1883.] 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
TT 
-edge, backwards, and turn round. The most diffi¬ 
cult forward movement is the cross outside edge, 
called the “Mercury” figure. This is done by 
crossing one leg over the other, and striking out 
with the foot as it comes down on the ice. 
To describe a curve, or circle, on the inside edge, 
you must select a piece of 6now, or any light ob¬ 
ject, as a center ; take a sufficient run, and strike 
out on the inward edge. Tour eyes, meanwhile, 
must look toward the shoulder, opposite that which 
directs the general movement of the side on which 
you turn. The leg on which you skate must be 
straight; the other one also being kept almost stiff, 
And about eighteen inches from the one you rest 
upon. The outside edge curve is done in much 
the same way, only the propelling limb is slightly 
bent at the knee. 
The figures 8, and 3, are very good ones for prac¬ 
tice, and when they are mastered, others become 
quite easy. We give a few general directions, 
which all persons learning to skate should be care¬ 
ful to observe. Let your dress be warm and fit 
closely, but not tight enough to impede free mo¬ 
tion. Be certain that the ice is strong enough to 
befir the weight of the skaters. Should you come 
suddenly upon weak ice, do not 6top, but pass rap¬ 
idly over it; if you fall, roll toward the firmer part, 
without attempting to rise and walk. When a 
skater falls into a hole, he should extend his arms 
horizontally across the edges of the ice, and 60 sup¬ 
port himself until a rope can be thrown to him. 
.After an immersion in the water, the skater must, 
if able, run home as quickly as possible, pull off 
the wet clothes, take a spoonful of ginger in hot 
water, and go to bed. If these precautions are 
followed, there will be very little danger from the 
misadventures of this sport. 
Edith’s Floral Favorite. 
BY ISABEL SMITHSON. 
OWN in the cellar of 
an old country 
house lay a heap of 
potatoes. Some of 
them were large and 
some were 6mnll, 
but all wore nice 
brown jackets, and 
It, all were gazing 
round them with 
their little red eyes. 
Not far off stood a bar¬ 
rel of cider, a 
fat old fellow, 
with shining 
brass hoops all 
round his body, 
and these 
hoops, he said, 
were golden 
girdles made on 
purposeforhim 
io wear. Such vanity ! The potatoes did not be¬ 
lieve him, neither did the rosy-cheeked apples in 
the next bin, though they were not rude enough 
to say so. Now, every day the heap of potatoes 
grew smaller, for Betty, the cook, used to come 
down to the cellar, fill her apron with the nicest 
of the lot, and then go up stairs again, shutting 
the cellar-door behind her with a bang. 
“Where are they gone?” asked those who were 
left, one day. 
“To the bad, most likely,” growled the cider- 
barrel. “I never had a good opinion of potatoes— 
they are of very low birth.” 
The apples blushed at his rudeness (for he was a 
blood-relation of theirs), but the potatoes eyed 
him with contempt. 
“Meow 1 meow!” said Mrs. Puss, who had 
come down to watch a tempting little mouse. “ I 
can tell you how potatoes are treated. As I sit 
dozing by the kitchen fire, 1 see the cook taking off 
their jackets, and drowning them in a pan of water, 
or else she cuts them to pieces and fries them, or 
roasts them, jackets and all.” 
“ How horrible !” groaned the potatoes. 
“ Horrible !” echoed some empty starch-boxes 
in the corner. 
“There is going to be company to dinner to¬ 
day,” said the cat, rubbing her soft 6ide against 
the cider barrel, “ and I dare say all you potatoes 
will have to go.” 
“ Oh, do not say that 1” cried the poor potatoes, 
“ it is too dreadful.” 
One little fellow among them was so frightened 
at Puss’ words, that he made up his mind to run 
away, and he rolled down from the top of the 
pile and hid in a dark corner of the cellar. 
“Just in time,” said an old broom-stick near 
him, “ for here comes the cook.” 
True enough, down came Betty, and putting all 
the potatoes into a basket, she carried them away. 
“Such is life !” sighed the broom-stick. 
It was very damp in the cellar, and the little po¬ 
tato shivered with cold. 
“Would that I had gone with my brethren!” 
he sighed, nestling in the corner. “ It 
i3 very lonely and cold down here.” 
“Nonsense!” grunted the cider- 
barrel, and the potato was afraid to 
6ay another word, so closing his little 
eyes, he lay quite still, and wondered 
what would happen next. Soon after 
that, a ray of sunshine crept through 
the dusty cob-webbed window, and a 
watering-can, which was hanging on 
the wall, cried joyfully : “ Spring has 
come! Now I shall soon see my beau¬ 
tiful flowers again, and the birds and 
butterflies in the garden.” 
The sunbeam kept creeping farther 
and farther into the cellar until it 
reached the potato, and when he felt 
its warmth, he opened his little eyes 
and sighed no more. The next day it 
came again, and every day, and soon 
the potato put forth a little stem and 
a few tiny leaves. 
“Look at me!” he cried. “Could 
anything be more graceful ?” 
“ Do not chatter so,” said the gruff 
old cider-barrcl, “ you make my head 
ache.” 
Every day the sun grew warmer, and little birds 
hopped past the cellar window. Spring had in¬ 
deed come at last, and the watering-can was taken 
from its nail, and carried up-stairs. Then the cel¬ 
lar was cleared up, and the potato, with its delicate 
stem, was swept away in the rubbish. 
“ Oh, I shall certainly choke ! ” he cried, as a 
• cloud of dust hid him from sight, “ my beautiful 
leaves will be spoiled.” 
No one heard him, however, and he was taken 
up-strairs with the sweepings, and the kitchen girl 
picking him out of the heap of rubbish, carelessly 
threw him into some soft earth, which happened 
to be a flower-bed. Down, down, he sank, until 
nothing could be seen of him but his little leaves. 
The warm air kissed him tenderly, golden-wing¬ 
ed butterflies flitted past, and by degrees, the beau¬ 
tiful flowers budded and blossomed round him. 
“ How nice this is ! ” he said, “ ever so much bet¬ 
ter than that dark, damp cellar.” 
He had grown 60 tall that he could look over 
the heads of all the plants near him, and one day 
the gardener came down the pathway telling his 
boy to pull up all the weeds. 
“ Surely he doesn’t mean me ! ” thought the po¬ 
tato in alarm, “ and yet he seemed to look this 
way. Oh, what shall I do. I feel quite faint. I 
almost wish myself back in the cellar again ! ” 
He was trembling with fright, but fortunately 
for him, the boy began weeding at the other end 
of the bed, and before he reached the potato, was 
called in to his dinner, and then sent away on an 
errand, so the little potato breathed freely again. 
That night a gentle rain came down, and all the 
flowers opened their thirsty mouths to drink, and 
in the morning, when the potato unfolded his 
green leaves, he was filled with joyful surprise to 
find his stem was crowned with a cluster of flowers. 
“ How lovely ! ” he cried, “ now I am a flower 
like the rest. I need not be afraid of the garden¬ 
er’s boy any more, for he would not harm me ! ” 
He waved his leaves gently, and looked round 
with an air of pride, for he thought himself the 
ornament of the garden. 
Pride goes before a fall they say, and the pota¬ 
to’s vanity was punished by a dreadful fright. 
One day the gardener came along and stopped to 
look at a rose-bush which grew next our friend, 
and the potato, wishing to be noticed too, tossed 
his head, and swung himself back and forth until 
he tapped the gardener on the face. 
“ Why, bless my heart, a potato in the flower¬ 
bed ! ” cried the old man, “ who ever saw the like? 
Jim, is this the way you weed the garden—eh ? ” 
“ I was putting in some seeds for Miss Edith,” 
the boy replied, coming up with a little bright-eyed 
girl “but I can finish this bed in a minute.” 
Edith was a pale little 
city child, and had ,come 
to spend the summer with 
her aunt in the country. She had never before 6een 
so many flowers in a garden together, and thought 
that “the country ” was the loveliest place in the 
world ; she was eight years old and could read and 
do fancy-work, and play scales on the piano, but 
she did not know even the names of half the flow¬ 
ers in her aunt’s garden, and had only just found 
out that seeds planted to-day, can not possibly 
“come up” to-morrow, however much you may 
water and watch them. 
So when she saw the potato-plant, Miss Edith 
was very much pleased, and cried out, “ Oh what 
a nice flower! It’s different from tho rest, isn’t it 
—what’s its name, Jim ? ” 
“ It’s only a potato,” said Jim disdainfully. 
“Why, New York potatoes are not like that,” 
said the little girl in surprise—“what arc you go¬ 
ing to do ?” she added suddenly. 
“Going to pull it up," he answered, but Edith 
held his arm, and said earnestly, 
“Oh don’t do that, for it will die, you said so.” 
“But it don’t belong here, Miss,” said the gar¬ 
dener, smiling at her anxious little face, “it’s like 
a weed, and must come up. Now here’s a rose for 
you, this is pretty.” 
“But that is pretty too,” she said, taking the 
rose from his hand, yet looking at the potato sadly. 
“ see how white it is—let it stay there, please.” 
“ It won’t show, father,” added the boy. 
“Very well, if Miss Edith wants it so much, let 
it stay,” said the gardener good-naturedly. 
Then Edith ran away and brought her watering- 
can and gave her “pretty potato” a sprinkling, 
and the potato laughed to see that his old acquain¬ 
tances did not recognize him. All summer long he 
was watched and petted by the little girl, and tak¬ 
ing care of him kept her out in the fresh air so 
much, that she became strong and rosy, and they 
were happy together, helping each other to grow. 
