



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE

AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]

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VOL. II.--NO. 70. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, March 1, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.

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[Illustration: THE BOY TIMOTHY.--[SEE NEXT PAGE.]]

TIMOTHY.

BY BISHOP T. U. DUDLEY.


In a little town called Lystra, in Asia Minor, a multitude is gathered
in the market-place. Two strangers are the attraction, who have strange
tidings to tell. Their story is of one Jesus, a King, who, they say, was
born in Judea some fifty years before. They tell of marvellous deeds of
mercy which He wrought, and of words as marvellous and as merciful that
He spake. They tell that He died on a cross, but that, King of Death, He
came back from the grave at His own appointed time. They declare that He
did visibly ascend into heaven, and now sitteth there to pardon and to
bless all who will believe on Him. And even while the crowd is listening
to the words of the chief speaker, whose name is Paul, he looks fixedly
upon a poor lame man, a <DW36> from his birth, who is among his
auditors, and cries with a loud voice, "Stand upright on thy feet."
Instantly the command is obeyed, and the life-time <DW36> leaps and
walks.

Respectful attention straightway became enthusiasm. The market-place
resounds with the shout, "The gods are come down to us in the likeness
of men," and the priest who serves in Jupiter's Temple hastens with oxen
and garlands to do sacrifice to the miracle-workers, despite their
earnest remonstrance that they are but sinful men, come to tell them of
the one living God.

But quickly there is interruption as effective as sudden from other
strangers of the same distant nation, whose words persuade the fickle
populace, and in a little while Paul is being dragged out of the city to
all appearance dead. They have stoned the man to whom just now they
would do sacrifice!

Among the listeners to the gospel Paul had preached, among the wondering
spectators of the lame man's healing, among the on-lookers at the deed
of violence, stands a boy, generous and warm-hearted, weeping manly
tears over that which is done. His name is Timothy, and of him, as he
sits there that day in his native town, his heart all aglow with the new
hopes whereof he has heard, and his spirit all aflame with admiration
for undaunted courage, and with pity for the innocent sufferer, our
artist has given us the portrait. The Sacred Scriptures, which he has
known from a child, have gained new meaning. He is reading the ancient
writings with the new light which Paul has thrown upon them--the light
from the open grave of Jesus.

He is the child from a mixed marriage, his mother a Jewess, but his
father a Greek, and therefore he is but ill esteemed by the Hebrews who
dwell in his town. The records of his life make no mention of his
father, and from this fact it has been inferred that he died while
Timothy was yet an infant. And we are plainly told that his education
was all given by his mother, Eunice, and his grandmother, Lois, and that
"from a child he knew the Holy Scriptures."

The face which the artist has drawn will represent to us what we should
expect to be the appearance of a boy thus brought up, and the character
which we judge him to have possessed, from the warnings and the advice
given to him by his master and teacher, Paul. His piety, while sincere
and intense, is yet of a feminine cast; his constitution is far from
robust; he shrinks from opposition and responsibility; his tears lie
close to their outlet, and are ready to flow and hide the suffering
object; he will subject his body to denial greater than its strength
will bear, and as the natural counterpart of these characteristics, he
is in danger of being carried away by "youthful lusts." Such is Timothy
when, after seven years have passed away, and the boy is grown to be a
man, Paul, returning to Lystra to confirm and comfort the Christians
there, will have him to be the companion of his journeyings and the
best-loved friend of his heart.

There is not space in this article to recite the events of the career
that followed. Let each of our boy readers search them out for himself,
and learn of what doughty deeds a gentle spirit in a feeble frame is
capable under the impulse of an earnest faith. Let us learn, moreover,
from a life of noble devotion to high purpose so to devote our life,
not, it may be of necessity, to proclaim a Gospel, as Timothy did, but
surely to labor, not alone for self, but for our race.

He died a confessor of that faith he learned from the preacher at Lystra
in his boyhood. "Out of weakness he was made strong." He, the timid,
girlish, tearful boy, waxed valiant in the great fight, and is known to
the Christian world as a saint of God and as the great Bishop of
Ephesus.




THE NEW DOLL.

BY GEORGE COOPER.


  You're a beautiful, beautiful dolly,
    And dressed like a sweet little queen;
  Not to care for you, dear, may seem folly,
    When I've but a rag-doll so mean.
  I know that its arms are the queerest,
    Its head very funny and flat;
  Its eyes anything but the clearest;
    Yet old friends are best, for all that.

  Your hair falls in ringlets so flaxen,
    Your eyes are delightfully blue;
  Your cheeks they are rosy and waxen,
    You're charming, I'll give you your due.
  Yet shall I give up Betsy Baker,
    Who hasn't a shoe nor a hat,
  Because you've a splendid dressmaker?
    No! old friends are best, for all that.

  You came Christmas morn, in my stocking;
    I ought to be proud, I suppose;
  And not to be pleased would be shocking:
    Do, Betsy dear, turn out your toes.
  Oh, you are my every-day dolly!
    And this one in silk dress and hat
  I'll put on the shelf: call it folly,
    Yet old friends are best, for all that.




THE SNOW BEN.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.


"We can beat that," said Joe Larkin, contemptuously, as he drew back and
began to blow through his red fists. "That isn't any kind of a snow
man."

"Like to know why," said Dan Madderley. "He's all right but his ears. We
can make them of the same size, easy."

"Yes, but he ain't right anyhow. Everything's just stuck on outside.
When I was in the city once, I saw a sculptor chiselling a man out of
marble. 'Twasn't much like this thing."

"Well, of course it wasn't. Stone's better'n snow. Everybody knows that,
I guess."

"No, it isn't. Not exactly. When you knock off a chunk of marble, you
can't stick it on again."

"You might glue it, but I guess it would show the crack."

"Tell you what, boys," exclaimed Joe, with a new idea shining all over
his face, "let's make a big snow marble down on the ice, and then let's
dig it out into a man, just as the sculptors do."

There was an instant hurrah all around, and not one opposing vote; the
half-finished snow man in Deacon Madderley's back yard was left to thaw
down all alone, and in ten minutes more the whole crowd of young
sculptors was down on the pond.

It was a warm day for winter, and the water was pouring over the dam in
a hurry, but the ice was pretty firm up where the boys were, and the
soft snow was in just the condition to pack nicely. At it they went, as
if they had a whole marble quarry to make, and were afraid some of their
marble might get away from them.

"I say, now, Joe," shouted Burr Whitcomb, as the great white pile came
up to his shoulders, "who're we going to sculp out? Anybody in
partikler?"

"Julius Caesar."

"No, we can't. You never saw him, nor we didn't either."

"Yes, I did. I saw a picture of him once, with a brass helmet on his
head, and a sword in his hand."

"That'd beat us, then," said Dan Madderley. "We'd better try George
Washington."

"He's on horseback," said Joe, "and so is Andrew Jackson. No use for us
to try a horse. Snow legs won't hold up. He'd come down all in a heap."

A dozen other great names followed, each bringing with it a chorus of
doubts as to how he looked, and whether anything like him could be found
in that heap of snow; but the shrill voice of little Billy McCoy settled
the matter. He had followed his big brothers down upon the ice, and now
he eagerly squeaked:

"Boys, why don't you scoop out Ben Franklin? Make him sitting down."

"Hurrah for you, Billy!" exclaimed Joe Larkin. "Guess we all know Ben.
He's just the man."

"Guess he is," chirped Billy. "He's fat, too. You can make him real
big."

On piled the snow, after that, until they had to reach up with their
shovels. When Joe Larkin began to play sculptor, he had to dig his toes
into the snow and climb.

"We'll make his head first," he sagely remarked; "and we'll cut out the
rest of him to fit that."

"Dig away, Joe," shouted Burr Whitcomb, from the other side of the
quarry. "Let's see which of us'll get in first to where old Ben is."

"We'll set him up with his hands in his lap," said Joe; "and we'll part
his hair in the middle."

Pieces of shingle, whittled to a sharp edge, did very well for chisels,
and no mallets were called for. It was easy to work that kind of marble,
and it was just as Joe Larkin had said about mending it. He had to carve
Ben's nose for him over and over again, and the last time he shaved it
smooth with his jackknife.

"We'll make his hair long, Burr, and lots of it. That'll help hold his
head up stiff, and we won't have to cut out so much coat collar. I say,
you've made his arm on that side twice as big as this one."

"I can scrape it down. What'll we do for buttons?"

"Boys," said Joe, "pack a lot of round, hard snow-balls, and cut 'em in
two. They wore the biggest kind of buttons when Ben was alive; big as
dollars."

"How about his hat?"

"He'll look better bare-headed. You can't make a snow brim stay on--not
unless it's three or four inches thick, and that won't do."

Joe was giving special attention just then to the parting of Benjamin
Franklin's hair, but in a moment more he sang out, "Look here, boys, he
never was as fat as all that."

They had been digging away industriously at their part of the great
patriot, but they had carefully put on quite as much snow marble as they
had cut away. They had made Ben look more like Daniel Lambert than
anybody else; but Joe Larkin came down now, and he speedily effected a
wholesome change.

"Looks as if he could lift himself and get up now."

"Well, ye--es," said Burr, doubtfully; "but what about his legs? We
haven't left any room for 'em."

"Yes we have. But you see we began at the top."

"What's he a-sitting on, anyhow?"

"On the ice. Tell you what, boys, we'll have to make him cross-legged."

"He wasn't a tailor," squeaked Billy McCoy. "He was the lightning-rod
man."

Billy had watched all that work with his round mouth half open, and had
seemed to regard the job as in a manner under his supervision. But then
he had that way of looking at almost any work, no matter who might be
doing it, and he had never been known to make any charge for his advice.

It was too late now for any discussion of the matter, however, and all
the boys were proud of the way they crossed Benjamin Franklin's legs for
him.

"We'll hide one of his feet under him," said Burr. "Joe, can you cut out
the other one like a boot?"

"Of course I can."

He did, but if the hidden foot was as large as the one he fitted at the
end of Ben's right leg, he could not have needed a great deal more to
sit on.

Billy McCoy himself remarked of it, doubtfully, "It's just the biggest
foot I ever saw."

The pegs on the sole of that boot and the heel of it were the last
touches required, and the young sculptors stood back, and walked around
their great work, again and again, in almost silent admiration. Ben
fairly looked warm and comfortable in the flood of noon sunshine that
was pouring down upon him.

"He'll thaw out," grumbled Dan Madderley; and just then there came a
great shout from the shore.

The sun had been at work as well as the boys, and the thaw he was making
had had a day or two the start of them.

The shout came from Billy McCoy's biggest brother, Bob, and they saw him
dance up and down with excitement, while he swung his hat and repeated
it: "Boys! boys! come in! The ice is breaking away!"

So much trampling and running to and fro, and so much added weight of
boys and sculpture, had helped the sun above and the rising water below
the ice, and now they all had just about time to hurry ashore. Then the
great crack Bob McCoy had noticed grew rapidly wider, and they could
hear all the frozen surface of the pond crack and split in every
direction.

There was some fun in watching the ice break up, but there was sorrow
among the sculptors, for all that.

"It's an awful pity to lose such a snow man as that is."

"He didn't even have time to thaw out."

"We can make another."

"There never was just such a Ben Franklin as that."

Probably not, and now there he was floating out into the middle of the
pond on a wide cake of ice, and drifting down toward the dam. The water
was rising, for the snow was melting fast, and the cake of ice Ben was
on rocked now and then in a way which made him seem to bow to his
friends on shore.

"Isn't he polite, though!" said Billy McCoy. "Pity he can't swim."

"Swim!" exclaimed Joe Larkin; "I guess so. There he goes, boys. Just a
rod or two more."

Most of them gave vent to their feelings in a volley of snow-balls which
fell about half way short of their mark. Then they all stood still, for
the swift water seemed to seize Ben's cake of ice with a sudden jerk,
and swept it to the edge of the dam. For one short minute the brittle
raft stuck on the edge, and then it broke right in two. With a great
slushy splash the snow Ben went to pieces, and was carried over the
slippery "apron," down among the foaming eddies below.

Every boy that was looking on drew a long breath and held it for a
moment, and then there rose a chorus of shouts.

Joe Larkin led off with, "Good-by, Ben!"

And the rest followed with: "Hi! hi! hurrah! Good-by, Ben!"

Burr Whitcomb remarked, a little soberly, as he turned away: "Well, I
don't care; he was the best snow man I ever saw. He looked a good deal
like Ben Franklin."




ARCHIE KIRK'S LEAP FOR LIFE.

BY LILLIE E. BARR.


"Alice, may I? Say I may. I can do it, dear sister"; and as he spoke,
Archie Kirk bent eagerly over his sister's chair.

Three weeks before, he and Alice had been rescued--the only
survivors--from a fine ship that had gone to pieces off the coast of the
island of St. Kilda, which is a little speck of land in the wide waters
of the Atlantic, forming a part of the Hebrides.

They had been tenderly cared for by the good islanders, and the request
which Archie had made of his sister, and which she was very reluctant to
grant, was, that he might go with Hakon Bork--the son of the good woman
who had given them food and shelter--in search of the eggs and down of
puffins, a species of sea-bird upon which these simple people depend
mainly for their subsistence.

[Illustration: THE PUFFIN-HUNTERS.]

"You are so young, and it is such a terrible way to earn your bread,"
replied Alice, who shudderingly remembered watching Hakon but the day
before fasten his rope to a stake, and then lower himself down the awful
precipice, with nothing but his firm grip to save him from falling into
the foaming, raging sea beneath. "You are too young, Archie."

"Why, Alice, I am ten years old, and boys much younger than I go down
all alone. These people are very good to us, but they are also very
poor. I feel mean to accept their charity, and do nothing in return,
when Hakon says I can help him if I will."

"It is so terrible, Archie, and if I should lose you too!" cried Alice,
whose heart was still full of sorrow for her lost parents.

"God is good, my sister," said Hakon, "and I will watch thy brother