Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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.