GERTY.

THE WELCOME ON THE BEACH.THE WELCOME ON THE BEACH.

The wind was indeed "all right," but even Dab forgot, for the moment, that the "Swallow" would go further and faster before a gale than she was likely to with the comparatively mild southerly breeze which was blowing. He was by no means likely to get home by dinner-time. As for danger, there would be absolutely none, unless the weather should again become stormy, which was not at all probable at that season. And so, with genuine boyish confidence in boys, after some further conversation over the rail, Frank Harley went on board the "Swallow" as a passenger, and the gay little craft slipped lightly away from the neighborhood of the very forlorn-looking stranded steamer.

"They'll have her off in less'n a week," said Ford to Frank. "My father'll know just what to do about your baggage, and so forth."

There were endless questions to be asked and answered on both sides, but at last Dab yawned a very sleepy yawn and said: "Ford, you've had your nap. Wake up Dick there, and let him take his turn at the tiller. The sea's as smooth as a lake, and I believe I'll go to sleep for an hour or so. You and Frank keep watch while Dick steers."

Whatever Dab said was "orders," now, on board the "Swallow," and Ford's only reply was: "If you haven't earned a good nap, then nobody has."

In five minutes more the patient and skillful young "captain" was sleeping like a top.

"Look at him," said Ford Foster to Frank Harley. "I don't know what he's made of. He's been at that tiller for twenty-three hours, by the watch, in all sorts of weather, and never budged."

"They don't make that kind of boy in India," replied Frank.

"He's de best feller you ebber seen," added Dick Lee. "I's jes' proud of 'im, I is."

Smoothly and swiftly and safely the "Swallow" was bearing her precious cargo across the summer sea, but the morning had brought no comfort to the two homes at the head of the inlet, or the cabin in the village. Old Bill Lee was out in the best boat he could borrow, by early daylight, and more than one of his sympathizing neighbors followed him a little later. There was no doubt at all that a thorough search would be made of the bay and the island, and so Mr. Foster wisely remained at home to comfort his wife and daughter.

"That sort of boy," mourned Annie, "is always getting into some kind of mischief."

"Annie," exclaimed her mother, "Ford is a good boy, and he does not run into mischief."

"I didn't mean Ford; I meant that Dabney Kinzer. I wish we'd never seen him, or his sail-boat either."

"Annie," said her father, reprovingly, "if we live by the water, Fordwillgo out on it, and he'd better do so in good company. Wait a while."

Summer days are long, but some of them are a good deal longer than others, and that was one of the longest any of those people had ever known. For once, even dinner was more than half neglected in the Kinzer family circle. At the Fosters' it was forgotten almost altogether. Long as the day was, and so dreary, in spite of all the bright, warm sunshine, there was no help for it; the hours would not hurry, and the wanderers would not return. Tea-time came at last, and with it the Fosters all came over to Mrs. Kinzer's again, to take tea and to tell her of several fishermen who had returned from the bay without having discovered a sign of the "Swallow" or its crew.

Stout-hearted Mrs. Kinzer talked bravely and encouragingly, nevertheless, and did not seem to abate an ounce of her confidence in her son. It seemed as if, in leaving off his roundabouts, Dabney must have suddenly grown a great many "sizes" in his mother's estimation. Perhaps that was because he did not leave them off too soon.

There they sat, the two mothers and the rest, looking gloomy enough, while, over there in her bit of a brown house in the village, Mrs. Lee sat in very much the same frame of mind, trying to relieve her feelings by smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of her boy's best clothes, and planning for him any number of bright red neck-ties, if he would only come back to wear them.

The neighbors were becoming more than a little interested and even excited about the matter; but what was there to be done?

Telegrams had been sent to other points on the coast, and all the fishermen notified. It was really one of those puzzling cases where even the most neighborly can do no better than "wait a while."

Still, there were nearly a dozen people, of all sorts, including Bill Lee, lingering around the "landing" as late as eight o'clock, when some one of them suddenly exclaimed:

"There's a light, coming in."

And others followed with: "And a boat under it." "Ham's boat carried a light." "I'll bet it's her." "No, it isn't." "Hold on and see."

There was not long to "hold on," for in three minutes more the "Swallow" swept gracefully in with the tide, and the voice of Dab Kinzer shouted merrily: "Home again! Here we are!"

Such a ringing volley of cheers answered him! It was heard and understood away there in the parlor of the Morris house, and brought every soul of that anxious circle right up standing.

"Must be it's Dab!" exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer.

"Oh, mother," said Annie, "is Ford safe?"

"They wouldn't cheer like that, my dear, if anything had happened," remarked Mr. Foster, but, in spite of his coolness, the city lawyer forgot to put his hat on, as he dashed out of the front gate, and down the road toward the landing.

Then came one of those times that it takes a whole orchestra and a gallery of paintings to tell anything about, for Mrs. Lee as well as her husband was at the beach, and within a minute after "Captain Kinzer" and his crew had landed, poor Dick was being hugged and scolded within an inch of his life, and the other two boys found themselves in the midst of a tumult of embraces and cheers.

Frank Harley's turn came soon, moreover, for Ford Foster found his balance, and introduced the "passenger from India" to his father.

"Frank Harley!" exclaimed Mr. Foster, "I've heard of you, certainly, but how did you—boys, I don't understand——"

"Oh, father, it's all right! We took Frank off the French steamer after she ran ashore."

"Ran ashore?"

"Yes; down the Jersey coast. We got in company with her in the fog, after the storm. That was yesterday evening."

"Down the Jersey coast! Do you mean you've been out at sea?"

"Yes, father; and I'd go again, with Dab Kinzer for captain. Do you know, father, he never left the rudder of the 'Swallow' from the moment we started until seven o'clock this morning?"

"You owe him your lives!" almost shouted Mr. Foster; and Ford added, "Indeed, we do."

It was Dab's own mother's arms that had been around him from the instant he made his appearance, and Samantha and Keziah and Pamela had had to be content with a kiss or so apiece; but dear old Mrs. Foster stopped smoothing Ford's hair and forehead, just then, and gave Dab a right motherly hug, as if she could not express herself in any other way.

As for Annie Foster, her face was suspiciously red at the moment, but she walked right up to Dab, after her mother released him, and said:

"Captain Kinzer, I've been saying dreadful things about you, but I beg pardon."

"I'll be entirely satisfied, Miss Annie," returned Dabney, "if you'll ask somebody to get us something to eat."

"Eat!" exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer, "Why, the poor fellows! Of course they're hungry."

Of course they were, every one; and the supper-table, after all, was the best place in the world to hear the particulars of their wonderful cruise.

Meantime, Dick Lee was led home to a capital supper of his own, and as soon as that was over he was rigged out in his Sunday clothes,—red silk neck-tie and all,—and invited to tell the story of his adventures to a roomful of admiring neighbors.

He told it well, modestly ascribing pretty much everything to Dab Kinzer; but there was no reason, in anything he said, for one of his father's friends to ask, next morning:

"Bill Lee, does you mean for to say as dem boys run down de French steamah in dat ar' boat?"

"Not dat, not zackly."

"'Cause, if you does, I jes' want to say I's been down a-lookin' at her, and she aint even snubbed her bowsprit."

(To be continued.)

By Margaret W. Hamilton.

Ugh! How cold it was!—sleet driving in your face, wind whistling about your ears, cold penetrating everywhere! "A regular nipper," thought Dick Kelsey, standing in a door-way, kicking his feet in toeless boots to warm them, and blowing his chilled fingers, for in the pockets of his ragged trousers the keen air had stiffened them. He was revolving a weighty question in his mind. Which should he do,—go down to "Ma'am Vesey's" and get one of her hot mutton pies, or stray a little farther up the alley, where an old sailor kept a little coffee-house for the benefit of newsboys and boot-blacks such as he? Should it be coffee or mutton pie?

"I'll toss up for it!" said Dick, finally; and, fumbling in his pockets, the copper was produced ready for the test.

Just then, his attention was suddenly diverted. Close to him sounded a voice, weak and not very melodious, but bravely singing:

"There is a happy landFar, far away,Where saints in glory standBright, bright as day!"

Dick listened in silence till the last little quaver had died away, and then said: "Whew! That was purty, anyhow. Where is the piper, I wonder!" He looked about for the musician, but could see no one. He was the only person in the alley.

Again the song began, and this time he traced the voice to the house against which he had been leaning. The window was just at his right, and through one of the broken panes came the notes. Dick's modesty was not a burden to him, so it was the work of only a moment to put his face to the hole in the window and take a view.

A small room, not very nice to see, was what he saw; then, as his eye became used to the dim light, he espied on a low bed in the corner a little girl gazing at him with a pair of big black eyes.

"I say, there! Was it you pipin' away so fine?" began Dick, without the slightest embarrassment.

"If you mean, was I a-singin'?—I was," answered the child from the bed, not seeming at all surprised at this sudden intrusion upon her privacy.

"I say, who are you, anyhow?"

"I'm Gerty, and I stay here all the day while mother is away washing; and she locks the door so no one can't get in," explained the girl.

"My eye!" was Dick's return. "And what are you in bed for?"

"Oh, I have a pain in my back, an' I lie down most of the time," replied Gerty in the most cheerful manner possible, as if a pain in the back were the one desirable thing, while Dick withdrew his head to ponder over this new experience.

A girl locked in a room like that, lying in bed with pain most of the time, with nothing to do, yet cheerful and bright—this was something hecould not understand. All at once his face brightened. Back went his eyes to the window.

"I say, got anything to eat in there?"

"Oh yes, some crackers; and to-night maybe mother'll buy some milk."

"Pooh!" said Dick, with scorn. "Crackers and milk! Did you ever eat a mutton pie?"

"A mutton pie," repeated Gerty, slowly. "No, I guess not."

"Oh, they're bully! Hot from Ma'am Vesey's! Tip-top! Wait a minute,"—a needless caution, for Gerty could not possibly have done anything else.

Away ran Dick down the alley and around the corner, halting breathless before Ma'am Vesey.

"Gi'e me one, quick!" he cried. "Hot, too. No, I wont eat it; put it in some paper." The old woman had offered him one from the oven.

"Seems to me we're gettin' mighty fine," she said; for Dick was an old customer, and never before had he waited for a pie to be wrapped up.

"Never you mind, old lady," was his good-natured, if somewhat disrespectful, reply; and, dropping some pennies, he seized his treasure and was off again.

Gerty's eager fingers soon held the pie, which Dick dexterously tossed on the bed, and Dick's eyes fairly shone as he watched the half-starved little one swallow the dainty in rapid mouthfuls.

"Oh, I never in all my life tasted anything half so good! Don't you want some?" questioned the child, whose enjoyment was so keen she feared it hardly could be right.

"No, indeed!"—this with hearty emphasis. "I've had 'em. I'm goin' now," he added, reluctantly, "but I'll come back again 'fore long."

"Oh, do!" said Gerty, "an' I'll sing you some more of 'Happy Land,' if you want me; and I know another song, too. I learned them up to the horspital when I was there. You see, I was peddlin' matches and shoe-strings, and it was 'most dark and awful slippery, and the horses hit me afore I knowed it; and then they picked me up, and I didn't know nothin', and couldn't tell where I lived, and so they took me to the horspital; and the next day I told 'em where mother was, and she came. But the doctors said I had better stay, and p'r'aps they could help me. But they couldn't, you know, cos the pain in my back was too bad. And mother, she washes, and I watch the daylight, and wait for night, and sing; and when the pain aint too bad, the day don't seem so very long."

"My eye!" was all Dick could say, as he beat a hasty retreat, rubbing the much appealed-to member with a corner of his ragged coat.

"Well, them's hard lines, anyhow," he soliloquized, as he went to the printing-office. "An' she's chipper, too. Game as anything," he went on to himself. "Now, I'm just goin' to keep my eye on that little un, and some o' my spare coppers'll help her, I guess."

How he worked that night! His papers fairly flew, he sold them so fast; and when, under a friendly street-lamp, he counted his gains, a prolonged whistle was his first comment.

"More'n any night this week," he pondered. "Did me good to go 'thout the pie. Gerty'll have an orange to-morrow."

So, next morning, when the last journal had been sold, a fruit-stand was grandly patronized.

"The biggest, best orange you got, and never mind what it costs." Then but a few moments to reach Gerty's alley, and Gerty's window.

Yes, there she was, just the same as yesterday, and the pinched face grew bright when she saw her new friend peering at her.

"Oh! you're come, are you?" joyfully. "Mother said you wouldn't, when I told her, but I said you would. She wouldn't leave the door unlocked, cos she didn't know nothing about you; but she said, if you came to-day, you could come back to-night when she was home, and come in."

"Oh, may I?" said Dick, rather gruffly; for he hardly liked the idea of meeting strangers.

"Yes," went on Gerty; "I'll sing lots, if you want; and mother'll be glad to see you, too."

"All right; mebbe I'll come. And say, here's suthin for ye," and the orange shot through the window.

"Oh, my!" she gasped, "how nice! Is it really for me?" And Dick answered, "Yes, eat it now."

Half his pleasure was in watching her eager relish of the fruit; and as Gerty needed no second bidding, the orange rapidly disappeared, she pausing now and again to look across gratefully at Dick and utter indistinct expressions of delight.

"Now shall I sing?" she asked, when the last delicious mouthful was fairly swallowed; for she was anxious to make some return for the pleasure he had given her.

"All right," responded Dick, "I'm ready."

So the thin little voice began again the old refrain; Gerty singing with honest fervor, Dick listening in rapt attention. Following "Happy Land" came "I want to be an angel," "Little drops of water," etc.; and when full justice had been done to these well-worn tunes, Dick suggested a change.

"Don't you sing 'Mulligan Guards'?" he questioned, at the close of one of the hymns.

"No," said Gerty, perplexed. "They didn't sing that up to the horspital."

"Oh, mebbe they don't sing it to the horspital; but I've heard 'em sing it bully to the circus. I say," he went on suddenly, "was you ever there—to the circus, I mean?"

"No," said Gerty, eagerly. "What do they do?"

"Oh, it's beautiful!" was Dick's answer. "All bright, you know, and warm, and the wimmin is dressed awful fine, and the men, too; and the horses prance around; and they have music and tumbling, and—oh, lots of things!"

"My! and you've been there?"

"Oh yes, I've been!" Then, as he watched her sparkling eyes, "Look here, I'll take you. I could carry you, you know, and we'd go early, and I'd put you up against a post, and——Don't you want to go?"

"Want to go?" she repeated with rapture. "Oh, it's too good to be true! I was scared just a-thinkin' of it. Oh, if mother'd let me an' I could! Wouldn't I be too heavy? Mother says I'm light as a feather,—and I wouldn't weigh more'n I could help," she added, wistfully.

"Never you mind," was Dick's hearty reply. "I'll come to-night and see the old lady,—your mother, I mean,—and we'll go next week, if she'll let you."

So it was decided; and when Dick said "good-bye," and ran off, Gerty settled back with a sigh, half of delight and half of anxiety, lest her wild, wonderful hope should never be fulfilled.

But Dick came that night, and Gerty's mother, when she saw Dick's honest, earnest face, and her little girl's eager, pleading eyes, gave consent.

The next Monday night was fixed upon, and this was Thursday. "Four days," counted Gerty on her fingers; and oh, they seemed so long! But even four dayswillcrawl away, and Monday night came at last. By seven o'clock, Dick appeared, his face clean and shining, radiant with delight.

Gerty was dressed in the one dress owned by her mother beside her working one, and the shrunken little figure looked pathetically absurd in its ample proportions. It was much too long for her, of course, but her mother pinned up the skirt. Good old Peggotty Winters, the apple-woman, who lived in the back room, had lent her warm shawl for the occasion, and the little French hair-dresser on the top floor had loaned a knitted hood which had quite an elegant effect. So Gerty considered herself dressed in a style befitting the event; and if she and Dick were satisfied, no one else need criticise.

"Pooh!" was Dick's comment as he lifted her in his arms. "Like a baby, aint you?"

"Oh, I'm so glad you don't think I'm heavy! It's the first time I ever was glad to be thin," sighed Gerty, clinging around his neck.

Then away they went, out through alleys and across side-streets to the main artery of travel, where Dick threaded his way slowly through throngs of gay people. At length, after what seemed miles to Gerty, they halted in front of a brilliantly lighted building, and in another moment were in the dazzling entrance-way.

On went Dick slowly, patiently, with his burden, down the aisle, as near to the front as possible, and—they were there!

Gerty was carefully set down in a corner place, and her shawl opened a little to serve as a pillow; and then she began to look about her, gazing with awe-struck curiosity at the great arena and the mysterious doors.

After a while the house seemed full, the musicians came out and took their places, the gas suddenly blazed more brightly, and the band struck up a gay popular air. Gerty felt as if she must scream with delight and expectation.

Presently, the music stopped, there was a bustle of preparation, a bell tinkled, and the great doors slowly swung open. Gerty saw beautiful ladies, all bright and glittering with spangles, and handsome horses in gorgeous trappings, and great strong men in tights, all the wonders and sights of the circus, and the funny jokes and antics of the clown and pantaloon. And Gerty had never known anything half so fine; and there was riding and jumping and tumbling, and all manner of fun, until the doors shut again.

"Wasn't it lovely?" whispered Gerty. "Is that all?"

"Not half," said Dick; and Gerty leaned back to think it all over and watch for the repetition. But the next scene was different; there came an immense elephant, some little white poodle-dogs, and some mules, and everybody clapped hands and laughed, and was delighted. At last, the climax of ecstasy was reached,—a beautiful procession of all the gayly dressed and glittering performers, with their wonderful steeds, the wise old elephant, the queer little poodles, and the fun-provoking mules; and the band struck up some stirring music, and Gerty was dumb with admiration. But in another minute the arena was empty, the heavy doors had shut out all the life and magnificence, the band was hushed, the lights were dimmed, and Dick told her it was over.

Carefully he folded her in the shawl again, and once more the cold night air blew in her face. Not a word could she say all the way home, but when she sank in her mother's arms it was with the whisper, "I've seen 'Happy Land';" and Dick felt, somehow, as if no other comment were needed.

And the winter days went on, Dick's faithful service and devotion never ceasing. The window was mended, but Dick had a key to the door, and spent many an hour with the sufferer. As spring approached, the two watchers noted a change in the girl. She was weaker, and her pain constant; and when Dick carried her out to the park in theApril sunshine, he was shocked to find her weight almost nothing in his arms.

Yes, Gerty was dying, slowly but surely; and Dick grew exceeding sorrowful. By and by, she even could not be carried out-of-doors, but lay all day on her little couch. Then Dick brought flowers and fruit, and talked gayly of the next winter, when, said he, "We'll go every week to the circus, Gerty."

AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE CIRCUS.AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE CIRCUS.

"No, Dick," said the child, quietly, "I shall never go there again. But oh! 't'll be suthin better!"—at which Dick rushed off hastily, and soon after got into a quarrel with a fellow newsboy who had hinted that his eyes were red. Anon he was back with some fresh gift, only to struggle again with the choking grief.

And then came the end—quietly, peacefully. Near the close of a July day, when the setting sun glorified every corner of the room, Gerty left her pain, and, with a farewell sigh, was at rest.

"Oh, Gerty!" sobbed Dick, "don't forget me!"

Ah, Dick, you are held in everlasting remembrance, and more than one angel is glad at thoughts of you, in the "Happy Land!"

By S. Conant Foster.

"Ho! ho!"Said the crow:"So I'm not s'posed to knowWhere the rye and the wheatAnd the corn kernels grow—Oh! no,Ho! ho!"He! he!Farmer Lee,When I fly from my tree,Just you see where the topsOf the corn-ears will beWatch me!He! he!"Switch-swirch,With a lurch,Flopped the bird from his perchAs he spread out his wingsAnd set forth on his search—His search—Switch-swirch.Click!-bang!—How it rang,How the small bullet sangAs it sped through the air—And the crow, with a pang,Went spang—Chi-bang.The Tail Feathers.Now know,That to crowOften brings one to woe;Which the lines up aboveHave been put there to show,And so,Don't crow.

"Ho! ho!"Said the crow:"So I'm not s'posed to knowWhere the rye and the wheatAnd the corn kernels grow—Oh! no,Ho! ho!

"He! he!Farmer Lee,When I fly from my tree,Just you see where the topsOf the corn-ears will beWatch me!He! he!"

Switch-swirch,With a lurch,Flopped the bird from his perchAs he spread out his wingsAnd set forth on his search—His search—Switch-swirch.

Click!-bang!—How it rang,How the small bullet sangAs it sped through the air—And the crow, with a pang,Went spang—Chi-bang.

The Tail Feathers.

Now know,That to crowOften brings one to woe;Which the lines up aboveHave been put there to show,And so,Don't crow.

By Alexander Wainwright.

Very sturdy in form and honest in face is the London milk-woman shown in our picture. She has broad English features, smoothly parted hair, and a nice white frill running round her old-fashioned, curtained bonnet. Her boots are strong, and her dress is warm—the petticoats cut short to prevent them from draggling in the mud. A wooden yoke fits to her shoulders, which are almost as broad as a man's, and from the yoke hang her cans, filled with milk and cream, the little ones being hooked to the larger ones.

The London day has opened on a storm, and the snow lies thick on the area railings, the lamp-posts and the roofs; but the morning is not too cold or stormy for her. Oh, no! the mornings never are. It may rain, or blow, or snow the hardest that ever was known, no inclemency of weather keeps her from her morning round, and in the dull cold of London frosts and the yellow obscurity of London fogs, she appears in the streets, uttering her familiar cry, "Me-oh! me-oh!" which is her way of calling milk.

Pretty kitchen-maids come up the area steps with their pitchers to meet her, and detain her with much gossip. The one in the picture, whose arms are comfortably folded under her white apron, may be telling her that the mistress's baby is sick, and that the doctor despairs of its life. She may even be saying to her: "The only thing it can swallow, poor little dear, is a little milk and arrowroot, and the doctor says unless it can have this it must die." A great deal of the London milk is adulterated, and, perhaps, this honest-looking milk-woman knows that water has been added to hers. May be, she has babies of her own, and then her heart must be sore when she realizes that the little sick one upstairs may perish through her employer's greed for undue profits.

AT THE AREA GATE.AT THE AREA GATE.

To-morrow, she may find the blinds drawn close down at that house, and the maid-of-all-work red-eyed and tearful; then she will turn away, bitterly feeling the pressure of her yoke on her shoulders, although, from her looks, she herself appears to be incapable of dishonesty; she is, and more than that,kindly, cheery, and industrious. Her cans are polished to the brilliancy of burnished silver, and betoken the most scrupulous cleanliness. Many breakfast-tables depend upon her for that rich cream which emits a delicious flavor from her cans, in the sharp morning air. "Me-oh! me-oh!" We turn over in bed when we hear her, and know that it is time to get up.

Far down in the valley the wheat grows deep,And the reapers are making the cradles sweep;And this is the song that I hear them sing,While cheery and loud their voices ring:"'Tis the finest wheat that ever did grow,And it is for Alice's supper—ho! ho!"

Far down by the river the old mill stands,And the miller is rubbing his dusty old hands;And these are the words of the miller's lay,As he watches the mill-stones grinding away:"'Tis the finest flour that money can buy,And it is for Alice's supper—hi! hi!"

Down-stairs in the kitchen the fire doth glow,And cook is a-kneading the soft white dough;And this is the song she is singing to-day,As merry and busy she's working away:"'T is the finest dough whether near or afar,And it is for Alice's supper—ha! ha!"

To the nursery now comes mother, at last,—And what in her hand is she bringing so fast?'T is a plateful of something, all yellow and white,And she sings as she comes, with her smile so bright:"'T is the best bread and butter I ever did see,And it is for Alice's supper—he! he!"

"Warm!" you say?

Don't mention it, but take it good-naturedly.

And, now, let's be quiet and have a talk about

"Ho, ho; nobody can do that!"

But anybodycando that,—with a microphone.

"And what's a microphone?"

Why, it's a machine by which very low sounds, that don't seem to be sounds at all, may be made to grow so loud and clear that you can easily hear them. If any of you come across one of these things, my dears, just take it to some quiet green spot, and coax it to let you hear the grass grow.

There's one feature of the microphone that is likely to be troublesome; it makes loud noises sound hundreds of times louder. Something must be done, therefore, to prevent the use of these machines on any Fourth of July. That would be what nobody could stand, I should think.

Isn't this dreadful? In India—a long way off, I'm glad to say—there is a kind of crab that eats the juicy stalks of grass, rice, and other plants. He snips off the stalks with his sharp pincers, and, when he has made a big enough sheaf, sidles off home with it to his burrow in the ground, to feast upon it.

Ugh! I hope I shall never hear the cruel click of his pincers anywhere near me!

Over here, as I've heard, the clothes to be washed are put in tubs, and the washerwomen or washermen stand outside at work. But I'm told that in some parts of Europe the washerwomen themselves get into the tubs. They do this to keep their feet dry. The tubs or barrels are empty, and are set along the river banks in the water, and each washerwoman stands in her tub and washes the clothes in the river, pounding, and soaping, and rinsing them, on a board, without changing her position.

Chicago, Ill.Dear Jack: I have long wished to tell you of a little incident that occurred in our family.About a year ago we bought an upright grand piano, and after we had had it a few months we noticed that one of the keys would stay down when touched, unless struck very quickly and lightly, and the next day another acted in the same way. That evening, after the boys had gone to bed, father and myself were sitting by the grate fire, when we thought we heard a nibbling in the corner of the room where the piano stood. I exclaimed, "Do you think it possible a mouse can be in the piano?" "Oh no!" he said; "it is probably behind it." We moved the piano, and found a little of the carpet gnawed, and a few nut-shells. Then we examined the piano inside, as far as possible, but found no traces there. I played a noisy tune, to frighten the mouse away, and we thought no more about it.Two or three days after, more of the keys stayed down, and I said, "That piano must be fixed." The tuner came, and the children all stood around him, with curious eyes, as he took the instrument apart. Presently I heard a great shout. What do you think? In one corner, on the key-board, where every touch of the keys must have jarred it, was a mouse's nest, with five young ones in it! Those mice must have been fond of music! The mother mouse sprang out and escaped; but the nest and the little ones were destroyed.Well, what do you suppose the nest was made of? Bits of felt and soft leather from the hammers and pedal; and the mouse had gnawed in two most of the strips of leather that pull back the hammers! So, when the piano had been fixed, there was a pretty heavy bill for repairs.—Very truly yours,P. L. S.

Chicago, Ill.

Dear Jack: I have long wished to tell you of a little incident that occurred in our family.

About a year ago we bought an upright grand piano, and after we had had it a few months we noticed that one of the keys would stay down when touched, unless struck very quickly and lightly, and the next day another acted in the same way. That evening, after the boys had gone to bed, father and myself were sitting by the grate fire, when we thought we heard a nibbling in the corner of the room where the piano stood. I exclaimed, "Do you think it possible a mouse can be in the piano?" "Oh no!" he said; "it is probably behind it." We moved the piano, and found a little of the carpet gnawed, and a few nut-shells. Then we examined the piano inside, as far as possible, but found no traces there. I played a noisy tune, to frighten the mouse away, and we thought no more about it.

Two or three days after, more of the keys stayed down, and I said, "That piano must be fixed." The tuner came, and the children all stood around him, with curious eyes, as he took the instrument apart. Presently I heard a great shout. What do you think? In one corner, on the key-board, where every touch of the keys must have jarred it, was a mouse's nest, with five young ones in it! Those mice must have been fond of music! The mother mouse sprang out and escaped; but the nest and the little ones were destroyed.

Well, what do you suppose the nest was made of? Bits of felt and soft leather from the hammers and pedal; and the mouse had gnawed in two most of the strips of leather that pull back the hammers! So, when the piano had been fixed, there was a pretty heavy bill for repairs.—Very truly yours,

P. L. S.

You'd hardly believe how old-fashioned rattle-boxes are,—those noisy things that babies love to shake. Why, they are almost as old-fashioned as some of the very first babies would look nowadays. A few very ancient writers mention these toys, but, instead of calling them, simply, "rattle-boxes," they refer to them as "symbols of eternal agitation, which is necessary to life!"

Deacon Green says that this high-sounding saying may have been wise for its times, when the sleepy young world needed shaking, perhaps, to get it awake and keep it lively. "But, in these days," he adds, "the boot is on the other leg. People are a little too go-ahead, if anything, and try to do too much in too short time. Real rest, and plenty of it, is just as necessary to life as agitation can be."

Remember this, my chicks, all through vacation; but don't mistake laziness for rest.

No, not the old woman who lived in a shoe,—though old parties of the kind I mean have been found with their houses fixed to old rubber high-boots,—but a quiet old mother, who never utters a word, and whose house is all door-way, as I'm told. Every year she opens the door and turns two million wee bairns upon the world.

Away they rush, the door snaps shut behind them, and they can never come back any more! They don't seem to mind that very much, however, for they go dancing away in countless armies, without ever jostling, or meeting, or even touching one another.

And how large a ball-room do you suppose atroop of them would need? One drop of water is large enough for thousands upon thousands of them to sport in!

The mother is the oyster, and her children are the little oysters, and a curious family they must be, if all this is true, as I'm led to believe.

A CHINESE FLOATING VILLAGE.A CHINESE FLOATING VILLAGE.

The Little Schoolma'am wishes you a good and lively vacation, and sends you a picture of a Chinese Floating Village,—a cool and pleasant kind of village to live in through the summer, I've no doubt, with plashing water, and fresh breezes, all about you. She goes on to say:

"In China, where there are about four hundred and fifty millions of people, not only the land, but also much of the water, is covered with towns and streets; and, although the Chinese are more than eleven times as numerous as the people of the United States, their country is not half as large as ours,—even leaving Alaska out of the count. So that China is pretty well crowded.

"In the picture, the little boats belong to poor people, but the big ones, called 'junks,' belong to folks who are better off. Sometimes junks are used by rich people for traveling, and then they are built almost as roomy, and fitted up quite as comfortably, as the homes on shore.

"There are no railroads in China worth mentioning, so traveling has to be done by highroad, or by river and canal; and, as this last, though easy, is a very slow way, it is a good thing when, like the snail, a traveler can take his house with him."

Providence, R. I.Jack-in-the-Pulpit:Sir:I write to ask if any of your little birds ever crossed the Equator; and, when just above it, whereabouts in the sky did they look for the sun at noon?If you will answer this you will oblige me very much, as I have been wondering for about a month past.Don't think this foolish.Edwin S. Thompson.

Providence, R. I.

Jack-in-the-Pulpit:Sir:I write to ask if any of your little birds ever crossed the Equator; and, when just above it, whereabouts in the sky did they look for the sun at noon?

If you will answer this you will oblige me very much, as I have been wondering for about a month past.

Don't think this foolish.

Edwin S. Thompson.

None of my feathered friends ever told me about this; but, perhaps, some of you smart chicks who have just passed good examinations can answer Edwin's question. If so, I'd be glad to hear from you; especially if you'd let me know, also, what kind of a thing the equatoris, and by what marks or signs a bird or anybody might make sure he had pitched upon it?

Sandy Spring, Md.Dear Jack: Have you ever heard of a bird that sews? Perhaps you have, and some of your chicks have not. He is not much larger than the humming-bird, and looks like a ball of yellow worsted flying through the air. For his nest he chooses two leaves on the outside of a tree, and these he sews firmly together, except at the entrance, using a fiber for thread, and his long, sharp bill as a needle. When this is done, he puts in some down plucked from his breast, and his snug home is complete. He is sometimes called the "tailor-bird."—Your friend,M. B. T.

Sandy Spring, Md.

Dear Jack: Have you ever heard of a bird that sews? Perhaps you have, and some of your chicks have not. He is not much larger than the humming-bird, and looks like a ball of yellow worsted flying through the air. For his nest he chooses two leaves on the outside of a tree, and these he sews firmly together, except at the entrance, using a fiber for thread, and his long, sharp bill as a needle. When this is done, he puts in some down plucked from his breast, and his snug home is complete. He is sometimes called the "tailor-bird."—Your friend,

M. B. T.

Talk about the instinct of animals! I'm sure my little friends the bees are as bright as any, yet I heard, the other day, a strange thing about one. There was a flower-like sea-anemone, near the top of a little pool of water, when a bee came buzzing along and alighted on the pretty thing, no doubt mistaking it for a blossom. That anemone was an animal, and had no honey. Now, where was the instinct of that bee? That's what I want to know.

West Roxbury, Mass.

Dear St. Nicholas: I saw in your June number, in the "Letter-Box," an account of a turtle; so I thought I would tell you about "Gopher Jimmy." My uncle brought him from Florida. He is a gopher, and different from the common kind of turtle. His back is yellow, with black ridges on it. His feet are yellow and scaly. Gophers burrow in the ground; and, when full grown, a man cannot pull one out of its burrow, and a child can ride easily on its back. I feed mine on clover. He likes to bask in the sun. My uncle named him "Gopher Jimmy." When full grown, they can move with a weight of 200 pounds. Jimmy is a young one.—Your devoted reader,

Francis H. Allen.

Baltimore, Md

Dear St. Nicholas: Perhaps the other readers of your magazine have heard of "Tyrian purple," a dye which once sold in the shops of ancient Rome for its own weight in silver. Well, after a while, the way to make this dye was forgotten,—probably because those who had the secret died without telling it to others. And now I want to let you know what I have learned lately, in reading, about how the secret was found again, after hundreds of years.

A French naturalist, named Lacazo Duthiers, was on board a ship, when, one day, he saw a sailor marking his clothes and the sails of the ship with a sharp-pointed stick, which, every now and then, he dipped into a little shell held in his other hand. At first, the lines were only a faint yellow in color; but, after being a few minutes in the sun, they became greenish, then violet, and last of all, a bright, beautiful purple, the exact shade called by the ancients "Tyrian purple"—a color that never fades by washing, or exposure to heat or damp, but ever grows brighter and clearer! The naturalist was rejoiced, and after trial found that he really had discovered again the long-lost secret. He felt well repaid for keeping his eyes open. The little shell was the "wide-mouthed purpura," as some call it, some three inches long, found in the Mediterranean Sea, and on the coasts of France, Ireland and Great Britain. My book says that the difficulty of obtaining and preserving these shells must always render "Tyrian purple" a rare and expensive color.

I remember, too, that the Babylonians thought "Tyrian purple" too sacred for the use of mortals, so they used it only in the dress of their idols. Romulus, king of Rome, adopted it as the regal color, and the Roman emperors forbade any besides themselves to wear it, on penalty of death.—Yours truly, F. R. F.

The boys and girls who solved the poetical charade printed on page 639 of the July number, must have noticed that it is an unusually good one, and we are sure that all our readers will admire the charade, after comparing it with its solution, which we publish upon page 704 of this number.

Alexandria, Ohio.

Dear St. Nicholas: I should like to know who would succeed to the throne in case of Queen Victoria's and her eldest son's deaths. My brother and I sold hickory-nuts and onions to get the St. Nicholas last fall. We have taken it ever since it was published. I am ten years old.

Willie Castle.

Prince Albert Victor, the Prince of Wales's eldest son, if then alive, would succeed to the English throne after Queen Victoria, in case of the previous death of her eldest son,—the Prince of Wales. A general answer to this question will be found in the "Letter-Box" for May, 1877 (Vol. IV., page 509), in a reply to an inquiry from "Julia."

Brunswick, Maine.

Dear St. Nicholas: It has occurred to me that some of my St. Nicholas friends may like to know what I have learned from ancient books about the constellation Ursa Major, or the Dipper, which, in St. Nicholas for January, 1877 (vol. iv., p. 168), Professor Proctor has likened to a monkey climbing a pole. It is about the other title of this constellation, "Great Bear." I need not describe the group itself, for that has been done already by Professor Proctor inSt. Nicholasfor December, 1876.

Sailors, in very ancient times, were without compasses and charts, and when voyaging guided themselves by studying the situations and motions of the heavenly bodies. They saw that most of the stars passed up from the horizon and rose toward the zenith, the point right over head, and then dropped westward to hide themselves beyond the earth. After a time they noted some stars which never set, but every night, in fair weather, were seen at that side where the sun never appears, or, in other words, were seen at their left side, when their faces were toward the sunrise. They did not long hesitate how to use these stars. And when, during foul weather, the sailors were tossed to and fro, these same constant stars, that again appeared after the storm, indicated to them their true position, and, as it were,spoke to them. This caused them to give more exact study to the constellations in that same part of the heavens. None appeared more remarkable than that among which they reckoned seven of the brightest stars, taking up a large space. Some who watched this star-group, as it seemed to turn around in the sky, named it the "Wheel," or "Chariot." The Phœnician pilots called it, sometimes, "Parrosis," the Indicator, the Rule, or "Callisto," the Deliverance, the Safety of Sailors. But it was more commonly named "Doubé," signifying the "speaking constellation," or the "constellation which gives advice." Now, the word "Doubé" signified also to the Phœnicians a "she-bear," and the Greeks are supposed to have received and used the word in its wrong sense, and to have passed it down to us without correction. This explanation seems plausible to me; and now, whenever I see the star-group we call the "Dipper," I think how gladly it was hailed by poor storm-tossed sailors upon the narrow seas, in the early ages, before the "lily of the needle pointed to the pole."—Yours truly,

R. A. S.

Dear St. Nicholas: The flowers are all in bloom; it looks so pretty. Here is a little piece of poetry:

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