develop the plans that were already hatched in his young mind as to the best manner of enjoying a week's respite from combined motherly and grandfatherly discipline. His young mind reasoned that bare feet were better for a boy's freedom of action, and so Joe cast off his shoes and stockings with gusto. As nimble as a deer now, Joe ran out of the rear door of the house, and the housekeeper, looking at him from the kitchen window, could not tell which was head and which were feet as Joe turned somersault after somersault down the slope to the river-bank. "SO HE TURNED ABRUPTLY AND MADe a double-QUICK RETREAT.' Arrived at the edge of the water, Joe flung himself down in the shade of a sheltering oak and paddled his feet forward and back in the cool water of the stream. Lying flat upon the soft grass, with his legs hanging over the verdant ledge, Joe watched the birds in the tree above him, and lent his ears to their songs and to the humming of bees and other insects and inhaled the fragrant breath that was wafted from the odoriferous flowers close at hand, and this care-free lad kicked and splashed the water till the birds chattered and scolded in angry disapproval of such a commotion. But the bees cared little about Joe or his water-churning. They buzzed from flower to flower in their life's occupation of gathering honey, and never heeded so unimportant an object as a little boy lying on the grass. But the boy's attention was drawn to the bees, for one came buzzing so near to his nose that Joe involuntarily struck at it, and then he turned over on his side and watched the bee until it disappeared from his view. Then Joe noticed that another bee buzzed past in the same direction, and another and another. Joe's investigating instinct was aroused. He arose and ran after one bee and another until he perceived a brown, squash-shaped object in the brush from which and into which these busy insects were passing. Joe's desire of conquest was awakened. There was honey in the nest, Joe was sure of that. He had no " step. A small swarm poured out of the opening and quickly forming a phalanx bore down upon the enemy. Joe fought valiantly. His switches cut the air from right to left; from left to right and upward and downward. The line of the besieged was broken and the defenders were put to rout, but Joe's victory was but temporary. A reserve force of bees quickly came to the rescue and Joe battled bravely on until, by a freak of chance, one of his weapons broke near his hand and flew far from him. He continued to war with one switch, but, upon being hard pressed by the ever-increasing force of the foe, Joe held a brief council of war and quickly decided that, in the face of the odds against him, a wellordered retreat would not be a military disgrace. So he turned abruptly but in good form and made a double-quick retreat, at the same time beating the air about his head with his switch to prevent the inconsiderate bees from attacking him from the rear. He succeeded in keeping the ever-increasing number of bees away from his head and arms, but, like Achilles of old, there was an unprotected spot upon his body beyond the range of his circling "NO MORE OF THAT NONSENSE, NOW; WHAT'S THE MATTER?'" switch. This spot appealed to one bee brighter and more experienced than the rest, and when Joe's heel was in the air nearly as high as his head the wise insect fastened itself upon the heel and stung it viciously. The battle, valiantly fought on both sides, was terminated, but Joe's misery had just begun. With a howl of pain, he increased his speed and came limping up to the house. Remembering his mother's injunctions, he quietly sought out a secluded corner in the parlor, and, trying to repress the truant tears, he began the mental battle. "Mind is all; matter is an error. Matter has no feeling, and cannot pain or smart. There is no such thing as pain. It is all nothing ness. Mind is good; health is good. Mind is health; body is error, nothing." Joe did not hear the street-door open softly, and was surprised when grandpa asked him what was amiss. "Oh, nuthin'," said Joe, evasively, checking a little sob. "Yes there is, Joe. Tell me." "Well, 't ain't much," said Joe. "Joe would n't cry if it was n't much," said grandpa, encouragingly. 'What is it now?" "Just a claim," said Joe, evasively. "Claim! Bah! Call it flame, game, shame, blame, tame, name! Call it what you will, something has happened to you and I want to know what it is,"-this firmly but not unkindly. Grandpa loved his grandson, but he could not tolerate the theories nor the phrases of mental healing. "No more of that nonsense, now; what's the matter?" "Well-a-well-a-error says a bee stung my heel." "Well, if error talks that way it is probably right and your foot needs attention," and grandpa went out and procured a bottle of "Liquid Alleviator of All Ailments," and proceeded to administer to the injured member. "But I don't want that, grandpa. It's only mind that can really cure." "Tut, tut; there 's nothing in that fanciful nonsense." Then grandpa proceeded to give his usual opinion of mental science. "It's all wrong. It's built upon a foundation of sand. Mind cannot control the body. I can prove it by two arguments: First, mind is but the result of a chemical action. Second, a result cannot affect or control a cause. Those are logical and philosophical truths and are unanswerable." Grandpa always argued it that way, and said it in so positive a tone of finality that Mrs. Mento never continued the discussion, and Joe, of course, accepted the statement on trust. "Stick out your foot." Joe demurred. Grandpa was firm, and Joe finally thrust out his foot very reluctantly, and the liniment was very generously applied to the heel and a bandage carefully tied around it. "There," said grandpa, complacently. first, mind is the result of chemical action; Now tell me how second, a result cannot affect or control a cause. So it was the liniment that cured the sting in this case.' That 'll cure your heel. you came to be stung." Joe told him of his fight with the bees, and grandpa laughed heartily, and, growing reminiscent, told Joe of a similar experience he had had when he was a boy. "No, I'm afraid it was n't," said Joe, with rising inflection as though he wished to say more but awaited permission. Both his mother "You'll be all right in a short time. Now and grandpa looked in surprise at Joe. don't let me hear any more of that foolish gibberish about 'error.'" In the course of a few days the effects of the sting entirely disappeared, and grandpa hailed the cure as a great triumph for medicine, while Joe felt equally confident the cure was a notable victory for mental science. Could Mother Nature speak,she,no doubt, with good grounds would have claimed the victory as her own. Joe said nothing of the affair to his mother when she returned, but grandpa was exultant and could not let the opportunity of vindicating medicines slip by. "Stella, we 've had a beautiful demonstration of the efficacy of Materia Medica and of its superiority over mental science while you were away. Joe received a serious sting on the foot, and a prompt application of pain-killer effectually cured it. "Did n't Joe 'treat' it?" asked Mrs. Mento. Joe entered the room at this juncture. "He did what you call 'treating' it, but it was the liniment that cured the sting. I tell you that mental science is all wrong. The mind cannot control the body. I can prove it by two logical and philosophical arguments: "Well?" said grandpa, interested. "Well, first, it was my right foot that was stung; and second, it was my left foot that you put the liniment on." Grandpa's eyes opened wide, his jaw dropped, and the paper he had been reading fell from his hand, and for a moment he gazed at Joe in utter astonishment and complete disgust. Then his hand stole to his face to conceal a suspicion of a smile. 'Joe," said grandpa, very softly "Yes, sir," he said timidly Go down and tell Bridget it is time to serve tea." When Joe had gone Mrs. Mento did not speak; but grandpa would a thousand times over have preferred her to say anything she wished rather than to wear that irrepressible look of triumph and vindication and exultation. "Well, well!" said grandpa, laconically, as though by those two words to dismiss the entire subject. "It does not signify, it does not signify! Nature had plenty of time to work her own cure without the help of science.But that Joe is a wonderful boy. He'll be President some day." Mrs. Mento cherished the same opinion, and she smiled sweetly at grandpa. POLLY'S POUND PARTY. BY MARY V. WORSTELL. POLLY OSBORN sat in a dark blue Morris chair pulled up before a crackling grate fire, and as Polly was small for her fifteen years, the big chair seemed not more than half occupied. Some matter of deep concern was occupying her mind for a little scowl was trying its best to knot up her forehead, and in her hand she held a letter which she turned, mechanically, round and round. Polly looked as wretched as-well, as it was possible for our pretty Polly to look. There is no telling to what depths of despair she might not have descended if her meditations had not been interrupted by the sound of a light footstep approaching. A tap on the door, and the next instant there appeared Polly's particular and intimate friend, Abbie Andrews. In appearance she was very different from Polly, for she was tall and finely proportioned, with the promise of a Juno-like beauty in the years to come. "Well, Polly!" she exclaimed, "what's the matter?" "Matter?" said Polly, "well, something is the matter though possibly you may think it of little importance. You remember Mother's Christmas celebration for some of the poorer families over at the foundry? It seems as if this year everything is conspiring to make it quite impossible. Aunt Ida has been very ill with typhoid and now it looks as if Mother would have to go with her to Florida for a few weeks, and so her plan for a fair about the end of November is quite out of the question." "That's so," assented Abbie, "it does seem really impossible. I wonder if we could n't get up something besides a fair-private theatricals, a concert, a masquerade, anything whereby we could raise the necessary money. How much does it cost, Polly? Hundreds, I suppose, judging by the joy it brings to the mothers and children of that wretched part of town that we see so little of." "It would cost," said Polly, with a distinct note of discouragement in her voice, "it would cost at least a hundred and fifty dollars to duplicate last year's celebration. I know Mother feels sorrier than she says, but I suppose it can't be helped. She will hardly be home before the first or second week in December and then it's too late to do anything but prepare the celebration, if she has the money." "Well," said Abbie philosophically, "if it can't be helped, I would try not to think about it." At that moment the maid entered with chocolate and wafers, and while she was arranging them on a taboret, placed sociably between two big easy-chairs, Abbie exclaimed: "Polly, dear, hear the news I bring, though it is a small budget to-day. To begin with, Dorothy Sanger is home again. She must have had great fun at her aunt's, for she went to theaterparties and teas, and dances and a poundparty-whatever that may be-and for more drives and receptions than she could count. Her cousins are great favorites and go everywhere. I think she—” "Stop!" said Polly, holding up a warning finger. "What is a pound party?" "Why, I believe every one brings a pound of something instead of buying a ticket-and then they auction off the packages unopened. I don't remember all the details. Why?" "Why!" echoed Polly, setting down her cup and jumping up—" because—that's it.” "Polly Osborn, what are you talking about?" "That's it, Abbie, you dear, stupid old goose. That's what we can give and raise the money we will need for the Christmas celebration-don't you see?" "But-Polly" objected Abbie, "I know nothing of the details of the affair—” "And I don't want to," said Polly with decision. "Why should n't we make the 'details,' as you call them, to suit ourselves? |
