They looked up the canal, and finally discovered a naked arm waving frantically from behind a barn that stood near the water. "They must be behind that barn," said Tom. "Why, the mosquitoes will eat 'em alive. I'll take their clothes to them right away." So saying, Tom gathered up the shirts, trousers, and hats of the two unhappy divers, and ran with them to their owners. He found Harry and Joe crouched behind the barn, chattering with cold, and surrounded by clouds of eager mosquitoes. "We've been here half an hour," cried Joe, "and the mosquitoes would have finished us in another half hour. I think my right leg is nearly gone already."
"And I know I must have lost a gallon of blood," said Harry.
The boys hurriedly dressed themselves, and returning to the boat, helped to put it on the wagon; and with the wet shoes hanging from the cart-rungs they started on their ride to Warrensburg. It was a hot and tedious ride, and as the wagon had no springs, the boys were bumped so terribly that they ached all over. They tried to sing, but the words were bumped out of them in the most startling way; and after singing one verse of the "Star-spangled Banner" in this fashion,
"The St-t-tar-spangl-led-led ba-a-an-na-na—"
they gave it up.
About four o'clock they reached Warrensburg, and after getting some dry sugar to replace that which had been mixed with canal water, they launched the boat and rowed up the river. They found it a narrow stream, with a rapid current and a good depth of water. After their tiresome ride the smooth motion of the boat seemed delightful, and they were really sorry when they found it was so late that they must camp for the night.
They chose a pleasant sandy spot between the river and the edge of a thick wood. The opposite bank was also thickly wooded, and they felt as if they were in the depths of a wilderness, though in reality there were houses quite near at hand. They pitched their tent, made a good supper—of which they were in need, for they had eaten very little at noon—and then "turned in."
For some reason—perhaps because the mosquitoes had so cruelly maltreated him—Joe was not sleepy, and after having lain awake a long time while the other boys were sleeping soundly, he began to feel lonesome. He heard a great many mysterious noises, as any one who lies awake in a tent always does. The melancholy call of the loon sounded ghostly, and the sighing of the wind in the trees seemed to him like the breathing of huge animals. After a while he found himself getting nervous as well as lonesome, and imagined that he saw shadows of strange objects passing in front of the tent. By-and-by he distinctly heard the twigs and branches crackling, as somebody or something moved through the woods. The noise came nearer, and suddenly it flashed upon Joe that a bear was approaching. He crept carefully to the opening of the tent, and putting his head out, saw indistinctly a large animal moving slowly in the shadow of the bushes only three or four rods from him.
Joe lost no time in waking up the other boys, cautioning them as he did so not to make the least noise. "There's a bear close by the tent," he whispered. "I've been listening to him for a long while, and just now I saw him."
Harry immediately grasped the gun, both barrels of which he had loaded before going to sleep. Tom wished that he had the hatchet, but as it had been left in the boat, he had no weapon but his penknife. Thus armed, the two crept stealthily out of the tent to fight the bear, leaving Joe and Jim in a very unhappy state of mind, with nothing to defend themselves against the bear, in case he should attack the tent, except a tooth-brush and a lantern.
The outline of the animal could be seen, but Tom and Harry could not make out which end of it was its head. "You must shoot him just behind the shoulder," whispered Tom; "that's the only spot where you can kill a bear." Harry said nothing, but watched carefully to see the animal move. Presently it threw up either its head or tail—the boys could not tell which—and started toward them. Harry forgot all about shooting at the shoulder, but in his excitement fired at the animal generally, without picking out any particular spot in which to plant his shot.
The effect of the shot was surprising. The bear set up a tremendous bellow, and by the flash of the gun the boys saw their dreaded enemy galloping away, with its horns and tail in the air. Tom burst into a loud laugh. "Come out, Joe," he cried. "Your bear's gone home to be milked—that is, if Harry hasn't mortally wounded her."
Fortunately Harry had made a miss; and he found his whole charge of shot the next morning in the trunk of a big white birch-tree. The innocent cow that Joe had mistaken for a bear was, however, so thoroughly frightened that she did not come near the camp again.
"I stick to it that it was a bear," said Joe, as the boys were wrapping themselves in their blankets. "Cows go to roost at sunset. Suppose it did bellow: how do you know that bears don't bellow when they are shot?"
"How about the horns, Joe?" asked Tom.
"There's horned owls—why shouldn't there be horned bears? Anyway, I believe it was a bear, and I shall stick to it." And to this day Joe believes—or thinks he does—that he had a very narrow escape from a ferocious bear on the banks of the Schroon.
The robin sings on the topmost bough of the spreading maple-tree,
Where the cool green leaves to the whispering breeze are nodding merrily;
The sunbeams bright from the azure sky go frolicking here and there,
And the breath of the clover blossom lies sweet on the summer air,
And under the trees so restfully, where the shadows softest lie,
Like a woodland nymph in her netted couch between fair earth and sky,
Behold our dainty darling, safe hidden from friends away,
Content with the merry sunshine, the robin, and breeze to stay.
"Oh dear! such fun! Don't I wish just for once I could be a rich lady's little girl, and wear a white dress and slippers, and a blue sash ever so wide, and curls in my hair! I do wish a fairy could fly right out of the sky this minute, and give me things I want! Oh, dear me!"
Little Madge sat perched on the iron fence surrounding a handsome house, within which a birthday party was going on merrily. It was dark outside, and the street lamps were not bright enough to betray this little watcher to the gaze of the young people who were dancing under the light of brilliant chandeliers, and sending the sweet music of their happy voices out through the open windows into the silent street, where a few moments before little Madge Lee had been trying to sell matches. So she had ceased her cry of "Matches! matches!" which seemed so feeble in comparison to the sounds of merry music that filled the street as she came slowly along, and had clambered like a little monkey to the top of the iron fence, where at last she sat securely, watching the good time going on inside the beautiful rooms.
Madge had never in all the eight years of her life owned such things as a white dress, slippers, or sash. And as for "curls in her hair," her own round head was like a boy's, so closely was the dark hair cut.
Madge, with several others as unfortunate as herself, lived with an old woman who cared for them only according to the pennies they could bring in to her each night. Whether the pennies were begged or stolen or honestly earned made little difference to her. The children were all waifs and strays whom nobody owned or seemed to care for, and, with the exception of little Madge, none of them had ever known a parent's love. Her father died when she was a baby, and after a few years' struggle with poverty, her dear mother had followed him, leaving her child to the tender mercies of Mrs. McLane. For two years Madge had lived with this woman, roaming the streets by day, and sleeping on a handful of straw at night. She was scolded when she failed to bring in her usual amount of pennies, oftener whipped than scolded, and never spoken kindly to except by some kind-hearted stranger in the street.
On this night her little heart had seemed more than ever despondent and weary, for people didn't want her matches, and pushed her aside when she would have offered them. And she was just about ready to cry, when the sound of music fell upon her ear, and drew her toward the house from whence it proceeded.
While she sat upon the railing, intent upon the scene before her, a voice at her side startled her.
"Is it here ye are, Madge Lay? Bad luck to ye, thin, won't ye be afther catchin' the lickin' from Granny McLane for not sellin' yer matches! Sure ye needn't be invyin' the stoyle of yer betthers as kin dance, for lookat!" and seizing what little remained to her of a skirt, Biddy O'Hara commenced a caper on her toes in such a way as made Madge laugh outright. In an instant Biddy dropped flat on the ground under the fence, while Madge, in a vain attempt to follow her example, caught her dress in the railing, and hung helpless, just as a lady, who had been near the window, looked out to see where the laugh came from.
Poor, frightened Madge! She was seen by the lady, who called to her, kindly, "What is the trouble, little girl? can't you get down?"
"Whisht! aisy, Madge; don't spake a wurrid for yer life!" was whispered by Biddy from her hiding-place.
But Madge's fright vanished at the kindly words and tone, and she answered: "Please, lady, I'm caught in the rail; but I wasn't a-doin' any harm, ma'am. I'll go as soon as I can get loose, please, lady."
"Arrah, thin, Madge Lay, if ye bethray me here, I'll have it out wid ye afther—now moind!" came again from the frightened Biddy, who had really nothing to be afraid of, only that her pocket held three stolen handkerchiefs, and her heart a guilty feeling that weighed like lead.
Meanwhile the lady had sent a servant out to release Madge from her predicament, and bade him also bring the child to the door. There she gave Madge a plate of ice-cream, and told her to sit down on the step and eat it. "It is late for so young a child to be out alone. How happens it so with you, little girl?" she asked.
And Madge replied, simply, "Trying to sell matches, ma'am. And I just stopped to see the fun inside here, that's all; and I happened to laugh, ma'am, and was scared, and stuck on the fence when I was tryin' to get down."
At last Madge finished her ice-cream, gave the plate to the servant, and thanking him (for the lady had returned to the children in the parlor), went down the steps with a bright face.
What she and Biddy talked about after that needn't be told here; but what Biddy did is rather important to know, because but for that particular thing I doubt if this story of "Little Madge" would have been told. A few moments more Madge watched the party, climbing the fence again in order to see better, while Biddy, in her rage over Madge's good luck, revenged herself in her own favorite way—a good slap on the little bare foot which hung over the railing.
The front door stood open, and the light from the hall chandelier shone upon something that glittered on the door-mat. The servant was not in sight; the merriment in the parlors was increasing; the way was open to any child who might see and covet the gold locket which lay ready to be picked up either by honest or dishonest hands. And Biddy O'Hara was just the child to creep up the steps as she did, and with just such naughty hands as hers pick up the locket, and, after one instant's examination of it, slip it into the pocket in which were the three stolen handkerchiefs.
But rapid as had been the girl's examination of the locket, she had been noticed by Madge as she sat on her high seat. However, she kept quiet about her discovery as presently she and Biddy went home through the lonely streets; but never had detective sharper eyes to watch than had Madge, who used her blue orbs to the best advantage before she tumbled down upon her share of the straw that night, and prepared to sleep—or rather appeared to prepare for sleep; for not one step toward slumber-land would the little girl go until the locket had been removed from the hole in the wall where Biddy had so slyly put it.
And so it happened that when, by-and-by, Biddy and all the others were sleeping, Madge crept over to the hole, and returned with the locket in her own possession. Then she slept too, and the locket remained safely hidden in the little girl's dress until she arose in the early morning.
"Now, thin, Madge Lay," screamed Mrs. McLane, shaking her finger at the child, "here's thim matches av yourn, an' moind ye don't come home forninst the eyes av me widout ye've sold the blissed lot, ivery wan av 'em, or it's sorra a taste av supper ye'll git the noight." So Madge was pushed out and up the steps into the glad sunshine so grateful to her. And eagerly she began to search for the house in which the party had been given the night before. It had been a strange street to Madge, and she could not quite locate it again, though she walked until her little feet ached, and she finally sat down on the curbstone of a pleasant shady avenue to rest awhile.
Madge grew discouraged. She looked up at the blue far-off sky, and dimly remembered when people had explained to her that her mamma and papa, poor as they had been in this world, had gone to live there and be happy for evermore. She remembered how she had cried, and how her mother had kissed her the very last thing, and then suddenly turned so pale and cold that the little girl grew frightened, and cried harder than ever in her life before. She hadn't had a kiss since that time from anybody; and how the little motherless heart yearned for just one more warm loving caress from the dear mother who "lived in the sky," as the child expressed it! So when presently she saw a lady and child at the basement window of the house opposite, she went over, and, kneeling at the window, offered a box of matches for sale. The lady noticed the traces of Madge's tears, and kindly inquired the cause as she bought and paid for the matches. Little Madge replied:
"I was wanting to be kissed, ma'am, and wishing for my mother in heaven, and I was so—so tired with looking for a lady who had her locket stole, ma'am, and I watched where the girl hid it, and was goin' to take it back, but I can't find the street, nor house, nor anything, ma'am; and I wish I had a mother to hold me in her lap like you hold your little girl. It must be nice to have a mother."
"Poor little girl!" said the lady, and then she suddenly added: "Come inside, please. I'll let you in, and then I want you to go up stairs with me."
Much astonished, Madge obeyed, and followed the lady up to a pleasant room where a gentleman was at work amid easels, and half-finished pictures, and the pretty confusion of an artist's studio.
"Edward, you wanted a model yesterday," said the lady. "Here's a child who might do for your street picture. See, she carries her matches with her—just the thing."
And so little Madge earned a whole silver dollar for half a day's standing in one position before the artist, who was delighted with his model, and made a charming likeness of her, matches, ragged dress, bare feet, and all. The child left the locket with her new friend to be taken care of until she might find the owner, and then went crying matches through the streets, with a happy heart, little dreaming of what would result from her morning's work.
Only a few days after that a visitor to the artist's studio was admiring his latest picture, called "The Model Match Girl."
"What a strange title?" she said.
And he laughed as he replied: "Yes, I gave it that name to please my wife, who brought me the girl. She was really a model in regard to honesty." And then he told the story of the locket, and of the gratitude of the little girl for the ice-cream the kind owner of the locket had given her; and finally the locket was produced, and recognized by the visitor as her own.
"It must have fallen from my chain while I talked to the child, and yet the dishonest girl got hold of it, after all, before my little match girl had seen it. How I wish I could find her!"
Said the artist in reply: "Well, the girl is coming in a day or two to look at the picture, and I will send her to you. I had no idea that it was you from whom the locket had been stolen. It is strange indeed!"
And thus ere very long Madge met her first kind friend, and was led to tell the whole story of her pitiful life and craving for love. And at last, through the lady's continued kindness, little Madge was transferred with many other little children from the crowded, noisy, and unwholesome street which had so long been her home, to the care of those whose business it is to take just such poor orphaned little ones to new and happy homes far off in the country, where warm, kind hearts are willing and anxious to adopt them, and bring them up to useful womanhood.
Madge wrote a letter to the lady not long ago, and after telling about her happy times in her new home, she added, "And, oh! Mrs. ——, this dear lady here kisses me good-night always, and it feels just as if I had a mother after all."
Soon after her exciting chase the Constitution sailed from Boston in search of the British frigate Guerrière, whose Captain (Dacres) had boastfully enjoined the Americans to remember that she was not the Little Belt. On the 19th of August, 1812, the Constitution fell in with her, and Hull skillfully managed to lay his vessel alongside the British frigate, to have a battle at close quarters. The Guerrière opened fire at once; the Constitution kept silent for a while. As the shot from the English frigate began to make havoc on the Constitution, Hull's second in command (Lieutenant Morris) asked permission to open fire. "Not yet," quietly said Hull. The request was soon repeated. "Not yet," was the calm reply. A moment afterward, Hull, filled with intense excitement, shouted, "Now, boys, pour it into them!"
This command was obeyed with terrible effect. The guns of the Constitution were double-shotted and did fearful work. The frigates were only half-pistol-shot distance from each other. The excitement on both sides was intense. "Hull her! hull her!" shouted Lieutenant Morris. "Hull her! hull her!" shouted the crew in response, for they instantly comprehended the pun. Very soon the Guerrière was a shivered, shorn, and helpless wreck, rolling like a log in the trough of the sea. Hull sent an officer on board to inquire of Dacres whether he had struck his flag. Looking up and down, Dacres coolly replied, "Well, I don't know: our mizzenmast is gone, our mainmast is gone, and, upon the whole, you may say we have struck our flag."
This victory greatly inspirited the Americans, and astonished the English. Hull was highly honored by the citizens and Congress, from which he received valuable tokens of regard. The London Times said, "The new enemy, unaccustomed to such triumphs, is likely to be rendered insolent and confident by them."
At mid-autumn, 1812, Captain Jacob Jones, in the fast-sailing sloop of war Wasp, achieved a notable victory over the British war schooner Frolic, convoying six merchantmen, four of which were well armed. They fought at close quarters, under very little sail, and soon became entangled, when the crew of the Wasp made their way to the deck of the Frolic just after it was swept by a raking broadside. They found no one to oppose them. A few surviving officers stood on the quarter-deck, most of them wounded. Lieutenant Biddle, who led the boarding party, hauled down the British flag. When the vessels separated both masts of the Frolic, with the tattered rigging, fell upon the deck, which was covered with the dead. Two hours after the victory the British ship of war Poictiers appeared, and captured the crippled Wasp with the more crippled Frolic. Nevertheless, the news of the victory was received with great joy in the United States, and Jones was the recipient of many honors.
Precisely a month after this victory a more important one was achieved by Decatur with the frigate United States. On October 26, near the island of Madeira, he gave chase to a British vessel of war, and overtook her. An action was immediately begun at long range, but soon afterward they engaged at close quarters. When the battle had lasted half an hour, the shot of the United States carried away her antagonist's mizzenmast. Then her main and foretop masts fell, and she was dreadfully bruised in her hull. The United States was yet unhurt. Perceiving longer resistance to be vain, the British commander struck his colors and surrendered.
"What is the name of your ship?" shouted Decatur.
"His Majesty's frigate Macedonian," replied her commander.
This victory produced a profound sensation in England and the United States. In the former it created astonishment and gloomy forebodings, for it appeared as if the Republic of the West was about to snatch the sceptre from the acknowledged "Mistress of the Seas," and that they might no longer sing, as they had for a century,
"Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves."
Hull generously retired from the Constitution, after his victory, to give some brother officer a chance to win fame on the "lucky" vessel. Bainbridge succeeded him in command, and was put in charge of a small squadron. With the Constitution and Hornet he sailed from Boston late in October, 1812, and at the close of December encountered the British frigate Java off the coast of South America, not far from Bahia. They had a most desperate battle, which lasted about two hours, when the Java, which had lost her three masts and her bowsprit in the fight, and was leaking badly, was surrendered to Bainbridge. She was one of the finest frigates in the Royal Navy, and was conveying the Governor-General of Bombay and his staff, with more than a hundred officers and soldiers, to the East Indies. Like Hull, Jones, and Decatur, Bainbridge received unstinted honors from his countrymen.
The hulk of the Java was not worth saving; and after transferring the passengers and surviving crew to the Constitution, she was fired and blown up. From that time the Constitution was called "Old Ironsides."
This fourth brilliant naval victory in the course of a few months caused much exultation in the United States. Meanwhile there had been minor victories, and some defeats. Privateers were numerous, and very active. During six months the American public and private cruisers had captured about three hundred prizes from the British. These successes dispelled the gloom occasioned by misfortunes to the land forces; the friends of the navy were justified and strengthened, and thenceforward no one ventured to speak in disparagement of it. Congress, perceiving the necessity of an increase in the force of the navy, authorized the President to have four 74-gun ships, six frigates, and six sloops of war built.
Bainbridge had left the Hornet, Captain Lawrence, blockading the harbor of Bahia, in which was sheltered a British treasure ship. A British 74 came up from the Brazilian capital, and drove the Hornet into the harbor. She escaped under cover of darkness, and on the 24th of February, 1813, fell in with, fought, and vanquished the British brig of war Peacock. The brig had borne down upon the Hornet, and as they passed each other each delivered a broadside. Then, by a quick movement, the Hornet closed upon the Peacock, and poured round-shot into her for about fifteen minutes. The Peacock struck her colors, and at the same time raised a signal of distress. Her mainmast soon fell overboard, and she was in a sinking condition. The removal of the wounded to the Hornet was at once begun. At twilight she went down, carrying with her thirteen of her own crew and several of those of the Hornet. Nine of the former and three of the latter were drowned. The Hornet had only one man killed in the engagement; she lost more in trying to save her enemies than in conquering them.
A quagga stood under a palm
In evening's violet calm.
When a lion passed by,
With a hungerful eye,
The quagga ran off in alarm.
Adrift upon a silver tide,
With banks of green on either side,
And, far above, a smiling sky,
A tiny craft goes floating by.
Queer little boat, this woven nest,
Where birdies three had tranquil rest
Until a rough wind shook the tree,
And sent them sailing off to sea.
Oh, father-bird and mother-bird,
In you what trouble will be stirred
When, home returned from weary flight,
You learn your babies' hapless plight!
Do not let any one who sees this somewhat out-of-the-way name imagine it is anything very dreadful. It is merely that of an instrument for measuring the moisture in the atmosphere.
Nearly every boy and girl has seen the chalet-like "weather-house," where one might suppose the clerk of the unreliable elements to reside, and which is certainly tenanted by a gay old lady, who comes out when the sun shines, and a military gentleman, who, disregarding catarrh, parades in front of the cottage whenever there is a rain-cloud in the sky. In this case the figures are held on a kind of lever sustained by catgut: this, being very sensitive to moisture, twists and shortens on damp days, and untwists and lengthens as the air becomes dry and light.
A simple hygrometer can be made by a piece of catgut and a straw. The catgut, twisted, is put through a hole in a dial, in which a straw is also placed. In dry weather the catgut curls up; in damp, it relaxes; and so the straw is turned either to the one side or the other. Straws do something more than "show which way the wind blows," you see.
Another simple weather-gauge may be made by stretching whip-cord or catgut over five pulleys. To the lower end of the string a small weight is attached, and this rises and falls by the side of a graduated scale as the moisture or dryness of the air shortens or lengthens the string.
Again, whip-cord, well-dried, may be hung against a wainscot, a small plummet affixed to it, and a line drawn at the precise spot it falls to. The plummet will be found to rise before rain, and fall when the prospect brightens.
Another device is to take a clean, unpainted strip of pine—say, twenty inches long, one wide, and a quarter of an inch thick—cut across the grain; then have a piece of cedar of the same size, but cut along the grain. Let these be glued together and set upright in a stand.
Before a rain-fall the pores of the pine will absorb moisture, and swell until the whole forms a bow; this will gradually straighten on the approach of fine weather.
There are two forms in which a balance is used that are interesting from the natural laws that govern their motions. In one a dry sponge that has been saturated in salt and water is nicely balanced against a small weight at the opposite end. The sponge becomes heavier or lighter according to the presence or absence of moisture, and any variation in this respect may be noted on the gauge above, to which the index finger on a dial points.
The simplest plan of all, and as good as any, is to place in an accurate pair of scales on one side a one-pound weight; on the other, one pound of well-dried salt. This swells and grows heavier on the approach of rain; when brighter skies return, the one-pound weight asserts itself once more.
So many of our correspondents are collecting birds' eggs and nests that we wish to call their attention to some important points. Never take all the eggs in a nest, because if you do you will leave the poor mother bird very desolate. You can always take some from each nest, and still leave enough to make a pretty little brood of young birdlings. In some nests you will find eight or ten eggs, and then you may take three or four. But if there are but three eggs, you must take only one. Always be sure to leave more than half. Be careful to gather them before the mother bird begins to set, because when her brooding-time has begun she is very jealous of her nest, and is easily frightened away; and then if the eggs have begun to harden and form young birds, they are useless to you, for you can not blow them, and they will soon change color and become worthless.
Never take a nest until the mother has flown away with her little ones and left it empty; for to disturb the pretty home the bird has built with so much care for her babies is a wanton cruelty we trust no reader of Young People would be guilty of.
Monterey, California.
I like Young People ever so much. I always read the letters in Our Post-office Box the first thing—they seem so sociable, as if all the children knew each other well. I enjoy "The Moral Pirates" and the Information Cards. My home is in San Francisco, but at present I am visiting in Monterey, a small town on the coast. Monterey is the oldest town in California. It was first settled by the Spanish, and the greater part of the inhabitants now are Spaniards. On a little knoll near the beach, and within a stone's-throw of the water's edge, there is a large wooden cross; it is the spot where the Spanish fathers first landed, and the date on the cross is June 3, 1770.
I think this is the queerest old town imaginable. Almost all the houses are "adobe" houses, that is, made of a kind of black mud, then whitewashed, and they have tiled roofs. And around the gardens are high adobe walls. Nearly all of these adobe houses are fifty years old, and some of them are said to have been built one hundred years ago. I am gathering some abalone and other kinds of shells, and some fine sea-mosses, and when I get home I expect to make lots of pretty things. I love to play on the beach, and pick up pretty little things, and run out after the waves, then turn and let them chase me back; sometimes they catch me, and give my feet a good soaking; but I don't care, for I like it, only I look like a fright by the time I get back to the hotel.
I have been sailing on the Pacific Ocean, and was not a bit seasick, but I was never on the Atlantic. I wish some of the readers of Young People that live on the Atlantic coast would tell me if they find pretty shells, and if they get abalone shells and sea-moss on the Atlantic coast as we do here on this coast.
Ida B. D.
Russell, Kansas.
When I read the good stories about little folks which come every week in Young People, it makes me want to tell all the little friends about something that happened last summer while we were living in Denver, near the Rocky Mountains. One day mamma put some lunch in a pail, and said brother Lolie and I could go up on the bluffs along the Platte River to gather wild flowers and cactus plants, and have a good day's sport. When the whistles at the workshops in the city blew for noon, we sat down on the bluffs to eat our dinner. We could see over to the big high mountains, which reached almost up to the clouds. They looked as though they were only a mile or two away, though papa told us afterward that they were nearly fourteen miles off; but the air is so clear that it made them look much nearer. It seemed as if we could go over to them and back before night. We put our shoes and stockings under a pile of railroad ties, and started up the track toward Morrison, which is at the foot of the mountains. As often as we got tired we stopped to rest and talk about what we could do when we were men. Brother was almost ten years old, and I was eleven. The sun went down out of sight behind the mountain-tops, which were covered with ice and snow, and as it grew dark we walked faster, and when it got so dark we could hardly see only to follow the track, we were in the middle of a large prairie. We began to think of snakes and wolves and bears, which we had heard were in such places, so we did not stop any more to rest. We finally saw a light away off in a field, and we went toward it as fast as ever we could. When we got to the house, it was after eleven o'clock, and we were very tired and hungry. Grandma says if I tell all about our journey the next day—how we got to the mountains and home again, and how frightened mamma and papa and little sister were about us—your waste basket would not hold it all; so good-by.
From your little reader,
Artie R. H.
Vergennes, Vermont.
My home is in Madison, Wisconsin, but I am visiting my grandmother in Vermont, near Lake Champlain. Next week we are going to the mountains for a ride, and to enjoy the grand view.
The Reform School is located here. It is for boys and girls. They are well taken care of, but I'd rather be a good girl than a reform girl.
My mamma and I are going back to Wisconsin in September. I shall be very glad to see my little cousin Harry and my dog Gip.
I like Young People very much, and all the boys and girls that write letters for Our Post-office Box. I am seven years old. My name is Helen, but they call me
Pussy K.
Nyack, New York.
I am a little girl nine years old. I have read all the numbers of Young People, and like them very much. I have two pet kittens and a big Newfoundland dog. We call the dog Beppo. I have three brothers, and one sister, whose name is Edna, but she is not the one who sent an answer to Wiggle No. 12.
Katie M. G.
Sea Girt, New Jersey.
This is a splendid place to find land and water turtles. I have several, which I feed on mushrooms, meat, and insects. Soft-shell crabs are liked very much by water turtles, if they are very fresh.
I would be very glad to send some pressed arbutus to Carrie Harding, but it has done blooming for this year. I would like to exchange other kinds of pressed flowers with her.
I tried the recipe for doll's cup-cake sent by Bessie L. S., and liked it very much.
Daisy Violet M.
I noticed Sidney B. P.'s question about feeding and caring for young mocking-birds. Blackberries are good food for them when they are about three weeks old. The yolk of an egg boiled hard and mashed fine with a boiled Irish potato is also good. Feed the birds about every hour, and after they are through eating give them about a tea-spoonful of fresh water, which you will have to pour down their throats.
When the birds are very young they must not be put in a wire cage, as they will injure themselves fluttering against the bars. Put them in a small box, with a piece of mosquito netting fastened over the top. Do not take them from the nest too young—never until they are eight or ten days old—as they will die.
I have already asked to exchange stamps with the readers of Young People, and I would like the following stamp, if any one can send it to me: United States War Department, ninety cents, red.
Harry S. Kealhofer,
121 Adams Street, Memphis, Tennessee.
Fannie T. D., of Atlanta, Georgia, sends the following additional directions for the care of full-grown mocking birds:
Fruits and minced raw beef are good food for them. The cage, which should be large, must be thoroughly cleaned every day, and supplied with fresh water and sand. A little bag of sulphur fastened in the top of the cage tends to keep the birds healthy. And they will always sing better if confined in separate cages. Mocking-birds require much attention, especially when they are moulting.
Frank K., of Norfolk, Virginia, writes that mocking-birds are fond of the yolk of a hard-boiled egg mixed with Indian meal, made fresh every morning. They will like the food still better if it is moistened with a little milk, and minced raw beef mixed with it now and then. The cage should be hung in a dry, airy place.
Merced City, Colorado.
When I read in Young People what T. H. said of his early morning-glories, I thought I would tell about my vines. I have two play houses covered with them. The first thing in the morning I run to see if I have any new colors blossomed. The flower I like best is white with blue spots. One side of my play house is covered with dwarf vines. Mamma calls them convolvulus. I am seven years old.
Eliza A. A.
So many of our young readers are studying French that we do not give a translation of the following letter:
Milldale, Kentucky.
Je suis une petite fille de douze ans. Je demeure à la campagne dans une jolie petite maison sur une côte. En bas de la côte il y a une rivière dans l'aquelle mon gros chien va se baigner. Il s'appelle Moka. Je joue à la cache avec lui. Quand je lui met un morceae du pain sur son nez, je compte un, deux, trois, alors il le jette en l'air et le rattrape quand il redescend. II y a tant de choses qu'il fait que je ne puis pas vous dire tout.
J'ai aussi une chatte que j'appelle Minette. Quand elle attrape une souris, elle vient nous la montrer, et il faut que nous l'applaudissions de ce qu'elle a fait.
J'ai lu beaucoup des journaux du petit monde. Une demoiselle me les a donnè, et je vous assure que je les trouve bien intéressants.
Madelaine.
Greenfield, Illinois.
One day last week we found a strange-looking insect, which I should like to know the name of. It is about three inches long. It has four long legs near the middle of its body, very bright eyes, and two horns. It is just the color of the branch of the tree where we found it. I have a collection of shells, stones, and insects, and am going to make a tree album.
Jess L. B.
This curious insect probably belongs to the Ambulatoria, or walking-stick family, of which several varieties are found in America.
Scottsville, New York.
I send a recipe for cake to Puss Hunter's cooking club: One beaten egg, one cup of sugar, one cup of sour cream, two cups of flour, one tea-spoonful of soda, a little grated nutmeg; bake in little tins.
Mary L. McV.
I will exchange a little of the soil of Iowa for a little soil from any other State.
If the little correspondent in Denmark would send me a specimen of Danish soil, I would be very much pleased.
Clara Scofield,
P. O. Box 59, Washington, Iowa.