Chapter XII: Sesame and Lilies

After her resting hour on the bed Polly took her book again from the low shelf and read another ten pages. Before Miss Pomeroy went to her room after dinner, Polly asked for a pencil and paper, and Miss Hetty gave her a pad of smooth paper in a pretty linen cover, to which a sharp pencil was attached by a long red ribbon.

“Another present!” the little girl exclaimed when Miss Pomeroy told her she was to keep the pad “for her very own.”

“Another present,” said the mistress of the house, smiling down into the brown eyes, and she kissed Polly as she stood at the foot of the stairs.

Polly’s head felt warm and tired, and she longed to run out into the woods with her book, but with the thought of Eleanor in her mind, she set her lips firmly and took her seat on the south porch, and began her self-appointed task. Polly would have been spared a good deal of trouble if she could have overheard what Miss Pomeroy was saying to Arctura, while the little girl sat so quietly reading and copying words from the leather-covered book to the paper in her lap.

“I don’t know just what to make of little Mary,” said Miss Pomeroy, looking rather disturbed. “She is so busy reading and writing that she didn’t hear me come downstairs, and she is reading a book by Ruskin which is suitable for grown people, and I don’t see how she can possibly understand it, or enjoy it. Yet there she sits, copying a few words ‘to look up in the dictionary,’ she told me. Do you suppose most little girls of ten nowadays would do that? Of course, you and I haven’t had anything to do with children for a long time,” said Miss Pomeroy gravely. “I might ride over to Maple Hill and ask Mrs. Manser if Mary had been used to books, but I dislike the woman, and I should not prefer to do it.”

“I wouldn’t bother,” said Arctura, easily. “Probably she’s kind of forward for her age, but I guess we can liven her up by degrees. She’s real fond of a good time, provided it’s quiet now. You see she eats a good deal and she don’t exercise much, and take that with her nap every afternoon and reading so long, I expect she feels sort of dull some of the time. She’s a good deal livelier at her work than I am,” said Miss Green, handsomely, “and she’s a sweet little thing if ever there was one in this world. I’m getting fond of her right along. Come Monday, how would it be if I should speak of her going out to play awhile in the afternoon? She could take her book along to the woods. I can tell her of a place. We’ve got to make a start with her sometime.”

Miss Pomeroy cordially approved this plan. After a few minutes she went out on the porch, and soon she and Polly started for a walk. Miss Pomeroy was a little troubled with rheumatism, so the walk was not a brisk one, but Polly stepped soberly along at her side, and together they talked of the birds and the flowers. They saw and heard eight birds that day, and Polly recounted them to Arctura after supper--a robin, a crow, a ground sparrow, a song sparrow, a blue jay, a phœbe-bird, a red-winged blackbird, and a thrush.

“Spring is upon us without a doubt,” said Polly, joyfully quoting Miss Pomeroy. “And, oh, it’s so pretty along the edges of the road, Miss Arctura!”

“How’d you like to go off into the woods with your book, some day?” suggested Miss Green, and she was mystified by the look that came into the child’s eyes.

“I’d like to very much, if Miss Pomeroy thinks best,” said Polly, quietly, but her heart was dancing.

Meanwhile Miss Pomeroy was looking at the top sheet of Polly’s pad, laid on the dictionary, “for I think I will find out about those words before I read any more,” Polly had said. This was the list: “Acquirement, mercenary, punctilious, sagacity, concomitants, unsullied, devastated, macadamization, trivial, boulevard, burgher, martello, vestige, erroneous, consecutive, assigned.”

“You understand all the words you have read except these?” questioned Miss Pomeroy, with her keen eyes on Polly’s flushed face, as the little girl straightened up from her study of the big dictionary when bedtime came.

“No, ma’am,” said Polly, honestly, “but I could guess most of the other long ones, and I wanted to get on with the book.” Then suddenly the little girl felt very brave. “Would--would Eleanor have known all those words without the dictionary? all of them?” she ventured.

“My dear child,” said Miss Pomeroy, gently--and she did not look as if she were at all vexed--“my dear little Mary, there are several of those words I myself should be obliged to look up in the dictionary before I dared try to tell anyone exactly what they meant. Now run along to bed, and get to sleep as fast as ever you can,” and Miss Pomeroy bent her head and kissed the bright face upturned to hers.

“That’s twice to-day,” said Polly, hugging herself as she lay in bed, just before the Sandman carried her off to Slumber-land. “That’s twice to-day she kissed me! I guess I’m getting on pretty well. I believe I must be!”

[TO BE CONTINUED]

* * * * *

“The world goes up, and the world goes down,
And the sunshine follows the rain,
And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frown,
Can never come over again.”

--_Kingsley._

JUNE MEADOWS

By Julia McNair Wright

June is the month of flowers, as May is of leaves; it is also the month of the richest and most varied colors. The leaves are in their prime and their flowers are in their greatest luxuriance. Green is the chief color in the plant world. It is so constantly the color of leaves that “green as a leaf” and “leaf green” are common expressions.

Next to green, yellow is the most conspicuous color. This is the chief color of stamens and pistils; it is also the chief color of spring flowers, though white blossoms also abound. When the warmth and glow of the sunshine return to us many flowers seem to assume the livery of the sun; flecks and streaks of sunshine gleam at us from hundreds of nooks and corners. The bluebird and the jay come to us decked in the clear blue of the sky, but the spring flowers outbid them a hundred to one in choosing the “class color” of the season.

The very thought of spring is associated with dandelions, buttercups, hawksweed, mustard, cinquefoil, primroses, cowslips, marsh marigolds, adder’s tongue, and a hundred other yellow beauties, from the inconspicuous parsnip and wild radish to the sunny splendor of the meadow lily and lady’s slipper.

In Alaska the flowers are nearly all yellow or white; blue and pink blossoms are the exceptions.

After yellow, white is the most frequent color, and we recall a succession of blossoms, from little white chickweed through star-flower and trillium, bunch-berry, and bell-wort, up to the great white fragrant lilies. Next in order of abundance comes blue, then pink, purple, red, and, least seen of all, that rich scarlet that graces the cardinal flower and salvia.

Although light seems to have such influence on the production of color in plants, we find many plants deeply green or gaudily colored, that grow where there is little or no light. Sea weeds of intense green, or painted as gayly as parrots, come from depths under water where the light must have been very dim.

The most vivid colors are often found in the mold in jars of preserves that have been kept entirely in the dark. This mold is a vegetable growth.

In the spring one may notice early in the morning a bed of chickory in bloom; it is a clear, exquisite blue; by ten o’clock the blue will be very pale, by twelve the flowers are white, by one they are all folded up, to open the next day as richly blue as ever. The sun plays such tricks on blue cotton cloth. When it is exposed to the sun the blue vanishes, and when the cloth has been put away in the darkness the fled color returns. Other flowers besides chickory grow pale with the excess of light, just as some grow pale from darkness. The study of color in the plant world affords opportunity for interesting experiments.

Bryant calls June “flowery June,” Coleridge calls the month “leafy June”--it might also be called fragrant June, for it seems the natal month of most fragrant flowers. One may notice sometimes in Scotland such a rich, almost overwhelming fragrance on a ripple of wind that one will stop to consider its origin. The source is not far to seek; it is a bean field in full blossom.

Another very common and fragrant family of June blooming plants is that of the trefoil, or clover family. A field of common red clover in full blossom will rival in richness of perfume the famous Scotch bean field. The clover field is a blaze of beauty--full, round, rosy heads spread under the sunshine a cloth, not of gold, but of purplish pink, strong, healthy plants these, full of suggestions of vigor.

Across this field boom thousands of bumble bees, and here we are reminded that the bumble bee is the special partner of the red clover, carrying its pollen and paid by the honey from the deep cups. The red clover is not a native of America. It was introduced here, as in Australia, from England, but seems to have taken a special hold on the hearts of the people and upon the soil as well.

Each head of red clover is composed of hundreds of little florets, tube-shaped, each with its own calyx, each with its own nectary, honey-full and deeply hidden, each pouring its portion of perfume on the warm June air.

Another clover becoming naturalized, a stranger from afar, is the crimson or Hungarian clover. The head of the blossoms is not round, but long, shaped like the first joint of a forefinger. The color is rich, vivid crimson or blood-red. This is the clover so provided with tough hairs that it has proved injurious to cattle.

An entire contrast to the large and showy Hungarian clover is the modest, low-growing, dainty, white clover, its fragrance equally delicious, but more subtle and delicate. The white clover has a short, simple stem, its leaves are much smaller than those of the red clover, and the plant hugs the ground, having a running habit. It is such a close grower that where it once possesses the soil it is capable of crowding out the most noxious weeds, even the much-detested plantain. Among these white clover will be found heads of a larger growth, more rounded and of a pure flesh tint. The head of white clover is somewhat flattened, is loose, and has a greenish tint under its whiteness, because the little green calyx of each tube is seen.

Leaving the meadows and the clover bloom and entering some long undisturbed wood lot, or passing near the thick undergrowth beside some little brook, a rich, special fragrance greets us, more delicious than any spicy waft from Araby the blest. It is lavishly poured upon the air by the inconspicuous green blossoms of the wild grape; once we meet a breeze heavily laden with this exquisite odor it is never forgotten, and the sensitive nostril is likely to try all other perfumes by that one unattainable standard.

The month of June marshals in the choicest of the fragrant bands--the rose. The lilies also are June flowers; the golden lily, the stately white lily, each one pouring from its chalice a wealth of sweetness, each one fair enough to be the long-sought Holy Grail. These, together with the honeysuckle tribe, well substantiate the claim of June as the especial month of fragrance.

WITH THE EDITOR

One of the best tendencies of the summer is to bring us into closer touch with nature. When the lawns and fields are grass-covered and the trees green overhead, we are drawn from our artificial winter life to earth and nature. We have been associated with the earth through too many centuries to deny its hold upon us now. This indoor life is a comparatively recent fad. As yet we have not forgotten that we are creatures of the dust.

In the old Greek mythology there was a character, Antæus by name, of whom it was said that his strength increased tenfold every time he touched the soil. To be conquered he must be lifted from the earth.

Perhaps this is applicable to us all. Are we not stronger for our contact with nature? Are we not better able to meet the modern Hercules when he comes to us in the guise of ill health? Certainly we would be but poor creatures were it not for the woods, fields, and mountains.

Aside from the matter of health, it would be difficult to say in just what way nature helps us. Without effort on our part we can get nothing from her. To learn her secrets we must already be armed with knowledge, or, if not this, then with the keenest of vision and hearing. Perhaps, most of all, the benefit lies merely in our contact with the out-of-door world, just as there is in any uplifting companionship. Is there not something inspiring to us all in the mountain’s grandeur, the hemlock’s silent depths, or the green vista of rolling meadows? In any event, we are the better for being in touch with nature. Let us all, therefore, strive to be naturalists.

By this we do not mean for boys and girls to learn the classification of birds and plants. In the broad sense the naturalist is one who enjoys the out-of-door world. Then, surely, some one will say, we are all naturalists, for who does not take delight in nature? We grant this, but, on the other hand, how many of us get the full measure? It is just as reasonable to expect a young person to get the utmost enjoyment amid a party of strangers as to believe that the uninitiated boy or girl will derive the full pleasure from a walk in the woods. In the unlearned, what interest is awakened by the little pink flower half buried by last year’s leaves, or the unknown bird-note which comes from the leafy maze overhead? They are but as the casual voice of the stranger whom we pass unheeded in the city street. But learn to know and welcome them as friends, and each tiny flower and cheery bird-note will bring with it a charm that deepens with every return.

On our part two things are needful. First, we must cultivate our powers of observation, that we may see and hear and know the beauties of the animate world about us. Next, that we look upon each bird and butterfly and flower as a friend bringing to us direct from nature that simple joy and inspiration which is always new and--to those who live in the city--always necessary.

EVENT AND COMMENT

The West Indian Calamity

A catastrophe which has not been equaled within recent times, and which can certainly be compared with the greatest in history, occurred on May 8 on the Island of Martinique, one of the French West Indies. By a volcanic eruption of Mont Pelee, the entire town and population of St. Pierre, which, according to recent estimates, reached 40,000, were destroyed in the space of a few moments.

For three weeks previous, the crater of the volcano had been pouring forth clouds of black smoke, but up to May 5 no serious outbreak was even suggested. At that time an eruption of mud took place, the hot ashes of the interior having mingled with the water in the crater. Three days later, while the population was debating the question of its danger, the volcano suddenly burst forth in a torrent of molten rock, ashes, and flame. Before the unfortunate people could escape, they and the whole town were buried by the seething overflow.

Shortly afterwards, and almost before the world could comprehend the calamity at St. Pierre, the volcano La Soufriere, on the neighboring island of St. Vincent, broke forth, causing the death of nearly two thousand people.

* * * * *

In the face of this great calamity, it is touching to note the prompt and generous response of the neighboring nations to the cry for help from the survivors of a hitherto almost unknown people.

The Trial of Airships

One of the most progressive features of the St. Louis Exposition will be the proposed trial of air ships, in which the winner will receive a prize of one hundred thousand dollars in gold. The event will take place immediately above the ground of the Washington University, where, under the direction of a committee of aerial experts, a figure eight-shaped course will be marked out by means of anchored balloons. The length of the course is to be ten miles. The winner will be the one whose air ship, in a series of trials, covers the required distance in the shortest average time.

There will also be twelve other prizes, amounting to fifty thousand dollars in all, for the performance of some special accomplishment upon the part of the contestant.

Mr. Santos Dumont, to whom we look to take a leading part in the event, states that at least one hundred and fifty air ships will be entered.

* * * * *

Such liberal inducements as these should do much to develop the science of aerial navigation.

The Labor Strike

The greatest movement of its kind in history is the strike which has been declared during the past month by the anthracite coal miners of Pennsylvania. Its purposes, among others, are to obtain an increase in wages and to limit the working day to eight hours. If, as now seems possible, the bituminous coal miners shall join in the movement, not less than 450,000 men will be directly involved. Besides these, such a vast number of women and children and other dependents would be affected by the strike that its supporters might easily reach into the millions.

* * * * *

As coal may fairly be denominated as the food of all manufacturing industries, this sudden and severe restriction would threaten something very like business starvation.

The Panama Treaty

By means of a treaty signed by Secretary Hay and the Colombian Minister, the United States has secured a perpetual lease, running in hundred-year periods, of the strip of land through which the Panama Canal extends. Although the price of rental is not yet agreed upon, the United States of Colombia has received seven million dollars, in consideration of which it will forego all revenues and sources of income connected with the land for a period of fourteen years. In the meantime the terms will be decided. Should the price of rental remain unsettled at the end of that time, the question will be left to a committee of five arbitrators.

* * * * *

Now that seemingly the last legal obstacle has been overcome, we can reasonably anticipate the completion of the Panama Canal.

A Moving Sidewalk

To remedy the congested traffic of the Brooklyn Bridge, it was recently proposed to construct a movable sidewalk extending along its whole length. This will resemble very much the moving boardwalk at the Chicago World’s Fair, and, like it, will be provided with seats. To protect the passengers, the entire length will be covered by a glass shelter. The sidewalk itself will move at a rate of ten miles an hour.

* * * * *

Such a contrivance, if successful, will prove a great boon to those who pass daily between New York and Brooklyn. It might be well, however, not to experiment with such an important thoroughfare as the Brooklyn Bridge, at least until the new East River structure is completed.

IN-DOORS

PARLOR MAGIC

By Ellis Stanyon

The first of this series of papers on Magic, commencing with the March number, included directions to the beginner for Palming and the Pass.

THE PENETRATING COIN.--This coin trick may be performed anywhere, and requires no special preparation. A borrowed Derby hat is placed upon the mouth of a tumbler (Fig. 8). Three half-dollars are now borrowed and tossed into the hat, whereupon one of the coins is seen to penetrate the crown of the hat, and drop visibly and audibly into the tumbler beneath. It is thus explained: In the act of placing the hat on the glass, secretly and without jingling slip a coin of your own between the rim of the glass and the hat. The weight of the latter will retain the coin in its position, which, of course, is on the side of the hat farthest from the spectators. The dropping of the borrowed coins in the hat will disturb the balance of the secret half-dollar, causing it to fall into the tumbler. It is hardly necessary to remind the student that the fourth coin must be gotten rid of unbeknown to the audience, otherwise the effect is destroyed. In putting the hat in position two hands may be used. This will greatly facilitate the placing of the coin on the rim of the tumbler. You should lay stress on the fact that it is necessary to get the hat evenly on the glass. As simple as this trick seems in explanation, it is nevertheless wonderfully illusive, and can be especially recommended to the amateur.

* * * * *

An excellent trick, to be used in conjunction with the preceding, is the following: The performer shows a coin and forthwith proceeds to pass it into the hat by way of the crown. That there may be no doubt as to the actual passing of the coin, it is left sticking halfway through the hat; a final push and it is heard to fall inside. The coin used is a trick one, constructed as follows: A groove is first turned round its extreme edge deep enough to conceal a small India-rubber band. It is next cut in half across its diameter. A hole is drilled in the centre of one half, in which is inserted a needle point. In the other half a slot is cut to admit the needle. The two halves are now placed together and kept in position by passing the band round the groove afore mentioned (Fig. 9). While giving the final push it is, of course, withdrawn and palmed.

THE OLD TRUNK

Answers To the May Puzzles.

1. Die, Air, Flam, Fa, Ode, Do, Ire, Lea.--Daffodil.

2.

S
D A M
D A M E S
S A M P L E S
M E L E E
S E E
S

3. Words substituted--Behring, Belfast, Irish Sea, Waterbury, Cork.

4. Whip-poor-will.

5. Yarrow, oxalis, canna, aster, peony, arbutus, balsam, rose.

6. The Star Spangled Banner.

7. A lass (alas).

HIDDEN JEWELS.

This letter contains hidden jewels:

Dear Ed: I am on David’s yacht. We expect Philip early to-morrow, and
will then sail to Palm Beach, and from there to Pazoo. Don’t rub your
eyes if you see me home next week. I am,
Eth. Y. Stevens.

--_Julia E. Flanagan._

DIAMOND.

1, a vowel; 2, liable; 3, on which sacrifices are offered; 4, pertaining to the eye; 5, silent; 6, an animal; 7, a consonant.

--_Little-Greene L._

ENIGMA

My first is in haddock, but not in fish.
My second is in platter, not in dish.
My third is in sowing, also in sew.
My fourth in batter, although not in dough.
My fifth is in rally, but not in rout.
My whole is an admiral you’ve all heard about.

--_P. C. Lancefield._

SOME ODD ATTICS

(Example: A dignified attic--Prelatic.)

1. An orderly attic.
2. A listless attic.
3. A musical attic.
4. A very wise attic.
5. An artful attic.
6. A meddlesome attic.

--_R. M. P._

CHARADE

I am hard and very heavy.
Change my head and ships are tied to me.
Change again and I will keep you out.
Add a letter and I will tell you when to go.

--_P. C._

SQUARE.

1, a food; 2, a girl’s name; 3, a piece of foreign money; 4, sour; 5, actions.

--_Ruth._

ENIGMA.

I am composed of twenty letters.
4-2-10-9 is to stuff full.
1-16-6-7-11 is to partly pierce.
14-3-19-15 is a step.
17-18-12-20 is the plural of a part of the body.
13-8-5 is to place.

--_A. Rabb._

A REBUS

1. Used by soldiers.
2. Sweet and liked by children.
3. A girl’s name.
4. Seen on the stage.
5. A foe.

When the above are arranged as follows the letters indicated X will spell the first:

X . . . .
. X . . .
X . . . .
. X . . .
X . . . .

--_Percy._

WITH THE PUBLISHER

YOUTH

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Transcriber’s Notes:

A number of typographical errors have been corrected silently.

Irregular closing quotes were not modernized.

Archaic spellings have been retained.

Advertising pages referenced in the text were not available for transcription.

Cover image is in the public domain.