THE
PANSY

EDITED
BY
"PANSY"
MRS. G. R. ALDEN.

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Lawrence Severn, an English writer, is bringing out a novel entitled Heaven's Gate: A Story of the Forest of Dean, of which the scenes are laid in and about Chepstow Castle and Tintern Abbey. The critics who have been permitted to read this in manuscript are enthusiastic in pronouncing it a story of great strength and exquisite style. D. Lothrop & Co. announce it for March.

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Volume 13, Number 22. Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co. April 3, 1886.

THE PANSY.

"I WENT A-FISHING, ALL BY MYSELF."

SIX O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING.

The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.

The two disciples heard him speak, and they followed Jesus.

This beginning of miracles did Jesus in Cana of Galilee, and manifested forth his glory; and his disciples believed on him.

Ye must be born again.

GRANDMA BURTON'S face was very grave and sweet. "Yes," she said, "I remember that third verse about as well as anything that I ever learned; and it is queer how the second one fits in with it. That finishes the story; and I have had to wait more than sixty years to think of it."

Marion and Ralph exchanged happy smiles.

"Then we two will have the story, Grandma," said Marion, "those are Ralph's and mine. But I don't see how they fit."

"I do, child, they fit perfectly. It was the summer I was eleven years old; we were boarding in the country; I remember everything about that summer, because I had some of the nicest times, and some of the narrowest escapes of my life.

"One day I went a-fishing, all by myself; I wasn't what you might call a venturesome child, so I was trusted in many places where careless children could not have been." Grandma did not even glance Ralph's way while she spoke; so of course she could have meant no hint to him! "I had some sandwiches in my bag left of the lunch we had taken the day before. I forgot to empty the bag; so when I was half-way down the hill from our house I found them in the way. It was a neat little bag, lined with oilcloth; I could carry all sorts of things in it, then turn it inside out, and wash it, and it would come out as good as new. So I meant to fill the bag with little fishes, and here were these sandwiches in the way! Just as I turned the corner by Mr. Willard's place, I heard a low growl, and there stood Bose eying me in a way to make my heart beat fast. I was dreadfully afraid of Bose, and with good reason; he had the name of being a very fierce dog; they kept him chained all day. I saw the chain around his neck, then, but still I was afraid. I was hurrying by, when it occurred to me that here was a good chance for getting rid of my sandwiches; if I could only muster up courage to give them to Bose! I turned back, and going as near to the fence as I could, threw with all my strength, and landed a piece of bread and meat at his feet. He gave a low growl and eyed me so fiercely that all the blood in my body seemed to go to my head; but he smelled around the meat for a minute, then took it in at one mouthful, and I tried again, and again, until my bag was empty. He did not growl at me any more, but I thought he looked crosser than any dog ought to, who had been so kindly treated.

"Presently, however, I forgot all about him; some people would be surprised over what I was thinking; they imagine that little girls never think about sober things. But it was that very verse which was in my mind: 'This beginning of miracles did Jesus in Cana of Galilee, and manifested forth his glory; and his disciples believed on him.' Papa had read it at family worship that morning, and he and mamma and brother Mott had talked a little about it, and set me to thinking. It didn't seem at all strange to me that his disciples believed on him; I thought if I could have a miracle worked for me, I would find it easy, after that, to believe anything. I remember exactly how I felt as I sat on the bank with my feet hanging over, and held in my hand a little fish about five inches long; I was sorry for him and meant to throw him back into the water, after I had examined him; I thought he was too little to be caught; as I sat holding him, I thought, 'If this fish should turn into a beautiful little bird, just now, and speak to me, then I would know that God had done it, and I could believe in him, without any trouble. I don't see why he doesn't do such things now; it wouldn't be any stranger than making wine out of water; and if it helped people then, why shouldn't it now?' So I sat holding that poor wriggling fish, and wishing he would turn into a miracle before my eyes; but he didn't, and presently I threw him back with a sigh, and wound up my fish line, and went around to the other side of the lake, still so busy with my thoughts that I could not seem to settle to anything. I don't know to this day, how I came to do the next thing. I suppose I must have gone a great deal nearer the edge than I thought I was, and they said it was wet and slippery there; anyway, I slipped and fell, and trying to regain my balance I stepped on my dress, and fell again, and rolled over into the lake in less time than it takes me to tell it.

"I don't wonder you shiver," said Grandma after a moment's pause, drawing Marion closer to her. "It was a skittish place; the lake was pretty deep in that part, and the banks were high and slippery. It was not a time of day when people were bathing, and there was nobody in sight. I lost all knowledge of what was going on after I sank the second time. When they found me, where do you think I was? Dragged high and dry from the lake, around to where the ocean began, and that great Bose stood beside me keeping guard and looking about him right and left for help! He kept up such a fierce barking that the boatmaster heard him at last, and came to see what was the matter.

"The very first sentence that I fully understood, of all the talk around me, was Mr. Willard saying in a low tone: 'I declare, this seems to me just like a miracle! I never knew Bose to break his chain before; and I did not know he would spring into the water for anybody; in fact, I should have been afraid to send him, for fear he would bite the child.'

"You can't imagine what a thrill it gave me! 'A miracle!' I said to myself; 'then He heard me wishing for one, and promising I would believe him fully, if He would only perform a miracle for me; and He did it! It seemed just like that to me then; and I'm not so sure but it seems so yet. If the dear Lord was a mind to humor your silly Grandma's unbelief and send her a sign to strengthen her, why couldn't he do it? Anyhow, nobody knows to this day, how Bose got loose from his chain. It was found to be not broken, only slipped in some way—and no one knows who told him to bound down to the lake and spring into the water just in time to save me. He wasn't what is commonly called a water dog; and he was very fierce to children generally. Some folks think such things just happen; but I've lived a great many years, and the longer I live the surer I am that there isn't much 'happening' of any kind about our lives. There wasn't any need for me having a miracle, children; the Lord had done enough for me long before, but he is sometimes real patient with silly people. I know I began that very day to try to serve him, and I've always been glad I did."

The listeners were very quiet for some minutes, then Ralph spoke: "I don't see my verse fitting in anywhere, Grandma?"

"But it did," said Grandma, nodding her head. "I was sick all that summer. The shock, they said, was too much for me; I couldn't walk a step for a long time. I used to sit in a big chair out of doors, with Bose by my side; he was the greatest friend I had. No more growls for me; and he wouldn't growl at anybody I told him not to.

"One day Rob Carleton and his sister stopped at the gate to visit with me; they were from the same city where we lived; but I didn't know them much at home. Rob began to tell me how queer he thought it was that that dog should have come after me, when he had always before acted as though he hated children; and something whispered to me to tell him about my little miracle. I didn't quite want to. I was afraid he might laugh at me; but at last I mustered up courage, and told him the whole story. He didn't laugh at all; but he didn't say much of anything, and by and by went away. They left the shore the next day; and I did not see that boy again for five years; and then, don't you think he told me that ever since I told him about my miracle, he couldn't get away from the thought of such things, and at last it led him to decide to belong to Jesus, and he led his little sister May in the same direction! Why, you children have often heard me speak of Doctor Carleton, the missionary in India? He's the very same! And May is a minister's wife in Kansas. Don't you see your verse, Ralph? 'The two disciples heard Him speak, and they followed Jesus.' Rob and May weren't disciples yet, but the dear Lord knew they were going to be; and he let me tell about my little miracle, and used it to help them decide to follow him."

One day when Susie was visiting her great-aunt, she found in one of her old books an excellent rule. It was this: "Aim to make courtesies not an article of dress to put off and on, but a part of ourselves—something that is always with us."

BOB'S FIRST PRAYER.

ONE summer they carried May Vinton to a quiet place by the sea. From the windows of her room she could watch the unceasing roll of the waves, she could mark the incoming and outgoing tide; she grew to love the sea and did not seem to miss the coming and going of friends which she enjoyed so much in her own home. But she missed opportunities for helping others. At least she did at first, but she was not long in finding some one who needed her. It was the boy from the fisherman's little cottage whose acquaintance she first made. He came every morning with fish for her breakfast, and May, calling to him as he passed her window with his basket, soon found out that he lived in the little low-roofed building which she could just see quite a long way down the shore; and she found out that there were several children in the family and that the father went out every day in a boat after fish. She gathered that while they were not suffering for food and clothes, they were still quite poor, and that the children had never been to school and were very ignorant of the knowledge gained from books. The boy could tell her all about the fishing business, about the ways of the old ocean, he knew where to look for the prettiest shells and the finest seaweed. He could tell what the winds and the shifting clouds portended as to the weather, but not a letter of the alphabet did he know.

SHE COULD WATCH THE WAVES FROM HER WINDOW.

"Would you like to learn to read?" asked May.

The little fellow was not sure, but he did want to hear a story, and so she began that way, interesting the boy in a story. He soon became a regular visitor. Leaning upon the window-sill he would listen to his new friend as she talked, telling him of things outside the little world which he knew. At length she said, "To-morrow will be Sunday; suppose you bring your sister and brother for a little while in the afternoon and we will have a little Sunday-school."

"Sunday-school! What's that?"

"Come and see."

"Can I bring Tommy Britt?"

"You may bring four besides yourself."

And so Miss Vinton began a little Sunday-school down there by the sea with five scholars. You who have so often heard the sweet old story of a Saviour's love cannot imagine what it was to these ignorant children to hear it for the first time. You to whom the words of the prayer which Christ taught us have been familiar from your babyhood, cannot know how strange were the thoughts and words of that prayer, nor what a hold upon their imaginations the idea of asking anything of an unseen being took.

The summer months passed away. Miss Vinton took leave of her little class and went back to her own home. She said sadly, "They are so ignorant! It was so little that I could do for them; and I am afraid they will forget it all."

THE WIFE AND CHILDREN BEGAN TO BE ANXIOUS.

Did they forget? One November morning the fisherman went out in his boat as usual; later in the day the clouds gathered as for a storm, and the wife and children began to be anxious. As the afternoon hours waned the sky grew darker, and the wind howled about the little cottage. It was already past the hour when the father might have been expected, and poor Mrs. Byrnes soothed the fretful baby and turned her eyes anxiously towards the window which looked seaward. The children peered out into the gathering darkness, but no sail was in sight; indeed it soon became so dark that they could not see far from the house. Little Nell placed a lamp in the window and Bob replenished the fire. Then he slipped away. A bit of the conversation which the younger ones had carried on as they stood gazing out over the waters, had given him an idea.

"Don't you know," said Nell, "how Miss Vinton said 'the sea is His and He made it?'"

"Yes; and you know she told us the pretty story of how the people were afraid and Jesus said to the waves, 'be still.' I liked that story!" said the little brother.

"I wish He would say so to the waves now," returned Nell.

"Maybe He would if he were here," was the reply. "Maybe He would. I wish he was here."

Bob hearing this remembered more of the teachings of the young lady of whom they had all been so fond, and as soon as he could, he slipped away and went up into the loft where the children slept. There in the darkness and chill he knelt down and asked Jesus to make the winds and waves "be still." Repeating this, his first prayer, again and again, he at length arose with a calm in his heart. Going down stairs his mother said: "Seems to me the wind does not blow quite so hard."

Bob smiled and whispered, "I shouldn't wonder if He heard! I didn't know as he would hear me, but Miss Vinton said He would."

He piled on more fuel, saying aloud, "Father will be here soon, and we must have it warm and have supper ready. Mother, don't you think we ought to set the table?"

"O yes, I suppose so. But I thought if your father never comes home, we would not want any supper," said the poor woman, in a despairing tone.

"I know; but don't you think the wind has gone down considerably?"

It seemed ages to the waiting group, but it was not more than an hour when the voice of the fisherman was heard, and Bob throwing open the door welcomed the father.

"I tell you," said the dripping man, "I began to think I should never see the shore again! The storm was awful, but about an hour ago, it began to let up a little. The clouds broke away too, and then I saw Nell's light there, and I tell you we just steered for that!"

"About an hour ago," repeated Bob to himself. "That was when I was up there asking Jesus to say 'be still.' I guess he did hear!"

Faye Huntington.

AN EASTER STORY.

"THERE comes Prinkie!" and the girls in Miss Winthrop's class made room for the new-comer. This was a rosy-cheeked girl with sparkling black eyes and, what the girls noticed particularly, a new hat. Prinkie Brown, as they called her, reveled in new hats. She had a new one for Thanksgiving, another for Christmas, one when her mother came from New York, and now at Easter she was out in still another! Old Mrs. Brown was wont to say: "Prinkie is chock full of vanity and ought not to be indulged in her love of fine clothes;" but Mr. Brown was a rich man, and seldom refused to gratify any desire or whim of either wife or daughter, and so Prinkie had new hats and dresses to her heart's content. No, I am mistaken.

When did new hats or new dresses ever give any one a contented heart? True, to look into the young girl's face you might think she was very happy; but her happiness was short-lived. A whisper reached her ears.

"Did you ever see such a vain girl?" said Ella Clark to the girl next to her.

"No; Prinkie grows more like a peacock every day. I don't believe she ever thinks of anything beyond new clothes."

"Now you watch her. When Miss Winthrop asks her a question she simpers and looks down at her gloves and smooths her laces as if she thought those things were the most important."

"I suppose she does think just that!"

Now Prinkie did not hear all of this, but she caught enough of it to understand the drift of the talk, and she was angry and mortified. "Like a peacock," indeed! Was a girl to be called names because she had a new hat? When would one wear new clothes if not on Easter Sunday? Was not the church and Sunday-school room tastefully decorated? It was real mean of those girls to spoil her enjoyment of her new hat by such ill-natured remarks. True she had not been quite satisfied. Her gloves were not an exact match for the hat, and she had pouted a little that morning over the fact, and grandma had vexed her by saying "Mary"—her real name is Mary—"Mary, I am afraid that in dressing for the day you are thinking more of yourself and too little of the meaning of Easter."

Was it true, as they all seemed to think, that she thought of nothing else than her clothes? What was the superintendent saying: "Let us not lose sight of the event we celebrate to-day. We would be miserable indeed were it not for this most glorious truth that our Christ is not a dead Christ, but a living Saviour. And in our admiration and enjoyment of these decorations, these floral offerings which you have brought, in these symbols let us not forget what we symbolize. The resurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord is our theme; let us sing with joyful voice:

Hail, all hail, victorious Lord and Saviour,
Thou hast burst the bonds of death!"

Prinkie sang with the rest, and only Miss Winthrop noticed the troubled expression which rested upon the young girl's face. Miss Winthrop was very much troubled about her class; they were girls from twelve to fifteen years old. Some of them were church members, but nearly all seemed given over to frivolity. During the winter just passed there had been some religious interest in other classes in the school, yet these girls, absorbed in school, children's parties, and dress, had frittered the time away, and, so far as their teacher could see, had made little progress in the divine life. She had come before them this Easter morning with a heavily burdened heart. She had prayed that they might awaken to a newness of life, that the Easter lessons might sink into their hearts, that the shackles of sin and frivolity which held them might be broken, that they might henceforth abound in the fruits of righteousness. And now as she listened to their chatter and noticed their enjoyment of their fluttering ribbons, and heard the light tinkle of their bangles, she sighed over the apparent failure of her hopes for them. She turned towards them at the beginning of the lesson-hour, saying:

"Girls, we ought to be very bright and happy this morning, else we should be very sad. If we have a part in this rejoicing, if it is our Saviour of whom we sing 'The Lord is risen indeed' then we have a right to be glad. If He who is risen is one whom we have rejected, then we have no call to rejoice; why should we care? Some of us have professed to be his friends, and the nearer we have been living to him, the more faithful to our vows we have been, the more precious He is to our hearts, the more we may rejoice in the truth of the resurrection. Whether we have hitherto been living for Christ or not, this is a good time to begin anew. 'Like as Christ was raised up from the dead, even so we also should walk in newness of life.' Let us put away old things that have been hindering us and serve in newness of spirit. Let this be a real true Easter to every one of us." There was more of that earnest talk and it seemed to sink into the hearts of those who heard it. I can only tell you how one acted upon the lessons of the day. The hardest lesson had been the whispered words which she overheard; but the tender pleading of Miss Winthrop had softened her and she walked homeward alone, having turned away from the fluttering group. She was thinking:

"The girls call me vain—and say I am like a peacock, and Miss Winthrop is sad over me, and all for the same reason. I don't like to have the girls talk about me, and I don't like to have Miss Winthrop sad; I wonder if I am such a giddy girl! I suppose it is true; I do think too much of dress. I suppose I might look nice without thinking so much about it and without showing that I do. Miss Winthrop talked about newness of life—I wish I could be made over all new. Then I wouldn't be Mary Brown. Yes, I might; I am Prinkie Brown now. I won't be called Prinkie any more. I'll be Mary, and I will live for something better than dress."

"Prinkie," called Mrs. Brown as the young girl came down stairs after putting away the new hat which had become less precious.

"Mamma, please do not call me that any more. And will you please not let any one else call me so? I hate the name and I am going to be Mary Brown after this."

Mary could not tell her mother that she had resolved to "walk in newness of life," for Mrs. Brown was not a religious woman, and the child felt that she would not understand her. But to her grandmother she said as she lingered in her room at evening:

"Grandmamma, this has been a true Easter to me!"

This was a year ago, and Mary Brown still wears new hats, from time to time, and still dresses as seems to befit the daughter of a man of wealth, but no one calls her "Prinkie." No one would think of comparing her to a peacock; for she walks in newness of life; every Sabbath is to her a glad Easter.

Faye Huntington.

PRINKIE BROWN.

Volume 13, Number 23. Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co. April 10, 1886.

THE PANSY.

THEY GATHERED ABOUT THE PLATFORM TO LISTEN.

REACHING OUT.

(A further Account of Nettie Decker and her Friends.)
By Pansy.

CHAPTER VI.

THE little old grandmothers with their queer caps were perhaps the feature of the evening. Everybody wanted a bouquet of them. In fact, long before eight o'clock, Jerry had been hurried away for a fresh supply, and Nettie had been established behind a curtain, in haste, to "make more grandmothers." In her excitement she made them even prettier than before; and sweet, grave little Sate had no trouble in selling every one. The pretty Roman flower girl was so much admired, that her father, a fine-looking young mechanic who came after her bringing red stockings and neat shoes, carried her off at last in triumph on his shoulder, saying he was afraid her head would be turned with so much praise, but thanking everybody with bright smiling eyes for giving his little girl such a pleasant afternoon.

"She isn't Irish, after all," said Irene Lewis, watching them. "And Mr. Sherrill shook hands with him as familiarly as though he was an old friend; I wish we hadn't made such simpletons of ourselves. Lorena Barstow, what did you want to go and say she was an Irish girl for?"

"I didn't say any such thing," said Lorena in a shrill voice; and then these two who had been friends in ill humor all the afternoon quarreled, and went home more unhappy than before. And still I tell you they were not the worst girls in the world; and were very much ashamed of themselves.

Before eight o'clock, Norm came. To be sure he stoutly refused, at first, to step beyond the doorway, and ordered Nettie in a somewhat surly tone to "bring that young one out," if she wanted her carried home. That, of course, was the little grandmother; but her eyes looked as though they had not thought of being sleepy, and the ladies were not ready to let her go. Then the minister, who seemed to understand things without having them explained, said, "Where is Decker? we'll make it all right; come, little grandmother, let us go and see about it." So he took Sate on his shoulder and made his way through the crowd; and Nettie who watched anxiously, presently saw Norm coming back with them, not looking surly at all; his clothes had been brushed, and he had on a clean collar, and his hair was combed, quite as though he had meant to come in, after all.

Soon after Norm's coming, something happened which gave Nettie a glimpse of her brother in a new light. Young Ernest Belmont was there with his violin. During the afternoon, Nettie had heard whispers of what a lovely player he was, and at last saw with delight that a space was being cleared for him to play. Crowds of people gathered about the platform to listen, but among them all Norm's face was marked; at least it was to Nettie. She had never seen him look like that. He seemed to forget the crowds, and the lights, and everything but the sounds which came from that violin. He stood perfectly still, his eyes never once turning from their earnest gaze of the fingers which were producing such wonderful tones. Nettie, looking, and wondering, almost forgot the music in her astonishment that her brother should be so absorbed. Jerry with some difficulty elbowed his way towards her, his face beaming, and said, "Isn't it splendid?"

For answer she said, "Look at Norm." And Jerry looked.

"That's so," he said at last, heartily, speaking as though he was answering a remark from somebody; "Norm is a musician. Did you know he liked it so much?"

"I didn't know anything about it," Nettie said, hardly able to keep back the tears, though she did not understand why her eyes should fill; but there was such a look of intense enjoyment in Norm's face, mingled with such a wistful longing for something, as made the tears start in spite of her. "I didn't know he liked anything so much as that."

"He likes that," said Jerry heartily, "and I am glad."

"I don't know. What makes you glad? I am almost sorry; because he may never have a chance to hear it again."

"He must make his chances; he is going to be a man. I'm glad, because it gives us a hint as to what his tastes are; don't you see?"

"Why, yes," said Nettie, "I see he likes it; but what is the use in knowing people's tastes if you cannot possibly do anything for them?"

"There's no such thing as it not being possible to do most anything." Jerry said good humoredly. "Maybe we will some of us own a violin some day, and Norm will play it for us. Who knows? Stranger things than that have happened."

But this thing looked to Nettie so improbable that she merely laughed. The music suddenly ceased, and Norm came back from dreamland and looked about him, and blushed, and felt awkward. He saw the people now, and the lights, and the flowers; he remembered his hands and did not know what to do with them; and his feet felt too large for the space they must occupy.

Jerry plunged through the crowd and stood beside him.

"How did you like it?" he asked, and Norm cleared his voice before replying; he could not understand why his throat should feel so husky.

"I like a fiddle," he said. "There is a fellow comes into the corner grocery down there by Crossman's and plays, sometimes; I always go down there, when I hear of it."

If Jerry could have caught Nettie's eye just then he would have made a significant gesture; the store by Crossman's made tobacco and liquor its chief trade. So a fiddle was one of the things used to draw the boys into it!

"Is a fiddle the only kind of music you like?" Jerry had been accustomed to calling it a violin, but the instinct of true politeness which was marked in him, made him say fiddle just now as Norm had done.

"Oh! I like anything that whistles a tune!" said Norm. "I've gone a rod out of my way to hear a jew's-harp many a time; even an old hand-organ sounds nice to me. I don't know why, but I never hear one without stopping and listening as long as I can." He laughed a little, as though ashamed of the taste, and looked at Jerry suspiciously. But there was not the slightest hint of a smile on the boy's face, only hearty interest and approval.

"I like music, too, almost any sort; but I don't believe I like it as well as you. Your face looked while you were listening as though you could make some yourself if you tried."

The smile went out quickly from Norm's face, and Jerry thought he heard a little sigh with the reply:

"I never had a chance to try; and never expect to have."

"Well, now, I should like to know why not? I never could understand why a boy with brains, and hands, and feet, shouldn't have a try at almost anything which was worth trying, sometime in his life." It was not Jerry who said this, but the minister who had come up in time to hear the last words from both sides. He stopped before Norm, smiling as he spoke. "Try the music, my friend, by all means, if you like it. It is a noble taste, worth cultivating."

Norm looked sullen. "It's easy to talk," he said severely, "but when a fellow has to work like a dog to get enough to eat and wear, to keep him from starving or freezing, I'd like to see him get a chance to try at music, or anything else of that kind!"

"So should I. He is the very fellow who ought to have the chance; and more than that, in nine cases out of ten he is the fellow who gets it. A boy who is willing and able to work, is pretty sure, in this country, to have opportunity to gratify his tastes in the end. He may have to wait awhile, but that only sharpens the appetite of a genuine taste; if it is a worthy taste, as music certainly is, it will grow with his growth, and will help him to plan, and save, and contrive, until one of these days he will show you! By the way, you would like organ music, I fancy; the sort which is sometimes played on parlor organs. If you will come to the parsonage to-morrow night at eight o'clock, I think I can promise you something which you will enjoy. My sister is going to try some new music for a few friends, at that time; suppose you come and pick out your favorite?"

All Jerry's satisfaction and interest shone in his face; to-morrow night at eight o'clock! All day he had been trying to arrange something which would keep Norm at that hour away from the aforesaid corner grocery, where he happened to know some doubtful plans were to be arranged for future mischief, by the set who gathered there. If only Norm would go to the parsonage it would be the very thing. But Norm flushed and hesitated. "Bring a friend with you," said the minister. "Bring Jerry, here; you like music, don't you, Jerry?"

"Yes, sir," said Jerry promptly; "I like music very much, and I would like to go if Norm is willing."

"Bring Jerry with you." That sentence had a pleasant sound. Up to this moment it was the younger boy who had patronized the elder. Norm called him the "little chap," but for all that looked up to him with a curious sort of respect such as he felt for none of the "fellows" who were his daily companions; the idea of bringing him to a place of entertainment had its charms.

"May I expect you?" asked the minister, reading his thoughts almost as plainly as though they had been printed on his face, and judging that this was the time to press an acceptance.

"Why, yes," said Norm, "I suppose so."

One of these days Norman Decker will not think of accepting an invitation with such words, but his intentions are good, now, and the minister thanks him as though he had received a favor, and departs well pleased.

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! I know there 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 will have to 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 to stick it together again. I wish we could 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."

HOW A SMALL BOY GOT HIS RIGHTS.

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.

HOW THE FIRST PANSY WAS MADE.

AN angel's thought flew down to earth,
Borne on a golden beam of light;
And pausing, rested in the heart
Of a sweet, blue-eyed violet bright.
And finding there a flower-soul
Free 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 received
An angel's thought from heaven above.
Lydia Hoyt Farmer.

POEM FOR RECITATION.

EASTER.

MY sweet little neighbor Bessie
I 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 simple
I told to the gentle child
The story whose end is Easter—
The Life of the Undefiled.
Told of the manger of Bethlehem,
And about the glittering star
That guided the feet of the shepherds
Watching their flocks from afar,
Told of the lovely Mother,
And the Baby who was born
To live on the earth among us
Bearing its sorrows and scorn.
And then I told of the life He lived
Those wonderful thirty years,
Sad, weary, troubled, forsaken,
In this world of sin and tears,
Until I came to the shameful death
That the Lord of Glory died,
Then the tender little maiden
Uplifted her voice and cried.
I came at length to the garden
Where they laid His form away,
And then in the course of telling
I came to the Easter day—
The day when sorrowing women
Came there to the grave to moan,
And the lovely shining angels
Had rolled away the stone.
I think I made her understand
As well as childhood can,
About the glorified risen life
Of him who was God and Man.
This year the fair Easter lilies
Will gleam through a mist of tears,
For I shall not see sweet Bessie
In all of the coming years.
When the snow lay white and thickest
She quietly went away
To learn from the lips of angels
The meaning of Easter day.
We put on the little body
The garments worn in life,
And laid her deep in the frozen earth
Away from all noise and strife.
We took all the dainty playthings,
And the dollies new and old,
And placed them in a sacred spot
With 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 bitter
To put our darling away.
But we know that as the hard brown earth
Holds lilies regal and white,
So the lifeless, empty, useless clay
Held once an angel of light.
And I hope on the Easter morning
To look from the grave away,
Thinking not of the child that was,
But the child that is to-day.
Emily Baker Smalle.

MY SWEET LITTLE NEIGHBOR BESSIE.

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

THE PANSY.

"THE SEA TOOK ON ITS SULLEN LOOK."

WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.

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! She did 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. But it 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. Were they 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.

"FATHER'S OLD BOOTS ARE THERE."

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.

MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE.

By Paranete.

VI.—MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE SAVES A LIFE.

"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.

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.

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 like everyone 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."

TO PANSY.

GOD loves Pansies, with their child-like faces
Looking 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 traces
With 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 thought
My soul a glimpse of Heaven's joy hath caught.
Rockville, Mass. With the love of Arbutus.

SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.

L.—LYON, MARY.

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 become teachers, 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.

OLD ROVER.

YOU naughty old dog
Just run right away!
For Annie and I
Are going to play.
And then Minnie struck
Old Rover's thick hide
With her dimpled hand
As he stood at her side.
"Why, Minnie! how can you?"
Said sweet Annie May.
"Have you never been told
Of that terrible day
When the waters went mad
With foaming and strife,
And Rover, good dog,
Saved your dear little life?
"All night the Delaware
Rose; and then
While papa was gone
For boats and for men,
Mamma, she cuddled you
Safe and warm,
And left you for Rover
To guard from harm
"While she tried to save
A few things more.
But when she returned
Through 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 you
The rest of the day.
At night, a fisherman
Sailed o'er the deep,
With you in your cradle
Fast asleep!
"He found old Rover
Towing you down
To a little island
Near the town.
All day careful vigil
Rover 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 good
He shall have a big part;
And a great big place
All his own, in my heart."
S. R. Sill.

ROVER, DRESSED UP.

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

THE PANSY.

HIDDEN BEAUTY.