JUST ONE LOCK OF HAIR.
"You see, mamma dear, Charley asked
For just one lock of hair;
I thought I'd cut it off myself,
I knew you would not care.
"Please now, mamma, don't look so grave,
The piece is very small;
And, see—I cut it off just where
It doesn't show at all."
[OILING THE WAVES.]
We have all heard of pouring oil on the waters, but most of us have supposed that the phrase meant only the soothing of angry people by gentle words, and that it was what the grammars call a figurative expression.
But sailors and fishermen have often tried the experiment of sprinkling oil upon stormy waves with great success. The oil when dropped upon the billows spreads over their surfaces, forming a fine film, and smoothing a safe path for ships that would otherwise be in danger.
Many curious instances of this are given by the captains of whalers and merchant ships. The master of the Gem, a British brigantine, bound from Wilmington, North Carolina, to Bristol, encountered a hurricane, which blew frightfully for thirty-six hours. The vessel was in the utmost peril, when the captain remembered to have read an article on the use of oil at sea. He at once poured a quantity into a canvas bag, and fastened it to a rope six fathoms long, trailed it to windward of the ship, and the oil leaked out, and made smooth water around the vessel.
In September, 1846, a terrific gale of wind lashed the Atlantic to fury, and a little fishing-boat was seen tearing her way through the white waves to the coast of Sable Island. Watchers on the shore saw two men on board throwing something at intervals into the air.
When the boat arrived on shore, as she did in safety, with all her crew, it was found that the captain had stationed two men near the fore-shrouds, where he had lashed two casks of oil. Each man was armed with a wooden ladle two feet long, with which he dipped up the blubber and oil, and threw it as high as he could into the sea. The wind carried it to leeward, and as it spread far over the water, though the waves rose very high, they did not break. The little Arno rode into Sable Island, leaving a shining path in her wake.
The way in which the oil is used by those who wish to preserve their boats from wreck is very simple.
The King Cenric, for instance, a sailing ship bound from Bombay to Liverpool, with coal, was caught in a heavy gale, which lasted five days. Her officers filled two canvas clothes-bags with oil, and made two or three small holes in each. The bags were then towed along by the ship.
Our own Dr. Franklin, who always used his eyes, tried the experiment of calming rough water by oil in the harbors of Newport and Portsmouth. He had observed the serenity of the waves around the whaling ships, and he said that even a tea-spoonful of oil produced a wonderful effect.
Mr. John Shields, of Perth, Scotland, has been trying the experiment on a grand scale in Peterhead North Harbor. His apparatus carries twelve hundred feet of piping into deep water two hundred yards seaward of the bar. There are three conical valves, fixed seventy-five feet apart, at the sea end of the pipe, and when the pipes are charged with oil, by means of a force-pump in a hut on shore, the oil escapes so rapidly that the wildest waves become gentle ripples.
Mr. Shields has been improving and testing his invention for two years, and expects by means of it to make the dangerous harbor of Peterhead entirely safe, however furious the weather.
IN THE HALLS OF HIS ANCESTORS.
[PHOTOGRAPHY AND WORK.]
BY ALLAN FORMAN.
Amateur photography is getting to be exceedingly popular. The price of outfits is so low that they are within reach of all, and from what we hear it would seem that a goodly number of the readers of Young People are engaging in it. A few words therefore on the subject from one who has been through the first few months of enthusiasm and disappointment which succeed the purchase of an instrument may be of service to those who have embarked on the ocean of amateur photography.
Of course you will use the dry plates. I say of course, because for the amateur they are cheaper, more convenient, produce better results, and afford a wider latitude of subject than the wet plates. We will suppose, then, that you have provided yourself with a good camera and lens, chemicals, plates, baths, and all that go to make a complete outfit.
Your first trouble will be with your dark room. It must be absolutely dark; the faintest ray of white light will destroy the most perfectly timed picture. Any closet will do, so long as you can have perfect darkness and room to work. The most luxurious dark room I ever saw was ten feet square, provided with hot and cold water, and lighted by two large windows with panes of ruby glass. The gold-colored glass looks the same, but is worthless for photographic purposes. On the other hand, I have worked in a closet two feet deep, by the dim light of a single ruby lamp. But in photography as in everything else the "golden mean" is preferable.
If kept in a perfectly dark box, the dry plates need not be developed for months. Travellers often change plates, and even develop and fix them, at night, in their rooms, by the aid of a ruby lantern. As the changing of plates is an operation which consumes but little time, this may be done with safety, but we would recommend the young photographer to make use of his dark room for the process of developing.
Besides the pans, or baths as they are called, for the chemicals, you must have in the dark room a supply of clear water, and a vessel in which to throw it after it has been used. Dry plates require frequent washing, as we shall see further on. Your dark room must be, then, of moderate size, free from white light, provided with clean water, and free from dust. If it is dusty, you will have minute specks on the picture. The plates must be kept in this room, and must be transferred to and from the plate-holders here.
Next comes the business of mixing the chemicals. There are several different formulas for the development of dry plates, but I have found the ferrous-oxalate developer to be the simplest and best. The most convenient way to prepare the solutions is to take two common glass preserve jars, put in about a quarter of a pound of neutral oxalate of potash in one, and about the same amount of protosulphate of iron in the other; then pour on warm water, and let the crystals dissolve.
It makes no difference how much water you put in; the object is to get a "saturated" solution; that is, a solution in which the water has absorbed all the chemical matter it can take up. After the chemicals have had time to dissolve—say fifteen or twenty minutes—filter the solutions into separate bottles, and cork them tightly, to keep out the dust. Always filter all your solutions before using them; even filter the water if it is not perfectly clear. Cleanliness is a prime necessity in photography, and the amateur can not be too careful.
Now comes the "fixing" solution, which is made by dissolving four ounces of hyposulphite of soda in twenty ounces of water. Filter into a bottle, and cork it until used. Make at the same time a saturated solution of common alum, and use it for washing the plates after taking them out of the developer, and before fixing. Directions are given by many involving the use of cyanide of potassium, tartaric acid, bromide of ammonia, and the like; but it is better for the beginner to use as few chemicals as possible. More pictures are spoiled than saved by inexperienced doctoring.
After your chemicals are all prepared, put a plate in your holder, or wooden box with slides, one or more of which accompany every outfit. Focus your camera on some object; a row of buildings, the side of a house, or a board fence is preferable for this experiment. Take off the cap, and pull the slide about half of the way out. Expose about six seconds, and pull out the slide the rest of the way. Expose this six seconds again, and replace the slide. You now have two exposures, of six and twelve seconds respectively, on the same plate. This is for timing the lens. It is impossible to give any definite rules for the time of an exposure; experience must teach this.
In a gallery where the surroundings are the same and the light varies but little, it is comparatively easy to determine how long a plate should be exposed in the camera. But in out-of-door work the amateur must take into consideration the state of the weather and the atmosphere, the presence or absence of reflecting surfaces, such as a stretch of sand-beach, a sheet of water, or the proximity of a light-colored building, and time the plate accordingly.
After you have taken the test-plate, return to your dark room, and pour into the bath four ounces of neutral oxalate, and mix with it one ounce of iron solution. Take the plate from the holder, wash it in cold water, and drop it into the mixture. The image will begin to appear in from three to five minutes. After it has become clearly defined, wash it again in cold water, and put it in the alum solution for a few minutes. Another washing, and it is ready for the fixing solution, which will keep the picture from turning black, as it would otherwise do, if exposed to the light.
Let it remain in the fixing solution until the white film has disappeared. Then wash it in water, and you have your negative. Now examine this carefully, and see whether the six-second or the twelve-second exposure is the best. After a few experiments you will be able to judge pretty accurately how long to expose a plate.
It would be impossible to enumerate the mistakes which a young photographer will make. The only way is to profit by them, and not make the same one a second time. Many boys who get a photographic outfit are disgusted with it, after one or two trials, because they can not make as good a picture as a professional photographer. The principal causes of failure can, however, be enumerated as follows:
1. Imperfectly darkened operating-room, which will make the picture dim or "foggy."
2. Dust in the dark room, unfiltered chemicals or washing water, which will make pinholes in the negative.
3. Over or under exposure, which will either make the negative too black or too thin to print successfully. This last, however, is excusable in the young beginner.
Finally, boys are apt to be careless. A crack in the door of the operating-room, a bottle left uncorked to collect the dust, dirt or dust on the hands, a little more of this solution or a little less of that, they think would make no difference. Photography requires accuracy and cleanliness, and no one can hope to take a satisfactory picture unless he will cultivate these qualities.
If any boy or girl—and girls, as a general rule, make better amateur photographers than boys—thinks to learn amateur photography for "fun," I should say to him or her, emphatically, Don't. But to any one who has a sincere love for the beautiful in nature, and who is willing to work to obtain lasting mementos of the scenes which are dear to him, a photographic outfit may become a source of never-ending pleasure.
[WHAT A GEORGIA BOY FOUND WHILE FISHING.]
One day several years ago a Georgia boy went fishing. He started for a creek that ran not far from his home; but as he knew there were few fish in it except small cat-fish, he probably did not expect to return with a very well-filled basket. Most boys, however, know how to get a good deal of pleasure out of a day's fishing, even if the fish are small and bite slowly.
Taking his lines and hooks, this Georgia boy went to the creek, and there sat down to dig for bait with his pocket-knife. In digging, he turned up a curious and pretty pebble which attracted his attention. Wiping the earth from it, he found it to be semi-transparent, and about the color of the flame of a wood fire. As he turned it around, it reflected the light in a peculiar way which interested the boy, and so, instead of throwing the pebble away, he put it into his pocket.
As he had never seen a stone of the kind, he showed it to a good many persons as a curiosity in a small way, and after a while he came to value it about as a boy values a marble of the kind called real agate.
On one occasion he showed his pretty stone to a visitor from Cincinnati, who seemed even more interested in it than others had been. This gentleman examined the pebble again and again, and finally asked permission to take it to Cincinnati with him to show to some one there. Not long afterward the gentleman returned, and told the lad that his "pretty stone" was worth a good many thousands of dollars. It was, in fact, what is called a fire opal, a very precious stone, specimens of which are so very scarce and costly that jewellers can not afford to make use of them. The few that have been found since Humboldt carried specimens to Europe have been eagerly bought at enormous prices for the great museums.
When the parents of the Georgia boy learned the nature and value of his discovery they had the stone sent to Europe, and sold to advantage. The sum received for it was quite a little fortune.
I have never heard how many fish the boy caught, but I am very sure that he can not complain of his luck on that day.
Since that time a good many opals have been found in the region in which the boy dug for bait, and among them one or two small fire opals, but none equal in value to his. Some efforts have been made to search the region thoroughly, and to work it as an opal mine. There is a great difference in opals, but when they are really beautiful their value is very large. For an opal in the museum at Venice $250,000 was offered without success. Marc Antony is said to have sent a Roman Senator into exile because he would not sell him an opal ring for which he had paid nearly a million of dollars.
["POPSEY."]
BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.
This was the name Walter Radlow's father had requested should be given the gray donkey which he presented to his son on the latter's thirteenth birthday.
"You see, I was at my wits' end what to buy," he afterward explained; "for a dozen birthdays, to say nothing of as many Christmases, had about exhausted my genius for discovering something new, and I was beginning to think I'd have to start all over again with a rattle, when the idea of a donkey and cart popped into my head."
So Popsey was the donkey, and the donkey was Walter's, and—such a donkey! Not one of your meek, spiritless animals, "warranted gentle with ladies and children," that you must beat to make go, and simply cease beating to stop.
Ah, no; Popsey, though not wild or vicious, was full of life, which was just what Walter delighted in; and as Mrs. Radlow had satisfied herself that the beast was really too small to do any serious damage, she ceased to worry about his "playfulness."
But it was not long before Popsey became so attached to his young master that it was thought perfectly safe to allow two-year-old Amy the privilege of a ride now and then, from which she returned in a very mixed state of mind as to whether she wanted to tell papa about Popsey, or Popsey about papa.
One Saturday, about three months after Popsey's advent, Walter's cousins came over from Wallingville to make him a visit. They were the children of Mr. Radlow's only brother, and Helen was fourteen, May twelve, and Jack ten.
They arrived about nine in the morning, to find Walter just recovering from an attack of rheumatism, and suffering from such a raging toothache that he could scarcely bear to speak.
"But don't mind me," he said, as they all gathered about him to condole and bemoan. "When you come from town to the country for the first time in years, and for such a short stay, too, you mustn't stick in the house just because a chap can't go round with you to— Oh!" and poor Walter suddenly dashed his head down against the hop pillow on the lounge, while the girls sympathetically exclaimed, "Too bad!" and Jack looked as if he was afraid it might be "catching."
But in a moment or two Walter bobbed up again to say, "There's the croquet set and archery, tennis and—Popsey."
"Oh yes; that's the donkey, you know," eagerly interrupted Jack. "And, oh, Walter, did you say we might drive him?"
"Of course. I guess Helen can manage the fellow. And, by-the-way, you might take the cart and drive over to the Hillwins'. Fred's got a prime book about middies I've wanted to read ever since Christmas, and if you'll borrow it for me, I think it'll make me forget this—" And the boy expressively ended his sentence by another plunge into the depths of his hop pillow.
When the plan was first mentioned to her, Mrs. Radlow was inclined to doubt Helen's ability to deal with Popsey's peculiarities. Though docile enough with Walter, he might prove troublesome to a stranger.
"But, Aunt Jennie, don't you remember how I drove when we were all up in the mountains one summer? And, besides, you know you wrote to mamma that Popsey was so small that you never worried about the children being out with him."
As this last argument of Helen's could not very well be answered, the coachman was ordered to harness up.
When the cart was brought to the door, and the three visitors prepared to crowd themselves into it, a great outcry was made by Amy, who shouted, "Me too! me too!" so often and so shrilly that, for the sake of securing quiet in the house for Walter, Mrs. Radlow at last consented to let her go.
"I'll hold her on my lap just as tight," pleaded May, "and Jack can stand up behind."
And so it was arranged, and Amy's face, which had been all drawn down for a good cry, wrinkled up into a laugh instead.
Then Popsey was petted and patted, endearingly addressed as "Good donkey," and called upon times innumerable to "whoa" when he had not thought of stirring, after which preliminaries the girls got in, Amy was handed over to them, and Jack climbed up behind.
"Drive around to the front lawn, so Walter can see you," said Mrs. Radlow, when all was ready for a start, whereupon Helen chirped to her steed, and guided him over the grass opposite the second-story window, at which appeared a black head and white pillow, one of which was nodded gayly, and the other waved on high, the two to be suddenly clapped together again in a fashion, that caused Helen to give Popsey a touch of the whip, and speed off after the "prime book about middies."
"'ISN'T HE JUST TOO CUNNING!'"
"Oh, isn't he just too cunning!" exclaimed May, as the little donkey trotted along, with his big load, as steadily as a family horse.
Amy crowed with delight; Helen made a great show of flourishing her whip (taking good care, however, to keep it out of range of Popsey's long ears), while Jack pranced about behind in genuine boyish joy. The road was easy enough to follow, and inside of three-quarters of an hour Helen drew up before the Hillwins' gate. Their house was the only one within sight, and just beyond it two or three roads crossed one another in quite a confusing manner.
"It's lucky we haven't any further to go, Helen," remarked May, as she noted the latter fact, "for we'd surely become mixed, and— But I declare, if Amy isn't fast asleep in my arms! Poor dear, the ride's been too long for her, I guess. You go in, Helen, and I'll sit perfectly still so as not to wake her. Don't be long, though."
Jack was already out and standing at Popsey's head, but no sooner had her elder sister vanished from sight under the long grape arbor that led to the house, than May suddenly discovered that she was terribly thirsty.
"Oh, Jack," she cried, "I must go in and get a drink; but I don't want to wake baby, and make her cross, perhaps; so I'll just put her down here in the bottom of the cart on the seat cushion. I'll be back in a minute or two; but mind, keep a tight hold on the donkey, and if Amy wakes up, talk to her till I come."
Jack answered "All right," May jumped down to hurry off after Helen, and then there was no sound to break the country stillness but the autumn wind, as it whirled the dead leaves to the ground, and the rumble of a train as it rushed along the track down by the river.
As it happened, Fred Hillwin was not at home, or he most certainly would have come out to inspect Popsey and keep Jack company. As for Fanny, she was so overjoyed at the unexpected call from her old school friends, that for about five minutes she could do nothing but give expression to her delight. Then the book Walter wanted had to be hunted up, all of which together consumed a good deal of time, the delay seeming especially prolonged to Jack, who soon grew tired of gazing at the top of baby's cap between Popsey's ears, and longed for some more exciting occupation. The donkey stood as if glued to the spot, and Amy slept on as peacefully as if in her little crib at home.
Suddenly the noon-day quiet was broken in upon by the blast of a horn, accompanied by the quick trot of horses' feet.
"A circus, perhaps!" exclaimed Jack; but, alas! whatever it was, nothing could be seen from where he stood, for the sound came from the turnpike just beyond the cross-roads before mentioned.
"Oh, how I would like to see what it is!" sighed the boy. Then he quickly measured with his eye the distance he would have to run, saw that Popsey seemed perfectly stationary, and with a sudden impulse dashed off to the corner, arriving just in time to behold a four-in-hand coach rush by like the wind.
It had scarcely passed him, however, when it stopped with an abruptness that threatened to pitch the passengers on ahead of it.
"What can be the matter?" thought Jack, and with all a boy's curiosity he ran on down the road to find out.
It seemed that one of the "leaders" had stumbled and fallen, and consequently been stepped on by the "wheelers," which resulted in such an entanglement of horses and harness as Jack had never seen before.
With wide-open eyes he looked on at the efforts of the gentlemen to straighten things out, and was about to ask if he could help them, when suddenly, with a cry of "Oh, Popsey—and the baby!" he tore back to the Hillwins' gate, and found the donkey-cart—gone.
With a terrible fear in his heart, the thoughtless boy gave one despairing look around him, and then started off on a run, in the direction in which Popsey had been headed, after a black speck just visible in the distance.
Two minutes later Helen and May came hurrying down the long walk through the garden, provoked with themselves at having staid so long.
"I do hope Amy hasn't waked up," said May; "but I told Jack in case she should— Why, where are they?"
"Perhaps Jack's driven down the road a little," suggested Helen.
But a hurried glance in both directions soon convinced the girls that the donkey-cart was nowhere near, and they were both beginning to feel a dread of they knew not what, when all at once May exclaimed, "Oh, Helen, look! here comes Jack now, and without Popsey!"
In great excitement the sisters ran to meet him, and imagine their horror when, with a voice all broken with sobs, he cried: "Oh! oh! it was only a—a peddler's wagon, and I ran nearly a mile to catch it, and—and now I don't know where to look, because Popsey's run off with the baby!"
Terrified beyond description at the thought of the danger that threatened their aunt's pet, who had been so reluctantly committed to their charge, the girls commanded Jack to tell them instantly just how it had all happened, which he did with teeth-chattering from fright, and repeated assertions that he had believed Popsey was asleep.
"But didn't I tell you not to stir?—and oh, Helen, it's partly my fault too, for if I hadn't been so foolish as to leave Amy, she—" Here May broke down completely, and leaving her and Jack in tears together, Helen flew back to the house, and soon returned with Mrs. Hillwin, Fanny, the maid, and the cook. Then she pointed out the three roads it was possible the donkey had taken, and burst out crying herself.
"An' shure, miss, don't give way so," said the cook, cheeringly, "but jist take yer stand at the cross-roads beyant, an' ask ivery person that comes along—an' precious few do it be in this wild region, bad luck to it!—ef they're afther seein' a donkey runnin' off wid a baby."
This sensible suggestion was at once acted upon, and while the rest all hurried off in the direction of a turnip-field, which the maid declared Popsey must have sniffed, Helen stood at the junction of the three roads until a pleasant-faced old gentleman in a buggy approached her.
"Oh, sir," she cried, rushing up dangerously close to the wheels, "did you meet a runaway donkey-cart?"
"No, not I," was the answer; and the gentleman repressed a smile, but suddenly grew quite grave as he drew rein and asked if the donkey's name was Popsey.
"Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Helen. "And have you seen him?"
"No, but I am going to see his owner now, and if you will get in, I will take you along with me. I am the family doctor, and am quite well acquainted with Popsey."
Hardly knowing what she did, but feeling that any sort of motion or action was better than waiting in suspense, Helen accepted the invitation, and began at once to pour forth her tale of grief to the kindly old physician, upon hearing which he whipped up his horse, saying that he was sure no harm had come to Amy.
Then Helen suddenly recollected how she had deserted her post, and was filled with a foreboding lest some one should pass the cross-roads who might know something about the donkey-cart, and there would be no one there to question him.
"Here comes Mr. Radlow's coachman now," exclaimed the doctor, when they had nearly reached their destination, "and driving at a furious rate. I warrant it's turned out just as I expected;" and with the words he signaled to the man to stop.
"Yes, yes, exactly as I imagined," said the physician, when the coachman had hurriedly and excitedly explained that Popsey had come trotting back to the stable with the lines about his heels, and baby Amy crowing joyously in the bottom of the cart, and that in consequence Mrs. Radlow was in a great state of fright concerning the fate of the cousins.
"Well, I'll soon relieve her fears on that score; and do you, Dennis, drive on toward the cross-roads with your carriage as fast as ever you can, and bring the other two children back."
As for Helen, she had not yet recovered from her joyful surprise.
"To think," she exclaimed, "that that donkey should have turned deliberately around and walked off home, nearly four miles, without upsetting anything, while we were looking for him in every other direction! There certainly never was such a dear little animal. But that doesn't excuse Jack's thoughtlessness, and I'm going to give Aunt Jennie leave to punish him very severely."
However, when the case was laid before the doctor, he declared that as the fault lay really with so many persons, and that as the three cousins had suffered sufficiently already from anxiety and suspense, the blame should be changed to praise, and that given to Popsey, who had displayed a disposition to execute the errand upon which he had been sent as speedily as possible.
WHAT HAPPENED WHEN DINAH WENT OUT AND LEFT TOPSY ALL ALONE.
Good-morning, little bird;
I wish you'd sing for me;
You look as if 'twere fun to live
Out-doors so wild and free.
I've brought Matilda Jane
Because she needs the air;
She is a very pretty child,
With lovely curling hair.
How many little birds
Are flying round to-day!
Now surely you will stay with me
When I've come here to play?
Oh, you have children three,
And they, perhaps, have stirred;
Well, if they need you, hurry home.
Good-morning, little bird.
[OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
New York City.
I thought I would write to you about my little bird Billie. He is a canary of the German breed, and is rather long and slim, but he sings very sweetly. I think he is the smartest and most intelligent bird I ever saw outside of a show. I taught him myself to stand on my finger whenever I put my hand in his cage; and he knows when I speak to him, for when I call to him, he will turn his head toward me, as if to say, "What?" I used to make him seesaw on a little stick with his little companion John, who was blind nearly all his life, which was very short; and then I would make him hold a little gun, and balance himself on a ball which I would keep in motion. He would stand on a little cart, and hold the reins with one claw, while I drew him around the room, with John, held in a market-basket, sitting on behind. He seldom tries to fly away, and I have frequently taken him out-doors in my hands, without fear of his escaping. Sometimes, for a change, I used to let him swing like a paroquet in one of my bangles. This I do not think he liked much, for his tail was so long it was hard for him to keep his balance. But the most difficult thing that I taught him to do was to lie on his back and pretend he was asleep. I would lay him down gently, and after kicking his feet, and trying to grasp my fingers, he would lie perfectly still until I touched him, when he would jump up; and then I would have him kiss me, which he can do nicely, moving his bill all the time. I should like to tell you about John, who died, we think, on account of his eyes, which, after we had had him a little time, became covered with white mists, which we think were cataracts.
A Strong Friend of
"Harper's Young People".
It would be interesting to hear of your method in teaching your pet so many pretty tricks. I suppose you were very gentle and patient, and that you taught him one thing perfectly before letting him begin upon another.
Washington, D. C.
I, like Virginie C. B., am practicing a few of the gymnastics mentioned in No. 118. We have a bar across one of our doorways a foot from the top, which I catch hold of and swing by. I can not draw my chin up to it yet, but can come very near it. After the Postmistress has assured us she has seen Jimmy Brown, his stories are much more interesting to me, for they must be the experiences of a real boy. We always laugh at them, they are so funny.
My sister has been all over the establishment of Harper & Brothers, and saw them printing Young People. I should like to see that, and hope to some time. I think it was Augusta C. who did not like cats. She would not change her mind if she saw our cat, for that lazy animal is awake all night and asleep all day. We have had no less than six cats during the past year. "The Talking Leaves" excited us very much, and I think it was splendid. Toby Tyler is a very nice little boy, I think, and when I first glanced at the picture of the circus coming in, I thought they were taking him away again.
We have some flowers in our back yard, and we like them very much. The seeds are just coming up, and I take great interest in watching them. We have some very pretty pansies, roses, and bridal-wreaths. They are blooming now. I brought some wild flowers from the woods, and my sister brought some violets; they are growing very nicely. We have but one geranium, and its blooms are shrivelled. I do not know what to do to it.
I like to write stories very much, and I love dearly to draw pictures. Last Tuesday was very warm, and you would have thought it was summer if you had suddenly been transported to Washington.
Emily N.
Perhaps your geranium needs rest. Try the plan of pinching off every bud for the next few weeks. The soil may need enriching, or you may have watered it too freely.
Brooklyn, New York.
I have written to Harper's Young People three times, and none of my letters have been printed; but I believe in perseverance, so I am going to try again. I have never read any paper I liked half as well as Harper's Young People. Papa gets it for me, and I read it to my little brother. One night I was reading "Tim and Tip" to him, and I happened to look up, and he was crying. He didn't want me to think he was crying, so he said, "It's only the water that comes out of my eyes." I like Jimmy Brown's stories very much. I think all of the stories in the paper are very interesting. Jimmy Brown and Georgie Hackett seem to possess about the same qualities. My favorite study in school is history.
Emma.
I do not know Georgie Hackett, but poor Jimmy is certainly an interesting boy, though I would not care to have him living at my house, unless he could behave better than he now does. Perseverance is an excellent quality. You could not have a better motto than
"If at first you don't succeed,
Try, try again."
Sanborn, Dakota Territory.
I am a little English girl eight years old, and hope to see this letter printed, to please dear papa, as he does not know I am going to write. I have taken Harper's Young People two years (ever since we left England), and have never written before. I have an Indian pony, on which I ride about; her name is Frances. My brother Jack has one called Charlie. I have a little sister Mabel; she is six, and so fat that mamma calls her Pumpkin. She calls me her fairy lily. I have seen Jumbo in England, and am glad he has come to America. Papa says some time I may see him again. I am very fond of reading. I have lots of books, and my grandma sends me Little Folks every month. I have been learning music for a year, and am getting on nicely. We find lovely flowers about here, and I gather mamma lovely bunches for the table every day. Good-by.
Katie S.
Junction, Idaho.
I am a little boy seven years old. I take Harper's Young People, and I like it very much. I think "Toby Tyler" and "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" are the best of all. Blue Ribbon has a little kitten; she is teaching it to walk. I have a horse; his name is Old Indian. The reason I call him Old Indian is because we bought him of the Indians. I have some nice rides on him. We live on a ranch, and have lots of little calves and little chickens. I do not go to school, but study my lessons at home. I send one dollar for Young People's Cot.
Oliver T. C.
Your contribution has been sent to the lady who receives and takes care of the money for Young People's Cot. Is Blue Ribbon the little kitten's mother? I hope Old Indian is a gentle pony. From his name I should think he might be quite fiery.