and the Duke nearly twenty thousand. Before the dawn, Henry mounted his charger, and, riding along his lines, addressed them in words of cheer. He urged upon them fidelity to France and to themselves. In conclusion he said: “If in the turmoil of battle you lose sight of your banner, follow the white plume on my casque; you will find it on the road to victory and to honor.”

Oh! what a conflict did Ivry see that day! My dear little friends, I never could understand why men love war. I never could see any good it has ever done, but, on the contrary, war and intemperance have made this world a sad and gloomy place. Read a full account of this battle, and I think you will agree with me, that war has no charms. Maddened battalions rushed over the plain, crushing the poor wounded men. Grapeshot mowed down whole ranks, and shrieks of anguish echoed over the field. In a single hour the plain was baptized in blood. Henry came off victorious, but it was a victory dearly bought. In the fearful retreat two thousand were put to the sword, and many captured. I imagine that all France was hung in mourning after that awful day, and thousands of homes were robbed of their treasures. Do not you think it will be a happy day when warriors’ steeds shall be forever chained in olive groves, and all men shall love each other? I trust so long as we live peace, with dovelike wings, shall brood over our beloved land!

RINGWOOD.

PANAMA.

ALTHOUGH so much has been said about the Isthmus of Panama, and the works now being carried on there, very little mention has been made of the town from which that district takes its name. Englishmen should, however, feel some special interest in it; since the old town, founded in 1518, was destroyed by Morgan, the celebrated buccaneer, who started from our shores on his romantic expeditions. The new town was built by the Spanish Governor, Fernandez de Cordova, at some distance from the old site, on a rocky peninsula, which was raised artificially and protected from the sea by a huge stone rampart, flanked on either side by solid bastions, and so fortified by the famous engineer, Alfonso de Villa Costa, as to be considered the strongest place in the New World after Carthagena. An account of the place now given by the _Exploration_, a French paper, relates that these stone defences are now crumbling into ruins, with the exception of the southeast bastion, which is still used by the inhabitants as a favorite promenade. On the land side, where the defences would have been most useful in modern times, they have been purposely destroyed; and now the town is exposed to periodical attacks by the people of the suburbs, who are from time to time stirred up by some aspirant to power, and led up to the hill of Santa Ana, which dominates the town. Having gained this vantage ground, they engage in skirmishes with the townsfolk, and if victorious, seize upon the government, which they retain until subverted by similar proceedings. The town was, toward the end of the last century, opulent and handsome. But its commerce was ruined by the wars; and its inhabitants, by their carelessness, have allowed many fine buildings to be burned. The railway has, it seems, restored some of its importance to the place; and much more is, of course, expected from the canal now projected.

—_Selected._

==========

IF scorn be thy portion, if hatred and loss,
If stripes or a prison, remember the Cross!
God watches above thee, and he will requite;
Stand firm and be faithful, desert not the right.
_Norman M’Leod._

DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON.

THE subject of our sketch became one of England’s most learned men. He was born in Lichfield, in 1709, and died in 1784. He once made a dictionary of our language; he also wrote “The Rambler,” “Rasselas,” and “The Idler.”

I want to relate to you a little story of him when a small boy. His father kept a bookstand, and one day he said, “Samuel, I am so feeble, I want you to take my place at the stand.”

But the proud boy refused, and the sick father then started off, only saying, “Well, if you can treat your sick father thus, I am sure you will think of it when I am dead and gone.”

His conscience, however, soon began to trouble him. All day he saw his poor father, sick and feeble, sitting at the stall, and he said to himself, “Poor father! how his head will ache. I am so sorry I did not go.”

This unkindness the boy never could forget, and years after, though surrounded by the great of England, it would often recur to him.

Many years passed by, and one day an aged man made his way through the market crowd at Uttoxeter. He stopped at the place which fifty years before had been occupied by the book-seller, and the old gentleman was heard to say:

“Yes; this is the very spot—the very spot!”

It was the great and illustrious man of England, in whose heart still lingered the remembrance of his cruelty to his poor father.

R.

BABY’S CORNER.

IT is time for Baby Elizabeth to go to bed. She does not want to go to bed. She shakes her head and says, “No bed! No bed!” Her little mouth is puckered up like a round O; here is a big tear in each blue eye. Does Baby want to stay up all night? Shall mamma leave her sitting on the floor all the dark night? No, no! Little mice stay up all night, and run about and nibble and squeal; but dear babies must go to their soft beds.

See! the sun has gone to bed. The little pink clouds are lying down in the sky. The white lilies have gone to sleep. The birdies have gone up in the tree to bed. They are singing a little song to baby. Hark! What do they say? “Go to bed, bed, bed. Good-night, little E-liz-a-beth! Good-night!”

Now baby smiles. She is good. She will have on her long white gown. She folds her little hands and says, “Now I lay me.” Mamma puts her in her white crib. In one little minute her eyes are shut. Little Elizabeth is asleep.

In the morning early the sun will get up quick. The white lilies will wake up and wash their faces in dew. The birdies will open their eyes. They will say, “Peep, peep! Good-morning, Baby! Get up, up!” Then Baby’s eyelids will open; she will smile and show her six white teeth. All day long the sun will shine. The lilies will grow. The birds will sing, and little Elizabeth will be sweet.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT.

The address of Mrs. G. R. Alden (Pansy) is Winter Park,
Orange Co., Florida. All contributions for THE PANSY
magazine should be sent to that P. O., and _not_ to the
Publishers, D. Lothrop Company.

ALL ALONG THE LINE.

_Conducted by_

R. M. ALDEN.

I wonder if any of the Pansies ever wanted to be
missionaries? I wonder if any of them ever said they
would like to be, but didn’t like to leave their home
and friends? Now let me say just a word: You can all
be missionaries this very day, and go no farther than
the inkstand to do your first work. Every reader of
THE PANSY who knows of anything interesting in church,
Sunday-school, missionary or temperance news, anywhere
“along the line,” will be helping us by sending brief
reports, and will feel that he or she has been doing
a bit of missionary work. Address all, for this
department, to R. M. Alden, Winter Park, Orange Co.,
Florida.

LAST year there were in Iowa fifty-five counties without a single occupant for their jails, during the twelve months. It is in Iowa, you know, that they have the prohibition law which “does not prohibit.” It does seem to make a difference.

* * * * *

SINCE some towns in Georgia have succeeded in getting the prohibition of the liquor traffic, a minister from one of them writes, “The results are marvelous. The trade of the town has been more than doubled. I do not know a single merchant who would not vote against the liquor traffic purely on business grounds.”

* * * * *

A LABORER was recently fined for allowing his dog to drink beer, which made the animal savage. The judge thought it was the man’s fault for allowing his dog to drink. Why shouldn’t a dog have a right to drink beer if it’s given him? How can appetite be controlled? This question has been asked: “If that laborer was under obligation to keep his dog from drinking beer and hurting people, ought we to permit men to receive liquor, and injure themselves and their fellow-men?”

* * * * *

I WONDER if the Pansies have been posted about “rubber grapes”? Little rubber bags made to look exactly like large beautiful grapes; but what do you think fills them, instead of the delicious fruit which God has made? Why, brandy, or whiskey, or wine, or whatever liquor the buyer prefers! Think of it! The circular describing them says one great advantage is, “that travellers can refresh themselves in this way without exciting observation.” Can they? Suppose we make that part hard for them; thirty thousand Pansy Blossoms with their eyes wide open are not going to be cheated by rubber grapes. Of course every boy and girl will see to it that no miserable humbug who pretends to be a “fruit dealer” gets any of their money for his cheating grapes. But isn’t Satan smart, and cunning, and busy? Really, it becomes us to keep our eyes very wide open indeed.

* * * * *

WHO among us has ever visited the school for Indians in Carlisle, Pa.? If any Pansy Blossom has been there, I wish he or she would write us a letter about the school. It is a very interesting place; four hundred and fifty scholars, boys and girls; the girls in navy-blue dresses and cloaks, the cloaks lined with scarlet, the boys in military dress. With their very bright eyes, and their very black hair, I think they must make a handsome picture.

Industrious people are they; the cooking is done entirely by the pupils; the clothing is all made by them; they even make their own shoes! They are very good scholars; some of them really brilliant.

You wonder how they get time to study, with so much work to be done; that is all nicely planned for them. Half the pupils go to school in the morning, while the other half are at work in the sewing-room, the pantry, the harness shop, the printing office, the carpenter’s room, and the like. In the afternoon these two divisions change places; the students work, and the workmen turn students.

Think what a little while ago these boys and girls were roaming through the forests, sleeping on the ground, their only dress old blankets wrapped about them; learning to be dangerous enemies to all the white race! Now some of them are Christians, and all are well-behaved and industrious. Who will remember to pray daily for the Indian School at Carlisle?

MY DEAR BLOSSOMS:

I have a very nice plan for the year. I wonder who of you will join me? A Bible Band. That is what I now want to form. I will select and have printed in each PANSY a list of readings for each day in the month. How many of my Blossoms will engage to read the day’s portion with me, and write out in little blank books prepared for the purpose, answers to the following questions:

1. What is there in this reading that I ought especially to remember?

2. Is there a direction for me to follow, if so, what?

3. Is there something for me to avoid, if so, what?

How can I make these verses help me through this day?

Now the way I am going to plan it is to read over the verses, and make my report in my little blank book before I leave my room in the morning. Perhaps that will not be a convenient time for all of you. Perhaps the little people who cannot yet read nor write, will have to wait for mamma’s or papa’s or sister’s leisure hour, to get help. But I wish all who could would join me in the morning before going down stairs; then, after the reading, we will kneel down and ask God to help us remember the verses all day.

I would like to have each member of the P. S. who will join this Bible Band, send me a letter addressed to Winter Park, Florida, giving his or her promise to obey the rules of the Band as given here. To all such I will send a little card for their Bible bookmark with the name of the reader written on the back, and the date of the pledge. I shall keep a roll of all members of the Bible Band. At the end of each month I should be glad to have a copy of what you wrote in your little blank books. If you like, you might get a large sheet of paper, the first of the month, and make a copy for me each day, sending it to me at the close of the month.

I shall keep a list of those reports, and, at the close of the year, I will publish the names of those members who have reported each month, and send them each a little token of my pleasure because of their faithfulness.

Now I wonder how large a Band I shall have? Of course I will keep you informed through THE PANSY of its size and growth, and send you words of greeting. I think a great many of you will join me. I hope so. It will be very pleasant to think of my Blossoms reading and thinking each day about the same Bible verses. Who will be the first to send in his name, and receive the bookmark?

Lovingly,
PANSY.

P. S.—If any of you know of something unusually nice, which happened at Thanksgiving time, write us an account of it.

READINGS FOR THE BIBLE BAND ADOPTION.

Nov. 1. 2 Cor. 14-18.
“ 2. Gal. iii: 25-29.
“ 3. Eph. iii: 14-21.
“ 4. Eph. vi: 11-18.
“ 5. John i: 9-13.
“ 6. Gal. iv: 4-7.
“ 7. Heb. ii: 10-18.
“ 8. John xi: 41-52.
“ 9. Rom. viii: 14-18.
“ 10. 1 John iii: 1-3.
“ 11. John xx: 19-22.
“ 12. Heb. xii: 5-10.
“ 13. Phil. ii: 12-16.
“ 14. Matt. v: 44, 45, 48.
“ 15. Eph. v: 1, 2.
“ 16. Matt. vi: 25-34.
“ 17. Matt. v: 13-16.
“ 18. Matt. vii: 7-12.
“ 19. Matt. v: 9-12.
“ 20. Matt. vi: 12-15.
“ 21. Luke vi: 35, 36.
“ 22. Matt. vi: 1-4.
“ 23. Prov. xiv: 26.
“ 24. Num. vi: 24-27.
“ 25. Is. lxii: 2, 3.
“ 26. Matt. xiii: 43-46.
“ 27. Matt. vi: 9-13.
“ 28. Gen. xlviii: 5-11.
“ 29. Ex. ii: 1-10.
“ 30. Ps. xxiii.

_Lucy May Quint._ If all the Pansies were as busy as my little friend in Whitefield how very busy I should be adding names to THE PANSY roll. Many thanks, my dear. To make your meetings good will require a busy Lucy, thinking, reading, planning, conversing with parents and others, praying Jesus for guidance and comfort, never despairing, no matter what happens to spoil your meetings.

Keep gathering for your meetings, a crumb in this book or paper; another from a talk with some one; and so on. Thus you will always have something on hand.

You had a “nice,” “splendid” time in the church on Children’s Day, amid flowers and singing-birds, evergreens, and, best of all, a good sermon.

It is right to join the church. Now be true, dear, to your covenant, for Jesus’ sake. Don’t let any one who knows you doubt as to whether you are a Christian.

_Christiana Lacy._ No, the Editor did not forget Sevenfold Trouble, but “Uncle Sam” somehow forgot to get it from the writer to the printer. The mail does not always behave as it should.

Yes; I have read some of Miss Alcott’s works.

You and your friend Jennie seem to have a good standing in school. I am glad to hear good things of every Pansy.

_Alice_ of Minn. “At the farm.” No wonder you like it ever so much; in the orchard, where you have a swing; down at the brook, where you try to catch a speckled trout; among the sheep and cows; riding on hay or wheat from field to barn; then sweet bread and sparkling butter!

As for the dishwashing, how you three girls do chatter while you are at it, and boast as to whose cups and saucers are wiped cleanest. If you will send a copy of the Queer Story, corrected, I can tell if it be right.

_Ruth Kimball._ Hunting eggs; boating among pond lilies; at Cedar Bend Farm; with such a dear companion as Alice must be, what a happy girl you are. Well, child, make other hearts sunny, too, won’t you?

_Gertrude Burgess._ None but perfect ones on the Queer Story appears in my report. Many come within one of it; that is a failure all the same as one hundred. See? “A miss is as good as a mile.” So, look your work over and over and over before you send it. Thus you will certainly do perfect work some day. Meanwhile the effort will be a—school to you. You are a blessed girl to be fighting so bravely against that fault. Have you learned how to lean your weakness upon Jesus’ might?

_Lydia Sewell._ The pansy on the card is larger than many, but no larger than some I’ve seen. By careful culture they grow to great size. Your corrected Queer Story is well done, yet with a few errors. It would be rather unusual if every particular had been right. Still, if you are a girl of good metal, you will certainly tug away at this spelling business till you will know the right as readily as you now know your mamma’s face from five thousand others. Keep on and show yourself a true Pansy soldier.

_Lydia I. Boring._ Your Queer Story is within one of perfection. So you need not be cast down. Some have made a dozen mistakes. I guess you will be A No. 1 one on the next Queer Story.

_Adella F. Coy._ Am glad you are pleased to think so kindly of your Pansy picture. I wonder if you have the picture of the Lord engraven on your heart and often look tenderly upon it through the eye of faith and love. Let’s never grow too old to delight in leading and blessing the little ones. You rejoice me in what you say of the badge. Many others say the same thing. If you will send me a corrected copy of the Queer Story I will examine it.

_Helen S. Sloan._ See above about the Queer Story. You “Busy Bees” made $127. The hospital will think that sweet as honey. You must write D. Lothrop Company, Boston, Mass., about the “prizes.” They will explain.

_Mary E. Simpson._ At your request, I hand your letter to R. M. Alden. I guess he will not throw it into the waste-basket.

Charlie Compher lives in Leesburg, Va. He will be glad to get a letter from you.

The country is a blessed place. Isn’t it queer that so many country boys and girls don’t think so, but are discontented and want to get to the city, feeling sure that the city will make them happy? Contentment, my dear Mary, is a precious possession.

_Nannie Johnson._ You are eleven years old. Now if you live to be seven times that and each day “grow in grace,” what a beautiful old lady you will be. Of course you will outgrow “carelessness” the first month, and have plenty of time to pick up after mamma, instead of her doing it after you; and the “pony” and “parrot” and “dog” and “dear little baby sister,” and everybody else, I guess, will be glad.

_K. G. Boring._ A capital account, yours, of your Fourth of July. I can almost see you at the parade, and I’m so glad you got home safely from the crowds and the tramp of horses and that your fingers are not blown off. Rockets and Roman candles seen from the house-top! Balloons, too! Happy child! But what will you say when you see the great Lord coming in the clouds? How rejoiced you will be if you are His at His coming.

_May Cameron._ Let me commend you for finding so many mistakes in the Queer Story. I must see your work to determine its correctness. As to faults: Many are temper faults; many, disorder; many, teasing, answering back; “wait a minute;” biting nails, etc.

Remember me to Mr. Doane. You seem to be a wide-awake Band of Hope, with your meetings, “Mizpah,” flowers, and care of the sick. To be busy for the Saviour is to be safe from Satan.

_Charlie M. Ritter._ You are very kind to remember the organ. I wish I could say something to make everything green and beautiful about you. But your turn will come. Wait on the Lord, be of good courage. He hears the young raven when it cries. What a delightful time you must have had on Children’s Day.

_Elma Holmes._ And while you wear your badge here and there, be sure that you so live that your mother and all the dear ones at home can say, “Our Elma does what she professes.”

_Edith G. Grant._ I shouldn’t wonder if your Queer Story was correct. Let me see a copy now. Allie will soon learn other good things besides “cutting kindling-wood,” perhaps to read PANSY or Bible stories when mamma is tired. How I should love to visit you in your summer home in “beautiful Tullahoma.” Instead, I went to beautiful Ashville, N. C., in September.

IN MEMORIAM.

ANOTHER Blossom transplanted into the garden of God. Herbie Baily of Madison, Wis., at the age of ten, July 6th, passed away. With his parents he was attending a Fourth of July celebration, when an accidental ball struck him. Nothing serious was feared till two days later, when, at 8 P. M., he rushed into the house, screaming: “My head! My head! I shall die!” At 11 he breathed his last. Now, can you wonder that this dear boy, “so tender and quick to sympathize with any one in trouble and pain,” to whom “nothing was so charming as the ‘Story of the Bible,’ who delighted in everything pertaining to the life of Christ”—do you wonder that the mother says: “It seems as if I cannot bear his loss?”

Maybe now some loving heart will be prompted to write a word of sympathy to Herbie’s mother, Mrs. A. S. Baily.

WHERE ARE YOU?

Sylbil L. Anderson, Gilbert Anderson, Lizzie Carnes, Addie R. Crane, Estelle Duncan, Edith R. Foster, Mrs. Joshua Gowing, Josie ——, of Amesbury, Mass., Carrie I. Glauche, H. H. Hass, Jessie M. Hatch, John W. Holland, Marcella McDougall, Mabel A. Morse, Rose Price, Christine and Ollie Seely, Alice Stone, Rena B. Williams, and H. G. Shattuck, A. S. Willick, S. Willard Wood, Norma E. Wood, Mary W. Wells, Nellie M. Merritt.

To nearly all these names letters, with badges enclosed, have gone and returned. Most failed to give post-office, State, county, Street, or number. Write me now and say just where I may send these letters. Be plain and particular.

MIRZA ALI’S LETTER.

MY SPIRITUAL TEACHER:

_Dear, magnanimous Mr. Wright_:

FIRST: I hope your existence is safe and you have no bodily ailment. Second: If you wish to inquire my health, I thank God, I and my mother and my sister are very well, and we are thanking to our Lord and Saviour in return for His gifts. My words will not be finished if I want to count the gifts of our God. It is only sufficient to write that He gave His beloved Son, Jesus Christ, and saved us from death.

If you wish to acquire of circumstances of gentlemen and ladies, the missionaries, thank be God, all they are safe and busy to cause to reach the good news to the multitudes.

Their families and ladies are safe. Our school and the teacher, Baroon Wahan, and the scholars are safe; every day is Baroon Wahan busy to teach them. They learn the means of holy books.

I, ownself also, every day in the mornings am busy to give lessons in Turkish to my dear Sir Mr. Whipple, agent of the American Bible Society. Other times I am in telegraph office. There I write the subjects; there I am busy till night and night we finish. These days I give lessons in English to the son of chief of telegraph, and both the son of Aga Mirza Abdul Ali, the doctor. I am sorry I have no dictionary from Persian to English. When I want to translate a book from Turkish to English it is not possible. I remain unable and become unequal. If I have this dictionary I hope I will spread English abroad. You are my benefactor; you are my kind and merciful friend.

If you have not any more Dictionary and you have one only and it is necessary for yourself also, you cannot send (it) for me. You promise to me that you write to Constantinople or America. They send for me. You calculate it present, given at Festival time to me. I hope you desperate not me, but you will help me.... I am expecting for answer. I hope you will send me that book and you will make me glad and happy. If you have order, write me. I will execute and perform it. I will obey to all your commands. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you. Amen! And God may increase your love for Jesus, His beloved Son. Amen! If you find and see some mistake shut your eyes from my faults. Excuse me, sir. It is the first letter I wrote in English.

MIRZA ALI,
_The teacher of Mr. Whipple_.

THE QUER STOREY.

WEN the Pansy Socity begun, thar was a boy, whos name musent be given. His mother tride to purswade him to plege his-self aganst useing sigars. He had became a grate smoker. The supertenent of the sundy schol of wich this boy was a nenber tride two. But he dident want a bage or too have his apetite controled. He became verry bad, folowing anny and evry boddy abowt too git a sigar. This brout him into the salloons, whar he lernt two drink lagger bier and sware and tel storys.

If all the sigars, wich he has smoked sence that was lain end too end, thay wood reech neerly one fifth of a mile!

How menny galons of bier he has drank and how menny oths he has swoar woold take too larg a peice off paper to rite them all onto, i am sory two hav to anounce, he is not giting enny beter.

[Send a corrected copy to Mrs. Alden.]

* * * * *

THE following persons have mastered the Queer Story. A few others may have done so, but not having sent their copy for examination it is impossible for me to know:

Glenroy L. Black, Lucy Dickerson, Charlotte Fitch, Louise Hosmer, Cora J. Russell, Margaret Hoyt, Jessie Strengle, Hallie Edwards, Daisy Vaughan, Lydia Boring, Agnes Oliver.

Several others came within one or two words of perfection.

NEW BOOKS.

(_Published by D. Lothrop Company._)

SOLDIER AND SERVANT. By Ella M. Baker. Price $1.25; to Pansy Society 75 cents. A thoroughly good book for girls, with not a dull page in it. The young Christian cannot fail to be helped by the story of Lisle’s pure true life as soldier and servant.

AFTER SCHOOL DAYS. By Lucy Wheelock. Price $1.00; to Pansy Society 60 cents. It is a thousand pities that the sensational fiction which constitutes the chief reading of many of our older girls could not be replaced by such simple, charming stories as this one. It is bright and healthful, and filled with good lessons, both practical and spiritual.

SWISS STORIES. From the German of Madame Johanna Spyri. By Lucy Wheelock. Price $1.00. To Pansy Society 60 cents. A lovely book within and without; just the thing for a gift. It is not simply amusing; every child who reads it cannot fail of being helped by its pure, sweet lessons. We quote a few pages from “Lisa’s Christmas”:

“The next day the great question was, what the lamb’s name would be.

“Lisa proposed calling it Eulalie, for that was the name of her friend’s cat, and it seemed to her an especially fine name. But the boys did not like it. It was too long. Kurt proposed Nero, as the big dog at the mill was called. But Lisa and Karl were not pleased with this name.

“In despair they went to their mother, who suggested he should be called ‘Curlyhead,’ and Curlyhead he was from that forth.

“The little creature soon became a great pet for the children. They took him out for a frolic whenever they had a few spare moments. Sometimes they went to the pasture and Kurt and Karl would search for rich, juicy clover leaves to bring him, while Lisa sat on a bank with the little creature’s head in her lap.

“Whenever a child was sent on an errand to the mill or to the baker’s, the lamb must go, and he listened so intelligently to all the conversation his companion addressed to him that it was evident he understood every word. He grew round as a ball, and his wool was as white and pretty as if he was always in his Sunday dress.

“The beautiful sunny autumn was drawing to a close, Christmas was coming, Kurt and Karl disclosed all their cherished dreams to Curlyhead, and assured him he should have his share of holiday presents.

“Lisa had a particular friend, Marie, who lived in the great farmhouse on the way to the Zillesback. Lisa was very anxious to visit this friend, for she could talk over her prospects for Christmas more fully with her than with her brothers. She had permission to go on her first free afternoon, and when the time came she was so impatient to start, that she could hardly hold still long enough for her mother to tie on her warm scarf. Then she ran bounding off, while her mother watched her until she was half-way down the hill; then she turned and went into the house again.

“At that moment it came into Lisa’s mind that Curlyhead would enliven the way if her brothers had not already taken him. She quickly turned around, ran back to the barn and took out Curlyhead. Together they ran down the hard path where the bright autumn leaves were dancing about in the wind. They soon reached the end of their journey, where Lisa and her friend where quickly lost in deep conversation, walking up and down on the sunny plot of ground in front of the house, while Curlyhead nibbled contentedly at the hedge.

“The two friends refreshed themselves occasionally with pears, and juicy, red apples, which grew in great abundance on the farm.

“Marie’s mother had brought out a great basketful, and Lisa was to carry home what were left. When it was time for Lisa to go home, Marie accompanied her a little way, and they still had so much to say that they were in sight of Lisa’s home before they knew it. Marie quickly took leave of her, and Lisa hurried up the path. It was already dark. Just as she reached the house the thought flashed through her mind like lightning: ‘Where is Curlyhead?’

“She knew she had taken him with her. She had seen him nibbling the hedge and then she had entirely forgotten him.

“In a most dreadful fright she rushed back down the mountain again. ‘Curlyhead, Curlyhead, where are you? Oh, come, come!’

“But all was still. Curlyhead was nowhere to be seen. Lisa ran back to the farmhouse. There was a light already in the window of the sitting-room, and she could look in from the stone steps by the house. They were all at the supper-table; father, mother, Marie and her brothers and the servants. The old cat lay on the bench by the stove; but nowhere was there a trace of Curlyhead to be seen as Lisa peered into all the corners. Then she ran around the house into the garden, around the hedge, again into the garden, and along the inside of the hedge, calling ‘Curlyhead, come now, oh! come, come!’

“All in vain; there was no sight or sound of the lamb. Lisa grew more anxious. It grew darker and the wind howled louder and louder, and almost blew her from the ground. She must go home. What should she do? She did not dare to say she had lost Curlyhead. If she could see her mother alone first!”

TESTED
TO
OVER
1600
LBS. TO SQ.
INCH

L’E PAGE’S THE ONLY GENUINE LIQUID GLUE]

=ALWAYS READY FOR USE.=

=_Does not set quickly like the old style Glue; has four times the strength._=

No Heating.

These Glues are used in the Smithsonian Institute at Washington for all its works of mounting specimens, by the Government Arsenals and Department Buildings, by the Pullman Palace Car Co., Mason & Hamlin Organ and Piano Co., and by thousands of first-class manufacturers and mechanics throughout the world for all kinds of fine work.

Pronounced =STRONGEST ADHESIVE KNOWN=. Sold in tin cans for mechanics and amateurs, and in bottles for family use.

The total quantity sold between Jan. 1880, and 1887, in all parts of the world amounted to over =Forty-Seven Million= bottles.

Don’t be cajoled into buying the various Liquid Glues which are being put on the market; some with high-sounding names; others imitating our trade-marks and name as near as they dare; their only cry is: “Just as good as ‘LePage’s.’” It is the best recommendation that the =RUSSIA CEMENT CO.= could have of the merits of their glues. Labels of our CANS are black and yellow; BOTTLES, red, yellow, green and black, with a line of blue.

_We have just commenced manufacturing our NEW PATENT CAN—which has the following advantages: The top can be turned on or off readily by the fingers—each Can has brush fastened to the inside of cover, and a wiper to take off superfluous glue. This arrangement enables the amateur or artisan to carry a small can in the pocket ready for immediate use, without danger of soiling from brush or can. The NEW PATENT CAN is in 3 sizes:—Half-pint, gill and half gill.—Regular Cans, pint, quart, 2-quart and gallon. Bottles, two sizes, as heretofore: 1 oz. and 2 oz._

=Be sure and get the GENUINE LePAGE’S=,

MADE ONLY BY THE

=RUSSIA CEMENT CO., Gloucester, Mass.=

TO
LET
YOUR
CUSTOMERS
GO TO
ANOTHER
STORE
FOR WHAT
THEY WANT.

EVERYBODY
WANTS
THE GENUINE
ARTICLE

NO SHORT
MEASURE

NO ACID
HUMBUG

IN GLUES

MADE BY THE

RUSSIA CO.
CEMENT

THE
STRONGEST
GLUE
IN THE WORLD.

TWO GOLD MEDALS

LONDON
1883

CONTAINS NO ACID
AWARDED

NEW ORLEANS
1885.

RUSSIA CEMENT CO.

LEPAGE’S
LIQUID GLUE
ALWAYS
READY FOR USE

MANUFACTURED BY THE
RUSSIA CEMENT CO

FOR SALE EVERYWHERE

AT THE WORLDS
EX’B’N. AT NEW
ORLEANS JOINTS
MADE WITH IT ENDURED
A TESTING STRAIN OF OVER
SIXTEEN HUNDRED POUNDS TO A SQ. INCH.

=DON’T= BE DECEIVED by the host of imitators
who are flooding the market, copying
our labels and trade name even saying they make
a LIQUID GLUE =JUST AS GOOD AS= the RUSSIA
CEMENT CO’S. The =ONLY GENUINE= LePage’s
Liquid Glue manufactured solely by the

RUSSIA CEMENT CO, Gloucester, Mass.

TO LIVE WITHOUT LEPAGE’S LIQUID GLUE

IN THE HOUSE FOR REPAIRING YOUR FURNITURE, GLASS, CHINA, IVORY, BOOKS, LEATHER, MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS, STATUARY, &c. &c.

IT IS UNEQUALLED.

TRY IT.]

Sample by mail 20 cents (stamps). Mention this journal.

=Gloucester, Mass.=

=PARKER’S=
With it you can stamp more than
=1000
PATTERNS=

Exceeds in value all other outfits,

=$1.00.=

Sent anywhere by mail, prepaid.]

This outfit contains book =teaching every known Method of stamping=, price 25 cents; Box Best Powder and Pad, 15 cts.; Materials for indelible Stamping on Plush, Felt, etc., 15 cts.; Materials and Instruction for =Parker’s New Method=, (copyrighted), =No Paint=, =No Powder=, =No Daub=, 50 cents; New =1888 Catalogue= (showing all the new stamping patterns), 10 cents; and =Illustrated Wholesale Price List= of Embroidery Materials, Infant’s Wardrobes, Corsets, Jewelry, and everything ladies need.

SAVE MONEY BY BUYING AT WHOLESALE.

=PARKER’S LAST INVENTION.=