A few years ago, manual training in modeling, wood-carving, carpentry, forge-work, and other branches, was introduced into a technical course in the College of the City of New York, in East Twenty-third street. To-day it is one of the most interesting features of the College work, and is highly appreciated by the students. Private schools in this city, as also some of the public and private schools of Boston and Philadelphia, have introduced the workshop into their methods of instruction, and devote a few hours in each week to practical and manual labor. The models illustrated in this article represent many well spent and helpful hours of recreation, and other boys may find pleasure and profit in making similar use of their leisure time and their powers of handicraft. A NEW VIEW OF THE MOON. BY EVA LOVETT CARSON. A little boy just two years old, Or maybe two months older, Came riding home across the lot, Perched on his father's shoulder. "Look, Oswald! Hold your head up straight! (Do stop that dreadful drumming!) See, just above where Mamma stands A little moon is coming!" The baby lifts his round blue eyes; The moon laughs at their glancing. To see the wonder of his gaze 'Most sets the moon a-dancing. Frowning, he solved the problem soon; Indignantly he spoke it: "Papa, dat's not the big wound moon; I fink _somebody b'oke it_!" JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. [Illustration] Away--ho, away!--Let us off on a quest! To the North--to the South--to the East--to the West! To the West, to find where the sunsets go When the skies are as red as roses a-blow; To the East, to see whence the mornings come; To the South, the Summer to track to her home; To the North, by the gleam of the Polar Star, And Night's aurora flaming afar, To seek, in the keen and biting weather, The lodestone that holds the world together. Now and then somebody writes out the very thoughts of the birds; and then again, others tell me very prettily just what they think ought to be felt by the tuneful-minded little creatures. Here, for instance, comes this scrap of verse from my friend Emily A. Braddock that I hope not only you children, but all of my birds will hear. I don't allude so much to the sparrows and such stay-at-homes as to my migratory, or go-away birds. I'm sure they'd be delighted at a poet's way of putting things. It will give them something to go for. As for myself, I've not started yet, so we'll proceed to discuss a certain odd saying for which it seems the world is indebted to one sort of these migratory birds: "EVERYTHING IS LOVELY, AND THE GOOSE HANGS HIGH." This expression, the Little School-ma'am says, is a corruption of an old-fashioned saying that originated in the early days of this country.