"Won't the teacher do the same thing?"

"But he'll be the last and he'll catch it the worst. He'll be right

among the critters, and they'll just go for him, so his head will swell

up like a bushel basket and we'll have a week's vacation. By that time

he'll learn how to treat us fellers."

"_I_ am," was the proud reply; "come on and I'll show you."

As he spoke, Tom sprang to his feet and started on a trot toward Bear

Hollow, with the others streaming after him.

It cannot be denied that the youth displayed considerable pluck and

coolness when he came to the test. There hung the hornet's nest from

the lower limb of an oak, so near the ground that it could be easily

reached by one of the larger boys. It was gray in color and of

enormous size. It resembled in shape an overgrown football or

watermelon, pendant by one end. In some portions faint ridges were

visible, like the prints left by tiny wavelets on the sand. Near the

base was a circular opening about as large as an old-fashioned penny.

This was the door of the hornets' residence, through which all the

occupants came and went.

The boys halted at a safe distance, and even Tom paused a few minutes

to make a reconnoissance before going nearer.

"You fellows stay here, and don't any of you throw stones or yell!" he

said, in a guarded undertone; "for if them hornets find out what is up,

they'll come swarming out by the million and sting us all to death."

The promise was readily made, and Tom went forward like a hero, the

eyes of all of his playmates fixed upon him. It was noticed be carried

a large silken handkerchief in his hand--one that he had secured at

home for this special purpose.

He advanced stealthily until within some ten feet, when he halted

again. With his gaze centered on the gray, oblong object, he saw one

of the dark insects suddenly crawl to view through the opening.

"I wonder if he suspects anything," thought Tom, half disposed to turn

about and run; "no--he's all right," he added, as the hornet spread his

wings, and shot off like a bullet through the air.

Still intently watching the orifice, the boy moved softly forward until

directly under the nest. Then, with the deliberation of a veteran, he

deftly enfolded it with the large silk handkerchief, easily wrenched it

loose from its support, tied the covering over the top so securely that

not an inhabitant of the nest could possibly escape, and rejoined in

triumph his companions.

"Now you'll see fun!" he exclaimed, as he led the whole party trooping

in the direction of the schoolhouse; "keep mum, and don't tell any of

the girls what's up."

It was a grand scheme and it looked as if there could be no hitch in

it. What compunctions the other boys might have felt against the

attempt to cause pain to their teacher were forgotten in the excitement

of the coming sport.

The residents of the oblong home must have been surprised, to put it

mildly, when they found the house swinging along, in the grasp of some

great giant, themselves enveloped in gloom, and the only avenue of

escape sealed up. They hummed, and buzzed and raised a tempest within,

but it was in vain: they were prisoners and must remain such until the

ogre chose to release them.

Everything seemed to join to help the young rebel. The girls were

playing so far from the school building, that they gave no heed to the

procession which passed into the structure. One glance told Tom that

it was without an occupant, and he strode hastily to the desk, the

others pausing near the door, ready to dash out in the event of

disaster.

The desk was unlocked and Tom raised the lid. The nest was laid on its

side, in the middle, but it was so big that he had to displace several

books to make room for it. Then the knots were untied, the

handkerchief flirted free, the lid lowered, and the deed was done.

Tom joined his companions with a radiant face. "Not a word," he

cautioned, "be extra good this afternoon; even I'll try to behave

myself for once, but we won't have to wait long."

"S'posin' them hornets lift the lid of the desk and come out before the

teacher gets here?" suggested Will Horton.

"What are you talking about?" was the scornful question of Dick Culver;

"how can a hornet raise the lid of a desk?"

"I don't mean that _one_ will do it, but, if they all join together and

put their shoulders to it, they'll lift more than you think."

But this contingency was too vague to be feared. A quarter of an hour

later, Mr. Lathrop entered the building with his brisk step, bidding

such children as he met a pleasant good afternoon, and hanging his hat

on the peg in the wall behind his desk, rang the bell for the children

to assemble, and took his seat in his chair on the platform.

The observant instructor quickly saw that something unusual was in the

wind. There was a score of signs that he detected in the course of a

few minutes, but he could have no idea what it all meant. He was on

the alert, however, and did not remain long in suspense.

The first hint was the sound of loud and angry buzzing within his desk.

While wondering what it meant, and in doubt whether to investigate, he

observed a hornet emerging through the key-hole. Before it could shake

itself free, he shoved him back with his key, which was inserted and

turned about, so effectually blocking the opening, that the insects

were held secure.

The teacher read the whole story, and it needed only a brief study of

Tom Britt's actions to make sure that he was the guilty one.

Much to the disappointment of the boys, Mr. Lathrop seemed to find no

occasion for opening his desk. It remained closed through the whole

afternoon and, when the moment for dismissal arrived, the only one to

remain was Tom Britt, who, while conducting himself fairly well, had

made a bad failure with every recitation. His mind seemed to be too

pre-occupied with some other matter to absorb book knowledge.

The boys loitered around the playground, waiting to see the end of it

all. Tom sat with his hands supporting his head, and his elbow on the

desk, morose, sullen and disappointed.

"I wonder if he suspects anything," he muttered; "I don't see how he

can, for nobody told him. It's queer he has never opened his desk all

the afternoon. I never knew him to do anything like that

before--Gracious alive!"

Just then Tom felt as if some one had jabbed a burning needle into his

neck. Almost at the same instant came a similar dagger thrust on the

top of his head, where he always wore his hair short. Uttering a gasp

of affright, he leaped from his seat, with a score of fierce hornets

buzzing about his ears. The terrified glance around the room showed

that the teacher had slipped noiselessly out of the door, but, before

doing so, he had raised the lid of his desk to its fullest extent.

The next moment Tom bounded through the door, striking at the insects

that were doing painful execution about the exposed parts of his body.

It was not until after a long run that he was entirely freed of them

and was able to take an inventory of his wounds.

It was a lesson the lad never forgot. In the final contest between him

and his teacher, he was conquered and he admitted it. Mr. Lathrop made

a study of his character, and having proven himself physically his

master, set out to acquire the moral conquest that was needed to

complete the work. It need hardly be added that he succeeded, for he

was a thoughtful, conscientious instructor of youth, who loved his

work, and who toiled as one who knows that he must render an account of

his stewardship to Him who is not only loving and merciful, but just.

A YOUNG HERO.

Reuben Johnson leaned on his hoe, and, looking up at the sun, wondered

whether, as in the Biblical story, it had not been stationary for

several hours. He was sure it was never so long in descending to the

horizon.

"Wake up, Rube," sharply called his Uncle Peter, smartly hoeing another

row a few paces behind him, "doan be idlin' your time; de sun am foah

hours high yit."

The nephew started and raised his implement, but stopped. He was

staring at the corner of the fence just ahead, where sat the jug of

cold water, with the Revolutionary musket leaning against the rails.

The crows were so annoying that the double-loaded weapon was kept ready

to be used against the pests when they ventured too near.

"See dar, uncle!" said Rube in a scared voice. The old man also ceased

work, adjusted his iron-rimmed spectacles, and looked toward the fence.

Within a few feet of where the flint lock musket inclined against the

rails, a yellow dog was trying to push his way through. Watching his

efforts for a few minutes, the elder said:

"Rube, I wish we had de gun; dat dog ain't peaceable."

"He am mad; dis ain't de place fur us."

"Slip down to de fence and got de gun; dat's a good boy!"

"Gracious!" gasped the youth; "it am right dar by de dog."

"He won't notice you; run behind him and be quick 'bout it, or he'll

chaw us bofe to def."

"He'll chaw _me_ suah if I goes near him," was the reply of Rube, who

felt little ardor for the task his relative urged upon him.

"Ain't it better dat _one_ ob us should go dead, dan bofe should be

obstinguished?" asked the uncle reproachfully.

"Dat 'pends which am de one to go dead; if it am _me_, it am better for

_you_, but I don't see whar _I'm_ to come in; 'spose you see wheder you

can got de gun--"

"Dar he comes!" whispered Uncle Pete.

Sure enough the cur, having twisted his body between the rails, began

trotting toward the couple that were watching him with such interest.

There was good reason for fear, since the canine was afflicted with the

rabies in the worst form. He showed no froth at the jaws, for animals

thus affected do not, but his eyes were fiery, his mouth dry, the

consuming fever burning up all moisture. He moaned as if in pain, his

torture causing him to snap at everything in reach. He had bitten

shrubbery, branches, wood and other objects, and now made for the

persons with the purpose of using his teeth on them.

"Rube," said his uncle, "stand right whar you am! No use ob runnin',

for he'll cotch you; when he gets nigh 'nough bang him wid your hoe; if

dat don't fotch him, I'll gib him anoder whack and dat'll finish him

suah."

Fate seemed to have ordered that the younger person should hold the van

in the peril, though he was tempted to take his place by his relative,

so that the attack of the dog should be met by both at the same

instant. This promised to be effective, but the time was too brief to

permit any plan of campaign.

The brute was already within a hundred yards of Rube, who, with his hoe

drawn back, as though it were a club, tried to calm his nerves for the

struggle. He would have fled, had he not known that that would draw

pursuit to himself. He was inclined to urge his uncle to join him in a

break for freedom, the two taking diverging routes. Since the canine

could not chase both at the same time, such a course was certain to

save one, but, inasmuch as the youth was at the front, he knew he must

be the victim, and the prospect of a mad dog nipping at his heels, with

fangs surcharged with one of the most fearful venoms known, was too

terrifying to be borne. He, therefore, braced himself, and, with a

certain dignity and courage, held his ground.

A dog suffering from the rabies often shows odd impulses. This one was

within fifty feet of Rube, when he turned at right angles and trotted

toward the other side of the cornfield.

"_Now's_ your time, chile!" called Uncle Pete; "got de gun quick, and

if he comes back we'll be ready for him."

It was the first suggestion that struck the nephew favorably, and he

acted upon it at once. The dog might change his mind again and return

to the attack, in which event no weapon could equal a loaded gun.

As Rube ran with his broad-brimmed hat flapping in his eyes, he kept

glancing over his shoulder, to make sure the brute was not following

him, while his uncle held his position, with his hoe grasped and his

eye fixed on the animal, trotting between the hills of corn. He

managed also to note the action of his nephew, who was making good

time, and whose progress caused the hearts of the two to heat high with

hope.

Had the fence ahead of the dog been open, doubtless he would have soon

passed out of sight; but, as if recalling his trouble in entering the

field, and possibly seeing his error in leaving two victims, he stopped

only an instant in front of the rails, when he turned and came at a

swifter gait than before, straight for Uncle Pete.

The latter stared a second or two and then shouted:

"Quick, Rube! he means _me_ dis time!" And he dashed off, not to join

his nephew, but to reach the side of the field opposite the nose of the

animal.

By this time the youth had his hands on the smoothbore musket and his

courage came back. He saw his uncle crashing over the hills, the

picture of dismay, while the dog rapidly gained on him.

"Hey dar! hey dar!" shouted Rube, breaking into a run and trying to

draw attention to himself. But the brute only sped the faster. He was

near the middle of the procession, but gaining on the fugitive, who had

thrown aside his hoe, flung his hat to the ground, and was making

better progress than when he used to run races with the boys in his

younger days.

The fence was near and he strained every nerve. It looked as if man

and dog would reach it at the same moment, but the former put forth an

extra spurt and arrived a pace or two ahead, with the cur at his heels.

Rube, however, was not far to the rear. Seeing the crisis had come, he

stopped short, brought the musket to his shoulder, and, taking the best

aim he could, let fly with the whole load that clogged several inches

of the barrel.

He did not observe at the moment of pressing the trigger that his uncle

and the dog were in line, but it could have made no difference, since

the shot had to be made at that instant or not at all.

Just as the weapon was fired, Uncle Pete with a great bound cleared the

fence, landing on his hands and knees; and, rolling over on his back,

kicked the air with such vigor that his shoes flew off, one after the

other, as if keeping time with his frenzied outcries.

The yellow cur was scared, as a shark is sometimes driven off by the

loud splashing of a swimmer, and, though he leaped the fence, he

wheeled again, and, without harming the man, ran down the highway

toward the Woodvale school.

For a moment after firing, Rube Johnson believed he was killed. The

flint shot a spark among the powder grains, there was a flash, a hiss,

and then, as the fire worked its way to the charge inside, the

explosion came and he toppled over, half stunned, with the gun flying a

dozen feet away.

But his fear for his relative brought him to his feet, and he hurried

to the old gentleman, who was climbing uncertainly to an upright

posture.

"What's de matter?" asked Rube; "you ain't bit."

"I know dat; I warn't yellin' on _dat_ 'count."

"What fur den?"

"You black rascal, you shot me instid ob de yaller dog."

"Lemme see," said Rube, turning his uncle round and scanning him from

head to foot.

"I done pepper you purty well, uncle, but dare ain't any ob de slugs

dat hit yer--only de fine bird shot."

"How many ob dem?" was the rueful question.

"I don't tink dar's more dan five or six hundred; Aunt Jemimer can gib

her spar time de next six weeks pickin' 'em out; she'll enj'y it, but

dat shot ob mine scared off de mad dog, and yer oughter be tankful to

me, uncle, all yer life."

It was recess at the Woodvale school, and the forty-odd boys and girls

were having a merry time on the playgrounds, which included the broad

highway. Within the building, Mr. Hobbs, the young teacher was busy

"setting copies," his only companion just then being Tod Clymer, a

pale-faced cripple, who, unable to take part in the sports of the other

boys, preferred to stay within doors and con his lessons, in which he

was always far in advance of the rest.

A strange confusion outside caused him to raise his head and look

through the window near him.

"Oh, Mr. Hobbs," he said, "there's a mad dog!"

The teacher started up, and saw the yellow cur running about the

grounds, snapping at the children, while a couple of boys had already

raised the fearful cry, and there was a scattering in all directions.

Although without any weapon, the instructor was on the point of

hurrying out to the help of the children, when he observed the canine

coming toward the outer door. He tried to close it in his face, but

the brute was too quick and was inside before he could be stopped. He

made for the second door, leading into the session-room, but, in this

instance, the teacher slammed it shut just in time.

Instead of going out the dog slunk into the entry and crawled under a

bench, so nearly behind the outer door that he was invisible to any one

beyond.

"Mr. Hobbs," said Tod Clymer a moment later, "will you please help me

out of the window?"

"I think you are safer here," replied the teacher, "for he cannot reach

you, but you will not be able to get away from him outside."

"I want to leave, please, very much."

It was a strange request, and the teacher waited some minutes before

complying, but the heart of the lame boy was so set upon it, that he

finally assisted him to the window furthest from where the dog was

crouching, gently lifted him down to the ground, and then passed his

crutches to him.

"Now, Tod," said he kindly, "don't tarry a moment, for there's no

saying how soon he will be outside again. The other children are away,

but you cannot run like them."

"Thank you," replied Tod, who never forgot to be courteous, as he

carefully adjusted the collars of his crutches under his shoulders.

Mr. Hobbs motioned from the window for several of the boys to keep off.

With a natural curiosity, they were stealing closer to the building, in

the hope of finding out what the rabid dog was doing.

The teacher, seeing his gestures were understood, turned back, when to

his surprise, he noticed the top of Tom Clymer's straw hat, as it

slowly rose and sank, moving along the front of the building toward the

front door.

Instead of hurrying off, as he should have done, the lad was making his

way toward the very spot where the dreadful animal was crouching.

"Why, Tod, what are you doing?" called Mr. Hobbs through the open

window; "you will surely be bitten."

Instead of replying or heeding the words, the lad turned his pale face

toward his friend and shook his head, as a warning for him to make no

noise. Then he resumed his advance to the open outer door, doing so

with great care and stealth, as if afraid of being heard by the brute.

The entrance to the old Woodvale school building was reached by two

steps, consisting of the same number of broad high stones worn smooth

by the feet of the hundreds of children that had trod them times

without number. To make his way into the entry where the pupils hung

their hats and bonnets on the double rows of pegs, Tod had to move

slowly and carefully use his crutches. Being tipped with iron he could

not set them down on the smooth stones without causing noise.

But he acted without hesitation. The teacher read his purpose and knew

it was useless to try to check him. He leaned his head out of the

window and held his breath, while he watched him.

Tod never faltered, though none could have understood the danger he ran

better than he. He had a brother and sister among the children that

had scattered in such haste before the snapping cur, and who were

gathering again around the building despite the warning gesture of the

teacher.

He could not know whether they had all escaped or not, but he was sure

that if the dog came forth again, more than one of them must suffer,

and in those days there was no Pasteur with his wonderful cure to whom

the afflicted ones could be taken.

Tod did not tremble, though it seemed to him the brute must hear the

tumultuous throbbing of his heart and rush forth. Puny as was his

strength, he meant that, if he did so, he would steady himself on his

one support, and grasping the other with both hands, strike the dog

with might and main. It is doubtful whether the blow would have

stunned the dog, for the little fellow's confidence in himself was

greater than his bodily powers warranted.

At the moment he rested the end of the crutch on the smooth surface of

the second stone, it slipped, and only by a strong wrench did he save

himself from falling. The noise was heard by the animal, who was not

six feet distant, and he emitted another moan, which can never be

forgotten by those that have heard it.

Certain that the cur was about to rush forth, Tod steadied himself on

the single crutch, and, reversing the other, held it firmly in his weak

hands. He knew the shuffling sound was caused by the animal moving:

uneasily about the entry, and it was strange he did not burst through

the open door. But he did not do so, and, like a flash, the cripple

shifted his weapon in place under his shoulder. Then, with the same

coolness he had shown from the first, he reached his hand forward and

grasped the latch.

The smart pull he gave, however, did not stir it. It resisted the

effort, as though it was fastened in position. If such were the fact,

his scheme was futile.

Setting down both crutches, Tod now leaned against the jamb to prevent

himself from falling, seized the handle with both hands, and drew back

suddenly and with all his might. This time the door yielded and was

closed.

As it did so, the rabid animal flung himself against it with a violence

that threatened to carry it off its hinges, but it remained firm and he

was a prisoner.

"You are a hero!" called the teacher in a voice tremulous with

suppressed emotion.

"I guess we've got him fast, but look out, Mr. Hobbs, that he doesn't

reach you."

"I think there is little danger of that," said the other, looking

anxiously at the inner door, "but we must get help to dispose of him

before he can do further injury."

By this time, so many of the children had come back to the playgrounds

that several of those living near were sent home for assistance. It

quickly arrived; for Reuben Johnson and his uncle lost no time in

spreading the news, and three young men, each with a loaded gun,

appeared on the scene, eager to dispose of the dangerous animal. The

latter was at such disadvantage that this was done without trouble or

risk.

Providentially none of the children had been bitten, though more than

one underwent a narrow escape. Such animals as had felt the fangs of

the rabid cur were slain, and thus no harm resulted from the brief run

of the brute.

OVERREACHED.

Bushrod, or "Bush" Wyckoff was only twelve years old when he went to

work for Zeph Ashton, who was not only a crusty farmer, but one of the

meanest men in the country, and his wife was well fitted to be the life

partner of such a parsimonious person.

They had no children of their own, and had felt the need for years of a

willing, nimble-footed youngster to do the odd chores about the house,

such as milking cows, cutting and bringing in wood, running of errands,

and the scores of odd little jobs which are easy enough for boys, but

sorely try the stiff and rheumatic limbs of a man in the decline of

life.

Bush was a healthy little fellow--not very strong for his years, but

quick of movement, bright-witted, willing, and naturally a general

favorite. The misfortunes which suddenly overtook his home roused the

keenest sympathy of his neighbors. His father was a merchant in New

York, who went to and from the metropolis each week day morning and

evening, to his pleasant little home in New Jersey. One day his

lifeless body was brought thither, and woe and desolation came to the

happy home. He was killed in a railway accident.

The blow was a terrible one, and for weeks it seemed as if his stricken

widow would follow him across the dark river; but her Christian

fortitude and her great love for their only child sustained her in her

awful grief, and she was even able to thank her Heavenly Father that

her dear boy was spared to her.

But how true it is that misfortunes rarely come singly. Her husband

had amassed a competency sufficient to provide comfortably for those

left behind; but his confidence in his fellow-men was wofully betrayed.

He was one of the bondsmen of a public official who made a hasty

departure to Canada, one evening, leaving his business in such a shape

that his securities were compelled to pay fifty thousand dollars. Two

others were associated with Mr. Wyckoff, and with the aid of their

tricky lawyers they managed matters so that four-fifths of the loss

fell upon the estate of the deceased merchant.

The result swept it away as utterly as were the dwellings in the

Johnstown Valley by the great flood. The widow and her boy left their

home and moved into a little cottage, with barely enough left to keep

the wolf of starvation from the door.

It was then that Bush showed the stuff of which he was made. He

returned one afternoon and told his mother, in his off-hand way, that

he had engaged to work through the summer months for Mr. Ashton, who

not only agreed to pay him six dollars a month, but would allow him to

remain at home over night, provided, of course, that he was there early

each morning and stayed late enough each day to attend to all the

chores.

The tears filled the eyes of the mother as she pressed her little boy

to her heart, and comprehended his self-sacrificing nature.

"You are too young, my dear child, to do this; we have enough left to

keep us awhile, and I would prefer that you wait until you are older

and stronger."

"Why, mother, I am old enough and strong enough now to do all that Mr.

Ashton wants me to do. He explained everything to me, and it won't be

work at all, but just fun."

"Well, I hope you will find it so, but if he does not treat you kindly,

you must not stay one day."

Bush never complained to his mother, but he did find precious little

fun and plenty of the hardest kind of work. The miserly farmer bore

down heavily on his young shoulders. He and his wife seemed to be

continually finding extra labor for the lad. The little fellow was on

hand each morning, in stormy as well as in clear weather, at daybreak,

ready and willing to perform to the best of his ability whatever he was

directed to do. Several times he became so weak and faint from the

severe labor, that the frugal breakfast he had eaten at home proved

insufficient, and he was compelled to ask for a few mouthfuls of food

before the regular dinner hour arrived. Although he always remained

late, he was never invited to stay to supper, Mr. Ashton's

understanding being that the mid-day meal was the only one to which the

lad was entitled.

But for his love for his mother, Bush would have given up more than

once. His tasks were so severe and continuous that many a time he was

hardly able to drag himself homeward. Every bone in his body seemed to

ache, and neither his employer nor his wife ever uttered a pleasant or

encouraging word.

But no word of murmuring fell from his lips. He resolutely held back

all complaints, and crept away early to his couch under the plea that

it was necessary in order to be up betimes. The mother's heart was

distressed beyond expression, but she comforted herself with the fact

that his term of service was drawing to a close, and he would soon have

all the rest and play he wanted.

Bush allowed his wages to stand until the first of September, when his

three months expired. He had counted on the pride and happiness that

would be his when he walked into the house and tossed the whole

eighteen dollars in his mother's lap. How her eyes would sparkle, and

how proud he would be!

"Lemme see," said the skinflint, when settling day arrived; "I was to

give you four dollars a month, warn't I?"

"It was six," replied Bush, respectfully.

"That warn't my understanding, but we'll let it go at that; I've allers

been too gin'rous, and my heart's too big for my pocket. Lemme see."

He uttered the last words thoughtfully, as he took his small

account-book from his pocket, and began figuring with the stub of a

pencil. "Three months at six dollars will be eighteen dollars."

"Yes, sir; that's right."

"Don't interrupt me, young man," sternly remarked the farmer, frowning

at him over his spectacles. "The full amount is eighteen

dollars--Kerrect--L--em--m--e see; you have et seven breakfasts here;

at fifty cents apiece that is three dollars and a half. Then,

l--em--m--e see; you was late eleven times, and I've docked you

twenty-five cents for each time; that makes two dollars and

seventy-five cents."

Inasmuch as Bush's wages amounted hardly to twenty-five cents a day, it

must be admitted that this was drawing it rather strong.

"L--em--m--e see," continued Mr. Ashton, wetting the pencil stub

between his lips, and resuming his figuring; "your board amounts to

three dollars and a half; your loss of time to two seventy-five; that

makes six and a quarter, which bein' took from eighteen dollars, leaves

'leven seventy-five. There you are!"

As he spoke, he extended his hand, picked up a small canvas bag from

the top of his old-fashioned writing-desk, and tossed it to the

dumfounded boy. The latter heard the coins inside jingle, as it fell

in his lap, and, as soon as he could command his voice, he swallowed

the lump in his throat, and faintly asked:

"Is that--is that right, Mr. Ashton?"

"Count it and see for yourself," was the curt response.

This was not exactly what Bush meant, but he mechanically unfastened

the cord around the throat of the little bag, tumbled the coins out in

his hat and slowly counted them. They footed up exactly eleven dollars

and seventy-five cents, proving that Mr. Ashton's figuring was

altogether unnecessary, and that he had arranged the business

beforehand.

While Bush was examining the coins, his heart gave a sudden quick

throb. He repressed all signs of the excitement he felt, however.

"How do you find it?" asked the man, who had never removed his eyes

from him, "Them coins have been in the house more'n fifty year--that

is, some of 'em have, but they're as good as if they's just from the

mint, and bein' all coin, you can never lose anything by the bank

bustin'."

"It is correct," said Bush.

"Ar' you satisfied?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then sign this receipt, and we're square."

The lad sat down at the desk and attached his name in a neat round hand

to the declaration that he had received payment in full for his

services from Mr. Zephaniah Ashton, up to the first of September of the

current year.

"This is all mine, Mr. Ashton?"

"Of course--what do you mean by axin' that?"

"Nothing; good-day."

"Good-day," grunted the miser, turning his back, as a hint for him to

leave--a hint which Bush did not need, for he was in a tumult of

excitement.

"That is the queerest thing that ever happened," he said to himself

when he reached the public highway, and began hurrying along the road

in the direction of Newark. "If he had paid me my full wages I would

have told him, but all these are mine, and I shall sell them; won't

Professor Hartranft be delighted, but not half as much as mother and I

will be."

That evening Mr. Ashton and his wife had just finished their supper

when Professor Hartranft, a pleasant, refined-looking gentleman,

knocked at their door.

"I wish to inquire," said he, after courteously saluting the couple,

"whether you have any old coins in the house."

"No," was the surly response of the farmer, "we don't keep 'em."

"But you _had_ quite a collection."

"I had 'leven dollars and seventy-five cents' worth, but I paid 'em out

this mornin'."

"To a boy named Bushrod Wyckoff?"

"Yas."

"They were given to him unreservedly?--that is, you renounce all claim

upon them?"

"What the blazes ar' you drivin' at?" demanded the angry farmer. "I

owed him 'leven dollars and seventy-five cents for wages, and I paid

him purcisely that amount, and have his receipt in full. I'd like to

know what business it is of yours anyway."

Now came the professor's triumph.

"Young Wyckoff called at my office this afternoon, and I bought a

number of the coins from him."

"What!" exclaimed the amazed farmer, "you didn't pay him nothin' extra

for that rusty old money, did you? You must be crazy."

"I did, and shall make a handsome thing of it. For instance, among the

coins which you gave him was a copper penny, with a liberty cap, of

1793; I paid Bush three dollars for that; I gave him twenty-five

dollars for a half dime coined in 1802; twenty dollars for a quarter

dollar of 1827; the same sum for a half dollar, fillet head, of 1796;

and, what caps all, five hundred dollars for a silver dollar of 1804.

There are only five or six of the latter in existence, and I shall sell

this specimen for at least eight hundred dollars. Mr. Ashton,

sometimes a mean man overreaches himself, and it looks as though you

had made a mistake. I bid you good-day, sir."

The numismatist spoke the truth; and when the miserly old farmer

realized how completely he had turned the tables on himself, it is

enough to say that his feelings may be "better imagined than described."

A BATTLE IN THE AIR.

One of the most interesting towns I ever visited is New Braunfels,

Texas. It was founded by a colony of Germans, and experienced the most

distressing trials during its early days; but it is now a picture of

thrift and industry. The cowboy who attempts to ride through New

Braunfels, with his revolvers displayed, is promptly pulled off his

mustang and compelled to pay a round fine for violating a city

ordinance. If he undertakes to "kick," it won't help him a bit, and

probably will increase the penalty imposed. Our German cousins propose

to run that town to suit themselves, and they succeed quite well.

The rivers of Texas are subjected to violent rises, often as great as

twenty feet in an hour or less. Such sudden floods play havoc with the

bridges along the bank, but I noticed in riding into New Braunfels an

ingenious arrangement of the wooden structure by which, no matter how

high the stream may rise, the bridge accommodates itself, and floats on

the surface, while securely held from being carried away by the current.

But I set out to tell you a true incident of what happened a few years

since, to a bright, lively youngster, sixteen years old, who lives in

New Braunfels, and is brimful of pluck. His name is Lee Hemingway; he

is an orphan, and if his life is spared, he is certain to be heard from

when he reaches man's estate.

Prof. McInery, the well-known naturalist, spent several weeks last

spring in the neighborhood of New Braunfels, hunting ornithological

specimens for his collection, and he offered fifty dollars to any one

who would bring him an eagle's nest, with living eaglets or with eggs

in it.

When Lee Hemingway learned of the offer, he determined to earn it. It

was rather early in the season for our emblematical birds to hatch

their young, but, by carefully watching a pair, he succeeded in finding

where their nest was made. It was on the summit of an almost

insurmountable bowlder, rising nearly a hundred and twenty-five feet in

the valley of the Guadaloupe.

The bravest man might well shrink from attempting to scale the

perpendicular sides of this mass of rock, but as young Hemingway gazed

longingly up the side to the nest, he noticed that the stone had become

coated, in the course of time, with earth, which was covered with

tangled vines and stunted vegetation.

"I believe I can climb that," thought the sturdy lad, after

scrutinizing the herculean task, and watching one of the eagles soaring

far above the summit. "I think there is enough foothold, and I can use

the vines to help pull me up; but, if the eagles should catch me at it,

they would make music."

It was the birds that caused him more dread than the forty odd yards of

rock. We knew their fierce nature, and, if they discovered his designs

against their home, as they were almost certain to do, they would

assail him with a fury that must be resistless in his cramped position.

The professor advised him not to make the attempt, but the daring youth

had to earn his own living, and the prize of fifty dollars was too

tempting to be resisted.

"_I'll do it_!" he exclaimed, after considering the question, "if you

will keep watch with your gun for the eagles."

"Of course I'll do _that_," replied the professor, delighted with the

prospect of securing that which he had sought so long in vain.

The preparations for the work were simple. With a basket, furnished

with a lid, slung to his back, in which to secure the eggs or eaglets,

young Hemingway began his laborious and dangerous ascent, while the

professor, gun in hand, watched him from the ground below.

The boy quickly proved the possession of unusual skill as a climber.

With the help of the vines he went steadily upward, hunting secure

places for his feet and testing every support before trusting his

weight to it. Once or twice, the professor thought the lad had made a

mistake and was on the point of paying the penalty, but he never

faltered nor slipped. Higher and higher he ascended until at last the

feat was accomplished, and the very summit reached.

His heart throbbed with pleasure when he discovered two young eagles in

the nest. They were no more than a couple of days old, and he had no

trouble in placing them and a portion of the nest in the basket, which

was again strapped to his back, and, after a brief rest, he started to

descend.

Nothing was seen of the parent eagles, and he was congratulating

himself on his good fortune, when bang went the professor's gun. At

the same moment a shadow flitted over his head, and looking up he saw

that instead of one, both of the eagles had arrived.

The lad had not descended half-way and the professor's shot did not

harm either of them. They landed on the summit of the rocks, and, if a

bird can feel astonishment, they must have felt it when they looked

around and discovered nothing of their home.

But the great American bird is not the one to submit tamely to such an

outrage. They began an immediate investigation, and, when they caught

sight of a boy scrambling down the side of the rocks with a basket

strapped to his back, from which came a number of familiar squeak-like

chirpings, they had no trouble in understanding matters.

The style in which they went for that same boy was a sight to behold.

There was no hesitation or maneuvering; but, with outstretched wings

and hoarse screeches, they dashed toward him like a couple of cyclones.

The youth saw that he was caught in a desperate fix, for he had no

weapons, and had to cling to the vines with one hand to save himself

from being dashed to the ground below.

He ducked his head to ward off their beaks and talons from his eyes,

and tried hard to beat them back with his free hand.

This was impossible. Their beaks struck him repeatedly in the head,

bringing blood, which flowed over his face and almost blinded him,

while they savagely buffeted him with their great wings, until he was

in danger of being knocked from his position.

Meanwhile, the alarmed professor could do nothing for his young friend.

The eagles kept so close to him, that, if he tried, he was as likely to

hit one as the other. He walked back and forth, on the alert for such

a chance, and fortunately had not long to wait. One of the furious

birds, circled off a few feet, as if to gather impetus for a decisive

charge, when, taking a quick aim, the gentleman fired.

The shot was unerring and killed the female. She fluttered into a

large sapling that sprouted from a large crevice in the rocks, about

eight feet above the boy's head, and lay motionless. Although nearly

blinded by blood, young Hemingway now attempted a feat which he was

convinced offered the only means of saving his life.

He drew himself up to the foot of the tree, and once there, braced

himself firmly with his feet, and tied his handkerchief around his

forehead, to keep the blood out of his eyes. Seizing the dead bird by

the feet, he swung it around with might and main and struck the male,

which had continued beating him incessantly.

It was a strange weapon--a dead eagle against a live one, and the boy's

constrained position prevented his using it with much effect. So

lacking, indeed, were the blows in force, that the male flew directly

at his face. The sorely beset lad dropped the dead bird and fastened

both hands around the throat of his assailant. The latter fought

desperately, but the young hero never released his grip, until it

ceased its struggles. Then he flung it from him, and it tumbled

downward to the professor's feet.

This gentleman had done his best to help his young friend, but was

unable to do so. The lad, after resting awhile, picked his way down to

the ground, where his feet had hardly touched when he fainted in the

professor's arms. He soon rallied, however, though his wounds were so

severe that he was obliged to keep his bed for several weeks.

The two eaglets were found uninjured, and were safely carried to the

professor's home, as were the bodies of the dead birds. They were

mounted by Professor McInery, who, in consideration of the danger

undergone by the boy, and the two extra birds, presented Lee with $100,

and no one will deny that the money was well earned.

WHO SHALL EXPLAIN IT?

Let me begin by saying that I was never a believer in signs, omens, or

the general superstitions which, it must be admitted, influence most

people to a greater or less degree. I have been the thirteenth guest

at more than one table, without my appetite being affected; I have

tipped over my salt-cellar without a twinge of fear; I have never

turned aside to avoid passing under a leaning ladder, and I do not care

a jot whether the first glimpse of the new moon is over my right or

left shoulder.

I had a little boy Bob, who was fourteen years old on the last

anniversary of American independence. Being our only son, his mother

and myself held him close to our hearts. In fact, I am sure no little

fellow was ever regarded with more affectionate love than our Bob. The

painful story which, with much hesitation, I have set out to tell is

one, therefore, that no member of our little family can ever forget.

We always tried to act the part of sensible parents toward our little

boy. He never stepped inside of a school-house until he was seven

years old, and, when he did so, it was to stay only a brief while. It

was six months before he became acquainted with every letter of the

alphabet, and no youngster of his years ever ruined more clothing than

he. The destruction of shoes, hats, and trousers was enough to

bankrupt many a father, and it often provoked a protest from his

mother. I have seen him, within a half hour after having his face

scrubbed until it shone like an apple, present himself in such ragged

attire and with so soiled a countenance, that it took a second glance

to identify him.

And yet, as I sit here writing by the evening lamp, I am glad to recall

that I never scolded Bob. I would have been sadly neglectful of my

duty had I failed to reprove and advise him, and I am sure he honestly

strove to obey my wishes; but the sum and substance of it all was, he

couldn't do it. He was a vigorous little fellow, overrunning with

animal spirits, high health, and mischief; and it was a pleasure to me

to see him laying the firm foundation of a lusty constitution, which,

in later years, could laugh at disease.

And then when he did take a start in his studies, he advanced with a

speed that astonished his teacher. At the age of twelve there was not

a girl or boy in school (and some of them were several years older than

he) who could hold his own with him. I took some credit to myself for

all this, for I believed it was largely due to the common-sense I used

in his early youth. The foundation was strong and secure, and the

building erected upon it was upon solid rock.

During the last two or three years I suffered from a great fear.

Between the school-house and our home was a mill-pond, which in many

places was fully a dozen feet deep. I knew what a temptation this was

to the boys during the long, sultry summer weather, and there was not a

day when a dozen youngsters, more or less, were not frolicking and

splashing in it.

One afternoon, when I sauntered thither, I found fully a score of them

in the height of enjoyment, and the wildest and most reckless fellow

was my Bob. When he observed me standing on the shore he was so

anxious to astonish me that he ventured into the water up to his chin,

I shouted to him to come to shore, for he was in fearful peril, and it

needed only a few inches further advance for him to drown before help

could reach him.

"Bob," said I, in a voice and manner that could not be mistaken, "if

you ever do that again I'll whip you within an inch of your life."

"I won't, pop," he replied, in such meek tones that, parent-like, my

heart reproached me at once.

"Now," I added more gently, "every boy ought to learn to swim, and

until he is able to do so, he should keep out of deep water. If you

will promise me that you will never venture into a depth above your

waist until a good swimmer, you may bathe here; otherwise you shall

never come near it."

He gave me his promise, and, telling him that he had been in the water

long enough for that afternoon, I asked him to dress himself and come

home with me.

I felt that I had been weak. I ought to have forbidden him ever to

enter the mill-pond unless in my company, and thus that which followed

never could have occurred. I did not tell his mother what had taken

place, for I knew she would insist on a strict prohibition of his

aimless swimming efforts.

To tell the truth, there were two reasons why I did not forbid Bob to

enter the mill-pond. I knew it would be the most cruel kind of

punishment, and, I may as well confess it, I didn't believe the boy

would obey me if he gave the pledge. The temptation was too strong to

be resisted. Alas! how often our affection closes our eyes to the

plainest duty!

And now I have reached a point which prompts me to ask the question at

the head of this sketch, "Who Shall Explain It?" I have my own theory,

which I shall submit, with no little diffidence, later on.

It was on Saturday afternoon, the ninth of last August, that I became a

victim to a greater depression of spirits than I had known for years.

I felt nothing of it during the forenoon, but it began shortly after

the midday meal and became more oppressive with each passing minute. I

sat down at my desk and wrote for a short time. I continually sighed

and drew deep inspirations, which gave me no relief. It was as if a

great and increasing weight were resting on my chest. Had I been

superstitious, I would have declared that I was on the eve of some

dreadful calamity.

Writing became so difficult and distasteful that I threw down my pen,

sprang from my chair, and began rapidly pacing up and down the room.

My wife had gone to the city that morning to visit her relatives, and

was not to return until the following day; so I was alone, with only

two servants in the house.

I couldn't keep the thoughts of Bob out of my mind. Saturday being a

holiday, I had allowed him to go off to spend the afternoon as he

chose; and, as it was unusually warm, there was little doubt where and

how he was spending it. He would strike a bee-line for that shady

mill-pond, and they would spend hours plashing in its cool and

delicious depths.

I looked at the clock; it was a few minutes past five, and Bob ought to

have been home long ago. What made him so late?

My fear was growing more intense every minute. The boy was in my mind

continually to the exclusion of everything else. Despite all my

philosophy and rigid common-sense, the conviction was fastening on me

that something dreadful had befallen him.

And what was that something? He had been drowned in the mill-pond. I

glanced out of the window, half expecting to see a party bearing the

lifeless body homeward. Thank Heaven, I was spared that woful sight,

but I discerned something else that sent a misgiving pang through me.

It was Mrs. Clarkson, our nearest neighbor, rapidly approaching, as if

the bearer of momentous tidings.

"She has come to tell me that Bob is drowned," I gasped, as my heart

almost ceased its beating.

I met her on the threshold, with a calmness of manner which belied the

tumult within. Greeting her courteously, I invited her inside, stating

that my wife was absent.

"I thank you," she said, "but it is not worth while. I thought I ought

to come over and tell you."

"Tell me what?" I inquired, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"Why, about the awful dream I had last night."

I was able to smile faintly, and was partly prepared for what was

coming.

"I am ready to hear it, Mrs. Clarkson."

"Why, you know it was Friday night, and I never had a dream on a Friday

night that didn't come true--never! Where's Bob?" she abruptly asked,

peering around me, as if to learn whether he was in the hall.

"He's off somewhere at play."

"Oh, Mr. Havens, you'll never see him alive again!"

Although startled in spite of myself, I was indignant.

"Have you any positive knowledge, Mrs. Clarkson, on the matter?"

"Certainly I have; didn't I just tell you about my dream?"

"A fudge for your dream!" I exclaimed, impatiently; "I don't believe in

any such nonsense."

"I pity you," she said, though why I should be pitied on that account

is hard to understand.

"But what was your dream?"

"I saw your Bob brought home drowned. Oh, I can see him now," she

added, speaking rapidly, and making a movement as if to wring her

hands; "his white face--his dripping hair and clothes--his half-closed

eyes--it was dreadful; it will break his mother's heart--"

"Mrs. Clarkson, did you come here to tell me _that_?"

"Why, of course I did; I felt it was my duty to prepare you--"

"Good day," I answered, sharply, closing the door and hastily entering

my study.

She had given me a terrible shock. My feelings were in a tumult

difficult to describe. My philosophy, my self-command, my hard sense

and scepticism were scattered to the winds, I had fought against the

awful fear, and was still fighting when my neighbor called; but her

visit had knocked every prop from beneath me.

She had hardly disappeared when I was hurrying through the woods by the

shortest route to the mill-pond. I knew Bob had been there, and all

that I expected to find was his white, ghastly body in the cold, cruel

depths.

"Oh, my boy!" I wailed, "I am to blame for your death! I never should

have permitted you to run into such danger. I should have gone with

you and taught you to swim--I can never forgive myself for this--never,

never, never. It will break your mother's heart--mine is already

broken--"

"_Pop, just watch me_!"

Surely that was the voice of my boy! I turned my head like a flash,

and there he was, with his hands together over his head, and in the act

of diving into the mill-pond. Down he went with a splash, his head

quickly reappearing, as he flirted the hair and water out of his eyes,

and struck out for the middle of the pond.

"What are you doing, Bob?"

"You just wait and see, pop."

And what did that young rascal do but swim straight across that pond

and then turn about and swim back again, without pausing for breath?

Not only that, but, when in the very deepest portion, he dove, floated

on his back, trod water, and kicked up his heels like a frisky colt.

"How's that, pop? You didn't know I could swim, did you?" he asked, as

he came smilingly up the bank.

"I had no idea of such a thing," I replied, my whole being fluttering

with gratitude and delight; "I think I'll have to reward you for that."

And when he had donned his clothes, and we started homeward, I slipped

a twisted bank-bill into his hands. I am really ashamed to tell its

denomination, and Bob and I never hinted anything about it to his

mother.

And now as to the question, Who shall explain it? I think I can. I

have a weakness for boiled beef and cabbage. The meat is healthful

enough, but, as every one knows, or ought to know, cabbage, although

one of the most digestible kinds of food when raw, is just the opposite

in a boiled state. I knew the consequences of eating it, but in the

absence of my good wife that day I disposed of so much that I deserved

the oppressive indigestion that followed.

That fact, I am convinced, fully explains the dreadful "presentiment"

which made me so miserable all the afternoon.

On our way home we passed the house of Mrs. Clarkson. I could not

forbear stopping and ringing her bell. She answered it in person.

"Mrs. Clarkson, Bob is on his way home from swimming, and I thought I

would let him hear about that wonderful dream--"

But the door was slammed in my face.

I said at the opening of this sketch that I "had" a boy named Bob. God

be thanked, I have him yet, and no lustier, brighter, or more manly

youth ever lived, and my prayer is that he may be spared to soothe the

declining years of his father and mother, whose love for him is beyond

the power of words to tell.

A FOOL OR A GENIUS.

CHAPTER I.

Josiah Hunter sat on his porch one summer afternoon, smoking his pipe,

feeling dissatisfied, morose and sour on account of his only son Tim,

who, he was obliged to confess to himself, gave every indication of

proving a disappointment to him.

Mr. Hunter was owner of the famous Brereton Quarry & Stone Works,

located about a mile above the thriving village of Brereton, on the

eastern bank of the Castaran river, and at a somewhat greater distance

below the town of Denville. The quarry was a valuable one and the

owner was in comfortable circumstances, with the prospect of acquiring

considerable more of a fortune out of the yield of excellent building

stone. The quarry had been worked for something like ten years, and

the discovery that he had such a fine deposit on his small farm was in

the minds of his neighbors equivalent to the finding of a gold mine,

for as the excavation proceeded, the quality of the material improved

and Mr. Hunter refused an offer from a company which, but for the

stone, would have been a very liberal price for the whole farm.

Mr. Hunter had been a widower ever since his boy was three years old,

and the youth was now fourteen. His sister Maggie was two years his

senior, and they were deeply attached to each other. Maggie was a

daughter after her father's own heart,--one of those rare, sensible

girls who cannot be spoiled by indulgence, who was equally fond of her

parent and who stood unflinchingly by her brother in the little

differences between father and son, which, sad to say, were becoming

more frequent and serious with the passing weeks and months. It is

probable that the affection of the parent for the daughter prevented

him from ever thinking of marrying again, for she was a model

housekeeper, and he could not bear the thought of seeing anyone come

into the family and usurp, even in a small degree, her functions and

place.

Mr. Hunter was getting on in years, and nothing was more natural than

that he should wish and plan that Tim should become his successor in

the development of the valuable quarry that was not likely to give out

for many a year to come. But the boy showed no liking for the

business. He was among the best scholars in the village school, fond

of play and so well advanced in his studies that his parent determined

to begin his practical business training in earnest. He looked upon a

college education as a waste of so many years, taken from the most

precious part of a young man's life, and it must be said that Tim

himself showed no wish to attend any higher educational institution.

Tim had assisted about the quarry, more or less for several years. Of

course he was too young to do much in the way of manual labor, but

there were many errands that he ran, beside helping to keep his

father's accounts. He wrote an excellent hand, was quick in figures

and had such a command of language that all his parent had to do was to

tell him the substance of the letter he wished written, to have the boy

put it in courteous but pointed and clear form. The elder had never

detected an error in the computations of the younger, who had no

trouble at all when the operations included difficult fractions.

All this was good in its way, but it could not be denied that Tim had

no liking for the business itself. His father had told him repeatedly

that he must prepare himself for the active management of the stone

works, and that to do so required something more than quickness in

figures and skill in letter writing. But it was in vain. Tim was

never at the works unless by direct command of his parent, and seized

the first opportunity to get away.

"No person can succeed in a business which he dislikes," remarked Mr.

Hunter to Maggie who on this summer afternoon sat on the front porch,

plying her deft needle, while the waning twilight lasted, with Bridget

inside preparing the evening meal.

"I think that is true, father," was her gentle reply.

"And that boy hates the stone business and I can't understand why he

should."

"Isn't it also true, father, that one cannot control his likes and

dislikes? Tim has told me he can't bear the thought of spending his

life in getting out great blocks of stone and trimming them into shape

for building. He said he wished he could feel as you do, but there's

no use of his trying."

"Fudge!" was the impatient exclamation; "what business has a boy of his

years to talk or think about what sort of business he prefers? It is

my place to select his future avocation and his to accept it without a

growl."

"He will do that, father."

"Of course he will," replied the parent with a compression of his thin

lips and a flash of his eyes; "when I yield to a boy fourteen years

old, it will be time to shift me off to the lunatic asylum."

"Why, then, are you displeased, since he will do what you wish and do

it without complaint?

"I am displeased because he is dissatisfied and has no heart in his

work. He shows no interest in anything relating to the quarries and it

is becoming worse every day with him."

"Didn't he help this forenoon?"

"Yes, because I told him he must be on hand as soon as he was through

breakfast and not leave until he went to dinner."

"Did you say nothing about his working this afternoon?"

"No; I left that out on purpose to test him."

"What was the result?"

"I haven't seen hide or hair of him since; I suppose he is off in the

woods or up in his room, reading or figuring on some invention. Do you

know where he is?"

"He has been in his room almost all the afternoon and is there now."

"Doing what?"

"I guess you have answered that question," replied Maggie laying aside

her sewing because of the increasing shadows, and looking across at her

father with a smile.

"That's what makes me lose all patience. What earthly good is it for

him to sit in his room drawing figures of machines he dreams of making,

or scribbling over sheets of paper? If this keeps up much longer, he

will take to writing poetry, and the next thing will be smoking

cigarettes and then his ruin will be complete."

Maggie's clear laughter rang out on the summer air. She was always

overflowing with spirits and the picture drawn by her parent and the

look of profound disgust on his face as he uttered his scornful words

stirred her mirth beyond repression.

"What are you laughing at?" he demanded, turning toward her, though

without any anger in his tones, for he could never feel any emotion of

that nature toward such a daughter.

"It was the idea of Tim writing poetry or rhyme and smoking cigarettes.

I'll guarantee that he will never do either."

"Nor anything else, you may as well add."

"I'll guarantee that if he lives he will do a good many things that

will be better than getting out and trimming stone."

This was not the first time that Maggie had intimated the same faith,

without going into particulars or giving any idea upon what she based

that faith. The parent looked sharply at her and asked:

"What do you mean? Explain yourself."

But the daughter was not yet ready to do so. She had her thoughts or

dreams or whatever they might be, but was not prepared as yet to share

them with her parent. He was not in the mood, and for her to tell all

that was in her mind would be to provoke an outburst that would be

painful to the last degree. She chose for the present to parry.

"How can I know, father, what ambition Tim has? He is still young

enough to change that ambition, whatever it may be."

"And he's _got_ to change it, as sure as he lives! I am tired of his

fooling; he is fourteen years old, big, strong, and healthy; if he

would take hold of the work and show some interest in it, he would be

able in a couple of years to take charge of the whole business and give

me a rest, but he is frittering away valuable time until I've made up

my mind to permit it no longer."

The parent knocked the bowl of his pipe against the column of the porch

and shook his head in a way that showed he meant every word he said.

Maggie was troubled, for she had feared an outbreak between him and

Tim, and it seemed to be impending. She dreaded it more than death,

for any violence by her beloved parent toward her equally beloved

brother would break her heart. That parent, naturally placid and

good-natured, had a frightful temper when it was aroused. She could

never forget that day when in a quarrel with one of his employes, he

came within a hair of killing the man and for the time was a raging

tiger.

There was one appeal that Maggie knew had never failed her, though she

feared the day would come when even that would lose its power. She

reserved it as the last recourse. When she saw her father rise to his

feet, and in the gathering gloom noted the grim resolute expression on

his face, she knew the crisis had come.

"Tell him to come down-stairs; we may as well have this matter settled

here and now."

"Father," she said in a low voice of the sweetest tenderness, "you will

not forget what he did two years ago?"

The parent stood motionless, silent for a minute, and then gently

resumed his seat, adding a moment later,

"No; I can never forget that; never mind calling him just now."

And what it was that Tim Hunter did "two years ago" I must now tell you.

CHAPTER II.

Bear in mind that Tim Hunter was twelve years old at the time, being

the junior by two years of his sister Maggie.

On the day which I have in mind, he had spent the forenoon fishing, and

brought home a mess of trout for which he had whipped one of the

mountain brooks, and which furnished the family with the choicest sort

of a meal. The father complimented him on his skill, for that was

before the parent's patience had been so sorely tried by the

indifference of the lad toward the vocation to which the elder meant he

should devote his life. He left the lad at liberty to spend the rest

of the day as he chose, and, early in the afternoon, he proposed to his

sister that they should engage in that old game of "jackstones" with

which I am sure you are familiar.

Years ago the country lads and lassies generally used little bits of

stones, instead of scraggly, jagged pieces of iron, with which they

amuse themselves in these days. Tim had seen some of the improved

jackstones; and, borrowing one from a playmate, he made a clay mould

from it, into which he poured melted lead, repeating the operation

until he had five as pretty and symmetrically formed specimens as one

could wish. It was with these in his hands, that he led the way to the

barn for a game between himself and sister.

The big, spacious structure was a favorite place for spending their

leisure hours. The hard, seedy floor, with the arching rafters

overhead could not be improved for their purpose. The shingles were so

far aloft that the shade within was cool on sultry summer days, and it

was the pleasantest kind of music to hear the rain drops patter on the

roof and the wind whistle around the eaves and corners. The mow where

the hay was stored was to the left, as you entered the door, and under

that were the stalls where the horses munched their dinner and looked

solemnly through the opening over the mangers at the two children

engaged at play. Between where they sat and the rafters, the space was

open.

Maggie took her seat in the middle of the floor, and her brother placed

himself opposite. Before doing so, he stepped to the nearest stall and

picked up a block of wood six inches in diameter and two feet in

length. This he laid on the floor and seated himself upon it, tossing

the jackstones to his sister to begin the game.

She was his superior, for her pretty taper fingers were more nimble

than his sturdy ones, and, unless she handicapped herself by certain

conditions, she invariably won in the contest of skill. She tossed

them one after the other, then two or three or more at a time,

snatching up the others from the floor and going through the varied

performance with an easy perfection that was the wonder of Tim. Once

or twice, she purposely missed some feat, but the alert lad was sure to

detect it, and declared he would not play unless she did her best, and,

under his watchful eye, she could not escape doing so. As I have said,

the only way to equalize matters was for her to handicap herself, and

even then I am compelled to say she was more often winner than loser.

Sitting on the block of wood tipped up on one end, Tim kept his eyes on

the bits of metal, popping up in the air and softly dropping into the

extended palm, and wondered again why it was so hard for him to do that

which was so easy for her. Finally she made a slip, which looked

honest, and resigned the stones to him.

Now, you know that in playing this game, you ought to sit on the floor

or ground; for if your perch is higher, you are compelled to stoop

further to snatch up the pieces and your position is so awkward that it

seriously interferes with your success.

The very first scramble Tim made at the stones on the floor was not

only a failure, but resulted in a splinter catching under the nail of

one of his fingers. Maggie laughed.

"Why do you sit way up there?" she asked; "you can't do half as well as

when you are lower down like me."

"I guess you're right," he replied, as he pushed the block away and

imitated her. "I 'spose I'll catch the splinters just the same."

"There's no need of it; you mustn't claw the stones, but move your hand

gently, just as I do. Now, watch me."

"It's a pity that no one else in the world is half as smart as you,"

replied the brother with fine irony, but without ill nature. "Ah,

wasn't that splendid?"

Which remark was caused by the plainest kind of fluke on the part of

Maggie, who in her effort to instruct her brother, forgot one or two

nice points, which oversight was fatal.

"Well," said she, "I didn't fill my fingers with splinters."

"Nor with jackstones either; if I can't do any better than you I'm sure

I can't do any worse."

"Well, Smarty, what are you waiting for?"

"For you to pay attention."

"I'm doing that."

With cool, careful steadiness, Tim set to work, and lo! he finished the

game without a break, performing the more difficult exploits with a

skill that compelled the admiration of his sister.

"I'm glad to see that you're not such a big dunce as you look; I've

been discouraged in trying to teach you, but you seem to be learning at

last."

"Wouldn't you like me to give you a few lessons?"

"No; for, if you did, I should never win another game," was the pert

reply; "I wonder whether you will ever be able to beat me again."

"Didn't you know that I have been fooling with you all the time, just

as I fool a trout till I get him to take the hook?"

Maggie stared at him with open mouth for a moment and then asked in an

awed whisper:

"No; I didn't know that: did _you_?"

"Never mind; the best thing you can do is to tend to bus'ness, for I'm

not going to show you a bit of mercy."

During this friendly chaffing, both noticed that the wind was rising.

It moaned around the barn, and enough of it entered the window far

above their heads for them to feel it fan their cheeks. An eddy even

lifted one of the curls from the temple of the girl. This, however,

was of no special concern to them, and they continued their playing.

Each went through the next series without a break. Tim was certainly

doing himself honor, and his sister was at a loss to understand it.

But you know that on some days the player of any game does much better

than on others. This was one of Tim's best days and one of Maggie's

worst, for he again surpassed her, though there could be no doubt that

she did her very best, and she could not repress her chagrin. But she

was too fond of her bright brother to feel anything in the nature of

resentment for his success.

"There's one thing certain," she said, shaking her curly head with

determination; "you can't beat me again."

"I wouldn't be so rash, sister; remember that I mean bus'ness to-day."

"Just as if you haven't always done your best; it's you that are

bragging, not I."

Tim had taken the stones in his right hand with the purpose of giving

them the necessary toss in the air, when a blast of wind struck the

barn with a force that made it tremble. They distinctly felt the

tremor of the floor beneath them. He paused and looked into the

startled face of his sister with the question:

"Hadn't we better run to the house?"

"No," she replied, her heart so set on beating him that she felt less

fear than she would have felt had it been otherwise; "it's as safe here

as in the house; one is as strong as the other; if you want to get out

of finishing the game, why, I'll let you off."

"You know it isn't that, Maggie; but the barn isn't as strong as the

house."

"It has stood a good many harder blows than this; don't you see it has

stopped? Go on."

"All right; just as you say," and up went the pronged pieces and were

caught with the same skill as before. Then he essayed a more difficult

feat and failed. Maggie clapped her hands with delight, and leaned

forward to catch up the bits and try her hand.

At that instant something like a tornado or incipient cyclone struck

the barn. They felt the structure swaying, heard the ripping of

shingles, and casting his eyes aloft, Tim saw the shingles and

framework coming down upon their heads.

It was an appalling moment. If they remained where they were, both

would be crushed to death. The door was too far away for both to reach

it; though it was barely possible that by a quick leap and dash he

might get to the open air in the nick of time, but he would die a

hundred times over before abandoning his sister. The open window was

too high to be reached from the floor without climbing, and there was

no time for that.

The action of a cyclone is always peculiar. Resistless as is its

power, it is often confined to a very narrow space. The one to which I

am now referring whipped off a corner of the roof, so loosening the

supports that the whole mass of shingles and rafters covering the

larger portion came down as if flung from the air above, while the

remainder of the building was left unharmed, the terrified horses not

receiving so much as a scratch.

There was one awful second when brother and sister believed that the

next would be their last. Then Tim threw his arm around the neck of

Maggie and in a flash drew her forward so that she lay flat on her face

and he alongside of her; but the twinkling of an eye before that he had

seized the block of wood, rejected some time before as a chair, and

stood it on end beside his shoulder, keeping his right arm curved round

it so as to hold it upright in position, while the other arm prevented

Maggie from rising.

"Don't move?" he shouted amid the crashing of timbers and the roaring

of the gale; "lie still and you won't be hurt."

She could not have disobeyed him had she tried, for the words were in

his mouth when the fearful mass of timber descended upon them.

CHAPTER III.

Do you understand what Tim Hunter did? Had the mass of timber

descending upon him and his sister been unchecked, they would not have

lived an instant. Had it been shattered into small fragments by the

cyclone, the ingenious precaution which a wonderful presence of mind

enabled hint to make, would have been of no avail.

Take a block of seasoned oak, six inches through, and two feet in

height, and interpose it squarely against an approaching body and it is

almost as powerful in the way of resistance as so much metal. It would

take an ironclad to crush it to pulp, by acting longitudinally or along

its line of length. This block stood upright, and received a portion

of the rafters, covered by the shingles and held them aloft as easily

as you can hold your hat with your outstretched arm. From this point

of highest support, the debris sloped away until it rested on the

floor, but the open space, in which the brother and sister lay, was as

safe as was their situation, before the gale loosened the structure.

Tim called to his sister and found that not so much as a hair of her

head had been harmed, and it was the same with himself. All was

darkness in their confined quarters, but the wrenched framework gave

them plenty of air to breathe.

Who can picture the feelings of the father, when he saw the collapse of

the roof of the barn and knew that his two children were beneath? He

rushed thither like a madman, only to be cheered to the highest

thankfulness the next moment at hearing their muffled assurances that

both were all right. A brief vigorous application of his axe and the

two were helped out into the open air, neither the worse for their

dreadful experience.

The parent could hardly believe what had been done by his boy, when

Maggie told him, until an examination for himself showed that it was

true. He declared that neither he nor anyone would have thought of the

means and applied it with such lightning quickness. It certainly was

an extraordinary exhibition of presence of mind and deserved all the

praise given to it. The Brereton _Intelligencer_ devoted half a column

to a description of the exploit and prophesied that that "young man"

would be heard from again. For weeks and months there was nothing at

the disposal of Mr. Hunter which was too good for his boy and it is

probable that the indulgence of that period had something to do with

making Tim dissatisfied with the prospect of spending all his life as a

"hewer of stone."

Gradually as the effects of the remarkable rescue wore off, the

impatience of the parent grew until we have seen him on the point of

calling to account the boy who had really been the means of saving two

lives, for his own was as much imperilled as the sister's. Once more

she appealed to that last recourse, and once more it did not fail her.

When he recalled that dreadful scene, he could not help feeling an

admiring gratitude for his boy. Although silent and reserved some time

later, when the three gathered round the table for their evening meal,

nothing unpleasant was said by the parent, though the sharp-witted Tim

felt a strong suspicion of the cause of his father's reserve.

Later in the evening, the latter sat down by the table in the sitting

room and took up his copy of the Brereton _Intelligencer_, which had

arrived that afternoon. He always spent his Thursday evenings in this

manner, unless something unusual interfered, the local news and

selected miscellany affording enough intellectual food to last him

until retiring time.

While he was thus occupied, Tim and Maggie played checkers, there being

little difference in their respective skill. They were quiet, and when

necessary to speak, did so in low tones, so as not to disturb the

parent.

An hour had passed, when he suddenly turned, with his spectacles on his

nose, and looked at the children. The slight resentment he still felt

toward Tim caused him to address himself directly to his sister:

"Maggie, do you know who has been writing these articles in the paper

for the last few weeks?"

She held a king suspended as she was on the point of jumping a couple

of Tim's and asked in turn:

"What articles?"

"They are signed 'Mit' and each paper for the last two or three months

has had one of them."

"No, sir; I do not know who wrote them."

"Well, whoever he is he's a mighty smart fellow."

"Maybe it's a 'she,'" suggested Maggie, as she proceeded to sweep off

the board the two kings of Tim that had got in the path of her single

one.

"Fudge! no woman can write such good sense as that. Besides, some of

them have been on the tariff, the duties of voters, the Monroe Doctrine

and politics: what does any woman know about such themes as those?"

"Don't some women write about them?"

"I haven't denied that, but that doesn't prove that they know anything

of the subjects themselves."

The miss could make no suitable response to this brilliant remark and

did not attempt to do so, while Tim said nothing at all, as if the

subject had no attraction to him.

By and by the parent uttered a contemptuous sniff. He was reading

"Mit's" contribution, and for the first time came upon something with

which he did not agree.

"He's 'way off there," remarked the elder, as if speaking to himself.

"What is it, father?" asked Maggie, ceasing her playing for the moment,

for her affection always led her to show an interest in whatever

interested him.

"The article is the best I have read until I get toward the end.

Listen: 'No greater mistake can be made than for a parent to force a

child into some calling or profession for which he has no liking. The

boy will be sure to fail.' Now, what do you think of _that_?"

"The latter part sounds very much like what you said to me this

afternoon."

"It isn't that, which is true enough, but the idea that a boy knows

better than his father what is the right profession for him to follow.

That doctrine is too much like Young America who thinks he knows it

all."

"Read on, father; let me hear the rest."

The father was silent a minute or two, while he skimmed through the

article.

"It isn't worth reading," he remarked impatiently, thereby proving that

he had been hit by the arguments which he found difficult to refute.

Maggie made no comment, but smiled significantly at Tim across the

board, as they resumed their game.

In truth, Mr. Hunter had come upon some sentiments that set him to

thinking, such, for instance, as these: "It may be said with truth in

many cases, that the father is the best judge of what the future of his

son should be. In fact no one can question this, but the father does

not always use that superior knowledge as he should. Perhaps he has

yielded to the dearest wish of the mother that their son should become

a minister. The mother's love does not allow her to see that her boy

has no gifts as a speaker and no love for a clergyman's life. He longs

to be a lawyer or doctor. Will any one deny that to drive the young

man into the pulpit is the greatest mistake that can be made?

"Sometimes a father, with an only son, perhaps, intends that he shall

be trained to follow in his footsteps. The boy has a dislike for that

calling or profession,--a dislike that was born with him and which

nothing can remove. His taste runs in a wholly different channel;

whatever talent he has lies there. While it may be convenient for him

to step into his parent's shoes, yet he should never be forced to do

so, but be allowed to select that for which he has an ability and

toward which he is drawn. Parents make such sad mistakes as these, and

often do not awake to the fact until it is too late to undo the

mischief that has been done. Let them give the subject their most

thoughtful attention and good is sure to follow."

It was these words, following on the talk he had had with Maggie a

short time before that set Mr. Hunter to thinking more deeply than he

had ever done over the problem in which his son was so intimately

concerned. After his children had retired and he was left alone, he

turned over the paper and read the article again. It stuck to him and

he could not drive it away. Laying the journal aside, he lit his pipe

and leaned back in his chair.

"It is not pleasant," he mused, "to give up the idea of Tim becoming my

successor, for he is the only one I have ever thought of as such. But

there is force in what 'Mit' says about driving a boy into a calling or

profession that he hates; he will make a failure of it, whereas he

might become very successful if left to follow his own preferences. I

wonder who 'Mit' is; his articles are the best I have ever read in the

_Intelligencer_; I must ask the editor, so I can have him out here and

talk over this question which is the biggest bother I ever had."

Before Maggie and Tim separated to go to their rooms, and while at the

top of the stairs they whispered together for a few minutes. The

parent had got thus far in his musings, when he heard the voice of

Maggie calling from above:

"Father, do you think 'Mit' is a smart fellow?"

"Of course, even though I may not agree with all his views," replied

the parent, wondering why his child was so interested.

"Would you like to know who he is?"

"Of course, but you told me you didn't know."

"I didn't at that time, but I have learned since. If you will spell

the name backwards and put it before your surname, you will have that

of the youth who wrote the articles you admire so much."

The parent did as suggested, and behold! the name thus spelled out was

that of his only son, whose writings he had praised before the young

man's face.

CHAPTER IV.

When the chuckling Tim told his sister the secret as he paused to kiss

her good-night at the head of the stairs, he did not dream that she

would reveal it to their father; but, before he could exact a promise,

she emitted the truth, despite his attempts to place his hand over her

mouth. Then she darted off, and, humiliated and chagrined, he went to

his own room.

But the parent was given more to think about. He was pleasant to both

the next morning at breakfast and made no reference to the matter that

was in the minds of all. Just as the meal was finished, he remarked:

"Tim, the load of stone is ready and we will take it over to Montvale

to-day; wouldn't you like to go with us?"

"Thank you, father; I shall be glad to go."

"All right; as soon as you and Maggie are through with your nonsense,

come out to the wharf and join us."

The method of transporting stone from the Brereton quarries to

Montvale, on the other side of the river, was simple. The canal ran

directly in front of the quarries, and there the boat was loaded with

the heavy freight. It was then drawn by horse through the canal

Denville, several miles to the north, where the waterway touched the

level of the Castaran river. Passing through a lock, the boat was

pulled across the stream by means of a rope, and wheel arrangement (a

heavy dam furnishing comparatively deep and smooth water), when another

lock admitted it to the canal on the opposite side.

The boat, which lay against the bank of the canal near the quarries,

was loaded so heavily that it was brought as low in the water as was

safe. Then a horse was hitched fast, and with Tim driving, and with

Warren and his father and two men on board, the craft began slowly

moving against the sluggish current.

The start was made in the morning, and before the forenoon was half

gone they were at the lower end of Denville, where preparations were

quickly made for crossing the river. The horse was taken on board, the

boat securely fastened by a strong rope at the bow and stern, so as to

hold her broadside against the current, and then the contrivance began

dragging her slowly toward the opposite shore.

During the spring months and the period of high water, a great many

rafts of lumber descend the Castaran, though the number is not so great

of late years as formerly. They are sold at various points along the

river, and occasionally two or three rafts float down stream during the

summer months. A long sweeping paddle (sometimes a couple) at either

end of the raft enable the men to clear the abutments of the bridges

and to shoot the rapids at different points.

The canal boat, with its cargo of stone had no more than fairly left

the eastern side, when a large raft was observed emerging from between

two abutments of the bridge above. The men at the oars began toiling

with them with a view of working the structure toward the rapids,

through which the only safe passage can be secured.

Those on the boat having nothing to do had seated themselves here and

there, and were watching their surroundings, as they moved at right

angles to the current. The raft was heading toward a point just ahead

of the boat, and was so near that Tim, who was sitting beside his

father on the cabin, started to his feet and said:

"I believe they are going to strike us."

"Sit down; there is no danger; these people know their business; we

shall be well out of their way before they can reach us."

Nevertheless a collision seemed so imminent a moment later, that Mr.

Hunter rose to his feet and motioned to those working the rope to give

the boat greater speed. At the same time he shouted to the raftsmen:

"Keep off; don't you see we are in danger?"

"Get out of the way, then!" was the reply; "we must go through there."

Such manifestly was their right, and the gentleman again waved his

hands to those on both shores. But they saw the danger, and applying

all the power at their command, the boat began moving so much faster

that Mr. Hunter resumed his seat.

"It's all right now," he remarked; "but it looked mighty squally a

minute ago."

The canal boat was now crossing the rapid current, where a passage-way

had been left on purpose for rafts. It had not quite reached the

middle, toward which the structure was aiming, but its speed was

sufficient to take it well out of the way, provided no accident

occurred.

And this is just what did occur. The unusual strain on the gearing

caused something to give way, and the forward motion of the craft

ceased at the very moment it reached the middle of the strong current.

Those on the bank who were managing the apparatus saw the trouble at

once, and strove desperately to extricate the boat from its perilous

situation, but they were powerless.

"For Heaven's sake, keep off!" shouted Mr. Hunter to the raftsmen; "if

you don't we shall be ruined!"

As he spoke he caught up a long pole, and pressing one end against the

bed of the river exerted himself with might and main to impel the boat

forward. He called to the two men to do the same, and under their

united propulsion the boat advanced, but at a snail's pace.

The lumbermen, seeing the alarming state of affairs, put forth all

their strength to swing the raft over so that it would pass between the

boat and the eastern shore. There was scant room for this, but they

were hardly less anxious than the imperilled boatmen, to whom the

consequences were certain to be more serious than to themselves.

Had the distance been greater they might have succeeded, but under the

circumstances it was impossible. Dipping the broad blades of the long

oars, balanced at the ends of the raft, the men almost lay on their

faces as they held their breath and pushed with every ounce of strength

at their command. Then, when they reached the edge of the raft, they

bore down so as to lift the blade from the water, ran back to the other

side, dipped the oar again and shoved as before.

Meanwhile Mr. Hunter and his assistants were panting and red in the

face, as they desperately strove to force the boat from the path of the

approaching raft, which came plunging down upon them with increasing

speed.

"No use!" he suddenly exclaimed, flinging the wet pole in the center of

the boat on top of the stone; "we shall be shivered to atoms! Be ready

to jump on the raft as it crushes through us! Leave the horse to take

care of himself! Tim, you know how to swim, but jump on the raft with

us--Heavens! what have you done, my son?"

A few seconds before the boy had caught up the sharp hatchet lying near

the cabin, and intended for use of splitting fuel for the stove. With

two quick blows he severed the rope which held the stern. The latter

yielded to the strong current dashing against it, and began swinging

around, so that it quickly lay parallel with the river, with the bow

pointing up stream, and held securely by the rope fastened at that end.

This was no more than fairly done when the enormous raft swept past, so

close that the nearest log was heard scraping the entire length of the

boat. The impact drove it clear, and before any one beside the boy

realized how it was done the entire structure had gone by, no damage

was done and all were safe.

"Jim," said Mr. Hunter, a minute after, when the flurry was over, "what

a set of fools we were that we didn't think of that."

"I don't agree with you," replied the other, "because no one would have

thought of it except _that_ youngster."

"Tim," added the father, placing his hand affectionately on his head,

"I am proud of you."

And the little fellow blushed and replied:

"I'm glad I happened to think of it in time, but it _was_ rather close,

wasn't it?"

"It couldn't have been more so, and but for you boat and cargo would

have been a dead loss, and more than likely some of us would have lost

our lives."

That night at the supper table, Mr. Hunter remarked with a meaning

smile:

"Maggie, the Hunter family contains a fool and a genius, I'm not the

genius and 'Mit' isn't the fool."

"Father, you are not just to yourself," the boy hastened to say; "I

have done wrong in not appreciating your kindness or indulgence, and I

have resolved to do my best to please you. I think I have some talent

for composition and invention, but I can use it just as well, without

neglecting the quarries and stone works, and if you will permit, I

shall give you all the help I can in the business with the hope that

some day, which I pray may be far distant, I shall become your

successor."

Tears filled the eyes of all, as the parent, rising from his chair,

placed his hand on the head of Tim and said, in a tremulous voice:

"God bless you, my son!"