THE CHILDREN OF M. DE LESSEPS.
The picture which we give on the preceding page presents the famous builder of the Suez Canal, and seven of his children, as they are to be seen in the Paris Park, the Bois de Boulogne. The gray-haired father is seventy-six years of age. His companions in the "village cart" are Mathieu, ten years old; Ismaïl, nine, named after the man who ruled Egypt when the great canal was dug; Ferdinande, eight, named for her father, and his special pet; Bertrand and Consuelo, twin boys of six; Hélène, five; and Solange, between three and four. Besides these the sturdy old man has two sons, grown-up men, whose mother is dead, and a little blonde baby about a year old, for whom, small as he is, there seems no room in the cart. M. De Lesseps has his ideas about children's health and habits. All his little ones go with bare arms and legs summer and winter, and are toughened with active life in the open air. Ferdinande, who travels much with her father, is as brown as an Indian, and very self-helpful. She goes about without a maid, cares for herself, and has as much pluck and as little fear as her father. The mother of this happy-looking family is a native of the island of Mauritius, and a very bright and lovely lady. Her wedding with M. De Lesseps took place twelve years ago, in Egypt, the morning after the great festival that was held at the opening of the Suez Canal. In spite of her large family she finds time to keep her house open to many guests, who come gladly and go away delighted.
Of the children in our picture three have been in this country. They are Mathieu, Ismaïl, and Ferdinande, who bears the queer pet name of Tototé. They went with their father in the winter of 1879 and 1880 to the Isthmus of Panama, the strip of land which unites North America and South America. M. De Lesseps has started a canal across this isthmus—no small task for a man three-quarters of a century old! He finds the work much harder than across the Isthmus of Suez, because on the Isthmus of Panama there are very high and very rocky hills—a strip, so to speak, of the great backbone of mountains which runs all the way down the two continents of North and South America. The lowlands, moreover, are terribly unhealthy, and already the poor workmen, brought mostly from China and from the West Indies, are dying rapidly from the fever. But such vast works only too often cost many human lives. When the canal is finished, ships can sail through it, which now have to go around Cape Horn, at the south end of South America, or else have to land their passengers and loads to send them across the Isthmus by a railway. Many well-informed persons in this country think that the last great work of M. De Lesseps is a mistake, and will not be of much real use. But it is surely a very great and daring thing for an old man to try to do.
[A PRICKLY PET.]
How many boys know that they can have one of the oddest kind of pets, and yet at the same time have one which their mother and all the servants will look upon with the greatest possible favor, however much they may dislike pets generally?
Such a pet is a hedgehog, a sort of walking pincushion or animated burr, which is easily tamed, easily cared for, and in return simply for a place to sleep and something to drink will rid the house of rats, mice, cockroaches, beetles, spiders, or, in fact, anything of that kind to which housekeepers particularly object.
The writer once caught a hedgehog in a box trap, he having ventured there probably in search of a spider, and in two weeks he was so tame as to run around the kitchen in a very much more harmless way than a cat, making himself generally useful and contented by sleeping all day and working all night. He was the most industrious mouser one could ask for, and in addition to these duties, he cleared the house entirely of roaches, not one showing his head there until after a very fat cook ended his useful life by stepping on him. When the dog attempted to be too familiar with him he rolled himself into a prickly ball, lying perfectly quiet and safe, until the dog had fully convinced himself that he had no very urgent business with such a globe of spines, and then Master Prickle would begin to unroll himself; first the snout would appear, then the head, then the feet, and the old fellow would trot off toward the pantry, grunting in the most contented fashion. Prickle was quite fond of being petted, and with his spines lying down like hair, would make a queer little sound indicative of pleasure at being caressed.
A hedgehog is really no hog at all, but simply resembles one in having a snout with which to dig in the ground, for when cold weather comes he digs a hole and buries himself in it, where he awaits the approach of spring. The spines with which he is armed are rather uncomfortable if one chances to get them in his flesh, and will cause a sore, as would any foreign substance, if not removed; but if they are immediately removed there is no more to be feared from them than from the prick of a pin.
During the autumn, or until the first frost comes, is the best time to catch hedgehogs, and a common large box trap, baited with a piece of fresh meat, is all that is needed. Select such a place in the woods as these prickly pets have taken up their temporary abode in, and then cover the trap as nearly as possible with leaves or underbrush. The hedgehog will scent the bait, and then proceed to dig for it, very likely overturning the trap unless it is weighted down.
It is possible to secure them after they have retired to their winter-quarters by digging them out of their holes, but by such a course it is almost impossible to secure the animal without injuring him in some way, thus perhaps depriving him of his usefulness.
Having once secured your needle-pointed prize, make a cage for him of a reasonably large box, inside of which is a smaller one filled with hay or straw, where he can hide until his first fright is over. Feed him with meat, eggs, bread, or, in fact, as you would a cat, and give him plenty of milk to drink. Serve him his meals about sunset or very early in the morning, and do not attempt to force him to show himself for a week or ten days.
At the end of that time leave his cage open in the kitchen, or any other place most infested with roaches and mice, and after that first night's work his education in the way of becoming a pet is completed. In the morning he will probably be found curled up in one corner of the darkest closet, sound asleep, looking as if he had been having a very hearty dinner.
Do not disturb him then, but leave him to his own devices a few days longer, and he will make no attempt to leave the place where he can get his food so easily. In two or three weeks he will have become so tame that he will no longer raise his quills when any one tries to pet him, but will allow himself to be fondled like a cat or dog.
When it becomes necessary to feed him—and he will so clear the house of vermin that in a few weeks his own larder will have become exhausted—he should be given animal food, as well as milk and water, for without such food he will die.
He is remarkably fond of raw eggs, and if while he is hunting for mice he finds any, he will bite off the smaller end neatly, sucking them without spilling so much as a drop. But he does not climb trees for the purpose of biting off the fruit, as some of his enemies charge, nor is he guilty of many mischievous things of which he is accused, save, as has been said, in the way of sucking eggs. He would probably prefer meat to mice, and would take it if it was left in his way; but that a cat will do, and she will also kill birds, if any are kept as pets in the house, which sin can not be laid to the hedgehog's door.
Treat him as you would a cat, and you will find him equally as pleasant to pet, at the same time that he is more industrious.
[CHATS ABOUT PHILATELY.]
BY J. J. CASEY.
VI.—BHOPAL.
Among the most interesting and curious stamps are those issued by a few of the native states of India. The cut represents one of the stamps issued for the state of Bhopal. The first series, the date of which is not yet settled by collectors, consisted of two values, a quarter-anna, represented in the cut, and a half-anna, similar to it. The central portion of the stamp is embossed without color. The inscription between the lines is "H H Nawab Shah Jahan Begam," or the name and title of the native ruler—Her Highness, Nawab Shah Jahan, Begam (or Begum) of Bhopal—a lady, as will be seen. The characters in the lower part of the octagonal frame represent the value. The quarter-anna was printed in black, the half-anna in red, the central design or seal being, as was stated, without color.
In 1878, this series was replaced by one smaller and rectangular in shape. The inscription given above is arranged in an oval; the oval is filled with what is presumably the signature of the Begum. The value is below. These stamps also have the uncolored embossment as in the first series.
Like its predecessor, this series has also two values, the quarter-anna, green, and the half-anna, red. I believe that these stamps are intended to prepay postage only within the limits of the kingdom of the Begum, and are not officially recognized by the general government of India. Bhopal is a native state in Malwah, in Central India. The length of the state from east to west is 157 miles, breadth from north to south, 76 miles, the estimated area being 8200 square miles. It was founded in 1723 by Dost Mohammed Khan, an Afghan adventurer. In 1818, a treaty of dependence was concluded between the chief and the British government. Since then Bhopal has been steadily loyal to the British government, and during the Mutiny it rendered good services. The present ruler is a lady, and both she and her mother, who preceded her as head of the state, have displayed the highest capacity for administration, and their territory is the best-governed native state in India. The Queen, or Begum, has the power of life and death. She is a Knight Grand Commander of the Order of the Star of India (G. C. S. I.), and is also a member of the Imperial Order of the Crown of India, instituted the 1st of January, 1878, and composed exclusively of ladies of high degree.
[A TALK ABOUT TRAVELLING.]
BY CAROLINE B. LE ROW.
Of course every intelligent and ambitious American boy and girl wishes to go to Europe, and hopes to do so at some future time. The wish is a sensible one, for it shows an appreciation of the things to be seen abroad, and a desire to know more about them than can be learned by mere reading or study.
In the mean time, while "waiting for papa's ship to come in," you are going to school, busy with the conjugation of irregular French verbs and the pronunciation of "Ich," the location of Mont Blanc and the length of the River Rhine, the Elizabethan age of English literature and the poems of Wordsworth, the cause of the Thirty Years' War and the reason why Charles the First had his head cut off.
Sometimes all these things grow tiresome, and seem both needless and stupid, but in reality this school-time is giving you the best chance that you will ever have to prepare for that trip across the Atlantic of which you like to think and talk.
For such a trip needs preparation. It is true that you might enjoy everything to be seen abroad without knowing anything about it, as a child delights in the bright colors of a picture—just as well upside down as any other way. But no sensible person could be content with that, and to rely on guide-books, although they are necessary for much that can not be learned elsewhere, is like depending upon stilts or crutches for getting along in the world.
An English wit was once asked some simple question in history. "I don't know," he replied, with a wave of his hand. "You'll find it in some book. Books are made to keep such things in." But we can not carry a whole library around with us, even in the Handy Volume or Vest Pocket series. It is troublesome enough to carry a dictionary, and a small one at that. A great many things we can trust to books to keep for us, and go for them when they are wanted. You would not think of carrying a glue-pot on your arm or a bottle of arnica in your pocket all the time. You need them only once in a while, and know where to find them when you do. But your pencil and your handkerchief—these of course you want with you every hour of the day, wherever you may be. Your school-time is spent in selecting from books facts in history and geography, literature and science, and putting them safely away in your mental pockets.
Of course you read as well as study. What? The world is full of books which are as bright and sweet as sunshine and apple blossoms. There are good books which make you want to be noble and generous and heroic; wise books which teach you how great men and women have thought and worked, and what they have done for the good of the world in which they lived. Read the best books, and read for the best purpose, not simply to amuse yourselves, for you will get heartily tired of that after a while, nor to kill time, which is one of your best friends, but to take for your own possession the knowledge which the wisest of all men calls "more precious than rubies." When you start upon that dreamed-of and longed-for trip, you will be surprised to find how much the pleasure and profit of every mile of the way will be increased in exact proportion to the amount of what is well called "general information." Even the voyage is a different thing from what you imagine, and whether on sea or shore, you will find that ignorance is worse to carry about than a Saratoga trunk in a country which never checks baggage.
Last summer one of the Scotch steamers carried out a large number of young people, who quickly became acquainted, and were the best of friends.
"Where are you going?" asked one boy of another.
"To Scotland," was the answer.
"Scotland! I thought you were going to Europe. We are."
"Well, Scotland's in Europe, isn't it? I suppose you mean the Continent," which was exactly what he did mean, although he did not know it.
Four days out, and the steamer was feeling her way through a fog so thick that the whistle was obliged to do nearly all of the work on board.
"We are just getting off the Banks," the Captain said, in answer to a question from a young lady.
"The Banks?" she repeated, in a puzzled tone.
"Yes; Newfoundland."
She was more mystified than ever. "Why, Newfoundland is on the coast, and we have been out four days."
The Captain laughed, and passed on.
That evening, as a variation from concerts, tableaux, mock trials, and the usual kinds of amusements devised to pass away time on shipboard, there was a school and a spelling match in the cabin. The Captain, passing through, and catching sight of the young lady, said, with a twinkle in his eye, "Ask 'em all round where's Newfoundland."
Every one was sure it was on the coast. Most of them thought it was east of Nova Scotia, though a few were doubtful on that point. All were sure that it was north-east of Maine, and that Maine was one of the New England States. But the New England States joined New York, and it seemed strange that the ship had sailed fully one-third of the distance between New York and the British islands, and yet was not beyond those mysterious Banks.
The ship's surgeon drew a large triangle on a sheet of wrapping paper, placing the steamer at one angle, New York and Newfoundland at the others. This was hung up in the saloon, a perpetual reminder to the end of the voyage—and, it is to be hoped, afterward—of the practical reality of latitude and longitude.
But when you find yourselves in John Knox's old house in Edinburgh, at Alloway-Kirk, in Ayr, in the Douglas chamber of Stirling Castle, on the field of Marston Moor, at the ruins of Kenilworth, at famous Rugby School, at Stonehenge, at Canterbury Cathedral, where is your stock of geography, history, literature, and general information? What do you know of the great reformer and the times he lived in? of the poet Burns and the circumstances of his life? of the tragedy of the beautiful Scottish Queen? of Lord Leicester and poor Amy Robsart? of Dr. Arnold, the Druids, and the assassination of Thomas à Becket? What interest can you have in a castle if you do not know who lived in it? or a battle-field, unless you know for what cause men fought upon it? or a poet's favorite haunts, if you know nothing that he has written about them? Read profitably and study hard, not only to fit yourselves for sensible, contented stay-at-homes, faithful workers in your own fields of usefulness, but for intelligent and appreciative travellers if leisure and good fortune give you the opportunity to go abroad.
"SAY GOOD-BY, DOLLY."—Drawn by F. S. Church.
GATHERING APPLES.—Drawn by Miller and Hayden.
[THE VIOLET VELVET SUIT.]
BY MARY A. BARR.
One morning last winter Katie Dawson stood at the window looking out upon the avenue. She stood amid flowers as fresh and green as if it were July instead of January. The fire in the bright steel grate burned cheerily, and the room was cozily warm and comfortable.
She was dressed for the street, and she made a very pretty picture. Her face was bright and piquant, her figure graceful, and her abundant hair carefully and becomingly arranged. But her whole attitude expressed a secret dissatisfaction, and she cast frequent discontented glances at her costume. And yet it was a very pretty one; Madame Dubaney had declared it to be her ideal school-girl's toilet. It was of fine material and exquisite fit, and the girl's Ulster and cap, boots and gloves, were alike neat and stylish.
She stood slowly buttoning the latter when her mother entered the room.
"Katie, do you know the time? You will lose your place in the French class. Listen;" and as she spoke, the clock on the mantel-shelf chimed in clear silver tones ten. "There, child, you ought to be in school now."
"I know, mamma, but I have no heart for French this morning."
"I am sorry for that, Katie. What is the matter?"
The girl was silent a moment, and then, in a low tone, she said, "Mother, can I have a velvet suit made for school?"
The answer was prompt and decisive: "Certainly not, my dear. The suit you have on is perfectly appropriate. I should not think of wearing velvet myself, except as an evening or visiting costume. It would be absurd in a school-room."
"Clara May has a velvet suit; so have Jenny and Julia Smith; and Cecile Bradley's is very nearly all velvet. I think that papa can afford it just as well."
"It is not a question of money, but of good taste and propriety. If you wear velvet as a school-girl, what do you propose to wear when you are a young lady? I am sorry you have missed your French in order to make a request so silly. Now, dear, had you not better hurry a little? Madame disapproves of late pupils."
Katie took up her books, and went off with a frown on her pretty face. All the way to Madame's she was considering how to accomplish her wish. Her grandfather would give her the dress, or her aunt Lucy; but even then her mother would not permit her to wear it to school, and if she could not wear it in the presence of Clara May and the Smith girls, there would be no consolation for her in velvet.
When she reached school her class had finished its recitation; she had lost her place, and Madame was cross. Katie to-day was careless of these things. Her mind was occupied with one ambition, a very foolish one, doubtless, but a very important one in her own eyes.
Never before, either, had Clara May looked so triumphantly happy and handsome. She had taken Katie's place at the head of the class, and the bright winter sun fell upon the girl's fair hair, turning it to gold, and made dark lustres in the folds of the envied black velvet. The Smiths were awkward, angular girls, and she scarcely envied them costumes which were not in the least becoming. As for Cecile Bradley's suit, it was home-made. Katie's critical eyes had detected that fatal fault at once. It was Clara May who sat in Katie's sunshine; for handsome and stylish as Clara was, Katie was certain if she only had a velvet suit she would far eclipse her.
Now it is a fact that among girls to be the belle of the school-room is quite as envied a position as it is to young ladies to be the belle of the ball-room. Hitherto Katie Dawson had been the recognized belle of Madame Blanc's fashionable classes. She had been an authority on the subject of braids and curls, and on all matters pertaining to rose-bud toilets. But Clara May—quite a new-comer—was heading an "opposition." She had declared she would not wear braids because Katie Dawson did, that frizzes suited her better; and frizzes, though still in the minority, held their own against remarks of the most cutting kind.
There is no contest some girls so thoroughly enter into as that of outdressing rivals. The black velvet suit was Clara's last defiance, and Katie was at a loss how to take it up.
"I will go and tell Agnes Hilton about it this afternoon," she thought, and in the mean time she kept a sulky silence, equally proof against curiosity and sympathy.
Agnes was older than Katie, but they had been companions for years, and now, though Agnes was released from regular school routine, and was "finishing" comfortably with private masters, she still regarded Katie as her chief friend and adviser.
Agnes had a bad cold, and was nursing it in her room. A good talk over things with Katie Dawson was just what she liked. She was soon helping Katie to take off her Ulster and cap, and she noticed at once—as it was meant she should—Katie's look of anxious annoyance.
"What is the matter, dear?"
Then Katie drew a large comfortable chair opposite her friend's, and told her all about her school troubles.
"I never thought Clara May had any style at all," said Agnes, with the authority of sixteen.
"Still, the girls copy her, and she is so unbearably independent. I merely said that frizzes and curls were going out of fashion, and she said pretty things were always in fashion, and that even if they were not, they suited her, and she meant to wear them. Why, you know, Agnes love, if every one was to follow that rule, there would be absolutely no fashions at all. Then," added Katie, after an effective pause—"then she came to school in a velvet suit, and immediately the Smith girls and Cecile Bradley imitate her."
"Get one still handsomer."
"Mother won't hear of it—says it is ridiculous, and unsuitable, and all that. Of course mother can't feel as I do about it, though I remember very well that she would not have diamonds at all unless they were bigger than Aunt Jemima's."
"Could you not get her to buy you a velvet suit for church, and then contrive to wear it once to school, just to show it? For a general stand-point you could take your mother's argument—it sounds sensible."
"I don't think mother would do it. Grandfather might, but there would be the delay, and very likely Clara would say I had copied her."
"What color did you say Clara's was?"
"Black."
"Oh, that is very common. See here, Katie;" and Agnes went to her wardrobe, and brought forward a most suggestive box. The two girls bent over its contents in a kind of rapture; Katie could only exclaim, with her pretty hands thrown upward,
"Violet velvet!"
"That is the shade, dear. Now look here;" and the dress was carefully unfolded. "Do you see the linings? They are all of pale violet satin. Do you see the bunch of violets worked on the cuffs, collar, and left breast? Ah, it is exquisite! I got it last week for Lydia Lane's wedding. It was the prettiest dress in the church. Katie, you stay here all night, and wear it to school to-morrow morning. You know to-morrow is Wednesday. The classes close early for the matinée, and you can say you dressed on that account. You could even apologize to the girls for the unsuitable school toilet, which would be quite a snub, you know, to those who consider velvet the proper thing for school suits."
"Oh, Agnes, you are an oracle! There is nothing I should enjoy so much." Then the dress was tried on, found to fit admirably, and Katie laid it away while she wrote a note to her mother, telling her that she was going to spend the night with Agnes.
The next morning was as perfect as if made to Katie's order. The sun shone brilliantly over the bright, breezy streets and squares, and Katie got up with a sense of triumph in her heart. The girls had breakfast in their own room, and then the toilet was made. Certainly the dark violet velvet set off Katie's delicate, flower-like beauty, and her crown of yellow hair, just as a violet velvet cushion sets off the lustre of a diamond. There were a few exclamations, but for the most part the dressing was done in an eloquent silence. Then the Ulster was carefully buttoned over the magnificence, and the two girls kissed each other good-by.
Katie timed herself perfectly. She entered the class-room at the last moment, when the girls were all seated, and Madame in her place. They would have to endure her appearance in decorous silence, and she knew exactly how it would affect them. She advanced to her place, with a graceful indifference which she felt to be a triumph. Her place this morning was at the bottom of the class; she took it with a kind of deliberate pleasure. She knew that she was effectually scattering the wits of her class-mates, and some one would change with her before the recitation was over.
In ten minutes she had taken her seat at the head again. Clara May had not been equal to participles and conjugations in the presence of that violet velvet. On the contrary, there was a distracting calmness about Katie, and when the quarter's recess came she was not to be confused by the questions and compliments that assailed her.
"Where did you get it?" said Julia Smith, who was not the least jealous.
"It is an imported suit."
"Worth's?"
"Oh dear no. Worth is becoming quite common. It is from De Lisle's."
"It fits exquisitely."
"I think it does."
"And is so becoming."
"Yes. Agnes Hilton says I look charming in it."
Katie was far too wise to undervalue herself in any way, and she accepted the girl's compliments as her right.
"Are you going to wear it every day?" asked little Florence Dixon, as she touched admiringly the wrought violets on the cuffs.
Katie stroked her curls with a patronizing kindness, and answered: "No, Miss Foolishness, that would be wretched taste. To the school-room, the school dress. Ladies have the proper toilet for all occasions." Then, before any one could answer her, she dropped her little air of instruction, and said, with the frankness of equality: "Girls, you must excuse me appearing in such a morning toilet. The fact is, I am going to the matinée, and one likes to be early at a Gerster matinée. You know how little time Madame gives us to dress in."
"Oh dear me, there is no need of apology," said Clara May, a trifle defiantly. "One understands quite well that there would be no pleasure in having a suit like that unless there were opportunities to show it; and whether it be in the morning or evening, in the school-room or the opera boxes, is all the same. I don't see why one should not wear as nice things in Madame Blanc's company as in Madame Gerster's; and some people would think a school-room just as worthy of a fine dress as an opera-house."
This argument was received with a murmur of approval. Girls rarely look beneath the surface, and it sounded well; but upon the whole, Katie felt that she had had a great triumph. For a month afterward she wore her brown cloth school suit with the air of one who has vindicated her taste, and who was quite content with its serviceable fitness.
The velvets began to look common, and a little shabby; imitations of a cheaper kind were plentiful on the streets. She almost wondered how she ever could have thought them so desirable. It was just when she had reached this position, when velvet suits had sunk below the tide of wishing for in her mind, that they were again forced on her attention.
One morning Clara May came to school in a state of great excitement. She threw aside her Derby and Ulster, and hastened to the group chatting by the open fire.
"Girls," she said, in a tone which implied something far beyond the words—"girls, I was at the charity fair last night."
"Oh!" from half a dozen voices at once.
"And I saw Agnes Hilton there. She had a stand—Japanese things."
"Did you buy?"
"I priced some scrolls; they were horrid, and very dear. What do you think she wore?"
"Could not guess; she has such lots of things," said an old pupil who remembered Agnes.
"A—violet—velvet—suit!"
"Oh!"
"Lined with pale violet satin!"
"Oh!"
"And little bunches of violets worked on the cuffs, collar, and left breast!"
"Never!"
"Yes, it is, I positively declare."
"Katie Dawson's?" inquired some one, in a hesitating voice.
"Or else—Katie Dawson wore Agnes Hilton's suit that day."
"They might have suits alike," said Julia Smith; "they are great friends."
"They might, but I don't believe they have."
Just then Katie entered the room, and there was a moment's silence. Then Clara said:
"Good-morning, Miss Dawson. Were you at the fair last night?"
"Yes. What a horrid crush it was!"
"Do you think so? What did you wear?"
"Navy blue silk."
"Why did you not wear your violet velvet?"
"In that crush? What an idea!"
"Agnes Hilton had hers on. I saw her; I priced some goods at her stand. I noticed particularly the flowers on her cuffs. It was a suit exactly like the one you wore that morning you came dressed for the matinée. Your suit was made precisely the same as hers. Perhaps it was"—and then she stopped, and with a very irritating smile turned to her books.
The attack had been so sudden that for once Katie was tongue-tied. That group of inquisitive girls was too much for her. She turned haughtily on her heel, and disdained to answer, but she felt that her sceptre had departed. There were whisperings in her presence, and confidences in which she had no share. Girls looked meaningly at her dress, and a week afterward, when the day for translations came round, Clara May read aloud the fable of the jay in peacock's feathers, which she had freely rendered into French from the English version.
To Madame it had no particular meaning; to the whole school-room it was startlingly intelligent. Katie tingled with shame and burned with anger. She had pretended not to notice much that had wounded her deeply. Should she continue a course which left her a text for sermons of this kind, or should she boldly take her punishment in her own hand? She decided that the latter would be the bravest and wisest thing to do, and as soon as Clara sat down she rose and asked, "Will Madame allow me to answer Miss May's fable in English?"
"This is the French class, Miss Dawson."
"But, Madame, I desire all present to understand me clearly."
"You have a motive? Ah! then it is well you speak as you wish."
"Madame, I am intended to point the moral of the jay and the peacock's feathers. If Madame permits me, I will explain."
"I desire not to interrupt."
Then Katie spoke frankly of her desire for a velvet suit, and repeated her mother's objections to it—to which objections Madame said, emphatically, "Good, they were good."
"Then I went to Agnes Hilton's, and she proposed I should wear her dress, and I agreed to it very gladly. Madame perhaps remembers the dress?"
Madame nodded her head decidedly.
"And then, Madame, Miss May saw Miss Hilton at the fair in the violet velvet, and Miss May is very shrewd, and supposed what is really the case. I might, of course, have said that Agnes and I had dresses alike, and so have left the matter in doubt. But I have regretted my folly very often since, and I prefer to tell the truth. Whatever punishment Madame thinks I deserve, I am ready to accept."
"This is a great pleasure to me," said Madame. "What is a velvet suit?—a few dollars, a thing that quite common people may have. But the truth!—but the brave heart to confess a fault! That is beyond all price. Miss Dawson has taken her punishment this morning; now I give to her, with great pride, my hand."
There had never been such a sensation in the school before. Katie lifted her eyes, full of tears, to Madame, and in that moment the girl gained a point in character which vanity and deception never again will conquer.
Then the translations went on as usual, but when the books were closed, Madame said: "We have learned a lesson this morning, young ladies, which is the same in all the languages—the power of simple truth to conquer even the vanity and the ill-will. If you forget the French, then you will try always to remember this."
The girl whom I have called Clara May told me the story of the violet velvet suit, and she added: "I like no one so well as I do Katie Dawson now. Madame Dubaney will make our school dresses alike next winter, and they will not be velvet."
RUSSIAN CHILDREN AT PLAY.