"By the new system?"

"By having wrecks prevented, and saving the property for the owners."

"Isn't that strange! Did you say they were good men?"

"Some of 'em. Honest as the day is long about everything else. But they weren't all so. There was old Peter, and he lives on the Island yet. There's his cabin now. You can just see it in the edge of that great sand-hill."

"What a queer thing it is!"

"Sometimes the storms drift the sand all over it, and old Peter has to dig it out again. He's snowed under two or three times every winter."

They were now coasting along the island, at no great distance, and, although it was not nearly noon, Dab heard Joe Hart say to his brother:

"Never was so hungry in all my life. Glad they did lay in a good stock of provisions."

"So am I," returned Fuz. "Isn't there any such thing as our getting into the cabin!"

No, there was not, so long as Mrs. Kinzer was the "stewardess" of that expedition, and Joe and Fuz were compelled to wait her motions.

(To be continued.)



THE FOX AND THE TURKEYS; OR, CHARLEY AND THE OLD FOLKS.

By Susan Coolidge.

[Illustration: [A cunning fox perceived some turkeys roosting securely on the bough of a high tree. Unable to climb, he resolved to get at them in another way. Night after night he stationed himself beneath the tree, and there played off all sorts of curious tricks. He jumped, he capered, he turned somersaults, he walked on his hind legs, he pretended to be dead, he raised and expanded his tail until, in the moonlight, it looked like a flame of fire,—in short, he performed every antic conceivable. The turkeys, who, to sleep in safety, had only to turn their backs and forget the fox, were so agitated and excited by his pranks that for whole nights they never closed their eyes; the consequence was that they lost strength, and one by one dropped from the bough and into the jaws of Renard, who soon made an end of them.

Moral.—It is unwise to concern one's self with the tricks and antics of mischievous persons.—La Fontaine's Fables.]]

It was midsummer at the old Brush Farm. When I say "midsummer," how many pretty things it means,—woods at their freshest and greenest, meadows sweet with newly cut hay, cinnamon-roses in the hedges and water-lilies in the ponds, bees buzzing in and out of the clove-pinks and larkspurs which edge the beds of cabbages and carrots in the kitchen-garden, a humming-bird at work in the scarlet trumpets of the honeysuckle on the porch,—everywhere the sense of fullness and growth, with no shadow as yet of rankness or decay. August is over-ripe. September's smile is sad, but midsummer is all rosy hope, the crown and blossom of the year.

Charley Brush lay under an apple-tree, face downward, and absorbed in "The Red Rover," a book he had read at least ten times before. Stories about ships and sea-life and freebooters and buccaneers were his favorite reading, and, unfortunately, what with illustrated papers and cheap novels, and so-called "Boys' books," plenty of such tales abound nowadays. I say unfortunately, for beside teaching him nothing, these books made Charley utterly dissatisfied with his life at home. Hoeing vegetables, chopping wood, and going to the district school, seemed dull work indeed to a boy who was longing to stand sword in hand on a blood-stained deck, in a gory uniform trimmed with skulls and cross-bones, and order his enemies to be thrown one by one into the sea. "The shark awaits your car-casses!" spouted the imaginary desperado with a vicious snap of his teeth; and when Aunt Greg interrupted by asking him to bring in an armful of kindling, he glared at her like the Red Rover himself. Poor Aunt Greg! how little she guessed what was passing in his mind!

"You look real pale to-day," she said. "I was afraid all that mince-pie for supper would be bad for you. Here, Charley, I'll mix you some ginger-and-water. That'll settle you, and make all right again."

"Mis-cre-ant!" was what Charley yearned to say, but instead he muttered, gruffly, "I aint sick, and I don't want no ginger." Very bad grammar, as you perceive; but grammar seemed such an unnecessary accomplishment for a would-be buccaneer, that Charley never could be induced to pay the least attention to it.

That afternoon, under the apple-tree, he made up his mind. A pirate he must and he would be, by fair means or by foul. He was cunning enough to know that the very word "pirate" would frighten his grandmother into fits, so he only asked her leave to go to sea. Going to sea was, to his mind, a necessary first step toward the noble profession he desired to enter.

"I want to so bad," he whined. "Please say I may."

Grandmother began to cry. Aunt Hitty was sure he must be out of his mind, and ran for the Epsom salts. Aunt Greg quoted, "There's no place like home," and told a story about a boy she once heard of who ran away to sea and never came back, "foundered or drowndered," she couldn't remember which. Aunt Prue seized his shoulders and gave him a sound shake. This was what came of idling over story-books all day long, she said,—he could just shut up and go and give the pig its supper, and not let her hear any more trash like that—making them all feel so bad about nothing.

Charley twisted his shoulder out of her grasp with a scowl, but he took the pail and went out to the pen. All the time that piggy ate, he was considering what to do. "I'll tease 'em," he decided, "and tease and tease, and then they'll let me go."

So he did tease, and plead and expostulate, but it was all in vain. Grandmother and the aunts could not be reached by any of his entreaties, and at the end of a week he seemed as far from his desire as ever.

You will wonder, perhaps, that Charley did not run away, as so many boys do in books, and a few out of them. Somehow he never thought of that. He was not a hardy, adventurous fellow at all. His desire to go to sea was a fancy born of foolish reading, and he wanted to have his going made easy for him.

"I must set to work in another way," he thought at last. "Asking of 'em aint no use. I must make 'em want to have me go." Then he fell to thinking how this could be done.

"Aunt Hitty wouldn't hold out long if the others didn't," he thought. "I could coax her into it as easy as fun. She'll do anything if I kiss and pet her a bit. Then there's Aunt Greg,—she thinks so much of poetry and such stuff. I'll hunt up the pieces in the 'Reader' about 'The sea, the sea, the deep blue sea,' and all that, and learn 'em and say 'em to her, and I'll tell her about coral groves and palm-trees, and make her think it's the jimmiest thing going to sail off and visit 'em. Grandmother's always bothering about my being sick, and afraid of this and afraid of that; so I'll just be sick—so sick that nothing but a viyage'll cure me! As for Aunt Prue, 'taint no use trying to impose on her. I guess I'll have to be real hateful and troublesome to Aunt Prue. I'll tease pussy and slop on the pantry shelves, and track up the floor every time she mops it, and leave the dipper in the sink, and all the other things she don't like, and by and by she'll be just glad to see the last of me! Hi!—that'll fetch 'em all!" He ended his reflections with a chuckle. Charley wasn't really a bad boy,—not bad through and through, that is,—but he had a cunning, tricky side to his nature which made him like to play on the weaknesses of his grandmother and aunts. A sharp boy may prove more than a match for four unsuspecting old women; and though in this case they were in the right and he in the wrong, none the less was he likely to succeed in his crafty plans.

He waited a few days to let opposition subside, and then began his tricks. Charley's first victim was Aunt Hitty. She was a gentle, weak-minded person, easy to persuade, and when Charley put his head into her lap and called her coaxing names, and was sure she was too kind to disappoint him in the thing he was set upon, her heart softened, and she began to think that they all had been hard and unkind. "The dear boy wants to go awful bad," she told Aunt Greg, and to her surprise Aunt Greg did not fly out and scold as she had expected, but answered, with a sigh, "I suppose sailing on the ocean is beautiful!" Aunt Greg had never seen the ocean in her life, but she was naturally romantic; and Charley, who had been hard at work at the "Reader," had crammed her with all sorts of poetical quotations and fancies concerning it. Flying fish, coral islands, pole stars, dolphins, gallant mariners, wet sheets and flowing seas, figured largely in these extracts, but there was no mention whatever of storms, sharks, drowning, hard work, or anything disagreeable. Aunt Greg could not see the charm of "wet sheets," but all the rest sounded delightful; and gradually a picture formed itself in her mind of a sea which was always blue and always smooth, and of Charley standing on the deck of a ship repeating poetry to himself in the moonlight; and her opposition grew feebler and feebler.

"Charley's got a lot of ideas in his head," she said one day when she and her sisters were slicing apples for drying. "He aint no common boy, Charley aint. He'll make a mark yet—see if he don't."

"Dear little fellow!" sighed Aunt Hitty. "So lovin' and affectionate! He used to be a little worrisome in his ways at times, but he's got all over that!"

"Oh, has he?" snapped Aunt Prue. "I'd like to know when? He's been more of a plague the last six weeks than ever in his life before. When he upset that milk last night I could have cuffed him. It's the third time since Wednesday. Mark, indeed! The only mark he'll ever make is a dirt-mark on clean floors. The kitchen looks like Sancho at this moment. I've washed it up twice as often as ordinary, but as sure as I get it clean, in he comes stamping about with his muddy boots and tracks it from end to end. I believe he does it a-purpose."

"O, Prue!" began Aunt Hitty, in a pleading tone, while Aunt Greg broke in, indignantly:

"A-purpose! Well! Charley's mind is on other things, I can tell you, and it it's no wonder he sometimes forgets to wipe his feet."

"Other things! Getting off to sea, I suppose you mean?" remarked Aunt Prue, grimly. "He's pulled the wool over your eyes and Hitty's finely, I declare. As for me, if he's goin' on to behave as he has done for a spell back, the sooner he quits the better. I wash my hands of him," and Aunt Prue flounced into the buttery just as Grandmother came in at the other door.

"Charley is it you was talking about?" she asked. "Did you hear him coughin' last night? I did, and I couldn't sleep a wink for worrying about it. A real deep cough it was. Do you suppose it the lungs, and what's good for him to take?"

"He's well enough except for mischief," put in Aunt Prue through the buttery door.

"Prue never thinks anything ails anybody," said Mrs. Brush, sinking her voice to a whisper. "I'm really consarned about Charley. He don't eat hardly anything at dinner. That aint a bit natural for a growin' boy. And he says he lies awake a great deal of nights. He thinks it's the air about here makes him feel bad, but I don't know if he's right about it. I wish we'd a doctor here to say if going off to sea—or somewhere—would be the best thing for him. I'm clean confused as to what we'd best do about it, but I'm real uneasy in my mind."

Charley, coming in just then, chuckled to himself as he heard her.

So things went on, and by October Charley had his wish. It was settled that he should go to sea. Aunt Greg drove over to Wachuset Center and consulted with old Mr. Greg, her father-in-law, who was the wise man of the neighborhood.

"Let him go—let him go," was Mr. Greg's advice. "When a chap like that gets the bit between his teeth, it's no use to keep yanking at the reins. Let him go for one long cruise, and see how he likes it. Ten to one he'll come back then and be glad to settle down. He aint the kind of boy to make a sailor of, I judge. There's Ben Bradley,—my first wife's cousin,—captain of one of them China traders; ship Charley with him. I'll write a line, and I guess Ben'll kind of keep an eye on him for the sake of the connection."

So, late in the fall, Charley went to sea. Grandmother and the aunts felt dreadfully sad when it came to the parting; but he was full of satisfaction and triumph, and never shed a tear. The "Helen Weeks," as Captain Bradley's ship was named, sailed from Boston on the second of November, and for fifteen months nobody at home heard a word of Charley.

Those were sad days at the old Brush Farm. Grandmother fell ill from anxiety, and even Aunt Prue looked white and miserable. Aunt Greg and Aunt Hitty spent their time crying in corners, and "Why did we let him go?" was the language of all their hearts. But in February, when everything was at its coldest and iciest, Charley came back,—Charley or his ghost, for the tall, thin, starved-looking ragged boy set down at the gate was very unlike the stout, rosy lad of the year before.

He was so weak and forlorn that it was several days before he recovered enough to explain what had happened to him, and then it was little by little, and not as I give it, in one connected story.

"I don't ever want to go to sea again," he began. "It aint a bit like what we thought it was. I don't know why them chaps in the 'Reader' called it 'blue.' It's green and black and yellow, and all kinds of colors, but I never see it look blue exceptin' when folks was looking at it from the land. It's cold, too, and wet and nasty. I wasn't dry once for the first two months, it seems to me. Ugh! I hate it. Never let to sleep till you're rested, and such horrid stuff to eat, and sick—my, how sick I was! Captain Bradley was a fair enough sort of man, but he fell ill of China fever, and we had to leave him behind in Canton, and Bill Bunce, the first mate, took his place. After that we had a hard time enough. I thought it was bad at first, but it wasn't nothing to that. He was always walloping us boys, and swearing and kicking and cuffing us about. Then we had a storm, and lost our mainmast, and came near foundering; and then we were stuck in a calm for three weeks, and the water aboard ran short. That was the time I had the fever. I'd have died, I know, if it hadn't been for Tad Brice. He was one of the sailors, and a real nice man. His boy at home was just as old as I am, and he sort of took an interest in me from the start. He used to come in and feed me, and when we were put on allowance, he saved half his water ration for me; and when I got to crying, and thinking about home and you all, he'd—" Here Charley choked and was silent. Aunt Hitty, who sat next, possessed herself of his thin hand and wept silently over it.

"When I went away I meant to be a pirate, you know," went on Charley.

"A pirate!" cried Aunt Hitty and Aunt Greg in awe-struck voices.

"Yes. I didn't know much about what it meant, but it sounded somehow nice in the books, and I wanted to be one. But when I asked 'em about it aboard they roared and hooted and made fun, and they all called me Captain Kidd from that time on. And once, when we were in Shanghai" (Charley's voice sounded full of horror), "we saw two pirates. Tad Brice said they was pirates. The folks was taking 'em to jail. They was dreadful, black and ugly, and their eyes were so fierce and bad that it made me cold to look at 'em. I never wanted to be a pirate any more after that, but Bunce and the others, they all kept on calling me Captain Kidd just the same."

"You absurd, ridiculous boy!" began Aunt Prue, but Grandmother hushed her up.

"Now, Prue, I wont have poor Charley scolded when he's been so sick," she said—"He's only a boy, anyhow, and he's going to turn over a new leaf now; aint you, Charley? and go to school regular, and do his chores, and be the comfort of his granny's life. He's had enough of goin' to sea; haven't you, Charley? and he'll stay on the farm now, and we wont ever talk about this bad time he's had, and just be thankful to get him back home again."

Charley didn't answer in words, but he turned and gave Grandmother a big kiss, which she knew meant "yes," and they were all very happy that night as they sat together around the fire.

So you see that the fox, though he succeeded in his tricks, was not a particularly happy fox after all. Too much turkey may not be good for a fox, and too much of his own way is certainly not good for a boy.



HIDDY-DIDDY!

Hiddy-Diddy! Hiddy-diddy!— Ten small chicks and one old biddy! "Cluck!" says Biddy, "cluck, cluck, cluck!" "Scratch as I do!—try your luck!"



How the chickens, one and all, Crowd around her at her call! One chick, missing, peeps to say: "Chirp, chirp, chirp!—I've lost my way!"

Shrill and shriller, comes the sound! "Chirp! chirp! chirp!—I shall be drowned!" Biddy clucks, and bustles quick,— "Where, oh, where's my little chick?"

Mister Rooster bustles, too, Screaming "Cock-a-doodle-doo! Biddy, I just chanced to look, And saw your bantling in the brook!"

"Gob!" shrieks Turkey, "gob, gob, gobble! Mrs. Hen, you're in a hobble! Why don't some one stir about, And help your little chicken out?"

"Moo!" roars Sukey, "moo, moo, moo! What is there that I can do?" "Uff!" grunts Piggy, "uff, uff, uff! Say you're sorry, that's enough."

"Quack!" says Ducky, "quack, quack, quack! I have brought your chicken back!" "Oh!" says Biddy, "cluck, cluck, cluck! Thank you!—thank you! Mrs. Duck!"



THE SQUIRRELS AND THE CHESTNUT-BURR.



Four squirrels once saw a chestnut-burr growing on a tree. They wanted the chestnuts in the burr, but were afraid to touch it, because it was full of sharp points. Just then, along came a flying-squirrel. "I will tell you what you must do," said he: "wait until the burr opens, and the chestnuts fall out. The burr always opens when the right time comes." So they waited, and got the chestnuts.

It is a good rule to wait until things are ready for us.



JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

Vacation's over! School's begun! A splendid holiday time you've had, no doubt, my dears, and now you feel like setting to work again with earnest good-will. That's right. But don't try to do to much at first. Better start easily and keep up the pace, than make a quick run for a while only to falter and grow weary before you are half-way.

MOQUI PEEKEE.

Word is sent to me of a queer kind of bread called "Peekee," which is used by the Moqui American Indians. It comes in square loaves that are made by folding, twice across, several sheets of what looks like very thin bluish-green crust.

First, the meal is made by women, who grind it into flour between two stones, and then it is mixed with water until it is a thin blue paste or batter, when a little cedar-ash is sprinkled into it. The oven is a smooth-faced stone heated by kindling a fire under it. The batter is smeared over the hot stone, and is soon baked into a thin sheet, about two feet long and a foot and a half wide. Several sheets are folded, while yet warm and soft, to make a loaf, which is then set aside to dry.

This curious bread is very brittle and is eaten by breaking off little bits with the fingers. People who have never eaten it before soon become quite fond of it.

POTATO BLOSSOMS AS ORNAMENTS.

"Potato plants used to be grown, a very long time ago, in front yards on Broadway, New York, for the sake of the flowers, which were much prized for bouquets and other ornamental purposes. However, the potatoes themselves,"—I suppose this means the tubers,—"became such favorite food in a few years, that the plants were promoted backward from the flower-beds to the kitchen-gardens and open fields. The beauty of the blossoms was forgotten in the usefulness of their roots."

The moral of this paragram is: If you are merely good-looking, you will not be apt to get on in life, but will stay about where you are; and if it should be found out that you can be put to use, you will be planted in the open fields.

This doesn't seem to read quite right, somehow; but, dear me, what do we want with a moral all the time? I leave you to find out what it ought to be in this case, if you think it's worth while. Only, if you do find out, I wish you would let me know.

SHARP-WITTED ROBINS.

Detroit, Michigan.

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: Z.R.B's anecdote, "A Congress of Birds," in the July number, reminds me of an incident of which I was an eye-witness:

A cherry-tree grew near the house, and was yearly full of luscious cherries; but the robins scarcely allowed us to have one that did not have their monogram picked in it. One year, however, my brother determined to outwit the birds, and hung a large stuffed eagle from one of the boughs. The birds assembled on a neighboring tree and eyed the eagle sharply, while a grand consultation was held. Finally, a courageous robin darted from the tree, swooped directly under the eagle, and flew triumphantly back to tell the rest there was nothing to be feared. At once the whole flock of robins flew to the cherry-tree, and our hopes of a cherry-pie were doomed to disappointment for that year.

H.P.B.

A VERY DEAD LANGUAGE.

I once heard of a green-colored South American parrot who was more than one hundred years old. This aged fellow could speak in a real language which was known to have been used by a tribe of South American Indians who, it is supposed, petted and taught him when he was young. One by one the Indians died, until there was no one left who could understand a word of their language. The poor old bird tried hard to keep cheerful, but there were sorry times when he would mope by himself and say over some of the words of the language that had been spoken by his earliest and dearest human friends.

That was a very dead language, indeed, my dears; so dead that it is no wonder it made the old green parrot blue to speak it now and then. However, by this time it is past all power to worry anybody else, let us hope.

A PLANT THAT WALKS UPSIDE DOWN.

Shrubs, trees, Jack-in-the-Pulpits, and all such plants, grow with their roots down in the ground; but I've lately heard that a man called a philosopher, once wrote of a plant that grows and walks with the roots upward!

Lord Francis Bacon is the man's name, and the plant he meant is Man. Only he wrote in Latin, I believe, and so, instead of calling Man "a plant upside down," he called him "planta inversa." He explained these words by saying that the brain in man, whence the nerves start, to spread like a net-work all through the body, corresponds to the roots in a plant.

If this is so, my dears, you are a kind of walking plants, only you are obliged to walk top-side down. This seems curious, but it is pleasant to think you are not so very different from a Jack-in-the-Pulpit after all.

THE SMALLEST INSECT KNOWN.

The Red Schoolhouse.

MY DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: No doubt, you have heard of the "leaf-cutter" bees, who line their nests with small round pieces of leaves, which they themselves cut and then fit together so exactly, without gum, that they hold their stores of honey and do not leak a bit. Well, a sharp-eyed observer has found, on one of these bees, an insect whose body is no longer than the width of the dot of this "i" (1-90th of an inch), and which is believed to be the smallest insect known. It is called Pteratomus, a word which means "winged atom," and it lives entirely upon the body of the bee. It has beautiful hairy wings, and long feelers, and its legs are rather like those of a mosquito, though, of course, very much smaller. Its feet are so small that they can only just be seen when magnified to four hundred times their natural size! Now, for a full-grown insect, as it is, I think the Pteratomus is very small.—Sincerely yours,

THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA'AM.



A WATER-SPOUT.

Did any of you ever hear of water-spouts at sea? I don't know much about them myself, but the St. Nicholas artist will draw a picture of one for you, and the editors will kindly put it in. According to travelers, the water seems to come down from the clouds, or go up from the sea,—I don't know which,—and drives along, through the storm, in a great watery column. I have heard of whirlwinds, and I think this might be called a "whirl-water."

THE USES OF HAIR ON PLANTS.

M.E.K. writes, in answer to my question in July, that her "Botany" book says, "Hair on plants seems to afford them security against changes of weather, and plants with hair can stand more heat than bare ones." A.W. Ferris says:

"If a plant that needs much moisture is dug up from its native wet home and planted in a dry spot, hairs will sprout on it and try to get from the air the moisture that can no longer be drawn from the earth. But if you put back this plant in its old home, it will lose its hair—becoming bald. Sometimes, plant hairs are connected with glands of poisonous liquid, as with the nettle, whose hairs we say 'sting,' because of the pain the poison gives when the skin is pricked by them."

Frances and Margaret Bagley, also, write on this subject, and I'm much obliged to all four. Besides these letters, I've had word that plant-hair is put to the following uses: On some plants it catches insects and helps to eat them; in others, the hair sends out a kind of juice which keeps away insects that might harm the plant; on the mulleins, the stiff hairs are supposed to prevent cattle from browsing on them; and on yet others, the hairs suck in gases and liquids as part of the food of the plants. And there may be other uses for these hairs that I haven't heard of yet.

DARK SUNS.

Here's something strange,—so strange that, may be, you 'd better inquire further into it. I give you the paragram just as it comes to me:

"The bright star Sirius, itself a vast flaming sun, has a companion which is also a sun,—nearly seven times as large as our own,—but which is dark, and gives no light at all. This dark sun was seen through a very powerful telescope in 1862, and it is thought that there are a great many like it, although no others have been found."



THE LETTER-BOX.

To the little girl who asks if Bryant wrote any poem that would interest "us children" and to all young readers of ST. NICHOLAS:

Yes, indeed. You will find in the collected works of this beloved American writer many songs and poems that you can understand with ease and read with delight. A good, pure-hearted man, like William Cullen Bryant; a man so honest, so simple and earnest, so truly great, that with a deep knowledge of the world about him he worshiped God, honored his fellow-man, and loved nature as a child loves its mother—such a man could not be far removed from young sympathies. He could not be a poet without singing, sometimes, just the song that little folks would love to hear.

And children, themselves, were dear to him. More than once in the course of an acquaintance that dates back to our own early youth, we have seen his eyes light with pleasure at some incident of boy and girl life. Often his kindly interest and hearty words about St. Nicholas have given us better hope and courage to try to make the magazine just what it should be. "Good!" from his quiet lips was well worth striving for. His standard in everything was high. Hear "The Old Man's Counsel," which, through his own verse, he once gave to his own heart.

"Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long, And this fair change of seasons passes slow, Gather and treasure up the good they yield— All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts And kind affections, reverence for thy God And for thy brethren; so when thou shalt come Into these barren years, thou mayst not bring A mind unfurnished and a withered heart."

But Bryant was not always solemn in his teaching. If you like playful, sprightly verses that yet are full of poetry, read his "Robert of Lincoln," where

"Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee."

And while the poet is telling you of these singers of the air, read "The Return of The Birds," written in the early spring of 1864, when, as you know, the country was in great trouble, and the birds saw many a sorry sight. If you like a beautiful fairy-tale in verse, all about children and the elves or sprites that children love, read his "Little People of The Snow." There also is the pretty legend of "The White-footed Deer"; or if you bigger boys and girls wish something more weird and exciting, read his tragic story of "The Strange Lady." Then, on some lovely autumn day, when "the melancholy days are come," and the procession of flowers has nearly passed by, read his verses "To the Fringed Gentian." There are other poems in the collection quite as easy to understand as these. Some of the most admired indeed, that would seem "hard" to many a tall youngster at the head of the school-class, were written in the poet's own boyhood. His most famous poem, "Thanatopsis," was composed when he was but eighteen years of age. When you, too, are eighteen you will more than enjoy it, if you do not do so already. But you will like a song of his youth,—lines "To a Waterfowl,"—and the beautiful poem entitled "June," which has been very much quoted of late because of the fulfillment of his wish that when he should come to lie at rest within the ground, he might be laid there

"in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound."

Another beautiful poem, called "Waiting by the Gate," will be quite clear to many of you; and one and all can understand "An Invitation to the Country," addressed to Julia, the poet's devoted daughter, the joy of his old age, who brightened his declining years, and to the last was the faithful companion of his home.

You remember the story of his boyhood days that Mr. Bryant told you in these pages nearly two years ago? Good as that story is, there is a picture in his lovely home at Roslyn that could tell you even better things. It is the portrait of his beautiful young mother, which for years has shone upon him from the walls of his bedroom with such a strong, sweet, loving look in her face that it makes one feel sure that he was reared in a happy home, that his noble, useful manhood sprang from a sunny, well-directed boyhood. Long ago the good mother passed from earth, and now the gate through which she passed has opened for him in his serene old age, the gate of which he wrote:

"And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear, And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near, As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

"I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart, Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart; And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me."

* * * * *

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: One of your little readers has found the word "mutch" in one of my poems, and inquires its meaning, and I was rather surprised, on looking into the dictionaries, to discover that it was not there. I have heard it used from childhood,—applied to anything tied around the head in kerchief fashion. The word is in use in old legends, and possibly comes from the French mouchoir, "handkerchief;" but some better linguist than myself must say whether this suggestion is correct. To show, how the word is used, I can refer my questioner to the little story of "Gertrude's Bird," or the woodpecker, that is said to "fly about with a red mutch on her head." The legend is in Dasent's "Popular Tales from the Norse."

And I may say here that I am almost glad I made that mistake about the white-throated sparrow, since receiving a note from a lady who writes from among the Berkshire hills, where the sweet call of this bird is constantly repeated. It is very pleasant to know that a little girl out in that beautiful region honors me so much as to recite my verse when she hears the fresh note of this charming songster, as this lady tells me her little daughter does.

Surely the songs of our wild birds are far better than any songs that can be made about them; but if these serve to remind us how delightful the winged singers of the deep forests and lonely mountain-sides are, they are perhaps worth while.—Truly your friend,

LUCY LARCOM.

* * * * *

Arlington Hotel, Cobourg, Canada, July 10, 1878.

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Do you remember the little boy who traveled with you on the train last month from Meadville, Pa., to Jamestown, N.Y., when you were returning from California, and who promised to write you all about his visit to Niagara Falls? I have not forgotten my promise, but we have only just settled down for the rest of the summer at Cobourg, Canada. Well, we reached Niagara that night and staid there two or three days, and I enjoyed it so much. The fall on the American side is much smaller than the Canadian, and I remembered what you told me about part of the rock having fallen away, so that now, instead of being shaped like a horseshoe, it is like a Y. The old table rock has fallen away too. We drove every day over Goat Island, the new Park, around all the beautiful drives, and across the bridges. The best view is on the Canadian side, just after you cross the bridge, and then you have a grand view of all the falls at once. We drove out to Lundy's Lane, and a man came out and invited us to go up Scott's Tower and see the battle-field. Papa and mamma had been up some years ago, so said they did not care to go again, as the stairs were hard to climb.

I said I would go, so the man took me up and showed me the battle-field and the lakes through an opera-glass. When I got into the carriage I thanked him for his kindness, and you may imagine my surprise when he asked me for fifty cents: of course I had to give it to him, but it was all I had. Papa and mamma laughed at me all the way home, but papa gave me the half dollar back afterward. We spent a week at St. Catherine's Wells, visited Toronto, Belleville, Napanee and Kingston, and went over on a lake steamer to spend the Fourth of July at Oswego, such a pretty town in New York on Lake Ontario. Cobourg is a pretty little town, too, right on the lake, and the Arlington Hotel, where we are staying, is very nice, with nice shade-trees and lawns. Do you know, dear St. Nicholas, I always thought of you as an old gray-bearded man, like the pictures of Santa Claus; but now that I know you and have talked to you, I shall enjoy St. Nicholas more than ever.—Your friend and constant reader,

CALVERT WILSON.

* * * * *

New York.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I thought I would tell you about some people I heard of who like to talk to each other, and everything they say begins with the same letter. How queer it must sound. I send you a sentence: Sarah said she saw Susy sewing small shoes swiftly. I wish some of your scholars would try it, and see who could send you a sentence with the words beginning with Z.—I remain, your loving

MAUD.

* * * * *

Albany, N.Y.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Perhaps some of your other boys, who, like myself, wish to grow big and strong, would like to hear about the largest human being ever known,—Goliath of Gath,—a person almost large enough to need introduction by installments, but he is so well known that the ceremony is needless.

As nearly as I can make out, he was between ten and eleven feet high. When he went to battle he wore a coat-of-mail weighing one hundred and fifty-six pounds,—as heavy as a good-sized man; and the rest of his armor amounted to at least one hundred and fifteen pounds more. The head of his spear weighed eighteen pounds,—as heavy as six three-pound cans of preserved fruit,—and this he carried at the end of a long and heavy shaft!

Think what might happen if a man equally big and strong should live among us now, and insist on taking part in our games and sports! If he joined a boat-club, a curious six-oared crew could be made up, with him at one side and five other men opposite. And just imagine him "booming along" on a velocipede! If he joined the champion Nine, and hit a ball, where would that ball go to? If he called for a "shoulder-high" ball, wouldn't the catcher have to climb a stepladder to catch behind the giant? And if he threw a ball to a baseman, wouldn't he be apt to throw it clean through him?

Probably no one can answer these questions, but they are interesting, all the same, to yours sincerely,

R.V.D.

* * * * *

Lancaster, Pa.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Can you please tell me whether there are fire-flies in England or not? We have had several discussions, and I would like so much to know.—Yours truly,

AMY.

According to all accounts within our reach there are in England no fire-flies like those of the United States. But there are glow-worms there, and, sometimes, the male glow-worm (which has wings), has been called a "fire-fly." It belongs to a branch (genus) of the family Lampyridae, which is also the family of its fire-fly cousins, but it is not shaped quite like them, and bears a different scientific name.

* * * * *

Philadelphia, Pa.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have seen so many little stories written by girls of my age, that I thought I would write also—about iron. It is a very useful metal, without which we would be very much at a loss. Without iron, we could not cook very well; we could not build such houses as we do, because the nails are made of iron, and some of the tools; nor could we have gas, for the gas is conveyed through the different parts of the houses and city by iron pipes. Nor could we have steam-boats, for the machinery which makes them move is made of iron. The buckets which we have to carry water in have iron hoops. The doors have iron locks. The ink with which we write has iron in it. Last, but not least, we have iron in our blood, enough to make a ten-penny nail.

I will tell you of a trip we took to the lead mines. We were spending the summer of 1877 in Wythville, Virginia, and there became acquainted with a family boarding in the same hotel as ourselves. One day they invited us to go with them to see the mines; we had a very long but pleasant ride, and ate our lunch on the grass in the woods, then went on, and at last arrived at the mines. The man who was outside told us that he was "going to harness the ladies' sleeping car;" the mouth of the cave was so low that a man of ordinary height could hardly stand upright in it: when we started they hitched two carts which were used to carry the ore out of the mine, and put a little donkey to it; the man called the donkey Jenny; we had two or three tallow candles which would not stay lighted; as we advanced further, the water began to leak from the rocks, and the car ran off track; but when we were inside the mine, we were more than rewarded for what we had suffered. The men were working in groups, each group having a lantern, and the lead itself shined; a few men went up a pair of stairs to nearly the top of the mine; but all these beauties could not induce me stay a minute longer than I was obliged, and I can assure you we were all very thankful when we arrived at the hotel, to find a nice supper and warm beds waiting for us.—Your little friend,

JOYCE.

* * * * *

Junction City, Kansas.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I like to read you very much, especially "Under the Lilacs" and "Dab Kinzer." I live in Junction City, and have a very pleasant home. We have a great many wild flowers growing on the prairies. One of them is called the soap plant. Our teacher says its name is "Yucca." It has long slim leaves with sharp edges, and the flower grows on all sides of the stalk, which sometimes is four feet high: the flowers are white. Then we have a sensitive rose. The rose looks like a round purple silk tassel. We have lots more of odd flowers, which I will tell you about some other time.—Yours truly,

MARY KEYS.

* * * * *

Bunker Hill.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I read an article lately against nicknames and spelling names with "ie," but I don't agree with it. I think when people are grown up their real names look better, but at home, among one's own friends, a pet name is pretty. I don't like to see a nickname in a marriage or death notice, but I do like it for young folks and in the family. They say it is a French fashion to spell names "ie." Whether it is true or not I like it, for all wise people say against it. I know I am only a little girl, and my opinion may not be worth much, but I mean to stand up for it, whatever they say. I suppose every one has a right to her own opinion, and if others don't agree with me, they needn't; but I don't like them to call me "silly" because I don't think as they do. I am willing they should have their own opinions, but I want the same privilege,—isn't that fair? I don't like such nicknames as "Tom" and "Bob," or "Mollie" and "Sallie," but like such as "Charlie" or "Hattie," and I think they look prettier spelt so than they do spelt "Charley" or "Hatty." If other people like them so, I am willing; but I want the right to follow my own choice in the matter, whether others like it or not. I think people have a right to spell their own names as they please.—Your friend,

ALLIE BERTRAM.

P.S.—My parents think my name is too pretty to be used so often as to get common, and so they call me "Allie," and I like it. I don't want any one but my friends who love me, and whom I love, to call me "Alma."

* * * * *

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: May I tell you about a miniature fountain my sister and myself made long ago? It was lovely when finished, and fully repaid us for our labor.

We first chose a board, about four feet long, and two feet wide, on the sides of which we nailed laths, to hold the earth we laid upon it, after having bored two holes, one near the middle and the other close in the corner. We then placed the board on a box, and set a barrel near it on blocks that stood about a foot higher than the board.

We now cut a gourd in two, and making holes through the centers, fitted them over those in the board, the large one for the fountain-basin, the small one for a little spring in the corner.

The next thing was to connect this with the barrel by pipes. For this we used reeds, placing a small upright piece in the center of the middle basin, and joining to this a larger reed which ran beneath the board, and was let into the barrel near the bottom. The spring was finished in the same manner, with this exception, that there was no upright piece in the middle. We now searched the woods for moss, bits of twigs, and even some tiny pine and cedar trees, which we planted with other things in the earth banked upon the board. We arranged a small rockery with vines trailing over it; we made paths covered with sand; and laid out tiny dells, and hills and plains. We lined the fountain-basin with shells and the "spring" with moss, and made little water-courses for the overflow; and, after it was all completed, we filled the barrel with water; and, lo! we had the prettiest little garden imaginable, with a fountain spurting and plashing in the center, and a pretty little mossy spring in the corner.

LILLIE F. FALES.

* * * * *

Sitapur, Oude, India.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: The people here live in little mud huts clustered together in rude villages. They worship grotesque idols, wear very odd clothing, and eat strange food. Carpenters, and tailors, and shoe-makers, use their toes almost as much and as well as they use their fingers, and men do the sewing and a great deal of the cooking. Little girls very, very seldom go to school, and are betrothed when they are babies. Little boys do not play ball or such games, but they are very fond of flying the kite.

There are monkeys here by hundreds. They live in groves and eat fruits. These are not monkeys which hang up by their tails at night to go to sleep,—they live in the mountains,—but great big fellows like plump dogs, only their fore-legs are short and their "feet" are hands.

The other day I saw a fight between some monkeys and about a hundred crows. The monkeys wounded one poor crow, and it hopped about upon the ground unable to fly. Then the crows settled around it and tried to carry it off; but they could not. The monkeys charged down upon them, and then the crows charged the monkeys. It was an exciting time. Seeing the crows were getting the worst of the battle I came to their rescue, but the monkeys charged upon me, and I had to run. At last, I carried off the poor crow, hoping to cure it, but it died the same day. The other crows followed me home, and made a most dismal noise, as if they could not trust me.

Here the squirrels are quite small and not at all wild. I saw a little boy, the other day, walking along with a saucy little squirrel perched upon his shoulder.

In the schools in the villages here, the boys sit upon the ground, write upon wooden slates, and study aloud. They have wonderful memories and commit everything, though they do not understand very much of it. It is much better to understand every lesson as we go along, isn't it?

Nearly all the little boys in India wear only a long coat which comes down to their knees. It is so very warm here for most of the year that the very little folks go without any clothing at all.

There are 60,000 soldiers in India, sent from England. One of the regiments is in Sitapur, where I live, and they have a brass band which makes first-rate music. They also have bagpipes.

In India there are persons from almost every nation—Hindus, Arabians, Chinese, Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen, Frenchmen, Americans. There are twenty-three languages native to India. A great many Indians speak English, which is taught in all the schools, as Greek or Latin or French is taught at home.

But, although this is a great country, there is no place like America, especially to Americans. Three cheers for the boys and girls of America!

J.E.S.

* * * * *

Nauvoo, Ill.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Here is something about my sister Lu and a strange pet she had: Her childhood was spent in a wild, new country. I cannot remember that she was ever amused with dolls and baby-houses. She made amends, however, by surrounding herself with kittens, dogs, fawns, ponies, squirrels, opossums, 'coons, and various birds, which, in turn, she petted and loved.

She lived in the Red River country of Louisiana. The climate there is so warm that out-door play may be had at any season.

The summer she was thirteen, with an older brother and other friends, she went fishing on the lake, whose waters were dark and still, studded here and there with cypress-trees in close ranks. Heavy timber filled the valley surrounding the lake.

After catching a full supply of fish, some of which were cooked on the spot, brother Ed., in wandering about, captured a young alligator, and led it along to where sister Lu was seated, saying: "I've brought you a new pet, Lu." She adopted the little monster at once, and it was carried home, and turned loose in the creek below the house.

In a few days the alligator was quite at home. It would eat anything which was brought to it, and soon learned to come to a call, seeming more delighted with notice than with what there was to eat. It whined and barked like a dog, and wagged its big tail when pleased. It enjoyed being patted on the head, and would caper around, the most awkward thing that ever attempted a frolic.

In a few months, the pet became so large and familiar as to be a nuisance. He would track up sister Lu through the field and about the garden, showing his scent to be true and keen. Often when Lu was seated, perhaps, at her tatting, he would come to her feet and lie as still as if carved out of stone, waiting for a little notice. He soon grew to like eating the young goslings and chickens, and began to climb the fence, and look longingly at the young pigs. At last the scaly, good-natured creature disappeared. He probably made his way to a neighboring bayou, and was never seen again by any little girl's eyes.

But Lu has never forgotten him, although probably he remembers nothing now of the good times of his youth.—Yours truly,

G.M.K.

* * * * *

THE WITCHERY OF ARCHERY. By Maurice Thompson. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Archery has become so popular, of late, that this book will be of interest to all boys and girls, as well as grown people, who practice shooting with bows and arrows. Mr. Thompson, the author, wrote the articles on Archery in Scribner's Monthly, which have excited such an interest in bow-shooting, and he probably knows more about the matter than any one else in the country.

There is much in the book about the various pleasures and advantages of archery, which are very many; but there are also a great many plain and practical directions to those who are unaccustomed to the use of a bow and arrows. The author tells the young archer just what to do and how to do it, and, as no one should use a bow who does not know how to use it properly, such directions are very valuable, and should be carefully read and followed.



THE RIDDLE-BOX.

CLASSICAL DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

The initials and finals, read downward, name two Latin poets.

1. To affirm. 2. A male character in Shakspeare. 3. To cry aloud. 4. One of the United States. 5. An order of architecture. 6. Small.

VERTI.

NAMES OF AUTHORS ENIGMATICALLY EXPRESSED.

1. An Italian river. 2. A prefix, and an enemy. 3. A berry, and a spine. 4. A machine, and a small house. 5. The cat'll eat it. 6. What doves do, and an expression of contentment. 7. Bright things that fly upward. 8. What should be done with a sister in the sulks. 9. What should be done to one's mother. 10. Half of a New England city, and what is useless when dry.

RUSTICUS.

ENIGMA.

My first is in boy, but not in lad; My second in merry, but not in sad. My third is in stripe, but not in streak; My fourth is in proud, but not in meek. My fifth is in little and also in tall; My sixth in none, but not in all. My whole a trusty guide is found For animals men ride around.

JANIE M.B.

WHAT IS IT?

Name the thing described in the following paragraph:

Kingdom: Animal, vegetable, and mineral. Conducive to travel; dreaded by all with whom it comes in contact; an article of personal adornment; when misplaced, causes terrible disasters; false; beaten, hardened, and fire-tested; of various colors; preferred when green and flexible; constantly changed, and changing others; its use enjoined by Scripture.

M.S.R.

CHARADE.

Darker and darker still, the slow hours creeping, Bring to my first the inexorable gloom; Silent and soft, the tender skies are weeping For all the beauty they no more illume.

Stay not. O wand'rer, by the hurrying river, Nor in the whispering wood, nor where above Rises the perilous crag. My second ever, With added final, welcomes all who rove.

Wildly my third over the hill is flying, Over the wide moor, and the wider sea, Moaning as one whose latest hope, in dying, Leaves an eternity of agony.

Listen! oh, listen! to my whole, while filling My shadowy first with ecstasy divine! Listen! oh, listen! would ye not be willing Ever in gloom to dwell, and not repine,— Ever to joy in such melodious gladness,— Ever to sorrow in such rapturous sadness?

L.S.

INCOMPLETE SENTENCES.

In each of the following sentences, fill up the blanks with suitable words having the same sound but spelled differently and having different meanings.

1. It is but —— to pay your —— to the conductor. 2. When the —— was over, he did —— to —— to his father. 3. The —— was —— to do her work well. 4. She —— that the —— of South America are exceedingly tall. 5. The enraged farmer —— his neighbor's cow for eating his ——. 6. Don't —— if the —— should hit you. 7. The —— of a knave is not always as —— as his character. 8. He —— would —— but is awed into sincerity before this sacred ——.

GRACE G.C.

PICTORIAL ANAGRAM PUZZLE.



The answer—a line from Young's "Night Thoughts"—contains six words.

Each numeral beneath the pictures represents a letter in that word of the line which is indicated by the numeral—1 denoting that the letter it designates belongs to the first word of the line, 4 to the fourth word, and so on.

Find a word, letters, or a letter, descriptive of each picture, and containing as many letters as there are numerals beneath the picture itself. This is the first process. Then write down, some distance apart, the figures 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, to correspond with the words of the answer. Group beneath figure 1 all the letters designated by the numeral 1 in the numbering beneath the pictures. You will thus have in a group all the letters that spell the first word of the line, and these letters, when set in the right order, will spell the word itself. Follow the same process of grouping and arranging, in making the remaining five words of the answer. Of course, the re-arrangement of the letters need not be begun until all of them have been set apart in their proper groups.

S.R.

THREE DIAMONDS.

I.—1. A consonant. 2. A kind of carriage. 3. A well-known river of Italy. 4. A precious stone. 5. In circumnavigator.

II.—1. In inconspicuous. 2. A Turkish name. 3. A spice. 4. A climbing plant. 5. In herbalist.

III.—1. In iniquity. 2. A girl's name. 3. A country in Asia. 4. Purpose. 5. In Niagara.

ALLIE.

RIDDLE.

A head have I, though never do I think; A mouth as well, but with it never drink. A body, too, is mine, of giant growth and strength, Combining with its force majestic length. But, as to feet, of them I have not one, Though I am never still, but always run. Ne'er was I known to leave my lowly bed, Or ope my mouth so that I might be fed.

E.S.S.

POSITIVES AND COMPARATIVES.

The positive is found from the first definition given, and the comparative is made by adding the sound "er" to the positive.

1. My positive is level, and my comparative is what one's true friends never do. 2. My positive is an article of food, and my comparative is a tool. 3. My positive is coarse, and my comparative is a trade. 4. My positive is a youth, and my comparative is an instrument for climbing. 5. My positive is a preposition, and my comparative is to esteem. 6. My positive is a part of the body, and my comparative is wrath. 7. My positive is an American poet, and my comparative is part of the body. 8. My positive is an article of food, and my comparative is something used in a part of Asia. 9. My positive is a public place, and my comparative is a sufferer.

G.S.

HIDDEN NAMES.

Find a girl's or a boy's name hidden in each of the following sentences.

1. Arthur likes my apples. 2. Herbert expected letters every night. 3. Alice rode to her uncle Robert's. 4. Mr. Allen bought eight lambs. 5. Hattie Arnold reached Rochester yesterday. 6. Even Theodore has eaten little. 7. Every rainy night Eva sews trimming. 8. Ellen's dog is terribly hurt. 9. Florence rides every day. 10. Softly the evening light lingers around. 11. Even dull wits improve, nowadays. 12. Generally, raisins are capital eating. 13. Fido ran after Ned's kite.

C.K.

EASY CROSS-WORD ENIGMA.

My first is in edict, but not in law; My second's in chilly, but not in raw. My third is in ice, but not in snow; My fourth is in cut, but not in mow. My fifth is in mild, but not in bland; My sixth is in country, not in land. My seventh is in silent, not in still; My eighth is in slaughter, but not in kill. My ninth is in learn, but not in teach; My tenth is in sandy, but not in beach. My whole is the name of a useful book, As soon you'll see, if you'll closely look.

W.B.H.

DOUBLE WORD-SQUARE.

Across: 1. Departed. 2. Declare. 3. Look askance. 4. Terminates. Down: 1. High wind. 2. Part of a stove. 3. Want. 4. Mistakes.

H.H.D.

REBUS.

A two-line quotation from a poem by Thomas Gray.



CENTRAL SYNCOPATIONS.

1. Syncopate an orifice, and leave a troublesome insect. 2. Syncopate to cut, and get a natural underground chamber. 3. Syncopate a wise saying, and get to injure. 4. Syncopate a small house, and leave a fugitive named in the Bible. 5. Syncopate a crown of a person of rank, and leave a musical instrument.

A.B.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

The initials form the name of a European sovereign. The finals form the name of a great statesman.

1. Striking. 2. A vowel repeated. 3. A body of soldiers. 4. A lofty building. 5. A musical drama. 6. Scarce. 7. A pastoral poem. 8. The surname of a celebrated Italian poet.

DYCLE



ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN AUGUST NUMBER.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.—Primrose, 1. PeaR. 2. RomeO. 3. IsthmuS. 4. MacE.

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.—All owing: allowing.

PICTORIAL TRANSPOSITION PUZZLES.—1. Ten mugs; nutmegs. 3. Ten tea-pots; potentates.

DIAMOND PUZZLE.—1. M. 2. JAy. 3. MaCaw. 4. YAk. 5. W.

SQUARE-WORD.—1. Crane. 2. Raven. 3. Avert. 4. Nerve. 5. Enter.

SHAKSPEAREAN REBUS.—"Hamlet," Act III., Scene i.

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought."

GEOGRAPHICAL DOUBLE ACROSTIC.—1. ChilI. 2. HellesponT. 3. IndiA. 4. NepauL. 5. AlleghanY.

METAGRAM.—Dip, fip, lip, hip, rip, nip, pip, sip, tip.

VERY EASY HIDDEN FURNITURE.—1. Table. 2. Sofa. 3. Chair. 4. Stool. 5. What-not. 6. Crib. 7. Cot 8. Hat-rack 9. Desk.

DOUBLE CROSS-WORD ENIGMA.—Holmes, Lowell.

TRANSPOSITIONS.—1. Warned, warden, wander. 2. Red nag, gander, ranged, garden, danger. 3. No elms, Lemnos, lemons, melons, solemn. 4. Red opal, pale rod, real pod, leopard.

PROVERB REBUS.—"One swallow does not make a summer."

CHARADE.—Pondicherry; pond, I, cherry.

HOUR-GLASS PUZZLE.—Centrals, Arrow, 1. CHAnt 2. ORe. 3. R. 4. COg. 5. BoWer.

CONTRACTIONS.—1. Brown, brow. 2. Plane, plan. 3. Lathe, lath. 4. Heath, heat. 5. Hazel, haze. 6. Plume, plum. 7. Crown, crow. 8. Lunge, lung. 9. Forty, fort.

WORD-SYNCOPATIONS.—1. Leveret; ever, let. 2. Slashing; ash, sling. 3. Slashings; lash, sings. 4. Carpenter; pea, carter. 5. Carpets; pet, cars.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE JULY NUMBER were received, before July 18, from Bessie Hard, C.C. Bourne; Mamie H.S., and Louise G.H.; Cari Hinkle, O.C. Turner, "Prebo," "La Gazza Ladra," "Cosy Club," Bertha E. Keferstein, Nellie M. Slade, "Duchess May" R.H.R.; Alice MacNary and Elliot MacNary; "Kelloke and Cary and Rose," Fred W.M., E. Farnham Todd, "Winnie," "Stock-Broker and Doctor," "Dottie and Daisie;" May and Charlie Pray; Laurie T. Sanders, May Chester, "Hyacinth," H.P.B.; Frances and Margaret Bagley; W.H. McGee, Charlie Kellogg, Nellie Kellogg, T.W.H., A.G.D., Nessie E. Stevens, "Romeo and Juliet" Bella W. Brown, May Duffan, "St. Nicholas Club," H.B. Ayers; "Orada and Ibylsa;" William W. Bellinger, Lillian Willams E.J.F., A.C.S., George D. Mitchell, Arthur Boehm, Bessie Taylor, J.B.H., George C. Wedderburn, William T. Gray, John V.L. Pierson, Henry Kummel, Virginia Simpson; F.M.J., Jr.; Kitty Curtis, Mildred Meredith, Louisa F. Riedel; "Bessie and Tic;" X.Y.Z., Sarah Duffield, Dycie Warden, Nettie A. Ives, "Violet," R.T. French, Josie Hamilton, Alice M. Mason, Ellen Smith, Liffie D. Hacker, Mamie Packer, Jennie A. Carr, Willie Sellie, Arnold Guyot Cameron, Grant Squires, Georgine C. Schnitzspahn, T.H. Loomis, Rachel Hutchins, Mary G. Arnold, M.W. Collet, Laura Maude Benton, Willie Robinson, Fanny J. Schonacker; May and Louis Ogdea; Arthur Stowe, Nellie C. Graham, Mattie Olmsted, W.A. Wheeler, Maggie T. Gemmill, Rufus B. Clark, Lewis G. Davis, Clare G. Hess; Ella and Kittie Blanke; Nellie Quayle, Gertrude Weasondonk, Clara F. Allen, Addie S. Church, "My Maryland," Nellie L. Ninde, F. Popenhausen, A.B.C., "Hard and Tough," Nellie Emerson, L.B. Bancroft, M.P., Wm. C. Ferguson, Alice Lanigan, Florence Van Rensselaer, Anna E. Mathewson, Josie Morris Brown, Charles N. Cogswell, "Fritters," "Bertha and Daisy," "Beech-Nut," Stephen Waterman, E.M. Biddle, Jr., "So So and his Cousin," Georgie B., Chas. Alfred Christian, George J. Fiske, Esther L. Fiske; Frank Allen and May; "Lena Kate," Milly E. Adams, Eddie Vultee, Willie B. Deas, F.D., "Fannie," Grace E. Fuller, C. Speiden, M. Speiden, Austen M. Poole, Ada L. Goodwin, Fred Huckel, Estelle Jennings; William Guillet, of Canada; "Brutus and Cassius," Kate Sampson, Edwin C. Garngues, "Bessie and her Cousin," "A.B. and C.D.," Bessie Barnes, and Charles H. Stout.

"Fanny Pop" and Ernest B. Cooper answered correctly all the puzzles in the July number.

THE END