Harper's Young People, November 14, 1882

I said, "When will the summer come?
Mamma, is it not late?"
She smiled, and answered. "By-and-by;
Be patient, child, and wait."

I asked papa if he would buy
A new wax doll for me.
He pinched my cheek, and said, "Not now;
Be patient, and I'll see."

"Nurse, tell me when my dear rose-bush
A blossom red will bear."
"Oh, by-and-by, my dear. Don't fret.
Come, let me brush your hair."

"When shall I grow so tall, papa,
That I can reach your head?"
"Quite soon enough, my little one;
Wait patiently," he said.

"Dear me!" I thought; "they all say 'Wait.'
I'll put my dolls away.
And go and sit upon the stairs
As long as I can stay."

Now I have waited patiently
For hours and hours and hours,
And yet the dear doll has not come,
The summer, nor the flowers.

I have not grown a single bit,
And now I know it's late.
I'm going up to tell mamma
It does no good to wait.

---

"So it seems a fellow called Arabi Bey, or some such name, is making a row in Cairo; but of course it won't come to anything—these things never do."

So spoke, after exchanging a few words with a pilot who had just come down the Suez Canal from Port Said, the Captain of our homeward-bound steamer from India, little dreaming how world-famous the "row" of which he spoke so lightly was to become not many weeks later.

"If these Arab fellows should ever want to destroy the canal," says a young English Lieutenant of Engineers going home from India on leave, "they wouldn't have much trouble with it. You see there's a regular hollow on each side here and there, and they need only dig through or blow up the embankment to run the channel bone-dry in no time."

His words are confirmed a few minutes later when a group of native goat-herds, as black and shaggy and wild-looking as the goats which they tend, wade out to within a few yards of the steamer, clamorously offering to dive for piastres (five-cent copper pieces). In fact, the Suez Canal, throughout its whole length of eighty-six miles, is as shallow as any ditch except in the very centre of the channel, and even there it has a depth of only twenty six and a quarter feet, with a mean breadth of seventy, widening to one hundred in the "sidings."

Every now and then we pass a neat little landing-place, surmounted by a painted station house overlooking a tiny patch of stunted shrubs and straggling flowers, doing their best to grow upon a thin smear of soil brought from a distance, and plastered upon the barren, scorching sand. A little farther on we see, perched on a steep sand ridge just at the point where the canal enters the wide smooth expanse of the Timsah Lake, a primitive sentry-box, consisting merely of a screen of dried grass, supported by four tall canes, beneath which a drowsy Arab is supposed to look out for passing steamers when he has nothing better to do.

But just as we are two-thirds of the way across the Timsah Lake itself, one of the many shallow lagoons through which the canal runs for a full third of its length, we see the French steamer ahead of us halt suddenly, and the next moment comes a signal that a boat has run aground in the canal beyond the lake, and that we must wait until she gets off again.

There is no help for it, and we are just making up our minds to a halt of several hours, with nothing to do but stare at the trim bonbon-like houses and dark green plantations of Ismailia[1] along the farther shore, with the big white front of the Khedive's palace standing up in the midst like an overgrown hotel, when an unexpected interruption occurs.

"Look here, mates," shouts a sailor perched on the jib-boom; "here's one o' them darkies out for a swim. He'll be coming to challenge old Jack here to swim a match for the championship of the canal."

"Let him try it," retorts a tall, raw-boned, North Country man behind him. "If that 'ere nigger thinks he can beat me, he'll know better afore long, or my name ain't Jack Hawley."

So saying, Jack strips and plunges in, heading straight for the round black head which is bobbing about like a cork in the smooth water. But just as he reaches the Arab the latter vanishes, and a sharp pinch on his right calf warns Jack that his enemy has taken him in the rear, amid a shout of laughter from the steamer.

Jack darts at his assailant, who dives again, and coming up beyond him, splashes a perfect cataract of water in his face, and instantly the two are at it with might and main, filling the whole air with showers of glittering spray.

"Will you swim me to that buoy yonder, Johnny?" challenges Jack.

"You go, me go," grins the native, and off they start.

At first the Egyptian's short, snapping, hand-over-hand stroke carries him bravely on; but little by little the long, steady, powerful strokes of the Englishman begin to tell, and at length he forges slightly ahead. The crew cheer lustily, and fancy that Jack has certainly won the race; but the young Lieutenant, who knows Arab ways, shakes his head and tells them to "wait a bit."

Poor Jack! he has forgotten in his eagerness that his head is unprotected, and that he has not one of those cast-iron Eastern skulls that can defy a tropical sun. All at once his head is seen to sway dizzily back, he throws up his arms convulsively, and down he goes.

"Stand by to lower the boat!" roars the Captain. "Be alive now!"

As if moved by a single impulse, the men spring at once to the davits; but, luckily for poor Jack, other and nearer help is at hand. The Arab, when he sees his rival's strength fail so suddenly, guesses in a moment what is the matter, and makes for him at once. Three powerful strokes bring him alongside of the sinking man, and twining his sinewy fingers in Jack's bushy hair, he holds the latter's head above water, paddling gently meanwhile to keep himself afloat.

"Stand by your tackle! let go!"

The tackles rattle sharply through the blocks, the boat splashes into the water, and the passengers spring upon the bulwarks to give her a cheer as she darts away toward the two imperilled men, as fast as eight sturdy rowers can propel her.

But in this race between life and death the chances are terribly in favor of the latter. True, the water of the lake, salter by far than the sea itself, is buoyant as India rubber; but it is no easy matter for the Arab, already spent with his long swim, to support the huge bulk of the helpless sailor, and the boat seems still a fearfully long way off.

Once, twice, the Englishman's head dips below the surface, and the oarsmen almost leap from their seats as they see it. Pull, boys, pull! And now they are but three lengths off, and now but one, and now, with a deafening hurrah, the fainting man and his exhausted rescuer are dragged into the boat.

"Come, boys," cried Lieutenant H——, "that's a plucky fellow, Arab or no Arab. What do you say to sending round the hat for him; here's a rupee" (fifty cents) "to begin with."

And half an hour later the Arab was on his way back to the shore, with more money tied up in the white cotton sash round his waist than he had ever had before, in his life.

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"Baa! baa! baa!" sounded in noisy, frightened chorus underneath Parson Darius Miller's windows one cold April morning about fifty years ago.

So loud and so persistent was the chorus that Parson Miller's three sturdy boys were awake and on their feet before it had grown light enough to distinguish anything in the gray outside.

"Father! father!" shouted James, the second boy, clattering down the stairs in his heavy boots, "what ails the sheep? They're all huddled up close to the house, right under your window. Don't you hear them? Say, father, wake up!"

In response to all this outcry, good Parson Miller, who was a hardworking farmer as well as a parson, and slept the sleep of the just, gave forth a feeble and only half-intelligent "yes." Presently, however, he joined the boys, and then discovered that not all the sheep were huddled together underneath the windows, but that two of them were missing, and that large dangerous-looking tracks were all over the light snow—a regular "sugar-snow"—which covered the ground outside.

"I'll bet it's a wolf," ventured Daniel, the eldest boy.

"Guess it's nothing but a wild-cat," said the parson.

"Too big for a wild-cat," said Tom. "A great deal bigger than the one Squire Taylor caught in his trap."

Tom was the quiet boy, but somehow, when Tom spoke, even the older ones paid attention. Tom's eyes were always on the alert, and though they were of a gray and by no means beautiful color, and were set in a sallow and "peaked" little face, Tom was considered a vastly good-looking boy by all of the family and his intimate friends, on the principle of "Handsome is that handsome does."

Just then Squire Taylor, their next neighbor, came tramping hastily across his field, his two boys, of about the same age as James and Tom Miller, following after him.

"Wolf tracks all around my barn," said the good Squire, excitedly, before he had come near enough to see the sheep lying on the snow.

"There!" cried Daniel, nodding significantly to Tom.

"Where's the fellow gone?" queried little Tom, who was only fourteen, and who didn't look so old as that by reason of his small stature.

"That's it! that's it!" cried the Squire, slapping Tom approvingly on the shoulder. "Where's the varmint gone? Let's track him, to be sure. Hullo! there's Uncle Zed."

Sure enough, old Zadok Cummings, familiarly known as "Uncle Zed," was hurrying along through the fields toward them, and carrying his old shot-gun in his hands. The news had evidently travelled fast.

"Seen him?" shouted the old man, all on fire with excitement, while drops of sweat ran down his russet face, in spite of the chilly weather. "Jest tell me what direction he's took, 'n' I'll ketch him! The critter! I'll ketch him; oh, I'll ketch him!" And Uncle Zed looked so fierce and funny that all of them began to laugh. But they finally succeeded in convincing the old man that he couldn't possibly "ketch him," for a few moments at least, and that the case was too serious for them to decide at once on the best course to pursue.

"He'll be around to-night too, and bring some more with him, if we don't ketch him," put in Uncle Zed, whenever a good chance occurred.

Two or three had started out to follow the trail of the wolf, and they came back to report that the tracks ended in Squire Taylor's woods.

"We must make a ring right around the woods, and hem him in—that's the way," said the Squire, quickly.

Tom, standing back behind his brothers, was seen to nod approvingly, whereupon the other boys did the same. Indeed, the proposition seemed to commend itself to the entire company, and they started toward the woods, those who had not brought guns hurrying off to get some.

"I could do it jest as well alone," muttered Uncle Zed. "They hain't ben no wolves around here for several years now, but I hain't forgot how to ketch 'em. I guess I hain't."

The men were disposed, and then everything was profoundly quiet, excepting for the sound of the beating of the bushes, or of a stray shot, when some overconfident hunter was "sure he had him."

At last Uncle Zed heard a low growl in a thicket, and he had hardly time to raise his gun when out sprang an enormous wolf, and came directly toward him. The old man, almost paralyzed with fright, pulled the trigger, but his hand trembled so that his shot went a yard above the wolf's head, and the animal bounded past him unhurt. Uncle Zed shrieked, "Wolf! wolf!" and a half-dozen men were soon in hot pursuit of the discovered game.

Tom Miller, feeling very disconsolate because he hadn't any gun, had not accompanied the rest; but his mother, who felt no fear for Tom, and sympathized deeply with the courageous little fellow, had advised him to go to a certain neighbor's and see if he couldn't borrow one. It was necessary to go quite a distance, but Tom had made it on old Sorrel, the mare. He had come back in a wonderfully short time, bringing a trusty little shot-gun with him, and was making his way up the hill just as the wolf dashed out of the woods, heading in his direction.

Tom's heart came up in his throat, but he ran for a clump of bushes close by that he thought would afford a good position for a shot, stationed himself among them, and waited.

The cries of the men in pursuit came nearer. Then the gallop into which the wolf had broken from its quick trot when it left the woods seemed to shake the very ground under him. Spring—spring—spring, came the terrified brute. He was in sight. Tom steadied his gun and fired. The wolf uttered a cry, half bark, half screech, and giving a few lame and wounded leaps, lay bleeding on the ground. Then shot after shot from the men behind was poured in upon the poor creature, until he lay thoroughly dead. Tom Miller was quite the hero of the day, and it was voted unanimously that the wolf-skin belonged to him.

"Well, Uncle Zed, why didn't you 'ketch him,' as you said you were going to?" inquired Squire Taylor, jokingly, as the men were separating to go to a late dinner.

"Don' know what in thunder ailed my gun," complained Uncle Zed, rapping that unfortunate weapon crossly; "but, after all"—straightening up proudly—"you'd never have ketched that wolf if it hadn't 'a ben for me."

"How's that?" asked the Squire.

"Why, goodness gracious! didn't you hear me holler? I hollered an' started you all up. My!" continued the old man, reflectively, as he turned away amid a general laugh, which did not appear to damp his spirits in the least, "how I did holler!"

---

The attention of seamen and navigators has long been attracted by the number of circular islands in the warm parts of the Pacific and Indian oceans. Generally each one of these circular islands contains a lake of quiet water extending almost to its outer shores, so that the island looks like a fairy ring of land floating in the ocean, and adorned with tropical trees and plants.

Happily for the boys and girls of the present day, this subject, with other equally fascinating branches of science, has now been studied by naturalists, who give us the rich results of their labors. It seems scarcely possible that the dainty beautiful corals which we examined not long ago in Young People can have anything to do with the making of islands, but so it is. Coral reefs are vast masses of coral which have grown in warm oceans. Their formation must have been slow, yet they sometimes extend hundreds of miles. Florida and many other parts of our solid continents are known to have been formed from coral reefs.

Let us now try to picture to ourselves the beginning of one of these reefs, and by following its growth step by step we may at least understand how it has been formed. There are hills and valleys on the bottom of the ocean as well as on the land. We will fancy that some young coral polyps which have been swimming about in the sea settle on the sides of one of these hills, and begin to grow and spread all around it. They will increase also by the deposit of eggs until they form a circular wall.

As the coral wall grows, the lower polyps and the inner ones die, their skeletons forming a solid foundation for all that grow above them. There may be only about an inch of living coral on the outside of the reef.

These walls rise nearly straight, and you will see that in doing so they inclose a circular basin of quiet water, and now you can understand why it is that a coral island mostly has a lake in the centre, as is shown in Fig. 1. The lakes are called lagoons.

The bottom of the wall is formed of brain-coral and other solid kinds which live only in deep water, and they die when a certain height is reached. The formation of the new island does not stop with their death, however. The wall having now reached the proper height to suit branching corals, which require shallower water, their young polyps will settle upon it, and finish the structure. We might suppose a reef formed of branching corals would be open and unsubstantial, but in their growth the branches are thickly interlaced. The spaces between them become filled with substances floating in the ocean, and with pieces of coral which are broken from the reef by the fierce dashing of the waves. The whole forms a solid mass, stronger, perhaps, than any stone masonry. The fragments of coral suffer no serious injury by breaking, but if lodged in some favorable spot they continue to grow.

The outer edge of the wall is steep and abrupt. Soundings taken just outside show very deep water. In this portion of the wall the corals live and thrive, always supplied with clear water. The breakers dash against it with such fury that apparently the hardest rock must in time yield to the tremendous force of the waves. But, strange as it may appear, the soft jelly-like bodies of the polyps give to the reef the power of resisting the billows.

The inner surface of the wall slopes gently to the land, and being washed by quiet waters often containing sand and mud, it is not favorable to the growth of polyps. Still, there are certain kinds of coral which thrive within the lagoons; some of them are exceedingly brilliant and beautiful.

The coral polyps die before they reach the surface of the ocean, as no corals can live out of water. The remainder of the island is built up by shells, pieces of broken coral, sea-weed, and other floating materials which are washed upon it, raising the wall higher and higher. The never-ceasing action of the waves grinds up these shells and broken coral, until at last they form a soil of sand and mud which is now ready to receive any seeds that may float on the water or be brought by the winds and the birds. The seeds take root in the new soil, and young plants begin to appear on the glistening white surface. Floating cocoa-nuts often lodge on the shores, and cocoa-nut-trees are among the first to grow upon them. As the plants drop their leaves and decay, the soil is enriched little by little, and fitted for the home of various animals and birds, which in some mysterious manner find their way to these lonely spots far out at sea. In time our coral reef may become a beautiful tropical island fringed with waving trees and plants, and inhabited by man.

Circular islands seldom form complete rings. There is generally an opening into the lake on the side most sheltered from the wind. A safe harbor in mid-ocean is thus made, in which vessels may take shelter, but it requires an expert navigator to pass the perils at its entrance. To anchor on the outer shore would be impossible. In Fig. 2 is a pretty little coral island with ships in its lagoon. If a lake is entirely inclosed by the coral wall, it may in time be changed to fresh water by the rains that fall into it.

Coral reefs often extend to a depth of three hundred feet below the surface of the ocean, and formerly persons were puzzled to know how they could have grown in such deep water, as no coral polyps can live at a greater depth than twenty or thirty fathoms. This puzzling question was settled by the late Charles Darwin, who first showed that coral islands occur where there has been a gradual sinking of the bottom of the ocean. As the reef rises in height, the sinking of the foundation partly counteracts the upward growth of the coral; consequently the proper depth of water is secured, and the reef appears to be stationary, whereas it is really growing upward.

Whenever a coral reef rises above the surface of the ocean, we may know that the coral, which grew under water, has been lifted above the level of the sea by a rising of the ocean-bed.

These circular reefs are called "atolls." They are quite different from the "fringing reefs," which extend along the shores of continents and islands. There are usually openings or breaks in fringing reefs directly opposite the mouths of rivers and fresh-water streams, as the corals can not endure currents which carry mud or sediment. Perhaps the grandest reef to be found in any part of the world is the one extending along the northeast coast of Australia. It is nearly one thousand miles in length, and proves to us that the helpless coral polyps have played no trifling part in the formation of our earth. All they have accomplished has been done merely by their living and growing.

---

---

Across the way from the Stanley boys' home a new house was being built. A pile of lumber lay just outside of the sidewalk in front of the new building, and it was piled so irregularly that the upper boards extended out considerably beyond the lower ones, thus forming a sheltered spot below. The ends of some of the lower boards, too, projected in such a way as to make little shelves at different heights, and even a rude seat and table. The boys had often gathered under this shelter for a chat, and when John and Bob Stanley announced that they saw in it the making of a fine store, all the other boys groaned inwardly, and said to themselves, "Why did not I think of that?"

Of course Bob and John did not plunge into the risks of business without first counting the cost. The plan was well digested. They had talked it over fully three days before it was publicly announced.

The chief difficulty was about the amount of capital to be invested. John had been saving up his money for a long time toward buying a bicycle, and Bob—well, Bob was not so thrifty; there was not much "save" about him, though when it came to needing the money to set him up in business, he saw clearly that he must mend his ways.

"I declare, John," he said, gloomily, "I don't believe I can rake up twenty-five cents toward starting the store. I wish I'd thought of it before. It was only last week I bought ten cents' worth of marbles."

"Put them in stock, and sell out at an advance," suggested John.

Bob shook his head. "The boys aren't going to pay me more for marbles than they can get them for at Thompson's. Besides, I was dunce enough to show them off at recess, so the boys would call them second-hand, and want a reduction."

"That's true. But you had better lose on them for the sake of getting some cash in hand that you could lay out in something you could make money on."

"But I don't see how we are to make money, anyhow. The other boys can buy as cheap as we can."

"No; Thompson would come down in his prices if we told him we were buying to sell again. Buying at wholesale, you know, they always do."

"So they do;" and Bob's face brightened. "You have a lot of money to put into the business," he said, admiringly.

"I sha'n't put all my money in," said the prudent John. "It's too much risk. I'd rather begin small; and then I could get my bicycle even if we failed in business."

For it must be admitted that, like reasonable beings, they looked forward to failure as the most probable ending to their enterprise. Nine men out of every ten who start in business for themselves fail; and why should not they close in this exciting and approved manner? As far back as the time of Macbeth such things were not unknown; and the boys said bravely to themselves, "'If we fail, we fail'; and so much the more interesting."

"But how much capital are you going to put in?" persisted Bob.

"Well, now, really, Bob, if we are to be even partners, I can't put any more money in than you do. It would make the thing too complicated, and not be fair to me, you know."

Bob sighed. "Only half a dollar to start the business! It will look mean. I wish I had not got so many glasses of soda-water this season. It's worse than marbles for running away with money."

"We might take in some more partners," said John, after a thoughtful pause.

"But Dick says he don't care about it, and every cent of Sam's money goes for his bantams and pigeons."

"What do you say to asking Tom Fleming?"

"No," said Bob, decisively. "When a gold mine opens before you, keep it all in the family, I say."

But the difficulty of the small capital still remained. Their anxiety lost the boys at least an hour's sleep that night, and when they woke in the morning, the same burden at once took possession of them.

"Let's tell Aunt Sue about it," said Bob.

Aunt Sue was much pleased with the plan. She thought the effort to conduct the little business would give them business habits and tact. She made suggestions that helped them greatly.

"You won't need much money to start with," she said. "Look over your closets and boxes, and see what you have already that you would like to dispose of. You have a good many toys and other things that you will never use again, and you might sell them for something. Call your shop a new and second-hand store, and that will make it all fair. What kind of a stock were you thinking of keeping?"

"Oh, almost anything. Like a country store, you know. Marbles, and tops, and slate-pencils, and—"

"And chewing-gum," suggested Bob. "The boys and girls buy more of that than of anything else lately."

"I wouldn't keep it if I were you," said Aunt Sue. "It's a bad habit to use it, and you want to establish your business on good principles. I hope you'll keep bird-seed, though. You could count on me as a customer."

"Well, we will, and we'll give up the chewing-gum. But, Aunt Sue," and Bob assumed his most persuasive tones, "I'll tell you one thing we could sell like wild-fire, and it would not cost us anything, either."

"What?" asked Aunt Sue, smiling, but mentally bracing herself for opposition.

"Cookies."

"Not of my baking, Bob. You ought to know too much of the trouble and expense of cake-making to think of it. I can't undertake to supply the town with cookies."

Bob sobered at this reference to his prowess at cake-baking; but Sister Bess, regardless of his feelings, mischievously suggested,

"You might make molasses candy for sale."

"It's out of season," returned Bob, with dignity. "I guess we'll lay in a stock of sour-balls."

"I'll tell you what I'll do for you," said Bess, relenting. "I'll make you some button-hole bouquets."

"Well, but I don't know who'll buy them."

"They'll help to fill up the shelves and make the place look pretty, at any rate."

Bob and John began to feel that the store was going to be a success, and proceeded to overhaul the attic for salable articles.

The sign-board was a very important matter. Dick undertook to paint them one. But as it would take some days for the paint to dry, it was decided that they could begin with a sign chalked on an old slate.

There was not much to be done toward fitting up the store. A piece of canvas was hung on one side, and a loose board was laid across the entrance for protection against the rabble, for as the store was only large enough to hold the proprietors and their goods, the customers were exacted to make their purchases over the counter from the outside.

Saturday was to be "Opening Day," and the very earliest people on their way to market saw the two boys working like beavers to get the place to rights in good season. By the time the village boys and girls had breakfasted the new store shone out in all its glory, with the sign "Stanley Brothers" the most conspicuous thing about it.

The marbles and other small articles were arranged as neatly as possible in boxes on the irregular little shelves. Some old story-books with the boys' dictionary were piled modestly in the background, while the jar of sour-balls and the row of tasty little bouquets were paraded on the counter.

This plan, however, did not work well, for the boys found themselves obliged to keep a sharp eye on these attractive goods to prevent their being snatched by evil-disposed visitors, and it was very harassing. The business had been so well advertised beforehand, at recesses and on other occasions, that the whole juvenile population made a point of repairing thither in the course of the day. Most of them came only to look, but that was to be expected on Opening Day.

The boys had not thought of putting up a notice to the effect that it was no trouble to show goods; but if they had, that day's experience would have decided them against it. Some of the boys, and girls too, for that matter, were very provoking, and insisted on seeing everything that was in the store, when they had not the least intention of buying anything.

Some of them, too, were very frank in expressing their opinion about the stock. They would not open a store at all if they could do no better than that.

But the very worst of it all was that all the boys that did want to buy always wanted to trade off something else for the goods; and the girls were more unreasonable still, for they thought that Bob and John ought to be willing to sell everything for pins.

By noon the boys were beginning to feel quite dejected. To be sure, they had taken in a few cents for sour-balls; but then they had reason to believe that several had been feloniously abstracted while the throng was greatest—for part of the time the little counter had been lined three or four deep—so that, on the whole, they would probably lose on this most popular article. Bob and John each ate a sour-ball to restore their spirits.

"They'll melt in this bright sun," said Bob, "and the flowers are wilting. We had better put them back in the shade. What shall we put front instead?"

"Slate-pencils," suggested John.

"Pooh! Catch a boy buying a slate-pencil on Saturday."

The question was still unsettled when the welcome sound of the dinner bell was heard. Obeying the first impulse, both boys started for home. Then Bob stopped.

"I don't believe it's safe to leave the store alone," he said.

"No, of course not. You stay till I come back. I'm awfully hungry."

"I guess I'm as hungry as you are," returned Bob, but John was half-way across the street; so Bob, calling to him to hurry back, sat down, hungrier than ever, to nurse his provocation over that selfish John. There was no help for it; he must try if another sour-ball would stop the gnawings of hunger and sweeten his temper for the next customer.

It seemed as if the whole town must dine at the same hour, for Bob was left quite lonely for a while.

Then John came back, devouring a biscuit as he came, and making some remarks beginning, "Aunt Sue says," which Bob did not stop to hear, for the boys passed each other in the middle of the street like two oppositely bound locomotives.

Bob staid a long time. Neither did he move as swiftly on his return trip as he had when he started out.

"I'll tell you what it is, John," he said, at the first opportunity, "we'll have to take in some outside partners, after all. A couple of the Flemings could help us first-rate. They always have their meals later than we do."

"Well," said John, "I don't know but it would be a good thing to have somebody to share the responsibility."

"But I don't see how we can make room for any more boys inside here. It's crowded enough now."

"We don't all need to be inside at once. One could be floor-walker, and one a detective, or something in the crowd. I'd like it. It's tiresome sitting in this little place all day. I got awfully cramped this morning."

So overtures were made to Tom and Fred Fleming, who felt quite flattered, and accepted the honor at once. After some discussion they were installed as silent partners, and contributed their quota of fish-hooks and decalcomanie pictures, etc., to the now flourishing business.

The shop being so near, Aunt Sue and Bessie visited it in the afternoon to see how the boys were getting on. They were shocked to see some of their own possessions airing in the new store. An old set of false curls hung dangling on a nail, like a scalp adorning an Indian wigwam as an honorable trophy.

"You outrageous boys!" exclaimed Aunt Sue, as she seized and confiscated it. "Where did you get this?"

"Out of the attic," said Bob, meekly. "I thought you were done with it."

"But it's not for sale if I am done with it. I'm surprised at you."

Aunt Sue seemed really hurt, and was scarcely mollified by Bob's saying, coaxingly, "Oh, now, Aunt Sue, don't be vexed. I always liked to see them hanging down your neck. They looked so pretty, I thought somebody else might be glad to get them."

By this time Bessie had discovered a tin-type of herself among a lot of cheap pictures, and her wrath burst forth on John, who was just congratulating himself on having escaped his aunt's wrath.

"I'd like to know what right you have to offer my picture for sale," she said, indignantly.

"It's not yours. It's mine. You gave it to me on my birthday."

"And that's all you care for it! I'll be careful how I ever give my picture to another boy. Give it to me this minute."

"Why, no, Bess. It shows how much we admire it. Other folks do too. I had an offer for it this morning, but I couldn't make the change."

Bessie's eyes flashed; and Aunt Sue, coming to the rescue, quietly laid the picture in her bag with the curls.

"I think you had better show us your whole stock, boys," she said, calmly. "What are your skates doing here?"

"I'm going to sell them. I'd rather have a bicycle than skates any day."

"Very well; only if you part with them don't expect to have a new pair given to you when winter comes. What books have you? Why, boys, you are not going to sell your dictionary!"

"Oh, I'm tired of looking through it. The old bother!"

"It must be taken home," said Aunt Sue, with decision. "It won't do to have your father's dictionaries thumbed and dog-eared in this way. You must keep your own."

The boys were beginning to think that the custom of their immediate relatives was not going to be profitable. But the seizures were over now, and Aunt Sue actually bought in John's old copy of Original Poems. Bessie, too, concluded to be forgiving, and she and Aunt Sue made several other purchases, so that they left the boys in good spirits in spite of the bad beginning.

In the trying morning hours the boys had decided to close early every Saturday afternoon "for the sake of their clerks." But they felt better after the Flemings came to their assistance, and did not close until six o'clock, when everything had to be packed in boxes and carried home until Monday. Before doing this, however, they took an account of stock and balanced their accounts, which was a comparatively simple matter, as they sold nothing on credit. Aunt Sue had bought half their supply of bird-seed, and Molly Fleming had taken all the bouquets at half price to distribute in the infant school the next morning. The boys spent the evening in talking over the events of the day.

"If we did so well on the first day, what may we not expect on the second?" was the feeling with which the young merchants began business on Monday. But Monday brought new trials. The goods had all to be packed away, and the store closed by school-time, which seemed rather humiliating. Of course the boys intended to resume punctually at twelve o'clock. But how unlucky! They all unaccountably missed their lessons, and were kept in to correct them, so that they lost the whole of their noon trade.

Perhaps this only gave greater zest to the afternoon spell, for they kept open quite late that evening. Still, with all their devotion, business flagged. Infant schools could not absorb a stock of bouquets every day, and Aunt Sue had enough bird-seed to last her a week. The sour-ball business proved to be quite a losing one, for the luscious things melted away mysteriously even when kept in the shade, although each partner kept a strict watch on himself, and seldom, oh, very seldom, refreshed himself with one.

Things got so serious that the four partners held a business meeting that evening after the store closed.

"We've got to do something, boys, or we'll break before the week's out, sure as fate," said Fred Fleming.

By Tuesday the boys had that care-worn look that men acquire when they can't make both ends meet. The other boys really pitied them, and some of them actually bought slate-pencils on their way to school in the afternoon, though they did not need them.

That very afternoon an occurrence took place which threatened to end the boys' store-keeping quite tragically.

An organ grinder, with his red-coated monkey, planted himself just beside the pile of lumber and began to play. This pleased Tom and Bob, who happened to be in sole charge at the time. They enjoyed a monkey's antics as well as any one.

Perhaps it was the flag waving over the sign of the "Stanley Brothers" that suggested to the man to play "Rally round the Flag, Boys." He played it with a will, and the boys, and girls too, rallied with a vengeance. The young merchants found their store again a grand centre of attraction.

The monkey seemed particularly delighted with it, for, after dancing and bowing on the organ-top a short time, he leaped upon the counter, and before the proprietors knew what he was about he had thrust his paw into the box of rubber balls, and was throwing a ball into the crowd.

A shout of delight greeted this feat. Tom and Bob each made a dive after the monkey, but he dexterously eluded them, and threw another ball.

Of course the balls were thrown back at him, and in a moment the air seemed full of them, flying in every direction. The boys could not turn their heads but bounce would come a ball into their eyes, and if they tried to say, "You rascal," the words would be cut short by a ball flying into their mouths. The uproar was tremendous, and the crowd grew larger every minute. The monkey seemed to be in his element, dancing and jumping from shelf to shelf, grinning and chattering with all his might, and when there was no ball convenient he did not hesitate to throw something else.

The boys grew desperate when they saw their slate-pencils and Jew's-harps flying through the air.

"See here!" they shouted to the organ-grinder, who was now peacefully playing the "Marseillaise Hymn," "this thing is getting dangerous. Take your old monkey away, will you? You'll have to pay for all the damage. Do you hear?"

It would have been surprising if he had heard in all that uproar, but he gave no sign.

Tom made another lunge at the monkey, and fell sprawling over the counter. Then Bob dived at him, but the monkey, reaching down from a high perch, deftly lifted Bob's hat, and threw it into the crowd.

"You rascal. I'll pay you for this," screamed Bob.

But the next thing the monkey did was to plant himself on Bob's head. Bob, with his face as red as the monkey's coat, clutched wildly at him, but the monkey clutched the tighter.

Bob could do nothing but scream and beat at the mischievous animal, first with one hand, then with the other, then with both at once, while the crowd shouted with laughter, until the organ-grinder, seeing that his monkey was really in danger, stopped his music, called off his pet, and began to move away. Then the crowd of children dispersed.

John and Fred, who had been taking their turn "off" when these proceedings began, now made their way to their crest-fallen comrades. Bob was too angry to make any attempt to collect his property. He picked up his battered hat and walked home, saying, "I don't care what becomes of the old things. I've done with them."

A few of their friends were kind enough to assist them in the search, but it was a sorry-looking set of goods that were collected.

"They're half of them gone," said Tom. "I do believe that monkey went off with his cheeks and pockets full of our things."

"I'll have that man prosecuted," said John, fiercely. "Which way did he go?"

"Oh, he's more likely to prosecute us. He says Bob half killed his monkey."

Sadly the boys packed up their damaged goods and carried them home, protesting that they had had enough of store-keeping. The monkey had scratched Bob's head so hard that he was really suffering, and Bess had to run for the arnica bottle, and bandage his head.

Aunt Sue was particularly liberal with the cake and preserves that evening at tea, and if anything could have comforted the boys, it was such thoughtfulness.

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It seems almost cruel to catch and cage such a bright, winsome little fellow as a squirrel. In his natural state he seems to be thoroughly happy. His home is a snug little hole in the fork of a tree, and all the nut-bearing giants of the forest pay tribute to him. Bright, happy, "cunning" little fellow, if you must keep him as a pet, lavish upon him such kindness and attention as shall reconcile him to the prison bars, and make him forget his forest home.

The name squirrel comes from the Greek word sciurus, which is made up of two words, signifying shade and tail, indicative of the little creature's habit of shading its entire body when at rest with its tail.

Of the species known to our woods, the most common is the striped squirrel, an industrious little body, fond of his home and family, and seldom given to roving, but one which the confinement of a cage kills in a very short time.

Then there is a little animal known by the boys as a chipmunk, which some naturalists declare is a member of the squirrel family, while others give it the name of dormouse. It makes a good pet, but must be kept in a warm place, and besides the usual food for squirrels it requires milk.

The black squirrel is the largest of its species, and while it will live in a cage, is rarely a tractable animal, requiring a vast amount of patience to induce it even to take its food when any one is looking at it.

Then there is the flying-squirrel, which resembles the striped species. It does not really fly, but has the power of flattening its legs and feet in such a way that they do not look unlike wings. In leaping, the legs and feet sustain it in the air until it almost seems as if it was flying.

It is the gray squirrel that is the most contented in captivity, and the most easily tamed; therefore, if one really thinks it necessary to his happiness to make a prisoner of such a liberty-loving little creature, he should procure one of the gray species.

If the reader is a would-be squirrel owner, and proposes to catch one in the woods, he will be obliged to take just the kind of one that is foolish enough to enter his trap; but if he proposes to buy one, he should select it carefully, for much depends upon the condition of the prisoner in taming or keeping him.

See that the fur is sleek and glossy, for dry, ruffled-looking fur is a sure sign the animal is sick, or pining so for the woods that he will not live very long in a cage. Observe well if the feet are clean, for if they are dirty, he has lost all pride in his appearance, which is another sign of homesickness or some equally serious ailment. The eyes should be bright, and the teeth perfectly white. Yellow teeth are a sign of age, and it is as difficult to tame a very old squirrel as it is to keep him alive in captivity.

Beware of squirrels brought around by men who say they have caught and tamed them. If they look stupid and inactive, the chances are that they have been drugged to make them seem tame, and if they live, they will surely be wild and intractable.

Having made the selection of just such a one as you want for a pet, give him all the comfort possible in the way of a cage. It is better to have a large rough one than a small neat looking one; and if it is not possible to buy a large cage, make one yourself, and the squirrel will be pleased at the absence of style because of the increased facilities for moving about.

A board thirty-six inches long and sixteen wide is quite as small a base for the house and run-around as should be given. Twenty-two inches of this length should be devoted to the dwelling portion, which should be built something after the style of a one-story cottage, with a second floor just at the slope of the roof, so that the attic may serve as sleeping-room and a place to which the squirrel can retire when he is anxious to be hidden from view.

The lower front of the house may be of wire, so that a portion of his domestic life may be seen. The second floor should have in it an opening about three inches square, which is connected with the first floor by a small strip of board or thin stuff of any kind, placed at an angle, so that he can get "upstairs" without difficulty.

The floors should be of some hard wood, so that they may not absorb water, and the whole place should be cleaned thoroughly once in every three or four weeks. In order to do this readily, it is well to have one side of the house fastened with hinges, so it may be swung open, and then the little fellow can be shut into the wheel during house-cleaning. The lower compartment should have a wire door, through which food can be given.

The wheel in which he takes his treadmill exercise any tin or wire worker can make, and the hole which connects it with the house should be large enough to prevent any possibility of his getting squeezed if he attempts to go into his house while the wheel is turning rapidly.

Give the little prisoner plenty of nuts of any kind, although those containing the least oil are the best—acorns, wheat, stale bread, a little boiled potato, and once in a very great while a bit of cooked meat. Keep a small dish of water in the cage, and see to it carefully that it is changed each day.

In all dealings with the squirrel it is necessary to be gentle and patient with him, if it is desired to make of him a real pet. Do not force him out of his nest when he goes into it, nor keep him in the wheel when he desires to go into his house.

Each time that he is fed, whistle or make some peculiar sound, and he will soon learn to come when he is called. This is the first step toward teaching him to come into his owner's hands. After he has learned to come at call, hold some particular dainty in the fingers, and do not let him have it until he takes it himself.

When once he has learned to have perfect confidence in his master, he will not scruple to take food from his hands, and in a very short time will be bold enough to explore his pockets, going into them bodily, for something to eat that is a trifle better than his regular fare.

---

Nan thought that the delight of this day never could be equalled by anything life would bring, even at Beverley. To begin with, she and Miss Phyllis started out in a luxurious carriage, which rolled them through the town, past the butter shop, where Mrs. Rupert was standing in the doorway, and deposited them at Mr. Lennon's large store, into which Nan had never gone half so proudly before.

"You needn't appear to recognize any one, Nan," Miss Phyllis said, just as they went in; and this dashed Nan's spirits just a little, for Mary Seymour, one of the girls in the millinery-room, was a particular friend of her aunt's; but then Miss Phyllis must know best, thought Nan, and she would trust to luck's keeping Mary out of their way.

Everybody was most polite to Miss Rolf; and when she said quietly, "I want to see your handsomest dresses, ready made, for this little girl," Nan could hardly move to follow them upstairs. Out of a long case, dress after dress was taken, held up, tried on, examined, and criticised by Miss Phyllis, who sat languidly with her purse and her note-book, evidently quite regardless of prices. It was well Nan's opinion was not asked, for she would never have dared to choose what Miss Phyllis did for her, a soft, seal brown wool costume, handsomely trimmed with silk, and with a jacket to match. Miss Phyllis quietly desired Nan to put these garments on; and when the saleswoman brought her back from the dressing-room, her cousin could not repress a smile of satisfaction; and really little Nan did credit to the quiet, lady-like costume. Miss Phyllis saw a great many possibilities in the child's bright face and pretty, slender figure.

The hat question came next, and here Nan's joy was somewhat dampened by her fear that Mary Seymour would appear and claim acquaintance, and thereby annoy Miss Phyllis; and sure enough, while she was trying on a beautiful brown felt hat with a scarlet wing in it, Mary Seymour's voice was heard cheerily from across the room.

"Why, Nan Rolf," she was saying, "is that you?"

And then Nan saw that her princess could look very different on different occasions. She turned a cold little stare upon poor Mary, and then said, in a tone that the shop-girl could hear perfectly, "Who is that, Annice?"

Now it was the first time Nan had been called by her full name since her father died, and between the start it gave her, and her little worry about Mary Seymour, she hardly knew what to say, and stood looking guiltily at her aunt's friend, with a rush of color in her face.

"It is Mary Seymour," she said, in a low voice.

Miss Phyllis waited a moment, the cold look still on her face; then she took Nan by the hand, and went across the room to where Mary was busy putting bonnet frames into a drawer.

"My little cousin is going away from Bromfield," she said, smiling, but speaking in the very chilliest tone. "Perhaps you had better say 'good-by' to her now. She is going to live with her aunt at Beverley."

Poor Mary stared at the beautiful young lady, and said nothing for a moment; then she stooped down and kissed Nan's little red check heartily.

"Well, good-luck go with you, Nannie dear," she said; and half understanding the impression Miss Rolf wished to make, she added, looking up with a sad smile, "I suppose it won't do to expect you to remember us any more, but Tommy'll miss you dreadfully."

"I'll write him a letter, Mary," Nan exclaimed, and seeing Miss Rolf's look of surprise turn to something like disgust, she added, "Tommy is Mary's lame little brother."

Miss Phyllis said nothing, but led the way back to the hats, and Nan, unable to restrain herself further, whispered, "Miss Rolf, Cousin Phyllis, why did you say I was going to live at Beverley, when it is only a visit?"

Miss Phyllis bit her lip angrily. "Never mind," was all she answered; and then the brown felt hat was chosen, and the purchases went on—gloves, and boots, and some dainty under-linen, and various small belongings, until finally all that remained on Miss Phyllis's list was a dressing-case and a trunk. Nan hardly knew which of the beautiful cases to choose when her cousin left it to her; but finally a black leather one with silver fastenings was selected, and Miss Phyllis directed the shopman to have Nan's initials, A. B. R., put on it in little silver letters.

By this time Nan, in her new brown suit, with her hands in three-button kid gloves, had begun to think she never, never could do justice to the day, to Philip and Marian, and yet a something had stolen over her of half dread to going back to the shop. Already she dreaded her aunt's voice; the noisy, greasy tea table, where only Philip made things endurable for her; so that when, as they left the last store, loading the carriage with parcels, and Miss Phyllis said, "I'm going to keep you for the night, Nan," my little heroine felt more than ever grateful and happy.

Mrs. Grange received Nan very cordially when she made her appearance with Miss Rolf. The gentle little lady was quite a revelation to Nan, whose ideas of elderly people were formed entirely on the noisy, overworked matrons she had seen at Mrs. Rupert's. Nan was only allowed a few words with her hostess, and then Miss Rolf carried her off to the little sitting-room upstairs, where, when she had laid aside her hat and jacket, Miss Rolf told her she had better write Mrs. Rupert a note to explain her absence.

"And I want you to word it very carefully, Nan," said Phyllis, coming up to the little girl with a very serious expression. "You know things are changed with you now, and you must begin at once to let your aunt and her family understand that you are not—they can not expect you—to treat them quite as equals."

Nan was still full of the excitement and delight of her good fortune; yet as Phyllis spoke, looking down gravely upon her, there came a blush of mortification into the child's honest face. A tinge of the same color deepened in Phyllis's soft cheeks for just half a moment, but she said, very decidedly:

"Now, Nan, you are not going to be a foolish, obstinate child, I hope? Surely you must know that I and your aunt Letitia understand these things better than a little girl brought up among vulgar people could. Now there must be no nonsense, my dear."

Phyllis's tone was kind, but something in it made Nan see that she expected obedience; and was she not in every way the most wonderful and beautiful creature Nan had ever seen? Nan's doubts vanished while Phyllis laid out note-paper and pen and ink on a dainty little table drawn up to one of the windows; and when Nan placed herself there to write, her cousin sat down by the fire, with her slippered toes on the fender, and her pretty hands, sparkling with rings, folded gracefully in her lap.

"Now, Nan," she said, "begin your letter. Date it 'The Willows'—that is the name of this place. 'March 8. Dear Mrs. Rupert.'"

Nan smiled quickly.

"Why, Miss—Cousin Phyllis," she said, looking up from the paper, "she would think me crazy; she is Aunt Rebecca, you know."

Miss Rolf's delicate eyebrows drew together in a little frown. She waited a moment, and then, with an impatient sigh, said,

"Very well, let it go—'Dear Aunt Rebecca.'"

Nan's pen scratched on, with many splutterings, for penmanship was her weak point, and had not been considered a very necessary accomplishment in the Rupert household. She looked up presently for further instructions.

"My cousin, Miss Rolf," dictated that young lady, "has decided that I had better remain with her until I go to Beverley." ("Oh!" ejaculated Nan.) "My aunt, Miss Rolf, has invited me to make her a long visit, and as previous to my going, there are many things to be attended to in my wardrobe, etc., my cousin Phyllis thinks it best to keep me with her. I shall, of course, see you all before I leave."

Nan's pen finally came to a stop.

"That is all," said Phyllis, placidly.

"Then I'll just send my love, I suppose," said Nan.

After a little pause Phyllis said, "Yes," and Nan went to work again. When she brought the letter to her cousin for inspection, this is how it was concluded:

"I hope you are all well, and that you'll tell Mary Seymour, when you see her, that I'll go there before I leave, and I'll write to Tommy; and tell Marian, please, I'll give her and Philip all the pea-nuts that are in my drawer, and I'll write them everything that happens at Beverley. I hope uncle's jaw is better. Your loving niece, Nan."

Phyllis Rolf read the letter with so quiet an air that for a moment Nan felt much relieved, feeling sure it was all right; but the first words startled her.

"That would not do, my dear, at all," Phyllis said, coldly. "You can not go to see this Tommy Seymour, and you had better understand at once that your aunt will not like you to write everything to your cousins here. Now, Nan, do you see what I mean?"

Nan began to see a little more clearly, yet her mind was not yet made up; still, enough of Phyllis's meaning reached her to bring two large tears to her eyes. They rolled down her cheeks, while she looked silently at Phyllis and her letter.

"Don't be silly, my dear," said the young lady, standing up and smiling good-naturedly. "There, finish your letter with just your love; that will be the best way."

And so Nan went back to the little table, brushing away those first tears, and quietly obeyed her cousin. Miss Rolf took the letter from her as soon as it was finished, and went out of the room, while Nan sat still, wondering if Beverley would be quite all she hoped for.

Enough excitement remained to make it easy for Phyllis to control her as she wished, and that young lady trusted to time and absence working wonders. While Nan was sitting absorbed in her thoughts, the door opened, and Lance Rolf came suddenly into the room. He was a tall boy, with a spare, handsome face, delicate as Phyllis's in feature, but olive-tinted, and with more sweetness in the brown eyes and the hues of the mouth. He came up to Nan, holding out his hand with a pleasant smile.

"And are you Nan?" he said, looking at her earnestly.

"Yes," was Nan's timid answer.

"Well," said the boy, cheerfully, "we are cousins. My name is Lancelot Rolf. I hope we'll be very well acquainted. So you are going to Beverley."

"Yes," was all Nan could contrive to say again. She longed to ask a dozen questions of the bright, cheerful-looking boy, who, although no older than Philip, looked so very much like a little gentleman.

"Shall you like to go?" Lance said, presently.

Nan really felt she couldn't go on saying "yes" to everything, and so with a great effort she said:

"I want to go very much. Is it—is it nice there?"

"It's a jolly old house where you are going," said Lance, "but I don't know whether you'll enjoy it much, it's so slow, so stupid. Still, perhaps you're not accustomed to much fun." Lance could hardly imagine the cheese-monger's family as very entertaining.

"Oh yes, we have a great deal of fun sometimes," said Nan, gaining confidence. "In winter we coast and skate, and in summer there are always picnics, and sometimes a circus."

"But at home—wasn't there ever any fun at home?"

Nan could not remember anything which impressed her as particularly enjoyable in-doors.

"No," she said, slowly, "I don't think there was. Marian always liked to tend the shop, but I never cared so much for that. I didn't like the smell of the cheeses, don't you know."

"It was a cheese shop?" Lance looked very much interested.

"Cheese and butter, and eggs and hams," Nan recited the list glibly.

"Well," said Lancelot, very gravely, "there won't be anything like that at Beverley; and see here, Nan, I'll just give you a friendly hint. I don't think I'd talk much about the shop before Cousin Letitia. You see, she might not like it—don't be ashamed of it," added the boy, flushing a little; "I don't mean you to be mean about it, only you won't need to talk of it."

Nan felt that she had begun to put her old life behind her when she was arrayed in the brown cashmere, and now little by little she was learning to feel as the people around her felt; that, after all, she would be expected to act and appear and think very differently about everything as soon as she was in Beverley.

"What do you do?" said Nan, looking brightly at her new acquaintance. "Do you live at Beverley?"

Lance nodded.

"When I'm home," he said. "I come to school near here, at Barnabas Academy. When I'm home I live quite near to where you're going to be. Oh, I do lots of things! Boys are so different from girls. I'm captain of our baseball club, for one thing, and we are jolly good cricketers too, I tell you. At home I do all sorts of things. Phyllis and I are great chums; Phyllis is a regular brick." He might have said more, but at this moment Phyllis reappeared. Nan looked at her a little anxiously. She wondered if she was going to feel offended with her about the note; but the young lady was perfectly cheerful, and even kissed Nan when she said, "Now, dear, we will go down to supper. Mrs. Grange is waiting."

---

---

Hey, diddle, diddle,

The cat and the fiddle;

The cow jumped over the moon;

The little dog laughed to see such sport;

And the dish ran away with the spoon.

---

Wytheville, Virginia.

We are three little girls who have often read and enjoyed Harper's Young People very much. We meet successively at each other's home every Friday evening, and read the stories in it. We live in a beautiful town in the mountains of Southwest Virginia. We three go to the same school, and like our teachers very much. Our parents take all your papers—the Monthly, Bazar, and Weekly—and we take Young People. We look forward to Wednesday with a great deal of pleasure, for we know it is the day our paper comes. We are so glad to see Mrs. John Lillie is going to write a new story, and we are sure it will be very interesting, as all her others are. Please print this, as we would like to surprise our mammas.

Ellie C., Helen S. S., and Susie W.

Well, Ellie, Susie, and Helen, though I do not know which of you has brown eyes and which blue, which is the tall slender girl, which the merry-faced one with the dancing dimples, and which the plump little maiden who always thinks before she speaks, I send my love to each of you, and am glad to hear of your pleasant Friday evenings. You and the thousands of other girls for whom Mrs. Lillie has written her charming story have a real treat before you in reading it. I sometimes wish myself a girl again just to feel for an hour the delight I used to when beginning a beautiful new story. The girls who form Mrs. Lillie's audience have better times in the story way than girls did when your mammas and myself were at your age. But I, for one, still dearly love a bright sketch or a beautiful serial; and if I were near you, I might sometimes glide in and take an easy-chair in the corner on your reading evenings—that is, if you would let me in on my promising to be very good indeed.

---

Some of you who have empty cologne or scent bottles may make very pretty presents for your friends by covering them with silk or plush, and finishing off with a dainty lace ruffle and a narrow ribbon around the neck. A beautiful tidy which I saw the other day was crocheted in heavy cord, and looped over crimson silk. Very lovely plaques are made of the birch-bark plates on which butter is sent home by the grocer. They must be covered very neatly with silk or satin, on which a design is worked or painted. The pretty little Japanese umbrellas, which cost but a few cents, may be inverted, opened, and caught at each point with a ribbon. Suspended from a nail, they make dainty little scrap-bags.

The letter which follows contains a suggestion which the Postmistress thinks excellent. She will keep a corner in the Post-office Box for all such letters as our correspondent invites:

Boston, Massachusetts.

Dear Postmistress,—I remember when I was eight or ten years younger than I am now, how hard it used to be for me to find anything new to make for Christmas for all the aunts and cousins, and now, as Christmas is drawing near, my younger sister comes to me and says: "Can not you think of something for Christmas? I want something for Aunt Mary and Aunt Lizzie, something I have not made for them before." I have no doubt that many other little people say the same thing. Now, I have a plan to propose to you, and if you think it a good one, will you mention it in the Post-office Box? Let each little girl—and boy too, if he wishes—write and describe something that he or she makes for Christmas, and then if you will be so good as to publish the letters I think before Christmas we may have quite a variety of ideas. Of course each article mentioned would not be new to all, but it would be new to some, and I think many little girls would be greatly aided. Now what do you think?

One of your Older Readers.

---

Awake at five in the morning,
Bright as a little bird,
Cooing and laughing and crowing
Before a person has stirred.

Carried on papa's shoulder,
Lying on mamma's arm,
Never a king was bolder
Or safer from slightest harm.

Going to ride with sister,
Taking a cozy nap,
Resting before his dinner
On grandmamma's silken lap.

Creeping over the carpet,
Playing with pretty toys;
Baby's the dearest darling,
The prettiest, best of boys.

Susie Patton.

---

Olean, New York.

I think that Frankie would be a pretty name for Marion W.'s baby brother. I have nine dolls. Their names are Mollie, Lottie, Edith, Eva, Lena, Christina, Carrie, Johnnie, and Bertie. I like your stories all very much, especially "Toby Tyler," "Mr. Stubbs's Brother," and "Their Girl." I send my love to the Postmistress.

Lena Matthews.

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Madison, New Jersey.

I am a little boy six years old. My brother Louie takes Young People, and has every number. Baby Roe and I love to have mamma read it to us. Roe and I have bad colds, so I could not go to school, but Louie could. I learned to print in school. This is my first letter. I hope you will print it.

Howard B. G.

Your little note was printed so nicely that it was as plain as though the letters had been formed by the type-writing machine. After all, there is no machine of which I ever heard so wonderful as the four little fingers and thumb of a boy's hand. Ask papa and mamma if they don't agree with me.

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Salem, North Carolina.

I have taken Young People from the first number, and I like it very much. I have written one letter to the Post-office Box, but I thought I would write again. My friend Howard R. has written too. We two have formed a printing firm under the name of P. & R. We made four dollars clear profit, with which we bought each a pair of roller skates. We have over three dollars in our bank now. Some of my playmates and I have formed a club under the name of Holiday Club, and some of my boy friends and I have formed a military company by the name of Home Guards. We parade in the academy play-grounds. The other day we fought almost all the battles of the Revolution.

A. H. P.

All the battles of the Revolution in one day! I wonder you slept a wink the night after such tremendous exertion. But boys are made of steel springs and India rubber, and can stand a good deal of pounding. Please send me word about the various doings of your holiday club, and don't let the fun interfere with your studies, or else the preceptors and professors may veto your good times. I am glad you are so successful as amateur printers.

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New York City.

I am a little boy nine years old. I have a cat and a kitten. The cat's name is Gypsy, but I have not named the kitten yet. I take Harper's Young People, and I like it very much. The other day the kitten fell from a chair and hurt its leg, but it is well now.

Cito S.

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Dear little Robin D., who often sends answers to puzzles, was not well, and so mamma became her amanuensis, sent her answers and her new puzzles, which will see the light before long, and this pleasant little message to the Postmistress and to Marion W.

I hope Robin is quite well by this time.

Robin says: "Mamma, tell the Postmistress that my little pet bird Jimmie died, and wasn't it too bad, but that now I have a beautiful white dove and a dear little bird whose name is Montie, but I still mourn for Jimmie, whose cage was draped in mourning for a whole week. We buried him in our yard."

Robin thinks that Edgar is a very pretty name for a boy, or Irving. She does not really know which to choose for little Marion W.'s dear baby brother. She says, "If one little girl may put in more than one name for Marion to choose from, put both Irving and Edgar in from Robin D."

I am very sorry little Jimmie died. When Marion chooses a name, she must not forget to send us all word what it is, as we feel quite an interest, don't we, children?

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Boston, Massachusetts.

I want to ask you to tell me a pretty name for a little kitty, because I don't know any nice ones. Now I want to tell you about where I went last summer. I went to Falmouth, which is very near the sea-side, and is a very pleasant place. I went in bathing only twice while I was there, but went in wading nearly every day. I went in a sail-boat once, and had a very nice sail, and then I went down the beach a little way to catch minnows, but couldn't. Good-by.

Alice S.

Muff is a nice name for a kitty.

Let me tell you about a kitty which a little boy friend of mine had for his pet. It was a black kitty, I believe, though I am not sure. He carried it everywhere with him, and when he was practicing one afternoon, he set it on the piano that it might hear him play. It nestled its head cunningly on its tiny paws, and listened with all its might.

Somebody called the little boy away for a moment. When he came back the kitty was gone.

High and low they hunted for it. Mamma, nurse, two little sisters, and even the baby, called Kitty! Kitty! but no kitty answered. After a long time there came a faint little mieuw on the air; and where do you suppose they found that small cat? Why, in the piano, where she had taken a cozy nap.

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Nashville, Tennessee.

Most boys and girls tell about their pets. I have none, except my little brother, two years and a half old. I have two sisters and this sweet little brother. We moved from Louisville, Kentucky, to Nashville about a month ago, and I am very homesick to go back again. We spent the summer at Bon Aqua Springs, not far from here, and had a nice time. I have a doll, and her name is Eva Wallace; she will be four years old on Christmas. My little brother tries to call us girls "girlie," and he says "dirlie." He calls me "Black-eye dirlie," my sister Grace "Blue-eye dirlie," and sister Florence "Brown-eye dirlie." His name is Theodore. We have taken Young People from the beginning, and think it is the best of papers. Mamma takes the Bazar and Magazine. My papa is away most of the time, and we are always glad when he comes home. I go to school, and am in the Fifth Grade. I study reading, spelling, arithmetic, geography, writing, and drawing. I am eleven years old.

Bessie W.

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South Bend, Indiana.

I like Young People very much. I am a little girl eight years old, and live on a farm five miles from the city. I go to school now, but mamma will teach me at home this winter. I have two pets, a white bantam chicken named Polly and a white kitty named Snow. I had a canary-bird, but he was sick and died; his name was Billy. I have three dollies; I do not play with them very much, because I have no one to play with me. Papa has a nice Irish setter dog to hunt with; his name is Paul. I will write again as soon as I can write better.

Georgiana D.

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Drifton, Pennsylvania.

I have lately returned from Europe, and I enjoyed the pile of Magazines I found here. I brought home a gondola from Venice, and I also brought a curious swan which I saw them make at the glass-works. I had a splendid time in dear old London. We saw the Queen and the Princess of Wales. We saw the wine-vaults. We crossed the Alps in four-horse carriages, and I made snow-balls in June. Young People is the best paper out.

Ockley B. C.

You have many delightful things to remember about your trip abroad. I hope you kept a journal.

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Norwalk, Connecticut.

I am eleven years old, and live in Norwalk in the summer, and in New York city in the winter. I have no brothers nor sisters, except two who are grown up, and I have a brother at college. We are going to New York on the first of next month. I enjoy Harper's Young People very much, and look forward to its coming with great pleasure. As you wanted to hear from any girl or boy who had a garden, I thought I would tell you about mine. I planted in my garden this summer potatoes, onions, tomatoes, strawberries, and celery, besides flowers. I had enough potatoes for the whole family for dinner, so I had them on the table that day, and I hope to have my celery to-morrow. The cook made me some caramels from the receipt you put in Harper's Young People, but it wouldn't harden, so she made a chocolate cake, and I had it on the table one evening. As I have no more to tell about I think I will close.

Harry C. M.

You were a famous little gardener, and deserve great praise.

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Alleghany, Pennsylvania.

I am a little girl nearly eleven years old. I will tell you about my summer trip. I can not tell all the places we went to, but one place was the White Mountains of New Hampshire. There are very fine views, especially from the top of Mount Washington. You would laugh to see the funny little cars that go up and down. It is very steep, and as you go up you see nothing but rocks. Mamma thought it was frightful, but I did not. Well, good-by.

Annie H. S.

I might have laughed when I was eleven years old, dear, but I never go up a steep mountain nowadays without feeling, like your mamma, that there is danger as well as pleasure about the ascent. I am glad you have been to the top of Mount Washington, and have looked from there over the great mountains and deep valleys of New England.

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Milton, Ontario, Canada.

I am a little girl twelve years old, and live in a small town thirty miles from Toronto. We are always very glad when your paper comes. I love to read the letters in the Post-office Box. I like "The Cruise of the Canoe Club." My father and four of my uncles are in Montana, and my aunt and her children are going out there next week. My uncle and his youngest brother belong to a surveying party, and have been surveying in the Rocky Mountains and Yellowstone Park all summer, and write home delightfully interesting descriptions of the wonders to be seen there—about the geysers and glass mountains, also soda mountains, and cañons. The Grand Cañon is the deepest of all; it is several thousand feet deep, and at the bottom is a rushing, roaring river. One of my uncles descended into it. It is so deep that if you go down into it and look upward, you can see the stars at three o'clock in the afternoon. The geysers spout up water to a tremendous height. One of them—I think it is called the Excelsior—throws water in which are pieces of rock to a height of three hundred feet. Often the eruptions are preceded by rumblings and shakings like an earthquake. Once when the party were near one of the geyser basins, suddenly the earth began to quake, and the water in the basin spouted ever so high, and the sky was filled with water and pieces of rock, and they had to run to get out of the way. Perhaps we will go to Montana if father stays there; and if we do, mother says that we may take an occasional trip to the Park, and then I will write and tell you of some of the things we see there.

Becca R.

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The cunning little letter which follows was sent by a little girl five and one-half years old to her young lady sisters away from home. This little girl lives near a railroad, and every day she and her brother watch for their conductors, as they call them, and wave to them as the cars rush past the door. By the "tassels with the board on" little Amy meant a lambrequin which belonged on the mantel. Jumbo is a huge toy elephant greatly admired by the little folks in Amy's nursery:

Tenafly, New Jersey.

Dear Louise and Maggie,—It will soon be Roy's birthday. If you don't come home quick, you won't be here before it comes. Roy creeps. He can walk with our taking hold of him. He can stand up by the bath-tub. May S. don't know some of the words of her music-lesson. I say my lessons every day at home, and then I say them in school. I did not get a bad mark to-day; sometimes I do. I get apples in B.'s yard—they don't care—and take them to school over recess, and then I take them home. Mamma has to sew so hard, and we bother her, and she sends us out-doors. When it rains she don't; then we stay in the house, and play with our toys. Sarah's back, and we're glad, and she irons every Tuesday. We take walks with her sometimes. Mary's here too, and sometimes she goes out with her husband. I like him, and he gives me pennies. I would like to be over there and see your big dog Frank. Some Sunday afternoons papa's tired, and he don't want to go riding. We did go last Sunday. Last Sunday we took Roy. Marian plays with Roy every day, and mamma says Stop! when she hurts him. Clifford has to get his teeth fixed, and we can't go to P. until next Monday. Every day papa goes out to see the men fixing the trestle-work. On Roy's birthday we're going to have a little party; no one is coming, only us. Mamma has to send out when she wants papa—away out to the trestle-work. Mamma writes this letter, and I find the words. Marian has got lots of things in the corner by the bookcase again. Clifford's got lots of cars now, and he plays with them 'most every day. He's got a new tin train of cars from the Fair. We're getting our stoves fixed. There's fire in the sitting-room. Your tassels with the board on is up in the front parlor. We've got a Jumbo from the Fair. We take Jumbo out to see our 'ductors. Mine is away, and ain't home yet. Roy goes around picking up everything, and gets things out of mamma's basket, and dumped it over twice. It's near winter, and we've got the sleds down.

A kiss for Maggie, and a kiss for Louise. Love for Maggie, and love for Louise.

Amy D.

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Fremont, Nebraska.

Dear "Harper's Young People,"—My brother Paul takes Harper's Young People, and I think it is a very nice paper. I was eight years old the 7th of September. I have a sister who is four years old. And we have a horse named Dick; he is gentle and a very nice horse, and will eat apples as well as any boy can. He will shake hands with either leg. I go to school, and I am already in the Third Reader. My teacher's name is Miss S. And we have got a calf called Rosy, and she is a very gentle and nice calf, and we have a pretty wild cow.

Burnie C.

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San Francisco, California.

I am a little boy nine years old. This is my first letter. I like the story of "The Cruise of the Canoe Club" and "Mr. Stubbs's Brother." I commenced going to school in March, 1881, and am now in the Seventh Grade. I was honorably promoted last June. I am trying very hard to be the same this term. I go to Alameda nearly every Saturday with my papa to take a salt-water bath. I can swim a little. I live in the city, and can not have as much fun as the little boys in the country; but I shall go to the country next vacation.

Allen G. W.

A boy who tries hard is sure to succeed. When next you are promoted write again, as I like to keep an account of my boys when they do well. I am glad you can swim.

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Frank and Joe.—The twenty numbers of Harper's Young People containing the story of "Toby Tyler" will cost you eighty cents. By sending $1 to Messrs. Harper & Brothers you may obtain Toby Tyler in a beautiful bound volume, handsomely illustrated.

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Salt.—Yes, Daisy, you are right in your supposition that people in very old times were alarmed if any one spilled salt on the table at a meal. It was fancied that the unlucky accident was the sign of a quarrel between two of the company. However, I attach no importance to such signs, even when they are ancient, and if you came to dine with me, and the salt-cellar happened to be upset, I would not trouble for our friendship.

Among the Arabs salt is regarded as sacred, and if you happen to be the guest of a Bedouin, who meeting you in the desert would rob you and be glad of the chance, you are perfectly safe if you share his bread and salt; he will protect you against all enemies. You see, that salt among these wild people is the emblem of hospitality. The Romans thought it unfortunate to sit down at a feast where the salt had been forgotten. The Greeks had the same feeling. It was also considered very thoughtless to leave salt unlocked overnight.

I hope, Daisy dear, that while reading and studying about these curious superstitions you will take care not to believe in them yourself.

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For the information of some of our new subscribers who write to ask we repeat that there is no charge for the publication of exchanges. They should be brief. State first what you desire to offer, and then what you wish to receive. Please write with black ink as plainly as you can, and sign your full name and post-office address. Birds' eggs and fire-arms are prohibited as articles of exchange. The Editor reserves the right to exclude any exchange in whole or in part if for any reason it is considered unfit for Young People.

Having sent your letter, you should wait very patiently for your turn, as the department is always crowded, and no exchange can ever be printed in the paper next issued after its reception.

To avoid misunderstanding, exchangers should always write fully to each other and receive replies before sending away their articles. Each should arrange in this way about the necessary expense of the mail or express. Articles should not be sent to the office of Young People, but directly to the persons with whom they are to be exchanged.

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Successful Wigglers.—We should be glad if Hattie M. Pearley, B. F. M., and A. W., who have been successful in reproducing our artist's idea of Wiggle No. 29, would each send us his or her full name and address.

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In the month of (a cape in Massachusetts) a lady named (a city in Brazil), and a gentleman named (a cape in Virginia), went to (the capital of Italy) in the (a lake in Minnesota). They walked until noon, when the lady opened a satchel made of (a country in Africa). It contained a fried (river in Minnesota), some fine old (a river in South America), and a (islands in the Pacific Ocean) for each. As it had been (a lake in Minnesota) and the (a river in England) was rather (a country of South America), they wanted to return to their home, but the (an island west of England) lost a cuff button made of (a city in New Mexico), and ornamented with (a river in Mississippi). While they were on the (a cape of North Carolina) they met (a river of South America), who said he thought (an island near Massachusetts), who was a colored woman.

Pansy.

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In these examples the problem is to arrange the grouped letters so that they will form a word agreeing with the accompanying definition.

Bartie.

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1. I have bought a new carpet, Angelina. 2. Lucy lost her ring. 3. Tommy had ten chickens. 4. Mr. Stubbs had flung away all Toby Tyler's money.

Bartie.

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1. A kind of cloth. 2. A precious stone. 3. A famous musical composer. 4. A glazier's diamond. Primials—A bird. Finals—Part of the bird, connected, to join.

Lodestar.

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1.—1. A letter. 2. A preposition. 3. A Latin verb. 4. Anything very small.

2.—1. A letter. 2. To exist. 3. The cry of a sheep. 4. To support.

3.—1. A letter. 2. An abbreviation. 3. A covering. 4. To engage in conflict.

J. K. M. Iles.

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Lock. Peach.

Hate.

Cupboard.

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Answer to Rebus on page 848—"There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip."

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Answer to Enigma on page 848—A rainbow.

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Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Robin Dyke, William A. Lewis, John Duerk, Alfred and Blanche Bloomingdale, Horace W. Danforth, Alice C. Little, "Junebug," "Fairy Godmother," Lulu Breese, Emily Godwin, Archie Ives, "Mayblossom," Fanny R. Emerson, Ben and Ned, John Twombley, Hugh Remsen, "Fuss and Feathers," Brandt Beekman, Lena Matthews, A. H. Patterson, Frank Sinsabaugh, Edith M. L., Alfred Kauffman.

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

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