A BEE "SOLD."
Talk about the instinct of animals! I'm sure my little friends the bees are as bright as any, yet I heard, the other day, a strange thing about one. There was a flower-like sea-anemone, near the top of a little pool of water, when a bee came buzzing along and alighted on the pretty thing, no doubt mistaking it for a blossom. That anemone was an animal, and had no honey. Now, where was the instinct of that bee? That's what I want to know.
THE LETTER-BOX.
West Roxbury, Mass.
Dear St. Nicholas: I saw in your June number, in the "Letter-Box," an account of a turtle; so I thought I would tell you about "Gopher Jimmy." My uncle brought him from Florida. He is a gopher, and different from the common kind of turtle. His back is yellow, with black ridges on it. His feet are yellow and scaly. Gophers burrow in the ground; and, when full grown, a man cannot pull one out of its burrow, and a child can ride easily on its back. I feed mine on clover. He likes to bask in the sun. My uncle named him "Gopher Jimmy." When full grown, they can move with a weight of 200 pounds. Jimmy is a young one.—Your devoted reader,
Francis H. Allen.
Baltimore, Md
Dear St. Nicholas: Perhaps the other readers of your magazine have heard of "Tyrian purple," a dye which once sold in the shops of ancient Rome for its own weight in silver. Well, after a while, the way to make this dye was forgotten,—probably because those who had the secret died without telling it to others. And now I want to let you know what I have learned lately, in reading, about how the secret was found again, after hundreds of years.
A French naturalist, named Lacazo Duthiers, was on board a ship, when, one day, he saw a sailor marking his clothes and the sails of the ship with a sharp-pointed stick, which, every now and then, he dipped into a little shell held in his other hand. At first, the lines were only a faint yellow in color; but, after being a few minutes in the sun, they became greenish, then violet, and last of all, a bright, beautiful purple, the exact shade called by the ancients "Tyrian purple"—a color that never fades by washing, or exposure to heat or damp, but ever grows brighter and clearer! The naturalist was rejoiced, and after trial found that he really had discovered again the long-lost secret. He felt well repaid for keeping his eyes open. The little shell was the "wide-mouthed purpura," as some call it, some three inches long, found in the Mediterranean Sea, and on the coasts of France, Ireland and Great Britain. My book says that the difficulty of obtaining and preserving these shells must always render "Tyrian purple" a rare and expensive color.
I remember, too, that the Babylonians thought "Tyrian purple" too sacred for the use of mortals, so they used it only in the dress of their idols. Romulus, king of Rome, adopted it as the regal color, and the Roman emperors forbade any besides themselves to wear it, on penalty of death.—Yours truly, F. R. F.
The boys and girls who solved the poetical charade printed on page 639 of the July number, must have noticed that it is an unusually good one, and we are sure that all our readers will admire the charade, after comparing it with its solution, which we publish upon page 704 of this number.
Alexandria, Ohio.
Dear St. Nicholas: I should like to know who would succeed to the throne in case of Queen Victoria's and her eldest son's deaths. My brother and I sold hickory-nuts and onions to get the St. Nicholas last fall. We have taken it ever since it was published. I am ten years old.
Willie Castle.
Prince Albert Victor, the Prince of Wales's eldest son, if then alive, would succeed to the English throne after Queen Victoria, in case of the previous death of her eldest son,—the Prince of Wales. A general answer to this question will be found in the "Letter-Box" for May, 1877 (Vol. IV., page 509), in a reply to an inquiry from "Julia."
Brunswick, Maine.
Dear St. Nicholas: It has occurred to me that some of my St. Nicholas friends may like to know what I have learned from ancient books about the constellation Ursa Major, or the Dipper, which, in St. Nicholas for January, 1877 (vol. iv., p. 168), Professor Proctor has likened to a monkey climbing a pole. It is about the other title of this constellation, "Great Bear." I need not describe the group itself, for that has been done already by Professor Proctor in St. Nicholas for December, 1876.
Sailors, in very ancient times, were without compasses and charts, and when voyaging guided themselves by studying the situations and motions of the heavenly bodies. They saw that most of the stars passed up from the horizon and rose toward the zenith, the point right over head, and then dropped westward to hide themselves beyond the earth. After a time they noted some stars which never set, but every night, in fair weather, were seen at that side where the sun never appears, or, in other words, were seen at their left side, when their faces were toward the sunrise. They did not long hesitate how to use these stars. And when, during foul weather, the sailors were tossed to and fro, these same constant stars, that again appeared after the storm, indicated to them their true position, and, as it were, spoke to them. This caused them to give more exact study to the constellations in that same part of the heavens. None appeared more remarkable than that among which they reckoned seven of the brightest stars, taking up a large space. Some who watched this star-group, as it seemed to turn around in the sky, named it the "Wheel," or "Chariot." The Phœnician pilots called it, sometimes, "Parrosis," the Indicator, the Rule, or "Callisto," the Deliverance, the Safety of Sailors. But it was more commonly named "Doubé," signifying the "speaking constellation," or the "constellation which gives advice." Now, the word "Doubé" signified also to the Phœnicians a "she-bear," and the Greeks are supposed to have received and used the word in its wrong sense, and to have passed it down to us without correction. This explanation seems plausible to me; and now, whenever I see the star-group we call the "Dipper," I think how gladly it was hailed by poor storm-tossed sailors upon the narrow seas, in the early ages, before the "lily of the needle pointed to the pole."—Yours truly,
R. A. S.
Dear St. Nicholas: The flowers are all in bloom; it looks so pretty. Here is a little piece of poetry:
Lieutenant G——
Was lost in the sea,
He was found in the foam,
But he was carried home
To his wife,
Who was the joy of his life,
His lovely brunette,
His idolized pet.
She went to a ball,
And this is all.
I have a little sister named Henrietta, but we call her "Wackie," because when she cries she goes "Wackie, wackie, wackie!" I remain, your constant reader,
Rowena T. Ewing.
Camp Grant, A. T.
Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little army boy. The other day my papa went down to Mexico, and I went with him. The first day I rode fifty-seven miles on a mule; the next day, thirty-five miles; and the third day, forty miles. If you know any boy East, eleven years of age, who can do that, tell me his name. Lots of Indians out here.
Paul Compton.
Here is an account of how four enterprising girls from an inland district spent ten summer days by themselves at the sea-side.
Four "Island" Girls by the Sea.
For boys there are all sorts of real camping-out, fishing and hunting parties, and it's almost enough to set their sisters wild with envy. Nevertheless, "we girls"—four of us—succeeded one year in having a deal of holiday enjoyment all by ourselves out of the old sea. This is how we did it, what sort of place it was, and how we lived:
We engaged a room in a cottage close to the sea, not fifty miles from Boston. We paid one dollar per day for a medium-sized chamber, with the privilege of parlor, dining-room, kitchen, kitchen utensils, and china. Our cottage had fine sea-views from three sides, and roomy balconies all around, where the salt breezes came up fresh and strong. We had a large closet for our one trunk, not a Saratoga and not full of finery, for we had run away from work, company, fashion. We spent whole days in Balmoral and calico redingotes.
We took with us a few pounds of Graham flour, some fresh eggs, pickles, tumbler of jelly, plenty of delicately corned beef,—boiled and pressed,—salt and pepper and French mustard; some tea and coffee and condensed milk. Fresh vegetables, milk and fruits, could be obtained from neighbors; and fun it was to be one's own milkmaid and market merchant; but still more fun to play gypsy and forage for light driftwood for firing. Then, at a pinch, there were a baker and a fish-man within easy reach.
The place was quiet, and nobody disturbed us, by day or by night; and it was delightful to go to sleep, lulled by the music of the waves and pleasant breeze.
We took turns presiding over the meals of the day, and none but the day's caterer had any thought or care about that day's bill of fare.
The oldest of our party was "Aunty True," one of the real folks, and a confirmed Grahamite. The next in age was Helen Chapman, the head and front of the quartette; a good botanist and geologist, and acquainted with all manner of things that live in the sea, and from her we had delightful object lessons fresh from Nature. Next came I, and then Jo, the youngest of us, a girl of fifteen, ready to run wild on the least excuse. She was fairly quelled and awe-struck, however, at her first sight of the sea. "You'll never get me to go into that!" she exclaimed, fairly shuddering. Yet that very day she was enjoying, bare-foot, the cool, soft sand, and playing with the foamy wavelets as the tide came in. But she screamed like an Indian if but invited to plunge beneath the curling surf. There was every day fresh fun in the water,—we frolicked like fishes in their own element. And what ludicrous sights we enjoyed watching the bathers who came from the hotels and boarding-houses,—whole family parties, big and little!
Our party had fine weather, for in our ten days there was only a half day of cloud and rain; but it would have been a fresh delight to see the ocean in a storm.
The last of our pleasures was watching the sun rise out of the sea, a crimson streak, growing into the great red sun!
C. N. Eff.
Charleston, S. C.
Dear St. Nicholas: I would like to tell the boys and girls how to make a pretty little ornament. You take a shell, and bore two holes in each side, then run a piece of ribbon in each hole with a bow on the top, and it has a very pretty effect. It can hold knickknacks, or a plant; but if you want it for a plant, you must bore a hole in the bottom for drainage.—Your friend,
Carmen Balaguer.
E. M.—George Washington's wife was called "Lady" Washington out of respect for her husband's high position as President, at a time when titles of courtesy were sometimes given to people not of noble rank who were in authority. The title has always clung to Martha Washington, partly from custom, and partly also from the great reverence of all Americans for General Washington and his wife.
Florence Wilcox, M. B., Isabelle Roorbach, and Lillie M. Sutphen sent answers to E. M.'s question.
Baltimore, Md.
Dear St. Nicholas: I would like to tell you my experience with wild mice. Some time ago I spent the summer in the Sierra Nevada range. Our family had a little cabin right in the woods, built of single boards. One day our servant went to her valise, which had been left slightly open; to her surprise, she found, neatly packed away, in one corner, a small quantity of bird-seed; she at once accused a young friend, who was staying with us, of having put it there for fun; but the accused pleaded "not guilty," and the matter began to look mysterious. One day my papa took down a pair of heavy mining boots, which were hung from the rafters; he went to put his foot in, and found he couldn't; then he turned the boot upside down. A lot of bird-seed ran out! The mystery thickened. Another time a little dish of uncooked rice was left in the kitchen overnight. The next morning the rice had disappeared. Then we began to suspect mice, and hunted for the rice. It was three or four days before we found it, in a box containing sewing materials, on the top shelf of a cupboard. Then we took the same rice and put it in with some broken bits of cracker, and tied a string to one of the pieces. Papa left all on the kitchen floor. It had disappeared the next day, except the bit with the string; this the wise little mice had not touched. That night we heard pattering all over the house. Next day we began to hunt for the rice again; but it was only just before we left the cabin that we found it. It was in the tray of a trunk; and the end of the matter was, that the poor mice had all their trouble for nothing.
I am a little girl just nine and a half, and have every number of St. Nicholas, and have them all bound, and love it dearly.—Yours truly,
Lizette A. Fisher.
A correspondent sends us the following description of what she calls the "Island of Juan Fernandez," near Paris.
One of the most attractive places for out-door amusement, just outside of Paris, is a spot fitted out to be a counterpart of the Island of Juan Fernandez, described by Daniel de Foe in his story of Robinson Crusoe.
After leaving the railroad depot, you enter an omnibus on which are painted the words "Robinson Crusoe." This leaves you at an arch-way bearing the curious inscription: "A mimic island of Juan Fernandez, the abode of Robinson Crusoe, dear to the heart of childhood, and a reminder of our days of innocence." You pass under this with high hope, and are not disappointed.
Inside, you find a kind of gypsy camp. Groups of open "summer-houses," built of bark, unhewn wood, and moss, are clustered here and there. Some stand on the earth, others are in grottoes or by shady rocks, and some are even among the branches of the great trees. All these houses are meant for resting-places while you are being served with such delicacies as pleasure-seekers from Paris are wont to require. In each of those huts, which are in the trees, stands a waiter who draws up the luncheon, the creams, or ices, in a kind of bucket, which has been filled by another waiter below. All is done deftly and silently, and you are as little disturbed as was Elijah by the ravens who waited on him.
The trees in which these houses are built are large old forest-trees, each strong enough in the fork to hold safely the foundation of a small cottage; and the winding stairs by which you get up into the tree are hidden by a leafy drapery of ivy, which covers the trunk also, and hangs in fluttering festoons from limb to limb.
From one of these comfortable perches you look down upon a lively scene of foliage, flowers, greensward, gay costumes and frolicking children. The view is wide, and has many features that would be strange to "dear old Robinson Crusoe." His cabin is multiplied into a hamlet, and his hermit life is gone. But you still recognize the place as a modernized portrait of the island of De Foe's wonderful book. And, as if to furnish you with a fresh piece of evidence, yonder appears Robinson Crusoe himself, in his coat of skins, and bearing his musket and huge umbrella.
Instead of Man Friday, Will Atkins, and the rest, you see donkeys carrying laughing children and led by queer-looking old women. And you heave a little sigh when you think: "How few of these French boys and girls really know old Crusoe and his adventures! To them this charming place has nothing whatever to do with running away to sea, shipwrecks, cannibals, mutinies, and such things. It is nothing but a new kind of pleasure-ground to them."
However, everybody feels at home here, and so everybody is happy; for, after all, looking for happiness is much like the old woman's search for her spectacles, which all the time are just above her nose.
O dear delightful island, how glad we were to chance upon you right here in gay, care-free Paris! And what an enchanted day we spent amid your thousand delights and thronging memories!
C. V. N. C. U.
Here are two welcome little letters received some time ago from a boy and girl in Europe:
Nice, France.
Dear St. Nicholas: I am in Europe now, in Nice. I have seen a great deal already. Nice is a nice place. And it is the only city in the world that one may call "Nice" always. I can talk French now a little, enough to be understood. I go to the "Promenade des Anglais" by the sea every morning, and I like it very much. Nice is situated in the south-eastern part of France, very near Italy. It once did belong to Italy. It was given to Napoleon III. as a reward for helping the late king of Italy, Victor Emanuel II., to the throne of Sardinia. I get the St. Nicholas sent from home, and like the stories very much.—Your loving subscriber,
Charles Jastron.
(Age 12.)
Nice, France.
Darling St. Nicholas: I am a little girl seven years old, and I live in Nice. I enjoy myself very much here, and have a great deal of fun. I have nothing to do. I like it here very much. There are a great many mountains here, but now I do not know any more to write.—Your loving reader,
Nellie Jastron.
Pittsburgh, Penn.
Dear St. Nicholas: I have never written to you before, but I have thought about it several times. I live in the east end of the city. I like your magazine very much, and always read it through. I had a dispute to-day with a boy friend of mine. It was about the gypsies, who camp near our place every year. He said that not all people who lived that way were gypsies; but that only those who were descended from the Egyptians were so named. I did not agree with him, because, in the first place, I do not think that they are descended from the Egyptians, and, in the second place, I think that all people who live in that way are called gypsies, no matter what country they come from. I must now close.—Your constant reader,
Frank Ward.
New York, N. Y.
Dear St. Nicholas: Did you know that we once had musical watchmen in this country? Less than fifty years ago, it was quite usual in Pennsylvania for the watchmen to sing the passing hours during the night. I suppose the custom was brought over by the Germans, who settled in the Keystone State. I fancy it must have been sleepy work for the poor watchman, calling the quiet hours, and adding, as he always did, his little weather report; at least, he invented a very drowsy, sing-song sort of tune for it.
In these days of telegraphing, and other scientific improvements, we should think it a very uncertain, and rather stupid, way to judge of the weather, to say it was "past ten o'clock on a starry evening," or "a cloudy evening," or "a frosty morning." Now, we have only to pick up the morning paper, and consult "Old Probabilities," who nearly always forecasts truly. But in those times there were no telegraph wires running the length and breadth of the land, and no Signal Service, either, so that the regular cry of the watchman may have been held in high esteem; and, perhaps, the sleepy folk would raise an ear from the pillow to hear the "probabilities" for the coming day, and lie down again to arrange business or pleasure accordingly.
A hundred years ago the people of Philadelphia were startled by a famous cry of a watchman at dead of night, making every one who heard it wild with joy. It was just after the battle of Yorktown, the last of the Revolution, when Lord Cornwallis and his army surrendered to Washington. The bearer of the news of victory, entering Philadelphia, stopped an old watchman to ask the way to the State House, where Congress was in session, waiting for news from the army. As soon as the watchman heard the glad tidings, he started off on his rounds, singing out to his monotonous tune the remarkable words—
"Past four o'clock, Cornwallis is taken!"
Up flew the windows on all sides, and every ear was strained to catch the joyful sound. The old bell sent forth a glad peal, houses were thrown open and illuminated, and the streets were filled with happy people congratulating one another, paying visits, and drinking toasts; so that, could but one thousand of the seven thousand British soldiers captured that day by Washington have entered the city that night, they might have taken it without a struggle.—Yours very truly,
E. A. S.
St. James House, King's Lynn, Norfolk, England.
Dear St. Nicholas: A few days ago my brother and I had a little bazaar which I should like to tell you about. We had been collecting and making things for a good long time, so we had nearly forty, most of which we made ourselves, but some were given to us by friends. I copied some of the things out of "A Hundred Christmas Presents," in St. Nicholas for November, 1877. They were very pretty, especially the little wheelbarrow. We had a little refreshment stall with sweets, ginger-snaps, etc., and they sold more quickly than anything. We got £1, 1s., a guinea, which we sent to an orphan institution in London.
I like your magazine very much, I do not know which part is the best.—Yours truly,
M. Y. Gibson.
Bay Shore, Long Island.
Dear St. Nicholas: I lived in Germany over four years, so I know something about it. I should like to tell you about rafts on the Elbe.
They are of several kinds. Some are of boards all ready to be sold, others of round timber, just cut; another kind is of squared logs, and a fourth of both logs and boards. As the Elbe is not a rapid river, the unaided progress of a raft is very slow. So each man on it has a pole with an iron point on one end, while the other end fits to the shoulder; and the men pole along most of the time. To each end of the raft there are fastened three or four oars about twenty feet long; and with these they steer. The Elbe is so shallow that in the summer time boys walk through it; but in the spring the snow melting in the mountains at the river's source (Bohemia) makes freshets which carry off animals, boards, planks and sometimes houses. Under the arch-ways of the bridge at Dresden during these freshets, there are suspended large nets, two corners of each of which are fastened to the railing of the bridge, the lower side is heavily weighted and dropped, and so the net catches anything which comes down the stream.—Yours respectfully,
Frank Bergh Taylor.
Dear St. Nicholas: I wish that you would tell me how to make skeleton leaves. I have seen some done just lovely, and so I think that I should like to try—even if I don't succeed—to make some myself. I am going to the country this summer to stay quite a long time, and so I shall have a chance to get a great many different kinds of leaves.—Your constant reader,
Irene C. W.
Irene's question is answered in Volume III. of St. Nicholas, pages 115 and 116,—the number for December, 1875.
The Voyages and Adventures of Vasco da Gama. By George M. Towle. Eight Full-page Illustrations. Published by Lee & Shepard, Boston. In 294 pages of clear type this book gives a cleverly condensed account of the most interesting events in the life of Vasco da Gama, the Portuguese navigator who first found the way from Europe to India around the Cape of Good Hope. His daring nobility of character and true and exciting adventures are presented in such a way as to delight boys and girls, and yet the romance that cannot be taken from the story is not allowed to interfere with historical truth. As the first of a series entitled "Heroes of History," this volume makes a good start in a pleasant and fruitful field.