VOL. V. No. 3. The Project Gutenberg EBook of St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5, January 1878, No. 3, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5, January 1878, No. 3 Author: Various Editor: Mary Mapes Dodge Release Date: September 28, 2006 [EBook #19399] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST. NICHOLAS MAGAZINE *** Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Paul Ereaut and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net TWO WAYS OF CARRYING THE MAIL. [See Letter-Box.] ST. NICHOLAS. JANUARY, 1878. [Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.] THE RAVENS AND THE ANGELS. HOW THE PONY WAS TAKEN. MERRY MIKE. [Pg 169] AN AGREEABLE GUEST. NEW-YEAR CARD. HOW KITTY GOT HER NEW HAT. THE STORK AND THE CRANE: A FABLE. WINTER FIRE-FLIES. THE ARMS OF GREAT BRITAIN. UNDER THE LILACS. Chapter IV. Chapter V. Chapter VI. MUSIC ON ALL FOURS. A LETTER TO AMERICAN BOYS. ANNIE AND THE BALLS. A MODERN WILLIAM TELL. THE KING AND THE THREE TRAVELERS. SOMETHING IN THE OLD CLOTHES LINE. TOMMY'S DREAM; OR, THE GEOGRAPHY DEMON. THE TOWER MOUNTAIN HOW TO MAKE AN ICE-BOAT. DEBBY'S CHRISTMAS. THE COOLEST MAN IN RUSSIA. SKATING THREE SMART LITTLE FOXES. JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. THE LETTER-BOX. THE RIDDLE-BOX. ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN DECEMBER NUMBER. THE RAVENS AND THE ANGELS. (A Story of the Middle Ages.) By the Author of "Chronicles of the Schönberg-Cotta Family." I. In those old days, in that old city, they called the cathedral—and they thought it—the house of God. The cathedral was the Father's house for all, and therefore it was loved and honored, and enriched with lavish treasures of wealth and work, beyond any other father's house. The cathedral was the Father's house, and, therefore, close to its gates might nestle the poor dwellings of the poor,—too poor to find a shelter anywhere besides; because the central life and joy of the house of God was the suffering, self- sacrificing Son of Man; and dearer to Him, now and forever, as when He was on earth, was the feeblest and most fallen human creature He had redeemed than the most glorious heavenly constellation of the universe He had made. And so it happened that when Berthold, the stone-carver, died, Magdalis, his young wife, and her two children, then scarcely more than babes, Gottlieb and little Lenichen, were suffered to make their home in the little wooden shed which had once sheltered a hermit, and which nestled into the recess close to the great western gate of the minster. Thus, while inside from the lofty aisles pealed forth, night and day, the anthems of the choir, close outside, night and day, rose also, even more surely to God, the sighs of a sorrowful woman and the cries of little children whom all her toil could hardly supply with bread. Because, He hears the feeblest wail of want, though it comes not from a dove or even from a harmless sparrow, but a young raven. And He does not heed the sweetest anthem of the fullest choir, if it is a mere pomp of sound. Because, while the best love of His meanest creatures is precious to Him, the second-best of His loftiest creatures is intolerable to Him. He heeds the shining of the drops of dew and the rustling of the blades of grass. But from creatures who can love he cannot accept the mere outside offering of creatures which can only make a pleasant sound. All this, or such as this, the young mother Magdalis taught her babes as they could bear it. For they needed such lessons. The troubles of the world pressed on them very early, in the shape little children can understand—little hands and feet nipped with frost, hunger and darkness and cold. Not that the citizens of that city were hypocrites, singing the praises of God, whilst they let His dear Lazaruses vainly crave at His gates for their crumbs. But Magdalis was very tender and timid, and a little proud; proud not for herself, but for her husband and his babes. And she was also feeble in health. She was an orphan herself, and she had married, against the will of her kindred in a far-off city, the young stone-carver, whose genius they did not appreciate, whose labor and skill had made life so rich and bright to them while he lived, and whose early death had left them all so desolate. For his dear sake, she would not complain. For herself it had been easier to die, and for his babes she would not bring the shame of beggary on them. Better for them to enter into this life maimed of strength, she thought, by meager food, than tainted with the taint of beggary. Rather, she thought, would their father himself have seen them go hungry to bed than deserve that the fingers of other children should be pointed scornfully at them as "the little beggars by the church door," the door of the church in which she gloried to think there were stones of his carving. So she toiled on, carving for sale little devotional symbols—crosses, and reliquaries, and lilies and lambs—with the skill she had learnt from him, and teaching the little ones, as best she could, to love and work and suffer. Teaching them only, perhaps, not quite enough to hope. For the lamp of hope burnt low in her own heart, and therefore her patience, not being enough the patience of hope, lacked something of sweetness. It never broke downward into murmurs, but it too seldom soared upward into praise. So it happened that one frosty night, about Christmas-tide, little Gottlieb lay awake, very hungry, on the ledge of the wall, covered with straw, which served him for a bed. It had once been the hermit's bed. And very narrow Gottlieb thought it must have been for the hermit, for more than once he had been in peril of falling over the side, in his restless tossings. He supposed the hermit was too good to be restless, or perhaps too good for the dear angels to think it good for him to be hungry, as they evidently did think it good for Gottlieb and Lenichen, or they would be not good angels at all, not even as kind as the ravens which took the bread to Elijah when they were told. For the dear Heavenly Father had certainly told the angels always to take care of little children. The more Gottlieb lay awake and tossed and thought, the further off the angels seemed. For, all the time, under the pillow lay one precious crust of bread, the last in the house until his mother should buy the loaf to-morrow. He had saved it from his supper in an impulse of generous pity for his little sister, who so often awoke, crying with hunger, and woke his poor mother, and would not let her go to sleep again. He had thought how sweet it would be, when Lenichen awoke the next morning, to appear suddenly, as the angels do, at the side of the bed where she lay beside her mother, and say: "Dear Lenichen! See, God has sent you this bit of bread as a Christmas gift." For the next day was Christmas Eve. This little plan made Gottlieb so happy that at first it felt as good to him as eating the bread. But the happy thought, unhappily, did not long content the hungry animal part of him, which craved, in spite of him, to be filled; and, as the night went on, he was sorely tempted to eat the precious crust—his very own crust—himself. "Perhaps it was ambitious of me, after all," he said to himself, "to want to seem like a blessed angel, a messenger of God, to Lenichen. Perhaps, too, it would not be true. Because, after all, it would not be exactly God who sent the crust, but only me." And with the suggestion, the little hands which had often involuntarily felt for the crust, brought it to the hungry little mouth. But at that moment it opportunely happened that his mother made a little moan in her sleep, which half awakened Lenichen, who murmured, sleepily, "Little mother, mother, bread!" Whereupon, Gottlieb blushed at his own ungenerous intention, and resolutely pushed back the crust under the pillow. And then he thought it must certainly have been the devil who had tempted him to eat, and he tried to pray. He prayed the "Our Father" quite through, kneeling up softly in bed, and lingering fondly, but not very hopefully, on the "Give us our daily bread." And then again he fell into rather melancholy reflections how very often he had prayed that same prayer and been hungry, [Pg 170] and into distracting speculations how the daily bread could come, until at last he ventured to add this bit of his own to his prayers: "Dear, holy Lord Jesus, you were once a little child, and know what it feels like. If Lenichen and I are not good enough for you to send us bread by the blessed angels, do send us some by the poor ravens. We would not mind at all, if they came from you, and were your ravens, and brought us real bread. And if it is wrong to ask, please not to be displeased, because I am such a little child, and I don't know better, and I want to go to sleep!" Then Gottlieb lay down again, and turned his face to the wall, where he knew the picture of the Infant Jesus was, and forgot his troubles and fell asleep. The next morning he was awaked, as so often, by Lenichen's little bleat; and he rose triumphantly, and took his crust to her bedside. Lenichen greeted him with a wistful little smile, and put up her face for a kiss; but her reception of the crust was somewhat disappointing. She wailed a little because it was "hard and dry," and when Gottlieb moistened it with a few drops of water, she took it too much, he felt, as a mere common meal, a thing of course, and her natural right. He had expected that, in some way, the hungry hours it had cost him would have been kneaded into it, and made it a kind of heavenly manna for her. To him it had meant hunger, and heroism, and sleepless hours of endurance. It seemed strange that to Lenichen it should seem nothing more than a hard, dry, common crust. But to the mother it was much more. She understood all; and, because she understood so much, she said little. She only smiled, and said he looked more than ever like his father; and as he sat musing rather sadly while she was dressing, and Lenichen had fallen asleep again, she pointed to the little peaceful sleeping face, the flaxen hair curling over the dimpled arm, and she said: "That is thy thanks—just that the little one is happy. The dear Heavenly Father cares more, I think, for such thanks than for any other; just to see the flowers grow, just to hear the birds sing to their nestlings, just to see His creatures good and happy, because of His gifts. Those are about the best thanks for Him and for us." But Gottlieb looked up inquiringly. "Yet He likes us to say 'Thank you,' too? Did you not say all the Church services, all the beautiful cathedral itself, is just the people's 'Thank you' to God? Are we not going to church just to say 'Thank you,' to-day?" "Yes, darling," she said. "But the 'thank you' we mean to say is worth little unless it is just the blossom and fragrance of the love and content always in the heart. God cares infinitely for our loving Him, and loves us to thank Him if we do. He does not care at all for the thanks without the love, or without the content." And as she spoke these words, Mother Magdalis was preaching a little sermon to herself also, which made her eyes moisten and shine. So she took courage, and contrived to persuade the children and herself that the bread-and-water breakfast that Christmas Eve morning had something quite festive about it. And when they had finished with a grace which Gottlieb sang, and Lenichen lisped after him, she told him to take the little sister on his knee and sing through his songs and hymns, while she arrayed herself in the few remnants of holiday dress left her. And as she cleaned and arranged the tiny room, her heart was lighter than it had been for a long time. "I ought to be happy," she said to herself, "with music enough in my little nest to fill a church." When Gottlieb had finished his songs, and was beginning them over again, there was a knock at the door, and the face of old Hans, the dwarf, appeared at the door, as he half opened it. "A good Christmas to thee and thy babes, Mother Magdalis! Thy son is born indeed with a golden spoon in his mouth," croaked old Hans in his hoarse, guttural voice. The words grated on Magdalis. Crooked Hans' jokes were apt to be as crooked as his temper and his poor limbs, and to give much dissatisfaction, hitting on just the sore points no one wanted to be touched. She felt tempted to answer sharply, but the sweet Christmas music had got into her heart, and she only said, with tears starting to her eyes: "If he was, neighbor, all the gold was lost and buried long ago." "Not a bit of it!" rejoined Hans. "Didn't I hear the gold ring this very instant? The lad has gold in his mouth, I say! Give him [Pg 171] to me, and you shall see it before night." She looked up reproachfully, the tears fairly falling at what she thought such a cruel mockery from Hans, who knew her poverty, and had never had from her or hers the rough words he was too used to from every one. "The golden days are over for me," was all she said. "Nay! They have yet to begin," he replied. "Your Berthold left more debtors than you know, Frau Magdalis. And old Hans is one of them. And Hans never forgets a debt, black or white. Let the lad come with me, I say. I know the choir- master at the cathedral. And I know he wants a fine high treble just such as thy Gottlieb's, and will give anything for it. For if he does not find one, the Cistercians at the new convent will draw away all the people, and we shall have no money for the new organ. They have a young Italian, who sings like an angel, there; and the young archduchess is an Italian, and is wild about music, and lavishes her gifts wherever she finds it good." Magdalis looked perplexed and troubled. "To sell the child's voice seems like selling part of himself, neighbor," she said at length; "and to sell God's praises seems like selling one's own soul." "Well, well! Those are thy proud burgher notions," said Hans, a little nettled. "If the Heavenly Father pleases to give thee and the little ones a few crumbs for singing His matins and evensong, it is no more than He does for the robins, or, for that matter, for the very ravens, such as me, that croak to Him with the best voice they have." At these words, Gottlieb, who had been listening very attentively, gently set little Lenichen down, and, drawing close to Hans, put his little hand confidingly in his. "I will go with neighbor Hans, mother!" he said, decisively. "The dear Lord himself has sent him." "Thou speakest like a prophet," said the mother, smiling tenderly at his oracular manner, "a prophet and a king in one. Hast thou had a vision? Is thy will indeed the law of the land?" "Yes, mother," he said, coloring, "the dear Lord Jesus has made it quite plain. I asked Him, if we were not good enough for Him to send us an angel, to send us one of His ravens, and He has sent us Hans!" Hans laughed, but not the grim, hoarse laugh which was habitual to him, and which people compared to the croaking of a raven; it was a hearty, open laugh, like a child's, and he said: "Let God's raven lead thee, then, my lad, and the mother shall see if we don't bring back the bread and meat." "I did not ask for meat," said Gottlieb, gravely, "only for bread." "The good God is wont to give more than we either desire or deserve," croaked Hans, "when He sets about giving at all." II. There was no time to be lost. The services of the day would soon begin, and Hans had set his heart on Gottlieb's singing that very day in the cathedral. The choir-master's eyes sparkled as he listened to the boy; but he was an austere man, and would not utter a word to make the child think himself of value. "Not bad raw material," he said, "but very raw. I suppose thou hast never before sung a note to any one who understood music?" "Only for the mother and the little sister," the child replied in a low, humbled tone, beginning to fear the raven would bring no bread after all, "and sometimes in the litanies and the processions." "Sing no more for babes and nurses, and still less among the beggars in the street-processions," pronounced the master, severely. "It strains and vulgarizes the tone. And, with training, I don't know but that, after all, we might make something of thee—in time, in time." Gottlieb's anxiety mastered his timidity, and he ventured to say: "Gracious lord! if it is a long time, how can we all wait? I thought it would be to-day! The mother wants the bread to- day." Something in the child's earnest face touched the master, and he said, more gently: "I did not say you might not begin to-day. You must begin this hour, this moment. Too much time has been lost already." And at once he set about the first lesson, scolding and growling about the child setting his teeth like a dog, and mincing his words like a fine lady, till poor Gottlieb's hopes more than once sank very low. But, at the end of a quarter of an hour's practice, the artist in the choir-master entirely overcame the diplomatist. [Pg 172] He behaved like a madman. He took the child in his arms and hugged him, like a friendly bear; he set him on the table and made him sing one phrase again and again, walking round and round him, and rubbing his hands and laughing with delight; and, finally, he seized him and bore him in triumph to the kitchen, and said to his housekeeper: "Ursula, bring out the finest goose and the best preserves and puddings you have. We must feast the whole choir, and, may be, the dean and chapter. The archduke and the young archduchess will be here at Easter. But we shall be ready for them. Those beggarly Cistercians haven't a chance. The lad has the voice of an angel, and the ear—the ear—well, an ear as good as my own." "The child may well have the voice of an angel," scolded old Ursula; "he is like to be among the angels soon enough." For the hope, and the fear, and the joy had quite overcome the child, enfeebled as he was by meager fare; his lips were quite pale, and his cheeks. Moreover, the last order of the choir-master had not been quite re-assuring to him. The fat goose and the puddings were good, indeed; but he would have preferred his mother and Lenichen being feasted in his honor, rather than the choir and the chapter. And besides, though little more than seven years old, he was too much of a boy quite to enjoy his position on the master's shoulder. He felt it too babyish to be altogether honorable to the protector of Lenichen and incipient bread-winner of the family. And, therefore, he was relieved when he found himself once more safely on the ground. But when Ursula set before him a huge plate of bread and meat, his manly composure all but gave way. It was more of an approach to a feast than any meal he had ever participated in, and he was nearly choked with repressed tears of gratitude. It was so evident now that Hans was altogether an orthodox and accredited raven! At first, as the child sat mute and wondering before the repast, with a beautiful look of joy and prayer in his blue eyes, Ursula thought he was saying his grace, and respected his devotion. But as the moments passed on, and still he did not attempt to eat, she became impatient. "There is a time for everything," she murmured, at length. "That will do for thy grace! Now quick to the food! Thou canst finish the grace, if thou wilt, in music, in the church by and by." But then the child took courage, and said: "The ravens—that is, the good God—surely do not mean all this for me. Dear, gracious lady, let me run with the plate to the mother and Lenichen; and I will be back again in two minutes, and sing all day, if the master likes." THE CHOIR-MASTER IS DELIGHTED WITH HIS NEW PUPIL. Ursula was much moved at the child's filial love, and also at his politeness. "The little one has discrimination," she said to herself. "One can see he is of a good stock. He recognizes that I am no peasant, but the daughter of a good burgher house." And, in spite of the remonstrances of her master, she insisted on giving the lad his way. "I will accompany him, myself," said she. And, without further delay or parley, she walked off, under the very eyes of the master, with the boy, and also with a considerable portion of his own dinner, in addition to the plate she had already set before Gottlieb. A very joyful and miraculous intervention it seemed to Mother Magdalis when Gottlieb re-entered the hermit's cell, under [Pg 173] the stately convoy of the choir-master's housekeeper, and with food enough to feed the frugal little household for a week. The two women greeted each other ceremoniously and courteously, as became two German housewives of good burgher stock. "The little lad has manners worthy of a burgo-master," said Ursula. "We shall see him with the gold chain and the fur robes yet,—his mother a proud woman." With which somewhat worldly benediction, she left the little family to themselves, conjuring Gottlieb to return in less than an hour, for the master was not always as manageable as this morning. And when they were alone, Gottlieb was not ashamed to hide his tears on his mother's heart. "See, darling mother!" he said, "the dear Savior did send the raven! Perhaps, one day, He will make us good enough for Him to send the angels." Then the simple family all knelt down and thanked God from their hearts, and Gottlieb added one especial bit of his own of praise and prayer for his kind Hans, of whom, on account of his grim face and rough voice, he had stood in some dread. "Forgive me, dear Lord Jesus," he said, "that I did not know how good he was!" And when they had eaten their hasty Christmas feast, and the mother was smoothing his hair and making the best of his poor garments, Gottlieb said, looking up gravely in her face: "Who knows, mother, if Hans is only a raven now, that the good God may not make him, his very self, the angel?" "Perhaps God is making Hans into the angel even now," replied the mother. And she remembered for a long time the angelic look of love and devotion in the child's eyes. For she knew very well the cathedral choir was no angelic host. She knew she was not welcoming her boy that morning to a haven, but launching him on a voyage of many perils. But she knew, also, that it is only by such perils, and through such voyages, that men, that saints, are made. (To be continued.) HOW THE PONY WAS TAKEN. BY C. W. One morning, last August, Jimmie Wood was sitting on the gate-post making a willow whistle, when a remarkable wagon, drawn by a lean, gray horse, came up over the hill. The wagon looked like a big black box with a window in it. In front was a man driving, and this man seemed rather peculiar too. He had a long, pointed mustache and very curly hair. He was not a cigar and candy peddler, nor a patent medicine man, nor a machine agent, for Jim could recognize any of these in a minute. The curly-haired man stopped directly in front of the gate. "Good morning," said he. "Morning," answered Jim, shutting up his knife. "My name's Leatherbee," continued the curly-haired man. "Is it?" said Jim, unconcernedly, and then slid off the gate-post and started for the house. "Hi boy!" Jim turned quickly. "Ask your pa whether he wouldn't like to have his house took!" called out the stranger. Jim nodded, and went across the grass-plot meditating upon what the man meant by proposing to take the house. His father was in the sitting-room writing a letter. "Papa," said Jim, leaning up against the table, "there's a man out there in the road that wants to take the house." "Wants to take the house!" exclaimed Mr. Wood, making a blot in his astonishment. "Yes," continued Jim, "and he has the funniest-looking wagon you ever saw in your life." "Ah!" said Mr. Wood, "I understand now; he wants to take some photographs, I suppose. Well, tell him I don't want any," and Mr. Wood went on with his letter, while Jim proceeded across the front yard again. He noticed his pony over in the orchard. A thought struck him, and he wheeled around and went back in the sitting-room again in some haste. [Pg 174] "Papa," said he, "can't I have the pony taken?" "She wont stand still long enough," answered Mr. Wood, sealing up his letter. "But, papa, can't the man try?" pleaded Jim. Mr. Wood thought for a minute. Then said: "Yes. He may try." Jim galloped across the front yard in a second. "Well?" said the curly-haired man, raising his eyebrows. "Papa doesn't want the house taken," said Jim, with some dignity. "But can you take my pony over there in the orchard?" The man looked at Baby, who was calmly crunching harvest apples under the trees. "Purty little beast," he said, getting out of his wagon and leading his horse up to the fence. "Can you take her?" asked Jim again, anxiously. "Course I kin," answered Mr. Leatherbee. He then tied his horse to the fence and lifted his apparatus out of the wagon, and arranged it in the orchard. The pony immediately kicked up her heels and trotted off to a far-away corner. Mr. Wood came out of the house and talked to the photographer, while Jim, after chasing around for some time trying to catch the pony, went to the stable and put a quart of oats in a measure. As soon as Baby spied that round, yellow box under Jim's arm, she trotted up to him with a gentle neigh. He caught her by the fore-top and led her to where Mr. Leatherbee was standing. "Jest put her there," said he, pointing to a place under a big tree. Jim led her to the place and held her while Mr. Leatherbee made all his arrangements. "Now we're ready," said he. Baby looked pleased at this announcement, but waved her tail wildly. Mr. Wood smiled. "Tell Baby to keep perfectly quiet," said he to Jim, "and ask her to lower her chin a little, cast a pleasant expression around her eyes, and breathe gently." "THE PONY STOOD QUIETLY EATING." "THE PONY STOOD QUIETLY EATING." Mr. Leatherbee laughed at this. So did Jim; for it was exactly what the photographer always told him when he had his picture taken. The pony thought this all very pleasant, but she wanted the oats, and, consequently, was trying to thrust her nose through Jim's back in her efforts to get at the measure. The photographer looked despairing. "Here, I'll fix it," said Mr. Wood, stepping up to the pony. "No, Jim, stand back; Mr. Leatherbee, are you ready?" "Yes," answered Mr. Leatherbee, with one hand on the velvet that covered his camera. Mr. Wood poured the oats on the ground and let go of the pony's head. For a while Baby grabbed the oats up in great haste, but finally she stood with her nose to the ground quietly eating. Mr. Leatherbee drew away the velvet from the camera, and looked at his watch for some breathless minutes. Then he slipped the velvet on again, and said: "That's all right." Jim drew a long sigh. [Pg 175] "Will it be good, do you think?" he asked, anxiously. "Not a doubt of it," said Mr. Leatherbee, in such a cheerful tone that Jim immediately made up his mind that the pony should have an extra quart of oats all winter for her fine behavior. He expected the picture would be done right away, but Mr. Leatherbee said he would have to send the plates to Poughkeepsie to his partner, and the pictures would come soon by the mail. Mr. Leatherbee then put all his apparatus in his wagon again, and jogged on as he had come. For the next four days Jimmie went to the post-office about every two hours. "Expectin' a love-letter?" said old Mr. Halloway, the postmaster. At this all the loafers who were sitting on the counter laughed loudly. Jim made up his mind that Mr. Halloway was a very unpleasant old gentleman, and vowed all sorts of threats against him. His revengeful plans melted away, however, when Mr. Halloway handed him a big envelope, and said: "Here, Bub, yer letter's come." Jim tore it open, and six photographs dropped out all alike, all representing Baby eating under a tree. He privately showed one to her that afternoon. She evidently thought it very handsome, for she delicately chewed it up out of Jim's hand, to his great amazement. He says nothing about this when telling how the pony's picture was taken. MERRY MIKE. By Fleta Forrester. Merry Mike Merry Mike, from his door, bounded out to his play, With his head in his hat, on a blustering day; When the wind, of a sudden, came frolicking down, And lifted Mike's hat from his little round crown. "He-he!" said Mike, and he said "Ho-ho! Do you call that funny, I'd like to know?" [Pg 176] Merry Mike Then he made up his mind to return to the house, But the merry wind pushed itself under his blouse; And it roared and it roared, as he puffed and he ran, Till it just knocked over this queer little man. "Ho-ho!" said Mike, and he said "He-he! I'll get up again, Old Wind, you'll see!" Merry Mike Then the wind, with a flurry of bluster and racket, Went crowding and crowding right under his jacket; And it lifted him off from his two little feet, And it carried him bodily over the street. Mike laughed "He-he!" and he laughed "Ho-ho! Do you call this flying, I'd like to know?" [Pg 177] Merry Mike But the wind with its antics was plainly not through, For fiercer and fiercer and fiercer it blew, Till making one effort of fury intense It carried Mike neatly right over a fence. Mike said "Ho-ho!" and "He-he!" together, "Do you think I am naught but a little hen's-feather?" Merry Mike He met there a somewhat discouraged old cow, That had blown thither too, though she failed to see how; And he smiled and said, "Make yourself easy, my friend— Only keep your mind quiet, and things'll soon mend!" And he laughed "He-he!" and he laughed "Ho-ho! The wind is just playing, old cow, you know!" [Pg 178] Merry Mike As he scampered off home, what above should he see But the roof of a shed, that had lodged in a tree; So he laughed and he laughed, till his sides they did ache, For he said, "This is better nor wedding nor wake!" And he roared "Ho-ho!" and he roared "He-he!" For he was as tickled as tickled could be. Merry Mike "That boy," say the terrified folks of the town, "He would laugh just the same if the sky tumbled down!" "Indeed, an' I would," fancied Mike, with a grin, "For I might get a piece with a lot of stars in!" And he chuckled "He-he!" and he chuckled "Ho-ho!" The very idea delighted him so! [Pg 179] Merry Mike His father complained to the priest, "Now, I say, Mike never stops laughing, by night or by day!" "Let him laugh," spoke the priest; "he will change by and by, And 't is better to laugh than to grumble or cry! It's the way with the lad; let him laugh, if he like; And be glad you've a son that's as merry as Mike!" AN AGREEABLE GUEST. BY SUSAN A. BROWN. The longest visit that we read of in modern days was one which Dr. Isaac Watts made at Lord Abney's in the Isle of Wight. He went to spend a fortnight, but they made him so happy that he remained a beloved and honored guest for forty years. Few of us would care to make so long a visit as that, but it might be worth the while for us all to try and learn the secret of making ourselves agreeable and welcome guests. To have "a nice time" when one is visiting is delightful, but to leave behind us a pleasant impression is worth a great deal more. An agreeable guest is a title which any one may be proud to deserve. A great many people, with the best intentions and the kindest hearts, never receive it, simply because they have never considered the subject, and really do not know how to make their stay in another person's home a pleasure instead of an inconvenience. If you are one of these thoughtless ones, you may be sure that, although your friends are glad to see you happy, and may enjoy your visit on that account, your departure will be followed with a sigh of relief, as the family settle down to their usual occupations, saying, if not thinking, that they are glad the visit is over. A great many different qualities and habits go to make up the character of one whom people are always glad to see, and these last must be proved while we are young, if we expect to wear them gracefully. A young person whose presence in the house is an inconvenience and a weariness at fifteen, is seldom a welcome visitor in after-life. The two most important characteristics of a guest are tact and observation, and these will lead you to notice and do just what will give pleasure to your friends in their different opinions and ways of living. Apply in its best sense the maxim —"When you are in Rome, do as the Romans do." Unless you have some good reason for not doing so, let your friends know the day, and, if possible, the hour when you expect to arrive. Surprises are very well in their way, but there are few households in which it is quite convenient to have a friend drop in without warning for a protracted visit. If they know that you are coming, they will have the pleasure of preparing for you and looking forward to your arrival, and you will not feel that you are disturbing any previous arrangements which they have made for the day. Let your friends know, if possible, soon after you arrive, about how long you mean to stay with them, as they might not like to ask the question, and would still find it convenient to know whether your visit is to have a duration of three days or three weeks. Take with you some work that you have already begun, or some book that you are reading, that you may be agreeably employed when your hostess is engaged with her own affairs, and not be sitting about idle, as if waiting to be entertained, when her time is necessarily taken up with something else. Make her feel that, for a small part at least of every [Pg 180] day, no one needs to have any responsibility about amusing you. A lady who is charming as a guest and as a hostess once said to me: "I never take a nap in the afternoon when I am at home, but I do when I am visiting, because I know what a relief it has sometimes been to me to have company lie down for a little while, after dinner." Try, without being too familiar, to make yourself so much like one of the family that no one shall feel you to be in the way; and, at the same time, be observant of those small courtesies and kindnesses which all together make up what the world agrees to call good manners. Regulate your hours of rising and retiring by the customs of the house. Do not keep your friends sitting up until later than usual, and do not be roaming about the house an hour or two before breakfast. If you choose to rise at an early hour, remain in your own room until near breakfast-time, unless you are very sure that your presence in the parlor will not be unwelcome. Write in large letters, in a prominent place in your mind, "BE PUNCTUAL." A visitor has no excuse for keeping a whole family waiting, and it is unpardonable negligence not to be prompt at the table. Here is a place to test good manners, and any manifestation of ill-breeding here will be noticed and remembered. Do not be too ready to express your likes and dislikes for the various dishes before you. The wife of a certain United States Senator once visiting acquaintances at some distance from her native wilds, made a lasting impression upon the family by remarking at the breakfast-table that "she should starve before she would eat mush," and that she "never heard of cooking mutton before she came East." If you are tempted to go to the other extreme, and sacrifice truth to politeness, read Mrs. Opie's "Tale of Potted Sprats," and you will not be likely to be insincere again. It is well to remember that some things which seem of very little importance to you may make an unpleasant impression upon others, in consequence of a difference in early training. The other day two young ladies were heard discussing a gentleman who had a great many pleasant qualities. "Yes," said one, "he is very handsome, but he does eat pie with his knife." Take care that no trifle of that kind is recalled when people are speaking of you. Keep your own room in order, and do not scatter your belongings all over the house. If your friends are orderly, it will annoy them to see your things out of place; and if they are not, their own disorder will be enough without adding yours. Make up your mind to be entertained with what is designed to entertain you. If your friends invite you to join them in an excursion, express your pleasure and readiness to go, and do not act as though you were conferring a favor instead of receiving one. No visitors are so wearisome as those who do not meet half way whatever proposals are made for their pleasure. Be contented to amuse yourself quietly in the house, or to join in any outside gayeties to which you are invited, and show by your manner that you enjoy both. If games are proposed, do not say that you will not play, or "would rather look on;" but join with the rest, and do the best you can. Never let a foolish feeling of pride, lest you should not make so good an appearance as the others, prevent your trying. If you are not skillful, you will at least show that you are good-natured, and that you do not think yourself modest when you are only proud. If you have any skill in head or fingers, you will never have a better time to use it than when you are visiting; only, whatever you do, do well, and do not urge your offers of assistance after you see that it is not really desired. Mrs. Poyser, who is one of George Eliot's best characters, says: "Folks as have no mind to be o' use have allays the luck to be out o' the road when there's anything to be done." If you do not find any place to be useful, you may be tolerably sure that it is your own fault. I heard a gentleman say of a young lady whose small affectations were undergoing a sharp criticism, "Well, whatever you may say of her, she is certainly more ready to make herself useful than any other young lady who visits here. If I lose my glasses, or mislay the newspaper, or want a stitch taken, she is always ready." And I shall never forget the impression which a young lady made upon me, as I saw her sit idly rocking backward and forward, complacently surveying the young friends she was visiting as they were hurrying to finish peeling a basket of peaches. While visiting, remember that you meet many who are strangers to you, and do not seem to you especially attractive, but who may still be dear and valued friends of the family; and be cautious about making criticisms upon them. Be friendly and cordial toward those whom you meet, and try to show that you are ready to like them. Whatever peculiarities you may observe, either in the family or its guests, which strike you as amusing, be careful that you do not sin against the law of love, by repeating little things, to their disadvantage, which you have found out while you were admitted to the sanctuary of the home. Do not ask questions which people would rather not answer, and be careful not to speak of anything which will bring up painful recollections, or be likely to cause unpleasant forebodings. The old proverb expresses this in few words: "Never mention a rope in the family of a man who has been hanged." If your own home is in any way better and handsomer than your friends', do not say anything which may seem like making invidious comparisons, or allow them to see that you miss any of the conveniences to which you have been accustomed. Be careful about making any unnecessary work for others, and do not ask even the servants to do for you anything which [Pg 181] you ought to do for yourself. The family had their time filled up before you came, and, do what you will, you are an extra one, and will make some difference. Provide yourself, before you leave home, with whatever small supplies you are likely to need, so that you need not be borrowing ink, pens, paper, envelopes, postage-stamps, etc. It may seem unnecessary to speak of the need of taking due care of the property of others, but having just seen a young lady leaning forward with both elbows upon the open pages of a handsome volume which was resting upon her knees, I venture to suggest that you do not leave any marred wall, or defaced book, or ink-stains, or mark of a wet tumbler, to remind your friends of your visit long after it has ended. Do not forget, when you go away, to express your appreciation of the kindness which has been shown you, and when you reach home inform your friends by letter of your safe arrival. If you follow faithfully these few suggestions, you will probably be invited to go again; and if you do not thank St. Nicholas for telling you these plain truths, perhaps the friends whom you visit will be duly grateful. NEW-YEAR CARD. (Drawn by Miss L. GREENAWAY.) I send my serving-maiden With New-Year letter laden. HOW KITTY GOT HER NEW HAT. BY E. P. W. It was all because of Polly, and this was the way of it. Ma had gone 'cross lots to Aunt Mari's, to stay till milking-time, to see the new things Aunt Mari had brought from Boston, and Polly and I were alone at home. Polly is our hired help, and she is Irish, and has got red hair, but she's as good as gold; and I am Kitty, my Pa's little chatterbox. Polly was in the buttery, washing the dinner-dishes, and I was on the kitchen floor, playing with Queen Victoria, our old yellow cat, trying to teach her to stand on her hind-legs and beg, like Johnny Dane's dog. But Vic was cross, and wouldn't learn; and when I boxed her ears, she scratched me on my chin, and bounced over my shoulder, and was off to the barn in less than no time. You needn't suppose I cried, because I didn't, for I shall be ten years old next July. I don't ever cry any more; only when I have the earache, and then I can't help it. Except the other day when Tom stepped on my Rachel Tryphena, and jammed her forehead in, I did. But Tom's going to buy her a new head with the money he gets from selling Jake Lawrence some of his guinea-hen's eggs, so I don't mind about that now. I was just thinking how much better I should feel if I'd had a chance [Pg 182] [Pg 183]