(‡ decoration)EDWARD S. ELLIS.WRITER OF POPULAR BOOKS FOR BOYS.EDWARD S. ELLIS is one of the most successful of the large group of men and women who have made it their principal business to provide delightful books for our young people.Mr.Ellis is a native of northern Ohio, born in 1840, but has lived most of his life in New Jersey. At the age of seventeen, he began his successful career as a teacher and was attached for some years to the State Normal School of New Jersey, and was Trustee and Superintendent of the schools in the city of Trenton. He received the degree ofA. M.from Princeton University on account of the high character of his historical text-books; but he is most widely known as a writer of books for boys. Of these, he has written about thirty and continues to issue two new ones each year, all of which are republished in London. His contributions to children’s papers are so highly esteemed that the “Little Folks’ Magazine,” of London, pays him double the rates given to any other contributor.Mr.Ellis’s School Histories have been widely used as text-books and he has also written two books on Arithmetic. He is now preparing “The Standard History of the United States.”Besides those already mentioned, the titles of which would make too long a list to be inserted here, he has written a great many miscellaneous books.Mr.Ellis abounds in good nature and is a delightful companion, and finds in his home at Englewood, New Jersey, all that is necessary to the enjoyment of life.THE SIGNALFIRE.¹(FROM “STORM MOUNTAIN.”)¹Copyright, Porter & Coates.TALBOT FROST paused on the crest of Storm Mountain and looked across the lonely Oakland Valley spread out before him.He had traveled a clean hundred miles through the forest, swimming rapid streams, dodging Indians and Tories, and ever on the alert for his enemies, who were equally vigilant in their search for him.He eluded them all, however, for Frost, grim and grizzled, was a veteran backwoodsman who had been a border scout for a score of years or more, and he knew all the tricks of the cunning Iroquois, whose ambition was to destroy every white person that could be reached with rifle, knife, or tomahawk.Frost had been engaged on many duties for the leading American officers, but he was sure that to-daywas the most important of all; for be it known that he carried, hidden in the heel of his shoe, a message in cipher from General George Washington himself.Frost had been promised one hundred dollars in gold by the immortal leader of the American armies, if he would place the piece of cipher writing in the hands of Colonel Nick Hawley, before the evening of the tenth day of August, 1777.To-day was the tenth, the afternoon was only half gone, and Fort Defiance, with its small garrison under the command of Hawley, was only a mile distant in Oakland Valley. The vale spread away for many leagues to the right and left, and was a couple of miles wide at the point where the small border settlement was planted, with its stockade fort and its dozen families clustered near.“Thar’s a good three hours of sunlight left,” muttered the veteran, squinting one eye toward the sultry August sky, “and I orter tramp to the fort and back agin in half that time. I’ll be thar purty quick, if none of the varmints trip me up, but afore leavin’ this crest, I’d like to cotch the signal fire of young Roslyn from over yender.”General Washington considered the message to Colonel Hawley so important that he had sent it in duplicate; that is to say, two messengers concealed the cipher about their persons and set out by widely different routes to Fort Defiance, in Oakland Valley.Since the distance was about the same, and it was not expected that there would be much variation in speed, it was believed that, barring accidents, the two would arrive in sight of their destination within a short time of each other.The other messenger was Elmer Roslyn, a youth of seventeen, a native of Oakland, absent with his father in the Continental Army, those two being the only members of their family who escaped an Indian massacre that had burst upon the lovely settlement some months before.It was agreed that whoever first reached the mountain crest should signal to the other by means of a small fire—large enough merely to send up a slight vapor that would show against the blue sky beyond.The keen eyes of Talbot Frost roved along the rugged mountain-ridge a couple of miles distant, in search of the tell-tale signal. They followed the craggy crest a long distance to the north and south of the point where Roslyn had promised to appear, but the clear summer air was unsustained by the least semblance of smoke or vapor. The day itself was of unusual brilliancy, not the least speck of a cloud being visible in the tinted sky.“That Elmer Roslyn is a powerful pert young chap,” said the border scout to himself. “I don’t think I ever seed his ekal, and he can fight in battles jes’ like his father, Captain Mart, that I’ve heerd Gineral Washington say was one of the best officers he’s got; but thar’s no sense in his puttin’ himself agin an old campaignor likeme. I don’t s’pose he’s within twenty mile of Oakland yit, and he won’t have a chance to kindle that ere signal fire afore to-morrer. So I’ll start mine, and in case he should accidentally reach the mountain-top over yender afore sundown, why he’ll see what a foolish younker he was to butt agin me.”Talbot Frost knew that despite the perils through which he had forced his way to this spot, the greatest danger, in all probability, lay in the brief space separating him from Fort Defiance in the middle of the valley.It was necessary, therefore, to use great care lest the signal fire should attract the attention of unfriendly eyes.“I’ll start a small one,” he said, beginning to gather some dry twigs, “just enough for Elmer to obsarve by sarchin’—by the great Gineral Washington!”To explain this exclamation of the old scout, I must tell you that before applying the flint and tinder to the crumpled leaves, Talbot Frost glanced across the opposite mountain-crest, two miles away.As he did so he detected a fine, wavy column of smoke climbing from the rocks and trees. It was so faint that it was not likely to attract notice, unless a suspicious eye happened to look toward that part of the sky.“By gracious! It’s him!” he exclaimed, closing his mouth and resuming command of himself. “That ere young Roslyn is pearter than I thought; if he keeps on at this rate by the time he reaches my years he’ll be the ekal of me—almost. Wall, I’ll have to answer him; when we meet I’ll explanify that I give him up, and didn’t think it was wuth while to start a blaze.”
(‡ decoration)
WRITER OF POPULAR BOOKS FOR BOYS.
EDWARD S. ELLIS is one of the most successful of the large group of men and women who have made it their principal business to provide delightful books for our young people.
Mr.Ellis is a native of northern Ohio, born in 1840, but has lived most of his life in New Jersey. At the age of seventeen, he began his successful career as a teacher and was attached for some years to the State Normal School of New Jersey, and was Trustee and Superintendent of the schools in the city of Trenton. He received the degree ofA. M.from Princeton University on account of the high character of his historical text-books; but he is most widely known as a writer of books for boys. Of these, he has written about thirty and continues to issue two new ones each year, all of which are republished in London. His contributions to children’s papers are so highly esteemed that the “Little Folks’ Magazine,” of London, pays him double the rates given to any other contributor.Mr.Ellis’s School Histories have been widely used as text-books and he has also written two books on Arithmetic. He is now preparing “The Standard History of the United States.”
Besides those already mentioned, the titles of which would make too long a list to be inserted here, he has written a great many miscellaneous books.
Mr.Ellis abounds in good nature and is a delightful companion, and finds in his home at Englewood, New Jersey, all that is necessary to the enjoyment of life.
THE SIGNALFIRE.¹
(FROM “STORM MOUNTAIN.”)
¹Copyright, Porter & Coates.
TALBOT FROST paused on the crest of Storm Mountain and looked across the lonely Oakland Valley spread out before him.He had traveled a clean hundred miles through the forest, swimming rapid streams, dodging Indians and Tories, and ever on the alert for his enemies, who were equally vigilant in their search for him.He eluded them all, however, for Frost, grim and grizzled, was a veteran backwoodsman who had been a border scout for a score of years or more, and he knew all the tricks of the cunning Iroquois, whose ambition was to destroy every white person that could be reached with rifle, knife, or tomahawk.Frost had been engaged on many duties for the leading American officers, but he was sure that to-daywas the most important of all; for be it known that he carried, hidden in the heel of his shoe, a message in cipher from General George Washington himself.Frost had been promised one hundred dollars in gold by the immortal leader of the American armies, if he would place the piece of cipher writing in the hands of Colonel Nick Hawley, before the evening of the tenth day of August, 1777.To-day was the tenth, the afternoon was only half gone, and Fort Defiance, with its small garrison under the command of Hawley, was only a mile distant in Oakland Valley. The vale spread away for many leagues to the right and left, and was a couple of miles wide at the point where the small border settlement was planted, with its stockade fort and its dozen families clustered near.“Thar’s a good three hours of sunlight left,” muttered the veteran, squinting one eye toward the sultry August sky, “and I orter tramp to the fort and back agin in half that time. I’ll be thar purty quick, if none of the varmints trip me up, but afore leavin’ this crest, I’d like to cotch the signal fire of young Roslyn from over yender.”General Washington considered the message to Colonel Hawley so important that he had sent it in duplicate; that is to say, two messengers concealed the cipher about their persons and set out by widely different routes to Fort Defiance, in Oakland Valley.Since the distance was about the same, and it was not expected that there would be much variation in speed, it was believed that, barring accidents, the two would arrive in sight of their destination within a short time of each other.The other messenger was Elmer Roslyn, a youth of seventeen, a native of Oakland, absent with his father in the Continental Army, those two being the only members of their family who escaped an Indian massacre that had burst upon the lovely settlement some months before.It was agreed that whoever first reached the mountain crest should signal to the other by means of a small fire—large enough merely to send up a slight vapor that would show against the blue sky beyond.The keen eyes of Talbot Frost roved along the rugged mountain-ridge a couple of miles distant, in search of the tell-tale signal. They followed the craggy crest a long distance to the north and south of the point where Roslyn had promised to appear, but the clear summer air was unsustained by the least semblance of smoke or vapor. The day itself was of unusual brilliancy, not the least speck of a cloud being visible in the tinted sky.“That Elmer Roslyn is a powerful pert young chap,” said the border scout to himself. “I don’t think I ever seed his ekal, and he can fight in battles jes’ like his father, Captain Mart, that I’ve heerd Gineral Washington say was one of the best officers he’s got; but thar’s no sense in his puttin’ himself agin an old campaignor likeme. I don’t s’pose he’s within twenty mile of Oakland yit, and he won’t have a chance to kindle that ere signal fire afore to-morrer. So I’ll start mine, and in case he should accidentally reach the mountain-top over yender afore sundown, why he’ll see what a foolish younker he was to butt agin me.”Talbot Frost knew that despite the perils through which he had forced his way to this spot, the greatest danger, in all probability, lay in the brief space separating him from Fort Defiance in the middle of the valley.It was necessary, therefore, to use great care lest the signal fire should attract the attention of unfriendly eyes.“I’ll start a small one,” he said, beginning to gather some dry twigs, “just enough for Elmer to obsarve by sarchin’—by the great Gineral Washington!”To explain this exclamation of the old scout, I must tell you that before applying the flint and tinder to the crumpled leaves, Talbot Frost glanced across the opposite mountain-crest, two miles away.As he did so he detected a fine, wavy column of smoke climbing from the rocks and trees. It was so faint that it was not likely to attract notice, unless a suspicious eye happened to look toward that part of the sky.“By gracious! It’s him!” he exclaimed, closing his mouth and resuming command of himself. “That ere young Roslyn is pearter than I thought; if he keeps on at this rate by the time he reaches my years he’ll be the ekal of me—almost. Wall, I’ll have to answer him; when we meet I’ll explanify that I give him up, and didn’t think it was wuth while to start a blaze.”
TALBOT FROST paused on the crest of Storm Mountain and looked across the lonely Oakland Valley spread out before him.
He had traveled a clean hundred miles through the forest, swimming rapid streams, dodging Indians and Tories, and ever on the alert for his enemies, who were equally vigilant in their search for him.
He eluded them all, however, for Frost, grim and grizzled, was a veteran backwoodsman who had been a border scout for a score of years or more, and he knew all the tricks of the cunning Iroquois, whose ambition was to destroy every white person that could be reached with rifle, knife, or tomahawk.
Frost had been engaged on many duties for the leading American officers, but he was sure that to-daywas the most important of all; for be it known that he carried, hidden in the heel of his shoe, a message in cipher from General George Washington himself.
Frost had been promised one hundred dollars in gold by the immortal leader of the American armies, if he would place the piece of cipher writing in the hands of Colonel Nick Hawley, before the evening of the tenth day of August, 1777.
To-day was the tenth, the afternoon was only half gone, and Fort Defiance, with its small garrison under the command of Hawley, was only a mile distant in Oakland Valley. The vale spread away for many leagues to the right and left, and was a couple of miles wide at the point where the small border settlement was planted, with its stockade fort and its dozen families clustered near.
“Thar’s a good three hours of sunlight left,” muttered the veteran, squinting one eye toward the sultry August sky, “and I orter tramp to the fort and back agin in half that time. I’ll be thar purty quick, if none of the varmints trip me up, but afore leavin’ this crest, I’d like to cotch the signal fire of young Roslyn from over yender.”
General Washington considered the message to Colonel Hawley so important that he had sent it in duplicate; that is to say, two messengers concealed the cipher about their persons and set out by widely different routes to Fort Defiance, in Oakland Valley.
Since the distance was about the same, and it was not expected that there would be much variation in speed, it was believed that, barring accidents, the two would arrive in sight of their destination within a short time of each other.
The other messenger was Elmer Roslyn, a youth of seventeen, a native of Oakland, absent with his father in the Continental Army, those two being the only members of their family who escaped an Indian massacre that had burst upon the lovely settlement some months before.
It was agreed that whoever first reached the mountain crest should signal to the other by means of a small fire—large enough merely to send up a slight vapor that would show against the blue sky beyond.
The keen eyes of Talbot Frost roved along the rugged mountain-ridge a couple of miles distant, in search of the tell-tale signal. They followed the craggy crest a long distance to the north and south of the point where Roslyn had promised to appear, but the clear summer air was unsustained by the least semblance of smoke or vapor. The day itself was of unusual brilliancy, not the least speck of a cloud being visible in the tinted sky.
“That Elmer Roslyn is a powerful pert young chap,” said the border scout to himself. “I don’t think I ever seed his ekal, and he can fight in battles jes’ like his father, Captain Mart, that I’ve heerd Gineral Washington say was one of the best officers he’s got; but thar’s no sense in his puttin’ himself agin an old campaignor likeme. I don’t s’pose he’s within twenty mile of Oakland yit, and he won’t have a chance to kindle that ere signal fire afore to-morrer. So I’ll start mine, and in case he should accidentally reach the mountain-top over yender afore sundown, why he’ll see what a foolish younker he was to butt agin me.”
Talbot Frost knew that despite the perils through which he had forced his way to this spot, the greatest danger, in all probability, lay in the brief space separating him from Fort Defiance in the middle of the valley.
It was necessary, therefore, to use great care lest the signal fire should attract the attention of unfriendly eyes.
“I’ll start a small one,” he said, beginning to gather some dry twigs, “just enough for Elmer to obsarve by sarchin’—by the great Gineral Washington!”
To explain this exclamation of the old scout, I must tell you that before applying the flint and tinder to the crumpled leaves, Talbot Frost glanced across the opposite mountain-crest, two miles away.
As he did so he detected a fine, wavy column of smoke climbing from the rocks and trees. It was so faint that it was not likely to attract notice, unless a suspicious eye happened to look toward that part of the sky.
“By gracious! It’s him!” he exclaimed, closing his mouth and resuming command of himself. “That ere young Roslyn is pearter than I thought; if he keeps on at this rate by the time he reaches my years he’ll be the ekal of me—almost. Wall, I’ll have to answer him; when we meet I’ll explanify that I give him up, and didn’t think it was wuth while to start a blaze.”
(‡ decoration)MARTHA FINLEY.THE GIRLS’ FRIEND.MARTHA FINLEY, author of the “Elsie Books,”etc., amounting in all to about one hundred volumes, was born in Chillicothe, Ohio, April 26, 1828, in the house of her grandfather, Major Samuel Finley, of the Virginia Cavalry, in the War of the Revolution, and a personal friend of Washington, who, while President, appointed him “Collector of Public Monies” for the Northwestern Territory of which Ohio was then a part. In the war of 1812–14 Major Finley marched to Detroit to the assistance of General Hull, at the head of a regiment of Ohio volunteers in which his eldest son, James Brown Finley, then a lad of eighteen, was a lieutenant. On Hull’s disgraceful surrender those troops were paroled and returned to their homes in Ohio. James Finley afterwards became a physician and married his mother’s niece, Maria Theresa Brown. Martha was their sixth child. In the spring of 1836Dr.Finley left Ohio for South Bend, Indiana, where he resided until his death in 1851.Something more than a year later Martha joined a widowed sister in New York city and resided there with her for about eighteen months. It was then and there she began her literary career by writing a newspaper story and a little Sunday-school book. But she was broken down in health and half blind from astigmatism; so bad a case that the oculist who years afterward measured her eyes for glasses, told her she would have been excusable had she said she could not do anything at all. But she loved books and would manage to read and write in spite of the difficulty of so doing; and a great difficulty it was, for in the midst of a long sentence the letters would seem to be thrown into confusion, and it was necessary to look away from the book or close her eyes for an instant before they would resume their proper positions.But orphaned and dependent upon her own exertions, she struggled on, teaching and writing, living sometimes in Philadelphia with a stepmother who was kind enough to give her a home, sometimes in Phœnixville,Pa., where she taught a little select school. It was there she began the Elsie Series which have proved her most successful venture in literature. The twenty-second volume, published in 1897, is entitled Elsie at Home. The author has again and again proposed to end the series, thinking it long enough, but public and publishers have insisted upon another and yet another volume. The books have sold so well that they have madeher a lovely home in Elkton, Maryland, whither she removed in 1876 and still resides, and to yield her a comfortable income.But her works are not all juveniles. “Wanted a Pedigree,” and most of the other works in the Finley Series are for adults, and though not so very popular as the Elsie Books, still have steady sales though nearly all have been on the market for more than twenty years.ELSIE’SDISAPPOINTMENT.¹(FROM “ELSIE DINSMORE.”)¹Copyright, 1893, Dodd, Mead &Co.THE school-room at Roselands was a very pleasant apartment. Within sat Miss Day with her pupils, six in number.“Young ladies and gentlemen,” said she, looking at her watch, “I shall leave you to your studies for an hour; at the end of which time I shall return to hear your recitations, when those who have attended properly to their duties will be permitted to ride out with me to visit the fair.”“Oh! that will be jolly!” exclaimed Arthur, a bright-eyed, mischief-loving boy of ten.“Hush!” said Miss Day sternly; “let me hear no more such exclamations; and remember that you will not go unless your lessons are thoroughly learned. Louise and Lora,” addressing two young girls of the respective ages of twelve and fourteen, “that French exercise must be perfect, and your English lessons as well. Elsie,” to a little girl of eight, sitting alone at a desk near one of the windows, and bending over a slate with an appearance of great industry, “every figure of that example must be correct, your geography lesson recited perfectly, and a page in your copy-book written without a blot.”“Yes, ma’am,” said the child meekly, raising a pair of large soft eyes of the darkest hazel for an instant to her teacher’s face, and then dropping them again upon her slate.“And see that none of you leave the room until I return,” continued the governess. “Walter, if you miss one word of that spelling, you will have to stay at home and learn it over.”“Unless mamma interferes, as she will be pretty sure to do,” muttered Arthur, as the door closed on Miss Day, and her retreating footsteps were heard passing down the hall.For about ten minutes after her departure, all was quiet in the school-room, each seemingly completely absorbed in study. But at the end of that time Arthur sprang up, and, flinging his book across the room, exclaimed, “There! I know my lesson; and if I didn’t, I shouldn’t study another bit for old Day, or Night either.”“Do be quiet, Arthur,” said his sister Louise; “I can’t study in such a racket.”Arthur stole on tiptoe across the room, and coming up behind Elsie, tickled the back of her neck with a feather.She started, saying in a pleading tone, “Please, Arthur, don’t.”“It pleases me to do,” he said, repeating the experiment.Elsie changed her position, saying in the same gentle, persuasive tone, “O Arthur!pleaselet me alone, or I never shall be able to do this example.”“What! all this time on one example! you ought to be ashamed. Why, I could have done it half a dozen times over.”“I have been over and over it,” replied the little girl in a tone of despondency, “and still there are two figures that will not come right.”“How do you know they are not right, little puss?” shaking her curls as he spoke.“Oh! please, Arthur, don’t pull my hair. I have the answer—that’s the way I know.”“Well, then, why don’t you just set the figures down. I would.”“Oh! no, indeed; that would not be honest.”“Pooh! nonsense! nobody would be the wiser, nor the poorer.”“No, but it would be just like telling a lie. But I can never get it right while you are bothering me so,” said Elsie, laying her slate aside in despair. Then,taking out her geography, she began studying most diligently. But Arthur continued his persecutions—tickling her, pulling her hair, twitching the book out of her hand, and talking almost incessantly, making remarks, and asking questions; till at last Elsie said, as if just ready to cry, “Indeed, Arthur, if you don’t let me alone, I shall never be able to get my lessons.”“Go away, then; take your book out on the veranda, and learn your lessons there,” said Louise. “I’ll call you when Miss Day comes.”“Oh! no, Louise, I cannot do that, because it would be disobedience,” replied Elsie, taking out her writing materials.Arthur stood over her criticising every letter she made, and finally jogged her elbow in such a way as to cause her to drop all the ink in her pen upon the paper, making quite a large blot.“Oh!” cried the little girl, bursting into tears, “now I shall lose my ride, for Miss Day will not let me go; and I was so anxious to see all those beautiful flowers.”Arthur, who was really not very vicious, felt some compunction when he saw the mischief he had done. “Never mind, Elsie,” said he, “I can fix it yet. Just let me tear out this page, and you can begin again on the next, and I’ll not bother you. I’ll make these two figures come right, too,” he added, taking up her slate.“Thank you, Arthur,” said the little girl, smiling through her tears; “you are very kind, but it would not be honest to do either, and I had rather stay at home than be deceitful.”“Very well, miss,” said he, tossing his head, and walking away, “since you won’t let me help you, it is all your own fault if you have to stay at home.”Elsie finished her page, and, excepting the unfortunate blot, it all looked very neat indeed, showing plainly that it had been written with great care. She then took up her slate and patiently went over and over every figure of the troublesome example, trying to discover where her mistake had been. But much time had been lost through Arthur’s teasing, and her mind was so disturbed by the accident to her writing that she tried in vain to fix it upon the business in hand; and before the two troublesome figures had been made right, the hour was past and Miss Day returned.“Oh!” thought Elsie, “if she will only hear the others first;” but it was a vain hope. Miss Day had no sooner seated herself at her desk than she called, “Elsie, come here and say that lesson; and bring your copy-book and slate, that I may examine your work.”Elsie tremblingly obeyed.The lesson, though a difficult one, was very tolerably recited; for Elsie, knowing Arthur’s propensity for teasing, had studied it in her own room before school hours. But Miss Day handed back the books with a frown, saying, “I told you the recitation must be perfect, and it was not. There are two incorrect figures in this example,” said she, laying down the slate, after glancing over its contents. Then taking up the copy-book, she exclaimed, “Careless, disobedient child! did I not caution you to be careful not to blot your book? There will be no ride for you this morning. You have failed in everything. Go to your seat. Make that example right, and do the next; learn your geography lesson over, and write another page in your copy-book; and mind, if there is a blot on it, you will get no dinner.”Weeping and sobbing, Elsie took up her books and obeyed.During this scene Arthur stood at his desk pretending to study, but glancing every now and then at Elsie, with a conscience evidently ill at ease. She cast an imploring glance at him, as she returned to her seat; but he turned away his head, muttering, “It’s all her own fault, for she wouldn’t let me help her.”As he looked up again, he caught his sister Lora’s eyes fixed on him with an expression of scorn and contempt. He colored violently, and dropped his upon his book.“Miss Day,” said Lora, indignantly, “I see Arthur does not mean to speak, and as I cannot bear to see such injustice, I must tell you that it is all his fault that Elsie has failed in her lessons; for she tried her very best, but he teased her incessantly, and also jogged her elbow and made her spill the ink on her book; and to her credit she was too honorable to tear out the leaf from her copy-book, or to let him make her example right; both which he very generously proposed doing after causing all the mischief.”“Is this so, Arthur?” asked Miss Day, angrily.The boy hung his head, but made no reply.“Very well, then,” said Miss Day, “you too must stay at home.”“Surely,” said Lora, in surprise, “you will not keep Elsie, since I have shown you that she was not to blame.”“Miss Lora,” replied her teacher, haughtily, “I wish you to understand that I am not to be dictated to by my pupils.”Lora bit her lip, but said nothing, and Miss Day went on hearing the lessons without further remark.In the meantime the little Elsie sat at her desk, striving to conquer the feelings of anger and indignation that were swelling in her breast; for Elsie, though she possessed much of “the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit,” was not yet perfect, and often had a fierce contest with her naturally quick temper. Yet it was seldom, very seldom that word or tone or look betrayed the existence of such feelings; and it was a common remark in the family that Elsie had no spirit.The recitations were scarcely finished when the door opened and a lady entered dressed for a ride.“Not through yet, Miss Day?” she asked.“Yes, madam, we are just done,” replied the teacher, closing the French grammar and handing it to Louise.“Well, I hope your pupils have all done their duty this morning, and are ready to accompany us to the fair,” saidMrs.Dinsmore. “But what is the matter with Elsie?”“She has failed in all her exercises, and therefore has been told that she must remain at home,” replied Miss Day with heightened color and in a tone of anger; “and as Miss Lora tells me that Master Arthur was partly the cause, I have forbidden him also to accompany us.”“Excuse me, Miss Day, for correcting you,” said Lora, a little indignantly; “but I did not saypartly, for I am sure it wasentirelyhis fault.”“Hush, hush, Lora,” said her mother, a little impatiently; “how can you be sure of any such thing; Miss Day, I must beg of you to excuse Arthur this once, for I have quite set my heart on taking him along. He is fond of mischief, I know, but he is only a child, and you must not be too hard upon him.”“Very well, madam,” replied the governess stiffly, “you have of course the best right to control your own children.”Mrs.Dinsmore turned to leave the room.“Mamma,” asked Lora, “is not Elsie to be allowed to go too?”“Elsie is not my child, and I have nothing to say about it. Miss Day, who knows all the circumstances, is much better able than I to judge whether or no she is deserving of punishment,” repliedMrs.Dinsmore, sailing out of the room.“You will let her go, Miss Day?” said Lora, inquiringly.“Miss Lora,” replied Miss Day, angrily, “I have already told you I was not to be dictated to. I have said Elsie must remain at home, and I shall not break my word.”“Such injustice!” muttered Lora, turning away.Miss Day hastily quitted the room, followed by Louise and Lora, and Elsie was left alone.(‡ decoration)
(‡ decoration)
THE GIRLS’ FRIEND.
MARTHA FINLEY, author of the “Elsie Books,”etc., amounting in all to about one hundred volumes, was born in Chillicothe, Ohio, April 26, 1828, in the house of her grandfather, Major Samuel Finley, of the Virginia Cavalry, in the War of the Revolution, and a personal friend of Washington, who, while President, appointed him “Collector of Public Monies” for the Northwestern Territory of which Ohio was then a part. In the war of 1812–14 Major Finley marched to Detroit to the assistance of General Hull, at the head of a regiment of Ohio volunteers in which his eldest son, James Brown Finley, then a lad of eighteen, was a lieutenant. On Hull’s disgraceful surrender those troops were paroled and returned to their homes in Ohio. James Finley afterwards became a physician and married his mother’s niece, Maria Theresa Brown. Martha was their sixth child. In the spring of 1836Dr.Finley left Ohio for South Bend, Indiana, where he resided until his death in 1851.
Something more than a year later Martha joined a widowed sister in New York city and resided there with her for about eighteen months. It was then and there she began her literary career by writing a newspaper story and a little Sunday-school book. But she was broken down in health and half blind from astigmatism; so bad a case that the oculist who years afterward measured her eyes for glasses, told her she would have been excusable had she said she could not do anything at all. But she loved books and would manage to read and write in spite of the difficulty of so doing; and a great difficulty it was, for in the midst of a long sentence the letters would seem to be thrown into confusion, and it was necessary to look away from the book or close her eyes for an instant before they would resume their proper positions.
But orphaned and dependent upon her own exertions, she struggled on, teaching and writing, living sometimes in Philadelphia with a stepmother who was kind enough to give her a home, sometimes in Phœnixville,Pa., where she taught a little select school. It was there she began the Elsie Series which have proved her most successful venture in literature. The twenty-second volume, published in 1897, is entitled Elsie at Home. The author has again and again proposed to end the series, thinking it long enough, but public and publishers have insisted upon another and yet another volume. The books have sold so well that they have madeher a lovely home in Elkton, Maryland, whither she removed in 1876 and still resides, and to yield her a comfortable income.
But her works are not all juveniles. “Wanted a Pedigree,” and most of the other works in the Finley Series are for adults, and though not so very popular as the Elsie Books, still have steady sales though nearly all have been on the market for more than twenty years.
ELSIE’SDISAPPOINTMENT.¹
(FROM “ELSIE DINSMORE.”)
¹Copyright, 1893, Dodd, Mead &Co.
THE school-room at Roselands was a very pleasant apartment. Within sat Miss Day with her pupils, six in number.“Young ladies and gentlemen,” said she, looking at her watch, “I shall leave you to your studies for an hour; at the end of which time I shall return to hear your recitations, when those who have attended properly to their duties will be permitted to ride out with me to visit the fair.”“Oh! that will be jolly!” exclaimed Arthur, a bright-eyed, mischief-loving boy of ten.“Hush!” said Miss Day sternly; “let me hear no more such exclamations; and remember that you will not go unless your lessons are thoroughly learned. Louise and Lora,” addressing two young girls of the respective ages of twelve and fourteen, “that French exercise must be perfect, and your English lessons as well. Elsie,” to a little girl of eight, sitting alone at a desk near one of the windows, and bending over a slate with an appearance of great industry, “every figure of that example must be correct, your geography lesson recited perfectly, and a page in your copy-book written without a blot.”“Yes, ma’am,” said the child meekly, raising a pair of large soft eyes of the darkest hazel for an instant to her teacher’s face, and then dropping them again upon her slate.“And see that none of you leave the room until I return,” continued the governess. “Walter, if you miss one word of that spelling, you will have to stay at home and learn it over.”“Unless mamma interferes, as she will be pretty sure to do,” muttered Arthur, as the door closed on Miss Day, and her retreating footsteps were heard passing down the hall.For about ten minutes after her departure, all was quiet in the school-room, each seemingly completely absorbed in study. But at the end of that time Arthur sprang up, and, flinging his book across the room, exclaimed, “There! I know my lesson; and if I didn’t, I shouldn’t study another bit for old Day, or Night either.”“Do be quiet, Arthur,” said his sister Louise; “I can’t study in such a racket.”Arthur stole on tiptoe across the room, and coming up behind Elsie, tickled the back of her neck with a feather.She started, saying in a pleading tone, “Please, Arthur, don’t.”“It pleases me to do,” he said, repeating the experiment.Elsie changed her position, saying in the same gentle, persuasive tone, “O Arthur!pleaselet me alone, or I never shall be able to do this example.”“What! all this time on one example! you ought to be ashamed. Why, I could have done it half a dozen times over.”“I have been over and over it,” replied the little girl in a tone of despondency, “and still there are two figures that will not come right.”“How do you know they are not right, little puss?” shaking her curls as he spoke.“Oh! please, Arthur, don’t pull my hair. I have the answer—that’s the way I know.”“Well, then, why don’t you just set the figures down. I would.”“Oh! no, indeed; that would not be honest.”“Pooh! nonsense! nobody would be the wiser, nor the poorer.”“No, but it would be just like telling a lie. But I can never get it right while you are bothering me so,” said Elsie, laying her slate aside in despair. Then,taking out her geography, she began studying most diligently. But Arthur continued his persecutions—tickling her, pulling her hair, twitching the book out of her hand, and talking almost incessantly, making remarks, and asking questions; till at last Elsie said, as if just ready to cry, “Indeed, Arthur, if you don’t let me alone, I shall never be able to get my lessons.”“Go away, then; take your book out on the veranda, and learn your lessons there,” said Louise. “I’ll call you when Miss Day comes.”“Oh! no, Louise, I cannot do that, because it would be disobedience,” replied Elsie, taking out her writing materials.Arthur stood over her criticising every letter she made, and finally jogged her elbow in such a way as to cause her to drop all the ink in her pen upon the paper, making quite a large blot.“Oh!” cried the little girl, bursting into tears, “now I shall lose my ride, for Miss Day will not let me go; and I was so anxious to see all those beautiful flowers.”Arthur, who was really not very vicious, felt some compunction when he saw the mischief he had done. “Never mind, Elsie,” said he, “I can fix it yet. Just let me tear out this page, and you can begin again on the next, and I’ll not bother you. I’ll make these two figures come right, too,” he added, taking up her slate.“Thank you, Arthur,” said the little girl, smiling through her tears; “you are very kind, but it would not be honest to do either, and I had rather stay at home than be deceitful.”“Very well, miss,” said he, tossing his head, and walking away, “since you won’t let me help you, it is all your own fault if you have to stay at home.”Elsie finished her page, and, excepting the unfortunate blot, it all looked very neat indeed, showing plainly that it had been written with great care. She then took up her slate and patiently went over and over every figure of the troublesome example, trying to discover where her mistake had been. But much time had been lost through Arthur’s teasing, and her mind was so disturbed by the accident to her writing that she tried in vain to fix it upon the business in hand; and before the two troublesome figures had been made right, the hour was past and Miss Day returned.“Oh!” thought Elsie, “if she will only hear the others first;” but it was a vain hope. Miss Day had no sooner seated herself at her desk than she called, “Elsie, come here and say that lesson; and bring your copy-book and slate, that I may examine your work.”Elsie tremblingly obeyed.The lesson, though a difficult one, was very tolerably recited; for Elsie, knowing Arthur’s propensity for teasing, had studied it in her own room before school hours. But Miss Day handed back the books with a frown, saying, “I told you the recitation must be perfect, and it was not. There are two incorrect figures in this example,” said she, laying down the slate, after glancing over its contents. Then taking up the copy-book, she exclaimed, “Careless, disobedient child! did I not caution you to be careful not to blot your book? There will be no ride for you this morning. You have failed in everything. Go to your seat. Make that example right, and do the next; learn your geography lesson over, and write another page in your copy-book; and mind, if there is a blot on it, you will get no dinner.”Weeping and sobbing, Elsie took up her books and obeyed.During this scene Arthur stood at his desk pretending to study, but glancing every now and then at Elsie, with a conscience evidently ill at ease. She cast an imploring glance at him, as she returned to her seat; but he turned away his head, muttering, “It’s all her own fault, for she wouldn’t let me help her.”As he looked up again, he caught his sister Lora’s eyes fixed on him with an expression of scorn and contempt. He colored violently, and dropped his upon his book.“Miss Day,” said Lora, indignantly, “I see Arthur does not mean to speak, and as I cannot bear to see such injustice, I must tell you that it is all his fault that Elsie has failed in her lessons; for she tried her very best, but he teased her incessantly, and also jogged her elbow and made her spill the ink on her book; and to her credit she was too honorable to tear out the leaf from her copy-book, or to let him make her example right; both which he very generously proposed doing after causing all the mischief.”“Is this so, Arthur?” asked Miss Day, angrily.The boy hung his head, but made no reply.“Very well, then,” said Miss Day, “you too must stay at home.”“Surely,” said Lora, in surprise, “you will not keep Elsie, since I have shown you that she was not to blame.”“Miss Lora,” replied her teacher, haughtily, “I wish you to understand that I am not to be dictated to by my pupils.”Lora bit her lip, but said nothing, and Miss Day went on hearing the lessons without further remark.In the meantime the little Elsie sat at her desk, striving to conquer the feelings of anger and indignation that were swelling in her breast; for Elsie, though she possessed much of “the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit,” was not yet perfect, and often had a fierce contest with her naturally quick temper. Yet it was seldom, very seldom that word or tone or look betrayed the existence of such feelings; and it was a common remark in the family that Elsie had no spirit.The recitations were scarcely finished when the door opened and a lady entered dressed for a ride.“Not through yet, Miss Day?” she asked.“Yes, madam, we are just done,” replied the teacher, closing the French grammar and handing it to Louise.“Well, I hope your pupils have all done their duty this morning, and are ready to accompany us to the fair,” saidMrs.Dinsmore. “But what is the matter with Elsie?”“She has failed in all her exercises, and therefore has been told that she must remain at home,” replied Miss Day with heightened color and in a tone of anger; “and as Miss Lora tells me that Master Arthur was partly the cause, I have forbidden him also to accompany us.”“Excuse me, Miss Day, for correcting you,” said Lora, a little indignantly; “but I did not saypartly, for I am sure it wasentirelyhis fault.”“Hush, hush, Lora,” said her mother, a little impatiently; “how can you be sure of any such thing; Miss Day, I must beg of you to excuse Arthur this once, for I have quite set my heart on taking him along. He is fond of mischief, I know, but he is only a child, and you must not be too hard upon him.”“Very well, madam,” replied the governess stiffly, “you have of course the best right to control your own children.”Mrs.Dinsmore turned to leave the room.“Mamma,” asked Lora, “is not Elsie to be allowed to go too?”“Elsie is not my child, and I have nothing to say about it. Miss Day, who knows all the circumstances, is much better able than I to judge whether or no she is deserving of punishment,” repliedMrs.Dinsmore, sailing out of the room.“You will let her go, Miss Day?” said Lora, inquiringly.“Miss Lora,” replied Miss Day, angrily, “I have already told you I was not to be dictated to. I have said Elsie must remain at home, and I shall not break my word.”“Such injustice!” muttered Lora, turning away.Miss Day hastily quitted the room, followed by Louise and Lora, and Elsie was left alone.
THE school-room at Roselands was a very pleasant apartment. Within sat Miss Day with her pupils, six in number.
“Young ladies and gentlemen,” said she, looking at her watch, “I shall leave you to your studies for an hour; at the end of which time I shall return to hear your recitations, when those who have attended properly to their duties will be permitted to ride out with me to visit the fair.”
“Oh! that will be jolly!” exclaimed Arthur, a bright-eyed, mischief-loving boy of ten.
“Hush!” said Miss Day sternly; “let me hear no more such exclamations; and remember that you will not go unless your lessons are thoroughly learned. Louise and Lora,” addressing two young girls of the respective ages of twelve and fourteen, “that French exercise must be perfect, and your English lessons as well. Elsie,” to a little girl of eight, sitting alone at a desk near one of the windows, and bending over a slate with an appearance of great industry, “every figure of that example must be correct, your geography lesson recited perfectly, and a page in your copy-book written without a blot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the child meekly, raising a pair of large soft eyes of the darkest hazel for an instant to her teacher’s face, and then dropping them again upon her slate.
“And see that none of you leave the room until I return,” continued the governess. “Walter, if you miss one word of that spelling, you will have to stay at home and learn it over.”
“Unless mamma interferes, as she will be pretty sure to do,” muttered Arthur, as the door closed on Miss Day, and her retreating footsteps were heard passing down the hall.
For about ten minutes after her departure, all was quiet in the school-room, each seemingly completely absorbed in study. But at the end of that time Arthur sprang up, and, flinging his book across the room, exclaimed, “There! I know my lesson; and if I didn’t, I shouldn’t study another bit for old Day, or Night either.”
“Do be quiet, Arthur,” said his sister Louise; “I can’t study in such a racket.”
Arthur stole on tiptoe across the room, and coming up behind Elsie, tickled the back of her neck with a feather.
She started, saying in a pleading tone, “Please, Arthur, don’t.”
“It pleases me to do,” he said, repeating the experiment.
Elsie changed her position, saying in the same gentle, persuasive tone, “O Arthur!pleaselet me alone, or I never shall be able to do this example.”
“What! all this time on one example! you ought to be ashamed. Why, I could have done it half a dozen times over.”
“I have been over and over it,” replied the little girl in a tone of despondency, “and still there are two figures that will not come right.”
“How do you know they are not right, little puss?” shaking her curls as he spoke.
“Oh! please, Arthur, don’t pull my hair. I have the answer—that’s the way I know.”
“Well, then, why don’t you just set the figures down. I would.”
“Oh! no, indeed; that would not be honest.”
“Pooh! nonsense! nobody would be the wiser, nor the poorer.”
“No, but it would be just like telling a lie. But I can never get it right while you are bothering me so,” said Elsie, laying her slate aside in despair. Then,taking out her geography, she began studying most diligently. But Arthur continued his persecutions—tickling her, pulling her hair, twitching the book out of her hand, and talking almost incessantly, making remarks, and asking questions; till at last Elsie said, as if just ready to cry, “Indeed, Arthur, if you don’t let me alone, I shall never be able to get my lessons.”
“Go away, then; take your book out on the veranda, and learn your lessons there,” said Louise. “I’ll call you when Miss Day comes.”
“Oh! no, Louise, I cannot do that, because it would be disobedience,” replied Elsie, taking out her writing materials.
Arthur stood over her criticising every letter she made, and finally jogged her elbow in such a way as to cause her to drop all the ink in her pen upon the paper, making quite a large blot.
“Oh!” cried the little girl, bursting into tears, “now I shall lose my ride, for Miss Day will not let me go; and I was so anxious to see all those beautiful flowers.”
Arthur, who was really not very vicious, felt some compunction when he saw the mischief he had done. “Never mind, Elsie,” said he, “I can fix it yet. Just let me tear out this page, and you can begin again on the next, and I’ll not bother you. I’ll make these two figures come right, too,” he added, taking up her slate.
“Thank you, Arthur,” said the little girl, smiling through her tears; “you are very kind, but it would not be honest to do either, and I had rather stay at home than be deceitful.”
“Very well, miss,” said he, tossing his head, and walking away, “since you won’t let me help you, it is all your own fault if you have to stay at home.”
Elsie finished her page, and, excepting the unfortunate blot, it all looked very neat indeed, showing plainly that it had been written with great care. She then took up her slate and patiently went over and over every figure of the troublesome example, trying to discover where her mistake had been. But much time had been lost through Arthur’s teasing, and her mind was so disturbed by the accident to her writing that she tried in vain to fix it upon the business in hand; and before the two troublesome figures had been made right, the hour was past and Miss Day returned.
“Oh!” thought Elsie, “if she will only hear the others first;” but it was a vain hope. Miss Day had no sooner seated herself at her desk than she called, “Elsie, come here and say that lesson; and bring your copy-book and slate, that I may examine your work.”
Elsie tremblingly obeyed.
The lesson, though a difficult one, was very tolerably recited; for Elsie, knowing Arthur’s propensity for teasing, had studied it in her own room before school hours. But Miss Day handed back the books with a frown, saying, “I told you the recitation must be perfect, and it was not. There are two incorrect figures in this example,” said she, laying down the slate, after glancing over its contents. Then taking up the copy-book, she exclaimed, “Careless, disobedient child! did I not caution you to be careful not to blot your book? There will be no ride for you this morning. You have failed in everything. Go to your seat. Make that example right, and do the next; learn your geography lesson over, and write another page in your copy-book; and mind, if there is a blot on it, you will get no dinner.”
Weeping and sobbing, Elsie took up her books and obeyed.
During this scene Arthur stood at his desk pretending to study, but glancing every now and then at Elsie, with a conscience evidently ill at ease. She cast an imploring glance at him, as she returned to her seat; but he turned away his head, muttering, “It’s all her own fault, for she wouldn’t let me help her.”
As he looked up again, he caught his sister Lora’s eyes fixed on him with an expression of scorn and contempt. He colored violently, and dropped his upon his book.
“Miss Day,” said Lora, indignantly, “I see Arthur does not mean to speak, and as I cannot bear to see such injustice, I must tell you that it is all his fault that Elsie has failed in her lessons; for she tried her very best, but he teased her incessantly, and also jogged her elbow and made her spill the ink on her book; and to her credit she was too honorable to tear out the leaf from her copy-book, or to let him make her example right; both which he very generously proposed doing after causing all the mischief.”
“Is this so, Arthur?” asked Miss Day, angrily.
The boy hung his head, but made no reply.
“Very well, then,” said Miss Day, “you too must stay at home.”
“Surely,” said Lora, in surprise, “you will not keep Elsie, since I have shown you that she was not to blame.”
“Miss Lora,” replied her teacher, haughtily, “I wish you to understand that I am not to be dictated to by my pupils.”
Lora bit her lip, but said nothing, and Miss Day went on hearing the lessons without further remark.
In the meantime the little Elsie sat at her desk, striving to conquer the feelings of anger and indignation that were swelling in her breast; for Elsie, though she possessed much of “the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit,” was not yet perfect, and often had a fierce contest with her naturally quick temper. Yet it was seldom, very seldom that word or tone or look betrayed the existence of such feelings; and it was a common remark in the family that Elsie had no spirit.
The recitations were scarcely finished when the door opened and a lady entered dressed for a ride.
“Not through yet, Miss Day?” she asked.
“Yes, madam, we are just done,” replied the teacher, closing the French grammar and handing it to Louise.
“Well, I hope your pupils have all done their duty this morning, and are ready to accompany us to the fair,” saidMrs.Dinsmore. “But what is the matter with Elsie?”
“She has failed in all her exercises, and therefore has been told that she must remain at home,” replied Miss Day with heightened color and in a tone of anger; “and as Miss Lora tells me that Master Arthur was partly the cause, I have forbidden him also to accompany us.”
“Excuse me, Miss Day, for correcting you,” said Lora, a little indignantly; “but I did not saypartly, for I am sure it wasentirelyhis fault.”
“Hush, hush, Lora,” said her mother, a little impatiently; “how can you be sure of any such thing; Miss Day, I must beg of you to excuse Arthur this once, for I have quite set my heart on taking him along. He is fond of mischief, I know, but he is only a child, and you must not be too hard upon him.”
“Very well, madam,” replied the governess stiffly, “you have of course the best right to control your own children.”
Mrs.Dinsmore turned to leave the room.
“Mamma,” asked Lora, “is not Elsie to be allowed to go too?”
“Elsie is not my child, and I have nothing to say about it. Miss Day, who knows all the circumstances, is much better able than I to judge whether or no she is deserving of punishment,” repliedMrs.Dinsmore, sailing out of the room.
“You will let her go, Miss Day?” said Lora, inquiringly.
“Miss Lora,” replied Miss Day, angrily, “I have already told you I was not to be dictated to. I have said Elsie must remain at home, and I shall not break my word.”
“Such injustice!” muttered Lora, turning away.
Miss Day hastily quitted the room, followed by Louise and Lora, and Elsie was left alone.
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(‡ decoration)MARY MAPES DODGE.EDITOR OF “ST.NICHOLAS” MAGAZINE.IT would be difficult to name a writer of later years who has done more to delight the children with bright and chatty sunny-day stories than this estimable woman. While her mind has all the maturity, power, good judgment and strength of our best writers, her heart seems never to have grown out of the happy realm of childhood. It is for them that she thinks, and it is for them that she writes her charming stories when she is in her happiest moods. Not that she cannot write for grown up people, for she has given them several books—very good ones too. She edited “Hearth and Home” at one time, and many a mother remembers her good advice in bright and cheerful editorials, on the art of home-making, and on the care and training of children. She is also a humorous writer of considerable ability. “Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question” is one of her most amusing sketches. Mary Mapes was born in New York city, in 1838.Prof.James Mapes, the scientist, was her father. She marriedMr.William Dodge, a lawyer, who lived only a few years, and it was after his death that she began to write for the “Hearth and Home” to which Donald G. Mitchell (Ik Marvel) andMrs.Harriet Beecher Stowe were at that time, also, contributors.In 1864Mrs.Dodge’s first volume entitled, “Irving Stories,” for children, appeared. It met with great success, and in 1865 she issued her second volume, “Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates,” a charming story for boys and girls. The scene was laid in Holland. The book was so popular that it was translated into French, German, Dutch, Russian and other languages and became a little classic. She wrote a number of other books, among which are “A Few Friends, and How They Amused Themselves” (1869); “Rhymes and Jingles” (1874); “Theophilus and Others;” “Along the Way,” a volume of poems, and “Donald and Dorothy.”In 1873 the “St.Nicholas” Magazine for young folks was commenced andMrs.Dodge was made its editor, which position she still retains in 1897, and its popularity and brightness have given her a permanent place in the hearts of the boys and girls for the last quarter century.Mrs.Dodge has long been a leader in the literary and artistic circles in New York, where she has a pleasant home. She had two fine boys of her own and it is said her first stories were written for their amusement. One of her sons died in 1881. The other, a successful inventor and manufacturer, lives in Philadelphia.TOO MUCH OF A GOODTHING.¹(FROM “DONALD AND DOROTHY.”)¹Copyright, Mary Mapes Dodge.JUST as Donald and Dorothy were about to end the outdoor visit to the Danbys, described in our last chapter, Coachman Jack was seen in a neighboring field, trying to catchMr.Reed’s spirited mare, “Lady,” that had been let out to have a run. He had already approached her without difficulty and slipped a bridle over her head, but she had started away from him, and he, feeling that she had been allowed playtime enough, was now bent on recapturing her.Instantly a dozen Danby eyes were watching them with intense interest. Then Donald and Ben, not being able to resist the impulse, scampered over to join in the race, closely followed by Dan and Fandy. Gregory, too, would have gone, but Charity called him back.It was a superb sight to see the spirited animal, one moment standing motionless at a safe distance from Jack, and the next, leaping about the field, mane and tail flying, and every action telling of a defiant enjoyment of freedom. Soon, two grazing horses in the same field caught her spirit; even Don’s pony, at first looking soberly over a hedge in the adjoining lot, began frisking and capering about on his own account, dashing past an opening in the hedge as though it were as solid a barrier as the rest. Nor were Jack and the boys less frisky. Coaxing and shouting had failed, and now it was an open chase, in which, for a time, the mare certainly had the advantage. But what animal is proof against its appetite? Clever little Fandy had rushed toMr.Reed’s barn, and brought back in his hat a light lunch of oats for the mare, which he at once bore into her presence, shaking it temptingly, at the same time slowly backing away from her. The little midget and his hatful succeeded, where big man and boys had failed. The mare came cautiously up and was about to put her nose into the cap, when Jack’s stealthy and sudden effort to seize the bridle made her start sidewise away from him. But here Donald leaped forward at the other side, and caught her before she had time to escape again.Jack was too proud of Don’s quickness to appear surprised; so, disregarding the hilarious shout of the Danby boys, he took the bridle from the young master with an off-hand air, and led the now gentle animal quietly towards the stable.But Dorothy was there before him. Out of breath after her brisk run, she was panting and tugging at a dusty side-saddle hanging in the harness-room, when Jack and the mare drew near.“Oh, Jack!” she cried, “help me to get this down! I mean to have some fun. I’m going to ride that mare back to the field!”“Not you, Miss Dorry!” exclaimed Jack. “Take your own pony, an’ your own saddle, an’ it’s a go; but this ’ere mare’d be on her beam ends with you in no time.”“Oh, no, she wouldn’t, Jack! She knows me perfectly. Don’t you, Lady? Oh, do, Jack! That’s a good Jack.Pleaselet me! Don’s there, you know.”Dorry said this as if Don were a regiment. By this time, the side-saddle, yielding to her vigorous efforts, had clattered down from its peg, with a peculiar buckle-and-leathery noise of its own.“Won’t you, Jack? Ah,won’tyou?”“No, miss, I won’t!” said Jack, resolutely.“Why, Jack, I’ve been on her before. Don’t you know? There isn’t a horse on the place that could throw me. Uncle said so. Don’t you remember?”“So he did!” said Jack, his eyes sparkling proudly.“The Capt’n said them very words. An’,” glancing weakly at the mare, “she’s standin’ now like a skiff in a calm. Not a breath in her sails—”“Oh, do—do, Jack!” coaxed Dorry, seizing her advantage, “quick! They’re all in the lot yet. Here, put it on her!”“I’m an old fool,” muttered Jack to himself, as, hindered by Dorry’s busy touches, he proceeded to saddle the subdued animal; “but I can’t never refuse her nothin’—that’s where it is. Easy now, miss!” as Dorry, climbing up on the feed-box in laughing excitement, begged him to hurry and let her mount. “Easy now. There! You’re on, high and dry. Here” (tugging at the girth), “let me tauten up a bit! Steady now! Don’t try no capers with her, Miss Dorry, and come back in a minute. Get up, Lady!—get up!”The mare left the stable so slowly and unwillingly,that Jack slapped her flank gently as she moved off. Jog jog went Lady out through the wide stable doorway, across the yard into the open field. Dorry, hastily arranging her skirts and settling herself comfortably upon the grand but dingy saddle (it had been Aunt Kate’s in the days gone by), laughed to herself, thinking how astonished they all must be to see her riding Lady back to them. For a moment she playfully pretended to be unconscious of their gaze. Then she looked up.Poor Dorry! Not a boy, not even Donald, had remained in the field! He and the little Danbys were listening to one of Ben’s stories of adventure. Even the two horses and Don’s pony were quietly nosing the dry grass in search of green tufts.“I don’t care,” she murmured gayly, overcoming her disappointment. “I mean to have a ride, any way. Get up, Lady!”Ladydidget up. She shook her head, pricked up her ears, and started off at a beautiful canter across the fields.“How lovely!” thought Dorry, especially pleased at that moment to see several figures coming toward her from the Danby yard; “it’s just like flying!”Whether Lady missed her master’s firm grip upon the rein, or whether she guessed her rider’s thought, and was inspired by the sudden shouts and hurrahs of the approaching boys, can never be known. Certain it is that by the next moment Dorry, on Lady’s back, was flying in earnest,—flying at great speed round and round the field, but with never an idea of falling off. Her first feeling was that her uncle and Jack wouldn’t be pleased if they knew the exact character of the ride. Next came a sense of triumph, because she felt that Don and the rest were seeing it all, and then a wild consciousness that her hat was off, her hair streaming to the wind, and that she was keeping her seat for dear life.Lady’s canter had become a run, and the run soon grew into a series of leaps. Still Dorry kept her seat. Young as she was, she was a fearless rider, and at first, as we have seen, rather enjoyed the prospect of a tussle with Lady. But as the speed increased, Dorry found herself growing deaf, dumb and blind in the breathless race. Still, if she could only hold on, all would be well; she certainly could not consent to be conquered before “those boys.”Lady seemed to go twenty feet in the air at every leap. There was no merry shouting now. The little boys stood pale and breathless. Ben, trying to hold Don back, was wondering what was to be done, and Charity was wringing her hands.“Oh, oh! She’ll be thrown!” cried the girls.“Not a bit of it!” insisted Donald. “I’ve seen Dot on a horse before.” But his looks betrayed his anxiety. “See! the mare’s trying to throw her now! But she can’t do it—she can’t do it! Dot understands herself, I tell you,—Whoa-o!—Let me go!” and, breaking from Ben, he tore across the field, through the opening in the hedge, and was on his pony’s back in a twinkling. How he did it, he never knew. He had heard Dorry scream, and somehow that scream made him and his pony one. Together, they flew over the field; with a steady, calm purpose, they cut across Lady’s course, and soon were at her side. Donald’s “Hold on, Dot!” was followed by his quick plunge toward the mare. It seemed that she certainly would ride over him, but he never faltered. Grasping his pony’s mane with one hand, he clutched Lady’s bridle with the other. The mare plunged, but the boy’s grip was as firm as iron. Though almost dragged from his seat, he held on, and the more she struggled, the harder he tugged,—the pony bearing itself nobly, and quivering in eager♦sympathy with Donald’s every movement. Jack and Ben were now tearing across the field, bent on rescue; but they were not needed. Don was master of the situation. The mare, her frolic over, had yielded with superb grace, almost as if with a bow, and the pony was rubbing its nose against her steaming side.♦‘smypathy’ replaced with ‘sympathy’“Good for you, Dot!” was Donald’s first word. “You held on magnificently.”Dorothy stroked Lady’s hot neck, and for a moment could not trust herself to look up. But when Jack half-pulled, half-lifted her from the saddle, and she felt the firm earth beneath her, she tottered and would have fallen, had not Donald, frightened at her white face, sprung to the ground just in time to support her.“Shiver my timbers!” growled Jack, “if ever I let youngsters have their way again!” But his eyes shone with a strange mixture of self-reproach and satisfaction as he looked at Dorry.
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EDITOR OF “ST.NICHOLAS” MAGAZINE.
IT would be difficult to name a writer of later years who has done more to delight the children with bright and chatty sunny-day stories than this estimable woman. While her mind has all the maturity, power, good judgment and strength of our best writers, her heart seems never to have grown out of the happy realm of childhood. It is for them that she thinks, and it is for them that she writes her charming stories when she is in her happiest moods. Not that she cannot write for grown up people, for she has given them several books—very good ones too. She edited “Hearth and Home” at one time, and many a mother remembers her good advice in bright and cheerful editorials, on the art of home-making, and on the care and training of children. She is also a humorous writer of considerable ability. “Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question” is one of her most amusing sketches. Mary Mapes was born in New York city, in 1838.Prof.James Mapes, the scientist, was her father. She marriedMr.William Dodge, a lawyer, who lived only a few years, and it was after his death that she began to write for the “Hearth and Home” to which Donald G. Mitchell (Ik Marvel) andMrs.Harriet Beecher Stowe were at that time, also, contributors.
In 1864Mrs.Dodge’s first volume entitled, “Irving Stories,” for children, appeared. It met with great success, and in 1865 she issued her second volume, “Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates,” a charming story for boys and girls. The scene was laid in Holland. The book was so popular that it was translated into French, German, Dutch, Russian and other languages and became a little classic. She wrote a number of other books, among which are “A Few Friends, and How They Amused Themselves” (1869); “Rhymes and Jingles” (1874); “Theophilus and Others;” “Along the Way,” a volume of poems, and “Donald and Dorothy.”
In 1873 the “St.Nicholas” Magazine for young folks was commenced andMrs.Dodge was made its editor, which position she still retains in 1897, and its popularity and brightness have given her a permanent place in the hearts of the boys and girls for the last quarter century.
Mrs.Dodge has long been a leader in the literary and artistic circles in New York, where she has a pleasant home. She had two fine boys of her own and it is said her first stories were written for their amusement. One of her sons died in 1881. The other, a successful inventor and manufacturer, lives in Philadelphia.
TOO MUCH OF A GOODTHING.¹
(FROM “DONALD AND DOROTHY.”)
¹Copyright, Mary Mapes Dodge.
JUST as Donald and Dorothy were about to end the outdoor visit to the Danbys, described in our last chapter, Coachman Jack was seen in a neighboring field, trying to catchMr.Reed’s spirited mare, “Lady,” that had been let out to have a run. He had already approached her without difficulty and slipped a bridle over her head, but she had started away from him, and he, feeling that she had been allowed playtime enough, was now bent on recapturing her.Instantly a dozen Danby eyes were watching them with intense interest. Then Donald and Ben, not being able to resist the impulse, scampered over to join in the race, closely followed by Dan and Fandy. Gregory, too, would have gone, but Charity called him back.It was a superb sight to see the spirited animal, one moment standing motionless at a safe distance from Jack, and the next, leaping about the field, mane and tail flying, and every action telling of a defiant enjoyment of freedom. Soon, two grazing horses in the same field caught her spirit; even Don’s pony, at first looking soberly over a hedge in the adjoining lot, began frisking and capering about on his own account, dashing past an opening in the hedge as though it were as solid a barrier as the rest. Nor were Jack and the boys less frisky. Coaxing and shouting had failed, and now it was an open chase, in which, for a time, the mare certainly had the advantage. But what animal is proof against its appetite? Clever little Fandy had rushed toMr.Reed’s barn, and brought back in his hat a light lunch of oats for the mare, which he at once bore into her presence, shaking it temptingly, at the same time slowly backing away from her. The little midget and his hatful succeeded, where big man and boys had failed. The mare came cautiously up and was about to put her nose into the cap, when Jack’s stealthy and sudden effort to seize the bridle made her start sidewise away from him. But here Donald leaped forward at the other side, and caught her before she had time to escape again.Jack was too proud of Don’s quickness to appear surprised; so, disregarding the hilarious shout of the Danby boys, he took the bridle from the young master with an off-hand air, and led the now gentle animal quietly towards the stable.But Dorothy was there before him. Out of breath after her brisk run, she was panting and tugging at a dusty side-saddle hanging in the harness-room, when Jack and the mare drew near.“Oh, Jack!” she cried, “help me to get this down! I mean to have some fun. I’m going to ride that mare back to the field!”“Not you, Miss Dorry!” exclaimed Jack. “Take your own pony, an’ your own saddle, an’ it’s a go; but this ’ere mare’d be on her beam ends with you in no time.”“Oh, no, she wouldn’t, Jack! She knows me perfectly. Don’t you, Lady? Oh, do, Jack! That’s a good Jack.Pleaselet me! Don’s there, you know.”Dorry said this as if Don were a regiment. By this time, the side-saddle, yielding to her vigorous efforts, had clattered down from its peg, with a peculiar buckle-and-leathery noise of its own.“Won’t you, Jack? Ah,won’tyou?”“No, miss, I won’t!” said Jack, resolutely.“Why, Jack, I’ve been on her before. Don’t you know? There isn’t a horse on the place that could throw me. Uncle said so. Don’t you remember?”“So he did!” said Jack, his eyes sparkling proudly.“The Capt’n said them very words. An’,” glancing weakly at the mare, “she’s standin’ now like a skiff in a calm. Not a breath in her sails—”“Oh, do—do, Jack!” coaxed Dorry, seizing her advantage, “quick! They’re all in the lot yet. Here, put it on her!”“I’m an old fool,” muttered Jack to himself, as, hindered by Dorry’s busy touches, he proceeded to saddle the subdued animal; “but I can’t never refuse her nothin’—that’s where it is. Easy now, miss!” as Dorry, climbing up on the feed-box in laughing excitement, begged him to hurry and let her mount. “Easy now. There! You’re on, high and dry. Here” (tugging at the girth), “let me tauten up a bit! Steady now! Don’t try no capers with her, Miss Dorry, and come back in a minute. Get up, Lady!—get up!”The mare left the stable so slowly and unwillingly,that Jack slapped her flank gently as she moved off. Jog jog went Lady out through the wide stable doorway, across the yard into the open field. Dorry, hastily arranging her skirts and settling herself comfortably upon the grand but dingy saddle (it had been Aunt Kate’s in the days gone by), laughed to herself, thinking how astonished they all must be to see her riding Lady back to them. For a moment she playfully pretended to be unconscious of their gaze. Then she looked up.Poor Dorry! Not a boy, not even Donald, had remained in the field! He and the little Danbys were listening to one of Ben’s stories of adventure. Even the two horses and Don’s pony were quietly nosing the dry grass in search of green tufts.“I don’t care,” she murmured gayly, overcoming her disappointment. “I mean to have a ride, any way. Get up, Lady!”Ladydidget up. She shook her head, pricked up her ears, and started off at a beautiful canter across the fields.“How lovely!” thought Dorry, especially pleased at that moment to see several figures coming toward her from the Danby yard; “it’s just like flying!”Whether Lady missed her master’s firm grip upon the rein, or whether she guessed her rider’s thought, and was inspired by the sudden shouts and hurrahs of the approaching boys, can never be known. Certain it is that by the next moment Dorry, on Lady’s back, was flying in earnest,—flying at great speed round and round the field, but with never an idea of falling off. Her first feeling was that her uncle and Jack wouldn’t be pleased if they knew the exact character of the ride. Next came a sense of triumph, because she felt that Don and the rest were seeing it all, and then a wild consciousness that her hat was off, her hair streaming to the wind, and that she was keeping her seat for dear life.Lady’s canter had become a run, and the run soon grew into a series of leaps. Still Dorry kept her seat. Young as she was, she was a fearless rider, and at first, as we have seen, rather enjoyed the prospect of a tussle with Lady. But as the speed increased, Dorry found herself growing deaf, dumb and blind in the breathless race. Still, if she could only hold on, all would be well; she certainly could not consent to be conquered before “those boys.”Lady seemed to go twenty feet in the air at every leap. There was no merry shouting now. The little boys stood pale and breathless. Ben, trying to hold Don back, was wondering what was to be done, and Charity was wringing her hands.“Oh, oh! She’ll be thrown!” cried the girls.“Not a bit of it!” insisted Donald. “I’ve seen Dot on a horse before.” But his looks betrayed his anxiety. “See! the mare’s trying to throw her now! But she can’t do it—she can’t do it! Dot understands herself, I tell you,—Whoa-o!—Let me go!” and, breaking from Ben, he tore across the field, through the opening in the hedge, and was on his pony’s back in a twinkling. How he did it, he never knew. He had heard Dorry scream, and somehow that scream made him and his pony one. Together, they flew over the field; with a steady, calm purpose, they cut across Lady’s course, and soon were at her side. Donald’s “Hold on, Dot!” was followed by his quick plunge toward the mare. It seemed that she certainly would ride over him, but he never faltered. Grasping his pony’s mane with one hand, he clutched Lady’s bridle with the other. The mare plunged, but the boy’s grip was as firm as iron. Though almost dragged from his seat, he held on, and the more she struggled, the harder he tugged,—the pony bearing itself nobly, and quivering in eager♦sympathy with Donald’s every movement. Jack and Ben were now tearing across the field, bent on rescue; but they were not needed. Don was master of the situation. The mare, her frolic over, had yielded with superb grace, almost as if with a bow, and the pony was rubbing its nose against her steaming side.♦‘smypathy’ replaced with ‘sympathy’“Good for you, Dot!” was Donald’s first word. “You held on magnificently.”Dorothy stroked Lady’s hot neck, and for a moment could not trust herself to look up. But when Jack half-pulled, half-lifted her from the saddle, and she felt the firm earth beneath her, she tottered and would have fallen, had not Donald, frightened at her white face, sprung to the ground just in time to support her.“Shiver my timbers!” growled Jack, “if ever I let youngsters have their way again!” But his eyes shone with a strange mixture of self-reproach and satisfaction as he looked at Dorry.
JUST as Donald and Dorothy were about to end the outdoor visit to the Danbys, described in our last chapter, Coachman Jack was seen in a neighboring field, trying to catchMr.Reed’s spirited mare, “Lady,” that had been let out to have a run. He had already approached her without difficulty and slipped a bridle over her head, but she had started away from him, and he, feeling that she had been allowed playtime enough, was now bent on recapturing her.
Instantly a dozen Danby eyes were watching them with intense interest. Then Donald and Ben, not being able to resist the impulse, scampered over to join in the race, closely followed by Dan and Fandy. Gregory, too, would have gone, but Charity called him back.
It was a superb sight to see the spirited animal, one moment standing motionless at a safe distance from Jack, and the next, leaping about the field, mane and tail flying, and every action telling of a defiant enjoyment of freedom. Soon, two grazing horses in the same field caught her spirit; even Don’s pony, at first looking soberly over a hedge in the adjoining lot, began frisking and capering about on his own account, dashing past an opening in the hedge as though it were as solid a barrier as the rest. Nor were Jack and the boys less frisky. Coaxing and shouting had failed, and now it was an open chase, in which, for a time, the mare certainly had the advantage. But what animal is proof against its appetite? Clever little Fandy had rushed toMr.Reed’s barn, and brought back in his hat a light lunch of oats for the mare, which he at once bore into her presence, shaking it temptingly, at the same time slowly backing away from her. The little midget and his hatful succeeded, where big man and boys had failed. The mare came cautiously up and was about to put her nose into the cap, when Jack’s stealthy and sudden effort to seize the bridle made her start sidewise away from him. But here Donald leaped forward at the other side, and caught her before she had time to escape again.
Jack was too proud of Don’s quickness to appear surprised; so, disregarding the hilarious shout of the Danby boys, he took the bridle from the young master with an off-hand air, and led the now gentle animal quietly towards the stable.
But Dorothy was there before him. Out of breath after her brisk run, she was panting and tugging at a dusty side-saddle hanging in the harness-room, when Jack and the mare drew near.
“Oh, Jack!” she cried, “help me to get this down! I mean to have some fun. I’m going to ride that mare back to the field!”
“Not you, Miss Dorry!” exclaimed Jack. “Take your own pony, an’ your own saddle, an’ it’s a go; but this ’ere mare’d be on her beam ends with you in no time.”
“Oh, no, she wouldn’t, Jack! She knows me perfectly. Don’t you, Lady? Oh, do, Jack! That’s a good Jack.Pleaselet me! Don’s there, you know.”
Dorry said this as if Don were a regiment. By this time, the side-saddle, yielding to her vigorous efforts, had clattered down from its peg, with a peculiar buckle-and-leathery noise of its own.
“Won’t you, Jack? Ah,won’tyou?”
“No, miss, I won’t!” said Jack, resolutely.
“Why, Jack, I’ve been on her before. Don’t you know? There isn’t a horse on the place that could throw me. Uncle said so. Don’t you remember?”
“So he did!” said Jack, his eyes sparkling proudly.
“The Capt’n said them very words. An’,” glancing weakly at the mare, “she’s standin’ now like a skiff in a calm. Not a breath in her sails—”
“Oh, do—do, Jack!” coaxed Dorry, seizing her advantage, “quick! They’re all in the lot yet. Here, put it on her!”
“I’m an old fool,” muttered Jack to himself, as, hindered by Dorry’s busy touches, he proceeded to saddle the subdued animal; “but I can’t never refuse her nothin’—that’s where it is. Easy now, miss!” as Dorry, climbing up on the feed-box in laughing excitement, begged him to hurry and let her mount. “Easy now. There! You’re on, high and dry. Here” (tugging at the girth), “let me tauten up a bit! Steady now! Don’t try no capers with her, Miss Dorry, and come back in a minute. Get up, Lady!—get up!”
The mare left the stable so slowly and unwillingly,that Jack slapped her flank gently as she moved off. Jog jog went Lady out through the wide stable doorway, across the yard into the open field. Dorry, hastily arranging her skirts and settling herself comfortably upon the grand but dingy saddle (it had been Aunt Kate’s in the days gone by), laughed to herself, thinking how astonished they all must be to see her riding Lady back to them. For a moment she playfully pretended to be unconscious of their gaze. Then she looked up.
Poor Dorry! Not a boy, not even Donald, had remained in the field! He and the little Danbys were listening to one of Ben’s stories of adventure. Even the two horses and Don’s pony were quietly nosing the dry grass in search of green tufts.
“I don’t care,” she murmured gayly, overcoming her disappointment. “I mean to have a ride, any way. Get up, Lady!”
Ladydidget up. She shook her head, pricked up her ears, and started off at a beautiful canter across the fields.
“How lovely!” thought Dorry, especially pleased at that moment to see several figures coming toward her from the Danby yard; “it’s just like flying!”
Whether Lady missed her master’s firm grip upon the rein, or whether she guessed her rider’s thought, and was inspired by the sudden shouts and hurrahs of the approaching boys, can never be known. Certain it is that by the next moment Dorry, on Lady’s back, was flying in earnest,—flying at great speed round and round the field, but with never an idea of falling off. Her first feeling was that her uncle and Jack wouldn’t be pleased if they knew the exact character of the ride. Next came a sense of triumph, because she felt that Don and the rest were seeing it all, and then a wild consciousness that her hat was off, her hair streaming to the wind, and that she was keeping her seat for dear life.
Lady’s canter had become a run, and the run soon grew into a series of leaps. Still Dorry kept her seat. Young as she was, she was a fearless rider, and at first, as we have seen, rather enjoyed the prospect of a tussle with Lady. But as the speed increased, Dorry found herself growing deaf, dumb and blind in the breathless race. Still, if she could only hold on, all would be well; she certainly could not consent to be conquered before “those boys.”
Lady seemed to go twenty feet in the air at every leap. There was no merry shouting now. The little boys stood pale and breathless. Ben, trying to hold Don back, was wondering what was to be done, and Charity was wringing her hands.
“Oh, oh! She’ll be thrown!” cried the girls.
“Not a bit of it!” insisted Donald. “I’ve seen Dot on a horse before.” But his looks betrayed his anxiety. “See! the mare’s trying to throw her now! But she can’t do it—she can’t do it! Dot understands herself, I tell you,—Whoa-o!—Let me go!” and, breaking from Ben, he tore across the field, through the opening in the hedge, and was on his pony’s back in a twinkling. How he did it, he never knew. He had heard Dorry scream, and somehow that scream made him and his pony one. Together, they flew over the field; with a steady, calm purpose, they cut across Lady’s course, and soon were at her side. Donald’s “Hold on, Dot!” was followed by his quick plunge toward the mare. It seemed that she certainly would ride over him, but he never faltered. Grasping his pony’s mane with one hand, he clutched Lady’s bridle with the other. The mare plunged, but the boy’s grip was as firm as iron. Though almost dragged from his seat, he held on, and the more she struggled, the harder he tugged,—the pony bearing itself nobly, and quivering in eager♦sympathy with Donald’s every movement. Jack and Ben were now tearing across the field, bent on rescue; but they were not needed. Don was master of the situation. The mare, her frolic over, had yielded with superb grace, almost as if with a bow, and the pony was rubbing its nose against her steaming side.
♦‘smypathy’ replaced with ‘sympathy’
“Good for you, Dot!” was Donald’s first word. “You held on magnificently.”
Dorothy stroked Lady’s hot neck, and for a moment could not trust herself to look up. But when Jack half-pulled, half-lifted her from the saddle, and she felt the firm earth beneath her, she tottered and would have fallen, had not Donald, frightened at her white face, sprung to the ground just in time to support her.
“Shiver my timbers!” growled Jack, “if ever I let youngsters have their way again!” But his eyes shone with a strange mixture of self-reproach and satisfaction as he looked at Dorry.