HOW A SMALL BOY GOT HIS RIGHTS.

two llittle chicksSTUDYING THE EGGSHELL.

STUDYING THE EGGSHELL.

And now it is really growing late and little Sate must be carried home. It was an evening to remember.

They talked it over by inches the next morning. Nettie finishing the breakfast dishes, and Jerry sitting on the doorstep fashioning a bracket for the kitchen lamp.

Nettie talked much about Ermina Farley. "She is just as lovely and sweet as she can be. It was beautiful in her to come over to me as she did when she came into that yard; part of it was for little Trudie's sake, and a great deal of it was for my sake. I saw that at the time; and I saw it plainer all the afternoon. She didn't give me a chance to feel alone once; and she didn't stay near me as though she felt she ought to, but didn't want to, either; she just took hold and helped do everything Miss Sherrill gave me to do, and was as bright and sweet as she could be. I shall never forget it of her. But for all that," she added as she wrung out her dishcloth with an energy which the small white rag hardly needed, "I know it was pretty hard for her to do it, and I shall not give her a chance to do it again."

"I want to know what there was hard about it?" said Jerry, looking up in astonishment. "I thought Ermina Farley seemed to be having as good a time as anybody there."

"Oh, well now, I know, you are not a girl; boys are different from girls. They are not so kind-of-mean! At least, some of them are not," she added quickly, having at that moment a vivid recollection of some mean things which she had endured from boys. "Really I don't think they are," she said, after a moment's thoughtful pause, and replying to the quizzical look on his face. "They don't think about dresses, and hats, and gloves, and all those sorts of things as girls do, and they don't say such hateful things. Oh! Iknowthere is a great difference; and I know just how Ermina Farley will be talked about because she went with me, and stood up for me so; and I think it will be very hard for her. I used to think so about you, but you—are real different from girls!"

"It amounts to about this," said Jerry, whittling gravely. "Good boys are different from bad girls, and bad boys are different from good girls."

Nettie laughed merrily. "No," she said, "I do know what I am talking about, though you don't think so; I know real splendid girls who couldn't have done as Ermina Farley did yesterday, and as you do all the time; and what I say is, I don't mean to put myself where she willhaveto do it, much. I don't want to go to their parties; I don't expect a chance to go, but if I had it, I wouldn't go; and just for her sake, I don't mean to be always around for her to have to take care of me as she did yesterday. I have something else to do."

Said Jerry, "Where do you think Norm is going to take me this evening?"

"Norm going to take you!" great wonderment in the tone. "Why, where could he take you? I don't know, I am sure."

"He is to take me to the parsonage at eight o'clock to hear some wonderful music on the organ. He has been invited, and has had permission to bring me with him if he wants to. Don't you talk about not putting yourself where other people will have to take care of you! I advise you to cultivate the acquaintance of your brother. It isn't everybody who gets invited to the parsonage to hear such music as Miss Sherrill can make."

The dishcloth was hung away now, and every bit of work was done. Nettie stood looking at the whittling boy in the doorway for a minute in blank astonishment, then she clasped her hands and said: "O Jerry! Did they do it? Aren't they the very splendidest people you ever knew in your life?"

"They are pretty good," said Jerry, "that's a fact; they are most as good as my father. I'll tell you what it is, Nettie, if you knew my father you would know a man who would be worth remembering. I had a letter from him last night, and he sent a message to my friend Nettie."

"What?" asked Nettie, her eyes very bright.

"It was that you were to take good care of his boy; for in his opinion the boy was worth taking care of. On the strength of that I want you to come out and look at Mother Speckle; she is in a very important frame of mind, and has been scolding her children all the morning. I don't know what is the trouble; there are two of her daughters who seem to have gone astray in some way; at least she is very much displeased with them. Twice she has boxed Fluffie's ears, and once she pulled a feather out of poor Buff. Look at her, how forlorn she seems!"

By this time they were making their way to the little house where the hen lived, Nettie agreeing to go for a very few minutes, declaring that if Norm was going out every evening there was work to do. He would need a clean collar and she must do it up; for mother had gone out to iron for the day. "Mother is so grateful to Mrs. Smith for getting her a chance to work," she said, as they paused before the two disgraced chickens; "she says she would never have thought of it if it had not been for her; you know she always used to sew. Why, how funny those chickens look! Only see, Jerry, they are studying that eggshell as though they thought they could make one. Now don't they look exactly as though they were planning something?"

"They are," said Jerry. "They are planning going to housekeeping, I believe; you see they have quarreled with their mother. They consider that they have been unjustly punished, and I am in sympathy with them; and they believe they could make a house to live in out of that eggshell if they could only think of a way tostick it together again. I wishwecould build a house out of eggshells; or even one room, and we'd have one before the month was over."

"Why?" said Nettie, stooping down to see why Buff kept her foot under her. "Do you want a room, Jerry?"

"Somewhat," said Jerry. "At least I see a number of things we could do if we had a room, that I don't know how to do without one. Come over here, Nettie, and sit down; leave those chickens to sulk it out, and let us talk a little. I have a plan so large that there is no place to put it."

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BIG men are not always just or generous, and many times the small boy is a sufferer at their hands. Sometimes the big man is cross because he has eaten too much dinner—the small boy will understand now how uncomfortable he feels—and as he is too big to cry he vents his ill humor, many times, on the first small boy who comes in his way. Now, you know that some people think that if you eat too much meat you will become savage, and, as this man who was unjust to the small boy was a butcher, perhaps he had eaten so much meat that he had become in part a savage. In one of the police-courts up-town, in New York, one morning, not long since, a very small boy in knickerbockers, appeared. He had a dilapidated cap in one hand and a green cotton bag in the other. Behind him came a big policeman with a grin on his face. When the boy found himself in the court-room he hesitated and looked as if he would like to retreat, but as he half-turned and saw the grin on his escort's face, he shut his lips tighter and meandered up to the desk.

"Please, sir, are you the judge?" he asked, in a voice that had a queer little quiver in it.

"I am, my boy; what can I do for you?" asked the Justice, as he looked wonderingly down at the mite before him.

"If you please, sir, I'm Johnny Moore. I'm seven years old, and I live in One Hundred and Twenty-third street, near the avenue, and the only good place to play miggles on is in front of a lot near our house, where the ground is smooth; but a butcher on the corner," and here his voice grew steady and his cheeks flushed, "that hasn't any more right to the place than we have, keeps his wagon standing there, and this morning we were playing miggles there, and he drove us away, and took six of mine, and threw them away off over the fence into the lot, and I went to the police station, and they laughed at me, and told me to come here and tell you about it."

The big policeman and the spectators began to laugh boisterously, and the complainant at the bar trembled so violently with mingled indignation and fright that the marbles in his little green bag rattled together.

The Justice, however, rapped sharply on the desk, and quickly brought everybody to dead silence. "You did perfectly right, my boy," said he gravely, "to come here and tell me about it. You have as much right to your six marbles as the richest man in this city has to his bank account. If every American citizen had as much regard for their rights as you show there would be far less crime. And you, sir," he added, turning to the big policeman, who now looked as solemn as a funeral, "you go with this little man to that butcher and make him pay for those marbles, or else arrest him and bring him here."

You see this boy knew that his rights had been interfered with, and he went to the one having authority to redress his wrongs. He did not throw stones or say naughty words, but in a manly, dignified way demanded his rights.—Selected.

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AN angel's thought flew down to earth,Borne on a golden beam of light;And pausing, rested in the heartOf a sweet, blue-eyed violet bright.And finding there a flower-soulFree from all taint of earthly pride,The angel's thought would fain remain,And in the Pansy still doth hide.And so these gold and purple flowers,The soft-eyed Pansies which we love,Sprang from the violet which receivedAn angel's thought from heaven above.Lydia Hoyt Farmer.

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MY sweet little neighbor BessieI thought was busy with play,When she turned, and brightly questioned,"Say, what is the Easter day?""Has nobody told you, darling—Do they 'Feed His Lambs' like this?"I gathered her to my bosom,And gave her a tender kiss.Away went the cloak for dolly,And away went dolly too,As again she eagerly questioned,With eyes so earnest and blue:"Is it like birthdays or Christmas—Or like Thanksgiving Day;Do we just be good like Sunday,Or run and frolic and play?"I know there's flowers to it,And that is most all I know;I've got a lovely rosebush,And a bud begins to grow."Then in words most few and simpleI told to the gentle childThe story whose end is Easter—The Life of the Undefiled.Told of the manger of Bethlehem,And about the glittering starThat guided the feet of the shepherdsWatching their flocks from afar,Told of the lovely Mother,And the Baby who was bornTo live on the earth among usBearing its sorrows and scorn.And then I told of the life He livedThose wonderful thirty years,Sad, weary, troubled, forsaken,In this world of sin and tears,Until I came to the shameful deathThat the Lord of Glory died,Then the tender little maidenUplifted her voice and cried.I came at length to the gardenWhere they laid His form away,And then in the course of tellingI came to the Easter day—The day when sorrowing womenCame there to the grave to moan,And the lovely shining angelsHad rolled away the stone.I think I made her understandAs well as childhood can,About the glorified risen lifeOf him who was God and Man.This year the fair Easter liliesWill gleam through a mist of tears,For I shall not see sweet BessieIn all of the coming years.When the snow lay white and thickestShe quietly went awayTo learn from the lips of angelsThe meaning of Easter day.We put on the little bodyThe garments worn in life,And laid her deep in the frozen earthAway from all noise and strife.We took all the dainty playthings,And the dollies new and old,And placed them in a sacred spotWith a tress of shining gold.Were it not for the star of Bethlehem,And the dawn of Easter day,It would be to us most bitterTo put our darling away.But we know that as the hard brown earthHolds lilies regal and white,So the lifeless, empty, useless clayHeld once an angel of light.And I hope on the Easter morningTo look from the grave away,Thinking not of the child thatwas,But the child thatisto-day.Emily Baker Smalle.

portraitMY SWEET LITTLE NEIGHBOR BESSIE.

MY SWEET LITTLE NEIGHBOR BESSIE.

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Volume 13, Number 24.Copyright, 1886, byD. Lothrop& Co.April 17, 1886.

THE PANSY.

three pictures: bird sailing at sunrise; storm at sea; ships on calm water"THE SEA TOOK ON ITS SULLEN LOOK."

"THE SEA TOOK ON ITS SULLEN LOOK."

FIRST, through some of the busiest, narrowest, noisiest, dirtiest streets of New York City; if you have never hurried down them, you have no idea how much that means. A ferry boat, a bit of a ride, and I was in New York no more, but in New Jersey. The Jersey Central train stood waiting.

"All aboard for Long Branch," shouted an official. I did not want to go to Long Branch, but I hurried along as fast as though I did; the truth was, I knew my stopping place was not far away from that famous spot. In a few minutes we were off; not long before the smell of old ocean began to steal in at the windows, and at last we caught glimpses of beach stretching away in the distance.

Not a long ride, only a matter of a couple of hours on an express train, despite the many stations called out: "Matawan," and "Red Bank," and "Little Silver," and I know not how many more. At last, "Long Branch" and "Elberon;" then, in a few minutes more, "Ocean Grove and Asbury Park." At this, a great company of us began to scurry around and find our shawl straps, and lunch baskets, and what not.

I'm not going to tell you about Asbury Park; at least not much. Some other time I may say a good deal about this pretty city by the sea, but just now I'm anxious to tell of what happened at night. The day had been pleasant enough; not summer, but late spring, bright and sunshiny; we rejoiced over the thought of getting sight of the beautiful beach; reminding each other how lovely the sea looked by moonlight.

Alas, there was no moon for us that night! At least she did not once show her silver face; instead, the sky was black with clouds, and the sea took on its sullen look, and roared as it lashed the shore constantly with great angry waves. We shivered and tugged at our wraps as the wind tried to whirl them away, and said, as we turned to go home, how glad we were that we had no friends at sea. "The ocean looks cruel," said Grace; "I don't like him to-night."

Then we went home to our bright room; drew the curtains, closed the shutters, stirred the fire to a cheery blaze, and chatted and laughed and were happy, quite shutting out the roar of the angry sea. But he did not calm; the waves ran high, and the sullen roar kept increasing, until, by midnight, we knew it was what seamen call a gale. Occasionally we heard the fog bell toll out, and once more we were glad that we had no dear ones at sea.

Somebody had, though; and while we slept quietly, knowing nothing of it, brave men were awake and at work. A danger signal was seen just off shore; what excitement there was! How did the men of the life-saving crew know that they were needed? They had been disbanded for the summer, the dangerous season being supposed to be over; and here was blowing one of the worst storms of the winter! I don't know how they heard the news. Their hearts waked and watched, perhaps; anyway, they came, great stalwart men, and in a twinkling opened their boathouse, and got out their apparatus which had been carefully put away, and before the third signal went up through the stormy water, were ready for action.

I don't know how they did it. At this time of which I write, they had no regular lifeboat such as is now in use; they were not regularly manned for work in any way. Never mind, they did it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Oh, I do not know how many people rode, some way, over the stormy water, on a rope, and reached the shore. Drenched, powerless, almost breathless, yet alive! Who do you think was one of the first to arrive that night? Why, a little baby less than three months old! What!Shedid not cling to ropes! Oh, no. All she did was to lie in utmost quiet in the hands of a great strong man; he was lashed to the rope in such a way that the men on shore could pull him in, but the baby he held in his two strong hands, as high above the fury of the waves as the hands would reach. What if he had dropped her? Then the sea would have swallowed her in an instant? An awful journey, but the baby did not know it. She must have gasped a little for breath, and she may have cried, but no one heard her; the roaring ocean took care of that.

You don't see how she lived through it? They did not think she could; not even the mother, when she took a second to kiss her, before she gave her into the strong arms, thought that she should ever see her darling again. Butit was the only possible way of escape; they could but try. So the baby rode into shore, and I think as many as a hundred mothers stood waiting to receive her, with hot blankets enough to smother her, and warm milk enough to drown her in; for it had gotten abroad in some way that a baby was on board the sinking ship. If you could have heard the shout that went up when the baby was landed in the arms of one mother, who said, after a second of solemn hush: "Yes, she is living!" you would have felt as though you almost knew what a life was worth.

The next morning what a walk we had along the coast! How still the sea lay; the waves crept up softly one after another as if so ashamed of their last night's work that they would a little rather not be seen or heard at all. Bits of board, and old tarred rope, and barrel staves and seaweed lined the beach for miles, and coffee sacks by the hundred kept washing in to shore. The vessel had been laden with coffee. People were very busy putting the beach in order, planning how to reach the wreck, wondering whether she could be gotten off, or would have to lie half-buried in the sand and slowly fall to pieces. Here and there were groups of people, listening, while one man talked excitedly; he was a sailor and had his wonderful story to tell of danger and escape. But the happiest man on the beach that morning was one who rubbed his hands in actual glee, and smiling broadly on every one who came up to him, would say in a loud, glad voice, "Yes, I lost everything I had in the world, but my wife and children are all here; yes, baby and all!" and then he would wipe the great tears from his eyes, and laugh so loud and glad a laugh that all the people around would have to join it.

All his children safe! They clustered around him, several sturdy-looking boys, and I watched them with eager interest.Werethey all safe? Could the father be sure? The ocean had not swallowed them, but suppose some awful rum saloon caught them in its clutches and drew them in and in until they went down in a storm of drunkenness to utter ruin! What was an ocean storm to that? Pitiless ocean, rave as it might, could not touch the soul; but the rum saloon has power to destroy both body and soul. What joy there was over the three-months-old baby! and yet she may live to be a drunkard's wife, and a drunkard's mother, and to cry out in bitterness of soul because the ocean did not swallow her that night. Isn't it strange and sad to think of? The father thought his children safe, and yet so many oceans of temptation lay ready to engulf them! none more bitter, more fierce, more wide-spread in its raging, than this ocean of alcohol. Dear boys and girls, what can we do to help save the children for their fathers? Will you all join the life-saving crew, and work with a will, to rescue victims from this ocean?

Pansy.

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MANY a picture of moving pathos appears in the dark gallery of drunkenness. We have seen but few more touching ones than this from the pen of Mrs. M. A. Kidder. She describes little Benny, the son of a drunken father, sitting in a room with his mother and little sister. By looking at this sad and thoughtful face one would have taken him to be ten years of age, yet he was but six. No wonder. For four years this almost baby had been used to seeing a drunken father go in and out of the cottage. He scarcely remembers anything from him but cruelty and abuse. But now he is dead! The green sod had lain on his grave a week or so, but the terrible effects of his conduct were not buried with him. The poor children would start with a shudder at every uncertain step on the walk outside, and at every hesitating hand upon the latch. On the day mentioned Benny's mother was getting dinner. "Will my little son go to the wood-shed, and get mother a few sticks to finish boiling the kettle?"

"I don't like to go to the wood-shed, mamma."

"Why, my son?"

"Because there is a pair of father's old boots out there, and I don't like to see them."

"Why do you mind the old boots, Benny, any more than the old coat and hat upstairs?"

"Because," said Benny, tears filling his blue eyes, "they look as if they wanted to kick me."

Oh the dreadful after-influence of a drunken father to innocent children! what an awful memory to bear through life!—Richmond Christian Advocate.

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By Paranete.

"WHEN morning came," continued my friend, "how disconsolate I was! In all my wanderings I had never had the misfortune to be cast out and trodden under foot of men before! The sun was shining beautifully, the dew was glittering on the blades of grass, the birds were singing, and the flowers were blooming sweetly, but I was unhappy.

two dogsTHE BOYS' DOGS.

THE BOYS' DOGS.

"Suddenly a little boy and girl turned the corner, and walked swiftly up towards that part of the walk where I was. The little girl uttered an exclamation:

"'Good luck, Fred! I've found a pin!' and she picked me up and put me in her belt. They walked along, talking merrily, when a butterfly flew along the walk. The little boy ran after it, and soon had it under his hat. 'Let me have that pin, Bess,' he said, and when she had given me to him he pinned his handkerchief over the hat, with me and another pin that he had, and walked home bareheaded.

"Reaching their house, he went up to his room, threw the other poor pin out of the window, and, much to my dismay, impaled the butterfly on me. How horrid I felt! I would have shuddered if I could, for how cruel was the boy to make me the innocent instrument of the death of a poor winged insect, that had been so bright and happy but a few moments before!

"But just then his sister came along, and seeing the butterfly fluttering on me, gradually losing its strength, she uttered an exclamation of horror, and let the poor thing go, placing me where she had before. Her brother Fred came in.

"'Now, Bess, that's mean! What possessed you to let my butterfly go?'

"'Because it was so cruel, Fred dear. I couldn't bear to see it struggling so!' and a tear came into her eye.

"Her brother muttered something about girls' tender feelings.

"That day as Bessie and her mother were sitting sewing on the piazza of their house, her mother wanted a pin, and so she speedily delivered me into the lady's hands. She used me for some sewing a little while, and then put me on a little pincushion in her work-box, where I remained for about a week.

"Then there was a commotion in the house. I learned from various talks that Fred with a good many other boys, was going camping into the woods, and they were busy getting ready for his departure. He was off at last. He had a gun, a satchel full of clothing, and an umbrella. Just as he was going out of the door, and his mother was kissing him good-by, she said:

"'Fred, wait a moment. I didn't give you any pins, and you may need some.'

"So saying, she took me and a few others from the cushion in her work-box, and putting them hastily on Fred's coat, bade him good-by again, and he started.

"I cannot tell you all the fun that the boys had in the woods; they seemed perfectly happy,and fished, and shot poor animals, and climbed, all the time. Wherever Fred went, I went too.

"At night they would go into the tents, and lie down, sleeping soundly all night, and getting up early in the morning, to eat what they had caught latest the day before. All night I kept watch over Fred's pillow, in his coat that was hanging on a nail driven into one of the tent-poles.

"One day one of the dogs came to the place where the boys were taking dinner, sniffing around their legs, and showing as plainly as possible that he had discovered something. The boys hastily finished their dinner, and followed the noble animal into the woods. Soon the dog stopped, and looking ahead, they saw, by a pool, a splendid deer drinking, little suspecting what danger there was near.

butterfly in branchesA BUTTERFLY FLEW ALONG.

A BUTTERFLY FLEW ALONG.

"'Fire!' said the boys' leader; and a dozen shots went crashing into the poor deer's side. It fell down dying. One of the boys went over to examine it. When he reached it, it gave one faint struggle, and expired. But a boy that had remained thought it was yet alive, and fired another shot, taking care not to aim at the one who had gone forward. But he was just bending over to examine the horns of the animal, and the shot went crashing into his leg! Then there was an uproar! The boys all rushed forward, my master among them, and examined the poor boy's leg, which was bleeding very badly.

"'Where is a bandage?' said some one. So the leader took out of his pocket a very large handkerchief, and wound it tightly just above the wound. The blood stopped flowing. 'Where is a string to tie it with?' he said. No one had one, but Fred put his hand to his coat, and taking me from it, said, 'Here is a pin, Tom. Pin it quick!'

"So the handkerchief was pinned tightly around the leg, and the blood didn't ooze out any more. However, the wound pained the poor boy very much. The others fixed him pretty comfortably on the soft body of the deer, while two of them went for a doctor as fast as possible.

"It was two hours before he came.

"'Not very serious,' he said, at which every body drew a long breath of relief. 'But it would have been,' he continued, 'if you hadn't pinned this bandage on so securely. He would certainly have bled to death.'

"You may imagine that I felt proud then. I had saved a life! If it had not been for me the boy would have died! To be sure, another pin would have done, but then it was—me!I felt that I was doing wrong to be so proud, and likeeveryone who sins, I got my punishment. When the doctor undid the bandage, he carelessly threw me on the ground, and paid no more attention to me, for when he replaced a better bandage on the limb, he used a wide strip of cloth to fasten it with.

"You can not imagine my feelings then! There I was, cast on the ground in the woods, where nobody would ever find me. I would rust, and fall to pieces! I would never be moved from that lonesome, dreary place. And it was my fault! I felt that it was my punishment for feeling so proud. To be sure, the doctor did not know that I was proud when he threw me on ground, but I felt 'in my bones,' as it were, that it was my punishment for feeling so lofty because I had been the humble means of saving a life. The agony of those few moments will be a lesson to me through life, and if I ever feel lofty and haughty again, I shall be surprised.

"I say 'those few moments,' for soon, some of the boys came to remove the body of the deer, and Fred, who was among them, happening to see me on the ground said:

"'Halloo! I guess I'll pick you up. I've learned how useful a pin may be.'

"So my stay on the ground in the woods was not long, for he returned me to the lining of his coat."

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GOD loves Pansies, with their child-like facesLooking up, catching every ray of light,Seeking to be fair in the Father's sight.One who owneth all their charms and graces,Lighting up, like them, earth's desert places,Claims sweet sisterhood with these blossoms bright;Hears God's voice saying to her, "Pansy, write!"In letters purple with love, she tracesWith golden pen the Saviour's message true;Myriad voices in Heaven will repeat,"Pansy, lessons of love they've learned from you;And lay their crowns with you, at Jesus' feet."From your sweet Pansy blooms of purest thoughtMy soul a glimpse of Heaven's joy hath caught.Rockville, Mass.With the love ofArbutus.

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FROM 1797 until 1849, a period of fifty-two years, Mary Lyon lived upon this earth. Some lives seem too short. To us they appear to be broken off at the wrong place—in the midst of earnest successful work—and we wonder how the world can get along without them. And so I suppose it must have seemed to those interested in the grand work of education in which Mary Lyon was engaged when she at the command of the Master laid down the burden and slept the last sleep. For thirty-five years she had been using her talents and her energies in training up young girls for noble womanhood. Like others in our list of Remarkable Women, her early home was among the New England hills. As another has expressed it, "On the little mountain farm the child saw the flax grow to make her single summer dress, and herself petted and fed the lambs and sheep which gave the wool to keep her warm in winter. The fairy flax flowers, blue as heaven, delighted her eyes." And we may believe that later she watched the process of preparing the flax for the wheel and loom, and we are told that the little girl in her homespun dress which made her no oddity in the old-time country school, was earnest and diligent in her studies, standing at the head of her classes and steadily advancing in scholarship. Mary Lyon early realized that life was not meant for a play-day, and when at the age of seventeen she became a teacher, she took with her into the schoolroom a strong faith and earnest endeavor for the highest development of her pupils. She sought more than mental progress—even moral and spiritual growth. Though she taught, leaving her impress for good in other places, Mt. Holyoke Seminary, at South Hadley, stands as her monument. The founding of this school was her great work, and in thousands of homes her influence is still felt. Many of our mothers and grandmothers are living lives of usefulness, the inspiration of which was drawn from lessons learned of this most remarkable of teachers. Mary Lyon was one of the great teachers of this world. If there should be among the girls who read this article those who expect to becometeachers, let me urge you to study the life of Mary Lyon. See if you can find out the secret of her success; go over the record of her struggle with the difficulties encountered in those days when Mt. Holyoke Seminary was getting a foothold. One has said that "the story of Mary Lyon and her work should be read by every young girl who desires to know the meaning of a noble and consecrated life." I think you will find the secret of her successful life lies in the fact of its being a consecrated life; consecrated to the high and noble purpose for which she labored. Believing "that Christian women inspired with Christian zeal would be powerful promoters of the kingdom of Christ in this world," she sought to perfect a plan whereby young girls might be brought under the influences which would tend to inspire their hearts, awaken their powers, and prepare them for the positions of influence which they might be called to occupy. With a sublime faith in the leadership of Christ, a belief that she was called to do this thing, she fought out the battle, accomplished her mission and left behind her in many hearts a spirit akin to her own. Out from the sweet, sacred influences of this first collegiate school for girls established in this country, have gone thousands of noble women. Some have gone to carry the word of life into the dark places of earth, showing the beauty of a Christian home as contrasted with the heathen homes; some have gone out to establish other schools of like character; and on mission fields, in homes everywhere and in schools and in society, the spirit which so long ago found expression in that consecrated life is still influencing the world for good.

Faye Huntington.

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YOU naughty old dogJust run right away!For Annie and IAre going to play.And then Minnie struckOld Rover's thick hideWith her dimpled handAs he stood at her side."Why, Minnie! how can you?"Said sweet Annie May."Have you never been toldOf that terrible dayWhen the waters went madWith foaming and strife,And Rover, good dog,Saved your dear little life?"All night the DelawareRose; and thenWhile papa was goneFor boats and for men,Mamma, she cuddled youSafe and warm,And left you for RoverTo guard from harm"While she tried to saveA few things more.But when she returnedThrough the water's roar,Your cradle was gone!And old Rover, too.Poor mamma! she cried'Oh what shall I do!'"Papa came back and took us away,Searching for youThe rest of the day.At night, a fishermanSailed o'er the deep,With you in your cradleFast asleep!"He found old RoverTowing you downTo a little islandNear the town.All day careful vigilRover had kept,While you, all unconscious,Had smiled and slept."Now Rover was hugged!And blue eyes were wet,As Minnie said, low,"I shall never forget!When I've anything goodHe shall have a big part;And agreat big placeAll his own, in my heart."S. R. Sill.

Dog with a scarf over his headROVER, DRESSED UP.

ROVER, DRESSED UP.

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Volume 13, Number 25.Copyright, 1886, byD. Lothrop& Co.April 24, 1886.

THE PANSY.

Deep within the frozen earth,Fairest seeds of bloom are sleeping.Waiting May's re-echoing mirth—April's days of tender weeping.Palest blooms and richest dyesIn these close-shut cells are hiddenFragrance rare, all breathless lies,E'en its gentlest sigh forbidden.Are there not lives sad and drearFairest seeds of heart bloom holding,Waiting for kind words of cheer,Waiting Love for their unfolding?Linda M. Duvall.HIDDEN BEAUTY.

HIDDEN BEAUTY.

By Margaret Sidney.

BETSEY, the farmer's wife, put up a lunch large enough to last a couple of voyagers for a two days' journey, and bustled around in her quickest style, so that she ran out to the barn with her big basket as Farmer Bassett drew a long breath and declared himself ready to start.

"Do hurry, John," she begged, setting her basket within the sleigh, "those poor creeters must be half-starved, let alone their crying theirselves eenamost to death."

Then her motherly heart that had taken up entirely the cause of the boys, allowed throbs of pity to be felt on Thomas' account as she saw the effect of her words upon him, and she hastened to add—"You'll make pretty quick time after you git on the road, and boys always know how to have a good time as long as daylight lasts, at any rate."

"You better believe, Betsey," declared Farmer Bassett, "that we will not let the grass, or the snow rather, accumulate under our feet, will we, Jack?" caressing his horse. "There, Mr. —— what'd you say your name was?" turning to the man beside him.

"Thomas, sir—Thomas Bradley. But I'm better known as Mr. Bangs' man, bad luck to the day I shirked a bit. But I'll catch it enough when I get home, though"—

"And serves you quite right, Thomas," observed Farmer Bassett; "well, get in, and we'll be off. Good-by, mother!" He didn't kiss her; it was not the New England way in which they had both been reared, but he did look at her round, comely face with such an expression in his gray eyes that a smile went back to him from the lips firmly folded together—"Take care of yourself now, an' the house, I'll be along in the mornin'."

Then he got into the sleigh, and tucking up the well-worn robes around his companion and himself, signified to Jack by a loud "g'lang!" that he was expected to start.

"I s'pose you're going to talk to me now," said Thomas awkwardly, after they had turned the corner from which the last view of the comfortable red farmhouse could be seen, "and give me a piece of your mind for leaving them chaps and disobeying master. You've a good right, I'm sure, being as you're getting me out o' the scrape."

"I ain't one to do preachin' to other folks," said the farmer shortly. "I have enough to do to take care o' my own sins."

Thomas stared in amazement into the tough, leathery face. That any one who could claim the least right, should let slip to "give it to" another man caught in a peccadillo, he could not understand, and he took the only way to find relief that came to his mind. When he finished scratching his head in a perplexed way, he relapsed into silence that was not broken till at least half the distance to Sachem Hill was traversed.

Then the old farmer began to converse, but on general topics, and in such a cheery way, that his travelling companion came a bit out of his shamefaced despondency feeling as if there might be a chance even for him in the world once more.

By the time that Jack jingled them into the vicinity of Mr. Bangs' summer cottage, the two were in such a good state of mind that any one meeting them would have said it was only a pleasure excursion that drew them out to enjoy the night.

And now Thomas sat erect and drew his breath fast, while his eyes, strained to their utmost, pierced the gathering darkness for the first glimpse of the house.

"Turn here up this lane, master," he begged suddenly, "it's a short cut," and the old farmer lashed Jack, all the time begging the astonished animal's pardon, while he hurried up the back way as directed.

"Good—oh!" groaned Thomas, pulling his arm, and pointing with a shaking hand. Farmer Bassett more intent on the feelings of the faithful horse, and on getting on, had not glanced up. At this cry of distress he did, and now saw with Thomas a bright light gleaming from one of the upper windows of the Bangs' cottage.

"It'sFIRE!" said Thomas hoarsely, pluckinghim by the arm again. "We must 'a' left somethin' smoulderin' in the fire-place"—

"Nonsense," said the farmer reassuringly. Nevertheless he gave Jack another cut that made him jounce at a fearful rate up to the back veranda.

Thomas leaped out and sped up the steps. Farmer Bassett tarried only long enough to fasten Jack to the hitching-post, throw his blanket over him, and give one pat on his head, then followed.

"Boys!" screamed Thomas, racing up and down the veranda, and shaking the doors, "are you in there?"

But only the branches of the trees creaked in the cold wind for answer. Thomas stamped in very fury.

"See here," said the old farmer, down on the ground and pointing up, "look at their heads. They're all safe an' sound, an' not half as cold as you an' I."

With that he sent out such a halloo that Thomas on the veranda clapped his hands to his ears. It had the effect desired, for at least two of the windows in the gable end of the cottage were thrown up, and as many boys' heads as could possibly be accommodated, were thrust out.

"Halloo, Thomas, halloo," called one voice in derision, "don't you wish you were here too?"

"You're a nice one," said Master Wingate, "and won't you catch it, though, when you get home. You'll be place-hunting as soon as you can say 'Jack Robinson'"—

"See here, you young scamp," shouted the old farmer, "it will be for your interest to end that sort of talk, now I tell you. You just step down lively an' open one of these doors. We've cooled our heels enough comin' to look for you an' don't propose to stand here any longer. Hurry up, now."

The boys stared in astonishment down into as much of his face as the darkness would permit them to see, and recognizing from the quality of his voice that a parley would not be acceptable, drew in their heads and proceeded to obey the order.

"Who is the old party?" cried one of the boys as they ran over the stairs.

"I don't know," returned Wingate, "I'm sure."

"Don't let us open the door then," urged another boy; "see here, Wingate," laying a detaining hand on his arm, "you are not obliged to—nobody has a right to order you to unlock your father's house. Don't do it; we'll lose all the fun of keeping Thomas out till we've had the fun of scaring him all we want to."

Master Wingate hesitated. But a vigorous rap on the dining-room door at the foot of the staircase, made him start, and a loud imperative—"Hurry up, there," caused him to redouble his speed.

"I guess we better let 'em in," he said, and slid back the bolt.

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