BLUE BELLS.

boy looking at distancesame boy same distance caption: TRYING TO DECIDE

"You see, it is a new thing," she explained to her mother, "of course it will take them a little while to get acquainted with it; if nobody at all comes to-night, I shall not be disappointed. Shall you, Jerry?"

"Why, yes," said Jerry, "I should; because I know of one boy who is coming, and is going to have a ginger-snap and a glass of milk. And that is little Ted Locker who lives down the lane; they about starve that boy. I shall like to see him get something good. He has three cents and I assured him he could get a brimming glass of milk and a ginger-snap for that. He was as delighted as possible."

"Poor fellow!" said Nettie, "I mean to tell Norm to let him have two snaps, wouldn't you?"

And Jerry agreed, not stopping to explain that he had furnished the three cents with which Ted was to treat his poor little stomach. So the work began in benevolence.

Still Nettie was anxious, not to say nervous.

"You will have to eat soft gingerbread at your house, for breakfast, dinner and supper, I am afraid," she said to Jerry with a half laugh, as they stood looking at it. "I don't know why I made four tins of it; I seemed to get in a gale when I was making it."

"Never you fear," said Jerry, cheerily. "I'll be willing to eat such gingerbread as that three times a day for a week. Between you and me," lowering his voice, "Sarah Ann can't make very good gingerbread; when we get such a run of custom that we have none left over to sell, I wish you'd teach her how."

I do not know that any member of the two households could be said to be more interested in the new enterprise than Mr. Decker. He helped set up the shelves, and he made a little corner shelf on purpose for the lamp, and he watched the entire preparations with an interest which warmed Nettie's heart. I haven't said anything about Mr. Decker during these days, because I found it hard to say. You are acquainted with him as a sour-faced, unreasonable, beer-drinking man; when suddenly he became a man who said "Good morning" when he came into the room, and who sat down smooth shaven, and with quiet eyes and smile to his breakfast, and spoke gently to Susie when she tipped her cup of water over, and kissed little Sate when he lifted her to her seat, and waited for Mrs. Decker to bring the coffee pot, then bowed his head and in clear tones asked a blessing on the food, how am I to describe him to you? The change was something which even Mrs. Decker who watched him every minute he was in the house and thought of him all day long, could not get accustomed to. It astonished her so to think that she, Mrs. Decker, lived in a house where there was a prayer made every night and morning, and where each evening after supper Nettie read a few verses in the Bible, and her father prayed; that every time she passed her own mother's Bible which had been brought out of its hiding-place in an old trunk, she said, under her breath, "Thank the Lord." No, she did not understand it, the marvelous change which had come over her husband. She had known him as a kind man; he had been that when she married him, and for a few months afterwards.

She had heard him speak pleasantly to Norm, and show him much attention; he had done it before they were married, and for awhile afterwards; but there was a look in his face, and a sound in his voice now, such as she had never seen nor heard before.

"It isn't Decker," she said in a burst of confidence to Nettie. "He is just as good as he can be; and I don't know anything in the world he ain't willing to do for me, or for any of us; and it is beautiful, the whole of it; but it is all new. I used to think if the man I married could only come back to me I should be perfectly happy; but I don't know this man at all; he seems to me sometimes most like an angel."

Probably you would have laughed at this. Joe Decker did not look in the least like the picture you have in your mind of an angel; but perhaps if you had known him only a few weeks before, as Mrs. Decker did, and could have seen the wonderful change in him which she saw, the contrast might even have suggested angels.

Nettie understood it. She struggled with her timidity and her ignorance of just what ought to be said; then she made her earnest reply:

"Mother, I'll tell you the difference. Father prays, and when people pray, you know, and mean it, as he does, they get to looking very different."

But Mrs. Decker did not pray.

double line decoration

[A Flower Legend.]

TWO cherubs were playing near Heaven's gate,Which an angel had left ajar;They were toying each with small silver bells,Whose soft chimes could be heard afar.As they tossed in play these musical toys,Some rolled through the half-open gate;And down from the high heavens blue they cameThrough the clouds at a quickening rate.And when at last they fell down to this earth,And rested in green fairy dell,Where each one had fallen there sprang a flower,The beautiful, graceful Blue Bell.For as they came down through the azure skies,They caught its deep beautiful blue;And still in the earthly flower is seenThe very same heavenly hue.And the fairies can hear the low sweet chimesAs they gently sway to and fro;Perhaps it's an echo of those soft tonesWhich the cherubs heard long ago.Lydia Hoyt Farmer.

double line decoration

YESTERDAY, mother, she said to me,"Now, Tommy, my man, it soon will beThe Fourth of July, and I dread the noise—I dread the freedom of reckless boys,"The ringing of bells, the firing gun,Torpedoes and crackers, from sun to sun;I wonder if when those grand old menDeclared for Freedom, it could have been"That they ever thought the boys of to-dayWould celebrate in this lawless way.On other days boys seem nice and bright,I know that some of them try to do right,"But fired with the 'spirit of '76,'There seems to be never an end to their tricks.Now, Tommy my lad, just think it overAnd see if thereasonyou can't discover."So I'll pull my "thinking cap" over my hairAnd sit out here in this sunny airAnd try to remember last Fourth of July—Somehow it seems to be long gone by.At night, I remember, we rang the bell,And nobody liked it very well,And all day long I was far from brightFor getting up in the dead of night.And then, we followed the "Horrible" trainAnd yelled and shouted, and yelled again;We chased it up the street and then down,Chased it all over and out of the town.It must have beenawful, but none of us caredHow the rest of the decent people fared.Then somebody frightened old uncle BillJust as he was walking down the hill,Threw a torpedo, only for fun;He fell and hurt him, that's all that was done.Then a horse got frightened, and ran away—That was one of the things that happened that day—Broke his leg, and broke the carriage too,And the crackers were thrown by Charley Drew;Charley's father must pay the bill,So I guess this yearhe'llkeep pretty still.And Jimmy blew three of his fingers to bits—The way a toy pistol always hits;I ate so much I was nearly dead,And had a most awful pain in my head,And was just as tired as I could be—That was the way it finished with me.I think I've remembered 'bout enough;If that is fun, it is pretty "rough."I might go tell mother this very minuteI don't see a bit of "reason" in it—I, Thomas, was named for the hero of all—That gentleman wouldn't own me at all.But I know I'll try to do better this year,If all the fellows do call me queer.This year, I, "Thomas Jefferson" Gray,Will celebrate in a rational way.Emily Baker Smalle.

two children on beachTOMMY AND HIS SISTER CELEBRATE ON THE BEACH.

TOMMY AND HIS SISTER CELEBRATE ON THE BEACH.

double line decoration

Volume 13, Number 37.Copyright, 1886, byD. Lothrop& Co.July 17, 1886.

THE PANSY.

cat and kittensPUSS AND HER FAMILY IN THE HAY-MOW.

PUSS AND HER FAMILY IN THE HAY-MOW.

WE will start from New York City. Did you ever take a ride on the elevated railway? No? Then we will take it this morning. Mount the long flight of stairs, hurry your ticket into the box in waiting, and push on rapidly, for the train is coming, and it is always in a hurry. There stands the man on the platform, ready to open the iron door for us. Spring on, get your seats, for others are crowding in. Now the door is shut; "toot! toot! whiz!" we are off again!

We make a great many stops. "Fourteenth street," shouts the man at the gate, and there is a rush of people to get off, and a rush of people to get on, and away we go; and in almost less time than it takes to get our breath, Twenty-third street, or some other, is shouted, and we stop again.

At last Forty-second street is called, and we hurry off; everybody in New York is in a hurry. Yet we have reached a quiet place; the New York Central Depot. "A railroad depot a quiet place!" That astonishes you, does it? Still it is the truth; I am not sure but you would think yourself in a great public library, where people move quietly, and speak low. There is no rush, nor bustle; and the room which we have entered is so large that there can hardly be a crowd, even when many people are there. Many doors line one side, and large clock-faces are set over them; but they keep curious time; no two are alike. If you watch, however, you will discover that the doors and the clocks are all named. One is "N. Y. C. & H. R." another is "N. Y. & N. H." and another is—something else.

The hands of the clock point to the hour and moment that the next train on that particular road will be ready to leave the depot. All we have to do is to look for the name of the road on which we want to travel, and then study the clock over the door. Here is ours, "N. Y. & N. H." We have still fifteen minutes. Before that time, the door is quietly opened, and a man whose duty it is to see that we, by no possibility, make a blunder and board the wrong train, takes his station behind it, and looks carefully at our tickets as we pass; we are seated and away.

The train moves very rapidly, and the sensation is pleasant. No rocking motion, and not nearly so much noise as we sometimes find. We chat together pleasantly, without the feeling that we are talking in a locomotive boiler, where work is going on. We make frequent stops at pleasant villages, where green fields stretch out, on either side, and where the air is sweet with the breath of flowers. One name is called which makes us stretch our necks from the open windows to get as good a view as we can. This is New Haven, "the city of elms," and the seat of Yale College. It is a beautiful city; we can be sure of that, even from the depot view. But we have not time to linger. Some day we will stop there, and take a walk around the college. Now we must make all speed to our destination. At last we hear the name: "Ansonia." And we seize our wraps, and satchels, and umbrellas, and lunch boxes, and make haste. What a pretty village! And what a strange one! The river cuts it in two; makes another village on the other side, which, after all, is the same village, or looks like it. There are many trees, hiding nice old-fashioned houses, near which we get glimpses of many flowers. But the buildings which most attract us to-day are not dwelling houses; unless indeed a race of giants live in them. They are so large! Manufactories? Yes, you have guessed it; the State of Connecticut, you know, is famous for its industry. We have spent so much time in getting here, that we will not be able to stay long in the great building to-day. Still, let us stop a few minutes before this queer machine; it is apparently eating wire. What a stomach it must have! Long coils of fine wire rush into its mouth with such speed that one can hardly see the process. How fast it eats! Such large mouthfuls as it takes! about eight inches of wire at a bite. Now what? No, it doesn't swallow the wire, it simply bites it off, and sends it on. Not far, for as the wire is scurrying by a corner, some one of the wicked people who dwell in this machine, seizes it and bends it double! Poor thing! But as you would naturally expect, it hurries the faster now. Not two inches away, it meets anotherenemy who in sheer ill humor, apparently, seizes it and in an instant of time has given it such a pinch that its right side is all crinkled; it will bear the marks of that grasp all its life! It scuds on, without a groan, intent apparently on getting out of that country as soon as possible. But no, it is seized again, and the two ends of its poor body are rubbed hastily and mercilessly against a rough surface, until they are like needles for sharpness. It takes but a second, and then the wicked sprite seems to have had revenge enough, and lets the poor wire pass. There is a little open place for which the wire is evidently making; it hopes to slip down there out of sight—hurry! almost there! Alas no, one more sprite reaches out a long finger, and gives that horrid pinch to the other side! "Maimed for life!" the poor wire groans, and at last, atlast, having suffered a life-time of torture, so it thinks, though really its whole journey has not taken more than half a minute, it drops breathless and exhausted into the box below. Let us go around and look at it, poor thing! Why, how it shines! And what a merry company it has gotten among! Not alone any more; literally millions of friends of the same outward appearance as itself. "Hairpins!" you exclaim. Yes, indeed; hairpins for the million. Can it be possible that the world will ever want them all? But how pretty they are; and how smooth and fine their points are! Besides, those horrible pinches which we thought were simply vents for ill-humor, were to put those convenient crinkles into the pins, and help them perform their duty in life. In short, the dabs, and pinches, and grindings, hard as they were to bear, were the very things which shaped a mere bit of wire into a useful member of society.

And, when one thinks of it, what a bit of time it took—this preparation—compared with the time which they will now spend in usefulness! No wonder the hairpins in the great box shone brightly when at last they began to understand it all. The question is, little Pansy Blossoms, can you and I, as we stand looking at them, and thinking of all this, learn a lesson which will apply to ourhumanrubs, and pinches, and sharp places? If this be so, then we shall be well repaid for going, and seeing, and thinking.

double line decoration

SOME years ago a man in the West saw an eagle lighting frequently upon a spot high among the rocks. Observing her movements he saw her nest was there and she was raising her family in that palace of rocks. "Now," he thought, "is the time for me to find out if this grand bird can be tamed." His neighbors said it could not be done.

He quietly resolved to try. But how to get an eaglet was the question. Day after day he would go alone and examine the rocks to see if there was not some way of getting to the nest. There seemed to be none. It was a ledge, almost smooth, and one hundred feet high where the nest was. No ladder would reach it, and if he should go around and climb to the top, he would not be near, as it was many feet down.

Eagle watching over nest with some other bird with nest on groundTHAT PALACE OF ROCKS.

THAT PALACE OF ROCKS.

One night as he lay thinking the thing over, a thought struck him. "I will go to the top, fasten a rope and let myself down and capture one and climb up again."

In the morning he was a bit wiser and said: "Now if somethingshouldhappen while I am down there pocketing a young eagle, I might need both hands; in that case how could I climb up? I'll tell the secret to John and Joe Grimes." So they went around to the top of the ledge where they could look over down to the nest.

The old eagle was gone; but there were the five children, talking together at a great rate, not thinking who were near by listening to their conversation and about to knock at their door.

The next moment as they looked up they saw a man coming down by a rope fastened about his body. He seized one and was being drawn up when suddenly the Mother Eagle seeing from far away in the sky an enemy enter her home, and, coming like a flash, dashed upon the robber and would have torn his eyes out; but he fought desperately with his long, sharp knife.

One of his blows almost severed the rope. John and Joe, however, tugged bravely at the other end and their friend with his prize was soon safe but panting at their feet. It is said that when he saw how nearly he came to cutting the rope in two and falling a hundred feet, his hair became instantly white from terror.

The young eagle was taken home and tenderlyraised and became as tame as any fowl in the barnyard. It grew to immense size—would fly away out of sight among the clouds, but always return at meal-time and behave like any respectable person. He thought much of his friends; not so much of his friends' enemies. And he had his way of showing his friendship.

And now you need not be surprised to be told about the queer things that the eagle, "Old Abe," did in the War of the Rebellion in 1861-65; how he actually went South with a Western regiment in which were some of his friends, and during battles would fly high and hover over his favorite regiment to cheer it on!

After the battle he would come down and walk among the soldiers and line with them.

The war over, he came back with his regiment and was received like any loyal soldier, with great honor; and his State appropriated a sum to maintain him comfortably in his after years.

There are over thirty references in the Bible to eagles. They are remarkable. A concordance can point them all out. Hunt them up.

double line decoration

AUNT ALICE was going away for a visit of two or three weeks.

Her trunk was on the little front porch waiting for Farmer Dodds, whenever, with his fat white horse and rattling spring wagon he should make his appearance coming over the hill.

Rose seated herself on the trunk, and lightly tapping her heels against the side, looked off in a dreamy way toward the dusty road that wound down from among tree-covered hills, on its way past their own white cottage with rose-vines climbing over the small square windows, and so prettily set down in the midst of an old-fashioned garden, with a broad, straight path leading from the gate to the porch, and at that season bordered with asters of all colors.

Farmer Dodds was not in sight, and Rose, now turning toward the left, followed with her eyes the line of the road, where, having left the slope of hill behind, it struck out across the level. Stubble fields down there were yellow, the green of the meadows was turning into a soft pale brown, and far off the horizon was like a rising mist of purple.

"Aunt Alice," said Rose, stopping the tapping of her heels, "some way the sunshine down yonder looks almost as if you could take it in your hands."

"Tangible light?" said Miss Alice, coming to the porch to look abroad.

"What's that?" asked Rose.

"Why, just the opposite of 'darkness that could be felt', I think."

"Is it?" said Rose gravely. "But, aunt Alice," she continued, "I wonder what I'll do without you here to ask questions of. And how will I ever get along without the Saturday afternoon talks—I've got so used to them, you know. I'll just be awfully lonesome."

"We'll have to plan a way to help that," returned her aunt. "Let me see—how would you like to write a letter to me on the first Saturday? Only you must be careful to write what you would be most apt to talk about if I were here."

"Oh! I'd like to do that," interrupted Rose.

"And then," continued Miss Alice, "I could have a little packet for you at the post-office. Perhaps grandma would let you ride to town with Mr. Dodds, when he goes for his mail, and you could have the pleasure of getting the packet yourself."

"That's a splendid idea!" cried Rose. "But what will you put in the packet?"

"I don't know yet," replied her aunt. "That will depend upon the letter you write to me. It may be some trifling present, or perhaps a single Bible verse, such as I often give you on Saturday evening. But of one thing you may be sure, there will be something in it that will be a true answer to your letter."

Aunt Alice on trainAUNT ALICE FAIRLY STARTED.

AUNT ALICE FAIRLY STARTED.

While they were talking Mr. Dodds' wagon had come rattling up to the gate. Immediately everything was in a bustle. Grandma came out to see the trunk lifted into the wagon—aunt Alice found that she had left her gloves upstairs and must go after them at the last minute—and there came Priscilla Carter running up the road with a great bunch of bitter-sweet, which Miss Alice was to take to a friend. Rose thought it was delightful, and kept skipping up and down the path, wishing all the time that she were aunt Alice, with a new trunk and going to have a trip on the cars. But at last good-bys were said, the wagon rattled and jingled off, and Mrs. Harrison, Rose and Priscilla were left standing quietly by the white picket gate in the pleasant autumn sunshine.

When Saturday afternoon came around Rose asked her grandmother for pen and ink. Then drawing a square writing-table out to the porch, where it was shady, she began the task of writing a letter that would tell all that had been going on since her aunt went away. Mrs. Harrison was sitting by the window sewing, and for nearly an hour there was no sound save the scratching of her little granddaughter's pen, ornow and then a question from her as to how a word should be spelled.

But by and by Rose threw down her pen and pushed her chair noisily back, exclaiming as she did so:

"Well, grandma, I declare! I've got it done at last! Wouldn't you like me to read it to you?"

"Of course, dearie, I should like it very much," answered Mrs. Harrison, glancing up from her sewing.

So Rose sat down on the doorstep and began to read as follows:

Dear Aunt Alice:I started to school Tuesday, and I'm awfully sorry I was not there the first day, for my seat isn't one bit nice. I'd agreat dealrather have the one Altie Crawford is in. She can look out the window and see everybody drive by. There's a real hateful girl sits just behind me too. She is always twisting my curls around her finger; or if she isn't doing that, why, she is borrowing my white-handled knife—the one Mr. Dodds gave me. Miss Milton has a new blue dress. Priscilla took her agreat bigbunch of white chrysanthemums to put in her belt, and she looked lovely. She is the meanest teacher, though, that I ever had. She won't listen to a word you say to her, and she makes me lend my eraser to everybody in school.I don't think that's one bit nice of her, and its most worn out, too! She just does it because it is a pretty one. There's a new boy named Robert Wilkie, just started to school, and Miss Milton pets him to death. She is always holding him up for an example, but I think he don't know his lessons any better than the rest of us. I told the girls that you were going to send me a packet, and they were all asexcitedtrying to guess what would be in it!I've been trying to be real good, and I help grandma wash the dishes most every day,especiallywhen she looks tired. Last evening I got supper all by myself. I fried potato cakes. The edges were a speck jagged, but they were just as brown and nice!Now I'll have to stop. I've thought and thought, but there isn't anything else to write about. I wonder what you'll put in the packet. I told Priscilla I most thought it would be a ribbon. She's crazy to see what is in it.Your loving niece,Rose.P. S. Priscilla says she can't bear that new boy either. Miss Milton sent her love to you.

Dear Aunt Alice:

I started to school Tuesday, and I'm awfully sorry I was not there the first day, for my seat isn't one bit nice. I'd agreat dealrather have the one Altie Crawford is in. She can look out the window and see everybody drive by. There's a real hateful girl sits just behind me too. She is always twisting my curls around her finger; or if she isn't doing that, why, she is borrowing my white-handled knife—the one Mr. Dodds gave me. Miss Milton has a new blue dress. Priscilla took her agreat bigbunch of white chrysanthemums to put in her belt, and she looked lovely. She is the meanest teacher, though, that I ever had. She won't listen to a word you say to her, and she makes me lend my eraser to everybody in school.

I don't think that's one bit nice of her, and its most worn out, too! She just does it because it is a pretty one. There's a new boy named Robert Wilkie, just started to school, and Miss Milton pets him to death. She is always holding him up for an example, but I think he don't know his lessons any better than the rest of us. I told the girls that you were going to send me a packet, and they were all asexcitedtrying to guess what would be in it!

I've been trying to be real good, and I help grandma wash the dishes most every day,especiallywhen she looks tired. Last evening I got supper all by myself. I fried potato cakes. The edges were a speck jagged, but they were just as brown and nice!

Now I'll have to stop. I've thought and thought, but there isn't anything else to write about. I wonder what you'll put in the packet. I told Priscilla I most thought it would be a ribbon. She's crazy to see what is in it.

Your loving niece,Rose.

P. S. Priscilla says she can't bear that new boy either. Miss Milton sent her love to you.

"I think that is quite a nice letter," said Mrs. Harrison, when Rose had come to the end. "But however your aunt is to answer it is more than I can guess."

"Don't it seem a long time to wait until Saturday?" said Rose as she folded the letter carefully and put it in an envelope which she brought to her grandmother to address.

"The more patiently you wait the shorter the time will seem," returned Mrs. Harrison.

Rose did wait patiently and cheerfully, and on Saturday afternoon it was a happy girl who rode home beside Farmer Dodds in the spring wagon.

As they drew near the white picket gate she saw Priscilla sitting on the horseblock.

"Have you got it?" cried Priscilla, jumping down, and running to meet the wagon.

For answer Rose held up a square package wrapped in white paper.

"I don't know yet what is in it," said Rose when they drew nearer, "for grandma told me not to open it until I got home. It feels flat, and then there's something round, like a stick of candy, only its pretty large."

The white horse had come to a decided stop by this time and Priscilla held out her hand for the package, while Rose clambered down from the wagon.

"I thank you for the ride, Mr. Dodds," said she, when she reached the ground, "and I'll tell you what is in my packet the next time you come by."

"All right," replied Mr. Dodds, with a sort of merry chuckle, "but be a leetle careful how ye open it. Itmightbe candy, and itmightbe red pepper."

So saying, he drove off uphill.

"There might be something you wouldn't like," suggested Priscilla, looking a little doubtfully at the package.

"O pshaw!" retorted Rose; "I know better than that. Let's get the scissors."

Hazlett.

double line decoration

LAST year, all over this land, we celebrated a centennial. It was not in commemoration of a victory upon the battlefield, it was not the celebration of a victory, but rather as we observe with fitting ceremonies the anniversaries of the firing of the first guns in any contest of right against wrong, so in this last centennial year we commemorated the first booming of cannon inthe great war against the rum traffic, the beginning of a war that is not ended yet; all along down the century the booming has been heard, and to-day this moral fight is waging fiercely.

About one hundred and forty years ago, near the city of Philadelphia, a boy named Benjamin Rush was growing up. It is said of him that as he advanced from childhood to boyhood his love of study was unusual, amounting to a passion. He graduated from Princeton College when only fifteen years old, and with high honors. He began the study of medicine in Philadelphia, but went abroad to complete his medical education and studied under the first physicians in Edinburgh, London and Paris; thus the best opportunities for gaining knowledge of his chosen profession were added to natural abilities and the spirit of research. He became a practising physician in Philadelphia, and was soon after chosen professor of chemistry in a medical college in the same city. While he is now at the distance of a century, best known as one who struck the first blow for temperance reform, yet it is interesting to know that when in 1776, he was a member of the Provincial Assembly of Pennsylvania, he was the mover of the first resolution to consider the expediency of a Declaration of Independence on the part of the American Colonies. He was made chairman of a committee appointed to consider the matter. Afterwards he was a member of the Continental Congress, and was one of the devoted band who in Independence Hall affixed their names to the immortal document which cut the colonies loose from their moorings and swung them out upon a sea of blood, to bring them at last into the harbor of freedom and independence. As was said of him at the meeting in Philadelphia, last year: "He was a great controlling force in all that pertained to the successful struggle of the colonies for national independence." We are told that "He was one of the most active, original and famous men of his times; an enthusiast, a philanthropist, a man of immense grasp in the work-day world, as well as a polished scholar, and a scientist of the most exact methods."

He was interested in educational enterprises; he wrote upon epidemic diseases, and won great honor for himself, so that the kings of other lands bestowed upon him the medals which they are wont to give to those whom they desire to honor. And now let me quote again from one who appreciates the character of this truly great man:

"This matchless physician, eminent scholar and pure patriot blent all his wise rare gifts in one tribute and cast them at the feet of his Master. He was a devout Christian."

At length his soul was stirred within him as he witnessed the increasing evils of intemperance, and he wrote and published his celebrated essay upon "The Effects of ardent Spirits upon the Human Body and Mind, with an account of the means of preventing them, and of the remedies for curing them." This is said to have been the first temperance treatise ever published—the beginning of a temperance literature. One hundred years ago, just one pamphlet of less than fifty pages; now, whole libraries of bound books, besides scores upon scores of pamphlets, leaflets and many periodicals devoted exclusively to the cause of temperance! and nearly three quarters of a century after this good man had gone to his rest, men and women from all over the land thronged the city of his birth "To recount the victories won in the war—and to strike glad hands of fellowship."

And now what made Doctor Rush great? What is the best thing said of him?

Faye Huntington.

double line decoration

IF the young readers ofThe Pansyhad lived forty years ago, and had been readers of theNew York Tribune, they would, without doubt, have been interested in certain letters upon art and literature written by Margaret Fuller; or, if you are so fortunate as to belong to a grandfather who stored away his files of theTribunein some now long-forgotten chest in the attic, you may find in the old, yellow and musty papers these same letters, and may read them now. I do not like musty old papers very much! What's the use, when we have fresh ones in such numbers thatwe cannot begin to read all that are taken by the different members of the family?

Sarah Margaret Fuller was a native of Cambridgeport, Mass. Very early in life she gave promise of the brilliant literary career which she afterwards ran. She was a fine scholar even in childhood, especially in the languages, and in general literature. Her education was carried on in private. After she entered her teens, she became a teacher of the languages in classes in Boston, and in Mr. Alcott's school, and was at one time the principal of a school in Providence. While she was a contributor to theTribune, she was a member of the family of Horace Greeley. Her views of life were modelled after the philosophy of Ralph Waldo Emerson, and about the year 1839, or 1840, she gave a series of lectures, or talks, though I believe they were calledconversazioni, especially for ladies, the object being the propagation of then somewhat novel ideas. She also became the editor of a paper. She wrote much, and with considerable brilliancy. Her "Summer on the Lakes" gives pictures of the Lake Superior region. Her "Woman in the Nineteenth Century" has to do with some phases of the "Woman's Rights Question." In 1846 she went abroad, and married, in Rome, a nobleman, Giovanni Angelo Ossoli. But she bore the name and the title attached to it only a few years. For when she was returning to America, accompanied by her husband, both lost their lives in a shipwreck. She was a woman of strong passions, indeed it has been said of her that "She was noted for her eccentricities and her ungovernable passions." Not just what I would wish to be written of any of my young friends ofThe Pansy. It is a sad thing when a great and gifted woman misses the happiness of a quiet spirit.

Faye Huntington.

nine children on see-saw balanced on a logRARE SPORT.

RARE SPORT.

double line decoration

Volume 13, Number 38.Copyright, 1886, byD. Lothrop& Co.July 24, 1886.

THE PANSY.

PortraitNAPOLEON BONAPARTE. (Seepage 301.)

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. (Seepage 301.)

By Margaret Sidney.

"YOU'RE in luck!"

Wilfred's voice was harsh and unpleasant, and he looked at St. George in a way decidedly disagreeable.

George Edward went on whittling.

"Allen, it's no use to pretend that I'm not in an awful scrape by that little affair over at Sachem Hill. Goodness! why don't you speak to a chap?"

"I've nothing to say," observed St. George, proceeding with his work.

"Your tongue is ready enough generally," retorted Wilfred in a temper. "Now, if it suits you to be an oyster, it don't me. I'd rather you'd preach, infinitely."

"I don't do that," cried St. George, throwing down knife and stick, and turning a countenance by no means saintly upon his visitor. "You sha'n't stand there and throw that at me," he declared in a heat.

"I didn't say you did," said Wilfred coolly, "I only said I'd rather you would. So go on."

"It's none of my business what you do," cried St. George, "I'm not going to say a word about it."

"Confound you!" cried Wilfred irritably, flinging his long figure on the bench amongst the shavings, and pushing aside the tools that lay in the way. "Well, hear me, then—I'm in for it, and no mistake. Father is so angry just because I didn't report in time that night, that he threatens to pack me off to boarding-school. In fact, it's as good as decided, and I go next week. Now, you've got the whole."

He threw himself down to the floor as abruptly, plunged his hands in his pockets, and walked to the window.

St. George stood aghast, looking after him.

"Did your mother say so?" he asked at length, hoping, from his knowledge of the Bangs family, that a reprieve might yet arrive from the true head of affairs there.

"Yes," said Wilfred gloomily, "she's worse than father about it, and determined that he sha'n't give in." St. George looked pityingly at him.

"Well, it can't be helped," he said, longing to bestow something better.

"Of course it can't," cried Wilfred, whirling around; "a plague upon you for saying that."

"You wanted me to say something," contributed St. George.

"I know it. But why don't you say 'I told you so,' or, 'If you hadn't been a first-class idiot you'd have dropped that last confounded skate!' Then I could fight you. As it is now, there isn't anything to strike against."

"I'm as sorry as you are," said St. George dubiously, overlooking his ill-success in the matter of conversationally pleasing his friend; "whatever shall I do without you?" There was such genuine regret in his voice and manner, that Wilfred forgot his irritation, and began to look mollified.

"We've had awful good times," he said, coming up to the work-bench again.

"I should think we had," declared St. George in that hearty way of his that made all the boys willing to call him "capital."

"And it's perfectly horrid to begin again with new boys, I tell you. I'd rather run away to sea!" Wilfred's courage failing him once more, he looked the picture of despair.

St. George seeing it, left his own part of the trouble, and turned comforter:

"We're in for it, so all that is left is to face the music."

"Only half-yearly vacations," threw in Wilfred.

St. George's face fell.

"And no boxes from home allowed."

St. George had no words of comfort.

"And no extra 'outs' ever given for good behavior. If there were, I'd set up for a saint," added the victim savagely.

St. George was still silent.

"And all letters must pass through preceptor's hands. Oh! I've seen the bill," said Wilfred in the depths, "besides hearing father and mother read it a good half dozen times. It's just as bad as it can be—a regular old hole of a prison, is Doctor Gowan's Select School for Boys," throwing into his voice as much animosity as he was capable of.

St. George indulged in one or two uneasy turns about the room—his workshop, made out of a part of the generous garret that crowned the old house.

Was not this a terrible punishment indeed for a boy's misdemeanor? Too terrible, it seemed to him, and he felt a growing bitterness in his heart toward the parents who could plan and carry it out, and thus mar, not only the happiness of their own son, but that of a large circle of boys who were to lose a jolly companion.

But at last conscience spoke: "You are wrong. Youknowthat Wilfred has done many things of late that have tried the patience of his father, his mother, and his teachers. Youknowthat they have borne with his increasing unfaithfulness—that they have labored with the boy, hoping and praying for better things. Youknowthey take this course feeling it best for him, and while it is hard for him and for you, it must be borne, realizing it to be the result of the boy's own course. Youknowall this, now give the case the justice in your own mind that is its due."

St. George turned around and frankly put out his hand.

"It's right you go," he said quite simply, "we'll all try to get along till vacation, old boy."

Wilfred, finding no pity forthcoming, put his hand within the brown palm, waiting for it.

"Keep the rest of the chums together," he begged.

"I'll do my best."

"And remember, we're to go to the same college."

"All right."

"And chum it there."

"All right."

"And I wish," Wilfred looked steadily into the blue eyes gazing into his, "I hadn't done it—dallied over those old skates—but minded father."

St. George bit his lip, but yet he wouldnotpreach.

"I'll give you my word it's the last time I'll ever get caught that way."

The blue eyes leaped into sudden fire, and Wilfred's hand was wrung hard.

"Allright, old fellow."

Back to Index Next