Book: St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5, May, 1878, No. 7.

V >> Various >> St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5, May, 1878, No. 7.




Now, what in the world can be the use of that spider's eyes, I'd like
to know, if he can't see the things around him?


A QUEER CHURN.

New Haven, Conn.

Dear Jack: Last year in April you gave us a picture of a very small
doll-churn that a little girl had made, and I thought it was very
'cute. But I read the other day of another churn quite as odd. It
is simply the skin of a goat, hung by a rope from the roof. It is
used in Persia, and, when they want to churn, they fill the
goat-skin with milk, and swing it forward and backward until the
butter comes. The children do the swinging, and I think it must be
better fun than turning a crank or working a plunger.--Yours
affectionately, O.T.


CATS IN SPAIN.

Cats have a nice time in Spain, I hear. No dismal moonlight prowlings
over fences and back sheds for them! They have the roofs of the whole
country for their walks, and need never touch the ground unless they
choose. I'll tell you why. Grain is stored in the attics of Spain,
because they are too hot for anything else. But rats and mice delight
in attics, as well as in grain. So each owner cuts a small door from
the roof, big enough for puss, and any homeless cat is welcome to her
warm home, in return for which she keeps away rats. In a sudden rain
it must be funny to see dozens of cats scampering over the roofs to
their homes among the grain-bags.


"SINCERE" STATUES.

Cambridge, Mass.

DEAR LITTLE SCHOOLMA'AM: In ST. NICHOLAS for December, 1877,
Jack-in-the-Pulpit says that "sincere" is made of the words
_sine-cera_, meaning "honey without wax." I have been told that it
refers also to the Greeks, who, when they found a crack in a
statue, would sometimes fill the flaw with wax; and that hence a
"sincere" statue, one "without wax," would have no flaw, but be a
true and honest statue.

I have not been able to find any authority for this, otherwise I
should have written sooner.--Yours sincerely, F.B.J.


[Illustration: FOOLS'-CAPS FOR CROWS.]

FOOLS'-CAPS FOR CROWS.

My acquaintances the crows are very fond of corn, and have a way of
picking it out of the ground with their bills just after it has been
planted. So the farmers try all sorts of plans to keep them away. One
of these plans is shown in the picture.

Paper cones are set point downward in the ground, and baited with a few
corn kernels; then some bird-lime is smeared around the insides. When a
crow reaches down for the corn, the paper cone sticks to him, looking
rather like a fool's-cap, and he does not get rid of it in a hurry. I'm
told that it takes only a few of these cones to keep off a whole flock
of crows. They are afraid of making themselves ridiculous, I suppose.


ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

Now then, my dears, here's a capital chance to show your knowledge of
history. Who can answer this question?

Boston, Mass.

DEAR JACK: Will you please ask some of your chicks to tell me when
the ancients left off, and the moderns began?--and you will greatly
oblige. F.


LUMBER AND TIMBER, AGAIN.

The Little Schoolma'am says that "timber" generally means "felled
trees," but is used sometimes to describe trees that are yet standing
and growing; "lumber" means timber that has been made ready for use, by
sawing, splitting, and so forth.

E.M. Ferguson, J. Harry Townsend, Lillie Stone, J. Dutton Steele, Jr.,
and N.Y.Z. all sent correct answers; but Virginia Waldo, G.V.D.F., and
"Max" were only almost right in their replies.




THE LETTER-BOX.


The answers to Mr. Cranch's poetical charades, published on page 406 of
the April number, are as follows: I., Carpet, car-pet. II., Bargain,
bar-gain. III., Pic-nic, pick-Nick. IV., Nightmare, night-mare.


* * * * *


A large number of correspondents kindly point out that the poem
entitled "The Nightingale's Mistake," printed in the March
"Letter-Box," is also called "The Singing-Lesson," and was written by
Jean Ingelow.


* * * * *


Clayton, Iowa.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I thought I would write to you to tell you about
our little town of Clayton. It is a beautiful little place, of
about three hundred and eighty inhabitants, situated on the
Mississippi River. There are two large flouring-mills, two
saw-mills, and a large hoop factory here, where all kinds of straps
and hoops are manufactured by machinery. First, the poles are sawed
into certain lengths; then they are taken to the splitters, to be
split. They are then taken to the planers. After going through this
process, they are bunched into bunches of fifty each. Then they are
ready for shipment. They are made of hickory, white oak, and birch.

It is very pleasant to take a boat-ride on a summer eve, with the
banks on either side of you covered with long green grass, and
flowers of nearly all descriptions bending down into the water,
while in the woods all kinds of birds are cluttering and
chattering, and the ducks are quacking around you, all of which
makes it very pleasant.--Your constant reader,

H.R.


* * * * *


Baltimore, Md.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I would like to know why it is that the wife of
General George Washington is called Lady Washington? I do not think
that we have ever had any lords or ladies in our country; so if you
know the reason why, I would like to know.

E.M.

Can any of our boys and girls answer this question?


* * * * *


Somerville, N.J.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: As I wish to contribute a little to the
"Letter-Box," I will send you a little poem written by my sister
Allie when she was nine years old.

OUR BABY.

Little Bertha is my sister,
And she is two years old,--
A cunning little darling,
Whom I love to hold.

You ask her whom she loves best,
And she'll say "Papa Lou."
You ask her whom she loves next,
And p'r'aps she will say "You."

You ask her what her name is,
And she'll say "Bertie Lou."
But then, she's sometimes naughty,
And sometimes so are you.

Little Bertha is my sister,
And she's as cunning as she can be;
With a dimple in each cheek,
And a dimple in each knee.

And I guess most people love her,
For she's as cunning as she can be;
But then, sometimes she is naughty,
And that's the way with you and me.

My darling little sister
Always sleeps at night with me;
And, as I said before,
She's as cunning as she can be.

A.C.H.


* * * * *


Roseville, N.J.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We thought perhaps you would like to hear about
our pet sparrow "Bob." We have had him since last July, and he is
just as cunning as he can be. He was so young at first, he could
not fly, and slept in a little box, with a piece of flannel over
him; but now he roosts on a nail in the sitting-room bay-window. We
do not keep him in a cage, but he goes all over the house, and does
just as he pleases. He has had plenty of chances to fly out, but
seems to be happy and contented, and makes himself perfectly at
home. When we are eating, he helps himself to anything he wants,
and is not a bit bashful. He loves honey, and will eat all he
wants, and then wipe his bill on any one's dress or on the
table-cloth. He will jump on papa's whiskers, and pull mamma's
hair-pins out of her hair, steal her needle, and do many other
mischievous things. He has chosen one of the gas-globes for a
nesting-place, and carries bits of cloth, strings, or any such
thing that he can find, and puts them there. He tries to sing, and
has learned several of the canary's notes. We catch him sometimes,
and put him under a hat, to tease him. He then gets angry, pecks
the hat, and scolds at the top of his voice. We have a rabbit and a
guinea-pig, too; but if they come into the room where Bob is, he
will fly at them and peck them till they run out. Every one who
sees him thinks he is a wonderful bird, and we should feel very
sorry if anything should happen to him.--Yours truly,

ELLA AND EDWIN H.


* * * * *


DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have a little sister named Pet, because we
love her so. A few days ago our papa had a narrow escape from being
burned, and Pet asked me if I thanked God for taking care of him. I
said, "Yes." "And did God say, 'You're welcome'?" asked Pet.

Now, don't you think that was a funny idea?--Your affectionate
reader,

R.L.P.


* * * * *


GULLIVER'S TRAVELS AND THE MOONS OF MARS.--A correspondent writes that
in Gulliver's "Voyage to Laputa," an imaginary flying island, Dean
Swift, the author, describes some over-wise philosophers, and, among
other things, says:

"They have likewise discovered two lesser stars, or satellites,
which revolve about Mars; whereof the innermost is distant from the
center of the primary planet exactly three of his diameters, and
the outer-most, five; the former revolves in the space of ten
hours, and the latter in twenty-one and a half; so that the squares
of their periodical times are very nearly in proportion with the
cubes of their distance from the center of Mars."

Now, these two satellites were not discovered really until August 16th,
1877, but Dean Swift's book appeared it 1726, more than one hundred and
fifty years before! But, although the Dean's guesswork is not exactly
correct, he comes very near the truth when he states the time taken by
each moon in going around the primary. This you will see by comparing
his words with the following letter, which we have received from
Professor Asaph Hall, the actual discoverer of the moons:

Naval Observatory, Washington, D.C.,
March 4th, 1878.

EDITOR ST. NICHOLAS: The periods (of revolution) of the satellites
of Mars are as follows,--Deimus being the outer satellite, and
Phobus the inner one:

Period of Deimus, 30 hours, 18 minutes, 0 seconds.
" " Phobus, 7 " 39 " 16 "

These values are very nearly correct, and will be changed in the
final calculation only a few seconds, if at all.--Yours truly,

A. HALL.


* * * * *


The following are extracts from the letters of a young girl now
traveling in Europe:

Berlin, 1877.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We were in the Auer Cathedral, Munich, looking
down the long nave, when troops of little children, boys and girls,
each with a little knapsack strapped between the shoulders, leaving
the hands and arms free for play, came hastening in by twos and
threes, till the whole church seemed full. They all knelt down,
whispered a few words of prayer, and remained for a brief space,
silent and motionless, bowed down in devotion; then they quietly
arose and went out. I shall not soon forget Auer Cathedral with its
little worshipers.

We have been settled at Berlin for a month. Being the residence of
the Emperor and Court, it is very gay with balls, theaters, etc.,
and the streets are bright and lively with fine uniforms, prancing
horses, and carriages full of richly dressed ladies, their escorts
riding on horseback at the side. It presents a lively contrast with
Munich in these respects, but, as to sunlight, it is a gloomy
place. Thus far we have had only four pleasant days, and on those
the sun set between three and four in the afternoon. Some days we
thought it did not rise at all! We realize now, for the first time,
how far north Germany is.

We improved one of our pleasant days by a trip to Potsdam, where is
the summer palace of the kings of Prussia. Here are the rooms of
Frederick the Great, just as he arranged them. His library is
chiefly of French books, and fills the shelves, which are
everywhere, from floor to ceiling--upon the doors, even, so that,
when they are shut, one feels imprisoned in books!

At the opposite end of the palace are the rooms once occupied by
Voltaire. The walls are covered with painted wood carvings of cats,
dogs, parrots, and peacocks, which Frederick caused to be placed
there after his quarrel with Voltaire, to express his opinion of
the Frenchman's traits of character.

Directly under the walls of the palace stands an idle windmill, now
owned by the Emperor. The noise of this windmill used to annoy the
queen, so Frederick sent for the miller and said to him:

"We two cannot live so near each other. One of us must buy the
property of the other. Now, will you buy my palace?"

"But my leige, I have not the money," replied the miller.

"Then I must buy your mill," said the king.

"You also have not money enough; I will not sell," was the miller's
reply.

When the king hinted his power to take possession by force, the
sturdy miller said he could and would sue the king.

"Well," said the monarch, "since you have so high an opinion of the
justice to be found in my courts of law, I will not molest you."

So the windmill continued to creak and whirr in the ears of the
royal family for a long time.

ADA.


* * * * *


HERBERT J.--In answer to your request, we give a copy of the poem
entitled "The Little Boy who Went Out to Swim," published first in ST.
NICHOLAS for September, 1874. Several of our readers have asked to see
the poem printed, without its pictures, in the "Letter-Box," as the
interweaving of the illustrations with the text, as they first
appeared, hindered the meaning and beauty of the verses from being
fully understood.

THE LITTLE BOY WHO WENT OUT TO SWIM.

BY HENRY HOWLAND.


A little boy went out to swim,
One pleasant day in June,
And the fish all came to talk to him,
That summer afternoon.

"Come down, dear little boy," they said,
"And let us show to you
The homes of fish, merman and maid.
Under the waters blue.

"We'll show you where the naiads sleep,
And where the tritons dwell;
The treasures of the unknown deep,
The coral and the shell.

"The siren's song shall charm your ears,
And lull you into rest;
No monster shall arouse your fears,
Or agitate your breast."

The little boy was glad to go;
And all the company
Of fish escorted him below,--
A pageant brave to see!

The pilot-fish swam on ahead,
The shark was at his heels;
The dolphin a procession led
Of porpoise, whale, and eels.

The trout, all brave in red and gold,
Many a caper cut;
And after them came crowds untold
Of cod and halibut.

The blue-fish with the black-fish swam;
Who knows the joy each felt?
The perch was escort to the clam,
The oyster to the smelt.

The muscalonge, from northern lake,
That leaps the harbor bar,
Swam closely in the sturgeon's wake,
Famous for caviar!

The haddock floated side by side
With carp from foreign shore,
And with them, through the seething tide,
Went scollops by the score.

The sword-fish, like a soldier brave,
His saber flashing bare,
Went o'er the swelling ocean wave,
With bold and martial air.

The jelly-fish went trembling down;
The star-fish mildly beamed;
And through the waves, like diamonds thrown,
The sun-fish glanced and gleamed.

The sea-bass, black-bass, pike and dace
Went dashing on like mad;
The sheep's-head, with his lamb-like face,
Swam by the graceful shad.

The pickerel leaped and danced along;
The frog-fish puffed and blew;
The herring in a countless throng
Swam by, a merry crew.

The turtles sailed a Dutch-built fleet,
On port and starboard tack,
While through their ranks, with caution meet,
Darted the stickleback.

The shrimp and lobster clawed along
With others of their kin,
And in their company a throng
Of lively terrapin.

The bull-pouts, dressed in black and drab,
With horns and visage grim,
Preceded the meandering crab;
The mackerel followed him.

Sea-spiders, in their coats of mail;
Shiners, with silver vest;
White-fish and weak-fish at their tail,
Swam on with all the rest.

The royal turbot, true and tried,
Subject of England's queen,
Sailed on in regal pump and pride,
With whitebait and sardine.

The knightly salmon, king of fish,
Without reproach or fear,
The noblest fish a man could wish,
Came bringing up the rear.

And thus they reached the mermaid's cave.
Who, with a heart-felt joy,
To her bright home beneath the wave,
Welcomed the little boy!


* * * * *


Here is a letter which we print just as it was written by the little
one who sent it to us:

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS I send you a little story to put in the letter
Box.

Once there was a little Boy His Name was Harry He lived with His
Mother in a humble little Cottage) His Mothers Name was Mrs Jones
she was a Widow) she and Harry lived all alone) one day Harry came
Home from school and faced the Doctor at the Door young man said
the Dr to the Boy your Mother is very sick) she was doing what you
ought to of done for her) what is that sir said Harry choping Wood
Bringing in Coal and all such work as that) she straned her self
and is very ill) poor Harry hung down His head for His Mother had
asked Him to chop the wood this Morning when He was mending his
Ball) He said I will be there in a moment Mother) and like all Boy
He forgot) oh how poor Harry felt When He thought of this) but
Harry took good care of His Mother ever after) a Friend of Harries
got Him a good Situation and Made a man of Him and He allways did
what His Mother asked Him) ever after Harry said to the Dr one day)
Dr I can take care of Mother now and I allways will

So we hope Harry will take care of His Widow Mother, all the) rest
of His days)

M.J.W.


* * * * *


Here is a nice letter that a little girl wrote to her mother nearly
thirty-three years ago. The little girl was away from her town home on
a visit to the country for the sake of her health; and all that she
wrote in the letter was true.

Mr. McDonald's, October 1st, 1845.

MY DEAR MOTHER: I wish my arms were long enough to reach two miles,
I want to give you a good hug, I am so glad you let me come out
here. I was a little bit afraid last night, the horse was so high,
and it was so dark. I never rode on a horse in the dark before, you
know. It was so dark in the woods I could not see anything, but my
eyes would stay so wide open they hurt me. I held as tight to Mr.
George as I could; I felt as though some big thing was just going
to snatch me off the horse, all the time; my fingers felt like they
were full of pins when I let go. Everything does taste so good out
here, and the air is so clean. I stretched out my arms to it this
morning, it felt so good. We have a play-house on the rocks; it has
two fire-places. They are made out of flat stones, and inside of
the big stones we set up two smaller stones, and lay a flat one
across, and there we do our cooking. We are going to have a party
to-night, and have been busy all day getting ready. All the good
things are cooked, waiting till night, when Mac will be home. We
have three splendid baked apples, and three eggs roasted in the
ashes, but we have only two pies. We could only find two
blacking-box lids, and as these are our pie-pans, we have only two
pies. We washed and scoured the black all off, and they looked as
nice as Sophia's tins, which she will never let us touch at home.
Our biscuits are not as nice quite as hers, it was so hard to make
them round, and our range don't bake on both sides, so we had to
turn them over to get both sides cooked. Our things all look very
good, and I am real hungry for them, but you know it would not do
to eat the party before Mac comes. We have made wreaths of
maple-leaves, to wear on our heads to-night, one for Mac, too. We
thought it would do for a boy to wear a wreath as long as there are
so few of us, and the leaves are so pretty; and as it is my
birthday, I have some leaves basted all around my blue dress, and
it looks lovely.

I must stop now. Give my love to all. Take good care of Fideli, and
kiss all around for your loving daughter,

JULIA.


* * * * *


Clifton, Iroquois County, Ill.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We want to tell the little boys and girls that
read ST. NICHOLAS, how a greedy rooster got caught in a trap. We
set the trap to catch rabbits, but didn't get any; so the corn was
left, and the chickens were all walking around, and saw it, and
tried to get in to eat it; but the selfish old rooster drove them
all away, and crowded in himself, and began to eat the corn, when
down came the trap, and he was fast, but all the others were
free.--Yours truly,

ARTHUR AND BROWNIE S.


* * * * *


South Boston, Mass.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I read the "Letter-Box" every month with much
interest, and have often seen puzzles and "such things" in it, so I
send you one, and hope that somebody will find it out:

There was somebody born in England, on the 16th of July, 1723. He
was the son of a clergyman, and his father was rather strict with
him. He made a drawing of his father's school with so much accuracy
of outline, and in such correct perspective, that the grave
clergyman could no longer maintain his severity. He saw that his
son would be a painter, and resolved to aid him. An anecdote
related of the artist runs thus: One day, a man called to see some
of his pictures, and asked him what he mixed his colors with. The
painter answered, "With brains, sir--with brains!"--Yours,

FRANK R.M.


* * * * *


Columbia, S.C.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Our schoolma'am told us the other day that it is
generally best to use short words instead of long words in writing
or speaking, and she gave us a verse to copy as a specimen. She
said that it was written by a man who was perfect master of seven
languages, knew six others very well, was at home with another
eight, and read with a lexicon four more,--in all twenty-five
different languages; and although he could use tremendously long
words when he chose, yet he made a point of using short ones, even
though they were old and odd and not in common use. I send you a
copy of the verse, and I think he might have done much better if he
had used longer and more forcible words.--Yours truly,

STELLA G.

"Think not that strength lies in the big round word,
Or that the brief and plain must needs be weak.
To whom can this be true that once has heard
The cry for help, the tongue that all men speak
When want or woe or fear is in the throat,
So that each word gasped forth is like a shriek
Pressed from the sore heart, or a strange wild note
Sung by some foe or fiend. There is a strength
Which dies if stretched too far or spun too fine,
Which has more height than depth, more breadth than length.
Let but this force of thought and speech be mine,
And he that will may take the sleek fat phrase,
Which glows and burns not, though it gleam and shine--
Light but not heat--a flash, but not a blaze!"

Long words are not always the most "forcible," Stella,--nor, on the
other hand, are they always to be avoided. Sometimes the best word for
expressing our meaning may be long to spell, but easy to understand;
and, again, a word may be short and yet fail to tell exactly what we
wish to say. The verse you copy is not a convincing example of the
power of short words, although it shows that much may be done with
them. Frequently a word is chosen for its rhythmic quality--the
pleasantness and ease with which its sound fits in with the
context--rather than because it is long or short. Mr. Longfellow's
poem, "The Three Kings" published in the last Christmas number of ST.
NICHOLAS, is an example of a fine poem in simple and rhythmical
language, the study of which will improve your style of writing more
than any number of rules that we might give you.




THE RIDDLE-BOX.


HOUR-GLASS PUZZLE.

The central letters, read downward, name a fashionable and beautiful
pet.

1. A large reptile. 2. Idolizing. 3. A foe. 4. To stain. 5. A consonant.
6. A dandy. 7. To baffle. 8. Good news. 9. Capable of being made better.

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