- ek = ~~. tS ECHPTTAES ERLE SS art # oe Resta reel LPFTVE “UNRIVALLEDYWoRLD RENCWNEOY Gee yeaa, | SAFE, piSHING -10U US» FOO “aated Se THE GREAT AMERICAN ><> PREPARATION FOR NURSING MOTHERS.INFANTS AND. CHILDREN INVALIDS CONVALESCENTS AND THE AGED. THOUSANDS OF UNSOLICITED TESTIMONIALS AND CONSTANTLY INCREASING SALES.PROVE MERITED SUCCESS. (orev paussists) JOHN CARLE &SONS-NEWYORK ae , NA x JS : “Wes \ = ge be ; Ld Ay ee i ig iar HY, Hl if i ft i Uf ZONA ee Hy Ws a "eE 5 j BL) BN ZG Bi Mo HM We Nee i) UES (/ ) ie) RU CA WA \ Ee ih a | i i AG Gh Ni FAT) AN aga ANAS A He SS) ki Ge I Ss a i <== S=== SS ———— ———} i fi, = i) i = S_ —S WSS 3S —=—- i} HH Ay ae YEN EN Urs s Yas WZ) i f ye Ny MAS oN / I) d Arty a EE Zp = i ys : An Indian Meal. rum. squaw to get a lump of sugar out of her mouth which he coveted; and a storekeeper at Julesburg (Mr. Pease) said he sold a big pup to an Indian for a robe, and the Indian seized the dog, cut bis throat, and, soon as dead, threw the pup into a kettle to boil up for soup! Ss ‘ 4 H/ @ any time would give a pony for a gallon of rye or He told me that he once saw an Indian choke a | | | | Wig : ay A ifr FE poy yp le Ct —SS HH) ahh AN if i } bs Fr ; Lis xs A ge AAA PUA IS i a uh ayn ; hie An Lane y Cy ( SYN Ha My y AN eS 1D J hy y ee Ky Fae 7 G el yi i SZ Se ie = Ne ait Heft TH THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. (MOSHE ear of man can scarce discern op My tinkle in the feathery fern, : When from a sunless grot I spring, And bubble out, a baby thing. . Yet have I smallest of the small, Rapid, and cataract, and ull; While now and then a neighbour hill Sends to my arms a sister’rill, No more a little moorland thread, Deeper and wider prows my bed: J name a dell, ’m dubbed a brook, Thave a place 12 map and book. As ever on,and on I flow, The dark hills fade, my banks are low; And miles away, on either side, Stretch the green meadows flat and wide. Now, black with many a mill and drain, I would I were a child again, And might to my old home return, Among the mosses and the fern. Vain such regrets—it may not be; I must flow onward to the sea, And find, in his tumultnous brine, A purity no longer mine. My race complete, I shall arise, And float a cioud-wreath in the skies 3 Then melt in dew, or rushing rain, And be a mountain rill again. G. 8. 0. ae eee geese eA a nt Ps = nerf ta Tbe net pn Sy ee ern ne pppoe phe : ‘sieged. A CURIOUS FACT. ANY years ago a friend of my father’s built i a country house, which he fitted up and fur- nished according to his own taste. To accomplish this, he caused to be brought from Italy a piece of pure white marble, out of which a mantel-piece was constructed for his own particular sitting-room. The mantel-piece was of singularly pure marble, in one block, and free from flaw save in one part. Shortly after its erection the owner of the house noticed a small, damp-looking stain, no bigger than the nail of his little finger, in the very centre of the mantel- piece. This, however, was so slight a blemish that it did not trouble him, till, as months and years went by, it became evident that the mark slowly but surely increased in size. After twenty years it had increased to the size of the palm of his hand. Ma- sons were sent for, and desired to take down the marble and break it in two, so as to disclose the mystery. This was done, and, to the amazement of all, out hopped an enormous toad ! H. A. F. WILLIAM RUFUS AND THE SOLDIER. HILE William I. of England, . commonly called Rufus, was waging war against his brother Henry, whom he held in close siege in the strong castle of Mount St. Nicholas, William saw his men recoil before a desperate sally of the be- He dashed, single-handed, into a dense body of the enemy, dealing right and left the blows which never fell from his vigorous arm in vain. But though his valor and skill saved him, his horse was mortally wounded. The stricken steed plunged, and threw the King from ‘his saddle, dragging him along on the ground till it at last sank to the earth beside the bruised monarch. Before he could rise, a soldier sprang upon him, his sword raised to strike. “ Fellow,” cried the now terrified William, “I am the King of .England! ” The soldier drew back among his comrades; and William’s party, at the sound of his well-known voice, brought another horse. William leaped into the saddle, and, glancing around with flashing eyes, cried out, — “ Where is he that unhorsed me ? ” “Here Iam!” exclaimed one; “ but I took you for a knight, and not for a king.” . The monarch’s features softened into a smile, and he bade the man follow him, to obtain in his service the reward he deserved. THH BROKEN VASE. OW, Susie, will you confess to breaking the vase?” So spake Aunt Mary; and this is what Susie answered, — “‘No, Aunt Mary, I can’t, because : I didn’t do it.” ee “Well, then, if you persist. in your denial, I forbid your going to the hayfield with the rest; and, as there will be no lessons, ¢o into the kitchen, and make yourself useful by. paring the potatoes for dinner.” Not to go to the hayfield with the rest, when she and her cousins had been dwelling for days upon the long, bright, hay-making holiday, when there was a picnic dinner — ay, and a tea likewise — to be eaten out there! And this punishment was to fall upon her for nothing, -— simply nothing, for she had not broken the vase; and Uncle Ben was not there to plead for her, — Uncle Ben, who, fresh from college, had come to spend a long vacation at his brother’s house, and had brought the first pay of sunshine that had gladdened the child’s heart since that sad, sad day when her father had sailed for Africa. Poor little, lonely waif, whom nobody in the house except Uncle Ben understood, and he was far away! She went to the open window, and burst into bitter sobs and tears. “Papa, papa, come to me!” she cried, stretching — out her hands in her passionate sorrow. “O Uncle Ben, Uncle Ben, come to me!” But the one was in Africa; the other miles away, fishing with a friend: they could not help her. The sweet summer sounds stole into the room, the sunshine laughed, the birds sang ; that was all. The door opened for the second time, and a bright- eyed boy of eleven put his head in. “T say, Susie, say you did it,” was his speech, remarkable for its poverty of words; he, the while, looking aghast at her tears. “Tcan’t, Harry, and I won’t; let me alone!” cried sobbing Susie. “TI didn’t do it, and I won't say I did.” “Then you'll lose all the jolly fun in the hay- field.” “T don’t care!” O Susie! “Well, I do; I don’t like to think of your being cooped up here in Coventry when three little words would set you free,” spoke the boy, in real concern. “But, Harry, *twould be a mean lie; I won't \ say it.” All the birds, bees, flies, and gnats seemed ‘ to say, as well as they could, “ Hurrah!” to this. “ Well, so it would; but mamma won’t set you | free without, because she thinks you did it.” Susie made no reply; so Harry, the tempter, sadly shut the door, and ran out through the hall into the sunshine, fo!lowed by Fred, Ned, Willie, and Allie, leaping like troutlets in a pool, and shouting till the echoes answered them. Susie heard them, and sobbed on. Again the door opened. “Miss Susic, your aunt says, will you go into the kitchen and begin the potatoes? They are ready.” _ It was Jane’s voice. Jane was doing her own and the housemaid’s work this week, so she had no time to waste. Rebellion was busy in Susie’s heart ; ” she had half a mind not to go, but that second thought, whatever 1¢ was, decided her, — she went. There in the kitchen was her apron, and there were the potatoes — oh, such a quantity ! — and they were to be eaten in the sunshine, while she was to be a prisoner, a slave. to pare them all. She sat down, and began; but the knife went slowly, very slowly. eal iil VA LL, EE WY Yj Ha MH) ip ) J G i Ae 2 SS 2 ae ///// Wwe Fy \ By the Author of ‘ Earth's many Voices.’ A boat glides pleasantly ; No storms to toss, no shoals to strand, It passes smoothly by. G io fair mid-stream, o’er waters clear, So smoothly that it scarcely breaks The shadow of the trees; And in the boat is one who rows, And some who sit at ease. Now read in this a parable, How God ordains our lives ; How this, the life of ease, fits in With that which toils and strives. For were there none to sit at ease, Who’d ply the oar, I pray ? And were there none to ply the oar, Who could take holiday ? N = ae ee ae A RIDDLE. PAS I was going through a field of wheat, I picked up something good to eat: "T'was neither tish, flesh, feather nor bone, I kept it till it ran alone. THE REPLY 1s—HeEn’s Kee. KING JAMES THE FIRST. © HIS king was the son of the unhappy Mary, Queen of Scots, and Lord Darnley. He was born in Edin- burgh Castle. His father was murdered before he was a year old, and before he was two years of age Lo he had bécome a crowned king. & James was always fond of favour- ites. His first pet he made the Duke of Lennox; his second be- came Earl of Arran. These men, like all such favourites, grew proud and insolent, and ruled Scotland. ‘The Raid of Ruthven,’ as it is called, threw Arran into prison, sent Lennox to France, and made the youthful king a sort of prisoner. But James soon escaped, and then the tables were turned. Arran was set free, and Gowrie, though he had been pardoned, was sent to the block. When he came to man’s estate James lost his mother, Queen Mary, who, after twenty years of imprisonment, was executed. About two years after this the king went to Norway, and there married Anne, a Denmark Princess. She was the mother of the unfortunate Charles the First. When Elizabeth died James became King of Eng- land. Some, however, including the famous Sir Walter Raleigh, wished the Lady Arabella Stuart to be the sovereign. Sir Walter nearly lost his head then for the share he had taken in this matter, and he did lose it some years after, as a sacrifice to the King of Spain, and to the deep disgrace of James. When James came to England he knighted almost every one he met. No less than forty-five persons were knighted at Belvoir Castle. In three months’ time he had knighted seven hundred. This son of a graceful mother was slovenly and awkward. His goggle eyes rolled about, and his legs seemed too weak for his body. He was indolent and easy, more fond of lying in bed than of doing kingly business, very extravagant, and always in need of money. This led him to sell titles and the high posts of State to those who offered the most money for them. He did not thus choose the best men for posts of honour and usefulness, but those who would pay the most. No wonder many evils throve and many people were discontented ! James is said ‘to have divided his time between his inkstand, his bottle, and his hunting.’ As to the first, he was a good scholar, and fond of disputing, and showing his learning before great divines. ‘Did not I pepper them?’ said he once, when he thought he had the best of it. As to his bottle, we fear he did drink more wine E- than was good for him, and most likely he shortened his days thereby. Once he and his brother-in-law, the King of Denmark, were unkingly enough to get drunk, and were carried to bed. As for hunting, it was James’s passion, which many tumbles from his horse could not stop. Once he was pitched right into the New River, and nothing of him but his boots were seen. He had a dog named Jowler, who was lost one day, and the king knew no happi- ness till Jowler came back. Hunter-like, James ,used to dress in colours as green as grass, with a little feather in his cap, and a horn instead of a sword. He never could abide the sight of a sword. Ilis extravagance and his love of favourites were his chief faults. These wretched men rose to wealth, and power, and rank, one after the other, and dis- gusted the nation. Now it was Ramsay, who had stabbed the Earl of Gowrie at the time of the Gowrie plot. Now it was Herbert, made Earl of Montgomery, but, unlike all Herberts, a coward. His mother, Philip Sydney’s sister, tore her hair when she heard that her son was a poltroon, Soon after the handsome Robert Carr had the good luck to break his leg close by the king. This accident made his fortune. ‘The king would lean on his arm, and pinch his cheek in playful fondness, and gave him his heart’s desire, and more. The lucky youth became Viscount of Rochester and Earl of Somerset, and then—such is the vanity of all earthly things—he and his wile fell into disgrace, and were seen no more at Court. ; After this George Villiers, a new favourite, rose up, and, in course of time, became a duke, but never managed to become a gentleman. He was a fine dancer, and wore great diamond buttons on his coat and strings of pearls dangling about him. A writer of the time says, ‘No man dances better, and no man jumps better: indeed, he jumpt higher than ever Englishman did in so short a time.” ven his mother, ‘the old Countess,’ was in such favour that she grew rich by getting people into all sorts of offices in army, navy, or church. The proud king allowed Buckingham to be very familiar with him. He used to write letters to James beginning, ‘My dear dad and gossip,’ and ending, ‘Your humble slave and dog, Steenie.’ : Buckingham, too, would wear his hat when the Prince of Wales took his off, and he would call the Prince all sorts of ridiculous nick-names. When the Prince Charles and the Duke went to Spain to get the Prince a wife, Buckingham insulted _ some of the Spanish grandees, and the match never came off. Charles returned wifeless, but he brought home a beard and many presents, some of which were described by Buckingham, like an over-grown schoolboy, as ‘four asses, two he’s and two she’s ; five camels, two he’s and two she’s, and a young one; and one elephant, which is worth your secing.’ This favourite, always courageous and ready- witted, and sometimes able to da a noble action, came to a fearful end, being stabbed at Portsmouth about three years after his master was dead. When the Spanish match came to nothing, James cast his eyes on Henrietta Maria, sister of the Trench king, as a suitable wife for his son, Prince sett EGP aac ge until An ague, or e marria ¢ subjects. i LL f oN as dead. Sv Ss Sf é agree to th Catholi ame 58 WwW trae te would not Rom King J ? ver, eli Nn, ii L = ow 2a s 2 > x , howe reat, fi ere cam elieu e to Rich I The clever fore Henrietta Maria carried him off. es. Befor the gout, James had promised many Charl ena Pee RTEY gee EE! a gap melon om a prt rere ed aon ie an a a ip SCP es GERRI oa eae Ll ZL . SS ZA AWAN ENS \ Ss COUSIN EVA. HE moment she arrived her cousins fell in love with her, from Frederick, the eldest of the ten, nearly twenty-one, to Lisabee, the tiny mite of four, who cried ‘Pretty! pretty!’ to Eva’s fair hair and light blue dress. Cousin Eva was so fair, so gracious, so winning, who could help but love he’ ? And then she was an orphan—motherless and aatherless from babyhood. Kind Aunt Farington kissed her-with-tears in her eyes, and murmured how glad she was that school days were over, and that now she could feel as if Eva were really one of her daughters. Aunt Far- ington had already seven, pleasant-looking, intel- ligent girls of her own, but without Eva’s beauty and without her thousand a-yeavr. For some time Cousin Eva maintained her popu- larity among her young cousins, but by degrees their feelings changed. Lisabee deserted her cousin first; Eva had gently /put-her off her knee. when. she-was. dressed in her best clothes, and Lisabee, who liked the feel as well as the look of silk and velvet, resented this. The | ————— = H \ ——— SS ——S S| cl == by =! spoiled darling complained to sister Mabel that Eva was not ‘as nice as her hair and eyes.’ Then a blunt little maid of eleven, entitled Robina, found out that Cousin Eva was a tiny bit selfish— as was plain one day when she would make mother drive to town though she was so tired ! But the boys clung to their idol still, and main- tained that beautiful Eva was as fair and sweet as her name, and that the girls were jealous and fault- finding. , Alas! they were only too keen-sighted, for Eva Vere was selfish, self-willed, and self-loving. Brought up at school, without relaticns, richer and fairer than all the other girls, she had been made a sort of queen among them, without exciting or re- quiring love. .She could well do without it; she thought health, money, and beauty, were enough for her. She pitied her eldest cousin Grace, that she had three little sisters to teach and look after, instead of thinking only of the féte or the dance of the next day. Eva went to all the gaieties of the neighbour- hood. Kind Mrs. Farington took her everywhere; but Grace, Mabel, and Adela, had to take it in turns to accompany her. ——— ‘We are so many, you see,’ said Gracie; but when Eva said sweetly, ‘Yes, dear: what a pity!’ Gracie laughed and answered, ‘Oh, but not one too many.’ Then Eva stared a little. She could not understand unselfish family affection. She so much preferred her solitary condition, with a thousand a year, to Gracie’s, surrounded by clamoreus young sisters, and dressing on twenty-five pounds a-year. But still the boys could not see beneath the beau- tiful, smooth surface ; and even the mother thought Eya’s faults not so grave as Robbie imagined— Robbie who was young, and had an unwavering standard of goodness for grown-up people. The shock, therefore, to them when they had a glimpse into Eva’s real nature was very great. It came in this wise. A certain Mr. Hillier in the neighbourhood took great notice of pretty Eva; but as he was a wild young fellow, not much known to Mr. Farington, her guardian felt it right to put a stop to the intimacy. Aunt Farington spoke very gently to Eva, and the girl kissed her aunt and pro- mised to think of what she said. Next morning, however, Cousin Eva was missing, and a little in- quiry established the fact that she had flown with Mr. Hillier to Paris, where they were shortly married. Then Frederick and Gerald were loud in their condemnation of the ‘ deceitful thing,’ so fair without, 80 hollow within. Eva, however, was not a whit disturbed by the re- proving letters of her uncle and aunt. Her fortune could not be taken from her, and as a married woman in Paris her life was far gayer than in the country-house at Maylands. She thought that she would never miss her cousins, nor need the love she had so carelessly cast from her. And for a while this seemed true. George Hillier was really fond of her, though he squandered her money in all possible ways, winding up at last by permanently settling down where he could spend his life at the gambling- table. Eva did not like that, and for the first time her fair face was clouded by the fear of a shadow which she could not get rid of. Troubles now came thickly: a baby was born; she was long ill; and then her husband fell ill, lingered some months and died, all in that far-away corner of Germany. He had grieved in his dying hours over his wasted life, and the trouble he had brought on Eva, advising her to go tc her aunt and uncle, who were good people, and would take her back, he felt sure. Eva did go to England, with her diminished fortune and her baby, but not to Maylands. She was too proud, and as yet she could do with- out them; though George was gone, she had her baby. And love for that was already softening Eva’s selfish heart. Mrs. Hillier took a house. in London, and resolved to live for herself and baby. When one day, however, baby fell ill of croup, and the doctor despaired of its life, she was nearly frantic, and in her agony she telegraphed to May- lands. ‘Oh, do come to me, my baby is dying!’ And next day, when baby was a shade better, and the doctor came for his second visit that day, | Mabel Farington crept in behind him, looking so ready for loving help, with her hat thrown down in the hall, that Eva at once put the child out of her tired arms into the fresh, young, strong ones, and threw herself on the bed in an agony of grief. Mabel let her cry a little, and then, when nurse took baby, she coaxed Eva into letting her undress her and put herto bed, where she soon fell asleep, quite worn out. On waking, Mabel had tea and more petting for her; the poor woeful thing in widow’s weeds had roused her deepest pity. Eva was surprised and touched by loving words and looks. ‘How can you love me?’ she asked. ‘I behaved so badly to you all; even George said so before he died.’ ‘Never mind that,’ said Mabel; ‘it is forgotten; you are our own Cousin Eva now, and you must come back to us; mother wishes you. She would have come too, after the telegram, but she was ill of : bronchitis, and Gracie could not leave, so I came.’ ‘But I have lost nearly all my money,’ Eva said, plaintively. , Mabel laid her face against hers, and whispered, ‘Darling, you have better than money now; you have love in your heart, and you will still have baby.’ So, when that little treasure was better, Eva gave up her house in town and went down to Maylands; not the fair, sweet girl of two years back, her beauty faded, her riches vanished, but less selfish, less self- engrossed. ‘The cousins gathered, however, even more closely around her, and Lisabee was not now pushed away ; she might tumble the new crape and the fresh ruffles without rebuke, for Eva had learned to value and desire love—the love of her fellow-creatures and the love of God. The two hang very closely together in this world of ours. _ H. A. UP A MOUNTAIN. T was ona fiftie July: morning that a party of four left Glasgow for a trip to Ben Lomond. We were anxious to reach the summit of that famous hill, and we found. that if nothing untoward happened we could make a hurried visit to the top, and find _ our way to our friend’s house on the other side of the Firth before sun- set. We drove to the station, and got booked for Rowardennan, a place at the very foot of the mountain. — Rowardennan! It struck us all as a. beautiful name; but what it means we did not discover. The train stopped a minute or so at Dumbarton, and from the window of our carriage we had an excellent view of the peak we were going to climb. A cloud capped his summit, but it did not seem inclined to tarry there. In fact, ere we reached Balloch the cloud was gone. wus Balloch is at the southern end of the lake, and ‘boasts a small railway-terminus and‘a piér.” Here we left the train,.and stepped on board the Prince of Wales, and soon we were churning the waters - a = PGP? APS0 State Rites of the lovely lake, with our bowsprit to the purple mountains. We sailed by many a fairy island, fringed to the water’s edge with rich foliage. We touched . at one or two little piers, and long ere we were weary of our voyage we stopped at Rowardennan. So little stir was made that we were nearly missing our chance of getting ashore. We had a sort of notion that everyone 6n board had come to climb Ben Lomond. But the fact was, not more than six or seven passengers left the steamer. Our first object was to find the inn, order some dinner, and secure a guide. It was now a quarter- past ten, and the boat called again at twenty-five minutes past two. The answers of the landlord to our questions were not very favourable. The walk would take us five hours; and all the guides were engaged. But, said our obliging friend, a lady and gentleman are going up directly, and you can travel with them if you like. So saying, he pointed to two ponies which were standing at the door. We ob- jected to this suggestion, for if we went with them we should have to submit to their time and so lose the steamer. The landlord then cast his weather- eye over the heavens, and declared there would be no mists, and his head-waiter assured us that nothing could be plainer or easier than the ascent of Ben Lomond in a fair day. So we determined to make our way up and down by ourselves. The head-waiter walked with us about one hundred yards, and left us with very brief directions—‘ Go tothe left of yonder rock—keep on that long ridge —then climb the summit.’’ We thank him and start. Figures of tourists, bound for the top, are moving before us half-a-mile ahead. We scramble up a thorough mountain road, under no highway-board, depend upon it; now it is a brook almost (for the previous night has been very rainy), and we skip from stepping-stone to stepping-stone; now we stride from heather to heather; now we are on soft, elastic mosses, and now in dark-brown peat. ‘The day is cloudy and cool, and there is a good deal of wind, but we grow warm with the exercise. The zeal of the youngsters carries them well to the front. The elder, more cunning, or less capable, is generally in the rear. By-and-by the ponies which stood at the hotel-door are seen below, and soon we are overtaken. We don’t feel ashamed, for the ponies have four legs to our two, and the gilly is a Highlander, and has been climbing Ben Lomond ever since he was born. Directly the gentleman gets abreast of us, he says, leaping off his pony, ‘Now, will not some of your party have a ride? Iam almost ashamed of being on a pony’s back, but my doctor insists on it.’ We thank him for his offer, and one of our party is soon in the saddle. I find our acquaintance is a London clergyman, overdone with the cares of a great Kast-end parish, and trying to regain health in the Highlands. As we move onward, chatting pleasantly, we fiid we have surmounted the tirst part of our journey, and are standing on an easy, sloping shoulder of the mountain. ‘he ascent now is not nearly so fa- tiguing, but beyond we see the cone swelling abruptly upward, about another thousand feet. The clergy- man has become weary of our snail’s pace, and is a good way ahead, zig-zagging up the peak, while another party, still further in advance and near the top, look like black specks against the sky. Now we are on the steep side, passing among a vast litter of stony fragments, but on a better and drier path than that we trod below. We pass by a few mountain sheep, nibbling the sweet grass peacefully. We now look on our right hand and see a wide ex- panse of country. Loch Ard and Loch Menteith are at our feet, and our eyes travel over Stirling and Falkirk to the Firth of Forth. The path improves as we near the summit, and we find no danger what- ever so long as we keep to it. : The mountain seems to have two summits, whic appear like one at a distance. As we look back from the higher one, we see an almost sheer precipice on the north slope of the lower one. It is not the sort of place one would like to wander near in a bewildered state of mind. It looks as if'a false step there might send you to immediate destruction. About half-past twelve we stood on the top of Ben Lomond, and all the world seemed lying at our feet. Turning south, we could see the beautiful Isle of Arran, the Mull of Cantire, the Irish Sea (and Ire- land, too, were it a thought clearer); in the north, the view seemed nothing but peaks—a sea of peaks. Of course, immediately beneath us were many sweet valleys and lochs, notably Loch Katrine, on which a steamer was plainly visible; but the impression left on the mind was mountain-tops. The clergyman refreshed us with a peep through his glass, and gave us some excellent French choco- late. The guide pointed out hills; but being a youth, I doubt whether his information was correct in every instance. J feel confident the mountain he called Ben Nevis was one of the Cairngorm peaks. But it did not much matter, ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,’ and the host of towering Bens looked grand enough whatever their names might be. In a quarter of an hour, or less, we had to descend, having no time to lose for our walk and our dinner. In one sense it is easier descending than ascending ; but a descent at rather more than four miles an hour has its disadvantages, especially to the knees. Once ~we wandered from the road, which in some places is harder to hit in going down; but as the day con- tinued very clear we had no difficulty in finding our way to the loch side, and reached our inn at two o'clock. Knowing a little what mountains are, I had brought with me a pair of clean stockings and shoes for each, and very grateful were our wet feet for them. We snatched a hasty meal, and had barely ap- peased our appetite when in popped the waiter’s head with, ‘Five minutes to the arrival of the steamer!’ So we said good-bye to Rowardennan and were borne away by the steamer, whose easy couches were duly appreciated after a twelve-miles’ walk on the hills. There we had leisure to digest the many charms we had seen; and we had but one cause for vexa- tion, namely, the short time we could afford for making acquaintance with a lake so beautiful and a mountain so worthy of being climbed. G. S. O. \ MWY GG ¥' '' wee A oo \ © . we _ \ WX SE Se Lo ZA : i Janet showing the Brooch to Uncle William. pee abe he ek be ad iia on a FRIENDSHIP. ‘Ler it be one of your chief objects in life to gain a sincere friend. Friendly sympathy increases every joy and lessens every pain’ JANET’S BROOCH. A TALE OF MYSTERY. H, Uncle William, 1am glad to see you to-day; I am in a perplexity,’ said Janet Underwood, the young motherless and sisterless head of the ‘household at the Brae. ‘Not about these gay toys? you have never been running up a bill at the jeweller’s?’ said Uncle William, smiling, as he glanced at a box on the table, velvet-lined and glittering with the sparkling trifles within it. ‘Oh, no!’ said Janet, hastily: ‘they came to-day from poor old Cousin Allan. Remembrances for all of us, from his dead wife. It was good of him to think of us. This brooch is forme. It looks very valuable. There are studs and pins for the boys. But it was not about them I wanted to speak, but about the housemaid, Bridget—you know her, the girl I took out of that terribly poor cottage in Town Lane. She comes of a bad lot; but she did so beg me to try her, that I let her come.’ ‘ And now she turns out unsatisfactory ?’ suggested Unele Will, the family counsellor, ‘Not a bit; she is industrious and quiet, returned — Janet: ‘but Brother Angus is vexed that I have taken a girl from such a bad home; he does not think she will ever do; and Roy and Johnnie tease me about her, and bring home all sorts of tales about the misdeeds of her father and brothers.’ ‘School-boy chatter,’ said Uncle Will, ‘and love of teasing Mistress Janet. But I am sorry Angus ——<™.. | | I i I i | i is disturbed in his mind. When does he come home, Janet?’ ‘Not for ten days longer, said Janet. ‘Ought I . tosend Bridget home? It seems so hard on her, if she is really a good girl.’ ‘Write again to Angus, and say you already have the girl in the house; but if he seriously objects to her, you will dismiss her. I will see that she does - not suffer for it,’ said Uncle Will. ‘Oh, thank you! you always set me right in my worries,’ said Janet, gratefully. And then Uncle Will quietly went home again to his bachelor lodgings. He was of too retiring a nature to do as Angus and Janet wished, take up his abode with them altogether; he always said that he preferred his steady old landlady to the lively young folk: but all the same he was ready in any difficulty to help the orphan household. For there was neither father nor mother at the Brae, only Janet and the boys; though Angus, the oldest, was twenty-two, and practising as a solicitor in the town. He was fond of Janet, and thought her a good housekeeper, but by virtue of his two years’ seniority he felt himself authorised now and then to advise on domestic affairs. : He was now on a fortnight’s visit to London, a rare treat for the young Scotchman. Janet wrote her letter to him, and then forgot her troubles. Bridget was certainly a hard-working girl, and evidently anxious to please. _ It was no use fore- seeing calamitics that might never befall the house- hold. But, alas for poor Janet! trouble did come of that hasty engagement of Bridget Morne, and in such a serious form that there was no glossing it over. A tea-party at Red-howe, the large house on the hill, was in prospect, and Janet and the boys were to go. It was a grand affair. Janet’s white muslin was to figure at it, and all her small ornaments. Cousin Allan’s brooch, too; that might be worn. Indeed the boys insisted on it; though Janet hesi- tated and talked of its being too fine for her. ‘There, put it on. I won’t take you without it,’ said Roy, with a grand assumption of manly dignity. So Janet went upstairs, but only to return looking ‘scared and flurried. ‘Which of you boys has hid my brooch?’ she asked, anxiously; ‘it was in the jewel-case. I showed it to Uncle Will just before I locked it up.’ But Roy and Johnnie were guiltless this time. Fond of fun and mischief as they were, they would not have played practical jokes in so serious a matter. They rushed upstairs to search the box; they turned Janet’s neat room upside down; but no, not a trace of the brooch could be found. It had dis- appeared, case and all. It was a mystery to Janet, and the boys looked very solemn, and whispered a good deal to each other. : The party had to start, however, for Red-howe, though the evening was spoiled for Janet. Next day, the old cook and the young waiting- maid came to Janet to say that they were not going to stop in a suspected house, and either they should leave or the mistress must send ‘ that girl’ home. That girl was, of course, Bridget, who with tears protested her innocence of all knowledge of the missing brooch. But cook severely: asserted that till the day before yesterday Mr. Morne had been in prison, and was then suddenly bailed out, with whose money no one knew. The assertion was true, and though poor Bridget sobbed out something about Gipsy Jem providing the money, cook and Nancy shook their heads and pinched up their lips. The boys were sorry when it came to Janet taking Bridget home, the poor housemaid’s face swelled with crying. She might not be the thief; but then things don’t go of themselves, and she came of a bad lot. . The sins of the fathers will be visited on the children, you sec, now as of old. -*,Roy and Johnnie watched the-pair down the lane, and wondered what Angus would say when he heard of it all. ‘ ‘ Won't he just have his long face on?’ said Roy. ‘And won’t Janet be looked after -for a bit?’ added Johnnie. Three days of great uneasiness crept by. On the fourth morning a letter came from Angus.’ At Uncle Wills suggestion the story of the missing brooch had not been written to him; he could do no good, and it would be time enough to tell him on his return, since the supposed offender had been sent away. The letter was most astounding. It was to Roy. ‘T ought to have written before,’ he said ; ‘but my friend took me to Brighton for a couple of days, and on my return I found a parcel awaiting me, duly registered, and purporting to be studs from Cousin Allan, but really containing an emerald brooch. What is the meaning of this? Please explain.’ Roy gasped and dropped the letter. It was the brooch ! Johnnie gave a shout of delight, and Janet sighed a deep sigh of relief. Then Bridget was no thief, poor girl! But how had the brooch gone to Angus, and where were the studs ? Roy was now to be cross-examined. He had ‘ done up’ the parcel in the study, just after Uncle Will called, he remembered perfectly ; for he saw the little case on the table at the time, and was afraid of for- getting it if he left it any longer. ‘That would be twelve o’clock, Roy; just when I went upstairs to show Bridget how to clean the door panels. After that I ran down and fetched the box to lock it up.’ ‘But, Roy,’ said Johnnie, thoughtfully, ‘how could you find the stud-case on the library table when I saw you put it into your jacket pocket at breakfast- time, when Janet first said, “Those had better go to Angus ?”’? Two heads are better than one. a poser. - ‘You sent my brooch instead of the studs!’ said Janet; ‘the cases were both red, and nearly the same size,’ ‘But where are the studs?’ asked Roy, rubbing his head. Just then the door burst open, and Nancy some- what pertly went up to Roy, and presented him with a red case—Angus’s studs. : ‘There’ll be an outcry about these next, sir,’ she said ; ‘ left in your old jacket pocket, that the-mistress told me to mend.’ And then she flounced out of the room again. Tt was all explained now. Roy had taken the right stud-case at breakfast-time, slipped it into his pocket, and forgotten it; then coming into the study later, and finding a red case on the table; he had thought it to be Angus’s, and there and then: seized it, Wrapped it up, and directed it. Janet was glad to hear Uncle Will’s step in the hall that morning. She had waited for his counsel before taking any steps about poor Bridget. She put Angus’s letter in his hand. He read it, and then firmly fixed his eye-glass in his eye. That meant business. The question was = men, Janet and he had a long consultation, and it ended in Bridget being fetched, and the story of the brooch being told before all the servants that very OWishallavelerosethetriven? evening. ! & rf There j Rees wee Will was so excited he actually made a : Dh Bees Sees speech. ri Ela ete ce EVI _ ‘We might all be proud to be in Bridget’s place ena NS a 2 just now,’ he said; ‘she has borne unjust suspicion TAGs Sanaa heat yi yell and bravely, holding up her head the while, as How'shalt Rae NA pe well as she could.’ fheniea alae Uncle Will knew this for a fact, since he had got prod eonch the ohensie -her at rary pl in the C y Hospi ¥ oe Aenea Hens Bes esCgauity, Hospital atier How shall we cross the river ? That question, long ago, Our stout forefathers answered— In Saxon times, you know. They wrought with patient labour In all the cold and wet; And, plying arms and lever, THE STEPPING-STONES. ‘You may well wish to welcome her back here,’ he continued, addressing Janet, cook, and Nancy : ‘ but that cannot be yet, she is too much needed by the sick whom she is tending. So, as a little remem- brance of this happy clearing up of a painful mystery, please take this bit of paper.’ And Uncle Will, whose speech ended rather ab- The stepping-stones they set. ruptly, stuffed a five-pound note into Bridget’s hand, and suddenly disappeared down the passage. And here the country people ‘Put it in the savings’ bank,’ said a voice that Have trafficked to and fro, sounded in the distance; and then the front door Save when the roaring river clanged, and Roy and Johnnie shook hands with Is swelled with rain and snow. Bridget, and cook made her come down to a bit of Better these shapeless fragments supper; and even Nancy was kind, and forgot her Yet joining side to side, conceit. Than many a lordly steeple Bridget did not return to service at the Brae, she Or fretted tomb of pride. | was too useful at the hospital; but Angus did not now, as he used to do, object to Janet visiting the How shall we cross the river? cottages in Town Lane, and once, when a little sister Oh, never say it’s vain, of Bridget’s came to the house with some sewing But use your best endeavour which she had done for ‘ the lady,’ he asked,— The promised land to gain. ‘Couldn’t we give that girl a lift? she looks Across the rushing river intelligent and decent. Nancy could surely teach The golden pippins gleam ; her ?’ Say, shall we turn faint-hearted, Janet was so pleased! It was her great wish to And tremble at the stream ? take this Ruth Morne, but after her trouble with f Bridget she dared not suggest it. The bridge may serve the noble, “Somehow good has come out of that painful Heir to a cushioned seat ; business. Janet has learned to be less hasty in The stepping-stones are fitter well-doing even, and Angus has widened his ideas For lads with naked feet : of his duties as regards his poor neighbours. Roy The prince but crosses over; and Johnnie, too, are less ready to carry exciting And they can do the same; reports about when they are to the discredit of There are more ways than one, boys, others; and as to cook and Nancy, they were heard To get an honoured name. to say,—‘ Well, they never! It would he a long time y before they dared fix anything on anybody after that Yes, there are stairs to glory, little mistake about poor Bridget!’ H. A. F. For all who wish to climb, But they who would be cragsmen Must use life’s early prime ; IN A DILEMMA. The scholar and the soldier, The merchant, the divine, JUST and severe man in the olden time built a Their alpenstock must shoulder gallows on a bridge, and asked every passenger When the first sunbeams shine. whither he was going. If he answered truly, he passed unharmed; if falsely, he was hanged on the And there are lives to show us gallows. One day a passenger, being asked the usual What any one may do, question, answered, ‘1 am going to be hanged on the If he be brave and patient, gallows.’ Industrious and true : ‘ Now,’ said the gallows-builder, ‘if I hang this man, The great men yet among us, he will have answered truly, and ought not to have The great men gone before, been hanged; if I do not hang him, he will have Are stepping-stones to help us answered falsely, and ought to have been hanged.’ Unto the Happy Shore. History does not say what decision he came to. G. §. 0, The Stepping-Stones. Se Se A> N SS Ua? Ze Wy “ Ss ght, gold ether rolled, eams white ; s a 3 ~~ © a a o E S 3 S Zz ~~ S a ep ed out the laws of li ned how violet and our Search And lear sreen tog ¢ 5 Made up the sun N gi | joa a 5 inal 9 ra fea) Hk ys i) a M, Crimson and © He blew him bubbles such as those Our urchins blow so oft, Then watched them as they upward rose, And almost scraped his knowing nose, In mimic pomp aloft. *Twas thus he sought, as great men do, From trifles light as air, A truth the ancients never knew, A truth which opens glories new, And gives us treasures rare. But when a lady, dwelling near, Saw, through the open sash, Sir Isaac and his bubble gear, She thought he was as mad as Lear, If not so loud and rash. A crazy man he was to her, A poor half-witted thing ; Yet he, who did her pity stir, Was the earth’s prime philosopher, And grander than a king! So, like great Newton, let us read Lessons in all we see ; Yes, let the daisy of the mead, A grain of sand—a thistle-seed— Our books of wisdom be. And let us, in our work and play, Do all with might and main; Our life is but a little day, Its golden minutes ebb away, And will not come again. The bubble, as it breaks apace, Life’s brief career may show ; For all, who are of Adam’s race, - Obscure or mighty, good or base, Like bubbles come and-go. G. 8. 0. A FISHING ADVENTURE. O* the 16th of August, 1715, two brothers, who were students, on a fishing- :xcursion in Norway, landed from their boat upon an island of barren rock, fifteen yards wide by twenty long, in the middle of a great lake. Whilst there, a gust of wind drifted the boat to the shore of the lake. Neither of the brothers could swim. Lightly clad, they remained nine days in sight of their fishing-boat and faithful dog, who continued watching their things, and now and then appeared on the gunwale of the boat and whined piteously. They put up a rude hovel of loose stones, which, however, afforded them little shelter in an exposed situation on a lake 3000 feet above the level of the sea. On the ninth day they could not see their dog, and supposed he had died of grief and starvation. ‘The dog, it appeared afterwards, had left, and, finding his way home, by constant howling and restlessness had given the idea that some misfortune had happened. On the night of the twelfth day the two brothers embraced each other for the last time, as they believed, and awaited death. Their only food had been about an ounce of wild sorrel each day. Suddenly they heard the tramp of horses and the sound of voices on the edge of the lake. One brother had Just strength enough to make himself heard, and they were rescued. The two students, after some weeks’ illness, re- covered, but their faithful dog died from the effects of his long fasting, and found a resting-place in the students’ garden. Hvuserr Sirs. STORIES ABOUT AMERICAN INDIANS. By Rey. E. B. Tuttle, U. S. Army. BURIAL OF A CHIEI’S DAUGHTER. POTTED TAIL, the head chief of the Brule Sioux, sent a request to the commanding officer at Fort Laramie, saying ‘his daughter had died in Powder River countr (fifteen days’ journey), and had begged her father to have her grave made among the whites.’ Consent was given, she having - been known to the officers for several years, and her death was brought on by exposure to the hardships of wild Indian life, and also from grief, that her tribe would go to war. He was met outside the ‘ Post’ by the officers, with the honours due to his station. ‘The officer in com- mand spoke in words of comfort, saying, ‘he sym- pathised with him, and was pleased at this mark of confidence in committing to his care the remains of his loved child. The Great Spirit had taken her, and he never did anything except .or some good purpose. Everything should be prepared for the funeral at sun- set, and as the sun went down it might remind him of the darkness left in his lodge when his daughter was taken away; but as the sun would surely rise again, so she would rise, and some day we would all meet in the land of thé Great Spint.’ The chief exhibited great emotion at these words, and shed tears; a thing quite unusual in an Indian. He took the hand of the officer and said: ‘‘This must be a dream for me to be in such a fine room, and sur- rounded by such as you. Have I been asleep during the last four years of hardship and trial, dreaming that all is to be well again? or is this real? Yes, I see that it is,—the beautiful day, the sky blue, with- out a cloud; the wind calm und still, to suit the errand I came on, and remind me that you offer me peace! We think we have been much wronged, and entitled to compensation for damage done and distress caused by making so many roads through our country, driving and destroying the buffalo and game. My heart is very sad, and I cannot talk on business. 1 will wait and see the counsellors the Great Father will send,’ The scene, it is added, was the most impressive I ever saw, and all the Indians were awed into silence. A scaffold was erected at the cemetery, and a coffin was made. Just before sunset the body was carried, followed by the father and other relatives, with chap- lain (Rev. A. Wright, U.S. A.), officers, soldiers, and ee Indians. The chaplain read the beautiful burial- service, interpreted by another to them. One said: ‘I can hardly describe my feelings at witnessing here this first Christian burial of an Indian, and one of such consideration among her tribe. The hour, the place, the solemnity, even the restrained weeping of the mother and other relatives, all com- bined to affect me deeply.’ It is added: the officers, to gratify Monica’s father, each placed an offering in her coffin. Colonel May- nadier, a pair of gauntlets, to keep her hands warm (it was winter), Mr. Bullock gave a handsome piece of red cassimere to cover the coffin. ‘lo complete the Indian ceremony, her two milk-white ponies were killed and their heads and tails nailed on the coffin. These ponies the Indians supposed she would ride again in the hunting-grounds whither she had gone. WHY DO INDIANS SCALP THEIR ENEMIES ? J HAVE been a good deal puzzled to know the origin of this custom, of always scalping a foe in battle, both among themselves and in fighting white ‘people. A negro is never scalped by the Indians. In conversing with Major A. 8. Burt, of 9th United States Infantry, at our post, who has had much experience among the Indians on the plains, I learnt some things which gave a clue to the matter, which agree with all I can hear. He says that each Indian wears a ‘scalp-lock,’ which is a long tuft of hair, into which the Indian inserts his medicine, which consists generally of a few quills of eagles’ feathers. ‘This ‘medicine’ is simply a ‘ charm,’ as we call it, gotten byg purchase of the medicine-man of the tribe. The medicine-man is the most influential man in each tribe. He professes to be able to conjure, by his arts and influence with the Great Spirit, certain articles, which he sells to the Indians of his tribe. This ‘medicine’ the superstitious believe will cure dis- eases, and help him against his enemy in battle. Hence, in scalping a fallen foe, the victor deprives him of his charm, and shows it in triumph, as a token of his skill in battle. If you visit an Indian in his tent, and ask him to show you his ‘ medicine,’ he will do. so, if you pay him in such things as he needs to make therewith a feast, both for himself and an offer- ing to his medicine idol; but as the idol can’t eat, it goes of course into the stomach cf the live Indian! * Another idea: the Indian believes that the spirit of the enemy he slays enters into himself, and he is thereby made the stronger; hence he slays all that he can. Ihave seen youug warriors in the streets of Cheyenne, with their hair reaching down almost to their heels ; and all along it you’d see strung round pieces of silver, from the size of a silver-dollar to a tea-saucer; each one of which was a tell-tale of the number of the scalps the young fellow had taken. It was what the ladies would call a ‘ waterfall !’ Speaking of this, as revealing the pride of Indians in showing their prowess, I learned of a young buck, coming into a post and walking round, dressed in the top of Indian fashion,—i. e. with paint on his face, *The Indian keeps his ‘medicine’ hung up. in his tent, and prays to it——dreams about it,— and if his dream is ot goud luck, he acts accordingly. ‘his applies to hunting, going on war expeditions, &c.; in short, it ig his sort of saint, to which’ he pays idolatrous worship. feathers in his hair, and brass ornaments on his leg- gings. These young fellows put on all the gewgaws they can to make a show of importance. Well, he finally walked into the post-trader’s store, and asked Mr. Bullock if he didn’t think it made the officers faint when they saw him? ‘ Yes,’ said he, ‘I think you’d better take off some of your things (pointing to his trappings), they will scare somebody.’ INDIAN BOY’S EDUCATION. WHEN an Indian gets to be eighteen years old it is expected that he-will strike out for himself, and do some act to show his bravery; and that begins in striking somebody to kill them (a white or Indian of a hostile tribe), and to steal stock, a horse, or mule, or cattle. : No young warrior can get a wife till he has taken the scalp of a white man or Indian, and have stolen a horse or pony. - This being a law of the Sioux, so in proportion as he scalps and steals horses so does his number of wives increase, and the greater a warrior does he become. In short, he becomes ‘a big heap chief.’ What to us becomes a murder or a theft,—the very first act of a young Indian,—in his own tribe is a great and praiseworthy deed. So you see what blood has ° een shed, and other acts of cruelty caused by Spottc « Tail, Red Cloud, and others, who have imbrued their hands in the blood of innocent victims with a fiendish delight that savages only know and take pleasure in. As the arrows tell of the tribe to which they be- long,—coloured near the end,—green for the Sioux, blue, Cheyenne, red or brown, Arrapahoes, black feathers, Crow,—so the tribe to which an Indian —aurderer belongs is known by the method (usually) by which the victim is scalped. The Cheyennes remove a piece not larger than a silver dollar from immediately over the left ear; the Arrapahoes take the same over the right ear. Others take from the crown, forehead, or nape of the neck. The Utes take the entire scalp from ear to ear, and from forehead to nape of neck. ; WHY DOES NOT THE INDIAN MEDDLE WITH THE TELEGRAPH ? It is said that the pioneer company over the plains got together several chiefs and explained as well as they could the modus operandi of obtaining electricity from the clouds, and making it useful in conveying intelligence to great distances; ‘This was hard for them to believe, because they are superstitious, and attribute all phenomena they do not fully understand to conjuration or charms, such as their medicine-man practises. However, they concluded to put the matter to a test. So it was two principal Indians, about one hundred miles apart, agreed to send a message over the lines on a given day, and then they would travel towards each other as fast as they could to see if the message (known only to themselves and the operator) should be correct. Of course it proved as we wouid expect, and they were satisfied. ‘This intelligence has spread from one tribe to another, and they believe that it is somehow (as it is in truth) connected with the Great Spirit who controls the winds and the storms ; hence they do not meddle with it. See ne a St - ——— Wo BGEEZEELEL BFE g = SEEELE LE 5 = — f Wis SIG - : oe WEL Ee , : ZEEE SA Lge ge ip << si z The First Christian Burial of an Indian. MU A NOVEL BREEDING-PLACE. AST spring my attention was called by one of my men to an old scarecrow which had lain in the field since the previous autumn, the body of which consisted of an old bag stuffed with straw, inside of which were five young rabbits. Perhaps you may think this an instance worth recording of a rabbit breeding aboveground, a fact which very seldom happens, and there- fore is worth recording. THE GENEROUS RIVALS. From the Italian of C. Cautie. N 1401 the citizens of Florence determined to put two bronze gates to the Temple of San Giovanni, the patron saint of that city. In order that the best artists might offer to undertake the work, they declared that they should entrust its execution to that artist who showed he possessed the greatest talent. Among the competitors came Filippo Brunelleschi, Donatello, Lorenzo Ghiberti, Jacopo della Quercia, Simone del Colle, Francesco di Valdambria, and Nicolo d’Arezzo, all of them sculptors and architects of the highest order. Everyone of them brought a small model of the gates. A committee of expe- rienced judges having been chosen to decide who was the best, it was found that Donatello’s design was good, but his execution imperfect ; that Jacopo della Quercia’s figures were well done, but were destitute of all grace; and that Simone’s gates were cast beautifully, but the design was not clear; Fran- cesco had given his figures fine heads, but his com- position was bad; while on the other hand, though they praised Nicolo for the grandeur of his design, his figures were short and thick ; as to Ghiberti’s model, they scarcely looked at it, for he was a young man, and they did not expect much from him. In the end, they declared that Donatello’s and Filippo Brunelleschi’s were the best. If these gifted men had been mere ordinary per- sons, they would have been elated with the honours ~ conferred on them, and the one would have tried to get the better of the other, and secure the splendid commission for himself alone. But where there is great merit there is seldom envy. The two sculptors pointed out that Ghiberti’s model was distinguished by careful work and admirable execution, that the idea embodied was a noble one, and the figures were thoroughly lifelike. They therefore persuaded the committee to entrust him with the erection of the gates. The committee took their advice, and the result was magnificent. But the Florentines, while ad- miring Ghiberti’s genius, could not refrain from loudly praising the magnanimity of his friends. ‘Happy, indeed, are those,’ cried they, ‘ who thus willingly give each his turn, and take pleasure in showing the beauties of another’s work !? CaRLo Viti. =e THE BANISHED CHIEF. \GERMAN traveller in the Far West of North America, halted for some days at a Mission Station. During the services in the church on Sunday he was much struck by a tall Indian, who officiated as sacristan. In his wild, shy looks there was something strange and mysterious. After the service, the traveller ex- pressed to the clergyman how much this man had struck him, and he begged him to tell him something about his history. ‘You are right,’ said the clergyman ; ‘ Neykeemie is no ordinary Indian. He possesses much sense and deep feeling, and therefore I have appointed him to this office, which all envy. His pride was broken by a great misfortune which befell him when he was chief of the Ojibbeways. Banished by his own tribe on account of a deed of despair, and broken- hearted, the rough warrior came here, to seek pardon from the God of the white men. His story is very interesting, but very sad; but, if you like to hear it, I will willingly tell it to you. ‘ Neykeemie, a few years ago, was the most power- ful and respected chief of the Ojibbeways. When I first came to this country, a short time back, he promised me, for a small service I rendered him, his protection ; and he faithfully kept his word, helping the mission in every way in his power. ‘He was not less esteemed in the judgment of his tribe, and he was the first to lead the way in the bloody path of war. Thus, some years ago, he pre- pared, in the middle of winter, an expedition against the Yanktons, across the boundaries of Dacota, from the result of which he promised himself great things. Alas! he could not foresee the end of it. ‘Imagine to yourself a large Indian village in the midst of dark pines, the huts covered with birch-bark, and the wigwams with many-coloured skins, to protect them from the icy north wind. The whole population, from the grey-haired veteran to the infant, is on its legs, and the young squaws have. clothed themselves in their brightest garments, to charm the warriors of the tribe ; round the striped post which stands in the middle of the camp the red men silently assemble, with feathers in their black hair, and their faces fan- tastically painted. ‘In the midst of this assembly of his soldiers stood Neykeemie, in deep thought; for during the night he had dreamt a fearful dream, and all Indians are superstitious. But whether it was the cold morning air or the sight of his brave men which inspirited him, he cast away all care, and gave his commands. He proudly showed the scars with which he was covered; and his contented look fell on the scalps which hung from his girdle, and on the claws of the grey bear, which, tied in a string, hung down upon his broad breast. The hollow drums’ beat in ‘increasingly quick time ; the war-song of his brave men rose and fell in ever wilder cadences, and each warrior, as he yelled forth his battle-cry, struck his tomahawk into the striped post. Neykeemie, spring- ing on his saddleless horse, gave the signal for de- parture, and placed himself at the head of his people, who, riding one after the other, vanished in the dark- ness of the forest, whilst the hollow sound of their drums echoed after them. . Thus they withdrew to their bloody work, determined to slay the first enemy they found, whether they met him in the open field or fell upon him in an ambush ; while the old veterans, left behind for the protection of the village, made their rounds sadly and dejectedly, because they could not share the dangers of their hrethren. ‘This time Neykeemie was not fortunate in his expedition, for the Yanktons, being timely warned by their spies, were prepared, and a successful sur- prise was therefore impossible. At the same time, a violent north wind began to blow, which, passing hither across the polar regions, always brings with it such a terrible cold that sleeping in the forests is hard, even to the Ojibbeways. Therefore the chief ‘determined, in order not to return home entirely without booty, to divide the large company of his wartiors into smaller bands, because such had always a better chance of coming slily upon the enemy. ‘After a wearisome ride through the woods, Ney- keemie reached the extensive snow-covered prairie which stretches on both sides of the Assiniboin river, when suddenly the horses started, and gave plain signs of terror. Yes, enemies indeed were ap- proaching, more cruel than the hated Yanktons. In severe winters, the great northern wolves, driven by hunger, appear in. vast multitudes in this region, and - venture to attack even men. The proud Neykeemie, who had often, as a jest, chased down a pair of solitary wolves on the prairie, was now himself chased by these beasts of prey, when, convinced of the uselessness of resistance, he turned to flee. He knew that a few miles distant, on the river, was an abandoned fort of the Hudson’s Bay Company—this, with his warriors and prisoners, he endeavoured to reach by the shortest route. But the wearied horses, driven as they were both by their fright and by the heavy whips of their riders, could not fly across the prairie with the same speed as their light-footed pursuers, who sprang over the half-frozen snow without breaking through it. ‘Single shots, which the Indians, as they fled, fired at them, had but little effect :- for if the foremost fell, and the nearest following them stopped to devour their bodies, it did not cause hundreds to desist for a moment in the chase. They flew over the icy cov- ering of the prairie as if they were sure of their prey. ‘At last they beheld the little fort, standing on a rising eminence, before them, and the sharp eye of Neykeemie discovered also that the gate stood wide open. ‘They had now only one mile to flee, but between the gradually rising ground and the fugitive Indians was some low ground, completely covered with snow. Here the foaming horses, so overdriven that they were almcst dead, could not go so fast, because at every step they plunged up to their knees in snow. Thus the horrible beasts now gained upon them rapidly. The horses of two Ojibbeways sunk down exhausted with fatigue. When their yiders saw that neither whipping nor caressing was of any avail they calmly resigned themselves to their fate, sung their death-song, and, leaning back to back, awaited the attack. Though tomahawk and knife slew many a wolf, yet their desperate resistance was in vain, for, in an ineredibly short time, they and their horses were torn to pieces. Whilst a herd of the beasts fought over their bones, the great multitude continued the pursuit, and were not again arrested till an old Ojibbeway, who had two sons among the fugitives, sacrificed himself by cutting the throat of his panting steed ; it staggered backwards and forwards, and at last fell. The noble father, after he had cast one loving look at his children, sat down quietly on the snow, and with resignation awaited his fate. ‘Neykeemie, who, with the rest of his companions, had now arrived at the foot of the hill upon which stood the stockade which was to afford them pro- tection, cast a despairing glance behind him, pointed to the open door, and galloped up the hill borne by the last strength of his exhausted horse, the rest fol- lowing him as quickly as the worn-out condition of | their steeds permitted.. But the wolves were now _| close behind them, and there was no doubt but one last sacrifice must be made, if they were not all to perish. Such a thought was agitating Neykeemie’s brain; his decision was quickly made; he seized. his rifle, and shot the horse of the Ojibbeway who was riding close behind him through the head, so that horse and rider fell to the ground. ‘The latter tried to disentangle himself and escape; but, before he could succeed in doing so, he already felt the warm breath of the beasts at his throat ; he wished to raise his death-song, but it was too late even for that. ‘The short space of time purchased through this barbarous deed sufficed to bring the chief and the remaining warriors into safety. They galloped through the open gate into the enclosure, and in- stantly closed the gates, so that they had now a firm barrier between themselves and their pursuers. A furious howling now resounded all round the pali- sades, when the wolves saw that they were cheated of their prey. They tried to press in, and burrow under the strong enclosure; but the hard, frozen ground, resisted all their efforts, whilst the rifles of the Ojibbeways made deadly havoc among them. As soon as one of the beasts fell, the others rushed upon it to devour it; but the number of the assailants did not diminish, for new herds continued to appear. The besieged Indians determined not to waste their ammunition thus fruitlessly ; so they kindled a huge fire before the one-storied blockhouse, which stood in the middle of the stockade, and threw, from time to time. large burning fagots among the wolves, to drive them from the walls. One of the northern snow-storms was raging with such a fury over the midnight winter landscape, that the raging of the hurricane drowned the howling of the ravenous beasts. It was scarcely possible to keep up the fire. They tried to light a second fire within the old block-house, but the snow penetrated through the dilapidated roof in large quantities, so that the attempt was vain. So the Indians, wrapped up in their blankets, crouched down silently around the ashes. ‘Neykeemie, who had twice made the round of the stockade, to see that all was in order, now sat. down on the trunk of a tree, his elbows on his knees, ; and his eye fixed on the dark, threatening firma- ment. The icy hurricane drove the thick snow- ee too, AN A Ni \\ i TKN y \\( \ \\ AK AWS Ly ) ) Ly vi y oS Ze Beesvsee8 \ \ \\ es 5. SS o Sea Bsa 8 Wi lL (7, - seettoe se ) AW) GE \\\\ zx oe Pees \ \ \ IN \ \ rs og ee ge & A VERS LU 2 fe seh lo 2. \ ARI Sav a — : wees. as \ A A WW S$ eT ESS AAI \\ WW \\\\ Ni RE Oy ‘I 2S rE ~? 3S \ \ \ AI 2 \\\Ss “SS Sy \ GSS es geo IN ‘ \\ i \ \\ EM SS LE = SN AS £8 ge" 8 5 A A NW AT iN? eo Cy mele ow? 86? 4 8 < PLESSSN 1S Sud Sasa oe S SSS es $35 ee = SS So . Bes Beads tS ¢ NN ‘ Z SSF e823" LUI SQ \ \ A ow SS MS KF Og \ \ \\\ S ANI \ AY BEEBE? ge PS \ AS = A Smee s L ANNA \ \ A tigen s os | \~ 7 BEE: \ NAA \ \ S A SiS ON ea og 1 AURA \ [| Sefe8s* 2 j \ \ It x IN \\ \ aN ‘Bop Pg EH \ ANNA \\ SZ L SESa ees. \ NIRA \ \ TN ANN \\\ 6 ppt PES A \ g we a Bs ° o 6 most fantastic forms, that in the howlin heard the cry of th gazed on as appe > not the icy cold _ bloodthirsty beasts outside the pali clouds out of th believed . /) E | oO. i HN Hh y th ety aie 4 i Us the storm had driven away the wolves. Only when his beloved war-horse rubbed his bloody head on his stern countenance. The warriors who pre- viously had watched for his every word and sign, appeared no longer to take any notice of him; they only cast reproachful glances at him. As the clouds still rested on the prairie, they sent out a horse, down the hill, to observe from-his. actions whether the wolves were still in the neighbotirhood. The animal trotted merrily through the deep snow, drew in the fresh morning air, and, by his neighing, gave his comrades to understand that the terrible enemy was no longer there. The Ojibbeways thus knew Hy y i Wh Me iH i A SS = SS Ss SS, Chun f sats Nu his master’s shoulder did a milder look pass over ' U \ Neykeemie driven out of the Camp. that there was no longer any danger at hand, and when the sun dispersed the clouds, and their sharp eyes could survey the whole country, they took up their weapons and assembled to depart. They did all this without consulting the chief—a proof that they no longer recognised his authority. Neykeemie followed them some distance off, and, without further adventure, reached the village, where his deed of despair was soon noised abroad. The next day the whole tribe assembled round the striped post, and the elders held judgment on the chief who had so grievously failed in his duty. Though he was defended by a few of his relations, he did not speak a word himself; he was condemned I | | { | { | | { | | | by a large majority, and cast out in disgrace. The squaws tore down his eagle’s feathers, robbed him of his scalps and other marks of honour, and drove him, with scourges, out of the camp. Broken- hearted and despising himself, Neykeemie wandered through the forests, till, one day, some people be- longing to the mission took compassion on his wretched condition, and brought him under my roof. There he found sympathy, consolation, and care, and I had the joy of seeing him, through Christian instruction, turned away from those thoughts of revenge which he had before harboured. Since then he has daily increased in religious knowledge, and I had the satisfaction of receiving him as a faithful member into our Church some time ago.” Such is the sad stery of the banished chief, as told to the traveller. Ae, HE Australian native is, in some respects, not unlike the African negro; but whilst he has the same woolly hair he has not the thick lips of the African, nor is he nearly so strong. He used to be a miserable naked cannibal, roam- ing about in search of food, but now he is become a tame blanket- clothed dependant on the white man. He is undoubtedly intelli- gent and good-natured, and as good at the three: R’s as most English lads and lasses. Australia is curiously lacking in useful ani- mals. The thick-skinned order, to which the horse, elephant, hog, ass, zebra, and others, belong, does not furnish that vast country with one single member. The horse, therefore, has been carried to its shores. Mr. Bell, who wrote on quadrupeds, believes the horse was first tamed by the Egyptians. He was wild as the zebra, but man at length broke his proud spirit, and made him a most useful servant. The horse still needs breaking, as our illustration shows. But will our four friends there make their pupil cheerful in his obedience, or will he turn out dogged, sullen, and spiritless? The education of a horse, it has been said, should be that of a child. Pleasure should be, as much as possible, associated with the early lessons, while firmness must establish the habit of obedience. How strange, too, it is, that Australia, so well suited for grazing, should not have one member of the ‘ruminating’ order, which is the one of all others mest useful to man. ‘The camel, deer, goat, sheep, ox, bison, &c. (there are over 150 sorts in all), are wholly wanting in that vast, strange land. Those bullocks who are dragging those huge plum-puddings on wheels, with wild gesture, tossing horn, and excited tail, hav- been imported, like the horse on which the gold commissioner (that bearded gentleman in jack- boots) is quietly sitting. I think the horse looks far quieter than the oxen; perhaps they have not been broken in, as he has. The plum-puddings on wheels consist of wool from ‘sheep in some great pastoral desert, which may roll for hundreds of miles together. There some en- terprising Briton has his flocks, tended by stockmen and shepherds, and overlooked by himself. The sheep-owner spends days and days on horseback. At night the dingo, or zebra-wolf, a destructive but cow- ardly beast, prowls about the fold seeking a supper; but his howl is answered by the defying bark of the watchful dogs, and it blends with the cry of the strange night-bird. The dog is the only land-animal belonging to the ‘ carnivora’ which Australia possesses. : He has prick ears and a wolfish appearance. Behold him there.- A kind Providence, who for some wise reasons has made the country so bare of animals, has at least given her man’s chief dumb friend, the dog. But whilst Australia is so thinly peopled with most animals, having only about seventy-five species of all the 1346 known to naturalists, what will you say when you know that forty-three of those seventy-five are ‘marsupial ;’ that is, the females have bags or purses in their bosoms, where they put their little ones when very young? ‘There are only sixty-seven sorts of marsupial animals altogether, and Australia has forty-three of the whole. Some of these remarkable creatures, as the red kangaroo, are as big as a man; others, as the flying squirrel, are less than a mouse. Amgng the marsupial animals we reckon the opossum, ranging in size from a cat to a mouse, and very active at night among the trees; the zebra-wolf, or Zhylacnus, already mentioned; the bandicoot, an animal of a small size, which bur- rows or hides itself under fallen timber—a pretty- creature, but unfit for food ; the potoroo, or kangaroo- rat; the phalanger, which has a tail it can curl round a bough and hold on by; the sugar squirrel, the native bear, and the wombat. This latter is like a great guinea-pig; it burrows in the sand-hills, and hisses like a serpent. No marsupial animal has a true voice, but something made up of grunt, growl, wheeze, and hiss. The flying squirrels and phalan- gers do not really fly, but they are supported in the air, whilst leaping from tree to tree, by a kind of wing, which acts as a parachute. The most popular member of the family is the kangaroo, who does not use his little fore-feet when he wishes to ramble, but moves from place to place by means of great leaps made by his very strong hind- legs and tail. The tail is so-colossal that the kan- garoo can balance his body upon it, and lunge out fiercely with the two hind-fect meanwhile. He chews the cud, is gentle, and in appearance not unlike a deer. The flesh is much prized, and the poor kangaroo is chased by the hunters. In rough country the hunted one has the best of it, for he can make astounding leaps over the low brushwood, and across water-courses; but the dogs tire him out in the open plain. ABOUT ROBINSON CRUSOE. N°? book -ever written has been more read than Robinson Crusoe. It first appeared in 1719, and was soon translated inte French, German, and other languages. Yet at first the writer had much difficulty in persuading any bookseller to look at his story. Atlasta publisher, named Taylor, bought the work, and gained a thousand pounds by his bargain. The Rev. James Stanier Clarke, from whose pages ‘our extracts are chiefly made, tells us he found Robinson Crusoe by the bedside of the Archduke of Austria. It is generally supposed that Defoe wrote Robinson Crusoe, and he was led to do so by reading the true story of Alexander Selkirk, a sailor who lived alone on the island of Juan Fernandez for four years and four months. The story of Alexander Selkirk was first made public by Captain Rogers in 1712, so that it appeared seven years before Robinson Crusoe first came out. Captain Rogers visited the island of Juan Fernandez in February, 1709, and there he found Selkirk, a strange, wild-looking man, clothed in goat- skins. This man said he was a Scotchman, Alex- ander Selkirk by name, and born at Largo, in the county of Fife. Whilst navigating the ocean in the ship Cingue Ports, he and the captain -had a quarrel, which led to Selkirk going ashore on the island, and remaining there. He was provided with clothes and bedding; with a gun, powder, bullets; with a hatchet and knife; with a kettle and compass ; with a Bible and a few other books. He built two huts, and covered them with long grass and lined them with goat-skins. He managed to get fire by rubbing two sticks of pimento wood together on his knee. In one hut he cooked his food, in the other he slept. He employed much of his time in reading, singing psalms, and praying ; so that he said, ‘I was a better Christian on my lone island than I had ever been before.’ ‘Selkirk could get plenty of fish, but none of it agreed with him except crawfish, which was about as big as a lobster, and very good. When his powder was all spent he caught the goats by speed of foot. Once he nearly lost his life in chasing a goat, for he caught hold of it on the brink of a precipice, and he and the goat fell over together. When he came to his senses he found the goat lying under him, and quite dead. He could not stir from the spot for twenty-four hours, but managed then to crawl to his hut. Very soon, with so much running, his shoes wore out, but he managed very well without them, his feet becoming quite hard, and swelling much when he first began to wear shoes again. The cats and vats were very troublesome at first, for the rats used to gnaw. his feet and the cats were thieves ; but he tamed the cats by kindness, and they drove the yats away. When the cats got to know him they would lie about him in hundreds, and he would sometimes sing and dance with them. He also had tame kids playing near him. When his clothes were worn out he made others of goat-skins, his only needle being a nail. When his knife was worn out he made another out of an iron hoop, which he ground sharp on a stone. When he was found by Captain Rogers he had _ habited an island where the weather was mild. nearly forgotten his language, and seemed to speak by halves. It was lucky for Alexander Selkirk that he in- The trees and grass were green all the year round. The winter, such as it was, lasted through June and July, when there were great rains, but not much frost. The summer was not extremely hot—there was very little thunder and lightning; and happily, also, the rats were the worst creatures on the island. No serpent hissed and stung, no wild beast glared at him with its eyes of fire. The goats had been put on the island by a Spaniard, who lived there with some families for a time, but who afterwards went to the mainland of Chili. In October, 1711, Selkirk set foot again on his native shore, and he found he had reason to be thankful, for the Cinque Ports ran aground a few months after he had been left on the island, and the captain and crew fell into the hands of some Spaniards, who used them very cruelly. After his return, Selkirk often said the world and all its enjoyments could not restore to him the peace of his lonely life on the island. ‘T am now,’ said he, ‘worth eight hundred pounds, but I shall never be so happy as when I was not worth a farthing.’ This true story of Alexander Selkirk is supposed to have given rise to that wonderful book, Robinson Crusoe. Some persons have said Robinson Crusoe was not all written by Defoe, but that the first and best part was composed by the Earl of Oxford, when confined in the Tower of London ; and the Earl, it is said, gave the manuscript to Defoe, who often used to visit him; and Defoe, having afterwards written a second volume, published the whole. The second part is much less interesting than the first. Thou- sands read the first part, hut very few read the second. The island of Juan Fernandez is six leagues long and three across. It is all hills and valleys, ap- pearing at a distance very mountainous, ragged, and irregular, ‘As you get near,’ says Commodore Anson, ‘the broken, craggy precipices are found to be covered with woods, and between them are everywhere valleys, clothed with a most beau- tiful verdure, and watered with numerous springs and cascades. Those only who have endured thirst can judge of the pleasure with which we eyed a large cascade of the most transparent water, which poured itself from a rock, near a hundred feet high, into the sea, at a small distance from our ship. Kven the sick, who had long been confined to their ham- mocks, crawled on to the deck, and feasted their eyes with this prospect.’ At the time when this seasonable supply refreshed the scurvy-stricken sailors, Anson and his crew, in the Centurion, had just met with many misfortunes on the coast of South America. A hurricane had split the sails and broken the rigging, and a ‘ moun- tainous, overgrown sea,’ had given the ship almost its death-blow. Thus, all but foundering, almost without water, men dying at the rate of four, five, and six a-day, and greatly dejected, how sweet was it to anchor in Cumberland Bay, within sight of those hills and valleys where Alexander Selkirk, the real Robinson Crusoe, lived so long aloné, and though alone, so happily ! GEORGE S. OuTRAM. HRM j cn ii HE WMH | A | 4 i yl : ae Hie SS Hen oA a | Vy) YY INNG A ) J i Q Hy i why Y hy oD, Yi WEA Y the why il Dh i) \\ ! a (ey os aw “& ie Ly) | he if © Lj, ZA V H a Y/ \ A { All| WES | =| i ~ |) imal Ng, aS i BESO. Hy) } Pe |\\ i i Ly 4 Sse = SS SS i SSE SSS (¥ ==aN Wily, y LMU Wy fi NF pn IITA aT th H hi ei sia ip ( REY Hy Pe in Hs Penn TS Wiebe ei et iy iy ian a | { ARITA a Su jas z RIDDLE. By Mrs. Barbauld. WACO ITHIN a marble dome confined, wy Whose milk-white walls with silk are lined, A golden apple doth appear, Steeped in a bath as crystal clear ; No doors, no windows to behold, Yet thieves break in and steal the gold. ANSWER.—An egg. THE FATHER’S PORTRAIT. From the French. MERCHANT who had a large fortune died £ in a distant country, while his only son also was equally far from his native land. Some time afterwards there arrived, one after the other, three young men, each of whom pretended to be the only son and heir of the deceased. These young fellows resembled each other, and as the son of. the merchant had been absent for many years, nobody Ms i pe a SS AS SX A SN SY S SURG Sn SN SN SNA could discern which were impostors. The judge of the place then took a portrait of the father and said to them :— ‘That one amongst you who strikes with an arrow the mark which I put upon the breast of this portrait, shall have possession of the inheritance.’ The first took a bow and an arrow and struck near the mark. The second shot the arrow in his turn, and struck nearer still to the sign. The third hesi- tated some seconds when on the point of shooting, then he threw down the bow and arrow, and said, bursting into tears, ‘No, I cannot fire at the portrait of my father: Iwould rather give up the inheritance than have it at such a price.’ EN) i i a Ny Wy) \ The judge got up from his seat and said, ‘ Noble young man! you are alone the son and heir of the deceased. A true son cannot pierce the heart of his father, even in a portrait.’ E. H. C. BROUGHT TOGETHER. Ae were certainly the sounds of a horse’s feet coming up the avenue, yet it was not like old Hero’s brisk trot with which he was won’t to bring his master home. Mary Irvine, a young girl who had looked out many a time during the past hour, as if in expectatin of some one’s return, looked out again at the sound and saw, to her dismay, that it was indeed Hero, but the old horse came slowly up the drive. The flush faded from her cheeks, and ashy white were the lips which tremblingly appealed to the old servant, who also ran to meet the horse; but what could he or any one tell of the master who had ridden away in health and strength some hours before ? Mary Irvine was not a much-loved and petted only daughter. She had never known anything but a strangely cold, formal father, who, when he supplied her with every comfort which money could bestow, thought that his duty was done. Left a widower at Mary’s birth, Mr. Irvine had seen but little of his child during her early years, and it had been rather a regret than a pleasure to him when her school education was finished; and she returned home. At first she had hoped to win her father’s love, but this hope faded after a time; all Mary could do was to wish and long for the affection which she saw other girls receive from their parents. It was a lonely life; yet with her books, her work, her garden, Mary was not unhappy, and days passed peacefully if not joyously away. She was very dutiful to this cold, stern father, always standing to wave her hand to him as he rode away on Hero’s back, always at hand to welcome his return, though she did wish sometimes for a little more than the calm kindness with which he treated her. Now, when he was brought home wounded and insensible from his fall about a mile from the Lodge gates, Mary became a most loving and patient nurse. A long time of anxiety followed. There were days and nights of watching, doctors came and went, and for weeks Mr. Irvine’s life was despaired of; but at length the crisis came, and when consciousness returned once more, he found that Mary had been his untiring watcher. There was no need of many words; the trembling clasp of his hand, the whispered ‘God bless you, my child!’ were enough to tell her that her father’s love was won at last. Then, what a happy time followed! a time in which father and daughter really learned to know each other, and wondered greatly how they could have remained separated so long in heart. After that, Mr. Irvine and his daughter might often be seen together in their rides and walks; and, better than all, they were together in the village church, where Mary had formerly knelt alone. Soon her influence spread still more, and there were many things done for the poor, who had so long been forgotten. Thus good came out of the long trouble and solitude which Mary Irvine had borne so well; her prayers were answered in God’s own. way, and life became a sweet and happy thing to her, and brought blessing upon all around her. S. CATCHING A TARTAR. dl eae following is the origin of the phrase ‘ Catching a Tartar. An Irish soldier, under Prince Eugene, called out to his comrade, in a battle against the Turks, that he had caught a Tartar. ‘Bring him along, then,’ said the other. ‘He won’t come,’ was the reply. ‘Then come yourself.’ ‘But he won’t let me!’ STORIES ABOUT AMERICAN INDIANS. By Rev. E. B. Tuttle, U.S. Army. ‘SHALL THE INDIANS BE EXTERMINATED ?’ ANY ask this question. It is very easy to talk of ‘extermination.’ General Harney, an old Indian fighter, told General Sherman that a war with the Indians would cost the Government 50,000,000 dollars a-year, and stop for a long time the running of the Pacific Railroad. They fight only at an adyantage,—when they outnumber the whites. They fight, scatter ° away, and reunite again, and hide away in canons (canyons), gorges, and mountain fast~ nesses, where no soldier can find them. It would be a war of fifty years’ duration. General Sherman is reported to have said at a meeting of the Indian Peace Commissioners, at Fort Laramie, with several tribes: ‘Say to the head chief that President Grant loves the red men and will do all he can for them. But they must behave them- selves, and if they don’t, tell him 702 killthem!’ ‘The old chief began to mutter away something to himself and others. ‘What does he say?’ said the general. ‘Why,’ said the interpreter, ‘ he says, “ Catch ’em Jirst, then kill them!” ? Have they never been wronged by white men? Have you never heard of the Sand Creek massacre ? There had been some trouble between the Chey- ennes and Arapahoes and some soldiers near Fort Lyon, in 1864, south of Denver, Colorado, where these Indians have areservation. The origin of the trouble is uncertain. Major Anthony was sent out to fight them; but on his arrival he found them peaceable,— they had given up their prisoners and horses. [Indians take their squaws and papooses with them when they go on hunting expeditions. The squaws prepare all the meat, dry all the game for winter food, and tan the buffalo and deer hides to sell. ‘They live in tents or lodges, called ‘Tepees,’ made of tanned buffalo-skins, and usually hold about five persons, in which they cook and sleep. On the war-path, they leave their squaws and papooses in their villages. This was the case when Colonel Chivington charged that they were hostile, as an apology for his whole- sale slaughter. ] Five hundred Indians of all ages flocked, soon as attacked, to the head chief’s camp,—‘ Black Kettle,,— and he raised the American flag, with u white truce beneath. This, you know, is respected in all civilised warfare. ‘Then the slaughter began. One who saw it said, ‘The troops (mainly volun- teers) committed all manner of depredations on their victims,—scalped them, knocked out their brains. ‘The white men used their knives, cutting squaws to pieces, clubbed little children, knocking out their brains and mutilating their bodies in every sense of the word.’ Thus imitating savage warfare by nominally Christian men. : Robert Bent testified thus :— ‘I saw a little girl about five years of age, who had been hid in the sand; two soldiers discovered her, drew their pistols and shot her, and then pulled her out of the sand by her arm,’ &c. This occurred at the time government officials in Denver had sent for them,—had a ‘ talk’ with them, —advising them to go just where they were. Before he was killed, Black Kettle, one of the chiefs, thus addressed the governor at Denver :— ‘We have come with our eyes shut, following Major Wynkoop’s handful of men, like coming through the fire. All we ask is, that we may have peace with the whites. We want to hold you by the hand. You are our father. We have been travelling through a cloud. The sky has been dark ever since the war began. ‘'These braves who are here with me, are willing to do all I say. We want to take good news home to our people, that they may sleep in peace. ‘Ihave not come here with alitile wolf-bark! But have come to talk plain with you. We must live near the buffalo or starve. When I go home, I will tell my people I have taken your hand, and all of the white chiefs in Denver, and then they will feel well, and so will all the tribes on the plains, when we have eaten and drank with them.’ And yet one hundred and twenty friendly Indians were slain, and the war that followed cost 40,000,000 dollars. A council of Indians was held previous to the ‘Chivington massacre,’ which stamped the character of Black Kettle, the Cheyenne chief, as noble and brave. It seems that he had purchased from an Ara- pahoe band two girls named Laura Roper, aged eighteen, and Belle Ewhanks, aged six years, who were captured by the Indians after attacking Roper’s ranch, on the Little Blue River, in July, 1864. little boys were also captured at the same time. They were carried off to the Republican River, and Black Kettle bought them for five or six ponies, to give them to their parents. Certainly generous act. He gave them up, and met the Commissioners in council, to- gether with several Arapahoe chiefs of small bands, all of whom were confederate together to kill the Commissioners and bring on a general war. Black Kettle knew it, and was determined to ex- pose the plot and break it up. But the party of white officials, with Colonel E. W. Wynkoop, were in the dark about their evil intentions. The Indians called Colonel W. ‘The Tall Chief that don’t lie.’ ‘Black Kettle’-—Mo-ke-ta-va-ta—Colonel Tappan says, ‘was the most remarkable man of the age for magnanimity, generosity, courage, and integrity. His hospitality to destitute emigrants and travellers on the plains for years had no limit within the utmost extent of his means; giving liberally of his stores of pro- visions, clothing, and horses. His fame as an orator was widely known. He was great in council, and his word was law. Hundreds of whites are indebted to him for their lives... He held Colonel Chivington’s men at bay for seven hours, and carried to a place of safety three hundred of his women and children,— twenty of his braves and his own wife pierced with a dozen bullets. ‘ Previous to the conflict, after his two brothers had been shot down and cut to pieces before his eyes (while approaching the troops to notify them of the friendly character of the Indians), he aided three Two | white men to escape from the village; one of them a soldier. They were his guests, whom he suspected of being spies, ‘ but did not knowit,” and they are now ' living to the eternal fame and honour of the chieftain. From Sand Creek he fled to the Sioux camp, where it was determined to make war upon the whites in retaliation. He protested against interfering with women and children, and insisted upon fighting the men. He was overruled. ‘Thereupon he resigned his office as treasurer, and assumed the garb of a brave. He soon after made peace for his tribe, which was faithfully kept until the burning of their village two years afterwards. A war again ensued, in which he took no part, having promised never again to raise his hands against the whites. He was the first to meet the Peace Commissioners at Medicine Lodge Creek. His many services and virtues plead like angels trum- pet-tongued against the deep damnation of his taking off’ Well, when the council assembled, among them were about a dozen chiefs of Arapahoes, Cheyennes, &c.; the worst of whom was Neva,—Longnose,—an Arapahoe with one eye, and that a very ugly one. He was an outlaw, commanding twenty or thirty war- riors. All were seated in a tent, and this fellow became boisterous, and wrangled, clamouring for a general war against all whites. It was a most excit- ing time. The chiefs stripped almost naked, and worked themselves up into a great excitement. At . last, Black Kettle rose up, and pointing his finger at Neva, thus addressed him :— ‘You! you call yourself brave! I know what you mean. You come here to kill these white friends, whom I have invited to come and have a talk with us. ‘They don’t know what you mean, but Ido. You brave! (sneeringly.) I'll tell you what you are: your mouth is wide, so (measuring a foot with his hands), —your tongue so long (with his forefinger marking six inches on his arm),—and it hangs in the middle, going both ways. You're a coward, and dare not fight me.’ Here all the Indians gave a grunt of approba- tion. ‘Now, go,’ said he, ‘and begone! This council is broken up; I have said it; you hear my words; begone!’ And they slunk off, completely cowed down, Dog-soldiers were with them, well equipped for a big fight, and these white men beguiled, would all have been slain only for Mo-ke-ta-va-ta. A ‘dog- soldier’ is a youth who has won gradually, by suecess- ful use of the bow and arrow, a position to use the gun, and stand to the warriors just as our police force do to us, in guarding property, &c. These boys have a stick, called a ‘coo,’ on which they make a notch for everything they kill,—a kind of tally,—and when the coo is of a certain length they are promoted to the rank of a ‘ dog-soldier’ THE PRICE OF A PLEASURE, CF PON the valley’s lap } The liberal morning throws él A thousand drops of dew, To wake a single rose. Thus often, in the course Of Life’s few fleeting years, A single pleasure costs The soul a thousand tears. ‘ \ \\ eS J SS SSS —— =~ ——SSS_S= t ee Sk aD = A Clever Gander. By Harrison Weir. f ASPaRNS re mE \ ss HRA SN Rea a Sie WN fil ‘ RY or i . The Horse Pond. REASON OR INSTINCT ? es Y ROM time immemorial the fox has been called sly. The following story, however, seems to show that with his craft is sometimes mixed what might be called worldly wisdom. ) WISH to tell you a little anecdote ~"o about the doings of a bantam hen and cat that I had in the summer of 1876. I put seven eggs under the hen for her to sit upon, and this she did with the help ofthe cat. When the hen came off to eat and drink in the day-time the cat would go on the eggs and keep them warm until the hen came in; then the cat would leave for the hen to go on the nest, while she would sit upon the nest-box and watch for the rats and mice that came to disturb the hen. When the chicks were hatched puss would sit and watch them, so that no harm came to them when they strayed from the hen; and I think, if it had not been for the cat, they would have been taken by the rats. I am happy to say, all the chicks which were brought up by the watchfulness of the cat and the hen are now living, and the cat visits the hen-cote up to the present time. ALEXANDER MURRAY. BOUT a hundred years ago an old man of seventy might have been seen teaching his little boy his alphabet, which was printed then in Scotland with the Catechism. It was thought too valuable a book for the little Alexander Murray to handle, and therefore it was kept locked up for use on special occasions; but the old shepherd father would draw the figures on a wool- card with the blackened end of some bits of wood which fell out of the fire, and thus the child became a writer as well as a reader. As all the old man’s sons were shepherds, he wished the child of his old age to be trained to the same calling; and so, when Alexander was seven years old, he began to go out upon the hills to tend the sheep. But he was a bad shepherd, and was often scolded for his carelessness ; besides, all his thoughts were with the alphabet-book and the board on which he did his writing. One great wish was in his heart—the wish that he could go to school; but his father was too poor to send him, and, besides, their cottage was some six miles distant from the village. However, good- fortune awaited Alexander, for a relative who was better off heard of. the boy’s talent, and offered to bear the expense of his boarding at New Galloway for a time, and attending a school there. Great fun was made of the young shepherd when first he went among the boys who studied there: his pronunciation was bad, and he knew little, yet he soon advanced to the head of his class. About three months of school injured his health so much that Alexander was sent home, and for nearly five years he was thus left to himself, earning his living again as a shepherd-boy; but the desire after knowledge remained, and he learned by heart all the old ballads he met with, and practised his reading and the printing of words. At twelve years old his parents began to grow anxious as to how he was to maintain himself, and this made him engage to teach the children of some neighboring farmers, for which he received sixteen shillings as remuneration for his services during the entire winter. In 1790 Alexander had another few months? schooling during the summer, which was the time that his pupils were out on the hills with their herds and flocks. During that short interval he learned to the end of the rudiments in his Latin grammar, and made progress enough in French to read it with ease. The next summer brought the chance of more attendance at school, and our young student now attempted the Greek and Hebrew janguages, working at them when he again returned home. For his labour during the winter months of that year Murray received forty shillings, and every moment not given to teaching was spent in studying Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and French. Altogether his attendance at school was not more than thirteen months, scattered over the space of less than eight years, and yet by ardour and perseverance Murray became an accomplished scholar. When he was in his nineteenth year a man who lived in that part, and who knew his history, spoke of him to a journeyman printer in the King’s Printing- office in Edinburgh. ‘This person asked that Murray should write a story of his life and its difficulties, which he would undertake to lay before some literary men. The plan was adopted, and after being examined by the Professors the young man was admitted into the University. It seemed to him then that his difficulties were over, and for the next twelve years he resided chiefly at Edinburgh, acquiring one language after another with wonderful ease. There was scarcely an Oriental or Northern tongue which Murray had not studied. He mastered the dialects of the Abyssinian or Ethiopic language, and thus took his place as the first scholar of that day. In 1812 he was made Professor of the Oriental Languages in the Edinburgh University, but his excessive study had so reduced his strength that in the following April he died at the age of thirty- seven years. M. 58. AUSTRALIAN WOMEN. MPHE savage tribes of Australia looked upon their women as simply slaves, or beasts of burden—to work for, and wait on, their better halves. As a curious proof of this it is stated, that when the natives first saw white men on horseback they thought the horses were their visitors’ mothers, because they carried them on their backs! Another tribe is like- wise said to have held that the first pack-bullocks which they saw were the white fellows’ wives, because they carried the luggage! Civilisation, however, has changed the ideas of these wild men, and, we hope, | has also bettered the condition of their unhappy wives. H. A. FB. NATURAL SCENES. No. IIL—A MOUNTAIN. HERE is something very attractive in a mountain, and he must be a stupid boy who has no desire to climb one. But it is slow and tring work sometimes—anything but child’s play. However, let us throw legs aside, and as we sit by our own fire let us spread our thought-wings, and stand on a few of earth’s peaks, Here is one, almost in the middle of France, a mountain shaped like the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and called Puy de Déme. It is a green hill, towering up among its bare and rocky brethren, almost all of whom were once volcanoes. he villages about are built of lava, which in days gone by flowed dowh the mountain sides. Here the women sufler much from great swellings in their throats, which are sometimes as large as a child’s head. On the Puy de Déme the great Blaise Pascal, ‘ one of the sublimest spirits in the world,’ weighed the air. A little hut used to stand on the mountain, and it was set on fire one night by some mischief-loving people ; and the folks all around were in great fear, for they thought the Puy de Déme was going to become a volcano. From France to Ceylon by the nearest overland route would be a fatiguing journey, but we can stand oa Adam’s Peak in a twinkling. It isa holy mountain, called by the natives ‘The Hill of the Holy Foot,’ because on the top there is a stone with an impression like a gigantic foot, a foot more than five feet long. And the simple folk ascend the peak in crowds for the purpose of worshipping the holy foot, which: they call Buddhiw’s foot. Buddha left his footmark here when he strode across the ocean into Siam. ‘The Arabs, knowing nothing of Buddha, changed the name, and called it Adaim’s foot. The ascent up the peak is very steep, and the path winds sometimes over bare, slippery rocks, where the traveller would be in great difficulties if it were not for strong irons fastened to the mountain side. Stepping like Buddha across the Indian Ocean, we stand on a strange mountain, called by the peculiar name of Peter Botte. Peter Botte was a bold but unfortunate man, who climbed a very steep mountain in the Mauritius, and lost his life in doing it. As he came down he fell, and was killed, but lives in history by his achievement. This mountain is no great height, but it has a remarkable head, placed on a neck, ‘The head, which is over thirty feet high, overbangs the neck, and therefore an ascent to the summit is a work of great hazard. Four adventurous Hnglishmen, who would not take warning by Peter Botte, managed one day to scramble to the very top, and there drink the king’s health. They slept on the neck, which is a ledge about six feet wide. At the edge is a most awful precipice. They kind.ed a fire, and had plenty of brandy (perhaps too much), and were well wrapped up in coats and shawls, yet they were too chilly to sleep. In the morning they rose from their uncomfortable couch stiff and hungry, and after climbing once more to the head they made a hole in the rock, and there left a flagstaff with the old Union Jack fluttering merrily. You will be glad to hear they did not meet with the sad fate of poor Peter Botte. The highest mountains in our globe are those which separate India from Thibet, and go by the name of the Himalayas. For a thousand miles there is a continuous line of mountain masses. eight miles in breadth: out of which no less than twenty-eight peaks soar up to the immense height of twenty thou- sand feet and more. If you would ascend one of those snowy pinnacles from the burning plains below you must first cross a most unhealthy border, twenty miles in width. It is, in fact, a swamp, caused by the waters overflowing the river banks. The soil of this swampy border is covered by a mass of trees, and grass, and shrubs, where the tiger, and the elephant, and other animals, find a secure retreat. If you can cross this girdle without falling a victim to fever or wild beasts, you will come to smiling valleys, romantic hill-sides, and noble forests. Still advancing onwards and upwards, you get among bolder and more rugged scenes. ‘Ihe sides of the glens are very steep, sometimes quite naked, and sometimes well wooded; and the traveller has to be content with three ropes for a bridge. The towns have to be perched as best they may. The streets are simply stairs cut out of the rock; and the houses rise in tiers one above another. The pathways into Thibet among the Himalayas are generally mere tracks by the side of foaming torrents. Often as you advance every trace of the path is gone, being swept away by falling rocks and earth from above. Yet the love of gain and adventure laughs at dangers and hardships, and goods, placed on the backs of goats and sheep, are briskly carried to and fro. Sometimes, where it is impossible to walk along the mountain-side, posts are driven in, and branches of trees and earth are spread, so as to form a trembling foothold for the passenger. In the Andes a mule is used, a very sure-footed beast. Often the wayfarer comes to a chasm, several feet wide, and ever so many hundreds of feet in depth. Across this the mule will leap, but not until he has taken every care to insure a sate jump. ‘One day,’ says Major Head, ‘I went by the worst pass over the Cordillera mountains. The height above me seemed almost perpendicular, and beneath it sloped steeply down to a rapid tcrrent, raging far beneath. The path for seventy yards was only a few inches broad, and at one particular point it was washed clean away, while the stones thereabout were evidently loese. shoulder; my other leg overhung the precipice ; above my head were loose stones, which it seemed the slightest touch would dislodge.’ After the Major and his party were safely over, he was told by the guide that, to his knowledge, four hundred mules had fallen at that terrible spot. oe On one side the rock brushed my, ALEXANDER II. 4 yy be UR irthday. Grandmamma’s B s om wn wa = S tH ° m £ 3 a 5 eal ~ g oO n 2. for ica) a < 1) 5 4 fa 0 fg ° fe Fa ey a fa a = = ascended the throne at the Bsa gti gs BEF Gd 8 * 3 3 ne % al 28 EE 3 a oy Ga ° of Ea “eo q 3+ 2 ora & aati 8 3 oa ‘a mB of 8 Ho A gs 420 323 Of » Eh hea a9 Oey ees ego as 4] 3 a Say Ao do ae a? 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HE Isle of Wight is rightly called the ‘Garden of England.’ And a short trip round the island enables the seeker of nature’s beauty to see it with- out trouble and in its best form. We started one beautiful forenoon from Ryde, on board a splendid steamer called the Heather- dell, We then sailed westwards, and passed the Queen’s marine residence at Osborne. ‘Then we went on and saw Cowes on our left. Afterwards came Yarmouth, and then a continuation of cliffs covered i KS 5 SA ee. a [iG 0 & with heather. The scenery was not very striking just . here. We soon past Hurst Castle on the right, which is the boundary of the Solent. We now had reached Alum Bay, and we bore out from the land on account of the numerous rocks. We pass the Needles Rocks and lighthouse. Proceeding south-east we pass Fresh- water (where Mr. Tennyson resides) and Freshwater Bay. We are now some distance from the land, and the sea is a little ‘choppy, as sailors say. This makes several of the passengers feel and look very uncom- fortable. The mist which hangs over the land prevents a very clear view of the scenery until we reach Blackgang, where we can distinguish the Chine. We soon pass St. Catharine’s Point and Lighthouse. ‘This is the most southerly point of the Isle of Wight; we there- forenow steer towards north-east and come in sight of Ventnor. Here the view is magnificent from the sea. At the back is the ‘ Undercliff,’ a rugged cliff running from St. Catharine’s Point to Ventnor. Immediately past Ventnor we see Bonchurch. ‘This is the village where Mr. Adams, the author of the Shadow of the Cross, the Old Man’s Home, the Distant Hills, &c., is buried. His grave is a block of stone, over which is placed a cross horizontally, so that a shadow is always on the stone. The church of Bonchurch is also worthy of note. It will only seat about twenty persons ; but service is never held in it now. We leave Bonchurch behind us, and rounding Lueccombe we see indistinctly the Chine. We are still out some way, thereby obtaining a capital view of the landslip. Passing Luccombe we dip into the Sandown Bay, and see Shanklin nestling in the trees at the foot of the cliff, and some little distance to the right Sandown. The chief attraction at Shanklin is the Chine, which is a very pretty water- fall in the midst of a woody walk. We are allowed about fifteen minutes to see these two pretty towns, for the steamer takes time in crossing the mouth of the bay. By-and-by we pass the Culver cliff, and lose sight of Shanklin and Sandown. Fareham now presents itself on the left, while on the right we can now see the Sussex and Hampshire coasts. We pass between Brading harbour and the Nab lightship. At Brading is the cottage and grave of the young cottager, celebrated by the Rey. Legh Richmond in his Annals of the Poor. : We are once more in sight of Ryde, with its pier, and passing Seaview and St. Helen’s on the left, and the Warner lightship on the right, we steam to the end of Ryde pier, where we arrive after being on the water about five hours. And a very pleasant five hours it was to some, but not to those who are not good sailors; and such, probably, will not soon forget their trip ‘round the Isle of Wight’. E. J. W. SOMETHING ABOUT TURTLES. ] AM sure some Chatterboxes, if not all, have read the conversation between the Gryphon and the Mock Turtle, in Alice in Wonderland. Well, I am_ going to tell you something about real turtles, and not mock ones, who live in_a real wonderland, and not in a mock one, This wonderland is South America, a very beau- tiful place, where the people, and the animals. and the birds are quite different from those to be found in Europe. 3 Turtles are what is called amphibious, that is, they - are able to live on land or in water. But they are much fonder of water, and are found sometimes a very great distance out at sea. Some of them are very big creatures, and a full-grown turtle has been found to weigh sixteen hundred pounds. There are two or three kinds, but the one we know most about is the ‘ green turtle.’ I cannot say that I admire these reptiles, but still they remind one of a tortoise which some people think pretty enough to pet. I need hardly describe what they are like, but yet I may just say that, like the snails, they carry their houses on their backs, and their small heads and feet peep out a little way from their hard shells. It is principally their fat that is valued, though their eggs also are considered a choice morsel. I will tell you of a frightful slaughter of these poor creatures, which was made by the Indians of South America. It happened on one moonlight night that a party of European travellers was rowing down a river not far from the great Amazon, when all of a sudden a dreadful smell assailed their noses. They could not think what could possibly cause it, but their native _ guides were better informed, and with cries of dehght pulled into shore at’ once, saying, ‘Now we shall get some spoil !’ On landing they soon came upon an open plain, and what do you think they saw? Strewn before them in ghastly array were the corpses of at least a thousand turtles hacked to pieces, flesh hanging to portions of the shell, and the whole field streaming with blood. It was a sickening sight, and yet one which brought to their minds a verse of Scripture, which says, ‘Wheresoever the carcase is, there shall the eagles be gathered together.’ Foy all over the place were to be seen the gaunt forms of vultures, some in the act of gorging, and some half asleep with the good meals they had made. But who could have been so cruel as to kill all the poor turtles ? It evidently was not a set of hungry men; because so much flesh was left: neither could it have been wild beasts, for they would have been unable to break through the turtles’ armour. But the Indians knew how it all came about, and gave this explanation. ‘It is now the turtle season (the time of year was about the middle of August), and so it is the custom of our tribes to go in large parties in search of them. Very likely last night was as fine as it is to-night, for the turtle does not like bad, dark nights, and our countrymen made a venture to get supplies both of flesh and eggs, which they will sell and get a great deal of money for.’ We may fancy last night, an elderly turtle, perhaps a queen amongst them, calling her subjects together and saying, ‘Now is the time for laying our eggs. We will make a pilgrimage towards the smooth sand, where we can deposit them easily.’ No sooner said than done, and with her at their head they begin their march. d (48 ~ of one Monsieur Raboteau. What a number there are, to be sure! Some thousands at least. They leave the river, where they have been sporting, and make their way to the sandy plain close by, which only lately has been laid bare by the receding of the waters, caused by the late weeks of drought. As soon as all are ready they set to work in a very business-like manner. No drones are to be seen. Why they are in such a hurry I cannot say; but certain it is that they begin rapidly, in detach- ments, to dig a trench with their fore-feet. This trench is often two hundred yards long, and always four feet broad and two feet deep. Here the turtles deposit their soft-shelled eggs. Very often each one of them leaves seventy, or even more. This done, they set to work quickly to fill up the holes with their hind-legs, or flaps, as they look like. This whole undertaking is accomplished in about an hour, and then the turtles make their way back to the water. In their eagerness to get back to their or- dinary haunts, many poor turtles topple over into the unfinished trenches, and are buried alive. The mothers think no more of their eggs, but leave them for the sun to hatch; and in about three weeks time (if ‘allowed) they come to life. But, you will say, what is to prevent them? Ah, here comes the point. Besides the turtles’ fat, the Indians like to eat and to sell the turtles’ eggs. So directly the innocent reptiles scamper off, well pleased with them- selves, down come the natives on their luckless eggs, pack them up, and carry them off, as a valuable prize, both for their own hovel and to sell in the markets. As we have seen, the turtles are not always fortunate enough to escape themselves from the hands of their cruel enemies. E. E. A.C. A STRANGE REFUGE. FTER the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in the year 1685, the Huguenots being required to renounce the Protestant religion or to run the risk of passing the rest of their lives as galley-slaves, began to escape from France to other less intolerant lands. Among the many fugitives were the young daughters They, indeed, had not been threatened with the galleys, but they equally objected to the choice offered to them—either of instantly accepting for their husbands two Roman Catholic gentlemen selected for them by the State, or of retiring into a convent. In their perplexity they applied to an uncle, who had long before settled as a wine-merchant in Dublin, carrying on a brisk trade with the French wine-growers, and now and then sailing in his own ship to Rochelle, where, in happier times. he had cultivated the acquaintance of his French relatives. With the best will to assist his nieces, Mr. John Charles Raboteau had much difficulty in so doing, owing to the efforts of the Government to prevent the emigration of the unfortunate Huguenots. It was possible to procure horses for the young ladies, on which they were conveyed by night to a house in Rochelle, where lodgings had been already secured for them, but how to get them secretly con- veyed from that house to the merchant-ship tossing outside the town was the difficulty. It was solved, however, at length. Mr. Raboteau was in the habit of carrying with him to Ireland some large casks of French apples, as part of his cargo, and in two of these casks his young nieces were conveyed on board in the terrible winter following the Revo- cation. Despite anxieties and terrors, the girls reached L...“lin in safety, finally settling and raarrying there, and their descendants still live to tell the tale From SMILES’ Huguenots. THE TWO MARTINS: THE FISHERMAN AND THE HUNTSMAN. ' 7 < From the French. (> HEY are two Martins, one a fisherman, the other a hunts- man. One might represent the first with a line in his claw, and the second with a gun upon his shoulder. However, their commonand formidable weapon is a sharp beak, which pinches and twists with equal success both the reptile and the fish. Who doesnot admirethekingfisher, with his rapid flight, his azure plumage, brilliant as a ray of light? He conceals himself under his bower, waiting upon a branch of a willow or young elm. At his feet runs a river. Whilst the fish play with confidence on the surface of the water, the kingfisher listens, watches, chooses his prey, darts, plunges, seizes, and holds his victim: in a moment he has regained his post, enclosing in his beak his unfor- tunate prey, who twists and struggles in vain, whilst he knocks it against a branch with repeated blows. When dead the victim is devoured, and the king- fisher whets his beak, observes, and waits for a fresh prey. The martin huntsman of Australia, sometimes called the gigantic kingfisher, though he never fishes, does not shine by the side of our French kingfisher. His plumage is dark like the robe of a monk, his body heavy, his legs short, his head enormous, and his beak prodigious. He takes long hops and staggers. like a drunkard. One is always afraid that his great head will overbalance him, and that he wil fall head over heels. His great beak, always halt open like: the disjointed blades of a pair of scissors, adds to his grotesque and stupid air. He is a noisy and jovial bird, gossiping and chattering like a magpie, and laughing very much. His voice is not less odd than his person. No stranger sounds could issue from a stranger beak. He is very fond of society. they return from the chase, one sees troops of hunting- e martins meet in a circle, hold counsel and talk together, as if they were relating the adventures of the day, whilst they make the silence of the wood re-echo with: their loud bursts of laughter. Happy birds! But who knows? perhaps this is only feigned: mirth. The hunting-martin may wel! be a philoso- pher who laughs at his deformity, for fear lest he: should be obliged to weep for it. C.8. C. When. = aoe ee: ” THE KIND THRUSH. ISHOP STANLEY, in his attractive book on birds, relates an interesting case of a young thrush and a young cuckoo, which were fellow-pris- oners in the same cage. The former could feed itself, but the latter was unable to do so, and had to be fed through a quill. The thrush, observing this, became a voluntary nurse to the cuckoo, and con- stantly put food into the mouth of the poor bird. May we not learn a lesson on kindness from the sympathy of this humane thrush ? : HOBART Te Hon. Augustus Charles Hobart, a younger son of Lord Hobart, began his career as an officer of the British Royal Navy. From the first he distinguished himself as one of the most active and daring officers in the service, as well as one of the most adventurous madcaps when off duty. The wild frolics of ‘Gussie Hobart? when a youngster are still remembered and laughed over by his former comrades. The tame duties of service in time of peace, how- ever, could not satisfy this lively spirit, and in various = SIL SF AN PASHA. ways he sought the ‘delights of danger’ throughout the world. During the war of North and South in America he amused himself by running the blockade —a feat which he performed successfully several times. Next we find him (still a half-pay captain in our navy) helping Turkey to subdue revolt in the island of Crete, and soon after he accepted the post of Director-general of Naval Schools in the Ottoman empire. As this was done without the permission of the English Government, he was struck off the Navy list; only, however, to regain his place there in 1874, as admiral on tne reserved list. Recently, however, his name has been again removed from our Navy list. The Turks owe a debt of gratitude to our countryman for valuable aid in organizing their navy. One of his latest exploits was his running the gauntlet of the Russian batteries in the Danube. Tlobart Pasha, caught, as the Russians imagined, with his vessel behind their bristling forti- fications, formed the daring resolution of dashing past their great guns so close in shore that the enemy had not time to depress them to take aim. The plan succeeded, and Hobart Pasha won fresh renown for daring and well-conceived stratagem. H. A. F. STORIES ABOUT AMERICAN INDIANS. By the Rev. E. B. Tuttle, U.S. Army. A TRIP TO FORT LARAMIE. STARTED from Fort Russell with the paymaster, Major Burbank, In- spector-General Sweitzer, Medical Director J. B. Brown, and others, on the last of May, 1870, with an escort of a dozen cavalry, to pry a few days’ visit to Laramie, ninety-five Oo miles north-east of our post. Leav- ing at noon in procession, with three ambulances and as many army wagons, scaling the bluffs, bare of everything like trees or shrubs, and only covered with grass and wild flowers, and now and then sage-bush and prickly-pear cactus, which are very troublesome to the horses’ feet. The roads were, as usual, very hard and fine, so that up hill and down dale we made six miles to the hour all the way. Our first station was Horse Creek, twenty-five miles, where we camped on a fine stream of water for the night. When a party thus camps out the wagons are cor- raled, as it is called,—z.e. a circle is made of them and the horses are tethered inside, or lariated, with a rope long enough to let them feed, and this is held by an iron stake or pin driven into the ground. Then the tents are put up in a line, and at once begins the work of gathering brush and sticks (or buffalo-chips), with which to cook a savoury supper of bacon, pota- toes, and hot coffee. This is the time for cracking jokes, telling stories of pioneer life,—and the coloured boys are full of fun. We had one from the South named Tom Williams, belonging to Colonel Mason, of the Sth Cavalry. After enjoying our evening meal and getting ready to lie down in our tents, spread on the grass, as the evening approached, the sun was sinking behind Laramie Peak,—a mountain far away in the Black Hills, towering up 8000 feet,— and all nature was hushed into repose, and each one with his lungs full of the light air, and his body weary with a long ride, just dropping off to sleep,—all at ouce there was a yell and halloo outside, which caused ine to jump up and look out to see if any red-skins had broken through the guard and invaded our peace- ful circle. Instead of scalping Sioux, there was nothing the matter but the return of a drove of large STILE LILLE beef-cattle we had passed grazing on the Chugwater, and which sought our camping-eround on account of a bare place where they could He down and be warm for the night. Our Tom was racing up and down among them, yelling ‘ Hi, hi!’ and shaking his blan- ket in all directions to stampede the poor cattle, who had as good a right as we to the soil. Pickets were stationed all around us, and, save the snoring of some tired sleeper and the occasional bray- ing of a mule or two, we slept soundly, with no fear of Indians. Here we met a white man and his wife, a squaw, and several others, who were waiting for Red Cloud and his chiefs, who were on their way to Washington from Fort Fetterman. They were related to John Reichaud, a_half-breed belonging to Red Cloud’s party. This Reichaud had lived about La- ramie and Fetterman for many years, and, by rais- ing stock and trading, had accumulated, it is said, about 200,000 dollars. During last winter, while drunk, he quarrelled with a soldier, and a little while after, in passing some barracks at Fetterman, he aimed his revolver at a soldier, who was sitting in front of his quarters, named Kernan, and killed him, supposing it was the same suldier he had just before been quar- yelling with. Finding out his mistake, he fled away up to Red Cloud’s camp, and while there incited the Indians to make war upon the whites. At the time we were going up, General John BE. Smith was jour- neying towards us with Red Cloud and his band of warriors, and having Reichaud as the chief’s prisoner. It was said he expected to get the President to pardon him and allow him to establish a trading-post for the Ogallallas. The feeling against this outlaw was such as to make General Smith fear that sone one at Cheyenne would shoot him, and so the party turned off to Pine Bluff Station, about forty-three miles east of that town. We thus missed seeing them. But there were other objects of interest in our journey, and we went on to the mail station, called the Chug, a place not of much note,—for beside a company of cavalry, there were not a dozen ranches there on the beautiful stream, along whose banks were growing willow-trees and the cottonwood also. Besides, there were half-a-dozen tepees filled with half-breeds, who are herders and wood-choppers in the mountains. While the paymaster was dispensing the green- backs to Uncle Sam’s boys, the doctor and I sallied out with a guide in search of those much-admired moss agates which are here found in great abundance, even quarried out of a bluff and carried off by the wagon- load. The guide had been there but once, and somehow or other he could not locate it exactly, and we had a ride out of six miles and back without finding the spot. Sull, we picked up a few on the way. As these are now so much the fashion for jewelry I will describe them. First, I should say that most suppose they contain real moss, or fern-leaves, so distinct are they seen in a clear agate to resemble them. Thus you see imitations of pine-trees, vines, a deer’s head, and sprigs of various kinds; but it is through iron solu- tions penetrating them when in a soluble state. If you take a pen and drop some ink into a tumbler of water, it will scatter and form for the moment an appearance like a moss agate. These agates, when found on bluffs or dry places, are coated over with a white covering of lime or alkali. Those in the beds of rivers found along the line of the Pacific Railroad are smooth and transparent. They are called the ‘Cheyenne brown agate,’ ‘ Granger-water agate,’ ‘Church Buttes light-blue agate,’ and the ‘ Sweet- water agate.’ ‘ There are great quantities of them near ‘Church Butte and Grarger stations,’ nearly 900 miles west of Missouri River. You have to poke among cobble- stones, &c., to find them, and when a person comes upon a handsome specimen he will shout, as did a minister from Chicago, one day, with me, when he picked up a nice one as large as an egye,—‘Glory! hallelujah !? It is like searching for gold and silver,—very excit- ing, and far more pleasurable than fishing or hunting. A friend here has about sixty pounds of agates, for which he was offered by a lapidary in New York five dollars a pound. A handsome stone for a ring or pin is worth, when cut into shape, from three to five dollars. The lapidary cuts them with a steel wheel, about eight inches in diameter, using oil and diamond- dust in cutting and polishing. A YOUNG ‘BRAVE. At Chug Station I meta frontiersman named Phil- lips, of long experience, who told me in his new adobe house of an old chief who had lost five sons, and when the first was slain he cut off a piece of his thumb, next of his forefinger, and so on, till five told of his boys killed. The last was a brave, and sup- posed no ball could hit him, wearing, he supposed, ‘a charmed life” He came to the Chug and dared them to shoot. As he and three or four more had killed a white man and wounded others, the people all turned out, and Phillips shot the bold young fel- low, and wounded the rest of the party so that they died. The body of the young Indian lay by the road- side for several weeks, till the wolves and ravens had picked his bones, and I picked up his skull, pierced through with several balls, to bring back and present to the post-surgeon. This grinning skull was lying on the grass which covered the roadside, and almost beneath towering monuments or bluffs of sandstone, which jut out at several points on the road, running al: ng for great distances, and towering up several hundred feet high. We passed soon after several of these projections, whick: look like fortifications and baronial castles of some knights of the olden time. ‘ Chimney Rock’ is well known to travellers as a series of tuted columns, and standing solitary, as sentinels in the desert, they look solemn, lonely, and sublime. Old George, the stage-driver, has passed them twice a-week for many years, and the wonder is he has not. lost his scalp. Sometimes the chiefs and old Indians will cut slits in their cheeks and rub ashes in them, sitting over the fire and bemoaning the loss of their déad children. They present a horrid appearance to one who looks at they pagan mode of bewailing the departed. Arrived at Fort, Laramie on the third day, we were courteously welcomed by Colonel F. F. Flint, of the 4th Infantry, commandant of the post. Delicacy dictates that we forbear to speak of the charming family which surrounds him; but the rarity of Chris- tian households in the army made our visit there like to an Oasis in the desert. To visit the Indian graves surrounding the post was a prominent object before us in going. Lieutenant Theodore F. True, with an orderly, two mules, and a horse saddled, found us fording the Laramie River to inspect the grave—if such it can be called—where the body was dried up like a mummy, and nothing else but fragments of a buffalo-robe dangling in the wind was to be seen. Relic-hunters had carried away every- thing in the shape of bow aud arrow, wampum, &c. We moralised over this beautiful feature of Indian superstition, wherein they are certainly free from the horrid thought that any one is ever buried alive! Next we sought the place where the remains of Mon-i-ca, daughter of Zin-ta-gah-lat-skah, was placed, by her request, in the white man’s cemetery, and alongside of the body of her uncle Sho-ta,—‘ Old Smoke,’—an old warrior. ‘The coffin was made at the post, and elevated on posts about ten feet high. They cover these coffins with handsome red broadcloth, and deposit in each all the trinkets and valuables belong- ing to the departed. One other grave there the Indians visit annualiy, and mourn over with their lamentations,—that of a Frenchman named Sublette, who brought them down and directed them how to vanquish their enemies, the Pawnees, in a great battle. CHEERFULNESS. ce honest heart, whose thoughts are clear From fraud, disguise, and guile, > Needs neither Fortune’s frowning fear Nor court her fickle smile. The greatness that would make us grave Is but an empty thing: What more than mirth would mortals have 2— The cheerful man’s a king! BICKERSTAFF. BOLDNESS OF A VIXEN FOX. "ESTERDAY I was going my rounds, having a small broken-haired ter- rier dog with me, very harmless, but good for rabbits. Passing through a covert culled Harbour Field, my little dog started from my heels in pursuit of a rabbit that jumped up in the ride that runs through the wood. In a minute or so the little dog shrieked out, and I stopped to see what was the matter. ‘The dog came running towards me, followed by a fox, which chased it to my heels, when I suddenly holloaed out, and in an instant the fox glided into the bushes, and kept running back- wards and forwards within a few yards of me while i stopped. I passed on through the wood to the far end, and, to my astonishment, the fox was following my dog a second time, close at my heels. When I had a full view of her I saw that she was suckling cubs; and no doubt it was her mother-instinct, fearing harm to her offspring, that made her so bold.— W. P. (Gamekeeper, the Ash, near Derby.) SSS SSS ————— il ll | i ! ! i Hi 7 | | et De ! Il i i 1 vd ; ¥ f : ; \ + |} : Pl 3 ] il zu Bret } ‘ ‘| ! \ Ay hth ; yt ‘ 1 Mh BN SAD Alh |e - a eee eae ee Se | The Robin. By Harrison WerR. | ES itt " 1 | s. _ SS ae THE ERNE, OR SHA EAGLE. HALIBUT, a large flat fish like a turbot, repos- ing near the surface of the water, was seen by an erne, which pounced down and struck his talons into the fish with all his force. Should the halibut be too strong, the eagle, it is said, is sometimes, but rarely, drowned in the struggle. In this case, how- ever, as more frequently happens, the bird overcame the fish; he remained upon it when dead as if he were floating on a raft, and then spreading out his wide wings, ie made use of them as sails, and was driven by the wind towards the shore. THH PARTRIDGE. F you have ever walked through corn-fields after the harvest was reaped, it is very likely you were startled by ten, or a dozen, or even more, large birds suddenly springing up with a tremendous whirr, and flying off in a fright. If so, you may be sure it was a family of partridges which you had disturbed. If you could have watched them quite near, you would have noticed that the father of the family was distinguished by a mark something in the shape of a horse-shoe on his breast, an ornament which the mother bird did not possess, and you would have known the young birds from their parents by their tender yellow legs and dark-coloured bills. The story of this timid family, or covey, as it is generally called, would be much as follows : — It was in the cold spring days that the father and mother fell in love with each other, and thought nothing would be so nice’ as to live together all the sweet summer days, and bring up a pretty family of baby partridges. This question settled, they next found out a cosy corner ina sunny hedge-row, where they settled to make their nest; and as they required but little furniture in the shape of walls or feather beds, it was soon ready. The mother part- ridve then began to lay about a dozen eggs, and after sitting upon them till she was quite tired, had the delight of seeing herself surrounded by such a pretty Hock of little chickens that she was ready to sing for joy, only singing was not one of her accom- plishments. But day and night she and her partner watched and tended them with loving hearts. Once she espied a wicked weasel creeping up to her pets, but before he could seize one she had flown at him and beaten him about the head with such violence with her wings that he was only too glad to find himself back in his own hole, with nothing worse than a black eye and a shocking bad headache. On another occasion the farmer to whom the field belonged suddenly came upon her, just after her little ones were hatched. As he was too big to fly at she tried another plan, and that was to decoy him away from the spot. Falling down only a few paces before him, she began to flutter and tumble about, so that, thinking she must have a broken wing, he rushed forward to catch her in his hand. But she was too quick for that, and continuing to flutter on at a short though safe distance, she managed to draw hin away from her young. When she thought all danger of his discovering her treasure was over she quietly mounted into the air and flew off, and then he saw what a clever trick she had played him. Partridge life must be very pleasant until the Ist of September, but then all is changed. On that day, as you know, partridge-shooting begins, and from early morning until nightfall parties of sports- men carrying guns, and attended by dogs called pointers, roam about the stubbles, bean-tields, and turnips, in quest of coveys. ‘The dogs generally dis- cover them first, and their masters observing them stand quite still, like the one in the picture, know at once that they have found something. ‘The family lie close as long as they dare, but when the dogs or the sportsmen come too near, up they all get, with that terrible whirr you must recollect if you have ever startled them yourself. Bang! bang! go the guns, and two or three of their number come flut- tering down to the ground, and are soon found by the dogs and put into the keeper’s bag. It is said the partridges can be tamed and made sociable pets; in fact, there is an old tradition that the holy Apostle St. John, in his extreme old age, used to take pleasure in petting a favourite partridge (most likely one of the red-legged species); and if any one hinted to him that such a plaything was beneath his dignity, he would answer with a smile, that ‘the bow must be unbent sometimes’ H.H WHAT BECAME OF LORD LOVEL? ORD LOVEL, of Minster Lovel in Oxfordshire, was a zealous supporter of the Yorkist party in the Wars: of Roses, and when Henry VIL (of the Lancaster) came to the throne at the defeat and death of Richard III, of course Lord Lovel was one of those regarded with extreme dislike by the “new king. Lovel was not seized and put to death, because, like Joab of old, he fled for refuge to a sanctuarys—that of Colchester. The king respected the sanctuary, and did not try to drag Lovel away. However, when Henry was on his journey to York, whither he went to show himself and make his person popular, Lord Lovel escaped from Colchester, and, putting himself at the head of a body of Yorkists, awaited the king’s approach, somewhere between York and Middleham. On second thoughts, however, he did not think his party, strong enough then for anything important, and he therefore told them to disperse. After this Lovel fled to the sea-coast and made his escape to Flanders. Soon after this a very curious event happened, which gave King Henry much anxiety. One day a priest, accompanied by a very handsome youth, landed at Dublin. The priest, who was a very clever speaker, declared the youth was Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick, son of the late Duke of Clarence, and the true heir to the throne. The priest’s story was so well backed up by the beha- viour of the youth, that the Irish people were quite persuaded it was all true. It was known in Ireland that King Henry had confined the young earl to the Tower for State reasons ; but the priest invented a story of Edward’s escape in some extraordinary manner, and as the house of York was very popular in Ireland it was all believed, and the great Earl of Kildare clasped the boy to his bosom, and swore he would die for him as the undoubted king of the islands. And very soon the boy was crowned in the Cathedral, and as they had no proper crown for the ceremony, they took a golden coronet from a statue of the Virgin Mary, and placed’it on Edward’s head, and he was then saluted in due form as King Edward the Sixth. Meanwhile Lord Lovel and the Earl of Lincoln, another devoted Yorkist, sent over to Ireland a number of veteran German soldiers, under the com- mand of a very able and gallant captain, Martin Swart. The arrival of these men at Dublin seems to have encouraged the Earl of Kildare to venture on the extremely bold step of invading England. A num- ber of ships were freighted, and, after crossing the Channel, the invaders landed near Furness Abbey. King Henry, having placed his wife, his infant son, and his mother, in the strong castle of Kenil- worth, marched to meet the invading host at the head of a numerous army. Meanwhile the Earl. of Lincoln and Lord Lovel * suspicion to the ruling powers. advanced towards York, expecting to be joined by multitudes, but the English people did not answer their wishes at all; they did not, in fact, relish a king brought into the country, as it were, on the shoulders of Irishmen and Germans. The leaders of the young King Edward’s army then determined to fall suddenly on Henry and risk all in a pitched battle. Henry had left Kenilworth, and, having passed through Coventry and other places, was now halting at Stoke-on-Trent, near Newark. The Earl of Lincoln led his men to the attack, and a battle took place which raged fiercely for about three hours. ‘The victory remained with King Henry’s troops, but it was dearly bought. The brave Germans fell almost to a man, and their gallant leader, Martin Swart, died with them. All the noble Fitzgeralds bit the dust, for the Irish disdained to flee. The Earl of Lincoln was slain, and the priest, Richard Simon, and the Pretender, Edward the Sixth, were taken prisoners. When Lord Lovel saw he could do no more he set spurs to his horse and fled. Leaping into the Trent, he either crossed it or was drowned in its rushing waters. No one knows with certainty what his fate was; but there is a very sad story about him, somewhat confirmed by a discovery made many years ago, which we will briefly relate. Near the town of Witney, in Oxfordshire, there is a little village called Minster Lovel, where remains of a very ancient castellated building may yet be seen. ‘The castle, once the home of the Lovel family, was demolished about the year 1694, and the workmen in doing this discovered a vault. In this vault was a chair and table. On the table was a prayer-book, or missal, and in the chair was the skeleton of Lord Lovel, clad in a very rich dress. The vault was small, and the air had been so well shut out, that the book and garments were entire, or nearly so. But how came Lord Lovel to die in this vault ? The story is, that when he left the fatal field of Stoke he swam across the Trent, and escaped into Oxfordshire by unfrequented roads. A faithful ser- vant, who knew his master’s sign, admitted him by dead of night into his house at Minster Lovel, when Lord Lovel retired at once into a secret cellar, the key of which the servant kept. Here the proscribed nobleman remained for several months in safety ; but his estates being then seized by the king’s order, the servants were driven off, and the house was stripped of all its furniture. Owing to these circumstances the unhappy Lord Lovel was left to perish by hunger in the vault, which thus became his grave. It is a dreadful story, reminding us of the fate of the Duke of Rothsay, described by Sir Walter Scott in the air Maid of Perth. This story has been doubted, but there seems no reason why it should not be true. Mr. ‘Timbs, in his book called Abbeys, Castles, and Ancient Halls of England, gives us several authorities for the story, which he says seems not a whit more unlikely than the accounts of priests hiding in secret holes and corners during the time when they were objects of G. 8. O. THE HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD. SHE home of childhood has a charm, I cannot yas Gs tell you why or what : Tt has a charm, a nameless charm, that hangs about no other spot ; A charm no other place can have, however pleasant it may be. Oh, no, there is no second place in all this earth so dear to me. My home it was no castle grand, no marble hall, no palace wide ; It had no park, nor well-kept lawns, nor other signs of wealth and pride ; No lake and swans, no fallow deer, no costly foun- tain spouting foam : But it was beautiful to me, and ever will, my child- hood home. It was a house of stud and.mud, a strange old place, with floors awry ; Low ceilings with huge balks across — in vain one asks the reason why ; Old doors where they ought not to be, and windows never set to rights ; And such a chimney-corner too, a cosy nook on winter nights. But why should I its praises sing ? I’ve loved it long, I love it still, With its one rood of garden ground my dear old father used to till. Its arbour and its peacock yew, its water-butt and big elm-tree, The sweet-brier and the privet hedge, what memories they bring to me! I’ve been a football in my time, kicked by Dame Fortune to and fro; I’ve seen Niagara’s cataract, and Himalaya’s range of snow; : I’ve trod the streets of capitals, their pomp and splendour have I seen, But not a sight can stir my heart like the old cottage by the green. And when upon my aching brow the ague-spot has nightly lain, : Or when on duty in the trench my foot has stumbled o’er the slain, Or when the solemn forest wild before me placed its awful bar, A sight of comfort to the heart, my childhood’s home has gleamed afar. Then was I borne to days of health by memory on angel wing, To sweet uncrimsoned fields of peace, where war its shadow may not fling; ; Or by my father’s side I stood, and I was safe from fear once more, < As ’twixt me and the roaring dark I felt the Lord had shut the door! G. 8. O. CADVOIODA ua a ANN AZ The Home of my Childhood. AV j SSws ay Father’s Dinner. FATHER’S DINNER. DA BURROWS lived with her father and mother in one of the pretty cottages of Laneton vil- lage. She was a little girl with brown eyes, rosy cheeks, and light, wavy hair. She was a good little girl, as little girls go: she felt a shade of discon- tent now and then, and her small duties sometimes seemed to her rather tiresome: but these bad feelings were soon over. ‘To-day she was busily tying up the mignonette in the corner of the little garden which she called her own, when she heard her mother call. ‘Ada!’ cried Mrs. Burrows, putting her head out of a side-window of the kitchen, and which opened towards the garden. ‘Yes, mother,’ Ada answered as she ran in, and found her mother tying a cloth over a yellow and black basin, covered with a soup-plate. ‘Here now, Ada,’ said her mother, ‘ you run over to father with his dinner. Put your hand here under the knots of the cloth. Here’s the cold tea. Oh, dear! I forgot the dumpling! That’s a surprise for father.’ Mrs. Burrows untied the bundle again, and, going to the fireplace, she teturned with a splendid apple-dumpling, which was added to ‘father’s dinner,’ and Ada started on her way. } Her father was a gardener, but had not of late been in regular employ at any one place. He was now putting the garden at the Vicarage in order. The vicar and his family were absent at the seaside, or I dare say that Ada’s father would have had his dinner in the kitchen. But they were expected home in a day or two, and Burrows had plenty to do. So he would not come home at noon for his dinner, and his little daughter had to bring it to him. The sun was high and hot, and the road dusty. Ada had been working long in her garden, and she was hot too. She was very hungry—much more hungry, it seemed to her, since she had seen that glorious dumpling than she was before. She walked along the road, holding the dinner carefully by its cloth, when who should she meet but Bessy Dixon! Bessy was not half so pretty as Ada. She might, however, have been prettier to look at than she was now if she had tried, for a clean face is prettier than a dirty one, any day. ‘Wherever are you going?’ said Bessy. » ‘Up to father with his dinner, said Ada, and walked on. She answered quite civilly, but without showing any strong desire for Bessy’s company, as she knew that her mother did not wish them to be friends, for Mrs. Burrows was a good and careful mother. ‘All that way!’ said Bessy. (Ada thought that it really was a good way to go, but said nothing.) ‘ What has he got for dinner?’ asked Bessy, putting her face nearer the bundle, and sniffing. ‘ Beef and vegetables,’ answered Ada, ‘and bread; and, oh! such a splendid apple-dumpling !’ ‘ Apple-dumpling ?’ cried Bessy. And then, sink- ing her voice, she added, ‘Oh, Ada! I am hungry, and I do like apple-dumpling.’ Ada thought within her that both these state- ments were extremely true about herself also; but she said nothing about this. But she did say, ‘It’s a surprise for father. Mother told me he didn’t expect it.’ Bessy was walking on beside her. ‘Oh, Ada!’ she said in a low voice, ‘I just am hungry. Are not you? I say, your father doesn’t know there’s any apple-dumpling ?’ Here she hesitated, and looked wistfully in Ada’s face. Ada was much more hungry than Bessy, who indeed had had her dinner already; but she only looked in Bessy’s face as if she could not understand her. ‘I say,’ repeated Bessy, in an excited whisper, ‘he doesn’t know of it. He’d never miss it” Then looking hard in Ada’s eyes, and touching her arm, she whispered, ‘I say, let’s eat it. He won’t know.’ They had reached the corner of the quiet lane leading from the high road to the gate of the Vicarage garden. It was narrow and shady, and very retired. High banks and thick hedges were on each side, the boughs of the trees met overhead, the sides were grassy; there was no sound but the _ twitter of birds and sometimes the hum of a wan- dering bee. Bessy had not ill chosen the scene of her temptation. ‘The two girls had paused, and were standing at the entrance of the lane, looking at each other; and as Ada put her one disengaged hand to the bundle, Bessy thought for a moment that she had prevailed. But nothing was farther from Ada’s thoughts. She was only changing hands for the safer carrying of ‘father’s dinner.’ Not for one moment did the idea of yielding to Bessy’s suggestion enter her mind. Indeed, what Bessy wished was scarcely plain to her for a moment. Then, as the baseness of the temptation broke upon her, ‘Oh, Bessy !’ she said: no more, but the tone was enough. ‘ Good- bye!’ she hastily added, and ran up the lane to the Vicarage gate, making the basin and soup-plate rattle as she went, and arriving at the place where her father was at work much hotter than if she had not met Bessy Dixon. When John Burrows, seated on his tilted wheel- barrow, had finished his bread and meat, and had begun upon his dumpling, his little daughter, who was leaning on his knee, surprised him with a chuckling laugh. He looked up, and saw her face full of merriment, but a queer look in her brown eyes. ‘What's the matter, little maid?’ he asked. ‘I was thinking, father,’ said Ada, ‘suppose I had stopped on the way and eaten up your dinner, what would you have said?’ ‘I should have said, it was not my little maid that did that,’ said John Burrows, as he put the last piece of his dumpling with much content into his mouth. There was a dumpling waiting at home for Ada also, though I think it rather spoils the perfume of the story to tell you so. J.K.L. PBL 5 THE BILBERRIES AND THE MOUNTAIN-ASH. From the Swedish. CHC LITTLE boy, his lessons o'er, a Went bounding from the school-house door ; A So loud his shouts, so blithe his glee, He seemed a bird from cage set free. His teachers were not harsh and stern, Nor hard the tasks he had to learn; But boys, we know, love play and fun, And Wish the easiest lessons done. Besides, hard work brings wish for food, And well he knew that in the wood ‘Tall brambles rich in fruit there grew, And juicy berries darkly blue ; Of bilberries there he found a store, For summer days were not yet o’er. He might have filled with berries nice His hat and pockets in a trice, But just then saw, above his head, A mountain-ash with berries red. ‘Dear me!’ he cried, ‘ how sweet must be The scarlet fruit of yonder tree!’ The rowan was not hard to scale ; The boy climbed up, and did not fail To bring the choicest clusters down, Yea, spoil the ash-tree of its crown. But when his spoils he tried to eat, He found them the reverse of sweet ; The first so set his teeth on edge, He threw the rest behind a hedge ; He thought, ‘Tl to my bilberries haste, They’ll make up for this hard, sour taste.’ But ah! his schoolmates had been there, And all the stalks of fruit stripped bare. * * * * His disappointment this may teach,— Don’t strive for what’s above your reach; With what God gives contented rest, Nor think the showiest must be best: You'll often find, that here below Best things in lowhest places grow. JANET. MRS. FLOYD'S OSGYYY RAILWAY JOURNEY, d \ HERE was no doubt about it that Prudence Floyd was a very pre- judiced woman in many matters, but still she need not have gone so far as to forbid her son to work on the wonderful line of railroad just. being made between Liver- pool and Manchester, and pass- ing through their own little vil- lage on the way. In a very lengthy discourse she explained all her views to thé Squire, illustrating from Scripture the sinfulness of this new, quick mode of travel, as bringing places near together that God had set afar apart, and so on; and showing how, by way of preserving her Sam guiltless, she had des- patched him on foot to learn the cobbling of his uncle in Manchester. - ‘A poor trade, but better than wickedness!’ wound up Mrs. Floyd, who was somewhat self-righteous. The Squire listened, wagged his pigtail—it was at least fifty years ago—smiled at widow Flovd, and declared, — : ‘Well, well, times were changing, but not for the worse he hoped: and for his part he prophesied the year would not be out before both he and Mrs. Fleyd were riding behind the new steam-horse to Man- chester.’ ‘God forbid!’ said Mrs. Floyd, and turned away quite shocked. In-that moment the Squire trotted off, delighted to be released. Why will people object to new discoveries and -experiments just because they do not understand them? and why should Prudence Floyd think her- self so much better and more foreseeing than the Squire in this matter of the railroad? Everyone was a-gog about the scheme; some pleased, some frightened, all curious. ‘The workmen were very busy, and Farley village was full of them, for a single line of rail had actually been laid between Manchester and that place, and some of the men were daring enough day by day to travel behind the hissing, screeching engine, which brought material for their daily work. Widow Floyd trembled for them, but little thought how soon her turn was to come. It was perhaps three weeks later when a letter was delivered to the widow. Widow Floyd did not read writing very easily, so she carried the missive to the schoolmaster, who read that Sam Floyd sent his duty to his moth- er, and was then dying at his uncle’s of an acciden- tal injury from his shoemaker’s knife. The last words were evidently straight from the poor fellow’s lips,— ‘Oh, mother! do get to me afore I die!’ Widow Floyd had a motherly heart, if a preju- diced one; she was scrubbing away great tears with one hand, while she rolled up a bundle and counted her money with the other: she must start immediate- ly for Manchester. ‘Wait for the carrier’s cart to-night,’ said a kindly neighbour to her. ‘Nay, woman; [ll wait for nought,’ said the mother. : ‘Get the Squire to send thee in his gig,’ advised a second. The Squire was on the threshold as the speech was uttered. ‘Get the Squire to do better for thee than that, he said. ‘Come along, Prudence; schoolmaster has told me thy trouble. Well, poor Sam! poor lad! he shall see thee to-night for all the bad roads. And he dragged the old woman through the miry lanes, past the last houses in the village, towards the straggling sheds known as Railroad Corner. Then Prudence hesitated; she saw his aim: but the Squire was firm and the mother wavering. Into the trucks used to remove earth the old woman was lifted, the Squire by her side, and then with a shriek and a groan the steam-horse set off for Manchester and Sam. ‘You’d never have seen him to-night any other way,’ said the Squire; but Prudence had her fingers ARI ZS ee eS IGG LE in her ears, and was praying loud and fast in her terror. She was stiff with fright when they took her out again at Manchester, but yet she begged to be taken at.once to Mill Fields. “There she found her boy alive but in great danger. Still he mended from that very night, and Prudence and the doctor said it was owing to his mother’s nursing. A month later and Mrs. Floyd brought her son home, this time in the carrier’s cart; and when he got quite well he was seen busily working among the railway men. The Squire chuckled over the change in Mra. Floyd’s ideas. Where were her prejudices and her texts of Scripture now? . It is a great pity that people waste so much cleverness in torturing texts to fit their own ideas. } Anyhow Prudence’s prejudices regarding railway travelling were all banished by that one trip with the Squire, though probably she had the same difficulties to overcome in the matter of the electric telegraph later on, and, if she happen to live so long, in balloon journeys by-and-by. H. A. F. ver " AA ZA TD Weep 7) iy) ul ii a i, i] \ \ i \\ Wy N \} ——— GELERT. 'LEWELYN the Great, who resided near the base of Snowdon, had a beautiful dog named Gelert, which had been pre- sented to him by King John in 1205. One day, in consequence of the faithful animal, which at night always ‘ senti- nelled his master’s bed, not making his appearance in the chase, Llewelyn re- turned home very angry, and met the dog, covered with blood, at the door of ay the chamber of his child. Upon enter- ing it he found the bed overturned and the coverlet stained with gore. He called to his boy, but receiv- ing no answer he rashly coneluded that he bad been killed by Gelert, and in his anguish instantly thrust his sword through the poor animal’s body. The Hon. Robert Spencer has beautifully told the remainder of the story :— ‘ His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, No pity could impart ; But still his Gelert’s dying yell Passed heavy on his heart. Aroused by Gelert’s dying yell, Some slumb’rer waken’d nigh : What words the parent’s joy could tell, To hear his infant’s ery ?- Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread: But the same couch beneath, Lay a gaunt wolf all torn and dead, Tremendous still in death, Ah! what was then Llewelyn’s pain ? For now the truth was clear :— His gallant hound the wolf had slain, To save Llewelyn’s heir.’ THE QUEEN’S GRANDMOTHER. HE Princess Sophia Charlotte, or Caroline, of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, was born in 1744, and in 1761, when she was only seventeen, King George the Third declared his intention of demanding her hand. That she was a spirited young lady may be gathered from a letter of hers, written to the King of Prussia, on the occasion of his army entering into the teri itories of her cousin, the Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. It is a capital letter, full of generous lamentation, and containing an appeal which the king was unable to resist, * This letter was sent by the King of Prussia to George the Third, and he was shrewd enough to be- lieve the woman who could write such a letter was likely to ‘ke a good wife. The end was, Princess Careline c > over to England as King George’s atlianced brius. Lord Anson was sent with a fleet to the mouth of the Elbe, which served as a cuard of nonour to the Charlotte yacht, a richly embellished vessel, and manned by a picked crew in the Iding’s uniform. The little town of Strelitz was brimful of joy. The Castle gardens were illuminated—cannon tent the air as the wedding contract was signed, and ‘all went | merry as a marriage-bell.” ‘The same scenes of gaiety were enacted in every town where the Princess halted. On the 28th of August the fleet put out to sea, but three storms arose in quick succession, and it was not until Sept. 6, that the bride-elect set foot on English ground at Harwich. She slept the first night at Lord Abercorn’s house, and the next day she was met by the king’s coach and servants at Rumford. The state-coach soon bore her to St. James’s Palace, and there she was handed out by the Duke of York, and led into the house by the King. That same evening, about eicht o’clock, the mar- riage ceremony was performed in the Palace Chapel by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Dr. Boyce had composed an anthem for the happy occasion. On Sept. 22 the King and Queen were crowned with great splendour at Westminster Abbey. At nine o’clock they reached Westminster Hall, where they sat at the upper end, in state chairs; and ona table before them were placed many beautiful things, among which was the Holy Bible. At eleven o'clock a long and gorgeous procession was formed. The king’s herb-woman led the way to the Abbey, followed by six maidens, who strewed the floor with sweet herbs. Then came headles and constables, drummers and trumpeters, chaplains and sheriffs, aldermen and judges, choristers and bishops, peeresses and peers, coronet in hand, and at length walked the Gre following her crown, which the Duke of Bolton carried. Her train was borne by a princess, assisted by six daughters of earls. After the Queen came the King, preceded by his regalia, which dukes and earls carried. The Bible, the costliest treasure in all that glittering show, was committed to the Bishop of Carlisle, who walked immediately in front of the King, and who was flanked right and left by a bishop, one carrying the chalice, or cup for the Communion wine, the other bearing the paten, or vee for the bread. Canopies of cloth of gold were held over the heads of the King and Queen. The length of the procession may be judged of from the fact that it took two hours and a half to get the various members of it seated in the Abbey. Andit was half-past three o’clock when the Archbishop set the crown on the King’s head. After the coronation there was a mighty feast in Westminster Hall. That noble room was lit up with nearly 3000 wax-candles, and crowded with nobles and gentlemen, all in the most superb dresses that could be made. In the midst of the feast the King’s champion, completely armed, rode into the hall on a fine white horse, which had been at the battle of Dettingen. | The champion, whose name was Dymocke, challenced 2 ry , S any one to tight who denied King George’s right to the . English crown, and he then threw down his gauntlet, or steel glove, on the floor, asa sign of his readiness to uphold the King’s claim. No one picked up the gauntlet, and the King, having drunk -to the Sa pion from a richly-gilt bowl, sent him the costly drinking-cup as a present. When the feast was over, and the great eople gone, the multitude were allowed to enter and clear the place of cloths, plates, dishes, and everything else indeed that could be carried off. The great diamond fell out of the King’s crown as he returned to. Westminster Hall, but, luckily, it was found and replaced at once. In 1762 the eldest son of the King and Queen was born, and he became in after years George the Fourth. In all, there were fifteen children, nine sons and six daughters. The Queen died in 1818, aged seventy- four; and the King lingered until 1820, when he died in the eighty-second year of his age, entirely blind. G.S. ELEPHANTS IN ENGLAND. N° doubt most of the boys and girls of England -\ have at one time or another seen an elephant. Not to speak of the Zoological Gardens, there are travelling menageries visiting all parts of the country, and these often have an elephant. But what shall we say of elephants which were born in this country, and roamed in herds over the land in a wild state, just as they do now in Africa or India? Few of us would care to come upon an untamed elephant while we were walking quietly through a wood. There is very little fear of that now. And yet through the valleys where the rail- way now runs, and the screech of the engine startles the quiet sheep, over the land on which busy towns now stand, the elephant once roamed at will. This we know, because in various parts of the country at different times some bones, undoubtedly those of the elephant, have been discovered. An entire skull with enormous tusks still attached, which must once have formed part of an elephant not less than sixteen feet in height, was found at Hoxton in the early part of this century. Remains in an excel- lent state of preservation have also been found in other parts of London. At and around Oxford, too, discoveries of a similar kind have been made. Of course the workmen who came upon these remains were much puzzled about their nature, and sometimes thought that they must be the remains of giants who made England their home at a very far-off period. R. OUR WILD BIRDS. , Bh XII. i ve now, having told you @ want to say a word about i some other creatures. \ 4 The picture represents cna The Fisherman’s Wife. ‘Here she is,’ said Mrs. Jones. ‘Some one wants to see you at head-quarters,’ said the policeman. ‘There is a boy there and some money.’ ‘Dick!’ cried Mrs. Briggs. ‘Oh, I can’t bear to look at him!’ But Mrs. Jones had already tied on her bonnet, and wrapped her in a shawl, and taken her by the arm and was hurrying her off. ‘The wretch !’ Mrs. Jones said. ‘I’m glad he is caught. You'll get your money back.’ And she led Mrs. Briggs along—poor Mrs. Briggs, who cried all the way, and cared nothing for the money! And soon they were at the police-station, and then, and not before, the policeman said to the two women,— ‘He’s pretty bad,’ he said. ‘They’ll take him to the hospital in an hour. I suppose you’re prepared for that. He’s nearly beaten to death, you know.’ ‘Did you beat him, you cruel wretch ?’ said Mrs. Briggs. ‘I wouldn’t have had that done for twice the money.’ ‘J beat him!’ said the man. ‘Well, women have the stupidest heads. Why, if I hadn’t got up when I did, he’d have been dead. He held the bag of money tight, and the thief was pummelling him with a loaded stick; and the pluck he had for a little shaver—I tell you, I never saw the like! “You shan’t take granny’s money from her!” says he, and fought like a little tiger. If it’s your money, old lady, he’s given his life for it, for all I know.’ Then old Mrs. Briggs clapped her hands and cried,— ‘Oh, Dick! Dick! I knew you were good. I must have been crazy to doubt you!’ And then she wrung her hands and cried, ‘Oh, Dick! for just a paltry bit of money !’ And so she knelt beside the pale face upon the pillow, and kissed it, and called it tender names. And Dick, never guessing her suspicions of him, whispered,— ‘I was afraid he’d get off with it if he killed me, granny, and you in such hopes last night.’ He did not know what she. meant by begging him to forgive her. It would have killed him if he had, for he was very near death. But Dick did not die. He got well at last, and came back to the little shop; and though Granny Briggs had her savings, she never went to the Home; for long before she died Dick was a prosperous merchant in the city, and his home was hers, and she was very happy in it. ULLESWATER. LS counties of Westmoreland and Cumberland are famous for their grand scenery There the noble mountains rise, there the streams murmur, the waters foam, and the lakes lie. bright and beau- tiful in the deep hollows. The lake in the picture, Ulfo’s Lake, or Ulleswater, is one of the finest— perhaps we may safely call it the finest—of all. The head of the lake, called Patterdale, is surrounded by very bold scenery. Close by are three lofty peaks: Helvellyn, 3070 feet high; Fairfield, 2930; High Street (so called from the road made over it, the highest road in England), 2700 feet high. Between Fairfield and High Street is the Kirkstone Pass, by which the traveller can get from Ulleswater to another fine lake, named Windermere. The name of Kirkstone is given to the pass from a large block of stone, which looks like a church; in the North of England a church is called a ‘ kirk.’ Near the head of the Lake of Ulleswater are three islands, called Cherryholm, Wallholm, and House- holm. They are rocky, and none of them, we hear, is inhabited—not even Householm. But where is the boy or girl who would not like to spend a summer day on Cherryholm ? The famous waterfall of Airey Force is in Gow- barrow Park. Here, too, is Lyulph’s Tower. Lyulph was a bard, descended from the Druids. He pre- tended to foretell coming events from dreams and by watching the stars. Perhaps in the top of his tower he had a room from which he gazed upon the heavens when the nights were cloudless. In Sir Walter Scott’s poem, called the Bridal of Triermain, Lyulph tells a strange story of other days; one of those old fairy tales which children love, and which linger long among the mountains. Gowbarrow Park is a very sweet spot. ‘Here, says Wordsworth, ‘are beds of fern, aged hawthorns, and hollies decked with honeysuckles, and fallow- deer glancing and bounding over the lawns and through the thickets.’ There was once a king of Cumberland. It was a kingdom to itself. The last king was called Dunmail, and he is buried under a great heap of stones on the south side of Helvellyn, at a place called Dunmail- raise. There was also once a king of Patterdale; and who was he, do you suppose? Not a great warrior, like King Arthur, but a simple farmer named Mounsey. In those troublesome days when the English and Scots were not friendly, unhappy quarrels often arose in the north of England. On one of these occasions a number of Scottish ‘moss troopers, as they were called, came to Patterdale to rob and slay; but Mounsey armed a number of youths, and fought the troopers so bravely that they made their way back again as quickly as they could. After this gallant deed Mounsey was called ‘ King of Patterdale.’ I must also tell you what a good dog did on Helvellyn seventy years ago. This dog, a terrier, was with his master, a young gentleman, travelling across the mountain. They reached a very dan- gerous place, and somehow the tourist fell over a lofty precipice, and -was killed. , The dog safely reached her master’s body, and never left it for three months. She drove away the hill-fox and the raven. From spring to summer she guarded the dear remains of her master. At length a shepherd heard the sound of her bark, and found the human skeleton, from which the flesh had been wasted by the weather and the mountain winds. This sad accident happened in the year 1805, and two of our greatest poets, Sir Walter Scott and William Wordsworth, have written each a fine poem upon this subject. As we read them we can fancy we are looking at the dead traveller; we can see the little faithful friend watching with a love that nothing — Gy =F Ulleswater. can chill. The solitary pond called the Red Tarn is | will think of the good dog, and perhaps read from not far off. A patch of December snow is there, | Wordsworth’s poem,— though it is nearly June. On the right hand rises ‘ How nourished here through sueh long time far above us the ridge of rock called Striding-edge ; He knows who gave that love sublime; on our left is Swirrel-edge, crested by Catchedicam. And gave that strength of feeling, great It is a wild but beautiful spot. Those who visit it Above all human estimate !” G.S. 0. mn | < NGA \\ KANG Lif ARR neg Hyena frightened by a trumpeter. , Ni \ KS WARS Sa, AN WS hy, \Y \\ ies PEGGY CHARSLEY. —po— ERHAPS many of my young readers have never seen a beech- wood. Well, then, all I have to say is, I am sorry for it; for nothing is more beautiful than a beech-wood in spring. A real wood, covering many hundreds of winds through the smooth olive boles of the trees, ever and anon giving sweet glimpses down the shadowy glades. A wood where only beeches grow. Above is a canopy of the tenderest green, through which the sunshine streams in golden shafts, here and there, falling in small round patches on the ground. By-the-by, why are these sunlit patches always round? In the hot summer weather no tree affords so much shade as the beech, and the ‘twilight solitude’ of these forests is most grateful. In late autumn, when ‘a sombre radiance covers each tree,’ how beautiful are the beechen woods! Before their crisp leaves fall and redden the earth beneath, how glorious a show do they make! each tree becomes a burning bush of brilliant orange-red ! Even in winter, a beech-wood is beautiful. ‘Walk now among the forest trees: Saidst thou that they were stripped and bare? Each heavy bough is bending down With snowy leaves and flowers—the crown Which winter regally doth wear.’ Thave walked through these woods at Christmas- tide, on a moonlight night, when the earth was covered with her snowy warmth, and the intricate tracery of the boughs was repeated with the greatest truth and delicacy in the sparkling snow; and still the wood was lovely as ever. This brings me to my story of poor Peggy Charsley. Buckinghamshire is noted for its chalk hills, cherry . orchards, and beech-woods; nowhere do the latter thrive more luxuriantly, the chalky soil seeming to suit their growth; and the inhabitants of many a cottage obtain their living from them. As one of our older poets says,— ‘Beech made their chests, their beds, their jointed stools; Beech made the board, the platter, and the bowls.’ They also work them for other people. © Chairs, too, they make in great quantities, the wood being easily worked by the turner. ‘These simple- hearted people, living away from the world, often a long distance from towns, would make their purchases from pedlers, who by supplying their wants turned an honest penny for themselves, and gained a scanty livelihood. One of these well-known itinerant traders was old Peggy Charsley, who carried her basket of wares from hamlet to hamlet, over many a long mile, through all kinds of weather; but none were more welcome than she, and many were the bit and sup she got in her weary wanderings at wayside villages or lone farmhouses, the inmates of which were always glad to hear her budget of news, or to make some trifling purchase during her short stay. acres, through which the path’ In her wanderings she was always accompanied by a little black-and-white dog, a faithful companion for many years, grown old in her service, who trotted along by her side like the trusty little fellow that he was. Fido she called him, and he was true as steel. It is now more than seventy years ago that I am speaking of, when one gloomy December day, after a long: and wearisome walk, the old woman and her dog were tramping along the lanes and woods, over the snow-covered ground, on their way to Amersham. Peggy had just left Stockinge Farm, where she had been kindly treated with a cup of tea and some food. The children had come home .from school, and were settling round the wood fire which blazed brightly between the dog-irons on the hearth, to spend the evening in reading a little chap-book just purchased from Peggy, when the poor old woman started on her dreary way, which led her through one of the woods by which the farmhouse was almost encompassed. ‘Bad night, Peggy! Good night, Fido!’ were the last words the poor lone woman heard as she closed the latch of the door, which shut her out of the great warm house-place into the cold, dark, blustering night. : Darkness had indeed come on apace, and before Peggy entered the wood the snow began to fall thick and fast, the wind roared in the branches above and drifted the snowflakes into her old weather- beaten face as she pursued her way. So dark it was, she wandered from the path and soon got bewildered in her endeavours to regain it. In this uncertainty, surrounded by the thick gloom of the wood, and blinded by the snow, she at last fell down the steep side of an open and unguarded chalk-pit. Poor old Peggy! never more didst thou gladden the eyes of expectant purchasers with thy approach. Never again did children clap their hands with glee at the sight of the old woman who brought them ‘ pallets’ of toffy. And never again—oh ! never again, shall Fido hear thy kind voice, or feel thy tender caresses! For a poor mangled corpse was all that remained at the bottom of the horrid chasm in that dark December night. The next morning dawned calmly and brightly through the frosty air, and the snow sparkled and glistened in the sunshine like myriads of diamonds. Little did Farmer Keene, as he was called, or any of his family, dream of the ill-fortune that had be- fallen their late visitor. Farmer Keene’s household, besides himself and wife, consisted of three children, the serving-man, and a maid. The children were named Richard, Mary, and John—three as fair little blue-eyed beings as you would see in a day’s march. ‘Little Dicky’—he was rarely called by any-other name—was the eldest, and had of late been sent to school at Amersham. ‘Now, Dicky, be you ready ?’ his mother called out to him soon after their early breakfast, as she looked over the farmyard towards the black wooden sheds, from one of which Master Dick soon came out. He was a bright, active little urchin, who ran to his mother for his dinner-basket, which held a thick sandwich of bread and bacon, a turnover, and some bread and cheese; and was soon on his way to school after Kissing his mother and receiving the caution not to loiter on the way: for, be it known, Master Dick was very fond of bird-catching and squirrel-hunting in the woods, and had had some narrow escapes in his time. One day he got his arm fast in the hollow of an old apple-tree, where he had clambered in quest of birds’ eggs; and old William the shepherd had to ‘saw’ him out! trouble in the woods with an owl, who caught him getting down the tree where her young owlet was snugly hidden away, and she buffeted him with her wings and pecked him severely on the neck as he ran away, stumbling along as best he could, with his arms over his face to avoid the assault. Dicky fought shy of that tree for a long time, I can tell you. This morning, however, as he trudged along crunch- ing the snow with his thick-soled boots, and making tracks in the earth’s winding-sheet—sometimes whist- ling to himself, and sometimes looking at his lesson- book—a greater shock awaited him ; for, as he entered the wood, he heard the faint howling of a dog. It was not like any bark he had heard before; and hurrying in the direction of the sound he soon came to the chalk-pit, where, peeping cautiously over the edge, he saw Fido standing by the prostrate and snow- wreathed form of his dead mistress, now looking up and howling piteously, then stopping to lick her dead face. Terrified beyond measure, and yet scarcely understanding the fearful accident, Dicky ran quickly home’ again, and told with trembling lips what he had seen. Soon the farmer and some of his men were on the spot, entering the pit by the lower edge of the slope. They raised the cold and senseless body and carried it to the farmhouse, followed by the faithful dog. Ihave no more to say about old Peggy. She was buried by the parish. What became of Fido I never heard. The story isa true one. Little Dicky was my own father, who has often told me the st tale. _K. WISHING AND WORKING. ¥ I were only a lady, now!’ sighed Marie Holmes, ‘how happy I should be playing the piano all day, with pretty things about me, and every one speaking softly, and no toilsome Miss Nash, with her nutmeg- grater voice, and her endless “ young ladies!” Young ladies, indeed! As if Kitty Hogg or Arabella Carver could, by any possibility, be young ladies!’ ‘Now, Marie! where are you blundering to?’ ‘was the shout that disturbed Marie’s reverie on this Bank Holiday. Exactly behind her were brother Sam and Aunt Hodges, bound for the river. . No, she would not go with them; she preferred being alone and thinking, either on the shore, or in some quiet corner in the ‘Gardens,’ as the prettily planted acre of ground was called that the public owned in Rockborough. Alas! thinking meant too often murmuring with fifteen-year old Marie; but still she indulged herself in the hurtful pastime whenever she had time for it, and was not hampered by the presence of the other milliners’ girls, with whom her days were passed. This August day was a grand occasion; and dressed in her best, a nosegay of sweet flowers in her hand, she hurried away from the crowd of pleasure-seekers to enjoy her own reveries, Sam Another time he got into | grumbling to her aunt that Marie never would do like the rest. : ‘ Let her be,’ said Aunt Hodges, ‘she’s not a bad sort of a girl; and when the nonsense is out of her, there’s good stuff behind.’ Aunt Hodges was an authority in the family, so Sam groaned and said no more. He was fond of Marie, and wished to be more with his favourite sister. Rockborough was a large place, and at the same moment on that August morning Miss Dorning was taking a walk on the shore. ‘ Will you post this letter; please, Miss?’ called the maid after her. The young lady turned and took the note from the servant, glad to have an occasion to go any- where. The holiday people all around her seemed so happy in their unusual leisure, it made her en-. vious. ‘Tf I were only a poor girl—a shell girl,’ said Miss Dorning to_herself, ‘how I should enjoy this lovely morning! But I am so unfortunate as to be born of that class that have nothing.to do, and therefore - never enjoy a holiday.. Heigho! we poor ladies are much to be pitied!’ And on walked the girl, with her refined face and graceful dress, a prey to useless regrets as much as Marie Holmes. There is seldom a Bank Holiday without an acci- dent, especially in a seaport town; but this time it was no excursionist who had come to grief, but Miss Dorning, of Marina House, who, incautiously dreaming along the shady path by the river bank, had lost her footing and fallen in. In that swift tidal stream she would have fared badly, had not a boat. been near, and Sam Holmes, the rower, a strong, self-possessed. lad, come to the rescue. i Marie, sauntering home at mid-day, weary and dispirited, found her bed occupied, and her mother ‘fussing and fuming round the pretty pale occupant. That was an eventful afternoon. Such messages passing between the Marina and Rosamond Terrace, where the Holmes’ lived ! Marie was quite happy, petting the fair young lady, and making her tea. She had only been terrified —not drowned—in her late escapade; and Miss Dorning, on her part, took a fancy to the dark-eyed damsel, who worshipped so prettily at her shrine. While fresh garments were sent for from the Marina the two talked most contentedly, Miss Dorning questioning, Marie answering. . Ina gush of confidence Marie owned she wished to be a lady; and Violet Dorning puzzled over at her own counter- wishes, : ‘Is it naughty and discontented of me to think such ‘things?’ asked the little milliner. Violet paused. ‘Oh, Marie! [ am so naughty myself I am no judge,’ she said in reply. ‘But Ido not think you are wrong to wish to have leisure for your music. You have a good touch, and sing very sweetly.’ Marie had fingered the poor worn piano in the sitting-room at Miss Dorning’s request, and sung a little ballad for her visitor. q : Back at evening went Miss Dorning to her home, full of thought. al | : ul | A | } i | i | We =! ee \\\ > SS S Se S RWW S N \ \ \Y \S | y= —— SS NY), SSS AW sa is IN Se_> SY A ely, \ _ = Se Wee a ~ ie oS \ Ss co SA y A \\ ‘Will you post this letter; please, Miss?” Why had God spared her life that day—her use- less life? Surely for some purpose. She was very thankful to Him, and she would try to find it out. Was it little Marie pining to be ‘a lady,’ as she thought, but in reality wishing to be that something better than a milliner’s girl she felt she could be? If so, could Violet help her to it, and so make her- self of a little use in this busy world? She would try, and as a first step she got her London music- master to sound the depths of her little protégée’s musical powers, The scheme was successful. Herr Spieler pushed his spectacles up in the air and pronounced the little milliner a true genius, only she must work—work many years at music—only music—and then Poor Mary! her dark eyes looked alternately delight and despair. What about Miss Nash? How was she to give those long days of pins, and seams, and chatter, to her dear music? . a She went home half crying. She did not wish te be a lady now, she knew—only a musician. Aunt Hodge now came forward; she would be responsible for Mary’s ‘keep,’ if kind Miss Dorning would get her into the great London music school they talked of. Marie was all amazed gratitude. The family had hitherto only laughed at her music, and her flowers, and her fancies. ‘And I owe it all to you,’ she said, gratefully, to Miss Dorning. ‘ How kind ladies can be! That is all I envy them now!’ Poor Violet! she crimsoned with shame. In all her twenty-one years of life, this had been her first effort to benefit a fellow-creature. Only this one girl in all Rockborough had reason to bless her. And she was rich, young, and healthy; surely she could have made more people happy if she had tried. Little Marie Holmes fulfilled the promise of her youth, and became a great musician, a great singer, Sra Me \ ti i uA \ ; \ A ays \ iN My “\ ) } \N \ y Me i Mf Why The Frog and the Eel. RWS WE SS NS ANN a Wa : He ei & on A GOOD CUSTOM. NE Dr. Rink has written a book on the manners and customs of the Eskimo, or Esquimaux, as we used to see the word spelled, — those dwellers in north North America and on the Greenland coast. He tells us among other things that this simple people have the habit of living, several families in one house, peacefully and happily, and the reason for this he seems to explain a little later. Quarrelling and hard words are unknown among the tribe; he does not say that one man never offends another, for that would be impossible as long as they are in- habitants of this imperfect world ; but when vexed or injured the Eskimo is silent, refraining not only from good words but bad ones. They have no word in their language that answers to our “ scold,” none to express a street-row or fight. Surely they are much ahead of more civilized nations in this simple way of meeting disagreeables ! One result of this silence is, that there is no going to law in Eskimo land; no lawyers, no judges. The only way they have of punishing or shaming an offender is to sing the story of his misdeeds at their public entertainments; he may reply then, also in verse, and the assembly of hearers soon mark by their cheers or hisses what they think on the subject. So quiet and sober a people are not often at fault in their judgment; and though in our country we cannot hope to keep the peace by such simple means, we can at any rate try their rule of silence when vexed. It has higher warrant that the Eskimo can give. ‘“ Slow to speak, slow to wrath,” says one who wrote by Divine authority. H. A. F. et MARSHAL NEY. Sa] ICHAEL NEY was born in Lorraine, in 1769. As a boy of thirteen he was put in a notary’s office, but he was too full of high spirit and courage, and too fond of ad- venture, to brook so dull a life; and in 1787 he enlisted in.a reg- iment of hussars, and in seven \ years he rose to a captaincy. He did many famous exploits in the various wars in which France was engaged in those stirring times. While serving with the army of the Rhine he took two thousand prisoners and the town of Wiirburg, though he had only a handful of cavalry under his command. For this achievement he was made a general of brigade. The victory of Hohenlinden was due in great mea- sure to his unyielding bravery, and. when Ney re- turned to Paris after the peace of Luneville Napo- leon warmly received him, and to attach him to his cause he brought about a marriage between Ney and Mademoiselle Augnié, a friend of Hortense Beau- harnais. He continued to distinguish himself in the Prussian, Russian, and Spanish campaigns. When the grand army of France set out for Russia in 1812, Ney was placed in command of the third corps. In that disastrous expedition he urged Napoleon to winter at Smolensko, but though his counsel was un- heeded by the Emperor he did not bear his part less bravely, and he won for himself from Napoleon the title of ‘The bravest of the brave.’ During the ter- rible retreat Ney did marvels of valour: General Dumas tells that one morning a man, in dark cloak, long beard, and weather-beaten face, entered his tent. ‘I am here at last, General,’ said the stranger. ‘Don’t you know me?’ General Dumas answered that he did not, and the other went on to say, ‘I am the rear-guard of the Grand Army. I have fired the last musket-snot on the bridge of Kowno. Ihave thrown the last of our armies into the Niemen, and have come here through the woods. I am Marshal Ney.’ During the two following years the brave general fought for his country, and did much to win victories for the French standard. In 1814 he retired to his country-seat, till he was summoned to Paris to take a fresh command ; but when he found that he was to oppose his old chief, who had returned from Elba, he went over to Napoleon instead of capturing him, and -his example was followed almost by his whole army. At Waterloo Marshal Ney acted with wonderful bravery. On foot he headed the column of the Guard, and urged them to the charge, when they were being pressed by overwhelming numbers. All was vain, however, and he was among the last to quit the field. i In a letter to the Duc d’Otrante after the battle the Marshal describes the cause of the defeat, and adds,— ‘General Friant had been struck by a ball by my side, and I myself had my horse killed, and fell underit. The brave men who will return from this terrible battle will, I hope, do me the justice to say that they saw me on foot, with sword in hand during the whole evening, and that I only quitted the scene of carnage among the last—at the moment when retreat eould no longer be prevented. At the same time the Prussians continued their onward movement, and our right retired before them. The English, too, advanced, and there remained to us four squares of the old Guard to protect the retreat. The brave grenadiers, the choice of the army, were forced to yield ground foot by foot, till, overwhelmed by numbers, they were almost entircly destroyed. As for myself, con- stantly in the rear-guard, which I followed on foot, having had all my horses killed, worn out with fatigue, and having no longer strength to march, I owe my life to a corporal who supported me on the road, and did not abandon me during the retreat.’ After the fall of the Emperor Napoleon, Marshal Ney returned to Paris, where he was accused of treason, and was brought to trial and condemned. to death. The garden of the Luxembourg was chosen for the place of execution, and there the brave soldier calmly met his doom ; there, in 1815, at the age of forty-six, he who had fought five hundred battles for France, not one against her, was shot asa traitor. ! | CLEOPATRA’S NEEDLE. HIS celebrated granite pillar is called an obelisk, which is the Greek name for a needle or skewer. It is covered with a peculiar kind of writing, and is of hoary age. It was presented to King George IV. in 1820, by the then ruler of Egypt, Mehemet Ali. Many English statesmen have endeavoured to bring it to our country, but, until now, all such attempts have been without success. It is a single block of red, granite with four faces, and on all those faces are many figures, such as birds and serpents, cut very deep into the stone. Some of the figures are enclosed in oblong rings. These are supposed to be the names and titles of kings. All you see is a portion of Egyptian history, written with an iron pen upon a tablet of granite. Obelisks were generally set up in pairs, one on the yight hand and the other on the left hand of grand gateways into temples or palaces. They were cut out of the quarries of Syene, and then carried many hundreds of miles, generally by having canals dug from the river to the place where they were lying. It was stated in the House of Commons, as far back as 1832, that Cleopatra’s Needle, one of two at Alexandria, is 64 feet long, or, including the pedestal, 79 feet, and weighs 284 tons. This obelisk is not quite so large as the Luxor obelisk, which was set up at Paris, under the direction of Lebas, an able French enginee?, in October 1836. The Cleopatra, an iron vessel, shaped like a huge boiler, 92 feet long and 16 across, was specially built for carrying the Needle over the sea. Mr. John Dixon constructed this vessel. Professor Erasmus Wilson, the eminent surgeon, with most noble liber- ality, has defrayed the expenses of the voyage. After navigating the Mediterranean in safety, the Cleopatra came to grief in the Bay of Biscay, last October. She parted company from her tug, and was abandoned. The Jitzmaurice found the Cleopatra, and towed her into the port of Ferrol, belonging to Spain. There she lay for three months, ' undergoing repairs, &c. In January, the Anglia, a powerful iron paddle- tug, was sent to Ferrol, to bring the Cleopatra. to England. This she happily did, in -five or six days. It was a somewhat anxious voyage, for January is a stormy month, and the needle-ship did not steer very well, and rolled about a good deal. Her anxious crew never went to bed between Ferrol and Gravesend. When the Queen heard of the Cleopatra’s safe arrival she sent a telegram ex- pressing her satisfaction at the good news. The Needle-will be erected on the Victoria Em- bankment in London ; but the cut shows the position recommended by Professor Wilson—an open place near Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament. G. S$. O. THE CAT O’ NINE TALES (TAILS). TO SISSIE ON HER NINTH BIRTHDAY. Tae I. ASKED a cat, grey, old, and sage, & If she could tell me Sissie’s age ; The cat replied evasively, ‘Greet her to-day with three times three.’ - Tae II. Not quite content, I asked the cat If she could tell me more than that; She said, ‘Three rows of pins at play, That is the secret of the day.’ Tae III. “You trifle, wise old cat,’ I said; But Pussy merely shook her head, And calmly mewed, ‘ Her age, be sure, is Just thrice the number of the Furies.’ TaLe IV. ‘Furies and cats are friends, I trow,’ Said I, and made a graceful bow. ‘You grow unpleasant, sir,’ said she ; ‘Then multiply the Fates by three.’ TALE V. ‘Madam,’ I said, ‘ you have referred To folk who don’t exist.’ She purred. ‘I thought,’ said she, ‘ you’d find excuses : Then count the number of the Muses.’ Tate VI. ‘Why, who could count your mews?’ said I, ‘ You dunce !’ cried she, with kindling eye, ‘Your dulness sends me into fidgets ; Then take the last of all the digits.’ TaLE VII. I said, ‘My summing powers are weak.’ She snarled—her voice assumed a shriek. ‘He never wins who never strives: Then count the number of my lives.’ Tate VIII. ‘T can’t,’ I cried, in sheer despair. The cat was screaming in the air, ‘Then see my tails,’-—she rose in state— ‘And you deserve to feel their weight.’ Tate IX. Just then, within an opening door, Behold a blaze of splendour pour! The cat is gone, the tapers shine, Try, ‘Dear little Siss benign!’ (Be nine.) W. THE ERNE, OR SEA EAGLE. HALIBUT, a large flat fish like a turbot, re- posing near the surface of the water, was seen by an erne, which pounced down and struck his talons into the fish with all his force. Should the halibut be too strong, the eagle, it is said, is sometimes, but rarely, drowned in the struggle. In this case, however, as more frequently happens, the bird overcame the fish; he remained upon it when dead as if he were floating on a raft, and then spreading out his wide wings, he made use of them as sails, and was driven by the wind towards the shore. | me NB ir ; oe NS | ig pil i i i yi ) eal eli: i fl All SS —SSSSS=S LOO inn S SSS ISS GEG ie WER RGA SS =| . 4 : = X e | | William Hutton’s first visit to Birmingham. \ ) — | , NN BEL PON BRAG /// ANS WONG whe NS The Crane and the Trout. By Harrison WetrR. | ADVICE TO THE CHILDREN. iC } ORK while you work, and play while you f C NM That is the way to be cheerful and gay: All that you do, do with your might, ; Things done by halves are never done right. One thing at once, and that one well, Is a good rule, as wise men tell; Moments are useless trifled away— Work while you work, and play while you play! HOLGER DANSKE. IN THE CASTLE OF KRONENBERG. From a Danish Legend. Holger Danske is a hero of the Danes, resembling the Frederic Barbarossa of Germany. He is said not to be dead, but to be asleep in a subterranean dungeon of the Castle of Kronenberg, where he waits to deliver Denmark in her greatest peril. HERE stands an ancient castle or On Denmark’s northern shore, And Kronenberg that castle’s name— *Tis close by Elsinore. There day by day the cannons Roar from the castle wall ; And from the ships a loud salute Re-echoes through the hall. And in that ancient castle, Far, far beneath the sod, There lies a deep, dark dungeon, That never mortal trod; Save he who long hath slept there, A hero good and bold, : Who served his country faithfully In troublous times of old. Right well-beloved of Denmark, And wide-world is his fame ; A strong and stalwart warrior, And Holger Danske his name. He sees a faithful pictire Of Denmark’s weal and woe: Her loss, her gain, her conquest, Does this brave warrior know. And every year he waketh, And smiles, and nods his head, And saith, ‘ Ye Danes, remember, I come in hour of dread.’ But though full many a danger May threat his ancient home; Though Danish men in terror May hope. that he will come; Not till the last great danger Shall come before his eyes, When every Dane despaireth, Shall Holger Danske arise. While daily yet the cannons Roar from the castle wall, While daily yet the loud salute Re-echoes through the hall, Must Holger Danske sleep peacefully Till other sound’ he hear ; Till other cannon roaring Proclaim the danger near. Then, from his sleep awaking, His country he shall save, And, faithful to his promise, Its enemies enslave. L. W. O. WILLIAM HUTTON. —o—. ILLIAM HUTTON, author of The History of Birmingham, and several other interesting works, was a self-taught genius. His life, written by himself in his seventy- fifth year, proves how indomitable energy and application can over- come the disadvantage of the most neglected youth and adverse cir- cumstances. He was born in the town of Derby in the year 1723, and was the second son of a journeyman woolcomber. Hutton’s father was given to drinking, and so his poor wife and children suffered much distress. William relates that at one time he fasted from breakfast one day till noon the next, and even then dined upon flour and water only boiled into a hasty pudding. The only education he ever received was during’ his fifth and sixth years. At seven years old his days of toil began. He was sent to work at a silk- mill, and had to rise at five every morning and associate with rude and rough companions. During seven long years this drudgery continued, and ter- minated in his fourteenth year, after which he was bound for seven years more to his uncle, who was a stocking-weaver at Nottingham. On one occasion he failed to complete a piece of work given him to do and received a flogging. Stung with the disgrace, and unable to endure the sneers of his comrades, he fled, taking his clothes with him in a bundle and two shillings in his pocket, and went towards Birmingham, where he arrived in great distress, little thinking that nine years later he should be a resident there, and after the lapse of more than thirty years should write its history, On the evening of his arrival he thus describes himself: «I sat to rest upon the north side of the old cross, near Philip Street, the poorest of all the poor belonging to that great parish, of which twenty-seven years after I should be overseer. -I sat under that roof a silent, oppressed object, where thirty-one years after I should sit to determine differences between man and man. Why did not some kind angel comfort me with the distant prospect?’ This remarkable man died in 1815, at the great age of ninety-two. His daughter, speaking of him, says, ‘The predominant feature in my father’s character was his love of peace ;’ and she sums up his character by saying, ‘ He was an uncommon instance of resolu- tion and perseverance, and an example of what these can effect.’ ———+2-9- —— SINGULAR ATTACHMENT OF A Barre: CAT TO A RAT. mL yO? t@/< HE landlord of the only public- (49 house in the village of Oxton has a cat, which has been noted as a first-rate mouser and rat-catcher. One Sunday morning the cat caught a young rat, which, instead of killing, she took into one of the rooms of the hostelry and put it along with a kitten she was ay - nursing. She then lay down and beg suckled both the cat and the rat, and appeared to be more fond of the little rat than of her own offspring. The interesting family were visited by a number of people living in the district. The cat continued to nurse the raé until another cat found its way into the room, and seeing the young rat along with the kitten pounced upon it, and quickly killed it. TREASURES FROM THE DEEP. HE sea,’ says a writer who has deeply studied the subject, ‘contains in its bosom an exuberance of life, of which no other region of the globe affords any idea. Our forests do not afford an asylum to nearly so many animals as do those of ocean. For the sea has its forests, long marine herbs, or the floating banks i of sea-weed which the waves have detached. If we could plunge our glances into the liquid crystal of the Indian Ocean, we should see realised therein the fairy tales of our infancy. Fantastic shrubs decked with living flowers, the richest colours glowing everywhere; greens and browns, the liveliest reds, and the most intense blues. The sand is sprinkled with sea-hedgehogs and sea- stars, of fantastic forms and varied colours. The sea-anemones, like great cactus flowers, adorn the rocks with their crowns, or spread over the ocean like a flower-bed of brilliant flowers. The humming-birds of ocean, small, gleaming fishes, some bright, with a metallic splendour of blue or yermilion, some with a gilded green or dazzling silver lustre, play around the coral bushes. Light as spirits of the abyss, the white or blue bells of the medusa float through this en- chanted world.’ But if our English coasts do not present us such a fairy land as this, they yet provide us with many wonderful and beautiful things. See, here is an Oyster. ‘Not much beauty here,’ you say. No, but much to wonder at. He does not seem well placed for happiness, though without a doubt he has his joys. His life is spent between two heavy, stony plates, with which he can secure himself from ene- mies. Those lovely things called pearls are, however, his special treasure. They are caused by wounds made by worms boring through the shells and hurting their bodies. Pearly matter is thrown out freely on the injured spot, which soon becomes a pearl of greater or less size. Or sometimes a grain of sand gets into the oyster’s house and irritates him, upon which he coats it over with pearly matter. Here is a little Crab. It lives, you see, in a hard shell. The shell does not grow, but the crab does, and therefore he wants a new shell now and then. When he feels that he must cast off his old shell he first of all gets into some hole, where he can lie safely while he is weak and helpless. ‘Then he goes without food until he is very thin, and his clothes hang about him, as we say. In this state a new shell, soft and elastic, forms about his body. Then the crab struggles and splits his old shell, and pulls his long legs out of his boots. When he has got safely over this strange process the crab increases rapidly in size, and his new suit becomes in a few days as hard as the former one. Here is a Star-fish, or asteria, often called the five- finger. Its mouth, you see, is in the middle of the under side, and it is a great devourer of small shell- fish. . It is considered so destructive to oysters, that by old laws, every man was liable to be punished who did not kill the five-finger when he saw it. And what is this mass of jelly? It is a creature called the Medusa, or sea-nettle. It has received its latter name because it makes your skin smart when you touch it. While the medusa is floating, many tentacles or nets may be seen hanging from its under- side. With these it catches food. If you take a medusa alive, you will find it is impossible to hold it in your fingers. It will divide into parts and fall ashapeless mass. Sometimes these strange animals may be seen below a ship’s keel, glowing like white- hot cannon balls. Perhaps the most wonderful creatures of all, if we consider their works, are the Polypi. These animals are of a soft, jelly-like substance, sometimes shaped like a bell or a pill-box. The sea-anemones, as they are called, belong to this class. Round an opening or mouth in the upper side are arranged a number of arms, like the petals of a daisy, by means of which the creature seizes his prey. ‘he prey is sometimes quite as large as the polypi itself, but it is sucked into the interior and there destroyed; the shell, if there is one, being vomited forth afterwards. This animal-flower is fixed on a rock, along which it can slowly crawl. The polypi form the substances called coral and madrepore. By their means immense reefs of solid rock, which stem the mighty waves and form large islands, are raised in mid-ocean. One of the most useful treasures of the sea is the Sponge. It is believed to be an animal, but the lowest of all animals. No feelings have ever yet been discovered in the sponge, though it has been pinched and tortured with redhot irons. It is pierced in all directions by canals, out of which openings streams of water are being constantly discharged. It is supposed the creature sucks the water into its body by small pores, and gets rid of it when it has drained it of all its nourishing matter. Our sponges come chiefly from the Isles of Greece. G. 8. 0. SS \ AW \N WRAY \ << \\ The Gardener’s Friend. PERL ee SU RRAL AY a NS : MQ) WN yer i We y \i oI Wy \ es \ \ y ABOUT SPONGES. r [ee coasts of Great Britain may be said to be rather rich in sponge growths; twenty-four kinds have been discovered. Fresh-water lakes and rivers also possess their sponges. Those found on our coasts, although unfit for the sponge market, form most interesting objects for the cabinet or the aquarium. A warmer sea and more genial climate than ours appear necessary to develope the sort of sponge sought by the merchant, who obtains the great bulk of his supply from the ports of the Medi- terranean; the coast of Syria, the Greek Islands, and Barbary, being noted for their yield of sponge. ‘Tri- poli, Latakia, and Beyrout, are the principal ports of shipment. The Turkish sponge-trade is also of con- siderable importance; from 4000 to 5000 men, and between 600 and 700 boats, being annually employed in it. The Greeks may, however, be considered the principal sponge-fishers. Much experience, skill, and hardihood, are needed to qualify a man for a first- class place among sponge-divers ; many of the most valuable specimens, which. sell readily in Paris -or Vienna for from Ti. to 102. each, being obtained at depths varying from ten to thirty-five fathoms. To aid in the descent, the divers make use of a triangular stone, with a hole in one corner, through which a rope is spliced. On reaching the deep sea-gardens, where the rock-ledges and pinnacles are clothed with marine growths, the diver, retaining a hold on his rope, dexterously breaks away the holdfast of the sponges, places them, with their foundations, under his arm, until a sufficient load has been gleaned, when a pull of the rope signals to haul up, and he ascends to the surface with his ocean treasures.—Cassell’s Popular Educator. A CLEARING SHOWER. Suet a miserable day at Brighton! Outside, the rain driving against the window, the wind howl- ing, and the dull thud of the waves breaking upon the beach. Inside, a bright blazing fire. A pretty drawing- room, with three people in it—two visitors, anda young girl doing her best to amuse Granny’s guests this terribly wet day. Julia was only thirteen, buf even girls of thirteen can be very useful in helping to make a house pleasant, if they like. Julia lived most of the year with Granny. Her mother was dead, and her father, a retired military man, was thankful that she had such a kind relation to care for her. Julia had been rather a delicate child, and so she had not had much regular education, yet, from listening to Granny’s talk and reading, she was growing up a well-informed girl on many subjects. ‘ See, this is my cabinet; everything in it is my very own. Father brought it for me from Japan. It has six secret drawers, and everyone has a present in it to surprise me—studs in one, a ring in another, and. . . T really forget what was in the rest. Look, this is a piece of a monk’s gown; that is the oldest curiosity I have got. It came from St. Edmund’s Priory, the house Granny used to live in before she came here. She knew the house was an old monastery, but when it was last used as such no one could tell. New = stables were being built when, one day, the butler came in to say that the workmen had just found a long stone box, would her ladyship like to come and see it opened? All the house assembled to see what it contained, and there lay the skeleton. of a monk, in the gown of his order. Of course Granny had him put back carefully in his grave, but she kept this bit of his robe to show. Isn’t it a funny yellow- brown colour?’ So we went on turning over the little treasures, Julia telling us something interesting about nearly everyone. ‘Qh, Cousin Clare, here is the prettiest thing of all! Granny brought it from Leipzig when she was a girl. They don’t make such toys now.’ It certainly was a very pretty plaything, a copy of a German fair in tin, all the different stalls and booths—not two alike. Julia could not resist the wish to set them up in a regular square, with rows of shops, as they really are seen inGermany. My thoughts meanwhile flew back —oh, so many years! to when I was a little girl, and lived in a German town, where this very sort of. fair, which came regularly four times a-year, was looked forward to with the greatest excitement. You must not imagine it was like the common English fairs, which are generally only visited by servants and farm-labourers ; to these German fairs everyone goes, and everyone buys a fairing for everybody else. No child thought of buying anything at a shop if ‘fair time’ was near. It was always, ‘Oh, keep your gulden till the fair comes; you know it will soon be here, and then you will be able to ride as often as you like on the merry-go-round, and buy presents for everyone else as well,’ One fair specially I remember. Some one had brought us word that it was an extra good one this time, more peep-shows than usual, and a delightful gingerbread stall. This warning put us all on our guard against frittering our pocket-money away ; for had we not always a special half-holiday in fair week, on purpose to spend our pocket-money and enjoy ourselves to our hearts’ content ? There had been some whispers of fever about the town, but no one we knew had been attacked by it, when, on the Saturday before fair week, little Jackie complained of headache and sore throat. ‘I hope it won’t be anything serious,’ said nurse. “What a pity it would be if he could not see the wild beast show !’ The next day Jackie was no better, and to our dis- may the disease was pronounced ‘scarlet fever !’ We were not afraid of the fever, but mother said, ‘I cannot let you children go about as usual; our friends would not care to meet you in the streets, people are so afraid of infection: but Friulein Schmidt can take you out for country walks. Mind you do not go into the town!’ ‘ Not go into the town!’ ‘That was just as good as saying, ‘ Not go near the. fair.’ Oh, how we fumed and sulked! Yes, bitter tears were shed. Little Jackie was not ill enough to make anybody anxious, only bad enough so to ‘spoil all our pleasure,’ as we selfish children said. How thankful we ought to have been that he had the disease so lightly ! ‘What can we do?’ ‘I quite hate our holiday!’ 4 eee ra ‘ It was to have been so jolly, and now all is spoilt !” ‘ What a horrid bother this all is!’ ‘You girls had better look up your sweetest tempers, as I shall make a point of teasing you all the after- noon to work off my rage,’ said brother Tom. “Mother came in just then, and heard about Tom’s intentions. She was heartily sorry that we should be so disappointed, and racked her brain to find a place to keep us all well employed for this afternoon, that we might forget the unlucky fair. ‘Children, do you remember the cobbler’s family ? You have often been to his door with nurse. Well, it seems they have had the scarlet fever, too, and are now in sad trouble. Their eldest girl of sixteen has died of it, and besides all their distress the father is so poor that he has to go on cobbling as hard as he can, that he may be able to spare an afternoon to attend the funeral; and the mother, poor thing! almost blinded with tears, is stitching away at some old black rags, to make ¢he children tidy to go, too. _ Don’t you think we might help them ?’ We felt quite sobered. now, and thoughtless: mur- _Taurs were hushed at hearing of this real trouble. Tom knew the girl by sight, and he’ remembered seeing her only last week helping her father with the finer parts of his work. I think we were now all in a minute ashamed of our grumblings, and very thankful that little Jackie was spared to us. Bertha at once jumped up. ‘ Mother, do let us buy some black stuff. I have not spent my fairing money. If nurse would cut them out for us, Rosa and I could easily make frocks for the two elder girls. Tom isn’t much good, to be sure, but I know what he can do. May we have a saucepan up here and make some toffee? He can do that while we are sewing, and then I don’t think one of us will long for the fair. Do say yes, mother?’ I am sure mother said ‘ Yes,’ for I remember how good that toffee tasted. Tom managed to supply us ‘well with it all the time we were sewing, and I don’t believe those frocks were at all ‘stickied’ in spite of it. Here my recollections were broken into by Julia’s cheerful voice,— ‘Cousin Clare, it has cleared up, I do declare! Shall we try a walk? The sea does look so lovely when it is rough, and if it is too windy for the shore we can turn into the Aquarium.’ C. A. F. A FATHER RESCUING A CHILD FROM AN ALLIGATOR. FEXWO little girls, daughters of Mr. Flam R. Black- well, living on the bay of Biloxi, while bathing in front of their home, were attacked by an enormous alligator. The eldest, a girl of about seven years of age, was holding the youngest, an infant of two years, in her hauds, and was quietly enjoying her bath, when suddenly her little sister was snatched from her and borne swiftly away from the shore. Terrified beyond measure, and unable to render any help to her poor little sister, the elder girl uttered a scream, which reached the ear of the father, who was passing within thirty or forty yards of the spot where his daughters were bathing. Mr. Blackwell, who is an active and athletic man, rushed to the spot just in time to see his little daughter being borne out into the bay by an alligator. Nerved to almost superhuman effort by the desperate situation of his child, the father leaped into the water in pursuit of the would-be destroyer of his daughter, which was then some twenty-five or thirty yards from shore. he water, for a distance of forty or fifty yards out into the bay from the point where the children went bathing, ranges in depth from one and a half to two feet, and then suddenly has a depth of forty or fifty feet. Both the alligator and the father seemed to realise that if the deep water in front of them were once reached, pursuit and re- covery would be alike impossible; both, therefore, did their utmost, the one to reach the deep awater, the other to prevent it. In this struggle, although sinking to his waist in the soft mud at the bottom at each bound, the father was successful. He grasped his child by. the arm about ten feet from deep water. ' The alligator, which all the while had held the child’s foot in his mouth, alarmed and confused by the boldness of the assault, released its hold and made its way rapidly into the deep water in front of it. The father, almost exhausted, raised his child out of the water, and seeing that it still lived, by desperate efforts reached the shore, and placed the child safely in the arms of its mother. ‘The little girl was unhurt, with the exception of a couple of bruises on its foot, made by the teeth of the monster. A CLEVER GANDER. OME years ago I went with my sister to call at a cottage. In approaching it we passed a goose and gander, with a thriving family. of young ones ; the gander being at the time busy in inflicting punishment, with beak and wings, on one of his goslings. My sister went into the cottage, and while I waited for her I saw the old man who lived in the cottage walking along a footpath leading from it, followed by the gander, which had left its family and its quarrel to walk meekly at his heels like a dog. When he saw, however, that he was going off the open ground it mounted an eminence, watched him till he was out of sight, and then re- turned to its proper sphere. When his daughter came out I asked her to explain matters, as to whether the gander was in the habit of following her father, and how she accounted for it. In answer to my questions she said, that it had not been reared as a pet, but had been bought when grown up; and that it was not by giving it food that her father had gained its affection, for if he gave it any it stood at his side while the rest ate it. ‘How, then, does he tame it?’ I asked. The reply was, ‘He just claps it on the head, and says, “My man.” ” J. E. ty Uy Y ue Hi iy A Pird's Nest. yy Z = LEZ ELEY American-Indian Dance. STORIES ABOUT AMERICAN INDIANS. . (Continued from page 235.) \ GREAT dance was celebrated among the tribe of Opallallas, . and repeated at Fort Laramie for the officers and families, To this point Red Cloud’s son and wife came, but they returned with the others to their hunting-grounds in the Sioux country. When the party under Gen- eral Smith left the post in , ambulances, &c., some felt ‘ sea- sick,’ never having rode in a waggon before ! Once on the cars, it was kept as quiet as possible. At Fremont, forty-seven miles from Omaha, it had leaked out, and much excitement prevailed there, as it was reported that the Pawnees, the old and inveterate enemies of the Sioux, were coming in from their reservation (near there), and would attack the train and kill the Sioux chiefs. A number of them were there when the train came along, but they kept very quiet. One or two of the Pawnees went up and shook hands with their old enemies (with whom a deadly feud had existed for years), but they were closely watched by General Smith, lest a stab should be given with their knives. Although the Sioux chiefs were told of the danger, they were ‘as cool about it as a cucumber.’ They looked at their knives being all right, and that was all. Of course all along their route they were objects of curiosity to every- body; and had the Government declined to have them go (as it was said at first they would) a war would have ensued soon after! LEGEND OF ‘CRAZY WOMAN’S FORK.’ THE Absarakas, or Crow nation, have the reputa- tion of being good friends to the whites, and it is also said they have never warred with them. Tron Bull, the renowned chief of the Crows, relates the following legend :— In the journey through that most delightful region of Montana from Fort Phil. Kearney to Fort C. F. Smith (in the Powder River country), one of the most favoured camping-grounds is the one called ‘ Crazy Woman’s Fork,’ the name of a pretty little stream of water that rises in the Big Horn Mountains, and emptying into the Little Horn River. About three miles from the mountains this stream crosses the trail between the two military posts mentioned. This camp on the fork is noted for its danger from Indian attacks, as an abundant supply of game being found in the valley, brings the Indian there to re- plenish his larder of wild meat. Notwithstanding the dangers attending a journey through this region, it has its attractions in the beautiful and diversified views of lovely scenery, which hasten the parties travelling in that region to encamp, for a night at least, on the banks of a limpid stream that refreshes man and beast from an unfailing source in the mountains. The banks are spotted with cotton-wood trees, and to the west one sees the tall spurs of the Rocky Moun- tains rising up, as it were, from your feet, their dizzy heights covered with snow; while the haze that sur- rounds them gives to them a halo of glory and weird- like appearance, that the imaginative might compare to the garments that mantle the spirits of the blessed in Paradise ! Tron Bull said that about two hundred years ago, when the moon shone brighter, and there were more stars, his nation was a great people, and they roamed all over that country from the Missouri River to the west of the Yellowstone, and no dog of a Sioux dare show himself there. But the people had been wicked, and the Great Spirit had darkened the heavens and made the sun to shine with such heat that the streams were dried up, and the snow disappeared from the highest peaks of the mountains. The buffalo, the elk, the mountain deer, the sheep, and the rabbit, all dis- appeared and died away, bringing a great famine upon his tribe, and the spirit of the air breathed death into the lodges, so that the warrior saw his squaw and papooses die for the want of food he could not find on all the plain, or on the mountain-sides ; so that the whole nation grieved and mourned in sorrow of heart. Still, they kept up their wars with the Sioux, and fought many a bloody battle with them when they suffered most, and the game had entirely disappeared. Their great medicine man called a council, and when the head men had assembled he told them a wonder- ful dream that he had had, when he was bidden.by the Great Spirit to gather the chiefs of the tribe at the fork of the stream where they lived. Their ponies had all been eaten for food, so the proud Indians were compelled to make the journey on foot to the place of meeting. But when they arrived at the bluffs, on the edge of the valley, they were surprised to see a bountiful sup- per spread on the bank of the stream, close by the Forks, and a white woman close by, standing up and making signs to them to descend from the bluffs. Having never before seen a ‘white squaw,’ they were greatly astonished. The medicine-man descended to the valley. The white woman told him that the Great Spirit would talk through the council to her. She told him that the wars of the tribe were dis- pleasing to the Great Spirit, and they must make peace with the Sioux nation. When that was done, the great chief, ‘the Bear-that-grabs, must return to’ her. They sent out runners to the Sioux, and peace was declared between the tribes for the first time in one hundred years. je She then followed the great chief to the mountain in a westerly course, until he came to the Big Horn River, and where the rock was perpendicular he was to shoot three arrows, hitting the rock each time. The chief pursued his journey, and, arriving at the place told him by the white squaw, he discharged his arrows. ‘The first one struck the rock. The second flew over the mountain. The third was aischarged, and a terrible noise followed: the heavens were aglow with lightning ; the thunder shook the mountains ; the earth trembled, and the rocks were rent asunder ; and out of the fissure countless herds of buffalo came, filling the valleys and the hills. The hearts of the Indians were glad, and they ate and were merry, and returned thanks to the Great Spirit and to the good white woman. _The great fissure in the rocks is the canon of the Big Horn River. tron Bull avers, that when anything of note is about to befall the tribe the image of the white woman _ can be seen hovering over the peak of thé mountain at ‘Crazy Woman’s Fork.’ He says the Crows have never killed any of the whites, and his people say and believe ‘that they are treated by the Government agents worse than the tribes who give us all the trouble.’ In other words, because they are peaceable, we need not, as with others, to buy them off with presents. And they say we have taken some of their lands and given them to the Sioux, who were fighting and destroying the whites as often as they could. HAWAII. —_o—_— ry AWAIT, or Owhyhee, is one of the , Sandwich Islands, discovered by Captain Cook about one hundred years ago. They are- thirteen in number; of these eight are of im- 2" portance, Hawaii being the: largest, Oahu, with the capital, Honolulu, being the seat of - government, Hawaii itself is somewhat smaller than Yorkshire. It is chiefly famous for its two lofty, snow-capped peaks, ‘called Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa. There is also another lofty mount:in, called Hualalai, which is ten thousand feet above the sea: and near Mauna Loa . there is a frightful. ever-active volcano, called Kilauea; in fact, the whole island is voleanic, the huge moun- tains being made of lava and such things as are thrown up from the interior of the earth. It was in Hawaii that Captain Cook was murdered by the natives, who still point out the place where the famous sailor fell. It is a-rock convenient for landing, in a bay; hard by is the stump of a cocoa-nut tree, where he breathed his last. The top of this tree was sawn off and carried away by H. M.S. Zmogene, in 1837, and is treasured up in the Museum at Greenwich Hospital. The death of Cook happened as follows: On the night of Felruary 13th, 1779. one of the boats was stolen, and the captain went ashore the next day to recover it. The natives were alarmed, blows were struck and guns fired; the party from the ship found it needful to retreat, during which four marines were killed, and Cook struck down and overpowered. It is supposed his flesh was eaten, but his bones were recovered and buried in the sea with respectful sorrow. On the stump of the tree is inscribed :— NEAR THIS SPOT FELL CAPTAIN JAMES COOK, RN. WHO DISCOVERED THESE ISLANDS A.D. 1778, A silvery cloud is seen hanging over the crater of Kilauea by day and night. As evening closes in you do not lose sight of it, for it is illuminated frou beneath by the fiery waves of liquid lava, ever butting furiously. . ‘The cloud of the voleano,’ says Captain Wilkes, “lay before us like a pillar of fire to guide us on our way. This was_as he and his party began the ascent of Mauna Loa; they scrambled through dense ‘thickets, which ceased at about twenty-five miles from the ccast. They then entered on a very desolate country, from a vast plain of which towered up be- fore them the grand dome of Mauna Loa. Masses of clouds were floating round it, and throwing their sh.dows on its sides. Before climbing this great mountain, Captain Wilkes and his party visited the volcano, which he calls a black, ill-looking pit, in the midst of the plain. They walked to the edge over cracked ground, from which vapours issued; and the wind rushed by them as if it were sucked into the pit to feed the mighty fires within. : The captain was astonished at the size of the crater , big enough, he says, to hold New York. At the depth of 660 feet is a black level, which the party reached: and 384 feet below that simmers the ever- molten mass, in an oval cauldron of great size. After the acacia-trees were left behind, the country, at about 8000 feet above the sea level, was covered with low bushes, such as sandal wood. LExtensive caves were met with, in one of which several sick men were housed fora time: and all around was a waste of hard, metallic-looking ground. Water was scarce, the heat was great, and many of the party suffered from sickness and he. dache. As they neared the top of Mauna Loa the cold increased, and they had some very dis.greeable weather; the snow fell fast, and its weight broke down the canvas roof of their tent, whilst a hurricane whistled by in the darkness, scattering the eimbuis, and putting out the candles. : Christmas Day was spent by Captain Wilkes at the very top, about forty feet from the edge of an oid crater, which is now idle, put may not long remain so, The day was snowy, and the night which fol owed was the worst they had. It seemed as if hundreds of persons were beating the tents with clubs. The wind, too, made an awful howling over the edge of the crater. It was so cold that water in bags froze under the captain’s pillow. Luckily for the party, provisions arrived from the ship, sixty miles distant, and enabled the gallant Americans to stop long enough in their bleak station for tne purposes of ‘' observation. Surpassingly grand is the view from Mauna Loa. ‘T never can hope, savs Captain Wilkes, ‘ to witness so sublime a scene avain,’ He took an exact measurement of Mauna Kea, ‘the twin giant of the Pacific,’ as he calls it, and found its top was 193 feet above the place where he stood. The height of Mauna Kea was made out to be 13,656 feet, and therefore Captain Wilkes ate his Christmas pudding 13,463.feet.above his comrades iv their ships. What does our young readers think of such an undertaking as this? Does it not show us what perseverance will accomplish ? G. 8. Ourram Why I LELEEE eG Down in the Mines. Se ee ee ee SE ae ae OR TR ote ae SE Se gee eee Deen THE POITOU DONKEY. HIS is a French breed, as its name denotes, and is of very large size, with strong, thick legs, and some- what heavy head. The body is clothed with long woolly hair. Some have been known to stand nearly five feet high at the shoulder. They are mostly used for draught purposes. The one from which our drawing was taken is the property of C. Suther- land, and was exhibited for some time at the Crystal Palace, Sydenham. It was purchased in France for two hundred and fifty pounds. NICOLA PESCE, THE DIVER. spe word for a fish in the Italian language is ‘Pesce,’ and it was given to a man once because he was a wonderful swimmer and diver—a fish on two legs, in fact. His real name was Nicola, or Cola, and he lived about five hundred years ago. The most wonderful stories are told of his powers as a swimmer, many of which no doubt are untrue; but we may suppose he was the Captain. Webbe of his day, 1 most famous among men in his own particular ine. Some of his. feats we can believe, since Messrs. Webbe and Cavill swam across the Straits of Dover ; but other feats of his we must class amoug the mar- vellous. We can now readily imagine Nicola Pesce swimming from Sicily to the Lipari Islands, carrying a leathern bag with letters in it;—for Vuleano, the nearest of those islands, is not above twelve or fourteen miles from Cape Calava, and when once at Vulcano, the swimmer could easily paddle to Lipari, and thence to others in the group. But when we are told that Pesce passed hours under water, we cannot believe the story. Let us admit that he could remain a longer time under water than any one else in his day: we will grant ‘the Fish’ so much, and no more. The pearl-divers of Ceylon begin to learn their art whilst they are children, and they cannot continue ungler water longer than two minutes. Even this often causes the blood to flow from the ears and nos- - trils. The longest submersion on record was that of “a diver in 1797, who remained under the surface full six minutes ! There is a rocky promontory called Faro Point, where Sicily and Italy almost touch each other. Through this narrow channel the sea rushes violently, forming a whirlpool always dreaded by sailors. One day, Frederic, king of Sicily, asked Pesce if he dare dive into this awful gulf. Pesce drew back and shook his head. The king then took a cup of gold, and hurled it into the seething waters. ‘his glittering prize was too tempting for the diver, he darted in after the cup, and was lost to sight for some time. The king must, we think, have grown uneasy, and wished he had not been so wicked as to lure a brave man on to almost certa‘n destruction; but at lengtha great cheer arose on the shore as the hardy Pesce appeared again, triumphantly holding the cup in one hand, whilst he swam to the rocks with the other. Frederic was so pleased with the swimmer’s bold- ness and skill, that he added to the cup a purse full of gold. After this escape Pesce ought to have been content with his laurels ; but, unfortunately for him, he was tempted to try once more the horrors of the whirlpool. In the presence of a large concourse of | people, he dived again from the Point of Faro into the racing brine, but long indeed had the idle spectators to strain their eyes in looking for the white arms of the swimmer. He had dived his last dive, and had flung away his valuable powers in attempting to do a useless thing, too great for him. Sometimes those who have great powers grow exceedingly vain, and fancy themselves able to do everything. King Canute’s courtiers tried to make him as silly as themselves, by assuring him that he could rule the waves. To rebuke them, he did as they wished. Having placed a chair on the beach, he ordered the billows to retire, but they came on in their usual manner, and soon would have washed the king and his chair away. Pointing to the mighty waves, king Canute then read his followers a lesson of man’s littleness ; and to make his words sink deeper in their souls, he caused his crown to be laid up in the treasury, and would never wear it any more. G. 58.0. THE RAILWAY TRAIN. WY HE train it goes dashing and crashing along, G§ And the fields and the houses fly ; Towns, churches, and villages, bridges and trees, We pass wita a rush and a cry. The horses run past with their ails in the air, And the cows are in terrible fright ; But we laugh at their terror, for little we care So that home we reach safe to-night. Then, hurrah for the railway and holiday time, And sweet home with its peaceful sky ; And may all who now travel sleep happy to-night, And bid care and dull lessons good-bye. The railway it rushes, and hisses, and roars, And the engine runs screaming by ;’ Mamma puts her hands to her ears, and cries, ‘ Hush !’ But ‘Hurrah!’ say ‘Tommy and I. For we're off to the sea, and its jolly wide sands, And the bathing, and boating, and fun; And we hope to have supper on shrimps to-night, And arrive ere the set of sun. Then, hurrah for the railway and holiday time, And sweet home with its peaceful sky ; And may all who now travel sleep safely to-night, And as jolly as Tommy and I. M. H. F. Donne. SWS = SSS Hf S—-NE GURITS SSAXAQ_oo \ SSS = x NHL LA I NV“SSSSS li ap : Be 3 PS Pa a ae ae N SS \ —= (| ; —SS—SSSSaaS ESSA —————— ——<—— ——— | NS ——— eS a ee ZO <= S . The Village School. on T helieve, tr 1. Woodpecker, 38. Creeper. 2. Wryneck. 4, Nuthatch. OUR WILD BIRDS. VI. * HESE are six favourite birds, which you must go out into the gardens and fields to see, as none of them can bear cage-life. One of the reasons for this is that they all feed upon insects, which, of course, cannot be supplied to them in captivity. People have, ied to keep young cuckoos, but, happily, lo Fi yf yy CL tA) LG), without success; in fact, I have heard of 4 person who, trying the experiment, said he would sooner rear a baby single-handed than a cuckoo. The merry little fellow looking out of his nest in the hole of a tree, at the bottom of the picture, is the Wrvneck. Just above him, clinging to the trunk, is the Woodpecker. At his left, standing on the branch, is our old friend the Cuckoo. Exactly over its head is the Nuthatch; while highest of all is the Tree Creeper; and as for pretty little Jenny Wren—you must find her out for yourself ! Now let me talk a little about them. Four of them—the Woodpecker, Wryneck, Nuthatch, and ‘Treecreeper—get their living by hunting for the insects which hide in the bark of trees, and in many ways are very curiously fitted for climbing about and clinging to the trunks. The Woodpecker has a short, strong tail, which serves him as a support when he is at work, as you see in the picture. He is also pro- vided with a very long, narrow tongue, with which he probes the cracks and crannies of the bark, and draws out the insects which hide there. In this way all these pretty birds doa great deal of good; for many of the insects they live upon would do a great dval of harm. So you see God gives even little birds work to do, and has made it their greatest pleasure to do it. The Nuthatch gets its name from a way it has of tixing a nut in vhe bark of a tree, and then hacking at it with its beak, as with a hatchet, to get at the kernel. Lverybody loves Kittle Jenny Wren and her con- fiding ways. ‘She is almost as fond of creeping up to our houses and gardens for protection as Cock Robin hinself, and like him has a song for us almost all the year round. In one of Mr. Wvod’s charming books on Natural History there is a story of a kind lady who used to try and make friends with all the little birds that came to her garden. Thinking the Wrens would like a more comfortable shelter in winter than the cold trees, she provided a bedroom for them. This was a square box, lined with flannel, and with a very small round hole for a door. This was fixed on a branch, and the birds soon took advantage of it, their numbers seeming to increase nightly, until at last upwards of forty wrens would crowd into a box which did not seem capable of containing half that number. When asleep they were so drowsy that they would permit the lid of the box to be lified, and themselves to be handled, without attempting to move. How pretty they must have looked, all snuggling together so cosily! It is a pity that there are not more people who finda pleasure in making their little garden friends happy and comfortable. The last we come to is the Cuckoo, that strange bird—‘or but a wandering voice’—which we all listen for and are so pleased to hear each returning sping. We may well call cuckoos strange birds, as they neither pair nor have a home of their own, but lay their eggs in the nests of other birds. This seems unnatural; but as we do not know why God in- planted this instinct in their breasts we have no right to complain of it. And year by year the Cuckoo come; to us like a solitary prophet— a voice crying in the wilderness’—and unencumbered by those ties of domestic care which press upon other birds. You very likely know the old rhyme about the Cuckoo P ‘In April, Come he will. In May, He sings all day. In June, He’s out of tune. In July, He prepares to fly. In August, Go he must. And there are many pretty songs about the Cuckoo, which you are sure to.meet with, and the oldest of all English songs is said to be that beginning,— ‘Summer is a coming in, Loudly sing Cuckoo ; Birds and flowers around are seen Bespangled o’er with dew.’ THE LITTLE BROWN POT. A FABLE, (ae there was a very wise old man—so wise that his neighbours called him ‘ Mr. Dictionary.’ He could spell the longest words, and could speak séven janguages. People even said that he kmew how to make green cheese out of moonbeams. Lut this was. only a tale, and must not be believed. ; He did not seem to be a happy old man, however; for when any one talked to tin he used always to tell them how poor he was, and how hard it was for him, with all his learning, to earn a living. ‘If he was 1ich,’ he used to say, ‘he should read books until he was as wise as King Solomon, One day he made himself a pair of spectacles; which were so large and so good, that when he put them on he conld see and hear every one’s thoughts, and know what they were. He then went into his kitchen and put the spectacles on his nose. As soon as he looked through them, he heard such a sighing and groaning that he almost wished to take them off again. All the pots and pans seemed to be talking to themselves, and not one of them seemed to be in a good humour. First, there was Sukey, the kettle on the hob. He often used to think that she looked the picture of happiness; but now he heard her saying,— “Oh, dear! what a life thisis! I wish I was like Master Tea-urn, who stands there on the dresser, looking so proud. He has brass sides, and often gets polished, and then goes into the parlour to be admired. by the company; but Iam black like a nigger, and all because Mrs. Cook is too lazy to clean me. Oh, dear! How hotitis! Iam sure I shall faint!’ ‘Ugh!’ said the Tea-urn, shiveling. ‘What a draught comes from that door! I am sure I shall catch a cold, standing here without any clothes. I wish I had a warm, black coat, like Mrs. Kettle on the hob there’ Then Mr. Tongs began to groan, and said,— ‘Oh, I do feel so stiff! I can’t think why the man who made me did not put joints to my knees. It is so very unpleasant-to have such long legs and such high shoulders, especially when one wishes to be polite and to make a graceful bow.’ And then Mr. Tongs threw himself down from the fender, with a clatter that made the old man start and turn round to see what was the cause of such a noise. Miss Looking-glass then bezan to complain that she did not like to be stared at by servants. She thought she ought to be in the parlour, and be seen by the gentlefolk. ‘T had some fun, though, the other day,’ said she. ‘IT made Mrs. Cook think she had a black spot on her face, and she had to go upstairs and wash herself. rudely,’ And all the things in the kitchen were grumbling in the same manner. The Candlestick wished that the nasty grease from the candle would not run down his back, and spoil his brightness. The Candle thought himself too genteel to be put into a common brass candlestick: he should prefer china, or silver. The Saucepan-lids wished that the cook would not be always polishing them.: They shone quite enough now; and it would spoil their eyesight if they were made any brighter. The Clock said that he had to tick so loud that it made his head ache; the Spocns did not like to be suffocated by being shut up ina cupboard; the Cupboard wished it had not to carry so many things inside it; the Chairs wished that some people were not so fat and heavy; and, in fact, everything in the kitchen seemed to be quite miserable. At last the old man was tired of hearing all this grumbling, and was just taking off his spectacles, when he tooked round and saw on the hob, opposite te Sukey the kettle, a little brown pot. He had not noticed it before, and he waited for a few moments to hear what it would say. It did not speak, how- ever, and at last he said to it,— ‘How is it that you look so happy and cheerful, while every one else seems so wretched and dis- contented ?’ . ‘Oh!’ said the Little Pot, ‘I have no time to grumble. The cook put me here to warm, and so I am trying my best to get hot as fast asIcan. I mustn't talk any more, because talking let’s the steam escape. ‘Why,’ said the old man, ‘I declare that is just the rule for me! Iam always wishing that I was vich ‘and had nothing to do but read; but I think that, if I was to try rather harder to get my living, and to do the work God has set me, I should be much happier than even if I had plenty of money, and no work to do for it. That is a very good plan of yours, Little Brown Pot. Ill try it at once.’ The old man has kept his word, and ever since he has had no time to grumble. Young folk! cannot you and I follow his pees R. Y. N. It served her right for staring at me so A CURIOUS STONE. ‘i an Oxford museum may be seen a strange stone. It is composed of carbonate of lime, and was taken from a pipe which carries off drain-water in a colliery. The stone consists of alternate layers of black and white, so that it has a striped ‘appearance. This was caused in the following way. When the miners were at work, the water which ran through the pipe contained a good deal of coal dust, and so left a black deposit in the pipe. But when no work was going on—as, for instance, in the night—the water was clean, and so a white layer was formed. In time these deposits quite filled the pipe, and it was there- fore taken up. Then it was found that the black and white layers formed quite a calendar. Small streaks alternately black and white showed a week, and then came a white streak of twice the usual size. This was Sunday, during which there was of course no work for twenty-four hours. Lut in the middle’ of one week there came a white streak of twice the usual size. On inquiry it was found that on that dav a large fair had been held in the neighbourhood, and no work had been done at the colliery. Every change in the ordinary course of work had left its mark on this strange stone, to which has been given the title of ‘The Sunday Stone.’ A. R, B. “WHAT O’CLOCK Is IT?? HEN I was a young lad my father one day called me to him, that he might teach me to know what o’clock it was. He told me the use of the minute~finger and the hour- hand, and described to me the figures on the dial-plate, until I was perfect in my part. No sooner was I quite master of this knowledge than I set off scampering to join my com- panions in a game of marbles; but my father called me back again. ‘Stop, Willie” said he; ‘I have something more to tell you, : Back again I went, wondering what else I had got to learn; for I thought I knew all about the clock as well as my father did. ‘Willie,’ said he, ‘I have taught you to know the time of day. I must now teach you the time of your life.’ I waited rather impatiently to hear how my father would explain this further lesson, for I wished to go to my marbles. ‘The Bible,’ said he, ‘ describes the years of a man to be threescore-and-ten, or fourscore years. Now, life is very uncertain, and you may not live a single day longer; but if we divide the fourscore years of an old man’s life into twelve parts, like the dial of a clock, it will give almost seven years for every figure. When a boy is seven years old, then it is one ¢’clock of his life: and this is the case with you. When you reach fourteen years old, it will be two o'clock with you; and when at twenty-one, it will be three o'clock; at twenty-eight, it will be four oelock ; at thirty-five, it will be five o’clock; at forty-two, it will be six o’clock; at forty-nine, it will he seven o'clock, should it please God to spare your life, In this manner you may always know the time of your tife, and looking at the clock may remind you of it. My great-grandfather, according to this calcu- lation, died at twelve o’clock, my grandfather at eleven, and my father at ten. At what hour you or I shall die, Willie, is only known to Him who knoweth all things.’ Seldom since then have I heard the inquiry, ‘What o'clock is it?’ or looked at the face of a clock, without being reminded of the words of my father. ARE v . Xi r Xi ‘ea Ni \ ie i Pa Na, And Tam sure, if he should live, This cottage by the ditch will give Fre ten more summers deck the plain, Another landsman to the main. Dog earrying his Master’s Glove. TOUSY. E have a beautiful long-haired little dog called Tousy, which lately had a pup. This queer little bantling was jumping and tumbling about the green one day, when a lady entered followed bya dog. Tousy made a ferocious assault on the four-footed stranger, by way of defending her young, and our magnificent white cat, which was sitting on the door- step, seeing or supposing that his friend Tousy was in danger, made two immense bounds and alighted on the back of the intruder, whose eyes would have been scratched out but for prompt rescue. The mutual affection of these two animals is unbounded, and. yet we hear human disagreements compared to cat-and- dog life! These animals, and many others, are capable of the most devoted affection to their young, and to their mates, and frequently teach us lessons of kindness to one another. TRUE AND TRUSTY. —o—— 8 CFIW days before the Jura Ee sailed with the navvies ae ‘for the Crimea, two men -asked to see me (says Miss 4 ‘Z Marsh, in her English <° Hearts & English Hands); and with some hesitation and fear, ‘lest it should be thought taking advan- tage of kindness,’ they re- quested the loan of haif a sovereign each, to enable them to go down mto the country to take leave of tleir wives and children. The night before the vessel sailed, both came to the Rectory to repay the loan. ‘ Are you sure, my friends, that; you can afford to give it back P’ ‘Quite sure: and thank you, ma’am.’ ‘But what have you left for your lodging to-night and breakfast to-morrow ?’” ‘Oh, we've paid our lodging! all’s square.’ ‘But for breakfast P’ A moment’s pause ensued; then came the cheerful answer,— ‘ With the good supper we’ve just made here, and the good dinner we shall get aboard ship, we: don’t want no breakfast.’ Of course, that arrangement was not permitted to stand. But when we met on board ship we found that, whilst other men had been laying out from ten to twenty shillings a-piece in warm vests, John and Jams had been obliged to do without them, to enable them to repay their debts. So, there they stood on deck, in that biting cold, with nothirg warmer than a slop over their shoulders, and with small chance of having the warm clothing, provided by Government, given out for some days. It was not to be borne. So, early in the day, we despatched a messenger for four warm knitted vests from London. Five o'clock came: the darkness of a December night was deepening. Our la-t farewell words were said, i and the last man’s hand had been shaken. There was no longer any reason for remaining; yet our messenger had not returned. There was plainly some mistake; and the ship would, probably, sail before the parcel conld now reach our friends. The colder blew the night breezes about us as we drove through Deptford, the more unbearable was the thought of these two men suffering from their high and delicate sense of honour towards us. We drove from sh»p to shop, before anything like the articles of clothing we wanted could be found. At last, at the fifth shop which we searched, they were obtained. But who was to take them to the ship? No shopman could be spared. Beneath a lamp in the street stood a group of boys. Its iight fell on a face which seemed to introduce the sort of messenger I desired. The story was told him. ‘Now, my boy, we are strangers, and I do not want to know your name or where you live, nor any clue to either. You might take these vests and make twenty shillings upon them, or give them away to your father and brothers if youchose. I should never send the puliceman after you. But my confidence in the honour of Inglish boys, which stands so high now, would be broken down. And those nobly honest men would suffer, and might take cold and go into a consumption and die, and their wives and children break their hearts about them. The boy’s eyes flashed under the lamplight, and snatching the parcel he said,— ‘Trust me. I’m the boy for it.’ Eighteenpence happened to be all the money we had with us, after paying for the vests. I told him how sorry I was for this; but that it would pay his boat each way, and he would have sixpence and a happy heart to lie down with at night. ‘It’s plenty. Father's a waterman; I shall get his boat for nothing. Alls right!’ And off he ran. A note had been enclosed in the parcel to one of — the officers with whom I had had conversation, re- questing him to send me one line by post, that night or next morning, to say that the parcel had reached the men for whom it. was meant. The next day passed, and the next, but no letter came from the Jura. We read in the Times that she had sailed on Thursday morning. The day posts of Saturday arrived, but brought no news of the parcel. My trust failed. ‘My boy is dishonest,’ I said, ‘and my confidence in human honour can never be the same again. By the last post on Saturday evening came a note from the officer alluded to, stating that about seven o’clock on Wednesday evening, a boy had brought a parcel on board, and had requested permission to deliver it to the two men, whose names he gaye, in the presence of the captain of the ship. Having discharged his duty, the last sound heard amidst the splashing of the oars, as he left the ship’s side, was the shout,— ‘ Tell that ’ere lady I have kept my word, and the jackets was in time.’ All honour to the Inglish boy who sustained my right to trust my brothers, young or old! The world is not so wide but we shall meet again, I hope; and meet when we may, the trusty and the trusting will be friends. ; Z 2. WATURAL SCENES. No. L—A STREAM, RYSTAL streams are beautiful things, too often poisoned and defiled by human passions. The little rill that drains the heathery knol! above must sometimes carry to the river and the sea the blood that crieth unto God. Every reader of history has heard of the Granicus, the Allia, the Bannockburn, the ‘Iser rolling rapidly” What a fierce struggle was that on the banks of the Phrygian Granicus, when Alexander (called the Great) and the mighty Persian host met and wrestled for the price of victory! When the Greek came to the river-side he saw the Persian banners displayed across the running water, the banners of a hundred thousand men! Alexander was advised by his captains to wait and refresh his troops. i ‘Wait?’ shouted the earnest warrior; ‘not I! It would be a shame to let a rivulet like this bar my way.’ He called it a rivulet, in scorn, though it was wide and deep, and had high, craggy banks. ‘No,’ said the hero, ‘let us attack them directly, while they are yet alarmed by our sudden arrival.’ Alexander then called for his horse, and bade his nobles follow him. The trumpets sounded, and the army raised a shout of joy. The Greek leader sprang into the Granicus with thirteen troops of horse, and as he advanced across the rapid river in the face of the Persian arrows, and nearly covered with waves, he seemed a madman to do such a thing; but he held on, and gained the banks, slippery and dangerous. There hé was obliged to fight hand-to-hand, and he would have been killed by the battle-axe of Rosaces, a relation ‘of Darius, had not his friend Clitus killed Rosaces with one blow of his sword, and so saved his sovereign’s life. The Persians were beaten, and the blood of twenty thousand brave men flowed into the river, and made it famous unto this day. The Allia, too, ran crimson one July day, long ago, when the savage Gauls were approaching Rome. Vainly did the citizens bustle out to meet and check their ferocious invaders. They were led by brave tribunes, but they were an untrained mob, and their leaders had not one plan. Soon were the Romans beaten and put to flight, and Rome was sacked and burnt. This battle beside the little Allia was fought when the moon was full, and about the summer solstice, and the day was called ‘the Day of Allia,’ an unlucky day, for many hundreds of years afterwards. And what of Bannockburn? That great. battle, too, happened on a summer day, when the thorn was ‘white with blossom, and the rivulet murmured sweetly onward to the sea, under laughing skies, and among green meadows. It was on a Monday morning when the mighty English army approached in splendid array. The Scottish patriots, who, under the heroic Bruce, were about to lay down their lives for freedom, calmly awaited Edward’s host. We need not go into the details of that famous conflict. Suffice to say it ended in a total defeat for the Inglish. Two hundred knights and many of the chief nobles were slain, and King Edward escaped with difficulty, being pursued as far as Dunbar, where he found refuge in a castle. Then there is the Rubicon, a little stream, but famous. === N) LAE Ao NS es. \ Oo LANA Ne ZA SS \ SN . \« \ \\ ‘ . ; WN A \S \ ‘\ SY NYS i SS \ \ NAS iy Wn \ A Dog’s Instinct. By Harrison Wetr. THE BROOK. WAIF of the dews and the showers, At the mountain’s sweet breast nursed, Looked over the ledges shyly, A scared, wild thing at first. Below, the enamored valley Beckoned and waiting stood, Till the brook’s feet, silver-sandalled, Stole down to the maple wood. Lilies and slender grasses Hand in hand trooped with you, While the slow-footed ferns and mosses Rested, but followed you too. Cooled by the upland breezes, Yet holding the slumberous clow Of the sonth sun-slopes in your bosom, Child of the fire and the snow! It was well, since the valley entreated An Eden, to crown you its Eve; That, accepting its sweet adulation, You love, and love’s guerdon receive. oe Ssh vw The Brook. ONCH UPON A TIME. ae is the way all the fairy stories used to’ begin when I was a boy,— “Once upon a time.” It does not need more than a look at. this charming picture to see that the little girl who is reading so industriously to the others has found a very entertaining fairy story. Something about giants and magic swords, and wonderful palaces of silver and ebony, no doubt, where Prince Prettiboy rescues the beautiful princess and performs prodigies of valor in slaying the wicked old giant. The ab- sorbing interest of the story is shown in the suspense of the would-be seamstress, who sits with needle poised instead of gliding through the fabric. as it should do, if she were diligently at work; and in the listening attitudes of the two other children, one with the doll and the other with the little toy cart. Even the doll in the chair seems to be listening with creat interest to the thrilling tale, which must be no less exciting than “ Jack and the Bean Stalk,” or any other of the delightful stories which childhood never tires of, and even “ grown-ups” can find en- joyment in. ; Virs. WINSLOW’S SOOTHING SYRUP | Should always be used when children are cutting _} duces natural, quiet sleep by relieving the child from “f/ pain, and the little cherub awakes as “bright as a button.” It is very pleasant totaste. It soothes the ‘child, softens the gums, allays all pain, relieves wind, regulates the bowels and is the best known remedy for diarrhoea, whether arising from teething or other causes. Twenty-five cents a Bottle. : Be sure and ask for Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, ahd take no other kind, For Sale by all Druggists Iu every part of the world. SWEET AS A ROSE, With skin as fair as a priceless pearl, and cheeks like the blush of early summer twilight, a young girl bursts upon our vision and compels ADMIRATION. How different it would be if herskin was covered with pimples and her complexion marred by an UGLY SALLOW TINCE. Such defects cannot exist when that indispensable ' article to every young lady’s toilet, GLENN'S SULPHUR SOAP ‘is in daily use. This potent, but harmless purify- ing agent banishes blotches and unsightly erup- tions from the skin, and makes the complexion as beautiful as the pearly pink of the rarest sea shell. For Sale by all Druggists. -Glenn’s Soap will be sent by mail, for 30 cents for one cake, or 75 cents for three cakes, by C. N. CRITTENTON, Sole Proprietor, 115 Fulton Street, > New York. : : _y teeth. It relieves the little sufferer at once; it pro- gor oe the WEIOOPING COUGEZ CURED BY Vaporizer and Cresolene Page's (70 and {72 Wilti:m Street, New York. Is made only from the Finest Vegetable } Oils, no animal fats whatever being used. Its perfect purity recommends it to persons of most fastidious tastes, while its freedom from any » excess of alkali, and the addition of ingredients of an emollient nature makes it invaluable to all who would keep the skin soft and beautiful, and makes the name “Velvet-Skin” peculiarly appropriate. Pleasantly perfumed ; no coloring matter added and no bleaching agents employed. Price 25 Cents. Send 15 cents for trial cake or 30 cents and get also a box of Velvet-Skin Powder. Wee oe COUGH is a very distressing disease, and unless checked by some effectual remedy will hang on for three months or longer. It not unfrequently proves fatal. It is not easily controlled, but the inhala- tion (breathing) of Vaporized Creso- ‘lene will quite uniformly stop it in from six to ten days, The only effec- tive way to use this remedy is by means of Page’s Vaporizer, which can readily be procured of druggists, with the requisite quantity of Cresolene. Treated in this way, the danger and suffering usually extended to months is shortened to a few days, at a trifling expense and but little trouble, The fumes of Cresolene are also of great value in the treatment of croup, diph- theria, and scarlet fever, preventing the spreading of these contagious and much-to-be-dreaded diseases. It is also a great relief in Asthma. Vaporizer complete, including a bottle of Cresolene, $1.50. Ask your Druggist for it. W. H. Schieffelin & Co. Sole Agents, The Children Rejoice. And Why ? - Papa’s Collars fit so well that he Isn’t ever cross when he tries to Put one on. E Doesn’t scold us Children now. “That Makes Mamma Pleasant. The Children Are Right. The ZLzxzexe Reversible Collars and Cuffs are the Best ever - made. Manufactured in all Fashionable Styles, and for sale at Gentlemen’s Furnishing Goods Stores, Everywhere. SF If not found when asked for, send SIX CENTS for a Collar and pair of Cuffs. Name Size. The Catalogue Sent with them will give full information. THE REVERSIBLE COLLAR CO. BOSTON, MASS. Lnteresting R eading for any one wishing to safely increase his Income as well as add to his Capital, is to be found in the Monthly Circulars issued by the Winner Investment Co, _ These will be mailed FREE to any address on epiicecion’ Thé SIX and EIGHT per cent. investments in BONDS and SYNDICATES offered by this Company are unequalled by any in absolute se- curity. Seven years successful record without a pinzie case of loss, KANSAS CITY INVESTMENTS EXCLUSIVELY. “FARM MORTGAGES NOT HANDLED, — HE WINNER INVESTMENT C0. = Capital Full Paid, $1,000,000. p< WILLIAM H. PARMENTER, ‘General Agent, BO State St., Boston, 50 & 51 Times pe N. Y. City. Wie PINAULT; Chemist, | LATE OF PARIS, - French Toilet i) Requisiies, _ 53 Temple PI., - Boston, - - Mass. Among our principal preparations, which ; have been used by the i Eiiropean Aristocracy, J and by the Society ETD soplé of America for half a century, are: — _ Antephelis Antiwrinkle (invis- Creme Rafraichissante removes ible.) wrinkles, freckles, etc. Rejuvenateur au Quinine strengthens the hair and "prevents baldness, Pinusine, a tar compound for women, used and endorsed by private medical institutions and hospitals. Veloutine # powder. Creme of Red Roses, for the lips, Natural Incarnat, for the cheeks, : ee only indetectible article of its nd. Satinee, invisible Send for Circular, or enclose 4 Cents for Postage for Free Sample of our fine Pulverized ALMOND SOAP. MILLION SENSIBLE WOMEN ana Children. These WAISTS conform to the NATURAL BEAUTY of the human form as GOD made it, and arenot made after “French” patterns i B E- Ss MATERIALS throughout. COMFORT, BEST FOR ) WEAR anv & FINISH, RING BUCKLE art HIP for Hose Supporters. TAPE-FASTENED pon # ‘Sounoz RE: Won't Pull Off § CORD-EDGE BUTTON rR z HOLES-won’t wear ous AAG For Sale by : LEADING RETAILERS Fo Or mailed FREE on receipt 13 of price, by ¢ 116 trated circular. a FERRIS BROS., stmt, S41 Brenawar® - MARSHALL ee & CO., ficago, Wertern Agents. SIX NECE SITIES FOR THE . TABLE. a <2 I, The Franco-American Food Co,’s Soups, Send i4 cents to pay postage for sample can, your choice. f AMERICAN Foop Co., 45 West Broadway, New York. ie Shrewsbury Tomato Ketchup, “ Always delicious.”” . E. C, ee & Co,, New York. Drink IE oS Tea FOR THE COOK. IV, Fleischlan’s Compressed Yeast, Sold everywhere, Y, Wm. D, Naphey’s & Co,’s “Pearl Brand” PURE LEAF LARD, For the Health of the Household. VI, The Sherman King Vaporizer, Purifier of Air, Destroyer of Odor, Safeguard of Health, Chicopee Falls, Mass, 2S Capetteatie Pure. ~ Quality Never varies. FRANcO- ge eos is FOR FATHERS TO INSURE IN OF HARTFOFRS, CONN. SS or: Lee money norethers as che give as mucn for the honey, Bither for Fatnily: Projection oi davustment of Savin a BEST “te STARCH | Py ae o all. in), fae 5. Govprnnot See ae es UE bof anton : ‘ oo have the