The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Pansy Magazine, August 1886, by Various

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Title: The Pansy Magazine, August 1886

Author: Various

Editor: Pansy (Mrs. G. R. (Isabella) Alden)

Release Date: January 1, 2015 [EBook #47834]

Language: English

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    $1.00 a Year.      AUGUST 1886.      10 cts. a No.

    THE
    PANSY

    EDITED
    BY “PANSY”
    MRS. G. R. ALDEN.

    D. LOTHROP & CO.
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Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO., and entered at the Boston P. O.
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    _Volume 13, Number 40._      Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
                     _August 7, 1886._

THE PANSY.


[Illustration: “AUNT MARY SHOWED ME HOW TO FEED IT.”]


MORE ABOUT THE “INDUSTRY BAND.”

IT was with a sad look upon her wrinkled old face and a heavy weight
tugging at her heart, that Grandma Frink unlocked the door of her
little cottage one September morning. There came over her the feeling
that perhaps she would not go in and out that door many more times.
She had heard bad news that morning; the basket of clothes which she
brought from the Kingsleys was the last she would have to “do up” for
them. They had been her best customers, and now they were all going
to Europe for two years at least. Two other families for whom she had
worked had already gone away, and with the winter approaching what was
the poor lone woman to do! The little cottage was her own; it had been
free from debt until two years before the expenses of her husband’s
long illness had used up their little savings; and when at length
he died, the poor woman was obliged to mortgage her home to pay the
doctor’s bill and funeral expenses. Thus far she had been able to keep
up the interest, but now work had grown scarce, and pay-day was near
at hand, but she had not a cent with which to meet it! Many tears fell
into the suds that day, and more fell upon the dainty ruffles which she
fluted for the last time. It was while she was putting the finishing
touches to Minnie Kingsley’s ruffled and tucked and lace-trimmed dress,
that Satie Howe came in, and seeing the tears soon had the whole sad
story. And that was the way the “Industry Band” got hold of Grandma
Frink’s trouble. With the same energy with which they set about buying
a cow for Mrs. Peters, two years before, they now set about lifting
another burden from off shoulders too weak to bear it.

“You see,” said Satie, telling it to the band, “her heart was just
_full_ yesterday, and she told it all out to me. I do not believe
anyone would have got it out of her at any other time. It seems that
she has a small annuity, which, with the work she can do, makes her
very comfortable; but this interest money comes hard, especially as she
has less work this summer than usual. Now I thought that if we could
pay the interest, perhaps she would get on, and another year she may
get more work.”

“That would be a good thing to do,” said Lou Brandt, “but it would be
better if we could pay the mortgage, then there would be no interest.”

“Pay the mortgage!” exclaimed two or three at once in tones which
indicated that they thought Lou had taken leave of her wits.

“Why not? It is only seventy-five dollars, and it is a great pity if
twenty-five boys and girls cannot raise that amount! Satie told me
about the trouble, last night, and when father came home I asked him
about it and he said that the interest would not help matters, for the
mortgage will be due this fall, and Major Grimes means to foreclose if
it is not paid up. Granny has lived in that little house forty years;
if she were turned out now, she would not know what to do. She has not
a relative in the world.”

“Let’s do it! We can get the money, somehow, I know!” said one of the
boys. “I suppose Major Grimes thinks he will get the cottage into his
own hands, for little or nothing, but we will show him the _Industry
Band_ mean business!”

“If we cannot raise the money in two months I am sure we can find
somebody who will advance it and hold the mortgage as security until we
can pay it,” said Lou.

“O Lou! what a business head you have on your shoulders!” said John
Baker.

“Well, let’s proceed directly to business, and see if there are not
others with equally good heads. We will meet Thursday afternoon at four
o’clock and bring in our pledges. We can each think it over between now
and then and decide how much we can give right out of our own pocket
money.”

To this plan all agreed; then they separated.

Annie Williams was the youngest member of the band. She had not much
money of her own, and this plan which Lou proposed, presented serious
difficulties to the child. Just a few days before, she had spent her
last penny, and she did not know how she was to get any money to give
toward this fund. That night she added to her evening prayer this
petition: “Dear Jesus, if thou would’st have me do something to help
poor Mrs. Frink out of her trouble, wilt thou show me the way? If I can
earn any money, please tell me where the work is for me to do.” Then
she went to bed, content to leave it all with Jesus.

When they met according to appointment on Thursday afternoon, Lou who
was treasurer of the band was ready with book and pencil to put down
the names and pledges. Tom Mason was there, money in hand. “I can give
three dollars; I sold some ducks yesterday, and father gave me a dollar
for doing the meanest job on the farm.”

“What is that?” asked one of the boys.

“As if you didn’t know that there is nothing a boy hates like picking
up stones all day!”

Another could give a dollar and fifty cents, another, two dollars;
and the girls, when were they ever behind in giving? Laura Kline had
concluded to wear her last year’s hat, and give what a new one would
cost. Nell Blake had agreed to wash the breakfast dishes for a month,
so that her mother could do more of the family sewing, and the money
saved was to be hers, to give to the fund. Lou Brandt said, “Well, I
think I have taken the hardest job of you all; I have agreed not to use
a single slang phrase for a whole year, and I am to have five dollars
a month! I will give the money for the first two months towards paying
off the mortgage, and if we do not raise it all in that time perhaps I
will give another month’s pay.”

“But suppose you fail?” said Satie Howe. “I think you will have to give
security.”

“Agreed!” said Lou laughingly, and as she spoke she took off her heavy
gold bracelets which had been her last birthday present, and laid them
beside Tom’s three dollars. They all laughed and Satie said, “Well,
Lou, I guess we can trust you to redeem those!”

When Annie Williams’ name was called she said, “I do not know how much
I can give. I am sure to have something, but I have not found out yet
how much He wants me to give.”

“Who wants you to give?” asked Lou.

“Why, Jesus; I asked him, but he has not told me yet.” The girls were
hushed and awed; how many of them had thought to ask Jesus about it!
Lou laid down her pencil and her voice trembled with emotion as she
said,

“Girls, boys, we have made a mistake! We have begun wrong! Let us pray
about this too!” Dropping upon her knees, while the others followed her
example, Lou’s voice led them in a prayer for God’s direction in this
matter which they had been considering, and for his blessing upon all
their efforts as well.

“That was what they call ‘a new departure,’” said Tom Mason. Another
boy remarked,

“It is queer that with so many of us belonging to the church, we should
have band meetings without an opening and closing prayer! but that
little mouse stirred us up, so that I reckon we shall do better after
this.”

Annie Williams came to the next meeting with a bright face; when her
name was called she walked over to the treasurer and laid down a bit of
paper which read after the usual form of bank checks: “Pay to the order
of Annie Williams five dollars;” and was signed “John Williams.”

“Papa showed me how to write on the back—‘endorse it,’ he called it,”
and turning the paper over she brought to view, “Pay to the order of
Louise Brandt. Annie Williams.” And she added, “Papa said if you took
that to any bank they would give you the money, only you would have to
put your name under mine.”

“What business women we are getting to be!” said Tom Mason.

“Do you want to hear about it?” asked Annie when the laugh at Tom’s
remark subsided.

“Of course we do!” said Lou.

“You know I staid a long time out at uncle John’s last spring; one day
uncle brought in a little lamb and said ‘See here, Annie, if you will
save this lamb’s life you may have it. The poor thing’s mother will not
own it, and unless you feed it it will die.’ Aunt Mary showed me how
to feed it, and it grew; and before I came away it was a big lamb. I
used to feed it with a spoon out of a bowl, and I grew real fond of it.
The other day uncle John wrote to me that he was going to sell all his
flock, and that he was sorry, but he thought he must sell my lamb too.
He is going to Florida next winter, and there would be no one at the
farm who could take care of it, so he sent me five dollars! You can’t
think how glad I was; I knew right away that Jesus had answered my
prayer.”

I cannot describe all the ways by which the money came in, but you will
not be surprised when I tell you that when the money on the mortgage
came due, the “Industry Band” were ready to become the purchasers,
and that Grandma Frink was made the happiest woman in the village of
Danvers.

                                           FAYE HUNTINGTON.


SIX O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING.

    HOSANNA: BLESSED IS THE KING OF ISRAEL THAT COMETH IN THE
    NAME OF THE LORD.

    AND I, IF I BE LIFTED UP FROM THE EARTH, WILL DRAW ALL MEN
    UNTO ME.

    IF YE KNOW THESE THINGS, HAPPY ARE YE IF YE DO THEM.

    WHEREFORE LET HIM THAT THINKETH HE STANDETH, TAKE HEED LEST
    HE FALL.

    LET NOT YOUR HEART BE TROUBLED; YE BELIEVE IN GOD, BELIEVE
    ALSO IN ME.

“HERE is another chance to fit my story to two of your verses,” said
Grandma, and all the young Burtons looked glad.

“It was the summer I was twelve,” said Grandma, “and I spent it at
Grandfather Holland’s. He was a minister, you know. We used to have
very pleasant Sunday evenings, talking over the sermon, and reciting
the catechism; there wasn’t any Sunday-school in those days; not in our
part of the country.

“One night we had the story of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet.
Cousin Mercy said she didn’t see how he _could_ do it; to think of his
washing Judas’ feet, too! She thought it was wonderful!

“I said it was wonderful, but I could see how he could do it, and in a
sense like to do it; that it showed how truly noble he was, and that
I should like a chance to treat an enemy kindly, because I thought it
would be a splendid thing to do. But I added, rather mournfully, that I
did not suppose I should ever have an enemy. Grandfather did not make
much reply; he only smiled on me, a curious sort of smile, and repeated
this third verse of yours: ‘If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye
do them.’

“Then what did cousin Stephen do, but repeat, with his eyes fixed on
me, this next verse: ‘Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest
he fall.’

“I felt my cheeks grow red. I wished I could have a chance to show
Steenie how truly noble I was; for I saw he didn’t believe it.

“The very next week something happened which made me think of those two
verses again.

“I went to the little village school, while I was at grandfather’s; and
Priscilla Howe went too. Priscilla was a bound girl whom my grandfather
was bringing up.”

“Bound!” exclaimed little Sarah, in startled tone; Grandma had to stop
and explain to her what that meant. Then she continued her story.

“I didn’t like Priscilla very well; I hardly knew why; she was a still,
cold, little thing, a trifle sullen, perhaps; at least I thought so,
and I didn’t have much to do with her. On Wednesday afternoons we had
an exercise in school which I always liked.

“The afternoon before, the teacher would read to us a certain article,
generally a description of something; a great meeting, maybe, or a
fire, or a storm; we were to take what notes we pleased, while the
reading was going on. Then the next day we were to bring in our written
account of that same thing; using as few words, and as short ones, as
we could, to get in all the facts; and the scholar who brought in the
best paper, with the fewest mistakes in spelling, and punctuation, wore
home the medal for composition. Now I had a good memory, and it seemed
to come natural to me to write out things; so I liked this exercise.
But poor Priscilla hated it; she could not remember half a dozen things
in the article; and couldn’t express them. Tuesday evening grandfather
let me sit in his study while I wrote out my exercise. The story was a
very nice one, and I felt sure of getting the medal.

“The next morning, when I went to get ready for school, my exercise
was nowhere to be found; I made a great noise about it, and every one
in the house helped me look; but the exercise was gone. I tried to
get time to write another, but I couldn’t, and I missed the medal of
course; and cried bitterly. The next day I found the exercise; where,
do you think?”

“Where?” asked all the Burtons at once, in tones of eager interest and
sympathy.

“Down in the bottom of Priscilla’s mending basket, all torn into little
tiny bits, less than half an inch square!”

You should have heard the murmur of indignation which ran through the
audience then!

“I can’t tell you how I felt,” said Grandma. “I went down to the
sitting-room where the family were gathered, but I was too angry to
trust my voice to tell the story. They were all busy, and I crept into
a corner with my dark little face, and kept still. My cousin Mercy was
at the piano. I ought to tell you about that piano, children,” said
Grandma, breaking from her story. “It was the only one in that part of
the world; pianos were scarcer in those days than they are now; and
Mercy’s was a great curiosity; it had been sent to her by a rich uncle,
who went away off to foreign parts and made a fortune.

“It would look very queer and old-fashioned to you, but it was a great
wonder and delight to me.

[Illustration: MERCY AT THE PIANO.]

“Mercy called me to come and sing a hymn, but dear me! I couldn’t have
sung if they had promised me a piano of my own for doing it. Just then,
my aunt Martha, who was grandfather’s housekeeper, said, as she looked
from the window, ‘There comes Priscilla with three lighted candles in
her hands; how often I have told that child not to carry three candles
at once! Run, Ruthie dear, and open the door for her; she will burn
herself, or set the house on fire.’

“But ‘Ruthie’ did not run. I sat as still as a stone. ‘Ruth!’ said my
grandfather, astonished, while my cousin Stephen laid aside his book,
and went toward the door: ‘I can’t open doors for her!’ I burst forth;
‘not if she burns herself up! She tore my exercise into little bits,
and I hate her!’

“Children, don’t you feel ashamed of your Grandma? Was ever such a
wicked and at the same time silly little burst of rage? It ended with
a perfect flood of tears. Grandfather was a wise man, and felt that
this was no time for explanations, but as I hurried from the room, I
heard cousin Stephen’s mocking voice saying: ‘Let him that thinketh he
standeth, take heed lest he fall.’

“It dried my tears in a minute, that verse did. All the Sunday evening
talk, and my boastful words, came back to me, and I just _hated_
myself, as I sat in my own little room in the dark, and went over the
whole thing. How angry I had been with Priscilla; and yet, only three
days before, I had wanted an enemy, that I might show everybody how
noble I was! After awhile I cried again; but I don’t think there was
any anger in those tears. I did feel so _ashamed_, and so disappointed
in myself. To think that the Lord Jesus could wash the feet of Judas,
and I could not open a door for a little girl who had torn my paper!
I did want to be a good girl, and follow my Saviour’s example; and it
seemed so dreadful to have failed!

“It was a very meek and miserable little girl who stole around to
grandfather’s side that evening, in answer to his gentle call. In a low
voice, and with a few tears dropping quietly, I told him the whole sad
story; and I can seem to hear his voice yet, as he said, sorrowfully,
after a few minutes: ‘Yes poor little girl; you are learning how much
easier it is to resolve, than to _do_. ”If ye know these things, happy
are ye if ye do them,“ the Saviour said.’

“Mercy was at the piano again, touching the keys softly; she began to
sing in a low voice:

    Arise, my soul, arise;
      Shake off thy guilty fears;
    The bleeding sacrifice
      In my behalf appears;
    Before the throne my surety stands,
      My name is graven on his hands—

“‘Yes,’ said my grandfather, and he placed his dear old hand on my
head, ‘little Ruth must try again; He knows all about it, and will
forgive her; it was because He knew she couldn’t be gentle, and
forgiving, and loving, all alone, that He came down here, and lived,
and died.’

“I’ve never forgotten it, children; but I can tell you one thing; it
was a long time before I did any more boasting. It was a long time
before cousin Stephen could see me, without beginning, ‘Let him that
thinketh,’ and laughing a little.”

There was silence in the audience for a few minutes after Grandma’s
voice ceased; then Ralph made his speech: “Well, I think Priscilla was
a bad, wicked girl; and ought to have been punished.”

                                                          PANSY.


A FRIEND IN NEED.

“WHO are those oddly dressed children?” asked Miss Vinton. She was
reclining in her invalid’s chair, which was drawn up before the window
looking out upon the street. “I have seen them pass several times
lately and I think they must be new-comers in the neighborhood.”

“They are,” replied Emma Copeland, her companion; “they belong to
a German family that have moved into the little house back of Mr.
Swift’s.”

“Do you know anything about them?”

Emma smiled; she had been waiting for this question. She knew that
sooner or later Miss Vinton would find them out and would want to know
all about them, not from curiosity, but from a desire and purpose to
aid, if in any way they needed help that she could give.

“The family consists of the father and mother and these two children,
besides the baby. The baby is sick, and I think they are quite poor.
The children sell flowers; you remember there is a garden attached to
that house. They go past every morning with baskets of flowers which
they take to town. The father means to raise fruit and vegetables, but
as this is the beginning, they are poorly prepared for sickness.”

“I see!” replied Miss Vinton thoughtfully. Presently she said, “Emma, I
think you will have to go out upon an errand for me.”

“Down to the Rutgers?” asked Emma.

“Yes; your German will enable you to understand enough to find out
their needs. Who is their physician, do you know?”

“I saw Doctor Prince pass this morning, perhaps he was going there.”

“There he is coming up the street now!” exclaimed Miss Vinton; “Emma,
ask him to come in for a moment, if he is not in too much haste.”

He came in smiling, saying without being questioned, “You want to know
about the Rutgers, I suppose?” he understood Miss Vinton.

“Yes; do they need anything that I can supply?”

“So far as I can judge they would do very well if it were not for this
sickness. If you can send comforts for the sick child, it would help.
I would suggest the loan of a cot-bed, a soft pillow, and something in
the way of a child’s wrapper, besides nourishing, easily digested food.
Milk, beef extract—you know what to send?”

“Do you think the child will get well?”

“There is no reason why, with proper care and plenty of nourishing
food, the child should not recover. If the family could be relieved so
that the mother could give her whole time to the care of the child all
would be well, so far as I can see.”

“I understand. I will see what I can do.”

Then the doctor bowed himself out, and as he went down street he said
within himself, “I declare! to look at that girl and know what her
sufferings are, one would feel that if any one could be excused for
letting other people take care of themselves she would be the one. Yet
she does more to help the poor, and smooth the beds of the sick and
suffering than any other five women in this whole town! The Rutgers
will find their path brightening, I am thinking!”

This was a true prophecy. Emma Copeland knew just how to carry out the
wishes of her friend, and before noon the sick child lay in a clean
white wrapper upon a fresh cot-bed. A little stand stood near with a
white napkin spread upon it and a tray with a cup of beef tea, a glass
of milk, a tiny saucer of nourishing jelly, a silver spoon on the
tray, another beside the glass of medicine, and the mother had been
made to understand that she was to give her whole time to the care of
her sick child. A loaf of bread, and a piece of meat, and other things
from the Vinton larder emphasized this injunction. The children, Carl
and Gretchen, moved softly about; Conrad himself peeped in now and
then to look upon the little one lying now so comfortably in the white
bed, going back to his work with a lighter heart, saying in his native
tongue, “God bless the kind lady!” One morning a visitor said to May
Vinton:

“I am afraid you trouble yourself too much about other people. I
hear you have taken up a poor German family. Why do you not let the
authorities take care of the town’s poor?”

“Well, I am egotistical enough to think that I can do some things
better than the authorities! They do not give sympathy, nor advice;
and this is what some people need most of all. Then again Christ was
not speaking of the public authorities when he said, ‘Inasmuch as ye
have done it unto one of the least of these ye have done it unto me.’
Besides a little help to these people, such as we would give to any
friend in the time of sickness, does not degrade them in their own eyes
nor in the estimation of their neighbors, as help from a public charity
might. They only needed tiding over a deep place, now they will do well
enough.”

And so they did. A few weeks later the cot-bed was again in its place
in Mrs. Vinton’s store-room. The sick child was every day putting on
flesh and strength. The mother could now care for her household, and
the whole family rejoiced, with hearts full of love and gratitude to
their new friend. Carl and Gretchen came now and then to visit Miss
Vinton, always bringing some little token. The children were shy little
things, but it was a great treat to them to go into that handsome room
and talk with its fair, though suffering occupant. In their gratitude
they treasured every word she uttered, and carried away many useful
lessons.

One day, long afterward, when Gretchen had grown to be a young lady
and Carl was studying in the High School, some one remarked, “How that
family have risen in the world! It is only a few years since they came
here, poor and friendless, now they have a home and circle of friends.
There’s the Ketlers who came over at the same time. They have not
prospered nearly so well; the children have grown up in comparative
ignorance. I do not understand what has made the difference.”

“I can explain it,” said another, “there’s an influence going out
from that front corner room of the Vinton homestead which has power
to revolutionize hearts and lives and to build up families; when the
Rutgers first came they fell under that influence, and it is this which
has made the difference. I suppose a small sum would cover all the
money Miss Vinton expended for the family, but there is a great deal in
doing things at the right time and in giving your money and sympathy
when most needed.”

“But there must be something back of what we see,” said the first
speaker.

“Yes; a consecrated life lies behind the work.”

                                              FAYE HUNTINGTON.

[Illustration: GRANDMA FRINK. (_See page 314._)]




    _Volume 13, Number 41._      Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
                     _August 14, 1886._

THE PANSY.


[Illustration: “SHE PANTED AND STRUGGLED ON.”]


REACHING OUT.

(_A further Account of Nettie Decker and her Friends._)

BY PANSY.

CHAPTER X.

AS a matter of fact there wasn’t a cake left. Neither doughnut nor
gingersnap; hardly a crumb to tell the successful tale. Nettie surveyed
the empty shelves the next morning in astonishment. She had been too
busy the night before to realize how fast things were going. Naturally
the number and variety of dishes in the Decker household was limited
and the evening to Nettie was a confused murmur of, “Hand us in some
more cups.”

“Can’t you raise a few more teaspoons somewhere?” “Give us another
plate,” or, “More doughnuts needed;” and Nettie flew hither and
thither, washed cups, rinsed spoons, said, “What did I do with that
towel?” or, “Where in the world is the bread knife?” or, “Oh! I smell
the coffee! maybe it is boiling over,” and was conscious of nothing but
weariness and relief when the last cup of coffee was drank, and the
last teaspoon washed.

But with the next morning’s sunshine she knew the opening was a
success. She counted the gains with eager joy, assuring Jerry that they
could have twice as much gingerbread next time.

“And you’ll need it,” said Norm. “I had to tell half a dozen boys
that there wasn’t a crumb left. I felt sorry for ’em, too; they were
boarding-house fellows who never get anything decent to eat.”

Already Norm had apparently forgotten that he was one who used
frequently to make a similar complaint.

There was a rarely sweet smile on Nettie’s face, not born of the chink
in the factory bag which she had made for the money; it grew from the
thought that she need not hide the bag now, and tremble lest it should
be taken to the saloon to pay for whiskey. What a little time ago it
was that she had feared that! What a changed world it was!

“But there won’t be such a crowd again,” she said as they were putting
the room in order, “that was the first night.”

“Humph!” said that wise woman Susie with a significant toss of her
head; “last night you said we mustn’t expect anybody because it _was_
the first night.”

Then “the firm” had a hearty laugh at Nettie’s expense and set to work
preparing for evening.

I am not going to tell you the story of that summer and fall. It was
beautiful; as any of the Deckers will tell you with eager eyes and
voluble voice if you call on them, and start the subject.

The business grew and grew, and exceeded their most sanguine
expectations. Mr. Decker interested himself in it most heartily, and
brought often an old acquaintance to get a cup of coffee. “Make it
good and strong,” he would say to Nettie in an earnest whisper. “He’s
thirsty, and I brought him here instead of going for beer. I wish the
room was larger, and I’d get others to come.”

In time, and indeed in a very short space of time, this grew to be the
crying need of the firm: “If we only had more room, and more dishes!”
There was a certain long, low building which had once been used as a
boarding-house for the factory hands, before that institution grew
large and moved into new quarters, and which was not now in use. At
this building Jerry and Nettie, and for that matter, Norm, looked with
longing eyes. They named it “Our Rooms,” and hardly ever passed, that
they did not suggest some improvement in it which could be easily made,
and which would make it just the thing for their business. They knew
just what sort of curtains they would have at the the windows, just
what furnishings in front and back rooms, just how many lamps would
be needed. “We will have a hanging lamp over the centre table,” said
Jerry. “One of those new-fashioned things which shine and give a bright
light, almost like gas; and lots of books and papers for the boys to
read.”

“But where would we get the books and papers?” would Nettie say, with
an anxious business face, as though the room, and the table, and the
hanging lamp, were arranged for, and the last-mentioned articles all
that were needed to complete the list.

“Oh! they would gather, little by little. I know some people who would
donate great piles of them if we had a place to put them. For that
matter, as it is, father is going to send us some picture-papers, a
great bundle of them; send them by express, and we must have a table to
put them on.”

So the plans grew, but constantly they looked at the long, low building
and said what a nice place it would be.

One morning Jerry came across the yard with a grave face. “What do you
think?” he said, the moment he caught sight of Nettie. “They have gone
and rented our rooms for a horrid old saloon; whiskey in front, and
gambling in the back part! Isn’t it a shame that they have got ahead of
us in that kind of way?”

“Oh dear me!” said Nettie, drawing out each word to twice its usual
length, and sitting down on a corner of the woodbox with hands clasped
over the dish towel, and for the moment a look on her face as though
all was lost.

But it was the very same day that Jerry appeared again, his face
beaming. This time it was hard to make Nettie hear, for Mrs. Decker
was washing, and mingling with the rapid rub-a-dub of the clothes was
the sizzle of ham in the spider, and the bubble of a kettle which was
bent on boiling over, and making the half-distracted housekeeper all
the trouble it could. Yet his news was too good to keep; and he shouted
above the din: “I say, Nettie, the man has backed out! Our rooms are
not rented, after all.”

“Goody!” said Nettie, and she smiled on the kettle in a way to make it
think she did not care if everything in it boiled over on the floor;
whereupon it calmed down, of course, and behaved itself.

So the weeks passed, and the enterprise grew and flourished. I hope
you remember Mrs. Speckle? Very early in the autumn she sent every
one of her chicks out into the world to toil for themselves and began
business. Each morning a good-sized, yellow-tinted, warm, beautiful
egg lay in the nest waiting for Jerry; and when he came, Mrs. Speckle
cackled the news to him in the most interested way.

“She couldn’t do better if she were a regularly constituted member of
the firm with a share in the profits,” said Jerry.

The egg was daily carried to Mrs. Farley’s, where there was an invalid
daughter, who had a fancy for that warm, plump egg which came to her
each morning, done up daintily in pink cotton, and laid in a box just
large enough for it. But there came a morning which was a proud one
to Nettie. Jerry had returned from Mrs. Farley’s with news. “The sick
daughter is going South; she has an auntie who is to spend the winter
in Florida, so they have decided to send her. They start to-morrow
morning. Mrs. Farley said they would take our eggs all the same, and
she wished Miss Helen could have them; but somebody else would have to
eat them for her.”

Then Nettie, beaming with pleasure, “Jerry, I wish you would tell Mrs.
Farley that we can’t spare them any more at present; I would have told
you before, but I didn’t want to take the egg from Miss Helen; I want
to buy them now, every other morning, for mother and father; mother
thinks there is nothing nicer than a fresh egg, and I know father will
be pleased.”

What satisfaction was in Nettie’s voice, what joy in her heart! Oh!
they were poor, very poor, “miserably poor” Lorena Barstow called them,
but they had already reached the point where Nettie felt justified in
planning for a fresh egg apiece for father and mother, and knew that
it could be paid for. So Mrs. Speckle began from that day to keep the
results of her industry in the home circle, and grew more important
because of that.

Almost every day now brought surprises. One of the largest of them was
connected with Susie Decker. That young woman from the very first had
shown a commendable interest in everything pertaining to the business.
She patiently did errands for it, in all sorts of weather, and was
always ready to dust shelves, arrange cookies without eating so much as
a bite, and even wipe teaspoons, a task which she used to think beneath
her. “If you can’t trust me with things that would smash,” she used to
say with scornful gravity, to Nettie, “then you can’t expect me to be
willing to wipe those tough spoons.”

But in these days, spoons were taken uncomplainingly. Susie had a
business head, and was already learning to count pennies and add them
to the five and ten cent pieces; and when Jerry said approvingly: “One
of these days, she will be our treasurer,” the faintest shadow of a
blush would appear on Susie’s face, but she always went on counting
gravely, with an air of one who had not heard a word.

On a certain stormy, windy day, one of November’s worst, it was
discovered late in the afternoon that the molasses jug was empty, and
the boys had been promised some molasses candy that very evening.

[Illustration: THE LITTLE HOUSE ORGAN.]

“What shall we do?” asked Nettie, looking perplexed, and standing jug
in hand in the middle of the room. “Jerry won’t be home in time to get
it, and I can’t leave those cakes to bake themselves; mother, you don’t
think you could see to them a little while till I run to the grocery,
do you?”

Mrs. Decker shook her head, but spoke sympathetically: “I’d do it in a
minute, child, or I’d go for the molasses, but these shirts are very
particular; I never had such fine ones to iron before, and the irons
are just right, and if I should have to leave the bosoms at the wrong
minute to look at the cakes, why, it would spoil the bosoms; and on the
other hand, if I left the cakes and saved the bosoms, why, they would
be spoiled.”

This seemed logical reasoning. Susie, perched on a high chair in front
of the table, was counting a large pile of pennies, putting them in
heaps of twenty-five cents each. She waited until her fourth heap was
complete, then looked up. “Why don’t you ask me to go?”

“Sure enough!” said Nettie, laughing, “I’d ‘ask’ you in a minute if it
didn’t rain so hard; but it seems a pretty stormy day to send out a
little chicken like you.”

“I’m not a chicken, and I’m not in the leastest bit afraid of rain; I
can go as well as not if you only think so.”

“I don’t believe it will hurt her!” said Mrs. Decker, glancing
doubtfully out at the sullen sky. “It doesn’t rain so hard as it did,
and she has such a nice thick sack now.”

It was nice, made of heavy waterproof cloth, with a lovely woolly
trimming going all around it. Susie liked that sack almost better than
anything else in the world. Her mother had bought it second-hand of a
woman whose little girl had outgrown it; the mother had washed all day
and ironed another day to pay for it, and felt the liveliest delight in
seeing Susie in the pretty garment.

The rain seemed to be quieting a little, so presently the young woman
was robed in sack and waterproof bonnet with a cape, and started on her
way.

Half-way to the grocery she met Jerry hastening home from school with a
bag of books slung across his shoulder.

“Is it so late as that?” asked Susie in dismay. “Nettie thought you
wouldn’t be at home in a good while; the candy won’t get done.”

“No, it is as early as this,” he answered laughing; “we were dismissed
an hour earlier than usual this afternoon. Where are you going? after
molasses? See here, suppose you give me the jug and you take my books
and scud home. There is a big storm coming on; I think the wind is
going to blow, and I’m afraid it will twist you all up and pour the
molasses over you. Then you’d be ever so sticky!”

Susie laughed and exchanged not unwillingly the heavy jug for the
books. There had been quite wind enough since she started, and if there
was to be more, she had no mind to brave it.

“If you hurry,” called Jerry, “I think you’ll get home before the next
squall comes.” So she hurried; but Jerry was mistaken. The squall came
with all its force, and poor small Susie was twisted and whirled and
lost her breath almost, and panted and struggled on, and was only too
thankful that she hadn’t the molasses jug.

Nearly opposite the Farley home, their side door suddenly opened and a
pleasant voice called: “Little girl, come in here, and wait until the
shower is over; you will be wet to the skin.”

It is true Susie did not believe that her waterproof sack _could_ be
wet through, but that dreadful wind so frightened her, twisting the
trees as it did, that she was glad to obey the kind voice and rush into
shelter.

“Why, it is Nettie’s sister, I do believe!” said Ermina Farley, helping
her off with the dripping hood.

“You dear little mouse, what sent you out in such a storm?”

Miss Susie not liking the idea of being a mouse much more than she did
being a chicken, answered with dignity, and becoming brevity.

“Molasses candy!” said Mrs. Farley, laughing, yet with an undertone of
disapproval in her voice which keen-minded Susie heard and felt, “I
shouldn’t think that was a necessity of life on such a day as this.”

“It is if you have promised it to some boys who don’t ever have
anything nice only what they get at our house; and who save their
pennies that they spend on beer, and cider, and cigars to get it.”

Wise Susie, indignation in every word, yet well controlled, and aware
before she finished her sentence that she was deeply interesting her
audience! How they questioned her? What was this? Who did it? Who
thought of it? When did they begin it? Who came? How did they get the
money to buy their things? Susie, thoroughly posted, thoroughly in
sympathy with the entire movement, calm, collected, keen far beyond her
years, answered clearly and well. Plainly she saw that this lady in a
silken gown was interested.

“Well, if this isn’t a revelation!” said Mrs. Farley at last. “A young
men’s Christian association not only, but an eating-house flourishing
right in our midst and we knowing nothing about it. Did you know
anything of it, daughter?”

“No, ma’am,” said Ermina. “But I knew that splendid Nettie was trying
to do something for her brother; and that nice boy who used to bring
eggs was helping her; it is just like them both. I don’t believe there
is a nicer girl in town than Nettie Decker.”

Mrs. Farley seemed unable to give up the subject. She asked many
questions as to how long the boys stayed, and what they did all the
time.

Susie explained: “Well, they eat, you know; and Norm doesn’t hurry
them; he says they have to pitch the things down fast where they board,
to keep them from freezing; and our room is warm, because we keep the
kitchen door open, and the heat goes in; but we don’t know what we
shall do when the weather gets real cold; and after they have eaten all
the things they can pay for, they look at the pictures. Jerry’s father
sends him picture papers, and Mr. Sherrill brings some, most every day.
Miss Sherrill is coming Thanksgiving night to sing for them; and Nettie
says if we only had an organ she would play beautiful music. We want
to give them a treat for Thanksgiving; we mean to do it without any
pay at all if we can; and father thinks we can, because he is working
nights this week, and getting extra pay; and Jerry thinks there will
be two chickens ready; and Nettie wishes we could have an organ for a
little while, just for Norm, because he loves music so, but of course
we can’t.”

Long before this sentence was finished, Ermina and her mother had
exchanged glances which Susie, being intent on her story, did not see.

She was a wise little woman of business; what if Mrs. Farley should
say: “Well, I will give you a chicken myself for the Thanksgiving
time, and a whole peck of apples!” then indeed, Susie believed that
their joy would be complete; for Nettie had said, if they could only
afford three chickens she believed that with a lot of crust she could
make chicken pie enough for them each to have a large piece, hot; not
all the boys, of course, but the seven or eight who worked in Norm’s
shop and boarded at the dreary boarding-house; they would so like to
give Norm a surprise for his birthday, and have a treat say at six
o’clock for all of these; for this year Thanksgiving fell on Norm’s
birthday. The storm held up after a little, and Susie, trudging home, a
trifle disgusted with Mrs. Farley because she said not a word about the
peck of apples or the other chicken, was met by Jerry coming in search
of her. The molasses was boiling over, he told her, and so was her
mother, with anxiety lest the wind had taken her, Susie, up in a tree,
and had forgotten to bring her down again. He hurried her home between
the squalls, and Susie quietly resolved to say not a word about all the
things she had told at the Farley home. What if Nettie should think
she hadn’t been womanly to talk so much about what they were doing! If
there was one thing that this young woman had a horror of during these
days, it was that Nettie would think she was not womanly. The desire,
nay, the determination to be so, at all costs had well nigh cured her
of her fits of rage and screaming, because in one of her calm moments
Nettie had pointed out to her the fact that she never in her life heard
a _woman_ scream like that. Susie being a logical person, argued the
rest of the matter out for herself, and resolved to scream and stamp
her foot no more.

Great was the astonishment of the Decker family, next morning. Mrs.
Farley herself came to call on them. She wanted some plain ironing done
that afternoon. Yes, Mrs. Decker would do it and be glad to; it was
a leisure afternoon with her. Mrs. Farley wanted something more! she
wanted to know about the business in which Nettie and her young friend
next door were engaged; and Susie listened breathlessly, for fear it
would appear that she had told more than she ought. But Mrs. Farley
kept her own counsel, only questioning Nettie closely, and at last she
made a proposition that had well nigh been the ruin of the tin of
cookies which Nettie was taking from the oven. She dropped the tin!

“Did you burn you, child?” asked Mrs. Decker, rushing forward.

“No, ma’am,” said Nettie, laughing, and trying not to laugh, and
wanting to cry, and being too amazed to do so. “But I was so surprised
and so almost scared, that they dropped.

“O Mrs. Farley, we have wanted that more than anything else in the
world; ever since Mr. Sherrill saw how my brother Norman loved music,
and said it might be the saving of him; Jerry and I have planned and
planned, but we never thought of being able to do it for a long, long
time.”

Yet all this joy was over an old, somewhat wheezy little house organ
which stood in the second-story unused room of Mrs. Farley’s house, and
which she had threatened to send to the city auction rooms to get out
of the way.

She offered to lend it to Nettie for her “Rooms,” and Nettie’s
gratitude was so great that the blood seemed inclined to leave her face
entirely for a minute, then thought better of it and rolled over it in
waves.


POEM FOR RECITATION.

WHAT THE LECTURER TOLD THE BOYS.

  KIT and I (he’s Christopher, but it’s pretty hard to speak)
  Had been talking about the lecture, the better part of a week.
  I was fourteen last Wednesday, and Kit is twelve and a half—
  We’re getting to be big fellows; folks call us “twins” for chaff.

  One of the famous lecturers was to lecture in our town hall—
  Our father used to know him, when both of them were small.
  We are the minister’s boys, you know, and live in the house on the
        hill;
  The rest of us is mother, and Susie, and little Will.

[Illustration: “THE SCHOOLROOM WAS PACKED AND CROWDED.”]

  Father went to the station, to bring the lecturer home,
  And mother had supper ready, waiting for him to come—
  He was what Sue calls “splendid!” talked lots to Kit and to me,
  And took up little Willie, and held him on his knee,

  And while he was eating supper said a good many funny things,
  And joked with mother and Susie—it seemed as if time had wings—
  But O, that grand, grand lecture was the best we ever heard!
  Folks held their breaths to listen, for fear they should lose a word.

  They cried, and they applauded, and then they laughed outright—
  Kit and I decided to lecture before we went home that night.
  He was going back in the morning, on the early morning train,
  And father let us sit up that night, said “it wouldn’t happen again.”

  One of us sat each side of him, as near as we could to his chair,
  And then Kit noticed, and so did I, a scar near the edge of his hair.
  He saw us looking, and then he said, “My boys, you see that scar,
  It isn’t a wound of honor, but something different far.

  “I am going to tell you about it. I got it on a day
  When I was young as you are, and that isn’t so far away.
  You think it easy to move a crowd as breezes sweep the sea,
  It may be easy for some men, it never has been for me.

  “I was the timidest, awkwardest youth that ever fished in a pool,
  Or ever on Wednesday afternoons ran away from school—
  That was the day we ‘spoke pieces,’ but that I never did,
  I stayed at school and was punished, or ran away and hid.

  “But I honored the boys who did it, in particular the one who told
  ‘How well Horatius kept the bridge, in the brave days of old!’
  I admired the high heroic style, I longed to do the same,
  And watched the others with beating heart, and cheeks that were all
        aflame.

  “I had an elder sister then, such an one, my boys, have you—
  Good, and sweet, and pretty”—and then he smiled at Sue—
  “She said I could learn a simple piece, learn it, and speak it well;
  I didn’t want anything _simple_, I wanted a piece that would _tell_.

  “And so I chose for my first attempt: ‘The Seminole’s Reply,’
  You’ll find it in some old reader—tells how Indians defy—
  And Kate she taught it to me, taught me to speak each line—
  ’Twas for the exhibition; I practiced what hours were mine.

  “I practiced when I went after the cows, when I went to gather eggs,
  And frightened the hens and roosters off of their yellow legs.
  Up in the garret chamber, back the old rafters gave:
  ‘I ne’er will ask you quarter, and I ne’er will be your slave!’

  “The day of exhibition came, as all such days will come,
  The schoolroom was packed and crowded—all of them went from home—
  And I sat there and trembled, from my shining boots to my crown,
  And wished that the floor might open and quietly let me down.

  “At length I mounted the platform, but how, I never knew,
  I knew they had called upon me, and somehow I must get through.
  I made my bow, I know I did, I raised my head to speak,
  Then the people swam around me, I felt my knees grow weak—

  “‘Blaze! with your serried columns!’ ’twas to sound like a clarion’s
         call,
  I opened my mouth, and formed the words, but I didn’t _blaze_ at all.
  My throat was parched and swollen, there was ringing in my ears,
  There was blackness all around me, I forgot my awful fears.

  “I reeled, and then plunged headlong down from my lofty place,
  And next I was out in the dooryard with water on my face,
  And Kate was bending over me, fanning, to give me air,
  And mother was gently bathing that wound near the edge of my hair.

  “And that was how I got the scar; but, boys, _I didn’t give in_,
  I resolved as old Demosthenes, sooner or later to win.
  I resolved to be an orator, then and there, that day,
  And so I never faltered, though to me ’twas a thorny way.

  “But, let me tell you one thing, here: whatever you aim to do
  You’ll be pretty sure to do it, if you _will_ to carry it through.”
  And then the lecturer said: “My boys, it is late and we must part.”
  But father said: “Robert and Christopher, take that lesson to heart.”

                                               EMILY BAKER SMALLE.




    _Volume 13, Number 42._      Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
                     _August 21, 1886._

THE PANSY.


[Illustration: “I WEAR TROUSERS, AND YOU DON’T!”]


A PACKAGE FOR ROSE.

NO. II.

THEY found the scissors in Mrs. Harrison’s work basket and then sat
down together on the doorstep to open the package. When the outside
paper was taken off they saw there were really two small packages, both
wrapped alike in white paper, but one was square and flat, and the
other round and slender,—indeed one might almost have guessed it to
be, as Rose said, a very large stick of candy.

“Oh, let me open the round one!” cried Priscilla.

“No, I want to open that myself,” said Rose, “but I’ll let you open the
other.”

“Well,” answered Priscilla pleasantly, “I will.”

So saying, she began to tear off the paper, but stopped at an
exclamation from Rose.

“See! see! Priscilla, this is old gold satin!”

Sure enough. The round roll proved to be a banner, fastened to a
slender brass rod, and finished with a fringe of bright little stars.
There was a spray of blue forget-me-nots painted upon it, and as Rose
held it up in the sunlight, both girls declared that it was very
beautiful indeed.

“Isn’t aunt Alice lovely to send me this,” cried Rose, after they had
examined it to their full satisfaction. “But I can’t see how it’s an
answer to my letter.”

“Maybe this is the answer,” said Priscilla, taking up the other
package. “See, it’s just sheets of paper, fastened together, and lots
of writing on them.”

“Yes,” said Rose, “it’s a letter. Why, no it isn’t,” she added. “Oh
goody! goody! it’s a story! aunt Alice does tell splendid stories, but
I never thought of her writing one. Come, let’s read it.”

The pages of the paper were neatly fastened together, and every word
was so plainly written that the two girls could easily read them.

Rose began as follows:


THE PERFUMED MANTLE.

Long ago, in a small village whose cottages clustered upon a mountain
slope, a great number of people had come together to celebrate a fair
which was held each year for the benefit of that district.

Some had come to sell and some to buy, but many were there for pleasure
only. Hucksters and villagers, peasants, and venders of trinkets, or of
useful articles—all were there in bustling confusion.

Among the crowd had come a man whom no one could recollect having seen
before, and yet he spoke to each whom he met, calling him by name.
His manner was dignified, quiet and gentle, and he said that he came
neither to buy nor sell, but that he had a wonderful cloak which he
would give for the asking. He said, moreover, that it was the safeguard
which all travellers wore who journeyed to the Pleasant Land.

Now this kingdom, as the people well knew, lay just beyond their own
boundary, toward the setting of the sun; and indeed many of them had
wished that they might sometime go thither, for they had heard wondrous
reports of its beauty and of the happiness of its people. But they had
been deterred from setting out by their affairs at home, and by certain
sayings that had got abroad concerning the difficulties of the way. So
when the stranger spoke thus, a large number of the people gathered
around, and began to comment on the cloak, which hung upon the man’s
arm and was of some soft woollen goods. It gave out too, a scent more
delicate and sweet than the fragrance of any flower that blooms.

Their criticisms were various. One old peasant said that while he
should like to own the cloak, he feared its elegance might excite the
contempt of his neighbors, who heretofore had never seen him clothed in
anything but coarse garments.

A woman at his elbow also had a voice in the matter.

“The opinion of the neighbors,” said she, “would have little weight
with me. But such a cloak hanging from the shoulders would greatly
hinder one when at work.”

“Yea, that it would,” answered another, “and work we must, if we would
lay up dowries for our daughters, or buy a bit of land for our sons.
We have none of us time to journey towards that Western country,” she
added reflectively.

Just then a youth wearing the heavy shoes and blouse of a workman drew
near. After asking some questions, of the way that led to the Pleasant
Land, he declared his intention of setting out that very hour, but
added that he should have no need of the mantle, for he was young and
sturdy and used to depending upon himself.

“Yet take the cloak!” urged the stranger, “for I have never known any
traveller to reach the kingdom without one.”

The youth, however, shook his head, and, laughing lightly, waved his
hand in farewell to the people.

He turned his face confidently toward the West, taking a narrow path
that led over the mountain, and thence into a little valley.

It was a quiet, peaceful way bordered by grass of a tender green and by
flowers whose delicacy showed that they were the blossoms of spring.

One end of the vale was almost shut in by the rocky walls of two high
mountains, and the pass between them was barred by a massive gate.
Toward this gate the narrow footpath tended. The youth still felt fresh
and vigorous and it was not long ere he had reached the portal where at
each hand he now beheld a sentinel.

“Few are the days of the journey,” said the first.

“And, alas! wearisome and profitless to him who weareth not the mantle
of loving kindness,” said the second.

Immediately the great gate turned noiselessly on its hinges, and when
it closed again the youth had entered what proved to be a busy city,
with people of all descriptions hurrying along the streets. Two things
were most noticeable: there was no one amid all the throng who did
not carry a burden of some kind, and there was not one who had not
something peculiar to himself which was an annoyance to all whom he met.

“Ah ha!” cried the youth, “I see how it is. If one wants to get through
this crowd in any comfort he must use a sharp tongue, and elbows or
fists to the best advantage.”

So saying, he set out again upon his way, but was soon met by a band
of merry-makers, who seemed inclined to take up most of the path.

“Now for it!” said the youth to himself, and, setting his arms akimbo
he attempted to push his way among them. But it was not without several
hard blows that he escaped and passed on, so perfectly did the company
imitate his manner and attempt to bar his way.

The next to claim his attention was a woman carrying a heavy
basket—and more especially as the basket was set around with thorns.

“Let me but escape their sharp points,” cried the youth, “and I care
little how hard they press her.”

The result of the encounter was some scratches to both travellers,
which might have been saved if each had sought to spare his neighbor
pain.

Thus it went from day to-day, sometimes with sharp words, occasionally
with blows, but oftener a slight push from one passer to the other,
until at last we must leave the youth to pursue his hopeless journey,
while we return to the village whence he had set out.

                                                         HAZLETT.


CAUSE FOR COMPLAINT.

    “I DON’T like grandma at all,” said Fred,
      “I don’t like grandma at all,”
    And he drew his face in a queer grimace;
      The tears were ready to fall,
    As he gave his kitten a loving hug,
    And disturbed her nap on the soft, warm rug.

    “Why, what has your grandma done?” I asked,
      “To trouble the little boy?
    O what has she done, the cruel one,
      To scatter the smiles of joy?”
    Through quivering lips the answer came,
    “She—called—my—kitty—a—horrid—name.”

    “She did? are you sure?” and I kissed the tears
      Away from the eyelids wet.
    “I can scarce believe that grandma would grieve
      The feelings of either pet.
    What did she say?” “Boo-hoo!” cried Fred,
    “She—called—my—kitty—a—_quadruped_!”
                                      —_Selected._


MOZART.

PART I.

NOW I seem to see some of you Pansies skipping this article, because
you think is a biographical sketch of the great musician Mozart, and
possibly you “don’t like biographical sketches.” Or if you do, those
of you who are members of the “P. S.” have read all about Mozart in
your book—“Great Composers.” But let me assure you at the beginning
that while this is a biographical sketch, and as true a one as ever
was written, and about a person named Mozart, who was something of a
musician, possibly you will not pass it by so scornfully when I tell
you this Mozart is a cat!

[Illustration: MOZART.]

He belonged to a family which is quite small, I believe, though its
members are very large, so that when he was but two or three months
old, he was as large as many ordinary cats, while his mother was
positively colossal!

The way I came to get Mozart was this: his mother, brothers and
sisters, and he, were owned by my auntie May, and this same auntie
was, once upon a time, about to move from her home in New York, to
New Jersey. Knowing how I loved cats, when my mother was visiting
her, she proposed that one of the kittens should be taken home to me.
So, on the morning of my father and mother’s start, one was procured,
and imprisoned in a willow basket which was tied with strong cord.
Just as the good-bys were being said, when the basket was reposing
in the bottom of the sleigh, and as the driver was raising his reins
preparatory to the start, my uncle called out, “Don’t step on the
kitten!” To which the driver responded, “It ain’t here!” and grinned
broadly, as the disappointing animal jumped to the ground, and sped
across the snow to the stable. There was no time to recapture him,
for they were then almost afraid they would miss the train, and the
sleigh-bells jingled as the sleigh ran down the hill to the depot, the
occupants thereof looking curiously at the empty basket in the bottom.
“How did he get out?” was the question; and became the question for
discussion on the train, as all day my mother and father whizzed along
from New York into Pennsylvania. The basket had been found to be just
as securely tied as it was when the kitten had first been placed
therein, and the only explanation that could be given when my parents
reached home was, that the kitten _had_ been in the basket, and was
_not_! Which explanation was, as you may not be surprised to hear,
exceedingly unsatisfactory to me, for I dearly loved, and do dearly
love all members of the feline kingdom. I never see one but I feel that
I must stop and pat its soft fur.

But so far, instead of telling you how I did get Mozart, I have been
telling you how I did _not_ get him!

It was about a week after my father and mother had reached home, when,
one morning, as we were seated at the breakfast table, the door-bell
rang, and an expressman appeared, with a grin on his face that seemed
literally to reach from one ear to the other! “’Ere’s a cat!” he
exclaimed, and forthwith produced a box a foot or two square, the top
of which was decorated, in good-sized letters, with this injunction:


“THIS SIDE UP WITH CARE!”

As the official brought it into the hall, the listeners and lookers-on
heard a prolonged “Waa-a-a-a-a-a!” which seemed to echo and re-echo,
and at last died away into silence.

“It is the kitten that we didn’t bring!” said my mother, while I ran
for a hammer and chisel with which to open the box. When the operation
was performed, there jumped out a large, yellow, cat-like kitten, which
escaped as far as possible from us, as we tried to grasp it, repeating
its mournful, yet decisive cry of—“Waa-a-a-a-a-a!”

Strange to say, he did not recognize us as friends, immediately, but
preferred to wait until he formed a closer acquaintance before he was
victimized by our embraces or pettings, so he was consigned to the
cellar, where he spent much of his time. When we would try to get him
up, unless we succeeded in finding him asleep, he would climb a beam,
and with great agility elude our efforts to capture him.

Having heard many stories of cats returning to their former homes,
and having had some experience in that line ourselves, we were
careful to keep Mozart in the house, lest he should make his escape
and be seen no more. If he did manage to get out of the kitchen
door in a clandestine manner, a ridiculous procession was formed of
the bareheaded members of our family, and no peace was given the
poor animal, until, after racing around the yard once or twice, he
surrendered to our clutches. Truly our anxious efforts to capture
the unwilling prisoner must have been a ludicrous sight to any
unsympathizing spectator.

We let Mozart sleep in the kitchen, and this gave him the chance
he apparently coveted, of sleeping on the table, which he did so
obstinately, that we were finally compelled to resort to the expedient
of turning the table on its side every night, so that if he slept on
it, it would have to be in direct resistance to the law of gravitation!

Mozart also showed a great desire to make the table his dining-room,
though this freak was explained on the arrival of my auntie May, who
said that he had eaten on an old table in the barn at home. He also
probably slept there. But with us he was obliged to make his couch on
some old pieces of carpeting.

I now remember that I have not yet given a thorough description of my
hero, and as that is properly one of the first things to do in a sketch
of this kind, I must hasten to it. Mozart was clothed with a stationary
garment of brownish-yellow fur—I do not know whether the artists would
call it chrome yellow, yellow ochre, Naples yellow, or what. This
garment was at regular intervals striped with rings of a darker shade,
and these went completely around his body.

These rings reached their abrupt termination at the tip of the wearer’s
tail. It is quite proper to insert just here the fact that once upon a
time one of them fell off, and was found, a little wad of dark yellow
fur, on the floor of the dining-room.

Mozart had eyes of a rather uncertain color (a peculiarity of his
family, which you perhaps have observed), but they were probably nearer
the color of his fur than any other of which I think. His head was
shapely, and his ears and caudal appendage were graceful. Thus endeth
the description of his personal appearance.

The reason for naming Mozart as I did, will be obvious when I state
that he had unmistakable musical talent. As I cannot conscientiously
praise his voice, I will remain silent about it, simply saying that
it was very expressive, and that is more than can be said of some of
the so-called fine singers of this country. His vocal organs seemed
exceedingly devoid of elasticity, for their use was always confined to
the one syllable and note—“Waa-a-a-a-a-a!” differing only in pitch and
the length of time it was prolonged.

This difficulty prevented us from always comprehending Mozart’s
language, save by his accompanying gestures and actions, and by the
surrounding circumstances. But I have said more about his voice than I
intended. As I said before, he had unmistakable musical talent. If he
had not a musical voice, he had a musical ear (two of them, indeed!)
and would listen with rapturous delight to any music. If anyone was
playing on my piano, he would come and sit by the side of it, and
either listen intently or try to find out by his whiskers from whence
the sound proceeded. But if, while he was making these investigations,
the piano would play very loud for a moment, he would shrink away, much
frightened by the noise. If it was a special friend of his who was
playing, he would sometimes jump into the person’s lap, getting as near
as possible to the keys. Any rational and unprejudiced persons giving
heed to these statements, will believe what I said about Mozart’s ears,
I am sure.

Unlike most of his sex, the second John Chrysostom Wolfgang Theophilus
Mozart (for we had given him the full name of the great musician,
calling him simply Mozart for short) seemed to take an interest in the
art of sewing. I may record as a proof of this that when my aunt Julia
would be sewing on her machine, my hero would jump up into the vacancy
between her spinal column and the chair, and there remain until he was
dismissed. If he had been allowed a longer time to stay there than
_was_ given him, he would, probably, not have left so soon, but as to
that I cannot positively speak.

Before recording the following incident I will repeat the aforesaid
statement that every word of this biographical sketch is strictly
true, and unto that fact I will set my signature and seal, any time you
wish. (Possibly that is one particular in which this differs from most
biographical sketches.)

Mozart’s saucer from which he was in the habit of eating and drinking,
stood out in the kitchen by the sink. On the day of which I speak, he
came in and told in plaintive accents that something was the matter.
As I have remarked heretofore, he always left us in uncertainty as to
_what_, for a time, at least. When questioned, however, he earnestly
smelled of his empty saucer, and then, jumping up on the sink, put
his paw on the cold water faucet, and then, descending, repeated his
summons for aid. The saucer was speedily filled with water, and he
drank long and eagerly.

This same incident was repeated in every particular, at another time,
with the faucet in the bath-room upstairs.

On one occasion Mr. Mozart did a most disgraceful thing—one that was
enough to bring disrepute on any family—namely, he ran away. There
were several cats living around our barn in those days, and whether he
eloped with one of them or not, I never heard, but certain it was that
he disappeared, and no trace of him could be found.

But after sin, remorse is sure to come, and conscience speaks earnestly
to the sinner, so “in the stilly night,” when “slumber’s chains _had_
bound” the inmates of our house, some of them were awakened by mournful
and heart-rending sounds coming from the rear of the house. Under some
circumstances, we might have thought we were being serenaded; one of
the members of the household was despatched to the back door, to admit
the runaway! The lost had returned! the prodigal had come home! And as
he rested once more on his couch of carpeting, how sweet it must have
smelled to him (in which respect he would have differed from us), and
how soft it must have felt, because his conscience was at rest, and
because he could once more sleep the sleep of the innocent! Some of
his feline friends had returned to the door with him, and had uplifted
their voices with his, but only the proper inhabitant of the house was
admitted.

                                                      PARANETE.


SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.

P.—PRENTISS, ELIZABETH.

IN a volume of nearly six hundred pages, the husband of this gifted
woman tells the story of her life, or rather he lets her tell it in
extracts from her letters and journal. In the little space allotted me
for a sketch of Mrs. Prentiss, I can only give you a few facts of her
life. When you are older you must read this volume and learn more about
her. She was the daughter of a clergyman, a highly gifted man, and one
who was no less remarkable for his piety than for his learning, and
after reading a sketch of Edward Payson, one is not surprised that the
daughter of such a man should develop into a remarkable woman. Mrs.
Prentiss was born at Portland, Maine, October 26, 1818. You would like
to know about her as a child? She is described as “a beautiful child,
slender, dark-eyed, light-footed, very quiet, evidently observant,
saying little, affectionate, yet not demonstrative.”

She was devotedly attached to her father, and the impression which the
teachings of his beautiful, godly life made upon her childish mind was
never effaced. Though he died when she was only nine years old, her
recollections of him are said to have been remarkably vivid.

She could tell how he looked and talked and acted, things he said and
did. Once coming upon him suddenly she found him engaged in prayer,
and so lost in communion with God that he did not become conscious of
her presence; and she afterwards said that she never forgot the scene,
neither did its influence upon her cease while she lived. She was never
strong, having inherited a nervous temperament along with a feeble
constitution. Once when she was grown to womanhood she said, “I never
knew what it was to feel well.”

At the age of twelve years she was very ill with a fever, so ill
that the family thought the hour had come when they must part with
Elizabeth. But she was spared, perhaps in answer to the mother’s
prayers, for that mother recorded in her journal the circumstance of
her illness and restoration with a comment upon God’s goodness in
sparing the child, wondering whether it might be to the end that
she would one day devote herself to the Saviour and do something for
the honor of religion. And in the spring of the following year, this
child of many prayers, publicly confessed her faith in Christ, and was
enrolled among his people.

She grew to girlhood developing a lovely Christian character, also
showing a marked talent in composition. She contributed when quite
young to the _Youth’s Companion_. As she passed on through her girlhood
into womanhood she became her mother’s faithful friend and assistant,
thoughtful for her comfort, and also a tender sympathizing friend
towards her brothers.

I want to copy for you a little bit of verse which she wrote for the
_Youth’s Companion_, which I think will please some of our little folks.

    What are little babies for?
      Say! say! say!
    Are they good-for-nothing things?
      Nay! nay! nay!
    Can they speak a single word?
      Say! say! say!
    Can they help their mother’s sew?
      Nay! nay! nay!
    Can they walk upon their feet?
      Say! say! say!
    Can they even hold themselves?
      Nay! nay! nay!
    What are little babies for?
      Say! say! say!
    Are they made for us to love?
      _Yea!_ YEA! YEA!!!

A friend says of her: “Human nature seems to have been her favorite
study. There seemed to be no one in whom she could not find something
to interest her, none with whom there was not some point of sympathy.”

And now I wonder if you have guessed, or if you knew all the while that
this remarkable woman was the author of some of your favorite books!

The Susy books! ah! your mothers will tell you that these books were
_their_ favorites as well as your own! _Susy’s Six Birthdays_ was
published thirty-three years ago, then followed the others of the
series, and _Flower of the Family_, and _Peterchen_ and _Gretchen_, and
_Tangle Thread_, _Silver Thread_ and _Golden Thread_, besides many
others, up to twenty-five volumes. The book which has been more widely
read than any other of her works is probably “Stepping Heavenward.”

More than seventy thousand copies have been sold in this country, and
the work has also been translated into the French and German languages.

Mrs. Prentiss’ books were all written after her marriage to Rev. George
L. Prentiss, which occurred in 1845. Mr. Prentiss was the pastor of
a church in New Bedford. Afterwards they lived in New York and, in
the year 1866, they went to a quiet place among the Green Mountains
to spend the summer, and so delighted were they with the beauties of
Dorset that they made it their summer home, building a cottage there in
which Mrs. Prentiss died about twelve years later.

It is impossible to give you any account of the varied scenes of her
life in such a brief sketch. She was called to pass through many
sorrows. The death of the father to which I have already referred;
later the loss of her mother, sister, brother and children.

These bereavements came one after another, yet her Christian character
only shone out the brighter.

“Though the death of her children tore with anguish the mother’s
heart, she made no show of grief, and to the eye of the world her life
soon appeared to move on as aforetime. Never again, however, was it
exactly the same life. She had entered into the fellowship of Christ’s
sufferings and the new experience wrought a great change in her whole
being.” She was remarkably happy in the children spared to her, and in
all her home life. A friend has written of her:

“I have ever regarded her as favored among women, blessed in doing her
Master’s will and in testifying of Him, blessed in her home, in her
friends, in her work and blessed in her death.”

                                               FAYE HUNTINGTON.

[Illustration: SLEEPY LITTLE FELLOWS!]




    _Volume 13, Number 43._      Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
                     _August 28, 1886._

THE PANSY.


[Illustration: NORMANDY WOMAN IN WOODEN SHOES.]


ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.

BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

X.

GEORGE EDWARD ALLEN was now sixteen; hale, hearty, and full of fun.
Truth compels me to state that he did not take first prize for English
Composition, Latin, Mathematics, or even for general deportment, at
the close of the summer term just past. He had no gold medals to carry
home to his admiring parents, to be afterward hung up in his room
for the delectation of any who might choose to examine. He was only
an industrious, even-tempered boy of ordinary steady ability, but
without the least capacity for shining before a large audience with the
splendor of the examination hour.

He did have bestowed upon him, however, at the last moment, in various
little rencontres with master and under teachers, several little
pleasant attentions that made his heart thrill, and the warm blood
mount his brown cheek.

“Allen, I must say I could give you a prize for loving the right, with
all my heart.” This from the master, with that peculiar light in his
gray eyes that seldom came; and because so seldom, was treasured deep
by the one who brought it there. He went further: “My boy, I would
give ten years of my life for such a son as you are.” They were in a
side recitation room alone, and the master’s hand laid on the lad’s
shoulder, no one saw, much less heard the words.

George Edward looked up quickly and gratefully.

“Good-by,” said the master. “If you want any help in vacation over a
tough spot in any study, just drop me a hint of it.” There was a smile
in the overworked face, that lighted up each hard line.

“Good-by, Allen,” said an under teacher regretfully, as George Edward
ran down the passage, “I wish you were to be near me this summer; I
shall miss you,” and Mr. Bryan put himself in the way of the boy’s
advancement. “I want to thank you for your good influence in the
class-room. For you have done more than the teacher sometimes,” he
frankly added.

George Edward tried to protest, but it was no use. “Don’t be
discouraged,” added the teacher kindly, “if prizes do not fall to you
now; but keep on.”

“I should have liked to carry one home to father and mother,” said
George Edward honestly.

“Of course; who of us does not?” assented Mr. Bryan. “Let me tell
you though, my boy, that the prizes, though late often, that fall to
industry and conscientious work, are better worth getting. Take that
with you to think of this summer.”

The boys made loud protestations of regret, which goes without saying,
at the necessary parting to come. How long the vacation seemed, looking
from the standpoint of June. How impossible to wait till September
before George Edward’s round countenance should burst upon them like
a ray of sunshine, and his cheery voice call to some sport, in which
they could see no hint of fun if he did not lead off. But all things
are finally pronounced ended. So at last George Edward found himself at
home, with the only prospect of enjoyment ahead of him, an invitation
to visit at Uncle Frost’s.

“I’m sorry it’s all the outing we can give you this summer, my boy,”
said Mother Allen soberly; “your father intended to take you if he went
on the Maine trip, but Mr. Porter wanted the Western business done now,
and that is altogether too expensive to be thought of.”

George Edward’s eyes glistened. That Western trip would have made a
vacation beating every other boy’s that he had known. He broke out
eagerly, “O mother—” then stopped. She looked pale and troubled.

“It’s a good enough place at Uncle Frost’s,” he finished indifferently;
“when do I start?”

“No, it isn’t very pleasant,” said Mrs. Allen truthfully. “I’m sorry
you couldn’t have gone into the country; but we can’t afford it unless
I go and shut up the house, and I can’t do that, because grandma isn’t
well, and must come here.”

“Never mind,” said George Edward, “there’s some fun in it, anyway.
We’ll call it bully.”

“It will be a change,” said his mother, “and that’s all you can say,
and you’ll have a chance to learn something new, and see other people.”

“When does he want me to come?” asked George Edward, dashing at the
letter again.

“Next week,” said Mrs. Allen.

“All right; I’ll put my traps together, and be off. Gainesburg is the
cry now,” cried George Edward.

But for once the boy was in luck. Two days after Uncle Frost’s house
had received him, Mrs. Allen was reading the following letter:


    MY DEAR MOTHER:

    Hurrah—hurrah—hurrah! Uncle Frost is a brick (beg pardon,
    mother)! He’s given me a royal, out-and-out invite to go to
    the White Mountains with the family. Expenses all thrown in,
    etc., etc. Start on Saturday. Telegraph “yes” please.

                            Your affectionate Son,
                                            GEORGE EDWARD.

“Yes” was telegraphed over the hills on Thursday, and for two weeks our
boy revelled in the bliss of mountain life, with quantities of fun,
frolic and adventure thrown in by the way, to return all made over,
to Uncle Frost’s, there to meet the ill news travelling fast over the
electric wires:

“Your father died suddenly at St. Paul. Come at once.”

Had it come so soon? George Edward looked life in the face this
vacation time, accepted his cross, bade good-by to all hopes of
ever entering school or college life again, and thanked God for the
situation in the drug store that the apothecary around the corner gave
him.

His father’s affairs, well looked over, gave no hope of anything but
the direst economy for the widow. As for the son, he must go to work,
and at once.

“Now we will see if he holds out a saint,” one boy was mean enough to
think, seeing George Edward hurry to his place of work every morning
bright and early. Other eyes quite as sharp, though far from cruel,
were on him. It was an awful ordeal for any boy to pass through; most
of all, because of the commonplaceness of the sacrifice he was daily
making. Had he marched up to the cannon’s mouth, and courted death
to save his mother’s life, this would have been easy compared to the
monotonous dead-level existence he was enduring. For to the active
boy, alert for an excitement, wide awake for novelty, with every muscle
crying out for exercise and change, the close confinement of the small
store, and the routine work, were torture indeed. He began to show the
effects of such a life, and in three weeks his mother was aghast to
find that her boy had grown suddenly thin and pale.

“Why, George Edward,” she cried, “you can’t stay in that store.”

“I must,” said George Edward doggedly.

“But you will die,” cried poor Mrs. Allen, “then what shall I do?” And
the tears began to come.

George Edward thought a bit. Then he said “There isn’t anything else,
mother, only work on a farm. But it’s August now, who’d give me a
chance at it, pray tell?”

“I shall try,” said his mother, rousing herself, “you will die where
you are.” And she seized paper and pen and wrote the following:

    A boy of sixteen who has just lost his father wishes a place
    to work on a farm for the remainder of the season. Only
    those persons of unexceptional references who wish such a
    farm hand not afraid to work, need apply to

                                       MRS. E. C. ALLEN,
                                                —— ——

George Edward was in a fever of excitement, though he tried not to show
it, all the next three days. His mother met with such poor success in
her efforts to conceal her state of mind, that she went around the
house, a bright spot in either cheek, scarcely able to set herself with
calmness at any task. At last, on the evening of the third day, this
letter was drawn from the post-office:

    RESPECTED MADAM:

    If your son really wants to work, send him on. Here’s a
    letter from my paster, maybe that will be satisfyin’. Three
    dollars a week an’ board. That’s what I pay. Yours to
    command,

                                        JOB STEVENS,
                                           _Blueberry Hill_.

The “paster’s” letter reading remarkably well, and a friend
investigating the matter with thoroughness for Mrs. Allen, finding it
all right, George Edward’s trunk was packed, and he at once dispatched
for Blueberry Hill.

It was evening when he arrived there.


QUEEN ELIZABETH.

QUEEN ELIZABETH was the daughter of the wicked Henry the Eighth and
of Anne Boleyn. Elizabeth was about three years old when she was left
motherless. On the death of her sister Mary she ascended to the throne,
and amid joyful acclamations was proclaimed queen.

As the grand procession moved along the queen was very kind and
gracious, and the poor came up to her carriage, with nosegays for her,
and when any one wanted to speak to her, she would stop the carriage.
The coronation took place at Westminster. The crown was placed upon
her head amidst great shouting and rejoicing. Elizabeth placed a ring
upon her own finger, to signify that she was espoused to the realm of
England, and that ring she wore for forty years.

Elizabeth was a fine scholar, and in many respects her reign was
prosperous, but she was very irritable, and did several things which
have marred and stained her name.

[Illustration: WESTMINSTER ABBEY.]

Of course there is very much to learn about her which you must read
yourself in history. You will there be told all about her troubles
with the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, who was her relative, and
who after being a prisoner in Fotheringay Castle for many years, was
executed.

She was very beautiful. It is thought that Elizabeth envied her
remarkable beauty, which is a very wicked thing to do. Elizabeth,
though homely, was very vain, and dearly loved compliments.

At one time there were many pictures of the queen circulated, much
resembling her, and therefore not very handsome. So the queen issued a
formal proclamation against them, forbidding the people to sell them,
and stating that an artist would be employed to make a true picture of
her. What a pity she did not realize that beauty of mind, kindness
of heart, nobleness of character, and above all, the true Christian
spirit, were much more to be desired than anything so frail and
perishable as human beauty. Never, in any reign, has England known such
pomp and splendor as in Elizabeth’s time. She was fond of parade. She
once went to church surrounded by a thousand men in armor, and drums
and trumpets sounding.

You will read in her life about the Earl of Essex, who was a prime
favorite with Elizabeth for a long time, but he offended her, and
she caused him to be executed. She had once given him a ring, to be
returned to her in case he ever needed her aid. When in prison he sent
it, but it was intercepted. The queen got angry because the ring did
not come, and therefore thought Essex was very proud. After his death,
however, she learned about the ring, and was therefore thrown into deep
distress, and soon pined away and died. She had about three thousand
dresses at the time of her death, in her wardrobe. Her last words were,
“Millions of worlds for an inch of time.”

She was buried in Westminster Abbey, where many of the great of England
sleep in unbroken repose.

                                                        RINGWOOD.


OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

S.—SAVONAROLA, GIROLAMO.

FOUR hundred and thirty-four years—1452-1886. What wonderful events
have been taking place all along through these years since the young
Girolamo first saw the light! And I have been wondering what Savonarola
would have said and done had he lived in this nineteenth century. He is
spoken of as one whose soul was stirred by ardent faith which burned
through all obstacles; as a fervid orator and as a sagacious ruler, who
evolved order out of chaos; as one who to maintain his cause of reform
braved single-handed the whole power of the Papacy. He is described as
a serious, quiet child, early showing signs of mental power. The books
which were his favorites would, I fear, be pronounced dry by the boys
of to-day. But although he was given to solid reading, he was fond of
music and poetry, and even wrote verses himself. He enjoyed solitude,
and loved to wander alone along the banks of the River Po. I ought
to have told you that his native city was Ferrara, in Italy. He was
expected to succeed his grandfather who was an eminent physician, and
with that end in view he was carefully trained. But as he grew older,
he found himself growing to regard the thought with disfavor, and as
time went on he became convinced that “his vocation was to cure men’s
souls instead of men’s bodies.” Yet he was for a long time restrained
from entering upon the priesthood by regard for the hopes and desires
of his parents. But at length after having made this his daily prayer,
“Lord, teach me the way my soul must walk,” the path of duty became
clear and he, avoiding the painful farewells, slipped away from
home one day when the rest of the family were absent at a festival,
writing an affectionate note of explanation and farewell. He entered a
monastery at Bologna, where he gave himself up to the work of special
preparation for the duties of his profession.

[Illustration: QUEEN ELIZABETH. (_From painting in the English National
Portrait Gallery._)]

After some years he was sent to Florence to preach. At first his plain
and severe denunciations of the prevailing sins of the time repelled
the people who preferred to go where they could hear more polished
and less conscience-awakening sermons, and Savonarola mourned over
his apparent failure to reach the hearts of the multitude who were
rushing on in the ways of sinful indulgence. But his soul was moved
with zeal “for the redemption of the corrupt Florentines. He must, he
would, stir them from their lethargy of sin.” He was convinced that he
was in the line of duty, and the more indifferent his hearers were the
more anxious he grew for their awakening. Actuated by this motive he
suddenly found his voice and revealed his powers as an orator. God had
shown him how to reach men’s hearts at last, and “he shook men’s souls
by his predictions and brought them around him in panting, awestruck
crowds;” then at the close of his denunciations of sin, his voice would
sink into tender pleading and sweetly he would speak of the infinite
love and mercy of God the Father.

After a time, St. Mark’s Church would not hold the crowds which came
to hear him and he was invited to preach in the Cathedral. He was now
acknowledged as a power in Florence, and the great Lorenzo de’ Medici
who was then at the height of his fame as a ruler, was alarmed, and he
sent a deputation of five of the leaders of the government to advise
the monk to be more moderate in his preaching, hinting that trouble
might follow a disregard of this advice. But the monk was unmoved. He
replied, “Tell your master that although I am an humble stranger and
he the city’s lord, yet I shall remain and he will depart.” He also
declared that he owed his election to God, and not to Lorenzo, and to
God alone would he render obedience.

Lorenzo was very angry, but he tried to silence the monk by bribery,
but Savonarola would not be bribed nor driven. He continued to preach
with great fervor, denouncing sin in high places as well as in low.
You know that in those times corruption had crept into the Church of
Christ, and it was against these sins of the Church that his most
scathing denunciations were hurled. He had many followers, and he
pushed his reforms in Church and State. His enemies grew more bitter
and fiercer. Remonstrances from those in authority had no effect. He
was offered a cardinal’s hat, but would not accept the conditions. He
said, “I will have no hat but that of the martyr, red with mine own
blood.”

And this was his fate; at last he was put to death in 1498. Almost his
last words were, “You cannot separate me from the Church triumphant!
that is beyond thy power.” In the convent of St. Mark’s are preserved
various relics of the martyred monk, among which are his Bible with
notes by his own hand, and a portrait said to have been painted by Fra
Bartolommeo. I have seen a copy of this portrait. It is in profile,
with the Friar’s cowl. At the first glance the expression of the
prominent features seems strangely stern, but as you study the face
it seems to soften and the sternness becomes sadness mingled with
tenderness. One can imagine those worn and pallid features lighted up
with excitement, the eyes animated and glowing with zeal, and the lips
so expressive of power, relaxing into a smile even, and thus looking
upon it we wonder not that crowds hung upon his words.

Hatred of sin, zeal for its removal from Church and State, seems to
have been two of his strong characteristics. And he was ever bold and
active in lifting up and carrying forward the standard of truth. If
sometimes his zeal outran his wisdom and judgment, if sometimes his
enthusiasm seemed to reach what we might call a religious frenzy in
which he heard supernatural voices and saw visions, we can but believe
in his sincerity and admire his boldness and commend his fearless
exposure of sin. And as we study his character again and again we
wonder as in the beginning of this sketch, how he would have acted in
these days when sin “comes in like a flood!” Have we not need of a
Savonarola? Have we not need of an army of strong, fearless men and
women who shall lift up the standard of the Gospel against the tide of
sin? One thought more: will each of my young readers enlist in this
army and be diligent in preparing to meet the attacks of the enemy?

                                                 FAYE HUNTINGTON.

======

THORWALDSEN was a Danish sculptor. Returning from Italy to his native
land, he brought a great number of lovely works of art, which he packed
in straw. When unpacked, the straw was strewn about the streets, and it
so happened that it contained a great many seed. These took root, and
before long flowers were blooming in Copenhagen, from those very seed.
Every hour we are scattering seed: see that it be the kind that shall
grow beauteous flowers.


[Illustration: ROUND THE FAMILY LAMP]

MY DEAR PANSIES:

The game for this Midsummer “month of evenings,” is one that I
especially commend to you. It will be enjoyed so very much longer after
it has been played, and years to come whenever you think of the happy
hour it engrossed you, you will always be very glad that you and your
little friends played it.

This is the game:

    THE WHEELING PARTY.

All who have carriages, or wagons, and a faithful horse or two in the
generous barns at home, ask your father or uncle if they will loan them
to you for an hour after supper on a pleasant evening, that all the
players may choose. Those who have no wagons, or anything that a horse
could draw, need not be debarred from joining in this game; possibly
they can contribute a large cart, that they could propel themselves or,
a boy not easily baffled, might join the procession, with an improvised
floor on wheels on which soft cushions are piled.

At any rate, let the procession be formed, of every “go-able vehicle,”
superintended by careful drivers, and where the space admits, carrying
happy, merry-voiced children to make the poor invalids forget their
sufferings.

Invalids? Yes, indeed, this is the “Invalids Wheeling Party,” the
blessedest invention of modern times. The “Shut-in Society” brought out
for a breath of fresh air—God’s poor children, who for wise reasons of
His, are serving Him in narrow rooms of want, now, by the kind hands of
children, admitted to the sweet peace of the summer eventide.

Do you not know them—these patient invalids? living perhaps very near
to you. There is the little lame boy—the washerwoman’s son, who when
she goes out to her work, minds the baby, and tries in his poor way to
help mother. “Dot-and-go-one” you and the other children perhaps call
him.

Wouldn’t it vary proceedings a bit if you were to send him a little
note, saying something like this:

    JIMMY:

    Will you go to ride after supper with Frank and me?

                                              EGBERT.

Or, there is old Mrs. Clemens. She is not pleasant-looking, to be sure;
snuffy and disagreeable in her ways also. But she has not stepped out
of her cottage only to go as far as the woodpile in five years. Think
of it! Suppose now Mrs. Clemens should find under her door some fine
morning a little white note in which the old lady should read:

    DEAR MRS. CLEMENS:

    Mary Alice Smith and I would like to give you a ride this
    evening after supper in my father’s wagon. I hope you can go.

                                               SUSAN EMBURY.

Don’t you suppose the Clemens cottage would be a new place all that day?

And so on. Even if you do not personally know who is needing these
sweet country drives, some one will be brought to your notice on
inquiry.

When the procession is formed, let some one lead who is intelligent,
as to the choice of a delightful locality (for invalids like to see
something new and pretty), and the best way for getting there.

Then while the greatest cheerfulness prevails let there be no
unnecessary noise, I beseech you, for your guests are unaccustomed to
excitement, and are easily wearied. There should be sweet attentions,
little courtesies, and the feeling of real enjoyment of giving
hospitality on your part, but all done and expressed quietly.

Try it, dear Pansies, this little game, and see if you do not often
play it these lovely summer evenings. I doubt not you will enjoy it as
much as the invited guests of “The Wheeling Party.”

                                                            M. S.

[Illustration: THE BIRD OF PARADISE.]


[Illustration: THE P. S. CORNER]

THE PANSY.

_Terms of Subscription._

    The price of THE PANSY is One Dollar a year. New
    subscriptions may begin with the volume (November issue), or
    with any number desired.

    The date following the subscriber’s name on the label shows
    the time to which the subscription is paid. Thus, Oct. ’87
    means that the subscription is paid to and including the
    October, 1887, number.

    If no request to discontinue the magazine is received, it
    is understood that its continuance is desired. The magazine
    will, however, be stopped at any time, if the subscriber so
    desires, provided all arrearages are paid as required by law.

    If a change of address is desired, the OLD as well as the
    new must be given.

    Remittances may be made by Post Office Money Order, Draft,
    Bank Cheek, or American Express Money Order.

             D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers, Boston.

======

_Willie_ from New York. My boy, I sent you the last badge a short time
ago. I hope they are now all right. Let me hear from your society as
often as you have anything interesting to tell us.

_Esca_ from Illinois. So you think you need more “sticktoativeness”!
Good! Ever so many people do. I counted no less than ten different
pieces of work which a boy of my acquaintance had commenced, and never
finished. They were all worth finishing too. What a pity! Imagine a
dress all done but the sleeves! Mammas do not work in that way; do they?

_Maude_ from Nebraska. Your letter was not too long, my dear; I was
interested in it all. I have known a number of wise small people
who, like yourself, made a great deal of trouble for themselves and
their best friends, by trying to have their own way. It is generally
a foolish thing to do. You must remember that it is not only “poor
people” who are in need of kind acts and words. Some of the most
unhappy persons I ever met, had plenty of money. What they needed was
sympathy, and a few gentle, helpful words.

_Carrie_ from Indian Territory. My dear Blossom, struggling with your
little garden away off from us, how glad we were to hear from you! It
is the same old story, though, which we hear from all over the country;
cross little tongues, speaking words that hurt, and for which they are
sorry afterwards, and all because Dame Passion gets hold of them, and
for the time makes them her slaves! Little Pixie too has her troubles.
It is very hard not to be selfish; especially if we are surrounded by
grown people who have been at work for a long time, teaching us to be
selfish, by giving up everything for our pleasure. And there is little
brother Tippie, wanting his own way, dreadfully! What busy gardeners
you will have to be working at all these weeds! If you were to sit down
and let them grow, I am afraid your buds would soon be choked. I am
glad you are not going to do this.

_Amelia_ from Indian Territory. What a beautiful pledge you have taken!
If you “do your duty in all things as long as you live,” you will be
sure to be one of whom I can be always proud. I should like to hear
from you often; and will always be glad to receive from you the history
of some of your “kind words” spoken for Jesus’ sake.

_Walter_ from New York. It was a grand idea to join us on your
birthday. I think the “lessons” must have felt the influence of that
pledge. To be as good a boy as one can, is promising a great deal, but
not too much if one is in tremendous earnest, as I think you are. We
enroll your name with pleasure.

_Mary_ from Vermont. I like your pledge; so many people ask useless
questions, wasting their time, and the patience of their friends, it is
well to break the habit while you are young. A gentleman called on me
the other day who had the same habit; he asked half a dozen questions,
any one of which he might have answered for himself if he had used his
eyes, and after sitting for half an hour, he turned to me and asked
three of them over again!

_Mary_ from New Hampshire. Your promise covers a great deal of ground.
If you keep it, you will be a true woman as long as you live. I like
your verses, and will print them in THE PANSY as soon as we have room.
I hope you find your badge helpful.

_Grace_ from New York. I could not have received the letter you
mention. I am glad you wrote again. What a large pledge you have taken!
To “do better in everything,” is surely worth one’s while. Your society
needs no name but P. S. We are all branches of the great Pansy Society
which reaches all over the country.

_Sarah_ from New York. We are glad to welcome you; may you be
successful in your efforts, as you surely will be if you live by the
Whisper Motto.

_Clara_ from Nebraska. I found your letter so full of helpful hints, my
dear, that I have copied from it for the magazine. I am glad you find
the badge a help.

_Josephine_, _Josephine_, _Mary_, _Robbie_, from New York. A bouquet of
Blossoms pledged to do battle against the weeds in their heart-gardens.
May you all succeed, and be fragrant flowers that shall give pleasure
wherever you go, and bloom forever in the garden above. This is Pansy’s
prayer for all her Blossoms.

_Florence_ from Ohio. The author of “My Brainless Acquaintance” sends
you thanks for your kind opinion of him. He will try to interest you
again. I am glad you find THE PANSY helpful in school. Look out for
some lovely recitations in it.

_Lillia_ from Connecticut. I hope the badges have been made right long
ago. I do not remember about it now, but I suppose the delay came from
getting out of badges. So many P. S. Blossoms sprang up at once all
over the country, that the first we knew, they had gotten ahead of us.
I am much interested in your society, and would like to hear from it
again. I will quote from your letter for the magazine, that some other
Pansies may get a hint from it how to employ their time.

_Mabel_ from Dakota. You have a great deal of company, my dear Mabel,
in the matter of wanting your own way. So that you are sure it is the
_right_ way, I don’t believe anybody will object. Shall I tell you how
to be sure of getting it? Have your way always _exactly_ what will most
honor Jesus.

_Claude_ from New York. Yes, I was once in Castile, and at Miss
Green’s; I loved her dearly, and owe her a great debt of gratitude.
I shall certainly come and see you if I visit your town. I think I
would like about a bushel of those “black caps.” So your hasty temper
troubles you? Temper is a very good thing if we put it under the right
Master. Take yours to Him, and ask Him to guard it for you.

_Pearl_ from Indiana. My dear, I think you must have a lovely walk
through the woods to school. I am glad you have decided to have
nothing to do with cards; I once heard a good man say: “They belong
to the enemy’s country; they gather under the flag which is a sign
of rebellion to King Jesus, so I will have nothing to do with them.”
I think that would be a very good rule for the Pansies to follow.
Whatever Satan makes marked use of, to injure others, I will not touch.

_Lita_ from Illinois. I hope you will succeed in overcoming the fault.
There is a sense in which it makes no difference whether or not I know
its name. You know, and Jesus knows; but if the Pansies choose to tell
us, it sometimes helps others.

_Alice and Emma_ from Wisconsin. Since you are dear friends, and wrote
me together, you will let me reply in the same way. I am glad to
welcome you both to our P. S. Glad also to hear that you both love and
serve the Lord Jesus. I hope your lives will be full of fragrance, and
suggest His name to all who know you.

_Jennie_ from Connecticut. I don’t know when I have enjoyed a story
more than the pleasant one you wrote me about that industrious
society. It told me a great many things; among others, that you have
dear helpful mothers, and friends. What should we do in this world
without the mothers who stand ready to help every effort of ours toward
usefulness, or right living? I hope you heard from the dolls. Write and
tell us how they were enjoyed.

_Milly_ from Pennsylvania. What a very fine beginning of a library you
have! I wish you had told us how you managed the books and what class
of books you had. How do you raise your money? When you hear from some
of those colored schools, will you tell us what they said to the help
you sent them?

_Hermon_ from Massachusetts. Prompt obedience is a very important habit
to form. It is a pleasure to me to notice how many young people are
resolved upon cultivating it. I think “Moses” has a responsible life to
live if he is to do honor to his name. I am not sure but “Aaron” was
wise in running away. At least, one can overlook running away from duty
when it is only a dog; but what shall be said of a boy or girl who does
the same?

_Finice_ from Kentucky. Is that the right name? I am not sure. “Hard
lessons” make a great deal of trouble in this world; but I know a
secret about them: they become easy as soon as they are learned; so
for one’s own sake it is worth while to overcome them. Sometimes,
schoolmates are very provoking, and it is hard to keep one’s temper
with them; but the boy or girl who does it soon acquires an influence
over his mates that others cannot have. I hope you know where to look
for help in keeping these pledges?

_Fannie_ from Kentucky. Do you think “all” little girls would really
like to overcome their faults? I have seen some young people whose
gravest fault seemed to me to be that they cared very little about
improving their habits, or getting control of their tongues or tempers.
I welcome you as one who is not of that company.

_Chester_ from Oregon. A “treasurer” is a very important officer in the
P. S., my boy, provided they have any money to care for; and most of
the societies have. They contrive ways of earning money, to spend in
benevolent work of some sort. It depends entirely on yourselves how you
will raise money, to what you will devote it, and how you will manage
your society. As a rule, the one who secures subscribers and starts a
club, becomes president; but if he, or she, thinks some other person
would make a better officer, one can be elected from the membership. I
like your pledge. The truth is, a boy who has a good mother, and who
always minds her promptly, is sure to be a boy to honor.

_Lois_ from Kentucky. “Cross” words make a great deal of trouble in
this world. Did you ever notice that they not only hurt the ones to
whom they are spoken, and the ones who hear them, but also those who
speak them! What a pity to cling to a habit which hurts in every
direction! I am glad you are going to be free.

_Lillie_, _Edna_, _Harry_, _Walter_, _Rose_, _Thad_, from Kansas. A
full bouquet which bloomed together! We welcome you, every one. Let
me see what weeds are to be rooted out; “Getting angry and answering
back,” “Forgetting work,” “Carelessness,” “Speaking cross words,”
“Being too noisy.” Just imagine what earnest work will have to be done
in getting rid of all these choking weeds! Besides these, one Blossom
is going to keep careful watch over a set of pearls which have been
given her for her own use. She knows that if she takes proper care
of them they will be beautiful and helpful all her life; and that if
she neglects them, they will become her enemies. I wish you all great
success, and will hope to hear from you.

_Freddie_ from New York. So you have a watch to prove to you what a
little persevering work will accomplish? Good! The people who get
discouraged seldom accomplish much. I hope your temper will, after
this, keep as good time as your watch; and that you will be as prompt
to follow orders as _it_ is to tick. My boy, you have a special work to
do for your mother, in trying to fill your dear father’s place as much
as you can. I hope you will be one of her greatest blessings.

_Mattie and Philemon_ from Georgia. A “careless” Blossom and an
“impatient” one starting together! Good! I fancy that the careless ways
may sometimes provoke the impatient words; and so you two can surely
help each other. We shall hope to hear of your great success.

_Frank_ from Massachusetts. “Kind words” are needed everywhere, my
boy; but I do not know that they will do more good anywhere than at
school among the scholars. I have often wondered at the rough words I
heard floating out on the air as I passed playgrounds. If one boy sets
an example of kindness and courtesy to all the young people around
him, who can tell how the habit may spread, and cause many Blossoms to
spring up?

_Davenport_ from Massachusetts. Glad to welcome you; I hope your badge
is helping you in all the ways in which you need help. Thank your kind
sister for writing in your name. I think she is a very excellent writer
for one so young. Let me hear what you are doing, in which your badge
has been a help.

_Arthur_ from New Jersey. Ever so many people “don’t want to do the
thing which they ought next to do.” Did you know that? the great
difference between them is, that some people seize hold of the thing
they didn’t want to do, and do it; while some growl around, or whine
around, and leave it undone as long as they can. I am glad to know you
are, from this time, to belong to the first class.

_Robbie_ from New York. I am very glad to welcome you to the P. S. I
am much interested in the club of which you are a member, and would be
glad to hear from it from time to time. You did not give me the special
habit which you are trying to conquer, but I suppose you know, very
well, which it is, and are doing brave work over it.

_Florence_ from New York. When you “get the better” of your temper,
and are its mistress instead of being controlled by it, what a happy
Blossom you will be! Some people do not think this can be done, but
I am sure it can by any one who truly wishes to do so, and seeks and
finds the right sort of help.

_Kimball_ from Illinois. Welcome to our garden. “Talking back” is a
weed which chokes many flowers; quite hides their sweetness oftentimes.
Root it out. Thank you for the kind invitation. I should like to accept
it, but fear I will not have time. Will you give my love to grandma,
and all the dear ones, and thank them for their kind words to me?


EXTRACTS FROM PANSY LETTERS.

DEAR PANSY:

I would like to become a member of the P. S. I am a little girl seven
years old. My mamma is an invalid and I am hands and feet for her as
she sits in her invalid chair. I have a brother and sister in Heaven.

My little sister Nellie was four years and a half old when she died.
She would have made a good member of the P. S., for mamma says she took
for her motto in everything, “For Jesus’ sake.” One day, before she was
sick, she said to mamma, “Me do love Jesus _so_ much, mamma, me want
to go see Him, and sing praise to Him.” Then she would hold out her
little arms, as though she was reaching up to some one, and ask mamma
when she thought God would send for her. One morning after looking at a
sunrise, she said, “Mamma, it looks like the golden streets of Heaven.”
I wanted to write to you about this little sister, for I thought she
would have made such a dear little Pansy. Now she is a Blossom in God’s
garden.

I live on a farm, but it is right by a little village. I play with
lambs, and ducks, and calves. My chickens follow me around and get
under my feet sometimes, so I can scarcely walk. I can pick them up and
pat them, any time. I wish to overcome two bad habits: selfishness and
whining. I had a gold ring to help me keep from whining; I had it last
fall, and it cured me until this spring; then the habit come back so
bad I had to give mamma the ring. Now I am going to try what the badge
and motto will do. I’ve tried the motto before, and it _always_ helped.
But someway, dear Pansy, I do not always keep hold of the Help. Mamma
says she thinks it might do grown people good to belong to a Pansy
Society. We have a great many of your books in our home. Mamma gets a
new one every year; we lend them to people to read. I hope I have not
tired you with my letter.

                                Yours, truly and lovingly,
                                                BLANCHE PERKINS.

======

DEAR PANSY:

We are two little brothers away down in Va. We have taken THE PANSY for
four years. We like it more and more, and we love you very much. We
have two bad habits. We don’t keep things in place and we dispute with
each other. We found a bumblebee’s house in a part of an old barn. It
had fifteen apartments and two ways of entering them. The doors were
little round caps which looked something like stiff, dark brown paper.
Our love for you and all the Blossoms.

                              Your little Pansies,
                                           DAVIS WILSON.
                                           R. P. WILSON.

======

DEAR PANSY:

The boys in our society are making banners and books for the children
in the hospital. The girls are sewing dresses for the little orphans
who are found; they have hardly any clothes to cover them when they are
found. Our Sunday-school teacher has taken a great deal of interest
in our society. She has given us twenty-three books, and a great many
cards. We have learned a good many missionary hymns from the cards.
We have a library of sixty-three books; and a friend is going to give
us some more. We meet every Saturday at my house; we are going to use
our money to help provide schools for little colored children. There
are about thirty members of our society. We all want to see you; we
wish you would come and visit us. We will be much obliged to see you
any Saturday between half-past two and half-past five. I must bid you
good-by.

                                         Your faithful friend,
                                                         MILLY.

======

DEAR PANSY:

I would like to join the P. S. And I will try to overcome the habit
of talking back. I am afraid I will have hard work and will need much
help. I have taken THE PANSY for four years, and I like it ever so
much. I like “Reaching Out” the best of all. Mother thinks “Hedge
Fence” was the best, for boys. I have been in school for two winters. I
am nine years old. I belong to a Bible class.

With a little of grandma’s help, I got ten new subscribers for THE
PANSY. When you go West, won’t you stop off and make us a visit?
Because you would find lots of friends here. There are four of us in
this family, grandma, papa, mamma, and I. And we will all be glad to
see you. We all feel acquainted with you, because we have two of your
pictures, and lots of your books.

Mamma says if I am a Pansy I must be a bronze one. Can you guess why?
Some time I will tell you “Where I Went and What I Saw,” in a summer
trip; but this summer I am to be one of the “stay at homes.”

                                           Your friend,
                                                 KIMBALL GREENOUGH.

======

DEAR PANSY:

In “Where I Went, and What I Saw,” you once told about some Bible
verses, the first letters of which would spell “Our Sabbath School.”

I thought I would find some like them:—

    O  righteous Father, the world hath not known
       thee; but I have known thee; and these
       have known that thou hast sent me.—_John_
       xvii:25.

    U  nderstanding is a wellspring of life unto
       him that hath it: but the instruction of
       fools, is folly.—_Proverbs_ xvi:22.

    R  emember the word that I said unto you,
       The servant is not greater than his lord.—_John_
       xv:20.

    S  uffer the little children to come unto me,
       and forbid them not, for of such is the
       kingdom of God.—_Mark_ x:14.

    A  bide in me and I in you; as the branch
       cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide
       in the vine; no more can ye, except ye
       abide in me.—_John_ xv:4.

    B  ehold what manner of love the Father hath
       bestowed upon us that we should be called
       the sons of God.—_1 John_ iii:1.

    B  y this we know that we love the children
       of God, when we love God, and keep His
       commandments.—_1 John_ v:2.

    A  s the Father hath loved me, so have I loved
       you. Continue ye in my love.—_John_
       xv:9.

    T  hese things have I spoken unto you, that
       my joy might remain in you, and that your
       joy might be full.—_John_ xv:11.

    H  erein is my Father glorified that ye bear
       much fruit; so shall ye be my disciples.—_John_
       xv:8.

    S  tudy to show thyself approved unto God;
       a workman that needeth not to be ashamed.—_2
       Tim._ ii:15.

    C  ome unto me all ye that labor and are heavy-laden,
       and I will give you rest.—_Matt._
       xi:28.

    H  enceforth I call you not servants, for the
       servant knoweth not what his lord doeth:
       but I have called you friends.—_John_ xv:15.

    O  Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth
       in thee.—_Psalms_ lxxxiv:12.

    O  thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou
       doubt?—_Matt._ xiv:31.

    L  et not your heart be troubled: ye believe
       in God, believe also in me.—_John_ xiv:1.

                                     ARTHUR W. FISHER.


DEAR PANSY:

I am trying to overcome my habits very hard. My great fault is to get
mad so easy. And sometimes I pout when I get mad. I go off by myself,
often, and ask the Lord to help me to quit such a habit. Please help me
to overcome such a fault. Now my little sister Pixie wants to belong
to our Band. Her fault is selfishness; she thinks she ought to have
everything that is pretty. She tries to tear my PANSIES every time
she gets them. Still, she loves to read them. Mamma and I think they
are ever so nice. I won’t let Pixie have my PANSIES because I want to
keep them nice; she says mamma ought to subscribe for her. I hope she
will grow better as she grows older; she is very young. Now my brother
Tippie, he wants to join us; he is so contrary, he don’t know what to
do. But mamma says he isn’t contrary with anybody but Pixie and me.
Please let me have a letter of my own from you.

                        I am your little eight-year-old
                                            CHEROKEE BLOSSOM.

======


DEAR PANSY:

I like our magazine very much. I am eleven years old. I recited a piece
at school that I learned from THE PANSY. It was very much liked. I
am going to have my magazines bound. I like the story “My Brainless
Acquaintance” almost better than anything else. My little sister enjoys
the pictures. I thought the last number was _never_ going to come!
Don’t you think a month is a long time to wait? Good-by.

                                             FLORENCE ROBINSON.


A FAMILY FLIGHT THROUGH SPAIN.

DID you carefully read what I said about the Horners in their flight
through Egypt and Syria? And do you remember it in detail, as to price,
appearance, etc? No, of course you don’t. Who ever heard of these giddy
girls and boys remembering anything for a month? Oh! Oh! I can hear
your indignant voices. Well, that is too bad; and I believe in my heart
as many of you as sent for the book and read it, have a very vivid and
delightful memory of the family and their experiences. But for the
benefit of the new Pansies, and of those who could not or did not
send for the other book, let me introduce you to this one by the same
authors, and offer it to you on the same excellent terms: one dollar
and twenty cents, if you are willing to have it bound in boards, and
one dollar and fifty cents if you want it in cloth. Remember, that is
a dollar cheaper than any others can get it; a special offer to the
members of the P. S.

I had no idea that Spain was so interesting a country until I travelled
with the Horners. I think now that it makes a very great difference
about one’s enjoyment in travelling, who their companions are. I am
very fond of Bessie Horner, and for that matter of Tommy himself, while
Mr. Hervey is fully as good a friend of mine as he is of the other
travellers. This beautiful book which gives the story of the flight
through Spain, is very fully illustrated, giving one an excellent
idea of the country, its birds, its fruits, its buildings, etc. For
instance, take this description of


THE ALHAMBRA.

Under the Moors, the Alhambra was the scene of many romantic events,
the legends connected with which still people its courts with phantoms.
The road leading up from the hotel to the entrance is shaded with tall
trees, and the water trickles down the side, making the grass fresh
and green. The walls are of a beautiful red or orange color, which is
shared by the soil; this alone gives a glowing aspect to the scene.
The chief place of entrance is called the Gate of Justice. It is more
than a gate, being a square tower, the upper part of which contains
rooms where people live. Their little flower pots filled with bright
blossoms, stand on the ledge of the window. The horseshoe arch of
entrance is below; for as the ground is terraced, the level of the
palace is above that of the arch, and is approached by an ascent, and a
staircase within the tower.

[Illustration: COURT OF LIONS. (_From Family Flight through Spain._)]

Over this arch there is carved an outstretched hand pointing upward, to
avert the evil eye; over the second one a key is sculptured; a symbol
of the power of the prophet to open and shut the gates of heaven. The
passages within the tower wind about under several arches, until they
lead out and up to the walled-in plateau, on which the Alhambra
stands. A little farther on is another gateway, and building, called
the Puerto del Vino; it formerly contained a Mihrab, or Moorish chapel.

From the high terrace near these two gates is a lovely view across the
deep ravine to the Sierra Nevada, always slightly touched with snow,
and taking on beautiful lights, according to the time of day: dark blue
in the morning, and, as evening approaches, roseate; for in addition to
the sunset tints, the natural color of the soil and stone make the tone
of the range warm and rich. Here opens a large plaza, called the Place
of the Cisterns, on one side of which is the Alcazaba, or fortress,
with its dismantled castle, while opposite it appears the palace of
Charles the Fifth, which he began to build, but never finished. He
destroyed the greater part of the beautiful winter palace of the Moors,
to make room for his own, and afterward abandoned his plan, leaving
the unfinished ruin, with open arches, staring to the sky. It is said
that earthquakes discouraged him from going on with his palace. There
are planted garden beds, and walks leading along the side of it, to a
plain, unadorned wall, through which a door leads to the real glories
of the Alhambra.

Here found themselves one morning, Mr. Horner and Miss Lejeune, Bessie
and Tommy; Bessie grumbling, as usual, at Charles the Fifth, and
Ferdinand and Isabella, who have left their traces so often in the
destruction of Moorish ornament.

“I do believe,” said Bessie, “that Isabella herself rode on a whitewash
brush!”

“Perhaps she was the—

    Old woman, old woman, said I,
    To sweep the cobwebs from the sky!“

said Tommy.

They passed on through the gate. Charles the Fifth and Isabella were
forgotten. The transition was magical; they felt at once transported
into other times, and were treading the scenes of the Arabian Nights.
They were in the Court of Myrtles, a long, open patio, of which the
floor is taken up by an immense basin, more than a hundred feet long,
bordered by myrtle-trees and roses. It is surrounded by a light arcade
of Moorish columns, and at the upper end rises the great Tower of
Comares. The pillars here and elsewhere are of extreme lightness,
and the ornamentation of the capital varies in each; slender arches
spring from the capitals, and bend gracefully till they meet. A dado
of azulejos, or colored tiles, runs along the wall, from the floor of
brightest colors, with great variety of patterns. The eye is never
tired of following these designs, nor those of the arabesque work
above, into which are woven Arabic sentences, in the graceful lettering
of that language. Across the water is seen the vista made by the
entrance to the Hall of Ambassadors, the chief room of the Tower of
Comares. The tower and its colonnades are reflected in the clear still
water of the pool.

“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Miss Lejeune. “This surpasses all my dreams
of it.”

“Let us stay here, and not go any further to-day!” said Bessie.

Tommy was well content to study the goldfish in the clear water, rather
startled, as he leaned over, to catch the perfect reflection of his
own face on the surface of the pool, with behind it an intensely blue
sky studded with woolly white clouds. He looked up instinctively, and
saw above the graceful fretwork of the court, the real bright sky and
clouds, just like the mirrored ones.

“Our guide apparently expects us to move on,” remarked Mr. Horner. “We
can let him gallop us through once, and then come at our leisure as
often as we like.”

“Not gallop us, papa,” said Bessie, taking hold of his hand; “a quiet
little trot will satisfy him.”

They were led into the Court of Lions, where Bessie was at once in love
with the somewhat clumsy animals of Arab origin, that form the group of
the fountain in the centre.

“I must embrace this one!” she cried, and did so, to Tommy’s disgust
and mortification. He looked round to see if there were any observers.

These lions must not be looked upon as efforts of sculpture to
represent accurately the king of beasts, but as emblems of strength
and courage. They are of white marble, with manes like the scales of a
griffin, and water comes from their mouths.


    THREE NUMBERS FREE!

    EVERY PERSON SENDING US

    $3.00

    BEFORE AUGUST 15

    FOR ONE YEAR’S SUBSCRIPTION TO

    WIDE AWAKE

    Beginning with the SEPTEMBER number, will
    receive the first three numbers of the present volume,
    JUNE, JULY and AUGUST,

    =FREE!!=

    The remittance must be forwarded direct to the
    Publishers before August 15, 1886.

    D. LOTHROP & CO., PUBLISHERS,      BOSTON.


    =FREE!=

    A Book Heretofore sold for One Dollar.

    =THE GREATEST INDUCEMENT EVER OFFERED.=

    =COOKERY FOR BEGINNERS,=

    BY MARION HARLAND,

    Author of “Common Sense in the Household,” etc.,

    [Illustration: COOKERY FOR BEGINNERS BY MARION HARLAND]

    =Will be presented to every person sending his own (or
    a friend’s) yearly subscription= to either THE PANSY or OUR
    LITTLE MEN AND WOMEN, at the regular subscription price,
    $1.00, direct to the Publishers, before September 1st.

    =Or, the book will be presented to every person= sending
    =TWO= subscriptions to BABYLAND, with $1.00 for the same.

    =THESE OFFERS ARE UNPARALLELED,=

And you should take advantage of them, before they are withdrawn. The
Publishers have never before offered inducements to those sending
their own subscriptions, and probably never will again. Send your
subscription with the $1.00 at once.

The book, “Cookery for Beginners,” has always been cataloged and
sold in cloth binding at the low price of $1.00. But we have made a
new edition in oiled, waterproof paper covers, containing the same
matter and same number of pages as the previous editions. It consists
of plain, practical lessons for girls and young housekeepers of
small means. Its directions are to be relied upon, and its results
are invariably delicate, wholesome and delicious. It possesses the
advantage of being perfectly adapted to the needs of beginners. Mothers
cannot give their daughters a more sensible and useful present than
this volume. It is a most valuable addition to the home library.

    =D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers, Franklin and Hawley Sts., Boston.=


THERE IS NO DOUBT OF IT!

The American and English Press, the Fathers and Mothers, as well as the
Young Folks themselves, _agree_ that

[Illustration: =WiDE AWAKE=]

_is_ the Best Magazine for young people in this country or abroad.

=YOU= who know the large delight and practical good the magazine
carries wherever it goes, by introducing it to the young people about
you, can win their thanks, and a liberal return from the Publishers. D.
LOTHROP & CO. wish to engage at once

    =10,000 YOUNG PEOPLE, AND
    10,000 FRIENDS OF YOUNG PEOPLE=

to do this; and therefore for the next two months they make the
following

    Great Offer:

To each club of five (5) subscribers they will reduce the price of same
_from $15.00 to only $10.00_, and _also_ give a year’s subscription to
the getter-up of the club, or $2.00 in cash, as may be preferred.

    The Next Volumes

will surpass in surprising features the unprecedented successes of the
present year. Be sure to send for Prospectuses.

[Illustration: Hand] _Specimen copies of_ WIDE AWAKE _sent free to
every one who will use them for the above purpose._ Also Circulars,
Prospectuses, etc., which are mailed _free_.

    Address      D. LOTHROP & CO., Boston, Mass., U. S. A.


THE POPULAR PANSY BOOKS

The works of this popular author are universally acknowledged to be
among the very best of all books for Sunday-school reading. Earnest,
hopeful, practical, full of the spirit of Christian faith and courage,
they are also in the highest degree interesting.


COMPLETE LIST OF THE PANSY BOOKS.

    _Each volume, 12mo., $1.50._

    Chautauqua Girls at Home.
    Divers Women.
    Echoing and Reëchoing.
    Endless Chain (An).
    Ester Ried.
    Ester Ried Yet Speaking.
    Four Girls at Chautauqua.
    From Different Standpoints.
    Hall in the Grove (The).
    Household Puzzles.
    Julia Ried.
    King’s Daughter (The).
    Links in Rebecca’s Life.
    Mrs. Solomon Smith Looking On.
    Modern Prophets.
    Man of the House (The).
    New Graft on the Family Tree (A).
    Pocket Measure (The).
    Ruth Erskine’s Crosses.
    Randolphs (The).
    Sidney Martin’s Christmas.
    Those Boys.
    Three People.
    Tip Lewis and his Lamp.
    Wise and Otherwise.

    _Each volume, 12mo., $1.25._

    Cunning Workmen.
    Dr. Deane’s Way.
    Grandpa’s Darlings.
    Miss Priscilla Hunter and my Daughter Susan.
    Mrs. Deane’s Way.
    What she Said.

    _Each volume, 12mo., $1.00._

    Five Friends.
    Mrs. Harry Harper’s Awakening.
    Next Things.
    Pansy’s Scrap Book.
    Some Young Heroines.

    _Each volume, 12mo., 75 cents._

    Getting Ahead.
    Mary Burton Abroad.
    Pansies.
    Six Little Girls.
    That Boy Rob.
    Two Boys.

    _Each volume, 16mo., 75 cents._

    Bernie’s White Chicken.
    Docia’s Journal.
    Helen Lester.
    Jessie Wells.


MISCELLANEOUS.

Hedge Fence (A). 16mo., 60c. Side by Side. 16mo., 60c. Pansy’s Picture
Book. 4to., boards, $1.50; cloth, $2.00. The Little Pansy Series. 10
vols., boards, $3.00; cloth, $4.00. Mother’s Boys and Girls Library. 12
vols., quarto, boards, $3.00.


PANSY’S NEW BOOKS.

Among the new books by this favorite author, which Sunday-school
Superintendents and all readers of her previous books will wish to
order, are:—

=One Commonplace Day.= Pansy has brought out in this book a vivid,
lifelike story, full of strong incentives to right thinking and living.
12mo, cloth, $1.50.

=Interrupted.= Has all the charm of this author’s style, grown riper
each year. 12mo, extra cloth, $1.50.

=In the Woods and Out.= Admirably suited to the needs of a large class
of young folks. It is composed of the choicest of short tales so
delightful at the twilight hour when the children clamor for “a story.”
12mo, cloth, $1.00.

=The Browning Boys.= A fascinating story of the growth of two boys
who set out on their birthday to be helpful at home. By applying the
“golden texts” of the International Sunday-school lessons in their
every-day life, they, without swerving from the strictest sense of
right, are able to send their invalid father to Florida, and were the
means of his restoration to health. 16mo, cloth, 60 cents.

=A Hedge Fence.= A story that will be particularly pleasing to boys,
most of whom will find in its hero a fair representation of themselves.
16mo, 60 cents.

=An Endless Chain.= From the introduction, on the first page, of the
new superintendent of the Packard Place Sabbath-school, to the end,
there is no flagging of interest in this bright, fresh, wholesome
story. Illustrated. 12mo., $1.50.

=Side by Side.= Short illustrated stories from Bible texts for the help
of boys and girls in their every-day duties. 16mo., cloth, 60 cents.

=Christie’s Christmas.= No more charming little heroine can be found
than the Christie of this volume, and the story of her journey to
spend Christmas, with the great variety of characters introduced, all
of them original and individual in their way, is perfectly novel and
interesting.

As a guide to teachers, rich in suggestions and directions for methods
of teaching, etc., there is nothing better than =Pansy’s Scrap Book=.
12mo., cloth, illustrated, $1.00.

In fact all of Pansy’s books have some special charm or attraction
which makes them a power for good wherever read.


JUST READY

The New Sunday-school Library, NO. 11. 20 Volumes. Former prices, $1.25
and $1.50 each; net to Schools, $10.00.

New Pansy Primary Library. 20 Volumes. Net to Schools, $5.00.

    32 FRANKLIN ST., BOSTON, March, 1886.

    TO SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHERS:—

    _Ladies and Gentlemen_,—Because we know that to you it
    is, and should be, largely entrusted to advise our young
    people in regard to their reading, because you are powerful
    guardians of “literature for the young,” we invite you to
    examine the periodicals we publish monthly for children
    and young folks: =Wide Awake=, =The Pansy=, =Our Little
    Men and Women=, and =Babyland=. We will supply you with
    specimens of these, if you will call, or if you will write
    us. These magazines are in the watchful and trained care
    of their original editors, and the same purity, strength,
    and sparkle characterize each number from month to month,
    from year to year. The highest order of fiction, the
    most inspiring, lifting, and refining poetry, the most
    instructive lessons in history and natural science, the most
    entertaining records of travel and adventure, the finest
    literary and biographical articles, appear in their pages.
    _The Congregationalist_ said last week of WIDE AWAKE, that
    it “sets its readers to thinking for themselves along many
    different lines. It has solved the problem how to proportion
    fun and soberness best in such a publication better than any
    of its rivals.” _Literary Life_, after saying that “WIDE
    AWAKE is the best monthly magazine for young folks published
    in the country,” goes on to say of it, “Next to watching
    Nature herself, it is the finest educational work we ever
    have seen for children. A child made happy by such a work
    will possess an intelligence and richness of mind beyond
    the mere range of school lessons.” We do indeed confidently
    trust that should you direct your classes to our magazines,
    you will find them a good means of preparation of hearts
    and minds for your own important work. You will find the
    magazines graded suitably for the use of infant classes, and
    upwards.

                        Very truly yours,
                              D. LOTHROP & CO., _Publishers_.

    (_From the N. Y. Tribune._)

    Among publishers who have carried into their work serious
    convictions as to their duty to the public in the matter of
    supplying good literature, and who have resolutely resisted
    all temptations in the more lucrative direction of that
    which is simply sensational, an honorable place may be
    claimed for D. Lothrop & Co., who have accomplished in the
    United States a work second to that of no publishing-house.

    This work was undertaken by D. Lothrop & Co. years ago. With
    the firm conviction that ultimate success would attend their
    efforts, they have employed the pens of scores of those
    who have shared their convictions, including some of the
    best-known authors at home and abroad, and have sent out an
    ever-increasing stream of pure, attractive, and instructive
    literature, which has reached every part of the land, and
    made their name famous everywhere.

    In a general way the public are familiar with the aims of
    this house, and have come to regard its imprint upon a book
    as a guaranty of excellence in all essential qualities.

    Illustrated catalogue and full catalogue sent free by
    D. LOTHROP & CO., 32 Franklin Street, Boston, Mass.


PUBLISHERS’ DEPARTMENT

    The August issues of the beautiful

    [Illustration: =WIDE AWAKE ART PRINTS=]

    will be the following:

August 1. “COMRADES.” By Edmund H. Garrett. One of the most delightful
pictures in the series; a rich old-time interior, a white-bearded,
white-ruffed grandpapa teaching a beautiful boy the cup-and-ball play,
a big staghound at the right, two King Charles spaniels at the left, a
hooded falcon on a perch above.

August 15. “A MANORIAL PIGEON-TOWER.” By Henry Bacon, the well-known
American artist-author of Paris. The dovecote is in the background, in
the foreground the pretty French maid feeding the pretty pigeons.

  _Already issued_:

  Oct.  1.   LITTLE BROWN MAIDEN.                    _Kate Greenaway._
  Oct. 15.   ON NANTUCKET SHORE.                   _F. Childe Hassam._
  Nov.  1.   IN GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN.                 _W. T. Smedley._
  Nov. 15.   THE DREAM PEDLER.                        _E. H. Garrett._
  Dec.  1.   MORNING.                                 _F. H. Lungren._
  Dec. 15.   EVENING.                                 _F. H. Lungren._
  Jan.  1.   WILD DUCKS.                            _Charles Volkmar._
  Jan. 15.   IN HOLLAND.                           _F. Childe Hassam._
  Feb.  1.   THE THREE FISHERS.                     _Thomas Hovenden._
  Feb. 15.   UNDER THE ELECTRIC LIGHT.                _F. H. Lungren._
  Mar.  1.   TWO CONNOISSEURS.                      _T. W. Wood, N.A._
  Mar. 15.   LOST.                                     _W. L. Taylor._
  Apr.  1.   THE PIPERS.                     _Jessie Curtis Shepherd._
  Apr. 15.   ON EASTER DAY.                            _W. L. Taylor._
  May   1.   THE YOUNG EMPEROR COMMODUS.                _Howard Pyle._
  May  15.   A VENETIAN AFTERNOON.                   _Joseph Pennell._
  June  1.   UP A TREE.                         _Miss L. B. Humphrey._
  June 15.   LITTLE GREAT-GRANDPAPA’S
                 SINGING-LESSON.                   _Frank T. Merrill._
  July  1.   THE MINUTE MEN.                            _Hy. Sandham._
  July 15.   A SUNNY NOOK.                           _Walter Shirlaw._

The WIDE AWAKE ART PRINTS are sent postpaid in pasteboard tubes for 50
cents each. Half yearly subscription, $5.50; yearly, $10.00.

The Press says of the beauty and art educational value of the ART
PRINTS:

    _An admirable Art Enterprise! We can very cordially praise
    the new_ WIDE AWAKE ART PRINTS. _They are wholly charming,
    and the idea of their publication is unique and entitled to
    frank commendation. We could wish that such charming gems of
    art could be in every home, for wherever they are they will
    not only be a source of very great pleasure but they have a
    very important educational value._—Boston Post.

The Publishers send greetings and congratulations to all the boys, all
the girls, all the brothers, all the sisters, all the cousins, uncles,
aunts, grandfathers and grandmothers, who have for the last four years
been incessantly writing inquiries as to the fate of “John North,” the
hero of

    “_The Silver City_” and “_Cacique John_,”

and they hereby inform them severally and collectively that in the
December number of WIDE AWAKE will be begun a splendid serial story by
Mr. Ober, entitled

    “MONTEZUMA’S GOLD MINES,”

of which the same “John North” is the hero.


=TEACHERS!=

_Please read the following_ UNSOLICITED _testimonial as to the value
of_ BABYLAND _and_ OUR LITTLE MEN AND WOMEN _in school work_:

“I wish it were possible to send you our little six-year children to
read for you from these splendid little journals. Their progress in
three months has been remarkable. Our work in reading is the wonder of
this city and Portland, and we owe these excellent results to you for
furnishing us such bright and entertaining papers.

                                         W. A. WETZELL,
                           _Supt. of City Schools, E. Portland, Ore_”

======

The July WIDE AWAKE gives to its subscribers a fine photogravure
of French’s famous statue of the Minute Man at Concord, Mass. It
accompanies the stirring ballad of “The Minute Men” by Margaret Sidney,
commemorative of “the Shot Heard Round the World.”

======

The Southern custom of “Strawberry Day” is celebrated in a poem in the
July WIDE AWAKE by Susan Coolidge; the large strawberry-growers of some
sections having established the beautiful observance of giving the
first day’s pickings to the sick and the poor.


THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY.

    =$5.00 a Year,      50 cts. a Number.=

The Choicest Works of Popular Authors, issued monthly.

The works issued in this library are uniformly of a high standard and
may well come under that class of literature styled “home fiction,” a
literature, that, while free from the flashy, sensational effect of
much of the fiction of to-day, is, nevertheless, brilliant in style,
fresh and strong in action, and of absorbing interest. It is a class
that all the young folks, as well as the fathers and mothers and older
brothers and sisters, may read with profit as well as great pleasure.

=1. THE PETTIBONE NAME, by Margaret Sidney=, author of _The Five
Little Peppers_, etc. It is a delightful story of New England life and
manners, sparkling in style, bright and effective in incident, and of
intense interest. There has been no recent figure in American fiction
more clearly or skilfully drawn than Miss Judith Pettibone. Most of the
characters of the book are such as may be met with in any New England
village.

=2. MY GIRLS, by Lida A. Churchill.= A story of four ambitious girls.
Their struggles to realize their ambitions and their trials and
successes, make a story of intense interest.

=3. WITHIN THE SHADOW, by Dorothy Holroyd.= “The most successful book
of the year.” “The plot is ingenious, yet not improbable, the character
drawing strong and vigorous, the story throughout one of brilliancy and
power.” “The book cannot help making a sensation.”—_Boston Transcript._

=4. FAR FROM HOME.= From the German of Johannes Van Derval. Translated
by =Kathrine Hamilton=. A fascinating story of life and travel in
foreign lands.

=5. GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, by the author of Silent Tom.= The story is
fascinatingly told. The character of Grandmother Normandy, stern,
relentless and unforgiving, almost to the last, is strongly drawn, and
the author has shown much skill in the construction of the story.

=6. AROUND THE RANCH, by Belle Kellogg Towne.= It is original, fresh,
and written with great naturalness and power; its pathos is exquisitely
touching. The opening scenes are laid in the Colorado mining regions.

=7. A FORTUNATE FAILURE, by Caroline B. LeRow.= The author of this
charming book is widely known as a successful writer of magazine
stories. In this story, the principal character is the sweet, bright
and ambitious daughter of a New Hampshire farmer, who has been placed
at boarding-school by a rich aunt, where her development is traced
under the surrounding influences.

=8. BUT HALF A HEART, by Marie Oliver.= The author has won an enviable
reputation as a writer of the higher and purer class of fiction. This
is the story of a girl’s life, and is intense in interest, elevated in
tone.

=9. MORE WAYS THAN ONE, by Alice Perry=, author of “Esther
Pennefather.” A story of singular beauty and power.

=10. VIOLET DOUGLAS; or, the Problems of Life, by Emma Marshall.= It
pictures the beauty and nobleness of a life of active and unselfish
devotion to the welfare of others.

=11. THE TALBURY GIRLS.= A very sweet story, with great fulness of
incident and insight into different spheres of life.

=12. A WHITE HAND, by Ella Farman.= A story of American society, by the
editor of WIDE AWAKE.


LOTHROP’S YOUNG PEOPLE’S LIBRARY.

Nothing so good and cheap is anywhere to be found. Each volume has 300
to 500 pages, illustrated. Price 25 cts. Postpaid

   1. TIP LEWIS AND HIS LAMP, by Pansy.
   2. MARGIE’S MISSION, by Marie Oliver.
   3. KITTY KENT’S TROUBLES, by Julia A. Eastman.
   4. MRS. HURD’S NIECE, by Ella Farman Pratt, Editor of Wide Awake.
   5. EVENING REST, by J. L. Pratt.
   6. THE TRIPLE “E,” by the author of Yensie Walton.
   7. SHINING HOURS, by a brilliant author.
   8. THE OLD STONE HOUSE, by Anne March (Constance Fenimore Woolson).
   9. BATTLES LOST AND WON, by George E. Merrill. A story of schoolboy
            life.
  10. THE JUDGE’S SONS, by Mrs. E. D. Kendall.
  11. SHELL COVE, by Rev. Z. A. Mudge.
  12. LUTE FALCONER, by the author of Andy Luttrell. A story of rare
            interest.

These twelve volumes constitute the first year’s series.


The twelve volumes announced below constitute the second year’s series.

  13. FABRICS, by the author of Finished, or Not.
  14. THE PRINCE AND THE PAGE, by Miss C. M. Yonge. A story of the last
            Crusade.
  15. MYRA SHERWOOD’S CROSS, AND HOW SHE BORE IT.
  16. THIS ONE THING I DO, by Mrs. A. E. Porter.
  17. SO AS BY FIRE, by Margaret Sidney.
  18. OLD SCHOOLFELLOWS, AND WHAT BECAME OF THEM.
  19. ROSE AND MILLIE, by the author of Hester’s Happy Summer.
  20. VEIL ON THE HEART (The), by Miss L. L. Phelps.
  21. THE NEIGHBOR’S HOUSE, by the author of The New Commandment.
  22. FROM NIGHT TO LIGHT, by E. E. Brown.
  23. SURE; or, IT PAYS.
  24. SISTER ELEANOR’S BROOD, by Mrs. S. B. Phelps.


AN UNSURPASSED PREMIUM OFFER.

TAMMEN’S ROCKY MOUNTAIN JUVENILE CABINET.

This beautiful and instructive set of minerals will be sent to any
subscriber to one of our magazines who will send us one new subscriber
to THE PANSY, or OUR LITTLE MEN AND WOMEN, or for two new subscribers
to BABYLAND. We will send =three= of the Cabinets to any subscriber who
will send us one new subscriber to WIDE AWAKE.


[Illustration: TAMMEN’S JUVENILE CABINET (COPYRIGHT 1886)

TAMMEN’S JUVENILE ROCKY MOUNTAIN CABINET]

Address all orders to D. Lothrop & Co., Boston.

    =FIELD BOTANY.=

    Given to any subscriber sending one new subscriber to
    BABYLAND and =10 cents cash additional=, before Sept. 15th.

    A Handbook for the Collector, containing Instructions
    for gathering and preserving Plants and the formation of
    Herbarium. Also complete Instructions in leaf Photography,
    Plant Printing and the Skeletonizing of Leaves. By WALTER P.
    MANTON. Illustrated. Price, 50 cents.

    From the first page to the last it is practical, and tells
    the young botanist exactly what it is most desirable to know.

    =TAXIDERMY WITHOUT A TEACHER.=

    Given to any subscriber sending one new subscriber to
    BABYLAND and =10 cents cash additional=, before Sept. 15th.

    Comprising a complete Manual of Instruction for preparing
    and preserving Birds, Animals and Fishes; with a chapter
    on Hunting and Hygiene; together with Instructions for
    preserving Eggs and making Skeletons, and a number of
    valuable recipes. By WALTER P. MANTON. Illustrated. Price,
    50 cents.

    =INSECTS.=

    Given to any subscriber sending one new subscriber to
    BABYLAND and =10 cts. cash additional= before Sept. 15th.

    [Illustration]

    How to catch and how to prepare them for the Cabinet,
    Comprising a Manual of Instruction for the Field Naturalist.
    By WALTER P. MANTON. Cloth, illustrated. Price, 50 cents.

    The young naturalist will seize this book with avidity and
    study it with an earnestness proportioned to his delight in
    bug-catching.

    Two of the above books given to any subscriber sending us
    one new subscription to THE PANSY or OUR LITTLE MEN AND
    WOMEN.


regard to the attractive objects of nature around them; and their
future mental activity—or stupidity—depends largely upon the answers
they receive. _Parents_ and _teachers_ should, therefore, be able to
encourage and satisfy the first cravings of their inquiring minds. To
aid in this, and to afford abundant entertainment more pleasing than
toys, far cheaper and more instructive than mere amusement, we have
secured a large quantity of the Rocky Mountain Cabinets expressly for
our special premium use. Each Juvenile Cabinet contains 4 specimens
of gold, 3 of silver, 1 zinc, 1 lead, 3 iron, 2 copper ores—each a
different variety—1 agate (surface polished), opalized wood, rock
crystal, silicified wood, molydenum, Iceland spar, topaz, 2 jaspers,
dendrite, tourmaline, opal agate, arragonite, milky quartz, sulphur,
selenite, Amazon stone, feldspar, fluorspar, variscite, chalcedony,
petrified wood, alabaster, mica, wavellite, etc. The specimens in this
cabinet are in a strong pasteboard box, divided into 40 sections. A
descriptive manual is sent with each cabinet. Price 85 cents postpaid.

    =A BOY’S WORKSHOP.=

Given to any subscriber sending one new subscriber to THE PANSY or OUR
LITTLE MEN AND WOMEN before Sept. 15th.

By A BOY AND HIS FRIENDS. With an introduction by Henry Randall Waite.
A fascinating little volume full of practical ideas for the benefit of
boys who are getting their first training in the use of tools. Price,
$1.


Subscriptions to the Magazines given as Premiums.

These Special Offers are good only to Sept. 15th.

    We will send WIDE AWAKE one year, free, for new
    subscriptions to any of the four magazines (Wide Awake, The
    Pansy, Our Little Men and Women and Babyland) amounting to
    $6.00.

    We will send THE PANSY one year, free, for new subscriptions
    to any of the four magazines (Wide Awake, The Pansy, Our
    Little Men and Women and Babyland) amounting to $2.00.

    We will send OUR LITTLE MEN AND WOMEN one year, free, for
    new subscriptions to any of the four magazines (Wide Awake,
    The Pansy, Our Little Men and Women and Babyland) amounting
    to $2.00.

    We will send BABYLAND one year, free, for new subscriptions
    to any of our magazines (Wide Awake, The Pansy, Our Little
    Men and Women and Babyland) amounting to $1.00.

    =D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers, Franklin and Hawley Sts., Boston.==


GOOD HOUSEKEEPING

A SEMI-MONTHLY FAMILY JOURNAL

CONDUCTED IN THE INTERESTS OF THE

Higher Life of the Household.

=READ WHAT THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE SAYS ABOUT GOOD HOUSEKEEPING.=

One of the most admirable family journals ever published is that
which is brought out in Holyoke, Mass. and New York under the title
of GOOD HOUSEKEEPING, by Clark W. Bryan & Co. It is a practical and
interesting instructor in all pleasant, refined and healthful modes of
living. It is full of good sense, and its lessons, whether in manners,
morals, food, needlework and household management, are generally the
best of their kind. The number of May 15 opens GOOD HOUSEKEEPING’S
second year—a year which it is to be hoped will add to its already
established prosperity.—_New York Daily Tribune, May 11th, 1886._

=READ WHAT THE GOSPEL BANNER (Augusta, Me.) SAYS ABOUT GOOD
HOUSEKEEPING.=

GOOD HOUSEKEEPING is a fortnightly magazine conducted in the interest
of every department of household management. It has rapidly advanced
in public favor in its first year, which is due to the excellent
articles from its special contributors and the superior mechanical
work represented in its successive numbers. All the details of
housekeeping from cellar to attic, kitchen to parlor, cookery to
adornments, are attended to in the course of the yearly issues, while
good contributions on purely literary topics are not lacking. Holyoke,
Mass., and N. Y.: Clark W. Bryan & Co. $2.50 a year; $1.50 for six
months; $1.00 for four months; 10 cents single copy.

======

During the first year of its publication GOOD HOUSEKEEPING has won for
itself an enviable reputation in the Homes of the World. Its pages
have been industriously and faithfully devoted to the improvement and
development of the nobler and more desirable features of Home Life.

It is original in design, comprehensive in management and strong in
individuality of character and conduct. Its discussions have been
practical and had with a view of being elevating, instructive and
useful in the highest degree to every one having an ambition or desire
to make the Home attractive and those who dwell there to feel that
“there’s no place like home.”

It has won the commendations of the press, not only in its own country,
but in many others where the English language is spoken, such as has
never been accorded to a family publication of such tender years.

It numbers among its list of contributors many of the ablest and most
noted writers of the day, on family topics, and these are supplemented
by contributions from the pens of many practical and successful
housekeepers measurably unknown to fame but none the less valuable
workers in the field of Home Literature.

Among these may be mentioned Catherine Owen, Rose Terry Cooke, Marion
Harland, Maria Parloa, Hester M. Poole, Christine Terhune Herrick,
H. Annette Poole, Margaret Sidney, Mrs. D. H. R. Goodale, Dora Reade
Goodale, Helen Campbell, Mrs. H. M. Plunkett, Helen Chase, Mary E.
Dewey, Lucretia P. Hale, Margaret Eytinge, Anna L. Dawes, E. C.
Gardner, William Paul Gerhard, Dr. F. M. Hexamer, Milton Bradley, etc.,
etc.

GOOD HOUSEKEEPING is published semi-monthly at $2.50 a year, and is
sold on the news stands of the country, also by newsboys on trains and
boats, at 10 cents a copy.

    =CLARK W. BRYAN & CO., Publishers,
    NEW YORK OFFICE, 239 Broadway.      HOLYOKE, MASS.=



[Illustration: Imperial Granum

THE GREAT MEDICINAL Food

THIS WORLD RENOWNED DIETETIC PREPARATION

IS PRESENTED WITH THE ASSURANCE THAT IT IS THE =SAFEST=, MOST =NICELY
PREPARED=, AND RELIABLE =MEDICINAL FOOD= THAT SCIENTIFIC RESEARCH CAN
YIELD. IT HAS ACQUIRED THE REPUTATION OF BEING AN ALIMENT THE STOMACH
SELDOM, IF EVER, REJECTS. =CONDITION NOT EXCEPTED=: AND, WHILE IT WOULD
BE DIFFICULT TO CONCEIVE OF ANYTHING IN FOOD MORE DELICIOUS, OR MORE
=SOOTHING= AND =NOURISHING= AS AN ALIMENT FOR INVALIDS, AND THE AGED,
AND FOR THE GROWTH AND PROTECTION OF CHILDREN. ITS RARE =MEDICINAL
EXCELLENCE= IN INANITION DUE TO MAL-ASSIMILATION, CHRONIC, GASTRIC,
AND =INTESTINAL DISEASES=, (=ESPECIALLY= IN =CHOLERA=, =DYSENTERY=,
=CHRONIC DIARRŒA=, AND =CHOLERA INFANTUM=,) HAS BEEN =INCONTESTABLY
PROVEN=:—OFTEN IN INSTANCES OF CONSULTATION OVER PATIENTS WHOSE
DIGESTIVE ORGANS WERE REDUCED TO SUCH A LOW AND SENSITIVE CONDITION
THAT THE GRANUM WAS THE ONLY THING THE STOMACH WOULD TOLERATE WHEN LIFE
SEEMED DEPENDING ON ITS RETENTION.

“NONPAREIL.”

SUPERIOR NUTRITION

PHOTO ENG. CO., N. Y.

TRADEMARK REGISTERED JUNE 5TH 1877.

THE LIFE

SOLD BY DRUGGISTS

SHIPPING DEPOT.

JOHN CARLE & SONS, New York]


[Illustration]

To preserve the richness of color or delicacy of tint of your summer
dresses, make suds of hot water and IVORY SOAP, allow to cool until
lukewarm, then wash your dresses in the solution. Ordinary soaps
contain too much alkali, which in a short time bleaches the color and
destroys its beauty. Prof. Silliman, of Yale College, “The IVORY SOAP
can not injure the most delicate fabric.”


A WORD OF WARNING.

    =There are many white soaps, each represented to be “just
    as good as the ‘Ivory’;” they ARE NOT, but like all
    counterfeits, lack the peculiar and remarkable qualities of
    the genuine. Ask for “Ivory” Soap and insist upon getting
    it.=

    Copyright 1886, by Procter & Gamble.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Note:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 319, “symp thy” changed to “sympathy” (do not give sympathy)

Final advertisement on back cover had a label over the bottom left of
the first paragraph. Words and letters were filled in using a copy of
the same advertisement.





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