"DELLUSK."

BY A. W. ROBERTS.

There is in Chatham Street, New York city, an old Irish-woman who sits all day beside a stand on which is piled a substance, of a dark purple color, that strongly suggests dried red cabbage. No one seems to purchase any of this puzzling material, yet there she sits, serene and contented, behind a short black pipe.

Taking up a fragment, I found it soft and pliable. Smelling it, I seemed to be at once down by the shore at Canarsie Bay, packing soft crabs in sea-lettuce.

The old woman continued silently smoking her pipe, neither asking me to purchase nor informing me as to the cost of the mysterious substance, its use, its name, or that of the manufacturer.

Being an American, it was but natural that I should wonder if it was "patented." This word, however, proved too much for the old lady, and so I had to come down to the commonplace inquiry,

"Madam, what is this?"

"Dellusk."

"What is it good for?"

"To ate."

"Where does it come from?"

"From the say."

"I mean from what country."

"Tralee, County Kerry."

"How do you sell it?"

"Twinty cints a quart, tin cints a pint."

"Can I have this piece?"

"Yez can for a cint."

Taking a Third Avenue car for home, I secure a quiet corner seat, and say to myself, "I was born in New York city; I know it from one end to the other, particularly all things that are good to eat, but I don't know dellusk.'"

Presently we arrive at the Cooper Institute, and I ask the conductor to let me out. Hastily directing my steps toward the Astor Library, and entering, I ask the librarian for DEL in all the cyclopædias he has. I make a thorough search, and find nothing. Then I think of looking under DUL. What have we here? Not Dellusk by any means, but the following account of Dulse (Rhodomenia palmata): "A sea-weed of a dark purple color growing on rocks. It is used as food by the poor of Ireland, Scotland, Finland, and Iceland, and occasionally by those of the wealthier classes who have acquired a taste for it. It is eaten raw or roasted, or with vinegar as a salad. In Ireland it is boiled with milk, or broiled between hot irons. It is an important plant to the Icelanders, who eat it with zest."

Further on the same author, who is an Englishman, informed me: "In Kamtchatka a fermented liquor is made from it. Sheep are fond of it, eagerly seeking it at low water. 'De-ulse!' was once a common cry in the streets of Scotland. It is common to our coasts, but is imported from Ireland."

Some time after my conversation with the dulse woman, I purchased a pint of the sea-weed from which to obtain a perfect specimen to make a drawing. Taking it home, I left it spread out on my table. It had been there but a short time when "Landy," our old housekeeper, detected the strong odor that rises from it. In a moment she had seized my specimen, and with rapturous delight began to devour it, without even asking permission so to do.

"Oh, the beautiful, darling dellusk!" she exclaimed, between the pauses in the feast! "Shure it's thirty-five years gone last November, whin I was a slip of a girl, an' was clim'ing over the big stones in the big say, a-dryin' yez on them in the sun, till the lovely white salt would flake off, an' 'ating yez every day, till I grew so round and fat and rosy that me mother didn't know me."

I myself tried a bit of the dulse, but I can not say I liked it. At the same time I was glad to learn of one more article of food that I did not before know existed.

[TOPS, AND HOW TO SPIN THEM.]

BY AN OLD BOY.

Simple as it appears to the looker-on, it requires no little practice to spin a top. Only after a series of mortifying failures can a boy make sure of seeing his top successfully describe an arc through the air, disengage itself from the string, and then spin round triumphantly for some seconds upon its sharp iron point.

In order to spin a top of the common kind, the player should be provided with quite a stout piece of whip-cord, with a knot at about an inch from one end, and a large metal button attached to the other. Hold the top in the left hand, unravel the end of the whip-cord beyond the knot, and slightly wet it. Now lay the wet end along the top just above the peg, and hold it down with the thumb. Take the string in the right hand and wind it round the top, beginning at the upper part of the peg and winding gradually upward. When you have wound up all the string, put the button between the middle and third fingers; place the thumb under the peg and the fore and middle fingers on the top. Take care to keep the string tight, as otherwise it will become unwound, and all your labor will be lost.

To give the top a spinning motion, hold your hand high, and bring the arm down with a bold swing from the shoulder. It will then fly from the string with a kind of "swishing" sound, and come down on its peg with great force. A little practice will make you perfect in spinning the top, and if you know the length of your string, you can make it strike the ground exactly where you please, merely by measuring with your eye the distance from the point where you stand to the spot on which you want the top to strike.

Peg in the Ring. To play this game, first draw a circle five or six feet in diameter, and in the centre of this draw a smaller circle about a foot in diameter. The first player throws his top at the ring, allowing it to spin. If, when it falls, it remains within the large ring, it is called "dead," and the owner is obliged to lay it in the little ring, where any one may play on it. The same penalty is incurred if the top fails to spin, and in neither case can the owner have his top again until it has been knocked out of the ring by some other player, who thus counts to himself one point. The great object in this game is to split some other player's top and keep your own safe. In order to do this, skillful players have a way of throwing the top in such a manner that if it miss the object aimed at, it leaps out of the ring with a single bound, thus getting out of danger. This feat is performed by drawing the arm smartly toward the body just before the top reaches the ground. It is not an easy thing to do, but can be accomplished by practice.

Chip Stone is a game in which a wooden spoon is needed. Two lines are drawn on the ground five or six feet apart, and some smooth, flat stones about the size of a penny are placed between them at equal distance from each. The first player spins his top in the usual manner, slips the bowl of the spoon under it, and lifts it off the ground. He then drops it on one of the stones, and tries to drive it toward the boundary line. He may pick the top up in the spoon and drop it on the stones so long as it continues to spin, so that if a top be properly spun it may be dropped six or seven times on the stone, and drive it fairly across the boundary. When this is done, he holds the stone as a trophy of success, or wins a marble from each of the other players, as may be decided upon.

Whip-tops will spin better if the point is armed with a hollow-headed brass nail, such as are used for furniture. The whip may be made of leather shoe-lacings, but the best and most lasting is eel-skin, kept in a moist condition. To whip a top the stroke should never be a high one, but the real motion should come from the wrist rather than the arm. In playing the game, tuck the whip under the left arm, and take the point between the hands, the fingers pointing downward; then place the point on the ground, and give it a twirl from right to left, which will make it spin for a second or two. As soon as you have made it spin, snatch the whip from under the arm, and give it a smart lash at the top, drawing the hand toward you as you strike. If you hit the top fairly, this stroke will make it spin well, and then you can do what you like. A way of fighting whip-tops is for two boys to stand about twenty yards apart, and lash their tops toward each other, so as to make them come in contact. Of course each player tries to knock over his adversary's top with his own. If, however, he touches his opponent's top with his whip, he is adjudged to have lost. Racing tops is another very interesting way to show one's expertness in the game.

Humming-tops are so made now that it requires no skill to spin them, and since nothing in the way of games can be done with them, save to keep them humming, it is not necessary to speak of them at any length.

THE DUNCES' BENCH.

The other day the Postmistress was riding in a horse-car, and she saw a lad whom she will call Jack, though she does not know his name. He was in the company of a sweet-looking old lady, who seemed to be his grandmamma. Jack was a fine healthy boy, large for his age, which was about twelve. But, dears—would you believe it?—he allowed the old lady to carry her own little basket and bundle; and when they left the car, this thoughtless boy jumped nimbly off and ran to the sidewalk, while the feeble grandmamma was helped down by the conductor, and then tottered on as well as she could, by herself.

You would have assisted her, would you not, had it been your grandmother, and given her your arm, and carried her bundles? Of course you would.

Probably Jack does not read Harper's Young People.

Villa Sciarra, Naples.

I am a little girl of thirteen, and rather short for my age. We live at Naples in a nice villa by the sea-side, and there are lots of rocks, from which I get fishes and crabs. I have a little aquarium, in which are some very pretty specimens of anemones and three fishes, one large and two small. The large one knows me quite well, and dances about when I come near.

My father takes Harper's Young People for me, and I like it so much! I like Jimmy Brown's stories best, and thought "The Little Dolls' Dressmaker" was beautiful. I am very fond of reading, and have 135 books, many of which came from the United States.

Blanche F. T.

Fort Craig, New Mexico.

I am ten years old, and papa says a right smart boy for my age; anyway, I heard him say so to a captain of the army last week. Father is a scout, and goes out with the soldiers after Indians. There used to be lots of bad Indians in New Mexico. My papa was wounded just one year ago. He and two miners were prospecting for gold, when five Indians jumped on them from a cañon. Papa was up on the side of a hill, and when the Indians began to fire he climbed up to the top, while the other men went for the horses, and got them out of the cañon to the creek. Papa staid and fought the Indians for about twenty minutes. He kept them off until the miners got to the creek, and after that he had a running fight for a mile. He was shot in the left hand, the bullet taking part of his gunstock with it. I own a little rifle, and am a good marksman; I can hit the bull's-eye three out of five times at fifty yards. I can ride a bucking bronco, too, and so can sister Eva. I have been reading all the letters in the Post-office Box, and thought some little folks would like to hear from New Mexico. Papa is in the mountains now, and mamma said I could write if I wished.

Harry W. C.

What is a bucking bronco? You will have to write again and tell us. What else do you learn besides riding and shooting? Those accomplishments are very necessary ones on the frontier and in a new country, but we hope you study faithfully; and we should think your sister Eva and yourself might sketch, botanize, and collect curious specimens for your cabinets. We hope your papa may not come to such close quarters with "bad" Indians again.

Flora, Cuba.

I am a little girl ten years old, and I have never been away from my country, but I am learning English with my governess, and I hope papa will take me to New York this summer. As perhaps you have never been in Cuba, I wish to tell you something about my beautiful island. The climate is delightful and healthy enough. We have many fine fruit trees—oranges, limes, and lemons. When the trees are young they are a lighter green than when they are old; they have many thorns, and the leaves are pointed. The fruit is not very large, but is very good, and is planted by seeds in the rainy weather. We have several kinds of oranges; the best is called China. The trees have white flowers, which are called azahar, and make a very good essence and oil.

Mary de A.

Havana, Cuba.

We live at a country seat very near the city of Havana. It is a very pretty farm; it has many flowers and trees, two or three fountains playing bright water all the time, and also two ponds. One of them is for gold-fish. There are nineteen gold-fish, and in the centre of the pond is a cave for them to play with their little ones. In the other pond lives a beautiful white lily all alone. It is the size of a tea-plate, and as white as my paper. Then, in the farm-yards there are lots of chickens, turkeys, ducks, guinea-hens, and also two cranes. We have a pair of horses, four goats, eight or nine pigs, and eight rabbits. One of the rabbits had ten little ones, but they all died.

I am a Cuban boy eight years old. I know how to read and write in English better than in Spanish, but I can speak Spanish better, because it is my native language. Do you think this is good enough to put in your paper? My teacher sends you her regards, and thanks you for your paper because it gives us so much pleasure. She wishes me to ask the young people if any of them have read a story called The Runaway, and if they can tell us who is the author, and where the book can be obtained. It is one of the best children's stories she has ever read. It is about two little girls named Olga and Clara.

Domingo T. de L.

Among our thousands of young readers there may be some who can answer Domingo's question about the book which his teacher likes so well. Will they send us the author's name, as we should be glad to give our little friend the information he desires?

Bluffton, Indiana.

I want to tell the readers of Young People about my pet. It is a little bird; I call it Jenny Wren. We take it out of the cage, and let it fly around the room. It has two principal places where it alights, and those two are each at the top of a window. We can make it play that it is a dead bird. It will eat sugar from my hand. I like Jimmy Brown's stories very much. I liked "Art's Organ Adventure," "Todd and Ketchum's Grate Show," "Mr. Thompson and the Bull-Frog," and lots of other stories. I just love to read the Post-office Box.

Tommy P. S.

Orford, New Hampshire.

I live away up among the hills in New Hampshire, almost in the White Mountains. I suppose you city boys think I am about out of the world, and don't have any good times, but I would not change places with you. I have a papa who gets lots of papers and magazines for us to read, and a mamma who is always ready to read them to us, and a grandpa who will play checkers with me, but almost always beats, a little sister who is ready for any fun, and Ida, the girl who does the housework, is very kind in helping us to have a good time, and the two men who work on the farm let me work with them whenever I wish. I know it is pretty cold when the high hills are covered with snow, but it is just fun sliding down them on my new sled. I have a pair of steers, yoke, and sled all complete; they will work like oxen. I can get up wood or ice with them; they are better than your ponies. We have three horses I can drive, and thirty cattle to tend. When it is warm weather I can go hunting for partridges, gray squirrel, etc. I don't always find any, but when I do I feel pretty big. I go fishing pretty often too. My little cousin Willie and I went up on the side of Mount Cube last summer after trout; he got forty, and I got seventy-five. But if you had seen us when we came home, you would have thought something had bit besides fish. I will say black flies were plentier than fish, but we enjoyed it. We have good clear springs of water, pure air, and plenty to eat. I think you will believe it when I tell you I am thirteen years old, and weigh one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Boys, please make me a visit. We are making sugar, and I promise you a "sweet" time. I always go to school when we have one, but that is not more than six months in a year, and I will have to attend Haverhill Academy this spring. Please pity me. I was glad to see "Mr. Stubbs's Brother." I think it is going to be just as good as "Toby Tyler."

Harry E. M.

We are sure that many boys will wish they might go and see you in the home among the hills, where you have such a kind grandpa, and such loving parents, and so many delightful occupations. But we shall not pity you in the least that you must be sent away to school, for six months' tuition in the year is not quite enough for a boy of thirteen. You need at least nine months, under a good teacher, and so success to you, Harry, at Haverhill Academy!

Winnsboro, Louisiana.

I am a Louisiana boy eleven years old. My brother Bertie is eight, and my little sister five. If any of the young people wished to visit me now, they could come all the way in a boat. You have no idea what a sea of water covers this whole country! It never was so high here before! It has done a great deal of damage, and caused a great deal of suffering. It would make you sad to see how the poor cattle suffer from the water and gnats. The deer, too, are dying in the woods. A gentleman who came to town in a canoe said he saw six dead ones floating in the water. Deer horns are no rarity with us, as I have an uncle who kills a great many deer. They have no horns at this season of the year; they shed them in the winter. Although it is sad to see such an overflow, still it brings some fun to little boys who are fond of boating. Bertie and I and our little sister Kate spend a great deal of our time on the water in our little boat. It would make my letter too long to give you a description of our trips to the pasture to look after the cattle, and to town on errands for mamma. We have been taking Young People for nearly a year, and enjoy reading it so much! Mamma gave it to us this year, but Bertie and I have made enough to take it ourselves. I take it down to school sometimes, and our teacher reads it aloud to the pupils, who enjoy it so much!

Eddie Y.

Which little girl will read these stanzas, and see her own portrait?