"Well, Jack, my boy, d'ye see anythin'? Keep a bright lookout, you know, for we all looks to you!"
"Come, don't make fun o' me, Bob! P'raps I'll have as sharp eyes as yourn afore I'm half your size."
Anybody might well have wondered to hear a child's voice speaking from the mast-head of a North Sea whaler, and still more surprised would he have been at sight of the figure from which that voice proceeded.
There were two persons in the "crow's-nest," as the lookout post of a whaler is called. This is simply a big cask firmly lashed to the mast with small ropes, and supported by two pieces of stout planking.
One of the two watchers on this occasion was a grim old sailor, with a voice as harsh as his face, which, roughened by the storms of fifty years, and framed in short iron-gray hair and whiskers, looked very much like the battered figure-head of some weather-worn old ship. His companion was a little boy of ten, whose fair hair and round ruddy face appeared quite babyish beside the granite-hewn visage of the "old salt."
But young as he looked, Jack Raikes was no baby. Those blue eyes of his were as sharp as any on board; and to run up the weather-rigging in a stiff breeze, climb to the mast-head and hang his cap on it, was mere play to "little Jack," as the sailors affectionately called him.
"So, my lad," said Bob Watson, laughing, "you thinks your eyes'll be as good as mine afore long. Well, you're a sharp-sighted 'un for your age, you are, but I don't know as how you're quite up to me yet. Come, s'pose we tries which'll sight a whale fust?"
But the smile suddenly vanished from the old sea-man's face, as a gleam of sunshine fades into a rising cloud. He arched his hand over his eyes, and gazed fixedly to the northward, his look becoming graver and graver with every moment, until Jack was quite startled.
"What's up, Bob? Anything wrong?"
"Can't say yet, lad, but I'm afeard so. Let's have another look. Yes, it's just as I thought. God help us!"
And putting both hands to his mouth, he shouted at the top of his voice:
"Deck, ahoy! Look out for ice!"
The men, who were lying idly about the deck, sprang to their feet at once, and there was a sudden bustle which showed that the warning had been heard and understood.
"Where away?" hallooed the Captain.
"Right ahead—two on 'em—bearin' down upon us!"
The Captain's hard mouth set itself a little tighter, but that was all. He threw a quick glance to windward, and then shouted to the steersman, "Keep her away a point or two!"
"Ay, ay, sir!"
There was no sign of fear in either Captain or crew—only a grave, subdued look on every face, which showed that they fully understood their danger, although it could not terrify them. And yet the peril was one which might well have dismayed the bravest man alive. Once caught between the two approaching mountains of ice, the vessel would be crushed like an egg-shell, and she and all her crew sent to the bottom together. Nor did there seem to be much chance of escape. The wind was light, and what little there was of it was driving the ship straight toward the icebergs as they drifted with the current. Unless they should change their course, or the wind shift suddenly, the doom of both ship and crew appeared certain.
Little Jack had caught sight of the advancing masses almost as soon as his old friend, and the sudden paling of his ruddy cheeks showed how fully he understood the situation. He looked wistfully up in Bob's face, as if to ask whether there was any hope for them, and the old sailor, mindful of his little pet even in the teeth of that deadly peril, answered, as cheerily as ever: "Well, Jack, my son, them two lubbers is a-tryin' hard to outmanoover us, ain't they? But you jist see if we don't git the weather-gauge on 'em yet!"
By this time the icebergs were near enough to be plainly visible from the deck, and the sudden chilling of the air by their approach, like the coldness of coming death, was felt by every man on board. Onward they came, those great cathedrals of frost, slowly, steadily, mercilessly, like the march of a destroying army.
And all the while the sea around them was blue and bright, and the sun shone brilliantly in a cloudless sky, and the great battlements of ice glowed like living rainbows with every variety of gorgeous coloring—blue, red, green, and gold. And so, with all the beauty and splendor of life around them, the doomed men stood silently awaiting death.
Old Bob set his teeth hard, and pressed his hand firmly upon little Jack's shoulder.
"'Tain't for myself as I minds it," he muttered, "for my time's pretty nigh up; but it do seem hard for this little chap to be cut off in his fust blossomin' like. If my life could go for hisn, God knows I'd give it gladly."
And now, as if to destroy the last chance of escape, her terrible assailants parted suddenly, the one bearing down upon her port and the other upon her starboard quarter, as if to shut her in between them. Even the iron-nerved Captain changed color, and flung down his speaking-trumpet in despair. But just as all hope seemed gone, the long-hoped-for shift of the wind came.
"Starboard your helm!—starboard!" roared the Captain, instantly.
"Starboard it is."
One quick turn of the helm, and the vessel glided past the nearest berg, so close that one of the projecting ice points scraped her taffrail. Even that slight contact with the mighty mass made her whole frame quiver from stem to stern; but the danger was past, and the crew breathed freely once more.
"Now, my boys," shouted the youngest of the men, "stand by and see them two have it out by theirselves."
It was even so. The two destroyers, balked of their prey, were rushing straight upon each other. The wind had lulled again as if holding its breath for the coming battle, and all was as still as death, when the two moving mountains clashed together.
There came a crash to which the loudest thunder would have been as nothing, and the smooth sea boiled up into huge waves, dashing the vessel about like a toy, while the very air was darkened with flying splinters of ice. When the rush passed, the contending icebergs were seen to be at some distance, swaying dizzily to and fro like two living combatants reeling under a heavy stroke.
"At it again, old fellers!" cried young Simmonds; "that first bout don't count neither way."
Again came the terrible shock, followed by a fierce, grinding crash, as a huge pinnacle of ice, heavy enough to sink a hundred-gun ship, fell thundering into the sea.
"Port your helm!—port!" shouted the Captain.
"Port it is," answered the steersman, coolly, and the vessel sheered off.
She was not a moment too soon. Hardly had she got clear when the nearest iceberg was seen to lurch heavily forward. For an instant it rocked violently to and fro, and then plunged down into the sea, with a noise that might have been heard for miles.[2] The billows cast up by its fall tossed the strong ship aloft like a feather, flinging all the crew upon their faces; and for a moment sea and sky were all one blinding whirl of foam.
There was a moment of awful silence, when nothing could be heard but the groaning of the ship's timbers and the awful roar of the waves.
Then, as the frightened men rose to their feet, Bill Simmonds cried out, "We ain't dead this time, anyway."
But old Bob Watson drew little Jack to his side, and whispered to him:
"Jack, lad, when ye say yer prayers to-night, don't forget to thank God for savin' us, for if 'twasn't for that shift o' wind, all our lives warn't worth that."
In by-gone days it was quite the fashion for learned and clever people to amuse themselves by forming anagrams on the names of their acquaintances or on those of the celebrated public men. Isaac Disraeli, father of the late Lord Beaconsfield, mentions the custom in his book about the Curiosities of Literature.
It was considered a delicate compliment to send an anagram to your friend. One polite Frenchman, a poet, as it happened, sent his lady-love, whose name was Magdelaine, a budget containing no less than three dozen quaint and witty anagrams.
And now perhaps you would like me to tell you what an anagram is, and how it is made. It is a simple playing with letters. You take any word or sentence, and you make other words and sentences from it, using all the letters in the original, and changing them about as you please, so long as you make sense, but not using any others. You may not omit an a or an o which chances to be in your way, and you may not borrow a t or an s from the rest of the alphabet to help you out of a puzzle. You must use only the letters in the name you have selected.
Galenus transposed becomes Angelus. I ought to tell you here that there are exceptions to the rule requiring you to use only the letters given in any name. In old times i, j, u, v, w, and sometimes c and k, were changed around by people to suit their own convenience, and so, rather than lose the making of a very good anagram, you may take some liberties with those particular letters.
On a rainy spring evening, when you are all at home together, it would be charming to try this antiquated game of wit. Get out the sheets of note-paper and the pens, and let everybody help. I would not be astonished if even grandpa were to take a share in the fun.
Let me give you some illustrations. Queen Elizabeth was noted during her long reign for her wise government at home, and her courage in defying her enemies of other lands. She was always surrounded by courtiers who liked to please her, and in her day it was thought more elegant to write in Latin than in plain English. One of the noblemen made this anagram one day after dinner:
Elizabetha Regina Angliæ—
Anglis Agna, Hiberiæ Lea.
Of course this Latin does not bother the big boys, but for the benefit of little Puss in the Corner, I'll translate it. It means that Elizabeth, the Queen, was a lamb to the English and a lion to the Spanish, which the latter no doubt thought was true when the great ships that composed their wonderful "Armada" went to pieces on her coast.
In very, very old times there was an idea that an anagram really possessed the power to tell a person's character. But that was mere nonsense. It is only a dainty trifle, like a cross-word, an acrostic, or any other puzzle.
There was once a Lady Eleanor Davies, who annoyed the community by preaching in the streets of London. She was very likely insane, but she thought herself a prophetess. The police arrested her, and she was taken before the English Court of High Commission to answer for her misbehavior.
She said she knew God wished her to preach, because she had found in her name this anagram:
Eleanor Davies—.
Reveal, O Daniel.
Now she ought to have had here an s, and she had an l to which she had no right, so her anagram was not correct. It rather impressed the by-standers, though, and the judges would have found it hard to persuade the poor lady to promise to keep still in future, if she had not been crushed by another anagram which somebody made up on the spot,
Dame Eleanor Davies—
Never so mad a ladie!
From that moment she yielded to her fate.
Nobody was ever more hated than Napoleon Bonaparte in England in the beginning of this century. Therefore he was a popular man who was the author of this:
Napoleon Bonaparte—
Bona rapta leno pone.
"Rascal, yield up your stolen possessions."
There are two very good anagrams on two of Napoleon's conquerors, Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, and Horatio Nelson. The first is, "Let well-foiled Gaul secure thy renown." Gaul is the ancient name of France. The second is in Latin:
Horatio Nelson—
Honor est a Nilo.
"There is honor from the Nile." The battle of the Nile was the first in which Lord Nelson won a great victory, when he was highest in command.
Many of you have read in history, and in the novels of Sir Walter Scott, about that unfortunate Prince, Charles James Stuart, who was called the Pretender. The brave Highlanders rallied around him, and gave their lives and fortunes in the attempt to restore him to his father's throne, partly because they had great faith in two anagrams. One was:
Charles James Stuart—
He asserts a true claim.
The other,
James Stuart—
A just master.
Alas, for "bonnie Prince Chairlie!" the charm was in vain. He never sat on England's throne. He died without a kingdom, a broken-hearted man.
The question asked by the Roman Governor, Pilate, of our Saviour, who stood before him a prisoner, "What is truth?" is, in Latin, "Quid est Veritas?" It has been rendered, "Vir est qui adest," the Man who is before you.
You remember Florence Nightingale, who went with a band of nurses to take care of the poor soldiers wounded in the Crimea, or sick with fever in the wretched camps of the allied armies. They called her "the lady with the lamp," and all England—yes, all the world—loves her. Is not this a pretty anagram on her sweet name:
Florence Nightingale—
Flit on, cheering angel?
It is curious what pat anagrams you may make on certain words which relate to things. For instance, Presbyterian, by a shake like a turn of the kaleidoscope, is "best in prayer," and Penitentiary, "nay, I repent it." Old England easily becomes "Golden Land," and what could better describe the state of busy editors than "so tired" of reading and writing? Astronomers are "moon-starers," of course; and is not the telegraph "a great help"?
We wonder who will succeed best in this anagram building, father and mother or the young folks? If some of the latter succeed in making very happy anagrams, they will not regret their revival of this old-fashioned amusement.
Every one of you little folks who has been to Naples knows Punchinello, and those who have not extended their travels as far as that beautiful city are well acquainted, I am sure, with "Punch and Judy."
Well, Punchinello, which, after all, only means "Little Punch," and who is the same Punch that we all know and like so well, was born on the shore of the Bay of Naples, and this is his wonderful history:
There was once upon a time a boatman named Pulci, who lived in a little white house with his wife quite near the shore where his boat was moored. Now these two good people always longed for a little child, and were quite unhappy because they did not have any.
But one day when they were sitting quite alone a big cat, black as soot, appeared to jump from under the bed, and ran between Pulci's legs, completely upsetting him. After which it rushed out at the half-open door. At the same time there came an odd cry from the cradle.
"Wife, go and see what it is," said the trembling Pulci.
Accordingly the poor woman approached the cradle, and nearly cried with joy when she saw a little human being inside.
"Husband! husband!" she cried, "what a pretty child!"
A mother's eyes are indulgent, and in a deformity more or less they never find anything to complain of. However, this pretty child only had two defects—one in front, his stomach being shaped like a comma, and the other on his back, which was like a note of exclamation. As far as his face went, there was nothing to object to, unless it might be that his nose was rather like a parrot's beak, the point of which very nearly joined his turned-up chin.
At the end of six weeks one would have certainly said that Punchinello was sixteen years old, so quickly did he grow, and so extraordinary was his intelligence. His father, seeing how advanced he was, resolved to make a street porter of him.
"Oh, dear me, no!" said Punchinello, with all due respect. "I have quite another idea in my head."
"Well, what is it?" said his father.
"I want to go to Court."
"What next?" cried the good man, laughing.
"The reason is," replied Punchinello, "that being deformed, and having a hump in front and a hump behind, I had better learn to read and write. I will be a scholar. You are too poor to attend to my education, and that is why the King ought to look after it. I am sure to succeed in making him do so, but for that I must have a donkey."
"A donkey!" cried father and mother; "but where are we to look for a donkey? Don't you know, my dear Punchinello, it is no easy matter to pick up a donkey?"
"Oh! never mind that. Sell your cottage. I will undertake to provide you with a much bigger one."
After arguing for an hour, Pulci was persuaded by Punchinello. He sold his house and bought the donkey.
Punchinello was no sooner master of a donkey than he was on its back, riding straight to the King's palace, and followed by a crowd of people and a dozen dogs.
"Sire," said Punchinello, with his funny, hoarse voice—"sire, my lords and ladies, and you good people all, I have the honor to announce to you that, with the permission of your Majesty, my donkey here will dance upon a tight-rope before your Highnesses. Your humble servant Punchinello will remain on the donkey's back during this marvellous performance."
The King was astonished. "But when is this to be, my funny fellow? I confess I am curious to witness this feat."
"Sire," replied Punchinello, "it will take place this very evening at seven o'clock, if your Majesty will be good enough to order your major-domo to provide me with all that I may require."
"Certainly," replied the King.
I must tell you, my friends, that this major-domo, who was named Bugolin, was universally hated throughout the kingdom for his wickedness and cruelty. For example, shortly before, he had ordered Punchinello's father to be beaten, giving as a reason that the poor old man had been seen treading on one of his Highness's horse's feet.
"Lord Bugolin," said the King, "I charge you to supply all that is necessary for this little man's performance. If by any chance we should be disappointed of this entertainment through your neglect, I will have you hanged upon the spot; but if Punchinello has undertaken a thing that he can't perform, he shall suffer the punishment instead."
"Sire, I agree," said Punchinello.
Evening came at last. Thanks to the efforts of the major-domo, two poles fifty-one feet high were erected in the court-yard of the palace, and a rope was stretched from one to the other. The whole Court was stationed on platforms, and the King was seated on his throne in the middle of the centre pavilion. Punchinello arrived on his donkey, mounted the ladder which was placed against one of the posts, and began to bow and wave his hat.
"Now then, friend Punchinello," cried the King, "that's quite enough bowing. Begin your performance, for I am tired of waiting."
"Sire," replied Punchinello, "I am quite ready. I am waiting for the donkey."
"What, waiting for the donkey!" replied the King, getting furious. "Are you making fun of me? Didn't you promise me to make him dance upon the tight-rope?"
"And I still promise to make him do it, sire," replied Punchinello, "only I request that he may be brought to me here where I am now, for although I know exactly how to make my donkey dance on the rope, I haven't the least idea how to make him come up the ladder. That is your major-domo's business. He promised that everything should be on the spot ready, and now he won't let me have my donkey."
At these words the whole Court began to laugh, for every one was pleased at Lord Bugolin's embarrassment.
"But, sire—" said the major-domo, who could hardly contain his rage.
"No arguing," interrupted the King. "Make the donkey climb the ladder."
Lord Bugolin accordingly pulled the donkey to the foot of the ladder, and tried to get him to mount it, but the donkey wouldn't hear of such a thing.
"Come along! Get up, you obstinate animal!" cried my lord.
"Hi-haw! hi-haw! hi-haw!" answered the donkey, beginning to bray with all his might and main.
"You wretched beast," cried the major-domo, "will you go up or not?"
"Hi-haw! hi-haw! hi-haw!" answered the donkey, who stood firm as a rock.
"Get along, will you?" cried Lord Bugolin, showering blows on the donkey's back. But the donkey, out of patience, escaped all further indignity by kicking the grand major-domo so that he lay sprawling on the ground.
"Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the people, and the courtiers could not contain their delight.
However, Punchinello came down the ladder, and went to assist Lord Bugolin, who had not been seriously hurt. He then ran at once to the royal pavilion, and throwing himself on his knees, asked the King's pardon with such a droll air of penitence that his Majesty said to him:
"Well, my little fellow, I grant it, but only on condition that you help me out of the difficulty I am in about my daughter's marriage."
The difficulty of which the King spoke was this: Some years before, the King being threatened in his capital with an invasion of the Turks, had begged the King of the Negroes for assistance. The latter had complied, on condition that he should be given the hand of the Princess of Naples. The bargain was made, and the Turks had been driven out by the troops of the two sovereigns. But now there was great lamentation, for the Princess was beautiful and amiable, and the Negro King was known to be ugly, ill-shapen, and of a nature to correspond. But what was to be done, as the King had given his word and pledged his honor?
"What!" replied Punchinello, "does the treaty only mention your promises, sire? and hasn't the King of the Negroes promised anything on his side?"
"Nothing, alas!" Then he added: "In order to amuse himself at my expense, my future son-in-law added a clause to the treaty, namely, that he would give a pair of slippers to the Princess for a wedding present, made of the most costly materials that she may feel disposed to select."
"Hurrah!" cried Punchinello. "Dry your eyes, Princess. The King of the Negroes shall not even touch the tip of your little finger. Sire, let me speak with the Ambassador, whom they say has just arrived."
The King at once caused the Ambassador to be summoned. As soon as he arrived, Punchinello said to him:
"Now, my Lord Ambassador, are not you bound, according to the treaty, to present a pair of slippers, of whatever kind she may choose, to the Princess?"
"Yes," said the Ambassador, "provided that the material is to be found under the sun."
"And if you refuse the slippers, no wedding, of course?"
"Certainly not," was the reply, with great insolence.
"Very good, my Lord Ambassador. The Princess has the good taste to be of opinion that nothing as beautiful as the skin of your fat cheeks is to be found on earth, as its blackness is only to be equalled by its lustre. Will you therefore have the goodness to see that a pair of slippers is made of this precious material? If you prefer keeping your skin for personal use, go home and tell your master so."
The Ambassador, who doubtless had his reasons for not wishing to have his cheeks skinned, replied by getting away as quickly as he could, followed by his five hundred negroes, and sailed from Naples without further delay.
Punchinello was the object of innumerable demonstrations of friendship from the King, who charged him to make any request he chose in return for what he had done.
"Sire," said Punchinello, "I desire to be allowed to kiss the hand of the Princess."
Every one marvelled at the tact of Punchinello. The Princess, smiling joyfully, held out her hand to the happy little hunchback, who kissed her four fingers, and then coming to the thumb, the ceremony was over.
There was once a little girl who had a garden of her own, in which she planted a great many seeds. But somehow her seeds did not grow into flowers very fast. Do you know why?
It was because she kept digging them up every day, to make them show her the new leaves and buds. She vexed Mother Nature so by her worry and hurry that the wise old lady frowned until her cap ruffles shook, and said:
"That child shall have no flowers this year. When she plants her seeds, she must trust me to make them grow, and not peep into my work-shop so often."
The little girl who owns the flower-pot we give you this week will not put the good old mother in a pet. She knows that Nature is very busy waking up the sleeping flowers, and making their new spring dresses. And of course when the rain comes pit-a-pat on the roofs, and the wind goes racing along, driving the surf on the shore, that little girl knows that Dame Nature is full of her annual house-cleaning. When she is done, how everything will shine! The world will look as bright as a new penny. So let us all say,
"Little old woman, whither so high?"
Hark! What was that voice which came down the chimney?
"To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky."
To be sure! Now whose is this pretty flower-pot?
"Mine," says Dot. "Mine," says Fanny. "Yours," says Lulu to her little sick brother.
Somehow Lulu seems to deserve it most, but the Postmistress thinks we will all share the flowers together.
Ann Arbor, Michigan.
I am a little boy almost seven years old. My papa gave me Harper's Young People for a present last Christmas. I enjoy hearing my grandmamma read it very much. I live in Ann Arbor, where the Michigan University is located. I go to school every day, and I expect, if I live, to go by-and-by to the university. Would it not be strange and pleasant if I should there meet some of the little friends that write such interesting letters for the Post-office Box? I live with my grandpapa and grandmamma, for my dear mamma died when I was four months old. I have not many pets, but I love to play marbles. Do not some of the little boys I read about like to play with them too? I had a large bag of the most beautiful marbles ever seen sent me from my uncle living in California.
Wicker J. M.
Playing marbles is delightful if you will only return the marbles you win to their former owners when your game is over. Playing marbles for fair makes some little fellows so unhappy that the Postmistress does not approve of it, unless both parties agree on playing "for fun" only. What does Wicker's grandmamma say on the subject?
Strasburg, Alsace.
I don't believe that any of the American subscribers of Harper's Young People enjoy reading it more than I do, though I am not an American girl, but an Alsatian, like my father. Mamma was born in New Orleans, Louisiana, but I have never been to America, though I would much like to see for myself what are the customs and habits of the American people. It is mamma's sister, who dwells in Galveston, Texas, who has the kindness to send me this nice paper. I like especially to read the stories about French people, like the one of King Louis XVI. of France and Queen Marie Antoinette, which appeared in one of your numbers, and the beautiful story of Charlotte Corday, who was one of my countrywomen too; for the Alsacians are French, and though the Germans took our poor land and separated us from our dear country, they never can take our hearts, which will always remain French.
I hope this letter will be published, for it would be a pity that, coming from so far away, it should be put into that doleful pigeon-hole, which must surely be the terror of every one who contributes to swell the number of the Post-office Box letters.
As I saw that many of the correspondents tell about their pets, I too will write about my nice canary-birds. One of them papa gave me for my birthday, and the other— Why, one cold winter day, as we were at dinner, we heard a little noise at the window, and there was the poor little thing. Of course we made it come in, and it just flew into the opened cage and ate some seeds, for it was nearly starved to death and frozen. Since then it lives with us, and we call it "Bienvenu," which means in English "welcome." Last spring it laid five eggs in a basket I gave it as a nest, and I rejoiced at the thought of having little birds, but Bienvenu was cruel enough to eat all her eggs before they were hatched.
Eliza T.
It pleases us very much when our far-away little readers send us letters to tell us what they have most enjoyed. It was too bad that little Bienvenu behaved so strangely. But another time she may consent to sit upon the tiny eggs instead of making her dinner of them.
Dear little Rosa had bright golden hair,
And she sang so sweetly to Dolly;
But "Little Bo-peep, little Bo-peep,"
Was re-echoed incessant from Polly,
Who swung in his cage, as happy as she,
And free from all care as Miss Dolly;
He seemed to enjoy her innocent glee.
But Rosa grew angry with Polly:
"You have no right at all thus to mock me," she said;
"Besides, you're disturbing my Dolly;"
And then she threw over the bird's scarlet head
Her apron, and silent was Polly.
Gayly the lullaby music she trilled,
Triumphantly swaying her rocker,
While poor disgraced Poll, in his dark cage stilled,
Did nothing but think of his cracker.
At last little Rosa, with soft pinky cheek,
Slept, twining her arms around Dolly,
Forgetting in dreams that real naughty freak
She had just had with poor banished Polly.
While he, growing tired of the dark cloistered cell,
And missing the sound of the rocker,
Concluded the world was under a spell,
Because no one had brought him a cracker.
Then screeched he in loud and parroty voice.
Rosa started, and down went her Dolly,
All broken—her beautiful holiday choice!
Still she blamed not the bird, but her folly.
Shut up in the dark, so gloomy, while she
Sang "Little Bo-peep" blithe and jolly.
"How I wish I had let you sing too, pretty bird!
Then I would not have broken my Dolly."
A. E. T.
Elkmont, Alabama.
I live in a little railroad town in the northern part of Alabama. I have a black rabbit and a white one. Their names are Jesse and Bessie. They are very cunning. I keep them in a little paled yard. They have a little house in the centre of the yard. I have a cat named Ed. When he wants to come in, he will shake the door until some one lets him in. When I roll a rock on the ground, he will run after it. I have seventeen chickens. I went fishing to-day, and caught fifty-one, but they were little fellows.
Ernest W.
Baltimore, Maryland.
Last year mamma gave me Harper's Young People for a birthday present, and this year my papa gave it to me. I am so happy to see it every week. Papa always reads "Talking Leaves" to me; I am delighted with it. Mamma or one of my aunties reads the other stories and letters. We are all pleased with "The Dolls' Dressmaker" (little Jenny Wren), but I did love "Toby Tyler" best of all, and wish Mr. Otis would hurry up the new story he has promised us.
So many of the children tell you of their pets! I have two; both of them are cats—one a big Maltese named Cann, the other a little gray and white kitten named Pocahontas. She does not love old Cann, and fights him every time she finds a chance. He never fights her back. My little gray cat comes to my room every morning, and cries until I let her in, and then we have fine fun for awhile.
I am too small a boy to write, so mamma is writing this letter for me. I am the only pet mamma and papa have. I can read a little, and hope soon to be able to write.
Carlton R. B.
Just a little patience, dear! The Postmistress saw Mr. Otis yesterday. Keep a bright lookout until April comes, and then when the showers are falling, and the buds are springing, "Mr. Stubbs's Brother," with his queer little eyes, flat nose, and funny long tail, will make his appearance in Young People.
Sacramento, California.
I have been wanting to write to this dear little paper for a long time, but did not know that you published the letters of those who did not subscribe. My papa brings me a paper regularly every week.
I have no little pets, like most children, and even if I had, I would not have time to play with them, as I go to school, take lessons in chenille embroidery, and practice on the piano.
I spent three months in the Eastern States last summer, and visited a great many places in New York State, Connecticut, Ohio, and Illinois. I saw many wonderful beauties of nature, among which was the Devil's Slide, which was two perpendicular walls one hundred feet high, and twenty feet apart, coming down the steep side of a mountain. The Devil's Gate is a stream of water flowing under a mountain. Witches' Rocks are five rocks that look like ladies. Pulpit Rock is the place where Brigham Young preached his first sermon in Utah. They are both in Echo Canon, which is a canon that throws the echo back when you speak very loud. Cape Horn is in California, and is a mountain rising up from the American River about 2500 feet, and has a railroad cut around the side of it. I wish all the readers of the Young People could see all the beautiful things I did last summer.
I will exchange some pretty shells, stones, advertising cards, unpressed sea-moss, or a small piece of petrified wood, for fossils, minerals, stalactites, stalagmites, foreign stamps, old coins, or flint. Please write before sending.
I hope my letter is not too long.
Alida Lewis, 726 O St., Sacramento, Cal.
Ilchester, Maryland.
I am going to Europe in April, in the great steamer City of Rome, and mamma says I may have Harper's Young People sent over to me. It would be too much for me to give it up, as my brother Tom and I read it, and it gives us so much pleasure. I have been to Europe before. We staid two years, but now I am ten, and I will enjoy it much more. Tom is eight years old, and we are reading Young Folks Abroad, so we can know about London and Paris and the other cities. We have read Abbott's Histories, and the death of Charles I. and Marie Antoinette almost made me cry. Would you like me to write you what I see when I am across the great "ditch"? We expect to be in Germany this summer, and in the winter in Nice, but I don't want to leave you behind.
Katie R.
You will enjoy yourself very much more if you study and read before going to the Old World, in order to understand what you see. Write to the Postmistress, and describe some of your adventures, and tell her what pleases you most in London and Paris and in other places where you may stop awhile.
Beauclerc, Florida.
I saw in No. 111 a picture of seven oranges on one branch. We had two bunches on this place with twelve on, and one with sixteen. They were just as close together as could be. Some of them were flattened, they pressed each other so hard. We had a curiosity of an orange—a large one with a smaller one growing out of it. It did look too funny, but it dropped from the tree before ripening.
I would like to exchange nice fresh moss, with blossom on, for unused postage stamps, foreign and domestic—no revenue. Do not send less than five at once; and no two alike. I will send the moss according to the value of the stamps. Cancelled ones will not be accepted.
It will not be necessary to write beforehand, as I will send the moss without fail to any one sending the stamps. I would like to exchange with foreign correspondents, and this offer will remain open four months for that reason.
Can you tell me which is the best stamp album, or, rather, where to get a good one?
F. C. Sawyer.
Bridgeport, Kansas.
We moved to Kansas from Indiana more than a year since, and witnessed our first large prairie fire on the afternoon and evening of February 9. We first noticed the reflection on the sky in the southeast on the night of the 8th, and by the afternoon of the next day the fire had come so near that we began to make preparations to protect our property by burning a "fire guard" around the house, etc. After that we had leisure to watch the progress of the fire, and as it grew dark the grandeur of the sight increased. We mounted a hill which commanded a view for miles in every direction, and turn in whatever direction we would there was fire. It looked like a grand torch-light procession of men in single file marching and countermarching, forming circles, squares, and all conceivable shapes, ever widening their circuit, until there were miles on miles of lines of flame. The wind freshened about 9 p.m., and then the sight was grand beyond my powers to describe. No doubt much damage to property was done. Many families in this vicinity have related to us damage inflicted by former prairie fires.
Mrs. E.
P.S.—We walk three miles to Sunday-school.
We never hear of people who walk miles to day or Sunday school without feeling ashamed of ourselves, because, sometimes we think it hard to have to walk a few blocks on some such errand. A prairie fire must be a magnificent sight.
I want to tell you about my Polly. We bought him in New Orleans, and not knowing his birthday, we set it at the 1st of May. At first he would not talk at all; he was very cross, and would not let us touch him. One night my sister began to play on the piano and sing; Polly began to sing also, in a little low voice. Papa threw a newspaper at him, and said, "You old humbug, you could sing all the time."
I will tell you some of the things he says. Of course he can say, "Polly wants a cracker," and "Pretty Poll." He can say "Hurrah, Polly!" My name is Estelle, and when I come into the dining-room in the morning he will say "Stella" just as plain. There was a crowd of children standing at our gate one day, and they said, "Polly, can we come in?" and he said, "Come along."
Our Polly's name is Jack, but we never call him that. He had a fight with a dog once. The dog was coming up to him, and he just put up his wings and flew screaming to the dog. The dog did not stop to fight, but ran for his life.
Polly is very tame now, and will get on my hand and talk to me.
That is all I have to say about Polly at present.
E. M.
Palmyra, Missouri.
As I like so much to read the letters from the little girls in Young People, I thought I would write one. I have been sick, and not able to walk for a year, but my pa, who is a doctor, thinks by the time the leaves and flowers come out I will be able to go out too. I study at home, so that I may keep up with my class at school; and that keeps me so busy that the time does not seem long. I always look forward to Thursday, which brings Young People, as we live in the country, and think more of getting the papers than the little girls in the city. We have had lots of ice and sleet, and it makes me wish, when I see my little brother on his sled going down the hill, that I could go too; but maybe I will be able to when another winter comes. We have a good many pets, but the best one is our dog. To close, I will tell the readers what my ma tells me, always to sew the paper before reading it. I am eleven years old.
Ellen McC.
The "time of the singing of birds," as the Bible says, is coming nearer every day, and we hope little Ellen will be able to walk out-doors and enjoy the spring, with its many delights.
The letters from East Northport, Long Island, which came in a bundle the other day, were all so very good that the Postmistress could not make up her mind to publish any of them, when there was not room for every one of the bright little missives. She hopes to hear from the school again.
Do mothers ever peep into the Post-office Box? The Postmistress feels sure they do, and so she tells this little story as much for them as for their children. Perhaps some loving mother will gather her boys closer to her and pet them more tenderly when she reads about this dear little fellow, who was taken from a charitable institution to be "bound out" to a farmer in New Jersey. The agent noticed that the boy kept placing his right hand inside of his jacket on the left side, and occasionally would peep within with a tender look. At last he said,
"What have you got in there, my little friend?"
"Oh, nothing, sir," he replied, "only a bit of my mother's dress, which I've sewed in my coat; it was the dress she had on when she died, and now it kind o' comforts me to touch it."
I am glad to print this composition of a school-girl of thirteen, first, because it does her credit, and next, because it may give some people an idea which will be useful, especially if they have careless children or servants to vex them:
The "Pound" as a Means of Education.—Neatness and order are two of the most praiseworthy and necessary habits to be formed. Without them we can not be good-natured or happy; for if we are continually fretting and fuming about something that we are "sure we put on the table yesterday, and now it has disappeared, and who has taken it?" etc., etc., we can not be as contented and pleasant as though each thing were in its proper place, and we could go right there and get it without any trouble.
Our mother had discovered this. Her family was growing up with disorderly habits, which grew worse every day, and she now determined to put a stop to it. A school in the neighborhood had had a great deal of trouble on account of the disorder in which the recitation-rooms were left by the pupils after dismissal in the afternoon.
Since the lady principal has had a "pound"—which, I can assure you, was filled to overflowing each day—the pupils recognized the fact that it was, to use their own words, a "cure."
So, one Saturday morning, mother decided to set up a "pound" in our last summer's picnicking basket. At breakfast she declared to father that her patience with us had "given out," and that she resorted to this as the last hope of reforming her careless young people.
Accordingly, after father had gone down town, mother told us to ransack every nook and cranny in the house, and gather together all our things that were not in their proper places.
Jack's umbrella, which had evidently seen better days, was soon hauled from the depths of the wood-box, where "it just fell in—hadn't time to pull out—sorry," as he explained. The remains of a pair of Harry's arctics and my skates, besides countless numbers of mufflers, fur gloves with no mates, torn books, jackknives, marbles, and—what do you think?—Bridget's switch, that, "begorra, she'd missed sence the new gurrul came." That finished the wood-box, which we left for Harry's closet.
Dozens and dozens of half-worn shoes, foot-balls, several packs of cards, and last year's school-books in fragments, with several of his new neck-ties, and his best white kids, all "sort of thrown together, you know," with a quart or so of Excelsior taffy, which we had manufactured on Halloween. As one would imagine, it took an hour or two to dig through this mixture; but as "perseverance will conquer," it was accomplished by dinner-time.
But do not think this was the last of the wonders of neatness we routed out that day. Little Julie too was thoroughly "up" in the art of disorder. Even her tiny play-house was nothing short of a show. Why, Timothy Todkins, her paterfamilias, had lost both his legs and an eye, and the poor fellow's nose was in a shockingly damaged condition. And Mrs. Zenobia Franklin Todkins! Well, she was altogether unmentionable. To see mother's face when we piled all the things in a heap before her? She did not say a word, but just placed them in the basket, and put it on a shelf in the library closet.
I think that Harry did look a little bit glum while mother sat there; but don't tell me it was his conscience pricking him. More likely 'twas because he wouldn't be able to wear his white kids at Puss Pringle's party on Wednesday. Jack and I went out, but we met father in the hall, with little Julie hanging on his arm, and begging him to "det Dulie's Toddie for her; poor Toddie was pounded all up from Dulie." Mother showed to our astonished papa the contents of that pound, and after having a hearty roar over them, he closed operations by administering a sound scolding to us, of which this was the moral:
Little girls and little boys
Should aspire to be neat,
And not destroy their pretty toys,
But them in order keep.
Sue Bradley.
We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to the interesting article by Miss Sarah Cooper entitled "Some Odd Relations of the Jelly-Fish," in which we learn more about the curious creatures that seem to us simply plants, but which that magical instrument the microscope shows to be living animals eating and drinking, and leading strange, mysterious lives way down in the depths of blue sea. You all know well the name of England's great Prime Minister, Mr. W. E. Gladstone, and you will be glad to read the little sketch of his noble and laborious life. The boys will not need to have their attention called to the story of "A Buffalo Hunt in South Africa," told by an adventurous English sportsman; nor will it be necessary to repeat the suggestion made by the author of "An Old-fashioned Amusement," that all our readers, young and old, spend an occasional leisure hour trying what they can do in the way of forming new and entertaining "Anagrams."
Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Willard S. M., Philip Ruxton, Victor C. Thorne, Jesse Godine, Georgie Wardell, E. Cressingham, Louis and Frank Clark, Florence A. Nickerson, May Barklie, Bernard W. Spilman, Clara K., Ella Chirney, Kittie Lewis, Harper Richardson, "Mamma, Robbie, and Papa," J. Ames, Fannie D. Posey, Willie Layton, "Bob," Everett Fay, Edith M. Wetmore, Jerome Bouton, "Lodestar," Fred H. Lanneker, Ashley H. Thorndike, "Queen Bess," "Fill Buster," William A. Lewis, "King Charles," "Helen of Troy," "Francis," S. Whitlock, I. C. Tomes, Carrie D. B. Brisbin, Rosa M. Benedict, R. Louis Lloyd, and Ernest D. Elam.