The Pansy

Edited by "Pansy" (Mrs. G. R. Alden)

Transcriber's Note: Many of the advertising images are linked to larger copies to enable the reading of the fine print and details.

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Volume 13, Number 9. Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co. Jan. 2, 1886.

THE PANSY.

NEW YEAR'S FUN!

LIVES THAT TOUCHED.

PART II.

WHEN they reached their hotel, they had much to say about the brave little girl with a kind voice, and a strong arm. Daniel the cook knew at once by the description who they must be. "It will be Janet Burns, the fisherman's girl, Miss Celia; and a nicer one never breathed. The care she takes of them children; and the life they lead her!" The next morning the Raymond children left the shore, and went back to their city home. And they were sorry, for they wanted to see more of Janet. Weeks passed, and the business of Christmas time came again to the Raymonds. The box which the children were always allowed to send to whom they would, was being planned.

"We would like to send it to the fisherman's children down the coast; Janet, you know, and all her children; Daniel told us all about them." This was the verdict of both Celia and Annie, and to it they clung, in the face of all objections in the shape of not knowing what they needed, or how they would receive a gift. "They need everything, mamma; if you had seen them, you would know. And of course they will like it; who wouldn't like to have a Christmas box?" So the box went its way.

It was delayed, as boxes are apt to be, so it was Christmas morning when it reached the desolate little home where Janet lived. It was very desolate that day; and Janet who did not often lose her courage, had given up and cried. No work, and hungry mouths and worn-out clothes. That was the whole sad story. Positively, Christmas day as it was, there was not a mouthful in that house to eat! They had had some breakfast, but where the dinner was to come from none of them knew. The father, after sitting with his head leaning on his hands for awhile, had risen up very slowly as though he had grown old in a few hours, and said: "If worse comes to worst I can go to Daniel at the hotel and ask him for some cold pieces; but I do hate to beg."

Then he went out, to take one more look through the dreary little village in search of work. It was then the express wagon stopped at the door, and a great box was carried in. "Janet Burns" was the name in heavy black letters on the box. It was a work of time to get it open. The hammer, axe, an old file and a big old knife each had to be tried in turn. But at last it was open and the treasures began to come out.

Oh! the wonders of that box. Two plump fat chickens bearing in their breasts a card on which was written: "We are cooked all ready to be eaten; or, if you like us hot, just plump us into the oven a few minutes, for it is a cold day and we have come fifty miles by train."

A beautiful ham which had another card: "I'm boiled, and am very good eaten cold." A bag of potatoes which said: "We are not cooked, but if you will wash our coats and put us in your oven you will see how fast we will get ready for dinner." So, through the box. There were two pies, and a cake full of raisins, and a bag of nuts and candies. And there was a package over which Janet cried for joy; she had laughed about all the rest; but this had warm flannels, and three dresses for the baby; and two suits almost as good as new for the little girls; and a woollen blanket for father's bed, and could it be! Yes, there was a new dress for herself; besides this, there were stockings and shoes, and two flannel sacks, and I really have not time to tell you what else. But pinned into a corner of a pretty handkerchief which had Janet's name on it, was a shining bit of gold worth five dollars! Can you imagine Mr. Burns' face when he came back with a loaf of bread he had earned, not begged, a bit of dried beef, and found the table set, a chicken before his plate, flanked by a dish of potatoes in such a hurry to be eaten every one burst through their coats? All the talk there was during the next hour, would make a book in itself.

"And you ain't no notion where they came from?" he asked for the third or fourth time.

"Not the least in the world. One card says: 'From Santa Claus, to the little girl who takes good care of her brothers and sisters;' but who knows whether I take good care of them or not?"

"I suspect the Lord does," said Joseph Burns reverently, "and He has told some of his children to send you a Christmas box. We must thank the Lord, and trust to Him to pay the others. He will do it." But I cannot help thinking, what if Janet had been cross that windy day!

SIX O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING.

He did that which was right in the sight of the lord.

The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.

For unto this day they drink none, but obey their father's commandment.

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept when we remembered Zion.

"WHY, yes," said Grandma, with her finger on Rollo's verse, and her eyes tender with old memories, "I remember a story about that verse; and it is a story which I think likely I shall remember in Heaven."

"Let's hear it right away, if you please," Ralph said, and the others settled into quiet as soon as possible.

"It wasn't so very many years ago, not more than fifty-five," began Grandma, and then Rollo nudged Harold, and chuckled; and Marion looked with grave astonished eyes at a woman who thought fifty-five years was not a long, long time! But Grandma took no notice of them.

"Yes," she said, "it is just about fifty-five years ago. There was a pretty little boy whom I knew; he had yellow hair, and the bluest eyes, and he was a dear bright little fellow. One day he went visiting out to a nice old lady's who lived near his father's old place. While he was there, who should come along but two trim little girls who were out getting signers to the Total Abstinence Pledge. We called it the tetotal pledge in those days. There was quite an excitement about it in town. A man lectured every evening, and had meetings for the children afternoons, and gave them each pledge books, and the one who got the greatest number of signers was to have a medal with his name on. It wasn't a gold medal, but it shone, and had a nice blue ribbon to put around your neck; and the children all liked it.

"Well, these two came to aunt Patty's door and asked for signers. Aunt Patty invited them in and got out her quill pen which wasn't used very often, and she and her oldest girl, Prudence, put down their names. The little fellow stood looking on; he wasn't four years old yet, but he lived where he saw a great deal of writing going on, and behold he wanted to sign his name. Aunt Patty laughed, and tried to explain to him that he was too young; but he said No, he "writed" his name once when "favver" held his hand, and he wanted to do it again. That was true enough. One day his father bought him a picture book, and guided the pencil in his hand and let him put his name in it. After a good deal of coaxing, aunt Patty sat down and took him in her lap, and held that old quill, guiding it as well as she could, and he did get what looked something like his name in the book. It was very queer writing," said Grandma, stopping to laugh at the thought of it, with that same tender look in her eyes, "but the little fellow was just as proud of it as could be. He told of it the first thing when he went home, but his mother—oh! you don't know how badly she felt."

"Why?" interrupted Marion and Rollo. "Wasn't she a good mother?" asked Marion. "Didn't she believe in temperance?" asked Rollo.

"O, yes, she believed in temperance; but she had some very strong notions about promises. She wanted her little boy to understand all about it whenever he made one, and then to keep it as he would the eighth commandment; and she said he was too young to take a pledge, that he could not understand what it meant, and he would think that signing his name to a paper was a light thing, just for play. Why, children, she felt so badly about it that she just sat down and cried."

"Ho!" said Rollo, "I think she was foolish. I dare say he understood."

"Go on, Grandma," said Marion.

"Well, while the mother was crying, the father came home, and wanted to know all about it; and he thought as Rollo does, that the boy understood, or could be made to. He took him on his knee and they had a long talk all about drinking; what a dreadful thing it was, and about pledges, and then what should he tell him but this old story of the Rechabites; how they kept the promise made to their father, never forgetting it once; and how God was pleased, and rewarded them. Then he made the little fellow hold up his hand and say after him: 'Unto this day they drink none, but obey their father's commandment.' Then he explained that the paper the child had signed was a promise that he would obey his father's command and never touch liquor. 'I won't, favver,' the boy said; 'I'll 'member.' And he looked very earnest. But in two or three minutes he was playing with the cat; and his mother couldn't feel that he really understood much about it.

THE LITTLE FELLOW LOOKED ON.

"It was three years afterwards, and the little boy was seven years old—a beautiful child. One winter his mother was very sick, every one thought she would die; she was so low that she didn't know her own little boy, and she couldn't bear the least noise; so her boy was taken to his auntie's, and stayed there for weeks. One evening he was in the parlor with his uncle, there were three or four gentlemen there, and pretty soon cider was brought in. The little boy sat beside a gentleman who offered him a drink of cider from his glass; the boy refused politely; and the gentleman thinking he was timid, coaxed him. Then his uncle spoke up: 'That young man has never tasted cider, he tells me.' At this they all laughed; it was a very unusual thing in those days to find a child seven years old who had never tasted cider; it sounded almost as strange as it would to say now that one had never tasted water.

"The gentleman said that accounted for his not wanting some; that he did not know how good it was; so he urged him to just try a swallow, and kept coaxing until at last his uncle said, 'Try it, my boy; if you don't like it you need not take any more.' 'No, sir,' the boy said, 'I don't want to try it!' Well, then his uncle thought he was rude and disobedient and ought to be made to mind; so he said: 'I command you to take a swallow of it, my boy, and I am to be obeyed, you know.' What did that little seven-year-old baby do but get up in the middle of the floor, with his eyes flashing, and his cheeks glowing, and shout out in a loud strong voice: '"Unto this day they drink none, but obey their father's commandment," and I don't either. I promised, I did; and I never will; not if you whip me to death.' Then he burst out crying, and ran out of the room."

"Good for him!" said Rollo.

"Oh, hurrah!" said Harold.

"I am so glad!" said Marion. "I wonder what his mother thought then, if she ever heard of it. Did she get well, Grandma?"

"Yes, she got well; and was a proud and happy mother when she heard the story. But that is only the beginning of it. I saw that boy when he was a young man and came home from college as handsome as a picture, and I heard his father say to him: 'Well, my boy, they tell me most of the young men use liquor more or less; how do you get on with them?'

"And he looked around with his bright laughing eyes and said:

"'I'm all right, father; to this day I drink none, but obey my father's commandment. That pledge of mine ought to be printed in gold on my tombstone when I die, for it has held me in the midst of many temptations.'

"And there his mother thought he was too young to understand!"

And Grandma Burton actually wiped the tears from her eyes, though she was smiling yet.

"Grandma," said Marion, "what was that boy's name? You haven't spoken his name once."

"I guess something," said Ralph eagerly. "Wasn't his name Mott, Grandma?"

"Robert Mott Burton, that was his name, my darlings."

"Our own uncle Mott!" said astonished little Sarah.

"Then that's what makes him such a red-hot temperance man now, isn't it?" said Rollo. "Didn't he begin early, though?"

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

THE LONELY LITTLE GIRL.

IT was Christmas morning. Gracie Bennett had wakened early and scrambled out of bed to take a look about her room to see if Santa Claus had paid her a visit while she slept. Santa Claus had queer ways of doing things in the Bennett household. He left packages scattered about in the most unexpected places. He was always sure to leave one for each member of the family in the dining-room, to be opened at the breakfast table, but the children did not have to wait so long for the beginning of the day's surprises. And Gracie found several of these before she had taken half a dozen steps from her bed. Indeed there was a large box on the foot of the bed. In it she found the hat she had been longing for—just exactly like Maud Spencer's! And there in a smaller box was the necklace—and O, how lovely! The bangle bracelet—mamma did not fancy bangles and Gracie did not expect to get that. But mamma knew that little girls' tastes have to be cultivated considerably before they get beyond bangles, and after talking it over with papa she concluded that Gracie's last whim should be indulged since there was really no harm in it. On went the necklace, and on went the bracelet. "One, two, three, four, five, six—six hooks. Let me see—cousin Tom promised me a bangle and of course papa and mamma will each give me one, and Maud's will make four—O, I'll soon have enough to fill it. My! it is shivery here," and Gracie looked around for something to put about her; the furnace fire had run low and it was quite cold. A dressing-gown belonging to cousin Tom which Louise had brought in to mend, hung over a chair, and Gracie was soon arrayed in it. And finding herself quite comfortable she concluded not to go back to bed, but busied herself with her new treasures, saying, "Just as soon as the first bell rings I'll go and wish papa and mamma 'Merry Christmas!'" Presently the bell pealed through the house, and Gracie, arrayed in her new hat, made her first call. Then she pattered down the hall to cousin Tom's room to be first with Christmas greetings. Tom was up, and opening the door, drew her into his room.

"O, how nice! your grate burns lovely."

After the new hat, necklace and bangle bracelet had been duly admired, Tom and Gracie, his little cousin, sat down in the great arm chair to enjoy the bright fire and have one of their chats.

"Who are you going to make happy to-day?"

"Me? How can I make anybody happy?"

Tom smiled as he replied, "Do you not know that you make us all happy, just by being here?"

"O, I thought you meant something different."

"So I did, little one. There are a great many people in this city who have very little to make them happy, and you and I who have so much may make at least one heart joyful on this glad Christmas day, do you not think so?"

"If I knew how," said Gracie.

"We will try to find a way. I see you are quite dressed up this morning," referring to the dressing-gown. "Do you see my new one?"

"Yes; you are the one that is dressed up."

"I know a poor invalid to whom I mean to give the old one, and there is a little girl who has not a comfortable dress nor a pair of shoes."

"Nor any nice hat and bracelet?"

"No, I doubt if she has any hat or even a hood. I saw her out with an old shawl over her head."

Just then the second bell rang and Gracie was obliged to go and get ready for breakfast. Other surprises awaited her, but she was unusually thoughtful, and at last Louise said, "Gracie, what makes you so sober? Are you not satisfied?"

"O, yes; but I am thinking what I can give to a little girl who has nothing to make her happy to-day."

"I don't believe there are any such people," said Louise; "everybody manages to get about so much out of something, I guess. They may not have just what we have, but there's something."

"Do you believe that?" asked cousin Tom.

"Maybe not exactly, but there's no use in making a child like Gracie miserable over what she can't help," replied Louise, in a low tone.

"But she can help a little."

"I am going to help," said Gracie earnestly, having caught the drift of Tom's question. "I have made up my mind what I shall send the little girl cousin Tom told me about."

"Suppose I should take you to see her?"

"I should like that! If mamma will let me go."

"I think she will. Auntie, will you let me have Gracie for an hour this morning? I will take good care of her."

"O, mamma!" expostulated Louise, "he is going to take her among his poor people! She will be sure to get a fever or something!"

"I am going to take you, too," said Tom; "and I am not going to take either of you into any dangerous places."

Louise arched her eyebrows as she replied, "Going to take me! We'll see." But she went. She generally did whatever Tom suggested.

I am not certain whether it was the package of warm clothing, the basket containing the Christmas dinner, the toys which Gracie had packed, not forgetting a bead necklace, or the presence of the beautiful child and lovely young lady in that home, that brought the most of happiness upon that Christmas day to the sad heart of Karl Ritter and his lonely little girl. But this I do know, that the visitors carried away as much happiness as they brought, for Gracie declared it was the nicest Christmas she had ever spent, and even Louise confessed that there was a new joy in her heart that day, for she had tested the truth, "It is more blessed to give than to receive."

Faye Huntington.

GEORGIE AND JACK.

A SHIP lay becalmed on the ocean—
Of all beautiful, helpless things!
She lay like a wounded sea-bird
With motionless, snow-white wings.
Day after day had she lain there
With never a sail in sight;
A cloudless sky above her
Morning and noon and night.
Precious and rare was the cargo
Hidden deep in her hold,
To be borne to a Northern market
And changed into yellow gold.
But naught was that to the captain
Pacing the hot deck there,
To the little wife who was with him,
And the child with his sunny hair,
The child who under the awning
Lay moaning his life away,
The child who was going to leave him
Ere the close of that weary day.
There was another on that good ship
Whose race was nearly run,
A bronzed and grizzled sailor
Who would die ere the set of sun.
And they two had loved each other—
The sailor old and gray,
And dear little baby Georgie
Whose life was a summer day.
Was it only a childish fancy—
Or because he was worn and sad
That the sinful, weary pilgrim
Had been loved by the little lad?
A weak voice calls the captain:
"Papa, won't you please come here?"
"I am here—I am listening to you,
What is it, Georgie dear?"
"Papa, I want to see Jack,
And Jack wants to see me so—
Mamma says I am going to leave you,
I must see him before I go.
"Jack says that he has been wicked,
But I have been wicked too;
I think if God forgives me
He'll forgive him too, don't you?
"I taught him the prayer our Saviour said
And my last best little hymn,
And I think Jack is sorry,
So I sha'n't worry for him.
"But, papa, if they could bring him
And lay him down here by me,
And I might keep fast hold of his hand,
I could take him to Heaven with me."
They brought the grim old sailor
Whose life was so sad and wild,
And laid him under the awning
By the side of the little child.
When the sun passed his meridian
Little Georgie went away;
The old man lived till round and red
He dipped at the close of day.
But ere he went his faltering tongue
This prayer sent up from the sea:
"For Georgie's sake—for the sake of Thy Son,
Be merciful to me!"
They treasured the small white body
With its quiet little feet,
But they gave to the brown old sailor
A sailor's winding-sheet.
There came at length a blessed breeze
That filled the limp white sail
And tightened the creaking halyards
With the strength of a fair fresh gale.
So it came to pass as all things do,
That one fair and sunny day,
Proud and staunch in the harbor
The ship at her anchor lay.
But the captain bent to the sad white face
That rested against his arm,
And said, "Dear wife, little Georgie
Is safe from all sin and harm;
"His life was bright and beautiful,
With nothing its joy to dim,
He gladdened the heart of a sinful man,
And—'took him to Heaven with him.'
"We will bury his dust, little mother,
Under the trees at home,
But Georgie beholds the face of Him
Who said: 'Let the children come.'"
Emily Baker Smalle.

A CHRISTMAS GREETING.—A Christmas Story.

Volume 13, Number 10. Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co. Jan. 9, 1886.

THE PANSY.

MOTHER TOPKNOT AND HER FAMILY.

REACHING OUT.

(A Further Account of Nettie Decker and Her Friends.)
By Pansy.

CHAPTER III.

NEXT thing we want to do is to earn some money."

This, Jerry said, as he sat on the side step with Nettie, after sunset. They had been having a long talk, planning the campaign against the enemy, which they had made up their minds should be carried on with vigor. At least, they had been trying to plan; but that obstacle which seems to delight to step into the midst of so many plans and overturn them, viz. money, met them at every point. So when Jerry made that emphatic announcement, Nettie was prepared to agree with him fully; but none the less did she turn anxious eyes on him as she said:

"How can we?"

"I don't know yet," Jerry said, whistling a few bars of

Oh, do not be discouraged,

and stopping in the middle of the line to answer, "But of course there is a way. There was an old man who worked for my father, who used to say so often: 'Where there's a will there's a way,' that after awhile we boys got to calling him 'Will and Way' for short, you know; his name was John," and here Jerry stopped to laugh a little over that method of shortening a name; "but it was wonderful to see how true it proved; he would make out to do the most surprising things that even my father thought sometimes could not be done. We must make a way to earn some money."

Nettie laughed a little. "Well, I am sure," she said, "there is a will in this case; in fact, there are two wills; for you seem to have a large one, and I know if ever I was determined to do a thing I am now; but for all that I can't think of a possible way to earn a cent."

Now Sarah Ann Smith was at this moment standing by the kitchen window, looking out on the two schemers. Her sleeves were rolled above her elbow, for she was about to set the sponge for bread; she had her large neat work apron tied over her neat dress-up calico; and on her head was perched the frame out of which, with Nettie's skilful help, and some pieces of lace from her mother's old treasure bag, she meant to make herself a bonnet every bit as pretty as the one worn by Miss Sherrill the Sabbath before.

"Talk of keeping things seven years and they'll come good," said Mrs. Smith, watching with satisfaction while Nettie tumbled over the contents of the bag in eager haste and exclaimed over this and that piece which would be "just lovely." "I've kept the rubbish in that bag going on to twenty years, just because the pretty girls where I used to do clear-starching, gave them to me. I had no kind of notion what I should ever do with them; but they looked bright and pretty, and I always was a master hand for bright colors, and so whenever they would hand out a bit of ribbon or lace, and say, 'Cerinthy, do you want that?' I was sure to say I did; and chuck it into this bag; and now to think after keeping of them for more than twenty years, my girl should be planning to make a bonnet out of them! Things is queer! I don't ever mean to throw away anything. I never was much at throwing away; now that's a fact."

Now the truth was that Sarah Ann, left to herself, would as soon have thought of making a house out of the contents of that bag, as a bonnet; but Nettie Decker's deft fingers had a natural tact for all cunning contrivances in lace and silk, and her skill in copying what she saw, was something before which Sarah Ann stood in silent admiration; when, therefore, she offered to construct for Sarah Ann, out of the treasures of that bag, a bonnet which should be both becoming and economical, Sarah Ann's gratitude knew no bounds. She went that very afternoon to the milliner's to select her frame, and had it perched at that moment as I said, on her head, while she listened to the clear young voices under the window. She had a great desire to be helpful; but money was far from plenty at Job Smith's.

What was it which made her at that moment think of a bit of news which she had heard while at the milliner's? Why, nothing more remarkable than that the color of Nettie Decker's hair in the fading light was just the same as Mantie Horton's. But what made her suddenly speak her bit of news, interrupting the young planners? Ah, that Sarah Ann does not know; she only knows she felt just like saying it, so she said it.

"Mantie Horton's folks are all going to move to the city; they are selling off lots of things; I saw her this afternoon when I was at the milliner's, and she says about the only thing now that they don't know what to do with is her old hen and chickens; a nice lot of chicks as ever she saw, but of course they can't take them to the city. My! I should think they would feel dreadful lonesome without chickens, nor pigs, nor nothing! We might have some chickens as well as not, if we only had a place to keep 'em; enough scrapings come from the table every day, to feed 'em, most."

Before this sentence was concluded, Jerry had turned and given Nettie a sudden look as if to ask if she saw what he did; then he whistled a low strain which had in it a note of triumph; and the moment Sarah Ann paused for breath he asked: "Where do the Hortons live?"

"Why, out on the pike about a mile; that nice white house set back from the road a piece; don't you know? It is just a pleasant walk out there."

Then Sarah Ann turned away to attend to her bread, and as she did so her somewhat homely face was lighted by a smile; for an idea had just dawned upon her, and she chuckled over it: "I shouldn't wonder if those young things would go into business; he's got contrivance enough to make a coop, any day, and mother would let them have the scrapings, and welcome."

Sarah Ann was right; though Nettie, unused to country ways and plans, did not think of such a thing, Jerry did. The next morning he was up, even before the sun; in fact that luminary peeped at him just as he was turning into the long carriage drive which led finally to the Horton barnyard. There a beautiful sight met his eyes; a white and yellow topknot mother, and eight or ten fluffy chickens scampering about her. "They are nice and plump," said Jerry to himself; "I'm afraid I haven't money enough to buy them; but then, there is a great deal of risk in raising a brood of chickens like these; perhaps he will sell them cheap."

Farmer Horton was an early riser, and was busy about his stables when Jerry reached there. He was anxious to get rid of all his live stock, and be away as soon as possible, and here was a customer anxious to buy; so in much less time than Jerry had supposed it would take, the hen and chickens changed owners and much whistling was done by the new owner as he walked rapidly back to town to build a house for his family.

Mrs. Smith had been taken into confidence; so indeed had Job, before the purchase was made; but the whole thing was to be a profound surprise to Nettie. Therefore, she saw little of him that day, and I will not deny was a trifle hurt because he kept himself so busy about something which he did not share with her. But I want you to imagine, if you can, her surprise the next morning when just as she was ready to set the potatoes to frying, she heard Jerry's eager voice calling her to come and see his house.

"See what?" asked Nettie, appearing in the doorway, coffee pot in hand.

"A new house. I built it yesterday, and rented it; the family moved in last night. That is the reason I was so busy. I had to go out and help move them; and I must say they were as ill-behaved a set as I ever had anything to do with. The mother is the crossest party I ever saw; and she has no government whatever; her children scurry around just where they please."

"What are you talking about?" said astonished Nettie, her face growing more and more bewildered as he continued his merry description.

"Come out and see. It is a new house, I tell you; I built it yesterday; that is the reason I did not come to help you about the bonnet. Didn't you miss me? Sarah Ann thinks it is actually nicer than the one Miss Sherrill wore." And he broke into a merry laugh, checking himself to urge Nettie once more to come out and see his treasures.

"Well," said Nettie, "wait until I cover the potatoes, and set the teakettle off." This done she went in haste and eagerness to discover what was taking place behind Job Smith's barn. A hen and chickens! Beautiful little yellow darlings, racing about as though they were crazy; and a speckled mother clucking after them in a dignified way, pretending to have authority over them, when one could see at a glance that they did exactly as they pleased.

Then came a storm of questions. "Where? and When? and Why?"

"It is a stock company concern," exclaimed Jerry, his merry eyes dancing with pleasure. Nettie was fully as astonished and pleased as he had hoped. "Don't you know I told you yesterday we must plan a way to earn money? This is one way, planned for us. We own Mrs. Biddy; every feather on her knot, of which she is so proud, belongs to us, and she must not only earn her own living and that of her children, but bring us in a nice profit besides. Those are plump little fellows; I can imagine them making lovely pot pies for some one who is willing to pay a good price for them. Cannot you?"

"Poor little chickens," said Nettie in such a mournful tone that Jerry went off into shouts of laughter. He was a humane boy, but he could not help thinking it very funny that anybody should sigh over the thought of a chicken pot pie.

"NANNIE FOUND THEM," SHE EXPLAINED.

"Oh, I know they are to eat," Nettie said, smiling in answer to his laughter, "and I know how to make nice crust for pot pie; but for all that, I cannot help feeling sort of sorry for the pretty fluffy chickens. Are you going to fat them all, to eat; or raise some of them to lay eggs?"

"I don't know what we are going to do, yet," Jerry said with pointed emphasis on the we. "You see, we have not had time to consult; this is a company concern, I told you. What do you think about it?"

Nettie's cheeks began to grow a deep pink; she looked down at the hurrying chickens with a grave face for a moment, then said gently: "You know, Jerry, I haven't any money to help buy the chickens, and I cannot help own what I do not help buy; they are your chickens, but I shall like to watch them and help you plan about them."

Jerry sat down on an old nail keg, crossed one foot over the other, and clasped his hands over his knees, as Job Smith was fond of doing, and prepared for argument:

"Now, see here, Nettie Decker, let us understand each other once for all; I thought we had gone into partnership in this whole business; that we were to fight that old fiend Rum, in every possible way we could; and were to help each other plan, and work all the time, and in all ways we possibly could. Now if you are tired of me and want to work alone, why, I mustn't force myself upon you."

"O, Jerry!" came in a reproachful murmur from Nettie, whose cheeks were now flaming.

"Well, what is a fellow to do? You see you hurt my feelings worse than old Mother Topknot did this morning when she pecked me; I want to belong, and I mean to; but all that kind of talk about helping to buy these half-dozen little puff-balls is all nonsense, and a girl of your sense ought to be ashamed of it."

Said Nettie, "O, Jerry, I smell the potatoes; they are scorching!" and she ran away. Jerry looked after her a moment, as though astonished at the sudden change of subject, then laughed, and rising slowly from the nail-keg addressed himself to the hen.

"Now, Mother Topknot, I want you to understand that you belong to the firm; that little woman who was just here is your mistress, and if you peck her and scratch her as you did me, this morning, it will be the worse for you. You are just like some people I have seen; haven't sense enough to know who is your best friend; why, there is no end to the nice little bits she will contrive for you and your children, if you behave yourself; for that matter, I suspect she would do it whether you behaved yourself or not; but that part it is quite as well you should not understand. I want you to bring these children up to take care of themselves, just as soon as you can; and then you are to give your attention to laying a nice fresh egg every morning; and the sooner you begin, the better we shall like it." Then he went in to breakfast.

There was no need to say anything more about the partnership. Nettie seemed to come to the conclusion that she must be ashamed of herself or her pride in the matter; and after a very short time grew accustomed to hearing Jerry talk about "Our chicks," and dropped into the fashion of caring for and planning about them. None the less was she resolved to find some way of earning a little money for her share of the stock company. Curiously enough it was Susie and little Sate who helped again. They came in one morning, with their hands full of the lovely field daisies. The moment Nettie looked at the two little faces, she knew that a dispute of some sort was in progress. Susie's lips were curved with that air of superior wisdom, not to say scorn, which she knew how to assume; and little Sate's eyes were full of the half-grieved but wholly positive look which they could wear on occasion.

SARAH ANN.

"What is it?" Nettie asked, stopping on her way to the cellar with a nice little pat of butter which she was saving for her father's supper. Butter was a luxury which she had decided the children at least, herself included, must not expect every day.

"Why," said Susie, her eyes flashing her contempt of the whole thing, "she says these are folks; old women with caps, and eyes, and noses, and everything; she says they look at her, and some of them are pleasant, and some are cross. She is too silly for anything. They don't look the least bit in the world like old women. I told her so, fifty-eleven times, and she keeps saying it!"

Nettie held out her hand for the bunch of daisies and looked at them carefully, and laughed.

"Can't you see them?" was little Sate's eager question. "They are just as plain! Don't you see them a little bit of a speck, Nannie?"

"Of course she doesn't!" said scornful Susie. "Nobody but a silly baby like you would think of such a thing."

"I don't know," said Nettie, still smiling, "I don't think I see them as plain as Sate does, but maybe we can, after awhile; wait till I get my butter put away, and I'll put on my spectacles and see what I can find."

So the two waited, Susie incredulous and disgusted, Sate with a hopeful light in her eyes, which made Nettie very anxious to find the old ladies. On her way up stairs she felt in her pocket for the pencil Jerry had sharpened with such care the evening before; yes, it was there, and the point was safe. Jerry had made a neat little tube of soft wood for it to slip into, and so protect itself.

"Now, let us look for the old lady," she said, taking a daisy in hand and retiring to the closet window for inspection; it was the work of a moment for her fingers which often ached for such work, to fashion a pair of eyes, a nose, and a mouth; and then to turn down the white petals for a cap border, leaving two under the chin for strings!

"Does your old lady look anything like that?" she questioned, as she came out from her hiding place. Little Sate looked, and clasped her hands in an ecstacy of delight: "Look, Susie, look, quick! there she is, just as plain! O Nannie! I'm so glad you found her."

"Humph!" said Susie, "she made her with a pencil; she wasn't there at all; and there couldn't nobody have found her. So!"

And to this day, I suppose it would not be possible to make Susie Decker believe that the spirits of beautiful old ladies hid in the daisies! Some people cannot see things, you know, show them as much as you may.

But Nettie was charmed with the little old woman. She left the potatoes waiting to be washed, and sat down on the steps with eager little Sate, and made old lady after old lady. Some with spectacles, and some without. Some with smooth hair drawn quietly back from quiet foreheads, some with the old-fashioned puffs and curls which she had seen in old, old pictures of "truly" grandmothers. What fun they had! The potatoes came near being forgotten entirely. It was the faithful old clock in Mrs. Smith's kitchen which finally clanged out the hour and made Nettie rise in haste, scattering old ladies right and left. But little Sate gathered them, every one, holding them with as careful hand as though she feared a rough touch would really hurt their feelings, and went out to hunt Susie and soothe her ruffled dignity. She did not find Susie; that young woman was helping Jerry nail laths on the chicken coop; but she found her sweet-faced Sabbath-school teacher, who was sure to stop and kiss the child, whenever she passed. To her, Sate at once showed the sweet old women. "Nannie found them," she explained; "Susie could not see them at all, and she kept saying they were not there; but Nannie said she would make them look plainer so Susie could see, and now Susie thinks she made them out of a pencil; but they were there, before, I saw them."

"Oh, you quaint little darling!" said Miss Sherrill, kissing her again. "And so your sister Nettie made them plainer for you. I must say she has done it with a skilful hand. Sate dear, would you give one little old woman to me? Just one; this dear old face with puffs, I want her very much."

So Sate gazed at her with wistful, tender eyes, kissed her tenderly, and let Miss Sherrill carry her away.

She carried her straight to the minister's study, and laid her on the open page of a great black commentary which he was studying. "Did you ever see anything so cunning? That little darling of a Sate says Nannie 'found' her; she doesn't seem to think it was made, but simply developed, you know, so that commoner eyes than hers could see it; that child was born for a poet, or an artist, I don't know which. Tremayne, I'm going to take this down to the flower committee, and get them to invite Nettie to make some bouquets of dear old grandmothers, and let little Sate come to the flower party and sell them. Won't that be lovely? Every gentleman there will want a bouquet of the nice old ladies in caps, and spectacles; we will make it the fashion; then they will sell beautifully, and the little merchant shall go shares on the proceeds, for the sake of her artist sister."

"It is a good idea," said the minister. "I infer from what that handsome boy Jerry has told me, that they have some scheme on hand which requires money. I am very much interested in those young people, my dear. I wish you would keep a watch on them, and lend a helping hand when you can."

NEVER GIVE UP.

WILLIAM J. was the son of a very poor man. He was born near sawmills and shipyards. His home was humble, but piety and industry were seen there. William made up his mind that he would have an education. His motto was, "No such word as fail." He did not have the chances that you have in these good days. No, indeed, to get an education meant to him hard work, hard work! When working in the shipyard he often had a book open before him, and thus every golden moment was improved. What do you think he used at night, in the winter, for his lamp? Can you guess? A pine knot! And in summer his lamp was the light of the moon. Once he rode thirty miles to attend a spelling match.

When sixteen he opened a little school, and the next thing was to study Latin and Greek. The boy had set his heart on college, and it almost looks as though a boy can accomplish anything with such a motto as poor William's. He borrowed some Latin and Greek books, and set hard to work. Soon his dear parents died, and so the care of a brother and sister fell upon him. On entering college he found that he had worked too hard—for his eyes so failed that he had to leave off study and wear a green shade, but still he would not give up. He got his room-mate to read to him. He not only pushed through college himself, but helped his brother through also. Amid all these difficulties he graduated with high honors, became a professor in the same college, and was ever found in the path of duty and rectitude. Remember William, my little ones, and resolve on some plan of life, and pursue it with all your heart and soul.

Ringwood.

RECITATION FOR JANUARY 1, 1886.

THE NEW YEAR.

IT tolls from the tower, a midnight strain,
Tolls the bell, telling us well
That "Eighty-five" has gone away;
That he ended his life this very day.
That he could with us no longer stay.
Ah, solemnly sounds the sad refrain,
As the tolling bell doth the sad news tell.

A NEW YEAR'S BREAKFAST.

Volume 13, Number 11. Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co. Jan. 16, 1886.

THE PANSY.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

ARTHUR IN THE MUSEUM.

MR. ESSEX and his son Arthur had spent an hour riding through the park. For a change, they entered the museum to see the curiosities there. Arthur preferred the great hall where the animals were confined in their iron cages. He never tired of gazing at the glaring eyes of the tiger, and watching his tread round and round his prison, as if to find some way out. Now and then he would utter a terrible growl that would make Arthur tremble. Near by lay asleep "the king of the forest," as the lion is called. And a little farther yet was the monkey department.

THE STUFFED DONKEY.

Once there, laughing at their funny pranks, Arthur cared not to go a step further or see anything else. Suddenly looking around he exclaimed, "Father, do see that queer chap up there, making faces and shaking his head at some of us. I wonder what he would do if he could get at us."

"Scratch your eyes out, maybe," said a strange voice.

Arthur started at the unaccustomed tones and searched anxiously the many faces for his father's, but it was not among them. Where was he? Was Arthur alone? Had his father left him in such a place?

He pressed his way out of the throng, hurried this way and that, wondering what he should do, when to his great joy there sat his father looking up at a donkey that stood in a high place calmly contemplating the people below.

"Why, father," broke out Arthur, "I feared I or you was lost. But what are you doing in this spot, looking at that stupid beast? Did you never see a donkey before?"

"Not such a donkey," was the answer.

"Umph! what's a donkey pray, but—a donkey? Stubborn, ugly thing. Come and see the monkeys and enjoy yourself. All the people are there. They are cutting up enough to make you laugh yourself to pieces."

"And yet, my boy, there is more in that dead, stuffed donkey to interest your father than all the rest of this museum and every monkey in Africa to boot. You see the donkey has not a very beautiful face, neither is his motion the most rapid or graceful, and sometimes he is a bit stubborn, though that is because he is cruelly treated, yet the world of business could get on quite well without tigers and monkeys; not so well without donkeys. They are not for show, but for work, like some plain folks whose hands are rough doing other people good."

"But what about this donkey? I never saw one in a museum before."

"And you may never again. This one wrote his own history, and he did it in five minutes, and with his heels!"

"How in the world was that?" asked Arthur.

"That donkey, I am told, was at work in the park. A lion broke from his cage. He was hungry. He saw the donkey as he went leaping through the grounds and sprang upon him. A terrible fight followed. The donkey had neither teeth nor claws like the lion to defend himself. He could not get away. But God had given him great strength—so, with a mighty effort, he shook off his enemy and quickly turning, dealt him rapid and strong kicks, planting his blows between the eyes of the lion and tumbling him into an abyss, where the stunned beast died from his wounds. The brave donkey, however, was so dreadfully cut here and there by the lion's teeth that he soon bled to death.

"The battle was witnessed by many amid great excitement. Their sympathy was all with the donkey who was only doing what every one should do when attacked by a bloodthirsty foe—defend themselves.

"Such was the admiration for this beast which you call ugly and stubborn, that as soon as he died, a taxidermist who makes it his business to preserve the skins of animals and give them a life-like look, took this donkey in charge and there you see him.

"Here I've been sitting for one long hour looking at this stuffed beast. And I've been wondering how many of all that crowd over there by the monkeys would do and die if necessary for some noble cause. Would you, my boy?" said Mr. Essex, giving Arthur a searching look.

"God helping me," he answered, "I'll try to be right and true everywhere and every time. I should be ashamed to be outdone by a donkey."

C. M. L.

MANUFACTURE OF SILVER SPOONS.

PROBABLY there is no article of table or of other household use in the production of which so little of machine working is employed. Almost all the work on solid silver spoons is hand work; the exceptions are the rolling of the ingot into plates, and the production of spoons with ornamentation in relief, which is produced by recessed patterns on the rolls.

The material for spoons is coin silver obtained from the Government mints in ingots, or from trade for old silver, or from the use of current coin. This is melted over a charcoal fire in plumbago crucibles to a certain heat, known to the adept by the appearance of the surface of the molten metal; it is poured into castiron moulds, forming bars of about seventy ounces each.

These bars are heated over a forge fire of charcoal and worked on the anvil by hammer and sledge, precisely as iron or steel is worked, or are rolled into plates or ribbons. Occasional annealings are necessary to prevent cracking.

The ribbon for the ordinary teaspoon is four and a half inches long by three eighths of an inch wide. When rolled, a blank of two and a quarter inches is lengthened to four and a half inches, to thin it down to spoon thickness. Before rolling or hammering, silver is very nearly as soft as lead; but with these mechanical processes it can be made hard and rigid. Good springs can be made of silver hammered or rolled.

To form the bowl of the teaspoon, the bar, of three eighths of an inch wide and less than three thirty-seconds of an inch thick, is hammered flat on an anvil with a crowning face until the workman has spread it into an oval, which is much thinner in the middle than at the edges, as the edges are to receive the bulk of the wear. The handles are formed also by the hammer.

The curvature of the bowl is produced by repeated "coaxing" blows by a steel punch and a die of cast composition of lead and tin. No file dressing is employed on the faces of the spoon; only the edges are file-dressed to form. From the anvil and the die the spoons come to hand-smoothing with Scotch gray stones and polishing by stiff brushes, generally revolving brushes charged with "grits" and oil. Burnishing is the finish of spoons as of all bright silver goods.

A LITTLE STUDY IN ANATOMY.

HOW many bones in the human face?
Fourteen, when they're all in place.
How many bones in the human head?
Eight, my child, as I've often said.
How many bones in the human ear?
Four in each, and they help to hear.
How many bones in the human spine?
Twenty-four, like a climbing vine.
How many bones in the human chest?
Twenty-four ribs, and two of the rest.
How many bones the shoulders bind?
Two in each—one before, one behind.
How many bones in the human arm?
In each arm one; two in each forearm.
How many bones in the human wrist?
Eight in each, if none are missed.
How many bones in the palm of the hand?
Five in each, with many a band.
How many bones in the fingers ten?
Twenty-eight, and by joints they bend.
How many bones in the human hip?
One in each; like a dish they dip.
How many bones in the human thigh?
One in each, and deep they lie.
How many bones in the human knees?
One in each, the kneepan, please.
How many bones in the leg from the knee?
Two in each, we can plainly see.
How many bones in the ankle strong?
Seven in each, but none are long.
How many bones in the ball of the foot?
Five in each, as the palms are put.
How many bones in the toes, half a score?
Twenty-eight, and there are no more.
And now altogether these many bones wait,
And they count, in a body, two hundred and eight.
And then we have in the human mouth,
Of upper and under, thirty-two teeth.
And now and then have a bone, I should think,
That forms on a joint or to fill up a chink—
A Sesamoid bone or a Wormian, we call.
And now we may rest, for we've told them all.
—Christian at Work.

MR. LINCOLN AND TAD.

OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

L.—LINCOLN, ABRAHAM.

OF course; who should it be if not our Lincoln? The name is a household word in all our homes, and I doubt if I can tell you anything which you do not already know about this great man; the story of his life and his deeds are familiar to every schoolboy. His features are well known to you all, for there is scarcely a home that has not his portrait upon its walls.

In 1809 Abraham Lincoln was born in a lonely cabin on the banks of a small river or creek in Kentucky; born to poverty, hardship and obscurity, born to rise from obscurity, through poverty, hardship and toil to the highest point of an American boy's ambition. He early learned the meaning of privation and self-denial. The accounts of his early life are somewhat meagre, but he has told us himself that he had only about one year of school-life. Think of that, you boys who are going steadily forward year after year, from the primary school through all the intermediate grades up to the advanced, then to the academy, thence to college, and afterwards to law and divinity schools, think of Abraham Lincoln's school privileges and be thankful for your own. And more, show your appreciation by your improvement of your advantages.

Like many of our great men, Lincoln was what we style a self-made man, and yet it seems that he owed something of his making to his stepmother. His own mother died when he was a small boy, and the new mother who sometime after came into the family was very helpful to the boy, encouraging him in his love of books, and under her guidance he became a great reader, devouring every book he could lay his hands upon. Did it ever occur to you that it might be an advantage to some of us if we had fewer books? Driven back again and again to the few, we should read them more carefully and make the thoughts our own, and perhaps the stock of ideas gathered from books would even exceed that which we gain from the multitude of books we have in these days of bookmaking. Whether you read much or little, few books or many, boys, read with careful thought. Take in and digest thoroughly the thoughts presented to you.

Well, this young man had but few books, but he seems to have laid by a number of ideas which should develop in time into acts which were to startle the world and overthrow existing institutions. He worked through his boyhood and early manhood with his hands, sometimes on a farm, sometimes as a clerk in a country store. Now as a boatman, now at clearing up and fencing a farm.

LINCOLN'S EARLY HOME IN KENTUCKY.

It was while engaged in this last-mentioned employment that he earned the title afterwards given him in derision by his political opponents, "The rail splitter," but I suspect that he could have answered as did the boy who in the days of prosperity was taunted with having been a bootblack, "Didn't I do it well?"

LINCOLN'S FIRST HOUSE IN ILLINOIS.

At length the way opened—or, as I think, he by his exertions forced a way to study law, and he began his practice of the profession in Springfield, Ill.

I ought to have told you, however, that before his admission to the bar he served in the Black Hawk War as captain of a company of volunteers. He soon gained distinction as a lawyer, but presently became interested in politics.

And from that time his history is closely identified with that of his country. To tell you of the leading incidents even of his career would be to give you in a nutshell the history of the United States for that period. His noted contest with Stephen A. Douglas, his election to the presidency, his re-election, his celebrated Emancipation Proclamation, all these matters belong to the story of the stirring events of those years of our history. Then came the sad ending of this noble life; the cruel assassination of the beloved President, and the great man of the time.

Boys, you who have studied his character, will you tell me what made Abraham Lincoln great?

Faye Huntington.

FLATBOAT.

Be good, dear child, and let who will be clever;
Do noble things, not dream them all day long;
And so make life, death, and that vast forever
One grand, sweet song.

MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE.

III.—A STRANGE HISTORY.

BY Paranete.

I WAS born, as you might say," began the pin, "in two different places, which I suppose you must think is very queer, but I assure you it is true. You see I am composed of two different kinds of metal, and one kind came from the State of Minnesota, in this country, and the other from the country of Wales, in the British Isles. The first kind is copper, and the second is zinc. Also, if you ask your mother what I am made of, she will say brass. I will tell you about my early history. My first part was born deep down in the earth, in Minnesota. One day the stone I was in heard a great pounding, and soon it was brought to light. It was piled into a car, with many other stones of its kind, and was taken a long way off where the car dumped it into a hole; then great hammers came down and crushed it, with others, into little bits of pieces. Then it was taken out, burned, put in a lot of liquids about which I do not know, till it came out a beautiful shining sheet of copper; that's all I know of my first part.