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8
YOUTHS’ DEPARTMENT*
Ocr Little Contributors.— Here we
are, eosconsced in our easy cl '“ r (which
consists of a tall stool and no baok to it!)
surrounded by letters from our dear little
friends, from all quarters of the country,
and making us glad and young again by
their cheery presence and encouraging
words.
One says : “We have all the numbers.
I like the stories very much, especially
the ones for children.’’
“ Mary Ann,” of Columbus, Ga., sends
us an Enigma and an answer. A letter
to us says : “ This little lady was only
thirteen a few days ago.”
“ Cobbie” also sends us an Enigma,
and says : “ It is the first effort of a 14
year old girl.”
We have several Enigmas, etc., on
band. Now, can’t some of our young
friends try their skill on charades, ana
grams, rebuses, etc.; or even short stories
and sketches? This is their especial De
partment, and we desire to make it in
structive as well as entertaining to
them.
Alice M. M., of Mobile, writes us a
very pretty little letter, in which she says:
“We are so much pleased with your
very truthful paper, and your beautiful
poetic effusions keep me pouring over
every line until 1 almost feel spell-hound.
ENIGMA—No. 20.
I am composed ot 15 letters :
My 5,9, 7,15, is the name of a Southern
Archbishop.
My 13,2, 12,4, is a virtue characteris
tic of the Priesthood.
My 3, 12, 4,6, 2, is the price of any
thing.
My 4,5, 3,2, is fouud in every human
heart.
My 8, 14, 15, is man’s greatest enemy.
My 11, 6,9, is what the flowers do.
My 10, 12, 3, 14, 2,1, is the name of a
great missionary Saint, who is one of the
glories of the Priesthood.
My whole is the name of a devoted
Priest, dear to every one who knows him.
Answer next week.
Norma.
Macoc, Ga., June, 1868.
ENIGMA—No. 21.
I am composed of 19 letters ;
My 1,7, 11, 11, 4, 17, is a lake in
Ireland.
My 5, 4,3, is a title of rank in England.
My O’ 2, 10, 4,5, 19, is a river of
Europe. . .
My 8 10,11,0,2, is a town in Scotland.
My 12, 13, 14, 15, 10, I<, 18, 19, is a
city in Georgia.
My 17, 10, 14, 10, is a gay young lady.
My whole is a celebrated discoverer.
Answer next week.
Emma.
St. Joseph’s Academy, Columbus, Ga., June, 1868.
ANAGRAMS.
No. 1, Great Helps.
No. 2, March On.
No. 3, Nine Thumps.
Jno, C.
Answers next week.
Xew Orleans, La., June, 1868.
CHARADE.
My number, definite and known.
Ib ten times ten told ten times o’er ;
Though half of me is one alone,
And half exceeds all count and score.
Jxo. C.
Answer next week.
Xeto Orleans, La., 1868.
Answers to Enigmas, Etc.— Enigma
No. 18—The Catholic Publication Society
of New York —Liberia —Achilles —Santee
New York—Bacchus—Tufts—Tycoon
—Foi.
No. 19—Mechanic Indp. Fire Co.—
March—Pic-Nic—Fire—Free— Married
—Oh! —Car.
The following have sent correct an
swers :
A. P. J., Savannah, Ga. —Enigma No.
1G ; Mary and Amelia, Columbus, Ga.,
to No. 16 ; H. N. H., Selma, Ala., to No.
16 ; N. E. 8., Augusta, Ga., to No. 18 ;
A. M. M., Mobile, Ala., to No. 10.
[Prepared for the Banner of the South by Uncle Buddy.]
FAMILIAR SCIENCE.
»
HEAT —CONTINUED.
When bottled ale or porter is set before
a fire, the cork is sometimes forced out,
because the carbonic acid gas of the
liquor expands by the heat and drives out
the cork.
Carbonic acid gas is a compound of
carbon and oxygen. Ale or porter will
froth more after it has been set before a
fire, because the heat of the fire expands
the carbonic acid gas of the liquor and
produces bubbles or froth.
A paper balloon is inflated by fire set to
the cotton or sponge, which has been pre
viously steeped in spirits of wine, and
placed under it, because tho air in the
balloon is expanded by the flame. Some
of my little city readers may remember
having seen, a few years ago, a large bal
loon inflated in this way, and ascend,
with a man in the basket, to a considera
ble height The balloon rises, after it has
been inflated by the expanded air, because
the same quantity of air is expanded to
three or four times its original volume,
and made so much lighter that, even when
all the paper, wire, and cotton are
added, it is still lighter than the same
bulk of common air.
Smoke rushes up a chimney, because
the heat of the fire expands the air in the
chimney, which being thus made lighter
than the air around it rises up the chimney,
and carries the smoke in its current, A
long or tall chimney will smoke unless a
fierce fire is kept up in it, because the
heat of the fire will not otherwise be suf
ficient to rarefy all the air in the chimney.
And the reason of this is because the cold
air (condensed in the upper part of the
flue), will sink from its own weight and
sweep tha ascending smoke back into tho
room.
Some chimneys have cowls, or covers,
placed upon them to prevent the wind
from blowing into the chimney, because,
first, the wind would prevent the smoke
from issuing out of the top of the chimney;
and, second, the cold air (introduced into
the chimney by the wind), would fall
down the flue, and drive the smoke with
it into the room. Houses and other
buildings are heated with hot air in this
way :
The fire is kindled in a grate, or stove,
in the cellar. This fire heats the air in
contact with it in the air chamber, as it is
called, aud, as heated air always ascends,
it is forced up, through pipes, into the
different apartments of the building.
An air chamber is an enclosure around
the furnace, or stove, with openings be
low, to admit the cold air from the cellar
to rush in to supply- tho pi aw of the
heated air which ascends to the rooms
above.
The Chronicle Sentinel office of
this city has an apparatus of this kind.
The cold air is introduced into the air
chamber, because the air in the chamber,
when heated, expands and becomes lighter
than the same bulk of cold air ; and, as
this heated air ascends through the
pipes, the cold air rushes in to supply its
place and becomes heated in turn.
Bricks and flagstones are frequently
loosened after a frost, because the
moisture beneath them expanded during
the frost and raised the bricks and flag
stones from their bed; but afterwards the
moisture thawed and condensed again,
leaving the bricks and stones loose.
Doors swell in rainy weather, because
the air is filled with vapor, which, pene
trating into the pores of the wood, forces
its particles farther apart, and swells the
wood. In dry weather they shrink be
cause the moisture is absorbed from the
wood ; and as the particles are brought
closer together, the size of the door is
lessened —in other words, the door
shrinks.
A CHILD’S DREAM OF A STAR,
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
There was once a child, and he stroll
ed about a good deal, and thought of a
number of things. He had a sister, who
was a child too, and his constant com
panion. These two used to wonder all
day long. They wonder at the height
and blueness of the sky ; they wondered
at the depth of the bright water; they
wondered at the goodness and power of
God who made the lovely world.
They used to say to one another some
times, “Supposing all the children upon
earth were to die, would the flowere and
water, and the sky be sorry ? ” They
believed they would be sorry. For, said
they, the buds are the children of the
flowers, and the little playful streams
that gambol down the hill sides, are the
children of the water, and the smallest
specks playing at hide and seek in the
sky all night, must, surely be the children
of the stars ; and they would all be
grieved to see their playmates, the child
ren of men, nt more.
There was one clear shining star that
used to come out in the sky before the
rest, near the church spire, above the
graves. It was larger, and more beauti
ful, they thought, than all the others, and
every night they watched for it, staridiug
hand in hand, at a window. Whoever
saw it first, cried out,-“I see the star !”
And often they cried out both together,
knowing so well when it would rise, and
where. Bo they grew to be such friends
with it that before lying down in their
beds, they always looked once again, to
bid it good night ; and when they wer e
— _ ■— ■ ■■■ » 1 • -J T
turning round to sleep, they used to say,
“ God bless the star! ”
And no the time came, all too soon !
when the child looked out alone, and
there was no face on the bed ; and when
there was a little grave among the graves
not there before ; and when the star made
long rays down towards him, as he saw
it through his tears.
Now, these rays were so bright, and
they seemed to make such a shining way
from earth to heaven, that when the
child went to his solitary bsd he dreamed
about the star ; and dreamed that, lying
where he was he saw a train of people
taken up that sparkling road by angels.
And the star, opening, show him a great
world of light, where many more such
angels waited to receive them.
All these angels who were waiting
turned their beaming eys upon the peo
ple who were carried up into the star;
and some came out from the long rows in
which they stood, and fell upon the peo
ple’s necks, and kiss them tenderly, and
went away with them down avenues of
light, and were so hkppy in their compa
ny that, laying in his bed, he wept for joy.
But there were many angels who did
not go with them, and among them one
he knew. The patient face that once has
laid upon the bed was glorified and ra
diant, but his heart found out his sister
among all the hosts.
His sister’s angel lingered near the
entrance of the star, and said to the leader
among those who had brought the people
thither :
“ Is my brother come ? ’’
And he said “No.”
She was turning hopefully away, when
the child stretched out his arms, and cried
“ Oh, sister I am here ! Take me 1 ” and
then she turned her beaming eyes upon
him and it was night ; and the star was
shining into the room making long rays
down towards him as he saw it through
his tears.
From that hour forth the child looked
out upon the star as on the home he was
to go to, when his time should come ; and
he thought that he did not belong to the
earth alone, but to the star too, because
of his sister angel gone before.
There was a baby born to be a brother
to the child ; and while he was so little
that ho had never yet spoken a word, he
stretched his tiny form out on his bed,
and died.
Again the child dreamed of the opened
star, and of the company of angels and of
he row of people, and the train of peo
ple, and the rows of angels with their
peaming eyes all turned upon those peo
ple’s.
Said his sister’s angel to the leader :
“ Is my brother cOme ? ”
And he said, “Not that one but
another.”
As the child beheld his brother’s angel
in her arms, he cried, “ Oh, sister, I am
here ! Take me ! ” And she turned and
smiled upon him and the star was shining.
He grew to be a young man, and was
busy at his books, when an old servant
came to him and said :
“ Thy mother is no more. I bring the
blessings on her darling son.”
Again at night he saw the star, and all
that former company. Said his sister's
angel to the leader :
“ Is my brother come ? ”
And he said, “ Thy mother.”
A mighty cry of joy went through all
the stars, because tho mother was reuni
ted to her two children. And he stretch
ed out his arms and cried, “O, mother,
sister and brother, I am here 1 Take me !”
Aud they answered him “not yet,” and
the star was shining.
He grew up to be a man whose hair
was turning grey, and he was sitting in
his chair by tho fireside, heavy with grief,
and with his eyes bedewed with tears,
when the star opened once again.
Said his sister’s angel to the leader :
“ Is my brother come ? ”
And he said “Nay, but his maiden
daughter.”
And the man who had been a child
saw his daughter, newly lost to him a ce
lestial creature among those three, and
he said : “ My daughter’s head is on my
sister’s bosom, and her arm is around my
mother’s neck, and at her feet there is a
baby of old time, and I can bear the
parting from tier, God be praised ! ”
Aud the star was shining.
Thus the child came to be an old man,
and his once smooth face was wrinkled,
and his steps were bent. And, one night,
as he lay upon his bed, his children
standing round, he cried, its he cried so
long ago.
“ I see the star ! M
They to one another, “ He
is dying ” *
And lie said, 4 “ I am. My age is falling
from me like a garment, and 1 move to
wards the star as a child. And O, my
Father, now I thank Thee that it has so
often opened to receive those dear ones
who await me ? ” And the star was shin
ing, and it shines upon his grave.
THE SISTERS OF CHARITY,
In an article upon the charities of
Paris, published over the signiture of H.
D .F., in a recent number of the N. Y.
Evangelist , a Protestant journal, we find
the following touching tribute to the Sis
ters of Charity :
But little would be accomplished by
the largest means and the most judicious
organization, were it not for those hum
ble auxiliaries, who take upon themselves
the hardest part of the work, the Sisters
of Charity. They are not paid for it,
they derive no worldly advantage, but
devote their lives to it in the mostjbeauti
ful spirit of Christain self-denial. On
their banner is inscribed only these words
of the divine Master :
“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one
of the least of these, ye have done it un
to me.” They may sometimes have a
narrow, superstitious conception of their
calling, but I have seen a great deal of
them, and my experience leads to a dif
ferent opinion. I found them, on the
contrary, remarkably free from bigoted
prejudices ; they deal too much with the
saddest realities of life, not to be indul
gent and liberal in their views.
The sacrifice of domestic ties and affec
tion seems to direct all the instincts of
their womanly nature towards the suffer
ing objects of their care. She who can
never have children of her own to return
her love, can lavish her affection on the
wretched little orphans committed to her;
she can be a sister to the wounded soldier
in the hospital, to all the sick and dying.
The finer the womanly nature, the more
beautifully is her duty fulfilled. It in
cites their sweet words of consolation and
sympathy, it leads them to relieve by the
most graceful devices, the dreariness of
the hospital wards, making it really a home
for the wanderer and the forsaken, and it
truly justifies the names of mother and
sister, which suffering humanity has given
them.
Once, in the Hospital for Foundlings,
I was talking with a Sister having charge
of the room which receives the children
as soon as they are found, when a little
being was brought to her. On the rags
which hardly covered him, was pinned a
paper, bearing this saddest of all human
records, “Father, mother, unknown !’’
It was a beautiful boy, four or five weeks
old, but it had been exposed to the cold
all night in an alley, and its short life was
ebbing away. How many homes would
have blessed the advent of such a child 1
But no young mother, exulting in the
possession of her first born, could have
tended it more lovingly than this humble
Sister. She covered its pale little face
with kisses. As if recalled by them a
moment to life, tho child opened its eyes
aud met hers with a singular expression
of intelligence, then shut them forever
thns taking to heaven the sweetest thing
of this world, a mother’s smile. This wo
man was young, very handsome, and
naturally refined, yet her whole life was
enclosed within these walls, where vice,
shame, and dispair, threw their innocent
victims into her arms. Long shall I re
member the sweet saintly face, and the
thrilling sympathy which she whispered,
as we were watching together the last
moments of the poor little foundling.
“ You have no children of your own ! ”
Our womanly hearts united in an almost
unconscious yearning for this young life
passed away. Was that a useless exist
ence, the product of a weak superstition?
On the contrary, its moral beauty illu
mined this saddest of all abodes of charity;
for the mere thought that these poor little
ones had been abandoned by those who
gave them being, seemed to fill the very
air of the place with chillness and gloom.
In the ward which receives children past
the first stage of infancy, collected in al
leys in the streets and tenement houses,
I found a group of poor little girls that
neither caresses nor loving words could
awaken them from their sad apathy.
One just brought from the hospital,
where her mother liad died, made the
room resound with the piteous cry “mam
ma, mamma! ” and they all stared at her,
as if the sweet word had no meaning for
them.
Leaving with a shudder this scene of
desolation, 1 turned my stops to the hos
pital for Convalescent Children ; there
all was hope, life, and sunshine. From
the homes of the poor, from the differ
ent hospitals for the sick, the children
are brought when all danger is passed,
for the benefit of fresh air and good nour
ishment. Here, in spacious halls, under
the shade of stately avenues, and amid
beds of flowers, they romp and play’, and
get fresh blood in their pale cheeks.
Each little face had a smile for the visitor,
each small, emaciated hand a sympathet
ic pressure. The Sisters were moving
to and fro in a happy bustling way, prop
ping lip this one in his little chair, giving
a kiss to another, distributing the nour
ishing food so greedily craved by all. It
was one of the prettiest sights in the
world ; the sky’ seemed bluer, the flow:r,
sweeter, as if Nature joined in the work
of love and charity.
* * * * * *
Had I not already parsed the limits of
a letter. I could describe many other
places where the same wise forethought,
the same devoted charity, are working
equally beautilui results. Often during
these visits I thought of St. Luke’s Hos
pital in New York, aud of that apostolic
man whose large heart has created this
noble institution. He had once argued
with me for a Protestent Sisterhood, de
voted to works of religion and charity,
while I contended that such an influence
might best issue from the sphere of do
mestic life. But I now felt the force of
his argument as I had not before. Such
a lot can be very happy. One may be
led to it by sorrow, or disappointment, but
it is more often a pure, young, hopeful
heart which is thus offered on the altar 1
Talking with the Sisters, I found that
almost all had been brought to their reso
lution by a deep religious feeling.
The Power of Music. —There is a
pleasant incident related of Mendelssohn,
who went one Summer to rest his over
taxed brain in Zurich. There he was
beseiged by eager admirers, but would
accept, of no invitation, until bearing that
the blind pupils of the Blind School were
anxious, as they said, to “see him,” he
visited them. He spoke to the sightless
assembly in the kindest words, and list
ened to their songs and cl o uses, some
even of their own composing, with inter
est and pleasure. And then the great
musician asked permission to sit down at
the piano, and wandered away into one
of those wild and tender strains of speak
ing melody for which he was so famous.
His silent, wrapt audience listened so in
tently to the “Song without Words,”
that a pinfall would have broken the
stillness. One by one over the eager
face's crept the air of deep, quiet joy, until,
in the midst of the great flood of mingling
harmonies, a voice came to them out of
the very chorus they had just been sing
ing. Then their enthusiasm knew no
bounds. The great master had carric I
them away, at his will, to heights of joy
and triumphant praise before unknown :
he had whispered to them of sorrow, and
the cloudy ways of life, in words of soft
unbroken tenderness ; and now he stirred
their inmost depths by a strain of their
own weaving, into which he poured anew
tide of living song, new grace, and new
meaning. No words could tell what they
felt; they could have pressed him to their
very hearts for joy. This was not ‘long
before the great musician’s death ; but lie
still lives in the Blind School at Zurich,
aud there still remains as a precious re lie
the Master’s chair in which he sat.
Haydn and the Sea Captain.— Havdn
used to relate, whimsical andedotes of his
stay in London. A captain of the navy
came to him one morning and asked him
to oompose a song for some troops he had
on boad, offering him thirty guineas for
his trouble, but requiring it to be done
immediately, as the vessel was to sail the
next day. As soon as the captain wa
gone, Haydn sat down to the piano forte,
and the march was ready in a short tin.
Feeling some scruples at gaining hi
money so very easily, Haydn wrote two
other marches, intending first to give tie
captain his choice, and thou make him a
present of all the three ms a return for his
liberality.
Next morning the captain returned, and
asked for his march.
“ Here it is, ’ said the composer.
The captain asked to hear it on tm
piano forte; and, having done so, laid down
the thirty guineas, pocketed the marc’;,
and walked away. Haydn tried to stoj
him, but in vain—the march was goo !
“ But I have written two others,” cried
Haydn, “which are better; hear them
and take your choice.”
“I like the first very well, and that i
enough,” replied the captain, pursui. g
his way down-stairs.
Haydn followed, crying out: “ But I
make you a present of them.”
. “ I won’t have them,” roared the sea
man, with nautical asservation, and bolt'd
out at the street-door.
Haydn, determined not to be outdo:. ,
hastened to the Exchange, and, discov*: -
ing the name of the ship and her comma!
der, sent the marches on board with a
polite note, which the captain, surmising
its contents, sent back unopened.
Haydn tore the marches in a thousand
pieces, and never forgot this liberal Eng
lish humorist as long as he lived.
The right man in the right place—a
husband at home in the evening.
He is never alone who is in the con
pany of good thought.
The times are hard; but pat ion
| hope, economy, cheerfulness, and trust
j God, are good things to cheer the he.;: t
t ill better times come round.