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and brought two of them down,—one quite dead and one hurt so badly
that he could not fly. Billington killed them both and tyed them
together, and following after the flocke had another shot at them, and
by a good Providence hurte three more. He tyed two of these together
and brought the smallest back to us, not knowing what he brought,
being but a poor man and ignorant. Hee is but a lazy Fellowe, and was
sore tired with the weight of his burden, which was nigh fortie pounds.
Soe soon as he saw it, the Governour and the rest knew that it was a
wild Turkie, and albeit he chid Billington sharply, he sent four men with
him, as it were Calebs and Joshuas, to bring in these firstlings of the
land. They found the two first and brought them to us; but after a long
search they could not find the others, and soe gave them up, saying
the wolves must have eaten them. There were some that thought John
Billington had never seen them either, but had shot them with a long
bowe. Be this as it may, Mistress Winslow and the other women
stripped them they had, cleaned them, spytted them, basted them, and
roasted them, and thus we had fresh foule to our dinner."
I say it would have been very pleasant to have found this in some
palimpsest, but if it is in the palimpsest, it has not yet been found. As
the Arab proverb says, "There is news, but it has not yet come."
I have failed, in just the same way, to find a letter from that rosy-
cheeked little child you see in Sargent's picture, looking out of her
great wondering eyes, under her warm hood, into the desert. I
overhauled a good many of the Cotton manuscripts in the British
Museum (Otho and Caligula, if anybody else wants to look), and Mr.
Sainsbury let me look through all the portfolios I wanted in the State
Paper Office, and I am sure the letter was not there then. If anybody
has found it, it has been found since I was there. If it ever is found, I
should like to have it contain the following statement:—
"We got tired of playing by the fire, and so some of us ran down to
the brook, and walked till we could find a place to cross it; and so
came up to a meadow as large as the common place in Leyden. There
was a good deal of ice upon it in some places, but in some places
behind, where there were bushes, we found good store of berries
growing on the ground. I filled my apron, and William took off his
jerkin and made a bag of it, and we all filled it to carry up to the fire.
But they were so sour, that they puckered our mouths sadly. But my
mother said they were cranberries, but not like your cranberries in
Lincolnshire. And, having some honey in one of the logs the men cut
down, she boiled the cranberries and the honey together, and after it
was cold we had it with our dinner. And besides, there were some
great pompions which the men had brought with them from the first
place we landed at, which were not like Cinderella's, but had long tails
to them, and of these my mother and Mrs. Brewster and Mrs. Warren,
made pies for dinner. We found afterwards that the Indians called
these pompions, askuta squash."
But this letter, I am sorry to say, has not yet been found.
Whether they had roast turkey for Christmas I do not know. I do
know, thanks to the recent discovery of the old Bradford manuscript,
that they did have roast turkey at their first Thanksgiving. The veritable
history, like so much more of it, alas! is the history of what they had
not, instead of the history of what they had. Not only did they work on
the day when all their countrymen played, but they had only water to
drink on the day when all their countrymen drank beer. This deprivation
of beer is a trial spoken of more than once; and, as lately as 1824, Mr.
Everett, in his Pilgrim oration, brought it in high up in the climax of the
catalogue of their hardships. How many of us in our school
declamations have stood on one leg, as bidden in "Lovell's Speaker,"
raised the hand of the other side to an angle of forty-five degrees, as
also bidden, and repeated, as also bidden, not to say compelled, the
words, "I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their almost
desperate undertaking, and landed at last, after a five-months'
passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, weak and exhausted from
the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending on the
charity of their ship-master for a draught of beer on board, drinking
nothing but water on shore, without shelter, without means,
surrounded by hostile tribes."
Little did these men of 1620 think that the time would come when
ships would go round the world without a can of beer on board; that
armies would fight through years of war without a ration of beer or of
spirit, and that the builders of the Lawrences and Vinelands, the
pioneer towns of a new Christian civilization, would put the condition
into the title-deeds of their property that nothing should be sold there
which could intoxicate the buyer. Poor fellows! they missed the beer, I
am afraid, more than they did the play at Christmas; and as they had
not yet learned how good water is for a steady drink, the carnal mind
almost rejoices that when they got on board that Christmas night, the
curmudgeon ship-master, warmed up by his Christmas jollifications, for
he had no scruples, treated to beer all round, as the reader has seen.
With that tankard of beer—as those who went on board filled it, passed
it, and refilled it—ends the history of the first Christmas in New
England.

It is a very short story, and yet it is the longest history of that

Christmas that I have been able to find. I wanted to compare this
celebration of Christmas, grimly intended for its desecration, with some
of the celebrations which were got up with painstaking intention. But,
alas, pageants leave little history, after the lights have smoked out, and
the hangings have been taken away. Leaving, for the moment, King
James's Christmas and Englishmen, I thought it would be a pleasant
thing to study the contrast of a Christmas in the countries where they
say Christmas has its most enthusiastic welcome. So I studied up the
war in the Palatinate,—I went into the chronicles of Spain, where I
thought they would take pains about Christmas,—I tried what the men
of "la religion," the Huguenots, were doing at Rochelle, where a great
assembly was gathering. But Christmas day would not appear in
memoirs or annals. I tried Rome and the Pope, but he was dying, like
the King of Spain, and had not, I think, much heart for pageantry. I
looked in at Vienna, where they had all been terribly frightened by
Bethlem Gabor, who was a great Transylvanian prince of those days, a
sort of successful Kossuth, giving much hope to beleaguered
Protestants farther west, who, I believe, thought for a time that he was
some sort of seal or trumpet, which, however, he did not prove to be.
At this moment of time he was retreating I am afraid, and at all events
did not set his historiographer to work describing his Christmas
festivities.
Passing by Bethlem Gabor then, and the rest, from mere failure of
their chronicles to make note of this Christmas as it passed, I returned
to France in my quest. Louis XIII. was at this time reigning with the
assistance of Luynes, the short-lived favorite who preceded Richelieu.
Or it would, perhaps, be more proper to say that Luynes was reigning
under the name of Louis XIII. Louis XIII. had been spending the year
in great activity, deceiving, thwarting, and undoing the Protestants of
France. He had made a rapid march into their country, and had spread
terror before him. He had had mass celebrated in Navarreux, where it
had not been seen or heard in fifty years. With Bethlem Gabor in the
ablative,—with the Palatinate quite in the vocative,—these poor
Huguenots here outwitted and outgeneralled, and Brewster and Carver
freezing out there in America, the Reformed Religion seems in a bad
way to one looking at that Christmas. From his triumphal and almost
bloodless campaign, King Louis returns to Paris, "and there," says
Bassompierre, "he celebrated the fêtes this Christmas." So I thought I
was going to find in the memoirs of some gentleman at court, or
unoccupied mistress of the robes, an account of what the most
Christian King was doing, while the blisters were forming on John
Carver's hands, and while John Billington was, or was not, shooting
wild turkeys on that eventful Christmas day.
But I reckoned without my king. For this is all a mistake, and
whatever else is certain, it seems to be certain that King Louis XIII. did
not keep either Christmas in Paris, either the Christmas of the Old
Style, or that of the New. Such, alas, is history, dear friend! When you
read in to-night's "Evening Post" that your friend Dalrymple is
appointed Minister to Russia, where he has been so anxious to go, do
not suppose he will make you his Secretary of Legation. Alas! no; for
you will read in to-morrow's "Times" that it was all a mistake of the
telegraph, and that the dispatch should have read "O'Shaughnessy,"
where the dispatch looked like "Dalrymple." So here, as I whetted my
pencil, wetted my lips, and drove the attentive librarian at the Astor
almost frantic as I sent him up stairs for you five times more, it proved
that Louis XIII. did not spend Christmas in Paris, but that
Bassompierre, who said so, was a vile deceiver. Here is the truth in the
Mercure Française,—flattering and obsequious Annual Register of those
days:
"The King at the end of this year, visited the frontiers of Picardy. In
this whole journey, which lasted from the 14th of December to the 12th
of January (New Style), the weather was bad, and those in his
Majesty's suite found the roads bad." Change the style back to the way
our Puritans counted it, and observe that on the same days, the 5th of
December to the 3d of January, Old Style, those in the suite of John
Carver found the weather bad and the roads worse. Let us devoutly
hope that his most Christian Majesty did not find the roads as bad as
his suite did.
"And the King," continues the Mercure, "sent an extraordinary
Ambassador to the King of Great Britain, at London, the Marshal
Cadenet" (brother of the favorite Luynes). "He departed from Calais on
Friday, the first day of January, very well accompanied by noblesse. He
arrived at Dover the same evening, and did not depart from Dover until
the Monday after."
Be pleased to note, dear reader, that this Monday, when this
Ambassador of a most Christian King departs from Dover, is on Monday
the 25th day of December, of Old Style, or Protestant Style, when John
Carver is learning wood-cutting, by way of encouraging the others. Let
us leave the King of France to his bad roads, and follow the fortunes of
the favorite's brother, for we must study an English Christmas after all.
We have seen the Christmas holidays of men who had hard times for
the reward of their faith in the Star of Bethlehem. Let us try the
fortunes of the most Christian King's people, as they keep their second
Christmas of the year among a Protestant people. Observe that a week
after their own Christmas of New Style, they land in Old Style England,
where Christmas has not yet begun. Here is the Mercure Français's
account of the Christmas holidays,—flattering and obsequious, as I
said:
"Marshal Cadenet did not depart from Dover till the Monday after"
(Christmas day, O. S.). "The English Master of Ceremonies had sent
twenty carriages and three hundred horses for his suite." (If only we
could have ten of the worst of them at Plymouth! They would have
drawn our logs for us that half quarter of a mile. But we were not born
in the purple!) "He slept at Canterbury, where the Grand Seneschal of
England, well accompanied by English noblemen, received him on the
part of the King of England. Wherever he passed, the officers of the
cities made addresses to him, and offers, even ordering their own
archers to march before him and guard his lodgings. When he came to
Gravesend, the Earl of Arundel visited him on the part of the King, and
led him to the Royal barge. His whole suite entered into twenty-five
other barges, painted, hung with tapestry, and well adorned" (think of
our poor, rusty shallop there in Plymouth bay), "in which, ascending the
Thames, they arrived in London Friday the 29th December" (January
8th, N. S.). "On disembarking, the Ambassador was led by the Earl of
Arundel to the palace of the late Queen, which had been superbly and
magnificently arranged for him. The day was spent in visits on the part
of his Majesty the King of Great Britain, of the Prince of Wales, his son,
and of the ambassadors of kings and princes, residing in London." So
splendidly was he entertained, that they write that on the day of his
reception he had four tables, with fifty covers each, and that the Duke
of Lennox, Grand Master of England, served them with magnificent
order.
"The following Sunday" (which we could not spend on shore), "he
was conducted to an audience by the Marquis of Buckingham," (for
shame, Jamie! an audience on Sunday! what would John Knox have
said to that!) "where the French and English nobility were dressed as
for a great feast day. The whole audience was conducted with great
respect, honor, and ceremony. The same evening, the King of Great
Britain sent for the Marshal by the Marquis of Buckingham and the
Duke of Lennox; and his Majesty and the Ambassador remained alone
for more than two hours, without any third person hearing what they
said. The following days were all receptions, banquets, visits, and
hunting-parties, till the embassy departed."
That is the way history gets written by a flattering and obsequious
court editor or organ at the time. That is the way, then, that the dread
sovereign of John Carver and Edward Winslow spent his Christmas
holidays, while they were spending theirs in beginning for him an
empire. Dear old William Brewster used to be a servant of Davison's in
the days of good Queen Bess. As he blows his fingers there in the
twenty-foot storehouse before it is roofed, does he tell the rest
sometimes of the old wassail at court, and the Christmas when the Earl
of Southampton brought Will. Shakespeare in? Perhaps those things
are too gay,—at all events, we have as much fuel here as they have at
St. James's.
Of this precious embassy, dear reader, there is not a word, I think, in
Hume, or Lingard, or the "Pictorial"—still less, if possible, in the
abridgments. Would you like, perhaps, after this truly elegant account
thus given by a court editor, to look behind the canvas and see the
rough ends of the worsted? I always like to. It helps me to understand
my morning "Advertiser" or my "Evening Post," as I read the editorial
history of to-day. If you please, we will begin in the Domestic State
Papers of England, which the good sense of somebody, I believe kind
Sir Francis Palgrave, has had opened for you and me and the rest of
us.
Here is the first notice of the embassy:
Dec. 13. Letter from Sir Robert Naunton to Sir George Calvert....
"The King of France is expected at Calais. The Marshal of Cadenet is to
be sent over to calumniate those of the religion (that is, the
Protestants), and to propose Madme. Henriette for the Prince."
So they knew, it seems, ten days before we started, what we were
coming for.
Dec. 22. John Chamberlain to Sir Dudley Carleton. "In spite of
penury, there is to be a masque at Court this Christmas. The King is
coming in from Theobalds to receive the French Ambassador, Marshal
Cadenet, who comes with a suite of 400 or 500."
What was this masque? Could not Mr. Payne Collier find up the
libretto, perhaps? Was it Faith, Valor, Hope, and Love, founding a
kingdom, perhaps? Faith with a broadaxe, Valor and Hope with a two-
handled saw, while Love dug post-holes and set up timbers? Or was it
a less appropriate masque of King James' devising?
Dec. 25. This is our day. Francis Willisfourd, Governor of Dover Castle
to Lord Zouch, Warden of the Cinque Ports. "A French Ambassador has
landed with a great train. I have not fired a salute, having no
instructions, and declined showing them the fortress. They are
entertained as well as the town can afford."
Observe, we are a little surly. We do not like the French King very
well, our own King's daughter being in such straits yonder in the
Palatinate. What do these Papists here?
That is the only letter written on Christmas day in the English
"Domestic Archives" for that year! Christmas is for frolic here, not for
letter-writing, nor house-building, if one's houses be only built already!
But on the 27th, Wednesday, "Lord Arundel has gone to meet the
French Ambassador at Gravesend." And a very pretty time it seems
they had at Gravesend, when you look on the back of the embroidery.
Arundel called on Cadenet at his lodgings, and Cadenet did not meet
him till he came to the stair—head of his chamber-door—nor did he
accompany him further when he left. But Arundel was even with him
the next morning. He appointed his meeting for the return call in the
street; and when the barges had come up to Somerset House, where
the party was to stay, Arundel left the Ambassador, telling him that
there were gentlemen who would show him his lodging. The King was
so angry that he made Cadenet apologize. Alas for the Court of
Governor John Carver on this side,—four days old to-day—if Massasoit
should send us an ambassador! We shall have to receive him in the
street, unless he likes to come into a palace without a roof! But,
fortunately, he does not send till we are ready!
The Domestic Archives give another glimpse:
Dec. 30. Thomas Locke to Carleton: "The French Ambassador has
arrived at Somerset House with a train so large that some of the seats
at Westminster Hall had to be pulled down to make room at their
audience." And in letters from the same to the same, of January 7, are
accounts of entertainments given to the Ambassador at his first
audience (on that Sunday), on the 4th at Parliament House, on the 6th
at a masque at Whitehall, where none were allowed below the rank of
a Baron—and at Lord Doncaster's entertainment—where "six thousand
ounces of gold are set out as a present," says the letter, but this I do
not believe. At the Hampton entertainment, and at the masque there
were some disputes about precedency, says John Chamberlain in
another letter. Dear John Chamberlain, where are there not such
disputes? At the masque at Whitehall he says, "a Puritan was flouted
and abused, which was thought unseemly, considering the state of the
French Protestants." Let the Marshal come over to Gov. John Carver's
court and see one of our masques there, if he wants to know about
Puritans. "At Lord Doncaster's house the feast cost three thousand
pounds, beside three hundred pounds worth of ambergris used in the
cooking," nothing about that six thousand ounces of gold. "The
Ambassador had a long private interview with the king; it is thought he
proposed Mad. Henriette for the Prince. He left with a present of a rich
jewel. He requested liberation of all the imprisoned priests in the three
kingdoms, but the answer is not yet given."
By the eleventh of January the embassy had gone, and Thomas
Locke says Cadenet "received a round answer about the Protestants."
Let us hope it was so, for it was nearly the last, as it was. Thomas
Murray writes that he "proposed a match with France,—a confederation
against Spanish power, and asked his Majesty to abandon the
rebellious princes,—but he refused unless they might have toleration."
The Ambassador was followed to Rochester for the debts of some of
his train,—but got well home to Paris and New Style.
And so he vanishes from English history.
His king made him Duke of Chaulnes and Peer of France, but his
brother, the favorite died soon after, either of a purple fever or of a
broken heart, and neither of them need trouble us more.
At the moment the whole embassy seemed a failure in England,—
and so it is spoken of by all the English writers of the time whom I
have seen. "There is a flaunting French Ambassador come over lately,"
says Howel, "and I believe his errand is naught else but compliment....
He had an audience two days since, where he, with his train of ruffling
long-haired Monsieurs, carried himself in such a light garb, that after
the audience the king asked my Lord Keeper Bacon what he thought of
the French Ambassador. He answered, that he was a tall, proper man.
'Aye,' his Majesty replied, 'but what think you of his head-piece? Is he a
proper man for the office of an ambassador?' 'Sir,' said Bacon, 'tall men
are like houses of four or five stories, wherein commonly the
uppermost room is worst furnished.'"
Hard, this, on us poor six-footers. One need not turn to the
biography after this, to guess that the philosopher was five feet four.
I think there was a breeze, and a cold one, all the time, between the
embassy and the English courtiers. I could tell you a good many stories
to show this, but I would give them all for one anecdote of what
Edward Winslow said to Madam Carver on Christmas evening. They
thought it all naught because they did not know what would come of it.
We do know.
And I wish you to observe, all the time, beloved reader, whom I
press to my heart for your steadiness in perusing so far, and to whom I
would give a jewel had I one worthy to give, in token of my
consideration (how you would like a Royalston beryl or an Attleboro
topaz).[A] I wish you to observe, I say, that on the Christmas tide,
when the Forefathers began New England, Charles and Henrietta were
first proposed to each other for that fatal union. Charles, who was to
be Charles the First, and Henrietta, who was to be mother of Charles
the Second, and James the Second. So this was the time, when were
first proposed all the precious intrigues and devisings, which led to
Charles the Second, James the Second, James the Third, so called, and
our poor friend the Pretender. Civil War—Revolution—1715—1745—
Preston-Pans, Falkirk and Culloden—all are in the dispatches Cadenet
carries ashore at Dover, while we are hewing our timbers at the side of
the brook at Plymouth, and making our contribution to Protestant
America.
 On the one side Christmas is celebrated by fifty outcasts chopping
wood for their fires—and out of the celebration springs an empire. On
the other side it is celebrated by the noblesse of two nations and the
pomp of two courts. And out of the celebration spring two civil wars,
the execution of one king and the exile of another, the downfall twice
repeated of the royal house, which came to the English throne under
fairer auspices than ever. The whole as we look at it is the tale of ruin.
Those are the only two Christmas celebrations of that year that I have
found anywhere written down!
You will not misunderstand the moral, dear reader, if, indeed, you
exist; if at this point there be any reader beside him who corrects the
proof! Sublime thought of the solemn silence in which these words may
be spoken! You will not misunderstand the moral. It is not that it is
better to work on Christmas than to play. It is not that masques turn
out ill, and that those who will not celebrate the great anniversaries
turn out well. God forbid!
It is that these men builded better than they knew, because they did
with all their heart and all their soul the best thing that they knew.
They loved Christ and feared God, and on Christmas day did their best
to express the love and the fear. And King James and Cadenet,—did
they love Christ and fear God? I do not know. But I do not believe, nor
do you, that the masque of the one, or the embassy of the other,
expressed the love, or the hope, or the faith of either!
So it was that John Carver and his men, trying to avoid the
celebration of the day, built better than they knew indeed, and, in their
faith, laid a corner-stone for an empire.
And James and Cadenet trying to serve themselves—forgetful of the
spirit of the day, as they pretended to honor it—were so successful that
they destroyed a dynasty.
There is moral enough for our truer Christmas holidays as 1867 leads
in the new-born sister.
[A] Mrs. Hemans says they did not seek "bright jewels of the mine," which
was fortunate, as they would not have found them. Attleboro is near
Plymouth Rock, but its jewels are not from mines. The beryls of Royalston
 are, but they are far away. Other good mined jewels, I think, New England
has none. Her garnets are poor, and I have yet seen no good amethysts.

Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son.

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With Illuminations and Etchings on copper, by Walter Severn. One
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SING SONG: A Nursery Rhyme Book. By Christina G. Rossetti. One
Hundred and Twenty Songs, with an Illustration to each Song, by
Arthur Hughes, engraved by the Dalziels. One volume, thin 8vo,
cloth, gilt. Price $2.00.
THE NEW-YEAR'S BARGAIN. A Christmas Story for Children. By Susan
Coolidge. With Illustrations by Addie Ledyard. One volume, square
16mo, cloth, gilt. Price $1.50.
PAUL OF TARSUS: An Inquiry into the Times and the Gospel of the
Apostle of the Gentiles. By a Graduate. 16mo. Price $1.50.
MY HEALTH. By F. C. Burnand, author of "Happy Thoughts." Volume X.
Handy-volume Series. Red cloth. Price $1.00.
ARABESQUES. Monare—Apollyona—Domitia—Ombra. Four Stories of the
Supernatural. By Mrs. Richard S. Greenough. With Medallions and
Initial Letters. Red-line border printed on heavy laid paper. One
elegant 16mo volume, bound in cloth, gilt. Price $2.00.
ENGLISH LESSONS FOR ENGLISH PEOPLE. By E. A. Abbott, M. A.,
and J. R. Seeley, M. A. (author of "Ecce Homo"). One volume,
16mo, cloth. Price $1.50.
This little manual (reprinted from early sheets of the English edition
by arrangement with the authors), intended not only for a text-book in
advanced schools and colleges, but for the general reader, will be found
to be an invaluable assistant to those acquiring a method of speaking
and writing the English language correctly. Prof. Seeley, the author of
"Ecce Homo," has the reputation of being one of the most perfect of
English scholars.
CUES FROM ALL QUARTERS; or, Literary Musings of a Clerical
Recluse. By Francis Jacox. One volume, 16mo. Price $1.50.
RADICAL PROBLEMS. By Rev. C. A. Bartol. One volume, 16mo. Price
$2.00.
THE TO-MORROW OF DEATH; or, The Future Life according to
Science. By Louis Figuier. Translated by S. R. Crocker. Editor of the
"Literary World." One volume, 16mo. Price $1.50.
THE ROSE-GARDEN. A Novelette. By the author of "Unawares."
16mo. Price $1.50.
UNAWARES. A Novelette. By Frances M. Peard. 16mo. Price $1.50.
SAILING ON THE NILE. By Laurent Laporte. Translated by Virginia
Vaughan. 16mo. Price $1.50.
MIRÈIO: A Pastoral Poem. From the Provençal of M. Mistral, by Miss
Harriet W. Preston. Gilt top. Price $2.00.
THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER. A Novel. By George Macdonald. With many
original Illustrations. Price $1.50.
AFTER ALL, NOT TO CREATE ONLY. Walt Whitman's American
Institute Poem. 12mo, cloth, limped covers. Price 30 cents.
 MESSRS. ROBERTS BROTHERS'
PUBLICATIONS.

J E A N I N G E L O W.

OFF THE SKELLIGS.

A NOVEL.
By Jean Ingelow. 16mo. 670 pages. Price $1.75

From the Literary World.

"The first novel from the pen of one of the most popular poets of the
age—written, too, in the author's maturity, when her name is almost
exclusively associated with verse, so far as literature is concerned, and
therefore to be regarded as a deliberate work, and one in which she
challenges the decisive judgment of the public—will be read with
universal and eager interest.... We have read this book with constantly
increasing pleasure. It is a novel with a soul in it, that imparts to the
reader an influence superior to mere momentary entertainment; it is
not didactic, but it teaches; it is genuine, fresh, healthy, presents
cheerful views of life, and exalts nobility of character without seeming
to do so."
 Extract from a private letter,—not intended for publication,—the
hearty opinion of one of the most popular and favorite writers of the
present day:—
"Thanks for the book. I sat up nearly all night to read it, and think it
very charming.... I hope she will soon write again; for we need just
such simple, pure, and cheerful stories here in America, where even
the nursery songs are sensational, and the beautiful old books we used
to love are now called dull and slow. I shall sing its praises loud and
long, and set all my boys and girls to reading 'Off the Skelligs,' sure
that they will learn to love it as well as they do her charming Songs. If
I could reach so far, I should love to shake hands with Miss Ingelow,
and thank her heartily for this delightful book."

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 Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag.
BY LOUISA M. A L C O T T.
Vol. I. Comprising "My Boys," &c. 16mo. Cloth, gilt. Price $1.00.

From the London Athenæum.

A collection of fugitive tales and sketches which we should have been
sorry to lose. Miss Alcott's boys and girls are always delightful in her
hands. She throws a loving glamour over them; and she loves them
herself so heartily that it is not possible for the reader to do otherwise.
We have found the book very pleasant to read.
From the New York Tribune.
The large and increasing circle of juveniles who sit enchanted year in
and out round the knees of Miss Alcott will hail with delight the
publication of "Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag." The most taking of these taking
tales is, to our fancy, "My Boys;" but all possess the quality which made
"Little Women" so widely popular, and the book will be welcomed and
read from Maine to Florida.
Mrs. Hale, in Godey's Lady's Book.
These little stories are in every way worthy of the author of "Little
Women." They will be read with the sincerest pleasure by thousands of
children, and in that pleasure there will not be a single forbidden
ingredient. "My Boys," which, opening upon by chance, we read
through at a sitting, is charming. Ladislas, the noble, sweet-tempered
Pole, is the original of Laurie, ever to be remembered by all "Aunt Jo's"
readers.
 From the Providence Press.
Dear Aunt Jo! You are embalmed in the thoughts and loves of
thousands of little men and little women. Your scrap-bag is rich in its
stores of good things. Pray do not close and put it away quite yet.
This is Louisa Alcott's Christmas tribute to the young people, and it
is, like herself, good. In making selections, "Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag" must
not be forgotten. There will be a vacant place where this little volume
is not.

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Publishers,
ROBERTS BROTHERS, B o s t o n .

MESSRS. ROBERTS BROTHERS'

PUBLICATIONS.