"THE PORPOISE AND THE LAND-SAGE.
"A Land-sage once, who thought he knew
All that there was to know,
Went out to sea without a crew,
And floated to and fro.
And then, before he was aware
Just what he was about,
A fearful wind did straightway tear
His jib and mainsail out.
"I'm all at sea!" he moaned and cried;
"Oh dear, what shall I do!
Would that I'd never come outside
Without my gallant crew."
Just as he spoke a Porpoise came.
The Land-sage cried, "What, ho!
Where are you from, and what's your name?
Hullo there, you! Hullo!"
"What do you wish?" the Porpoise said
In accents soft and meek.
"I'd like to be at home in bed—
What language do you speak?"
"Sea-doggerel," the Porpoise then
Made answer with a grin,
"Unless I speak with Englishmen,
And then I speak in Finn."
"Perhaps," the Land-sage then observed,
"You can enlighten me
By telling me— I'm much unnerved—
Just where I chance to be."
"Of course I can," the fish said. "You,
I think 'tis very clear,
Are out of sight of Manitou
And just about off here."
"Pray do not mock me," quoth the sage;
"I'm truly badly off,
And 'tis not right one of your age
At one like me should scoff.
I am the most enlightened man
That e'er the world did see;
So help me home, sir, if you can,
And tell me where I be."
"You make me laugh," the Porpoise said.
"Why should you come to me?
If you've all knowledge in your head,
I truly cannot see
Why you should ask a Porpoise, who
Is ignorant and plain,
What in this instance you should do
To get back home again?
"But I will tell you what I'll do:
If you will shed some light
Upon a few things—one or two—
I'll get you back all right."
"A bargain!" cried the Land-sage, loud.
"I pray you do begin."
"I will," the Porpoise said, and bowed.
"Why do you wear a chin?
"Why have you hair upon your head?
And why do men wear cuffs?
And why are cannon-crackers red?
And why is cream in puffs?
Why can't you swim on mountain-tops?
And why is water wet?
And why don't hens, like lambs, have chops?
And why don't roosters set?"
"The Land-sage paled as to his cheek.
"I cannot say," said he.
"Then why does Friday come each week?
And why do maids drink tea?
Oh tell me why all kittens mew?
And why do little boys,
When with their daily tasks they're through,
Make such a dreadful noise?
"The Porpoise waited for the sage
To answer, but in vain.
It filled the wise man full of rage
To have to flunk again.
Whereat the Porpoise, with a sneer
And very scornful glance,
Remarked: "You're very dull, I fear.
I'll give you one more chance.
"Tell me one thing I never heard
In all my life before,
And I will pass to you my word
To see you safe ashore.
But don't be rash, oh, sage," said he.
"Take all the time you need
To think of what to tell me
That's truly new indeed."
"The Land-sage thought and thought all day,
He thought the long night through,
But not an idea came his way
That he was sure was new;
And finally, in great despair,
He thought that he would see
What could be done to ease his care
By simple flattery.
"And so he spoke, "Oh, Mr. P——,
Oh, Porpoise, sleek and trim,
The thought has just occurred to me
My wisdom's rather slim;
But I believe a creature that
'S as beautiful as you
Can't have the heart to let a flat
Like me die in the blue."
"You think me so?" the Porpoise said.
"I do!" the sage replied.
"You have the purest classic head
I ever have espied.
Your eyes are truly lovely,
And your mouth is full of grace,
And nothing nobler can one see
Than is your noble face."
"The Land-sage ceased; the Porpoise smoled
And winked his eyes of blue.
"You've won, professor. You have told
Me something truly new.
I never heard my beauty praised
In all my life before."
And then his good right fin he raised
And towed the sage ashore.
[to be continued.]
MISS APPOLINA'S CHOICE.
BY AGNES LITTLETON.
Part I.
Outside, the house was simply one of a long row of brownstone houses which line many of the New York streets, but the room in which Millicent Reid was sitting this fine spring afternoon had an individuality of its own.
"The girls" were Millicent and Joanna Reid.
Millicent was nearly seventeen, and with her cousin Peggy, who lived across the street, studied with a governess and various masters, but Joanna, or Joan, as she was frequently called, went to school. At this very moment she burst into the room, carrying a pile of school books, which she flung on the table with a resounding crash.
"It is to be on the 30th of April, and we are all asked to send just as much as we can, and Mrs. Pearson said anything would do," said Joanna, as she pulled off her gloves.
"Oh, don't, Joan!" exclaimed Millicent, who had a pencil in her hand, and had hastily thrust a morocco-bound book under the sofa pillow when her sister entered. "You do startle me so. What is to be on the 30th of April?"
"The fair, of course. Now don't pretend you don't know anything about it, when the Pearsons have talked of nothing else for weeks."
"I have had other things to think of," returned Millicent, with dignity. "For one thing, I am wondering which of us three Cousin Appolina will take with her to England. If she only would choose me! And then—oh, there are other things!" And she nibbled the end of her pencil.
Millicent was Joanna's only sister, and she had beautiful golden hair, large blue eyes, and poetic tendencies. Joan was very sure that the morocco-bound book, of which she had caught a glimpse more than once when it was thrust away just as it had been this afternoon, contained poems—actual poems.
Joan gazed at her sister, as she lay back among the big cushions, with pride and admiration not unmixed with envy. She would so love to write poetry herself, but next best to that was having a sister who could do it. She only wished that Milly would let her see something that she had written. She could then assure her cousin, Peggy Reid, with absolute knowledge of facts, that her sister was a poetess. Now she could only darkly hint upon the subject, and it was not altogether satisfactory, for she felt confident that Peggy did not believe her.
But at present the fair was the all-absorbing topic, and Joanna returned to the charge. "We shall have to send something, Milly, for Mrs. Pearson said she depended upon us, and it is for such a good object she said she knew we would help her all we could. It is to furnish the new chapel, you know: to get a lee—lack—luck—something for them to read the Bible on. What is it, Milly?"
"A 'lectern,' I suppose you mean."
"Yes, that's it—'lectern'; and a big Bible to put on it, and lots of Prayer-books and Hymnals to stick around the church, and some vases for flowers, and a brass cross and foot-stools, and lots of other things they need. Mrs. Pearson said we must try to send as many fancy articles as we could to the fair, and try to sell some tickets."
"I have no time to make anything, and besides I don't do any fancy-work," said Millicent; "and if you don't mind, Joan, I wish you would go. I am very busy just now."
"You don't look a bit busy. What are you doing? Nothing but biting a pencil. I wish you would tell me what you were doing when I came in, Mill."
"If you only would not call me 'Mill' or 'Milly'! I simply detest it. As long as I have a good name, I do wish I could be called by it."
"I promise and vow I will always call you Millicent, full length, if you will only tell me what you were doing when I came in."
"I can't, Joan. Do go away. It was—nothing of any importance."
"Oh, Milly—I mean Millicent—please, please tell me! I do so want to know, and I am only your own little sister, who never did you any harm, and who wants to know so much. Won't you tell me?"
Joanna had slipped down on the floor by her sister's side. One arm she threw across Millicent, the other went under the sofa pillow. In a moment the morocco blank-book was in her hand. She clutched it tightly. If she only dared draw it out, run away with it, and read it! Peggy would have done it without any hesitation whatever, but then Joanna was not Peggy.
Millicent looked at her pensively. Sympathy is pleasant, particularly to a poet, and she felt sure that Joan, if any one, would appreciate some of the beauties of her verse.
"I really believe I will," she said at length; "only, Joan, I don't want Peggy to know anything about it. Peggy does laugh so at everything. Not that there is anything to laugh at in these little poems of mine—for they are real poems, Joan. Do you know I actually write poetry? Did you ever have any idea of it?"
"I am not a bit surprised," declared Joan. "In fact, I was almost sure of it. I am so glad you are going to let me see them. They are in this book, aren't they? Oh, Milly—I mean Millicent—think of your being a poetess! Do hurry up. Shall I read them myself, or will you read them to me?"
"I will read them aloud. I can do it with more expression, probably, for I know just where to put the emphasis, and it makes a great difference in poetry. I often think that if I could only take them myself to the editors of the magazines and read the poems to them, they would be more apt to take them."
"Of course they would. But do you mean to say, Millicent, that you have really sent anything to the magazines?"
"Certainly I have. I want recognition, but somehow they don't seem to suit."
"How hateful!" exclaimed Joan, with a sympathy that warmed her sister's heart. "But do hurry up and read them. I am dying to hear what you have written."
Millicent opened the book and turned over the pages. She could not quite decide which she should choose as her first selection. Before she had made it, however, there was a tap at the door, and then, without waiting for a reply, a tall girl of sixteen came into the room.
Again the morocco-bound book went under the sofa pillow, and Joanna could not suppress an exclamation of disappointment.
"What's the matter? What's up?" said their cousin Peggy, glancing quickly from one to the other. "Secrets? Now that's not a bit fair, to have secrets from me. I've got oceans of things to talk about; but, first of all, I met the postman just as I was coming in, and he gave me this for you, Mill. This huge envelope, and addressed in your own handwriting. It's awfully mysterious, and I am just about wild with curiosity. You must tell me what it is."
A blank look came over Millicent's face, but she took the letter and said nothing.
"Oh, come, now, aren't you going to tell us?" continued Peggy. "I'll never tell."
"Do, Millicent!" urged Joanna. "If it's—if it has anything to do with what we were talking about when Peggy came in, you may as well tell. I want Peggy to know about it, and I'm sure she would like to hear them too."
"Hear them? What in the world is it? Oh, I know! I know!" cried Peggy: "you have been writing and sending things to the magazines! Oh, Milly, do show me!"
Millicent looked at her long and doubtfully. "Will you never, never tell?" she asked at last.
"Never, on my oath!"
"I believe I will tell you, then, for I do think it is the meanest thing in those editors, and I just want to see what they have said this time, whether they have answered my note."
She opened the envelope and drew forth several papers, one of which appeared to be a printed one.
"No, they haven't. They have just sent the same old slip they always do, thanking me ever so much for sending the poems, and it may not be because they are not good that they send them back, but because they have so many things on hand. Oh dear, I think they might have answered it!"
"What did you say in your note?" asked Peggy.
"Oh, I told them that I thought these poems were perfectly suited to their magazine, and so they are. And I asked them to tell me of a good place to send them if they couldn't take them. I do think the man might have had the politeness to answer my note."
"Well, do let us hear them," put in Peggy, briskly. "I am wild to know what they are like."
Millicent again looked at her doubtfully. But in a moment she took a more upright position on the sofa, and holding her pretty head a little to one side, she remarked:
"This is a little poem on something which is very familiar to us, but I like the idea of idealizing familiar things." Then she paused. "Oh, I don't believe I can read it, after all," she said, in an embarrassed way; "it is very hard to read your own productions."
"Then let me read it," cried Peggy, attempting to seize the paper.
"No, no! I would rather do it myself than have you," said Millicent, and presently she coughed hesitatingly and began. "It is about the mosquito, and is called