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Lora

 
 
 
 
FOR AFTERNOON READERS

GIMS OF LITERATURE AND ART

 

WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS

BOSTON
LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY
CoPpyrIGHT, 1896,
BY
LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY.

All rights reserved.

— ss
Se J. PARKHILL & CO., PRINTERS
BOSTON
  
 

LEASE, sir, can I take out ‘Sanford and Merton’ ?”

My. Peters, the librarian of the new Belfield library,
looked over the top of his spectacles in his absent-
minded way.

The fact was, the volumes were not yet ready for
circulation, it being necessary to hire some one to cover
them. The girl who had spoken seemed about thirteen

years old, and she blushed with timidity as she made her request. He noticed
her more attentively.

She wore a calico gown, faded, but carefully starched and ironed, long
pantalets, and a green gingham sunbonnet— which she had taken off and was
swinging nervously by the string. Her glossy black hair was combed straight
back from her forehead, and cut squarely off at the nape of her neck. It was
plain that she was not one of the village girls, with whom clipped or “ shingled”
hair, and longer gowns without pantalets, had been for some time in vogue;
she evidently belonged to one of the outlying “ districts,’ where change seldom
came and the same mode of dress prevailed indefinitely.

“Whose girl are you?” Mr. Peters asked, with interest.

‘Mr. Prior’s. Jam Hetty Prior, sir.”

“T thought likely. Well, now, I don’t like to refuse you the book, you’ve
come so far. Over two miles, isn’t it? Here. But promise you'll cover it;
they’re all to be covered before going out.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hetty’s dark eyes expressed more than her timid words.
She clasped the story-book close, and started away.

She had not been gone ten minutes when Mr. Peters exclaimed :

“Why didn’t I hire that girl to cover the books? She looked just like the
one to be glad of the work. But I’m always behind time, like the man who
remembered he’d got to go to mill when he'd let the horse out to pasture.”

At the old-fashioned farmhouse to which she came, Hetty had scarcely time
to speak of the librarian’s kindness, when her mother called to her:
HETTY’S RED GOWN.

“Come right here, Hetty! There’s something nice to tell you if ’twarn’t
for the lack of a gown. You've be’n ast to Susan Lowe’s party for a week
from to-day.”

“ Susan Lowe’s party!” repeated Hetty in wonder

“J s’pose it’s come about through the new minister’s boardin’ with the
Lowes. He’s a lib’ral-minded man ; I heard him at the Sunday-school Conven-
tion. They say he’s a master fence for bringin’ folks together.”

“Tf I only could go!” said Hetty, with a longing desire to attend, for once,
a village girl’s party.

“T could make you a white apurn,” said Mrs. Prior. “ Your father’s got a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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‘6 PLEASE SIR, CAN I TAKE OUT SANFORD AND MERTON ?”?

fine shirt that’s givin’ out, and you cous have it’s well’s not. But what to do
for a gown?”

Hetty put her book on the table. Its fascination had departed.

“Tf your Aunt Abigail Sage had only sent some things this year,’ went on
Mrs. Prior. “But she’s like the laylock bush by the gate, for giving. One
year it will be all a-clusterin’ over with flowers, an’ the next not a bunch on it.”

“QO, dear!” sighed Hetty.

“You might try pickin’ blackberries,” said her mother; “though father
AHETTYS RED GOWN.

says the village folks swarm the pastur’ like crows. Come in kerridges,
sometimes.”

Hetty cast one look at her book, and then went for her tin pail and little
dipper. She found the rocky pasture had been well gleaned, as her mother had
said. Yet she staid, gathering what few berries she could.

One of the pickers drew near her. Hetty knew the girl very well. It was
Ann Pellet, and Hetty always tried to avoid her. Her family was not looked upon
as very respectable. She was dressed in the style of the village girls, although
ina shabby and tawdry way. Hetty particularly noticed a string of green glass
beads she wore on her neck — which looked as if it had been seldom washed.
She was dark, like Hetty, but she had a secretive expression, very different from
Hetty’s frank innocent one. Hetty had never forgotten the time she left her
pail filled with blackberries beside the stone wall, and came back -to find it
empty, and Ann hurrying home.

“Halloo!” called Ann. “Berries are skurce, ain’t they? Mother ‘greed
to let me have all the money I could earn pickin’’em; but I guess she’s safe
sayin’ it.”

Hetty’s only reply was to look up a moment. She resumed her search for
berries.

“You needn't feel so big,” Ann snapped out. “ With your long pantalets
and short hair, you're a perfect gawk. The girls all say so.”

With this speech she darted away.

Hetty remained in the pasture till after sundown, busy with other than
cheerful thoughts. ;

“TY can’t pick enough,” she said dejectedly to her mother, as she showed the
meager quart of berries she had gathered.

“Tt’s no matter, for you've got a chance you'd never dream of. Jes’ after
you'd gone, Mr. Peters come down— there’s the marks of his kerridge wheels
‘fore the door— an’ he ast if you could be spared couple o’ days to cover them
lib’ry books. Said you looked keerful an’ tidy.”

“O, mother! if I could buy a pretty red gown — could have it long, without
pantalets —I should be so happy. And my hair shin Jed.”

“Heavens an’ earth!” cried Mrs. Prior; “as if your father’d hear to sech a
thing. "Bout your hair, I mean. He sets astore on’t. He’s said time ’n’ agin
them shingled heads looked wuss ’n’ plucked geese. He mentioned the other
day ’twas ‘bout time your hair was let to grow long.”

“ Mother,” exclaimed Hetty excitedly, “I couldn’t have it grow long. I
do so want it shingled like the village girls.”

“Bout the gown an’ pantalets,” Mrs. Prior said reflectively, “mebbe ’t’d
be a good plan, now you're beginnin’ to grow up.”

Taking a little comfort in this partial concession, Hetty busied herself cover-
ing the library book. She took great care in view of her new duties.

 
HETTY OS *RED (GOVAN.

“That's done nice,” her mother commended.

“Tf I could just have my hair shingled,” sighed poor Hetty.

“What's that ’bout shinglin’ hair?” said Mr. Prior, coming in; “’fore I
see one 0’ my gals sheared that way I’ll put her in a ’syluin.”

The way he shut the door showed Hetty it would be well not to approach
the subject again. She turned to her book for consolation.

At the close of her work in the library, Hetty brought home a two-dollar
bill. It seemed a large sum in the farmer’s family, where little ready money
circulated.

The next morning Hetty went to pick blackberries with her friend, Angie
Holmes. As they rested on a big rock, Hetty told how she had earned the
money for a new red gown, and the good time she expected to have at Susan
Lowe’s party. Neither of the girls had noticed that Ann Pellet had slyly drawn
near, until she called out :

“You'll make a nice show with that head o’ hair! Susan Lowe’ll be awful
proud on you ’n’ your red gown.”

The two girls jumped up and ran away. The disagreeable Ann laughed
maliciously. She knew her words would rankle in Hetty’s heart.

In the afternoon Mr. Prior harnessed for a trip to the village. He would
exchange some produce, and Hetty could make the purchase of ber new gown.
Mrs. Prior was anxious to accompany her daughter, but her best gown had ceased
to be presentable in the village.

“ You must be sure and get a good quality of stuff,’ she urged ey cand
Mr. Lowe must warrant it not to fade. Pick an’ choose with care.’

“ Your mother must have a new gown soon. It must come by hook or by
crook,” Mr. Prior said, after they drove away.

He was a man of few words. This was, in fact, the only remark he made on
the drive.

It helped to make more distinct a thought that had visited Hetty more than
once. Why should she have a new gown when her mother needed one even
more? Ought she to buy it? Could she be happy with it, even at Susan
Lowe’s party ?

She shut her eyes tight, a way she had when any inward struggle was going
on. That her mother had promised to make it as she wished did not seem to
weigh in the balance in her own favor. She had already had a bright thought
of putting her hair into curl papers the night before the party, so that neither
Ann Pellet nor any other girl could laugh at her. Still, this happy settling of
her difficulties could not blind her to her mother’s need—her mother who
never seemed to think of herself in her care for others.

They reached the store, and Hetty was yet undecided.

“Show my gal some stuff for a gown,” said Mr. Prior to the storekeeper ;
and then left to attend to his own business.
HET EY S RED GOWAN.

“Red all-wool delaine,” said Hetty, in a low voice.

“‘ Here’s a very nice piece you can have for forty cents a yard. I have been
selling it for fifty,” said the storekeeper.

It was a beautiful shade, and Hetty’s eyes grew bright in admiration. As
she tested its fineness and softness she knew she needed not to repeat her
mother’s precautions. She had not supposed her two dollars could buy anything
so lovely. She was about to say, “ Cut me off five yards of it,’ when her eyes
fell on a piece of dark-gray cloth close beside her.

What a suitable gown for her mother that would make! How well it would
look on her, and how grateful she would be to Hetty! She stammered:

“ How much — what does that cost a yard?”

“That gray? It’s a remnant — seven and a half yards. I'll sell it for two
dollars. It’s a great bargain.”

Hetty pushed the red cloth aside ; she said, choking back her feelings :

“Pll take — the gray.”

“Not the red? That'll make the prettiest gown for you. It’s an extra
nice piece.”

EoBIN senor:

Mr. Lowe, who saw plainly that she wanted the red, was drawing it toward
her, but she turned away from it. So he folded the gray cloth and wrapped it
up, and Hetty waited at the store door, hardly knowing whether to be glad or
sorry for what she had done. Once, thinking of the beauty of the red cloth,
she was almost ready to go in and ask for an exchange ; but love for her mother
_ triumphed, and she began to find more comfort in the thought of the pleasure
in store for her.

“Tve got to go ’round to Pellet’s and collect last month’s milk bill,” said
Mr. Prior, as Hetty placed her bundle on the top of his numerous packages in
the back of the wagon.

They had difficulty in rousing any one in the house, and Mr. Prior was
obliged to get out and go to the barn to learn if any of the men folks were
there.

Ann now appeared, and stood laughing at Hetty from the doorstep.

Hetty was determined not to speak to her, and kept her gaze bent steadily
before her. She expected to hear Ann’s cutting gibes, but for once she was
saved them. Ann went around behind the wagon, and Hetty heard her go into
a little shed and shut the door.

Mr. Prior came back to say that no one seemed to be on the place.

“Ann’s just gone into the shed,” said Hetty.

“What'd she know ’bout the money?” said Mr. Prior crossly ; and they
drove away.

When Hetty reached home, and her father brought the purchases into the
house, what was the consternation of both to find the new gown missing.
HETTY’S RED GOWN.

“ How could it ’a’ rolled off them bags ’n’ things?” said Mr. Prior. “I see
you put it on ’em safe.”

Hetty thought of Ann, but it was impossible to believe she would commit so
bold a theft. She could not bring herself to suggest it to her parents.

They inspected the packages again, and Mr. Prior went back over the road
for some distance to look for the lost article.

Hetty had no heart to tell her mother of the different purchase she had
made. Mrs. Prior had seemed on the point of speaking of some agreeable
matter, but withheld it to condole with Hetty.

“ Wal, I do declare!” exclaimed Mr. Prior, at sight of the tears on Hetty’s
cheeks — an unusual thing, for she had much self-control —“if the child ain’t
a-takin’ on bad. S’pose I don’t realize how much her mind was sot on that
gown.”

“Come, git into the wagon,” he added, “an’ T’ll drive ye back to town ’n’
git your hair shingled. It’s the next best thing, I s’pose.”

“Yes, she shall, mother,” he said, with a laugh
at the woman’s exclamation of “I never!” “If it
takes my last cent, she shall, an’ if she comes out with
her head lookin’ like the field after I’ve fired it over
in the spring.”

Hetty needed no second bidding, but came out
drying her tears and smiling.

“We'll keep an eye for the bundle,” said her
father; but Hetty felt certain that it would not be
found.

“‘ She don’t look so bad now, does she, mother ?”’ observed
Mr. Prior when they had returned, and Hetty took off her
sunbonnet.

“She looks reel prutty,” replied her mother, in
admiration.

When Hetty saw herself in the glass she was almost con-
soled for the loss of her gown. No one could think her old-
fashioned and singular now; she looked quite as well as the
village girls.

Two or three times Hetty set out to tell her mother
about the gray gown she had purchased instead of the red
one, but she had an ashamed feeling that her mother would think her tears
were partly on account of the sacrifice. She noticed Mrs. Prior hastily putting
away a box that looked suspiciously like one of Aunt Abigail Sage’s gifts.

When Hetty came down the next morning her mother said:

“T sot up late last night cutting you out a white apurn, an’ there’s a blue
ribbon to tie it with behind. I can make a fair-lookin’ gown for you out o-the

      

 
  
   
   
  

SSS

  

‘‘LAND 0” GOSHEN, HETTY!”?
fie el aa Samet 2 DERG OUGN

back breadths o’ my summer gingham, if you think you'll be willin’ to wear it.
to the party, Hetty?”

But the girl’s lips quivered.

Just then Mr. Prior opened the door.

“Land o’ Goshen, Hetty! ef I hain’t found your store bundle right on the
front step this mornin’. Must ’a’ ben settin’ there all night from the dew on it.
Who in the ’varsal world fetched it back, I wonder ?”

Mrs. Prior hastened to open it. “ Why —whatever’s this?”

“JT thought — you needed — it most, mother.”

Hetty abruptly left the room.

“Tf that ain’t jes’ like the child! Good as gold, she is. Now, father, you
harness up quick’s a flash, an’ take it back an’ tell Mr. Lowe to exchange it for
the pruttiest red one in the store.”

Here Hetty, having overheard, called in muffled tones :

“‘ Please, mother! don’t, father! I ain’t crying —for the red one.”

“You be still, Hetty. You go right along, father. Hain’t your Aunt.
Abigail Sage sent me an almost bran’-new black gown, which I couldn’t a-bear
to speak on’t to you, thinkin’ your red one lost? Hurry up, father! 2

Hetty came from her hiding-place, smiling through her tears.

“Tl jes make that gown up less ’n no time,” el Mrs. Prior, as she hustled
about to procure her patterns.

“ But who do you s’pose fetched it back ?”

That question was never answered ; and it always remained a surmise that.
Ann Pellet took it for Hetty’s red gown, and returned it when she found it only
a plain gray one for the mother.

“ Wal, if she did take it, your thoughtfulness for me saved you your gown,
Hetty,” said Mrs. Prior, when at last her daughter confided the secret to her ;
“ but I guess I wouldn’t think on her that way ’thout more proof.”

Mrs. Prior was as good as her word in making the gown. It received its:
last stitch in ample time for the party. It was tried on and pronounced “ jes’ as
nice a fit as a dressmaker’s.”

«“ Them styles are improvin’, after all,” observed Mrs. Prior, as Hetty, all
smiling and happy, was about to start for Susan Lowe’s. “ An’ who ever would
believe she’d look so well in shingled hair an’ without pantalets? Now you
be careful, child, an’ spread your handkerchief in your lap when they pass
round the cake. Mis’ Lowe’s cake is awful rich, an’ you might spot your new
gown. I know, ’cause I tasted some at the Sunday-school Convention.”

Abby M. Gannett.

 
FROM ZC ORDOV ATT OO CATH ANG

(First Paper.)
THE BRIDGE THAT SPANNED THE WORLD.

NE day,in years long gone by, an anxious-faced
stranger walked the streets of Cordova. The
old Moorish capital was now a Spanish city. The king
and queen of Spain held there both court and camp;
upon the palace of the caliphs floated the flag of Spain ;
above the buttressed tower of the mosque of a thou-
A MULETEER, sand columns, which the pious Caliph Abderrahman
long before had built, gleamed now the golden cross.

From palace to cathedral, from camp to court, the anxious-faced stranger
wandered, and men said he was a foolish Genoese sailor with some absurd idea
about finding Cathay, the land of gold and spices.

But one day, suddenly, the camp and court of King Ferdinand and Queen
Isabella broke away from Cordova and set themselves before the walls of
‘Granada, the last unconquered city of the Moors.

Thither the stranger followed it; there again did he renew his solicitations
and his pleas. And how at last he succeeded we all know. For that anxious-
faced waiter upon royalty at the Spanish court and camp was Christopher
Columbus, the Genoese.

Three years ago, as Commissioner for the Columbian Exhibition, I went to
Spain to study the beginnings of American history. The central figure of that
history is Christopher Columbus. I shall ask you to now revisit with me all the
most important places identified with the great Genoese after he became in-
teresting as the man with a purpose. From Cordova to Cathay, we shall follow
him. We shall take him at the outset of his career of discovery and follow him
‘to the end. I am, you will see, assuming that Columbus is the hero of America’s
initial appearance upon the stage of history. In doing this I do not deny the
great Norsemen anything; I only assert that the Italian made his discovery
known, while the first visitors did not; and through Columbus the way was
‘opened whereby America was peopled with those who brought with them the
blessings of civilization.

In the last decade of the fifteenth century Spain’s star was in the ascendant.
Following the successive invasions of the Phoenicians, the Carthaginians, the Van-
dals and the Goths, came the Moors, at the opening of the eighth century.
‘Gothic power terminated with the fall of Roderick, the last Gothic king, who
was overwhelmed beneath the Moorish flood that poured across from Africa.

 
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

For nearly seven hundred years the Moors possessed the better part of Spain;
they built mosques and palaces; they intended that their descendants should
possess this fair land forever. They gave to Spain a distinctive people and
oriental forms of speech and of architecture. The Moorish invasion had been
almost miraculous in its wide-spread conquests; but finally came the time when
they, too, must succumb, and to the prowess of Northern arms. Down from the
mountains of the north, from the Asturias and Pyrenees, swept the Castilian
armies, wave after wave, until the soil and cities the Africans had won with so
much bloodshed were wrested from them, and the conflict of centuries culmi-
nated, in 1492, in the fall of Granada and the expulsion of the Moors from Spain.
Toward the close of the fifteenth century, the only strongholds remaining to the
Moors lay in Andalusia, the southernmost section of Spain. This section is called
by the Spaniards, because of
its delightful climate, its fruit-
ful fields and its natural ad-
vantages asa dwelling-place
forman, La Tierra de Maria
Santissima—“land of the
most Sacred Virgin.”

When at last the union of
Tsabella and Ferdinand joined
the forces of Aragon and
Castile, then appeared pos-
sible the long-deferred, long
hoped-for scheme of univer-
sal conquest and the ultimate
expulsion of the Moors: from
Spanish territory. The most
fascinating episodes of that
final period of warfare oc-
curred in the beautiful Vega, or great plain of Granada, and among the hills
surrounding it.

Standing conspicuously upon every hill-crest overlooking the Vega, are the
remains of Moorish watch-towers. These they called their atalayas, and from
them the watchful sentinels flashed blazing signal-fires at the appearance of
the enemy.

Even to-day these towers may be seen in various places, lone and solitary
landmarks, useless now around the fruitful valleys they were built to guard.
Centuries have slipped by since the danger signals flamed from their summit-
platforms, and they are now fast going to ruin and decay. One such atalaya
rose above the Hill of Elvira, always visible from the Alhambra at sunset, a black
sentinel against the brilliant sky. This tower I took as the objective point of

 

‘THE MOSQUE OF A THOUSAND COLUMNS,’’ CORDOVA.
FROM CORDOKA$TO CATHAY.

my first foray. One May morning, attended by the gardener José, whom I had
engaged as my guide, I left the quaint cottage in old Granada, where I had
taken lodging, crossed the beautiful grove of elms to the Alhambra, and thence
down the Darro, through the half-sleeping city of Granada, seeking the distant.
hills. Had I but the time and space I
should like to tell of the beauties of the
palace we left behind, and the elm grove
in which I have heard the nightingales
singing at midnight, as well as the golden-
sanded Darro, down the right bank of
which we strolled until it took its last
plunge beneath the arches that span it
and finally hide it from view beneath the

vivarambla— the favorite rambling-place Chg le

of the Moors. It was delightfully cool in

the grove, where the birds were twittering preparatory to their matin music,
and until we were well out upon the plain beyond Granada we did not feel the
heat of the sun.

Three hours later we were reclining at the foot of the tower, which is locally
known as the Atalaya of Arbolote, and from which we had a view outspread that
rewarded us for our long and somewhat dusty walk. Nearly all the Vega lay un-
rolled before us. At our feet lay the remains of the old Roman Ilora, dating from
a period near the birth of Christ ; beyond, Granada, dark in the valley, with the

Hill of the Sun, crowned by the Al-
- ,. hambra, above it; and still beyond,
: a the shining crests of the Sierra Ne-
fers vada, broadly breasting the sun

 

  
  

  

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—‘‘like silver shields new-burnished for display.”
i

2 As in the time of Columbus, so it.
is now: smiling plain, dark masses of
olive-trees, silver threads of streams
coursing emerald meadows, frowning
battlements capping the Alhambra
hill, and glistening snow-peaks lying against the sky. Columbus saw all this,
and though he has left no description of the scene, its beauty did impress him,
for in his voyagings through the island-dotted seas, over which we shall follow
him, he constantly recurs to the charms of Andalusia.

But Granada and the Alhambra we have left behind; before us, seen in the
distance far across the beautiful Vega, lies a city seldom visited by strangers,
a city sleeping in the memories of the past, and with no tie connecting it with
the present. It is Santa Fé, the City of the Holy Faith.

A DISTANT VIEW OF SANTA FE.
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

Four centuries ago and two years more, the armies of Isabella and Ferdi-
nand had advanced their line of conquest to the mountain-wall around the Vega.
One after another, the Moorish towns and cities had fallen before the implacable
Ferdinand: Zahara, Antequera, Alhama, Loxa, Ilora, Moclin; until, in 1490,
Granada stood alone, isolate, crippled, yet
proudly defiant.

In April, 1491, the Spanish army,
horse and foot, fifty thousand strong,
poured over the hills and into the Vega,
intrenching themselves upon the site of
Santa Fé. It was a situation strategically

important, in the center of the plain.
Ee Ber nmrisaa) Granada lay full in sight before them.
Where to-day rise the towers of its great
cathedral, the minaret of a Moslem mosque towered skyward, and from its
summit the Muezzin called the faithful to prayers: “ Allah il Allah! Great
God! Great God! There is none but the one God! Come to prayer! Come
to prayer! Itis better to pray than to sleep!”

So near were the soldiers of Ferdinand to the object. of their desires that
they could almost hear the summoning cry of the Muezzin. Upon the site of
the fortified camp, which was first of tents, then huts of wood and stone, was
founded in the year 1492 the royal war-town of Santa Fé. It may be seen, as I
saw it that hot day in May, 1888, scarcely
lifting itself above and beyond broad fields
of barley, wheat and alfalfa.

A semi-somnolent city is Santa Fé, com-
pletely walled about, with most picturesque
gates facing the cardinal points. If the
term “ dead-and-alive”’ may be applied to
any place, it certainly may be to this.
Yet its history is interesting, and no
student of the conquest of Granada can
afford to pass it by without at least a RreUC Tae TREO TTR ree
peep into its past. Although we are deal-
ing with Columbus, yet we may not neglect the historical accessories that
make his story worth the telling. A hundred books, at least, in this Columbian
year, will tell the tale of his life and adventures, but will only repeat what is
already familiar to all, until the reader and the listener will weary of Columbus.
Hence it is to avoid the cyclopedic and biographic I shall aim, and shall present
the unfamiliar scenes of his adventures as viewed by myself. Since a multitude
of writers are already on the search, hunting the victim from the cradle to the
grave, we will not join in, but will lie quietly in ambush; perchance we may

 

 
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

gain glimpses of the great man unawares. So I will claim the privilege of
digressing a bit, merely to relate one of those exciting encounters that took
place while the army was encamped at Santa Fé, and which, while it enlivened
the monotony of camp life, kept up the spirits of the men.

Among the fiercest of the caballeros in command under the Spanish king, as
the army ae before Granada, was, the historians tell us, Hernando del Enlean
Casting about one day for an opportunity to distinguish himself, he espied the
city gate of Granada but negligently guarded. Galloping through it, he some-
how evaded the Moorish sentinels and penetrated even to the great mosque
in the center of the city. Losing not a moment, he dashed up to the door
and with his poniard there affixed a bit of wood with the Ave Maria printed on
it. Then he wheeled about and darted through the gateway with great clat-
ter of hoof and clank of
weapon, and, hurling cries
of defiance at the astonished
Moors, escaped with a whole
skin to the camp.

The Moors at first were
puzzled to account for this
foray ; but when they finally
found the Ave Maria pinned
against the great door of the
mosque, they were beside
themselves with rage. And
the next day an immense
Moor, Yarfe, one of the
most powerful and renowned
of the Moslem warriors, in-
solently paraded before the
Christian host with the sa-
cred emblem attached to the tail of his horse and dragging in the dust. At the
same time he defied all the cavaliers, or any one of them, to meet him in single:
combat before the assembled armies.

Now, Ferdinand had forbidden any of his nobles to engage in this manner:
with the Moors, because their cavaliers were better horsemen, more skilled in
the feats of the tourney. They generally came off victorious from such en-
counters, thus greatly weakening the esprit de corps of the Spanish host.

But this insult to the Christian religion could not be borne, and the cavaliers.
all burned to avenge it. A fiery young Castilian, Garcilasso de la Vega, rushed
before Isabella and importuned her to allow him to defend the holy faith against.
this pagan Moor and rescue the Ave Maria from further defilement.

Her permission reluctantly granted, he armed himself completely and went.

 

THE HEAD OF THE MOOR, AT SANTA FE,
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

forth to meet the Moslem. ‘Yarfe was almost twice his size, and was mounted in
asuperior manner. And yet, notwithstanding the apparent odds against him,
young Garcilasso killed the boastful Moor, rescued the sacred emblem, and laid
the head of his adversary at the feet of Isabella.

The site of this memorable encounter and the spot where Isabella sat to
witness it, are marked by a great stone cross protected by an artistic canopy.
Subsequently a church was erected in Santa Fé, in which to-day the sacristan
can show you a silver lamp presented by Isabella; but the strangest thing about
this church stands between its two great towers. At a distance it resembles a
large kite, but nearer view discloses it as a memento of that stirring episode of
the siege of Granada. The marble head of the vanquished Moor, of heroic size,
lies placidly between the towers, and above him rises the lance, or an effigy of
it, used to slay him, flanked with palm leaves and across them the precious
placard of the Ave Maria.

Thus, everywhere in Spain, are we reminded of the days of chivalry and
romance, and the scenes of the distant past are brought vividly before us.

But at the door of Isabella’s silken tent another hero stands awaiting royal
favor. He asks no boon of her; he does but seek her aid to carry out his
schemes of conquest; he craves permission, like Garcilasso, to enter the lists
against the infidel.

The Moors are conquered, but mayhap there are other pagans, in the world
unknown beyond the sea. He, Columbus, with the aid of his sovereigns and
by the grace of God, would go forth single-handed to battle for the faith.

It is the month of January, 1492. Briefly the story of Granada’s downfall
may be told. That month Granada capitulated, and the last stronghold of Islam
in Europe passed from the Moors forever. The year that saw the star of Spain
in the ascendant was the birth-year, also, of the history of civilization in America.

The two great events are coeval; for as the Star of the Orient sank toward
Africa, the Star of the Occident rose upon the horizon. The same year that
witnessed the greatest victory of the Spaniards, by which their nation was
advanced at the time to the foremost place on earth, likewise beheld the open-
ing of a career of conquest in unknown regions, the magnitude of which the
imagination fails to grasp. And it was to come about through the genius of an
obscure, almost unknown, individual, humbly waiting his sovereigns pleasure at
Santa Fé. Here in this city of the camp, American -history had its beginnings;
here the crucial test was applied that decided for all time the fate of millions of
human beings across the ocean, and changed the character of Spain and her peo-
ple. Her victories hitherto had been on land; for centuries she had been en-
gaged in wresting from the infidel her own lost territory ; foot by foot, year by
year, until at last the great work was accomplished. Now, before their wearied sol-
diers had recovered breath, while their arms were yet tired with wielding the
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

sword, while the blood of their slain was still fresh upon their weapons, the
Spanish sovereigns were again importuned by this Genoese adventurer.

Little wonder that Ferdinand grew impatient and Isabella wearied of his
plea. In the light of their own unsurpassed achievement, when even the
Pope hastened to congratulate them upon their unqualified success in ridding
Europe of the hated Moslems, the schemes of this Unknown must have appeared
ridiculous. The wonder is that they should have maintained him, idle, persis-

 

THE BRIDGE OF PINES.
(Here the royal courier overtook Columbus and turned him back to the discovery of America.)

tent, an attendant upon their camps for years, from Cordova to Granada. At
last, he had gone away disheartened, but he had returned again at the solicitations
of Juan Perez, the queen’s old confessor, and at the instance of Isabella herself.
He had returned as persistent, as calmly confident of ultimate success from some
‘quarter, as before. He abated no jot or particle of his ridiculous demands; he
‘wanted ships and caravels, sailors, provisions, munitions, articles for barter; he
‘demanded that he be made Admiral of the Ocean Sea and Viceroy over the re-
gions discovered ; that he be granted the privileges of the aristocracy, and one
tenth of the revenue of the yet undiscovered country ; in truth there seemed no
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

limit to his demands. And this from an unknown man whose only claims were
to possessions yet to be possessed — nothing more nor less than veritable
«Castles in Spain!”

Perhaps, if the serious queen ever did take a humorous view of a situation,
she may have seen the funny side of this magniloquent proposition and have
yielded at last out of sheer weariness.

At first, however, notwithstanding the
urgent solicitations of her respected con-
fessor, Isabella could not bring herself to
accept the terms of Columbus, and he de-
parted again, this time fully resolved to
abandon Spain entirely. But he was not
to do so, for he had not accomplished
more than two leagues of his journey back
to the Convent of La Rabida before he
was overtaken by a messenger from Isa-
bella, promising acquiescence to his de-
mands. Whether or not the queen did
this of her own volition, or whether her treasurer, Santangel, offered to find
the requisite money for the outlay, or whether she proffered the pledge of her
jewels, are matters for the historians to settle.

Thus far the historians seem to be “ all at sea,” and makes thisor that state-
ment based more upon his prejudices than on any actual knowledge he possesses
of historical facts. The chances are that, Pi
since they were probably already pledged, | a
Isabella did not offer to pledge her jewels :
to aid in furnishing the sinews of war for
the siege of Granada.

But let it suffice that she promised
assistance, and, once embarked in the en-
terprise, gave the future admiral both i
pecuniary and moral support. All the more ee
creditable is this to Isabella, since it was
done at a time when the royal treasury Vad Nea Es
had been completely exhausted by the SR RE
drafts upon it for the Moorish wars, and
when she might have been supposed to be already sated with the glory of
conquest and not anxious for further adventures.

The place at which the royal courier overtook Columbus has been preserved
in tradition ever since; it is pointed out to-day with unerring finger. He had
reached a river flowing through the Vega, spanned then as now by a bridge,
known as the “Bridge of Pines.” It is locally known as Pinos puente, and

 

GATEWAY AND TURRET AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE
BRIDGE OF PINES.

    
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

was the object of another little journey by José and myself, after we had visited
and I had photographed Santa Fé. We had noted it from our eyrie at the
atalaya tower, and one day, through seas of scarlet and crimson poppies, we had
descended to the valley of the bridge. The Bridge of Pines is picturesque
as well as historic; it is a creditable monument to the artisans who erected it,
and to the great event that here took place. Even though the discussions took
place at Santa Fé, still this spot may be looked upon as the one at which the

 

THE TAKING OF MOCLIN.
(From a carving on the choir-stall of Toledo Cathedral.)

Columbian career was opened —as the turning of the tide in his fortunes as
well as the turning-point in his journey. For this reason, and in view of the
far-reaching consequences of this departure, I have chosen to call this Pinos
puente, the “ Bridge that Spanned the World.” It isa structure of stone and
masonry, with a gateway and a turret, spanning the stream over two high
arches, and is nearly always a scene of busy life.

José and I rambled along the banks and climbed the hill above, where are
the remains of an ancient Moorish fort, finally resting at a meson where the
simple folk served us quite cheerfully with coarsest fare — the best they had.
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

Another trip on another day was to Moclin, on the outer verge of the Vega,
where the Moorish fortifications are exactly as left after being battered by the
cannon of King Ferdinand in the year previous to the fall of Granada. Among
the wood carvings around the silleria, or choir-stalls, of Toledo cathedral, is
one depicting the taking of Moclin; the whole siege of Granada, in fact, is there
illustrated.

At other times we visited successively Loxa, Ilora and Zubia, at which last
place Isabella suffered a narrow escape from the Moors, and where a group of
great granite crosses marks a religious station or shrine. Granada and its en-
virons present a field for exploration to the enthusiastic student of history,
whether he be interested in the closing
scenes of Moorish domination, the life of
Ferdinand and Isabella, or the dawning
of American history. Around Columbus,
however, cluster the associations of Santa
Fé and of the Bridge of Pines, at the
opening of this drama of the siege of Gra-
nada; thence he followed the court as
it advanced to take possession of the
city. Tradition relates, with an air of
authenticity, that in the Alhambra itself
Columbus was a visitor a while, and that
he walked gloomily its marble corridors while the issue of his voyage was
pending. According to the painstaking historian, a memorable interview be-
tween him and his royal master and mistress took place in the Hall of Justice,
the Sala de la Justicia, or Sala del Tribunal. It bounds one side of the famous
“Court of the Lions,” is seventy-five feet long, and is most profusely, yet
delicately ornamented, while the vista adown its mosaic pavement is entrancing
in its beauty. ‘Tiles and inscriptions are on every side, and a lovely latticed
window conveys just a hint of a perfumed garden beyond. Here, did the
swart Moors recline and dream away the noontide hours ; here the stern caliphs
sat, and here, so it is said, Isabella received Columbus.

During a month of delightful days, I dwelt within the garden walls of an
Eden-like retreat in Granada, sallying out upon excursions as narrated; wan-
dering through the Alhambra by moonlight and by daylight, and weaving about
the departed Moors, the Christian conquerors and Columbus himself, the tissue

of a fabric I have herein attempted to unfold for my readers’ entertainment.
Frederick A. Ober.

 

MY GARDEN IN GRANADA.
THE RIVALS.

IF JNWAS Mary Melinda Baker’s doll,
With head of shining hair,
A waxen nose and ten pink toes,
A fan, and a real high-chair.

Mary Melinda Baker’s doll
Was an airy sort of thing ;

Though I never heard her speak a word,
And I know she could not sing.

Now Peter Frisby Hamilton Jones
Was a perfectly lovely dear.

He was a cat, as black as my hat,
No tail, and a slit in one ear.

Mary Melinda never will know
How her doll stirred up that cat;
But she was the one ’t the fuss begun,
We fellows are sure of that.

How do girls know what dolls may do,
When they are away at school?

A girl in their place would make up a face,
Which aggravates boys, as a rule.

So we think that doll with her waxen nose,
Just turned it up at Pete —
At nine she was there, in her real high-chair ;
At night we found one of her feet.
Cora Stuart Wheeler.

 
IN PH@BE’S GARDEN.

(“ She turned her head in its prim little cap.)

 
  
        
 

 

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THE TANSY CAKE.

(An Easter-tide sketch of life in Old England.)

T was Easter Monday in quaint old Chester, three hundred years and more

ago. The morning sunshine lay warm and cosy among the small spring

foliage that tried to shade the garden bench on which Phoebe sat swinging her
toes, beneath her long, quaint gown, for want of something better to do.

A Phoebe-bird seemed calling, “Phoebe! Phoebe!” from the branches
above, and she turned her head, in its prim little cap, to see where the small
songster had hidden himself.

There was a merry laugh, and a dapper boy emerged from a stiff-cropped
box-tree.

Phoebe pouted. “So the Phoebe-bird be only you,” she said.

“Tt be only I,” he replied, with a mockingly deferential bow; “was not the
imitation a right good one? Mother has sent me to say you shall come and help
her with the tansy cake ; her fingers are so colored with the egg-dye that she
will give you all the ne to do.”

“O, goody!” said Phoebe; “I shall like that. You are a good boy, Robin,
and shall have a big slice.”

““T want it all,” he said.

“No, indeed, Sir Stingy;” and she courtesied with mock ceremony to him.

“ Then listen to my song,” and he parodied, slightly, a rhyme of the day :

‘« At stool-ball, Phoebe, let us play,
For sugar, cakes and wine.

Or for a tansy let us play,
The loss be thine or mine.
PEE TIEAN SY SGA KE,

‘¢ Tf thou, my dear, a winner be,
At trundling of the ball,

The wager thou shalt have, and me,
And my misfortunes all.”

“ All right,” she laughed ; “I will worst you at the game as soon as ever the
cake be fried; ” and she ran toward the kitchen, almost stumbling over her long
frock, in her haste.

One side of the kitchen was in a blaze, with the broad chimney fire. Phoebe’s
aunt stood at a table, rubbing with lard the bright red and yellow colored eggs
she had just dipped from the dye-pot. There were dozens of them; and she
piled them deftly, alternating the colors, till they formed a pyramid.

“Whee!” cried Phoebe, who had never seen so many before, “but they are
as many and gay as the buttercups and portulacas in mother’s posy bed. How
can we eat so many?”

“ Wait and see,” said her aunt, with a knowing smile. “Roll up your sleeve,
and let me see if your arm looks strong enough for stirring the big tansy cake.”

Phoebe pushed up her sleeve, and displayed a white, plump little arm,
finished off with a firm little hand, that would make a fine “ cake-spad.”

“That be very fair,” said her aunt; “now tie on this pinafore, sit you down
here, and take this bowl firm into your lap.”

Phoebe did so, with a bustle of importance.

“ Next is the creaming of the butter and sugar. Stir well, and all one way.”

Phoebe did so, setting her small teeth upon her under lip till it was crimson
dented, and her arm ached.

“Now, we have the eggs beat to a yellow froth, the cream and spinach
leaves, with this allowance of flour.” And the aunt put them in one by one as
she spoke, while Phoebe’s plump arm and hand went round faster and faster in
the mixture, as her cheeks grew pinker, and her breath came in short pufts.

“Not so bad at the stirring, be she, mother, for a wisp of a girl?” said Robin,
who had stolen into the kitchen so quietly that Phoebe had not noticed him.

“ Here!” she exclaimed, raising her hand, covered with dough, “I see no
great difference ’twixt a wisp of a girl and a wisp of a boy.”

“ Hush! children, you must not quarrel at Easter-tide; all is peace and good-
will, like at Christmas; ” and Phoebe’s aunt lifted the bowl to the table.

“Does it be fried next, Aunt Nancy?” asked Phoebe, with much interest ;
“at home the serving-people be so plenty, and older sisters so about, that I can
never get to see how a thing be done. I hope father will not fetch me from
this Easter visit too soon.”

“No; we will not let him;” and the aunt set the butter to melting and put
the cake to fry, while Phoebe pattered back and forth after her, over the big
kitchen’s stone floor, her little chin in the air and her neck stretched, to lose no
point in this frying process.
ELE aPEAUN SWAG AGE.

“TJ will go set the stools for our game,” said Robin, growing tired of the
smoke and heat. Soon he returned.

“ Are you never coming, Phoebe?” he cried; “father is come in with the
bishop, and a big, bearded man, who, he whispered to me, be the dean or
governor of the church. They say they will watch our tansy-cake contest and
see that it be fair.”

Phoebe’s head dropped like a blue-bell’s.

“It be hard to be stared at by strangers; one feels so—so shy and like
hiding in a corner, and to speak only “no, sir, and ‘yes, ma’am, in a low
voice.”

Robin laughed.

“Girls should be boys, then they would not feel that way,” he said.

“Run on, Phoebe,” said her aunt. “The good bishop will want to play
hand-ball with you; he doth so like it.”

Phoebe laid the pinafore one side, pushed back the curly locks that would
creep forward from her cap, and taking Robin’s hand, entered the broad hall in
which was to be the stool-ball contest. Her uncle and his guests were there.

“This is my cousin Phoebe,” said Robin gallantly —Phoebe dropped a
courtesy — “when she be not afeard of strangers, she be a right nice cousin to
have. Now she hath the shyness fallen upon her.”

Phoebe pinched Robin’s fingers, and looked down at her toes.

“So, ho!” said the jolly bishop ; “ Phoebe’s mother and I were great friends.
She would not shy away from me like this;” and he drew Phoebe to him.
“Now play your bout for the tansy, then we will all to hand-ball. I shall never
be too big nor old for hand-ball. So; to stool-ball!” 5

Robin made the opening play. Phoebe, reassured, took her turn, and soon
the ball was hard at work, dodging in and out under the stools.

The bishop watched and applauded. “There, you have it, Mistress Phoebe ;
no, Robin be ahead; trundle it a wee bit more to the right; now, Robin, be
your chance to crow; no, you missed it; now, you're lost. Well done for
Phoebe ; she hath won the tansy cake, fair and square ! ”

“ T don’t care,” said Robin; “I worked hard.”

“So you did,” said the church governor ; “and you have a good arm for it.”

“The lad never missed it before,” said Robin’s father; “but ladies before
gentlemen ; eh, Phoebe ?” and he patted her cheek.

“Now, let us to hand-ball,”’ cried the bishop ; and soon his “ mia est pila,”
“T have it,” above the noise of romp and tumble, told he had beaten.

Though the Paschal-taper was a large affair, weighing a hundred pounds, and
though it burned and spluttered like a jolly flambeau, Phoebe and Robin were
glad when the Easter Day service was over, and they could hurry home to the
cutting of the tansy cake. But here was delay again. It could not be touched
till after the bishop and the dean and all the guests who had come to dine had
Cj

diminished the pyramid of colored eggs, eaten of stewed carp, roast fowls, a jowl
of salmon and some neat’s tongues.

“Well, Mistress Phoebe, do I hear you sighing to cut the tansy?” said the
bishop, at last, “or was it Robin ?”

“Tt was not I,” answered Robin. “Though Id be glad to see it cut.”

There was laughter at Robin’s frankness.

“Then, Apple-Blossom, it was you; come here to my side, and plunge this
deep into the cake.” And the bishop held a sharp knife toward Phoebe.

* Shall I, Uncle?” she asked timidly. He nodded. So Phoebe cut the cake,
and in a few moments there was such a nibbling of tansy cake as lasted for the
whole year. And not a crumb left over.

“This be a happy Easter,” whispered Phoebe to Robin.

“Tt be,” said Robin to Phoebe, his mouth full of cake.

M. Carrie Hyde.

 

 

 
AIN SOLD! “CO ONAL © ey Aen

HE traveler in the South who leaves Richmond on
the Chesapeake and Ohio railway, going east-
ward, passes over the most sacred soil of the Old
Dominion, where English civilization was first
planted and took root in America, almost three
centuries ago. If he alights at ancient Williams-
burg, he is on ground every foot of which is con-
secrated by memories of the brave days of old.
As the railway train passes out of sight, he slips
THE CHURCH GATE, WILLIAMSBURG. away from the bustle and forward-looking irrever-

ence of the nineteenth century ; slips away like
some old phantom from the glare of electric lights and the ring of the telephone,
behind the misty veil that shrouds the past, into the nation-building days of the
eighteenth century, when Williamsburg was the notable political school of
the world. For this old town is unique in all the land in its serene antiquity.

The echoes of the busy world come to it faint and far away. It lives in its past.

Its record is written in the hearts of the descendants of its proud old families ;

is inscribed in their genealogies; is pictured in the family portraits on their

walls. Ghosts of the past walk in the halls they once inhabited in the flesh.

Why should they not? Time has only touched the ancient borough with the

pathos of decay and the tragedy of war. The time will come when a new

generation will think less of the past. Williamsburg will fade gradually away,
or modern innovations will rob it of its old-time charm, but at present it
stands without a peer among America’s historic towns.

Of a truth, everything is quaint and venerable and touched with history or
tradition. The streets are mostly grass-grown, and in their names is the very
flavor of colonialism — Scotland, Ireland, England, Nassau, King, Queen, Prince
George, Francis Nicholson, and Duke of Gloucester being among them. Wide
level greens form a setting for the old colonial houses, and horses and cattle
roam and graze at will on green and highway.

Williamsburg is the shire town of James City County, and in Virginia the
county is the political unit:-instead of the town, so that the municipal life centers
at the court house, which is notable as being one of the architectural produc-
tions of Sir Christopher Wren. ‘The projecting hood of the porch, unsupported
by pillars, is a puzzle to visitors. It seems probable that for some reason the
building was never finished. Apart from this it is a model of its kind. In its
two centuries of life, some of Virginia’s most distinguished lawyers have prac-

 
AN OLD COLONIAL GAPITAL.

ticed at the bar of its little court room. Near by is the Palace Green, at the
northern end of which is the site of the palace of the royal governors, of which
enough is known to make it safe to say that it was one of the most magnificent
houses of the colonial period, probably excelling the manor house of the Patroon
Van Rensselaer at Albany. Brilliant pictures come down to us of fétes in the
palace in the days before the Revolution, and at no time did the governors
maintain grander state than when the weapons were being forged to strike down
the royal power in America.

Society was indeed brilliant in Williamsburg in the days of its glory. Besides
the fétes at the palace, there were grand assemblies in the Apollo Room of the
Raleigh Tavern, now, alas! only a memory; a theater, at which Shakspere’s
plays were first produced in America, ministered to the pleasure of a pleasure-
loving people, while there was a round of gayeties at all the great houses of the
gentry. Many of the planters of the country had winter residences in the bril-
liant little city.

Recalling all these memories, it requires little effort of the imagination, as
one stands in the streets of Williamsburg to-day, to people them with the bril-
liant life of old, the stately ladies, the glittering cavaliers, the galloping steeds,
the ponderous coaches, the silks and laces and velvets; all the gayety and light-
ness of a life that yet had a very serious undercurrent, as coming events were
to show. We can see Lord
Botetourt, courtly and ele-
gant, who temporarily “ gave
offense” to these gay but
democratic Virginians “ by
the gaudy parade and pomp-
ous pageant exhibited,” for
he went to open the assembly
“drawn by eight milk-white
horses, in a state coach pre-
sented him for that purpose
by the king, and the same
formalities were observed as
when the British sovereign goes in state to open Parliament.” Williamsburg
was indeed a “ vice-regal capital.”

But the old capital has stronger claims upon interest than its picturesque
association with the social froth of the colonial court. “Bacon the rebel,” first
of American revolutionists, had made Middle Plantation his headquarters; and
partly because the obstinate rebel had left little of Jamestown, partly because
the site of the latter place was exceedingly unhealthy, but most because Middle
Plantation had been made the seat of William and Mary College in 1694, it
became the capital, under Governor Francis Nicholson, in 1705, and was then

 

THE COURT HOUSE, WILLIAMSBURG,
(Designed by Sir Christopher Wren.)
AN OL DMGOLON VAIS TCE Tiare.

named Williamsburg. The founders of the city placed a high value upon the
association of the higher education and the government; a fact of which they
gave a sign by the location of the Capitol and the college, facing each other and
three quarters of a mile apart, at the eastern and western ends of the broad
Duke of Gloucester Street, the “ Pennsylvania Avenue of Williamsburg,” as one
writer has named it. The same idea was more practically shown in the fact that
William and Mary was the first college in America in which history and _politi-
cal science were systematically taught. As an institution it aimed to train men
for public life, as well as for being clergymen and teachers. How well it suc-
ceeded is shown by the strong, well-balanced statesmen whom it graduated. It
was William and Mary that gave Washington his commission as surveyor, an
equivalent at that time of the present degree of civil engineer; and Washing-
ton’s last public office was the chancellorship of the college. It was from the
association at Williamsburg of the colonial government and the college, that
Washington gathered the idea of a national university at the nation’s capital, an
idea which he fruitlessly urged on the highest and most patriotic grounds, in
behalf of which he vainly made a large bequest, and which has been revived
recently by a distinguished Northern statesman.

In William and Mary studied Thomas Jefferson and James Monroe, Presi-
dents of the United States; Benjamin Harrison, the ancestor of two pres-
idents and one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence; Carter
Braxton, Thomas Nelson and George Wythe, also signers of the Declaration;
Peyton and Edmund Randolph; John Tyler, first Governor of the Common-
wealth of Virginia; Beverley Randolph, Governor of Virginia; John Blair, and
the great chief justice, John Marshall. The list of distinguished names might
be indefinitely extended, but those just given will show what quality of men
the old college gave to the country. When at the close of the Revolution the
capital was removed to Richmond, the greatness of the little city and of its
college departed; but, until ruined by reckless soldiery in 1862, the college
continued to be an educational power, presided over by men of dignity and
learning, and giving well-trained scholars to the State.

The old Capitol, “the heart of the rebellion,” at the eastern end of the
street, was a fine building of the period, in each wing of which was “ a good
staircase; one leading to the Council Chamber where the Governor and Council
sit in very great state, in imitation of the King and Council, or the Lord Chan-
cellor and House of Lords. Over the portico is a large room where conferences
are held and prayers are read by the chaplain of the General Assembly ; which
office I have had the honor for some years to perform.” So wrote, in 1724, the
Rev. Hugh Jones, a learned and much traveled professor in William and Mary
College.

fle was acquainted with the courts of Europe, and knew whereof he spoke,
so that from his account a just idea can be gathered of the real brilliancy
aN (OLD VCGOLONIAL CAPITLAL.

of social Williamsburg in its palmy days. He tells of “the Play House and
Bowling Green,” and says of the governor’s house that it was “finished and
beautified with gates, fine gardens, offices, walks, a fine canal, orchards, etc.”
It had a cupola or “ Lanthorn,” which was illuminated on festival nights, as was
most of the town. “These buildings,” remarks the Rev. Hugh Jones, “are
justly reputed the best in all
the English America, and are
exceeded by few of their kind
in England.”

In the old Capitol met
those patriotic Burgesses who
sent their ringing answer to
Adams and Otis and the rest
in Massachusetts,

<¢ When, echoing back her Henry’s cry,
came pulsing on each breath

Of northern winds the thrilling sound,
of ‘ Liberty or Death.’ ”

 

Only an excavation and a
few bricks now remain where IN OLD WILLIAMSBURG.
once the historic building
stood in which Patrick Henry thundered that warning to England’s king, that
is so familiar to every school boy; but if we close our eyes on this consecrated
ground we can hardly fail to hear echoes of days that are dead come ringing
down to us through the generations. Here, and in the old State House in
Boston, was the birth of American independence; the dawn of a new day for
the nations, the genesis of a higher ideal of government.

For three quarters of a century Williamsburg was the most important polit-
ical and social center in the colonies south of Boston. It saw during that period
a long succession of royal governors, good, bad and indifferent. There was the
coarse and domineering Nicholson; Sir Alexander Spotswood, who, for planting
the first iron furnaces in the South, is known as “ the Tubal Cain of Virginia; ”
Hugh Drysdale, Robert Carter and William Gooch, whose administrations had
little to make them memorable except the foundation of Richmond, in 1733, by
Colonel William Byrd of Westover, and the appearance in Williamsburg, in 1736,
of Virginia’s first newspaper, The Virginia Gazette. After Gooch came Din-
widdie, in whose time France and England’ came to blows in the “ Great Woods,”
and the young surveyor, George Washington, won his spurs as a soldier. Now
the struggle for independence was dimly foreshadowed, and the peaceful, stately
life of the old city was stirred by unwonted currents. In 1763, Henry, the
great orator of his day, asserted, in his fiery way in the old Capitol, the right of
AN OLD COLONIAL CAPITAL.
)

Virginians alone to make laws for Virginia; the blunder of the Stamp Act by
the home government followed, and Virginia and Massachusetts clasped hands
in the struggle for freedom. Few yet saw it as a struggle for independence,
and the royal governors still came to Williamsburg and maintained their little
courts. The social round went on above the slumbering volcano of the Anglo-
Saxon passion for liberty and justice.

Never did Williamsburg see a more brilliant period. The festivities at tho
Palace and at the Raleigh Tavern were rivaled in interest by the flashes of
intellect at the Capitol, and in the college certain high-minded youths were
being prepared to serve their country in the trying years so close at hand.
Jefferson writes of dances in the Apollo Room at the Raleigh, and of his

 

WASHINGTON’S HEADQUARTERS, WILLIAMSBURG.

(At the time of the surrender of Yorktown.)

“ Belinda,” who was one of the famous Virginia Burwells; showing that great
minds found time and thought for the diversions of the passing hour, and that
woman’s smiles could charm even the embryo statesmen who gathered inspira-
tion from Wythe and men like him. Dinwiddie was succeeded by Governor
Fauquier, a polished freethinker, who found it necessary to dissolve the
Assembly on account of the famous resolutions, in advocating which Henry
declared that “Caesar had his Brutus, Charles I. his Cromwell, and George III. —
may profit by their example.” Jefferson pronounced this debate “most bloody,”
but he was young then, and perhaps a little careless in his choice of words.
AN VOED, COLONIAL (CAPITAL.

Henry is described as being at this time twenty-nine years of age, tall and
grim, with small, sparkling blue eyes. He wore a brown wig, unpowdered, a
peach-blossom coat, leather breeches and yarn stockings. He was an impassioned,
magnetic speaker, who seldom failed in any cause he advocated.

The Burgesses, after their dissolution, met at the Raleigh Tavern, and there
concerted many measures for the action of the colonies. Fauquier died in 1768,
and was succeeded by Norborne
Berkeley, Lord Botetourt. Al-
though so unfortunate as to make
a bad impression on his arrival,
he became in his brief administra-
tion perhaps the best beloved of
all the royal governors. He was
a true friend of Virginia; and his
graces of manner were so marked
that long afterward the young men
of his time were spoken of as edu-
cated in the school of Fauquier and Botetourt, in the manners and graces of
gentlemen. Unfortunately for the king whom he served, this finished gentle-
man and large-hearted man died in 1770, after having declared, “I will be
content to be declared infamous, if I do not, to the last hour of my life, at all
times and in all places and upon all occasions, exert every power with which I
am, or ever shall be, legally invested, in order to obtain and maintain for the
continent of America that satisfaction which I have been authorized to promise.”

Lord Botetourt’s body was interred beneath the chapel of the college of
William and Mary, and a marble statue of him stands in the college yard,
erected in 1773, by authority of the Burgesses of Virginia, as the grateful testi-
mony of the colony to his virtues, a fact which is made known to us in the
stately phrase of the inscription.

Lord Dunmore followed Lord Botetourt, and under his uncompromising rule
the irritation rapidly increased. He was continually embroiled with the Bur-
gesses; he quartered in the Palace marines from the ships of war lying off
Yorktown ; he finally carried off in the night from the octagonal powder house,
built by Governor Spotswood in 1714 and still standing, all the ammunition
stored therein. This was on the eve of the outbreak, and soon the governor
and his family were forced themselves to take refuge on the vessels, and ulti-
mately to leave the colony. But not until the city of Norfolk had been burned.
The Revolution had begun. Washington was in Massachusetts, at the head of
the northern army; but it was not until near the close of the war that Williams-
burg was to experience much of its excitement. Then Cornwallis, coming up
from the Carolinas, drew into the peninsula, and was caught in the trap at York-
town, but twelve miles from Williamsburg. Lafayette came down with his little

 

OLD DEBTORS’ PRISON AND POST-OFFICE, WILLIAMSBURG.
AN OED COLONIAL. GARIGAL.

army, and awaited in Williamsburg the arrival of Washington and Rochambeau.
They came at last — the great commander-in-chief, strong, cool and confident,
great Virginia’s greatest son. With him came his ragged veteran continentals,
and his courtly ally, Rochambeau, with his brilliant French regiments in their .
white uniforms, gay trappings and waving plumes. They, too, sat down in
Williamsburg, and the sessions of the college were for a time interrupted, that
the French allies might be quartered in its halls. It was during this occupation
that William and Mary suffered from its second fire, the president’s house being
burned; but Louis XVI. of France made full reparation for the loss due to his
soldiers, though they were serving America’s cause and the disaster was acciden-
tal. The college has been less fortunate in dealing with our own Government.
The house in which Washington had his headquarters is one of the historic
houses of Williamsburg, and still-stands unchanged, save by the wear of time —
a large, square brick mansion, once the home of Chancellor Wythe, and now
said to possess the ghost of that great jurist. Wythe died in Richmond by
poison administered by a nephew, who expected to inherit his fortune; but the
chancellor had time to change his will, and the murderer was disappointed. It
appears that the unquiet ghost of the chancellor felt most at home in: the old
house at Williamsburg, and has preferred that to Richmond. Another room in
the same house boasts the
phantom of a Miss Byrd of
Westover, who married and
came there to reside, and to
die. Just over the garden
wall, in Bruton churchyard,
is the grave of a more recent
resident of the Wythe house:
the eminent scientist, Dr.
John Millington, who was
born in London in 1779, and
died in Richmond in 1868.
He at one time resided in
this house, being then pro-
fessor of natural science at
William and Mary. When
THE COLLEGE OF WILLIAM AND MARY, WILLIAMSBURG. dying he expressed a desire to
(Of which Washington was Chancellor.) be burie d in Bru ton church-
yard, as near as possible to his old Williamsburg home, to which he was most
attached, of all the places in which he had been during a life of travel.
Williamsburg has always developed a peculiarly strong attachment in those
who have come upon its charmed ground. In 1862 it was occupied by both
armies, devastated by war, and its people were obliged to desert their homes.

 
AN TOLD COLONIAL CAPITAL.

When the war was over they were impoverished; their college had been burned,
and their city’s prosperity was forever checked; but they returned to the old
homes, desolate though they were, and there they live quietly, proud of their
history, in an atmosphere somber with the shadows of unforgotten tragedy,
uncomplaining, maintaining as best
they may the honored names of
that prouder past. ,

In old Bruton, or Christ Church,
are many memorials of the long
ago, quaint and curious often, but
coming home to us with the sub-
lime sympathy of the universal
sorrow, whether in the stilted
eulogiums of dead notables
of two hundred years ago,
or the unmarked stone cove .S >.
ering the resting-place of A BIT OF THE DUKE OF Mae craic STREET, WILLIAMSBURG.
the beautiful Lady Christine
Stewart, daughter of a Scotch earl and lineal descendant of Mary, Queen of
Scots. This noblewoman of Scotland married for love alone a young student
from Williamsburg in Edinburgh University, came with him to his American
home, and left descendants, in all of whom is noticeable that personal beauty
which was for so many generations the fatal gift of her race. Among the
ancient memorial tablets in the church is one more recent, in memory of the
Confederate soldiers who fell at the Battle of Williamsburg, closing with this
tribute of simple loyalty: “They died for us.’ The church interior itself has
been so much remodeled since the edifice was erected, in 1715, that it has lost
much of its charm; but Bruton parish is one of the oldest Episcopal parishes in
America, having been organized in 1632. It possesses the font at which Poca-
hontas is supposed to have been baptized in the old church at Jamestown, the
old Jamestown communion service, and two other ancient services of silver and
gold. Outside in the churchyard violets bloom, children frolic among the an-
cient stones, and cattle browse on its grass. History is buried there, and has
become a part of the soil. The sun shines over all as it did generations ago
and has through all the years, and above the graves there broods the restful-
ness of Nature’s gracious calm.

Thus, in this quaint old rural city, a descendant of Puritans and Aboli-
tionists from New England, finding hospitable welcome, recognized with new
force the wide-reaching kinship of English blood; he recalled the days of
that great historic movement in which Williamsburg played so important a
part, and saw more clearly the close relationship of the people of Massa-
chusetts and those of Virginia. They came from the same good stock, they

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
AN VOED COLON A Le GAL iEAdas

thought along the same great lines, although political differences sometimes
separated them in the old country as well as in the new.

‘Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.”

Our country has few localities of which this may be as truly said as of Wil-
liamsburg, where nothing reminds of the present, and everything recalls the past.
In this quaint rural city the typical life of old Virginia flourished. Here the
country squires, who loved the soil with all the strength of their English blood,
gathered in the winter for the round of social amusements that they loved
almost equally well. Here great men were trained to play great parts in state
and nation. Here democracy and aristocracy flour-
ished side by side, the one growing out of the Anglo-
Saxon love of freedom and fair play, the other
lineally descended from the proud
old Cavalier spirit, that through

 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

many years of strife shouted and a

. v age
fought — cane | g

4 VAN as “7?
“For God, for the cause, for the church and AAA

For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of
the Rhine.”

the laws; N\

For they were loyal
king’s men and church-
men, these old Virginians,
and as proud of their race
as any Spanish hidalgo;
but above all they were
Anglo-Saxon freemen,
whose liberty was their
dearest heritage. Like
their Puritan kinsfolk in OLD BRUTON PARISH CHURCH, WILLIAMSBURG.
New England, whose pride
was fully equal to their own, they proposed to have liberty to do as they
pleased, in spite of king or church, and to hold the power to make others do as
they would have them. Our liberty-loving English ancestors were not a tolerant
people, whether they settled in the North or South; but, North or South, in
spite of their bigotry, they were the finest race the world has seen, and they
held the destiny of nations in their hands, whether the hands were those of fox-
hunting Virginia squires or severe Massachusetts Puritans.

We give our allegiance to them both, holding both in the honor they deserve
LAE RES Se ALVA AYS “ROOM.

from the nation they were so largely instrumental in founding. Could pictur-
esque, lovable old Williamsburg be preserved, restored by reverential hands to
something of its old-time grandeur, it would be a most valuable reminder of the
past; but it would lack much if it lost the suggestions of the old régime, pre-
served in its people who still bear stamp of the proud old race.

Edwin A. Start.

pee R Ee lise AE EADS stn ©1@) ie :

GRANDMOTHER came to a little house,
And she was poor and old;
And already the little house was full
As ever it could hold.

With father and mother and children nine, sec
In spite of toil and care LZ SS),

There was sometimes lack in the little house,
And always scanty fare.

  
   
    

“‘ And how can you keep a grandmother ?
I should think she would crowd

   

 

      

you so.”
“OQ, no!” cried sturdy Will, with
a smile ;
“My grandma crowd? O, no!” Hie
“Li Yyy
“T should think she would,” per- i i j J q A)
sisted Dick ; i ( il he IK ie
“ For your house was full before. 2 Hi (li Hh Ml
When anything is full, you know, Ain Dg

How can you put in more?” a

Dicky was young and questionful,
But Will was patient and kind ;

“The room in our hearts helped us,” he said,
“ Room in the house to find.”

Ah! poor little house, dear little old house,
Where the happy faces swarm !
And Will was right. There is always room
1 Where the heart beats true and warm.
AN EASTER DUET.

And one might have no room to spare,
Though one had boundless space.
"Tis a crowded heart, a selfish heart,

That makes a crowded place.
William Zachary Gladwin.

 

 

AN EASTER DUET.
(From a painting by Conrad Riesel,)
‘

 
   
 

TO APRIL. |
(A fondel of Salutation.)

LAD in the daintiest robes of Spring,
Darling of all the budding year;
You smiled but now, yet here is a tear —
Fitfully fair is the month I sing.

 
    

 
     
 

eae

Birds have flown northward on hurrying wing,
Eager to welcome their April here —

Clad in the daintiest robes of Spring,

Darling of all the budding year.

   

ToT

 
     
 
 

  

Summer is queen, and Autumn is king;
But you, fair month, are the princess dear.
Sweet coquette, so humanly near

That all our hearts to your waywardness cling,

Clad in the daintiest robes of Spring,
Darling of all the budding year.

Louise Chandler Moulton.

 
   
    
 
   
   
WEEE SAND? ites REE Die Dilbes

NE day Willie was walking through the woods when

he came to a great hollow tree. He peeped

through the hole, and thought he would crawl in and
see what a hollow tree was like.

Inside he found a ladder, very narrow and very steep,
but up and up he climbed till he came to a little window.
Through the glass he saw a funny little man, with three
eyes, sitting at a round table eating his lunch. There
was a great brown pie before him, and Willie was very
fond of pie. .

Then he noticed a little door at the top of the ladder,
so he knocked very gently: rap-tap-tap-tap !

“Come in!” called the funny little man, and Willie
“THROUGH THE GLASS HE SAW opened the door and stepped into a little room.

eee en “Who are you?”’ said the little man.

“T’m Willie, and I came up the ladder. Do you live here ?”

“Yes; I am a Treedeedle, and this tree is my house. Won’t you have some
lunch ?”

“QO, yes!” said Willie, looking at the big brown pie and a cake, full of little
black things, and a big glass pitcher of lemonade.

“T always have an extra place for a visitor,’ said the Treedeedle. “Sit
down,” and he motioned toward the vacant chair. “Will you have some pie ?”

“ Yes, please,” said Willie, taking the empty chair.

So the Treedeedle cut a huge piece of
pie and handed it to Willie. Willie took
up his fork and cut into his pie, and found
it was full of empty spools.

“Oh! my mamma doesn’t make pie
out of spools. I don’t like spool pie; I’m
afraid I can’t eat it,” said Willie.

“ Not eat spool pie!” said the Treedee-
dle, who was just finishing his third slice.
“Why, it is delicious. But perhaps you’d
like some cake?” a

ce OF yes; very much,” sald Willie, his “won’Tr YOU HAVE SOME LUNCH?”
eyes growing bright with pleasure.

So the Treedeedle passed him a large slice of cake, and Willie broke off a
piece and was just going to eat it, Riead he saw the little black things were not
raisins but tacks, carpet Tae

 

 
WILLIE AND. THE TREEDEEDLE.

“Oh!” he said, “my mamma doesn’t put tacks into her cake; no; I can’t
eat tacks.”

“Not eat tacks!” cried the Treedeedle, munching his cake with delight.
«“ Why, they are so spicy, and sharp, and good; and these are particularly large
ones. Perhaps youd like some lemonade ?”

“Yes,” said Willie; “I think I should.”

So the Treedeedle poured out a glass of lemonade, and handed it to Willie
with such a polite little bow that Willie thought he must be polite, too, and not
find so much fault with the Treedeedle’s lunch.

But as he lifted the glass to his lips, he smelled kerosene, and set the glass
down very quickly. .

“Oh! my mamma doesn’t make lemonade out of kerosene,” said he. “I
can’t drink it.”

“ Not make lemonade out of kerosene!” cried the Treedeedle. ‘“ Why, yes;
one lemon peel to one quart of kerosene is my recipe. I assure you it is very
nice. But perhaps you would like an egg; I'll ring for one.”

The Treedeedle picked up a little silver bell and rang: ding-a-ling, a-ling-
a-ling. In came a little man servant in a green jacket.

“ Hard or soft?” said the Treedeedle, looking at Willie.

“ Hard,” said Willie.

“ Number-thirty-four, bring us some hard eggs,” said the Treedeedle.

The man servant in the green jacket went out.

“Why do you call him ‘ Number-thirty-four ?’” asked Willie.

“ Because that is his name,” said the Treedeedle.

Pretty soon, Number-thirty-four came back with a dish of eggs, and Willie
took one. The shell seemed to have been taken off, so he
bit right into it, and found that it was lard, a ball of lard.

“Oh! my mamma doesn’t have eggs made of lard.
Your cooking isn’t like my mamma’s. I don’t think I’m
very hungry, and I think I will go home now; but if you
will come to breakfast with me sometime, I will show you
what kind of things my mamma cooks. Bread and milk,
and strawberries, and buttered toast, and chicken, and

eee) thingselike that, vou knowns
“OQ, yes! I know,” said the Treedeedle. “I often have
them, too; and door-knob stew, and pincushion pudding, and needle tarts, and
ice-cream made out of broken glass and lemons. I should like to take breakfast
with you, though. Perhaps I will go to-morrow ; and the next time you come to
see me, I will take you to call on my friend the Owl, who lives in the next
tree. Come soon.”
“T should like to go to see the Owl,” said Willie, climbing down the ladder.
“ Then let’s go and call on him now,” said the Treedeedle.

 
WILLIE AND THE TFREEDEEDLE.

“ Allright. Dve got on my clean dress, so I can go,” said Willie.

When they reached the tree where the Owl lived, the Treedeedle gave a
shrill whistle, and down from the tree came a basket on a rope.

Willie and the Treedeedle got into the basket, and were drawn up to a great
limb. There they saw a little door standing open. Inside, they found the Owl
sitting at a little desk writing a letter. “What are you writ-
ing?” asked the Treedeedle looking over the owl’s shoulder.

“T’m writing a letter to the Man in the
Moon; he sent me an invitation to dinner. Is
this your friend Willie ?”

“Yes; let me introduce you to the Owl,
Willie.”

The Owl shook Willie’s hand with one of his
claws, and said, “Perhaps you and the Tree-
deedle would like to go with me to the Man in
the Moon’s to dinner. I'll send the letter after I get there.”

“Of course we'll go,” cried the Treedeedle. “Willie is “Sty SAV THE ove
all dressed, and I can dress in a jiffy, if you will lend me a
wash-basin. I forgot to put my wash-basin in my pocket when I came away.”

“All right,” said the Owl; “you can go behind that screen, and I will go
behind this screen, and we will dress.”

So Willie sat down on a little stool and waited while the Treedeedle and the
Owl splashed and scrubbed behind their screens.

They washed so violently that they dashed the water over the screens and
sprinkled the whole room. Then the Owl curled all his feathers with a curling-
iron in the latest style.

“‘ Now for the paper collars!” cried the Owl. “ We can’t be dressed with-
out paper collars. Ill lend you and Willie each one.”

Willie didn’t think he needed a paper collar, but he did not want to hurt the
Owl’s feelings, so he let the Treedeedle and the Owl put on his collar for him,
and it came way up around his ears.

“ How are we going to get to the moon?” asked Willie.

“Oh! I have a comet tied to my back fence,” said the Owl, “ and he will
take us there.”

Willie had never seen a comet; so he followed the Owl and the Treedeedle
out into the Owl’s back yard with a good deal of curiosity.

The comet looked like a big star switching a long fiery tail. They all got
on the comet’s back ; first the Owl, then the Treedeedle and then Willie.

“ Now hold on tight,” said the Owl, untying the comet from the fence; and
away they went like the wind, straight for the moon. Willie held on to the
Treedeedle’s coat-tails, and they went so fast it almost took his breath away.

When they reached the moon, the comet stopped, and they got off his back

  
VALE MESA N De Beer Ee DEE UTE.

and walked up a little yellow path to a yellow house, and knocked on the little
yellow door: rap-tap-tap-tap !

A little yellow man, with a great many brass buttons on his clothes, opened
the door and asked them to walk upstairs.

The Man in the Moon was waiting for them on the roof of the house, which
was flat like a veranda. He was a very round
little man, with a round, shining face like a full
moon. The dinner-table was all ready, set with
gold plates, and gold spoons, and gold cups,
and gold knives and forks.

“Vm delighted to see you,
delighted! Sit down and have
some oysters,’ cried the Man

“(THEY GOT ON THE COMET’S BACK AND AWAY THEY WENT in the Moon.

sii a a Willie looked at his plate,
but did not see any oysters; nothing but some little pieces of green cheese.

After they had eaten their cheese, the Man in the Moon called to the little
man in buttons to bring the soup. So the plates were all changed, and in came:
the soup.

Willie looked into his plate, but all he saw was a little green cheese in the

‘ bottom of the soup plate.

“ Well, that’s funny,” thought Willie; but he saw the Treedeedle and the
Owl were eating their cheese, so he ate his.

“ Now we'll have some chicken,” said the Man in the Moon.

“That is nice; I like chicken,’ said the Owl. But-when the plates were
brought in, Willie saw that each one had a square piece of green cheese and
nothing else.

“ Any way, this is better than the Treedeedle’s lunch,” said Willie to him-
self ; “but I wish they would have something different.”

But though the Man in the Moon spoke of the salads, and strawberries and
cream, and ice-cream, and plum cake, and candy, and nuts, and raisins, and all
kinds of good things, Willie saw that they were oily pieces of green cheese of
different sizes.

“ Let’s go fishing,” said the Man in the Moon, after dinner was over.

“‘ How jolly!” said the Owl. “ Where shall we go?”

“To the Milky Way,” cried the Man in the Moon.

So off they started, with long fishing-rods over their shoulders till they came.
to the Milky Way ; it was tumbling along like a river of milk.

The Man in the Moon had a little raft, and he rowed them all out into the
middle of the stream to fish.

They caught all kinds of strange things. First, the Owl caught a pair of
rubber boots, then the Treedeedle caught a pair of boxing-gloves, then the Man

   
   
  
WALIIE AND PGE SEREB DBE DEE.

in the Moon caught an umbrella, and then Willie caught a diamond crown, which
sparkled and glittered like a row of stars.

“Oh! how beautiful,” cried the Treedeedle; “you must be a king. Let’s
all put on the things we have caught.”

So the Treedeedle put on his boxing-gloves, and the Owl put on his
rubber boots, and the Man in the Moon put up his umbrella, and Willie put the
diamond crown on his curls, and they started for the house of the Man in
the Moon.

“T must go home quickly, for I am going to a ball at the Mud Turtle’s
to-night,’ said the Owl.

They looked all about for the comet to take them home, but as the Owl had
forgotten to fasten it to the Man in the Moon’s hitching-post, it had gone off.

“ How shall we get home?” cried the Treedeedle.

“Let's fly ;” said the Owl, and he flapped his wings and flew off toward home.

“Oh! I can’t fly,” cried Willie.

“ You will have to jump,” said the Man in the Moon.

“All right; good-by! Come, Willie, take my hand,” said the Treedeedle.

 

‘‘ THEY CAUGHT ALL KINDS OF STRANGE THINGS.”

So Willie took the Treedeedle’s hand, and together they jumped.

Willie looked down and saw something sailing below them, and when they
got nearer they saw that it was a balloon, and as it was directly beneath them
they tumbled into it.

The balloon was manned by a big black pussy cat with green eyes.
WILLIE AND THE TREEDEEDLE.

“ What do you mean by jumping into my balloon?” asked the Black
Pussy Cat, as Willie and the Treedeedle came tumbling into the basket.
“ We did not mean to,” said the Treedeedle ; “ but you were in our way, so

we had to fall in. Won’t
you take us home in your
balloon?”

“T haven’t time,” said
the Black Pussy Cat. “ 7m
on my way to the Mud
Turtle’s ball; you can go
with me if you like, and I
will take you home after
the ball is over.”

“‘Let’s go,” said the
Treedeedle to Willie.

 

“THEY STARTED FOR THE HOUSE OF THE MAN IN THE MOON.”?

“ All right,” said Willie; and away they sailed with the Black Pussy Cat.
The Mud Turtle lived by a pond, under a willow-tree, and as it was getting
rather dark, the bushes, and grass, and trees were all lighted up with fireflies,
that snapped and sparkled like electric lights, and made the place as bright as day.
The guests were sitting about on stones. There was the Owl in his rubber

 

“(THE TREEDEEDLE THREW OFF HIS BOXING-GLOVES AND
UNBUTTONED HIS COAT.”’

boots, and he winked one big eye at
Willie when he saw him come in
with the Black Pussy Cat and the
Treedeedle.

Then there was a big grasshopper,
and a robin, and a field-mouse, and a
bull-frog, and a blue butterfly, and
ever so many others.

The Mud Turtle was in the cen-
ter, shaking hands and talking with
everybody.

Then the music struck up.

“Choose your partners for a
hopity-kick waltz!” shouted the Mud
Turtle.

Willie looked up to see where the
musicians were, and saw them sitting
on the branches ; two thousand mos-
quitoes, humming and buzzing a waltz
as loud as they could sing.

Then the Bullfrog came and

asked Willie to dance. Willie saw the Black Pussy Cat dancing with the Mud
VALLI E SAND) RHE ERB E DE EDIE E.

Turtle, and the Grasshopper waltzing with the Field-mouse, and they seemed to
be having such a gay time that he thought he would dance, too.

The Bull-frog hopped and leaped about so fast that Willie had hard work to
keep up with him.

“The one who dances the longest wins the prize,” shouted the Mud Turtle.

First the Mud Turtle got tired out and stopped, then the Field-mouse and
the Rabbit, then the Robin and then the Blue Butterfly, and all the others, one
by one, till only the Grasshopper and the Treedeedle were left.

They danced and danced, and hopped and twirled, till the room fairly seemed
to Willie to whirl, too.

Then the Treedeedle threw off his boxing-gloves, and unbuttoned his coat,
and danced faster all the time, till at last the Grasshopper fell down in a faint,
and they had to bring him
to by rubbing him down with
a clothes-brush.

By that time everybody
was shouting: “ Hurrah for
the Treedeedle!” ‘ Three
cheers for the Treedeedle ! ”
«The Treedeedle has won
the prize!”

The Owl and the Black
Pussy Cat hoisted him on to
a board, and carried him
round the room.

Then the Mud Turtle “‘ THREE CHEERS FOR THE TREEDEEDLE.”’
brought in the prize, which
was a hand-organ, and then they all cheered again, and the Treedeedle played
them a tune on his organ.

“‘ Now for the refreshments,” cried the Mud Turtle; and they brought in a
great wash-boiler full of molasses candy, and each one took a big spoon and
dipped it into the boiler and began to eat.

Presently Willie noticed the Blue Butterfly sitting on the fence, eating his
lunch all by himself out of a little tin dinner-pail.

“ Why don’t you come and eat with us?” asked Willie.

‘T don’t like molasses candy, so I always bring my own lunch,” said the
Blue Butterfly.

Willie looked to see what the Butterfly had for lunch, and saw that he had
brought five sausages all on a string.

After they had finished the molasses candy, and scraped the boiler nice and
clean, the Treedeedle said it was time to go home; so they all shook hands with
the Mud Turtle and told him what a good time they had had.

 
WILLIE AND THE TREEDEEDLE.

“Tm coming to see you, Willie,” said the Mud Turtle.

“That will be nice,” said Willie. “I will show you my playhouse.”

“Oh! TIl come, too,” said the Owl.

“And I,” said the Black Pussy Cat.

“Can't I come, too?” cried the Blue Butterfly.

“And I?” asked the Grasshopper.

“T am coming,” said the Robin.

“Tm coming, too,” croaked the Bull-frog.

“ All right,” said Willie; “ perhaps my mamma will let me have a birthday
party and invite you all.”

“Hurrah! hurrah! We are all going to Willie’s birthday party!” cried
everybody.

Then the Black Pussy Cat and the Treedeedle climbed into the balloon and
pulled Willie in after them, and very soon they stopped at Willie’s front gate
and let him out.

“Good-by! Ive had a beautiful time,” said Willie, “and now I am going
in to tell my mamma all about it.”

Agnes Blackwell.

 

 

NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBORS.
 

 
   

Ghey

MET him one day on a long railroad track,
With a staff in his hand and a pack on his back,
And I said to him merrily, “ Whither away ?”
And, “ What part of the world have you come from to-day,
In such mizzly, drizzly weather ?”

The old man turned round with a laugh in his eye,
And said to me quickly, “ From nowhere come I;
But Pm walking as fast as I possibly can
To the place ” —(he was smiling, this little old man)
“To the place where the oe come together.
A MISTAKE.

“ But don’t you, my dear sir, get tired, at all?”
“O, no! I keep walking from spring until fall,
And during the winter, through ice and through snow,
The more happy am I, the farther I go
Toward the place where the tracks come together.

“Some days it is weary and dreary to walk,
With no one to listen, nor even to talk ;
But when nobody’s talking I walk at my best,
And although I’m not tired, Pll have a good rest
In the place where the tracks come together.

“Now I must hurry, or Pll never get there ;
My time is so short that I don’t even dare
To stop for a moment. Good-by, sir,” said he ;
And so he trudged onward, as blithe as a bee,
Toward the place where the tracks come together.

I wonder if e’er I shall meet him again —
This little old man with his little cracked brain ?
T have ne’er seen him since, but (I can’t tell you why)
I know I shall meet him some day in the sky,
In the place where all tracks come together.
James Walter Smith.

 

=

« . ee &
eS
Oe oa ne

 

A MISTAKE:

AID the needle, “ I’ve swallowed a thread,’
And forthwith he set up a cry;
But the pin on the cushion, she laughingly said,

“ Now surely, that’s all in your eye.”
Mrs. J. T. Greenleaf.
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

(Second Paper.)
AT THE NEW WORLD’S PORTAL.

S we have seen, Columbus, crowned with success,

departed for Palos, invested with all the rights

and privileges he had been for years so anxious to
obtain.

But two months after the surrender of Boabdil to
Ferdinand and Isabella, the same hands that had received
the emblems of their triumph over the Moors, affixed the
royal sign-manual to a paper confirming Columbus in his
title to a yet undiscovered country beyond the unknown sea. A commemorative
chapel on the bank of the Xenil marks’ the spot made famous by the surrender
of the Moor; in the royal chapel attached to the cathedral of Granada the
alabaster tombs of the king and queen are sacred shrines, to which pilgrims by
thousands annually wend their way; but no monument rises above the spot
where the great navigator engaged to barter a world for prospective emolument
and titular honors.

We know with what tenacity he clung to the scheme he had formulated for
the enrichment and ennobling of himself and his family, preferring to abandon
the country rather than to
abate one iota of his project.
And it was with doubtful
pace that he followed the
messenger from Isabella, who
had overtaken him at the
Bridge of Pines, with the
promise of her consent.

But at last he was on his
way back to Palos, trium-
phant at every point. And,
while he is pursuing his
way toward the coast, let us
briefly review his history
hitherto.

He was born in Genoa, the historians tell us, in the year 1446. This may
not be the exact date, and respecting his youth and early manhood there is the

 

THE MOORISH ARCH, PALOS.

 

THE CHURCH OF ST. GEORGE, PALOS.
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

same obscurity ; but about the year 1470, we find him residing in Portugal, the
birthplace of his wife, and somewhat later engaged in correspondence with
Toscanelli. According to his son’s statement, in 1477 he “navigated one hun-
dred leagues beyond Thule;” but in 1482 he is in the south of Spain, having
vainly endeavored to enlist the king of Portugal in his plans, and is sent to Isa-

 

 

THE MIRADOR OF LA RABIDA,
(Looking out upon the stream down which Columbus sailed Jrom Palos to the sea.)

bella by the Duke of Medina Celi, at the court in Cordova. He follows the
court to Salamanca in 1486, and there has audience with the queen. In 1487
he is before the Council in the Dominican Convent, returns to Cordova the same
year in the train of Isabella, whence he is summoned to the military camp at
Malaga. The year 1489 finds him before the walls of Baza, where he witnessed
the surrender of the Moors under Boabdil the Elder, and doubtless conversed
with the two monks who came there to the queen from Jerusalem. 1490 sees
him in Seville and Cordova, whence he finally departs in disgust for the port
of Huelva, stopping on his way at the Convent of La Rabida, where he attracts
_ the attention of the prior, and subsequently has the famous conference with the
friar, the village doctor of Palos, and Martin Alonso Pinzon of Moguer. This
FROM CORDOVA TOGA THAY.

conference in the convent took place in the latter part of the year 1491; as the
result a messenger was dispatched to Isabella, then in camp at Santa Fé, who
returned after fourteen days with royal orders for the prior to come to Granada ;
he departs in haste, and eventually returns with the queen’s command for
Columbus to appear before the court, and with the necessary money for the
trip. Columbus arrives at Santa Fé the first week in January, 1492, in good
time (as we have seen) to witness the surrender of Granada; he has audience
with his sovereigns, cannot agree upon terms, prepares to depart from Spain, is
overtaken by the queen’s courier at Puente de Pinos, returns, and is finally
made happy with the royal consent.

The “ capitulation” for conquest and exploration is signed April 17, 1492,
and May 12 he sets out for Palos. Ten days later, the twenty-third, the royal
command for the people of Palos to furnish men for the voyage is read in the
church of St. George, and the Pinzon family come to his assistance. Prepara-
tions are hurried forward, and by the first of August the vessels drop down the
Rio Tinto to the Domingo Rubio, where the final departure is taken at the Con-
vent of La Rabida. This much for a chronological statement of events.

We will now retrace our steps and visit in person the scenes of the great
discoverer’s weary wanderings and his final gladsome trip through Andalusia.
Memorials of Columbus are scattered throughout Spain to-day: in Madrid the
royal armory contains his armor, the naval museum one of his charts; at Valla-
dolid, in 1506, he died, and the house is still pointed out in which he drew
his last breath; the convent, also, in which his remains were first interred.

But, though we may trace the wanderings of our hero over a great portion
of Spain, it isin the South that the most interesting event occurred. Vastly
rich is Seville, the queen city of the Guadalquivir, in Columbian memories ; for
here we find that valuable library, the Colombina, bequeathed the city by his
son, Fernando, containing twenty thousand volumes, among them some that.
once pertained to the great man himself; one with marginal notes by his own
hand, and one of his charts. Those very islands of the Bahamas, which I myself
have seen, dim and shadowy, and shining in the sun, are here outlined by the
great discoverer himself, upon paper discolored and stained by sea-salt, as
though it had accompanied him on all his voyages.

That, however, which oftenest drew me and longest held me was the marble
slab in the pavement of the great cathedral, that formerly covered the remains
of Columbus, and now marks the resting-place of his son Fernando, with its
world-famous inscription: A Castilla y a Leon Mundo Nuevo dio Colon; “To
Castile and to Leon a New World gave Columbus.” Thus, although the
remains of Columbus himself are now in the New World, many glorious memo-
rials of him are to be seen in Spain, and mainly in Seville.

At Seville, I dwelt in the house of a cleric, and my friend gave me a letter
of introduction to the Cura of Moguer, the town nearest to Palos. It was on
ff ROMM CORD OCGA TO MG AIH Aya.

a bright morning in April that I left the city for a trip to Palos, and the valley
of the Guadalquivir was bright in greenest fields of grain and of olive orchards.
Seville is in truth of queenly aspect, sitting in the midst of the fertile plain, her
towering Giralda rising far above the outline of distant hills. For two thirds
the distance the railroad runs through a fertile and highly-cultivated plain, but
the rest was mainly barren, though covered with sheets and beds of purple
flowers in beautiful bloom.

We passed the ruins of a Roman fortification of times most ancient, and
then crossed a river flowing over iron-colored rocks, curiously worn. The
character of the soil was shown in its color, which was yellow and deep red;
and when I
noted this I
inferred, and
rightly, that we
had seen at last
the historic
Rio Tinto, that
Wine-colored
River, from
which Colum-
bus sailed four
hundred years
5 oe ago.
eee oar ee i Just sixty

SEVILLE, QUEEN CITY OF THE GUADALQUIVIR. years b efo re
(The Giralda, or “ tower of gold,” in the foreground.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Iie gud tiemtahnue
spring of 1828, a man more famous than I traversed this same route, and with
the same intent — gentle and genial Washington Irving. But there was no
railroad in those days, and he was obliged to make the journey on horseback,
taking as many days, perhaps, as I did hours, but enjoying it, every mile.

Leaving the railway at the station of San Juan del Puerto, I took the diligen-
cia, an old carriage, for the town of Moguer, a league distant on a hill, where I
found, contrary to my expectations, good accommodations: a fonda, or house of
entertainment, with clean beds and an excellent table. I was soon served with
a good breakfast, and “mine host” took quite a fancy to me, insisting on
taking me to the places of interest, and telling me all the local news.

But he was lamentably ignorant respecting things Columbian, though intel-
ligent and inquisitive. When I inquired about the scenes of interest to one
studying Columbus, he excused himself, saying he was from another province,
and not posted regarding the affairs of Palos. “But thisman Columbus, when did
he sail, Sefior? And are you sure he sailed from Palos? No ship of any size has
left there this many a year ; the village, even, is half a mile from the river.
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

“Come now, abandon this search for a dead man’s relics and go with me out
to my vineyard, the like of which is not elsewhere in Spain.”

I thanked my friend, but assured him that Columbus had the prior claim, and
that I must go on to Palos.

“Very well, amigo, but you may regret it; Colon must be a dry subject.
My wife will find you a boy as guide ; I’ve no patience with you.”

The boy she secured must have been the surliest specimen in Spain; but the
poor little fellow had lost an arm, early in life, and I suppose that must have
soured him; at any rate, he probably had a hard time of it in his struggle for
bread.

He led up a donkey, hooked my valise on his arm-stump, seized the rope
attached to the donkey’s nose, and then strode ahead, without a glance at me.
Don Pedro sent an emphatic Spanish word flying after him that halted him
instanter, at least long enough to allow me to scramble upon the burro’s back,
then he marched on again, pursued by the maledictions of my friend.

“What a beast of a boy, to be sure; and to think that I, Pedro Val Verde,
a respected householder of Moguer, should have been the means of putting a
distinguished American traveler in his charge — one who has come all the way
from America,
too, just to see
our little port
of Palos. Bien,
Vayacon Dios,
Senor” (God
be with thee).
“You have a
stick, let the
burro feel the
force of your
arm.”

Palos and
Moguer are at
least three

 

THE CONVENT OF LA RABIDA. %
(Where Columbus and his son asked for supper.) miles apart 3

the road be-
tween them is broad and smooth, but traversed by carts only in the vintage
season, when the wines are carried to the port of Palos. There was no saddle
on the beast I rode, and I sat astride an enormous pack of old bags, using my
cudgel as a balancing-pole, but frequently obliged to bring it down upon the
donkey’s resounding sides, at which, much pleased apparently, he would wag his
ears and amble gently onward.
The boy was abstracted, and the donkey absorbed in meditation, so I gained
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

little from their companionship; but after an hour I sighted the hamlet. Palos,
the ancient port whence Columbus sailed on his first voyage to America, to-day
consists of a few mean houses scattered along a hillside, and one long straggling
street. It is nearly half a mile from the river now, but it was a port in the time

 

OUTSIDE THE CONVENT.

(“ Figs and oranges had possessed themselves of space for luxuriant growth.)

of Columbus, and is called so now. There may be some eight hundred inhab-
itants, all told, and not one of them, that I could find, was aware that the ham-
let had a history known to the world beyond its limits. Some of thei had
heard of Columbus, some remembered that it was said he had sailed hence, once
upon a time, to a country called America; but no one could tell me anything,
and I must see the cura — the parish priest — to know more.

After an hour of waiting I found that he knew no more than the others, but
the sacristan of the church, fortunately, was also the schoolmaster, and took an
interest in my mission. He took me to the church of St. George, the veritable
one in which Columbus read the royal commands to the terrified sailors of
Palos, and I found it as it doubtless stood then: a simple church of stone,
guarding the entrance of the town. I photographed its eastern front and also
its rear, where there is a Moorish doorway draped in vines.

 
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

The interior of the church is very plain, the chief ornament being an enor-
mous wooden image of St. George, the patron saint of the church, slaying a
terrible dragon. As St. George stood in a corner so dark that I could not
obtain a photograph of his cheerful countenance, the sacristan and his boy
obligingly trundled him out into the sunlight where he was visible.

It was with great reluctance that I left the church and turned my face again
toward Moguer; but the day was nearly ended, there was no accommodation of
any sort for a traveler at Palos, and the boy and the burro were anxious to be
away. Don Pedro of the inn received me cordially, spreading a table with fruit
of his garden and wine of his vineyard, and afterward invited me to come forth
and view the town. He first conducted me to the church, and then to the
house of the Pinzon family, still in possession of a descendant of the great Pin-
zon who sailed with Columbus. Over the doorway is their coat-of-arms. _I was
delighted to learn that the present representative of the family is prosperous,
and holds the position of admiral in the Spanish navy.

It was not my good fortune to be entertained, as Irving was, by a descend-
ant of the great Pinzon, though I should have valued that attention more highly
than any other in Spain; for it was to the two brothers Pinzon that Columbus
was indebted for success. When he came here, penniless and without authority,
they were prosperous citizens, men of influence over their neighbors, and we all
know the part they took in that first voyage, furnishing money, men and ves-
sels. Even the royal proclamation read in the church of St. George, was of no
less avail than their brave example. Badly treated as they were by Columbus
and by Ferdinand, yet posterity will not refuse them their meed of honor. In
truth, the deeds of the Genoese pale somewhat before their steady glow of sturdy
independence. The needy adventurer whom they befriended, and who treated
them so basely, has left no direct descendants, but the sturdy Pinzon stock still
flourishes in the birthplace of its progenitors.

Our next visit was to the convent-church of Santa-Clara, where Columbus
and his sailors fulfilled their vows after their return from the first voyage. You
will recall, perhaps, that they promised that, if they were saved from a dreadful
storm that threatened to destroy them, they would spend their first night ashore
in prayer. And it was in this very church that they performed their vows,
Columbus kneeling here all night on its cold marbles, and before the altar.

The day following, returning to Palos, a sturdy donkey boy attended me —
and we made the distance merrily, halting at the town only for a lunch. As the
place came into view, I drew up my donkey on the brow of the hill and looked
long at the white-walled Palos, so silent before me, so lifeless, so sad. I need
not tell the thoughts that possessed me, nor the pictures that rose before my
mental vision, for I am an American, and have a share in that common heritage
left us by Columbus.

Four hundred years only have passed since the great Genoese came, to
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

this very port of Palos, and sailed away with its sailor-citizens to the discovery
of a continent; and though since then the cynosure of all eyes, little Palos has
slumbered on unmindful of itsfame. One by oneits prosperous men were gath-
ered out of sight; one by one its houses sank to ruins; one by one its fleets were
depleted of its vessels, until naught remains save the memory of its greatness.

About three miles beyond Palos, passing through scenery unattractive and
sad, you sight some clumps of trees. Then a hill rises against the sky.
Slowly climbing, you bring the roofs and cupolas of a lone white building into
view; they are found to pertain to a convent structure of the olden style. It is
a rambling building but compactly inclosed within a high wall, and is extremely
picturesque. I was very fortunate, later on, in securing a fine photograph of it,
as clouds lay massed beyond and a flock of sheep slowly grazed before it.

And it was thus I found it, this Convent of La Rabida, at the gate of which
Columbus halted to request refreshment for his son. How he came to such a
secluded place as La Rabida, no one has explained; but he probably made for
the coast of Spain, thinking perhaps to obtain a vessel at Huelva, then, as now,
a shipping port to foreign parts. Indeed, this very spot is the Tarshish of the
Bible, and the Phoenicians came here more than two thousand years ago; those
men of Tyre, who discovered a passage between the Pillars of Hercules.

But Columbus came here, halted at the gate (the arched entrance at the
right), and the prior of the convent chanced to see him and to enter into con-
versation with him. Struck by his dignified appearance, and also by his evident
learning, the prior invited him to tarry a while, and soon he had his visitor’s
story: it was a tale of long-deferred plans, of wearisome waiting and of crushing
defeat. That very night the prior caused his mule to be saddled and started for
Granada, pursuing the same weary road through Palos and Moguer that I have
traversed (only he was not favored by steam or stage) to the camp, perhaps two
hundred miles away.

The convent to-day is in excellent preservation, having been carefully re-
stored and placed in the care of a faithful old soldier. I found the family in
possession so simple and so kindly disposed, that I craved permission to pass the
day and night there, which they readily granted. So, paying my donkey boy
double wages, and sending him back to Mogeur with a kind message for the
friendly landlord, I was soon placed in control of the convent, isolate from all
the world. Not Fray Perez could have possessed it more completely. I wan-
dered at will through its corridors, its cloisters and vacant refectory ; I rambled
over the hills back and beyond the convent — hills covered with artemisia and
stunted pines — and indulged in solitary reverie to my heart’s content.

Climbing the winding stairway to the mirador, I had before me through the
arched openings, broad vistas of the river and the sea. Directly beneath, the
hill sloped rapidly to the half-submerged lands of the river and sound. Half-
way down its slope was a date-palm, said to have been there in the time of Colum-
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

bus; perhaps equally old are a gnarled and twisted fig-tree and two gray-green
olives that keep it company. Extending southward, even to the mouth of the
Guadalquivir, are the Arenas Gordas, or the great sands that make this coast a
solitary waste. Truly, it is a lonesome spot, this upon which the building is
perched, and the soul of Columbus must have been aweary as he drew near the
convent portal. The Domingo Rubio, a sluggish stream tributary to the Tinto,
separates from Rabida a sandy island, where there is an ancient watch-tower
and a camp of carbineers on the watch for contrabandistas. A little to the west
the Domingo Rubio meets with, and is lost in, the Rio Tinto, and the two join
with the Odiel and flow tranquilly on to the ocean, where the foaming breakers

 

THE ‘‘ COLUMBUS ROOM” AT LA RABIDA.
(Here the Admiral, the Prior and the Doctor held the conversation that led to the monk’s intercession with Isabella.)

roar with a sound that reaches even to La Rabida. Beyond their united waters
again is another sandy island and another distant watch-tower, till the low coast
fades away in the distance. Down this channel sailed, or floated, Columbus,
bringing his boats from Palos, on his way to the sea.

The landscape is flat, with distant woods, and, farther off, a hint of purple
hills. Opposite, across the bay, lies Huelva, like a snowdrift white upon a
tongue of land between copper-colored hills and the sea. A dreary landscape,
yet a bright sun in its setting might make it transiently glorious.
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

The old soldier in charge of the convent, Don Cristobal Garcia, the concerge,,
was evidently straitened in circumstances, yet he was cheerful, and his hospi-
tality shone forth resplendently. He laughingly informed me that he rejoiced
in the same name as Columbus, Cristobal; but, he added, he had never done.
anything to make it illustrious. He and his family lived in a primitive and even
pitiful state — at meal times gathering around a common platter; but my own
meals they served me on snowy linen at a table apart. There were six of them:
the old man, his wife, a little girl named Isabel, some twelve years old, and
three boys. Isabel, poor child, pattered about the stone pavement with bare feet ;
but they were pretty feet, and her little
brown ankles were neatly turned. There eT
was another member of the family, evi- (ApCESSetage:
dently an intruder, a little chap clad solely
in a short shirt, who had squint eyes and
a great shock of bristly black hair. Don
Cristobal told me that he was a descendant
of one of the Indians brought to Spain
from America on the first voyage ; and as
the child’s face was certainly that of an
Indian, I was more than half inclined to
believe the story. The little people were THE COURTYARD OF LA RABIDA.
delighted with the peeps I gave them
through my camera, and capered about with delight at the sight of the court.
and its flowers spread out before them in miniature, and nearly jumped out of
their jackets at the image of the grave old concerge standing on his head.
“Mira! Mira!” they exclaimed, and gazed at me with awe and wonder.

Don Cristobal gave me a bed in one of the cloister-cells— the very one, he
assured me, that Columbus occupied. I slept well through the night. It.
was a disappointment to me that I did not dream and receive a visitation from
some steel-clad hidalgo, or from a girdled monk or two. At six in the morning
I was awakened by the good concerge, who inquired if Don Federico would not
like a little refreshment. Don Federico would; and well he did, for it was three
or four hours before he received a hint of breakfast. The eldest boy had gone.
to Palos for twenty cents’ worth of meat and two eges, making apparent the
poverty of my host. He did not return until ten, and then we had breakfast ;
and there were the two eggs, which the mistress could not have regarded more
proudly had they been golden, for they were very scarce at that time in Palos,
and it was waiting on a hen’s pleasure that caused the boy’s delay. He had been
told to bring back two eggs, and if two hens had not happened along quite.
opportunely, I might have been waiting that boy’s return to this day.

The rain had fallen all the forenoon and had made the convent cold and
cheerless, so a fire was built in the fireplace of the ancient monks, and as it

 
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

crackled and leaped in the huge chimney throat, we were warmed to our very
hearts. After the rain had ceased, and while the sun was struggling fiercely
with the clouds, we ate our dinner in the corridor, which ran around a court or
patio open to the sky. This court was filled with flowers; vines crept up the
pilars; figs and oranges had possessed themselves of space enough for luxuriant
growth. From it many cloisters opened out, but there was one, still farther in,
where the chamber-cells of the monks were very numerous. Off at one side is
the chapel where it is said Columbus knelt in prayer, and on the opposite side
a passage leads to the refectory, where the stone benches on which the good
monks sat are empty and chill.

Climbing a narrow stairway, you come to a corner room overlooking the
Rio Tinto —a large square room, with floor of earthen tiles and ceiling of cedar,
with dark beams overhead. This is the “ Columbus Room,” where the great
Admiral, the Prior and the learned Doctor held the famous consultation which
resulted in the monk’s intercession with Isabella. Many a painting has repre-
sented this historic scene, perhaps none more faithfully than the one hung in
the room itself. An immense table — old, but sturdy still, and around which the
great men are said to have gathered — oécupies the center of the room, and on it
is the ¢intero, or inkstand, said to have been used by them. Around the wall
are hung several excellent pictures: one representing the discovery of land, one
showing Columbus at the convent gate, another the consultation, the embark-
ation at Palos, the publication of the king’s commands, and the final departure.

I wonder if the old monks of the days gone by enjoyed, as I did, the seclusion
of the place and the sunset view from the mirador? In pleasant weather, when
the hot sun shines, it must be supremely attractive to one sitting in the shade
and looking forth upon the sea. Drowsy insects hum outside, the half-sup-
pressed noises of maritime life float in on the breeze, and lively swallows fly in
and out, twittering to one another as they seek their nests. Ah! pleasant
mirador, overlooking the historic Rio Tinto and the sea. The view afforded
here comprises the scenes attendant upon the momentous departure. Right
before us, on the Domingo Rubio, it was, that Columbus careened his vessels
and took aboard his stores, just before setting sail; somewhere near the mole -
he took his final farewell of the good prior, the last, best friend he had in
Spain; and beyond the sand-spits glimmer the breakers on the Bar of Saltes.

Down the stream, beyond the Tinto, glide lateen-sails toward the bar the
sailors crossed in 1492. Don Cristobal went down to engage passage for me in
a mystick, or little sloop, that was lading with ballast at the river bank, and
soon I followed him to the mole, where a carabinero rowed me across the inlet.
It was on, or near, this very spot that Columbus cleared for his voyage ; and
what thoughts filled my mind as I tarried here! But not a thought had the
men for aught save their sand, which they would take to Huelva and sell for
ballast. If I would wait I was welcome to a passage; but they thought that by
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

crossing the sands I could hail a fisherman in the main channel as he came in
from the sea. The carabinero took me to an ancient tower where his com-
panions were, two of whom rowed me in a boat to mid-channel, and I had the
good luck to catch a fisherman bound for Huelva. We sailed away with a spank-
ing breeze, arriving there in half an hour. Two men and a boy comprised the

 

IN THE CONVENT GARDEN.

crew, and an immense fish the catch. As we drew near the quay a boy drove
a mule-cart into the water, backed it up to the boat, and loaded us all into it,
cargo and crew. Once on shore, alittle urchin led the way to the railway station,
where I spent the time in gazing wistfully at Palos and La Rabida.

The convent lay shining against a bank of clouds; Palos, also, and Moguer
gleaming white against the hills. Two leagues away lay the sea; and I had
just ploughed the channel crossed by the world-seeking caravels four hundred
years ago. And so I left this historic triad of towns which had evoked for me
so many memories of the great century that joined the Old World with the New,
shining against the barren hills, as they have shone in memory ever since.

Frederick A. Ober.
 

A RACE.

URRAH! hurrah! A race! a race!
Over the frozen stream,
Swift of foot and eager of face.
Where the snow and hoar-frost gleam,
Laughter, and shouts, and warning cries,
Echo the woodland through,
As bounding, scrambling, scurrying flies
The jostling merry rabbit crew,
Driven by elves as wild as they,
Gliding after with reins held fast.
See! one mad Bunny has broken away,
Fearful his team should be in at the last,
And out from the thicket in dazed surprise
His staid old parents are peeping,
Wond’ring, perhaps, a-rubbing their eyes,
If they’re really waking or sleeping.
Ida Warner Van der Voort.
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PE VARI. (Gr hb:

RO’ growing lilies tall as wheat,
Thro’ Easter lilies white as
cream,
There looks a face demurely sweet,
There walks a child with tender feet,
New-wakened from her cradle-dream.

Was ever head so golden-curled ?

Were ever cheeks so winsome red ?

““{ saw her first,” the robin said;

The Infant Year has left her bed

And smiles “ good-morrow ” round
the world.

O, joy for waiting eyes to see!

You bring us from your couch of
snow,

The vernal song, the morning glow,

And all the hopes of moons ago

And sunbeams of the weeks to be.

Your sign, dear Spirit of the spring,
For every year in heaven is set ;
Your annual spell shall ever yet
Make Time delay and Age forget,
Till youth is lord of everything.
Theron Brown.

 

 

S a quaint and carven casket may some precious treasure hold,
So this proverb from the Orient doth a gracious truth enfold :
“We should spread our garments widely when the heavens are raining gold.”
Ruth Hall.
EBIN OWE) (AME Ds

eo me fast, mamma, when we enter the Khan. I
am afraid.”

“ Afraid of what, Ebno’l Amed?” Umdhabai exclaimed,.
turning sharply upon her son.

The little fellow was only ten years old, but he did not
look like one who would be much afraid of anything, as he stood, barefooted
on the sand, facing his mother. Those were his words, however, and he was
her only child —her fatherless boy, in a land where men and boys were valued
simply according to their courage.

“Allah forbid it!” Umdhabai added angrily. “Ebno’l Amed is not a.
coward.”

Slowly and thoughtfully the boy asked :

“Ts he always a coward who is afraid ?”

Umdhabai nodded her head, and he added, “Then, mamma, I must be a
coward, for I am afraid.”

Umdhabai almost dropped the basket of fruit she was carrying, and, dumb
with anger and mortification, stood looking down upon the little figure.

Behind them was the little village where they lived upon the edge of the
great desert. They were on their way to a large Khan with a well where cara~
vans encamped for a day when coming or going over that trackless sea.

At daybreak that morning, they had seen the long black line, twisting and
writhing as it crept like a serpent over the glistening sand, indicating that a
trailing train of camels, with drooping heads and lagging feet, came out of the
desert, and all the villagers gathered baskets of fruit and hurried toward the
Khan, sure of a good market day.

Umdhabai forgot her errand, however, as she stood in silence, looking scorn-
fully down, while Ebno’l Amed asked, “ Will papa ever come back to us?”

“Never!” she replied solemnly. “He has taken the long journey. But
he was a brave man. He has gone where the Prophet promised to the brave
eternal happiness. No coward will ever follow him.”

Not heeding the taunt, Ebno’l Amed asked :

“Tf the famine comes again, mamma, what can you do without papa?”

“T must sell my jewels,’ she replied, glancing at the necklace which she
wore, in the common custom of her people who carry all of their wealth about
them, as ornaments, for want of some safer place to put it. Umdhabai was still
very angry, however, and added: “They came from a brave man. Shall they
go to keep a coward from starving ?”

Ebno’l Amed’s lip quivered, and his eyes were bright with tears; but he went

 
EBNO’L AMED.

on with his thought: “If the famine lasted longer than the jewels, mamma,
‘couldn’t I help some?”

“A coward is like the south wind; bringing sand instead of rain,” said
Umdhabai fiercely.

“Tf Tam near youl can help you,” Ebno’l Amed insisted. “ Only for that
I wouldn’t be afraid to go to the Khan alone, to sell the fruit; but I heard men
say that the caravan this morning was led by the terrible Abu’] Hasham.”

“ Abw1l Hasham!” Umdhabai exclaimed, with a startled shudder. “Come,
let us go back.”

“No, no, mamma,” the boy pleaded. “Only keep your hand on me. Then
he cannot steal me, and I shall not be afraid. I am too small to fight him, and |
if he carried me far away and sold me for a slave, I could not help you, mamma.
Come!” and he tugged upon her sarai.

After what she had been saying about bravery, Umdhabai did not dare to let
ibno’| Amed see how thoroughly she herself was frightened by that name of
Abul Hasham — the terror of every tribe and village of North Africa; so lay-
ing a trembling hand upon his shoulder, she reluctantly started toward the Khan
_ to sell her fruit in the caravan of the brigand slave-collector.

It was a miserable desert town they entered; but it boasted a mud wall,
with two gates, bearing their names in great letters on the arch: “Gate of
the Desert ” and “ Gate of the Sea.”

Ebno’l Amed was chatting fearlessly enough, now, but his mother’s face
grew very anxious as the bedlam of voices greeted them from the Khan, where
men, women and children, in the inevitable fashion of an Oriental caravan, were
shouting and wrangling in different languages, and camels and dromedaries were
grunting and groaning as they went through the laborious task of lying down.

It was not the confusion which disturbed Umdhabai, however, for ordinarily
‘she would have hurried to the noisiest quarter, sure that there the people would
be the most wide awake, and in a moment she would have been shouting and
wrangling with the rest, selling her fruit faster than any of her neighbors.
‘To-day she would have given it all away rather than go near the place.

Upon the very outskirts of the Khan she sat down, with the basket in front
‘of her, and one arm about her boy.

“ Why don’t you shout, mamma?” he asked; but receiving no reply he, too,
lapsed into silence, and sat watching the camels and playing with the silver
‘bands upon his mother’s ankle.

There had only been a few customers when Ebno’l Amed felt the arm
tighten about him and tremble, and, looking up, he saw a tall Moor, with a white
beard and a scar on one side of his face. The man paused, and asked the price
‘of all the fruit left in the basket.

“Take it without money. It has no price,” Umdhabai replied, pushing the
basket toward him with her foot. It was the same form which the Prophet
EBNO’L AMED.

Tsaiah used, and which one hears every day in the East, where there are venders
of anything. The usual meaning is that the purchaser is expected to be par-
ticularly liberal; but for once in her life Umdhabai would have been glad to be
taken at her word.

The Moor placed the basket on his shoulder, simply asking, “ Where shall
I send the money ?”

“To the house nearest to the Gate of the Desert,” Umdhabai replied in a
faint voice as she rose to her feet, and taking Ebno’l Amed by the hand whis-
pered, “ Come, we must hurry.”

Faster and faster she walked, till the boy was obliged to run. They passed
the house by the gate, then the gate,

and still hurried on over the sand toward
the village.

At first Ebno’l Amed wondered why
his mother had sacrificed the price of
her fruit rather than tell the Moor truly
where she lived, but as they hurried on
he looked up and asked :

“ Mamma, was that Abu’l Hasham?”

Umdhabai did not answer, for, in
truth, no one had told her that it was
he; but Ebno’l] Amed knew well enough
that he was right, and shuddered as he
thought that he had looked, for a mo-
ment, into the face of Abul Hasham,
the slave-dealer.

All day long the mother’s eyes were
kept upon her boy. Ebno’l Amed real-
ied it, and was glad of it; for he had
heard many a story of the mysterious
ways by which Abu’ Hasham stole whom he would, carried them off, and sold
them as slaves.

He tried to make himself think that he was not a coward, and was not afraid,
but he knew very well that he was afraid.

Ebno’l Amed slept upon a mat, close to his mother, upon the earth floor of
the one little room in their hut; but above that room, and close under the roof,
his father had constructed a low, dark loft, where they often stored their fruit
‘when it was ripening too fast, and, though it was not a comfortable place to
sleep, Ebno’l Amed obeyed without a word, when his mother directed him to take
his mat up there for the night.

It seemed as though he could never go to sleep. The moment he shut his

 

poe

THE CARAVAN IN MOTION,
EBNO’L AMED.

eyes, he found himself looking straight into Abul Hasham’s face again. When
he did sleep, however, he slept very soundly, and it was so dark in the loft that
he slept very late.

Through a crack in the palm-leaf roof he could see that it was broad day-
light when he opened his eyes, and, wondering that his mother had not called
him to say his prayers at sunrise, he crept to the opening into the room below.

Looking down, he started back in terror, and his heart stood still. All was
confusion there. The mat upon which his mother slept was torn, and Umdhabai
was nowhere to be seen.

Gathering courage, at last, he dropped to the floor, and hurried to the open
door. No. Shewasnot anywhere. Looking toward the nearest huts, he saw at
once that something very serious had happened.

A few old men and women were sitting on the ground, before the doors,
wailing and moaning as they did at funerals. It could not be that his mother was
dead, or they would be at his door, instead. Yet she could not be alive, or she
would surely be there, wailing and moaning with the rest.

While he stood, wondering, in the door, he caught one name which the
mourners pronounced louder and more frequently than all the rest. It was
“ Abul Hasham.”

Then he knew it all; and dropping upon the ground, with his back against.
the mud wall, all alone Ebno’l Amed began to wail and moan like the rest.

In a sort of spontaneous poetry, to which the Arabic is particularly adapted,
he put his thoughts into words and sang them, in a low, sad chant.

“ Abul Hasham, the terrible, came to my home, last night,” he moaned.
“My mother feared his coming, and she thought only of me. She hid me away
from him. But hecame. Oh! hecame. While I slept in safety, he came in the
night. Yes, he came and he took my mother—the light of my eyes —the
breath of my body — the blood of my heart. He has carried her away He will
sell her for a slave, far, far away from her, people. O, Umdhabai, Mamma
Umdhabai! why did I sleep? Why did 1” —

He suddenly stopped the chant, and sat looking at his little hands, as he
slowly clasped and unclasped them.

“Ts Ebno’l Amed a coward?” he asked himself. “Is he like the south
wind, which brings the sand and no rain? If I can help my mother, it will be
by being where she is.”

He sprang to his feet, and entered the hut. A moment later he came out,
wrapped up in a long white sarai, a badge of mourning, and leaving the village
walked directly toward the town.

Another caravan was in the Khan. Abu’l Hasham, with his captives, had left
during the night, by the Gate of the Sea. As the sun was setting, the second
caravan roused itself and started in the same direction. Among the motley col-
lection of followers who often form a large, unmounted company behind a great
 

EBNO’L AMED AND THE WATER-—CARRIER.

“ The man filled his cup and Ebno’l Amed looked up
to find himself face to face with Abw’l Hasham.”
EBNO’L AMED.

caravan, they noticed a little atom of humanity so completely covered with a
mourning sarai, that it was hard to say if it were a boy or girl. It was no one’s
concern where it came from or whither it went. The grand Mussulman law of
hospitality provided the little stranger with food and shelter, but beyond that
the national lack of curiosity allowed him to follow his own course, unmolested.

As the caravan entered the gate of the great city on the sea, there was
excitement and consternation everywhere. Some British soldiers were posting
a notice upon the arch, stating that the English government had discovered a
plot to injure her subjects between the desert and the sea, and to rise in insur-
rection. The man who was at the head of it was known to be in that region,
and a large reward was offered for him, dead or alive. He was Abu’ Hasham.

Ebno’l Amed left the caravan, and turned into the first narrow alley which:
they passed. He, alone, knew that Abu’l Hasham must have entered that same
gate, only a few hours before; but he had no one to whom he could go for
advice. Instinct told him that as soon as Abw’l Hasham saw those notices he
would make his escape, and that if he was to do anything to rescue his mother
he must do it quickly.

He wanted to be alone, to see if he could not think out what should be done.
He turned into one narrow alley after another, pulling the soiled sarai closer
about him, and slowly walking along the damp and slimy pavement — so differ-
ent from his own desert sand— without so much as noticing it, though it was
the first time in his life that he had ever been in a city.

While he was wandering on, a water-carrier passed him. He noticed the
skin water-bag, and, being very thirsty, he turned round and called to the man,
asking him fora drink. He called twice, but the man seemed little inclined to
heed him; but, turning, Ebno’l Amed ran after him, caught him by the arm,
and shouted: “ Water! In Allah’s name, give me water!”

Then the man paused and filled his cup, and Ebno’l Amed, while he waited,
looked up at him, to find himself face to face again with Abu’ Hasham.

He was too thoroughly frightened to utter a sound. He even took the water
and drank it, without knowing what he did; but the whole situation was unfold-
ing itself in the boy’s mind. He realized that, discuised as a water-carrier, Abu’l
Hasham was stealing down those deserted alleys intent upon escaping from the
city. He knew that if he let him go he would escape, and all hope of saving
his mother would be lost. As the water-carrier hurried on, Ebno’l Amed tried
to throw off the fright, and as it was all he could do, he fixed two bright,
black eyes upon the retreating figure, determined not to lose sight of him.

On and on they went, twisting about in the narrow lanes, till the water-carrier
suddenly turned to the right. While Ebno’l Amed was wondering why, and hur.
rying to catch up with him again, he almost ran into the very officers whom he
saw at the gate, putting up the notice.
EBNO’L AMED.

Even in the excitement of the moment he wondered why he had not thought
of them before, and, though he could not speak a word except Arabic, he caught
the nearest one by the coat, and pointing down the alley, eagerly repeated that
one name, “ Abu’l Hasham!”

Fortunately, that was all that was wanted, and Ebno’] Amed ran after them
as they chased the water-carrier and took him prisoner.

There was great excitement at the British headquarters when it was known
that the Government had secured its prize in less than an hour after publishing
its offer. Ebno’l Amed was a very small boy to possess so much money, but the
reward was fairly won, and they prepared to fulfill the promise.

When they told him of the wealth that would be his, however, he simply
shook his head, and replied :

“T don’t want it. What could I do with it? I want my mamma. Abu!
Hasham stole her away from me, and brought na to sell her as a slave, and I
followed him to get her back. I want my mamma.’

This was still greater news to the officers who were orine hard to sup-
press slave- chasis, The captives were found, and were all set ee while the
servants of Abu’l Hasham were arrested.

That was a grand day for Ebno’l] Amed. Umdhabai clasped him in-her arms
—the proudest mother of the bravest boy among all the Arabs; and when the
rest of the captives saw who had set them free, they made a royal palanquin out
of their arms and shoulders, and in a grand, triumphal procession they bore
him, day after day, all the way from the sea to his desert home.

Abd el Ardavan.

*LASKE Y-

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOW. WE PEA GED ak © BINS @ NmiG RUS Ose

WO hours steam south from Singapore out into the famous Straits of Ma-
lacca, or one day’s steam north from the equator, stands Raffles’s Light-
house. Sir Stamford Raffles, the man from whom it took its name, rests in
Westminster Abbey, and a heroic-sized bronze statue of him graces the center
of the beautiful ocean esplanade of Singapore, the city he founded.

It was on the rocky island on which stands this light, that we — the mistress
and I—played Robinson Crusoe or, to be nearer the truth, Swiss Family
Robinson.

It was hard to imagine, I confess, that the beautiful steam launch that
brought us was a wreck; that our half-dozen Chinese servants were members of
the family; that the ton of impedimenta was the flotsam of the sea; that the
Eurasian keeper and his attendants were cannibals; but we closed our eyes to
all disturbing elements, and only remembered that we were alone on a sun-lit
rock in the midst of a sun-lit sea, and that the dreams of our childhood were, to |
some extent, realized.

What live American boy has not had the desire, possibly but half-admitted,
to some day be like his hero, dear old Crusoe, on a tropical island, monarch of
all, hampered by no dictates of society or fashion? I admit my desire, and,
further, that it did not leave me as I grew older.

We had just time to inspect our little island home before the sun went
down, far out in the Indian Ocean.
HOW WE PLAYED ROBINSON CRUSOE.

Originally the island had been but a barren, uneven rock, the resting-place
for gulls; but now its summit has been made flat by a coating of concrete.
There is just enough earth between the concrete and the rocky edges of the
island to support a circle of cocoanut-trees, a great almond-tree, and a queer-
looking banyan-tree, whose wide-spreading arms extend over nearly half the
little plaza. Below the light-house, and set back like caves into the side of the
island, are the kitchen and the servants’ quarters, a covered passageway con-

 

RAFFLES’S LIGHT-HOUSE, ON THE ISLAND IN THE INDIAN OCEAN,

necting them with the rotunda of the tower, in which we have set our dining-
table.

‘Ah Ming, our “ China boy,” seems to be inveterate in his determination to
spoil our Swiss Family Robinson illusion. We are hardly settled before he
comes to us.

“ Mem” (mistress), “no have got ice-e-blox. Ice-e all glow away.”

“ Very well, Ming. Dig a hole in the ground, and put the ice in it.”

“ How can dig? Glound all same, hard like ice-e.”

“Well, let the ice melt,” I reply. “ Robinson Crusoe had no ice.”

In a half-hour Jim, the cook, comes up to speak to the “Mem.” He lowers
his cue, brushes the creases out of his spotless shirt, draws his face down, and
commences:
HOW WE PLAYED ROBINSON CRUSOE.

“ Mem, no have got chocolate, how can make puddlin’ ?”

I laugh outright. Jim looks hurt.

“ Jim, did you ever hear of one Crusoe?”

“No, Tuan!” (Lord.)

“Well, he was a Zuan who lived for thirty years without once eating
chocolate ‘ puddlin’.’ We'll not eat any for ten days. Sabe?”

Jim retires, mortified and astonished.

Inside of another half-hour, the. Zukang Ayer or water carrier arrives on the
scene. He is simply dressed in a pair of knee-breeches. He complains of a
lack of silver polish, and is told to pound up a stone for the knives, and let the
silver alone.

We are really in the heart of a small archipelago. All about us are verdure-
covered islands. They are now the homes of native fishermen, but a century
ago they were hiding-places for the fierce Malayan pirates whose sanguinary
deeds made the peninsula a byword in the mouths of Europeans.

A rocky beach extends about the island proper, contracting and expanding
as the tide rises and falls. On this beach.a hundred and one varieties of shells
glisten in the salt water, exposing their delicate shades of coloring to the rays
of the sun. Coral formations of endless design and shape come to view through
the limpid spectrum, forming a perfect submarine garden of wondrous beauty.
Through the shrubs, branches, ferns and sponges of coral, the brilliantly col-
ored fish of the Southern seas sport like gold-fish in some immense aquarium.

We draw out our chairs within the protection of the almond-tree, and watch
the sun sink slowly to a level with the masts of a bark that is bound for Java
and the Borneoan coasts. The black, dead lava of our island becomes molten
for the time, and the flakes of salt left on the coral reef by the out-going tide
are filled with suggestions of the gold of my Idahoan home. A faint breeze
rustles among the long, fan-like leaves of the palm, and brings out the rich
yellow tints with their background of green. A clear, sweet aroma comes from
out the almond-tree. The red sun and the white sheets of the bark sail away
together for the Spice Islands of the South Pacific.

We sleep in a room in the heart of the light-house. The stairway leading
to it is so steep that we find it necessary to hold on to a knotted rope as we
ascend. Hundreds of little birds, no larger than sparrows, dash by the windows,
flying into the face of the gale that rages during the night, keeping up all the
time a sharp, high note that sounds like wind blowing on telegraph wires.

Every morning, at six o'clock, Ah Ming clambers up the perpendicular stair-
way, with tea and toast. We swallow it hurriedly, wrap a sarong about us, and
take a dip in the sea, the while keeping our eyes open for sharks. Often, after a
' bath, while stretched out in a long chair, we see the black fins of a man-eater
cruising just outside the reef. I do not know that I ever hit one, but I used a
good deal of lead firing at them.
HOW WE PLAYED ROBINSON CRUSOE.

One morning we started on an exploring expedition, in the keeper’s jolly-
boat. It was only a short distance to the first island, a small rocky one, with a
bit of sandy beach, along which were scattered the charred embers of past fires.
From under our feet darted the grotesque little robber crabs, with their stolen
shell houses on their backs. A great white jelly-fish, looking like a big tapioca
pudding, had been washed up with the tide out of the reach of the sea, and a
small colony of ants was feasting on it. We did not try to explore the interior
of the islet. We named it
Fir Island from its crown of
fir-like casuarina-trees,
which sent out on every
breeze a balsamic odor that.
was charged with far-away
New England recollections.

The next island was a.
large one. The keeper said
it was called Pulo Seneng,.
or Island of Leisure, and
held a little campong, or
village of Malays, under an
old Penghulo, or chief,
named Wahpering. We
found, on nearing the verd-
ure-covered island, that ‘it.
looked much larger than it really was. The woods grew out into the sea for
a quarter of a mile. We entered the wood by a narrow walled inlet, and
found ourselves for the first time in a mangrove swamp. The trees all seemed
to be growing on stilts. A perfect labyrinth of roots stood up out of the water,
like a rough scaffold, on which rested the tree trunks, high and dry above the
flood. From the limbs of the trees hung the seed pods, two feet in length,
sharp-pointed at the lower end, while on the upper end, next to the tree, was.
a russet pear-shaped growth. They are so nicely balanced that when in their
maturity they drop from the branches, they fall upright in the mud, literally
planting themselves.

The Penghulo’s house, or bungalow, stood at the head of the inlet. The old
man —he must have been sixty— donned his best clothes, relieved his mouth
of a great red quid of betel, and came out to welcome us. He eracefully touched.

his forehead with the back of hisopen palm, and mumbled the Malay greeting =

“ Tabek, Tuan?” (How are you, my lord ?)

When the keeper gave him our cards, and announced us in florid language,
the genial old fellow touched his forehead again, and in his best Bugis Malay
begged the great Rajah and Ranee to enter his humble home.

 

WAHPERING’S BUNGALOW.
HOW WE PLAYED ROBINSON CRUSOE.

The only way of entering a Malay home is by a rickety ladder six feet high,
and through a four-foot opening. Iam afraid that the great “ Rajah and Ranee”
lost some of their lately acquired dignity in accepting the invitation.

Wahpering’s bungalow, other than being larger and roomier than the ordi-
nary bungalow, was exactly like all others in style and architecture.

It was built close to the water’s edge, on palm posts six feet above the ground.
This was for protection from the tiger, from thieves, from the water, and for
sanitary reasons. Within the house we could just stand upright. The floor
was of split bamboo, and was elastic to the foot, causing a sensation which at
first made us step carefully. The open places left by the crossing of the bam-
boo slats were a great convenience to the Penghulo’s wives, as they could sweep
all the refuse of the house through them; they might also be a great accommo-
dation to the Penghulo’s enemies, if he
had any, for they could easily ascertain
the exact mat on which he slept, and stab
him with their keen krises from beneath.

In one corner of the room was the §
hand loom on which the Penghulo’s old
wife was weaving the universal article of
dress, the sarong.

The weaving of a sarong represents
the labor of twenty days, and when we
gave the dried-up old worker two dollars
and a half for one, her syrah-stained
gums broke forth from between her
bright-red lips in a ghastly grin of
pleasure.

There must have been the represen-
tatives of at least four generations under
the Penghulo’s hospitable roof. Men and
women, alike, were dressed in the skirt-
like sarong which fell from the waist
down ; above that some of the older women wore another garment called a Ka-
baya. The married women were easily distinguishable by their swollen gums
and filed teeth.

The roof and sides of the house were of attap. This is made from the
long, arrow-like leaves of the nipah palm. Unlike its brother palms — the cocoa,
the sago, the gamooty and the areca — the nipah is short, and more like a giant
cactus in growth. Its leaves are stripped off by the natives, then bent over a
bamboo rod and sewed together with fibers of the same palm. When dry they
become glazed and waterproof.

The tall, slender areca palm, which stands about every campong, supplies

 

THE CHIEF’S ‘‘ BEST WIFE.’
HOW WE PLAYED ROBINSON CRUSOE.

the natives with their great luxury — an acorn, known as the betel-nut, which
when crushed and mixed with lime leaves, takes the place of our chewing tobacco.
In fact, the bright-red juice seen oozing from the corners of a Malay’s mouth is
as much a part of himself as is his sarong or kris. Betel-nut chewing holds
its own against the opium of the Chinese and the tobacco of the European.

As soon as we shook hands ceremoniously with the Penghulo’s oldest wife,
and tabeked to the rest of his big family, the old man scrambled down the ladder,
and sent a boy up a cocoanut-tree for some fresh nuts. In a moment half a

dozen of the great oval green nuts came
pounding down into the sand. Another
little fellow snatched them up, and with
a sharp parang, or hatchet-like knife,
cut away the soft shuck until the cocoa-
nut took the form of a pyramid, at the
apex of which he bored a hole and a
stream of delicious cool milk gurgled out.
We needed no second invitation to apply
our lips to the hole. The meat inside
was so soft that we could eat it with a
spoon. The cocoanut of commerce con-
tains hardly a suggestion of the tender
fleshy pulp of a freshly-picked nut.

We left the Penghulo’s house with the
old chief in the bow of our boat —he in-
sisted upon seeing that we were properly
announced to his subjects—and_pro-
ceeded along the coast for half a mile, and
then up a swampy lagoon to its head.

The tall tops of the palms wrapped everything in a cool green twilight.
The waters of the lagoon were filled with little bronze forms, swimming and
sporting about in its tepid depths regardless of the cruel eyes that gleamed at
them from great log-like forms among the mangrove roots.

Dozens of naked children fled up the rickety ladders of their homes as we
approached. Ring-doves flew through the trees, and tame monkeys chattered
at us from every corner. The men came out to meet us, and did the hospitali-
ties of their village ; and when we left our boat was loaded down with presents
of fish and fruit.

Almost every day after that did. we visit the campong, and were always wel-
comed in the same cordial manner.

Wahpering was tireless in his attentions. He kept his Sampan Besar, or big
boat, with its crew at our disposal day after day.

One day I showed him the American flag. He gazed at it thoughtfully and

 

A LITTLE MALAY GIRL.
HOW WE PLAYED ROBINSON CRUSOE.

said, “ Baik!” (Good.) “ How big your country?” I tried to explain. He
listened for a moment. “Big as Negri Blanda?” (Holland.) Ilaughed. “A
thousand times larger!” The old fellow shook his head sadly, and looked at.
me reproachfully.

“ Tidak! Tidak!” (No, no.) “Rajah. Orang Blanda (Dutchman) show me
chart of the world. Holland all red. Take almost all the world. Rest of coun-
tries small, small. All in one little corner. How can Rajah say his country
big?”

There was no denying the old man’s knowledge; I, too, had seen one of
these Dutch maps of the world, which are circulated in Java to make the natives
think that Holland is the greatest nation on earth.

One day glided into another with surprising rapidity. We could swim, ex-
plore, or lie out in our long chairs, and read and listlessly dream. All about our
little island the silver sheen of the sea was checkered with sails. These strange
native craft held for me a lasting fascination. I gazed out at them as they glided
by, and saw in them some of the rose-colored visions of my youth. Piracy,
Indian Rajahs and spice islands seemed to live in their queer red sails and palm-
matting roofs. At night a soft warm
breeze blew from off shore and lulled us
to sleep ere we were aware.

One morning the old chief made us a
visit before we were up. He announced
his approach by a salute from a muzzle-
loading musket. I returned it by a dis-
charge from my revolver. He had come
over with the morning tide to ask us
to spend the day, as his guests, wild-pig
hunting. Of course we accepted with
alacrity. Iam not going to tell you how
we found all the able-bodied men and
dogs on the island awaiting us, how they
beat the jungle with frantic yells and
shouts while we waited on the opposite
side, or even how many pigs we shot.
It would all take too long.

We went fishing every day. The many-
colored and many-shaped fish we caught were a constant wonderment to us.
One was bottle-green, with sky-blue fins and tail, and striped with lines of gold.
Its skin was stiff and firm as patent leather. Another was pale-blue, with a
bright-red proboscis two inches long. We caught cuttle-fish with great lustrous
eyes, long jelly feelers and a plentiful supply of black fluid ; squibs, prawns,
mullets, crabs and devil-fish. These last are considered great delicacies by

 

A MALAY BOY.
HOV VZESPEAYVED SROBINSON “CRUSOE.

the natives. We had one fried. Its meat was perfectly white, and tasted like
a tallow candle.

The day on which we were to leave, Wahpering brought us some fruit and
“fish and a pair of ring-doves. Motioning me to one side he whispered, the
while looking shyly at the mistress, “ Ranee very beautiful! How much you
pay?” I was staggered for the moment, and made him repeat his question.
This time I could not mistake him. “ How much you pay for wife?” He gave
his thumb a jerk in the direction of the mistress. I saw that he was really
serious, so I collected my senses, and, with a practical, business-like air, answered,
<<Two hundred dollars.” The old fellow sighed.

“The great Rajah very rich! I pay fifty for best wife.”

T have not tried to tell you all we did on our tropical island playing Robinson
Crusoe. I have only tried to convey some little impression of a happy ten days
that will ever be remembered as one more of those glorious, oriental chapters
in our lives which are filled with the gorgeous colors of crimson and gold, the
delicate perfumes of spice-laden breezes and with imperishable visions of a
strange, old-world life.

They are chapters that we can read over and over again with an ever-increas-
ing interest as the years roll by.

Rounsevelle Wildman.

 

 

SPRING IS IN THE AIR.
 

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gen aaea

 

EEE oes luo ee

WS the sleepy world in his bed of clouds
Turns over toward the dawning,

There are too many girls, and too many boys
Who sleep through the long, bright morning.

Then the sun peeps in through a chink to say

(But never a word do they hear — not they),
“The world is awake; the bird’s in the blue;
He'll catch the worm; not you, not you.”

But here are the girls, and here are the boys
Who woke with the birds’ first singing ;
They cry to the sun, “ You're a little late,
For the morning news we’re bringing.”
They top the hill, and they take the world,
These clear-eyed “ Firsts,” with their flag unfurled.
And the sun, with his kindly and wise old face,
Remarks to the earth, “ They’re the heirs of the race.”

Mary A. Lathbury.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A QUESTION OF TIME,
HOW @ PATSEY OWN Da yriSme a @lkaleu) Ngee

yg HERE was a great commotion in the Killikelly cabin that
morning. There always was, for that matter, for they made
up the jolliest crowd of Irish children you ever saw, and the
little cabin at Fernsea was much too small to hold either the
crowd or the noise. But the laughing and shouting were so much
louder than usual, that if you had been there you would surely
have asked what it was all about.

No one need to stay in doubt long upon any matter in Fern-
sea, for news traveled quickly in the little village. It was simply
this: the Killikellys were going to America.

Poor little Patsey was happier than all the rest put together,
and when you say that you say a good deal, for hardly anybody

except the babies slept a wink that night for joy. But Patsey had reason to be
glad, for as he was a cripple who had never been able to go far from home, even
in a jaunting car, the prospect of being carried more than two thousand miles
in a big steamer was more than delightful.

Patsey had read more than the rest about that wonderful land, and all that
he had heard and studied about it only whetted his curiosity and increased his
joy. Why,“ Meriky” was where they had Indians, and gave away land to poor
people, and had paper for money. (They have only silver, gold and copper
money there, in Ireland, you know.) He knew about this because Jimmie
Mack’s sister, who was out at service in America, wrote long letters to Jimmie,
and told him all about these jolly things.

They were to sail in about a week, and the little Killikellys were busy
enough. They bade all their schoolmates good-by ; helped to carry the lighter
articles of furniture to the neighbors who had bought them; gave away their
toys (they were not so much to look at, but they were very dear to them), so
that their playmates would have something to remember them by. So they
started over the field to the railway station one bright morning, a lark high up
in the sky singing them a cheery farewell song as they tramped away together.

Patsey carried in one hand a little leather satchel which knocked against his
crutch as he hobbled along. Little Mike offered to carry it for him, asking, with
wonder in his big blue eyes:

“ Phwat’s in it, any way?”

“Oh! somethin’ foine — yez’ll be sure to lose it, Mickey, if I lets yez carry it.

_ Oi can take it all roight.”
All their kindly entreaties were in vain. Patsey would neither tell them
what it held, nor allow it out of his sight one instant. Even when the pangs of

 
HOW PATSEY FOUND HIS FORTUNE.

sea-sickness overtook him, on the third day out from Liverpool, the satchel lay
beneath his pillow. .

All the Killikelleys declared they had never seen Patsey so happy. He hob-
bled around the deck, and talked with the sailors, who all had a cheery word for
the little lad. He amused the children, and had a kindly word for all he met.

It was because of his very kindness and good nature that his misfortune over-
took him. His mother was ill nearly all the time, and so Patsey undertook the
care of the baby, a blue-eyed midget of a boy about two years old. He was sit-
ting with the baby on his lap, and as the child threatened to cry, had given
him the precious satchel to play with. As he turned to answer a question of
one of the younger children, Baby took the opportunity to throw the little black
bag over the rail; and Patsey’s frightened eyes just caught a glimpse of it before

 

‘© HE WAS SITTING ON A COIL OF ROPE WITH THE BABY IN HIS LAP.’’

' it disappeared. He made no outcry at first. He was too stunned and miserable.
But when he did commence to weep, he cried as if his heart would break.

Then he had to tell them all about it: how he had planned that they should
all be rich in America; how he had cut up all his precious books and picture
cards, and packed them in that bag, so that they should have plenty of paper
money in the strange land they were going to. They consoled him, sailors and
all, as best they might, and then left him, for he refused to be comforted.
Meanwhile Baby toddled about, and laughed at the crying boy.

By and by the story got all round the ship; and while some smiled a little at
‘first, that a child should be so “simple,” when they knew that it was little
‘crippled Patsey who was so disconsolate, their pity took a very helpful form.

They told the cabin passengers about it, too, and everybody tried to give
something. There were crisp paper five-dollar and ten-dollar bills, and even the
silver and coppers given by the steerage passengers were changed into bills, so
that Patsey should still have paper money. It was all packed in another little
black satchel that one of the ladies gave, and then they all followed the captain
when he went to find the poor boy.
SAM’S DEFINITION.

He was sitting upon a coil of ropes, looking steadily over the water when

they approached. His

cheeks were wet with recent tears. The captain didn’t

make a speech or anything of that sort. He only told Patsey how sorry they
were for him; how careless babies were, because they didn’t know any better,

 

‘‘HE HAD GIVEN THE BABY THE
SATCHEL.’’

couldn’t say one word ;

and that perhaps it didn’t matter, after all, about the
satchel falling overboard, because the paper had to be
stamped in a certain way, as postage stamps were in
Treland, before it could make anybody rich. He said
that they had found some of that right kind of stamped
money among the passengers of the ship, and had
packed it in a satchel like his, which they wanted him
to keep with their best wishes.
When he opened the bag with trembling fingers,
and saw all the curious green and brown money, he
but although they told him not to mind about thanks,

his eyes said “Thank you,” much plainer than words could ever have done.

So he was rich, after all, and when they got to New York there was enough
money to set Patsey up in business; and now, over a little store, in a big
thoroughfare, you may read the sign of “ Patrick Killikelly, Newspapers and

Confectionery.”

C6

Edith Perry Estes.

 

SAMS = Dees EN Oar

OW, scholars,” said the teacher new,
«“ Since you can write and spell,

Tm sure in definition too
Tl find that you excel.”

Each smiling scholar, open eyed,
The challenge seemed to wait.

“‘ Well, here’s a word,” the teacher cried —
“ Define ‘ to hibernate.’ ”’

Up went a score of little hands.
“ Well, you may give it, Sam —

Stand up!” The blushing Webster stands:
“To dwell in Ireland, ma’m!”

James Buckham.
 

 

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A SON Gar Fee AR War ACE RY

OME springtime ,
day
In a nest will lie
an ego,
Blue as the stockings
Ona peacock’s leg ;
Some sunny day
It will be a pulpy
ball,
With two frowzy
wings
To break its fall.

Some April time,
When the rain has
passed away,
I shall find a Crow’s-foot

Nodding blossoms gay.

 

Dandelion and fern ~ Mocking-bird and red-wing,
Will jump up at my feet, The kildee and jay,
As I begin to wonder All build their roof-trees
What can be so sweet. Where I see them ev'ry day.
An undiscovered country Liverwort and lady’s smock,
In a little woodland plot ; Wild clematis vine,
Something’s always new there, Cluster in a woodland —
Something’s just forgot. God’s, and thine, and mine.

Sallie Margaret O'Malley.
Ware e PENG Est Di Gie MeMEAT

(A True Story.)

E was a prince of some scholarly distinction, and was on a visit to Queen
Victoria at Windsor Castle. He went to the British Museum to see a
unique coin.

“Yes,” said the keeper, taking the prince into a private room where the
treasure was locked up in a special cabinet; “this is the only known example
of this particular coin ; it is priceless as an imperial relic.”

The prince examined it with suppressed excitement, looked at it through a
magnifying glass, and smiled with delight. The keeper was a shrewd man. He
saw that the prince had the true feeling of the connoisseur and collector, and he
was wary; for the passion of the enthusiastic antiquarian has been known to
lead the most honest men out of the paths of virtue. The keeper turned aside
for a moment, however, and during that moment the coin dropped upon the
floor. He heard it distinctly, and saw the prince stoop as if to pick it up.

“T have dropped it,” said His Highness.

The keeper joined him in looking for it; but the treasure had disappeared.
It was nowhere to be seen. They both searched for it diligently. Ten, twenty,
thirty minutes passed away. The prince looked at his watch. “I am very
sorry, but I must go now,” he said; “I have a most important appointment.”

The keeper rose from his stooping posture, went to the door, locked it, put
the key into his pocket, and then, looking his visitor straight in the eye, said:
“You cannot keep your appointment, sir, until you have restored to me the
coin I last saw in your hand.”

“ But,” said the prince, “ you will find it presently, and my engagement is at
Windsor.”

“Tam very sorry; but you cannot leave this room until you have given me
back that coin.”

“Why, great heavens!” exclaimed the prince, “one would think by your
manner that”? —

“ Not at all,” said the keeper, interrupting him; “come, let us find it.”

The prince bit his lip, turned pale, and they resumed the search. At the end
of an hour the prince insisted upon leaving the keeper to find it. His anxiety
to get away confirmed the British Museum official in his suspicion that the
prince had yielded to the collector’s fever for possession. Time went on; the
prince now emphatically declared his intention to leave the place.

“Tf you insist,” said the keeper, “it will be my painful duty to call in a
detective officer, and have you searched.”

“ Do you mean that?”
THE PRINCE’S DILEMMA.

“T do, most assuredly,” said the keeper.

“Then we must continue our search,” observed the prince.

They did continue their search. Every nook and cranny were re-examined.
It was a polished oak floor. There was no furniture in the room beyond one
or two cabinets and a single chair. It seemed impossible to the keeper that
his coin could not be found, if it had really fallen from the prince’s hand.
After a while the prince sat down, looking the picture of despair, when sud-
denly the keeper uttered a joyous exclamation. “ By the powers, it is here!”
It had packed itself away against the skirting of the room as if glued there,
and being somewhat of the color of the yellowish oak it was impossible to see it,
even now, without going close to it.

“Thank God!” exclaimed the prince, with far more fervency than the
occasion seemed to demand.

“‘ My dear sir,” said the keeper, “I am deeply grieved that I should have
seemed to doubt you; can you forgive me?”

“Yes ; indeed I can,” the prince replied ; “I was never more scared, never
realized until now how circumstantial evidence could hang a man fora crime
of which he might be perfectly innocent. Stand a little away from me, please,
and I will show you why I was so anxious to be gone, apart from the importance
of my appointment at Windsor. You say that coin which you hold in your
hand is the only one in existence ?”

“ Assuredly !”

The prince drew from his pocket its very fellow, the counterpart of the
Museum’s unique gem. “I came into possession of it,” he said, “a year ago ;
ever since I have had a burning desire to see the British Museum’s coin ; only
last week could I leave my country ; and what would the Greatest Lady have
thought, if your coin had been lost, of the explanation that the coin your police
had found in my possession was a duplicate I had come here to compare with
yours? Would you have believed me ?”

“Tam bound to say I should not,” replied the keeper promptly.

“ What should you have done?” asked the prince.

“T should have been guided by the police.”

“Of course you would,” said the prince; “ good-day! I have missed my
engagement ; but I can once more look you in the face; and, you may depend
upon it, I will never again have a secret about numismatic treasures.

The prince’s explanation at Windsor you may be sure was readily accepted,
if only for its curious and romantic details.

Joseph Hatton.

 
    
 

    
  

  

055 utterfly

Aas 7 (Wess

Jack Tyler, then but four years old, fast-
ened the nickname upon her. Her mother took her abroad the year after she left
school — she would not have been graduated had she staid there sixteen, instead
of four years— and Mrs. Tyler, the Frys’ next-door neighbor, gave a lawn party
the week succeeding the return of her traveled friends. Miss Betty, at nine-
teen, was blue-eyed and plump, with peach-blow cheeks, in which dimples came
and went whenever she opened her rosy lips, and a profusion of auburn hair
that made an aureole about a tossing little head. Her Parisian costume was as
gay as good taste would permit, and Jack fairly blinked when she fluttered
down upon him in passing, darted half a dozen swift kisses upon his face and
curls, and called him the “ darlingest darling her eyes had ever lighted upon.”

“This is Miss Betty Fry, my son,’ explained his stately mother. “Speak
to her, as a gentleman should.”

Jack arched a chubby hand over his eyes, more in dazzlement than bashful-
‘ness, and piped up dutifully :

“ How do you do, Miss Butterfly ?”

The name took, inevitably, and stuck fast to her as long as she lived.

At school she had skimmed text-books as her tiny feet skimmed the ground,
complaining, merrily, that all she was taught went in at one ear and straight
out at the other. In music, languages and drawing, her acquirements were of
the same sketchy order, with no “ staying power.” She had but one talent —
that of being happy through and through, always and everywhere. She soaked
MISS BUTTERFLY.

herself in sunbeams until she radiated them at the pores. Everybody agreed
that “there was nothing in her,” yet everybody was fond of and petted her.
People liked to have her around as they liked to cultivate flowers and buy bric-
a-brac, and set harmonious bits of color in shadowy corners. She was the only
daughter of the richest widow in her native town, and her three brothers were
married men before she was emancipated from the fashionable seminary where
she had learned so little.

Years went on multiplying years, and although she made no account of them,
they kept tally upon the peach-blow and creamy skin, and stole, a pound at a
time, of the flesh that at nineteen had looked so pure and sweet. Her eyes had
faded to “ baby blue,” and had paler rims about the irises ; her hair was bleached
to the color of Milwaukee brick-dust, and the rings and waves that once made a
glory above her face were dry, stiffened wisps. The dimples were shallow
ravines, instead of mirthful pools, and Time had dug out the temples, and scraped
at the outer corners of her eyes. Jack Tyler was a mustachioed business-man,
with a four-year-old namesake of his very own, and Miss Butterfly was still
better known by the sobriquet he had bestowed upon her than as Miss Elizabeth
Fry, the owner and sole resident — barring her servants — of the fine old home-
stead upon the hill.

It was queer, said the gossips, that with all that money, and her pretty face
and coaxing ways, she had never married; yet she did not look like a woman
witha history. She chatted a great deal, and laughed a great deal more than she
talked. A local poet had once written some verses comparing her laugh to water
running down hill over a pebbly bed. The bed of the stream might be getting
dry now, but the brook — what there was of it — continued to go through the
motions. She had lost none of her little fluttering mannerisms. In anybody
else they would have been called flighty at her age; affectations she should have
outgrown a score of years ago. At her mother’s death, which did not take place
until the daughter was forty, the new mistress had retained the full staff of
servants, and the gossips had their whisper about that, too:

“Tf ever there was a woman who had it easy! but there, now! Who could
have the heart to begrudge that good-hearted little thing, who had never done a
hand’s turn for herself, the wealth she seemed to enjoy so heartily ?”

I was an intolerant chit of fifteen, who had lived in Book-land and Dream-
world until I was clothed in self-conceit as with a garment, when, on one raw
December afternoon, I rang Miss Fry’s door-bell. While waiting to be admitted,
I surveyed the winter-bitten grounds encompassing the great house, and shivered
under my furs at their bleak aspect. Shrubbery was done up in straw tents;
fountains were robed in sackcloth, and the top-dressing of manure spread over
the turf looked, with the hoar-frost upon it, like ashes. The gray stone front
of the dwelling had been enlivened by window-gardens in the summer, and
their absence gave it a jail-like look.
MLS SOB OTE he Eves

“¢ And the woman who lives here has no aim and no outlook in life,” mused
I priggishly. ‘She is a unit with never a cipher at her back to give her value.
Were she to die to-morrow the world would be none the poorer. It is the old
fable of the butterfly who sat in the rose’s heart all summer and starved in the
winter.”

“Ts Miss Fry at home?” I inquired of the maid who interrupted my
moralizing.

“Yes,maam. Walk in, please.”

“ But she has company,” as the tinkle of a guitar and a babble of singing
proceeded from the library.

“QO, no, ma’am; no more than common. There’s no invited party.”

We reached the inner door just as the music ceased, and a wilder clamor of
small voices arose. ‘“‘ Please, Miss Butterfly, now sing ‘ Said I, said I.’”

The hostess did not observe me, and I drew back into the comparative
obscurity of the hall to watch the animated interior. Miss Fry, in a sheeny
satin the color of a robin’s egg, with costly laces drooping over her chest and.
wrists, sat upon a low ottoman, guitar in hand, the center of a troop of children.
A smart twang of the strings silenced the hubbub, and the song began in a voice
that reminded one of a thin trickle of syrup, “just on the turn” toward sharp-~
ness. The children shrilled out the chorus after each line, every mouth
stretched to its utmost. Miss Betty told me afterward that she had “ heard
the ditty ever since she was a child, or had picked it up somewhere — just so.
She never knew how she learned anything.”

‘A little old man came riding by, “An acorn fell as from the sky;
(Said I, said I,) (Said I, said I,)

* My dear old man, your horse will die,’ ‘Ah! why did you not stay on high?’
(Said I, said I.) (Said I, said I.)

‘And if he dies I’ll tan his skin,’ ‘Why, if I had, you surely see,’
(Said he, said he,) (Said he, said he,)

‘ And if he lives I'll ride him again,’ ‘That I could never be a tree,’
(Said he, said he.) - (Said he, said he.)

‘“‘A little bird came hop! hop! hop! ‘*An ugly worm crept on the ground;
(Said I, said I,) (Said I, said I,)

‘My pretty bird, your feathers drop,’ ‘Poor thing! to death you’re surely bound,’
(Said I, said I.) (Said I, said I.)

‘Oh! I shall only keep the best,’ ‘ But I was only born to die,’
(Said he, said he,) (Said he, said he,)

‘And with the rest I’ll line my nest.’ ‘Or I'd not be a butterfly,’
(Said he, said he.) (Said he, said he.) ”

A fire of logs blazed high in the chimney, flickering whenever the shrill
chorus burst forth. The children, of whom there must have been twenty, sat
and lay upon an immense tiger-skin spread in the full glow of the flames. Four
or five had crept as close to the hostess as they could get, crushing the satin
folds with infantine heedlessness.
MESS Se BiG aT Bre Veo

Trying to arise as she espied me, she found herself thus anchored fast, and
sank back with the gurgle that used to be fascinating and was now only funny.

“Tam a prisoner, you see. Come in, my dear child, and help yourself to a
seat. I’m ever and ever so glad to see you.”

“TJ am afraid that I am an intruder,” said I, in obeying the request.

“Nota bit; not a bit of it, [assure you. These precious pets have a way
of running in to enliven my
solitude when it is not fit
weather for them outside.
It is always bright and warm
here, and they know it —
bless their hearts! ’m never
so happy as when the house
is brimful of them. They
know that, too, the cun-
ning little things! and their
mothers are good enough
to indulge me. You won't
mind ir our concert goes on
for a few minutes longer,
will you, dearest girl?”

Everything she sang had

“HOW DO YOU DO, MISS BUTTERFLY ?” a chorus, and all the children
joined in with more zeal
than discretion, and more spirit than tune. By and by the guitar was laid
aside; the folding-doors between library and drawing-room were thrown open,
and there was an uproarious game of hide-and-seek over the rich carpets —
“almost as good,” averred one youngster, “as playing upon the grass.” The
least of the party — the oldest of which could not have been eight years old —
kept nearest to Miss Betty all the while, and were “coached” by her in the
mysteries of the romp. Biscuits and milk —the latter in dainty little mugs —
were dispensed at four o’clock, soon after which, nurses, older sisters, a brother
or two, and a couple of mothers, arrived to escort the guests to their homes.

At the outcry of protest that ensued, Miss Betty made herself heard.

“Tf you'll promise to go home quietly, like dear, good lambies, you shall see
my butterfly take his supper.”

They trooped at her heels to a large Wardian case set in a bay window. It
was full of ferns and flowering plants, and as she raised the peakéd lid, we saw
upon the pink waxen blossom of a beautiful begonia a large brown-and-blue
butterfly, asleep or torpid.

“He's taking his afternoon nap,” gurgled Miss Betty. “Wake up, my
beauty, and have your tea.”

 
MISS’ BUT PERF LY.

She slid him dexterously from the pink petals into a palm that was now,
alas! neither pink nor plump, and carried him back to the fire. Sinking down
upon her ottoman, as the insect poised upon her uplifted hand she held to him
a drop of honey upon the tip of a pearl paper-knife.

“ Hush! hush!” she breathed to the impatient spectators. “He must get
warm before he gets hungry. That’s the way with all teeny-weeny things, you
know.”

As the warmth of the withered palm passed into the downy body, the odd
pet raised his wings and waved them gently in the firelight; successive thrills
shook his frame; the antennse vibrated, and we could see the proboscis undo
itself, coil after coil, and dip into the honey drop.

 

‘“( pLEASE, MISS BUTTERFLY, SING ‘SAID I, SAID I.’”’

“That is the most comical exhibition I ever saw,” ejaculated one of the
mothers. “How did you tame it, Betty?”

“ Tt did itself ;” checking the gurgle lest it should jar her protégé. “TI found
him outside, hanging to the window-sill for dear life, on Thanksgiving Day.
He had come to look for the jardiniére that stood there all summer, I suppose.
So I took him in, and warmed him, and fed him, and have kept him in the fernery
ever since. You wouldn’t believe how much company he is forme. On sunny
MISS “BWI REIOP LY.

days I give him a promenade on the south window over there, or let him fly
about in the conservatory, and he gets quite gay. Usually, he sleeps most of
the time, however.”

“But,” struck in the other matron —by the way, she was Jack Tyler’s wife
— “naturalists tell us that the butterfly is an ephemeron.”

“T beg your pardon?” said Miss Betty inquiringly.

“ ] mean” — repressing a smile — “ that he lives only one day after leaving
the chrysalis.”

“They must be mistaken,” Miss Betty opined, amiably complacent. “This
one has been with me three weeks yesterday. I expect to keep him until
spring. All that a butterfly wants is sunshine and honey. When he gets both
he can’t help being contented. And this one has such a lovely disposition.”

She put him back tenderly upon the begonia, when he ceased to sip and
curled up the hair-like tube through which he had drawn his food. Then she
helped get the children into cloaks and caps, kissed each pair of lips, and thanked
their guardians for “lending” them to her.

“Now, sit down, honey,” she bustled back into the library to say to me.
“This chair, please,” pushing a low and luxurious one toward me, then pulling
up another for herself.

- “Tt seems almost sinful for me to be so comfortable,” I said, from the depths
of my satin nest.

Her little laugh trilled out, and I thought of the cricket on the hearth.

“ Now, my idea is that it is really wrong not to be comfortable and happy.
When nobody else is the worse for it, of course. I just love to see people hay-
ing the loveliest sort of times; gay as larks, happy as kings, pretty as butterflies,
and all that, don’t you know?”

This introduced my errand. My mother hoped Miss Betty would be inter-
ested in the case of a poor family in the lower part of the town, and had charged
me with the sad story. My unspoken contempt for my auditor’s intellectual
status was increased by the interjections with which she hearkened to me.

“Dreadful!” “Impossible!” « Heart-rending!” “Poor woman!” “Oh!
the poor dear little darlings,” were, to my notion, puffs of the idlest breath
ever exhaled. When at length she raised herself from the yielding cushions.
far enough to touch a silver bell upon the table nearest her, I supposed that the
subject was dismissed.

“Tea, Mary, please,” to the maid who appeared on the instant. How well
this luxurious sluggard was served when hundreds had neither fire nor home
upon this bitter afternoon. “ And tell Annie to send up some of her nice tea-:
cakes with it, Mary, please. I am sure Miss Dowling will enjoy them. There’s.
nothing that warms the bottom of one’s heart like a cup of hot tea. How good
your mother is to the poor and the afflicted! Quite like a ministering angel, I
do always maintain.”
VES S eB Oi ie Kore Yas

I despised her utterly as she chirped on. She was trite, vapid, and, I was
sure, heartless; a weak, silly, aimless sentimentalist. When the tea and cakes
came I could not enjoy them, delicious as they both were. The china was
exquisite ; the gold spoons tinkled against it with a bell-like chime; into the
summer air of the room stole the odors of the adjoining conservatory; there
were rare pictures, statuary and tapestries. The whole world was padded, and
warmed, and scented for this useless little insect. What mattered it that winter,
and poverty, and illness, and sorrow were in other homes, so long as she still sat
in the rose’s heart ?

““My casket, please, Mary,” twittered the thin voice, after the tea-service
was removed. “ And turn the gas up, just a little.”

The casket —an Hast Indian toy, all ivory, gold and ebony — was unlocked,
and the smell of sandal-wood gushed forth. Miss Betty giggled in adjusting
her eyeglasses.

““ My eyes are weak by artificial light. They ought not to be, but I have
done so much fancy-work. Iso often hear of interesting cases after dark, that
I keep checks ready made out. It saves eyesight, and time, and trouble, don’t
you know? Ah!”

She had fumbled among the papers in the casket until she found what she
sought, and passed it over to me as she might a postage stamp.

“Tell your mother how awfully obliged I am to her, and beg her to let me
know if I can do anything else for those poor dear protégés of hers.”’

I lost breath and wits upon seeing that the check was for one hundred
dollars.

“O, Miss Butterfly! Oh!—TI beg your pardon.” I stopped there, red as
fire and longing to sink clean out of sight.

She laughed in short, spasmodic jerks, as if something attached to her vocal
apparatus were going to pieces.

‘‘ No offense, I do assure you, my blessed child. All my children call me
that, and I don’t object. God made butterflies, I suppose, and they couldn’t be
ants if they wanted to. I admire energy, and thrift, and all that, immensely,
but, as my slangy nephews say, I wasn’t built that way. I don’t murmur.
The Bible says there are diversities of gifts. All that a butterfly wants is sun-
shine and honey.”

I repeated the phrase often and again that winter. I cannot say that I
found entertainment in the society of one whom, from that afternoon, I learned
to love, but there was gratification in the sight of the simple kindly creature
living out her life with the zest of a child. I went to her almost daily, and
always found her the same; never ruffled in spirit, never unkind in speech,
always carefully and richly dressed, and ever eager to share her sunshine and
honey with all about her. The fancy crossed my mind, sometimes, that she
was growing thin, and, occasionally, in the forenoon, there was a strange gray-
WI SSS IEEE TETRIS

ness in her complexion; but there was no abatement in her gayety. The chil-
dren swarmed about and over her, as lawlessly as ever; her girl-nieces and
college-nephews gave parties in her big rooms, and granted her request to be
allowed to order and pay for the luncheons, dinners and suppers served by her
servants. She still twanged the guitar and chirped quaint ditties to her
“babies,” and played waltzes with stiff and willing fingers by the hour for older
merrymakers. The casket of filled-out checks still flew open before a tale of
woe could be finished in her hearing. With it all went the light, sometimes
flippant, prattle of commonplace nothings, and the weak giggle that was no
longer fascinating. I caught myself wondering, as I saw her feed and talk to
her butterfly, if both were not alike inconsequent, and as well content to take
in all of present delight without premonition of to-morrow’s frost or cloud.

One windy day in March, the old Fry house was burned to the ground with
stables, graperies and conservatories. My mother and I, hastening to the scene
at rumor of the disaster, found Miss Betty in a remote corner of the shrubberies
sitting upon an iron chair in the shelter of a clump of evergreens. Nobody was
near her, and she had a dazed, white look, not in the least her own. The
servants were all busy trying to save something from the flames, which still
roared horribly a little way off. Somebody, probably her maid, had wrapped
our little friend up in an ermine opera-cloak with a white silk hood trimmed
with fur. I could but liken her, in imagination, to a frozen miller moth, as she
sat huddled together, crushed into the fir-branches.

We took her home and put her to bed.

“Thank you, sweet child! God bless you!” she whispered, when I stooped
to kiss the face so pitifully and strangely shrunken and pallid.

“You will soon be all right now, dear Miss Betty.”

“O, yes!” opening her eyes to smile. “Very, very soon. It would be
sinful not to be thankful and happy. Everybody is always so good to me.
Surely goodness and mercy have fol” —

She never spoke or moved again.

When we saw that stupor, not sleep, had stolen over her, we sent for her
family physician. Beside her death-bed we learned that she had battled bravely
for two years with an insidious, and what she knew to be a mortal disease.

“She would not let me tell the truth even to her brothers,” said her only
confidant. “It ‘was not worth while to disturb them before it was absolutely
necessary, she said. How she kept up her usual mode of life, and her spirits, I
cannot comprehend. She was either the pluckiest or the least sensitive being
I ever knew. I cannot decide if she were more of a benefactress or of a
butterfly.”

“T can,” sobbed my mother.

So could I.

Marion Harland.
 

A DREAMLAND SHEPHERD BOY.
 

A GROUP OF BLUECOAT BOYS,

DHE: BLUEC OA 2S CHO Ls

LL day long, in the heart of London, visitors may see people

on the sidewalk pressing up against a tall iron fence, and
looking through another fence beyond that, to one of the great
clean-paven yards of the famous school called Christ Hospital,
where many red-cheeked bareheaded boys are shouting

Bren Ser and running. They are plunging about, evidently quite
happy, and not encumbered at all, apparently, with their pecu-
liar dress. This dress has never been changed, in color or in-
any important detail, since Tudor times; and it issure to take
, the amused attention of an American the moment he passes
“ through Newgate Street. Let us examine it respectfully.
There is a contagion, to begin with, of bright yellow stock-—
ings, and that alone provides the funniest spectacle !—these flying odds and

    
 
THE BEUECGOAT SCHOOL,

ends of boy looking for all the world like some wild scrimmage of storks,
with their lively cheerful-colored legs in fullest evidence. Their knee-breeches
are of dark-blue; they wear a narrow red leather belt, and the white “ bands”
instead of a collar, shaped like those of the French clergy to-day; bands which
the English clergy dropped several generations ago. The coats, also dark-blue,
have skirts falling all around, as low as the ankle, and when a boy wants some
fun, he has to bundle up yards of unwieldy cloth behind ; which adds, you may
be sure, to the queerness of his general appearance. Sometimes he is so happy
as to possess a jersey for play-hours, and a cap no bigger than the palm of your
hand, which he may put on in the street, if he chooses, but which he never does
choose, even in mid-winter. The little Blues, with their long yellow legs and
browned faces, cannot fail to make a curious picture to the modern eye;
and everybody must stop to watch them, and smile, and sigh, and wish to be
twelve years old again, with no worse vexation than a lesson in Cesar, and no
future anxiety beyond the winning of a game! As you look at them from
their front gates, the gray height of the glorious Hall of the school confronts
you; beyond, and to your left, is the
four-pinnacled tower of the old church
where Captain John Smith is buried ;
to your right are Smithfield, Little Brit-
ain, and the storied neighborhood of
St. Bartholomew’s, where the Jacobean
gables elbow the more precious Norman
masonry ; and the melancholy highway
where you stand shows you the grim
prison, almost opposite this area, over-
flowing with youth and blameless joy.
Once you are within the Bluecoat pre-
cincts, you become conscious of the
near overhanging dome of St. Paul’s,
which, when viewed from the doors of
the Writing School, seems to fill the
whole horizon and sky, and sustain you,
like an eternal thing. But changes
come, even here; and not very long
after you read these few pages, Christ
Hospital may be sold or leveled, its

 

THE STATUE OF THE FOUNDER, . f ]
(ine thy ene maner VT) laws altered, and its army of nearly

eight hundred boys transferred to the

‘country, away from the sad town which will be lonely without their eyes and
‘voices and eccentric hose, familiar here for three hundred and fifty years.

The many buildings are not all ancient. Little remains of those considered
PHEABEOECOAT VSCHOOL,

commodious enough in the last century, which sheltered such young heads as
Camden’s, Stillingfleet’s, Samuel Richardson’s, Coleridge’s and Leigh Hunt’s, and
Charles Lamb’s. Ages before them, again, the Priory of the Grey Friars stood
here; and somewhere under these very flags monks and knights, and a Queen
of England, are sleeping, having lain
down penitent in the shadow of monas-
tic altars. The Hospital, as it now is,
was founded by “the boy-patron of
boys,” Edward VI., who had one ques-
tionable habit for a young saint, that
of cheerfully signing the death-warrants
of his uncles. The royal charity has
had great endowments from private
hands, which are, alas! lessened in our
more selfish day. Another king, Charles
IL., a clever vagabond who made out
to do a few such kindly deeds as_ this,
started the Mathematical School in
1673, and the lads who belong to it
wear his badge upon the shoulder.

When a child is appointed to Christ
Hospital, he makes it his home, and is
chosen to rank in the department best Reh a en erent ae
suited to his abilities. Some study the
classics, some are preparing for sea-Service, some are flourishing a pen all the
afternoon over accounts or outline drawings. The boys have a Court of Gov-
ernors whom they never see; but the President, Treasurer and Almoners busy
themselves with house-affairs, and the masters and matrons.
are everywhere and always at their side. The discipline
is very strict and steady. The boys make their own beds,
set and clear off their own. table, polish their own boots and
so forth.

They have frequent half-holidays, beside the three vaca-
tions, when, if their conduct has given satisfaction, they are

free to visit their relatives and friends, and dispose their

AND picturesque figures among the city parks and streets.
_- They sleep in airy wards or dormitories, each in his
little bed, and about forty beds abreast; and they all eat to-
gether in the magnificent Hall, with its organ and spacious
Gothic windows, erected in 1829. They have a very liberal supply of what
would hardly be a favorite drink of American boys—beer! Every pleasant.
day, a signal is given in the south playground, seven minutes before dinner-

 

  
THE BLUECOAT SCHOOL.

time, and the jolly crowd stops short, abandons its bats, hockey-sticks,
balls, and roller-skates, lets down its coat-tails, and falls into squads and com-
panies, preceded by a dozen of the more musical youngsters, who have or-
ganized a very creditable brass band; and so, left, right, left, away they march
from the wind and the sun, until the last straight little soldier is swallowed
up in the dark arches and disappears. They have a beautiful library, a muscum,
a picture-gallery, a gymnasium (with a splendid swimming-bath in which the
boundary-lines of three parishes converge), and several wide cool cloisters for

 

OUTSIDE THE GREAT HALL, AT DINNER-TIME.

playgrounds in hot or wet weather. At their doors is Christ Church, where the
innumerable family kneels on Sunday at Morning Prayer and Evensong. Clus-
tered about the great Hall are more chambers and dwellings than would go to
make a sizable village, and in these live the warden, the professors, the kind old
steward, and the society of domestics; all in their offices striving and succeed-
ing, to make the Bluecoat School very dear to the Blues.

Although the pupils pay nothing for what is, in the American sense, a
thorough and excellent public-school education (for a “public school” in Eng-
land, as you know, means something far more lordly and exclusive) you are not
to infer that the boys are mere paupers and hoodlums. Dependent they must
be; but if the fathers of any of them earn a thousand dollars (two hundred pounds)
THES BLUECOAT “SGHOOE:

a year, the boys are still eligible for the nomination to a vacant place. The
majority are pretty little fellows, with very sweet manners, which could not
be matched in our country, except, perhaps, at some
high-class private school. And it often happens that
a grown “Grecian” who has shown talent and a dispo-
sition for study, is sent up from Christ Hospital, with
loud plaudits and a generous purse of money, to a
career in one of the great universities. The aver-
age lad leaves his desk and goes into business at
fifteen or sixteen; and some shy nursling from the pre-
paratory house in Hertford comes up to London, and
passes under
the tutelary im-
age of good King Edward — to dwell
some seven years in the absentee’s
stead.

The place is rich in its own privi-
leges, and traditions, and dramatic
customs. JI have not told you how
the whole young flock call upon the
Lord Mayor in Easter week, and re-
ceive, every one, a gleaming shilling-
piece new from the mint; nor how
they sup in public each Thursday in
Lent, and make their annual parting
memorable with a quaint procession,
and speeches, and song; for these
things would fill a separate article.
Nor have I said a word of the con-
stant training which they receive, in
order to make them serious and manly
Christians, fit to grapple with the
rough old duties of our life. But I
leave you to look at the pictures of
some of these wards of the Three King-
doms, and repeat with me, for the child
Charles Lamb’s sake, the words of the
venerable toast: “God bless the reli-
gious, royal and ancient foundation of Christ Hospital! May those prosper who

1?

love it, and may God increase their number!

  
 

Taste CldTHs,

 

THE EAST ENTRANCE WITH STATUE OF BLUECOAT BOY.

Loutse Imogen Guiney.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

STREET CHARMERS.
A CHILD’S CHRISTMAS IN ERANCE:

T was Christmas Eve, and the streets of the old French city of Tours were
thronged with people hurrying to the Cathedral for the Christmas mass.
It lacked but fifteen minutes of midnight, and a few belated peasants from the
adjoining village of St. Symphorien quickened their pace as they approached the
great stone bridge. Among them was a sweet-faced young woman, Félicie Gar-
nier, proprietress of a tiny vegetable shop in the street of the Tranchée. She
led by the hand her little eight-year-old sou who at that moment was standing
perfectly still in the surprise of his new experience. ‘¢ Come, my little man,”
said the good Félicie, smiling down proudly upon her brave Pierre, “we must
walk faster. The bridge, the Rue Royale and voild, we are at the Cathedral.”
The child’s face was radiant. It was the first time in his life that he had been
beyond their little shop door after dark.

The scene was far more wonderful than any he had pictured to himself, as
his mother had described it, over her washing by the river-side. “The river
will not look like this,’ she had said one day,
straightening back for a moment of rest from
~-7 bending over the linen which she was vigor-
ously beating on a smooth
stone. “ See, now it is blue,
like the sky; but at night
when the sky is black above
it, the river too grows black.”
“How then can we find our
way?” queried the boy.

    
  

Sy SCN, the lamps, my Pierre.
exe The lamps shine bright on the

aed AW -y bridge and a thousand lights are in
SAS NC" the windows of the great houses, and the
NX good God will guide us safely to the Cathedral, that we
“NoT LIKE THIS,” satD FELICE. may kneel before the beautiful manger and pray for the
soul of the beloved papa.” And Pierre sat silent, won-

dering how his own beautiful Loire could grow black and ugly and dark.

And now the evening of his long anticipation had come. There lay the
river below, dark and mysterious but beautiful still, its ripples gleaming like
burnished metal in the half darkness, and shimmering merrily in the bright
light cast from the bridge lamps. Beyond lay the old town with its many lights
—an enchanted city, and over all stretched the great starry heavens. The city,
the river, the sky were all wrapped in solemn darkness made visible by myriad
Child.” ;

A CHILD’S CHRISTMAS IN FRANCE.

. lights. Pierre’s little heart beat fast till it seemed to clatter in his bosom as

loudly as did his wooden sabots on the stone pavement. Presently he began to
find familiar objects among the city towers, the tower of Charlemagne, St. Mar-
tin’s tower, and finally, the Cathedral spires. Lifted black against the sky, they
were like hands outstretched to Heaven. Pierre’s eyes followed them and lo, the
fingers pointed to a bright star!
“But yes, my little man,” said
the mother Félicie, “the star
stands always over the manger to
lead the wanderers to the Holy

They turned at last into the
Cathedral Square, into which all
the narrow streets were pouring
throngs of people. Pierre clung
fast to his mother’s hand and they
mingled in the crowd pushing their
way through the doors.  Félicie
paused at the nearest bénitier to
dip her fingers in the holy water
and cross herself. Then advancing
a few steps along the central aisle,
she bowed her knee toward the
grand altar, Pierre gravely follow-
ing her example.

The boy had often been to the
Cathedral before, on bright Sun-
day mornings, and it had always
been with a lingering sigh of regret
for the sunny square, that he had
turned into the cold dark interior.
But as to-night he had found his AT THE BENITIER.
whole world changed, so too the
Cathedral on a Christmas Eve was totally unlike the Cathedral of a Sunday
morning. The mysterious gloom of the vast interior, illumined by glimmering
lights from the burning tapers seemed to the poetic child’s mind like the
solemn grandeur of the midnight through which he had just been led, and his
vague feeling of awe was quickened into genuine reverence. In the cathedral
of Nature he had learned how to enter the cathedral of stone. With a serious
air he walked by his mother’s side toward the manger which was the ultimate
object of this Christmas pilgrimage.

By the steps of an altar in the transept chapel was a rude wooden structure

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
A CHILD’S CHRISTMAS IN FRANCE.

filled with hay in representation of the manger in the Bethlehem inn which re-
ceived the infant Saviour. In the midst of this straw cradle lay a large waxen
doll, smiling out of bright blue eyes upon the surrounding worshipers.

None were more devout than Félicie and Pierre. The boy, young as he
was, had caught something of the true Christmas spirit. The river and the
starry sky had taught unspeakable things to the child heart; and now, as he
began to whisper softly his Pater Nosters, his prayers seemed to him to be rising
on the wings of the beautiful Christmas music which soared up from the choir
and lost itself amid the arches of the Cathedral.

Félicie hardly knew how she got her sleepy Pierre over the bridge and up

 

“HE FOUND HIMSELF THE CENTER OF A MERRY GROUP.”

the steep street of the Tranchée, home again to the little shop. The savory
odor of soup seemed to arouse the drowsy child. He suddenly found himself in
the little parlor in the center of a merry group of familiar faces. There was
the dear grandmamma kissing her boy on both cheeks, and kind Madame Bonnier
from the bakery over the way; there were Father and Mother Dupin from the
next house and all the good neighbors who had made up the party to and from
the Cathedral. And what a fine cake it was in the center of the table, larger,,
it seemed to Pierre than any he had ever seen in the windows of the grand pastry
LITTLE BROTHER.

cooks of the Rue Royale, and gorgeous with pink and white icing. He clapped his
hands with delight at the marvel. And how happy they all were to see him
happy. The pastry cakes (patés) were delicious, his favorite honey-cake (pain
d’épice) more spicy than ever before, and Madame Bonnier’s Christmas biscuits.
(estevenous) were baked, so they said, as no one in Tours knew how. It was a
‘merry supper. Grandmamma bustled around to see that all were bountifully
served, and over the good things many a pleasant tale of bygone times was re-
lated by Father Dupin, many a gay laugh rang through the little room. Pierre
was kissed and petted and feasted to his heart’s content, until the gray light of
dawn peeped in through the back window and the party began to disperse.

The day brought no stockings filled with the gifts of a Santa Claus, no tree
decked with candles and tinsel. These are unknown delights to all French.
children of the provinces educated in the Romish Church. Pierre had learned
the story of the Christ-child’s birth from the celebration of the midnight mass in
the Cathedral, and the neighborhood feast had been his Christmas merry-making,,
his share in the “ peace on earth, good will to men.”

Estelle M. Hurll.

EG Ee soi O@ mle iipletns

ITTLE brother did not wake
When the sun shone out to-day ;
Did not answer when I called,
Asking him to come and play.

So I brought him all his toys.

“Nay,” they said, in grave surprise,
“ Brother is an angel now ;

He has gone to Paradise.”

Then I laughed in my delight,
Tossing top and ball aside ;
But they wept with faces hid,
And I wondered why they cried.
H. R. Hudson.
 

i eee eles) Cruse NieACse

HE little brown elf and his friends, one night,
Had a half-awake dream of a fairy sleigh
That swept to their fire and halted,say —
For as long as the wink of a northern light.

It staid as long as that light could wink,
And it brought to them something — What do you think ?

Why the morning disclosed a wonderful sight
Of gifts that were left for this wandering fay,

Including a ticket for “s-elf and friends”

To the land that summer to winter lends —
The far-away land of Florida.

Lilian Crawford True.
oS
whitap?
rea

ce Co
SN
LEMS WE

“Nt Ue

 

AMONG THE PALMETTOS AND PALMS.
WN TERI RANG Hl IEE

(First Series.)

[Rae is a real girl and these are real letters. She is a little city waif without schooling, who spends a
winter with her adopted mother on the ranch of an English gentleman in the Rocky Mountains; the ‘ young
youth” mentioned being a lord in embryo. Necessary changes made in spelling and grammar have de-
stroyed much of the piquancy of these letters. — EDIrors WIDE AWAK«. |

DECEMBER 12th.
AM in a beautiful place. The mountains are very high up in the sky. The
rocks seem to point out like the steeple of a church. The snow is on the
ground. It is cold early in the morning, and late at night. In the daytime
the sun shines very bright. It is quite hot sometimes. I am sitting on the
piazza while I write this letter.

I like to stay out here very much. We have pigs, and cows, and horses, and
mules, and two little calves, and two big ones. We have a dog named Shax,,
and we have two cats. One cat is black, and one cat is gray. The black cat is.
very polite, but the gray cat is not, and we do not like her so well. Shax is not.
always in time for his meal. He goes off when it is ready, and sometimes he
comes when we do not want him.

I had a pleasant ride coming up here. I had a very pleasant ride to-day out.
in the woods. We went to get wood, and we piled it up in the wagon. We had
to sit on the wood. Jt was very hard for the mules to drag it over the snow and.
stones. The gentlemen cut the wood, and we burn it. There are four gentle-
men here. One of them is quite a young youth. They are very polite. We
get their meals for them. ‘There are no children here. I would like a little
girl to play with. We like to look out and see the gentlemen throw sticks for
Shax to go after them. When he does not see where the stick went, then they
motion. ,

One day one of the gentlemen went out to shoot a rabbit. After a while he
found it and shot it and brought it home. He cut all the skin off and laid it on
the cellar door, and brought the rest of it in for mamma to cook. After a little
while I saw the cats carrying the skin off, and he ran out and pulled it away
from the cats, and hung it over the clothes-line. He gave me the skin. I put.
it further on the line, and it blew down, but the cats did not touch it for I was
watching them. I put it back on the line. Then one of the gentlemen nailed it.
to the shop. And the wind blew and the skin blew down. And the pig ate it up.

I found a bluebird in the snow, and I picked it up. It was dead. I asked
one of the gentlemen to cut the wings off. They are very pretty.

I like it here very much. There are trees all over the mountains. It is.
more beautiful every day. The snow falls on the mountains, and the sun shines:
WINTER RANCH LIFE.

on the snow, and more snow comes every day, and not so much sunshine. One
night the sky was beautiful. It was green and purple and red, and all sorts of
colors that are pretty.

I like to look at the sky when it begins to be night. After a little a star
peeps out; then it comes clear out. After a little another star comes out, and
then another until all are out, and the sky looks perfectly charming. Then the
moon comes out and shines on the snow, and there are not so many stars. It
seems to be a queer thing that when the moon shines so bright you can’t see so
many stars. And I said so. And one of the gentlemen said, ‘“ Whoop-la!
Sometimes the more light you have the more you can’t see!” And I said,
“Why?” And he only said, “ Whoop-la !”

If you were here you would tell me, wouldn’t you ?

Rag.

JaNuARY 4th.

When the jointed doll came to me, the head was off. I am going to have it
put on again. I have named it Johnny. Do you think Johnny is a pretty
name? Miss: Edith is my best girl. She has bangs and lovely eyes that open
and shut. Mr. Goodman gave her to me for Christmas. My dolls live in the
kitchen in the corner. They never get sick although it is so cold now we can-
not walk on the piazza. Jack Frost walks there, and spends his time making
pretty leaves and flowers and ferns all over the windows. Jack Frost is like
Santa Claus; if you should see him he wouldn’t be there. That’s a queer thing,
but when I said so Mr. Charles said, “ This world is full of queer things.’ And
I said, “ What things?” and he said, “ Well, your spelling for one.” And I
said, “ Yes, when you tell me which way the letters go!” And then I was
afraid I had been impudent. I despise being impudent. It isn’t polite, and
sometimes I have to go to bed for it. And I despise going to bed in the day-
time! But Mr. Charles only said, “Whoop-la! This isa sad world!” And I
said, “ Why?” and he said, “ Sometimes a ray of hope comes to me, and some-
times a(r)ray of questions.” And I asked him to explain. And then mamma
called me, and we made gingerbread nuts. Iam progressing incooking. I have
helped to make tarts, and I have assisted in making cake. I have not improved
my mind much. Mr. Frederick thinks it is because I have not any mind to im-
prove. Mr. Frederick hears my lessons sometimes when I ask him to. I have
been studying out of my geography. I think it is very interesting, but I cannot
remember it. I like to read. I can remember that well enough, but my geog-
raphy I cannot remember. It is harder to get right than spelling. This is
what I do every day: I dust and keep things neat, and I help make beds
and wash dishes. ;

Mr. Charles is a nice boy when he wants to be, but sometimes he leaves his
things around. We very often stumble over his boots.
WANTER RAN CH CEIFE..

We had two pigs once. We had one pig killed, so we have only one pig now.
It runs about.

An English gentleman came here to spend two days. He keeps his mind
well impraved, but he keeps his hat on in the house, and his coat needs to be
mended badly. Heis some-
what pious, but not so pious
as Mr. Goodman. Mr.
Goodman has a great many
Bibles in his room, and he
prays by himself some-
times. I think he is very
kind. He gave me Miss
Edith. Sunday we had
prayer time, and we had
singing and reading out of
the Bible. People came
here to service, and they
had to be fed. There is
not a church for twenty
miles away.

Rag.

JANUARY 21st.

I must tell you about
our dear little black puss.
He runs up on top of the
shed and sits there in a
way that looks very affect-
ing, with his paws hane-
ing down in front, and
looking at me out of his
big, green eyes. The gray
cat does not seem to be so
bright and frolicsome as

““ AM IN A BEAUTIFUL PLACE.”? she used to be.

Mr. Charles shot a mag-
pie. It was black and white. A lady came up here on Sunday. She told us
that she had twenty-four pink birds. She said she was going to make a twenty-
four pink birds baked in a pie. She gave me six of the wings.

One night mamma was reading, and I asked her what she was laughing
about. She told me she was reading about Miss Knag. She had charge of the
dressmaking for a lady whose husband was not superior. Miss Knag was gaudy,

 
WINTER RANCH LIFE.

but not neat. Ive no doubt she was not made to mend when she was young,
Gaudy means fussing, and frizzing hair, and wearing ribbons, and putting ear-
rings on, and bracelets, and finger rings. Miss Knag had a girl to help her sew.
She was very shy and quiet, not grinning, nor lolling on windows and doors to
get people to look at her, but she kept her eyes on her work. When young
men were silly, she tried to think of something she had read, so as not to smile.
Miss Knag dressed as gay when she had wrinkles as if she were rosy and plump.
It would have been better to have improved her mind, and attended to
poor folks.

. Last night Mr. Charles brought a paper from England for mamma to see. It
was full of pictures. One page showed all about soldiers and their wives. One
picture was sad and silly —a drunken soldier had to be dragged out of a saloon
by his wife. Iam not going to marry ever, because I do not know whether the
man will be drunk or not. I hope my time will be better spent in teaching
children than to do anything like that.

Mr. Charles has an English book with silly, funny pictures, and funny, silly
reading under them. I was going to tell you about them, but mamma says to
write something sensible instead of that bosh.

Mr. Charles is in such a hurry to go to the post-office that he sets everybody
into fidgets. He goes on horseback. He has to ride a long ways, and then the
stage comes along and he gives them the letters. Sometimes the snow is so deep
that we cannot send any letters, and we cannot get any. The windows are so
frozen up we cannot see out of them. It is very cold here.
: Raz.

Fresruary 6th.

The snow is still on the ground. I go to walk when the sun is shining.
It is so cold here that the cows are shivering. It is pitiful to look out and see
the poor animals standing out in the snow. They get in the shed and drive
ithe dog out in the cold. The little black cat is not well. I do wish there was
some way to make him well. He does not seem to agree with his food. Mr. Fred-
erick said that ’most two miles up in the sky was too near Heaven for cats to be
very happy. And I said, “ Why? Wouldn’t cats be happy in Heaven?”

Mr. Frederick has a very improved mind. Mr. Charles seems to be very
fussy. He wants this and he wants that, and he don’t want this and he don’t
want that. Mamma gets all out of patience with him. If I had fifty boys I
would bring them up to want this and to want that. I would not allow them to
grumble over things because things do not suit them. He comes out and says,
‘What are you going to have for a pudding?” Mamma tells him. He says,
“No sugar init?” Mamma says, “No!” He asks her what else we are going
to have for dinner. Mamma tells him, and he smiles at her enough to say,
“That is not much of a dinner! ”
WINTER RANCH LIFE.

Mr. Charles is more industrious than Mr. Frederick. He stays out of doors
to make himself useful. Mr. Frederick and Mr. Charles have to be amused.
When mamma sits down to write, they come out to talk. They say: “Put up
that beastly pen, and talk to me!” and “O, but, I’'d like to whack the cad who
stuffed my dad that it wouldn’t be bad to have a thousand cattle on some hills!”
and “Tl be blowed for a duffer, if things are not going to smash like three |
clock !”

Such talk is not nice in a young youth. I’m glad we do not speak the Eng-
lish language! “Mos’tronary”’ is not right speaking, and oatmeal and molasses
is not good eating, even if they call it “ pawidge and trickle.” Mamma cooked
a rabbit for them, and they called it “jugged hare!” And when mamma made
a jelly-cake they said, “ Give us some more of that jam sandwich!”

English gentlemen seem to be queer! They are not like American people.

RAE.

 

 

A DEPUTATION OF BEGGARS.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GRETCHEN THE MARKET-MAID,
THE ROLLIGKING WAST ODIOIN:

iN ROLLICKING Mastodon lived in Spain,
In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree.
His face was plain, but his jocular vein
Was a burst of the wildest glee.
His voice was strong and his laugh so long
That people came many a mile,
And offered to pay a guinea a day
For the fractional part of a smile.
The Rollicking Mastodon’s laugh was wide —
Indeed, ’twas a matter of family pride ;
And, oh! so proud of his jocular vein
Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

The Rollicking Mastodon said one day :
“J feel that I need some air ;
For a little ozone’s a tonic for bones,
As well as a gloss for the hair.”
So he skipped along and warbled a song
In his own triumphulant way.
His smile was bright and his skip was light
As he chirruped his roundelay.
The Rollicking Mastodon tripped along,
And sang what Mastodons call a song ;
But every note of it seem to pain
The Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

A Little Peetookle came over the hill,
Dressed up in a bollitant coat ;
And he said, “ You need some harroway seed,
And a little advice for your throat.”
_ The Mastodon smiled, and said, “ My child,
There’s a chance for your taste to grow.
If you polish your mind, you'll certainly find
How little, how little you know!”
The Little Peetookle, his teeth he ground
At the Mastodon’s singular sense of sound ;
For he felt it a sort of a musical stain
On the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
THE ROLLICKING MASTODON.

“ Alas! and alas! Has it come to this pass?”
Said the Little Peetookle; “Dear me!
It certainly seems your terrible screams
Intended for music must be!”
The Mastodon stopped; his ditty he dropped,
And murmured, “ Good-morning, my dear.
T never will sing to a sensitive thing
That shatters a song with a sneer!”
The Rollicking Mastodon bade him “ adieu.”
Of course, ’twas a sensible thing to do;
For the Little Peetookle is spared the strain
Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
Arthur Macy.

 

 

AN EFFECT IN SHADOWS,
Wea

aspridgman/ow

  

hl Isnt it /delightful thaéstheres one thing in the seas.

‘That the wise men havent measured, point for point ?
We may draw the bis sea serpent pretty much as we may please,
A\nd the critics can not say he’s out of: joint.

 

   
  

e can draw his mouth a-whistling. Or his horns of silded Lins
Or, with decorative buttons , spot - his ‘back.

We can place electric lishts upon his Fancy dorsal fin

With no fear of some wise critic on our track |

RL

L. J. Bridgman.

E ROME OR WiOs Ay a @©m CyAuleiiAgve

(Third Paper.)
ON THE SHORES OF CATHAY.

E can but regard the first voyage of Columbus as a combination of

favorable and fortunate events; for, barring the slight accident of the

Pinta, nothing occurred to baffle his plans until the first land was in sight.

The final departure may be said to have been taken from Gomera, in the Canary
Islands, and the last sight of land was off the island of Ferro.

It was about the first of October that they approached the region of the
trade-winds, and noticed the peculiarities of that vast weedy expanse known as
the Sargasso Sea. This seaweed found floating on the surface of the ocean bears
globules like small grapesin shape. The Spanish sailors, fancying a resemblance
between them and the grape grown in Portugal, called the sea-plant the sargasso,
and the name was also given to that portion of the ocean where the weed is
found. We know the astronomical knowledge of Columbus was imperfect,
and his nautical instruments crude. He had a compass and a rude instrument
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

called the astrolabe, by which he determined his latitude; but he could only
guess at his longitude, and he measured time by an hour-glass. It has been
said that he probably had no means for accurately calculating the speed of his
vessels, as there is no mention of the log-and-line before 1519; and as to the
telescope, it was first used in the year 1610. Having such a slight equipment,
the sailors of that day were, of course, very timid about venturing far from land.
The task that Columbus set himself was
simply to go to the Canary Islands, in
about latitude twenty-eight degrees north,
and sail due west until he struck land.
He was diverted from his course by the
advice of the pilots, and by the flight of
birds to the southward, otherwise he might
have landed on the coast of Florida, near
the Indian River.

“When I think,” says a celebrated
writer, “of Columbus in his little bark,
his only instrument an imperfect com-
pass and a rude astrolabe, sailing forth
upon an unknown sea, I must award to
him the credit of being the boldest sea-
man that ever sailed the salt ocean.”

After they had been a month at sea,

ET A ea the pilots reckoned they had sailed about

(So named by the Portuguese.) five hundred and eighty leagues west of

the Canaries; but by the true, though

suppressed, figures of Columbus they had really made over seven hundred

leagues. It was about that time, or the tenth of October, that the crew became

mutinous ; but later, signs of land, such as a branch with berries and a piece of

carved wood, changed gloom to hope, and strict watch was kept throughout the

night. They were then on the verge of the great discovery. All seemed to

have felt that some great event was pending; and on the night of the eleventh

of October Columbus claimed to have seen a wavering light. The next day,

early in the morning, or that is about two o’clock of the twelfth of October,

land was first sighted by a sailor on the Pinta. A landing was made the same
day, and possession taken in the name of the Spanish sovereigns.

All these events we are, of course, familiar with in the works of many
authors, notably in the history of Washington Irving, who first made the Eng-
lish-speaking world acquainted with the voyages of Columbus. But, although
it is quite four hundred years'since these events took place, there is still a
great difference of opinion as to the island which may claim to have been
the first land sighted on that memorable date, October 12, 1492. What and

 

 

 

 

 
FROM CORDOVA TWO VGA A YS

‘where was the island he first landed upon? Irving, as we know, fixed upon
Cat Island, which for many years bore the name of San Salvador, bestowed by
Columbus upon the first island upon which he landed. With his conclusions,
also, the great Humboldt coincided, ably defending the opinion that Cat Island
was the first landfall. A Spanish writer of authority, Sefor Navarate, claimed
that it was Turk’s Island, near the southern extremity of the Bahamas, and an
exhaustive paper was prepared, some fifty years ago, by Mr. Gibbs, a resident of
Grand Turk, in support of this idea.

One thing is certain; the first landfall of Columbus was an island in the
Bahamas, although opinions vary as to which one, claimants having arisen for
several others besides those mentioned. But although the islands claimed extend
over a distance of some three hundred miles, we may be justified in going a
little farther and saying that not only was the first island one of the Bahama
group, but situated somewhere about midway in the chain. Since the time of
Irving and Humboldt several writers of distinction have given attention to this
question, and though not all coming to the same conclusions, most of them
agree upon Watling’s Island as the place where the Europeans first set foot
upon the soil of the New World.

Whichever island it may have been, I myself can claim that I have seen it,
as I have traversed the entire chain from Turk’s to Cat, and have studied the
group carefully with a view to giving an opinion on this vexed question. Years
ago it was my good fortune to bisect the group on my way to the south coast of
Cuba, when I saw Watling’s Island rising like a cloud, or rather a blue mound,
above the horizon. But it was not until July, 1892, that I had the opportunity
for visiting it. Being then in the West Indies, as Commissioner for the World’s
Columbian Exposition, I received orders from the executive to investigate this
question of the landfall, and visit the islands in person.

I was then in Hayti, the Black Republic, and the first opportunity did not
occur until a month after receiving my commands. Leaving the port of Cape
Haytien early one morning on a steamer of the Clyde Line called the Ozama, in
a few hours we sighted the island of Tortuga. The day before, from another
port on the Haytian coast, we had scanned the leeward shore of this famous
haunt of the buccaneers in times gone by, and were now on the bleak, iron-
bound coast of the inward side.

Finally the turtle-back Tortuga faded out of sight, and the next land, or
rather indication of land, was the southwest point of Inagua, merely a shadowy
semblance of terra firma, emphasized a few hours later by thé flashing out of its
revolving light from a high white tower.

Next morning at daylight we passed the light of Castle Island, and at ten
o'clock were abreast the flashing surf of Long Cay, and could see the little set-
tlement there that formed the only one on Fortune Island. Signals were set:
“ Passengers aboard; send off a boat,” and shortly after we could see a move-
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

ment on the beach about a mile away, where a boat was being launched. Ina
little while it came alongside, our engines having stopped, and after an inter-
change of salutations my luggage was quickly transferred to the boat below, and
I left the comfortable Ozama and launched out into another unknown adven-
ture. The steamer steered off,
my friends waved me a last
farewell, and by the time we
reached the beach objects on
board were indistinguishable.

I found myself a stranger
in a strange land; but, fortu-
nately, had my usual good luck,
‘ and obtained board and lodg-
Ea an ing at a house near the beach.

WINDMILL FOR PUMPING SALT WATER. Fortune Island, or Long Cay,

ee se is about eight miles in length

and a mile or so in breadth, some eight hundred acres in area, with a population
of seven hundred people, mostly black and colored. The chief production of
the island is salt, which is raked out of the vast shallow salt ponds formed just
over the sand-banks behind the reefs. The process of salt gathering is a primi-
tive one; the ponds are divided into sections containing salt in various stages
of crystalization, and the water is sometimes pumped from one to the other
by means of curious windmills. The great heaps of salt, containing many
thousand bushels, are pyramidal in shape, white as snow, and glisten in the sun
like silver. Formerly, this island was a great rendezvous for the wreckers, and
in yet earlier times, perhaps, for the buccaneers; but latterly their occupation
has departed, owing to the erection of lighthouses and the substitution of
steamers for sailing vessels in the principal traffic to and through the islands.

Now and then a steamer touches here
going from New York to Jamaica and
Central America, picks up a crew of
laborers for the voyage, and drops them
again at their homes on its return. It is
a barren island, as compared with the
islands of the West Indies proper; and

yet it is not unattractive, with its white
_ sand beaches, its glistening salt heaps
and its half-tropical vegetation.

It was thought that I could readily
get a vessel here to take me to Watling’s
Island ; but it will show you how infrequently these islands are visited, even by
coasting craft, when I tell you that it was nine days before I could secure a boat

   

 

A SALT HEAP ON FORTUNE ISLAND.
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

to take me over, a distance of only one hundred miles. Even then, although
that day there happened four or five craft in port, the master of the dirty little
“turtler ” asked six pounds for a run of merely a night.

At last, came the day of deliverance ; the long-watched-for
sails came in, three in one day, and in one of these unwashed
“turtlers” I engaged passage to the island of my desires.
Captain and crew were black, and they lived on the windward
coast of Crooked Island.

Leaving Long Cay at dark, in a few hours we were off the
flashing light on Bird Rock, whence we took our departure for
Watling’s, and at daylight next morning I saw a long, low line
of landagainst the sky. It was the island we were seeking. But
the wind failed us for a while, and it was full noon before we could
reach the roadstead of Riding-Rocks and the shelter of the island’s
only settlement of Cockburn Town. Having my consular flag
with me, I had the captain hoist it, and we entered the harbor
with the stars and stripes displayed in all their glory. This
unexpected arrival, at the quiet port, of a “foreign craft” flying a flag that was
rarely seen there, threw all the town into consternation ; but no objection was
offered to my landing, as the boat was mine for the time being, having been
chartered by me, and I was, of course, entitled to fly the flag I liked best. This
was the view taken also by the Collector, a handsome Englishman, a retired
officer of Her Majesty’s navy, who was serving in this retired spot temporarily,
in order to secure a “ good-
service” pension. He wel-
comed me most cordially,
for strangers and news
were equally scarce, and
placed his services at my
command.

My arrival was most
opportune, for the whole
island was suffering from a
drought, and many people
were on the point of starva-
tion. Fortunately, I had
learned of their condition THE COAST OF WATLING’S ISLAND.
before leaving Fortune, and
had brought a supply of provisions sufficient for a month. It proved in such
demand that I had hardly any remaining at the end of the week. There was

absolutely nothing to be had, not.even milk or eggs, those last resorts of these
needy people.

 

MY “TURTLER.”’

 
FROMVECORDOV A EO “GALHA Yn

I had been recommended to the Resident Justice of the island, Captain
Maxwell Nairn, as one who would attend to my wants; but recent and danger-
ous illness had rendered him unable to oxtend to me the hospitality he would
surely otherwise have done, and I could not obtain even a room in which to sleep.
He and his family, however, were urgent in their endeavors to find me quarters,
and finally secured a room in the thatched hut of an old black woman, who
agreed to cook my meals. The stone walls of the apartment were white and
clean, and the thatch overhead was neatly fastened to the rafters, while the
old woman’s cooking was at least endurable. Captain Nairn’s was the only white
family on the island, the other six hundred inhabitants being black and colored.
The town consists of a few score huts and houses, an English church and a
Baptist chapel. One road ran across to a cen-
tral lagoon, a mile away, and a trail around the
island; but their great highway is the ocean,
their conveyances, boats and canoes. Watling’s
Island is egg-shaped ; it is about twelve miles
long, and from five to seven miles broad, with
great salt-water lagoons in the center, and is en-
tirely surrounded with dangerous reefs. Once,
it is believed, the coral rock, of which it is
entirely composed, supported a fertile soil; but.
at present the rock is entirely denuded, and the
only soil is found in pockets and depressions in
the surface.

A Bahama farm, in fact, whether it be found
in Nassau or Turk’s Island, is always a surprise
to one from the American States, because of its

RU ev Oni AT TTNC ea TTa De poverty. When the scant vegetation that covers

the coral rock is removed, there remains only

the white, glistening rock itself, gleaming out as bare and as devoid of plant life
as a marble monument.

But these naked rocks, so pitifully suggestive of poverty, the natives regard
with affectionate interest, and speak of them as their “farms.” The great.
drought of the past two years had deprived the farms of even the scant moisture
of ordinary years, and induced a general failure of crops throughout the island.

Although Watling’s Island lies just on the verge of the tropics, in latitude
twenty-four, yet its vegetation is by no means tropical in character, conveying
rather a hint of nearness to the mid-zone than actual fertility. Iam writing of
the vegetation presumably natural to the island, as seen in the woods and fields,
and not of the cultivated plants; for, indeed, all the fruits and vegetables of the
tropics can be raised here. But we no longer note the luxuriant vegetation
described by Columbus, who speaks of the orchards of trees, and of great forest

 
PROM CORDOVA TOVCAT HAY

giants such as the present day does not produce. All the vegetable covering is
now of the second growth, though there are evidences of the forest primeval in
long-submerged old stumps that still exist, showing that Columbus was probably
correct in his descriptions.

It was my desire to examine every evidence that should help to establish the
character of the people resident here at the coming of the Spaniards, and bring
to light all the existing proofs Son
of their residence; hence I de-
voted all my time to that end.
The very morning after my
arrival, the Collector accom-
panied me on a short exploring
trip across the lagoon, where
there was said to be a cave that
had never been explored. He
placed the entire police force
at my disposal— said police
force consisting of one man,
who, with his two sons, managed
our boat, and carried us over
the shallow places in the lagoon. There were many shallow places, and also a
small canal, so that their labor as carriers was somewhat arduous; yet the police
force was equal to the demands upon him, and all told, he “backed” the
Collector and myself from the boat to the shore, and vice versa, eight times that
day, and without apparent fatigue. As the Collector was a very large man,
weighing at least two hundred pounds, this performance was very creditable to
the force.

After great difficulty, mainly experienced in cutting our way through the
thorny and matted growth that everywhere covers the surface in all the Ba-
hamas, we reached the cave in which tradition averred the ancient Indians used
to dwell. It was merely a large opening in the limestone, forming a room of
goodly proportions, the roof perforated in many places, and the floor covered
with bat guano. It had not been investigated, the islanders told us, but we
found nothing to reward our search, and so, late in the afternoon, we returned
to the lagoon and the town.

The heat had been so intense that day, that the next I was unable to leave
my hut, but the day after I went on the real exploring trip of the voyage, across
the lagoon and up its entire length, to the north end of the island, where lies
the conjectural landing-place of Columbus. |

I had with me the two sons of the policeman, who ably managed the boat,
and by noon we were at the head of the lagoon, where we left the craft in the
mud, and trudged over land, or rather rock, to the lighthouse, which rose before

  

{}

TASS Nes AA it Ten
See) SS OS Za
tts Se RE EEO

    

LOOKING ACROSS THE LAGOONS ON WATLING’S ISLAND.

(“ Our road ran across to the central lagoon.’’)
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

us a mile or so away. Arriving there, heated and exhausted, I received a warm
welcome from the head keeper, who placed a comfortable house at my service,
and took me to the top of the tower for the view. Built as it is upon the high-
est elevation in the island, this tower commanded the surrounding country and
the sea adjacent, the whole of Watling’s being visible, shaped like a pear, with
its stem to the south.

There is little doubt in my mind that I was then looking upon the very spot
at which Columbus landed, just four hundred years before. The reefs off shore
threw up their sheets of foam as at the time of the discovery; the bright lagoons
in the center of the island lay directly at my feet; the low hills, scarce rising
above the general level, the green trees, the sparkling beaches, all were spread
before me, and the prospect was pleasing and beautiful in the extreme. Half a
mile distant from the tower stretched a long, continuous beach of silver sands,
terminating in promontories some two miles apart, breasting which the water is
calm as in a pond, though broken by innumerable jagged reefs of coral.

Beyond this calm space of water that encircles the island all around, lies a
chain of barrier-reefs, that prevents the tumultuous waves from reaching to the
shore, where all is quiet and secure.

Bordering this beach, along its entire length, is a low growth of sea-grapes,
dwarf palmetto and sweet shrubs, just such as one may see on the southern
coast of Florida. Scattered over its silvery surface are shells of every hue, and
innumerable sprays of the Sargasso weed, such as the first sailors saw, coming
here in 1492. Sea-birds hover over it, fleecy clouds fleck it with their shadows;
but, other than the distant murmur of the breakers, no sound disturbs the eternal
silence here.

It was at the southeast extremity of this beach, where a jutting promontory
of honey-combed coral rock runs out toward the barrier-reefs, that we assume
the first landing took place, in a beautiful bay, with an open entrance from the
ocean. On the beach, the fierce sun beats relentlessly, but there are deep hol-
lows in the rock where, in the morning, we can find shelter from the heat.

To this first land of the first voyage, Columbus gave the name San Salvador.
By the Indians it was called Guanahani. By the “ Indians,’ I say; for thus
were termed these people found in possession, and who were here for the first
time seen by Europeans, In the first day of their stay on shore the Spaniards
had added several new things to their discoveries: to the discovery of the vari-
ations of the compass, the trades, the Sargasso Sea and weed, they now added
the new people termed by their commander “ Indians,” the craft called by the
Indians themselves canoes (canoas), new species of parrots, implements of bone
and stone, and, later on, hammocks.

We would like to know what kind of people these were who welcomed the
first Europeans to America, and if any of their kind exist to-day. They were
brown and bare, shapely, athletic, doing no harm, but gentle and loving. “I
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

swear to Your Majesty,” wrote Columbus, “there are no better people on earth ;
they are gentle and without knowing what evil is, neither killing nor stealing.”
And yet, what was their fate? We know, and it is true, that their lovable
qualities availed them not, but rather hastened their extinction. One cannot.
but wonder why it was. We may find the keynote of the acts of Columbus in
a quaint expression regarding him by Bernal Diaz, one of the conquerors who
followed him: “He took his life in his hand that he might give light to them
who sit in darkness, and satisfy the thirst for gold which all men feel.” This
thirst for gold was overpowering; it controlled all his actions, and caused him
to inaugurate a system of slavery that eventually caused the extinction of all
the Indians of the West Indies. Yes; it is a melancholy truth that of all the
aborigines discovered by Columbus, in the Bahamas, Cuba and the larger islands,
not a descendant lives to-
day. In fact, hardly one
remained alive fifty years
after the discovery.

In the year 1508, Hayti
having been depopulated of
its Indians, the cruel Span-
iards came to the Bahamas
and deported the Lucayans,
to wear their lives away in
the mines. They enticed
them aboard their vessels
under pretext of taking
them to see their friends
who had died. “For it is
certain,” says the historian
Herrera, “that all the In-
dian nations believed in the
immortality of the soul, and that when the body was dead the spirit went to
certain places of delight.”

By these allurements above forty thousand were transported, never to
return; and a few years later, the islands, found teeming with inhabitants,
were deserted and solitary. In Cuba were found other, Indians, but a little
better supplied with articles of adornment and subsistence, who had hammocks
(hamacas), made fire by rubbing together two pieces of wood, raised maize, or
Indian corn, and spun cotton, which grew everywhere in their fields.

The only domesticated quadruped was found in Cuba, the uwtia or dumb dog;
while in the Bahamas the people had domesticated only the parrot.

Having been extinct three hundred years at least, little remains from which
to reconstruct the lives of these primitive people at the period of discovery.

 

THE LANDING-PLACE OF COLUMBUS.
(Watling’s Island.)
A BUSINESS BOY.

Their houses, having been of perishable materials, such as reeds and palm-
leaves, nothing remains to show us what they were; but some of the implements
they used, have been found, and even some articles of their household furniture.
The most numerous specimens that have been recovered are those small stones
carved and chipped in the shape of chisels, gouges, spear-heads, and even hoes and
knives, known to collectors as “celts,” and these have been found everywhere.

In addition to these celts, we note mortars and pestles, the latter with carved
heads that have been taken for idols, beads of stone and oyster shell, and frag-
ments of pottery. The Indians, it is believed, made fairly good pottery, and
cooked their food by heating stones and throwing them into the water till it
boiled. Not alone the pottery, but all the articles yet discovered, indicate that
these Indians were in a very low state of civilization, and it must have required a
painful stretch of the imagination of Columbus to perceive in these simple people
the rich and civilized inhabitants of Cathay he had dreamed of discovering.

These simple folk, without thought of harm, early felt the evil effects of
Spanish domination. Having no gold to tempt the cupidity of the conquerors,
they for a time escaped their attention, but when slaves were needed for the
mines of Hayti, then the Spaniards snatched them from their homes. Even the
very people whom Columbus praises as the most loving and gentle on earth,
and who welcomed him and his crews as Heaven-descended men, were carried
by these same men into a slavery worse than death.

Ah, well! We know not why it was that the strong should ever have
oppressed the weak, and ever stain their swords with innocent blood, in those
first fierce days of America’s beginnings.

They are gone now, all of them. We know the Spaniards’ fate; but no
one can tell when, where and how perished the last of Guanahani’s gentle tribe.

Frederick A. Ober.

Ar BU SHUNGE Ss Sier On.

i fs “hallooing” through the telephone ;
I put the thing to my ear,
Of course I know the way it is done,
But never a sound I hear.
Why don’t it talk? Tl louder call ;
The storm is hindering ;
Halloo! You birds that flew last fall,
Fly back, and make it spring.

Lavinia S. Goodwin,
A HEATHEN MISSIONARY.

(Lines on a Japanese Doll.)

ie a vase on my mantel he stands, looking down ;
. Stands, said 1? He hangs securely
By a hairpin, hooked in the belt of his gown,
To hold him firmly, surely,
To the vase’s rim; “neath his dangling feet
A porcelain abyss yawns steepy,
Yet he looks on the world with a gaze most sweet,
Calm, bland, but never sleepy.

I first beheld him chez Vantine,
*Mid divers dolls Oriental ;
The wisest face among ninety and nine,
All placid, wise and gentle.
By a beggarly bit of modern pelf —
A sordid silver quarter —
I won a sage to my mantel-shelf,
And daily I bless the barter.

I keep him there enpulpited,
(“ Enthroned” has too worldly a seeming)
With his wide-sleeved, open arms outspread,
In mild benevolence beaming.
To the sky-blue top of his black-fringed pate,
He bears the subtle aroma
Of an antique race and an ancient date;
Oh! “toy” were a sad misnomer.

Not his a simpering, soulless face,
Like doll from frivolous Paris,
Nor like the round-eyed ruddy grace
The German girl-child carries.
Toc humble he the babe to calm,
Who cries for glare and glitter ;
His sapient smile has mystic balm
For grown-up folk that’s fitter.
A HEATHEN MISSIONARY.

 

““JAPPY, THE SAINT.”

When oft with anxious, care-worn brow,
And vexed by trivial worry,

I catch his glance in passing, how
He smiles down on my hurry!

I smile response, and straight my heart
Beats lighter for the smiling.

Jappy, my household saint thou art,
Gracious, benign, beguiling !
A HEATHEN MISSIONARY.

‘Tis true thy garb is coarse and quaint,
Thy locks are stiff and scrappy,

Thy lip’s sweet curves too red with paint,
And yet thou mak’st me happy.

T love thy scorn of worldly gear ;
Thy smile’s the flower of the ages.

Now foolish fret shall flee from here —
We'll both of us be sages.

Mayhap some esoteric saint,
Thy old sires cultivated
In lands and centuries far and faint,
To thee has transmigrated.
So, Jappy, lean down from thy place
With smile serene and gentle,
And preach the charm of a placid face
To at least one Occidental.
Mary McL. Watson.

 

 

A DAUGHTER OF THE PURITANS.
a
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Ay
a
Q
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&
3
s
¢q

 
 

A MORNING CALL.

OME, little master !
Open wide the door.
Here’s a time for joy and fun,
Here’s a time to bark and run —
Such a sky and such a sun never were before !
All the boughs are dancing on the shining trees,
All the clouds are dancing with the dancing breeze,
Life and sport and sparkle seem to bound and leap —
Don’t you hear them calling? Are you still asleep ?
Listen to the music by the sleigh-bells played ;
Look at all the snow-balls waiting to be made ;
Think of shouts and tumbles, laughs and barks and noise —
All the happy tumult dear to dogs and boys!
Come, little master,
Can you still delay ?
Here are two who wait for you
Let us off to play !

Come, little master !
Till we see your face,
Something that we long for seems
Dim and distant as in dreams,
Something fair and kindly lacks in the morning’s grace.
It may be the kind hand with its gentle touch,
It may be the brown eyes that we love so much 3,
MAM SYS GGL 1O aS POON

It may be the glad voice sounding clear and true —
It is something, master, that belongs to you.
And until we see it, here we sit and wait
Though the world is calling and the day is late,
Though the world is calling, and the way is clear,
Waiting for our comrade still we linger here.

Come, little master!

Wherefore now delay ?

Playmates true are here for you,
Prithee, come away !
M. E. B.

MANS EVES eG le ll@On SPOON:

AMSEY is making a collection of souvenir spoons.
She picked up the first one herself last year in
Sienna at the time of the famous medieval festa.
It bears the design of the fabulous Roman wolf
with the twins, this being the device of Sienna.

When Mamsey asked why, she received the
vague response: “ Sienna is the younger sister of
Rome.” But later she read that “Senio, son of
Remus, flying from the wrath of his Uncle Romu-
lus, stopped where Sienna now stands and built
himself a castle.” The city which grew up about

the castle adopted the family device “ Za Lupa,” as the Siennese say.

Mamsey proudly displayed the pretty “ricordo” to the children at home,
giving to each one sip of “ truly tea” out of its golden bow]. The second spoon
came from Venice and bore, not a gondola’s prow as many of them do, but the
winged and ringed lion of St. Mark’s. The third was sent from Munich by
Lady Gay, its design being the “ Miinchenes Kind,” the little monk from whom
the city is called; as, Miinchen or Munich.

The fourth was a Florentine specialty, a minute copy of the grotesque Diav-
olino made long ago by Gian of Bologna for the palace of the Vecchietti.
Now, alas! the palace has been torn down owing to the mad modern passion for
straight streets and right angles which is causing the ruthless destruction of
historic landmarks both in Florence and Rome. The quaint bronze imp, which

 

THE GIGLIO, EMBLEM OF FLORENCE.
MAMSEY’S GIGLIO SPOON.

for three centuries grinned over the mercantile transactions of the Old Market,
was to have been placed in the National Museum ; but there is a rumor that it
has been sold out of Italy.

Mamsey’s fifth spoon came as a Christmas gift from Rome, bearing, as it
needs must, the Roman wolf and the Roman twins. Somewhat longer and
larger and heavier than the spoon of Sienna, befitting the superior grandeur of
the Eternal City and her condescending acknowledgment of Sienna as a younger
sister.

The sixth was a tiny bit of elegance from Paris, tipped with transparent
colored stones which, held against the light, was suggestive of a stained glass
window. Reading upon the pasteboard box the name of “ Tiffany,” gave
Mamsey the sensation as of walking down Broadway.

Six pretty spoons and a story about each one of them.

Sunday evenings at tea the children were each allowed to use one as an
historically-artistic treat.

But now comes our little Folly’s inspiration.

One morning early he appeared at Mamsey’s bedside.

“ Mamsey,” he said, “ please tell me when your birthday will be. I know it
comes in March — but which day, please?”

Mamsey had been making up her mind to discard birthdays, so she answered
whimsically :

“ve decided not to have one this year!”

“Not have a birthday, Mamsey!” cried the child, with widening eyes.
“Why, how can you help it?”

Mamsey smiled.

“ve thought of a way,’ she said. “You see, dear, I’ve had so many of
them ; one every year for such a long time. One may weary of anything. I
shall halve mine and discount them after this.”

Mamsey laughed to herself, but the boy persisted.

“ Please tell me, Mamsey !”

Mamsey reflected as though over an abstruse problem.

“« After all, I may as well submit to one more not to disappoint you. It will
be on the twentieth, Folly.”

Two days later Mamsey found a note in her work-basket. It was written
with a stubby lead pencil in big blurred letters on a scrap of wrapping paper.

Precious MaMsEY :

Didn’t you say once that I might walk into Florence some day all alone? When you let me goI would
like to take my ten francs with me if you willlet me. The ten francs that the Princess May gave me for
Christmas. I would rather not tell you for what I want the ten francs. Will you let me take the ten
francs? It is very necessary for me to take the ten francs. I can go alone because it is only as far as the
Via Tornabuoini.

Your Affectionate Son,
FOLLY.
MAM SEN GS GiG LIOMWSE OO NE

Now Mamsey is gifted with powers of divination and she smiled to herself.
“It will be a giglio spoon —a birthday gift for me!” she divined. She called
the boy and said :

“Now, my dear little Folly, I will let you have your ten francs and
walk to Florence —but not alone. You are too small to spend ten francs by
yourself. You would be sure to buy something you would not care for. I will
ask Herr August to take you; will that do, Folly?” The boy was delighted.

“ And you will not ask me for why, Mamsey ?”

“‘ No, dear, I will not ask you for why.” |

Herr August, the children’s friend, smiled over Mamsey’s divination and
entered into the spirit of Folly’s surprise, as only Herr August could. One day
Mamsey took her trio to the Bargello, that stern old prison-palace of the Middle
Ages which is now transformed into the National Museum.

They looked in vain for the Diavolino and paused before the exquisite
bronze of Mercury by Gian of Bologna.

“Why, he made also the Diavolino!”” exclaimed Bonnie, for the Florentine
imp is her favorite spoon.

“Yes;” echoed Don, “and the big green statue of Cosimo I., in the
Piazza della Signoria.”

Mamsey pointed out the winged cap and sandals of the Mercury, and bade
them observe the delicate poise of the figure which seems about to spring into
the air and wing its untrammeled way far up above the clouds. Then to im-
press the aérial god upon the childish minds, Mamsey added: “One of the
Florentine spoons bears this flymg Mercury.”

Bonnie instantly nudged Folly with a vigorous elbow.

“A Mercury spoon, a Mercury spoon!” she whispered.

“ Be quiet!” shrieked Folly ; “ she will hear you.”

Mamsey’s face was marvelously impassive, but that evening she said to Herr
August: “Folly will wish to buy a Mercury spoon, but please do not let him
spend more than his ten francs.”

Thus the day came when Folly trudged off to town in his dainty white
flannel sailor suit with the ten francs tucked safely away in his breast pocket.
Herr August met him at the square of San Marco, and changed the trip into a
treat by giving him cakes and chocolate at what Don calls “a sweet shop.”

Then — but why tell where they went? Mamsey divined, but she did not
follow.

For a week to come the five children kept the secret bravely. Only Laddie,
the scamp, confided to Mamsey —

“ Folly bringed you a buful ’poon!”

And Lella asked again and again; “What me give you for you birfday,
Mamsey?”

March twentieth came all too quickly. After thirty, birthdays are so will-
MAMSEY’S GIGLIO SPOON.

ingly skipped. It proved that Folly’s inspiration had spread through the family
in a way Mamsey had failed to divine.

Laddie and Lell came first with their offerings — bookmarks. Laddie’s was
blue and Lell’s was rose — because she is a bit of a rosebud herself,

Object-blind folk might have seen only two colored cardboard slips with a
pearly hand at the end of each, and along whose length meandered the modern
legend: “ Pear’s Soap. Insures a Skin Like Ivory.”

But Mamsey saw two dainty birthday gifts from loving baby hearts. Bonnie
had worked day and night over an embroidered tea-cloth which she now pre-
sented wrapped in the folds of Garva’s latest newspaper.

Best and last appeared a slender package of soft white tissue-paper, upon
which was written: “ For my precious darling Mamsey.”

Mamsey made big eyes; she was never so surprised in her life. Slowly she
unrolled the soft tissue to find the prettiest of silver spoons with a golden bowl,
twisted stem and device of the Florentine giglio.

Now, Folly knows that Mamsey loves the giglio, emblem of Florence, the
fair flower city. It is a conventionalized lily, or rather iris, such as spring wild
and free upon the meadows and hills about Florence. Even before the old, old
days of the Florentine Republic, the blue iris and the deep red lilies of the fields
had bestowed upon the old walled town the appellation that is hers to-day, the
“Lily City.” Mamsey promised to use the giglio spoon for her “ very special
own,” whereupon all the younglings jumped about the room in delight. All
but Don whose face was overcast.

“T only have nothing to give. I did not think of it. Why should the others
think always and never I? I should love to give you something, Mamsey.”

It was so like our moony Don. His voice trembled and his throat choked
with the big lump we all find so hard to swallow. Mamsey smiled at him.

“Let me tell you, Don; I bought myself a new inkstand the other day. A
red one with a lid that clicks. You might make me a present of it. It is
stupid to buy things for one’s self. The inkstand shall be your gift to me.”

Don’s face grew suddenly radiant.

“Oh! I'm so glad, Mamsey. Besides, it is useful, ’specially for you.

“ After writing, Mamsey will refresh herself with a cup of tea served on my
tea-cloth,” said Bonnie.

“ And sip her tea with the giglio spoon,” chirruped Folly, with a flourish of
two hilarious heels in the air — so very expressive that it left nothing more to
be said.

Jean Porter Rudd.
 

THE CHORAL.

(From a Painting by Walther Firle.)

 

(Gla TANS. “ONS

HRISTMAS tide is a time of cold,
Of weathers bleak and of winds ablow ;
Never a flower —fold on fold
Of grace and beauty — tops the snow
Or breaks the black and bitter mold.

And yet ’tis warm — for the chill and gloom
Glow with love and with childhood’s glee ;
And yet ’tis sweet — with the rich perfume
Of sacrifice and of charity.

Where are flowers more fair to see?

Christmas tide, itis warm and sweet:

A whole world’s heart at a Baby’s feet!
Richard Burton.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TPES EAS SiN Ge OS a Bibi ses ire i

ie a very early hour one September morning in Florence, I was aroused to
semi-consciousness by a most unusual noise, and, as I lay half-asleep, I felt
as though I ought to arise and investigate the cause of it. A sudden horror
came over me that something was wrong with the steam pipes, but quickly
followed the remembrance that I was in Italy, where we have no such dis-
turbers of the domestic peace. Still the strange noise beat upon my ears, and

finally sounded like the tinkling of many small bells in the dim distance.
I was just settling myself for one more nap, feeling sure that the strange
AEUEN IPZAS SIOSEs OUT Tiel, Slatellsiie.

sound was beyond my province, when the bleating of a sheep brought me
quickly to my senses, and I remembered to have heard that at this season the
shepherds come down from the mountains with their flocks, to take them to the
warmer plains below. So I hastily aroused the sleeping children, who only
needed the word “lambs” to make them broad awake, and we flew to the
windows, and lo! what a sight was there.

The whole street and sidewalk below, as far as we could see in either direc-
tion, was filled with a moving mass. Hundreds and thousands of sheep and
_ lambs; flocks following each other in quick succession, with only room enough
between for the shepherd, who always leads his sheep with a big crook. The
indispensable green umbrella is always over one shoulder, and he is generally
carrying one or more tiny lambkins in his arms.

There was no trouble with refractory sheep racing off in the wrong direction ;
all were content and happy to follow their beloved shepherds, at whose sides
trotted the faithful dogs (the friends, and not tormentors of the sheep), and
the big leaders of the flocks, that wore the bells. It was the tinkling of these
hundreds of bells that had aroused me so early. Never shall I forget that.
strange, weird sound as it rose and fell on the early morning air.

These numerous flocks of sheep pass through the city twice a year—in the
spring, when they leave the warm lowlands around Perugia for the Northern
mountains, and in autumn, when the frosty air drives them back to the plains.
And as they must pass through the cities on their way, they are obliged to.
linger outside the city walls until all business in the streets is suspended, when
the night guar ds open the ponderous gates and allow them to pass through.

It was an impressive sight to see those hundreds of sheep ene their
leaders so happily, and spoke volumes for the friendly relations existing between
them, and contrasted strongly with the remembrance I had of sheep driven by
men and chased by dogs, until the poor frightened creatures did not know which
way they ought to go.

Then came home to me with a new force and beauty the familiar words of
Jesus, descriptive of the good shepherd :

“ And he calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them; and the sheep.
follow him, for they know his voice.”

Belle Spalding.

 
 

SUele te EOI Oye Wise SION USK Sst AILS.

ACK WINTER burst into the cheery New England kitchen with a wild‘
whoop. It was Friday afternoon; the next day was Saturday, and Jack
_ was going fishing.

Gran’ ther Green, with his great iron-bound spectacles, sat in his own particu-
lar corner reading the Cape Cod Jtem. The Widow Winter was frying dough-
nuts, and several little Winters were grouped around her with an air of
expectation.

“ What's that parcel, Jack?” inquired the widow from her place at the
frying-pan.

“Oh! that?” said Jack. “That's a chart; Captain Seth Mallow lent it to
me. He’s teaching me navigation, you know. It’sachart of Nantucket and
the ‘Vineyard’ and the ‘Cape.’ It’s got everything down on it, but it ain’t
half right. ‘Old Man’ Shoal is about two miles out, and there ain’t any ‘slue’ in
Point Rip, and lots of things are wrong ; but then, some of those Government fel-
lows made it a long time ago, and of course it ain’t natural they should know as
much about these waters as we do. And, mother, I’m going fishing to-morrow
— going before daylight so as to catch the tide; ‘Hunk’ Coffin’s going with
me; the mackerel are running like everything on the ‘ Rip,’ and I'll bring back
a barrelful, or my name’s not Jack Winter.”

Jack was a Nantucketer, a Nantucketer born and bred. Most of his life had
been spent on the little island, and like all the rest of the male inhabitants he
was as nearly amphibious as it is pessible for a human being to be; land or
water, it was all the same to him; he was equally at home on either element.
He knew just the place on Maddequet to lie and wait in the early spring for
“WHAT'S THAT PARCEL, JACK?” INQUIRED THE WIDOW.

 
THE PILOT OF THE NANTUCKET SHOALS.

the brant as they passed over on their northern journey, and every “ foot pond”
among the hills where the black duck settled in the winter twilight.

Probably few who read this story have ever been on the quaint little island.
You may visit it if you like, for now it is quite a famous summer resort; but
you can never see it as Jack saw it. In the old town electric lights sputter
on the corners, and the tinkling bells of the street-car and the whistle of the
locomotive mingle with the roar of the surf at S’conset. Even the moorlands
where Jack used to hunt plover seem to have changed. ,

Jack had been to Boston once, and once to Halifax in his uncle’s brig, but.
that was the extent of his travels; his world was a small one, but what there was.
of it he knew thoroughly, in spite of his youth. He was a little over sixteen
then, and there were few better pilots over the dangerous shoals from Gay Head
to Monomoy.

Of course he wanted to go to sea; in the old days no self-respecting Nan-
tucket maiden would have thought of marrying a man who had not made at
least one whaling voyage ; but his mother had so far managed to keep him
at home.

“Get your ‘edication’ first,” said Gran’ther. “ Edication first if you ever
want to be a master.”

And so Jack had bided his time.

Sometimes he would steal into the parlor, a funny little room in the front of
the house that was kept closed and darkened except on occasions of great cere-
mony, and take down from the hook over the mantel an old navy sword with
which he would lunge fiercely at the prim, straight-backed chairs and the shiny
horse-hair sofa. .

It was his father’s sword ; the sword of a gallant young seaman who had sailed
to the war with Farragut — and never returned.

The widow, too, sometimes slipped into the parlor to look at the sword.
Maybe she did so on this night, after all the rest of the household had gone to
bed, and if the visit brought a momentary sigh I am sure it was changed to a.
smile when she peeped into Jack’s room, where he and Hunk were snoring in
unison beneath the bedclothes; for, stretched from the bed and out of the window
into the garden, was a stout piece of cod-line. The inner end was tied to Jack’s toe,
and old Seth Williams, when he went to pull his lobster pots at three o’clock in
the morning, had agreed to give the other end a good “yank” as he passed by.

It was pitch dark when the boys emerged from the house, that hour which
the proverb says is the darkest, the one just before dawn. Jack’s toe ached a
little from the energetic pulling, but his spirits were high. |

A short walk brought them to the wharf, and in a few moments they were
embarked in Jack’s old weather-beaten cat-boat.

“She’s pretty well used up, ain’t she, Jack?” remarked Hunk.
idle ico OU © mel eit CAEN ela Guiess0 mn) 1a) ©) 2A ase.

“Yes, she is; but she’s got to last this season,” replied Jack. “Take the
tiller, Hunk, while I ‘sweat up’ the peak;” and the boat, under the influence of
the light southerly breeze which fanned her tattered sail, glided silently into
the darkness.

Slowly she rounded Brant Point, looking dim and ghostly in the gloom, and
then away to the “ noth’ard” and “ west’ard,” just skirting the Koskata flats, and
heading as near as might be for the glimmering light on Great Point.

They were now out upon the sound; the inner harbor lay behind them, and
with a free sheet and a steady breeze the little boat bounded merrily over the
short seas.

Barely visible to windward stretched the low shore of the island, curving like
a big horseshoe, with Great Point at the extreme northern end, upon which
stood the lighthouse for which the boys were steering. Following the line of
the coast and jutting some three miles into the ocean from the point, was the
dangerous reef known as Point Rip. Its outer extremity was marked by a buoy,
but well in near the shore there was a passageway of deep water —a slue, the
fishermen called it.

Far away over the land, they could once in a while catch a glimpse of the
light on Sankaty Head, on the south shore of the island, flashing its warning to
any mariner who might be so unlucky as to be in the vicinity ; for beyond that lay
the shoals — the dreaded Nantucket Shoals, stretching to the south’ard and east-
ard twenty miles or more to the lightship on Great South Shoal which marked
the limit of the danger space. Woe to the stranger who ever found himself
within that space of shifting sands, tide rips and cross currents; only a local
pilot, and a good one at that, could ever get him out. He might as well throw
his chart overboard ; it was useless in that neighborhood.

“ Are you going to try the slue, Jack?” asked Hunk, as Jack moved aft,
having finished coiling up the “ gear.”

“Yes,” answered Jack. “Ithink it will be daylight when we get there; all
that I want is just light enough to see the water, and I’m all right. Let her go
straight for the point, Hunk.”

As Jack predicted, when Great Point was abeam the dawn began to break.
To an unpracticed eye the water looked alike everywhere, but not so to Jack.
The slight difference in the color and appearance of the deep water was his
guide, and under his direction the boat shot through the narrow channel. The
next moment she was rolling lazily on the long ground swell of the Atlantic.
The sound was passed, the boys were on the ocean.

“ All plain sailing now,” cheerfully remarked Hunk.

“JT don’t know, Hunk. I don’t much like this long swell; and the sky looks
nasty, too.”

Hunk glanced to the east’ard, and sure enough the dawn did look red and
threatening.

 
Dele JULIO (ie A ghs IN ANIME ISIO IE SHOALS 5

“ Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning,” he muttered to himself.

Suddenly Jack straightened himself up and took a long steady look to
wind ard.

“Tt’s a-coming ; just our luck

“ What is?” asked Hunk.

“Fog,” replied Jack laconically. “See it?” and he pointed to the south,
where faintly visible on the horizon appeared what seemed to be a low bank of
yellow clouds. Then he added :

“Well, let it come; I think I can find Fishing Rip even if the fog is thick
enough to cut; if we can’t, we'll see what we can pick up off Sankaty. Let her
go southeast.”

They sailed on this course for an hour or more, while slowly but surely the
fog came drifting in. Little by little the land was shut out from view; first
Sankaty and then Wauwinnet faded away, and at last Great Point was swallowed
up in the yellow mist.

“ Pleasant,” remarked Jack, as the mainsail gave a great flap to windward, for
with the coming of the fog the wind had almost departed. “I suppose we will
have to drift around here till the wind takes it into its head to blow again.
Well, it don’t much matter, for I think it would be pretty risky business running
out to ‘Rip’ the way the weather looks to-day. There is one consolation; we
are not likely to get run down in this part of the world.”

For another hour the boat drifted with the tide. They had lowered the sail.

“Tt’s no use letting her flap herself to pieces,” Hunk had remarked economi-
eally; and then he had got out their deep-sea fishing lines—not that they
expected to catch much of anything, but it was something to do. “ We might
hook a flounder or two,” remarked Jack.

They fished in silence for a while, and soon both boys were nodding over
their lines. Jack roused himself and peered over the side.

“JT say, Hunk, we are drifting pretty fast. The tide here runs like a” —

“Mercy on us! What’s that?” suddenly ejaculated Hunk.

Jack was on his feet in an instant, straining his eyes in a vain endeavor to
pierce the fog. The sound that had so startled Hunk was one with which both
boys were familiar — the hoarse blast of a fog-horn.

“ Think she’ll run us down?” asked Hunk under his breath.

“Not with this wind,” observed Jack rather dryly. “A fisherman out of his
reckoning, I guess. Get out the oars, Hunk.”

The fog-horn sounded again, this time much nearer, and a few moments
later, dimly discernible, its size magnified to mountainous proportions by the
“loomage”’ of the fog, there could be distinguished the towering sails and then
the black hull of a large ship.

“A square rigger, by Jove!” exclaimed Jack. “What in the mischief can
she be doing in here ?”’

>
!
(icles JPNMOT MOIS FR e08) IN AUNT GIL IE  SISOZLS.

The little boat and the big ship drifted slowly toward one another. There
was a slight commotion on the forecastle, and then the lookout’s voice was heard
as he reported :

“Something on the port bow, sir. I think it is a small boat.”

“Ship ahoy!” sang out Jack.

“ Halloo!” came the response.

“What ship is that?”

“United States frigate Constitution. Who are you?”

“Cat-boat Flyaway, fishing.”

“Golly! but she’s full of men; look!” and Hunk gazed open-mouthed at her
tall black sides pierced with a dozen gun ports, from each of which a dozen
heads were craned, eager to catch a glimpse of the strangers. Her to’gallant
forecastle was crowded with men and boys, and on the bridge aft a group of
officers in dripping oil-skins seemed to be holding an anxious consultation.

One of them presently hailed the boat:

“Where are we?” he asked.

“On Nantucket Shoals,” answered Jack.

“ Come aboard for a moment, if you please,” continued the officer.

There was a quick, sharp order; a seaman sprang into the chains; the end of
a heaving line fell into the boat, and the next moment they were alongside,
climbing the slippery accommodation ladder.

A dapper young gentleman in the uniform of a midshipman met them at
the gangway. Jack found out afterward he was called the “ gentleman of the
watch.” He conducted Jack to the bridge, while Hunk, too much astonished to
move, seemed rooted to his position in the gangway.

He was surrounded at once by a group of some half-hundred laughing,
questioning youngsters, all boys about his own age.

They were midshipmen from the Naval Academy on their yearly practice
cruise, and the Constitution was the practice ship.

It takes a good deal to dampen the enthusiasm of a midshipman; neither the
wet fog nor the presence of the ship in a dangerous locality, a fact that most of
of them had already guessed, seemed to have much effect on their excess of
animal spirits.

Jack, on the bridge, however, encountered a very different atmosphere. On
the faces of the officers was imprinted an unmistakable look of anxiety. The
navigator walked rapidly to and fro, every now and then popping his head under
the oil-skin cover to examine the chart; the officer of the deck toyed nervously
with the speaking-trumpet, and the captain, extending his hand to Jack as he
mounted the bridge, looked like a man who had been up all night, as in fact
he had.

“T am Captain Somerset,” he said. “Maybe you can give us some informa-
tion. Are you acquainted with this locality ?”’
PELE OO Mh Ee IN AUN GLE Ts YS Odes:

“Well,” said Jack, “I
was born and brought up
over there on Nantucket,
and I don’t think there are
many rocks or shoals to
the west’ard of the ‘ Cape’
that I don’t know.”

“Maybe you can tell
us where we are; that is,
exactly ; of course I know
approximately,” added the
captain.

“ Yes, sir; Ican. You
are about one mile from
‘Old Man, and it bears
broad off the port bow.”
“But that is impossible,” interrupted the
navigator. “ We have been steering north by
east since midnight. Old Man Shoal must be
five miles to the westward,” and he popped his
head into the chart-box.

Captain Somerset looked at Jack inquivingly.

“Tt is on account of the currents,” he ex-
plained; “you can’t tell anything about the
currents on these shoals, except from experi-
ence ; they run every which way, and change
once or twice ina tide. Just now, off to the
east’ard it’s running strong to the north’ard ;
down by the lightship it is just about turning
to the east’ard, and here it is running to the
north’ard and west’ard like a mill-race.”

Jack, in the novelty of his position, had
forgotten for the moment the fact, of which he
was fully aware, that the vessel drifting with

“MR. WINTER, I ENGAGE you as riot.” the strong tide was driving directly on the
dangerous shoal.

The current question had recalled it to his mind, as it did to the captain’s
also at the same moment.

“Then,” he said, “we are drifting right on to Old Man Shoal ?”

“Yes, sir,” responded Jack.

The captain was prompt to make up his mind. He turned quickly to the
officer of the deck.

    
THE PILOT OF THE NANTUCKET SHOALS.

“ Get the starboard anchor ready for letting go, Mr. Marline. How mucin
water have we?”

“ ive fathoms, sir, last cast.”

“ By the deep four,” sang out the leadsman in the chains.

“Lively, my man; another cast. Down with the helm, quartermaster; hard
down. Mr. Marline, let go the starboard anchor,” he shouted.

“Hold on, Captain; for Heaven’s sake, don’t anchor here,” earnestly inter-
rupted Jack. “Try and tack her. If she won’t tack we can still anchor, as a
last resort —and get ashore while we have a chance,” he muttered to himself.
“Tl tell you as soon as we get around why it won’t do to anchor here.”

Captain Somerset glanced searchingly into Jack’s face; something there
seemed to reassure him, for he turned abruptly to the officer of the deck.

“Go about, Mr. Marline,” he said.

“Do you think she'll go round in this light breeze?” inquired Jack
anxiously.

“T don’t know, but we can try; at any rate, your idea isa good one. If she
won’t tack we are no worse off than we were before,” answered the captain.

“There is a heavy tide on the weather bow, you know,” Jack continued
- shyly, for he had just begun to realize that he had been giving directions to
these old officers who had sailed ships before he was born.

“Very true, my boy. Remember, Mr. Marline, a late haul of the head
_ yards ;” and turning to Jack with a twinkle in his eye, “I say, my lad, you seem
to be about as lively a sailor for your years as one is likely to run across.
Where did you say you came from ?”

“Nantucket, sir; they breed that kind there,” Jack answered simply.

“Ready about! Stations for stays!” shouted the officer of the deck through
the trumpet.

The crowd of “middies” gathered around Hunk vanished like mist before
the sun.

Pandemonium seemed to reign supreme for the space of ten seconds; men
and boys rushed hither and thither with what would have appeared to a lands-
man’s eye the utmost confusion, and then suddenly, as if by magic, the tumult
died away as quickly as it had begun. Even before the shrill pipe of the boat-
swain had ceased, every man stood silently at his station.

Jack now for the first time had an opportunity to look about him. From his
place on the bridge, just forward of the mizzen mast, he saw stretched before
him the broad flush-deck of the frigate; the crew, mostly composed of boys, with
here and there a sprinkling of grizzly tars, all aft at the main and “ crojic”
braces, silently waiting the word of command to swing the after yards.

They looked very different from the midshipmen he had pictured in his mind —
the young gentleman in Captain Marryat’s novels, with his roundabout and ever-
lasting spyglass, whose chief function in life seemed to be to worry other people.
LE VP TE OM MOL Mild 2 SNCAUN OG KOE Ai Sieh OVALS

This was evidently a different lot; there was an unmistakable air of business
about their tar-stained overalls and sunburnt and not over-clean hands and
faces.

“T guess those fellows who are always talking about crawling in through
the cabin windows never saw this part of it,” he soliloquized.

With the helm hard down the big ship came slowly up into the wind; down
came the head sails at the order, and relieved of the pressure forward she luffed
rapidly.

“ By Jove, I believe she would tack in a calm’ thought Jack.

Flap went the spanker, the premonitory signal that the wind was nearly
ahead, and then the order, “ Haul taut! Mainsail, haul!” There was a rush of
feet, a creaking of blocks, the after yards flew round and the vessel “ fell off”
slowly on the other tack.

“ Hoist away the head sails! Haul well taut; let go and haul!” and the head
yards swung quickly into place. ‘Reeve and haul the bowlines! Haul taut the
weather lifts and braces!”

The sails bellied out with the light air, the ship forged oe ahead and
the evolution of tacking was completed.

“TJ did not think she would do it,” remarked Jack, turning to the captain.

“Well, you see she did, and now we are around; what next? One thing is
certain, we can’t go in far on this tack.”

“‘No, sir; about four miles; then one must tack again,” answered Jack.

“Excuse me, Captain, but now that we are well clear of that shoal, whatever
it is,’ interrupted the navigator, “don’t you think we had better anchor and

wait for clear weather? We are actually surrounded Dy, shoals, and I don’t
believe mortal man can get her through in a fog like this.”

“Yes; I think you are right. We ll run for a few minutes fee and then
bring to; but hold on,” continued the captain ; “ the pilot said something about
not anchoring. I say, Mr. Pilot, is there any reason why we should not.
anchor now ?”

Jack felt rather flattered at being addressed so ceremoniously, but he answered
quietly :

“ Yes, sir, there is; we can’t anchor, we must keep on.”

“ But why?” sharply inquired the navigator. “It is the simplest thing in
the world to drop an anchor under foot and wait for the fog to lift.”

“Well, sir,” said Jack, hesitating a little, “it seems a little bit cheeky for a
boy like me to be giving my opinion here amongst all you officers, but I know
our shoals and I know our weather. Do you feel this long swell that is rolling
in? It’s the longest ground swell I ever felt on the shoals, now the glass
is low, and” —

“ How is that, Mr. Marline?” asked the captain.

“Right, sir; been falling since midnight,” answered the officer.
THE PILOT OF THE NANTUCKET SHOALS.

“And,” continued Jack, “with a falling barometer and a heavy swell from
~ the south’ard, look out for nasty weather. With the red dawn this morning,
and with this fog and the generally dirty look of the weather, we are almost sure
to have it strong from the southeast. I am sure we'll get it before nightfall ; if
we do, you might as well be at anchor on Niagara Falls as here. As for getting
out through the fog, I am willing to guarantee to anchor you under the lee of
Nantucket Island, if the wind holds.”

The officers gathered together in a group to discuss the situation, and Jack
retired to the farther end of the bridge, but he could not help occasionally hear-
ing a few words of the consultation. Captain Somerset evidently was disposed
to take his advice, but the other officers seemed to be opposed, the navigator
especially. Jack heard him remark: “ Why, he’s only a boy, not as old as some
of our young gentlemen on board.”

The captain appeared dubious, for upon him rested the entire burden of the
responsibility.

“Jack,” he said earnestly, “ are you sure of what you say ?”

“Yes, sir; dead sure. In a little while this fog will turn to rain, the wind
will haul round to the southeast, and then we are in for it.”

He had hardly spoken when the warning cry from the officer of the fore-
castle ran along the deck, “ All in the wind forward, sir.”

“ You see, itis beginning now, sir,” Jack continued; and the vessel’s head fell
off a point or so as the quartermaster jammed the helm up.

“Yes; I see it is,” Captain Somerset answered slowly, and then suddenly :
“Mr. Winter, I engage you as pilot. The vessel is in your charge, sir.
Orderly, tell the cabin steward to bring some breakfast on deck for the pilot.”

In the meantime Hunk had not been idle. As soon as he recovered his
presence of mind, he proceeded to answer as well as he was able the hundred
and one questions poured upon him from all sides, and then under the guidance
of some of the older midshipmen proceeded to explore the ship. On the berth-
deck where the middies “slung” their hammocks, at pretty close quarters it
must be confessed, barefooted negro boys were running to and fro with platters
of beetsteak and steaming cups of coffee, for it was nearly the hour for eight
o'clock breakfast. On the gun-deck he noticed a space shut off from the rest
by a screen of canvas.

“That is the sick bay,” explained his guide. “About a dozen fellows are
down with the typhoid, and what’s worse, the surgeon’s got it, too, and they are

afraid he’s going to slip his cable; that’s the reason ‘the old man’ is so anxious
to make a port, and got us into this mess.”

Hunk breakfasted with his new friends and learned a good deal about mid-
shipmen in general, and practice cruises in particular; but as this story deals
with Jack the pilot, and not Jack the midshipman, we will return to the bridge
where our hero and Captain Somerset were at their breakfast in solitary grandeur.
PIGNEA IPUEOIE MONE IRIE GNIS ITCHEROE IE SISOKZUL, Sx

Jack allowed the frigate to proceed on her southerly course for an hour or
more and then tacked.

The weather began to show unmistakable signs of change; and, as he had pre-
dicted, mixed with the fog came a chilly drizzling rain, so fine as to hardly be
distinguished from the mist itself. The wind blew in light, fitful squalls, shifting
slowly to the south’ard, and the ship creaked and groaned as she rose and fell in
the long swell.

Of all on board, Jack alone was aware of the position of the ship and the
peculiar dangers which menaced her. The shoals of Nantucket are rarely
visited by mariners, and it was nothing remarkable that the officers were
entirely ignorant of the existence of the dangerous currents; even the positions
of the shoals were uncertain, for the charts of this region are untrustworthy.

To understand the situation, let us glance for a moment at the chart. Old
Man Shoal lies off the southeast corner of the island. When Jack boarded the
frigate the wind was light from the northeast and she was headed well clear of
the shoal; but the strong westerly current was drifting her directly upon it,
hence Jack’s anxiety to tack and stand to the east’ard, as on this course he could
stand on for three or four miles before encountering the very shallow water of
the line of broken reefs which extended like a belt to the northward till they
nearly met the Point Rip, jutting from the northern end of the island. The
passage between these shoals was marked by the buoy at the end of the “ Rip,”
and to get the ship out of her present dilemma this buoy must be found. Her
only salvation was through the passage; for to the westward lay the island, to
the eastward the long line of shoals, and behind her, stretching for twenty miles,
was the broken ground.

True, the ship had come in safely from that direction, but to get out was a
different matter.

Jack knew that, long before they could gain the open sea, the gale would be
upon them, and blowing directly ahead, and they would never be able to beat
against the wind and the heavy sea that would “raise” at once in the shoal
water. For the same reason they could not hope to ride out the gale at anchor;
no ground tackle was ever made strong enough to hold a ship in the short
angry seas that rolled over the shoals in a southeast gale.

All this Jack explained to Captain Somerset as they talked together on the
bridge.

The experience Jack had gained knocking around in all sorts of weather. in
his old cat-boat now stood him in good stead. Ordinarily the ship might have
been safely navigated by the usual methods, the log and the compass assisted by
the lead line; but in the currents lay the unknown and dangerous factor. The
salvation of the ship depended upon Jack’s local knowledge of these currents.

“It’s a fine wind now to the buoy,” he remarked to the captain as he gave
the quartermaster the course. “ We ought to make it in two hours.”
CK, MY BOY, YOU HAVE SAVED THE SHIP!” EXCLAIMED THE CAPTAIN.

 
ELE me Oven © Rin EE sme Adela OG Kee iieeS! i) Ades.

Captain Somerset said nothing, but nervously paced the deck ; his reputation,
possibly his commission, hung upon the slender thread of a boy’s knowledge.

Little by little the ordinary noises of ship life ceased, the old sailors conversed
beneath their breath, and even the careless middies peered anxiously ahead.

They had now run nearly the allotted two hours, the wind and sea continued
steadily to rise, but the fog held on as thick as ever.

Jack watched the compass narrowly; great drops of sweat stood upon his
brow and he almost repented that he had undertaken the job.

With the freshening wind the ship ploughed through the mist ; before her lay
what? The buoy and safety, or the ragged rocks of the “ Rip?” Jack strained
his eyes to their utmost tension as if to pierce the fog by sheer force of will.
“ Oh! for one moment of daylight,” he groaned; “ one sight of Great Point Light.”

There was a momentary lull in the breeze, flap went the spanker as, the wind
suddenly falling dead calm, the ship rolled sluggishly to windward; and then
patter, patter came the rain falling in great drops perpendicularly from the sky.

“The calm before the storm,” thought Jack; “if this rain beats down the
fog before we get it, we'll be all right.”

“Mind your helm, quartermaster,’ came the warning cry from the officer of
the deck, and the next instant came the first puff of the approaching gale.

Heeling to her gun ports the ship sprang madly forward, and as if by magic
the remnant of the fog in strange fantastic shapes went dancing away to leeward.

“T see it, sir; dead ahead, sir,” shouted the lookout.

Jack sprang to the weather-rail and heaved a heavy sigh of relief as he
recognized the object of his search bobbing on the dark water; but in spit2 of
himself his voice trembled a little as he turned to the officer of the deck,
“‘ Round the buoy, if you please, sir, and stand in close hauled on the port tack.”

“ A splendid landfall, by Jove,” exclaimed the captain, shaking Jack warmly
by the hand. ‘Jack, my boy, you have saved the ship.”

The navigator popped his head for the last time into the chart-box and then
slowly withdrew it. He was a prim, punctilious man, but a just one. Walking
slowly along the bridge to where Jack was leaning on the weather-rail, he ex-
tended his hand. “Mr. Winter, I have done you an injustice; I beg your
pardon,” he said solemnly.

Two days later the storm abated, the frigate in the meantime lying comfort-
ably at anchor under the lee of the horseshoe arms of the island. Although
the wind had gone down, the surf still roared savagely on the south shore, and
Jack pointed out to the captain the place where he had thought of anchoring,
now a seething mass of froth and foam.

“Not a very comfortable anchorage, eh, Captain ?”

“ No, not very,” he answered smiling; “you have saved the old Constitution
that’s a fact, and now if you will make out your bill for pilotage, and” —
THE PILOT OF THE NANTUCKET (SHOALS.

“ Excuse me, sir, Ican’t do that ; Icould not do it legally, any way, you know,”
exclaimed Jack, “for I haven’t any license. I don’t want to, either,” he continued.
“Tt’s the duty of one sailor to help another in distress.”

That afternoon the Widow Winter and Captain Somerset had an interview in
the little front parlor ; and Jack heard his mother say, as the captain opened the
door to depart :

“‘T believe it is the wish dearest to his heart; we Nantucket mothers expect
our sons to go to séa, you know —and serve their country, too,” she added, as
her eye lingered for a moment on the old sword.

A fortnight passed, and Nantucket settled down to its regular humdrum
existence.

Hunk and Jack had gone fishing again, and this time returned with the
promised barrelful of mackerel.

One morning Gran’ther appeared in a flurry, with a letter. It was a big
one, with “ Official Business, Navy Department,” stamped in the corner.

It was addressed to “Mr. John Winter” and, whatever was in it, the letter
seemed to please the boy immensely.

Three days later, bag and baggage, Jack departed from his island home.

In a little while came another letter for the Winter cottage, this time for
the widow.

It was postmarked Annapolis, Md.

“‘T wonder if the boy can pass the examination ?” said Mrs. Winter.

“T’m a little ’feard, Mary,” remarked Gran’ther, as he handed her the letter ;
“they say it’s powerful hard.”

The widow tore it open and read it quickly to the end, and then with a smile
thrust the signature under Gran’ther’s spectacles.

There, in a bold boy’s hand, was subscribed, semi-officially : Jonn WINTER,

Midshipman, CG Alexander Ritchie
v Ritchie.

 

 
   

HERE sang twelve sparrows on the wall
At even-fall, at even-fall.

When gloomed apace the village doors
Between the silent sycamores,

They heard a sound from mystic shores,
And sang their song for gladness’ sake —
The birds of God were all awake.

   
   
   

 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

There lowed twelve oxen at the bin
Behind the inn, behind the inn.
Along the dark, across the lea,
They knew a sign no man could see.
There was a wonder soon to be;

O, secret of the sons of Shem!

Who told the beasts of Bethlehem ?

There flew twelve angels, clothed in light,

At middle night, at middle night ;

With countless peers of kindred wing =
They called, as distant bugles ring,

“ Behold the cradle of the King!

The Son of Heaven, the Prince of earth

Becomes a babe of human birth!”
A CORISTMAS (GAROL:

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  

NP; ae

There knelt twelve shepherds at thy head,
O, manger-bed, O, manger-bed;

They watched within thy stony shrine
The miracle of Life divine,

And reverent saw around him shine,
Between the sordid stable-bars,

The luster of the Star of stars.

   

Chime, all ye bells of Christendom :
“Thy kingdom come! Thy kingdom come!”
For every hour a warning charm,

For every moon a sweet alarm,

For every gate of Heaven a psalm;
Nor ring a note of self or sin—

O, twelve o’clock when Yule comes in!

And joy shall hail from clime to clime Bb
At Christmas time, at Christmas time, Te
Till every life that walks or wings, &
And Death itself saluting sings @
The Lord of lords, the King of kings;
And all the world shall smile again
~ With peace on earth, good-will to men.

Theron Brown.

 
  
 

he King’s kitchen. srew.
colder and colderrand_ colder,
“The steward was” “quite age
a loss.
‘To: Find out the reason-and
never: discovered.
T he. cook stirring up

Chili ue

ABO Wes CON Gil EA or.

Vices people have the impression that the pearl is found only in the oysters
gathered beneath the waters of tropical America, Persia and India.

It is true that these bivalves frequently secrete the most valuable specimens
of the opaque gem, but they cannot claim the exclusive production of these
much-sought-for articles of commerce.

Oysters grown in any locality frequently contain a prize, while even the
fresh-water clam, which has its home in the beds of the clear-running streams of
New England, is eagerly hunted, in the hope of finding an occasional pearl.

Nearly every boy or girl has paused before some well-kept garden to admire
the beautiful conical-shaped shells arranged along the sides of the walks, and
wondered what creatures had used these houses for their habitations. 4

These are the conch-shells; they are found in great profusion about the
Bahamas and West India Islands.

This species of mollusk are pearl-producing, and although the gems do not
rank in price with those taken from the oyster, they are considered by many to
ABOUT CONCH-PEARLS.

be much handsomer, as they are of a most delicate shade of pink, and as a rule
are quite large, not infrequently being found the size of a pea.

A perfect one of this dimension may be purchased in the West Indies for
forty or fifty dollars, according to the financial condition of the finder; but in
the markets of Boston or New York it would bring a much larger sum.

Some few years since, on Key Francis, a small coral island some twelve
miles off the northern coast of Cuba, I met a party of conch-hunters who had
come from the mainland.

All they had to do was to roll up their trousers, wade out upon the reefs
where the water was shallow and gather the clumsy fellows as they crawled
slowly along the bottom.

The oyster-divers spread their catch in the sun to allow the fleshy substance
to decompose, then the shells are washed and the pearl sought for. But the
conch-hunters pursue a different course, and one which seems very cruel.

They take a common fish-hook, to which is attached a piece of string perhaps
two feet in length, insert the sharp point into the orifice of the heavy shell
and bury the barb in the head of the helpless creature. The conchs are then hung
in rows upon poles, whose ends rest on crotched sticks driven into the ground.

Slowly the mollusk is drawn from its abode by the weight of its own habi-
tation, but so tenacious are they of life that two hours or more will elapse ere
they will let go their hold and give up the ghost.

The shell is not as yet wholly clean, but a thorough rinsing round in a tub
of water will dislodge any pearl which may be lurking within.

One would think that the shells could be broken, but many blows with a
heavy hammer would be needed before any impression could be made on the
flint-like substance, and this is too arduous a task for the languid Cuban.

The conch-pearl hunters never get very rich ; scarcely more than one out of
a thousand conch shells contains a prize, and half a dozen men would not be
able to gather and cleanse half that number in a day.

The shells find a ready market at one dollar and a half or two dollars per
hundred, according to their beauty, and thus the native is enabled to earn a

living even if not fortunate enough to obtain a pearl.
Marlton Downing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
[NOG E AP RAus= BOK

66 ANTER drinker water !”
“ Patsy Calloran, if you say that another once before recess, I shall
shut you in the wood closet!”

Miss Carberry’s eyes were very bright, and her cheeks were very pink.
Patsy knew that for a bad sign. He turned to the map of Africa and began
a terrible buzzing, that was meant to show Miss Carberry how hard he was.
studying.

Instead of saying over the names, however, he was merely saying
“ Bz-bz-bz!” like an enormous bumble-bee or an angry blue-bottle fly in a corner
of the window-pane.

Miss Carberry didn’t like bumble-bees or blue-bottle flies. She walked care-
lessly up behind Patsy and stopped him suddenly in the midst of a terrible “bz!”
that sounded like a whole hive of bumble-bees.

The next minute Patsy found himself tumbled all in a heap into what the
boys called the “’Pratus-box.” And then the button turned.

The given name of this little dark closet was the “ Apparatus-box,” and it
meant a place in which to keep globes and pointers and chalk and old maps. It
was also used sometimes, as you have seen, to put naughty boys in.

Patsy shivered as the button snapped, and he was caged as fast as any bird.

“Tt’s dark as a pick-pocket,’ he muttered, and began to cry and wipe
his dirty face on his little ragged sleeve. It was hot, too. Miss Carberry’s
headache must have been very bad indeed or she never could have done it.

He was getting rather drowsy, and might have gone off to sleep to the tune
of “ seven-times-five-are-fifty-five,’ as Lillie Dorr was droning it, when a sudden
rustling and shuffling away of books and other litter from the desks made him
sit up and listen with both his ears. Somebody was speaking to Miss Carberry,
and Miss Carberry was answering in tones wonderfully soft and sugary.

_“Tt’s the committee-mans,” said Patsy to himself. “I’m going to see
something !”’

So he fumbled somewhere in his rags and produced a penknife. A very
good one, too. Patsy could “ trade knives” with anybody.

Softly and cautiously, as a little mouse begins to nibble in the closet, Patsy
began to bore a little hole in the “’Pratus-box.” How much you can see out
of one little round hole! Patsy saw two thirds of the schoolroom out of this
one, and there was the platform with three old men on it in three old rickety
chairs “that they'll have to sit very still in, or they’ll go smash-bang on the
floor,’ thought Patsy. Two of them had gold-headed canes, and one wore a
wig that had slipped a little “ unstraight.” All this Patsy noted with interest.
LONE J OGES. SEDARIS Ces aa) gO.

The hole, or rather the light that came through it, let Patsy see better inside
as well. Now what do you suppose was the first thing his eye lighted on as he
looked around him ?

A popgun !

O, Miss Carberry! Didn’t you know—didn’t you ever learn “in the

 
  

 
 

         
  

  

SS
ee

7 =

iE SS
at

i pam | ae g

THE THREE COMMITTEE-MEN ON THE PLATFORM.

 

  

Normal,” or did you not come at it somehow by the light of nature, that a boy
and a popgun were always meant to go together ?

But oh! for a look at Patsy’s eyes, big and black in the darkness.

“ve got some peas in my pocket, I know,” he said in an excited voice,
<‘and if I don’t straighten his crooked wig for him, it'll be ’cause I can’t.”

The mild old gentleman on the edge of the platform put his hand to his ear
jn a troubled way, as Patsy’s popgun opened fire. Then he ran his fingers
through his hair, making his wig crookeder than ever.

Finally he turned to Miss Carberry with a kind of gentle amusement that
made Patsy (who had taken many a ride in “his musty old chaise’’) ashamed of
himself in the “ ’Pratus-box.”

“Tm afraid, ma’am — ahem ! — that — ahem!— some of your boys are a
little roguish this morning.”

«“ Why — what are they doing?” said Miss Carberry, astonished. She hadn’t
seen anything.
IN RHE SSE RAE ES BO ke

“Oh! nothing very bad,” smiled the blessed old man. “I was a boy once.
Haven't forgotten it. Firing peas, ma’am.”

«Tet me catch one of them!” said Miss Carberry, as grimly as if she were
an ogre or a dragon, instead of a very pretty young woman with pink cheeks and
the brightest brown eyes in the world. Every boy on the back seat shook in
his shoes.

“Oh! ain’t it jolly fun?” chuckled Patsy in his closet ; and he began boring —
more “cannon holes,” as he called them. Six in all he made. And an old
pointer or two made excellent carriages to mount his popgun battery on.

It was so hot in there that by and by Patsy got tired. He wanted a drink
of water more than ever. At last he snuggled down in a heap of dusty maps
and fell fast asleep.

‘Meantime a thunder-cloud had rolled up big and black out of the west. The
three old men said they must be going. Miss Carberry looked nervously at the
ragged black sky, and thought of her new hat with the daisies on it.

“Let the school out,” said the committee, “and one of us will take you
home.”

In two minutes the schoolroom was empty; the little girls were scampering
home with their aprons over their heads ; Miss Carberry was spinning along in
the musty-smelling chaise, and the school-
house door was locked —with Patsy left
fast asleep in the “ ’Pratus-box.”

About nine o’clock that night Miss
Carberry dropped the comb she was draw-
ing through her long brown hair and broke
it into half a dozen pieces.

“You poor dear little thing!” she
said, gazing at itin horror; but she didn’t
mean the comb.

Before you could tell of it, she had
tucked the brown hair up under a turban,
snatched up a half-eaten box of bon bons,
whisked downstairs into the pantry for
cakes and cold chicken, and was darting
along the rose-hedged lane that led to the
schoolhouse. ,

Patsy heard the brass key in the door
and began to cry as loud as he could.
Miss Carberry was glad to hear that. Patsy came out quicker than he went in,
and Miss Carberry drew down his frowsy, cobwebbed head into her lap and
cried too.

“Tm so sorry, Patsy !— here, take a cream-cake — do forgive me, won’t you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ AIN’T IT JOLLY FUN??? CHUCKLED PATSY.
A PROMISE.

— have some candy —I forgot all about you in the thunder-shower — oh! you

want some water, you poor little fellow!”

And away she flew to get him a dipper of water from the coolest corner of

the well.
Patsy was a good deal bewildered. He wasn’t

 

 

““M SO SORRY, PATSY,’’ SHE SAID.

used to being waited on and
feasted. Hewas rather glad
on the whole. MHe didn’t
have pound cake and chicken
and candy every day.

Miss Carberry took him
home herself and explained
and apologized. His father
and mother had hardly missed
him. They weren’t apt to
know Patsy’s down-sittings
and uprisings very precisely.

Two good things came
out of the  afternoon’s
imprisonment.

Miss Carberry and Patsy
each made a resolution that.
night and kept it. Patsy
told his, sitting on the floor
with his mouth stuffed full
of pound cake.

“ Ain’t go’n’ t’ ever fire any more peas ’t the c’mittee-man,” he said. “Kind

o’ sorry I plagued you so!”

Miss Carberry kept hers to herself, but the children found it out after a while.
She isn’t going to ever put anybody else in the “ ’Pratus-box.”

Amer Ol Sner

Anna F. Burnham.

HOULD life be melancholy

All the winter long,

There comes at last an April day,

And the bluebird’s song.

Mary F. Butts.
    

 

       
  
  
   

  
 
    
 

    

 

   

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X
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che eres. Pe NeNs esa ihe

AID the Little Brown Elf to his friends, one day —
In the regions of Christmas past :

“There comes a time when it’s wise to play
Lest, withered with age and with wisdom gray,
Wefling but a joyous life away,

And our time has come at last.”

So they played high jinks on the sands at noon

In the palmetto land of the turtle and coon,

In order that none might be able to say,
“They studied too hard and fast.”

But between you and me,
I never could see
Where the difference lay
"Tween their study and play.
Lilian Crawford True.
nT

I

|

i

|

 

A STUDY IN ANIMAL NATURE.
FROM. COR DOW AST Or@ A RAG

(Fourth Paper.)

THE FIRST CITY IN THE NEW WORLD.

Uy

‘ ROM the Bahamas Columbus
Y I i sailed southwardly, discover-
Yi Wy ing Cuba; then he coasted its north-

i y/ x ern shores to its eastern cape, and

% stretched across the channel to a

great and mountainous island the

Psi a natives called Bohio, but now
Ea WS :

known as Hayti.

De Se These wanderings consumed SO
es much time, that Christmas week

still found him on the coast of
Hayti, And Christmas Eve brought him disaster. I am sorry to say that a boy
caused the trouble, though it was all through the fault of Columbus himself.
They were sailing over a calm sea, when the Admiral, feeling the need of sleep,
gave the helm to one of his captains. But as soon as Columbus had gone below,
the captain turned it over to a boy, and himself went to sleep. The flag-ship
drifted on a reef, and soon went to pieces; but an Indian chieftain sent men
out from shore and saved all the crew and the wreckage, and took the men to
his town. Columbus, finding the two little vessels left to him too small for all to
return in to Spain, left forty men with the Indians, built them a fort, and con-
tinued the homeward voyage. The wreck occurred on Christmas Eve, and he
called the fort erected La Navidad, or the Nativity. It was the first structure
known to have been erected by Europeans in the New World. -

Soon after the Admiral’s arrival at court, royal orders went forth for the
preparation of a fleet of seventeen vessels, to be well manned with most ex-
perienced seamen and pilots, and also to carry miners, carpenters, husbandmen
and mechanics.

Besides the crews and mechanics, great numbers of adventurers desired to
embark. These last included many hidalgos of high rank, lured by the stories
of gold and silver to be had for the seeking in that far-off land. They were
the most worthless of all recruits for colonizing. They were brave, but brutal
and unscrupulous. Many of them had fought in the Moorish wars; and, eager in
their schemes of plunder, they carried fire and the sword amongst a peaceful
people who had never lifted their hands against one another except in
self-defense.

        
 
   

 
      
PROMVCORDOVA sO'GA THA Y.

At last the fleet of carracks and caravels, seventeen sail in all, left the harbor
of Cadiz, on the twenty-fifth of September, 1493. On the third of November,
land was sighted in the Caribbees, or southern West Indies, but it was not till
the twenty-fifth of that month, after leisurely sailing through the golden chain
of islands, that Columbus arrived at the site of Fort Navidad. He found the
fortress destroyed and the garrison massacred, and whatever may have been his
original intentions as to fixing here the settlement he had been commissioned to
found in the New World, the circumstances attendant upon his return thither
prevented the consummation of such a scheme. The aspect of brightness
worn by the country less than a year ago was now changed to one of gloom.
Confidence in the Indians was impaired; suspicion and distrust had taken its
place. The occupants of the ves-
sels were anxious to disembark,
even suffering for a change of
environment; but no settlers could
be induced to fix their abode
here, with the fate of their pre-
decessors ever in mind.

So the fleet weighed anchor and
stood eastward. Fate, in the shape
of an adverse wind, threw in their
way what they had been so anx-
iously seeking —a secure harbor
with an advantageous site for settle-
ment. It was not far from a cape
seen and named by Columbus on = :
his previous voyage in January. FORT NAVIDAD (OR NATIVITY.)

Within a line of frothing coral Se ra rare Et ciate

reefs is a deep basin, spacious enough for many such ships as were those of
the Admiral’s day, while a great breastwork of coral rock, with a beautiful
beach on one side and a river on the other, gave promise of an excellent. site
for the city that was to be. The ships were brought within the line of
reefs, and the weary passengers, together with the live. stock and provi-
sions, were landed on a little beach. It was on the eleventh of December,
1492, that they arrived, and they went.to work with, such, diligence; that soon.
houses were built, and at least four stone buildings erected, the remains of
which have endured till the present time. Two months from the day of landing, a
church was dedicated, and the new city of “Isabella,” which Columbus had named
for his queen, presented a very creditable appearance. But it was not long
occupied. Because of the insalubrity of the climate and the recklessness of the
settlers, many deaths occurred, and in a few years it was abandoned. For
nearly four hundred years it has lain in desolation, no one living in it; and as

 
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

it lies out of the track of travel, its very site was forgotten, and re-discovered
only recently. It was, in fact, absolutely forgotten until the year 1891, when
the writer of this sketch searched it out.

The nearest port is Puerto Plata, about sixty miles away. At this place I
disembarked, one day in May, 1891. The entrance to the harbor is very nar-
row; but once-inside, the steamer finds secure anchorage near the base of the
Silver Mountain.

Two days after arriving at Puerto Plata, I found a small coasting vessel,
called a goleta, the captain of which promised to drop me at Isabella, as he passed
on his way to the logwood district. The American Consul secured for me
letters of introduction to residents in the country near, and the manager of an
estate situated near Isabella gave me orders on his mayor-domo for shelter and
assistance.

From Puerto Plata down the coast the scenery is extremely picturesque; near
Cape Isabella great gray cliffs of limestone stand boldly out, like battlements
of vast fortifications, with a sea of verdure behind and crescent-shaped beaches
of snow-white sand inter-
vening. The ancient city
itself was situated on a plain
which terminates in a bluff
of coral conglomerate,
twenty to thirty feet high,
facing the west and the
ocean. A line of foaming
breakers seems to forbid
approach, but beyond them
is a shallow harbor, off the
mouth of a river which is
known as the Bajo-Bonico.
The goleta was called the
“ Olivia,’ a pretty name

fee eae for a very filthy vessel;

(The Haytien River on which Isabella was founded). and she was manned by

four black men, the black-

est of whom was the captain. The heavy seas and the nauseous ship-odors
made me very ill, and I had to endure six hours of condensed misery before the
breakers off Isabella were weathered, and the little harbor gained. As we
anchored, half a mile from shore, the rain came down in torrents, and for an
hour we were huddled together in the sweltering hole they called the “ cabin.”
After a while the rain ceased, my effects were loaded into the small boat, and we
made for the river. We could see no entrance, but we finally ran the breakers,
and after bumping on the sands several times, were well inside. Then we found

 
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

ourselves in the dreariest river I had seen for many a month: a swift-flowing
stream of yellow water between banks of mangroves, and the only sign of life
some blue and white herons, plovers and black-neck stilts. Our boys pulled
hard against a four-mile current, and a half a mile up landed us opposite a col-
lection of small houses on a bluff. We were met at the landing by a young
man who had once lived in Florida; and though we were in a Spanish-speaking
country, all the men then
in our employ spoke English,
the sailors having come from
Grand Turk, in the Baha-
mas. The young man,
Washington Banks, had been
recommended by our consul,
so he was at once installed
as factotum and general
purveyor. He took us to
the house on the _ bank,
which we found a very com-
fortable dwelling; here he
swung our hammocks, and
we were well housed against .
the rain, which fell the THE BLUFF ON WHICH COLUMBUS ERECTED THE PILLAR,
whole night through. oy ennaes

At daybreak, next morning, the mocking-birds awoke us. Crawling out
from under our mosquiteros we shook the fleas from our blankets, and were
assailed by myriads of mosquitoes and sand-flies. At six o’clock or so, after the
morning coffee, Washington — or “ Wash,” as he was called — guided us along the
steep river bank and through a dense forest-growth in the direction of the lost
city. The morning was cool and fresh; the bushes were wet with the rain; the
trees were filled with birds: cooing doves, moaning pigeons, chattering parrots,
with now and then a darting humming-bird, crossing our path like a sunbeam.
Beyond the woods we passed through a mangrove swamp, with the river on one
side and steep coral rocks on the other; thence we reached a bluff headland,
covered with densest vegetation of cactus and almost impenetrable thickets of
spiney plants.

This bluff faces the west. It is composed of coral conglomerate, evidently
upheaved, containing branches and sections of coral, beautiful in shape and in-
finite in variety of form.

This is the plain upon which unvarying tradition, as well as ancient ruins
and environment, locate the city founded by Columbus and called by him
Isabella, after the queen of Spain. It is not large, containing perhaps two acres.
It slopes gradually upward toward steep and densely-wooded hills on either

 
PROM ICO RID O/aA Om GA eae.

side a half-submerged basin covered with mangroves. The soil, in no place
deep, becomes thinner and thinner toward the hills, where there is none at all
except in holes in the white coral rock; and yet, these rocks are covered with
a dense growth of such hard woods as lignum-vite, and such a mass of thorny
bushes and vines as to be well-nigh impenetrable. The bluff faces the ocean,
west; the forest-covered hills lie to the east, while north and south are the man-
grove swamps. The northern swamp is sometimes filled with water, and looks
like a lagoon; and when the water comes down from the hills, as it does in the
rainy season, through a picturesque caiiada, and as it did when Columbus landed
here, it must appear like the “lake ” that he called it.

It was around this lake that the first settlement was located. Directly in
front of it is a beautiful beach of yellow sand; here, without doubt, Columbus
landed, as a channel admitting small vessels through the reefs comes directly
up to the sands. This beach is two hundred and seventy-five feet in length,
with a coral bluff at either end, and a border of sea-grapes behind and between
it and the mangroves of the lagoon.

Here, four hundred years ago, the caravels ‘and carracks disembarked their
living freight of sea-worn sailors and Spanish cavaliers, the horses, the cattle and
the sheep. Here were accumulated the munitions of war, the provisions, plants,
articles for trade and barter, and the little beach was piled high with the freight-
age of the ships. Even to-day the sands sometimes disclose most interesting
relics of that far-away time when first the products of Europe were landed on
American soil. I have had in my hands a fragment of chain-armor and a stone
ball, which were found here, and I now possess pieces of the tiles that covered
the houses erected by the Spaniards and of the crucibles in which the first gold
was smelted.

The morning sun lay aslant the beautiful beach, and cool shadows lurked in
the hollows of the rocks, tempting us to strip and plunge into the limpid waves
that lazily lapped the sands. “ Wash” was dubious about this experiment, because
the water inside the reefs is sometimes alive with the big fish known as barra-
coutas, more dreaded by the natives than the sharks; but we paddled about in
great glee, and emerged refreshed and unharmed. After that, and during the
week that we were there, a bath on the beach in the cool of early morning was
our regular refresher. I used to take in a big stick with me, plant it firmly in
the sand beneath the water, and swim about where I could have it always within
reach. And so gentle was the movement of the water that the stick remained
‘standing there from day to day. It is said that Columbus used to bathe on this
very beach.

Overlooking the beach, at its southern point, once stood, according to tradi-
‘tion, and the evidence of the visitors of fifty years ago, a pillar of masonry, or
a monument, which formed a conspicuous landmark, visible some distance at
sea. Local tradition states that this pillar was destroyed fifteen years ago, and
FROM CORDOVA TO (CATHAY.

the marble tablet it bore carried away. It is supposed that it was erected by
Columbus, to indicate the site of the city to passing vessels; its destruction
is attributed to treasure-seekers, who blew up its foundations, hoping to find
that it covered hidden gold.

Fifty years ago, much of the original city was visible, and in the midst of
the forest the traveler saw all the remains of the structures erected by Colum-
bus: the pillars of the church; the remains of the king’s storehouse; a
part of the residence of Columbus; the small fortress, and a circular battle-
mented tower.

From the northern point of the bluff, where the pillar stood, following along
the shore, there is a semi-lunar-shaped heap of debris about a hundred feet long.
A little farther on, at about the center, is a quadrilateral depression in the soil,
where the church once stood, some traces of what may have been a fortified wall,

 

THE RUINS OF ISABELLA.

and scattered stones. At the southern bluff, overlooking the river, and perhaps
five hundred feet from the pillar-site, is the most conspicuous monton, or heap of
stones, mixed together with tiles. This is conjectured to have been the “king’s
house,” or the smelting works where the gold was assayed that the explorers
brought from the mountains. I found several hewn stones here, as well as
heaps of tiles, and what we think were the fragments of crucibles. This is the
most commanding point of the bluff, and it appears possible that the river,
though now some distance away, once laved the base of the cliff.

It did not take long to ascertain the little that remained of Isabella— a day
or two did that— but the remainder of a week was consumed in proving what
was not there. This is always the task of the explorer; to investigate, to
search out, not alone the actualities, but the fallacies and distorted statements.
What I refer to is this: there was a tradition current that the original church
FROM CORDOVA TO CATHAY.

built by Columbus, was not at the bluff, but deep in the forest. Furthermore, it
was said that it remained, even now, only partially in ruin, and retaining much
of its ornamentation. This, of course, fired my imagination and stimulated my
desire for research, and I at once made careful inquiry. “Wash” declared that
he himself had seen it ; but when I had dispatched him on an exploring expedi-
tion all by himself, he returned with the result that there was no result, though
he declared the ruins existed nine years ago, and that he believed they had been
removed bodily, possibly by the spirits, which, as everybody knew, haunted the
site of the dead city of Isabella. Then he bethought himself of a native who
had seen it within a year, while out in the woods hunting wild hogs. This man
was a mahogany-cutter, who was drifting some mahogany logs down the river,
and would not reach us until the next day. When he arrived, he was not very
prepossessing ; he was stark naked and was the color of the mahogany logs he
had brought along; for he had been two days wading and swimming the river,
pushing the logs ahead of him. He rolled the timbers upon the bank and left
them there, in just the place another lot had been left, and which were carried
out to sea and lost, the last
time the river came down.
This mahogany-cutter had
been working several days
to earn one dollar and
twenty-five cents which he
did not get after he had
earned it. He received only
an order on a merchant at
Puerto Plata for that amount
and for this he would have
to travel one hundred miles.
Even then, he would find
that one dollar and twenty-
ness five cents cash was another
UNDER THE SEA-GRAPES. term for “ goods,” to the

(With “ La Vieja” sitting in the foreground.) value of perhaps sixty cents.

It was hard for the poor fellow; but I had little sympathy for him, because
when asked what he would take to guide us to the ruins, he replied very
promptly “twenty-five dollars.” He claimed to possess an exclusive right on
the ruins, and meant to make me pay forit; but as I made a point of “no
ruins, no pay,” we did not conclude a negotiation.

It so happened that an old woman in the kitchen had overheard the man
describe the place to a friend, as he stepped in to light his pipe, and when he had
gone, she offered to guide us. So one morning we started out, or, at least, we
tried to start; for it always takes these people a long while to be “about to

 
EROMAEC OID OVA OMG ATE AY:

begin.” Arrived at last at the bluff, I separated my party, placing them within
hail of each other, and covering the entire plateau, as well as the hillside.

We worked carefully, traversing the woods in every direction, but without.
result. We crawled through thickets and briers, sweltering in the terrible heat,
pestered with mosquitoes and sand-flies, but meeting with no noxious insects.
The bushes were hung thick with spider-webs, occupied by bad-looking owners,
but we did not encounter,
fortunately, the very poison-
ous ground-spider, whose
sting is death, though it is
abundant there. After some
hours, we all met as by ap-
pointment at the cafiada,
at the head of the lagoon,
and after refreshing our-
selves started again, prob-
ing the woods in every
direction, but without any
reward. The old lady had
worked as hard as any of
the party, and seemed as [| ee Beatie eer kee ricageee ee
little fatigued. They called See ene een

her la Vieja or the old (This pile of stones is probably the remains of “the king’s house,” or gold
? smelting works.)

 

woman. When she saw
that we had exhausted our endeavors, she came to the rescue with a proposition
to invoke the powers that hide in darkness, with which she professed to be
familiar. In order to humor her, I assented, and she led us back to the fort at.
the bluff, and then to the well in the woods, where she halted at the foot of a
tree. Producing from her ragged garments a candle, made by her own hands from
the brown wax of native bees, she lighted it, and commanded us all to keep
silence. Then, carefully protecting the flame from the wind, she mumbled
something over it, watching anxiously the direction of the smoke, and finally
said, pointing east, “Go there; that way is the capilla.” So I started my men
off east, the Vieja with them, ranging toward the hillside. But they soon came
back, exhausted, every one, and cast themselves down upon the sands, beneath
the sea-grapes, where I was awaiting them. Za Vieja was not at all downcast.
at the failure of her incantation; indeed she was exceedingly “chipper,” and
walked home with us through the terrible heat, without showing the least.
fatigue. And so our hunt for the ruins ended.

Having investigated everything around and about the site of Isabella, after a.
week’s residence here I concluded it was time to go. But I was loath to leave
this pleasant place, and at night strolled up the hill, and into the woods, to a
AMT TABIEEE BONG S: ME OVE.

point that must have been a favorite outlook with the early settlers — those poor
unfortunates who perished here, so far from home and friends. Little wonder
that Columbus was execrated ; the wonder is, indeed, that he was not killed by
these dupes of his ambition. They died so rapidly that consternation seized the
settlers, and sickly Isabella was abandoned as soon as the interior was opened to
adventure.

And they were fine hidalgos, these victims of Isabella, whose ghosts yet
retain the traditions of departed greatness and high-bred courtesy; for it is said
they yet haunt these same woods, and linger in the ruins. They can be distin-
guished from ordinary and common ghosts by their invariable politeness to a
stranger, for some of them, it is declared, have been encountered here, and,
though wrapped in gloomy meditation, they courteously returned salutes,
which indicates innate refinement in ghosts that have been running wild in the
woods four hundred years.

I waited late, hoping to get a glimpse of one, and much regretted that there
was no moon, for a gentlemanly ghost is my admiration. But the sun descended,
the shadows darkened into shades, and the woods grew black, long before I left
them; and I cannot truly say that I saw an Isabella ghost. The night be-
fore our departure the horses were sent over by Don Ricardo; their fodder
of guinea-grass was piled before them and they themselves were tethered to the
fence, where they remained all night; and we took an early departure in the
morning.

Frederick A. Ober.

POM INE sO ers aLO ie.

ITH shouts of laughter
That followed after,
This forfeit made its stern behest:
“ Kneel to the prettiest,
Bow to the wittiest,
And kiss the one you love the best.”

“Come, choose her boldly,”
They cry, but coldly
He turns from all the maidens there,
To bow —and lingers
To kiss her fingers,
While kneeling at his mother’s chair.
Ruth Hail.
 

ai

THE SAVING OF KING INGE.

 
a hi a A

ts a \
a ad Nd s

 

Hie HpAtE Py Gs Eee ee ah @yMiee

Q" the happy little home when the sun shone out,
And the busy little mother got the children all about,

And Johnny fetched the water, and Tommy brought the wood,
And Billy Boy tied both his shoes, as every laddie should —

And Danny rocked the cradle with a clatter and a song,
To make the little sister grow so pretty and so strong.

Oh! the sweet-peas and the morning-glories climbing round the door,
And the tender vine of shadow with its length across the floor!

Oh! the “ pinies,” and the roses, and the quiver of the grass,
And the cheery call of friendship from the neighbors on the pass!

Oh! the scuffle, and the shouting, and the little mother’s laugh
As a rabbit starts up somewhere and her “ great helps”’ scamper off.

Oh! the happy little home when the twilight fell,
And all along the meadow rang the old cow bell,

With a tinkle that is music through the rushing of the years —
And I see the little mother in the tremble of the tears.
eae

THE HAPPY LIP TEE HOME.

And I hear her happy laughter as she cries, “The boys have come!”
And we know she’s getting supper in the happy little home.

Oh! the happy little home when the moon gleamed forth,
And Billy Boy would have it that it “rised in the North.”

Oh! the raptures and the whispers near the little mother’s chair,
And the white-robed figures flitting here and there and everywhere!

 

‘WE KNOW SHE’S GETTING SUPPER IN THE HAPPY LITTLE HOME.”’

Of years ago speaks Reason, and of far and far away ;
But we hearken not to Reason while sweet Fancy holds her sway.

There’s a silence where the moonlight falls through the open door,
And casts a gleam of glory on the clean-swept wooden floor.

And we’re just as near to Heaven as we mortals ever roam,
As we kneel and say our prayers in the happy little home.
Louise R. Baker.
AEE CAN DER Stem iiebs SORE |G Ness Sie

T was a very old collection in three battered leather volumes, with brown

print and yellowed pages, quaint spelling, obsolete words an s’s that

looked like f’s. On the fly-leaf read: “ Ancient Songs and Ballads. Printed
for J. Dodsley, in Pall Mall, London.”

Because Alexander’s mother had loved the old ballads, ever since she had
pored over them in her own childhood, and longed to have her little boy catch
something of the spirit with which they rang, she read from them every
night at his bedside. There was “King Hstmere” and “The Rising in the
North,” “ Fair Rosamond,” “Sir Aldingar” and “The Nut Brown Mayd,” and,
best of all, “ Chevy Chace.” Alexander never tired of “Chevy Chace,” till by,
and by he and his mother could repeat it in duet, the child’s eyes shining with
excitement, and his heart throbbing with regret that he could not be “ brave,
true and loyal” till he grew up.

His grandmother thought such reading was “ too old” for him, and sent him
books better suited toachild. Alexander could not understand them, but found
them useful in building moats and drawbridges for Ivanhoe and his compeers.

His pretty, gentle mother died, and it was soon after that the accident hap-
pened —a fall over the stairs. It was so slight as to have been forgotten but for
its consequences, months after —a limp that was chidden as a childish freak ; but
by and by Alexander said he “couldn’t help it,” and the doctor was called, who
looked grave and pronounced it hip-disease. For long months, a pale, helpless
cripple lay outstretched on his little bed. Then the doctor said there was a
chance —a very slight one, he would not encourage vain hopes — that an opera-
tion might result favorably ; he would recommend that the child be taken to
the hospital.

Alexander’s father, who was a captain in the navy, had been ordered to
China, and there was scarcely more than time for him to await the result of the
operation, and say good-by to his little son.

After his father’s footsteps had died away, Alexander lay very still, with a
bag of something that looked like marbles clasped with both hands to his breast.
In that attitude, with his shining brown hair, tipped with its baby gold, lying in
short curls in his neck, and with his large, questioning brown eyes, the child
looked, thought Sister Agatha, like the picture of the ill-fated little Dauphin.

“Do you want anything, dear?” she asked.

“Q, no, thank you,” returned Alexander, politely.

He had a deliberate fashion of saying (Ono) aoO> aveca dimen ply, to the
simplest question, as though he had given the matter all his distinguished con-
sideration, in due regard for the snteyeet displayed. And then, Alexander was

 
ALEXANDER THE LITTLE’S FOREIGN MISSION.

always dignified; even in the bath-tub, he had never splashed about like othe:
babies; one would as soon have thought of calling him by a pet name as of allud-
ing to his great namesake as “ Allie.” Hven Sister Agatha, who cuddled and
petted all her charges, felt vaguely that ordinary means of consolation were out.
of placé here ; so she said, with an involuntary respect in her tone :
“ What have you in the bag? Buttons!” as, for answer, the child unloosed
the string and poured out the contents.
Alexander looked as hurt as a tender-hearted little girl at hearing her child
referred to as a doll.
“They are soldiers,’ he explained. “I have played with them since —
since I have been ill;” the words were said hurriedly, as though he
steadfastly refused to recognize, or at least to
dwell upon, his condition.
“Papa’s friends gave me a
good many, and other people
sent me some. These came
from West Point, and are very
brave fighters. This” — dis-
playmg a shining button
stamped with an eagle — “is
General Custer. He laughed
as he fired his last shot. I
like to say that over to myself.
This is Chinese Gordon; it
was on his sleeve once; an
English friend of papa’s gave
it to me. All these” —a
quantity of white porcelain buttons
—‘“‘in their white uniforms, are
wi”  Mamelukes. This is Napoleon ” —
a little round pearl button with a
peaked top — “ it looks like him, you see.
This one, in the dull, battered uniform, is
“ug IsN’T A Boy,” siGHED sister AcaTHA; “ue’s Stonewall Jackson, when he rode into
eae a Fredericksburg ; it makes me quite sad
to look at him. Here is Major André. I always play he was shot, as he asked
to be, instead of hanged. This is Alexander the Great, the biggest, and bravest,
and best of them all; he has my name ” —it was characteristic that Alexander
regarded himself as the great Macedonian’s namesake. “And he always
marches at the head of the army because he always beat, and then longed for
new worlds to conquer; his gold uniform is set with garnets, you see. These
were given me by our fat cook’s daughter; she made trousers, and when she

 
   

 
ALEXANDER THE LITTLE’S FOREIGN MISSION.

had buttons left over, she saved them for me; the cook stepped on this one, so
I play he is lame and cannot fight; all he can do is to give a cup of cold water
to the wounded.”

“ He isn’t a boy,” sighed Sister Agatha to the house-mother ; “ he is an angel.”

And so, indeed, it seemed, as the days grew into weeks and even after a night
of sleepless pain, Alexander always uncomplainingly greeted Sister Agatha with
a smile, or was ready with his return salute to the doctor, when his transparent
little hand seemed too feeble to be raised. On his stronger days a light board
was placed on the bed, and, propped up on pillows, he was permitted to range his
army in battle array. The combats that took place on that counterpane should
have made it one of the memorable spots of earth. What did it matter that
Alexander displayed a disregard for historical facts, and jumbled ancient and
modern, sacred and profane personages, with innocent freedom from irreverence,
into an heroic medley that refused to recognize any incongruity. Alexander
was pitted against Napoleon at Bunker Hill; Washington and King David
fought side by side at Agincourt; Wellington was ignominiously beaten by
Custer at Marston Moor. Occasionally a “bang” full of melancholy enjoyment,
denoted the execution of Major André, or the funeral notes were heard piping,
in satisfied if subdued pleasure, over Sir John Moore’s midnight grave.

“Does it hurt, my boy ?” asked the doctor, as Alexander winced while the
splint was being set.

“A little,’ answered the child; “but I play it was a wound I received at
Flodden, and then it doesn’t hurt as much. Last night, when I lay awake and
was thirsty, I could not call Sister Agatha. So I made believe I was Sir Philip
Sidney, who had just given his drink of water to the dying soldier.”

One morning, Sister Agatha noticed Alexander’s lips silently moving.

“«« What is it, dear?” she questioned.

“JT was saying ‘Chevy Chace’ to myself,” he answered. “It is very com-
fortable to be able to say poetry to one’s self when one lies awake.”

Something of the old light and sparkle came into his eyes — it may be, too,
something of the old throb into his heart, yet with a difference — as he repeated
the stirring lines of the ballad, in their quaint rendering :

«« The Persé owt of Northumberlande
And a vowe to God mayd he
That he wolde hunte in the mountayns
Off Chyviat within days thre,

In the mauger of doughte Doglas
And all that ever with him be.’”

When he came to the words

“¢¢ TI] do the best that do I may x
While I have powre to stande!’ ”

then the light died out of his eyes, and Alexander was silent.
ALEXANDER THE LITTLE’S FOREIGN MISSION.

A long letter came from his father; he told how, with some of his officers,
he had gone on an expedition into the famine district. A wretched mother had
come to the party, offering her babe for sale; the few pence were given her.
The next morning, evidently according to contract, the baby was found at
the door of the Captain’s quarters; the mother was dead. The helpless in-
fant was taken to a mission near Canton, where
a few little girls were educated and trained in the
Christian religion by the missionary’s wife; they
were not taught English, unfortunate experience
having proved that a knowledge of our language
worked ill for the converts.

“Poor little girl!” murmured Alexander ;
“poor little Chinese baby! Only think of being
left all alone in a foreign land and not even al-
lowed to speak English ;” and for a long while after
reading the letter he lay silent and thoughtful.

By and by he said:

““T have been thinking, Sister Agatha, that I
snould like to help in the little Chinese baby’s
education. JI might send her my money.” He
had a pasteboard box that contained a five-dollar

“THE LITTLE CHINESE BABY.” gold piece, three Spanish silver dollars and the

savings of his pocket money. “ Papa tells about

the music he heard at the theater »— Alexander shuddered and put his hands

to his ears. “If the little Chinese baby is to be a Christian she will want to

sing hymns, and she could not sing hymns on the gong.” Alexander never, in

childish fashion, supplemented his remarks with an interrogative ; he had settled
the question for himself, beyond dispute.

“ Papa says the mission is poor, and I should like her to have an organ.”

He had become too weak to play with his soldiers, but every morning he
poured out the contents of the pasteboard box — lettered in crooked characters,
«Foreign Mission”” — to see how much interest had accumulated over night.

“I know some mothers who would not care to sell their children at any
price,” he said. “I shall never tell the little Chinese baby that her mother sold
her for twenty cents. It would hurt her feelings to know that she went so
cheap. I shall say it was three hundred cash.”

One day, after long thought, he said :

‘“‘T have decided that it would be a good plan for me to learn Chinese ; it will
be lonesome for the little Chinese baby to have no one to speak to but laundry-
men. Do you speak Chinese, Sister Agatha?”

“Not —not fluently,” answered the gentle Sister, loath to disappoint the
child.

 
ALEXANDER THE LITTLE’S FOREIGN MISSION,

“T might take lessons of the laundryman at the corner, only I am afraid he
is not a very cultivated gentleman,” pursued Alexander, “ and it would be mor-
tifying to make mistakes. I will ask my father about it.”

The eagerly expected letter came at last.

“He says one could not learn the language without a professor,” sighed
Alexander, “because the tone of voice in which a word is spoken helps to de-
termine its meaning. In Canton there are eight tones; one of them is given
with the rising inflection, as when we express surprise, and as I have never been
known to express
surprise at anything
since I came into the
world, he is afraid
the Chinese  lan-
guage presents an
in-sur-mount-able
difficulty. But he
has sent me a hymn
that I can sing with
the little Chinese
baby.”

Patiently. com-
mitting it to mem-
ory, he would lie
softly crooning it to
himself :

‘‘Marn siree ling porn boy
gor hoy

Goa goen tong shun ye key
goy

Bo hoort gep sull hip ben
lao

Yoy gon sook doll marn
ten tay

Thuy goa doll oll men goa
ying

Sun kee get see do but fut. ”

“T suppose it’s
wicked to think
‘The Rock of Ages’
isn’t as interesting
as ‘ Chevy Chace,’ ”
sighed Alexander.

The operation had been successful in its immediate results, but the child’s
strength seemed exhausted, and he was apparently fading, daily. Fresh air and

 

“ AROUND THE CORNER RUSHED A HORDE OF SMALL BOYS.’’
ULIBARAAUISUDIBIRS VTIGUR JOU ICTUEIS SS IROIREMCINE UAE SHOWN

sunshine might prove the best restoratives. He had drawn the bag of buttons
from beneath his pillow.

“T used to think that when I grew up, I would be a soldier,” he said; “ but
a soldier must be straight and tall and strong, and perhaps they would not mind
a lame missionary. I should find my knowledge of Chinese useful. Yes,” con-
tinued Alexander, with his seraphic smile, “I should like to be a missionary —
and get killed, only that would be hard on my family and friends. I shall never
play with these again, and so, as the Chinese are fond of buttons, will you please
send them to the little Chinese baby? Papa says the highest honor the Em-
peror can bestow is a Crystal Button, and she may like to wear some of them
when she goes to a party. Tell her to be good to the poor lame one, for he be-
longs to the army just the same, and can keep step with the music, even if he
has to lag behind the rest, instead of marching at the head, a shining splendid
Alexander!”

“ He isn’t a boy,” sobbed Sister Agatha; “he is an angel.”

It was some time before Sister Agatha was able to leave her hospital duties to
visit Alexander. He was in the garden, the maid said.

There sounded a tremendous clash and din and clatter; a hideous discord of
drums and gongs and bells; acrash of tin pans struck together; a crackling
symphony of shrill horns and pipes, and around the corner rushed a horde of
small boys in hot pursuit of a racing, galloping dog, who was evidently enjoy-
ing the sport as much as any of them.

The leader had cast himself upon Sister Agatha, and flung his arms around
her neck.

«« Alexander — can it be Alexander?” exclaimed Sister Agatha, bewildered,
for this sturdy boy’s hair was close cropped, and his face was streaked with red
and yellow and green‘paint. “ What are you doing, dear?”

“Playing heathen. You see,” explained Alexander, “all the fellows want
to be heathens, and so we have to play that Bruno is the missionary. The
Chinese music is such fun.”

“ But— but the money for the Foreign Mission ?”’

“T’ve bought a bicycle.”

“ But, Alexander,’ said Sister Agatha, with gentle reproach, “ what will be-
come of the poor little Chinese baby ?”

“Oh! if anything should happen,” returned Alexander, his seraphic smile
losing itself in a vermilion tattoo on either cheek, “there are lots of babies
in China, you know.”

“‘He isn’t an angel,” sighed Sister Agatha; “he is a boy.”
Edith Robinson.
 

OPENING THE FISHING SEASON.

 

Wiehe WCAG AN IE GME RIB IR

66 ND pray, who are you?”
Said the violet blue s
To the Bee, with surprise
At his wonderful size,
In her eye-glass of dew.

“JT, madam,” quoth he,
“ Am a publican Bee,
Collecting the tax
On honey and wax.
Have you nothing for me?”
John B. Tabb.
sa

>=

\\

=~

GEE

Ze

ie

 

 

 

FROM BLOSSOM TO SEED.
THE RAG MARKET Al BRUGES.

O* a fair July morning, four very cheerful pilgrims

sallied forth from the Hotel der Commerce, at
Bruges, to explore the wonders of the “ quaint old
Flemish City.”

Pretty, fat Madame Van der Berghe, nicest and
kindest of landladies, smiled at us from the door of
; her little office among her vines and canary

~ S birds. Monsieur, her husband, bowed to us
from the door of his little salon among his
Delft plates, jars and bowls. Charles, the
fuzzy-haired waiter, watched our start
with acourtly greeting from the dining-
room — his white napkin tucked under
hisarm. Marie, the chamber-maid, and
even the stolid ‘“ Boots,” had a pleasant
word for us as we went through the
courtyard, for they were all old friends. And if you had searched Belgium
over you could not have found a cheerier quartet than were we, or four people
more bent on having a good time.

Would you like to make our acquaintance? First, there was H., commonly
known as “Mrs. Jack’? —a dainty person who always contrived to look neat,
and fresh, and cool at the end of the longest and dustiest journey. She was-our
only matron, and pretended it was her business to keep us all in great order —
though she was by no means the eldest of the party, nor the tallest either — and
occasionally I must confess poor “ Mrs. Jack” got most unmercifully teased by
her rebellious seniors. Next comes G., who was never
addressed by any other name than “ Her-
cules.” She, as you may guess, was
the tallest and strongest, and had
an unpleasant habit of going ont 1 f soe
at five A.M. every day, and walk- i le eS
ing for miles all over the country C
and town, appearing at our Mh inv SF i
bedsides at half-past seven Fas ne a svn cite
to tell us how much we had ou Ne eee
missed by our laziness, and hurry-
ing us to get into our baths as she
was so hungry and wanted her breakfast. Hercules was never tired and never
cross. She always seized upon everybody’s traveling bags in addition to her

\
\

 
 
 
 
 
  

“WAVE YOU ANY OLD LACE?”

  
 
  

od

IN THE FLOWER MARKET,
PHENRAGEMARKED VAT BRUGES.

own, and shamed us lazy ones by her strength and activity. But we had one
advantage over her. Between us, we had done a fair amount of wandering.
Norway and Greece, China and the West Indies, Hungary and California, Spain
and Egypt, Ceylon and the Rocky Mountains, Mexico and Italy had all seen one
or the other of us at various times. Hercules alone had never been abroad
before, and could not (or would not)
speak French. So, whatever she
wanted, she had to come for to one

of uc How we used to crow
over her!

M. —“ the Interpreter” —
was the third of the pilgrims.
Hercules gave her the name
one evening at Antwerp,
when they went off together
to the Zodlogical gardens.
All the wild beasts were shut
up for the night ; but M. in-
terpreted G.’s petitions to
the keepers with such suc-
cess that doors were un-
barred by good-natured
attendants, and these two
giddy young people were locked
into the Lion House for twenty x
delightful minutes, which the Masry
spent in peering through the : fee (ee
gloom at sleepy lions and tigers, rous- \ NS AS
ing boa-constrictors from their diges- bs =
tive snooze after a supper of rabbits, eeu OT
and making faces at the leopards till
those ugly beasts snarled at them. The Interpreter was the baby of the party ;
much given to traveling; very enthusiastic about all she saw, heard, did and
thought; always on the lookout to do something for other people, and the
victim who was teased by everybody in town, because she looked so pretty
when she was enraged.

Number four — usually called “ La Capable ” —was a hardened old traveler,
whose chief use was to act as courier to the party, order rooms and encounter
officials. She made copious notes in certain brown notebooks which were a
source of great anxiety to the rest of the quartet, as they were sometimes left
behind in shops, and recaptured with infinite difficulty. She also enjoyed her
self hugely, as her friends had a way of spoiling her outrageously.

 
 
 
      
 
THE RAG MARKET AT BRUGES.

Such were the four precious souls, who, like John Gilpin of famous memory,
were

: 5 , “all agog
To dash through thick and thin.”

They had arrived in Bruges the night before ; and the first object of their
pilgrimage was not the Cathedral, not the Belfry which Longfellow has im-
mortalized, with its “ beautiful wild chimes,” not the wondrous pictures by old
Hans Memling that glow like jewels in the ancient Hospital of St. John. No;
none of the famous sights of that quaintest of all quaint Flemish cities, but —
The Rag Market, or Market of Rags.

Laugh if you will. It was the truth. In order to arrive in Bruges for the
Saturday Marché aux Chiffons, the pilgrims had sacrificed pictures, churches,
palaces, anything and everything that might have kept them one night longer
on the road. Their whole expedition had been
carefully planned with this one object in view.

And why?

An English friend, who knew Bruges well, had

told Capable that once upon a time she
found an aune (rather less than a yard) of
priceless Valenciennes lace over a hundred
years old in the Marché aux Chiffons, for
which she paid four francs. And as al
four of the pilgrims loved old lace as
they loved their nearest and dearest
friends, they vowed a vow that they too
would try their luck among the Saturday
rags. Soitwas to the Rag Market that
they were hurrying in old Bruges on

that sunny July Saturday.

Their way led them through
oh s EEN crooked streets of fantastic houses,
y Errs ney Mews = piled wp with red roofs, and saw-
edged gables, and carved fronts,
painted pale-pink or blue or yellow,
as the fancy took their owner; or built of warm old red brick, with many a
graceful molding running up over the windows and doors, and old inscriptions
telling that this house was built in 1702, that one in 1630, that other in 1589.
Then the street opened into the Grande Place—the great Market Square —
with the huge Belfry towering up on the southern side, and casting a black
shadow across the gay booths that covered the wide paved expanse.

For six days out of the seven Bruges is like a city of the dead. You hardly

 
 
 
 
 
 
  

IN THE FRUIT MARKET.
THE RAG MARKET AT BRUGES.

see a human being in its grass-grown silent streets. But on Saturday all is
changed. The pavements are crowded with jostling busy people from the coun-
try : men in blue blouses and little black silk caps, or in black broadcloth and
gorgeous colored waistcoats; women in dark blue or green gowns with little
bright colored shawls crossed on their shoulders over a white lace or muslin ker-
chief, and wonderful caps with long lace
lappet-ears, and coal-scuttle shaped bonnets
of yellow straw with a lace flap behind, and
long gold earrings, and gold crosses round
their necks, sometimes set with tiny diamonds
or sparkling crystals, and over all an enor-
mous black cloak — such a cloak — that falls
into great sumptuous folds, and is big enough
to cover three people at once. Every corner,
every little square, is turned into a market
for something. There is the egg market
and the fowl market, the potato market
and the fish market, the fruit market, in-
numerable meat markets, the “ great
market,” where everything from cakes

to umbrellas is sold—and last of all,
the Rag Market.

 

The pilgrims were sorely tempted to SSeS Ui
stop in the great market, and poke about
among the booths on the Grande Place. “(A STILL, BROWN CANAL.”

But terror lest some enterprising foreigner
should be before them in the Marché aux Chiffons gave the four friends
strength of mind to tear themselves away from the gay stalls, and on they
hurried — through more queer old streets— under the great Church of Notre
Dame, until they found themselves on a quay beside a still, brown canal.
Along the quay —it is called the Dyver—ran a double row of lime-trees.
Under these was a row of booths filled with new goods. And between the
booths and the water, hung on strings stretched between the trees, heaped on
the ground upon bits of carpet, piled in boxes and baskets, and in carts drawn
by patient dogs, were rags —rags— rags. Yes; real rags, and rubbish of all
sorts and kinds — odds and ends such as the pilgrims had never seen before.
Bright flame-colored wools in big hanks, with shawls and handkerchiefs, and
woollen and cotton goods, piles of boots, white caps dangling and swaying
in the air, pinned up by their long lace strings, black cloaks, gold and silver:
crosses and earrings, purple umbrellas — these were all sold in the booths. Soaps,
and combs, and boxes of ointment were displayed on little stands. Colored
stuffs, brown and pink stockings, yards upon yards of common new lace, hung
THE RAG MARKET AT BRUGES.

upon the strings between the trees, with old coats and dresses. And on. the
ground, each upon her square of carpet, stood or sat the rag sellers.

There were old brass candlesticks, and coffee pots, and great bowls, and
kettles, and dogs for the fireplace ; heaps of wooden sabots, old iron, horse col-
Jars, crimson long-sleeved waistcoats, such as the peasants wear; blue cotton
pinafores for children, odds and ends of ribbon and silk and stuff, old caps and
hats, old china, old books — every kind of rubbish, useful and useless, mixed up to-
gether in the wildest confusion. All round there was a clatter of wooden shoes,
and a chatter of harsh Flemish voices. In the center of a dense group, a man
was shouting something with all the force of his lungs. The pilgrims caught
the words “ een penne” over and over again, and discovered that he was trying

   

—— Dy <VO
F ROBSYS oy
TAN IS abt,

~ XS
Se
me Aly

ee

  

 
 

   

“ CANDLESTICKS AND COFFEE POTS, BOWLS AND KETTLES.”?

‘to persuade the passers-by to invest in his miraculous stove blacking, which was
the finest and cheapest ever invented. The sun flashed through the leaves of
the lime-trees, and danced in flecks of golden light on the queer goods and their
queerly dressed venders. Birds sang overhead, and in the high-walled convent
garden across the canal. Anda brood of ducklings followed their plump fussy
mother in her wanderings on the water among great white water-lilies, that
opened their golden eyes under the shadows of houses three hundred years old.

The pilgrims stood watching the picturesque scene; the blue-and-red-coated
soldiers, the black-cloaked peasant women and black-veiled nuns, the red-
faced farmers, the milk women with their little carts full of brass milk cans and
drawn each by a wise big dog, the seller of bright-colored knitted goods which
THE RAG MARKET AT BRUGES.

were carried in a pack on her back, a priest hurrying by in floating black robes,
a fresh-faced English girl on her way to the fish market with her father. But
they did not watch there long. Suppose that English maiden, in her shady hat
and freshly washed cotton dress, had a liking for old lace? Suppose that she
should poke into some of those boxes and baskets before the pilgrims could over-
haul them? There was not a
moment to be lost. They
plunged in among the rags.

Pah! how they smelled!
Horrible visions of smallpox
and scarlet fever floated through
the pilgrims’ brains. Hercules
produced a little box of camphor
which she would have glued to
the tip of her nose, had that
been possible. Mrs. Jack snuffed
at her salts bottle. La Capable
picked up her petticoats with
one hand, and with the other
covered nose and mouth with
her handkerchief. The Inter-
preter alone was unmoved by
risk of infection or by evil smells. Gr anes “The Mather
She recklessly threw herself into i Braet
the forefront of the battle, un- “ AMONG THE GREAT WHITE WATER LILIES.”
daunted by danger or difficulty.

One of the most serious difficulties the pilgrims had to encounter was
caused by the well-beloved Hercules herself. As Hercules had not much expe-
rience of foreign countries, she had never gone through the miseries and joys of
bargaining. Marchander was. a new word in her vocabulary, and she was in-
clined to think her companions monsters of meanness when they positively
refused to give three times as much as an article was worth. On the way to
the Marché aux Chiffons the other pilgrims had been obliged to talk seriously
to Hercules, and entreat her not to ruin their bargains by a smiling assent to
pay four francs where they would give one and a half. She promised to mend
her ways. But promises are often broken.

The Interpreter and Capable, who had been in Bruges before, knew two sen-
tences of Flemish, which were aired on every possible occasion. “ How much
does it cost?” and “Too dear.” Armed with this magnificent stock of Flemish
the pilgrims felt themselves equal to any amount of bargaining. It is, however,
but fair to confess that they only understood a tenth part of the answers that
were made them.

  
THE VCAG @MARISE TT VAT BRUGES.

At first, the friends saw nothing in the heaps about them but new imitation
lace of the commonest description. But a kind of groan of ecstacy from the
Interpreter caused them to change their minds. She was stooping — almost on
her knees — before a hideous old Flemish woman, who sat knitting among her
rags under a tree. In a broken bandbox at the old dame’s feet was a mass of
dingy yellowish scraps.

Yes; it was lace— real lace — yellow with age, black with dirt; probably,
as Hercules kindly suggested, reeking with infection. But never mind. Ina
moment the contents of the box were scattered over the carpet before the old
woman, who knitted on with an unmoved face. There were treasures in it.
Bits of Valenciennes edging, cuffs and collars of old Bruges-point, long strips
of coarse point off altar cloths and church hangings, Antwerp lace caps, such
as the women wore fifty years ago, and a deep collar of old Brussels-point.
Then Capable lifted her eyes, and on the string behind the old woman, among a
lot of rubbish, hung two or three veils or fichus of some fine unknown lace,
delicate and filmy.

The pilgrims were half-crazy with delight. But they had the presence of
mind to conceal their feelings, and asked with contemptuous gestures, “ Oie vele?”
as they picked out one morsel after another. What-
ever price the old woman named, they invariably
answered back with their second Flemish sentence,
“ Te deere;” all except Hercules, who, in spite of
her promise, could not resist remarking with a face
of rapture, “Oh! how cheap.” If they had been
left to their own devices, it is impossible to say how
their bargains would have ended, as the. old dame
could not speak a word of French, and was supremely
indifferent as to whether she sold
her lace or no. But in less time
than it takes to tell, a dense crowd
of good-natured, uncouth peasants
had gathered about the pilgrims,
roaring with laughter at this fresh
proof of the popular belief that all
English people are crazy, and offer-
ing advice to both buyers and sellers

kyon every deal. One woman at last
constituted herself interpre- Tes ter; and by her means each of the
quartet found themselves at ' the end of half an hour in possession
of a little bundle of unsavory scraps, for a very trifling cost. Mrs. Jack was the
proud possessor of the Brussels-point collar, for which she paid eight francs.
Capable succeeded in buying the two lace veils, and some scraps thrown in, for

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

“TE DEERE.”
THE RAG MARKET AT BRUGES.

eight francs; but as she had some of the same kind at home, she passed them vit
to Mrs. Jack and the Interpreter without “ extra charge.” When they showed
them toa lace connoisseur in London, they were offered two pounds for each.

But lace rags were not the only treasures

these fortunate pilgrims found in the Marché
aux Chiffons. Hercules busied herself among
_the old brass and iron, and soon ferreted out
some ornamental brass corners — evidently off
an ancient bureau or cupboard—which she
secured for afew sous. She took them home ~
to her sister in England, who is an accomplished dh. »
carpenter; and they now adorn the door of an m\ AS EN iD
old oak eight-day clock. Besides iron and brass, SaaS
there was a bit of china here and there. Most THE GREAT BASKET.
of the best china is bought up by the dealers, so
that the greater part of the pots and plates displayed in the Rag Market were
either worthless, or badly broken. But one woman had some charming speci-
x mens of old Delft —fat pots with blue tulips,
mi, and houses, and curly patterns all over them.
Sy Mrs. Jack and the Interpreter indulged in some
1! a gorgeous jars. Capable secured a lovely little
pts vase, which Monsieur Van der Berghe told her
was exceedingly good—not of the earliest
oes period of Delft, which is the most valuable, but
& a of the second, which is also highly prized.
rae “S_7 » When it is filled with red and yellow roses it
Le ‘ Set en ~ makes a perfect picture. Then there were little
ot Ff ; :
: blue Nankin cups in one corner ranged
along the pavement, and eight of these
and some old brass snuffers were pur-
chased for three francs.

The pilgrims had bought as much as
they could carry, and at last made
up their minds to leave the delights
of the Marché aux Chiffons till an-
other year, fervently hoping that
they were not carrying off any fear-
ful disease as well as their treasures.
“LACE RAGS WERE NOT THE ONLY TREASURES.” Now that business was over, the

four friends felt themselves at
liberty to go into the great market, past which they had hurried in the early
morning. The crowd under the shadow of the Belfry was even denser than it

  
  

  

 

 

 
THE RAG MARKET AT BRUGES.

had been on the Dyver. The Grande Place was as gay as a fair. The umbrella
merchant shouted out the excellence of his wares from a tent made of one vast.
red-cotton umbrella. The stalls of woollen goods were gorgeous with piles of
deep orange-colored blankets,
among the sober brown cloths and
flame-colored flannels from Ver-
viers. One street of booths was
devoted to tinware ; tin boxes, tin
pails — blue, red, yellow and green
—which the Flemish people use
instead of baskets. Cradles on
high, carved rockers stood beside
mountains of wooden sabots. Bas-
kets and gingerbread, cat skins
and lamb skins, brooms with red
handles, poppy heads “ pour faire
THE MUSSEL SELLERS. . endormir les bébés,” white caps, pink
and gray yarn, boots, gay-colored
handkerchiefs, were stacked and hung in the stalls. And pipkins, pots and pans
of every shade of yellow, orange, green and purple, and of every possible shape
and size, from huge jars that looked as if the Forty Thieves might have
hidden in them, down to tiny green and yellow toy jugs, were heaped on the
ground.

Capable sat down in front of a mercer’s stall, and, pulling out her sketch-
book, began to draw an old
country-woman who was en-
chanted at the compliment, and
instantly threw herself into half
a dozen becoming attitudes. She
really was a splendid old dame
—very fat, with a dark dress,
blue apron, green body, a black-
and-red cotton handkerchief
crossed over her shoulders, a fine
lace collar, lace cap with long
lappet-ears bound on her head
with a black ribbon, enormous gold earrings and cross, and a capacious basket
full of chickens and eggs on each arm. In a minute a crowd began to gather
—such a crowd—men, women and children, who roared with laughter, and
expressed intense delight at what they considered the truly remarkable likeness
Capable had produced of the “oude mudder.” But even a hardened traveler
like Capable cannot get over a certain dislike to a crowd shouting and laughing

 

 

‘¢ PIPKINS, POTS AND PANS,”
A GERMAN LESSON.

in an unknown tongue, and pressing closely about her on a very hot day. So,
after showing the grinning old lady the frightful scrawl that was supposed to be
so like her, Capable— and Hercules, who had tried to protect her— ran away
laughing and defeated, determined never to try to sketch again on market days.

It was one o’clock. The pilgrims were ravenously hungry. Their joy at
their successful bargains, therefore, hardly exceeded their delight at the sight of

 

“RUGS AND RAGS AND A PRIEST IN SABOTS.”?

delicious chicken and beefsteak, sweet white bread and golden butter at the
little Hotel St. Amand, which was their daily rendezvous for luncheon.

And you, kind readers, will, I am sure, be glad to know that their pilgrimage
to the Marche aux Chiffons was entirely successful; as they happily caught
neither smallpox nor scarlet fever from their precious rags.

Rose G. Kingsley.

 

AGE RIMWAN IESE SSi@iN:

HE teacher frowns, and his brow he knits,
As he cries to the mischievous, laughing Fritz,
‘Lass deinen Mund verschlossen sein,
So schliickst du keine Fliegen ein.”
Mrs. J. T. Greenleaf.
 

BUILDING ON THE RUINS.
 
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2 ‘Thought his Sossip- ee fu
a He told an odd story —

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With » smiles ¢ that were cheerful and su

ere even ea hey were de
a ee io of a ,