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Perhaps you have read how at first they tried for each message as many wires as there are letters of the alphabet; and when, in 1816, Ronalds thought a single wire would do, he was told by the British government that "telegraphs of any kind are now wholly unnecessary, and no other than the one now in use will be adopted."

Just think what a remark that was for enlightened England to make.

But she couldn't stop the busy brains from thinking and wondering and planning.

Dyar, Ampere, Baron Schilling, Moncke and Cooke, one after the other, kept the ball of inquiry and experiment constantly in motion; and each added some new suggestion to the growing idea of a practical system of telegraphing. At last, in 1835, the first actual electric telegraph was constructed in England from Paddington to Drayton, a distance of thirteen miles. There were five needles connected with it, and the six wires, wound round with hemp, were laid in pipes along the surface of the ground.

Four years later, a certain Dr. O'Shaughnessy built at Calcutta the first over-ground line of iron wire, which he drew over bamboo poles.

But it remained for our own countryman, Samuel F. B. Morse, to perfect the great discovery; and it was during his voyage home from France in 1832 that he first conceived the idea of making signs at a distance, by means of a pencil moved by an electric magnet. The model he formed had but one conducting medium, and the paper was moved under the pencil by clock work. This he made in 1835, but it was not till 1844 that the first public telegraph was laid in our country. It extended from Washington to Baltimore, a distance, as you remember, of forty miles. Since then, there has been no end to the lines of telegraphing that have been laid all over our country from the Atlantic to the Pacific coast; and now, as you know, the great ocean itself is spanned by the same magic wire; for Cyrus Field conquered every difficulty and showed us how even the deep waters could be made a connecting medium.

Of course my WIDE AWAKE readers know how the messages travel over the wires; but perhaps they do not quite understand what the District Telegraph means; there are only four offices in Boston one at the South End Post Office, one at the State House, another on Brimmer Street, and the fourth at the Brunswick Hotel. It was at this latter office that I saw how the system worked.

There are ten boys employed here, and they are on duty ten hours each day. Of this number, two are up all night, and the ten take turns in sharing this night work. Their uniform I described as being very similar though quite distinct from the Western Union boys; and I might have added that it is a good deal fresher-looking, for the "District" boys have not been so long in "office."

At the Brunswick, there are three circuits of the District Telegraph; and as the name implies the lines are all confined to city limits. The various wires in the office are connected with private houses and are for the especial convenience of those who may desire immediate attendance.

A strip of paper passes under the electric needle, and each of the three circuits has a separate instrument. While I was there a call came from one of the circuits, so I had the satisfaction of seeing just how the whole thing was managed.

When the needle moves a bell rings -- once, if it is just an errand boy that is wanted; twice, if a policeman is called; and three times if any one desires a hack to be sent to his residence. Well, this time the bell rang twice, very violently, too, -- and the clerk in charge quickly lifted up the paper under the needle, read the number of dots pricked upon it -- opened a little drawer just above that had the same number printed upon it, found in the drawer the gentleman's address; and, in far less time than I can possibly write it down, it was all done and the policeman running fast to relieve the frightened household.

The truth was that in one of those pretty brown stone fronts on the Back Bay there was just then, even while I sat there, a great commotion.

It seems hardly possible that anything of the kind could occur in such a locality of the city; but we must remember that even in the most elegant of mansions there must always be a "down-stairs" as well as an "upstairs."

Now a certain Maria in one of these lower domains, had been cook and queen for so many years that nobody thought of disputing her rights. She could make the whitest of bread, the puffiest of pastry, the lightest, most mouth-melting of cakes -- indeed, there seemed to be nothing in all Miss Parloa's art to which this fat Maria was not equal. But alas! she had one great failing -- and the little black bottle on the corner shelf in the cupboard told the whole story.

Well, on this particular day that I began to tell you about, the children up in the nursery heard a great outcry from the basement.

Harry was the boldest of the little trio, and scampered down stairs to see what was the matter; but soon, with all the color out his rosy cheeks, he came running back -- crying at the top of his lungs. The little fellow was terribly frightened, but managed to tell his mamma that there was a big rough man in the kitchen, that Maria had thrown a plate at him, and that her face was just as red as red could be!