DARK SUNS.
Here's something strange,—so strange that, may be, you 'd better inquire further into it. I give you the paragram just as it comes to me:
"The bright star Sirius, itself a vast flaming sun, has a companion which is also a sun,—nearly seven times as large as our own,—but which is dark, and gives no light at all. This dark sun was seen through a very powerful telescope in 1862, and it is thought that there are a great many like it, although no others have been found."
[THE LETTER-BOX.]
To the little girl who asks if Bryant wrote any poem that would interest "us children" and to all young readers of St. Nicholas:
Yes, indeed. You will find in the collected works of this beloved American writer many songs and poems that you can understand with ease and read with delight. A good, pure-hearted man, like William Cullen Bryant; a man so honest, so simple and earnest, so truly great, that with a deep knowledge of the world about him he worshiped God, honored his fellow-man, and loved nature as a child loves its mother—such a man could not be far removed from young sympathies. He could not be a poet without singing, sometimes, just the song that little folks would love to hear.
And children, themselves, were dear to him. More than once in the course of an acquaintance that dates back to our own early youth, we have seen his eyes light with pleasure at some incident of boy and girl life. Often his kindly interest and hearty words about St. Nicholas have given us better hope and courage to try to make the magazine just what it should be. "Good!" from his quiet lips was well worth striving for. His standard in everything was high. Hear "The Old Man's Counsel," which, through his own verse, he once gave to his own heart.
"Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long,
And this fair change of seasons passes slow,
Gather and treasure up the good they yield—
All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts
And kind affections, reverence for thy God
And for thy brethren; so when thou shalt come
Into these barren years, thou mayst not bring
A mind unfurnished and a withered heart."
But Bryant was not always solemn in his teaching. If you like playful, sprightly verses that yet are full of poetry, read his "Robert of Lincoln," where
"Merrily swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee."
And while the poet is telling you of these singers of the air, read "The Return of The Birds," written in the early spring of 1864, when, as you know, the country was in great trouble, and the birds saw many a sorry sight. If you like a beautiful fairy-tale in verse, all about children and the elves or sprites that children love, read his "Little People of The Snow." There also is the pretty legend of "The White-footed Deer"; or if you bigger boys and girls wish something more weird and exciting, read his tragic story of "The Strange Lady." Then, on some lovely autumn day, when "the melancholy days are come," and the procession of flowers has nearly passed by, read his verses "To the Fringed Gentian." There are other poems in the collection quite as easy to understand as these. Some of the most admired indeed, that would seem "hard" to many a tall youngster at the head of the school-class, were written in the poet's own boyhood. His most famous poem, "Thanatopsis," was composed when he was but eighteen years of age. When you, too, are eighteen you will more than enjoy it, if you do not do so already. But you will like a song of his youth,—lines "To a Waterfowl,"—and the beautiful poem entitled "June," which has been very much quoted of late because of the fulfillment of his wish that when he should come to lie at rest within the ground, he might be laid there
"in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound."
Another beautiful poem, called "Waiting by the Gate," will be quite clear to many of you; and one and all can understand "An Invitation to the Country," addressed to Julia, the poet's devoted daughter, the joy of his old age, who brightened his declining years, and to the last was the faithful companion of his home.
You remember the story of his boyhood days that Mr. Bryant told you in these pages nearly two years ago? Good as that story is, there is a picture in his lovely home at Roslyn that could tell you even better things. It is the portrait of his beautiful young mother, which for years has shone upon him from the walls of his bedroom with such a strong, sweet, loving look in her face that it makes one feel sure that he was reared in a happy home, that his noble, useful manhood sprang from a sunny, well-directed boyhood. Long ago the good mother passed from earth, and now the gate through which she passed has opened for him in his serene old age, the gate of which he wrote:
"And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,
And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near,
As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye
Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.
"I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart,
Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;
And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me."
Dear St. Nicholas: One of your little readers has found the word "mutch" in one of my poems, and inquires its meaning, and I was rather surprised, on looking into the dictionaries, to discover that it was not there. I have heard it used from childhood,—applied to anything tied around the head in kerchief fashion. The word is in use in old legends, and possibly comes from the French mouchoir, "handkerchief;" but some better linguist than myself must say whether this suggestion is correct. To show, how the word is used, I can refer my questioner to the little story of "Gertrude's Bird," or the woodpecker, that is said to "fly about with a red mutch on her head." The legend is in Dasent's "Popular Tales from the Norse."
And I may say here that I am almost glad I made that mistake about the white-throated sparrow, since receiving a note from a lady who writes from among the Berkshire hills, where the sweet call of this bird is constantly repeated. It is very pleasant to know that a little girl out in that beautiful region honors me so much as to recite my verse when she hears the fresh note of this charming songster, as this lady tells me her little daughter does.
Surely the songs of our wild birds are far better than any songs that can be made about them; but if these serve to remind us how delightful the winged singers of the deep forests and lonely mountain-sides are, they are perhaps worth while.—Truly your friend,
Lucy Larcom.
Arlington Hotel, Cobourg, Canada, July 10, 1878.
My Dear St. Nicholas: Do you remember the little boy who traveled with you on the train last month from Meadville, Pa., to Jamestown, N.Y., when you were returning from California, and who promised to write you all about his visit to Niagara Falls? I have not forgotten my promise, but we have only just settled down for the rest of the summer at Cobourg, Canada. Well, we reached Niagara that night and staid there two or three days, and I enjoyed it so much. The fall on the American side is much smaller than the Canadian, and I remembered what you told me about part of the rock having fallen away, so that now, instead of being shaped like a horseshoe, it is like a Y. The old table rock has fallen away too. We drove every day over Goat Island, the new Park, around all the beautiful drives, and across the bridges. The best view is on the Canadian side, just after you cross the bridge, and then you have a grand view of all the falls at once. We drove out to Lundy's Lane, and a man came out and invited us to go up Scott's Tower and see the battle-field. Papa and mamma had been up some years ago, so said they did not care to go again, as the stairs were hard to climb.
I said I would go, so the man took me up and showed me the battle-field and the lakes through an opera-glass. When I got into the carriage I thanked him for his kindness, and you may imagine my surprise when he asked me for fifty cents: of course I had to give it to him, but it was all I had. Papa and mamma laughed at me all the way home, but papa gave me the half dollar back afterward. We spent a week at St. Catherine's Wells, visited Toronto, Belleville, Napanee and Kingston, and went over on a lake steamer to spend the Fourth of July at Oswego, such a pretty town in New York on Lake Ontario. Cobourg is a pretty little town, too, right on the lake, and the Arlington Hotel, where we are staying, is very nice, with nice shade-trees and lawns. Do you know, dear St. Nicholas, I always thought of you as an old gray-bearded man, like the pictures of Santa Claus; but now that I know you and have talked to you, I shall enjoy St. Nicholas more than ever.—Your friend and constant reader,
Calvert Wilson.
New York.
Dear St. Nicholas: I thought I would tell you about some people I heard of who like to talk to each other, and everything they say begins with the same letter. How queer it must sound. I send you a sentence: Sarah said she saw Susy sewing small shoes swiftly. I wish some of your scholars would try it, and see who could send you a sentence with the words beginning with Z.—I remain, your loving
Maud.
Albany, N.Y.
Dear St. Nicholas: Perhaps some of your other boys, who, like myself, wish to grow big and strong, would like to hear about the largest human being ever known,—Goliath of Gath,—a person almost large enough to need introduction by installments, but he is so well known that the ceremony is needless.
As nearly as I can make out, he was between ten and eleven feet high. When he went to battle he wore a coat-of-mail weighing one hundred and fifty-six pounds,—as heavy as a good-sized man; and the rest of his armor amounted to at least one hundred and fifteen pounds more. The head of his spear weighed eighteen pounds,—as heavy as six three-pound cans of preserved fruit,—and this he carried at the end of a long and heavy shaft!
Think what might happen if a man equally big and strong should live among us now, and insist on taking part in our games and sports! If he joined a boat-club, a curious six-oared crew could be made up, with him at one side and five other men opposite. And just imagine him "booming along" on a velocipede! If he joined the champion Nine, and hit a ball, where would that ball go to? If he called for a "shoulder-high" ball, wouldn't the catcher have to climb a stepladder to catch behind the giant? And if he threw a ball to a baseman, wouldn't he be apt to throw it clean through him?
Probably no one can answer these questions, but they are interesting, all the same, to yours sincerely,
R.V.D.
Lancaster, Pa.
Dear St. Nicholas: Can you please tell me whether there are fire-flies in England or not? We have had several discussions, and I would like so much to know.—Yours truly,
Amy.
According to all accounts within our reach there are in England no fire-flies like those of the United States. But there are glow-worms there, and, sometimes, the male glow-worm (which has wings), has been called a "fire-fly." It belongs to a branch (genus) of the family Lampyridæ, which is also the family of its fire-fly cousins, but it is not shaped quite like them, and bears a different scientific name.
Philadelphia, Pa.
Dear St. Nicholas: I have seen so many little stories written by girls of my age, that I thought I would write also—about iron. It is a very useful metal, without which we would be very much at a loss. Without iron, we could not cook very well; we could not build such houses as we do, because the nails are made of iron, and some of the tools; nor could we have gas, for the gas is conveyed through the different parts of the houses and city by iron pipes. Nor could we have steam-boats, for the machinery which makes them move is made of iron. The buckets which we have to carry water in have iron hoops. The doors have iron locks. The ink with which we write has iron in it. Last, but not least, we have iron in our blood, enough to make a ten-penny nail.
I will tell you of a trip we took to the lead mines. We were spending the summer of 1877 in Wythville, Virginia, and there became acquainted with a family boarding in the same hotel as ourselves. One day they invited us to go with them to see the mines; we had a very long but pleasant ride, and ate our lunch on the grass in the woods, then went on, and at last arrived at the mines. The man who was outside told us that he was "going to harness the ladies' sleeping car;" the mouth of the cave was so low that a man of ordinary height could hardly stand upright in it: when we started they hitched two carts which were used to carry the ore out of the mine, and put a little donkey to it; the man called the donkey Jenny; we had two or three tallow candles which would not stay lighted; as we advanced further, the water began to leak from the rocks, and the car ran off track; but when we were inside the mine, we were more than rewarded for what we had suffered. The men were working in groups, each group having a lantern, and the lead itself shined; a few men went up a pair of stairs to nearly the top of the mine; but all these beauties could not induce me stay a minute longer than I was obliged, and I can assure you we were all very thankful when we arrived at the hotel, to find a nice supper and warm beds waiting for us.—Your little friend,
Joyce.
Junction City, Kansas.
Dear St. Nicholas: I like to read you very much, especially "Under the Lilacs" and "Dab Kinzer." I live in Junction City, and have a very pleasant home. We have a great many wild flowers growing on the prairies. One of them is called the soap plant. Our teacher says its name is "Yucca." It has long slim leaves with sharp edges, and the flower grows on all sides of the stalk, which sometimes is four feet high: the flowers are white. Then we have a sensitive rose. The rose looks like a round purple silk tassel. We have lots more of odd flowers, which I will tell you about some other time.—Yours truly,
Mary Keys.
Bunker Hill.
Dear St. Nicholas: I read an article lately against nicknames and spelling names with "ie," but I don't agree with it. I think when people are grown up their real names look better, but at home, among one's own friends, a pet name is pretty. I don't like to see a nickname in a marriage or death notice, but I do like it for young folks and in the family. They say it is a French fashion to spell names "ie." Whether it is true or not I like it, for all wise people say against it. I know I am only a little girl, and my opinion may not be worth much, but I mean to stand up for it, whatever they say. I suppose every one has a right to her own opinion, and if others don't agree with me, they needn't; but I don't like them to call me "silly" because I don't think as they do. I am willing they should have their own opinions, but I want the same privilege,—isn't that fair? I don't like such nicknames as "Tom" and "Bob," or "Mollie" and "Sallie," but like such as "Charlie" or "Hattie," and I think they look prettier spelt so than they do spelt "Charley" or "Hatty." If other people like them so, I am willing; but I want the right to follow my own choice in the matter, whether others like it or not. I think people have a right to spell their own names as they please.—Your friend,
Allie Bertram.
P.S.—My parents think my name is too pretty to be used so often as to get common, and so they call me "Allie," and I like it. I don't want any one but my friends who love me, and whom I love, to call me "Alma."
Dear St. Nicholas: May I tell you about a miniature fountain my sister and myself made long ago? It was lovely when finished, and fully repaid us for our labor.
We first chose a board, about four feet long, and two feet wide, on the sides of which we nailed laths, to hold the earth we laid upon it, after having bored two holes, one near the middle and the other close in the corner. We then placed the board on a box, and set a barrel near it on blocks that stood about a foot higher than the board.
We now cut a gourd in two, and making holes through the centers, fitted them over those in the board, the large one for the fountain-basin, the small one for a little spring in the corner.
The next thing was to connect this with the barrel by pipes. For this we used reeds, placing a small upright piece in the center of the middle basin, and joining to this a larger reed which ran beneath the board, and was let into the barrel near the bottom. The spring was finished in the same manner, with this exception, that there was no upright piece in the middle. We now searched the woods for moss, bits of twigs, and even some tiny pine and cedar trees, which we planted with other things in the earth banked upon the board. We arranged a small rockery with vines trailing over it; we made paths covered with sand; and laid out tiny dells, and hills and plains. We lined the fountain-basin with shells and the "spring" with moss, and made little water-courses for the overflow; and, after it was all completed, we filled the barrel with water; and, lo! we had the prettiest little garden imaginable, with a fountain spurting and plashing in the center, and a pretty little mossy spring in the corner.
Lillie F. Fales.
Sitapur, Oude, India.
Dear St. Nicholas: The people here live in little mud huts clustered together in rude villages. They worship grotesque idols, wear very odd clothing, and eat strange food. Carpenters, and tailors, and shoe-makers, use their toes almost as much and as well as they use their fingers, and men do the sewing and a great deal of the cooking. Little girls very, very seldom go to school, and are betrothed when they are babies. Little boys do not play ball or such games, but they are very fond of flying the kite.
There are monkeys here by hundreds. They live in groves and eat fruits. These are not monkeys which hang up by their tails at night to go to sleep,—they live in the mountains,—but great big fellows like plump dogs, only their fore-legs are short and their "feet" are hands.
The other day I saw a fight between some monkeys and about a hundred crows. The monkeys wounded one poor crow, and it hopped about upon the ground unable to fly. Then the crows settled around it and tried to carry it off; but they could not. The monkeys charged down upon them, and then the crows charged the monkeys. It was an exciting time. Seeing the crows were getting the worst of the battle I came to their rescue, but the monkeys charged upon me, and I had to run. At last, I carried off the poor crow, hoping to cure it, but it died the same day. The other crows followed me home, and made a most dismal noise, as if they could not trust me.
Here the squirrels are quite small and not at all wild. I saw a little boy, the other day, walking along with a saucy little squirrel perched upon his shoulder.
In the schools in the villages here, the boys sit upon the ground, write upon wooden slates, and study aloud. They have wonderful memories and commit everything, though they do not understand very much of it. It is much better to understand every lesson as we go along, isn't it?
Nearly all the little boys in India wear only a long coat which comes down to their knees. It is so very warm here for most of the year that the very little folks go without any clothing at all.
There are 60,000 soldiers in India, sent from England. One of the regiments is in Sitapur, where I live, and they have a brass band which makes first-rate music. They also have bagpipes.
In India there are persons from almost every nation—Hindus, Arabians, Chinese, Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen, Frenchmen, Americans. There are twenty-three languages native to India. A great many Indians speak English, which is taught in all the schools, as Greek or Latin or French is taught at home.
But, although this is a great country, there is no place like America, especially to Americans. Three cheers for the boys and girls of America!
J.E.S.
Nauvoo, Ill.
Dear St. Nicholas: Here is something about my sister Lu and a strange pet she had: Her childhood was spent in a wild, new country. I cannot remember that she was ever amused with dolls and baby-houses. She made amends, however, by surrounding herself with kittens, dogs, fawns, ponies, squirrels, opossums, 'coons, and various birds, which, in turn, she petted and loved.
She lived in the Red River country of Louisiana. The climate there is so warm that out-door play may be had at any season.
The summer she was thirteen, with an older brother and other friends, she went fishing on the lake, whose waters were dark and still, studded here and there with cypress-trees in close ranks. Heavy timber filled the valley surrounding the lake.
After catching a full supply of fish, some of which were cooked on the spot, brother Ed., in wandering about, captured a young alligator, and led it along to where sister Lu was seated, saying: "I've brought you a new pet, Lu." She adopted the little monster at once, and it was carried home, and turned loose in the creek below the house.
In a few days the alligator was quite at home. It would eat anything which was brought to it, and soon learned to come to a call, seeming more delighted with notice than with what there was to eat. It whined and barked like a dog, and wagged its big tail when pleased. It enjoyed being patted on the head, and would caper around, the most awkward thing that ever attempted a frolic.
In a few months, the pet became so large and familiar as to be a nuisance. He would track up sister Lu through the field and about the garden, showing his scent to be true and keen. Often when Lu was seated, perhaps, at her tatting, he would come to her feet and lie as still as if carved out of stone, waiting for a little notice. He soon grew to like eating the young goslings and chickens, and began to climb the fence, and look longingly at the young pigs. At last the scaly, good-natured creature disappeared. He probably made his way to a neighboring bayou, and was never seen again by any little girl's eyes.
But Lu has never forgotten him, although probably he remembers nothing now of the good times of his youth.—Yours truly,
G.M.K.
The Witchery of Archery. By Maurice Thompson. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
Archery has become so popular, of late, that this book will be of interest to all boys and girls, as well as grown people, who practice shooting with bows and arrows. Mr. Thompson, the author, wrote the articles on Archery in Scribner's Monthly, which have excited such an interest in bow-shooting, and he probably knows more about the matter than any one else in the country.
There is much in the book about the various pleasures and advantages of archery, which are very many; but there are also a great many plain and practical directions to those who are unaccustomed to the use of a bow and arrows. The author tells the young archer just what to do and how to do it, and, as no one should use a bow who does not know how to use it properly, such directions are very valuable, and should be carefully read and followed.