The Pansy, November 1886

YOUNG Joseph sat on the side of his bed, one boot on, the other still held by the strap, while he stared somewhat crossly at a small green paper-covered book which lay open beside him.

“A dozen of them!” he said at last. “Just to think of a fellow making such a silly promise as that! A verse a month, straight through a whole year. Got to pick ’em out, too. I’d rather have ’em picked out for me; less trouble.

“How did I happen to promise her I’d do it? I don’t know which verse to take. None of ’em fit me, nor have a single thing to do with a boy! Well, that’ll make it all the easier for me, I s’pose. I’ve got to hurry, anyhow, so here goes; I’ll take the shortest there is here.”

And while he drew on the other boot, and made haste to finish his toilet, he rattled off, many times over, the second verse at the head of this story.

The easiest way to make you understand about Joseph, is to give you a very brief account of his life.

He was twelve years old, and an orphan. The only near relative he had in the world was his sister Jean aged sixteen, who was learning millinery in an establishment in the city. The little family though very poor, had kept together until mother died in the early spring. Now it was November, and during the summer, Joseph had lived where he could; working a few days for his bread, first at one house, then at another; never because he was really needed, but just out of pity for his homelessness. Jean could earn her board where she was learning her trade, but not his; though she tried hard to bring this about.

At last, a home for the winter opened to Joseph. The Fowlers who lived on a farm and had in the large old farmhouse a private school for a dozen girls, spent a few weeks in the town where Joseph lived, and carried him away with them, to be errand boy in general, and study between times.

Poor, anxious Jean drew a few breaths of relief over the thought of her boy. That, at least, meant pure air, wholesome food, and a chance to learn something.

Now for his promise. Jean had studied over it a good deal before she claimed it. Should it be to read a few verses in mother’s Bible every day? No; because a boy always forgot to do so, for a week at a time, and then on Sunday afternoon rushed through three or four chapters as a salve to his conscience, not noticing a sentence in them. At last she determined on this: the little green book of golden texts, small enough to carry in his jacket pocket! Would he promise her to take—should she say each week’s text as a sort of rule to live by?

No; that wouldn’t do. Joseph would never make so close a promise as that. Well, how would a verse a month do, chosen by himself from the Golden Texts?

On this last she decided; and this, with some hesitancy, Joseph promised. So here he was, on Thanksgiving morning, picking out his first text. He had chosen the shortest, as you see; there was another reason for the choice. It pleased him to remember that he had no lambs to feed, and there was hardly a possibility that the verse could fit him in any way during the month. He was only bound by his promise to be guided by the verse if he happened to think of it, and if it suggested any line of action to him.

“It’s the jolliest kind of a verse,” he said, giving his hair a rapid brushing. “When there are no lambs around, and nothing to feed ’em, I’d as soon live by it for a month as not.”

Voices in the hall just outside his room: “I don’t know what to do with poor little Rettie to-day,” said Mrs. Calland, the married daughter who lived at home with her fatherless Rettie.

“The poor child will want everything on the table, and it won’t do for her to eat anything but her milk and toast. I am so sorry for her. You know she is weak from her long illness; and it is so hard for a child to exercise self control about eating. If I had anyone to leave her with I would keep her away from the table; but every one is so busy.”

Then Miss Addie, one of the sisters: “How would it do to have our new Joseph stay with her?”

“Indeed!” said the new Joseph, puckering his lips into an indignant sniff and brushing his hair the wrong way, in his excitement; “I guess I won’t, though. Wait for the second table on Thanksgiving Day, when every scholar in the school is going to sit down to the first! That would be treating me exactly like one of the family with a caution! Just you try it, Miss Addie, and see how quick I’ll cut and run.”

But Mrs. Calland’s soft voice was replying: “Oh! I wouldn’t like to do that. Joseph is sensitive, and a stranger, and sitting down to the Thanksgiving feast in its glory, is a great event for him; it would hurt me to deprive him of it.”

“Better not,” muttered Joseph, but there was a curious lump in his throat, and a very tender feeling in his heart toward Mrs. Calland.

It was very strange, in fact it was absurd, but all the time Joseph was pumping water, and filling pitchers, and bringing wood and doing the hundred other things needing to be done this busy morning, that chosen verse sounded itself in his brain: “He saith unto him, feed my lambs.” More than that, it connected itself with frail little Rettie and the Thanksgiving feast.

In vain did Joseph say “Pho!” “Pshaw!” “Botheration!” or any of the other words with which boys express disgust. In vain did he tell himself that the verse didn’t mean any such thing; he guessed he wasn’t a born idiot. He even tried to make a joke out of it, and assure himself that this was exactly contrary to the verse; it was a plan by means of which the “lamb” should not get fed. It was all of no use. The verse and his promise, kept by him the whole morning, actually sent him at last to Mrs. Calland with the proposal that he should take little Rettie to the schoolroom and amuse her, while the grand dinner was being eaten.

I will not say that he had not a lingering hope in his heart that Mrs. Calland would refuse his sacrifice. But his hope was vain. Instant relief and gratitude showed in the mother’s eyes and voice. And Joseph carried out his part so well that Rettie, gleeful and happy every minute of the long two hours, did not so much as think of the dinner.

“You are a good, kind boy,” said Mrs. Calland, heartily. “Now run right down to dinner; we saved some nice and warm for you.”

Yes, it was warm: but the great fruit pudding was spoiled of its beauty, and the fruit pyramid had fallen, and the workers were scraping dishes and hurrying away the remains of the feast, while he ate, and the girls were out on the lawn playing tennis and croquet, double sets at both, and no room for him, and the glory of everything had departed. The description of it all, which he had meant to write to Jean, would have to be so changed that there would be no pleasure in writing it. What had been the use of spoiling his own day? No one would ever know it, he couldn’t even tell Jean, because of course the verse didn’t mean any such thing.

“But I don’t see why it pitched into a fellow so, if it didn’t belong,” he said, rising from the table just as Ann, the dishwasher, snatched his plate, for which she had been waiting. “And, anyhow, I feel kind of glad I did it, whether it belonged or not.”

“He is a kind-hearted, unselfish boy,” said Mrs. Calland to her little daughter, that evening, “and you and mamma must see in how many ways we can be good to him.”

Pansy.

IT was the day before Thanksgiving. Cold weather had come on early. The ground had been frozen solid for several days, and the country roads were “smooth as glass”; so Grandpa Kirke said when he came home from the post-office Tuesday afternoon. “But I shouldn’t wonder if we were to have snow before morning,” he added. And at this the little granddaughter Lucy L. clapped her hands gleefully. The boy Whittier said nothing, but presently a noise was heard up in the wood-house chamber, and Mrs. Kirke said in a startled tone, “What’s that?”

Grandpa stepped to the door and called, “Whittier!”

“Sir?” responded the boy quickly.

“Oh! you are there.”

“Coming in a minute; do you want anything?” said Whittier, and in less than a minute the boy appeared below stairs with his sled. “Looks pretty well to start on a second winter with!” he said, as he dusted and examined the treasure. “Say, Lucy Larcom, how will you like to ride to school on the Flyaway to-morrow morning?”

Grandma laughed, and said, “You seem to be counting on snow, for sure.”

“But you know grandpa said maybe it would snow, and when grandpa says maybe, it most always comes so,” said Lucy.

Sure enough snow lay on the ground, pure and white, to the depth of several inches when they looked out that morning before Thanksgiving Day. The children could scarcely be prevailed upon to eat their breakfast, so eager were they to get off to school with the Flyaway. Grandma said:

“This won’t last long; snow that falls upon frozen ground never stays. It is the snow that comes in the mud that makes sleighing to last.” This somewhat chilled their expectations, but Lucy concluded that the snow would last until recess, anyway. As the two started off grandma, watching them from the window, said with a sigh, “How much Whittier looks like our John at his age!”

“God forbid that he should grow up to remind you of John!” replied Mr. Kirke, almost bitterly.

Mrs. Kirke washed the dishes and tidied the room in silence, then stepping to her husband’s side she laid her hand upon his shoulder, and said softly, “Joseph, to-morrow is Thanksgiving Day!”

“Well?”

“I have made the pies and the pudding and the plum cake that John always liked so well, and now if John should come home?”

“Well?” this time the monosyllable was spoken a trifle less impatiently.

“If he should come home you would receive him? Remember, Joseph, John is our first-born.”

“’Tain’t no ways likely he’ll come!”

“I don’t know; someway I’ve been thinking lik’sanyway he’ll be thinking about the old home when Thanksgiving comes round. Anyway, I’ve made them things for him, but then,” she added, more to herself than to her husband, “I’m always ready for him. The bed is always made up for him, and there is always something cooked that he likes.”

Meantime the children had gone on their way, Whittier drawing his sister upon the Flyaway, bending all his energies to the task, for the sledding was not very good, so it happened that Lucy was the first to spy a strange sight for that part of the country.

“Look, Whitty! what is that coming?” exclaimed his sister.

Then Whittier stopped, and Lucy in her excitement jumped off the sled and stood beside him, half-frightened.

“Why, that must be one of them things they call a bicycle!” said the boy; “I’ve read a lot about them, and Tom Green saw one in Galway when he was over there staying with his uncle. I guess this is the first one ever got around this way. My! how he skims along. But I wish he would stop, so we could see the machine better.”

As if divining the boy’s wish, the bicyclist came to a stand-still and dismounted as he reached the place where the children waited.

“Halloo, my boy! How’ll you swap? I think I’d like to go coasting this morning; those hills over there look as though they might give a chance for some sport.”

“Say,” continued the stranger without giving Whittier a chance to speak, “do you s’pose a fellow could get a breakfast anywhere around here?”

“I don’t know,” replied Whittier slowly. “I guess, though, that grandma would give you some. I’ve heard her say she never could find it in her heart to turn a tramp away because maybe uncle John might be wanting something to eat and she would want somebody to give him a meal.”

The stranger stooped down and seemed to be brushing the snow off the wheel, and when he spoke it was in a very quiet tone:

“Where does grandma live, and what is her name?”

“Her name is Grandma Kirke, and she lives over there in the white house you see by the red barn.”

“And is there a Grandpa Kirke?”

“Of course! we’d have to have a grandpa or we couldn’t get along, could we?” said Lucy, startled out of her shyness at the thought that there could be a house without a grandpa.

“There is just Grandpa and Grandma Kirke and us,” said Whittier; “we used to have an uncle John, though Lucy Larcom and I came here after he went away. He has been gone five years, but you better not say anything about him if you go there, because it always makes grandma cry.”

“And does grandpa cry?”

“No; he only looks sober, but I guess he feels awful bad about uncle John, for he says it was rum that made him go off, and grandpa hates rum like poison. He won’t have even cider in the house, and he always votes against rum too.”

“And don’t grandma make currant wine and keep it in the cellar for Thanksgiving and Christmas?” asked the stranger.

“My! no! grandma hates everything that has alcohol in it. She wouldn’t have it anywhere around; but she will give you a cup of coffee, I guess.”

“And you think she would be glad to see John?”

“I know she would!” Then as a thought flashed into his mind, the boy said suddenly, “Say, if you go riding around the country much on that machine maybe you’ll come across my uncle; if you do, just tell him grandma keeps things all ready for him, ’specting him to come, will you?”

“All right, I will; good-by!” and mounting his wheel the stranger rode off towards the little white house which Whittier had pointed out. “As if I didn’t know that house and every room in it!” he said, talking to himself. “And so grandma keeps things ready for her wandering son!” and here he lifted his hand to brush away something from his cheek.

It could not have been a fly that frosty morning, could it?

I have not space to tell you of the stranger’s reception at the farmhouse. There must have been joy in heaven over the returning repentant prodigal; and what a Thanksgiving that was! When the next day the sons and daughters gathered for the feast, and found this long-absent brother returned, their cup of joy and thanksgiving seemed to overflow. But I want to tell you of a bit of talk that took place when uncle John had gathered the children all about him in the afternoon.

They were examining the bicycle, and he had been telling them some incidents of his long journey, when suddenly he said, “Now, children, you think this is a nice thing, and you boys quite envy your old uncle its possession, don’t you?”

“Not quite that, I guess,” replied one of the older boys, “but I’d like to own one.”

“Well, perhaps your father will buy this; I want to sell it.” At this they all looked aghast to think their uncle would be willing to part with such a treasure.

“Just let me tell you something, boys,” he continued; “I am forty years old, and all I possess in the world is this bicycle and a very few dollars which I have earned since I became a sober man. I have thrown away the best part of my life. Here are my brothers with comfortable homes all their own, and I with nothing, and all because of rum! and I began by drinking cider over there at the mill. Boys, let it alone; don’t begin, and you will never be the slave of rum.”

“But, uncle John,” said one, “you are not a slave any more.”

“No; but I shall carry the marks of my fetters to the grave. I tell you it hasn’t paid. Forty years old, and nothing to show for my life! Sign the pledge, boys; sign the pledge, and you will not have to say that when you are forty years old. I trust you will have something more than a bicycle to show for it.”

Faye Huntington.

R. M. Alden (Editor).

THE Arabic Bible is completed, and is said to be selling at a great rate, in Alexandria, Egypt.

The room in which the infidel Voltaire once predicted the speedy overthrow of Christianity, is now used as a Bible depository.

Three missionaries have been recently murdered: Rev. John Houghton and wife of Golbanti, East Africa, and Bishop Hannington.

Not long ago, a Mr. Green, president of a temperance society of England, destroyed the contents of his wine-cellar, valued at three thousand dollars.

We are glad to hear that the government of Japan has forbidden the lecturing against Christianity, by “Yaso Taiji,” or Jesus opposers, believing it to be damaging to the country.

We hear of a church in Iowa which is very new, and not yet furnished. Just now the Sunday-school scholars are seated on rough boards resting on boxes. But this is a good beginning.

A little over twenty-five years ago Sunday-schools were introduced into Sweden. Now there are two hundred thousand Sunday-school scholars and twenty thousand teachers in the country!

There is a saloon in the city of Cincinnati, called “The Spider Web,” with a picture on the sign of a spider in his web. How appropriate this is, when the business of the saloon is to entangle men’s souls and bodies!

Before the war, a slave was beaten terribly by his master for being “religious,” and the cruel man afterward exclaimed: “There! what will your religion do for you now?” “It will help me to forgive you, Massa,” was the reply.

A minister of Kansas said that he once took into the church, at one communion service, a Chinaman, a colored man, two Germans, an Irishman and some Americans. “There is neither Jew nor Greek, circumcision nor uncircumcision, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free: but Christ is all, and in all.”

The Societies of Christian Endeavor, among the young people, are growing, all over the country. There is a thriving one in a little church in New York State, of which we know. They recently gave a “lawn party” and raised money to fresco, paint, carpet, and partially seat the chapel of the church. They also have an “envelope fund,” and each member brings weekly some regular amount. Half of this goes to regular church expenses, and half to anything for which they vote to use it.

In Southern Ohio last spring there was a little brick church, the wall-paper of which had peeled off. The walls were dirty, the matting in the aisles was dirty, the seats were ugly, and the chandeliers hung from the ceiling by ropes. The people were discouraged, and thought nothing could be done. But some money was raised, and the walls were re-papered, the seats oiled and grained, a new carpet put down, the chandeliers hung nicely, and now such a pretty little church as it is! If you could have seen it the Sunday before it was fixed, and the Sunday after, you would have thought it a wonderful transformation, indeed.

Rev. Mr. Meade, of New York State, who has been in the temperance work among the colored people of the South, says he was present at a conference of their church, when the ministers were bringing up the money from the churches. One man brought “all de money he could raise,” and then took a shining silver dollar. “Dat,” said he, “is from me, for de home missionary cause. And dat,” taking out another, “for the foreign missionary cause. And,” turning to Mr. Meade, “if I had another cent, I’d gib it to you, for de temperance work, but I have to walk home thirty miles now, widout money to pay my fare.” Mr. Meade gave him a chance to bring up a package from the depot, and he was delighted to earn twenty-five cents for “de temperance cause.”

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By Pansy.

MARGARET was washing the dishes; making a vigorous clash and spatter, and setting down the cups so hard that had they been anything but the good solid iron-stone which they were, they would certainly have suffered under the treatment.

Margaret was noisy in all things, but to-day the usual vigor of movement was manifestly increased by ill humor. There was an ominous setting of a pair of firm lips, and all her face was in a frown. The knives and forks, when their turn came, seemed to increase her ire. She rattled and flung them about with such reckless disregard of consequences that there landed, presently, a lovely tricolored globe of foam in the centre of John’s arithmetic, over which he was at this moment gloomily bending.

“Look here,” he said, half fiercely, half comically, “quit that, will you? This thing is dry enough, I know; but it will take more than soap suds to dampen it.”

“Take your book out of my way, then. What do you s’pose she would say to its being on the table and you bending double over it?”

“She may say just exactly what she pleases. It will stay on the table until I get ready to take it off.”

“O yes! you’re very brave until you hear her coming, and then you are as meek as Moses.”

“Now I say, Mag, that’s mean in you, when you know well enough that all I’m after is to try to keep the peace.”

“Peace! there isn’t enough of that article left in this house to make it worth while to try to save it. I’m sick to death of the whole thing.” And the knives bumped about against a plate in the dish-pan with such force that the plate rebelled and flew into three pieces in its rage.

“There goes another dish!” exclaimed West, from the window corner where he was busily whittling; “that makes the seventeenth this week, doesn’t it? Mag, you are awful, and no mistake.”

Then Margaret’s face flamed and her angry words burst their bounds: “I wish you would just mind your own business, Weston Moore! You think because you are eighteen months and seven days older than I, that you can order me around like a slave.”

“Whew! bless my eyes! How you do blaze out on a fellow! Who thought of ordering you around? I should as soon think of ordering a cyclone. I was only moralizing on the sweet and amiable mood you were in, and the nice comfortable times we have in this house.”

“Well, you may let my moods alone if you please; and my dishes too. I’ve a right to break them all if I choose, for all you. I’d rather blaze up in a rage, than be an everlasting tease and torment, like you.”

“Father’ll have a word to say about the dishes, I fancy, my lady; you might now and then think of him: he isn’t made of gold, I s’pose you know, and dishes cost money.”

“I do think of him a great deal oftener than you do, you great lazy, whittling, whistling boy! If it wasn’t for him I’d run away, and be rid of her and you, and all the other nuisances, dishes and all.”

She paused in her clatter long enough to dash away two or three great tears which were plashing down her hot red cheeks.

“As to that,” said the whittler, as he slowly closed his jack-knife, “perhaps you better seriously consider it. I’m not sure but it would be more comfortable for all concerned; especially the dishes.” Then he spied the tears; and seizing upon the dish towel which had been angrily flung across the back of a chair, he rushed toward his sister, exclaiming: “Here, let me wipe away those briny drops.”

Margaret’s hands were in the dishwater again, but she drew them forth all dripping with the greasy suds, and brought the right one with a resounding slap, about the curly head of the mocking boy.

Just how he would have received it will not be known; for the sudden jerk backwards of the left arm, came against the full dish-pan, already set too near the edge of the table, and over it went, deluging table, floor, and Margaret’s dress not only, but pouring a greasy flood over the rows of bread tins carefully covered, and set in a sheltered corner for the dough to rise.

Margaret’s exclamation of dismay was suddenly checked, and the angry color flamed back into her eyes as the door leading into the hall opened, and a woman appeared on the scene—a tall, pale woman in a plain, dark, close-fitting calico dress, without a collar, and with dark, almost black hair combed straight back from a plain face. She gave a swift glance at the confusion, and took in the situation.

“Quarreling again! I might have known it. Were you three ever together in your lives, without it? John, let the book alone until it dries; if it had not been on the kitchen table where I told you never to have it, the dishwater wouldn’t have ruined it. And the bread too! I declare! This is too bad!” These last words came in detached sentences as the extent of the misfortune grew upon her.

A quick snatch of the carefully tucked cloth, now holding little pools of dishwater, a comprehension of the utter ruin of the many loaves of bread, and she turned upon the wrathful girl:

“Margaret, go upstairs this minute, and don’t venture down again until you are called. I’m sure I wish you need never come.”

“You can’t begin to wish it as I do.” This was Margaret’s last bitter word as she shot out of the door.

John stood dolefully surveying his soaking arithmetic, and his great sheet of now ruined examples, carefully worked out. The woman was already tucking up her calico dress ready for work, but she had a message for him.

“Now you go somewhere; don’t let me see you until dinner time. And mind, I shall tell your father you have disobeyed me again.”

As for Weston the tease, he had slipped swiftly and silently from the room with the entrance of the mother.

Yes, she was their mother. At least, she was their father’s wife, though none of the three had ever called her by the name of mother. A curious position she held in the home, bound by solemn pledge to do a mother’s duty by these three children, yet receiving from none of them a shred of the love, or respect, or true obedience, which the name mother ought to call forth.

Poor Mrs. Moore! I do hope you are sorry for her. Sorry for the children, are you? Well, so am I.

Indeed it is true, they every one need pity and help. The question is, Will they get what they need?

Upstairs, angry Margaret made haste to remove her much soiled dress, eyes flashing, and cheeks burning the while. Something more than the scenes we watched in the kitchen had to do with Margaret’s mood.

A green and prickly chestnut bur came whizzing into the room, landing in the middle of her bed.

It called forth an angry exclamation. Here was some more of that tormenting West’s work. She would not stand it! She made a rush for the window, but a low, merry laugh stopped her. This was not West’s laugh.

“Well,” said Hester Andrews, from under the chestnut-tree, “can you go?”

“No; of course I can’t. I should think you might know without asking. Do I ever go anywhere now days?”

“It is just too mean for anything!” declared Hester. “What reason does she give this time?”

There was a peculiar emphasis on the word “this,” which was meant to indicate that here was only one of the numberless times in which Margaret Moore had been shamefully treated, Margaret answered the tone as well as the words.

“Oh! father says he can’t have me out so late in the evening; it isn’t the thing for a little girl, and he doesn’t approve of sail boats, anyway. As if I didn’t know where all that stuff came from!”

“The idea! I declare, it’s a perfect shame. Wouldn’t you like to see your own mother keeping you at home from places, and treating you like a baby, or a slave, as she does?”

“Don’t you speak my mother’s name the same day you do hers,” said Margaret, with fierce voice and flashing eyes.

“Well, I’m sure I don’t wonder that you feel so,” was Hester’s soothing answer. “I’m just as sorry for you as I can be; I wonder sometimes that you don’t run away. Every one says it comes harder on you, because you are a girl: the boys can keep out of her sight. O Mag! I’m so sorry you can’t go. If your mother were only here, what lovely times we could have?”

And this was the help which Margaret’s most intimate friend brought her! In point of fact, these two knew no more of what the mourned mother would have done, than did the squirrels up in the chestnut-tree. She had been lying in the cemetery for a year when Hester Andrews’ family moved into the town, and Margaret was only a busy little elf of not quite six, when she received with gleeful laughter her mother’s last kiss. What did she know how the mother would treat the thirteen-year-old girl’s longings for sail boats and evening parties?

Downstairs, Mrs. Moore left to solitude and bitter thoughts, worked with swift, skilled fingers, and set lips. Not long alone; some one came to help her—a sister, married, and living at ease in a lovely home only a few streets away; a younger sister who was sorry, so blindly and unwisely sorry for the elder’s harder lot, that she could not keep back her words of indignant sympathy.

“It’s a shame!” she said, “just a burning shame, the way you are treated by those children. The idea of your being down on your knees mopping up the musses which they have made, on purpose to vex you. If I were you, Sophia, I wouldn’t endure it another day. It is a wonder to me that their father permits such a state of things. Henry and I were speaking of it last night.”

“Their father doesn’t know the half that goes on,” Mrs. Moore said, speaking quickly in defence of her husband. “What is the use? We live in an uproar all the time, as it is. And after all, Emma, they are his children.”

“I don’t care. You are his wife. You owe something to your self respect. Henry thinks so too; he thinks it is a shame. Why do you go on the floor and clean after them? Isn’t that girl as able to mop up her dishwater as you are?”

Mrs. Moore wrung the wet, greasy cloth with a nervous grip, letting some of the soiled drops trickle down her arm, in her haste, and answered with eyes that glowed:

“To tell the truth, I would scrub the floor after her all day, for the sake of getting her out of my sight for an hour.”

And this was the help Mrs. Moore received.

VARIOUS exclamations greeted Nell Erwin as she entered the schoolroom and drew out her work—a coarse gray woollen sock.

It was “Fancy Friday” at Daisy Hill Seminary—something peculiar to the place. Three Fridays out of the month were spent in the customary elocutionary exercises, but the afternoon of the fourth was spent in a cosey, informal way, the girls, both day scholars and boarders, bringing their fancy work, and Madam Lane reading to them from some standard work.

At the present time she was in the midst of a translation of the Iliad, but I fear that in spite of Madam’s clear and beautiful rendition, “Jove, the cloud-gatherer,” “Juno, the ox-eyed,” and the other Homeric worthies, were less fascinating than “rick-rack” and “Kensington stitches.”

On this particular Friday, there was a brilliant display of fancy work. Helen Grant was embroidering a pair of slippers—splendid purple and yellow pansies; Lulu Fletcher a sofa pillow—a cluster of lilies on cardinal satin; Katie Lee was at work on an elaborate stand-spread; Mary Morse was crocheting a fleecy white shawl; Carrie Evans was making an applique bracket; a dozen or so girls were deep in the delightful mysteries of “crazy quilts”; and—but, dear me! I have not the time to enumerate all the beautiful things! Seats and desks were covered with a dazzling array of silks and worsteds.

So you see it was no wonder that Nell’s humble gray sock created such a sensation. However, though she blushed a little at the pleasantries of her mates, she took her seat and courageously set to work.

“Why, Nell! I thought you were going to bring that lovely foot-rest!” said Helen Grant. “You told me yesterday that you were going to finish it to-day. Have you it already done?”

“O no!”

“Then why under the sun didn’t you bring it instead of this solemn old sock!”

Nell blushed still redder, then she said hesitatingly, “Well, you see, girls, I did think I’d bring the foot-rest. In fact I had it all done up in my work-bag, and then I remembered that I would need a pair of scissors. So I went to mother’s work-basket, and, girls, in rummaging around there, I got an idea!”

“An idea in a work-basket! How very remarkable! Now I shall know where to go when I am obliged to write a composition and can’t think of anything to say!” said Maude Hasket.

“What I mean is this,” said Nell earnestly; “I found that work-basket full—yes, full to overflowing—with things to mend, make and fix! There were Billy’s mittens to mend; the baby’s petticoats to be shortened; buttons to be sewed on Kitty’s apron; a patch in Tom’s jacket, and all for my dear little mother’s one pair of tired hands! And all to be done this afternoon or evening! I tell you, girls, I felt ashamed when I looked at my own nonsensical piece of fancywork! And then and there I made up my mind to do something towards lessening the contents of that basket. So I grabbed up this sock, for I remembered hearing mother say only a few days ago that father needed a new pair. I’m not much of a hand at knitting, but I’ll do all I can this afternoon, working on the leg, and when I get home to-night, mother’ll show me about fixing the heel.”

There was a short silence.

Presently Maude said, “Well, girls, I dare say the most of us have mothers whose work-baskets are in the condition of the one Nell has described! I’ve no doubt that I can find one in my own home! There are six of us children—four younger than myself. It would take one woman’s time to keep our little Ben in anything like decent order! He is a veritable Peggotty for button-bursting! And sister Flo is almost as bad! She’s a perfect Tomboy! Tears regular barn-door holes in her apron!”

“Well, it’s pretty much the same at our house,” observed Maggie Gray. “Of course there are not so many of us, but still mother’s sewing, mending and darning about all the time.”

“And mine too!” said Laura Harris. “It was only last evening that I heard father ask mother if she wouldn’t go to the lecture with him, and she said she would like to very much, but couldn’t go, because she had to patch Jack’s trousers so that he could wear them to school the next day. And I sat there like an unfeeling wretch, working on a silly, good-for-nothing lamp-mat! And mother did look so tired and wistful, poor darling! Father seemed disappointed too. Now I might have offered to do the patching, and so given her a chance to go. It would have done her so much good!”

“Well,” said Maude briskly, “I guess we’re all in the same fix! We have been going on and doing our own sweet wills, and I for one propose that we make a change! Suppose we all agree to go to our respective mother’s mending-basket and get work from it for our next Fancy Friday?”

“All right! We will!” chimed the others.

Further conversation on the subject was put an end to by the entrance of Madam, Iliad in hand, and for the next hour, the girls were regaled by the account of Achilles dragging the body of Hector nine times around the walls of Troy.

“Four!” chimed the great clock in the hall.

“Young ladies, you are dismissed,” said Madam, closing her book. “Next time, I think we will have a little prose instead of poetry. It will be a change, you know. Good afternoon!”

“Prose instead of poetry,” Maude repeated as they put on their wraps. “And we’ll have the prose of sewing instead of its poetry, won’t we?”

And Nell answered by a wave of the gray woollen sock. “You dear old sock!” she whispered as she rolled it up, “how I did hate to bring you this afternoon, for I was so afraid the girls would make piles of fun! But it all turned out nicely, after all, and you had a mission, didn’t you, you humble thing!”

M. E. Brush.

MISS RAINES was very earnest that day. Deb and Dora noticed as she bent over them and whispered, “Where two agree, just two, dear ones,” that her face was filled with a strange light.

They went home from Sabbath-school, wondering about that promise and why their teacher gave them such a tender look as she said “Two, remember; you are two, dear ones; haven’t you some great thing you’d like to ask of your Heavenly Father—something for Thanksgiving Day? Think now, won’t you? and then just you two agree to ask Him.”

And she gave each a kiss, and went her way; they, theirs. But they turned about to catch one more sight of their “beautiful teacher.” She had turned, too, and was looking after them. She waved her hand with another kiss, and disappeared around the corner.

On they went their weary way and talked as to what they should agree to ask. They thought of a turkey and cranberries and mince pie as it used to be when papa was “right” and had work and brought home money, and mamma bought what she liked. But a turkey and no papa there to eat it with them, or, if there, to curse, and mamma crying! that would be no Thanksgiving for them. Besides, how could they expect a turkey with no money or friends? and they two walked on together, wondering what Miss Raines could mean. Then a thought struck them, and at once they stopped and their faces shone like Miss Raine’s, and there on the street they fairly leaped up and down for joy.

“What is it?” said Deb.

“And what is it, you?” answered Dora.

“Let’s ask Him,” said Deb.

“Let’s,” answered Dora, “but what?”

“To give us our own papa back again.”

“Agreed, Deb; and let’s begin now.”

And away they ran down, down the dirty street. Dogs barked; ragged boys laughed and hooted, but Deb and Dora were soon up the old stairs, into the little dark bedroom, on their knees.

Just one thing they plead, they two; first Deb, “Give back our papa,” then Dora, the same.

Then with radiant faces to poor mamma.

Wednesday they two went through the market.

Turkeys, chickens, ducks, by the ton. So many were buying, their eyes were hungry. But they could not buy one cent’s worth, not having even that. Still, somehow, they murmured not, nor charged God foolishly. They knew there was a good time coming. They looked from the fat stalls and smiled into each other’s face.

That evening it was a bare floor at their home, an almost empty grate, little or no bread, mamma sad as usual.

But Deb and Dora laughed and chatted joyously as though they were at a king’s banquet. They had come from their knees.

Then a knock, and the door slightly opened, and a turkey, ready for the oven, looked in and a hand came after it and—dear poor papa after the hand, and mamma sobbed out something. Deb and Dora seized the turkey and cranberries, then bounded into papa’s outstretched arms. Then they danced about the room as though they were mad.

Papa had that very morning signed the pledge and found work, and there was his wages—that turkey with needful sauce and vegetables.

He was trusted for half a ton of coal. Just then the coal man rapped at the door to know where to put it.

The next day was Thanksgiving. They four went to church. They were shown into a seat near Miss Raines.

Deb and Dora whispered to her. She whispered back, “Did not I tell you so?”

That day “poor papa” asked the blessing. And so ever after.

Rev. C. M. Livingston.

SHE was four and he was six. She sat on the piano stool, and he stood beside her; and I, behind the curtain, heard their talk.

“I picked out the biggest one there was, and brought it on purpose for you and me.”

“But we mustn’t eat it, because mamma wouldn’t like it; you know she wouldn’t, Freddy.”

“She wouldn’t care if it didn’t hurt us, and it wouldn’t. Who ever heard of an apple hurting anybody? You just take a big bite, and then I will.”

“No, Freddy, I can’t, and you can’t. Mamma said if they were hard, we mustn’t.”

“That ain’t so very hard. Mamma is in a worry. Aunt Mag said it wouldn’t hurt us; she said mamma worried about things. If she doesn’t know, she can’t worry. Let’s go behind the curtain and eat it, then if mamma comes up, she won’t see us.”

“No, Freddy. God can see us behind the curtain, as well as he can in this room, and this apple is as hard as a rock. Now, Freddy, let’s be true.”

“Well,” said Freddy, “we will.”

Pansy.

---

I  ONCE read a story that I want to tell the Pansies. A man brought some fine luscious peaches to his four boys and their mother. They had never seen any peaches before. That evening, he said, “Well, how did you like the peaches?” The elder answered, “Father, it was lovely; I kept the stone, and shall have a tree for myself some day.”

The father was well pleased with his boy’s thoughtfulness.

Then the youngest said: “I ate mine and threw away the stone; mother gave me half of hers.”

Another spoke up: “I picked up the stone my brother threw away, and ate the kernel. I sold my peach, and will buy a dozen with the money when I go to town.”

“And you, Edmund?” the father asked.

“I took mine to George, who is ill with fever. I laid it on his bed, and came away.”

“Now, who has done the best?” inquired the father.

“Brother Edmund,” they all exclaimed, and his mother embraced him with tears in her eyes.

From this fable you may learn many valuable lessons. The first is Prudence and Carefulness; for, if we all planted stones and trees, we should, like the Spaniards, have a great abundance of the good things of life; and we may likewise learn a lesson of unselfishness, and also be taught to have a kindly consideration for the sick, to whom little attentions are very gratifying.

Each one of us could do something to cheer the many sick-rooms if we faithfully endeavored so to do, and always kept in mind the motto of “The Pansy Society.” Let us take the story of “The Peaches” for our lesson.

Ringwood.

By Pansy.

“YES,” said Mrs. Hammond, a little sigh in her voice as she spoke, “Mr. Hart is going with us; I don’t know how long he will stay. I’m afraid there is very little on Monteagle to hold him.”

Two children sat on the extreme end of the broken steps; one was pale, thin, hollow-eyed and sorrowful. The other was rosy-cheeked, chubby, and dirty. The pale one was perhaps twelve years old; the other, somewhat younger.

“Only hear that name!” said the hollow-eyed girl. “Monteagle! doesn’t it make you feel cool just to think it over?”

“I didn’t think it over,” said Rosy Cheek. “What is it, and where is it?”

“I don’t know where it is,” spoken very wearily, as though it was an effort to speak at all. “In Heaven, maybe; the word sounds like it. Monteagle! it must be high, and cool, and still. I wonder what it feels like to be cool and still? Oh! how hot it is! O dear me!”

There was such a world of longing and weariness in the sentence, that Mrs. Hammond turned and looked curiously at the girl; then uttered a little exclamation of surprise, and perhaps dismay.

“Who is that girl, and what is the matter with her?”

The man who was busy with a troublesome strap which had to do with Mrs. Hammond’s phaeton, glanced up for a moment, then said:

“That is my girl, ma’am, if you mean the pale one. There ain’t anything the matter with her now, only weakness, the doctor says. She’s had the fever—been dreadful sick. There was a spell when I thought she wouldn’t pull through, nohow, but she did, up to a certain p’int, there she stopped, and there she hangs—jest crawls about all day; doesn’t eat nothing, and doesn’t sleep nights, only off and on, you know. I dunno what to do with her.”

Mrs. Hammond looked again at the girl who had dropped into a listless attitude, a very photograph of discouraged weakness. The rosy-cheeked younger one in a much soiled dress had slipped away. Mrs. Hammond looked from the girl to the low, small, tumble-down building on the steps of which she sat, imagined the room in which she must spend her nights, imagined the table at which she must sit down to eat her “nothing,” and murmured, “Poor thing!” with another long-drawn sigh.

How could one be expected to gain strength in such a home as that must be?

“Who takes care of you and your daughter?”

She had turned again to the man at the carriage. He gave a short half-laugh as he answered slowly: “Well, as to that, what care we get we have to give to ourselves. Her and me live alone; since the boy went to work for his board, at the meat market, I’ve took care of her the best I could, since she got on her feet again; and when she was sick, the neighbors was kind. The doctor was, too—uncommon kind; stayed the most of two nights himself, and brought his woman once or twice to see her; but she’s gone now, up to Monteagle, along with the rest of the world. I suppose it is cool up there, ma’am?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hammond, with another sigh. “It is cool there; poor thing! I don’t see how she is ever to get well in such a place.”

This last, in undertone; then louder: “She is Northern born, too, I think you said?”

“Who, ma’am, the girl? O yes; we’re from the North.”

It was the man’s turn to sigh now. “We come down here to try the climate for her mother—but it didn’t do; we came too late, or something. The mother died the very next summer, and we’ve had to pull along alone. There, ma’am, I think that buckle is all right now; it won’t come out again of itself in a hurry. It’s lucky I happened to be around; it might have made you trouble. Why, no, ma’am, I don’t want no pay for a job like that; it didn’t take ten minutes, and it ain’t in my line anyhow.”

“What can she do when she is well?” asked Mrs. Hammond, holding out the shining silver.

“What, my girl? Why, as to that, I dunno as she can be said to know how to do anything. She works along as well as she can; and we make out to live, but you see it is pretty nigh four years since her mother died; and she was a young thing then. She ain’t had no chance. I ain’t got no change, Mis’ Hammond, and I don’t want no pay, neither.”

“I don’t want change, Mr. West; it is worth a dollar to me to know that all the buckles and straps are in order. I shall leave that matter of hauling the dirt in your hands, then. It can be done just as well while I am away; Mr. Hart will be back and forth, I presume, and he can direct you if you need any directions; good-morning!” And the little pony phaeton drove away.

As the fat little white pony carefully drew the carriage around the curve, his mistress heard a weak, petulant voice say: “O father, it is so hot; I don’t know what to do.”

“Poor thing!” said Mrs. Hammond for the third time, “I don’t know what she will do. It is very warm indeed. She thinks Monteagle sounds like Heaven. I presume it would seem almost like Heaven to her. If there was anything she could do”—and then Mrs. Hammond looked at her watch, and spoke sharply to the fat pony, and they went to the house at a brisk trot.

It was a lovely home. Before even the pony turned in at the tree-lined carriage drive which wound quite around the house, you would have known by the air of quiet elegance which hung gracefully over everything in sight, that you were coming to a home that commanded money and culture. In the wide handsome hall everything was in order, and the rooms opening from them were cool, and dark, and elegant. Yet Mrs. Hammond as she dropped sun hat and umbrella on a white sofa, and trailed her white morning shawl over the soft carpet toward an easy chair, said: “O dear! it is warm everywhere. I wish we were on the mountain this minute.” Even as she spoke, she thought of that hollow-eyed West girl again. When, after a few minutes of rest, she mounted the long winding flight of stairs to the nursery, the sight which met her eyes was not calculated to cool her.

Miss Ethel Hammond was on an investigating tour. At this particular minute she belonged in a wide white crib rolled into the coolest, shadiest corner of the northwestern veranda, eyes closed, lovely face shaded from intruding bugs and flies by a network of delicate creamy lace, and Jennette, the nurse, within easy range of the treasure. Where Jennette was just now, was not apparent, but Miss Ethel was certainly not in her crib. Her eyes were very wide open, and she had the room to herself.

By dint of much energy, she had succeeded in pulling one of the heavy chairs before the object of her most intense desire, and, climbing in, was in the act of leaning forward to grasp it, when Mrs. Hammond opened the door. “It” was a rare and wonderfully mounted clock, heavy enough to put Ethel’s busy inquiring brain at rest forever, should the strong little hands succeed in pulling it over on her; or, failing in that, should she lose her balance and pitch head-first against the corner of the cruel marble.

No time for exclamations; rather, enough presence of mind to avoid them. With swift, silent steps she moved across the room; a long room, and seeming to the startled mother miles long, just then. A moment more and she had the wide-awake, energetic, struggling, disappointed baby in her arms. So near to its life-purpose only to be thwarted!

The first thing the mother did, was to kiss Ethel; though her mouth was wide open, and from it were issuing loud, disappointed yells.

The next thing was to think aloud: “That is as much confidence as I was afraid I could place in Jennette. She is good for ruffling, and tucking, and ironing the baby’s dresses, but not for watching her.”

The next was to say within her heart, “I should think she might be able to help keep a baby out of mischief.”

But this last thought was not about Jennette.

BORN and reared in a Quaker home, educated in a Quaker school, and for many years holding her membership in the sect known by that name, Mrs. Smith has been characterized as “a Friend indeed.” Of her father and herself, this has been said: “He was a bright, cheery, joyous, yet Cromwellian soldier, clapped by mistake under the broad brim of a Quaker, but this extinguisher was never able to hide his gladsome piety, and the daughter is her father over again.”

Her husband is a partner in the firm of Whitall, Tatum & Co. And just here I want to tell you something which I learned the other day regarding the temperance principles of this firm. Their business is the manufacture of white glass; theirs being the largest establishment of the kind in the world. So consistent and loyal to the cause of temperance are these men, that no orders for glass ware are accepted from men who will use the bottles and glasses for rum in any of its guises!

Doubtless they sometimes lose money by refusing large orders, but it is a fact that it sometimes costs something to be consistent. Nevertheless, let us be consistent—it pays in the long run! Mrs. Smith is well known to the world of Christians as H. W. S. You may have seen in your mother’s workbasket, or found slipped between the leaves of her Bible or other favorite book of devotion, little tracts bearing this signature.

She has for many years been accustomed to give expositions of Scriptures, sometimes going to obscure country churches of a Sabbath evening, then again speaking to thousands gathered in an immense hall in London. Of her powers as a public speaker, an English paper says: “Her freshness, her profound insight, are as remarkable as her surprising fluency.”

I think it was in a little paper called Times of Refreshing, that an article appeared which described the effect of her addresses upon an audience as something remarkable. Saying that, however old and worn the topic, she by her vigorous way of presenting the truth seemed to make it over new, and the secret of her power is given in five words: “consecrated talent and careful research.”

One of her children says of her: “She seems to me perfectly unselfish, and this she carries into the smallest details.” Of how many of us can this be said, I wonder!

Speaking of the sorrows and the bereavements which Mrs. Smith has been called to bear, Miss Willard says: “To the praise of that dear name above all others, let it be said, this Christian heart knows, proves, illustrates, always, in all life’s changeful discipline, the victory that overcometh even faith. No sentence is so familiar to her friends from those dear smiling lips that open but to speak brave and tender words, as ‘I cannot be unhappy, for I always have God.’”

Mrs. Smith is also known to the world as the Superintendent of the Evangelistic Department of the W. C. T. U. Does that need explanation? You all know what sort of an organization the W. C. T. U. is. Well, one of the first questions which came to the noble Christians who banded themselves together to fight the monster vice of intemperance was this puzzling one, How shall we reach the masses? Men bound by the chains of the drink habit were not likely to come voluntarily within their influence. Then there was but one answer to the question: “Go to them!” And they went, and it is this work of carrying the Gospel story to the poor drunkard, that we call evangelistic work. Mrs. Smith tells us how she became identified with the W. C. T. U. At the time of the Crusade she was in England, engaged in her work of Bible exposition, but when she heard through the newspapers of the wonderful outpouring of God’s spirit upon her countrywomen, her soul was stirred, and she seemed to hear the voice of her Master calling upon her for a consecration to the work, and she says, “sitting before an English fire in our London house, I joined that Crusade.”

She said: “Those women are my sisters, and their work is my work from this time forward until my death.” Again she says: “I consider the W. C. T. U. one of the grandest instrumentalities for good the world has ever known.”

Can you tell why I have selected Mrs. Hannah Whitall Smith to stand in this list of Remarkable Women?

Faye Huntington.

I   HAVE written down the name of the “great man” which I have chosen to stand in this Alphabet, and here I pause as I reflect that to many of you his face and form and speech are familiar. You have seen him upon the platform and upon the avenues of Chautauqua and Framingham, and in other places. Some of you have welcomed him at your own homes; his smiles and his talks are among the things which will be always, so long as you live, a pleasant memory. What can I tell you about him that you do not already know? Yet I am not willing that another name should take the place of this, and therefore we will talk a little together of this friend of the young people, and idol of the older people.

Dr. Vincent’s early home was in the Sunny South. “In the land of orange blossoms and magnolia groves,” he first saw the light. Six years of his life were spent in the home of the flowers; then the family came North and settled in Pennsylvania. Like the mothers of many of our great men, John H. Vincent’s mother might fill a worthy place in our list of Remarkable Women.

She is described as “patient, amiable, living as though she belonged to heaven rather than earth. Often at the twilight hour, especially on Sundays, she would take her children to her own room, and there sweetly and tenderly tell them about the life to come, and point out their faults and spiritual needs.”

Mrs. Bolton in her sketch of Dr. Vincent published two or three years since, gives some amusing incidents of the childhood of our Great Man. I quote from memory, but I think it is she who tells the story of the boy of six years gathering the children of the neighborhood, and after getting them quiet by threatening them with the lash of a whip, he would preach to them. And so far did his zeal carry him, that upon one occasion he tore into several parts a small red-covered hymn book, which he valued as the gift of his pastor, and distributed the pieces through his audience, doubtless thinking it highly important that all should be supplied with hymn books. Whether they all sang together from the different parts of the book given them, we are not informed.

Very early in life the boy seems to have decided that he would do something with his life worth while; that he would do that which should help others, and realizing that there is a world to be saved, he grew up with the hope of one day becoming a minister. His studies were carried on for a time at home, afterwards at a neighboring academy. Later he engaged in teaching, continuing his studies by himself, and finally he had fitted himself for college. Not every boy would have the will and perseverance to carry on a course of study while teaching six hours or more each day. However, he did not finish his college course. Not for any want of persistence, neither did he consider such a course unimportant. But he was anxious to be about his Master’s work, and thus it was that before he was twenty-one years old he set out to preach “on a thirty-mile circuit, over the mountains and through the valleys of Luzerne County, Pennsylvania.”

He travelled on horseback, studying and thinking out his sermons as he journeyed. Everybody, young and old, were glad to see his bright, smiling face and feel the warm grasp of his hand. It has been said that “he never shook hands with the tips of his fingers, nor preached dry sermons.”

It was during this period of his life that his mother whose parting words when he went out into the world were, “My son, live near to God; live near to God,” went to be with God. One near the throne in heaven, the other living near the throne on earth; is this the secret of John H. Vincent’s success in the Lord’s vineyard?

At length he became a pastor, preaching for a few years in New Jersey, afterwards in the vicinity of Chicago. But all the time he was busy with plans of an educational character. These plans which were at first carried out in the establishing of Saturday afternoon classes of young people, called Palestine Classes, with the purpose of studying about the Holy Land, have at length developed a Chautauqua. I need not tell you about Chautauqua; about the C. L. S. C., nor about the C. Y. F. R. U.; you do not need to be told about the town and country clubs, nor about the society of Christian ethics. Many of you have listened to those Sunday afternoon talks in the Children’s Temple, and afterwards gone to the vesper service in the Hall of Philosophy.

I ought to tell you that although Dr. Vincent postponed his college course, he never gave it up, but outside college walls, he continued his studies by himself, even in the midst of a busy life, until by regular examinations he took his degrees, and also passed through the regular theological course of study of the Methodist Episcopal Church, to which denomination he belongs.

To the boys especially I recommend the study of the life and character of Dr. Vincent. A gentleman remarked in my hearing the other day, “probably no man living is exerting a wider influence over the hearts and minds of the young people than Dr. Vincent!” And I thought, what a responsibility! and how thankful the fathers and mothers should be that he is just the man he is; that his influence is ever on the side of truth and right; that his aim is to uplift, and that Christ is ever the centre of his thought. To see and hear Dr. Vincent is to understand something of the secret of his power. The sympathy which manifests itself in every look and tone, the enthusiasm with which he enters into his work, and which tides him over the hard places, and the personal magnetism—which makes you, whether you will or not; these qualities, sanctified and consecrated, make the man a power for good.

Faye Huntington.

---

By Margaret Sidney.

THE old house on Cherryfield high road, back of the row of stiff poplars, with its queer little gnarled apple-trees at the back, looked for all the world just as it did one hundred years ago. It had no more paint on it now than when the children’s grandfather took home his young bride who thought it the most beautiful place in all the world to begin housekeeping in. Then it was a dingy yellow, with faded green blinds; and now the same forlorn attempt at coloring greeted all passers-by. To be sure it had been painted many times in the interim, but always the same hue was chosen, so that to the oldest inhabitant it was the best known landmark for miles around.

The “Brimmer Place” was known too, for something else than its antiquity; it was the cheeriest, home-iest old house that ever stood on any road, overflowing with good-will to everybody, especially to sick people and to little children. If anybody were in trouble and could reach her, Mrs. Brimmer always found just the right word of cheer to speak, while she tried to help in many other ways—and what she didn’t do, why, there were Jack, and Cornelius, and Rosalie, to say nothing of Primrose, the baby—four little comforters who made everybody just happy to look at them. And yet every one who lived in the big, hundred-year-old house was poor.

“It’s most dreadful to be poor,” said Rosalie one morning, in a burst of confidence to the boys, out in the woodshed. Cornelius stopped hacking at an old log to flash her a convincing “no” out of his black eyes.

“And it’s so very unagreeable,” continued Rosalie, smoothing down her apron while she seated herself on one end of the bench.

“Disagreeable, you mean,” corrected Jack, picking up sticks over in the corner. “There, Corny, you let that old fellow alone; I’ll tackle him soon. He’s too tough for you.”

Corny, resenting the implication, let the hatchet fly on the back of the old log to show how strong he was in such a masterful style that the chips flew in every direction, and Rosalie paused to shake them from her apron, before she said,

“No; I’m quite sure it is unagreeable—I saw it in the dictionary.”

“Well, then, you didn’t see right,” said Jack. “It’s d-i-s; awful big letters too. Means hateful, and not nice.”

“Well, it’s not nice to be poor,” said Rosalie wisely waiving all further discussion as to the word; “that you must say anyway, Jack.”

But Jack’s lips were tight. Presently he straightened himself up, and gave his head a shake. “Well, what shall we do about it?”

“Do?” said Rosalie, in surprise, “why, I don’t know what you mean, Jack?”

“When things are not nice, there is no use in talking about them if you don’t do something to make them better,” said Jack philosophically. “Now I want to know what we are going to do to make ourselves rich.”

“To make ourselves rich—O Jack!” cried Rosalie and Cornelius together.

“If we can earn some money, I suppose we shall be rich sometime,” observed Jack; “everybody was poor once, but they worked and got money. Now, how can we?”

The children were so possessed with the idea of their ever being rich, that no words came to their aid; and Jack went on without interruption.

“I’ve been thinking over something that, if we can do it, will be perfectly splendid, and help mammy take care of baby. Poor, dear mammy!”

He turned away for a moment, and then showed his face again, the same old Jack with the laughing eyes, and pleasant, honest mouth.

“Tell on,” said Cornelius, who had dropped his hatchet, and drawn near. “Be quick and tell us,” he added breathlessly.

“Well, there is the tool-house,” said Jack. “Funny old hole, but just the thing for us. Now what’s to hinder our setting up a shop in it, and selling things?”

“Real true-as-you-live things,” cried Rosalie, “with counters, string, and brown paper bags?” “And five cent pieces, and cents and quarters?” screamed Cornelius on his highest key. “Whickets! why didn’t we think of it before? But where’d we get the things to sell with? Phoh! your news isn’t anything, after all; only just an old dried-up joke.” He was so disgusted, that he went back, picked up his hatchet, and fell to slowly hacking again. Jack flung himself up to Rosalie’s side on the bench.

“Now see here, both of you. The thing can be done, if we will all club together, and work hard. It’s not to be a success in a day, mind you, but we’ve got to pull hard, and at it all the time. Are you willing to do it for mammy’s sake?”

“Can’t we have any time for play?” asked Rosalie with a long face.

“Perhaps; but there won’t be much,” said Jack, “if we make a good thing of this.”

“Well, I s’pose you and I are the men of this family,” said Cornelius, over his log, “and so if you’ll just say how the money’s coming to begin with, why, I’ll give you my word, I’ll keep at it.”

“We want Rosalie,” said Jack, kindly; “we can’t do anything without her.”

“Why, she’s nothing but a girl,” said Cornelius, still pummeling; “it takes men to keep store and make money.”

“But there are ever so many things that a girl can do to help us,” said Jack, “so we must take her into partnership.”

“O Jack! how very fine and exquisite,” cried Rosalie, grasping his arm with excited little fingers. “I’ll wait on customers, and make change all alone, and help you fix up things and look nice.”

“She uses such terribly big words,” said Cornelius, in disfavor at the scheme, “and puts on airs, just like all the other girls. Jack, we can’t let her in; it’s no use to try.”

“Now, Corny,” cried Rosalie, slipping from her bench and standing quite tall. “I’m very big—nearly ten; and I know a great many things, and Jack says I may—so there.”

“Yes, she really ought,” said Jack, with a nod over at the smaller boy, “because you see it’s a family concern. We must make it Brimmer Brothers and Company.”

“Am I Company?” asked Rosalie, in subdued excitement.

“Yes,” said Jack. “Well, now I’ll tell you how we can make the money to buy the things that we are to sell. To begin with, Rosalie?”

“I?” cried the Company, with widened eyes.

“Yes,” Jack nodded at her very decidedly. “You can take care of Mrs. Prouty’s baby.”

“O Jack!” It was a tone of horror that came from the girl of the family, “you don’t ever mean that?”

“If we are really going to earn money to help mammy with, we must expect to do some disagreeable work,” said Jack gravely.

Rosalie hid her ashamed little face a moment, then said, “Very well, I’ll do it. But how do you know she wants me?”

“I heard her tell the cook when I carried the lettuce there this morning that she’d give fifty cents to any girl who would take care of the baby a week—just come in every day. Her cousin is going there to-morrow to visit, and she wants her time to herself. Just think, Rosalie, fifty bright new cents!”

The Company fairly clapped her hands. “Perhaps she’ll let me bring the baby over home, then I sha’n’t be away from Primrose.”

“She’d be only too glad to get him out of the way, I’ll be bound,” said Jack; “I sh’d be, if I owned that baby.”

“And Primrose is so sweet that any other baby would smile and be good, even if it was a great fat, big, crying, red-faced one like Mrs. Prouty’s,” said Rosalie, seeing some alleviation to her task of earning fifty cents. “Now what is Corny going to do?” she demanded, trying not to hope that his work was disagreeable also.

“Corny and I have to work together,” said Jack, with a little grimace he couldn’t help. “It’s to clean up Widow Brown’s pig-pen.”

“I sha’n’t clean up that old woman’s pig-pen, nor anybody’s pig-pen,” shouted Corny, with a vicious hack at the log; “no, sir!”

“Very well, sir,” cried Jack back again, “then I’ll do it alone.”

He didn’t say, “I would if I were you,” or anything of the persuasive sort, knowing that by no such ways could he manage Cornelius. He simply let him alone, as he always did, and did his own duty. The consequence was, the chubby young wood-chopper presently turned around, and said complacently, “When I get this log chipped up for mammy, I’ll join you.”

“If you don’t come till that log is done, I’ll have Widow Brown’s pig-pen in apple pie order,” cried Jack, in high good humor.

GRETCHEN VAN CORTLANDT was a little German mädchen, as you see by her name, and she lived in the great city of Berlin. She and her mother occupied two rooms in a tenement house on “Steinstrasse,” as her father had died when she was very young. Gretchen had very few play-things, and spent much of the time in helping her mother earn what little money she could.

One Sunday Gretchen went out for a walk, and while going along the crowded street, reached a large brick building, from which came the sound of singing. Above the door there was a sign which she spelled out, and found to be, “Wilkommen!” As that meant “Welcome!” to a little German girl, Gretchen hesitated, and finally pushed open the door, and walked in. It was a large room, with seats full of people, many of whom were poorly and even raggedly dressed. At one end was a desk, and behind it stood a man who was reading something out of a big book.

“Even Christ pleased not Himself.”

“My!” thought Gretchen, “I wonder why!” But the man was talking. There was a good deal he said that the little girl could not understand, but she found that there was once a very good Prince, the son of a good and great King, who had come from his palace and had gone around, through a great deal of trouble, trying to save people from harm. He did nothing to please only Himself, but wanted to please his Father and those who loved Him. Gretchen understood one other thing—that every one else could do as this Prince did, and help other people as He had done, because He loved them so. If they did this they would be pleasing Him.

So when she reached home, Gretchen told her mother what she had heard, and asked her to explain it.

“Truly, child,” said the Frau Van Cortlandt, “I remember very little that I used to hear about it, but it’s all true—what he said.”

“But, mother, how can we all, or a poor little mädchen like me, please this great Prince?” asked Gretchen.

“Ach, child!” said the good Frau, “I remember very little about it, but this I know—that every little boy and girl in the Fatherland, no matter how poor or small they are, can please this Prince, and the King, His Father, by doing something good and kind.”

“I should like to do something for Him, mother, if He is as good as the man said,” replied Gretchen.

---

That is the first part of the story. The next part came nearly a week later, when there was to be a great procession through the city. There were proclamations all over the city, saying that the “Kaiser Wilhelm,” their emperor, was to march through the streets, with his soldiers and guards in full uniform, and the drums were to beat, and the bugles were to blow, and the houses were to be decorated with flags, in honor of the procession.

Our little mädchen was, of course, in a flutter of delight about it, especially when she found they were to march down their street, and past their tenement-house, on the way to the Königstrasse. How delightful! She would see the great army of Germany, and the great Kaiser William, march by their door!

When the eventful morning came, everything was bright and gay-looking, and the sidewalks were crowded with people who wished to see the procession. When the Van Cortlandts’ bed had been made, the breakfast dishes cleared away, and the two rooms nicely swept and dusted (for it is to be believed that if the Frau Van Cortlandt had known the end of the world was to come in an hour, she would not have delayed her morning’s work a moment) Gretchen and her mother were ready to watch and wait, with the remainder of the city. But alas, and alas. No view was to be had from their windows, because of the crowd outside, and no room could be found outside. No one would give up their place. How much Gretchen wished for the Herr Van Breyck, their only friend, who would take her in his strong arms, and find a place for her, but he was away at Frankfort, and what should she do?

Suddenly she thought of the attic balcony! It was a little bit of a one, and would hold but one person. Gretchen’s mother could not go up the stairs, so she slipped up to the unoccupied garret, and out on the balcony, from which she could look down over the heads of the people, and see the Emperor and his troops, as nicely as she could wish.

She was leaning lazily over the edge of the balcony when she chanced to see, in the middle of the road, a poor old woman, who was vainly trying to get a good place amid the crowd. Among those people there was little chance for her, and Gretchen pitied her.

“Poor thing!” she said. “I think”—at this moment she suddenly stopped, startled by a thought which came into her mind, and remained silent quite a while. What she was thinking was something like this: “Suppose I should ask her to come up on the balcony? Then I couldn’t see the procession at all—and that wouldn’t do, after all my trouble to get a good place. I wonder if that would be doing what the man said—not pleasing myself? Maybe it would, but then it is such a little thing that I’m sure the King wouldn’t hear of it. If I could only please Him some great way, how nice it would be!”

But I am glad to tell you, and am sure you will be glad to hear, that after this talk with herself, the little girl made her way down to where the old lady was looking about her.

“Good Frau,” she said, as the old lady turned to look at her, “I have a place for you to see the procession; will you come with me?”

Through the door, up the three flights of stairs, went the little light figure, followed by the older and feeble one. “I am afraid, good Frau, these stairs will tire you,” said Gretchen, “but it is the only place there is.”

A chair was then brought up from the Frau Van Cortlandt’s own kitchen, on which the old lady seated herself, after which Gretchen went to the bedroom down-stairs, and throwing herself on the bed, burst into a flood of tears. “I can’t help it,” she sobbed; “I did so want to see the procession! But I am not sorry, if the Prince knows.” Then she dried her eyes and went to the door, where she could see nothing but the backs of the people in front of it.

The Ellsworths had been in Berlin some weeks, and having seen all they wanted to of the city, were about ready to go back to America, but they stayed longer than they otherwise would have done, for the purpose of seeing the procession. And then, as Amelia said, “it was just perfectly horrid,” that, after all, the soldiers were not to pass in front of their hotel.

“I am determined to see the procession,” said Mrs. Ellsworth. “And so am I,” said Amelia. Nevertheless, they were acquainted with no one in Berlin who would offer them a place, and they couldn’t well stand in the streets, “with the rabble,” said Mrs. Ellsworth.

“Blees, your honors,” said Hans, their guide and interpreter, “I haf zomedings teu zay. Mein schwester hab ein house in der Steinstrasse, mit ein gut—vat you gall it—palgonie, vair you kon go, if blees you.”

“Let’s go, mother!” said Amelia, “anything is better than not seeing the procession, when we stayed in the city on purpose.”

And Hans, not in the least minding the doubtful compliment to his “schwester’s house,” agreed to drive them around there early enough to keep out of the crowd. So it came to pass that on the balcony of the Frau Krant’s house, across the street from the Frau Van Cortlandt’s, were seated, the morning of the procession, Mrs. Ellsworth, her daughter Amelia, and her sister Julia.

“Mamma,” said Amelia, “look at that cute little German girl across the street up on that mite of a balcony. See! she has gone down now.”

Sometime later, she had more remarks to make. “Mamma, that little girl went down and got a poor old woman to take her place on the balcony—see her up there—and she is down now where she can’t see a thing.”

“Is it possible!” said Mrs. Ellsworth; “that is an act of self-denial one doesn’t often see in a child. Are you sure she hasn’t a better place?”

“Yes, mamma, there she is, down by the door, where she can’t see anything, I know.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Ellsworth, “I am going to have her come up here. There is room between Julia and me. Hans!” and that individual, who had been talking with his “schwester” inside, appeared. “Tell that little German girl in the door across the road, that I would like to see her up here.”

“Mamma!” said Amelia.

“Ja!” said Hans, in his surprise returning to the use of his native tongue.

“She looks very neat and nice, Amelia,” said Mrs. Ellsworth.

So it happened that our heroine Gretchen was confronted by a dignified-looking personage of her race, who informed her that a Frau from America desired her presence in the balcony across the street. Gretchen was frightened, and vaguely wondered if she had in any way committed treason against the United States Government, but her trembling limbs carried her to the Frau Krant’s balcony, where Mrs. Ellsworth questioned her, through her interpreter.

The story all came out, in German and in English, how Gretchen had given up her place because of the King and his Son, whom she wanted to please. Said she, “I am only a little mädchen, but I thought He might know.”

By this time there came the sound of drum and fife and martial footsteps, from around the corner, and the eyes of all on Steinstrasse were turned toward the place whence the sound proceeded. Mrs. Ellsworth desired Hans to tell the little girl she could stay where she was until the procession passed, thus relieving her fears that she was to be arrested for treason, and she, in turn, committed her overwhelming thanks to the good Frau for a good place to stand.

That isn’t the end, though I am almost through. Gretchen says she would have been satisfied without a place on the balcony, or anything else, if she could have known that she pleased the King and his Son by not pleasing herself, but that didn’t hinder her being very thankful that she could see the Emperor and his troops, and Mrs. Ellsworth made up her mind that she wanted a nice little German girl to take home to America, and educate and help in various ways, in return for her services, and a nice German woman who could do her washing, and live with her, too.

So the week after the procession found the Frau Van Cortlandt and her daughter bidding the Herr Van Breyck good-by, as they boarded the steamer bound for America, at the Hamburg wharves.

Gretchen and her mother are still living with the Ellsworths, and though they are sometimes a little homesick for the “Fatherland,” they are enjoying their home in America very much.

The week after they reached home they ate the Thanksgiving dinner, with a huge turkey and its regular belongings, and though they had never been used to the day at home, Gretchen and her mother were as thankful, they thought, as anyone could have been. And the way to be happy and thankful as they would tell you, is to try to make others so. “And it all came about,” said Mrs. Ellsworth, “because of that kind and unselfish act of yours, Gretchen.”

“I am only a little mädchen,” said Gretchen, “but I pleased not myself, and the King saw.”

Paranete.

THE chestnut-tree at Mt. Etna, is one hundred and ninety-six feet in circumference, and its branches are like trees. For ages have pilgrims delighted to linger in its shadows. There is also a great chestnut-tree at Tamworth, England, and when Stephen was king, in 1135, it formed a boundary, called the “Great Chestnut-Tree.” I have also heard of one called the “Manna Tree;” they grow in Italy and Sicily. The bark of it is cut in August, and the manna flows out like water. It was used for medicine. It is unlike the manna mentioned in the Bible, called “Bread of Heaven,” upon which the Children of Israel were fed. That was a small grain, and fell early in the morning. It was made into paste, and baked.

The Bamboo is used mostly in making houses, in Sumatra, and when the great and good Dr. Judson was a missionary, his lovely wife, Anne Hasseltine, made themselves a bamboo cottage.

The India Rubber tree is also very useful. It grows in South America and India. In Quito it is made into cloth.

The Cocoa-tree gives the poor Indians bread, water, milk, honey, oil, sugar, needles, clothes, thread, cups, baskets, cordage, nails, roofs, etc.

The Bread-Tree of the Pacific Islands yields fruit for eight months of the year. Two or three trees will supply one person with sufficient food. It is very nourishing.

The Jaca resembles this tree; it grows in Asia. The fruit often weighs thirty pounds. When the tree is young it grows upon the twigs, later, on the trunk, when old, upon the roots.

R.

---

THIS is a splendid game if well played. Form two lines, each facing the other. A leader goes down the centre asking the right-hand line, beginning at the head, “What do you like best?” Each one must answer just what he or she wishes to, funny objects of course adding to the jollity of the game. When Leader has finished, she turns around and goes up the centre, asking the left hand line, “What do you dislike most?” When all have answered, she claps her hands, and cries, “Now.” The two lines pass across each other, turn, and pass back again, turn to their original places, facing each other, when they remain still. As the lines are crossing, each player must sing “I love cheese,” or whatever he or she has professed to like, or, “I dislike cats,” or whatever he or she has professed to dislike, keeping distinct and clear, each his own utterance; no one must smile. After this is over, the leader must pass down and up the line, asking one side, “Why do you like it?” or, “Why do you dislike it?” Then the lines pass across, singing, “Because it is delightful,” or, “Because it is squealing,” or anything—turn, dance back again to places. The leader must then pass down and up the centre, asking each line, “What are you going to do with it?” When all have answered, the lines must pass across, singing their answers, turn, and pass back again, ending with each player singing “I like monkeys because they are funny, I’ll send them to school;” or, “I dislike pigs because they are squealing; I’ll cut off their heads;” or anything they choose. Pass across, turn, and pass back again, when two opposite players take hold of hands, beginning at top, pass down centre, bow to each other, and go off to their seat, continuing till all are seated. Whoever smiles during this game must be conducted out of the line and made to stand up against the side of the room, with their faces to the wall, where they must remain as wall-flowers till the game is finished.

P. S. This game is so long, we could only print one this month. Send on the games, Pansies, as soon as you can, that you wish to have printed in this department.

Terms of Subscription.

My Dear Ones:

Here we are with November at the door! A new year for The Pansy. Greeting to you, every one. How have you treated the old year who has just shut the door on you all? Three hundred and sixty-five days since last November! Oh! the story of them. How ill it reads when you come to look it over! Oh! there is ever so much which you wish was blotted out? Is that what you say? I know, for I have to say the same. What a blessed thing for us all that we have a Friend, great and glorious, who has promised to do just that with the story of our mistakes and failures. “I will blot out their transgressions.” Have you been to Him to get them blotted out?

Well, we begin again. New faces join us; and we must do what we can to help them. They will do what they can to help us. A Thanksgiving Day is just ahead. Shall we each try to give some one something for which to be thankful? It may be that they need only a pleasant word, a loving smile, a kind “Good-morning!” Such easy things to give! Shall we look about us while the surly November winds blow over half the country, and the balmy November breezes glide over the other half, and whether Dame Nature smiles or frowns where we are, make all hearts light because of our brightness, and sympathy, and unselfishness? Try to spread sunshine, my Blossoms, so we may have real flowers all the year round.

What are we going to give you for 1887? Why, look through the November Pansy and see. “Monteagle.” Yes; that is a serial. I shall tell how it all happened, just as well as I can. I do hope you will like some of the people, for I do, very much. “She.” I know it is a queer title. It will be altogether a queer story. Something that happened, well known to seven different people, who intend to tell it as well as each of them know how. Who are the people? Why, their names will be at the head of the chapters which they write. You can see for yourselves. “All Along the Line.” I know you will like our new department. Young people always like to know what is really going on in this world; and of course you will enjoy the design, engraved especially for us, by an artist who is also one of our contributors, and who loves every Blossom of you. For the rest, the old friends, Faye Huntington, Rev. C. M. Livingston, Margaret Sidney, Paranete, etc., will continue to work for you; you have told me so many times that you thought they were “Just perfectly splendid,” and as they each intend to be more splendid than ever, this year, I have no fears for their places in your hearts.

There are other new features, which you will be able to see for yourselves. We mean, with your help, to make The Pansy for 1887 a great deal better than ever before. How many new Blossoms can you gather for our bed?

Another thing; will you remember that you have now a department of your own to look after? “Around the Family Lamp” has been thrown open for your use. We do hope you will be industrious and unselfish, and send on your thoughts as often as you have any. Keep your eyes open, and when you see other people playing games which you think are pleasant, don’t be contented with simply copying their good times, but pass the word down the line for the rest of us.

That reminds me of the address: I wonder if there is any way in which I can get you to remember it? Winter Park, Orange Co., Florida. This, until further notice. Now please do not send your letters to Boston, nor to Cincinnati, nor to Chautauqua, nor anywhere else but to Winter Park. Understand? Of course when you want to subscribe for The Pansy, or order books, or transact any business which would naturally belong to the Publishers, you send to Boston, as usual. But for the “P. S. Department,” or “Around the Family Lamp,” or when you want a badge, or want to ask me any question, remember the Winter Park address. For anything pertaining to the new department, “All Along the Line,” address the Editor, R. M. Alden, at Winter Park, also. Who will be the first to give us some games for our Christmas number?

Lovingly,
Pansy.

Gracie from Canada. Indeed, your letter was not too long. I enjoyed every word. You must have been a very industrious Pansy to get so many premiums. I knew a boy who used to trouble his mother very much by being late to breakfast. One morning when he came down to the dining-room half an hour after time, he found the table dishes all cleared away, and there was no breakfast for that boy until next morning. I don’t think he was late again for nearly two weeks. I am glad you are going to break yourself of that careless habit without any such help.

Mary Edith from Ohio. It is very easy to be cross, and brave to try to overcome the habit. I hope your badge will help you.

Ray Spencer from Turkey in Asia. We are very glad to welcome you. One who “tries to do things right the first time,” is a great comfort to his friends, and will be likely to grow into a good and wise man. It is a pleasure to have a letter from your far-away home. The Pansies would all be glad to hear something about the people of Turkey. Can’t you write us a little letter for the magazine?

Arthur from Iowa. You are right, my boy. What is generally meant by “talking back” does harm instead of good. The Bible says “a soft answer turneth away wrath.” But the trouble is, when people are saying things on purpose to vex us it is very hard to think of anything “soft” to say, or to be willing to say it if we could think of it. The One who has promised to “keep the door of our lips,” is the only Source of real help.

Harry from Ohio. Yes, indeed, a boy six years old may have a badge. I am sorry you did not tell us the name of the habit you were going to get rid of; but so long as you know its name, and are pledged against it, we will trust you.

Virginia from Louisiana. I hope you don’t think we put the letters of our Blossoms into the waste basket! I am always glad when I receive a pledge against “teasing.” I think it one of the most troublesome habits we have to deal with. So easy to form, so ready to grow, so hard to get rid of. Yet it can be conquered.

Fred from Illinois. I once knew a beautiful black-eyed boy who used to tell his mother he saw seventy-two cats down in the back yard, when he meant that he saw three. His mother used to laugh, and think such stories were amusing, so Eddie kept telling them, until, when he was nine years old, people said of him: “You cannot believe a word that boy says.” And yet I don’t think Eddie meant to tell what was false; he had simply formed a bad habit, and let it grow. I am glad to receive your pledge.

May from Georgia. Do you know the difference between “firmness” and “stubbornness?” The former we admire, and the latter is unpleasant to everybody. I asked a little girl the difference between the two, and she said, “Firmness was sticking to a thing because it was right, and you thought you ought; and obstinacy was sticking to it anyhow, because you wanted your own way, right or wrong.” Do you accept her definition?

Edward Mason. Now, my friend, you and I are both in trouble. You have sent a letter, asking for a badge, and giving your pledge, but you have not told me where you lived, neither town nor State! How can I get a badge to you? I am hoping your bright eyes will see this printed letter, and that you will at once let me hear from you again.

Bernie from Missouri. If here isn’t another Blossom who bites her poor little finger-nails! How glad we are that she has resolved to stop it, and I hope by this time succeeded. Did the missing magazines reach you at last?

Ella from Nebraska. Oh! these tempers. I know all about them. It is astonishing how small a thing will ruffle them. Yet I know a lady of whom everybody says: “How lovely she is. One never hears her speak an ungentle word.”

And the lady told me herself that when she was a young girl she used to fly into a passion over the smallest things, and have to be locked into her room for hours! So, you see, the naughty tempers can be overcome.

May from Conn. Thirty-seven mistakes in my “queer letter!” I wonder if any of the Pansies will find more than that number? I am waiting to see. Your little poem gave me so much amusement I think I must copy it for all our family.

Harold and Laurence from New Mexico. Welcome to our Pansy Bed, my dear, brave boys! How do I know you are brave? Because people who own their faults and resolve to conquer them, have a right to that title. Don’t you know the Bible says: “He that ruleth his spirit, is greater than he that taketh a city?” Is that just the way it reads? I am quoting from memory. Look it up, won’t you, and see if I am exactly correct?

We would like to hear about the interesting things in New Mexico.

Lizzie from Illinois. Don’t get discouraged, my dear girl, even when things will not go just as you want them. Don’t you know the old couplet:

It is a good motto to work by. If I were you, I would, by all means, try a “P. S.” in the new home. You may be able, through it, to do a great deal of good.

Marion from Conn. I hope our badge is helping you. Jealous people manage to get a great deal of unhappiness out of things which were intended for their pleasure. It is wise to get rid of that weed as fast as possible.

Minnie from Conn. I am glad to hear from you. Yes, it is hard to do right; but we have one comfort: it is, after all, a great deal harder to do wrong, because doing right grows easier as the days go by, while doing wrong makes life harder for us each day.

Ralph from Ohio. “My boy,” said an old gentleman, putting his hand on the head of a little fellow, “here is something to remember: other people may do your work, but no one can ever do your duty for you.” The boy is a man now, a grand one, and says he has always tried to live by that sentence which the old gentleman gave him. Your pledge made me think of this.

Stella from Nebraska. There are plenty of weeds in our bed, my dear; you need not think you are alone in that; but the beauty of it is, we are all trying to get rid of them. “I always count tardy obedience just the same as disobedience,” said a stern-faced mother to me the other day.

That seems rather hard, doesn’t it? I don’t think that is quite the way; but tardy obedience is a very disappointing kind. I know your mother must be glad that you intend to give no more of it.

Clarence from —— The truth is, my boy, I don’t really know where you are from. You forgot the State.

You are right about the mistakes. And did you correct them all without help? I should agree with you about the rabbit. I think we are often very cruel in trying to cage and make pets of animals and birds who are used to freedom.

Mattie from Tennessee. O, yes! I have been in Florida. In fact, while I am writing, I sit at this moment under an orange-tree in Orange Co., answering your letter. As I read it, I raise my voice and give Mr. Livingston, who is in his study overhead, your message. He is very glad to get it. It makes a minister’s heart glad to have a young listener say that he makes things plain, in the pulpit.

I hope you find your badge a reminder whenever you are tempted not to do the next thing promptly.

Rufus and Mamie from Massachusetts. So glad to welcome these dear people to our garden! I think often of Rufus’ pleasant face, and of his tender care of Mamie. I wonder if that little Blossom is becoming less timid? Flowers often droop their heads, but the sweet, gentle dews make them look up and smile. I think the dew of gentleness will drop all around Mamie’s life and give her courage. Thank the dear mamma for her sweet, kind, strong words to me. When we all get home, what a happy time we shall have together.

George from Indiana. Oh! these tempers. I think I must have said that at least a dozen times this morning. I find so many of my Pansies tortured by that weed “anger.” If we were not sure we could succeed, how discouraging it would be! As it is, I rejoice over every new name I write in our great pledge book.

Emma from Dakota. I congratulate mamma. I know by experience just how trying it is to have to repeat the same direction several times before it is obeyed. If you read the answers to letters, you will notice how many of our Pansies are at work in the same line. We will take courage; the next men and women will be stronger and better than we.

Dear Pansy:

I am a little girl ten years old. I have taken The Pansy for two years, and like it ever so much. I got some nice presents from the Publishers: a knitting machine, two balls of yarn, a box of Logomachy, and your picture. I think Nettie Decker was splendid. And Grandma Burton did tell such lovely stories! My grandma went to Heaven just a little while ago. She was eighty-four years old. Mamma thinks I am making my letter too long, but I cannot tell you all I want to in a little short letter. If you would only come to Wells Island I would go down there on purpose to see you; I think a great many other Pansies would do the same.

I have many faults to overcome. One is, not being up in time for breakfast; another is, not doing things quickly; and, not putting things in their places when I have done with them. My two little brothers want badges. One will try not to act cross when he can’t have things just as he wants them, and one will try to remember to take off his hat when he comes into the room.

Your loving friend,
Gracie Conger.

Dear Pansy:

I really cannot think how to commence this letter. Oh! I want to tell you that I found thirty-seven misspelled words in the funny queer piece about babies. I hope none of them are mine. Once I made up some poetry; it is not very good, but I will write it to you. Here it is:

I am very much interested in Nettie Decker, and, for that matter, in every story that there is in The Pansy.

Good-by,
May Finney.

Dear Pansy:

I have taken your magazine for nearly two years. I like it very much. Ever since I began reading the letters, I have thought how I should like to join your band. Now I am going to, although I am afraid you will find me a weedy Pansy. I mean to try and pull out every weed. I have so many faults, I do not know which of them I need to overcome the worst. One of them is not to go right away when mamma calls, but to wait till I forget it.

How I should like to hear from you real often! But I know you have so many Pansies to write to, I will try to be real patient. Mamma likes to read The Pansy as well as I do. We are reading the New Testament together. Every morning when I get up, I take a verse from the Bible to live by, during the day. One verse I try to live by, is: “For even Christ pleased not himself.”

Your loving friend,
Stella Graham.

Until further notice, the address of Mrs. G. R. Alden will be Winter Park, Orange Co., Florida.

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IDYLS AND PASTORALS.

Edition de luxe. This splendid folio is a sumptuous home gallery of poetry and art. The text consists of twenty-four original poems by Celia Thaxter, written expressly for this volume. The poems are accompanied by twenty-four beautiful photogravures by eminent artists here and abroad, including Kate Greenaway, Howard Pyle, W. T. Smedley, Edmund H. Garrett, F. Childe Hassam, Jessie Curtis Shepherd, Miss L. B. Humphrey, W. L. Taylor, Joseph Pennell, Thomas Hovenden, F. H. Lungren, T. W. Wood, N. A., Charles Volkmar, Hy. Sandham, F. T. Merrill, Henry Bacon. The photogravures are printed by hand, in colors, no two of the same tone, on the finest imported India paper, the text paper and the backing of the India being the best American plate paper, made expressly for this volume. Very handsomely bound in vellum cloth with design in two metals, gilt top, rough edges, price, $15.00. In white calf, embossed in imitation of antique carved ivory, price, $25.00.

YOUTH IN TWELVE CENTURIES.

Edition de luxe. This unique folio volume holds twenty-four picturesque drawings of youthful race types and national costumes of both sexes, from Egyptian 1500 B. C., Chinese 500 B. C., Greek, Roman—taking the various peoples at their eminence down through the centuries to the French of Louis XIV., to the colonial of our own land. These very striking pictures are reproduced in fac-simile by photogravure hand prints, in twelve tones; and the pictures are accompanied by twenty-four character poems by M. E. B. The book is printed on the finest plate paper made expressly for this volume, gilt top, rough edges, and the binding is likely to be the novelty of the year—the base being an imported vellum cloth, entirely covered by a rich and mystic design, over-printed in photogravure by hand in several tones, with lettering in dead gold, $10.00. In superb silk canvas (special manufacture of the Tiffany Associated Artists, New York) and emerald calf, price, $20.00.

HEROINES OF THE POETS.

Edition de luxe. This magnificent folio is unique among holiday volumes. The text consists of twelve poems by the most famous poets from Chaucer to Browning, and the heroines of these poems, in characteristic situations, are the subjects of a superb series of pictures by F. H. Lungren. In addition to the twelve “heroines,” the book has a beautiful frontispiece, vignettes, etc. But the notable feature of the book is the remarkable reproduction of the original drawings, which are masterpieces of photogravure, printed by hand on the finest imported India paper, mounted on the best American plate paper, no two pictures in the whole volume of the same color or tone. Very handsomely bound in cloth, gilt top, rough edges, with an exquisite inset in color and lettering in gold, $12.00. Leather binding, $15.00.

WONDERFUL CHRISTMASES OF OLD.

In this special holiday volume Mr. Butterworth describes in graphic prose ten famous historic events that have fallen on Christmas Day, which are the subjects of ten beautiful and dramatic pictures, by F. H. Lungren, who has also furnished the frontispiece, title and vignettes. Each volume is in a unique box; cloth, gilt edges, price, $1.75. In leather binding, $2.00.

BYE-O-BABY BALLADS.

The little folks have in this superb “color book” a volume as perfect in taste as the costly adult gift books of this and previous years. The ballads, by Charles Stuart Pratt (editor of Wide Awake and Babyland), are for children, not simply about them, and, between the songs of good-morning and good-night, cover the range of a child’s day and a child’s year. The pictures, by F. Childe Hassam, the popular water color painter, include many charming full pages and hundreds smaller, reproduced in exquisite colors by the eminent art lithographers, G. H. Buek & Co. Withal, the book is distinctively modern and American. In beautiful binding of colors and gold, price, $2.00.

SONNETS: From the Portuguese.

Though without illustrations, these immortal love sonnets by Elizabeth Barrett Browning have been given so rich and exquisite a setting that the volume is likely to be one of the most favored gift books of the year. Edited with notes by W. J. Rolfe. Vellum, gilt top, rough edges, $1.50.

THE KINGDOM OF HOME.

Homely poems for home lovers. The choicest poems from all sources and times. Selected and arranged by Arthur Gilman, M. A. It is a large and very elegant quarto, profusely and beautifully illustrated, and suitable for a birthday gilt, wedding present or Christmas remembrance. 8vo, leather, seal grain, or half calf, white vellum cloth, $6.00.

THROUGH SPAIN ON DONKEY-BACK.

One hundred drawings by W. Parker Bodfish, with explanatory notes. These fine studies of the Spanish life of to-day have a special interest from their freshness, having been recently drawn from life. By exquisite printing in black on a delicate undertint the novel and rich effect of proof impressions on Japanese paper is secured. Espagnolia binding, $3.00.

WILD FLOWERS AND WHERE THEY GROW.

By Amanda B. Harris. Sixty illustrations by Miss L. B. Humphrey. A charming chronicle of the rambles, explorations, and merry-makings of a gay household. 8vo, extra cloth, beautifully bound, gilt edges, $3.00. Morocco padded, limp, gilt edges, $4.00.

POETS’ HOMES. Pen and Pencil Pictures of American Poets and their Homes.

By R. H. Stoddard, Arthur Gilman and others. New complete edition. This collection of entertaining papers concerning the homes, habits and work of prominent American authors, is fully illustrated with views, interiors and portraits. First series, extra cloth, plain, $1.50; gilt, $1.75. Second series, extra cloth, plain, $1.50; gilt, $1.75. Two volumes in one, 8vo, cloth, plain, $2.50; gilt, $3.00.

FIELD, WOOD AND MEADOW. How we Went Bird’s-nesting.

By Amanda B. Harris. A charming volume which represents many years’ patient outdoor study. Twelve full-page landscape and figure engravings by George Foster Barnes. Quarto, extra cloth, gilt edges, $2.00.

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Franklin and Hawley Streets, Boston.

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THE LAND OF THE CZAR AND THE NIHILIST.

With an account of travels in Norway and Sweden including a view of the midnight sun from the North Cape. By J. M. Buckley, LL. D. Extra cloth, $3.50.

This book is fresh from the travels and observations of Dr. Buckley, who has made an extended tour in the countries named, and treats of what he saw there with all the power and brilliancy of this gifted author, who is well known as one of the talented and influential editors of the most widely circulated religious paper in America.

THE ICE ZONES.

American exploration in the Ice Zones with a full account of the work of the Greely party and rescue of the survivors. By Prof. J. E. Nourse. Professor Nourse’s book bears the credentials of accuracy and authority, is well printed and bound, has numerous engravings and useful maps, including some portraits on steel, has a suitable index and table of contents. 8vo, extra cloth, $3.00; gilt edges $3.50; half calf, $6.00.

THE FAMILY FLIGHTS.

BY E. E. Hale and Susan Hale. History, biography, personal incidents, natural scenery, are all made, by these facile pens, to administer to the pleasure of the readers. Each volume in double lithograph cover, $2.00; cloth, $2.50.

• A Family Flight through Mexico.
• A Family Flight around Home.
• A Family Flight over Egypt.
• A Family Flight through Spain.
• A Family Flight through France.

QUARTOS BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

Golden West (The), as seen by the Ridgway Club.

By Margaret Sidney. This is a capital record of a journey, gathered from the author’s personal knowledge of the places mentioned. It is accurate, clearly written, and admirably fitted to instruct young people, and many older ones as well, on the localities, methods of travel, peoples and customs of our newer States and Territories, around which at present gathers so much interest. Everything in this volume is fresh and unhackneyed, and presented in the author’s fascinating style. Lithographed, $1.75. Cloth, ornate stamp, $2.25.

What The Seven Did; or, the doings of the Wordsworth Club.

By Margaret Sidney. Seven bright girls are the heroines of this volume for the young people; how they succeeded in doing many acts of charity with their little means, and how they all had a very good time, the author tells in a graphic and entertaining manner; profusely illustrated in the text, and with many full-page pictures. In a handsome lithographed cover, $1.75; cloth, gilt, $2.25.

Who Told It To Me.

By Margaret Sidney, author of “Five Little Peppers.” A charming story of country life and the best kind of country people, and so vivid are some of its touches that one can hardly believe it is all pure fiction. Beautifully illustrated and bound in chromo covers, $1.25; cloth, $1.75.

WIDE AWAKE, 1886.

Two volumes in one including the Chautauqua Supplement. This massive quarto with its thousand double-columned pages and its hundreds of engravings is a book for a whole year’s delight. Its trifling price covers several volumes of popular stories. Cloth, $4.00.

YOUNG FOLKS’ GOLDEN TREASURY OF POEMS.

The finest and most beautiful illustrated volume of poetry ever issued for young people. The illustrations are all original by our best artists. Very finely engraved. It contains many original poems by John G. Whittier, Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, Christina Rossetti and other famous English and American authors. Extra cloth, gilt edges, $5.00.

ART FOR YOUNG FOLKS.

A book full of suggestions and hints for all young people interested either in the practice or literature of art. Narrating the amusing experiences of two New York boys in its earlier chapters, it goes on to give an account of an Art School for Children in New York City, and then furnishes biographies of twenty-four successful American artists, most of whom are now living, with portraits, engravings of paintings, and views of studios. Quarto, tinted edges, $2.00; cloth, gilt edges, $3.00.

THE POET AND THE CHILDREN.

Edited by Matthew Henry Lothrop. It has for its leading poem Whittier’s verses on Longfellow, which give title to the book. The different poems are the contributions of some of the finest writers in the country and are especially adapted to the tastes of young readers. Exquisite illustrations by such artists as Miss Humphrey, E. H. Garrett, and Jessie Curtis Sheppard. Cloth gilt, gilt edges, $3.00.

CHILD LORE.

Edited by Clara Doty Bates. This is the most delightful and valuable child’s book ever issued. It contains child classics of all times, newly versified by Mrs. Bates, and more than two hundred original illustrations by American artists. Double lithograph cover, $2.00. Cloth, ornate stamps, $3.00.

BOYS’ AND GIRLS’ ANNUAL. 1886.

Edited by William Blair Perkins, A. B. It contains original stories written expressly for us by the best living authors who have ever written for young folks. Illustrations by the best illustrators in America. Profusely illustrated and attractively bound. Quarto, cloth, $3.00.

YOUNG FOLKS’ CYCLOPÆDIA

Of stories. By famous authors. These favorite stories sold separately in 12mo volumes at $9.00 may here be bought in one elegant volume. Bound in elegant cloth, $3.00.

BLOSSOMS BY THE WAY.

A collection of choice poems. Edited by Carrie A. Cooke. Border designs by M. J. Sweeney. The poems are for children’s reading, and the pictures will please the little ones; each page enclosed in a very pretty border in different colors, and composed of vines, flowers, and delicate tendrils, extra cloth, gilt edges, $3.00.

ALL AMONG THE LIGHTHOUSES.

By Mary Bradford Crowninshield. Finely illustrated from photographs and original drawings. An attractive book for boys, giving the account of an actual trip along the coast of Maine by a lighthouse inspector with two wide awake boys in charge. The visits to the numerous lighthouses not only teem with incident, but abound in information that will interest every one. Extra cloth, quarto, $2.50.

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Franklin and Hawley Streets, Boston.

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$1.75.

WIDE AWAKE, Volume U.

This beautiful volume is rich in stories, ballads, special illustrated articles, adventures, history and literature and art features representing the recent work of the most popular authors and artists. Among its commanding specialties are the “Popsy Stories” by H. H., the “Virginia Stories” by Mrs. Jessie Benton Frémont, the “Old Colony Stories” by Miss Wilkins, the fine heliotype Memorial Portrait of General Grant, and a complete serial story, “How the Middies Set up Shop,” by Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney, etc., etc.

WIDE AWAKE, Volume V.

This magnificent annual is rich in special features: True War Stories, true stories of Perilous Adventure, richly pictorial Ballads, by Mrs. Whitney, Mrs. Thaxter, Mrs. Spofford, Sarah Orne Jewett, Nora Perry and Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, two beautiful full pages in colors, together with a charming serial by Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford, “A Girl and a Jewel,” largely descriptive of the author’s own childhood adventures and escapades.

CHILDREN’S BALLADS.

Heroic stories from history, and hearth-legends, told in the musical verse that children remember and repeat; among these ballads are the stories of the Luck of Edenhall, Robert Bruce’s Bowl, The Marching of the Cock-Horse Regiment at Nuremburg, The Mission Tea given to Havelock’s Highlanders at Lucknow, etc., etc. Richly illustrated.

SIGHTS WORTH SEEING.

Graphic records of brilliant spectacles and foreign panoramas by those who saw them. “The Montreal Carnival,” “Child Life in Venice,” “Through the Heart of Paris,” “A Grand Peace-Meat,” etc., etc. Fully illustrated.

ÆSOP’S FABLES.

Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates. Accompanied by the standard translations from the original Greek. Illustrated by E. H. Garrett, F. H. Lungren, F. Childe Hassam, George Foster Barnes, M. J. Sweeney. The striking originality and fine workmanship displayed in the illustrations make this volume a tempting one. Cloth, $1.75; gilt edges, $2.00.

NEW ENGLAND STORY BOOK.

Stories by famous New England authors; Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney, Margaret Sidney, Nora Perry, Sarah O. Jewett, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, and others. This has become a standard story-book and will remain so for years. This new and enlarged edition is tastefully bound in an elegant cover lithographed by Julius Bien & Co. $1.75; cloth, $2.00.

CHRISTMAS SNOWFLAKES.

Enlarged edition of one of the most attractive juvenile books. A selection of poetry for little folks, chosen with excellent taste, and beautifully printed and bound with two hundred illustrations. Cover lithographed by Julius Bien & Co. $1.75; cloth, $2.00.

$1.50.

OUR LITTLE MEN AND WOMEN, 1886.

A notable feature of this attractive annual is the large number of full-page pictures, seventy-four in all, two printed in colors, in addition to nearly two hundred smaller illustrations. The text is designed for the delight and information of youngest readers, including, along with short stories, poems, incidents of travel and curious bits of animal life, a complete serial in twelve chapters, entitled, “Me and My Dolls,” by the popular English writer, L. T. Meade, written expressly for this volume. Quarto, illuminated cover, from water color designs by Miss. C. A. Northam. $1.50; cloth, $2.00.

MY LAND AND WATER FRIENDS.

By Mary E. Bamford. The most novel and entertaining of outdoor books, giving delicious little autobiographic accounts of strange and familiar creatures, their ways of life and possible ways of thinking and talking, together with nearly two hundred original drawings by L. J. Bridgman, accurate enough for a scientific work, yet not lacking in fancy and quaint touches.

THE GOLDEN YEAR.

A Horn of Plenty sort of book, spilling over with charming family stories of all kinds for all varieties of weathers and moods. A taste for “good short stories” has been growing for the last two years, and this is one of the best of the collections. Every story is original. Illustrated.

FAMOUS STORIES BY FAVORITE AUTHORS.

Representative stories by Mary Hartwell Catherwood, David Ker, Charles R. Talbot and John Preston True. Each story is illustrated by more than twenty-five drawings by American artists.

YULE TIDE.

Illustrated stories by American and English authors. With a poem by Henry Randall Waite. It is not often that so much that is varied and choice is brought together in a single collection. Boards, double cover, $1.50; cloth, tinted edges, in box, $2.00.

PANSY’S PICTURE BOOK.

These delineations of child-life are thoroughly clear and natural; not only their looks, attitudes, costumes, and gestures, but what they do, say, think and feel. Double lithograph cover, $1.50; cloth, $2.00.

THE LIFE AND HABITS OF WILD ANIMALS,

A choice volume of Natural History, giving the traits and habits of wild animals. Illustrated from designs by Joseph Wolf. The descriptions include the elephant, tiger, bear, puma, rabbit, wild boar, jaguar, bison or buffalo, ape, wolf, lion, deer, baboon, chamois, lynx, weasel, sea-gull, owl, crow, osprey.

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Franklin and Hawley Streets, Boston.

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Good Housekeeping,
A SEMI-MONTHLY JOURNAL,
Conducted in the Interests of the Higher Life of the Household.
Volume IV. of Good Housekeeping will have among its other attractions,
A NEW SERIAL—PROGRESSIVE HOUSEKEEPING,
—BY—
CATHERINE OWEN, entitled “PROGRESSIVE
HOUSEKEEPING, or Keeping House without Knowing
How, and Knowing How to Keep House Well.”
This serial will contain the much-called-for Daily Housekeepers’ Programme.
——————————————————
E. C. GARDENER will write on the important subject of
“Kitchen Comfort, Convenience and Economy,” with
drawings of a Model Kitchen, and some
detailed Kitchen Appurtenances.
——————————————————
MARIA PARLOA will continue her valuable series of
papers, which are prepared expressly for Good Housekeeping
and are not printed elsewhere.
——————————————————
A $25 PRIZE PAPER ON CARVING.

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DESIRING TO MAKE

ALL THE LITTLE FOLKS HAPPY

We have printed nearly a million copies of

The Delightful Story

Tressy’s Christmas,
By Margaret Sidney, with two Full-page illustrations, and will send a
copy to any child whose address is sent to us with a 2-cent stamp for mailing.

D. LOTHROP & CO., Boston.

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The National Temperance Society and Publication House has published over 1500 varieties of publications bearing upon every phase of the temperance question, from the pens of over 250 different writers. The following are among the publications:

THE NATIONAL TEMPERANCE ADVOCATE.

A monthly paper devoted to the interests of the Temperance Reform, containing articles upon every phase of the movement from the pens of some of the ablest writers in America.

Terms (cash in advance) including postage, $1.00 per year.

THE YOUTH’S TEMPERANCE BANNER.

The National Temperance Society and Publication House publish a beautifully illustrated four-page Monthly Paper for Children and Youth, Sabbath-schools and Juvenile Temperance Organizations. Each number contains several choice engravings, a piece of music, and a great variety of articles from the pens of the best writers for children in America.

Terms: Monthly—Cash in advance, including postage. Single copies, one year, 25 cents; one hundred copies to one address, $12. For any number of copies over four to one address, at the rate of 12 cents per year.

Semi-Monthly—Single copies, one year, 40 cents; four copies and over to one address, 24 cents each.

Besides these, the Society publishes a large variety of Tracts, Cards, Song-Books, Books for Sunday-school Libraries, Text-Books, etc., etc. Catalogue sent free on application. Address

J. N. STEARNS, Publishing Agent,
58 Reade Street, New York.

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WIDE AWAKE, $2.40.          THE PANSY, $1.00.          BABYLAND, 50 cts.
OUR LITTLE MEN AND WOMEN, $1.00.

HINTS ABOUT GETTING NEW SUBSCRIBERS.

Those desiring to secure one or more of the valuable premiums offered in this list should read carefully the following:—

1. Send us ten cents (either by a postal note, or in stamps), and we will send you, as a canvassing outfit, specimen copies of the above magazines, prospectuses and “Hints about getting new Subscribers.” By following the directions given in the pamphlet, and devoting a little time and trouble, you can hardly fail to secure some new subscribers.

Instructions to all Working for Premiums.

2. Our premiums are not offered as an inducement to any one to subscribe for our magazines. We have put the subscription price just as low as possible, so as to be within the reach of all. The premiums are simply offered to those who choose to give us the time, trouble and expense of obtaining for us new subscribers, and sending us the necessary amount.

3. The sender’s subscription cannot count for a premium when sent alone, but may be counted when two or more new subscriptions are sent at the same time for any of the magazines.

4. A transfer of a subscription from one member of a family to another does not constitute a new subscriber.

5. Send your subscriptions as you get them. Always send the payment for each subscription with the name.

6. You can send for a premium when you send us the names of new subscribers, or you can complete your list and then select your premiums, as you may prefer.

7. Those working for premiums can have until October, 1887, in which to complete their lists.

8. All premiums should be ordered by November 1st, 1887.

9. The premiums we offer are given FOR new subscribers, NOT TO new subscribers.

10. Two new subscriptions for six months will count as one yearly subscription.

11. The names and full subscription price must be sent to D. Lothrop & Co., and not through any agent or Subscription Agency.

12. Renewals may count in lists of two or more names, provided at least one half of such lists consists of new names.

The volumes of the magazines begin as follows:

Wide Awake, with the December and June numbers; The Pansy, with the November number; Our Little Men and Women, with the January number; Babyland, with the January number.

Always specify the date you wish the subscriptions to begin with. Subscriptions may begin with any number.

13. No Wide Awake subscriptions for the C. Y. F. R. U. Course will count towards premiums. Subscriptions for the Chautauqua Young Folks’ Journal do not count towards premiums.

14. If you send for your premiums after your list is completed send us the name and full address of each new subscriber you have sent.

15. Mark every name or list of names, “For premiums,” if so intended, and we will credit them to the sender.

16. All subscriptions for premiums are credited to the Sender, whether the papers are sent to one Post-office, or to a dozen or more offices.

17. Express or freight charges are usually low on premium articles. The cost can be best learned at one’s own office.

18. The articles in this list are for sale at the prices given. No article will be sent by express C. O. D. unless a remittance of one half the price accompanies the order. We will register any premium sent by mail, thus insuring its safe arrival, if ten cents extra is sent us for registry fee. If sent unregistered, we cannot hold ourselves responsible for its non-receipt.

Special Instructions.

19. A remittance should be made by a Post-office order; by a registered letter; by American Express money order; or by a bank check. These four ways are safe. Remittances for small amounts may be made by postal notes or stamps, but not at our risk.

20. Write your name and address, and the names of your subscribers, and their Post-office address, very plainly, every time you write.

21. Sign your name to your letter every time you write.

Delays in Receiving Premiums.

22. If any article which you have ordered does not come by the next mail do not feel at all anxious, and do not write at once. You should wait five, ten, or perhaps fifteen days, according to the distance you are from Boston. If you have occasion to write, please follow these rules: Give the date when you mailed the order. Specify how you sent money, and how much money you enclosed.

To Foreign Readers.

23. The above rules about mailing premiums apply only to the United States and Territories. Premium articles (except books), must be sent by express to Canada, receiver to pay charges and duties in all cases. We will follow any direction given about sending articles from the Premium List to foreign subscribers.

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Send all orders for subscriptions and specimen numbers, applications for agencies, special terms and circulars, etc., etc., to
D. LOTHROP & CO., Franklin and Hawley Streets, Boston, Mass., U. S. A.

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Any book in this section given for new subscriptions amounting to $1.00.

By Elbridge S. Brooks.

With seventy-two pen and ink character drawings by Hassam. For the first time since the publication of “Alice in Wonderland” and “Through the Looking-Glass,” we have a wonder-story worthy to be placed alongside these famous classics. Price 75 cents.

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, author of “Field Botany,” and “Insects; how to catch and how to prepare them for the cabinet.” Illustrated. Price 50 cents.

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.

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.

Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12.

Six of these contain three hundred pieces suitable for reading and speaking. Every school library should have a set. Any three of the Reading Club given for subscriptions as above. Paper, price 15 cents each.

By Mary Hartwell Catherwood.

A delightful story of neighborhood life in the West, with plenty of young heroes and heroines. Price, boards, 50 cents.

By Mrs. Frances A. Humphrey. With twenty-four portraits and pictures. Pretty stories of Royal Folks across the seas. Price 50 cents.

By David Ker.

A story of a daring American lad’s adventures in the Old World. With many pictures. The author is the well-known travelling correspondent of the N. Y. Times. Price, boards, 50 cents.

By Charles Kingsley.

By Sir Walter Scott.

These fully illustrated gift-books, bound in a new leather-like material, stamped in gold, or in heavy paper stamped in gold, price, $1.00 each.

By Mrs. Frances A. Humphrey.

With portraits of the English Royal Family, and views of the English Palaces. It was a happy thought to write a home biography of the “Good Queen” for children to read. The volume is charmingly anecdotal. The volume will remain of standard value especially for its large collection of portraits. Price 50 cents.

By Margaret Sidney. With twelve full-page pictures by Margaret Johnson. The story of a funny parrot and two charming children. Price 50 cents.

By Mrs. Frances A. Humphrey.

With twelve portraits. Little literature lessons to make children acquainted with standard authors. Price 50 cents.

By Mrs. C. M. Livingston. One of the loveliest stories of bird life ever written. Fully illustrated, 60 cents.

By Pansy. Illustrated stories from Bible texts for the help of boys and girls in their school and home duties. 16mo, cloth, illustrated, 60 cents.

By Pansy. Here is a story of the haps and mishaps of the typical boy whose purposes are good, but whose impetuosity plunges him into all kinds of mischief, as the boy himself expresses it, “before he knows it.” The book will benefit and please every boy who reads it, to whom it is read. 16mo, 60 cents.

By Dr. D. A. Sargent.

This little handbook is worth its weight in gold, and should be found on the most convenient shelf of every family library. The author’s aim is to give such practical information as will aid to self-preservation in times of danger and to teach a few of the simplest methods of meeting the common accidents and emergencies of life. Illustrated. Price 60 cents.

Any book in this section given for new subscriptions amounting to $1.50, unless otherwise specified.

Arabian Nights’ Entertainment; Swiss Family Robinson; Children of the Abbey; Don Quixote; Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress; Ivanhoe; Paul and Virginia, Rasselas, Vicar of Wakefield; Scottish Chiefs; Thaddeus of Warsaw; Last Days of Pompeii; Andersen’s Fairy Tales; Grimm’s Fairy Tales; Gulliver’s Travels, Baron Munchausen; Dickens’ Child History of England; Æsop’s Fables, over 100 illustrations. 12mo, cloth. Price $1.00 per volume.

The new volume of these valuable annuals is the most tempting treasury of entertainment and education yet sent out between a single pair of covers. The titles of the series (12 articles in each) indicate the character and range: “Pleasant Authors for Young Folks” by Miss Harris, “My Garden Pets” by Mary Treat, “Souvenirs of My Time” (foreign) by Mrs. Frémont, “Italian Authors” by Mr. Vincent, “Strange Teas, Dinners, Weddings and Fêtes” by various authors, “Ways to Do Things” by various authors, “Search-Questions in English Literature” by Mr. Adams. Illustrated. Price $1.00.

Baby’s own library, full of everything that will keep baby sweet and winsome and happy. Lovely illustrations, elegant paper and exquisite cover by G. F. Barnes. The bound volume for 1886 is volume 10.

This edition is bound in handsome chromo covers. Price 75 cents.

In cloth binding, either volume given for new subscriptions amounting to $2.00. Price $1.00.

A romance of Central American travel. By Fred A. Ober, author of “Young Folks’ History of Mexico.” While the story of this handsome volume is one of genuine and delightful romance, there is also valuable and instructive filling-in of the historic annals and traditions, the religious belief, descriptions of scenery, and natural productions of this most interesting and picturesque part of the world. Sure to be a favorite with the boys. 100 illustrations from descriptions and photographs, by W. P. Bodfish. Quarto, $1.00.

By Annie H. Ryder.

In the eleven chapters of which the contents consists there is more sound practical advice, sensibly put, on points of everyday interest to girls, than we have ever before seen put into the same number of pages. It is a book for study, for companionship, and the girl who reads it thoughtfully and with an intent to profit by it will get more real help and good from it than from a term at the best boarding-school in the country. $1.00.

By Margaret Sidney.

A brilliant practical story for girls who must, or desire to, work their way in the world. Illustrated. Price 75 cents.

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Any book in this section given for new subscriptions amounting to $1.50.

Edited by Pansy. A book entertaining and bright, that young people will read, of the early history of our country, its manners, customs and people. Price 75 cents.

Edited by Pansy. Bright sketches of foreign scenes, people and customs. Price 75 cents.

Arranged by Amanda B. Harris.

Original poems for each month by Longfellow, Whittier, Will Carleton, and others. Twenty-four full-page illustrations, cloth, tinted edges, $1.00.

Pen-and-ink drawings prepared for the children by George Foster Barnes, M. J. Sweeney, W. P. Bodfish, and J. E. Francis. The delight of the nursery and the drawing-room; while the designs tempt the little people to copy them, thus inciting to early practice with pencils and crayons, the wit of the conceptions certainly amuse and greatly entertain the older members of the family. Double Lithograph covers in nine colors by H. Bencke. Price $1.00.

By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.

With seventy-two full-page illustrations by Garrett, Lungren, Sweeney, Barnes and Hassam. Boards, $1.00. Cloth, $1.75. Full gilt, $2.00.

Arranged by Amanda B. Harris.

Twelve full-page illustrations in color, and pictures for every day. Cloth, tinted edges, $1.00.

Edited by Oscar Fay Adams.

The contents are prefaced by a valuable index of authors, in which not only the names are given, but also the place and date of birth.

• Winter—December, January, February.
• Spring—March, April, May.
• Summer-June, July, August.
• Autumn—September, October, November.

Each season, 3 volumes in a neat box. Each volume, plain cloth, 75 cents; half cloth, gilt, $1.00.

This is a very complete dictionary, and contains more matter than any other dollar dictionary. The book is finely printed, and handsomely bound. It has 600,000 words and 1400 illustrations. Price $1.00.

By Christina Goodwin.

Under the guise of an interesting story it gives a deal of information relative to housekeeping, or just that part of housekeeping which young people are capable of taking a hand in—sweeping, dusting, bed-making, sewing, plain cooking, with experiments in preserve and jelly making. Price 75 cents.

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Any book in this section given for new subscriptions amounting to $2.00.

Ten Volumes now ready.

Tennyson’s Complete Poetical Works. With numerous illustrations, and containing all the writings of the “Poet-Laureate,” to date. The new edition is in double column, good type, and is the best one volume edition published.

Milton’s Poems. 576 pages, complete. Including the Sonnets, Psalms, and Latin and Italian Translations. With illustrations.

Burns’ Poems. 514 pages, with complete glossary, and copious marginal explanations of the Scotch words. Numerous illustrations.

Owen Meredith’s Poems. Containing “Lucille” complete, and all other popular poems of this favorite author. With illustrations.

Scott’s Poetical Works. Over 750 pages. With Memoir and Notes complete.

Byron’s Poems. 740 pages. Illustrated. With Memoir and Notes.

Browning’s Poems. The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Complete edition, from the last London edition. This new edition is in double column, good type, and is the best one-volume edition published.

Ingelow’s Poems. The Poetical Works of Jean Ingelow, including the “Shepherd Lady,” and other poems. Fully illustrated.

Procter’s Poems. The Poetical Works of Adelaide A. Procter. Complete edition, with an introduction by Charles Dickens. Fully illustrated. Large clear type.

Lucille. By Owen Meredith. The best edition of this beautiful word-painting of Owen Meredith (Lord Lytton). With numerous illustrations.

Each volume is printed on the finest laid paper. Price, full gilt sides and back, gilt top, $1.25; vellum cloth, gilt top, $1.00.

Edited by Pansy.

A perusal of these pages will enable the boy and girl to become acquainted with other boys and girls of corresponding countries and homes, as well as gain a knowledge of the manners and customs by which their individual lives are governed. Price $1.25.

Edited by Mrs. G. R. Alden.

Stories to be read in the quiet of the home Sabbath, when, the sermon and Sunday-school ended, the parents and young folks meet to exchange helpful thought and gain new courage for future work and study, which the tone and excellence of these tales impart. Price $1.25.

The “Lay of the Last Minstrel,” “Marmion,” the “Lady of the Lake.” Price $1.25.

By Lord Macaulay. Price $1.25.

By A Boy and His Friends.

A fascinating little volume full of practical ideas for the benefit of boys who are getting their first training in the use of tools. It will prove an admirable help in the direction of industrial training. Price $1.00.

By Abby Morton Diaz.

This is one of the most delightful of juvenile books, and is the work of a genius. The Illustrations by Boz are profuse and excellent. The emblematic cover is well worthy of special mention for its good taste and appropriateness. Price $1.25.

By Mrs. S. D. Power.

Of interest to all girls and young housekeepers. Price $1.00.

By Lizzie W. Champney.

The Girl who doesn’t thoroughly enjoy the story of the curious experiences of Little Flossy Tangleskein must be a very dull girl indeed. It is not a fairy story, and yet it is the next thing to it. One might call it a dream story, for the strange adventures of Flossy all took place during a series of naps in the studio of an artist friend, who was using her as a model in painting a picture of a Breton peasant child. Price $1.25.

By Some Friends of the Girls.

Of all the books that have been specially prepared for girls this is at once the most interesting and most practical. It is not, as one might perhaps imagine, a story, but, as the title page sets forth, it contains “plans and designs for work upstairs and down, and entertainments for herself and friend”; a book, in short, to show girls how they may make their rooms cosey and attractive with only a small outlay of money and time and work. Each of the twenty-four chapters deals with a special subject. Price $1.00.

By Willis Boyd Allen.

The adventures of several wide-awake Boston boys and girls in Maine during their Christmas vacation. In the opening chapter a wagon is overturned, and the whole party obliged to camp out in the woods over night, in the midst of a driving snowstorm. The book is profusely illustrated, and brimful of incident, adventure and fun. Cloth, illustrated, $1.00.

By Laura D. Nichols.

Given for new subscriptions amounting to $2.00 ($2.50 cloth).

It replaces the old fairy stories of the under world with the more remarkable realities telling us of the genuine miners instead of gnomes. Price $1.25; cloth, $1.50.

By Annie Moore and Laura D. Nichols.

Given for new subscriptions amounting to $2.00 (cloth, $2.50).

Prof. Waldo of Yale College in his introduction to this book, says it “covers up a primer of astronomy under the guise of a story.” Price $1.25; cloth, $1.50.

By Pansy.

Admirably suited to the needs of that large class of young folks who wish at times to read, or have read to them, the choicest of short tales. Mothers and older sisters will make a note of this, and for the twilight hour when the young folks clamor for “a story” will provide themselves with “In the Woods and Out.” Illustrated. Price, cloth, $1.00.

By E. E. Brown.

This biography of Grant is a plain and clearly told consecutive narrative, circumstantial, but not too much elaborated in detail. Price $1.50.

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Any book in this section given for new subscriptions amounting to $2.50.

By Margaret Sidney.

Bright and sparkling, yet home-y and cosey, this book will be read to tatters, but never thrown aside. Thirty-six illustrations by Jessie Curtis. 12mo, cloth, $1.50.

By Margaret Sidney.

V. I. F. Series. It is a delightful story of New England life, drawn from close observation of the characteristics of its people of both sexes. 12mo, cloth. Price $1.25.

By Magnus Merriweather.

Author of “Royal Lowrie.” A charming story full of intense life. Particularly interesting to the older “young folks,” and the old folks, too. 16mo, illustrated. Price $1.50.

By Mrs. Theodora R. Jenness.

A stirring, eventful description of a new prairie home. 36 illustrations, 12mo. Price $1.50.

By Charles R. Talbot.

A boy’s book. A grand, helpful story for boys. Large 16mo. Price $1.25.

By Charles R. Talbot.

A live story for boys. 16mo, illustrated. Price $1.25.

By Mrs. Mary Hartwell Catherwood.

Giving the exciting adventures and experiences of a family moving to Illinois, long before the time of Western railroads. With 36 illustrations by H. Pruett Share. 12mo, cloth. Price $1.25.

By Rev. Charles R. Talbot.

A stirring romance of the American Revolution, with illustrations made from careful studies of old Boston, by Share, Merrill, and Taylor. Extra cloth, 12mo. Price $1.25.

Any volume of the following

Cunning Workmen; Dr. Deane’s Way, and other stories; by Faye Huntington and Pansy; Grandpa’s Darlings, Miss Priscilla Hunter and My Daughter Susan, two stories in one attractive volume; Mrs. Deane’s Way, by Faye Huntington and Pansy; What She Said. Price $1.25 per vol.

By E. S. Brooks.

A stirring historical story of boy and girl life in early New York. Illustrations by W. T. Smedley. Price $1.50.

By Daniel Defoe.

An edition de luxe, printed on exquisite paper, with sixteen illustrations by Thomas Stothard, R. A., with an introduction by Austin Dobson. Fac-simile of the frontispiece and title-page of the original edition, original prefaces, extra cloth binding. Price $1.25.

By H. H. Clarke.

In this graphically written and wonderfully entertaining volume, boy life in the Navy of the United States is described by a navy officer, in a manner which cannot fail to satisfy the boys. 12mo, illustrated, $1.50.

Nothing can be imagined funnier than this Cats’ Arabian Nights. The illustrations are drawn by Francis, Boz, Palmer, Cox and others, while the story is told in Mrs. Diaz’s best humor. There is no one in the family circle too young to appreciate it, or too old to enjoy it. Price $1.25.

Any one volume of

Young Folks’ History of Germany; Young Folks’ History of Greece; Young Folks’ History of Rome; Young Folks’ History of England; Young Folks’ History of France; Young Folks’ Bible History. Price $1.50 each.

Any one volume of

Edited by Arthur Gilman, A. M. Each volume has 100 illustrations.

India, by Fannie Roper Feudge; Egypt, by Mrs. Clara Erskine Clement; Spain, by Prof. James Albert Harrison; Switzerland, by Miss Harriet D. S. Mackenzie; Russia, by Nathan Haskell Dole. Price $1.50 each.

Representative stories by Mary Hartwell Catherwood, David Ker, Charles R. Talbot and John Preston True. Each story is illustrated by more than twenty-five drawings by American artists. Price $1.50.

It is written in an off-hand, easy style which makes it peculiarly agreeable to read, and can be set down as one of the most notable books on English travel that we have had for the past half-dozen years. Price $1.50.

This Periodical edited by Pansy (Mrs. G. R. Alden), has already greatly increased its subscription list. It is Pansy’s favorite, and all her friends are flocking to her support. The bound volumes for ’84, ’85 and 1886 appear in charming chromo lithograph covers and each volume contains more than 100 pages of the choicest literature for children and young people, and 300 fine illustrations. Price $1.25.

In handsome cloth binding given for new subscriptions amounting $3.00. Price $1.75.

Any one volume given for new subscription amounting to $2.50.

• Dickens, Charles.
• Franklin, Benjamin.
• Greeley, Horace.
• Garfield, James A.
• Holmes, Oliver Wendell.
• Longfellow, Henry W.
• Lawrence, Amos.
• Lincoln, Abraham.
• Livingston, David.
• Nelson, Lord.
• Peabody, George.
• Sumner, Charles.
• Taylor, Bayard.
• Whittier, John.
• Webster, Daniel.
• Wilson, Henry.

Price $1.50 per volume.

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By Margaret Sidney.

Given for new subscriptions amounting to $3.00.

This is a capital record of a journey gathered from the author’s personal knowledge of the places mentioned. Everything in this volume is fresh and unhackneyed, and presented in the author’s fascinating style. Price $1.75; cloth, $2.25.

Given for new subscriptions amounting to $3.00.

By Margaret Sidney. Cover designed by “Champ.” Price $1.75; in extra cloth, given for new subscriptions amounting to $4.00. Price $2.25.

The book is full of life. All the actors from the mature young man of three to the stately Miss Wigthorpe of Wigthorpe Place become our friends, and we too live in Fairburn. The Wordsworth Club led by President Cosy moves charmingly through the story, bringing old and young to their entertainments by their piquancy and the enjoyments of generous doings by their loving deeds.

Any volume of the following

Given for new subscriptions amounting to $3.00.

An Endless Chain; A new Graft on the Family Tree; The Chautauqua Girls at Home; Divers Women, by Pansy and Mrs. Livingston; Echoing and Re-echoing, by Faye Huntington; Ester Ried Yet Speaking; Four Girls at Chautauqua; From Different Standpoints, by Pansy and Faye Huntington; The Hall in the Grove; Household Puzzles; Interrupted; Julia Ried; The King’s Daughter; Links in Rebecca’s Life; Mrs. Solomon Smith Looking on; The Man of the House; Modern Prophets, by Pansy and Faye Huntington; One Commonplace Day; The Pocket Measure; The Randolphs; Ruth Erskine’s Crosses; Spun from Fact; Sidney Martin’s Christmas; Those Boys; Three People; Christie’s Christmas; Ester Ried; Tip Lewis and his Lamp; Wise and Otherwise. Price $1.50 per volume.

Given for new subscriptions amounting to $4.00.

Bound Volumes. Any one volume (6 mos.) from Vol. A (July-Dec. ’75) to V (Dec.-May ’86). Each year consists of two volumes handsomely bound in cloth. Price per volume, $2.25.

By Louisa M. Alcott.

Given for new subscriptions amounting to $3.00.

This is Miss Alcott’s latest book for the young folks. It is a sequel to “Little Men,” and will be the last volume from her pen in connection with the “Little Men” and “Little Women” Series. The book is written in the same delightful vein as the preceding volumes of the series, and will fascinate all the young people, and older people as well. Price $1.50.

By Rev. E. E. Hale and Miss Susan Hale.

Given for new subscriptions amounting to $4.00 (boards), or for $5.00 (cloth, gilt).

A Family Flight through France, Germany, Norway and Switzerland, A Family Flight over Egypt and Syria, A Family Flight through Spain, A Family Flight around Home, A Family Flight through Mexico. Illuminated board covers and linings, $2.00; cloth, $2.50.

Given for new subscriptions amounting to $5.00.

Edited with a critical biography by William Michael Rossetti. A history of the Drama in England to the time of Shakespeare, by Arthur Gilman, M. A. A critical introduction to each play; an index to noteworthy scenes; an index to all the characters; a list of the songs in the plays; an index to familiar quotations and a carefully prepared glossary. Price $3.00.

Given for new subscriptions amounting to $22.00.

It has 118,800 Words, four Pages colored Plates, 3000 Engravings, and also contains a Biographical Dictionary, giving brief important facts concerning over 9700 noted Persons. Also a Gazeteer of the World. Price (sheep) $12.00. Receiver to pay express charges.

AFTER THE BATH.

Clara: “I have had a most refreshing bath. The Ivory Soap is, without exception, the most luxurious soap for bathing. It lathers freely and is so easily rinsed off, leaving a sense of comfort and cleanliness such as no other soap will.”

Louise: “Yes, and isn’t it nice to use soap that floats like the Ivory; for if you drop it, you don’t have to feel for it, but pick it off the top of the water.”

A WORD OF WARNING.

Copyright 1886, by Procter & Gamble.

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