"Aint you going to hang up your stocking, mother?" asked Mr. Boyd after Jack had gone.

Mrs. Boyd looked startled.

"Why, no," she answered, hesitatingly, not knowing whether the question was asked in irony or in earnest.

"You better," said Mr. Boyd, going to the bag in the corner, and beginning to untie the strings.

He laid out package after package on the floor. His wife knelt down by them in a maze of astonishment. Then, with a great deal of enjoyment, Mr. Boyd untied them one by one, showing candy, nuts, oranges, shoes, and all the rest, except the calico dress, which he kept out of sight.

Aladdin felt very fine when he found the cave-full of precious stones, but I don't believe he was much happier than Mrs. Boyd. Her eyes were so full of tears that there seemed to be about eight pairs of shoes, ten bags, and half a dozen Mr. Boyds; but she managed to lay hands on the real one, and him she embraced fervently. Then she brought out the cookies and sugar balls she had made, and said to her husband, in a very shame-faced way:

"See my poor presents; I didn't know the children would have anything nice, and I made these. I guess I wont put 'em in their stockings though, now."

But Mr. Boyd insisted on their going in with the other things, and I think they were prized by the children a little more dearly, if such a thing could be possible, than those which they called their "boughten" presents.

Now, I can't begin to describe the joyful time they had the next morning, and particularly, the utter astonishment of Jack, who didn't expect a thing, and hadn't even hung up a stocking. When that devoted boy recognized one of his own gray socks crammed full of knobs and bunches, with a beautiful plush cap on top, he was almost out of his wits. Likewise, Mrs. Boyd's surprise was great at the discovery of her new dress. The little girls were too happy that day to do much else but count and arrange and re-arrange their delightful Christmas presents.

Mr. Boyd killed a chicken, and Jack contributed four quails which he had caught since market-day, and the festival of Christmas was kept with much hilarity by the Boyd family.

The neighbors, one by one, were surprised that Mr. Boyd hadn't dropped in, as he usually did on Sundays and holidays. But Mr. Boyd was engaged elsewhere. And this was only the beginning of good days for that family, for, somehow, the Christmas feeling seemed to last through all the year with Mr. Boyd, and through many other years; and the little ball set rolling by Jack with his quail-traps, grew to be a mighty globe of happiness for the whole family.



LEFT OUT.

By A.G.W.

One day, St. Nicholas made a complaint: "I think it's quite plain why they call me a saint. I wonder if any one happens to see That nobody ever makes presents to me; That I, who make presents to ever so many, Am the only poor fellow who never gets any!"



MISS ALCOTT,

THE FRIEND OF LITTLE WOMEN AND OF LITTLE MEN.

BY F.B.S.



Would the readers of ST. NICHOLAS, who are all admirers of Miss Louisa Alcott, like to hear more than they now know about this kind friend of theirs, who has been giving them so much pleasure by her stories, and never writes so well as when she writes for boys and girls? Then, let me tell you something about her own family and childhood, and how she became the well-known writer that she is. She not only tells you pleasant stories about "little women" and "old-fashioned girls," "eight cousins," and children "under the lilacs,"—but she shows you how good it is to be generous and kind, to love others and not to be always caring and working for yourselves. And the way she can do this is by first being noble and unselfish herself. "Look into thine own heart and write," said a wise man to one who had asked how to make a book. And it is because Miss Alcott looks into her own heart and finds such kindly and beautiful wishes there that she has been able to write so many beautiful books. They tell the story of her life; but they tell many other stories also. So let me give you a few events and scenes in her life, by themselves.

Miss Alcott's father was the son of a farmer in Connecticut, and her mother was the daughter of a merchant in Boston. After growing up in a pretty, rural town, among hardy people who worked all day in the fields or the woods, and were not very rich, Mr. Alcott went down into Virginia and wandered about among the rich planters and the poor slaves who then lived there; selling the gentlemen and ladies such fine things as they would buy from his boxes,—for he was a traveling merchant, or peddler,—staying in their mansions sometimes, and sometimes in the cabins of the poor; reading all the books he could find in the great houses, and learning all that he could in other ways. Then, he went back to Connecticut and became a school-master. So fond was he of children, and so well did he understand them, that his school soon became large and famous, and he was sent for to go and teach poor children in Boston. Miss May, the mother of Miss Alcott, was then a young lady in that city. She, too, was full of kind thoughts for children, the poor and the rich, and when she saw how well the young school-master understood his work, how much good he was seeking to do, and how well he loved her, why, Miss May consented to marry Mr. Alcott, and then they went away to Philadelphia together, where Mr. Alcott taught another school.

Close by Philadelphia, and now a part of that great city, is Germantown, a quiet and lovely village then, which had been settled many years before by Germans, for whom it was named, and by Quakers, such as came to Philadelphia with William Penn. Here Louisa May Alcott was born, and she spent the first two years of her life in Germantown and Philadelphia. Then, her father and mother went back to Boston, where Mr. Alcott taught a celebrated school in a fine large building called the Temple, close by Boston Common, and about this school an interesting book has been written, which, perhaps, you will some day read. The little Louisa did not go to it at first, because she was not old enough, but her father and mother taught her at home the same beautiful things which the older children learned in the Temple school. By and by people began to complain that Mr. Alcott was too gentle with his scholars, that he read to them from the New Testament too much, and talked with them about Jesus, when he should have been making them say their multiplication-table. So his school became unpopular, and all the more so because he would not refuse to teach a poor colored boy who wanted to be his pupil. The fathers and mothers of the white children were not willing to have a colored child in the same school with their darlings. So they took away their children, one after another, until, when Louisa Alcott was between six and seven years old, her father was left with only five pupils, Louisa and her two sisters ("Jo," "Beth" and "Meg"), one white boy, and the colored boy whom he would not send away. Mr. Alcott had depended for his support on the money which his pupils paid him, and now he became poor, and gave up his school.

There was a friend of Mr. Alcott's then living in Concord, not far from Boston,—a man of great wisdom and goodness, who had been very sad to see the noble Connecticut school-master so shabbily treated in Boston,—and he invited his friend to come and live in Concord. So Louisa went to that old country town with her father and mother when she was eight years old, and lived with them in a little cottage, where her father worked in the garden, or cut wood in the forest, while her mother kept the house and did the work of the cottage, aided by her three little girls. They were very poor, and worked hard; but they never forgot those who needed their help, and if a poor traveler came to the cottage door hungry, they gave him what they had, and cheered him on his journey. By and by, when Louisa was ten years old, they went to another country town not far off, named Harvard, where some friends of Mr. Alcott had bought a farm, on which they were all to live together, in a religious community, working with their hands, and not eating the flesh of slaughtered animals, but living on vegetable food, for this practice, they thought, made people more virtuous. Miss Alcott has written an amusing story about this, which she calls "Transcendental Wild Oats." When Louisa was twelve years old, and had a third sister ("Amy"), the family returned to Concord, and for three years occupied the house in which Mr. Hawthorne, who wrote the fine romances, afterward lived. There Mr. Alcott planted a fair garden, and built a summer-house near a brook for his children, where they spent many happy hours, and where, as I have heard, Miss Alcott first began to compose stories to amuse her sisters and other children of the neighborhood.

When she was almost sixteen, the family returned to Boston, and there Miss Alcott began to teach boys and girls their lessons. She had not been at school much herself, but she had been instructed by her father and mother. She had seen so much that was generous and good done by them that she had learned it is far better to have a kind heart and to do unselfish acts than to have riches or learning or fine clothes. So, mothers were glad to send her their children to be taught, and she earned money in this way for her own support.

But she did not like to teach so well as her father did, and thought that perhaps she could write stories and be paid for them, and earn more money in that way. So she began to write stories. At first nobody would pay her any money for them, but she kept patiently at work, making better and better what she wrote, until in a few years she could earn a good sum by her pen. Then the great civil war came on, and Miss Alcott, like the rest of the people, wished to do something for her country. So she went to Washington as a nurse, and for some time she took care of the poor soldiers who came into the hospital wounded or sick, and she has written a little book about these soldiers which you may have read. But soon she grew ill herself from the labor and anxiety she had in the hospital, and almost died of typhoid fever; since when she has never been the robust, healthy young lady she was before, but was more or less an invalid while writing all those cheerful and entertaining books. And yet to that illness all her success as an author might perhaps be traced. Her "Hospital Sketches," first published in a Boston newspaper, became very popular, and made her name known all over the North. Then she wrote other books, encouraged by the reception given to this, and finally, in 1868, five years after she left the hospital in Washington, she published the first volume of "Little Women." From that day to this she has been constantly gaining in the public esteem, and now perhaps no lady in all the land stands higher. Several hundred thousand volumes of her books have been sold in this country, and probably as many more in England and other European countries.

Twenty years ago, Miss Alcott returned to Concord with her family, who have ever since resided there. It was there that most of her books were written, and many of her stories take that town for their starting-point. It was in Concord that "Beth" died, and there the "Little Men" now live. Miss Alcott herself has been two or three years in Europe since 1865, and has spent several winters in Boston or New York, but her summers are usually passed in Concord, where she lives with her father and mother in a picturesque old house, under a warm hill-side, with an orchard around it and a pine-wood on the hill-top behind. Two aged trees stand in front of the house, and in the rear is the studio of Miss May Alcott ("Amy"), who has become an artist of renown, and had a painting exhibited last spring in the great exhibition of pictures at Paris. Close by is another house, under the same hill-side, where Mr. Hawthorne lived and wrote several of his famous books, and it was along the old Lexington road in front of these ancient houses that the British Grenadiers marched and retreated on the day of the battle of Concord in April, 1775. Instead of soldiers marching with their plumed hats, you might have seen there last summer great plumes of asparagus waving in the field; instead of bayonets, the poles of grape-vines in ranks upon the hill; while loads of hay, of strawberries, pears and apples went jolting along the highway between hill and meadow.

The engraving shows you how Miss Alcott looks,—only you must recollect that it does not flatter her; and if you should see her, you would like her face much better than the picture of it. She has large, dark-blue eyes, brown clustering hair, a firm but smiling mouth, a noble head, and a tall and stately presence, as becomes one who is descended from the Mays, Quincys and Sewalls, of Massachusetts, and the Alcotts and Bronsons of Connecticut. From them she has inherited the best New England traits,—courage and independence without pride, a just and compassionate spirit, strongly domestic habits, good sense, and a warm heart. In her books you perceive these qualities, do you not? and notice, too, the vigor of her fancy, the flowing humor that makes her stories now droll and now pathetic, a keen eye for character, and the most cheerful tone of mind. From the hard experiences of life she has drawn lessons of patience and love, and now with her, as the apostle says, "abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity." There have been men, and some women too, who could practice well the heavenly virtue of charity toward the world at large, and with a general atmospheric effect, but could not always bring it down to earth, and train it in the homely, crooked paths of household care. But those who have seen Miss Alcott at home know that such is not her practice. In the last summer, as for years before, the citizen or the visitor who walked the Concord streets might have seen this admired woman doing errands for her father, mother, sister, or nephews, and as attentive to the comfort of her family as if she were only their housekeeper. In the sick-room she has been their nurse, in the excursion their guide, in the evening amusements their companion and entertainer. Her good fortune has been theirs, and she has denied herself other pleasures for the satisfaction of giving comfort and pleasure to them.

"So did she travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness; and yet her heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay."



THE BOY WHO JUMPED ON TRAINS.

BY MARY HARTWELL.

There was a boy whose name was Dunn, And he was one As full of fun As any boy could walk or run!

His cheeks were plump, his eyes were bright, He stepped as light As a camel might, And bounced and played from morn till night.

And whether he was here or there, His parents' care— Unseen like air— Followed and held him everywhere.



He really was their joy and pride— Was good beside; But woe betide— He would jump on the cars to ride!

There, hanging to a brake or step, Tight hold he kept, And onward swept, Yelling with all his might, "Git-tep!"

Dunn's father learned that he did so, And told him to Decline to go Where trains were running to and fro.

As for his mother, she turned white, And gasped with fright To think Dunn might Come home a pancake some fine night!



But his relations often said, With shaking head, That boy was led To have his way if it killed him dead!



And sure enough when school was out, And boys about The trains flocked out, Dunn followed too, with plunge and shout.

He did not mean to grab a ride, But by his side, With tempting glide, The freight-cars decked with boys did slide!

Where was his father's stern command? Out went his hand; He gained a stand— At least he planned to gain a stand!

What is it? Crash! His head is blind! That wheel behind— He hears it grind! And he is paralyzed in mind!

On cork and crutches now goes Dunn! Whole boys may run— Grab rides for fun— But, as I said, this boy is Dunn!



THE TOWER-MOUNTAIN

BY GUSTAVUS FRANKENSTEIN.

I.

Many years ago, I was roving in a land strange and wonderful to me. It was a tropical country, and I was wandering alone among the grand scenery of the mountains, and the luxuriant vegetation of the hill-sides and valleys.

I had with me but few implements, and these, such as were light and easy to carry. A hunting-knife, a small hatchet, a canteen and a few marching necessaries made up my kit.

One day while rambling about, living on the bountiful supplies of fruit nature provides in that charming region, I came to a deep lake surrounded by steep hills. On the opposite side of this lake I could see a narrow gap or cleft, which seemed to lead to the higher ground. I therefore made a raft,—not without considerable trouble,—and paddled it across the lake. I found the gap quite narrow at its entrance, but it soon became wider, while far forward, at the end of the chasm, there appeared to be a series of rude steps.

I fastened the raft to the rock, in doing which I had the ill luck to drop my hatchet into the deep water, and, notwithstanding the evil omen, made my way into the crevice. I passed over the rough bottom of the chasm until I came to the steps; these I ascended. At a height of about a hundred feet I came to a wall of rock, the top of which I could just reach with the ends of my fingers. By a great effort, I got a good hold of the edge of the rock, and drew myself up.

When I stood at last upon the upper ground, I saw before me the most beautiful trees and flowers I had yet met with. On either side the rocks retreated and rose steeply to the summits I had partially seen from the lake below. As I passed on and surveyed the plateau, I found it to be a valley about a mile in diameter, encompassed by precipices more or less abrupt. With but little trouble I found a place of easy ascent, and soon climbed to the top of the rocky wall.

The delight I now experienced surpassed everything I had ever known. Spread out before me, as I stood upon an eminence somewhat above the general level, was a vast expanse overflowing with vegetation and extending for miles in every direction, whilst all round about rose the mighty domes and pinnacles of snow-clad mountains. I stood in the midst of the sublimest mountain scenery in the world. I could look down upon the beautiful lake, and up at the giant peaks, and all about me upon the fruitful verdure, whilst the atmosphere was charged with delightful odors, and a pleasant breeze tempered the sweet warm air.

As here was a delightful climate, fruit in abundance, and scenery soul-exalting, of whose glory one could never grow tired, I felt rather pleased with the thought "Why not stay here? Why not remain in this beautiful place as long as circumstances will permit?"

All nature seemed here so lovely that I resolved to wander no further.

While gazing around at all this grandeur and beauty, my attention was particularly drawn to a group of lofty peaks which rose in the midst of this smiling garden. The sides of the towering eminences seemed almost perpendicular, and they were about three or four thousand feet high.

I soon gave up all hope of ever reaching the top, but in examining the rock I found at its base a great cavern, so high and wide that a very large building might have stood in it, with plenty of room to spare. The sides and roof sparkled with crystals of all hues, and were singularly and picturesquely variegated with differently colored veins running through them; and, as the cave opened toward the east, with a large clear space in front of it, nothing could have been more splendid than when the morning sun shone full into the vast chamber and lighted it up with dazzling brilliancy.

In that chamber I made my humble home.

Near one of the streams that flowed over the precipice into the lake, grew several species of very tall grasses, with great bushy heads of long silky fibers that adorned and protected their flowers and fruit. Of these fine strong threads I made a hammock, which I suspended from a strong frame bound together with these tough fibers, placing it a few feet back from the mouth of the cavern. Thus, I had an excellent bed, and if I should need covering there were plenty of palm-leaves at hand for the purpose. But in that torrid climate there was little need of extra protection; the air of the cavern was of just that delightful coolness which refreshes but does not chill.

Now, imagine me waking in the morning just as the dawn tinted the rosy east, refreshed with sweet slumbers and rejoicing to behold the light, rocking myself gently in my pretty hammock, and hailing the uprising sun with a merry song,—and would you not suppose there was one happy man in this great world?

While the day was yet young I would take a bath in the clear, soft water of a little stream near by. Then, when all was sparkling and bright in my humble house, I would partake with keen appetite of the precious fruits of my unlimited and self-producing garden.

In the neighboring streams were many kinds of fishes, some of which I knew to be very good eating, and I could have caught and eaten as many birds as I wished; but the fruits and nuts were so plentiful, and of so many different sorts, that I cared for, and, indeed, needed, no other kind of food.

Thus, several months passed away, and I was not weary of this paradise. There was enough to occupy my mind in the examination of the structure and mode of growth of a vast number of species of plants. Their flowering, their fruitage, and their decay offered a boundless field for thought, and kept up a never-flagging interest.

For the first four months the sun traced his course through the heavens to the north of me; I knew, therefore, that I was almost immediately under the equator. For several days at the end of the four months, the sun rose directly in the east, passing through the sky in a line dividing it almost exactly into halves north and south. After that, for six months, I had the great luminary to the south of me.

In all this time there was but little change in the weather. A short period without rain was the exception. Otherwise, the mornings and evenings were invariably clear, with a refreshing rain of about two hours' duration in the middle of the day. In the afternoon the sun was, of course, away from my cavern, shining upon the opposite side of the mountain of solid rock, which rendered my abode delightfully cool in the greatest heat of the day. Toward the end of the short dry period, magnificent thunder-showers passed over my domain. Nothing could be more glorious than these electrical displays of an equatorial sky, as I sat snug and safe within the rocky shelter. The heaviest shower could not wet me, the water without ran with a swift descent, from the cave, and over the precipice into the lake below. It was not likely that the lightning would take the trouble to creep in under the rock and there find me out. And as for the thunder, I was not in the least afraid of it, but gloried in its loud peals and distant reverberations among the encompassing mountains.

It was during the violence of one of these tempests that a parrot flew into my comfortable quarters.

"Hallo! my fine fellow!" said I. "Where do you come from, and what do you want here?"

It flew about the room looking for a place to perch, trying to find a footing against the wall, slipping down, and flying up again.

I left it free to find its own roosting-place, or fly out of the cavern, as it liked. I had seen a few parrots of the same kind, outside in my garden, had heard them chattering and shrieking amidst the foliage, and had always been very much amused with their odd ways, and pleased with the brilliance and the glitter of their splendid plumage. But I never tried or cared to capture the gorgeous, noisy birds, or any other of the creatures that were always to be seen around me. Indeed, from the very first, the living things in this lovely valley appeared to be uncommonly tame; and in time no bird or other animal showed the least fear on my approach, regarding me no more than any other creature that never did them harm. Of course, this came of my never molesting them. But I never thought of getting on familiar terms with any of them, although scarcely a day passed that some of these animals did not come and eat of the fruit by the side of that which I was plucking. I never laid hands on them, but always let them go about their own business. They soon became accustomed to my umbrella even, for I early made one of these necessities of a torrid climate; and although at first when I had occasion to walk in the sun my appearance shaded by the portable roof caused unusual chattering and commotion, I speedily took on a familiar look to them. In the same way I became an object of curiosity when I plucked a leaf and made of it a cup to drink from. But at length all signs of strangeness vanished, and there even came to be a kind of friendship between us.



I therefore concerned myself no more about the parrot, thinking that, of course, as soon as the rain should stop, the bird would fly away.

I had made a small table of three slabs of rock, where I frequently placed fruits, nuts, roots and the like, that I might have in case I should feel hungry when in my house, and yet not care to eat the fruit directly from the plant, which I most generally preferred. Of course, too, it was always desirable to have provisions on hand when it rained.

The next morning, when I awoke, the rain was still descending, for it was just at this time that it rained for three or four days together.

I always had a healthy relish for the good things of this world, and, as there was no rosy dawn to look at, my eyes immediately went in search of the breakfast-table.

"What!" I exclaimed; and I sat upright in my hammock.

There was the parrot on the table.

I eyed him for some time, and then I cried out:

"You little thief! Stealing my food, are you?"

The parrot sat there, but said never a word. He merely raised one of his claws and sleeked up the feathers on the back of his neck, in the way his family know so well. Then, raising the feathers of his crest, he gave utterance to a very faint shriek.

"Get out of this, you rascal!" I cried and immediately got up and went toward him with the purpose of putting him out.

I approached the table very rapidly, expecting that the bird would fly away. But he remained motionless. I was about to lay rude hands on him, but I desisted.

"Why do violence to the creature? Why mar the serenity of this peaceful vale?" I said to myself. "And why make such ado about a little fruit when there is abundance on every hand?"

Happening just then to glance at the fruit, it seemed to me that it had not been disturbed.

I examined it more closely, and began to feel I had done the parrot great injustice. There it lay, just as I had left it the night before; there was no evidence whatever of its having been picked at, and I came to the comforting conclusion that the handsome bird had broken no moral law.

The parrot rose greatly in my esteem at this happy discovery.

"Friend Parrot," said I, "I beg pardon for having so rashly jumped to the conclusion that you had been guilty of theft. I believe that you have touched nothing of the things which belong to me. Indeed, I am sure that you have not. That you have so scrupulously regarded the rights of property is to me the source of infinite gratification, and fills me with the highest admiration of your character. To show you that I am disinclined to let virtue go unrewarded, I accord you my permission to stay here while I am eating my breakfast, and when I have finished, you too may eat some, if you like."

Then, having arranged my toilet, I began to partake of the good things that lay on the table, the parrot all the while looking at me with lively interest. I could not help being amused at his significant performances. He turned his knowing head one way, and then another, now sidewise toward the fruits, and then obliquely up at me, as I sat enjoying the repast, enlivening his gestures with gentle prattle, and yet never making a single demonstration in the direction of my food. He put me in such good humor that I was impelled to say to him:

"Friend Parrot, I don't mind being sociable; and if you are inclined to do me the favor of honoring me with your company, I most respectfully invite you to partake of this humble collation." And, taking up one of the choicest nuts in the collection, I handed it to him forthwith.

He took it promptly, and proceeded to crack and munch it in regular parrot fashion.

"You must excuse me," I resumed, "that my viands are not of the choicest cooking, and that I have no servants to wait upon my highly esteemed guest, and that there are no silver knives and forks and spoons to eat with in the latest civilized style, but I have rid myself of all those things, and am glad of it."

The parrot nodded his head approvingly, as much as to say, "Right, quite right."

The poor bird was very hungry, and I let him eat his fill.

Breakfast over, my guest flew upon my shoulder and was disposed to be affectionate. He delicately pecked at my lips, drew his bill gently across my cheeks, and pulled my hair with his claws.

"Come, come! friend Parrot, none of your soft billing and cooing. Leave that to women and children."

So I gave my friend politely to understand that I did not care for such pretty endearments; and, soon comprehending the force of my objection, he very sensibly desisted from bestowing further attention upon me, and thenceforth kept his handsome person reasonably aloof.

I entertained my friend two days, during which I gave him much valuable advice, and, which was more to the purpose and perhaps better appreciated, plenty to eat.

On the morning of the third day, the sun rose in all his beauty again, and I fully expected the bird would fly away. He was in no hurry to go, however. I went out, wandered about, and toward noon returned home. Still the parrot was there. So it was the next day, and the next. I did not want to resort to force and drive him away.

Finally I said to him one day:

"Friend Parrot; since I see you are in no hurry to leave my humble home, and that it evidently grieves you to lose the pleasure of my society, I shall not eject you forcibly from the premises. Stay, therefore, as long as it shall please you. I will share with you food, and shelter from the sun and rain. And whenever you grow weary of this my society, tired of this plain habitation, or disgusted generally with civilization, and wish to return to the freedom of savage life, you are at liberty to go. 'Tis a large door, always open, out of which you can fly; and when you are gone I shall shed no tears over your departure."

The bird seemed really to comprehend the drift of my discourse, and from that time forward we lived upon the most intimate terms, which, however, never passed the bounds of mutual respect.

Now, if we were to live in such close ties of friendship, it was necessary that my friend should have a name, and that he, too, should be able to address me by mine. The title, "Friend Parrot," was rather too formal, and his screeching at me in some unmeaning way every time he wanted me could not for long be tolerated.

So, "Mr. Parrot" said I, "you are Mr. Parrot no longer. Your name is 'Pippity.'"

He soon learned his new name, and then said I:

"Pippity! my name is 'Frank.'"

It was incredible how rapidly he learned mine.

"Further, Pippity," I continued, "you must learn the names of the things round about us."

Instruction began at once. For several days he had to be told the names of things many times before he was able to repeat them correctly; but after that, and apparently all of a sudden, he seemed to have caught a bright idea and to thoroughly understand my method of teaching.

From that time on, when the name of a thing was made plain to him, he seemed to grasp it immediately and never forgot it. This expedited matters wonderfully, for I liked to talk to him and observe his efforts to repeat what I said, so there was ample conversation, though somewhat one-sided, going on in our ancient dwelling. I marveled at the parrot's extraordinary power; but what astonished me above all was his wonderful memory, and his unlimited capacity for taking in new ideas. Sometimes I would ask him, after an interval of weeks, some name of a thing I had taught him, and the answer was invariably correct. On such occasions I would say to him:

"Pippity, what's that?"

He would tell me immediately; and I laughed outright when, one day, as we were strolling through the forest, I stumbled over a stone, and the parrot, perching on it, pecked it with his bill, and then, looking up at me askance, asked:

"What's that?"

That was a phrase I had unwittingly taught him. And now I began more than ever to perceive his extraordinary genius.

Thenceforth it was "What's that?" and "What's that?" and actually the fellow wanted to learn more quickly than I could teach.

Once, after this intelligent bird had been with me for some months, we were sitting quietly in our domicile, shaded from the afternoon sun by our lofty rock-built palace, enjoying the beauties of creation, when all at once he broke out in his clear, melodious voice:

"Tell me something new!"

I looked at him in amazement. I had never taught him to say that; but undoubtedly he must have heard me say, at some time or other, "Pippity, now I will tell you something new." Yet how the bird had managed to turn the phrase grammatically to himself puzzled me not a little.

However, I soon began to teach him something else that was new, for I had been thinking that it was time that he should learn the names of the plants,—at least of the most interesting and useful. So it was not long before Pippity had a fair acquaintance with botany.

Nearly a year had now rolled round, when one day Pippity was missing. What could have happened to him? Had he grown tired of my society? Did he begin to think that, after all, savage freedom was to be preferred to dull, systematic civilization? Had he come to the conclusion that much learning is, at best, but vanity? Did he want to go babbling again in chaotic gibberish rather than to talk smoothly by rote?

Two days passed, in which to drive away any natural feeling of loneliness at the parrot's absence, I set down notes as concisely as possible of what had occurred to me so far. For this purpose I used the point of my knife and thin slabs of mica, wishing to save the small stock of memorandum paper in my note-book and journals as much as I could. At other times I had used bark and similar things to write on, but the mica was more durable, and more easily stowed away. It was my intention to make a still more condensed series of notes on the paper I had by me, whenever I should feel like undertaking the task. The juice of berries would serve for ink, and a feather or light reed would make as good a pen as I should want. This plan I carried out afterward.



On the third day Pippity returned, and, as he came flying into the palace, "Pippity, Pippity!" I cried, "I thought you were never coming back. Have you been to see your old friends?" He hung his head demurely, and said nothing.

Although I had told Pippity, when he had first sought my hospitality, that I would shed no tears over his departure, if at any time he might see fit to leave me, I must confess that I was very glad when he came back. His society was agreeable. He was a good listener, and he was by no means an idler, as far as that kind of honorable work is concerned which consists in keeping body and soul together. For example, strolling through our fertile garden, if I should happen to see some fine fruit high on a tree, Pippity would fly up to it at my bidding, and, cutting its stem with his bill, would quickly bring it to the ground.

"Pippity," I would say, "do you see that extra fine bunch of bananas up there? Now, do you go up and cut the stalk, while I stand below and catch the luscious treasure on this soft bed of leaves."

And, before I would be done speaking, Pippity would already be pretty well advanced with his work. For getting nuts, and such fruit as it was desirable to take carefully from plants at great heights, his services were invaluable.

It is a remarkable fact that, although we had such an abundance of tropical fruits, as well as a large proportion of temperate productions, on our domain, the cocoa-nut was not one of them. I remembered that, in coming up from the lake, I had seen large numbers of cocoa-nut trees growing on the small flat at which I first arrived about nine hundred feet below the level of our palace plateau.

It would be an agreeable diversion, I thought, to go down there and get some of those nuts, and it undoubtedly would be quite a treat to Pippity to share them with me.

"So," said I, "Pippity, I am going down this narrow gorge to the lake; cocoa-nuts grow there, and I mean that you and I shall have some. Keep house while I am gone. I shall start with the first peep of dawn, while it is cool, and be back some time in the afternoon."

I had made some baskets, in which we hung up the fruit we gathered. One of these I took, and went down the declivity. I soon filled the basket with good cocoa-nuts, saw plenty of monkeys, and was much amused at their lively antics, and at their astonishment at seeing one so much like them, and yet so different. I then returned—not, however, without being obliged to throw away quite a number of the nuts before reaching the top, in order to lessen the burden, which was light enough at first, but which seemed to grow heavier and heavier as I proceeded.

As soon as Pippity saw me, he cried out:

"Cocoa-nuts! Cocoa-nuts!"

We relished them so much that I went down after them quite often, always leaving Pippity at home to mind the house.

On one occasion, while I was gathering these nuts, I was startled by a loud shrieking not far off, and, looking in the direction of the noise, I saw that there was a great commotion among the monkeys—about a hundred of them squealing and yelling and gesticulating at once. It was on the ground, where the monkey-crowd swayed to and fro like any civilized mob. I ran up to see what the fracas was about, but not without some misgivings as to the risk of meddling in other people's business.

(To be continued.)



SINGING PINS.

BY HARLAN H. BALLARD.

It has been said, you know, that all the millions of pins which are lost every year are picked up by fairies and hammered out on elfin anvils into notes of music. There are some who say that this statement must be received with caution, although they admit that the half and quarter notes do bear a very singular resemblance to pins.

I confess that I shared the doubts of this latter class of persons until a few evenings since; for although I knew well enough that pins were bright and sharp enough in their way, I never had been able to discover one of a musical turn of mind.

But having on a certain evening heard a choir of pins singing "Yankee Doodle" till you would have thought that their heads must ache forever after, I hereby withdraw all my objections, and express my decided opinion that the above-named theory of the future life of pins is fully as accurate as any other with which I am acquainted.

The chorus of pins who were singing "Yankee Doodle" were standing at the time on a piece of pine-board, and were evidently very much stuck up.

One of their number, however, when asked if they were not rather too self-important, bent his head quickly downward, and replied that he couldn't see the point, which was exceedingly brassy for a pin.

They looked for all the world as if they were a line of music which, impatient of being forever kept under key and behind bars, had revolted under the leadership of an intrepid staff-officer, and marched right out of Sister Mary's instruction-book.



Indeed, from a remark which the staff-officer let fall, to the effect that if they did not all see sharp they would soon be flat again, nothing else would be natural than to accept that supposition as the truth.

Pins they were of all papers and polish.

They were not ranged according to height, as good soldiers should be, nor did they all stand erect, but each seemed bent on having his own way.

Their heads varied greatly from an even line, and on the whole they looked far more like the notes of music which they had been, than like the orderly row of singing-pins which they aspired to be. They had a scaly appearance.

My small brother had assumed the management of this curious chorus, and I was much amused at the manner in which he drilled them. For he coolly picked up the splendid staff-officer by his head and poked the first bass with his point, as if to say, "Time—sing!" Whereupon that pin set up a deep, twanging growl, to express his disapprobation of that method of drill.

In like manner did my brother treat each of the pins in succession. Then it appeared that each had a different voice, and was capable of producing but one sound. Moreover, they had been so arranged that, as they uttered each one his peculiar note, the sounds followed each other in such a manner as to produce the lively and patriotic air of "Yankee Doodle." This was very wonderful and pleasing.

"Well, Johnny," said I, as soon as I could stop laughing, "that's pretty good. Where did you pick that up?"

"Oh, a feller told me," said he. "'T aint nothing to do. All there is of it is to get a tune in your head, and then drive a pin down in a board, and keep a-driving, and trying it till it sounds like the first note in the tune. Then stick up another for the second note, and so on."

"How can you raise a pin to a higher note?" said I.

"Hammer her down farther," said he.

"And to make a lower note?" I asked.

"Pull her up a little," said he.

"How do you manage the time?"

"Oh, when you want to go slow, you put the pins a good ways apart; and when you want to go fast, you plant 'em thicker."

The next day I found that this ridiculous brother of mine had set up a pin-organ in a circular form. He had made one of those little whirligigs which spin around when they are held over the register or by a stove-pipe, and then had connected it by a string with a wheel. This wheel, as it turned, set an upright shaft in motion, and from this there projected a stick armed at the end with a pin. This was arranged, as is shown in the cut, so that when it revolved, the pin in the stick played upon the pins in the circle, and rattled off the "Mulligan Guards" at a tremendous pace.



Johnny says that he invented the circular arrangement, and that all the boys he knows are making these pin-organs for themselves, which I am not at all surprised to hear.



ABOUT THE PORPOISES.

BY J. D.

The porpoise is a long, sleek fish without scales, black on the back, and white and gray beneath. He is from four to ten feet in length, and his sociability and good-nature are proverbial among seamen of all nations.

A porpoise is rarely seen alone, and if he by chance wanders from his friends, he acts in a very bewildered and foolish manner, and will gladly follow a steamer at full speed rather than be left alone. He is a very inquisitive fish, and is always thrusting his funny-looking snout into every nook that promises diversion or sport.



A very familiar spectacle at sea is a school of porpoises—or "porpusses," as the sailors call them. As soon as a school catches sight of a ship, they immediately make a frantic rush for it, as if their life depended upon giving it a speedy welcome. After diving under the vessel a few times to inspect it and try its speed, they take their station under the bows, just ahead, and proceed to cut up every antic that a fish is capable of. They jump, turn over, play "leap-frog" and "tag" in the most approved fashion. Their favorite antic is to dive a few feet and then come to the surface, showing their backs in a half circle, and then, making a sound like a long-drawn sigh, disappear again. Sailors call them "sea-clowns," and never allow them to be harmed.

They are met with in schools of from two or three to thousands. They often get embayed in the inlets and shallow rivers which their curiosity leads them to investigate. A porpoise once came into the Harlem River and wandered up and down for a week seeking a way out. One day he suddenly made his appearance amid some bathers and scattered them by his gambols.

When they change their feeding-places, the sea is covered for acres with a tumultuous multitude of these "sea-clowns," all swimming along in the same direction.

When one of these droves is going against the wind (or to windward), their plungings throw up little jets of water, which, being multiplied by thousands of fish, present a very curious appearance.



THE WILD WIND.

BY CLARA W. RAYMOND.

Oh, the wind came howling at our house-door, Like a maddened fiend set free; He pushed and struggled with gasp and roar, For an angry wind was he!

He dashed snow-wreaths at our window-panes, The casements rattled and creaked; Then up he climbed to the chimney tops, And down through the flues he shrieked.

He found Jack's sled by the garden fence, And tumbled it down in his spite; And heaped the snow till he covered it up, And hid it from poor Jack's sight.

He tore down the lattice and broke the house Ned built for the birds last week; And he bent the branches and bowed the trees, Then rushed off fresh wrath to wreak.

And oh! how he frightened poor little Nell, And made her tremble and weep, Till mother came up and soothed the wee maid, And lulled her with songs to sleep!

Her tiny hand nestled, content and still, In her mother's, so soft and warm; While with magical power of low, sweet tones The mother-love hushed the storm.



THE MAGICIAN AND HIS BEE.

BY P.F.

It was a spelling bee. The magician had never had one, but he thought it was better late than never, and so he sent word around that he would have his bee just outside of the town, on the green grass. Everybody came, because they had to. When the magician said they must do a thing, there was no help for it. So they all marched in a long procession, the magician at the head with his dictionary open at the "bee" page. Every now and then he turned around and waved his wand, so as to keep the musicians in good time. The cock-of-the-walk led the band and he played on his own bill, which had holes in it, like a flute. The rabbit beat the drum, and the pig blew the horn, while old Mother Clink, who was mustered in to make up the quartette, was obliged to play on the coffee-mill, because she understood no other instrument.



The king came, with his three body-guards marching in front. The first guard was a wild savage with bare legs, and a gnat stung him on the knee, which made the second guard laugh so much that the third one who carried the candles had a chance to eat a penny-dip, without any person seeing him. The king rode in his chariot, drawn by two wasps. He was a very warm gentleman, and not only carried a parasol to keep off the sun, but the head ninny-hammer squirted water on the small of his back to keep him cool.



The court tailor rode on a goat, and he carried his shears and the goose he ironed with. He balanced himself pretty well until a bird sat on his queue, and that bent him over backward so that he nearly fell off.

The queen also came; she was bigger than the king and had to have cats to draw her chariot. The cats fought a good deal, but the driver, who was a mouse, managed to get them along. The footman was also a mouse, and the queen had two pet mice that sat at her feet or played with her scepter. After the queen came the chief jumping jack, who did funny tricks with bottles as he danced along.



Then came the ladies of the court. They sat in nautilus shells, which were each borne by two bearers. The first shell went along nicely, but the men who carried the second were lazy and the lady beat them with a hair-brush. As for the bearers of the last shell, they had a fight and took their poles to beat each other, leaving their shell, with the lady in it, on the ground. She didn't mind, for she thought that if they went off and left her, she wouldn't have to do any spelling. So she stayed in her shell and smiled very contentedly.



The town bell-man walked along in grand state ringing his bell, and the cock-who-could-n't-walk rode on a wheelbarrow and crowed by note. The old ram wheeled the barrow, in which was also a basket containing the hen and chickens. The smallest chicken tried to crow in tune with his father, but nobody could hear whether he crowed right or wrong—and what is more, nobody cared.

The monkey didn't walk, but was carried in a bucket by a mountaineer, and he blew peas through a tube at the palace steward who was having his hair combed by the court barber. It was so late that the barber had to hurry, and so he used a rake instead of a comb. The steward did not like this, but there was so little time that nothing else could be done, for the procession was already moving.



There was a lion who lived at the Town-hall. He was very wise, and his business was to bite criminals. When he heard about the bee he thought he would have to go, but the moment he showed himself in the street all the relatives of the criminals got after him. The wasps stung him, a game-cock pecked at him, a beetle nipped him, a dog barked at him, an old woman ran after him with a broom, a wooden-legged soldier pursued him with a sword, a rat gave chase to him, while a rabbit took down his shot-gun and cried out, fiercely, that he would blow the top of that old lion's head off, if he could only get a fair crack at him.



Two of the liveliest animals in the town were the donkey and the old cow. They went to the bee, but they danced along as if they didn't care at all whether they spelled cat with a c or a k. They each had two partners. The donkey had two regular danseuses, but the cow had to content herself with the court librarian and the apothecary.



Out in the green grass where the company assembled there were a lot of grasshoppers and little gnats. The grasshoppers said to each other, "We can't put letters together to make words, so let us dance for a spell," which they did,—all but one poor young creature who had no partner, and who sat sorrowfully on one side, while the others skipped gayly about.



As soon as the people and the chickens and donkeys and wasps and cows and all the others were seated, side by side, in two long rows, the magician gave out the first word. It was "Roe-dough-mon-taide"—at least that was the way he pronounced it. The king and the queen were at the heads of the two lines, and it was their duty to begin,—first the king, and then the queen, if he missed.

But neither of them had ever heard of the word, and so they didn't try. Then one of the wasps tried, and afterward a ram, a rabbit, and the head ninny-hammer; but they made sad work of it. Then each one of the company made an effort and did his, her or its very best, but it was of no use; they could not spell the word.

Uprose then the little chicken that had stood on his mother's back and tried to crow in tune with his father, and he cried out: "Give it up!"

"Wrong!" said the magician. "That's not it. You are all now under the influence of a powerful spell. Here you will remain until some one can correctly answer my question."

They are all there yet. How long would you, my reader, have to sit on the grass before you could spell that word?



SCRUBBY'S BEAUTIFUL TREE.

BY J.C. PURDY.

I.

"Papa!"

"Well, dear!"

"Wont to-morrow be Kissmuss?"

"Why, no, darling! We had Christmas-day long ago. Don't you remember?"

"Yes; but you said we'd have another Kissmuss in a year, and then I'd have such a pitty tree. I'm sure it's a year. It is a year, papa; and it takes so awful long to wait for some time—it's jess a noosance. I fink ole Kriss was drefful mean not to let me have a tree only cos we'd got poor. Wasn't we ever poor before, papa? Don't he give trees to any poor little girls? I do want a tree—sech a pitty one, like I used to have!"

It was little Scrubby said all that. She was only four years old, but she could say what she had to say in her own fashion. When she saw her father's sorrowful face, she thought she had said rather too much this time; so she gave him a hug and put up her mouth for a kiss.

"I dess I can wait, papa," she said. "But he will bring me a tree next Kissmuss, wont he? Jess like I used to have? And then wont that be nice! There's my baby waked up. She'll be cryin' in a minute, I s'pose."

Old Lucy, the dearest baby of all in this little girl's large family, was taken up and quieted; and then something happened that was really wonderful. Scrubby, with her poor torn and tangled doll in her arms, sat very still for at least five minutes. The little maid was thinking all that time. She did not think very straight, perhaps, but she thought over a great deal of ground, and settled a good many things in that busy little head of hers; then she sang them all over to good old Lucy.

"Hush, my dear!" she sang. "Don't stay long, for it beats my heart when the winds blow; and come back soon to your own chickabiddy, and then Kissmuss'll be here. S'umber on, baby dear. Kriss is coming with such a booful tree; then wont you be s'prised? She went to the hatter's to get him a coffin, and when she come back he was fixin' my Kissmuss-tree!"

The little singer grew so enthusiastic when she came to the tree that she could not wait to sing any more; so she just danced Lucy up and down and chattered to her as fast as her tongue could go.

"It'll be for me and for you, Lucy, and for all the babies, and then wont you be glad! And for mamma too, and for papa, cos we's all good little chillen, if we is poor. Yes, indeed, Ole Kriss is coming with his reindeer. And he'll bring me a horse with pink shoes on; and you'll have a piano—a really piano, ye know; and mamma, she'll have two little glass s'ippers, and—and—"

Little Scrubby stopped chattering just there, and laid her head down on poor old Lucy's kind bosom.

"Oh dear!" she sighed, "I do wish ole Kriss'd come with that pitty tree!"

The kitten curled up on the hearth, and the little broken dog that lay tipped over in the corner, and good old Lucy, and the three dolls tucked up in mamma's basket, all heard the wish of the poor little disappointed child.



II.

Everybody has noticed that the kittens and the dogs take a great many naps in the day-time, and that the dolls and toy-animals let the children do the most of the playing. That is because the pets and the toys are tired out and sleepy after their doings the night before, when the children were asleep and the grown people out of the way. They have rare sprees all by themselves, but just as soon as any person comes about, the fun stops,—the cat and the dog are sound asleep, the dolls drop down anywhere still as a wood-pile, and the rocking-horse don't even switch the ten hairs left in his tail.

As for talking, though, they might chatter all the time and nobody be the wiser. People hear them, but not a soul knows what it is. Mamma sticks paper into the key-hole to keep out the wind that whistles so, papa takes medicine for the cold that makes such a ringing in his head, and Bridget sets a trap to catch the mouse that "squales and scrabbles about so, a body can't slape at all, 'most;" and all the while it is the dolls and pets laughing and talking among themselves.

The bird in the cage and the bird out-of-doors know what it is. Very tame squirrels and rabbits understand it; and the poor little late chicken, which was brought into the kitchen for fear of freezing, soon spoke the language like a native.

Scrubby understood all that any of them said, and they all understood her and liked her immensely. Even the plants in the window would nod and wink and shake out their leaves whenever she came about.

After little Scrubby and everybody else in the house had gone to bed that night, Minx, the kitten, came out from behind the broom, and prancing up to the little pasteboard and wool dog that lay tipped over in the corner, pawed him about until he was as full of fun as herself. Then she jumped upon the table and clawed the three dolls out of mamma's work-basket, sending them all sprawling on the floor.



They were a sad-looking lot of babies, anyway. There was Peg, knit out of blue, red and yellow worsted, and with black beads for eyes. She was a good deal raveled out, but there was plenty of fun in her yet, after all.

Then there was Francaise. She was a French girl, who had been brought from Paris for Scrubby before that bad time when papa "got poor." She had been very elegant, but now her laces were torn, her hair would never curl again, one arm swung loose, and her head wobbled badly; but, for all that, she was still full of lively French airs. Lyd was the last of the lot. Poor thing! She had been such a lovely wax blonde: but now the wax had all melted off her cheeks, she was as bald as a squash, one eye had been knocked out, and, worst of all, she had not a stitch of clothes on. Scrubby had brought her to this plight; but, for all that, Lyd loved the very ground Scrubby tumbled over; and so did all the rest of them, for that matter, never caring how much she abused them in her happy, loving way.

Very soon high fun was going on in that room, and it is a wonder the neighbors did not come in to see what the uproar meant; but nobody heard it.

Yes, Ned, the bird, heard it, took his head out from under his wing, and laughed at the fun until he almost tumbled out of his cage. The lively dog, Spot, heard it out in his shed, too, and whined at the door until Jumping Jack contrived to undo the latch and let him in. The little late chicken heard it also, hopped out of his snug basket, and was soon enjoying himself as much as if they were all chickens and it was a warm spring day.

Lucy heard it, too; but Scrubby had taken Lucy to bed with her, and had her hugged up so tightly that the kind old baby couldn't get away, and had to lie there and listen and wait.

They were having a good time in that room. The rocking-horse had been hitched to the little wagon, and Jumping Jack was driver; Miss Francaise had climbed into the wagon, and was sitting there as gracefully as she could, trying to hold her head steady; she had the pasteboard dog for a lap-dog, while Peg and Lyd sprawled on the wagon-bottom, and Minx stood upon the horse's back like a circus-rider.

And so they went tearing around the room in fine style, Spot racing with them and wagging his tail till it looked like a fan. Ned fairly shouted in his cage, and the chicken jumped on a chair and tried his best to crow.

After a while, Spot grabbed up a piece of paper from one corner, and began to worry it. The fine Francaise saw that and tumbled out of the wagon in a minute, as if she were only a very quick-tempered little girl. She snatched the paper away from Spot and snapped out: "You sha'n't spoil that! It's Scrubby's letter!"

The horse had stopped now, Jumping Jack jerked himself up to the astonished dog, and said, very severely: "Spot, aint you ashamed to worry anything that belongs to our Scrubby? I'll put you out if there's any more of it."

"It's too bad, so it is," said Peg.

Lyd began to cry with her one eye, while Ned stopped laughing and went to scolding; the chicken put his claw before his face, as if ashamed of such a dog, and even the horse shook his head.

Poor Spot was under a cloud.

"I didn't know it was anything Scrubby cared for, and I don't believe it is, either," he snapped.

"I saw Scrubby write it," said Minx, "and she stuck the pencil in my ear when she'd finished."

"She was sitting on us when she wrote it," said Peg and Lyd together.

"Yes, and she held me on her lap and read it to me when it was done," put in Francaise.

"Of course it's her letter," spoke up the rocking-horse. "Don't you remember, Fran, she hitched it to my bridle and told you to ride right off and give it to old Kriss when he came around?"

"You're a nice crowd!" growled Spot. "Every one of you knew all about this, and left it kicking around on the floor! You are a nice crowd! I'll take charge of it myself now, and see that old Kriss gets it. He can't read it, of course. Nobody could read that; but it shows how much you all think of Scrubby."

Spot had the best of it now; but the French lady spoke up in a way that put the others in good spirits right off, and made honest Spot feel as if he had been sat down upon.

"Perhaps some people can read, if you cant," she said, "I can read that letter for you, and for old Kriss too, if he wants me to."

She could not read a word, but she opened out the scribbled sheet in fine style, and just repeated what she had heard Scrubby say. And this is what Scrubby tried to put in the letter:

OLE KRISS: I want a tree, please, ole Kriss, right away. And lots of pitty things. And glass s'ippers for mamma. And moss under it, and animals, jess like I used to have. And a pink coat for papa, and not wait for some time, cos that's a noosance.

It was very queer how they all acted when they heard the letter. There was not another cross word said—or a word of any kind for that matter. Not one of them even looked at the others, and it was not until poor Spot gave a big snuff that each of them found out that the rest were crying.

"Well, I know what I'm going to do," said Minx, at last. "I'm just going to get that child a tree; that's what I'm going to do."

"And I'm going to help you," Francaise said, as heartily as if she were not a fine lady at all. "She ruined my dress, and tore my lace, and put my hair in such a state as never was; but I don't care. She wants a tree, and she's going to have it."

"You ought to have heard how she talked to her papa and old Luce to-night," sobbed the one-eyed baby. "It was enough to break a body's heart."

"We did hear her," they all snuffled.

Then they wiped their eyes, and a minute afterward, with much chatter, they began to make preparations for getting the tree.

All but Spot. Scrubby had used him the worst of all, she loved him so. She had pulled every hair on him loose, and had twisted his tail until it hung crooked; and yet Spot could not speak or do anything for crying over little Scrubby's grief.



III.

Pretty soon, Lucy, who had listened to as much of this talk as she could, heard the whole party go out of the back door and start off somewhere. She was in a great state of mind about it. Not for anything in the world would she waken Scrubby; but oh! how she longed to tumble down-stairs and rush off after the rest!

What a party it was that did go out of that back door! And in what style they went! Ned, the canary, was the only one left behind; and those who couldn't walk, rode. For they had hitched the horse to Scrubby's little battered sled, and made a grand sleighing party of it.

Jumping Jack drove, of course. The French lady had the seat of honor on the sled, and much trouble she had to keep it, for there was nothing to hold on by, and her head was so loose that it nearly threw her over.

Lyd had wrapped a dish-towel about her, and felt very comfortable and well-dressed; while Peg had come just as she was, and they both rolled about on the sled in a very dangerous fashion.

The late chicken held on with his claws to the curl of the runner, and flapped his wings and squawked every time the sled plunged a little in the snow. Minx rode horseback as before, while Spot went afoot, jumping and barking, and snapping up a mouthful of snow every few minutes.

But not one of them knew where they were going, or what they were going to do. They meant to get Scrubby a tree somehow, and that was all they knew about it.

At last, Peg said (Peg was a very sensible baby, if she was raveled out):

"What are we going to do, anyhow?"

"Why, we're going to get a tree for Scrubby," they all answered.

"Well, what kind of a tree?—and where?"

That was a poser. None of them had thought so far as that. At last, Minx said:

"Why, any kind—somewhere."

"There are plenty of trees in France," said Francaise.

"Then that's the place for us to go," said Jumping Jack; and at once they raced off to the end of the garden, on their way to France.

"This aint the way, after all," Minx said, when they got to the fence. "The world comes to an end just over there. I got up on the fence one day, and there was nothing beyond but a great, deep hole."

"There's no use going off this other way," Spot put in, "for there's nothing over there but a big lot of water with a mill standing by it. I was over there one day."

"Then that is our way," said the French lady, decisively. "That is the ocean. I know they brought me across the ocean, and I was awfully sick all the way."

That last rather discouraged them, for nobody wanted to get awfully sick if there was any other way to find Scrubby's tree; so they concluded not to go to France.

"Well, let's go somewhere, for I'm getting cold," peeped the chicken; and then there was a great discussion. At last, Spot said:

"We are a stupid lot! There's that sparrow comes about the door every day—he could tell us all about trees in a minute if we could find him."

Minx knew where the sparrow kept himself, for she always watched him with an eye to business.

"But," she said, "some of the rest of you will have to talk to him, for he'll never let me come near him."

So then the chicken called to the sparrow, and the sparrow answered. The matter was explained to him, and the bird fluttered down among them as much excited as anybody.

"It's for little Scrubby, eh?" he said. "What in the world does she want a tree for? I know. It's because she is half bird herself—bless her heart!—and she likes trees just like any other bird. And don't she come to the door every morning and give me crumbs and talk to me so friendly? Of course, I'll help find a tree for her."

But he had not found one yet, and so the chicken told him.

"I don't know," he said. "Suppose I call Mrs. Squirrel. She can tell." And off he flew, and had the gray squirrel there in a minute, cold as it was.

Then they had to tell the story over again to Mrs. Squirrel and to Mr. Rabbit, who had also hopped along to see what the fuss was all about.

"Scrubby's got to have a tree, and that's all about it," chattered Mrs. Squirrel, as she whisked about in a state of great excitement. "I didn't know old Kriss could be so mean as that. Call him a saint! And all because Scrubby's poor! Humph! Don't seem to me she is so very poor. Didn't I give her those eyes she has? And didn't the robin give her his own throat? And hasn't she a sunbeam inside, that shines all through? And didn't Miss June roll up all the flowers she had, and a dozen birds beside, and wrap the whole bundle up in Scrubby's brown skin? I don't call that being so very poor, do you? Anyhow, she is not so poor but that she could make me feel jolly every time she came out-doors last summer to run after me and chatter to me."

The rabbit had been standing all this time with one cold foot wrapped up in his ear. He unfolded his ear now, and wiped his eyes with it.

"She almost cried," he said. "Just think of one of my little bunnies wanting anything she couldn't get, and crying about it! It just breaks my heart."

"Tree!" chirped the chicken.

"Yes," said Mrs. Squirrel, "why don't you go and get a tree for Scrubby? What do you all stand here for, chattering and doing nothing? I'd give her mine, only that great beech couldn't be got into the house."

"We wanted your advice," the sparrow suggested.

"Advice! You don't need any advice. Why don't you give her your own tree? That little Norway spruce is just the thing. Come along, and don't be so selfish!"

"I'm not selfish; but really Norway is not fit, and, besides, I don't believe he'll go."

"Nonsense! He's a beautiful tree, only there isn't much green on him; and of course he'll go, for we'll make him go," answered the very decided Mrs. Squirrel.

So they all whisked away to the sparrow's roosting-place. Norway was not in good health, that was evident. He was very thin, and his temper was in bad condition too; for when the sparrow asked him if he would please step out and come with them, he answered:

"Not much I wont! It's bad enough standing here in the ground, poorly as I am, without coming out there in the snow; and I'll not do it for anybody."

"Oh dear! Scrubby will be so disappointed! What will she do?" they all cried out at once.

"What's that about Scrubby? What has Scrubby got to do with my catching my death-cold, anyhow?" asked Norway.

And then they told him the whole story. He hardly waited for them to get through before he broke out talking very fast.

"Why didn't you say so? How should I know it was for Scrubby? Of course, I'll go! I'd do anything for her. She did enough for me, I should think,"—and, as quickly as he could, he pulled his one foot out of the ground and hopped into the snow beside the horse. Then he went on talking. "You see if it hadn't been for Scrubby I wouldn't be alive at all. She heard somebody say that I needed to have the dirt loosened about my roots, and to have plenty of water. So she dug around me at a great rate, and watered me until I was almost drowned. She cut off a good many of my roots, and once she threw hot water all down this side of me; but she didn't know. I'm not much of a tree, I confess; but Scrubby did what she could, and if she wants me she shall have me."

"Come on, then," said the chicken, "for I'm so cold my bill chatters." And they went.

It was a very funny procession they made going back to the house,—the horse prancing along with the sled, the three dolls taking a sleigh-ride in their queer way, Spot racing about everywhere with Minx on his back, and the tree hopping along after the sled as fast as his one foot could go. The chicken rode back on one of Norway's branches, and fluttered and squawked more than ever.

When they started, they looked about and called for the sparrow, Mrs. Squirrel, and Mr. Rabbit, but they had all disappeared; so the rest went back without them, shouting, laughing and singing.



IV.

It was a brave sight they saw when Jumping Jack opened the door to let the party in.

Luce had got away from her little bedfellow at last without waking her. She knew that the others had gone to get a tree for little Scrub, and she knew that a tree was just no tree at all without plenty of things to hang upon it. So she went to work, and by the time Jack opened the door she had a great deal done. It was astonishing how many things she had found to put on that tree; but then she had been rummaging among Scrubby's old playthings up in the garret.

There were old dolls, little and big; there were old toys of all sorts; there were pretty little pictures, and quantities of flowers made of bright paper. A great many of the things Scrubby had thrown aside so long ago they would be new to her now; and some of them mamma had put away very carefully, so that the little girl should not altogether spoil them.

Lucy had found them all and had brought them down-stairs; and now she had them in a heap on the floor, trying to keep them in order, for they were all very lively at being brought out again.

"Well, Luce, you have done it!" Jack said.

"Of course, I have," answered Lucy. "Do keep that horse away, Jack, and not let him run over these babies."

"Oh dear!" squawked the chicken, and fluttered under the table, for these new-comers were all strangers to him.

Spot tried not to bark his astonishment and delight; Minx began to claw all the old dolls and toys about; the French lady walked away into a corner and waited to be introduced, while Lyd and Peg shook hands with their old cronies until it seemed as though they never would stop.

The tree had hopped into the room and stood there, not knowing what to do with himself. Lucy did not see him at first, being so busy with the rest; but as soon as she did see him, she gave him such a hug as nearly pulled him over.

"Oh, you dear old Norway! Did you come? You're so good, and I'm so glad! Come up to the fire and get warm. Here, Jack, and Lyd, and Francaise, help me get this big foot-stool into the corner. It's getting awful late."

Lucy flew about in a ragged kind of way until she had all the rest flying about too, doing an amount of work nobody would have believed possible. They were all glad enough to do the work, but they needed just such a driving, thoughtful old body as Lucy to show them what to do and keep them at it.



The big foot-stool was put where Lucy wanted it, and Norway warmed his foot and hopped upon the stool, pushing himself as far back in the corner as he could get, to make sure that he would not fall.

Then Lucy climbed upon a chair in front of him, ready for business. She took Francaise up on the chair beside her to help arrange the things, for the French girl had excellent taste, and nobody could deny it. Lyd and Peg, and Minx and Spot, and even the chicken, brought the things to go on the tree, and faster, too, than they could possibly be used, while Ned shouted all manner of directions.

Poor Norway fairly bowed his head under the weight of all the things that were hung upon him. And it was astonishing how pretty those battered old dolls, broken toys, and torn flowers looked when upon the tree. There were so many, and they had been arranged so nicely, that they really did make a splendid show.

"But, oh dear!" Lucy sighed, when it was all done. "It's not your fault I know, Norway, and you are just as good as you can be; but if you only were not quite so thin, and were just a little bit greener! And then we've no moss to put under you. But we haven't any nice little animals to put on the moss, if we had it."

Just then, Jumping Jack heard a queer kind of noise outside, and opened the door to see what it was. In whisked Mrs. Squirrel; the sparrow hopped in close beside her, and Mr. Rabbit jumped along right after them.

"How are you getting on?" asked the gray lady. "I brought this along because I thought it might come handy. We laid in a great deal more than we needed for our nest last fall, and we could just as well spare it as not."

It was a big bundle of beautiful green moss she had brought, enough to spread all around under the tree and make a fine carpet.

"Oh, you dear, good old thing!" said Luce. "That is just exactly what we wanted. Here, Lyd! Peg! Help me spread this down."

"Chick," said the sparrow, "will you please take charge of this?"

And there was a great long vine of shining green ivy which the sparrow had dragged in with him from some place in the woods. Lucy was so delighted that she fairly clapped her brown leather hands.

"Quick, Francaise!" she cried. "Take this and twist it around the tree. Just the thing to hide poor old Norway's bare places. Oh, it's just lovely!"

All this time Mr. Rabbit had been holding his ears very straight up, and now he shook a couple of button-balls and some acorn-cups out of one, and a lot of mountain-ash berries out of the other.

"Do to hang around on the tree. Look kind of odd and nice," he said.

"Well, I should think so!" Luce answered. "I never did see such good creatures as you are; and we all thought you had gone home to bed."

Speaking of bed made the chicken gape a little, and they all remembered how late it was. They never stopped chattering and laughing for a minute; but they went to work harder than ever, and soon had all the moss spread down, the ivy twined over the tree, and the button-balls, acorn-cups, and berries hung up where they would show best.

Then Mr. Rabbit got up on the stool and nearly covered himself with moss; Mrs. Squirrel got under the tree and stood up on her hind-feet, with an acorn in her paws; Minx curled herself up in the funniest way on the moss; the sparrow flew up into the tree and began pecking at the mountain-ash berries; Francaise and Lyd and Peg all sat down as well as they could near the squirrel and the rabbit; Jumping Jack mounted the horse and rode around beside the tree, to stand guard; Spot stood up on his hind-legs just in front of the stool, with Scrubby's letter in his mouth, and the chicken hopped up on Spot's head.

Then good old Lucy started to go upstairs after Scrubby, but she got no further than the door. Scrubby had waked up and missed her dear old doll, so she had come down to look for her, and there she stood now, just inside the door, with her bright brown eyes wide open.

A minute before there had been only the scraggy little tree she had taken care of, the battered old toys, the torn dolls and the little pets she had played with and loved so well, the bird and the wild creatures she had fed and chattered to, and a little bit of ivy and green moss. But just as soon as she looked at them all, there was the most beautiful Christmas-tree that ever was seen.

It was very curious; but it was the light that did it—the light of her own happy eyes. It dies out of eyes that are older.



THE MINSTREL'S CAROL.

A CHRISTMAS COLLOQUY.

MR. and MRS. BURTON. TOMMY, aged seven. MAY, aged five. LUCY, aged eighteen.

MR. and MRS. REMSEN. HARRY, } Twins, aged SADIE, } six. PATRICK, a hired man.

Scene: The Burtons' parlor on Christmas Eve.

Mr. B. Tommy! stop making such a noise.

Tommy. Oh, I can't have any fun at all!

Mr. B. Why, yes you can. Look at all your toys scattered about. Play something quietly.

Tommy. Nobody to play with.

Mr. B. Play with your little sister.

Tommy. She's sitting in mamma's lap; besides, she's a girl. Oh, papa [running to his father] I wish the Remsens would come! I want to play with Harry.

Mr. B. [hastily]. Never mind, never mind! The Remsens will not come.

May. Why wont the Remsens come?

Tommy. Oh, dear me, there isn't anything nice to do!

Mr. B. Tommy, stop your whining. Don't say another word. May, don't speak of the Remsens again. They are not coming, and that's an end of it.

[Enter LUCY.]

Lucy. What! tears on Christmas Eve, little May! And Tommy pouting! Oh, that'll never do! Come, cheer up! You'll have plenty of fun soon with Harry and Sadie.—It must be nearly time to send for the Remsens, father.

Mr. B. [vexed]. Don't speak of them again. They're not coming, and I don't want them. Why will every one keep talking about them?

[Enter PATRICK.]

Mrs. B. [aside to Lucy]. Mr. Remsen and your father have quarreled about a piece of land; so the Remsens are not to come this year.

Mr. B. Well, Patrick, what is it?

Patrick. Shure, the horse is ready, sir.

Mr. B. Horse ready? What for?

Patrick. To be goin' for the Rimsins, shure!

Mr. B. [angrily]. We are not going for the Remsens! What do you mean by acting without orders? Take the horse out at once!

Patrick. Widout orthers, is it? An' it's mesilf, thin, that hitched up the crather every Christmas Ave I've lived wid yous for to go for them same.

Mr. B. Don't answer, sir; do as I bid you.

Patrick [aside]. It's plain the masther's rin his nose forninst something harrud. [Exit.]

Mrs. B. [going to Mr. B. and putting her arm about him, he sitting]. Dear John, send for the Remsens, please. See how everything conspires to ask it of you, from the prattle of the children to old Patrick himself. It is Christmas Eve, dear! How can we teach the dear chicks to be kind to each other unless we set the example? Send for our old friends, John. They've been with us every Christmas Eve these many years. You'll settle your affair with Mr. Remsen all the better, afterward.

Mr. B. Why, Mary, would you have me crawl at the feet of a man who tries to overreach me?

Mrs. B. No, John! But stand on your own feet, and say: "Come, neighbor, let us do something better and wiser than hate each other."

Mr. B. I'll not do it. He has—

Lucy. Hark! What's that?

[Music outside—the sound of a harp, or of a concealed piano played very softly. Then, to its accompaniment, is sung the following carol:]

"Be merry all, be merry all! With holly dress the festive hall, Prepare the song, the feast, the ball, To welcome Merry Christmas.

"And, oh! remember, gentles gay, To you who bask in fortune's ray The year is all a holiday:— The poor have only Christmas.

"When you the costly banquet deal To guests who never famine feel, Oh spare one morsel from your meal To cheer the poor at Christmas.

"So shall each note of mirth appear More sweet to heaven than praise or prayer, And angels, in their carols there, Shall bless the poor at Christmas."

Lucy. Oh, what a beautiful carol! I'll call in the minstrel.

Mrs. B. Yes, run Lucy! [Exit LUCY.]

Mr. B. Set a chair by the fire, Tommy.

[Enter LUCY, with old minstrel carrying harp.]

Minstrel. Good even, gentle folks, and a merry Christmas to you all!

Mrs. B. Come sit by the fire. Tommy placed the chair for you. It is cold outside.

Minstrel. Thank you kindly, ma'am. So Tommy set the chair for the old man? Where is Master Tommy? Ah, there's my little man! Come here, Tommy. That's right. So, up, on my knee. Why, that's a bright face now! And it ought to be bright, too; for this is Christmas Eve, merry Christmas Eve, the children's happy time. Tommy, I remember when I was as young as you are. I had a little sister.

Tommy. I have a little sister, too.

Minstrel. Oh, you have a little sister, eh! Where is she, then?

Tommy [pointing]. Over there, in the corner.

Minstrel. Bless my old eyes, so she is! Run and bring her, Tommy.

[TOMMY runs, and returns leading and coaxing MAY.]

Minstrel [setting one on each knee]. Now, good folks, if you'll let me, I'll tell these little people a story of Jesus when he was a little boy. It is called "The Holy Well."

[They group themselves about the minstrel.]

Early one bright May morning, Jesus, then a little boy of ten or twelve years, awoke, and at once remembered that it was a holiday. His eyes, bright with the morning light, sparkled yet more brightly at the thought. There would be no school, no work. All the people would keep the feast. He knew, too, that on that day, the boys of his age would assemble betimes to play together at The Holy Well. So, brimful of joyful expectation, he ran to ask his mother's leave to go and join in the merry games. Soon he was on his way, and he quickened his steps when he came in sight of the troops of happy children running hither and thither in their sports. Drawing nearer, he stood still a little while, watching the games with pleased and eager eyes. Then he called out: "Little children, shall I play with you, and will you play with me?" Now, these boys and girls were the children of rich parents, and lived in much finer houses than the one Jesus had for a home. They had handsome clothes, too, and everything of the best. So they looked on the plainly dressed stranger, the son of a poor carpenter, and bade him begone, saying: "We will not play with you, or with any such as you!" What a rebuff was that! The poor, sensitive little lad had not expected it, and his tender feelings were hurt. His eyes filled with tears; and running home as fast as he could, he laid his head in his mother's lap, and sobbed out to her the whole story. Then Mary was angry with the ill-natured children, and told her son to go back and destroy them all by his word; for she believed that her beautiful boy could do such things. But, surely, if he could have harbored that thought, he would not have been beautiful; and so, when his mother spoke, her words drew away his thoughts from himself to the children who had grieved him. He knew that they had never really known him, and so could not have understood what they were doing. Therefore he said to his mother that he must be helpful and gentle to people, and not destroy them. And that was the way with him to the very end. For when, years after, the people (perhaps among them some of those same children grown-up) were putting him to death on a cross, he bethought him again that they did not really know him, and prayed: "Father, forgive them; they know not what they do." And, even before then, he had told all people to love their enemies, and forgive and be good to one another. If he had not done all that, Christmas would not be so happy a time for us.