When I was a little girl, about the age of Ruth, my father was preceptor of the Hingham Academy. You have all been in Hingham. It is only fifteen miles from Boston. We go there now, by rail or by steamboat, in less than an hour; but, in those days, we used to go by a sailing-packet; and it was sometimes a whole day's journey.Well, in our family there was a French boy, named Bernard Trainier. His mother was not living. His father lived in Toulon, France. At that time, France, under the great Napoleon, was continually at war, and all her young men were forced into the army. I suppose it was to save Bernard from this fate, that he was sent to America. Mr. Trainier was acquainted with a French gentleman, Mr. Duprez, who then lived in Boston; and, through him, Bernard was placed in my father's care to be educated.Well, he was a bright, pleasant boy. He soon learned to speak English; and I and my sisters and brothers became very fond of him. He would have been very happy, but for one thing. He longed to see his little brother John, whom he had parted with at Toulon.One day, to his great delight, Bernard received a letter from his father,telling him that John was also to be sent to America, and that he would take passage from Marseilles by the first vessel bound for Boston.At that time there were no steamships and no regular packets from Europe. The only way of coming was by a merchant-vessel. So Bernard, who was looking and longing for the arrival of his brother, did not think it strange when six weeks passed away without bringing him. But when two months passed, and he did not appear, poor Bernard began to be anxious. Four months, five months, six months, passed. Nothing was heard of John. Not a word came from Mr. Trainier. More than a year passed away, and still there was no news. Bernard was in despair.One August day (it must have been, I think, in the year 1805), when my father had occasion to visit Boston, he took Bernard with him; and, while there, went with him to call on Mr. Duprez, from whom they hoped to hear some good news.But there was no comfort for poor Bernard in what Mr. Duprez had to tell. He had learned from friends in Toulon that Mr. Trainier, soon after sending his youngest son to America, had gone to St. Domingo to look after some estates. St. Domingo was then in a state of insurrection. The slaves had risen against their masters. When last heard from, Mr. Trainier had been taken prisoner, and it was feared that he had beenput to death. As to John Trainier, all that could be learned was that he had been put on board a vessel bound from Marseilles to Boston, but the name of the vessel or what had become of her nobody knew.You may imagine the distress of Bernard at hearing this, and how sad my father was when he took the poor boy's hand to return with him to Hingham. The packet station was at the head of Long Wharf. They reached it long before the vessel was ready to sail: so, to pass away the time, they walked slowly down the wharf,—my father still holding Bernard by the hand. They stopped a few minutes at the end of the wharf, then walked back again.They had got about half way up the wharf when they heard a shout behind them. They looked around. The voice seemed to come from the water side. As they looked, a boy about eleven years old, dressed in rough sailor-clothes, jumped ashore from a brig at the wharf, and came running towards them, calling, "Bernard! Bernard!" again and again.Bernard stood a moment as if amazed; then, suddenly letting go of my father's hand, he gave a cry of joy, sprang forward and caught the little sailor in his arms. It was his brother John.
When I was a little girl, about the age of Ruth, my father was preceptor of the Hingham Academy. You have all been in Hingham. It is only fifteen miles from Boston. We go there now, by rail or by steamboat, in less than an hour; but, in those days, we used to go by a sailing-packet; and it was sometimes a whole day's journey.
Well, in our family there was a French boy, named Bernard Trainier. His mother was not living. His father lived in Toulon, France. At that time, France, under the great Napoleon, was continually at war, and all her young men were forced into the army. I suppose it was to save Bernard from this fate, that he was sent to America. Mr. Trainier was acquainted with a French gentleman, Mr. Duprez, who then lived in Boston; and, through him, Bernard was placed in my father's care to be educated.
Well, he was a bright, pleasant boy. He soon learned to speak English; and I and my sisters and brothers became very fond of him. He would have been very happy, but for one thing. He longed to see his little brother John, whom he had parted with at Toulon.
One day, to his great delight, Bernard received a letter from his father,telling him that John was also to be sent to America, and that he would take passage from Marseilles by the first vessel bound for Boston.
At that time there were no steamships and no regular packets from Europe. The only way of coming was by a merchant-vessel. So Bernard, who was looking and longing for the arrival of his brother, did not think it strange when six weeks passed away without bringing him. But when two months passed, and he did not appear, poor Bernard began to be anxious. Four months, five months, six months, passed. Nothing was heard of John. Not a word came from Mr. Trainier. More than a year passed away, and still there was no news. Bernard was in despair.
One August day (it must have been, I think, in the year 1805), when my father had occasion to visit Boston, he took Bernard with him; and, while there, went with him to call on Mr. Duprez, from whom they hoped to hear some good news.
But there was no comfort for poor Bernard in what Mr. Duprez had to tell. He had learned from friends in Toulon that Mr. Trainier, soon after sending his youngest son to America, had gone to St. Domingo to look after some estates. St. Domingo was then in a state of insurrection. The slaves had risen against their masters. When last heard from, Mr. Trainier had been taken prisoner, and it was feared that he had beenput to death. As to John Trainier, all that could be learned was that he had been put on board a vessel bound from Marseilles to Boston, but the name of the vessel or what had become of her nobody knew.
You may imagine the distress of Bernard at hearing this, and how sad my father was when he took the poor boy's hand to return with him to Hingham. The packet station was at the head of Long Wharf. They reached it long before the vessel was ready to sail: so, to pass away the time, they walked slowly down the wharf,—my father still holding Bernard by the hand. They stopped a few minutes at the end of the wharf, then walked back again.
They had got about half way up the wharf when they heard a shout behind them. They looked around. The voice seemed to come from the water side. As they looked, a boy about eleven years old, dressed in rough sailor-clothes, jumped ashore from a brig at the wharf, and came running towards them, calling, "Bernard! Bernard!" again and again.
Bernard stood a moment as if amazed; then, suddenly letting go of my father's hand, he gave a cry of joy, sprang forward and caught the little sailor in his arms. It was his brother John.
Here grandma stopped. There was silence a few minutes. Then the questions began to come thick and fast. "Where had John been all this time?" "And why didn't he get to Boston before?"
"Well," said grandma, "I must tell that in a few words; for my story is getting long."
The captain of the brig had promised Mr. Trainier that he would see the little boy safely landed at the house of Mr. Duprez in Boston. But the captain was a bad man. Instead of treating John as a passenger, he forced him to do duty as a cabin-boy.Then, instead of going to Boston, the brig went to New York, and from there on a long voyage to some foreign port. At last she had come to Boston; but the captain had no idea of letting John go even then. He meant to carry him away again, and would have done so but for the accidental meeting of the two brothers on Long Wharf.
The captain of the brig had promised Mr. Trainier that he would see the little boy safely landed at the house of Mr. Duprez in Boston. But the captain was a bad man. Instead of treating John as a passenger, he forced him to do duty as a cabin-boy.
Then, instead of going to Boston, the brig went to New York, and from there on a long voyage to some foreign port. At last she had come to Boston; but the captain had no idea of letting John go even then. He meant to carry him away again, and would have done so but for the accidental meeting of the two brothers on Long Wharf.
"The captainhadto let him go after that, didn't he, grandma?" said little Jane.
"Of course he did," said grandma. "My father soon settled that point. He took John on board the packet, and brought him to Hingham. I well remember the time when the brothers came home, and how John told the story of his hardships, and how we all cried when we heard it, and then laughed with joy to see Bernard so happy."
"And was not John happy too?" asked Ruth.
"Yes, indeed," said grandma. "And yet both the boys were sad when they thought of their father's fate, and felt that they were orphans with no means of support. We all did our best to cheer them up, and my father told them they should have a home with us till they were old enough to take care of themselves."
"And what became of them? Are they living now? Tell us all about them," said the children.
"Ah! I must save that for another story. This is enough for to-day."
Jane Oliver.
Scene on the Hudson River.Scene on the Hudson River.
Christmas at the South is usually a much milder day than it is at the North. The ponds are not often frozen, and there is little or no snow on the ground: so there is no skating, or coasting, or throwing of snow-balls, or merry jingle of sleigh-bells.
But we have very good times at the South notwithstanding. The boys go out with their guns, and sometimes shoot a wild turkey; but often they shoot just for the sake of making a noise. Their traps are set, too, about this time, for squirrels, as you may see in the picture.
Games of foot-ball and base-ball are not uncommon; and I have known it mild enough for girls and boys to play croquet on the lawn, or to row in a boat on the river.
What is that little girl doing in the central part of the picture? She is making a present of a sack to her good old nurse, who now has a baby of her own. The sack is for the baby. How glad they all are—the mother, the aunt, and the little boy, who, I think, must be the baby's brother!
As for the Christmas feast at the South, it may be very much like that at the North. In the picture we get a glimpse of a roast pig and a plum pudding. There is often a wild turkey and a plenty of other game.
"But is there a Christmas-tree? And does Santa Claus come with his trinkets, and his picture-books, as at the North?" Yes, in many families there is a Christmas tree, and Santa Claus does not forget that there are little children at the South also.
In the evening, the little ones play blind-man's-bluff, or hunt-the-slipper. Sometimes Jack Frost steals down from the North, and pinches them. But he does not stay long. He likes his northern home best.
Uncle Harry.
CHRISTMAS AT THE SOUTH.CHRISTMAS AT THE SOUTH.
Mr. D. had promised to give his wife a beautiful rattan rocking-chair as a Christmas present. It was his employment to sell these articles. In due time, Mrs. D. called at his place of business, and selected a chair; but, as she sat enjoying it for a few minutes, a new idea came into her mind, and she told her husband that she would gladly do without her present, if he would give Jennie and Alice (their two little daughters) each a chair.
Her husband agreed to this; and on Christmas Eve he took home with him two elegant little rocking-chairs. Leaving them in his garden, he went in to tea, and, after taking his seat at the table, said to his children, "I have a story to tell you, and it is a true story. Would you like to hear it?"
Of course they were all eager to do so. So he said, "There was a lady in my store to-day, whose husband had promised to make her a Christmas present of a rocking-chair. After she had selected a very nice one, she turned to her husband, and said, 'If you will give each of our children a chair, I will forego the pleasure of having mine.' Now, wasn't she truly kind?"
The children were much interested in the story; and both exclaimed, "Yes, sir!" Then he added, "I liked the lady very much."
Here, little Alice, growing slightly jealous, exclaimed, "Did you like her better than you do mamma?"
"Oh, no! notbetter, butfull as well," answered her father.
After supper, the chairs were brought in, much to the surprise and delight of Jennie and Alice, who both joyfully exclaimed, "O papa! you meant us!"
D.
"Will you play with me? Will you play with me?"A little girl said to the birds on a tree."Oh, we have our nests to build," said they:"There's a time for work, and a time for play."Then, meeting a dog, she cried, "Halloo!Come play with me, Jip, and do as I do."Said he, "I must watch the orchard to-day:There's a time for work, and a time for play."A boy she saw; and to him she cried,"Come, play with me, John, by the greenwood side.""Oh, no!" said John, "I've my lesson to say:There's a time for work, and a time for play."Then thoughtful a while stood the little miss,And said, "It is hard, on a day like this,To go to work; but, from what they all say,'Tis a time for work, and not for play."So homeward she went, and took her book,And first at the pictures began to look;Then said, "I think I will study to-day:There's a time for work, and a time for play."Emily Carter.
"Will you play with me? Will you play with me?"A little girl said to the birds on a tree."Oh, we have our nests to build," said they:"There's a time for work, and a time for play."
Then, meeting a dog, she cried, "Halloo!Come play with me, Jip, and do as I do."Said he, "I must watch the orchard to-day:There's a time for work, and a time for play."
A boy she saw; and to him she cried,"Come, play with me, John, by the greenwood side.""Oh, no!" said John, "I've my lesson to say:There's a time for work, and a time for play."
Then thoughtful a while stood the little miss,And said, "It is hard, on a day like this,To go to work; but, from what they all say,'Tis a time for work, and not for play."
So homeward she went, and took her book,And first at the pictures began to look;Then said, "I think I will study to-day:There's a time for work, and a time for play."
Emily Carter.
Milo was the name of a fine Spanish pointer. He had such an expressive face, such delicate ears, and such wise eyes, that you could not help looking at him.
And then he could stand up so cleverly on his hind-legs, dressed in his little red coat and cap! An old beggar-woman, whose eyesight was not very good, once took him for a boy, and thanked the "little man," as she called him, for a present which we boys had trained him to go through the form of offering.
He had belonged to a travelling company of jugglers and rope-dancers, by whom he had been taught various tricks, though he had been made to undergo much hard treatment. He could fire off a pistol, stand on guard as a sentinel, beat a drum, and serve as a horse for the monkeys of the show.
This last piece of work poor Milo did not at all like. The monkeys would scratch and plague him; and, if he resented it, he would be whipped. His worst enemy was a little monkey named Jocko, who delighted to torment him.
At last, we boys talked so much to our good papa about Milo, that he bought him of the jugglers. How happy we were when we got possession of him! Poor Milo seemed to be aware of our kind act. After that, it seemed as if he could not do too much to show his gratitude.
How patiently he would stand on his legs, or march with us in our mimic ranks as a soldier, when we went forth to battle! In all our plays we could not do without Milo. He would stand on guard beside our camp; and he it was who always had to fire the pistol when a deserter was to be shot.
Sometimes we would play going through the woods, where the Indians were likely to waylay us. Then Milo was our pathfinder. With his nice sense of smell he must find out where the cunning redskins were lying in wait.
There was no end to the uses to which we put the dear little dog in our plays. Never did he snarl, or lose his temper. He saw that we loved him; and he repaid our love by taking all the pains he could to please us.
But a dark time came for Milo and for us. A fright about mad dogs broke out in our town. A bad fellow saidhe had seen another dog, who was known to be mad, bite Milo. This was untrue; for Milo was at home at the time.
But all our prayers were of no use. We must bring Milo to the town-hall to have him shot. How we children wept and took on! Poor Milo, our dear little playmate! Must we lose him forever? We could not bear the thought.
The little dog himself saw that something was the matter, and whined at seeing us all so sad. All at once up started our eldest brother, Robert, and declared it should not be. He would rescue the little dog.
He did so without letting any one know of his plan. He took Milo, at night, in the cars, to the nearest great city. Here one of our cousins lived. Placing Milo in his charge, Robert came back; and when the town-officer came after the little dog, to kill him, he was told that Milo had stepped out, and, if the town-folks wanted him, they must find him.
In a few months, the outcry about mad dogs was hushed; and then we had Milo home again. What rejoicing there was! And how glad was Milo himself to get back, and greet all his little friends with barks and leaps!
From the German.
My little friend Max was on a farm, a whole week last May, and he likes to talk of the good time he had there.He says there were no lessthan three calves in the great field; and he used to watch them and feed them two or three times a day.They grew to be so tame that they would let him come up and pat them on the back, and feel of their budding horns. He gave them each a name.One he called Daisy; one, Pink; and one, Rose. He said if he had been with them three weeks, he should have taught them to know their names.He hopes to see them again next May; but I think they will be good sized cows by that time, for they grow very fast.
My little friend Max was on a farm, a whole week last May, and he likes to talk of the good time he had there.
He says there were no lessthan three calves in the great field; and he used to watch them and feed them two or three times a day.
They grew to be so tame that they would let him come up and pat them on the back, and feel of their budding horns. He gave them each a name.
One he called Daisy; one, Pink; and one, Rose. He said if he had been with them three weeks, he should have taught them to know their names.
He hopes to see them again next May; but I think they will be good sized cows by that time, for they grow very fast.
A. B. C.
"You must not go in there!" said an old dog to a young pup who stood on the white steps of a large house. "You must stay out now."
"Why?" asked the young pup. For it was a trick (anda bad trick) of his to say, "Why?" when he was told to do, or not to do, a thing.
"Why?" said the old dog: "I cannot say why. Old as I am, I do not know why. But I do know, that, if you go in when it is a wet day like this, the maid will drive you out."
"But why?" went on the pup. "It is not fair. There is no sense in it. I have been in the house some days, and no one turned me out; so why should they now?"
"Those were fine, sunny days," said the old dog.
"Well, it is on the wet days that I most want to be in the house," said the pup. "And I don't see why I should stay out. So here I go."
And so he did; but he soon found, that, though no one stopped to tell him "why" he must not come in, it was quite true that he might not. The first who saw him was the cook, who had a broom in her hand.
"That vile pup!" cried she. "Look at his feet!"
"What is wrong with my feet?" barked the pup.
But she did not wait to tell him. She struck him with the broom; and he fled with a howl up the stairs.
"Oh, that pup!" cried the maid, as she saw the marks of his feet. "He ought not to come into the house at all, if he will not keep out on wet days."
"But why?" yelped the pup, as the maid threw a hearth-brush at his head.
Still no one told him why. But a man just then came up stairs. "Why, what a mess!" he said. "Oh, I see! It is that pup. I thought he knew he must not come in!"
"So I did; but I did not knowwhy," growled the pup, as, with sore back and lame foot, he crept under a chair.
"Come out, come out!" cried the man. "I will not have you in the house at all. Out with you!" And he seized him with a strong hand, and chained him in a stall.
"You might have stopped out, and played on the grass, if you had staid there," the man said. "But, as you will come into the house when you ought not to, you must be kept where you cannot do so."
And so the young pup had to stay in the dull stall. And when, at last, he was let out, he did not ask, "Why?" if he was told to do, or not to do, a thing, but did as he ought at once, like a wise dog.
Author of "Dick and I."
"Good-by, Old Year!" "Good by, good-by!" he replies, as he goes out into the cold and snow. "Be good children!" "Who comes? who comes?" "This is I, the glad New Year!" "What have you brought?" "A plenty of good wishes. Oh! you must all be good children!"
Baby Nan has company,Baby Nell has come a-callingIn her carriage riding gay:Nan sits on a great soft shawlWith two pillows, lest she fall.Nan, here's little Nell come calling!Haven't you a word to say?"Gar goo, ghee! gar ghee, argoo!"Nell, she's saying, "How d'ye do?"Pillows bring for baby Nell;On the soft shawl seat her grandly,With her mouth set rose-bud way,And her grave blue eyes surveyingThis strange room she's so astray in.Nell, dear Nell, don't cry! see Nannie!Haven't you a word to say?"Ar-goo, dah, dah! dah dah, goo!""I am pretty well, are you?"Baby Nan has not a fear;Up and down her small fists flying,Bright eyes dancing, laughing gay!Nell, she's showing you her socks;Now she shakes her rattlebox;Hands and feet she keeps a-flying;She has something more to say:"Bab, bab, bab! kee-ee, bab, er!"I cannot interpret her.Baby Nell can. See her laugh!Forth her dimpled hand she stretches.Pass your rattle, Nan, that way;She, you see, can shake it too.Now look out, she's seizing you;Eagerly your toes she reaches!Both the baby voices say,"Goo, goo, bab, bab! argoo ghee!"They're great friends so soon, you see.They have secrets, Nell and Nan,Laugh and coo, and crow together;Nan wants Nell to stop all dayPlaying with her on the shawl.Must she go? How short the call!Come again this sunny weather.Hear the little darling say,"Argoo, kee ee! gar goo, gay!"Shake your hand, Nan, too, "Day-day!"
Baby Nan has company,Baby Nell has come a-callingIn her carriage riding gay:Nan sits on a great soft shawlWith two pillows, lest she fall.Nan, here's little Nell come calling!Haven't you a word to say?"Gar goo, ghee! gar ghee, argoo!"Nell, she's saying, "How d'ye do?"
Pillows bring for baby Nell;On the soft shawl seat her grandly,With her mouth set rose-bud way,And her grave blue eyes surveyingThis strange room she's so astray in.Nell, dear Nell, don't cry! see Nannie!Haven't you a word to say?"Ar-goo, dah, dah! dah dah, goo!""I am pretty well, are you?"
Baby Nan has not a fear;Up and down her small fists flying,Bright eyes dancing, laughing gay!Nell, she's showing you her socks;Now she shakes her rattlebox;Hands and feet she keeps a-flying;She has something more to say:"Bab, bab, bab! kee-ee, bab, er!"I cannot interpret her.
Baby Nell can. See her laugh!Forth her dimpled hand she stretches.Pass your rattle, Nan, that way;She, you see, can shake it too.Now look out, she's seizing you;Eagerly your toes she reaches!Both the baby voices say,"Goo, goo, bab, bab! argoo ghee!"They're great friends so soon, you see.
They have secrets, Nell and Nan,Laugh and coo, and crow together;Nan wants Nell to stop all dayPlaying with her on the shawl.Must she go? How short the call!Come again this sunny weather.Hear the little darling say,"Argoo, kee ee! gar goo, gay!"Shake your hand, Nan, too, "Day-day!"
Mary L. Bolles Branch.
There were once two sheep who lived in a field. One was black, and one was white. In the same field lived a horse and a cow. Now, the black sheep was not at all good. But, where he chose to go, the white sheep would go; and, what he did the white sheep would do.
So they both did what they ought not. And when the white sheep was asked why he did what he ought not, he would say, "The black sheep did it first!" One day, a boy went through the field, and did not shut the gate. The black sheep saw it, and ran out of the field with great glee. The white sheep saw it too, and they both went some way.
But soon they met a large dog, who knew that they ought not to be out in the road. He ran at them, and bit them, and tore some wool off their backs. They were glad to run back to the field; and the white sheep was quite ill with fright all the rest of the day.
"But why did you go?" said the old cow. "The black sheep went," said the white one. "He did it first."
Well, the gate was shut; but one day the black sheep found a way out of the field through a hole in the fence. He crept through the gap; and, of course, the white sheep crept through as well. They got out on the moor, and thought it fine fun to be there, with no one in sight.
Soon the black sheep, who was first, came to the edge of a deep pit. He gave a great jump, and leaped in.
The white sheep did not stop to think. He gave a great jump, and leaped in too. Down, down, down he fell, on to a heap of great sharp stones. Both he and the black sheep were much hurt. They could not get out, and were forced to lie there in great pain. By and by some men came by, and saw the sheep in the pit. The men got them out, and took them back to the field, and sent for some one to see what could be done for them.
The horse and the cow, in great grief, came and stood by the side of the white sheep as he lay on the grass. They were fond of him in spite of all his faults. "Oh, why!" cried the cow, with tears in her eyes (and the bell that was hung round her neck shook and rang as she leaned over him),—"why did you leave the field with the black sheep?"
"He did it first," said the white one in a faint voice.
"Then why did you jump down that steep place? Could you not see that it was a pit?"
"I did not stop to see. He did it first," said the white sheep. Then, with a groan, he went on to ask, "Howisthe black sheep? Is he here too? And what does the man think who comes to see us?"
"I grieve to say," said the cow, "that he thought you were both far too much hurt to live. The poor black sheep has just died, and I fear that you must die too."
"He did it first," said the white sheep. And with those words he died.
Author of "Dick and I."
T. Crampton.
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1. All the cats con-sult-ed,What was it a-bout?How to catch a lit-tle mouseRunning in and out.The cat with the black nose,She made this re-mark;—I will eat the mouse up,Be-cause my nose is dark.2. Pus-sy with the long claws,Curl'd with pride her lip—You can on-ly snip snap;I'm the one to grip,And I'll stretch my long claws,And hold mous-ey tight;Then within my strong jaws,Whisk him out of sight.3. Lit-tle mous-ey listen'd.Heard all that was said;Felt her limbs shake with af-fright;Thought she'd soon be dead.But time may be wast-ed.If cats have much to say;And while they con-sult-ed,Mous-ey ran away.
1. All the cats con-sult-ed,What was it a-bout?How to catch a lit-tle mouseRunning in and out.The cat with the black nose,She made this re-mark;—I will eat the mouse up,Be-cause my nose is dark.
2. Pus-sy with the long claws,Curl'd with pride her lip—You can on-ly snip snap;I'm the one to grip,And I'll stretch my long claws,And hold mous-ey tight;Then within my strong jaws,Whisk him out of sight.
3. Lit-tle mous-ey listen'd.Heard all that was said;Felt her limbs shake with af-fright;Thought she'd soon be dead.But time may be wast-ed.If cats have much to say;And while they con-sult-ed,Mous-ey ran away.
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J. H. BUTLER & Co.,Philadelphia.
HOME RECREATION, orHow to Amuse the Young Folks—A delightful collection of sports and games, pleasing pastimes, feats of magic, and other diversions for home amusement, juvenile parties and social gatherings, with many engravings. 25 cents.JESSE HANEY & CO., 119 Nassau Street, N. Y.
BOYS AND GIRLS.
Send 10 cents and stamp, and receive 25 beautiful Decalcomania, the height of parlor amusement, with full instructions, new and novel, or send stamp for sample toE. W. HOWARD & CO.P.O. Box 143, Chicago.
Prepare for the Holidays!
BUYFULLER'S PATENT ATTACHMENT
For your Fret Saw if you have one, or buy theSawandAttachmentall complete.
Most Wonderful Success!
Over1.000Sold the First Month!
A Liberal Discount to the Trade.
Patented July 6, 1875.Patented July 6, 1875.
Agents Wanted Everywhere.
By the aid of this simple invention, the little Jig or Fret-Saw can be made to execute more satisfactory work with less labor and time, and less breakage of saw-blades. It renders sawing very easy and simple. It will also produce, easily, the new work Marquetry, or inlaid work, of the finest description, which, without the aid of this attachment, would be impossible. It is very simple in construction and durable, and affords both amusement and profit to old and young of both sexes.
Price of Attachment $1.30; by mail $1.50. Saw, &c.,all complete,$2.25; by mail $2.50.
☞Send for Circular without delay.
AddressS. B. FULLER, Lynn, Mass.
SKETCHING from Nature, Painting in Water Colors, and Drawing and Painting in Colored Crayon; a practical instructor, illustrated, only 50 cts. JESSE HANEY & CO., 119 Nassau St., N. Y.
"Fairly without a Rival."—Congregationalist.
THE MOST EMINENT AUTHORS OF THE DAY, such as Hon. W. E. Gladstone, Prof. Max Muller, Prof. Huxley, Dr. W. B. Carpenter, Prof. Tyndall, R. A. Proctor, Frances Power Cobbe, The Duke of Argyll, Jas. A. Froude, Mrs. Muloch, Mrs. Oliphant, Miss Thackeray, Jean Ingelow, Geo. MacDonald, Wm. Black, Anthony Trollope, R. D. Blackmore, Matthew Arnold, Henry Kingsley, Thomas Carlyle, W. W. Story, Robert Buchanan, Tennyson, Browning,and many others, are represented in the pages of
LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
In 1876 The Living Age enters upon its thirty-third year. It has never failed to receive the warmest support of the best men and journals of the country, and has met with constantly increasing success. Having recently absorbed its younger competitor, "EVERY SATURDAY," it is now without a rival in its special field.A Weekly Magazineof sixty-four pages, it gives more than
THREE AND A QUARTER THOUSAND
double-column octavo pages of reading-matter yearly, forming four large volumes. It presents in an inexpensive form, considering its great amount of matter with freshness, owing to its weekly issue, and with asatisfactory completenessattempted by no other publication, the best Essays, Reviews, Criticisms, Tales, Sketches of Travel and Discovery, Poetry, Scientific, Biographical, Historical and Political information, from the entire body of Foreign Periodical Literature.
During the coming year, the serial and short stories of the
LEADING FOREIGN AUTHORS
will be given, together with an amountunapproached by any other periodical in the world, of the best literary and scientific matter of the day from the pens of the above-named, and many otherforemost living Essayists, Scientists, Critics, Discoverers, and Editors, representing every department of Knowledge and Progress.
The importance of The Living Age to every American reader, as the only satisfactorily fresh andCOMPLETEcompilation of an indispensable current literature,—indispensablebecause it embraces the productions of
THE ABLEST LIVING WRITERS
in all branches of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics,—is sufficiently indicated by the following recent
OPINIONS.
"Ought to find a place in every American Home."—N. Y. Times.
"In no other single publication can there be found so much of sterling literary excellence."—N. Y. Evening Post.
"It reproduces the best thoughts of the best minds of the civilized world, upon all topics of living interest."—Philadelphia Inquirer.
"The best of all our eclectic publications."—The Nation, New York.
"And thecheapest. A monthly thatcomes every week."—The Advance, Chicago.
"A pure and perpetual reservoir and fountain of entertainment and instruction."—Hon. Robert C. Winthrop.
"The best periodical in America."—Rev. Dr. Cuyler.
"Its pages teem with the choicest literature of the day."—N. Y. Tribune.
"With it alonea reader may fairly keep up with all that is important in the literature, history, politics, and science of the day."—The Methodist, N. Y.
"The ablest essays, the most entertaining stories, the finest poetry of the English language, are here gathered together."—Illinois State Journal.
"Its publication in weekly numbers gives to it a great advantage over its monthly contemporaries in the spirit and freshness of its contents."—The Pacific, San Francisco.
"It is indispensable to every one who desires a through compendium of all that is admirable and noteworthy in the literary world."—Boston Post.
"It has no equal in any country."—Philadelphia Press.
Published Weekly at$8.00a Year, free of Postage. An extra copy sentgratisto any one getting up a club of five new subscribers. Volume begins January 1.Address
LITTELL & GAY, Boston.
CLUB PRICES FOR THE BEST HOME AND FOREIGN LITERATURE.
"Possessed ofTHE LIVING AGEand one or other of our vivacious American monthlies, a subscriber will find himself in command of the whole situation."—Phila. Evening Bulletin.
For $10.50 The Living Age and either one of the American $4 Monthlies (orHarper's Weekly, orBazar, orAppleton's Journal, weekly) will be sent for a year, both postpaid; or, for $9.50, The Living Age and Scribner'sSt. Nicholas; or, for $8.50, The Living Age andThe Nursery. Address as above.
Choicest Books For Children.
The Beautiful Book.
This is a collection of the best poems that have appeared in "The Nursery." It is a volume of 128 pages, richly bound in cloth, with one or more Pictures on every page. It is specially attractive as a Gift-Book for the holidays.
Price 75 Cents.
The Easy Book.
This is a Book of 128 pages, prepared expressly for children just learning to read. It is in large Old English type, with a profusion of pictures and delightful object-lessons, and is made so fascinating that a child learns to read from it with little or no aid.
Elegantlyboundinfull cloth75Cents."""half cloth50"
Bound Volumes of The Nursery.
These now form a complete juvenile library. The Magazine was begun in 1867, and all volumes from that date can be supplied,
Half-Yearly volumes, elegantly bound in cloth,$1.00Yearly volumes,"""1.75
☞The above books will be sent, postpaid, on receipt of price, by the Publisher,
JOHN L. SHOREY,86 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass.
"Truly a Treasure of Delight for the Little Ones."
"Not only a Primer, but a Superb Present for a Child."
Choice! Charming!! Cheap!!!
THE NURSERY PRIMER.
Beautifully Bound in Boards.
SIXTY-FOUR PAGES OF THE SIZE OF "THE NURSERY."
Every Page Richly Illustrated.
PRICE ONLY 30 CENTS!
"In cheapness and attractiveness, the greatest book ever put into the market as a Holiday-Gift for children."
"The Best Book yet for Teaching Children to Read."
"The Choicest and Cheapest of all books for children."
"With such tools as this, learning to read is no longer a task."
EXTRACT FROM THE PREFACE.
"We can confidently claim that no Primer or First Book for Children has yet appeared, either in Europe or America, which, in the variety, beauty, aptness, and interest of its illustrations, can be compared with this. As an aid in Object-Teaching it will be found invaluable."
Price 30 Cents. A single copy by mail for 30 Cents. Six Copies sent by mail for $1.50.
☞Dealers wanting a cheap, but truly elegant work for children, to place on their counters the coming holidays, should order at once.
AddressJOHN L. SHOREY,36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass.