C. Y. P. R. U.

Which question shall I answer first? It needs a very wise Postmistress indeed to decide which has done the most for the world, peace or war; and to answer the question decidedly, we would have to be familiar with all the histories that have ever been written, and all the systems of political economy which have governed different nations and countries in ancient and modern times. It carries our thoughts back to the days of knight-errantry, to the Middle Ages, to the period of Rome's glory, to Alexander the Great, to Babylon and Nineveh, and to Egypt and the Pharaohs. A young friend was talking with me the other day on this very subject, and he said, "I think there is a great deal more told in history about war than about peace." So there is. Wars are like storms or fierce tornadoes. They do an immense amount of damage. They devastate vast regions, and they cause many broken hearts. There is nothing more terrible than war. Still, wars are sometimes necessary. They clear the moral atmosphere; they settle questions which can be settled only by the sword, which decides which party is the stronger; and they prepare the way for peace. Some great wars have sent scholars and artisans into exile, and thus learning and useful arts have been carried to new lands, and mankind has been benefited in the end. Peace gives time for the growth of that which is best in the life of nations. Science, literature, and industry flourish in an era of peace, and home happiness and good morals prevail. More and more, as the world becomes highly civilized, and the religion of Christ is spreading from land to land, peace obtains victories, and war goes out of fashion. Nations resort to arbitration about disputed matters, and rulers learn that they can not be allowed to plunge thousands of people into distress and poverty to satisfy their personal ambition. But the thunder makes itself heard, while the dew is distilled silently, and the wheat which makes the world's bread grows without any sound, and there, after all, is the difference between war and peace.

Oakland, California.

Dear Postmistress,—A dear little friend of mine wishes me to send you her history. Her name is Georgia Brand, and she is living with her "adopted papa," as she calls him, at a military station in one of our Western States. Little Georgia was found, rolled up in a tattered old shawl, under a shrub somewhere in the wilds of Colorado, with a paper pinned on her shawl, on which was written, "Take good care of my darling child," and nothing more. The soldiers who found her took her to the Colonel, who befriended the child at first, and then adopted her. He named her for his native State, Georgia, and gave her his last name, Brand. One day, when her father was telling her of some scars he had gained during the civil war, Georgia said, "See, papa, I have a scar too," and stripping up her sleeve, she showed some marks near her shoulder, which her father said looked like a brand. "Then," said little Georgia, "I am not Georgia Brand, but branded Georgia." She is a witty little thing, and the soldiers call her "the life of the regiment." What the mark meant, and who her parents were, have never been known; but she is very happy with her "adopted papa," who gives her every advantage. Even now her father says she can sing and play better than any other little girl of ten.

Georgia's Aunt Nellie.

Lizzie H. B.—The splendid hues of the autumn leaves are due to their ripening, and not to the frost, as was formerly supposed by many persons. The gay leaves

"wear, in sign of duty done,
The gold and scarlet of the sun."

There are many beautiful allusions in our American poetry to the charms of the autumn woods. The Postmistress will give you a chaplet of verses next week, taken from some of the poets she loves best, and she hopes that you and others, who keep a commonplace book, will take pains to copy these stanzas into its pages in the neatest possible manner. Those who draw or paint might illustrate their book, and make it a delightful souvenir for the future.

The little webs which you refer to as stretched from one blade of grass to another in dry weather are made by spiders, whose instinct teaches them to spin their webs when there is little probability that the rain will destroy them.

Inquirer.—If you have read the story of Ariadne, you will remember that after she had married Theseus, and had been deserted by him on the island of Naxos, she was found and comforted by the young god Dionysus, or Bacchus. Venus herself had come to her, checked her weeping, and told her she should become the wife of a god. Bacchus, the god of wine and pleasure, was generally represented as a beautiful youth with long flowing tresses. The vine, ivy, and pomegranate were sacred to him, and he was often represented as seated in a car drawn by panthers and lions. You can see that the sculptor who represents Ariadne as seated on the back of a lion may have had her union with Bacchus in mind. The more beautiful part of her history is the first, where she puts into Theseus's hand the clew of thread which shall guide him in safely through the windings of the labyrinth until he can reach and slay the Minotaur. The lion is the symbol of strength and dominion, and Ariadne seated upon him is upon a throne.

We would direct the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. to the very instructive article entitled "The Rocks," by Mr. Charles Barnard, and to the interesting description of "A Visit to an Ostrich Farm," by Lieutenant E. W. Sturdy, U.S.N. For those who are interested in athletic sports, and to the lesson which is always attached to them, that no game requiring quickness, precision, and endurance can be successfully played unless great attention is paid to health, and all habits of intemperance and self-indulgence renounced, we would recommend Mr. B. G. Smith's excellent article upon the game of Lacrosse.

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

TWO ENIGMAS.

1.

First in butter, but not in cheese.
Second in burn, but not in freeze.
Third in virtue, but not in sin.
Fourth in needle, but not in pin.
Fifth in lie, but not in truth.
Sixth in Nettie, but not in Ruth.
Seventh in wagon, but not in sled.
Eighth in white, but not in red.
Ninth in narrow, but not in wide.
Tenth in run, but not in ride.
My whole is a town on a lake's fair side.

D. B. C.