WHAT THE BUTTERFLY SAYS.
Through all the sunny summer days
I wander here and there,
And hardly ever stop to rest
A moment anywhere.
There are so many things to see,
And time is rather short with me.
I only have a month or two,
And time soon runs away
When one is seeing something new,
Or sporting every day.
And how the little people try
To catch me as I flutter by!
But I know what they want me for—
It's not to use me right;
It's not to give me sunny fields,
With daisies sprinkled white;
But just to pin me on the wall
To show their friends, and that is all.
THE SHIP OF THE DESERT.
BY A. E. T.
Unlike other ships, this one begins by being a very feeble and helpless little craft indeed. For the first week after its launch on the great sea of life it requires much careful watching on the part of the owners.
Strange as it may sound, in very truth a baby camel is every whit as helpless as a human baby. It can not stand alone; without help it can not so much as take its own food even; while its long neck is at first so flexible and fragile, that unless some one were constantly at hand to watch, the poor little creature would run every risk of dislocating it.
Those who have closely observed camel nature tell us it is never known to play or frolic like lambs or colts, or like most young creatures of the earth, in fact; but that in its babyhood it is as grave and melancholy as in its old age, born apparently with a deep sense of its own ugliness, and a mournful resignation to a long and joyless career.
When it has reached its third year the humpbacked animal is counted old enough to begin its life of labor. The trainers then take it in hand. They teach it to kneel and bear burdens, which gradually they make heavier and heavier, until their charge is supposed to have come to the full strength of camel maturity. This is not until it is about eight years old.
If the camel can rise with the load on its back, this is proof positive that he can carry it throughout the journey, although it sometimes happens, if the journey be only a very short one, the patient beast is loaded so heavily that it must be helped on to its feet by means of bars and levers. In some places camels cry out against this excessive loading in a most piteous and distressing manner—the cry resembling that of a very young child in pain, and being a most dismal sound to hear; but in other parts of the world they will bear their burden, however heavy, without complaining.
THE CAMEL AND HIS RIDER.
An ordinary camel's load is from seven to eight hundred pounds. With this weight on their backs, a train of camels will cross thirty miles of desert during a day. Those used to carry dispatches, having only the light weight of the dispatch-bearer, of course are expected to travel much faster, however, and will easily accomplish two hundred and forty miles in the same length of time.
Ungainly, awkward, repulsive-looking as these creatures are, with their great projecting harelips and their hairy humps, they have the compensation of being most priceless treasures to all those who "dwell in tents" in the vast sandy plains of Egypt, Arabia, and Tartary.
Their stomachs are so formed by nature that they are capable of being converted into a set of water tanks, a number of small cells filled with the purest water being fastened to the sides of each, and when all food fails, it makes little difference to a camel or dromedary—at least for a time.
Their humps are composed of a fatty substance. Day by day the hump diminishes, and the fat is absorbed into the animal's system, furnishing nourishment until food is forth-coming.
Thus, with these stores of water and fuel on board, the "ship" can go on for a fortnight, or even a month, absolutely without eating or drinking, while things that other creatures—unless, perhaps, it be some bird of the ostrich tribe—would never dream of touching, will furnish forth a sumptuous meal for a camel. Off a handful of thorns and briers he can make an excellent breakfast, and I believe he will not disdain anything apparently so untempting as a bit of dry wood.
Provided that at certain periods of the year a short holiday is allowed the camel for pasturing, quite at its leisure, to recruit its strength and fill that store-house on its back with fuel, it will serve its master, on such meagre fare as I have mentioned, for full fifty years. Still, all work and no play is as bad for camels as it is for boys.
Even with plenty of fuel on board, the desert-ship owners are wise enough not to impose too long journeys upon their heavily laden fleets.
A camel's foot is of a peculiar formation. It is wide-spreading, and is provided with fleshy pads or cushions; and if after a certain march rest were not given, the skin would wear off these pads, the flesh become bare, bringing consequences direful indeed. Probably the suffering creature would kneel down, fold its long legs under its body, and stretching out its long neck on the ground, calmly announce in camel language that it would go no further. It is no use whatever to try to make a camel go against his will.
If it once refuses, you have but two ways open to you: you may quietly lie down beside it until it is ready to move, or you may abandon it forever. Other course there is none.
It is a curious fact that, notwithstanding the softness of the camel's foot, it can walk over the sharpest stones, or thorns, or roots of trees without the least danger of wounding itself, and that what this strange beast most dreads is wet and marshy ground.
We read that "the instant it places its feet upon anything like mud, it slips and slides, and generally, after staggering about like a drunken man, falls heavily on its side."
The use of the camel to the various peoples of the East is almost incalculable. Many an Arab finds his chief sustenance in the cheese, butter, and milk of the mother camel. The flesh of young camels is also often eaten.
The Roman Emperor Heliogabalus is said to have reckoned camel's feet one of the daintiest dainties of his sumptuous banquets, and he considered a portion of tender camel roast a thing to be by no means despised. To this day, indeed, camel's hump cut into slices and dissolved in tea is counted a relish by the Tartar tribes.
Camel's skin is made into straps and sandals, while brushes and ropes, cloth and tents, sacks and carpets, are made entirely from camel's hair.
Every year toward the beginning of summer the camel sheds its hair, every bristle of which vanishes before the new hair begins to grow. For three weeks this bare condition lasts. His camelship looks as if he had been shaved without mercy from the tip of his tail to the top of his head, and during this shaven season he is extremely sensitive to the cold or wet, shaking in every limb if a drop of rain falls, shivering painfully in the chilliness of the night air.
By-and-by the new hair begins to grow—fine, soft, curly wool that gradually becomes long, thick, soft fur; and after this, the rain may rain as much as it likes, the night air may be as chilly as it will, the camel will not care a grain. In that armor of nature's providing he will not shiver or shake any more.
The hair of a camel, on an average, will weigh about ten pounds. It is said to be sometimes finer than silk, and longer than the wool of a sheep. In the course of my reading, a short time ago, I met with an account of a camel market in a town of Tartary especially noted for its trade in that species of live stock.
In the centre of Blue Town, it seems, there is a large square, where the animals are ranged in long rows together, their front feet raised upon mud elevations constructed expressly for the purpose, the object of which is to show off the size and height of the ungainly creatures.
The confusion and noise of this market are described as something frightful and "indescribable," with the continual chattering of the buyers and sellers disputing noisily over their bargains, in addition to the wild shrieking of the camels, whose noses are pulled roughly to make them show off their agility in rising and kneeling.
Nature has given the camel, you must remember, no means of defense except its prolonged piercing cry, and a horrible sneeze of its own, whereby the object of its hatred is sometimes covered with a mass of filth from its mouth.
It can not bite its tormentor, and—at least the Tartar camel—seldom kicks, or if it does, as seldom does any harm with that fleshy foot of which I have told you already.
Can you wonder, then, that the air of Blue Town is made hideous with the shrieking of the camels as, to test their strength, they are made to kneel while one thing after another is piled on their backs, and made to rise under each new burden, until they can rise no longer?
"Sometimes while the camel is kneeling a man gets upon its hind-heels, and holds on by the long hair of its hump; if the camel can rise then, it is considered an animal of superior power"—according to the writer above quoted.
"The trade in camels is entirely conducted by proxy; the seller and the buyer never settle the matter between themselves. They select different persons to sell their goods, who propose, discuss, and fix the price, the one looking to the interests of the seller, the other to those of the purchaser. These 'sale-speakers' exercise no other trade. They go from market to market, to promote business, as they say. They have generally a great knowledge of cattle, have much fluency of tongue, and are, above all, endowed with a knavery beyond all shame. They dispute by turns furiously and argumentatively as to the merits and defects of the animal, but as soon as it comes to be a question of price, the tongue is laid aside as a medium, and the conversation proceeds altogether in signs."
A LITTLE GIRL'S ASCENT OF VESUVIUS.
BY KATIE C. YORKE.
One beautiful morning we took a carriage and started from Naples on a trip to Mount Vesuvius. We drove along the bay for several miles, and when we reached the foot of the mountain we began to ascend through vast fields of lava, which had flowed there during previous eruptions. I always imagined that lava was white and smooth, but this was of a grayish-black color, and very ragged.
The carriage-road ends at the Observatory, which is a building where a scientific man resides, being appointed by the government to watch the state of the volcano. He can tell when there is going to be an eruption, and always notifies the people.
There we found guides and men with saddled horses waiting to take us to the foot of the cone. After a short ride we reached it, and dismounted, and started up. The cone is so steep, and covered with cinders, that people that are unaccustomed to such walking can't get up it without assistance, because every step you take you slide back several inches. We thought we would be pulled up by the guides, but the rest of the party got tired, and had to be carried on their shoulders. I managed to walk nearly all the way, and when I got tired my guide carried me too.
About half way up we stopped at a cave where some men were waiting to sell us some new Lacrima Christi wine. We drank some, and rested, and went on to the top. When we reached it we were nearly four thousand feet above the level of the sea, and had a beautiful view of Naples, the bay, the islands, the villages, and the surrounding mountains.
We enjoyed the view very much, but every little while the wind would blow a cloud of sulphurous vapor from the crater, and nearly suffocate us. We walked to the edge of the crater and looked down, but we couldn't see much, because of the vapor. One of the guides went down into it a little way, and brought us up some pieces of sulphur. The cinders were so hot they burned our feet, and when we poked sticks into some cavities they caught fire.
The thick vapor annoyed us so that we soon decided to go down. Just as we were starting, the mountain gave a low, deep growl, and trembled under us, so we were very glad to leave. It was great fun going down, because the cinders were so loose that at each step we would slide a long way. Part way down we caught a pale yellow butterfly that was almost stifled by the sulphurous fumes.
When we reached the foot of the cone, we found we had been only twenty minutes coming down, although it took us an hour and a half to go up. No sooner had we arrived at the Observatory than we were surrounded by crowds of ragged, beggarly looking men and boys, who insisted on blacking our shoes, or pretended they had been guides, and tried to make us pay them for things they had never done at all. We ordered them away, but they kept on tormenting us, so we jumped into the carriage, and drove off as fast as we could, leaving them all behind, shouting, screaming, and wildly gesticulating.
Since I was there they have built a railroad up the mountain, but I should not think it would be half so much fun to go up in the cars.
A LETTER FROM INDIA.
Lucknow, India, June 20, 1880.
My Dear Friends,—My auntie has sent me several copies of Harper's Young People, and I thought maybe you would like to know a little how we children in India live. I don't know anything about your life except what I read, and my mamma tells me, because I was born here. I am nine years old, and in a little while we are going home. I say home because mamma and papa do, but the only home I know is here, where it is so hot sometimes it seems as if I should die. Last night mamma had to get up and take a towel as wet as it could be, and rub my sheets with it, before I could get to sleep at all, and if the punka stops a single minute, it wakes me right up again. I read my letter to mamma so far, and she says you won't know what a punka is. That is funny to me; but I will tell you. They are very stiff cloth things fixed on frames, and fastened to the ceiling so that they move, and by fanning the air keep a breeze in the room all the time. There are holes in the wall, and ropes put through the holes, and a man outside on the veranda pulls the ropes, and keeps the punka moving. One night I was so hot I got up and went out on the veranda, but the boards of the step burned my feet; so I slipped on my slippers, and tried again. There sat the punka wala nodding, fast asleep, but keeping his arms moving all the time. It looked funny, I can tell you.
We have good times in the winter, though. Christmas-day we always have a picnic. The children of the native Sunday-schools and English schools join together, and have a good time in some grove. And all through the winter we play out under the trees, just as mamma says you do in the summer. But here in summer we can only go out very late in the afternoon or very early in the morning, because if the mid-day sun touches us, it will make us very sick, and perhaps we will die. Theo Carter, a girl I know, when she was real little got away from her nurse, and ran out in the sun without her hat. It was in the morning, too; and now every time she gets warm or tired she has the most dreadful headache, and mamma says she don't believe she will ever be strong, even if she goes to America. But I guess she would, because everybody that gets sick here goes to America, else England, and when they come back they are ever so much better; but sometimes they don't come back, and mamma says people die even in America.
There are lots of thieves in this country. One night last week they got into our house. The servants would keep shutting the bath-room window—the bath-room is between mamma's room and mine—and we wanted it open for air, and mamma told them so; but they said the thieves would climb in from a fig-tree near by. But mamma said if they did, they would be welcome to all they could get. They did get in, and took the clothes Bertie and I had worn through the day. Baby woke, and they were probably frightened, and snatched the first thing they could, which was a box of homœopathic medicine mamma brought from home. We laughed in the morning, because they thought, no doubt, it was something valuable, and it will be worse than nothing to them; but papa says we will cry when we are sick, and have to take bitter medicine instead of little sugar pills.
Last week there was a big procession—something about the government—and one of papa's friends asked us to go to see it, and ride on an elephant. I was real glad, for I never rode on one but once, and then I was so little I don't remember much about it. We had a nice ride. Papa had one elephant to himself, but mamma and I and Mrs. Carter and Theo rode on another. We could see into the up-stairs rooms of people's houses, and it was a delightful view we had of the procession. We had a real good time until our elephant became frightened at a loud noise they called music, and trumpeted dreadful loud. We wanted to get off, but our elephant wouldn't kneel, and the man couldn't make him. Papa came, but mamma said if we tried to get off 'twould only frighten him more. I was real scared, and ready to cry; but mamma took hold of my hand, and spoke just as pleasant as if we were at home, and I didn't think till afterward how white she looked, nor about that man whose elephant ran away with him last winter and killed him; but I guess mamma remembered all the time, for pretty soon the noise passed by, and the men were able to quiet the elephant, so he kneeled, and let papa help us down. And when he took mamma, she fainted, and everybody said it was the fright; but I didn't know she was frightened a bit. I must stop now, because the Home Mail is going very soon; but if you like this, some time I will write you again.
Jennie Anderson.
LITTLE COUSIN RANNA.
BY MRS. LUCY MORSE.
"Will and Almida Handly were rather sorry when they learned that their little cousin Marianne Joy was coming to make them a long visit.
"She won't know a bumble-bee from a butternut," said Will. "City children don't know anything, and she'll be awfully in the way. Won't she tag after you and me, though, Almy?"
"Oh dear!" said Almy, in a complaining tone; "we'll have to keep her every speck of washing and baking days."
"I wish they'd leave her where she belongs," said Will.
The children were silent awhile, and then Almy heaved a sigh, and said: "I s'pose that's just the trouble, Will. If her mother has—has died, where does she belong? Where would you and I—"
"I know it," exclaimed Will, gruffly. "Come on, if you want me to help fix up your old baby-house for her."
The day after Marianne came the children's feelings were altered. Walking down the lane all together, the little cousin was dazzled by buttercups, and ran hither and thither gathering them in such wild delight that she came upon Dowsabell, the cow, unexpectedly. Dowsy only raised her sleepy nose from the grass to sniff at the buttercups, but Marianne dropped the whole bunch, with a cry of terror, and ran like the wind to Will for protection. She flung herself upon him with such a pretty confidence that Will took her right into his big boyish heart, and wished on the spot that Dowsy was a raging lion, or, to say the least, Neighbor Stethaway's cross bull.
"After all," he confided to Almida, "she's only a poor city child: what can you expect? I don't mind seeing to her."
"Laws, no," said Almida, with a matronly air. "And if her father's gone to Europe, and every day is baking, or washing, or mending, or something, who is there besides you and me for her to look to, I'd like to know? Only you needn't think you're going to have more than just your own half of the care-taking, Will Handly."
The mother looked on in silence, and understood perfectly the very things which her children thought she had not noticed.
"At first I was troubled lest Will and Almy wouldn't notice the child," she said, one afternoon, to Mrs. Stethaway, as they watched the three children crossing the opposite field. "Next I thought they would tyrannize over her, and that Will would tease her to death."
"And now," said Mrs. Stethaway, "it looks as if they would neglect everything just to follow her bidding. What are you going to do about that?"
"Well," said Mrs. Handly, smiling after the children as they disappeared among the daisies, "it isn't always that old folks know the best turn to take. I'm going to see what the little one's course will be. It seems very much as if my own two children were in the way of getting some lessons in gentleness and self-forgetfulness from the poor little motherless child, which I don't know so well as she does how to teach them."
The children went through the field, the orchard, and over the bars into the lane, through which Ria Bell was just driving the cows.
"Quick! quick! Oh! oh!" screamed Marianne, as soon as she saw the cows.
"Not that way; you're running right into the face of the enemy, Ranna," said Will, laughing, and taking hold of her as she was trying to climb the bars.
But Ranna struggled, crying, "Get me over! get me over! I ain't 'fraid of tows; it's the birds;" and was so excited that Will on one side and Almida on the other lifted her into the lane as quickly as possible.
"Oh, goodness!" screamed Almy, as Ranna made a dive, right under Dowsabell's very nose, toward a little mound of leaves. Crouching down and spreading her arms over it, she looked up at Dowsy so savagely that Will exclaimed, much amused: "Thunder and lightning! what has poor Dowsy done? I thought you were afraid of her, Ranna, and now you look ready to take her by the horns, and are frightened at two poor little robins flying overhead."
"No, I ain't. Nor I won't mind Teazle even if he is going to bite my—my—my head off," cried Ranna, pale with fright, as the dog ran his nose into her face.
Will called Teazle away, while he and Almy tried very hard not to laugh.
"What have you got under the leaves?" asked Will, while Almy stooped over Ranna, and said, tenderly,
"Show us your treasure, darling, and we won't tell Teazle, nor Dowsy, nor anybody a word about it."
THE FALLEN NEST.—Drawn by S. G. McCutcheon.
Ranna sat up, brushed away the leaves, and took from under them a pretty little nest full of young robins. "They're my own baby birds, and I thought Dowsy would step on them," she said. "I found them just before I ran to bring you, only the nest was in a great, ugly, dark bush, where the poor little birdies couldn't feel any sun shinin', and I brung them here, and tovered them with leaves, so the chittens wouldn't frighten them while I was gone. What are those big birds flying round me for? Tover my birdies up again; they are crying 'cause they are frightened."
"Hi! ho! hum! Harry!" exclaimed Will. "Those two birds are the excited and anxious parents of your baby birdies, Ranna, and they feel just about as comfortable as your father and mother would feel if a great giant—" But Will remembered suddenly that poor little Ranna had no mother, and, blushing fiery red, said: "I'm a good-for-nothing old blunderbuss. You tell her, Almy; it's girl's talk, anyway."
Almy, with her arms around her little cousin, explained the situation. Ranna eagerly pointed out the exact spot from which she had taken the nest, and when Will had carefully restored it, watched with great delight the old birds return to it.
"I'll never touch another nest in my life," she said; and holding one arm tight around Almy's neck, she beckoned to Will with the other. Putting it around him, she drew his head close down to Almy's, and whispered: "I don't think you're a bundlefuss, Will. I think you and Almy know just as well how to take care of little birds when their papas and mammas can't find them, as you do of little girls when their mammas is—is—is lost. And I'm going to tell all the children in the world that when they lose their mammas, the best thing they can do is to find my cousin Will and my cousin Almy."
"I'S LEARNING TO SWIM, MAMMA."
We wish to express to our young correspondents our sincere regret that our limited space compels us to simply acknowledge so large a number of the pretty letters which reach us daily from every part of the United States. Do not think, because your letters are not printed, that we do not consider them as well written or as interesting as those that are. We are very sorry not to print all your little histories of your pet dogs, and kittens, and birds, and other little domestic creatures, or the excellent descriptions many of you write of the beautiful natural scenery surrounding your homes; but if there is no more room in Our Post-office Box, your letters can not be printed. We thank you heartily for the pleasure you express in "Across the Ocean," "The Moral Pirates," "Miss Van Winkle's Nap," and other stories and poems; and the eagerness with which you "run to meet papa when he brings home Young People" is very gratifying. We trust you will continue your pretty favors to us, and we, in return, will print all of your letters that we can possibly make room for, and will promise to give you more and more pleasure with every new number of Young People.
Camp Carling, Wyoming Territory.
I have wanted to write to the Post-office Box for a long time, but mamma said there were so many children writing that my letter would not be printed.
We live in a camp, and see many curious things. When we look out of our windows, we see the aparejos, which are the saddles put on the mules when they are loaded. The saddles are arranged in long rows, with pieces of tent cloth thrown over them. Every day we see a great many mules going out and coming in. Then there is another queer thing. It is the "condemned heap." Almost every day my two little brothers go down to the pile and find a great many treasures. Every month lots of things from the warehouses are condemned, and brought to the heap to be burned. There are sixteen warehouses here, filled with government stores.
A great many of the men who were in the first Ute fight under Major Thornburgh went from this camp, and we know some of those that were wounded.
Every night and morning we hear the bugle-call that tells the soldiers when to get up, when to go to work, when to stop work, when to change guard, and when to go to bed. We always feel safe here, because we are guarded by soldiers.
Edna S. B.
Needy, Oregon.
I like to read the letters in the Post-office Box of Young People so much that I thought I would write one from 'way out here in the backwoods of Oregon. I live in the Willamette Valley, where we can see Mount Hood any time when the weather is clear. It is a glorious sight, especially in the evening just before sundown. In the winter and spring the mountain is hid behind clouds more than half the time. Sometimes the top of it will peep out above the mist. Then it looks so strange. It is considered to be nearly 12,000 feet high.
Estelle M.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
It is so nice to have a new Young People every week. My papa is an artist, and I am going to be one too. I draw a picture from Young People almost every day, and I read about Rosa Bonheur, and Miss Thompson, and all the great painters.
I have been to the Zoological Gardens. I rode the donkeys and the elephant, and I have made their pictures. I have a little Zoo in our back yard. I have a nice cat, two rabbits named Jack and Jill, and a turtle, and a fish in an aquarium that eats flies from my hands. My bird died, and papa painted its portrait. I called the picture "The Burial of the Dead Bird."
M. Electa F.
Ottawa, Ohio.
I am nine years old, and for my birthday present mamma gave me one year's subscription to Young People, beginning with the first number. I like "The Moral Pirates" very much, and I was just wishing for a serial with girls in it, and the very next paper had the beginning of "Miss Van Winkle's Nap." I was delighted with it. I think the stories about Mr. Martin and Miss Pamela Plumstone's piano are so funny.
As Fourth of July came on Sunday this year, we had no public celebration, but some of the children in our neighborhood got up a celebration of their own at our house. Mamma made the oration, and played the national airs on the piano, after which we had a parade. We all had paper caps, and we had a flag and a drummer-boy. My little two-year-old cousin Gordon brought up the rear of the procession, with a paper cap on, and as gay as any of us.
Bertha K.
Jericho, Long Island.
I am a little girl ten years old, and I have a sister one year younger. We have very nice times together.
About a week ago my papa found a poor little bird with its wing broken. We took it home and fed it, and we thought it was getting better, but it died.
I have seen some letters from the children about little turtles. Once we had one, and we used to dig worms for it to eat. It was in a globe, and once when we did not dig worms enough it ate the tail of one of the gold-fish.
We tried Sadie McB.'s recipe for candy, and it was a success.
M. J. L.
Lockport, New York.
I saw some letters in Our Post-office Box asking for remedies for songless canaries. We have used "Sheppard's Canary Powder, or Song Restorer," for our canary, and found it very beneficial.
Alice.
Bridgeport, Connecticut.
My mamma raised four canaries this spring. The first one mamma had to feed, and it is very tame. We are training it to do tricks. When our birds are sick and do not sing, mamma gives them "Dr. Gunning's Universal Bird Tonic," and it always restores their song.
I have two gold-fish. I did have three, but one died, and I buried it in the yard, under the Madeira vines.
Blanche T. S.
San Jose, California.
I tried Louisa W.'s recipe for Everton taffy, only I added half a tea-cupful of water. I like it very much.
Here is a recipe for white candy: Two cups of white crushed sugar; three-quarters of a cup of water; one table-spoonful of cream of tartar. Boil quickly, trying a little in water occasionally until it crisps. Then add half a tea-spoonful of soda. Pour it in a buttered pan until it is cool enough to pull. I am ten years old.
May J.
I love Young People very much. Soon as papa brings it home I read it to my two little sisters. We are very much interested in "The Moral Pirates." I am ten years old, and I go to school every day. Can any one tell me if the flamingo is of any use?
Here is a recipe for the cooking club. Marble cake—light part: One and a half cups of white sugar; half a cup of butter; half a cup of sweet milk; the whites of four eggs; two and a half cups of flour; half a tea-spoonful of soda; one tea-spoonful of cream of tartar or one tea-spoonful of baking powder; beat the eggs and sugar together, mix the cream of tartar with the flour, and dissolve the soda in the milk. Dark part: One cup of brown sugar; half a cup of molasses; half a cup of sour milk; the yolks of four eggs; two and a half cups of flour; half a tea-spoonful of soda; half a tea-spoonful of clove and of cinnamon. Put a layer of the dark batter in the pan, then a layer of light, until the pan is full.
I should like to exchange pressed flowers with any little girl in California.
Myrta Gates,
Clarion, Wright County, Iowa.
Everything has its uses in the great economy of nature, and although we can not always see why it is necessary for certain things to exist, we may be sure that they were all created for some purpose. The flamingo, however, is useful as an article of food. In certain parts of Egypt and the East roast flamingo is considered very delicate eating, and in ancient times a stew of flamingo tongues was a royal dish. It is also a very beautiful bird. Travellers say there is no sight more magnificent than a flock of scarlet flamingos wading in the green waving water grasses, hunting for their breakfast in the morning sunlight. The flamingo, if it could speak, might answer your question in the words of Mr. Emerson, the poet:
"Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for being."
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
I am nine years old, and I wish to send the cooking club a recipe for "one-two-three-four cake": One cup of butter; two cups of sugar; three cups of flour; four eggs; half a cup of milk; the grated rind of one lemon; a pinch of salt; one tea-spoonful of royal baking powder.
Clara S. A.
New York City.
I have taken Young People from the first number, and I think it is a very nice paper. I like to read about the pets of the other children, and I will tell them about a pet cat I had when we lived in Chicago. Her name was Daisy, and as she was black and white, we thought it a pretty name for her. My little brother Jack had a pair of bantam chickens. One day when Daisy was asleep in the yard the rooster flew on her back and picked her left eye out. Grandma, who was in the yard at the time, told the cook to bring Daisy in, while she went for her feather and goose-grease, and put some on the wounded eye. The next day it was healed, but the sight was gone. Once when Daisy had some little kittens she put them in a hen's nest. When the hen came into the nest she would keep the little things quiet by pecking them on the head if they cried. The kittens and chickens grew to be great friends. They would eat out of the same dish, and when night came they would all go to the chicken-coop together. The kittens slept in the nest, and the chickens on the roost. Were they not a happy family?
Bessie G.
Brooklyn, New York.
I am very sorry I forgot the flour in my recipe for apple-cake in Post-office Box, No. 37. There should be enough prepared flour added to make a stiff batter. It is better to bake it in a shallow pan.
L. Grace P.
Keene, New Hampshire.
I think "Across the Ocean" was a splendid story. I read it all. But now I like "The Moral Pirates'" the best.
I have forty-six pet rabbits. They all have black eyes and black ears. And I have two kittens which are very pretty. Their names are Tiger and Malt.
Walter H. P.
My sister and I have just tried Kitty G.'s recipe for butter-scotch, and found it very nice indeed.
We are making a collection of postage stamps, and would like to exchange with any correspondents of Harper's Young People.
Alfred Hussey,
23 Hawthorn Street, New Bedford, Massachusetts.
I would like to exchange birds' eggs with any one living in the South or West.
F. Noble,
Milldale, Connecticut.
Lula Barlow can preserve eggs by piercing a small hole at each end of the egg, and blowing out the inside. Eggs can be sent safely by mail in a box filled with cotton.
I would like to exchange postage stamps of different nations with any of those correspondents asking exchange, or with any other readers of Young People.
Harry Dubbs,
229 West Chestnut Street, Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
I would like to exchange specimens of woods indigenous to this climate for those of other climates, specimens to be about three inches long by three-quarters of an inch thick, and to have a knot in them if possible. I have cypress, magnolia, mimosa, Cottonwood, althea, prickly ash, fig, crepe myrtle, sweet-gum, and black-gum. Correspondents willing to exchange will please send me a list of what woods they can obtain, and their full address.
Bery C. Brown, Jun.,
P. O. Box 870, Little Rock, Arkansas.
I am collecting postage stamps, and would be glad to exchange with any of the readers of Young People. I also have a collection of bugs.
Vernon L. Kellogg, Emporia, Kansas.
I have made the acquaintance of several boys who read Young People, through the Post-office Box, as I am collecting postage stamps. If others who have not yet written are doing the same, I would like to exchange with them. I wrote to Sidney St. W., but he has not yet answered me. I am eleven years old. My younger brother, Charlie, is collecting postmarks, and has already eleven hundred and seventy-five. He would like to exchange with any of the boys.
Lewis S. Mudge,
Princeton, New Jersey.
We have Young People, and like it very much. I would like to tell some of the boys and girls who live far away something about my home and pleasures. The name of my home is Baywood Lodge. It is within a stone's-throw of a beautiful sheet of water known as Hempstead Bay. We sail, row, swim, and fish, and we have horses, and enjoy riding horseback too.
There is a camp very near us, in the woods. There are about thirty people, and they have five tents, and their horses.
I would like to exchange foreign postage stamps with any boys who read Young People.
Arthur Lawrence Valk,
Baywood Lodge, Port Washington, Long Island.
I am making a collection of postage stamps, and I would like to exchange with any of the readers of Young People in Canada. I will exchange United States stamps for Canadian stamps.
J. M. Wolfe, P. O. Box 423,
Lewisburg, Union County, Pennsylvania.
H. P. C.—The quail builds its nest on the ground, among bushes or tall grass. The nesting-time is early in June, and when you find ten or more little white eggs, you may be sure the bird has commenced setting. The eggs are about the size of a pigeon's egg, and pointed at one end like a boy's wooden top. When the little birds are hatched they are as strong as little chickens, and the mother bird takes them off to ramble about the thicket in the same way as a hen leads her brood. The quail is a plump grayish-brown bird, speckled with black and white. Its peculiar whistle may be heard anywhere in the country all the long summer day. Children often imitate the sound, and imagine that the quail is always screaming "more wet"; and in truth the quail's note does resemble those words, with a short, quick accent on the last sound, as if the bird was constantly entreating nature for a refreshing summer shower.
A. S. Daggett.—You do not need cards to play the geographical game. If you wish, you can get blank cards, and write them yourself; but the game is made more lively and instructive by leaving the answers to the geographical knowledge and quick memory of the players.
Edith H. Thomas.—Write directly to the correspondent you wish to exchange with.
Anna M. R.—Many thanks for your description of the curious things exhibited at the Nashville Centennial. We are sorry it is too long to print.
Wat H. T. M.—We acknowledge with thanks the account you send us of Washington's birth-place, near which historical locality you live.
Favors are acknowledged from Charles S. R., Rena and Frank Stearns, Bessie Clark, Romeo and Juliet, W. W. Eaton, Charles L. B., Thomas H. Van T., Katrina, Charlie D., Leila Mackay, Gracie D. Ely, Charley J. Kennedy, Louis L. G., Mary W. W., V. Fannie L., Susie Mulholland, John B. Maxwell, Asa M. Steele, Arthur McKeen, Lulu E., Charles C. M., Belle Matteson, Annie H. R., John Leeper, Carrie B. Thompson, Albert Smith, Eddie M., Freddie Hyers, Mary E. P., Alice Green, Carrie E. Riley, Hallie S. Morgan, Louie Van A., Thad. B. Tobey.
Correct answers to puzzles are received from Alice Grady, "North Star," Benny W. L., Ermie Garden, Allie Mason, Eddie A. Leet, Ernest G. Young, Fred Haswell, Marguerite Bucknall, Willard H. Francis, Willie and Henry Western, Fred J. Purdy, Leon C. Bogart, Hugh Downing, Alson A. G., Clara L. Kellogg, Sarah B., Willie T. B., Alice Williams, Willie C., "Dominus," Bessie Guyton, T. L. Drew, Mary L. McVean, George L. Osgood, W. V. Fowler, K. R., Albert and Laura Ellard, Alfy G. Dale, Rebecca Hedges.
PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.
No. 1.
ENIGMA.
One-third of sun, one-fourth of none,
One-fifth of weary, one-sixth of dreary,
One-third of oak, one-fifth of broke,
One-fourth of kite, if read aright,
And placed in line correct and true,
Will give a city's name to you.
A. B.