Read Ebook: Harper's Young People June 29 1880 An Illustrated Weekly by Various

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Ebook has 376 lines and 20669 words, and 8 pages

r with tapestry In yellow and green and gray.

The ceiling is frescoed in light and shade, And the cottage stands so high That the view extends to the mountains dim, Whose peaks are lost in the sky.

No window it has, but an open door Invites one to sweetest rest; For my wee house, perched on a swaying elm, Is only an oriole's nest.

HOW DO THEY GROW?

While the children were waiting for the Professor one bright summer morning, they overheard through the open window little Jennie asking John Grant, the gardener, "Where do the flowers come from?"

"Why, don't you see?" said he; "they grow up out of the ground."

"How do they grow?" continued the little questioner, whose curiosity was clearly on the increase.

Before John could collect his wits sufficiently to frame an answer, the Professor made his appearance with a pretty rose-bud in his hand.

"Will you not tell us," said Gus, "how flowers grow? There's John out there digging among them all day, but he seems to know nothing about them, after all."

"Please don't be very scientific," pleaded Gus, "but tell us in a plain way how they grow."

"Well, let us begin with the seed. In the first place, the sun warms the ground in which the seed lies buried. Then the seed swells and bursts, and sends downward a little root; the root drinks in the water from the soil, and so gets larger, and spreads around; and by-and-by it sends up a stem above the ground. As soon as the sunlight falls on the little plant, it gets stronger, and is able to take food as well as drink from the soil, so as to get its full shape and size and green color."

"Has it a mouth to eat and drink with?" asked Gus, in some doubt.

"Yes, a great many mouths scattered all over the root, or on very little branches reaching out from it. While it is under-ground in the dark, it is thirsty, and cares only to drink water; but as soon as it comes up, and has enjoyed the light and heat of the sun, it begins to get hungry, and takes in solid food with the water. The fresh air and sunshine sharpen its appetite, just as they do in our case."

"The little spring flowers seem to come up so suddenly," said Joe, "as if they did all their growing in one night. We don't see them at all until they are standing in full bloom."

"It takes them some days to develop and blossom," said the Professor. "The stem rises slowly from a little point, getting longer and longer, until it reaches its full size. Shrubs and trees begin in the same way, mounting upward until they reach their proper height. If you examine the ground closely, you will find plenty of little plants just peeping out. Most of them are grass, and keep on about the same as they begin; but some change very greatly, and take all kinds of shapes and directions. They soon put out their leaves, one by one, or two by two, along the stem, short spaces apart. Just above the leaves, in the larger plants, branches start out, and grow much like the stem, with their own leaves."

"How do the flowers come?" asked Gus.

"Sometimes they grow on a little stem of their own, called a scape, that springs up separately from the root. But usually the main stem or one of the branches is changed into a flower-stem. Now suppose we cut this rose-bud in two, and then I can show you."

"Please, Professor," said May, "don't cut the poor rose-bud. There is a book down stairs with one in it cut in two."

Gus brings the book, and the Professor exclaims, "That is what I want exactly. Here are lines pointing to the parts; and now I'll explain them. You see, S is the sepals."

"What are they?" asked Joe.

"The sepals are the outer covers of the flower. They lie all over and hide it when it is in the bud, but are folded back when the bud opens. There are five, which is a very common number for flowers to have. Some have only two or three, others none at all. The petals are marked L. They are the gayly colored parts that lie next to the sepals, and inside of them. Sometimes the petals are separate from each other, and sometimes all fastened together. They are also called the corolla, which means a little crown, and are the showiest portion of the flower. Wild flowers are apt to have only one row of petals, but those cultivated in gardens often have a large number. The good care that they get has the effect to make them deck themselves out with more petals, which are the parts chiefly admired for their brilliancy."

"What are these little threads near the middle?" asked Joe.

"They are called stamens. In the picture they are marked P. Inside of them, in the very centre, is what are called the pistils, T. Down below them are the seeds, in the middle of what becomes the fruit, as you have noticed in an apple or pear, which is somewhat like a rose when ripe, though very much larger. After the petals have fallen off the rose, the part that is left gets ripe with the seeds inside, just as if it were an apple or a pear."

MISS PAMELA PLUMSTONE'S PIANO.

BY SYDNEY DAYRE.

"What do you say to Ned's taking a ride up to Miss Pamela's to-morrow?" said Mr. Weatherby to his wife.

"How? All by himself? A ride of twenty miles?"

"Oh, I suppose there is no objection, only he has never taken such a long ride alone."

"Why, mother! I, a great fellow of fourteen! Of course I can go--that is, please let me. What for, father?"

"I have had a little dividend of fifty dollars paid in on Miss Pamela's morsel of horse-railway stock, and I know she always wants money as soon as it comes."

"Probably much sooner, poor soul--" said Mrs. Weatherby.

"Unlike most other people, eh, ma'am?" interrupted Mr. Weatherby.

"--and more than ever now, since she has taken those two girls of her good-for-nothing brother's. If they had been boys, they might have been some use on her mite of a farm. When I said so to her, she said: 'Yes, my dear, that's just the reason their mother's family don't want them; but, you know, girls have to live as well as boys. We're pretty sure of getting enough to eat, and as for the rest, I believe the Lord will provide.'"

"Her faith will be rewarded just now," said Mr. Weatherby, "for this is an unlooked-for dividend. The road has been doing better than usual of late."

"I'm very glad," said his wife. "I dare say it will be a real godsend to them all."

"I'll be off early in the morning," said Ned.

"All alone, and carrying money!" said his brother Tom, with an ominous shake of the head.

"Very well, thank you. Yes, ma'am. No'm. Just as soon as the roads get settled, she says," said Ned, attempting to answer her rather mixed questions, as he perceived by her pause that she expected a reply.

Ned fully agreed with her, but modestly refrained from saying so, and made known his errand. How poor Miss Pamela's face shone!

"Oh, my dears, come here," she cried, running to a door. "Do come here and see what has come to us."

Ned looked curiously at the two girls who came in answer to her call. They had become inmates of Miss Pamela's home since his last visit to her, and he had never seen them before.

"The youngest one looks as if she might be pretty," he said to himself; "but how funny they do look!"

They did look funny. Miss Pamela's only ideas on the subject of dressing little girls were drawn from her memories of what she herself had worn forty years ago. Their pantalets reached almost to their heels, and their gingham aprons were almost as long, and cut without a gore. Their hair was drawn tightly back, and braided in two tails, those of the older one being long and dangly, and of the other short and stubby.

"See here, my dears," again exclaimed Miss Pamela, "here is some money I didn't expect. Didn't I tell you, Kitty Plumstone, that Providence would send you some new music somehow? She plays on the piano, Master Ned; I really do think she is going to make quite a musician. I teach her myself, you know. I can't play any more because of the stiffness in my fingers, but Kitty can play 'Days of Absence,' and 'Come, Haste to the Wedding,' already."

Ned was expressing pleasure at this pleasing proficiency, when Miss Pamela bustled away with a few words about dinner, which sounded agreeably to him after his ride.

A long ramble afterward on the farm, in company with the funny-looking girls, proved them to be as genial and companionable as they could have been had their dress included all the modern improvements, although Ned, who was rather critical in such matters, still thought it a pity they could not have blue streaks on their stockings, ruffles somewhere about them, and wear their hair loose.

They knew where the late wild flowers and the wild strawberries grew, and where the birds built their nests. They gathered early cherries, and promised Ned plenty of nuts if he would come in October. They had tame squirrels and rabbits penned up in the wonderful old ramshackle building which did duty as barn, stable, carriage-house, granary, and general receptacle for all kinds of queer old-fashioned lumber, the accumulations of many years. They were poultry-fanciers, too, in a small way; had a tiny duck-pond at one corner of the barn, where the great sweep of roof sloped down almost to the ground, forming a shed, and they all climbed upon it, and watched a quacking mother as she introduced her first brood of downy little yellow lumps to their lawful privileges as ducklings. And all agreed that it was much nicer to be young ducks than young chickens; and there is no reason to doubt that the young ducks thought so too, as they realized the delights of the cold-water system.

But all agreed that nothing came up to the bantams--the proud little strutting "gamy" roosters, all bright color and ambitious crow, and the darling wee brown mothers, scarcely larger than quails, whose cunning babies were no bigger than a good-sized marble. Kitty promised Ned a pair when they should be grown.

After tea he was called upon to admire Kitty's playing, but his praises of her performance were interrupted by Miss Pamela's profuse apologies for the condition of the piano.

"It is so terribly out of tune, you see, Master Ned." He was evidently looked upon as something of a critic in music. He rather liked to be so considered, and thought it unnecessary to assure them he knew nothing about it. The old piano sounded to him very much like the bottom of two tin pans mildly banged together; but if it had been a much better instrument, it would have been all the same to his unmusical ear.

"Oh, it sounds very well, I assure you, Miss Pamela," he said.

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