THE BELLS OF SANTA MARIA MAGGIORE.
Any one who has been in Rome and lived on the Esquiline Hill must have been struck by the beautifully toned bells of Santa Maria Maggiore, the largest and finest church of the district. According to the legend, it was built in the year 354, on the spot where a miraculous shower of snow fell during the month of August—a most unlikely time for snow to fall anywhere, and most of all in Rome, where the heat is generally unbearable at that time. There is no end to the freaks of legend, or to the simplicity of credulous people who take legend for history. This legendary fall of snow is actually commemorated in the church at the present day by a service in the course of which white rose leaves are showered down from the roof of a side chapel to imitate falling snow.
To return to the bells. The stranger dwelling on the Esquiline must not only have been struck by their beauty when they rung at the usual hours during the day, he must have been also surprised by hearing a sonorous peal ringing out on the clear winter air two hours after dark. This is a most unusual time for the church bells to ring, as in the large churches of Rome there is, generally speaking, no evening service. Two hours after sunset in winter is a very convenient time for putting little children to bed; so the Roman mothers inhabiting the Esquiline are accustomed to tell their little ones that it is the Madonna, who is ringing the bells and calling out in bell-language, "Bambini, a letto!" or "Babies, to bed!" Then the little dark-eyed, curly-haired Roman cherubs, however much inclined to be refractory otherwise, are contented to let their mothers undress them. Then they say their little prayers, and go quietly to bed. If you ask seriously about the cause of the bells ringing at that unusual hour, the following pretty story about the campanile, or bell tower, which is of later date than the church itself, will be told you.
One dark winter night a wealthy Roman citizen was out late, and lost his way in the Campagna, or waste land outside the city. The Campagna is rather a dangerous place to get lost in, as it is wild and uncultivated, full of ruins and deep pits. It was infested at that time, besides, by robbers and lawless people of every kind. He wandered about for some time in darkness so thick that he could not see his finger before him. Sometimes he thought he had discovered some well-known landmark, and fancied that now he would soon find the right path, but after groping about for a while in the black darkness he would suddenly discover that he had been moving about in a circle, and was no nearer the goal than before. Weary, exhausted, and utterly discouraged, dreading, besides, with every step he took, to fall into some pit and break his neck, he almost resolved in despair to give up the effort to reach home that night. It was a starless, inclement night, and bitterly cold. He was just about to sink upon the wet ground, and yield to the sleep brought on by cold and exhaustion, from which he would probably never have wakened more; already his eyes were closing. Suddenly he thought he heard the tinkle of a well-known bell. He listened intently, and recognized the bells of the new bell tower of Santa Maria Maggiore, which were being rung that evening for some unknown cause. This sound revived his drooping courage. He knew now where he was. After some more groping, guided still by the sound of the bells, he succeeded in finding the highway, and reached his home at last in safety. In grateful remembrance of his escape, being a wealthy man, he bequeathed a large sum of money forever to the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore; it was to be employed to pay the ringers to ring a peal every evening, two hours after dark, during six months of the year. This has been done faithfully during many centuries. So should any poor wayfarer lose his way in the wild Campagna on a gloomy winter night, he may have a chance of finding it again in safety. They are very beautiful bells, and when they ring out full and clear about half past seven on a winter evening, the Roman mothers, as I mentioned above, say to their little children: "Hark to the bells, which say, Babies, to bed! Pray for all poor wanderers this night."
E. M. Traquair.
Table Rock, Nebraska.
I have been wanting to write a letter to you for a long time, but have never done it until now. I have five brothers, and I am the only girl in the family. Papa has taken Harper's Young People for us ever since it began. I want to tell you about our circulating library. There are three families of us. We all take magazines, and exchange. There were four families, but one went to Falls City to live. We take Harper's Monthly and Young People. I would tell you what the rest take, only I am afraid if I did my letter would be too long to print. I like the Wiggles very much. I think our artist's idea of Wiggle No. 28 is so cute. I hope you can print this, and surprise my brothers.
Gertie B.
I think this idea of exchanging magazines and papers, as the families in Gertie's neighborhood do, is a very good one. I am sure the little circulating library will give pleasure to both young and old in the three homes. An only sister who has five brothers to love is in a very important place. Think of all the mittens she must mend, the strings she must fasten, the knots she must untie, and the gentle words she must speak. I hope she has a great many rides on brothers' sleds, and is taken care of and admired by all the boys, as she ought to be.
Fort Craig, New Mexico.
You asked me, a long time ago, to explain what a bucking bronco was. Well, I'll try to do so now. Ha! ha! ha! I should think you could hear me laugh. Why, a bronco is a horse that has never been broken to ride or drive, and when you get on for the first time, the bronco is generally sure to buck. Now when a bronco bucks he just looks like a big billy-goat, with long goatee and chin whiskers, spreading himself in front of a big looking-glass, and jumping up in the air, striking the ground stiff-legged.
Now what else do I learn besides riding and shooting? Why, until a week ago we had a splendid teacher, Mr. S. He's just the best teacher. And talk about playing the fiddle!—he can make it talk, and so he can make the guitar almost sing. Sister Eva is studying the guitar, and I am studying the violin. Professor S. teaches school and music, but he went off in the mountains lately for a trip with an officer of the army, and he will not be back for a couple of weeks. Since he left, our Mexican boy herder did the same, and now I am up every morning at five, and off with the horses and cattle before six, and only take a lunch with me, and stay out until sundown. I ride a good horse, have a shepherd dog, and go about three to four miles to good water and grass.
And you think Sis and I might sketch. Well, so we do. I did not know what you meant by botanize until papa told me. He just loves flowers, and has devoted a great deal of time to cultivating some this summer. He has succeeded, after planting about one hundred plants and several million seeds. We can—with a magnifying-glass—discover one or two pumpkin vines which were sent him from the East as "beautiful climbers," and one or two morning-glories. Some of the geraniums have done well, but all the rose-trees died. As to a cabinet, we have none; but we have some of the most beautiful specimens of minerals, crystallized quartz, copper, galena, spar, "white and black" silver, silver glance, native gold and silver, and all kinds of carbonates.
And now I think I have said almost too much for one time. So, with best wishes to all the little folks—and big folks too—who read Young People, I will say adios.
Harry W. C.
P.S.—You may think that I wrote all of this letter, but I did not. I asked papa to copy it for me, and he said things different from what I had it, and more of it too. Next time I will only ask him to punctuate and correct the spelling. It took me four nights to write this letter.
Harry.
| Trotty trot, trotty trot, trotty trot, trot!— |
| What a fit of the fidgets that youngster has got! |
| From the dawning of morning till dew wets the ground |
| He's trotting and dancing and skipping around, |
| With his wagon behind him, his dog at his side, |
| Or with whip in his paddy, my old cane astride. |
| His boots are bedusted, his hair in a fright; |
| He's the picture of healthy unbounded delight. |
| Oh! a package of steel springs, a bundle of joy, |
| Is this gay romping Charlie, our own bouncing boy. |
W. W. Runyan.
Marion, New York.
New York City.
I am a little girl eleven years old. I take lessons and feel a great interest in music, but I find it very difficult. I have several pets—a dove, a cat, a doll, and a sweet little sister named Selma. On Wednesday my teacher was teaching us botany, and she said if you should take a glass or tumbler and fill it with water, and put some white cotton-batting in it, and sprinkle some seeds on the cotton, they would soon take root. So the first thing I did when I got home was to fix it, and the next week I looked and there were little stems coming up from the seeds. I love the Post-office Box, and I think some stories very interesting. I like "The Cruise of the Canoe Club" very much. This is the first letter I ever attempted to write.
Lillie V. P.
Northview, Dakota Territory.
You will be glad, dear Postmistress, to hear from one of your twelve-year-old boys. I live in Dakota, on Section 20, Town 142, Range 54. This is a good country. My father has in 200 acres of wheat this year. The St. Paul, Minneapolis, and Manitoba Railroad runs near our place. The Northview Post-office is kept here; mamma is postmistress. My cousin takes Harper's Young People. I read it as soon as he does. We have a little dog and cat; the dog's name is Carlo. Carlo and the cat will drink milk together. I have a pet crane; his name is Dick; he is about half-grown.
A. B. R.
Boston, Massachusetts.
My name is Alice, and I am ten years old. I have a sister nine years old. She don't take Harper's Young People, but I do. She can not read much yet. We both go to school, but not to the same one. Next year we may go together. I am always sorry when school begins, for I don't like to go at all. Good-by,
Alice S.
Why, Alice, what can be the reason you do not like to go to school? Perhaps you will enjoy it more when you are a little older.
Matagorda, Texas.
As it seems to be the fashion for children to write to the paper, I will try to do so. I live in the country, and can ride horseback, milk cows, climb trees, and do various other things that only country children know how to do. My papa has a boat, and we sometimes go down with him to Matagorda Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. We went on a fishing excursion this summer, and saw the snowy sand mounds on the Peninsula, and went bathing in the Gulf.
Cherry.
Hartwick, Michigan.
I saw a deer a few days ago in our woods. It was very pretty. Papa saw an old bear and two cubs about a mile from here last July, and a few days ago a neighbor saw one in the same place.
Guy L. S.
I would advise you to keep away from those woods, Guy, unless you have a strong party of friends with you, for Madame Bear is sometimes a dangerous person to meet.
Jacksonville, Illinois.
I am a boy nine years old, but will soon be ten. My brother, who is in the United States army, sends me Harper's Young People for a Christmas present. I think it is the best paper ever published for little boys and girls. I have a great many pets. I have a mocking-bird, an Esquimaux dog, a horse, a cow, two pigs, and a great many chickens. Please print this letter; it is the first I have ever written.
A. L. W.
Coatopa Station, Alabama.
Though no longer young, nor by any means small, I read Young People with as much interest as my children, and think I can place no better book in their hands.
I read with much interest Arthur Lindsley's article on humming-birds, and must differ with him about their food. I have caught them—the ruby-throat and another, which I will describe hereafter—several times, and they never fail to get over their fright in a few minutes, and drink eagerly of sugar and water offered to them in a spoon. I have held them in my open hand, and had them to chirp and flutter their wings as they sipped from the spoon, just as they do when hovering over a flower. We have a large mimosa-tree which when in bloom is the resort of hundreds of "flying sunbeams," as we call them. The kind referred to above is a bird in every particular except the bill, which is that of a butterfly, long and tightly curled.
V. S. Parker.
Wappinger's Falls, New York.
I am a little boy eight years old the 2d of October. I have three brothers—Johnnie, Watson, and Bertie. Johnnie and I go to school. I am learning to read and write. I tried to write this letter, but I thought you could not read it, so I got papa to write it for me. I like papa to read those letters that are in Young People for me, and some of the stories. I have no pets, but I have a cunning little brother Bertie, four months old; Johnnie is five years and Watson three years. We had lots of rain a week ago. It rained two days, and it flooded our basement, and the creek was very full.
Henry C.
Brooklyn, New York.
I am a little boy nine years old. I have two pet rabbits, and their names are Snowflake and Killy, and they both are as white as snow. I feed them on cabbage, carrots, plantain, corn bread, grass, clover, and apples. I also have two white mice; I feed them on bread and milk. The other day I was cleaning their cage, and one of them escaped, but I soon caught him again.
Harry L. W.
This week the Postmistress suggests two more games which the young people may try: