/ Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. University of Illinois Library BEC IS m fC : L161— H41 SHETLAND PONIES AND W.V OTHER STORIES flUustrateO Ube Merner Company NEW YORK AKRON, OHIO CHICAGO 1899 Copyright, 1899, BY THE WERNER COMPANY I SHETLAND PONIES. SHETLAND PONIES. FAR north from Scotland, and but seldom visited by southern travelers are the Shetland Islands. From these rock-bound, treeless islands come the Shetland ponies that we so often see at the circus, or pulling little phaetons patiently along. A.Shet- land pony is almost a child's first desire, unless, per- haps, it may be to own a monkey. To have a pony to ride, or to drive, and especially a real Shetland, long-haired, short-legged pony is a dream of perfect happiness, indeed. But have the readers of this little sketch ever thought about the home of these ponies ? If you Shetland Ponies. never have, then take a map of the British Isles, and in the far North you will see the small group of islands called the Shetlands, and from there the first ponies came; and to-day they are raised there in great numbers. Shetland is a very different country than many see. There are no green fields and trees, and the children living there hardly believe it when you tell them that in England or Scotland there are green lanes, and that birds build nests among green leaves. All the birds they see, hover about the great, rocky Shetland Ponies. cliffs, and build nests in the crevices of rocks, per- haps a thousand feet above the sea. All their fields are covered with black peat or brown heather ; and instead of houses of wood to live in, they only have huts made of stone with a roof of straw, mud and refuse wood. In some of the houses there are no windows, only one room, and a low door. Then there is no chimney to let the smoke out, but only a small hole in the roof. Of course these huts are for the very poor people living out among the hills of Shet- land, and away from the coast. But near the sea, on the shores of some secluded bay, are quite good towns, such as Lerwick and Scolloway. These towns have little stone houses with very pointed roofs and deep-set windows, that almost seem to rest in the water itself, they are built so near it. Then the streets are very narrow, and have been paved with great stones. You can almost touch either side of the street it is so narrow. Now the people of the Shetland Islands are very quiet, orderly and industrious. They live by many means. Some of them have shops in the towns, where they sell groceries, and dress-goods and cured meats. Others live by catching fish to send south. Some let themselves down by ropes over the edge of a great high cliff, and gather the eggs of birds. Then Shetland Ponies. the women knit shawls and hoods and veils and socks, and so gain a few pennies to buy food with. But there is yet another class of people who have to make a living, and this class raise ponies and sheep, to send to England and even to America. And before we speak or describe carefully the making of shawls and gathering of eggs, we will imagine our- selves in the town of Lerwick and all ready for a start to Noss Island, where a man lives who has a large herd of real Shetland ponies. I remember the morning perfectly. The bay was all dotted with the white sails of the fishing, boats. The town was all awake carrying dried fish to the boats at anchor, and on the corners of the streets were gathered women and young girls selling potatoes they had just brought in from the distant field. We took a row boat, and rowed across Bressay Sound to Bressay Island, and then walking across it, and after looking back at the town and out at sea, we came to a small strait, and had to hire another boat to take us across the water to Noss Island. This island is not very large, but has more green grass than any other of the Shetland group. One end of it al- most buries itself in the sea, and then it gradually rises higher and higher, until the opposite end rises a thousand feet right up from the sea. There is only Shetland Ponies. one house on the island, and in that lives the keeper of the ponies and his two children. I wish you could have seen these children when they saw us coming in the boat. They hardly ever leave the island themselves, and so when any strangers come to see their ponies, how happy it makes them ! They were very pretty and bright children, too. They had light hair and bright blue eyes, and cheeks as red as roses. Running down with them, was their pet dog, who seemed just as glad as any of the rest to see strangers. The house the man lived in was very lonely-looking to us. It was built of stone, and then painted white, and stood on a little knoll overlooking the blue waters of the cold North Sea. After a short rest we walked out to explore the island arid see the ponies. Here was their home and we should see them here in their real life. As we walked along, we came to a part of the island where it was rather sandy, and there found such a nest of rabbits. We almost stumbled into their holes, there were so many of them when we came upon them. There must have been fully a hundred nibbling the short grass, or standing up to see who was coming to disturb them. The keeper said they were a great nuisance to the island, they undermined it so. Shetland Ponies. But a sight that interested us more than that of the rabbits was the great herd of ponies we saw before us. There must have been fully two hundred of the shaggy-maned little fellows. Some were eating, some biting one another, some running as though having a race, and others stood still looking at Us. When we came nearer the whole herd pricked up their ears, gave little snorts of anger, and galloped away as fast as their short legs could carry them. The keeper told us that when one wishes a pony, to ride or sell, he must take the one he keeps near his house, mount him, and then riding out to the herd, lassoo one at a time until you obtain all you wish. In winter the ponies of Noss Island have rather a hard time of it. Though there is not much snow on the island, still the winds often blow very fiercely, and poor pony has no warm barn to go to. Sometimes the keeper builds a wall about a square piece of ground, and pony can go into the enclosure and so be somewhat sheltered. But usually he must face the wind and storm, no matter what the weather. Among the ponies we saw on our visit, were some little wee fellows, hardly larger than Newfoundland dogs. When we saw them scampering about so free from care, we couldn't help wondering how long it Shetland Ponies \ would be before they would be carrying some little lady up and down Rotten Row, or about New York Central Park. The case is not unlikely, for a great many of them each year are sent away from their island home to England. But a pony in the Shetland Islands, even, has often hard work to perform. If a poor person is possessed of a pony, then, indeed, he feels rich. Now on certain days in the week, there are market days at Lerwick. From all about come the people bringing things to sell. Some walk to the town, some sail, and others come riding on their ponies. Just inside of Lerwick is a narrow path leading over the hills. I have often seen, coming along this narrow way, a long line of ponies and women. And such a curious ap- pearance they present ! The ponies seem only legs. They have no bridle, only a cord about the neck, and each follows the one in front. You can't make them go at the side of one another. On either side of each one are two immense saddle-bags rilled with peat, or potatoes ; on his back are piled other goods, and even his neck has a cloth or other saddle-bags strapped, so that seen from a short distance it seems just as though the bags had legs, and poor pony seems buried out of sight. Sometimes, too, if there is room to keep seated, his mistress, with shoeless Shetland Ponies. feet, and short dress and white cap, seats herself in great state, and away goes pony, bags and woman, off to Lerwick. Sometimes, when on these pilgrimages, pony will watch his chance, and if his mistress should be absent, will dart away down the steep hill-side, to nibble a bite of something good he has seen • and then when the mistess sees him such a pounding as pony gets as she leads him back to his proper place ! But he only looks meek and will no doubt do the same thing again when he gets the chance. Shetland ponies are very sure-footed. They will walk along the very edge of a high cliff, and before putting a foot down will carefully feel if the ground is firm or not. Some of them are driven by their riders down steep passes where one misstep would send both rider and pony down to the depths below. Ponies of Shetland, too, are not always very well be- haved. Near our cottage was an old lady's gar- den, filled with cabbages. One day her pony walked into it, and enjoyed himself feasting on tta forbidden fruit. We never asked him, but should imagine the beating he received when discovered would help him to digest his stolen dinner. Then a Shetland pony on his native heath is extremely wilful. If they dislike a rider they will spare no pains to unseat him. I rode one once who expended a great deal of unnecessary Shetland Ponies. strength in this manner. He would sit down sud- denly and rise up more so. He would bite, shake himself and roll over, if allowed. As he was almost small enough to be carried by his rider, these antics were more amusing than dangerous. And so the ponies of the Shetland Islands live and wait for masters in the South. In the cold winter of fog and rain, when there is almost no day, or in the summer time, when the sun does not set, they run wild about the Noss, take burdens to Lerwick, or rarry the stranger ovc r the bogs and dreary hills. 8 4 1 MR. SWEET POTATOES. 1 /^\UR milkman has a very odd name, — translated | Vp/ into English it is " Sweet Potatoes." His Chi- 1 nese neighbors call him "Old Father Sweet Pota- I toes." Some persons think him a good man ; others say | that he is a very bad one; Just how that is I do not j know — his business brings him great temptation. He is accused of putting water into the milk. He himself says, that he only does it when he has not enough milk to supply all his customers ; then he does not know what else he can do. When we en- gaged him to bring milk to us we took him into our yard and showed him that we had a well of our own. The Chinese in their own country do not make any use 01 milk or butter. They have a perfect horror of cheese, and in this part of China, perhaps, not more Mr. Sweet Potatoes. than one man in a hundred will taste of beef. Only a few cows and bullocks are kept, and these are needed to plough the fields and turn the rude ma- chinery of the sugar mills. I suppose " Father Sweet Potatoes " had never thought of such a thing as owning a cow, until for- eign ships began to come to his part of the country. Of course the ships brought foreign men and women, and these all wanted beef to eat — sometimes the Chinese, wishing to speak contemptuously of them, would call them " beef-eating foreigners," — and they also wanted milk for their cooking and for their chil- dren. So Mr. Sweet Potatoes bought some cows, hoping to make some money in the milk business. They all had long ropes laced about their horns or threaded through their noses, and he got some little children to hold the ropes and guide the cows in search of food ; for there are no grass fields in this part of the country, and all the pastures the cows have are the little green places on the rocky hills and the grassy patches along the brooks ; and the children sit by and watch them while they graze, for there are no fences, and, left to themselves, the cows might stray into the rice fields or wander away into places where they would be stolen. Mr. Sweet Potatoes. Strange to say, we have our best milk when the winter has almost killed the grass, or when the weather is too stormy for the cows to go out ; for then they are fed with the tops of pea-nut plants, THE NATIVE HUMPBACK COW. either green, or dried like hay, and up for sale in great bundles. This is delicious food for the cows, and when they have it then we have good milk in- deed, with a thick, white cream upon it. Sometimes they have cut grass to eat, which has Mr. Sweet Potatoes. been brought from steep places on the hills to which the cows cannot go. Very poor boys go out with baskets and knives to gather this grass, and are paid only three or four cents for the work of a day. Mr. Sweet Potatoes has two kinds of cows. Some of them are the native humpback cows, of very small size, very gentle; sometimes red and sometimes brown, with hair that is smooth and glossy quite down to the tiny little hoofs, which look far smaller and cleaner than do the feet of cows in colder cli- mates where they walk out in snow and stand in frosty barns. These cows have very small horns, sometimes three or four inches long, but often mere little white buds coming out from their dark foreheads. Back of their shoulders they have a small hump, three or four inches high. And, almost always, Sweet Potatoes' cows have with them a pretty, little, sprightly calf ; for the Chinese believe, or pretend to believe, that if the calf were taken away the cow would die, and that it is necessary before milking her to first let the calf have a few mouthfuls of milk, — poor little calf ! The other cows are very different from these ; they are water buffaloes, — buffaloes not at all like the shaggy bison, but great, awkward creatures, that in summer like to wade into pools, and, safe from flies Mr. Sweet Potatoes. and mosquitos, to stand with only their horns and upturned faces in sight above the top of the water; or, when there are no pools, to wander into bogs and half bury themselves in the mud. They are as large as a big ox, with very round bodies mounted on very slim legs that have very large knee and ankle joints. They are of the color of a mouse, or a gray pig, and coarse hairs grow thinly over their skin, while, in contrast to the humpback-cows, they have two im- mense, crescent-shaped horns setting up from their heads, and measuring of ten a yard from side to side. Old Father Sweet Potatoes sells ten pint-bottles full for a silver dollar, — that is ten cents a pint, — and in summer he brings us a half-pint in the morn- ing and another half-pint in the afternoon ; for the weather is so hot that the milk of the morning will not remain sweet until evening, although the moment it is brought to the house it is boiled and then put in the coolest place we have, which is not a cellar, for cellars cannot be kept sweet and airy in countries where there is so much moisture and many insects. When, in our walks, we meet these cows they often exhibit fear, especially of foreign ladies and horses, sights with which they are not familiar. The little humpback cows prance skittishly out of the paths; but the great buffaloes stand quite still ana suuc at Mr. Sweet Potatoes. us, then throw up their noses and sniff the air in an offended manner that in turn makes us afraid of them. At night they are all brought home from their wan- derings, and the ropes by which they are led are tied THE WATER-BUFFALO. to stakes driven into the ground ; in winter under a shed, but in summer in the open air. It makes one's neck ache to see them ; for the rope is frequently tied so short that they cannot hold their heads erect nor move them very freely, but they do not appear to suffer. Mr. Sweet Potatoes. Next to his business the milkman values his daugh- ter, who, when I first saw her, was a plump, rosy- cheeked child and tended her father's cows. If you ever saw a doll with a plaster head that had been broken and then had been mended by having a strip of black silk glued over the crack, you will know how Mr. Sweet Potatoes' daughter looked. She wore a piece of black crape bound tightly about her head so that no one could see her hair. Some persons said that, owing to illness, she had no hair. If so it must have grown afterwards; for, when she was older and had left tending the cows, she had it put up on her head with pins, in a strange fashion that showed she was going to be married. Sweet Potatoes had no son and he wished his son. in-law to come and live with him as if he belonged to him. Among the Chinese this is not considered so honorable or so genteel, as to have the daughter leave her home and go and live with her husband's family. It seemed strange that the son-in-law should consent ; for though he was very poor he was also very proud, and was very particular to have respect shown to him and in regard to the kinds of work that he was willing to do. I should never have guessed his foolish reason for being so proud, but some one told me that it was because his father, now dead, had once held a small office in the Custom House 1 SHETLAND WOMEN. NOT far outside the town of Lerwick, on the Shetland Islands there is a great, black, muddy tract of land called a peat-bog. All about is utter desolation. There are no huts even to be seen. The town is concealed by a rounded hill ; and when, through some opening between the bare upheavals, one catches a sight of the North Sea, it, too, seems deserted by mankind. The peat, or mixture of roots and peculiar black soil, is dug here in large quantities ; and all about the place are great piles of it, dried and ready to be burned in the fire-places of the Lerwick people. Peat takes the place of wood; and in every poor man's hut in Shetland will it be found burning brightly, and giving out a thin blue smoke. Shetland Women. To prepare peat for market, a great deal of laboi is performed. First come the diggers — men, women and children. Entering upon the deep, miry bogs they cut the soil up into cakes about a foot long and a few inches thick.; and these they place in high piles to dry. After a few weeks they come again, and carry the cured fuel away to the town. It is while carrying these loads that the Shet- landers present a peculiar spectacle. The men are often very old, infirm and poorly clothed ; and the women are dressed in short-skirted, home-spun gowns, below which may be seen very red and very broad feet. On their heads they usually have white caps, nicely ironed, with a fluted ruffle around the edge. Passing across the breast and over either shoulder are two strong straps, and these support an immense basket hanging against the back. Thus equipped, the brave, stout women, their bas- kets piled with peat, tramp off to Lerwick, two miles away, to sell their loads for a few pennies each. They make many trips a day, always smiling, chat- ting and apparently contented. Often a long line may be seen carefully stepping along over the rough roads, stopping now and then to rest. The homes of these poor peat women are, many of them, simply hovels. When they wish to build a Shetland Women. home, they go out into some fields, usually far away from other huts, and there they dig a trench about a SHETLAND WOMEN. square piece of ground. Upon this they build walls to a height of about eight feet, and fill the crevices with mud and bog. For a roof they gather refuse Shetland Women. sea-wood, and, with this for a support, lay on layer after layer of straw, mud and stones. But what homes they seem to us! There is no fire-place, only a hole in the ground, with a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape through ! No win- dows, the door serving for both light and entrance ! No beds, only heaps of straw ! Sometimes in one small room, often the only one the house contains, will be seen man, wife, children, dog and hens, equsjl occupants, sharing the same rude comforts. Outside the house, if the owner be moderately well off, may be seen a herd of sheep or ponies, and a patch of garden surrounded by a wall. But there is something a peat woman of Shetland is continually doing that we have not yet noticed. All have no doubt heard of Shetland hosiery ; of the fine, warm shawls and hoods, and delicate veils that come from these far northern islands. Now, all the while the poor, bare-legged woman is carrying her heavy bur- den of peat, her hands are never idle. She is knit- ting, knitting away as fast as her nimble fingers will allow. In her pocket is the ball of yarn, and as her needles fly back and forth, she weaves fabrics of such fineness that the Royal ladies of England wear them ; and no traveller visits the island without loading his Shetland Women. trunk with shawls, mittens, stockings, and other fem- inine fancies. Not to know how to knit in Shetland is like not knowing how to read at home. A little girl is taught the art before she can read \ and, as a result, at every cottage will be found the spinning-wheel and the nee- dles, while the feminine hands are never idle. It is one great means of support ; and on Regent Street in London will be seen windows full of soft, white goods marked " Shetland Hosiery." Who first instructed these far northern people in this delicate art is not surely known. On Fair Isle, one of the Shetland group, the art is first said to have been discovered, very many years ago. On that lonely isle even now, every woman, girl and child knits while working at any of her various duties. The yarn with which the Shetland goods are made is spun from the wool of the sheep we see roaming about the fields. In almost every cottage may be seen the veritable old-fashioned wheel ; and the busy girl at the treadle sends the great wheel flying, and spins out the long skeins, which serve to make baby pretty hood or grandma a warm shawl. MARDI GRAS IN NICE. HAVE you ever happened in Nice at Carni- val? On a bright June morning, which my calendar called February twelfth, Rull and I tripped lightly down through the old olive orchards to the station, and billeted ourselves for Nice. Long before we reached Nice RulPs hands tin- gled; for there lay a beautiful line of snow, miles away, on the north side of the Alps, and the poor fellow hadn't been as near a snow-ball as that for the winter. But I had only to say "confetti!" and his eyes danced at the vision of the parti-colored hail- storm to come. Mardi Gras In Nice. Now hasten with us at once to the Promenade du Cours, up and down which the procession is to pass. First, however, I shall buy for you each a little blue gauze mask ; for you cannot even peep at Car- nival unmasked. And if any of you can wear linen dusters with hoods attached, all the better. Don't "promenade du cours," in carnival time. leave a square inch of skin unprotected, I warn you. Besides the little masks, you may buy, each of you, a whole bushel of these "sugar-plums," and have them sent to our balcony. Also for each a little tin scoop fastened on a flexible handle, which you are to fill with confetti but on no account to pull — at least, not yet, 9 Mardi* Gras In Nice. The crowds are gathering. Pretty peasant girls in their holiday attire of bright petticoats, laced bodices, and white frilled caps ; stray dominoes \ richly dressed ladies with mask in hand ; carriages so decorated with flowers as to be artistically hidden — even the wheels covered with batiste — blue, pink, purple, green or buff. Even the sidewalk, as we — - ~ ' ^5 " PROMENADE DU COURS " IN CARNIVAL TIME. pass, is fringed with chairs at a franc each. The " Cours " is gay with suspended banners, bright with festooned balconies and merry faces. Side- walks and street are filled with people ; but the horses have the right of way, and the people are fined if they are run over. Let us hasten to our balcony, for here passes a Mardi Gras In Nice. band of musicians, in scarlet and gold, to open the procession. Just in time we take our seats, and lo ! before us rolls a huge car. It is "the theatre" — an open car of puppets — but the puppets are men ; all attached to cords held in the hand of the giant, who sits in imposing state above them on the top of the car which is on a level with the third story balconies. The giant lifts his hand and the puppets whirl and jump. But alas ! his head is too high. His hat is swept off by the hanging festoons, and the giant must ride bare-headed, in danger of sunstroke. Next behind the car moves in military order a Mardi Gras In Nice. regiment of mounted grasshoppers. Their sleek, shin- ing bodies of green satin, their gauzy wings and antenna, snub noses and big eyes, are all absolutely perfect to the eye ; but — they are of the size of men. You lower your mask to see more clearly, you are lost in wonder at the perfect illusion, your mouth is wide open with "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" when pop I " PROMENADE DU COURS " IN CARNIVAL TIME. pop t slings a shower of confetti, and the little hail- stones seem to cut off your ears and rush sifting down your neck. For, while you were watching the grasshoppers, a low open carriage, concealed under a pink and white cover, has stopped under our windows. Four merry masqueraders, cloaked and hooded in hue to match, Mardi Gras In Nice. have a bushel of confetti between them, and are piled with nosegays. We slink behind our masks, we pull the handles of our confetti scoops — then the battle begins and waxes fierce. But they are crowded on ; for behind them, in irre- sistible stateliness, moves on the Sun and Moon. Then come the Seasons : Winter represented by a " PROMENADE DU COURS," IN CARNIVAL TIME. band of Russians, fur-covered from top to toe, drag- ging a Siberian sledge. Summer is recognized by a car-load of choicest flowers, whose fragrance reaches us as they pass. Here rolls a huge wine cask which fills half the wide street ; there moves a pine cone, six feet high, to the eye perfectly like the cones, six inches in length, Mardi Gras In Nice. which we use daily to light our olive-wood fire. Then a procession of giant tulips — stalk, calyx, petals, all complete. They also silently move on. Next a huge pot, with a cat climbing its side, her paw just thrust beneath the lid. Ha! it suddenly flies off. Does the cat enter? We cannot see through the crowd. A colossal stump follows, trail- "promenade du cours," in carnival time. ing with mosses and vines. Upon it a bird's nest filled with young, their mouths wide open for food ; wonderful, because the artistic skill is so perfect that, although so immense, they seem living and not unnatural. Then a car of Arctic bears champing to and fro in the heat, poor things, as well they may ; for this is Mardi Gras In Nice. I cloudless sky and an Italian sun. Look carefully at them and tell me, are they not true bears ? But ah ! sling! sling! two handfuls of confetti sting your eyes back into place again, and dash the bears out of sight. Isn't it delightfully unbearable ? You shout at the folly of having forgotten confetti, and then resolve to watch your chance at the next poor " PROMENADE DU COURS 99 IN CARNIVAL TIME. foot-pad. Here passes a man with two faces. His arms are neatly folded before, also behind. You cannot tell which is the real front, until, suddenly, ahorse trots up and nearly touches noses, while the man moves on undisturbed. You meant to give that man a dash, but you forgot, he was so queer. Mardi Gras In Nice, Ah ! here comes a carriage of pretty girls. Down pours the shot from the balcony above. It rains on you like hail. It runs in rills down your back. You hold your recovered ears, and add your tone to the rippling, rippling laughter that flows on in silvery tide. Not one boisterous shout, not one impatient excla- u PROMENADE DU COURS " IN CARNIVAL TIME. mation the whole livelong day ; only everywhere the sound of childish glee. How good to see even old careworn faces lighted up with mirth ! Here goes an ostrich with a monkey on his back then a man with a whole suit of clothes neatly fitted out of Journals. But — look ! look ! there towers a huge car. Nay, Mardi Gras In Nice. ft is a basket — a vegetable basket ! but its sides are as high as our balcony. On its corners stand white carrots with their green waving tops upward. Around the edges are piled a variety of garden beau- ties. But, wonderful to see, in the centre rises a mam- moth cabbage. Its large-veined petals are as perfect as any you ever saw in your garden, but their tips reach above the third balcony. Upon these veined petals climb gorgeous butterflies, whose wings slowly shut and open while they sip. As the mammoth passes, the outer petals slowly droop, and snails are seen clinging within, while gayly-hued butterflies creep into view. Now the carriages mingle gayly in the procession. Here is one with young lads, their faces protected with gauze masks, which laughably show shut red lips without, and two red lines of lips and white glitter- ing teeth within. The battle of confetti waxes hot. Merry faces fill all balconies and windows. Many a beauty drops her mask for an instant like ourselves to peer more eagerly at the wonderful procession, but at her peril. On the instant dash / dash / flies the confetti, slung with force enough from the little scoops to sting sharply. War is the fiercest yonder where there is such a Mardi Gras In Nice. handsome family ( Americans we are sure ), father, mother and daughter. Here goes a carriage decorated with United States flags ; all its occupants cloaked and hooded in gray linen, the carriage covered likewise. They stop beneath the balcony, and sling I sling! sling I in wild- est combat until crowded on. Up and down the procession sweeps. Up one side the wide " Cours " and down the other ; the space within filled with the merry surging crowd, under the feet of the horses it would seem. But no mat- ter. Horses and men and women and children bear a charmed life to-day. Now and then a policeman pounces on the boys, who are gathering up the heaps of confetti from the dirt to sell again ; but this is the only suggestion of law and order behind the gay confusion. Here rolls a carriage trimmed with red and white. Within are a pair of scarlet dominoes, who peer mys- teriously at you. But look again at what moves on. A car longer than any yet seen. It is a grotto. Within its cool recesses bask immense lizards. Some slowly climb its sides, then, in search of prey, thrust out their long tongues. In • v Mardi Gras In Nice. shining coat, in color, in movement, you would avow them to be lizards, truly. But how huge ! Behind the lizards pass again the mounted grass- hoppers, our favorites of all, for their wonderfully perfect form and dainty beauty. And lo ! they bear, to our delight, a silken banner, token of the prize. For, pets, do you read between the lines and understand that this wonderful procession was the result of truly artistic skill ? — that to imitate per- fectly to the eye, to represent exactly in motion all these living creatures, and yet conceal within a boy or man who invisibly moved them, required all the delicacy of perception and nicety of workmanship of French eyes and fingers ? Think you that your little fingers and bright eyes will ever attain so much. Besides, all this was also a great outlay of thou- sands of francs. For Nice aroused herself to excel in Carnival, and offered large prizes — one of five thousand francs, another of four, another of three — for the most perfect representations. Nowhere in Italy was there anything to compare with Nice. And I doubt if you would see again in Carnival what would so perfectly delight your young eyes, or so quicken your perception of artistic skill. We look at our watches. Two hours yet ; but we long to taste the fun on foot. So we fling our last Mardi Gras In Nice. confetti, fill hair and button-holes and hands with our sweet nosegays of geranium, sweet aiyssum, mignonette and pansies — mementoes of the fight, — then descend to the sidewalk to press our way along the crowded court. More and more to see ! and, last of all, Carnival tossed and tumbled in effigy until his death by drowning or burning. But we must be early at the station. Early, indeed ! Peppered and pelted all the way, tweaked and shot at ; but ever and always with only the harm- less confetti and soft nosegays. Sure that we are the first to leave, sure that no others are there before us, we pass into the outer baggage-room. Fifty more are there pressed hard against the closed door. The crowd swells ; hundreds are behind us ; we can scarcely keep our feet. Yet what a good-natured crowd ! The hour for the train to leave passes. By and by the closed door opens a crack ; a gilt-banded arm is thrust through and one person taken out, and the solemn door closed again. So, one by one, we ooze through, pass the turn- stile in the passage under surveillance of the keen- eyed officer, and are admitted into the saloon, which is also locked. Mardi Gras In Nice. We sink down into a seat nearest the one of two doors which instinct tells us is to be opened. Again we wait an hour till the last panting victim is passed through the stile. Then, O ! it is not our door which unlocks and opens but the other. We rush for a compartment ; • but no ! all appear rilled, so we step to an official and state our case. He conducts us on, on, nearly to the end of the train, over stones and timbers ; but, at last, bestows us out of that crowd in a compartment with but three persons. Soon we leave, only two hours later than the time advertised. For in France, little pets, the trains wait for the people. The people are locked in till all is ready • then follows a rush like a grand game of "puss, puss in the corner !" and almost always there is some poor puss who cannot get in. Guess how many bushels of confetti rattled on the floor of our chamber that night 1 ON THE FARM IN WINTER. HE life of a boy in winter on the old-fashioned New England farm seems to me one of the best of the right kinds of life for a healthy lad, pro- vided his tastes have not been spoiled by wrong reading, or by some misleading glimpse of a city by gas-light. It certainly abounds with the blood and muscle-making sports for which the city physiologists so anxiously strive to substitute rinks and gymna- siums. But I rather pity a young fellow who gets his only sleigh rides by paying a dollar an hour to the livery- stable, and who must do his skating within limits on artificial ice. He never gets even a taste of such primitive fun as two boys I know had last winter. The sleigh was at the wagon-maker's shop for repairs when the first heavy snow fell, and they harnessed ON THE FARM IN WINTER. Dobbin to an old boat, and had an uproarious ride up hill and down dale, with glorious bumps and jolts. I rather pity a fellow, too, who eats grocer's apples, and confectioner's nuts, and baker's cream cakes, who never knows the fun of going down cellar to the apple bins to fill his pockets for school, and who owns no right in a pile of butternuts on the garret floor. I am sorry for a boy that knows nothing of the manly freedom of trowsers tucked in boots, hands and feet both cased in home-knit mittens and home- knit socks — I cannot believe his blood is as red, or can possibly flow so deep and strong in his side- walk sort of life, as the young fellows who chop wood and ply the snow-shovel, and turn out en masse with snow-ploughs after a long storm — the sound of the future strength of the land is in the sturdy stamp of their snowy boots at the door as they come in from their hearty work. I am not writing of country boys that want to be clerks, — they are spoiled for fun anyhow, — but of the boys that expect, if they expect anything in particular, to stay on the farm and own it themselves some day. This stinging cold morning the boys at the school- ON THE FARM IN WINTER. house door are not discussing the play-bills of the Globe or the Museum, but how the river froze last night, turning the long quiet surface to blue-black ice, as smooth as a looking-glass. Now what skating ! what grand noonings, what glorious evenings ! No rink or frog-pond, where one no sooner gets under headway than he must turn about, but miles and miles of curving reaches leading him forward be- tween rustling sedges, till he sees the white caps of the open lake dancing before him. Presently the snow comes and puts an end to the sport ; for sweeping miles and miles of ice is out of the question. After the snow, a thaw; and then the jolly snow-balling. There is not enough of a thaw to take the snow off; only enough to make it just sufficiently sloppy and soft for the freeze-up that follows to give it a crust almost as hard and smooth as the ice lately covered up. Then such coasting! Just think of dragging your sled of a moonlight night up a mile of easy tramping to the foot of the mountain, whence you come down again, now fast, now slow, now " like a streak " down a sharp incline, now running over a ON THE FARM IN WINTER. even-rail fence buried in the glittering drifts, and bringing up at last at a neighbor's door, or at the back side of your own barnyard ! It is great fun, too, to slide on the drifts with " slews " or " jump- ers." These are made sometimes of one, sometimes of two barrel-staves, and are sure to give you many a jolly bump and wintersault. There is fun to be had in the drifts too, digging caves or under-snow houses, wherein you may build a fire without the least danger. Here you can be Esquimaux, and your whole tribe sally forth from the igloe and attack a terrible white bear, if one of the party will kindly consent to be a bear for awhile. You can make him white enough by pelting him with snow, and he will bear enough before he is finally killed. There is fun, too, and of no mean order, to be got out of the regular farm duties. Not much, per- haps, out of bringing in the wood, or feeding the pigs, or turning the fanning-mill ; but foddering the sheep and calves, which, very likely, are pets, takes the boys to the hay-mow, where odors of summer linger in the herds-grass, and the daisy and clover-tops are almost as green and white and ON THE FARM IN WINTER. yellow and purple as when they fell before the scythe. What a place is this elastic floor for a "wrestle or a summersault! " and then, who "daVt " climb to the big beam, into the neighborhood of the empty swallows nests and dusty cobwebs, and take the flying jump therefrom to the mow ? Here, too, are hens' nests to be found, with frost-cracked eggs to carry in rats, and larger prey, also to be hunted when the hay is so nearly spent that the fork sticks into the loose boards at the bottom of the hay. But of all things which the farmer's boy is wanted to do, and wants to do, there is nothing such clear fun as the breaking of a yoke of calves. First, the little yoke is to be got on to the pair somehow and a rope made fast to the " nigh " one's head, that is, the calf on the left side, where the driver goes. Then comes bawling and hauling and push- ing, and often too much beating, until the little cattle are made to understand that " Gee " means turn to the right, and " Haw " means turn to the left, and that " Whoa " means stop, and " Back" means, of them all, just what is said. Every command is roared and shouted ; for an UPON THE HAY-MOW. ON THE FARM IN WINTER. idea seems to prevail that oxen, big and little, are deaf as adders, and can never be made to hear except at the top of the voice. In a still, winter day, you may hear a grown-up ox-teamster roaring at his patient beasts two miles away; and a calf-breaker not half his size may be heard more than half as far. Then, on some frosty Saturday, when the little nub- by-horned fellows have learned their lessons, they are hitched to a sled, and made to haul light loads, a little wood, or some of the boys, — the driver still holding to the rope, and flourishing his whip as grand as a drum-major. Once in a while the little oxen of the future take matters into their own hoofs and make a strike for freedom, upsetting the sled and scattering its load, and dragging their driver headlong through the snow. But they have to submit at last; and three or four years hence, you would never think from their solemn looks and sober pace that they ever had thought of such rebellious freaks. They were the boy's calves, but father's oxen. Halter-breaking a colt is almost as good as break- ing steers, only there is no sled-riding to be had in this. ON THE FARM IN WINTER. Till lately, the young fellow has had the freedom of the fields, digging in the first snows for a part of his living, and with his rough life has grown as shaggy-coated as a Shetland pony, with as many burrs stuck in his short foretop as it will hold ; for if there is an overlooked burdock on all the farm, every one of the horse kind running at large will find it, and each get more than his share of burrs mat- ted and twisted into his foretop and mane. Now, he is waxed and driven into a shed or stable, and fooled or forced to put his head into a long, stout, rope halter. Then he is got into the clear, open meadow, and his first lesson begins. The boys all lay hold of the rope at a safe distance from the astonished pupil, and pull steadily upon him. Just now he would rather go any way than straight ahead, and holds back with all his might, looking, with all his legs braced forward, his neck stretched to its utmost, and his head on a line with it, like a stubborn little donkey who has lost some- thing in ears, but nothing in willfulness, and gained a little in tail. At last he yields a little to the uncom- fortable strain, and takes a few reluctant steps for- ON THE FARM IN WINTER. ward, then rears and plunges and throws himself, and is drawn struggling headlong through the snow, until he tires of such rough usage and flounders to his feet. Then he repeats his bracing tactics, the boys bracing as stoutly against him, till he suddenly gives way and they go tumbling all in a heap. If the boys tire out before the colt gives up, there are other days coming, and sooner or later he sub- mits ; and in part compensation for not having his own way, he has a warm stall in the barn, and eats from a manger, just like a big horse, and is petted and fondled, and grows to be great friends with his young masters — at last to be "father's horse/' in- stead of " our colt." But by and by the long winter — this play-day of the year for the farm-boy — comes to an end, to make way for spring — spring which brings to him work out of all reasonable proportion to the amount of play, at least so the farm-boy is likely to think. THE WERNER COMPANY'S PUBLICATIONS. REMINGTON'S FRONTIER SKETCHES. By Frederic Remington. A. beautiful new pictorial, dainty in all its appointments, of highest artistic excellence. This choice collection comprises many of Remington's most notable drawings, displaying to splendid advantage his great talents and peculiar genius. 9^x13 inches. 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