CHAPTER XIII.

Produced by Louise Hope, Juliet Sutherland and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

[This e-text comes in three different forms: unicode (UTF-8), Latin-1

and ascii-7. Use the one that works best on your text reader.

--If “œ” displays as a single character, and apostrophes and

quotation marks are “curly” or angled, you have the utf-8 version

(best). If any part of this paragraph displays as garbage, try

changing your text reader’s “character set” or “file encoding”.

If that doesn’t work, proceed to:

--In the Latin-1 version, “œ” is two letters, but French words like

“étude” have accents and “æ” is a single letter. Apostrophes and

quotation marks will be straight (“typewriter” form). Again, if you

see any garbage in this paragraph and can’t get it to display

properly, use:

--The ascii-7 or rock-bottom version. All necessary text will still be

there; it just won’t be as pretty.

Boldface text is shown with *asterisks*. The notation [->] represents

the pointing-finger symbol.

The layout of the advertising pages is shown after all text, along with

a list of file names for major illustrations. Typographical errors in

the original, whether corrected or not, are listed at the end.]

* * * * *

* * * *

* * * * *

Vol. VIII.--No 25. May 21, 1887.

GOLDEN DAYS

For Boys and Girls

Philadelphia:

JAMES ELVERSON,

Publisher.

* * * * *

[Transcriber’s Note:

Text incorporated into advertising illustrations is shown in

(parentheses); where necessary, a brief description of the

illustration is given in {braces}.]

* * * * *

[Illustration]

QUITE UP TO THE TIMES.

_New Applicant_--Do I know how to use Sapolio? Well, that’s fresh! Do I

look like a girl who don’t know about Sapolio? Am I blind, d’yer think,

or can’t read? Why, the babies on the block know all about Sapolio. What

are ye givin’ me?

SAPOLIO

is a solid, handsome cake of House-cleaning Soap, which has no equal for

all scouring purposes, except the laundry. Perhaps you have heard of it

a thousand times without using it once. If you will reverse the position

and use it once you will praise it to others a thousand times. Ask your

grocer for a cake, and try it in your next house-cleaning.

No. 3. [Copyright, March 1887.]

DYKE’S BEARD ELIXIR

[Illustration: (Before After Before After)]

For_es heavy Mustache, Whiskers, or hair on bald heads in 20 to 30 days.

Extra Strength. No other remedy 2 or 3 Pkgs. does the work. We will

prove it or forfeit $100.00 Price per Pkg. sealed and postpaid 25c., 3

for 50 cts., stamps or silver. SMITH MFG. CO., PALATINE, ILLS.

$50 WEEKLY

EASILY EARNED!

*We want agents* for our celebrated Oil Portrait. *No experience

required!* *4 orders* per day gives the Agent $50 weekly profit! Our

agents report from 4 to 30 daily sales! Send at once for terms and full

particulars. *$2 outfit free!* *SAFFORD ADAMS & CO., 48 Bond St., N.Y.*

[Mention “Golden Days.”]

IMPROVED

HIRES’ ROOT BEER

25 cents / PACKAGE

Makes *Five Gallons* of a *delicious*, sparkling temperance beverage.

*Strengthens* and purifies the blood. Its *purity* and delicacy commend

it to all. Sold by druggists and storekeepers everywhere.

A ZANZIBAR TIGER COWRY SHELL, 8c. Send stamp for list. Steel & Co., 135

E. 23d St., New York

CURE FOR THE DEAF

PECK’S PATENT IMPROVED CUSHIONED EAR DRUMS *Perfectly Restore the

Hearing*, and perform the work of the natural drum. Invisible,

comfortable and always in position. All conversation and even whispers

heard distinctly. Send for illustrated book with testimonials, *FREE*.

Address or call on F. HISCOX, *853* Broadway, New York. Mention this

paper.

FREE a $2.50 *Gold Ring* to all who will act as our agents. The Journal

Co., Essex, Conn.

[Illustration: (THE GREAT AMERICAN TEA COMPANY)]

GOOD NEWS TO LADIES.

Greatest inducements ever offered. Now’s your time to get up orders for

our celebrated *Teas* and *Coffees*, and secure a beautiful Gold Band or

Moss Rose China Tea Set, or Handsome Decorated Gold Band Moss Rose

Dinner Set, or Gold Band Moss Decorated Toilet Set. For full particulars

address

*THE GREAT AMERICAN TEA CO.,*

P.O. Box 289. 31 and 33 Vesey St., New York.

AGENTS wanted for Lyman Abbot’s Life of Beecher. The only proper one.

A. GORTON & CO., Philada.

* * * * *

Vol. VII “Golden Days”

NOW READY,

is a

MAGNIFICENT BOOK OF 832 PAGES!

A perfect mine of everything that will interest young people.

*It is Superbly Illustrated,*

--CONTAINING--

Over 400 Finely-Executed Wood Engravings!

Making, without question,

THE MOST ATTRACTIVE BOOK

Of The Season.

[->] This volume will be sent to any address, prepaid, on the receipt of

price--$4.00.

JAMES ELVERSON,

Publisher “GOLDEN DAYS,” Philad’a

* * * * *

[->] Advertisements inserted on Second and Third Pages of Cover at 50

cents per line, and on the Fourth Page at 75 cents per line, agate

measurement).

* * * * *

The Best Practical Joke of the Season

[Illustration: (Ring the Bell)]

The perfect Electric Bell Button is made to pin on your breast, Fine

ebony finish with white button sure to induce a push, which never fails

to produce a shock with “Hail Columbia,” and variations. *A Full Charge*

of electricity every time. The old joker is told “*That is Good! Ring

the Bell.*” The *Best Selling Article* ever invented. *4760* sold by one

agent in *3* weeks. Sample by Mail *15* cents.; two for *25* cents.;

*14* for *$1.00*. 100 for *$6.00*. Try *$1* worth. Stamps taken.

Send all orders to World Manuf. Co. 122 Nassau St. New York

*EUREKA RECITATIONS*

NINE NUMBERS NOW READY.

Each number contains nearly *100 selections* by Mrs. Anna Randall-Diehl,

and bound in 4-color lithograph cover. Mailed for 12 cents each by J. S.

Ogilvie & Co., Publishers, 31 Rose Street, New York. Send for one.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

(The

READY BINDER

for binding

THREE MONTHS

of the

GOLDEN DAYS

Price, 10 Cents.)]

*THIS BINDER* is light, strong and handsome, and the weekly issues of

GOLDEN DAYS are held together by it in the convenient form of a book,

which can be kept lying on the reading-table. It is made of two white

wires joined together in the centre, with slides on either end for

pressing the wires together, thus holding the papers together by

pressure without mutilating them. We will furnish the Binder at Ten

Cents apiece, postage prepaid. Address JAMES ELVERSON,

Publisher, Philadelphia, Pa.

* * * * *

[Illustration: (Perfection Slate Erasor)]

*We want you as our Agent* to sell the *Perfection Slate Eraser* in

schools. _It is attractive, well-made and indispensable._ Send five

2-cent stamps for sample and particulars. WITTRAM MFG. CO., 525 Front

St., San Francisco, Cal. (*Box 2414.*)

[Illustration {knife}]

*FOR 10 cts. to pay postage &c.*, we will send this Charm Pen-Knife and

five other samples FREE. *Atlantic Works, East River, Conn.*

[Illustration {bicycle}]

*BICYCLES $8 to $150. EASY PAYMENTS.*

Tricycles, $7.50 up. Standard makes. 2d-hand Wheels handled. Send for

Catalogue.

GEO. W. ROUSE & SON, 34 G St., Peoria, Ill.

[Illustration {ring}]

1 Stone Ring, 1 Band Ring, 275 Scrap Pictures & Verses, Book of Poems,

Book Flirtations, 40 Agt’s Samples, All 10c. Austin Card Co., New

Haven, Ct

[Illustration: (THE NEW DEPARTURE DRUM)]

*THE NEW DEPARTURE DRUMS*

are made with patent double acting rods and folding knee rest. Light,

substantial and handsome. Used in the best Bands and Orchestras.

Unequaled for tone, surpass all others in finish and appearance. If

nearest Music dealer does not keep them, write to us for Illustrated

Catalogue.

*LYON & HEALY, Chicago, Ill.*

*PRINTERS* Send stamp for wholesale list of BLANK Cards, 1000 kinds.

Card Co., Montpelier, Vt

*SHORTHAND* Writing _thoroughly taught_ *by mail* or personally.

*Situations procured* all pupils when competent. Send for circular.

*W. G. CHAFFEE*, Oswego, N.Y.

23 HIDDEN NAME *MOTTO CARDS*, 10c

Story Book and AGENT’S OUTFIT with each pack. HAMDEN CARD WORKS, Hamden,

Conn

[Illustration: (The Gem) {hose reel}]

REEL, 25 FEET HOSE, NOZZLE AND COUPLINGS, $4.00.

Sent on receipt of price.

*Rubber Footballs*, No. 1, *$1.25* each

Additional sizes to No. 6, 25c. extra.

[->] *RUBBER GOODS* of all descriptions--Gossamers, Shoes, Boots, etc.

*ROBERT C. GEDDES*, 316 Market St., Philada., Pa.

*CARDS*

100 Fancy Pictures, all new designs, 30 latest Songs, 50 Elegant Fancy

Patterns, 1 Album, over 60 Colored Transfer Pictures, with our Grand

Premium List all for *10 cts.* BIRD CARD WORKS, MERIDEN, CONN. Autograph

Album, name in gold, *10 cts.*

HIGHLY Educated Physician who has traveled much and speaks several

languages, wants to complete a party of youths for travel in Europe.

References exchanged. Address “Æskulap,” (office of) Advocate, 805

Broadway, N.Y.

* * * * *

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria

* * * * *

*FOR MALARIA,*

And malarial diseases so prevalent in the South and West, Ayer’s Pills

have proved peculiarly beneficial. “I have found in Ayer’s Pills, an

invaluable remedy for disorders peculiar to miasmatic localities. Taken

in small and frequent doses,

*Ayer’s*

Pills act well on the liver and aid it in throwing off malarial

poisons.”--C. F. Alston, Quitman, Texas.

Prepared by Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass.

*YELLOW FEVER,*

The terror of the South, has yielded to Ayer’s Pills. James M. Crofut,

of Beaufort, S.C., writes: “During the past three months our city has

been scourged with yellow fever. Many friends and neighbors have been

taken from us. In several cases Ayer’s

*Pills*

broke the attack of the fever, and saved the patient’s life. They are an

excellent liver medicine.”

Sold by all Druggists and Dealers in Medicines.

* * * * *

[Illustration: (BOYS GIRLS)]

*LEARN TO TELEGRAPH*

With the Pocket Telegraph Instrument

In a few hours. Want an agent in each town. They sell fast. Sample and

alphabet, postpaid, for 13 two-cent stamps, or 6 for $1.00. You can sell

them quick for 25c. each. *PORTVILLE MF’G CO.* limited, Portville, Catt.

Co., N.Y.

MORE MONEY THAN EVER

You thought of can now be made. MALE or FEMALE. Write quick for free

Sample and Terms. BEST selling article ever out. *NATIONAL CO.*, 21 Dey

St., N.Y.

*LANGUAGES.*

*The Meisterschaft System*, by Dr. R. S. ROSENTHAL, is the only

successful method ever devised to learn to speak without a teacher, and

in a few weeks,

*French*, *German*, *Spanish* or *Italian*.

Endorsed by leading linguists. Terms, $5.00 for books of either

language. Sample copy, Part I., 25 cents. Liberal terms to Teachers.

*MEISTERSCHAFT PUBLISHING CO., Boston, Mass.*

*100 Choice New Recitations* 13 Songs, Elegant Sample Cards, all for a

2c. stamp. CADIZ CARD CO., CADIZ, O.

*SPRING SALE* To reduce our stock of music we will send by mail,

postpaid, the *Beautiful Blue Danube* Waltzes and 60 pieces, full

sheet-music size, including songs, marches, quadrilles (with calls), for

only 20 cents. Satisfaction guaranteed, or money refunded. *WHITE WINGS

& 100 Songs*, words and music, *10c.* W. HATHAWAY, 339 Wash. St.,

Boston, Mass.

*BROWN’S FRENCH DRESSING.*

The Original! Beware of Imitations!

[Illustration {bottle}]

*AWARDED HIGHEST PRIZE AND ONLY MEDAL*

PARIS EXPOSITION, 1878.

Highest Award New Orleans Exposition.

[Illustration]

*PRINTING MADE EASY!*

With our Economy Outfits. Business men save money doing their own

printing! Fun for the boys! Instructions free. Business Outfits $7.50

upwards. Card Outfits $2. Catalogue for 2c stamp. Wm. Volkmann & Co.,

164 Washington St., Chicago, Ill.

[Illustration]

CAT’S-EYE SCARF-PIN 44 cts

The Gem Cat’s Eye is so called because it possesses the peculiar ray of

light or glisten seen in a cat’s eye in the dark. I have a limited stock

only, and offer you one for only *44 cts.*, post paid. The same in Ear

Drops, choice, *87 cents*. _Send Stamp for large illustrated catalogue

of Mineral Cabinets, Agate Novelties, Indian Relics, etc. Trade

Supplied._

H. H. TAMMEN, 935 16th St., Denver, Col.

*100 New Imported Scrap Pictures, 12 Elegant Imported Cards*, 1 Album of

*50* Colored Transfer Pictures and Agt’s Samples for ’87. all for *10c.*

S. STOKES & CO., Meriden, Conn.

*DRUNKENNESS* *OR THE LIQUOR HABIT POSITIVELY CURED* in any of its

stages. All desire or craving for stimulants entirely removed. Medicine

can be given without knowledge of the patient, by placing it in coffee,

tea, or articles of food. Cures guaranteed. Send for particulars.

*GOLDEN SPECIFIC CO., 185 Race Street, Cincinnati, Ohio.*

How to Make, Your Own *CANDIES*. By an Experienced Confectioner. Book

containing 68 Recipes mailed on receipt of 10 cts. L. SCHWARZ

Confectioner, 68 Fulton St., N.Y.

1000 foreign stamps, including Mexico, Jamaica, Dutch E. India, Barbados

& Portugal, 25cts. CHAS. A. TOWNSEND, Akron, O.

*PAKET* of *FOREN STAMPS* and Catalog, 10c. *ALBUMS*, 50c. Agents’ terms

and Catalog, 10c. JOHN NEWHAM, *Box 3694*, N.Y. City.

*500 FOREIGN STAMPS*, Australia, etc., 10c.; 105 varieties, 10c. F. P.

Vincent, Chatham, N.Y.

STAMPS 106 varieties, 10c.; 1010 mixed, 20c. Putnam Brothers,

Lewiston, Me.

*STAMPS* APPROVAL SHEETS. Agents wanted. *E. A. OBORNE. Jamaica, N.Y.*

*STAMPS* Agents wanted. 30 per cent. com. on sheets. Keystone Stamp Co.,

Box 200, Philad’a, Pa.

25 *Foreign Stamps FREE* to every collector. Send your address. _A. E.

Ashfield_, Box 233, Rye, N.Y.

* * * * *

[Illustration]

*A NEW BOOK ON CURVE-PITCHING*

That so fully explains the Art that

*Any one with a Little Practice can Master all the Curves* used by the

most noted pitchers. Price, *15* cts. Send for Catalogue.

A COMPLETE HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES FROM

1492 TO 1885, INCLUSIVE, FOR 10 CENTS.

A. J. REACH & CO., 23 S. 8th St., Philad’a, Pa.

*390* Funny Selections, Scrap Pictures, etc., and nice Sample Cards for

2c. HILL CARD CO., Cadiz, Ohio

*THE RED BOOKS.*

NEW PIECES TO SPEAK IN SCHOOL,

at Church or Home Entertainments. Elocution. Gesture. Beautifully

Illustrated. 12 different numbers, $1.00. Sample by mail, 10 cts.

*Agents Wanted.*

*HALL & STEBBINS, 11 Michigan Ave. CHICAGO, ILL.*

*CARDS*

New Sample Book of Hidden Name Cards for a 2c. stamp. STAR CARD CO.,

Laceyville, Ohio

*WAKE UP* and earn *$70 per month* at home. COSTLY OUTFIT of samples,

a package of goods and full instructions sent for *10c.* to help pay

postage and advertising.

*H. C. ROWELL & CO., Rutland, Vermont.*

*4 U.S. ½ CENTS*, postpaid, 25 cents. Price List free. G. J. BAUER, 73

Front St., Rochester, N.Y.

[Illustration]

*PRINT YOUR OWN CARDS!*

Press, $3; Circular size, $8. Press for small newspaper, $25. New Rotary

Jobber, $100. Send 2 stamps for catalogue Presses, Type, cards to

factory, Kelsey & Co. Meriden, Conn

*WARNER BRO’S*

[Illustration: (CELEBRATED CORALINE CORSETS

FLEXIBLE HIPS

NURSING

HEALTH ABDOMINAL CORALINE)]

*9, MILLION*

worn during the past six years.

This marvelous success is due--

1st.--To the superiority of Coraline over all other materials, as a

stiffener for Corsets.

2d.--To the superior quality, shape and workmanship of our Corsets,

combined with their low prices.

Avoid cheap imitations made of various kinds of cord. None are genuine

unless

*“DR. WARNER’S CORALINE”*

is printed on inside of steel cover.

*FOR SALE BY ALL LEADING MERCHANTS.*

*WARNER BROTHERS,*

*359 Broadway. New York City.*

*THIS HAMMOCK CHAIR*

[Illustration]

May be changed instantly to an automatic floor Chair adjustable to many

reclining positions. Has no equal, and is desirable for

[Illustration]

*Library, Steamer, and Invalid Use.*

Used in hospitals, colleges, families, and wherever

*COMFORT AND HEALTH*

are desired at a small cost. Folded compactly, and shipped anywhere.

Circulars, testimonials, and photographs for 2 cts. Price $7 to $15.

LIBERAL DISCOUNTS to agents and dealers. _Mention this Paper._

*BLAISDELL CHAIR CO., 96 High St., Boston.*

* * * * *

* * * *

* * * * *

GOLDEN DAYS

FOR BOYS AND GIRLS

(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.)

VOL. VIII.

JAMES ELVERSON, Publisher.

N.W. corner Ninth and Spruce Sts.

PHILADELPHIA MAY 21, 1887.

TERMS

$3.00 Per Annum, In Advance.

No. 25.

* * * * *

* * * *

* * * * *

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 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 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.

[Illustration:

“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 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 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 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, 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 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.

Yes, it is true that I am blind (it was not always thus),

But oft it comes into my mind how God can comfort us.

For if, of some good gift bereft, we bend before His will,

He ever has a blessing left which should our sorrows still.

This very morn I found it so; scarce had the day begun,

Ere with small, pattering, restless feet that hither swiftly run,

The children came in joyous mood, and shouted, “Spring is here!”

And when they led me through the wood, I knew that she was near.

I felt her breath upon my cheek, and while we walked along,

A thousand times I heard her speak the rustling leaves among,

In tones as though a harp had thrilled beneath an angel’s touch,

And all my soul with rapture filled: yet when I said as much,

The others laughed and whispered low, “Nay, nay, it is the wind!”

To them perhaps it might be so; but, ah! if folks are blind,

They learn in every sound that floats around their pathway dark--

The breeze, the brook, the glad bird-notes--some hidden voice to mark.

Therefore, when spring begins to don her garments fresh and gay,

Because I cannot look upon her beauty day by day,

Nor see the pointed crocus flame above the garden mold,

Nor watch the snowy tips that frame the daisy’s heart of gold;

Because unto my longing eyes may never be displayed

The changeful glory of the skies, warm shine and soothing shade,

Nor the great sun’s far-reaching rays which crown the day with light,

Nor yet the star-lit purple haze that comes before the night;

She breathes the tender tale to me, in accents clear and plain,

Until I nearly rend the veil and see it all again.

And though I’m blind, I know quite well, when to the woods we go,

The place to find the wild bluebell, and where the lilies blow;

Shy violets tell me, as I pass, their buds are at my feet,

And through the lengthening meadow-grass run murmurs soft and sweet.

Oh! I thank God that He doth bring such daily joy to me,

For even I can welcome spring, like happy girls who see.

[Illustration]

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, 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.

[Illustration]

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 18x4 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,

1½ x 1¼ 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 1½ x 1¼

inches for 2 feet of the middle to an oval of about 1⅛ x ⅞ 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 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.

[Illustration]

BE HONEST AND TRUE.

By George Birdseye.

Be honest and true, boys!

Whatever you do, boys,

Let this be your motto through life.

Both now and forever,

Be this your endeavor,

When wrong with the right is at strife.

The best and the truest,

Alas! are the fewest;

But be one of these if you can.

In duty ne’er fail; you

Will find ’twill avail you,

And bring its reward when a man.

Don’t think life plain sailing;

There’s danger of failing,

Though bright seem the future to be;

But honor and labor,

And truth to your neighbor,

Will bear you safe over life’s sea.

Then up and be doing,

Right only pursuing,

And take your fair part in the strife.

Be honest and true, boys,

Whatever you do, boys,

Let this be your motto through life!

[_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.

[Illustration:

“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 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 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 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 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. 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 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

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.

No. 1. Calendar.

No. 2. B E S T O W

E P A U L E

S A C R E D

T U R B I D

O L E I N E

W E D D E D

No. 3. Wise-acre.

No. 4. C A L A B O O S E

A N I M A B L E

L I M E R O D

A M E N D E

B A R D S

O B O E

O L D

S E

E

No. 5. Mark Tapley.

No. 6. M O C H E S

O T I O S E

C I C U T A

H O U D A H

E S T A T E

S E A H E N

No. 7. Good-humored.

No. 8. F A I R S

A B N E T S

I N T A I L S

R E A L L I E D

S T I L E T T O S

S L I T H E R

S E T E E

D O R

S

No. 9. Byrnehc, Pygmalion, Traddles.

No. 10. G R A T I S

R E V E S T

A V E N E R

T E N U R E

I S E R I N

S T R E N E

No. 11. Cover-shame.

No. 12.

H U M E C T A T I O N

P O L I A N I T E

B A T T E N S

S E T A E

D O R

O

NEW PUZZLES.

NO. 1. NUMERICAL.

When trees and fields _complete_

Their garbs of green;

When birds and flowers sweet

Again are seen,

And airy zephyrs murmur by,

My 5, 4, 3 and 6 soars high.

Oh! how I’m in a state

Of agitation,

6, 1 and 2 I get

An inspiration.

’Twill be in vain--in vain my lay,

For spring will then have flown away.

_Villanova, Pa._ VILLANOVA.

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.

_Rochester, N.Y._ EGERTON.

NO. 3. CHARADE.

_Prime_ not, ye fair ladies, or gentlemen wise.

To disbelieve what for your fortune will prove;

_Next total_, not gold, should select as a prize,

_Three_, friends, to the right, and marry for love.

_Danville, Va._ ALEDA.

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.

_Haverhill, Mass._ PYGMY.

NO. 5. MUTATION.

Like a hawk that pounces on its prey,

Swift as lightning on a summer day,

Through the stillness of the air you came,

Without life, and more--without a name.

Man has called you _whole_--perhaps you are

Dross ejected from some brilliant star!

But methinks the spheres their place will yield

ERE TO TIME your mystery is revealed.

_Newark, N.J._ DEMOSTHENES.

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.

_East Brady, Pa._ ST. ELMO.

NO. 7. CHARADE.

Come here, my _second_--lose no time;

_First_ lively, don’t procrastinate;

Although, my _all_, I’ll spare no pains

To render you less obdurate.

My _all_! Yet truly as a _last_

I’ve learned to look upon my boy:

Most true it is, ’tis but a _one_

From sad distrust to life of joy!

_First_ dame, indeed, I would not be

Held in my _second’s_ inmost thought;

Transmuted by love’s magic power,

My _all_ my _last_ is, without doubt.

_Woburn, Mass._ GLEN COTTAGE.

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.

_Boston, Mass._ PI ETA.

NO. 9. NUMERICAL.

The _whole_ is a thing that drives away harm,

Defined by dear Webster as “a charm;”

My 5, 6, 2, 3, 3 is by the same called “not much;”

My 6, 7, 8, a “vassal,” “subject,” “person,” or such:

My 5, 2, 3, 1 is “taste,” “savor,” or “a sailor;”

My 1, 2, 4, 3 of a coat is oft shortened by a tailor.

Now I think you have all you require to solve this numerical;

If not, I will tell you the _whole_ relates to nothing clerical.

_N.Y. city._ ATELLO.

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.

_Chicago, Ill._ U. REKA.

NO. 11. ANAGRAM.

TOM, THESE MEN CRITICISE COMMON RATES.

The law’s strong arm and stern decree

Are turned against monopoly;

Justice and equal rights for all

Be ours though the heavens fall!

_Hazleton, Pa._ P. O. STAGE.

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.

_Hoboken, N.J._ JUNIUS.

Answers will appear in our next issue; solvers in six weeks.

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:

No. 1. Cricket, La Porte, Ind.

No. 3. Clarence W. Chapin, Akron. Ohio.

No. 5. E. C. Lectic. Chicago, Ill.

No. 7. Alcyo, New York city.

No. 9. Jo Ram, New York city.

No. 11. E. C. Lectic, Chicago, Ill.

* * * * *

*Golden Days*

ISSUED WEEKLY

Our Subscription Price.

Subscriptions to “GOLDEN DAYS,” $3.00 per annum, $1.50 per six months,

$1.00 per four months, all payable in advance.

Single numbers, six cents each. We pay postage on all United States and

Canada subscriptions.

TO THOSE WHO DESIRE TO GET UP CLUBS.

If you wish to get up a club for “GOLDEN DAYS,” send us your name, and

we will forward you, _free of charge_, a number of specimen copies of

the paper, so that, with them, you can give your neighborhood a good

canvassing.

OUR CLUB RATES.

For $5 we will send two copies for one year to one address, or each copy

to a separate address.

For $10 we will send four copies for one year to one address, or each

copy to a separate address.

For $20 we will send eight copies to one address, or each copy to

separate addresses.

The party who sends us $20 for a club of eight copies (all sent at one

time) will be entitled to a copy for one year FREE.

Getters-up of clubs of eight copies can afterward add single copies at

$2.50 each.

Money should be sent to us either by Post Office Order or Registered

Letter, so as to provide as far as possible against its loss by mail.

All communications, business or otherwise, must be addressed to

JAMES ELVERSON,

Publisher.

* * * * *

[->] _A new Serial Story, entitled_

Three Young Silver Kings!

BY OLIVER OPTIC,

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 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.

“What doth thy anxious gaze espy?

An abrupt crag hung from the mountain’s brow!

Look closer; scan that bare, sharp cliff on high;

Aha! the wondrous shape bursts on thee now--

_A perfect human face_--neck, chin, mouth, nose and brow!”

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.

[Illustration]

MAMIE’S LETTER TO HEAVEN.

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

An humble room in a tenement house,

Four stories above the street,

Where a scanty fire, a scanty light,

And a scanty larder meet;

A woman sits at her daily toil,

Plying the needle and thread;

Her face is pallid with want and care,

And her hand as heavy as lead.

There she sits with her weary thought,

While the tears drop full and fast;

There she sits and stitches away,

With her memory in the past;

Beside her, perched on her little stool,

Sits Mamie, a six-year-old,

Who says she is never hungry at all,

And never admits she is cold.

There she sits and chatters away,

Not seeing her mother’s tears;

“Mamma, ’tis a month since winter came,

And I think to me it appears

That the Lord will never find us out,

If He’s anything to give,

Unless we can, some way, let Him know

The street and the number we live.

“You see, mamma, last winter He passed,

While papa was sick in bed;

He doesn’t know we are here, mamma,

And He doesn’t know papa is dead;

And so it happened all winter long

We didn’t have anything nice,

And so I think it would only be fair

If He came this winter twice.

“Do you ’member, mamma, that little, old man

Who gave me the bright, new cent?

Well, it wouldn’t buy much to eat, mamma,

And it would not pay for the rent;

So I bought a sheet of paper, mamma,

And I’ve written a letter in print--

It’s written to heaven direct, mamma,

And I’ve given Him just a hint.

“Shall I read it aloud to you, mamma?

Yes! Well, this is what I have said:

‘Dear Lord, my name is Mamie St. Clair,

And dear, darling papa is dead;

I live forty-four in the street they call Fourth,

And the cold of the winter is here;

My mamma is poor, and I go to school,

And I hope you will send this year.

“’I hope you will send mamma a new dress

Of something that’s warm and nice,

A paper of flour, some loaves of bread,

And a couple of pounds of rice;

And dear, loving Lord, do, if you feel rich,

You could send her some shoes to wear,

And two or three pounds of beef for soup,

Or anything else you can spare.

“’I’ve heard my dear mamma say many a time

That a chicken would do her much good,

And so, dear Lord, if chickens is cheap,

A chicken also, if you could;

With three pails of coal, if it isn’t too much,

And some stuff for mamma’s lame knee,

And oh, my dear Lord, pray don’t think me mean,

But a dear little dolly for me.’

“That’s all, my dear mamma, and now let me run

And send it to heaven at once,

For if He don’t get it by Christmas time,

He surely will think me a dunce.”

The letter was posted, the letter was scanned,

With numberless grins by the men

Whose duty it was to assort all the waifs

That came from the wonderful pen.

“Now where’s the dear Lord?” said one of these men;

“That’s me,” said another, quite grave.

“Here’s a letter, then!”--tossing the missive to him,

“And a twopenny stamp you will save.”

The letter was opened, the letter was read,

There were very few tearless eyes;

The reader looked round on the silent group,

And then, with a nod, he cries:

“Now, boys, there is something in this that I like--

It’s nature right straight up to win,

And we’ve all of us got to be lords right here--

So here is my dot to begin.”

The dollars flew down on the table like snow,

They came from the crowd’s great heart,

A letter was written by proxy and signed,

The proposer to play the part.

And so it came off upon one winter night

That there happened this strange affair;

A tapping came soft at Mamie’s door,

And a very old man stood there;

He was clad from his head to his feet so warm,

And his beard it was long and white.

“Good-even!” he said, as he pushed in a box

Then vanished quite out of their sight.

They were speechless, and only could stare at the box

Directed to Mamie St. Clair,

From “The Lord in Heaven.” What did it all mean?

And a letter beside was there--

A letter from heaven read: “Be a good girl,

And never do anything ill;

Love mamma as well as you do to-day.”

And a fifty-dollar bill.

If I wrote from now till the crack of doom,

I could tell no more than this.

It was all packed down in that wonderful box,

And the dolly--oh, gracious! what bliss!

And in time that letter to heaven direct

Sent many and many a friend,

And perhaps a new papa--who knows?--may be sent

By heaven itself, in the end.

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 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.

[Illustration:

“’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 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 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, 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.”