Newspaper Page Text
February 7, 1912] THE ]
reamy loaves to the bachelor uncle, whose slavery
to boarding-house cooking was the one thorn
in his existence.
To poor, dyspeptic, crusty Uncle John they
sent what they knew he would like best of all,
even if it did give him an extra twinge?two
spicy, flaky mince pies.
For one of Tom's girl friends who liked odd
trophies for her room he had cut a score of
basswood whistles of all lengths and sizes. These
were suspended by thongs from a cane upon
which was cut the admonition, ""Whistle for
your supper."
n c? rt - - - -
lur. urayson occasionalny corresponded with
an old-time friend, now a wealthy New York
banker. The year before he had sent Mr. Grayson
an exquisitely illustrated book of "Boyhood
Scenes," and the whole family had been puzzled
to know what to send him in return. At last
Mr. Grayson himself solved the problem. lie
searched until he found an old-fashioned willow
basket of the kind used thirty years ago. This
he filled with the choicest fruit from a rare
Newtown pippin tree in his orchard, and sent it
by express to his friend.
"I'm certain that Joe will recognize those at
a glance," he said to his wife with a satisfied
smile. "We used to gather Newtown pippins
together when we were boys, and in just that
kind of a basket, too."
The New York banker did appreciate the
sentiment of the gift, for on Christmas evening
Mr. Grayson received this telegram: "Thanks,
old friend. I'd give a year of my life to climb
that tree with you again."
One afternoon was spent in making balsam
pillows for the den of a friend whose home had
formerly been among the pine woods of Canada.
The previous summer a balsam tree growing
upon the place had been cut down, and the tender,
sweet-smelling needles at the tips of the
branches had been saved, with the thought that
they might some day prove useful. Thick layers
of the needles were placed in soft cotton, making
dainty pillows which would emit their soothing
fragrance for years to come.
To a friend who lived alone Katherine sent
a dainty square of her own white-clover honey
with hpr pnrd nnnr? wtiinVi oV>? tt*??<->+? " A nr~
, .. M?v?i oiiu -n. iiicii jr
Christmas to you?honey!"
One other gift they planned for a friend lcept
closely confined all the year hy the care of an
invalid mother. This gift they sent as a due
bill made out in regular business form. It read
something like this:
"This certifies that there are due Mrs. Joseph
Sage, upon demand, two weeks of June sunshine,
with all the privileges of Clovemook farm,
the pony cart and the strawberry patch not
excepted.
"(Signed) The Gravshns."
The problem of sending such an assortment of
unusual gifts became a perplexing one, until
finanlly the elder son proposed that the be packed
in a large hamper. "With this lie boarded the
six o'clock trolley on Christmas morning, and
at eight o'clock every gift was delivered.
It required some courage upon the part of
the Graysons to send these commonplace things
instead of the books and the silver and the cut
glass which had formerly been their choice.
rney were received so enthusiastically, however,
as to prove beyond a doubt that sometimes unconventional
gifts are best.?Ex.
EDGAR'S SOLDIER LESSON.
Really it was too bad. Edgar was going out
to play soldier. He slipped on the steps and
twisted his anfcle.
"My little lad must go to bed and get well,"
said Mamma Gates.
"Boo-hoo!" howled Eddy.
PRESBYTERIAN OF THE SO
Uncle Casper looked up from his paper and
smiled.
"I don't want to go to bed. I want to go
and be a soldier," sobbed poor Edgar.
"But if your ankle is not bathed and put to
bed, you will be very lame tomorrow."
"I don't care,' whined Eddy. "I don't want
to go to bed."
"I thought you were playing soldier," said
Uncle Casper. ""What does a soldier do?'
Eddie looked up, puzzled. "He marches and
he drums." Eddy looked at his drum and began
to cry again.
"Is that all he does?"
<<TT? >?- i A- ? '
uu?u l nave 10 go to Dea," wnined
Eddy.
"But sometimes he gets hurt badly. He is
shot in battle. Then what does he do? Does
he howl and cry?"
Now Uncle Casper was an old soldier whom
Eddy admired very much.
"Nc-o-o! I guess not. I don't know," said
the boy.
"No. He goes to the hospital. There he is
as brave as when he drums and marches."
Edgar wiped his eyes and looked eagerly at
his uncle. "Is going to bed and not crying being
a soldier?" he asked.
"Yes, my boy, that is the bravest part of it.
Noav let me be the ambulance?that's a wagon,
you know?and take you to the hospital."
Uncle Casper picked up Eddy in his arms and
carried him gently to his chamber.
"Now I'm going to be a good soldier," said
the br.y, with a smile. lie did not wince when
his uncle felt the sore ankle and bound it up.
"That's a brave lad, Eddie," said his uncle.
"Now plav it does not hurt nn/1 cm tn clnnn "
^ w ? vy w"V4 I.V OIV.V J/.
Half an hour later Eddy was dreaming. He
looked like a brave little corporal taking his
rest.
Uncle Casper hung up Eddy's flag and gun
where he could see them when he awoke. The
drum with the soldier cap upon it was placed
upon the bed. Edgar limped down stairs the
next day, and went into camp on the sofa. lie
whined and complained no longer. He had
learned a lesson, that a brave man is patient
in suffering.?Little Men and Women.
LITTLE BIRDS IN FLATS.
I wonder if you would believe me if I told you
that in the heart of South Africa there a number
of cunning little apartment houses, regular up-todate
flats, occupied by thirty or forty families?
And such ideal flats, too! There isn't any fussy
old janitor, nobody objects to children?for in
every family there are four or five?and, what
is stranger yet, every living soul in those flats is
a musician, and not a very good one at that, and
tbey all sing their favorite songs at the same time
without becoming the least vexed with one another
!
Ah! but the inhabitants of thes apartment
houses in South Africa are much more civilized
than the flat dwellers of New York and Chicago,
and who knows but they may have developed
beyond selfishness and reached a height of patience
and brotherly love not attained by human
beings? For they really aren't people, you
know, but little brown birds no larger than
English sparrows, and closely resembling thfese
tiny busybodies, save that their beaks are thicker
and larger.
Mr. "Weaver Bird, for that is his name, is so
termed uecause He weaves the native grasses into
vsuch beautiful nests. These sociable weavers go
in large colonies: and when housebuilding time
comes, some forty or more of tbem construct the
straw umbrella which is to unite the little houses
under a common roof. This large affair is
UTH (127) 7
spread like & parasol, having a great limb or
trunk of a tree for its center rod. Beneath it the
forty little nests are swung; and there, secure
from the sun and shower, they sing and hatch
and rear their young. Bird-catcliing animals
have a time of difficulty in getting at the little
weaver birdies on account of the slippery sides
of these parasol roofs. But the wise parent
weavers are not content to trust altogether to
the protection of their housetops. They frequently
build these little midair flats on a tree
over-hanging a river, choosing one with a smooth,
tall trunk, prcferablv a nalm Tiiic mow- ;?
? ^ K ..... ? <?> munvo lb 11Upassible
for tlie snakes and other bird-devouring
reptiles to invade their nurseries. Sometimes
these knowing little creatures will even strip the
twigs that hold their nests until they are hare of
leaves, to render them useless as footholds for
enemies.?Ex.
PHILLIP'S PET.
"Position!" said Miss Marsden.
Forty-nine pairs of feet and hands obeyed.
"This morning," Miss Marsden said, "we
will talk about our pets. Any one who has some
pet at home may tell what he feeds to it, and
what it can do, and then the others may guess
what kind of a pet it is. First, I will tell you
about mine. I feed it sugar"?
One hand went up.
"And crackers"?
Three more hands were raised.
AJLUU occu.
Almost every hand in the room was up now.
"It eats out of my hand and sits on my
fingers, and it sings. Its name is Goldie."
Miss Marsden nodded to let the children know
that they might tell her what her pet was, and
every child in the room guessed right the first
time.
Several of the children had a canary. One had
a bird that could talk. One had something that
ate grass and gave milk, and slept in the barn.
One boy hUd shy, long-eared pets that lived in
a wire-netting cage. Ever so many children had
cats or dogs, and some of the things they did
were so wonderful that it took the other children
a long time to guess what the pets were.
"Now, is there any child who has a pet he has
not told about?" Miss Marsden asked.
Ph;i;n i?J tt*
- ...i.jj iaiacu m? nana. 111s eyes were very
bright, and he was smiling.
"What is it, Philip? Have you a pet?"
"I have!" said Philip, standing straight and
speaking very fast. "It eats potatoes and bread
and molasses?anything it can get hold of. It
runs about the house and yard, and crawls up
and down stars. It tries to stand on its head
when I tell it to. It knows everything that's
said to it. When it wants anything, it gets it if
it can reach it; and it brings me things I ask for,
too. It watches for me to come home, and runs
to meet me when it sees me coming, and it says:
'Hello, Phillie! How are you?' It is two years
old. and its name is ?7immie."
Philip sat down and all the children laughed
right out loud and waived their hands wildly.
"Whose pet is the best of all?" asked Miss
Marsden.
Every child in the room cried out, "Philip's!"
?Fannie Wilder Brown, in Lutheran Observer.
The true spirit of religion is to search after
God and for another life with lowliness of heart;
to fling down no man's altar; to punish no man's
prayer; to heap no penalties and no pains on
those solemn supplications which, in divers
tongues and in varied forms, and in temples of a
thousand shapes, but with one deep sense of human
dependence, men pour forth to God.?
Sidney Smith.