St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. V, August, 1878, No 10. - Scribner's Illustrated
Author: Various
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Just then, his attention was suddenly diverted. Close to him sounded a voice, weak and not very melodious, but bravely singing:

"There is a happy land Far, far away, Where saints in glory stand Bright, bright as day!"

Dick listened in silence till the last little quaver had died away, and then said: "Whew! That was purty, anyhow. Where is the piper, I wonder!" He looked about for the musician, but could see no one. He was the only person in the alley.

Again the song began, and this time he traced the voice to the house against which he had been leaning. The window was just at his right, and through one of the broken panes came the notes. Dick's modesty was not a burden to him, so it was the work of only a moment to put his face to the hole in the window and take a view.

A small room, not very nice to see, was what he saw; then, as his eye became used to the dim light, he espied on a low bed in the corner a little girl gazing at him with a pair of big black eyes.

"I say, there! Was it you pipin' away so fine?" began Dick, without the slightest embarrassment.

"If you mean, was I a-singin'?—I was," answered the child from the bed, not seeming at all surprised at this sudden intrusion upon her privacy.

"I say, who are you, anyhow?"

"I'm Gerty, and I stay here all the day while mother is away washing; and she locks the door so no one can't get in," explained the girl.

"My eye!" was Dick's return. "And what are you in bed for?"

"Oh, I have a pain in my back, an' I lie down most of the time," replied Gerty in the most cheerful manner possible, as if a pain in the back were the one desirable thing, while Dick withdrew his head to ponder over this new experience.

A girl locked in a room like that, lying in bed with pain most of the time, with nothing to do, yet cheerful and bright—this was something he could not understand. All at once his face brightened. Back went his eyes to the window.

"I say, got anything to eat in there?"

"Oh yes, some crackers; and to-night maybe mother'll buy some milk."

"Pooh!" said Dick, with scorn. "Crackers and milk! Did you ever eat a mutton pie?"

"A mutton pie," repeated Gerty, slowly. "No, I guess not."

"Oh, they're bully! Hot from Ma'am Vesey's! Tip-top! Wait a minute,"—a needless caution, for Gerty could not possibly have done anything else.

Away ran Dick down the alley and around the corner, halting breathless before Ma'am Vesey.

"Gi'e me one, quick!" he cried. "Hot, too. No, I wont eat it; put it in some paper." The old woman had offered him one from the oven.

"Seems to me we're gettin' mighty fine," she said; for Dick was an old customer, and never before had he waited for a pie to be wrapped up.

"Never you mind, old lady," was his good-natured, if somewhat disrespectful, reply; and, dropping some pennies, he seized his treasure and was off again.

Gerty's eager fingers soon held the pie, which Dick dexterously tossed on the bed, and Dick's eyes fairly shone as he watched the half-starved little one swallow the dainty in rapid mouthfuls.

"Oh, I never in all my life tasted anything half so good! Don't you want some?" questioned the child, whose enjoyment was so keen she feared it hardly could be right.

"No, indeed!"—this with hearty emphasis. "I've had 'em. I'm goin' now," he added, reluctantly, "but I'll come back again 'fore long."

"Oh, do!" said Gerty, "an' I'll sing you some more of 'Happy Land,' if you want me; and I know another song, too. I learned them up to the horspital when I was there. You see, I was peddlin' matches and shoe-strings, and it was 'most dark and awful slippery, and the horses hit me afore I knowed it; and then they picked me up, and I didn't know nothin', and couldn't tell where I lived, and so they took me to the horspital; and the next day I told 'em where mother was, and she came. But the doctors said I had better stay, and p'r'aps they could help me. But they couldn't, you know, cos the pain in my back was too bad. And mother, she washes, and I watch the daylight, and wait for night, and sing; and when the pain aint too bad, the day don't seem so very long."

"My eye!" was all Dick could say, as he beat a hasty retreat, rubbing the much appealed-to member with a corner of his ragged coat.

"Well, them's hard lines, anyhow," he soliloquized, as he went to the printing-office. "An' she's chipper, too. Game as anything," he went on to himself. "Now, I'm just goin' to keep my eye on that little un, and some o' my spare coppers'll help her, I guess."

How he worked that night! His papers fairly flew, he sold them so fast; and when, under a friendly street-lamp, he counted his gains, a prolonged whistle was his first comment.

"More'n any night this week," he pondered. "Did me good to go 'thout the pie. Gerty'll have an orange to-morrow."

So, next morning, when the last journal had been sold, a fruit-stand was grandly patronized.

"The biggest, best orange you got, and never mind what it costs." Then but a few moments to reach Gerty's alley, and Gerty's window.

Yes, there she was, just the same as yesterday, and the pinched face grew bright when she saw her new friend peering at her.

"Oh! you're come, are you?" joyfully. "Mother said you wouldn't, when I told her, but I said you would. She wouldn't leave the door unlocked, cos she didn't know nothing about you; but she said, if you came to-day, you could come back to-night when she was home, and come in."

"Oh, may I?" said Dick, rather gruffly; for he hardly liked the idea of meeting strangers.

"Yes," went on Gerty; "I'll sing lots, if you want; and mother'll be glad to see you, too."

"All right; mebbe I'll come. And say, here's suthin for ye," and the orange shot through the window.

"Oh, my!" she gasped, "how nice! Is it really for me?" And Dick answered, "Yes, eat it now."

Half his pleasure was in watching her eager relish of the fruit; and as Gerty needed no second bidding, the orange rapidly disappeared, she pausing now and again to look across gratefully at Dick and utter indistinct expressions of delight.

"Now shall I sing?" she asked, when the last delicious mouthful was fairly swallowed; for she was anxious to make some return for the pleasure he had given her.

"All right," responded Dick, "I'm ready."

So the thin little voice began again the old refrain; Gerty singing with honest fervor, Dick listening in rapt attention. Following "Happy Land" came "I want to be an angel," "Little drops of water," etc.; and when full justice had been done to these well-worn tunes, Dick suggested a change.

"Don't you sing 'Mulligan Guards'?" he questioned, at the close of one of the hymns.

"No," said Gerty, perplexed. "They didn't sing that up to the horspital."

"Oh, mebbe they don't sing it to the horspital; but I've heard 'em sing it bully to the circus. I say," he went on suddenly, "was you ever there—to the circus, I mean?"

"No," said Gerty, eagerly. "What do they do?"

"Oh, it's beautiful!" was Dick's answer. "All bright, you know, and warm, and the wimmin is dressed awful fine, and the men, too; and the horses prance around; and they have music and tumbling, and—oh, lots of things!"

"My! and you've been there?"

"Oh yes, I've been!" Then, as he watched her sparkling eyes, "Look here, I'll take you. I could carry you, you know, and we'd go early, and I'd put you up against a post, and——Don't you want to go?"

"Want to go?" she repeated with rapture. "Oh, it's too good to be true! I was scared just a-thinkin' of it. Oh, if mother'd let me an' I could! Wouldn't I be too heavy? Mother says I'm light as a feather,—and I wouldn't weigh more'n I could help," she added, wistfully.

"Never you mind," was Dick's hearty reply. "I'll come to-night and see the old lady,—your mother, I mean,—and we'll go next week, if she'll let you."

So it was decided; and when Dick said "good-bye," and ran off, Gerty settled back with a sigh, half of delight and half of anxiety, lest her wild, wonderful hope should never be fulfilled.

But Dick came that night, and Gerty's mother, when she saw Dick's honest, earnest face, and her little girl's eager, pleading eyes, gave consent.

The next Monday night was fixed upon, and this was Thursday. "Four days," counted Gerty on her fingers; and oh, they seemed so long! But even four days will crawl away, and Monday night came at last. By seven o'clock, Dick appeared, his face clean and shining, radiant with delight.

Gerty was dressed in the one dress owned by her mother beside her working one, and the shrunken little figure looked pathetically absurd in its ample proportions. It was much too long for her, of course, but her mother pinned up the skirt. Good old Peggotty Winters, the apple-woman, who lived in the back room, had lent her warm shawl for the occasion, and the little French hair-dresser on the top floor had loaned a knitted hood which had quite an elegant effect. So Gerty considered herself dressed in a style befitting the event; and if she and Dick were satisfied, no one else need criticise.

"Pooh!" was Dick's comment as he lifted her in his arms. "Like a baby, aint you?"

"Oh, I'm so glad you don't think I'm heavy! It's the first time I ever was glad to be thin," sighed Gerty, clinging around his neck.

Then away they went, out through alleys and across side-streets to the main artery of travel, where Dick threaded his way slowly through throngs of gay people. At length, after what seemed miles to Gerty, they halted in front of a brilliantly lighted building, and in another moment were in the dazzling entrance-way.

On went Dick slowly, patiently, with his burden, down the aisle, as near to the front as possible, and—they were there!

Gerty was carefully set down in a corner place, and her shawl opened a little to serve as a pillow; and then she began to look about her, gazing with awe-struck curiosity at the great arena and the mysterious doors.

After a while the house seemed full, the musicians came out and took their places, the gas suddenly blazed more brightly, and the band struck up a gay popular air. Gerty felt as if she must scream with delight and expectation.

Presently, the music stopped, there was a bustle of preparation, a bell tinkled, and the great doors slowly swung open. Gerty saw beautiful ladies, all bright and glittering with spangles, and handsome horses in gorgeous trappings, and great strong men in tights, all the wonders and sights of the circus, and the funny jokes and antics of the clown and pantaloon. And Gerty had never known anything half so fine; and there was riding and jumping and tumbling, and all manner of fun, until the doors shut again.

"Wasn't it lovely?" whispered Gerty. "Is that all?"

"Not half," said Dick; and Gerty leaned back to think it all over and watch for the repetition. But the next scene was different; there came an immense elephant, some little white poodle-dogs, and some mules, and everybody clapped hands and laughed, and was delighted. At last, the climax of ecstasy was reached,—a beautiful procession of all the gayly dressed and glittering performers, with their wonderful steeds, the wise old elephant, the queer little poodles, and the fun-provoking mules; and the band struck up some stirring music, and Gerty was dumb with admiration. But in another minute the arena was empty, the heavy doors had shut out all the life and magnificence, the band was hushed, the lights were dimmed, and Dick told her it was over.

Carefully he folded her in the shawl again, and once more the cold night air blew in her face. Not a word could she say all the way home, but when she sank in her mother's arms it was with the whisper, "I've seen 'Happy Land';" and Dick felt, somehow, as if no other comment were needed.

And the winter days went on, Dick's faithful service and devotion never ceasing. The window was mended, but Dick had a key to the door, and spent many an hour with the sufferer. As spring approached, the two watchers noted a change in the girl. She was weaker, and her pain constant; and when Dick carried her out to the park in the April sunshine, he was shocked to find her weight almost nothing in his arms.

Yes, Gerty was dying, slowly but surely; and Dick grew exceeding sorrowful. By and by, she even could not be carried out-of-doors, but lay all day on her little couch. Then Dick brought flowers and fruit, and talked gayly of the next winter, when, said he, "We'll go every week to the circus, Gerty."

"No, Dick," said the child, quietly, "I shall never go there again. But oh! 't'll be suthin better!"—at which Dick rushed off hastily, and soon after got into a quarrel with a fellow newsboy who had hinted that his eyes were red. Anon he was back with some fresh gift, only to struggle again with the choking grief.

And then came the end—quietly, peacefully. Near the close of a July day, when the setting sun glorified every corner of the room, Gerty left her pain, and, with a farewell sigh, was at rest.

"Oh, Gerty!" sobbed Dick, "don't forget me!"

Ah, Dick, you are held in everlasting remembrance, and more than one angel is glad at thoughts of you, in the "Happy Land!"



"Ho! ho!" Said the crow: "So I'm not s'posed to know Where the rye and the wheat And the corn kernels grow— Oh! no, Ho! ho!

"He! he! Farmer Lee, When I fly from my tree, Just you see where the tops Of the corn-ears will be Watch me! He! he!"

Switch-swirch, With a lurch, Flopped the bird from his perch As he spread out his wings And set forth on his search— His search— Switch-swirch.

Click!-bang!— How it rang, How the small bullet sang As it sped through the air— And the crow, with a pang, Went spang— Chi-bang.


Now know, That to crow Often brings one to woe; Which the lines up above Have been put there to show, And so, Don't crow.



Very sturdy in form and honest in face is the London milk-woman shown in our picture. She has broad English features, smoothly parted hair, and a nice white frill running round her old-fashioned, curtained bonnet. Her boots are strong, and her dress is warm—the petticoats cut short to prevent them from draggling in the mud. A wooden yoke fits to her shoulders, which are almost as broad as a man's, and from the yoke hang her cans, filled with milk and cream, the little ones being hooked to the larger ones.

The London day has opened on a storm, and the snow lies thick on the area railings, the lamp-posts and the roofs; but the morning is not too cold or stormy for her. Oh, no! the mornings never are. It may rain, or blow, or snow the hardest that ever was known, no inclemency of weather keeps her from her morning round, and in the dull cold of London frosts and the yellow obscurity of London fogs, she appears in the streets, uttering her familiar cry, "Me-oh! me-oh!" which is her way of calling milk.

Pretty kitchen-maids come up the area steps with their pitchers to meet her, and detain her with much gossip. The one in the picture, whose arms are comfortably folded under her white apron, may be telling her that the mistress's baby is sick, and that the doctor despairs of its life. She may even be saying to her: "The only thing it can swallow, poor little dear, is a little milk and arrowroot, and the doctor says unless it can have this it must die." A great deal of the London milk is adulterated, and, perhaps, this honest-looking milk-woman knows that water has been added to hers. May be, she has babies of her own, and then her heart must be sore when she realizes that the little sick one upstairs may perish through her employer's greed for undue profits.

To-morrow, she may find the blinds drawn close down at that house, and the maid-of-all-work red-eyed and tearful; then she will turn away, bitterly feeling the pressure of her yoke on her shoulders, although, from her looks, she herself appears to be incapable of dishonesty; she is, and more than that, kindly, cheery, and industrious. Her cans are polished to the brilliancy of burnished silver, and betoken the most scrupulous cleanliness. Many breakfast-tables depend upon her for that rich cream which emits a delicious flavor from her cans, in the sharp morning air. "Me-oh! me-oh!" We turn over in bed when we hear her, and know that it is time to get up.


Far down in the valley the wheat grows deep, And the reapers are making the cradles sweep; And this is the song that I hear them sing, While cheery and loud their voices ring: "'Tis the finest wheat that ever did grow, And it is for Alice's supper—ho! ho!"

Far down by the river the old mill stands, And the miller is rubbing his dusty old hands; And these are the words of the miller's lay, As he watches the mill-stones grinding away: "'Tis the finest flour that money can buy, And it is for Alice's supper—hi! hi!"

Down-stairs in the kitchen the fire doth glow, And cook is a-kneading the soft white dough; And this is the song she is singing to-day, As merry and busy she's working away: "'T is the finest dough whether near or afar, And it is for Alice's supper—ha! ha!"

To the nursery now comes mother, at last,— And what in her hand is she bringing so fast? 'T is a plateful of something, all yellow and white, And she sings as she comes, with her smile so bright: "'T is the best bread and butter I ever did see, And it is for Alice's supper—he! he!"


"Warm!" you say?

Don't mention it, but take it good-naturedly.

And, now, let's be quiet and have a talk about


"Ho, ho; nobody can do that!"

But anybody can do that,—with a microphone.

"And what's a microphone?"

Why, it's a machine by which very low sounds, that don't seem to be sounds at all, may be made to grow so loud and clear that you can easily hear them. If any of you come across one of these things, my dears, just take it to some quiet green spot, and coax it to let you hear the grass grow.

There's one feature of the microphone that is likely to be troublesome; it makes loud noises sound hundreds of times louder. Something must be done, therefore, to prevent the use of these machines on any Fourth of July. That would be what nobody could stand, I should think.


Isn't this dreadful? In India—a long way off, I'm glad to say—there is a kind of crab that eats the juicy stalks of grass, rice, and other plants. He snips off the stalks with his sharp pincers, and, when he has made a big enough sheaf, sidles off home with it to his burrow in the ground, to feast upon it.

Ugh! I hope I shall never hear the cruel click of his pincers anywhere near me!


Over here, as I've heard, the clothes to be washed are put in tubs, and the washerwomen or washermen stand outside at work. But I'm told that in some parts of Europe the washerwomen themselves get into the tubs. They do this to keep their feet dry. The tubs or barrels are empty, and are set along the river banks in the water, and each washerwoman stands in her tub and washes the clothes in the river, pounding, and soaping, and rinsing them, on a board, without changing her position.


Chicago, Ill.

DEAR JACK: I have long wished to tell you of a little incident that occurred in our family.

About a year ago we bought an upright grand piano, and after we had had it a few months we noticed that one of the keys would stay down when touched, unless struck very quickly and lightly, and the next day another acted in the same way. That evening, after the boys had gone to bed, father and myself were sitting by the grate fire, when we thought we heard a nibbling in the corner of the room where the piano stood. I exclaimed, "Do you think it possible a mouse can be in the piano?" "Oh no!" he said; "it is probably behind it." We moved the piano, and found a little of the carpet gnawed, and a few nut-shells. Then we examined the piano inside, as far as possible, but found no traces there. I played a noisy tune, to frighten the mouse away, and we thought no more about it.

Two or three days after, more of the keys stayed down, and I said, "That piano must be fixed." The tuner came, and the children all stood around him, with curious eyes, as he took the instrument apart. Presently I heard a great shout. What do you think? In one corner, on the key-board, where every touch of the keys must have jarred it, was a mouse's nest, with five young ones in it! Those mice must have been fond of music! The mother mouse sprang out and escaped; but the nest and the little ones were destroyed.

Well, what do you suppose the nest was made of? Bits of felt and soft leather from the hammers and pedal; and the mouse had gnawed in two most of the strips of leather that pull back the hammers! So, when the piano had been fixed, there was a pretty heavy bill for repairs.—Very truly yours,

P. L. S.


You'd hardly believe how old-fashioned rattle-boxes are,—those noisy things that babies love to shake. Why, they are almost as old-fashioned as some of the very first babies would look nowadays. A few very ancient writers mention these toys, but, instead of calling them, simply, "rattle-boxes," they refer to them as "symbols of eternal agitation, which is necessary to life!"

Deacon Green says that this high-sounding saying may have been wise for its times, when the sleepy young world needed shaking, perhaps, to get it awake and keep it lively. "But, in these days," he adds, "the boot is on the other leg. People are a little too go-ahead, if anything, and try to do too much in too short time. Real rest, and plenty of it, is just as necessary to life as agitation can be."

Remember this, my chicks, all through vacation; but don't mistake laziness for rest.


No, not the old woman who lived in a shoe,—though old parties of the kind I mean have been found with their houses fixed to old rubber high-boots,—but a quiet old mother, who never utters a word, and whose house is all door-way, as I'm told. Every year she opens the door and turns two million wee bairns upon the world.

Away they rush, the door snaps shut behind them, and they can never come back any more! They don't seem to mind that very much, however, for they go dancing away in countless armies, without ever jostling, or meeting, or even touching one another.

And how large a ball-room do you suppose a troop of them would need? One drop of water is large enough for thousands upon thousands of them to sport in!

The mother is the oyster, and her children are the little oysters, and a curious family they must be, if all this is true, as I'm led to believe.


The Little Schoolma'am wishes you a good and lively vacation, and sends you a picture of a Chinese Floating Village,—a cool and pleasant kind of village to live in through the summer, I've no doubt, with plashing water, and fresh breezes, all about you. She goes on to say:

"In China, where there are about four hundred and fifty millions of people, not only the land, but also much of the water, is covered with towns and streets; and, although the Chinese are more than eleven times as numerous as the people of the United States, their country is not half as large as ours,—even leaving Alaska out of the count. So that China is pretty well crowded.

"In the picture, the little boats belong to poor people, but the big ones, called 'junks,' belong to folks who are better off. Sometimes junks are used by rich people for traveling, and then they are built almost as roomy, and fitted up quite as comfortably, as the homes on shore.

"There are no railroads in China worth mentioning, so traveling has to be done by highroad, or by river and canal; and, as this last, though easy, is a very slow way, it is a good thing when, like the snail, a traveler can take his house with him."


Providence, R. I.

Jack-in-the-Pulpit: SIR: I write to ask if any of your little birds ever crossed the Equator; and, when just above it, whereabouts in the sky did they look for the sun at noon?

If you will answer this you will oblige me very much, as I have been wondering for about a month past.

Don't think this foolish.


None of my feathered friends ever told me about this; but, perhaps, some of you smart chicks who have just passed good examinations can answer Edwin's question. If so, I'd be glad to hear from you; especially if you'd let me know, also, what kind of a thing the equator is, and by what marks or signs a bird or anybody might make sure he had pitched upon it?


Sandy Spring, Md.

DEAR JACK: Have you ever heard of a bird that sews? Perhaps you have, and some of your chicks have not. He is not much larger than the humming-bird, and looks like a ball of yellow worsted flying through the air. For his nest he chooses two leaves on the outside of a tree, and these he sews firmly together, except at the entrance, using a fiber for thread, and his long, sharp bill as a needle. When this is done, he puts in some down plucked from his breast, and his snug home is complete. He is sometimes called the "tailor-bird."—Your friend,

M. B. T.


Talk about the instinct of animals! I'm sure my little friends the bees are as bright as any, yet I heard, the other day, a strange thing about one. There was a flower-like sea-anemone, near the top of a little pool of water, when a bee came buzzing along and alighted on the pretty thing, no doubt mistaking it for a blossom. That anemone was an animal, and had no honey. Now, where was the instinct of that bee? That's what I want to know.


West Roxbury, Mass.

Dear St. Nicholas: I saw in your June number, in the "Letter-Box," an account of a turtle; so I thought I would tell you about "Gopher Jimmy." My uncle brought him from Florida. He is a gopher, and different from the common kind of turtle. His back is yellow, with black ridges on it. His feet are yellow and scaly. Gophers burrow in the ground; and, when full grown, a man cannot pull one out of its burrow, and a child can ride easily on its back. I feed mine on clover. He likes to bask in the sun. My uncle named him "Gopher Jimmy." When full grown, they can move with a weight of 200 pounds. Jimmy is a young one.—Your devoted reader,


Baltimore, Md

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Perhaps the other readers of your magazine have heard of "Tyrian purple," a dye which once sold in the shops of ancient Rome for its own weight in silver. Well, after a while, the way to make this dye was forgotten,—probably because those who had the secret died without telling it to others. And now I want to let you know what I have learned lately, in reading, about how the secret was found again, after hundreds of years.

A French naturalist, named Lacazo Duthiers, was on board a ship, when, one day, he saw a sailor marking his clothes and the sails of the ship with a sharp-pointed stick, which, every now and then, he dipped into a little shell held in his other hand. At first, the lines were only a faint yellow in color; but, after being a few minutes in the sun, they became greenish, then violet, and last of all, a bright, beautiful purple, the exact shade called by the ancients "Tyrian purple"—a color that never fades by washing, or exposure to heat or damp, but ever grows brighter and clearer! The naturalist was rejoiced, and after trial found that he really had discovered again the long-lost secret. He felt well repaid for keeping his eyes open. The little shell was the "wide-mouthed purpura," as some call it, some three inches long, found in the Mediterranean Sea, and on the coasts of France, Ireland and Great Britain. My book says that the difficulty of obtaining and preserving these shells must always render "Tyrian purple" a rare and expensive color.

I remember, too, that the Babylonians thought "Tyrian purple" too sacred for the use of mortals, so they used it only in the dress of their idols. Romulus, king of Rome, adopted it as the regal color, and the Roman emperors forbade any besides themselves to wear it, on penalty of death.—Yours truly, F. R. F.

The boys and girls who solved the poetical charade printed on page 639 of the July number, must have noticed that it is an unusually good one, and we are sure that all our readers will admire the charade, after comparing it with its solution, which we publish upon page 704 of this number.

Alexandria, Ohio.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I should like to know who would succeed to the throne in case of Queen Victoria's and her eldest son's deaths. My brother and I sold hickory-nuts and onions to get the St. Nicholas last fall. We have taken it ever since it was published. I am ten years old.


Prince Albert Victor, the Prince of Wales's eldest son, if then alive, would succeed to the English throne after Queen Victoria, in case of the previous death of her eldest son,—the Prince of Wales. A general answer to this question will be found in the "Letter-Box" for May, 1877 (Vol. IV., page 509), in a reply to an inquiry from "Julia."

Brunswick, Maine.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: It has occurred to me that some of my St. Nicholas friends may like to know what I have learned from ancient books about the constellation Ursa Major, or the Dipper, which, in St. Nicholas for January, 1877 (vol. iv., p. 168), Professor Proctor has likened to a monkey climbing a pole. It is about the other title of this constellation, "Great Bear." I need not describe the group itself, for that has been done already by Professor Proctor in ST. NICHOLAS for December, 1876.

Sailors, in very ancient times, were without compasses and charts, and when voyaging guided themselves by studying the situations and motions of the heavenly bodies. They saw that most of the stars passed up from the horizon and rose toward the zenith, the point right over head, and then dropped westward to hide themselves beyond the earth. After a time they noted some stars which never set, but every night, in fair weather, were seen at that side where the sun never appears, or, in other words, were seen at their left side, when their faces were toward the sunrise. They did not long hesitate how to use these stars. And when, during foul weather, the sailors were tossed to and fro, these same constant stars, that again appeared after the storm, indicated to them their true position, and, as it were, spoke to them. This caused them to give more exact study to the constellations in that same part of the heavens. None appeared more remarkable than that among which they reckoned seven of the brightest stars, taking up a large space. Some who watched this star-group, as it seemed to turn around in the sky, named it the "Wheel," or "Chariot." The Phoenician pilots called it, sometimes, "Parrosis," the Indicator, the Rule, or "Callisto," the Deliverance, the Safety of Sailors. But it was more commonly named "Doube," signifying the "speaking constellation," or the "constellation which gives advice." Now, the word "Doube" signified also to the Phoenicians a "she-bear," and the Greeks are supposed to have received and used the word in its wrong sense, and to have passed it down to us without correction. This explanation seems plausible to me; and now, whenever I see the star-group we call the "Dipper," I think how gladly it was hailed by poor storm-tossed sailors upon the narrow seas, in the early ages, before the "lily of the needle pointed to the pole."—Yours truly,

R. A. S.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: The flowers are all in bloom; it looks so pretty. Here is a little piece of poetry:

Lieutenant G—— Was lost in the sea, He was found in the foam, But he was carried home To his wife, Who was the joy of his life, His lovely brunette, His idolized pet. She went to a ball, And this is all.

I have a little sister named Henrietta, but we call her "Wackie," because when she cries she goes "Wackie, wackie, wackie!" I remain, your constant reader,


Camp Grant, A. T.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little army boy. The other day my papa went down to Mexico, and I went with him. The first day I rode fifty-seven miles on a mule; the next day, thirty-five miles; and the third day, forty miles. If you know any boy East, eleven years of age, who can do that, tell me his name. Lots of Indians out here.


Here is an account of how four enterprising girls from an inland district spent ten summer days by themselves at the sea-side.


For boys there are all sorts of real camping-out, fishing and hunting parties, and it's almost enough to set their sisters wild with envy. Nevertheless, "we girls"—four of us—succeeded one year in having a deal of holiday enjoyment all by ourselves out of the old sea. This is how we did it, what sort of place it was, and how we lived:

We engaged a room in a cottage close to the sea, not fifty miles from Boston. We paid one dollar per day for a medium-sized chamber, with the privilege of parlor, dining-room, kitchen, kitchen utensils, and china. Our cottage had fine sea-views from three sides, and roomy balconies all around, where the salt breezes came up fresh and strong. We had a large closet for our one trunk, not a Saratoga and not full of finery, for we had run away from work, company, fashion. We spent whole days in Balmoral and calico redingotes.

We took with us a few pounds of Graham flour, some fresh eggs, pickles, tumbler of jelly, plenty of delicately corned beef,—boiled and pressed,—salt and pepper and French mustard; some tea and coffee and condensed milk. Fresh vegetables, milk and fruits, could be obtained from neighbors; and fun it was to be one's own milkmaid and market merchant; but still more fun to play gypsy and forage for light driftwood for firing. Then, at a pinch, there were a baker and a fish-man within easy reach.

The place was quiet, and nobody disturbed us, by day or by night; and it was delightful to go to sleep, lulled by the music of the waves and pleasant breeze.

We took turns presiding over the meals of the day, and none but the day's caterer had any thought or care about that day's bill of fare.

The oldest of our party was "Aunty True," one of the real folks, and a confirmed Grahamite. The next in age was Helen Chapman, the head and front of the quartette; a good botanist and geologist, and acquainted with all manner of things that live in the sea, and from her we had delightful object lessons fresh from Nature. Next came I, and then Jo, the youngest of us, a girl of fifteen, ready to run wild on the least excuse. She was fairly quelled and awe-struck, however, at her first sight of the sea. "You'll never get me to go into that!" she exclaimed, fairly shuddering. Yet that very day she was enjoying, bare-foot, the cool, soft sand, and playing with the foamy wavelets as the tide came in. But she screamed like an Indian if but invited to plunge beneath the curling surf. There was every day fresh fun in the water,—we frolicked like fishes in their own element. And what ludicrous sights we enjoyed watching the bathers who came from the hotels and boarding-houses,—whole family parties, big and little!

Our party had fine weather, for in our ten days there was only a half day of cloud and rain; but it would have been a fresh delight to see the ocean in a storm.

The last of our pleasures was watching the sun rise out of the sea, a crimson streak, growing into the great red sun!

C. N. EFF.

Charleston, S. C.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I would like to tell the boys and girls how to make a pretty little ornament. You take a shell, and bore two holes in each side, then run a piece of ribbon in each hole with a bow on the top, and it has a very pretty effect. It can hold knickknacks, or a plant; but if you want it for a plant, you must bore a hole in the bottom for drainage.—Your friend,


E. M.—George Washington's wife was called "Lady" Washington out of respect for her husband's high position as President, at a time when titles of courtesy were sometimes given to people not of noble rank who were in authority. The title has always clung to Martha Washington, partly from custom, and partly also from the great reverence of all Americans for General Washington and his wife.

Florence Wilcox, M. B., Isabelle Roorbach, and Lillie M. Sutphen sent answers to E. M.'s question.

Baltimore, Md.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I would like to tell you my experience with wild mice. Some time ago I spent the summer in the Sierra Nevada range. Our family had a little cabin right in the woods, built of single boards. One day our servant went to her valise, which had been left slightly open; to her surprise, she found, neatly packed away, in one corner, a small quantity of bird-seed; she at once accused a young friend, who was staying with us, of having put it there for fun; but the accused pleaded "not guilty," and the matter began to look mysterious. One day my papa took down a pair of heavy mining boots, which were hung from the rafters; he went to put his foot in, and found he couldn't; then he turned the boot upside down. A lot of bird-seed ran out! The mystery thickened. Another time a little dish of uncooked rice was left in the kitchen overnight. The next morning the rice had disappeared. Then we began to suspect mice, and hunted for the rice. It was three or four days before we found it, in a box containing sewing materials, on the top shelf of a cupboard. Then we took the same rice and put it in with some broken bits of cracker, and tied a string to one of the pieces. Papa left all on the kitchen floor. It had disappeared the next day, except the bit with the string; this the wise little mice had not touched. That night we heard pattering all over the house. Next day we began to hunt for the rice again; but it was only just before we left the cabin that we found it. It was in the tray of a trunk; and the end of the matter was, that the poor mice had all their trouble for nothing.

I am a little girl just nine and a half, and have every number of ST. NICHOLAS, and have them all bound, and love it dearly.—Yours truly,


A correspondent sends us the following description of what she calls the "Island of Juan Fernandez," near Paris.

* * * * *

One of the most attractive places for out-door amusement, just outside of Paris, is a spot fitted out to be a counterpart of the Island of Juan Fernandez, described by Daniel de Foe in his story of Robinson Crusoe.

After leaving the railroad depot, you enter an omnibus on which are painted the words "Robinson Crusoe." This leaves you at an arch-way bearing the curious inscription: "A mimic island of Juan Fernandez, the abode of Robinson Crusoe, dear to the heart of childhood, and a reminder of our days of innocence." You pass under this with high hope, and are not disappointed.

Inside, you find a kind of gypsy camp. Groups of open "summer-houses," built of bark, unhewn wood, and moss, are clustered here and there. Some stand on the earth, others are in grottoes or by shady rocks, and some are even among the branches of the great trees. All these houses are meant for resting-places while you are being served with such delicacies as pleasure-seekers from Paris are wont to require. In each of those huts, which are in the trees, stands a waiter who draws up the luncheon, the creams, or ices, in a kind of bucket, which has been filled by another waiter below. All is done deftly and silently, and you are as little disturbed as was Elijah by the ravens who waited on him.

The trees in which these houses are built are large old forest-trees, each strong enough in the fork to hold safely the foundation of a small cottage; and the winding stairs by which you get up into the tree are hidden by a leafy drapery of ivy, which covers the trunk also, and hangs in fluttering festoons from limb to limb.

From one of these comfortable perches you look down upon a lively scene of foliage, flowers, greensward, gay costumes and frolicking children. The view is wide, and has many features that would be strange to "dear old Robinson Crusoe." His cabin is multiplied into a hamlet, and his hermit life is gone. But you still recognize the place as a modernized portrait of the island of De Foe's wonderful book. And, as if to furnish you with a fresh piece of evidence, yonder appears Robinson Crusoe himself, in his coat of skins, and bearing his musket and huge umbrella.

Instead of Man Friday, Will Atkins, and the rest, you see donkeys carrying laughing children and led by queer-looking old women. And you heave a little sigh when you think: "How few of these French boys and girls really know old Crusoe and his adventures! To them this charming place has nothing whatever to do with running away to sea, shipwrecks, cannibals, mutinies, and such things. It is nothing but a new kind of pleasure-ground to them."

However, everybody feels at home here, and so everybody is happy; for, after all, looking for happiness is much like the old woman's search for her spectacles, which all the time are just above her nose.

O dear delightful island, how glad we were to chance upon you right here in gay, care-free Paris! And what an enchanted day we spent amid your thousand delights and thronging memories!

C. V. N. C. U.

HERE are two welcome little letters received some time ago from a boy and girl in Europe:

Nice, France.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am in Europe now, in Nice. I have seen a great deal already. Nice is a nice place. And it is the only city in the world that one may call "Nice" always. I can talk French now a little, enough to be understood. I go to the "Promenade des Anglais" by the sea every morning, and I like it very much. Nice is situated in the south-eastern part of France, very near Italy. It once did belong to Italy. It was given to Napoleon III. as a reward for helping the late king of Italy, Victor Emanuel II., to the throne of Sardinia. I get the ST. NICHOLAS sent from home, and like the stories very much.—Your loving subscriber,


Nice, France.

DARLING ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little girl seven years old, and I live in Nice. I enjoy myself very much here, and have a great deal of fun. I have nothing to do. I like it here very much. There are a great many mountains here, but now I do not know any more to write.—Your loving reader,


Pittsburgh, Penn.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have never written to you before, but I have thought about it several times. I live in the east end of the city. I like your magazine very much, and always read it through. I had a dispute to-day with a boy friend of mine. It was about the gypsies, who camp near our place every year. He said that not all people who lived that way were gypsies; but that only those who were descended from the Egyptians were so named. I did not agree with him, because, in the first place, I do not think that they are descended from the Egyptians, and, in the second place, I think that all people who live in that way are called gypsies, no matter what country they come from. I must now close.—Your constant reader,


New York, N. Y.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Did you know that we once had musical watchmen in this country? Less than fifty years ago, it was quite usual in Pennsylvania for the watchmen to sing the passing hours during the night. I suppose the custom was brought over by the Germans, who settled in the Keystone State. I fancy it must have been sleepy work for the poor watchman, calling the quiet hours, and adding, as he always did, his little weather report; at least, he invented a very drowsy, sing-song sort of tune for it.

In these days of telegraphing, and other scientific improvements, we should think it a very uncertain, and rather stupid, way to judge of the weather, to say it was "past ten o'clock on a starry evening," or "a cloudy evening," or "a frosty morning." Now, we have only to pick up the morning paper, and consult "Old Probabilities," who nearly always forecasts truly. But in those times there were no telegraph wires running the length and breadth of the land, and no Signal Service, either, so that the regular cry of the watchman may have been held in high esteem; and, perhaps, the sleepy folk would raise an ear from the pillow to hear the "probabilities" for the coming day, and lie down again to arrange business or pleasure accordingly.

A hundred years ago the people of Philadelphia were startled by a famous cry of a watchman at dead of night, making every one who heard it wild with joy. It was just after the battle of Yorktown, the last of the Revolution, when Lord Cornwallis and his army surrendered to Washington. The bearer of the news of victory, entering Philadelphia, stopped an old watchman to ask the way to the State House, where Congress was in session, waiting for news from the army. As soon as the watchman heard the glad tidings, he started off on his rounds, singing out to his monotonous tune the remarkable words—

"Past four o'clock, Cornwallis is taken!"

Up flew the windows on all sides, and every ear was strained to catch the joyful sound. The old bell sent forth a glad peal, houses were thrown open and illuminated, and the streets were filled with happy people congratulating one another, paying visits, and drinking toasts; so that, could but one thousand of the seven thousand British soldiers captured that day by Washington have entered the city that night, they might have taken it without a struggle.—Yours very truly,

E. A. S.

St. James House, King's Lynn, Norfolk, England.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: A few days ago my brother and I had a little bazaar which I should like to tell you about. We had been collecting and making things for a good long time, so we had nearly forty, most of which we made ourselves, but some were given to us by friends. I copied some of the things out of "A Hundred Christmas Presents," in ST. NICHOLAS for November, 1877. They were very pretty, especially the little wheelbarrow. We had a little refreshment stall with sweets, ginger-snaps, etc., and they sold more quickly than anything. We got L1, 1s., a guinea, which we sent to an orphan institution in London.

I like your magazine very much, I do not know which part is the best.—Yours truly,


Bay Shore, Long Island.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I lived in Germany over four years, so I know something about it. I should like to tell you about rafts on the Elbe.

They are of several kinds. Some are of boards all ready to be sold, others of round timber, just cut; another kind is of squared logs, and a fourth of both logs and boards. As the Elbe is not a rapid river, the unaided progress of a raft is very slow. So each man on it has a pole with an iron point on one end, while the other end fits to the shoulder; and the men pole along most of the time. To each end of the raft there are fastened three or four oars about twenty feet long; and with these they steer. The Elbe is so shallow that in the summer time boys walk through it; but in the spring the snow melting in the mountains at the river's source (Bohemia) makes freshets which carry off animals, boards, planks and sometimes houses. Under the arch-ways of the bridge at Dresden during these freshets, there are suspended large nets, two corners of each of which are fastened to the railing of the bridge, the lower side is heavily weighted and dropped, and so the net catches anything which comes down the stream.—Yours respectfully,


DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I wish that you would tell me how to make skeleton leaves. I have seen some done just lovely, and so I think that I should like to try—even if I don't succeed—to make some myself. I am going to the country this summer to stay quite a long time, and so I shall have a chance to get a great many different kinds of leaves.—Your constant reader,


Irene's question is answered in Volume III. of ST. NICHOLAS, pages 115 and 116,—the number for December, 1875.

THE VOYAGES AND ADVENTURES OF VASCO DA GAMA. By George M. Towle. Eight Full-page Illustrations. Published by Lee & Shepard, Boston. In 294 pages of clear type this book gives a cleverly condensed account of the most interesting events in the life of Vasco da Gama, the Portuguese navigator who first found the way from Europe to India around the Cape of Good Hope. His daring nobility of character and true and exciting adventures are presented in such a way as to delight boys and girls, and yet the romance that cannot be taken from the story is not allowed to interfere with historical truth. As the first of a series entitled "Heroes of History," this volume makes a good start in a pleasant and fruitful field.



The initials and finals name a flower. 1. A fruit. 2. A Shakspearean character. 3. A neck of land. 4. A spice.



It was 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 to the teacher's 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 me to go home early, that I escaped the shower.

C. D.


Find for each picture a word, or words, that will correctly describe it, and then transpose the letters of the descriptive word so as to form another word, which will answer to the definition given below the picture.



1. In martin, not in curlew. 2. A rather showy bird. 3. A very showy bird. 4. An Oriental animal. 5. In sparrow.

C. O.


1. A wading-bird. 2. A talking-bird. 3. To turn aside. 4. Steadiness of courage, or fortitude. 5. To go in.

R. K. D.



The initials name a large country of Asia, and the finals a country of Europe renowned for its climate.

1. A country of South America. 2. An ancient name for a narrow strait in South-eastern Europe. 3. A British possession in Asia. 4. A kingdom of Northern Hindostan. 5. A North American mountain system.



I am a word, with meanings many; To plunge, is just as good as any. With new head, I'm a piece of money; With other head, I'm "sweet as honey." Another still, I'm a projection; One more, I sever all connection. Another change, I'm the teeth to stick in; Another still, I plague your chicken. One more new head, and I'm to taste; One more, and I discharge with haste.

I. W. H.



1. May got a tablet for her Christmas. 2. My father walks so fast! 3. Such air as we breathe in our school-room is hurtful. 4. My brother's tools are always out of place. 5. What? not going to the party to-night? 6. Vic! Ribbons are out of place on school-girls. 7. What spool-cotton is the best to use? 8. Boys, stop that racket! 9. Lily made skips going along to school every day.

C. I. J.


1. In shelf, but not in seat; 2. In food, but not in meat; 3. In slow, but not in fast; 4. In model, but not in cast; 5. In hovel, but not in hut; 6. In almonds, but not in nut.

Read this aright, and you will find Two Yankee poets will come to mind.

I. E.


In each of the following sentences, fill the first blank, or set of blanks, with an appropriate word, or set of words, the letters of which may be transposed to fill the remaining blanks, as often as these blanks occur.

Thus, in No. 1, the first blank may be appropriately filled with the word "warned." The letters of this word, when transposed once, give "warden" for the second blank, and, transposed again, "wander" for the third.

1. Though —— before setting forth, the church —— lost his way and continued to —— helplessly for some time.

2. If a ——, or even a —— had —— at will through that well-kept ——, the plants would have been in great ——.

3. If —— grow in the Levantine island of ——, at least ——and —— are to be found there. This was told me as a —— fact.

4. Neither a precious stone such as a ——, nor a —— —— of pealed willow, nor even a —— of the sweet-pea vine, is of much account to an animal so savage as the ——. W.



Within my first, by no breeze stirred, My second, mirrored, saw my third, And plucked it, juicy, ripe and red, From a stray branch just overhead.

A town in India, owned by France, My whole, might well enrich romance.

J. P. B.


Central, read downward, an implement formerly used in war and the chase. Horizontals: 1. To sing in solemn measure. 2. Mineral produce. 3. In administrator. 4. A part of a toothed wheel. 5. An arbor.

C. H. S.


1. Curtail a color, and leave the forehead. 2. Curtail a joiner's tool, and leave a plot or draught. 3. Curtail a machine tool, and leave an article used in house-building. 4. Curtail a shrub, and leave warmth. 5. Curtail another shrub, and leave fog. 6. Curtail an ornament, and leave a fruit. 7. Curtail a badge of dignity or power, and leave a bird. 8. Curtail a thrust, and leave an organ of the human body. 9. Curtail a number, and leave a building for defense.

I. A.


In each of the following sentences, remove one of the defined words from the other, and leave a complete word.

1. Take always from a young hare, and leave to allow. 2. Take a tree from random cutting, and leave to throw. 3. Take part of the eye from cuttings, and leave what children often say the kettle does. 4. Take a sty from a workman in wood, and leave a carrier. 5. Take a favorite from floor-coverings, and leave vehicles.



DIAMOND REMAINDERS.—1. Dry. 2. Elope. 3. Drovers. 4. Spend. 5. Try. Remaining diamond: 1. R. 2. Lop. 3. Rover. 4. Pen. 5. R.

A CONCEALED BILL-OF-FARE.—1. Tea. 2. Beef. 3. Butter. 4. Ham. 5. Egg. 6. Meat. 7. Pie. 8. Fish. 9. Shad. 10. Salad. 11. Peas. 12. Hash.

EASY "ANNIVERSARY" PUZZLES.—Three anniversaries: 1. Fourth of July; J is a fourth part of the word "July." 2. First of May; M is the first letter of the word "May." 3. Holidays; hollied A's.

GEOGRAPHICAL SINGLE ACROSTIC.—Liverpool 1. Liffey. 2. Irrawaddy. 3. Vienne. 4. Euphrates. 5. Rhone. 6. Po. 7. Oder. 8. Ohio. 9. Lena.

EASY HIDDEN LATIN PROVERB.—Tempus fugit: (Time flies.) Totem pushed: Orfugito.

DROP-LETTER PUZZLE.—"Make hay while the sun shines."

SQUARE-WORD.—1. Bread. 2. Rumor. 3. Emery. 4. Aorta. 5. Dryad.

ANAGRAM DOUBLE-DIAMOND AND INCLOSED DOUBLE WORD-SQUARE.—Diamond, across: 1, R; 2, hat; 3, mated; 4, pen; 5, S. Word-square, downward: 1, Hap; 2, ate; 3, ten.

EASY BEHEADINGS.—1. Y-awning. 2. G-ape. 3. W-ant. 4. C-rate. 5. S-crape. 6. P-lace. 7. L-oaf. 8. S-hocks. 9. S-pin. 10. B-lot. 11. B-ranch. 12. S-lack.


PICTORIAL PUZZLE.—Patience: Pan, pence, ape, can, cane, cent, ice, pint, tin, ten, tie, net, pie, tea, cat, cape.

NUMERICAL PUZZLE.—Belle's letters; Belles-lettres.

CHARADE.—Harpsichord: Harp, sigh, chord.

SYNCOPATIONS.—1. Pilaster, plaster, paster, pater. 2. Harem, harm, ham. 3. Clamp, clap, cap.

ACROSTIC.—Mignonette. 1. MaN. 2. IcE. 3. GnaT. 4. NuT. 5. OdE.


D—i—D E—k—E E—v—E D—eifie—D

ENIGMA.—Hans Christian Andersen. 1. Shasta. 2. Chin. 3. Reins. 4. Red. 5. Nan.

EASY ENIGMA.—Tennis: Sin, net.

BIOGRAPHICAL DOUBLE ACROSTIC.—Abraham Lincoln. 1. AdmiraL. 2. BandittI. 3. RobiN. 4. ArC. 5. HerO. 6. AnviL. 7. MarteN.

HOUR-GLASS PUZZLE.—Chamois. 1. DisCern, 2. ScHah. 3. DAn. 4. M. 5. FOe. 6. PaIns. 7. VasSals.

REVERSALS.—1. Flow, wolf. 2. Draw, ward. 3. Gulp, plug, 4. Laud, dual. 5. Leer, reel.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE JUNE NUMBER were received, before June 18, from "Allie," Milly E. Adams, Maude Adams, George J. Fiske, Jeanie A. Christie, "Fannie," Edward Vultee, "Aimee," Estella Lohmeyer, Bertha Keferstein, Willie B. Deas, "Winnie," "Vulcan," "St. Nicholas Club," Chas. Carhart, "Patrolman Gilhooley," Harry Price, Frankie Price, M. W. C., "Prebo," "Cozy Club," E. S. G., M. H. G., "Lillian," Gertrude H., Bessie G., Georgie B., Adele F. Freeman, Nessie E. Stevens, Minnie Thiebaud, Eleanor P. Hughes, Ella Blanke, Kittie Blanke, "Bessie and her Cousin," Alice Robinson, C. S. King, Wm. H. McGee, Adele G. D., E. F. T., Nettie Kabrick, Debe D. Moore, Neils E. Hansen, Isabel Lauck, "O. K.," Alfred Terry Barnes, Florence Wilcox, Francis H. Earp, Imogene M. Wood, Horace F. W., Rowen S. McClure, Julia Crofton, "The P. L. C.," S. Norris Knapp, "K. Y. Z.," "Nameless," W. C. Eichelberger, John Cress, Daisy Briggs, Romeo Friganzi De Plonzies De Flon, G. P. Dravo, Marshall B. Clarke, Mary L. Fenimore, Bessie H. Jones, Samuel Hoyt Brady, Edith McKeever, R. Townsend McKeever, Annie L. Volkmar, E. Gilchrist, H. B. Ayers, S. A. Gregory, Virgie Gregory, "Caprice," Lewis G. Davis, Charles Fritts, Frances Hunter, Ray T. French, Nellie Zimmerman, Kittie Tuers, Etta Taylor, Guardie Kimball, Lulu Loomis, W. A. Ricker, Florence R. Swain, Nellie Baker, Gracie Van Wagenen, Rosie Van Wagenen, C. B. Murray, Gertrude Cheever, Albert T. Emery, Florence Van Rensselaer, "Hard and Tough," Nellie Emerson, Hans Oehme, Paul Oehme, C. N. Cogswell, Louisa Blake, W. H. Patten, Clara F. Allen, Caroline Howard, Helen Jackson, Ethel S. Mason, Helen S. Rodenstein, Harry Durand, Charles H. Stout, Sarah Duffield, Constance Grand-Pierre, "Prince Arthur," Madeleine Boniville, K. Beddle, Georgine C. Schnitzspahn, Mamie Robbins, C. L. S. Tingley, A. M. Holz, "Black Prince," J. R. Garfield, Anna E. Mathewson, "Adrienne," Grace A. Smith, M. H. Bradley, Gladys H. Wilkinson, and "John Gilpin."

THE LABYRINTH PUZZLE was solved by Esther L. Fiske, "Aimee," Estella Lohmeyer, Bertha Keferstein, "Vulcan," "Patrolman Gilhooley," Chas. H. Stout, M. W. C., "Cozy Club," R. M., Nessie E. Stevens, Minnie Thiebaud, Eleanor P. Hughes, Ella Blanke, Kittie Blanke, "Bessie and her Cousin," Adele G. D., Horace F. W., S. Norris Knapp, W. C. Eichelberger, John Cress, Romeo Friganzi De Plonzies De Flon, Samuel Hoyt Brady, Eddie K. Earle, R. Townsend McKeever, Nettie F. Mack, "Caprice," C. Maud Olney, Frances Hunter, Charles Fritts, Harvey E. Mason, Lulu B. Monroe, Nellie Baker, Nellie Emerson, Caroline Howard, "Diaconos," Sarah Duffield, Constance Grand-Pierre, William T. Gray, K. Beddle, Georgine C. Schnitzspahn, Gladys H. Wilkinson, and H. Martin Vail.


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