"Why not? Hain't you got a gun?"

"Yes, but while I was killin' one the others might chaw me all to

pieces; but if there was only one, I wouldn't care, if he was an

elephant as big as a barn----"

"My gracious! there he comes!"

A terrific crashing of the undergrowth caused both lads to glance

affrightedly behind them, and there, sure enough, was Vladdok, the

fearful elephant, almost upon them. They started to run, their courses

so diverging that the beast was forced to select one and let the other

alone for the moment. He fixed upon Billy Wiggins, who had taken

barely twenty steps, when the trunk of the beast inclosed his waist and

he was lifted, as if he was a feather from the ground, and the next

instant he felt himself whizzing through space.

A marvelous providence saved him. Instead of dashing him against a

tree, or upon the ground, the elephant, in one of his mad freaks, flung

him from him as though he was a ball. He spun through the air, the

leaves and limbs whizzing against his face and body, and instinctively

clutching with both hands, succeeded in grasping enough branches to

support the weight of his body and check his descent.

Then, when he collected his senses and stared around, he found that he

was a dozen yards above the ground, with the elephant beneath, looking

up, and apparently waiting for him to fall within his reach, that he

might finish him.

"Not much," muttered Billy; "I'm going to stay here and I don't believe

you know how to climb a tree. Helloa! how do you like _that_?"

Jack Norton had dashed only a few yards, when the terrified look he

cast over his shoulder told him the elephant was giving his whole

attention to Billy, and seemed to have forgotten all about him.

Instantly he was filled with alarm for his young friend, and started

back to the log to get his rifle, that neither had thought of in the

panic.

As he knelt behind the fallen tree, to make his aim sure, he descried a

queer object going through the limbs of a large oak, and did not

identify it, until it lodged fast, as his friend Billy Wiggins.

Jack had no more idea of the fatal point at which to aim his weapon

than you have, but knowing that he must do something, and, with a dread

that the elephant after all, might succeed in climbing the oak and

getting at his friend, he let fly.

Gordon Cumming himself could not have done better. The tiny bullet

bored its way into the vast bulk, just back of the fore leg and went

directly through the heart. The huge brute, as if conscious that he

was mortally hurt, swung part way round, so as to face the point whence

the shot had come. Catching sight of the kneeling youngster, with the

muzzle of his rifle still smoking, he plunged toward him. He took a

couple of steps, swayed to one side, moved uncertainly forward again,

then stopped, tried to steady himself, and finally went over sideways,

like a mountain, crashing the saplings and undergrowth near him, and

snapping one of his magnificent tusks into splinters. He was dead.

When the boys fully comprehended what had taken place, they were not a

little alarmed and puzzled, and started home, wondering whether their

game was a descendant of the creatures that used to inhabit that

section, or whether he was a visitor to these parts. They had not gone

far, however, when they met the attaches of the menagerie and circus to

whom they related what had occurred.

The proprietors were relieved on learning the whole truth, for there

could be little doubt that the sudden ending of the career of Vladdok

was the means of saving more than one person from death.

As for Jack Norton and Billy Wiggins, it was generally conceded that

they spoke the truth, when they declared:

"Our fathers wouldn't let us go to the circus that afternoon, but I

guess we had a bigger circus than any of you all to ourselves."

LOST IN THE SOUTH SEA.

Captain William Gooding was commander of the _Tewksbury Sweet_, of

Portland, Maine, and was lost in the South Pacific in the spring of

1889. This fine American bark sailed from New Castle, New South Wales,

on the 17th of March, bound for Hong Kong. Everything went well until

the 9th of the following month, when she encountered a severe gale.

Despite all that skillful seamanship could do, and in the face of the

most strenuous exertions, she struck the dangerous Susanne Reef, near

Poseat Island, one of the Caroline group of the South Sea.

The wreck was a total one. The vessel broke up rapidly, and seeing

that nothing could be done, the captain and crew, numbering ten men in

all, took to one of the boats, carrying with them only a single

chronometer belonging to the ship. Even after entering the small boat

they were still in great danger, and only succeeded after the utmost

difficulty in reaching a small islet some miles to the southward. The

storm was still raging so violently that the shelter was a most welcome

one, though as there were no animals or vegetation, or even water upon

the island, their stay of necessity could be only temporary. They had

saved nothing to eat or drink, and to remain where they were meant a

lingering death.

After several hours waiting, the tempest abated somewhat, and launching

their boat once more, they rowed toward the main island.

"The end is likely to be the same in either case," remarked the captain

to the second mate, George W. Harrison, as they approached the land.

"And why?" inquired the latter: "we shall find food and water there."

"True enough; but there are no fiercer savages on the South Sea than

those of this island, and I have never heard that they were

particularly friendly toward the crews of shipwrecked vessels."

"They may not discover us until we can signal some passing ship."

"There is no possibility of any such good fortune as that."

"Stranger things have happened, and--"

"Does that look like it?" interrupted the captain in some excitement,

pointing toward the island.

The sight that met the gaze of every one was startling. Fully thirty

canoes, each filled with eight or ten natives, were putting off from

shore and heading toward them. Several of the crew favored turning

about, and putting to sea; but that would have been not only hopeless,

but would have invited attack. Nothing is so encouraging to an enemy

as flight on the part of his opponent. It impels him to greater

exertions and gives him a bravery which otherwise he may not feel.

The savages, in their light, graceful craft, and with their great skill

in manipulating them, would have overhauled the white men "hand over

hand." There was a faint hope that by presenting a bold front, and

acting as though they believed in the friendship of the savages that

they might spare the unfortunates. At any rate, it was clear there was

no choice but to go ahead, and the white men did so, rowing leisurely

and calmly, though the chances in doing so were hastening their own

doom.

There could be no mistaking the ardor of the ferocious natives. They

paddled with might and main, and fully a dozen, in their eagerness,

leaped into the sea and swam ahead of their canoes. They were

magnificent swimmers, speeding through the water like so many dolphins.

The Americans, even in their frightful peril, could not repress their

admiration.

"Did you ever see anything like it?" asked first mate Watchman; "they

are like so many sharks."

"They are indeed," was the significant response of Captain Gooding,

"and I would like it better if they were real sharks."

"Here they are!"

Sure enough; they surrounded the boat in a twinkling, and shouting and

screeching like so many demons, clambered over the gunwales until there

was danger of swamping the craft.

Had our friends possessed firearms, they would have made a desperate

resistance, and possibly might have beaten off their assailants; but,

as it was, they acted the part of wisdom in offering no opposition to

the presence or actions of their unwelcome visitors.

The latter proved that they meant business from the first, for hardly

were they in the boat when they began stripping the officers and

sailors of their property. When they ceased the men had nothing left

but their undershirts, their despoilers flinging the garments into the

canoes that now crowded around.

No more plunder being obtainable, the fleet headed for land, with their

captives in anything but a cheerful frame of mind. The shore was lined

with women and children, who answered the shouts of their friends in

the boats by running back and forth, screeching and yelling and

dancing, as if unable to restrain themselves until the arrival of their

victims.

The sailors believed they would be speedily killed and eaten, the

latter horror might have been escaped had they known, what they

afterward learned, that the savages of those islands are not cannibals.

The poor fellows stepped from their boat upon the shore, where they

were immediately environed by the fierce men, women and children, half

naked, wild, boisterous, and seemingly impatient to rend them to

pieces. The prisoners could do nothing but meekly await the next step

in the tragedy.

It was during these trying moments that the sailors were astounded to

hear, amid the babel of voices, several words spoken in English.

Staring about them to learn the meaning of such a strange thing, they

saw a man attired as were the others, that is with only a piece of

cloth about his hips, whose complexion and features showed that he

belonged to the same race with themselves.

He advanced in a cheery, hearty way, and shaking hands with the new

arrivals, said:

"I think you did not expect to find me here."

"Indeed we did not," was the reply; "you appear to be an Englishman."

"So I am, and I am anxious to give you all the help I can, for your

situation is anything but a desirable one."

"There can be no doubt of that. But how is it that you are here? Were

you shipwrecked like ourselves?"

"No; I may say I was deserted. My name is Charles Irons, and I was

left at Poseat by a trading vessel four years ago."

"How came that?"

"I was to act as the agent of a company of traders on the Cocoanut

Islands. Well, the vessel left me, as I first told you, and that was

the last of it. They forgot all about me, or more likely, did not care

to keep their promise, for I have never seen anything of the vessel

since."

"What an outrage!"

"It was, and there couldn't have been a more wretched person than I was

for several months. I looked longingly out to sea for the ship that

never came, and chafed like a man who is bound hand and foot. But,"

added the Englishman with a smile, "there is nothing like making the

best of things. You can accustom yourself almost to anything if you

will only make up your mind to do so. I was among these people and

there was no help for it, so I decided to adopt their ways and become

one of them."

"You decided when in Rome to do as the Romans do," suggested the

captain, who, like his companions, was greatly cheered, not only by the

presence and friendship of the Englishman, but by the fact that the

savages, who watched the interview with interest, showed no disposition

to interfere.

"That's it. There are a great many worse people in this world than

these. They are not cannibals, as are many of their neighbors, and

they have never harmed me."

"But what about us?" was the anxious inquiry.

The Englishman looked grave.

"I cannot say what their intentions are, but I am afraid they are bad.

They have been used ill by some of the vessels that have stopped here,

and are naturally suspicious of all white people. Then, too, they are

revengeful, and like all barbarians are satisfied, if aggrieved against

our race, to get their satisfaction out of any member of it, whether he

is the one who injured them, or is entirely innocent."

"You seem to be regarded with high favor here."

"I am. I stand next to the chief in authority, so you see I have

reason to believe I may be of some service to you. You may be sure

that I shall leave no stone unturned to help you."

The captain and his companions gave expression to their deep gratitude,

and Irons continued in his bluff, pleasant manner:

"I guess I am about as much a savage as any of them. If I hadn't been

I never would have obtained any control over them. I have seven native

wives, and find I am forgetting a great many details of civilization,

while my desire to return home is growing less every day. After all,

what difference does it make where you are? A man has only a few years

to live, and as long as he is contented, he is a fool to rebel."

There may have been good philosophy in all this, and the captain did

not attempt to gainsay it, but, all the same, it was hard for him to

understand how any one could be so placed as to lose his yearning for

his home and his native land.

It was several days afterward, when the captives had become somewhat

accustomed to their surroundings, that Captain Gooding found he and his

men were mixed in their reckoning.

"It is a question among us whether this is Thursday or Friday," said

he, addressing Irons; "can you settle it for us?"

The Englishman looked at the captain in an odd way and replied:

"I haven't the remotest idea of what day in the week it is, nor what is

the month. It seems four years ago that I was left here, but I am not

sure of it. Will you please give me the year and month?"

"This is April, 1889."

The Englishman bent his head for a few minutes in deep thought. He was

recalling the past, with its singular incidents of his career. When he

looked up he said:

"Yes; it is four years and more since I was abandoned, and if you stay

that long you will be content to remain all your lives."

The captain shook his head, and his eyes were dimmed as he replied:

"I never could forget the loved ones at home, Irons; I would prefer

death at once to a lingering imprisonment here."

"Well, I am going to help you all to leave just as soon as it can be

done. I understand how you feel, and sympathize with you."

The Englishman proved himself the most valuable kind of a friend. The

authority which he possessed over these savage South Sea Islanders was

stretched to the utmost, but he never hesitated to employ it. But for

his presence the Americans would have been put to death within a few

hours at most of their arrival on the mainland, and without his aid it

would have been impossible for them ever to have gotten away.

When everything was in shape, Irons hired a canoe of the natives for

the use of his friends. The craft was not large enough to contain all

the party, and since all real peril had passed, there was no fear in

following the course that had been agreed upon.

Captain Gooding, second mate Harrison; and one of the sailors left

Poseat in the canoe, first mate Watchman and his six companions

remaining on the island. This was ten days after the loss of the

_Tewksbury Sweet_.

Captain Gooding and all the sailors were in the best of spirits, for

they were confident that their wearisome captivity was substantially

over. The three made their way from island to island, stopping at

eight different points, sometimes for days, and even weeks. Finally

they arrived at Ruk, where they found a missionary station, and

received the most hospitable treatment.

The good men owned a boat abundantly large enough to carry twenty

persons, and the captain asked its use with which to bring the rest of

his crew from Poseat. This was asking more than would be supposed, for

the missionaries told them that they were surrounded by hostile

natives, who were liable to an outbreak at any hour, in which event the

only means of escape the white men possessed was the boat.

The missionaries, however, gave their consent, and Captain Gooding,

hoisting sail in the staunch centre-boarder, set sail for Poseat, where

he safely arrived, without unnecessary delay. He found the first mate

and his sailors well and in high spirits, though they were beginning to

wonder whether their captain, like the friends of Irons, had not

forgotten, and concluded to leave them to themselves.

No objection was offered to their departure, and bidding an

affectionate good-by to the Englishman, who had proven the best kind of

a friend, they returned to the missionary island. Two months later the

missionary vessel, the _Morning Star_, arrived, and carried them all to

Honolulu, which was reached in November. Thence Captain Gooding and a

part of the crew were brought by the steamer _Australia_ to San

Francisco, from which point the captain made his way to his home in

Yarmouth, where his family and friends welcomed him back as one risen

from the dead, for they had long given up hope of ever seeing him again.

AN UNPLEASANT COMPANION.

"Say, Jack, the shellbarks are droppin' thick down in Big Woods. What

a chance for a fellow to lay up a bushel or two before the crowd gets

down there in the morning."

"Wouldn't it, though, Ned!" I replied wistfully, for if there was

anything I had a fondness for, it was shellbarks.

We were trudging home to our dinner, for Ned and I lived close to the

schoolhouse, much to the envy of some less fortunate pupils who brought

their noonday meal with them in tin pails. It was a late September

Friday, and a soft golden haze lay on hillside and woodland, and the

quail were whistling in the furrows; and, as Ned spoke, I could see in

my mind's eye just how Big Woods would look that afternoon with the

soft sunlight slanting through the trees, and glimmering on the quiet

waters of the creek.

"Well, Jack, will you go?" said Ned abruptly.

"You mean will I play truant?" I asked, a little startled.

"Yes; there's no danger, Jack; we'll tell the teacher we had to stay

home to cut corn."

At first, I resisted Ned's appeal. I had played truant once before, a

long time ago, and the memory of the punishment that I received in the

woodshed at home was still strongly impressed on my memory.

But this, I thought, was an exceptional case, I badly wanted a bushel

or two of shellbarks, and I knew full well that, unless they were

gathered that afternoon, they wouldn't be gathered at all; for bright

and early the next morning all the boys in the neighborhood would be

down in Big Woods, armed with clubs and baskets and sacks, and even the

squirrels would stand a poor show after that invasion.

In our selfishness, we never thought that other people might have a

fondness for shellbarks as well as ourselves. So, after a little more

pleading on Ned's part, I gave in, and we agreed to meet down at the

foot of our orchard, as soon as dinner was over, for Ned lived right

across, on the next farm. In a corner of the barn, I found my old

chestnut club, a hickory stave, well coiled with lead at the top.

Shoving this under my jacket, so no prying eyes could see it, I joined

Ned at the meeting-place, and off we went in high spirits for the

Yellow-breeches.

It was a good mile to Big Woods, for we had to circle away down to

Hake's Mill to get across the creek, but we felt well repaid for our

trouble when we arrived there. The fallen nuts lay thick amid the dead

leaves, and up on the half-naked trees the splitting hulls hung in

clusters, willing to drop their burden at the least rustle of the

breeze.

We heaped the shellbarks in great piles, ready to stow away in Ned's

big wheat bag; and, when the ground was cleaned up pretty well, and the

leaves had been thoroughly raked, we turned our attention to a close

cluster of trees that stood close by the creek. These nuts were

unusually large, and thin-shelled. The hulls were cracked apart, but

very few nuts lay on the ground, so I hauled out my club, and drove it

fairly into the heart of the tree. A shower of nuts came down, with a

merry clatter that gladdened our hearts; but the club, striking the

trunk of the tree, bounded sideways and lodged in the crotch of a limb

overhanging the creek, some twenty or thirty feet above the water.

Here was a dilemma. I didn't want to lose that club, for it had done

good service in past autumns, and had gone through a great many

hairbreadth escapes.

If we tried to dislodge it by hurling sticks or stones, it would fall

into the water, and just at that point the creek was very deep, and

moreover, as popular tradition held, a treacherous undertow existed

which would render the recovery of the club impossible.

"Climb the tree, Jack," said Ned; "that's your only chance."

I was always considered a pretty good climber, so, after a little

hesitation (for this was an unusually difficult tree), I started up the

slippery trunk, and, with Ned's friendly aid, pulled myself among the

lower limbs.

It was an easy matter to reach the particular bough that I wanted, but

then came the tug. I was half-inclined to give up the whole thing and

go down to the ground, but Ned kept egging me on so confidently that I

determined to go through with it.

Straddling the limb, I took a firm hold with both hands in front of me,

for no other boughs were close enough to be grasped, and thus inch by

inch I moved cautiously forward.

The branch creaked and groaned, and at last began to bend in such an

alarming fashion that I stopped short.

There was the club, not four feet away now, and far below I could see

the quiet waters of the creek, wrinkling the reflected foliage as a

dropping nut or stray leaf rippled the surface.

"You're nearly there, now," cried Ned, with hearty encouragement; "just

a little more, Jack, and you'll have it.

"But the limb will break," I called down.

"No, it won't," he insisted, "don't be afraid."

That settled it. I wasn't afraid, and Ned should know it.

I took a firmer grip on the bough, and slid forward half a foot.

Crack, crack,--the big branch slowly began to split, and as I made a

frantic effort to crawl back, a strange noise from the bushy part of

the tree overhead turned my gaze upward.

It's a wonder my hair didn't turn white that very instant, for what I

saw was a big, tawny wild-cat, with blazing eyes and quivering claws,

crouched on a narrow limb. I knew the animal was going to spring, and

I tried to shout as loudly as I could, but my tongue stuck to the roof

of my mouth, and the only sound I made was an odd cry that caused Ned

to laugh, for he couldn't see what was the matter from where he stood.

Then like a streak the brute plumped down on my back, and with a

tremendous splash, limb, wildcat, and myself went into the creek.

I heard Ned shout, as the water closed over me, and then everything

became dark.

I rose to the surface terribly frightened, for, sad to relate, I had

never learned to swim, and Ned could do very little in that direction.

Instead of clutching at the empty air, as most drowning persons do, I

caught hold of something substantial; and when the water was out of my

eyes and out of my stomach, for I had swallowed about a pint, I saw

that I was hanging to the bushy end of the broken limb. That was all

very well, but the next thing I observed was not so pleasant, for six

feet distant, on the thick part of the branch, sat the wild-cat,

apparently none the worse for his fall. His sharp claws were driven

into the bark, and he was calmly licking his dripping fur. Meanwhile

the current was sweeping us down stream, and Ned was running along the

bank in a sad state of fright and excitement. My back began to hurt

pretty badly, and I discovered that my face was torn and bleeding in

one or two places, though whether this was caused by the fall or by the

wild-cat I did not know.

"Swim, Jack, let go and swim," shouted Ned, and then, remembering

perhaps that I was unable to follow his instructions, he suddenly

turned and ran back through the woods at the top of his speed, instead

of making any effort to help me.

I was badly scared before, and now, when I saw, as I supposed, my last

hope vanish, I began to shout for help as loudly as I could.

But at the very first cry the wild-cat lifted his head, and emitted a

vicious snarl. As I howled louder than ever, he advanced a foot or two

along the limb, ripping off the bark, and fixing his big glaring eyes

savagely on my face.

I was terrified into silence, and, as soon as I ceased shouting, the

brute stopped and coolly proceeded to lick his fur again.

Apparently, he did not object to my presence so long as I remained

quiet. The worst of it was that my end of the branch was pretty far

down in the water, and threatened every moment to carry me entirely

under the surface.

In this precarious situation, I drifted down the creek, until the bend

drew near that sweeps round to Hake's Mill. Here the country was a

little more open, and a farmhouse came into sight over the brow of a

hill.

There was a chance of rescue, and in spite of my previous experience, I

decided to try it, for my limbs were becoming chilled, and I knew I

could not hold on much longer.

"Help! Help!" I cried with might and main. No answer came back, but

before I could shout a third time the wild-cat uttered a snarl, and

began creeping toward me, inch by inch, and lashing the water fiercely

with his tail. Lower and lower sank the branch, until my shoulders

were submerged, and still the beast kept advancing.

I continued to shout, but no welcome voice responded, only empty echoes

floating back from the hills.

Then I must have given up all hope, for I remember wondering vaguely

what had become of Ned, and what they were doing in school, and whether

my absence was noticed or not.

The cold water was rippling about my neck now, and the wild-cat was so

close that I could note the horrible colors of the glaring eyes, and

feel the hot breath in my face. I wondered how it would feel when

those two rows of needle-like teeth met in my flesh; and then, before I

could think any more, a deafening report filled my ears, and, through

the cloud of smoke that rolled over the creek, the wild-cat bounded

high in air, and fell into the water with a loud splash. That was all

I remembered then. The next thing I knew, I was lying in a grassy

hollow, alongside the creek, while Ned and an old farmer bent over me,

and threw water in my face. Ned's desertion was explained. He had cut

off the bend in the creek by running over the hill, and, accompanied by

the farmer, who happened to be down in the woods hunting rabbits, they

had arrived just in time to shoot the wild-cat and drag me out of the

water. That was the last time I played truant. I didn't lose my share

of the shellbarks, for Ned went down early the next morning and got

them, but I did lose the chestnut club, and what was worse, in spite of

my sore back, I spent a very unpleasant quarter of an hour out in the

woodshed, just two days later, and Ned, I am happy to say, passed

through the same edifying experience.

A STIRRING INCIDENT.

India is the home of the deadliest serpents and fiercest wild beasts on

the globe. When it is stated that more than twenty thousand persons

are killed annually by the snakes and animals of that country, some

idea may be formed of its attractions in the way of a residence. To

this should be added the fact that, during certain seasons, the climate

is like that of Sahara itself. For days and nights the thermometer

stands above one hundred degrees in the shade and in the city of

Madras, unacclimated persons have died at midnight in their beds from

apoplexy caused by the appalling temperature.

Among the venomous serpents of India, the _cobra di capello_ holds

foremost rank, though it is claimed that a still more deadly reptile

has been found in the interior, and I believe the British Museum has

one of these terrible creatures, whose bite brings death with the

suddenness of the lightning stroke. However, the cobra has been known

to strike two persons in instant succession, proving fatal to both

within ten minutes of each other. It is hard to conceive of any

serpent more venomously destructive than this.

On one of the flaming Sunday mornings, when there was not a cloud in

the brazen skies, a well known missionary came home from early service

and seated himself at the breakfast-table with his family. The door of

the dining-room was open and the Teluga school-teacher was outside,

when he became interested in a novel sight. A frog was hopping along

the front veranda, with an immense cobra chasing it. The serpent

struck at it repeatedly, but the fugitive, in its desperation, eluded

each blow, giving utterance to pitiful cries, as a frog will do when

pursued by a snake.

The end of the veranda reached, the frog leaped off, and the cobra

dropped to the ground in hot pursuit, but a box, standing near, offered

shelter. The creature scrambled beneath, just in time to avoid another

swift blow of the reptile, which was unable to follow it. The cobra

glided around the box, seeking some avenue by which to reach his

victim, but, finding none, moved off in the grass and disappeared.

The teacher hurried into the dining-room, with the announcement of what

he had seen. The missionary listened gravely and then inquired:

"Where is the cobra now?"

"I cannot tell, sir; he moved off among the flower-pots, but I do not

know whither he went."

"It is not my practice to go shooting on Sunday," remarked the

minister, "but it won't do to have that serpent where it is liable to

bite one of us. He must have a hole somewhere near the flower-pots;

please keep watch while I get my pistol."

The missionary always kept a loaded revolver for use when traveling

through the jungle at night, and he speedily stepped out on the

veranda, with the weapon in hand, and started to find the cobra.

Two large native flower-pots stood within a couple of yards of the

veranda. Each contained a fragrant rose, of which the good man's wife

was very fond. Every day she spent some time sprinkling them with

water or removing the dead leaves, never suspecting what proved to be

the fact that while thus employed, she continually moved about a spot

where an immense cobra lay coiled.

An opening was discovered directly between the flower pots, partly

concealed by the grass. It was about as thick as a man's wrist, and

descended perpendicularly, expanding into a small chamber.

The minister called for a hand-mirror, and with little trouble threw

the bright reflection of the sun into the hole, a little more than a

foot deep, fully lighting up the interior.

The cobra was there! It lay motionless in a glistening coil, as if

resting from its fruitless pursuit of the frog and brooding over its

disappointment. It was an alarming sight, but the good man kept cool,

and meant business from the start.

Taking a piece of broken wagon tire, he thrust it slantingly into the

hole, to hold the serpent a prisoner, and shoving the muzzle of his

revolver forward, he let fly.

Not the slightest motion followed. He had missed. He now gently

turned the tire edgewise and fired again. A furious writhing followed,

proving that the snake had been hit hard. The tire was instantly

turned over flat to prevent its coming out. It struck fiercely at the

iron, which in a minute was shifted on its edge again, and the

missionary emptied the remaining chambers of his revolver down the

hole. Then he turned up the tire once more, and allowed the hideous

head to dart forth.

The minister had brought with him a pair of large hedge shears, with

which he seized the protruding neck, drew out the snake and gave it a

flirt toward the compound. He was so absorbed with his task that he

had not noticed the crowd of men, women and children that had gathered

to watch the results of his hunt. When they saw a huge cobra flying

through the air toward them, there was a scampering and screaming,

which might have been less had they known that the grip of the shears

had dislocated the serpent's neck.

The good man did not forget that whenever you find one deadly serpent,

another is quite certain to be close at hand. He had passed the wagon

tire to the teacher, when he began pulling out the wounded cobra, and

asked him to insert it again without an instant's delay. This was

done, and returning with the hand-glass, the missionary once more

conveyed the rays into the underground chamber.

Sure enough a second cobra was there, wriggling and squirming in a way

to show that he had received some of the bullets intended for his

companion. The revolver was reloaded and a fusillade opened, standing

off a few paces, the marksman waited for the head to come forth that he

might seize and draw it out as he had done with the other.

The wounded reptile continued its furious squirming and striking, but

its head did not appear, until shot after shot had been fired. At last

it showed itself, and was immediately gripped with the shears.

Dropping the pistol, the missionary employed both hands in the effort,

and running backward a few steps, the whole frightful length of the

serpent was drawn out upon the ground.

Remembering their former experience, the crowd moved away, but the

missionary spared them a second fright.

Both cobras being helpless, an examination was made of them. The

second one showed the marks of fourteen pistol balls through his body,

any three of which would have proved fatal, but he was still full of

fight, and died while trying to strike the persons near him.

The serpents were now stretched out on the veranda and measured one of

them five feet eleven inches long, and the other six feet two inches.

The last is an extraordinary size, rarely seen even in the favorite

haunts of the reptile. An investigation of their home left no doubt

that they had been living for months right among the flower pots that

were attended to daily, and within six feet of the veranda and twelve

feet of the door of the missionary's study.

As for the frog that crawled under the box just in time to save

himself, he was well and flourishing at the last accounts.

CYCLONES AND TORNADOES.

Science as yet has not been able to grasp the laws that govern

cyclones. They seem to be the result of some intensely electric

condition of the elements, which finds an expression in that form.

Cyclones, until within a few years, meant those circular tempests

encountered in the Pacific and Indian oceans. They are the most

destructive of all storms, being far more deadly than monsoons and

tornadoes.

All navigators, when caught in a cyclone know how to get out of it.

They have only to sail at right angles to the wind, when they will

either pass beyond the outer rim of the circular sweep, or reach the

center, where the ocean is calm.

The diameters of the ocean cyclones range from fifty to five hundred or

a thousand miles. Professor Douglas, of Ann Arbor University,

entertains his friends now and then by manufacturing miniature

cyclones. He first suspends a large copper plate by silken cords. The

plate is heavily charged with electricity, which hangs below in a

bag-like mass. He uses arsenious acid gas, which gives the electricity

a greenish tint. That mass of electricity becomes a perfect little

cyclone. It is funnel-shaped and spins around like a top. When he

moves the plate over a table, his cyclone catches up pennies, pens,

pith balls and other small articles, and scatters them in every

direction.

Cyclones never touch the equator, though the ocean ones are rare

outside the torrid one. They are caused by the meeting of contrary

currents of winds, and are known under the names of hurricanes,

typhoons, whirlwinds or tornadoes. Those terrifying outbursts which

now and then cause so much destruction in our own country seem to be

the concentration of the prodigious force of an immense ocean cyclone

within a small space, which renders them resistless.

A writer in the _N. Y. Herald_ gives some interesting facts regarding

these scourges of the air. While the cyclone, as we have shown, may

have a diameter of hundreds of miles, the track of a tornado is often

limited to a few hundred feet, and rarely has the width of half a mile.

The cyclone carries with it a velocity of as much as 100 to 140 miles

an hour. It sends a certain amount of warning ahead of its track, and

the acceleration of the wind's speed at any given point, is gradual.

The tornado falls almost without notice, or rather the indications are

often so similar to those of an ordinary thunderstorm that only a

skilled and careful observer can detect the difference.

The phenomena and effects of cyclones in the West Indies have long been

subjects of study and observation. As the center approaches a ship she

is assaulted by wind of a terrible force and a sea that is almost

indescribable. The water no longer runs in waves of regular onward

motion, but leaps up in pyramids and peaks. The wind swirls and

strikes until wherever there is a chance for vibration or flutter, even

in tightly furled sails, the fabric soon gives way. I once saw a brig

go drifting past us in a West Indies cyclone with everything furled and

closely lashed with sea gaskets. We were in company nearly at the

height of the storm, when the center was only a few miles away. There

was a spot in the bunt of the foretopsail where the sail was not

tightly stowed, and for several hours it had doubtless been fluttering

under tremendous pressure. As I watched her a little white puff went

out of the bunt of the topsail, and then the destruction of the sail

was rapid. Long ribbons of canvas went slithering off as if a huge

file had rasped the yard arm, and in a short time there was nothing

left on the yard except the bolt ropes and the reef tackles. We could

do nothing to help the crew, for it was doubtful whether we could keep

off the reefs ourselves, and the brig passed out of sight to her

certain doom.

The local tornado that so frequently plays havoc with property and life

in the West is, like the cyclone, a revolving force, but it carries

with it a variety of phenomena wholly distinct from those that

accompany the larger storm. Many of the effects of one tornado are

wholly absent in others, and the indications that in one case have been

followed by a terrible disaster are not infrequently found at other

times to presage merely a heavy thunder shower.

The freaks of a tornado are wholly unaccountable. In some cases not an

object in its track will fail to feel its power for long distances; in

other instances it will seem to act like a cannon-ball that plows up

the earth on striking, then rises and strikes again, leaving the space

between untouched. Sometimes it will go through a forest leveling the

trees as though a gang of axemen had plied their tools on lines laid

out by surveyors, nothing outside the track being touched; but again in

similar windfalls there will be found occasional pockets scored in the

forest growth jutting off the right line, like small lagoons opening

into a flowing stream. These seem to have been caused by a sort of

attendant whirlwind--a baby offspring from the main monster, which,

having sprung away from the chief disturbance, scoops a hole in the

woods and then expires or rejoins the original movement.

I have seen one of the most violent and, so to speak, compressed of

these storms, cut a road through thick woods so that at a distance the

edges stood out clear and sharp against the sky as would those of a

railway cutting through earth. Trees standing at the edge of the track

had their branches clean swept one side while on the other there was no

perceptible disturbance of the foliage.

Sometimes the tornado acts like an enormous scoop, catching up every

movable thing and sweeping it miles away: and again it becomes a

depositor, as if, tired of carrying so much dead weight, it dumped it

upon the earth preparatory to grabbing up a new cargo. These effects

are particularly noticeable in the tornado that goes by jumps. When it

strikes and absorbs a mass of debris it seems to spring up again like a

projectile that grazes the surface. For a space there will be a very

high wind and some damage, but no such disaster as the tornado has

previously wrought. Out of the clouds will come occasional heavy

missiles and deluges of water. Then down goes the tornado again

crashing and scattering by its own force and adding to its destructive

power by a battery of timbers and other objects brought along from the

previous impact. Relieved of these masses, it again gathers up

miscellaneous movables and repeats its previous operation.

The force with which these objects strike is best seen when they fall

outside of the tornado's path, since the work done by the missile is

not then disturbed by the general destructive force of the storm.

Thus, near Racine, Wis., I have known an ordinary fence rail, slightly

sharpened on one end, to be driven against a young tree like a spear

and pierce it several feet. The velocity of the rail must have been

something enormous, or otherwise the rail would have glanced from such

a round and elastic object.

Many of the settlers in the tornado districts of Southern Minnesota,

Iowa, Kansas, and Nebraska excavate a deep cellar beneath their houses

and cover it with heavy timbers as a place of refuge for their families

when a tornado threatens to strike them. While these dugouts are

usually effective, they are not always so. There have been instances

where families having only time to descend and not time enough to close

the trap door have been exposed to the storm's full fury by the tornado

getting into the opening and lifting off the whole roof after having

first swept away the house above. Another pathetic case resulted in

the death of a whole family by an extraordinary freak of the tornado.

The storm first struck a large pond and swept up all the water in it.

Its next plunge deposited this water on one of these dugouts, and the

family were drowned like chipmunks in a hole.

Some of the western tornadoes are accompanied by electrical

manifestations to an extent that has originated a belief in electricity

as their cause. These disturbances are very marked in some cases,

while in others they have not been noticed. In one tornado in Central

Illinois electricity played very peculiar antics not only in the

tornado's track, but also at some distance from it. In the ruined

houses all the iron work was found to have been strongly magnetized, so

that pokers, flatirons and other metal objects were found adhering to

each other. Just off the tornado's track the same effects were

noticed, and several persons experienced sharp electric shocks during

the passage of the storm. Afterward it was found that the magnetic

influence was so strong that clocks and watches were stopped and

rendered wholly useless.

The scooping action of the tornado sometimes makes considerable changes

in the topography of the country, as when it gathers up the water of a

large pond or water course and makes a new pond or opens a new channel.

At Wallingford the water in a pond of very large size was taken bodily

from its bed, carried up a hill and dropped nearly in one mass, so that

gullies and ravines were cut in every direction.

There is a divide in Northeastern Illinois between streams flowing into

Lake Michigan and those running to the Mississippi. So level is a

portion of the land on the summit, and so slight the elevation above

the lake, that in wet seasons the surface-water seems almost as willing

to go one way as the other; and on one occasion the upper streams of

the Desplaines River were nearly permanently diverted toward the lake

by a tornado that gathered up the water and scored the surface in its

track toward the east.

Many are the stories told of the way in which objects are carried away

by the wind and left in strange places. In one Illinois tornado two

children and an infant were caught up. The dead bodies of the children

were found only a few hundred feet distant, but the infant was picked

up alive more than a mile away from the spot where the tornado swept

the children up. An accordion that must have come a long distance--for

it was never claimed--was found so entangled in the branches of a tree

that it was alternately pulled apart and pressed together by the wind,

thus creating such weird and uncanny music during a whole night that an

already sufficiently scared settlement of negroes were kept in a state

of frantic dismay until daylight revealed the cause.

In another case a farmer who followed the tornado's track in search of

missing cattle was astonished to discover one of his cows lodged about

twenty feet above the ground in the branches of a half-stripped maple.

"I allers knew that was an active heifer," he remarked, as he came in

sight of her hanging over the slanting limb, "but I never allowed she

could climb a tree."

LOST IN A BLIZZARD.

If I were given my choice between a visit from a cyclone or a blizzard,

I would unhesitatingly choose the former. True, there is no resisting

its terrific power, and a man caught in its embrace is as helpless as a

child when seized by a Bengal tiger; but there is a chance of escape,

and the whole thing is over in a few minutes. You may be lifted into

the air and dropped with only a few broken bones, or, by plunging into

a "cyclone pit," the fury of the sky may glide harmlessly over your

head; but in the case of a blizzard, however, let me tell you the one

woeful experience of my life.

The snow fell steadily for two days and nights, and looking out from my

home in western Kansas I saw that it lay fully three feet on a level.

By a strange providence my wife, who had been my brave and faithful

helper for several years, was away on a visit to her friends in Topeka,

and my only companion was my servant Jack, a middle-aged African, who

in his youth was a slave in Kentucky.

Things had not gone well with us of late. The grasshoppers and drought

played the mischief with out crops, and it was a question with me for

months whether the wisest course to take was not to throw up my hands,

let everything go to the bow-wows and, in the dry-goods firm, that I

knew was returning to St. Louis, resume my situation still open for me.

A man hates to confess himself beaten, and I decided to remain where I

was one more year. Then, if there was no improvement, I would turn my

back on Kansas forever.

"Master Thomas," said Jack, as the dismal December afternoon drew to a

close, "thar isn't a pound ob flour in de house. Shall I go to de

village and get some?"

"No; I will go myself."

It was the sudden realization of the unutterable loneliness I would

feel without any companion that led me to this rash declaration. The

town was only a mile distant, but it would require hours to make the

journey there and back, and I could not bear the thought of being

without the society of any one for that time. I had read everything in

the house; the single horse and cow I owned had been looked after, and

there was absolutely nothing to do but to sit down before the scant

fire, listen to the sifting of the snow against the window panes, and

give way to gloomy reverie.

Anything was preferable to this, and it was with a feeling akin to

relief that I added:

"I might do so had I not noticed this afternoon that he had gone lame."

"Better let de flour go, den, for de snow am too deep and de storm to

heavy for you to tramp all de way to town and back again."

"No; while I haven't much fear of our starving, yet, if the snow-fall

continues, we shall be in a bad way. I can carry twenty-five pounds

without trouble, and will be back in a few hours; then the storm may

rage as hard as it pleases, for all we care."

The preparations were quickly made, and, to shorten my story, I may say

that, after a laborious tramp, I reached the village without mishap,

bought my quarter of a hundred of flour, slung it over my shoulder, and

started on my return.

By this time I had made several disquieting discoveries. The snow was

falling faster than ever, the cold was increasing, a gale was blowing,

and, under the circumstances, of course there was not a glimmer of

light in the sky. My course was directly across the prairie, and in

the event of my tracks being obliterated by the snow--as was almost

certain to be the case--it was almost impossible for me to prevent

myself from going astray.

My hope lay in Jack's promise that he would keep a bright light burning

in the upper story to guide me on my course. On a clear night this

light was visible from the village, but somehow or other I failed to

take into account the state of the weather. The air was full of

eddying flakes, which would render the headlight of a locomotive

invisible a hundred yards distant. Strange that this important fact

never occurred to me until I was fully a fourth of a mile from the

village. Then, after looking in vain for the beacon light, the danger

of my situation struck me, and I halted.

"I am certain to go wrong," I said to myself.

"It is out of my power to follow a direct course without something to

serve as a compass. I will go back to the village and wait till

morning."

Wheeling about in my tracks, I resumed my wearisome tramp through the

heavy snow, and kept it up until I was certain I had travelled fully a

fourth of a mile. Then when I paused a moment and gazed ahead and

around, I was confronted by blank darkness on every hand. What a proof

of a man's tendency to go wrong, that in aiming at a village of fifty

dwellings, and only a fourth of a mile away, I had missed it altogether!

This discovery gave me my first thrill of real alarm. I shouted, but

my voice fell dead in the snowy air. The gale was blowing more

furiously than ever, and the cold was so intense that it penetrated my

thick clothing and caused my teeth to rattle together!

"You can be of no use to me," I exclaimed, flinging away the small bag

of flour. "The village can't be far off, and I will find it."

Determined to retain my self-possession, I made a careful calculation

of the proper course to follow, and plunged into my work with more

vigor than ever. I continually glanced up in quest of the flickering

lights, and listened, in the hope of hearing some sound that could

guide me, but nothing of the kind was seen or heard, and it was not

long before the terrible truth burst upon me that I was lost.

Aye, and lost in a blizzard! The wind had risen almost to a hurricane;

the cold cut through the thickest clothing, and the snow struck my

face like the prick of millions of needles. I shouted again, but,

convinced that it was a useless waste of strength, I soon ceased.

It was certain death to remain motionless, and almost equally fatal to

push on; but there _was_ a possibility that I might strike the right

direction, and anything was preferable to remaining idle. And so, with

a desperation akin to despair, I threw all the vigor at my command into

my benumbed limbs, and bent every possible energy to the life and death

task before me.

The sleet drove against my cheeks with such spiteful and penetrating

fierceness that I could make no use of my eyes, I could only bend my

head to the blast and labor through the snow, praying that Providence

would guide my footsteps in the right direction.

I was plodding forward in this heavy, aimless fashion when I noticed

that the violence of the gale was drifting the snow. Sometimes I would

strike a space of several yards where it did not reach to my ankles.

Then I would suddenly lurch into a wall that reached to my shoulders.

After wallowing through this, I might strike a shallow portion again,

where, while walking quite briskly, a windrow of snow would be hurled

against my breast and face with such fury as to force me backward and

off my feet.

Bracing myself, I waited until there was a sufficient lull in the

blizzard for me to make some use of my eyes. I blinked and peered

toward the different points of the compass, but without catching the

first twinkle of light.

"I am lost--lost--" I moaned; "there is no help for me!"

An extraordinary collapse must have come over me, for my senses seemed

to forsake me on the instant. I went down in the eddying, blinding

snow, and knew no more.

At the moment of giving way I was less than a hundred yards from the

easternmost house of the village. My despairing cry was heard, and

hospitable hands carried me into the dwelling within a quarter of an

hour after losing my consciousness. Intelligent and prompt treatment

prevented any serious consequences, but the remembrance of that brief

time exposed to the fury of the blizzard will remain with me to my

dying day.

THROWING THE RIATA.

The skill shown by cattlemen in throwing the riata or lasso often

approaches the marvelous. What is more wonderful than the duel

described in the _San Francisco Examiner_, between Mexican vaqueros, in

which the only weapons used were their riatas? The victor overcame the

other by throwing his noose, so that his enemy's noose passed right

through it, and the conqueror lassoed the other man's arms against his

side and jerked him from his steed.

The despatch then went on to tell of the skill of the victorious riata

man, and mentioned among other wonderful feats, his lassoing an

antelope running at high speed 100 feet away. To make the test more

extraordinary, the correspondent wrote that he would pick out one of

the animal's feet and get the noose around that alone.

An _Examiner_ reporter called on Louis Ohnimus, Superintendent of

Woodward's Gardens, who wielded a riata for many years, and probably

knows as much about throwing the lasso as any man on the coast, and

asked him if the feats referred to were possible.

"The Mexican may have won the duel by lassoing his adversary, riata and

all," was the answer. "It is not an uncommon thing for them to settle

their differences by such a fight, and I have heard of the trick of

ringing the other man's rope, but if that man can catch an antelope one

hundred feet away, by the foot or any other way, he is a better riata

man than I ever encountered. In the first place mighty few men are

strong enough to throw a rope such a distance. Then an ordinary riata

is only fourteen or sixteen yards long--twenty yards is a very long

one. So, you see, a forty-foot throw is a pretty good one."

He was asked to explain how to throw a lasso, and consented to do so.

"The first thing about this business," said Mr. Ohnimus, "is to have a

perfect riata. If you have one perfectly stretched, oiled, and in a

thoroughly good condition, you can throw well; if your rope is kinky or

uneven, you will find it impossible to do accurate work."

"What do you consider a good riata?"

"Well, I can only tell you how a good one is made. First, the rawhide

is cut in thin strips, as long as possible, and half tanned with the

hair on. Then these strips are soaked and stretched over a block.

Then they are braided into a rope, care being taken, of course, to pull

the strands as tight as possible. When the riata is made it should be

buried for a week, ten days, or even a fortnight, in the sand. It

takes up moisture from the ground, without getting hard. Soaking it in

water won't do, nor will anything else that I know of except, as I say,

burying it. When the riata is resurrected it should again be left for

a time stretched over a block, with a weight to hold it taut. Then the

hair should be sandpapered off the outside, and when the riata is

greased with mutton tallow and properly noosed it is ready for use.

Every vaquero that pretends to take care of his apparatus will bury his

riata and stretch it every six or eight months.

"A hair rope does not make a good riata. It is useful to stretch

around camp at night to keep snakes away. For some reason snakes will

not cross a hair rope.

"Now, as to throwing it:

"The riata, say, is hanging from the horn of the saddle--not tied, but

ready for use. No vaquero who understands his trade ties his rope to

his saddle. He knows that his life may depend on his ability to let go

of his rope in an instant, and he isn't going to chance killing himself

or his horse. You see, the vaquero might be on a side hill, and a bull

or steer he wishes to catch be on a trail below him, and the ground

between them to be too steep to admit of his riding down to it. Now,

suppose the noose, instead of catching around the horns of the steer,

should circle his neck and draw down to his shoulders? Accidents are,

of course, as likely to happen in catching cattle as in anything else,

and give a bull such a hold and he could pull a house, let alone a

mustang. That would be one case where it would be very handy to let go

quickly. Then a man is likely to get his hand caught, and if he can't

let his rope go free he is likely to lose a finger or two.

"Our vaquero is trotting along with his rope hanging at his saddle bow

or fastened behind him. He sees a deer or whatever else he wants to

catch, and grabs his rope with the left hand if he is a right-handed

man, though a man to really excel in this business should be

ambi-dextrous. A right-handed man can, under ordinary circumstances,

rope a steer; but he has frequently to turn his horse to gain a good

position. Now it sometimes happens that your horse is in a position

where you can't turn; then it would be awkward, unless you could throw

with either hand. I usually throw with my left hand, though I can use

either.

"I take up the rope from the saddle bow, so."

He lifted his riata in his right hand. His little finger held the

standing end of the rope, the third and middle finders supported the

coil, and the noose dangled from his first finger, while his thumb

steadied the whole rope and held it from slipping. The coils were not

more than a foot or a foot and a half in diameter. The noose was the

same size.

"That's a smaller noose than you would use on the range, is it not?"

"No," answered Mr. Ohnimus, "the vaquero never carries his noose long.

If he did, it would be constantly getting tangled up in the horse's

legs. He makes it larger when he swings it. But to get back to the

process of lassoing. As our cowboy gets close to his quarry, he takes

the noose in his lasso hand. I will use my left, as it is a trifle

handier for me. He grips the rope, not too firmly, holding the

standing part and the side of the noose about half the length of the

loop away from the knot. That is to enable him to swing the noose so

that it will fall open. If he holds it at the knot he will throw a

long, narrow noose that is very likely to cross and kink.

"Meanwhile I, representing our cowboy, hold the remaining coils in my

other hand, only changing the position of my forefinger so as to secure

better control of the coils. Then comes the third maneuver--enlarging

the noose. Of course, you have to have a larger noose than one a foot

in diameter to drop over a steer's horns forty feet away. The noose is

enlarged by swinging the noose in your lasso hand until the centrifugal

force pulls it out the size you wish (this is the reason you do not

grasp it too firmly), letting go with the other hand, of course, as

many coils as are necessary to make the noose the right size. Now you

have the noose in the air you do not cease making it circle around your

head until you let it go. When the noose has been let out to the right

size the next trouble is to keep it open and to avoid entangling it in

the brush or other surrounding obstructions. You keep it open, as I

said, by holding the noose from quarter to half its length from the

knot, and by a peculiar twist of the wrist that is only attainable by

practice. To keep it clear of the brush is often a more difficult job,

for the cowboy is not always in a clear place when he wants to throw

his rope. Then it is that his judgment comes into play and determines

whether his cast is a lost one or not. I have seen vaqueros swing a

lasso swiftly almost in the midst of a thicket, and keep it clear

without losing speed, and then let it drive straight as an arrow

between two close trees and rope an object that could not pass where

the noose had gone. Such skill, to be sure, comes only after long

practice.

"Well, now we have got the noose circling about the vaquero's head, and

the next thing is to let it fly. There is not much to describe about

this part of throwing a riata, important though it may be. It is only

incessant practice that will enable a man to make a certain cast. The

main thing is to swing the rope just long enough--neither so long as to

give it a side-wise motion when you throw it, nor short enough to

prevent its getting all the force you require. Then the riata man must

throw at a particular limb or projection. This thing of tossing

blindly at an object and trusting to luck that the animal will get into

the rope somehow will not do. You must pick out your mark as carefully

as if you were shooting at it, and then time it. A steer jumping along

changes his position constantly as regards you. If you throw at his

head high up the chances are that it will be away down when your rope

reaches him, and you will overthrow. Now, if you pick out a foot you

must reckon so that that foot will be off the ground when your rope

reaches him. The noose does not travel like a bullet, and this element

of time is most important.

"Of even more importance is it that the distances are gauged correctly.

You remember I spoke about holding the coils lightly in two or three

fingers. Well, that is done in order that as many coils as may be

considered necessary may be let go. If you are wielding a riata you

know that each of your coils is almost two feet or two and one half

feet long. So if you want to lasso something twenty feet away you let

go ten coils.

"As to letting go, you simply open your hand at the correct time and

the rope slips off.

"But even after you have roped your steer your work is not over.

Almost any animal can pull you from your horse, and to prevent this you

must get your rope around the horn of your saddle. There is where you

have to be quick. There are two ways of making this hitch that are

used ordinarily. The one I prefer is simply to take two turns around

the horn, taking care that the second turn comes lower and overlaps the

other. No pull in the world could make that rope slip, while I can,

simply by throwing off one turn, let it all slide off. This other

fashion, which is really taking a 'half-inch' around the horn, holds

just as fast, but you have to push the rope through to loosen it. You

see, in making this sudden twist, a finger is very likely to get

caught, and I have known many fingers being taken off before such a

hitch could be unfastened.

"It is often advisable to take an extra twist around anything you have

lassoed, and this is done by simply throwing a coil. Practice again is

the only thing that can teach this.

"Now you have the whole theory of throwing a rope.

"There are four sorts of throws, but they are all made alike, only the

position of the arm being different. They are the overthrow, the

underthrow, the sidethrow, and the backthrow."

"Backthrow?"

"Yes, backthrow--catching an object behind you--something that you need

not even see. That sounds difficult, does it? Well, you stand behind

me and you can see it done."

The reporter took his station twenty feet behind Mr. Ohnimus, quite out

of sight, of course. He swung the loop around his head, and, without

turning, let it fly backward. It circled the newspaper man exactly,

and by pulling it quickly Ohnimus had his arms pinioned to his side.

"Are there any more trick throws?" asked the reporter.

"Lots of them. I never put myself up as a crack riata man, and I am

out of practice now, but I can lay the noose on the ground at my feet

and kick it around your neck, or pick it off the ground from my horse

and land it around you while the horse is going at full speed, and do

lots of things like that, but none of them is any good. That backthrow

has been used by the Mexican highwaymen to considerable advantage. You

see, in that country the traveler always looks out for danger from the

rear and is prepared for it, but when a pleasant horseman rides past

him, playing with his riata, and wishing him 'Good-day' as he passes,

he is likely to consider the danger as gone by, as well as the man.

That has caused the death of a good many. The bandit gets the right

distance ahead and then lassoes him as I did you. A touch of his spur

jerks his victim from the saddle and that ends it."

"How is the lasso as a weapon of defence?"

"Good. A quick riata man can beat a fellow with a pistol at fairly

close quarters."

"How?"

"Well, here is a pistol. Put it in your pocket and draw it on me as I

come toward you."

The reporter did as he was directed. He had not raised the weapon when

the noose was around his hand and the pistol was jerked a dozen feet.

"Try again, and tighter," said Ohnimus.

The reporter did so. The pistol was not jerked from his hand this

time, but before he could snap it Ohnimus had thrown a coil around his

neck and pulled his pistol hand up over his shoulder. In another

instant a second coil was around the reporter's body, and both arms

were fastened firmly to his sides. He could not move that pistol an

inch. No clearer demonstration of the use of the lasso as a weapon of

defence was possible.

"What is the most difficult animal, in your opinion, to catch with the

lasso?" was asked.

"A sea lion," answered the rope thrower. "I have caught them off the

southern coast. They go right through a noose. The only way to get

them is to throw the rope around his neck and back of one flipper. A

hog is hard to catch, too. He pulls his legs out of a noose without

half trying, and you can't hold him by the neck or body. The only way

is to get him like the sea lion--back of one foreleg."

A WATERSPOUT.

Doubtless many of my readers have heard of the dreadful encounters of

vessels with waterspouts, when the ship escaped destruction by firing a

cannon-ball into the waterspout, thus causing it to break apart.

Now these things are by no means such terrible objects as many believe.

No doubt the vessels of the present day are larger and stronger than

formerly, and perhaps waterspouts have become smaller. Be as it may,

the people who go down to the sea in ships need give themselves no

uneasiness about them, for really they amount to little.

The _Slavonia_, of the Hamburg line left Brunshausen, on the Elbe, on

February 26 last, under the command of Capt. H. Schmidt. She had only

two passengers. The weather was squally and the air full of mist when

she reached the outer Banks, 900 miles from New York, shortly after

sunrise on Sunday, March 16. The big vessel was heading west by north,

when, at 7 o'clock, Second Mate Erichsen, who was on the bridge, saw

emerge through the mist on the starboard side of the ship, at the

distance of about a thousand feet, a towering column which united sea

and sky. The column was in front of the ship to starboard, and was

moving in a southeasterly direction, apparently at the rate of eight

knots an hour.

Although the Slavonia was running 9 1/2 knots, the column seemed likely

to pass in front of the steamship when their paths crossed.

Accordingly Erichsen did not try to alter the course of the Slavonia;

indeed, he would not have altered it had he known ship and spout were

sure to meet, for he had encountered waterspouts before and wasn't

afraid of them. All he did--in fact, all he had time to do--was to

call Third Mate Lorentzen, also an expert in waterspouts.

On rushed the _Slavonia_, heading west by north: nearer came the

waterspout, heading south by east. It soon became evident that the

spout could not get by before the _Slavonia_ reached it, and it was now

too late to slow up--indeed, a collision was manifestly unavoidable

from the start. Lorentzen had scarcely reached the bridge when the

watery Philistine was upon the Samson. It just hit the steamer's bows

on the starboard side, as depicted in the second cut. A rushing noise

accompanied the column, and the water foamed in its wake. Immediately

above was a great black cloud from which clouds less dark descended to

form a funnel, or inverted cone. The middle of the column was white,

apparently because it contained snow.

The column's narrowest diameter was about twelve feet, while it was

three times as broad as its base, which reproduced in water and

inverted the cloud-formed funnel above. The whole column rotated with

a spiral motion.

The waterspout, when it approached, took all the wind out of the

fore-staysail of the steamship, which went blind, but the schooner-sail

still kept full, and presently the fore-staysail filled again.

The Slavonia shook under the shock caused by contact with the column of

water, but kept on her course none the worse for the collision. A few

flakes of snow on her bow were the only evidence of the collision after

the pillar of water had passed off to port.

While the vessel was uninjured, the waterspout soon showed signs that

it had received its death-blow. As it sailed off to the southeast it

parted in the middle, and the cone of water which formed its base and

the cone of cloud which formed its top began to grow smaller by

degrees. The waterspout was slowly but surely ceasing to be a

waterspout when it disappeared from view in the misty distance some

fifteen minutes or more from the time it was sighted.

The _Slavonia's_ encounter with the waterspout took place in latitude

42 degrees 22 minutes north and longitude 52 degrees 35 minutes west.

This is rather far north for waterspouts so early in the year. The

waterspout crop is generally more plentiful when thunder and lightning

are on top, which is in warmer weather. The temperature of the air at

the time of the encounter was 37 degrees; water 54 degrees. It had

been cold during the night, but grew warmer in the morning. The clouds

which overspread the firmament were of the cumulus pattern.

Erichsen and Lorentzen have not only seen other waterspouts, but the

first, when on a sailing vessel in the tropics, ran into the very

middle of one with no worse result than to deluge the deck of the ship

with water as a heavy shower would have done. He thinks an unusually

large waterspout might possibly sink a very small vessel, say a pilot

boat, but with a ship of ordinary size he considers bombarding a

waterspout with cannon a waste of powder.

AN HEROIC WOMAN.

Every boy and girl should learn to swim. When one recalls how easily

the art is acquired, and the many occasions that are liable to arise,

we cannot but wonder that the accomplishment is so universally

neglected by the other sex. It is pleasant to note, however, that

swimming is growing to be popular among women, and the day is not far

distant, when the majority of young ladies will become the rivals of

their brothers in their ability to keep their heads above water.

Torres Strait separates Australia from Papua or New Guinea; and

connects the Arafura Sea on the west, with the Coral Sea on the east.

Its current is swift and the waters from time immemorial have been

dangerous to navigation. It has been the scene of many shipwrecks, and

it is only a few months since that the steamer _Quetta_ was lost in

those waters. One hundred and sixteen persons perished on that

terrible night in the South Pacific, but among the survivors was Miss

Lacy, whose experience was not only among the most interesting and

thrilling ever recorded, but emphasizes the statement we have made at

the opening of our sketch.

Miss Lacy says she was sitting in the saloon, engaged in writing a

letter, the other ladies practicing for a concert which it was intended

to give on shipboard. Everything was going along, merrily, and all

were in high spirits, when, without the least warning, they were

startled by a harsh, grating noise, the steamer rocked violently, and

nearly every one was thrown into the wildest panic.

The confusion and shouts above showed that some fearful disaster had

occurred. Instantly Miss Lacy made a rush for the deck to learn what

it meant. Quick as were her movements, she found the ship was already

sinking. Going aft was like climbing a steep hill, but she saw that

one portion was high above water, and she struggled bravely to reach

it. But, so rapidly did the _Quetta_ go down that she had hardly gone

forward, when the steamer was swallowed up in the furious waters.

That which followed is beyond description. In an instant, two hundred

human beings were struggling frantically, shrieking in their terror for

the help which was nowhere to be found, clutching each other, praying

and drowning by the score.

Miss Lacy was caught in this fearful swirl, and was in imminent danger

of being dragged down by those around her, who were crazed by the one

wild, despairing hope of saving themselves, no matter at what cost.

But she was a powerful swimmer, and retaining her self-command, she

shook herself free of several who attempted to cling to her. The

whirlpool caused by the sinking of the steamer pulled her beneath the

water, but, with the same wonderful presence of mind she had shown from

the first, she fought her way to the surface, and swam from the

dangerous spot.

Finding herself her own mistress, and fully aware that her life now

depended on her ability to swim, she removed all her superfluous

clothing and moved hither and thither in the darkness, in the hope of

coming upon some of the survivors.

It was about midnight, that she heard some one shout. The gloom was

too powerful for her to distinguish anything, but she swam toward the

point, whence the call issued, and came upon a raft, that had been

hastily thrown together by the chief officer of the _Quetta_. Several

persons were clinging to it, and she accepted the invitation to avail

herself of the temporary refuge and give her weary limbs a rest.

The dismal hours wore slowly away, and at last the growing light in the

eastern sky told that the longed-for day was breaking. As soon as the

rays of the sun illumined the wild waste of waters, every eye scanned

the ocean in quest of some sail; but on every side was the vast heavy

sea, with no sign of life except on the little raft. It was water,

water everywhere, with not a drop to drink nor a morsel of food to eat,

and with no prospect of escaping a lingering death of the most

distressing nature.

The discouraging feature of the situation to Miss Lacy was that their

rude support was making no progress at all. They had no means of

propelling it, and, had they possessed such means, no one knew what

course to follow. It looked as if days and nights must be passed on

the raft, until one by one the survivors succumbed or ended their

sufferings by plunging into the sea which they had striven so hard to

escape.

Far away, however, on the verge of the horizon, an object rose dimly to

view, which, after carefully studying for some time, the shipwrecked

people agreed was a small island, but, as we have stated, they were

powerless to propel their craft thither, and could only gaze and sigh

for the refuge that was as much beyond their reach, as though it were a

thousand leagues distant.

"I am going to swim to it!" exclaimed Miss Lacy.

"Are you mad?" demanded the astonished chief-officer; "it is utterly

impossible."

"I prefer to risk it rather than remain here."

"But it is much further off than it seems to be; these waters are full

of sharks and you will never live to swim half the distance. Dismiss

the idea at once."

"Good-by!"

And the brave woman took a header into the sea, and with a long

graceful stroke, that compelled the admiration of every one of the

amazed survivors, began swimming toward the supposed refuge.

But the chief-officer knew more about the difficulties in her way than

she did. She grievously miscalculated the distance, and, though she

was a swimmer of amazing skill and endurance, she began to believe she

had undertaken a task beyond her power of accomplishment.

She swam directly toward the island, husbanding her strength like a

wise person, but making steady progress, until before the afternoon was

half gone, she knew she had placed many a long mile behind her. When

she looked back she could see nothing of the raft and her friends, but

as she rose on the crest of an immense swell, she plainly discerned the

island. It still was in the verge of the horizon, and it was hard for

her to see that she was apparently no nearer to it than when she

started.

Besides this alarming fact, she was threatened by a still greater

peril. As the chief-officer had warned her, the waters abounded with

sharks, of the man-eating species, who were liable to dart forward and

seize her at any moment; but, in recalling her extraordinary

experience, Miss Lacy says that at no time did she feel any fear of

them. She knew they were liable to discover her at any moment, but

they did not, and fortunately indeed she escaped their ferocious jaws.

Her greatest suffering was from the blazing sun, whose rays shot

downward upon her head with pitiless power. When she found her brain

growing dizzy, she averted the danger of sunstroke by dropping or

swimming for some distance below the surface. This always cooled or

refreshed her, though she felt her face and neck blistering under the

fierce rays.

In striving to recall her experience, Miss Lacy is unable to remember a

large portion of the time she spent in the water. She believes she

slept for several hours. What an extraordinary situation! Alone in

the midst of the vast strait in the southern Pacific, surrounded by

sharks, with no friendly sail in sight, and yet slumbering and

unconscious.

Of course she was not swimming all this time. When she found herself

growing weary, she floated on her back for long periods, then propelled

herself first upon one side and then upon the other, and all the time

the dim misty object in the distance remained as far away as ever.

Finally, when she raised her head and looked for it, she was dismayed

at being unable to detect it at all. It had vanished.

Then she knew that it had been an optical delusion from the first.

There was no island or land in sight. She was alone on the vast deep.

But the heroic woman did not despair. After she had been in the water

twenty hours altogether, and was in the last stage of exhaustion, she

was picked up by a boat belonging to the search steamer _Albatross_.

For several hours succeeding her rescue she was delirious, but it was

not long before she was entirely herself, having given a signal proof

of the value of swimming as a lady's accomplishment.

THE WRITING FOUND IN A BOTTLE.

Let me assure the readers, at the beginning of this sketch, that it is

strictly true in every particular. I have no ambition to shine as a

writer of fiction, and, at the request of a number of friends

acquainted with the remarkable circumstances, have sat down to relate,

in a straightforward manner as is at my command; the part that I took

in the history of the famous _Buried Treasure_.

Not the least singular part of this strange business was that, of the

three individuals concerned two were boys, one being my son Frank

(named for his father) and a playmate, Arthur Newman. The latter was

thirteen years old, while Frank was only a few months his senior.

They were inseparable playmates from early childhood; and as we lived

near a broad, deep inlet, which put in from the Atlantic, they learned

to swim at the age of ten, and soon learned to manage a yacht as well

as veterans. I was sometimes anxious because of their venturesome

disposition, but although they frequently ventured outside, sometimes

in very nasty weather, no accident ever befell them, and the parents of

both boys gradually learned to dismiss all fear concerning them, under

the belief that, as they grew older, they became better fitted to take

care of themselves.

One day in March Frank told me that a suspicious brig had been standing

off shore for the better part of a week, and he and Arthur had come to

the conclusion that it was a pirate. I laughed heartily at their

fancy, and assured them that the days of buccaneers and sea rovers were

long since past, and they must dismiss all such absurd ideas from their

minds.

The following week the Atlantic sea-board was devastated by one of the

fiercest storms that had been known for years. Reports of wrecks and

disasters to shipping reached us for several days after, and Frank

remarked one evening at supper that he believed his suspected pirate

was one of the unfortunate vessels that had gone down with all on

board. I smiled at his words, but when I learned that the beach was

strewn with wreckage, and that a great deal of it had washed into the

inlet, I thought it probable that he was right, so far as the fate of

the strange ship was concerned.

It was near the close of the month that my boy brought home a tightly

corked bottle, which he and Arthur had found while cruising in the

inlet. When he said that there was a piece of rolled paper inside, I

felt enough curiosity to withdraw the stopper with the aid of a strong

corkscrew, and to make an examination.

Sure enough there was a small roll of thick, vellum-like paper, on

which, in a cramped hand, evidently written years before, was the

following:

"_Three feet under the Beacon Tree_."

For a minute or two I was puzzled, and then, as if by inspiration, the

whole truth burst upon me.

The Beacon Tree was the name of an immense poplar that stood near the

mouth of the inlet. The fish-hawks had builded their nests in the

forked tops for a half century. I remember hearing my father say it

was struck by lightning long before and although its upper branches

were shattered, and it had been as dead as a fence-post ever since, yet

its immense size, great height, and peculiar, silver-like appearance

caused it to become a prominent landmark to the vessels when

approaching the coast, and long before I was born it gained the name of

the Beacon Tree, by which title it was known to unnumbered hundreds of

sailors and sea-faring men.

"There is a treasure buried under that tree," I said to Frank,

suppressing my excitement so far as I could. "More than likely it was

placed there by some freebooter a long time ago, and these people were

awaiting a chance to dig it up."

"Maybe Captain Kidd buried it," suggested the boy.

"Possibly he did, for there is reason to believe that he hid a great

deal of treasure along the Atlantic coast. Now, since Arthur was with

you when you found this bottle, he has the same claim to the treasure

that you have. We will not say anything to his father, and you must

take particular care not to give a hint to a living soul. Go over and

tell Arthur to come here this evening. I will furnish the shovels and

lantern, and when we are sure that no one will see us, we will slip

over to the Beacon Tree and dig."

I recall that I was never so absolutely sure of anything in my life as

I was that valuable treasure lay buried under the old poplar. My wife,

to whom I showed the little roll of paper, expressed a doubt, and

smilingly hinted that perhaps I was too much impressed by that

brilliant sketch of Edgar A. Poe called "The Gold Bug."

"Of course," I answered, "disappointment may await us, and I know these

bottles picked up at sea are frequently frauds; but the age of the

writing and the peculiar circumstances convince me that this is

genuine. I am sure _something_ will be found under the Beacon Tree."

Meantime Frank had hurried off to acquaint Arthur with the amazing

discovery, and to warn him against dropping a hint to any one. My son

soon returned with the word that his friend was "b'iling" with

excitement, but alas! his parents were going to spend that evening with

a neighbor, and since they would not be back until late, there was no

possible way of his joining us.

The boys were not more disappointed than I, and the impulse was strong

upon me to make the venture without the help of Arthur, meaning, of

course that such a proceeding should not affect his share in the find;

but it did not strike me that that would be exactly right, and Arthur

was informed that we three would attend to the business the following

evening.

I could not avoid strolling out to the Beacon Tree the next day. I did

so in the most off-hand manner and with the most unconcerned expression

I could assume; but had any one scrutinized my countenance, I am sure

he would easily have detected the deep agitation under which I was

laboring.

I was considerably disturbed, upon examining the immediate surroundings

of the tree, to discover signs which looked as if some one had been

digging there quite recently.

"The secret has become known and the treasure has been carried off," I

gasped, with a rapidly throbbing heart.

Reflection, however, reassured me. No one had seen the writing in the

bottle beside myself (though evidently it must have been known to

others), and it was certain that if any person had succeeded in

unearthing the hidden wealth, he would not have taken the trouble to

hide all signs with such extreme care. Closer examination, too,

convinced me there had been no digging about the tree at all. And yet

I was mistaken.

We three reached the old poplar the next evening between ten and eleven

o'clock. Arthur had escaped inquiry by slipping out of his bedroom

window after bidding his parents good-night; and, inasmuch as the

lantern which I carried was not lit until we arrived at the tree, we

were confident of escaping attention. Still I watched sharply, and was

greatly relieved to discover no persons abroad at that hour beside

ourselves.

Since the treasure was located but three feet below the surface, in

sandy soil, I brought only one shovel, while the boys watched me, one

holding the lantern, and both casting furtive glances around to guard

against eavesdroppers. It would be useless to deny my excitement. My

heart at times throbbed painfully, and more than once I was on the

point of ceasing until I could regain mastery of myself.

"Pop, you must be nearly deep enough," said Frank, in a guarded

undertone.

"I'm pretty near to the place," I replied stopping a minute to draw my

handkerchief across my perspiring forehead.

"I'm afraid there's somebody watching us," added Arthur.

"Where?" I asked in affright, staring around in the gloom.

"I thought I saw a man moving out yonder."

"Well, it's too late for him to interfere now," I said, compressing my

lips and renewing my digging more determinedly than ever; "I carry a

revolver with me, and I don't mean to be robbed."

The next moment my heart gave a great throb, for the shovel struck

something hard.

"Hold the lantern down here, Frank, quick!" I commanded in a hoarse

voice.

He obeyed, but to my disappointment the object proved to be a large

stone.

"I guess it's under that," I whispered, stopping work for a moment.

"Pop, there's another piece of paper," said Frank.

I stooped over and picked it up. I saw that there was writing on it,

and holding it up beside the lantern read:

"Dig three feet under the Beacon Tree and you will be an April fool."

Once again the truth flashed across me. The whole thing was a

practical joke.

"Boys," said I, "what day of the month is this?"

They reflected a moment and answered:

"Why, it's the first of April."

"Let's go home," I added, stepping out of the excavation, "and here's a

half a dollar apiece if you don't tell anybody about it."

As we moved mournfully away I was sure I heard a chuckling laugh

somewhere near in the darkness, but the author of it was prudent enough

to keep beyond reach.

It was not until three months afterward that I learned all the facts

connected with the writing found in a bottle. My neighbor, the father

of Arthur Newman, on whom I had played several jokes, adopted this

means of retaliating on me. He took my son and his own into his

confidence, and I am grieved to say that the young rascals were just as

eager as he. When I proposed to make the search on the last day of

March, my friend resorted to the subterfuge I have mentioned, so as to

insure that it should not take place until the following evening, which

was unquestionably appropriate for my first and last essay in digging

for buried treasure.

THAT HORNET'S NEST.

There was an indignation meeting of the boys at Bushville school, one

sultry day in August. From stress of circumstances it was held at the

noon recess, in the piece of woods back of the old stone building, and

on the banks of the crystal stream in which the youngsters swam and

revelled at morning, noon and night, during the long, delicious days of

summer.

All the lads, not quite a score, belonging to the Bushville school,

were present at the impromptu convention, but the proceedings were

chiefly in charge of the lads, Tom Britt, Dick Culver and Fred

Armstrong. There were but a few months' difference in their ages, none

of which was more than fourteen years, but all were so much larger and

older than the rest that they were looked up to as leaders in

everything except study.

It cannot be denied that the three were indolent by nature, inclined to

rebel at authority, and their enforced attendance at school was the

affliction of their lives. They had given their teachers no end of

trouble, and more than once had combined in open rebellion against

their instructors. Tom's father was a trustee, and like the parents of

many ill-trained youths, including those of Dick and Fred, he could see

nothing wrong in the conduct of his son. As a consequence, discipline

at times was set at naught in the Bushville institutions, and one of

the best teachers ever employed by the district threw up his situation

in disgust, and went off without waiting to collect his month's salary.

The successor of this gentleman was Mr. Lathrop, a young man barely

turned twenty, with a beardless face, a mild blue eye, a gentle voice,

and such a soft winning manner that the three leaders gave an

involuntary sniff of contempt when they first saw him and agreed that

he would not last more than a week at the most.

"We'll let up on him, for a few days," Tom explained to some of his

friends, "so as to give him time to get acquainted. I b'lieve in

letting every fellow have a show, but he's got to walk mighty straight

between now and the end of this week," added the youth impressively; "I

ain't in favor of standing any nonsense."

A nodding of heads by Dick and Fred showed that Tom had voiced their

sentiments.

But, somehow or other, Mr. Lathrop was different from the teachers that

had preceded him. He never spoke angrily or shouted, and his first act

on entering the schoolroom was to break up the long tough hickory "gad"

lying on his desk and to fling it out of the window. The next thing he

did, after calling the school to order, was to tell the gaping,

open-eyed children the most entertaining story to which they had ever

listened. The anecdote had its moral too, for woven in and out and

through its charming meshes was the woof of a life of heroic suffering,

of trial and reward.

At its conclusion, the teacher said to the pupils that if they were

studious and transgressed no rules, he would be glad to tell them

another story the next day, if they would remain a few minutes after

the hour of dismissal. The treat was such a rare one that all the

girls and most of the boys resolved to earn the right to enjoy it.

"I'm going to hear the yarn, too," muttered Tom Britt, "for he knows

how to tell 'em, but as for behaving myself that depends."

On the following afternoon, when five o'clock arrived (in those days

most of the country schools opened at eight and closed at five, with an

hour at noon, and not more than two weeks vacation in summer. I have

attended school on more than one Saturday, Fourth of July and

Christmas), the school was all expectation. When Mr. Lathrop saw the

bright eyes turned eagerly toward him, a thrill of pleasure stirred his

heart, for he felt that his was the hand to sow good seed, or this was

the soil where it could be made to spring up and bear fruit a hundred

fold.

"I am glad," said he, in his winning voice, "to know that you have done

well and earned the right to hear the best story that I can tell. You

have been studious, obedient and careful to break no rules, and I am

sure that as we become better acquainted, we shall like each other and

get on well together.

"I wish I could say you had _all_ done well, but it grieves me to tell

you, what you know, that one boy has neglected his lessons, been tardy

or so indifferent to my wishes that it would not be right that he

should be allowed to sit with the rest of you and listen to the

incident I am about to relate. I refer to Thomas Britt. Thomas, you

will please take your books and hat and go home."

The words came like a thunderclap. No one expected it, least of all

the youth himself. Every eye was turned toward him and his face

flushed scarlet. He quickly rallied from the daze into which he was

thrown at first, and with his old swagger, looked at the teacher and

replied with an insolence that was defiance itself:

"My father is trustee, and I've as much right here as you or any one

else, and I'm going to stay till I'm ready to go home and you

can't----" but, before he had completed his defiant sentence, the

slightly built teacher was at his side and had grasped the nape of his

coat. It seemed to the lad, that an iron vise had caught his garment

and a span of horses were pulling at him. He clutched desperately at

everything within reach and spread his legs apart and curled up his

toes in the effort to hook into something that would stay proceedings,

but it was in vain. Out he came from the seat, and to the awed

children who were looking on it seemed that his body was elongated to

double its length during the process,--and he was run through the open

door, and his hat tossed after him. Then the teacher walked quietly

back to his seat behind the desk on the platform, and without the

slightest sign of flurry or mental disturbance, he told one of the

sweetest and most delightful incidents to which his pupils had ever

listened. He closed with the promise to give them another at the end

of the week, if they continued in the good course on which they were so

fairly started.

"He catched me foul," explained the indignant Tom Britt the following

day in discussing his hurried exit from the schoolroom; "if he had only

let me know he was coming, it would be him that dove out the door

instead of me."

The sullen youth did not receive much sympathy at first, for Mr.

Lathrop was steadily winning the affections of the pupils; but Dick and

Fred rebelled at such quiet submission to authority, and acted so

sullenly that they, too, were shut out from the privilege of listening

to the next story related by the teacher to the rest of the school. It

had been agreed among the three boys that they should refuse to depart

when ordered to do so by the instructor, and that when he made a move

toward them, they would assail him simultaneously and rout him "horse,

foot and dragoons."

But the business was conducted with such a cyclone rush that the plan

of campaign was entirely overturned. Before the rebels could combine,

all three were out doors, so shaken up that they agreed that a new

system of resistance would have to be adopted.

And thus it came about that at the noon recess, one day of the

following week, the boys of Bushville school gathered in the cool shade

of the woods to listen to the plan of the three malcontents for

destroying the authority of the school. It was mainly curiosity on the

part of the younger portion, who had little sympathy with the motives

of the leaders and were quite sure they would meet with failure.

"I've made up my mind that I won't stand it," announced Tom, after the

situation had been freely discussed; "no boy with any spirit will allow

a teacher to run him out of school in the style he served me."

"What then made you let him do it?" asked little freckled-face Will

Horton, from where he lay on the ground.

"Didn't I tell you he catched me foul?" demanded Tom, glaring at the

urchin; "if I'd knowed what was coming things would have been

different."

"Dick and Fred knowed he was coming for _them_," added Will, "for he

walked clear across the schoolroom."

"You've got too much to say," retorted Dick Culver, angrily; "when we

want your advice we'll ask for it."

"Well, boys, you had better make up your minds to behave yourselves and

then there won't be any trouble," was the sensible advice of Jimmy

Thompson, who had perched himself on a log, and was swinging his bare

feet back and forth; "Mr. Lathrop is the best teacher we ever had and

he suits the rest of us first rate."

"Of course he suits all boys that ha'n't any spirit," was the crushing

response of the leader, "but I've a plan that'll teach him that me and

Dick and Fred ain't that kind of chaps."

"How are you going to help yourself?"

After several mysterious hints and nods of the head, Tom revealed his

stupendous scheme for bringing the teacher to terms.

"You know the big hornet's nest over in Bear Hollow?"

Inasmuch as there wasn't a boy in the crowd who hadn't shied stones at

the object named (always without hitting it), no further information

was necessary.

"Well, I'm going to put that nest in the teacher's desk, and when he

comes in, takes his seat and raises the lid, won't there be music?"

The scheme was so prodigious that for a full half minute all stared

open mouthed at their leader without speaking.

"The teacher never locks his desk at noon, so it will be easy enough to

slip it in before he gets back."

"But when he opens the desk and the hornets sail out, what will become

of _us_?" was the pertinent inquiry of Will Horton.

"Why the minute the things begin to swarm out I'll yell, and we'll all

rush out doors."