MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.

MAX RANDER'S FENCING EXPERIENCE.

A LITTLE DUKE.

OLD LIGHT'S JOKE.

CAPTAIN ORTIS

PERIL AND PRIVATION.

THESE MY LITTLE ONES.

SAVED BY AN ALBATROSS.

PREPARING FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY.

GRANDFATHER KNITTING.

OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE

vol. iii.—no. 139. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents.
Tuesday, June 27, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance.

UNROLLING THE SCHOONER'S SAILS.

MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]

BY JAMES OTIS.

Chapter XIII.

THE RESULTS OF LONG TRAINING.

Mr. Stubbs's brother had been a close observer of all that was going on, with a view probably to guarding against another sudden fright such as the overture had given him, and the moment Ben commenced to revolve, he leaped from the tree, running with full speed toward the whirling acrobat.

Toby started to catch him, but the monkey was too quick in his movements. Before any one could prevent him, he had caught the revolving boy by one leg, and for a few seconds it was difficult to tell which was Ben and which the monkey.

Of course such an interruption as that broke up the performance for the time being, and Toby was obliged to exert all his authority to disentangle the monkey from the performer.

"I knew it wouldn't do to let him be loose," said Toby, in a half-apologetic tone. "Now I'll set here, an' hold him while you commence over again, Ben."

"Well, now, be sure you hold him," said Ben, seriously, "for I don't want him to catch me again when I'm goin' 'round so fast, for it hurts a fellow to tumble the way he made me."

Bob offered to help hold the unruly monkey, and when he and Toby had taken a firm grip on the collar, the music was started again, and Ben recommenced his performance.

This time he got through with it in a highly successful and creditable manner; he proved to be a really good acrobat, so far as turning hand-springs and standing on his head were concerned, and Toby felt certain that this portion of the entertainment would be pleasing.

Bob now went into the ring, and began to sing the "Suwanee River" in a manner which he intended should captivate his audience; but he had neglected to give the band any orders, and the consequence was that when he commenced to sing, Leander began to play "Old Dog Tray," which mixed the musical matters considerably.

"You mustn't do that, Leander," Bob said, sharply, after he had done his best to sing the band down, and failed in the attempt. "It won't do for you to play one thing while I'm tryin' to sing something else. Now you be restin' while I'm doin' my part."

Leander was so deeply interested in the enterprise that he was perfectly willing to keep on playing without ever thinking of taking a rest; but in deference to Bob's wishes he ceased his efforts, although he did venture to remark that he noticed particularly, when the real circus was there, that the band always played when the clown sang.

Bob got along very well with his portion of the rehearsal after the first mistake had been rectified; and when he finished he bowed gracefully in response to the applause bestowed upon him.

"Now's the time when you come in, Toby," said Bob; "an' if you'll see how you can ride the ponies, Joe'll run around the ring with 'em."

Toby was willing to do his share of the work, and all the more so because he could see that Abner, from his cozy seat under the bushes, was deeply interested in all that was going on.

Joe got one of the ponies while Toby made his preparations; and after the little horse had been led around the circle two or three times to show what was expected of him, Toby got on his back. This was Reddy's opportunity to act the part of ring-master, and he seized his long whip, standing in the centre of the ring in what he believed to be the proper attitude.

"Run around with him till I tell you to let go," said Toby, as he tied the reins together to form a bridle, and then stood on the pony's back as Mr. Castle had taught him to do.

There was so great a difference between the motion of this horse and that of the one owned by Mr. Douglass that Toby began to understand it might be quite as necessary to train the animal as its rider.

Owing to his lack of practice he was a little clumsy; but after one or two attempts he went around the ring standing on one foot almost as well as he had done it when with Ella.

The boys, who had never seen Toby ride before, were thoroughly elated by the brief exhibition he gave them; and if he had done as they wanted, he would have tired both himself and the pony completely.

"I'll practice some, now Abner can come out," said Toby, as he led his steed to a spot where he could get more grass, but neglected to fasten him; "an' I wouldn't wonder if I could ride two at once, after a little while."

His partners in the enterprise were more than delighted with their rider, and they already began to believe they should have such a circus as would in some points eclipse the real one that had lately visited the town.

After the excitement caused by Toby's riding had in a measure died away, Ben continued with his feats according to the programme, and then Bob commenced his second song.

The audience of partners were listening to it intently, the more because it seemed to them that Bob had made a mistake as to the tune, and they were anxious to see what he was going to do about it, when the pony Toby had been riding suddenly dashed into the ring, with what looked very like a boy on his back.

The partners were amazed at this interruption, and Bob continued to sound the note he was wrestling with when he first saw the pony coming toward him, until it ended almost in a shriek.

"Who is it?" cried Joe, as the pony dashed across the pasture, urged to full speed by its rider, and in an instant more all saw a long curling tail, which showed unmistakably who the culprit was.

"It's Mr. Stubbs's brother!" cried Toby, in alarm, "and how shall we catch him?"

It was indeed the monkey, and during the next ten minutes it seemed to the boys that they ran over every square foot of that pasture, scaring the cows, and tiring themselves, until the frightened little horse was penned up in one corner, and his disagreeable rider was taken from him.

This last act of the rehearsal had occupied so much time, and the monkey was making himself so troublesome, that Toby decided to go home, the others promising to come to Uncle Daniel's barn that afternoon, when Reddy was to explain how the tent was to be procured—a matter which up to this time he had kept a profound secret from all but Bob.

Short as the time spent at the rehearsal seemed to the boys, it was considerably too long for one in Abner's weak condition, as was evident from his face when Aunt Olive came to the door to help him out of the carriage.

He seemed thoroughly exhausted, and as soon as he got into the house, asked to be allowed to lie down—a confession of weakness that gave Aunt Olive a great deal of uneasiness, because she considered herself in a great measure responsible for the ride and its results, as she had urged Abner to go before the doctor's advice had been heard in the matter.

Toby's fears regarding the invalid were always reflections of Aunt Olive's; but when he saw Abner go to sleep so quickly, he thought she was alarmed without cause, and believed his friend would be quite himself as soon as he should awaken.

Dinner-time came and passed, and Abner was still sleeping sweetly. Therefore Toby could see no reason why he should not join his partners, whom he saw going into the barn before dinner was over.

"The boys have come up to see 'bout the tent," he said to Aunt Olive, "an' I'm goin' out to the barn, where they're waitin' for me. Will you call me when Abner wakes up?"

Aunt Olive promised that he should be informed as soon as the sick boy could see him, and Toby joined his partners with never a fear but that Abner would soon be able to participate in all his sports.

That the boys had come to Uncle Daniel's barn on very serious business was evident from their faces, and the two large packages they brought.

Two rolls of what looked to be sail-cloth were lying on the barn floor, and around them Bob, Reddy, Joe, Ben, and Leander were seated, with a look on their faces that was very nearly a troubled one.

"What's them?" asked Toby, in surprise, as he pointed to the bundles.

"The tent," and Reddy gave a big sigh as he spoke.

"What, have you got two?" asked Toby, a look of glad surprise showing itself on his face.

Reddy shook his head.

"What's the matter? If there ain't two tents here, what makes the two bundles?" And Toby was almost impatient because he could not understand the matter.

"Well, you see, this is just how it is," said Reddy, as he began to untie the fastenings from the rolls of canvas. "When I told you I could get a tent, I'd asked Captain Whetmore to lend me two of the sails what he took off his schooner, an' he told me yes."

"An' you've got 'em, haven't you?" and Toby looked meaningly at the canvas.

"Yes, we've got 'em," replied Joe; "but now we don't know how to fix 'em, 'cause you see we've got to put 'em up like a roof, an' we ain't got anything for the ends."

Reddy had planned to use each of the sails as a side to the tent, fastening them along the top to a ridge-pole; and it had never occurred to him, in all the time he had had to think the matter over, that as yet he had nothing with which to form the ends.

It was a question that puzzled the boys greatly, and caused their faces to grow very long, until Toby said:

"I'll tell you how we can fix one end. We can put it right up against the barn, where the little door is, an' then we can have the stalls for a dressin'-room."

The faces of the partners lightened at once, and each wondered why he had not thought of such a plan.

"An' I'll tell you how we could fix the other end," said Toby, quickly, as another happy thought presented itself. "If Mr. Mansfield would lend us his big flag, it would jest do it."

"That's the very thing, an' I'll go an' ask him now;" and Bob started out of the barn at full speed, while Reddy, now that the important question was settled, displayed great alacrity in unrolling his treasures.

[to be continued.]

MAX RANDER'S FENCING EXPERIENCE.

BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.

I don't know whether it was on account of the loss of the eggs or not, but mother still continued in poor health, until at last the doctor advised her to quit Paris and try country air for a week or two. So father went with her to some place with a compound name, leaving Thad and me at Mrs. Freemack's. But we hadn't been there long when he wrote saying that they had decided to remain away a month at least, and asking if I thought we could make the half-day's journey there by ourselves.

Feeling that I was indeed experienced above my years, I replied that of course we could, and Mrs. Freemack having bought our tickets for us and put us on the cars, we set out in high spirits, for that same kind lady had just made each of us a present of a toy sword, with belt and scabbard complete, and as the train moved off, leaving us with the first-class compartment to ourselves, we foresaw a splendid opportunity of practicing the manly art of fencing then and there.

I had lately been reading up on the subject, and had plied Mrs. Freemack with so many questions about thrusts, foils, longeing and parrying, that I do not wonder she had decided on swords as the most welcome parting gifts she could bestow on us. But she hadn't given us any foils, so I begged Thad to be careful to thrust only "in fun."

We waited until after the conductor had looked at our tickets from the window; then I gave the word, whereupon we both whipped out our glistening blades and flourished them about our heads.

"Now parry, Thad," I cried, as I brought my weapon down with a whiz; but instead of parrying, he began laying about him like a pirate with his cutlass. Of course I couldn't help laughing, although I had to jump around pretty lively to protect myself.

However, I soon made him comprehend that he must obey the rules and stand more on the defensive, and then we sat down to rest a minute before making a fresh start.

"Now, ready again!" I exclaimed; and this time things went a little more artistically, although the noise our blades made as they clashed together reminded me strongly of father and the carving-knife just before dinner at home.

Presently we both began to grow excited, and suddenly, to avoid one of my thrusts, Thad jumped up on the seat behind him. Quick as thought I sprang up on the other, and then we fought in gallant style across the chasm, which to our vivid imaginations ran red with blood or white with foaming floods. We quite forgot where we were, and shouted and danced about like a couple of Zulus.

On a sudden, ker-chink went my sword right through a little piece of looking-glass, shaped like a triangle, and set in the cushions just behind Thad.

"Now you've done it!" he cried, jumping to the floor to escape the falling fragments.

"Oh, pshaw!" I returned, "it won't take much to pay for that. I don't see what use such a little bit of a mirror is, anyway. But, hello! what are we stopping here for, I wonder?" for the train was gradually slowing down, and finally came to a stand-still in the open country.

Meanwhile, I began calculating how much such a piece of glass as I had broken ought to cost, and had just decided on two francs (forty cents), when the guard appeared at the window again, looked in, then pulled open the door with a jerk, sprang into the compartment, and pointing to the broken glass with one hand, seized me with the other, and then—but of course that was all I could understand.

However, I wasn't a bit frightened, although I wondered how he had found out about it so soon. Simply putting my hand in my pocket, I pulled out two francs and offered them to him. But instead of taking them with a polite "merci," as I had expected, he swept them to the floor; then lifting me in no very gentle fashion on to the seat, he planted me squarely in front of a small placard fastened just below where the mirror had been, and which I had never taken the trouble to read before, supposing it to be all in French. It was printed in French, German, and English, and announced that if, in a case of necessity, the presence of the guard was required, the glass was to be broken and a cord pulled inside. Should this be done, however, it went on to state, without good and sufficient reason, a fine would be imposed, the amount of which far exceeded the sum of money I had with me.

I understood it all now; my sword had not only broken the glass, but caught in the ring attached to the alarm-rope, thus causing the stoppage of the whole train, and my present predicament.

What was to be done? I was not able to pay out that which I did not possess, explain matters I could not, and meantime the conductor continued to storm and rage, curious passengers began to gather about the open door, and Thad grew pale with fright.

Suddenly I thought of a possible way out of the scrape, and heroically determined to make the necessary sacrifice. Drawing forth my precious watch, I handed it to the guard.

He smiled and nodded as he took it, and the next moment the train started on again. But there was no more fencing for us that day, and I sat gazing drearily out of the window, in grief for my lost time-piece, nearly all the rest of the journey.

Father said afterward that it served me right, and would teach me there was a place for everything; but before we left France he redeemed my watch for me.

THE FIRST MUSIC LESSON.

A LITTLE DUKE.

BY ELIZABETH ABERCROMBIE.

In the beautiful old Abbey of Westminster, London, among the tombs of illustrious men and women is a tablet inscribed to "William, Duke of Gloucester, the last surviving son of Queen Anne, together with seventeen of her other infant children."

This little boy was born in 1689, and great were the rejoicings thereat. His sponsors were King William and Queen Mary themselves; for having no children of their own, this royal couple looked upon this baby nephew as the future heir of all their greatness.

It is no slight thing, however, to be born a royal Prince, and this poor child, owing to ill health, had but a sorry time of it from the first. When he was five years old he was still supporting himself as he went up and down stairs by holding on to people's hands. This his father, burly Prince George of Denmark, declared was a shame and disgrace for any heir of England. Accordingly his mother, who had a tender heart, with a sigh, took her boy apart and tried to reason him out of what was thought to be only a stupid habit; but as this did no good, she put a birch rod into her husband's hand, and he whipped his son till the little fellow from sheer pain was forced into running alone. After that he never asked any help when walking, but it seemed, if possible, as though he was oftener ill than ever.

So little was understood about disease in those early days that sometimes odd reasons were assigned for these attacks of the Prince. It had long been the custom of the English court to wear leeks on St. David's Day, out of compliment to the Welsh. One of silk and silver had been given Gloucester for his hat one year, but not satisfied, he insisted on seeing the real thing.

Now his tutor's name was Lewis Jenkins, and as he was a Welshman, Lewis was only too happy at the thought of showing off the famous plant of his country to his royal charge. A bunch of the harmless leeks was at once procured, with which Gloucester amused himself for some time, tying them round the masts of a certain toy ship by which he and his boys were taught something of the great British fleet. But suddenly he threw himself down, and went to sleep.

When he awoke he was terribly ill, and it was many days before he could leave his bed. There was a great outcry in the palace, and you may think how poor Lewis Jenkins quaked in his shoes, for they said this illness was all the fault of the leeks!

Even while Gloucester was in bed, his father's system of education was being carried on, and the plays devised by his attendants were intended to be instructive as well as amusing.

Ever since he could walk the Duke had been the leader of a little company of boy soldiers. These were posted as sentinels at his door, tattoos were beat on the drum, while toy fortifications were built by his bed, and once there had nearly taken place a bona-fide fight over the little prostrate body, not laid down; I fancy, in Prince George's rule.

Mrs. Buss, the nurse, was the cause of the quarrel. Wishing to amuse the invalid, she sent by an unlucky Mr. Wetherby an automaton representing Prince Louis of Baden fighting the Turks. "As the young Duke had given up toys since the preceding summer, his masculine attendants started the idea that the present was a great affront, and it was forthwith sentenced to be torn in pieces—an execution which was instantly performed by the Duke's small soldiers." Still not satisfied, however, they next declared that Mr. Wetherby himself ought to be punished for daring to bring such a thing as a doll to the heir of England.

Wetherby, getting an inkling of how matters stood, ran away, but only to be discovered, captured, and brought into the Duke's presence, who gravely pronounced his sentence. The unhappy man was then bound hand and foot, mounted on a wooden horse, and soused all over with water from enormous syringes and squirts. When nearly half drowned, he was again drawn on his horse into the royal bedroom, and I am sorry to find it on record that the young tyrant enjoyed the sight of the man's sorrowful condition immensely.

Still this little boy often showed great kindness of heart. Like most mothers the Princess Anne was anxious that her son should use no vulgar expressions in conversation. She was much shocked one day to hear him say he was "confounded dry."

"Who taught you those words?" she asked.

"If I say Dick Drury, he will be sent down-stairs," the child whispered to one of the court ladies standing by, then added aloud, "I invented them myself, mamma."

And so Dick Drury was saved from punishment for once in his life, if no more.

"Papa, I wish you and mamma unity, peace, and concord, not for a time, but forever," was Gloucester's grave address to his father and mother when celebrating one of the anniversaries of their wedding day.

"You made a fine compliment to their Royal Highnesses to-day, sir," said Lewis Jenkins, afterward.

"Lewis," earnestly returned the boy, "it was no compliment—it was sincere."

After the death of Queen Mary, King William on one occasion paid a state visit to his little namesake, and was much gratified at being received by the child under arms, with all the military honors which a great field-marshal would pay to his sovereign.

"Have you any horses yet?" asked the King, by way of opening conversation.

"Yes," was the answer, "I have one live one and two dead ones."

"But soldiers always bury their dead horses out of their sight," said his Majesty, laughing. That laugh could not be forgotten. The moment his visitor had gone, the boy insisted on burying his two dead horses (which, of course, were animals of wood) deep down in the ground. This was done amidst much pomp and ceremony, after which Gloucester wrote an epitaph upon his two poor lamented wooden beasts.

Young as he was, this little Duke seems to have known the value of loyalty and truth. Once when a plot was discovered against the King, and it was hard to tell who might not be a traitor at heart, Gloucester sent an address to his uncle which he made every member of his boy regiment and of his household also sign.

"We your Majesty's subjects will stand by you while we have a drop of blood," ran this loyal address, upon reading which I doubt not King William ever after felt perfectly secure and at ease.

A great many stories are told of the battles, sieges, and adventures of the Duke and his boys, and the palace must have rung with their shouts. Still there was plenty of hard work as well as play.

When Gloucester was seven years old, his tutor, whom he loved, Lewis Jenkins, to the great grief of both, was dismissed, and he was placed under the charge of a bishop. Four times a year, too, a strict examination was held by four learned lords of the realm to make sure Bishop Burnet was making his pupil as wise as they thought the future King of England ought to be. Poor child! his answers on jurisprudence, the Gothic laws, and the feudal system were marvels, we are assured, but for all his study, I am afraid he knew really very little about those abstruse subjects, while it is saddening to read how all his happy sprightliness faded away under this severe course.

While visiting one of the great college libraries in Oxford, I was much pleased to discover the quaint and most deliriously funny little composition given below. It had grown yellow with age, lying for so many years stored away in its glass case, together with many other interesting hits of penmanship.

The writing, I am bound to confess, was beautifully clear and good. The composition was given both in Latin and English, while the corrections by Bishop Burnet could plainly be seen in the margin:

"Composition of William, Duke of Gloucester.

"A Tyrant is a savage hideous beast. Imagine that you saw a certain monster armed on all sides with 500 horns on all sides dreadfull fatned with humane intrails drunken with humane blood this is the fatal mischiefe whom they call a Tyrant.

"William.
"June 13, 1700."

The pen of this little scholar was soon after laid aside forever. After a short illness of five days, he died, July 30, 1700.

OLD LIGHT'S JOKE.

"I say, have your folks got a horse?"

"Yes, we have, and I'm a-going to lead him down to water by-and-by."

"Is it your own horse?"

"Yes, he is. We've had him ever so long. His name's Lightning. What's your name?"

"Johnny Craddock; and I heard your mother call you Peter, when she said what she'd do if you went away from the gate before dinner was ready."

"That's only because we've just come. She won't be afraid about me after I get used to it."

"There's lots of nice boys around here. Me and Joe Somers and Put Medill and a whole crowd. Some of us have got horses. We've got four, but they belong to old Squire Potter, and he keeps 'em. Some day you may go with me and see 'em."

A clear ringing voice sounded across the village street just then: "Johnny!—Johnny Craddock!"

"Guess your mother wants you. It's dinner-time."

Johnny knew it, but he left a promise behind him, as he darted away, that he would come back after dinner and see Pete Burrows ride Lightning down to the river to water. The arrival of a new boy was a great event in Ridgeville, and his new neighbors were as eager to make his acquaintance as they had been shy about coming too near the house while the furniture was unloading and being carried in.

Johnny Craddock and two others were pretending to play jackstones in the grass near the big gate when Pete Burrows at last came out through the lane from the barn, with Lightning, at the end of a halter, behind him.

"Ain't he a big one?"

"He's blind of one eye."

"Can he go?"

"He's the biggest kind of a hoss," remarked Pete, proudly, "and when he's brushed up he's pretty nigh red."

"Did you ever ride him?" asked Put Medill, doubtfully.

"Ride him? I'll show you."

He led his big, raw-boned, one-eyed sorrel wonder right alongside of the fence, and in another moment he was mounted.

"There! He's as gentle as—"

"I say, will he carry double?"

"Of course he will. I've seen him carry three, and he didn't care any more what they weighed—"

That was almost enough, and boy after boy gathered courage to follow Johnny Craddock, for Lightning really seemed to take no notice whatever of his increasing burden. He shook his ears a little when Joe Somers dug his bare heels into him, and then he walked calmly away from the fence. He could see the wide, shallow river spreading out above the bridge, and knew very well what was expected of him.

The four boys clung tight to each other at first, for they were on a very high horse as well as a strange one, but before they reached the bridge they had gathered courage enough to "hurrah" two at a time, and to answer questions other fellows asked them from the sidewalk.

"Stop him, won't you?" shouted Put Medill, as Lightning's big feet began to splash in the water. "I want to get down."

Pete might have tried, if the halter had been in his hand, but the lowering of the great heavy sorrel head toward the cool surface below had jerked the strap from his grasp, and Lightning was a free horse. He was free, and he had at once determined not to do his after-dinner drinking just there at the river's edge. There was more and deeper water further on, and it might be better.

Four half-grown boys will fill up the back of any one horse pretty well, however large he may be, and there was not room for any more. When his head was down, there did not seem to be quite enough, and a good push would have sent Pete Burrows down the animal's neck; that is, if the two handfulls of sorrel mane he was grasping should come out.

There were boys on the bridge now, and others along-shore, and they were all making remarks, and more were coming, besides three men, and old Grandmother Medill, and Mrs. Craddock, and all three of Joe Somers's aunts, who lived with his mother, and kept the milliner shop.

"LIGHTNING WALKED STRAIGHT AHEAD."

Lightning walked straight ahead until the water arose above his knees. Horses were driven through the river right there every day, and he knew there was no danger of his getting drowned; but it was a green-head fly that stung him and made him shiver. It seemed to the boys they were going to be shivered off into the water, and they all dug their heels in hard and shouted, not very loud, "Hold on!"

That was pretty nearly in the middle, and Lightning had taken three long drinks and a short one, but his halter was as far out of reach as ever.

"He'll go across," said Joe Somers, "and we can get off."

"Perhaps he'll turn back," said Put Medill; but Pete Burrows knew better, for he could see which way Lightning turned his head.

"He's going up stream. Oh dear!"

That was precisely what he began to do, and before he had gone a rod he stumbled dreadfully over a stone on the bottom, and the boys on the bridge gave a shout, and Johnny Craddock could hear his mother calling him to "come right back this minute."

Grandmother Medill said something too, and so did Joe Somers's three aunts; but old Lightning had only just settled in Ridgeville, and was not acquainted with either of them. He stumbled right along into still deeper water, and his four riders clung to him and to each other desperately.

"There's the island!" gasped Johnny Craddock. "It's awful deep and swift both sides of that."

A long, low, bushy affair was the island, and the water poured all over it in flood times; but it was dry now, and the grass had a fresh, green, inviting look to the eyes of Lightning. He had been drinking, and he would now eat. He made straight for the island, and his load held on until he got there.

They did not utter a sound while he was pulling his feet out of the mud at the shore, but the moment he was high and dry among the grass and bushes, boy after boy came sliding down, until Lightning's long back was bare again.

"Here we are! Hurrah!"

Three of those boys had been born and brought up in Ridgeville, but not one of them had ever before been to that island on horseback.

There was something almost grand about it until Mrs. Craddock and the rest gathered on the river-bank, within very easy speaking distance, and began to tell what they thought of the performance. There were at least six distinct voices telling Peter Burrows to catch his horse, and bring to the shore the three poor fellows upon whom he had played that wicked trick.

Poor Pete! Just at that moment old Lightning had discovered that all the grass on the island was coarse, hard, speary bunch-grass and swamp-grass, unfit for a horse like himself. He turned willingly away from it, and before a grasp could be made at his halter, he was pulling his feet out of the shore mud again, as he waded away from the island into the river.

He walked about half-way across, and then stood still, in pretty deep water. He looked at the island and the boys, and then he looked at the bank and the young and old ladies, and he put out his long neck, with a loud whinny.

"Hear him!" exclaimed Pete. "That's his way of laughing. It's an awful joke on us. Can we ever get ashore?"

"Get ashore?" said Johnny Craddock, looking very miserable. "My mother's going for Jones's boat now. She'll be here less 'n no time."

Old Lightning stumbled on, over the stones and through the water, and he reached the bank just in time for Mrs. Burrows to take him by the halter. She did not lead him away at once, for she wanted to see if there would be any room in Mr. Jones's boat for the boys. It looked as if there would not, for all the women were in it, and so was little Vic Doubleday, shoving from the stern with a pole. One old horse had carried the boys to the island, but it took a boat and a mother and a grandmother and three aunts and a second cousin to bring them away from it.

When Pete Burrows came at last, and his mother gave him the end of the halter, she said to him:

"Pete, did you let any of those Ridgeville boys know how scared you was?"

"No, ma'am, I wasn't scared."

"That's right, Pete. I wasn't, either, and all those women were. I'll settle with you when we get to the house. Go right along now. Not one of 'em shall say a word to you. Put Lightning in the stable, and come to me."

CAPTAIN ORTIS[2]

BY MARY A. BARR.

Rich was the city of Antwerp, richer than can be told—
Full of precious things from the East; full of silver and gold;
Full of merchants like princes, and of burghers bold and free,
Ready to fight for their faith and rights, proud of their liberty.

Alva took it for Philip of Spain with a wild fanatic band—
Hungry, desperate, cruel men, each fighting for his own hand;
For Alva had vowed, when Antwerp fell, each captain in his host
Should have for plunder whatever thing he thought would please him most.

Antwerp went down in fire and blood. Each captain, as he pleased,
Palace, or guild, or store, or gold for his own profit seized.
Then Captain Caspar Ortis spoke, "Duke Alva, for my share
I choose the city prison, and for nothing else I care."

The prison was full of patriots, of felons of every kind,
Of wealthy burgomasters who had dared to speak their mind,
Of heretics to Rome's high Church; and monks and priests cried out,
"These prisoners are the Pope's and King's: take care what you're about."

But Alva coldly made reply: "Ortis shall have his way;
He is my soldier, and his sword good work has done to-day.
Antwerp is mine; and what care I for Pope, or King, or Cortes?
I keep my word—the city prison belongs to Captain Ortis.

"If 'tis his whim these heretics to burn, that is his right;
You would have done the same, I know. Go quickly from my sight."
Then Ortis flung the prison gates as wide as they could be;
"Jailer," he said, "loose every bond, and set the prisoners free."

Then forth from rack and torture rooms, from darkness and from pain,
They trooped into the prison-yard—they saw the light again—
Women and children, rich and poor, young men and burghers old.
Said Ortis, "Who for liberty can measure me their gold?"

The wealthy gave him there their bond; they gave it cheerfully.
Unto the poor he only said, "Go forth; you too are free."
The women wept about his knees, the pale sick children feared,
And Ortis grimly smiled on them, and chewed his long black beard.

But not in all of Alva's host was captain, young or old,
Who for his share of plunder won such honor and such gold.
The ransom fees rolled up and up—he scarce their sum could count—
And not one thaler was grudged gold, whatever the amount.

Perhaps you think a hero should have set his prisoners free
Without a claim of any kind, without a ransom fee;
But good is good, however small; and in those wild dark days
His deed was thought most merciful, and worthy of all praise.

And, it is said, in after-years, when all his gold was spent,
He was with Antwerp's booty roll above all else content,
And that when old and weak he kept one single memory—
"Jailer, bring forth your prisoners, and let the poor go free."

PERIL AND PRIVATION.

BY JAMES PAYN.

WAGER ISLAND.

Part I.

In 1740 the English fitted out a fleet against the Spaniards, among which was the Wager, an old East India-man that had been transformed into a man-of-war.

In those days there were no iron-plated vessels, and the main difference between traders and ships of war lay in their guns. But the Wager was not a good ship, to begin with, and was now laden and encumbered with every description of military stores. Moreover, her crew consisted chiefly of "pressed men"—men who, having just returned from long voyages on their own account, had been seized, perhaps just as they reached their native land, and made men-of-war's men against their will, as was then the custom.

In England and America we should think the system employed by other nations of compelling men to become soldiers, their lot being decided by a number drawn from an urn, most intolerable; but the old system of "pressing" for the navy was far worse. Going to sea was not then looked upon as now as an honorable profession, with its compensations and pleasures, and not more difficult and dangerous than many another way in which the poor man has to earn his living. A sea-faring life, owing to the miserable equipment of the ships and the insolence and brutality of the officers, was considered by many a lot to which death was almost preferable. To obtain sailors for merchant vessels was so difficult that gangs of men were sent out who would overpower and seize any able-bodied man they might find in the streets, carrying him aboard a vessel at night, and keeping him in confinement until away from land, when he would be released and compelled to do his share in managing the vessel. Any attempt at remonstrance would be promptly quelled by blows and injuries of a fouler character.

It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that among the crew of the Wager, made up as it was in this way, a spirit of insubordination and a hatred of authority existed. This will explain many things that happened on this unhappy voyage that would otherwise be hard to believe.

The vessel had always difficulty in keeping up with the rest of the squadron; and meeting with a gale on the 7th of April, was so greatly shattered and disabled that she lost sight of her sister ships altogether, and could obtain no help from them. The place of rendezvous was the island of Socoro; but the weather was too bad to take an observation, as it is called, whereby to judge of her position. There were no charts on board of the neighborhood whither she had been driven, but an "abundance of weeds and the flight of certain birds" indicated her approach toward land of some sort.

The gale by this time had reduced the vessel to a mere wreck, and every endeavor was made to keep her from going ashore. It was difficult enough to set the top-sails, since "it was so extremely dark that the people could not see the length of the ship, and no sooner had it been accomplished than the wind blew them from the yards."

At four in the morning of the 14th, though she had her head to the west, and was therefore standing off shore, the Wager struck violently on a hidden rock. It helps us to picture the force of waves in storm to learn that the people on board at first took this concussion for the mere striking of a heavy sea. But the next minute the ship was laid on her beam ends, and the sea made a fair breach in her.

The consequence of this was an almost universal panic. Those who were not drowned in their berths rushed up on deck, and many appeared deprived of reason. One man, armed with a cutlass, struck at every one about him, and had to be knocked overboard, and another, "though one of the bravest men on board," was so dismayed by the terrible aspect of the breakers that he tried to throw himself over the rails of the quarter-deck. Others abandoned themselves to sullen despair, and were carried to and fro, with every shock of the ship, like inanimate logs.

The man at the wheel, however, kept his station, though both rudder and tiller were gone, and Mr. Jones, the mate, cried out, in order to encourage the crew: "What, my men, did you never see a ship among breakers before? Come, lend a hand; here's a sheet, and here's a brace; lay hold. We shall bring her near enough land yet to save our lives." This was the more creditable in him, as he knew what "breakers" were, and had a firm conviction in his own mind, as he afterward confessed, that nothing short of a miracle could save them.

But the ship drove on, and contrived to strike just between two large rocks. One of them partially sheltered her from the beating of the sea, which nevertheless threatened every minute to rend her to pieces.

As soon as day dawned, the barge, the cutter, and the yawl were launched, though with the greatest difficulty, and so "many leaped into the first that she was greatly overloaded." The bonds of discipline, it will thus be seen, were already relaxed; nor must the saying of the Captain, that "he would be the last man to leave the ship," be set down as very heroic, for Captain Cheap had recently dislocated his shoulder, and would have found getting into a boat a very difficult job indeed. Of all those in authority with whom we have to deal in these scenes of peril and privation, Captain Cheap, of the Wager, was, I think, the most selfish and incompetent. At the same time, as will be seen in the sequel, he had plenty of courage. Even on the present occasion, as Midshipman Byron witnesses, the Captain issued his orders "with as much calmness as ever he had done during the former part of the voyage."

But only a very few obeyed him. Many of those who had not gone in the boats "broke open every box and chest they could reach, stove in the heads of the casks of wine and brandy," and got so helplessly intoxicated that "they were drowned on board, and lay floating about the decks for days afterward."

Those who had reached land in the boats, the number amounting in all to no less than 140 persons, had but little to congratulate themselves upon. Whichever way they looked, horror and desolation presented themselves: on one side the wreck, containing all they had to subsist upon; on the other, bleak and barren rocks. They found, however, a deserted Indian hut, into which they crowded for shelter from the storm which still raged.

In the morning the pangs of hunger seized them. Most of them had fasted for forty-eight hours, yet only three pounds of biscuit dust had been brought ashore with them, while all the land afforded had been a single sea-gull and a handful of wild celery. These they made into a kind of soup, which, little as it was among so many, caused the most violent sickness and swooning. The biscuit dust had been put into a tobacco bag which had not been entirely cleaned out, and thus the whole party was very nearly poisoned to death.

The Captain and officers had now come on shore, but many of the crew had refused to do so. The storm continuing worse than ever, however, they got frightened, and since the boats could not be got out to them immediately "they fired one of the quarter-deck guns at the hut" as a gentle reminder.

The men on land occupied a rocky promontory so exceedingly steep that they were obliged to cut steps to ascend and descend it, which they called—not inaptly—Mount Misery. The knowledge that their comrades were in a state of open mutiny did not tend to raise their spirits. They would have been willing enough, perhaps, to leave them to their fate, but for the necessity of getting provisions.

WITH ONE BLOW CAPTAIN CHEAP FELLED HIM TO THE GROUND.

When at last they were brought to land, they presented an extraordinary appearance. They were armed to the teeth, and only by the resolution of the officers, who "held loaded pistols to their breasts," could they be induced to give up their weapons. They had rifled the chests in the cabins, and put the laced clothes they found in them over their own greasy raiment, and the boatswain, their ring-leader, was rigged out in the most splendid attire. One is glad to read that, without respect to the figure he made, Captain Cheap felled him to the ground with his cane, and for a few hours order was restored.

As the hut could only hold a few people, the cutter was turned keel upward, and fixed on props, which made a very tolerable habitation. But food was still so scarce, though the scanty provisions from the ship had been hoarded with great frugality, that the men were glad to eat the carrion crows that preyed on the corpses from the wreck, which every tide cast on shore.

The ship was now under water, except the quarter-deck and part of the forecastle, and all that was procurable from it had to be drawn up by large hooks—"an occupation much obstructed by the bodies floating between-decks."

It was not until the 25th of May (eleven days after the shipwreck) that provisions began to be regularly issued from the store tent, which was guarded by the officers night and day. On the 28th, three canoes with Indians came alongside the wreck, and from them they purchased "a dog or two and some very fine mussels."

The language of these men was utterly unintelligible: their clothing was composed of skins and feathers, and they had evidently never seen a white man before. But the castaways contrived to ascertain from them that they were on some island on the coast of Patagonia, about three hundred miles north of the Straits of Magellan.

[to be continued.]

THESE MY LITTLE ONES.

BY MONA NOEL PATON.

II.

When young Master Dreamer came out of the store, three radiant faces almost paid him for his self-denial.

"Oh, Nellie!" whispered Bill, trembling with delight.

"God bless him!" said Nellie.

"What shall we buy?" said Bill. "This will buy heaps."

"Billy," said Nell, "don't let us buy candies. They would soon be gone. Let us buy something to amuse Bab when we are away at school."

Poor Billy sighed. It was hard to leave the tempting window. But he was not selfish.

"Shall we buy a dog?" said he.

"No. Mother says they eat too much. Besides, it would run away."

"Rabbits?"

"No; we could not keep them in the room. What do you say to a bird?"

"The very thing!" cried Bill. "Let's go to the bird man's, and see what we can get."

Off they started, Bab trotting along bravely.

An hour later, as night was falling, up the dark stair of Nellie's home came three pairs of eager feet. Mother came to the door to meet the children.

"How late you are, dears!" she said. "I was beginning to be anxious about you."

"Mother! mother!—look! look!" was all the answer she received; and a poor rumpled pigeon was pressed so close to her face that she could hardly see it.

And then the tired mother heard the story of the wonderful afternoon—how kind the little gentleman had been, how grim and cross the bird man, at first ordering them away without listening to them, then refusing to sell them anything for a shilling, and finally giving them this darling pigeon that he thought was going to die, and giving them back their shilling too. There it was, smooth and shining, and Nellie held it out for mother to see.

Before one of the little ones would taste a bite of food, the pigeon had to be fed and warmed. A basket was filled with soft rags, and set near the fire, and in it the sick bird was placed. Then it was fed with delightful bread and milk, each child sparing a part of its own supper. Its bright eyes watched the children go to bed, and before they went there was a prayer softly breathed, in which the little gentleman was not forgotten, nor yet the rough bird man.

Long before it wanted to be, the next morning, the pigeon was awakened by tender caresses, and fed before they so much as looked at their own breakfast. Certainly it looked better. The shilling was put carefully away to buy its food. When Nellie and Bill, after a last loving glance, had gone to school, Bab sat down by it on the hearth.

"Oh, pigeon, pigeon," she whispered, "do live! I love you so! I do love you so! Oh, pigeon, live!"

The pigeon did live. It was drooping for just what the children gave it—a little love. Day by day it grew bigger and stronger. Soon it would hop all over the room, perch on Bab's head, and eat its dinner from her plate. When spring came, and the days grew warm, the window was always left open, only a little bit, lest Bab should fall out, but still enough to let the pigeon hop in and out at its own sweet will.

When summer came, though it was much nicer than winter, the close air of the court made poor Bab feel quite ill in the hot mornings. In the afternoons her brother and sister would take her far away on a long walk to the sweet grassy meadows outside the old city walls. They had found out now where their "little gentry" lived; and the great pleasure of the day was in returning from the meadow, and peeping in at the beautiful garden where the two happy children seemed to spend their whole time in play.

The grass in this garden was often quite white with daisies, and the poor children used to stretch through and try to gather a few, but they were almost always just out of their reach.

One very hot afternoon they were coming home through the square rather tired. There seemed to be something wrong with Bab. She was cross and languid. She cried when Nellie's hand could not reach the daisies.

"Hush, hush, dear; the little master will hear you," whispered Nellie, while Bill stretched in his arm, and succeeded at last in getting one of the coveted flowers. The little master had heard and seen. He came up to them, and asked, shyly,

"Do you want some daisies?"

"If you please, sir," said Bill and Nellie, in a breath.

In a moment the little fellow was down on his knees among the daisies gathering busily.

"I would 'ike to gaver some myse'f," said Bab to Nellie.

The little boy looked up and paused. His companions were at play not far distant. He looked half afraid.

"Nellie, me s'ould 'ike to gaver some myse'f," whimpered the tiny voice.

He hesitated no longer, but sprang up. "Come to the gate, and I'll let you in," he said, in a low voice; and then added, "but you must go out again as soon as she has got some."

The next minute Bab was down in the soft, sweet grass, gathering the daisies with both little hands.

"Master Dreamer" did not seem very comfortable, however, and watched his play-fellows cautiously. All at once two of them stopped their game, and came running up.

"Go out! go out!" cried Dreamer, eagerly, "or they'll hurt you."

But already the rude boys were upon them.

"Turn them out! turn them out!" they shouted, and one of them caught Bill by the shoulder, while the others began roughly to hustle Nellie and poor, wondering Bab. This our little gentleman could not stand. Wildly he hit out right and left, keeping between Nellie with Bab in her arms and her two cowardly assailants, until they and Bill were safe outside the gate. Then he shut it, and stood with his back against it.

The other boys were very indignant, and many a buffet poor Dreamer got.

The last the three children saw of him, as they turned out of the square, he was lying on the grass, crying bitterly, his little sister standing beside him, crying too.

"You baby!" sneered one of the boys, "blubbering because you got hit!"

"I'm not crying because I got hit," shouted Dreamer, springing up, his face all burning. "I'm crying to think that boys calling themselves gentlemen should have behaved in such a way to those poor children."

"Cads have no right in the garden."

"Then the sooner you get out the better," retorted the little champion, for which observation the enemy was upon him again.

Poor Bill and his sisters felt very sorrowful at the trouble they had brought their dear little friend into.

"Oh, mother!" they cried; "to think it was all for us!"

"Depend upon it, my darlings," said the wise mother, "that is his greatest comfort. He is all the happier for it now."

Something was very wrong indeed with little Bab next morning. When her mother bent over her to give her the parting kiss, she opened her eyes, stared wildly upward, and uttered a scream of terror.

"Go away! go away! You hit the little boy!"

Poor little Bab was very ill. Fever had broken out in the close court. Her mother sent Bill for the dispensary doctor, and Nellie to tell her employers that she could not work for them that day. When the doctor came, he confirmed her fears. Bab had the fever. Oh, the agony of the next few days! The once merry voice rang out full of trouble. Constantly one weary cry came from the dark, cracked lips:

"Why won't you let Bab in to gaver f'owers? Why are the great gates always shut? My daisies! my daisies!"

"Nellie," said Bill, one evening, "wouldn't it make Bab better if we should go to the square and ask him and the little lady to gather some daisies, and kiss them, and give them to us for Bab?"

Nellie thought it would. Early the next morning, which was Saturday, they set off without saying a word to their mother. They were so early that they had to wait a long time in the square before the boy appeared. At last the door of the house flew open, a hoop came bounding down the steps, and after it shot a boy, the baby behind him, in a new dress, with a doll clasped in her arms.

It was the baby who first noticed the waiting children.

"Dere's de children we gived de daisies to," she said, going up to the railing. "Does you want some flowers, now?" she asked, throwing down her doll and dropping on her knees to pick them.

"Where's de baby?" she demanded presently, pausing in her diligent task.

"She's very ill. That's why we came for flowers," said Nellie, sadly.

"Has her a sore froat?"

"No, it's the fever."

"Brozer, brozer, come quick and gazzer flowers. De ittle baby has dot de fever!"

Brozer came.

"Is she very ill?" he asked.

"Yes," said poor Bill, "she's near dead, and we thought perhaps if you would gather some flowers and kiss them, and wish Bab better, perhaps she would get better. For she does love you so!"

Suddenly Baby dropped the daisies on the grass, clasped her hands, and said, in a loud clear voice,

"O Dod! dear Dod! make Bab better, p'ease." And then with a satisfied nod, as if to say. "That's settled," she set to work again.

Dreamer gathered busily, and said never a word.

"Will that be enough?" he inquired, after a while, holding out a great ball of white stars.

"Oh, quite, quite. Now would you mind kissing it?" said Nell, eagerly.

"That will do no good."

"Oh yes, it will!" Nellie insisted, and so, blushing scarlet, he kissed the flowers, saying gravely, "May she soon be better!"

Baby did the same, crowding into Bill's hand the daisy heads she had plucked. Then, before he knew what she was about, she thrust her sunny face through the bars and kissed him on the lips.

"Take 'at to de baby," was all she had time to say, when her brother caught her in his arms and drew her back.

"Oh, Baby! Baby! you silly, silly girl," he cried. "You may have caught the fever," he exclaimed, his eyes full of fear. And then, moved by a strange wild hope that he might be able to take the infection from her, he kissed her slowly.

"Please, sir," said Nellie, "the doctor says it isn't infectious."

His face cleared.

"Thank you," he said. "Come again when little Bab is better." And so they parted.

When again they crept softly up the rickety stair, their sister lay upon the bed, her tiny hands folded, her eyes closed, her lips parted in a smile. By her side sat the worn-out mother, her head on Bab's pillow. Both were fast asleep.

They laid the flowers on the bed, and very gently Bill just touched Bab's face and gave her the baby's kiss.

They seated themselves on the window-sill beside the pigeon, which had been a little bit neglected in their anxiety, and waited a long, long time. An hour must have passed, and Nellie was the only watcher, for Bill too fell asleep. At last Bab stirred a little. Slowly her wee hands moved until they touched the daisies.

"Who sent 'em?" she whispered.

"The little master," said Nellie, "and the baby, and they asked God to let you stay and get well, and He said yes."

"'Es," said Bab, "Dod said 'es."

From that hour she began to grow stronger. Every day Nellie and Bill went to the garden again, and Dreamer and his sister gathered daisies and sent them to Bab.

"It was us!" suddenly shouted Baby. "Us was werry nice!" remarked the little lady, with great satisfaction.

But Donald was crying.

Auntie laid her hand on his head.

"You were right, dear, when you said you were sure the pigeon came for something. He came to you with a message from the God of little children, who says, 'Whatsoever ye have done unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto Me.'"

SAVED BY AN ALBATROSS.

The following story is another example of the truth that is stranger than fiction:

During a voyage made by the bark Gladstone from London to Sydney, in Australia, on the 22d of October, while the vessel was in latitude forty-two degrees south, and longitude ninety degrees east, a seaman fell overboard from the starboard gangway. The bark was scudding along with a rough sea and moderate wind, but on the alarm of "Man overboard" being given, she was rounded to, and the starboard life-boat was lowered, manned by the chief officer and four men.

A search for the unfortunate man was made, but owing to the roughness of the sea he could not be discovered, but the boat steered to the spot where he was last seen. Here they found him floating, but exhausted, clinging for bare life to the legs and wings of a huge albatross.

The bird had swooped down on the man while the latter was struggling with the waves, and attempted to peck him with his powerful beak. Twice the bird attacked his prey unsuccessfully, being beaten off by the desperate sailor battling with two enemies—the water and the albatross—both greedy and insatiable. For the third time the huge white form of the bird hovered over the seaman preparatory to a final swoop.

The bird, eager for its meal, fanned its victim with its wide-spread wings. Suddenly it occurred to him that the huge form so close to his face might become his involuntary rescuer. Quick as thought he reached up and seized the bird, which he proceeded to strangle with all his might. The huge creature struggled with wings and paddles to free itself.

In the contest the sailor was beaten black and blue, and cruelly lacerated, but he held his own, and slowly the bird quivered and died. The carcass floated lightly on the waves, its feathers forming a support for the exhausted man, who had so narrowly escaped a lingering death.

But another danger awaited him. He was not much of a swimmer, and the excitement of the extraordinary conflict began to tell upon him. He was faint and grew giddy. But with one arm around the albatross's body under the wings, and a hand clutching the bird's feet, the sailor awaited his chance of rescue. Presently he heard his comrades shout from the boat, and in a few minutes more was safe on board the bark, though a good deal shaken and exhausted.

PREPARING FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY.

BY A. W. ROBERTS.

Fourth of July is coming, boys, and we must do something to celebrate the anniversary of the glorious Declaration of Independence.

Let us see if we can not plan something that will be better and pleasanter than setting off fire-crackers, firing pistols, guns, and toy cannons. All these things make a hideous racket, which annoys sick and delicate persons, to say nothing of the serious accidents that have so often turned the great national holiday into a day of pain and sorrow for many a boy who started out in the morning to have a good time, and ended before night with bandaged hands and aching heads. It will be much better for you to be content with seeing the public display of fire-works which will take place in almost every village, managed by men who are used to handling these dangerous articles, than to run the risk of losing an eye or a hand in the reckless use of explosive toys.

There are many pleasant ways in which you can celebrate the Fourth without any danger. There is no reason why you shouldn't have a supply of lanterns for one thing, and make the woods and lawns and the inside and outside of your houses just as bright as possible. I am going to have a great illumination. My lanterns were all finished up a week ago, and now I am going to tell you just how I made them, so that if you like you can have as many and as great a variety as are now piled up in one corner of my room all ready for the evening of the glorious Fourth.

Fig. 1.

My first lantern (Fig. 1) is made out of a Chicago corned-beef can, of which I procured a number from our grocery man. Having thoroughly washed them out with hot water and soda, I took them to a friendly tinsmith, who cut out from the sides the squares, circles, and ellipses. Over these I pasted red, white, and blue tissue-paper, while, to make the lantern still more luminous, holes were punched through the tin sides in various designs. This lantern can be either suspended with wires, or stood on window-sills, balconies, etc.

Fig. 2.

My next lantern (Fig. 2) is an imitation of the Chinese "bucket" lantern. The top consists of a strip of pasteboard one inch in breadth, the ends of which are sewed together, thus forming a circle, with a diameter of about seven inches. The bottom consists of a circular piece of pasteboard. The body of the lantern is composed of one piece of tissue-paper, either red, white, or blue in color, which is pasted to the top band and to the circular bottom piece. The lantern is suspended by means of three pieces of stout thread or fine wire as shown in the illustration.

Fig. 3.

Fig. 3 is a folding lantern made of three pieces of pasteboard of uniform size, on which designs in stars, shields, squares, and circles are drawn previous to cutting them out with a chisel and scissors. The small circles or holes shown in the illustration are burned through the pasteboard with a red-hot wire or poker. Red, white, and blue tissue-paper is pasted on the inside to produce the colored effects. The sides of pasteboard are fastened together on the inside with strips of silk, muslin, or calico by means of glue. The bottom of the lantern consists of a triangular piece of pasteboard, A, which is fastened to the bottom of the middle square, B, also by means of a strip of silk. At the corners, C, C, C, C, C, small holes are made with a very coarse darning-needle. The three square sides of pasteboard when brought together form a triangle equal to that of the bottom piece, B. Fine wire or coarse thread is then passed through the holes, C, C, C, C, C, and tied. The result is a very light and showy lantern of triangular form, which can be suspended by fine wire or thread. The advantage of this lantern over others is that after using it it can be untied, folded together, and packed away until the next Fourth arrives. The can lantern can also be used for many years by re-covering it with tissue-paper when necessary, thus saving expense and trouble.

In making designs for lanterns always have them bold and strong. The effects will then be satisfactory, whereas fine and finicky work on a lantern is all lost when viewed from a short distance.

Fig. 4.

What bothered me most in my lantern venture was to obtain holders for the candles that would not take fire when the candles burned down, and thus endanger the wood-work round about. At last I hit upon three styles of home-made fire-proof candle-holders. The first is shown in Fig. 4. It consists of a raw potato cut into square slices three-quarters of an inch thick. These are bevelled at the sides as shown in the figure. Half-way through the centre of the slice a hole is bored, into which the candle is inserted. This holder is fastened to the bottom of the lantern by means of pins, which are driven through the sides of the potato and into the pasteboard.

Fig. 5.

Fig. 5 consists of three thicknesses of tin-foil, formed on a piece of wood of the same diameter as that of the candle. To form the end of the holder the tin-foil is solidly twisted together to the extent of an inch. When using this holder a hole is bored into the bottom of the lantern, through which the twisted end of the holder is passed and clinched on the under side.

Fig. 6.

Fig. 6 is made of a strip of thin tin or sheet-lead, the ends of which, when brought together, form a circle. The two square projections on the bottom of the strip are passed into two slots in the bottom of the lantern, and bent back so as to fasten the holder securely. The price of adamantine candles in New York city that will burn three hours is three dollars per hundred. All the illuminating material above described is very inexpensive, and more effective than the imported Chinese lanterns. The fun of making them, the lessons learned in utilizing and putting together various materials, the combining of colors in various designs, more than repay one for all the trouble.

Fig. 7.

In a previous number of Young People something was told you about gas balloons. They involve the use of chemicals. To my mind, the hot-air balloon is a great deal better and less expensive to manage. Make your balloons after the manner described in the article in No. 136. Now comes the business of inflating them. There are some difficulties to contend with, but with a little care you will be successful. The following is the best method according to my experience. Secure a short piece of old stove-pipe, and place the lower end on two bricks (Fig. 7), a space being left between them which is to answer as a draught-hole. The back and sides are then built up with bricks to prevent its falling. A fire is kindled in the stove-pipe, which is then filled with charcoal to one-third of its depth. As soon as the bottom of the pipe becomes red-hot, the mouth of the balloon is held over the top of the pipe so as to allow the hot air and gas to pass into and inflate it.

Fig. 8.

In balloons bought at stores the fire-ball is fastened where the fine wires intersect one another at the mouth of the balloon (Fig. 8). When inflating the balloon by means of the stove-pipe, the fire-ball will have to be removed, as otherwise it would be destroyed when holding the mouth of the balloon over the top of the pipe. After removing the ball, fasten it on a thin wire hook so that the instant the balloon is inflated the fire-ball can be lit and hooked on to its position in the centre of the mouth of the balloon (Fig. 8). By this means the balloon will remain inflated at least one half-hour longer, and will travel many miles further than when relying entirely for a supply of hot air from the fire-ball alone.

When sending off a fire-balloon at night, the hook must be shortened up close to the mouth of the balloon, so that the entire body of the balloon is illuminated; for daylight effect the hook is made longer, as shown in the picture. The best material for making the fire-ball is cotton batting saturated with a solution of two-thirds alcohol and one-third turpentine. It is a good plan to attach a postal card on which your address is written, and a request to the finder of the balloon that he will mail the card back to you with a memorandum on it where and at what time the balloon arrived. In this way you will know exactly how many miles and at what rate of speed your balloon has travelled.

GRANDFATHER KNITTING.

BY S. S. CONANT.

Lie quietly, baby grandson, while mother dear is away;
Out in the beautiful meadow she's raking the new-mown hay.
It's long since I went with the mowers, because I am growing old,
And they leave me at home with my knitting, and give me baby to hold.

It seems but yesterday, baby, that I was strong and hale,
And not a comrade could lead me at swinging the scythe or flail;
To wrestle or dance I was always the first upon the ground,
And there was not a swifter runner in all the country round.

But now I am hardly able to totter across the floor:
And instead of mowing the meadow, I sun myself at the door.
When I remember my manhood, it's hard to be reconciled
To sit at home with my knitting, and tending a little child.

And yet we are comrades, baby: at the door of this life you lie,
And I at the door am waiting of life beyond the sky.
To a brave and hearty manhood your infant frame will grow,
And young again I shall waken in the Land to which I go!

A GREENWOOD SCENE A GREENWOOD SCENE.

Who so light of heart as we,
Dancing in the greenwood free,
Tripping, skipping, to and fro,
Laughing, gliding, heel and toe?
Mag and Robin, Jack and Nell,
Don't you think we polka well?

Merry Roger blows a horn,
And upon the breezes borne
Sounds the summons, "Come and share
Fun within the greenwood fair."
All the family are here:
Father, mother, baby dear.
Who so light of heart as we
Dancing 'neath the greenwood tree?

OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

"Green gravel, green gravel, how green the grass grows!"

A ring of little boys and girls were singing this the other evening, their hands joined, and their faces flushed with the merry exercise. A lady who was looking at them said to the Postmistress:

"Dear me, that sight takes me a long way back into the past. Fifty years ago I used to sing that song with my little brothers and sisters, and we played just as those children do. It seems like yesterday."

Green gravel! The Postmistress understands why the grass is said to be green. It has been just as bright and soft as it now is every summer that she can remember, but she never saw green gravel. Did you?

Seargeant Bluffs, Iowa.

My papa made me a present of Harper's Young People. I enjoy the stories very much, and especially the letters. My mamma taught me to sew my papers before reading them. I am a little girl eight years old. I go to school, and have four studies—arithmetic, geography, reading, and spelling. I have taken one term in music lessons. I am learning how to do fancy-work. The first work I did was a motto, and now I am making a toilet set for my room. It is made of white honeycomb canvas, and worked with blue worsted. I also do many little things to help my mamma. My pets are a canary-bird named Fritz, who sings very sweetly, a tabby cat, and a little baby brother, the sweetest of all. His name is Arthur. He has learned lots of cunning things. I will tell you some of them. He can tell all the animals on his blocks, and pat-i-cake, and knock at the door, and lift up the latch. He is a year and a half old.

Clara A. H.

Kiss Arthur for me, please. Tell mamma the Postmistress thinks little Clara must be a clever little helper.

Colorado Springs, Colorado.

We came here from Vermont because papa was sick, and we have been in Colorado about two years. We can see a good many mountains from this place. Pike's Peak is the highest, and Cameron's Cone is a mountain next to Pike's Peak. There is also a mountain called Mount Garfield, which was named for President Garfield soon after he was shot.

I have three little boats, and I sail them in the irrigating ditches. I haven't any pets, but am trying to tame some gophers which live under a little store-house on our grounds. They are something like chipmunks, but not so pretty. Sometimes we see and hear a robin, and it makes us very happy, because it seems like home; and when I am gathering flowers I now and then find a dandelion, and we are all glad to see it, for the same reason. We find beautiful flowers here; lupins are the most common just now, and there are some flowers much like the buttercups we used to see at home.

My birthday was the 5th of May. I was eight years old. I had some nice presents—Tom Brown's School-Days, and a scrap-book made by the directions in Harper's Young People No. 122, a beautiful two-bladed knife, and a birthday cake with nine candles on it—one for each year, and one to grow on. Mamma took me to Manitou for a birthday treat; and if I did not think it would make my letter too long, I would like to tell you about Manitou. It is right at the foot of Pike's Peak, and there are mineral springs there bubbling up out of stone basins, and wonderful cañons leading into the mountains in every direction, in which beautiful flowers grow, and there is a large cave with more than seventy rooms in it. We pass the famous "Garden of the Gods" in going there.

I made a cross-word enigma, which I send you. Please print my letter.

Edward Dana S.

I hope you will succeed in taming the gophers. What a delightful birthday you had! It will help you to be happy all the year. Perhaps some little reader may be puzzled to know what an irrigating ditch means. It is a ditch dug for the purpose of holding water which is brought to it from some river or lake. By means of little sluice-gates this water is turned over the meadows or pastures, which would otherwise be dry and parched. In parts of our country where the climate is dry, and rain seldom falls, or falls only in what is called the rainy season, farmers have to irrigate their ground in this way.

Plainfield, New Jersey.

I thought I would write you about our little chickens without a mother; she died when the chickens were ten days old. We put them in a big box with a feather duster, and brought them in by the fire; they all cuddled under the duster, and are doing beautifully, and are growing big and fat. If any boys or girls have young chickens that have lost their mother, they should put them in a warm place with a feather duster. I think Young People is lovely.

Josie L. M.

Savannah, Georgia.

I have a pony whose name is Dixie. He eats molasses candy, and follows me around the yard to get it. When a gate is shut tight, he can open it with his teeth. I am eight years old, and mamma is writing this for me, because I am just learning to write.

Albert R.

Morrison, Illinois.

I have just been reading some of the letters in Our Post-office Box, and it came into my head to write one myself, though I am not at all sure it will ever be published. I have always attended a private school until lately, when my dear teacher went to Wisconsin to live, so now I study at home. I enjoy the paper very much, especially the Jimmy Brown stories. Even papa likes to look at the pictures in it. I have no brothers or sisters, but I have a cousin, only a little older than I am, who lives next door to me, and we are almost like sisters. I do want some kind of pet so much, and none of us can think of any except papa, who says I might have a monkey, but I don't know about that. Can you think of some pet suitable for a little girl ten years old?

Kate E.

Some little girl of Kate's age may answer this question.

Inland, Ohio.

I thought I would write to you and tell you about my pets. I have a Scotch terrier by the name of Cap; he is very black. When he wants to get into the house he will stand on the porch and bark. Then if we do not let him in, he will go to the other door and bump against it. If we do not let him in then, he will go under the house or out to the barn. I have a canary-bird whose name is Dick. He sings every time we sew on the sewing-machine. I am a little girl nine years old. I help mamma to wash the dishes and sweep the floor. I am sewing carpet rags to-day. My brother is writing this letter for me. We all think that "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" is very interesting. "Toby Tyler" was the best juvenile story ever written; that is, if you leave the judging to our family. I hope this is not too long to be printed.

Arlin Edith H.

Palisade, Nevada.

I am a reader of your paper, and like it very much. I am interested in "Mr. Stubbs's Brother." I read "Toby Tyler" in a book some time ago, and liked it very much. I was glad to find out that "Toby" and "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" were the same, and that I would learn more about the funny boy and his droll experiences.

I notice that the little girls tell about their pets. All I have are a dear little baby sister, an old cat, and a canary-bird that sings sweetly. One day an accident happened to it; its leg was broken, which made it very sad for a while. I attend school regularly, but our school will close soon, and then the scholars will have fun roaming over the hills for wild flowers. Good-by.

T. N. M.

The little lovers of puss are numbered by thousands, and every one of them will stroke his or her own pet for Rosie's sake after reading this pretty story:

Among the many pets we kept years ago, when living in the country, were a beautiful but rather wild-natured cat and an aviary of doves.

Judge of the dismay with which we found one morning that Rosie had been shut up all night with these doves, and was even then lying in an inner cage fast asleep in the same nest with two unfledged little birds.

Of course the first impression was that Rosie had made a supper off some of the inmates of the aviary, but, on counting them, not one was missing, and the involuntary prisoner on being released was found to be ravenously hungry, which made her forbearance in the matter all the more extraordinary, and may well be noted as a wonderful piece of self-denial.

Austen, Texas.

This is the first year I have been taking your paper, and I like it very much. Our home is called Honeysuckle Glen, because we have so many honeysuckles; our yard is full of them. We have a great many different kinds of birds that are building nests all around in the trees and bushes in the yard. There is an old watering-pot hanging out in the yard in one of the trees, and a pretty little wren has built her nest in it. I am eleven years old, and I have a sweet little sister two years old, with soft golden curls, fair skin, and blue eyes. We have a sweet little canary, and it sings beautifully. I have not the first numbers of "Talking Leaves." I am saving my papers up, as I expect to have them bound some time. The new Capitol building is progressing; it is going to be a grand building. The old Capitol burned down last November, and I saw the fire; it was a beautiful yet sad sight.

Nellie B.

A USEFUL GANDER.

In a little village in Germany a gander used to lead a blind old woman to church every Sunday, dragging her along and holding her gown in its beak. As soon as she was seated in her pew the old fellow walked into the church-yard, where he staid until the service was over; then he appeared at the door, ready to lead his mistress home. One day a friend called on the old lady, and was surprised to find that she had gone out. "Oh," said her little grandchild, "there is nothing to fear; the gander will take care of her."

THE LAMB AND THE PONY.

A curious friendship once existed between a lamb and a pony. The lamb, which was purchased by a farmer in England from a passing shepherd, was very wild, and grieved at being separated from the flock. It was an odd, sturdy-looking creature with a black face. The farmer put it in a meadow in company with a cow and a little white pony. The lamb took no notice of the cow; but the pony seemed to captivate its heart at once. Wherever the one went, the other followed. If people gathered, as was natural, to look at the companions, the lamb would slip under the pony and pop out its head between his fore or hind legs with an air of perfect security. At night it went regularly to the stable, and slept in the manger near its favorite. If, as sometimes happened, the pony was taken to draw the farmer's wife to market, the lamb bleated pitifully all the time it was away, and frisked about joyfully on its return.

One day, to test its love, its owner carried the lamb to a pasture where a flock of sheep was grazing. The pony went too. In the course of the day the farmer came after the pony, and mounting him, rode homeward. Presently he looked behind. Yes, there came the shaggy black-faced lamb, forsaking its own kindred, and rushing on its eager legs to overtake its adopted friend.

Whether the pony returned this affection we do not know. It neither resented it nor appeared weary of it, at all events.

Paris Hill, Maine.

I am only seven years old, and can not write very well, but I want to tell you how much I like Harper's Young People. My grandfather gave it to me for a Christmas present. I read the stories to my mother. I liked "The Little Dolls' Dressmaker" so much! I was sorry when it was finished. My home is in the highest village in Maine, and we can see the White Mountains against the sky in the distance. I do not go to school; my mother teaches me at home. I am afraid I have written too much. Good-by.

Maynard M.

The Postmistress thinks that Bessie Alexander has written a very pretty story about Carlos and the mermaid. But the story would have been prettier still had the little boy come to life again here on earth. Make it a rule, dear young contributors, to let your stories end happily. As many smiles and as few tears as possible, little dears:

CARLOS AND THE QUEEN SEA-SHELL.

It was sunset. The last rays of the sun were cast over the placid waters of the Mediterranean Sea, and lit up its surface with its rosy light. In one of the many vessels which traversed its waters was, among the other passengers, a child, a little Italian boy, Carlos Arditi. He was in the care of his uncle, who was taking him to his mother in Italy. Little Carlos then lay peacefully sleeping in his little berth.

How different was the scene from that which took place two hours later! The wind was blowing a terrific hurricane, and all was confusion on board the ship. The Captain tried in vain to make the sailors hear his commands, and even through the speaking-trumpet it was impossible to hear him above the noise of the tempest. All efforts to save the good ship were useless, and it soon fell on its side, while the wind was blowing with terrific force. Some people were clinging to the ship, while others were struggling in the water, among whom was little Carlos. He had just taken hold on a broken spar, when he saw a beautiful lily-white hand come up out of the water by his side. It took him by the waist, and drew him below the waves. When he was under-water he saw that a lovely mermaid had taken him down to the bottom of the sea.

"I am the mermaid Queen Sea-shell," said she, in a voice which murmured like a little brook which flows over the pebbles at its bottom. "And," she added, "you are to stay with me, and you shall never return to earth again. You will not find me unkind, and you shall play in my beautiful garden, eat of the delicious fruits, and pick all the flowers which grow there."

Until this time Carlos had remained silent. Now he said:

"Oh, dear Queen, I would stay with you, and oh, how happy would I be! but remember the madre watching for her Carlos to come. If I have anything good enough for you to take, take it in return, but I must see the dear madre again."

"As you say, child," replied the mermaid. "Give me thy voice, and thou shalt go. But first sing."

Carlos raised his large brown eyes to Sea-shell's face, and began. The childish voice rose sweet and clear, but when the song was finished Sea-shell shook her head.

"The waves sing as well as that," she said. "But list, child, give me thyself as thou art on earth, and thou shalt go home."

Carlos did not answer; he only looked up at the sweet face before him. He did not understand her. Suddenly an overpowering drowsiness came over him, and he shut his eyes. When he awoke he was still by Sea-shell, but no longer a mortal child, but a beautiful spirit.

"Come, Carlos," then said Sea-shell; "you are going home."

Then she wrapped him in her loving embrace, and carried him far away above the mighty waters, and still farther up among the clouds.

"Where am I going, dear Queen?" asked Carlos.

"To your home, child," answered Sea-shell; "and your home to you now, little one, is heaven."

"But the madre?" he asked, eagerly.

"The madre will be with you," replied the Queen.

And the mermaid's promise came true.

Bessie Alexander, Philadelphia.

C. Y. P. R. U.

Most girls are fond of the needle, and enjoy the housekeeping duties which fall naturally under womanly care. Here and there, however, we find one who prefers to use a hammer and nails, to make boxes, hang pictures, and mend broken tables and chairs. There is nothing wrong in indulging such tastes, if you have them. In Atlanta, Georgia, there is a young lady who practices the art of making shoes. Not long ago a gentleman sent his little nephew with a pair of boots to be mended, directing him to go to the nearest place. Returning, the child astonished his uncle by remarking that "she" said so and so. Then it was discovered that there was in the neighborhood a young girl under twenty years of age, the daughter of a shoemaker, who daily works at the trade herself, not only mending, but making in good style both boots and shoes. For several years she has thus been engaged, and has won the respect and patronage of a large circle of appreciative families. We think this clever young girl deserves great praise.

To Puzzlers.—In sending your puzzles please state whether you wish to have your full name, your initials, or your nom de plume appear. Do not make puzzles on the names of great and good men who have lately died. We can not use the names of Longfellow, Emerson, or Dean Stanley in puzzles, acrostics, or enigmas. By doing so we should show a lack of proper veneration for the poets and thinkers whose death has made the world sorrowful.

Constant Reader.—The Bazar Book of Decorum, published at $1 by Messrs. Harper & Brothers, is a manual of information on the subject which interests you. There is also a valuable book entitled Social Etiquette and Home Culture, which is published in the "Franklin Square Library." Its price is 20 cents, and it touches very pleasantly on most points which concern good manners.

Little folks who love to play with the skipping-rope should not try to jump too long at a time. "Keeping up" to fifty, sixty, or a hundred without resting is violent exercise, and dangerous to health.

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to Part I. of Mr. James Payn's description of the terrible scenes that followed the wreck of the English ship Wager, told under the head of "Peril and Privation." The story of "A Little Duke," by Mrs. Elizabeth Abercrombie, gives an interesting picture of the life of a royal child in the seventeenth century. One of the most remarkable incidents that ever occurred in a sea-faring life is told under the head of "Saved by an Albatross." What Mr. Roberts has to say about "Preparing for Fourth of July" will, we know, set a great many busy fingers to work, the result being some very pleasant effects in the way of illumination on the evening of the great day.

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

TWO WORD SQUARES.

1.—1. A desolate country. 2. To decorate. 3. Compact. 4. A moment. 5. One who finishes.

Empire City.

2.—1. A holy person. 2. A marksman. 3. An idea. 4. A drink. 5. A ringlet.

Will A. Mette.

No. 2.

NUMERICAL CHARADE—(To Empire City).

My 1, 2, 3, 4 is an animal, so I've heard.

My 5, 6, 7 is an animal, not a bird.

My whole is a kind of cloth; now, mind,

In Webster's book its name you will find.

Will A. Mette.

No. 3.

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

My whole ought to be found in every house, and I am composed of 18 letters.

My 1, 2, 6, 4 is a musical instrument.

My 18, 2, 12, 17, 5 is a bird of prey.

My 8, 15, 10 is a pronoun.

My 7, 10, 12, 2, 3 is sweet.

My 13, 9, 14 is the name of a poet.

Eureka.

No. 4.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

1. A Spanish word which means chalk. 2. A girl's name. 3. Permission. 4. Creeping vines. 5. A girl's name. 6. A vessel. Primals and finals compose the name of a celebrated Roman soldier and conqueror.

G. E.

No. 5.

THREE DIAMONDS.

1.—1. A letter. 2. Something that does not like the sun. 3. A kind of nut. 4. A period. 5. A letter.

Marion.

2.—1. A letter. 2. To recline. 3. A journal. 4. To wander. 5. A letter.

3.—1. In spice. 2. Owed. 3. Bright. 4. Conclusion. 5. In youth.

Robin Adair.

No. 6.

BEHEADINGS.

1. I am an article of dress; behead me, and no family should be without me.

2. I am what a boy's knife ought to be; behead me, and I am a musical instrument.

3. I am a vessel; behead me, and I am part of the human body.

4. I am always to be found in a good dairy; behead me, and I am a stationer's measure.

5. I am something useful on the table; behead me, and I am what no boy should be at school.

6. I am a wild animal; behead me, and no boat should be without me.

7. I am a motion of the eye; behead me, and I am a useful fluid.

8. I am useful when one wishes to cross a river; behead me, and I am part of a mountain.

Roger Derby.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 136.

No. 1.

M-ark. F-rank. E-ben. E-van. O-bed. O-liver. T-heron. O-scar. K-ate. M-abel. O-live. G-race.

No. 2.

America.

|  | P |  |  |  |  |  |  | C
| C | A | T |  |  |  |  | T | O | M
P | A | R | I | S |  |  | C | O | M | E | T
| T | I | N |  |  |  |  | M | E | N
|  | S |  |  |  |  |  |  | T

No. 4.

Chattanooga.

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Florence, Mabel, and Annie Knight, "North Star," "Little Lizzie," Mary and Helen, Julia, Edgar Seeman, Nelse Walton, Imogene Starr, Ella Dana, Maggie Phillips, Richard Towers, Robbie and Freddie, "Twin Sisters," Carrie B. Kunkel, Carrie V. Latimer. Mabel Sykes, Elvira Urisarri, Francis Arrowsmith, Raymond Lincolnton, "Eureka," Harry Johnston, S. Brewster, John Trotwood, Viola La Mont, Elsie Dee, Jack Chandler, William Holmes, Tom, "Albatross," "Fern Heather," Margaret Lamb, Marion, "A. B. C.," and Jacob D. Jais.

[For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover.]

COACHING.

"ROME AND CARTHAGE."

This game is very popular with the school-boys of Havana, Cuba. It is a very jolly, harmless sport, and would make a good summer pastime for the boys of Northern schools when snow-ball fights are out of season.

"Rome and Carthage" is played as follows: The boys are divided into two armies, each of which chooses its leader or general. Each side must be provided with a banner. The game is played so much in Havana that the boys there have handsome flags with "Rome" or "Carthage" worked or stamped upon them, but any gay piece of flannel will do. The weapon is a soft rubber ball, each soldier being provided with one or more. These balls are very soft indeed, and will not hurt even when thrown with great force. They cost very little when bought by the quantity. When the armies are equipped, the two leaders draw lots to see which side shall man the fort. Now in this country a good fort might be made in the open field of logs and bushes. In Havana it is generally a platform built in the court-yard of the school-house, as nearly all large buildings in that city are built with an open square in the centre.

The army who defend the fort plant their banner near the centre in front, while the attacking party station themselves about thirty feet away, with their banner fastened securely in the ground. Then, at a signal from the leaders, the fight begins in earnest, and the rubber balls fly through the air in all directions. Whoever catches a ball in his hand retains it as captured ammunition, and can return fire with it; but if any soldier is so clumsy as to allow himself to be hit, he is considered dead, and must immediately leave the ranks.

Ducking and scrambling to avoid the bullets occasion a great deal of fun, and require not a little dexterity, while much skill is necessary to make true and rapid shots. No wrestling or striking with fists is allowed.

Presuming the Carthaginians to be the attacking party, they must make great efforts to capture the Roman banner by assault; and if they can successfully carry it past a line drawn about ten feet in front of the fort, the Romans are conquered, and must yield the fort to the victors and take the field themselves. If, on the other hand, the Romans can, by making a sortie, capture the Carthaginian colors, or by skillfully shooting the invaders save their own standard, they continue in possession of the fortification.

The game generally lasts about twenty minutes, although a vigorous assault will sometimes decide it much quicker. If in half an hour neither party conquers, the armies are called to order, ammunition is again equally divided, and the contest renewed. The question of superiority is decided, as in many games of chance, by the best two in three matches. If an army is proved by continued defeat to be worthless, it is disbanded, and a new distribution of soldiers arranged.

THE FULL MOON OF COCOA-NUTS.

In Bombay, when the rainy season is over, the fishermen and their wives and children gather by hundreds to keep a festival which they call "the full moon of cocoa-nuts."

The feast occupies two whole days. The idea which inspires it is that the sea is very powerful. The simple-minded people think they ought to praise it because it gives them their bread, and so as they stand on the shore they beg it to be good to them. They ask it, in caressing words, not to be angry or stormy when their little boats shall go out, and they tell it they hope it will give them plenty of fish.

Not only the fishermen, but owners of boats and ship-builders, and sometimes rich merchants, go to the sea-side to court the favor of grim old Neptune. Every person carries a gift of cocoa-nuts. Wading out into the surf as far as possible, he flings the rough brown fruit into the waves. After the cocoa-nut has been received by the billows, the devout finish by offering a crown of flowers. The waters are covered with beautiful wreaths and garlands, which are given in thankfulness for past favors.

Little does the ocean care for the flowers and the fruit which are poured into its depths. But the festival makes the grave men and women as eager and happy as children, and when they go home, at the end of the second day, they carry with them memories which will make them joyful as long as they think of "the full moon of cocoa-nuts."

GOING TO SPEND THE SUMMER AT THE SEA-SIDE.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Begun in No. 127, Harper's Young People.

[2] Motley's History of the United Netherlands.