CHAPTER XIII

.

SOMEBODY RUNS AWAY.

"School is done, Now we'll have fun,"

sung Bab and Betty, slamming down their books as if they never meant to take them up again, when they came home on the last day of June.

Tired teacher had dismissed them for eight whole weeks and gone away to rest; the little school-house was shut up, lessons were over, spirits rising fast, and vacation had begun. The quiet town seemed suddenly inundated with children all in such a rampant state that busy mothers wondered how they ever should be able to keep their frisky darlings out of mischief; thrifty fathers planned how they could bribe the idle hands to pick berries or rake hay; and the old folks, while wishing the young folks well, secretly blessed the man who invented schools.

The girls immediately began to talk about picnics, and have them, too; for little hats sprung up in the fields like a new sort of mushroom,--every hill-side bloomed with gay gowns, looking as if the flowers had gone out for a walk, and the woods were full of featherless birds chirping away as blithely as the thrushes, robins, and wrens.

The boys took to base-ball like ducks to water, and the common was the scene of tremendous battles waged with much tumult but little bloodshed. To the uninitiated it appeared as if these young men had lost their wits; for no matter how warm it was, there they were, tearing about in the maddest manner, jackets off, sleeves rolled up, queer caps flung on anyway, all batting shabby leather balls and catching the same as if their lives depended on it. Every one talking in his gruffest tone, bawling at the top of his voice, squabbling over every point of the game, and seeming to enjoy himself immensely in spite of the heat, dust, uproar, and imminent danger of getting eyes or teeth knocked out.

Thorny was an excellent player, but not being strong enough to show his prowess, he made Ben his proxy, and, sitting on the fence, acted as umpire to his heart's content. Ben was a promising pupil and made rapid progress, for eye, foot, and hand had been so well trained that they did him good service now, and Brown was considered a first-rate "catcher."

Sancho distinguished himself by his skill in hunting up stray balls, and guarding jackets when not needed, with the air of one of the Old Guard on duty at the tomb of Napoleon. Bab also longed to join in the fun, which suited her better than "stupid picnics" or "fussing over dolls;" but her heroes would not have her at any price, and she was obliged to content herself with sitting by Thorny, and watching with breathless interest the varying fortunes of "our side."

A grand match was planned for the Fourth of July; but when the club met, things were found to be unpropitious. Thorny had gone out of town with his sister to pass the day, two of the best players did not appear, and the others were somewhat exhausted by the festivities, which began at sunrise for them. So they lay about on the grass in the shade of the big elm, languidly discussing their various wrongs and disappointments.

"It's the meanest Fourth I ever saw. Can't have no crackers, because somebody's horse got scared last year," growled Sam Kitteridge, bitterly resenting the stern edict which forbade free-born citizens to burn as much gunpowder as they liked on that glorious day.

"Last year Jimmy got his arm blown off when they fired the old cannon. Didn't we have a lively time going for the doctors and getting him home?" asked another boy, looking as if he felt defrauded of the most interesting part of the anniversary, because no accident had occurred.

"Ain't going to be fire-works either, unless somebody's barn burns up. Don't I just wish there would," gloomily responded another youth who had so rashly indulged in pyrotechnics on a former occasion that a neighbor's cow had been roasted whole.

"I wouldn't give two cents for such a slow old place as this. Why, last Fourth at this time, I was rumbling through Boston streets up top of our big car, all in my best toggery. Hot as pepper, but good fun looking in at the upper windows and hearing the women scream when the old thing waggled round and I made believe I was going to tumble off," said Ben, leaning on his bat with the air of a man who had seen the world and felt some natural regret at descending from so lofty a sphere.

"Catch me cutting away if I had such a chance as that!" answered Sam, trying to balance _his_ bat on his chin and getting a smart rap across the nose as he failed to perform the feat.

"Much you know about it, old chap. It's hard work, I can tell you, and that wouldn't suit such a lazy bones. Then you are too big to begin, though you might do for a fat boy if Smithers wanted one," said Ben, surveying the stout youth with calm contempt.

"Let's go in swimming, not loaf round here, if we can't play," proposed a red and shiny boy, panting for a game of leap-frog in Sandy pond.

"May as well; don't see much else to do," sighed Sam, rising like a young elephant.

The others were about to follow, when a shrill "Hi, hi, boys, hold on!" made them turn about to behold Billy Barton tearing down the street like a runaway colt, waving a long strip of paper as he ran.

"Now, then, what's the matter?" demanded Ben, as the other came up grinning and puffing, but full of great news.

"Look here, read it! I'm going; come along, the whole of you," panted Billy, putting the paper into Sam's hand, and surveying the crowd with a face as beaming as a full moon.

"Look out for the big show," read Sam. "Van Amburgh & Co.'s New Great Golden Menagerie, Circus and Colosseum, will exhibit at Berryville, July 4th, at 1 and 7 precisely. Admission 50 cents, children half-price. Don't forget day and date. H. Frost, Manager."

While Sam read, the other boys had been gloating over the enticing pictures which covered the bill. There was the golden car, filled with noble beings in helmets, all playing on immense trumpets; the twenty-four prancing steeds with manes, tails, and feathered heads tossing in the breeze; the clowns, the tumblers, the strong men, and the riders flying about in the air as if the laws of gravitation no longer existed. But, best of all, was the grand conglomeration of animals where the giraffe appears to stand on the elephant's back, the zebra to be jumping over the seal, the hippopotamus to be lunching off a couple of crocodiles, and lions and tigers to be raining down in all directions with their mouths wide open and their tails as stiff as that of the famous Northumberland House lion.

"Cricky! wouldn't I like to see that," said little Cyrus Fay, devoutly hoping that the cage, in which this pleasing spectacle took place, was a very strong one.

"You never would, it's only a picture! That, now, is something like," and Ben, who had pricked up his ears at the word "circus," laid his finger on a smaller cut of a man hanging by the back of his neck with a child in each hand, two men suspended from his feet, and the third swinging forward to alight on his head.

"I'm going," said Sam, with calm decision, for this superb array of unknown pleasures fired his soul and made him forget his weight.

"How will you fix it?" asked Ben, fingering the bill with a nervous thrill all through his wiry limbs, just as he used to feel it when his father caught him up to dash into the ring.

"Foot it with Billy. It's only four miles, and we've got lots of time, so we can take it easy. Mother wont care, if I send word by Cy," answered Sam, producing half a dollar, as if such magnificent sums were no strangers to his pocket.

"Come on, Brown; you'll be a first-rate fellow to show us round, as you know all the dodges," said Billy, anxious to get his money's worth.

"Well, I don't know," began Ben, longing to go, but afraid Mrs. Moss would say "No!" if he asked leave.

"He's afraid," sneered the red-faced boy, who felt bitterly toward all mankind at that instant, because he knew there was no hope of _his_ going.

"Say that again, and I'll knock your head off," and Ben faced round with a gesture which caused the other to skip out of reach precipitately.

"Hasn't got any money, more likely," observed a shabby youth, whose pockets never had anything in them but a pair of dirty hands.

Ben calmly produced a dollar bill and waved it defiantly before this doubter, observing with dignity:

"I've got money enough to treat the whole crowd, if I choose to, which I _don't_."

"Then come along and have a jolly time with Sam and me. We can buy some dinner and get a ride home, as like as not," said the amiable Billy, with a slap on the shoulder, and a cordial grin which made it impossible for Ben to resist.

"What are you stopping for?" demanded Sam, ready to be off, that they might "take it easy."

"Don't know what to do with Sancho. He'll get lost or stolen if I take him, and it's too far to carry him home if you are in a hurry," began Ben, persuading himself that this was the true reason for his delay.

"Let Cy take him back. He'll do it for a cent; wont you, Cy?" proposed Billy, smoothing away all objections, for he liked Ben, and saw that he wanted to go.

"No, I wont; I _don't_ like him. He winks at me, and growls when I touch him," muttered naughty Cy, remembering how much reason poor Sanch had to distrust his tormentor.

"There's Bab; she'll do it. Come here, sissy; Ben wants you," called Sam, beckoning to a small figure just perching on the fence.

Down it jumped and came fluttering up, much elated at being summoned by the captain of the sacred nine.

"I want you to take Sanch home, and tell your mother I'm going to walk, and may be wont be back till sundown. Miss Celia said I might do what I pleased, all day. You remember, now."

Ben spoke without looking up, and affected to be very busy buckling a strap into Sanch's collar, for the two were so seldom parted that the dog always rebelled. It was a mistake on Ben's part, for while his eyes were on his work, Bab's were devouring the bill, which Sam still held, and her suspicions were aroused by the boys' faces.

"Where are you going? Ma will want to know," she said, as curious as a magpie all at once.

"Never you mind; girls can't know everything. You just catch hold of this and run along home. Lock Sanch up for an hour, and tell your mother I'm all right," answered Ben, bound to assert his manly supremacy before his mates.

"He's going to the circus," whispered Fay, hoping to make mischief.

"Circus! Oh, Ben, _do_ take me!" cried Bab, falling into a state of great excitement at the mere thought of such delight.

"You couldn't walk four miles," began Ben.

"Yes, I could, as easy as not."

"You haven't got any money."

"You have; I saw you showing your dollar, and you could pay for me, and Ma would pay it back."

"Can't wait for you to get ready."

"I'll go as I am. I don't care if it is my old hat," and Bab jerked it on to her head.

"Your mother wouldn't like it."

"She wont like your going, either."

"She isn't my missis now. Miss Celia wouldn't care, and I'm going, anyway."

"Do, do take me, Ben! I'll be just as good as ever was, and I'll take care of Sanch all the way," pleaded Bab, clasping her hands and looking round for some sign of relenting in the faces of the boys.

"Don't you bother; we don't want any girls tagging after us," said Sam, walking off to escape the annoyance.

"I'll bring you a roll of chickerberry lozengers, if you wont tease," whispered kind-hearted Billy, with a consoling pat on the crown of the shabby straw hat.

"When the circus comes here you shall go, certain sure, and Betty too," said Ben, feeling mean while he proposed what he knew was a hollow mockery.

"They never do come to such little towns; you said so, and I think you are very cross, and I wont take care of Sanch, so, now!" cried Bab getting into a passion, yet ready to cry, she was so disappointed.

"I suppose it wouldn't do--" hinted Billy, with a look from Ben to the little girl, who stood winking hard to keep the tears back.

"Of course it wouldn't. I'd like to see _her_ walking eight miles. I don't mind paying for her; it's getting her there and back. Girls are such a bother when you want to knock round. No, Bab, you _can't_ go. Travel right home and don't make a fuss. Come along, boys; it's most eleven, and we don't want to walk fast."

Ben spoke very decidedly, and, taking Billy's arm, away they went, leaving poor Bab and Sanch to watch them out of sight, one sobbing, the other whining dismally.

Somehow those two figures seemed to go before Ben all along the pleasant road, and half spoilt his fun, for though he laughed and talked, cut canes, and seemed as merry as a grig, he could not help feeling that he ought to have asked leave to go, and been kinder to Bab.

"Perhaps Mrs. Moss would have planned somehow so we could _all_ go, if I'd told her. I'd like to show her round, and she's been real good to me. No use now. I'll take the girls a lot of candy and make it all right."

He tried to settle it in that way and trudged gayly on, hoping Sancho wouldn't feel hurt at being left, wondering if any of "Smither's lot" would be round, and planning to do the honors handsomely to the boys.

It was very warm, and just outside of the town they passed by a wayside watering-trough to wash their dusty faces and cool off before plunging into the excitements of the afternoon. As they stood refreshing themselves, a baker's cart came jingling by, and Sam proposed a hasty lunch while they rested. A supply of gingerbread was soon bought, and, climbing the green bank above, they lay on the grass under a wild cherry-tree, munching luxuriously while they feasted their eyes at the same time on the splendors awaiting them, for the great tent, with all its flags flying, was visible from the hill.

[Illustration: "THERE STOOD BAB WAITING FOR SANCHO TO LAP HIS FILL OUT OF THE OVERFLOWING TROUGH."]

"We'll cut across those fields,--it's shorter than going by the road,--and then we can look round outside till it's time to go in. I want to have a good go at everything, especially the lions," said Sam, beginning on his last cookie.

"I heard 'em roar just now;" and Billy stood up to gaze with big eyes at the flapping canvas which hid the king of beasts from his longing sight.

"That was a cow mooing. Don't you be a donkey, Bill. When you hear a real roar, you'll shake in your boots," said Ben, holding up his handkerchief to dry after it had done double duty as towel and napkin.

"I wish you'd hurry up, Sam. Folks are going in now. I see 'em;" and Billy pranced with impatience for this was his first circus, and he firmly believed that he was going to behold all that the pictures promised.

"Hold on a minute while I get one more drink. Buns are dry fodder," said Sam, rolling over to the edge of the bank and preparing to descend with as little trouble as possible.

He nearly went down head first, however, for, as he looked before he leaped, he beheld a sight which caused him to stare with all his might for an instant, then turn and beckon, saying in an eager whisper: "Look here, boys--quick!"

Ben and Billy peered over, and both suppressed an astonished "Hullo!" for there stood Bab waiting for Sancho to lap his fill out of the overflowing trough.

Such a shabby, tired-looking couple as they were! Bab with a face as red as a lobster and streaked with tears, shoes white with dust, play-frock torn at the gathers, something bundled up in her apron, and one shoe down at the heel as if it hurt her. Sancho lapped eagerly, with his eyes shut; all his ruffles were gray with dust, and his tail hung wearily down, the tassel at half-mast, as if in mourning for the master whom he had come to find. Bab still held the strap, intent on keeping her charge safe though she lost herself; but her courage seemed to be giving out, as she looked anxiously up and down the road, seeing no sign of the three familiar figures she had been following as steadily as a little Indian on the war-trail.

"Oh, Sanch, what _shall_ I do if they don't come along? We must have gone by them somewhere, for I don't see any one that way, and there isn't any other road to the circus, seems to me."

Bab spoke as if the dog could understand and answer, and Sancho looked as if he did both, for he stopped drinking, pricked up his ears, and, fixing his sharp eyes on the grass above him, gave a suspicious bark.

"It's only squirrels; don't mind, but come along and be good, for I'm so tired I don't know what to do!" sighed Bab, trying to pull him after her as she trudged on, bound to see the outside of that wonderful tent, even if she never got in.

But Sancho had heard a soft chirrup, and with a sudden bound twitched the strap away, sprang up the bank, and landed directly on Ben's back as he lay peeping over. A peal of laughter greeted him, and having got the better of his master in more ways than one, he made the most of the advantage by playfully worrying him as he kept him down, licking his face in spite of his struggles, burrowing in his neck with a ticklish nose, snapping at his buttons, and yelping joyfully, as if it was the best joke in the world to play hide-and-seek for four long miles.

Before Ben could quiet him, Bab came climbing up the bank with such a funny mixture of fear, fatigue, determination, and relief in her dirty little face that the boys could not look awful if they tried.

"How dared you come after us, miss?" demanded Sam, as she looked calmly about her and took a seat before she was asked.

"Sanch _would_ come after Ben; I couldn't make him go home, so I had to hold on till he was safe here, else he'd be lost, and then Ben would feel bad."

The cleverness of that excuse tickled the boys immensely, and Sam tried again, while Ben was getting the dog down and sitting on him.

"Now you expect to go to the circus, I suppose."

"Course I do. Ben said he didn't mind paying if I could get there without bothering him, and I have, and I'll go home alone. I aint afraid. Sanch will take care of me, if you wont," answered Bab, stoutly.

"What do you suppose your mother will say to you?" asked Ben, feeling much reproached by her last words.

"I guess she'll say you led me into mischief," and the sharp child nodded as if she defied him to deny the truth of that.

"You'll catch it when you get home, Ben, so you'd better have a good time while you can," advised Sam, thinking Bab great fun, since none of the blame of her pranks would fall on him.

"What would you have done if you _hadn't_ found us?" asked Billy, forgetting his impatience in his admiration for this plucky young lady.

"I'd have gone on and seen the circus, and then I'd have gone home again and told Betty all about it," was the prompt answer.

"But you haven't any money."

"Oh, I'd ask somebody to pay for me. I'm so little, it wouldn't be much."

"Nobody would do it, so you'd have to stay outside, you see."

"No, I wouldn't. I thought of that and planned how I'd fix it if I didn't find Ben. I'd make Sanch do his tricks and get a quarter that way, so now," answered Bab, undaunted by any obstacle.

"I do believe she would! You are a smart child, Bab, and if I had enough I'd take you in myself," said Billy, heartily; for, having sisters of his own, he kept a soft place in his heart for girls, especially enterprising ones.

"I'll take care of her. It was very naughty to come, Bab, but so long as you did, you needn't worry about anything. I'll see to you, and you shall have a real good time," said Ben, accepting his responsibilities without a murmur, and bound to do the handsome thing by his persistent friend.

"I thought you would," and Bab folded her arms as if she had nothing further to do but enjoy herself.

"Are you hungry?" asked Billy, fishing out several fragments of gingerbread.

"Starving!" and Bab ate them with such a relish that Sam added a small contribution, and Ben caught some water for her in his hand where the little spring bubbled up beside a stone.

"Now, you go and wash your face and spat down your hair, and put your hat on straight, and then we'll go," commanded Ben, giving Sanch a roll on the grass to clean him.

Bab scrubbed her face till it shone, and pulling down her apron to wipe it, scattered a load of treasures collected in her walk. Some of the dead flowers, bits of moss and green twigs fell near Ben, and one attracted his attention,--a spray of broad, smooth leaves, with a bunch of whitish berries on it.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, poking it with his foot.

"In a swampy place, coming along. Sanch saw something down there, and I went with him 'cause I thought may be it was a musk-rat and you'd like one if we could get him."

"Was it?" asked the boys all at once and with intense interest.

"No, only a snake, and I don't care for snakes. I picked some of that, it was so green and pretty. Thorny likes queer leaves and berries, you know," answered Bab, "spatting" down her rough locks.

"Well, he wont like that, nor you either; it's poisonous, and I shouldn't wonder if you'd got poisoned, Bab. Don't touch it; swamp-sumach is horrid stuff, Miss Celia said so," and Ben looked anxiously at Bab, who felt her chubby face all over and examined her dingy hands with a solemn air, asking eagerly:

"Will it break out on me 'fore I get to the circus?"

"Not for a day or so, I guess; but it's bad when it does come."

"I don't care, if I see the animals first. Come quick and never mind the old weeds and things," said Bab, much relieved, for present bliss was all she had room for now in her happy little heart.

_(To be continued.)_

[Illustration: THE LITTLE ITALIAN FLOWER-MERCHANT.]

FATHER CHIRP.

BY S.C. STONE.

Three little chirping crickets Came, one night, to our door; Tried all their keys, Then tried their knees. Till they could try no more.

The biggest of the crickets Scratched hard his shiny head; And what to do, And what to do, He didn't know, he said.

[Illustration: "THEN TRIED THEIR KNEES."]

The door, it would not open To comers so belated; Nobody heard, Nobody stirred, As still the crickets waited.

And then, as on a sudden, By some new impulse bent, Their voices three 'Rose shrill and free, To give their feelings vent!

[Illustration: "HIGH UPON THEIR TINY LEGS."]

Then high upon their tiny legs They stretched, to peep and peer; While right behind The window-blind I crouched, to see and hear.

Louder the crickets chirped and chirped, And, as I heard it then, The tale they sung In crickets' tongue I render with my pen.

The tallest one was Father Chirp; Here was his early home; Here lived his mother And dearest brother, And hither had he come;

And with him brought his two brave sons, Both skipping at his side, To show to her, Their grandmother, With true paternal pride.

"There used to be," sang Father Chirp, "A little child about; And that door there Was free as air For going in or out.

"But days have passed since I lived here,-- It's like the folks are dead! My children, oh! My children, oh! I'm going to weep," he said.

And then into his handkerchief His little head went bobbing, And his two heirs They pulled out theirs, And all three fell to sobbing.

[Illustration: "ALL THREE FELL TO SOBBING."]

I lost no time in opening wide The door that had been fast; And I could see Those crickets three Like dusky ghosts flit past.

And when I, listening, heard a chirp, Another, and another, I knew as well As words could tell They'd found the old grandmother!

WHERE MONEY IS MADE.

BY M.W.

"Ho!" I hear some New York boys say; "no need to tell us that. Everybody knows that New York is the place to make money. Look at the men in Wall street."

Indeed! And what will you say if I tell you that there is not a dollar of money made in New York; nor in Chicago, neither; though I know my young friends who live there are eager to speak up and claim the honor. There are but three cities in all the Union where money is actually made; that is, where metals are coined. The principal mint of the United States is in Philadelphia. Here are made all the copper and nickel coins--one, two and five cent pieces--and a large part of the gold and silver coins used in the country. There are also branch mints at San Francisco and Carson City. And at these places gold and silver coins of every value are coined in great quantities.

Those of you who have been in Philadelphia will remember, on the north side of Chestnut street, near Broad, a Grecian building of white marble, somewhat gray from age, with a tall chimney rising from the center, and the United States flag flying from the roof. This is the mint. Let us climb the long flight of steps and enter the building. On the door is a placard: "Visitors admitted from 9 to 12." The door opens into a circular entrance hall, with seats around the wall. In a moment a polite usher, who has grown gray in the service of the institution, comes to show us all that visitors are allowed to see. He leads us through a hall into an open court-yard in the middle of the building. On the left is the weighing-room; and if you owned a gold mine, like the boy I read of in a late number of ST. NICHOLAS, it is to this room you would bring your gold to be weighed, so that you might know how much money the mint must pay you for it. All the gold and silver received in the mint is weighed in this room. Sometimes the gold is brought in the form of fine dust; sometimes in the shape of grains from the size of a pin's head to that of a pea; sometimes in plates and bars, and sometimes it is old jewelry and table service. Visitors are not allowed to enter the weighing-room; but, by looking through the window you can see the scales, large and small, which are balanced with wonderful delicacy, and the vault on the other side, where the treasure is kept.

[Illustration: THE MINT AT PHILADELPHIA.]

"When the gold has been weighed," says our guide, "it is locked up in iron boxes, and carried to the melting-room, where it is melted and poured into molds."

A small piece is then cut off, and its fineness ascertained by a long and delicate process called assaying. This decides the value of the lot. The depositor is then paid, and the metal is handed over to the melter and refiner, to be entirely freed from its impurities and made fit for coinage.

And a hard time it has of it, to be sure. Nothing but pure gold and silver could ever stand such treatment. It is melted again, dissolved in nitric acid, squeezed under immense pressure, baked in a hot cellar, and finally carried to this dingy-looking room, at the left of the court-yard, where we have stood all this time. The metal is perfectly pure now, but before the final melting one-tenth of its weight in copper is added to it, to make it hard enough to bear the rough usage which it will meet with in traveling about the world.

The room would be dark but for the fiery glow of the furnaces which line one end of the place. On these are a number of small pots, filled with red-hot liquid metal; and while we look, a workman lifts one after another, with a pair of long tongs, and pours the glowing gold in streams into narrow iron molds.

"This piece of gold," says the usher, taking up one of the yellow bars from a cold mold, "is called an ingot, and is worth about 1,200 dollars."

One of the party asks why one end of the ingot is shaped like a wedge.

"That it may enter easily between the rollers," is the reply. "You will see the rollers when we go upstairs."

The guide calls our attention to the curious false floor, made of iron in a honey-comb pattern, and divided into small sections so that it can be readily taken up to save the dust. He tells us that the sweepings of these rooms have sometimes proved to be worth fifty thousand dollars in a single year. The particles which adhere to the workmen's clothing are also carefully saved, and there is an arrangement in the chimney for arresting any light-minded atoms that may try to pass off in the smoke.

We would gladly remain longer, peering in at the glowing fires and the swarthy figures of the workmen, but our guide is already half-way across the court, and we reluctantly follow, stepping aside to make room for a workman with his burden of silver bars, which he is carrying to the next process.

This takes place in the rolling-room, where the short, thick ingots are pressed between two steel rollers, again and again, till they are rolled down into long thin ribbons of metal about the thickness of a coin.

[Illustration: THE ROLLERS.]

The next step in the work is to draw the metal ribbons through a "draw-plate," to bring them down to an exactly uniform thickness. This pulling through a narrow slit in a steel plate hardens the metal, and again and again it has to be put in the fire and brought to a light red to make it soft and pliable. This drawing and annealing brings each band of metal to just the right thickness and condition, and we may go on and see the cutting-presses that stamp out the round pieces of metal called "planchets." A workman takes a ribbon of gold and inserts the end in the immense jaws of the press, and they bite, bite and bite, and the round bits of gold drop in a shower into a box below.

[Illustration: POURING THE MELTED GOLD INTO THE MOLDS.]

"This press," says the usher, "is cutting double-eagles; and in the single moment, by the watch, that we have been looking at it, it has cut forty-five hundred dollars' worth. The same number of cuts would make only two dollars and twenty cents if made in copper."

The machine goes on hastily biting out the round planchets to the end of the ribbon, and then the guide holds up the long strip full of holes, much as you have seen the dough after the cook has cut out her ginger-snaps. These perforated bars go back to the furnace to be melted over.

"The planchets," says the guide, "after being annealed in those furnaces which you see at the rear of the room, are taken upstairs and most carefully weighed."

None but women are employed in the weighing-room, and so delicate are the scales that they will move with the weight of a hair. If a planchet is found too light, it is thrown aside to be remelted; if only slightly over the proper weight, a tiny particle is filed off from the edge; but if the weight is much in excess, it is to go back to the furnace. Nothing but perfection passes here, you see.

Now, one final washing in acid, then in water, and these much-enduring bits of metal are admitted to the coining-room, there to receive the stamp which testifies to their worth.

In the coining-room the planchets are first given to the milling-machine. They are laid down flat between two steel rings, and as the rings move one draws nearer to the other, and the planchets are squeezed and crowded on every side, and finding no escape they turn up about the edges and come out at the end of the sorry little journey with a rim raised around the edges. Beyond the milling-machines stand the ten coining-presses. These presses are attended by women. Watch this one near us. At her right hand is a box containing silver planchets, which are to be coined into fifty-cent pieces. On that round "die," which you see in the center of the machine, are engraved the letters and figures which are to appear on the back of the half-dollar. Directly above the die, on the end of a rod, which works up and down with the most exquisite accuracy, is the sunken impression of the face.

[Illustration: THE CUTTING PRESS.]

The woman gathers up a handful of the planchets and drops them one at a time into a brass tube, which they just fit. They slip down in the tube, and as the lowest planchet slides from under the tube, two small steel arms spring out and grasp it and lay it on the die. At the same instant, the upper die descends with a quick thump, and the silver counter, stamped in a twinkling on both sides, falls into a box below. In an instant, another takes its place, and thus they go on dropping under the swiftly moving rod, and turning into coins in a flash.

[Illustration: "THE LONG STRIP FULL OF HOLES."]

Take up one of the coins and study it carefully. Every mark, letter, number and bit of decoration is deeply cut in the metal. Even the "reeding," or roughened edge, is stamped sharply, and we can tell just what the coin is by feeling of it with the finger, even in the dark. This last step finishes the work. The money is made, coined and ready for exchange in the shop and market. Sometimes you may have noticed that coins, like the nickel five-cent and the silver twenty-cent piece, have smooth edges. In these coins the reeding is omitted. The dies in the presses have only the letters and figures of the face and back of the coin, and when the planchet is caught between them the metal is squeezed up against the smooth sides of the die, and none of the little reeding marks on the edge are formed.

"And now," says our kind conductor, "you have seen all the process of making money. This next room is the cabinet, and here you can remain as long as you please."

But I have not time to tell you half the curious and instructive things you may see in this apartment. There are coins of all nations and ages. Egyptian, Greek, and Roman, bearing effigies of forgotten kings and emperors; curious oblong coins, of very fine workmanship, from China and Japan, and others of a square shape with a hole in the middle, that they may be strung on a string, instead of putting them into a purse. Smallest of all, so small that you might overlook it, if your attention was not especially drawn to it, is the "widow's mite." Perhaps----who knows?--this may be the very coin which, dropped into the trumpet-shaped mouth of the treasury, called forth the commendation of the Savior upon the poor giver.

In other cases are the coins of England, France, Germany and other modern nations; some more beautiful than our own, others far inferior to them in design and workmanship. The cases around the wall are filled with beautiful minerals, and, in particular, many fine specimens of gold in its native state.

For so long a time have we been using paper money in this country that it seemed almost useless to have mints to make coins, when ordinary people never saw any of them, excepting those made of copper or nickel.

But our merchants, and others dealing with foreign countries, needed gold, for our paper money could not be sent to Europe, or anywhere out of the United States, to pay for goods; and so gold eagles and double-eagles and half-eagles and quarter-eagles and gold dollars were coined to be sent away, or to be used here to pay duties on imports. Silver coins also were made, to be used in foreign countries, and among these was the trade-dollar, which many of you may have seen.

[Illustration: THE COINING-PRESS.]

When silver small-change lately came into use again, there were many boys and girls who had never seen a quarter or a half dollar. When they spoke of fifty or twenty-five cents, they meant a piece of paper currency, printed like a bank-note, of no value in itself, but only a promise to pay.

But, since Congress has decided that we are to have not only silver small-change, but also silver dollars, and now that these have became again a part of the legal currency of the country; all three of our mints have gone to work and are coining dollars as fast as they can, for millions of them will be required, if we are all to use them.

I hope that you and I, dear reader, may be able to get as many of these new dollars as we actually shall need, though perhaps none of us may ever have as many of them, or of any other kind of money, as we think we should like to have.

A SONG OF SPRING.

BY CAROLINE A. MASON.

O the sweet spring days when the grasses grow. And the violets blow, And the lads and the lassies a-maying go!

When the mosses cling in their velvet sheen, Like a fringe of green, To the rocks that o'er the deep pools lean;

When the brooks wake up with a merry leap From their winter sleep, And the frogs in the meadows begin to peep;

When the robin sings, thro' the long bright hours, Of his southern bowers, With a dream in his heart of the coming flowers;

When the earth is full of delicious smells From the ferny dells, And the scent of the breeze quite plainly tells

He has been with the apple-blooms! They fly From his kisses sly Like feathery snow-flakes scurrying by!

O the saucy pranks of the madcap breeze In the blossoming trees! O the sounds that thrill, and the sights that please,

And the nameless joys that the May days bring On their glad, glad wing! O the dear delights of the sweet, sweet spring!

SAM'S BIRTHDAY.

BY IRWIN RUSSELL.

On the nineteenth day of last month, Sam could and would have testified, from information and belief, that he was "eight yeahs ol', gwine on nine;" but on the morning of the twentieth, that interesting infant of color was informed by his mother, as soon as he awoke, that he was "nine yeahs ol', gwine on ten." When Aunt Phillis imparted this surprising intelligence to her son, he was greatly amazed and confounded; and he immediately began to speculate as to what extraordinary combination of circumstances could have so suddenly wrought this remarkable change.

"Hoo-_ee_!" he cried, "whut a pow'ful while I mus' ha' slep'! Or else I grows wuss an' dat ar Jonus's gourd you tol' me 'bout, whut wuz only a _teenchy_ leetle simblin at night, and got big as de hen-house afore mornin'--early sun-up. Hm! hey! look heah, mammy, is I skipped any Christmusses?"

"No, chile," replied his mother; "you aint skipped nuffin. Dis is yo' buff-day: de 'fects ob which is, dat it's des so many yeahs sence you wuz fust borned. I don't know how 't 'll be, Sam,--folks is sim'lar to de cocoa-grass, whut grows up mighty peart, tell 'long come somebody wid a hoe to slosh it down,--but ef you libs long enough, an' nuffin happens, you'll keep on habbin a buff-day ebry yeah wunst a yeah till you dies. An' ebry time you has one, son, you'll be one yeah older."

"Fine way to git gray-headed," said Sam.

At this moment a mighty crash resounded from the kitchen, down-stairs, and Aunt Phillis descended the steps with great precipitation. Then Sam heard her shouting, angrily:

"You, Bose! Oh, you _bettah_ git, you mean ole no-'count rascal! I do '_spise_ a houn'-dog!"

Sam went on with his toilet, musing, the while, upon the probability of his ever getting to be as old as Uncle "Afrikin Tommy," who was the patriarch of the plantation, and popularly supposed to be "cluss onto" two hundred years of age; and who was wont to aver that when _he_ arrived in that part of the country, when he was a boy, the squirrels all had two tails apiece, and the Mississippi River was such a small stream that people bridged it, on occasion, with a fence-rail. Thus meditating upon the glorious possibilities of his future, Sam got ready for breakfast, and went down. It was not until he had absorbed an enormous quantity of fried pickled-pork and hot corn-cakes, and finally with reluctance ceased to eat, that his mother told him what had caused the noise a little while before,--how old Bose, the fox-hound, had with felonious intent come into the kitchen, and surreptitiously "supped up" the chicken-soup that had been prepared for Sam's birthday breakfast; and further, how the said delinquent had added insult to injury, by contemptuously smashing the bowl that he had emptied.

"I alluz did 'low," exclaimed Sam, in justifiable wrath, "as dat 'ar ole houn' Bose wuz de triflin'est meanest dog in de whole State ob Claiborne County!"

Sam, however, was too true a philosopher to cry long over spilt milk--or soup. He reflected that the breakfast he had just taken would prevent his eating any soup, even if he had it. "I isn't injy-rubber," said he to himself, with which beautiful and happy thought his frown was superseded by a smile, the smile developed into his normal grin, and he began to chant an appropriate stanza from one of his favorite lyrics:

"O-o-o-old Uncle John! A-a-a-aunt Sally Goodin! When you got enough corn-bread It's des as good as puddin'."

The excellent Aunt Phillis was much affected by this saint-like conduct on the part of her son. She sighed; fearing that the boy was too good to live.

"Nemmind, Sam," said she; "you needn't tote no wood to-day, or fetch no water, or do nuffin. Go down to de quarters, an' git Pumble to play wid you."

Pumble was a boy who in age and tastes corresponded closely with Sam, as he did in complexion. His real name, at full length, was Pumblechook,--he having been so christened at the instance of Mahs'r George, in honor of the immortal corn-and-seedsman. Off went Sam in search of this boy; and he found him at the back of the maternal mansion splitting up pine-knots for kindlings. Sam approached him with a very slow, dignified step, and a look of commiseration.

"Hey, nigger!" said Sam, "dat's all you fit for, is to work. Why don't you be a gemman like me, whut aint a-gwine to do a lick o' work dis whole day?"

"Done runned away, is you?" answered Pumble. "Well, I'll come 'round dis ebenin, when de ole ooman gibs you a dose ob hickory-tea."

"Dat'll do, boy;" said Sam. "Let you know dis is my buff-day, an' _I_ wont work for _no_body, on _my_ buff-day. Go ax yo' mammy kin you come up an' play wid me; tell her _my_ mammy sont word for you to come."

Pumble dropped the hatchet, stared ecstatically, and ran in to obtain the desired permission. It was granted. Then this dialogue occurred:

"Be a good chile!"

"Yes'm."

"Don't forgit yo' manners!"

"Nome."

"'Member you's _my_ son!"

"Yes'm."

"Don't you git into no mischuf!"

"Nome."

"Ef you dose, I'll w'ar you out, sah! Now, go 'long!"

The boys trotted merrily away together. But they had not gone fifty rods before they heard Pumble's mother calling him. They stopped to listen.

"_Take--keer--ob yo'--clo'es!_" she shouted, and then went back into her house.

Under a great pecan-tree, on the lawn before the "big house," Sam and Pumble sat down to consider and consult, or, as they expressed it, "to study up whut us gwine to do."

"Shill I tell a story?" asked Pumble.

"Does you know a good one?" inquired Sam.

"Dis story's gwine to be a new one," said Pumble "beakase I'll make it up as I go 'long."

"Tell ahead," said Sam.

"Wunst apon a time--" began Pumble.

"What time?" interrupted Sam.

"Shut up! Wunst upon a time. Dey wuz a man. An' dis heah man lighted up he pipe, an' started out on de big road. An' he went walkin' along. Right stret along. An' walkin' along, an' walkin' along, _an'_ walkin' along. An' _walkin'_ along. An' walkin' along, an' walkin' along--"

"Dat man wuz gwine all de way, wuzn't he?" interjected the listener.

[Illustration: "THE BOYS TROTTED MERRILY AWAY TOGETHER."]

"He hadn't got _no_ way, hardly, yit," said Pumble, "but he kep' a-walkin' along. An' walkin' along, an' walkin' along, an' walkin' along, an' walkin' along, an' walkin' along, an' walkin' along, an' walkin' along, an' walkin' along--."

"Stop dat walkin' now," said Sam, "and tell whut he done when he _got froo_ walkin'."

"He come to de place he wuz a-gwine to," said Pumble.

"Did he, sho' enough?" exclaimed Sam. "I wuz kinder skeered he wudn't nebber git dar at all. Whut did he don nex'?"

"De nex' t'ing he done," said Pumble, impressively, "wuz to turn right 'round an' go back whar he come from. An' dat's all!"

As was his invariable custom when deeply impressed Sam began to sing, Pumble joining in:

"Jay-bird a-settin On a swingin' limb, He wink at Stephen, Stephen wink at him; Stephen pint de gun, Pull on de trigger, Off go de load-- An' down come de nigger!"

Greatly refreshed and invigorated by the chanting of this touching ballad, Sam and Pumble returned to the consideration of their day's programme. A great many amusements were proposed, discussed, and rejected in their respective turns. Almost any one of them would have been held entirely satisfactory on any ordinary occasion, but Sam thought none of them good enough for his birthday. He required something extraordinary.

"Kaint you think up nuffin else?" he asked his friend, after a long pause.

"I done thinked plumb to de back o' my head a'ready," replied Pumble.

"Den I tell you what," said Sam; "I heared my pappy say dis: when a pusson want to think _rale strong_, he mus' lay down on de flat ob his back and shet his eyes; an' den, putty soon, he kin think anything he wants to. Let's try it."

This plan was immediately experimented on. Pumble instantly succeeded in thinking; but he only thought that he wished he could have a "buff-day" of his own. Very soon afterward, he ceased to think at all. As for Sam, _his_ thoughts were for some time very ordinary--of too commonplace a nature to be here recorded; but they gradually assumed such an odd and remarkable shape that they may fairly be described as a vision. It seemed to Sam that the whole country around, as far as one could see, was transformed into one great field, in a perfect state of cultivation. But the growing "crop" was not one of cotton, or corn, or cow-peas, or sorghum, or anything else that he had ever before seen in such a place. Coming up out of the ground were long rows of very singular bushes, whereof the stalks were sticks of candy, and the leaves were blackberry pies, and over the whole field was falling a drenching rain of molasses. Sam, however, was most astonished at the curious fruit that the bushes bore. The twigs of some of them supported jew's-harps and tin trumpets; others bent beneath a wealth of fire-crackers and Roman candles; others, again, were weighted with his favorite sardines; and so on in endless variety. It is not at all surprising that the idea occurred to him that this crop ought to be "picked." He found himself becoming highly indignant at the negligence of the planter--whoever he might be--in leaving all these good things to spoil on the bushes; and he burned with a desire to have them properly gathered, and to assist in that work himself. Accordingly, he was just about to reach for a pie and a jew's-harp, by way of beginning, when he found that this was made impossible, by the fact of himself having been suddenly and incomprehensibly changed to a huge water-melon. Over him grew one of the largest bushes, from whose branches depended seven roasted 'possums. It was some consolation to look at them, and imagine how good they would taste if he only _could_ taste them. Presently a little gingerbread bird flew down and began to peck at him, and say, "Git up, Sam! You Sam! Sam!"

He woke up, and found that the wonderful field had vanished, and that he was lying under the old pecan-tree instead of the 'possum-bush; and there was his mother shouting in his ear:

"Sam! don't you heah me, you lazy--_S-a-m_! _Git_ up dis minnit an' go to de well for a bucket ob water, sah, foah I _whoop_ you!"

Pumble sat up and stared.

"Why, mammy," said Sam, "you tol' me I needn't do no work, kase it's my buff-day."

"I's ben countin' it up ag'in," said Aunt Phillis, "an' foun' out where I made a mis-figger, de fust time, and tallied wrong altogedder. 'Cordin' to de _c'rect_ calkilation, yo' buff-day was one day _las' month._ WALK arter dat water!"

WAIT

BY DORA READ GOODALE.

When the icy snow is deep, Covering the frozen land, Do the little flowerets peep To be crushed by Winter's hand?

No, they wait for brighter days, Wait for bees and butterflies; Then their dainty heads they raise To the sunny, sunny skies.

When the cruel north winds sigh, When 'tis cold with wind and rain, Do the birdies homeward fly Only to go back again?

No, they wait for spring to come, Wait for gladsome sun and showers; Then they seek their northern home, Seek its leafy, fragrant bowers.

Trustful as the birds and flowers, Tho' our spring of joy be late, Tho' we long for brighter hours, We must ever learn to wait.

THE STORY OF MAY-DAY.

BY OLIVE THORNE.

Alas, children! the world is growing old. Not that dear old Mother Earth begins to show her six thousand (more or less) years, by stiff joints and clumsy movements, by clinging to her winter's rest and her warm coverlet of snow, forgetting to push up the blue-eyed violets in the spring, or neglecting to unpack the fresh green robes of the trees. No, indeed! The blessed mother spins around the sun as gayly as she did in her first year. She rises from her winter sleep fresh and young as ever. Every new violet is as exquisitely tinted, as sweetly scented, as its predecessors of a thousand years ago. Each new maple-leaf opens as delicate and lovely as the first one that ever came out of its tightly packed bud in the spring. Mother Nature never grows old.

But the human race changes in the same way that each one of us does. The race had its childhood when men and women played the games that are now left to you youngsters. We can even see the change in our own day. Some of us--who are not grandmothers, either--can remember when youth of fourteen and fifteen played many games which, nowadays, an unfortunate damsel of six years--ruffled, embroidered, and white gowned, with delicate shoes, and hips in the vice-like grasp of a modern sash--feels are altogether too young for her. I dare say I shall live to see the once-beloved dolls abandoned to babies; and I fear the next generation will find a Latin grammar in the cradle instead of a rattle-box, and baby cutting his teeth scientifically, with a surgical instrument, instead of on a rubber ring.

Well, well! What _do_ you suppose our great-grandchildren will do?

We must not let these old-fashioned customs be forgotten, and I want to tell you the story of May-day. A curious tale is told of the beginning of the May-day celebration, which is of more venerable age than perhaps you know. You shall hear it, and then you can believe as much as you choose, as all the rest of the world takes the liberty of doing; for although the grave old Roman writers put it in their books for truth, it is very much doubted by our modern wiseheads, because it is so unreasonable, and so inelegant (as our dainty critic says). As though the world was always reasonable, forsooth! or undoubted historical facts did not sometimes lack the important quality of elegance!

However it may be, here is the story: Many hundred years ago,--about two hundred before Christ, in fact,--there lived in Rome a beautiful woman named Flora. Had she lived in these luxurious days, she would have enjoyed another name or two; but in those simple times she was plain Flora.

Being human, this lady had a great dread of being forgotten when she had left the world. So she devised a plan to keep her memory green. She made a will giving her large fortune to the city of Rome, on condition that a festival in her memory should be celebrated every year.

When the will came before the grave and reverend Roman senators, it caused serious talk. To decline so rich a gift was not to be thought of; yet to accept the condition they did not like, for it was a bold request in Madam Flora, who had, to say the least, done nothing worthy of celebrating. At last, according to the old story-tellers, a way out of the difficulty was found, as there generally is; and the city fathers decided to accept the terms, and make Flora worthy of the honor by placing her among their minor deities, of which there were no less than thirty thousand. She took her place as Goddess of Flowers, with a celebration about the first of May, to be called Floralia, after her.

This little story may be a fable; but now I shall tell you some facts. When the Romans came to Britain to live, many hundred years ago, they brought, of course, their own customs and festivals, among which was this one in memory of Flora. The heathen--our ancestors, you know--adopted them with delight, being in the childhood of their race. They became very popular; and when, some years later, a good priest, Gregory, came (from Rome also) to convert the natives, he wisely took advantage of their fondness for festivals, and not trying to suppress them, he simply altered them from heathen feasts to Christian games, by substituting the names of saints and martyrs for heathen gods and goddesses. Thus the Floralia became May-day celebration, and lost none of its popularity by the change. On the contrary, it was carried on all over England for ages, till its origin would have been lost but for a few pains-taking old writers, who "made notes" of everything.

The Floralia we care nothing for, but the May-day games have lasted nearly to our day, and some relics of it still survive in our young country. When you crown a May queen, or go with a May party, you are simply following a custom that the Romans began, and that our remote ancestors in England carried to such lengths, that not only ordinary people, but lords and ladies, and even king and queen, laid aside their state and went "a-Maying" early in the morning, to wash their faces in May dew, and bring home fresh boughs and flowers to deck the May-pole, which reared its flowery crown in every village.

Great were the doings around the May-pole, for which the tallest and straightest of trees was selected. It was drawn to its place by as many as thirty or forty yoke of oxen, their horns decorated with flowers, followed by all the lads and lassies of the village. The pole was wound or painted with gay colors, and trimmed with garlands, bright handkerchiefs, and ribbon streamers, from top to bottom.

With great ceremonies, and shouts of joy, it was lifted to its place by ropes and pulleys, and set up firmly in the ground; and then the people joined hands and danced around it. The whole day was given up to merriment, every one dressed in holiday clothes, doors and windows were adorned with green boughs and flowers, the bells rang, processions of people in grotesque dresses were arranged, and the famous Morris dancers performed.

In this dance the people assumed certain characters. There was always Robin Hood, the great hero of the rustics; Maid Marian, the queen, with gilt crown on her head; Friar Tuck; a fool, with his fool's-cap and bells; and, above all, the hobby-horse. This animal was made of pasteboard, painted a sort of pink color, and propelled by a man inside, who made him perform various tricks not common to horses, such as threading a needle and holding a ladle in his mouth for pennies.

The various characters labored to support their parts. The friar gave solemn advice, the queen imitated lady-like manners, the fool joked and made fun, and the horse pranced in true horsey style.

This Morris dance is supposed to have been brought in early times from Spain, where the Moors danced it, and where it still survives as the "fandango."

All this May-day merriment came to an end when our grim Puritan fathers had power in England. Dancing around the May-pole looked to them like heathen adoration of an idol. Parliament made a law against it, and all the May-poles in the island were laid in the dust. The common people had their turn, when, a few years later, under a new king, the prohibitory law was repealed and a new May-pole, the highest ever in England (one hundred and thirty-four feet), was set up in the Strand, London, with great pomp. But the English people were fast outgrowing the sport, and the customs have been dying out ever since. Now, a very few May-poles in obscure villages are all that can be found.

Though May-pole and Morris dancing were the most common, there were other curious customs in different parts of the kingdom. In one place, the Mayers went out very early to the woods, and gathering green boughs, decorated every door with one. A house containing a sweetheart had a branch of birch, the door of a scold was disgraced with alder, and a slatternly person had the mortification to find a branch of a nut-tree at hers, while the young people who overslept found their doors closed by a nail over the latch.

In other places, wreaths were made on hoops, with a gayly dressed doll in the middle of each, and carried about by girls, the little owners singing a ballad which had been sung since the time of Queen Bess,--and expecting a shower of pennies, of course.

In Dublin, the youths decorated a bush, four or five feet high, with candles, which they lighted and danced around till burnt out. They then lighted a huge bonfire, threw the bush on it, and continued their dance around that. In other parts of Ireland, the boys had a mischievous habit of running through the streets with bundles of nettles, with which they struck the face and hands of every one they met. The sting of nettle, perhaps you know, is a very uncomfortable pain. The same people are very superstitious, and they believed that the power of the Evil Eye was greater on the first of May than at any other time; and they insured a good supply of milk for the year by putting a green bough against the house, which is certainly an easy way. In old times, the Druids drove all the cattle through the fire, to keep them from diseases, and this custom still survives in parts of Ireland, where many a peasant who owns a cow and a bit of straw is careful to do the same.

In the Scottish Highlands, in the eighteenth century, the boys had a curious custom. They would go to the moors outside of the town, make a round table in the sod, by cutting a trench around it, deep enough for them to sit down to their grassy table. On this table they would kindle a fire and cook a custard of eggs and milk, and knead a cake of oat-meal, which was toasted by the fire. After eating the custard, the cake was cut into as many parts as there were boys; one piece was made black with coal, and then all put into a cap. Each boy was in turn blindfolded, and made to take a piece, and the one who selected the black one was to be sacrificed to Baal, whose favor they wished to ask for their harvest. The victim in that day had only to leap through the fire; but there is little doubt that the whole thing was a survival from the days when human beings were really sacrificed.

In the island of Lewis, in the west of Scotland, there prevails a custom of sending a man very early on May-day to cross a certain river, believing that if a woman crossed it first the salmon would not come into the stream for a year.

May-day festivals were not confined to the British islands. They were found, with variations suited to the different races, all over Europe. In France, the day was consecrated to the Virgin, and young girls celebrated it by dressing the prettiest one in white, crowning, and decorating her with flowers, and throning her under a canopy of flowers and greens, built beside the road. There she sat in state, while her attendants begged of passers-by, for the "Lady of the May," money, which was used in a feast later in the day.

In Toulouse, there was an ancient custom of giving a prize of a golden violet for the best poem. This custom held its place for more than four centuries. May-poles also flourished in France, and had gilt pendants.

The Dutch May-pole was still different, being surrounded by trees stuck into flower-pots, and ornamented with gay-colored flags, and hoops with garlands and gilt balls hanging. Another sort had wooden dolls made to represent the figures of peasants, nailed against the pole by their hands and knees, as though climbing it. There were also figures of birds and people. In some parts of Germany it was the firm belief of the common people that certain ill-disposed beings met on a high mountain on May-day to dance and feast, with no good intentions to their human neighbors. Accordingly on the day before, every family was careful to have a thorn of a certain kind, which was stuck into the door as a protection.

[Illustration: AN OLD-TIME MAY-DAY IN "MERRIE ENGLAND."]

The Scandinavians, whose first of May is not very balmy, had of old a curious fight between Summer and Winter. Winter--or the man representing him--was dressed in skins, armed with fire-forks, and threw snow-balls and pieces of ice. Summer was dressed in green leaves and summer dress. They had a mock fight which was called "Driving away Winter and welcoming Summer," and in the Isle of Man, where Norwegians had rule for many years, this custom lingered until very lately.

But, as the years went on, these merry games died out, and a few years ago May-day was in London simply the festival of chimney-sweeps and milk-maids, certainly a falling off from the times of King Henry VIII. The only traces of the old custom of going a-Maying were the garlands of the milk-maids and the Jack-in-the-green of the sweeps. The garland (so called) was made of silver plate, borrowed for the day, and fastened upon a sort of pyramid. Accompanying this droll garland were the maids themselves in gay dress, with ribbons and flowers, and attended by musicians who played for them to dance in the street. Sometimes a cow was dressed in festive array, with bouquets and ribbons on her horns, neck and tail, and over her back a net, stuck full of flowers. Thus highly ornamented, the meek creature was led through the streets.

The sweeps brought out the Jack-in-the-green, which was a tall cone made of green boughs, decorated with flowers, gay streamers and a flag, and carried by a man inside. Each of these structures was followed by a band of sweeps who assumed certain characters, the fashion of which had been handed down from the palmy times of May-day.

There were always a lord and lady who wore ridiculous imitations of fashionable dress, and made ludicrous attempts to imitate elegant manners. Mad Moll and her husband were another pair who flourished in tawdry, gay-colored rags, and tatters, he brandishing a sweep's broom and she a ladle. Jim Crow and a fancifully bedizened ballet-dancer in white muslin, often swelled the ranks, and the rest of the party rigged out in a profusion of gilt paper, flowers, tinsel and gewgaws, their faces and legs colored with brick-dust, made up a comical crowd. But even these mild remains of the great festival are almost entirely banished to the rural districts, and are almost extinct there.

Poor Flora! (if there ever was such a person) she has her wish (if that wish ever existed save in the imagination of the Romans); she is not forgotten; her story survives in musty books, though her personality be questioned; various marble statues bear her pretty name, and, after running this declining scale through the ages, she and her May-day are softened by time to a fragrant memory.

WILD GEESE.

BY CELIA THAXTER.

The wind blows, the sun shines, the birds sing loud, The blue, blue sky is flecked with fleecy dappled cloud, Over earth's rejoicing fields the children dance and sing, And the frogs pipe in chorus, "It is spring! it is spring!"

The grass comes, the flower laughs where lately lay the snow, O'er the breezy hill-top hoarsely calls the crow, By the flowing river the alder catkins swing, And the sweet song-sparrow cries, "Spring! it is spring!"

Hark, what a clamor goes winging through the sky! Look, children! Listen to the sound so wild and high! Like a peal of broken bells,--kling, klang, kling,-- Far and high the wild geese cry, "Spring! it is spring!"

Bear the winter off with you, O wild geese dear! Carry all the cold away, far away from here; Chase the snow into the north, O strong of heart and wing, While we share the robin's rapture, crying, "Spring! it is spring!"

THE CHARCOAL-BURNERS' FIRE; OR, EASTER EVE AMONG THE COSSACKS.

(_A Russian Legend._)

BY DAVID KER.

"If you want me to tell you any wonderful stories, Barin, such as _you've_ been telling us," says Ostap Mordenko, shaking his bushy yellow beard, as he finished his cup of tea, "you're just looking for corn upon a rock, as the saying is; for _I_ never had an adventure since the day I was born, except that time when I slipped through a hole in the ice, last winter. But, perhaps, it will do as well if I tell you an old tale that I've heard many a time from my grandfather, that's dead (may the kingdom of heaven be his!), and which will show you how there may be hope for a man, even when everything seems to be at the very worst.

"Many, many years ago, there lived in a village on the Don River, a poor man. When I say he was poor, I don't mean that he had a few holes in his coat at times, or that he had to go without a dinner every now and then, for that's what we've all had to do in our time; but it fairly seemed as if poverty were his brother, and had come to stay with him for good and all. Many a cold day his stove was unlighted, because he couldn't afford to buy wood; and he lived on black bread and cold water from the New Year to the Nativity--it was no good talking to _him_ about cabbage soup, or salted cucumber, or tea with lemon in it.[A]

"Now, if he had only had himself to be troubled about, it wouldn't have mattered a kopeck,[B] for a _man_ can always make shift for himself. But, you see, this man had been married once upon a time, and, although his wife was gone, his three children were left, and he had _them_ to care for as well as himself. And, what was worse, instead of being boys, who might have gone out and earned something for themselves, they were all girls, who could do nothing but stay at home and cry for food, and many a time it went to his heart so that he stopped his ears, and ran out of the house that he mightn't hear them.

"However, as the saying is, 'Bear up, Cossack, and thou'll be Maman (chief) some day;' so he struggled on somehow or other, till at last it came to Easter Eve. And then all the village was up like a fair, some lighting candles before the pictures of the saints; some baking cakes and pies, and all sorts of good things; others running about in their best clothes, greeting their friends and relations; and, as soon as it came to midnight, such a kissing and embracing, such a shaking of hands and exchanging of good wishes, as I daresay you've seen many a time in our villages; and nothing to be heard all over the place but 'Christ is risen!' 'He is risen indeed!'[C]

"But, as you may think, our poor Stepka (Stephen) had neither new clothes nor rejoicings in _his_ hut--nor lighted candles either, for that matter. The good old priest had left him a few tapers as he passed, for _he_ was always a kind man to the poor; but he had quote forgotten that the poor fellow would have nothing to kindle them with, and so, though the candles were in their places, all ready for lighting, there was not a glimmer of light to be seen! And that troubled poor Stepka more than all his other griefs, for he was a true Russian, and thought it a sore thing that he could not even do honor to the day on which our Lord had arisen from the dead. Besides, he had hoped that the sight of the pretty light would amuse his children, and make them forget their hunger a little; and at the thought of their disappointment his heart was very sore.

"However, as the proverb says, 'Sitting still won't make one's corn grow.' So he got up and went out to beg a light from some of his neighbors. But the people of the village (it's a pity to have to say it), were a hard-hearted, cross-grained set, who had not a morsel of compassion for a man in trouble; for they forgot that the tears of the poor are God's thunder-bolts, and that every one of them will burn into a man's soul at last, as good father Arkadi used to tell us. So, when poor Stepka came up to one door after another, saying humbly, 'Give me a light for my Easter candles, good neighbors, for the love of Heaven,' some mocked at him, and others bade him begone, and others asked why he didn't take better care of his own concerns, instead of coming bothering _them_; and one or two laughed, and told him there was a fine bright moon overhead, and all he had to do was to reach up a good long stick and get as much light as he wanted. So, you see, the poor fellow didn't get much by _that_ move; and what with the disappointment, and what with grief at finding himself so shabbily treated by his own neighbors, just because he happened to be poor, he was ready to go out of his wits outright.

"Just then he happened to look down into the plain (for the village stood on the slope of a hill), and behold! there were ever so many lights twinkling all over it, as if a regiment were encamped there; and Stepka thought that this must be a gang of charcoal-burners halting for the night, as they often did in passing to and fro. So, then the thought struck him, "Why shouldn't I go and beg a light from _them_; they can't well be harder upon me than my own neighbors have been. I'll try, at any rate!"

"And off he set, down the hill, right toward the encampment.

"The nearer he came to it, the brighter the fires seemed to burn; and the sight of the cheery light, and all the people coming and going around it, all so busy and happy, made him feel comforted without knowing why. He went right up to the nearest fire, and took off his cap.

"'Christ is risen!' said he.

"'He is risen indeed!' answered one of the black men, in such a clear, sweet voice, that it sounded to Stepka just like his mother singing him to sleep when he was a child.

"'Give me a light for my Easter candles, good people, I pray you.'

"'You are heartily welcome,' said the other, pointing to the glowing fire; 'but how are you going to carry it home?'

[Illustration: STEPKA CARRIES THE FIRE IN HIS CLOAK.]

"'Oh, dear me!' cried poor Stepka, striking his forehead, 'I never thought about that!'

"'Well, that shows that you were very much in earnest, my friend,' said the other, laughing; 'but never mind; I think we can manage it for you. Lay down your coat.'

Stepka pulled off his old patched coat and laid it on the ground, wondering what was to come next; but what was his amazement when the man coolly threw two great shovelfuls of blazing wood into the coat, as coolly as if it were a charcoal bucket!

"'Hallo! hallo!' cried Stepka, seizing his arm, 'what on earth are you about, burning my coat that way?'

"'Your coat will be none the worse, brother,' said the charcoal-burner, with a curious smile. 'Look and see!'

"And, sure enough, the fire lay quietly in the hollow of the coat, and never singed a thread of it! Stepka was so startled, that for a moment he thought he had to do, not with charcoal-burners, but with something worse; but, remembering how they had greeted him in the Holy Name, he became easy again.

"'Good luck to you, my lad,' said the strange man, as the Cossack took up his load. 'You'll get it home all right, never fear.'

"Away went Stepka like one in a dream, and never stopped till he got to his own house. He lighted all his candles, and then awoke his children (who had cried themselves to sleep) that they might enjoy the bonny light; and, when they saw it they clapped their hands and shouted for joy.

"Just then Stepka happened to look toward his coat, which he had laid down on the table, with the burning wood still in it, and started as if he had been stung. It was choke-full of _gold_--good, solid ducats[D] as ever were coined, more than he could have counted in a whole hour. Then he knew that his strange companions were no charcoal-burners, but God's own angels sent to help him in his need; and he kneeled down and gave thanks to God for his mercy.

"Now, just at that moment one of the neighbors happened to be passing, and, hearing the children hurrahing and clapping their hands, he peeped through the window, wondering what _they_ could find to be merry about. But, when he saw the heap of gold on the table, everything else went clean out of his head, and he opened the door and burst in, like a wolf flying from the dogs.

"'I say,' cried he, without even stopping to give Stepka the greeting of the day, 'where did you get this fine legacy from? It makes one's eyes blink to look at it!'

"Now, Stepka was a good-hearted fellow, as I've said, and he never thought of remembering how badly this very man had treated him an hour or two before, but just told him the whole story right out, exactly as I tell it you now. The other hardly waited to hear the end of it, but set off full speed to find these wonderful charcoal-burners and try if _he_ couldn't get some gold out of them, too. And, as there had been more than a few listeners at the door while the tale was being told, it ended with the whole village running like mad in the same direction.

"When they got to the burners' camp, the charcoal men looked at them rather queerly, as well they might, to see such a procession come to ask for a light all at once. However, they said nothing, but signed to them to lay their coats on the ground, and served out two shovelfuls of burning wood to each; and away went the roguish villagers, chuckling at the thought of getting rich so easily, and thinking what they would do with their money.

"But they had hardly gone a quarter of the way home, when the foremost suddenly gave a terrible howl and let fall his load; and in another moment all the rest joined in, till there was a chorus that you might have heard a mile off. And they had good reason; for, although the fire had lain in Stepka's coat, it wouldn't lie in theirs--it had burned right through, and their holiday clothes were spoiled, and their hands famously blistered, and all that was left of their riches was a smoke and smell like the burning of fifty tar-barrels. And when they turned to abuse the charcoal-burners, the charcoal-burners were gone; fires, camp and men had all vanished like a dream!

"But as for Stepka, _his_ gold stuck by him, and he used it well. And always, on the day of his visit to the charcoal-burners, he gave a good dinner to as many poor folk as he could get together, saying that he must be good to others, even as God had been good to _him_. And that's the end of my story."

[Footnote A: The three great dainties of the Russian peasant.]

[Footnote B: One third of a penny; one hundred kopecks equal one rouble.]

[Footnote C: The Easter greeting, and reply.]

[Footnote D: The Russian word is "tchervontzi"--gold pieces worth five dollars each.]

PARLOR BALLOONING.

BY L. HOPKINS.

[Illustration]

There goes the toy balloon man!

Here, take this ten-cent piece; run after him as hard as ever you can, and bring me one of those over-grown ripe-cherry-looking things, and I will show you a few queer tricks the toy balloon can do, which, I'll venture to say, the inventor of toy balloons himself never thought of.

Ah! I see you have picked out a fine plump one. Now for a bit of paper--any kind will do. This, torn from an old newspaper at random, will serve the purpose admirably.

Now, I crumple it up at one corner, and tie it to Mr. Balloon's half yard or so of tail, and turn him loose in the room. He rises slowly for a little, and then as slowly settles down to the floor. That won't do. I want to see him exactly balanced between floor and ceiling; so, of course, the paper must be of exactly the same weight as the balloon itself. We soon can accomplish that. See! I tear off a bit more. Top heavy yet? He rises higher this time, and settles down more slowly to the floor. Tear again. Whew! I took off too much that time. He rises to the ceiling, bumping his head against it a few times, and finally remains there in a sullen manner as if determined he will have no more of our nonsense.

[Illustration]

I recapture him, and this time I add to the weight of his tail, by dividing in two the last bit which I tore off, and twisting it around the string.

Now, then, sir, you may go! See! he rises slowly, slowly, until about midway between floor and ceiling, where he stops and turns slowly about, as if making up his mind what to do next.

[Illustration]

Presto! a current of air strikes him, and he begins dodging about in a frantic manner, as if to escape from some invisible enemy. Presently he becomes calmer, and proceeds to explore every nook and corner of the room; now going up close to the clock on the mantel, as if to ascertain the time of day; now taking a look at himself in the mirror; then, turning suddenly away (as if in confusion to find you have caught him at it), he moves toward the window, and pretends to be interested in what is going on outside; but, a draught of air coming briskly in, he hastens away as fast as ever he can, as if in fear of taking cold. Skimming along close to the floor, he reaches the opposite side of the room, and, slowly rising again, peers into the canary's cage. The occupant resents the liberty with erect feathers, and our balloon quickly descends, and takes refuge under the piano. Recovering his presence of mind, presently he peeps cautiously out, and begins to ascend again. Here he comes toward us--slowly, majestically! Strike at him with a fan, and lo! he retreats in great disorder to a remote corner of the room, dodging about in most eccentric fashion, when, recovering his self-possession after a time, he goes about examining the pictures on the wall with the air of a critic. You lie down on your back, on the comfortable sofa in the corner, watching the balloon as it sails slowly about, and wondering what it will do next, until--until you fall asleep!

[Illustration]

You are awakened by something tickling your nose; and, looking up, you suddenly discover the toy balloon hovering over you, with its tail in your face, and apparently enjoying your surprise.

[Illustration]

All this, and much more indeed, will a toy balloon do, if treated in the manner I have described.

Begin with a piece of paper rather heavier than the balloon, and tear off bit by bit until the two exactly balance.

DRIFTED INTO PORT.

BY EDWIN HODDER.

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