Author of "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," etc.
Chapter XX.
ABNER'S DEATH.
After Toby was left alone in the tent he remained for some time looking at the triumphant monkey, and listening to Ben's attempts to crawl around under the barn as fast as the cat could, when suddenly, as if such a thought had not occurred to him before, he cried out,
"Don't you want me to come an' help you, Ben?"
"You keep that monkey back; that's all the helpin' I want," Ben replied, almost sharply; and then the sounds indicated that the cat had suddenly changed her position to one farther under the barn, while the boy was trying to frighten her out.
"Give it up, Ben," shouted Toby, after waiting some time longer, and not seeing any sign of success on the part of his friend. "If you come up here about dark, you'll have a chance to catch her, for she'll have to come out for something to eat."
"You take the monkey into the house, an' I'll get along all right," was the almost savage reply. "She smells him, an' jest as long as he's there, she'll stay under here."
It seemed to Toby almost cruel to desert his friend and partner just at a time when he needed assistance; but he could do no less than go away, since he had been urged so peremptorily to do so, and catching his pet without much difficulty, he carried Mr. Stubbs's brother away from the scene of the ruin he had caused.
Ben's remark that the monkey had "broke the show all up" seemed to be very near the truth, for the boys would not think of going on with so small a number of animals; and even if they decided to do without the menagerie, Bob's calf had wrecked one side of the tent so completely that that particular piece of canvas was past mending.
"I don't know what we'll do," said Toby, mournfully, after he had finished telling the story to Aunt Olive. "The boys act as if they blamed me, because Mr. Stubbs's brother is so bad, and Joe's squirrels an' Bob's mice are all gone. Ben's hen don't look as if she'd ever 'mount to much, an' it don't seem to me that he can get Mrs. Simpson's cat an' every one of the kittens out from under the barn."
"Now don't go to worryin' about that, Toby," said Aunt Olive, as she patted him on the head, and gave him a large piece of cake at the same time. "You can get a dozen cats for Mrs. Simpson if she wants 'em; and as for mice, you tell Bob to set his trap out in the granary two or three times, an' he'll have as many as he can take care of. I'm glad the squirrels did get away, for it seems such a sin to shut them up in a cage when they're so happy in the woods."
Toby was cheered by the very philosophical view that Aunt Olive took of the affair, and came to the conclusion that matters were not more than half so bad as they might have been.
"You be careful that your monkey don't get out again, an' go to cuttin' up as he did last night, for I shall get provoked with him if he hurts my ducks any more;" and with this bit of advice Aunt Olive went upstairs to see Abner.
Toby went out to the shed to assure himself that Mr. Stubbs's brother was tied so that he could not escape, and while he was there Uncle Daniel came in with an armful of strips of board.
"There, Toby boy," he said, as he laid them on the floor, and looked around for the hammer and nails, "I'm going to build a pen for your monkey right up here in one corner, so that we sha'n't be called up again in the night by a false alarm of burglars. Besides, it's almost time for school to begin again, an' I'm 'most too old to commence chasing monkeys around the country in case he gets out while you're away."
Had it been suggested the day before that Mr. Stubbs's brother was to be shut up in a cage, Toby would have thought it a very great hardship for his pet to endure; but the experience he had had in the last twenty-four hours convinced him that the imprisonment was for the best.
He helped Uncle Daniel in his labor to such purpose that when it was time for him to go to the pasture the cage was built, and Mr. Stubbs's brother was in it, looking as if he considered himself a thoroughly abused monkey, because he was not allowed to play just such pranks as had roused the household as well as broken up the circus scheme.
On his way to the pasture Toby met Joe, and the two had a long talk about the disaster of the afternoon. Joe believed that the enterprise must be abandoned—for that summer at least—as it would take them some time to repair the damage done, and his short experience in the business caused him to believe that they could hardly hope to compete with real circuses until they had more material with which to work.
Joe promised to see the other partners that evening or the next morning, and if they were of the same opinion, the tent should be taken down and returned to its owner.
"Perhaps we can fix it all right next year, an' then Abner will be 'round to help," said Toby, as he parted with Joe that night; and thus was the circus project ended very sensibly, for the chances were that it would have been a failure if they had attempted to give their exhibition.
During that afternoon Toby had worried less about Abner than on any day since he had been sick. He had felt that his friend's recovery was certain, and a load was lifted from his shoulders when he and Joe had decided regarding the circus; for, that out of the way, he could devote all his attention to his sick friend. Surely, with the ponies and the monkey they could have a great deal of sport during the two weeks that yet remained before school would begin, and Toby felt thoroughly happy.
But his happiness was changed to alarm very soon after he entered the house, for the doctor was there again, and from the look on the faces of Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive he knew Abner must be worse.
"What is it, Uncle Dan'l? is Abner any sicker?" he asked, with quivering lip, as he looked up at the wrinkled face that ever wore a kindly look for him.
Uncle Daniel laid his hand affectionately on the head of the boy whom he had cared for with the tenderness of a father since the day he repented and asked forgiveness for having run away, and his voice trembled as he said:
"It is very likely that the good God will take the crippled boy to Himself to-night, Toby, and there in the heavenly mansions will he find relief from all his pain and infirmities. Then the poor-farm boy will no longer be an orphan or deformed, but with his Almighty Father will enter into such joys as we can have no conception of."
"Oh, Uncle Dan'l! must Abner really die?" cried Toby, while the great tears chased each other down his cheeks, and he hid his face on Uncle Daniel's knee.
"He will die here, Toby boy, but it is simply an awakening into a perfect, glorious life, to which I pray that both you and I may be prepared to go when our Father calls us."
"THE GREAT WHITE-WINGED MESSENGER OF GOD CAME."
For some time there was silence in the room, broken only by Toby's sobs; and while Uncle Daniel stroked the weeping boy's head, the great white-winged messenger of God came into the chamber above, bearing away with him the spirit of the poor-farm boy.
the end.
"WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?"
[MR. THOMPSON AND THE CROWS.]
BY ALLAN FORMAN.
"I reckon them plaguey crows are goin' to eat up all the corn," said 'Lisha one morning during a discussion with Mr. Thompson regarding the weather, the state of the crops, and so forth.
"Hm!" said Mr. Thompson; then paused as if immersed in thought. "Hm!" he continued; "I have read that in England children are employed to keep the crows off the corn."
"Reckon corn can't pay a very big profit there, if they have to take the child's wages out of the price of the crop," commented 'Lisha.
"And it struck me," continued Mr. Thompson, not heeding the interruption, "that I might sit in the field and read, and at the same time keep the crows away."
"I s'pose you could, ef you didn't go to sleep," replied 'Lisha, with a sly laugh.
Mr. Thompson sniffed indignantly, and after a little more talk it was decided that he should take his book and sit in the corner of the field. After he had settled himself comfortably, and read several pages, he began to feel drowsy. His book dropped on his knee, and his thoughts turned to the crows.
"I wonder what they pull up the corn for?" he murmured. "They don't seem to eat it."
"'Cause," replied a coarse voice just behind him.
"'Cause why?" inquired Mr. Thompson.
"'Cause we do eat some, and we pull up the rest for fun," replied the voice.
Mr. Thompson turned to look: there was a big crow sitting on the fence gazing at him curiously, his black head was cocked on one side, and his bead-like eyes were full of mischief.
"Don't you know that is very wicked?" said Mr. Thompson, severely.
"Humph!" croaked the crow, contemptuously. "If you was a crow, you'd feel differently."
"I should always feel like doing right," said Mr. Thompson.
"Try it, and see," croaked the crow.
Mr. Thompson felt himself shrinking, and his black coat was changing to feathers.
No sooner had the change become complete than he felt an irresistible desire to pull up a hill of corn. As soon as he had uprooted one, he was filled with joy and a desire to destroy. He went to work with a will, and in a few minutes had pulled up quite a number.
"I thought that was very wicked," croaked a hoarse voice, with a tone of sarcasm.
Mr. Thompson paused a moment. "It is," he admitted. "But," he added, "it is such fun; and then men shoot us at every possible opportunity. It is no more than fair that we should get even with them."
"You talk like a sensible crow," said his companion. "But here comes a man;" and he uttered a derisive "Caw!" as he flew off, followed by Mr. Thompson.
"Let's go down to the shore," remarked the crow, as they came in sight of Long Island Sound.
Soon they were on the shore of a little creek that came in from the Sound. Mr. Thompson and his companion walked along the edge of the water, when suddenly Mr. Thompson spied a soft crab. He made a quick snatch for it, and caught it. His companion looked on in disdain.
"Humph!" he said, "who wants a crab? I've got a clam."
"What good is a clam?" retorted Mr. Thompson. "You can't open it."
"Can't I, though?" and the crow took the clam in his beak, flew high over the stony beach, and dropped it. The shell cracked, and the crow ate the clam with a relish.
"Look out! here comes a kingbird!"
Suddenly, with an angry cry, a small gray bird swooped down upon them, and making a vigorous peck at Mr. Thompson's eye, dashed off before he could retaliate.
"Come on," cried the old crow: "there is no use of sitting still and getting our eyes picked out."
They flew as rapidly as they could over toward the corn field, the kingbird following them a part of the way. When they reached the field, the crow alighted on the head of a stuffed figure which the farmer had set up for a scarecrow. Mr. Thompson settled on the outstretched arm.
"Yes," said the old crow, as if continuing a previous conversation—"yes, it amuses me to see the way these farmers think to frighten us with their stuffed figures. Now anything that is in motion, like that bunch of feathers over there, really does scare me, for I never know how far it will swing; but the idea of any intelligent crow being frightened at this thing—why, it is preposterous. And then the contemptible way in which they treat us, too—shooting us whenever they have a chance. Now there comes a crowd up the road in a wagon. They won't hurt us; they are afraid to shoot when the horses are around. Hullo! one man is getting out, and, as I live, he has a gun. Let's be off."
But Mr. Thompson got confused, and instead of flying away, he flapped heavily toward the corner of the field, and alighted beside his book. The man with the gun crawled cautiously up to the fence. It was 'Lisha.
"Wa'al, I vow, ef here ain't Mr. Thompson fast asleep!" he muttered. "I'll give him a scare;" and cocking his gun, he discharged it close to Mr. Thompson.
Mr. Thompson jumped up, and looked around savagely. "What are you shooting at?" he demanded, sharply.
"Nothin' in particular," replied 'Lisha, somewhat abashed. "I tried to shoot a crow, but the pesky thing flew off."
"Of course he did. We saw you get out of the wagon, and he knew you had come to murder him," said Mr. Thompson, severely.
'Lisha looked at him in surprise. "I reckon you've been asleep," he ventured. "You cum out to keep the crows off the corn, and when I cum here, thar was two settin' on the scarecrow."
"Yes," replied Mr. Thompson, calmly, "that was my friend and me;" and he walked majestically toward the house.
'Lisha looked at him in open-mouthed amazement. "Wa'al, I vow, he do hev the funniest dreams!" he muttered. "But," he added, after a moment's reflection, "it 'pears to me one of them crows did fly over to this corner." And 'Lisha shouldered his gun and walked home, speculating upon the eccentricities of the "city boarder."
[SOMETHING ABOUT LIGHTNING.]
BY C. J. M.
I wonder how many of the readers of the Young People, while watching the vivid flashes of lightning during a summer-storm, have ever asked the question, What is lightning? This problem has puzzled many old and wise heads, and the solution is apparently as far off as ever.
Scientific men are agreed that lightning is electricity, differing in no wise from that which can be produced by rubbing a piece of amber or by an electrical machine, except in power; but of what might be called the inner nature of this electricity they are quite ignorant. They can only observe and study its effects.
Lightning is divided into two kinds, which you will recognize under the names of sheet and forked lightning. Sheet lightning is supposed to be caused by the discharge of electricity over a large space, while forked lightning consists of a ball of fire rushing with exceeding swiftness through the air, and very often destroying everything in its way.
The passage of one of these fire-balls is nearly always in a zigzag line, and so rapidly does it travel that it always presents to the eye the appearance of an unbroken line. It has not yet been possible to measure its rate of speed, but it exceeds that of light, which is 185,000 miles in a second. Some of the flashes of lightning have been estimated at more than ten miles in length, while those from five to eight miles long are not so uncommon. The brilliancy of some of these flashes is so great that cases are on record where a flash has rendered the beholder incurably blind.
The idea that electricity and lightning were one and the same seems to have been first entertained about the middle of the seventeenth century. Many experiments were made to establish the relationship, but without any decisive result, when one of our own countrymen, Benjamin Franklin, gave a new impulse to the science. After a number of experiments, he was impressed with the idea that a metal point raised to a great height in the air would form a conductor for the electricity stored in the thunder-clouds.
Too impatient to wait for the completion of a church steeple which he intended to make use of in his investigations, he prepared a kite, using silk to enable it to withstand rain, and with it made his early experiments—at first privately, because of the fear that his neighbors would ridicule an old man's kite-flying. He raised the kite during a storm, and was delighted to feel, on applying his finger to the string, a slight spark. For the first time man had succeeded in coaxing the lightning from the clouds, and playing with it. This occurred in 1752.
Scientific men everywhere now began to devote themselves to the study of electricity. It was discovered that lightning burns its way, setting fire even to metals, and melting sand into glass by momentary contact. A striking illustration of its intense heat are the fulgurites, or curious glass tubes, produced from sand by lightning as follows: In certain places, where the ground is formed of a particular kind of sand, and lightning enters it from a cloud, the expansion of the air, as the electricity rushes through, forces it back in all directions, and the heat melts it into glass at the same time. These tubes have a diameter of one or two inches, and ordinarily a length of two or three feet. The interior surface is glazed, while the outside is formed of sand. Many have been taken out of the ground entire, and placed in museums as curiosities. It is said that fulgurites twenty to thirty feet in length have been discovered.
The experiments of the men to whom we are indebted for our knowledge of these marvels of nature are not always unattended with danger. In 1753, Richman, a member of the St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences, had an iron rod for the attraction of electricity erected on his house and continued down into his study, in order to be better able to observe its effects. During a violent storm he was working at some distance from the conductor in order to be out of the way of the large sparks. He at last incautiously approached too near, when a globe of bluish fire struck him on the forehead, killing him instantly.
The following incident illustrates the danger of being in a direct line with any article of iron during a storm. A number of people were assembled in one room of a house, conversing and watching the play of the lightning, when one of their number was struck and instantly killed by a flash that came from overhead. The death of this one man and the escape of all the rest were at first regarded as one of the freaks of which lightning is frequently guilty, but a close search revealed the fact that the accident was strictly in accordance with natural laws. It was found that in the room above, there hung a saw, one end of it nearly touching the floor directly over the man's head, while in the cellar below were a number of iron tools, among them a crowbar standing in such a position that the upper end of it was directly beneath his feet. His body had therefore only been a connecting link in the chain along which the lightning had travelled.
Another incident, but of a less tragic character, is the following. During a violent thunder-storm lightning struck a farm-house; a ball of fire descended through the chimney, and rolled across the floor of a room in which three women and a child were sitting without injuring them. It then rolled out through the kitchen, passing close to the feet of a young man, and passed out through a crevice in the wall. It next appeared in the pig-sty, and killed the pig without burning the straw on which it lay.
In olden times, before the study of the natural sciences was undertaken, every occurrence out of the common was thought to be an act of Divine power. Even in our days this idea has not entirely died out, and in those countries where people are ignorant lightning is still regarded as a mark of God's anger and a visitation sent for the punishment of sin. But with the spread of scientific knowledge it has been robbed of its terrors, and in the lightning-rod a means has been given us of attracting and controlling the electric current, and thus protecting ourselves from harm.
POOR OLD DOBBIN!
[JUBE'S WATER-MELON.]
BY WADE WHIPPLE.
It was one of the happiest moments of Jube Rosewood's life when, as he was passing Farmer Tappan's melon patch one day, the owner hailed him, and exclaimed:
"Jube, I promised you a reward for driving old Brindle home the other morning, and now if you will jump over that fence and take your pick of those water-melons, you can tote it along home with you."
Jube was one of the blackest little fellows that had ever basked in the sunlight of a Georgia plantation, but his eyes and teeth flashed out such a gleam of joy at this golden promise that his swarthy face seemed like a dark lantern with the slide suddenly turned as he made the delighted response:
"Mars' Tappan, you's fetched me right whar I's lierble ter feel mo' bleedzd to yer dan ef yo'd sot me down in a merlasses bar'l. I'll be dar 'fo' yo' min' gits a chance ter drif out o' dat rut." With this Jube bounded over the old rail fence, and in a moment was at Farmer Tappan's side, gazing critically and with some little wonderment at the streaked delicacies rounding out here and there from their lowly canopies of green.
So eager was the happy boy to show his appreciation of the situation, and of the possibility of the farmer's regretting his generosity, that he sprang toward the first plump specimen of the oblong fruit which he saw, and tapping its dainty shell, exclaimed:
"I reckon dis'n's 'bout my meshur, an' ef yo' sez de word, I'll onhitch de goodie, an' 'scort it down to der Rosewood shanty wid yo' compelments."
"All right, Jube," returned the farmer; "take it along if you can carry it. The fruit isn't any bigger than the thanks I owe you, but I'm afraid it is a size or two beyond your strength to carry."
"Don't let dat onsettle yo', Mars' Tappan," said Jube, as he got down on his "hunkies" to pick his prize package. "Dis chile's 'fection fo' dis wegetable am strong 'nuff ter gar'nty dat it won' get outer reach atter der grip's been tuk on it, an' dat yo' kin 'pen' on." With this remark Jube broke the stem, and thrusting his arms under the curving ends of his game, staggeringly lifted it from the ground.
Now Jube had a little brother at home who was every bit as big as that water-melon, and because he had carried him about very often in mere play, he thought there would not be any trouble about managing this inoffensive specimen of garden truck. Jube forgot, however, that the water-melon didn't have any arms to catch hold with, and no wrinkly trousers to catch hold of, and besides it was smooth and bunchy, and would spoil a good deal easier if it should happen to drop. He had no more than tottered through the rails that Farmer Tappan had let down for him than he began to feel as if he had a baby elephant in his arms, and before he had struggled a hundred feet down the road, he imagined the elephant had grown big enough to be its own grandfather.
"I 'clar' ter sakes!" he exclaimed, as, turning a bend in the highway, he was enabled unseen by the farmer to put his burden in keeping of a moss bank for a while—"I 'clar' ter sakes ef dat ar' 'freshment don' 'pear ter be stuff' wid cookin'-stoves. 'Pears like ef a man wuz lookin' fo' sumfin dat wuz easy ter drop, dis yarb'd come closer ter de mark dan a bees' nes'." Then, apparently addressing the melon, he continued: "But yo'm gotter come 'long wid me. I sot out ter see yer hum, an' dar's whar yo'm gonter lan' up, 'less yo' grows till yo's de size ob a fo'-hoss wagon."
Hereupon, Jube bent down to gather up his burden again, and after bracing himself as if he was going to pull up a tree by the roots, and gritting his teeth in a way that might have frightened a smaller melon, he began to joggle himself along his journey once more. He had fixed his trophy in such a way that his chest was made to form part of the support, and with arms beneath for a prop, he bobbed along with his head thrown away back to the rear of the procession, and his waist poked far enough out in front to give the idea that he was sending it on ahead to let the folks know he was coming. It was jostle and sway, and tug and stagger, every inch of the way, and I am not sure but it would have suggested to you a lone tumble-bug working his dirt-ball along a dusty highway.
Coming to the top of a hill, the overburdened boy was obliged to rest again, and depositing his responsibility upon a convenient brush heap, he straightened out the kinks in his back, brushed the perspiration from his brow with his shirt sleeve, and taking a long breath, again addressed the unconscious water-melon.
"Well, dar! ef yo' hain't been swallyin' a stun fence, den my gumpshun's slip out froo a crack somewhars sho 'nuff. Whatsumever's inside dat ar' speckle hide o' yo'n dis chile dunno, but ef yo'm as wuff eatin' as yo'm heaby totin', dar's mo' sweetmeats waitin' fo' der fam'ly whar I's gwine ter interduce ye dan dey's had in a mont' er Sund'ys."
Here Jube took another survey of the situation, and as his eye followed the range of the rather steep roadway, and rested on a whitewashed cabin at its foot, a look of pleasure and confidence spread over his face as he said:
"Dar's mammy's cabin, sartin. An' dar's whar dis yar water-million's gwinter fotch up; an' ef dar's any mo' easier way o' gettin' it dar dan losin' it, Jube hain't one o' der Rosewoods dat's 'quainted wid der fac'."
It was but the work of a moment for Jube to get the melon to the brow of the hill, and, poising it there, he gave it a rather smart push with his foot, and away it went down the steep. At the start, the wobbly, end-to-end movement by which it progressed indicated a rather tardy arrival at the Rosewood estate, but rounding the first knoll, and getting the sudden impetus of its dip, the enterprise of that fruit was so remarkable that Jube, with his legs going like a pair of drumsticks, could hardly keep up with it. Another bulge in the roadway jumped, and a livelier pace was imparted to the melon, and, panting like a winded hound, Jube threw out his half-shod feet with frantic energy, shouting all the time:
"Hol' on dar! Hol' on dar! Yo'll lan' in de stun fence sho', an' squash all yo' nat'al senses!"
Alas that the water-melon didn't take warning! As it reached the foot of the hill, and passed the Rosewood cabin, where Jube's brothers and sisters were wonderingly watching the chase, the boy's foot slipped on a cobble-stone, and as the melon rolled into a little gulley, head-first into its bulging surface landed the unfortunate Jube.
Was he hurt? Bless you, no. He was a little staggered, perhaps, but as between him and the water-melon, had you been there to have witnessed the result, you would surely have given your every ounce of sympathy to the melon. It was turned completely inside out, and spread over the grass-plot in every direction. Wasn't there a scene when Jube got himself to rights, shook the melon pits out of his hair, and shouted:
"Hey! Heyo! Clem! Cuffle! Mimy! Zekal! Pheby! Shuffle ober here libely an' he'p me sop up dese 'freshments. Dey's goin' to waste."
Almost in the wink of an eye about a dozen dusky youngsters were assembled at the scene of the wreck, and as they distributed themselves about the remains, and began a-feasting, the looks that gleamed from the eyes bulging over the green rims of an array of fruit fragments told how thoroughly they appreciated the inquest of Jube's water-melon.
JUBE'S WATER-MELON.
A dear little girl writes the Postmistress that she is very much frightened whenever there is a thunder-shower. The sharp flashes of lightning and the loud claps of thunder terrify her, and she always runs and hides in her mamma's lap.
Well, darling Effie, you could not find a better place to hide. But I want you to remember that the beautiful summer showers do a great deal of good. Have you ever noticed how pure and sweet the air is after the storm is over, and do you not love to watch the rainbow when its arch is in the sky?
Once, dear, a long while ago, when I was a little girl, a very heavy thunder-storm came up in the afternoon. It grew so dark that in the school-room, where we girls were gathered for our lessons, we could not see each other's faces. We put away our books, and our kind teacher told us a story to divert our minds. By-and-by, when the sun shone, and the sky looked blue, and the rain-drops glittered on the bushes and the long blades of grass, we sang a beautiful German choral, and I have never forgotten the opening words:
"It thunders, but I tremble not,
My trust is firm in God;
His arm of strength I ever sought
Through all the way I've trod."
Galveston, Texas.
Galveston is on the sea-coast, and has a splendid beach. There is a beautiful pavilion on it, and a great many bathing-houses. I have been bathing twice this summer, and it is perfectly delightful. Several nights in the week they have music, and sky-rockets are shot off. The beach is a great place for driving. Every evening carriages and vehicles of every description are passing up and down. The last time I was there a buggy ran over a little boy, and he was badly hurt.
Ethel T. S.
New York City.
I am a little St. Louis girl, but am now living in New York.
I am ten years of age, and have taken music lessons three years, and like music very much.
I have a pet bird named Jimmie; he will eat out of my hand, and is very tame.
My little brother Edgar is five years old, and mamma has just put his first pants on him, and he looks so cunning marching round with his hands in his pocket, and thinks he is quite a man. I almost envy the little boys and girls who have nice gardens. I have one, but it is a funny one; it is in a window, for we have no yard. We live in a flat, but I am very fond of flowers, and so keep them in a window. Some of your little readers may laugh at this, but it is the best I can have, and it affords me a great deal of pleasure.
Mamma was reading in No. 138 a letter signed "C. Harold C.," from Mount Vernon, New York, of a little boy who could not pronounce F. If his mamma will take him to a physician and have his tongue examined, she may find that he is tongue-tied, although you would hardly believe it. But my little brother was troubled the same way; he would say sishes for fishes, shogs for frogs, etc, etc. The doctor said he was tongue-tied and cut his tongue, and in a few minutes he said fishes as plain as any one. Mamma used to try and make him say words with F in in this way: she would say, "Edgar, say F." He would pronounce F very distinctly. Now mamma would say, "Say fishes." But he could not. So one day he says to mamma, "Mamma, say F; now say mustard."
Robin D.
The little boy who can not pronounce "f" may be tongue-tied, and then again he may not be. I knew a little girl once who spoke so very peculiarly until she was ten years old that people wondered what queer foreign language Minnie used. But all at once she began to talk plainly, as she has done ever since without the help of a physician.
Montreal, Canada.
I wrote you a letter some time ago, and asked you to print it; but you did not, and you don't know how sorry I felt. I do hope you will print this. I am ten years of age. I have two dear little brothers, one named Mello and the other Garibaldi, and a sweet little sister named Minnie; they all like Young People very much, especially little Mello, who delights to sit for hours looking at the pictures. I have two dear little pet squirrels, which we caught on the mountain in little traps. We put a small piece of apple in the trap, and set it on the fence that runs up the side of the mountain, and it is great fun to watch them go in the traps. We have caught more than a dozen that way. I have been to New York two or three times, and to Philadelphia to see the Centennial Exhibition. Did you go to it? and if so, don't you think it was splendid? I go to school, and like it very much. I got the prize for Grecian history this year. Don't you think that was very well for a little girl only ten? I am going away next week to visit a dear little girl named Dagmar, but I am only to stay about two weeks, and when I return I hope to see my letter in Young People. I think "Toby Tyler" is splendid, but I like Jimmy Brown's letters best.
May R.
Of course, dear May, you set the little squirrels free soon after catching them. Although they are very cunning pets, I can not help feeling sorry for them when shut up in cages, for they so dearly love their liberty, and are so merry when leaping from bough to bough in the woods.
The cunning little letter which follows was the first effort of a wee bit of a girlie whose papa had gone from home on a visit:
Bigelow Place, Cincinnati, Ohio.
Dear Papa,—I miss you so much! We are going to have a water-melon for dinner to-day. I love water-melons. But I love you the best. We had a nawful storm yesterday, and it blew the roof off a house on Walker Street. I guess the people got wet. My neck is tired bending over. I wish you many happy returns.
Your little baby Lula.
Here is another bright little letter from a wee girlie to her papa:
Bridgehamton, Long Island.
Dear Papa,—I hope you will come this afternoon, and bring me home—come after two o'clock; I will be all ready. I want to know how many tricks you have taught Gip [Scotch terrier]? How large is Gip? How are my kittens? I don't know whether they are dead; are they? Are they fed? How is Tom [cat]? Please bring the puppy with you when you come down, but don't fill his stomach with meat—'tis too indigestible. I helped to hunt the eggs yesterday, and we got over a hundred. Papa, I have a great many little mats, pretty as silk, made out of thistles flattened out, and they are the prettiest little thistles you ever did see, but they were the coarsest little thistles when Mary [nurse] picked them, just like "needles and pins." There are some little pet birds here, but we don't have to feed them. We can't bring them home; we will have to leave them here. This is the last of my letter; I can't write any more. Do you want to know why? The flies are bothering me so.
Lisa D.
Utica, New York.
I am nine years old to-day. I received as a present a card album that will hold 700 cards. We have a large yard, and in it a large tent. I had a birthday party last year, and we had a supper in the tent, at which fifty sat down at one time. I like "Mr. Stubbs's Brother," and am so glad Abner did not die.
Arthur E. J.
Bradford, New Hampshire.
Dear Postmistress,—I am a little girl of eleven, living in Massasechem Valley beside a beautiful lake, which affords great pleasure to many. I have three sisters and one brother. We have twelve English Jacobin doves, a little shepherd dog, a lamb, and a kitty for pets. I have taken Harper's Young People ever since it was first published, and I enjoy the stories very much. I think Ninetta's poem was real nice. She is just the age of my sister Ida. I think Toby Tyler has a hard time losing his pets. He must feel very sad and lonesome now Mr. Stubbs's brother is gone, but I hope he will recover him soon.
Marian F. D.
Thyatira, Mississippi.
I have written two letters to Our Post-office Box which have not been published; however, I will try again. I have been taking Young People for nearly two years. I like all the stories, but "Toby Tyler" and "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" are the best of all. I am a little boy ten years old. I work on the farm, but have just finished, and began to go to school last Monday. I have no pets except one sweet little sister; her name is Lucy, and she is just the sweetest child in the world. She is fourteen months old, can walk and talk some, and says, "Just lookie dar," and "Who is dat?"
Jack C.
Salem, Oregon.
I am a little girl twelve years old. I live with my papa and mamma on a large farm. I have three little sisters and one brother. I have been taking Harper's Young People for almost a year now, and like it very much. I have not very many pets. I have a horse, a little colt, and a cow with a calf. Mamma has two little Maltese kittens, and they are very pretty. We spent one winter out in Southern Oregon, where my papa owns a gold mine. It was very lonesome there, as there were very few neighbors. My two sisters and I go to school. The school-house is almost a mile from home. My youngest sister is the baby; she is thirteen months old, but she can not walk yet.
Deadie A.
Summit, New Jersey.
I am a little boy eleven years and a half old. I have been taking Young People since October, 1881, and like it very much. I have a sister and brother, each younger than I, and we have three birds' nests in our yard, and each one of the birds has four little ones. We fed them when they were little, but the mother did not like it, and one rainy day she threw one of them out of the nest, and we put it back again, and she kept it, and we never fed the birds again. I like "Talking Leaves" and Jimmy Brown's stories best, and I hope Jimmy Brown will write some more soon.
R. M. G.
What a naughty mother-bird! But maybe she knew better than you did what was good for her children. I think the little birdie must have fallen out by accident.
Lansing, Michigan.
The schools in our city have closed, and I am so glad, for we are going away to spend vacation. We are going to a pleasant resort called Harbor Point, on Lake Michigan, in the northern part of the State. We have a cottage there, and have delightful times boating and bathing in the surf. Does the Postmistress like the stories of Charles Dickens, and if so, which is her favorite one? Here are two verses I made up to-day:
Only a silver spoon,
Thin and battered and old,
Yet he thought he'd keep it for ever and e'er,
For ever and e'er to hold.
"Oh, take it not," said the maiden—
"Oh, take it not away,"
But the tramp put it in his pocket.
And went upon his way.
Chub.
Yes, dear, I am very fond of all Charles Dickens's stories, and my favorite one is, I think, Our Mutual Friend. Yet I am not sure, for I like The Tale of Two Cities very much, and I am about to read Bleak House for the fifth or sixth time. The little maiden in your verses should have taken better care of her spoon.
Waretown, New Jersey.
I am eight years old. I live in the country. I have a little brother Fred, and a little baby sister Alice. We had for a pet a shepherd dog named Colonel, but he ran away. I took Young People last year, and Fred takes it this. I like "The Cruise of the 'Ghost'" best. Grandpa gave Fred and me a nice fishing-pole, and takes us fishing, and sometimes we catch lots of fish. I have been to school part of a term; it is vacation now. I wrote this myself. I like to read the letters from the little girls and boys.
Ralph H. C.
Carrollton, Missouri.
My papa gave me Young People for a Christmas present; I like it very much. I am ten years old. I have twenty-five dolls; my largest is a wax doll thirty inches long. I have a play-house, a set of furniture, a set of dishes, a little trunk, and a real little cook stove that I can cook on. We have a swing and a hammock. I have a dear papa and mamma, but no brother or sister. We have a canary-bird. I wish the Postmistress would tell Jimmy Brown to write some more.
Edith C.
Twenty-five dolls! Dear me! what a large family! Don't you sometimes feel like the little old woman who lived in her shoe, and had so many children she did not know what to do? She gave them some broth, without any bread, and whipped them all round, poor things! and sent them to bed. You, I am sure, are not so unkind to your dollies as the poor bothered old lady of the shoe.
Brooklyn, New York.
I am going to tell you about my pets. I have a terrier named Jack. I like him very much. If I throw a stick, he will run and bring it to me. I have seven land turtles and two water turtles. There is one big turtle which I call grandfather of them all. I am very fond of them. I sunk half of a barrel in the ground, and I keep it filled with water for them to drink and swim in. They are all the time digging in the ground. I have fifty pigeons of all colors, and I have ten young ones. I like to watch the old ones feed their young; they are so cunning about it. We have a big old cat named Tom, and two canary-birds; so you see I have plenty of pets. My sister took me over to New York to see your big building, and to buy the story of "Toby Tyler." I have been taking Young People two years, and think it is splendid. I think "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" is very nice, and I hope when it is ended that you will publish it as you did "Toby Tyler." If you do so, my mother intends to give me money to buy it. I think I will close my letter with my best thanks to you and Mr. Otis for writing such nice stories.
Jesse W. P.
They built a fort upon the shore,
With merry heedless din.
They never spied the evening tide
Was rolling, rolling in.
They made it firm and fast without,
They made it firm within.
But evermore along the shore
The tide was rolling in.
Without a fear they slept that night,
But when they went next day,
They found no sign, no stone, no line—
The fort was washed away.
'Tis ever so, my little men; you'll find it, one and all,
That forts, not only those of sand, are very apt to fall.
But if they fall, why, let them fall; away with doubt and dread,
And build again with might and main a better fort instead.
Sanbornton, New Hampshire.
My dear Postmistress,—I was so glad to see your kind answer to my letter in the C. Y. P. R. U. Perhaps you don't remember me, but I am the girl who was reading so many exciting novels, and you kindly suggested more solid and less exciting reading. Mamma said the same things you did, and disliked to have me read so many love stories, but I was so fond of them. Now I am not reading any of them. The only novel I have read for ever so long is one, by Auerbach, called Edelweiss, and it is a lovely book, I think, and so does mamma, but really I don't care so much about reading when here in the country as I did in Worcester, for there are so many other things to take my attention.
We are at the old homestead, where papa used to live when he was a little boy, and there are such lovely walks and drives all about here. A few days ago I ascended my first mountain. Papa and I drove to the first pair of "bars" on the mountain-road, and tied the horse there, and then we climbed the mountain (Mount Atkinson). It was a long hard climb, but the view when we reached the top paid for all our trouble. We could see blue Lake Winnipiseogee in the distance, and on our left was Mount Lafayette, with little Victory Mountain, close beside it. Further east was Chicorowa, Passaconoway, off in the east the Unconoonocks, and then came Monadnock, and even our Worcester mountain, Wachusett, besides a great many others whose names I can not remember.
After we had staid on the summit some time enjoying the beautiful view, we came down, found Leonard (the horse), and drove home. It was a beautiful ride, and we appreciated it after our toil. This afternoon I shall take Leonard, and drive over to the post-office, about two miles away. When it is too warm to walk or ride, I lie in the hammock and read. Isn't Butcher and Lang's translation of the Odyssey beautiful? But I must close this long letter.
We children have our dear Young People forwarded to us here, and we enjoy it so much.
I was very much interested in the beautiful picture and interesting account of St. Elizabeth in the last Young People. I had heard the legend of St. Elizabeth and the Roses before, and think it is a charming story. I never saw a paper with such beautiful pictures in it as Harper's Young People has; and I especially like W. A. Rogers's pictures, because he illustrated dear "Toby Tyler." But, dear Postmistress, I must stop, and I really think I like oth er things besides novels a great deal better than I used to.
Olive R.
It is very pleasant, indeed, to receive such a letter as this, and to find that one's advice has been so willingly taken. You were well repaid, dear, for your trouble in climbing the mountain. Yes, you may send your exchange again.
N. R. and L. D. M.—When you and your friend are walking together, it is polite for both to lift your hats to a lady with whom only one is acquainted. If you meet a lady with whom you are only slightly acquainted, you should wait for her to bow first. In performing an introduction, name the lady first, in this way. "Miss ——, may I present Mr. ——?"
As for the causes of the war between Egypt and England, it would take a far more learned personage than the Postmistress to make it plain to you. The principal cause seems to be that through the Suez Canal lies the highway to England's immense possessions in India, and England can not afford to let Egypt shut up or barricade this path. You and other young gentlemen who are interested in this war should read the daily and weekly newspapers carefully, and listen to the conversation of intelligent men who have studied the question.
It would be well now that all eyes are turned to the East, that you should read some volume on Egypt. The Khedive's Egypt, published by Messrs. Harper & Brothers, will give you a great deal of interesting information about Egypt as it is to-day.