CHAPTER XIV
.
THE CONTINENTAL CONGRESS.
Near the end of August, 1774, Patrick Henry and Edmund Pendleton, two of the delegates from Virginia to the first Continental Congress, rode from their homes to Mount Vernon and made a short visit. Then, on the last day of the month, Washington mounted his horse also, and the three friends started for Philadelphia to attend the congress, which was called to meet on the 5th of September. Pendleton was a dozen years older than Washington, and Henry was the youngest of the party. He was the most fiery in speech, and more than once, in recent conventions, had carried his hearers away by his bold words. He was the most eloquent man in the colonies,--of rude appearance, but when once wrought up by excitement, able to pour out a torrent of words.
[Illustration: WASHINGTON, PATRICK HENRY, AND EDMUND PENDLETON ON THEIR WAY TO PHILADELPHIA, AS DELEGATES TO THE FIRST CONTINENTAL CONGRESS.[D]]
For my part, I would rather have heard the speech which Washington made at the convention in Williamsburg in the August before, when he rose up to read the resolution which he and his neighbors had passed at their meeting in Fairfax County. The eloquence of a man who is a famous orator is not quite so convincing as that of a man of action, who rarely speaks, but who is finally stirred by a great occasion. People were used to hearing Washington say a few words in a slow, hesitating, deliberate way; and they knew that he had carefully considered beforehand what words he should use. But this time he was terribly in earnest, and when he had read the resolution, he spoke as no one had heard him before. He was a passionate man who had his anger under control; but when it occasionally burst out, it was as if a dam to a stream had given way. And now he was consumed with indignation at the manner in which Great Britain was treating the colonies. He was ready, he said, to raise a regiment of a thousand men, pay all their expenses, and lead them to Boston to drive out the King's soldiers.
The three men, therefore, must have talked long and earnestly as they rode to Philadelphia; for the Congress which they were to attend was the first one to which all the colonies were invited to send delegates. It was to consider the cause of the whole people, and Virginia was to see in Massachusetts not a rival colony, but one with which she had common cause. The last time Washington had gone over the road he had been on an errand to the King's chief representative in America, the Commander-in-Chief, Governor Shirley, and one matter which he had held very much at heart had been his own commission as an officer in His Majesty's army. He was on a different errand now. Still, like the men who were most in earnest at that time, he was thinking how the colonies could secure their rights as colonies, not how they might break away from England and set up for themselves.
[Footnote D: The above illustration is reproduced from Irving's "Life of Washington," by kind permission of Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons.]
They were five days on the road, and on September the 4th, they breakfasted near Newcastle, in Delaware, dined at Chester, in Pennsylvania, and in the evening were in Philadelphia, at the City Tavern, which stood on Second street, above Walnut street, and was the meeting-place of most of the delegates. Washington, however, though he was often at the City Tavern, had his lodging at Dr. Shippen's. The Congress met the next day at Carpenters' Hall, and was in session for seven weeks. The first two or three days were especially exciting to the members. There they were, fifty-one men, from all the colonies save Georgia, met to consult together--Englishmen who sang "God save the King," but asked also what right the King had to act as he had done toward Boston. They did not know one another well at the beginning. There was no man among them who could be called famous beyond his own colony, unless it was George Washington. Up to this time the different colonies had lived so apart from one another, each concerned about its own affairs, that there had been little opportunity for a man to be widely known.
[Illustration: CARPENTERS' HALL, PHILADELPHIA, WHERE THE FIRST CONTINENTAL CONGRESS ASSEMBLED.]
So, as they looked at one another at the City Tavern, or at the Carpenters' Hall when they met, each man was wondering who would take the lead. Virginia was the largest and most important colony. Massachusetts had a right to speak, because she had called the convention, and because it was in Boston that the people were suffering most from the action of the British Parliament. Perhaps the two most conspicuous members at first were Patrick Henry, of Virginia, and Samuel Adams, of Massachusetts; but in the seven weeks of the session, others showed their good judgment and patriotism. Patrick Henry was asked after he returned to Virginia whom he considered the greatest man in the Congress, and he replied: "If you speak of eloquence, Mr. Rutledge, of South Carolina, is by far the greatest orator; but if you speak of solid information and sound judgment, Colonel Washington is unquestionably the greatest man on the floor."
Washington carried on the methods which he had always practiced. He attended the sessions punctually and regularly; he listened to what others had to say, and gave his own opinion only after he had carefully formed it. It is an example of the thoroughness with which he made himself master of every subject, that he used to copy in his own hand the important papers which were laid before Congress, such as the petition to the King which was agreed upon. This he would do deliberately and exactly,--it was like committing the paper to memory. Besides this, he made abstracts of other papers, stating the substance of them in a few clear words.
The greater part of each day was occupied in the Congress, but besides the regular business, there was a great deal of informal talk among the members. They were full of the subject, and used to meet to discuss affairs at dinner, or in knots about the fire at the City Tavern. Philadelphia was then the most important city in the country, and there were many men of wide experience living in it. Washington went everywhere by invitation. He dined with the Chief Justice, with the Mayor, and with all the notable people.
In this way he was able to become better acquainted both with the state of affairs in other colonies and with the way the most intelligent people were thinking about the difficulties of the time. The first Continental Congress gave expression to the deliberate judgment of the colonies upon the acts of Great Britain. It protested against the manner in which Parliament was treating the colonies. It declared firmly and solemnly that as British subjects the people of the colonies owed no allegiance to Parliament, in which they had no representatives; that their own legislatures alone had the right to lay taxes. But after all, the great advantage of this first Congress was in the opportunity which it gave for representatives from the different colonies to become acquainted with one another, and thus to make all parts of the country more ready to act together.
It was only now and then that any one suggested the independence of the colonies. Washington, like a few others, thought it possible the colonies might have to arm and resist the unlawful attempt to force unconstitutional laws upon them; but he did not, at this time, go so far as to propose a separation from England. He had a friend among the British officers in Boston, one of his old comrades in the war against France, a Captain Mackenzie, who wrote to him, complaining of the way the Boston people were behaving. Captain Mackenzie, very naturally, as an officer, saw only a troublesome, rebellious lot of people whom it was the business of the army to put down. Washington wrote earnestly to him, trying to show him the reason why the people felt as they did, and the wrong way of looking at the subject which Captain Mackenzie and other officers had. He expressed his sorrow that fortune should have placed his friend in a service that was sure to bring down vengeance upon those engaged in it. He went on:
"I do not mean by this to insinuate that an officer is not to discharge his duty, even when chance, not choice, has placed him in a disagreeable situation; but I conceive, when you condemn the conduct of the Massachusetts people, you reason from effects, not causes; otherwise you would not wonder at a people, who are every day receiving fresh proofs of a systematic assertion of an arbitrary power, deeply planned to overturn the laws and constitution of their country, and to violate the most essential and valuable rights of mankind, being irritated, and with difficulty restrained from acts of the greatest violence and intemperance. For my own part, I confess to you candidly, that I view things in a very different point of light from the one in which you seem to consider them; and though you are taught by venal men ... to believe that the people of Massachusetts are rebellious, setting up for independency, and what not, give me leave, my good friend, to tell you, that you are abused, grossly abused.... Give me leave to add, and I think I can announce it as a fact, that it is not the wish or interest of that government, or any other upon this continent, separately or collectively, to set up for independence; but this you may at the same time rely on, that none of them will ever submit to the loss of those valuable rights and privileges which are essential to the happiness of every free State, and without which, life, liberty, and property are rendered totally insecure."
It was with such a belief as this that Washington went back to Mount Vernon, and while he was occupied with his engrossing private affairs, busied himself also with organizing and drilling soldiers. Independent companies were formed all over Virginia, and one after another placed themselves under his command. Although, by the custom of those companies, each was independent of the others, yet by choosing the same commander they virtually made Washington Commander-in-Chief of the Virginia volunteers. He was the first military man in the colony, and every one turned to him for advice and instruction. So through the winter and spring, he was constantly on the move, going to one place after another to review the companies which had been formed.
I think that winter and spring of 1775 must have been a somewhat sorrowful one to George Washington, and that he must have felt as if a great change were coming in his life. His wife's daughter had died, and he missed her sadly. Young John Custis had married and gone away to live. The sound of war was heard on all sides, and among the visitors to Mount Vernon were some who afterward were to be generals in the American army. He still rode occasionally after the hounds, but the old days of fun were gone. George William Fairfax had gone back to England, and the jolly company at Belvoir was scattered. The house itself there had caught fire, and burned to the ground.
But the time for action was at hand. Washington turned from his home and his fox-hunting to go to Richmond as a delegate to a second Virginia convention. It was called to hear the reports of the delegates to Philadelphia and to see what further was to be done. It was clear to some, and to Washington among them, that the people must be ready for the worst. They had shown themselves in earnest by all the drill and training they had been going through as independent companies. Now let those companies be formed into a real army. It was idle to send any more petitions to the King.
"We must fight!" exclaimed Patrick Henry; "I repeat it, sir; we must fight! An appeal to arms and the God of Hosts is all that is left us!"
[Illustration: JOHN ADAMS, OF MASSACHUSETTS, WHO PROPOSED WASHINGTON FOR COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE CONTINENTAL ARMY.]
A committee, of which Washington was one, was appointed to report a plan for an army of Virginia.
But when people make up their minds to fight, they know very well, if they are sensible, that more than half the task before them is to find means for feeding and clothing not only the troops but the people who are dependent on the troops. Therefore the convention appointed another committee, of which Washington also was a member, to devise a plan for encouraging manufactures, so that the people could do without England. Heretofore, the Virginians had done scarcely any manufacturing; nearly everything they needed they had bought from England with tobacco. But if they were to be at war with England, they must be making ready to provide for themselves. It was late in the day to do anything; slavery, though they did not then see it clearly, had made a variety of industries impossible. However, the people were advised to form associations to promote the raising of wool, cotton, flax, and hemp, and to encourage the use of home manufactures.
Washington was again chosen one of the delegates to the Continental Congress, for the second Congress had been called to meet at Philadelphia. He was even readier to go than before. On the day when he was chosen, he wrote to his brother John Augustine Washington: "It is my full intention to devote my life and fortune to the cause we are engaged in, if needful."
That was at the end of March. The second Continental Congress was to meet on May 10; and just before Washington left Mount Vernon came the news of Lexington and Concord. Curiously enough, the Governor of Virginia had done just what Governor Gage had attempted to do; he had seized some powder which was stored at Fredericksburg, and placed it for safety on board a vessel of the British navy. The independent companies at once met and called upon Washington to take command of them, that they might compel the Governor to restore the powder. Washington kept cool. The Governor promised to restore the powder, and Washington advised the people to wait to see what Congress would do.
When Congress met, the men who came together were no longer strangers to one another. They had parted warm friends the previous fall; they had gone to their several homes and now had come back more determined than ever, and more united. Every one spoke of Lexington and Concord; and the Massachusetts men told how large an army had already gathered around Boston. But it was an army made up not only of Massachusetts men, but of men from Connecticut, Rhode Island and New Hampshire. It was plain that there must be some authority over such an army, and the Provincial Congress of Massachusetts wrote to the Continental Congress at Philadelphia, advising that body to assume control of all the forces, to raise a continental army, appoint a commander, and do whatever else was necessary to prepare for war. There had already been fighting; there was an army; and it was no longer a war between Massachusetts and Great Britain.
I do not know what other delegates to the Congress at Philadelphia came as soldiers, but there was one tall Virginian present who wore his military coat; and when the talk fell upon appointing a commander, all eyes were turned toward him. Every one, however, felt the gravity and delicacy of the situation. Here was an army adopted by Congress; but it was a New England army, and if the struggle were to come at Boston, it was natural that the troops should mainly come from that neighborhood. The colonies were widely separated; they had not acted much together. Would it not be better, would it not save ill-feeling, if a New England man were to command this New England army?
There were some who thought thus; and besides, there was still a good deal of difference of opinion as to the course to be pursued. Some were all ready for independence; others, and perhaps the most, hoped to bring the British to terms. Parties were rising in Congress; petty jealousies were showing themselves, when suddenly John Adams, of Massachusetts, seeing into what perplexities they were drifting, came forward with a distinct proposition that Congress should adopt the army before Boston and appoint a commander. He did not name Washington, but described him as a certain gentleman from Virginia "who could unite the cordial exertions of all the colonies better than any other person." No one doubted who was meant, and Washington, confused and agitated, left the room at once.
Nothing else was now talked of. The delegates discussed the matter in groups and small circles, and a few days afterward a Maryland delegate formally nominated George Washington to be Commander-in-Chief of the American Army. He was unanimously elected, but the honor of bringing him distinctly before the Congress belongs to John Adams. It seems now a very natural thing to do, but really it was something which required wisdom and courage. When one sums up all Washington's military experience at this time, it was not great, or such as to point him out as unmistakably the leader of the American army. There was a general then in command at Cambridge, who had seen more of war than Washington had. But Washington was the leading military man in Virginia, and it was for this reason that John Adams, as a New England man, urged his election. The Congress had done something to bring the colonies together; the war was to do more, but probably no single act really had a more far-reaching significance in making the Union, than the act of nominating the Virginian Washington by the New England Adams.
(_To be continued._)
Spring Beauties.
BY HELEN GRAY CONE.
The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church; A Thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch. "Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them. But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them. "Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!" Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee, Half parson-like, half soldierly.
The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes, Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the Thrushes; And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass, They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass. All because the buff-coat Bee Lectured them so solemnly:-- "Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!"
[Illustration]
HOW CONRAD LOST HIS SCHOOL-BOOKS.
BY WALTER BOBBETT.
Conrad was not a prince, not even a lord; he was only an ordinary boy. He should have been on his way to school; but, having a talent for doing nothing, he was wandering about the fields and little strips of woodland, amusing himself by watching the birds skim through the air. He had lately been reading a volume of fairy-tales, and as he walked along he began to wonder whether there really was a bit of truth in any of them.
[Illustration: "HE BECKONED TO CONRAD, WHO CROSSED THE STREAM ON A SLIGHT PLANK BRIDGE."]
He kept on thinking so intently about it, that he did not notice how near he was to a little brook, until he found himself almost on the point of tumbling into the water. This put a stop to his wondering, for the next moment he stood staring in astonishment, not at the water, but at a little old man who was sitting on the roots of a large tree that grew on the opposite bank of the stream. He was dressed in a very curious fashion. On his head he had a tall steeple-crowned hat, in which were placed two long peacock's feathers.
The little old man sat looking very attentively at Conrad, and seemed to derive a great deal of comfort from a long pipe, which he was enjoying so energetically that all around him the air was filled with smoke. At last he beckoned to Conrad, who crossed the stream on a slight plank bridge, and advanced toward him.
By that time, Conrad had leaped to the conclusion, in his own mind, that the very queer-looking old gentleman was an enchanter, and so he had resolved to be very respectful, to do just as he was bidden, and to wait very patiently for the little old man to speak first.
Presently the little old man shifted the pipe for a moment, and asked:
"What are those books that you are carrying?"
"They are my school-books," said Conrad; "but I am tired of going to school, and I wish to go with the fairies!"
The little old man smiled a benevolent smile, and exclaimed: "Oh!" Then he shifted his pipe again, and said quickly:
"Give me the school-books."
Conrad did so, at once.
The little old man then opened a spelling-book, and turned to the fly-leaf.
"Conrad," said he.
Conrad started, for he wondered how the little man had learned his name. He himself had not once mentioned it. He was sure now that the queer little person was an enchanter.
"So, Conrad," said the little old man again, "you wish to go to the fairies, do you? Well, you may go; but you must leave your books with me until you come back."
Conrad's attention was now attracted by a raven, which he saw standing beside the enchanter, and which he had not noticed before.
Turning to the bird, the enchanter said: "Give me my key."
The raven hopped from a large key upon which it had been standing, and taking it in its beak, presented it to its master.
[Illustration]
Conrad wished to ask if the raven would bite, and whether it could do any better trick than carrying a key; but he thought this might be considered an impertinent question, so he said nothing.
"Take this key," said the little old man, "and be careful not to lose it. Walk on until you come to the edge of yonder forest; pass straight through the wood, and when you arrive at the other side, you will behold a castle not far distant. You may find it difficult to gain admission; but you must persevere. As to what will happen afterward, I may not tell you now. One word more, and then begone; should you ever need my assistance, blow down the key."
Conrad was so astonished at all he had seen and heard, that he hardly knew what to do; but as the little old man pointed in the direction of the forest, Conrad bade him good-day, and walked away to follow the orders he had received.
He kept on until he came to the forest, which he entered. It seemed so quiet and dark, that he would have been frightened, had he not remembered that, in case of danger, he could depend on assistance from the enchanter.
At last he reached the end of the wood, and about a mile beyond, he saw the castle with its gilded dome and all its windows shining in the sunlight. This sight cheered him, and he walked on till he came to the gateway. He found the great gates wide open; and no one prevented his entering, as it happened to be a day on which the King received petitions from those of his subjects who wished to present any.
He passed on through the large court-yard, key in hand, and instead of going in at the entrance to the court, he entered a little side door and ascended a winding stairway. Up he went, higher and higher, till it seemed as if the stairway would never end, when suddenly he came face to face with an official who was descending.
"What business have you here?" asked the officer.
Conrad could not answer; so the man gently took hold of his ear and led him down the stairs again, varying the monotony of the long descent by giving the ear a severe pinch at every seventh step. Out through the court-yard they passed, the bystanders all cheering and laughing; out of the gate again; and with one final pinch, the boy was left sobbing on the roadway.
Poor Conrad had, indeed, found it difficult to gain admission to the castle. Drying his tears, however, he began to walk around the outside of the building, until at last he came to a ladder that was leaning against a window.
"The very thing!" said he; "it must have been left here on purpose for me."
Up he climbed, slipped in at the window, and dropped quietly to the floor.
He found himself in a large hall, through which he walked until he came to an archway at the farther end. Before the archway hung an embroidered curtain. Conrad pushed it aside, and entered a richly decorated room, at the end of which stood a throne. Around it were assembled many nobles, pages, and guards, who were awaiting the return of the King from hunting.
Few of them looked at Conrad. Some seemed to cast a scornful side-glance at him, and one even told him to go back by the way he had come. Conrad was not a whit daunted, however, and boldly holding up his key, so that every one could see it, he walked up to a portly-looking gentleman, who was dressed in black velvet and who wore a golden chain around his neck. Conrad asked him what he was to do. The portly gentleman stared at him. Conrad asked if any of the company were enchanted; "because," said he, "if they are, I'll disenchant them with my key."
"Enchanted?" said the gentleman in black. "What do you mean? Why do you bother me about enchantment?"
Conrad began to feel a little nervous, and to think that they did not seem at all like enchanted folk; at least, they did not act like any he had read about in his books.
The enchanter had told him that he would meet with difficulties, but, despite his confidence, he could not help getting very red in the face. And by this time, all the gentlemen, except the one dressed in black, were smiling.
Suddenly, Conrad remembered what the little old man had said about whistling down the key. Happy thought! He at once rushed up in front of the portly gentleman with the black velvet suit and the golden chain, and began to whistle in the key as hard as he could.
But, at this performance, the nobles all stopped smiling and looked first at one another, and then at Conrad, with very grave faces; one even put his hand upon his sword.
Now, it happened that the gentleman in black velvet was a Grand Duke and the Prime Minister of the kingdom. At that moment he was thinking over some important question of state, and the sight of Conrad whistling and capering in front of him, just as he was settling everything to his own satisfaction, made him so angry, that he stopped and stared at Conrad, as if he could have stepped upon him. Conrad kept on whistling, but the little enchanter did not come. "He must either be ill or very deaf," thought Conrad, and he was just making up his mind that something was wrong, when all doubts on the subject were removed by the Grand Duke, who advanced toward him, picked him up by the collar of his jacket, and, carrying him to a window, quietly dropped him out.
[Illustration]
Poor Conrad was very much shaken by his fall, and for a time was so dazed that he could hardly realize what had happened. In a little while, he began to collect his thoughts; but as he picked himself up, he concluded, notwithstanding the difficulties he had encountered, that he would try once more to gain admission to the castle. So he arose and walked toward a door which he saw a few paces distant.
His key fitted the lock perfectly. He pushed aside a sliding door, walked in, and passed down a stairway, when he found himself in a dark cellar. The floor was strewn with boxes and small barrels, over which he stumbled, breaking some bottles that stood in his way. He began to feel frightened, so he climbed to the top of a barrel, in order to get a glimpse of his position and see if he could find his way out to daylight. Suddenly the barrel-head gave way, and before he had time to jump off, Conrad fell, up to his knees, in some soft powder. He struggled to free himself, but only upset the barrel and covered himself from head to foot with flour or fine meal. At last he called for assistance; and a door, that he had not noticed until then, opened, and a girl of about his own age came into the cellar, and asked what was the matter.
"I've tumbled into something; please come and help me out," cried Conrad.
She hurried to him, and with her aid he at last succeeded in freeing himself.
After brushing the dust from his hair and his clothes, he followed where his new friend led the way, and entered a kitchen, thinking that without doubt he was now in the presence of an enchanted princess, who must have been waiting many years for some one to disenchant her. "To be sure," thought he, "I am not a prince; but then that does not so much matter; there is no telling but I may be one, some day;" so he decided to ask the maiden how she had become enchanted.
"Beautiful Princess," exclaimed he,----and he was just attempting a very fine speech in the best fairy-story manner, when the young girl laughed, and told him to be seated, and asked him if he would like to have a pie. Conrad was astonished by this question from an enchanted princess; but, without waiting for his reply, the girl walked toward a table on which stood a number of mince-pies, and, taking up one of them, she placed it before Conrad.
That was not the way in which an enchanted princess was supposed to act; but as Conrad was very hungry, he did not express his surprise, but turned his attention to the pie. While he was eating, the princess busied herself with beating some eggs in a large bowl, and before he knew it, Conrad found that he had eaten all the pie.
Then they talked about the weather and whatever else they happened to think of; and at last, Conrad asked her how long she had been enchanted.
"What!" exclaimed the princess.
He repeated his question.
"Why, what do you mean?" said she.
He was just about explaining, when "tramp, tramp, tramp!"--the noise of feet was heard coming down the stairs. The princess jumped up, and cried:
"Oh, run! Run quickly! I shall be punished if they find that I have given you a pie!"
"Oh, no," said Conrad; "do not be frightened! I will protect you from them. I came to this castle on purpose to rescue you."
"But I do not want to be rescued!" said she. "Do go, at once!"
Tramp, tramp! Nearer and nearer came the sound,--almost to the bottom of the stairs. Conrad felt for his key.
"Oh, dear!" he exclaimed, "I must have lost my key when I fell into the barrel! I never noticed that I was without it till now. All is lost! Adieu, good Princess!"
"Good-bye," said she; "only go!"
He jumped upon a table, and climbed out of the window. It was all that was left for him to do. After he was outside of the building, he turned, and waving his hand to the princess, begged her to remember him.
"I will come back to you, if I ever get my key again," he said; "and then I'll disenchant you."
At that moment the kitchen door opened, and Conrad saw a great light. It might have been a bull's-eye lantern, but Conrad was sure that it was a dragon that was pointing its fiery eye at him.
"Oh, the poor princess!" said he. "If only I had my key!"
Then, as the light flashed full at him, he became so frightened that he turned and ran for the gate as hard as he could. He made his way across the court-yard much faster than when he had come in, and soon he had left the castle far behind. The houses began to be farther apart and to have a more rustic appearance. He heard a cart coming along the road.
"Please give me a ride!" he cried to the driver.
"Yes, I will," said the man; "jump in." And Conrad clambered into the cart.
"You look tired," said the driver. "Lie down on that blanket and rest yourself."
Conrad gladly did as he was told and, feeling much fatigued after his adventures, he was soon fast asleep.
He did not awake until he felt himself carried out of the cart, and was just enough awake to know that all the inmates of his father's house, together with a few of the neighbors, were crowding about and asking him where he had been. And that was all he noticed, for the next moment he was off to sleep again, and was carried upstairs and put to bed.
He did not feel very well the next morning, so the doctor was called in, who advised that he should remain in the house for a few days, as he had a slight fever.
While at home, he told his aunt what had happened to him; but she only patted his head, and told him that he must have been dreaming. But this Conrad refused to believe.
When he recovered, however, he became a much better boy, more quiet and attentive to his studies; and it may be mentioned that, whenever any one told a fairy-tale, he wore a very solemn face, took a back seat, and said nothing.
It is not known whether he still believes in fairies; but one thing is certain--he never saw the little old enchanter again, nor the school-books that he had left with him.
BLOSSOM-TIME.
BY L. E. R.
Snow, snow, down from the apple-trees, Pink and white drifting of petals sweet! Kiss her and crown her our Lady of Blossoming, There as she sits on the apple-tree sweet!
Has she not gathered the summer about her? See how it laughs from her lips and her eyes! Think you the sun there would shine on without her? Nay! 'Tis her smile keeps the gray from the skies!
Fire of the rose, and snow of the jessamine, Gold of the lily-dust hid in her hair; Day holds his breath and Night comes up to look at her, Leaving their strife for a vision so rare.
Snow, snow, down from the apple-trees, Pink and white drifting of petals sweet! Kiss her, and crown her, and flutter adown her, And carpet the ground for her dear little feet!
A SEARCH FOR THE LACE-LEAF.
BY ALICE MAY.
[Illustration]
Early one morning, a palanquin carried by native bearers, and containing as passengers Mr. Steedman, an English missionary, and his little son Harry, was proceeding up the one street of Biforána, a queer little bamboo village on the island of Madagascar, situated about midway between Antananarivo, the capital, and the eastern coast.
Comparatively little is known of Madagascar, although the unsuccessful attempt of France to obtain possession of it drew interest and attention to it not many months ago. There are but two larger islands in the world. As many of you know, it lies some two hundred and fifty miles to the east of the African coast, is nine hundred and eighty miles long and two hundred and fifty wide, and is therefore nearly four times as large as England and Wales combined.
The Queen of this island kingdom is a young woman with the curious name of Rasendranovo Ranavalo III. She succeeded to the throne in 1883. She is a Christian, as is also a large part of the population of her realm; and there are numerous missionary stations throughout the island.
Harry Steedman's father was one of these missionaries, and Harry himself was accustomed to traveling by palanquin, since there are no roads nor carriages to be found in Madagascar.
[Illustration: "PASSING A GROVE OF PALMS KNOWN AS THE 'TRAVELER'S TREE.'"]
The palanquin was an oblong basket of bamboo, lined with plaited sheepskin. The ends of the long poles or handles rested upon the shoulders of four Madagascan bearers, while four others accompanied these as a relay. Under the palanquin hood of woven palm-cloth, Mr. Steedman reclined comfortably, while Harry nestled cozily at his feet; and so, out of the village, and through the swamp of Biforána, the procession moved until the mire became so thick that the palanquin could not be carried with ease. As the next best mode of conveyance, the two passengers were then transferred to the shoulders of two stout natives.
[Illustration: PALANQUIN TRAVELING BECOMES UNCOMFORTABLE.]
Mr. Steedman had started upon an expedition in search of the beautiful lace-leaf plant, or water-yam, of Madagascar, which he was told grew in the forests beyond Biforána, and which he was very desirous of finding in its native state. Harry, after urgent solicitation, had been allowed to accompany his father; but, as he clung to the neck of his swarthy bearer, the little fellow found that there was not, after all, so much fun in the trip as he had expected. And later on, when the palanquin, in which they were soon seated again, was tossed and bumped by the slipping and stumbling of the bearers as they climbed a very steep hill-side, he began almost to wish himself at home.
After passing a grove of the stately palms known as the "traveler's tree," they found themselves on a path that led to the bank of a river. They endeavored to ford it, but speedily found that the danger from deep holes and ugly-looking crocodiles was too great for them to proceed. So Raheh, the chief bearer, uttered a curious cry, or signal, which soon brought into view a _làkana_, or canoe, rudely fashioned from a hollow tree-trunk; and in it a native was paddling rapidly toward them.
Harry and his father stepped into the rather shaky-looking craft not without misgivings, but they were soon safely landed on the other shore. When all had been thus ferried across and the native boatman had been paid, the party entered the great forest of Alamazaotra, which covers more than forty miles of wild and mountainous country.
[Illustration: THE LACE-LEAF OF MADAGASCAR.]
Their path at once led them through a gorge so narrow that the sides of the palanquin grazed the rocky walls, and the masses of tangled foliage, meeting far above their heads, almost entirely obscured the light. The bearers paused for breath after climbing the steep ascent that led from this gloomy pass, and Harry and his father exclaimed in wonder at the strange beauty of the wild tropical forest.
Gigantic palms upheld around their stately heads a leafy dome closely interlaced by clinging vines. Long garlands of moss and climbing plants crossed and recrossed this lofty roof, and from its shadowy arches great masses of gray moss hung suspended. Here and there among the cool green and gray tints of leaves and moss some tropical flowers and fruits gleamed forth in bright flashes of scarlet and gold.
Myriads of frail wood-blossoms hid their pale heads under the feathery ferns that clustered about the roots of the trees, and the dead palms were tenderly shrouded in waxy-leaved climbing vines, their graceful fallen crowns replaced by masses of green ferns, intermingled with the faint pink and blue tints of some rare orchid. On every side were little groves of bamboo,--their light-green fringes contrasting with the darker fronds of the stately tree-fern.
Absolute silence reigned throughout this solitude, and Harry began to be so oppressed by the stillness as to grow fearful of danger. But his father explained that during the wet season, in which they were traveling, insect life in these tropical forests is asleep, and Harry himself knew that there were but few wild animals in Madagascar. Indeed, with the exception of that curious animal, part fox, part squirrel, and
## part monkey, that is peculiar to Madagascar and is called, from its
prowling habits and ghostly appearance, the lemur, or "ghostly visitor," the great island possesses no large native quadrupeds. The hump-backed African cattle and the singular fat-tailed sheep, now common throughout the island, were not originally found in Madagascar, but were taken over from Africa.
The bearers of the palanquin clambered on, now over steep and moss-covered rocks, now crossing sluggish streams on slippery stepping-stones, or sliding down precipices, until poor Harry was so rattled and shaken and tossed and tumbled that he declared he didn't know his head from his heels.
But, at last, a break occurred in the long stretch of rock and forest, and as the bearers paused upon a piece of level ground, for a moment's rest, Raheh suddenly uttered the joyful cry of "_rano!_" (water) and all, on listening, distinguished the sound of a rushing stream.
Urged on by Raheh, the bearers pushed ahead, and soon stood upon the banks of a beautiful river, dashing merrily along over rocks and fallen trees, until with a leap it disappeared in the shadows of the vast forest. Upon the farther side was grouped a little village of the clay huts belonging to the friendly Hovas, and beyond the village stretched green fields of waving rice. The "Hovas" are the governing race in the island, and are the most civilized. Their capital city of Antananarivo, in the center of the island, is a well-built city of over 100,000 inhabitants.
A tree had fallen across the stream, with its head resting upon the opposite bank, and this natural bridge was entirely covered with pink, blue, and white flowers of the waxy orchid. This beautiful sight, however, was unnoticed by Harry and his father, for in the water at their feet was the object of their search, the Lattice or Lace leaf.
[Illustration: MADAGASCAN DRINKING-CUP FORMED FROM A LEAF OF THE "TRAVELER'S TREE."]
The lace-leaf plant, or fresh-water yam as it is sometimes called because of its potato-shaped or yam-like root, is found in many of the rivers of Madagascar. The difficulty of obtaining it, however, makes it a rare plant to Europeans; and when, a few days before, Mr. Steedman had recognized in some "roasted potatoes," as Harry called the pleasant-tasting vegetable that one of his boyish Madagascan friends had given him to eat, the edible root of the lace-leaf plant, the missionary had determined to make a careful search for the plant so prized by naturalists. And now at last he had found it, bobbing backward and forward in a fantastic dance just above the eddying waters of the beautiful forest river. As soon as they recognized it, both Mr. Steedman and his son were on the ground in an instant, and bending eagerly above the clear stream. The water was so pure and limpid that every pebble could be counted, and in the cool, bright current they saw, to their delight, a perfect labyrinth of lace-work. Dozens of lace-leaves, green, gold, olive, and brown, were floating just beneath the surface of the water.
"Oh, Papa! did you ever see anything so lovely?" said Harry, excitedly.
Mr. Steedman could take but a one-sided view of those wonderful leaves, as one glass from his spectacles had been lost during their rough journey; but the remaining glass fairly sparkled with satisfaction.
"Ah, my son, this plant is both lovely and rare. See, the young leaves are light green and yellow; the older leaves are darker,--shades of green and olive. A few are even black, and all growing from the same root. How perfect is every leaf, in spite of its delicate texture! Some of those larger leaves must be ten or twelve inches long. The strong midrib in each serves as a support for the fragile threads forming the meshes on each side."
Harry now plunged his hand into the lace-like web, half expecting it to dissolve in his grasp. But no! The wiry little yellow leaf which he raised from the water, was perfect in form, and a gleam of sunlight, falling upon the shining meshes, transformed them into threads of glistening gold.
He now discovered, as he examined them carefully, that the under surfaces of the leaves, were glistening with little pearly bubbles of air.
[Illustration: RAHEH, THE GUIDE.]
"Oh, Papa," he cried, joyously holding the glistening meshes aloft, "the lace-leaves are jeweled!"
"Yes, Harry," said his father, "those diamond drops are made by the breathing of the plant."
Mr. Steedman attempted to detach a root of one of the plants from its bed of mud, but the little tendrils branching from it on every side held the root firmly in its place. At last he succeeded in extricating the little white threads, one by one, and removed the entire plant to the bank. Its root, which is eaten in Madagascar, was very like the ginger root, and had a tough, light-brown skin.
Harry carefully placed the leaves of the plant in his herbarium, while his father packed the root, with its native soil, in a tin case, preparatory to sending it to the Botanical Society in London.
"Harry," he said, as they finished their work, "this plant could be easily reared in our green-houses--heat and moisture being all that is required. But nature seems to have jealously surrounded these beautiful leaves with almost impassable barriers, and the lace-plant is comparatively unknown.
"But come, my boy Raheh says '_maly-massandro_' (the sun is dead), and it will be as long as 'two cookings of rice' (two half hours) before we can be ferried across to yonder village and secure a place to pass the night."
And so, after Raheh had given Harry one last drink from the clear, cool river, in the odd-looking leaf-cup he carried for the purpose, the tired but successful lace-leaf hunters crossed over to the Hova village and were soon fast asleep.
THE CARICATURE PLANT.
BY M. A.
One of the most remarkable plants in the whole vegetable kingdom is that known to botanists as the _Justicia Picta_, which has also been well named "The Caricature Plant."
At first sight, it appears to be a heavy, large-leafed plant, with purple blossoms, chiefly remarkable for the light-yellow centers of its dark-green leaves, which cause them to look as if some acid had been spilled upon them and taken the color out wherever it had touched.
As I stood looking at this odd plant and thinking what a sickly, blighted appearance the queer, yellow stains gave it, I was suddenly impressed with the fact that the plant was "making faces" at me. Still, unaccustomed as I was to seeing plants indulge in this strictly human amusement, I was slow to believe it, and stooped to read the somewhat illegible inscription on the card below the plant--"_Justicia Picta_, or 'Caricature Plant.'" My first impression was correct then. This curious shrub had indeed occupied itself in growing up in ridiculous caricatures of the "human face divine," until it now stood, covered from the topmost leaf down, with the queerest faces imaginable. Nature had taken to caricaturing. The flesh-colored profiles stood out in strong relief against the dark-green of the leaves.
A discovery of one of these vegetable marks leads to an examination of a second and a third leaf, until all are scanned as closely and curiously as the leaves of the comic papers that form the caricature plants of the literary kingdom.
What a valuable plant this would be for one of our professional caricaturists to have growing in his conservatory! When an order was sent to him for a "speaking likeness" of some unhappy politician, he could simply visit his _Justicia Picta_ with pencil and paper in hand, and look over the leaves for a suitable squint, grin, or distorted nose to sketch from. He could, moreover, affirm with truth that the portrait was "taken from nature." Cuthbert Collingwood, the celebrated naturalist, says of the _Justicia Picta_: "One of these plants in the garden of Gustave Doré would be worth a fortune to him, supplying him with a never-failing fund of grotesque physiognomies, from which he might illustrate every serio-comic romance ever written." I have never heard of the cultivation of the Caricature Plant in this country; but botanists tell us that it is a hardy shrub. I think we should be glad to see the funny faces on its leaves. After all the lovely flowers we are called upon to admire, I am sure that a plant evidently intended to make us laugh would receive a warm welcome from our young people.
The Chinese appreciate the Caricature Plant, and in some parts of China it is quite extensively cultivated. Perhaps some of the funny, grinning faces on Chinese toys and ornaments are reproductions of the grotesque features on the leaves of the plant.
Finally, I must assure any unbelieving readers of ST. NICHOLAS that neither in this account of a very remarkable plant, nor in the accompanying illustration, has the writer drawn upon imagination.
[Illustration: THE CARICATURE PLANT.]
The _Justicia Picta_ really exists. It is a native of the East Indies, and is a source of much amusement and curiosity to both botanists and travelers.
VEGETABLE CLOTHING.
BY C. J. RUSSELL.
About two hundred years ago the governor of the island of Jamaica, Sir Thomas Lynch, sent to King Charles II. of England a vegetable necktie, and a very good necktie it was, although it had grown on a tree and had not been altered since it was taken from the tree. It was as soft and white and delicate as lace, and it is not surprising that the King should have expressed his doubts when he was told that the beautiful fabric had grown on a tree in almost the exact condition in which he saw it. It had been stretched a little, and that was all.
But if King Charles was astonished to learn that neckties grew on trees in Jamaica, what must have been the feelings of a stranger traveling in Central America, on being told that mosquito-nets grew on trees in that country? He had complained to his host that the mosquitoes had nearly eaten him up the night before, and had been told in response that he should have a new netting put over his bed.
Satisfied with this statement, the traveler was turning away, but his attention was arrested by his host's calmly continuing, "in fact, we are going to strip a tree anyhow, because there is to be a wedding on the estate, and we wish to have a dress ready for the bride."
[Illustration: KING CHARLES'S VEGETABLE NECKTIE.]
"You don't mean," said the traveler incredulously, "that mosquito-netting and bridal dresses grow on trees, do you?"
"That is just what I mean," replied his host.
"All right," said the stranger, who fancied a joke was being attempted at his expense, "let me see you gather the fruit and I will believe you."
"Certainly," was the answer; "follow the men, and you will see that I speak the exact truth."
Still looking for some jest, the stranger followed the two men who were to pluck the singular fruit, and stood by when they stopped at a rather small tree, bearing thick, glossy-green leaves, but nothing else which the utmost effort of the imagination could convert into the netting or the wedding garments. The tree was about twenty feet high and six inches in diameter, and its bark looked much like that of a birch-tree.
"Is this the tree?" asked the stranger.
"Yes, señor," answered one of the men, with a smile.
"I don't see the mosquito-netting nor the wedding-dress," said the stranger, "and I can't see any joke either."
"If the señor will wait a few minutes he will see all that was promised, and more too," was the reply. "He will see that this tree can bear not only mosquito-netting and wedding-dresses, but fish-nets and neck-scarfs, mourning crape or bridal veils."
The tree was without more ado cut down. Three strips of bark, each about six inches wide and eight feet long, were taken from the trunk and thrown into a stream of water. Then each man took a strip while it was still in the water, and with the point of his knife separated a thin layer of the inner bark from one end of the strip. This layer was then taken in the fingers and gently pulled, whereupon it came away in an even sheet of the entire width and length of the strip of bark. Twelve sheets were thus taken from each strip of bark, and thrown into the water.
A light broke in upon the stranger's mind. Without a doubt these strips were to be sewn together into one sheet. The plan seemed a good one and the fabric thus formed might do, he thought, if no better cloth could be had.
The men were not through yet, however, for when each strip of bark had yielded its twelve sheets, each sheet was taken from the water and gradually stretched sidewise. The spectator could hardly believe his eyes. The sheet broadened and broadened until from a close piece of material six inches wide, it became a filmy cloud of delicate lace, over three feet in width. The astonished gentleman was forced to confess that no human-made loom ever turned out lace which could surpass in snowy whiteness and gossamer-like delicacy that product of nature.
The natural lace is not so regular in formation as the material called illusion, so much worn by ladies in summer; but it is as soft and white, and will bear washing, which is not true of illusion. In Jamaica and Central America, this wonderful lace is put to all the uses mentioned by the native to our traveler, and to more uses besides. In fact, among the poorer people it supplies the place of manufactured cloth, which they can not afford to buy; and the wealthier classes do not by any means scorn it for ornamental use.
Long before the white man found his way to this part of the world, the Indians had known and used this vegetable cloth; so that what was so new and wonderful to King Charles and Governor Sir Thomas Lynch was an old story to the natives. Some time after King Charles received his vegetable necktie, Sir Hans Sloane, whose art-collection and library were the foundation of the British Museum, visited Jamaica. He described the tree fully, and was the first person who told the civilized world about it. The tree is commonly called the lace-bark tree. Its botanical name is _Lagetto lintearia_.
WOE TO THE FOREIGN DOLLY!
[Illustration: THE PET GREYHOUND RESOLVES INDIGNANTLY THAT THE JAPANESE "MUST GO!"]
ST. NICHOLAS DOG STORIES.
X.--A CLEVER LITTLE YELLOW DOG.
BY JOHN R. CORYELL.
One cold winter night, not long ago, I took pity on a poor little dejected-looking yellow puppy, and invited him into my house. Having once taken him in, it was quite out of the question to think of turning him out again. I was not afraid that I might be robbing anybody, for he was the kind of dog that very few persons care to have. He was dirty-yellow in color, very lank of body, and he seemed to be made up of ill-assorted parts of different kinds of dogs. His legs, particularly, seemed intended for some other dog and acted as if they never would become reconciled to carrying the queer body to which they were joined.
I should have preferred a handsome dog, but since I had no choice, I determined to do my duty by the little outcast, and to give him such an education that in the beauties of his mind the ugliness of his body would be overlooked.
The first thing needed for him was a name; and I tried to think of something appropriate, but soon gave it up, and in default of a better title called him Bob. To teach him the name was easy. I merely called out the word "Bob!" every time I fed him. As it was important that he should learn to look to me as the source of all his happiness and instruction, I permitted no one else to feed him. It took him about a week to learn his name, and to recognize the fact that all the blandishments he could lavish on the cook would be of no avail, and that his only hope was in me.
At the very outset, I had made up my mind that under no circumstances should he receive angry words or blows. He was a broken-spirited, affectionate little puppy, and I was resolved that if there was no way of teaching him except by brutality, he should remain ignorant all his life. The abject way in which, to this day, he runs from a child makes me feel sad. I fancy that much of his early life was spent in dodging stones or snow-balls thrown by boys--not cruel, but thoughtless boys.
It was necessary to control him, and I quickly discovered an easy way. He was such a sensitive little fellow that when he once learned to love me, he seemed to know by the tones of my voice whether I was pleased with him, and to have me pleased seemed to be the one object of his life. Therefore, if I saw him doing anything wrong, I had only to say sharply and firmly, "No, Bob!" and down would go the tail and ears, and he would slink shame-facedly to his special corner and from there watch me until I would call him to me and pat his head.
After a while, a quiet "No, Bob!" would effect the same result. This was a great victory, and made most of the subsequent teaching merely a matter of patience.
The first real lesson was when I undertook to make him sit up. If he had only known what I wished him to do, he would gladly have done it; but the words "Sit up!" meant nothing to him. He was almost too willing, for when I took hold of him to put him into a sitting position, he became as limp as a wet rag, and seemed to be trying to put himself into a condition to be twisted into any shape I chose.
Then I put him into a corner and set him up, saying continually, "Sit up! Sit up!" I held him up for a while and then took my hand away, but at once he collapsed as if all the stiffening had suddenly left his back-bone. Then I showed him a piece of sugar, of which he was very fond, and immediately he was himself again. Once more, and many times more, I put him in position in the corner, until at last, seemingly by accident, he failed to fall over when I took my hand away. I did not tax his endurance, but at once gave him the sugar.
It took him about three days to grasp the idea that "sit up!" meant a special performance, and that to achieve it meant a lump of sugar. Then I put him through the same process in the middle of the room. He missed the support of the wall at first, and fell over; whereupon he looked foolish. One fact was evidently firmly fixed in his mind, however,--the fact that there was sugar to be had if only he could do as I wished him to do. All the time that he was struggling for balance, he kept his eye on the lump of sugar, which I had on the floor beside me. Finally that lesson was learned, and he could sit up if I would put him in position. He knew, too, what "sit up!" meant.
After that, I would not feed him until he had first sat up; but it was a long time before he gained sufficient confidence in himself to sit up without help. At first I helped him up by both paws; then I helped by holding only one paw; then I merely touched one paw; then I only motioned, as if about to touch the paw; and finally I simply said, "Sit up!"
I think Bob reasoned this all out in his own mind and concluded that there must be some strange and beautiful power in the words "sit up!" for he could see that whenever he did it, he had something to eat. I am obliged to confess that Bob loved to eat; and after he had learned to sit up, he was inclined to perform the feat morning, noon, and night, and it was, of course, impossible to make him go away without first giving him a morsel, however small, of food.
[Illustration: AWAITING FURTHER ORDERS.]
Lessons in standing up, walking and waltzing followed, and they were all easily taught. In teaching him anything, I was always careful to associate the action required of him with certain words. Standing, walking on his hind legs, and waltzing were always "stand up!" "walk!" "waltz about!" I never taught him more than one thing at a time, so that there should be no possibility of his misunderstanding the meaning of the word or words used.
In teaching him to stand up, I first made him sit; then by holding a piece of sugar over his head, I induced him to stand erect,--while I kept repeating, "Stand up!" "Stand up!" After he had learned this lesson, I made him first sit, then stand, and then, by going from him and saying "Walk!" I made him follow me until he understood the connection between the words and the action, even when I was at the other end of the room. I taught him to "waltz" by making him go around and around after a piece of sugar held over his head when he was standing up.
To make him go to his corner and lie down, without hurting his feelings, was difficult. If I said sharply, "Go to your corner and lie down!" he would go; but he would feel so badly that he could not play for half an hour. But by repeating the command in gradually softening tones and by giving him a piece of sugar each time, he eventually learned that he was not thereby in disgrace.
Seeing, however, how a sharp word would make his ears and tail droop, I took advantage of this fact, and whenever he had done wrong I would always say "Naughty!" a dozen times over, until at last I had only to whisper "Naughty!"--and down would go those ensigns in a moment. On the other hand, if I said "Good dog!" he was immediately on the alert, ears up, head cocked to one side, and tail wagging, ready for any kind of sport.
After he had learned to walk, I taught him to go slowly when I said "like a gentleman!" and quickly when I said "like a schoolboy!" To teach him these things required patience principally; but I found that to teach him some things taxed my ingenuity as well.
I wished him to speak both softly and loudly; but how to make him do it puzzled me. For Bob seldom barked except when engaged in uproarious play, and at such times he was not susceptible to instruction. One day, however, he had been playing with a little rubber ball, running after it and bringing it to me until I was tired, a condition in which he never seemed to be.
To stop the game I put my foot on the ball, and picked up a book to read. Bob waited a few moments to see what I was going to do, and finding I was not going to play, tried to push my foot away with his nose. Failing in that, he pulled with one paw. That also failed, and Bob was puzzled. He retired a few steps, placed his head between his forepaws on the floor and looked at me. I pretended not to see him, curious to know what he would do. He remained perfectly still for nearly a minute, and then, as if determined to attract my attention somehow, he barked.
There was my clew; I gave him the ball at once. In a few moments I again placed my foot on the ball, and waited until I saw he was about to bark, when I said, "Shout! Shout!" He barked, and I gave him the ball. I repeated this several times a day, and day after day, until he learned to bark whenever he wanted the ball and I said "Shout!" Then I made him shout for his meals, and finally, he would "shout" whenever I told him to do so.
[Illustration: "BOB" JUMPING.]
To make him speak softly, I took advantage of a fashion he had of whining when he wished to go into the yard for a frolic. I would go to the door and say, "Want to go out?" Bob would at once respond by preparing to rush out the moment the door was opened. Then I would say, "Speak softly!" and keep repeating the words until he whined. After a while he would whine the moment I said, "Speak softly!"
Another thing that I taught him was to fall down and lie motionless when I said, "Dead!" This I accomplished by taking hold of his forefeet in one hand and his hindfeet in the other, and suddenly dropping him on his side on the floor, as I said the word "Dead!" several times.
At first, Bob thought I was playing some new game with him, and prepared for a good time, but I had only to say "No!" to him to make him sedate at once. By this time he had learned that when I repeated a thing several times, it was because he was to learn something; and the little fellow really seemed to try to understand what I wished him to do.
After I had pulled his feet from under him a number of times, and had made him lie still until I said, "Alive!" I tried tapping a hindfoot and a forefoot, at the same time saying "Dead!" He was a long time learning this trick; and several times when I thought he had learned to do it when I simply tapped his feet, I was obliged to go back and pull his feet from under him. In time, however, he learned to fall the moment I touched the side of one hindfoot. From that to motioning at the foot, and finally, merely saying "Dead!" the progress was quick. To make him jump up, I always said "Alive!"
To make him go "lame" was very easy. I tied a long string to one forefoot, and by saying, "Lame!" and at the same time making him walk, while I prevented him from putting the tied foot down, he soon learned to go on three legs.
One of the funniest things he learned to do was to take his piece of carpet, shake it well, and put it back in its place. It was through an accident that I thought of teaching him to do this. I had been accustomed to shake out his carpet in the yard every morning. One morning I threw it on the grass to air. In a moment Bob had it in his mouth and was worrying it, shaking it, and growling. He was playing, but I saw that I could teach him something, and at once said, "Make your bed!" By repeating this, morning after morning, he at last learned to pick up his carpet, carry it out into the yard, shake it, and carry it back. I could never teach him to lay it down properly, however; he seemed to think it was as good in a heap as if nicely smoothed out.
After I had taught Bob a number of tricks, I determined to write a play for him. I do not believe that any human actor ever had audiences more appreciative than his, when he performed in his "play." His little friends were always ready to give him sugar by the handful if I did not interfere, and Bob was always ready to take all that was offered. The "play" was nothing more than a simple little story into which were introduced the words which I used in commanding him to perform his various tricks. I would repeat the story, and when I came to a word of command, such as "dead," I would emphasize it so that Bob would at once do whatever he had been taught to do at the sound of that word. The play I wrote was about as follows:--
"Once upon a time there was a little dog named _Bob_ [here Bob would run to me, and wait expectantly]. Usually he was a very _good dog_ [wag, wag, would go his tail], but once in a while he was very _naughty_ [down would drop ears and tail]. When he was a _good dog_ [happy again], he would _sit up_ and show any little boy or girl how to behave. At such times, he would _speak softly_ [prolonged whine], as a polite dog should, though once in a while he would become excited, and _shout, shout, shout_ [furious barking], as impolite children are sometimes apt to do.
"When a lady entered the room where he was, he would always _stand_ up, ready to give her his chair if she wished it; or if she preferred to go into the garden or the street, he would go with her and _walk like a gentleman_. When he played, however, he could run _like a schoolboy_. But once he was in the ball-room, he could _waltz about_ as well as the best dancer there.
"If any one ever said to him, '_go to your corner and lie down_' he would do so at once like the well bred dog he was. But he was always obedient and would come immediately as soon as one said _Bob_.
"I was very sorry to hear one day that this remarkable dog was _dead_. I felt so badly that I went to his house, but was pleasantly surprised when I reached there, to find that he was very much _alive_."
[Illustration: FETCH BRINGS IN THE PERVERSE COW.]
What will be the limit of Bob's education I do not know, for he continues to learn with increasing ease every day. In addition to all that has been described, he can now, at the proper order of command, sneeze, catch a piece of meat from his nose at the word "three," jump over a cane, turn a somersault, and play tag.
XI.--A DOG THAT COULD COUNT.
BY E. P. ROE.
Old Fetch was a shepherd dog and lived in the Highlands of the Hudson. His master kept nearly a dozen cows, and they ranged at will among the hills during the day. When the sun was low in the west, his master would say to his dog, "Bring the cows home"; and it was because the dog did this task so well, that he was called Fetch. He would run to a flat rock and hold his ear down close to it, having learned that he could thus catch the far-off tinkle of the cow-bells better than in any other way. If he could not hear them he would range about until he did, and then he was off like a shot in the direction of the sound.
One sultry day he departed as usual upon his evening task. From scattered, shady, and grassy nooks, he at last gathered all the cattle into a mountain road, leading to the distant barnyard.
Switching off the flies with their tails, the cows jogged slowly homeward, the tinkle of their bells gradually becoming more and more distinct to the milkmaid who was awaiting them. One of the cows was known to be a little perverse, and on that evening she gave fresh evidence of willfulness. One part of the road ran through a low, moist spot bordered by a thicket of black alder, and into this the cow pushed her way, and stood quietly. The others passed on, followed some distance in the rear by Fetch. He was panting from his exertions in the hot evening, his tongue lolling from his mouth as he slowly and languidly pursued his way.
Indeed he had quite discarded his usual vigilance, and the perverse cow took advantage of it.
As the cows approached the barnyard gate, he quickened his pace, and hurried forward, as if to say, "I'm here, attending to business." But his complacency was disturbed as the cows filed through the gate. He whined a little, and growled a little, attracting his master's attention. Then he went to the high fence surrounding the yard, and standing on his hindfeet peered between two of the rails. After looking at the herd carefully for a time, he started off down the road again on a full run. His master now observed that one of the cows was missing, and he sat down on a rock to see what Fetch was going to do about it. Before very long he heard the furious tinkling of a bell, and soon Fetch appeared bringing in the perverse cow at a rapid pace, hastening her on by frequently leaping up and catching her ear in his teeth. The gate was again thrown open, and the cow, shaking her head from the pain of the dog's rough reminders, was led through it in a way that she did not soon forget. Fetch looked after her a moment with the air of one remarking to himself, "You'll not try that trick again," and then he lay down quietly to cool off in time for supper.
XII.--A CLEVER SHEEP DOG.
A recent English writer tells the following story of an ingenious sheep-dog that, when the flock took a wrong road, would turn them back without worrying them. His owner had hesitated for some time before he made up his mind to have a dog, as he had often seen dogs ill-use the poor sheep. But believing that in most cases the dogs' harshness toward the sheep was due to bad training, and not to their naturally evil dispositions, he resolved to make trial of one. The dog he procured was young; and he trained it after his own ideas. He soon found the docile creature a very useful helper in driving a flock from one pasture to another. The sheep often took a wrong turn, and then scampered off as fast as they could go. At such times, most shepherds who had dogs were accustomed to send the dog after the flock, at the top of its speed. Of course, it soon overtook them, but the sheep were often much frightened, and not infrequently hurt by falling down or by rushing against one another. To prevent this, the shepherd mentioned would order his dog "Smart" to go to the other side of the hedge, saying, "Now, go ahead, and bring 'em back!" Smart would promptly obey, and would noiselessly run along behind the hedge, sometimes even climbing a little slope by the roadway, whence he could overlook the flock and see just where each sheep was moving. As soon as Smart, by peeping over or through the hedge, had satisfied himself that he was ahead of all the sheep, he would come coolly out of the hedge and bring them back down the lane so gently as not to cause them the least alarm. Smart never attempted to get ahead of a flock in the way common to most of the dogs in that vicinity,--by rushing past them and frightening them; but looking at his master and wagging his tail, he would cross the hedge, overtake them, and quietly drive them back into the right road.
XIII.--A STORY OF TWO BUCKETS.
BY CHARLOTTE M. VAILE.
There they were hanging, one of them out of sight in the cool, deep water, and the other swinging empty in the sunshine, as Daisy Hadley and her dog Bruno came up to the well. The little girl and the big dog had been rambling about all the morning, following the brook through fields of sunflowers and poppies, or climbing the rocks on the sides of the mountains; but they were tired and thirsty now, and Daisy looked wistfully at the empty bucket, wishing she were strong enough to pull it down and bring the other, full and dripping, up in its place.
"Bruno," she said reproachfully, "I wish you could draw me some water." Bruno was a great, shaggy Newfoundland, that had been Daisy's play-mate ever since she could remember. He was a wonderful dog. Daisy herself would have told you that there were only a few things he could not do, but unfortunately managing that well was one of them. So there was no help for it, and Daisy was turning reluctantly away when she caught sight of Mr. Paul Gregg, one of the other summer boarders in the Park.
[Illustration: "A CLEVER SHEEP DOG." (SEE PRECEDING PAGE.)]
If he had not come up just then, there would have been no story to tell, and the buckets might have gone up and down in the well to this day without taking part in any more remarkable event. But he _did_ come up; and Daisy's face brightened, for they were great friends, though she was only a little girl in the Kindergarten, and he was a tall young student. He stopped when Daisy said she wanted some water; and putting down his botanical box, he began to draw some gloves over his rather soft hands.
"I don't like this kind of a well at all," said Daisy. "It isn't half as nice as the one at my grandfather's. _That_ had only one bucket, with a rope that went 'round and 'round a great roller; and there was a handle that I could turn myself."
"This is a very old and respectable kind of a well, though," said Mr. Gregg, taking hold of the rope. "There must have been such wells as long ago as Shakspere's time."
"How do you know?" asked Daisy, who was sure that Shakspere lived a great while ago, though she could not have told when.
"Shakspere, you know, Daisy," said Mr. Gregg, "was a great poet who lived hundreds of years ago, and in a play he wrote, called 'King Richard II.,' he tells about just such a well as this. Richard was one of the kings of England, and a very unlucky king he was, though I can't deny that he brought his troubles on himself, for he was anything but a wise and prudent ruler. At last his cousin Prince Henry raised a great army and forced Richard to give up the crown. Poor King Richard did not show much spirit when his troubles came; but, according to Shakspere, he made a very neat speech, when his clever cousin Henry told him that he had decided to become King himself. Among other things, Richard said that the crown he must give up was
'Like a deep well That owns two buckets filling one another; The emptier ever dancing in the air, The other down, unseen, and full of water; That bucket down, and full of tears, am I, Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.'"
While Mr. Gregg was talking, the buckets in the well had changed places. The one which had swung in the air so lightly at first had gone down out of sight, and the other had come up ready to be emptied and to take its place in the sunshine.
Mr. Gregg paused now as he poured out some of the water. Daisy was silent too, trying to understand it all.
"What became of King Richard?" she asked presently.
"He died in prison," said Mr. Gregg. "Some say his cousin Henry, who took his place as king, had him put to death; and now," he added, turning away from the well, "I think that I will see if your mother is ready to go to dinner with us."
Then he turned toward the cottage and left Daisy standing by the well. She had not understood it all, but she felt very sorry for the unhappy king, and she thought she knew why he said he was like the bucket in the deep, dark water when he sank under his grief and shame never to see any more bright days.
She was leaning on the side of the well, with her hand upon the rope, thinking very earnestly of it all and trying to catch a glimpse of the bucket that was hanging there in the dark, when something dreadful happened. Before she knew it, she had leaned over too far. She lost her balance and fell over the side of the well. Down, down went the bucket, more swiftly than it had ever gone before, and with it, but holding desperately to the rope, went Daisy! There was only time for one terrible cry--and she was out of sight in the well!
There was no one there to save her,--Yes, there was Bruno! He heard the cry. He saw his little friend go down, and with a bark that rang across to the mountains, he rushed to the well. He leaped frantically against the low wooden side just as the bucket which had been in the water rose even with its edge. Somehow he managed to fling his heavy paws on it, then his whole body, and then, all at once, it was Bruno that was going down, down, but clinging to the bucket and howling as he went,--and Daisy was coming up!
It was only for a minute, therefore, that Daisy was in the water. The next moment, thanks to the sudden pull at the other end of the rope, she was rising again; and just as Bruno, loosened his hold of the bucket, and dropped heavily into the water, Mr. Paul Gregg reached the side of the well, seized the rope and drew Daisy to the top, gasping, shivering, and frightened almost to death.
As soon as Daisy could speak, she said, "Save Bruno!" But they had already begun to do that, and they did save him, of course. The brave old fellow was none the worse for his adventure. He dried himself in the sunshine, and then lay down beside the rocking-chair where Daisy sat folded in a soft wrap, with vaseline on her blistered hands.
Daisy was none the worse for it either, in the end; though at first, when her mother asked her how it happened and she tried to say something about a "poor king," and "a bucket-full of tears," the poor lady was afraid the plunge had affected her daughter's mind, and to this day she is in doubt whether Shakspere or King Henry or Mr. Paul Gregg was responsible for the accident.
One thing however, was clear. It was Bruno who had saved her. Had he really meant to go down with the bucket and rescue her? Daisy never had a doubt of it herself. For the rest of the season he was the hero of the Park. The summer guests bought him a silver collar beautifully engraved, and Mr. Paul Gregg declared that he should propose his name as an honorary member of the Humane Society.
But Bruno's head was not turned with all those honors. He rambled through the fields with Daisy as he had done before, and when she put her arms around his neck, and said that he should be her dearest friend forever, he was happier than if his collar had been made of gold, or than if he had been elected president of the Humane Society.
THE SMALLEST CIRCUS IN THE WORLD.
BY C. F. HOLDER.
[Illustration: THE "GO-AS-YOU-PLEASE" RACE, AS SEEN THROUGH A MAGNIFYING GLASS. (SEE PAGE 535.)]
In a former number of ST. NICHOLAS the largest circus in the world was described, and the curious animal actors were shown in many of their tricks and performances. We now wish to exhibit another circus, the smallest in the world, the performers in which, numbering several hundreds, could all be carried about in a cherry-stone--in fact, a circus of fleas, of such remarkable intelligence that in their various feats they were quite equal to many of the larger trained animals with which we are familiar.
But before showing what the flea can do, let us look at its antecedents. We know that it is a wingless fly,--a cousin to the house-flies on one side, and to the crane-flies on the other; and a more knightly-looking little creature you can not possibly imagine. Under the microscope we see it covered with a rich polished armor resembling tortoise-shell. The head is small, and supports two _antennæ_ or feelers, composed of five joints, and between these is the proboscis, a terrible affair. Upon close examination with a powerful glass, what an array of piercing and cutting blades are seen,--long, narrow, transparent knives, each edge armed with a double row of glistening points that extend outward and then are hooked backward! These are known as the mandibles, and fit closely together, concealing another and smaller blade that has a similar but single row of points. Besides all this, there are two cutting-blades; the under edges are as sharp as sharp can be, while the upper are thick and set with bristles. Do you wonder then that the flea is so sharp a biter?
On its armored head are two large eyes; and the entire body is seen to be made up of a series of elastic armor-like bands wonderfully jointed, and armed with bristling spines like the steel points on the armor of olden times. The legs are six in number, jointed in so remarkable a manner that they can be folded up one within another. When the flea makes its prodigious leaps, these six legs all unfold at once, hurling the little fellow high into the air.
The baby flea is produced from a minute egg that in six days hatches into a tiny worm. In about ten days, the worm changes into a chrysalis, and in twelve days more it appears a perfect flea, ready for warfare upon anything or anybody.
Who first discovered that the flea was susceptible to education and kind treatment is not known; but the fact remains that on their small heads there is a thinking-cap capable of accomplishing great results. In the selection of fleas for training, however, the same care must be taken as with human beings, as the greatest difference is found in them. Some are exceedingly apt scholars, while others never can learn, and so it is that great numbers of fleas are experimented with before a troupe is accepted. The Flea Circus here described was exhibited a few years ago and was composed of about two hundred of the most distinguished and intelligent fleas in the entire family.
One of the first lessons taught the flea, is to control its jumping powers, for if its great leaps should be taken in the middle of a performance, there would be a sudden ending to the circus. To insure against such a misfortune, the student flea is first placed in a glass phial, and encouraged to jump as much as possible. Every leap here made brings the polished head of the flea against the glass, hurling the insect back, and throwing it this way and that, until, after a long and sorry experience, and perhaps many head-aches, it makes up its mind never to unfold its legs suddenly again. When it has proved this by refusing to jump in the open air, the first and most important lesson is complete, and it joins the troupe, and is daily harnessed and trained, until, finally, it is pronounced ready to go on the stage or in the ring.
The famous Flea Circus was placed on an ordinary table, and resembled in size and shape a common dinner plate. A rim several inches high encircled the outer edge, and around the circle stood a number of small wooden boxes--the houses of the performers, and the stables for their carriages. The signal being given, the audience, consisting of one human being, would take in hand the large magnifying glass, hold it over the ring, and the performance would begin. At the word of command from the director, a very jolly, red-faced old gentleman, armed with a pair of pincers, a tiny trap-door in one of the wooden houses sprang open and a number of fleas filed out. They passed around the circle in a dignified manner, appearing through the glass about as large as wasps or bees. Each flea had a gold cord about its waist, and this was the grand entry always seen at the circus. Having completed the circuit, they returned to their quarters, and the performance proper commenced. Five fleas, each adorned with a different color, stepped from another house, and after running about here and there, and being admonished by the director, ranged themselves in a line, and at the word "go!" started on a rush around the circle; running into each other, rolling over and over, and making frantic leaps over one another. Only after half the course had been gone over, did they move in regular order, and strive fairly for the goal. In another moment, a large flea would have won the race had not two laggards almost at the last instant, as if made reckless by their evident risk of defeat, taken a desperate leap and landed far beyond the winning-post. Forthwith they were taken up in the pincers, and placed in solitary confinement in the glass phial, where it was supposed they had learned not to jump.
[Illustration: THE DANCE.]
A dance was next announced and at a signal from the manager there came tumbling out from the third house probably the most ludicrous band of performers ever witnessed. Each dancer was in full regalia, like the ladies who ride the padded horses in the regular circus, their dresses of tissue paper being ornamented with purple, gold, and red hues. The glass was placed in position, the spectator looked through it, the performers were lifted in by the pincers, and the dance began--a mixture of the Highland-fling, the sailor's hornpipe, and a "regular" break-down.
[Illustration: THE HURDLE-RACE.]
The little creatures bobbed up and down, now on one claw, now on all six, hopping, leaping, bowing, and scraping, moving forward and back, bumping into one another, now up, now down, until they seemed utterly exhausted, and several that had fallen down, and were kept by their voluminous skirts from getting up, had to be carried off by the aid of the ever-ready pincers.
Next came a hurdle-race. Hurdles of thin silver wire were arranged, over which two fleas were supposed to leap. One, however, was evidently very lazy or very cunning, as it won the last race by crawling under the wire.
A clown flea now appeared in the ring, and crawled about in a comical manner with a white clown's cap on its diminutive head. A moment later out came a number of fleas all harnessed with gold wire trappings, and the several vehicles were taken from the stables. There was a tally-ho coach, smaller than a very small pea, an Eskimo sled, about a quarter of an inch long, with wire runners, a trotting sulky, evidently made from hair or bristles, and other gorgeous equipages. The tally-ho team of four frantic fleas, evidently fiery steeds, was harnessed to the coach, and on the top were placed four phlegmatic fleas that had probably been booked as outsiders, while the insides were two others fleas, which, we are sorry to say, were obliged to get in through the window, and acted very much as if they wished to get out again. The other vehicles were each provided with a steed and rider, and then all were drawn up in a row. At the word of command, off they started pell-mell! The tally-ho leaders evidently jumped their traces at first, but finally they were off with a rush, running over the clown, knocking off his hat, and, for the moment, creating a dreadful panic. The sled team threw its driver, and the sulky ran away, the flea trotter actually leaping into the air, sulky and all. But order was soon restored, and as the track was arranged on the downhill principle, the racers made rapid time. In two minutes the circuit was completed, the tally-ho coming in ahead, without, however, its outside passengers, who were thrown off as the coach was rounding the curve, and at once crawled into the nearest place of refuge.
[Illustration: SIGNOR PULEX IRRITANICI ON THE TIGHT-ROPE.]
The last act of this wonderful circus was perhaps the best. The manager arranged the stage by placing two very fine entomological pins about four inches apart, connecting them by a slender silver wire, and then announced that Signor _Pulex Irritanici_, the world-renowned tight-rope performer, would attempt his wonderful feat of dancing upon the wire at a "dizzy height" (compared to the size of the performer). The Signor was then brought out in a small bottle of cut-glass; his only ornament was a little jacket of tissue-paper. When fished out and placed upon the pin-head, he boldly started out upon the wire over which his little clawed toes seemed to fit. In the middle, and over the terrific abyss, he balanced up and down for a second, stood upon his longest legs, and then moved on, crossing in safety, and thus ending the circus, at least for that occasion.
ROCK-A-BYE.
BY MARY N. PRESCOTT.
"Rock-a-bye, babies, upon the tree-top," To her young the mother-bird sings, "When the wind's still, the rocking will stop, And then you may all use your wings."
"Rock-a-bye, babies, under the eaves," The swallow croons to her brood, "Here you are safer, my children, from thieves Than if I had built in the wood."
"Rock-a-bye, babies, the river runs deep," The reed-bird trills to her flock, "The river stirs only to sing you to sleep, The wind your green cradle to rock!"
WHAT BERTIE SAW IN THE FLOWERS.
BY L. G. R.
[Illustration]
Buttercup! Buttercup! Hold your shining clusters up! In each little house of gold, What is this that I behold? Twenty soldiers, straight and slim, Golden-helmeted and prim. All day long so still they stand, Never turning head or hand; No one guesses where they stray In the moonlight nights of May. When the fairies are abroad, These small men keep watch and ward; Round the fairy ring they pace All night long, to guard the place; But when morning comes again, Back are all the little men.
KEEPING THE CREAM OF ONE'S READING.
BY MARGARET MEREDITH.
My plan dates from a few delightful weeks which I spent with a girl friend, long ago. We were devoted to poetry and to reading aloud; and in that occupation we had the aid of a brilliant, accomplished young woman. She selected for us from Coleridge, Shelley, and several other authors, whose entire works she knew we would not care to read, all the specially fine poems or passages, and these we read and discussed with her over our fancy-work. It was charming. At last, she suggested that, as I was soon to go away and leave the books and clippings with which I had been growing familiar, it would be helpful for me to write down the choicest bits, and try in that way to keep in some degree what I had gained. This I did, putting the extracts in a school copy-book which our friend dubbed "Snippers,"--from an odd seamstress word which she had picked up by chance.
Other "snipper" books followed when that one, years after, had been filled.
My system is an orderly one. All my books are broad-paged and wide-lined, thus preventing the cramped and crowded writing which often makes such books unreadable. When I find anything which strikes me as worth keeping, I note on a slip of paper, somewhat longer than the book I am reading, the number of the page and make a perpendicular line beneath it, with a cross line indicating the relative position of the sentence which I wish to keep, thus:
[Illustration: 23]
If the page is in columns, I make, instead of the single line, a rough parallelogram, and note within it by square dots the relative positions of the sentences chosen for preservation, thus:
[Illustration: 187]
This slip of paper I use as a book-mark until it is filled or the book is finished, noting upon it, as indicated, the choicest passages and their positions on the pages. When I have finished the book I go carefully over these selected sentences. Many are discarded; the rest go into my "snippers." Below the first entry and to the right, I place the name of the book and its author, both heavily underscored; below the others, the word "Ibid" or "ditto," underscored. At the top of each page I note the year, and at the head of each batch of extracts the month or day.
Paragraphs cut from newspapers, which are worth saving, are pasted as a fly-leaf to the inner edge of the page, or even slipped under the binding thread.
In carrying out my plan I am always content with hasty work,--but I write plainly, and if possible with ink, as much fingering destroys pencil-marks. I once tried classifying the extracts, but this scarcely paid for the trouble.
I used sometimes to wonder whether these books of selections were of any real value. But I have grown now to prize them greatly. Many a time I go to them for a dimly remembered phrase or passage. Sometimes, too, I read them over, for of course they give me the essence of what I most like and admire in my reading. A short time since I lent one to a literary friend, and was surprised to find she enjoyed it so greatly that she was almost unwilling to give it back.
I am very glad that I began this practice in my young days. It gives very little trouble, and that little is a pleasure.
There is a familiar expression about an "embarrassment of riches." This is the greatest disappointment I experience with my "snippers." For, occasionally, a book has too many good things in it to be easily copied, and then my only relief is to own it and, marking it vol. _X_, add it to my row of extract-books.
[Illustration: THE END]
WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.
BY HENRY ECKFORD.
THIRD PAPER.
Perhaps you have never given a thought to the fact that, because you were born into a nation using an alphabet that came down from the Phoenicians, you are saved a world of trouble. But consider the Chinese. If a Chinese boy and an American boy begin to learn their letters at the same time, each studying his own writing, then by the time the American is ten years old he has advanced as far in the use of letters as the Chinese boy will have advanced in the use of his when he is twenty years old. That is the same as saying that Chinese writing is three or four times as hard to learn as English. Think of spending the years between ten and twenty in learning to read! On the other hand, the long apprenticeship of Chinese and Japanese boys to their letters does them good in one way. They paint their letters with a brush on soft paper. By this means they learn very early to be skillful with the brush, which is one reason why Chinese and Japanese artists are so very dexterous with their brushes.
All writing, let it be remembered, must have begun with pictures. It is largely Chinese writing which has explained how all sorts of letters were gradually changed from pictures to an alphabet, in which hardly a single letter tells from what picture it started. The Japanese tongue is quite different from the Chinese. But the use by the Japanese of signs employed ages before by the Chinese explains another step in the progress of language. The writing of the Mexican Indians also helps us to understand the growth of alphabets. When, ages ago, the Chinese began to write, they drew little pictures of the things they wished to represent, as did the Egyptians before them in their picture-writing; and from picture-writing they made some advance in the direction of sound-writing, or rebuses. Then the little rebus-pictures were so much altered that it became very difficult to see what they once meant.
Now Chinese is a queer language. All its words are only one syllable long. But the sounds in the Chinese language are not very many, some four hundred and sixty-five at most, and their written language contains about eighty thousand pictures, each picture representing a thing or idea. And these pictures must be committed to memory. This is hard work, and not even the wisest Chinese professor can learn them all. But now comes a difficulty. For, of course, where there are so many words and so few sounds, many different words have to be called by the same sound. How then are they to tell, when several different things have exactly the same name which of them is meant?
[Illustration: REBUS-PICTURES FROM THE OLD CHINESE, SHOWING THE BEGINNINGS OF PICTURE-WRITING.
1. A Month. (From a picture of the moon.) 2. The Eye. 3. A Horse. 4. An Ax. 5. Rain. 6. Face. 7. A Dragon. 8. Bamboo. 9. Rhinoceros. 10. Dawn. (From the rising sun.)]
We have such words. For instance, there is Bill, the name of a boy; and bill, the beak of a bird; there is bill, an old weapon, and bill, a piece of money; there is bill, an article over which legislatures debate, and bill, a claim for payment of money; besides bills of exchange, bills of lading, and so forth. But Chinese is full of such words of a single syllable, _yen_, for instance, which, like bill, means many very different things. So they chose a number of little pictures, and agreed that these should be used as "keys." The Chinese "keys" were used like the Egyptian "determinative signs," of which I told you. Each "key" meant that the sign or signs near which it stood belonged to some large general set of things, like things of the vegetable, mineral, or animal kingdom, forests, mines, or seas, air, or water, or of persons, like gods or men. It was like the game called Throwing Light, in which you guess the article by narrowing down the field until certain what it is.
But there Chinese writing stopped short, thousands of years ago. There it is to-day. There are now two hundred and fourteen of these "keys," and, by intense application, Chinamen learn to use their method with surprising quickness and success.
The Japanese acted toward Chinese writing much as the Phoenicians did toward Egyptian writing. The Japanese, a very intelligent people, made what you have learned to know as a syllabary, out of signs taken from the Chinese symbols. It is called a syllabary, you remember, because each sign stood in their language for a syllable. They had to do this, because, while Chinese is all short syllables, Japanese is a language of much longer words even than ours. They cut down and simplified the Chinese signs, giving them names of their own. In this way they manage to write very swiftly. And, while not so clumsy as the Chinese fashion, the Japanese method is clumsier than is the use of an alphabet. In late years, a society has been started in Japan to do away altogether with their old-time writing, and adopt our alphabet.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.]
[Illustration: FIG. 2.]
Perhaps, by this time, you are beginning to see how very slowly alphabets have grown, and how hard it has been for human beings to perfect them. Knowing this, will you not look now with more interest on written and printed words? When you see letters, will you not reflect what a history each one has, reaching far back into the remotest past, where at first all seems dark, and where, when light does come, the very number and variety of materials perplex the student of alphabets? Moreover, will you not feel ashamed of people who laugh or sneer at savage nations who have no sound-writing, no syllabary, no alphabet? It does not mean that in such races all men are stupid. As a rule it means simply that the race has not had a fair chance. It has been racked by wars. Or it has never come in contact peacefully with some nation that used a method of writing a trifle better than its own, so that the brighter minds could establish schools of learning. When one nation conquers another, the higher and cleverer minds among the conquered are often the first to be destroyed. The best of our Indians of North and South America seem to have been the first to fall in battle with the whites, or to have died off because of their cruelty. The reason why the others, who lived with or near the white settlers, did not readily borrow our way of writing in their turn, as we had borrowed from the Romans, the Romans from the Greeks and Phoenicians, and the latter from the Egyptians, seems to be that our system was too far advanced for them. But if the first white settlers in Central and South America had been kind and wise men, instead of coarse and greedy people, they could have found tribes and nations almost as advanced in their mode of writing as the Japanese, though not the equals of the Japanese in architecture and the fine arts. These tribes could have learned our alphabet if care had been taken to instruct their superior men. It is certain that the Aztecs, or Mexican Indians, had advanced very far on the road to a true alphabet. When the cruel Spaniards arrived and upset their governments, destroyed their temples, massacred, enslaved and then shamefully neglected them, they had already reached the art of rebus-writing. The name of the Mexican King, Knife-Snake, or, Itz-Coatl was written in this way: Itzli means knives, and Coatl, snake. There, in Fig. 1, is the snake, and on his back are knives made of flint. They even went farther. The same name, Itz-Coatl, was also written as in Fig. 2. The flint-headed arrow means _Itz_; the jar, called _Comitl_, stands for _Co_; and the branch, a picture of water in drops, stands for _atl_, water. And it has been asserted that certain neighbors of the Aztecs or Mexicans, known as the Maya Indians of Yucatan, who were ancient people of Central America, left ruins of cities covering square miles of forest and plain, and had reached nearly if not quite to the invention of an alphabet of vowels and consonants. But the latest authorities agree that such a Maya alphabet as the Spaniards reported may have been invented after the whites arrived. Specimens of Maya writing may be seen in Washington, at the Smithsonian Institute, on slabs and on paper casts taken from their idols or statues of kings and priests. It was not by the Maya system, but by one of rebuses, that the old missionaries wrote what few books they composed for their unhappy Indian congregations. Only lately a book composed in picture-writing throughout, was printed for the Mikmak Indians of Newfoundland.
In the next paper we will endeavor to trace the road by which our English alphabet came down from the Phoenicians, that ancient folk of the palm-tree and the Red Sea, whose alphabet you saw in the first paper of this series.
The illustrations of this article are reproduced, by permission, from a notable French work on ancient Hieroglyphics by Prof. L. De Rosny, of Paris.
BUBBLE BOWLING
BY ADELIA B. BEARD.
"Nothing new in bubbles! Every one knows how to blow bubbles!" Of course they do, and yet, the game I am about to describe is an entirely new and a very interesting one.
When the game of Bubble Bowling was played for the first time, it furnished an evening's entertainment, not only for the children, but for grown people also; even a well known General and his staff, who graced the occasion with their presence, joined in the sport, and seemed to enjoy it equally with their youthful competitors. Loud was the chorus of "Bravo!" and merry the laugh of exultation when the pretty crystal ball passed safely through its goal; and sympathy was freely expressed in many an "Oh!" and "Too bad!" as the wayward bubble rolled gayly off toward the floor, or, reaching the goal, dashed itself against one of the stakes and instantly vanished into thin air.
Bubble parties are delightful, as most children know from experience, and it is unnecessary, therefore, to give a description of them here. I propose merely to introduce bubble bowling as a feature in these entertainments, which will furnish no end of amusement and jollity, and add increased enjoyment and variety to the programme.
The game should be played upon a long, narrow table, made simply of a board five feet long and eighteen inches wide, resting upon ordinary wooden "horses." On top of the table, and at a distance of twelve inches from one end, should be fastened in an upright position, two stakes twelve inches high; the space between the stakes should be eight inches, which will make each stand four inches from the nearest edge of the table. When finished, the table must be covered with some sort of woolen cloth; an old shawl or a breadth of colored flannel will answer the purpose excellently. Small holes must be cut at the right distance for the stakes to pass through. The cloth should be allowed to fall over the edge of the table, and must not be fastened down, as it will sometimes be necessary to remove it in order to let it dry. It will be found more convenient, therefore, to use two covers, if they can be provided, as there can then always be a dry cloth ready to replace the one that has become too damp. The bubbles are apt to stick when they come upon wet spots, and the bowling can be carried on in a much more lively manner if the course is kept dry. Each of the stakes forming the goal should be wound with bright ribbons of contrasting colors, entwined from the bottom up, and ending in a bow at the top. This bow can be secured in place by driving a small, or brass-headed tack through the ribbon into the top of the stake. If the rough pine legs of the table seem too unsightly, they can easily be painted. Or a curtain may be made of bright-colored cretonne,--any other material will do as well, provided the colors are pleasing,--and tucked around the edge of the table, so as to fall in folds to the floor. The illustration on this page shows the top of the table, when ready for the game.
[Illustration]
For an impromptu affair, a table can be made by placing a leaf of a dining-table across the backs of two chairs, and covering it with a shawl. The stakes can be held in an upright position by sticking them in the tubes of large spools. This sort of table the children can arrange themselves, and it answers the purpose very nicely. The other things to be provided for the game are a large bowl of strong soapsuds, made with common brown soap, and as many pipes as there are players.
The prizes for the winners of the game may consist of any trinkets or small articles that the fancy or taste of the hostess may suggest. Bubble Bowling can be played in two ways. The first method requires an even number of players, and these must be divided into two equal
## parties. This is easily accomplished by selecting two children for
captains, and allowing each captain to choose, alternately, a recruit for his party until the ranks are filled, or in other words, until all the children have been chosen; then, ranked by age, or in any other manner preferred, they form in line on either side of the table. A pipe is given to each child by the hostess, and they stand prepared for the contest. One of the captains first takes his place at the foot of the table, where he must remain while he is bowling, as a bubble passing between the stakes is not counted unless blown through the goal from the end of the table.
The bowl of soapsuds is placed upon a small stand by the side of the bowling-table, and the next in rank to the captain, belonging to same party, dips his pipe into the suds and blows a bubble, not too large, which he then tosses upon the table in front of the captain, who as first bowler, stands ready to blow the bubble on its course down through the goal. Three successive trials are allowed each player; the bubbles which break before the bowler has started them, are not counted.
The names of all the players, divided as they are into two parties, are written down on a slate or paper, and whenever a bubble is sent through the goal, a mark is set down opposite the name of the successful bowler.
When the captain has had his three trials, the captain on the other side becomes bowler, and the next in rank of his own party blows the bubbles for him. When this captain retires, the member of the opposite party, ranking next to the captain, takes the bowler's place and is assisted by the one whose name is next on the list of his own side; after him the player next to the captain on the other side; and so on until the last on the list has his turn, when the captain then becomes assistant and blows the bubbles.
The number of marks required for either side to win the game, must be decided by the number of players; if there are twenty,--ten players on each side,--thirty marks would be a good limit for the winning score.
When the game has been decided, a prize is given to that member of each party who has the greatest number of marks against his or her name showing that he or she has sent the bubble through the goal oftener than any player on the same side. Or, if preferred, prizes maybe given to every child belonging to the winning party.
The other way in which Bubble Bowling may be played is much simpler, and does not require an even number of players, as no sides are formed. Each bowler plays for himself, and is allowed five successive trials; if three bubbles out of the five be blown through the goal, the player is entitled to a prize. The child acting as assistant becomes the next bowler, and so on until the last in turn becomes bowler, when the one who began the game takes the place of assistant.
[Illustration]
THE KNICKERBOCKER BOY.
BY CAROLINE S. KING.
[Illustration]
I.
I'm a knickerbocker boy! See my coat and breeches! Cuffs and collar, pocket too-- Made with many stitches! I must have a watch and chain, A silk umbrella and a cane.-- No more kilts and skirts for me! I'm a big boy--don't you see?
II.
Knickerbockers! Knickerbockers! Give away my other clothes! Give away my horse with rockers; I want one that really goes. Two brisk, prancing goats will do; But I'd like a wagon too. No more chairs hitched up for me! I'm a big boy--don't you see?
THE BROWNIES ON ROLLER SKATES.
BY PALMER COX.
The Brownies planned at close of day To reach a town some miles away, Where roller skating, so 't was said, Of all amusements kept ahead.
Said one: "When deeper shadows fall We'll cross the river, find the hall, And learn the nature of the sport Of which we hear such good report."
[Illustration]
To reach the bridge that led to town, With eager steps they hastened down; But recent rains had caused a rise-- The stream was now a fearful size; The bridge was nearly swept away, Submerged in parts, and wet with spray.
But when the cunning Brownies get Their mind on some maneuver set, Nor wind nor flood, nor frost nor fire Can ever make the rogues retire.
Some walked the dripping logs with ease, While others crept on hands and knees With movements rather safe than fast, And inch by inch the danger passed.
Now, guided by the rumbling sound That told where skaters circled 'round, Through dimly lighted streets they flew, And close about the building drew.
Without delay the active band, By spouts and other means at hand, Of skill and daring furnished proof And gained possession of the roof; Then through the skylight viewed the show Presented by the crowds below.
[Illustration]
Said one: "While I survey that floor I'm filled with longing more and more, And discontent with me will bide Till 'round the rink I smoothly glide. At night I've ridden through the air, Where bats abide, and owls repair,
I've rolled in surf of ocean wide, And coasted down the mountain-side, And now to sweep around a hall On roller skates would crown it all."
"My plans," the leader answer made, "Are in my mind already laid.
Within an hour the folk below Will quit their sport and homeward go; Then will the time be ripe, indeed, For us to leave this roof with speed, And prove how well our toes and heels We may command when set on wheels."
When came the closing hour at last, And people from the rink had passed, The Brownies hurried down to find The roller skates they'd left behind.
[Illustration]
Then such a scene was there as few May ever have a chance to view. Some hardly circled 'round the place, Before they moved with ease and grace, And skated freely to and fro, Upon a single heel or toe. Some coats were torn beyond repair, By catches here and clutches there, When those who felt their faith give way, Grabbed right and left without delay; While some who strove a friend to aid, Upon the floor themselves were laid, To spread confusion there awhile, As large and larger grew the pile.
Some rose with fingers out of joint, Or black and blue at every point; And few but felt some portion sore, From introductions to the floor. But such mishaps were lost to sight, Amid the common wild delight,-- For little fuss do Brownies make O'er bump or bruise or even break.
And had that night been long as those That spread a shade o'er polar snows, The Brownies would have kept the floor, And never thought of sash or door.
But stars at length began to wane, And dawn came creeping through the pane; And, much against the will of all, The rogues were forced to leave the hall.
EASTER CAROL.
BY WM. E. ASHMALL.
I. Sing a - loud for Christ our King, Our lov - ing Sav - iour dear;
Let our hap - py voi - ces ring, To all the earth good cheer.
Al - le - lu - ia! Al - le - lu - ia! Al - le - lu - ia! A - men.
2 For He is risen up on high, From earth and dreary grave; Christ is risen! is our cry, He lives again to save. Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.
3 Sing aloud for Christ our King, For Christ, the Saviour, born; This carol ever we will sing, On this, our Easter morn. Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.
THE HANDIWORK OF SOME CLEVER SCHOOL-BOYS.
BY J. ABDON DONNEGAN.
The Fair of the American Institute held annually in New York, is chiefly a display from the various American trades showing improvement and advancement; here designers and inventors also present many novelties and useful inventions for public criticism and judgment.
One feature of the Fair of 1885 that attracted much attention and comment, was the novel and unique display of mechanical models designed and constructed by the boys of the third grade in Grammar-School, No. 57, one of the public schools of New York City. The work exhibited by these boys is peculiarly interesting and suggestive, and is an indication of what observant, thoughtful, and intelligent boys can devise and do when their tastes and natural inclinations are developed.
The boys' models were made at home, after class-hours, and on odd holidays during the six months previous to exhibition, and were primarily intended to illustrate the principles of the six mechanical powers,--the inclined plane, the lever, the wedge, the pulley, the wheel and axle, and the screw. When the American Institute Fair opened, an inclined railway, with its platform and cars; a miniature guillotine, with ready knife; a dumb-waiter in full working order; a derrick prepared to raise many weights; a pile-driver with its automatically dropped weight, the sound of which never failed to attract attention,--all these, with other models, occupied a space in Machinery Hall.
During the morning hours, curtains screened the models; in the afternoon the youthful exhibitors arrived and took special delight in showing the working of their designs. The pleasant hours spent there, the praise of visitors, and the recognition and commendation accorded by the press will be long remembered by the boys. At the closing of the Fair, the exhibit was awarded the Medal of Merit.
The illustrations on pages 548 and 550 show the models exhibited. Figure 1 represents an alcoholic furnace, illustrating the expansion of a brass rod by heat. A cylinder of tin, fifteen inches in height and five in diameter, is hinged to a base of wood and arranged so as to tilt to the left. A lever fifteen inches long opens and closes a damper; this lever (an umbrella rod) is inserted in a pivoted rod of wood two inches long, supported in a square frame made of an inch strip of tin bent twice at right angles and soldered to the cylinder.
A brass banner rod, seven inches long, also connects with this rod and, passing through an inch opening, is supported in the flame of an alcohol lamp and fastened on the opposite side by a tiny brass knob screwed on the protruding thread of the rod. A small pulley and weight steadies the motion of the lever.
The heat of the alcohol flame causes the brass rod to lengthen, and this in turn moves the lever which opens the damper; and the degree of expansion is indicated on a paper scale by a straw pointer attached to the rod of the damper. A coating of copper bronze was given to the cylinder. This model was made in part by Winfred C. Rhoades.
Figure 2 shows a forge made by William E. Tappae. A hand-bellows is mounted on a wooden base about ten by twenty-four inches in size, and is worked by a lever handle supported in a frame twenty-six inches in height. The bellows consists of two boards connected by flexible leather tacked to the edges. The upper board is stationary, and an inch central opening is covered on the inside by a two-inch flap of chamois fastened at one point, forming a valve.
As the handle is pushed up, the air rushes in, and when pulled down, the valve closes and the compressed air is forced through the metal nozzle to the glowing coals. The carved-wood anvil was stained black and the other parts were painted a bright vermilion.
Figure 3 explains one way of connecting levers, and their uses as a mechanical aid. The base is four by fifteen inches in size, and the pillars are respectively six and ten inches in height, and are firmly mortised and glued into the base. The upper lever is eighteen inches in length, and connects with the ten-inch lower lever.
The lead weights, sliding on the narrow edges of the levers, balance each other, and show how the heavy wagon of coal is balanced in the office by the weight on the scale-beam.
A wedge made of oak ten inches in height and five inches in width is indicated by Figure 4.
Figure 5 represents a diminutive pile-driver, twenty-eight inches in length, showing the plan and action of a large machine.
[Illustration: SIMPLE MECHANICAL APPARATUS MADE BY BOYS UNDER 14 YEARS OF AGE.
DRAWN BY J. ABDON DONNEGAN.
Fig. 1. FURNACE
Fig. 2. FORGE
Fig. 3. LEVER SCALES
Fig. 4. WEDGE
Fig. 5. PILE DRIVER
Fig. 6. SCREW PRESS
Fig. 7. INCLINED RAILWAY]
The two-pound drop-hammer falls a distance of twenty-two inches in the grooves of the vertical posts which are mortised and glued into the base, as are also the oblique braces to which are attached the bobbin, or axle, and crank, on which the cord is wound that raises the hammer. This hammer is a flat piece of iron having two pieces of wood, each four by two and one-half inches in size, cemented to it. A wire hook is attached just above, and the extended arm of the hook as the weight nears the top, meets a projecting pin, and slips the weight from the cord.
Figure 6 is the model of a wood-press useful in pressing flowers for an herbarium. The base and pressure board are each ten inches square, the supports eight inches in height, and a wooden screw connected with the upper board turns in the cross-piece. This and the models shown in the drawings numbered 3, 5, and 10 were made by Harry Stoecker.
Figure 7 represents the model of an inclined railway constructed upon the plan of the inclined railway actually in use between Hoboken and Jersey City Heights. A board forty-five inches in length and ten inches in width connects the terminal platforms of this model. The upper platform rests on a support thirty-three inches in height; to this support is attached an axle turned by a crank, on which are wound the reversed cords which connect with the ascending and descending platforms. These platforms are mounted on rollers and the cars while in motion are kept in a horizontal position. This model was constructed by Everett L. Thompson.
The same boy constructed also the model shown in Figure 8--a dumb-waiter with original arrangement of cords and pulleys. The frame is thirty-six inches in height, eleven inches in width, and five inches in depth. Inside, a carrier with shelves is raised by a cord passing over four pulleys, the action of which may be seen through glass slips fitted in grooves. To the end of a cord is attached a weight which balances the weight of the carrier and contents. The frame-work was stained a dark mahogany color, oiled and varnished.
Figure 9 represents a miniature guillotine as made by David W. Benedict. It was copied after one brought from France and exhibited at a well-known museum in New York City.
The frame is twenty-two inches in height, and the block to which is fastened the tin blade, falls through the grooves in the posts to the rest upon which lies the head of the criminal. The cord raising the block runs over the pulleys, and is wound on the cleat when not in use. A box beneath receives the head of the imaginary victim as it falls. The machine with the exception of the blade was painted in bright vermilion and varnished.
Figure 10 shows a small derrick constructed after a sketch of one used in the erection of the Madison Avenue bridge across the Harlem River. A mast of maple twenty-seven inches in length is mortised into an oak base, ten by twelve inches in size. A projecting arm, or jib, is fastened to the mast by a clasp of heavy tin. A cord and pulley keep the jib at a proper angle with the mast. The weight is hooked to a double pulley connected with the single pulley near the end of the jib; the cord, passing over a wheel in the mast and then passing downward, is wound upon the axle by turning the crank; a toothed wheel and ratchet stops the weight at the desired height. Neater pulleys than could be purchased were made by joining two wooden buttons and placing them in a whittled frame bound with piano-wire. The mast and jib were painted a dark blue and the base was polished and varnished.
Figure 11 shows a model of a foundry crane, much admired for its accuracy of design and finish. It was made by George Chase, of seasoned maple with iron and brass connections. A swinging jib is pivoted at the top to a brass plate screwed to the cross-piece of the frame, and turns on a steel pin fitted to a plate on the base. A carriage travels along the jib, being kept at the required distance by a cord passing over a wheel at the end of the jib. A cord attached to the carriage passes over a pulley connected with the weight, and also over the wheel of the carriage, to the wheel directing it to the axle, which is turned by a cog-wheel and pinion taken from an old clock.
The carrier of the elevator shown in Figure 12 is hoisted by a cord passing over a small iron pulley fixed to the cross-beam of the grooved posts, and thence to the spool, or axle turned by a crank.
A clock-spring attached to a square wooden rosette is shown by Figure 13.
Figure 14 represents a pump improvised by John B. Cartwright from an old mincing-machine.
A handle turns a series of spur-wheels, which in turn give a rapid motion to a twelve-inch walking-beam. To one end of this walking-beam is attached a piston-rod, with a soft rubber disk working in a brass cylinder five inches long and three and a half inches in diameter. Iron fittings, including two brass valves, one on each side, connect with the cylinder; an air-chamber is formed with a fitting and cap. The suction caused by the upward motion of the piston will draw water from a pail or cup through a rubber tube connected with the end fitting of the right-hand valve, then through the valve to the cylinder; the downward motion of the piston causes the water to pass through the left-hand valve to the receiving vessel, and the air-chamber tends to make the flow regular. Parts of the machine were painted blue and striped with gold bronze.
[Illustration: SIMPLE MECHANICAL APPARATUS MADE BY BOYS UNDER FOURTEEN YEARS OF AGE.--DRAWN BY J. ABDON DONNEGAN.
Fig. 8 A DUMB WAITER
Fig. 9. GUILLOTINE
Fig. 10. A DERRICK
Fig. 11. FOUNDRY CRANE
Fig. 12. BRICK & MORTAR ELEVATOR
Fig. 13. CLOCK SPRING
Fig. 14. FORCE PUMP
Fig. 15. SIMPLE SUN MAGIC LANTERN OR HELIOSTAT.
Fig. 15.A.
Fig. 16. ARC ELECTRIC LAMP]
By the removal of one pane of glass from a window facing south, the apparatus shown in Figure 15 may be used, like a magic lantern, to project transparencies, in a darkened room.
A pine board, fourteen inches square and one inch in thickness, has an opening in the middle to receive a wooden frame seven inches square, holding a six-inch cosmorama lens, having a focus of eighteen inches. A three-inch plano-convex lens having a focus of nine inches, mounted in a wooden frame, slides along a slit or opening in a board hinged to the inner side of the board which is cleated to the window.
A plate-glass mirror, eight by fifteen inches in size, is secured to a board hinged to a wooden rod, which can be turned from the inside, and is raised and lowered by a cord winding on a key. The mirror is lowered and inclined until the sunlight is reflected through the lenses, and then a circle of intense light, from ten to fifteen feet in diameter appears on the wall or screen. Both lenses will not cost more than two dollars, and the apparatus will most impressively illustrate experiments in light and sound.
An easily made electric lamp is shown by Figure 16. An Argand chimney is fastened to a wooden base, with the cement known as "Stratena," and
## partly filled with water. A cork coated with paraffine is placed inside
the chimney, and a rod of carbon twelve inches long and one-sixteenth of an inch in thickness being inserted in the cork, the upward pressure of the water on the cork causes the end of the carbon rod to come in slight contact with a thick rod of carbon which is fastened obliquely to a square piece of wood, cemented near the top of the chimney. A brass chip fastened to the wood keeps the thin rod of carbon in position, and when two copper wires connect the carbons with six to ten jars of a bichromate battery, a light appears where the two carbons meet. As the thin rod wastes away, the cork rises and keeps the end of the rod almost in contact with the other carbon point.
An ambition to creditably make a mechanical contrivance or apparatus is noticeably characteristic of many boys. The construction of an aquarium, a sailboat, or a telescope, or some similar object, is of absorbing interest to such lads; and the making of the electrical apparatus of straws, sealing-wax, etcetera, once described by Professor Tyndall, has merely tasked the ingenuity of thinking boys to improve upon the apparatus.
Many educators maintain that manual training of a pleasant character, adapted to the age of the pupils, should form an essential element in the education of boys and girls, and should be placed on a par with the regular studies. There is no doubt that such instruction stimulates ambition and tends to develop taste, skill, and natural invention. At the same time an insight into mechanical occupations, with some practical experience in the handling of tools, may assist a boy in choosing a calling suited to his taste, and better prepare him to enter some practical industry, if his choice should incline toward such an occupation.
A few years ago, manual training in modeling, wood-carving, carpentry, forge-work, and other branches, was introduced into a technical course in the College of the City of New York, in East Twenty-third street. To-day it is one of the most interesting features of the College work, and is highly appreciated by the students. Private schools in this city, as also some of the public and private schools of Boston and Philadelphia, have introduced the workshop into their methods of instruction, and devote a few hours in each week to practical and manual labor.
The models illustrated in this article represent many well spent and helpful hours of recreation, and other boys may find pleasure and profit in making similar use of their leisure time and their powers of handicraft.
A NEW VIEW OF THE MOON.
BY EVA LOVETT CARSON.
A little boy just two years old, Or maybe two months older, Came riding home across the lot, Perched on his father's shoulder.
"Look, Oswald! Hold your head up straight! (Do stop that dreadful drumming!) See, just above where Mamma stands A little moon is coming!"
The baby lifts his round blue eyes; The moon laughs at their glancing. To see the wonder of his gaze 'Most sets the moon a-dancing.
Frowning, he solved the problem soon; Indignantly he spoke it: "Papa, dat's not the big wound moon; I fink _somebody b'oke it_!"
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.
[Illustration]
Away--ho, away!--Let us off on a quest! To the North--to the South--to the East--to the West! To the West, to find where the sunsets go When the skies are as red as roses a-blow; To the East, to see whence the mornings come; To the South, the Summer to track to her home; To the North, by the gleam of the Polar Star, And Night's aurora flaming afar, To seek, in the keen and biting weather, The lodestone that holds the world together.
Now and then somebody writes out the very thoughts of the birds; and then again, others tell me very prettily just what they think ought to be felt by the tuneful-minded little creatures. Here, for instance, comes this scrap of verse from my friend Emily A. Braddock that I hope not only you children, but all of my birds will hear. I don't allude so much to the sparrows and such stay-at-homes as to my migratory, or go-away birds. I'm sure they'd be delighted at a poet's way of putting things. It will give them something to go for. As for myself, I've not started yet, so we'll proceed to discuss a certain odd saying for which it seems the world is indebted to one sort of these migratory birds:
"EVERYTHING IS LOVELY, AND THE GOOSE HANGS HIGH."
This expression, the Little School-ma'am says, is a corruption of an old-fashioned saying that originated in the early days of this country.
As most of you know, wild geese, when they migrate in autumn, form themselves into lines shaped like the letter V, the leader flying at the point, the two lines following; and as they sail away, far above the trees, and beyond all danger from guns--on those cold mornings when the air is clear, and the sky beautifully blue--they seem full of glee, and join in a chorus, "_Honk, honk, honk!_"
Any one who has heard those curiously sounding notes, the Little School-ma'am says, never could mistake them for anything else. And the folks on the earth below who heard the birds' wild call, in old times, realized the happiness of the winged creatures in being so high and safe. And so it became quite natural, when two persons met each other under peculiarly favorable circumstances for this or that enterprise, for them to say: "Everything is lovely and the goose honks high!"
GIRLS! TO THE RESCUE!
Before we leave our dear birds, moreover, I have a special message for you this month in their behalf:
"You must not forget, friend Jack," says the Deacon, "to give the boys and girls, especially the girls, my May-time sermon about the Audubon Society."
Forget it? Not I, indeed! Nor would you, if you could have seen the honest and hearty indignation of the good Deacon and the Little School-ma'am, as he read to her a printed circular telling all about the monstrous wrong which the Audubon Society has nobly begun to fight. You must know, dear girls, that this "monstrous wrong" is the custom of wearing feathers and skins of birds on your hats and dresses. As I am an honest Jack, I don't see how girls and their mammas, who, as everybody knows, are supposed to have hearts more tender than men or boys, could ever have been induced to follow so abominable a fashion. "Abominable" is rather a strong word, I suppose; but it is the very one which the good Deacon used when he read the printed slip. And the Little School-ma'am--bless her!--actually gave a nod of satisfaction when she heard it. As for me, no word would be too strong to express my feelings on the subject.
But I'll be content now with giving you what the Deacon calls "two plain facts" about this fashion, and letting them speak for themselves. "You must know then," says the Deacon, "that a single collector of ornamental feathers in this country has declared that he handles every year about _thirty thousand_ bird-skins, almost all of which are used for millinery purposes; and that another man collected from the shooters in one small district within four months, about _seventy thousand_ birds!
"Now, Jack," adds the Deacon, "tell your young hearers to ask themselves and their parents, whether this slaughter shall continue? The Audubon Society says 'no!' Its membership is free to every one who is willing to lend a helping hand to its objects. And its objects are to prevent as far as possible, first, the killing of any wild birds not used for food; second, the destruction of nests or eggs of wild birds; and third, the wearing of feathers as ornaments or trimmings for dress. And certainly women and girls can do much, in fact everything, for this third object."
All the older readers of ST. NICHOLAS will remember the army of bird-defenders which it established years ago. The Deacon says that there is a call for a new army, and all that you need do to join it, my girls, is to refuse to wear feathers on your hats or dresses. If all the women and girls who now follow that cruel fashion would but abandon it, the needless slaughter of the birds would soon be at an end.
ABOUT LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.
"FELIXSTOW," BRIGHTWOOD (NEAR WASHINGTON).
DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: I am a little boy just six years old. I live in the country about six miles from Washington. I am very much interested in reading "Little Lord Fauntleroy," because Mrs. Burnett, the lady who wrote it, was out at our house last spring, and told us the story, and I want to see if she changed it before she put it in the book. I tell you, her own little boys, Lionel and Vivian, are nice fellows to play with! I have a nice pony named Joe, lots of chickens, a dog, and two cats, but I like digging in the ground most. I raised a lot of pop-corn last year. Somebody is writing this for me, but I am telling him what to write. My little brother Paul bothers me considerably when I want to make things.
Good bye, dear Jack; you are a nice fellow. Your friend,
FELIX RENOUF HOLT.
"Felix is not alone," says the Little School-ma'am, "in his admiration for Little Lord Fauntleroy. The children of the Red School House all are charmed with his lordship, and for myself I consider him one of the very sweetest and noblest little boys in English literature."
FISHING FOR NECKLACES.
According to my friend, Ernest Ingersoll, a large proportion of the red coral used by jewelers in making ornaments comes from the Mediterranean coast of Algeria, where it is gathered chiefly by an ingenious machine. Nets, the meshes of which are loose, are hung on the bars of a cross, and dragged at the bottom of the sea among the nooks and crevices of the rocks. These nets, winding about the branches of the coralline growth, break off its branches, which adhere to the meshes. When he thinks it is laden, the fisherman draws the net to the surface and helps himself to the coral. This is sold in various markets, and afterward worked into ornaments, necklaces, bracelets, and other pretty articles for girls and their mammas.
A SUGGESTION TO THE BOTTLED FISH.
READING, MASS.,
DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: I read in the February number about the bottled fish. I think it is very queer. In "Grimm's Fairy Tales" there is a story about a fox that crept into a hole where there was something to eat. After he ate it he grew so fat that he could not get out, and he stayed there till the farmer found him and killed him. I suppose it was the same way with the fish, only he fed on oysters, and as I think there are no farmers at the bottom of the sea, he stayed there till he was drawn up. If I had been that fish, I would have starved myself till I was thin enough to get out. I have taken St. Nicholas since I was two years old, and my mamma says she brought me up on it, so you see I have been well brought up.
I remain yours truly,
E. S. K. PACKARD.
THE NEWSPAPER PLANT.
You are to be told in this month's ST. NICHOLAS, I hear, about a curious "lace-leaf," a "vegetable necktie," and a "caricature plant." If so, this is a good time for me to show you a curiosity called the newspaper plant, which the Little School-ma'am described the other day to the young folk of the Red School House.
It seems that in certain far-away countries called New Mexico and Arizona, there are great tracts of desolate desert lands, where the very hills seem destitute of life and beauty, and where the earth is shriveled from centuries of terrible heat. And in these desert-tracts grow a curious, misshapen, grotesque and twisted plant that seems more like a goblin tree than a real one.
Of all the trees in the world, you would imagine this to be the most outcast and worthless--so meager a living does it obtain from the waste of sand and gravel in which it grows. And yet this goblin tree is now being sought after and utilized in one of the world's greatest industries--an industry that affects the daily needs of civilization, and is of especial importance to every girl and boy who reads the pages of ST. NICHOLAS.
Those wise folk, the botanists, call our goblin tree by its odd Indian name of the "Yucca" palm.
[Illustration: THE YUCCA PALM.]
This plant of the desert for a long time was considered valueless. But not long ago it was discovered that the fiber of the Yucca could be made into an excellent paper.[E] And now one of the great English dailies, the London _Telegraph_, is printed upon paper made from this goblin tree. Indeed, the _Telegraph_ has purchased a large plantation in Arizona, merely for the purpose of cultivating this tree, and manufacturing paper from it. So, you see, the Yucca is now a newspaper plant.
ONE MORE LIVING BAROMETER.
DEAR JACK: As you have told us so much about living barometers, I want to tell you that I have one. Mine is a red squirrel. Just before a "cold snap" she will be surly and sleepy. When she is angry, she will spread her lower teeth apart. She will play like a kitten. I call her Gipsy, and she is my chief pet.
Your constant reader,
M. M. M.
[Footnote E: For an article describing the manufacture of paper, see ST. NICHOLAS for August, 1884, page 808.]
EDITORIAL NOTES.
In a note which accompanied the article in our present number, "When Shakspere was a Boy," Miss Kingsley desires us to state that she owes much valuable information about charms (mentioned on page 488), and also about Shaksperean games and customs, to Mr. Richard Savage, of the Shakspere Birthplace Museum, Stratford-on-Avon.
* * * * *
In his story of "The Great Snow-ball Fight," printed in our March number, Mr. Barnard showed how some boys put out the fire in the Widow Lawson's house, by snow-balling it. This may have appeared to some readers almost impossible, but it was based upon an actual occurrence. And an instance of that mode of at least preventing a fire, was recorded in the New York papers of February 11th. It appears in an account of the burning of the stables of the Meadow Brook Hunt Club, at Hempstead, Long Island. "No modern appliance for extinguishing fire was at hand," says one journal, "but there was plenty of snow, and this was banked up about the adjoining stables, and undoubtedly saved them from being burned. Whenever sparks from the burning building fell on the adjacent barns, they were quickly extinguished by well-directed snow-balls thrown upon them."
THE LETTER-BOX.
CONCORD, N. H.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Lena and I play dolls very often, but the latest game we play is throwing cards into a hat placed on the floor about six feet away. Lena put in thirty-two out of fifty-two. If you have room enough to print this in your Letter-box, I should like to read it.
Yours truly,
RUTH A. M.
That is a very nice game, Ruth, although six feet seems a long distance for a small girl to toss the cards. We have seen grown folk try the game at four feet, and then several of them could not put one in twenty into the hat; so Lena's score of thirty-two out of fifty-two is a fine one. The game can be played with any kind of cards, and with sides or by individuals. The largest number of cards thrown into the hat, either by one person or by a side, makes the winning score. If played by sides, not more than twenty cards should be used, and each side should play five rounds, thus making one hundred the highest possible score for any player.
* * * * *
MIDDLETOWN, CONN.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am anxious to have the March number come, so that I can see how Little Lord Fauntleroy's grandfather treats him. That serial story I enjoy very much. I go to a private girls' school in the morning, and study German in the afternoon with my mother.
With much love I am your faithful reader,
HELEN W. A.
* * * * *
PROVIDENCE, R. I.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: This is the first time that I have written to you.
I have a funny story to tell about a mouse. My canary bird used to hang up in our nursery-window on a chain. Sometimes in the evening or night, we would hear mice running around, and in the morning we would find that some of the seed was gone. Mamma thought it was a mouse, but _we_ did not think so. Papa had been trying to catch them in a trap, but did not catch many. We then thought that we would try another way. So Papa took the cage down and put a pail of water on the chain, and when the little mouse went up the chain, as he used to do, instead of going in the cage, he went in the pail of water and was drowned. This is a true story. I am eleven years old. Good-bye.
am your constant reader,
B. G. H.
* * * * *
CARRINGTON, DAKOTA.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: You do not know me at all, but I know you and love you so much! When you were brought to me this morning I almost kissed your bright face for joy. It was stormy this morning, and I was tired playing with kitty; besides that I had been waiting so long to read some more about Little Lord Fauntleroy! He is such a brave, wise little boy! Will you ask Mrs. Burnett to please not make him unhappy with his grandfather? Ever since we had our Christmas entertainment, I have wanted to tell you about it, but have been too sick to write you. We called it "An Evening with Mother Goose and the Brownies." Yes,--we had all the cute little boys in Carrington dressed up like Brownies. They did mischief very nicely, all quietly in their stocking-feet. While Mother Goose was singing her melodies, they came and stole away her goose, and they pelted Mother Hubbard with paper balls when she sang that song in the ST. NICHOLAS: "I had an Educated Pug." In the tableaux, they tripped up Jack and Jill, upset Blue-beard, stole Jack Horner's plum, overturned the bachelor's wheelbarrow, little wife and all, let the spider down from a tree on little Miss Muffett, and tied Bo-peep's sheep-tails to a tree, and woke her up with their baa's. Then we had "The House that Jack built," just like it is in the ST. NICHOLAS, for Nov. 1883. It was just splendid, and so funny; but when the rat was to come out of "The House that Jack built," the cat had put his foot on the string and it broke, so the cat couldn't come out. Then the maiden all forlorn picked up the rat, threw it at the cat, and everybody just roared!
I am nine years old, and my name is,
THEODORA C.
* * * * *
NEW HARTFORD, IOWA.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I believe the little girls that take the ST. NICHOLAS will like to hear about my numerous paper dolls. I have a whole town of them, and they all have their names written on their backs. I was so interested in "The Firm of Big Brain, Little Brain & Co." After I read it, I kept thinking what my "Big Brain" was telegraphing. Well, my big brain telegraphs to my hand, that if it writes any more, the letter will be too long to print. So good-bye. I am
One of your many friends,
GRACE C.
* * * * *
WOODLAND, CAL.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I think you are the nicest magazine in the whole world. I think "Little Lord Fauntleroy" is a beautiful story. It seems so real. Cedric reminds me of my little cousin Birdie (that is his pet name). One day his aunt (who is an artist) asked him if he did not want her to paint him. He said: "I had rather be as I are." He is nearly four years old. I live on a vineyard of 160 acres.
Your faithful reader,
LILLIAN H.
* * * * *
FORT ASSINABOINE, MON.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I commenced taking your paper five months ago, and I think "Little Lord Fauntleroy" is the best story I ever read.
We have plenty of skating here, and fifty ponies to ride.
Another boy is writing a letter to you too. We live 200 miles from Helena and we have to go in a stage or wait till the river opens.
We only have to go to school in the morning, and we play all the rest of the day.
Yours truly,
S. F. P.
* * * * *
BROOKLYN, N. Y., 1886.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I thought that I would send you a letter at last. I will tell you about our washwoman and me. I have something the matter with my knee, and so I have to stay in the house. Well, our washwoman and I were having some fun. I was at the back parlor window, and the washwoman was down in the back yard hanging up the clothes, and I got a snow-ball and threw it at her, and you ought to have seen her! She looked up and down and could not see anybody, and after a while she saw me, and then, the way she looked! She said: "I will give it to you!"
Yours truly,
FRANK T.
* * * * *
EVERETT, MASS.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken you for a year and I could not do without you. Every month you gladden our home with your beautiful pictures, interesting stories, and pretty bits of poetry.
I think "Little Lord Fauntleroy" is a splendid story. I must not forget to mention the "Brownies." What busy little workers they are! I have one pet, a beautiful linnet. Her name is Daisy. She is a very sweet singer.
I remain, your constant reader,
MAY F.
* * * * *
KINGSTON, INDIANA.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I do not see many letters from Indiana in your Letter-box. I would not do without you for ten dollars a year.
I like your Natural History. I have several books on Natural History.
Last year I wanted you so badly that Papa said I must earn the money myself. I had enough, lacking fifty cents. We had an oyster supper here, and papa gave me fifty cents to spend; so I did without oysters and took you. I am thirteen years old.
Yours sincerely,
ART. R.
* * * * *
MT. AUBURN, CINCINNATI, O.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I like your stories very much. I am a boy seven years old. I do not go to school, but Mamma teaches me with two little girls. I had a lovely Christmas. I got a locomotive, a sword, a scarf, a marble game, a rolling-pin, a box to keep my pens and pencils in, and some cards and books for Christmas. I think you are the best book I ever read. This is the first year I began to take you. I like the "Brownies" best. Tell Mr. Palmer Cox to put "Brownies" in every ST. NICHOLAS. Please don't forget to print my letter, for I have written it all myself, and spelled it without any help.
I had two kittys, and their names were Mitten and Topsy. We gave away Mitten and kept Topsy, but after a while we lost Topsy, and then we found another kitty, but she ran away. I am sorry they went away, for I love kittys. Good-bye, dear ST. NICHOLAS, I am so glad it is most time for you to come again. Please don't forget to print my letter, for I love you so much!
Your loving friend,
RALPH B. R.
* * * * *
LEWISBURG, W. VA.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have just finished reading the February number, and I think that "Little Lord Fauntleroy" and "George Washington" are splendid! I am a little girl ten years old. Have taken you for four years.
I have ever so many uncles and aunts. One of my aunts sends you to me.
Your loving reader,
DOTTIE M.
* * * * *
WYOMING, DEL.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have never written to you before, but I love to read the letters others have sent you. You have been coming to our house nearly three years, and we all look anxiously for the 26th of the month, when you are due. You are my own book. I pay for you with money I have earned myself. My little sister wonders whenever she sees ST. NICHOLAS what the Brownies are doing in it. Mamma is much interested in "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and we like it too, and all the rest of your stories, but especially "The Gilded Boy of Florence," because we know the man who wrote it and have heard him preach. He says all he wrote in that story is true. Good-bye.
Ever your faithful reader,
C. LIZZIE B.
* * * * *
LONDON, ENGLAND.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am an American girl who left New York four years ago, during which time I have been a constant reader of ST. NICHOLAS. My school friends who read English all want it also. You have been forwarded to me from London as far as Turkey and Egypt. And so, if you can only spare a few minutes, I would like to tell you about the pyramids and the sphinx.
From Shepherd's Hotel, Cairo, it is a beautiful drive of seven miles through an archway of large trees by the side of the Nile. There are several pyramids. The chief one is said to be 463 feet high, and one would think the top would be very small; but you will no doubt be surprised to hear that the Khedive gave a dinner to twenty-four guests upon the top of a pyramid. The dinner was served in the usual manner by Arab waiters; the gentlemen walked up, while the ladies were carried up in chairs. The pyramids are built like stairs,--one stone on top the other, with only an edge for a foothold.
Many tourists try to climb the structure, which is very fatiguing work. We gave an expert Arab fifty cents to do it in ten minutes; he went up in six minutes and down in four minutes. From the pyramid to the sphinx is quite a little walk through thick sand; and the Sphinx is so big you can hardly see it all at once. The English soldiers knocked off some of its right hand and all its nose. It is cut from a solid rock and looks as black as iron. The Egyptian postage stamps have pictures of both the pyramid and the sphinx. The temple dedicated to the sphinx lies in ruins here, but the remains are very beautiful, being nearly all of alabaster; and in the cellar they have just discovered an image, which is so immense they can't get it out from the place where it has lain so many hundred years. Some time I will write a letter about the Holy Land, as I lived there two months. I hope you will print my letter; it is my first attempt, and I am fourteen years old. Your March number will find me at Alexandria, for I take the Beyrouth steamer next week. I hope, dear ST. NICHOLAS, your Egyptian friend has not tired you, and I also hope this may find a place in your Letter-box.
Your loving Egyptian friend,
MAUD STANLEY F.
* * * * *
MOHEGAN LAKE, N. Y.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I send you this letter, a true story about a fish-hawk.
It was in the middle of April, 1883. A man who was rowing on one of those lakes east of the Highlands, in the northern part of Westchester County, espied a large fish-hawk sitting on a dead limb near the water. The man, having his gun with him, rowed over toward the hawk, and when in range fired at him flying. The wounded bird fell, hit on the outer joint of the left wing. With the help of his companion the man managed to bring him home. In less than a week, the boy of the house fed him with fish out of his own hands, and the hawk did not attempt to claw him. One day the boy wanted to see how many pounds of fish the hawk would eat. He caught seven suckers weighing a pound and a half each. The hawk ate six, one after another, and took the seventh, but refused to eat it until half an hour afterward. What an enormous appetite he had! Later on in the summer, the boy would take him to the water to wash. He did it just as a canary does in his china bath. The boy would take him and put him on the side of the boat and row him around, and the hawk would sit there, taking in everything, as well as the summer visitors, who were taking him in. The hawk was so tame that his keeper could smooth his head and chuck him under his beak and the hawk would only flop his wings and whistle when the boy turned, as though delighted with what the boy did. This creature measured five feet eleven inches from tip to tip of the wings, and came to his death in October of the same year, by getting caught in the string by which he was fastened, greatly to the sorrow of his keeper who cared for him. The bird is now stuffed and in a friend's room in New York City.
Yours truly,
S. F. K. E. G.
* * * * *
CINCINNATI, O.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I thought I would write to you to say what so many of the other girls and boys who take you have already said: "That I love every one of your stories and can hardly wait until the 25th of the month comes, to read you." I have taken you two years and would not be without you one single month. I live in the dirty city of Cincinnati, but I have a great deal of fun any way.
We have had two snowstorms this winter, but by the time the snow has lain on the ground three or four days it is so black that I actually believe that people who come from the country would not know it was snow unless they were told.
I will now close, hoping to have the pleasure of seeing this letter printed.
I remain, your constant reader,
GRACE S. C.
P. S. I forgot to say I was thirteen years old and have a brother nine years old, who thinks the ST. NICHOLAS "a dandy," as he expresses it.
* * * * *
MORE ABOUT CURVE-PITCHING.
LINCOLN CO., NEB.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: The two letters in the February number on "curve-pitching," I was very glad to see. It was during my college-days that the "curve" made its appearance, and it was for some time a matter of much interesting discussion among us. I was not much of a base-ball man, but I saw a good deal of curve-pitching, and occasionally threw some rather wild "curves" myself in an amateurish way. We budding physicists discussed the why and wherefore of the problem, but never arrived at any satisfactory solution. The same explanation which is given in the second letter of your February number suggested itself to me at the time, and I was quite satisfied with it until I discovered that it did not accord with the facts of the case. It is a beautiful theory, but, like some other theories, it doesn't work.
According to the theory, as shown by your correspondent, the ball rotating (as indicated by his diagram which he gives), against the hands of the watch should curve to the right, producing the _in_ curve. But the fact is, that a ball so rotating will curve to the left--the _out_ curve. And a ball rotating in a contrary direction, _i. e._, so that points on its forward side are moving to the right, will curve to the right--the _in_ curve. In both cases the axis of rotation is vertical, so that the motions of the ball may be well illustrated by a spinning-top, as is shown in the first letter by A. D. S. But the case of a rifle-ball in motion does not seem to me to be parallel with that of a base-ball under normal conditions. A rifle-ball is given a rotation about an axis parallel to and coincident with its line of flight, just as an arrow rotates on its shaft. Now, none of the curves of a base-ball are produced with the axis of rotation in this position. In the _in_ and _out_ curves, as already said, the axis of rotation is vertical; while the _rise_ and _drop_ are produced by rotating the ball about a horizontal axis perpendicular to the line of flight. In _all_ cases the axis of rotation _must_ be at right angles to the line of flight, and the more accurately this condition is complied with, the more marked the effect. My knowledge of the subject is too slight to warrant me in asserting that the curving of the rifle-ball and that of the base-ball do not depend on the same principle, but it does not seem to me that the two are identical, for the above reasons.
I have no theory to offer, but trust that among the readers of ST. NICHOLAS some may be found who have penetrated to the "true inwardness" of this interesting problem, and will give us a complete and scientific explanation of it.
Yours truly,
H. H. H.
* * * * *
BEVERLY, OHIO.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have read with considerable interest the letters in ST. NICHOLAS for February concerning curve-pitching. I am a boy who takes great interest in base-ball, and have many times pitched curves. I have seen persons, and see them yet, who firmly maintain that a ball cannot be curved, even when they have ocular demonstration of the fact. But that has nothing to do with what I have to say. I have studied the diagram of my anonymous friend, and am convinced that he is exactly wrong. With the following diagrams I shall show which way a ball curves with a given rotation, and give my theory of the curve:
[Illustration]
Suppose, as in the letter published, the ball moves one hundred feet per second, and revolves so that the equator moves around at the same rate. Then, in the first diagram, the friction at B is greatest, and at D is 0. But instead of curving as my anonymous friend demonstrates, it will curve in exactly the _opposite_ direction; namely, in the same direction in which it rotates.
I have appended diagram 2, simply to show the curve where the friction is 0 at B and greatest at D. Then it will curve as indicated.
I have a short theory, namely: In the first diagram, the more rapid movement of B compresses the air on that side, while at D it is in its normal state. Hence the pressure at B more than counterbalances that at D, and, as it were, shoves the ball in the direction of the side D, thus producing the curve. In the 2d diagram, the letters B and D interchange in the theory. I would like to hear more about this subject.
Very respectfully yours,
F. C. J.
* * * * *
BIRMINGHAM, MICH.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have read with great interest the articles in the October, December, and February numbers, about curve-pitching. I have had quite a good deal of experience in the "one,-two,-three,-and-out" line myself, and have also, for the last two or three years, been able to make others have the same experience, by putting them out, in the same way. Therefore, I venture a reply to the explanation in the February number, backing my statement by the experience of many eminent curve-pitchers, and also by the story in the October number of "How Science Won the Game."
[Illustration]
The above diagram is the same as your correspondent uses, and he asserts that the point B is moving faster than D; consequently, there is more friction at B, whence B is retarded more than D, and so the ball will curve toward W in the path of the dotted line. Now, if he will look in the story of "How Science Won the Game," where the base-ball editor shows the boys how to hold and how to throw the ball to make the different curves, he will find that when he throws the ball so that it whirls as shown in diagram, it will curve toward P, a direction entirely opposite from the one he designates. And any curve-pitcher will tell him the same. When I first read his explanation, I thought it was all right, for it looks quite reasonable, but upon second thoughts, I saw it was wrong, and to make sure, I took a ball and tried it. The only way I can get around his explanation (aside from actual fact) is this: The point B, as he clearly shows, is moving faster than D, and so the ball, if the friction of the air is taken away, will naturally curve toward the side D or point P. Now, the question is, Will the friction of the air be enough greater on the side B to overcome the difference in the motions of the two sides? If it is, the ball must move in a straight line, but as it curves toward the side D, we must conclude that it is not, and that the friction of the air tends more to hinder than to help the ball to curve. I really believe that if it could be tried, a person could make a ball curve in a vacuum more easily than we can make it curve in the air. Trusting to hear more upon this subject, I remain, sincerely yours,
"A CURVER."
* * * * *
FREMONT, NEB.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have never written to you before, but I think perhaps you will publish this one letter. I hope you will publish it, as I have never yet had anything of mine published.
I like the story entitled, "How Science Won the Game." Although I am but thirteen years old I think I can pitch a curve. I go to the Fremont Normal School and like it very much.
I am going to have the 1884 and 1885 ST. NICHOLAS bound next week. I think you have a very entertaining magazine, and I think the pictures are very nice. I have the magazine for a Christmas present every year. I have taken ST. NICHOLAS three years and I hope I may always take it.
Papa says he doesn't think you will publish this, but I think you will.
Yours truly,
EDDIE H. B.
* * * * *
AYER, MASS.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: As so many of your readers have written to you, I thought I would write too, that I might have the pleasure of seeing my letter in print.
I have taken you a year and have fallen greatly in love with your delightful pages.
I think "How Science Won the Game" is a lovely story; I felt much interested in it, for last summer the girls of my age who lived here got up a base-ball nine. In time, we played very nicely and enjoyed the fun. The readers of the Letter-box may think this a funny game for girls to play, but we liked it and found it very good exercise.
I am fifteen years old; I have a little dog, his name is Teddie; he is a very good little dog, but I pity the cat that gets in his way.
I like to read "From Bach to Wagner," as I enjoy reading of different composers.
Your true reader,
RUTH F.
* * * * *
We heartily thank the young friends whose names here follow, for pleasant letters received from them: Kate Ethel C., John Myers, Sadie B. Crane, G. M. F., Jamie H., Walter J. Cohen, Stuart L. Martin, George Williams, Eddie L. Goodman, Violette T. Haines, Lillie M. Grubbs, Freda Nicolai, Eva Wilkins, Miriam Ferry, Hortie O'Meara, Anna Ross, Clara Louise Whitney, Constance and Richard Bigelow, E. R. B., J. H. B., Mary and Gussie, Jessie Hiltner, Alberta Stout, Willis Dunning, Nellie E. Stebbins, Marion R. Brown, A. W. Smith, Josie and May, Kate G., Hallie H. Haines, Johnny B. S., Daisy, Gertie Beidler, Mary M. C., Charles L. Baldwin, Kitty Clover, Alice Olney, Emil Harrington, Katie M. Cathcart, Arthur F. B., Agnes Hanks, Elizabeth K. Stewart, Wade W. Thayer, Brooks Upham, Rosalie, Mamie Eells, Florence Lanty, Frank Dearstyne, Vera Wheeler, Nellie McN. Suydam, Elizabeth B. Grumball, Ida Cameron, Ethel Marion Walker, Fawn Evans, Alfa P. Tyrrell, H. and A. V. P., G. P. S., Clara Moore, F. W. S., Portia, Nellie T., Eva R., Norine, Anna M. Lister, Blanche E. Ives, Mary Hicks, "Dolly Varden," Nora T. C., Natie P. Thompson, Daniel McPhail, Mary E. Seavey, Storrs E. E., H. C. J., Edith B., Kittie E. Fogarty, Frank Carman, Ruth A., C. H. M., Richard D. Bennett, Anne Grey Millett, Addie Rockwell, Laura Smith, Paula Goetz, Katie S. Denholm, Carl M. Ruhlen, Thomas McKeone, W. C. T., Marion Loomis, Alice E. Bogert, Gertrude E. S., Julian Granbery, B. M. S., Edward P. Irwin, "The Five Friends," T. L., Kate B. Tilley, Irene S. Duer, Violet Scath, Florence M. Wickes, E. W. B., May Delany, and Bertha Sweet.
THE AGASSIZ ASSOCIATION
SIXTY-FIRST REPORT.
AN ENGRAVED CHARTER FOR FRAMING.
Our attention has been called to the fact that heretofore we have sent to our Chapters no charters, or certificates, suitable for framing.
To remedy this deficiency, we have engaged one of the leading firms of New-York City to design a very beautiful A. A. Charter, to be handsomely engraved on bond or parchment paper. The size of the charter will be about 12 × 18 inches or larger.
At the top is drawn an open ST. NICHOLAS, showing on one page Prof. Agassiz's portrait, and on the other, representations of the animal and vegetable kingdoms.
Above the magazine is our badge, the Swiss Cross; and below is the motto, _Per Naturam ad Deum_. Then follows the certificate proper, handsomely ornamented, bearing the name of the founder of the Chapter, the name, number, and letter of the same, and signed with the autograph of the President of the A. A. Of course the first two hundred impressions--or artist's proofs--are the finest. Many members are so pleased with them that they wish to secure copies for their individual possession.
THE CLASS IN MINERALOGY.
None of the courses of study we have ever had the pleasure of offering to our friends, has had the magnificent success which is attending Prof. Crosby's class in mineralogy. At this writing no less than eighty-nine pupils are enrolled, and as Chapters usually take the course through one representative, this number doubtless means that at the least five hundred persons are learning how to observe and describe minerals, under most competent instruction. To each pupil is sent a set of thirty valuable specimens, and all exercises are corrected and returned for revision. Geographically, the class extends from Washington Territory to England.
REPORTS OF CHAPTERS.
We have to begin again this month, as last, by presenting the excellent reports of dilatory Chapters. A little more promptness hereafter, good secretaries, if you please!
37, _Kingsboro, N. Y._ By some mischance, your card notifying me that our report is due has just come to my notice, and I hasten to write, fearing our "candlestick may be removed." Last week three of us visited a gold-mine and brought home specimens of rock from which gold is obtained, averaging about twenty dollars per ton. The rock is dark, fine-grained, and resembles lime-stone. It effervesces with acid. We have here beautiful specimens of the Azoic rocks, and we could make up named collections to exchange for other specimens.--W. W. Thomas, Box 711.
112, _So. Boston_. We number ten active and three honorary members. During the year we have held twenty-two meetings, with an average attendance of eight. In January we gave an entertainment, and realized $10.80. In April we endeavored to establish an assembly of the Chapters in this part of the State, but did not succeed.
During the year we have studied chemistry, zoölogy, and astronomy. At one time we visited the Agassiz museum in a body, and learned a great deal. Having seen now what we can do, I think we shall all study harder during the coming year.--Geo. L. Whitehouse, 37 Gates street.
[_Don't be discouraged; we shall have a State Assembly in Massachusetts before many years._]
134, _De Pere, Wis._ We have eighteen members. Our room is beginning to look very nicely. We added five new cases last fall. We have 1600 geological specimens,--including 1000 fossils,--600 minerals, 50 birds, 500 plants, 400 shells, and 100 ethnological specimens.--A. S. Gilbert.
153, _Chicago_ (_E_). At the Exposition here last fall, we had two large cases, one containing minerals, the other fossils, which compared favorably with any in the building, and did much toward making our society known to the throng of visitors. We have added new books to our library at no small expense. Our "Paper" is the latest addition to our meetings, and contains original articles, clippings, and the letters received.--Charles T. Mixer.
164, _Jackson, Mich._ (_B_). We have eight members, and expect more soon. We all have natural histories of our own. We meet once a week, on Monday evening. We had a very pleasant field-meeting by Clark's Lake. All our members are interested.--James C. Wood.
168, _Buffalo_ (_C_). During the summer there were some excursions, which brought a number of specimens into the hands of our curator. With the new year fresh courage has inspired most of us. Our prospects are quite bright. We still have our standing committees in each department, and these have a report to make nearly every week. Every two weeks we have an essay. Our next topic is to be "Forests and their Utility." Besides this and the reading and discussion of scientific essays, we have our weekly report on the current scientific news, and notes and personal observations. Chapter K of this city has joined us, and