VESUVIUS.

dog in ice waterBENNIE’S FRIEND.

BENNIE’S FRIEND.

couple standing in midst of sitting peopleSILENT PARTNERS.

SILENT PARTNERS.

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NEARLY two thousand years ago there was a mountain, and its name was Vesuvius. From the foot of it to the very top it was almost like a garden.

At the bottom were two great cities, called Herculaneum and Pompeii. The mountain is there now, and near it is the city of Naples in Italy.

One day, when everything was going on in those great cities just as usual, an awful sound was heard like the firing of ten thousand of the biggest cannon; the earth shook as if it was going to pieces, then it grew dark like night. The sky was filled with flying cinders, or something like ashes; the air had a sulphurous smell. All the people wondered. Some ran into the street, some took to the boats and rowed away as fast as possible, some screamed. Children clung to their mothers, hiding their faces in their dresses. Animals broke away and ran furiously, dashing themselves against the rocks or plunging into the sea; the very birds sighed as they swept through the sky.

badly drawn volcanoERUPTION OF VESUVIUS, 1880.

ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS, 1880.

The mountain—this Vesuvius—was on fire; the fire was spouting from its top in terrific forms. Smoke, such as you have never seen it, leaped as the darkest thunder clouds upward, while melted earth and rock ran down the sides of Vesuvius like a devouring flood. Before it, the gardens fled away. On it came, rushing, foaming, burning. It leaped upon the houses and buried them, whole streets at once. So suddenly it came that few of the people escaped. What a time was that!

Think of a whole city, like Philadelphia, buried ten or twenty feet deep, so that in the place of the grand palaces, stores and temples, nothing was seen but a smoking furnace—red-hot lava!

Not a great while since people began to dig. They dug and dug, and after years of digging there were the streets again and buildings, the merchant selling his goods, babies sleeping in their mamma’s arms, a bride and groom standing up to be married, a funeral procession coming from a house, a miser counting his money, a cruel father beating his child, a loving mother kissing her son, a marriage feast in this house, a dying parent in that. Just as the fierce, quick flood of lava found them, so it buried them, and so they were found after nearly two thousand years!

Since that awful day the volcano, Vesuvius, has been on fire again and again.

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HOW many of my Pansies are acquainted with her? She is “a woman in a book,” and the book was written by a woman of whom you have surely heard—Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I want you to know something about this story book and its author. There are those who think the story is too “grown-up” to interest children; but that is because they do not understand certain kinds of children very well. When I was a little girl of ten, I was very fond of narrative poems, and read some which were judged far above my understanding.

Would you like a picture of Aurora’s room, as she describes it? Listen:

“I had a little chamber in the houseAs green as any privet hedge a birdMight choose to build in. . . .The walls were green, the carpet was pure green,The straight small bed was curtained greenly,And the folds hung green about the window,Which let in the out-door world with all its greenery.You could not push your head out and escapeA dash of dawn-dew from the honeysuckle.”

“I had a little chamber in the house

As green as any privet hedge a bird

Might choose to build in. . . .

The walls were green, the carpet was pure green,

The straight small bed was curtained greenly,

And the folds hung green about the window,

Which let in the out-door world with all its greenery.

You could not push your head out and escape

A dash of dawn-dew from the honeysuckle.”

Poor Aurora lost her mother when she was four years old, and her dear, dear father when she was just a little girl. Then she sailed across the ocean from her home in Italy to her father’s old home in England. When she first saw English soil, this is the way she felt:

. . . “oh, the frosty cliffs looked cold upon me!Could I find a home among those mean red houses,Through the fog? . . . Was this my father’s England?......I think I see my father’s sister standUpon the hall-step of her country houseTo give me welcome. She stood straight and calm,Her somewhat narrow forehead braided tightAs if for taming accidental thoughtsFrom possible quick pulses. Brown hairPricked with gray by frigid use of life.A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate lines;A close mild mouth ... eyes of no color;Once they might have smiled, but never, neverHave forgot themselves in smiling.”

. . . “oh, the frosty cliffs looked cold upon me!

Could I find a home among those mean red houses,

Through the fog? . . . Was this my father’s England?

......

I think I see my father’s sister stand

Upon the hall-step of her country house

To give me welcome. She stood straight and calm,

Her somewhat narrow forehead braided tight

As if for taming accidental thoughts

From possible quick pulses. Brown hair

Pricked with gray by frigid use of life.

A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate lines;

A close mild mouth ... eyes of no color;

Once they might have smiled, but never, never

Have forgot themselves in smiling.”

You cannot imagine, I think, any life more unlike what Aurora had been used to in her home in Florence, than the one to which she came in England. She describes her aunt’s life as—

“A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage,Accounting that to leap from perch to perchWas act and joy enough for any bird.Dear Heaven, how silly are the thingsThat live in thickets, and eat berries!I, alas, a wild bird scarcely fledged,Was brought to her cage, and she was there to meet me.Very kind! ‘Bring the clean water; give out the fresh seed!’”

“A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage,

Accounting that to leap from perch to perch

Was act and joy enough for any bird.

Dear Heaven, how silly are the things

That live in thickets, and eat berries!

I, alas, a wild bird scarcely fledged,

Was brought to her cage, and she was there to meet me.

Very kind! ‘Bring the clean water; give out the fresh seed!’”

You wonder what sort of a little girl she was? She tells us:

“I was a good child on the whole,A meek and manageable child. Why not?I did not live to have the faults of life.There seemed more true life in my father’s graveThan in all England. . . . . .At first I felt no life which was not patience;Did the thing she bade me, without heedTo a thing beyond it; sat in just the chair she placedWith back against the window, to excludeThe sight of the great lime-tree on the lawn,Which seemed to have come on purpose from the woodsTo bring the house a message.”

“I was a good child on the whole,

A meek and manageable child. Why not?

I did not live to have the faults of life.

There seemed more true life in my father’s grave

Than in all England. . . . . .

At first I felt no life which was not patience;

Did the thing she bade me, without heed

To a thing beyond it; sat in just the chair she placed

With back against the window, to exclude

The sight of the great lime-tree on the lawn,

Which seemed to have come on purpose from the woods

To bring the house a message.”

So quiet was she, and pale, and sad, that her aunt’s friends visiting there, whispered about her that “the child from Florence looked ill, and would not live long.” This made her glad, for she was homesick for her father’s grave. But her cousin, Romney Leigh, a boy somewhat older than herself, took her to task for this. He said to her:

“You’re wicked now. You wish to die,And leave the world a-dusk for others,With your naughty light blown out.”

“You’re wicked now. You wish to die,

And leave the world a-dusk for others,

With your naughty light blown out.”

Well, she did not die, but lived to be a sweet, proud, brave, foolish, sorrowful, glad, happy woman! You think my words contradict one another? No; they may belong to one life, and often do.

I do not mean that you will be interested in all her story—hers and “Cousin Romney’s”—not yet awhile. Some day you will read it, study it, I hope, for the beauty of the language, and for the moral power there is in it. Just now, my main object is to introduce you, so that when you hear the name “Aurora Leigh,” you may be able to say: “I know her; she is one of Mrs. Browning’s characters—a little girl from Florence, who lived with an aunt in England.” Or when you hear Mrs. Browning’s name, you will say, or think: “She wrote a long poem once, named Aurora Leigh.”

Why should you care to know that? Because, my dear, it is a little crumb of knowledge about English Literature, a study which I am hoping you are going to greatly enjoy by and by.

Oh! Mrs. Browning wrote many other poems, though the one about which we have been talking is perhaps considered her greatest. There are some which I think you must know and love. For instance:

“Little Ellie sits alone’Mid the beeches of a meadow,By a stream-side on the grass;And the trees are showering downDoubles of their leaves in shadow,On her shining hair and face.“She has thrown her bonnet by,And her feet she has been dippingIn the shallow water’s flow;Now she holds them nakedlyIn her hands, all sleek and dripping,While she rocketh to and fro.“Little Ellie sits alone,And the smile she softly usesFills the silence like a speech;While she thinks what shall be done—And the sweetest pleasure choosesFor her future within reach.”

“Little Ellie sits alone’Mid the beeches of a meadow,By a stream-side on the grass;And the trees are showering downDoubles of their leaves in shadow,On her shining hair and face.

“Little Ellie sits alone

’Mid the beeches of a meadow,

By a stream-side on the grass;

And the trees are showering down

Doubles of their leaves in shadow,

On her shining hair and face.

“She has thrown her bonnet by,And her feet she has been dippingIn the shallow water’s flow;Now she holds them nakedlyIn her hands, all sleek and dripping,While she rocketh to and fro.

“She has thrown her bonnet by,

And her feet she has been dipping

In the shallow water’s flow;

Now she holds them nakedly

In her hands, all sleek and dripping,

While she rocketh to and fro.

“Little Ellie sits alone,And the smile she softly usesFills the silence like a speech;While she thinks what shall be done—And the sweetest pleasure choosesFor her future within reach.”

“Little Ellie sits alone,

And the smile she softly uses

Fills the silence like a speech;

While she thinks what shall be done—

And the sweetest pleasure chooses

For her future within reach.”

There are seventeen verses; of course I have not room for them, but you will like to find the poem and read for yourselves. It is entitled “The Romance of the Swan’s Nest.”

Then there is that wonderful poem of hers called “The Cry of the Children.” Surely you ought to know of that. It was suggested to her by reading the report which told about children being employed in the mines and manufactories of England. It is said that Mrs. Browning’s poem was the means of pushing an act of Parliament which forbade the employment of young children in this way. The poem has thirteen long verses, every one of which you should carefully read. Let me give you just a taste:

“Do you hear the children weeping, O, my brothers!Ere the sorrow comes with years?They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,And that cannot stop their tears!The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;The young birds are chirping in the nest;The young fawns are playing with the shadows;The young flowers are blowing toward the west;But the young, young children, O, my brothers!They are weeping bitterly.They are weeping in the playtime of the others,In the country of the free.......“‘True,’ say the children, ‘it may happenThat we die before our time;Little Alice died last year; her grave is shapenLike a snowball in the rime.We looked into the pit prepared to take her;There’s no room for any work in the coarse clay;From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,Crying ‘Get up, little Alice! it is day.’If you listen by that grave in sun and shower,With your ear down, little Alice never cries.Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,For the smile has time for growing in her eyes.And merry go her moments, lulled and stilledIn the shroud by the kirk-chime.‘It is good, when it happens,’ say the children,‘That we die before our time.’”

“Do you hear the children weeping, O, my brothers!

Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,

And that cannot stop their tears!

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;

The young birds are chirping in the nest;

The young fawns are playing with the shadows;

The young flowers are blowing toward the west;

But the young, young children, O, my brothers!

They are weeping bitterly.

They are weeping in the playtime of the others,

In the country of the free.

......

“‘True,’ say the children, ‘it may happenThat we die before our time;Little Alice died last year; her grave is shapenLike a snowball in the rime.We looked into the pit prepared to take her;There’s no room for any work in the coarse clay;From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,Crying ‘Get up, little Alice! it is day.’If you listen by that grave in sun and shower,With your ear down, little Alice never cries.Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,For the smile has time for growing in her eyes.And merry go her moments, lulled and stilledIn the shroud by the kirk-chime.‘It is good, when it happens,’ say the children,‘That we die before our time.’”

“‘True,’ say the children, ‘it may happen

That we die before our time;

Little Alice died last year; her grave is shapen

Like a snowball in the rime.

We looked into the pit prepared to take her;

There’s no room for any work in the coarse clay;

From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,

Crying ‘Get up, little Alice! it is day.’

If you listen by that grave in sun and shower,

With your ear down, little Alice never cries.

Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,

For the smile has time for growing in her eyes.

And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled

In the shroud by the kirk-chime.

‘It is good, when it happens,’ say the children,

‘That we die before our time.’”

It will never do to take more room with this paper, and I have told you almost nothing about the dear lady who voiced the children’s cry so wonderfully, and to such purpose! Suppose you let me take her story, little bits of it, for the nextPansy. Besides, I want to introduce you to her dear “Flush.”

Pansy.

woman walking in gardenMRS. BROWNING’S AURORA LEIGH.

MRS. BROWNING’S AURORA LEIGH.

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THIS is Trudy. She is all ready to go with papa.

They are going up in the woods to the “sugar bush.”

It is April—a bright, sunshiny day, but the wind is cold, so she has to wear her warm coat and hood.

As Trudy ran along through the woods she saw a little bluebird singing on a branch, and she found yellow violets and tiny blue flowers with a long name. They had just poked up their heads through the snow. Brave little blossoms they were!

JOHN BROUGHT THE PAILS OF SAP.JOHN BROUGHT THE PAILS OF SAP.

Wooden pails hung on all the maple-trees. The sap was running into them. When the pails were full of sap John, the hired man, brought it into the little sugar house and boiled it, and made nice cakes of maple sugar.

The house had a great fireplace. A bright fire was crackling there.

Trudy sat down on a stool and warmed her toes.

There was a big black kettle over the fire; it was almost full of sap. It bubbled and boiled and made a good smell.

John stirred it with a long wooden spoon. He stirred and stirred a long time, and the fire snapped and the sap boiled, and Trudy watched, and by and by it was done!

girl in winter coatTRUDY.

TRUDY.

Then papa got a pan of snow, and John dropped little bits from the spoon all over the snow.

When it was cool Trudy put in her thumb and finger, and plump! went one of the little brown balls into her mouth. Oh! but it was good. Trudy thought maple candy was ever so much better than the pink and white stuff she bought at the stores.

She ate and ate, till papa said, “No more, dearie.” So she carried the rest of it to little brother.

They rode home on the wood sled, drawn by two big oxen. Trudy said it was just the “beautifulest time” she ever had in her life.

She whispered to papa that she thought God was very good to make so many big trees full of candy just to please little girls and boys.

Mrs. C. M. Livingston.

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bells and flowersbells and flowersbells and flowers

THERE you have a fine Holland house, a palace rather. Come, let us go in. Just think, you have a royal invitation. Well, here we are. In this elegant room is a kingly throne. In that beautiful chair sits the little Queen of Holland.

Doesn’t this Miss look like a wise sovereign, able to command armies and navies and make laws?

Now you laugh. But come out into her big back yard, and you shall see our little maid rule her subjects. See how obedient they are, running to her or fleeing from her as fast as their legs can carry them—and their wings too—

“Wings!”

Why, bless you, yes. This little Queen has one hundred and fifty cooing doves. She is their beloved mistress, feeding and fondling them, calling them by name, they laughing, singing, talking for her, after the dear dove fashion.

But look! there comes the Shetland pony, and quick as a cat she is on his back, and away they go down the road, gallopty, gallop, she tossing back a kiss to her mamma, the Queen Regent, who looks from the palace window. There she comes back, her face full of roses and laughter.

Twenty minutes more, and she is a student like any of you, with spelling-book, pen or geography, or thumbing the piano or reading aloud to her mother. She is her mother’s constant companion. She is up at 7A. M., and kneeling at her mother’s knee, says her morning prayers.

She is often dressed completely in white, even to gloves and stockings. Watch and see what she will be in coming years.

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A MR. MENINGER of New Orleans, while visiting in the town of Chilpanzingo, Mex., saw a rock there which he—and others—says foretells rain twenty-four hours in advance!

In fair weather it is grayish, very smooth and cold, but when it is going to rain it becomes a dingy red at the base, pink at the top, and it becomes warmer and warmer till the rain falls. If there is much lightning, the stone becomes charged (filled) like an electrical jar, so that you cannot safely approach it.

After the rain it goes back to its first state of color and coldness.

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WHY so soon with flocks returning?O, dear father, tell us why:Scarce the night lamps ceased their burning,Scarce the stars dimmed in the skyWhen we heard the distant bleatingOf the flock come o’er the lea;While the stars were still retreatingThou wert coming o’er the lea;Home so early in the morning!Sheep and lambs so fast you’re leadingTo the fold at early dawning,At the time of sweetest feeding!Ill, dear father, art thou? SurelySuffering art thou? Tell us true!Has some lambie been unruly—Wandered far away from view?Must thou go across the mountain,Starting in the morning gray,Search by vale, and rock, and fountainFor the lost one, gone astray?But thy face is bright and beaming,And thy step is free and glad,And thy eyes with joy are gleamingSurely nothing makes thee sad!Thus she chattered to her father,Shepherd of Judean plain;Eager for some reason givenWhich might satisfy her brain;But the father, heart o’erflowingWith the story he could tell,Felt the spirit in him burning—Felt his soul within him swell—And, with tender touch, down bendingGently drew her to his breast;His life-calling sweetly lendingSkill for what he loved the best.Then his home flock, like the other,In the home fold where they dwelt—Father, children, precious mother—All before Jehovah knelt;Knelt to thank the covenant-keepingGod of Jacob, who aloneIn their waking and their sleeping,Safely shelters all his own.This—and then began the storyOf the night before that morn,When the angels came from glory,Telling that the Christ was born.

WHY so soon with flocks returning?

O, dear father, tell us why:

Scarce the night lamps ceased their burning,

Scarce the stars dimmed in the sky

When we heard the distant bleating

Of the flock come o’er the lea;

While the stars were still retreating

Thou wert coming o’er the lea;

Home so early in the morning!

Sheep and lambs so fast you’re leading

To the fold at early dawning,

At the time of sweetest feeding!

Ill, dear father, art thou? SurelySuffering art thou? Tell us true!Has some lambie been unruly—Wandered far away from view?Must thou go across the mountain,Starting in the morning gray,Search by vale, and rock, and fountainFor the lost one, gone astray?But thy face is bright and beaming,And thy step is free and glad,And thy eyes with joy are gleamingSurely nothing makes thee sad!

Ill, dear father, art thou? Surely

Suffering art thou? Tell us true!

Has some lambie been unruly—

Wandered far away from view?

Must thou go across the mountain,

Starting in the morning gray,

Search by vale, and rock, and fountain

For the lost one, gone astray?

But thy face is bright and beaming,

And thy step is free and glad,

And thy eyes with joy are gleaming

Surely nothing makes thee sad!

Thus she chattered to her father,Shepherd of Judean plain;Eager for some reason givenWhich might satisfy her brain;But the father, heart o’erflowingWith the story he could tell,Felt the spirit in him burning—Felt his soul within him swell—And, with tender touch, down bendingGently drew her to his breast;His life-calling sweetly lendingSkill for what he loved the best.

Thus she chattered to her father,

Shepherd of Judean plain;

Eager for some reason given

Which might satisfy her brain;

But the father, heart o’erflowing

With the story he could tell,

Felt the spirit in him burning—

Felt his soul within him swell—

And, with tender touch, down bending

Gently drew her to his breast;

His life-calling sweetly lending

Skill for what he loved the best.

Then his home flock, like the other,In the home fold where they dwelt—Father, children, precious mother—All before Jehovah knelt;Knelt to thank the covenant-keepingGod of Jacob, who aloneIn their waking and their sleeping,Safely shelters all his own.This—and then began the storyOf the night before that morn,When the angels came from glory,Telling that the Christ was born.

Then his home flock, like the other,

In the home fold where they dwelt—

Father, children, precious mother—

All before Jehovah knelt;

Knelt to thank the covenant-keeping

God of Jacob, who alone

In their waking and their sleeping,

Safely shelters all his own.

This—and then began the story

Of the night before that morn,

When the angels came from glory,

Telling that the Christ was born.

On the hillside near our flocks were sleeping,While we, reclining by, our watch were keeping;The sun had set in a glow of splendor,And the stars looked down so pure and tenderThat we felt a hush pervadingEvery breast; for the fadingOf the day had been so slow,And the twilight’s gentle glowHad left the earth so stillThat over plain and hillA gentle sleep seemed holding allAs quiet as beneath a pallOf death. When every heartWas hushed, and sure to startAt slightest move or sound,From sky or earth or ground,We would not break with songThe silence, which so strongHad reigned supreme the while,But sought we to beguileWith word of prophecy the hour,Talking of Him whose conquering powerOur fallen Israel should restore,And make her glory as of yore.The Lord seemed wondrous near us then;As when our father Jacob dreamed, or whenThe great law-giver stood on hallowed groundAnd heard Jehovah speak in words profound;When, suddenly, burst on the ravished earA voice like music, or like trumpet clear,And words most wonderful did there proclaim:Tidings, glad tidings of the glorious Name!He bade us haste to Bethlehem awayTo find the Babe there born to us this day;And then, when Paradise I see complete,May it such strains to these glad ears repeat!Then as from cloud the pealing thunder breaksTill ’neath its voice the very mountain shakes,So burst in chorus the celestial choir,Each tongue aflame with heaven’s own altar fire,To celebrate, as by Jehovah sent,The long foretold and now fulfilled event—Our own Messiah’s birth in Bethlehem town!The Christ of God from heaven to earth come down!The singing ceased, and all was still againSave the sweet echo of “Good-will to men”;The choir had flown; our flocks were all at rest,And could we, after such a vision blest,Await the dawning to behold the StrangerWhich cradled lay in Bethlehem’s lowly manger?If we forgot our flocks, in haste to see the sightRevealed to us by angel hosts last night,Was it so strange, when honored thus were weTo be the first of all our race to see,Worship and welcome to this world the KingOf whom the Prophets old did write and sing?And so we hastened, sped, and tarried notUntil we found, O, joy! the very spotWhere lay this lily from sweet Paradise,Angelic beauty there, before our eyes!We bent, we worshiped, kissed the Babe so fair,Then hastened back through all the perfumed airTo find our flocks by angel guards attended,Better by them than by our skill defended.Then each with gladness homeward sped awayTo tell the tidings of this wondrous day.The questions asked as round the father’s kneeThe children pressed in eager ecstasy,I will not try to tell. I ceaseMy story of the “Prince of Peace,”This only adding—though the talk was long—There followed it this burst of sacred song:

On the hillside near our flocks were sleeping,

While we, reclining by, our watch were keeping;

The sun had set in a glow of splendor,

And the stars looked down so pure and tender

That we felt a hush pervading

Every breast; for the fading

Of the day had been so slow,

And the twilight’s gentle glow

Had left the earth so still

That over plain and hill

A gentle sleep seemed holding all

As quiet as beneath a pall

Of death. When every heartWas hushed, and sure to startAt slightest move or sound,From sky or earth or ground,We would not break with songThe silence, which so strongHad reigned supreme the while,But sought we to beguileWith word of prophecy the hour,Talking of Him whose conquering powerOur fallen Israel should restore,And make her glory as of yore.

Of death. When every heart

Was hushed, and sure to start

At slightest move or sound,

From sky or earth or ground,

We would not break with song

The silence, which so strong

Had reigned supreme the while,

But sought we to beguile

With word of prophecy the hour,

Talking of Him whose conquering power

Our fallen Israel should restore,

And make her glory as of yore.

The Lord seemed wondrous near us then;As when our father Jacob dreamed, or whenThe great law-giver stood on hallowed groundAnd heard Jehovah speak in words profound;When, suddenly, burst on the ravished earA voice like music, or like trumpet clear,And words most wonderful did there proclaim:Tidings, glad tidings of the glorious Name!He bade us haste to Bethlehem awayTo find the Babe there born to us this day;And then, when Paradise I see complete,May it such strains to these glad ears repeat!Then as from cloud the pealing thunder breaksTill ’neath its voice the very mountain shakes,So burst in chorus the celestial choir,Each tongue aflame with heaven’s own altar fire,To celebrate, as by Jehovah sent,The long foretold and now fulfilled event—Our own Messiah’s birth in Bethlehem town!The Christ of God from heaven to earth come down!The singing ceased, and all was still againSave the sweet echo of “Good-will to men”;The choir had flown; our flocks were all at rest,And could we, after such a vision blest,

The Lord seemed wondrous near us then;

As when our father Jacob dreamed, or when

The great law-giver stood on hallowed ground

And heard Jehovah speak in words profound;

When, suddenly, burst on the ravished ear

A voice like music, or like trumpet clear,

And words most wonderful did there proclaim:

Tidings, glad tidings of the glorious Name!

He bade us haste to Bethlehem away

To find the Babe there born to us this day;

And then, when Paradise I see complete,

May it such strains to these glad ears repeat!

Then as from cloud the pealing thunder breaks

Till ’neath its voice the very mountain shakes,

So burst in chorus the celestial choir,

Each tongue aflame with heaven’s own altar fire,

To celebrate, as by Jehovah sent,

The long foretold and now fulfilled event—

Our own Messiah’s birth in Bethlehem town!

The Christ of God from heaven to earth come down!

The singing ceased, and all was still again

Save the sweet echo of “Good-will to men”;

The choir had flown; our flocks were all at rest,

And could we, after such a vision blest,

Await the dawning to behold the StrangerWhich cradled lay in Bethlehem’s lowly manger?If we forgot our flocks, in haste to see the sightRevealed to us by angel hosts last night,Was it so strange, when honored thus were weTo be the first of all our race to see,Worship and welcome to this world the KingOf whom the Prophets old did write and sing?And so we hastened, sped, and tarried notUntil we found, O, joy! the very spotWhere lay this lily from sweet Paradise,Angelic beauty there, before our eyes!

Await the dawning to behold the Stranger

Which cradled lay in Bethlehem’s lowly manger?

If we forgot our flocks, in haste to see the sight

Revealed to us by angel hosts last night,

Was it so strange, when honored thus were we

To be the first of all our race to see,

Worship and welcome to this world the King

Of whom the Prophets old did write and sing?

And so we hastened, sped, and tarried not

Until we found, O, joy! the very spot

Where lay this lily from sweet Paradise,

Angelic beauty there, before our eyes!

We bent, we worshiped, kissed the Babe so fair,Then hastened back through all the perfumed airTo find our flocks by angel guards attended,Better by them than by our skill defended.Then each with gladness homeward sped awayTo tell the tidings of this wondrous day.The questions asked as round the father’s kneeThe children pressed in eager ecstasy,I will not try to tell. I ceaseMy story of the “Prince of Peace,”This only adding—though the talk was long—There followed it this burst of sacred song:

We bent, we worshiped, kissed the Babe so fair,

Then hastened back through all the perfumed air

To find our flocks by angel guards attended,

Better by them than by our skill defended.

Then each with gladness homeward sped away

To tell the tidings of this wondrous day.

The questions asked as round the father’s knee

The children pressed in eager ecstasy,

I will not try to tell. I cease

My story of the “Prince of Peace,”

This only adding—though the talk was long—

There followed it this burst of sacred song:

O, thou Infant holy!In thy cradle lowly,Feeble stranger seeming,Though almighty. DeemingIt thy pleasure,Even in this measure,In this casket fairHuman woe to share.We thy praises sing;To thy cradle bringLove, and thanks and treasure,Offerings without measure;Just now come from glory,We have heard thy storySung by angel chorus,While God’s light shone o’er us.O, thou Baby stranger!Hiding in a manger,By crowded inn rejected,By pilgrims all neglected,For thee our hearts are burningWith a holy yearning.Be thou our guest;Our arms would now enfold thee,Our hearts would gladly hold thee;We love thee best.G. R. Alden.

O, thou Infant holy!In thy cradle lowly,Feeble stranger seeming,Though almighty. DeemingIt thy pleasure,Even in this measure,In this casket fairHuman woe to share.

O, thou Infant holy!

In thy cradle lowly,

Feeble stranger seeming,

Though almighty. Deeming

It thy pleasure,

Even in this measure,

In this casket fair

Human woe to share.

We thy praises sing;To thy cradle bringLove, and thanks and treasure,Offerings without measure;Just now come from glory,We have heard thy storySung by angel chorus,While God’s light shone o’er us.

We thy praises sing;

To thy cradle bring

Love, and thanks and treasure,

Offerings without measure;

Just now come from glory,

We have heard thy story

Sung by angel chorus,

While God’s light shone o’er us.

O, thou Baby stranger!Hiding in a manger,By crowded inn rejected,By pilgrims all neglected,For thee our hearts are burningWith a holy yearning.Be thou our guest;Our arms would now enfold thee,Our hearts would gladly hold thee;We love thee best.G. R. Alden.

O, thou Baby stranger!

Hiding in a manger,

By crowded inn rejected,

By pilgrims all neglected,

For thee our hearts are burning

With a holy yearning.

Be thou our guest;

Our arms would now enfold thee,

Our hearts would gladly hold thee;

We love thee best.

G. R. Alden.

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SHE stood before a little old-fashioned twisted-legged toilet stand putting the finishing touches to her hair, looking, the while, into a queer little old-fashioned mirror which had been in the family ever since she could remember. Almost everything had been in their family a long while. Especially, Marion sometimes thought, her dresses had. “They do not wear overskirts like this any more,” she had said to her mother that morning, as she was looping it.

“They do not wear overskirts at all,” said Renie, the younger sister, looking up from her book. Renie always knew what “they” did.

“I know it,” answered Marion, from whose face the slight cloud had already passed; “but we do, because, you see, it hides the pieced part of our dress, and the faded part, and various other blemishes. Why should not there be a what ‘we’ do, as well as to be always quoting what ‘they’ are about?”

Her mother laughed somewhat faintly. Marion’s quaint bright speeches were always restful to her; but the fact was undeniable that the dear girl’s clothes were old-fashioned and much worn, and the way to secure, or at least to afford new ones, was hedged.

You would not have called her pretty had you seen her as she stood before that little old-fashioned mirror, pushing in the old-fashioned comb into her knot of hair, and trying to make it hold the hair in the way the pretty new style fancy pins which the girls wore held theirs; but you would have liked her face, I think; nearly every one did. It was quiet and restful looking. She gave very little time to the hair, for she was late. There was so much to be done mornings that she was very apt to be late—I mean hurried. They never called her late at the store; she was always in her place before the great bell ceased ringing, but it required much bustling about and some running, to accomplish this. She was only thirteen, and most of the girls in her class in Sunday-school were students at the High School; but Marion had been for more than a year earning her own living. She had charge of the spool-cotton counter in one of the large stores.

It was a matter of some pride to her that she was a small saleswoman, instead of a cash girl. She had commenced, of course, in that way; but one happy day an unexpected vacancy had occurred at the spool counter, and she had fitted in so well that she had been kept there, although younger than most of the other salesgirls. Her face was quieter than usual this morning. Perhaps because it was such a rainy morning that she had felt compelled to wear the quite old dress, instead of the somewhat fresher one which had lately begun to come to the store on pleasant days. Marion had discovered that she needed special grace to help her through the rainy days and the old-fashioned gown.

Not very many people were abroad shopping; but Marion had her share of work, for those who came were in need of such commonplace useful things as spool cotton, or tape, or needles. She bent carefully over a drawer full of various colors, holding a tiny brown patch in her hand the while, trying to match the shade. “No,” she said, shaking her head, “that is not quite a match, but I am afraid it is the best I can do. If I were you I would take a shade darker rather than the lighter; my mother always does.”

The middle-aged woman, in a plain gossamer which covered her from head to foot, glanced up at the thoughtful young face and smiled.

“Does she?” she said. “I like to hear a young girl quote her mother’s judgment; it is apt to be wise judgment, I have noticed, as I think it is in this case. Show me darker shades, please.”

So another drawer was brought, and yet another, and the young head bent with the older one over them, and tried and tried again, and at last a satisfactory shade was found and the sale was made. Five cents’ worth of thread for fifteen minutes’ work!

“Why in the world did you putter so over that old maid and her patch? I should have told her I couldn’t match it and sent her about her business fifteen minutes ago.”

It was the girl whose stand was next to Marion who offered this bit of advice, while the “old maid” in question was but a few steps away from them looking at pin balls.

Marion turned a warning glance in her direction, and lowered her voice to answer: “Because I couldn’t find a match sooner. We went over all the thread drawers on that side, but I think we secured the exact shade at last.”

“What does it signify? Nothing but brown cotton. Wasn’t the patch part cotton? I thought so. The idea of making such an ado over a match for cheap goods like that! I wouldn’t fuss with such customers, I can tell you. Five cents’ worth of goods and fifty cents’ worth of bother. You couldn’t have done more for her if she had been your sister.”

Marion looked after the plain woman thoughtfully, then looked down at the tiny pin she wore. “I am not sure but she is. Anyhow, I was bound to endeavor to please her. I’m an Endeavorer, you know.” She gave the pin a significant touch as she spoke. It was very small—almost too small to attract attention—but the letters “C. E.” were, after all, quite distinct.

“O, bother!” said her neighbor, speaking contemptuously, “so am I; at least so far as wearing the pin is concerned. I wear it because it is pretty, and I have so few ornaments that I have to make the most of them; but as for putting sentiment into spools of cotton and balls of tape, I can’t do it; the things don’t match.”

“They ought to,” Marion said gravely. “If you and I don’t put our pledges into spools of cotton and balls of tape of what use are they? Because we spend our days in just such work.”

“I know it,” with a discontented yawn; “I’m sick and tired of it. It is a slave life; I’d get out of it if I could. If there was any chance of getting promoted it would be a little different. Belle Mason has been transferred to the ribbon counter, and she gets more wages and sees other sorts of people, and has lots of fun; she hasn’t been in the house as long as I have, either; it is just because she was put at a counter where she had a chance of pleasing people, and here we have just to poke over tape and cotton and pins, and such stuff. I think it’s mean!”

Pansy.

Little girl praying by mother's lapSAYING HER EVENING PRAYER.

SAYING HER EVENING PRAYER.

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“MAMMA, is an April fool different from any other kind of a fool?” cried Helen Palmer, rushing into the sitting-room on arriving home from school.

“Oh! good-evening, Mrs. Glenn,” she added, as she noticed a lady who sat sewing with her mother.

“What does the child mean?” exclaimed Mrs. Glenn, returning Helen’s nod, then looking her astonishment at Mrs. Palmer, who said: “What do you mean, Helen?”

“Why, the girls are all talking to-day about to-morrow being ‘April Fool Day,’ and they said a lot of things I don’t understand, about calling people ‘April fool.’ They all agreed to see who could make the most fools and tell about it Monday. They said I must too, and I didn’t want to tell them I did not know how to do it, or what it means.”

“You don’t mean to tell me, Helen Palmer, that you don’t know anything about April fool?” cried Mrs. Glenn, in surprise.

“No,” said Mrs. Palmer; “she doesn’t. This is her first year at school, you know; I have taught her at home, and in our country home she heard very little but what we told her. I never saw any sense or fun in the custom of fooling on the first day of April, and did not instruct her in it when I taught her of Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year, St. Valentine’s Day, Washington’s Birthday, Decoration Day and Fourth of July.”

“But what is it?” insisted Helen.

“Well, my dear, it is a custom which I’ve read has come down hundreds of years, to send people on ridiculous errands on that day and call it an April fool. It is done all over Europe, and the Hindoos of India do exactly the same thing on the thirty-first of March. As I’ve always known it, people not only send others on foolish errands, but they often play practical jokes, silly and cruel, and actually lie to each other to fool them. It is a custom much better forgotten than kept.”

“I should think so,” cried Helen.

“But, mamma,” she continued, “what shall I do? The girls expect me to tell my share on Monday.”

“We’ll see, dear, by and by. Go and put away your things now.”

Mrs. Glenn went away after tea, and Helen began at once to coax her mother to tell her how to come up to the girls’ plans without doing anything silly or wicked.

“I think, if I were you, I would spend the day surprising people with something good. Do things to help or please, and when they show their surprise say ‘April fool!’”

“O, mamma! that will be delightful,” cried Helen. “Tell me some things to do.”

“No, my dear, that is your business.”

All that evening Helen was very thoughtful, and next day she was unusually busy. At night she declared she had never been so happy. Monday morning she met the girls, and they began to tell their jokes.

“I fooled everybody around the house,” said Carrie Andrews. “I filled the sugar-bowl with salt, and papa got a big spoonful in his coffee. You ought to have seen the face he made. He didn’t more than half like it, even when I called out ‘April fool!’ I sent George out to pick up a package of sand I had dropped near the gate. I rang the doorbell and got Ann to go to the door, and there I stood and said ‘April fool.’ I sent a letter to Louise, and tied mamma’s apron-strings to her chair.”

Helen listened in amazement, as one girl after another told of such silly tricks.

At last they turned to her. “Well, Helen, what did you do?”

“Oh! I fooled every one in the family, but I did a lot of new things,” said Helen.

“What were they?” cried the girls, in chorus.

“Well,” said she, in a low voice, “I got up real early, and crept softly downstairs and set the table in the dining-room, while Jane was starting breakfast in the kitchen. She ’most always has it set at night, but mamma and the sewing woman were using the long table to cut out goods when Jane went to bed. She was hurrying as fast as she could, and rushed in, and when she saw the table set she threw up both hands, and said: ‘Well, now, however did that table get set? Was it witches’ work?’

“Then I jumped out from behind the door and cried: ‘April fool!’

“‘So it is,’ she said; ‘an’ it’s a fine one you’ve given me; I’ll not forget it of you.’

“After breakfast mamma was just going to get Baby to sleep, and some one came to see her on business. She asked me to keep him till she could get back. I took him, and rocked and sung to him, and he went to sleep. I laid him down in his crib, and then hid to see what mamma would do. I heard her hurrying upstairs and into the room. Then she stopped and stared. I stepped up softly behind her and kissed her, and said, ‘April fool!’ She thought it was a nice one.

“Uncle Guy came in and asked mamma to mend his glove when she had time. As quick as I could I got my thimble and needle and silk and mended the glove; and when he came in again in a hurry and said: ‘Well, I can’t wait now for it to be mended,’ he drew it on and said, ‘Why, it is mended.’ Then I called out, ‘April fool, Uncle Guy!’

“‘O, you little rogue!’ he said; ‘I’ll pay you up.’

“Well, then I mended Frank’s sails to his boat when he started to do it and papa called him away, and”—

“What did you do for your father?” asked Marjie Day.

“Oh! papa said he must hunt up some papers in the library at lunch-time, so I looked them up and laid them on his plate, and when he said: ‘Why, how did these get here?’ I said: ‘April fool!’ And that’s all,” added Helen, with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes.

“Well!” exclaimed Carrie Andrews, “if that don’t beat the Dutch.”

“Wasn’t it a good way?” asked Helen, almost crying.

“Of course, you little goose! but who else would ever have thought of it?”

“Mamma said she didn’t like silly jokes, and said I had better try surprising people with pleasant things. I like it so well I am going to do it every day in the year.”

“There’s the bell,” cried Belle Adams; “but hadn’t we all better try it?”

F. A. Reynolds.

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ITS first name was Coaquenaque. I am glad they changed it to Philadelphia, because it is easier to pronounce; but I like Indian names. I went to Philadelphia once with my uncle. I think Broad Street is one of the nicest places in the world. I went to Germantown to see where Charlie Ross used to live, but I was so small I don’t remember very much about anything, only Broad Street. I’m going again next year, and I’ll look around and write you what I see.

John T. Robinson.

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I wentwith father to Philadelphia three years ago; we staid near Washington Square; it is beautiful there. The trees are just splendid. Father told me it used to be a great burying-ground. I could not make it seem possible. A great many unknown soldiers, father said, were buried there; it was in Revolutionary times. How sad it must have been to live then! I like the little parks in Philadelphia that they call “squares.” I saw the place where they held the Sanitary Fair, when they roofed over the entire square, and let the trees stand as pillars.

Laura Creedmore.

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