PADDY RYAN'S BIG FISH.

BY W. M. LAFFAN.

A few weeks ago I tried to give some good advice to young anglers in regard to trout fishing with hook and line. Now I am going to tell them of one or two curious methods of capturing trout that are practiced by fishermen on the other side of the Atlantic.

The trout in the rivers of Great Britain, as a general thing, attain a larger size than ours do. Occasionally, however, exceptions may be made to this rule, as, for instance, in the Rangeley Lakes, in the State of Maine, where trout are taken that are as large as any in the finest streams of England or Ireland.

The brook trout of the latter countries is usually from ten to fourteen inches in length, but in certain streams it is occasionally found of a much larger size, weighing in some instances seven or eight pounds. In color it is yellowish-brown above, shading off to yellow on the sides, the spots on the back being reddish-brown, while those on the sides are bright red.

In certain wild parts of Ireland there is fine trout fishing, four and five pound fish being frequently caught. There are two methods of catching them practiced by the inhabitants—tickling and snaring. The snare is a simple noose made of gray horse-hair, plaited, and of the strength of perhaps a dozen hairs. This snare is fastened to the end of a ten-foot pole, slender and springy, and the device is complete. Its use requires great training of the hand, and even more of the eye. When I was a boy I was in the County Tipperary, where so many tall Irishmen come from, where some of the people still speak Gaelic, and where the trout in the streams are free and frisky. The rivers of Tipperary flow into the Shannon and the Suir, and the Shannon is a noble river, and an immense one when you consider how small the accommodations of the country are.

To snare a trout, you pick out the clear shallows where the water flows softly over the yellow gravel. You approach the spot with great caution, and with such slow and easy movement that the fish is not alarmed, or if he does dart off to deeper water or some dark lurking-place, presently returns, revealing himself by his flickering shadow, that seems even more real than himself. Then, slow as the minute-hand of a clock, descends the rod, and the horse-hair noose sinks under the surface. The trout's nose points against the current, and down toward him drifts the unseen loop of horse-hair. Unfailing must be the judgment of the distance, and certain the estimate of the depth, and as it glides over his shoulders a swift stroke sends him flying over your head into the grass behind you. It is incredible how difficult this method of fishing is, what great craft it needs, what subtlety of approach, and what fine discernment in the execution. I have seen a Tipperary woman so skillful that she could beat all comers in the number of trout she would take in a day's fishing. It was a fine sight to see her on the bank, rigid as a statue, with uncovered head crowned with jet-black hair, her bare feet planted in the sod, and not a trace of movement to be seen until up went her rod, and a fine flashing trout, as heavy perhaps as her plaited noose would bear, went kicking through the air.

But tickling the trout is the more curious method, and is a practice that has its origin doubtless in the character of the streams, which, run for the most part by low grass-grown banks, which, being undermined, shelve over on the edge of the current, or fall into it in great scraughs, or sods. Beneath these lurk the trout of all sizes, sallying out every now and then like sunbeams into the amber water to catch some luckless victim passing by. On such an overhanging bank the skilled Tipperary fisher lies at full length, with shirt sleeves rolled up, and hands thrust as far beneath the bank as he can reach. If his fingers touch a fish, away it flies, but only to return shortly and sidle up against his hand, and be again alarmed. Over and over again this is repeated, until the fish seems to lose all sense of fear, when the stealthy, tickling, stroking fingers steal about the gills, and with a sudden encircling clutch and murderous thrust of the thumb in the gullet, that too confiding fish's day is ended.

The Tipperary men catch fine fish, and plenty of them in this way. It is not a lofty style of angling, but it is a curious instance of the application of means to ends, the end being the fish, the motive hunger, and the means being confined to strong hands.

Many a fine catch of fish have I seen made by the fishermen of Tipperary, but the most extraordinary was that of my friend Paddy Ryan. Paddy had a way of his own, and it was better than snaring or tickling, and it made Paddy famous as a brave and original fisher.

Up these little tributary streams that flow into the Shannon the salmon come in the spawning season, ascending until the upper shallows are reached, when they deposit their eggs, and then work their way back to the ocean. Great fun it is, too, to watch these lordly fish at some point where they must leap clear over some small water-fall or mill-dam if they would pass further up. The water breaks with a mighty swish, and out comes the salmon, his back like black velvet, and all the rest of him like a flash of burnished silver, his tail uncurving from the strong blow that he has struck in his leap, and his fine force and vigor landing him in the top water, where one great whisk and splash carries him clean over and out of all danger. Sometimes he falls short, or can not strike fast enough to overcome the current, and so tumbles back; but he goes at it again, and, making note of his experience, finally succeeds.

Paddy Ryan was nine years old, and was a spectator while I cast flies for trout; and although I was very far up the river, it was not altogether above the spawning grounds that the salmon sought. I was sitting on the parapet of an old bridge, and about one hundred feet down the stream below me there crossed a rough stone dam that diverted some part of the stream to the little mill owned by Paddy's father. Under the dam was a deep pool; above it was another, and the water fell over the dam along its whole length. But just inside the dam, and running parallel with it for a short distance, was a bank of gravel, which the last heavy freshet had thrown up. Paddy walked out on this gravel, and stretched himself on it at full length in pure idleness and lazy enjoyment of my useless fly-fishing. The trout were not in the humor to rise, and I had about made up my mind to give up and go home, when all at once I heard a splash and saw a great salmon come up with a mighty curve over the dam, overleap it completely, and land in about three inches of water on the gravel bank within a foot or two of Paddy.

The water flew in every direction, and all over Paddy, who turned with a startled yell to see what had happened. In another instant he was on top of the salmon, clutching it with arms and legs, while the powerful fish struggled and kicked, and Paddy bawled and roared at the top of his voice. Over rolled Paddy, and over rolled the fish, the water splashing and the gravel flying so that you could not tell which had the best of it. Paddy's mother, hearing the commotion, ran out of the cottage up above the mill.

"Och, murther!" she screamed. "Dinnis! Dinnis! where are ye, Dinnis? an' a fish atin' me child! Dinnis! Dinnis!"

Paddy's father heard her frantic screams, and came running up from the mill.

"D'ye see yer child et up be a dirthy fish?" she yelled.

"Begorra!" said the astonished Denis, as he seized a pitchfork, cleared the mill-race at a bound, ran along the dam, fell into the stream, scrambled out on the gravel bank, and reached the scene of the conflict.

"Let go of him till I shtick him!" said he.

"I won't," spluttered Paddy; "he'll get away."

"Let go of him, I tell ye!"

"Prod him now, daddy, where he is;" and seeing his chance, prod him Denis did, and dragged him kicking out on the gravel bank, Paddy, breathless and exhausted, still holding on to him.

It was a splendid salmon, and it weighed thirty-eight pounds, and I went home, not feeling as if I cared to pursue fly-fishing any further that day.

As we happen to know that father and mother as well as the boys and girls take a weekly peep at the contents of Our Post-office Box, we insert for their benefit a paragraph which appeared in the Boston Journal of May 23. The Journal has a very honorable and influential place among American newspapers, and we are glad to have it express its appreciation of Harper's Young People in terms so cordial:

"When this weekly, intended specially for young readers, was first started, we were somewhat curious regarding the special field it would make for itself. It seemed as if the reading public, old and young, was supplied with literature adapted to the diversified wants of all, but we felt assured that the Messrs. Harper were too thoroughly acquainted with their business as publishers to launch a craft without a knowledge of the demand which existed for its support. Time has shown that Harper's Young People was wanted to fill a vacancy. It is already welcomed every Saturday to thousands of New England homes. Its tone is pure, its articles are always interesting, and its illustrations are superior to anything ever attempted in juvenile literature of its class. While it is intended for the perusal of Rob and Mabel, of Sam and Lucy, we venture to say that it has been the experience of others, as it has been our own, that the older heads of the family find in its pages each week matter not at all beneath their notice on the score of information and general interest."

Rochester, New York.

I am a little boy eight years old. My papa has two hunting dogs named Steck and Rob, and I have a pet cat. The dogs are very gentle and kind, and let us tumble all over them; but when they have a bone given them, they fight terribly. Whenever Rob gets a chance he steals the cat's meat, and then she gives him a good scratch. My brother Harry is four years old. He has a little girl friend named Floy, whom he calls his little sweetheart. When I had the scarlet fever, and the doctor said my skin would peel off, Harry said, "Then, Georgie, when your skin peels off, I can see your soul, can't I?" I am sick, and mamma is writing this for me. I hope you will print it, so we can surprise papa, for we have not told him about it. He gave me Harper's Young People last Christmas, and I enjoy it more and more every week. Good-by.

George B. M.

Frankfort-on-the-Main, Germany.

We have taken Harper's Young People from the beginning, and we enjoy it very much.

It is just nine years since we left America. Six of these have been spent in Paris, one in Freiburg, in Baden, and two here. We like this city exceedingly. It is very beautiful and interesting. In the "Judengasse," the principal street of the old Jewish quarter of the town, in an ancient rickety house still standing, were born the ancestors of the wealthy Von Rothschilds. Near by, in a similar house, Boerne was born. Goethe's birth-house, in another street, is more respectable, and full of souvenirs of Germany's great poet.

The opera-house here is as beautiful as the one in Paris. Other attractions are the Palmengarten, the Zoological Garden, the forest, the river, the cathedral, picture-galleries, museums, historical buildings, monuments, and the renowned and graceful sculpture of Ariadne on the lion's back, by Dannecker. The town is encircled by the "Promenade," a zigzaggy avenue of green woods, lovely lawns with flower beds, lakes, fountains, statues, etc., at the place of the old fortifications.

There are numbers of Hebrews here. They have many noble traits of character, and some we know are more Christian-like than many Christians. Besides that, they are very intelligent and quick. We have plenty of friends among them, and we like them very much.

I have two sisters and two brothers. We all go to school, except my elder sister, who studies at the Conservatory of Music, of which the great composer Joachim Raff is director, and which counts among its teachers Frau Clara Schumann and the violinist Hermann.

My baby brother, who was born in Paris, understands perfectly French and English, but will speak nothing but German. He attends the Kindergarten. I take lessons on the violin, and in drawing, elocution, Italian, and "the grand dialect the prophets spake," Hebrew.

I love Longfellow, and I feel so grieved at his death! I have a precious autograph of his, written expressly for me; it is the first verse of his beautiful poem, "Excelsior," and his name.

I think, upon the whole, that America is the best country in the world. However much we are attached to Europe, we will be glad to get home. Papa is now in New York; he has crossed the Atlantic Ocean twenty times.

Would the editor or any of the readers please give me a list of all the different inventions and discoveries made by Americans, and oblige their loving compatriot,

A. M. W.

A complete list of all the inventions and discoveries, small and great, which have been made by Americans, would fill a very large space in Our Post-office Box, even if printed in the closest and tiniest of type. Not to speak of that fairy of the household, the sewing-machine, and of that wizard, the electric telegraph, there are dozens of useful and beautiful things to make life easier and homes more charming which the world owes to our countrymen. We shall leave the question of A. M. W. to our bright little correspondents, and we hope to print some replies to it before long.

BED-TIME.

BY LUCY RANDOLPH FLEMING.

Tell you a story? Dear me! And which one shall I tell? How Tommy Green, in cruel sport, Dropped Pussy in the well? Shall I tell you of Dame Hubbard's dog, And the wonderful things he did; Or of poor Bo-Peep, who could not tell Where her wandering sheep were hid? Or shall I tell of the dreadful wolf Who met Red Riding-hood; Or will you hear the sad, sad tale Of the Children in the Wood? Of Cinderella, who sat by the fire, And wanted to go to the ball, And the nice old godmother who came With the slippers of glass, and all? Or shall I sing of the active cow Who jumped right over the moon? Perhaps she frightened the man up there, And made him come "down too soon." Or will you hear of the famous birds All baked in the royal pie? I think we could make a better dish With "a pocket full of rye." What! baby mine, you are going to sleep, And none of the stories are told? The blue eyes are shut, and the pillow waits For the touch of the curls of gold.

Nashua, New Hampshire.

I am a little girl ten years old. I have two pet rabbits; they are white, with pink eyes. We have a little toy terrier, all blue, with long silky hair; she is one of the smallest dogs in America or Europe. I have been taking music lessons ever since I was seven years old; I have been studying Mozart's sonatas. My grandpa has four kittens, and I play with them every day. We have three cages of birds, two in one cage, two in another, and fourteen in the third. I have two brothers. We go to school, and all study German.

Harriet E. S.

Girard, Kansas.

My brother and I have concluded to write a letter together. I am twelve, and he is a year and a half younger. Our aunt Minnie, living in Pennsylvania, made us a present of Harper's Young People this year. We think she is a good, kind aunt, although we have never seen her. We are going to get up a club next year, as we want all our school-mates to read it. Eddie and I signed the pledge during the Murphy movement never to use tobacco or profane language, and we intend to keep it, and hope our little friends will do the same. We live five miles from Girard, the county seat. My mamma came thirteen years ago, and saw the first house erected, and now the place has two railroads, and a population of 1731. We live near Lightning Creek, and have lots of fun fishing, although the fish are not so fine as some we read of, being mostly sunfish and catfish, although sometimes we get a nice bass. We have a nice garden, and had new potatoes and pease the 28th of May. Our two little brothers, named Colimo and Lew, love to look at the pictures in Young People. We do not go to school this summer, as there is none in our district; we had a six months' school last winter. But we are not idle; we weed and hoe in the garden, help to milk, chop wood, and do many other things. We have sixty-nine little chickens, and had fifteen little turkeys, but they have all died except four. Could any one tell us what was the cause of it? They seemed weak and drooping for several days. Mamma was advised to feed them with cooked food, and so she did, but it did no good.

Willie D., Eddie D., and Mother.

You were not more unsuccessful than many others with your flock of turkeys. Young turkeys are very hard to raise, and sometimes their mother takes them out into the wet grass, and they get tired, and take cold. Should you have another brood at any time, be very careful to keep them dry and warm. A friend who has had experience with turkeys tells the Postmistress that the little ones require almost as careful tending as babies do.

The Postmistress wonders whether you ever heard of a young woman's expecting to be paid for being so good as to learn to sew? Most of us think we ought to pay those who are good enough to teach us anything, as teachers really have to take more trouble than pupils do. Many years ago a lady undertook to show some women in the South Sea Islands how to make their own dresses. They were quite anxious to look like the missionary ladies, who were the only Europeans they had ever seen. A young woman attended very regularly for some weeks, and became quite skillful. One Saturday night she presented herself with the native servants, and begged to be paid her wages for learning to sew.

Mrs. Ellis said: "Why should I pay you? In our country those who learn pay their teachers."

The woman answered, very earnestly: "You asked me to come and learn. I have been here so long I have learned. It must be in some way an advantage to you, or else you would not be so anxious about it. As I have done it to please you, you ought to pay me for my goodness."

She was pacified by being engaged to sew for the missionaries.

Greenfield, Illinois.

I am a boy twelve years old. We live near the woods, and mamma is helping me to make a leaf-album. I have a good many sheets of paper covered with pressed leaves, such as elm, cotton-wood, plum, willow, etc. It is a very interesting occupation, and the leaves look very pretty when pressed out. It teaches us so much about the woods too. I have a small cabinet of curiosities also. We live near a school-house, and the other day I found a wren's nest in a rose-bush in the school yard. We watch it very closely to keep the boys away until the little ones can fly. We think it is a very pretty idea to build a nest among the roses. Don't you? Young People is the best of papers.

Jess L. B.

Yes, indeed. Wrens are so sociable that they like to build close by people, and probably the wee mother liked the rose-bush because it was near the school-house. I wonder if she listens, while you boys recite your lessons? A leaf-album is both interesting and instructive. It is a good plan to write the name of each leaf under it, and the date of the day it was gathered, as well as whatever you know about the place where it was found.

THE SKIPPING-ROPE.

Now all ye tearful children, come and listen while I tell About the little fairy folk, and what to them befell; And how three little fairies sat them down, one summer day, And cried among the grasses till the others flew away. They flew away bewildered, for it gave them such a fright To see the fairies crying, with the jolly sun in sight: And so they left them all alone, and there they sat and cried Six little streams of fairy tears, that trickled side by side. And looking down, the laughing sun among the drops did pass, And he laid a little rainbow beside them on the grass. Then quickly rose the fairies, and clapped their gleeful hands— "We've found the brightest skipping-rope in all the fairy lands." And there they jumped their tears away, and jumped their dimples in, And jumped until their laughter came—a tinkling, fairy din. What! you say you don't believe it, you saucy little elf? Then run and get your skipping-rope, and try it for yourself.

East St. Louis, Illinois.

I am a little girl twelve years of age. I live in the country. I thought I would write and tell you about my pets. I have a little Alderney calf; its name is Baby Mine, and it follows me all around. I have a little colt two years old; its name is Celeste. My uncle is a stock raiser, and when my brother was eight years of age and I was six he took us to his pasture and told us each to pick out a colt. Those colts are now six years old. Mine is named Blaze. My brother has two colts, one named Rosalie T. and the other Roxie. I have a Spitz dog named Beauty; he got into a fight not long ago, and was badly hurt. I have two kittens named Budgy and Toddie. I have a ball with a string tied to it for my kittens. I have four canary-birds and a beautiful red-bird. I have been taking music lessons ever since I was eight years old. This is the first letter I have ever written.

Rosalie T.

Ocean Grove, New Jersey.

I am at Ocean Grove for the summer, and expect to stay until October. On my way down I saw the wrecked coffee ship Pliny. The coffee is washed all along the beach. The other day I went up the beach toward the wreck, and found five bags, each holding about two bushels. The coffee is green, that is, not roasted, and is now quite black in color. I emptied about ten bushels on the sand, and brought the bags home. The Captain of the wrecked vessel issued a circular warning people not to use the coffee, as there had been hides on the vessel which were cured with arsenic. There are piles of coffee on the sand.

I will exchange an ounce of coffee from the wrecked vessel Pliny, for ten foreign stamps (no duplicates). Please inclose a 2-cent stamp for postage on coffee.

Harry C. Crosby, Box 2104, Ocean Grove, N. J.

Brooklyn, New York.

In No. 130 of your paper a reader of the same asks if any one of your readers knows anything about a, book called The Runaway. We have it, and like it ever so much. The copy we have only says, "By the Author of Mrs. Jerningham's Journal," and it is published by Macmillan & Co., in London and New York, and our copy was published in 1872. We think it is so nice.

I am one of the "little girls who have many pets." We have a beautiful English setter, and I have a lovely Maltese cat, two kittens, and a canary-bird—a very sweet singer. He is singing now. I would write about them, but it would only be to tell what so many little girls have already done, though I want to ever so much.

Bessie W.

Adams, Massachusetts.

I am a little girl six years old; I live in Adams; and my sister is five, and her name is Clara. We have a good many dollies; my best one is a large wax doll named Ruth. I can not write, so my mamma is writing this for me. We have two kitties; mine was born without any tail. Mamma read to us about Jumbo in the Young People, and so we call my kitty Jumbo. Clara's kitty has a nice long tail, and her name is Cherrie. We do not go to school, but papa and mamma teach us at home. Papa takes Harper's Young People for us, and we like to read the letters in the Post-office Box; and mamma reads us the stories. Papa says I may have a garden this summer all my own. I had one last summer, and I had beans in it, and mamma cooked them.

Helen W. H.

Tarrytown, New York.

I am a little girl nearly six years old. My pet is a gray cat named Tiger, whom I love very much. Last fall my papa had two little kittens in his store, and Tiger was so jealous of them that he ran away, and staid six months, and then came home again. Mamma reads Young People to my brother and me every week, and she is writing this for me. Please print it.

Marion M. D.

Thanks, dear, for the daisy and fern.

Mount Vernon, New York.

I am sore (four) years old. Mamma is writing this sor (for) me, as I can not write. I have a white kitty with a black nose; mamma will tell you his long name (Don Tomosa Felini Blackernosa, or Backernoisa, as little four-year-old always calls him). I sit on a cushion at the table. This morning kitty sat on the same cushion by me, but he did not take any of my breakfast. Kitty has his supper on the soar (floor). Jack (our little Skye terrier) sleeps with kitty on a carpet chair. Jack bit the baby kitten (sister to Don) because she took his meat. Brother Bertie buried the little kitten. The kitten's mamma got shot in her paw. She was so sick we gave the baby kitty a little bottle with milk in it, and a little piece of sponge in it, so kitty could drink; she put both her little sont (front) paws on the bottle when she took the milk. It cried and ran after mamma when it was hungry. I like "Toby Tyler."

C. Harold C.

P.S.—My baby boy can not sound the f's at all.

Mamma.

Newton, Iowa.

This is next to the last week of school, and we are anxiously waiting for our long summer vacation. We expect to have a nice time. My mother, brother, and I are going to Nebraska the week after school closes, as we have cousins living there. They have a little pony for the children, and each has a saddle of its own, and I expect to learn to ride horseback. As the town is only a few years old, it will seem almost like the country. The Postmistress said she would like to hear from the girls having flower beds. I have one. There are seven children in our neighborhood—two boys and five girls—who have each a flower bed, and want to see who can have the nicest. My auntie sent us Harper's Young People two years ago, and last year's are being bound for my brother Lewis, and this year's will be bound for me, and our names will be put on the backs of them. I thought that I would write a letter to have in mine, and have been expecting to write sooner. I enjoy reading the letters and continued pieces the most; also Jimmy Brown's—those about the animals, and the rest.

Celia L.

Elizabeth, New Jersey.

I am a little girl nine years old, and have as funny a dog as ever you saw, only I do not own him. I have two brothers. One of them was my birthday present. I am going to the country soon, and you are to be sent to me every week. I like you ever so much, and would be very lonely without you, dear Young People.

Sophie M. S.

Troy, New York.

I am a little boy, and have a dear little brother George. I go to school, just the same as all the other little boys do that write you. I have taken your paper ever since it was first issued, and I have all the back numbers, and whenever any of my little friends come to see me, he or she always wants to look at them, they are so nice; and I sometimes send an armful over to the hospital for the poor little sick children to look at, and you can't imagine how pleased they are to get them. My paper is read every week by eight or ten persons, and some of them big folks too. The only fault I have to find with Young People is that it is not large enough.

Clarence G.

C. Y. P. R. U.

Alice asked me why strawberries were so called. She was eating a delicious plateful of them; and as they were heaped high on the dish, sprinkled with sugar and covered with cream, they were very inviting. But why were they strawberries, and not red-berries, or blush-berries, or best-berries? Because, dear, I told her they grow on the ground on a pretty running vine, and are found strewn, or strawn, among their green leaves. From strewn or strawn berries the way is short to strawberries, which name slips easily over the lips in our talk.

For the Commonplace-book.—Here, dear girls, is a picture from Mrs. Browning for your busy pens to copy:

She was not so pretty as women I know, And yet all your best, made of sunshine and snow. Drop to shade, melt to naught, in the long-trodden ways. While she's still remembered on warm and cold days— My Kate. Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace, You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face; And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth, You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth— My Kate. Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke; When she did, so peculiar yet soft was her tone. Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone— My Kate. I doubt if she said to you much that could act As a thought or suggestion; she did not attract In the sense of the brilliant or wise; I infer 'Twas her thinking of others made you think of her— My Kate.

A Boy.—We will shortly publish an article giving you the information you desire.

Chestnut Hill, Pennsylvania.

I wrote to Young People once before, but not finding my letter in print, I thought I would try again, hoping you will publish it. I am going to tell you something real funny. One morning at breakfast, while eating her mutton-chop, one of my friends said to her father, "Papa, this meat tastes sheepy." The next morning they had beef-steak, and her father said, "Do you think the meat tastes sheepy this morning?" But her little sister, about eight or nine years of age, said, "No; it tastes bully." Of course every one at the table laughed. But she did not mean it for a slang expression; she meant that it tasted sort of "beefy."

Bertha C.

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to Mrs. Herrick's article on botany entitled "The Thirsty Flowers," and to the story of the heroic drummer-boy at the battle of Jena, which Mr. David Ker tells under the title of "The Bravest Feat of All." In his sketch entitled "Paddy Ryan's Big Fish," Mr. W. M. Laffan tells the boys about curious methods of capturing trout that are practiced on the other side of the Atlantic. Dr. Van Gieson gives them some sage advice about how to treat the "Cuts and Bruises" that they are always inflicting upon themselves in their eager pursuit of pleasure.

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

GEOGRAPHICAL PUZZLE.

A gentleman named (a city in New Zealand), and whose Christian name was (a city in Australia), went to (a town in Vermont) to attend a party. His partner was a lady whose Christian name was (a river in Siberia), and whose surname was (a town in Tasmania). During the evening he spoke a great deal of (a cape on the coast of North America), about her dress, which was composed of (a valley in Asia), trimmed with lace from (a city in Belgium). Her shoes were made of (a city in Africa). Her hair was dressed beautifully with (a river in Africa) flowers. After dancing they strolled on the terrace, and she happened to step on (a city in Germany), and fainted from (a cape east of the United States). He flew for (a city in Europe) to revive her. When she had recovered she partook of a plate of (islands in the Pacific Ocean), and also ate a whole (county in New York State). She now said it was time to go home. They said good-night to their hostess, and took a tender (cape of Greenland) of each other at the lady's door.

J. H. B.

No. 2.

ENIGMAS.

1.

My first is in bracket, but not in rack.

My second is in plunder, but not in sack.

My third is in running, but not in fast.

My fourth is in end, but not in last.

My fifth is in sitting, but not in sat.

My sixth is in kittens, but not in cat.

My seventh is in gravel, but not in sand.

My eighth is in water, but not in land.

My ninth is in horse, but not in mule.

My tenth is in cotton, but not in spool.

My whole was a battle in time of old

In which the oppressors lost their hold.

G. B. B., Jun.

2.

My first is in hen, but not in rat.

My second is in boat, but not in flat.

My third is in ship, not in scow.

My fourth is in scare, but not in fear.

My fifth is in courtesy, but not in bow.

My sixth is in owl, but not in hen.

My seventh is in tomtit, but not in wren.

My eighth is in cat, but not in kitten.

My ninth is in hand, but not in mitten.

My whole is a game played by us boys,

In which we often make a great noise.

Edward Dana S.

No. 3.

TWO EASY DIAMONDS.

1.—1. A letter. 2. Time for work. 3. A bird. 4. A consent. 5. A letter.

C. C.

2.—1. A letter. 2. A winged animal. 3. Large bundles. 4. A post-horse. 5. A name given to the earth. 6. A body of water. 7. A letter.

Allie W. C.

No. 4.

WORD SQUARE.

1. A fright. 2. To expiate. 3. A story. 4. Dull. 5. An ancient people.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 135.

No. 1.

Princeton. United States.

No. 2.

Beatrice. Faustina.

No. 3.

TUFT

POCO

PLUS

DORR

COMA

BATS

LIEU

SILO

RUNE

MATE

No. 4.

CB

LARORA

CARIBRADS

RIBOADD

BOATS

IRATELK

BRASSLAIN

ASHKIN

SN

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from George P. Taggart, Jerry Helsey, Florence Kahn, Hattie Kahn, Frank H. Powell, A. E. Cressingham, Charles C. Jacobus, Georgie Wardell, "I. Scycle," Josephine Hopgood, Florence Chambers, Eloise, "Fuss and Feathers," Emily Nelson, John P. Talbot, Eunice Dean, Frank Ellis, Fay Latimer, Bessie, C. A. G., Louis Meyers, Emil Shultz, and Irene Prescott.

[For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover.]