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The Table offered three prizes of $5, $4, and $3 respectively for the best original poems written by persons who had not passed their eighteenth birthday. They were limited to five stanzas in length. Here is the first-prize one, written by Clara Louise Angel, aged fifteen, of New York City.
Ho for October! he's coming! he's coming!
Swallows fly southward, the bees cease their humming.
Leaves red and yellow, air soft and mellow,
Herald this very old, merry old fellow.
Say you he's sober? Nay, not October,
Gay as Aurora, first glimpse of the morn;
Ho for the apple bees! Ho for the evening glees!
Ho for the husking of ripe yellow corn!
Down by the river's flow softly the zephyrs blow,
Brightly above smiles the radiant sky;
Dreamy the morning haze, beauty meets every gaze.
Sweet songs of joy on the breezes float by.
Up on the mountain's crest light fleecy cloudlets rest.
Gorgeous the forests with crimson and gold,
Squirrels hop all about sorting ripe chestnuts out,
Hide them in coverts they never have told.
Dear old October, how gladly we greet him,
Bringing the autumn days full of good cheer,
Stories at eventide all round the fireside;
Ho for the merriest month of the year!
Clara Louise Angel, R.T.L.
Oddly, the winner of the second prize lives also in New York city. His name is Simon T. Stern, aged sixteen.
There's a winsome little maid,
For her age quite prim and staid—
Yet so kind;
But this bonnie lassie bright
Has ne'er seen the golden light—
For she's blind.
Hers in a pleasant oval face,
Full of sweetness, full of grace,
And no care;
Two blue eyes look up at me,
It is not that they can see—
Only stare.
"What if I have no sight,
And see not a ray of light,"
So says she;
"God has given me a mind,
In a thousand ways been kind
To poor me.
"With the dearest happy home,
Through which I delight to roam,
Am I blest;
Have I not a father bold,
And a mother I can fold
To my breast?"
So this bonnie lassie brave
Does not sigh at what He gave,
Nor lament;
If to murmur you're inclined.
Take this lesson from the blind:
Be content.
Simon Theodore Stern, R.T.K.
The third prize goes to Detroit, Michigan, the winner being Carrie R. Schrop, aged twelve.
Should you meet a troubled brother,
Then a kindred spirit feel.
Heavy burdens might be lifted
With two shoulders at the wheel.
Let him know you take an interest;
'Twill not take him long to see
Whether you're a true well-wisher,
Or a shamming Pharisee.
And the time may not be distant
When you'll lack both strength and zeal,—
When perhaps you will be grateful
For one extra at the wheel.
Do not turn your back upon him,
Do not coolly walk away,
Just because you think you're made of
Some superior kind of clay.
When you come to think about it.—
And sometimes we mortals must,—
There is nothing very striking
In the finest kind of dust.
More than that! We cannot claim it;
'Tis but lent to us on trust!
And pray what is there to boast of
In ashes, clay, or dust?
Carrie R. Schrop, R.T.L.
Poems deserving special commendation are: "The Harvest-Time," by Ethel Marjorie Knapp, of Virginia, aged twelve; "The Valkyries," by Virginia Berkley Bowie, of Maryland, aged fifteen; "Skating," by Leslie D. Reeves, of Pennsylvania, aged seventeen; "An Appeal to Apollo," by Sanford M. Salyer, New York; "Ike," by Lottie Hay Meredith, of Illinois; and "Pleading," by Ida Lee Sharp, of Maryland.
The Table is constantly in search of new ideas in puzzles. To stimulate this search it offered $5 for one new idea.
We received a great number of suggestions, of course. Many of them came from persons who had not read the Table, for the ideas were old, not new. The very best idea to reach us came from Sir Knight John R. Moreland, who is a Virginian. It was in a puzzle, and here it is:
A man was asked which is the most unlucky day of the year, and replied: If you multiply the date when fans were first used in England (1) by the number of letters in the name of a celebrated painter who died in 1483 (2), and add to the product the date when Jerusalem was destroyed by Titus (3), subtract from this sum the date when Moscow was founded (4), multiply this by the numeral part of a bird's name (5), divide this by the number of American Presidents that have been assassinated (6), from this subtract the date when Canute invaded England (7), and the date when barometers were invented (8), add the number of letters in the name of the man who invented spectacles (9), divide this by the number of men who captured André (10), add the number of words in the two shortest verses in the Bible (11), add the number of letters in the name of the first inventor of the thermometer (12), subtract the number of letters in Charles VII.'s nickname (13), subtract the number of ships in the Spanish Armada (14), add the number of signatures to the Declaration of Independence (15), subtract the number of letters in Louis Philippe's nickname (16), add the number of letters in the name of the president of the first Continental Congress (17), subtract the number of letters in the right name of "The Swamp Fox" (18), divide the number of letters in the last name of the Puritan who, when his right hand was cut off by the order of Queen Elizabeth waved his hat in his left hand and said, "Long live Queen Elizabeth" (19), subtract the number of letters in the name of the Massachusetts girl who fought in the Revolutionary war (20), add the number of letters in the right name of "Max O'Rell" (21), subtract the number of letters in the name of a river in Utah, who from the sound of his name you would think he would be in a warmer region (22), subtract the number of letters in the right name of "The Melancholy Dane" (23), subtract the date of Cleopatra's death (24), and last, subtract the number of letters in William IV.'s nickname (25), you find the day and date you ask for.
The Table awards the $5 prize to Sir John. Who can find the correct day (of the week) and date (of the month)? The second-best suggestion—we offered no second prize—came from Miss M. B. Banks, a Patron, who lives in New Jersey. It is a puzzle story, but not wholly new in idea. The answer to this prize puzzle will be given in two weeks.
Dear Editor of Harper's Round Table:
Do you think the Round Table readers would like to know how I, a little boy only seven years and nine months old, became an editor, like you, of a children's magazine? Mrs. Champney told me that seven years ago some very little girls made some pin-balls and paper dolls and had a fair. Many grown-up people came to it, because they thought it strange that little girls should have such a fair. With this money the children decided that they would form a home for poor little children, and their mothers should be managers. The mothers didn't like this plan at first, but afterwards they gave in, and the Messiah Home was founded, and has been helped by children ever since.
Last spring the League of Junior Patrons and Patronesses was formed. We voted that we would publish a paper, all by ourselves, to help the home. We elected a staff of editors, and I am one. So is Karl Dodge and Gilbert White and some other boys and girls. We want all the boys and girls who take Harper's Round Table to join our league, and to write articles and draw pictures for our paper. We offer thirteen prizes. The editor of Harper's Round Table is going to be one of the judges. If any one will write to Mrs. J. W. Champney, 96 Fifth Avenue, New York, she will send a little pamphlet which will tell all about it. Any one can send their contributions to her or to me.
Gilbert E. Jones,
Editor Junior League.
222 Madison Avenue, New York City, N. Y.
War, carnage, and sacrilege; priests and friars preaching in city streets or by country road-sides to thronging crowds; thousands of travellers of all ages starting on a long and toilsome journey, many of them dying from its hardships ere they reach their destination; costly ships, loaded with soldiers and passengers; kings leaving their thrones and peasants their hovels, all impelled by the same motive; great armies going into battle bearing the cross on their shoulders; money and blood poured out like water for years to win from infidel hands a place dearer than life.
Answer.—Saunter, from Santa Terræ, the Holy Land.
This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor.
I wish I could gather my whole company of girl friends about me to-day, and see their faces, and bear their replies by look and word as I talk with them. These are talks with my own girls, and I follow the paper with very loving and wistful thoughts as it goes on its way to them, wondering and hoping a great deal about them, hoping that they are making the best possible use of life. There is something splendid in being young and a girl, with the bright years before her, each fairer and fuller than its predecessor. If I could give the girls my eyes to look through, what visions they would see! If they could dream as I do for them, what pleasures they would have when the dreams came true!
I have been thinking lately about our habits of speech. What do we talk of when we are with our friends? What is our rule so far as speaking of others is concerned? Are we of the number who refuse to set unkind gossip going, and of whom it may be said, in the beautiful words of the Bible, "On her tongue is the law of kindness?"
To decide never to allude to our neighbors and their affairs in our every-day talk would be silly as well as impossible. Neighbors and friends are part of the outside family which composes the community, and a community is made up of all the families who reside within its boundaries. We are interested, or we ought to be, in whatever happens to our friends and townspeople, both of good and of evil fortune. If Mrs. Brown's house burns down, we are most happy to invite Mrs. Brown and Sally Brown and the little Browns to come and stay with us until their arrangements can be made for living in another home. If Louis Larcome takes the Latin prize at college, or Alfred Cocks is selected as captain of the Freshmen crew, or Margaret Lane's essay receives honorable mention, or Nelly Parsons writes a book, we are, of course, sharers in the pleasure of the Larcoms, the Cockses, the Lanes, and the Parsons. And on the other hand, if there is illness at the Jenkinses, or Polly Marten falls from her wheel and hurts her knee, or the dear baby dies at the Whitfords, we are saddened with these who are sorrowful. It is quite right to take, and it would be most selfish and shocking not to take, a real interest in our friends and their concerns.
The wrong and the mean thing is to tell little trivialities which are personal affairs, as if they had to do with society. To observe that Martha Newcome is so stingy that she wears her old cloak when the whole town knows she could afford another, but won't do it; that Elias Judson makes his boys get up in the morning and work in the field without their breakfast; that the people over the way spend their whole time going about, and goodness knows they cannot find time to mend their children's stockings, etc. These are the stupid things some absurd people talk about. Pray, my dear girls, set your faces against this, and never take part in it. Never say that Eleanor is proud, or Edith is vain, or Marie has no taste, or Lulu has the temper of a wasp, or Charley's word is not to be depended on. When you cannot honestly utter a kind word, then be silent.
Should it ever happen that you learn directly or indirectly anything about the affairs of a friend, something concerning which the friend has said nothing, respect his silence. Much harm is done by indiscreet speech. Little trouble comes from discreet silence. Silence is golden.
Again, if you are a guest in a house, you must remember that to no one, not even to your very nearest and dearest, must you reveal anything disagreeable or unfortunate which may come into your knowledge. This rule has no exceptions. Only a dishonorable person goes away from a home in which she has been entertained, observing that the family quarrel among themselves, or that the daughters are disrespectful to their mother, or anything else of the kind. Here silence is golden.
Silence is not golden, though, when you hear the absent accused unjustly. Then you must defend him or her. Be brave in standing up for the absent, and never speak ill of them. The ancients made it their rule to speak no evil of the dead, because they were helpless and at the mercy of the living, and it is a good rule for us to follow. It is surprising how much that is true and loving and beautiful we can find to say of all our friends, if we determine that we will be like the princess in the fairy tale, out of whose mouth, whenever she opened it, pearls and rubies dropped.
There is a "comfortable feeling" that comes after a bath with Ivory Soap.
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By Charles Carleton Coffin. Profusely Illustrated. Square 8vo, Cloth, $3.00.
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There has been a great deal of complaint both in London and New York of the way in which a certain class of shopkeepers try to force their wares upon passers-by. One man, a traveller, has managed to get the better of one of these shopmen, a clothing-dealer, who had a way of almost dragging people into his place. One day shortly after his arrival in London the traveller stopped for a moment to examine a coat hanging in front of a clothing establishment, when the shopman rushed out and asked, "Wouldn't you try on some coats?"
"I don't know but I would," responded the traveller, consulting his watch. "I've got some time to spare. Yes." And he went in and began to work. No matter how often he found his fit, he called for more coats, and after he had tried on thirty he looked at his watch again, resumed his own garment, and walked off, saying:
"I won't charge anything for what I've done. I believe in a man who'll oblige another when he can do it. If I'm ever this way again, and you've got any coats to try on, I'll do all I can to help you!"
What the shopkeeper said we are not told, but it is not hard to imagine what he thought.
The other evening Toddletums called his papa to tell him that he couldn't get to sleep for the mosquitoes.
"Never mind, Toddle; just put your head under the clothes, where they can't get at you."
Toddletums did so, but in a little while he peered from under the clothing. A firefly happening along at the moment set him yelling:
"It's no use, papa. I hid under the clothes, and now they've gone off and got lanterns to find me with."
"Ef George had been a girl, and had dressed in female clo'es,
Would he have been the mother of her country, do you s'pose?"
It is lovely when the moonlight is a-shining on the bog,
To watch the lively antics of the agile-legged frog;
When the moonfay boys are playing on their long and limpid flutes,
It sends a thrill of pleasure down our spinals to our boots.
On a mushroom seat,
With the grasses at our feet,
And the lightning-bugs a-flashing here and there beneath the trees,
'Tis a very pretty sight,
In the pale moonlight,
With an undertone of humming and a-thrumming of the bees.
You can talk about the pleasure that you mortals find on earth,
You can crack your funny jokelets, we don't envy you your mirth;
For you've never had the laughter
That we moonfay boys get after
We have watched for forty minutes three long-legged bull-frogs dance!
A lad was found begging in Plymouth, England, some years ago, who told a most wonderful tale of woe. According to his statement, given with a straight face and an apparently clear conscience, he had been a cabin-boy upon an American steamship. For some misbehavior, as a temporary punishment he was headed up in an empty water-cask, and left to reflect upon his wickedness, with only the bunghole of the cask to breathe through. On the following night a terrible storm came up, and the vessel went down with all on board, excepting himself, the cask having rolled over into the sea at the first lurch of the sinking ship. Fortunately for its unhappy occupant, the cask floated with the bunghole free from the water, and in the course of a day or so was cast upon the coast, where the lad, after making numerous vain attempts to release himself, settled back to die. Some cows, however, he said, came strolling along the beach, and one of them, while switching its tail about, accidentally let the end of it into the bunghole of the cask. The boy immediately seized upon it; the cow, electrified, jumped, stood still, and jumped again, and then rushed bellowing down the beach, the boy hanging on like grim death, and the cask, consequently, bumping the hind legs of the frightened bovine as she fled. Finally, as the boy had hoped, the hoops of the cask were loosened, and striking upon a rock, the whole thing was shattered, and the boy, letting go of the cow's tail, found himself free once more. After wandering about for several days he hailed a vessel, and was carried to Plymouth, where his wonderful experience first became common talk.
The coal-man on the wagon sits,
And shivers in the storm.
I don't see why that load of coal
Won't keep the driver warm.
Freddy. "I think papa takes more after my little baby brother than he does after me."
Mamma. "Why, Freddy?"
Freddy. "Because all his hair is at the back and sides of his head, and it won't come to the front."
"I tell you, mamma," said little Herbert, when his mother gave him a chocolate éclair for the first time the other day, "this is the finest kind of a banana I ever tasted!"
[1] Begun in Harper's Round Table No. 845.