CHAPTER IX.

Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. V. AUGUST, 1878. No. 10.

[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]

KING CHEESE.

(_A Story of the Paris Exhibition of 1867._)

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

Where many a cloud-wreathed mountain blanches

Eternally in the blue abyss,

And tosses its torrents and avalanches

Thundering from cliff and precipice,

There is the lovely land of the Swiss,--

Land of lakes and of icy seas,

Of chamois and chalets,

And beautiful valleys,

Musical boxes, watches, and cheese.

Picturesque, with its landscapes green and cool,

Sleek cattle standing in shadow or pool,

And dairy-maids bearing pail and stool,--

That is the quaint little town of Nulle.

There, one day, in the old town-hall,

Gathered the worthy burghers all,

Great and small,

Short and tall,

At the burgomaster's call.

The stout and fat, the lean and lame,

From house and shop, and dairy and pasture,

In queer old costumes, up they came,

Obedient to the burgomaster.

He made a speech--"Fellow-citizens: There is

To be, as you know,

A wonderful show,

A Universal Fair, at Paris;

Where every country its product carries,

Whatever most beautiful, useful, or rare is,

To please and surprise,

And perhaps win a prize.

Now here is the question

Which craves your counsel and suggestion--

With you it lies:

So, after wise

And careful consideration of it,

Say, what shall _we_ send for our honor and profit?"

Some said this thing, some said that;

Then up rose a burgher, ruddy and fat,

Rounder and redder than all the rest,

With a nose like a rose, and an asthmatic chest;

And says he, with a wheeze,

Like the buzzing of bees:

"I propose, if you please,

That we send 'em a _cheese_."

Then a lithe little man

Took the floor, and began,

In a high, squeaky voice: "I approve of the plan;

But I wish to amend

What's proposed by my friend:

A BIG CHEESE, I think, is the thing we should send."

Then up jumped a third,

To put in a word,

And amend the amendment they had just heard;

"A ROYAL BIG CHEESE" was the phrase he preferred.

The question was moved,

Discussed and approved,

And the vote was unanimous, that it behooved

Their ancient, venerable corporation,

To send such a cheese as should honor the nation.

So ended the solemn convocation;

And, after due deliberation,

The burgomaster made proclamation,

Inviting people of every station,

Each according to his vocation,

With patriotic emulation

To join in a general jubilation,

And get up a cheese for the grand occasion.

Then shortly began the preparation.

[Illustration: "PEASANT GIRLS BRINGING THE MILK."]

One morning was heard a mighty clamoring,

With sounds of sawing and planing and hammering.

The painters, forsaking their easels and pallets,

Came to look on, or assist in the labor;

The joiners were there with their chisels and mallets;

Trades of all grades, every man with his neighbor;

The carpenters, coopers,

And stout iron-hoopers,

Erecting a press for the thing to be done in,

A tub big enough to put ton after ton in,

And gutters for rivers of liquid to run in.

March was the month the work was begun in,--

If that could be work they saw nothing but fun in;

'Twas finished in April, and long before May

Everything was prepared for the curd and the

whey.

Then the bells were set ringing--

The milking began;

All over the land went the dairy-maids singing;

Boy and man,

Cart, pail, and can,

And peasant girls, each in her pretty dress,

From highway and by-way all round, came bringing,

Morning and evening, the milk to the press.

Then it took seven wise-heads together to guess

Just how much rennet, no more and no less,

Should be added, to curdle and thicken the mess.

So, having been properly warmed and stirred,

The cheese was set; and now, at a word,

Ten strong men fell to cutting the curd.

Some whey was reheated;

The cutting repeated;

Each part of the process most carefully treated,

For fear they might find, when the whole was completed,

Their plan had by some mischance been defeated.

Now the weavers come bringing the web they were spinning,

A cloth for the curd, of the stoutest of linen.

The ten men attack it,

And tumble and pack it

Within the vast vat in its dripping gray jacket;

And the press is set going with clatter and racket.

The great screw descends, as the long levers play,

And the curd, like some crushed living creature, gives way;

It sighs in its troubles--

The pressure redoubles!

It mutters and sputters,

And hisses and bubbles,

While down the deep gutters,

From every pore spirted, rush torrents of whey.

The cheese was pressed, and turned, and cured;

And so was made, as I am assured,

The rich-odored, great-girdled Emperor

Of all the cheeses that ever were.

Then, everything ready, what should they have else,

In starting His Majesty on his travels,

But a great procession up and down

Through the streets of the quaint old town?

So they made

A grand parade,

With marching train-band, guild, and trade:

The burgomaster in robes arrayed,

Gold chain, and mace, and gay cockade,

Great keys carried, and flags displayed,

Pompous marshal and spruce young aide,

Carriage and foot and cavalcade;

While big drums thundered and trumpets brayed,

And all the bands of the canton played;

The fountain spouted lemonade,

Children drank of the bright cascade;

Spectators of every rank and grade,

The young and merry, the grave and staid,

Alike with cheers the show surveyed,

From street and window and balustrade,--

Ladies in jewels and brocade,

Gray old grandam, and peasant maid

With cap, short skirt, and dangling braid;

And youngsters shouted, and horses neighed,

And all the curs in concert bayed:

'T was thus with pomp and masquerade,

On a broad triumphal chariot laid,

Beneath a canopy's moving shade,

By eight cream-colored steeds conveyed,

To the ringing of bells and cannonade,

King Cheese his royal progress made.

So to the Paris Exposition,

His Majesty went on his famous mission.

[Illustration: "SO THEY MADE A GRAND PARADE."]

At the great French Fair!

Everything under the sun is there,

Whatever is made by the hand of man:

Silks from China and Hindostan,

Grotesque bronzes from Japan;

Products of Iceland, Ireland, Scotland,

Lapland, Finland, I know not what land--

North land, south land, cold land, hot land,--

From Liberia,

From Siberia,--

Every fabric and invention,

From every country you can mention:

From Algeria and Sardinia;

From Ohio and Virginia;

Egypt, Siam, Palestine;

Lands of the palm-tree, lands of the pine;

Lands of tobacco, cotton, and rice,

Of iron, of ivory, and of spice,

Of gold and silver and diamond,--

From the farthest land, and the land beyond.

And everybody is there to see:

From Mexico and Mozambique;

Spaniard, Yankee, Heathen Chinee;

Modern Roman and modern Greek;

Frenchman and Prussian,

Turk and Russian,

Foes that have been, or foes to be:

Through miles on miles

Of spacious aisles,

'Mid the wealth of the world in gorgeous piles,

Loiter and flutter the endless files!

Encircled all day by a wondering throng,

That gathers early and lingers long,

Behold where glows, in his golden rind,

The marvel the burghers of Nulle designed!

There chatters the cheery _bourgeoisie_;

And children are lifted high to see;

And "Will it go up in the sky to-night?"

Asks little ma'm'selle, in the arms of her mother,--

"Rise over the houses and give us light?

Is this where it sets when it goes out of sight?"

For she takes King Cheese for his elder brother!

But now it is night, and the crowds have departed;

The vast dim halls are still and deserted;

Only the ghost-like watchmen go,

Through shimmer and shadow, to and fro;

While the moon in the sky,

With his half-shut eye,

Peers smilingly in at his rival below.

At this mysterious hour, what is it

That comes to pay the Fair a visit?

The gates are all barred,

With a faithful guard

Without and within; and yet 'tis clear

Somebody--or something--is entering here!

[Illustration: "ENCIRCLED ALL DAY BY A WONDERING THRONG."]

There is a Paris underground,

Where dwells another nation;

Where neither lawyer nor priest is found,

Nor money nor taxation;

And scarce a glimmer, and scarce a sound

Reaches those solitudes profound,

But silence and darkness close it round,--

A horrible habitation!

Its streets are the sewers, where rats abound;

Where swarms, unstifled, unstarved, undrowned,

Their ravenous population.

Underground Paris has heard of the Fair;

And up from the river, from alley and square,

To the wonderful palace the rats repair;

And one old forager, grizzled and spare,--

The wisest to plan and the boldest to dare,

To smell out a prize or to find out a snare,--

In some dark corner, beneath some stair

(I never learned how, and I never knew where),

Has gnawed his way into the grand affair;

First one rat, and then a pair,

And now a dozen or more are there.

They caper and scamper, and blink and stare,

While the drowsy watchman nods in his chair.

But little a hungry rat will care

For the loveliest lacquered or inlaid ware,

Jewels most precious, or stuffs most rare;--

There's a marvelous smell of cheese in the air!

They all make a rush for the delicate fare;

But the shrewd old fellow squeaks out, "Beware!

'T is a prize indeed, but I say, forbear!

For cats may catch us and men may scare,

And a well-set trap is a rat's despair;

But if we are wise, and would have our share

With perfect safety to hide and hair,

Now listen, and we will our plans prepare."

The watchman rouses, the rats are gone;

On a thousand windows gleams the dawn;

And now once more

Through every door,

With hustle and bustle, the great crowds pour;

And nobody hears a soft little sound,

As of sawing or gnawing, somewhere underground.

At length, the judges, going their round,

Awarding the prizes, enter the hall,

Where, amid cheeses big and small,

Reposes the sovereign of them all.

They put their tape round it, and tap it and bore it;

And bowing before it,

As if to adore it,

Like worshipers of the sun, they stand,--

Slice in hand,

Pleased and bland,

While their bosoms glow and their hearts expand.

They smell and they taste;

And, the rind replaced,

The foremost, smacking his lips, says: "Messieurs!

Of all fine cheeses at market or fair,--

Holland or Rochefort, Stilton or Cheshire,

Neufchatel, Milanese,--

There never was cheese,

I am free to declare,

That at all could compare

With this great Gruyere!"

In short, so exceedingly well it pleases,

They award it a prize over all the cheeses.

[Illustration: "FIRST, ONE RAT."]

That prize is the pride of the whole Swiss nation;

And the town of Nulle, in its exultation,

Without a dissenting voice, decrees

To the poor of Paris a gift of the cheese.

Paris, in grateful recognition

Of this munificence, sends a commission--

Four stately officials, of high position--

To take King Cheese from the Exhibition,

And, in behalf of the poor, to thank,

With speeches and toasts, the Swiss for their gift.

The speeches they made, the toasts they drank;

Eight Normandy horses, strong and swift,

At the entrance wait

For the golden freight;

And all the porters are there to lift,

Prepared for a long and a strong embrace,

In moving His Greatness a little space.

They strain at the signal, each man in his place:

"Heave, ho!"--when, lo! as light as a feather,

Down tumbles, down crumbles, the King of the Cheeses,

With seven men, all in a heap together!

Up scramble the porters, with laughter and sneezes;

While sudden, mighty amazement seizes

The high officials, until they find

A curious bore

In the platform floor,

And another to match in the nether rind,--

Just one big rat-hole, and no more;

By which, as it seemed, had ventured in

One rat, at first, and a hundred had followed,

And feasted, and left--to the vast chagrin

Of the worthy burghers of Nulle--as thin

And shabby a shell as ever was hollowed;

Now nothing but just

A crushed-in crust,

A cart-load of scraps and a pungent dust!

So the newspapers say; but though they call

King Cheese a hoax, he was hardly that.

And the poor he fed, as you see, after all;

For who is so poor as a Paris rat?

[Illustration: "DOWN TUMBLES, DOWN CRUMBLES, THE KING OF THE

CHEESES."]

RODS FOR FIVE.

BY SARAH WINTER KELLOGG.

Not birch-rods; fishing-rods. They were going fishing, these five young

people, of whom I shall treat "under four heads," as the ministers

say,--1, names; 2, ages; 3, appearance; 4, their connection.

1. Their names were John and Elsie Singletree, Puss Leek, Luke Lord, and

Jacob Isaac; the last had no surname.

2. John was fifteen and a few months past; Elsie was thirteen and many

months past; Puss Leek was fourteen to a day; Luke Lord crowded John so

closely, there was small room for superior age to claim precedence, or

for the shelter which inferior age makes on certain occasions; Jacob

Isaac was "thutteen, gwyne on fou'teen."

3. John Singletree was a dark-eyed, sharp-eyed, wiry, briery boy. Elsie,

of the same name, was much like him, being a dark-eyed, sharp-eyed,

wiry, briery girl. Her father used to call her Sweet-brier and

Sweet-pickle, because, he said, she was sweet but sharp. Puss Leek had

long, heavy, blonde hair, that hung almost to her knees when it was

free, which it seldom was, for Puss braided it every morning, the first

thing,--not loosely, to give it a fat look, hinting of its luxuriance,

but just as hard as she could, quite to Elsie's annoyance, who used to

say, resentfully, "You're so afraid that somebody'll think that you are

vain of your hair." Puss's ears were over large for perfect beauty, and

her eyes a trifle too deeply set; but I've half a mind to say that she

was a beauty, in spite of these, for, after all, the ears had a generous

look, in harmony with the frank, open face, and the shadowed eye was

the softest, sweetest blue eye I ever saw. She had been called Puss when

a baby, because of her nestling, kitten-like way, and the odd name clung

to her. Luke Lord was homely; but he didn't care a bit. He was so jolly

and good-natured that everybody liked him, and he liked everybody, and

so was happy. He had light hair, very light for fifteen years, and a

peculiar teetering gait, which was not unmanly, however. It made people

laugh at him, but he didn't care a bit. Jacob Isaac was a "cullud

pusson," as he would have said, protesting against the word "negro."

"Nigger," he used to say, "is de mos' untolerbulis word neber did year."

It was the word he applied to whatever moved his anger or contempt. It

was his descriptive epithet for the old hen that flew at him for

abducting her traipsing chicken; for the spotted pig that led him that

hour's chase; for the goat that butted, and the cow that hooked; and for

gray Selim when he stood on his hind legs and let Jacob Isaac over the

sleek haunches.

But to return to No. 4. John and Elsie Singletree were brother and

sister. Puss Leek was Elsie's boarding-school friend, and her guest.

Luke Lord was a neighboring boy invited to join the fishing-party, to

honor Puss Leek's birthday, and to help John protect the girls. Jacob

Isaac was hired to "g'long" as general waiter, to do things that none of

the others wanted to do--to do the drudgery while they did the

frolicking.

They were all on horseback,--John riding beside Puss Leek, protecting

her; Luke riding beside Elsie, and protecting her; Jacob Isaac riding

beside his shadow, and protecting the lunch-basket, carried on the

pommel of his saddle.

"I keep thinking about the 'snack,'" said Puss Leek's protector, before

they had made a mile of their journey.

"What do you think about it?" asked the protected.

"I keep thinking how good it'll taste. Aunt Calline makes mighty good

pound-cake. I do love pound-cake!"

"_Like_ it, you mean, John," said his sister Elsie, looking back over

her shoulder.

"I _don't_ mean like," said John. "If there is anything I love better

than father and mother, brother and sister, it's pound-cake."

"But there isn't anything," said Puss.

"My kingdom for a slice!" said John, with a tragic air. "I don't believe

I can stand it to wait till lunch-time."

"Why, it hasn't been a half-hour since you ate breakfast. Are you

hungry?" Elsie said.

"No, I'm not hungry; I'm _ha'nted_." John pronounced the word with a

flatness unwritable. "The pound-cake ha'nts me; the fried chicken

ha'nts me; the citron ha'nts me. I see 'em!" John glared at the vacant

air as though he saw an apparition. "I taste 'em! I smell 'em! I feel

moved to call on him" (here Jacob Isaac was indicated by a backward

glance and movement) "to yield the _wittles_ or his life. Look here!" he

added, suddenly reining-up his horse and speaking in dead earnest,

"let's eat the snack now. Halt!" he cried to the advance couple, "we're

going to eat."

"Going to eat?" cried Elsie. "You're not in earnest?"

"Yes, I am. I can't rest. The cake and things ha'nt me."

"Well, do for pity's sake eat something, and get done with it," Elsie

said.

"But you must wait for me," John persisted. "I'll have to spread the

things out on the grass. I keep thinking how good they'll taste eaten

off the grass. There's where the ha'ntin' comes in."

"Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous?" said Elsie to the others.

"But I suppose we had better humor him; he wont give us any rest till we

do; he's so persistent. When he gets headed one way, he's like a pig."

Elsie began to pull at the bridle to bring her horse alongside a stump.

"Puss and I can get some flowers during the repast."

"I call this a most peculiar proceeding," said her protector, leaping

from his horse, and hastening to help her to "'light."

Jacob Isaac gladly relinquished the lunch-basket, which had begun to

make his arm ache, and soon John had the "ha'nting things" spread. Then

he sat down Turk-like to eating; the others stood around, amused

spectators, while chicken, beaten biscuits, strawberry tart, pound-cake

disappeared as though they enjoyed being eaten.

"I believe I'm getting 'ha'nted,' too," said Luke Lord, whose mouth

began to water,--the things seemed to taste so good to John.

"Good for you!" John said, cordially. "Come along! Help yourself to a

chicken-wing."

"Why, Luke, you aint going to eating!" Elsie said.

"Yes, I am; John's made me hungry."

"Me, too," said Jacob Isaac.

"Of course, you're hungry," said John. "Come along! Hold your two

hands."

"Let's go look for sweet-Williams and blue-flags," Puss proposed to

Elsie.

"No; if we go away, the boys will eat everything up. Just look at them!

Did ever you see such eatists? You boys, stop eating all the lunch."

"Aint you girls getting 'ha'nted?'" Luke asked. "If you don't come soon,

there wont be left for you."

"I believe that's so," said Puss confidentially to Elsie. "I reckon

we'll have to take our share now, or not at all. We've got to eat in

self-defense."

And so it came about that those five ridiculous children sat there, less

than a mile on their journey, and less than an hour from their

breakfast, and ate, ate, ate, till there was nothing of their lunch left

except a half biscuit and a chicken neck. John, fertile in invention,

proposed that they should go back home and get something more for

dinner; but Puss said everybody would laugh at them, and Elsie thought

they wouldn't be able to eat anything more that day, and, if they should

be hungry, they could have a fish-fry.

"Aint no use totin' this yere basekit 'long no mawr," Jacob Isaac

suggested. "I'll leave it hang in this yere sass'fras saplin'." When it

was intimated that it would be needed for the remainder of the lunch, he

said there wasn't any "'mainder." "What's lef' needn't pester you-all;

I'll jis eat it."

Arrived at the water, the boys baited the hooks, at which the girls gave

little shrieks, and hid their eyes, demanding to know of the boys how

they would like to be treated as they were treating the worms.

"The poor creatures!" said Puss.

"So helpless!" added Elsie, peeping through her fingers at the boys.

"Aren't the hooks ready yet?"

"Yours is," and Luke delivered a rod into her hands.

"And here's yours, Puss," John said. "Drop it in."

Soon there were five rods extended over the water, and five corks were

floating which might have told of robbed molasses-jugs and vinegar-jugs,

and five young people were laughing, and talking nonsense by the---- How

is nonsense estimated? Everybody kept asking everybody else if he had

had a bite, and everybody was guilty of giving false alarms. As for

Elsie, she shrieked out, "A bite!" at every provocation,--whenever the

current bore unusually against her line, when the floating hook dragged

bottom or encountered a twig.

"Jupiter!" said John, growing impatient at the idle drifting of his

cork. "I can't stand this, Elsie. You girls stop talking. You chatter

like magpies; you scare the fish. Girls oughtn't ever to go fishing."

Jacob Isaac snickered, and remarked _sotto voce_: "He talks hisse'f maw

'n the res' of the ladies."

Elsie did not heed John's attack. Her eye was riveted on her bobbing

cork; her cheeks were glowing with excitement; her heart was beating

wildly. There was a pulling at her line.

"Keep quiet!" she called. "I've got a bite."

"You would have, if I could get at your arm," said John, who didn't

believe she had a bite.

"I have, truly," she said, excitedly. "Look!"

All came tramping, crowding about her.

"I feel him pull," she said, eagerly.

"Well, get him out," said Luke.

"Shall I pull him or jerk him?" Elsie was nearly breathless.

"If I knew about his size, I could tell you," said Luke. "If he's big,

give him a dignified pull; if he's a little chap, jerk him; no business

to be little."

"Oh! I'm afraid it will hurt him," said Puss.

"Out with him!" said Luke.

"I'm afraid the line will break," said Elsie, all in a quiver.

"No, it wont," said John.

"The rod might snap," said Elsie.

"Here, let me take the rod," John proposed.

"No, no; I'm going to catch the fish myself," Elsie said, in vehement

protest.

"Then jerk, sharp and strong," her brother said.

Elsie made ready; steadied her eager brain; planted her feet firmly;

braced her muscles by her will; and then, with a shriek, threw up her

rod, "as high as the sky," Puss said. There was a fleeting vision of a

dripping white-bellied fish going skyward; and then a faint thud was

heard.

"She's thrown it a half-mile, or less, in the bushes," said Luke.

"And there's her hook in the top of that tree," said John. "What gumps

girls are when you take them out-of-doors!"

All went into the bushes to look for the astonished fish. They looked,

and looked, and looked; listened for its beating and flopping against

the ground.

After a while, Luke said he thought it must be one of the climbing fish

described by Agassiz, and that it had gone up a tree.

"I mos' found it twice't; but it was a frog an' a lizar', 'stead uv the

fish," said Jacob Isaac.

To this day, it remains a mystery where Elsie's fish went to.

Jacob Isaac climbed the tree to rescue Elsie's hook and line, while the

other boys went down the stream to find a cat-fish hole that they had

heard of.

"Don't pull at the line that way," Puss said to the thrasher in the

tree-top; "you'll break it. There, the hook is caught on that twig. You

must go out on the limb and unhitch it."

"Lim' hangs over the watto," Jacob Isaac said; but he crawled out on it,

and reached for the hook.

Then Elsie shrieked, for crashing through the branches came Jacob Isaac,

and splashed back-foremost into the water. Then there was confusion.

Jacob called to the girls to help him; they called to the boys to help;

the boys, ignorant of the accident, shouted back that they were going on

to where they could have quiet, and went tramping away. Then Elsie tried

to tell Jacob Isaac how to swim, while Puss Leek darted off to where the

horses were tethered. She mounted the one she had ridden--a gentle

thing, aged eighteen. Then she came crashing through the bushes and

brush, clucking and jerking the bridle, dashed down the bank, and

plunged into the stream.

[Illustration: "HE KNELT ON THE BANK TO FIX HIS BAIT."]

Elsie held her breath at the sight. The water rose to the flanks, but

Puss kept her head steady, sat her saddle coolly, and, when Jacob Isaac

appeared, put out a resolute hand, and got hold of his

jacket,--speaking, meanwhile, a soothing word to the horse, which was

now drinking. She got the boy's head above water.

"I'll hold on to you; and you must hold on to the stirrup and to the

horse's mane," she said.

Jacob Isaac, without a word, got hold as directed. Puss held on with a

good grip, as she had promised, and the careful old horse pawed through

the water to the bank--only a few yards distant, by the way.

"Thankee, Miss Puss," is what Jacob Isaac said, as he stretched himself

on a log to dry.

"Puss, you're a hero," is what Elsie said, adding immediately: "Those

hateful boys! Great protectors they are!"

John had found up-stream a deep hole in the shade of some large trees.

Just above it the creek tumbled and foamed over a rocky bed. John said

to Luke: "It just empties the fish in here by the basketfuls. All we've

got to do is to empty 'em out,"--and he knelt on the bank to fix his

bait.

But Luke was not satisfied. "You'll never catch any fish there," said

he. "The current's too swift." And off went he, to look for a likelier

place.

Yet neither of the boys had better luck than when with the girls, and

both soon went back to them. When Elsie's vivid account of the rescue

had been given, the boys stared at Puss with a new interest, as though

she had undergone some transformation in their brief absence.

Then somebody suggested that they must hurry up and catch something for

dinner. So all five dropped hooks into the water, everybody pledged to

silence, Fishing was now business; it meant dinner or no dinner.

For some moments, the fishers sat or stood in statuesque silence, eyes

on the corks. Then Jacob Isaac showed signs of excitement.

"I's got a fish, show's yer bawn," he called, dancing about on the bank.

"Let me see it," John challenged.

"Aint pulled it out yit," said Jacob Isaac, jumping and capering.

"What's the matter with you? What are you cavorting about in that style

for?" John asked.

"Playin' 'im!" answered Jacob Isaac, running backward and forward, and

every other way.

"Is that the way they play a fish?" Elsie said, gazing. "I never knew

before how they did it."

She went over to where the jubilant fisherman was yet skipping about,

and asked if she might play the fish a while.

"Law, Miss Elsie! he'd pull yo' overboa'd! Yo' couldn't hol' 'im no maw

'n nuffin. He's mighty strong; stronges' fish ever did see."

But Elsie teased till Jacob Isaac gave the rod into her hand, when she

danced forward and back, chasse-ed, and executed other figures of a

quadrille, till Puss Leek came up to play the fish. She wasn't so much

like a katydid as Elsie, or so much like a wired jumping-jack as Jacob

Isaac. She played the fish so awkwardly that John came up and took the

rod from her hand. He had no sooner felt the pull at the line than he

began to laugh and "pshaw! pshaw!" and said that all in that party were

gumps and geese, except himself and Luke.

"You wouldn't except Luke," Elsie interrupted, "if he wasn't a big boy.

You'd call him a gump and a goose, if he was a girl."

"If he was a girl, he would be a gump and a goose," said this saucy

John. "This fish," he continued, "which you've been playing, is a piece

of brush. Oh! how you did play it! This is the way that Jacob Isaac

played it." John jumped and danced and hopped and strutted and plunged,

till everybody was screaming with laughter. "And this is the way that

Elsie played it." He got hold of his coat-skirts after the manner of an

affected girl with her dress; then he hugged the rod to his bosom, and

capered, flitted, pranced. Then, having reproduced Puss Leek's

"playing," he said, grandly: "I shall now proceed to land this monster

of the deep."

"He made a great show of getting ready, and then pulled, pulled, pulled,

pulled,--when out and up there came, not the brush everybody was

expecting, but a fine, beautiful fish.

You ought to have heard, then, the cheers of those surprised boys and

girls! Jacob Isaac danced, turned somersaults, walked on his hands, and

for one supreme half-second stood on his head.

"Looks like he was playing a whale or a sea-serpent," said Luke, between

his bursts of laughter.

"You're all playing a fool that you've caught," said John, who had

joined in the laugh against himself, "and you've a right to."

[Illustration: JOHN AND HIS VELOCIPEDE.

1.--HE GETS A GOOD START,

2.--HAS A FINE RUN DOWN-HILL,

3.--AND COMES TO A SUDDEN STOP.]

HOW TO TRAVEL.

BY SUSAN ANNA BROWN.

This article does not refer to the journey to Europe, toward which

almost all young people are looking. When the opportunity for foreign

travel comes, there are plenty of guide-books and letters from abroad

which will tell you just what to take with you, and what you ought to do

in every situation. This is for short, every-day trips, which people

take without much thought; but as there is a right and a wrong way of

doing even little things, young folks may as well take care that they

receive and give the most pleasure possible in a short journey, and

then, when the trip across the ocean comes, they will not be annoying

themselves and others by continual mistakes.

As packing a trunk is usually the first preparation for a trip, we will

begin with that.

It is a very good way to collect what is most important before you

begin, so that you may not leave out any necessary article. Think over

what you will be likely to need; for a little care before you start may

save you a great deal of inconvenience in the end. Be sure, before you

begin, that your trunk is in good order, and that you have the key. And

when you shut it for the last time, do not leave the straps sticking out

upon the outside. Put your heavy things at the bottom, packing them

tightly, so that they will not rattle about when the trunk is reversed.

Put the small articles in the tray. Anything which will be likely to be

scratched or defaced by rubbing, should be wrapped in a handkerchief and

laid among soft things. If you must carry anything breakable, do it up

carefully, and put it in the center of the trunk, packing clothing

closely about it. Bottles should have the corks tied in with strong

twine. Put them near articles which cannot be injured by the contents,

if a breakage occurs. Tack on your trunk a card with your permanent

address. As this card is to be consulted only if the trunk is lost, it

is not necessary to be constantly changing it. Take in the

traveling-bag, pins and a needle and thread, so that, in case of any

accident to your clothes, they can be repaired without troubling any one

else. A postal-card and a pencil and paper take up but little room, and

may be very convenient. The best way to carry your lunch is in a

pasteboard box, which can be thrown away after you have disposed of the

contents.

Put your money in an inner pocket, reserving in your purse only what you

will be likely to need on the way, so that you may be able to press your

way through a crowd without fear of pickpockets. Your purse should also

contain your name and address.

Try to be ready, so that you will not be hurried at the last moment; and

this does not mean that it is necessary to be at the station a long time

before the train leaves. To be punctual does not mean to be _too early_,

but to be just early enough.

Try to find out, before you start, what train and car you ought to take,

and have your trunk properly checked. Put the check in some safe place,

but first look at the number, so that you may identify the check if lost

by you and found by others. Have your ticket where you can easily get

it, and need not be obliged to appear, when the conductor comes, as if

it was a perfect surprise to you that he should ask for it.

Of course, you have a right to the best seat which is vacant, and, if

there is plenty of room, you can put your bundles beside or opposite

you; but remember that you have only paid for one seat, and be ready at

once to make room for another passenger, if necessary, without acting as

though you were conferring a favor.

If you have several packages, and wish to put any of them in the rack

over your head, you will be less likely to forget them, if you put all

together, than you will if you keep a part in your hand.

If you _must_ read in the cars, never in any circumstances take a book

that has not fair, clear type; and stop reading at the earliest approach

of twilight. If, as you read, you hold your ticket, or some other plain

piece of paper, under the line you are reading, sliding it down as you

proceed, you will find that you can read almost as rapidly, and with

much less injury to your eyes. A newspaper is the worst reading you can

have, as the print is usually indistinct, and it is impossible to hold

it still.

You may not care to read in the cars when in motion, but it is

convenient to have a book with you, in case the train should be delayed.

If your friends accompany you to the station, be careful that your last

words are not too personal or too loud. Young people are apt to overlook

this, and thus sometimes make themselves ridiculous before the other

passengers by joking and laughing in a way which might be perfectly

proper at home, but which before a company of strangers is not in good

taste.

If you meet acquaintances, do not call out their names so distinctly as

to introduce them to the other passengers, as it is never pleasant for

people to have the attention of strangers called to them in that way. If

you are alone, do not be too ready to make acquaintances. Reply politely

to any civil remark or offer of assistance, but do not allow yourself to

be drawn into conversation, unless it is with some one of whose

trustworthiness you are reasonably sure, and even then do not forget

that you are talking to a perfect stranger.

If you cannot have everything just as you prefer, remember that you are

in a public conveyance, and that the other passengers have as much right

to their way as you have to yours. If you find that your open window

annoys your neighbor, do not refuse to shut it; and if the case is

reversed, do not complain, unless you are really afraid of taking cold,

and cannot conveniently change your seat. Above all things, do not get

into a dispute about it, like the two women, one of whom declared that

she should die if the window was open, and the other responded that she

should stifle if it was shut, until one of the passengers requested the

conductor to open it a while and kill one, and then shut it and kill the

other, that the rest might have peace.

There are few situations where the disposition is more thoroughly shown

than it is in traveling. A long journey is considered by some people to

be a perfect test of the temper. There are many ways in which an

unselfish person will find an opportunity to be obliging. It is

surprising to see how people who consider themselves kind and polite

members of society can sometimes forget all their good manners in the

cars, showing a perfect disregard of the comfort--and even the

rights--of others, which would banish them from decent society if shown

elsewhere.

To return to particular directions: Do not entertain those who are

traveling with you by constant complaints of the dust or the heat or the

cold. The others are probably as much annoyed by these things as you

are, and fault-finding will only make them the more unpleasant to all.

Be careful what you say about those near you, as a thoughtless remark to

a friend in too loud a tone may cause a real heartache. Many a weary

mother has been pained by hearing complaints of a fretful child, whose

crying most probably distresses her more than any one else. Instead of

saying, "Why will people travel with babies?" remember that it is

sometimes unavoidable, and do not disfigure your face by a frown at the

disturbance, but try to do what you can to make the journey pleasant for

those around you, at least by a serene and cheerful face. A person who

really wishes to be helpful to others, will find plenty of opportunities

to "lend a hand" without becoming conspicuous in any way.

Do not ask too many questions of other passengers. Keep your eyes and

ears open, and you will know as much as the rest do. If you wish to

inquire about anything, let it be of the conductor, whose business it is

to answer you, and do not detain him unnecessarily. Remember what he

tells you, that you may not be like the woman Gail Hamilton describes,

who asked the conductor the same question every time he came around, as

if she thought he had undergone a moral change during his absence, and

might answer her more truthfully.

If you get out of the car at any station on your way, be sure to observe

which car it was, and which train, so that you need not go about

inquiring where you belong when you wish to return to your seat.

A large proportion of the accidents which happen every year are caused

by carelessness. Young people are afraid of seeming timid and anxious,

and will sometimes, in avoiding this, risk their lives very foolishly.

They step from the train before it has fairly stopped, or put their

heads out of the window when the car is in motion, or rest the elbow on

the sill of an open window in such a way that a passing train may cause

serious, if not fatal, injury. Sometimes they pass carelessly from one

car to another when the train is still, forgetting that it may start at

any moment and throw them off their balance. Many similar exposures can

be avoided by a little care and thought.

These are very plain, simple rules, which it may be supposed are already

known to every one; but a little observation will show that they are not

always put in practice.

A great deal has been left unsaid here on the advantages and pleasures

of travel; but, without a knowledge of the simple details we have given,

one will be sure to miss much of the culture and enjoyment which might

otherwise be gained by it.

[Illustration: AN EXCITING RIDE.]

THE SWALLOWS.

BY DORA READ GOODALE.

Dear birds that greet us with the spring,

That fly along the sunny blue,

That hover round your last year's nests,

Or cut the shining heavens thro',

That skim along the meadow grass,

Among the flowers sweet and fair,

That croon upon the pointed roof,

Or, quiv'ring, balance in the air;

Ye heralds of the summer days,

As quick ye dart across the lea,

Tho' other birds be fairer, yet

The dearest of all birds are ye.

Dear as the messengers of spring

Before the buds have opened wide,

Dear when our other birds are here,

Dear in the burning summertide;

But when the lonely autumn wind

About the flying forest grieves,

In vain we look for you, and find--

Your empty nests beneath the eaves.

UNDER THE LILACS

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

CHAPTER XVIII.

BOWS AND ARROWS.

If Sancho's abduction made a stir, one may easily imagine with what

warmth and interest he was welcomed back when his wrongs and wanderings

were known. For several days he held regular levees, that curious boys

and sympathizing girls might see and pity the changed and curtailed dog.

Sancho behaved with dignified affability, and sat upon his mat in the

coach-house pensively eying his guests, and patiently submitting to

their caresses; while Ben and Thorny took turns to tell the few tragical

facts which were not shrouded in the deepest mystery. If the interesting

sufferer could only have spoken, what thrilling adventures and

hair-breadth escapes he might have related. But, alas! he was dumb, and

the secrets of that memorable month never were revealed.

The lame paw soon healed, the dingy color slowly yielded to many

washings, the woolly coat began to knot up into little curls, a new

collar handsomely marked made him a respectable dog, and Sancho was

himself again. But it was evident that his sufferings were not

forgotten; his once sweet temper was a trifle soured, and, with a few

exceptions, he had lost his faith in mankind. Before, he had been the

most benevolent and hospitable of dogs; now, he eyed all strangers

suspiciously, and the sight of a shabby man made him growl and bristle

up, as if the memory of his wrongs still burned hotly within him.

Fortunately, his gratitude was stronger than his resentment, and he

never seemed to forget that he owed his life to Betty,--running to meet

her whenever she appeared, instantly obeying her commands, and suffering

no one to molest her when he walked watchfully beside her, with her hand

upon his neck, as they had walked out of the almost fatal back-yard

together, faithful friends forever.

Miss Celia called them little Una and her lion, and read the pretty

story to the children when they wondered what she meant. Ben, with great

pains, taught the dog to spell "Betty," and surprised her with a display

of this new accomplishment, which gratified her so much that she was

never tired of seeing Sanch paw the five red letters into place, then

come and lay his nose in her hand, as if he added: "That's the name of

my dear mistress."

Of course Bab was glad to have everything pleasant and friendly again,

but in a little dark corner of her heart there was a drop of envy, and a

desperate desire to do something which would make every one in her small

world like and praise her as they did Betty. Trying to be as good and

gentle did not satisfy her; she must _do_ something brave or surprising,

and no chance for distinguishing herself in that way seemed likely to

appear. Betty was as fond as ever, and the boys were very kind to her;

but she felt that they both liked "little Betcinda," as they called her,

best, because she found Sanch, and never seemed to know that she had

done anything brave in defending him against all odds. Bab did not tell

any one how she felt, but endeavored to be amiable while waiting for her

chance to come, and when it did arrive made the most of it, though there

was nothing heroic to add a charm.

Miss Celia's arm had been doing very well, but it would, of course, be

useless for some time longer. Finding that the afternoon readings amused

herself as much as they did the children, she kept them up, and brought

out all her old favorites, enjoying a double pleasure in seeing that her

young audience relished them as much as she did when a child; for to all

but Thorny they were brand new. Out of one of these stories came much

amusement for all, and satisfaction for one of the party.

"Celia, did you bring our old bows?" asked her brother, eagerly, as she

put down the book from which she had been reading Miss Edgeworth's

capital story of "Waste not Want not; or, Two Strings to your Bow."

"Yes, I brought all the playthings we left stored away in uncle's garret

when we went abroad. The bows are in the long box where you found the

mallets, fishing-rods and bats. The old quivers and a few arrows are

there also, I believe. What is the idea now?" asked Miss Celia in her

turn, as Thorny bounced up in a great hurry.

"I'm going to teach Ben to shoot. Grand fun this hot weather, and by and

by we'll have an archery meeting, and you can give us a prize. Come on,

Ben. I've got plenty of whip-cord to rig up the bows, and then we'll

show the ladies some first-class shooting."

"_I_ can't; never had a decent bow in my life. The little gilt one I

used to wave round when I was a Coopid wasn't worth a cent to go,"

answered Ben, feeling as if that painted "prodigy" must have been a very

distant connection of the respectable young person now walking off

arm-in-arm with the lord of the manor.

"Practice is all you want. I used to be a capital shot, but I don't

believe I could hit anything but a barn-door now," answered Thorny,

encouragingly.

As the boys vanished, with much tramping of boots and banging of doors,

Bab observed, in the young-ladyish tone she was apt to use when she

composed her active little mind and body to the feminine task of

needlework:

"We used to make bows of whalebone when we were little girls, but we are

too old to play so now."

"I'd like to, but Bab wont, 'cause she's most 'leven years old," said

honest Betty, placidly rubbing her needle in the "ruster," as she called

the family emery-bag.

"Grown people enjoy archery, as bow and arrow shooting is called,

especially in England. I was reading about it the other day, and saw a

picture of Queen Victoria with her bow, so you needn't be ashamed of it,

Bab," said Miss Celia, rummaging among the books and papers in her sofa

corner to find the magazine she wanted, thinking a new play would be as

good for the girls as for the big boys.

"A queen, just think!" and Betty looked much impressed by the fact, as

well as uplifted by the knowledge that her friend did not agree in

thinking her silly because she preferred playing with a harmless

home-made toy to firing stones or snapping a pop-gun.

"In old times, bows and arrows were used to fight great battles with,

and we read how the English archers shot so well that the air was dark

with arrows, and many men were killed."

"So did the Indians have 'em, and I've got some stone

arrow-heads,--found 'em by the river, in the dirt!" cried Bab, waking

up, for battles interested her more than queens.

"While you finish your stints I'll tell you a little story about the

Indians," said Miss Celia, lying back on her cushions, while the needles

began to go again, for the prospect of a story could not be resisted.

"A century or more ago, in a small settlement on the banks of the

Connecticut,--which means the Long River of Pines,--there lived a little

girl called Matty Kilburn. On a hill stood the fort where the people ran

for protection in any danger, for the country was new and wild, and more

than once the Indians had come down the river in their canoes and burned

the houses, killed men, and carried away women and children. Matty

lived alone with her father, but felt quite safe in the log-house, for

he was never far away. One afternoon, as the farmers were all busy in

their fields, the bell rang suddenly,--a sign that there was danger

near,--and, dropping their rakes or axes, the men hurried to their

houses to save wives and babies, and such few treasures as they could.

Mr. Kilburn caught up his gun with one hand and his little girl with the

other, and ran as fast as he could toward the fort. But before he could

reach it he heard a yell, and saw the red men coming up from the river.

Then he knew it would be in vain to try to get in, so he looked about

for a safe place to hide Matty till he could come for her. He was a

brave man, and could fight, so he had no thought of hiding while his

neighbors needed help; but the dear little daughter must be cared for

first.

In the corner of the lonely pasture which they dared not cross, stood a

big hollow elm, and there the farmer hastily hid Matty, dropping her

down into the dim nook, round the mouth of which young shoots had grown,

so that no one would have suspected any hole was there.

'Lie still, child, till I come; say your prayers and wait for father,'

said the man, as he parted the leaves for a last glance at the small,

frightened face looking up at him.

'Come soon,' whispered Matty, and tried to smile bravely, as a stout

settler's girl should.

"Mr. Kilburn went away, and was taken prisoner in the fight, carried off,

and for years no one knew if he was alive or dead. People missed Matty,

but supposed she was with her father, and never expected to see her

again. A great while afterward the poor man came back, having escaped

and made his way through the wilderness to his old home. His first

question was for Matty, but no one had seen her; and when he told where

he had left her, they shook their heads as if they thought he was crazy.

But they went to look, that he might be satisfied; and he was; for there

they found some little bones, some faded bits of cloth, and two rusty

silver buckles marked with Matty's name in what had once been her shoes.

An Indian arrow lay there, too, showing why she had never cried for

help, but waited patiently so long for father to come and find her."

If Miss Celia expected to see the last bit of hem done when her story

ended, she was disappointed; for not a dozen stitches had been taken.

Betty was using her crash-towel for a handkerchief, and Bab's lay on the

ground as she listened with snapping eyes to the little tragedy.

"Is it true?" asked Betty, hoping to find relief in being told that it

was not.

"Yes; I have seen the tree, and the mound where the fort was, and the

rusty buckles in an old farm-house where other Kilburns live, near the

spot where it all happened," answered Miss Celia, looking out the

picture of Victoria to console her auditors.

"We'll play that in the old apple-tree. Betty can scrooch down, and I'll

be the father, and put leaves on her, and then I'll be a great Injun and

fire at her. I can make arrows, and it will be fun, wont it?" cried Bab,

charmed with the new drama in which she could act the leading parts.

"No, it wont! I don't like to go in a cobwebby hole, and have you play

kill me. I'll make a nice fort of hay, and be all safe, and you can put

Dinah down there for Matty. I don't love her any more, now her last eye

has tumbled out, and you may shoot her just as much as you like."

Before Bab could agree to this satisfactory arrangement, Thorny

appeared, singing, as he aimed at a fat robin, whose red waistcoat

looked rather warm and winterish that August day:

"So he took up his bow,

And he feathered his arrow,

And said: 'I will shoot

This little cock-sparrow.'"

"But he didn't," chirped the robin, flying away, with a contemptuous

flirt of his rusty-black tail.

"That is exactly what you must promise _not_ to do, boys. Fire away at

your targets as much as you like, but do not harm any living creature,"

said Miss Celia, as Ben followed armed and equipped with her own

long-unused accouterments.

"Of course we wont if you say so; but, with a little practice, I _could_

bring down a bird as well as that fellow you read to me about with his

woodpeckers and larks and herons," answered Thorny, who had much enjoyed

the article, while his sister lamented over the destruction of the

innocent birds.

"You'd do well to borrow the Squire's old stuffed owl for a target;

there would be some chance of your hitting him, he is so big," said his

sister, who always made fun of the boy when he began to brag.

Thorny's only reply was to send his arrow straight up so far out of

sight that it was a long while coming down again to stick quivering in

the ground near by, whence Sancho brought it in his mouth, evidently

highly approving of a game in which he could join.

"Not bad for a beginning. Now, Ben, fire away."

But Ben's experience with bows was small, and, in spite of his

praiseworthy efforts to imitate his great exemplar, the arrow only

turned a feeble sort of somersault, and descended perilously near Bab's

uplifted nose.

"If you endanger other people's life and liberty in your pursuit of

happiness, I shall have to confiscate your arms, boys. Take the orchard

for your archery ground; that is safe, and we can see you as we sit

here. I wish I had two hands, so that I could paint you a fine, gay

target," and Miss Celia looked regretfully at the injured arm, which as

yet was of little use.

"I wish you could shoot, too; you used to beat all the girls, and I was

proud of you," answered Thorny, with the air of a fond elder brother;

though, at the time he alluded to, he was about twelve, and hardly up to

his sister's shoulder.

"Thank you. I shall be happy to give my place to Bab and Betty if you

will make them some bows and arrows; they could not use those long

ones."

The young gentlemen did not take the hint as quickly as Miss Celia hoped

they would; in fact, both looked rather blank at the suggestion, as boys

generally do when it is proposed that girls--especially small

ones--shall join in any game they are playing.

"P'r'aps it would be too much trouble," began Betty, in her winning

little voice.

"I can make my own," declared Bab, with an independent toss of the head.

"Not a bit; I'll make you the jolliest small bow that ever was,

Betcinda," Thorny hastened to say, softened by the appealing glance of

the little maid.

"You can use mine, Bab; you've got such a strong fist, I guess you could

pull it," added Ben, remembering that it would not be amiss to have a

comrade who shot worse than he did, for he felt very inferior to Thorny

in many ways, and, being used to praise, had missed it very much since

he retired to private life.

"I will be umpire, and brighten up the silver arrow I sometimes pin my

hair with, for a prize, unless we can find something better," proposed

Miss Celia, glad to see that question settled, and every prospect of the

new play being a pleasant amusement for the hot weather.

It was astonishing how soon archery became the fashion in that town, for

the boys discussed it enthusiastically all that evening, formed the

"William Tell Club" next day, with Bab and Betty as honorary members,

and, before the week was out, nearly every lad was seen, like young

Norval, "With bended bow and quiver full of arrows," shooting away, with

a charming disregard of the safety of their fellow-citizens. Banished by

the authorities to secluded spots, the members of the club set up their

targets and practiced indefatigably, especially Ben, who soon discovered

that his early gymnastics had given him a sinewy arm and a true eye;

and, taking Sanch into partnership as picker-up, he got more shots out

of an hour than those who had to run to and fro.

[Illustration: MATTY KILBURN AND HER FATHER AT THE TREE.]

Thorny easily recovered much of his former skill, but his strength had

not fully returned, and he soon grew tired. Bab, on the contrary, threw

herself into the contest heart and soul, and tugged away at the new bow

Miss Celia gave her, for Ben's was too heavy. No other girls were

admitted, so the outsiders got up a club of their own, and called it

"The Victoria," the name being suggested by the magazine article, which

went the rounds as general guide and reference-book. Bab and Betty

belonged to this club also, and duly reported the doings of the boys,

with whom they had a right to shoot if they chose, but soon waived the

right, plainly seeing that their absence would be regarded in the light

of a favor.

The archery fever raged as fiercely as the baseball epidemic had done

before it, and not only did the magazine circulate freely, but Miss

Edgeworth's story, which was eagerly read, and so much admired that the

girls at once mounted green ribbons, and the boys kept yards of

whip-cord in their pockets, like the provident Benjamin of the tale.

Every one enjoyed the new play very much, and something grew out of it

which was a lasting pleasure to many, long after the bows and arrows

were forgotten. Seeing how glad the children were to get a new story,

Miss Celia was moved to send a box of books--old and new--to the town

library, which was but scantily supplied, as country libraries are apt

to be. This donation produced a good effect; for other people hunted up

all the volumes they could spare for the same purpose, and the dusty

shelves in the little room behind the post-office filled up amazingly.

Coming in vacation time they were hailed with delight, and ancient books

of travel, as well as modern tales, were feasted upon by happy young

folks, with plenty of time to enjoy them in peace.

The success of her first attempt at being a public benefactor pleased

Miss Celia very much, and suggested other ways in which she might serve

the quiet town, where she seemed to feel that work was waiting for her

to do. She said little to any one but the friend over the sea, yet

various plans were made then that blossomed beautifully by and by.

CHAPTER XIX.

SPEAKING PIECES.

The first of September came all too soon, and school began. Among the

boys and girls who went trooping up to the "East Corner knowledge-box,"

as they called it, was our friend Ben, with a pile of neat books under

his arm. He felt very strange, and decidedly shy; but put on a bold

face, and let nobody guess that, though nearly thirteen, he had never

been to school before. Miss Celia had told his story to Teacher, and

she, being a kind little woman, with young brothers of her own, made

things as easy for him as she could. In reading and writing he did very

well, and proudly took his place among lads of his own age; but when it

came to arithmetic and geography, he had to go down a long way, and

begin almost at the beginning, in spite of Thorny's efforts to "tool him

along fast." It mortified him sadly, but there was no help for it; and

in some of the classes he had dear little Betty to condole with him when

he failed, and smile contentedly when he got above her, as he soon began

to do,--for she was not a quick child, and plodded through First Parts

long after sister Bab was flourishing away among girls much older than

herself.

Fortunately, Ben was a short boy and a clever one, so he did not look

out of place among the ten and eleven year olders, and fell upon his

lessons with the same resolution with which he used to take a new leap,

or practice patiently till he could touch his heels with his head. That

sort of exercise had given him a strong, elastic little body; this kind

was to train his mind, and make its faculties as useful, quick and sure,

as the obedient muscles, nerves and eye, which kept him safe where

others would have broken their necks. He knew this, and found much

consolation in the fact that, though mental arithmetic was a hopeless

task, he _could_ turn a dozen somersaults, and come up as steady as a

judge. When the boys laughed at him for saying that China was in Africa,

he routed them entirely by his superior knowledge of the animals

belonging to that wild country; and when "First class in reading" was

called, he marched up with the proud consciousness that the shortest boy

in it did better than tall Moses Towne or fat Sam Kitteridge.

Teacher praised him all she honestly could, and corrected his many

blunders so quietly that he soon ceased to be a deep, distressful red

during recitation, and tugged away so manfully that no one could help

respecting him for his efforts, and trying to make light of his

failures. So the first hard week went by, and though the boy's heart had

sunk many a time at the prospect of a protracted wrestle with his own

ignorance, he made up his mind to win, and went at it again on the

Monday with fresh zeal, all the better and braver for a good, cheery

talk with Miss Celia in the Sunday evening twilight.

He did not tell her one of his greatest trials, however, because he

thought she could not help him there. Some of the children rather looked

down upon him, called him "tramp" and "beggar," twitted him with having

been a circus boy, and lived in a tent like a gypsy. They did not mean

to be cruel, but did it for the sake of teasing, never stopping to think

how much such sport can make a fellow-creature suffer. Being a plucky

fellow, Ben pretended not to mind; but he did feel it keenly, because

he wanted to start afresh, and be like other boys. He was not ashamed of

the old life, but finding those around him disapproved of it, he was

glad to let it be forgotten,--even by himself,--for his latest

recollections were not happy ones, and present comforts made past

hardships seem harder than before.

He said nothing of this to Miss Celia, but she found it out, and liked

him all the better for keeping some of his small worries to himself. Bab

and Betty came over on Monday afternoon full of indignation at some

boyish insult Sam had put upon Ben, and finding them too full of it to

enjoy the reading, Miss Celia asked what the matter was. Then both

little girls burst out in a rapid succession of broken exclamations

which did not give a very clear idea of the difficulty:

"Sam didn't like it because Ben jumped farther than he did----"

"And he said Ben ought to be in the poor-house."

"And Ben said _he_ ought to be in a pig-pen."

"So he had!--such a greedy thing, bringing lovely big apples and not

giving any one a single bite!"

"Then he was mad, and we all laughed, and he said, 'Want to fight?'"

"And Ben said, 'No, thanky, not much fun in pounding a feather-bed.'"

"Oh, he was _awfully_ mad then and chased Ben up the big maple."

"He's there now, for Sam wont let him come down till he takes it all

back."

"Ben wont, and I do believe he'll have to stay up all night," said

Betty, distressfully.

"He wont care, and we'll have fun firing up his supper. Nut-cakes and

cheese will go splendidly; and may be baked pears wouldn't get smashed,

he's such a good catch," added Bab, decidedly relishing the prospect.

"If he does not come by tea-time we will go and look after him. It seems

to me I have heard something about Sam's troubling him before, haven't

I?" asked Miss Celia, ready to defend her protege against all unfair

persecution.

"Yes'm, Sam and Mose are always plaguing Ben. They are big boys and we

can't make them stop. I wont let the girls do it, and the little boys

don't dare to, since Teacher spoke to them," answered Bab.

"Why does not Teacher speak to the big ones?"

"Ben wont tell of them or let us. He says he'll fight his own battles

and hates tell-tales. I guess his wont like to have us tell you, but I

don't care, for it _is_ too bad," and Betty looked ready to cry over her

friend's tribulations.

"I'm glad you did, for I will attend to it and stop this sort of

thing," said Miss Celia, after the children had told some of the

tormenting speeches which had tried poor Ben.

Just then, Thorny appeared, looking much amused, and the little girls

both called out in a breath: "Did you see Ben and get him down?"

"He got himself down in the neatest way you can imagine," and Thorny

laughed at the recollection.

"Where is Sam?" asked Bab.

"Staring up at the sky to see where Ben has flown to."

"Oh, tell about it!" begged Betty.

"Well, I came along and found Ben treed, and Sam stoning him. I stopped

that at once and told the 'fat boy' to be off. He said he wouldn't till

Ben begged his pardon, and Ben said he wouldn't do it if he stayed up

for a week. I was just preparing to give that rascal a scientific

thrashing when a load of hay came along and Ben dropped on to it so

quietly that Sam, who was trying to bully me, never saw him go. It

tickled me so, I told Sam I guessed I'd let him off that time, and

walked away, leaving him to hunt for Ben and wonder where the dickens he

had vanished to."

The idea of Sam's bewilderment tickled the others as much as Thorny, and

they all had a good laugh over it before Miss Celia asked:

"Where has Ben gone now?"

"Oh, he'll take a little ride and then slip down and race home full of

the fun of it. But I've got to settle Sam. I wont have our Ben hectored

by any one----"

"But yourself," put in his sister, with a sly smile, for Thorny _was_

rather domineering at times.

"He doesn't mind my poking him up now and then, it's good for him, and I

always take his part against other people. Sam is a bully and so is

Mose, and I'll thrash them both if they don't stop."

Anxious to curb her brother's pugnacious propensities, Miss Celia

proposed milder measures, promising to speak to the boys herself if

there was any more trouble.

"I have been thinking that we should have some sort of merry-making for

Ben on his birthday. My plan was a very simple one, but I will enlarge

it and have all the young folks come, and Ben shall be king of the fun.

He needs encouragement in well-doing, for he does try, and now the first

hard part is nearly over I am sure he will get on bravely. If we treat

him with respect and show our regard for him, others will follow our

example, and that will be better than fighting about it."

"So it will! What shall we do to make our party tip-top?" asked Thorny,

falling into the trap at once, for he dearly loved to get up

theatricals, and had not had any for a long time.

"We will plan something splendid, a 'grand combination,' as you used to

call your droll mixtures of tragedy, comedy, melodrama and farce,"

answered his sister, with her head already full of lively plots.

"We'll startle the natives. I don't believe they ever saw a play in all

their lives, hey Bab?"

"I've seen a circus."

"We dress up and do 'Babes in the Wood,'" added Betty, with dignity.

"Pho! that's nothing. I'll show you acting that will make your hair

stand on end, and you shall act too. Bab will be capital for the naughty

girls," began Thorny, excited by the prospect of producing a sensation

on the boards, and always ready to tease the girls.

Before Betty could protest that she did not want her hair to stand up,

or Bab could indignantly decline the role offered her, a shrill whistle

was heard, and Miss Celia whispered, with a warning look:

"Hush! Ben is coming, and he must not know anything about this yet."

The next day was Wednesday, and in the afternoon Miss Celia went to hear

the children "speak pieces," though it was very seldom that any of the

busy matrons and elder sisters found time or inclination for these

displays of youthful oratory. Miss Celia and Mrs. Moss were all the

audience on this occasion, but Teacher was both pleased and proud to see

them, and a general rustle went through the school as they came in, all

the girls turning from the visitors to nod at Bab and Betty, who smiled

all over their round faces to see "Ma" sitting up "side of Teacher," and

the boys grinned at Ben, whose heart began to beat fast at the thought

of his dear mistress coming so far to hear him say his piece.

Thorny had recommended Marco Bozzaris, but Ben preferred John Gilpin,

and ran the famous race with much spirit, making excellent time in some

parts and having to be spurred a little in others, but came out all

right, though quite breathless at the end, sitting down amid great

applause, some of which, curiously enough, seemed to come from outside;

which in fact it did, for Thorny was bound to hear but would not come

in, lest his presence should abash one orator at least.

Other pieces followed, all more or less patriotic and warlike, among the

boys; sentimental among the girls. Sam broke down in his attempt to give

one of Webster's great speeches. Little Cy Fay boldly attacked

"Again to the battle, Achaians!"

and shrieked his way through it in a shrill, small voice, bound to do

honor to the older brother who had trained him, even if he broke a

vessel in the attempt. Billy chose a well-worn piece, but gave it a new

interest by his style of delivery; for his gestures were so spasmodic he

looked as if going into a fit, and he did such astonishing things with

his voice that one never knew whether a howl or a growl would come next.

When

"The woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed;"

Billy's arms went round like the sails of a windmill; the "hymns of

lofty cheer" not only "shook the depths of the desert gloom," but the

small children on their little benches, and the schoolhouse literally

rang "to the anthems of the free!" When "the ocean eagle soared," Billy

appeared to be going bodily up, and the "pines of the forest roared" as

if they had taken lessons of Van Amburgh's biggest lion. "Woman's

fearless eye" was expressed by a wild glare; "manhood's brow, severely

high," by a sudden clutch at the reddish locks falling over the orator's

hot forehead, and a sounding thump on his blue checked bosom told where

"the fiery heart of youth" was located. "What sought they thus afar?" he

asked, in such a natural and inquiring tone, with his eye fixed on Mamie

Peters, that the startled innocent replied, "Dunno," which caused the

speaker to close in haste, devoutly pointing a stubby finger upward at

the last line.

This was considered the gem of the collection, and Billy took his seat

proudly conscious that his native town boasted an orator who, in time,

would utterly eclipse Edward Everett and Wendell Phillips.

Sally Folsom led off with "The Coral Grove," chosen for the express

purpose of making her friend Almira Mullet start and blush, when she

recited the second line of that pleasing poem,

"Where the purple _mullet_ and gold-fish rove."

One of the older girls gave Wordsworth's "Lost Love" in a pensive tone,

clasping her hands and bringing out the "O" as if a sudden twinge of

toothache seized her when she ended.

"But she is in her grave, and O,

The difference to me!"

Bab always chose a funny piece, and on this afternoon set them all

laughing by the spirit with which she spoke the droll poem, "Pussy's

Class," which some of my young readers may have read. The "meou" and the

"sptzzs" were capital, and when the "fond mamma rubbed her nose," the

children shouted, for Miss Bab made a paw of her hand and ended with an

impromptu purr, which was considered the best imitation ever presented

to an appreciative public. Betty bashfully murmured "Little White

Lilly," swaying to and fro as regularly as if in no other way could the

rhymes be ground out of her memory.

[Illustration: "THE OCEAN EAGLE SOARED."]

"That is all, I believe. If either of the ladies would like to say a few

words to the children, I should be pleased to have them," said Teacher,

politely, pausing before she dismissed school with a song.

"Please'm, I'd like to speak my piece," answered Miss Celia, obeying a

sudden impulse; and, stepping forward with her hat in her hand, she made

a pretty courtesy before she recited Mary Howitt's sweet little ballad,

"Mabel on Midsummer Day."

She looked so young and merry, used such simple but expressive gestures,

and spoke in such a clear, soft voice that the children sat as if

spellbound, learning several lessons from this new teacher, whose

performance charmed them from beginning to end, and left a moral which

all could understand and carry away in that last verse:

"'Tis good to make all duty sweet,

To be alert and kind;

'Tis good, like Little Mabel,

To have a willing mind."

Of course there was an enthusiastic clapping when Miss Celia sat down,

but even while hands applauded, consciences pricked, and undone tasks,

complaining words and sour faces seemed to rise up reproachfully before

many of the children, as well as their own faults of elocution.

"Now we will sing," said Teacher, and a great clearing of throats

ensued, but before a note could be uttered, the half-open door swung

wide, and Sancho, with Ben's hat on, walked in upon his hind legs, and

stood with his paws meekly folded, while a voice from the entry sang

rapidly:

"Benny had a little dog,

His fleece was white as snow,

And everywhere that Benny went

The dog was sure to go.

He went into the school one day,

Which was against the rule;

It made the children laugh and play

To see a dog----"

Mischievous Thorny got no further, for a general explosion of laughter

drowned the last words, and Ben's command "Out, you rascal!" sent Sanch

to the right-about in double-quick time.

Miss Celia tried to apologize for her bad brother, and Teacher tried to

assure her that it didn't matter in the least as this was always a merry

time, and Mrs. Moss vainly shook her finger at her naughty daughters;

they as well as the others would have their laugh out, and only

partially sobered down when the bell rang for "Attention." They thought

they were to be dismissed, and repressed their giggles as well as they

could in order to get a good start for a vociferous roar when they got

out. But, to their great surprise, the pretty lady stood up again and

said, in her friendly way:

"I just want to thank you for this pleasant little exhibition, and ask

leave to come again, I also wish to invite you all to my boy's birthday

party on Saturday week. The archery meeting is to be in the afternoon,

and both clubs will be there, I believe. In the evening we are going to

have some fun, when we can laugh as much as we please without breaking

any of the rules. In Ben's name I invite you, and hope you will all

come, for we mean to make this the happiest birthday he ever had."

There were twenty pupils in the room, but the eighty hands and feet made

such a racket at this announcement that an outsider would have thought a

hundred children, at least, must have been at it. Miss Celia was a

general favorite because she nodded to all the girls, called the boys by

their last names, even addressing some of the largest as "Mr.," which

won their hearts at once, so that if she had invited them all to come

and be whipped they would have gone, sure that it was some delightful

joke. With what eagerness they accepted the present invitation one can

easily imagine, though they never guessed why she gave it in that way,

and Ben's face was a sight to see, he was so pleased and proud at the

honor done him that he did not know where to look, and was glad to rush

out with the other boys and vent his emotions in whoops of delight. He

knew that some little plot was being concocted for his birthday, but

never dreamed of anything so grand as asking the whole school, Teacher

and all. The effect of the invitation was seen with comical rapidity,

for the boys became overpowering in their friendly attentions to Ben.

Even Sam, fearing he might be left out, promptly offered the peaceful

olive-branch in the shape of a big apple, warm from his pocket, and Mose

proposed a trade in jack-knives which would be greatly to Ben's

advantage. But Thorny made the noblest sacrifice of all, for he said to

his sister, as they walked home together:

"I'm not going to try for the prize at all. I shoot so much better than

the rest, having had more practice, you know, that it is hardly fair.

Ben and Billy are next best, and about even, for Ben's strong wrist

makes up for Billy's true eye, and both want to win. If I am out of the

way Ben stands a good chance, for the other fellows don't amount to

much."

"Bab does; she shoots nearly as well as Ben, and wants to win even more

than he or Billy. She must have her chance at any rate."

"So she may, but she wont do anything; girls can't, though it's good

exercise and pleases them to try."

"If I had full use of both my arms I'd show you that girls _can_ do a

great deal when they like. Don't be too lofty, young man, for you may

have to come down," laughed Miss Celia, amused by his airs.

"No fear," and Thorny calmly departed to set his targets for Ben's

practice.

"We shall see," and from that moment Miss Celia made Bab her especial

pupil, feeling that a little lesson would be good for Mr. Thorny, who

rather lorded it over the other young people. There was a spice of

mischief in it, for Miss Celia was very young at heart, in spite of her

twenty-four years, and she was bound to see that her side had a fair

chance, believing that girls can do whatever they are willing to strive

patiently and wisely for.

So she kept Bab at work early and late, giving her all the hints and

help she could with only one efficient hand, and Bab was delighted to

think she did well enough to shoot with the club. Her arms ached and her

fingers grew hard with twanging the bow, but she was indefatigable, and

being a strong, tall child of her age, with a great love of all athletic

sports, she got on fast and well, soon learning to send arrow after

arrow with ever increasing accuracy nearer and nearer to the bull's-eye.

The boys took very little notice of her, being much absorbed in their

own affairs, but Betty did for Bab what Sancho did for Ben, and trotted

after arrows till her short legs were sadly tired, though her patience

never gave out. She was so sure Bab would win that she cared nothing

about her own success, practicing little and seldom hitting anything

when she tried.

CHAPTER XX.

BEN'S BIRTHDAY.

A superb display of flags flapped gayly in the breeze on the September

morning when Ben proudly entered his teens. An irruption of bunting

seemed to have broken out all over the old house, for banners of every

shape and size, color and design flew from chimney-top and gable, porch

and gate-way, making the quiet place look as lively as a circus tent,

which was just what Ben most desired and delighted in.

The boys had been up very early to prepare the show, and when it was

ready enjoyed it hugely, for the fresh wind made the pennons cut strange

capers. The winged lion of Venice looked as if trying to fly away home;

the Chinese dragon appeared to brandish his forked tail as he clawed at

the Burmese peacock; the double-headed eagle of Russia pecked at the

Turkey crescent with one beak, while the other seemed to be screaming to

the English royal beast, "Come on and lend a paw." In the hurry of

hoisting, the Siamese elephant got turned upside down, and now danced

gayly on his head, with the stars and stripes waving proudly over him. A

green flag with a yellow harp and sprig of shamrock hung in sight of the

kitchen window, and Katy, the cook, got breakfast to the tune of "St.

Patrick's day in the morning." Sancho's kennel was half hidden under a

rustling paper imitation of the gorgeous Spanish banner, and the scarlet

sun-and-moon flag of Arabia snapped and flaunted from the pole over the

coach-house, as a delicate compliment to Lita, Arabian horses being

considered the finest in the world.

The little girls came out to see, and declared it was the loveliest

sight they ever beheld, while Thorny played "Hail Columbia" on his fife,

and Ben, mounting the gate-post, crowed long and loud like a happy

cockerel who had just reached his majority. He had been surprised and

delighted with the gifts he found in his room on awaking, and guessed

why Miss Celia and Thorny gave him such pretty things, for among them

was a match-box made like a mouse-trap. The doggy buttons and the horsey

whip were treasures indeed, for Miss Celia had not given them when they

first planned to do so, because Sancho's return seemed to be joy and

reward enough for that occasion. But he did not forget to thank Mrs.

Moss for the cake she sent him, nor the girls for the red mittens which

they had secretly and painfully knit. Bab's was long and thin, with a

very pointed thumb, Betty's short and wide, with a stubby thumb, and all

their mother's pulling and pressing could not make them look alike, to

the great affliction of the little knitters. Ben, however, assured them

that he rather preferred odd ones, as then he could always tell which

was right and which left. He put them on immediately and went about

cracking the new whip with an expression of content which was droll to

see, while the children followed after, full of admiration for the hero

of the day.

They were very busy all the morning preparing for the festivities to

come, and as soon as dinner was over every one scrambled into his or her

best clothes as fast as possible, because, although invited to come at

two, impatient boys and girls were seen hovering about the avenue as

early as one.

The first to arrive, however, was an uninvited guest, for just as Bab

and Betty sat down on the porch steps, in their stiff pink calico frocks

and white ruffled aprons, to repose a moment before the party came in,

a rustling was heard among the lilacs and out stepped Alfred Tennyson

Barlow, looking like a small Robin Hood, in a green blouse with a silver

buckle on his broad belt, a feather in his little cap and a bow in his

hand.

"I have come to shoot. I heard about it. My papa told me what arching

meant. Will there be any little cakes? I like them."

With these opening remarks the poet took a seat and calmly awaited a

response. The young ladies, I regret to say, giggled, then remembering

their manners, hastened to inform him that there _would_ be heaps of

cakes, also that Miss Celia would not mind his coming without an

invitation, they were quite sure.

"She asked me to come that day. I have been very busy. I had measles. Do

you have them here?" asked the guest, as if anxious to compare notes on

the sad subject.

"We had ours ever so long ago. What have you been doing besides having

measles?" said Betty, showing a polite interest.

"I had a fight with a bumble-bee."

"Who beat?" demanded Bab.

"I did. I ran away and he couldn't catch me."

"Can you shoot nicely?"

"I hit a cow. She did not mind at all. I guess she thought it was a

fly."

"Did your mother know you were coming?" asked Bab, feeling an interest

in runaways.

"No; she is gone to drive, so I could not ask her."

"It is very wrong to disobey. My Sunday-school book says that children

who are naughty that way never go to heaven," observed virtuous Betty,

in a warning tone.

"I do not wish to go," was the startling reply.

"Why not?" asked Betty, severely.

"They don't have any dirt there. My mamma says so. I am fond of dirt. I

shall stay here where there is plenty of it," and the candid youth began

to grub in the mold with the satisfaction of a genuine boy.

"I am afraid you're a very bad child."

"Oh yes, I am. My papa often says so and he knows all about it," replied

Alfred with an involuntary wriggle suggestive of painful memories. Then,

as if anxious to change the conversation from its somewhat personal

channel, he asked, pointing to a row of grinning heads above the wall,

"Do you shoot at those?"

Bab and Betty looked up quickly and recognized the familiar faces of

their friends peering down at them, like a choice collection of trophies

or targets.

"I should think you'd be ashamed to peek before the party was ready!"

cried Bab, frowning darkly upon the merry young ladies.

"Miss Celia told _us_ to come before two, and be ready to receive folks,

if she wasn't down," added Betty, importantly.

"It is striking two now. Come along, girls," and over scrambled Sally

Folsom, followed by three or four kindred spirits, just as their hostess

appeared.

"You look like Amazons storming a fort," she said, as the girls came up,

each carrying her bow and arrows, while green ribbons flew in every

direction. "How do you do, sir? I have been hoping you would call

again," added Miss Celia, shaking hands with the pretty boy, who

regarded with benign interest the giver of little cakes.

Here a rush of boys took place, and further remarks were cut short, for

every one was in a hurry to begin. So the procession was formed at once,

Miss Celia taking the lead, escorted by Ben in the post of honor, while

the boys and girls paired off behind, arm in arm, bow on shoulder, in

martial array. Thorny and Billy were the band, and marched before,

fifing and drumming "Yankee Doodle" with a vigor which kept feet moving

briskly, made eyes sparkle, and young hearts dance under the gay gowns

and summer jackets. The interesting stranger was elected to bear the

prize, laid out on a red pin-cushion, and did so with great dignity, as

he went beside the standard-bearer, Cy Fay, who bore Ben's choicest

flag, snow white, with a green wreath surrounding a painted bow and

arrow, and with the letters W. T. C. done in red below.

Such a merry march all about the place, out at the Lodge gate, up and

down the avenue, along the winding-paths till they halted in the orchard

where the target stood and seats were placed for the archers, while they

waited for their turns. Various rules and regulations were discussed,

and then the fun began. Miss Celia had insisted that the girls should be

invited to shoot with the boys, and the lads consented without much

concern, whispering to one another with condescending shrugs--"Let 'em

try, if they like, they can't do anything."

There were various trials of skill before the great match came off, and

in these trials the young gentlemen discovered that two at least of the

girls _could_ do something, for Bab and Sally shot better than many of

the boys, and were well rewarded for their exertions by the change which

took place in the faces and conversation of their mates.

"Why, Bab, you do as well as if I'd taught you myself," said Thorny,

much surprised and not altogether pleased at the little girl's skill.

"A lady taught me, and I mean to beat every one of you," answered Bab,

saucily, while her sparkling eyes turned to Miss Celia with a

mischievous twinkle in them.

"Not a bit of it," declared Thorny, stoutly; but he went to Ben and

whispered, "Do your best, old fellow, for sister has taught Bab all the

scientific points, and the little rascal is ahead of Billy."

"She wont get ahead of _me_," said Ben, picking out his best arrow, and

trying the string of his bow with a confident air which re-assured

Thorny, who found it impossible to believe that a girl ever could,

would, or should excel a boy in anything he cared to try.

It really did look as if Bab would beat when the match for the prize

came off, and the children got more and more excited as the six who were

to try for it took turns at the bull's-eye. Thorny was umpire and kept

account of each shot, for the arrow which went nearest the middle would

win. Each had three shots, and very soon the lookers on saw that Ben and

Bab were the best marksmen, and one of them would surely get the silver

arrow.

Sam, who was too lazy to practice, soon gave up the contest, saying, as

Thorny did, "It wouldn't be fair for such a big fellow to try with the

little chaps," which made a laugh, as his want of skill was painfully

evident. But Mose went at it gallantly, and if his eye had been as true

as his arms were strong, the "little chaps" would have trembled. But his

shots were none of them as near as Billy's, and he retired after the

third failure, declaring that it was impossible to shoot against the

wind, though scarcely a breath was stirring.

Sally Folsom was bound to beat Bab, and twanged away in great style; all

in vain, however, as with tall Maria Newcome, the third girl who

attempted the trial. Being a little near-sighted, she had borrowed her

sister's eye-glasses, and thereby lessened her chance of success; for

the pinch on her nose distracted her attention, and not one of her

arrows went beyond the second ring, to her great disappointment. Billy

did very well, but got nervous when his last shot came, and just missed

the bull's-eye by being in a hurry.

Bab and Ben each had one turn more, and as they were about even, that

last arrow would decide the victory. Both had sent a shot into the

bull's-eye, but neither was exactly in the middle; so there was room to

do better, even, and the children crowded round, crying eagerly, "Now,

Ben!" "Now, Bab!" "Hit her up, Ben!" "Beat him, Bab!" while Thorny

looked as anxious as if the fate of the country depended on the success

of his man. Bab's turn came first, and as Miss Celia examined her bow to

see that all was right, the little girl said, with her eyes on her

rival's excited face:

"I want to beat, but Ben will feel _so_ bad, I 'most hope I sha'n't."

"Losing a prize sometimes makes one happier than gaining it. You have

proved that you could do better than most of them, so, if you do not

beat, you may still feel proud," answered Miss Celia, giving back the

bow with a smile that said more than her words.

It seemed to give Bab a new idea, for in a minute all sorts of

recollections, wishes and plans, rushed through her lively little mind,

and she followed a sudden generous impulse as blindly as she often did a

willful one.

"I guess he'll beat," she said, softly, with a quick sparkle of the

eyes, as she stepped to her place and fired without taking her usual

careful aim.

[Illustration: PRACTICING FOR THE MATCH.]

Her shot struck almost as near the center on the right as her last one

had hit on the left, and there was a shout of delight from the girls as

Thorny announced it before he hurried back to Ben, whispering anxiously:

"Steady, old man, steady; you _must_ beat that, or we shall never hear

the last of it."

Ben did not say, "She wont get ahead of me," as he had said at the

first; he set his teeth, threw off his hat, and knitting his brows with

a resolute expression, prepared to take steady aim, though his heart

beat fast, and his thumb trembled as he pressed it on the bow-string.

"I hope you'll beat, I truly do," said Bab, at his elbow; and as if the

breath that framed the generous wish helped it on its way, the arrow

flew straight to the bull's-eye, hitting, apparently, the very spot

where Bab's best shot had left a hole.

"A tie! a tie!" cried the girls, as a general rush took place toward the

target.

"No; Ben's is nearest. Ben's beat! Hooray!" shouted the boys, throwing

up their hats.

There was only a hair's-breadth difference, and Bab could honestly have

disputed the decision; but she did not, though for an instant she could

not help wishing that the cry had been, "Bab's beat! Hurrah!" it sounded

so pleasant. Then she saw Ben's beaming face, Thorny's intense relief,

and caught the look Miss Celia sent her over the heads of the boys, and

decided, with a sudden warm glow all over her little face, that losing a

prize _did_ sometimes make one happier than winning it. Up went her best

hat, and she burst out in a shrill, "Rah, rah, rah!" that sounded very

funny coming all alone after the general clamor had subsided.

"Good for you, Bab! you are an honor to the club, and I'm proud of you,"

said Prince Thorny, with a hearty hand-shake; for, as his man had won,

he could afford to praise the rival who had put him on his mettle though

she _was_ a girl.

Bab was much uplifted by the royal commendation, but a few minutes later

felt pleased as well as proud when Ben, having received the prize, came

to her, as she stood behind a tree sucking her blistered thumb, while

Betty braided up her disheveled locks.

"I think it would be fairer to call it a tie, Bab, for it nearly was,

and I want you to wear this. I wanted the fun of beating, but I don't

care a bit for this girl's thing, and I'd rather see it on you."

As he spoke, Ben offered the rosette of green ribbon which held the

silver arrow, and Bab's eyes brightened as they fell upon the pretty

ornament, for to her "the girl's thing" was almost as good as the

victory.

"Oh no; you must wear it to show who won. Miss Celia wouldn't like it. I

don't mind not getting it; I did better than all the rest, and I guess I

shouldn't like to beat _you_," answered Bab, unconsciously putting into

childish words the sweet generosity which makes so many sisters glad to

see their brothers carry off the prizes of life, while they are content

to know that they have earned them and can do without the praise.

But if Bab was generous, Ben was just; and though he could not explain

the feeling, would not consent to take all the glory without giving his

little friend a share.

"You _must_ wear it; I shall feel real mean if you don't. You worked

harder than I did, and it was only luck my getting this. Do, Bab, to

please me," he persisted, awkwardly trying to fasten the ornament in the

middle of Bab's white apron.

"Then I will. Now do you forgive me for losing Sancho?" asked Bab, with

a wistful look which made Ben say, heartily:

"I did that when he came home."

"And you don't think I'm horrid?"

"Not a bit of it; you are first-rate, and I'll stand by you like a man,

for you are 'most as good as a boy!" cried Ben, anxious to deal

handsomely with his feminine rival, whose skill had raised her immensely

in his opinion.

Feeling that he could not improve that last compliment, Bab was fully

satisfied, and let him leave the prize upon her breast, conscious that

she had some claim to it.

"That is where it should be, and Ben is a true knight, winning the prize

that he may give it to his lady, while he is content with the victory,"

said Miss Celia, laughingly, to Teacher, as the children ran off to join

in the riotous games which soon made the orchard ring.

"He learned that at the circus 'tunnyments,' as he calls them. He is a

nice boy, and I am much interested in him; for he has the two things

that do most toward making a man, patience and courage," answered

Teacher, smiling also as she watched the young knight play leap-frog,

and the honored lady tearing about in a game of tag.

"Bab is a nice child, too," said Miss Celia; "she is as quick as a flash

to catch an idea and carry it out, though very often the ideas are wild

ones. She could have won just now, I fancy, if she had tried, but took

the notion into her head that it was nobler to let Ben win, and so atone

for the trouble she gave him in losing the dog. I saw a very sweet look

on her face just now, and am sure that Ben will never know why he beat."

"She does such things at school sometimes, and I can't bear to spoil her

little atonements, though they are not always needed or very wise,"

answered Teacher. "Not long ago I found that she had been giving her

lunch day after day to a poor child who seldom had any, and when I asked

her why, she said, with tears, 'I used to laugh at Abby, because she had

only crusty, dry bread, and so she wouldn't bring any. I _ought_ to give

her mine and be hungry, it was so mean to make fun of her poorness.'"

"Did you stop the sacrifice?"

"No; I let Bab 'go halves,' and added an extra bit to my own lunch, so I

could make my contribution likewise."

"Come and tell me about Abby's folks, I want to make friends with our

poor people, for soon I shall have a right to help them;" and, putting

her arm in Teacher's, Miss Celia led her away for a quiet chat in the

porch, making her guest's visit a happy holiday by confiding several

plans and asking advice in the friendliest way.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]

"HAPPY FIELDS OF SUMMER."

BY LUCY LARCOM.

[Illustration]

Happy fields of summer, all your airy grasses

Whispering and bowing when the west wind passes,--

Happy lark and nestling, hid beneath the mowing,

Root sweet music in you, to the white clouds growing!

Happy fields of summer, softly billowed over

With the feathery red-top and the rosy clover,--

Happy little children seek your shady places,

Lark-songs in their bosoms, sunshine on their faces!

Happy little children, skies are bright above you,

Trees bend down to kiss you, breeze and blossom love you;

And we bless you, playing in the field-paths mazy,

Swinging with the harebell, dancing with the daisy!

Happy fields of summer, touched with deeper beauty

As your tall grain ripens, tell the children duty

Is as sweet as pleasure;--tell them both are blended

In the best life-story, well begun and ended!

THE DIGGER-WASPS AT HOME.

BY E. A. E.

July had come again, and brought with it such warm, sultry days that it

almost seemed as if no living creature could stir abroad. Nevertheless,

there was a wonderful deal going on in our garden. Through the air and

over the flower-beds hastened hundreds of little people. Some lived in

the trees and bushes, others in the ground, and all were hard at work.

One morning, especially, there seemed to be something unusual going on;

the buzzing, and humming was fairly deafening.

Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r! What was that great creature that darted past my

face? And here came another, and another; why, the garden was full of

them!

Big brown-and-yellow wasps these strangers were, and all in a most

desperate hurry. Scores of them were already hard at work digging away

in the firmly packed sand of the path.

As these new-comers seemed to care very little who watched them at their

work, I sat down on an upturned flower-pot in the shade of a friendly

lilac, determined to make their acquaintance.

Hardly had I settled myself before one of the wasps approached. She

seemed searching for something, for she flew rapidly back and forth, now

alighting for a moment--now darting away again. At last she dropped upon

the ground close to me and began to bite the earth with her strong jaws.

When quite a little heap lay before her she pushed it to one side with

her hind feet and then returned to her digging. In five minutes she had

an opening big enough to get into; every time she appeared she backed up

out of it pushing a huge load of sand as big as herself behind her. Soon

all around the hole was a high bank of earth, and she found it necessary

to make a path across it, and push her loads over that. Two hours' hard

work, and the house was finished. It was very simply planned, and had

only one room down at the end of a long, narrow passage. But simple as

it was, this little creature had done more work in the two hours than a

man could do in a day. That is, of course, taking her size into

consideration. And she did not even now stop to rest. Not she! With one

last look into the house, to make sure she was leaving all as it should

be, she flew away. In a moment her strong wings had taken her quite out

of sight but it was not long before she re-appeared. Back and forth she

hastened, at one moment flying through the grape-arbor, at the next

wheeling above the cabbage-bed. All this time the object of her search,

a fat young locust, was quietly sitting on a gate-post, quite

forgetting, as even locusts sometimes will, that he had an enemy in the

world.

A moment later and the wasp's sharp eyes had found him out; and then,

quick as lightning, she darted down upon him, and pierced him with her

sting. When the locust lay perfectly still, the wasp seized him and flew

off. Arrived at her hole, she tumbled him head foremost in at the door,

expecting him, of course, to fall quite to the bottom. But her

calculations had been slightly at fault; the locust was too fat to go

in, and there he stuck with his head and shoulders in the hole and his

body in the air. Here was a dilemma! But my wasp friend was evidently

not one to be overcome by difficulties of this sort. She flew off again,

and this time returned with two other wasps; they crowded round the

hole, and began digging away the earth which pressed close about the

locust. In a short time they seemed satisfied, for they stood up and

pushed at the object of their toils. Slowly he slid down out of sight,

and she who had brought him hurried after. She laid an egg close to him

in her house; then, hurrying up, began to carry back the earth she had

before taken out, and in a short time the door was securely closed. Then

she scraped away, and patted down all the loose earth, till she had made

it quite impossible for any evil-minded creature to find any traces of

her home.

The wasp knew very well that her egg would soon hatch out; that the

little white grub, her chick, would at once begin to feed upon the

locust, which would supply food till the young one was full-grown.

The following morning I again visited the garden, to see how the

home-making progressed. Soon a handsome wasp came running toward my

seat, under the lilac, near which was a newly made hole.

"She knows me! she is no longer afraid!" But no; she stopped short and

raised her long, delicate antennae, evidently on the lookout for danger.

She could not be the same wasp I had watched yesterday; but how was I to

make sure? They seemed all exactly alike.

I was all this time as motionless as if I had been turned to stone.

She came a step or two nearer, and, at last, quite re-assured, hurried

down into her hole. What a long time she stayed! but, at last, on

watching the opening intently, I saw something coming toward daylight.

It was a great ball of earth, quite filling the hole, that the wasp was

forcing up by her hind legs. With one mighty heave the ball rolled out,

scattering itself in all directions, as it broke apart.

[Illustration: MAKING A HOME.]

I noticed at this time, and afterward, that as the depth of the holes

increased and it took longer journeys to reach the surface, the wasps

always pressed the earth they wished to get rid of into these compact

balls, and so managed to bring up a much greater quantity at once than

would otherwise be possible. The wasp now walked entirely round the

hole, pushing carefully back the loose sand which seemed likely to fall

in again. This done, she was up and away. She was in search now of the

insect near which to lay her egg, but although she came in sight of

several, she could get no nearer.

The inhabitants of our garden were learning how dangerous these new

settlers might be, and kept well out of her way. At last, as she poised

herself high in the air, and rested on her broad, strong wings for an

instant, she spied, far beneath her, a small grasshopper. It was the

work of only a second to pounce upon him, and to lay him out on his back

perfectly insensible.

But now a difficulty arose. How could she, borne down by this heavy

weight, manage to rise into the air? The locust of the day before had

been caught upon a high post, and in order to carry him the wasp had

only to fly down. This was a wholly different case. At last an idea

seemed to occur to her: she jumped astride of the grasshopper, seized

its head with her fore feet, and ran along the ground.

Ha! This was famous; but hard work, nevertheless, and she had often to

let go and rest. She entered the broad path in which her house was, but

somehow she had become bewildered, and mistook a neighbor's hole for her

own. As she dismounted before it, and looked in, the owner angrily

darted out, buzzing in a frightful manner. Our poor friend, much

abashed, proceeded to the next house, and the next, everywhere meeting

with the same reception.

"How stupid of her," I thought, "not to know her own home!" but just

then she saw the entrance, ran swiftly toward it, and in another minute

she and her burden were both safely in-doors.

Presently she came out and again flew off. She had laid her egg close to

the grasshopper, but the amount of provision was not enough, so she had

now gone in search of another insect, with which to fill her larder.

As soon as she was out of sight, a tiny creature flew down into the

hole. She, too, had her egg to lay, and here was just the opportunity.

Inside of the digger-wasp's egg the little ichneumon fly placed another

and a very much smaller one, after which she darted away, just in time

to escape meeting the returning mother, who, coming back laden with a

second grasshopper, placed it close to the first, and set about closing

the door. But all her careful work would be of no avail; no child of

hers would ever come out of this house a perfect full-grown insect like

herself.

This is what happened:

In time the two eggs hatched. The young digger-wasp set to work upon the

grasshopper, and the little ichneumon began to eat the wasp-grub. At

last the young wasp died, and at that moment there flew out from his

body a little fly.

[Illustration: AT THE WRONG HOUSE.]

It rested a minute, then turned and pushed its way through the soft

earth till it reached daylight. It waved its wings gently up and down a

few times, and darted away and out of sight.

The digger-wasps had been living for some weeks in our garden, when,

one afternoon, there came up a fearful thunder-storm. The rain poured

down in torrents. Where had been shortly before neatly kept paths about

our house, we saw now rapid little rivers tearing up sand and gravel as

they raced down-hill, and doing all the damage their short lives would

allow. But all of a sudden the sun burst out from the clouds, the rain

stopped, and the water which had fallen sank into the ground.

I did not waste many minutes in reaching the garden. What a sight met my

eyes! The broad path stretched itself out before me smooth and wet; not

a single hole remained,--all were buried deep under the sand. Instead of

the air being, as was usual, fairly alive with busy, happy creatures,

there was now, here and there, a miserable mud-covered insect clinging

to a leaf, and wearily trying to clean its heavy wings.

What a sad ending to the gay, bright summer!

The next day, however, I found a few survivors hard at work digging

again; but this time every hole was sloping instead of perpendicular.

After much thought, I came to the conclusion that these clever little

creatures had found the way to prevent such another calamity as had

overtaken them the day before. Formerly, the first drops of an unusually

hard shower filled the holes instantly, drowning the inmates. Now, this

could not happen, especially if the openings were placed, as most of

them were, under the shelter of the big grape-leaves which at many

points rested on the edge of the path. This all took place two years

ago; but each summer since then has brought with it some of our old

friends, the digger-wasps.

[Illustration: AFTER THE RAIN-STORM.]

THE EMERGENCY MISTRESS.

(_A Fairy Tale._)

BY FRANK R. STOCKTON.

Jules Vatermann was a wood-cutter, and a very good one. He always had

employment, for he understood his business so well, and was so

industrious and trustworthy, that every one in the neighborhood where he

lived, who wanted wood cut, was glad to get him to do it.

Jules had a very ordinary and commonplace life until he was a

middle-aged man, and then something remarkable happened to him. It

happened on the twenty-fifth of January, in a very cold winter. Jules

was forty-five years old, that year, and he remembered the day of the

month, because in the morning, before he started out to his work, he had

remarked that it was just one month since Christmas.

The day before, Jules had cut down a tall tree, and he had been busy all

the morning sawing it into logs of the proper length and splitting it up

and making a pile of it.

When dinner-time came around, Jules sat down on one of the logs and

opened his basket. He had plenty to eat,--good bread and sausage, and a

bottle of beer, for he was none of your poor wood-cutters.

As he was cutting a sausage, he looked up and saw something coming from

behind his wood-pile.

At first, he thought it was a dog, for it was about the right size for a

small dog, but in a moment he saw it was a little man. He was a little

man indeed, for he was not more than two feet high. He was dressed in

brown clothes and wore a peaked cap, and he must have been pretty old,

for he had a full white beard. Although otherwise warmly clad, he wore

on his feet only shoes and no stockings and came hopping along through

the deep snow as if his feet were very cold.

When he saw this little old man, Jules said never a word. He merely

thought to himself: "This is some sort of a fairy-man."

But the little old person came close to Jules, and drawing up one foot,

as if it was so cold that he could stand on it no longer, he said:

"Please, sir, my feet are almost frozen."

"Oh, ho!" thought Jules, "I know all about that. This is one of the

fairy-folks who come in distress to a person, and if that person is kind

to them, he is made rich and happy; but if he turns them away, he soon

finds himself in all sorts of misery. I shall be very careful." And then

he said aloud: "Well, sir, what can I do for you?"

[Illustration: JULES AND THE LITTLE MAN.]

"That is a strange question," said the dwarf. "If you were to walk by

the side of a deep stream, and were to see a man sinking in the water,

would you stop and ask him what you could do for him?"

"Would you like my stockings?" said Jules, putting down his knife and

sausage, and preparing to pull off one of his boots. "I will let you

have them."

"No, no!" said the other. "They are miles too big for me."

"Will you have my cap or my scarf in which to wrap your feet and warm

them?"

"No, no!" said the dwarf. "I don't put my feet in caps and scarfs."

"Well, tell me what you would like," said Jules. "Shall I make a fire?"

"No, I will not tell you," said the fairy-man. "You have kept me

standing here long enough."

Jules could not see what this had to do with it. He was getting very

anxious. If he were only a quick-witted fellow, so as to think of

exactly the right thing to do, he might make his fortune. But he could

think of nothing more.

"I wish, sir, that you would tell me just what you would like for your

cold feet," said Jules, in an entreating tone, "for I shall be very glad

to give it to you, if it is at all possible."

"If your ax were half as dull as your brain," said the dwarf, "you would

not cut much wood. Good-day!"--and he skipped away behind the wood-pile.

Jules jumped up and looked after him, but he was gone. These

fairy-people have a strange way of disappearing.

Jules was not married and had no home of his own. He lived with a good

couple who had a little house and an only daughter, and that was about

the sum of their possessions. The money Jules paid for his living helped

them a little, and they managed to get along. But they were quite poor.

Jules was not poor. He had no one but himself to support, and he had

laid by a sum of money for himself when he should be too old to work.

But you never saw a man so disappointed as he was that evening as he sat

by the fire after supper.

He had told the family all about his meeting with the dwarf, and

lamented again and again that he had lost such a capital chance of

making his fortune.

"If I only could have thought what it was best to do!" he said, again

and again.

"I know what I should have done," said Selma, the only daughter of the

poor couple, a girl about eleven years old.

"What?" asked Jules, eagerly.

"I should have just snatched the little fellow up, and rubbed his feet

and wrapped them in my shawl until they were warm," said she.

"But he would not have liked that," said Jules. "He was an old man and

very particular."

"I would not care," said Selma; "I wouldn't let such a little fellow

stand suffering in the snow, and I wouldn't care how old he was."

"I hope you'll never meet any of these fairy-people," said Jules. "You'd

drive them out of the country with your roughness, and we might all

whistle for our fortunes."

Selma laughed and said no more about it.

Every day after that, Jules looked for the dwarf-man, but he did not see

him again. Selma looked for him, too, for her curiosity had been much

excited; but as she was not allowed to go to the woods in the winter, of

course she never saw him.

But, at last, summer came; and, one day, as she was walking by a little

stream which ran through the woods, whom should she see, sitting on the

bank, but the dwarf-man! She knew him in an instant, from Jules'

descriptions. He was busily engaged in fishing, but he did not fish like

any one else in the world. He had a short pole, which was floating in

the water, and in his hand he held a string which was fastened to one

end of the pole.

When Selma saw what the old fellow was doing, she burst out laughing.

She knew it was not very polite, but she could not help it.

"What's the matter?" said he, turning quickly toward her.

"I'm sorry I laughed at you, sir," said Selma, "but that's no way to

fish."

"Much you know about it," said the dwarf. "This is the only way to fish.

You let your pole float, with a piece of bait on a hook fastened to the

big end of the pole. Then you fasten a line to the little end. When a

fish bites, you haul in the pole by means of the string."

"Have you caught anything yet?" asked Selma.

"No, not yet," replied the dwarf.

"Well, I'm sure I can fish better than that. Would you mind letting me

try a little while?"

"Not at all--not at all!" said the dwarf, handing the line to Selma. "If

you think you can fish better than I can, do it by all means."

Selma took the line and pulled in the pole. Then she unfastened the hook

and bait which was on the end of the pole, and tied it to the end of the

line, with a little piece of stone for a sinker. She then took up the

pole, threw in the line, and fished like common people. In less than a

minute she had a bite, and, giving a jerk, she drew out a fat little

fish as long as her hand.

"Hurrah!" cried the little old man, giving a skip in the air; and then,

turning away from the stream, he shouted, "Come here!"

Selma turned around to see whom he was calling to, and she perceived

another gnome, who was running toward them. When he came near, she saw

that he was much younger than the fisher-gnome.

"Hello!" cried the old fellow, "I've caught one."

Selma was amazed to hear this. She looked at the old gnome, who was

taking the fish off the hook, as if she were astonished that he could

tell such a falsehood.

"What is this other person's name?" said she to him.

"His name," said the old gnome, looking up, "is Class 60, H."

"Is that all the name he has?" asked Selma, in surprise.

"Yes. And it is a very good name. It shows just who and what he is."

"Well, then, Mr. Class 60, H," said Selma, "that old--person did not

catch the fish. I caught it myself."

"Very good! Very good!" said Class 60, H, laughing and clapping his

hands. "Capital! See here!" said he, addressing the older dwarf, and he

knelt down and whispered something in his ear.

"Certainly," said the old gnome. "That's just what I was thinking of.

Will you mention it to her? I must hurry and show this fish while it is

fresh,"--and, so saying, he walked rapidly away with the little fish,

and the pole and tackle.

"My dear Miss," said Class 60, H, approaching Selma, "would you like to

visit the home of the gnomes,--to call, in fact, on the Queen Dowager of

all the Gnomes?"

"Go down underground, where you live?" asked Selma. "Would it be safe

down there, and when could I get back again?"

"Safe, dear miss? Oh, perfectly so! And the trip will not take you more

than a couple of hours. I assure you that you will be back in plenty of

time for supper. Will you go, if I send a trusty messenger for you? You

may never have another chance to see our country."

Selma thought that this was very probable, and she began to consider the

matter.

As soon as Class 60, H, saw that she was really trying to make up her

mind whether or not to go, he cried out:

"Good! I see you have determined to go. Wait here five minutes and the

messenger will be with you," and then he rushed off as fast as he could

run.

"I didn't say I would go," thought Selma, "but I guess I will."

In a very few minutes, Selma heard a deep voice behind her say: "Well,

are you ready?"

Turning suddenly, she saw, standing close to her, a great black bear!

Frightened dreadfully, she turned to run, but the bear called out:

"Stop! You needn't be frightened. I'm tame."

The surprise of hearing a bear speak overcame poor Selma's terror; she

stopped, and looked around.

"Come back," said the bear; "I will not hurt you in the least. I am sent

to take you to the Queen Dowager of the Gnomes. I don't mind your being

frightened at me. I'm used to it. But I am getting a little tired of

telling folks that I am tame," and he yawned wearily.

"You are to take me?" said Selma, still a little frightened, and very

certain that, if she had known a bear was to be sent for her, she never

would have consented to go.

"Yes," said the bear. "You can get on my back and I will give you a nice

ride. Come on! Don't keep me waiting, please."

There was nothing to be done but to obey, for Selma did not care to have

a dispute with a bear, even if he were tame, and so she got upon his

back, where she had a very comfortable seat, holding fast to his long

hair.

The bear walked slowly but steadily into the very heart of the forest,

among the great trees and the rocks. It was so lonely and solemn here

that Selma felt afraid again.

"Suppose we were to meet with robbers," said she.

"Robbers!" said the bear, with a laugh. "That's good! Robbers, indeed!

You needn't be afraid of robbers. If we were to meet any of them, you

would be the last person they'd ever meet."

"Why?" asked Selma.

"I'd tear 'em all into little bits," said the bear, in a tone which

quite restored Selma's confidence, and made her feel very glad that she

had a bear to depend upon in those lonely woods.

It was not very long before they came to an opening in a bank of earth,

behind a great tree. Into this the bear walked, for it was wide enough,

and so high that Selma did not even have to lower her head, as they

passed in. They were now in a long winding passage, which continually

seemed as if it was just coming to an end, but which turned and twisted,

first one way and then another, and always kept going down and down.

Before long they began to meet gnomes, who very respectfully stepped

aside to let them pass. They now went through several halls and courts,

cut in the earth, and, directly, the bear stopped before a door.

"You get off here," said the bear; and, when Selma had slid off his

back, he rose up on his hind legs and gave a great knock with the iron

knocker on the door. Then he went away.

In a moment, the door opened, and there stood a little old gnome-woman,

dressed in brown, and wearing a lace cap.

"Come in!" she said; and Selma entered the room. "The Queen Dowager will

see you in a few minutes," said the little old woman. "I am her

housekeeper. I'll go and tell her you're here, and, meantime, it would

be well for you to get your answers all ready, so as to lose no time."

Selma was about to ask what answers she meant, but the housekeeper was

gone before she could say a word.

The room was a curious one. There were some little desks and stools in

it, and in the center stood a great brown ball, some six or seven feet

in diameter. While she was looking about at these things, a little door

in the side of the ball opened, and out stepped Class 60, H.

"One thing I didn't tell you," said he, hurriedly. "I was afraid if I

mentioned it you wouldn't come. The Queen Dowager wants a governess for

her grandson, the Gnome Prince. Now, please don't say you can't do it,

for I'm sure you'll suit exactly. The little fellow has had lots of

teachers, but he wants one of a different kind now. This is the

school-room. That ball is the globe where he studies his geography. It's

only the under part of the countries that he has to know about, and so

they are marked out on the inside of the globe. What they want now is a

special teacher, and after having come here, and had the Queen Dowager

notified, it wouldn't do to back out, you know."

"How old is the Prince?" asked Selma.

"About seventy-eight," said the gnome.

"Why, he's an old man," cried Selma.

"Not at all, my dear miss," said Class 60, H. "It takes a long time for

us to get old. The Prince is only a small boy; if he were a human boy,

he would be about five years of age. I don't look old, do I?"

"No," said Selma.

"Well, I'm three hundred and fifty-two, next Monday. And as for Class

20, P,--the old fellow you saw fishing,--he is nine hundred and sixty."

"Well, you are all dreadfully old, and you have very funny names," said

Selma.

"In this part of the world," said the other, "all gnomes, except those

belonging to the nobility and the royal family, are divided into

classes, and lettered. This is much better than having names, for you

know it is very hard to get enough names to go around, so that every one

can have his own. But here comes the housekeeper," and Class 60, H,

retired quickly into the hollow globe.

"Her Majesty will see you," said the housekeeper; and she conducted

Selma into the next room, where, on a little throne, with a high back

and rockers, sat the Queen Dowager. She seemed rather smaller than the

other gnomes, and was very much wrinkled and wore spectacles. She had

white hair, with little curls on each side, and was dressed in brown

silk.

[Illustration: "'ROBBERS!' SAID THE BEAR. 'THAT'S GOOD! ROBBERS,

INDEED!'"]

She looked at Selma over her spectacles.

"This is the applicant?" said she.

"Yes, this is she," said the housekeeper.

"She looks young," remarked the Queen Dowager.

"Very true," said the housekeeper, "but she cannot be any older at

present."

"You are right," said Her Majesty; "we will examine her."

So saying, she took up a paper which lay on the table, and which seemed

to have a lot of items written on it.

"Get ready," said she to the housekeeper, who opened a large blank-book

and made ready to record Selma's answers.

The Queen Dowager read from the paper the first question:

"What are your qualifications?"

Selma, standing there before this little old queen and this little old

housekeeper, was somewhat embarrassed, and a question like this did not

make her feel any more at her ease. She could not think what

qualifications she had. As she did not answer at once, the Queen Dowager

turned to the housekeeper and said:

"Put down, 'Asked, but not given.'"

The housekeeper set that down, and then she jumped up and looked over

the list of questions.

"We must be careful," said she, in a whisper, to the Queen Dowager,

"what we ask her. It won't do to put all the questions to her. Suppose

you try number twenty-eight?"

"All right," said Her Majesty; and, when the housekeeper had sat down

again by her book, she addressed Selma and asked:

"Are you fond of children?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Selma.

"Good!" cried the Queen Dowager; "that is an admirable answer."

And the housekeeper nodded and smiled at Selma, as if she was very much

pleased.

"'Eighty-two' would be a good one to ask next," suggested the

housekeeper.

Her Majesty looked for "Eighty-two," and read it out:

"Do you like pie?"

"Very much, ma'am," said Selma.

"Capital! capital!" said Her Majesty. "That will do. I see no need of

asking her any other questions. Do you?" said she, turning to the

housekeeper.

"None whatever," said the other. "She answered all but one, and that one

she didn't really miss."

"There is no necessity for any further bother," said the Queen Dowager.

"She is engaged."

And then she arose from the throne and left the room.

"Now, my dear girl," said the housekeeper, "I will induct you into your

duties. They are simple."

"But I should like to know," said Selma, "if I'm to stay here all the

time. I can't leave my father and mother----"

"Oh! you wont have to do that," interrupted the housekeeper. "You will

take the Prince home with you."

"Home with me?" exclaimed Selma.

"Yes. It would be impossible for you to teach him properly here. We want

him taught Emergencies--that is, what to do in case of the various

emergencies which may arise. Nothing of the kind ever arises down here.

Everything goes on always in the usual way. But on the surface of the

earth, where he will often go, when he grows up, they are very common,

and you have been selected as a proper person to teach him what to do

when any of them occur to him. By the way, what are your terms?"

"I don't know," said Selma. "Whatever you please."

"That will suit very well,--very well indeed," said the housekeeper. "I

think you are the very person we want."

"Thank you," said Selma; and just then a door opened and the Queen

Dowager put in her head.

"Is she inducted?" she asked.

"Yes," said the housekeeper.

"Then here is the Prince," said the Queen Dowager, entering the room and

leading by the hand a young gnome about a foot high. He had on a ruffled

jacket and trousers, and a little peaked cap. His royal grandmother led

him to Selma.

"You will take him," she said, "for a session of ten months. At the end

of that time we shall expect him to be thoroughly posted in emergencies.

While he is away, he will drop all his royal titles and be known as

Class 81, Q. His parents and I have taken leave of him. Good-bye!"

And she left the room, with her little handkerchief to her eyes.

"Now, then," said the housekeeper, "the sooner you are off, the better.

The bear is waiting."

So saying, she hurried Selma and the Prince through the school-room,

and, when they opened the door, there stood the bear, all ready. Selma

mounted him, and the housekeeper handed up the Prince, first kissing

him good-bye. Then off they started.

The Prince, or, as he must now be called, Class 81, Q, was a very quiet

and somewhat bashful little fellow; and, although Selma talked a good

deal to him, on the way, he did not say much. The bear carried them to

the edge of the woods, and then Selma took the little fellow in her arms

and ran home with him.

It may well be supposed that the appearance of their daughter with the

young gnome in her arms greatly astonished the worthy cottagers, and

they were still more astonished when they heard her story.

"You must do your best, my dear," said her mother, "and this may prove a

very good thing for you, as well as for this little master here."

Selma promised to do as well as she could, and her father said he would

try and think of some good emergencies, so that the little fellow could

be well trained.

Everybody seemed to be highly satisfied, even Class 81, Q, himself, who

sat cross-legged on a wooden chair surveying everything about him; but

when Jules Vatermann came home, he was very much dissatisfied, indeed.

"Confound it!" he said, when he heard the story. "I should have done

all this. That should have been my pupil, and the good luck should have

been mine. The gnome-man came first to me, and, if he had waited a

minute, I should have thought of the right thing to do. I could teach

that youngster far better than you, Selma. What do you know about

emergencies?"

Selma and her parents said nothing. Jules had been quite cross-grained

since the twenty-fifth of January, when he had met the gnome, and they

had learned to pay but little attention to his fault-finding and

complaining.

The little gnome soon became quite at home in the cottage, and grew very

much attached to Selma. He was quiet, but sensible and bright, and knew

a great deal more than most children of five. Selma did not have many

opportunities to educate him in her peculiar branch. Very commonplace

things generally happened in the cottage.

One day, however, the young gnome was playing with the cat, and began to

pull his tail. The cat, not liking this, began to scratch Class 81, Q.

At this, the little fellow cried and yelled, while the cat scratched all

the more fiercely. But Selma, who ran into the room on hearing the

noise, was equal to the emergency. She called out, instantly:

"Let go of his tail!"

The gnome let go, and the cat bounded away.

The lesson of this incident was then carefully impressed on her pupil's

mind by Selma, who now thought that she had at last begun to do her

duty by him.

A day or two after this, Selma was sent by her mother on an errand to

the nearest village. As it would be dark before she returned, she did

not take the little gnome with her. About sunset, when Jules Vatermann

returned from his work, he found the youngster playing by himself in the

kitchen.

Instantly, a wicked thought rushed into the mind of Jules. Snatching up

the young gnome, he ran off with him as fast as he could go. As he ran,

he thought to himself:

"Now is my chance. I know what to do, this time. I'll just keep this

young rascal and make his people pay me a pretty sum for his ransom.

I'll take him to the city, where the gnomes never go, and leave him

there, in safe hands, while I come back and make terms. Good for you, at

last, Jules!"

So, on he hurried, as fast as he could go. The road soon led him into a

wood, and he had to go more slowly. Poor little Class 81, Q, cried and

besought Jules to let him go, but the hard-hearted wood-cutter paid no

attention to his distress.

Suddenly, Jules stopped. He heard something, and then he saw something.

He began to tremble. A great bear was coming along the road, directly

toward him!

What should he do? He could not meet that dreadful creature. He

hesitated but a moment. The bear was now quite near, and, at the first

growl it gave, Jules dropped the young gnome, and turned and ran away at

the top of his speed. The bear started to run after him, not noticing

little Class 81, Q, who was standing in the road; but as he passed the

little fellow, who had never seen any bear except the tame one which

belonged to the gnomes, and who thought this animal was his old friend,

he seized him by the long hair on his legs and began to climb up on his

back.

The bear, feeling some strange creature on him, stopped and looked back.

The moment the young gnome saw the fiery eyes and the glittering teeth

of the beast, he knew that he had made a mistake; this was no tame bear.

The savage beast growled, and, reaching back as far as he could, snapped

at the little fellow on his back, who quickly got over on the other

side. Then the bear reached back on that side, and Class 81, Q, was

obliged to slip over again. The bear became very angry, and turned

around and around in his efforts to get at the young gnome, who was

nearly frightened to death. He could not think what in the world he

should do. He could only remember that, in a great emergency,--but not

quite as bad a one as this,--his teacher had come to his aid with the

counsel, "Let go of his tail." He would gladly let go of the bear's

tail, but the bear had none--at least, none that he could see. So what

was he to do? "Let go of his tail!" cried the poor little fellow, to

himself. "Oh, if he only had a tail!"

Before long, the bear himself began to be frightened. This was something

entirely out of the common run of things. Never before in his life had

he met with a little creature who stuck to him like that. He did not

know what might happen next, and so he ran as hard as he could go toward

his cave. Perhaps his wife, the old mother-bear, might be able to get

this thing off. Away he dashed, and, turning sharply around a corner,

little Class 81, Q, was jolted off, and was glad enough to find himself

on the ground, with the bear running away through the woods.

The little fellow rubbed his knees and elbows, and, finding that he was

not at all hurt, set off to find the cottage of his friend Selma, as

well as he could. He had no idea which way to go, for the bear had

turned around and around so often that he had become quite bewildered.

However, he resolved to trudge along, hoping to meet some one who could

tell him how to go back to Selma.

After a while, the moon rose, and then he could see a little better; but

it was still quite dark in the woods, and he was beginning to be very

tired, when he heard a noise as if some one was talking. He went toward

the voice, and soon saw a man sitting on a rock by the road-side.

When he came nearer, he saw that the man was Jules, who was wailing and

moaning and upbraiding himself.

"Ah me!" said the conscience-stricken wood-cutter, "Ah me! I am a wretch

indeed. I have given myself up into the power of the Evil One. Not only

did I steal that child from his home, and from the good people who have

always befriended me, but I have left him to be devoured by a wild beast

of the forest. Whatever shall I do? Satan himself has got me in his

power, through my own covetousness and greed. How--oh! how--can I ever

get away from him?"

The little gnome had now approached quite close to Jules, and, running

up to him, he said:

"Let go of his tail!"

If the advice was good for him in an emergency, it might be good for

others.

Jules started to his feet and stood staring at the youngster he had

thought devoured.

"Whoever would have supposed," said he, at last, "that a little heathen

midget like that, born underground, like a mole, would ever come to me

and tell me my Christian duty. And he's right, too. Satan would never

have got hold of me if I hadn't been holding to him all these months,

hoping to get some good by it. I'll do it, my boy. I'll let go of his

tail, now and forever." And, without thinking to ask Class 81, Q, how he

got away from the bear, he took him up in his arms and ran home as fast

as he could go.

During the rest of the young gnome's stay with Selma, he had several

other good bits of advice in regard to emergencies, but none that was of

such general application as this counsel to let go of a cat's tail, or

the tail of anything else that was giving him trouble.

At the expiration of the session, the Queen Dowager was charmed with the

improvement in her grandson. Having examined him in regard to his

studies, she felt sure that he was now perfectly able to take care of

himself in any emergency that might occur to him.

On the morning after he left, Selma, when she awoke, saw lying on the

floor the little jacket and trousers of her late pupil. At first, she

thought it was the little fellow himself; but when she jumped up and

took hold of the clothes, she could not move them. They were filled with

gold.

This was the pay for the tuition of Class 81, Q.

CHURNING.

BY SARA KEABLES HUNT.

[Illustration]

I'm such an unfortunate dog, oh, dear!

To leave my nap and the sunshine clear,

And down in the cellar--the cold dark place--

I must turn my steps and sorrowful face,

And begin the daily churning.

To be sure, I've enough to eat, you know,

And I can rest while the men must mow;

But oh! how I'd like to hide away

When I hear them come to the door and say:

"It's time for the dog to be churning!"

So here I tread, and the wheel goes round,

And the dasher comes down with a weary sound;

But after awhile the butter is done,

Then off I go to some richer fun

Than this weary, dreary churning.

There's a lesson, though, in this work of mine,

That thou, little one, may'st take to be thine:

We each have our duties, both great and small,

And, if we want butter for bread at all,

Some one must do the churning.

And then, again, I think that this life,

With its tread-mill of duties, joy and strife,

Is like to a churn. Press on! Press on!

For by and by the work will be done,--

With no more need of churning.

THE MOON, FROM A FROG'S POINT OF VIEW.

BY FLETA FORRESTER.

Miss Frog sat, in the cool of the evening, under a plantain-leaf, by the

side of her blue and placid lake.

The day had been excessively warm, and so, as she sat, she gracefully

waved, backward and forward, one of her delicate web feet.

It was a beautiful, natural fan, and served, admirably, the purpose

intended.

Around Miss Frog arose the varied warble of other frogs. The little

polliwogs had all been put to bed; and now, came stealing on, the season

for silent thoughts. Always anxious to improve her mind, Miss Frog gazed

about her to find a subject on which to fasten her attention.

She had been once sent to a southern lake to finish her education, and

was really quite superior to ordinary frogs.

"There is no one here, in this mud-hole, to appreciate me," she

regretfully sighed, as two silly frogs passed her leaf, flirting so hard

that neither of them observed her.

She drew around her her shawl of lace, made from the finest cobwebs of

Florida--and sulked.

Just then arose the moon, taking its solitary, silvery way across the

sky.

Her attention was arrested at once.

"How like to a polliwog it is!" she rapturously exclaimed, "save that it

lacks a tail."

"And a glorified polliwog it is, daughter of the water!" croaked a

sudden hoarse voice beside her.

She hopped with fright, and gasped as if about to faint; but calmed

herself again as she recognized the tones of the rough-skinned Sage of

the Frogs, who dwells alone in some remote corner of the lake. He it is

who always sings, "Kerdunk!" when he condescends to sing at all.

This learned hermit, after clearing his throat repeatedly, thus

explained himself:

"There is a legend, connected with our race, that runs in this wise:"

* * * * *

"Ahem!"

Upon a time, in a certain valley, where once flowed a considerable

stream, the waters suddenly failed and the stream died away.

Upon the unfortunate frogs who dwelt there, in vast numbers, the hot

summer sun shone its fiercest rays unhindered.

* * * * *

"Dreadful!" piped Miss Frog.

"Yes, it did!" said the Sage, reproachfully, "and if you wish to hear

this story, you must be careful not to interrupt me again, thoughtless

girl!"

As Miss Frog was very desirous, indeed, of hearing the story, she

remained quiet, and the hermit frog continued:

* * * * *

The waters dried away, and hundreds of wretched frogs died on those

scorching fields. Dying fishes gasped with their last breath for a drop

of cool water, and joined their wails to those of our suffering kindred.

At length, one old trout, who had held out to the last, confessed:

"Miserable I! and wicked! _I_ have caused this drouth! And now I have no

power to remedy the evil I have done!"

At this, all of the frogs who were not yet dead gathered around the

tough old trout, and listened to his words.

"That was an evil day," gasped the speckled sinner, "when I poked my

nose out of water to dare a saucy kingfisher, who was mocking the whole

fish tribe in his usual dashing manner. 'Catch me, if you can!' I cried,

darting about at my ease.

"But the bird beguiled me. He made me believe that, if I would only work

a little hole through that dam there, I could descend with the escaping

waters to the stream below, and make my way to the sea, where, as I

heard, the fishes were all kings, and ate nothing but diamonds for

dinner.

[Illustration: "OH-H-H! BOO-HOO-HOO!"]

"I enticed all the trout that I could influence to assist me, and we

wriggled and wriggled our noses into the gravel for a long time,

apparently to no purpose.

"But, at last, a little leak started, and our water dripped away, drop

by drop; but not in sufficient volume to carry us with it.

"When the waters had receded, so as to make the stream very low, back

came that artful kingfisher, to dive for us in the shallow pools.

"And now, what the drouth had not destroyed that tempter has gorged

himself upon.

"'Oh-h-h! Boo-hoo-hoo!'"

The frogs freely forgave him because he cried.

But the problem remained, how was the supply of water to be renewed.

At this juncture, an earnest, meek-eyed polliwog flopped feebly, and

said: "Show me the place where these waters leak away."

Astonished at her manner, the sobbing trout indicated the spot.

[Illustration: THE TADPOLE TO THE RESCUE.]

"Drag me thither by my tail!" exclaimed the heroine, resolutely.

Then the frogs used their last remaining strength to do as she bade

them, and waited, in exhausted surprise, to see what would happen next.

"Good-bye!" wept the brave little polliwog, wriggling with feeling, and

groaning some. "If any of you survive me, tell it to your children that

I laid myself in the breach!"

With these few farewell words she crowded herself into the hole, out of

their sight.

Presently, the stream began to rise and the pools to fill up. The frogs

sat knee-deep in water, and the fishes swam upon their sides.

[Illustration: "IN THE SKY."]

Day by day things improved, and the fishes began to sit up in bed, while

the frogs were heard incessantly blessing the little polliwog. One

night, she appeared to them in the sky, as you see her to-night;

returning nightly, for many nights, to beam at them; growing larger and

brighter at every appearance.

* * * * *

"Such," said the Sage, concluding, "is our Legend of the Moon!" And he

leaped into the waves with a resounding plump!

Miss Frog felt so many different sensations at once that she dropped her

lower jaw involuntarily, and sat so, unconscious of aught until awakened

from her reverie by a cricket jumping suddenly into her throat.

Hastily gulping him down, she gathered her shawl about her, and, with a

spring, sprawled graciously toward her wave.

DAB KINZER: A STORY OF A GROWING BOY.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER IX.

Ham Morris was a thoughtful and kind-hearted fellow, beyond a doubt, and

a valuable friend for a growing boy like Dab Kinzer. It is not

everybody's brother-in-law who would find time, during his wedding trip,

to hunt up even so very pretty a New England village as Grantley, and

inquire into questions of board and lodging and schooling.

Mrs. Myers, to the hospitalities of whose cool and roomy-looking

boarding-house Ham had been commended by Mr. Hart, was so crowded with

"summer boarders," liberally advertised for in the great city, that she

hardly had a corner for Ham and his bride. She was glad enough that she

had made the effort to find one, however, when she learned what was the

nature of the stranger's business. There was a look of undisguised

astonishment on the faces of the regular guests, all around, when they

gathered for the next meal. It happened to be supper, but they all

looked at the table and then at one another; and it was a pity Ham and

Miranda did not understand those glances, or make a longer visit. They

might have learned more about Mrs. Myers if not the Academy. As it was,

they only gained a very high opinion of her cookery and hospitality, as

well as an increase of respect for the "institution of learning," and

for that excellent gentleman, Mr. Hart, with a dim hope that Dabney

Kinzer might enjoy the inestimable advantages offered by Grantley and

Mrs. Myers, and the society of Mr. Hart's two wonderful boys.

Miranda was inclined to stand up for her brother, somewhat, but finally

agreed with Ham that--

"What Dabney needs is schooling and polish, my dear. It'll be good for

him to board in the same house with two such complete young gentlemen."

"Of course, Ham. And then he'll be sure of having plenty to eat. There

was almost too much on the table."

"Not if the boarders had all been boys of Dab's age and appetite. Mrs.

Myers is evidently accustomed to them, I should say."

So she was, indeed, as all the summer boarders were ready to testify at

the next morning's breakfast-table. There was one thing, among others,

that Mrs. Myers failed to tell Mr. and Mrs. Morris. She forgot to say

that the house she lived in, with the outlying farm belonging to it and

nearly all the things in it, were the property of Mr. Joseph Hart,

having cost that gentleman very little more than a sharp lawsuit.

Neither did she say a word about how long or short a time Mr. Hart had

given her to pay him his price for it. All that would have been none of

Ham's business or Miranda's. Still, it might have had its importance.

So it might, if either or both of them could have been at the

breakfast-table of the Hart homestead the morning after Annie Foster's

sudden departure. The table was there with the breakfast things on it,

and husband and wife, one at either end, as usual; but the side-seats

were vacant.

"Where are Joe and Foster, Maria?" asked Mr. Hart.

"Gone on some errand of their own, I think. Something about Annie."

"About Annie! Look here, Maria, if Annie can't take a joke----"

"So I say," began his wife; but just then a loud voice sounded in the

entry, and the two boys came in and took their places at the table. In a

moment more "Fuz" whispered to his brother:

"I'm glad Annie's gone, for one. She was too stiff and steep for any

kind of comfort."

"Boys," said Mr. Hart, observing them, "what have you been up to now?

I'm afraid there wont be much comfort for anybody till you fellows get

back to Grantley."

"Well," replied Joe, "so we didn't have to board at Mother Myers', I

wouldn't care how soon we go."

"Well, your cousin is sure to go, and I'm almost certain of another boy

besides the missionary's son. That'll fill up Mrs. Myers' house, and you

can board somewhere else."

"Hurrah for that!" exclaimed the young gentleman whose name, from that

of his lawyer relative, had been shortened to mere "Fuz." And yet they

were not so bad-looking a pair, as boys go. The elder, Joe,--a loud,

hoarse-voiced, black-eyed boy of seventeen,--was, nevertheless, not much

taller than his younger brother. The latter was as dark in eyes and hair

as Joe, but paler, and with a sidewise glance of his unpleasant eyes,

which suggested a perpetual state of inquiry whether anybody else had

anything he wanted. The two boys were the very sort to play the meanest

kind of practical jokes, and yet there was something of a resemblance

between their mother and her sister, the mother of Ford and Annie

Foster. There's really no accounting for some things, and the two Hart

boys were, as yet, among the unaccountables.

Not one of that whole list of boys, however, inland or on the sea-shore,

had any notion whatever of what things the future was getting ready for

them. Dab Kinzer and Ford Foster, particularly, had no idea that the

world contained such a place as Grantley, or such a landlady as Mrs.

Myers.

As for Dabney, it would hardly be fair to leave him standing there any

longer, with his two strings of fish in his hands, while Ford Foster

volubly narrated the stirring events of the day.

"Are you sure the black boy was not hurt, Ford?" asked his kind-hearted

mother.

"Hurt, mother? Why, he seems to be a kind of fish. They all know him,

and went right past my hook to his all the while."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Foster, "I forgot. Annie, this is Ford's

friend, Dabney Kinzer, our neighbor."

"Wont you shake hands with me, Mr. Kinzer?" asked Annie, with a

malicious twinkle of fun in her merry blue eyes.

Poor Dabney! He had been in quite a "state of mind" for at least three

minutes; but he would hardly have been his own mother's son if he had

let himself be entirely "posed." Up rose his long right arm with the

heavy string of fish at the end of it, and Annie's fun burst out into a

musical laugh, just as her brother exclaimed:

"There, now, I'd like to see the other boy of your size can do that.

Look here, Dab, where'd you get your training?"

"I mustn't drop the fish, you see," began Dab, but Ford interrupted him

with:

"No, indeed. You've given me half I've got, as it is. Annie, have you

looked at the crabs? You ought to have seen Dick Lee with a lot of 'em

gripping in his hair."

"In his hair?"

"When he was down through the bottom of his boat. They'd have eaten him

up if they'd had a chance. You see he's no shell on him."

"Exactly," said Annie, as Dab lowered his fish. "Well, Dabney, I wish

you would thank your mother for sending my trunk over. Your sisters,

too. I've no doubt we shall be very neighborly."

It was wonderfully pleasant to be called by his first name, and yet it

seemed to bring something into Dabney Kinzer's throat.

"She considers me a boy, and she means I'd better take my fish home,"

was the thought which came to him, and he was right to a fraction. So

the great lump in his throat took a very wayward and boyish form, and

came out as a reply, accompanied by a low bow.

"I will, thank you. Good afternoon, Mrs. Foster. I'll see you to-night,

Ford, about Monday and the yacht. Good afternoon, Annie."

And then he marched out with his fish.

"Mother, did you hear him call me 'Annie?'"

"Yes; and I heard you call him 'Dabney.'"

"But he's only a boy----"

"I don't care!" exclaimed Ford, "he's an odd fellow, but he's a good

one. Did you see how wonderfully strong he is in his arms? I couldn't

lift those fish at arm's length to save my life."

It was quite likely that Dab Kinzer's rowing, and all that sort of

thing, had developed more strength of muscle than even he himself was

aware of; but, for all that, he went home with his very ears tingling,

"Could she have thought me ill-bred or impertinent?" he muttered to

himself.

Thought?

Poor Dab Kinzer! Annie Foster had so much else to think of, just then,

for she was compelled to go over, for Ford's benefit, the whole story of

her tribulations at her uncle's, and the many rudenesses of Joe Hart and

his brother Fuz.

"They ought to be drowned," said Ford.

"In ink," added Annie; "just as they drowned my poor cuffs and collars."