AS NIGHT CAME DARKLY DOWN.

The night came darkly down; The birdies' mother said, "Peep! peep! You ought to be asleep! 'Tis time my little ones were safe in bed!" So, sheltered by her wings in downy nest, The weary little birdlings took their rest.

The night came darkly down; The baby's mother said, "Bye-low! You musn't frolic so! You should have been asleep an hour ago!" And, nestling closer to its mother's breast, The merry prattler sank to quiet rest.

Then in the cradle soft 'Twas laid with tenderest care. "Good-night! Sleep till the morning light!" Whispered the mother as she breathed a prayer. Night settled down; the gates of day were barred And only loving angels were on guard.

JOSEPHINE POLLARD.



GRANDMOTHER'S CLOCK.

It stands in the corner of Grandma's room; From the ceiling it reaches the floor; "Tick-tock," it keeps saying the whole day long, "Tick-tock," and nothing more.

Grandma says the clock is old, like herself; But dear Grandma is wrinkled and gray, While the face of the clock is smooth as my hand, And painted with flowers so gay!

Backwards and forwards, this way and that, You can see the big pendulum rock: "Tick-tock," it keeps saying the whole day long, "Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock!"

The clock never sleeps, and its hands never rest As they slowly go moving around; And it strikes the hours with a ding, ding, ding, Ding, ding, and a whirring sound.

I wonder if this is the same old clock That the mousie ran up in the night, And played hide-and-seek till the clock struck one, And then ran down in a fright.

Backwards and forwards, this way and that, You can see the big pendulum rock; "Tick-tock," it keeps saying the whole day long, "Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock!"

NELLIE M. GARABRANT.



A STUFFED JUMBO.

Yesterday, Alice met the stuffed Jumbo, her former mate. She walked slowly up to him, and then stood for a few moments, evidently surveying him with wonder. Then she swung her trunk so as to reach Jumbo's mouth. She also touched his trunk in a cautious manner, and then turning her back upon him, gave vent to a groan that made the roof of the garden tremble. William Newman, the elephant trainer, Frank Hyatt, the superintendent, and "Toddy" Hamilton, talked to her in their usual winning way, and she again faced Jumbo. She fondled his trunk, looked straight into his eyes, and again she groaned, and then walked away as though disgusted with the old partner of her joys and sorrows. She went back to her quarters and continued to mourn. Her keeper, Scott, was appealed to by the spectators. He was asked whether he believed that she recognized Jumbo, and he replied in all seriousness, "Of course she did. She told me so." At another time he said, "I can understand elephant talk, and Alice told me she recognized Jumbo." Scott seemed very much affected by the meeting. He was Jumbo's old keeper.—Humane Journal.



THE TREES IN SILVER LAND.

O softly falling flakes of snow That fill the wintry air,— A thickening cloud on every side, Each flake a wonder rare.



"Are they from trees in Silver Land?" My child is asking me. He claps his hands, he laughs, he begs, "One leaf from silver tree."

Such questions as he asks in vain About the leaf-like snow! He might as well talk of the tides That strangely come and go.

"Who plants those fairy trees?" he asks, "With tops that reach so high?" Oh, answer, Garden of Delight, All in the cloudy sky!

"Who shakes those trees and sends their leaves On field and wood and town? Is it the Gardener living there, Or winds that blow them down?"

O child, look up and see yourself, The clouds are Silver Land. Who made those flakes, He scatters them; They fall at His command.

They fall, they melt, they come again. And His the gardener's hand That gently shakes the silver trees Which grow in Silver Land.

REV. EDWARD A. RAND.



SMALL BEGINNINGS.

Did you ever think of how lowly was the start in life of many of our great men? Read the pages of history and you will find that fully seven out of ten of the great men were really poor. Bonaparte used to be a book agent, Gould was a surveyor, Franklin was a printer, Garfield worked on the tow path, Lincoln was a rail splitter, Grant was a tanner, Poe was always in financial distress; Crome, the great artist, used to pull hair from his cat's tail to make his brushes; Astor came to New York with nothing as the foundation of his fortunes. The list is almost endless.

To us, there is much encouragement in these facts. By looking into the lives of such men we find the secret of success. Lincoln was a poor Illinois farmer, with no visionary dreams of his great future. He was poor and unlearned. Of the poverty he was not ashamed; of his lack of learning he was by no means satisfied. He resolved to gain knowledge. He studied, studied hard, and at a time in his life when other men felt they had passed the age of schooling. Of his work, we find he always tried to give an honest day's labor; his motto was to do well everything he put his hands to. It was this trait of character that attracted the attention of his neighbors, and this it was that first started him on the road to great success.



Look at the early days of Grant. There was no indication of unusual brightness in him. At West Point, where he was sent to military school, he did not stand at the head of his classes. He only seemed an earnest worker, with plenty of determination. Later, when he lived on his little Illinois farm, there was nothing about him that pointed him out as the future great general. It was only when the great civil war broke out that he had an opportunity to show the kind of a man he was. His only thought was to accomplish the task assigned him, be it ever so difficult. This naturally found him in the line of promotion, and step by step he climbed higher, earning by hard work every step he gained, until he reached the highest office in the land.

Take Edison, the inventor. He was only a tramp telegrapher, but he was not satisfied with being anything but the best, and many are the stories of speed he attained in sending or receiving messages. He was inquisitive—wanted to know more of the mysteries of the electricity that carried his messages. He began experimenting, and by close application to his studies, has astonished the world with his telephone, phonograph and other inventions.

Now, these great men are not merely the products of chance. Not at all. Study each of them and you will find they were workers, gaining by just such struggles as you and I can make. We may not reach such distinction as these have reached, but rest assured there is just as great a demand now as ever for good, earnest men, and earnest, successful men grow from painstaking boys. The boy who, as clerk in the counting-house, watches after the interests of his employers, will be the coming merchant; the young man on the farm who slights not the work assigned him, will own a farm of his own.

Let this lesson make an impression. The road to success may be rugged, but it is not so steep but that enough steps, if in the right direction, be they ever so short, will in time carry you a long way toward the top.



GARDEN OF THE GODS.

This, one of the grandest of American natural sceneries, is located along the Colorado River. The river, in its years and years of flowing, has washed out the soil, and owing to the peculiar composition of the ground has washed it away unevenly, and these standing peaks are so numerous and so fantastic in form, that this location has been called the Garden of the Gods. It is most impressive and inspiring grandeur. A trip will well repay a journey from the most remote parts of our country to see this view, only a little of which is in the engraving.



YOUNG ARTIST.

Albert, the blacksmith's son, will be an artist some day. While other boys are playing ball or skating, or other amusements, Albert is using his time making pictures. He seems to delight in it, and even when quite a small boy, many were the scoldings he received from his parents for a too free use of his chalk and pencil, leaving his rude drawings on wall and fences; and in school his troubles were only increased, for his books always contained pictures, sometimes of horses, or dogs, or of his friends. This habit did not correspond with his teachers' ideas of tidiness, and punishment followed punishment. It did not help matters, though, and his drawing continued. In time he became quite apt and could make pictures that very closely resembled the objects he drew. His companions called him the "artist," and they would have him make pictures of them. Some of his methods were odd enough. To make an outline of a boy's face he would tack a piece of paper on the side of a door in his father's shop, and by placing the boy between the paper and a lighted lamp, would trace with pencil the outline of the shadow as it fell on the paper. Soon he tried painting with paint and brush. At first his efforts were crude, and to anyone less determined and enthusiastic, discouraging. Not so to Albert. He worked along day after day, and in time could paint well enough to attract some notice in his little village.

About this time a great artist from the city, spending the summer in this part of the country, heard of Albert, and by accident met him. Quick to perceive the natural talent of the boy, and being generously inclined, he offered to take him to his city home and give him training in his studio. The parents, though loth to be separated from their son, saw here an opportunity to educate him in his favorite study, and so accepted the offer.

You can well imagine Albert's surprise and delight when he first entered the studio and saw the work of the master. How the great paintings filled him with wonder. He proved an apt student, a true artist, and year after year worked with patience and determination, and became a noted painter.

He often thinks of his early days—of the pictures he made in the old blacksmith shop. He thinks, too, of the years spent since then in attaining prominence in his calling, but no regrets come to him.

The true story of how one boy succeeded can be of use to others. It only takes this same perseverance and pluck to succeed in any other calling. Had he complained because he could not paint like the master, and not been contented to study on during these years, he could not now lay claim to his present success and eminence as an artist. Let others, in reading this, see in it an object, and may it bring to them new resolve to succeed in the life work they have started on.

Life is what we make it, and not a matter of chance. By marking out a future success we expect to accomplish,—by sticking closely to this one idea, and bending every energy to attain it, we can come approximately near accomplishing our undertaking.



A CHANCE WORD.

Ralph and Lily had one game of which they never tired, and that was "horses." It was really a convenient game, for it could be played on wet or fine days, in the nursery or on the road. Perhaps it was best fun on the road, "like real horses;" but I am not sure, for it was very delightful to sit on the nursery table, with the box of bricks for a coachman's seat, and from that elevated position to drive the spirited four horses represented by the four chairs, to which the reins would be fastened.

One day—a fine day—the two children were playing at their usual game on the turnpike road, and waiting for nurse, who had gone into a cottage near by to speak to the washerwoman. Nurse was a long time, and Ralph, who was horse, was quite out of breath with his long trot on the hard road. Lily touched him up with the whip, but all to no avail—he could run no more.

"I've no breath left," said the poor horse, sinking down exhausted on a heap of stones.

Lily put down the whip and patted his head to encourage him. "Soh! soh!" she said, in as good an imitation as she could manage of the way the groom spoke to their father's horse; "you are quite done, I see. You must rest, and have a handful of oats," and she dived into her pocket and produced a bit of biscuit, which the horse ate with great satisfaction, and soon professed himself ready to go on again. "Ah!" said Lily, sagely, "I knew you'd be all right soon; there's nothing like food and kindness for horses when they're tired."

A tinker, with a cart and a poor, ill-fed beast harnessed to it, happened to be passing, and heard the little girl's words. He stared after her, for she seemed very small to speak so wisely, and the tinker did not, of course, know that she was only repeating what she had heard her father say.

"Well, I'm dazed!" exclaimed the tinker, looking after the children; "wherever did little Missy learn that?"

He said no more then; but Lily's words stuck to him, and his poor horse had reason to bless Lily for them, for from that day forward he got, not only more food, but more kindness and fewer blows and so he became a better horse, and the tinker the better man in consequence.



A LITTLE DANCE.

Oh, it is fun! Oh, it is fun! To dress ourselves up, as Grandma has done. See how we go! See how we go! Forward and back, heel and toe.

Lighter than down, our feet come down Mind all your steps, and hold out your gown; Faster than that, whatever may hap, Cherry red waist and blue speckled cap.

Hi! Master John! Ho! Master John! Don't go to sleep, while the music goes on; Faster than that! Faster than that! Hold up your head, and flourish your hat!

How she trips it along, that bright little maid, With her dainty blue skirt and spotted brocade; And that one in yellow, who wears the red rose How she keeps her mouth shut and turns out her toes.

How they do spin! when they truly begin; Each dancer as airy and bright as a doll; While the music complete, keeps time to their feet, With its fiddle-dee-diddle and tol-de-rol-ol!

Oh, it is fun! Oh, it is fun! To dance, when every duty is done; Forward and back, or all in a ring, A quick little dance is a very gay thing.



LOOKING OUT FOR NUMBER ONE.

OLIVE A. WADSWORTH.

Joey was a country boy, Father's help and mother's joy; In the morning he rose early,— That's what made his hair so curly; Early went to bed at night,— That's what made his eyes so bright; Ruddy as a red-cheeked apple; Playful as his pony, Dapple; Even the nature of the rose Wasn't quite as sweet as Joe's.

Charley was a city boy, Father's pet and mother's joy; Always lay in bed till late; That's what made his hair so straight, Late he sat up every night,— That's what made his cheeks so white; Always had whate'er he wanted, He but asked, and mother granted; Cakes and comfits made him snarly, Sweets but soured this poor Charley.

Charley, dressed quite like a beau, Went, one day, to visit Joe. "Come," said Joey, "let's go walking; As we wander, we'll be talking; And, besides, there's something growing In the garden, worth your knowing." "Ha!" said Charley, "I'm your guest; Therefore I must have the best. All the inner part I choose, And the outer you can use."

Joey gave a little laugh; "Let's," said he, "go half and half." "No, you don't!" was Charley's answer, "I look out for number one, sir." But when they arrived, behold, On the tree a peach of gold, All without, fair, ripe and yellow, Fragrant, juicy, tempting, mellow, And, within, a gnarly stone. "There," said Joey, "that's your own; As you choose, by right of guest, Keep your choice—I'll eat the rest."



Charley looked as black as thunder, Scarce could keep his temper under. "'Twas too bad, I think," said Joe; "Through the cornfield let us go, Something there, perhaps we'll see That will suit you to a T." "Yes," said Charles, with accent nipping, "Twice you will not catch me tripping; Since I lost the fruit before, You now owe me ten times more. Now the outer part I choose, And the inner you can use."

Joey gave another laugh; "Better call it half and half." "No, indeed!" was Charley's answer, "I look out for number one, sir! Well I know what I'm about,— For you, what's in; for me what's out!" On they went, and on a slope Lay a luscious cantaloupe, Rich and rare, with all the rays From the August suns that blaze; Quite within its sweets you find, And without the rugged rind.

Charley gazed in blank despair, Deeply vexed and shamed his air. "Well," said Joey, "since you would Choose the bad and leave the good; Since you claimed the outer part, And disdained the juicy heart,— Yours the rind, and mine the rest; But as you're my friend and guest, Charley, man, cheer up and laugh, And we'll share it half and half; Looking out for number one Doesn't always bring the fun."



WOODCROFT.

Woodcroft to be sold!—like a knell of doom the words fell on our ears—it could not be! Our dear old home, the only one we children had ever known, to be taken from us. We sat in the bright little sitting-room, blankly looking at one another, in dumb astonishment. Louise, who was always the thoughtful one, soon roused herself from the stupor which seemed to have come upon us all, and going over to the lounge, began comforting—as best she could, poor child—our gentle little mother, upon whom this blow had fallen most heavily. Presently she sat up, and in trembling tones told us, as we clustered at her knee, the particulars of our misfortune.

There were three of us—Louise, Cal and I, who rejoiced in the quaint cognomen of Pen, named for a rich, eccentric, old aunt, who had never left me any money because she never died.

"Now, Marmo, out with all the trouble and let us share it," said matter-of-fact Cal. And then she told how, after papa's sudden death a year before, she had discovered a mortgage to be on the place, small, but now due and no money to meet it; the creditor was pressing, and the home to be sold. We felt sad, but cheered her up, and talked over ways and means as never before.

"Even though he consents to renew it, where would the yearly interest money come from," she wailed.

We urged her to lie down and rest, and, following Cal's beckoning finger, tip-toed out of the room.

"Now, girls," said she, "something's got to be done, and we've got to do it."



One thing after another was proposed and rejected; we knew, if the home were sold, after the demands were met, there would be but a mere pittance left for four females to live on. Finally I broke in:

"Girls, my brain is not usually fertile, but a thought has been growing—we are all well educated, but teaching is out of the question, the supply is greater than the demand, but Lou, here, is skilled with pencil and brush, and Cal has a genius for contrivance; now why could you not paint and decorate some of the dainty trifles you often make as gifts, and sell them. I always did have a notion for cookery, which I shall proceed to put in practice, dismissing the servants." Having delivered this little speech, I paused, breathless.

Cal clapped her hands, and Lou's brown eyes glowed. "Pen, you little duck," and Cal pounced on me in an excess of joy.

"But," faltered Lou, "the mortgage."

"I thought of that too—our lady-like Louise shall go to that crusty old creditor, and beg him to renew it, and with what you girls earn and what we save from the rent of the farm land (for we must live economically) we will pay him the interest promptly." I will add, that she did that very thing, and completely won over the hard-hearted fellow with her sweet, earnest manner.

So to work we went, and the sitting-room was converted into a studio, littered with papers, books, gay ribbons and glue-pots. But some exquisite creations came out of that chaos. I had visited the aforesaid Aunt Pen the previous winter, in New York city, and at the American Specialty House had been enchanted with the many novel and beautiful pieces of decorated work. All would be entirely new in this part of the world, and our idea was, to take orders from the near towns for their Holiday trade. It was now only May and we would have plenty of time. Cal, who, with her brusque, honest ways, determined face, and curly, short hair, was our man of business, took samples of our work in to the various towns, receiving large orders in almost every instance.

Happy and busy as bees we worked, and began to feel quite important, as the pile grew high, of white boxes, filled with delicate satin souvenirs for wedding and birthdays, Christmas tokens of lovely design, little poems with dainty painted covers, blotters and thought books, beautifully decorated, all of which found ready sale. The little mother's sad eyes began to brighten, and Cal would say:

"Marmo, we can take care of you almost as good as sons, can't we?"

"God bless my daughters," would be the reply.

Louise had established her studio under the old apple-tree one warm June day, and, running out to call her to lunch, I found she had gone down in the garden, but I saw the cutest, prettiest sight! I beckoned her to come softly. There, on her sketch-book, opened against the tree, and on which was a half-finished painting of birds, hopped around two brown sparrows, peeping and twittering as contentedly as possible. It was too cunning! as though they had recognized their portraits and felt at home.

"A tribute to your genius, Lou," said I. "Like the famous artist of old, who painted cherries so naturally, the birds flew down and pecked at the canvas."

"I fear I shall have to dispel the illusion, dear. I guess they were more eager to pick up some cake crumbs I left than to admire my work."

Readers, you will be glad to know that the girls' work continued successful, and that the "crusty old creditor" turned out a good friend, from sheer admiration of their pluck and courage.



IN THE WOODS.

Merryvale was not a very lively place for any one except a couple of young colts, and as many calves, jumping around after their mothers.

The bees seemed to be making a good deal of fun for themselves, if stinging us children amused them, and buzzing into every pretty, bright flower, so that no one could pick it with safety.

The crows, too, collected in great gossiping parties, in the pines, over on the shore of the pond, and they always seemed to be congratulating themselves over something immensely satisfactory.

But we children, especially the girls, found it very dull after we had seen the few sights of the farm. The boys were trying to hunt and fish; but Lib and I talked that over, and we came to the conclusion, after much laughing and many caustic remarks, that the only amusement we had was, laughing at their failures.

We communicated that fact to them, but it didn't seem to make any difference; off they went on the same fruitless hunt, and left us to do what we might, to make ourselves happy.

The next day, Lib and Dora and I told them we would go into the woods with them and see what the charm was. Lib was the eldest of us three, and had read a great deal, and she said:

"May be we shall find the robbers' cave, and if we say, 'Open Sesame,' the great stone doors will slowly swing open, and we can go in where the chains of flashing gems and the heaps of golden coin are."

"I think you'll get into places where you can't get out; 'open sesame' will never lift you out of a marsh hole," said William Pitt Gaylord, our eldest brother.

"Mollie, you can find somebody to have a talking match with, for there are lots of chipmunks over in the grove," remarked Hugh.

"I've seen snakes in that very woods, too, and if you'd holler, Lib, at that end of the pond, as you do at this end of the tea-table, you wouldn't catch any fish," said William. This caused an uproarious laugh on the part of the boys.

We listened quietly to their sarcastic remarks, knowing they were prompted by an unreasonable desire to monopolize the delights of the woods to themselves.

William Pitt remarked that "Girls had no business to meddle with boys' sports, and they'd come to grief if they did; you'd see!"

Next morning the August haze lay soft on the landscape, but in a short time it went off, and Father, learning that we girls were going to spend a part of the day in the woods, quietly told the boys that they must escort us to the pleasantest place, and not wander very far off. They pouted considerably, and had a talk at the corner of the barn; they then came back, smiling, and apparently good-natured.



Our brothers did not intend to be unkind, but they had the common failing of humanity—selfishness. But Lib matched them in a dozen ways with her good-humored retaliations; and many a tilt she had with William Pitt since we had arrived at the farm. In the city she was abreast of him in all his studies; and I noticed that Lib could get out her Latin, and write a composition much faster than he, and often he had been obliged to come to her for aid. It nettled Lib not to be able to hunt and fish. We two younger ones modeled after her; she was the leader, and when she said we would go with the boys, we went.

"Hello Fred," said Hugh, as a neighboring boy, a city boarder, came through the gate, attired in base-ball cap and knickerbockers, "we can't go to Duck Inlet to-day. Father says the girls must have a good time, too, and that we must devote one day to them, at least."

"All right," said Fred, "can I go with you? I'll go and get my butterfly net, and we can go over to Fern Hollow mill, the winter-greens and berries are as thick there! Gracious! you can get a quart pail full in no time. The mill-wheel is a beautiful sight," said Fred, turning to Lib, "and you can sketch it, Miss Gaylord."

Lib looked upon Fred with a little more toleration, after he had said "Miss Gaylord," and went and ordered an additional ration to be put into the lunch basket. We were glad to have Fred along with us, for he was very funny, and made jokes on every thing.

Lib would allow no one to carry the lunch basket but herself, as she remarked, "It is safer with me."

We started, and were tempted to loiter at all the little nooks on the leaf-shadowed road, and investigate the haunts of the curious dwellers in the rocks and bushes, and especially were we interested in the ducks on Fern Hollow creek. Dora insisted upon feeding them a piece of bread. "Calamity," the dog, was along, of course, and as he belonged to William Pitt, who called him "Clam," he was always in that boy's company. It was, "Love me, love my dog," with William; and as he was a professional of some kind, he was greatly prized by the boys.

We reached the woods and the old mill early; I think I never was in a more delightful place. Every thing seemed to grow here. Winter-greens, with their crimson berries, shining in the moss, and blueberries, where the sun came; tall, white flowers that grew in clusters in the shade, sent their perfume all about. Back of the mill, on some sandy ledges, grew pennyroyal and spearmint; raspberries and blackberries grew everywhere.



The boys went off to gather a quantity for lunch, and Lib and Dora and I hunted for a pleasant place to set out our dainties. We found it. A natural bower, between four trees; one being a giant of a pine, right at the doorway. The wild grape-vine and the woodbine had inclosed the space so completely, that Lib, who had thoughtfully brought along a scissors to cut off stubborn plants, could make two windows in the green wall; one looking into the woods, the other off at the distant pond. The grass was fine in here, and the sunbeams dropped down in little round spots, on the pine needles that covered the floor.

"This is certainly the fairies' dining hall," said Lib.

"I'll tell you what," said I, "this is not far from home, and we can bring things, and have a little parlor here. I can make a couple of curtains out of that figured scrim, for windows, and that old square rug in the carriage-house will do for the floor. You can bring your rocking-chair, Lib, and Dora can bring her tea-set."

"I'll bring our Christmas and Easter cards, and we can fasten them all about, on the walls," said Lib, who had fallen in immediately with the plan.

"I'll bring Mrs. Snobley, and all her children, and the dining table," said Dora.

She had reference to her large doll, and a whole dozen of little ones, that were always brought forward in any play that Dora had taken a fancy to.

We were in such haste to put our scheme into operation, that we dispatched the lunch in short order, and told the boys of our plan. They thought it was capital. Any thing that would release them, after they had eaten all that was to be had, would, of course, be received with acclamation. They acknowledged the same, in a very neat speech, which Lib said, "did very good for Hugh."

She fell in immediately with our fun, and helped us to a number of nice things, to furnish our greenwood bower. We worked tremendously that afternoon, and after Betty had washed the dinner dishes, she helped us. Before sun-down every thing was complete. The boys, who had taken themselves a mile away, to hunt, came round to visit us on their way home. They agreed that it was just perfect, and inquired if we hadn't put in an elevator, to reach the second story, with numerous other inquiries, intended to be funny; and then asked where we kept our cranberry tarts.

"We're not going to allow any boys in this play-house after to-day," said I; "your feet are muddy, and you're so big, you fill it all up."

Our visitor, Fred, looked at his feet, and blushed. "Not after to-day? How are you going to keep any one out?" inquired William Pitt.

"We will draw this portiere across the doorway, and no gentleman would think of entering," said Lib.

"No, they wouldn't, sure enough," said Hugh. "How are you going to prevent our looking in the windows?"

"Only rude boys would look in windows," said Fred, "and I don't know of any hereabouts."

They laughed at this, and Lib laughed too, and made the sly remark, that "Hunting on the duck-pond transformed some people mighty soon."

Fred said he'd try to be on his good behavior if we'd let him make a formal call on us the next afternoon. We consented to this; then they all said they'd call.

The next day we busied ourselves in preparing a spread of good things for our reception, and Betty took it over, and on returning, said every thing was just as we had left it. We dressed ourselves up in our best, to receive the gentlemen, a little time after dinner. The woods were never so lovely, we thought, and to add to our personal charms, we made wreaths and garlands of ferns and wild-flowers to adorn our persons and hats.

I had sauntered along considerably in advance, and as I approached the bower I was not a little surprised to see from a distance that the door-curtain was drawn half open. I stopped to listen, but there was no sound, only a wild bird piping its three little notes, down by the mill. I cautiously went up, and peeped into the little window, and there stood a man on the rug! He seemed to be looking about. I think I never was so frightened. I ran back, and whispered to the rest the dreadful state of things. They looked horror-stricken. Lib changed color, but just stood still. Then she said,—"There's plenty of help over at the mill."

"Oh, let us go no nearer, but get home as fast as we can," I said.

Lib raised her hand in warning for us to keep still, and we crept along, softly, behind the bower; and when we had gotten so far, we all turned around and ran for dear life into the woods again.

"This is nonsense," said Lib. "You were mistaken, Mollie, I'm sure."

I said I'd go back with her, and she could see for herself. We crept to the back of the bower, and Lib leaned over and looked in. Lib turned pale, caught hold of my hand and Dora's, and ran quite a distance toward the mill. Then she stopped, and said, as true as she was alive, there was a man in there; he stood with a large stick resting on his shoulder, upon which was slung a bundle, tied up in a red handkerchief, his clothing was ragged, and his hat was very dilapidated.

"Oh, Lib, I'm going to run for it," said I.

"Wait a minute," said she. "I don't hear any noise. Let's think; if we didn't have to go right in front of the door, we could get to the mill."

All this time we were edging ourselves as far away from the dangerous precincts as we conveniently could. She stood again, perfectly still. "I won't go another step," she said. That moment's reflect had re-instated her courage. "He don't come out; I should say that was making an informal call when the ladies were out. He's a beautiful-looking specimen anyway," said Lib, with fine irony; and as she said this, she frowned, and put her head back.

No sound was heard, and no demonstrations from the interloper were made. The sight of the mill-wagon, going slowly down the road, gave us heart, and Lib said:

"I'll go and order him out, be the consequences what they may. Mollie, you're good at screaming, you can bring the miller here if we have to get help."

"Don't! Don't! I would rather he stole all our things; let him have the tarts and the cocoanut cake, and the jam, and the pickles, and the cheese, and the sandwiches! Let him have them in welcome! I'm going to fly home!"

"I want Mrs. Snobley!" sobbed Dora.

Lib never said another word. She walked up to the entrance, and pulled aside the curtain, and there stood the semblance of a man. In his extended hand was a card, on which was very badly printed:

"I'm a poor b'y,—I want a home."

"References exchanged."

"I'll scrape the mud off me boots, if ye'll let me in."

Lib called, "Come here, Mollie, it's a trick of those boys."

We went in, and there we found the interloper to be a scarecrow from a neighboring field, ingeniously arranged so as to appear very human.

At that moment, a loud laugh above our heads betrayed the presence of the boys in the trees, who clambered down with hilarious expedition, and fairly rolled themselves upon the ground with delight. They had seen all our perturbation; had heard my cowardly cries and expressions; Lib's looking in the window, and her fearful hesitation and scamper behind the fairy bower! The best thing to do was to laugh, and that we did right heartily; we girls, were internally thankful that the intruder was only a scarecrow after all.

We ordered the boys take their silly joke out, and to come in like gentlemen, and make a formal call, and probably they would be invited to take some refreshments.

This news caused them to work with great alacrity. They were dressed up too; Fred having chosen to wear his school uniform, with a gorgeous crimson sash and his sword.

We were never so delighted with any thing as with that afternoon's adventure. For hours we chatted and laughed, and ate our refreshments, until the western light began to take on a ruddy hue, and we closed our little bower and proceeded homeward.

What was our surprise, when we reached there, to find that three young friends from the city with their servant had come to visit us. Merryvale was not dull after that, I can assure you.



AUTUMN LEAVES, AND WHAT KATIE DID.

ALEX DUKE BAILIE.

"Oh, Bessie! I've such an idea, such a good one, and so sure, you can't think how it came either, if you guessed and tried for a week!"

"Child, you are always having ideas, but they amount to nothing; you have enough to do at home, without continually fretting your head about what you cannot carry out."

"But, Bessie, this is just splendid, and it came to me all of a sudden, and I'm sure as sure can be that it is a real good idea. Now wont you listen!"

"I suppose I must, if I want any peace; but I'm very tired, so if it is like your latest—to catch fish and sell them in the town, or to have your curls cut off and let some city hair-dresser pay you for them—there will be no use to tell it to me."

"Tain't neither, Bessie dear, it's a real clever idea, and I know you wont say 'no' to it. I was looking over some of the old picture papers this morning, and I found a funny picture of a gentleman that had gone fishing with, oh! the greatest lot of lines, and a fine rod, and a basket swung at his back, and he looked ever so nice; but he hadn't caught any thing and he was ashamed to go back to the city with an empty basket; and then there was another picture where he was buying a great string of fish from a bare-footed little country boy, that had caught them all, and had only a rough old pole and an old line on it."

"So it is the fishing idea, again," said Bessie, "but the present variation does not improve on the last."

"No, it just ain't the fishing idea any more; it's this: you know all the excursion parties that come up here, are coming all the time now; well, the ladies all gather autumn leaves, lots and lots, handsful and handsful of them. But they get tired of carrying so many after a while, and by the time they get ready to go back to the cars, their leaves are thrown away, and they are empty-handed. Now just listen! If I go to work and pick out the very prettiest leaves and do them up in the very sweetest bunches, and tie them so they are easy to carry, and meet them when they are starting to go home, I'm sure they will buy them, just like the gentleman did the fish from that boy. Now, ain't that a real good idea?"

"I believe there is something in it, Katie," answered the eldest sister.

"I knew you would," cried Katie, joyously, "and may I try it?"

"If you will be very careful and not talk too much to the people you know nothing of, I have no objections; it can do no harm, at all events," and poor, tired Bessie sighed as she looked at her bright young sister and thought of the time when she too was young and full of hope and gay spirits.

There was quite a family of these Wilsons in the little house at the foot of the mountains, in Pennsylvania. The widowed mother, sickly and almost blind; Bessie, a young lady, the eldest daughter, aged twenty-three, who taught a very large school for very small pay; then Katie not quite twelve, and Robbie, the baby, the pet, the boy, who was only five.

Three years before, their father had been living, and they had enjoyed all that wealth could bring them. Suddenly he sickened and died, and then came the dreadful knowledge that he left nothing for his family; he was deeply in debt to his partner, with whom he had worked a large coal-mine, and this Mr. Moore was what all people called a "hard man," he was old and crabbed, and always wanted and would have every cent coming to him. Bessie was to have been married to his son, Philip, but when poverty came to her, the old man refused to let Philip see her more, and the girl was too proud to go into a family where she was not wanted, and, beside, she had her poor mother, who had given up and failed fast after her misfortunes, she had her to look after. So Bessie taught school; Katie attended to the little home into which they had moved from the great house on the hill, a noble little housekeeper she was; Robbie did about as he pleased and was well content with life, except when neat Katie would seize him and wash his face with plenty of soap in his eyes, and comb his tangled curls with a comb that "allus pulled," as he cried.

It was hard for them to pay the rent, to get food and the many delicacies Mrs. Wilson had always been used to, and now needed more than ever. Bessie's small wages from her school were taken, every cent, for these, and Katie was continually bothering her young head with "ideas" as to how she could make money to help them all. The autumn leaves were the latest, and it really did seem as though there were something in it.

The next day was Saturday, Bessie was free from school duties, and so her little sister had more time at her disposal. Friday evening she and Robbie gathered a great quantity of bright-colored leaves; the next morning, bright and early, they were out again; the little back porch was filled with them.

With her own natural good taste, aided by Bessie's more cultivated judgment, they made up many neat, beautiful bunches of those bright-colored droppings from the forest trees. These she placed in a large but pretty basket that once had been sent, filled with rare fruit, to Bessie, from Philip, and the older girl sighed when she gave it to her sister.

Then Katie started, leaving Robbie behind crying; and with a trembling heart and a big lump in her throat, but bravely as a little soldier, she made her way to the path by which the excursion parties would have to return to the cars. Soon they began to come along, all tired, trying to be merry ladies and gentlemen.

Katie stood with her basket on her arm. She did not know how pretty she looked, with her brown curls floating out from beneath her big sun-bonnet, her pure white apron, her dark dress which Bessie had made from one of her own, with delicate bits of lace at the wrists, a bright bit of ribbon about her throat and a plain little breast-pin clasping it. Her big black eyes looked longingly at the passers-by, her red lips tried, many times, to utter some words that would help her sell her wares, but she could not speak, she could only up her hand and look her wants.

"What lovely leaves!" cried a young lady, "these of mine seem all faded by the carrying, and I'm tired of the great load anyhow," and she threw away a great lot tied round with her handkerchief, and hastened toward the little merchant.

"What a pretty girl," said the young man with her.

"How much are these?" inquired the lady.

Bessie had not thought of what she would ask for her bunches, and now, between pleasure and fright, she could not think of any price to put upon them.

"Whatever you please, Miss," she faintly murmured.

"How lovely they are," said the lady, and taking three bunches, she gave two to the young man with her, telling him: "Harry, you must carry these, and pay the child," the third one she kept in her own hand.

The gentleman put his hand in his pocket, drew it out, and dropped into Katie's basket a silver dollar.

The tears almost blinded the little girl—tears of joy over her first success—she could hardly see what the coin was, but when she picked it up she managed to stammer that she "had no change."

"Don't want any, little one," said the young man pleasantly, "the sight of you is worth all the money and more." Then the couple hurried away.

But their stopping had attracted many more, and a dozen bought of Katie, and, though few were as generous as her first customers, she soon disposed of most of her stock at ten cents a bunch, having gained courage to fix and state her price. Quite a number gave her more than that sum, and she began to feel a very rich little girl, indeed.

More than half her stock was sold, when an old gentleman and a young lady came along. The lady, as usual, was the first to admire the bright bunches, she took two, the old gentleman giving Katie fifty cents and telling her that "was right." He seemed a cross old man, but still spoke pleasantly.

"What's your name, child?" he asked.

"Katie Wilson, sir," replied the little girl, faintly.

"Um! um! Come along Helen," said he, hastily, and hurried away.

These were the last of the excursion parties, except an elderly lady having in charge a dozen children, all dressed alike; little ones from a soldiers' orphan school, for whom some kind person had provided a day's pleasure. They were tired and worn out with romping, and dragged along slowly; they looked at Katie's bright face and longingly at the pretty leaves in her basket. The girl's heart was touched; timidly she held out a bunch to a little boy who half stopped in front of her, he took it eagerly; in a moment the others were about her. By good fortune, she had enough to give on to each and an extra bunch to the lady.

With the thanks of these poor children in her heart, an empty basket and a happy jingle in her pocket she ran nearly all the way home, burst in on Bessie, put her arms about her neck and sobbed for happiness.

When the elder sister at last succeeded in calming her, she told the whole story of her afternoon's work.

Together they counted the money—three dollars and eighty-five cents—just think of it!

If ever there was a happy, excited little girl, it was Katie that night. She could not sleep or eat. When she had to go to bed, she lay awake long, long hours, thinking how she would buy back the big house, how mother should have doctors and every thing she needed, how Bessie should stop teaching and have a horse and little carriage, and pretty dresses, and a piano, like she used to, and how Robbie should go to school and college and grow up to be a great man and finally be President. She never thought of herself, except that she was to do all this, and when she fell asleep she dreamed the whole thing over again, and that it had turned out just as she planned.

All through the excursion season Katie sold her leaves, and though she never made as much as on the first day, yet when people stopped coming she had over one hundred dollars in Bessie's hands, all made by herself, all made by being up early and attending to her household duties and working hard so as to have her bunches ready by the time that visitors were returning to the train.

She was brave, and true, and unselfish, and her reward was great.

It was one chill November evening, toward Thanksgiving day, that she and Robbie had wandered out among the mountain paths; the little fellow was wild as a colt and ran here and there until it was all Katie could do to keep track of him. Finally she caught him; both were tired out, and when she looked around, to her great terror, she could not make out just where they were. They wandered along and at last came to a road, but she did not know which way to go. Robbie was cross and sleepy; she could not carry the heavy boy, and he would lay down; at last she let him rest. He dropped by a fallen log and in a moment was asleep. She covered him with a little cloth cape she wore, and sat down beside him; her eyes were heavy, she nodded, and very soon was as sound as he.

Along the road came a thin, old, but active man; he stepped out firmly and aided his steps with a stout cane. It was after dusk of the evening. He spied something in the gloom, on the other side of the road, something unusual; he crossed over; it was a little girl leaning against a big, fallen tree and a small boy stretched on the ground beside it; both were fast asleep. He touched the girl's shoulder; she sprang up. "Oh!" she gasped, "don't hurt Robbie! We weren't doing any harm, indeed we weren't."

"What are you doing here any how?" he inquired.

"It was Robbie, no, it was me, he was so sleepy and so was I, and we were just resting until we could start and try to find home again."

"Um! so you're lost, are you?"

"No, sir, I guess not only—only we don't know the way."

"Well, I should say that's pretty near being lost. Where do you live? What's your name?"

"We live in the old Mill cottage, and my name's Katie Wilson, and Robbie's is Robert T. Wilson."

"Um! um! Yes; well, I know where you live; come along, I'll put you right. Come! wake up here, young man!" and he gently poked Robbie with his cane. But Robbie was sleepy and cross, and cried and kicked, and it was all Katie could do to get him on his feet and moving. Then as they went slowly on, she holding her brother's hand, her own in that of the stranger, he asked her: "Weren't you frightened to be out all alone?"

"Why, no, sir," she answered. "I was frightened for mother and Bessie being worried, but not for us; I just said my prayers and covered Robbie, and then I fell asleep and didn't know any thing until you woke me up."

"Um! said your prayers, did you!" and the old man stopped and looked at her.

"See here, Katie!" he said, in a very gentle voice, "say your prayers for me, I'd like to hear them."

The child looked at him in astonishment and trouble. Could it be that the gentleman could not say his prayers for himself, that he did not pray himself! "Oh, sir!" she said, with choking voice and tears in her eyes, "I can't say them to you, only to Bessie or mother: It's just God bless mother, and Bessie and Robbie and me, and take care of us in the night and day, and—and that's all, sir."

"Well, never mind now, little Katie, come along, we must get Robbie home to the mother and Bessie soon, or they'll think the bears have eaten you both," and the old man's voice was still more gentle, and he hurried as fast as the little ones could go. He knew the roads well, and in half an hour they were on a path that the children were well acquainted with, and near home.

There was a cry of joy, and Bessie sprang upon the little ones at a bend in the road and gathered them in her arms, and kissed and scolded and petted them, all at the same time.

The old gentleman hurried away as soon as he saw they were safe; but he did not go far; he stepped back in the dark and heard Katie tell the tale of adventure and take all the blame herself, and excuse Robbie, and talk about the kind gentleman who had found them and brought them home, and wonder where he had gone so quickly before she had time to thank him. He followed them at a distance; he saw them enter their home, and he watched outside until the lamp was lighted in the little sitting-room; then he came near the window and looked in; he watched while the sick, half-blind mother cried over her children; he saw pale, sweet-faced Bessie comforting all; he stood there an hour without noticing the cold and wind that grew about him. He saw brave, hard-working Bessie, and true Katie, and the little boy, and the mother of all, kneel at their chairs, and he thought he could hear the prayers of thanks that came from the hearts of all and the lips of the older sister, and he felt drops upon his cheek, not rain, but tears—tears. It had been many years since his eyes had been wet with tears, but they were there and they softened the heart of "hard old man" Moore, and he turned away at last with a strange resolution in his mind.

Three days after he was in the sitting-room of that cottage; with him was his son Philip, by Philip's side was Bessie, looking ever so much younger and prettier, and so, so happy, and standing by the side of "hard old man" Moore was little Katie, wondering to see such an old man wipe the tears from his eyes, wondering at the way in which he held one arm close around her, and wondering still more why he should keep saying, all the time, "You did it, little Katie, you did it all."

The Wilsons are comfortable and happy now. Bessie is Mrs. Philip Moore; the mother has doctors and luxuries; Robbie is at school and learning fast; Katie, our Katie, is learning fast also, but she is still the same Katie as of old; she did not have to sell bunches of leaves another season; but there are always great bouquets of the beauties in the house, and old Mr. Moore, "hard" no longer, calls her nothing but his little "Autumn leaf."



THE SPINNING LESSON.

MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.

You will not mind, if I sit me down And watch you spin, in your velvet gown? You need not fear, You can trust me here. I think I can learn to spin, if I Could watch you work. Will you let me try?

You spin and weave, but I cannot see Just how 'tis done, and it puzzles me. For you have no loom In your little room. No silken skein, no spinning-wheel, No bobbin and no winding reel.

Please tell me what you use instead? And where do you hide your shining thread, As soft as silk And as white as milk? I think, Mrs. Spider, it must be A secret, or you would answer me.



FOSTER PARENTS.

Strolling down back of the barn, and seeing a fluttering of wings near the ground, Fred and John discovered, upon coming closer, that a poor little bird had fallen from its nest in the bough of a tree that stood near them. The bird was young, too young to fly, and seemed more dead than alive from the fall. The boys took the bird, fondly caressed it, stroked its feathers, and were glad to see that it showed signs of life and that it was only stunned by the fall it had received. The boys were kind-hearted, they were boys full of life, the first-most in a race, in climbing a hill they among the first who stood on its top. Yet in all their sports they were never cruel. So with the bird, they only thought of how to care for it. The tree was too tall to climb with safety, and then they were forbidden to climb this tree because John had once ventured to the first of its branches and by some accident, such as will happen to boys, he lost his hold and tumbled to the ground and he still remembered the days of pain it caused.

Said Fred, "Why can we not take the bird home and care for it?"

So, with this suggestion, they brought it to the house and placed it in a small basket. The basket was one they used to carry their dinners to school in, and, of course, this could not be used to keep it in all the time. John said, "It will be best to make a cage for it. We can, with our knives, soon whittle out sticks for bars and with the saw and some boards make a cage." They labored on this for two days, and then, with Uncle Ben's help, for he could drive nails better than they, the cage was completed. Some cotton was shaped into a nest and the bird was placed in it and the cage was its home.

They fed it on berries and crumbs and it grew rapidly. It soon learned to perch on one of the boy's fingers and pick its food from his hand. When it had eaten enough it would fly to his shoulder and seem quite contented. In due time it became full grown, and though it seemed to know and appreciate the attention given it by the boys, yet it seemed to long for more freedom than the little cage afforded. The boys noticed this, and with sad hearts concluded it would be cruel to keep it confined and so gave it its freedom. For some time it lingered around the house, in branches of the trees, but finally it flew away to the woods.



HAYMAKING.

Many a long hard-working day Life brings us! And many an hour of play; But they never come now together, Playing at work, and working in play, As they came to us children among the hay, In the breath of the warm June weather.

Oft, with our little rakes at play, Making believe at making hay. With grave and steadfast endeavor; Caught by an arm, and out of sight Hurled and hidden, and buried light In laughter and hay forever.

Now pass the hours of work and play With a step more slow, and the summer's day Grows short, and more cold the weather. Calm is our work now, quiet our play, We take them apart as best we may, For they come no more together!

DORA GREENWELL.



WINDOW GARDENING.

Many a home, now dark and cheerless, might be made bright and cheery by a few plants in the window, or bunches of ferns and bright autumn leaves, fastened on the wall, or on the pictures.

Homes cannot be made too bright and home-like for the husband and the children; and these little things cost little or nothing, and add much to the general appearance.

A novel and pretty window ornament can be made in this way: Take a white sponge of large size, and sow it full of rice, oats and wheat. Then place it, for a week or ten days, in a shallow dish, in which a little water is constantly kept, and as the sponge will absorb the moisture, the seeds will begin to sprout before many days. When this has fairly taken place, the sponge may be suspended by means of cords from a hook in the top of the window where a little sun will enter. It will thus become a mass of green, and can be kept wet by merely immersing it in a bowl of water.



"CHEER UP."

BY ANNA ELIZABETH C. KELLY.

"Oh, it is too bad; too bad! that mother should be so troubled for the want of a little money," said Mabel.

"Cheer up! Cheer up!" rang out a voice close at hand, "pretty Poll; cheer up!" and a bright green parrot with a yellow breast began to beat against the bars of his cage as if he would like to get out.

"That is a good omen, Polly," said Mabel, as she rose and opened the door of the cage, "but it is not Poll who ought to 'cheer up' but I, you pretty bird." Poll hopped out and perched upon her finger and looked so knowingly at her, that it almost broke down the resolution she had formed. Mabel was accustomed to take Poll out and talk to her, and brother Ben, who was an amateur photographer, had taken a picture of the pretty pair, so Polly was already immortalized.

"Poor Ben! Poor Ben!" said Polly. "'On Linden when the sun was low'—ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! Poor Ben! Poor Ben!" laughed and shouted Polly.

"Poor Ben, indeed!" said Mabel, "though the Ben you first heard about was another Ben, and used to break down with his recitation and be laughed at. I wonder where he is now, and whether he is dead, my brave soldier uncle! If he were alive, and should come back, what would he think to find another Polly just like the one he left behind, who had learned some of the things his Polly used to say. Mamma says your predecessor died of old age, Polly; I wonder if that will be your destiny. I shall never know; for I am going to sell you to the lady up at the hotel, who saw you hanging outside, and wanted you for her little girl. She said she would give me five dollars, and when I refused she offered me ten. I could not let you go, Polly, but now I must. I must say 'good-bye' to you now, Polly, for I shall never take you out of the cage again."

"Cheer up! cheer up!" sang Polly, as Mabel put her back, and closing the cage, left the room.

The boys were leaving the sitting-room when she went down stairs, and as Ben passed her, she said, "Do not go to bed till I come up again. I want to speak to you. Wait in my room."

Mrs. Ross was getting ready to go up to her room when Mabel entered.

"Are you going up, mamma?" said she, "I will not keep you long; but I want to tell you, that I think I know a way for you to get some money. I wish to keep it a secret for the present; but I think I can safely promise you some. The last thing before I came down, Polly called, 'cheer up, cheer up,' and it is a good omen; so I say the same to you, mamma."

"You are a good girl, Mabel, but I am afraid you are too sanguine. How can you hope to succeed where I have failed?"

"You will believe me when you see the money, shall you not, mamma?"

"There would not be much merit in that, dear, but I will trust you, and whatever happens I will believe you did what you thought was right, and that God does every thing for the best."

"Thank you, mamma. Good night, and pleasant dreams."

"Good night, dear."

Mabel went softly up stairs. "Ben," said she, when she reached her room, but Ben had fallen asleep, and she had to shake him up.

"What kept you?" said Ben, in a sleepy tone.

"Why, I was not long, Ben. Do you now the name of that little girl who took such a fancy to Polly?"

"Yes," said Ben. "It is Eva Granby. What do you want to know for?"

"I shall tell you sometime, you are too sleepy to talk to-night, so I shall let you go. Good night, Ben."

"Good night," said Ben, not sorry to be dismissed.

Mabel lay awake some time. She was sorry to part with her parrot, but after all it was only a bird. Mamma and Ben and Walt and dear little Joe should not suffer that she might keep it.

She could hear the music, from the great hotel on the hill, borne on the breeze, and that, with the happy frame of mind produced by the approval of her conscience, soon had the effect of sending her into a sound sleep, from which she awoke in the morning, refreshed and quite happy. She went about her accustomed duties with a light heart and singing like a lark. Mrs. Ross wondered, to hear her; what could be the source of her high spirits.

She was on the alert for a chance to put her plan into execution, and when she found her mother occupied over the details of the breakfast table, she went up to her room, and covering the parrot's cage and herself with a light water-proof cloak, which the chill of of the May morning seemed to warrant; she went out of the house and through the back gate, and took the road to the hotel.

Mrs. Granby had just risen, and was delighted that Mabel had come to terms after all, as her little daughter had been longing for the parrot continually. Mabel told her story and Mrs. Granby was deeply affected. She promptly agreed to Mabel's condition, to sell her the bird back again, if she could get together ten dollars of her own to redeem it, and gave Mabel her address in New York.

Mabel was at home again just as the boys were getting their breakfast, and wondering what had become of her. She said she had been taking a walk for her health and refused to gratify them further.

Soon they were through and went out, and when she saw little Joe in the swing, and Ben and Walt sitting on the bench of Walt's making, under the apple-tree, and knew by their gestures they were discussing Perry's colt—she drew from her pocket the crisp, bright, ten-dollar bill, and laid it beside her mother's plate. Her mother's fervent "Thank God," amply rewarded her for the loss of the parrot.

"But, Mabel," began Mrs. Ross—

"Now, mamma," interrupted Mabel, "you know you promised to trust me. You will soon know all about it."

Mabel went to school that day with a happy heart.

That evening a portly, middle-aged gentleman stood at the gate, and as she looked up, he said:

"Can you tell me if this is Mrs. Ross's?"

"Yes, sir," said Mabel, wondering who he could be. As she turned and faced him, he caught his breath quickly, and exclaimed:

"Alice!"

Mabel's heart gave a great bound.

"That is mamma's name, mine is Mabel."

"Lead me to her," he said, hoarsely.

Mabel quickly ran before him into the house exclaiming:

"Oh, mamma! I think it is Uncle Ben."

Mrs. Ross would have fallen had she not been caught by the strong arms of the stalwart brother whom she had not seen for twenty years. And then it all came out. Mabel's secret was a secret no longer.

Captain Ben Grayson, old soldier, and retired ranch owner, had come back after twenty years of life in the west to hunt for his sister, his only known relative, whom he had last seen when she was a girl like Mabel. He had been told a Miss Grayson had died from the ravages of an epidemic that swept through the school she had been placed at; and so, when the war ended, he went out west instead of returning to New York as he should have done but for that false report. But he had lately heard, from an old school-friend, he had come across, that she was living, had married, and become a widow, and that was all the information he could get.

By the simplest chance he had stopped at Fairmount. Shortly after rising that morning, he was startled by a parrot hung outside the window of the room next to his, calling out,—"Cheer up! cheer up!" and shortly after,—"'On Linden when the sun was low,' ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! Poor Ben!"

"Well," said Uncle Ben, "you can imagine the effect. I knew my parrot could not be living yet; but I thought to myself, that parrot must have learned from my old one or from you, Alice, and I hastened to make the acquaintance of my next-door neighbor, and so I have found you."

And Mabel bought her parrot back again, which was now doubly dear, as it had been the means of finding Uncle Ben. And quiet brother Ben was made happy by an artist's outfit, and had the satisfaction of doing Mabel and the parrot in colors, as he had long ago done them with the camera.

When the last gift had been given, the boys, with one accord, threw up their hats and cried,—"Hurrah, for Uncle Ben!"

As for Mrs. Ross, her measure of happiness was full; she had her long lost brother Ben.



WAIF'S ROMANCE.

Several years ago the beautiful Shenandoah valley in West Virginia was the scene of a great freshet. The river overflowed its banks, and the usually placid stream became a mighty torrent, rushing along with frightful velocity, carrying away houses, barns and cattle. Buildings were washed from their foundations by the resistless current, and sent whirling down the stream with the terrified occupants clinging to the roofs. They had not had timely warning, and many perished, while whole flocks of sheep, and hundreds of cows, horses and oxen were drowned. The writer visited the valley several years afterward, and could see articles of clothing and even furniture still lodged in the branches of trees, they had been caught and lodged by the receding waters, twenty feet from the ground.

During this visit a most interesting story was told of a poor little kitten who lost home and friends, and was carried by the surging flood far away to find a new home and a genuine lover. It is a true romance of the flood, and it has never been told in print so far. For all gentle lovers of animals, this beautiful romance of Woggy and Waif is given to the world.

In this beautiful valley there lived a lovely family, consisting of father, mother and two children. Edwin was a tall and manly lad of sixteen, and Florence was one year younger. They were children of refined and cultivated parents, and the members of this little home circle displayed such charming affection and thoughtfulness in their intercourse with each other, that it was beautiful to behold. Edwin was passionately fond of out-of-door sports, and Florence had deep love for all that was beautiful and interesting in nature. She loved animals, birds and flowers, and it was her delight to ramble with her brother through the woods, gathering the modest wild flowers, or the delicate maiden hair ferns. She took great delight in pets of all kinds, and had numerous rabbits, birds and squirrels that her brother had trapped; she made them all love her; even the tiniest bird or animal can appreciate tenderness and kindness; and Florence's pure little heart was overflowing with love and kindness toward all God's dumb creatures.

The constant companion of the brother and sister in their rambles was a very frolicsome and handsome dog, which was so remarkable for sagacity and intelligence, that he was known through all the countryside; he was devoted to his young mistress, and, though he was not a very large animal; he had enough of the Shepherd's breed in him to make him very fierce and courageous in her defense whenever she seemed to need it.

At the time of the great freshet, a homeless family, whose house had been swept away by the flood, had been harbored at Florence's home. Her time and mind was fully occupied by her additional home duties, which to her gentle nature, were labors of love, even if the overflowed valley had prevented her accustomed excursions; but not so with Woggy, he had no duties to keep him, and no wet ground or body of water could keep him from taking his usual runs about the country. For several days after the great flood, he was noticed to leave the house regularly in the morning and not return until evening. This was something unusual; generally his runs were finished in one or two hours; but when he was observed one day to take in his mouth the best part of his breakfast and trot off with it, Edwin's curiosity was excited, and he resolved to unravel the mystery of Woggy's regular absences; he followed his tracks over the wet ground for nearly two miles, until he came to a good sized pond left by the receding waters in a hollow near the river. The first thing that attracted his attention was a partially submerged fir tree near the center of the ford, and lodged against it was a chicken coop. Were there chickens in it, do you ask? No; if there had been when the angry waves picked it up there were none now, but instead, the sweetest little kitten you ever saw; and crouched down on the trunk of the tree, with his aristocratic paws resting on the end of the coop, was the mysterious Woggy, gravely contemplating the kitten, as it minced at the food the generous dog had brought it. How proud Edwin felt of Woggy as he looked and understood the scene. How Woggy, in his solitary rambles, must have discovered the forlorn kitten, who had been suddenly torn from her home, far up the valley perhaps, and borne, half drowned and thoroughly frightened, on the rushing torrent, until her box, in which the rising waters had found her taking her afternoon nap, had lodged against the tree. Edwin wanted to rescue her, and take her home. This was his first impulse, but how? The pond was wide and deep, and he had no boat, nor any other means of reaching her; so he decided to wait until the water got lower, until he could devise some plan. He returned home in great amazement, and told the story of Woggy's wonderful doings. Florence was all excitement and sympathy in a moment, and wanted to go at once but could not. But what a delicious hugging and petting Woggy got when he returned home that night. When Edwin found them, the kitten was snuggled up as close to her brute protector as the slats would allow; she would put her tongue through and lick his paws, which process seemed to give him the liveliest satisfaction. Edwin whistled to him to come home with him, but he only wagged his bushy tail and looked at his frail charge as much as to say, "I can't go just now." Just think of the idea of protection entering the head of a dog! but it did. Some animals seem almost to reason. We all know a perfect horror of water all cats have, they will not go into water voluntarily. This poor little thing, surrounded by water, must have died of starvation had not kind-hearted Woggy found and cared for her.

The next day, Edwin, provided with a long board and other means of rescuing the distressed stranger, started for the pond. Just as he left the house, with Florence calling out from the porch some parting injunctions of carefulness, what was their astonishment to see Woggy coming along the road with the kitten in his mouth; the sagacious dog had evidently thought that his keepless little charge needed more care than he could give her, and brought her unharmed to his mistress. When he had deposited the kitten at her feet, he looked up in her eyes as though he wanted to tell her something, and he really looked as if he could almost talk. When Florence took up the pretty thing she exclaimed, "You poor little waif! Where did you come from?" The little waif could not tell, but looked as if she wanted to. She was pure white in color, with a water-stained ribbon and tiny silver bell around her neck. Edwin said she should be called Waif, and Waif she was ever after called in that house.



"MAY I GO WITH YOU?"

"May I go with you, Auntie?"

"No, Jo, I do not wish for any company this morning; here's a kiss, and you may feed my poodle if you like." So saying, Aunt Millie, who was spending her vacation at the farm, tied on her garden hat, and sallied forth for a walk, leaving behind her a very disappointed little swain, for Jo generally accompanied her in her rambles, and he and Aunt Millie were sworn allies. Lately she had run off several times without him, and he certainly felt quite disconsolate to-day. But he could not doubt her love and goodness, so he whistled away his blues.



Jo was only five years old, and it is no wonder he soon forgot his grievances. About lunch-time he thought he would go down in the meadow, to see if the first strawberries were ripening, as he intended them for mamma's birthday.

Threading his way carefully through the tall grass and nodding daisies, he suddenly came upon the queerest looking "machine"—as he called it—in front of which sat Auntie.

"Why, Jo!"

"Aunt Millie, what are you doing?" as he caught sight of a photograph of himself, and a large copy on the easel.

"I am crayoning—and" (this last a trifle averse) "I had intended it as a surprise for mamma, to-morrow."

The big blue eyes raised to hers had a suspicion of tears in them—she bent down quickly and gathered the little fellow in her arms.

"Never mind, pet! I was a bit vexed, that you had discovered my secret."

"Is it a secret?" in an awed tone; "well, I'll keep it."

"Do you think you really can, Jo?"

"Yes," he said; "and you can keep my strawberries," forgetting he had told her a dozen times before.

"Well, I'll trust you."

Would you believe it, the child did keep his word, although burning many times to tell; and he succeeded in surprising Aunt Millie, as much as he did mamma.



A SUMMER AT WILLOW-SPRING.

The trunks were strapped on the back of the carriage; we children, with Nurse, were bundled inside; the door shut—the driver snapped his whip—and without any time for last good-byes, we were whirled away to the station. How excited and glad we were, for Papa and Mamma were to follow us next day, and we left the city far behind to spend the whole beautiful summer at Willow-spring. The very first day after our arrival, we were out—Willie, my brother, Elsie, our little four-year-old sister, and myself—scouring the premises, and I guess there were not a nook or corner we had not visited by night. It was a lovely place, with broad shady walks through which we raced, or Willie drove us as two spirited young colts, for like most boys he was rather masterful.

I wish I could tell you of the grand time we had that summer. We formed the acquaintance of several little neighbor children, who proved pleasant playmates, and together we would wander through the cool leafy woods, or roam the sunny meadows gathering sweet wild strawberries and armsful of golden-eyed daisies, and taking our treasures home, would have a little treat on the shady veranda, and garland ourselves with long daisy chains, making believe we were woodland fairies. Once in a while the rabbits from the near wood ran across the garden path, timid and shy little creatures at first—they grew quite tame from our feeding—and Elsie dearly loved her bunnies, as she called them.

Rapidly the days flew by, and the time for our departure was at hand. We felt sorry to leave, but Mamma, to console us in part, planned a little out-door feast for the day before our going, to which our little friends were all invited, and a happy, merry band of children played out under the trees, and ate the goodies so generously provided. Just before breaking up, we all joined in playing our favorite game of "snap the whip," and with screams and laughter, one after another of the weakest ones rolled over in the soft grass. The last night at Willow-spring wound up with a grand frolic, in which all took part.



GREAT EXPECTATIONS.

Every little grape, dear, that clings unto the vine, Expects some day to ripen its little drops of wine. Every little girl, I think, expects in time to be Exactly like her own mamma—as sweet and good as she. Every little boy who has a pocket of his own, Expects to be the biggest man the world has ever known. Every little lambkin, too, that frisks upon the green, Expects to be the finest sheep that ever yet was seen. Every little baby colt expects to be a horse; Every little puppy hopes to be a dog, of course. Every little kitten pet, so tender and so nice, Expects to be a grown-up cat and live on rats and mice. Every little fluffy chick, in downy yellow dressed, Expects some day to crow and strut or cackle at his best. Every little baby bird that peeps from out its nest, Expects some day to cross the sky from glowing east to west. Now every hope I've mentioned here will bring its sure event, Provided nothing happens, dear, to hinder or prevent.



"WHERE'S SOPHIE?"

Sophie climbed the garden trellis, Plucked the finest grapes in view; How they shone with red and amber, As the sun came glinting through.

She was taking painting lessons, And she paused and gazed at them; "Oh," she said, "a pretty picture, Grapes and green leaves on a stem.

"I will leave them here, unbroken, Close beside the garden walk; Look!" she said, to Cousin Mary, "Just anear this broken stalk."

Off they went through pleasant pathways; Staying longer than they knew, By a russet, leaf-strewn border, With its asters, pink and blue.

Then their friendly gossip over, Homeward as they turned to go; "Oh, the grapes!" said Sophie, quickly, "We must go for those, you know."

When they reached the precious cluster, Five bold sparrows pertly stood, Pecking at the grapes beside them, Chattering in a wanton mood.

"Look! Oh, look!" said cousin Mary, "Sparrows at your luscious store!" "Shoo!" said Sophie, "was there ever Such a piece of work before?"

Pilfering sparrows, you have taught me, By this loss, a lesson true; When a bunch of grapes I gather, Just to keep them safe from you.



"IF I CAN, I WILL."

I knew a boy who was preparing to enter the junior class of the New York University. He was studying trigonometry, and I gave him three examples for his next lesson. The following day he came into my room to demonstrate his problems. Two of them he understood; but the third—a very difficult one—he had not performed. I said to him,—"Shall I help you?"

"No, sir! I can and will do it, if you give me time."

I said: "I will give you all the time you wish."

The next day he came into my room to recite another lesson in the same study.

"Well, Simon, have you worked that example?"

"No, sir," he answered; "but I can and will do it, if you will give me a little more time."

"Certainly, you shall have all the time you desire."

I always like those boys who are determined to do their own work, for they make our best scholars, and men too. The third morning you should have seen Simon enter my room. I knew he had it, for his whole face told the story of his success. Yes, he had it, notwithstanding it had cost him many hours of severest mental labor. Not only had he solved the problem, but, what was of infinitely greater importance to him, he had begun to develop mathematical powers which, under the inspiration of "I can and I will," he has continued to cultivate, until to-day he is professor of mathematics in one of our largest colleges, and one of the ablest mathematicians of his years in our country.

My young friends, let your motto ever be,—"If I can, I will."



WINDSOR CASTLE.

This ancient and splendid pile is a fitting residence for the sovereigns of England. It impresses one with the idea of supreme grandeur and formidable strength, but it has reached its present magnificence by constant embellishments and additions by successive sovereigns.

It owes its origin to William the Conqueror, that bold and progressive Norman, who created here a fortified hunting seat, where he and his brave barons could enjoy themselves after the "hunting of the deer" in the wild glades of Windsor forest.

The castle stands upon a hill on the bank of the river Thames, twenty-three miles from London, with which it is connected by railway. It is surrounded on all sides, except to the east, by a noble terrace above two thousand five hundred feet in extent, faced by a strong rampart of hewn stone, and having, at intervals, easy slopes leading down to the park.

The terrace is a most delightful walk, commanding charming views of the extensive domain and the surrounding country. Everywhere are evidences of royal expenditure, of watchful care and tasteful ornamentation.

The park abounds in woodland scenery of exquisite beauty, and it does seem as if the "English sunshine" was nowhere more satisfying or refreshing than in these delightful avenues. The deer roam at will, and streamlets trickle and English violets and other wild flowers blossom, the praises of whose delicate perfumes and beauties have been sung by Wordsworth and Keats.

There is a stately walk, three miles long, bordered by double rows of trees, which leads from the lodge to these delightful precincts, and at the entrance stretch away in gorgeous array, the Queen's gardens, in which very beautiful and rare productions of floral culture find a congenial home.

The castle consists of two courts, having a large, round tower between them, and covers more than twelve acres of land, being defended by batteries and towers. The upper court is a spacious quadrangle, having a round tower on the west, the private apartments of the sovereigns on the south and east, the State apartments and St. George's Hall and the chapel royal on the north.

The royal apartments are reached by an imposing vestibule. The first room, the Queen's guard chamber, contains a grand array of warlike implements, and glittering weapons, and its walls are rich in paintings.

The Queen's presence chamber contains the rarest furniture and hangings, with an array of artistic works by the most celebrated masters.

The ball-room is hung with tapestry, representing the twelve months of the year, and upon its ceiling is pictured Charles II, giving freedom to England. There is here an immense table of solid silver.

In the Queen's bed-chamber is the State bed, said to have cost $70,000, designed for Queen Charlotte. The Queen's dressing-room, hung with British tapestry, contains the closet in which is deposited the banner of France. The same closet contains the tea-equipage of Queen Anne.

An elegant saloon is called the "Room of Beauties," and contains fourteen portraits of ladies who were "most fair" in the court of Charles II. Their lovely faces and rich apparel, quaint and oddly fashioned, make the most delightful and instructive study.

The audience chamber contains the throne and is enriched with historical paintings of events in the reign of Henry III. Another guard chamber contains an immense collection of warlike instruments, fancifully arranged, and also the flag sent by the Duke of Wellington in commemoration of the battle of Waterloo.

St. George's Hall, which is one hundred and eight feet long, is set apart for the illustrious "Order of the Garter." It is superbly decorated with allegorical paintings. The chapel is a fine specimen of the florid Gothic. The roof is elliptical and is composed of stone; the whole ceiling is ornamented with emblazoned arms of many sovereigns and knights of the Garter. The stalls of the sovereigns and knights exhibit a profusion of rare carving. The chapel is the burial place of many royal and illustrious persons; Edward IV, Henry IV, Henry VIII and Charles I having been interred here.



THE LITTLE PRINCES.

Among the sad episodes in the illustrated history of English sovereigns, not one is more pathetic or impressive than the story of the two little Princes, sons of Edward IV. This King had an ambitious and unscrupulous brother, called Richard, Duke of Gloucester.

At the time of the King's death, this man was at the head of an army in Scotland, which was entirely devoted to him, and he felt strong and equal to undertaking any bold and unlawful measure to obtain the crown, which rightfully belonged to Edward's son, the young Prince of Wales.

Upon receiving the news of his brother's death, Richard clothed himself and his large retinue in deep mourning and proceeded in great haste to London, taking the oath of loyalty on the way, and making many protestations of interest and affection for the fatherless boys.

The young Prince of Wales received him with many expressions of regard and respectful consideration, as befitted a paternal uncle, and placed undoubted faith in his suggestions; the Duke thus found it an easy matter to direct his movements, and the selection of his counselors and servants. Two of these, who were favorite and loyal friends, he caused to be seized on a frivolous accusation, and they were taken to a distant castle as prisoners. Other measures were taken to isolate him, and in a few days the young King was completely in the hands of the terrible Duke of Gloucester.