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(Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by James Elverson, in the Office of the Librarian of
Congress, at Washington, D.C.)

Linda’s Crazy Quilt.

BY FANNIE WILLIAMS.

“Oh, dear!” sighed Linda Trafton, turning over the pages of a
closely-written, school-girlish letter, which her brother Fred had
tossed into her lap, on returning from the post office. “I do wish
I could get silk pieces enough to make a crazy quilt. Cousin Dell writes
all about hers, and it must be very pretty.”

“Crazy quilt! That’s about all I’ve heard for the last six months!
I should think you girls had all gone crazy yourselves!” ejaculated
Fred.

“Why, Fred!” was Linda’s only answer to this outburst.

She was a very sweet-tempered little maid, with soft, brown hair and
soft, brown eyes, that matched in color as exactly as eyes and hair
could match, and gave her a look of being—as indeed she
was—too gentle to dispute, or even to argue, with anybody, least
of all with Fred, who was fifteen, and three years her elder, and always
took a tone of great superiority toward his little sister.

Still, he was a pretty good sort of brother, as brothers go; and, in
Linda’s eyes, he was a prodigy of cleverness.

So, whenever they happened to differ in opinion, and Fred expressed
himself in this vehement style, she only looked at him in a deprecating
way, and murmured:

“Why, Fred!”

“Well, I should like to know,” continued Fred, “what could be more
idiotic than the way you spend your time, you girls, fitting those
ridiculous, catty-cornered pieces of silk together, and working them all
over with bugs and cobwebs and caterpillars, and little boys in Mother
Hubbard dresses! You may well call ’em crazy quilts! I don’t
believe there was ever anything crazier, unless it was the lunatic who
first invented them!”

“Why, Fred!” said Linda, again. “Now, I think they are too pretty for
anything!”

“Pretty!” snorted Fred. “They’re made out of the last things that
you’d suppose anybody would ever think of putting into a bed-quilt.
I can’t get a chance to wear a neck-tie half out before somebody
wants it. Kate Graham spoke for my last new one the next day after I
bought it. And I hardly dare to put my hat down, where there’s a girl
around, for fear she’ll capture my hat-band!”

By this time, Linda was laughing outright.

“Oh, you are so funny, Fred! But you only just ought to see Kate
Graham’s crazy quilt. I know you couldn’t help calling it
lovely. She has got pieces of ever so many wedding dresses in it; but I
don’t know who would give me any. Aunt Mary never will get
married, nor Cousin Susie, nor our Bridget, unless Pat hurries up with
his courting—and there’s nobody else. Besides, they are all making

385b
crazy quilts of their own. I would start one with papa’s old silk
handkerchief and his Association badge, if I thought I could ever get
pieces enough to finish it; but I don’t see how I could.”

“Bess Hartley told me that she was going to send off somewhere and
get a lot of pieces that are put up to sell. You get a whole package of
assorted colors for a dollar,” suggested Fred.

“Oh, that would make it cost too much! Mamma would not let me do
that,” said Linda, shaking her head. “She says it is well enough to use
up odd bits of silk in that way, if one happens to have them; but she
doesn’t think it right to spend money in such a manner, instead of using
it for better purposes—and I don’t suppose it is.”

“Well, I am sure I don’t know what you are going to do,” was Fred’s
consoling observation. “You’d be as crazy as the rest of the girls if
you began to piece a quilt; and I don’t know but you will go crazy if
you can’t.”

With which conclusion, Fred walked off
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whistling, and left Linda to read her Cousin Dell’s letter over again,
and wish that Patrick O’Brien would propose to Bridget, if he was ever
going to, so that she could get married, and have a new silk dress for
her wedding.

However, Linda was not the girl to fret and worry after things which
were unattainable.

Fred would have his joke, but she was not going to make herself
unhappy just because she had not the materials for making silk
patchwork, as Dell and the rest of her girl friends were doing. There
were plenty of other pleasures and amusements within her reach, and the
one that she enjoyed most of all came in her way, as it happened, the
very next morning.

“OH, MRS. BURBANK! WHAT BEAUTIFUL PIECES!” CRIED LINDA. “WHERE DID THEY
ALL COME FROM?”

Her father said to her, as he rose from the table after
breakfast:

“Linda, would you like a ride, my dear? I am going to drive over
to East Berlin, and I will take you along, if you would like
to go.”

“If I would like it! Why, papa, you know
there isn’t anything that I like so much as a good, long ride
with you!” cried Linda, dancing with delight, as she ran off to get
ready for the drive.

For it was indeed a “good long” ride to East
Berlin—fifteen miles at least—and

386a
the day was just as fresh and bright and lovely as a day could be in the
fresh and bright and lovely month of May.

The young grass was emerald green along the country roads, the apple
trees were all in sheets of bloom, hill-sides were fairly blue with
bird-foot violets, and sweet spring flowers were smiling everywhere.

Linda was so full of happiness that she could scarcely keep from
singing in concert with the birds that trilled and chirped among the
trees on either hand, as the pleasant road led through a piece of
woodland.

But the woods came to an end abruptly where the trees had been cut
off, and where some men with ox-carts were hauling away the long piles
of cord-wood. Then there were fields of plowed ground on each side of
the road, and then a long stretch of rocky hills and old pastures, and
presently some houses came in sight.

Old, weather-beaten houses they were—a dozen, perhaps, in all.
Two or three had once been painted red, and still displayed some dark
and dingy traces of that color; but most of them were brown, and some
had green moss growing on their broad, sloping roofs—roofs which
were two stories high in front, but came down so low at the back that a
lively boy might reach them from the ground with very little effort,
only the place did not look as if anything so young or so lively as a
boy had been seen there for at least twenty years.

Still, it was a pleasant place. There were thickets of lilac and
mock-orange bushes around every house, and old-fashioned lilies and
roses growing half-wild along the fences.

There were flagged walks leading up to all the doors, with borders of
evergreen box, which had once been trim, and still was quaint and
pleasing; there were old gardens, where everything was “all run out,”
but where the bees and birds appeared to find congenial homes; there
were gnarly old apple-trees, with bending, twisted branches that touched
the ground and made the most enticing rustic seats.

Withal, there was a calm and stillness brooding on the place that
filled one’s fancy with sweet thoughts of olden times and—

“Whoo-oo-oop! Hip, hip, pip, hoo-ray!”

“Good gracious!” cried Mr. Trafton, starting from his pleasant
reverie, and clutching at the reins which lay loose upon his knee. “Good
gracious! What’s that?”

“It’s a boy!” said Linda, with a quite disgusted accent.

Unquestionably, it was a boy—and a boy of the most aggressively
modern type, clad in garments of the very latest cut, from his flannel
yachting-shirt to his canvas “base-ball” shoes—a boy with a
look as well as a voice, which proclaimed him all alive.

His close-cropped head was bare, and his white straw hat came
spinning over the stone wall and into the middle of the road, as if
impelled by steam-power, before the boy himself scrambled over, giving
vent to another whoop, which would have done credit to a Comanche gone
mad.

The whoop and the hat together were enough to startle almost any
horse; and, although Mr. Trafton’s fine roadster, “Billy,” was pretty
well trained, the combined effect was a little too much for his nerves.
He gave a sidelong leap and started to run. His master checked him
sharply, and veering from the road, he ran the wheels into a deep rut,
and over went the buggy with a crash!

Linda screamed, as she was pitched headlong into a thicket of
sweet-fern which grew along the roadside; but the bushes broke her fall,
and, beyond the fright and a scratched hand, she received no injury.

Her father was equally fortunate, and, as Billy had recovered from
his momentary panic and did not run, the accident appeared, at the first
glance, to be nothing serious.

The boy who had caused it came forward, with a look of trepidation
upon his countenance, exclaiming:

“I’m awfully sorry, sir; I didn’t mean to frighten your horse.
I was down behind the wall and didn’t see you coming, or I wouldn’t
have thrown my hat so. I was only scaring a squirrel.”

“He must have been pretty thoroughly scared,” said Mr. Trafton,
drily.

However, the boy’s bright face wore an expression of such honest
regret that he added, with a good-humored accent:

“Well, well, I was a boy myself once. You must be more careful
another time, my lad.”

“That I will, sir.”

And as Mr. Trafton began to raise the overturned buggy, the boy took
hold and helped him.

On getting the vehicle righted, they found that one wheel was broken
so badly as to need repairs before the journey could be continued, and
Mr. Trafton surveyed the damage with grave concern.

The boy gave a low whistle, and murmured:

“Here’s a state of things!”

“I don’t see what I’m going to do,” remarked the gentleman. “There’s
nobody in this region who could mend that wheel, I suppose?”

“Oh yes there is!” cried the boy, brightening up. “Doran’s blacksmith
shop is only a little ways down the road; you can get the wheel fixed
there. I’ll go along and hold up this side of the buggy; and I’ll pay
the bill, sir, as I caused the damage.”

Mr. Trafton looked at him approvingly, but answered:

“You need not do that, my boy. The bill won’t amount to much; but the
job may take some time—and where can I leave my little girl?
I suppose you would not care to wait in the blacksmith shop,
Linda?”

Before Linda could reply, the boy said, looking at her frankly, and
not at all abashed:

“She can stay with my grandma while you’re having the wheel fixed.
Mrs. Deacon Burbank is my grandma; she lives right here, sir,” pointing
out the house.

“And where do you live?” asked Mr. Trafton, who took a liking to Mrs.
Deacon Burbank’s grandson, for all his annoyance at the trouble which
that lively youth had caused him.

“I’m staying with grandma this summer,” said the boy; “but I live in
Boston when I’m at home. My name is John Burbank.”

“Well, John, you will have to take Linda to your grandma, for I
cannot leave Billy standing here with this broken buggy.”

“All right, sir; I’ll be back in a minute, and help you down to
Doran’s.”

So saying, John Burbank led the way, and Linda followed, to the
nearest of the brown old houses—a big, broad-roofed domicile,
with wide, double doors and narrow windows, and with two great cherry
trees in the front yard, looking like two great drifts of snow, they
were so thickly covered with white blossoms.

A border of red and yellow tulips, gay daffodils, and “crown
imperials,” edged the narrow walk which led from the front gate around
to the side door, where they were received by a surprised old lady in
gold-bowed spectacles, to whom John presented his companion, with the
following concise account of the accident which occasioned her
unexpected appearance:

“Grandma, here’s a girl, and her father is out there with his team,
and they’ve just had a break-down, and it was all my doing; but I didn’t
mean to! I scared the horse, hollering at a squirrel. I’ve got to
go and help her father get the buggy down to Doran’s, and she’s going to
stay here till it’s fixed, and her name’s Linda. I don’t know what
her other name is.”

“Linda Trafton,” supplemented Linda, as the boy paused to catch his
breath.

“Johnny,” said the old lady, speaking as severely as a stout old lady
with dimples in her cheeks and a twinkle in her eyes could be expected
to speak, when addressing her only grandson—“Johnny, I do
declare for ’t, you air the worst boy! What under the canopy will you go
to cuttin’ up next? Come right in, my dear,” she said to Linda, “and
make yourself to home. Johnny, you run along and help the gentleman; and
tell Mr. Doran your gran’ther will pay the bill.”

“Oh, I’m going to pay it myself, grandma, with my own pocket-money,
if the gentleman will let me; but he says he won’t.”

And Johnny was off before he had done speaking.

“I declare for ’t,” said his grandmother, “that boy is a regular
Burbank; jest exactly what the deacon used to be at his age—always
into suthin’. I knew the deacon when he wa’n’t any older than
Johnny, an’ I remember jest how he used to act. Take off your
things, my dear, and make yourself to home.”

She took Linda’s hat and sacque, and

386c
carried them into the spare bed-room, where there was a great
“four-poster” bedstead, with blue-and-white chintz hangings and a
blue-and-white spread; and then she came and sat down by Linda, and
asked her a great many questions about the break-down, and about her
father and mother and herself, but she was such a nice old lady that
Linda did not mind her being a little inquisitive.

In return, she gave Linda quite a complete history of her own family,
and told her a number of entertaining stories about Johnny and Johnny’s
father, and about the deacon when he was a boy. Finally, she looked at
the queer old clock on the kitchen mantle-shelf, and remarked:

“It’s time I was gittin’ my dinner over to cook, and I guess I shall
have to leave you to amuse yourself a little while, my dear. You might
go out an’ look ’round the garden, if you want; or maybe you’d ruther go
up in the garret, an’ look at Johnny’s picture-books an’ things. He
likes to stay up there, when it rains so’t he can’t go out.”

“Oh, I should like that, of all things!” cried Linda, delighted.
“I do love a real old-fashioned garret, with all sorts of old
things in it!”

“Do you now? Well,” said Mrs. Burbank, beaming over the gold-bowed
spectacles, “our garret is full of old truck, an’ you can go up there
an’ rummage ’round all you’ve a min’ to.”

She opened the door of a narrow staircase, with steep and well-worn
stairs, and told Linda that was the way to the back chamber over the
kitchen, and when she got up there she would see the garret stairs; and
she guessed Linda could find the way up alone. She was pretty hefty
herself, and she didn’t travel up and down stairs any more than she
could help.

Linda very quickly found her way to the garret, which proved to be
indeed a veritable treasury of “old truck;” and her brown eyes opened
wide with ecstasy as she caught sight of a real, genuine spinning-wheel,
stowed away under the low, sloping roof.

Then she discovered a smaller wheel, with a motto carved around its
rim in quaint lettering, which Linda studied over a long time before she
made it out—“Eat not the Bread of Idleness.” She learned afterward
that this was a flax-wheel, on which Deacon Burbank’s mother used to
spin the thread to weave her linen sheets.

Beside the flax-wheel stood a superannuated chest of drawers, with
dingy brass handles, which had once, no doubt, been a fine piece of
furniture.

Then there were broken-down chairs, with straight, stiff backs;
queer, cracked jugs and bottles, and painted teacups with the handles
broken off; and funny old spelling-books and school-readers, all
inscribed, in beautiful handwriting, on their yellow fly-leaves:

“John Burbank, his book.”

Linda knew that the John Burbank who had learned his lessons from
these old books must have been the deacon “when he was a boy,” and not
her young friend, Johnny.

There were several old-fashioned wooden chests among the treasures of
this delightful garret, and Linda hesitated to open them at first; but
finally she called to mind that she had been given permission to
“rummage” as much as she pleased.

One chest, painted green, stood near the narrow window, which threw a
checkered square of sunshine upon the garret floor, and as Linda raised
the cover she gave a little scream of rapture, for it seemed almost as
if she had found a broken rainbow, there was such a glitter of gay
colors in the sunlight.

“Oh! oh!” she cried, “what lovely, lovely pieces for a
crazy quilt!”

For the old chest was nearly filled with scraps of silk and satin of
every shape and size, from bits not over an inch wide to the large,
three-cornered pieces, of which there seemed to be a great number, left
in cutting trimming-folds “on the bias,” as Linda knew, for she had seen
many such remnants proudly displayed by those of her girl friends who
happened to be in the good graces of Miss Cranshaw, the village
dressmaker. But such brocades and stripes, such “plaid” and “watered”
and “figured” silks, such brilliant shades of color as she found among
the contents of that chest, her eyes had never looked upon before.

“I wonder if these are pieces of Deacon Burbank’s mother’s dresses?”
thought

386d
Linda, as she turned them over, exclaiming, every other minute, “Oh, how
pretty!” or “Oh, what a beauty!” for every new piece that she took up
seemed prettier than the last. “Why, she must have had as many as Queen
Victoria. Why don’t they wear such colors now? Most of the silk
dresses that Miss Cranshaw makes are black, or brown, or sage-green, or
some other sober shade; but these are all so bright. Oh, what a lovely
blue!”

“It is a handsome piece of silk, ain’t it? That was the dress Miss
Polly Newcome wore to the inaugeration ball at Washington, ’most forty
years ago. They don’t have no such silks in these days.”

Mrs. Deacon Burbank had mounted the garret stairs with footsteps far
from noiseless, being, as she said, a “hefty” old lady; but Linda
had been too much absorbed to notice her approach until she spoke.

“Oh, Mrs. Burbank! What beautiful pieces!” cried Linda. “Where did
they all come from?”

“Why, they come from all ’round, my dear,” said Mrs. Burbank, sitting
down with Linda, beside the green chest. “You see, my girls used to take
in dressmakin’, when they was young, and the pieces kinder gathered an’
gathered. The girls used to keep the silk pieces separate, thinkin’ they
might do suthin’ with ’em sometime; but they never did. They was always
too busy to do much putterin’ work. So the pieces have laid there ever
sence the girls left home. They all got married, many a long year ago,
my girls. Cecilia went to New York, and Evaline lives down in
Pennsylvaney—she’s got to be quite an old woman herself now; and
Nancy Jane, she’s layin’ in the cemetery over to East Berlin, with her
own little girl buried ’long side of her,” said the old lady, sighing.
“But they used to be called the best dressmakers there was anywhere
round these parts; folks used to come from as far off as Tolland County
to have their nice dresses made by the Burbank girls. Miss Polly Newcome
went to Washington the winter that her father was elected to the Senate.
She was a great beauty, Miss Polly was, an’ they made everything of her
in Washington. But my girls had the makin’ of all her new clothes, ’fore
she went. This was a dress she wore to a grand dinner-party that was
given to her father, Senator Newcome.”

And the old lady picked out a scrap of marvelous brocade, with
silver-white roses on a wine-colored ground, and smoothed it on her
knee.

“This was the one she wore to the President’s
reception”—selecting a bit of rose-colored satin, striped with
sky-blue velvet; “and this,” she continued, smoothing out a long strip
of changeable silk in green and ruby tints, “was another dinner dress.
Here’s a piece of plaid silk that was made up for Squire Harney’s wife,
when she was goin’ to Europe; and here’s a piece of Mrs. Doctor Thorne’s
dress, that she had made on purpose to wear to a grand party over in
Tolland.”

This last was a good-sized square of bright yellow silk, with
polka-dots of mazarine blue.

Linda, looking at the gorgeous fabric with admiring eyes,
exclaimed:

“I never saw such pieces in all my life! They would make the
loveliest crazy quilt!”

“What kind of a quilt, my dear?”

“A crazy quilt,” said Linda, laughing. “Haven’t you ever seen one,
Mrs. Burbank? Fred says the person was crazy who first invented them;
but I think they’re just as pretty as they can be. It takes a great many
pieces of silk, though, to make a bed-quilt, and some of the girls only
make sofa-pillows and such things.”

“Oh, you mean patchwork. The land!” said Mrs. Burbank, “I used
to make silk patchwork more than sixty years ago. It was all the style
then, but I didn’t s’pose they ever done it now.”

“Oh, yes; it is all the style now,” said Linda, with a smile.

“Do tell! I want to know if you like to piece patchwork?” said the
old lady, looking over her spectacles at Linda’s girlish face, with its
gentle eyes and frame of soft, brown hair. “I declare for’t, you
look just as my Nancy Jane did when she was your age! If you want them
pieces, child, you can have ’em; I ain’t got any use for ’em, and
don’t s’pose I ever shall have. I’m too old to piece patchwork,
myself—my eyesight ain’t what it used to be.”

For a moment Linda was speechless with delight, but finally she found
her voice, and cried out:

“Oh, Mrs. Burbank! All those lovely crazy pieces! Do you really mean
to give them to me?”

“Of course I do, and I’m real glad to see ye so pleased, my dear.
Them silk pieces have laid in that chest years an’ years, doin’ nobody
any good; an’ they shan’t lay there no longer, if they can make a little
girl so happy.”

And the good old lady looked happy herself as she opened another
chest, and, taking out an old pillow-case of home-spun linen, began to
fill it with the wondrous “crazy pieces.”

When she had crowded them all in and tied the bag with a piece of
twine, she said:

“Now, you can take ’em right along with you, an’ whenever your father
happens to come this way ag’in, he can bring me back the piller-case,
for it was one of Mother Burbank’s, and I shouldn’t want to lose it.
I declare for ’t!” she added, “I forgot all about your father,
child, I got so took up with lookin’ over them pieces. He’s got the
buggy mended, an’ he’s come back after you, so you must come right down.
I want you an’ he should have dinner ’fore you go; it’s all
ready.”

And happy Linda went down to the kitchen, where she found her father
and Johnny, and Deacon Burbank, who had just come home to dinner.

Mr. Trafton was hungry, and quite willing to take dinner at the
deacon’s, instead of waiting till they arrived at East Berlin.

They all became very well acquainted in the course of the meal, and
Mr. Trafton promised to bring Linda to see Mrs. Burbank, whenever he
came that way.

“And I will bring my crazy quilt and show it to you, when I get it
done, Mrs. Burbank,” added Linda.

Whereupon Johnny spoke up, and said:

“If you don’t get on with your crazy quilt any faster than my sister
does with hers, you won’t ever get it done!”

And Linda told him that sounded just like Fred!

Johnny carried the pillow-case out to the buggy and tucked it under
the seat; and Linda could think of nothing but her crazy pieces all the
way to East Berlin.

When she got home and showed them to Fred, he declared they were the
jolliest, craziest lot of pieces he had seen yet!

And when Linda’s quilt was commenced, all the girls went wild over
it; but she laughingly refused to tell them where her pieces came
from.

She made a great mystery of the matter, asserting, in reply to all
inquiries, that hers would be a crazy quilt with a history, and nobody
should know anything about it until the quilt was finished.

A crazy quilt with a history is no trifling piece of work, and the
girls have not yet heard the story.

DAVY’S TURN.

BY FLORENCE B. HALLOWELL.

“Never mind! It’ll come my turn some day, and then I’ll pay you boys
up; and you’ll be sorry enough for all the mean things you’ve done to
me,” and Davy Potter stooped to pick up the books which one of a group
of a dozen boys had pushed from his arm.

The school-house yard was muddy from recent rains, and the books were
so wet and dirty that Davy took out his pocket handkerchief to wipe them
off.

“What’ll you take for that handkerchief, Dave?” asked Fred Bassett.
“It’s a beauty, and no mistake.”

There was a loud shout from the other boys, and universal attention
was directed to the little square of faded calico Davy was so
industriously using.

A hot flush rose to the boy’s thin, freckled face; but he made no
reply, except to mutter under his breath something which the boys could
not catch.

But there was a bitter, vindictive feeling in his heart as he
followed his persecutors into the school-house. He did not understand
why all the wit—if wit it could be called—should be leveled
at him; why he should be the target for every poisoned arrow, simply
because he was poor, ugly and always at the bottom of his classes. He
thought it unjust and cruel, and longed with all his heart for the time
to come when by some real good luck he would have a chance to “pay the
boys up.”

He knew that if he ever needed assistance in any such work, he could
rely on old Sim Kane to help him; for the old
man—a half-witted creature who earned a miserable livelihood
by doing odd jobs of wood-sawing and cleaning for charitably-disposed
people—had good reason, also, to hate the boys of the Prickett
school, and long for revenge.

Davy lived with an aunt, who gave him a home as a matter of duty, and
regarded him as a burden and a nuisance, often treating him so unkindly
that he was made very unhappy, and spent as little time with her as
possible.

He tried honestly to be dutiful and obedient; but he couldn’t help
forgetting occasionally to wipe his feet before entering the kitchen,
and sometimes he let the fire go out, or forgot to feed the chickens.
Then he was severely reprimanded, of course, and told that he was
ungrateful, as well as stupid.

But in the woods he was free to do as he liked, and there was no one
to scold or find fault with him, and he had many dumb but affectionate
friends there among the squirrels, rabbits and birds.

So he always took his way to the woods every Saturday as soon as he
had cleaned up the yard about his aunt’s house, filled all the
water-buckets, cut the kindling for the kitchen stove, and attended to
the dozen or more other chores Miss Potter required of him.

He never shirked the least of them, no matter how anxious he was to
get away; for he had been so frequently told how much he owed to his
aunt, that he believed he could not do too much for her.

It was while exploring the depths of the woods, one day, that he
discovered the secret retreat of the “Mystic Nine,” a club of nine
boys who disappeared from the village regularly every Saturday morning
during the spring, summer and fall, and remained away until sunset,
often returning with torches to have a street parade after dark, or with
a bag of plump birds for a grand “fry” in the kitchen of some indulgent
mother.

That they had a hiding-place of some sort, where they held meetings
and ate the generous lunches they carried with them, all the boys
outside the nine felt sure; but none of the Mystics ever answered any
questions concerning it, and threw out vague but impressive warnings as
to the terrible fate that would befall any one whose curiosity led him
to seek to penetrate the secret they guarded so closely.

Davy stumbled upon it quite by chance. Following the trail of a bird
with a wounded wing, he found himself in a part of the wood he had never
been in before, and came suddenly upon a great pile of brush a dozen
feet high, behind which was the entrance to a deep cave in a rocky
hillside.

He entered, and found it well furnished with rough blankets,
a table, an oil stove, and many other things necessary to the
comfort and convenience of nine boys. A large window in the roof,
which was carefully covered with brush, afforded a means to obtain
light, when that given by the mouth of the cave did not prove
sufficient, or when bad weather made it necessary to drop the canvas
which did duty as a door.

Davy, afraid of getting into trouble, kept his discovery to himself,
but he made frequent stolen trips to the cave, and resolved that some
day he would use his knowledge for the purpose of obtaining his
revenge.

He had a vague plan in his head to guide about fifty of the roughest
boys in the village to the cave, and thus give the secret to every one,
and he fully determined to let this be his form of revenge, when, being
called upon to read in class, he was forced to use the wet, soiled
books.

His thoughts were directed so much to this subject that his lessons
were recited even worse than usual, and as a result he was kept in to
study for an hour after the close of school.

When he was at last free to go home, and left the school-house, he
found that poor old Sim was in the hands of his enemies. The Mystic Nine
had placed him in his own dilapidated hand-cart, and were wheeling him
down one of the side streets as fast as they could go, shouting and
laughing at his frenzied cries of distress and the ludicrous picture he
presented, as he clung to the side of the cart, the brim of his torn
straw hat flapping in the wind, and an old scarf of bright scarlet silk,
which he cherished as his dearest earthly possession, streaming out
behind.

Davy felt very sorry for the old man,

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but did not dare interfere. He could only wait until the boys, becoming
wearied of their sport, ran the cart into a shallow pond and went off to
seek other diversion.

Old Sim was almost helpless with fright and exhaustion, and when Davy
waded into the pond and pushed the cart out on dry land again, he threw
his arms about the boy’s neck, and clung to him, sobbing and moaning
like a child.

It was all Davy could do to comfort and quiet him, and to persuade
him to go home, so apprehensive was he that another attack would be made
on him. But Davy finally succeeded in convincing him that there was no
further danger, and the old man went scuffling off to the miserable
shanty he called home.

The next day was Saturday, and as the weather was clear and bright,
Davy resolved to spend the whole morning in the woods. But his aunt
found so much for him to do that it was nearly noon before he was able
to get away.

As usual, he divided his lunch with the birds and squirrels, and then
lay down under a tree to read a book he had brought with him.

But it failed to interest him, and his mind persisted in dwelling
upon the unkindness with which he was so systematically treated, both at
home and at school.

“I wonder if it will ever be any different?” he thought, as he sprang
to his feet at last. “If I only could get to the head of the grammar
class just once, they might treat me better. But of course there is no
use in thinking of that, for there’s no chance of it.”

He strolled through the woods, his steps turning unconsciously in the
direction of the secret cave.

He had almost reached it, when he suddenly became aware of where he
was, and started to retrace his steps, fearing the boys would come out
and discover him there.

But scarcely had he turned when, to his amazement, he saw old Sim
Kane come rushing toward him from the direction of the cave.

The old man’s face was pallid with excitement, and he was swinging
his long arms, and muttering and laughing to himself in a way that made
Davy’s blood run cold.

“Sim! Sim! what’s the matter?” he cried.

But the old man paid no attention to him, and not pausing to question
him again, but sure there was trouble of some sort at the cave, Davy ran
toward that secret retreat.

His ears soon told him what the trouble was. The great pile of brush
which concealed the entrance to the cave had been set on fire!

Terrible was the vengeance which the half-demented old man had taken
on his boyish persecutors.

Davy, with a loud cry of horror, and forgetting in that awful moment
all his own wrongs, seized a stout branch, and rushed upon the pile of
brush without a moment’s hesitation.

The entire mouth of the cave was a mass of flame, and it was no easy
matter to scatter the burning brands, so intense was the heat.

But Davy fought the fire right and left, with a wild energy far
beyond his strength and years, and at last the mouth of the cave was
clear, and the fresh air could enter it again.

Then, exhausted, faint, and suffering most intense agony from a dozen
terrible burns, the brave boy sank to the ground.

At first he was scarcely conscious, but presently he became aware
that some one was bending over him, and opening his eyes, he saw Fred
Bassett’s face, so full of pity, admiration and kindness that poor Davy
scarcely recognized it.

“We didn’t deserve this good turn of you, Davy,” said the boy. “But I
can’t tell you how thankful we are to you. But for you we would have
been suffocated inside of ten minutes. It was that old Sim who set the
fire. We were busy at the back of the cave, making it deeper, and didn’t
know anything about the fire until we heard the old man shout at us from
the window overhead. He was half mad with joy, and was just about to
light the brush on the window. He must have fired the pile in front in
twenty places. There was no use in trying to get out. It was like a wall
of fire. I tell you, we all thought our time had come. It was just
awful.”

“I’m glad I came when I did,” said Davy, gently. “But I’m afraid
you’ll have to help me home. My feet are so

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badly burned I don’t believe I can take a step.”

“As if we’d let you even think of walking!” exclaimed Fred. “We’ll
rig up a litter in short order.”

So Davy was carried into the village in state by seven of the boys,
while the two others went on ahead to tell Miss Potter what had happened
and engage the services of a doctor.

And it was not until his wounds were all dressed, and he was lying
quietly in bed, with Fred Bassett and Tom Harper sitting beside him,
that Davy happened to think that the “turn” for which he had waited so
long had come at last, and he had failed to take the revenge he had so
ardently desired.

But he never regretted this, for he never had to complain again of
unkind treatment from either his aunt or his schoolmates. For Miss
Potter, in taking care of her young nephew during the three weeks he was
confined to the house, found good qualities of head and heart the
existence of which she had never before even suspected, and she made up
her mind that she had thought Davy a burden because she had never really
understood him.

As to the boys—well, they made a hero of Davy, and the “Mystic
Nine” became the “Mystic Ten,” by the admission to membership of the
shy, freckled-faced boy who was always at the bottom of his classes.

And affection and encouragement brightened up Davy’s wits so much
that he ceased before long to occupy that unenviable and lowly position,
and astonished his teacher by his rapid progress.

No punishment was ever meted out to old Sim; but it is scarcely
necessary to say that the boys were careful to let him severely alone
after that memorable Saturday on which Davy became a hero.

THE BLIND GIRL AND THE SPRING.

BY SYDNEY GREY.

How to Make A Canvas Canoe,

(Concluded.)

BY E. T. LITTLEWOOD.

The covering is best made of what is known as “crash,” strong and
close. It must be wide enough to go completely under the canoe, and can
be had about 5 ft. wide, which will be quite wide enough. Seven yards of
it will be sufficient.

To put on the canvas, turn the canoe over. Lay the canvas with the
centre line along the keel. Stretch it well by pulling at each end, and
tack it through the middle at the extreme ends with a few tacks in a
temporary manner. Put in temporary tacks along the gunwale at moderate
intervals, stretching slightly, and endeavor to get rid of all
folds.

Begin in the middle and work toward the ends, and always pull
straight away from the keel, and not along the gunwale. Then put in a
second set of tacks half way between the first set of tacks on one side,
pulling fairly tight. Then, on the other side, put in tacks opposite to
the latter, pulling as tightly as possible.

The best way to do this is to seize the canvas with a pair of
pincers, so that on pulling you can get the head of the pincers just
over the gunwale, when they can be used as a lever to give an extra
pull. A tack may then be put in on the outside of the gunwale;
half-inch galvanized tacks will do.

Now remove the temporary set of tacks. To get rid of folds, which
will not occur along the keel, but along the gunwale, keep bisecting the
distance between two consecutive tacks by another tack, so that the
canvas is equally loose on each side of it, always now pulling the
canvas as tightly as possible.

In this way the folds will disappear, and the canvas be stretched
tight and well-fastened to the gunwale. Leave that portion within a foot
of each end untacked.

Next cut away all that portion which projects beyond the stem and
stern-post; turn the edges in, and tack along the edges at moderate
distances.

Bisect these distances, and these again, till you have a very close
row of tacks, as in Fig. 12. Pull fairly tight, but not too tight, and
do not use pincers for this part; quarter-inch tacks will be best.

The ends may be cut out and put on, lapping the edges over the side,
as shown in Fig. 12, and enough canvas will be left to fill the part
along the sides of the well,
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into which the canvas should be tacked with a fine row of tacks,
afterward being stretched over the gunwale. The canoe will now be
completely covered in except the well.

Before putting on the top, however, give the lower part outside a
good coating of boiled linseed-oil. This will be most of it absorbed
into the canvas. The same may be done afterward with the top.

When this is dry—that is, after two or three days—give
another good coating of the same. Then paint the canoe according to
taste. Two coats for the bottom will be advisable, and paint which will
stand water well should be used. It would be well to paint the framework
with one coat before covering.

Make a stretcher (Fig. 13) for the feet, of half-inch board, and
slips to fit it into (Fig. 10), with stops on the floor. Also,
a backboard of half-inch board, to correspond (Fig. 14). Each piece
in the latter may be 18×4 inches. They should be nailed into two
cross-pieces behind, so as to form a hollow for back, and should be
placed two inches apart, to allow a space for the spine.

I prefer myself to fit in the backboard by means of stops on the
floor and back of the well, making it keep one position, and that at a
considerable slope, and have not found a swinging backboard so
comfortable as some appear to have done.

For the paddle, for which I think about 7 feet 6 inches long over all
is a good length, take a light, clean piece of yellow pine, or fir,
1½x1¼ inches, not more, and 6 feet long. In the ends of this cut slots 6
inches long, each to receive two pear-shaped pieces of very light
half-inch plank, 1 foot 3 inches by 8 inches. Nail them through with
copper nails, if possible. The blades should be at right angles to the
thickest direction of the handle.

Before nailing in, shave down the handle from an oval of 1½x1¼ inches
for 2 feet of the middle to an oval of about 1⅛x⅞ inches near the
beginning of the blades.

The handle should have its full thickness at the beginning of the
blade, but should be well tapered off along the
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blade, so as to be quite thin at its middle, where it ends. It should
have its full breadth across the breadth of the blade. The blade itself
may be shaved off thinner toward the edges.

I do not think that for ordinary purposes any strip of copper or tin
need be put round the blade, and the weight is increased by using.

The great thing about a paddle is that it should be as light as
possible, and, if it appears able to stand it, it may be reduced still
further. It may be painted or varnished, all but two feet in the middle.
I find no rings on the paddles necessary.

A short strip nailed outside the gunwale in the middle of the canoe
is a good thing; it prevents wear from the paddle, and forms something
to catch hold of in lifting the canoe.

A short outer keel is also a good thing at each end to prevent wear;
but in making holes for the nails through the canvas into the keel care
must be taken to turn in the edges round each hole, to tack with a close
circle of tacks, and paint well, so as to render the place
water-tight.

An apron is seldom wanted, but may be made of canvas rendered
waterproof with boiled oil, if desired.

It is well to fasten some inflated bladders in each end, so as to
make the canoe a diminutive lifeboat, in case of an upset or of a hole
being knocked in her.

The canoe will now be ready for launching. The owner should learn to
put her carefully into the water and take her out by himself—to
carry her on his shoulder.

Superfluous wood may be cut from the central parts of the shapes, and
also from along the keel toward the ends before covering. The floor
forms a considerable item in the weight, consequently this should be
made no wider or thicker than necessary. In paddling, learn to reach
well forward and back, with a good swing of the body from side to
side.

Such a canoe as described will be found to wear well, and one made by
myself for a friend two years ago is now in use, and quite
water-tight.

HOW THE PARTRIDGE DRUMS.

“When I first came to Canada,” says a writer from that locality,
“I found there were various opinions as to the method of making the
sound. One man, who read a great deal, but rarely went into the woods,
said that the sound was produced by the bird’s voice. Some of the
hunters told me that the bird struck its wings on the log, and others
that it struck them together over its back.

“I did not give much heed to the bookman’s explanation, for all the
woodmen laughed at it. I soon learned to discredit also the idea
that the bird thumped the log with its wings, because whether it stood
on a stump or a stone, a rotten log or solid timber, the sound was
always the same. Lastly, I did not believe that the wings were
struck together, because, when a pigeon or rooster strikes its wings
together, the sound is always a sharp crack. At length, after watching
the bird carefully, I came to the conclusion that it drums by
beating the air only.

“It is not an easy matter to get sight of a partridge when he is
drumming, but I managed to do it by crawling on my hands and knees
toward the bird, lying still while he was quiet, and only moving forward
when he renewed his noisy courtship; for it is only to woo and win his
mate that Sir Ruffled Grouse indulges in these musical exercises.

“In this way I contrived to come within twenty feet without alarming
him. Through the alder thicket I could just see his shapely form,
strutting about like a turkey cock; then for a moment he stood upright,
with his feathers lying close.

“Suddenly his wings flashed, and at the same moment I heard the loud
thump. Then for a few seconds he stood looking about as though nothing
had happened; but presently came a second flash and thump, and others
followed at lessening intervals, until at last the serenade rolled a way
like the galloping of horses or the rumbling of distant thunder.”

FROGS AND TADPOLES.

BY E. S.

It is very interesting in the spring to watch the gradual development
of a frog from the egg, through the tadpole stage of its existence, till
at last it assumes its final form.

The old frogs emerge from their winter hiding-places in the mud,
early in the spring, and during April their eggs may be found floating
on almost every stagnant pond.

A group of these eggs in their early stages of development looks like
a mass of clear white jelly, containing numbers of black specks, each of
which is really the germ of the future tadpole.

In order to watch the development, a group of the eggs should be
taken and put in a shallow vessel of water, which, if kept in the house,
should have a bell-glass, or some other covering, over it, to keep out
the dust.

The jelly-like mass which envelopes the future tadpole is so clear
that all its changes can be easily watched.

First the head appears, then a flat tail, and in course of time the
nostrils, mouth and large eyes, till at length the completed tadpole
bursts open its gelatinous covering, and apparently not in the least
embarrassed by its new surroundings, begins swimming briskly about,
looking for something to eat.

The time occupied in hatching varies in different countries,
according to the climate, from four days to a month.

The following stages are even more interesting, especially for those
who can take advantage of the transparency of the parts to watch the
circulation of the blood through a microscope.

The body of the tadpole gradually gets broader, while the tail gets
thinner and thinner, till it finally disappears altogether; but before
that happens, its place has been taken by two hind legs, which first
appear under the skin and then gradually push their way through.

The fore legs next appear, and so on through all the stages of
development, till in a longer or shorter time, according to the amount
of warmth, light and food it can obtain, the complete frog appears.

But woe betide the unfortunate tadpole which, first of the shoal,
attains to the dignity of possessing limbs, for so ferocious are the
later ones, and so jealous of their precocious little brother, that they
almost always fall upon him, and not content with killing, never rest
till every morsel of him is eaten.

And unless several of the tadpoles assume their final change about
the same time, this proceeding is repeated till their numbers are very
considerably diminished, or, as sometimes happens, till only one
survivor is left, who, having helped to eat all his brethren, instead of
meeting with his deserts, is allowed to live on in peace, till some day,
in the course of his walks abroad, he, in his turn, is snapped up as a
delicate morsel by some hungry snake or water-fowl.

BE HONEST AND TRUE.

BY GEORGE BIRDSEYE.

[This Story began in No. 22.]

In Search of Himself.

A Tale of Dangerous Adventure.

BY GEORGE H. COOMER,

AUTHOR OF “ARTHUR SUMMERS,” ETC.

CHAPTER XIII.
RALPH MAKES A FRIEND.

Ralph had need of all his courage, as he realized what was before
him. In a low, swampy spot, close under a pile of rock and earth, that
rose out of it like a wall, was an animal such as he had never met with
until this moment, although he instinctively guessed what it
must be.

The creature appeared to be in a complete frenzy of rage. It was
covered with mud and water, and with furious motions was trampling down
the long, rank grass which grew about the place.

“A wild boar!” uttered our young friend to himself, with his heart
leaping to his throat, as his glance took in the sharp back, the high
shoulders, and the immense tusks that curved from the jaws like
cimetars.

He had seen pictures of such animals, but had never dreamed how
startling the reality would be.

The boar seemed to direct his fury against the ledge which formed the
boundary of the muddy and grassy place where he was raging about; and
looking a little above the savage brute, Ralph perceived a something
which appeared like a human form in some manner confined among the
rocks. He thought the body looked as if partially under a big stone that
held it down.

Instantly the thought came to him:

“It must be that a man has got caught there under a rock, which he
has pulled down upon himself in trying to clamber up.”

Just as this thought entered his mind, he saw the boar give a fearful
spring and fall back with what seemed a strip of clothing between his
jaws.

The position of the imprisoned man must be awful, and there was not a
moment to lose. The next spring might be more successful.

The fierce jaws clashed together with a startling sound, and the huge
head was shaken, as if the frenzy of the monster was increased by the
possession of that bit of rag.

The prisoner gave another wild cry, and Ralph responded, with all the
strength of his lungs:

“I’ll help you! I’ll help you!”

He was too far off for a successful shot, but he hoped by firing to
attract the animal’s attention from the man to himself, and then, in
case of need, he might retreat into some one of the trees among which he
was then standing.

So, taking the best aim he could, he fired both barrels in quick
succession. But the boar, except by a furious toss of the head and a
single terrible “Whoosh!” paid not the slightest attention to
him.

Indeed, the efforts of the animal to reach the intended victim
became, if possible, more frantic than ever; and Ralph guessed that
once, at least, the tusks came in contact with some part of the poor
captive’s body.

“I can do nothing in this way,” he said to himself. “The man will be
torn in pieces before my eyes. I must make a bold move and take my
chance.”

Between himself and the scene of danger there was neither rock nor
tree, but only the shallow mud and water, and the rank grass. The
venture would be a desperate one, but nothing less would save the man
from a terrible death.

“RALPH’S LEGS WERE KNOCKED FROM UNDER HIM BY THE WEIGHT OF THE HUGE
BODY, SO THAT HE FELL AT FULL LENGTH IN THE MUD.”

Ralph had about him shells containing charges of all descriptions,
from fine shot to bullets. Quickly throwing open his breech-loader, he
slipped a ball cartridge into one barrel and a heavy charge of buckshot
into the other.

Then springing forward, he went splashing across the morass, with the
mud and water almost up to his knees.

“I am no marksman,” he thought, as he strode rapidly on, “and shall
have to get close to him to hit him; but if he should come at me,
I shall have my second barrel, besides a plenty of shells.”

There was some reassurance in this thought, especially as he had two
of the spare shells in his hand, ready for use in case of need.

At a distance of only six rods from the enraged animal, he stopped
and brought up his gun.

The boar was not still for an instant, but rushing about in its
efforts to get up the rock. He had certainly struck the man, for there
was blood on the rock and on the savage tusks. This probably rendered
him all the more eager.

“I’ll try the buckshot first,” thought
389c
Ralph, “for they’ll scatter a little, and some of them must hit
him.”

He ranged between the two barrels, and pulled. “Bang!” sounded the
report. “Whoosh!” uttered the boar, stopping short in his efforts
against the rock, and turning his whole attention upon the intruder.
Doubtless he was hit, but perhaps not mortally.

Ralph’s gun was again at his face. “Bang!” This time the single ball
was sent, but through the smoke of the discharge he saw that the boar
was rushing upon him.

An interval of six rods, and a wild hog, six feet long, bounding over
it with clashing jaws! How the breech-loader sprang open, and how the
two spare charges went into it! What if Ralph had not held them all
ready in his hand?

“Bang! bang!” The boar’s head was not three feet from the muzzle as
the second barrel was fired. The monster’s impetus carried him on with a
plunge; and the young hero’s legs were knocked from under him by the
weight of the huge body, so that he fell at full length in the mud.

For an instant he believed himself lost, and while scrambling to his
feet he expected to feel the sweep of those sword-like tusks.

But there was no longer any danger; the last discharge had done its
work to perfection, and with his knees bent under him, the boar lay just
as he had plowed into the mire, having not even rolled over.

Picking up his gun, Ralph hurried to assist the person on the rock,
whom he had already seen to be a negro, and whom he now found to be held
down by a large stone, which lay upon his legs, he having doubtless
pulled it from a position above
389d
in his frantic efforts to escape from his pursuer.

The confined black could not help himself; but Ralph succeeded,
without much difficulty, in relieving him from the heavy weight.

The stone could not have slipped more than two or three feet, for the
negro was not much injured by it, although it had held him so firmly. He
had the marks of the animal’s tusks on one of his legs; but the wound
was not a dangerous one. Ralph bound his handkerchief around it, and
felt very glad to find that the poor fellow was almost as good as
new.

Finding himself able to walk, and seeming to realize how much he owed
to his young rescuer, the stout negro grasped the boy’s right hand in
both his own, and with tears glistening in his eyes, uttered a number of
rapid sentences, only a few words of which Ralph could understand, but
which were evidently the outpourings of gratitude.

Still, there was in his manner an appearance of apprehension, as if
he feared that the lad might not be alone. He would glance furtively
about, like one who is expecting an enemy; and it was plain that he was
meditating a retreat.

Back of the rocks there was dry, firm land; and in this direction he
looked, as if desirous of moving off.

Ralph recalled the conversation which he had heard the day before
about the runaway slave.

“This man may be Jumbo himself,” he thought. “I’ll try to make him
understand me.”

Then, looking kindly in the negro’s face, he said, in Spanish:

“I think you are Jumbo. I am only a boy, and I am all alone. You are
free; you can go where you will.”

And he pointed to the deep, free woods.

Ralph had great difficulty in getting out this amount of Castilian;
but the negro, whose own command of that language seemed to be of the
most meagre description, comprehended his meaning. He took the spirit,
if not the words.

A grateful expression came over his dark face, and again he clasped
the boy’s hand, with the same flow of mingled African and Spanish upon
his tongue.

Ralph bade him a kind good-by, and he walked away into the forest,
waving his sable hand with a gesture full of feeling as he
disappeared.

Our young sailor now proceeded to examine the animal he had
killed.

It is said that the timid man is afraid before the danger, the coward
during it, and the brave man after it. Ralph was afraid
after it.

He felt a kind of weakness about the knees, and wondered that he had
not noticed it before. He remembered how the bristles had stood up on
the boar’s back, how the savage jaws had clashed together, and how he
had seen the tusks standing out like long knives as the creature came
straight for him.

Now how grim the monster looked as he lay in the mud and water, just
where he had dropped dead—not on his side, but with the legs
doubled under him, and the stout, hoggish ears sticking up like ears of
corn.

“The next thing is to find my pony,” thought Ralph. “Let’s
see—which way did I come? Here are my tracks. I must have
come out of that thicket yonder.”

Then, looking about him, he saw another line of tracks, and, going to
examine it, perceived that it was where the boar had chased the black
man across the morass. Most of the negro’s footprints were lost in those
of the hog.

Almost at the moment in which Ralph reached his pony, he heard the
report of a gun at some distance, and guessed that Mr. Arthur was coming
in search of him. He answered the signal, and the planter, who had
become anxious for his safety, soon made his appearance.

“I had begun to be really alarmed about you,” said Mr. Arthur, “and
feared I should have to go back and summon assistance in the search. If
you had not heard my gun, I should have missed you, for I was just
about to turn in the opposite direction.”

“Oh, I am sorry I have given you all this trouble!” said Ralph. “It
is too bad. But you can’t think what I have killed! I am glad you
have come, so that I can show you.”

“Why, how wet and muddy you are!” said the planter, “and how your
clothes are torn! For heaven’s sake! where have you been?”

Ralph related his adventure, and told how the black man had gone into
the forest.

“I would not have had you take such a risk for all I am worth!” said
Mr. Arthur. “What would your father say if he knew of it?”

“But the man couldn’t get away, and the boar might have got at him
before I could have had a chance to bring any one else here,” replied
Ralph.

“Yes, I know; but it was a fearful risk. No doubt the man was the
runaway that I was speaking of to Mr. Osborne. At least, I should
judge so from your description. Osborne would have detained him, of
course; but I am not sorry that you made no such attempt. I should
have been tempted to let him go myself.”

It was a great relief to Ralph to find that Mr. Arthur took this view
of the matter—a very singular one, he thought, for the owner
of five or six hundred slaves; yet, from what he had seen of his kind
friend, he was not surprised at it.

The planter was curious to visit the scene of the adventure, and,
with some difficulty, they made their way to the place.

“Why, Ralph,” he exclaimed, looking at the dead animal, and then at
the surroundings of the spot, “it is fearful! Had I known what you were
about, I should have given you up for lost. Not a tree within
twenty rods of you! Suppose you had failed to kill him? It frightens me
to think of it!”

Going to the ledge beyond, they saw where the negro had scrambled up
with muddy feet, and where the sharp hoofs of the boar had scratched
long lines on the rock.

It was easy to see how the large, loose stone, which had prevented
the fugitive’s

390b
escape, had slipped from its place as he tried to climb
over it.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Arthur, “you ought to have one good friend in
the forest, and I guess you have! I don’t think that poor fellow
will ever forget you.”

Ralph felt that this was pay enough, even though the friend was only
a poor negro, whom he might never see again.

And now, leaving the huge game where it had fallen, he accompanied
the good planter back to the little village of huts, where Mrs. Arthur
and Camilla were awaiting them in some anxiety.

CHAPTER XIV.
OUR SAILOR BOY DISLIKES MR. OSBORNE.

“Oh, how dreadful!” exclaimed Camilla, as she listened to the recital
of what had taken place.

“I am thinking of his mother,” said Mrs. Arthur, “and I am so
thankful—so thankful—that he is safe!”

Mr. Osborne took a very practical view of the matter.

“You could have kept the negro, I suppose,” he said, “as you had your
gun; but then it might not have been very easy to get him anywhere, you
being a boy.”

“I didn’t wish to get him anywhere,” replied Ralph.
“I wished him to go where he liked.”

“Of course; it wasn’t your business to catch runaway negroes,” said
the overseer, “and you did perfectly right. Only I wish I could have
been there. Did he seem to be afraid of you?”

“No, sir; I laid down my gun.”

“Suppose he had taken it up?”

“I never thought of such a thing, sir; I was trying to help him, and
he knew it.”

“I wouldn’t have trusted him,” remarked the overseer.

“I did trust him, sir; or, rather, I didn’t think anything about it.
I wanted to stop his leg from bleeding.”

“Was he in a hurry to be off after you had fixed him up?”

“He looked uneasy, as if afraid that somebody else might come before
he could get away.”

“Perhaps he expected you to take up your gun and order him to march
for his old quarters?”

“I don’t know how that was,” said Ralph; “but the gun lay all the
while where he could have taken it up if he would.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him he was free. And it almost made me cry to see how
grateful he appeared for what I had done. I hope he has some good
place to stay in.”

“No danger,” said the overseer; “he has a good enough place for this
climate, and lives on the fat of the land, besides. I think some of
my negroes could go straight to him within the next two hours, but they
won’t tell.”

“And do they never run away, too?” asked Ralph.

“Yes; but I have generally got them back. Sometimes they are arrested
by the Spanish soldiers, if they venture out of the woods; and
sometimes, when they keep in their hiding-places, I track them out
myself.”

“And do you whip them when you get them back?”

“Of course I do; that teaches them better than to risk it again.”

Somehow, Ralph did not like Mr. Osborne; for, besides that it was
hard to help associating him with the cruel office he occupied, there
was a something in him as an individual which repelled the boy’s quick,
intuitive sympathies. Practically he might be better than most
overseers, but how could he be otherwise under a superior like Mr.
Arthur?

Ralph had brought in the parrots and paroquets that he had shot, for
he had not forgotten them on remounting his pony, and he now took off
their skins in a very artistic manner, leaving the beautiful plumage
almost unruffled, much to the delight of Camilla, who thanked him for
his thoughtfulness of her.

Upon the journey homeward, the two spotted ponies, keeping close
together, galloped, trotted or walked, according to the fancies of their
riders or the variations of the road, while the horses of the older
people jogged more steadily.

“I wonder,” said Camilla, “if Jumbo will not often think of you?
I know he will, though—he cannot help it.”

“I hope he will,” said Ralph; “and I hope, too, that he will not
suffer. Your father does not seem at all anxious to get him back.”

“Oh, no! papa does not care for his running away. He says that if the
revolution

390c
should succeed, the new government would free all the slaves, and he is
willing that this should be done. Somehow, he is a slaveholder against
his will.”

“Do you like Mr. Osborne?” asked Ralph.

“Not very well. Papa has a high opinion of him as an overseer, but I
do think that even papa himself is not quite satisfied with all that was
done while we were away in the United States.”

“The revolutionists appear to ruin a great many sugar plantations,”
said Ralph. “Do you ever feel afraid of being molested?”

“Yes, mamma and I do, because they sometimes come very near us; but
papa says he does not think there is any danger. They know what his
sentiments are; besides, he is an Americano, and they have a
great respect for los Americanos.”

“And isn’t he afraid, then, of the Spanish government?”

“No; he takes no active part on either side; only his feelings are
with the liberal party. I think papa is not much of a
politician.”

“I know how he feels,” said Ralph; “he is good and kind, and wants
everybody to be free. He is one of the best men I ever saw.”

“He really is!” exclaimed Camilla, enthusiastically. “He is just as
good as any one can be. And,” she added, with childlike
earnestness, “he likes you ever so much, too.”

Ralph was perfectly happy upon this ride; and when the party reached
home, it was to be greeted by the unaffected welcome of the negroes, old
and young, who were evidently much attached to their master and his
household. The parrots chattered, and the song-birds sang, while the
odor of the orange blossoms was well in keeping with the rest.

CHAPTER XV.
A NEW PROPOSITION.

Next day the planter and his young guest visited the city, and
returned with Captain Weston. He was thrilled by the story of Ralph’s
encounter with the wild boar. It shocked him to think how narrowly a
dreadful calamity had been escaped, and he all the while attending to
his ordinary duties, in ignorance of the danger.

“Captain,” said Mr. Arthur, as they sat conversing together after
reaching the plantation, “I have a proposition to make. Why not let
Ralph remain with me till your return from Philadelphia? I may take
a journey or two about the island within the next few weeks, upon
business, and probably he would enjoy going with me. It would give him
an opportunity to see more of Cuba than he is likely to see in any other
way.”

“I don’t know what his mother would say,” replied the captain. “She
expects me to bring him home, and I am afraid she would be troubled
about it. Besides, I like to have him with me, though I know you
would take every care of him.”

“I understand your feelings,” said the planter; “but my wife is about
writing to Mrs. Weston concerning the debt of gratitude we owe him; and
should you consent to his remaining, I think her letter will place
the matter in such a light as to remove any objection on his mother’s
part.”

Mrs. Arthur seconded her husband very earnestly.

“You cannot think how much we would enjoy having him here,” she said.
“He has such a kind, lovable nature, and is so bright and active.
I do hope it may be arranged that he may stay.”

Captain Weston revolved the matter seriously, and concluded at length
that it should be left to Ralph’s decision. What that decision would be
he could have had very little doubt, as he glanced toward the boy and
girl who were at that moment enjoying a swing under an orange tree of
unusual size, the vibrations of the rope occasionally bringing down some
of the golden fruit.

Ralph was in ecstasies at the proposition, and Camilla’s bright face
lighted up with a pleasure that she did not try to conceal.

“Oh, how nice it will be!” she said. “I am so glad you are to
remain.”

A soft flush leaped to her cheeks as she spoke, and her beautiful
eyes expressed an artlessness that was very bewitching.

So it was settled that Ralph should remain in Cuba during the two
months which would probably elapse before the return of the Cristoval
Colon to Santiago.

390d
His mother (for he could not have endured to think of Mrs. Weston in any
other light) would be comforted by the knowledge that he was in such
good hands. And then how much he would have to tell her when he should
go home!

Captain Weston was greatly pleased with the plantation and its
management. He had seen much of Cuba, but never anything of this kind
which appeared so satisfactory. He walked and rode with the planter,
smoked his cigar with him, and admired his kind treatment of his
slaves.

After a tarry of two days, he returned to the city, accompanied by
the planter and Ralph.

As the latter mounted the side of the Cristoval Colon, he met a merry
welcome from the tars, some of whom threw out sly innuendoes in their
sailor style about pearls and pearl-divers, but he did not permit their
harmless jokes to annoy him.

After a pleasant visit, Mr. Arthur returned to the plantation; but
Ralph did not accompany him, as he desired to remain some days with his
father during the vessel’s brief stay in port.

He was not a boy who was afraid of work, and now, putting on his
everyday rig, he applied himself with a light heart to the duties of the
ship, lying stoutly back upon the slack of the tackle, while the sailors
hoisted the heavy articles of the cargo, or running aloft to loose the
sails for drying after the drenching night dews, and assisting to furl
them at evening.

“That boy is smart,” old Jack Evans would say to his shipmates. “He
is the best fellow for a captain’s son I ever fell in with; he is always
looking for something to do.”

CHAPTER XVI.
OLD JACK SEES A REMEMBERED FACE.

One evening, when Ralph went into the forecastle, he found Jack alone
there. The old sailor had just been overhauling his sea-chest, and had
in his hand the baby’s shoe which he had so long carried for good
luck.

“I was just looking at it,” he said, “because to-day I came across
the father of that identical baby. I hadn’t seen him for about
sixteen years, but I knew him in a minute. He was puffing his cigar,
just as he used to do about the decks of the Moro Castle.”

“What!” exclaimed Ralph, “the very man? Oh, how I wish I had been
with you! Who is he, and where does he live?”

“That I don’t know,” replied Jack. “Of course, he didn’t know me, and
I hadn’t a very good chance to introduce myself. He was jabbering with a
lot of other Spaniards on a corner, with his caramba and his
como esta usted, so that I didn’t feel like going up to him with
a yarn about a baby’s shoe. Which way he went I don’t know, for I had to
get back to the ship.”

“When was it?” asked Ralph, with great earnestness.

“It was while I was ashore this noon.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” said the boy. “I would have gone right
ashore. But, no—I couldn’t have found him without you. Dear
me! I wish I could have been with you.”

“Why, my lad, it’s of no consequence,” said Jack. “You seem to think
more of it than I do.”

“But I want to see him,” replied Ralph. “I wonder if he is about
here every day?”

“Likely enough,” said Jack. “But I didn’t think you cared anything
about the matter.”

“Well, I’m thinking of that baby’s shoe,” answered Ralph. “It seems
so queer—the way you got it, and the way you have
kept it.”

“I know that’s odd,” said Jack. “I suppose my keeping it is all
nonsense.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Ralph. “I don’t think it is, I’m sure.”

“You believe a little in old shoes, then?”

“I believe in that shoe, Jack. I mean to go ashore with you,
and have a good look for that man.”

“But we shouldn’t stand much chance of finding him,” replied Jack.
“I’ve been here in Santiago a number of times, but this is the first
time I have run across him here.”

Ralph looked anxious and excited; but he saw that Jack felt somewhat
surprised at the interest he took in the matter, and so restrained
himself.

“After all,” he thought, “it may have nothing to do with me.
Just a baby on its

391a
passage to the United States. But, then, it was going to Philadelphia,
and it was a boy baby; and I must have been a baby at the same time.
I wonder what Jack would say if he knew what I am
thinking of?”

It would be strange, he thought, if he were really to get track of
himself in such a way—the first of the tracks being made by that
tiny shoe in Jack’s chest. And then he reflected how improbable it
seemed, when there were so many babies in the world, that he should have
been that baby.

“I almost hope the thing will never come to light,” he said to
himself. “Perhaps it is better not to know.”

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

IN A MENAGERIE.

There is a distinct individuality among tigers, as among ourselves,
some being gentle and tolerably tractable, while others are fierce,
morose, and not to be trusted.

In Mr. G. Sanger’s menagerie, at Margate, England, there are two
tigresses which are of exactly opposite characters. Both go by the name
of “Bessy,” there being an extraordinary lack of originality in the
nomenclature of animals.

The difference may be partly owing to the accident of birth, one
having been captured while young, and the other born in a menagerie.

One might naturally imagine that the latter would be the better
tempered of the two, she never having known the freedom of savage life.
But, in accordance with the invariable rule, the “forest-bred” animal is
the tamer, those which have been born in captivity being always
uncertain in their ways, and not to be trusted.

Now, “Bessy the First” is forest bred. The head keeper, Walter
Stratford, has the most perfect confidence in her, and can take any
liberties with her.

After I had paid several visits to the menagerie, I thought that
she began to recognize me, and therefore cultivated her acquaintance.
Now, as soon as I enter the house, Bessy tries to attract my attention,
expects to be patted and stroked, her ears to be pulled, and her nose
rubbed, just as a pet cat would do.

One day I had an unexpected experience with her. Nearly the whole of
the end of the room is occupied by a huge cage, in which Stratford
delights in putting all sorts of incongruous animals.

There are several varieties of monkeys, a porcupine,
a goat, some rabbits and guinea-pigs, a few geese and ducks,
four cats, a coati-mondi, two raccoons, a jackal,
a little white Pomeranian dog named Rose, two pigs, and other
animals.

Thinking that the goat would like some fresh grass, I went to
the lawn, gathered a large handful, and brought it to the goat.

Not a blade of that grass did she get. I had hardly held the grass to
the bars when Rose flew at it, drove the goat away, and literally tore
the grass out of my hands. Three times did I fetch grass before the goat
was allowed to eat a blade of it. Ever since that time I have always
furnished myself with a good supply of grass before visiting these
animals.

On one occasion I stopped as usual at Bessie’s cage, and noticed that she stared
fixedly at the grass. So I said, jokingly:

“Why, Bessy, you cannot want grass. However, here it is if you
want it.”

So I put my hand into the cage, and was much surprised by seeing her
gently scrape the grass out of my hand with her huge paw. Then she lay
down, gathered the grass between her paws, and licked up every particle
of it.

When she had finished it, she looked appealingly in my face as if
asking for another supply; so I brought a fresh handful, the whole of
which she took in the same dainty way.

Meanwhile Rose was performing the most extraordinary antics at the
end of the room. She had seen me bring in the grass, and naturally
imagined that it was intended for her. What with disappointment, and
what with jealousy, she was simply frantic, barking, yelping, jumping up
and down, scratching at the bars of the cage, and expressing her
outraged feelings in the most ludicrous fashion. Now I always give Bessy
her allowance of grass first, and then take another portion to Rose and
the goat.

It is a rather remarkable fact that the carnivora are much more eager
for the grass than are the deer, camels, antelopes and other vegetable
feeders.

As to “Bessy the First,” she is so fond of Stratford, and places such
reliance on him, that when she has cubs she will allow him to enter the
cage, take away the cubs and hand them about among the visitors. In
fact, she is quite pleased to see that her offspring attract so much
attention.

Very different is “Bessy the second.” She never had a very good
temper, but was not considered to be a very dangerous animal, until an
event occurred which completely altered, or, at all events, had an evil
influence upon her character.

Nearly two years ago, three young lion cubs were in the next cage to
hers. One day she seemed to be seized with a sudden frenzy, smashed the
partition between the cages, flew at the cubs, and killed two of them in
a moment.

The whole attack was so quick and unexpected that Stratford had only
just time to save the life of the third cub. Since that time she has
been carefully watched, for when once a lion or a tiger has broken
through a cage it is apt to repeat the operation.

“Bessy the Second” is restless, morose and suspicious, and if any of
the animals make a sudden movement, she starts up, stares at them
through the bars, and often sets up a series of roars, which have the
effect of causing every lion and tiger in the place to roar for
sympathy, so that the noise is deafening.

STORIES OF DUMB CREATURES.

—Says a naturalist: “We came to a large piece of timber, and
while passing through it, I had my first experience with the
honey-bird of South Africa. This curious little bird is, in size and
plumage, about like an English sparrow, and gets his name from the fact
that the little fellow, who is very fond of honey, being unable to
obtain it for himself, will lead men to the places where the wild bees
have hidden their stores of rich, wild honey. Whenever this bird sees a
man, he will fly close to him, hovering around, uttering a twittering
sound; then he will go off in the direction of the place (generally a
tree) where the honey is, flying backward and forward in a zigzag
fashion. Then back he will come, twittering in the same manner, as if to
say, ’Come along: I’ll show you where it is.’ These actions are repeated
until the tree is reached, when the bird will indicate it very plainly
by flying to it and hovering around it. If the distance is great (and
sometimes the honey-bird will lead a person who is willing to follow a
distance of ten miles); he will wait on a tree until the follower comes
up, and will then continue his business of piloting. He is very
persistent, and will do his best to draw any one on; but if the party is
not posted about honey-birds, and refuses to follow, or goes in the
wrong direction, the bird will leave, probably in search of some person
who will appreciate his efforts to provide him with sweetmeats. While
the bees are being smoked out, and the honey taken up, the bird will
hover in the vicinity until the job is done, when of course his reward
comes in the shape of a feast on the fragments that are left. If he
knows of other hives, just as soon as one is disposed of he will lead
the way to another, and I have, since this time, known as many as four
trees taken up by a party in one day. When the honey-bird has shown one
tree, if the hunters are satisfied with that, and refuse to follow him
further, he leaves them; but I have never heard of an instance in which
the bird misled any one in regard to finding honey. It frequently
happens, however, that a honey-bird will lead a person into very
dangerous places, and unless the hunter keeps his eyes about him when
following this bird, he may run right into a lion, a venomous
snake, or some other equally undesirable acquaintance.”

—A correspondent of a New Orleans paper writes: “Dick was only
a big toad. The boys found him beside the road one day last summer when
the June roses were in bloom, and triumphantly deposited him in one of
the flower-beds, ‘to eat the bugs and things off’n the pinks and pansies
and rosemary; and, besides, you know, mamma, the other boys will throw
stones at him.’ That
settled it, and Dick (as they gravely informed me they had named him)
was left to enjoy his flowery home. Occasionally, when cutting flowers,
I noticed the exceeding tameness of the little creature, and was
often assured by the boys, ‘Our Dick is the very best toad in town.’
However, I noticed nothing uncommon until two or three weeks after
they had brought him home, when I was attracted by their peals of
laughter, and presently heard them calling, ‘Dick, Dick! come, Dick!’
I slipped out and peeped around the corner of the house, and beheld
a most comical sight—one of the boys down on his knees, holding

391c
out his hands and calling to the toad, which was gravely hopping toward
him, making a peculiar little noise, until he reached the outstretched
hand, into which he hopped and sat contentedly blinking his bright,
bulging eyes. After this I noticed the strange pet more closely, and
found he would always come promptly when his name was called, and seemed
very grateful when presented with a worm or bug. He would come at any
kindly call, but showed greatest preference for eight-year-old,
mischievous Teddy, into whose hand he would always hop, and whom he
would hop around after as long as he would walk around the flower-bed
where Dick made his home, but never beyond its limits. And such pansies,
pinks and other sweet posies I had there!—no cut stem or bitten
leaves. Dick ate all the floral enemies up that ventured there. When the
cold days of autumn came upon us, he left us, and we have seen him no
more. What is the moral of this? Nothing—only that kindness and
mercy shown to even so humble a creature as a toad will bring pleasures
and a sure recompense.”

—Writing from Tecumseh, Mich., a correspondent sends this:
“A few years ago our house was infested with a large number of
rats, which had taken up their abode in a recess of the cellar that had
formerly been used as a landing-place for a dumb-waiter, but was now
filled with odds and ends of every description. We had endeavored to rid
ourselves of these pests, but all our attempts were in vain, and they
held their daily matinees as usual. On hearing more of a commotion than
common, one afternoon, I softly opened the cellar door, and, to my
amazement, saw nine rats, one of which had mounted a box containing
potatoes, while the others were stretched out in a line leading to their
den—the recess before mentioned. Now comes the most curious part
of my story: The rat that stood on the box of potatoes would push a
potato over the edge, then the rat in line nearest the box would roll
the potato to his neighbor, and so on with each one till the potato was
safely stowed away. I watched them for some time, and, seeing the
potatoes disappearing rather rapidly, I dispersed the earnest
workers by a stamp of my foot.”

Puzzledom.

No. CCCLXXVII.

Original contributions solicited from all. Puzzles containing
obsolete words will be received. Write contributions on one side of the
paper, and apart from all communications. Address “Puzzle Editor,” Golden Days, Philadelphia, Pa.

ANSWERS TO LAST WEEK’S PUZZLES.

NEW PUZZLES.

No. 2. Square.

1. The young of the great black-backed gull. 2. To come.
3. Carves. 4. Granters. 5. To entirely destroy
(Obs.) 6. To grow smaller.

No. 3. Charade.

No. 4. Pentagon.

1. A letter. 2. The pulp of fruit. 3. A shrub of the genus
Corylus. 4. The Brazil nut. 5. Deep blue colors.
6. Contrite. 7. A detached bastion (Fort.) 8. To
admit extension. 9. Rigid.

No. 5. Mutation.

No. 6. Square.

1. Gaps. 2. By reason of this. 3. A fleet of vessels. 4. A sort
of flying fish. 5. A title addressed to a lady. 6. The
principal gold coin of ancient Greece.

No. 7. Charade.

No. 8. Half Square.

1. Concise. 2. Birds resembling thrushes. 3. A poisonous
substance composed of minute fungi. 4. Forms. 5. Kinds of
liquor. 6. An iron chain (Obs.) 7. Exists. 8. A
letter.

No. 9. Numerical.

No. 10. Square.

1. Barley-water. 2. A small particle. 3. A fine white powder or
earth, without taste or smell. 4. A paved way. 5. To convey or
transfer. 6. Tidier.

No. 11. Anagram.
Tom, these men criticise common rates.

No. 12. Inverted Pyramid.

Across: 1. The process of analysis by means of standard
solutions (Analyt. Chem.) 2. Little tufts. 3. Species
of walls made of stiff clay. 4. To steal (Obs.) 5. A
letter.

Down: 1. A letter. 2. A pronoun. 3. To surpass.
4. To impair seriously. 5. A case in which the relics of
saints were kept. 6. To produce. 7. A pronoun. 8. A bone.
9. A letter.

Special.—Golden Days Puzzlers’ Directory for each of the first
correct solutions to Nos. 1, 3, 5, 7, 9 and 11.

SOLVERS.

Puzzles in “Puzzledom” No. CCCLXXI
were correctly solved by E. C. Lectic, Maud Lynn, Demosthenes,
Barnyard, Skye Buckeye, Gemini, Egerton, H. S. Nut, Jr., Will O’
the Wisp, F. Aitchell, Col. O’ Rado, Dorothy Doolittle, Grepwic,
Cricket, P. O. Stage, Sub Rosa, Fairplay, Alcyo, Tunie H. S.,
R. M’Bride, Jo Jo, Khimo, Lorrac, Billy Bluebottle, May Le Hosmer,
O. Pal, Vladimir, F. Arce, Nue Norton, J. H. Mowbray,
U. Reka, Sim Sly, Clarence W. Chapin, Reklaw, Io, Tom B. Stone,
Toodlewinks, Jo Ram, Craftsman, Fly, Alpheus, Chinook, Puzz L., Teddy,
Wm. H. Deucker, Annie Gramme, W. T. Anderson, C. R.
Irving, Jr., Bennie Knowels, Monte Christo, V. G. Ohnja,
H. U. T., Alphonzo, B. L. Under, Bryx,
J. I. C., Harry S., Jno. Bopp, Cale and Harry Allen,
J. Evans, Alpha Sigma, Liberty, Brooklyn Boy, Jno. Beck, Howard H.
Geiger, Earnest Fleet, Washingtonian, Annie A. Powell, Dick Ens,
C. H. Sweetzer, Panama Derby, Orpheus, Jno. Fitzgerald, Henn,
Reidsville, Mahdea, A. B. Y. Nomis, H. C. Williams, Mas
Ten, Panama Hat, Tidal Wave, Primrose, Geo. W. Phinney, J. F.
Ireland, Laf A. Yette, Freddie Geib, R. O. Chester, A. B.
Williams, Lucrezius Borgers, Lackawanna, Laeno, Whisk, Effie W.McConkey,
C. B. A., Puer and Swamp Angel.

Complete List.—E. C.
Lectic.

The specials were awarded as follows:

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WILL BEGIN NEXT WEEK.

NATURE’S SCULPTURE.

BY GEORGE WALDO BROWNE.

Perhaps the strangest public work ever suggested by man was that of
Dinocrates, whose scheme was to cut and carve Mount Athos into the form
of a gigantic man, holding in one hand a town, in the other a cup to
receive the drainage of the mountain before it reached the sea.

His king, Alexander the Great, declined to accept his plan; though,
amused at his extravagant notion, he gave him a permanent place in his
attendance.

A small village in Northern Italy to a wonderful extent fulfills the
wild dream of the Macedonian architect, the houses being grouped in such
a manner upon a broken eminence of land that from a certain point a
striking resemblance to an upturned human face is outlined. In addition
to a chin, nose and brow, a white chimney lends an eye to the
profile, while a line of bushes at the crown has the appearance of
shaggy locks.

Allowing that a vivid imagination has much to do toward perfecting
these faces of nature’s sculpture, and that a range of hills or coast
line will lend itself to almost any fancy we choose, there are in
different localities stones and cliffs bearing a remarkable resemblance
to the human countenance, individual peculiarity sometimes being easily
traced in these grave omens.

As the voyager approaches Rio Janeiro, he sees in the distance,
apparently rising from the sea, lonely and majestic, a massive
stone head, with the profile of the Iron Duke of England, the brow, the
nose, the chin, each feature perfect in its outline.

St. Vincent, of the Cape Verde group, has a huge volcanic rock which
requires no grievous strain of the imagination to transform into the
figure of George Washington in a recumbent position, the profile, the
hair and even the collar frill being reproduced with remarkable
clearness.

Rising grimly from the whirlpool of waters beating fiercely the
rugged western extremity of Santa Catalina Island, in the West Indies,
is an isolated block of basaltic rock, many feet in height, bearing a
marked likeness of a human face. It is known as “Morgan’s Head,” from a
fancied resemblance to that noted free-booter.

Among the countless rocks fringing the coast of Norway is one forming
a striking picture of a horse and rider about to plunge into the surf,
fifteen hundred feet below. This gigantic illusion, to the fanciful
minds of the old bards presented the image of Odin as he disappeared
before the advance of Christianity.

In Iceland, overlooking one of its picturesque

392b
valleys, is a bluff surmounted by a colossal head, covered by a stunted
growth looking not unlike a cap with frills. Before this august image
the worshipers of Odin were wont to bow in serious reverence.

The rugged coast of England has several of these faces of nature. Off
the Cornish point are seen the Great Lions, and lower down the shore the
Armed Knight. There is also the Old Man, the Old Dame, Duke’s Nose and
Witch’s Head.

Not the least remarkable of these freaks is the Old Man of the
Mountain, who uprears his gigantic form amid a sea of cliffs and rugged
heights, in the heart of that region known as the “Switzerland of
America”—New Hampshire.

A face of granite that alone kept watch and ward over the country
long ere the foot of man pressed its soil. In the grave, philosophical
outlines is traced a resemblance to Franklin’s countenance. At the base
of this singular mountain lies a sparkling sheet of water, called the
“Old Man’s Mirror.”

More beautiful and wonderful than any of these grave images is the
Maid of the Kaaterskill Falls, in the Catskill Mountains. With the
mellow light of sunset falling obliquely upon the thin layer of water
flowing over a sharp ledge worn and fretted by the continual wear of the
current for ages, rock and spray together making up the illusion, is to
be seen the fairy-like form of an Indian maid, with flowing hair and
robes. So clearly does she appear that the beholder has at first the
startling conception of gazing upon a living being, suspended in the
waters.

Indian tradition says that this maid of the mist was once the beloved
of the Great Spirit; but herself falling in love with a Mohawk brave,
she perished here, fleeing from her angry master.

MONUMENT PARK.

The formations from which this takes its name are among the greatest
curiosities to be seen in Colorado. Pen cannot well describe them. They
consist of a series of curiously shaped natural monuments, which have
been formed from sandstone rock solely by the action of the weather,
a thin strata of iron on the top having protected these particular
pieces and preserved them.

No accurate estimate can be made of the thousands of years this work
of the elements has been in progress. There are perhaps a hundred of the
peculiar formations of different sizes and shapes, some of which are
really fantastic.

The Garden of the Gods is also a remarkable freak of Nature,
partaking somewhat more of the grand and imposing.

It is a secluded spot, hemmed in by great rocks stood up on edge and
on end. They are some of the more marked of the numerous evidences on
every hand here of a grand upheaval some time in the past.

Imagine tremendous flat rocks, large enough to cover a quarter of an
acre of ground, standing up on edge, 330 feet high, and you will have
some idea of what forms the chief wonder of this garden.

G. B. G.

BACKLOGS MADE OF STONE.

It will surprise many persons of the present day to be told that the
“backlog” of which we read so much in old-time stories was a large
stone, a porous stone being preferred if possible. This stone was
buried in the ashes, and on top was placed the “back stick.” The back
stone in those primitive times played a very important part in the
economy of early housekeeping. Matches were not then invented. Flint,
steel and tow were the only means of lighting a fire or a lamp. Imagine
for a moment the Bridget of to-day thus engaged, with the thermometer
ten degrees below zero in the kitchen. The stone, together with the
ashes with which it was covered, served to retain fire and heat through
the night, and all that was necessary in the morning was a little
kindling and gentle use of the indispensable bellows, and a fire was as
readily made as at the present day.

MAMIE’S LETTER TO HEAVEN.

BY J. W. WATSON, AUTHOR OF
“BEAUTIFUL SNOW.”

Striking out for Themselves.

BY F. H. SWEET.

“Reckon we’ll get ’em burned out by Tuesday week, Tom, and be ready
for Pylant’s oranges. Suppose the old fellow will want us to take pay in
town lots, though.”

“He’ll get left if he does;” and the lad by the fire removed the
skillet of fried bacon from the coals and put the coffee-pot in its
place. “I’m willing to work out a five-acre lot, but don’t want any
towns. Say, Dave, what do you think of the party going to Punta Rassa?”
he added, as he thrust a stick into the bean-pot to see what prospect
there was for an early supper.

“Well, from what I hear, I fancy there is plenty of good land to be
homesteaded in that section, and if we didn’t have a good job here, I’d
be for joining them. I begin to feel a little anxious to have some
land where we can be starting trees of our own.”

“Same here; but the land will come in good time, and while we’ve got
a week’s rations of bacon and hominy ahead, I shan’t kick against
luck. But grub’s ready.”

Both lads fell to with a relish. Beans seemed to be the central dish
at almost every meal, and yet they somehow never seemed to tire of
them.

They had encountered a good many hard knocks since leaving their
Western home, but were evidently none the worse for them.

Dave Freeman, the son of a hard-working Kansas farmer, had come South
to better his prospects, and with a deep but unexpressed longing to help
the home folks.

At Flomaton, or Pensacola Junction, as it is now called, he had
fallen in with Tom Byrne, an Indiana boy, and the two had soon become
fast friends.

By getting occasional jobs along the way, and not infrequently
“tramping it,” they had reached their present quarters, near Panasofkee,
in Sumter County.

Here they had taken a contract from a “papertown” proprietor to clear
five acres of land for seventy-five dollars.

This was a low figure, as the ground was full of palmetto roots, and
not only were the trees to be cleared from the land, but all stumps to
be burned out.

The boys already had been at work over two months, and hoped that
another week would complete the job. On the first, their employer was to
commence gathering his oranges, and they expected several weeks’
employment with him.

Although the work of clearing was very hard, the boys were rugged and
hearty, and thoroughly enjoyed their novel surroundings.

After finishing their beans, they put away the few dishes, and began
the round of their stumps. Here and there one was dying out, and new
fuel had to be piled around it. As one stump burned out, it was dragged
from its hole and placed against the roots of another.

And so, from one stump to another, adding fuel to this or dragging
that away, their faces covered with soot, and looking more like negroes
than white folks, the boys darted around, shouting gleefully to each
other whenever one of the tall pines burned through and came crashing to
the ground.

A little to one side, and out of reach of the fires, the boys had
built a little six-by-ten shanty, where they kept their belongings and
occasionally slept. More frequently, however, they slung their hammock
between two pines, near the camp-fire.

At first, the peculiar roar of the alligators from the swamp near by
had disturbed their rest, but they very soon got accustomed to it, and
also to the startling challenge of a large bat, which is apt to frighten
strangers by its sudden appearance and shrill cry.

A few days before the boys finished their contract, a party of
surveyors stopped at their shanty to get a drink of water, and to see if
they could get them for a couple of days.

As the pay offered was good, the boys were glad to accept it, and
five minutes were sufficient to put their few belongings into the shanty
and to nail up the door.

It took the party some hours to reach their destination, and as soon
as they had

393b
partaken of a lunch, they began to survey a site for a new town.

The boys had seen a great many “paper towns” since they came to
Florida, but as a rule had taken little interest in them. They were
usually ventures of men who did not have money enough to make their
speculations a success.

Tom and Dave were put to work carrying chain, and very soon became
interested in the talk of their companions.

The spot chosen was a very beautiful one—a sloping
hillside gradually narrowing into a strip six or seven hundred yards
wide and running between two of the most picturesque lakes the boys had
ever seen.

“‘WHY, BOYS, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?’
TOM LOOKED UP TO MEET THE KEEN EYES OF THE DOCTOR.”

From the talk of the surveyors they learned that a number of them
were railroad men, and that they were endeavoring to buy at nominal
figures all the choice lands along the line of the new road before the
settlers became aware of its value.

They discussed their plans before the boys without reserve, and it
soon became evident to the latter that the future of this hillside could
bear no comparison with the other paper towns they had seen.
A number of very wealthy men were interested in it, and they
proposed to make it the winter home of themselves and friends.

“You see, gentlemen,” said one of the men to his companions, as he
pointed across the strip of land to the slope on the other side, “the
road will wind around the lake, across the neck of land, and along
393c
the western side of the lake to the right, and then in almost a bee-line
toward Palatka. Ten years from now, and this hillside for forty miles
will be a succession of orange groves. Near the depot we shall have a
limited number of business lots, while the balance of the land will be
surveyed into large orange grove and villa tracts. It will be specified
in each deed that no cheap buildings shall be erected. It is not a mere
speculation, as there are already a dozen or more men who will begin
elegant residences as soon as the land is surveyed.”

“Do you know, professor, who owns that point jutting into the lake?
It is a fine building site.”

The speaker was a tall, sharp-featured man of middle age, whom his
friends addressed as doctor.

“No,” answered the professor, “but I think a man named Pylant is the
owner, and that the twenty acres beyond belong to a Dutchman in Eustis.
However, we do not wish to make inquiries at present. They saw us when
we came out, and should we go back now and value their land, they will
put on four prices. Our policy is to go back as though we were
disappointed in the land, and by the time we return next week they will
offer it at our own figures. We can probably get it for two to four
dollars an acre. It is thirty miles from any town, and as Pylant got it
from the government, four dollars will be a big price to him.”

“And in twelve months it will be worth as many hundred,” said the
doctor.

Tom and Dave looked at each other curiously, and wondered how they
would feel if they owned a few acres on this hillside.

At the end of the week—for the two days’ work had lengthened
into five—the boys were paid fifteen dollars, and told they would
be soon wanted for several months, should they care to return.

Everything was found safe at the shanty, and the boys went to work at
the stumps with a will. At the end of the third day, the last root was
reduced to ashes, and then Dave set to work to prepare a supper suitable
for such an occasion. Fried quail (which they had snared), orange slump,
pineapple shortcake, baked beans and a pot of steaming coffee graced the
table (or rather box), while by way of dessert a pillow-case full of
oranges, picked up in a neighboring grove, stood by the side of the
banqueting board.

Next morning the boys went to see Mr. Pylant.

“So you’ve cleaned it up, have you?” he exclaimed, as the boys told
him their errand. “I saw last week it was most done. Reckon you’ll
want a little money and the rest in land. Sharp boys! know land is
best—goin’ up, goin’ up all the time.”

“But if you please, Mr. Pylant, we’d rather have the money,” said
Dave, quietly.

“Money!” exclaimed the “cracker,” in astonishment. “Why, boys, in one
year there’ll be a city on that land, and you’ll be rich. The lots I let
you have for thirty dollars’ll be worth a fortune.”

“We don’t want any lots,” replied Dave, decidedly. “We intend to get
some land when we can, but we must have it large enough to put out a
good grove on.”

“Well, I’ll sell you a five-acre lot near the village for two hundred
dollars, and you can work it out.”

“Too much,” answered Dave. “We want cheaper land, and are willing to
go a longer distance from town.”

“But that’s cheap,” expostulated Pylant, who began to fear he would
have to pay out money. “How far would you be willin’ to go for land?” he
added, as another idea seemed to strike him.

“Not particular, if the land is good and price low.”

“Then I’ve got the identical place for you,” cried Pylant, his face
brightening; “splendid land, and on a beautiful lake.”

“How far?”

Pylant hesitated.

“Mebbe it’s twenty miles or so,” he at length said, slowly; “but it’s
good, and I’ll let you have it low.”

“Twenty miles is a long distance from town,” said Dave, dubiously;
“but what’ll you take?”

Fearing he would lose the sale, Pylant lowered the figures he had
mentally fixed upon, and said, quickly:

“If you take the twenty acres, you can have it for three dollars and
a half an acre. I reckoned on sellin’ to the party here last week,
and I ’lowed to myself I’d ask five dollars. But, somehow, they didn’t
seem to take to it.”

“Well,” said Dave, slowly, as though hesitating, “I reckon we’ll
take it. Can you fix up the deed now?”

“Right off!” answered Pylant, quickly, fearing the boys might change
their mind. “Here are the other five dollars I owe you.”

Ten minutes later, Dave and Tom were the owners of the coveted twenty
acres.

For the next two weeks the boys worked in the orange grove and added
another thirty-five dollars to their fund.

Their living cost very little, and they now had nearly fifty dollars
between them.

Feeling comparatively wealthy, and with the prospect of, perhaps,
weeks of idleness before them, if they remained where they were, the
boys concluded to remove to their new possession.

Provisions enough to last two months were purchased, and with these,
and with a miscellaneous collection of kettles, axes, and other tools,
the boys set out.

Although the load was packed and strapped to their backs in the most
convenient manner, it took two days to complete their journey.

The third was spent in making a camp and looking up the stubs which
marked the boundaries of their twenty acres.

Like most of the high pine land in Florida, their tract was free from
palmetto, and consequently much easier to clear than the low pine they
had previously been at work upon.

Four weeks passed, and they had heard nothing from the surveying
party.

Nearly three acres were cleared, and the boys were already
calculating how many orange and lemon trees they would put out.

One morning, as Tom was digging a hole under the roots of a lofty
pine, preparatory to setting it on fire, he was greeted with a
surprised:

“Why, boys! What are you doing here?”

And he looked up to meet the keen eyes of the doctor.

“Clearing up our new purchase,” answered Tom, quietly.

The doctor’s shrewd face broadened into a smile.

“I see,” he said, pleasantly. “But how much are we to pay you boys
for outwitting us? I saw Pylant yesterday, and was told that you
had the land. The old man was nearly crazy, when one of us said we would
be willing to go as high as twenty dollars an acre.”

“I reckon we don’t care to sell at present,” said Dave. “Our twenty
acres wouldn’t make much difference to you, who own as many thousand
around the lakes.”

The doctor and his friends laughed good-humoredly.

“That’s right, boys,” said the one called professor; “hold the land
for an advance. It will come sooner than you expect, perhaps. But we
shall want your services for the next three months, to help our
surveyors; so be at our camp in the morning.”

After this the boys could not complain

394b
of loneliness. A few weeks of surveying outlined the streets and
blocks of the new town; a sawmill was quickly under way; buildings
went up rapidly, and here and there were displayed the new goods of
enterprising young merchants.

The fame of the new town spread through the surrounding country, and
every day brought new arrivals, seeking work; and soon hundreds of axes
could be heard on the hillside, clearing the land and making ready for
the numerous young groves to be put out in the spring.

Dave and Tom had all the work they could do, and utilized the
evenings and odd moments in burning the trees and stumps on their land.
By the first of February they had five acres cleared and fenced, and
ready for trees.

Believing the best to be the cheapest, they sent to one of the
nurseries for three hundred and fifty budded trees. They took especial
pains in setting them out, and in due time had as thrifty a young grove
as one could wish to see.

The trees cost them all the money they had earned and most of what
they had laid aside; but when they looked at their beautiful young
grove, they were more than satisfied.

Before the end of the year the proposed railroad was built, and its
advent made a tremendous rise in the value of land.

The boys had had many excellent offers for their land before, but
invariably declined to consider them. As the depot had been built very
near them, they knew their place must advance rapidly.

However, shortly after the erection of the depot, they received an
offer of seven thousand dollars for the unimproved ten acres, and after
a short consultation, decided to accept it. Dave had not seen his people
for nearly two years, and was anxious to visit them. Tom, who was alone
in the world, was to remain and look after their grove.

So a few weeks later saw Dave walking up the lane to the old
homestead. Knowing how particular his father was, he was greatly
surprised at the thriftless look of everything. A man was hobbling
across the yard as he approached, and Dave saw with dismay that the
haggard face belonged to his father.

Their meeting may be imagined, and Dave soon knew of the broken leg
and the long, hard winter following it, with no one to look after things
and unpaid bills accumulating rapidly.

“A sorry home-coming, my boy,” said his father, with a wan smile.

But Dave’s story quickly changed the aspect of things. The bills were
paid; pinching want was a thing of the past.

And then Dave talked and argued until his parents agreed to return
with him and spend the winter in Florida, and give that genial climate a
chance to make his father well and strong again.

[This Story began in No. 21.]

Jack Stanwood;

OR,

FROM OCEAN TO OCEAN.

BY JAMES H. SMITH.

CHAPTER XIII.
I BREAK JAIL THROUGH NO
EFFORTS OF MY OWN.

I was handed over to the custody of a little man, with big, staring
eyes, and a magnified head of hair that made him look like a gun-swab.
This was Mr. Janks, the jailor.

He stood looking at me for some moments, swinging a bunch of keys on
his finger, and then said, mournfully, “So, you’ve come, have you?”
which made me think that he must have dreamed of my coming.

Then he took up a small lamp, and, after examining me from head to
foot as if I were some strange animal, he gave vent to a dismal groan,
and asked me if I was hungry.

Receiving a negative answer, he groaned again, and beckoned me to
follow him.

He led the way along a damp and chilly stone corridor, lined with
little iron doors, which I needed no one to tell me belonged to cells,
and I followed him very readily. My previous notions of prison treatment
included the immediate ironing of the culprit to the extent of several
hundredweight, and, finding myself mistaken, my spirits rose
accordingly.

He stopped before one of the little doors near the end of the
corridor, and, opening it with a large key, ushered me into an apartment
about eight feet square.

This was my cell. The walls and ceiling were whitewashed, and the
only furniture was an iron bedstead, covered with two coarse, gray
blankets.

Mr. Janks waved his keys around as if to welcome me to this abode,
and then, instead of going out and leaving me to my reflections, he
leaned up against the door and groaned once more.

“The wickedness of these boys!” he said, passing his hand through his
hair, and apparently addressing the ceiling. “Why do they ever come
here? Why did you come here?”

I hastened to explain that I did not come of my own accord, and so
far from wishing to be in jail, if he would only have the kindness to
open the door, I would promise him to make my exit, and never
return.

“And so young!” continued Mr. Janks, without paying any attention to
my remarks, and still apostrophizing the ceiling. “But it’s allus the
way! The younger they are, the worse they are!”

Then he launched forth into a description of the number of bad boys
who had passed through his hands, and endeavored to draw a parallel
between their case and mine, but, I think, with poor success.

He kept up this monologue for at least ten minutes, while I sat on
the couch and listened with anything but pleasurable emotions.

At the end of that time he came to a sudden stop, and went out
slowly, groaning dismally.

When the sound of his footsteps had died away down the corridor,
I surrendered myself to my thoughts. And how I did think!

What had been all my trouble compared to this? In prison! The
thought was horrifying!

I felt now that I would not dare return home—for who would not
shrink from me as a malefactor?

Besides, I was extremely dubious as to my impending fate. I was
not afraid of being convicted of larceny, unless Mary Jane Robinson
perjured herself; but I was desperately afraid of Mr. Barron.

I knew he took the Lancaster Examiner, and should he see my name in
it, I felt certain he would pounce down on me, and then—well,
something terrible would certainly happen.

The sky looked very dark and cloudy just then, and you may easily
imagine how bitterly I regretted my foolishness in running away.

I lay awake for an hour or more thinking in this fashion, and then I
fell into a fitful slumber.

How long I slept, I don’t know; but when I awoke it was with a
strange feeling that I was not alone—that some one was in the cell
with me.

I was wide awake in an instant, and my heart beat so loudly that I
fancied I could hear it.

I listened intently, and presently heard a light “pitapat,” as if
some one was walking across the floor; and while I was trying to muster
up courage to call out, there was a sharp click, a flood of light
illumined the cell, and I saw that the intruder was a man.

He was standing near the opposite wall, and in his hand he held a
lighted wax taper, with the aid of which he was taking a survey of the
room.

As he turned slowly around, I saw that he was young, rather
good-looking, and well-dressed, and at the same time he saw me.

He started, and with an exclamation of alarm, dropped the taper.

In an instant, however, he recovered the taper and himself, and
advanced toward me.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “And how did you get here?”

I related, in a few words, who I was and how I came to be
incarcerated.

He laughed lightly when I had finished, and said:

“I suppose you wonder how I came here. Look!”

I looked, and saw an aperture in the wall about two feet square.

“I came through that,” he said, laughing softly at my evident
astonishment. “My cell is on the other side. Now, I am going to
escape from this jail, and I want you to go with me.”

I know now that his reason was to prevent my giving an alarm; but I
thought then that it was because he took pity on me.

And I joyfully accepted his offer,

394d
although I couldn’t imagine how he was to manage it, and I made a remark
to that effect.

“Easy enough,” he said. “You have only a lock on your door, while
there’s a dozen bolts on mine. That’s why I dug through, expecting to
find the cell empty. However, it is all right. Take off your shoes.”

I did so, and then my companion put out the lights, having first
opened the door with what looked like a piece of wire.

Then he whispered to me to keep hold of his sleeve, step cautiously
and not let my shoes fall, and then we moved out into the corridor, now
black as Egypt.

My guide also seemed to be in his stocking feet; but where his shoes
were I couldn’t imagine.

We moved along slowly, but steadily, my guide seeming to know the
way, and presently he opened a door with only a slight creak, and then
whispered in my ear:

“We are in the lodge. Don’t breathe.”

Again we moved on and again stopped, and from one or two sharp clicks
I judged him to be trying to open another door.

Suddenly he drew me forward. I felt a rush of cold air, and the next
instant I was out of jail.

“Wait!” said my companion.

And he closed the wicket gate, and locked it noiselessly.

“If they find the gate open, they’ll smell a rat,” he remarked. “Now
then, my boy, come on.”

CHAPTER XIV.
I BECOME A WANDERER
AND FALL INTO LUCK.

I kept closely by his side, and for half an hour we moved along,
keeping in the shadow of the houses, until we reached the outskirts of
the town.

“Now then,” said my companion, speaking for the first time, “put on
your shoes.”

I did so, and very glad I was to do it. At the same time he reached
down and drew off his stockings, and then I saw they had been drawn on
over his boots.

Then he took my hand, and we walked along steadily and swiftly for an
hour, until the lights of Lancaster had faded in the distance, and not
until then did my companion fall into a walk and conversation.

“What did you say you were in for?” he asked.

“For nothing,” I answered, promptly.

This seemed to amuse him greatly.

“Of course not,” said he, after an outburst of laughter.
“I never saw a prisoner in my life who wasn’t innocent!”

I attempted to explain, but he wouldn’t listen.

“No matter—it’s not my business. It was forgery with
me—ten years at the least; and I couldn’t stand that, you
know.”

“Certainly not,” said I, not knowing what else to say.

Then, by way of turning the conversation, I inquired how he came
to be provided with tools to effect his escape.

He looked at me suspiciously for a moment, as if he suspected me of
some hidden motive in asking the question, and then, apparently
satisfied with the scrutiny, he informed me that his friends had sent
him pies every day for two weeks past.

“Pies?” I exclaimed, in open-mouthed wonder.

“Yes, pies,” he said, gravely. “Don’t you see? Nothing but the
crusts. Inside were keys, saws and a jimmy.”

“A jimmy?”

“Yes—here it is. That came in four pies.”

He took from his coat-pocket four pieces of steel, and in an instant
fitted them together into a bar about two feet in length.

“Not much to look at, is it?” said he; “but it is a crowbar, chisel,
hammer and wrench, all in one. It only took me two nights to cut into
your cell.”

“And how did you know your way out in the dark?” I asked.

“Because I came in that way, and I always keep my eyes open.
Hello!”

“What’s the matter?” I asked, in some alarm, as he came to a sudden
halt.

“Nothing much,” he answered; “only that I must leave you here.
I don’t know where you are going, and I don’t propose to let you
know where I am going. Besides, it is much harder to follow two than
one, and there is no use of us both being captured.”

“Captured?” I repeated, in dismay. “Do you think the officers will
follow us?”

“Do I think so? I know they will.”

I was so terrified that my teeth chattered, at this announcement, and
he noticed it.

“Don’t get too scared, young one,” he added, consolingly. “They won’t
look for you half as much as they will for me. If you travel right
straight on, and keep out of their clutches for a week, you’ll be
safe.”

“But I haven’t done anything,” I said, tremblingly.

“Oh, yes you have,” said he, with a laugh. “You have broken jail, and
that means a year at least, if you’re caught.”

I was so overwhelmed at this dread piece of news that I could only
lean up against a convenient fence and stare at him.

“Come, come!” he cried, impatiently, “brace up! They haven’t got you
yet. If you go straight through this cornfield you will strike a road
that will take you to Columbia. Good-by!”

Before I had time to reply, he had plunged into the woods on the
right of the road, and I was left alone.

I was terribly alarmed, and lost no time in making my way through the
cornfield; and when I found the road, I sped along it at a rapid
gait. Fear lent me wings, and I fancied every bush an officer.

It was a warm but pleasant night, and the moon was just rising.
I calculated that it must be about midnight, and I determined that
I would put many a mile between me and Lancaster before daybreak.

So I set off at a dog-trot, and I kept it up until I saw the sun
rising over the eastern hills.

By that time I must have gone about twenty miles, and I was
completely tired out, and very glad to crawl into the shelter of some
neighboring woods and lie down to rest.

Before I knew it I was asleep, and I did not awake until late in the
afternoon.

I was stiff and sore, and at the same time ravenously hungry. The
first two ailments wore away as I started again on my journey, but the
latter increased until I determined to brave anything rather than suffer
any longer.

The first house I came to was a small yellow frame, close to the
road, with a yellow dog chained on the porch, and a woman frying ham in
the kitchen.

“Please, ma’am,” said I.

“G’way!” said she. “Here, Tige!”

“Please, ma’am—”

“G’way, I say! We don’t want no tramps hookin’ everything they kin
lay their hands on!”

“Please, ma’am,” I persisted, mildly, “I am not a tramp. I want
something to eat”—the woman started to unchain the dog—“for
which I am willing to pay.”

“Come right in,” said the woman, with a broad smile. “I declare
I couldn’t have the heart to turn anybody away hungry. Tramps bother a
person so that I get kinder suspicious, but I could see right away you
were different from the general run.”

While she was talking she was busily engaged in setting the table
with fried ham, potatoes, bread and butter and coffee, and I lost no
time in falling to. I paid a quarter for it when I had finished,
and got away as quickly as possible, as I feared the arrival of some of
the men folks, who might have their suspicions aroused.

All that night I traveled on and slept in the woods again. Not to
enter into particulars, it is sufficient to say that I kept this up for
a week, until I found myself in the vicinity of Williamsport, and by
that time I judged myself to be reasonably safe.

So I boldly entered that city in broad daylight, had a bath and my
hair cut, a complete change of underclothing, and enjoyed a day of
rest.

When I started out again, the next morning, I had recovered my
usual spirits, and took to the road, determined to keep going as long as
my money and strength held out. I had twenty-five dollars of the
former and an unlimited supply of the latter.

All that day I tramped on steadily enough, buying both my dinner and
supper for trifling sums; and, when night came on, I thought it
would be just as well to camp in the woods again.

For that purpose I left the road, and, plunging into the forest on my
left, I soon came to a secluded spot, near a ravine or

395b
gully, and there I made myself a bed of dry leaves.

On this I lay down, and was fast drifting into the Land of Nod, when
I was aroused by a sound something like the rattling of tinware.

I promptly sat up and listened. Again I heard the rattling, and as it
evidently come from the ravine, I arose and began an
investigation.

Peering over the edge of the gully, I saw at the bottom, about
fifteen feet below, a bright light, and the rattling sound again
smote my ears.

By this time my curiosity was excited to the utmost, and, catching
hold of a small sapling, I leaned far over the edge to observe the
why and wherefor. As I did so, I felt the sapling giving away, and
I made a desperate attempt to recover myself.

It was no use. Down went the sapling into the ravine and I along
with it.

CHAPTER XV.
I MEET AN ECCENTRIC DOCTOR
AND ENTER INTO HIS SERVICE.

The sapling and I fell directly on a fire of branches, from which
came the light at which I had been gazing.

I was slightly stunned, but I scrambled to my feet just as a heavy
hand was laid on my collar, and a gruff voice said:

“Vell! here’s a precious go!”

I looked up, and saw that the voice and hand belonged to the same
person—a short, stout man, with sallow complexion and
glistening black eyes. His dress was a curious compound of broad, glazed
hat and blue shift of a sailor and the flashy check vest and pantaloons
of a peddler.

“Vere did you come from, anyhow,” he demanded, before I had finished
my survey, “a-busting down on a chap vithout varning, and a smashing of
his pots and kettles?”

“Pots and kettles?” I repeated, inquiringly.

For answer he pointed indignantly to the ground, and then I saw what
damage my descent had caused.

A rusty coffee-pot, a little dish and a skillet were scattered among
the embers of the fire.

“That’s vot you did,” said he, resentfully. “Here vos I, a-cooking my
supper and a-thinking of just nothink at all, when all of a suddent down
you come, like a cannon-ball, and avay goes everythink! It was werry
aggerwating because it was nearly done.”

“I assure you, sir,” said I, very contritely, “that I had no
intention of falling on your fire or your supper.”

Then I explained the cause of my sudden descent, and wound up by
offering to pay for the damage.

By this time the man had entirely recovered his temper—if he
had ever lost it, which I very much doubt—and smiled kindly.

“Vell, vell, there ain’t much harm done except putting my supper back
half an hour. Put up your money, my boy, and join me.”

Then he righted the utensils, and whistling a lively air, prepared
the meal anew. And this he did with an adroitness that proved the task
to be by no means an unusual one.

Within half an hour, he had made a pot of coffee, a pan of
biscuits and a savory stew, and we were soon discussing this supper very
amiably together.

After supper he washed out the dishes and utensils in a brook near
by, and lying at full length on the ground, composed himself for a
smoke.

All this time I had been regarding him in silence, but with
considerable curiosity, and I had about made up my mind that he was a
gipsy, on his way to join his tribe, when he startled me by saying,
abruptly:

“Look ’ere!”

I intimated that I was all attention.

“Who are you?” he asked, bluntly.

“Jack Wood,” I answered, promptly, although a trifle nervously.

“My name is Miles Norris,” he rejoined, after a long pause. “I’m a
wender of physics and knickknacs.”

“A doctor?”

“Not exactly,” he replied, rising on his elbow and winking at me
significantly. “I cures people as hasn’t got nothink the matter
vith ’em and thinks they has.”

This sentence was too deep for me to fathom, and on my intimating as
much, he condescended to explain.

“I go round the country selling my own medicines, which is Norris’s
Golden Balsam, wot cures all kinds of pains, cuts and bruises,
whatsomedever they

395c
may be; fifty cents a bottle, small bottles twenty-five. Then there’s
the Lightning Toothache Drops, wot cures that hagonizing malady in one
second, or money refunded—twenty-five cents a bottle. And finally,
’ere we ’ave the Great American Tooth Powder, which makes the blackest
teeth vite in less’n no time, and makes the gums strong and
’elthy—ten cents a box. And each and every purchaser is presented
vith a book containing fifty songs, all new and prime, free gratis and
for nothink! Valk hup, ladies and gentlemen; who’ll ’ave another
bottle?”

During this recital, Doctor Norris gradually assumed a professional
demeanor, and near the close he rose to his feet, and gesticulated as if
addressing a large audience.

But at the close he suddenly cooled down, and assuming his recumbent
position, said, listlessly:

“Now you know me.”

“Certainly,” said I; “but then I do not see—”

“I hunderstand,” said he. “You don’t see no Balsam, nor Drops, nor
Powder?”

“I do not.”

“And you vonder vere they are?”

“Yes.”

“Your surprise is werry natural,” said Doctor Norris, with great
gravity. “I am out of those inwaluable medicines at present, but
ven I get to my laboratory, I shall roll ’em out wholesale.”

“Then you make them?”

“In course. I couldn’t trust anybody else.”

Then, after a pause, he added, slowly:

“I don’t know but that I might let you into my secrets if— What
did you say your name was?”

I repeated my alias, and told my fictitious history.

“So you ain’t got nothink to do?”

“Nothing.”

“How would you like to work for me?”

“Doing what?”

“Selling my medicines.”

“Done!” cried I, joyfully.

“Hold hup!” said he, quickly. “I ain’t quite certain. Can you
patter?”

“Can I what?”

“Gab, I mean—talk? Are you good on that?”

“I think I am,” I answered, modestly.

“And ’ave you got plenty of cheek?”

“Oh, yes! Why?”

“Because you’ll need it. You wouldn’t be afraid to stand hup before a
big crowd and blow away about the Balsam, or the Powder, nor yet the
Drops—hey?”

I assured him that the prospect did not dismay me in the least.

My companion then brought the conversation to a conclusion very
summarily.

“Then, Jack Wood,” said he, “you’re my man!”

Then he rolled over and went to sleep, and although somewhat
astonished at the suddenness of the doctor’s resolution, I thought
his action a good one, and I rolled over and went to sleep,
also.

CHAPTER XVI.
TREATS OF MY EXPERIENCE AS A
PHYSICIAN—I REACH THE MISSISSIPPI.

I awoke at sunrise, or rather Doctor Norris awoke me by a vigorous
dig in the ribs with the point of his boot, and told me that breakfast
was ready. I arose at once, washed my face, combed my hair, and
then astonished the doctor by the vigor of my appetite.

During the meal he confided to me his plans for the future. He had
laid out a route through Butler and Beaver counties to the State line,
and thence through Ohio until winter set in.

“I make enough in summer to lay hup in winter,” he explained. “It’s
an ’ealthy and hinvigorating life, and I like it. I’ve traveled over
nearly all the States between the Atlantic and the Mississippi, ’ave ’ad
my hups and downs, and I wouldn’t change places with a king.”

I rather doubted whether the doctor knew very much about kings, that
he could afford to speak so positively, but I felt that it would be
neither polite nor prudent to disagree with him.

“I dare say I shall like the life very well,” I said, quietly.
“But—what am I expected to do?”

“You’ll be my assistant,” said the doctor, in a lofty voice, as if he
was announcing my appointment to a cabinet position.

Then he went into details, and explained that I was to assist him in
concocting and selling the wonderful remedies of which he was the
inventor.

This duty included filling bottles, pasting on labels, carrying his
baggage, making his fires, and several other minor matters which he
could not recall just then.

“Ve’ll camp out like this most of the time,” he added. “Hotels is
hexpensive, and I never stops at ’em, unless it’s raining or I’m going
to sell in the town. You von’t mind that, vill you?”

I was more than delighted at the prospect, and I said so.

“This man,” I told myself, “is evidently a great traveler, and he is
going West. If I stick to him my fortune is made.”

It did not take the doctor long to pack up his traps, and, dividing
them between us, we journeyed along very agreeably.

When we arrived in Butler we went to a hotel, and there, in the
seclusion of our room, the doctor manufactured three dozen bottles of
the balsam, as many of the toothache drops and twice as many boxes of
the tooth-powder.

At this distance of time I cannot recall the ingredients of these
justly celebrated remedies, but I can cheerfully testify to their
harmlessness.

The balsam was composed of two or three simple aromatic oils, the
toothache drops was merely a diluted essence of the oil of cloves, and
the wonderful tooth-powder chalk powdered and scented.

The labels for the various compounds the doctor carried in his
oilcloth bag, and the bottles, boxes and various ingredients he
purchased at the village drug stores.

I am almost ashamed to tell you what enormous profits he made on his
sales, and will only mention that he once told me that the bottle and
label formed nine-tenths of the cost of the Golden Balsam, which
retailed at one dollar.

In these days the street vender of physic is an ordinary sight, but a quarter of
a century ago he was almost unknown outside of the largest cities.

After being a month in the company of Doctor Norris I easily
understood why he followed such a life. In the town of Butler two days’
sales netted him sixty dollars, and he made nearly as much in
Beaver.

He was not always so successful, but, taking one week with another,
I judged that he cleared at least fifty dollars, which was a bank
president’s salary in those days.

His methods were such as are in use among this class of gentry all
the world over.

Having prepared his stock in trade, he would gravely walk down the
main street, followed by your humble servant.

Halting on the most prominent corner, he and I would arrange the
boxes and bottles in attractive pyramids on the top of a box or a
barrel, taking as much time as possible, so as to attract the attention
of the passers-by.

Having achieved this object, the doctor would mount on a soap-box, so
as to raise himself above the crowd, and begin his harangue.

He always began gravely, and not until he had made several sales did
he venture on a joke or a witticism, although he had a plentiful stock
of cheap wit, such as crowds delight in.

Another thing: When he spoke in public he used excellent English, and
the cockney dialect entirely disappeared. He never explained this to me,
but I suppose he was like an actor on the stage when addressing a
crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he would say, in calm and measured tones,
“Shakespeare has said, ‘Throw physic to the dogs; I’ll none of it!’ and
he was right. Medicinal drugs are pernicious, even when given by a
practiced physician, but when administered by quacks, it is little short
of murder. Now, in my medicines I do not give you strange and deadly
drugs. The articles I use are all known to you” (this was strictly
true), “the mode of preparation only being a secret. No pain, no danger
in their use, absolutely harmless to the smallest child, yet so powerful
that the most deadly ailments yield to their power.”

Thus the doctor talked on for fifteen minutes, taking the crowd into
his confidence in a learned and fatherly way, until some fellow
bashfully thrust forward a coin, and then the money rolled in.

The doctor was now in his element; he was witty, he cracked jokes, he
told stories, and even indulged in snatches of song, and he rarely
failed to hold his audience until his stock was exhausted.

This operation sometimes consumed three or four hours, and sometimes
his eloquence was wasted. But at all times he was cheerful and polite,
and good and bad fortune seemed alike to him.

I thought then, and I still think, that he was a remarkable man; and
I am sure that he treated me very kindly. He paid me a very liberal
salary of ten dollars a month, and whenever he had an unusually good
day, gave me an extra dollar.

All of this money I carefully stowed away in my belt for a rainy day,
which I felt sure would come. And my experience did not
deceive me.

After leaving Pennsylvania, we traveled through the small towns of
Ohio until near the middle of December, as it was a very open winter,
and it was nearly Christmas before the cold and snow drove us into
winter quarters in Toledo.

The doctor intended to treat himself to a three months’ rest, and for
that purpose hired two rooms and kept bachelor’s hall, and invited me to
keep him company.

I received no wages; but as he was to bear all expenses,
I willingly agreed to the arrangement.

These three months were absolutely uneventful, and about the first of
April we started out again.

The doctor had laid out a new route for this season. We traveled
across country by stage to Keokuk, Iowa, intending to travel up the
river as far as St. Paul, and then work eastward thorough Wisconsin and
Michigan, and close the season at Detroit.

But we never carried out our programme. My cruel fate pursued
me—or was it punishment for my foolishness?—and at Davenport
I was once more cast adrift.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

International Lesson—for May 29.

Exodus 14:19-21. Golden Text—Isaiah
43:2.

Central Subject—THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA.

BY REV. D. P. KIDDER, D.D.

INTRODUCTION.

According to Jewish tradition, it was seven days after the Passover
that the Israelites passed over the Red Sea.

Before they left they were directed by God to ask (not “borrow,” as
it is in our version) of the Egyptians jewels of silver and gold, and
other articles that would be of service to them.

It was customary thus on the eve of a journey, or at the close of a
term of service, to ask gifts. The practice corresponded to the asking
of backshish, still so common in the East.

The Egyptians, it seemed, readily and generously granted the request
of the Israelites and supplied them abundantly. Thus, in some slight
measure, they made return for the long years of unrequited service which
the Hebrews had rendered to Egypt’s land and Egypt’s king.

While the Egyptians were bewailing their dead, the children of
Israel, having finished hurriedly their Passover feast, started on their
journey of escape. Leaving Rameses, the western part of Goshen, they
assembled at Succoth—“place of tents”—so called because it
was a camping place for caravans going east, then and now. They were,
perhaps, four days gathering at this spot, about two millions of people
all told.

The next point which they reached was Etham. This was a district of
country just on the edge of the desert. From this point there were three
routes to Palestine. The Israelites, by divine direction, took the most
southern.

They were at first surprised at this order of march; but it was the
only safe one for them. The most northern would have taken them right
through the country of the warlike and hostile Philistines, and the
middle route (after passing the great wall which stretched from Pelusium
on the Mediterranean Sea to the Gulf of Suez) would have brought them
right out upon the desert.

Several days had elapsed since the Israelites started on their
flight. Pharaoh already missed them. His important works were brought to
a standstill; there was no one to make or handle bricks, and the loss of
so large and so efficient a body of workers was severely felt.

A reaction takes place in the mind of the king; he charges himself
with folly in letting the people go, and resolves to pursue them. He
learns, also, that they have not yet got out of the land of Egypt, and
he thinks that by the fact that they have turned south, and not gone
directly to the east, they are confused, and he plans to catch them when
they are hemmed in by the mountains and the sea.

With six hundred of his swiftest chariots he at once sets out after
them, leaving orders, doubtless, for other chariots as well as foot
soldiers to follow as soon as possible.

The Israelites were in the greatest alarm; there was no visible means
of escape. They could go no further south, for the mountains were in
front of them; they could not turn to the right for the same reason; the
Egyptians were in their rear, and the Red Sea was before them. They were
in a trap. This is what Pharaoh expected. The strategy on which he had
reckoned (ver. 3) had worked admirably.

THE PRESENT HELP IN TROUBLE.

“And the angel of God, which went before the camp of Israel, removed and
went behind them; and the pillar of the cloud went from before their
face, and stood behind them:

“And it came between the camp of the Egyptians and the camp of Israel:
and it was a cloud and darkness to them, but it gave light by night to
these: so that the one came not near the other all the night.”

It is singular that this blind king should so soon forget that there
was a God in Israel, and that he was to come into collision again with
that Being who had so often foiled, and finally, in the death of the
first-born, had utterly crushed him.

But none are so blind or so heedless as the obstinate and the
unbelieving. It will be seen that the battle that is soon to follow will
end as before—in the defeat
396b
of Pharaoh, and, as some think, his death.

We have in this “angel of God” the same being that we have met so
often before, who talked familiarly with Abraham and Jacob. He is the
one who afterward came in the form of the flesh, and is called
Christ.

This time His symbol was a cloud, and at night a pillar of fire. In
such a large host as that of the children of Israel were at this time,
it would be necessary that there be some elevated central object, so
that those of the people scattered widely, in caring for the flocks and
other like services, should not lose the location of the camp.

Some such arrangement was early found important in caravans crossing
the deserts, so that it was customary to carry a round grate with fire,
held aloft on a pole. The ancient Persians and some other nations
carried a sacred fire in silver altars before their armies.

At night this cloud over the camp of the Israelites was illumined by
some strong internal fire, so that the host dwelt amid the darkness of
the desert as in a city brightly lighted. It was a marvelous
miracle.

This cloud now changed its position as the Egyptians came near to the
Israelites. It stood between the two hosts. Over the Egyptians it was a
dense fog that cut off all their vision so that they could not tell what
the Israelites were doing, while to the latter it was as though it had
caught and held the rays of the setting sun, and poured a brilliant
glory all over and through their encampment. The Egyptians, thinking
that the rising sun will disperse the fog, wait for morning.

THE ISRAELITES ENTER THE RED SEA.

“And Moses stretched out his hand over the sea; and the Lord caused the
sea to go back by a strong east wind all that night, and made the sea
dry land, and the waters were divided.

“And the children of Israel went into the midst of the sea upon dry
ground: and the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand, and on
their left.”

While the Egyptians were thus waiting, the Israelites were busy; they
were making the best use of their time. They were making their escape by
the way last of all thought possible—even the bottom of the
sea!

The crossing was made in the neighborhood of what are now called the
Bitter
396c
Lakes. This was then most probably the head of the Red Sea.

It was at a time of the year when the tide would help the action of
the wind. If there were shoals or flats at the place where the crossing
is supposed to have occurred, as there are now at Suez, the wind and the
tide clearing a passage there would leave deep water on both sides of
the passage-way, and this most probably is the meaning of the expression
that the waters were a wall to them on either side.

“They were a defense; not necessarily perpendicular cliffs, as they were
often pictured. God could make the water stand in precipices if He
should so choose, and such a conception is more impressive to the
imagination, but it is certain that the language of the text may mean
simply that the water was a protection on the right and on the left
flanks of the host. Thus, in Nahum 3:8, No (Thebes) is said to have the
sea (the broad Nile) for the rampart and a wall—that is,
a defense, a protection against enemies. It is true that in
poetical passages the waters are said to have stood ’as a heap’ (Exod.
15:8; Psa. 78:13); but so they are also, in the same style, said to have
been ’congealed in the heart of the sea,’ and the peaks of the trembling
Horeb are said to have ’skipped like rams, and the little hills like
lambs’ (Psa. 114:4). Of course these expressions are not to be literally
and prosaically interpreted.”

The wind thus prevailed all night, to keep the passage open until all
the Israelites had crossed and the pursuing Egyptians had got well into
the sea.

THE ENEMY FOLLOW CLOSELY.

“And the Egyptians pursued, and went in after them to the midst of the
sea, even all Pharaoh’s horses, his chariots and his horsemen.

“And it came to pass that in the morning watch the Lord looked unto the
host of the Egyptians through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and
troubled the host of the Egyptians.

“And took off their chariot wheels, that they drave them heavily; so
that the Egyptians said, Let us flee from the face of Israel; for the
Lord fighteth for them against the Egyptians.”

Surrounded by darkness and enveloped by the fog, the Egyptians did
not know that they were rushing into the midst of the sea. It is not
said that Pharaoh went in, and yet as the post of the king is usually
represented on the ancient monuments as leading his
soldiers—marching at their head—it may be, as some think,
that his chariot led those six hundred chariots, and that he perished
with them.

“The chariots of Egypt were very famous. According to Diodorus Siculus,
Rameses II had twenty-seven thousand in his army. The processes of
manufacture of chariots and harness are fully illustrated by existing
sculptures, in which also are represented the chariots used by
neighboring nations.”—Rev. H. W. Phillot.

At this point the movements of the Egyptians are very much impeded.
Shortly after midnight, the fog changed into a

396d
storm cloud, blazing with lightning and growling with thunder. This was
terrifying to the Egyptians in the extreme, as they were not accustomed
to thunderstorms, and scarcely ever saw rain.

“Showers of rain also came down from the sky, and dreadful thunder and
lightning, with flashes of fire. Thunderbolts also were darted upon
them; nor was there anything which God sends upon men as indications of
His wrath which did not happen at this time.”—Josephus.

Psalms 77:15-20 refers to this storm. Although the Israelites went
through dry-shod, the pursuing chariots sank in the mire, were buried in
the sand, and in some cases the wheels were wrenched off, so that the
superstitious Egyptians recognized the fact that the God of Israel was
fighting against them. They therefore began to retreat. In the meantime
the children of Israel had an abundance of time to make good their
escape.

“Before the captivity, the night (between sunset and sunrise) was
divided by the Israelites into three watches—the first watch, the
middle watch and the morning watch. It appears that the Israelites had
the space of two watches, at least (or eight hours), for effecting their
passage.”—Murphy.

THE OVERTHROW OF PHARAOH’S HOST.

“And the Lord said unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand over the sea, that
the waters may come again upon the Egyptians, upon their chariots and
upon their horsemen.

“And Moses stretched forth his hand over the sea, and the sea returned
to his strength when the morning appeared; and the Egyptians fled
against it, and the Lord overthrew the Egyptians in the midst of the
sea.

“And the waters returned, and covered the chariots, and the horsemen,
and all the host of Pharaoh that came into the sea after them; there
remained not so much as one of them.”

After the fugitives had safely gained the farther shore, and while
the Egyptians were still struggling in the middle of the passage,
through the gray of the dawn they saw the majestic form of Moses rise
upon the opposite bank. They saw him stretch forth that terrible
rod—that rod which had left so many deep scars upon the fair land
of Egypt—and immediately the wind ceased, its strong pressure was
relaxed, the sudden swell of the tide caught the waters, and they, as if
impatient of restraint, leaped again to their wonted channel, burying
the hopeless and helpless enemy.

“A sudden cessation of the wind at sunrise, coinciding with a
spring tide (it was full moon), would immediately convert the low, flat
sand-banks, first into a quicksand, and then into a mass of waters, in a
time far less than would suffice for the escape of a single chariot or
horseman loaded with heavy corselet.”—Canon Cook.

The destruction was as complete as it was sudden. Not one escaped.
The disaster was overwhelming, crushing. The Egyptians never again
disturbed the Israelites during all their after wanderings.

THIS WAS THE LORD’S DOINGS.

“But the children of Israel walked upon dry land in the midst of the
sea; and the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand and on
their left.

“Thus the Lord saved Israel that day out of the hand of the Egyptians;
and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the seashore.

“And Israel saw that great work which the Lord did upon the Egyptians;
and the people feared the Lord, and believed the Lord, and his servant
Moses.”

There was only one explanation of this event, and that was the Lord
wrought it. There could be no room in the mind of any of the children of
Israel to doubt that God was with them. Repeatedly had they seen their
enemies baffled and discomfited; now they saw them destroyed. What folly
to contend with such a God! Would it be possible for these people thus
delivered ever to doubt God? ever to distrust Him? ever to disobey Him?
It would seem not.

They had every reason to believe Him, to be grateful to Him, to love
and serve Him devotedly. Without lifting a finger, they, an unarmed
people, with not a soldier in all their ranks, nor a weapon worthy the
name, had triumphed over a chosen detachment of the finest army in the
world at that time, led, too, by a king who was familiar with battles
and accustomed to victories.

Josephus says that, after the passage of the sea by the Israelites,
a west wind set in, which (assisted by the current) drove the
bodies of the drowned Egyptians to the eastern side of the gulf, where
many of them were cast up upon the shore. In this way, Moses, according
to him, obtained weapons and armor for a considerable number of
Israelites.

WHAT THEY DO WHEN IT RAINS.

BY CARRIE CATHCART DAY.

JACK-A-DANDY.

BY HELEN WHITNEY CLARK.

We children had been wishing for a tame crow ever since reading
Dickens’ charming description of his pet raven. There were no ravens
where we lived; but Brother Tom said crows were just as good, and could
be taught to talk, too.

And one day, when we were playing “Here we go round the mulberry
bush” in the woods near the house, little Ikey, our colored
washerwoman’s boy, came along with a live crow in his hands.

Of course we were curious to see and examine the wonderful bird, and
we crowded around Ikey, who seemed bewildered at being the object of so
much attention.

“Where did you get him?” “What you going to do with him?” “How much
will you take for him?” asked Tom, Josie and Fred, in one breath.

But Ikey only grinned, as he answered each in turn.

“Got him out of his nest in a post-oak. Dey was more of ’em, but I
couldn’t git ony dis one. I’m a-gwine to raise him if mammy’ll let me.
But I mout sell him, if I git a good chance.”

The opportunity was not to be lost, and in a very few moments Ikey
was trudging homeward with a handful of coppers and two
nickels—all the change we could raise among us, and we proudly
carried our new-found treasure to the house.

“Mercy on us!” cried mamma, holding up her hands. “What on earth have
you got there?”

“A crow,” we told her. “And we’re going to tame him, and teach him to
talk.”

“Nonsense!” said mamma. “You don’t suppose I’ll have a crow
about the house, to kill the young chickens and eat up the eggs!”

But we begged and pleaded, till at last she gave her consent to let
us keep it.

“It’ll be a great torment,” grumbled grandma. “It’s a young
bird, and you’ll have to feed it like a baby.”

But we did not mind the trouble. Indeed, it was more of an amusement
to us to feed our pet on scraps of meat and bits of bread. It opened its
mouth so wide, and cried “Caw-aw-aw!” in such a satisfactory way.

Ikey had instructed us as to the manner of feeding.

“Jess you peck it on de head, an’ it’ll open its mouth like it does
fur de ole birds,” he explained.

And we found his advice was good.

We named our pet “Jack-a-Dandy,” and he grew and throve so much that
he was soon able to procure his own food, which consisted of crickets
and other insects.

He was so tame that we could allow him perfect freedom, without any
fear of his deserting us.

As he grew older, he used frequently to fly into the top of a tall
post-oak near the front door, from which he would circle around and
around the house, then alight on the ground, and come hopping in the
door, with a cheerful “caw! caw!” as if asserting that there was no
place like home.

“He’s better than Dick Hardy’s tame squirrel,” Tom used to say, “for
that has to be kept in a cage.”

“And Bob Rooney’s pet coon has to be fastened by a chain,” said
Josie. “But Jack-a-Dandy is as free as we are.”

But mamma was not particularly pleased with Jack, and grandma
continued to grumble over his misdemeanors, especially when he would
rummage in her work-basket, and carry off her silver thimble or bright
steel bodkin.

“He’s a troublesome creature,” she would declare, “and if I had
my way, he’d get his neck wrung.”

But we kept a good watch on our favorite, to keep him from getting
into mischief.

We had used our best endeavors to teach him to talk, but he was a
poor scholar, and could not even learn to pronounce his own name.

Still we loved him, and continued to take his part against his
enemies.

Papa had never said much, one way or the other, about Jack, though he
was not very favorably disposed toward the race of crows. But when the
spring planting was done, he took sides with the opposition.

“If your tame thief pulls up my corn, I’ll shoot him,” he
declared.

“If he troubles the young chickens, he’ll have to go,” said
mamma.

“If he spoils my garden, I’ll wring his neck,” asserted grandma.

And, as may be imagined, we suffered considerable anxiety about our
pet.

“BEFORE PAPA COULD SEIZE HIS GUN AND REACH THE SCENE OF CONFLICT,
JACK-A-DANDY HAD FLOWN TO THE HEN’S ASSISTANCE.”

One day we were eating dinner, while Jack sat perched on the post-oak
near the door.

Suddenly a terrible commotion occurred in the chicken-yard, caused by
a hawk which had swooped down and seized a young chicken.

The hen-mother, however, attacked the marauder so furiously that it
was unable to carry off its prey immediately, and before papa could
seize his gun and reach
397d
the scene of conflict, Jack-a-Dandy had flown to the hen’s
assistance.

He attacked the hawk so desperately that it dropped its prey, and a
terrible combat ensued, in which Jack came off the victor. But not
satisfied with this, he pursued the flying enemy a long distance,
attacking him sharply when occasion offered.

You may be sure we had a great many praises and a sumptuous dinner
for our favorite, on his return.

Hawks had for years been a great pest to poultry raising, and even
mamma espoused Jack’s cause after his successful battle with the
rapacious foe.

And during Jack’s life, not another chicken was molested by the
hawks, as he kept a vigilant watch, and attacked every one that dared to
venture near the premises.

He even won the good-will of papa, by keeping rigidly aloof from the
corn-field; but grandma was still fearful lest he might do some damage
to the garden.

She was very careful of her early vegetables, and the garden-spot was
paled in, to keep the chickens and rabbits from making depredations on
the early lettuce, peas and cabbages.

But no fence would keep Jack out. Like the wind, he went “wherever he
listeth.”

Much to our relief, however, he did not offer to molest the
vegetables, but did good service in picking up the insects and
cut-worms, which are usually such a pest about a garden.

When he fell to devouring the squash-bugs, which were sapping the
life of the “Boston Marrows,” grandma’s last prejudice was overcome, and
she declared that Jack was worth his weight in gold.

After that, she never went to the garden without calling Jack, who
would give an answering “caw!” and hop gravely after her, or perch on
her shoulder with all the confidence of a privileged favorite.

As long as he lived, Jack continued to grow in the good opinion of
the household. But, alas! he could not live forever.

One day he sat drooping on his perch, and refused to be enticed away
from it. He even declined the plump crickets Fred offered him in hopes
of tempting his appetite.

The next morning he was found dead under his perch. He was mourned
sincerely by the whole family, from grandma down, and we buried him with
great ceremony under his favorite post-oak.

Tom sodded his grave, Josie planted a “mourning bride” over it, and
Fred put up a shingle for a headstone, with this verse on it, which we
all thought very beautiful:

[This Story began in No. 15.]

THE

Young Game-Warden

BY HARRY CASTLEMON.

CHAPTER XXXI—[Continued].

Silas was so completely wrapped up in his own affairs that the boys
got close to him before he was aware of their presence, and it is the
greatest wonder in the world that he did not shoot one of them in his
excitement.

He was really alarmed; but when he had taken a good look at the
newcomers, in order to make sure of their identity, he laid his gun
across the chair, pushed up his sleeves, and shook both his fists at
Dan.

“So you thought you would fool your poor old pap this morning, did
you, you little snipe?” he shouted. “Well, you see what you made by it,
don’t you?”

“I never tried to make a fool of you,” stammered Dan, who had a faint
idea that he understood the situation. “I never in this wide
world!”

“Hush your noise when I tell you I know better,” yelled Silas; and
one would have thought, by the way he acted and looked, that he was very
angry, instead of very much delighted, at the way things had turned out.
“Here you have been and tramped all over them mountings, and never got a
cent for it, while I have made a clean twenty-five hundred dollars, if I
counted it up right on my fingers; and I reckon I did, ’cause your mam
put in a figger to help me now and then.”

“Why, how did it happen?” exclaimed Joe, who, up to this moment, had
not been able to do anything but stand still and look astonished.

He knew that his father had captured one of the robbers without help
from any one, and that was more than fifty other men had been able to
do, with all their weary tramping.

“The way it happened was just this,” said Silas, who could not stand
in one place for a single moment. “Hold on there!” he added, turning
fiercely upon his prisoner, who just then moved uneasily upon the bench,
as if he were trying to find a softer spot to sit on. “I’ve got my eyes
onto you, and you might as—”

“Why, father, he can’t get away,” Joe interposed. “You’ve got him
tied up too tight. Why don’t you let out that rope a little?”

“’Cause he’s worth a pile of money—that’s why!” exclaimed
Silas; “and I won’t let the rope out not one inch, nuther. You Joe, keep
away from there.”

“I really wish you would undo some of this rope,” said the prisoner,
who, like Byron’s Corsair, seemed to be a mild-mannered man.
“I have been tied up ever since two o’clock, and am numb all over.
I couldn’t run a step if I should try.”

“Don’t you believe a word of that!” exclaimed Silas. “Come away from
there and let that rope be, I tell you.”

“Say, father,” said Joe, suddenly, “what are you going to do with
your captive? Do you intend to sit up and watch him all night long?”

“I was just a-studying about that when you come up and scared me,”
replied Silas,

398b
dropping the butt of his gun to the ground, and leaning heavily upon the
muzzle.

He never could stand alone for any length of time; he always wanted
something to support him.

“What do you think I had better do about it? I don’t much like
to keep him here, ’cause— Why, just look a-here, Joey,” added
Silas, moving up to the door, and pointing to some object inside the
cabin. “See them tools I took away from him?”

The boys stepped to their father’s side, and saw lying upon the
table, where Silas had placed it, a belt containing a brace of
heavy revolvers and a murderous-looking knife.

“Now, them’s dangerous,” continued Silas, “and if this feller’s
pardner should happen along—”

“But he won’t happen along,” interrupted Dan. “Brierly’s squad
gobbled him.”

The ferryman looked surprised, then disgusted, and finally he turned
an inquiring glance upon Joe, who said that Dan told the truth.

“You don’t like it, do you?” said the latter, to himself. “It sorter hurts you
to know that there is them in the world that are just as lucky and smart
as you be, don’t it? Yes, that’s what’s the matter with pap. He don’t
want no one else to be as well off as he is.”

And when Dan said that, he hit the nail fairly on the head.

“The other robber is not in a condition to attempt a rescue,” said
Joe; “but, all the same, I don’t think you ought to keep this man
here all night. The sheriff is now at Mr. Warren’s house, and it is your
duty to hand the prisoner over to him at once. Be careful how you point
those guns this way.”

This last remark was called forth by an action on the part of Silas
and Dan that made Joe feel the least bit uncomfortable.

While the latter was talking, his hands were busy with the rope; and
when the prisoner arose from the bench and stamped his feet to set the
blood in circulation again, his excited and watchful guards at once
covered his head and Joe’s with the muzzles of their guns.

“Turn those weapons the other way,” repeated Joe, angrily. “You don’t
think this man is foolish enough to try to run off while his hands are
tied, do you? Now, father, how did you happen to catch him?”

“It was just as easy as falling off a log,” replied Silas, resuming
his seat and resting his double-barrel across his knees. “When you and
Dan went away this morning, I just naturally shouldered my gun,
walked up the road to the foot of the mounting, and set down on a log to
wait for game to come a-running past me, just the same as if I was
watching for deer, you know.”

This was all true; but there was one thing he did that he forgot to
mention. The only “game” Silas expected to see was Dan Morgan, when he
returned from the mountain at night, and the ferryman was prepared to
give him a warm reception. Before he devoted himself to the task of
holding down that log by the roadside, he took the trouble to cut a long
hickory switch, and to place it beside the log, out of sight. He meant
to give Dan such a thrashing that he would never play any more tricks
upon him.

“Well, about one o’clock, or a little after, while I was a-setting
there and waiting for the game to come along, I heared a noise in
the brush, and, all on a sudden, out popped this feller. He was running
like he’d been sent for, and that’s why I suspicioned him. Of course I
didn’t know him from Adam, but I asked him would he stop a bit. And he
’lowed he would, when he seed my gun looking him square in the eye.
I brung him home, and your mam she passed out the clothes-line, and
I tied him up.”

“Where is mother now?” asked Joe.

“Gone off after more sewing, I reckon,” replied Silas, in a tone
which seemed to say that it was a matter that was not worth talking
about. “She helped me figger up what I would get for catching him, and
then she dug out. I’m worth almost as much as you be now, Joey, and that
there mean Dan, who wouldn’t stay by and help me, he ain’t got a cent.
Now don’t you wish you hadn’t played that trick on me this morning?”

“Never mind that,” interposed Joe, who did not care to stand by and
listen to an angry altercation which might end in a fight or a foot-race
between his father and Dan. “If we are going to deliver

398c
this man to the sheriff to-night, we had better be moving.”

“Do you reckon the sheriff will hand over the twenty-five hundred
when I give up the prisoner?” inquired Silas, as the party walked down
the bank toward the flat.

“Of course he won’t.”

“What for won’t he?”

“Because he hasn’t got it with him. Perhaps it was never put into his
hands at all. I haven’t received my share yet.”

“Then I reckon I’d best hold fast to him till I’m sure of my money,”
said Silas, reflectively. “I guess I won’t take him down to old man
Warren’s to-night.”

“I guess you will, unless you want to get into trouble with the law,”
said Joe, decidedly. “If you don’t give him up of your own free will,
the sheriff will take him away from you.”

Silas protested that he couldn’t see any sense in such a law as that,
but he lent his aid in pushing off the flat.

Dan, who was almost too angry to breathe, had more than half a mind
to stay at home; but his curiosity to hear and see all that was said and
done when the prisoner was turned over to the officers of the law
impelled him to think better of it. When the flat was shoved off, he
jumped in and picked up one of the oars.

CHAPTER XXXII

We have said that Tom Hallet was so anxious to help his unlucky
friend Bob in some way that he joined the very first squad that went out
in search of him.

The man who had the name of being the leader of it was the sheriff’s
deputy; but the two stalwart young farmers who belonged to his party
were longer of limb than he was, and they pushed ahead at such a rate
that the deputy speedily fell to the rear, and stayed there during the
most of the day.

“Me and Cyrus have come out to win that there reward,” said one of
the young men, when Tom remonstrated with them for leaving the officer
so far behind, “and we can’t do it by loafing along like that sheriff
does. We’ve got a mortgage to pay off on the farm, and we don’t know any
easier way to raise the money for it than to capture one of them
rogues.”

But this sanguine young fellow was not the only one who was destined
to have his trouble for his pains; and what made his disappointment and
his brother’s harder to bear was the reflection that if they had left
Tom’s cabin half an hour earlier than they did, they might have
succeeded in earning a portion of the money of which they stood so much
in need.

They were not more than a quarter of a mile away when Brierly’s
signal guns announced that one of the robbers had been captured. They
ran forward at the top of their speed, hoping to reach the scene of
action before the arrest was fairly consummated, but in this they were
also disappointed.

When they came within sight of the successful party, they found the
robber securely bound, and Brierly wearing the belt that contained his
weapons.

“Too late, boys!” exclaimed the guide, who was highly elated over his
good fortune. “You can’t lay claim to any of our money, if that’s what
brung you up here in such haste.”

“We don’t care for the money,” panted Tom. “Where’s Bob?”

“That’s so,” said Brierly, who had not bestowed a single thought upon
the prisoner during the whole forenoon. “Where is he? Say, feller, what
have you done with him?”

“I have not seen him for two hours,” replied the prisoner. “As soon
as we found out that the hills were full of men, we set him at liberty,
and I suppose he made the best of his way home. We didn’t want to keep
him with us for fear that he would set up a yelp to show where we were
hiding.”

Just then, the deputy, who had been sitting on a log to recover his
breath, managed to inquire:

“What have you done with your partners?”

“There were only two of us, and the other man has gone off that way,”
answered the captive, nodding his head toward an indefinite point of the
compass.

Tom Hallet had no further interest in the hunt. He stood by and
watched the officer as he unbound the prisoner and substituted a pair of
hand-cuffs for the rope with which his arms had been confined, and when
Brierly’s party started off with their captive, Tom fell in behind
them.

He went as straight to his cabin as he could go, and there he found
Bob Emerson, who was rummaging around in the hope of finding something
to eat.

“I haven’t had a bite of anything since last night, and you’d better
believe that I am hungry,” said Bob, after he and Tom had greeted each
other as though they had been separated for years. “But I am not a bit
of a hero. I haven’t had an adventure worth the telling.”

“There’s nothing in there,” said Tom, seeing that his friend was
casting longing eyes toward his game-bag. “I didn’t take much of a
lunch with me, and I was hungry enough to eat it all. Can you stand it
until we get home?”

“I’ll have to,” replied Bob. “By-the-way, did you ever see that
before?”

As he spoke, he put his hand into his pocket and drew out a soiled
and crumpled letter, which looked as though it might have been through
the war.

It was the same precious document that he and Tom had left in Silas
Morgan’s wood-pile.

“One of the robbers gave it to me last night,” continued Bob, in
reply to his companion’s inquiring look. “You will remember that Dan
Morgan lost the letter within a few feet of the log on which he sat when
he read it, and that when he and Silas went back to find it, they were
frightened away by something that dodged into the bushes before they
could get a sight at it, and which they took to be a ghost. Well, it
wasn’t a ghost at all, but one of the thieves, who had been to the Beach
after supplies. He found the letter, and read it. Of course he was
greatly alarmed, and so was his companion; for they couldn’t help
believing that some one had got wind of their hiding-place. They could
hardly believe me when I told them that you and I made that letter up
out of the whole cloth, and that we never dreamed there was any one
living in the gorge.”

“But we did know it,” said Tom.

“Of course we did after they frightened us, but not before. They
spoke about that, too. We took them completely by surprise the day we
came down the gorge. We were close upon their camp before they knew it,
and for a minute or two they didn’t know what to do. Then one of them
conceived the idea of making that hideous noise, and when the other saw
how well it worked, he joined in with him.”

“But didn’t they know that we would be back sooner or later to look
into the matter?” asked Tom.

“Of course they did, and that was another thing that frightened them.
They saw very plainly that their hiding-place was broken up, and were
making preparations to leave it when Silas and Dan put in their
appearance. The robbers saw and heard them long before they got to the
camp, and the one who found the letter recognized them at once. It was
at his suggestion that that ghost was rigged up.”

“But they must have known that they could not scare everybody with
that dummy,” observed Tom.

“To-be-sure they did, and they were in a great hurry to get away from
there; but they needed provisions, and by stopping to get them they fell
into trouble. They took Joe Morgan’s house for a wood-chopper’s cabin,
and while we were robbing them, they were foraging on Joe. I tell
you, Tom, it’s a lucky thing for us that we got out of that gorge when
we did. They were mad enough to shoot us on sight.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” replied Tom. “It would make most anybody mad
to lose a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in money and securities, no
matter how he came by them. Where did they catch you? Did they treat you
well?”

“They treated me well enough,” was Bob’s reply; “but I believe that
if they had not stood in fear of immediate capture, I should have a
different story to tell, if, indeed, I were able to tell any.
I told you nothing but the truth in the postscript I added to their
note.”

“I knew they made you write it, and that you did not express your
honest sentiments when you told us to be in a hurry about giving back
that valise.”

“I was sure you would understand it: but what could a fellow do with
a cocked revolver flourished before his eyes by a man who was in just
the right humor to use it on him?”

“He would do as he is told, of course,” answered Tom. “But do you
suppose they thought they could get that valise back by threatening
you?”

“I don’t know what they thought, for

399a
they acted as if they were crazy. They caught me in less than half an
hour after I left you, and it was through my own fault. I ran on to
them before I knew it; and do you imagine I thought ‘robbers’ once? As
true as you live, I didn’t. I took them for poachers, and told
them, very politely, that these grounds were posted and they couldn’t be
allowed to shoot there, when all on a sudden it popped into my head what
I was doing. They saw the start I gave, and in a second more they had me
covered. If I could have got away without letting them see that I
suspected them, they wouldn’t have said a word to me.”

“Well, they covered you with their revolvers; then what?”

“Beyond a doubt, they made a prisoner of me before they thought what
they were doing, and when they came to look at it, they found that they
had got an elephant on their hands. Then they would have been glad to
get rid of me; but they did not see just how they could do it with
safety to themselves, so they made up their minds to use me.

“At first they thought they would wait and see if anything would come
of the notice they left on the door of the cabin, and then they thought
they wouldn’t—that they would hunt up another hiding-place as soon
as possible; so they ordered me to take them where nobody would ever
think of looking for them. And I could do nothing but obey.”

“Were you acting as their guide when they released you?”

Bob replied that he was.

“Why didn’t you veer around a bit, and lead them toward the
railroad?”

“If I had, I shouldn’t be here now,” answered Bob, significantly.
“They warned me to be careful about that, and they were so well
acquainted with the hills that I was afraid to attempt any tricks. We
camped over on Dungeon Brook last night, and set out again at an early
hour this morning; but before we had been in motion an hour, we found
ourselves cut off from the upper end of the hills, and that was the time
they made up their minds to let me go. They didn’t say so, but still I
had an idea that they didn’t want me around for fear I would make too
much noise to suit them.”

“I know they were afraid of it,” said Tom. “The robber that Brierly’s
squad captured said so.”

“Is one of them taken?” exclaimed Bob, who hadn’t heard of it before.
“That’s good news. Where’s the other?”

“Don’t know. They separated after they let you go, and Brierly
captured one of them. Perhaps we shall hear something about the other
one now,” added Tom, directing his companion’s attention to a large
party of men who were at that moment discovered approaching the cabin.
“We went out in squads of four, and there are a dozen men in that
crowd.”

“But I don’t see any prisoner among them,” said Bob. “They have all
got guns on their shoulders, and that proves that they have not seen
anything of robber number two.”

As the party came nearer, the boys saw that it was made up of
citizens of Bellville and Hammondsport, who had abandoned the search for
the day, and were now on their way home.

They were surprised to see Bob Emerson there, safe and sound, and
forthwith desired a full history of the letter which had been the means
of bringing about so remarkable a series of events.

Bob protested that he was too hungry to talk, but when he saw the
generous supply of bread and meat which one of the men drew from his
haversack, he sat down on a log in front of the cabin and told his
story.

His auditors declared that the way things had turned out was little
short of wonderful, adding, as they arose to go, that they were coming
out again, bright and early the next morning, to resume the search for
robber number two. They were not going to remain idle at home, they
said, as long as there were twenty-five hundred dollars running around
loose in the woods.

When the bread and meat were all gone, and the boys were once more
alone, Tom wrote the notice which Joe Morgan found pinned to the door of
the cabin, and then he and Bob set out for Uncle Hallet’s.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Although Silas Morgan had received the most convincing proof that he
had

399b
nothing more to fear from the “hant” which had so long occupied all his
waking thoughts and disturbed his dreams at night, he would not have
taken one step toward Mr. Warren’s house before morning, had he not been
urged on by the hope that the sheriff would be ready to pay over his
money as soon as the robber was given up to him. The desire to handle
the reward to which he was entitled was stronger than his fear of the
dark.

“And what shall I do with them twenty-five hundred after I get ’em,
Joey?” said he. “That’s what’s a-bothering of me now.”

And it was the very thing that was bothering Joe, also. His father
had always been in the habit of spending his money as fast as he got it,
and the boy fully expected to see this large sum slip through his
fingers without doing the least good to him or anybody else.

“I’ll tell you what I wouldn’t do with it,” said Joe, after a
little hesitation. “I wouldn’t give Hobson any of it.”

“You’re right I won’t!” exclaimed Silas. “He’s got more’n his share
already. What be you going to do with yours, when you get it?”

“I think now that I shall put it in the bank at Hammondsport,”
answered Joe. “It will be safe there, and if I am careful of it, it will
last me until I get through going to school. You don’t want to go to
school, but you might go into business and increase your capital.”

“That’s it—that’s it, Joey!” exclaimed Silas, who grew
enthusiastic at once. “I never thought of that. But what sort of
business? It must be something easy, ’cause I’ve worked hard enough
already.”

“Mr. Warren says that there is no easy way of making a living,” began
Joe; but his father interrupted him with an exclamation of
impatience.

“What does old man Warren know about it?” he demanded. “He never had
to do a hand’s turn in his life.”

“But he don’t know what it is to be idle, and he is busy at something
every day,” said Joe. “I’ll tell you what I have often thought I would
do if I had a little money, and I may do it yet, if you don’t decide to
go into it. The new road that is coming through here is bound to bring a
good many people to the Beach, sooner or later. As the trout are nearly
all gone, the guests will have to devote their attention to the bass in
the lake, and consequently there will be a big demand for boats.”

“So there will!” exclaimed Silas, who saw at once what Joe was trying
to get at. “That’s the business I’ve been looking for, Joey, and it’s an
easy one, too. Of course, I can let all my boats at so much an
hour, and I won’t have nothing to do but sit on the beach and take in my
money.”

“And what’ll I be doing?” inquired Dan, who had not spoken
before.

“You!” cried Silas, who seemed to have forgotten that Dan was one of
the party. “You will keep on chopping cord wood, to pay you for the mean
trick you played on me this morning. You see what you made by it, don’t
you? I reckon you wish you’d stayed by me now, don’t you? How much
will them boats cost me, Joey?”

“I should think that ten or a dozen skiffs would be enough to begin
with,” answered Joe, “and they will cost you between three and four
hundred dollars; but you would have enough left to rent a piece of
ground of Mr. Warren and put up a snug little house on it.”

“Then I’ll be a gentleman like the rest of ’em, won’t I?” exclaimed
Silas, gleefully.

“No, you won’t,” said Dan, to himself. “That bridge ain’t been built
yet, and I don’t reckon Hobson means to have it there. He is going to
bust it up some way or ’nother, and I’m just the man to help him, if
he’ll pay me for it. Everybody is getting rich ’cepting me, and I ain’t
going to be treated this way no longer!”

Silas was so completely carried away by Joe’s plan for making money
without work that he could think of nothing else. He forgot how
determined and vindictive Dan was, and how easy it would be for him to
place a multitude of obstacles in his way, but Joe didn’t.

The latter knew well enough that Dan intended to make trouble if he
were left out in the cold, but what could be done for so lazy and
unreliable a fellow as he was? That was the question.

While Joe was turning it over in his mind, he led the way through Mr.
Warren’s gate and up to the porch, where he found his employer sitting
in company with the sheriff and both Uncle Hallet’s

399c
game-wardens. The deputy was in an upper room, keeping guard over the
other prisoner.

Of course, Tom and Bob, who were greatly surprised as well as
delighted to see Joe and his party, wanted to know just how the capture
of robber number two had been brought about, and while Joe was telling
the story, the sheriff marched the captive into the house and turned him
over to his deputy.

Then he came back and sat down; but he did not put his hand into his
pocket and pull out the reward, as Silas hoped he would.

“This has been a good day’s work all around,” said Tom, who was in
high spirits. “The next time there is any detective work to be done in
this county, Bob and I will volunteer to do it. We can catch more
criminals by sitting still and writing letters, than the officers can by
bringing all their skill into play.”

The sheriff laughed, and said that was the way the thing looked from
where he sat.

“The fun is all over now,” continued Tom, “and to-morrow we will go
to work in earnest. You will be on hand, of course?”

Joe replied that he would.

“By-the-way,” chimed in Bob, “did this robber of yours have a gun of
any description in his hands when he was captured?”

“No.”

“Then, Joe, you and I are just that much out of pocket. The guns are
gone up.”

“What has become of them?”

“They are out in the hills somewhere,” answered Bob. “When the
robbers made up their minds that they had better let me go, one of them
had my gun and the other had yours; but the robber Brierly captured says
that the weapon impeded his flight, and so he threw it away. Whereabouts
he was in the hills when he got rid of it, he can’t tell. No doubt your
gun was thrown away also, and the chances are not one in a thousand that
we shall ever find them again.”

While this conversation was going on, Silas Morgan, who stood at the
foot of the steps that led to the porch, kept pulling Joe by the
coat-sleeve, and whispering to him:

“Never mind the guns. Tell the sheriff that I’m powerful anxious to
see the color of them twenty-five hundred.”

Joe paid no sort of attention to him, and finally Silas became so
very much in earnest in his endeavors to attract the boy’s notice, that
the officer saw it; and when there was a little pause in the
conversation, he said, carelessly:

“Oh, about the reward, Silas—”

“That’s the idee,” replied the ferry-man, who thought sure that he
was going to get it now. “That’s what I’m here for. You have got the
bugglars in
your own hands now, and I don’t reckon you would mind passing it over,
would you?”

“I?” exclaimed the sheriff. “I haven’t got it. I have never had
a cent of it in my possession.”

“Then who’s going to give it to me?” demanded Silas, who wondered if
the officer was going to cheat him out of his money.

“Well, you see, Silas,” said the sheriff, “the reward is conditioned
upon the arrest and conviction of the burglars. They have been arrested,
and their conviction is only a matter of time; but you can’t get your
money until they are sentenced.”

“And how long will that be?”

“The court will sit again in about six weeks. As some of the money
was offered by the county, and the rest by the men who lost the jewelry
and things that were found in that valise, you will get your reward from
different parties, unless they hand it over to me to be paid to you in a
lump.”

“That’s the way I want it,” said Silas, who was very much
disappointed. “I’m going into business.”

“What sort of business?” inquired Mr. Warren.

“I am going to keep a boat-house down to the Beach.”

“Well now, Silas, that’s the most sensible thing I have heard from
you in a long time,” said Mr. Warren. “I’ll rent you a piece of ground
big enough for a garden, and you can set yourself up in business in good
shape, build a nice house, and have money left in the bank. If you
manage the thing rightly, you and Dan ought to make a good living
of it.”

“Who said anything about Dan?” exclaimed Silas.

“I did. Of course you can’t ignore

399d
him because you are wealthy. He wants a chance to earn an honest living,
and he needs it, too. He’s a strong boy, a first-rate hand with a
boat, knows all the best fishing-grounds on the lake, and would be just
the fellow to send out with a party who wanted a guide and boatman. You
can easily afford to pay him a dollar a day for such work as that.”

“Well, I won’t do it,” said Silas, promptly. “He’s a lazy,
good-for-nothing scamp, Dan is, and I won’t take him into business along
of me.”

“But you will hire him, and give him a chance to quit breaking the
game law and make an honest living,” said the sheriff. “By-the-way,
Silas, I guess you had better bring up those setters, and save me
the trouble of going after them.”

“What setters?” exclaimed Silas, who acted as if he were on the point
of taking to his heels. “I ain’t got none. I took ’em down to
the hotel and give ’em up.”

“I am glad to hear it, because it will save me some trouble,” replied
the officer. “I have had my eyes on those dogs ever since you got
hold of them, and I should have been after them long ago if I had known
where to find the owner. Don’t do that again, Silas. Honesty is the best
policy, every day in the week.”

“If you will leave your business in my hands, I will attend to
it for you, and you will not have to go to Hammondsport at all,”
continued Mr. Warren.

And Joe was glad to hear him say it, because it showed him that the
gentleman did not intend that his father should squander all his money,
if he could help it.

“It is too late in the season for you to do anything with your boats
this year, but I will give you and Dan a steady job at chopping wood,
and if you take care of the money you earn, instead of spending it at
Hobson’s bar, you can live well during the winter. If the reward is not
paid over to you by the time spring opens, I will advance you
enough to start you in business and build your house. Then I think you
had better give Dan a chance.”

“So do I,” whispered Tom, to his friend Bob. “Dan has lived by his
wits long enough, and if Silas doesn’t begin to take some interest in
him, the sheriff will have a word or two to say about those setters.
I can see plainly enough that he intends to hold that affair over
Silas as a whip to make him behave himself.”

“Do you think Silas will ever have the reward paid him in a lump?”
asked Bob.

“No, I don’t, because he doesn’t know enough to take care of so much
money. Joe can get his any time he wants it, for Mr. Warren knows that
he will make every cent of it count.”

Then, aloud, Tom said:

“Well, Bob, seeing that we’ve got to get up in the morning, we had
better be going home. Come over bright and early, Joe, and we will take
your things back to your cabin.”

“And I will send up another supply of provisions,” said Mr.
Warren.

Joe thanked his employer, bade him good-night, and led the way out of
the yard.

For a time he and his party walked along in silence, and then Silas,
who began to have a vague idea that he had been imposed upon in some
way, broke out, fiercely:

“What did old man Warren mean by saying that if I didn’t get all my
money by the time spring comes, he would advance enough to set me up in
business?” Silas almost shouted. “Looks to me like he’d ’p’inted himself
my guardeen, and that he means to keep a tight grip on them twenty-five
hundred, so’t I can’t spend it to suit myself. That’s what I think he
means to do, dog-gone the luck!”

Joe thought so, too, and he was glad of it. If that was Mr. Warren’s
intention, Joe’s mother would be likely to reap some benefit from the
reward; otherwise, she would not.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

EIGHT GOOD RIDDLES.

Feet have they, but they walk not—stoves.

Eyes have they, but they see not—potatoes.

Teeth have they, but they chew not—saws.

Noses have they, but they smell not—teapots.

Mouths have they, but they taste not—rivers.

Hands have they, but they handle not—Clocks.

Ears have they, but they hear not—cornstalks.

Tongues have they, but they talk not—wagons.

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The remaining testimonials were printed in three columns, filling the
entire back cover.

OUT OF THE MANY EARNEST AND EMPHATIC ENDORSEMENTS OF “GOLDEN
DAYS,” WE PRINT THE FOLLOWING:

A GOOD OPINION FROM REV. G. E. STROBRIDGE,

Pastor St. John’s M. E. Church, New York city.

Golden Days has been coming regularly
to my house since its first number. It is always welcome. The children
wait with impatience its weekly arrival, and even interrupt their meals
to tear off its wrapper and scan its attractive pages. It is generously
illustrated, and as to its reading matter, it is bright, breezy,
instructive, and, best of all, pure. The most careful parent may dismiss
anxiety while his happy child is absorbed in its columns.

A feature that adds to the paper an especial value is a weekly
discussion of the International Sunday-school Lesson. This is given in a
pleasant narrative style by Rev. D. P. Kidder, D.D., for many years
editor of the Sunday School Advocate, and editor and writer of books for
children. His widely-known name is a sufficient assurance that these
lessons thus conducted will continue to be learned, clear and
interesting.

From the West Philadelphia Press.

Golden Days.—This weekly journal
for young people has reached a circulation that embraces the entire
country. Indeed, there is hardly to be found a village or hamlet in the
newest of the States or in our far Western Territories in which Golden Days is not a welcome visitor. The
proprietor and editor, Mr. James Elverson, determined from the first to
make it a journal that should please and at the same time instruct the
young, and he has been completely successful. There is no weekly paper
published in this or the Old World that so covers the field for the
youthful mind as Golden Days. There is
nothing heavy about it—nothing prosy or difficult to comprehend in
the matter it contains. Its stories are graphic, entertaining and by the
best writers, while each number has articles especially prepared on
subjects of practical interest to boys and girls by authors whose fame
in the arena of natural history, science, biography and art is national.
Add to all these excellencies and attractions the fact that no impure
line or thought ever stains its pages, and it must be acknowledged that
Golden Days is pre-eminently fitted to
become the intellectual and pleasant companion of the young in the
American household.

From the Sunday Courier, York, Pa.

The remarkable success attained by Golden
Days, the boys’ and girls’ periodical published by Mr. James
Elverson, Philadelphia, is a most encouraging evidence that pure and
healthful literature is not incapable of attracting the eager interest
of “Young America.” Mr. Elverson seems, in fact, to have gauged the
taste of the average child of our day with wonderful accuracy, as there
appears to be but one opinion as to the universal popularity of this
excellent periodical. So far as parents are concerned, its success
should be a matter for general congratulation, as scrupulous care is
evidently observed in excluding from its pages everything that could be
considered as in any way tending to vitiate the minds of the young. On
the other hand, its contents are far superior in vividness of interest
for the little ones to those sensational publications which are the
source of so much anxiety to all who have children to educate. Golden Days, in fact, appears to have struck
the golden mean in juvenile literature, and it affords us sincere
pleasure to be able to chronicle its conspicuous popularity.

From the Advocate of Peace, Boston.

Golden Days.—“To merit is to
insure success” is certainly verified in the publication of Golden Days, by James Elverson, Philadelphia. This
admirable weekly for the youth of this great land is now
well-established, and has an increasingly large and well-deserved
patronage. Its readers are not treated with trashy matter, but with
pictures and puzzles and stories of thrilling adventure and useful
knowledge. Golden Days is supplanting a
poisonous literature, and performing a wholesome mission in this day,
when too much good seed cannot be sown by the friends of humanity.

From the Congregationalist and Boston Recorder.

Among juvenile periodicals, we think Golden
Days likely to take high rank for variety, instructiveness,
vivacity and freedom from objectionable characteristics. We have
examined several numbers, and it seems to be well edited and likely to
deserve and win popularity.

ANOTHER FROM REV. D. M’CARTNEY,

Pastor Clinton Avenue M. E. Church, Kingston, N.Y.

I have examined sample copies of Golden
Days, and most heartily indorse it as meeting a felt want.
Notwithstanding the large number of papers we subscribe for now, it
looks as if Golden Days would have to
be added to the number, as my children are enraptured with it.

BISHOP BOWMAN,

Of the Methodist Episcopal Church, writes:

St. Louis, Nov. 26, 1880.

I have examined with great interest several numbers of Golden Days, and am much pleased with them. We
greatly need all such publications for our young people, to save them
from the corrupting trash that meets them on every side. I wish you
great success in this worthy Christian enterprise.

FROM REV. O. C. DICKERSON,

Pastor of Congregational Church, Belleplain, Iowa.

Ed. Golden Days.—All hail! As a
sterling friend of the young, your enterprise wakes loud echoes.

REV. RICHARD NEWTON, D.D.,

Pastor of the P. E. Church of the Epiphany, Philadelphia,
says:

From what I have seen of Golden Days,
it strikes me very favorably. There is a high tone of morality about it
which is calculated to exert a very wholesome influence on the young
people who read it.

From the Roman Citizen, Rome, N.Y.

A MODEL PAPER.—Two years ago, we
informed the readers of the Citizen that a long-felt want was to be
supplied—viz., a paper was to be printed which would give the
young people (boys and girls) plenty of good reading without corrupting
their morals or vitiating their tastes—in other words, would
furnish them with stories which would gratify their love of adventure
without inspiring in them a desire to imitate impossible heroes, and
tempting them to desert their homes in search of adventures which never
occur outside of blood-and-thunder papers and story books. The paper we
allude to—Golden
Days—promised this, and we have carefully watched it for
two years to see how its pledge would be redeemed. We are glad to be
able to state it has exceeded our most sanguine expectations. While it
has been constantly filled with stories and sketches of the most
fascinating character, we have never seen a sentence in it which we
could have wished to have omitted.

From the Episcopal Recorder.

Golden Days.—We commend this as
the best of the class of publications to which it belongs, and as being
essentially different from all that are contemporaneous with it. And if
it shall prove to be like Moses’ rod when turned into a serpent, and
swallow up the serpent-rods of all cunning magicians of evil, and then
become a rod of power for working good in the home, in the school, and
wherever youth are found, we shall rejoice.

From the Christian Register, Boston.

Golden Days is well worthy the
examination of parents who wish to provide their children with a large
amount of carefully-prepared miscellany, at once entertaining,
instructive and clean. It is edited with ability, and shows a quick
sympathy with the pleasures of the young people, and a clear outlook for
their welfare.

From the Maryland School Journal.

Golden Days (Elverson, Philadelphia)
has fulfilled its promise, and is in every respect a suitable weekly
paper to put into the hands of young boys and girls. We have carefully
watched each number since the start, and have seen in it nothing to
censure and much to praise.

From the Floyd Co. Advocate, Charles City, Iowa.

Golden Days, published by James
Elverson, of Philadelphia, is a new first-class paper for boys and
girls. Provide them with good, entertaining reading, and they will grow
up good men and women.

From Town Talk, Mansfield, Ohio.

James Elverson, Philadelphia, publishes a handsome illustrated and
interesting youth’s paper called Golden
Days. It should find a welcome in every home for the young folks,
for the reading is wholesome, and such literature should be encouraged
by prompt subscriptions. If the youngsters catch a glimpse of it they
will find they need it as a recreation after study hours.

From The Home and Sunday-School, Dallas, Texas.

We can heartily recommend Golden Days
as one of the purest and most charming juvenile magazines we have seen.
It is wholly free from corrupting influences—fresh, instructive,
and eagerly welcomed by the boys and girls. Having seen nothing in it to
censure and much to praise, we hope it may have the wide circulation it
merits.

From the Christian Advocate, Pittsburg, Pa.

Golden Days comes to us in a magazine
form, making a beautiful and interesting volume. This journal numbers
among its contributors probably more popular writers of serial stories
for youth than any juvenile publication in the country.

From the Presbyterian Banner, Pittsburg, Pa.

A great advance has been made within the last twelve months in a very
important agency for good—the publication of cheap, and, at the
same time, unexceptionable and attractive reading matter. For a long
time the want has been seriously felt for something more than mere
denunciation to overcome the growing evil of the demoralizing
literature—cheap and vile—that has been scattered broadcast
over the land. That want has been measurably supplied, in part, by the
publication of standard English classics, at marvelously low prices, and
in part by the issue of low-priced but superior periodicals, attractive
in appearance and contents, and suitable for both young and old. We
invite special attention to the latest enterprise in the latter
department—Golden Days, for boys
and girls, James Elverson, publisher, Philadelphia. It is a handsome
juvenile journal, of sixteen pages (over eight hundred a year), filled
with stories, sketches, anecdotes, poetry, puzzles, and humorous items,
making up a total that will delight and at the same time instruct the
boys and girls from eight to eighty. The pictorial embellishments are
unsually fine,
and far in advance of the coarse deformities in the flashy sheets that
are displayed on the news-stands to horrify every refined passer-by.

From the Baltimore Gazette.

The remarkable success attained by Golden
Days, the boys’ and girls’ periodical, published by Mr. James
Elverson, Philadelphia, is a most encouraging evidence that pure and
healthful literature is not incapable of attracting the eager interest
of “Young America.” Mr. Elverson, seems, in fact, to have gauged the
taste of the average child of our day with wonderful accuracy, as there
appears to be but one opinion as to the universal popularity of this
excellent periodical. So far as parents are concerned, its success
should be a matter for general congratulation, as scrupulous care is
evidently observed in excluding from its pages everything that could be
considered as in any way tending to vitiate the minds of the young. On
the other hand, its contents are far superior in vividness of interest
for the little ones to those sensational publications which are the
source of so much anxiety to all who have children to educate. Golden Days, in fact, appears to have struck
the golden mean in juvenile literature, and it affords us sincere
pleasure to be able to chronicle its conspicuous popularity.

From the Methodist, New York.

James Elverson, Philadelphia, publishes a handsome, illustrated and
interesting youth’s paper, called Golden
Days. It should find a welcome in every Christian home for the
young folks, for the reading is wholesome, and such literature should be
encouraged by prompt subscriptions. If the youngsters catch a glimpse of
it, they will find they need it as a recreation after study-hours.

From the Baptist Record, Jackson, Miss.

A specimen number of Golden Days has
fallen into our hands. This is a paper for boys and girls, and, from the
cursory examination we have been enabled to give it, we think it
deserving of support.