Harper's Young People, June 6, 1882 An Illustrated Weekly by Various


* * * * *


Tuesday, June 6, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per Year, in Advance.

* * * * *



"Come here, boys," said Mary Grey, closing the dining-room door very softly, and calling Ben and Lewis to her. Mary was their elder sister. She seemed a great deal older than the boys, for Ben was only nine, and Lewis six, while Mary was seventeen.

"A dear little brother is upstairs waiting to see you," said Mary. "And if you are good boys, nurse says you may hold him for a few moments in your arms."

Ben and Lewis began capering about with delight; but they followed Mary upstairs, very much impressed by the idea that they had a new member of the family to meet--a tiny wee boy, all their own little brother.

In Dr. Grey's house there is a big, sunny, peaceful room fronting an old-fashioned garden, and there it was that the little brother lay waiting in a pink and white cradle. Ben and Lewis went in very softly. They were very much afraid of old Mrs. Newman, the nurse; they were afraid the baby would cry; and yet there was in their minds a general impression that the new boy in the family would put them out of power. But at sight of the baby all such fears vanished. Such a mite of a thing! A dear little black head, a pair of bright, blinking eyes, doubled-up pink fists, and a dimple in one cheek. It was while the two boys stood looking at him for the first time that he was given the name which always clung to him in spite of his being christened Philip.

"Oh, Mary," Lewis exclaimed, in a soft tone, "I sha'n't mind _him_--he is only a little Scrap!"

I don't know just why it was, but from that hour no one seemed to think of calling him anything but "Scrap." Perhaps it was because he had such a dear little face that every one wanted to give him a pet name. Perhaps it was because he was so slimly built, and was always such a wee thing in spite of rosy cheeks and merry ways. But in any case the name clung to him.

When his mother died he was only a baby, but she already had called him by his nickname, and it was Mary, I think, who passionately declared he should know no other.

Ben and Lewis took Scrap in charge immediately. They thought it great fun to hold the little big-eyed baby, and feel that he was younger and weaker than they. But yet Scrap was a real boy. As soon as he could understand any sort of fun, which was very early, they taught him all their games, and they made him what they called their "Regiment." Ben and Lewis were Colonel and Captain of Scrap; and Scrap himself was well enough pleased with his subordinate position. Sometimes they played at what they called "Marching against the North Pole," and it was a curious thing that they always chose such very hot weather for this particular game. They wore blankets, and counterpanes, and old seal-skin caps, and they sat on the nursery stairs, covered with rugs, pretending they were in sleighs, on their way to the North Pole, while the perspiration streamed from their faces. It was usually Ben who, at a given moment, impersonated a singular character known as the "Iceberg Man," and who upset the whole company. Scrap, weighed down by bedding, generally fell asleep during this performance, and I must say that Ben and Lewis rather languished toward the end of it; but they never tired of playing at that game over and over again, until cold weather came.

Scrap had the measles about this time, and while he lay in bed Ben and Lewis occupied themselves writing bulletins of his progress, which were pinned to the dining-room door every morning, and were intended to be very helpful in their character. Scrap was by no means dangerously ill, but his seclusion filled the boys with a sense of horror. One of these bulletins ran as follows:

"No chainge for the better. Pulse is lite and he cries a good deal. Mary says he's got to be made to keep still."


"He kicked Mrs. Brown, and called her a cross old thing. Tong is bad and he wont kepe the kovers on him. Mary says he is orful to take kare of."

As the disease progressed, the bulletins became still more unpleasantly personal. One, written in very black ink, ran as follows:

"He put his Tong out at the doctor, and mary says we are afrade he is going to have the mumps and if he does wont there just be a time with him."

This "time" came to pass, for mumps set in, and poor little Scrap's seclusion left him a very white-faced, tired little person indeed. But after a time no more horrible bulletins had to be written about him, for all his sweetness of temper returned, and he played at being the "Regiment" again with great gayety.

[Illustration: SCRAP AND HIS KITTEN.]

It was about this time that I one day heard a knock at my front door, and opening it myself, found Scrap standing very still, his eyes twinkling, and his little mouth trying not to smile. He had a wee kitten in a basket.

"Well, Scrap!" I exclaimed, "I'm glad to see you, dear. Where did pussy come from?"

"I find I don't need her," he said, soberly, coming in and sitting down, grave as a little judge. "She's a present for you. Do you think you like cats?"

"Not always," I had to answer in truth. "But that looks such a dear little thing! Where did you get her, Scrap dear?"

"The ashman gave her to me," said Scrap, with a little anxious frown. "As a general fact ashmen don't own kittens, at least so this one said they didn't; but he said if we didn't buy her he'd drown her in a bag, and I bought her with my penny; but I find I don't need her, and I thought you'd like her for a real truly present."

Who could refuse Scrap's offering, even though it entailed watching a little kitten that could not crawl?

"She doesn't know how to be sorry for me," he said, as he was leaving, having kissed pussy tenderly good-by--"but she is only a baby. I think," he added, looking at me with his earnest little way--"I think the ashman is her uncle."

Scrap early developed two talents; one was for running away, the other was for composing stories. The stories were most interesting, but the running away used to frighten the whole household. Scrap would be brought back from these expeditions a most dejected, tired little person. One day he wandered all over New York with a German band; another time he was found in an old woman's shanty, learning how to feed pigs. When he was remonstrated with he would listen very soberly, fixing his eyes on Mary's face, and watching her mouth with comical intentness; but unfortunately it was impossible to make him appreciate the dangerous character of his offenses. One day, after Mary had exhausted all her eloquence, and told him of every possible danger, he remarked, calmly:

"That wasn't half as interesting as the last time, Mary. You never told me a word about Charlie Ross. Begin with how he was let go out to play." Then his little eyes danced, and he added, with his quaint air: "Make it just as frightening as you can, and couldn't you put in something about bears? Just scare me awfully, and see if it won't do me good."

Soon after this a means of preventing Scrap's vagabondizing occurred. Dr. Grey decided to take all the children to Germany, and Mary told Scrap he would see far more there than he ever could by running away. So the family sailed one summer for Austria. It was when they were on the steamer that they discovered Scrap had hidden away in his pocket a tiny American flag. Ben and Lewis laughed at him dreadfully, but Scrap was not to be put down.

"Now, you boys," he said, with his most dignified air, "suppose they should take me for a German, don't you see? I'll just show them my 'Merikan flag."

This spirit moved little Scrap all the time he was abroad. He resolutely refused to mingle with German boys in any purely German sport, lest he should lose his position as a "'Merikan" among them. He would say, "I'll show you some of our 'Merikan games, if you can learn them."

In the little German town where the boys lived he became a sort of small leader, older boys quite giving way before his manly assertion of authority. Among others, Scrap played with some young German Princes, whose rank in their own country entitled them to rule in all the games. This puzzled and bothered Scrap. One day he withdrew from a game, calmly remarking: "Perhaps you didn't know--I am a 'Merikan Prince."

After that Scrap's power never was contested. All that winter he went on writing his funny little stories, or telling them to the other boys. I do not know just whence Scrap's stories came, nor how they were made up, but I will quote from one which lies before me.

"William and Billy were two brothers, and they lived with their father and mother. Their father was named Mr. Holloway. He had been a very rich man, but now he had lost most of his money. He lost it through a chink in the wall. After that he kept his money on ice.

"'Come,' said William to Billy. 'Let us go down to the brook and fish.'

"So they went.

"'Hi-i!' said Billy, 'I've found a penny.'

"He then found a very large smooth rock to lay it on before they began to fish.

"They meant to catch a whale, but they tried for little fishes first. William caught one little one, and laid it on the rock. Presently they heard the fish screaming and yelling, and they went to the rock, and saw the penny was gone. They knew the fish had swallowed it, for he kept on screeching so. They took him up and jiggled him by the tail, and the penny dropped out. At last they caught a whale, and carried him home with the little fish. Mr. and Mrs. Holloway thought they would like to go to that same brook and fish. So, early the next morning, they went. They worked all day, and William and Billy had two pieces of pie for dinner all alone. And what do you think? When Mr. and Mrs. Holloway came home they had only caught one skinny, miserable little thing, and William and Billy sat down and roared laughing."

Scrap asked Mary if she thought any one would like to publish this story. He said it wasn't truly true, but he had it in his head just as if it was true. He said the German boys liked it; but he knew they were sorry William and Billy were Americans.

Scrap began a museum about this time, and when you paid a penny and went in to see it, you were treated to a tepid drink which he called "lemarade," and which made you feel very uncomfortable almost at once. Scrap mixed it in a bottle, and kept it under his little pillow, except on "museum days." This museum was a source of great joy to the round-faced German boys. It contained a variety of articles brought from America. One was a piece of horseshoe, which Scrap labelled "An American's bone."

He had some old teeth; a broken pistol; an ancient army hat of his father's; varieties of buttons; a few dried flowers, labelled, "From Central Park, United States of 'Merica"; a piece of marble with which, Scrap said, "any one could plant a whole tombstone" (he believed they grew); and finally a number of old postage stamps. Quantity seemed to be mainly Scrap's object. When, you got tired of looking, the "lemarade" 'was again handed around.

After a few exhibitions of this valuable collection, it seemed to occur to Scrap that the affair needed life and animation. So he instituted a dance 'midway in the performance. It was done with great gravity, and dear little Scrap's feet were so large that they made every movement funny. Somehow, although it was meant as a diversion, that dance was so pathetic no one could smile naturally, and Scrap himself seemed to consider it a dignified affair.

I am sorry that I can not tell you more about dear little Scrap's doings. His active, merry, earnest ways seem to have filled all that German winter. He organized all the games of the neighborhood, and was the leader in everything. All the time he had certain quiet hours in which, dear baby that he was in years, his education went on--his funny little education! He wrote and read and spelled, and he did the most astonishing little sums.

One snowy March day Scrap fell ill. His longing to see America once more grew positively painful. He kept his desk near him, and continued his "museum days," always handing around "lemarade" at the usual intervals, and promising us new dances when he got well.

The boys used to make a circle around his bed, and it seemed to worry them that at times they had been cross or rough with Scrap. Unless he was very weak, he would always tell them stories. His little face grew very white and wistful-looking, and his voice very tired, and I think if any one had had the heart, those museum days would have been interfered with, for he entered into the spirit of them so keenly that they left him very weary.

At last he gave them up of his own will. He found he could not enjoy them; but he kept his little flag close at hand. One afternoon, when it was snowing outside, and everything in-doors was very still, and Ben was asleep in a chair by the fire, Scrap touched his sister Mary with one little feverish hand, and said:

"Molly, isn't it 'Merika yet?"

Mary had tears so thickly in her eyes, she bent her face that Scrap might not see them. The dear little face on the pillow was watching hers anxiously.

"It will be very soon, my darling."

Scrap moved about restlessly for a moment, tracing a pattern on the wall with one little finger. It grew tired so soon. When he turned his face again to Mary, he said, with his old quaint air, and jealously holding his little flag, "Won't I _always_ be a truly 'Merikan, Molly?"

They re-assured him on this point, and he fell asleep quite comforted. The dear little Scrap! He scarcely spoke again. The next day's wintry dawn saw him in his last slumber. The little flag he had so treasured as the symbol of his native land was held so closely in his fingers that they would not move it. His little friends came in to see him for good-by, and Mary and Ben and Lewis talked of the day when he had first come to them, lying in that pink and white cradle over the sea. Would the room look the same ever again? Ben wondered. Lewis talked of how Scrap had loved the garden.

When they kissed him for the last time, and laid him to rest, the bit of color and the faded stars went with him. His dear little face wore its sweetest look. The flag was clasped on his bosom, and winter flowers were lying all about him.



I have now told you something, at three different times, about the sea, the rocks, and the waves. You remember we looked at these things, and tried to learn something of the way in which the winds and waves have worked together to carve out the rocks and the dry land. There is nothing like seeing a thing for yourself, and those boys and girls who live near the eastern shore of the United States, between New York and Florida, can easily visit one of the strangest of the strange works done by the sea.

Along the whole south side of Long Island, beginning at Montauk, all along the Jersey shore, away down past Little Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia, Cape Hatteras, and the low sandy shores of the Carolinas and Georgia, to the Florida Keys, is a most singular beach, built up by the sea. The odd thing about this thousand-mile beach is that it appears about to move away. It is continually walking along the coast, up or down, or forward and backward, as if restless and tired of staying in one place.

At one time it may have great holes cut through it, and at another time it creeps along and closes up the gaps, and alters the whole character of the country behind it. Its queer habit of creeping along the shore in certain places has given such parts the name of travelling beaches. Really, I suppose, there are no beaches in the world that do not travel about at some time. They are all restless things, and while we may not see them move, we feel very sure they can and do travel for miles wherever the winds and waves compel them. People who live on these travelling beaches try to stop them by building heavy stone walls, or by driving rows of piles across them. They do not seem to care much, and in some places the sand and rolling pebbles climb over the walls, and travel on very much as they please. Coney Island is one of these travelling beaches, Rockaway is another, Sandy Hook is part of another.

The only thing that can stop one of these creeping beaches is a river. The Hudson River, flowing out of New York Bay, breaks the beach in two between the Highlands of Navesink and Long Island. There has been a big fight here between the beach and the river. Coney Island has crept out like a crooked finger from the east, and Sandy Hook has travelled up for several miles from the south. If the river were not the strongest, the beaches would creep out from each side and grow right across the great bay, and Sandy Hook would touch Coney Island. Then, in place of the wide bay open to the sea, there would be a long beach, with the ocean on the outside and a fresh-water lake on the inside.

All the rivers that flow east from the mountains in the Eastern States below New York Bay have had to fight with this creeping beach before they could escape into the sea. In some places the beaches have crept right across the streams, and compelled them to turn aside and go another way.


Here is a map showing one place where long years ago there was a strange fight between the creeping beach and two poor little rivers. The place is on the New Jersey shore not far from New York. At the bottom of the map is a part of the Shrewsbury River. Just north of it is another and larger stream called the Navesink. Still farther north are the high hills called the Highlands of Navesink. In front of these two streams and the hills is a narrow strip of beach, and outside of this is the Atlantic Ocean. There is a carriage-road and a railroad on top of the beach, and from the car windows you can see the surf breaking on one side, and the still waters of the two rivers on the other side. It is so narrow that often the sea breaks entirely over it, and in the summer-time you can walk from one side to the other in less than two minutes. To the north this beach extends to Sandy Hook, and to the south it stretches for hundreds of miles, with here and there a break, as at the Chesapeake or at the Delaware Capes, far down to Florida. Pine-trees grow on it here. Far away to the south the wild palmetto, the orange-trees, and the bananas grow along the shore.

The strange thing about the place shown on this map is found just where the two rivers meet. A long time ago--so long that no one can tell when it may have happened--the rivers ran into the sea just where the beach is now. Where the hotels and cottages stand was once deep water. There are two ways in which this may have happened: it may have been a storm that threw up a bar across the river's mouth, or the creeping beach may have slowly pushed its way along and closed it up. It may have been both the storm and the creeping sand. At any rate, we may feel pretty sure the river was dammed up, and the water, finding no other outlet, turned to the north, and burst through into Sandy Hook Bay. It cut a path along the front of the hills, and there we find it to-day, a narrow river running to the north between the beach and the high-lands. Steam-boats pass up the Navesink River this way, and a bridge has been built over the stream to the beach. All this, as it is to-day, is shown on the map.

This creeping motion of the beach is very curious. The waves when the wind blows from the south or southeast strike the shore obliquely; that is, instead of rolling in "broad-side," as the sailors would say, or squarely in front, they strike at an angle. One end of the wave strikes the bottom first, and the breaking surf seems to run along the beach, instead of falling all at once, for some distance. The waves, as you have seen, push the sand along before them, and so it happens that these southeast waves drive the sand along as well as up the beach. The sand slides and rolls toward the right, or north, and the beach is said to creep or travel. If there is an opening in the beach, the waves push the sand from the south into the opening, and it grows out into the deep water just as you saw in the picture of the sand-bar. This beach has already crept three miles out into the water, and made Sandy Hook.

One thing is quite certain. There was at one time a deep channel through the beach just here. At one time not many years ago a storm broke through the beach, and a ship, losing its way, ran in there, and was wrecked. Not a trace of the old hull can be found now. The beach long ago crept over the place, and to-day the sand makes a solid strip of land there, just as we see it.

Look at the map again. Opposite the two rivers, outside the beach, you see a curious tongue or spit running out from the shore. This is under water, out of sight. The United States Coast Survey sent their boats all over this place, and measured the depth. The numbers on the map show the depth of the water in feet. Just here it is shallow. A little farther north, directly opposite the two rivers, it is much deeper. Again, farther along, there are more sandy spits and bars running out under water. This shows that at one time there was a deep channel here between the two shoals. It is fair to suppose this deep place was the old mouth of a river. It is said there are even some old teeth left in it yet, for on the southern spit is a buoy that marks a dangerous place called the Shrewsbury Rocks. All these things tell us that at one time these two rivers ran into the sea where now the beach stands, and that the waves and the creeping sand got the best of the rivers, and altered the whole face of the country hereabouts. Where once was an inlet and a swift river is now a beach and a broad shallow-stream, lined with marshes, and slowly filling up with salt grasses and soft mud washed down from the red soil of the hills. What will happen next may be quite as strange as that which has gone before.

Not long ago I sailed for three days and nights along the coast from New York to Savannah. By day we could see from the steamer's deck trees and buildings, bath-houses, fishing-houses, and tall light-houses standing on the western horizon, as if planted in the water. They were on this same low beach that extends for a thousand miles along our coast. Behind the beach for nearly all the way there is still water, in lagoons or great swamps, in narrow streams ashore, or in great inland seas like Albemarle and Pamlico Sounds. At one place in Florida there is a strange stream called the Indian River that flows for a hundred miles just behind the beach, close to the sea, before it finds a way out into the ocean. In many places steamboats pass along the coast for long distances behind this sandy fringe that lines the shore. Still more curious is the low land behind the beach and the still water. It stretches like a vast plain, growing wider and wider toward the south, far down to Florida. It is covered with pine-trees, and in some places it is called the Pine-Barrens, and at other places the Piny Woods Country.

The waves and the creeping beaches have been at work a long time, just as they are at work to-day. There will always be a struggle between the rivers at these queer travelling beaches, but which will be the victor and what will grow out of it all nobody can tell. It makes no difference after all. Some one may have his pretty house torn down by the waves, and steamboats may have to change their routes; but the Fatherly Goodness that controls these things will do what is best for the sea and the land and all His children.


[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.





That night Toby and Abner went to the circus grounds with Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive; and when old Ben approached the party, as they were nearing the tent, Toby motioned the cripple to come with him, for he thought it might be better that the boy should not hear the conversation concerning him.

It had been decided by Uncle Daniel that the boys should go to the circus grounds that evening, and stay there until it was nearly dark, when they were to go home to bed; for he did not believe in having boys out after dark, being certain it was better for their health to go to bed early.

Toby therefore intended to make this visit simply one of farewell. But first he wanted Abner to see a little more of the bustle and confusion that had so fascinated him in the afternoon.

To that end the boys walked around the inclosure, listened to the men who were loudly crying the wonderful things they had for sale, and all the while kept a bright look-out in the hope of seeing some of their circus friends.

It was nearly time for the performance to begin when the boys went into the skeleton's tent, and said good-by to the thin man and his fat wife.

Then Toby, anxious to run around to the dressing-rooms to speak with Ella, and not daring to take Abner with him, said to the boy:

"Now you wait here for a minute, and I'll be right back."

Abner was perfectly contented to wait; it seemed to him that he would have been willing to stay there all night, provided the excitement should continue, and as he leaned against one of the tent ropes, he gazed around him in perfect delight.

Toby found Ella without much difficulty; but both she and her mother had so much to say that it was some time before he could leave them to go in search of Ben.

The old driver was curled up on his wagon, taking "forty winks," as he called a nap, before starting on the road again.

When Toby awakened him he explained that he would not have taken the liberty if it had not been for the purpose of saying good-by, and Ben replied, good-naturedly:

"That's all right, Toby; I should only have been angry with you if you had let me sleep. I've fixed it with your uncle about that little cripple; and now, when I get pitched off and killed some of these dark nights, there'll be one what'll be sorry I'm gone. Be a good boy, Toby; don't ever do anything you'd be afraid to tell your uncle Dan'l of, and next year I'll see you again."

Toby wanted to say something; but the old driver had spoken his farewell, and was evidently determined neither to say nor to hear anything more, for he crawled up on the box of the wagon again, and appeared to fall asleep instantly.

Toby stood looking at him a moment, as if trying to make out whether this sudden sleep was real, or only feigned in order to prevent the parting from being a sad one; and then he said, as he started toward the door:

"Well, I thank you over and over again for Mr. Stubbs's brother, even if you have gone to sleep." Then he went to meet Abner.

When he reached the place where he had left his friend, to his great surprise he could see nothing of him. There was no possibility that he could have made any mistake as to the place, for he had left him standing just behind the skeleton's tent.

Toby ran quickly around the inclosure, asked some of the attendants in the dressing-room if they had seen a boy on crutches, and then he went into Mr. Treat's tent. But he could neither hear nor see anything of Abner, whose complete disappearance was, to say the least, very strange.

Toby was completely bewildered by this event, and for some minutes he stood looking at the place where he had left his friend, as if he thought that his eyes must have deceived him, and that the boy was still there.

There were but few persons around the outside of the tent, those who had money enough to pay for their admission having gone in, and those who were penniless having gone home, so that Toby did not find many of whom to make inquiries. The people belonging to the circus were busily engaged in making ready for the night's journey, and a number had gathered around one of the wagons a short distance away. But Toby thought it useless to ask them for tidings of his missing friend, for he knew by experience how busy every one connected with the circus was at that hour.

After he had stood for some time looking helplessly at the tent rope against which he had seen Abner leaning, he went into the tent again for the purpose of getting Uncle Daniel to help him in the search. As he was passing the monkey wagon, however, he saw old Ben--whom he had left apparently in a heavy sleep--examining his wagon to make sure that everything was right, and to him he told the story of Abner's strange disappearance.

"I guess he's gone off with some of the other fellows," said Ben, thinking the matter of but little importance, but yet going out of the tent with Toby as he spoke. "Boys are just like eels, an' you never know where to find 'em after you once let 'em slip through your fingers."

"But Abner promised me he'd stay right here," said Toby.

"Well, some other fellows came along, an' he promised to go with them, I s'pose."

"But I don't believe Abner would; he'd keep his promise after he made it."

While they were talking they had gone out of the tent, and Ben started at once toward the crowd around the wagon, for he knew there was no reason why so many men should be there when they had work to do elsewhere.

"Did you go over there to see what was up?" asked the old driver.

"No; I thought they were getting ready to start, an' I could see Abner wasn't there."

"Something's the matter," muttered the old man, as he quickened his pace, and Toby, alarmed by the look on his friend's face, hurried on, hardly daring to breathe.

One look into the wagon around which the men were gathered was sufficient to show why it was that Abner had not remained by the tent as he had promised, for he lay in the bottom of the cart, to all appearances dead, while two of the party were examining him to learn the extent of his injuries.


"What is the matter? How did this boy get hurt?" asked Ben, sternly, as he leaped upon the wagon, and laid his hand over the injured boy's heart.

"He was standing there close by the guy ropes when we were getting ready to let the canvas down. One of the side poles fell and struck him on the head, or shoulder, I don't know which," replied a man.

"It struck him here on the back of the neck," said one of those who were examining the boy, as he turned him half over to expose an ugly-looking wound around which the blood was rapidly settling. "It's a wonder it didn't kill him."

"He ain't dead, is he?" asked Toby, piteously, as he climbed up on one of the wheels, and looked over in a frightened way at the little deformed body that lay so still and lifeless.

"No, he ain't dead," said Ben, who had detected a faint pulsation of the heart; "but why didn't some of you send for a doctor when it first happened?"

"We did," replied one of the men. "Some of the village boys were here, and we started them right off."

Almost as the man spoke, Dr. Abbott, one of the physicians of the town, drove up, and made his way through the crowd.

Toby, too much alarmed to speak, watched the doctor's every movement as he made an examination of the wounded boy, and listened to the accounts the men gave of the way in which the accident had happened.

"His injuries are not necessarily fatal, but they are very dangerous. He lives at the poor-farm, and should be taken there at once," said the doctor, after he had made a slight and almost careless examination.

Toby was anxious that the poor boy should be taken to his home rather than to the comfortless place the doctor had proposed; but he did not dare make the suggestion before asking Uncle Daniel's consent to it. He was about to ask them not to move Abner until he could find his uncle, when Ben whispered something to the doctor that caused him to look at the old stage-driver in surprise.

"I'll ask Uncle Dan'l to take him home with us," said Toby, as he slipped down from his high perch, and started toward the tent.

"I'll take care of that," said Ben, as he went toward the tent with him. "I had just fixed it with your uncle so's he'd take Abner from the poor-farm an' board him, an' now there's all the more reason why he should do it. You go back an' stay with Abner, an' I'll bring your uncle Dan'l out."

Then Toby went back to the wagon, where the poor little cripple still lay as one dead, while the blood flowed in a tiny stream from one of his arms, where the physician had opened a vein.

Not understanding the reason for this blood-letting, and supposing that the crimson now was due to the injuries Abner had received, Toby cried out in fear; but one of the men explained the case to him, and then he waited as patiently as possible for the driver's return.

Both Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive came out with Ben, and within a very few moments Abner was being carried to the farm-house, in the same wagon that had taken him there before in company with the skeleton and his party for that famous dinner.

It frightened Toby still more to see the unconscious boy carried into the house by Ben and the doctor as though he were already dead; and when Aunt Olive led them into the best room, where no one had slept since Uncle Daniel's sister died, it seemed as if every one believed Abner could not live, or they would not have carried him there.

Toby hardly knew when Ben went away, or whether he said anything before he left, or, in fact, anything else, so sad and confused was he. He did not even think about Mr. Stubbs's brother, but remained in one corner of the room, almost hidden by one of the flowing chintz curtains, until Uncle Daniel heard him sobbing, and came and led him away.

"There is good reason to hope Abner will recover," said the old man, as he stroked Toby's hair; "but he is in the keeping of the One who never errs, and whatsoever He does is good."

Then Uncle Daniel actually kissed the boy, as he told him to go to bed and go to sleep. Toby went to bed as he was commanded, though it seemed impossible he should sleep while Abner might be dying.



Boys and girls who can buy HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE every week for four cents, and other periodicals and books almost as cheap, can have very little notion of the difficulty that little folk had seventy or eighty years ago in getting something to read. It was only fifty years ago, indeed, that the first efforts were made to supply cheap, instructive, and entertaining literature, and one of the men who made those efforts is still living in Scotland. Mr. William Chambers, who is now eighty-two years of age, has lately published a little account of his life, and what he has to tell of his boyhood and youth is very interesting.

His father was unfortunate in business, and became so poor that young Chambers had to begin making his own way very early in life. He had little schooling--only six pounds' (thirty dollars) worth in all, he tells us--and as there were no juvenile books or periodicals in those days, and no books of any other kind, except costly ones, it was hard for him to do much in the way of educating himself. But William Chambers meant to learn all that he could, and that determination counted for a good deal. There was a small circulating library in his native town, and he began by reading each volume straight through, without skipping one. Then he got hold of a copy of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, which most boys would regard as very dry reading. He read it carefully. When that was done, young Chambers was really pretty well educated, although he did not know it.

About this time the boy had to go to work for his living. He became an apprentice to a bookseller in Edinburgh. His wages were only four shillings (about a dollar) a week, and on that small sum he had to support himself, paying for food, lodging, clothes, and everything else, for five years. "It was a hard but somewhat droll scrimmage with semi-starvation," he says; for after paying for his lodgings and clothes, he had only about seven cents a day with which to buy his food.

In the summer he jumped out of bed at five o'clock every morning, and spent the time before the hour for beginning business in reading and making electrical experiments. He studied French in that way too, and on Sundays carried a French Testament to church, and read in French what the minister read in English.

Winter came on, and the poor lad was puzzled. It was not only cold, but entirely dark at five o'clock in the morning during the winter months, and William, who had only seven cents a day to buy food with, could not afford either a fire or a candle to read by. There was no other time of day, however, that he could call his own, and so it seemed that he must give up his reading altogether, which was a great grief to the ambitious lad.

Just then a piece of good luck befell him. He happened to know what is called a "sandwich man"--that is to say, a man who walks about with signs hanging behind and before him. One day this man made him a proposition. The sandwich man knew a baker who, with his two sons, carried on a small business in a cellar. The baker was fond of reading, but had no time for it, and as he and his sons had to bake their bread early in the morning, he proposed, through the sandwich man, to employ William Chambers as reader. His plan was that Chambers should go to the cellar bakery every morning at five o'clock, and read to the bakers, and for this service he promised to give the boy one hot roll each morning. Here was double good fortune. It enabled Chambers to go on with his reading by the baker's light and fire, and it secured for him a sufficient breakfast without cost.

He accepted the proposition at once, and for two and a half hours every morning he sat on a flour sack in the cellar, and read to the bakers by the light of a penny candle stuck in a bottle.

Out of his small wages it was impossible for the boy to save anything, and so when the five years of his apprenticeship ended, he had only five shillings in the world. Yet he determined to begin business at once on his own account. Getting credit for ten pounds' worth of books, he opened a little stall, and thus began what has since grown to be a great publishing business.

He had a good deal of unoccupied time at his stall, and "in order to pick up a few shillings," as he says, he began to write out neat copies of poems for albums. Finding sale for these, he determined to enlarge that part of his business by printing the poems. For that purpose he bought a small and very "squeaky" press and a font of worn type which had been used for twenty years. He had to teach himself how to set the type, and as his press would print only half a sheet at a time, it was very slow work; but he persevered, and gradually built up a little printing business in connection with his bookselling. After a while he published an edition of Burns's poems, setting the type, printing the pages, and binding the books with his own hands, and clearing eight pounds by the work.

Chambers wrote a good deal at that time, and his brother Robert wrote still more, so that they were at once authors, printers, publishers, and booksellers, but all in a very small way. After ten years of this work, William Chambers determined to publish a cheap weekly periodical, to be filled with entertaining and instructive matters, designed especially for the people who could not afford to buy expensive books and periodicals. Robert refused to join in this scheme, and so for a time the whole work and risk fell upon William. His friends all agreed in thinking that ruin would be the result, but William Chambers thought he knew what the people wanted, and hence he went on.

The result soon justified his expectations. The first number was published on the 4th of February, 1832. Thirty thousand copies were sold in a few days, and three weeks later the sale rose to fifty thousand copies a week.


The children of the city of Brooklyn, Long Island, are fortunate in having a day of their own when they have the right of way. The schools, public and private, are closed, and some of the finest streets are given up to the little folk on the day of the annual Sunday-school parade.

For weeks before May 24 bright eyes were wide with pleasure whenever the "Anniversary" was mentioned. In the various schools special songs were practiced, and mothers, whether rich or poor, were very busy at home in making the pretty dresses and suits which were to be worn on the occasion. At last the time drew near.

Then the little hearts had only one anxiety--the weather. Would it rain? Would it be clear? Oh, how many little people spelled slowly through the newspaper reports the day before, and lisped their opinions about the probabilities! The joy was great when the sun rose on Wednesday, and the sky was as blue and soft as if it had just been swept free of cloudy cobwebs on purpose for the Brooklyn procession.

At 11 A.M. the City Hall bell pealed out grandly, and its tones were answered by church bells all over the city. There was a perfect chorus of chimes.

Noon had scarcely struck when the pavements were thronged with boys and girls hastening to their several schools. There the exercises consisted of addresses and music. As soon as these were ended, the parade began. There were 60,000 children in movement at once through the beautiful tree-shaded avenues: 112 Sunday-schools took part, arranged in seven divisions. They marched, with banners flying, to the music of military bands, which played their most triumphant strains. Mottoes, emblems, flowers, white dresses, rainbow ribbons, floating curls, and cheerful faces altogether made a pageant which it did tired people good to see. Twenty-three schools formed the Prospect Park division.

The Park itself had been dressed by nature in the brightest of green and the loveliest of early-blooming shrubs. The long meadow with its velvet sward was staked off for the children's evolutions, and protected from the crowd by genial policemen. On the grand stand sat his Honor the Mayor, and with him were a number of clergymen, and persons of official dignity.

Brooklyn has been called the City of Churches. She might be styled the City of the Innocents, so many lovely little ones does she gather every year at her wonderful May Anniversary.

When the march was ended, the scholars returned to their places of meeting, where they were feasted on cake and ice-cream before going to their homes.

No doubt some of them were a little weary, but not too much so to prevent their sleeping sweetly after their happy day.




"Charley, it's time to go after the cows," said Farmer Goodwin to his oldest boy, one summer day, near evening.

"I'm off, father," replied Charley, a bright little fellow of eleven, and whistling to Tiger, a large brindled mastiff, he was soon marching toward the pasture with the dog at his heels.

This was ninety years ago very nearly, and the place was near the historic mountain of Kearsarge, in central New Hampshire. Moses Goodwin was one of the early settlers of that region, and his cabin stood far up the cleared slope of the mountain, on a fertile ridge of land, where the fields of corn were ripening for the harvest.

The sides of the mountain were covered with thick forests, even as they are to-day, affording excellent haunts for the wild animals of the latitude. The bark of the wolf, the screech of the cougar, and the growl of the bear were well-known sounds to most of the early settlers. Indeed, it was no uncommon thing for the families of the pioneers to be awakened at night by the fierce chorus of wild beasts around their cabins.

There were large State bounties on all of these animals, and after a few years their numbers began to diminish. At the time of our story it was very seldom that a bear or a panther was seen about the settlement. If now and then a farmer lost a fine sheep or a favorite calf, it was no more than was expected. Farmer Goodwin had himself lost that very autumn a valuable young heifer, which was supposed to have been carried off by a bear. None of the other settlers had lost any of their stock, and it was supposed that the animal had left the neighborhood.

Charley was gone longer than usual after the cows on the evening in question. His parents began to feel uneasy at his protracted absence.

"It's time he should be here," said the farmer. "The stock must have wandered farther than usual."

"I am afraid something has happened to him," observed Mrs. Goodwin, her fair face growing a shade paler at the thought of her boy's danger. "Perhaps he's met a bear or a panther."

"There he is now, all right, I guess," exclaimed the husband, as he heard the cattle going into the barn. "I'll go out and help him turn them in."

As he opened the door, in rushed Tiger, uttering fearful moans, and shaking like an aspen leaf. The mastiff was in a terrible condition. His brindled hide was all covered with blood, and there were torn places and gaping wounds on his neck and shoulders, showing conclusively that he had been engaged in a fight with some powerful animal. Mrs. Goodwin sat down, white and faint, in a chair.

"Charley is dead. I know he is. The beast has killed my boy. Oh, what shall I do?" she sobbed, half frantic in her grief.

"Be calm, mother," said the settler. "I don't believe it's as bad as that. The creature attacked the dog. Perhaps Charley is hiding somewhere. I'll get Neighbor Savary to go with me, and we'll see if he can't be found."

He lit a candle and placed it in an old tin lantern, and went to the house of his next-door neighbor. Together the two men followed the path to the pasture, and searched that inclosure all over; but they were unable to find any trace of the boy.

Once or twice they stopped and called his name, but there was no answer. As they were passing through the thick underbrush by the banks of the brook, a fierce scream stayed their steps. There was the sound of a large body tearing through the shrubbery, and by the light of their lantern they saw the fierce beast spring up into a tree and begin tearing the bark with its claws.

"It's a painter, sure enough," said Goodwin's neighbor. "We'd better start for the house, seeing as how we ain't armed."

"And must I go home without my boy? How can I? It will kill my poor wife."

"It's the only thing left us. There, the painter's going away. It's useless to stand here any longer."

The beast was heard moving off; and they turned sadly toward home.

On the following morning a large company of men and boys, neighboring settlers, were gathered with their dogs and guns around Goodwin's cabin door. The news of Charley's disappearance and of a panther in the neighborhood had spread like wildfire through the settlement. It was determined to hunt the monster to the death.

The excited party started at once, dividing into two companies, each under an experienced hunter. It was thought by this method that the panther would have fewer chances of escaping, and be brought to bay with more dispatch than if the hunters marched all in one body.

Far up on the mountain the hounds took the scent and dashed away, followed by the hunters. But away to the left, on another ridge of the mountains, was heard the bay of the pack belonging to the other division. Still the enthusiasm of the settlers was not cooled. At noon the two parties met on the other side of the mountain. A light lunch was eaten, and then they started on the homeward track. Nothing had been seen of the panther.

On the Warner side of the mountain, late in the afternoon, the hounds of one of the parties made a great outcry. It was in a swamp, not far from the Goodwin pasture. The men hurried to the spot, jumping stones and bushes and the trunks of fallen trees in their haste. They met the dogs coming back. Two of them had bloody muzzles, and bore hideous wounds on their bodies.

"The dogs have had hold of something, and something has had hold of them," said one of the men, quaintly. "It's a painter's work; I know the marks of their claws."

The hunters went through the swamp cautiously. The dogs would not go back again. No trace of the panther was found. Disappointed and weary, they proceeded down the mountain toward the settlement.

"What is that?" asked one of the men, suddenly.

A sound like that of some one shouting was plainly heard. They all stopped to listen. The shout was repeated, and was not far off.

"It's my boy! It's Charley's voice!" cried Goodwin. "He must be alive," and he rushed in the direction of the sound.

At the foot of the hill before spoken of, in Goodwin's pasture, there was a large ledge of rocks. Toward that the party hastened.

"Charley! Charley! where are you?" shouted the pioneer.

"Here I am," replied the little fellow--"down here in the rock. I can't get up."

Several of the party had already mounted the ledge, and they now saw what was the matter. There was a crevice or crack running through the rock from top to bottom, all the way from a foot to a foot and a half in width. Into this fissure the boy had fallen, and as the sides were steep and smooth, he could not possibly climb out. A hazel withe was cut, and one end given him, and he was speedily drawn to the surface.

"How came you in there, Charley?" asked his father.

"I fell in," answered the boy. "I was out there under that maple when the panther jumped on to Tige. I ran to the top of this rock, and stumbling, fell down in there. The panther came several times and tried to reach me, but he couldn't. Oh, I'm so tired and hungry!"

"We'll be at home soon," said his father. "Your mother will be looking for you."

They hastened toward the cabin with eager footsteps, and soon met the other party, who were returning from a fruitless search for boy or panther. Just then the report of a gun was heard at the settlement.

"What does that mean?" asked a brawny pioneer.

"I don't know," answered Goodwin. "Something must be the matter."

The party hastened their steps to a run.

* * * * *

At the close of the long afternoon, Dolly Goodwin, a girl of about sixteen, had gone out to do the milking. The cows had not been turned to pasture that day, but had been kept in an inclosure near the barn, shut in by a stone wall eight feet high.

Her mother had objected to Dolly's doing this. "Father will be at home soon," she said, "and there will be time enough then."

But Dolly, who was a busy little body, insisted. "If you are afraid for me, I will take my gun. You won't have to worry then. The cows really ought to be milked, for it's almost dark. Besides, Brindle and Loo like me."

The girl took down a small, pretty musket from its place over the deer antlers; it was her own, purchased the year before from her own savings.

The yard seemed a safe, cozy place, and Dolly felt like smiling at her mother's fears as she sat down on a stool and began milking one of the gentle, mild-eyed animals that were complacently chewing their cuds. She had one of the pails about filled, when there was a sudden disturbance among the horned inmates of the inclosure.

Dolly rose to her feet and gazed around, grasping her musket in both hands. We can see how she looked--a thin slip of a girl, with bare feet and ankles, a gown of linsey-woolsey, her gingham bonnet thrown back from her curls, and hanging to her neck by its fastened strings. The red in her cheeks and the flash in her eye made her look very charming.

Her quick eye soon caught a glance of a lithe, cat-like animal creeping stealthily along the high stone wall. Its glaring eyes, the long undulating tail, and the tawny-colored hide told well enough the character of the intruder. She knew it was a panther.

Dolly's heart rose into her throat, and for a moment, as she said afterward, she thought she should run as poor Brindle had done. But she was a pioneer girl, strong and healthy, and her nerves were soon under control. She raised her weapon to her shoulder, and levelled it full at the tawny breast of the crouching panther.

Her aim was taken instantly. She saw the greenish eyes glitter, and the long tail lash the wall excitedly. The next moment the savage beast sprang toward her. At the same moment her finger pressed the trigger.

She knew no more until she heard the baying of hounds and the loud cries of the returning hunters. Her father opened the heavy wooden gate, and came in where she was leaning half faint against the wall.

"I am all right now, father," said Dolly, in reply to his anxious interrogation, "but I was kind of sick like a while ago."

She still looked very pale.

"The girl has beat the hull of us!" cried a rough pioneer. "It's the very beast we were arter. See, there's the marks of the hounds' teeth. Well, it's saved us a journey to-morrow; that's a comfort. But you beat the dickens, Dolly, you do."

They all crowded around, offering congratulations, and for weeks afterward her exploit was the talk of the neighborhood.

The panther proved on measurement to be one of the largest of its kind; lacking only an inch of being seven feet in length, including its tail. The State bounty was forty dollars. This sum, with what she realized from its skin, made Dolly quite a rich young lady for those times.



"Once upon a time, a great while agoe," begins a strange fairy tale that was written in the days of bad spelling, "there was wont to walke many harmlesse spirits called fayries, dancing in brave order in fayry rings on greene hills with sweete musicke (sometimes invisible), in divers shapes; and many mad prankes would they play."

It was at this time that a mischievous imp, named Robin Goodfellow, who was half fairy and half human being, was going about from place to place, sometimes doing good-natured things, but often bent only on mischief.

All sorts of queer stories were told of him; and when anything happened that people couldn't understand, they were sure to say, "It's some trick of Robin Goodfellow's." When he was only six years old, the neighbors complained of him to his mother for tormenting their very lives out whenever her back was turned. Finally he was threatened with a whipping, and to escape this punishment Robin ran away.

After travelling a long distance from home he met a tailor, who engaged him as an apprentice. For a time he behaved himself very well. But finally his love of mischief got the better of him, and he was at his old tricks again.

One day his master had a gown to make for a woman, and it must be finished that night; they both sat up late to work on it, and by twelve o'clock it was finished all but putting in the sleeves. The tailor was very sleepy, and said that he would go to bed. He told Robin to "whip on the sleeves," and then follow him. Robin said that he would, and as soon as his master had disappeared, he hung up the gown and whipped it most severely with the sleeves.

When the tailor came down in the morning, he found him still busy at this work, and asked him what he was doing.

"What you bade me," was the reply--"whipping on the sleeves."

"You rogue!" exclaimed his master: "I meant that you should have set them on quickly and slightly."

"I wish you had said so," rejoined Robin, "for then I need not have lost all this sleep."

The tailor was obliged to finish the work himself; but before he could get through, the woman came for her gown, and scolded because it was not ready. Hoping to soften her wrath by offering her some refreshment, Robin's master told him to bring the remnants they left yesterday. The tailor had reference to some cold meat; but the mischievous apprentice brought down the remnants of cloth left of the gown, which the tailor had intended to keep. The man turned pale; but the woman declared that she liked this breakfast better than the other, and sent Robin to get some wine. He never came back.

One day Robin had made a long journey, when he became so tired that he sat down by the road and fell asleep. Here he had a wonderful dream, in which troops of fairies danced about him to the sound of sweet music. Among them was King Oberon, who laid a scroll beside him, which was there when he awoke. On the scroll it was written that he was the Fairy King's son, that every wish of his should be granted, that he should have the power of turning himself into any shape he pleased, and that one day he should be taken to Fairy-land--on condition that he played tricks only on those who deserved them:

"But love then those that honest be, And help them in necessity. Doe thus, and all the world shall know The pranks of Robin Goodfellow."

On reading this document, Robin was much delighted, and began at once to try his power. As he was tired, he wished himself a horse, and found himself leaping and curvetting as nimbly as though he had just come out of the best of stables. Then he tried being a dog, then a tree, and at last he was quite satisfied that he could do or be anything he pleased.

After this his pranks were worse than ever, but he obeyed his father's instructions, and harmed only vicious and idle and cross-grained people.

One day in crossing a field he met a rude fellow, to whom he said: "Friend, what is a clock?"--the style then of asking the time.

But the other chose to reply, churlishly, "I owe thee not so much service, but because thou shalt think thyself beholden to me, know that it is the same time of the day as it was yesterday at this time."

Then Robin resolved to amuse himself with this man, who was going further on to catch a horse that was at grass; and he turned himself into a bird to watch him. The horse was wild, and ran away over hedge and ditch, and the man after him as well, as he could. Presently Robin thought of taking the shape of the horse, and came near enough to let the churl get on his back. Then he stumbled, and hurled his rider to the ground. Robin allowed him to mount again, but only to throw him off in the middle of a large pond. Then, in the shape of a fish, he swam ashore, and laughed maliciously, "Ho, ho, hoh," leaving the poor man half drowned. It is to be hoped that this lesson in manners did the clown good.

Robin had more amiable moments; and often at night he would visit farmers' houses and help the maids to break hemp, to bolt, to dress flax, to spin, and do other work, for he was "excellent in everything."

Night was his favorite time for jokes, and he would sometimes walk abroad with a broom on his shoulder, and cry, "Chimney-sweep!" But when any one called him, he ran away laughing, "Ho, ho, hoh." Sometimes he would pretend to be a beggar in distress, and beg most pitifully; but when they came to give him alms, he would cheat them in the same way. Then again he would sing at a door after the fashion of wandering minstrels, and when people came to pay him, there was nothing left of his song but "Ho, ho, hoh."

King Oberon sometimes called his son to Fairy-land on nightly visits. He was summoned, to dance in the fairies' ring, by a shrill, sweet pipe, blown by little Tom Thumb, the order having been given,

"Whene'er you heare my piper blow, From thy bed see thou goe."

At last he was taken to dwell there altogether, and the world was rid of the pranks of Robin Goodfellow.



Kettle-holders are things that must be in every household, and there is nothing that ingenious little fingers can spend their time upon to a better advantage in the days when they are too young to undertake more elaborate and difficult fancy-work. Here is a design that can be easily worked, and will be sure to please mamma if it is only carefully put together, and all the stitches neatly taken.


Cut the four leaves of the clover, from grayish-green cloth or flannel, and baste them on a ground of pink cloth, as shown in the design. Sew them fast with a fine button-hole stitch. Make the ribs of the leaves, the stem, the little white triangular-shaped marking in the centre of the upper edge of the leaf, and the white crescent on the lower part of the leaf, also the four little white stems that join the four leaves together, in chain stitch of white saddler's silk.

Let the border be of pink silk several shades paler than the pink ground. Sew it to the main part by over-handing it neatly on the wrong side. Work the horseshoes in the corners in chain stitch with gray saddler's silk. Represent the nails by gold beads, which must be tightly sewed on. Line the back with green flannel, turning in the edges, and hemming it very neatly. The lining at the back should always be a little--a very little--smaller and tighter than the front, or, as the holder is constantly bent, the lining becomes loose and baggy.



"Stand up at the bar," cried the Justice severe. "And what you can say I will patiently hear; But you have been brought here so often before That I fear it will be the old story once more.

"Stop! You needn't repeat that you couldn't find work. For I know you quite well for a tramp and a shirk; You sneak round the farm-houses begging for bread, And will rob even those by whose hands you are fed.

"For a stout hearty fellow like you it's a shame To take the alms due to the sick or the lame; But to steal from the kind ones who pity your case, I must punish severely a meanness so base."

"Well, your Honor, I've nothing to say, for I see That nothing will change your opinion of me; I suppose you will tell me, as often before, That I must be sent to the tread-mill once more."

"You take the words out of my mouth," said the Judge; "You are sentenced a month on the tread-mill to trudge; And when your tramp's over, perhaps you will feel That it's better to work at the plough than the wheel.

"For good honest labor will bring its reward, While the way of the idle and vicious is hard; And 'tis better in youth to this precept to hold Than have to confess it when hardened and old."

[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]

I wonder if all the young people are as glad as I am that June has come again? You know the poet says:

"What is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days. When heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And softly above it her warm ear lays."

Some of you are studying hard in these bright hours, so that you may be ready for examination. I hope you have been so faithful all the term that you will not need what some students call cramming to make you successful now. Others of my boys and girls are busy with their roses and honeysuckles. My thanks to the dear little hands that have gathered wild flowers for me.

You must tell us about your summer pleasures, children, and if anybody meets with an adventure, remember that Our Post-office Box would like to hear about it.

* * * * *


I am a little girl nearly seven years old. We have no live pets in the city, but my little sister Anna and I have fourteen dolls. I am thankful to say they are very healthy; none of them have had the mumps or _cook_ing-cough, as my little sister calls it. In the summer we all go to Long Island. There we have a pony, two cows, one calf, two cats, a kitten, and some chickens. We have great fun bathing. I am writing this myself, and if you think it is nice enough to print, I shall be the proudest little girl in New York city.


* * * * *


I've been a reader of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE quite two years, but have seen no letter as yet from here, therefore I'll write at least one from this mountainous part of the State. My country home is in sight of the Blue Ridge, and one can get a distinct, grand view of some of its peaks a mile from our home. No one of your little girl subscribers enjoys the Post-office Box more than myself. In fact, both big and little folks here appreciate and read most of Harper's publications. I wish everybody who lives in low flat countries could at least visit our mountains, and our State's greatest, curiosity, the Natural Bridge, in Rockbridge County; it is worth a trip to Virginia just to see that wonderful work of nature. But I must not write too long a letter, for fear you'll not find space to publish it; so I'll close by stating that I'm the youngest of twelve children. With best wishes for our dear kind Postmistress,


The Postmistress returns heartily the love of all the dear girls and boys who send her their pleasant messages. She has visited your lovely mountain land, Maggie, and it is her opinion that you can not praise its beauty too highly.

* * * * *


I am ten years old. I have one brother and three sisters. I have a cow and a calf. We have a play store; we make wooden dollies and many other things to sell. We have a dog and a cat. The dog's name is Trip, and the cat's Tiger. There is a little bird that comes down by the door, and we give him crumbs; he is real tame. I used to have a pet rooster, but papa sold him. He would fly up on my shoulder, and when he saw any one with a pan he would fly in it. I will tell you about a squirrel that lives in a very large hollow hickory-tree back of our house. He is so cunning! He comes out on the side of the tree and chatters at us, and the dog and cat try to catch him, but he is too sharp for that. He comes and steals walnuts from our store-house, and carries some to his tree. We have two small mules; I love to ride on their backs.


* * * * *


I am a little boy thirteen years old, and I live on my father's farm, one-half mile from Durbin, in the celebrated Red River Valley, about six miles from the world-renowned Dalrymple Farms. Our house stands on the high beautiful banks of the Maple River.

Two months ago my sister and two brothers and myself were taken sick with diphtheria. I haven't been able to walk since. My little brother Allie died. I want to tell you what the sweet little boy said when he was sick--he did not like to take his medicine; and mamma said to him, "Allie, take it to please mamma," and then he took it; and a little while after mamma heard him say, in his sleep, "I will take it to please mamma." The last time he took his wine he said to papa, "Papa, I will never take it again." He was five years old, and could read and spell, and count up to one hundred without missing, and we never tried to teach him; he learned it all himself from hearing us. I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE from the first number. I could not live without it.

Please print this, as I am unable to walk, and have little to amuse me.


What a sweet memory you have of the dear patient little brother, who was so ready to please his mamma, even when in pain!

I hope, as the summer days bring their pleasures, you will grow strong again, and be able not only to walk, but to run and jump as boys like to.

* * * * *

There will be a general clapping of hands when the Cot report is read this month. Here is a letter, which everybody will enjoy, from a friend who has the Cot on her mind all the time:

I am certain a great many of our young readers, when they see the Cot acknowledgments, will exclaim, "My! how did we get so much money all at once?" I don't wonder at your surprise; I am sure I was surprised when I heard the good news. Well, that $550 which you see put down as the result of a fair is what did the work. Sometimes in reading our fund column I have wondered why so few names from New York city appeared among our contributors; the greater part of the work before has been done in the East, West, or South. But now New York city has stepped up bravely to the front, and is worthy of great praise. Four little girls living here, namely, Madeline Satterlee, Helen Manice, Gertrude Parsons, and Mamie W. Aldrich, formed a club in Lent, and worked for this fair, and earnest workers they must have been. The fair was held April 22, in the Sunday-school room of Zion Church, Thirty-eighth Street, New York, which was kindly lent for the purpose. Of course I was at the fair, and a very pretty one it was. I only wish more people could have known about it, and have been there to encourage these little girls in their good work. Very busy they all looked, waiting on the tables. They had a fish pond and a large red grab-bag, both of which took in quite a sum of money; and I am sure these little workers must have felt very proud, and well repaid for any self-denial they had practiced, when they handed in to our treasurer the large sum you see acknowledged to-day. Now don't you think it would be a good plan if all the boys and girls who are well-wishers of our Fund--and I am sure they are many--would work hard this summer, while away in the country, or at home, and try and make the amount up to $1500? That would be just half the amount needed, and how fast we could go on next winter! You would have to raise $345.56, and that is not such a large sum among a great many. Some, like these four little New York girls, could hold a fair or festival at some of the summer resorts; others could pick and sell berries. There are many ways in which the little hands and feet could earn the pennies for our fund. Do not be disheartened at small results, but remember that every effort you make, if in earnest, helps both yourselves and the Cot fund.

I wonder if some of you are not curious to know where your money goes while waiting for the rest of the $3000. If any of you have ever gone in the Sixth Avenue cars, New York, past Waverley Place, you may have observed a large building on the southwest corner, with "Greenwich Bank" upon it in large letters; our treasurer wants me to tell you that she puts your money there; and, if I am not mistaken, some of these days you will see in our acknowledgment, "Interest from Greenwich Bank," which means that the bank pays you so much money for leaving your money with it. If you will ask your papas, I am sure they will tell you that it could not be in a better place. So you see what a good treasurer we have to take care of our money.

In saying good-by I must add that I think you have all done very well so far in our good work. The year will not be up until next month, and we have passed "the place in the mountains where we can look back and see one-third of our journey accomplished."

So to our helpers, Great and small, Thanks we send For one and all.

AUNT EDNA. NEW YORK, _June_, 1882.

* * * * *


As this is one of the large cities in the Union, I thought if no one else would sustain its credit I would. On the 5th of May we had a big hail-storm. In 1872 we had a hall-storm when the hail was about the size of a hazel-nut; but in this one the smallest stones I saw were that size. Most of them, however, were about the size of walnuts. I saw quite a number as large as a section of an egg, and one or two almost as large as my fist. Now I am afraid you will think that I have exaggerated, but it is true. I have heard a number of persons, including a very old lady, say that they have seen a number of stones frozen together, but never before such large single ones. The storm lasted for a full half-hour, hailing constantly. A great deal of damage was done to churches and public buildings especially. Branches of trees, bushes, and vines were cut off as smoothly as if done with a knife. One man went out to the gutter to pick up an extra large hail-stone, when another one hit him so forcibly on the back of the neck that he fell down on his hands and knees. I would have sent you one of the stones, but as such things can not be telegraphed, I could not do so.


* * * * *


I have written one letter before, and have not seen it in the paper, so I thought I would write again. I am taking HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for the third year. I like "Toby Tyler" very much, and "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" still better. I saw some real prairie-dogs not long ago. They don't look bigger than a good-sized rat. I am nine years old, but have only been at school a year, as I have always been sick. I am in the second grade, and study arithmetic, reading, language, and spelling. Shall be promoted next term.

I have a little brother named Frankie. He is seven years old. Mamma and he and I live with grandpa, as our papa is dead. Frankie has a cat which had four kittens. They are all sorts of colors. I wish I could send you their pictures. They live in my old baby carriage. I made a little tent, not big enough to get under, that I could take down and put up as many times as I had a mind to, and to-day I broke it. Jumbo, that you have told us about, is coming here in August. I hope I shall see him. When I do, I'll write and tell you what I think of him. I just love him now. I can't think of any more. Good-by.


Those little kittens are well off. Living in a baby carriage! Think of such luxury! Do they have an afghan over them when they are chilly?

It is fun to make a tent large enough to accommodate two or three boys. I think, if I were there, I could help you make one with two or three poles, and a couple of old shawls or table-covers. Suppose you ask mamma to help you do this?

* * * * *


I am a little girl twelve years old, and live in the country. I have a kind uncle who sends me YOUNG PEOPLE. We have had plenty of strawberries this spring. I go to school, and am in Coins and Currency, and at play-time I have fine times playing croquet. We have a mocking-bird building in the garden. It sings all day. We had a fish-fry not long ago, and had as many fish as we wanted. It has been a very rainy season. I have a great many pretty flowers; the gladiolus is opening now. I am so glad when HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE comes. I like the story of "Talking Leaves" better than any other one.


We planted our gladiolus bulbs the morning that Nina's letter arrived; but the season is earlier in her Southern home than it is with us. Have you magnolia-trees and pomegranate-bushes in your garden, Nina? How charming it must be to hear the songs of the mocking-bird all day long!

* * * * *


I must tell you about my pet which my uncle Frank brought me from California. It was a dear little horned toad. It was very affectionate, and had a soft yellow breast and two horns, one on each side of its head. I kept it in a big box of sand, and uncle called it Cutey, it was so cute. One day it was very cold, and Cutey shivered so I covered him up in the box, and put him on the register; then I went off, and forgot my poor little toad. When I came back my toad was dead, and I cried very hard, for I felt naughty to have forgotten my pet. I have some more pets, and some time I will tell you about them; but I am afraid this is too long.


What a pity it was, dear, that you forgot your pet! No wonder you cried. I am sure you will never again forget one of the little creatures, which are dependent on you for their comfort.

* * * * *


I have a very kind cousin who lives in Brooklyn, and sends me YOUNG PEOPLE. I am eight years old. I am very fond of reading the letters of children so many miles away from each other, and of hearing about their pets. I have a green parrot, but he is very spiteful. We have a gray cat, and if we stay upstairs beyond our time in the morning, she comes up and sits outside the door, and keeps mewing until I come out and speak to her. I have two sisters, one five, the other three. I have been learning to play the piano eighteen months; also my sister Lillie. We play several duets, and many pieces. I have to practice every evening, and then I have a good read from YOUNG PEOPLE. I like "The Cruise of the 'Ghost,'" "Tim and Tip," and "All-hallow Eve" very much indeed, and I am very much interested in "The Talking Leaves." My papa I have not seen in nearly four years. He is out in China. He was wrecked last July. He was chief officer of the _Anne S. Hall_, of Boston, which was lost in a typhoon. All hands were saved in a boat. I shall be very glad when I see him. I have been two years at school. I went to a pic-nic party to Lea Woods. We went through Nightingale Valley, and were really tired when we got to the top. The woods looked lovely with bluebells and violets. The primroses seemed to be all picked.


Well, Percy, I wish I were so near that I could tell whether you and your little sister keep time in your duets. You must practice very diligently, so that your music will delight your papa when he comes home again. How much you must love him, all the more fondly because he was in such peril on the ocean! I hope he will reach his children in safety.

Nightingale Valley is a beautiful name for a wood.

* * * * *


I want to tell you about our cat, whose name is Miss Moll; my little brother named her, and he is three years old. Miss Moll trots all over the house, and when she wants to go out, she stands by the door and mews. When she wants to come in, she scratches at the door. She will lie down on her back, and play with any one's hand, although she is a middle-aged cat.

We also have a dog, but he does not amount to much, except that he is a good watch-dog, and he belonged to my brother, who is now dead.

I go to the public school, where I received a prize for writing and composition. (They don't give prizes as a general thing.) This is my first letter.


I am glad you were the fortunate little winner of a prize.

* * * * *


As I have seen no letter from here, I thought I would write, and maybe you would publish it. I am a little girl eleven years old. I live in the country near Frederick city. I have a dear little brother; his name is Charley. He is a little naughty sometimes, though. Charley has three dogs--their names are Sport, Jack, and Butty--and he has a very pretty Alderney calf, also ducks and chickens. He is very kind to them. My aunt Kate gave me YOUNG PEOPLE for a Christmas gift. I like it very much. I have twelve little cousins; we go to school together, and have very nice times. I send my love to you, Mrs. Postmistress, and to all the little girls and boys.

E. K. H.

* * * * *

Exchanges are inserted without charge, but they must be brief. First name what you have, and then state what you wish in return. Give your address plainly, and in full, town, county, and State. Please write with black ink.

* * * * *

C. Y. P. R. U.

THE RAINBOW.--When the summer shower is passing away, and while the thunder is still rolling among the hills, we have often seen the rainbow. Every one admires the beautiful arch which spans the sky. It is caused by the striking of the sun's rays upon the drops of water as they fall from the clouds. These rays are twice refracted and once reflected as they meet the transparent drops. If you look in the dictionary, you will find that refracted means bent suddenly, and reflected means thrown back. The colors of the rainbow are seven in number, and appear in the following order: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. The tints are most vivid when the background of clouds is darkest and the drops of rain fall closest. The continual falling of the rain while the sun shines produces a new rainbow every moment; and a curious thing is that as each spectator sees it from a particular point of view, strictly speaking no two persons see precisely the same rainbow. A peculiar sacredness is attached to our thoughts of the rainbow on account of the mention made of it in Genesis, when, after the deluge, Noah saw its arch in the sky. How glad he must have been to view the sun once more! Then God said, "I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth." The story of the rainbow, as the Bible tells it, is to be found in Genesis, ninth chapter, from the eighth to the seventeenth verses.

* * * * *

HATTIE C.--You are needlessly distressed at what you call your lack of conversational powers. It is true that some people have the gift of talking with ease, and that they are not embarrassed in the presence of others. But any person of ordinary intelligence may learn to talk brightly and pleasingly by simply taking pains to learn how. In the first place, try to forget yourself. Do not fancy when you open your lips that the lady opposite you on the sofa, or your neighbor at the dinner table, is criticising or making fun of you. Well-bred and kindly mannered people never do so. Have, in the second place, an idea of what you wish to say. In the third and last place, be sure to tell your story or give your opinion in the simplest language you can command. Never use slang. To be a good listener is as great an accomplishment as to be a bright talker. A young lady who listens intelligently, and with sympathy in her looks, giving now and then a brief reply or a turn to the talk, but not trying to lead it, or to be at all conspicuous, is sure of being popular. Find out what your friends are interested in, and help them to talk on their special subjects. Do not worry about the impression you are making when in society, but let your great aim be to make the place where you are as cheerful as possible.

* * * * *

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to Mr. Charles Barnard's article, "Wave and Sand," and to "The Boyhood of William Chambers." The girls will be pleased with Mrs. Dewing's pretty and artistic design for "A Kettle-Holder."

* * * * *


Contributions received for Young People's Cot, in Holy Innocent's Ward, St. Mary's Free Hospital for Children, 407 West Thirty-fourth Street:

Henry and John Goeltz, $2; Kerfoot W. Daly, Gibsonton, $1; Mamie Tilton, Fort Riley, Kan., $1; Easter gifts from Charles Frederick Fletcher, $1, Theodora Carter, $1, Maud Metcalf, 75c., Ruth Metcalf, 75c., and Mary Aiken Metcalf, 50c., Auburndale, Mass., total, $4; Dora's Easter Offering, New York, $1; Lucy, Frank, and Willie Green, Upper Alton, Ill., 25c.; "Little Margaret," June 4, In Memoriam, $100; Teddie and Willie McVickar, New York, $20; Ethel Hurst, New York, 75c.; Virgie McLain, Nassau, N. P., $1.25; Annie and Edith Van Kuran, Clinton, Iowa, 50c.; Lena Matthews, Olean, N. Y., $1: Oliver T. Clough, Junction, Iowa, $1; In Memoriam, Herbert Stockwell Day, $50; Ethel Ransom, 25c.; Elise Hurst, New York, 25c.; Teddie McVickar, New York, 25c.; Lulu Lyon, $1; Frank M. Hartshorn, in memory of two little brothers, $1; Emily Chauncey, 30c.; Isabelle Lacey, $10; Teddie McVickar, New York, 50c.; proceeds of a fair held in Zion Church Chapel, Madison Avenue, New York, April 22, the Lenten work of a club of four little girls--Helen Manice, Madeline Satterlee, Gertrude Parsons, and Mamie W. Aldrich--New York, $550; total, $747.30; previously acknowledged, $406.84; grand total, May 15, 1882, $1154.14.

E. AUGUSTA FANSHAWE, Treasurer, 43 New St.

* * * * *


We saved fifty cents out of our pocket-money for the Cot, and we hope it will help a little toward the support of some poor child.


* * * * *

I have saved these two dollars with my brother. My brother saved fifty cents, and I saved one dollar and fifty cents. My brother is seven years old, and I am fourteen. I sent these few pictures because I think they will please the little ones. My brother and I will try to send two more dollars.


* * * * *

I send you $1 I earned myself feeding chickens and getting up early in the morning. Mamma said I might do whatever I chose with it. I am not a very big boy.


* * * * *


I have been intending to write to YOUNG PEOPLE for some time. We all like it so very much. I am so glad Mr. Otis has begun another story about Toby Tyler. I know it will be splendid. My brother Frank and I send twenty cents for Young People's Cot, and hope the Cot will prosper. I am so sorry the trailing arbutus does not grow here. I have never seen it. But we do have lots of other lovely wild flowers. We have white, blue, and yellow violets and bluebells all growing in our yard. I wish I could see the boys and girls that write to Our Post-office Box. I wish I was able to give some of our flowers to the poor sick children in the hospitals.


P. S.--My brother Willie adds a nickel to our contribution.

L. L. G.

* * * * *


Inclosed you will find $1.25 for Young People's Cot. Once before I sent you 35 cents. I had a beautiful parrot which died, and to console me papa gave me $5, so I now send $1.25 out of it.


* * * * *


We have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for only a month, but papa sent and got us all from the January number down. We felt sorry for the homeless little children, and so we sent them some papers. We have been saving them up from 1879. There are five of us children, and I am the next to the oldest. We live in Schuyler, Colfax County, Nebraska. We have a good many pets, but I will have to wait until next time to tell you about them. I will have to close now, as it is about time for school. Good-by.


* * * * *


I am a little girl nine years old. I send you a dollar for Young People's Cot, which I earned by helping my mamma. The only pet I have is a little baby brother. I have got the mumps on both sides. I go to school, and study geography, grammar, spelling, reading, writing, drawing, and arithmetic. I must close. Good-by. From


* * * * *


No. 1.


1. Here is a group of boys. Behead the name of No. 1, and you have an ancient vessel; of No. 2, and you have something unpleasant; of No. 3, and you have a nickname; of No. 4, and you see a vehicle; of No. 5, and you have a useful article of furniture; of No. 6, and you have an organ of the human body; of No. 7, a beautiful bird; of No. 8, a disfigurement.

2. Here are four pretty girls, with very sweet names. Behead the first name, and you have what the robin did to the cherries; the second, and you have the name of the earliest martyr; the third, and you have what bees and butterflies are in summer; the fourth, and you have an exciting chase.


* * * * *

No. 2.


My first is in apple, but not in prune. My second in May, but not in June. My third in seek, but not in find. My fourth in cross, but not in kind. My fifth in mice, but not in rat. My sixth in cape, and also in cap. My seventh in chair, but not in stool. My whole is a country you'll learn of in school.


* * * * *

No. 3.


1.--1. A letter. 2. A domestic pet. 3. A city in France. 4. A metal. 5. A letter.

2.--1. A letter. 2. A nickname. 3. A heavenly wanderer. 4. Human beings. 5. A letter.


* * * * *

No. 4.


My whole is a noted battle-field, and I contain 11 letters. My 1, 2, 6, 4 means to speak familiarly. My 7, 3, 10 is a horse. My 1, 8, 9, 5 is a water-fowl. My 11, 2, 6 is an exclamation.


* * * * *


No. 1.



No. 2.

F irin G I odid E C heru B H awai I E ndin G L oung E

No. 3.



No. 4.


* * * * *

Answer to Enigma on page 134--Handcuff.

* * * * *

Correct answers to puzzles have been sent by "Eureka," Annetta D. Jackson, Pansy V. R., "I. Scycle," Harold S. Chambers, Florence, Mabel, and Annie Knight, Douglas Fay, Alex Ketchum, John B. Todd, Alice Bolton, Emma Grace, Fanny and Fleda Cary, Viola, S. T. C.

* * * * *

[_For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover._]

[Illustration: THE YOUNG GENIUS.]

* * * * *


Small gas balloons are made of thin sheet India rubber, or gutta percha, or tissue-paper; larger ones are made of oiled silk. Cut gores of the material to be used, sufficient in number when fastened together, the sides of each gore overlapping the gore fastened to it, to form a globe of the desired size, with pear-shaped ends. Join the gores together so as to make them completely air-tight. When the heavier materials are used, they should be sewn together, and then covered with glue or thin varnish. At the lower end of the balloon insert a tube, and tie all the narrow tips of the gores firmly round it. Cover all with a solution made of India rubber dissolved in naphtha and turpentine, and over the balloon place a net bag that has been previously made of the proper size and shape.

The gas with which the balloon is to be filled is made in the following manner: Put a pound of granulated zinc or iron filings into two quarts of water in a stone jar, and add gradually a pint of sulphuric acid. Have a tube of glass or metal run through the bung with which the jar is corked, and after taking the materials out-of-doors, fill the balloon by connecting this tube with the tube already placed at its mouth. When the balloon is filled, tie its neck very tightly, and it will rise into the air. Common coal gas may be used when it can be obtained. A small car made of some light material may be attached to the netting which goes over the balloon.

* * * * *


An exciting balloon adventure was that of Mr. Pendarves Vivian, an English member of Parliament. With two skilled aeronauts he recently made an ascent from Southwest London, the start being delayed by unfavorable weather until 10 P.M.

They found themselves in a strong current, which in ten minutes had placed them over North London, the lights below presenting a fairy scene of indescribable beauty. Though over 1000 feet high, street cries were distinctly audible. Ascending rapidly to 8000 feet, in an hour they found themselves passing at a tremendous rate over a flat country suitable for descending, and they resolved to come down. Gas was let out, and grappling-irons dropped, when there was a sharp check and violent jerks, and suddenly they commenced soaring upward at a frightful pace.

The rope of the grappling-irons had broken. The danger of so helpless a position, especially at night, was instantly apparent, and shortly afterward a renewed descent was made, hoping to run the balloon against some branches of trees. When this was done, one got out, and the two, relieved of his weight, were carried upward with extreme velocity to a height of three miles.

Half stunned by the shock, some time elapsed before the adventurous occupants of the balloon again attempted to descend, when, to their horror, they heard the roaring of the sea immediately below them. Fortunately they landed upon the beach, and not in the water. They were eventually rescued unhurt; but Mr. Vivian's experience convinces him that ballooning can never be of practical utility as a means of travelling.

* * * * *


This is a game in which music is made to take a prominent part. On one of the company volunteering to leave the room, some particular article agreed upon is hidden. On being recalled, the person, ignorant of the hiding-place, must commence a diligent search, taking the piano as his guide. The loud tones will mean that he is very near the object of his search, and the soft tones that he is far from it. Another method of playing the same game is for the person who has been out of the room to try to discover on his return what the remainder of the company desire him to do. It may be to pick up something from the floor, to take off his coat, to look at himself in the glass, or anything else as absurd. The only clew afforded him of solving the riddle must be the loud or soft tones of the music.