  He was nothing but a little yellow dog to the world at large, yet Harry and Edith Farr regarded him as the greatest treasure they possessed. His very name indicated the gentleness of his nature, as his entire lack of any snappish qualities had required that this deficiency should be made up in the matter of christening him, and Spicebox had never since given cause to have anything dropped from that name except the last syllable. He was, as has been said, yellow, and his curling, silky hair was soft as flax, with "silver threads among the gold" about the neck and breast. His liquid brown eyes were "just too sweet," as Edith declared, while his inquisitive little nose, although not as black as it should be for beauty, was nevertheless eloquent with expression; and his tail, mere stub of a one as it was, did duty for a whole alphabet of sign language between Master Spice and his owners. But space fails me to further describe the charms of this wonderful dog, who was as good as he was beautiful, and whose skill in leaping over canes and umbrellas was only equalled by the firmness with which he sat up on his hind-legs and held a penny on his nose. At the time of which I write, the children—Harry was eleven and Edith nine—had owned Spice for two years, and in all that period he was never known to snap or snarl at man or beast. Growl he frequently did when a stray cat or a wandering dog chanced to cross his path, but this was never in malice—only for fun; and although he was once laid up for a day and a half from the wounds inflicted by a quarrelsome tabby, Edith is convinced that he never even attempted to bite back. He slept every night at the foot of Harry's bed, had his little bowl of water (with a piece of yellow sulphur in it) in the corner, and in one compartment of Edith's bureau One of these latter occurred on a bright day in the spring, when the Townsend family, the Fans' next-door neighbors, came over to lunch. There were four of them: the mother, a pale, sickly lady, who only went out on pleasant days; Win, a tall youth of fifteen; Clara, the only daughter, and of Edith's age; and last, but by no means least, the baby, who was still so young that his first name was not yet decided upon, but who nevertheless fairly ruled the great house next door. Well, this sunshiny day in the spring was Saturday, so the children on both sides of the hedge had plenty of time to visit and receive, and while the two ladies remained in the sitting-room with the French nurse and the American baby, Harry and Clara, Edith and Win, flew up and down the garden, playing colors, I-spy, and tag, with Spice at their heels barking furiously, little thinking of the tragic scenes in which he was soon to become the principal actor. When lunch was announced, Mrs. Farr, Mrs. Townsend, and the four young people gathered about the well-spread table, while nurse, Baby Townsend, and Spice kept one another company in the sitting-room. It must be confessed that the latter was not overpleased at the arrangement, but as Harry had told him to stay, and as he was a very obedient little dog, he determined to do as he was bid with the best possible grace, so he meekly allowed Baby to rub his coat the wrong way, pull his hair, and twist his tail to its little heart's content. "Marie! Marie!" Mrs. Townsend's voice was suddenly heard calling from the dining-room, and in response the French nurse hastened to ascertain her lady's commands, leaving Baby in his corner on the sofa, where he had been securely fenced in by his careful mamma. Now all that Mrs. Townsend wanted of Marie was to ask her if she was positive that the French word for ink was of the feminine gender, and in that instant's absence of the faithful maid something awful happened; for she had scarcely returned to the sitting-room, when she gave a piercing scream that at once brought everybody from the table, some with napkins pinned around their necks, others flourishing knives and forks in their hands, and all endeavoring to swallow as quickly as possible whatever they happened to have in their mouths. And what a sight they saw! Baby Townsend lay back among his pillows, serenely sucking the middle finger of his left hand, which was bleeding, and the blood was spreading itself over the infant's face in a manner shocking to behold, while Spice sat gravely by looking on with curious eyes, and the French nurse stood wringing her hands in helpless horror. For a moment they all stood as if rooted to the carpet, and then Mrs. Townsend, with one hand snatching up her baby, and with the other pointing to Spice, cried, "There! that dog did it, and he'll—that is, my child will—oh!" and the poor lady began to cry hysterically, while Edith rushed to gather up Spice in her arms, and Harry hastened to make an examination of the accused. "See, Mrs. Townsend," he exclaimed; "there's not a particle of blood about his mouth. Besides, you all know Spice—our Spice. Why, he—" "But how, then, came Baby in this condition? You can see for yourself there wasn't a thing within his reach by which he could have cut himself." "Perhaps he bit his finger," Harry then ventured to suggest, which idea was greeted by as near an approach to a smile as the tragic nature of the circumstances would permit, as Mrs. Farr reminded her son of the fact that the child was scarcely four months old. "No, I see no help for it, sorry as I am, and good friend to Spice as I've always been," continued Mrs. Townsend; "but hydrophobia, you know, is now so bad, and my nerves are still so weak, that really Win must bring over his gun and—" "Shoot Spice?" cried both the Farr children in a breath, while their mother hastened to put forth every possible plea in his behalf. But the harder Mrs. Farr begged for mercy to the dog, the more determined did Mrs. Townsend become that he ought to die; and between the firm, vehement demands of one family and the tearful, urgent pleadings of the other, the noise in the room became so loud and confused that Baby began to cry, and Spice to bark. In vain Harry quoted newspaper paragraphs to the effect that Scotch terriers were seldom or never known to go mad; useless were Edith's affirmations that she was sure Spice had not so much as sniffed at the baby; and all for naught went Mrs. Farr's entreaties that they would at least stay proceedings until the gentlemen came home at night. Mrs. Townsend was resolved, and Win went over the hedge in triumph to bring his gun, but presently came back, rather crest-fallen and empty-handed, to say that his father must have locked it up in the wardrobe, and carried off the key. In that case there was nothing to do but wait until that gentleman returned from the city; so the Townsends filed out of the Farrs' front door and into their own in a dignified procession, Mrs. Townsend having first bound over Mrs. Farr by a solemn promise not to allow Spice to leave the grounds. Ah, how long that dreadful afternoon lived in the Farr children's memory! To know that their own dear little doggie was to die would have been bad enough, but to feel that he was to be shot as a criminal for an act so terrible, that—that was too hard, and Edith's tears fell fast, while even Harry was obliged to wink persistently in order to keep his own cheeks dry. As for Spice, he had never seemed so gay and full of life, frisking lightly about the children whenever Edith's trembling hands would let him go, and twirling himself round and round so swiftly as to fairly make one dizzy to behold. When Mrs. Townsend observed this, she had taken it as a sign of hopeless depravity, but to Harry it was a convincing proof that Spice had not done the deed charged to him. "You know, Edith," he would say, over and over again, "how he hangs his head, puts his tail between his legs, and tries to slink away whenever he's done wrong, and I'm sure he knows it isn't proper to bite Mrs. Townsend's baby. Oh, why did she ever bring it over here?" and Harry groaned dismally as he realized the impossibility of bringing their neighbor to look at the affair in the light he did. Well, the time of respite passed all too quickly away, and when Mr. Farr came home at six, the case was laid before him in all its bearings; but what could he do? "You've no positive proof that Spice did not bite the baby," he said, when Harry and Edith called upon him to avenge them of their wrongs, "whereas Mrs. Townsend thinks she has pretty sure evidence that her baby was bitten. Besides—" But just then the door-bell rang, and Mr. Townsend and Win were ushered in, the latter carrying a gun, at sight of which Edith first shuddered, and then began to cry. "STOP! STOP! OH, STOP!" After a few words with Mr. Farr, Mr. Townsend suggested that, as it was a cruel duty he had come to perform, they had better go through with it as quickly as possible; so a rope was produced, tied to the dog's collar, and then, having received a last tearful embrace from each one in the family, Spice was led out into the back yard by their neighbor, Win following close behind with the gun. Mrs. Farr at once stuffed her ears with cotton; her husband went to the furthest corner of the library, and took down the most absorbing book he could find; Harry fled to his room in the third story, and Edith buried her face in the sofa cushions; while the girls in the kitchen clattered tin pans about at a terrific rate for a few moments, and then, frightened at their own noise, stopped to listen. For five minutes there was a dead silence both inside the house and out, when suddenly Edith screamed loud and long, and leaping up from the lounge, rushed out into the yard, wildly waving a pair of button-hole scissors covered with blood. "Stop! stop! oh, stop!" she cried. "The baby cut himself with these. Oh, Spice! Spice!" and running to the clothes-line post, to which the poor little fellow had been tied, she fell down beside him and sobbed for joy. When matters were all made clear, it seemed that Edith, in her misery, had pushed and worked her hand down the back of the sofa, felt the scissors, and on drawing them forth, noticed the blood on them, and then it flashed across her mind that it was Baby Townsend's blood, and that he must have wriggled his hand down behind the cushions in the same way. Mrs. Townsend was quickly summoned, the discovery explained to her, and on examining closely the cut in Baby's finger, the innocence of Spice was fully established. Win made haste to put away his gun, and the little yellow dog enjoys life to this day. "Onery, twoery, ickery, ann, Phillisy, fallasy, Nicholas, John." WALKING LIKE PAPA. Barranquilla, United States Of Colombia.
Judith W. We think Miss Judith ought to be accepted as a member of our Natural History Society. Her letter shows that she has learned to observe what is around her, and only people who do this are ever really well informed. Georgetown, Kentucky.
Sammie M.G. Is it not almost too much for that willing little pony to carry two boys at once? It would be a better way to take turns, and let one ride at a time, especially as you love to go so very fast. Chesley Place, Slickaway, Kentucky.
Cicely de G. McC. Willow Creek, Clay County, Iowa.
L.A.U. Osborn, Green County, Ohio.
Lora L.L. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Charles Francis N.
Gertie Rolin, Redmyre, Sydney, Elk City, Kansas.
Mary W. New York City.
H.G. Your postal card was something of a puzzle, as we have not received a letter from "the other boy." But we want to tell you, and every young reader, never to sign your name to any piece of writing that you have not read, and which you do not fully understand. A boy's name stands for himself, and signing it to any document pledges him to do what the document requires. A great many foolish and thoughtless grown persons get into trouble by doing this very thing. We wish the little girls would make a special note of this, and in fact it would be a good plan for you all to write out a resolution in this way, "I will never sign my name to a paper that I have not read," and then pin it fast to the pincushion, or tack it up over the mantel. It is very important to form the habit of being particular about this. Quincy, Illinois.
Gracie. Poughkeepsie, New York.
AdÈle I. La Crescent, Houston County, Minnesota.
A.C.B. Your little anagram is in the puzzle department. Louisville, Kentucky.
Henry P. Hot Creek, Nevada.
Minnie H.W. Some of our little correspondents are troubled because they do not see their letters in Our Post-office Box, and they express a fear lest they are lost or thrown into the waste-basket. Now, dear boys and girls, set your minds at rest. As we have already said, the editor does not own such a thing as a waste-basket for the Post-office Box. All the little letters are read, and those which can not be published are put away carefully, and your names and homes and little messages are remembered. If the Post-office Box should crowd out the stories and poems and beautiful pictures, and the doleful experiences of Jimmy Brown, you would not enjoy Young People nearly so much, would you? We have told exchangers again and again that their requests can not be printed the next week after we receive them. They necessarily have to wait several weeks before they can be published. It is hardly a month since we said this the last time, yet some of you write as though you were quite vexed at our delay. Please be patient. And if you send your exchange a second or a third time before we can possibly print it, then be sure to say in your letter that you have sent it before. Marlborough, New York.
Margaret Neilson Armstrong. The little girl may be ill, or there may be illness in her family, or she may be absent from home. Nothing is more provoking than a delay of this kind, but we still think you will hear from her. After waiting a little longer, it will do no harm for you to write again.
"Curly Head." Northwood, Iowa.
Rush C.B.
Ashbel Green, Jun., The following exchanges are offered by correspondents:
Amelia Brink, Marshall, Mich.
Effie K. Price, Bellefontaine, Ohio.
P.H. Mayer,
Annie D. Ferree,
Henry Holt, Lockport, N.Y.
B.L., Box 339, Newton, Mass.
Ruth Sarah Collin,
Horace F. Hutchinson,
G.S. Jenks, 173 Lake St., Chicago, Ill.
Jasper Blines,
D.C. Wyman, Eureka, Humboldt Co., Cal.
Susie Huntington, Sedalia, Pettis Co., Mo.
C.R. Lacy, Hutchins, Dallas Co., Texas.
George C. Codding,
P.O. Box 138,
Harry Wadleigh,
Lyon Caughey,
W.E. Dunsett,
Fred H.W. Southeimer, [For other exchanges, see third page of cover.] N.K.C.—It is not a good plan to have too many irons in the fire at once, and so we think it best to postpone your plan until cooler weather. $1.H.B.—Your enigma is a good one, but it came too late for use this year. Raleigh.—"Art is long, and time is fleeting." There are a great many departments in art, and very many artists are known for conscientious and beautiful work; but if we were to name a single one in either hemisphere as the greatest, we would be unjust to a host of others. Emilie.—It is not a nom de plume. BICYCLING.C.A. Perley and Alvah S. Hubbard.—Your questions are answered by the advertisements on the last page of the cover. Guy H. Wood.—A Horsman bicycle, No. 15, diameter of front wheel thirty-six inches, and costing $25, will probably suit you. Frank Riggs.—A good bicycle for a boy of your size can not be bought for the sum you name. A bicycle to fit you should have a front wheel of forty-two inches in diameter. Read the advertisements on the cover of Young People, send to the addresses given for circulars and for addresses of Chicago agents, from whom you can gain all desired information. Willie Chapman.—Go to 791 Fifth Avenue, New York city, and there you will probably find the "excellent bicycle" for which you inquire. Frances Dunham.—I do not know of a good tricycle for young girls. The only one made in this country that would suit a girl of nine years is advertised in Young People No. 87, and I fear that with this machine it would be impossible to ride any distance over country roads, as it is only intended for pavements or smooth walks. Very light and beautiful tricycles are made in England for girls of fifteen years of age and upward; but none are manufactured in this country. Most of the inquiries received thus far have been for cheap bicycles, and where to obtain them. To these the answer is, there are no cheap bicycles. All good bicycles are expensive, and a poor bicycle is dear at any price. Small bicycles, with wooden spokes and rims, are just as good to learn to ride on as the best that are made, and on a smooth level surface they can be made to work very nicely. As the rider grows older, and gains experience, he naturally desires a better machine, and then he finds that instead of from $10 to $20, the cost of a machine such as he wants is from $50 to $100. This he regards as an imposition, and at once begins a search for cheaper bicycles. But he will not find them at present, nor for some time to come. For this there are several reasons. One is that all existing bicycle patents in this country have been acquired by one firm, which therefore enjoys a monopoly. Another reason is that the bicycle is still something new, and the sale for it is comparatively small, so that the manufacturer must make large profits to balance small sales. Then, too, the machinery for making bicycles is very expensive, the material used in making them must be the best, and the workmanship upon them the most skilled. All these things combine to make the bicycle an expensive luxury, and such it will always remain, though in course of time prices will be much less than they are now. "The Captain." Correct answers to puzzles have been received from A.E. Cressingham, "School-Boy," Bennie Stockwell, Emilie Douglass, Willie D. Grier, Day Z., Robert N. Fuller, and Jemima Beeston. PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.No. 1.DIAMONDS.1. 1. A letter. 2. A household implement. 3. A heavenly body. 4. A favorite. 5. A letter. 2. 1. A letter. 2. Not young. 3. A vessel. 4. An animal. 5. A letter. H.E.D. No. 2.ENIGMA.F.A.B. No. 3.ANAGRAM.Yb mhraem dan nhda lal tras od tdsna. A.C.B. No. 4.WORD SQUARES.1. To approach. 2. Spoken. 3. Armor. 4. A girl's name. 1. A river in Spain. 2. A temptation. 3. A disorderly tumult. 4. A boy's name. R.R.F. No. 5.ZIGZAGS.
Across.—1. A string. 2. Without light. 3. A vehicle. 4. A snare. 5. Level. 6. A particle. 7. An animal. 8. Color. 9. A mineral. 10. A plant. Zigzags.—A mountain range in Europe. R.R.F. ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 87.No. 1.Guadalquivir. No. 2.1. Necessity is the mother of invention. 2. Nothing ventured, nothing won. 3. Come one, come all, this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I. No. 3.Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; No. 4.
OUR NEW SERIAL.In No. 92 of Harper's Young People issued August 2, will appear the first chapter of a new serial story entitled TIM AND TIP;Or, THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY AND A DOG.By James Otis, author of "Toby Tyler." The story of "Tim and Tip" is that of a homeless boy and his faithful dog, who follows him in all his wanderings, and shares in all his adventures. It is full of incident on land and water, and those readers who followed with such kindly interest the fortunes of Toby Tyler and Mr. Stubbs, the monkey, will, we feel sure, sympathize equally with our new hero and his four-footed companion. |
|
