IV.

Was our now famous voyager cured of his search for the North Pole? Was he ready to let the Tuluks, as he calls the American and English sailors, take their chances at living alone in the high latitudes, and getting game as they could? He himself could have very little idea or care for the higher demands of science. But he had spent many years with the Tuluks, and notwithstanding his hardships he seemed to like their company very well, and had earned many a fine wage penny that would be of use to the Hendriks in their old age. So when, in 1875, Captain Nares, of the last English expedition, with the ships Alert and Discovery, came to Upernivik, he was ready to try his fortune again in the same field. This time he goes alone. We suspect that Mrs. Hans had seen enough of Arctic discovery. They were at this time living at a little settlement just south of Upernivik. Of his departure the sturdy Greenlander writes:-" When we put to sea and I looked at the people on shore through the spy-glass, I discovered my little daughter, Sophia Elizabeth, lying prostrate on the top of a big stone and staring at us. It was a sad sight, which made me shed tears from pity. But I felt consoled by thinking that if no mischief should happen me or her we should meet again. I also got sight of my wife standing amongst the crowd and looking after us. I said to myself with a sigh, May I return to them in good health.'" Augustina and his "only son (from which we infer that Charley had died) sailed with him to the main settlement, where he left them crying bitterly on the beach.

Hans was on board the Discovery under Captain Stephenson, "not engaged for sailor's work, but only as hunter, sledgedriver, and dog-feeder." The steamer ran up the west side of Smith's Sound and Kennedy Channel, and the Discovery went into winter-quarters in Lady Franklin Bay, while the Alert proceeded some miles farther on. This was in August, and soon Hans had plenty of work hunting. One day he was so fortunate as to shoot six musk-oxen ; and, his ammunition, having given out, he pelted

another with stones so that it died,—a very good day's work, as the officers thought.

But soon came on the dreadful darkness again. This always made Hans lowspirited, as much so almost as it did the Tuluks themselves. He could not hunt on account of the darkness; he did not like the daily drill, nor to sit at table with his messmates; and it seems the sailors were only too ready to joke at his expense. "One evening," he says, "I heard them talking thus: When Ilaus is to be punished, who shall flog him?' The boatswain answered, 'I.'" Altogether he was much dejected. He felt that he was only a poor Eskimo among the strangers. Besides, Hans was homesick. "When I took a walk near the ship I used to fall a-weeping, remembering my wife and little children, especially that little son of mine who was so tenderly attached to me." We can hardly wonder at what followed. Once when his griefs seemed too great to bear he ran off into the black night a distance of about five miles, determined to take his chances of life in that desolate place, rather than bear the taunts and gibes of the crew. Then wiser thoughts came: "Our Captain likes me; perhaps he will send people in search of me. I will return, and if I am to be treated ill, the All-Merciful will pity my soul." He dug a hole in the snow and went to sleep. He was awakened by the footsteps of some of the sailors carrying torches in search of him, and he went back to the ship. He was treated kindly, and when questioned by the Captain why he ran away, answered, “I heard them talk badly about me, and thought they reviled me." Captain Stephenson said, "Whenever thou hearest them speaking thus, tell me directly."

This incident shows that even poor Eskimos have feelings, and that a great wrong is done when in such cases they are made the object of thoughtless jesting. If Hans had not had so much principle and reliance on a good Providence, he might have gone off to certain death in the high latitude where they then were, beyond the range of his countrymen's wanderings.

But bright days come back, and cheerfulness with them. There is plenty of hard

work, sledging and hunting; and the time is too much filled with interesting employment for Hans to grow low-spirited, and too much occupied with serious business for the crew to joke at others' expense. Many are badly frost-bitten on the long journeys, and the scurvy begins its dreadful work. One poor fellow loses both his feet.

It was during this expedition that Captain Markham with a party of men, went by sledge from the Alert's winter-quarters directly toward the Pole; and by the greatest toil that human beings can endure reached the most northerly point on the earth ever trodden by the foot of man. So the British ensign at present waves defiance, in this field, to the "Stars and Stripes." But we are not much behind; and, Yankee-like, expect before many summers pass to plant our

own loved flag nearest the Pole. The English officers also did an honorable thing in placing a tablet of brass with a fitting inscription over Dr. Hall's grave at Polaris Bay.

But they could not stay another winter. The men were badly down with the scurvy, and they hastened home. Hans, you may guess, was not sorry to see his own hut again. And while he gives a hearty greeting to the wife and chubby children on the rough Greenland beach, we will read the closing words of his Memoir:-" And now I bid farewell to all who have read my little tale. I minded my business, sometimes under hardships, sometimes happy. May all who read this live happily in the name of the Lord! Written in the year 1877.” S. J. Douglass.

I WAS helping one of my friends who had one of the smaller tables at a fair in her own city. Sometimes it was all fun and hurry and sometimes the hours dragged and we thought we were having a stupid time of it. I was almost a stranger and so I did not associate many of our wares with their makers as Kate did, but one cannot help taking more interest in some things than in the rest, and there are always some contributions that are known to be unmanageable at the first glance one gives them-you are so sure nobody will buy them-and people smile when they look at them, and you sigh with tender pity over the poor soul who has spent her time and her money and who did her very best to make something pretty and yet failed. It was our luck to have a good many such things as this and we had succeeded in one way and another in getting them off our hands, but one day when I came in from lunch a little later than my friend, she pointed to a great nosegay of paper flowers which had been put at one end of our table.

"What can we do with them?" said she, "did you ever see anything more pitiful or half so funny?—they look as if they came out of the ark!" Some girls came by just then who belonged to another table and we all grew merry enough over the prim, stiff, staring things, so unlike any roses that ever bloomed, with their stems of wire neatly wound with green and brown worsted and tied with the oldest fashioned blue gauze ribbon I ever saw. The roses were made of tissue paper, white and pink and yellow.

"We must put them somewhere in plain sight," said Kate, "I am always afraid the people who send such things will come to look for them." And she perched them against a carved letter-rack and almost everybody who stopped laughed at them and asked where in the world they came from; which question we could not answer. We soon lost sight of the pathos of the thing in some nonsense that we planned in an hour of idleness. Nobody would ever buy the flowers; that was certain, and we would raffle them at ten cents a share and

the girl who won them must ask the rest to lunch at the café of the fair. This enterprise was an exclusive thing, it was only to a select circle of Kate's cronies that these valuable shares were offered, and we kept a book for the numbers and put our names down again and again in mock rivalry. It was just as well to spend our money in that way as any other and the greater spendthrift one is at a fair, the better, you know!

It happened that one day a great many people came in to the fair from the country towns near by, for the sake of the charity for which it was held. Some of the people who went by our table looked as if they could have little to spend beside the entrance fee, and sometimes we had an impulse to give them the things that they looked at with such pleased surprise, and sadly put down again when they found them so far out of the reach of their thin purses. At last there stopped to talk with us such a pleasant looking little old woman, with everything about her so quaint and out of date except her kind face, and sweet, bright smile. She carried a great carpet bag, and she looked as if she would buy everything if she could. "I'm afraid all your pretty things cost too much for me, dear" said she, as I showed her some trifle. "I do want to buy something before I go home though. Dear me!" and she brightened up suddenly, "if there is n't some paper flowers! I declare I haven't seen any for years. How they do carry me back. I always thought they were real handsome." She grew confidential at once, as if we were her own grandchildren, and not two strange city girls, as we had probably seemed to her the minute before. "Why I used to have some patterns for 'em put away somewhere they were thought a sight of one time. It's a good deal of work now, I tell you. My oldest sister Phebe, used to make 'em and 'range 'em with dried grasses dipped in alum-water so they looked just like frost work and crystal, and then the colors of the flowers-they did look beautiful! You say you did n't make 'em yourself? Well I should like to have 'em just for the sake of old times."

We had already gathered a good harvest in anticipation of the raffle and Kate whispered to me: "The girls will not care-let her have them." I nodded and she turned to our eager customer: "I can sell them for fifteen cents, or is that too much?"

"Bless you! no," said the old lady, "why, they're sights o' work to make. I'll put 'em right into my carpet bag if you will roll 'em up small 's you can," and though it was such a big awkward bundle she crushed it in and looked as proud as a queen. “I've got a vase at home in my best room," said she, "" that my brother the cap'n fetched home from sea. It always seemed to want something in it," and she said good day to us and went on to look at the other tables.

"I hope she has n't a heartless young niece at home," said I, "who will scold her for buying such old trumpery and wish for some equally useless thing of a newer fashion."

We both liked the kind old soul and there was something pathetic in her delight over the flowers which had seemed to us so ungainly and forlorn. It was so plain that they had reminded her of her girlhood and its pleasures, and that the sight of them had carried her back to those days before she found herself growing old, or that life was bringing her a great deal of hard work and many losses. It is always so pleasant to see a woman like this whose childlikeness and youthfulness have been kept in spite of all the graver life and prosaic thought of later years. There is something beautiful about that phrase "children of God." And sometimes with such a person as this it is like finding a little flower that blooms in some warm day that comes in late autumn, after one thinks that the frosts must long ago have killed everything in the garden. I thought that I knew all about this woman-that she was always sent for in her neighborhood when there was sickness and trouble-that her friends could not do without her in times of pleasure, and her readiness to help and the love and tenderness of her faithful heart were always a comfort. There was something about her that did us good, Kate and me,

and we had a very tender feeling in our hearts as we wished to be useful and good like her, but we laughed merrily and were triumphant because we had sold the paper flowers.

I looked for her several times after she left us, but there was a crowd and I was so busy I did not see her any more. After awhile Kate went off on an errand to one of the managers, and did not come back until I had been wondering at her absence for some time.

"I've seen our old friend again, Ellinor," said she. "I met her out in the corridor and she was looking in at the café so I asked her to lunch with me. I thought something ought to be done for her because she bought those flowers. I wished for you every minute for she is the quaintest, dearest old soul She gave me a great many 'partic'lars' and she was so delighted with everything; the fair and the lunch and because I remembered her, just as if I could forget her in half an hour! I know she has hardly any money, but she said she did want to help a little toward the hospital. She seems so contented, and she said she was always having something good happen to her that she had n't been looking for. She put some cakes into her carpet-bag for a little lame boy who is n't going to get well. She had forgotten her spectacles but I read aloud selections from the bill of fare and tried to be hungrier than she was. I told her the more we ordered the better it was for the hospital and I wish you could have heard her laugh! I don't know when I have enjoyed myself more."

Nonsense, Elly!" said my friend, blushing a little. "I liked her, and it was great fun. But what shall we say to the other girls about the raffle! "

I had not thought of the fair for a long time or of what happened there until the other day when a letter came to me from Kate. "Do you remember those paper roses?" said she, "I went with Mrs. Ashurst yesterday to see some poor people in whom she is much interested and I saw the brightest

little old woman, much over eighty years of age and very deaf, and she has been in bed for years because she once had a terrible fall which hurt her so that she has almost constant pain. I suppose it was some injury of the spine. When I went in, there were two little children sitting on the foot of her bed and she was cutting dolls and hens and geese out of an old newspaper for them. She said their mother had a chance to do an afternoon's work and she always told her to bring the 'little gals' right in to her. They never gave any kind of trouble and it was company for her. It was so funny to hear the little things shout at her, and she looked so funny in bed with her big, clean cap-frill and a pair of great silverbowed spectacles. She has a cousin who takes care of her and of course they are poor, but everything was so trig and clean. The cousin herself is an old woman, but as smart as a whip and she has work from a tailor's. I wish I had known them before. I liked them very much and they are thorough country-women,-it was so odd to find them in a narrow city court. There was such a remarkable patchwork quilt on the bed that the old woman had made when she was a girl, and she was so proud of it and said she knew now where most every piece came from and she liked to look 'em over; it was like a story book! The processions of paper dolls holding each other's hands were all arranged over it, and the children were having the best fun in the world. And on the mantel there were some huge nosegays that looked strangely familiar, so I spoke of them. Yes dear' said she 'most everybody speaks o' my flowers; I made some for the hospital fair last spring but I guess they'll be the last, my fingers are getting dreadful stiff. I used to make 'em as well as anybody. I should like to know who bought 'em, though perhaps they did n't sell' said she humbly, but then she gave me a beaming smile; ‘I guess they sold quick enough, they're scarce now to what they used to be. I was n't quite satisfied with the materials. You see I had to let Hannah get 'em, and she picked out most too light a pink, but she did the best she could.'

"Wasn't it the greatest good luck that I could tell her they were on our table and that they brought in more than two dollars, (though I didn't explain the raffle!) and that somebody had bought them who said she used to know how to make them, and everything else I could think of. Poor old

soul, it was a great deal for her to have done and given, and she had been waiting so long to know about her flowers."

I laid down Kate's letter while I thought for a minute, and I said to myself that after all those paper roses did not bloom in vain. Sarah O. Jewett.

I.

WHEN superficial disputants are fond of citing prominent investigators and discoverers, as the victims or the enemies of a religion they have loved and revered, it is well to ask what witness intellectual giants, by lips, pen and lives, have really borne, for or against Christianity.

Few have borne such witness more clearly than Michael Faraday, and his testimony is particularly valuable to us because he was the intimate associate of men whose names are to us as household words and because he was eminently a man of our age, having started on life's journey in 1791 and lain down to rest in 1867, after making discoveries on which are based nearly all the inventions in which electricity and magnetism are the active agents, and which have so accelerated the swift tread of the nineteenth century.

Friends of noted men, dazzled by their brilliant qualities, or proud of connection with celebrities, are prone to over lauda tion, but we think the more closely the character of Faraday is studied, the more will the student be disposed to acquit Prof. Tyndall of extravagance in saying, "His friendship was energy and inspiration; his mantle is a burden almost too heavy to be borne." "No memory could be more beautiful. He was equally rich in mind and heart." He was

A "Just and Faithful Knight of God."

In 1796 the journeyman blacksmith, James Faraday, moved into rooms over a

The

coach house in Jacob's Wells Mews, Charles St., Manchester Square, London; his family consisted of the wife, Margaret, then thirty years old, a daughter and two sons; another daughter was born six years later. mother, "a grand looking woman,” had had no educational advantages but was particularly neat and nice in all her household arrangements, and exerted herself to the utmost for her husband and children. She was a constant attendant at the services, but never a member of the Sandemanian Church, which her husband joined after he went to London.

The youngest son, Michael, was born at Newington Butts, Sept. 22, 1791. During the scarcity in 1801, when corn was at famine prices, the family received public relief, a loaf a week being allotted to him, then nine years old. There was little to note about his childhood and his education was, he afterwards said, of the most ordinary description, consisting of little more than the rudiments of reading, writing and arithmetic, learned at a common day school. Near his home was the shop of George Riebau, book-seller and book-binder. Thither when Michael was thirteen years old he went on trial for one year as errand boy; a part of his duty was to carry round and call for the papers his master lent to customers. Often on Sunday morning he would rise very early, deliver his papers, then go his rounds again to call for them; sometimes he was told that the paper must be left longer, then he would beg to be allowed to take it, as he should lose time in coming