THE OLD WORLD TOO.

HO! All aboard? A travelerSets sail from Babyland!Before my eyes there comes a blur;But still I kiss my hand,And try to smile as off he goes,My bonny, winsome boy!Yes,bon voyage! God only knowsHow much I wish thee joy!Oh! tell me; have you heard of him?He wore a sailor’s hatAll silver-corded round the brim,And—stranger e’en than that—A wondrous suit of navy blue,With pockets deep and wide;Oh! tell me, sailors, tell me true,How fares he on the tide?We’ve now no baby in the house;’Twas but this very morn,He doffed his dainty ’broidered blouse,With skirts of snowy lawn;And shook a mass of silken curlsFrom off his sunny brow;They fretted him—“so like a girl’s,”Mamma can have them now.He owned a brand-new pocket-book,But that he could not find;A knife and string were all he took.What did he leave behind?A heap of blocks, with letters gay,And here and there a toy;I cannot pick them up to-day,My heart is with my boy.Ho! Ship ahoy! At boyhood’s townCast anchor strong and deep.What! tears upon this little gown,Left for mamma to keep?Weep not, but smile; for through the airA merry message rings—“Just sell it to the rag man there;I’ve done with baby things!”Emma Huntington Nason.

HO! All aboard? A traveler

Sets sail from Babyland!

Before my eyes there comes a blur;

But still I kiss my hand,

And try to smile as off he goes,

My bonny, winsome boy!

Yes,bon voyage! God only knows

How much I wish thee joy!

Oh! tell me; have you heard of him?He wore a sailor’s hatAll silver-corded round the brim,And—stranger e’en than that—A wondrous suit of navy blue,With pockets deep and wide;Oh! tell me, sailors, tell me true,How fares he on the tide?

Oh! tell me; have you heard of him?

He wore a sailor’s hat

All silver-corded round the brim,

And—stranger e’en than that—

A wondrous suit of navy blue,

With pockets deep and wide;

Oh! tell me, sailors, tell me true,

How fares he on the tide?

We’ve now no baby in the house;’Twas but this very morn,He doffed his dainty ’broidered blouse,With skirts of snowy lawn;And shook a mass of silken curlsFrom off his sunny brow;They fretted him—“so like a girl’s,”Mamma can have them now.

We’ve now no baby in the house;

’Twas but this very morn,

He doffed his dainty ’broidered blouse,

With skirts of snowy lawn;

And shook a mass of silken curls

From off his sunny brow;

They fretted him—“so like a girl’s,”

Mamma can have them now.

He owned a brand-new pocket-book,But that he could not find;A knife and string were all he took.What did he leave behind?A heap of blocks, with letters gay,And here and there a toy;I cannot pick them up to-day,My heart is with my boy.

He owned a brand-new pocket-book,

But that he could not find;

A knife and string were all he took.

What did he leave behind?

A heap of blocks, with letters gay,

And here and there a toy;

I cannot pick them up to-day,

My heart is with my boy.

Ho! Ship ahoy! At boyhood’s townCast anchor strong and deep.What! tears upon this little gown,Left for mamma to keep?Weep not, but smile; for through the airA merry message rings—“Just sell it to the rag man there;I’ve done with baby things!”Emma Huntington Nason.

Ho! Ship ahoy! At boyhood’s town

Cast anchor strong and deep.

What! tears upon this little gown,

Left for mamma to keep?

Weep not, but smile; for through the air

A merry message rings—

“Just sell it to the rag man there;

I’ve done with baby things!”

Emma Huntington Nason.

boy up in sailsON THE LOOKOUT.

ON THE LOOKOUT.

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AMERICA is still the “New World.” Each day pick up something new about it. It is your world now. But there is an “Old World.” You must know about that too. If you could go and see it, so much the better. The eye is a little contrivance, but large enough to take in all England, Ireland, Scotland and any other land it gets a chance to see.

If you go abroad you must sail. There is no railroad or cable to carry you yet. A hundred years hence people may cross the Atlantic in balloons. But you can’t wait so long. Why should you? Here is the good ship Majestic—not exactly the one shown in the picture on the first page—which will take you over from New York to Liverpool in less than six days.

Once it took weeks. Sometimes a big iceberg came sailing along right across the ship’s path. Then there was a crash. Perhaps the poor little ship went to splinters and the passengers—well, you know what happened then. Sometimes a dreadful storm came down upon the ocean and the waves went up and down, looking like mountains and valleys. Not every frail ship could stand it. There was a wreck. But in spite of all these dreadful things most passengers get there and see the sights, and have a good time and get safely home. A friend has crossed the Atlantic nearly seventy times safely.

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IT is said that sixteen thousand looms are kept in constant employment in Cashmere, producing annually about thirty thousand shawls. The shawls are woven on rudely-constructed looms, a pair of shawls sometimes occupying three or four men a whole year in weaving. The Cashmere goat, which furnishes the material, is found in Thibet, the hair of it being fine, silky and about eighteen inches long. It takes the fleece of ten goats to manufacture a shawl a yard and a half square.—Selected.

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WHILE the folks are gone to the fair, and we have nothing to do but watch around the place and see that no tramp gets in, we might as well have a good time, and I will tell you about my brother Nero. You must not forget, though, but keep eyes, ears and nose open while I am talking.

To begin with, there was a very large family of us, or would have been if we had all been kept together. There were brothers and sisters older, and a good many younger than we. We were of the same age, and there were three others just our age, too; but they had gone to live with other families, and Nero and I were all there were left with mother. Poor, dear mother! I remember well how she used to feel when her children were taken away from her, though I was too young at that time to realize it.

When we were alone she would sigh, and many a tear have I seen fall from her eyes, as she would lap us and think of her darlings whose faces she knew not that she would ever see again.

She, poor mother, seemed to lavish all her love upon us after the other three were gone.

Mr. Bryant, our master, had a daughter—only one—whose name was Fanny. Her father and mother seemed to think the world of her; and the thing that puzzled mother was, that Mrs. Bryant, being a mother herself, should not feel more for her four-footed friend, who was a mother also. She fed us enough, and never abused us in the ways in which so many abuse their dogs; but when it came to parting mother and children it never seemed to occur to her that a mother with four feet, and that couldn’t talk, could have any motherly feelings, or care what became of her little ones.

I remember little Fanny was not so. She would cry every time one of my brothers or sisters was taken away, and after one was gone would come out with us and put her arms around mother’s silky neck and cry as though her heart would break.

Well, one day while we were quite small a man came to the house. I think he was some kind of agent. He saw mother, and could not help admiring her glossy coat and beautiful eyes, and so was anxious to get one of our family. He wanted mother herself, but soon found that money could not buy her. Fanny overheard them talking about us, and then slipped quietly out of the room, and came in great haste to where we were, and with one of us under each arm fled to a place of safety. Down through the orchard she went till she came to an old building which was used to store hay in; there, in a hole which she and some of her playmates had made to hide in, she put us, and covered us up with soft straw, and fixed it so that we could not possibly crawl out, then closed the door and went off under a sweet apple-tree to hunt for apples as though nothing had happened.

Now I suppose men will think she did not act just as she should, and perhaps she was guilty of disobedience for not telling where we were when they were hunting for us; but we were very grateful to her, and whined with delight when we heard the man drive away, and learned that he was not likely to come over that road again.

Fanny felt badly about it, and that night when she was going to bed told her mother what she had done, crying almost as hard as though we had been sold.

Fanny’s mother explained to her how it was wicked to be disobedient, and that it was disobedience to not do what she would be required to do, if all the circumstances were known, and that doing wrong that good might come of it was never right.

Then after Fanny was asleep her mother told Mr. Bryant why they had failed to find us, and after he heard the whole story he said: “Bless her dear heart; for her sake we will keep the little fellows, and Bess” (that was mother’s name) “will look at us with less sadness in her great eyes.”

So Mrs. Bryant told Fanny that they had decided to keep us both until we were much bigger, at least, and she need not worry any more about our being sold.

When they told mother you should have seen her leap for joy; she sprang up upon her hind feet, and put her fore paws upon Mr. Bryant’s breast, forgetting in her great joy that her feet were not clean; but he, good man, only patted her and let her lick his cheek, and called her “Good old Bess,” and then told her to go and look after her children and give them their supper.

I heard her say to one of the neighbors some months after, as she was telling her experience with us, that that was the first time she had lain down with any peace of mind for weeks.

Well, the bigger we grew the more Fanny loved us, and so we did her. We never let her go down in the orchard, or out into the woods, or to fish in the brook but what we went with her, and we drove everything and everybody away, unless she told us not to.

After awhile she decided that she wanted one of us in her room nights. To that arrangement her mother at first strongly objected; but her father plead for her, and the mother finally consented.

When the cold weather came on Fanny got a rug, and had Nero sleep on that rug on the foot of her bed, “to keep her feet warm,” she said.

This had been going on for some time when Mr. and Mrs. Bryant went out to visit a neighbor’s at some kind of a gathering, and left mother and me outside in our kennel to watch, and Nero to remain in the room with our little friend Fanny.

The hired man and the cook, instead of remaining at home as they were expected to, went to spend the evening with a neighbor, thinking it would be all right with Fanny, as she was asleep. But it had been ironing day, and the clothes had been left hanging in the kitchen to air, and how it was no one will ever know, but in some way they took fire. Mother was the first to discover it, and began to bark with all her might to awaken Fanny and Nero. I remember that I barked too, just as hard and loud as I could.

Soon Nero heard it, and began to feel that something must be the matter somewhere. His first thought was that he ought to awaken his young mistress, and he went at the job as best he knew. But she was too sound asleep to be awakened by barking, do the best he could; so he sprang upon her shoulder and began to pull at her nightdress, and finally took her by the ear, and pulled so hard that it almost started the blood. Then she awakened in a great fright, for a bright light was shining so she could see everything in her room.

Pulling on her shoes and stockings, and wrapping around her some of the blankets from her bed, she opened the door, which fortunately was near the stairs.

With the help of Nero she made her way through the smoke to the street, about the time the neighbors began to arrive. They were too late to have been of any help to Fanny, for the flames would have overtaken her before they reached there, but for Nero. By the time Mr. and Mrs. Bryant reached home the house was far gone. When they saw the flames they seemed almost crazy with fright; for they remembered that they had left their only child asleep in the second story. It was some minutes before they could be made to understand that Fanny was safe.

She and Nero had been hurried to the house of a neighbor, and when they found them Fanny had her arms around Nero’s neck.

When Fanny was being tucked into bed for a second time that night she said to her mother: “Are you not glad that I kept Nero from being sold? Because if he had not been there to wake me up you wouldn’t have had any little girl now.”

From that time Nero was a great pet, and I was very proud of him, though I could not help being a little bit vexed because nobody gave mother and me any credit for awakening him. One day I said something about it to her, and she said: “Never mind, Major; we know ourselves that we did our duty, and that is the important thing.”

settlers by campfireSOME OF OUR EARLIEST SETTLERS.

SOME OF OUR EARLIEST SETTLERS.

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girl under the seaA “MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.”

A “MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.”

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IT is my opinion that the little girl who makes this convenient thing which I am about to describe, will need to have an accommodating brother who owns a box of tools and knows how to use them. Or she may have a good friend among the carpenters who are at work on the next corner. Still another way would be to get papa enlisted and agree to divide mamma’s birthday present with him; that is, let him share the honor of getting it up.

However that part may be managed here is yours, my dear, industrious little girl.

The name of the article is Screen Bag. I have no doubt you know how fond mamma is of bags, of all shapes and sizes, for keeping her unmended stockings, or perhaps, more truthfully speaking, your and your brothers’ and sisters’ unmended stockings, for balls of cord, and rolls of tape, and papers of hooks and eyes, and I have not room to tell how many other things. Well, this Screen Bag is just the thing. First get your frames made of common pine wood, three of them, of about the right height to furnish a comfortable screen for mamma if she wishes to keep the wind from blowing on her, or the firelight from burning her face. Indeed, you must decide where she will be likely to want to use the screen, and plan its size accordingly. Then you want some bright cloth of a pretty color; perhaps red, if that harmonizes best with the colors in your mother’s room, or possibly blue or a soft rich brown; what you will, so that it is strong. Cretonne is good, so is the striped cotton furniture cloth which may be found at any upholsterer’s, and in nearly all large city stores. You want two kinds; one for the front and one for the back of your screen. The back or lining side need not be made of such strong material. English cambric or common calico will do nicely. Of course the amount of material needed will depend upon the size of your frames; some careful measurements with a tape line will be necessary. Now get your “pockets” ready, as many as you have room for, and of whatever size you think the most useful. The first or lower row should be a little larger than the ones above. The screen I have in mind had two good-sized pockets below, three smaller ones above, four above them, and five tiny ones at the top. These may be made of the same cloth as the screen, or of different colors, according to your taste and the variety of material at command. They should be hemmed neatly at the top and stitched firmly to the cloth; first basted, then sewed in the machine, to insure strength; or, if you do not understand a sewing machine, and want to do all the work yourself, you can take strong thread, and make a back stitch for every third or fourth one, and do the whole by hand.

Now you want some brass-headed nails—round heads, you know. Finally, your frames are ready for the brass hinges on which they are to swing. You will need four of these, and when they are screwed into their places your Bag Screen will be finished. Fifty-two pockets! My word for it, if your mamma does not feel richer than she ever did in her life, after she has her conveniences packed away in those delightful pockets, which besides holding them, are at work screening her from the heat, or sun, or wind, I shall be very much astonished.

I shall hope to hear that some of the Pansies have tried this experiment.

Pansy.

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A GOOD many years ago there used to be a city named St. Anthony. It was built on the east side of the Mississippi River; then a city grew up on the west side named Minneapolis, and after awhile it swallowed St. Anthony and made one big city of itself on both sides of the river. I think St. Anthony would have been a prettier name for the city, on account of the Falls of St. Anthony being right there. But Minneapolis is pretty, too. I have never been there, but my brother has, and some day he is going to take me a long journey all over the West; then we will visit Minneapolis, and I will write to the Pansies about it.

Helen M. Leeds.

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Theflouring mills of Minneapolis are the largest in the world. They can make thirty-eight thousand barrels of flour in a day if they want to; and I guess they want to, for their flour is famous all over the country. I order flour for my grandmother, and she won’t have a barrel which does not say “Minneapolis” on it. I should think the coopers would all get rich out there. I read in a book that in one year they sold pretty nearly three million barrels!

John Willis Leeds.

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I don’tknow what I can write about Minneapolis. I think it is just like any other great big city, with electric lights, and street cars, and parks, and all those things, of course. I think cities are all alike; I like the country myself. But Minneapolis grows faster than many cities do. My grandfather was there in 1860, and there were only about six thousand inhabitants; now there are two hundred and twenty-five thousand. Some say more, but I think that is enough.

Harvey Campbell.

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I amso glad it has come time to write about Minneapolis, because I went there myself only a year ago. I do think it is the loveliest place I was ever in. It seems more like a great big beautiful town than a city. The houses are not crowded together in great ugly-looking brick rows, all just alike, as they are in Philadelphia, and on some streets in New York; but almost all of them have lovely grounds, and trees, and flowers, and pretty lawns. Oh! I liked it all so much. We had a picnic out at the Falls of Minnehaha, the prettiest place I ever saw in my life. There is a magnificent park out there of more than a hundred acres, and the drive all the way through the city to the park is perfectly beautiful. Then of course the falls themselves are just too lovely! We had Mr. Dickson the elocutionist with us, and after lunch he recited parts of Longfellow’s poem about “Minnehaha, Laughing Water.” I had never read “Hiawatha” then, but I have since, and I know several pages of it by heart. But you cannot think how lovely it was to have Mr. Dickson recite it right at the falls. We took a great many lovely drives while we were in the city. We stopped at West Hotel, which is one of the finest in the United States, or for that matter in the world. It can accommodate twelve hundred guests, and it seemed as though there must be that number in the house while we were there. When we met in the great dining-room it seemed queer to think that there were more people there than can be found in the village where I live. Still I like our little village in the summer, and would not exchange it for a city. I would like to describe West Hotel, but I cannot, except to say that the furniture was grand, and everything was elegant. We rode past Senator Washburn’s house a great many times. It is out on Twenty-second Street and Third Avenue, and has ten acres of the most charming grounds, so that it is just the same to him as living in the country. The house is built of a kind of stone which is called kasota, and is very beautiful. I did not mean to make my letter so long, but there is a great deal to tell.

Alice Washburne Mills.

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I havean aunt who is very fond of visiting churches. When she goes to a new place, if it is only a village, she wants to see all the churches and know about them. When she was in Minneapolis first, years ago, it was a little bit of a place, and my aunt is an old lady, and does not read the newspapers much, and did not realize that Minneapolis had grown a great deal. She went there last spring to visit a nephew. She reached there in the night, and was taken in a carriage to her nephew’s house, and did not realize the changes at all. The next morning at breakfast, when her nephew asked her what she would like to see in the city, she said she would like to visit the different churches if she could, and that perhaps as the day was pleasant they could go that morning.

buildingCITY HALL AND COURT SQUARE.

CITY HALL AND COURT SQUARE.

“Very well,” said her nephew; “to which ones shall we go?”

“Oh! to all of them,” answered my aunt; “we can take a few minutes for each and see them all this forenoon, can we not?”

“Certainly,” said her nephew; “just as well as not. There are only about a hundred and sixty, I believe.”

And that was the first time my aunt knew that she was in a big city instead of the little town she had left thirty years or so before. But I don’t think her nephew was very polite to an old lady. She saw a good many of the churches, among them Dr. Wayland Hoyt’s, which she said she liked the best of all. It is the First Baptist Church of Minneapolis, and cost two hundred thousand dollars. It will seat about fifteen hundred people. I thought the Pansies would like to hear about it, because Dr. Hoyt wrote one of our “Regret” letters for us.

Minnie Andrews.

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buildingPUBLIC LIBRARY.

PUBLIC LIBRARY.

Myuncle is a lawyer and lives in Minneapolis. He says the City Hall is just splendid. It cost three million dollars. Its great tower is three hundred and forty-five feet high, and there are only two others in the United States which can get above that. There isn’t any danger that this building will ever burn up, for it is made fire proof. I wonder why they don’t make all buildings fire proof? Then we would not have to buy engines, and pay firemen, and keep great splendid horses doing nothing all day long but wait for fires. This City Hall which I began to tell you about is three hundred feet square, and fills up a great block on four streets. I should like to see it. My uncle has a photograph of it, and it looks magnificent. I am going to be a lawyer, and I shall have an office in Minneapolis.

Harry Denning.

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Myfather was acquainted with Governor Washburn, who gave three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars for the Washburn Memorial Orphan Asylum in Minneapolis. My father has been there to see the asylum. He says it is in a beautiful place, with lovely trees and plants in the grounds. There were fifty-seven orphans there when father visited it. I am glad they have such a nice place. I would like to be rich, like Governor Washburn, and give lots of money to something. I think I shall be, and I shall found an orphan asylum somewhere, but not in Minneapolis, because they don’t need another.

Horace Webster.

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Minneapoliswas started about the same time that St. Anthony was. They grew about the same for awhile, then Minneapolis got to growing so fast that about all which could be heard in that city was the pounding of hammers. Afterwards St. Anthony and Minneapolis were united.

Minneapolis was naturally a very pretty place, and until the last few years it was called the prettiest city in Minnesota, but now St. Paul is prettier.

Millie Rowell.

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bad picture of fallsTHE FALLS OF MINNEHAHA.

THE FALLS OF MINNEHAHA.

I attendedthe International Christian Endeavor Convention when it met in Minneapolis. I was a Junior delegate. We had a splendid time. The convention was held in the great Exposition building, which is three hundred and fifty feet square. That is, they made a big hall for the convention inside the building, and it held more than ten thousand people.

My sister and I visited the Public Library. It is a very handsome building. They say it cost a good deal over three hundred thousand dollars. We sat in one of the elegant reading-rooms and read books while our uncle was looking up something in books of reference. There are thousands and thousands of volumes there; I did know how many, but have forgotten. The street cars in Minneapolis are all electric. My sister did not like to ride on them when there was a thunderstorm, but I was not afraid. There are lots of lakes all around that part of the country, and of course the Falls of St. Anthony are there. It is queer to have a splendid falls in the midst of a city.

I think I like Minneapolis better than any place I was ever in. I may go to stay with my uncle and attend the University of Minnesota, which is there. That is what I want to do. If I go I shall know more about Minneapolis, and will write again.

Thomas Bailey Atwood.

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ALL day long the Osborne home had been in a state of excitement. It had been very difficult for the family to attend to its usual duties. The little girls had at first declared that they could not go to school at all; and then, being convinced that they must, it had been nearly impossible to get them ready in time. Even the baby had caught the unrest, and refused to take his long morning nap and give the seventeen-year-old sister Mary a chance to attend to the work. The explanation was that mother was coming home. She had been away a whole month, an unheard-of thing in the history of the family before this season.

The fact is, Mrs. Osborne was one of those mothers who would never have been persuaded to leave her home and her children had it not become a serious duty to do so. She had been in poor health for several months, and grandmamma had written and coaxed and urged, and at last almost commanded that she should come back to the old home and the old physician, and see if he could not help her. One terrible thing about it was, that this same physician refused to allow her to bring her baby along. “I know just how it will be,” he said, shaking his gray head and looking wise. “The baby is a strong, healthy little fellow, and a perfect tyrant as they all are, and he will be carried, and put to sleep, and fed, and petted by his mother and nobody else; he will be more positive about it than usual, being among strangers, and he will just keep her worn out. There is no use in talking, Mrs. Fuller, I know your daughter Mary of old, and I will not consent to try to help her unless she will leave that fellow at home and come away from all care for a month.”

Well, the doctor had had his way, as he nearly always did, and Mrs. Osborne, having declared that it would be utterly impossible to go away from home and leave Baby and the little girls, and only Mary to look after them all, had been gotten ready and carried to the cars. And a whole month had passed, and she, wonderfully improved, was coming home to-day. Father had driven to the depot three miles away to meet her, and the house was in commotion.

Mary, the housekeeper, nurse and mother-in-charge, had had a busy day. There were still a dozen things which she meant to have done before mother came, not the least among them being to get herself in order; for her apron was torn, her slippers were down at the heel, her hair was what her father called “frowsly,” and, in short, she did not look in the least as she meant to when the mother should put her arms around her. Then there were last things to be done all over the house, and the table to be set for the early tea-dinner which was to do honor to the traveler’s newly-found appetite. Yet, notwithstanding all this, Mary, feeling sure that the time must now be short, allowed herself to drop down into the chair which she had been dusting, draw from her pocket the mother’s last letter, whose contents she knew by heart, and glancing at it, go to studying for the dozenth time the possibility that her mother might have meant the evening train instead of the afternoon, in which case she would not be there for several hours.

“Let me see; I almost believe that is the way, after all,” she said, biting the feather end of the old quill which she had picked up somewhere in her dusting, and looking vexed and disheartened. “I am sure I don’t know how I am to keep the children from growing wild, if they have to wait three hours longer.”

Meantime, the children, in the other room, were in various stages of excitement. Helen, the older of the three, in whose charge Baby Joe was especially put, occupied herself in racing to the front gate every few minutes to see if she could not get a glimpse of her father’s horse and wagon climbing the hill; and Baby Joe, each time she went, either reached after and tumbled over something which he ought not to have touched, or tumbled down, in his eager haste to follow to the gate. In this way the room was being put into more or less disorder.

“How perfectly silly you are!” said Jessie, looking up from the book she was reading, as Helen came back panting for the third time. “Just as though racing to the gate every few minutes would bring them any quicker! and look at Joe; he has tipped the spools all out of mother’s box. A nice tangle they will be in.”

“Why didn’t you keep him from them then?” asked Helen irritably; “you are doing nothing but pore over a story book. I should think you would go and comb your hair and change your dress. Mother will not like to see you in such a tangle, I can tell you.”

“There is time enough,” said Jessie, yawning. “I can’t do anything but read a story book; it is impossible to settle to anything when mother is so near home as she must be by this time. I haven’t done a thing this afternoon; I couldn’t. I don’t see how Elsie can bend over that stupid History, just as if nothing unusual was going to happen.”

This made Elsie raise her eyes; they were pretty brown ones. She was a little girl of about ten, in a neat blue dress, and with her hair in perfect order. “I thought it would be a good plan to get my history ready for to-morrow while I was waiting,” she said, “then I will not have to study this evening, when I want to listen to mother. I should think you would like to get your examples done; and anyhow, Jessie, you ought to comb your hair; it looks like a fright.”

“I mean to, of course,” said Jessie. “I dare say there is time enough. Father can’t drive fast on such a warm afternoon; and besides, Mary said she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he should have to wait for the evening train. Wouldn’t that be just horrid! If it were not for the lovely story I am reading I couldn’t endure this waiting another minute.”

“It’s easier to wait when you are at work doing what ought to be done,” said Elsie, with the air of a philosopher.

“Oh! you are a regular Miss Prim,” said Helen, laughing, as she stooped to pick little Joe out of another piece of carefully planned mischief; “for my part, I think it is horrid to have anything that ought to be done at such a time. Joe, you little nuisance, I do wish you would go to sleep, and give me a chance to watch for mother. I hope I shall get all the things picked up and put to rights that you have upset before mother comes; she will not be charmed with the looks of the room if I don’t. However, there really must be oceans of time yet.”

“Then why did you race down to the gate every few minutes to see if they were coming?” Jessie asked.

“Oh! because I did not know what else to do,” said Helen; “I knew better, of course. Take care, Joe! There, I declare! he has done it now.”

Sure enough he had! Jerked at the table spread where Helen herself had set the inkstand, intending to put it away in a few minutes, and sent a black stream not only over his own white dress, but on the carpet as well. Mary, who still sat studying the letter, and thinking of the things which she meant to accomplish before her mother came, having by this time decided that it was entirely probable that they must wait for the evening train, heard the exclamations of dismay from the other room, and rose up to see what was the trouble; but at that instant an eager cry from Elsie: “There they come!” sounded on the ears of all. Helen gathered up the screaming Joe under one arm, and calling to Mary to look out for the ink on the carpet, ran out of one door, just as Jessie scurried out of another, eager to dash upstairs and brush her hair before her father saw her; for his last charge had been to her to see to it that she did not appear before her mother in that plight. Mary, burning with shame and disappointment over the little last things which she meant to have ready, waited to mop up the ink, while Elsie, closing the door on the disordered room, went forward to meet the beloved mother.

Myra Spafford.

girl writing letter and thinking of what to say next“LET ME SEE!”

“LET ME SEE!”

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THIS is a company of Pilgrims in the cabin of the blessed shipMayflower, on their way over a stormy sea from Plymouth, England, to find a place in America where they may worship God “according to the dictates of their own consciences.”

This was two hundred and seventy years ago. Of course the people did not dress then just as they do now, as you can well see by noticing their broad collars and queer trousers. How queer our dress will look to our great-grandchildren.

The dearMayflowerwas not such a grand ship as the Cunarder. It had to depend—not upon steam—but upon a favoring wind, and the wind does not always seem to favor, so it took her weeks to cross the stormy Atlantic, and the passengers (Puritans they were called) were very sick; but because they had suffered so much from cruel people in England they did not complain, as they believed God held the waves in his hand, and he was guiding theMayfloweras much as he did the Israelites to Palestine—“a land flowing with milk and honey.” So they patiently and cheerfully waited in theMayflower’ssmall cabin, often singing hymns and praying and encouraging each other.

bad picture of group of peopleA COMPANY OF PILGRIMS.

A COMPANY OF PILGRIMS.

At last on Monday, December 21, 1620, they landed on Plymouth Rock, Mass., happy as birds escaped from a cage.

They had much trouble with the Indians; but after a time they began to build, with other Pilgrims, at other points, our great nation.

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Thereis a woman living in Manchester, England, who is said to have a Bible two feet long and nearly two feet wide. At the top of each page is printed in red ink: “This is a history.” The Bible is two hundred years old, and is the largest one in the world, it is supposed.

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NOBODY finks I can tell the time of day, but I can.

The first hour is five o’clock in the morning.

That’s the time the birds begin to peep. I lie still and hear them sing:

“Tweet, tweet, tweet!Chee, chee, chee!”

“Tweet, tweet, tweet!

Chee, chee, chee!”

But mamma is fast asleep. Nobody awake in all the world but just me and the birds.

Bimeby the sun gets up and it’s six o’clock in the morning.

Toddler standing on chair to see clockBABY TELLS THE TIME OF DAY.

BABY TELLS THE TIME OF DAY.

Then mamma opens one eye and I can hear her say:

“Where’s my baby?”

N’en I keep still—jus’ as still as a mouse, an’ she keeps saying:

“Where’s my baby?”

N’en all at once I go “Boo!” and she laughs and hugs me, and says “I’m a precious.”

Mamma’s nice, and I love her ’cept when she washes my face too hard and pulls my hair with the comb.

Seven o’clock!

That’s when the bell goes jingle, jingle, and we have breakfast.

All the eight an’ nine an’ ten an’ ’leven hours I play.

I run after butterflies and squirrels, and swing, and read my picture book, and sometimes I cry—jus’ a little bit.

Twelve o’clock!

That’s a bu’ful hour. The clock strikes a lot of times, and the big whistle goes, and the bell rings, and papa comes home, and dinner’s ready!

The one and two hours are lost. Mamma always carries me off to take a nap. I don’t like naps. They waste time.

When we wake up the clock strikes three. N’en I have on my pink dress, and we go walking or riding.

And so the three and four and five hours are gone.

At six o’clock Bossy comes home, and I have my drink of warm milk.

N’en I put on my white gown, and kiss everybody “good-night,” and say “Now I lay me,” and get into my bed.

Mamma says:

“Now the sun and the birdies and my little baby are all gone to bed, and to sleep, sleep, sleep.”

So I shut my eyes tight, and next you know ’tis morning!

An’ ’nat’s all the time there is.

Mrs. C. M. Livingston.

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OCTOBER gave a party—The leaves by hundreds came—The Chestnuts, Oaks and Maples,And leaves of every name;The sunshine spread a carpet,And everything was grand;Miss Weather led the dancing,Professor Wind the band.The Chestnuts came in yellow,The Oaks in crimson dressed;The lovely Misses MapleIn scarlet looked their best.All balanced to their partners,And gaily fluttered by;The sight was like a rainbowNew-fallen from the sky.Then in the rustic hollowsAt hide-and-seek they played.The party closed at sundown,And everybody staid.Professor Wind played louder,They flew along the ground,And then the party endedIn “hands across, all round.”From “Song Stories for Little People.”

OCTOBER gave a party—The leaves by hundreds came—The Chestnuts, Oaks and Maples,And leaves of every name;

OCTOBER gave a party—

The leaves by hundreds came—

The Chestnuts, Oaks and Maples,

And leaves of every name;

The sunshine spread a carpet,And everything was grand;Miss Weather led the dancing,Professor Wind the band.

The sunshine spread a carpet,

And everything was grand;

Miss Weather led the dancing,

Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow,The Oaks in crimson dressed;The lovely Misses MapleIn scarlet looked their best.

The Chestnuts came in yellow,

The Oaks in crimson dressed;

The lovely Misses Maple

In scarlet looked their best.

All balanced to their partners,And gaily fluttered by;The sight was like a rainbowNew-fallen from the sky.

All balanced to their partners,

And gaily fluttered by;

The sight was like a rainbow

New-fallen from the sky.

Then in the rustic hollowsAt hide-and-seek they played.The party closed at sundown,And everybody staid.

Then in the rustic hollows

At hide-and-seek they played.

The party closed at sundown,

And everybody staid.

Professor Wind played louder,They flew along the ground,And then the party endedIn “hands across, all round.”From “Song Stories for Little People.”

Professor Wind played louder,

They flew along the ground,

And then the party ended

In “hands across, all round.”

From “Song Stories for Little People.”

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