It was the portrait we were all familiar with, and which we called the "Little Grandmother." It was the portrait of our mother's grandmother, taken at the age of sixteen, and which had always hung in the library until the last holidays, when Phil had by mischance let a missile from his new toy gun fly in the direction of the portrait. It made an ugly hole in the canvas among the dark curls of our pretty Little Grandmother. It was considered a family calamity, but until it could be sent to a reliable restorer of pictures, it was set up on an old dresser at the end of the attic. It had had a piece of green baize thrown over it, which was removed, and now lay on the dresser beside it. Had she taken off the veil herself?
"Children," she continued, looking right on up among the rafters, as if she were talking to herself instead of to us, "you never heard me speak before, and you will never hear me speak again; so open your ears. Phil"—Phil started and began to quake—"I am sure I hold no personal grudge against you for that unlucky shot that mutilated my poor head in this way, but your general conduct is a distress to me. A boy of twelve should begin to show his knightly qualities, if ever he hopes to bear the grand old name of gentleman. Gentleman, indeed! to shoot his great-grandmother, with scarcely a pang of regret, and trip his girl cousin, and witness her fall with a laugh! Gentleman, indeed! And, Ned, you are scarcely a whit behind. You are brave, in a sense, but the bravery that attacks weakness, and shouts over its own triumphs, is a spurious bravery. A fine Sir Galahad or Sir Philip Sidney you would make! There is as crying need of brave and courtly men now as in the days of Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, but where are they? The dear maidens must hope in vain for protection from evil men and evil beasts if 'the boy is father to the man.' Jamie, you are not as strong and as full of action as Ned and Phil, but you are a true knight, and perhaps one of these days you can say,
"'My strength is as the strength of ten
Because my heart is pure.'
"You have nothing to fear, Sir Jamie."
By this time Fanny, Jessie, and I had sunk in a little heap on the floor. How pretty she looked, this girl grandmother! Her dark curls clung so daintily around her olive face, and the dark eyes shone out from the shaded brow with such a clear, honest light. We fancied we could see the red lips move, and the creamy white dress, with its bit of a waist and short puffy sleeves, tremble with the beating of her heart. Our own almost ceased to beat when she resumed.
"Fanny, Bessie, Jessie, you are dear girls, though I fear you are going to lack nobility and dignity of character; but what can be expected of girls that are taught French instead of their catechism, and the waltz in place of the minuet! Really, girls, I never screamed in my life—not even when a shell from a man-of-war burst in front of our house; and I must say I never witnessed such a romp as this among boys and girls in all the eighty-five years that I lived."
Eighty-five years! We looked from our Little Grandmother to each other in astonishment, and then the voice went on:
"But girls are not as they used to be, and perhaps they can not be. The world is growing weaker and wiser, and you have more already in your little noddles than I ever learned from books. I did not mean to scold you, my dears, but I have often wished to give you a bit of advice, and I have never had so fine an opportunity as this. If the great-grandsons of Mary Angela Bascombe are knightly men, brave, tender, and true, and her great-granddaughters are ladies, indeed, gracious, gentle, loyal, and loving, she will be grateful for the happy misfortune that sent her to the attic."
There was a long silence. Then Fanny drew a long breath, and each one of us immediately did the same. Ned, always the leader, stepped forward a little, and said, "Little Grandmother, we mean, you know, to be all right—but—but—"
"And we'll do our best after this; indeed we will," added Jamie.
"That's so," put in Phil, rather awkwardly.
"We love, you, Little Grandmother!" burst out Fanny—clasping her hands—in a little ecstasy, while Jessie and I murmured something in chorus about wishing to be like her; but there was no response from the portrait to anything that we said.
We had not noticed that the dim light was fading from the attic, and the portrait losing its outlines, until the sound of a bell below recalled us to outward things. Then, clutching each other as we went, we passed down the attic stairs and through the halls, and gathered in a very quiet knot in the tea-room. One by one the family gathered there also, and the seats around the long table were quietly filled.
"What is the matter with you youngsters?" said my father, scanning our faces keenly. "You are as mute as mice, and look as if you had seen your grandmother's ghost."
"We—we have," said Fanny, with a hysterical laugh, that ended in a sob; and at that Jessie and I put our napkins to our faces and began to sob too, while the boys looked at each other and smiled in a sickly sort of way.
"What does this mean, Ned?" said my father, laying down his napkin; and my mother nearly shivered a cup and saucer, she set it down so suddenly.
"Why, the—the portrait, you know, up in the attic—the Little Grandmother—has been talking to us, and we don't just know what it means," said Ned, making a strong effort to overcome his tremor.
"Talking to you! What did it say?" my father demanded again.
Here Phil came to the rescue, and said, sturdily, if not defiantly, "She said we were no gentlemen, sir."
"Gentlemen, indeed!" echoed Cousin Rob, in a sweet falsetto voice, from the end of the table; whereupon Ned, Phil, and Jamie rose in their seats, nearly overturning their chairs. Fanny and Jessie caught each other around the neck, and sobbed a short sob, with a little shriek at the end of it, and I fled crying to my mother.
It was a very trying scene. My father lost all patience, and my mother was in real distress, and as five or six were talking at the same moment, the matter became more and more hopeless, until Ned, who had gone over to speak to Rob at the end of the table, set up a clear, ringing, healthy laugh that silenced us all, and turned the force of my father's wrath full in that direction.
"Ned, we want no more of this nonsense. If this is one of your offensive practical jokes, explain at once."
"It's not mine—it's Rob's," cried Ned.
"Well, Robert?" said my father, trying to control himself.
"I beg your pardon, Uncle James," said Robert. "I am wholly to blame, but I did not anticipate such a scene as this. Aunt Fanny sent me to the store-room at the end of the attic about an hour ago for some corn for the children to pop after tea. I went up by the back attic stairs. There was fun, I can assure you, in the main attic. I never heard such a Babel. I went to the little open window that was made to let light through from the store-room into the main attic, and saw that you had set the portrait on the old dresser on the other side, and so covered the window; but through that ugly hole that Phil made in the Little Grandmother's head I could see that Ned and Phil were making terrible havoc with the girls, while Jamie was trying to defend them. When I saw poor Bessie go under, I thought it time to interfere, and began calling to them. Then the funny fact of talking through the Little Grandmother's head grew upon me, and I assumed the falsetto voice that you heard a few minutes ago. I was the falsetto in the college quintette club, and so became an expert in the use of it. I found that the youngsters really thought the Little Grandmother was calling them, and so I improved the golden opportunity. I'm afraid I didn't lecture in character. I beg the Little Grandmother's pardon if I did not, but I think I managed to make a few timely suggestions to Ned and Phil; and I saw and heard one thing that I shall never, never forget. It was Fanny, when she clasped her hands like this; and gushed: 'I love you, Little Grandmother.'"
Here all the children, who had returned to their normal state of mind, fell into fits of laughter, and were joined by the mollified father and relieved mother.
All the children, except Fanny. She cried with vexation, and did not promise to forgive "Brother Rob" until he had promised to forget.
And this is the story of the Little Grandmother.
"Uncle Horace, do, please, come out here and look. It is just too funny. When papa was here last summer he left a pair of old boots, and this spring some one threw them out on the pile of rails behind the barn. I was around there a few minutes ago, and I found that two little birds had gone into one of the boots and built a nest there. I looked in, and I saw the nest and three eggs. Do come out and tell me what birds they are. Just now one of them scolded at me very much because he thought I went too close to the boot."
"I think I can tell you before going what the bird is, for there is only one which would fairly be apt to adopt the boot as a place for housekeeping. The birds are probably wrens, Bennie, but we will go and see."
As we were passing around toward the rear of the barn I heard, sure enough, the song of a wren from the branches of a cherry-tree which we passed, and when we reached the "boot," out flew the mate of the songster, and without going further than the nearest fence post, she stopped and began to scold us at a furious rate.
"That is just the way she went on before, Uncle Horace. What a spiteful little thing she is!"
"Oh no, not spiteful, Bennie; she is only standing up for her rights. She evidently thinks that the boot belongs to her, and that we have no business here."
"But is it not queer that they should take such a place for their nest? An old boot!"
"No, it is not queer, Ben; it is precisely the sort of thing you might expect. When you mentioned the place of the nest, I felt at once tolerably sure that a pair of wrens must be the builders, for they seem to have a special fancy for odd places. When we go into the house again I will show you Mr. Audubon's plate of this species, and you will see that he represents them as having built their nest in an old torn hat which had been hung on a branch of a tree. I saw a wren's nest once in a pickle jar, and at another time a pair had taken possession of a tomato can which some boys had hung on a fence stake and used as a mark for shooting till it was full of shot-holes. They often go into empty boxes, and it is curious how much work they will do in filling up a box when it is too large for their little nest. I recollect one case where a pair of wrens took a fancy to a soap box which was more than a foot long, and rather than leave any part of it vacant they actually worked away till they had piled grass, etc., into it clear down to the very hole by which they entered, and there they built their nest right down close to the entrance. These were all American wrens; but here is a beautiful drawing of another species never seen in this country."
"Oh, Uncle Horace, what a cunning little fellow, one up above and one looking out of that hole in the nest! You say he never comes to this country; where does he live, then?"
"That drawing represents the common wren of England and of France, Bennie. In fact, the bird is found in most parts of southern and western Europe, and is just as familiar in its habit of coming about houses there as our wren is here. They all of them seem to like the idea of being where people are, and yet they are timid and retiring little things after all. The genus to which they belong is called in the books Troglodytes, which you must pronounce in four syllables, not three. It sounds like a harsh name for such a delicate bird; it means a dweller in caves."
"Why, Uncle Horace, you did not say anything about their living in caves."
"No, I did not, Bennie, nor do I think they ever go into caves. Still, the name is a very correct one, as applying to their habits. If you will carefully watch this pair out here behind the barn, you will see for yourself. There is no nook or corner about there which you will not see them prying into."
"Here comes one of them now, Uncle Horace, out through the stone fence. He is going to scold us for being here to watch him. You need not mind it, little fellow; we shall not hurt you. But what makes him keep his tail held up so straight? Some of the time he almost lays it over on his back."
"I was about to call your attention to that very thing. That is one of their singular peculiarities. All of this tribe of the wrens have that curious habit. By 'this tribe,' I mean those species which so much resemble the common wren of Europe or the house wren of America, for there are others which are quite distinct from them, and which do not carry their tails in that manner. Look at the drawing, and you will see that the bird on the top of the nest has his tail raised, though scarcely so remarkably as our friend here on the fence, but still it is enough to show his tendency. Now we have here, in our Northern and Eastern States especially, another species which commonly comes to us only in the winter instead of being here, as this bird is, during the summer. Though he lives more in the woods, and does not very often come about houses, yet they are very similar to the house wren, and you would notice them at once because of this habit of carrying the tail erect; and it would be the same with the wood wren, and also with the queer little fellows who live in the marshes, the marsh wrens."
"And then are there others which are not like them—not what you call of the same 'tribe'?"
"Yes, in our Southern States, and even no further south than Delaware, we find a species decidedly larger than our house wren, and having no resemblance to it as far as familiarity with men and houses is concerned. It is the great Carolina wren, and from seeing this species now before us you would scarcely imagine that to be a wren at all. He lives in the woods, he carries his tail as a robin or a bluebird does, and his song is not like the few trilling and twittering notes of the house wren. He pours out a flood of music that is similar to that of a thrush; you can scarcely believe when you see him that so much power of notes can come from a body so small."
"I see in this drawing, Uncle Horace, that the European species makes a nest with only a hole in the side. I have seen a robin's nest, and several swallows' nests, and sparrows' nests, and they were all open on the top, like a cup; they were not covered."
"No, that is very true, Ben. That is the way in which the greater number of birds build. But many of the wrens have the propensity to arch their nests over. The one in the drawing is represented correctly. They always seem determined to have an arch, even if it is not needed—if there is an arch there already. One pair, I recollect, built their nest inside a small gourd shell. The top of the shell arched over so close that the back of the bird as she sat in the nest almost touched the shell, but she had not been contented without having an arch of her own, and she had actually made one no thicker than fine paper. It seemed to me that it was only one layer of fine fibres, hair, grass etc. But there it was, an arch, and she was doubtless contented."
"What did you mean by the marsh wrens being queer little fellows?"
"They are queer fellows, sure enough. Queer in their nests, queer in their song, queer in the places they choose for their homes. They are of two species, quite closely resembling each other, and yet one will never live where the water is fresh, and the other will live only where it is fresh. The first is seen only on the salt-marshes, and yet its habits are almost the same as those of the fresh-water bird. They build nests almost alike, and yet they never put them in similar places. In going across a salt-marsh you often see a tuft of the tall coarse grasses, of which the stems have been woven and bound together into a sort of column, and then in their top, two or three feet from the ground, is a large coarse ball of long leaves and fibres, of the size of a child's head. This is the nest of a marsh wren. Now you may cross the fresh-water marshes all day long, and you will see no such thing, and yet you will see numbers of the short-billed marsh wrens, and you will pass many of their nests, and the nests will look almost exactly like those perched up in the tops of the salt-water grasses, but you will not see them unless you know where to look. Why? Because instead of being away up on the grasses, they are placed at the roots. Can you tell why they differ so in their nest-building? I can not. Each nest, of either species, is a coarse ball, as already mentioned, with a round hole on the side, and inside is the real nest, a beautifully smooth and comfortable place for the bird and her young."
"Is the nest like this one in the drawing? This has a hole in the side."
"Somewhat like it, but it is built commonly of coarser materials. I mentioned also that the marsh wrens of either the salt or fresh water species were peculiar in their notes, for you can scarcely call it a song. It is a series of short sounds, seeming almost like the bubbling of air through water—somewhat like the noise which your feet make in stepping on the marshy ground, and yet it has a musical effect which is very pleasant."
Almost every one has read of Ezekiel Green and his flying machine, and a great many boys and men have been quite sure that they could manufacture wings which would enable them to fly.
As long ago as the reign of James IV. of Scotland an Italian who pretended to be able to change common metals into gold, and who wasted a great deal of the King's money in this way, but all to no purpose, "took in hand to fly with wings" as far as France, and to be there before the King's ambassadors, who travelled in the ordinary way. He had a pair of wings made of feathers, and when these had been fastened upon him he flew off the wall of Stirling Castle, but only to fall heavily to the ground, and break his thigh-bone.
The abbot of Tarryland (for so he had been created by the credulous King) declared that the blame of this failure should be laid upon the fact that there were hen feathers in the wings, and that hens are more inclined to the barn-yard than the skies—a very ingenious way of defending himself; but it could not quiet the twinges in his broken limb.
Another experiment, which was made three hundred years later, was more successful. It was tried on a convict from the galleys, whose life was not thought too valuable to risk, and when ready for flight he must have been an object capable of frightening all the birds of the air. He was "surrounded with whirls of feathers, curiously interlaced, and extending gradually at suitable distances in a horizontal direction from his feet to his neck." When first launched from a height of seventy feet, his feelings could not have been enviable, and the great mass of spectators watched him in almost breathless silence. But instead of falling, he went down slowly, and landed on his feet, with no inconvenience except a feeling of sea-sickness.
Nothing seems to have come of it, as men are not flying through the air yet; but the Flying Ship may possibly have led to the balloon. This strange scheme made quite a sensation in the year 1709, and the first account of it was written in Portuguese. It was invented by a Brazilian priest, who wanted the King of Portugal to adopt it.
In an ancient document purporting to be an address made to this monarch we read: "Father Bartholomew Laurent says that he has found out an Invention, by the Help of which one may more speedily travel through the Air than any other Way either by Sea or Land, so that one may go 200 Miles in 24 Hours; send Orders and Conclusions of Councils to Generals, in a manner, as soon as they are determined in private Cabinets; which will be so much the more Advantageous to your Majesty, as your Dominions lie far remote from one another, and which for want of Councils cannot be maintained nor augmented in Revenues and Extent.
"Merchants may have their Merchandize, and send Letters and Packets more conveniently. Places besieged may be Supply'd with Necessaries and Succours. Moreover, we may transport out of such Places what we please, and the Enemy cannot hinder it."
This remarkable ship was made as nearly in the form of a bird as possible; the tail (not quite true to nature) being the stern, and the head the figure-head of the vessel. At the bottom were two queerly shaped wings "to keep the ship upright"; at the top, the sails, which rounded over like the body of the bird; the light body of the ship was scalloped at both ends, and in the cavity of each was a pair of bellows, to be blown when there was no wind; and there were globes of heaven and earth, two load-stones, and "a good number of large amber beads fastened in an iron wire net, which, by a secret operation, would help to keep the ship aloft."
The strange vehicle was supposed to accommodate ten or eleven men "besides the artist," and this last personage, "by the help of the celestial globe, a sea map and compass, takes the height of the sun, thereby to find out the spot of land over which they are on the globe of the earth." It was a very funny affair, but quite ingenious, considering how little the laws of gravitation, and many other things connected with the art of flying, were then understood; yet no such object has been seen making its way through the air, and a flying ship would be very apt to find itself on the ground or in the water.
Base-ball has long been recognized as the national game of this country, and if any one has any idea that cricket or lawn tennis or lacrosse is likely to put it into the background, that person should have been one of the twelve thousand persons who witnessed the great game between Princeton and Yale Colleges on Decoration-day.
If the play might have been better, the weather could not, and the enthusiasm and enjoyment of the immense crowd of spectators knew no bounds. Almost every one was decorated either with the blue of Yale or the orange of Princeton, for, as every boy who lives in the neighborhood of New York knows, the population of that great city and the neighboring cities, towns, and villages is divided into two parties, which are as enthusiastic about their favorite colleges as Republicans and Democrats are for their candidates at a Presidential election. "Are you Yale or Princeton?" one boy asks of another, and then, if the two boys prove to be of different parties, there follows a long argument about the merits of the two colleges, and however strong may be the facts brought forward, it always ends by one of the boys being convinced—that the other does not know much about foot-ball or base-ball, as the case may be, anyhow.
The rules of base-ball are very long and elaborate, and moreover, they are frequently altered. If we were to print them all, they would occupy at least six times as much space as this article. That being the case, we will not print them, and even if we did, very few of our readers would care to read them, for every American boy knows the principal rules, even though he may not be able to pass an examination in the whole code. Nor shall we attempt to describe the game as we have done with other less-known games. Like the Constitution, base-ball is one of the institutions of the country, but it has an advantage over that important document in the fact that the citizens of this country have mastered the art and science of base-ball (or think they have) long before they know anything about the Constitution. And so we will not describe or attempt to teach it, and if any of our young readers think that we are not treating them fairly by keeping back the valuable information with which, if the editor would allow it, we could fill the paper, we shall be much obliged if those young gentlemen will send their names and addresses to this office, when we will endeavor to refer them to some good authority on the subject.
Everybody knows by this time that in the great college game played on Decoration-day Yale beat Princeton easily. The fact is, the Princeton men were sadly wanting in sharp fielding, and fielding is the real science of the game. Your good fielder is always on the move. No matter where the ball may be, it will be in-field in a few seconds, and neither basemen nor short-stop must be caught napping.
Each man must be ready to support his fellow, and he must not think that because the ball does not come in his particular part of the field he need not trouble himself about it. Every player plays not for himself alone, but for his side, and it is in the perfect working together of the whole nine that the highest art of ball-playing consists. The basemen have their regular positions, but it must be remembered that the game is where the ball is, and that the fielder who can best reach the ball is the one who should field it.
One of the most important positions is that of short-stop. He is a kind of Jack-of-all-trades. He must be able to do the work of any of the in-fielders, to occupy a baseman's place when that person is fielding a ball, to "back up" the basemen, so as to cover any swift or widely thrown balls which they may be unable to reach, and to back up the pitcher, and so save him extra work in fielding balls returned to him by the catcher. The most eminent positions in a nine are, of course, those of pitcher and catcher, but the short-stop may have just as much enjoyment out of his part, and may do his side as much service as the more prominent players of the "battery."
It is not every one that can be a catcher. Like poets and wicket-keepers at cricket, the catcher is "born, not made." Because there is a catcher on every nine, it does not follow that every ninth man is one of these much-valued creatures whose excellence is due to instinct rather than to education. It is by no means the case that every person who writes verse is a poet, nor that every cricketer who stands behind the wicket is a wicket-keeper. A man may catch, but he is not therefore a catcher. If he has not a hand that acts directly with the eye, and an eye that sees almost before it has time to look—above all, if he shrinks from the swiftly darting ball, or winces as the bat is swung within a very few inches of his head—he will not make a catcher.
The kind of courage required for this position is very peculiar. It is not necessarily the sort of courage that would lead a man to jump into a mill-race to save another from drowning, nor is it especially the calm bravery that carries a soldier up to the ramparts behind which the enemy and perhaps death are lurking. But it is an admirable quality, and the chances are that the man who can control his nerves in the hazardous position of a base-ball catcher would not be found wanting when the time arrived for the exercise of his courage under even more trying circumstances.
The great Duke of Wellington said, as he watched the Eton boys playing cricket, "It was here that the battle of Waterloo was won," and though Waterloo is in Belgium and Eton in England, there was much truth in what the great commander said. The qualities which cricket brings out and educates (and it is fully as much so with base-ball) are qualities that make a man or boy courageous, quick to act in emergency, and loyal. These are the three qualities that are most desired in a soldier, and especially in one who is set over others.
When the American boy shall have become a man, and shall be placed in a position to test himself to see what kind of stuff he is made of, and finds that his courage, his resolution, his faithfulness, do not fail him, he may look back upon those happy afternoons spent on the base-ball field, and think how valuable an education he was working out for himself when he thought he was merely "having a good time."
The Postmistress thinks that every little reader will be interested in the letter from Alberto Dal M., who tells about a visit to Naples. She is very much pleased to hear from little travellers as well as from little stay-at-homes. The poem entitled "A Pansy Show" is the first attempt of the youthful writer. Our Post-office Box is quite sparkling this lovely summer day, with its letters, rhymes, and bits of information. Let nobody fail to read the amusing description of the wedding outfit of a Hindoo bride under the head of C. Y. P. R. U. After a long silence, we are pleased to receive another letter from Mrs. Richardson, of Woodside. We have not forgotten Uncle Pete and his Ida, nor the little school among the pines.
Venice, Italy.
This time I will tell the readers of Young People about my visit to Naples. From our rooms I could see the lovely bay, and in the distance the island of Capri, where there is a beautiful grotto. One morning at seven o'clock I started for Vesuvius in a carriage that had three horses for the mountain roads, and arrived at the Observatory at about half past eleven. I would like to have gone up by the railroad to the crater, but it was considered too dangerous, as there had been an accident a short time before my visit. I went into the Observatory, where visitors are not usually admitted. There I saw many electric wires, one of which showed when Vesuvius was throwing out stones. Even the slightest movement of the mountain could be felt by this wire, which without it would be unnoticed; another showed in which direction the movement was, whether east, west, north, or south; and still another told when the temperature changed.
There were many specimens of the different minerals thrown from Vesuvius. Some were crystallized sulphur, some iron, some salt, and some magnesia. Some of the lava when broken contained in the centre a white substance which had the form of a flower, another piece looked like a butterfly, and there were also some long white sticks which resembled macaroni. I saw the instruments with which they take up the hot lava; one was a kind of shovel, another a long pair of pincers. All that I saw here interested me very much. The view from the Observatory was magnificent. In the distance one could see the whole city of Naples, and the mountain looked like a desert of burnt wood. The lava which had been thrown out from different eruptions covered the ground everywhere, and was in some places heaped up very high in many curious forms. Some of the lava was gray, some red, and some brown. I picked up several pieces to carry home, also a few flowers which I found growing among the lava.
A few days after, I went to visit the ruined city of Pompeii. After passing through one of the old gates of the city, I went into a small museum, where I saw a few petrifactions and other things, but most of the curiosities are at Naples, in the National Museum. The streets of Pompeii are very narrow, paved with large blocks of stone, and I could see the ruts made by the wagons before the city was destroyed. I went into what was once a barber's shop, where there was still a block of marble which had been used as a seat. I saw a shelf there, and was told that a razor, a comb, and pomade were found on it. In a baker's shop I saw an oven where loaves of bread had been found. The houses were but one story high, and each house opened into a court, from which it received its light, as the rooms had no windows. Some of the frescoes on the walls were still fresh.
Alberto Dal M.
Dartmouth, Nova Scotia.
I began to take your paper last May, and like it very much. I often read the letters in Our Post-office Box, and have often thought I would like to write one. I have a little bird named Dicky, and he is very tame. When I call him he will come to me, and often when I am writing he will fly down and perch on my pen. I leave his cage door open all the time, and he goes out and in when he likes. The other day he was sick, and we thought he was going to die, but he got well again the next day. I have a little baby brother a week and three days old. This is my first letter to Young People.
Victor F.
Germantown, Pennsylvania.
I am staying in Germantown with my aunt, and am having a lovely time; and as I have not seen many letters from here, I thought I would write and tell you about our place. We have a good many chickens, six horses, and a very pretty pet cat. His name is Pursius, but we call him Persie for a short name. He climbs up from our back shed to the window-sill, and cries until we open the window and let him in. Does not the Postmistress think him a smart cat, I wonder? He does a good many more cute things, but it would make my letter too long to tell them all. I do not go to school, but study at home. I took lessons of a French mademoiselle in the winter, and can talk a little in French. My favorite stories in Young People are "The Dolls' Dressmaker," "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," and "Phil's Fairies." I forgot to say that the woods are only five minutes' walk from the house, and the apple-trees are all in bloom, and I often take my little basket over to the woods and gather it full of apple blossoms and dogwood flowers. My papa gave me a pretty little watch on my last birthday.
Margaret J.
Three children sat in a row on a fence;
They knew not what to do;
They were tired of playing their old games,
And wished for something new.
They looked around with discontent,
'Till they saw the pansy bed,
Where each bright blossom, in purple and gold,
Was nodding its royal head.
Then one of the children cried aloud:
"Let's have a pansy show;
We can dress the flowers and make them look
Just like people, you know."
They gathered the velvet pansies,
And when dressed in green and white.
They were placed in groups on the smooth green grass—
It was truly a fairy sight.
They charged five pins admission
To see the wonderful flowers;
In this way they made great profits,
And spent many pleasant hours.
In summer you will see the pansies,
On their faces an eager glow,
Waiting to be picked by the children,
And placed in the flower show.
Myra A. Scott.
Cleveland, Ohio.
Newmarket, Tennessee.
A kind uncle, away off in New Jersey, sends me Harper's Young People. Unless you have been a little country girl ten years old, like me, you can not imagine what pleasure it gives me, or how eagerly I run to meet brother Bertram when he brings the mail on Thursdays. Bertie, who is twelve years old, goes to school, while I have to stay at home and help to take care of a baby brother and sister (twins) so sweet and cunning that I wish you could see them. The little boy is named after grandpa, and the girl after uncle Jesse B., by adding an i to Jesse. Papa told me I must not use many capital I's if I wrote you a letter; but how else can I tell you that I ride six miles on horseback once a week, to take a music lesson, on a dear old horse (we call her Kate) so faithful and true that I am sure Toby Tyler and the boys would be delighted to have her in their circus, but I can't spare her? Papa is a farmer, and we make pets of colts and calves and lambs and pigs, but I do not give as much attention to them as I do to books and the babies. I have a little sister Dora, four years old, who came running in one evening and said, "Mamma, the gipperwills are singing, and it is time to go barefooted." She had been told that when the whippoorwills sing there is no danger of catching cold. My home is on a high location, overlooking a beautiful valley—a landscape that never fails to please all who look upon it. Here, if I can not go to school. I try to learn, and be happy and busy and helpful to mamma.
Gertrude Elizabeth W.
What fun it must be to take care of twins! Do they look very much alike, and how old are they? You ought to have said more about them, dear. Although you can not attend school, you are learning a great many pleasant things at home, as your letter shows. The I's are not too numerous. I shall think of Bertie carrying Young People home from the office on Thursdays, and fancy my little correspondent flying down the garden walk to meet him as he stops at the gate.
Springfield, Kentucky.
My home is in Springfield. I have been wanting to write a letter for the Young People since I first took it, which was last January, but I was timid about doing it. My papa gave the paper to me as a New-Year's gift, and I have had more than a dollar and a half's worth of pleasure from it already. I have seen so much about "Toby Tyler" in the letters, but have never seen anything about him in the numbers, and my mamma reads everything in them to me; so please tell me where to find him. I am seven and a half years old; have never been to school, but am taught at home; will start in a week or two. I am the only child, and mamma says she will be too lonely without me; but I tell her she must let me learn and be a smart little girl. I have a lot of pets: a beautiful Esquimau dog just one year younger than I, a canary-bird, and a lot of the prettiest little chickens; but my kitten has run away, or has been killed. He was such a pet, because he was so smart, and performed so many tricks. I am going to have a pony as soon as I learn to ride. I have the money, given to me by my uncle; he gave me one hundred dollars six months ago, and I loaned it to papa at ten per cent. interest. I have written 'most too long a letter, but please publish it if you can.
Carrie S.
The story of "Toby Tyler" was begun in No. 58, Vol. II., of Harper's Young People. The same Toby is the hero of "Mr. Stubbs's Brother"; but if you are very anxious to read all the adventures of a little boy who was once so foolish as to run away from his kind uncle Daniel and travel with a circus, you must send for Toby Tyler, which the Messrs. Harper publish in a very pretty little book by itself. The price is $1. I hope you will enjoy school, and surprise mamma by learning very fast. When the pony is bought, you must write again, and tell me his name, and all about your charming rides.
Woodside (near Lincolnton), North Carolina.
My dear "Young People,"—It has been quite a while since I have written a letter to you all. I had books and papers enough, thanks to your kind help, and so I have not had any need to call upon your generosity again. Our school, you will be glad to know, still keeps on in a very encouraging way. I had only a few dollars sent for the building, and had almost despaired of ever getting one, when one day I received a letter from a very kind gentleman, who wrote that if we were willing to give the land to the diocese, and build a chapel, he could raise us money to do it. You may be sure we were only too glad to do so, and he did his part very soon. We have the building framed, all the lumber is ready, and the carpenter promises that he will soon have it done. We have the windows, sent by the same kind gentleman, of colored and ground glass, and the rector in Lincolnton will give our school one service each month. The people have no preaching now except from preachers of their own race, who are often very ignorant men. We hope this will be a great help in educating the children and their parents, and making them good and happy. I will tell you about it when church begins. Your friend,
Mrs. Richardson.
Kau, Hawaii, Sandwich Islands.
I like "Toby Tyler" and "Talking Leaves" the best of all the stories. I have a pet rooster; his name is Whitehead, because when little he had a white spot on the top of his head. He is so tame that my little sister can take him by the tail and drive him all around the yard like a dog, and he will not try to get away; and when we have a bunch of bananas on the veranda hanging up over the railing, he will fly up on the railing and pull the bananas off the bunch, and drop them down for the hens that are on the ground below him. I have a handsome parrot; he is yellow, green, blue, red, and black. His name is Dandy, but he calls himself Polly.
We live about twenty-five miles from the volcano Kilauea, and every night when I go to bed I look out of the window of my bedroom, and can see the light of it, sometimes bright and sometimes faint.
May L. H.
Tell your sister to take hold of the rooster's tail very gently. He is very kind to pick bananas for the hens. Charlotte's letter, which came with yours, will appear in a future number.
Tarrytown, New York.
I am ten years old, and hope you will put my piece of poetry in the poets' corner:
It gently lifts its little head,
And looks up to the sun;
It hears the birds a-twittering,
And knows that spring has come.
It lives in quiet little nooks,
Where the sunbeams come and play;
It hears the crickets' cheerful chirp,
And sees them day by day.
And so this lovely little flower
Shows that spring has come;
But soon will wilt and fade away,
And then spring will be done.
Margaret Prall G.
McCainsville, New Jersey.
I enjoy reading your stories very much indeed, especially those written by Jimmy Brown. There is a robin and a chippy-bird building their nests on the honeysuckle vine that is climbing up our piazza. The nests are about two feet apart. My brother Fred has about twenty-two pigeons. They are so tame that they come in front of the kitchen and pick up the crumbs of bread.
Lizzie S. S.
Norwich, Connecticut.
I am a boy eight years old, and I can read and write a little, but my aunt Daisy is writing this for me, because I do not form the letters plainly yet. I must tell you about a pet pony I have. His nose is pure white, while all the rest of him is jet black. I call him Gip, and he will eat sugar, bananas, and cookies. He is very small and cunning, and I ride him sometimes, with my papa holding the bridle. Some time I hope I can ride him all alone. Besides Gip, I have a canary called Funny, a dog which I have named Yum-yum, a rabbit which we call Toodles, and a big Maltese cat called Thomas Didymus. Don't you think I have a good many pets? I go to school with my sister every day, and as it is a long distance from my home, I always carry our lunch in a little basket, and we eat it at recess. My little sister is only seven years old, and she can make real pretty poetry. This is a little poem that she made all alone, and we think it is very good. Will you please print it?
Nelson G.
How cunning does my Kitty play
With a spool, or a long string, all day!
She capers round in a pretty way,
As much as if she would say,
"Give me some milk, and let me drink
From a pan, all bright and gay,
And please, dear mistress, don't say nay.
Or surely I will run away,
And with you no longer stay.
Give me some milk, and let me drink."
Your pets have very droll names, Nelson, especially the doggie. Thank you for your nice letter, and for little sister's jingle, which is very well done for a girl who is only seven.
The children who are studying geography may hold up both hands. Shall I count them? No wonder you laugh. A Postmistress would be very clever indeed who could count the forest of hands which are waving gleefully in the air at this moment. What I hope is that every one of you will read this rhymed alphabet of countries; and if you do, and I hear that you like it, perhaps I'll be able to find another one for you some day in a corner of our box: