  Well, here's July come again, warm and bright and happy, and the children of the Red School-house are as busy as bees getting ready for the Fourth. I suppose you are, too, my dears. Have as good a time as you can, and help some other body to have a good time, too. But don't blow yourselves up, for that is not the proper way to rise in the world. For my part, I don't quite see the use of burning so much gunpowder by way of celebrating the Fourth of July. From all I can make out, the mere making sure of that day burned up quite enough of it. But then, I'm only a peaceable Jack-in-the-Pulpit, and, of course, I can't be expected to understand all these things. Now, to work! But take it coolly and quietly, my dears. Don't treat business as though it were a lighted fire-cracker with a short fuse. First comes a message from Deacon Green about ARIOSTO'S FAIRY-STORY.The Deacon says that, as preaching is warm work just now, he will do no more than give you a text, this time, and you can have a try at the sermon all by yourselves. Here is what he sends you as the text: Ariosto, the Italian poet, tells a story of a fairy, whose fate obliged her to pass certain seasons in the form of a snake. If anybody injured her during those seasons, he never after shared in the rich blessings that were hers to give; but those who, in spite of her ugly looks, pitied and cared for her, were crowned for the rest of their lives with good fortune, had all their wishes granted, and became truly blessed. "Such a spirit," adds the Deacon, "is Liberty. And neither we nor our country can be kept safe without her. Since, too, Liberty cannot be kept safe without sincerity and manhood—" There, my dears, this gives you a good start. Now go on with the sermon. A CONGRESS OF BIRDS.
MIDSUMMER NOON.Here are some lines I heard a summer or two ago. It seems to me that John Clare—-the man who wrote them, I believe—must have made them when he was near my pulpit, for they tell just how things are here these sultry noons. "The busy noise of man and brute Is on a sudden hushed and mute; Even the brook that leaps along Seems weary of its merry song, And, so soft its waters sleep, Tired silence sinks in slumber deep. "The taller grass upon the hill, And spider's threads, are standing still; The feathers, dropped from moor-hen's wing, Which to the waters surface cling, Are steadfast, and as heavy seem As stones beneath them in the stream." PIGS WITH SOLID HOOFS, AND PIGS THAT ARE NOT PIGS.In Texas there are pigs whose hoofs are not divided like those of ordinary pigs, but are each in one solid piece; at least, so I'm informed in a paragram fresh from England. If this is true, it is a strange thing; but here's something that seems even stranger still: The Guinea-pig is not a pig, and there are no Guinea-pigs in Guinea. However, there are plenty in Guiana, and, as the names of these places are very much alike, perhaps people got mixed in calling them. The places are far enough apart, though, I believe; but this you can see by your maps. At any rate, the Guinea-pig is a sort of cousin of the squirrel and rabbit, and is fond of potato and apple peelings, carrot-tops, parsley, and cabbage; but he likes best the leaves from the tea-pot. JACK.Well, well! How much the dictionary men have to answer for! Now, who, without them, ever would have thought that the name "Jack"—my name—is sometimes used in an offensive sense? For instance, as I'm told, these fellows make out that "Jack Frost" means a mischievous boy; "Jack Towel" is a servants' towel; and a "Jack" is a machine to do the work of a common work-man, to lift heavy weights. Then there's a "Boot Jack," taking the place of a servant; a "Smoke Jack," another servant, to turn a spit; a "Jack-a-Napes," or saucy fellow; "Jack Tar," a common sailor; and "Jacket," a little Jack or coat. Now, I'm half inclined to take this ill of the dictionary men. But perhaps I'm misinformed about them. "TAKE THAT!"This is not slang, my dears; not a bit of it. It is but the translation of an inscription on an ancient Egyptian ball, a leaden one, used as a kind of bullet and thrown from a sling. Sometimes the name of the slinger was put on the ball,—so that the wounded could tell whom to thank, perhaps. The phrase "Take that!" has not entirely gone out of fashion, I believe; and yet the world ought to be old enough to know better, by this time. ANTS AGAIN.Talking about ants last month put me in mind of a scrap, written long ago by the Little Schoolma'am, and which one of my chicks sent to me. Here it is, with the picture that belongs to it: "AND AWAY WENT THE PIECE OF BREAD!" "Hurrah!" said an ant to her sister, "I've found a nice piece of bread; We may push and pull, to carry it home, Where the little ants wait to be fed." So one pulled till she fell over backward, And the other pushed with her head, When down came a thief of a sparrow, And away went the piece of bread! AIR THAT SINGS AND TALKS.No doubt, my dears, you think that it is only men and phonographs and such things that talk and sing; so did I until lately. But I've just heard that there are some places in the world where the air itself sings and talks. This fact, I'm told, is as old as the hills and woods; and it is easy to prove, too. All you have to do is to go into the open air and blow a horn, or call aloud, or sing in a strong clear voice, among the hills, or by the edge of a wood, or even near a big empty barn. Give this a good trial, my chicks, and let me know the result. Even if you don't succeed, there's no doubt the experiment will prove interesting, and you'll do no harm. Don't be afraid of disturbing the birds; they're friends of mine, as you know, and, if you tell them you are doing it for me, they will gladly put up with a little extra noise. PLANTS WITH HAIR.Some plants have hairs on their leaves, making them feel rough to the touch, as I've heard. This can be seen very plainly by looking at a common mallow-leaf through a microscope. And there is the mullein, too, with very stiff hairs. Now, what are these hairs for? I have been wanting to know this for some time, and should be glad if some of you clever chicks would look into the matter, and tell me what you find out. AN ODD HYMN.
ANCIENTS AND MODERNS, ONCE MORE.F.'s question, in the May number, about when the Ancients left off and the Moderns began, has been answered by Charles J. Brandt, E.L.S., Stevie B. Franklin, H.J.W., "Amneris," S.B.A., Edward Liddon Patterson, A.R.C., C.C.F., and Bessie P. They all say pretty much the same thing, which is, that Ancient history left off about the year A.D. 476, with the fall of the western Roman Empire; that then came the Middle or Dark Ages; and that the Moderns began about the year A.D. 1450, or a little while before the discovery of America. But, of course, if you don't feel quite sure that these chicks have given correct answers, you'd do well to look farther into the matter. THE INCOMPLETE TEXT.
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