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All communications for “ Boys and
Girls ” should be sent to Ray Richmond,
157 Prairie street, Dubuque, lowa. Sub
scriptions and all business letters, should
be sent only to the publisher at Athens,
Georgia.
I
THE ANGRY ALPHABET.
Lazy Mary Ann Dees
Never dotted her i’s nor crossed her t’s,
So the letters resolved to give her no e’s,
And they fed her on pods without any p’s,
And frightened her well with a swarm of b’s,
And at last they banished her over the e’s
To the kingdom of fogs that is known as
Queen V’s.
GAMES AT CLOVER LODGE.
11.
We had worn out all our games—blind
man’s bluff, tag, thumbs up, go lang, and
in fact almost everything. As spring came
around again, our pent-up spirits found no
games in which to vent themselves. True,
papa put up a large swing in the back
yard, but it made Dot sick, and any way,
only one could swing in it at a time. Then
a nice trapcse was arranged for the boys,
which was great fun, but the bumps occa
sioned by awkward tumbling on it, or off
of it, should I say, were not so funny. And
as Joy said, it was lots of fun to see the
men at the circus do it; but he just tum
bled right down and couldn’t see himself
do it even. So, even that was abandoned.
We were in despair for new games.
One day, while “ way up-stairs,” as Dot
calls the third story, I came across a stand
of shelves and some wooden dishes. How
eager the children were to keep store, and
now here was a chance.
Next day you could have seen papa mak
ing a light frame-work for a summer house,
and as soon as ’twas done, Angel and I
planted vines all around it. But it was
slow work waiting for the vines to cover
our “ store,’’ as the boys called it, and in the
meanwhile we laid in stock. Angel used
his tools manufacturing all sorts of cun
ning wooden things; Joy cut out pictures
of presidents, statesmen and authors for
picture books; Dot drew marvellous ani
mals and queer people, for decoration, and
I dressed five cent dolls. In May our
shop was well covered with vines and our
shelves laden with wares. Joy was the
head of the firm; Angel the silent partner,
and Dot a clerk. Across the front entrance
was a banner bearing “J. Clover & Co.” in
big letters, the pride of young Joy’s heart.
Traffic soon began. Pins and odd pen
nies poured in fast from our little neigh
bors. Mamma offered to buy the pins, and
before all the articles were sold, the boys
jingled many a bright penny in their
pockets. After school was over, the shop
degenerated into a play-house, where the
twins and Little Love frolicked and set
table on the shelves, Little Love calling
out now and then, dinna’s weady.”
Birdie Clover.
SHORT SERMONS FOR BOYS.
Most boys and girls do not like sermons;
they say they are too long for their high
nesses. Perhaps they may like these short
sermons. They will give food to think
over, and must not be read too hastily:
A Swedish boy fell out of the window
and was badly hurt, but, with clenched
lips, he kept back the cry of pain. The
life®
king, Gustavus Adolphus, who saw him
fall, prophesied that the boy would make
a man for an emergency. And so he did,
for he became the famous Gen. Bauer.
A boy used to crush the flowers to get
their color, and painted the white side of
his father’s Sottage in Tyrol with all sorts
of pictures, which the mountaineers gazed
at as wonderful. He was the great artist
Titian.
An old painter watched a little fellow
who amused himself making drawings of
his pot and brushes, easel and stool, and
said: “ That boy will beat me one day.”
So he did, for he was Michael Angelo.
A German boy was reading a blood and
thunder novel. Right in the midst of it
he said to himself: “ Now, this will never
do. I get too much excited over it. I
can’t study so well after it. So here goes!”
and he flung the book out into the river
He was Fichte, the great German philoso
pher.
Do you know what these little sermons
mean? Why, simply this: That in boy
hood and girlhood are shown the traits for
good or evil that make the man or woman
good or not. — Jewish Messenger.
SOMETHING ABOUT FLIES.
BY GENIE L. BOYCE, WAITSFIELD, VT.
Now my dear children, if you will lay
aside your play for a little while, and listen
very attentively, I will describe to you
some of the peculiarities of the fly.
You have all become acquainted with
these troublesome insects, during the sum
mer months, no doubt, and have pronounced
them anything but agreeable; but still,
even the little fly has its mission. You
perhaps, have sometime noticed it, . after
flying around the room for a while, alight
on the wall, and scrape its legs with its
feet, then draw them across its mouth, thus
clearing the air from poison, or, the in
visible animalculaj.
The fly is a little creature, yet he under
stands a cunning art. He alights on the
ceiling of the room, and does’nt fall down.
Isn’t this strange? Can you imagine the
reason ?
Just think! you could’nt imitate him,
even if you tried. Well, let us solve the
mystery. Our first question will be, how
many legs has it? Your answer is six. Yes,
that is correct, and the child has only two;
but it does’nt depend on the number of
legs, for there are many insects that have
several hundred, and yet fall to the ground.
If you had a magnifying-glass to look
through, you could readily understand the
way a fly stands; for fear, some of you
will fail to try the experiment, I will tell
you.
In front, at the end of each leg, the fly
has tw o tiny sheltered hooks or claws; and
with these he can help himself along over
rough things, such as cloth, newspapers and
other not very smooth surfaces. Under
these two hooks lie two oval-shaped little
skin flaps, or suckers, which look almost as
if they were made out of gum elastic.
With these little flaps the fly holds himself
firmly to the ceiling, and even sleeps there
without falling off. With these it creeps
on the smooth mirror, and up the polished
bureau or sideboard, without slipping. But
how does it do it? If you place an empty
bottle at your mouth, then suck the air
from it, it will hang fast, as though it were
glued to your lips; so fast that you will
feel your lips smart from the suction. As
soon as the air inside the bottle is lacking,
the air outside presses strongly upon it, so
that it sticks fast.
A distinguished man had two half-balls
of copper made, three or four feet in diam
eter, which, being placed together, and the
air inside exhausted, held so firmly to
gether by the outside air pressing against
them that several horses were required to
pull them apart. Boys sometimes make a
plaything out of a piece of leather, which,
in its use, is very much like these little
suckers on the fly’s feet. They fasten a
thread in the middle of a round piece of
leather, wet it and press it firmly against
a smooth stone. Then they draw ’gently
upon the thread, so that the middle part
of the leather lifts a little from the stone,
and now it resembles the empty bottle.
The leather holds fast, ‘and, if it be not too
heavy, the boy can lift the stone before it
loosens itself. Just such a little sucker the
fly has, two to each leg, making twelve in
all. So he can hold fast or let go, just as
he likes. These flaps still hold firmly, even
when the fly is dead; and when the fly is
sluggish, as in cold weather, he can walk
only very slowly.
How wonderful are the works of our
Creator! Even the smallest insect affords
us a grand study; and I trust that the
children who are interested in these works
will not become vexed and thoughtlessly
destroy even the little despised fly without
wonder and admiration.
A fly is such a tiny thing,
Dancing, glancing through the air;
Poising now on silver wing,
Buzzing, humming, everywhere.
Washington is excited over the report
that Mrs. E. E. Briggs, a newspaper cor
respondent who writes under the name of
“Olivia,” has donated about seventy thous
and square feet of land known as “ Maple
Square,” situated between South Carolina
avenue and Sixth, Seventh and D streets,
as a site for a Woman’s University, to be
patterned after Girard College. Philadel
phia. The property is worth about $200,-
000. The proposed institution is to be
wholly under the control of women. The
instruction given will be in the form of
lectures, so as to give the women a chance
to talk.
A LIVE HERO.
Sylvia, I am pleased to state that my
health has so much improved that my M.
D. has given me permission to write a very
little.
As this M. D. has been mentioned two
or three times, I am going to tell the
“Woman’s Work” family something of
his romantic history.
In addition to his fame as a physician,
he enjoys the distinction of being the hero
of several novels. His name is Dr. G. B.
McClelland, and he is a cousin of Gen. G.
B. McClelland. When a child, I believe
the story runs, he was stolen by the In
dians, and was with them until—well, I
don’t know how long he did remain with
them, but he learned their methods of
healing, and their wonderful secrets with
regard to healing diseased bodies by means
of nature’s remedies. And at fourteen he
began the practice of medicine, being the
youngest practitioner in America. In fact,
it seems to be a gift, and he appears to
have been born for his chosen work.
Here an uncle discovered his where
abouts, and, delighted with his wonderful
talent for medicine, took him East, and
placed him in a medical college where he
graduated with honor.
Tall and majestic, in form, with striking
ly handsome features, long curling blonde
hair, with which the winds sport beneath
his wide Mexican sombrero, and always
clad in faultless taste, he is sure to attract
the attention of all who see him.
From the first, his success was unbound
ed, and he soon displayed such a penchant
for rare diamonds he received the appella
tion of “Diamond Dick.” According to
his own story of his life, he also grew some
what reckless about that time, a fact which
he now earnestly deplores.
It was then, too, that his daring exploits
and lavish expenditure of money brought
him before the minds of novelists as a de
sirable hero for a thrilling romance.
He is also a wonderful marksman, and
without taking the least aim, at several
exhibitions of his skill, in this city, has
shot an apple, or potatoe from the heads of
different ladies who were daring enough
to stand as a target.
He has six rooms in Leavenworth, ele
gantly furnished, where he receives his
patients, and a laboratory where he com
pounds his medicines. In this department
a number of skilled assistants are employ
ed. I have always had a deep rooted
prejudice toward 'doctors of this kind, and
when I suddenly grew dangerously worse
this winter, and my supply of oxygen had
given out, and no time to send for more,
and besides, I needed personal attention
from a skilled physician, so, when my hus
band proposed that I would place my case
in Dr. McClelland’s care, I would not
listen to him at first. But as something
must be done at once, I gave in, and will
always be thankful I did so. And so,
Silvia, if you get sick again, just write a
letter to this M. D. who commanded me:
“Thou shalt not write,” and be cured.
I am thin yet, but am gaining a pound
a week. So may have to consult an anti
fat remedy. I suppose, though, I will
only need to stop taking my medicine
when I get rosy and plump once more.
Os course, this wonderful doctor has
fully reformed, else I’d not have gone to
him, and much of the money he.receives
from patients here and through the mail
goes to provide luxuries for his mother and
sister (in an eastern State), by whom he is
idolized.
Dainty baskets of flower;, and pretty
knicknacks for his rooms come to him
from these far-off loved ones, who are his
highest and fondest care in life. Well,
I’ve waxed eloquent, and all because I love
to see and know that genius will assert its
self in spite of hindrances.
And this recalls an article I read this
afternoon, which, relying upon the forbear
ance of the editor of our dear “ Woman’s
Work,” I will quote entire. To my mind
its significance is full of praise for women
literary workers. The writer of the arti
cle, quoted below, admits that a man can
not do creditable work amid the usual hin
drances that a great number of our women
I workers must accept as inevitable.
I think I can see about how a man would
write, or article with
and
quentlj-
And I too, how he would
shortly crush the paper in a wad, fire it
anywhere, and shut the desk with a bang.
And yet, they wonder why Women are
so nervous. Now I wonder who was nerv
ous in the article here quoted ?
Every man who has tried it, will appre
ciate what “Taverner,” of the Boston Post,
says about doing literary work at home:
“ I met on the street yesterday a literary
friend of mine who was in high glee at
having just secured a new study at the top
of a building on State street, I believe—
somewhere, at any rate, in the business
part of the city. As he lives in a charming
house in a very quiet neighborhood on
Beacon Hill, I wondered why he should
go outside of his own door for a working
place. But when he explained his motive,
I could not but acknowledge its sufficiency.
‘At home,’ he explained, ‘if the children
cry I wonder what is the matter, and if
they cry very hard I stop to find out. Then
my wife, dear, good, gentle, unselfish crea
ture that she is, knocks at the door to know
if I would rather have apple fritters or
mince pie for desert. When a carriage or
cart rattles up to my door, or the neigh
bors, I usually find myself waiting for the
ring, then for the bell to be answered and
finally for the door to be slammed, when
the errand or the call is concluded. If
nothing happens, and not a sound is heard,
I wonder why ths deuce it is so, and I sit
in nervous expectation of some domestic
thunder clap. What makes ministers so
nervous, he cried, and why do they go
abroad for their health so soon? ‘I tell you,
Taverner, it is because they do their
work at home.’ There is some truth in
this, I have no doubt.”
Instead of’some one asking us what we
will have for dinner, we keep a remnant of
our thoughts with the dinner, that it may
not burn while we write, and instead of
wondering what ails the child, we rush
pell mell away to see, and if ’tis a cut fin
ger, or a bumped head, we must stop long
enough to take it through a course of treat
ment peculiar to mothers, not the least of
which are kisses “to make it well ; ” and
when we settle down to our sublime poem,
perhaps, about how many thoughts do you
think we have left in connection with that
manuscript ? And yet, if God, in His in
visible way, has said to us, “ Thou shalt
write,” we will write, no matter what hap
pens; and in the writing forget all care
and bodily pain, immerging from this
temporary feast of the soul, to love and
appreciate our dear ones more.
Monnik Moob».