midnight, if necessary, for I judged from the answers of the inside sentinel that the persons for whom I had inquired were there. My patience held out till the clock struck eight, when a policeman, by some strange fatality, happened to pass the place. He was on the other side of the street, and glanced into the bar-room as he passed. I determined to walk at his side, and tell him my story, so far as it related to the loss of my money. I crossed over for the purpose of joining him, hoping to induce him to enter the gambling house with me. As I reached the front of the establishment, two men came out, both of them making use of rather sharp language. Their voices attracted my attention. it flashed upon my mind that my father had opened the bureau-drawer in my room where I had placed the locket and the little clothes I had worn when I was picked up on the Missouri River. Yet this was not probable, for I had locked the drawer, and put the key in a safe place. I was more inclined to think that Farringford called me his son in order to explain his interest in my affairs. I followed the two men to the levee, where they suddenly halted near a street lamp. I dodged out of their sight, and kept walking back and forth near them; but, as I was a boy, they did not seem to notice me, or at least to consider my presence of any importance. "I am willing to get rid of you, Farring One of them was Lynch, and the other was ford, at any reasonable price," said Lynch. Farringford. "I will not have my steps dogged by such a fellow as you are!" exclaimed the former, angrily. "Don't make a noise, Lynch," said Farringford. "If you do, I'll refer the matter to a policeman, and send for the boy." "Nonsense! I've told you I know nothing about the boy or his money," added Lynch, moving down the street in the direction of the river. Deeply interested in the discussion, I followed the parties closely enough to hear every word they spoke. From what Lynch said I learned that they had already discussed the subject at the gambling-house; and I judged that the robber had fled in order to escape the importunity of the other. "The boy speaks the truth, and if you don't give his money back I will make St. Louis too warm for your comfort," retorted Farringford, warmly. "I don't want to be bored with this matter any more," said Lynch. "If you will clear out I will give you a dollar to get drunk upon." "I ask no man to give me anything. That won't do; I want the money for the boy." "Why should you bother your head about the boy?" "I will not be dogged another foot farther." "Then give me back the ninety-seven dollars and a half you stole from my boy," added Farringford. "Don't say that thing again to me. I will give you five dollars if you will bore me no more." "No; I want the whole." "Once for all, then, will you clear out, or not?" "Once for all, I will not till you give up the money you stole from my boy." "Then take the consequences," said Lynch, as he sprang upon the tottling Farringford. My blood boiled then, and leaping upon Lynch I bore him to the ground. He released his hold upon my father when he felt my grasp upon him. "Police!" I shouted, as I lay upon my victim. He struggled to shake me off; but I held on, for I knew that I must keep the advantage or lose my man. "He's my boy, and I won't see him wronged THE by any one." "Your boy!" [TO BE CONTINUED.] LITTLE TIP-TOP. AN ARM-CHAIR STORY. BY S. M. W. HE large, old-fashioned arm-chair had been drawn up to the fire, and my footstool was placed before it. We all had a great "Yes, my boy! He's my son," persisted respect for that chair; it had belonged to Farringford. "Nonsense! You have lost your wits." I thought I had lost mine too. I could not believe that Farringford intended to speak the truth when he said I was his son. He could not possibly have known that I was his son. But my heart leaped up into my throat when many generations of our family, and we firmly believed that it came over in the Mayflower. which must have been loaded with old chairs and clocks. However that may be, the children thought it was a famous chair to hear stories in, for it had a high, carved, oaken back, and a broad, deep seat, which would hold us all with a little squeezing. Gertrude | they sank, very slowly, until they rested many had nestled in one side, while Roland estab- feet below the surface; and perhaps it took lished himself in the other; and dear little hundreds of years for the trees to perform this Jack, the sunbeam of the house, mounted journey. into my lap, and looked up at me so lovingly that I kissed him, just because I couldn't help it. "Tell us some facts to-night, aunt Sue," said Roland, who was the practical member of the family. "Jack won't like facts," remarked Gerty, " and I don't either, unless there's a story at the end." 64 "I do like 'em, so now, Gerty!" exclaimed Jack, sitting upright, and speaking very fast. 'Aunty, you know I'm six years old; and today, when I told papa that I was almost old enough to play ball, he said, 'That's a fact, my boy!' O, don't I like 'em, though?" And Jack subsided, with an exulting chuckle. I could not help laughing at Jack's affection for facts; but I thought it would be a good chance to teach our little boy what they really were; so I said, — "Look round this room, Roland, and choose something for me to tell you about; and Jack shall choose the next time." "They did not go alone; for, when autumn came, the grass blades turned yellow, and lost their brave, upright bearing; the fern leaves were all rusted with blossom and seed. and drooped, because their work was done, and it was time to rest; and the swamp flowers dropped their brilliant petals over the place where the trees lay buried. All these things - grasses, ferns, flowers, and a thousand nameless shrubs and bushes, gradually settled down after the trees, and rested in the same bed. When summer came again, other beautiful things sprang up and blossomed, to meet the same fate in the autumn; and so, very slowly, the swamp was filled up, and became like solid ground. "We cannot easily tell how many thousands of years passed while this was going on; but all the while, far down beneath the surface, the old buried trees and leaves were changing their forms. At first they grew decayed, spongy, and black; and then, as it is always hotter far down in the earth than at the sur "I don't know," began Roly. "O, yes, I do! face, they were dried and slowly baked into a Tell us about this coal, aunt Sue." So this is what I told the children, while the light from the blazing coal flashed upon the arm-chair full of faces. "Little people, you see these black lumps which are burning and flickering here in the grate; but do you know what they really are?" "I know what they call it," said Roland, "for I went with papa when he ordered it. It is cannel coal; but I don't know why it is called so, or where it comes from." "Many hundreds and thousands of years ago, Roly, the place where now they find cannel coal must have looked like an immense swamp. It must have been an expanse of black, spongy mud, with here and there great ponds of stagnant water, half hidden beneath thick, coarse grass, and ferns, and rank weeds, all tangled together, and growing so high and luxuriant that you or Jack would seem not much larger than grasshoppers if you were to try to break through them. And there were trees there also- noble beech, oak, and pine trees, growing large and spreading, in the rich swamp mud. But, in time, these grand old trees would fall from age, or be blown down by some violent wind. Then the dark, quiet water closed over them, and the heavy, black mud sucked them in; and down, down, down firm, hard, solid mass, which now we call coal. It seems wonderful that God did not let even those old dried leaves be wasted, but laid them away in a great storehouse in the heart of the earth, to be brought out and used when fuel was needed." "But, aunty," said Gertrude, "this coal isn't like the coal we use in our school-room. That is hard and shiny, and our teacher told us, the other day, that it is named from a Greek word, meaning coal. An anthra something she called it." "Anthracite," I said. "Yes, Gerty, there is a difference between that and cannel coal. This has in it a great deal of bitumen, which is a substance somewhat like pitch." "O, Roly," said Jack, "don't you remember how I got my jacket covered with pitch last summer when I climbed into the great pine tree in the woods?" "I remember how I got my ears boxed for taking you up there," remarked Roland, very meekly. "But, aunt Sue, why do they call it cannel?" "I found out that in an odd way. Last summer, I was just going out one afternoon for my walk, as our man Hugh was unloading some hard coal, which was to be used in heating the green-house. You know Hugh is an Englishman. All at once I heard a loud call, and saw Hugh holding out to me a lump of cannel coal, which he had found among the other. lamps, and to go round the shaft at night to make sure that there was no danger from fire. Every evening the overseer sent him food "Haigh, miss!' he said; "'ere's t'old enough to last twenty-four hours; and so he lived on, poor old Peter! "One day, the overseer, Mr. Hall, came into the mine, calling loudly for Pete; and when the old man crawled out of his hut, he saw his master standing there, holding a little mulatto boy by the shoulder. "Now, Mas'r Hall, did you fotch dat ar young un hyar just to bother me, an' cut up all sorts o' capers, an' blow up de mine?' grumbled the old man, who could never be quite pleased with anything. "Hold your tongue, old Pete,' said Mr. ing one of my hands off his work every evening to bring down your bacon and pone. This youngster is to stay in the mine with you all the time; he can help the men a good deal, and come up every night for your fodder, and see that you don't drink yourself to death some one of these Sundays. Here, young monkey, tell Pete your name!' "In this country the best cannel coal is mined in Maryland and some parts of Vir-Hall. Now just look here; I'm tired of takginia; but it is also found in Eastern Tennessee and Kentucky, in smaller quantities. In working upon it, the miners look for, or make, a crack in the coal; then, by driving wedges into this crack, they detach large blocks or slices of coal, which are afterwards broken smaller, and drawn up in cars through a great pit, which is called the shaft. This shaft is like a very large well, dug straight downward until the coal is found, and made strong and secure by great beams of wood, placed at intervals, to keep the earth from falling in to bury the workmen. The cars, full of coal, are drawn up by machinery, and the miners also use them to go down to their work, and return from it. "Dey calls me Tip-top,' said the little boy, who was a bright-looking child, about nine years old. "You have accordin' to yer name, den, else I'll make ye mighty sorry dey eber called ye dat,' said Peter, who seemed to grow more cross every moment. "The little boy's odd name was one result of his merry, happy disposition; for, in his old plantation home, every person and thing, from his master down to the kitten, was the best in the world, and he would call each one tip-top. So the word was given to him in jest; but when his master died, and the people were scattered, no one thought that little Tip had any other name. "I do not know whether cannel coal is dug in this way everywhere, but I am sure it was so once in the Black Creek mine, in Eastern Tennessee, not far from the foot of the Cumberland Mountains. This was an old mine, and was nearly exhausted, so that it did not yield much coal. It did not pay to use the cars, and the costly machinery to draw them up the shaft; so the men had dug a long tunnel, gradually ascending from the farthest end of the mine, and opening at last upon the side of a hill. This tunnel was called a 'gang-here for a while. way,' and through it the hard-working mules drew small cars, loaded with great lumps of coal. In the Black Creek mine was an old, crippled. rheumatic negro, who had been put there as 'mine-keeper' ten years before, because he could no longer do any active work. Old Peter had built for himself a rude hut, in the widest part of the old shaft, from boards and pieces of stone and coal; and in this dark den, lighted only by a safety-lamp, he lived day and night. His only occupation was to see that the workmen were careful with their "Meanwhile the overseer had called Peter aside. I want to keep this boy safe, and not lose him,' he said; and I thought I'd put him This war is picking off the men so fast that it's hard work to keep the mine going at all. He can help load the cars as well as any one; but don't let him hear any nonsense about free niggers. Now look out for him, Uncle Pete, else your old bones will ache for it.' "Little Tip had a hard life of it. It was bad enough to be shut out of the bright sunlight; but in addition he had to bear the abuse of the workmen, and old Peter's bad temper. Three times a week, at evening, he crawled through the dismal gangway. and went to Mr. Hall's house for a basket of food, for he was not long allowed to go every day. So a year | Peter, if you'll let me stop in de mine till towent by; but then there came a change. "One Saturday evening, in April, he was lounging slowly along, as usual, with the heavy basket on his arm. The weight of the bacon and corn bread had tired him so much that when he reached the gangway he was glad to sit down and rest. "Hist, now! keep mighty quiet, will ye, chile?' said a voice, which seemed to come from the inside of the dark cavern. "Lor, bress us!' screamed Tip; 'who be dat in dere!' and in his fright he turned to run away. But the man who had spoken sprang out of the gangway and stopped him. 'Ye needn't be 'feared o' me,' he said; 'couldn't do ye no hurt any how. But, chile, I'se half starved, and clean knocked up, for I'se walked tree hunder an' sixty miles to find Sherman or some ob de Yankees; an' I can't do no more till I'se rested. Now, boy, can't ye let dis pore nigger come into de mine, an' hide dar ober de Sunday? Who's in dere 'long wid you?' “Only ole Uncle Pete,' said the boy. 'But who be dat Mas'r Sherman? Did you b'long to him?' "Laws, chile, he be a gineral, an' hab a great many Yankees 'long wid him; but I tell ye all 'bout him when I gets inside de mine. D'ye think dat ole Peter will split on me?' “He'll cut up an_swar awful,' said Tip; 'but he all done gone wid rheumatiz― can't hardly hobble roun' de shaft so he can't tell on ye afore Monday. If I lets ye in, ye must clar out by dat time, or de oberseer 'll cotch yer; an' he's a drefful hard man.' morrer night; an' gib me somefin to eat,' continued the negro, holding out a small piece of silver to old Peter. The old man's eyes glistened, and he eagerly seized the coin, for he knew that silver money was worth two.or three times its old value. BOYS and girls who live in the country will find the making of vegetable flowers a pleasant pastime. To make a bouquet of these flowers, take some white and yellow turnips, beets, carrots, and pumpkins, also some parts of cabbages. Gather from the woods moss, laurel leaves, and other ever greens. Then, by the exercise of taste, ingenuity, and a skilful use of the penknife, really beautiful bouquets can be compiled of these flowers. Take a white turnip, neatly peeled, notched, or cut down in leaf shape all around. Fasten it on a stick whittled in the proper shape for a stem. Surround it with green leaves, and behold, according to your design, an exquisite white camellia, or a rose. Red roses, camellias, or dahlias can be made in the same manner from beets, yellow flowers from carrots and pumpkins, moss-rose buds from turnips and beets, by cutting them into the proper shape, and placing real moss around "The fugitive promised faithfully; and Tip, taking up his basket, guided the stranger through the dark tunnel. But, with all their them. White or red flowers can be made caution, it was impossible not to stumble as from red or white cabbages. A friend of ours, they groped their way along towards the old one cold day in winter, had a lovely basket shaft where Pete's hut was built, and where at of flowers sent to her for a tea-party. There last they saw the glimmer of his safety-lamp. were two white japonicas; the chill they re"Dat you, Tip?' said Peter; ''pears like as ceived turned them brown, and they fell to you been gone long 'nuff to grow de corn an' pieces. She was in despair. A cousin staybake de pone, you lazy boy! Who be dating with her, unknown to her, cut two white wid you?' he continued, as his ear caught the sound of a second footstep. I donno how you dare bring a strange nigger in dis mine; jes wish Mas'r Hall was here, an' den you'd cotch it! Who is dat oder one, hey?' "Don't hit de boy, uncle,' said the stranger. 'I'se walked all de way from Georgy, an' I'se clean done up; so now look here! Dis yer's de last bit o' money I'se got left, an' it's de keepsake dat little Flora hung roun' my neck last Chrismus; but I'll gib it to you, Uncle japonicas out of white turnips, and placed them on the real japonica leaves. Her friend did not notice the basket until near tea-time; then she was delighted, and exclaimed at their beauty, and wondered how her cousin got them. No one knew until the next day that they were only turnips. handle. TAKE things always by their smooth JACQ FIVE GREAT ARTISTS. [SEE FULL-PAGE PICTURE.] ACQUES CALLOT, whose portrait crowns the group of five which compose our fullpage picture in this number of the Magazine, was born at Nancy, in France, in 1593. His taste for drawing was so strong, that, finding he could not indulge it at home, he ran away to Italy to pursue his studies. After a time he was discovered and sent back to his parents, who wisely concluded to let the young artist follow his chosen profession. He soon excelled as an engraver, and received royal honors; but so great were his integrity and patriotism that no bribes or threats could induce him to execute any work not in accordance with honor and love of country. Many of his works are masterpieces of their kind. Van Dyck was born at Antwerp, and was a pupil of the celebrated Rubens, and rivalled his master in genius. His fame caused him to be sought at the court of St. James, and he resided several years in London, receiving great patronage and large sums of money. He was buried, with much pomp, in the church of St. Paul, London, and a magnificent tomb was erected over his remains. He excelled in the painting of portraits. Rubens was born at Cologne in 1577; and it is recorded that no painter ever rose so quickly or so high in the esteem of his countrymen. He was also a great diplomatist, and negotiated important matters between England and Spain, so that Philip IV. of Spain sent him to England to look after his interests; by his efforts a treaty of peace was made satisfactory to both nations, and the painterdiplomatist was knighted by Charles I. in full Parliament. He left a great many wonderful paintings. Murillo, the most celebrated Spanish painter, was born in Seville in 1618. He was a man of beautiful character, extraordinary talents, and has left specimens of his skill that the lovers of art delight to study, to admire, and to praise. Poussin was born in 1594, at the Castle of Villiers, near Andelys. Like most painters and artists, his taste was manifested in childhood; and, after undergoing great trials, he at last conquered for himself a fame wherever the art of painting was appreciated. Rome and Paris vied with each other to secure his services, and he is now regarded as the greatest painter France has ever produced. He was as highly distinguished for his virtues as for his talents, and died lamented by all. Full sketches of these great artists, and of others, will appear in "The Princes of Art," soon to be published by Lee & Shepard. It will be one of the most interesting books of the season. THE BUTTERFLIES' PEDIGRET BY MARY N. PRESCOTT. NCE, in garden quite secludea, ONCE Over which the sunbeams brooded, By the breath of roses haunted, Where the hollyhocks were planted, Reigned the garden butterflies; All the place was their dominion, Sporting there on snowy pinion, Underneath the summer skies; For they had no thought of sorrow, Knew they not the way to borrow Trouble from a dim surmise. Served for royal draperies; All the winds were sweet with clover, Every eve his love-lorn air; Happier than these butterflies, Into this warm paradise; Over which the twilight lowers." Do you think the world belongs? We were born; you quite forget, When, as little worms, we crept Up the mossy-scented wall; Wove our cradles soft, and slept Just within the robin's call; Till one day we burst our fetters, Glad to know ourselves on wing And stole out among our betters, Finding life a different thing!" |