THE PANSY

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

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Volume 13, Number 14. Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co. Feb. 6, 1886.

THE PANSY.

MAY VINTON WAITING FOR HER PONY PHAETON.

HELD BACK.

SHE made a pretty picture standing there on the veranda waiting for the carriage to come around. It was the last time she would ever stand there looking so fresh and fair in the morning light. This is a sad story, yet it has its bright side, so I hope you will not turn away from it without gathering up some of the sweetness that is shed as a perfume from May Vinton's daily life.

May was an only, a much-petted, and some people said, a spoiled child. However, this last was a mistake. What might have been, had not her Heavenly Father interfered, we cannot tell. A friend of Mr. Vinton who was spending a few days with the family was interested in the management of a theatre, and this gentleman had been studying this fair young daughter of his host and had discovered what others among her friends already knew, that she was a girl of unusual talent, and he fancied that if she were educated for the stage she would, as he expressed it, "create a sensation." He had proposed to Mr. Vinton to take May home with him and educate her for his favorite profession. He had pictured to the young girl the pleasures of such a life, dwelling upon the sweetness of the world's praises which she was sure to win. It would have been no wonder if May's head had been turned by all the flattery and promises of a brilliant future. Mr. Vinton had given his consent to the proposal of his friend, but May hesitated.

May Vinton was the only Christian in that household; while at boarding-school she had been led to give her heart to the Saviour, and now that she was at home again she had found it not quite easy to keep herself unspotted from the world. Mr. Vinton had not openly opposed her in what he termed her "fanaticism," but now that her religion was in the way of what was becoming his ambition for her, there was likely to be trouble. And the perplexity into which May was thrown showed itself in her face that morning. There was just a slight shadow in her brown eyes as she waited for her pony phaeton to come around to the steps. She had come from her room with this prayer on her lips: "Dear Father, help me to decide rightly. I am so ignorant and so foolish that I cannot tell what is right. Canst thou not settle this question for me? Shut up every path but the right one, I pray thee."

How speedily God sometimes answers our prayers!

It was the common story of a runaway horse, a carriage thrown over a steep embankment. And May Vinton, helpless and limp, was carried home, not dead, but to hear the verdict of the physicians who were hastily summoned, "She may live for years, but she will never walk again."

The father groaned when he heard it, but to May even in that first hour of the terrible knowledge there came a swift flashing thought "The question is settled!"

This was twenty years ago. During those first months of suffering, May Vinton's faith sometimes grew faint and she prayed that she might die; her life seemed useless; all its joy and brightness gone out. Her faith looked forward to the mansion prepared for her, but it did not light up the present, at least not for a long time. There came at length out of the suffering a sweet peace that almost glorified the face, which was a little thinner and paler than of old, but now clothed with a new beauty. There came too a tender patience that won and held the hearts of all with a firmer grasp than ever before.

Gradually the hearts of her father and mother were won from the world and centred upon Christ, and as one and another of those who came in daily contact with the patient invalid were led into a knowledge of the truth, May began to realize that her life need not be a useless one, and she began to interest herself in matters outside her own home. I cannot tell you of all the schemes for work which she has on foot. The Mission Band meet in her room once a month. I ought to tell you about that room. When it became evident that she would spend the greater part of her life in a reclining chair, only varying the monotony by being lifted from chair to couch or bed, Mr. Vinton fitted up what had been the front parlor with a smaller room once used as a library, for her use. "We can use a back room for a parlor," he said, "but May must have as good an outlook as we can give her." Excepting the invalid herself in her chair there is no sign of invalidism in that large room, but as a young girl said the other day, "It is just as pretty as it can be!" There are long mirrors on every side, there is a piano, softest of carpets and easiest of chairs—a few; in that little storeroom at one side are dozens of folding chairs which can be brought out when the visitors are many, and this is very frequently. Once a month the Mission Band, every week the Children's meeting, every Sabbath afternoon a class of young men. Then there is a young ladies' meeting—I think I must take another time to tell you of some of these gatherings. Sometimes Miss Vinton is too ill to meet with the young people, but the room is always ready for them and a bright young girl who is her companion takes the place of hostess.

"It must be very hard for you to be shut in so much with an invalid," said an acquaintance to this girl.

"O, I am not shut in! Miss Vinton has so many errands to be attended to that I go out a great deal."

"Yes; but after all, an invalid is poor company for a young girl."

"Not such an invalid as ours! Why, Miss Vinton is the cheeriest person in the house. She keeps us all in good spirits and she has company almost constantly. I assure you we are not moping at our house."

Once when some one spoke of her wrecked life May said, "O, no, my life is not wrecked! I came near making a failure of it, but my Father in heaven reached out and held me back."

Wilmot Condee.

THE LAST OPPORTUNITY.

FOR many years I have made it a rule never to spend a half-hour with any person without finding out if that person was a Christian, and if not, trying to preach Christ to him."

This in substance is what the minister said in the little church at the quiet summer resort by the river side, where Edith Manton was staying. "For," continued the speaker, "it may be my last opportunity to speak for Christ, or it may be some one's last chance of hearing the truth."

Edith was thinking of these words that morning when she went out in Jerry's boat after lilies. Jerry knew where the flowers were thickest and fairest, and too he was counted as the best oarsman on the river. Edith often went out with Jerry, and that morning she was thinking, "I have had more than one opportunity to present Christ to Jerry. But I do not even know whether or not he belongs to Christ. If I had only spoken to him before! I don't know how to begin now." Presently she began singing,

Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore.

Jerry listened and when she ended he said:

"That's a good one, Miss."

"Yes; but, Jerry, are you pulling for the other shore?"

"Well, I don't know much about them things," replied Jerry. "Reckon as how when one has no oars to pull with he must just drift. And maybe he will drift to the shore, and maybe he won't."

"But why shouldn't you have the oars?" asked Edith.

"Well, I s'pose it's like this; sometimes a boat gets loose and starts off without oars, and then at other times the oars gets broken or lost in the middle of the river. I never lost nor broke an oar in my life, so I s'pose I must have started without any."

"And so you mean to keep on drifting?" asked Edith, growing interested.

"What can a fellow do? Out in the middle of the river without any oars? He hasn't much chance of getting back to the wharf after them."

"But if the oars have been lying in the bottom of his boat all the time? Wouldn't a man be foolish if he didn't pick them up and use them when he found he was drifting down stream and making no progress toward the other shore?"

"Humph! it ain't much likely that a fellow would let them oars lie right afore his eyes and never touch them, is it, now?"

"That is what puzzles me," replied Edith. "You have only just to put out the hand of faith and take hold of the oars of prayer and the word of God and pull for the shore."

"My! Miss, I never thought of that! I've got a Bible that my old mother gave me when I started out; and she taught me a prayer too. And I've been letting them oars lie idle in the bottom of the old boat all these years. D'ye s'pose they are as good and stout as ever? And would they pull an old fellow like me into port?"

OUT IN JERRY'S BOAT.

"I am sure they would. O, Jerry, I wish you would take hold of them and pull!"

"I believe I will! I'll get out the old Bible to-night and I'll say that little prayer; or if I can't remember that I'll whittle out a new one. I promise you, Miss, I'll do it!"

The next morning, Edith was just starting out to walk down to the river when a messenger came in haste: "O, Miss Manton! There's been an accident, and Old Jerry is most killed! He wants you. You'll have to come quickly, for they say he can't last long. He is out of his head and keeps saying something about pulling for the shore. Folks say he thinks he is out in a boat." This the boy said as they were hastening to the wharf.

"How did it happen?" asked Edith.

"I don't rightly know. They were unloading a vessel at the wharf and some way Jerry slipped and a heavy cask rolled over him. The doctor says he can't live."

When they reached the place where Jerry was slowly breathing his life away, some one said—"Jerry, Jerry, here is Miss Manton!"

Jerry opened his eyes and said faintly, "Sing that!"

And there, surrounded by a group of rough, though kindly men, Edith sang:

Light in the darkness, sailor, day is at hand,
See o'er the foaming billows, fair haven's land,
Drear was the voyage, sailor, now almost o'er,
Safe within the life-boat, sailor, pull for the shore.

As she paused Jerry's lips moved, and bending low to hear, Edith caught the whisper:

"I did it! I took the oars; I pulled for the shore. I guess I'll make the harbor!"

A few more labored breaths and Jerry had, as we trust, "made the harbor."

"What if I had not used that last opportunity?" said Edith to herself as she walked back to her cottage.

Faye Huntington.

SIX O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING.

Our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace.

Thou art weighed in the balances and found wanting.

They praised the Lord, because the foundation of the house of the Lord was laid.

Give us help from trouble: for vain is the help of man.

GRANDMA BURTON studied the verses in silence for a few minutes. "They are all good," she said at last; "I know a story about each of them; I've been trying to decide which to tell."

"It's the little chick's turn," Rollo said, good-naturedly, so the "little chick" had it, and the first verse on the paper was taken.

"Yes," said Grandma, "I knew the boy very well indeed who believed that, and lived by it; and he got his help too in the way that he least expected; just as help is apt to come. He was a little fellow when I was quite a young woman. We visited, my brother and I, at a house which was only across the street from a famous boarding-school for boys. There was one little fellow in that school whom I used to watch, because he looked like my little brother at home; he seemed very small to be in boarding-school. I wondered if he was homesick, and sometimes cried himself to sleep as my brother did the first time he went to uncle Daniel's alone on a visit.

AUNT HARRIET PEABODY.

"Miss Harriet Peabody was the mistress of this house where I visited; she was a maiden lady, the aunt of the boy and girl who were our friends; a good kind woman, but a little prim in her ways. I remember she never dressed quite in the fashion; her clothes were very nice, and beautifully made, and cost a trifle more, if anything, than those of her neighbors, but they were always made a little behind the styles, as though she thought things which were a little out of fashion were less wicked, some way, than others.

"The young folks of the neighborhood, and especially the boys of the boarding-school, were inclined to make sport of her; this always made me indignant, for I loved Miss Harriet. One evening we were seated in the library, having the cosiest time; the boys had popped some corn, and cracked nuts, and we had apples and cider; in those days an evening wasn't really finished without a pitcher of cider; Miss Harriet sat by the window, and said suddenly: 'Hark! what is that? didn't you hear a child crying?'

"We listened, and said no, we heard nothing. Her nephew suggested dogs, and doves, and owls, but Miss Harriet insisted that she heard a child.

"We were soon in the very merriest of our fun, and forgot all about the noise; but it seems Miss Harriet didn't. I don't know just when she slipped out, but just as Tom Peabody was flinging an apple paring over his left shoulder, to see if he couldn't make the first letter of my name, in walked Miss Harriet, dripping with rain and holding by the hand a little frightened boy; and he was the very boy I had watched from the window so often! He was wet to the skin, and shivering as though he had an ague fit. We all jumped up, and gathered about asking questions, but Miss Harriet waved us off. 'Not yet,' she said. 'The poor fellow is wet and cold; Tom, take him up to the bath-room, and get him some of Robbie's clothes and help him dress; then bring him down to get some nuts and apples.'

"Tom went off to do her bidding, and the rest of us questioned her. 'I don't know much about it, yet,' she said, 'but I mean to; there's been some mean business going on, or I'm mistaken. I knew I heard a child crying; when I couldn't stand it any longer, I lighted the lantern and went out to look around; I found the sobs came from our old coal shed which hasn't been used in six months. I listened at the end door, and I heard the little fellow sob out: "I know you are able to do it, O, Lord, and if you only would!" Then I walked around to the other door, and found it was fastened on the outside by a good-sized rope slipped through the latch, and wound around the big nail. Of course I unfastened it and walked in; and here was this little morsel crouched in a corner, dripping with rain, as it pelted down on him from the roof. He seemed dreadfully scared at seeing me, and began to protest that he had done nothing wrong, and did not want to be hiding there; but I told him to come in and get warm, and then we would talk about it.'

"When the boy came down with dry clothes on, he looked less frightened than before; and we established him in a big chair and gave him plenty of nuts, and a glass of cider; I poured it out with my own hands; you needn't look so shocked at Grandmother, Harold, I didn't know any better in those days. He had a real pleasant evening, and Miss Harriet invited him to stay all night, because it rained so hard, and sent her black Toby over to the school to ask permission for him, and told him she would make it all right in the morning. He seemed to be so glad to think he had not to go back to the school, that we knew something must be wrong; but it was not until he went up to bed with Robbie, that Tom told us about it.

"'Those scamps over there,' said Tom, his eyes flashing, 'they deserve a whipping, and I will help get it for them. There are half a dozen great boys always in mischief of one sort or other. It seems they have made a kind of slave of this little fellow; his mother is dead, and he is the youngest boy in school; they have made him run errands, and do all sorts of things for them; to-night they planned that he was to go down to Jordon's and get them some nuts, and raisins, and cider, and cake, and smuggle it into their rooms after hours, for them to have what they call a 'spread.' And it seems the little chap had the pluck to refuse to do it, because it was against the rules. They had a stormy time, and finally they threatened to lock him up in a hole where he would have to spend the night, and how much longer they could not tell. It seems he is timid in the dark, and they knew it. He was awfully afraid, he told me, "but then I couldn't do wrong, you know," he said, and his eyes were as blue as the sky, when he looked up in my face. Well, the rascals blindfolded him, and led him around and around the grounds, I presume, for he thought he walked a mile or more; then thrust him into a dark hole, and fastened the door and left him. When he pushed off the bandage from his eyes, no light was to be seen; he had not the least idea where he was, but thought it was somewhere in the woods, and he was dreadfully afraid, and cried aloud, he says, but he was sure no one could hear him. Then he remembered about the fiery furnace, and what the men said about God being able to deliver, and he got down in the dark and prayed for deliverance; but he says he didn't feel sure it would come; he was only sure that God was able to do it if he thought best. He hadn't an idea, when he saw aunt Harriet, that she had come to answer his prayer. He knew her, and for some reason the little chap was afraid of her. He thought that she had been told that he had done something wrong.'

"'What horrid, awful boys!' I said. 'Do you suppose they were going to leave him there all night?'

"'No,' Tom said, he didn't suppose they were; probably they were only going to leave him long enough to get him thoroughly scared; but if he was not much mistaken they were the scared ones this time. Toby, when he went over to the boarding-house, saw two or three fellows skulking around the coal house, and he walked boldly up to them and said: 'If you are looking for Master Andrews, he is in Miss Peabody's library eating nuts and apples;' Toby's a sharp fellow; he said the way they scampered was worth a dollar.

"I suppose that evening's work was about the best thing that ever happened to 'Master Andrews.' Miss Harriet all but adopted him; she had him with her on Sundays, and holidays, and to spend the evening as often as she could get up an excuse for his coming. He told me once, with the great tears in his eyes, that she was the best friend a fellow ever had in the world. 'And to think,' he said, 'that very morning of the day she found me in her coal shed, I had joined in the laugh the boys had over her because she walked so straight and looked like a soldier! I tell you I never laughed at her again.'"

"What became of the boys who treated him so meanly? Were they expelled?"

"No; little Andrews plead for them, and got them forgiven; he said they didn't mean to be ugly, only darkness and rain were nothing but fun to them and they could not understand his dreadful fright. No, they really grew to be better boys under his influence; and one Thanksgiving Day Miss Harriet had them all to dinner, to please Andrews. One of them, the tallest and handsomest, actually cried when he was telling me about how frightened little Andrews was, and how sorry he felt for him afterwards. He slipped out, unknown to the others, to let him out of the coal shed; but it was too late; fortunately, Miss Harriet had found him. Oh! he wasn't a very bad boy, only a thoughtless one; he grew to be a splendid man; and young Andrews and he were friends as long as he lived."

"Are they both dead?"

"Oh, no; Andrews died when he was a young man; he was a good noble man, and died bravely because he wasn't afraid to run into danger to help save a life; but the other one is down in the library reading his paper, and I ought to go this minute and read it for him." Grandma fumbled for her spectacles, and went off smiling.

"There!" said Rollo, "I had a feeling it was Grandpa, all the time. Just think of Grandma calling him 'a horrid, awful boy!'"

Pansy.

POEM FOR RECITATION.

THE TWO GREAT CITIES.

SIDE by side the two great cities,
Afar on the traveller's sight.
One, black with the dust of labor,
One, solemnly still and white.
Apart, and yet together,
They are reached in a dying breath;
But a river flows between them,
And the river's name is—Death.
Apart, and yet together,
Together, and yet apart,
As the child may die at midnight,
On the mother's living heart.
So close come the two great cities,
With only the river between;
And the grass in the one is trampled,
But the grass in the other is green.
The hills with uncovered foreheads,
Like the disciples meet,
While ever the flowing water
Is washing their hallowed feet.
And out on the glassy ocean,
The sails in the golden gloom
Seem to me but the moving shadows
Of the white enmarbled tomb.
Anon from the hut and the palace,
Anon, from early till late,
They come, rich and poor, together,
Asking alms at the beautiful gate.
O silent city of refuge
On the way to the city o'erhead!
The gleam of thy marble milestones
Tells the distance we are from the dead.
Full of feet, but a city untrodden,
Full of hands, but a city unbuilt,
Full of strangers who know not even
That their life-cup lies there, spilt.
They know not the tomb from the palace,
They dream not they ever have died;
God be thanked, they never will know it,
Till they live, on the other side!
Samuel Miller Hageman.

A TROUBLESOME LITTLE HELPER.

Volume 13, Number 15. Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co. Feb. 13, 1886.

THE PANSY.

FRED, THINKING ABOUT IT.

THE ENGINE'S PUNISHMENT.

WE were driving along to town one day—
Papa and I, behind "Old Gray,"
And our little Fred was along beside,
Looking out o'er the fields, enjoying the ride.
I was sitting back reading, contented and calm,
While Fred had the whip held tight in his palm,
And was snapping it round at urchins and dogs,
And sometimes at only some old rotten logs.
We were crossing the track, when we heard such a shout
That all of us jumped, and looked quickly about,
When we saw the old flagman as frantic and wild
As a pea on a shovel that's hot; and his child
Screamed out "Stop, O, stop! here comes the train!"
Papa looked quickly out, then drew in the rein.
I shut my eyes tight, and held to the seat,
And I knew I could hear my frightened heart beat!
A rush and a roar, a sudden pull back,
A "toot! toot! toot! toot!" and a terrible crack;
And I heard papa say, "Cheer up, little maid,
For here we are, safe, so don't be afraid!"
"But what was that crack?" when I'd quite got my breath,
And all things around us were silent as death
(Except the low rumble of the distant train,
Which, when we were safe, had steamed off again).
"Why, Katy, 'twas me!" and Fred turned in his place,
"I whipped the old engine right in the face!
I guess he won't scare us again so, do you?
For I gave him a cut that just made him boo, hoo!"
Well, we laughed, and we laughed, till tears came in our eyes,
At how little Fred did the engine chastise,
Until over his face came a flush of bright red.
"You are right; he won't scare us again," papa said.
Paranete.

REACHING OUT.

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

CHAPTER IV.

THAT was the way it came about that little Sate not only, but Susie and Nettie, went to the flower party.

They had not expected to do any such thing. The little girls, who were not used to going anywhere, had paid no attention to the announcements on Sunday, and Nettie had heard as one with whom such things had nothing in common. Her treatment in the Sabbath-school was not such as to make her long for the companionship of the girls of her age, and by this time she knew that her dress at the flower party would be sure to command more attention than was pleasant; so she had planned as a matter of course to stay away.

But the little old ladies in their caps and spectacles springing into active life, put a new face on the matter. Certainly no more astonished young person can be imagined than Nettie Decker was, the morning Miss Sherrill called on her, the one daisy she had begged still carefully preserved, and proposed her plan of partnership in the flower party.

"It will add ever so much to the fun," she explained, "besides bringing you a nice little sum for your spending money."

Did Miss Sherrill have any idea how far that argument would reach just now, Nettie wondered.

"We can dress the little girls in daisies," continued their teacher. "Little Sate will look like a flower herself, with daisies wreathed about her dress and hair."

"Little Sate will be afraid, I think," Nettie objected. "She is very timid, and not used to seeing many people."

"But with Susie she will not mind, will she? Susie has assurance enough to take her through anything. Oh, I wonder if little Sate would not recite a verse about the daisy grandmothers? I have such a cunning one for her. May I teach her, Mrs. Decker, and see if I can get her to learn it?"

Mrs. Decker's consent was very easy to gain; indeed it had been freely given in Mrs. Decker's heart before it was asked. For Miss Sherrill had not been in the room five minutes before she had said: "Your son, Norman, I believe his name is, has promised to help my brother with the church flowers this evening. My brother says he is an excellent helper; his eye is so true; they had quite a laugh together, last week. It seems one of the wreaths was not hung plumb; your son and my brother had an argument about it, and it was finally left as my brother had placed it, but was out of line several inches. He was obliged to admit that if he had followed Norman's direction it would have looked much better." After that, it would have been hard for Miss Sherrill to have asked a favor which Mrs. Decker would not grant if she could. She saw through it all; these people were in league with Nettie, to try to save her boy. What wasn't she ready to do at their bidding!

There was but one thing about which she was positive. The little girls could not go without Nettie; they talked it over in the evening, after Miss Sherrill was gone. Nettie looked distressed. She liked to please Miss Sherrill; she was willing to make many grandmothers; she would help to put the little girls in as dainty attire as possible, but she did not want to go to the flower festival. She planned various ways; Jerry would take them down, or Norm; perhaps even he would go with them; surely mother would be willing to have them go with Norm. Miss Sherrill would look after them carefully, and they would come home at eight o'clock; before they began to grow very sleepy.

But no, Mrs. Decker was resolved; she could not let them go unless Nettie would go with them and bring them home. "I let one child run the streets," she said with a heavy sigh, "and I have lived to most wish he had died when he was a baby, before I did it; and I said then I would never let another one go out of my sight as long as I had control; I can't go; but I would just as soon they would be with you as with me; and unless you go, they can't stir a step, and that's the whole of it." Mrs. Decker was a very determined woman when she set out to be; and Nettie looked the picture of dismay. It did not seem possible to her to go to a flower party; and on the other hand it seemed really dreadful to thwart Miss Sherrill. Jerry sat listening, saying little, but the word he put in now and then, was on Mrs. Decker's side; he owned to himself that he never so entirely approved of her as at that moment. He wanted Nettie to go to the flower party.

"But I have nothing to wear?" said Nettie, blushing, and almost weeping.

"Nothing to wear!" repeated Mrs. Decker in honest astonishment. "Why, what do you wear on Sundays, I should like to know? I'm sure you look as neat and nice as any girl I ever saw, in your gingham. I was watching you last Sunday and thinking how pretty it was."

"Yes; but, mother, they all wear white at such places; and I cut up my white dress, you know, for the little girls; it was rather short for me anyway; but I should feel queer in any other color."

"O, well," said Mrs. Decker in some irritation, "if they go to such places to show their clothes, why, I suppose you must stay at home, if you have none that you want to show. I thought, being it was a church, it didn't matter, so you were neat and clean; but churches are like everything else, it seems, places for show."

Jerry looked grave disapproval at Nettie, but she felt injured and could have cried. Was it fair to accuse her of going to church to show her clothes, or of being over-particular, when she went every Sunday in a blue and white gingham such as no other girl in her class would wear even to school? This was not church, it was a party. It was hard that she must be blamed for pride, when she was only too glad to stay at home from it.

"I can't go in my blue dress, and that is the whole of it," she said at last, a good deal of decision in her voice.

"Very well," said Mrs Decker. "Then we'll say no more about it; as for the little girls going without you, they sha'n't do it. When I set my foot down, it's down."

Jerry instinctively looked down at her foot as she spoke. It was a good-sized one, and looked as though it could set firmly on any question on which it was put. His heart began to fail him; the flower party and certain things which he hoped to accomplish thereby, were fading. He took refuge with Mrs. Smith to hide his disappointment, and also to learn wisdom about this matter of dress.

"Do clothes make such a very great difference to girls?" was his first question.

"Difference?" said Mrs. Smith inquiringly, rubbing a little more flour on her hands, and plunging them again into the sticky mass she was kneading.

THE TWO BEAUTIES THAT SATE SAW.

"Yes'm. They seem to think of clothes the first thing, when there is any place to go to; boys aren't that way. I don't believe a boy knows whether his coat ought to be brown or green. What makes the difference?"

Mrs. Smith laughed a little. "Well," she said reflectively, "there is a difference, now that's a fact. I noticed it time and again when I was living with Mrs. Jennison. Dick would go off with whatever he happened to have on; and Florence was always in a flutter as to whether she looked as well as the rest. I've heard folks say that it is the fault of the mothers, because they make such a fuss over the girls' clothes, and keep rigging them up in something bright, just to make 'em look pretty, till they succeed in making them think there isn't anything quite so important in life as what they wear on their backs. It's all wrong, I believe. But then, Nettie ain't one of that kind. She hasn't had any mother to perk her up and make her vain. I shouldn't think she would be one to care about clothes much."

"She doesn't," said Jerry firmly. "I don't think she would care if other folks didn't. The girls in her class act hatefully to her; they don't speak, if they can help it. I suppose it's clothes; I don't know what else; they are always rigged out like hollyhocks or tulips; they make fun of her, I guess; and that isn't very pleasant."

"Is that the reason she won't go to the flower show next week?"

"Yes'm, that's the reason. All the girls are going to dress in white; I suppose she thinks she will look queerly, and be talked about. But I don't understand it. Seems to me if all the boys were going to wear blue coats, and I knew it, I'd just as soon wear my gray one if gray was respectable."

THEIR NEW HOME.—See [Moving Day].

"She ought to have a white dress, now that's a fact," said Mrs. Smith with energy, patting her brown loaf, and tucking it down into the tin in a skilful way. "It isn't much for a girl like her to want; if her father was the kind of man he ought to be, she might have a white dress for best, as well as not; I've no patience with him."

"Her father hasn't drank a drop this week," said Jerry.

"Hasn't; well, I'm glad of it; but I'm thinking of what he has done, and what he will go and do, as likely as not, next week; they might be as forehanded as any folks I know of, if he was what he ought to be; there isn't a better workman in the town. Well, you don't care much about the flower party, I suppose?"

"I don't now," said Jerry, wearily. "When I thought the little girls were going, I had a plan. Sate is such a little thing, she would be sure to be half-asleep by eight o'clock; and I was going to coax Norm to come for her, and we carry her home between us. Norm won't go to a flower party, out and out; but he is good-natured, and was beginning to think a great deal of Sate; then I thought Mr. Sherrill would speak to him. The more we can get Norm to feeling he belongs in such places, the less he will feel like belonging to the corner groceries, and the streets."

"I see," said Mrs. Smith admiringly. "Well, I do say I didn't think Nettie was the kind of girl to put a white dress between her chances of helping folks. Sarah Ann thinks she's a real true Christian; but Satan does seem to be into the clothes business from beginning to end."

"I don't suppose it is any easier for a Christian to be laughed at and slighted, than it is for other people," said Jerry, inclined to resent the idea that Nettie was not showing the right spirit; although in his heart he was disappointed in her for caring so much about the color of her dress.

"Well, I don't know about that," said Mrs. Smith, stopping in the act of tucking her bread under the blankets, to look full at Jerry, "why, they even made fun of the Lord Jesus Christ; dressed him up in purple, like a king, and mocked at him! When it comes to remembering that, it would seem as if any common Christian might be almost glad of a chance to be made fun of, just to stand in the same lot with him."

This was a new thought to Jerry. He studied it for awhile in silence. Now it so happened that neither Mrs. Smith nor Jerry remembered certain facts; one was that Mrs. Smith's kitchen window was in a line with Mrs. Decker's bedroom window, where Nettie had gone to sit while she mended Norm's shirt; the other was that a gentle breeze was blowing, which brought their words distinctly to Nettie's ears. At first she had not noticed the talk, busy with her own thoughts; then she heard her name, and paused needle in hand, to wonder what was being said about her. Then, coming to her senses, she determined to leave the room; but her mother, for convenience, had pushed her ironing table against the bedroom door, and then had gone to the yard in search of chips; Nettie was a prisoner; she tried to push the table by pushing against the door, but the floor was uneven, and the table would not move; meantime the conversation going on across the alleyway, came distinctly to her. No use to cough, they were too much interested to hear her. By and by she grew so interested as to forget that the words were not intended for her to hear. There were more questions involved in this matter of dress than she had thought about. Her cheeks began to burn a little with the thought that her neighbor had been planning help for Norm, which she was blocking because she had no white dress! This was an astonishment! She had not known she was proud. In fact, she had thought herself very humble, and worthy of commendation because she went Sabbath after Sabbath to the school in the same blue and white dress, not so fresh now by a great deal as when she first came home. When Mrs. Smith reached the sentence which told of the Lord Jesus being robed in purple, and crowned with thorns, and mocked, two great tears fell on Norm's shirt sleeve.

It was a very gentle little girl who moved about the kitchen getting early tea; Mrs. Decker glanced at her from time to time in a bewildered way. The sort of girl with whom she was best acquainted would have slammed things about a little; both because she had not clothes to wear like other children, and because she had been blamed for not wanting to do what was expected of her. But Nettie's face had no trace of anger, her movements were gentleness itself; her voice when she spoke was low and sweet: "Mother, I will take the little girls, if you will let them go."

Mrs. Decker drew a relieved sigh. "I'd like them to go because she asked to have them; and I can see plain enough she is trying to get hold of Norm; so is he; that's what helping with the flowers means; and there ain't anything I ain't willing to do to help, only I couldn't let the little girls go without you; they'd be scared to death, and it wouldn't look right. I'm sorry enough you ain't got suitable clothes; if I could help it, you should have as good as the best of them."

"Never mind," said Nettie, "I don't think I care anything about the dress now." She was thinking of that crown of thorns. So when Miss Sherrill called the way was plain and little Sate ready to be taught anything she would teach her.

They went away down to the pond under the clump of trees which formed such a pretty shade; and there Sate's slow sweet voice said over the lines as they were told to her, putting in many questions which the words suggested. "He makes the flowers blow," she repeated with thoughtful face, then: "What did He make them for?"

"I think it was because He loved them; and He likes to give you and me sweet and pleasant things to look at."

"Does He love flowers?"

"I think so, darling."

"And birds? See the birds!" For at that moment two beauties standing on the edge of their nest, looked down into the clear water, and seeing themselves reflected in its smoothness began to talk in low sweet chirps to their shadows.

"Oh, yes, He loves the birds, I am sure; think how many different kinds He has made, and how beautiful they are. Then He has given them sweet voices, and they are thanking Him as well as they know how, for all his goodness. Listen."

Sure enough, one of the birds hopped back a trifle, balanced himself well on the nest, and putting up his little throat trilled a lovely song.

"What does he say?" asked Sate.

"Oh, I don't know," said Miss Sherrill, with a little laugh. Sate was taxing her powers rather too much. "But God understands, you know; and I'm sure the words are sweet to him."

Sate reflected over this for a minute, then went back to the flowers: "What made Him put the colors on them? Does He like to see pretty colors, do you sink? Which color does He like just the very bestest of all?"

"O you darling! I don't know that, either. Perhaps, crimson; or, no, I think He must like pure white ones a little the best. But He likes little human flowers the best of all. Little white flowers with souls. Do you know what I mean, darling? White hearts are given to the little children who try all the time to do right, because they love Jesus, and want to please him."

"Sate wants to," said the little girl. "Sate loves Jesus; she would like to kiss him."

"I do not know but you shall, some day. Now shall we take another line of the hymn?"

"I tried to teach her," explained Miss Sherrill to her brother. "But I think, after all, she taught me the most. She is the dearest little thing, and asks the strangest questions! When I look at her grave sweet face, and hear her slow, sweet voice making wise answers, and asking wise questions, a sort of baby wisdom, you know, I can only repeat over and over the words: 'Of such is the kingdom of heaven.' To-day I told her the story of Jesus taking the little children up in his arms and blessing them. She listened with that thoughtful look in her eyes which is so wonderful, then suddenly she held up her pretty arms and said in the most coaxing tones: 'Take little Sate to Him, and let Him bless her, yight away.' Tremaine, I could hardly keep back the tears. Do you think He can be going to call her soon?"

"Not necessarily at all. There is no reason why a little child should not live very close to Him on earth. I hope that little girl has a great work to do for Christ in this world. She has a very sweet face."

[MOVING DAY.]

IT was Kitty's moving day. This is how it happened: One Saturday morning Mr. Blake came into the barn and said: "John, we will be ready to draw in that hay by ten o'clock. We will fill up the bay first. As soon as you feed the horses you may as well take a look for hens' nests. We do not want to cover up any hens this year!"

Now I do not suppose that Kitty really understood what they were saying; probably the sound of their voices alarmed her and she concluded to move. First she set out to hunt up a home. There was the empty clothes basket; Bridget had been late with her ironing and had set the basket emptied of the clean clothes down in a hurry, and a blanket had been thrown into it. Walking into the deserted laundry on her round of house hunting Kitty spied this and decided that it was just the place. And so she set about moving her family. By ten o'clock it was accomplished and a happier group it would be hard to find than Kitty and her little kitties were when Bridget going after the basket found them having a grand frolic. It seemed such a pity to disturb them! But kind-hearted Bridget brought an unused basket and very tenderly moved the family once more. Mother Kitty seemed quite satisfied, though rather shy of visitors aside from Bridget, whom she seems to look upon as a friend.

Lou.

GOOD NIGHT!

Volume 13, Number 16. Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co. Feb. 20, 1886.

THE PANSY.

THE "SERVANT" THAT SHOWED SUCH ILL BREEDING.

WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.

I STARTED from Cincinnati. Only a short ride on the "Bee Line" and I reached Dayton. A beautiful little city; looking, after the greatness and the noise, and the smoke of Cincinnati, like a pretty little village nestling in among trees. Yet when one forgets the large places, Dayton is quite a city. However, it is not about the city that I want to tell you, but rather about a home there.

A lovely home. In the rooms are gathered all the beautiful things which go to make up a pretty house; carpets and curtains, and easy chairs and lovely plush-covered sofas, and pictures, and books, and flowers, and birds. I cannot think of anything that they lacked. Yet all these do not make lovely homes. I have been in places filled with all the beauties which money could buy, and arranged with all the care which refined taste could give, yet which were not homes at all, but great beautiful cold rooms! Haven't you been in places where the carpets were only ingrain, or perhaps rag, or where there was even no carpet at all, and the chairs were plain wooden ones, and the pictures on the walls were only a few cheap mottoes, yet which was all full of gentle words, and cheery smiles, and unselfishness in little things? Such places are sure to be homes. I have discovered that the furniture makes very little difference, after all. Well, the house at which I stopped was a home in the truest sense of the word. I shall never think of the sweet Christian lady who is at its head, without feeling thankful to God for having made so good and true a woman, and given her so many beautiful things to use in making others happy.

After all that, I am afraid you will be astonished that I should only tell you the story of one member of the family. But you can't think how much she interested me. I reached the home late at night and went at once to my room. In the early morning I was awakened by a loud call from a voice downstairs. "Clara!" shouted the shrill voice, then waited, and seeming to get no reply, screamed again, "Clara!" with no better success than before. This was repeated I should think a dozen times; until from being only amused I became half-vexed. I thought it very strange that in so fine a house and with so many evidences of culture, the mistress should allow a servant to stand in the hall below and scream after any one in that way. Then I wondered who "Clara" was, and why in the world she did not answer the call; it did not seem possible that she could be asleep, after her name had been rung out so often. I buried my head in the pillows and tried to take another nap; but that was impossible; there that persistent servant stood, and shouted out at intervals that one name, dwelling on each letter until it seemed to me that the name was a half-hour long! At last I arose in despair, and began to make my toilet; only hoping that "Clara's" slumbers had been disturbed as well as my own.

When I made my way to the back parlor, none of the family was in sight, but in the middle of the floor looking at me with doubtful eyes, as though she would like to know where I came from, and what right I had there, was a great green parrot! I was not very well acquainted with parrots, so I stood at a respectful distance, but I thought it was proper to be courteous, and I said "Good-morning!"

To this I received no sort of reply; the creature put her head on one side and looked somewhat disdainful; then raising her voice to a loud shrill note, she called "C-l-a-r-a!" The mystery was explained! Here was the "servant" who had shown such ill breeding in the beautiful home.

Presently we went in to breakfast, and Polly parrot went along. She moved about the dining-room, wherever she chose, and was very quiet, until one of the young ladies whose name I discovered was "Clara," went away to attend to some household duty; then Miss Polly began her cry for "C-l-a-r-a" so loud we could hardly converse. "Polly," said her mistress, "you must be quiet; you disturb us; you cannot go to Clara, she is busy."

What did that parrot do but throw herself on her back, kick her clumsy feet into the air, and cry with all her might! I saw no tears, it is true; but if I had not been looking on, I would have been sure that a very spunky child was having a fit of crying. Imagine my astonishment! I had never heard a parrot cry; did not know that it was ever one of their accomplishments. Being a parrot, what would have been extremely disagreeable in a child, was really as funny as possible, and I laughed until I was in danger of shedding tears myself. Still the passionate whine went on. Suddenly the back parlor door was opened slightly, and a sweet voice said: "Mamma, you may let Polly come to me; I am not doing anything which she will disturb."

"Polly," said her mistress, "do you hear that? Get up. Clara says you may go where she is."

Instantly the parrot rolled over on her side, and burst into the most jubilant peal of laughter I ever heard—"Ha, ha, ha! ho, ho!" triumph in every note.

Then she straightened herself up, shook out her feathers, and waddled triumphantly out of the room.

"She is a curious creature," said the lady; "quite a study. We have not had her long, and it is very amusing to us; we know the habits and customs of the family from whom she came almost as well as though we had lived with them. You know parrots get all their knowledge by imitation. Isn't it remarkable, and rather startling when one stops to think of it, that even a parrot can produce your faults and foibles for others to laugh at? I often wonder what I am teaching her, unintentionally, which will astonish some one else."

"It is wonderful!" I said. And then I fell to wondering whether it was a girl or boy who had taught that parrot to lie on its back and cry because it couldn't have its own way. And what sort of a man or woman such a child would be likely to make.

I doubt whether the child, whoever he was, would have done it before me—a stranger—and here the parrot had told me all about it!

Pansy.

Aunt Esther was trying very hard to persuade little Eddy to retire at sunset, using as an argument that the little chickens always went to roost at that time.

"Yes," replied the wide awake little Eddy, "but the old hens always goes with them, auntie."

MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE.

By Paranete.

IV.—MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE SWALLOWED.

"WHEN the box was opened," the pin continued, "all the papers were taken out, and carried to a large dry goods store in what seemed to me a very large city. We were put just behind one of the large glass windows, where everybody could see us, and we felt quite proud, and much enjoyed looking at all the strange things, and at people who passed.

"One by one the papers were sold, until finally ours was the only one left, and we remained so long in the window that we began to think we should never get out. By that time we were tired of staring out at the street all the time, and wanted a change. One day a lady came into the store and asked the clerk for some pins.

"So he came over to the window and took us out. How delighted we were! The lady put us in her little satchel, and soon we felt ourselves rolling along the street in a carriage. Pretty soon we were taken out and laid in the bureau drawer of the lady's room, where we remained a long while. Then she laid us on the little shelf belonging to the bureau, where we could see everything that went on in the room.

THE BABY THAT SWALLOWED THE PIN.

"One evening I was put in the lady's collar, and went to a great room, brightly lighted, where my mistress danced with gentlemen all the evening. I enjoyed it very much, because it was so strange, and because I have no feelings; but my mistress grew very tired and sleepy as soon as the ball, for that is what she called it, was over.

"At night, or rather early in the morning, when we reached home, she put me on the pin-cushion, where I found many of my former acquaintances.

"Now our life grew rather dull. I think winter-time came, and my mistress removed to a warmer room. After a long, long while, during which we saw no one, when the birds returned, and the buds came on the trees, she moved back again, but now there was somebody with her—a little bit of a baby! How cute it was! We pins discussed it a great deal, and grew to loving it very much.

"One day its nurse took it out to ride in its little carriage, and took me (how delighted I was!) to pin its dress. We went a long way off, to a part of the city where the houses were smaller, and the yards larger, and there were more flowers and trees. The nurse stopped in front of one of the little white houses, and walked in, rolling the baby-carriage before her. She called the woman who came to the door 'mother,' so I supposed that this was her former home. Her mother took her to another room, and they were gone quite awhile. So the baby for something to do, and putting up its fat little hand, took hold of me, and tried to pull me out of its dress.

"Now I knew that the baby put everything in its mouth that it could, so I stuck on just as hard as I could; but it tugged away at me, finally got me out, and put me in its mouth, much to my dismay. Not only was it very disagreeable for me to be there, but I knew there was danger of the baby's swallowing me. Still, I could do nothing. The little one chewed me and poked me around with its tongue, until finally, by a mis-poke—as you might say—it sent me down its throat, and there I stuck. Then, O, what a commotion there was! The child screamed slightly, swallowed, and gurgled, and choked, and I—O, my dear friend, you cannot imagine my state of mind! To think I should be the cause of such suffering, and possibly the death of one I loved so much!

"Finally the noise that the child made brought the nurse and her mother to the room. 'Mercy on us!' exclaimed the former, 'the child is choking to death!'

"The mother took the baby on her lap, and pounded, actually pounded, on its back! But this treatment was effectual, though apparently cruel, for the pounding sent me on the floor, out of the baby's mouth! I cannot express my delight in the feeble words that our language possesses. I was in ecstasies. The nurse's mother picked me up, and seeing where I had come from, replaced me in the child's dress, cautioning her daughter to keep watch of me.

"Then we speedily returned home. The story was recounted with many apologies on the part of the nurse. I think the baby's mother would have discharged the poor girl, only, as she afterwards remarked to her husband, 'that was a very difficult season to get good nurses.'

"That night I was replaced on the cushion, and was not taken off for what seemed to me ages. I was in a part of the cushion where beads where, and I suppose my head looked so much like them, that I was not noticed. The other pins were gradually taken out of the paper, used, and either lost or replaced on the cushion, till finally they were all gone, and a new paper was bought. These, of course, were strangers to me, but I soon became acquainted with those on the cushion, and they were very pleasant. On the whole, I did not so much dislike my life then, though naturally enough, I wanted a change.

"The family was quite a large one; beside my mistress and her husband, there was the baby, the nurse, a dear old lady whom I loved very much, a little girl about twelve years old, and a middle-aged lady whom the children called auntie. Before I had been swallowed, I had had occasion to be used by all these people, and so felt acquainted with them.

"Well, one week there was a great commotion in the house. Trunks were being packed, things being folded up and put in packages, and from divers remarks that different members of the household made, I learned that they were all going to Europe, excepting the old lady, because, they said, her health was not good enough to go. This seemed rather strange, for they said they were going for the health of the baby and its mother. I did not know whether I was to go with them or with the old lady, who was to remain with a friend of hers at a town not far distant. (All this I learned by using—not my ears, for I have none, but my sense of hearing.) I rather hoped my fate would be the latter, for although I was anxious to travel, I thought I would be lonely without the old lady, who, though I could neither talk to her, nor understand all of her talk, had become very dear to me.

"THE BOUNDLESS OCEAN ALL AROUND US."

"Well, my pin-cushion was put in a satchel, and I felt myself rolling along in a carriage. Then I knew no more of where I was going, or what was happening around me, until one morning the satchel was opened, the cushion taken out, I was discovered, and put in the cuff of my mistress. She was in a queer little closet, with two shelves with bedclothes on them against the wall, and a little bit of a window high up.

"Then she went out, and soon I found that we were on the deck of a great steamship, with the boundless ocean all around us."

OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

M.—MORSE, SAMUEL FINLEY BREESE.

LONG before he reached the pinnacle of his fame, Samuel Finley Breese Morse passed many quiet summer hours on the pleasant wooded borders of the ravine overlooking the peaceful Sconondoah; and even to this day if you wander through the beautiful Sconondoah wood and hunt out its sequestered nooks, you will find here and there, cut deep in the rugged bark of old forest trees, the initials S. F. B. M., carved by his hand more than half a century ago.

Professor Morse was born at Charlestown, Mass., in 1791. He was the son of a Congregational clergyman, who was the author of a series of school geographies familiar to our fathers and mothers in their schooldays. He was educated at Yale College, and, intending to become a painter, went to London to study art under Benjamin West; but becoming interested in scientific studies he was for many years president of the National Academy of Design in New York. He resided abroad three or four years. On returning home in 1832 the conversation of some gentlemen on shipboard in regard to an experiment which had recently been tried in Paris with the electro-magnet, interested him and started a train of thought which gave him the conception of the idea of the telegraph. The question arose as to the length of time required for the fluid to pass through a wire one hundred feet long. Upon hearing the answer, that it was instantaneous, the thought suggested itself to Prof. Morse that it might be carried to any distance and be the means of transmitting intelligence. Acting upon the thought, he set to work, and before the ship entered New York harbor had conceived and made drawings of the telegraph. He plodded on through weary years endeavoring to bring his invention to perfection, meeting on every hand jeers and ridicule and undergoing many painful reverses in fortune; but for his indomitable will, he would have given up his project long before he succeeded in bringing it before the public, for all thought it a wild scheme which would amount to nothing.

In 1838 he applied to Congress for aid that he might form a line of communication between Washington and Baltimore. Congress was quite disposed to regard the scheme a humbug. But there was a wire stretched from the basement of the Capitol to the ante-room of the Senate Chamber, and after watching "the madman," as Prof. Morse was called, experiment, the committee to whom the matter was referred decided that it was not a humbug, and thirty thousand dollars was appropriated, enabling him to carry out his scheme. Over these wires on the 24th of May, 1844, he sent this message from the rooms of the U. S. Supreme Court to Baltimore: "What hath God wrought!" and connected with this message is quite a pretty little story. Having waited in the gallery of the Senate Chamber till late on the last night of the session to learn the fate of his bill, while a Senator talked against time, he at length became discouraged, and confident that the measure would not be reached that night went to his lodgings and made preparations to return to New York on the morrow. The next morning, at breakfast, a card was brought to him, and upon going to the parlor he found Miss Annie Ellsworth, the daughter of the Commissioner of Patents, who said she had come to congratulate him upon the passage of his bill. In his gladness he promised Miss Ellsworth that as she had been the one to bring him the tidings, she should be the first to send a message over the wires. And it was at her dictation that the words, "What hath God wrought?" were sent.

Success was now assured; honors and riches were his, and those who had been slow to believe in the utility of his invention were now proud of their countryman and delighted to do him homage. Upon going abroad again he was received more as a prince than as a plain American citizen, kings and their subjects giving him honor. It may be believed that even in his wildest flights of fancy Professor Morse did not dream of the rapid spread of the use of his invention, or look forward to the time within a few years, when the telegraph wires would weave together the ends of the world and form a network over the entire Continent.

Five years ago, the only telegraph wire in China was one about six miles in length, stretching from Shanghai to the sea, and used to inform the merchants of the arrival of vessels at the mouth of the river. A line from Pekin to Tientsin was opened a few months ago. The capital of Southern China is in communication with the metropolis of the North, and as Canton was connected by telegraph with the frontier of Tonquin at the outbreak of the late political troubles, the telegraph wires now stretch from Pekin to the most southern boundary of the Chinese Empire, and China, ever slow to adopt foreign ideas, is crossed and re-crossed by wires; we may say the thought which came to Prof. Morse upon that memorable voyage has reached out and taken in the whole world.

Faye Huntington.

HOW FATHER CURED HIS HORSE.

"WELL," exclaimed Reuben the story-teller, "father always wanted a horse, because the folks in Greene lived scattered, and he had so far to go to attend funerals, weddings and visit schools; but he never felt as if he could afford to buy one. But one day he was coming afoot from Hildreth, and a stranger asked him to ride.

"Father said: 'That's a handsome horse you're driving. I should like to own him myself.'

"'What will you give for him?' said the man.

"'Do you want to sell?' says father.

"'Yes, I do; and I'll sell cheap, too,' says he.

"'Oh, well,' says father, 'it's no use talking; for I haven't the money to buy with.'

"'Make an offer,' said he.

"'Well, just to put an end to the talk,' father says, 'I'll give you seventy-five dollars.'

"'You may have him,' says the man; 'but you'll repent of your bargain in a week.'

"'Why, what ails the horse?' says father.

"'Ails him? If he has a will to go, he'll go; but, if he takes a notion to stop, you can't start him. I've stood and beat that horse till the sweat ran off of me in streams; I've fired a gun close to his ears; I've burned shavings under him. But he wouldn't budge an inch.'

"'I'll take him,' says father; 'what's his name?'

"'George,' said the man.

"'I shall call him Georgie,' said father.

"Well, father brought him home, and we boys fixed a place for him in the barn, and curried him down and fed him well, and father said, 'Talk to him, boys, and let him know you feel friendly.'

"So we coaxed and petted him, and the next morning father harnessed him and got into the wagon to go. But Georgie wouldn't stir a step. Father got out and patted him, and we brought him apples and clover-tops; and once in a while father would say, 'Get up, Georgie,' but he didn't strike the horse a blow. By and by he says: 'This is going to take time. We'll see which has the most patience, you or I.' So he sat in the wagon and took out his skeletons"—

"Skeletons?" said Poppet, inquiringly.

"Of sermons, you know. Ministers always carry around a little book to put things into they think of when they are out walking or riding or hoeing in the garden.

"Well, father sat two full hours before the horse was ready to start; but, when he did, there was no more trouble for that day. The next morning 'twas the same thing over again, only Georgie give in a little sooner. All the while it seemed as if father couldn't do enough for the horse. He was round the stable, feeding him and fussing over him, and talking to him in his pleasant, gentle way; and the third morning, when he had fed and curried him and harnessed him with his own hands, somehow there was a different look in the horse's eyes. But when father was ready to go, Georgie put his feet together and laid his ears back, and wouldn't stir. Well, Dove was playing about the yard; and she brought her stool and climbed up by the horse's head. Dove, tell what you said to Georgie?"

"I gave him a talking to," said the little girl. "I told him it was perfectly 'diculous for him to act so; that he'd come to a real good place to live, where everybody helped everybody; that he was a minister's horse, and God would not love him if he was not a good horse. That's what I told him; then I kissed him on the nose."

"And what did Georgie do?"