CHAPTER II.

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Lesley Halamek and the

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

[Illustration: A BRAVE GIRL.]

[See Letter-Box.]

* * * * *

ST. NICHOLAS.

* * * * *

VOL. V. JUNE, 1878. No. 8.

[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]

* * * * *

A TRIUMPH.

BY CELIA THAXTER.

Little Roger up the long slope rushing

Through the rustling corn,

Showers of dewdrops from the broad leaves brushing

In the early morn,

At his sturdy little shoulder bearing

For a banner gay,

Stem of fir with one long shaving flaring

In the wind away!

Up he goes, the summer sunshine flushing

O'er him in his race,

Sweeter dawn of rosy childhood blushing

On his radiant face.

If he can but set his standard glorious

On the hill-top low,

Ere the sun climbs the clear sky victorious,

All the world aglow!

So he presses on with childish ardor,

Almost at the top!

Hasten, Roger! Does the way grow harder?

Wherefore do you stop?

From below the corn-stalks tall and slender

Comes a plaintive cry--

Turns he for an instant from the splendor

Of the crimson sky,

Wavers, then goes flying toward the hollow,

Calling loud and clear:

"Coming, Jenny! Oh, why did you follow?

Don't you cry, my dear!"

Small Janet sits weeping 'mid the daisies;

"Little sister sweet,

Must you follow Roger?" Then he raises

Baby on her feet,

Guides her tiny steps with kindness tender,

Cheerfully and gay,

All his courage and his strength would lend her

Up the uneven way,

Till they front the blazing East together;

But the sun has rolled

Up the sky in the still Summer weather,

Flooding them with gold.

All forgotten is the boy's ambition,

Low the standard lies,

Still they stand, and gaze--a sweeter vision

Ne'er met mortal eyes.

That was splendid; Roger, that was glorious,

Thus to help the weak;

Better than to plant your flag victorious

On earth's highest peak!

ONE SATURDAY.

BY SARAH WINTER KELLOGG.

It was an autumn day in the Indian summer time,--that one Saturday.

The Grammar Room class of Budville were going nutting; that is, eight

of them were going,--"our set," as they styled themselves. Besides the

eight of "our set," Bob Trotter was going along as driver, to take

care of the horses and spring wagon on arrival at the woods, while the

eight were taking care of the nutting and other fun. Bob was fourteen

and three months, but he was well-grown. Beside, he was very handy at

all kinds of work, as he ought to have been, considering that he had

been kept at work since his earliest recollection, to the detriment of

his schooling.

It had been agreed that the boys were to pay for the team, while the

girls were to furnish the lunch. In order to economize space, it was

arranged that all the contributions to the lunch should be sent on

Friday to Mrs. Hooks, Clara of that surname undertaking to pack it all

into one large basket.

It was a trifle past seven o'clock Saturday morning when Bob Trotter

drove up to Mr. Hooks's to take in Clara, she being the picnicker

nearest his starting point. He did not know that she was a put

off-er. She was just trimming a hat for the ride when Bob's wagon was

announced. She hadn't begun her breakfast, though all the rest of the

family had finished the meal, while the lunch which should have been

basketed the previous night was scattered over the house from the

parlor center-table to the wood-shed.

Clara opened a window and called to Bob that she would be ready in

a minute. Then she appealed to everybody to help her. There was a

hurly-burly, to be sure. She asked mamma to braid her hair; little

brother to bring her blue hair-ribbon from her bureau drawer; little

Lucy to bring a basket for the prospective nuts; big brother to get

the inevitable light shawl which mamma would be sure to make her take

along. She begged papa to butter some bread for her, and cut her steak

into mouthfuls to facilitate her breakfast, while the maid was put to

collecting the widely scattered lunch. Mamma put baby, whom she was

feeding, off her lap--he began to scream; little brother left his

doughnut on a chair--the cat began to eat it; little Lucy left her

doll on the floor--big brother stepped on its face, for he did not

leave his book, but tried to read as he went to get the light shawl;

papa laid down his cigar to prepare the put-offer's breakfast--it went

out; the maid dropped the broom--the wind blew the trash from the

dust-pan over the swept floor. Clara continued to trim the hat. As she

was putting in the last pin, mamma reached the tip end of the hair,

and called for the ribbon to tie the braid. "Here 'tis," said little

brother. "Mercy!" cried Clara, "he's got my new blue sash, stringing

it along through all the dust. Goose! do you think I could wear that

great long wide thing on my hair?" Little brother said "Scat!" and

rushed to the rescue of his doughnut, while Lucy came in dragging the

clothes-basket, and big brother entered with mamma's black lace shawl.

"Well, you told me to get a light one," he replied to Clara's

impatient remonstrance, while Lucy whimpered that they wouldn't have

enough nuts if the clothes-basket wasn't taken along.

However, when Bob Trotter had secured Clara Hooks, the other girls

were quickly picked up, and so were the four boys, for Bob was brisk

and so were his horses. Dick Hart was the last called for. He had been

ready since quarter past six, and with his forehandedness had worried

his friends as effectually as the put-offer had hers. When the wagon

at last appeared with its load of fun and laughter, he felt too

ill-humored to return the merry greetings.

"A pretty time to be coming around!" he grumbled, climbing to his

seat. "I've been waiting three hours."

"You houghtn't to 'ave begun to wait so hearly," said Bob, who

had some peculiarities of pronunciation derived from his English

parentage.

"It would be better for you to keep quiet," Dick retorted. "You ought

to have your wages cut, coming around here after nine o'clock. We

ought to be out to the woods this minute."

"'Taint no fault of mine that we haint," said Bob, touching up his

horses.

"Whose fault is it, if it isn't yours?" Dick asked.

Clara Hooks was blushing.

"Let the sparrer tell who killed Cock Robin," was Bob's enigmatical

reply.

"What's he talking about?" said Julius Zink.

"I dunno, and he don't either," replied Dick.

"He doesn't know that or anything else," said Sarah Ketchum.

It was not possible for Sarah to hear a dispute and not become an open

partisan.

"I know a lady when I see 'er," said Bob.

"You don't," said Dick, warmly. "You can't parse horse. I heard you

try at school once."

"I can curry him," said Bob.

"You said horse was an article."

"So he is, and a very useful harticle."

One of the girls nudged her neighbor, and in a loud whisper intimated

her opinion that Bob was getting the better of Dick. At this Dick grew

warmer and more boisterous, maintaining that the boys ought not to pay

Bob the stipulated price since they were so late in starting.

"Hif folks haint ready I can't 'elp it," said Bob.

"Who wasn't ready?" demanded Constance Faber. "You didn't wait for me,

I know."

"And you didn't wait for me or Mat Snead," added Sarah Ketchum,

"because we walked down to meet the wagon."

Clara Hooks's face had grown redder and redder during the

investigation; but if Clara _was_ a put-offer, she was not a coward or

a sneak.

"He waited for me," she now said, "but I think it's mean to tell it

wherever he goes."

"I haint told it nowheres."

"You just the same as told; you hinted."

"Wouldn't 'ave 'inted ef they hadn't kept slappin' at me," was Bob's

defense, which did not go far toward soothing the mortified Clara.

Not all of this party were pert talkers. Two were modest: Valentine

Duke and Mat Snead. These sat together, forming what the others called

the Quaker settlement, from the silence which prevailed in it. The

silence was now broken by a remark from Valentine Duke irrelevant to

any preceding.

"Nuts are plentier at Hawley's Grove than at Crow Roost," he jerked,

out, and then locked up again.

"Say we go there, then," said Kit Pott.

"Let's take the vote on it. Those in favor of Hawley's say aye."

The ayes came storming out, as though each was bound to be the first

and loudest.

"Contrary, no," continued the self-made president; and Bob Trotter

voted solidly "No!"

"We didn't ask you to vote," said Dick, returning to his quarrel.

Dick was constitutionally and habitually pugnacious, but he had such

a cordial way of forgiving everybody he injured that people couldn't

stay mad with him. Indeed, he was quite a favorite.

"I'm the other side of the 'ouse," Bob answered Dick. "You can't carry

this hidee through without my 'elp."

"We hired you to take us to the woods."

"You 'ired me and my wagin and them harticles--whoa!" (Bob's

"harticles" stopped)--"to take you to Crow Roost. You didn't 'ire me

for 'Awley's, and I haint goin' ther' without a new contract."

"What difference is it to you where we go?" Dick demanded. "You belong

to us for the day."

"Four miles further and back,--height miles makes a difference to the

harticles."

Murmurs of disapproval rendered Dick bold.

"Suppose we say you've _got_ to take us to Hawley's," he said, warmly.

"Suppose you do," said Bob, coolly.

"I'd like to know what you'd say about it," said Dick, warmly.

"Say it and I'll let you know," said Bob, coolly,--so very coolly that

Dick was cooled.

A timely prudence enforced a momentary silence. He forebore taking a

position he might not be able to hold. "Say, boys, shall we _make_ him

take us to the grove?"

Bob smiled. Val Duke smiled, too, in his unobtrusive way, and

suggested modestly, "We ought to pay extra for extra work."

"Pay him another quarter and be done with it," said Kit Pott.

Beside being good-natured, Kit didn't enjoy the stopping there in the

middle of the road.

"It's mighty easy to pay out other people's money," sneered Dick,

resenting it that Kit seemed going over to the enemy.

Kit's face was aflame. His father had refused him any money to

contribute toward the picnic expenses, and here was Dick taunting him

with it before all the girls.

"You boys teased me to come along because you didn't know where to

find the nuts," said Kit.

The girls began to nudge each other, making whimpered explanations and

commentaries, agreeing that is was mean in Dick to mind Kit, and Clara

Hooks spoke up boldly;

"I wanted Kit to come along because he's pleasant and isn't forever

quarreling."

"Oh!" Dick sneered more moderately, "we all know you like Kit Pott.

You and he had better get hitched; then, you'd be pot-hooks."

This set everybody to laughing, even Dirk's adversary, Bob Trotter.

"Pretty bright!" said Julius Zink.

"Bright, but not pretty," said Mat Snead, blushing at the sound of her

voice.

"Hurrah! Mat's waked up," said Julius.

"It's the first time she's spoken since we started," said Sarah

Ketchum.

"This isn't the first time you've spoken," Mat quietly retorted,

blushing over again.

Everybody laughed again, even Sarah Ketchum.

"Sarah always puts in her oar when there's any water," said Constance

Faber.

"I want to know how long we're to sit here, standing in the middle of

the road," said Julius.

Again everybody laughed. When grammar-school boys and girls are on

a picnic, a thing needn't be very witty or very funny to make them

laugh. From the ease with which this party exploded into laughter,

it may be perceived that in spite of the high words and the pop-gun

firing, there was no deep-seated ill-humor among them.

"To Crow Roost and be done with it!" said Dick.

"All right," assented several voices.

"Crow Roost, Bob, by the lightning express," said Dick, with

enthusiasm.

"But, as you were so particular," said Sarah to Bob, "we're going to

be, too. We aint going to give you any lunch unless you pay for it."

"Not a mouthful," said Clara.

"Not even a crumb," said Constance.

Nobody saw any dismay in Bob's face.

I don't intend to tell you about all the sayings and all the laughter

of those boys and girls on their way to Crow Roost. They wouldn't like

to have me, and you wouldn't. Bob Trotter ran over a good many grubs

and way-side stumps, and at every jolt Constance screamed, and Dick

scolded and then laughed. Mat Snead spoke three words. She and

Valentine had been sitting as though in profound meditation for some

forty minutes, when he said: "Quite a ride!"

"Very; no, quite," she answered, in confusion.

Sarah Ketchum said everything that Mat didn't say. She was Mat's

counterpart.

All grew enthusiastic as they approached the woods, and when the wagon

stopped they poured over the side in an excited way.

"What shall we do with the lunch-basket?"

"Leave it in the wagon," said Sarah Ketchum, whose counsel, Kit said,

was as free as the waters of the school pump.

Clara objected to leaving it. Bob would eat everything up. "Let's take

it along."

"Why, no," said Julius.

He was the largest of the boys, and, according to the knightly code,

he remembered the carrying of the basket would devolve upon him.

"Yes, we must carry it along," Sarah Ketchum insisted. "Bob sha'n't

have a chance at that basket if I have to carry it around on my back."

Constance, too, said, "Take it along."

"It's easy enough for you girls to insist on having the basket toted

around," said Dick, "because girls can't carry anything when there are

boys along; but suppose you were a poor little fellow like Jule."

"I wont have to climb the trees with it on my back, will I?" said

Julius. "I'll tell you," he continued, lowering his tone--Bob had

heard all the preceding remarks--"we'll hang our basket on a hickory

limb. It will be safe from hogs, and the leaves will hide it from

Bob."

This proposition was approved, and the basket was carried off a short

distance and slyly swung into a sapling. Then the eight went scurrying

through the woods, leaving Bob with the horses. Wherever they saw a

lemon-tinted tree-top against the sky or crowded into one of those

fine autumn bouquets a clump of trees can make, there rushed a squad

of boys, each with his basket, followed by a squad of girls, each with

her basket.

But in a very short time the girls were tired and the boys hungry. All

agreed to go back to the lunch. So back they hurried, the nuts rolling

about over the bottoms of the baskets. Julius had the most nuts; he

had eleven. Mat had the smallest number; she had one.

[Illustration: "'I BELIEVE SHE'S GONE DRY,' SAID KIT."]

"I hope you girls brought along lots of goodies," said Dick. "Seems to

me I never was so hungry in my life."

"I believe boys are always hungry," said Sarah Ketchum.

Val Duke was leading the party. He got along faster than the others,

because he wasn't turning around every minute to say something. He

made an electrifying announcement:

"A cow's in the basket!"

"Gee-whiz!" said Dick, rushing at the cow. "Thunder!" said Julius, and

he gathered a handful of dried leaves and hurled them at the beast.

Kit said "Ruination!" and threw his cap. Clara said "Begone!" and

flapped her handkerchief in a scaring way. Sarah Ketchum said, "Shew!

Scat!" and pitched a small tree-top. It hit Dick and Valentine.

Constance said "Wretch!" and didn't throw anything. Mat didn't say

anything and threw her hickory-nut. Val threw his basket, and hung

it on the cow's horn. She shook it off walked away a few yards, then

turned and stared at the party.

"Lunch is gone, every smitch of it!" said Kit.

"Hope it'll kill her dead!" said Sarah Ketchum.

"We'd better have left it in the wagon. Bob couldn't have eaten it

all," said Clara.

"I wish Jule had taken it along," said Dick.

"I wish Dick had taken it along," said Julius.

"But what're we going to do?" said Constance.

"We might buy something if anybody lived about here."

"There isn't any money."

"Dick might give his note, with the rest of us as indorsers," said

Julius.

"We might play tramps and beg something."

"But nobody lives around here."

"Hurrah!" said Dick, who had been prowling about among the slain.

"Here's a biscuit, and here's a half loaf of bread."

"But they're all mussed and dirty," said Sarah.

"You might pare them," Mat suggested.

"Yes, peel them like potatoes," said Julius.

"But what are these among so many? The days of miracles are past."

"What shall we do?" said one and another.

"Milk the cow," said Mat.

Boys and girls clapped their hands with enthusiasm, and cried

"Splendid!" "Capital!" etc.

"I'll milk her," said Dick. "Hand me that cup. I'm obliged to the cow

for not eating it."

The cow happened to be a gentle animal, so she did not run away at

Dick's approach, yet she seemed determined that he should not get into

milking position. She kept her broad, white-starred face toward him,

and her large, liquid eyes on his, turning, turning, turning, as he

tried over and over to approach her flanks, while the others stood

watching in mute expectancy.

"Give her some feed," said Mat.

"Feed! I shouldn't think she could bear the sight of anything more

after all that lunch," said Dick. "Beside, there isn't any feed about

here."

Somebody suggested that Bob Trotter had brought some hay and corn

for his horses. Dick proposed that Julius should go for some. Julius

proposed that Dick should go. Valentine offered to bring it, and

brought it--some corn in a basket.

"Suke! Suke, Bossy! Suke, Bossy! Suke!" Dick yelled as though the cow

had been two hundred feet off instead of ten. He held out the basket.

She came forward, sniffed at the corn, threw up her lip and took a

bite. Dick set the basket under her nose and hastened to put himself

in milking position. But that was the end of it. He could not milk a

drop.

"I can't get the hang of the thing," he said.

"Let me try," said Kit.

Dick gave way, and Kit pulled and squeezed and tugged and twisted,

while the others shouted with laughter.

"I believe she's gone dry," said Kit, very red in the face. At this

the laughers laughed anew.

"Some of you who are so good at laughing had better try."

Kit set the cup on a stump and retired.

Sarah Ketchum tried to persuade everybody else to try, but the other

boys were afraid of failure and the girls were afraid of the cow.

Sarah said if somebody would hold the animal's head so that it

couldn't hook, she'd milk--she knew she could. But nobody offered to

take the cow by the horns; so everything came to a stand-still except

Sarah's talking and the cow's eating. Then Bob Trotter came in sight,

all his pockets standing out with nuts. They called him. Sarah Ketchum

explained the situation and asked him if he could milk.

"I do the milkin' at 'ome," Bob replied.

"Wont you please milk this cow for us? We don't know how, and we want

the milk for dinner."

There came a comical look into Bob's face, but he said nothing. The

eight knew what his thoughts must be.

"We oughtn't to have said that you couldn't have any of our lunch,"

said Sarah Ketchum.

"We didn't really mean it," said Clara. "When lunch-time came we would

have given you lots of good things."

"That's so," said Dick. "Sarah told us an hour ago that she meant to

give you her snow-ball cake because she felt compuncted."

By this time Bob had approached the cow. He spoke some kind words

close to her broad ear, and gently stroked her back and flanks. Then

he set to work in the proper way, forcing the milk in streams into the

cup, the boys watching with admiration Bob's ease and expertness, Dick

wondering why he couldn't do what seemed so easy. In a few seconds the

cup was filled.

"Now, what're you going to do?" said Bob. "This wont be a taste

around."

"You might milk into our hats," said Julius.

"I've got a thimble in my pocket," said Sarah Ketchum.

"Do stop your nonsense," said Constance; "it's a very serious

question--a life and death matter. We're a company of Crusoes."

But the boys couldn't stop their nonsense immediately. Dick remarked

that if the cow had not licked out the jelly-bowl and then kicked it

to pieces it might have been utilized. Then some one remembered a

tin water-pail at the wagon. This was brought, and Bob soon had it

two-thirds filled with milk. Then the question arose as to how they

were all to be served with just that quart-cup and two spoons. They

were to take turns, two eating at a time.

"I don't want to eat with Jule," Dick said. "He eats too fast."

The young people paired off, leaving out Bob. Then they all looked at

him in a shame-faced, apologetic way.

"You needn't mind me," said Bob, interpreting their glances. "I don't

want to heat with none of you. I've got some wittals down to the

wagon."

"Why, what have you got?" said Sarah Ketchum. She felt cheap, and so

did the others.

"Some boiled heggs and some happles and some raw turnups," said Bob.

Eight mouths watered at this catalogue. Sarah Ketchum whispered:

"For a generous slice of turnip,

I'd lay me down and die."

"I don't keer for nothing but a hegg and a happle, myself," said Bob.

"May be you folks would heat the hother things. There's a good lot of

happles."

The eight protested that they could do with the milk and bread, but

urged the milk on Bob.

"No, I thank you," he said.

"He's mad at us yet," Mat whispered.

"Look here," said Sarah Ketchum to Bob, "if you don't eat some of this

milk, none of us will. We'll give it to the cow."

"No, we won't do that," Julius said: "we'll hold you and make you

drink it. If you have more apples than you wish, we'll be glad of

some; but we aren't going to take them unless you'll take your share

of the milk."

"And we'll get mad at you again," said Clara.

"I'll drink hall the milk necessary to a make-hup," said Bob.

When the lunch was eaten, Mat said she didn't think they ought to have

milked the cow. The folks would be so disappointed when they came to

milk her at night. May be a lot of poor children were depending on the

milking for their supper. Val, too, showed that his conscience was

disturbed.

"You needn't worry," said Dick. "They'll get this milk back from the

lunch she stole."

"But they couldn't help her stealing."

"And I couldn't help milking her," said Dick.

At this there was a burst of laughter. Then Mat wrote on a scrap of

paper: "This cow has been milked to save some boys and girls from

starvation. The owner can get pay for the milk by calling at Mr.

Snead's, Poplar street, Budville."

"Who'll tie it on her tail?" asked Mat.

"I will," said Val, promptly, glad to ease his conscience.

And this he did with a piece of blue ribbon from Mat Snead's hat.

MRS. PETER PIPER'S PICKLES.

BY E. MÜLLER.

[Illustration: Two crows.]

"There's nothing in that bush," said one old crow to another old crow,

as they flew slowly along the beach.

"No, nothing worth looking at," answered the other old crow, and then

they alighted on a dead tree and complained that the egg season was

over.

That was because they were fond of sandpipers' eggs, and there were

none in that bush. No eggs were there, to be sure, but there sat Mrs.

Peter Sandpiper, talking to two fine young sandpipers, just hatched.

"Nothing worth looking at!" said she, indignantly. "Well, anything but

a crow would have more sense! Nothing in this bush, indeed! Pe-tweet,

pe-tweet!"

[Illustration: "TANGLED IN THE LONG GRASS."]

And truly she might well be angry at any one snubbing those young ones

of hers. Their eyes were so bright, their legs were so slim, and their

beaks so sharp that it was delightful to see them. And they turned out

their toes so gracefully that, the first time they went to the sea to

bathe, everyone said Mrs. Peter Sandpiper had reason to be proud of

her children. But just as soon as they could run they got into all

sorts of troubles, and vexed Mrs. Sandpiper out of her wits.

[Illustration: "THEY TURNED OUT THEIR TOES SO GRACEFULLY."]

"Such a pair of young pickles I never hatched before!" said she to

Mrs. Kingfisher, who came to gossip one day.

"Well, well, my dear," said Mrs. Kingfisher, "boys will be boys;

by the time they are grown up they will be all right. Now, my dear

Pinlegs was just such--"

[Illustration: "OH, MY! HE'S GOING BACKWARDS!"]

But Mrs. Sandpiper had to fly off, to see what Pipsy Sandpiper was

doing, and keep Nipsy Sandpiper from swallowing a June beetle twice

too big for him. They were great trials. They were always eating the

wrong kind of bugs, and having indigestion and headaches. They were

forever getting their legs tangled up in long wet grass, and screaming

for Mrs. Peter Sandpiper to come help them out, and at night they

chirped in their sleep and disturbed Mrs. Sandpiper dreadfully by

kicking each other. At last she said she could stand it no longer;

they must take care of themselves. So she cried "Pe-tweet, good-by,"

and then she flew away, leaving Pipsy and Nipsy alone by the sea to

take care of themselves.

[Illustration: "THIS IS TWICE AS DEEP AS YOU WERE IN."]

It was quite a trouble at first, for Mamma Sandpiper had always helped

them to bugs and worms, one apiece, turn about, so all was fair. But

now Pipsy always wanted the best of everything, and Nipsy, being good

tempered, had to eat what his brother left. One day bugs were very

scarce, and both little Sandpipers were so hungry that they could have

eaten a whole starfish--if he had come out of his shelter. Suddenly

Nipsy, who was a trifle near sighted, said he saw a large beetle

coming along the beach. They ran quickly to meet it. But what in

the world was it! It had legs; oh, such legs! They were larger than

Pipsy's and Nipsy's put together. Its back was like a huge shell, and

its eyes were dreadful. The little sandpipers looked at each other in

terror.

[Illustration: "THERE, IN THE TWILIGHT, HE SAW A LONELY FIGURE

STANDING ON ONE LEG."]

But a mild little voice from the creature relieved them.

"I beg your pardon," said he. "Let me introduce myself. C. Crab, Esq.,

of Oyster Bay."

"Oh, ah! Indeed!" said Pipsy. "Glad to know you, I'm sure."

"I think I must have lost my way," said C. Crab, Esq. "Could you

oblige me by telling me if you see any boys near?"

"Any boys?" said Pipsy and Nipsy, looking at each other. "Never saw

one in my life. What do they look like? Have they many legs? Are they

fat? Are they good to eat?" asked both the hungry little sandpipers.

"They are creatures," said the crab, with a groan,--"creatures a

thousand times larger than we are. They have strings. They tie up

legs and pull. They throw stones. If you ever see a boy, run for your

life."

"Good gracious me!" cried both the little sandpipers. "How very

dreadful!"

But there were no boys in sight; so C. Crab grew sociable, and offered

to show them a place where bugs were plenty. "Just get on my back,"

said he, "and I'll have you there in no time."

So they got on his back. It was very wet and slippery, but they held

on with their toes, while C. Crab gave himself a heave and started.

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Nipsy. "He's going backward!"

"He actually is!" cried Pipsy. "At this rate we'll get there day

before yesterday, wont we?"

"Surely," said Nipsy. "How very horrid of him when we are so hungry!

What a slow coach!"

"Let's jump off quick, or he'll take us clear into last week!" cried

the silly sandpipers, and then they skipped off and ran down the beach

in the opposite direction. C. Crab called to them, but it was no use,

so he went on his way. But as for the sandpipers, they went on getting

into trouble. The day was hot, and after they had run some distance,

they stepped into the water to cool off. Nipsy stepped in first, but

the water was up to his breast and it frightened him, so he stepped

out again.

"Pooh!" said Pipsy. "You're afraid, YOU are! Look at me!"

Then he jumped in, and only his head stuck out.

"This is twice as deep as you were in!" he cried, turning up his bill,

and rolling his eyes.

"You're sitting down, _you_ are!" cried Nipsy, in scorn.

"I'm not," said Pipsy.

"You are. I can see your toes all doubled up, even if the water _is_

muddy," said Nipsy, and rushed at him to punish him for bragging.

They both rolled under the water, and then out on the shore, dripping

wet and very angry with each other.

Pipsy went home to the old bush and was very miserable. He wanted

something to eat, and did not know where to find anything. Nipsy went

high up the beach, and found a lot of young hedge-crickets. But he did

not half enjoy them. They were fat and smooth, and he was hungry, but

crickets had no flavor without Pipsy to help eat them. But he was

angry at him yet.

"He must come to me," he said, sternly, to the cricket he was eating.

The cricket said nothing, being half-way down his throat, and pretty

soon Nipsy could stand his feelings no longer. Catching up the

largest, smoothest, softest cricket, he ran down to the shore as fast

as his legs could carry him. There, in the twilight, he saw a lonely

figure standing on one leg.

"Pipsy!" he cried.

"Nipsy!" cried Pipsy.

And they flew to each other.

"Here's a glorious fat cricket for you."

"Forgive me, Nipsy," said his brother.

And then they were happy.

[Illustration: Blossoms.]

UNDER THE LILACS.

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

CHAPTER XIV.

SOMEBODY GETS LOST.

Putting all care behind them, the young folks ran down the hill, with

a very lively dog gamboling beside them, and took a delightfully

tantalizing survey of the external charms of the big tent. But people

were beginning to go in, and it was impossible to delay when they came

round to the entrance.

Ben felt that now "his foot was on his native heath," and the superb

air of indifference with which he threw down his dollar at the

ticket-office, carelessly swept up the change, and strolled into the

tent with his hands in his pockets, was so impressive that even big

Sam repressed his excitement and meekly followed their leader, as he

led them from cage to cage, doing the honors as if he owned the whole

concern. Bab held tight to the tail of his jacket, staring about her

with round eyes, and listening with little gasps of astonishment or

delight to the roaring of lions, the snarling of tigers, the chatter

of the monkeys, the groaning of camels, and the music of the very

brass band shut up in a red bin.

Five elephants were tossing their hay about in the middle of the

menagerie, and Billy's legs shook under him as he looked up at the big

beasts whose long noses and small, sagacious eyes filled him with awe.

Sam was so tickled by the droll monkeys that they left him before the

cage and went on to see the zebra, "striped just like Ma's muslin

gown," Bab declared. But the next minute she forgot all about him in

her raptures over the ponies and their tiny colts, especially one mite

of a thing who lay asleep on the hay, such a miniature copy of its

little mouse-colored mamma that one could hardly believe it was alive.

"Oh, Ben, I _must_ feel of it!--the cunning baby horse!" and down went

Bab inside the rope to pat and admire the pretty creature, while its

mother smelt suspiciously at the brown hat, and baby lazily opened one

eye to see what was going on.

"Come out of that, it isn't allowed!" commanded Ben, longing to do the

same thing, but mindful of the proprieties and his own dignity.

Bab reluctantly tore herself away to find consolation in watching the

young lions, who looked so like big puppies, and the tigers washing

their faces just as puss did.

"If I stroked 'em, wouldn't they purr?" she asked, bent on enjoying

herself, while Ben held her skirts lest she should try the experiment.

"You'd better not go to patting them, or you'll get your hands clawed

up. Tigers do purr like fun when they are happy, but these fellers

never are, and you'll only see 'em spit and snarl," said Ben, leading

the way to the humpy camels, who were peacefully chewing their cud and

longing for the desert, with a dreamy, far-away look in their mournful

eyes.

Here, leaning on the rope, and scientifically chewing a straw while he

talked, Ben played showman to his heart's content till the neigh of a

horse from the circus tent beyond reminded him of the joys to come.

"We'd better hurry along and get good seats before folks begin to

crowd. I want to sit near the curtain and see if any of Smithers's lot

are 'round."

"I aint going way off there; you can't see half so well, and that big

drum makes such a noise you can't hear yourself think," said Sam, who

had rejoined them.

So they settled in good places where they could see and hear all that

went on in the ring and still catch glimpses of white horses, bright

colors, and the glitter of helmets beyond the dingy red curtains. Ben

treated Bab to peanuts and pop-corn like an indulgent parent, and she

murmured protestations of undying gratitude with her mouth full, as

she sat blissfully between him and the congenial Billy.

Sancho, meantime, had been much excited by the familiar sights and

sounds, and now was greatly exercised in his doggish mind at the

unusual proceeding of his master; for he was sure that they ought to

be within there, putting on their costumes, ready to take their turn.

He looked anxiously at Ben, sniffed disdainfully at the strap as if to

remind him that a scarlet ribbon ought to take its place, and poked

peanut shells about with his paw as if searching for the letters with

which to spell his famous name.

"I know, old boy, I know; but it can't be done. We've quit the

business and must just look on. No larks for us this time, Sanch, so

keep quiet and behave," whispered Ben, tucking the dog away under the

seat with a sympathetic cuddle of the curly head that peeped out from

between his feet.

"He wants to go and cut up, don't he?" said Billy, "and so do you, I

guess. Wish you were going to. Wouldn't it be fun to see Ben showing

off in there?"

"I'd be afraid to have him go up on a pile of elephants and jump

through hoops like these folks," answered Bab, poring over her

pictured play-bill with unabated relish.

"Done it a hundred times, and I'd just like to show you what I can

do. They don't seem to have any boys in this lot; shouldn't wonder if

they'd take me if I asked 'em," said Ben, moving uneasily on his seat

and casting wistful glances toward the inner tent where he knew he

would feel more at home than in his present place.

[Illustration: AT THE CIRCUS.]

"I heard some men say that it's against the law to have small boys

now; it's so dangerous and not good for them, this kind of thing. If

that's so, you're done for. Ben," observed Sam, with his most grown-up

air, remembering Ben's remarks on "fat boys."

"Don't believe a word of it, and Sanch and I could go this minute and

get taken on, I'll bet. We are a valuable couple, and I could prove it

if I chose to," began Ben, getting excited and boastful.

"Oh, see, they're coming!--gold carriages and lovely horses, and flags

and elephants, and everything!" cried Bab, giving a clutch at Ben's

arm as the opening procession appeared headed by the band, tooting and

banging till their faces were as red as their uniforms.

Round and round they went till every one had seen their fill, then the

riders alone were left caracoling about the ring with feathers flying,

horses prancing, and performers looking as tired and indifferent as if

they would all like to go to sleep then and there.

"How splendid!" sighed Bab, as they went dashing out, to tumble off

almost before the horses stopped.

"That's nothing! You wait till you see the bare-back riding and the

'acrobatic exercises,'" said Ben, quoting from the play-bill, with the

air of one who knew all about the feats to come, and could never be

surprised any more.

"What are 'crowbackic exercises?'" asked Billy, thirsting for

information.

"Leaping and climbing and tumbling; you'll see--George! what a

stunning horse!" and Ben forgot everything else to feast his eyes

on the handsome creature who now came pacing in to dance, upset and

replace chairs, kneel, bow, and perform many wonderful or graceful

feats, ending with a swift gallop while the rider sat in a chair on

its back fanning himself, with his legs crossed, as comfortably as you

please.

"That, now, is something like," and Ben's eyes shone with admiration

and envy as the pair vanished, and the pink and silver acrobats came

leaping into the ring.

The boys were especially interested in this part, and well they

might be; for strength and agility are manly attributes which lads

appreciate, and these lively fellows flew about like India rubber

balls, each trying to outdo the other, till the leader of the acrobats

capped the climax by turning a double somersault over five elephants

standing side by side.

"There, sir, how's that for a jump?" asked Ben, rubbing his hands with

satisfaction as his friends clapped till their palms tingled.

"We'll rig up a spring-board and try it," said Billy, fired with

emulation.

"Where'll you get your elephants?" asked Sam, scornfully, for

gymnastics were not in his line.

"You'll do for one," retorted Ben, and Billy and Bab joined in his

laugh so heartily that a rough-looking man who sat behind them,

hearing all they said, pronounced them a "jolly set," and kept his eye

on Sancho, who now showed signs of insubordination.

"Hullo, that wasn't on the bill!" cried Ben, as a parti-colored clown

came in, followed by half a dozen dogs.

"I'm so glad; now Sancho will like it. There's a poodle that might

be his ownty donty brother--the one with the blue ribbon," said Bab,

beaming with delight as the dogs took their seats in the chairs

arranged for them.

Sancho did like it only too well, for he scrambled out from under the

seat in a great hurry to go and greet his friends, and, being sharply

checked, set up and begged so piteously that Ben found it very hard

to refuse and order him down. He subsided for a moment, but when the

black spaniel, who acted the canine clown, did something funny and was

applauded, Sancho made a dart as if bent on leaping into the ring to

outdo his rival, and Ben was forced to box his ears and put his feet

on the poor beast, fearing he would be ordered out if he made any

disturbance.

Too well trained to rebel again, Sancho lay meditating on his wrongs

till the dog act was over, carefully abstaining from any further sign

of interest in their tricks, and only giving a sidelong glance at the

two little poodles who came out of a basket to run up and down stairs

on their fore paws, dance jigs on their hind legs, and play various

pretty pranks to the great delight of all the children in the

audience. If ever a dog expressed by look and attitude, "Pooh! I could

do much better than that, and astonish you all, if I was only allowed

to," that dog was Sancho, as he curled himself up and affected to turn

his back on an unappreciative world.

"It's too bad, when he knows more than all those chaps put together.

I'd give anything if I could show him off as I used to. Folks always

liked it, and I was ever so proud of him. He's mad now because I had

to cuff him, and wont take any notice of me till I make up," said Ben,

regretfully eyeing his offended friend, but not daring to beg pardon

yet.

More riding followed, and Bab was kept in a breathless state by the

marvelous agility and skill of the gauzy lady who drove four horses at

once, leaped through hoops, over banners and bars, sprang off and on

at full speed, and seemed to enjoy it all so much it was impossible to

believe that there could be any danger or exertion in it.

Then two girls flew about on the trapeze, and walked on a tight rope,

causing Bab to feel that she had at last found her sphere, for, young

as she was, her mother often said:

"I really don't know what this child is fit for, except mischief, like

a monkey."

"I'll fix the clothes-line when I get home, and show Ma how nice it

is. Then, may be, she'll let me wear red and gold trousers, and climb

round like these girls," thought the busy little brain, much excited

by all it saw on that memorable day.

Nothing short of a pyramid of elephants with a glittering gentleman in

a turban and top boots on the summit would have made her forget this

new and charming plan. But that astonishing spectacle and the prospect

of a cage of Bengal tigers with a man among them, in imminent danger

of being eaten before her eyes, entirely absorbed her thoughts till,

just as the big animals went lumbering out, a peal of thunder caused

considerable commotion in the audience. Men on the highest seats

popped their heads through the openings in the tent-cover and reported

that a heavy shower was coming up. Anxious mothers began to collect

their flocks of children as hens do their chickens at sunset; timid

people told cheerful stories of tents blown over in gales, cages upset

and wild beasts let loose. Many left in haste, and the performers

hurried to finish as soon as possible.

"I'm going now before the crowd comes, so I can get a lift home. I see

two or three folks I know, so I'm off;" and, climbing hastily down,

Sam vanished without further ceremony.

"Better wait till the shower is over. We can go and see the animals

again, and get home all dry, just as well as not," observed Ben,

encouragingly, as Billy looked anxiously at the billowing canvas over

his head, the swaying posts before him, and heard the quick patter of

drops outside, not to mention the melancholy roar of the lion which

sounded rather awful through the sudden gloom which filled the strange

place.

"I wouldn't miss the tigers for anything. See, they are pulling in the

cart now, and the shiny man is all ready with his gun. Will he shoot

any of them, Ben?" asked Bab, nestling nearer with a little shiver of

apprehension, for the sharp crack of a rifle startled her more than

the loudest thunder-clap she ever heard.

"Bless you, no, child; it's only powder to make a noise and scare 'em.

I wouldn't like to be in his place, though; father says you can never

trust tigers as you can lions, no matter how tame they are. Sly

fellers, like cats, and when they scratch it's no joke, I tell you,"

answered Ben, with a knowing wag of the head, as the sides of the cage

rattled down, and the poor, fierce creatures were seen leaping and

snarling as if they resented this display of their captivity.

Bab curled up her feet and winked fast with excitement as she watched

the "shiny man" fondle the great cats, lie down among them, pull open

their red mouths, and make them leap over him or crouch at his feet as

he snapped the long whip. When he fired the gun and they all fell as

if dead, she with difficulty suppressed a small scream and clapped her

hands over her ears; but poor Billy never minded it a bit, for he was

pale and quaking with the fear of "heaven's artillery" thundering over

head, and as a bright flash of lightning seemed to run down the tall

tent-poles he hid his eyes and wished with all his heart that he was

safe with mother.

"'Fraid of thunder, Bill?" asked Ben, trying to speak stoutly, while a

sense of his own responsibilities began to worry him, for how was Bab

to be got home in such a pouring rain.

"It makes me sick; always did. Wish I hadn't come," sighed Billy,

feeling, all too late, that lemonade and "lozengers" were not the

fittest food for man, or a stifling tent the best place to be in on a

hot July day, especially in a thunder-storm.

"I didn't ask you to come; _you_ asked _me_; so it isn't my fault,"

said Ben, rather gruffly, as people crowded by without pausing to hear

the comic song the clown was singing in spite of the confusion.

"Oh, I'm _so_ tired," groaned Bab, getting up with a long stretch of

arms and legs.

"You'll be tireder before you get home, I guess. Nobody asked _you_ to

come, anyway;" and Ben gazed dolefully round him wishing he could see

a familiar face or find a wiser head than his own to help him out of

the scrape he was in.

"I said I wouldn't be a bother, and I wont. I'll walk right home this

minute, I aint afraid of thunder, and the rain wont hurt these old

clothes. Come along," cried Bab, bravely, bent on keeping her word,

though it looked much harder after the fun was all over than before.

"My head aches like fury. Don't I wish old Jack was here to take me

back," said Billy, following his companions in misfortune with sudden

energy, as a louder peal than before rolled overhead.

"You might as well wish for Lita and the covered wagon while you are

about it, then we could all ride," answered Ben, leading the way to

the outer tent, where many people were lingering in hopes of fair

weather.

"Why, Billy Barton, how in the world did you get here?" cried a

surprised voice, as the crook of a cane caught the boy by the collar

and jerked him face to face with a young farmer, who was pushing along

followed by his wife and two or three children.

"Oh, Uncle Eben, I'm so glad you found me! I walked over, and it's

raining, and I don't feel well. Let me go with you, can't I?" asked

Billy, casting himself and all his woes upon the strong arm that had

laid hold of him.

"Don't see what your mother was about to let you come so far alone,

and you just over scarlet fever. We are as full as ever we can be, but

we'll tuck you in somehow," said the pleasant-faced woman, bundling up

her baby, and bidding the two little lads "keep close to father."

"I didn't come alone. Sam got a ride, and can't you tuck Ben and Bab

in too? They aint very big, either of them," whispered Billy, anxious

to serve his friends now that he was provided for himself.

"Can't do it, anyway. Got to pick up mother at the corner, and that

will be all I can carry. It's lifting a little; hurry along, Lizzie,

and let us get out of this as quick as possible," said Uncle Eben,

impatiently; for going to a circus with a young family is not an easy

task, as every one knows who has ever tried it.

"Ben, I'm real sorry there isn't room for you. I'll tell Bab's mother

where she is, and may be some one will come for you," said Billy,

hurriedly, as he tore himself away, feeling rather mean to desert the

others, though he could be of no use.

"Cut away and don't mind us. I'm all right, and Bab must do the best

she can," was all Ben had time to answer before his comrade was

hustled away by the crowd pressing round the entrance with much

clashing of umbrellas and scrambling of boys and men, who rather

enjoyed the flurry.

"No use for us to get knocked about in that scrimmage. We'll wait a

minute and then go out easy. It's a regular rouser, and you'll be as

wet as a sop before we get home. Hope you'll like that?" added Ben,

looking out at the heavy rain pouring down as if it never meant to

stop.

"Don't care a bit," said Bab, swinging on one of the ropes with a

happy-go-lucky air, for her spirits were not extinguished yet, and

she was bound to enjoy this exciting holiday to the very end. "I like

circuses so much! I wish I lived here all the time, and slept in a

wagon, as you did, and had these dear little colties to play with."

"It wouldn't be fun if you didn't have any folks to take care of you,"

began Ben, thoughtfully looking about the familiar place where the men

were now feeding the animals, setting their refreshment tables, or

lounging on the hay to get such rest as they could before the evening

entertainment. Suddenly he started, gave a long look, then turned to

Bab, and thrusting Sancho's strap into her hand, said, hastily: "I see

a fellow I used to know. May be he can tell me something about father.

Don't you stir till I come back."

Then he was off like a shot, and Bab saw him run after a man with a

bucket who had been watering the zebra. Sancho tried to follow, but

was checked with an impatient:

"No, you can't go! What a plague you are, tagging around when people

don't want you."

Sancho might have answered, "So are you," but, being a gentlemanly

dog, he sat down with a resigned expression to watch the little colts,

who were now awake and seemed ready for a game of bo-peep behind their

mammas. Bab enjoyed their funny little frisks so much that she tied

the wearisome strap to a post and crept under the rope to pet the tiny

mouse-colored one who came and talked to her with baby whinneys and

confiding glances of its soft, dark eyes.

Oh, luckless Bab! why did you turn your back? Oh, too accomplished

Sancho! why did you neatly untie that knot and trot away to confer

with the disreputable bull-dog who stood in the entrance beckoning

with friendly wavings of an abbreviated tail? Oh, much afflicted Ben!

why did you delay till it was too late to save your pet from the

rough man who set his foot upon the trailing strap and led poor Sanch

quickly out of sight among the crowd.

"It _was_ Bascum, but he didn't know anything. Why, where's Sanch?"

said Ben, returning.

A breathless voice made Bab turn to see Ben looking about him with as

much alarm in his hot face as if the dog had been a two years' child.

"I tied him--he's here somewhere--with the ponies," stammered Bab, in

sudden dismay, for no sign of a dog appeared as her eyes roved wildly

to and fro.

Ben whistled, called and searched in vain, till one of the lounging

men said, lazily:

"If you are looking after the big poodle you'd better go outside; I

saw him trotting off with another dog."

Away rushed Ben, with Bab following, regardless of the rain, for both

felt that a great misfortune had befallen them. But, long before this,

Sancho had vanished, and no one minded his indignant howls as he was

driven off in a covered cart.

"If he is lost I'll never forgive you; never, never, never!" and Ben

found it impossible to resist giving Bab several hard shakes which

made her yellow braids fly up and down like pump handles.

"I'm dreadful sorry. He'll come back--you said he always did," pleaded

Bab, quite crushed by her own afflictions, and rather scared to see

Ben look so fierce, for he seldom lost his temper or was rough with

the little girls.

"If he doesn't come back, don't you speak to me for a year. Now, I'm

going home." And, feeling that words were powerless to express his

emotions, Ben walked away, looking as grim as a small boy could.

A more unhappy little lass is seldom to be found than Bab was, as she

pattered after him, splashing recklessly through the puddles, and

getting as wet and muddy as possible, as a sort of penance for her

sins. For a mile or two she trudged stoutly along, while Ben marched

before in solemn silence, which soon became both impressive and

oppressive because so unusual, and such a proof of his deep

displeasure. Penitent Bab longed for just one word, one sign of

relenting; and when none came, she began to wonder how she could

possibly bear it if he kept his dreadful threat and did not speak to

her for a whole year.

But presently her own discomfort absorbed her, for her feet were

wet and cold as well as very tired; pop-corn and peanuts were not

particularly nourishing food, and hunger made her feel faint;

excitement was a new thing, and now that it was over she longed to

lie down and go to sleep; then the long walk with a circus at the

end seemed a very different affair from the homeward trip with a

distracted mother awaiting her. The shower had subsided into a dreary

drizzle, a chilly east wind blew up, the hilly road seemed to lengthen

before the weary feet, and the mute, blue flannel figure going on

so fast with never a look or sound, added the last touch to Bab's

remorseful anguish.

Wagons passed, but all were full, and no one offered a ride. Men and

boys went by with rough jokes on the forlorn pair, for rain soon made

them look like young tramps. But there was no brave Sancho to resent

the impertinence, and this fact was sadly brought to both their minds

by the appearance of a great Newfoundland dog who came trotting after

a carriage. The good creature stopped to say a friendly word in his

dumb fashion, looking up at Bab with benevolent eyes, and poking his

nose into Ben's hand before he bounded away with his plumy tail curled

over his back.

Ben started as the cold nose touched his fingers, gave the soft head a

lingering pat, and watched the dog out of sight through a thicker mist

than any the rain made. But Bab broke down; for the wistful look

of the creature's eyes reminded her of lost Sancho, and she sobbed

quietly as she glanced back longing to see the dear old fellow jogging

along in the rear.

Ben heard the piteous sound and took a sly peep over his shoulder,

seeing such a mournful spectacle that he felt appeased, saying to

himself as if to excuse his late sternness:

"She _is_ a naughty girl, but I guess she is about sorry enough now.

When we get to that sign-post I'll speak to her, only I wont forgive

her till Sanch comes back."

But he was better than his word; for, just before the post was

reached, Bab, blinded by tears, tripped over the root of a tree, and,

rolling down the bank, landed in a bed of wet nettles. Ben had her

out in a jiffy, and vainly tried to comfort her; but she was past

any consolation he could offer, and roared dismally as she wrung her

tingling hands, with great drops running over her cheeks almost as

fast as the muddy little rills ran down the road.

"Oh dear, oh dear! I'm all stinged up, and I want my supper; and my

feet ache, and I'm cold, and everything is _so_ horrid!" wailed the

poor child lying on the grass, such a miserable little wet bunch that

the sternest parent would have melted at the sight.

"Don't cry so, Babby; I was real cross, and I'm sorry. I'll forgive

you right away now, and never shake you any more," cried Ben, so full

of pity for her tribulations that he forgot his own, like a generous

little man.

"Shake me again, if you want to; I know I was very bad to tag and lose

Sanch. I never will any more, and I'm so sorry, I don't know what to

do," answered Bab, completely bowed down by this magnanimity.

"Never mind; you just wipe up your face and come along, and we'll tell

Ma all about it, and she'll fix us as nice as can be. I shouldn't

wonder if Sanch got home now before we did," said Ben, cheering

himself as well as her by the fond hope.

"I don't believe _I_ ever shall, I'm so tired my legs wont go, and the

water in my boots makes them feel dreadfully. I wish that boy would

wheel me a piece. Don't you s'pose he would?" asked Bab, wearily

picking herself up as a tall lad trundling a barrow came out of a yard

near by.

"Hullo, Joslyn!" said Ben, recognizing the boy as one of the "hill

fellows" who come to town Saturday nights for play or business.

"Hullo, Brown," responded the other, arresting his squeaking progress

with signs of surprise at the moist tableau before him.

"Where goin'?" asked Ben with masculine brevity.

"Got to carry this home, hang the old thing!"

"Where to?"

"Batchelor's, down yonder," and the boy pointed to a farm-house at the

foot of the next hill.

"Goin' that way, take it right along."

"What for?" questioned the prudent youth, distrusting such unusual

neighborliness.

"She's tired, wants a ride; I'll leave it all right, true as I live

and breathe," explained Ben, half ashamed yet anxious to get his

little responsibility home as soon as possible, for mishaps seemed to

thicken.

"Ho, _you_ couldn't cart her all that way! she's most as heavy as a

bag of meal," jeered the taller lad, amused at the proposition.

"I'm stronger than most fellers of my size. Try, if I aint," and Ben

squared off in such scientific style that Joslyn responded with sudden

amiability:

"All right, let's see you do it."

Bab huddled into her new equipage without the least fear, and Ben

trundled her off at a good pace, while the boy retired to the shelter

of the barn to watch their progress, glad to be rid of an irksome

errand.

At first, all went well, for the way was down hill, and the wheel

squeaked briskly round and round; Bab smiled gratefully upon her

bearer, and Ben "went in on his muscle with a will," as he expressed

it. But presently the road grew sandy, began to ascend, and the load

seemed to grow heavier with every step.

"I'll get out now. It's real nice, but I guess I _am_ too heavy," said

Bab, as the face before her got redder and redder, and the breath

began to come in puffs.

"Sit still. He said I couldn't. I'm not going to give in with him

looking on," panted Ben, and pushed gallantly up the rise, over the

grassy lawn to the side gate of the Batchelors' door-yard, with his

head down, teeth set, and every muscle of his slender body braced to

the task.

"Did ever ye see the like of that now? Ah, ha!

'The streets were so wide,

and the lanes were so narry,

He brought his wife home

on a little wheelbarry,'"

sung a voice with an accent which made Ben drop his load and push back

his hat, to see Pat's red head looking over the fence.

To have his enemy behold him then and there was the last bitter drop

in poor Ben's cup of humiliation. A shrill approving whistle from the

hill was some comfort, however, and gave him spirit to help Bab out

with composure, though his hands were blistered and he had hardly

breath enough to issue the command:

"Go along home, and don't mind him."

"Nice childer, ye are, runnin' off this way, settin' the women

disthracted, and me wastin' me time comin' after ye when I'd be

milkin' airly so I'd get a bit of pleasure the day," grumbled Pat,

coming up to untie the Duke, whose Roman nose Ben had already

recognized, as well as the roomy chaise standing before the door.

"Did Billy tell you about us?" asked Bab, gladly following toward this

welcome refuge.

"Faith he did, and the Squire sint me to fetch ye home quiet and aisy.

When ye found me, I'd jist stopped here to borry a light for me pipe.

Up wid ye, b'y, and not be wastin' me time stramashin' afther a

spalpeen that I'd like to lay me whip over," said Pat, gruffly, as Ben

came along, having left the barrow in the shed.

"Don't you wish you could? You needn't wait for me; I'll come when I'm

ready," answered Ben, dodging round the chaise, bound not to mind Pat,

if he spent the night by the road-side in consequence.

"Bedad, and I wont then. It's lively ye are; but four legs is better

than two, as ye'll find this night, me young mon!"

With that he whipped up and was off before Bab could say a word to

persuade Ben to humble himself for the sake of a ride. She lamented

and Pat chuckled, both forgetting what an agile monkey the boy was,

and as neither looked back, they were unaware that Master Ben was

hanging on behind among the straps and springs, making derisive

grimaces at his unconscious foe through the little glass in the

leathern back.

At the lodge gate Ben jumped down to run before with whoops of naughty

satisfaction, which brought the anxious waiters to the door in a

flock; so Pat could only shake his fist at the exulting little rascal

as he drove away, leaving the wanderers to be welcomed as warmly as if

they were a pair of model children.

Mrs. Moss had not been very much troubled after all; for Cy had told

her that Bab went after Ben, and Billy had lately reported her safe

arrival among them, so, mother-like, she fed, dried, and warmed the

runaways, before she scolded them.

Even then, the lecture was a mild one, for when they tried to tell the

adventures which to them seemed so exciting, not to say tragical, the

effect astonished them immensely, as their audience went into gales of

laughter, especially at the wheelbarrow episode, which Bab insisted on

telling, with grateful minuteness, to Ben's confusion. Thorny shouted,

and even tender-hearted Betty forgot her tears over the lost dog to

join in the familiar melody when Bab mimicked Pat's quotation from

Mother Goose.

"We must not laugh any more, or these naughty children will think they

have done something very clever in running away," said Miss Celia,

when the fun subsided, adding soberly, "I _am_ displeased, but I will

say nothing, for I think Ben is already punished enough."

"Guess I am," muttered Ben, with a choke in his voice as he glanced

toward the empty mat where a dear curly bunch used to lie with a

bright eye twinkling out of the middle of it.

CHAPTER XV.

BEN'S RIDE.

Great was the mourning for Sancho, because his talents and virtues

made him universally admired and beloved. Miss Celia advertised,

Thorny offered rewards, and even surly Pat kept a sharp look-out for

poodle dogs when he went to market; but no Sancho or any trace of him

appeared. Ben was inconsolable, and sternly said it served Bab right

when the _dog_-wood poison affected both face and hands. Poor Bab

thought so, too, and dared ask no sympathy from him, though Thorny

eagerly prescribed plantain leaves, and Betty kept her supplied with

an endless succession of them steeped in cream and pitying tears. This

treatment was so successful that the patient soon took her place in

society as well as ever, but for Ben's affliction there was no cure,

and the boy really suffered in his spirits.

[Illustration: BEN AND LITA AT THE BROOK.]

"I don't think it's fair that I should have so much trouble--first

losing father and then Sanch. If it wasn't for Lita and Miss Celia,

I don't believe I could stand it," he said, one day, in a fit of

despair, about a week after the sad event.

"Oh, come now, don't give up so, old fellow. We'll find him if he's

alive, and if he isn't I'll try and get you another as good,"

answered Thorny, with a friendly slap on the shoulder, as Ben sat

disconsolately among the beans he had been hoeing.

"As if there ever could be another half as good!" cried Ben, indignant

at the idea; "or as if I'd ever try to fill his place with the best

and biggest dog that ever wagged a tail! No, sir, there's only one

Sanch in all the world, and if I can't have him I'll never have a dog

again."

"Try some other sort of a pet, then. You may have any of mine you

like. Have the peacocks; do now," urged Thorny, full of boyish

sympathy and good-will.

"They are dreadful pretty, but I don't seem to care about 'em, thank

you," replied the mourner.

"Have the rabbits, all of them," which was a handsome offer on

Thorny's part, for there were a dozen at least.

"They don't love a fellow as a dog does; all they care for is stuff to

eat and dirt to burrow in. I'm sick of rabbits." And well he might be,

for he had had the charge of them ever since they came, and any boy

who has ever kept bunnies knows what a care they are.

"So am I! Guess we'll have an auction and sell out. Would Jack be a

comfort to you? If he will, you may have him. I'm so well now, I can

walk, or ride anything," added Thorny, in a burst of generosity.

"Jack couldn't be with me always, as Sanch was, and I couldn't keep

him if I had him."

Ben tried to be grateful, but nothing short of Lita would have healed

his wounded heart, and she was not Thorny's to give, or he would

probably have offered her to his afflicted friend.

"Well, no, you couldn't take Jack to bed with you, or keep him up in

your room, and I'm afraid he would never learn to do anything clever.

I do wish I had something you wanted, I'd so love to give it to you."

He spoke so heartily and was so kind that Ben looked up, feeling that

he had given him one of the sweetest things in the world--friendship;

he wanted to tell him so, but did not know how to do it, so caught up

his hoe and fell to work, saying, in a tone Thorny understood better

than words:

"You are real good to me--never mind, I wont worry about it; only it

seems extra hard coming so soon after the other----"

He stopped there, and a bright drop fell on the bean leaves, to shine

like dew till Ben saw clearly enough to bury it out of sight in a

great hurry.

"By Jove! I'll find that dog, if he is out of the ground. Keep your

spirits up, my lad, and we'll have the dear old fellow back yet."

With which cheering prophecy Thorny went off to rack his brains as to

what could be done about the matter.

Half an hour afterward, the sound of a hand-organ in the avenue roused

him from the brown study into which he had fallen as he lay on

the newly mown grass of the lawn. Peeping over the wall, Thorny

reconnoitered, and, finding the organ a good one, the man a

pleasant-faced Italian, and the monkey a lively animal, he ordered

them all in, as a delicate attention to Ben, for music and monkey

together might suggest soothing memories of the past, and so be a

comfort.

In they came by way of the Lodge, escorted by Bab and Betty, full

of glee, for hand-organs were rare in those parts, and the children

delighted in them. Smiling till his white teeth shone and his black

eyes sparkled, the man played away while the monkey made his pathetic

little bows, and picked up the pennies Thorny threw him.

"It is warm, and you look tired. Sit down and I'll get you some

dinner," said the young master, pointing to the seat which now stood

near the great gate.

With thanks in broken English the man gladly obeyed, and Ben begged to

be allowed to make Jacko equally comfortable, explaining that he knew

all about monkeys and what they liked. So the poor thing was freed

from his cocked hat and uniform, fed with bread and milk, and allowed

to curl himself up in the cool grass for a nap, looking so like a

tired little old man in a fur coat that the children were never weary

of watching him.

Meantime, Miss Celia had come out, and was talking Italian to Giacomo

in a way that delighted his homesick heart. She had been to Naples,

and could understand his longing for the lovely city of his birth, so

they had a little chat in the language which is all music, and the

good fellow was so grateful that he played for the children to dance

till they were glad to stop, lingering afterward as if he hated to set

out again upon his lonely, dusty walk.

"I'd rather like to tramp round with him for a week or so. Could make

enough to live on as easy as not, if I only had Sanch to show off,"

said Ben, as he was coaxing Jacko into the suit which he detested.

"You go wid me, yes?" asked the man, nodding and smiling, well pleased

at the prospect of company, for his quick eye and what the boys let

fall in their talk showed him that Ben was not one of them.

"If I had my dog I'd love to," and with sad eagerness Ben told the

tale of his loss, for the thought of it was never long out of his

mind.

"I tink I see droll dog like he, way off in New York. He do leetle

trick wid letter, and dance, and go on he head, and many tings to

make laugh," said the man, when he had listened to a list of Sanch's

beauties and accomplishments.

"Who had him?" asked Thorny, full of interest at once.

"A man I not know. Cross fellow what beat him when he do letters bad.

"Did he spell his name?" cried Ben, breathlessly.

"No, that for why man beat him. He name Generale, and he go spell

Sancho all times, and cry when whip fall on him. Ha! yes! that name

true one, not Generale?" and the man nodded, waved his hands and

showed his teeth, almost as much excited as the boys.

"It's Sanch! let's go and get him, now, right off!" cried Ben, in a

fever to be gone.

"A hundred miles away, and no clue but this man's story? We must wait

a little, Ben, and be sure before we set out," said Miss Celia, ready

to do almost anything, but not so certain as the boys. "What sort of

a dog was it? A large, curly, white poodle, with a queer tail?" she

asked of Giacomo.

"No, Signorina mia, he no curly, no wite, he black, smooth dog, littel

tail, small, so," and the man held up one brown finger with a gesture

which suggested a short, wagging tail.

"There, you see how mistaken we were. Dogs are often named Sancho,

especially Spanish poodles, for the original Sancho was a Spaniard,

you know. This dog is not ours, and I'm so sorry."

The boys faces had fallen dismally as their hope was destroyed; but

Ben would not give up, for him there was and could be only one Sancho

in the world, and his quick wits suggested an explanation which no one

else thought of.

"It may be my dog--they color 'em as we used to paint over trick

horses. I told you he was a valuable chap, and those that stole him

hide him that way, else he'd be no use, don't you see, because we'd

know him."

"But the black dog had no tail," began Thorny, longing to be

convinced, but still doubtful.

Ben shivered as if the mere thought hurt him, as he said, in a grim

tone:

"They might have cut Sanch's off."

"Oh, no! no! they mustn't, they wouldn't!"

"How could any one be so wicked?" cried Bab and Betty, horrified at

the suggestion.

"You don't know what such fellows would do to make all safe, so

they could use a dog to earn their living for 'em," said Ben, with

mysterious significance, quite forgetting in his wrath that he had

just proposed to get his own living in that way himself.

"He no your dog? Sorry I not find him for you. Addio, signorina!

Grazia, signor! Buon giorno, buon giorno," and, kissing his hand, the

Italian shouldered organ and monkey, ready to go.

Miss Celia detained him long enough to give him her address, and beg

him to let her know if he met poor Sanch in any of his wanderings, for

such itinerant showmen often cross each other's paths. Ben and Thorny

walked to the school-corner with him, getting more exact information

about the black dog and his owner, for they had no intention of giving

it up so soon.

That very evening, Thorny wrote to a boy cousin in New York giving

all the particulars of the case, and begging him to hunt up the man,

investigate the dog, and see that the police made sure that everything

was right. Much relieved by this performance, the boys waited

anxiously for a reply, and when it came found little comfort in it.

Cousin Horace had done his duty like a man, but regretted that he

could only report a failure. The owner of the black poodle was a

suspicious character, but told a straight story, how he had bought

the dog from a stranger, and exhibited him with success till he was

stolen. Knew nothing of his history and was very sorry to lose him,

for he was a remarkably clever beast.

"I told my dog man to look about for him, but he says he has probably

been killed, with ever so many more, so there is an end of it, and I

call it a mean shame."

"Good for Horace! I told you he'd do it up thoroughly and see the

end of it," said Thorny, as he read that paragraph in the deeply

interesting letter.

"May be the end of _that_ dog, but not of mine. I'll bet he ran away,

and if it _was_ Sanch he'll come home. You see if he doesn't," cried

Ben, refusing to believe that all was over.

"A hundred miles off? Oh, he couldn't find you without help, smart as

he is," answered Thorny, incredulously.

Ben looked discouraged, but Miss Celia cheered him up again by saying:

"Yes, he could. My father had a friend who kept a little dog in Paris,

and the creature found her in Milan and died of fatigue next day. That

was very wonderful, but true, and I've no doubt that if Sanch _is_

alive he will come home. Let us hope so, and be happy while we wait."

"We will!" said the boys, and day after day looked for the wanderer's

return, kept a bone ready in the old place if he should arrive at

night, and shook his mat to keep it soft for his weary bones when he

came. But weeks passed, and still no Sanch.

Something else happened, however, so absorbing that he was almost

forgotten for a time, and Ben found a way to repay a part of all he

owed his best friend.

Miss Celia went off for a ride one afternoon, and an hour afterward,

as Ben sat in the porch reading, Lita dashed into the yard with the

reins dangling about her legs, the saddle turned round, and one side

covered with black mud, showing that she had been down. For a minute,

Ben's heart stood still, then he flung away his book, ran to the

horse, and saw at once by her heaving flanks, dilated nostrils and wet

coat, that she must have come a long way and at full speed.

"She has had a fall, but isn't hurt or frightened," thought the boy,

as the pretty creature rubbed her nose against his shoulder, pawed the

ground and champed her bit, as if she tried to tell him all about the

disaster, whatever it was.

"Lita, where's Miss Celia?" he asked, looking straight into the

intelligent eyes, which were troubled but not wild.

Lita threw up her head and neighed loud and clear as if she called her

mistress, and turning, would have gone again if Ben had not caught the

reins and held her.

"All right, we'll find her;" and, pulling off the broken saddle,

kicking away his shoes, and ramming his hat firmly on, Ben was up like

a flash, tingling all over with a sense of power as he felt the bare

back between his knees, and caught the roll of Lita's eye as she

looked round with an air of satisfaction.

"Hi, there! Mrs. Moss! Something has happened to Miss Celia, and I'm

going to find her. Thorny is asleep; tell him easy, and I'll come back

as soon as I can."

Then, giving Lita her head, he was off before the startled woman had

time to do more than wring her hands and cry out:

"Go for the Squire! Oh, what shall we do?"

As if she knew exacty what was wanted of her, Lita went back the way

she had come, as Ben could see by the fresh, irregular tracks that cut

up the road where she had galloped for help. For a mile or more they

went, then she paused at a pair of bars which were let down to allow

the carts to pass into the wide hay-fields beyond. On she went again

cantering across the new-mown turf toward a brook, across which she

had evidently taken a leap before; for, on the further side, at a

place where cattle went to drink, the mud showed signs of a fall.

"You were a fool to try there, but where is Miss Celia?" said Ben,

who talked to animals as if they were people, and was understood much

better than any one not used to their companionship would imagine.

Now Lita seemed at a loss, and put her head down as if she expected to

find her mistress where she had left her, somewhere on the ground.

Ben called, but there was no answer, and he rode slowly along the

brook-side, looking far and wide with anxious eyes.

"May be she wasn't hurt, and has gone to that house to wait," thought

the boy, pausing for a last survey of the great, sunny field, which

had no place of shelter in it but one rock on the other side of the

little stream. As his eye wandered over it, something dark seemed

to blow out from behind it, as if the wind played in the folds of a

skirt, or a human limb moved. Away went Lita, and in a moment Ben

had found Miss Celia, lying in the shadow of the rock, so white and

motionless he feared that she was dead. He leaped down, touched her,

spoke to her, and receiving no answer, rushed away to bring a little

water in his leaky hat to sprinkle in her face, as he had seen them

do when any of the riders got a fall in the circus, or fainted from

exhaustion after they left the ring, where "do or die" was the motto

all adopted.

In a minute, the blue eyes opened, and she recognized the anxious face

bending over her, saying faintly, as she touched it:

"My good little Ben, I knew you'd find me--I sent Lita for you--I'm so

hurt I couldn't come."

"Oh, where? What shall I do? Had I better run up to the house?" asked

Ben, overjoyed to hear her speak, but much dismayed by her seeming

helplessness, for he had seen bad falls, and had them, too.

"I feel bruised all over, and my arm is broken, I'm afraid. Lita tried

not to hurt me. She slipped, and we went down. I came here into the

shade, and the pain made me faint, I suppose. Call somebody, and get

me home."

Then, she shut her eyes, and looked so white that Ben hurried away

and burst upon old Mrs. Paine, placidly knitting at the end door, so

suddenly that, as she afterward said, "it sca't her like a clap o'

thunder."

"Aint a man nowheres around. All down in the big medder gettin' in

hay," was her reply to Ben's breathless demand for "everybody to come

and see to Miss Celia."

He turned to mount, for he had flung himself off before Lita stopped,

but the old lady caught his jacket and asked half a dozen questions in

a breath.

"Who's your folks? What's broke? How'd she fall? Where is she? Why

didn't she come right here? Is it a sunstroke?"

As fast as words could tumble out of his mouth Ben answered, and then

tried to free himself, but the old lady held on while she gave her

directions, expressed her sympathy, and offered her hospitality with

incoherent warmth.

"Sakes alive! poor dear! Fetch her right in. Liddy, get out the

camphire, and Melissy, you haul down a bed to lay her on. Falls is

dretful uncert'in things; shouldn't wonder if her back was broke.

Father's down yender, and he and Bijah will see to her. You go call

'em, and I'll blow the horn to start 'em up. Tell her we'll be pleased

to see her, and it wont make a mite of trouble."

Ben heard no more, for as Mrs. Paine turned to take down the tin horn

he was up and away.

Several long and dismal toots sent Lita galloping through the grassy

path as the sound of the trumpet excites a war-horse, and "father and

Bijah," alarmed by the signal at that hour, leaned on their rakes to

survey with wonder the distracted-looking little horseman approaching

like a whirlwind.

"Guess likely grandpa's had 'nother stroke. Told 'em to send over

soon's ever it come," said the farmer calmly.

"Shouldn't wonder ef suthing was afire some'r's," conjectured the

hired man, surveying the horizon for a cloud of smoke.

Instead of advancing to meet the messenger, both stood like statues in

blue overalls and red flannel shirts, till the boy arrived and told

his tale.

"Sho, that's bad," said the farmer, anxiously.

"That brook always was the darndest place," added Bijah, then both

men bestirred themselves helpfully, the former hurrying to Miss Celia

while the latter brought up the cart and made a bed of hay to lay her

on.

"Now then, boy, you go for the doctor. My women folks will see to

the lady, and she'd better keep quiet up yender till we see what the

matter is," said the farmer, when the pale girl was lifted in as

carefully as four strong arms could do it. "Hold on," he added, as Ben

made one leap to Lita's back. "You'll have to go to Berryville. Dr.

Mills is a master hand for broken bones and old Dr. Babcock aint.

'Tisn't but about three mile from here to his house, and you'll fetch

him 'fore there's any harm done waitin'."

"Don't kill Lita," called Miss Celia from the cart, as it began to

move.

But Ben did not hear her, for he was off across the fields, riding as

if life and death depended upon his speed.

"That boy will break his neck!" said Mr. Paine, standing still

to watch horse and rider go over the wall as if bent on instant

destruction.

"No fear for Ben, he can ride anything, and Lita was trained to leap,"

answered Miss Celia, falling back on the hay with a groan, for she had

involuntarily raised her head to see her little squire dash away in

gallant style.

"I should hope so; regular jockey, that boy. Never see anything like

it out of a race-ground," and farmer Paine strode on, still following

with his eye the figures that went thundering over the bridge, up the

hill, out of sight, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

Now that his mistress was safe, Ben enjoyed that wild ride mightily,

and so did the bay mare; for Lita had good blood in her, and proved it

that day by doing her three miles in a wonderfully short time. People

jogging along in wagons and country carry-alls, stared amazed as the

reckless pair went by. Women, placidly doing their afternoon sewing at

the front windows, dropped their needles to run out with exclamations

of alarm, sure some one was being run away with; children playing by

the roadside scattered like chickens before a hawk, as Ben passed with

a warning whoop, and baby-carriages were scrambled into door-yards

with perilous rapidity at his approach.

But when he clattered into town, intense interest was felt in this

bare-footed boy on the foaming steed, and a dozen voices asked, "Who's

killed?" as he pulled up at the doctor's gate.

"Jest drove off that way; Mrs. Flynn's baby's in a fit," cried a stout

lady from the piazza, never ceasing to rock, though several passers-by

paused to hear the news, for she was a doctor's wife, and used to the

arrival of excited messengers from all quarters at all hours of the

day and night.

Deigning no reply to any one, Ben rode away, wishing he could leap a

yawning gulf, scale a precipice, or ford a raging torrent, to prove

his devotion to Miss Celia, and his skill in horsemanship. But no

dangers beset his path, and he found the doctor pausing to water

his tired horse at the very trough where Bab and Sancho had been

discovered on that ever-memorable day. The story was quickly told,

and, promising to be there as soon as possible, Dr. Mills drove on to

relieve baby Flynn's inner man, a little disturbed by a bit of soap

and several buttons, upon which he had privately lunched while his

mamma was busy at the wash-tub.

Ben thanked his stars, as he had already done more than once, that

he knew how to take care for a horse; for he delayed by the

watering-place long enough to wash out Lita's mouth with a handful of

wet grass, to let her have one swallow to clear her dusty throat, and

then went slowly back over the breezy hills, patting and praising the

good creature for her intelligence and speed. She knew well enough

that she had been a clever little mare, and tossed her head, arched

her glossy neck, and ambled daintily along, as conscious and

coquettish as a pretty woman, looking round at her admiring rider to

return his compliments by glances of affection, and caressing sniffs

of a velvet nose at his bare feet.

Miss Celia had been laid comfortably in bed by the farmer's wife and

daughters, and, when the doctor arrived, bore the setting of her arm

bravely. No other serious damage appeared, and bruises soon heal, so

Ben was sent home to comfort Thorny with a good report, and ask the

squire to drive up in his big carry-all for her the next day, if she

was able to be moved.

Mrs. Moss had been wise enough to say nothing, but quietly made what

preparations she could, and waited for tidings. Bab and Betty were

away berrying, so no one had alarmed Thorny, and he had his afternoon

nap in peace,--an unusually long one, owing to the stillness which

prevailed in the absence of the children; and when he awoke he lay

reading for a while before he began to wonder where every one was.

Lounging out to see, he found Ben and Lita reposing side by side on

the fresh straw in the loose box, which had been made for her in the

coach-house. By the pails, sponges and curry-combs lying about, it was

evident that she had been refreshed by a careful washing and rubbing

down, and my lady was now luxuriously resting after her labors, with

her devoted groom half asleep close by.

"Well, of all queer boys you are the queerest, to spend this hot

afternoon fussing over Lita, just for the fun of it!" cried Thorny,

looking in at them with much amusement.

"If you knew what we'd been doing you'd think I ought to fuss over

her, and both of us had a right to rest!" answered Ben, rousing up as

bright as a button; for he longed to tell his thrilling tale, and had

with difficulty been restrained from bursting in on Thorny as soon as

he arrived.

He made short work of the story, but was quite satisfied with the

sensation it produced; for his listener was startled, relieved,

excited and charmed, in such rapid succession, that he was obliged to

sit upon the meal chest and get his breath before he could exclaim,

with an emphatic demonstration of his heels against the bin:

"Ben Brown, I'll never forget what you've done for Celia this day, or

say 'bow-legs' again as long as I live!"

"George! I felt as if I had _six_ legs when we were going the pace. We

were all one piece, and had a jolly spin, didn't we, my beauty?" and

Ben chuckled as he took Lita's head in his lap, while she answered

with a gusty sigh that nearly blew him away.

"Like the fellow that brought the good news from Ghent to Aix," said

Thorny, surveying the recumbent pair with great admiration.

"What fellow?" asked Ben, wondering if he didn't mean Sheridan, of

whose ride he had heard.

"Don't you know that piece? I spoke it at school. Give it to you now;

see if it isn't a rouser."

And, glad to find a vent for his excitement, Thorny mounted the

meal-chest, to thunder out that stirring ballad with such spirit that

Lita pricked up her ears, and Ben gave a shrill "Hooray!" as the last

verse ended,

"And all I remember is friends flocking round,

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent."

(_To be continued_.)

MASTER MONTEZUMA.

(_With Illustrations copied from Mexican Hieroglyphics_.)

By C.C. HASKINS.

[Note.--Montezuma II., the last of the Aztec (or native Mexican)

emperors, was born about 1480. He was taken prisoner by Hernando

Cortes, the commander of the Spanish army which conquered Mexico, and,

in the hope of quelling an insurrection which had arisen among his

former subjects, he consented to address them from the walls of his

prison. Stung by the apparent desertion of their leader to the cause

of the enemy, the Mexicans assaulted him with stones and other

missiles. He was struck on the temple by one of the stones, and died

from the effects in a few days. The illustrations are true copies of

old Mexican pictures, which appeared originally in the "Collection

of Mendoza," a work frequently referred to by all writers on ancient

Mexico.--C.C.H.]

The Emperor Montezuma was a great man, and historians have recorded

much about him, but of his earlier life, when he was plain Master

Montezuma, comparatively little is known of this rising young

gentleman.

Master M. commenced his earthly career as a crying baby, in the

year "one cane," which, when properly figured down according to the

Gregorian calendar, would be about the year of our Lord 1480.

No sooner had Master M. reached the fourth day of his existence, than

the nurse, under instructions from his anxious mamma, took off what

few clothes the poor boy had on, and repairing to the baptismal font

in the yard, sprinkled cold water upon his naked breast and lips,

presented his credentials in the shape of offerings to propitiate the

gods of war, agriculture, etc., whose names you will find further

along in this history, repeated a prayer in which "the Lord was

implored to wash away the sin that was given him before the foundation

of the world, so that the child might be born anew," and told the

three little boys who sat near by, what Master M.'s name was to be.

The three little boys left off eating their parched corn, and boiled

beans, repeated the name, and the little baby was christened.

Now, if Master M. had been a girl--which he was not--the offerings

would have been a mat, a spinning machine and a broom, all of which

would have been buried under the _metate_, the stone where corn was

ground. As it was, the offerings were implements of war, articles of

metal, pottery, etc., and these were buried, as near as they could

guess at the location, where they either hoped or feared there might

some day be a battle with their enemies.

When Master M. had eaten and slept and kicked and cried for sixteen

days longer, his parents took him to the priest, and to the teacher,

and promised that he should be instructed by these worthy gentlemen in

war, politics, religion, and other branches of general education. They

promised that he should be an Alfalqui, or priest, and should also

serve in the army as a soldier. In that little, wiggling baby, that

seemed all fists and mouth, it was impossible to foresee the future

Emperor of Mexico, whose name has since become familiar to the

civilized world.

Young Master M. worried along pretty well, and up to six years of

age had done nothing remarkable. At this age he was granted one and

one-half rolls at a meal, and commenced doing little errands and

picking up scattered beans and corn in the Tianquez, which is what the

Mexicans called the market-place.

The restless spirit of a military chieftain now began to show itself

in the embryo warrior, and, by the time he had reached his eighth

year, discipline became necessary to curb his growing inclination to

despotism. He was fast becoming one of that class of boys who think

"it's too bad to be good all the time." In the second picture see the

scalding tears! Whether Master M. is sorry that he has done wrong, or

whether he only fears being pricked with those terrible thorns of the

aloe with which he is threatened, or is crying because he is cold, who

shall tell? It is hard, sometimes, to tell what eight-year-old boys

are crying for, whether they live in the United States or in Mexico.

Master M. may have been better than most boys, and it may be that

his father was a better driver than leader for his little ones. Some

fathers are. In any event, when Master M. was ten years old there

came another opportunity for weeping and wailing, and Master M. was

submitted to the mortification of lying on the damp ground all day

while he listened to a parental lecture; and this, too, after he was

twelve years old!

Then Master M. reformed, and became an industrious, faithful boy. I

have sometimes questioned whether he wasn't hungry, and if he had been

better fed whether he would not have done better. At fourteen years of

age they gave him two rolls at a meal, and he was instructed in the

art of fishing with a net. You can tell how old the boy is by the

number of round marks in the picture, and the person who is speaking

is denoted by a tongue in front of the mouth.

When his fifteenth year came, Master M. found he would have plenty to

do. After this, old Mr. M. had no trouble with him. It is curious--the

more we have to do, the less liable we are to do something we should

not, and--let us all study on that half an hour, some day, and see

what we can make of it.

[Illustration: MASTER MONTEZUMA'S PARENTS TAKE HIM TO THE PRIEST AND

THE TEACHER.]

He had two teachers, the priest and the military professor. It seemed

as if everything was to be learned. There was arithmetic, he learned

to make figures. A round, blue dot stands for one.

Five of them make five, and ooooo-o (five and one) is six, and in that

way it runs up to ten. If he wanted to say "twenty" he made a flag,

and for forty he made two flags.

Just imagine such a multiplication table as this: Five times four is

one flag. Flag times flag is one plume. Flag times plume is one purse!

Let's see; a purse, then, would equal 8,000. Yes, and if he wanted to

write 4,000 he would draw only half a purse. All the examples in their

arithmetic were worked by such tables as these.

Then there were lessons in time. He had to learn that five days make a

week, four weeks make a month, and eighteen months make a year; and as

all that footed up only three hundred and sixty days, they threw in

what they called the five unlucky days that belonged to no month, to

fill up before they commenced a new year. And then he found another

arrangement for doing what we do with our leap-year, for, once in

fifty-two years they put in twelve and one-half extra days, which is

something like setting the clock ahead when you find it is too slow by

the town bell or the fire alarm.

[Illustration: MASTER MONTEZUMA MUST BE PUNISHED.]

He learned that this kind of calendar had been in use a long time, and

was the result of careful study and calculation by the wise priests of

the olden time; and, when he wanted to know how long, he counted up

the bundles of reeds which represented centuries, and found that

it had been in use over four hundred years. And all this, you must

remember, was before San Salvador was discovered by Columbus. Then he

had to study all about the naming of the years and the cycles. How, if

this year was "one rabbit," next year would be "two cane," the third

"three flint," the next "four house," and these four elements,

representing air, water, fire, earth, would be thus repeated up to

thirteen, and then they would commence at one again, so that the

fourteenth year would be "one cane," etc., and in four of these cycles

of thirteen they would reach a cycle of fifty-two years, or, as they

called it, a "bundle," and as the twelve and one-half days additional

would end one cycle of fifty-two years at midday, and the next at

midnight, they bundled two of these together and called it "an old

age." The number fifty-two was an unlucky number, and these old

Mexicans believed that at the end of a cycle of that number of years,

at some time, the world would be depopulated, the sun put out, and,

after death and darkness had reigned awhile, it would all begin afresh

with a new race of people.

[Illustration: MASTER MONTEZUMA IS TAUGHT HOW TO FISH.]

So, when a cycle or bundle was completed, all fires were extinguished

and not rekindled during the five unlucky days. Household goods which

could no longer be of any service, dishes, household articles, etc.,

were broken; every one gave up all hope, and abandoned himself to

despair while awaiting the expected ruin.

[Illustration: MASTER MONTEZUMA IS TALKED TO BY HIS FATHER.]

On the evening of the fifth day of sorrow, the priests gathered the

people together in a procession and marched to a temple, about two

leagues from the city. Here they would sit like bumps on a log until

midnight, and then, when the constellation which we call the Pleiades

came exactly overhead, the danger was over. Two sticks were rubbed

together over the breast of a captive who had been selected for the

sacrifice, until fire was produced by the friction, the funeral pile

was lighted, the body burned, and messengers, many of whom could run

long distances, at the rate of seven or eight miles an hour, would

light their torches and spread the joyful news of danger averted,

while carrying the "new fire" into all parts of the empire. Then would

follow a regular old-fashioned frolic, something like a centennial,--a

jollification few had ever seen and most would see but once in a

life-time. There must be no drunkenness, however; that was a high

crime, in some instances punished by death. If the intemperate party,

man or woman, was over seventy years of age, however, no notice was

taken of it,--they were old, and had rights and privileges not granted

to younger members of the community.

[Illustration: CARRYING THE BRIDE.]

Master M. had much to learn about deities. At the head of these stood

one, infinite, supreme ruler, "the unknown God," and next beneath him

came Tezcatlipoca, the "son of the world," supposed to be the creator

of the earth, Huitzilopotchli was the god of war, a sort of Mars, but

with very much more name. Then there was the god of air, Quetzatcoatl,

who controlled vegetation, metals, and the politics of the country.

Here is something Master M. was taught to believe of him:

When this god, whom we will call Q, was on earth, vegetation was so

wonderfully prolific that a single ear of corn was all a man could

carry. Everything the people needed grew spontaneously. Cotton grew

more beautifully tinted than the dyers of the present time could color

it. Richest perfumes loaded temperate breezes, and everywhere the

gaudiest-colored birds filled the air with most entrancing harmonies.

Q had some little difficulty, however, with the rest of the gods, and

was obliged to leave his little paradise. When he embarked in his

wizard snake-skin canoe on the shore of the gulf, he told his friends

that his descendents would one day return and bless the land as he had

done, and that they would be like him,--tall, fine looking, with dark

hair, white skins, and flowing beards. Alas! this belief was in no

small degree the cause of their ruin; for the invading Spaniards quite

nearly answered this description of Q's descendants.

[Illustration: THE WEDDING OF MONTEZUMA.]

There were thirteen of the principal deities, as Master M. learned,

each of whom required sacrifices more or less horrible. For instance,

there was the "soul of the world," I forget his other name. He must

be propitiated now and then. A year before the fatal day, a tall,

beautiful, well-formed, unblemished captive was selected to play the

part of this god for one year. He must have all these qualifications

to make the resemblance as perfect as possible. He was now treated

as a god. Everything he could wish, everything it was thought could

possibly conduce to his pleasure, comfort, or happiness, was furnished

without stint. He slept on the softest of couches in the most gorgeous

of chambers; his raiment was profuse and expensive, and the whole

surroundings were, as far as possible, in keeping with his high and

holy estate. Birds and music, flowers and rare perfumes pleased every

sense, and everything, save liberty, was his. This happy-go-lucky sort

of life continued until the day fixed for the sacrifice. Then joy gave

way to sadness, pain, death! Stripped of his costly raiment, he was

taken by a procession of priests to a royal barge, thence across a

lake to a temple about a league from the city, where, as he mounted

the weary steps of the huge edifice, he flung aside the garlands of

flowers and broke the musical instruments which had been a joy to him

in his past days. At the summit of the temple, in full view of the

assembled multitude below, he was barbarously put to death by a

priest, in order to propitiate the cruel god to whom the temple

was dedicated. And Master M. was taught that the moral of all this

savagery was, that human joys are transitory, and the partition

between sorrow and happiness is a very thin one, or words to that

effect.

Master M. learned that there were many other inferior gods, each of

which had festivals, sacrifices, etc., proportioned to his rank and

power; that nearly every hour of the day was dedicated to some god or

other; but I cannot tell you all he learned of these strange deities.

[Illustration: A PEACE-OFFERING IN THE YEAR ONE RABBIT.]

He studied the history of the temples, and learned why they were four

or five stories high with the stairs on the outside, and why he had to

go entirely round the temple to find the next flight of stairs as he

went up or down; and why each story was smaller than the next lower,

and learned that some of these buildings were over one hundred feet

square and as many feet high, and had towers forty or fifty feet high

on their summits; and all about the everlasting fire which burned on

the tops of these temples, and that there were so many of these that

the whole country for miles around was always brilliantly illuminated.

I must pass over a long period in the life of Master M. with the mere

remark that he graduated in both his military and religious classes

with the highest honors, and acquitted himself to the most perfect

satisfaction of both the alfalquis, or priests, and the teachcauhs,

which is nearly the same as our word teachers.

Master M. had, for a long time, cherished a hope that some day he

might press the throne as king of Mexico. So, like the Yorkshire lad

who begged salt of a stranger eating eggs near him, so as to have

the salt ready in case any one _should_ ask him to accept an egg, he

prepared himself fully for the possible emergency, and became not only

a military general, but a leading alfalqui.

And then he married. I have not room to give you the whole picture,

but here is the way it was done.

A lady whose position in society required her to negotiate the match,

having previously made all the necessary arrangements, one evening,

hoisted the happy damsel on her back, and accompanied by four young

women (I have drawn only one) each bearing a torch, headed the joyous

procession and marched to the house of Master M., where she dropped

her cargo of precious humanity. Then the alfalqui asked them if they

were mutually agreed on matrimony, and of course, they said "yes,"

when he proceeded to tie their clothes together. Then two old

patriarchs and two good old grandmothers (one of each of which I have

copied for you) delivered little sermons suited to the occasion. The

new couple walked seven times round a blazing fire, partook of a feast

with their friends, heard a final sort of a "ninety-ninthly and to

conclude" parting word from the four old people, and then, just as all

married people do, went to housekeeping, and having their own way as

much as possible. One thing they could not do. There was no law

of divorce to appeal to then; death was the only judge who could

entertain the question of separation.

[Illustration: PROTECTING THE GRAIN FROM RATS, IN THE YEAR ONE

RABBIT.]

Master M. will now disappear, to re-appear as the Emperor. In the

year "ten rabbits," or A.D. 1502, the monarch died, and the electoral

college selected Master M. to supply his place. In the household of

each monarch there was an electoral board of four nobles, whose duty

it was, on the death of the ruler, to elect his successor from among

the sons and nephews of the crown. Having done this, and so notified

the successor, they selected four nobles to fill their own places,

and vacated their electoral chairs. Master M. when waited upon to be

notified of his election to fill his uncle's place, was very busy

sweeping down the stairs in the great temple dedicated to the god of

war!

Four years after becoming emperor, Montezuma, to appease the gods,

made a sacrifice of a young gentleman captive by transfixing him with

arrows. This, you see, was in the year "one rabbit." It is recorded

that in this year the rats overran the country so completely that

the inhabitants had to stand guard at night with blazing torches to

prevent their devouring the grain sown in the fields.

With the last picture, I take pleasure in introducing to you Master M.

in his new position as Emperor of Mexico, seated in the royal halls.

For further particulars, read "The Conquest of Mexico," by Prescott.

[Illustration: THE EMPEROR MONTEZUMA, SEATED IN THE ROYAL HALLS.]

A LONG JOURNEY.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

"We sail to-day," said the captain gay,

As he stepped on board the boat that lay

So high and dry, "Come now, be spry;

We'll land, at Jerusalem by and by!"

Away they sailed, and each craft they hailed;

While down in the cabin they bailed and bailed;

For the sea was rough, and they had to luff

And tack, till the captain cried out "Enough!"

They stopped at Peru, this jolly crew,

And went to Paris and Timbuctoo;

And after a while they found the Nile,

And watched the sports of the crocodile.

They called on the Shah, and the mighty Czar,

And on all the crowned heads near and far;

Shook hands with the Cid--they really did!

And lunched on top of the pyramid!

To Afric's strand, or northern land,

They steer as the captain gives command;

And fly so fast that the slender mast

Goes quivering, shivering in the blast!

Then on to the ground with a sudden bound,

Leaps Jack--'t was a mercy he wasn't drowned!

The sail is furled, the anchor hurled,

"We've been," cry the children, "all round the world!"

By billows tossed, by tempests crossed,

Yet never a soul on board was lost!

Though the boat be a sieve, I do not grieve,

They sail on the ocean of "Make-believe."

THE LITTLE RED CANAL-BOAT.

BY M.A. EDWARDS.

The morning sun had not mounted high enough in the sky to send

his rays into Greta's room, when she was awakened by a noise. She

listened. It was the sound of a boat grating against the side of the

canal. Who could be coming to their back door so early? She sprang out

of bed, and ran quickly to the open window. A disappointment awaited

her. It was only her father's boat, which the maid-servant Charlotte

was pushing along, slowly making her way to the landing-stairs.

"Where have you been so early, Charlotte?" called out Greta.

"Are you there, youngsters?" said Charlotte, looking up at the two

bright faces at the window; for the little Amelia had been roused by

her sister's wild jump from the bed, and had also run to the window.

"Bad Charlotte, to wake us so early!" cried Amelia.

Charlotte laughed. "You wouldn't think me bad, Minchen, if you knew

all the good things I've been buying at market. Have you forgotten

your cousins are coming to-day, all the way from over the sea? I'm

sure they'll be hungry enough."

"What you got?" asked Amelia (usually called Minchen).

"Fine Beemster cheese, sweet butter, fresh salad, and plenty of fruit.

And there are lots of good things at the bottom of the basket. I'll

leave you to find out what they are." And Charlotte made the boat

fast, and carried the heavy basket into the house.

It was not necessary for Charlotte to remind these little girls of

the cousins who lived in the city of New York, in the far-off land of

America. For the last month little else had been talked of in the Van

Schaick mansion besides the expected visit of the Chester family. Mrs.

Van Schaick and Mrs. Chester were sisters, and this was but the second

visit the latter had paid her old Holland home since her marriage. On

the first visit her children were not with her; but now Mr. Chester

was coming, and the two boys. Many were the wild speculations the

girls indulged in with regard to Americans,--what they would look

like, and what they would say and do.

Great, then, was their surprise, when the travelers arrived, to find

that their aunt Chester was very like their mother in appearance and

dress. Mr. Chester did not in the least resemble their father, but he

was not unlike many other men they had seen, and he did not dress in

wild-beast skins. As for the boys, Greta poured her tale of woe into

the ears of the sympathizing Charlotte. "They are just like English

boys!" she said, contemptuously. Greta had often seen English boys,

and there was nothing uncommon about them.

This was soon forgotten, however, when Greta discovered what pleasant

companions the boys were, and that they could put the Dutch words

together almost as correctly as Greta herself. Will Chester, who had

reached the dignified age of thirteen, had felt much troubled at the

thought that he would have "only girls" to play with at Zaandam,

especially as Greta was a year younger than himself. But when the two

girls, instead of bringing forward their dolls and tea-sets with

which to entertain their visitors, produced from their treasures

two good-sized toy canal-boats, fully equipped with everything a

canal-boat needed, he admitted to himself that girls who liked to sail

boats might be good for something.

Secretly, however, he thought that a canal-boat was a poor kind of

vessel to have, and wished his cousins owned such beautiful ships as

he and Martin had; for among the last things bought before leaving

New York were two little sailing-vessels--the "America" and the

"Columbus." Mr. Chester said Holland was full of water, and these were

proper toys to take there.

The two canal-boats, being precisely alike, were distinguished from

each other only by their names. Greta's had "Wilhelmina" painted on

the side in black letters, while Minchen's had "Gouda" in red letters.

They were similar to American canal-boats in shape, and of a dark

red-brown color. Will thought them stumpy and heavy-looking; and he

did not admire the red sails with crooked gaffs, and smiled at the

blue pennants, stretched out on stiff frames that turned with the

wind. But when Greta showed him a tiny windlass on the deck, by means

of which she easily raised and lowered the mast, he came to the

conclusion that a Dutch canal-boat was not to be despised.

"I do this when we pass under bridges," she explained.

"Where are your mules for drawing your boat?"

"My boat sails!" she said, proudly. "If there is no wind, I drag it

along myself. That is the way we do in our country."

[Illustration: "CHARLOTTE WAS PUSHING THE BOAT ALONG, MAKING HER WAY

TO THE LANDING-STAIRS."]

The American vessels were now unpacked and displayed. When the girls

saw these sharp-prowed, graceful ships, with their tapering masts

and pretty sails, their eyes glistened, and they declared that never

before had they seen anything so lovely. Their, pride in their

canal-boats suffered a woful downfall. The boys proposed to try all

the vessels on the canal at the back of the house, but Greta objected.

"Mother never lets us go there to sail our boats," she said. "It is

a dirty place, and she is afraid we will fall in. But there is a

beautiful stream by the mill where we are going to-morrow, and there

we can try our boats, and see which goes the fastest."

"Let us take a walk, then," said Martin. "I want to look at this queer

place."

The Van Shaicks lived in Zaandam, and it is indeed a queer place to

American eyes. It is a large town, with but two streets, one on each

side of the Zaan River; but these two extend for a long distance, and

are crossed at frequent intervals by canals, so that Martin soon got

tired counting the little bridges the children passed over in their

walk. Will was not quite sure whether the brick-paved street was all

road-way or all sidewalk.

"I don't see any carriages," he said, after studying this matter for

some time.

"People don't ride much here," said Greta. "There are plenty of

carriages in Amsterdam."

"How do you get about, then?"

"On our feet and in boats. Look at our fine river, and there are ever

so many canals! What do we want with carriages?"

"It must be jolly going everywhere in boats," said Will. "I should

like that!"

"We have some very pretty boats," said Greta, much pleased. "Oh!

wouldn't you like to go fishing? I'll ask father to take us some day

soon. I saw a net in the market-boat this morning."

"Well, if that isn't funny!" cried Martin, with a burst of laughter.

Will joined in the laugh, and Greta looked around in vain to discover

the cause of their merriment.

"Looking-glasses on the _outside_ of the houses!" explained Martin,

pointing to one opposite. "I guess they're put there for the girls to

look in as they walk along," he added, mischievously. "They can't wait

to get home to admire themselves."

Sure enough, there was a mirror outside the window, set at such an

angle that the persons inside the house could see who was passing up

and down the street. And there was a mirror on the next house, and the

next.

"Why, they are on all the houses!" said Will.

"To be sure!" said Greta. "What is there funny in that? And the girls

don't look in them any more than the boys, Mr. Martin. Don't you ever

want to know what is going on in the street?"

"Of course I do."

"How are you going to do it without the looking-glass to tell you?"

"Use my own eyes, to be sure!"

"Whose eyes do you use when you look in a glass?" said Greta.

Martin looked puzzled, and had no reply ready; and Will thought his

cousin Greta very clever, although she was a girl, and a year younger

than himself.

But Martin soon recovered his composure.

"What lots of flowers!" was his next comment. "They are everywhere,

except in this brick pavement, and nothing could grow here, it is so

clean."

"And such pretty houses in the gardens!" said Will.

"But they are so small," said Martin, "It would take a dozen of them

to make a New York house."

"My goodness!" said Greta, turning her head back as far as she could,

and looking at the sky. "How do you ever see up to their roofs?"

"Divide Martin's twelve by four, and you will come nearer the truth,"

said Will, laughing. "But, at any rate, the houses are pretty--painted

green and yellow, with red-tiled roofs."

The next thing the boys observed was the loneliness of the streets. In

America a town of twelve thousand inhabitants would have more of an

air of bustle, they said. Will liked the quiet, "for a change," as he

expressed it, and because it made him feel, somehow, as if he owned

the place. Martin declared it to be his opinion that the people kept

out of the streets for fear that their shoes would soil them, and that

accounted for the almost spotless cleanliness everywhere.

The streets were not deserted, however; for, at intervals, there were

row-boat ferries across the river, and occasionally a man or woman

would be seen in one of these boats.

There were also a number of children, and some women, in the streets.

These apparently belonged to the poorer classes. Hats and bonnets were

scarce among them, though all the women, and many of the little girls,

had on close-fitting muslin caps. They wore short, loose sacques, and

short dress skirts, made up without trimmings. The boys were dressed

in jackets and baggy trousers. All wore clumsy wooden shoes.

The Van Schaick family followed the French fashions, as we do in

America; the difference between the two countries being that here

every one attempts to follow the prevailing style, while in Holland

this change of fashion is confined to the wealthy; the middle and

lower classes preserving the same style of costume from generation to

generation.

A good many of the children in the street were carrying painted iron

or stone buckets, with a tea-kettle on the top. After proceeding some

distance up the street, Will and Martin saw some of them coming out of

a basement door-way, still with the buckets in their hands; but clouds

of steam were issuing from the tea-kettle spouts!

"What place is that?" asked Will.

"It is the fire-woman's," said Greta.

"And who and what may she be? I have heard of water-women, sometimes

called mermaids, but never before did I hear of a fire-woman."

"She don't _live_ in fire," said Greta; "she _sells_ it. What do the

poor people in your country do in summer without a fire-woman? Come

and look in."

[Illustration: AT THE FIRE-WOMAN'S.]

By this time they had reached the place. Over the door was the sign

"_Water en vuur te koop_."[1] It was not necessary for the children to

go inside. They could see the whole apartment through the wide-open

door-way. An old woman stood by a stove, or great oven, with a pair

of tongs, taking up pieces of burning peat and dropping them into

the buckets of the children, and then filling their tea-kettles with

boiling water from great copper tanks on the stove. For this each

child paid her a Dutch cent, which is less than half of one of ours.

[Footnote 1: "Water and fire to sell."]

"I understand it," said Will, after they had stood at the door some

time, amused at the scene. "This saves poor people the expense of a

fire in the summer-time. They send here for hot water to make their

tea."

"Yes," said Greta, "and for the burning peat which cooks the potatoes

and the sausage for their supper."

"Why don't they use coal?" asked Martin. "It is ever so much better."

"No, the peat answers their purpose much better," said Will. "It burns

slowly, and gives out a good deal of heat for a long time."

"And the smell of it is so delicious," added Greta.

A little further on; the children came out on an open space, which

gave them a good view of the surrounding flat country, and of the

wind-mills that stand about Zaandam--a forest of towers. It was a

marvelous sight. Hundreds of giant arms were beating the air, as if

guarding the town from invisible enemies.

Greta was proud and pleased that her cousins were so impressed with

the great numbers of towers and the myriads of gigantic whirling

spokes.

"My father says there is nothing grander than this in all Holland,"

she said. "There are four hundred of them, and more, but you can't

see them all from here. Do you see that mill over yonder? That is my

father's, and we are going there to-morrow."

The boys could not distinguish one tower from another at that

distance.

"What kind of mill is it?" asked Will.

"A flour-mill."

"Are all these flour-mills?"

"Oh no! There are saw-mills, colza-oil mills, mustard-mills,

flax-mills, and other kinds I don't remember."

It was now nearly supper-time, and the little group returned home.

The next morning, the whole party--four grown-up people, four

youngsters, and four boats (the "Wilhelmina," the "Gouda," the

"America," and the "Columbus")--were all taken up the Zaan River in a

row-boat for about three miles, and then up a small stream to the mill

where they were to spend the day.

The first thing in order was the inspection of the mill, which was

unlike anything they had ever seen in America. The tower was of brick.

It was three stories high, over a basement. In the basement were the

stables and wagon-house; over this was the granary, and flour and meal

store; above this were the bolting-rooms, the ground wheat running

through spouts to the store-rooms below. On the next floor above were

the mill-stones, and the simple machinery that turned them. And, above

all, at the very top of the tower, was the main shaft of the great

wings outside. These wings caught the winds, and compelled them

to work the machinery with such force as to make the strong tower

tremble. There were balconies around the first and third stories of

the mill. It was quite a picturesque object standing among low trees

on a pretty, quiet stream, the banks of which were higher and more

uneven than was usual in that part of the country.

The miller lived in a small house near the mill with his wife and his

little daughter Hildegarde, the latter of whom was near Greta's age.

The boys did not take as much interest in the miller's house as their

parents took; but when they were shown into a large outer room, and

were told it was the cow-stable, they had no words with which to

express their astonishment. They would have said it was the show-room

of the place. There was not a speck on the whitewashed walls; the pine

ceiling was so clean it fairly glistened; there were crisp, white

muslin curtains at the windows. The raised earthen floor was covered

with pure white sand, arranged in fancy designs. There were some small

round tables standing about, and on them were ornaments of china and

silver, and a variety of knick-knacks.

During the summer the cows were in the pasture day and night, but in

the winter they occupied this room. Then the tables were removed, but

the place was kept very neatly. This was necessary, for the stable

adjoined the house, and the party passed into the barn through a door

in the cow-stable.

All except the two boys. Will hung back and motioned to Martin not to

go into the barn.

"I am tired of this sort of thing," he said. "Let us go and sail our

boats."

"Very well," said Martin, "I'll call the girls."

"No," said Will; "there are too many of them. They'll only be in the

way. They'll have a good time together, and we'll have some fun by

ourselves."

Martin seldom dissented from Will's decisions, so the two boys went

back into the house to get their ships, and passed out of another

door to the bridge and across the stream. They had gone but a short

distance when Martin, who had seemed very thoughtful, stopped opposite

the mill.

"There is a man in the balcony," he said. "I'll ask him to call to

the girls to come. It isn't fair to go without them. You know Greta

thought _so_ much of sailing her boat with ours."

"Nonsense," said Will. "She has got other company now. I don't believe

they know how to manage their boats, and we will have to help them.

Girls always have to be taken care of."

"But," persisted Martin, "you said that Greta was real smart and a

first-rate fellow--girl, I mean."

"She is well enough for girls' plays; but what can she know about

boats? Come along!"

Martin said no more, and the boys proceeded for some distance up the

stream.

"If we go around that bend," said Will, "we will be out of sight of

the mill, and can have our own fun."

Around the bend they found a bridge, and a little way above this the

stream widened into a large pool, the banks of which were shaded by

willows. There they launched the schooner "America" and the sloop

"Columbus" with appropriate ceremonies. The sails and the rudders were

properly set for a trip across the pool. The ships bent gracefully to

the breeze, and went steadily on their course, the little flags waving

triumphantly from the mast-heads. They moved so gracefully and behaved

so beautifully that Martin expressed his sorrow that the girls were

not there to see them. Will made no reply, but he felt a twinge of

remorse as he remembered how Greta had looked forward to this sail as

a great event. He tried to quiet his conscience with the consideration

that it was much better for her not to be there; for she would

certainly have felt mortified at the contrast between their pretty

vessels and the poor canal-boats.

The boys crossed the bridge, and were ready for the arrival of their

vessels in the foreign port. Then they started them on the return

voyage and recrossed the bridge to receive them at home.

This was done several times, but at last there was an accident. Will's

schooner, the "America," from some unknown cause, took a wrong tack

when near the middle of the pool, and going too far up, got aground

upon a tiny, grassy island. She swayed about for a minute, and the

boys hoped she would float off, but soon the masts ceased to quiver.

The "America" had quietly moored herself on the island as if she

intended to remain there forever. What was to be done? The longest

pole to be found would not reach the island from either bank, or from

the bridge, and the pool was deep. Will began to think it was a pretty

bad case.

[Illustration: THE BOYS WITH THEIR BOATS.]

"What a beauty!" "Isn't it just lovely!" "Pretty! pretty! pretty!"

These exclamations came respectively from Greta, Hildegarde, and

Minchen, and had reference to the "Columbus," which was gliding up

to the bank where the boys stood, with its sails gleaming in the

sunshine, while it dipped and courtesied on the little waves. The

girls were coming around the bend. Greta and Minchen had their

canal-boats, and Hildegarde carried a great square of gingerbread.

"That's the most beautiful thing I ever saw!" cried Greta. In her

admiration of the vessel, she had forgotten her wounded dignity. For

she had arranged with Hildegarde that, after giving the boys their

share of gingerbread, they should walk proudly and silently away.

As Greta had broken the compact by speaking, Hildegarde entered upon

an explanation: "We have been down the stream looking for you--"

But here she was interrupted by a frown from Greta, who suddenly

recollected the slight that had been put upon them.

"Naughty boys to run away!" said little Minchen. "You sha'n't see my

boat sail!"

"My ship is aground on that island," said Will, willing to change the

subject. "I have no way of getting her off. I wonder if the boat we

came in is too large to be got up here."

"The boat was taken back to Zaandam," said Hildegarde, "and our boat

is away, too."

"The 'America' will have to stay where she is, then," said Will,

trying to speak cheerfully.

"Pretty ship is lost! Too bad!" said Minchen, pityingly. Then

brightly: "I'll give you mine!-_may be_," she added in a doubtful

tone, as her glance fell lovingly upon the boat she was hugging under

her arm.

Meantime, Greta had been studying the situation. She now turned to

Will. "I can get your ship off," she said. "Take care of my boat till

I come back, and don't sail her on any account. I wont be gone long."

She handed her boat to Will, and was around the bend in an instant;

and it was not very long before the anxious group heard the sound of

her rapid footsteps returning. Will thought she had gone to the mill

to get some one to help them, but she came back alone, and all she

brought with her was a large ball of cord.

Martin and Minchen asked her twenty questions while she made her

preparations, but she would not reveal her plans, although it was

evident from the way she went to work that she had a very clear idea

of what she intended to accomplish.

In the first place, she said the whole party must go further up the

bank, so as to get above the "America," which was on the lower edge of

the little island. When they had gone far enough, she tied one end of

the cord to the rudder-post of her canal-boat. Then she turned the

cunning little windlass, and slowly up went the mast to its full

height. The next thing was to unfurl the sail, set it properly, and

set the rudder,--all of which she did deftly and correctly, making

Will feel ashamed of what he had said about the ignorance of girls.

She placed the boat on the water. The sail filled, and off went the

"Wilhelmina" with a slow, true, steady motion, her red sail glowing in

the sunshine, and her stiff little pennant standing straight out in

the wind. As the boat crossed the pool, Greta played out the cord

carefully, so as not to impede its motion. When it reached the other

side and had gently grounded on the shelving shore, Greta gave the

line into Will's hand.

"If you will hold this," she said, "I will go across the bridge."

"Don't trouble yourself to do that," said Will, "I will go over."

"No," said Greta, "I wish to go. I am captain of my own craft, and I

know how to manage my 'Wilhelmina.'"

"I had no idea she was so pretty," said Will. "She is a true, stanch

little sailer."

"She don't show off until she is on the water," said Greta, smiling,

"and then she sails like a real boat. Do you know what I am going to

do when I get to the other side?"

"I can guess. You will send your boat back to me from below the island

while I hold this end of the cord. That will bring the line around my

ship and pull her off."

"I thought of that, but it is too risky. If anything should go wrong

with my boat, the line might get tangled; or there might be too great

a strain, and the ship would come off with a jerk and be tumbled

bottom upward into the water. I intend to untie the cord from the

boat, and you and I must walk slowly down toward the 'America,'--I on

that side, and you on this. We must hold the cord low so as to catch

the mast under the sail, if we can."

"All right," said Will.

Greta walked quickly down the bank, across the bridge, and up the

other side until she reached the "Wilhelmina." Placing the boat on the

bank for safety, she took the cord off, and, holding it firmly, walked

slowly down toward the island. Will did the same on his side of the

pool. The cord went skimming over the surface of the water, then it

passed above the tops of the long grass on the island. This brought

the line on a level with the top-sail. This would not do; for a

pressure up there might capsize the schooner. Both of the workers saw

that they must slacken the line a little to get it into the proper

place. Now was the critical time; if the line was too much slackened

it might slip under the vessel and upset it that way. Gently they

lowered it until it lay against the mainmast below the sail.

"Take care!" screamed Will to Greta.

"Go slow!" screamed Greta to Will.

Gently they pulled against the schooner, and, inch by inch, she

floated off into the open water.

"Hurrah!" shouted Will, as the "America" gave herself a little shake,

and, catching the wind, sailed slowly and somewhat unsteadily for the

home port, which, however, she reached in safety. "Wind up the cord!"

shouted Greta, just in time to prevent Will's throwing it aside. He

wondered what further use she had for the cord. It might go to the

bottom of the pool for aught he cared, now that the ship was safe. But

he wound it up as directed. It would have been quite a grief to the

thrifty little Dutch girl if so much fine cord had been wasted.

Thus ignominiously came in the stately ship "America," which Will had

set afloat with such pride! And it is doubtful whether she would

have come in at all, but for the stanch Dutch canal-boat that he had

regarded with a good deal of disdain.

If Will had been a girl, he would have exhausted the complimentary

adjectives of the Dutch language in praise of his cousin; but being a

boy, he only said, "Thank you, Greta."

The children remained at the pool until called to dinner; and after

that meal, they went back again and stayed until it was time to return

to Zaandam, so fascinated were they with sailing their vessels. These

changed hands so often that it was sometimes difficult to tell who had

charge of any particular boat, and a good deal of confusion was the

result. In justice to the "America," it must be stated that she cut no

more capers, and was the admiration of all.

Will had his faults, and one of these was the very high estimate

he placed on his own opinions. But he was generous-hearted, and he

admitted to himself that Greta had shown more cleverness than he in

the "America" affair. "She was _quicker_, anyway," he thought. "It

is likely that plan would have occurred to me after a time, but she

thought of it first. And it was good of her to help me; for she knew

that I went away so as not to play with her." It was not pleasant to

him to know that a girl had shown herself superior to him in anything

he considered his province; but he magnanimously forgave her for this,

and he said to Martin, after they were in bed that night:

"I've pretty much made up my mind to give my schooner to Greta. I

believe she thinks it the prettiest thing ever made."

"If you do that," said Martin, "I'll give my sloop to Minchen."

This plan was carried out, and the girls were more delighted than if

they had had presents of diamonds. But they insisted that the boys

should accept their canal-boats in exchange, the result of which

was that the Chesters, on their return to America, produced quite a

sensation among their schoolmates. For American-built vessels could be

bought in many stores in New York, but a Dutch canal-boat, with a red

sail, and a mast that was raised and lowered by a windlass, was not to

be found in all the city.

THE BUTTERFLY CHASE.

BY ELLIS GRAY.

Dear little butterfly,

Lightly you flutter by,

On golden wing.

Drops of sweet honey sip,

Deep from the clover tip,

Then upward spring.

Over the meadow grass

Swift as a fairy pass,

Blithesome and gay;

Toy with the golden-rod,

Make the blue asters nod--

Off and away!

Butterfly's dozing now,

Golden wings closing now,--

Softly he swings.

Tiny hands fold him fast,

Gently unclose at last,--

Fly, golden wings!

Quick! for he's after you,

With joyous laughter new,--

Mischievous boy!

Swift you must flutter by;

He wants you, butterfly,

For a new toy!

[Illustration]

HOW TO MAKE A TELEPHONE.

BY M.F.

What is a telephone?

Up go a hundred hands of the brightest and sharpest of the readers of

ST. NICHOLAS, and a hundred confident voices reply:

"An instrument to convey sounds by means of electricity."

Good. That shows you have some definite idea of it; but, after all,

that answer is not the right one. The telephone does not convey sound.

"What does its name mean, then?" do you ask?

Simply, that it is a far-sounder; but that does not necessarily imply

that it _carries_ sounds afar. Strictly speaking, the telephone only

changes sound-waves into waves of electricity and back again. When

two telephones are connected by means of a wire, they act in this

way,--the first telephone changes the sound-waves it receives into

electric impulses which travel along the wire until they reach the

second telephone, here they are changed back to sound-waves exactly

like those received by the first telephone. Accordingly, the listener

in New York seems to hear the very tones of his friend who is speaking

at the other end of the line, say, in Boston.

Still you don't see how.

It is not surprising, for in this description several scientific facts

and principles are involved; and all boys and girls cannot be expected

to know much about the laws of sound and electricity. Perhaps a little

explanation may make it clearer.

The most of you probably know that sound is produced by rapid motion.

Put your finger on a piano wire that is sounding, and you will feel

the motion, or touch your front tooth with a tuning-fork that is

singing; in the last case you will feel very distinctly the raps made

by the vibrating fork. Now, a sounding body will not only jar another

body which touches it, but it will also give its motion to the air

that touches it; and when the air-motions or air-waves strike the

sensitive drums of our ears, these vibrate, and we _hear_ the sound.

You all have heard the windows rattle when it thunders loudly, or when

cannons have been fired near-by. The sound waves in the air fairly

shake the windows; and, sometimes, when the windows are closed, so

that the air-waves cannot pass readily, the windows are shattered by

the shock. Fainter sounds act less violently, yet similarly. Every

time you speak, your voice sets everything around you vibrating in

unison, though ever so faintly.

Thus, from your every-day experience you have proof of two important

facts,--first, sound is caused by rapid motion; second, sound-waves

give rise to corresponding motion. Both these facts are involved in

the speaking telephone, which performs a twofold office,--that of the

ear on the one hand, that of our vocal organs on the other.

To serve as an ear, the telephone must be able to take up quickly and

nicely the sound-waves of the air. A tightened drum-head will do that;

or better, a strip of goldbeaters'-skin drawn tightly over a ring

or the end of a tube. But these would not help Professor Bell, the

inventor of the telephone we shall describe, since he wanted an ear

that would translate the waves of sound into waves of electricity,

which would travel farther and faster than sound-waves could.

Just when Mr. Bell was thinking how he could make the instrument he

wanted, an important discovery in magnetism was made known to him--a

discovery that helped him wonderfully. You know that if you hold a

piece of iron close to a magnet the magnet will pull it, and the

closer the iron comes to the magnet the harder it is pulled. Now, some

one experimenting with a magnet having a coil of silk-covered wire

around it, found that when a piece of iron was moved in front of the

magnet and close to it without touching, the motion would give rise to

electric waves in the coil of wire, which waves could be transmitted

to considerable distances.

This was just what Mr. Bell wanted. He said to himself, "The sound

of my voice will give motion to a thin plate of iron as well as to a

sheet of goldbeaters'-skin; and if I bring this vibrating plate

of iron close to a magnet, the motion will set up in it waves of

electricity answering exactly to the sound-waves which move the iron

plate."

So far, good. But something more was wanted. The instrument must not

only translate sound-waves into electric impulses, but change these

back again into sound-waves; it must not only hear, but also _speak!_

You remember our first fact in regard to sound: it is caused by

motion. All that is needed to make anything speak is to cause it to

move so as to give rise to just such air-waves as the voice makes. Mr.

Bell's idea was to make the iron plate of his sound-receiver speak.

He reasoned in this way: From the nature of the magnet it follows that

when waves of electricity are passed through the wire coil around the

magnet, the strength of the magnet must vary with the force of the

electric impulses. Its pull on the plate of iron near it must vary in

the same manner. The varying pull on the plate must make it move,

and this movement must set the air against the plate in motion in

sound-waves corresponding exactly with the motion setting up the

electric waves in the first place; in other words, the sound-motion in

one telephone must be exactly reproduced as sound-waves in a similar

instrument joined to it by wire.

Experiment proved the reasoning correct; and thus the

speaking-telephone was invented. But it took a long time to find

the simplest and best way to make it. At last, however, Mr. Bell's

telephone was perfected in the form illustrated below. Fig. 1 shows

the inner structure of the instrument. A is the spool carrying the

coil of wire; B, the magnet; C, the diaphragm; E, the case; F, F, the

wires leading from the coil, and connecting at the end of the handle

with the ground and line wires. Fig. 2 shows how a telephone looks on

the outside.

[Illustration: BELL'S TELEPHONE. Fig. 1 and Fig. 2]

So much for description. You will understand it better, perhaps, if

you experiment a little. You can easily make a pair for yourself, rude

and imperfect, it is true, but good enough for all the tests you may

want to apply.

For each you will want: (1) a straight magnet; (2) a coil of

silk-covered copper wire; (3) a thin plate of soft iron; (4) a box to

hold the first three articles. You will also want as much wire as you

can afford, to connect the instruments, and two short pieces of wire

to connect your telephones with the ground. (Two wires between the

instruments would make the ground-wires unnecessary, but this would

use up too much wire.) The magnet and the coil you will have to buy

from some dealer in electrical apparatus. They need not cost much. A

small cigar-box will answer for the case.

[Illustration: Fig. 3. A "CIGAR-BOX" TELEPHONE.]

In one end of the box cut a round hole, say, three inches across.

Against this hole fasten a disk of thin sheet-iron for the vibrator or

"diaphragm." For a mouth-piece use a small can, such as ground spices

come in, or even a round paper box.

Now, on the inside of the box, place the magnet, the end carrying the

coil almost touching the middle of the diaphragm, and fix it firmly.

Then, to the ends of the copper wire of the main coil fasten two

wires,--one for the line, the other for the "ground-wire."

This done, you will have an instrument (or rather two of them) very

much like Fig. 3. A is the mouth-piece; B, the diaphragm; C, the coil;

D, the magnet; E, E, the wires.

The receiving and sending instruments are precisely alike, each

answers for both purposes; but there must be two, since one must

always be hearing while the other is speaking.

When you speak into the mouth-piece of one telephone, the sound of

your voice causes the "diaphragm" to vibrate in front of the magnet.

The vibrations cause the magnet's pull upon the diaphragm to vary in

force, which variation is answered by electrical waves in the coil and

over the wires connected with it. At the other end of the wire the

pull of the magnet of the speaking telephone is varied exactly in

proportion to the strength of the electric impulses that come over the

wire; the varying pull of the magnet sets the diaphragm in motion,

and that sets the air in motion in waves precisely like those of the

distant voice. When those waves strike the listener's ear, he _seems_

to hear the speaker's exact tones, and so, substantially, he does

hear them. The circumstance that electric waves, and not sound-waves,

travel over the wires, does not change the quality of the resulting

sound in the least.

I think you now understand Bell's telephone.

The telephones of Edison, Gray, and others, involve different

principles and are differently constructed.

One invention very often leads to another, and the telephone already

has an offspring not less wonderful than itself. It is called the

speaking-phonograph. It was invented by Mr. Edison, one of the

gentlemen, just mentioned.

Evidently, Mr. Edison said to himself: "The telephone hears and

speaks; why not make it write in its own way; then its record could

be kept, and any time after, the instrument might read aloud its own

writing." Like a great genius as he is, Mr. Edison went to work in the

simplest way to make the sound-recorder he wanted. You know how the

diaphragm of the telephone vibrates when spoken to? Mr. Edison took

away from the telephone all except the mouth-piece and the diaphragm,

fastened a point of metal, which we will call a "style," to the center

of the diaphragm, and then contrived a simple arrangement for making

a sheet of tin-foil pass in front of the style. When the diaphragm is

still, the style simply scratches a straight line along the foil. When

a sound is made, however, and the diaphragm set to vibrating, the mark

of the style is not a simple scratch, but an impression varying in

depth according to the diaphragm's vibration. And that is how the

phonograph writes. To the naked eye, the record of the sound appears

to be simply a line of pin points or dots, more or less close to each

other; but, under a magnifier, it is seen to be far more complicated.

Now for the reading. The impression on the foil exactly records the

vibrations of the diaphragm, and those vibrations exactly measure the

sound-waves which caused the vibrations. The reading simply reverses

all this. The strip of foil is passed again before the diaphragm,

the point of the style follows the groove it made at first, and

the diaphragm follows the style in all its motions. The original

vibrations are thus exactly reproduced, setting up sound-waves in

the air precisely like those which first set the machine in motion.

Consequently, the listener hears a minutely exact echo of what the

instrument heard; it might have heard it a minute, or an hour, or a

year, or a thousand years before, had the phonograph been in use so

long.

What a wonderful result is that! As yet, the phonograph has not been

put to any practical use; indeed, it is scarcely in operation yet, and

a great deal must be done to increase the delicacy of its hearing and

the strength of its voice. It mimics any and every sort of sound with

marvelous fidelity, but weakly. Its speech is like that of a person

a long way off, or in another room. But its possibilities are almost

infinite.

ONLY A DOLL!

BY SARAH O. JEWETT.

[Illustration: "Polly, my dolly!"]

Polly, my dolly! why don't you grow?

Are you a dwarf, my Polly?

I'm taller and taller every day;

How high the grass is!--do you see that?

The flowers are growing like weeds, they say;

The kitten is growing into a cat!

Why don't you grow, my dolly?

Here is a mark upon the wall.

Look for yourself, my Polly!

I made it a year ago, I think.

I've measured you very often, dear,

But, though you've plenty to eat and drink,

You haven't grown a bit for a year.

Why don't you grow, my dolly?

Are you never going to try to talk?

You're such a silent Polly!

Are you never going to say a word?

It isn't hard; and oh! don't you see

The parrot is only a little bird,

But he can chatter so easily.

You're quite a dunce, my dolly!

Let's go and play by the baby-house:

You are my dearest Polly!

There are other things that do not grow;

Kittens can't talk, and why should you?

You are the prettiest doll I know;

You are a darling--that is true!

Just as you are, my dolly!

DAB KINZER: A STORY OF A GROWING BOY.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

Between the village and the inlet, and half a mile from the great

"bay," lay the Kinzer farm. Beyond the bay was a sand-bar, and beyond

that the Atlantic Ocean; for all this was on the southerly shore of

Long Island.

The Kinzer farm had lain right there--acre for acre, no more, no

less--on the day when Hendrik Hudson, long ago, sailed the good ship

"Half-Moon" into New York Bay. But it was not then known to any one

as the Kinzer farm. Neither was there then, as now, any bright and

growing village crowding up on one side of it, with a railway station

and a post-office. Nor was there, at that time, any great and busy

city of New York, only a few hours' ride away, over on the island of

Manhattan. The Kinzers themselves were not there then; but the bay and

the inlet, with the fish and the crabs, and the ebbing and flowing

tides, were there, very much the same, before Hendrik Hudson and his

brave Dutchmen knew anything whatever about that corner of the world.

The Kinzer farm had always been a reasonably "fat" one, both as to

size and quality, and the good people who lived on it had generally

been of a somewhat similar description. It was, therefore, every

way correct and becoming for Dabney Kinzer's widowed mother and his

sisters to be the plump and hearty beings they were, and all the more

discouraging to poor Dabney that no amount of regular and faithful

eating seemed to make him resemble them at all in that respect.

Mrs. Kinzer excused his thinness to her neighbors, to be sure, on the

ground that he was "such a growing boy;" but, for all that, he caught

himself wondering, now and then, if he would never be done with that

part of his trials. For rapid growth has its trials.

"The fact is," he said to himself, one day, as he leaned over the

north fence, "I'm more like Ham Morris's farm than I am like ours. His

farm is bigger than ours, all 'round; but it's too big for its fences,

just as I'm too big for my clothes. Ham's house is three times as

large as ours, but it looks as if it had grown too fast. It hasn't

any paint, to speak of, nor any blinds. It looks a good deal as if

somebody'd just built it there and then forgot it and gone off and

left it out-of-doors."

Dabney's four sisters had all come into the world before him, but he

was as tall as any of them, and was frequently taken by strangers for

a good two years older than he really was.

It was sometimes very hard for him, a boy of fifteen, to live up to

what was expected of those two extra years.

Mrs. Kinzer still kept him in roundabouts; but they did not seem to

hinder his growth at all, if that was her object in so doing.

There was no such thing, however, as keeping the four girls in

roundabouts, of any kind; and, what between them and their mother, the

pleasant and tidy little Kinzer homestead, with its snug parlor and

its cozy bits of rooms and chambers, seemed to nestle away, under the

shadowing elms and sycamores, smaller and smaller with every year that

came.

It was a terribly tight fit for such a family, anyway; and, now that

Dabney was growing at such a rate, there was no telling what they

would all come to. But Mrs. Kinzer came, at last, to the rescue, and

she summoned her eldest daughter, Miranda, to her aid.

A very notable woman was the widow. When the new railway cut off part

of the old farm, she had split up the slice of land between the iron

track and the village into "town lots," and had sold them all off by

the time the railway company paid her for the "damage" it had done the

property.

The whole Kinzer family gained visibly in plumpness that

year,--except, perhaps, Dabney.

Of course, the condition and requirements of Ham Morris and his big

farm, just over the north fence, had not escaped such a pair of eyes

as those of the widow, and the very size of his great barn of a house

finally settled his fate for him.

A large, quiet, unambitious, but well brought up and industrious young

man was Hamilton Morris, and he had not the least idea of the good in

store for him for several months after Mrs. Kinzer decided to marry

him to her daughter Miranda. But all was soon settled. Dab, of course,

had nothing to do with the wedding arrangements, and Ham's share was

somewhat contracted. Not but what he was at the Kinzer house a good

deal; nor did any of the other girls tell Miranda how very much he was

in the way. He could talk, however, and one morning, about a fortnight

before the day appointed, he said to Miranda and her mother:

"We can't have so very much of a wedding; your house is so small, and

you've chocked it so full of furniture. Right down nice furniture it

is, too; but there's so much of it. I'm afraid the minister'll have to

stand out in the front yard."

"The house'll do for this time," replied Mrs. Kinzer. "There 'll be

room enough for everybody. What puzzles me is Dab."

"What about Dab?" asked Ham.

"Can't find a thing to fit him," said Dab's mother. "Seems as if he

were all odd sizes, from head to foot."

"Fit him!" exclaimed Ham. "Oh, you mean ready-made goods! Of course

you can't. He'll have to be measured by a tailor, and have his new

suit built for him."

"Such extravagance!" emphatically remarked Mrs. Kinzer.

"Not for rich people like you, and for a wedding," replied Ham; "and

Dab's a growing boy. Where is he now? I'm going to the village, and

I'll take him right along with me."

There seemed to be no help for it; but that was the first point

relating to the wedding concerning which Ham Morris was permitted to

have exactly his own way. His success made Dab Kinzer a fast friend of

his for life, and that was something.

There was also something new and wonderful to Dabney himself in

walking into a tailor's shop, picking out cloth to please himself, and

being so carefully measured all over. He stretched and swelled himself

in all directions, to make sure nothing should turn out too small. At

the end of it all, Ham said to him:

"Now, Dab, my boy, this suit is to be a present from me to you, on

Miranda's account."

Dab colored and hesitated for a moment; but it seemed all right, he

thought, and so he came frankly out with:

"Thank you, Ham. You always was a prime good fellow. I'll do as much

for you some day. Tell you what I'll do, then. I'll have another suit

made, right away, of this other cloth, and have the bill for that one

sent to our folks."

"Do it!" exclaimed Ham. "Do it! You've your mother's orders for that.

She's nothing to do with my gift."

"Splendid!" almost shouted Dab. "Oh, but don't I hope they'll fit!"

"Vit?" said the tailor. "Vill zay vit? I dell you zay vit you like a

knife. You vait und zee."

Dab failed to get a very clear idea of what the fit would be, but it

made him almost hold his breath to think of it.

After the triumphant visit to the tailor, there was still a necessity

for a call upon the shoe-maker, and that was a matter of no small

importance. Dab's feet had always been a mystery and a trial to him.

If his memory contained one record darker than another, it was the

endless history of his misadventures with boots and shoes. He and

leather had been at war from the day he left his creeping clothes

until now. But now he was promised a pair of shoes that would be sure

to fit.

So the question of Dab's personal appearance at the wedding was all

arranged between him and Ham; and Miranda smiled more sweetly than

ever before upon the latter, after she had heard her usually silent

brother break out so enthusiastically about him as he did that

evening.

It was a good thing for that wedding that it took place in fine summer

weather, for neither kith, kin, nor acquaintances had been slighted in

the invitations, and the Kinzers were one of the "oldest families."

To have gathered them all under the roof of that house, without either

stretching it out wider or boiling the guests down, would have been

out of the question, and so the majority, with Dabney in his new

clothes to keep them countenance, stood or sat in the cool shade of

the grand old trees during the ceremony, which was performed near the

open door, and were afterward served with the wedding refreshments, in

a style that spoke volumes for Mrs. Kinzer's good management, as well

as for her hospitality.

The only drawback to Dab's happiness that day was that his

acquaintances hardly seemed to know him. He had had almost the same

trouble with himself when he looked in the glass that morning.

Ordinarily, his wrists were several inches through his coat sleeves,

and his ankles made a perpetual show of his stockings. His neck, too,

seemed usually to be holding his head as far as possible from his coat

collar, and his buttons had no favor to ask of his button-holes.

Now, even as the tailor had promised, he had received his "first

fit." He seemed to himself, to tell the truth, to be covered up in a

prodigal waste of nice cloth. Would he ever, ever grow too big for

such a suit of clothes as that? It was a very painful thought, and he

did his best to put it away from him.

Still, it was a little hard to have a young lady, whom he had known

before she began to walk, remark to him: "Excuse me, sir, but can you

tell me if Mr. Dabney Kinzer is here?"

"No, Jenny Walters," sharply responded Dab, "he isn't here."

"Why, Dabney!" exclaimed the pretty Jenny, "is that you? I declare,

you've scared me out of a year's growth."

"I wish you'd scare me, then," said Dab. "Then my clothes would stay

fitted."

Everything had been so well arranged beforehand, thanks to Mrs.

Kinzer, that the wedding had no chance at all except to go off well.

Ham Morris was rejoiced to find how entirely he was relieved of every

responsibility.

"Don't worry about your house, Hamilton," the widow said to him the

night before. "We'll go over there as soon as you and Miranda get

away, and it'll be all ready for you by the time you get back."

"All right," said Ham. "I'll be glad to have you take the old place in

hand. I've only tried to live in a corner of it. You don't know how

much room there is. I don't, I must say."

Dabney had longed to ask her if she meant to have it moved over to the

Kinzer side of the north fence, but he had doubts as to the propriety

of it, and just then the boy came in from the tailor's with his bundle

of new clothes.

CHAPTER II.

Hamilton Morris was a very promising young man, of some thirty

summers. He had been an "orphan" for a dozen years, and the wonder was

that he should so long have lived alone in the big square-built house

his father left him. At all events, Miranda Kinzer was just the wife

for him.

Miranda's mother had seen that at a glance, the moment her mind

was settled about the house. As to that and his great, spreading,

half-cultivated farm, all either of them needed was ready money and

management.

These were blessings Ham was now made reasonably sure of, on his

return from his wedding trip, and he was likely to appreciate them.

As for Dabney Kinzer, he was in no respect overcome by the novelty and

excitement of the wedding. All the rest of the day he devoted himself

to such duties as were assigned him, with a new and grand idea

steadily taking shape in his mind. He felt as if his brains, too, were

growing. Some of his mother's older and more intimate friends remained

with her all day, probably to comfort her for the loss of Miranda,

and two or three of them, Dab knew, would stay to tea, so that his

services would be in demand to see them safely home.

All day long, moreover, Samantha and Keziah and Pamela seemed to find

themselves wonderfully busy, one way and another, so that they paid

even less attention than usual to any of the ins and outs of their

brother.

Dabney was therefore able, with little difficulty, to take for himself

whatever of odd time he might require for putting his new idea into

execution.

Mrs. Kinzer herself noticed the rare good sense with which her son

hurried through with his dinner and slipped away, leaving her in

undisturbed possession of the table and her lady guests, and neither

she nor either of the girls had a thought of following him.

If they had done so, they might have seen him draw a good-sized bundle

out from under the lilac-thicket in the back yard, and hurry down

through the garden.

A few minutes more and Dabney appeared on the fence of the old

cross-road leading down to the shore. There he sat, eying one

passer-by after another, till he suddenly sprang from his perch,

exclaiming: "That's just the chap. Why, they'll fit him, and that's

more'n they ever did for me."

Dab would probably have had to search along the coast for miles

before he could have found a human being better suited to his present

charitable purposes than the boy who now came so lazily down the road.

There was no doubt about his color, or that he was all over of about

the same shade of black. His old tow trousers and calico shirt

revealed the shining fact in too many places to leave room for a

question, and shoes he had none.

"Dick," said Dabney, "was you ever married?"

"Married!" exclaimed Dick, with a peal of very musical laughter. "Is I

married? No! Is you?"

"No," replied Dabney, "but I was mighty near it, this morning."

"Dat so?" asked Dick, with another show of his white teeth. "Done ye

good, den. Nebber seen ye look so nice afore."

"You'd look nicer'n I do, if you were only dressed up," said Dab.

"Just you put on these."

"Golly!" exclaimed the black boy. But he seized the bundle Dab threw

him, and he had it open in a twinkling. "Anyt'ing in de pockets?" he

asked.

"Guess not," said Dab; "but there's lots of room."

"Say dar was!" exclaimed Dick. "But wont dese t'ings be warm!"

It was quite likely, for the day was not a cool one, and Dick never

seemed to think of pulling off what he had on before getting into his

unexpected present. Coat, vest, and trousers, they were all pulled on

with more quickness than Dab had ever seen the young African display

before.

"I's much obleeged to ye, Mr. Kinzer," said Dick, very proudly, as he

strutted across the road. "On'y I dasn't go back fru de village."

"What'll you do, then?" asked Dab.

"S'pose I'd better go a-fishin'," said Dick. "Will de fish bite?"

"Oh, the clothes wont make any odds to them," said Dabney. "I must go

back to the house."

And so he did, while Dick, on whom the cast-off garments of his white

friend were really a pretty good fit, marched on down the road,

feeling grander than he ever had before in all his life.

"That'll be a good thing to tell Ham Morris when he and Miranda come

home again," muttered Dab, as he re-entered the house.

Late that evening, when Dabney returned from his final duties as

escort to his mother's guests, she rewarded him with more than he

could remember ever receiving of motherly commendation.

"I've been really quite proud of you, Dabney," she said to him, as

she laid her plump hand on the collar of his new coat and kissed him.

"You've behaved like a perfect gentleman."

"Only, mother," exclaimed Keziah, "he spent too much of his time with

that sharp-tongued little Jenny Walters."

"Never mind, Kezi," said Dab. "She didn't know who I was till I told

her. I'm going to wear a label with my name on it, when I go over to

the village, to-morrow."

"And then you'll put on your other suit in the morning," said Mrs.

Kinzer, "You must keep this for Sundays and great occasions."

When the morning came, Dabney Kinzer was a more than usually early

riser, for he felt that he had waked up to a very important day.

"Dabney," exclaimed his mother, when he came in to breakfast, "did I

not tell you to put on your other suit?"

"So I have, mother," replied Dab; "this is my other suit."

"That!" exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer.

"So it is!" cried Keziah.

"So it isn't," added Samantha. "Mother, that's not what he had on

yesterday."

"He's been trading again," mildly suggested Pamela.

"Dabney," said Mrs. Kinzer, "what does this mean?"

"Mean!" replied Dabney, "Why, these are the clothes you told me to

buy. The lot I wore yesterday were a present from Ham Morris. He's a

splendid fellow. I'm glad he got the best of the girls."

That was a bad thing for Dabney to say, just then, for it was resented

vigorously by the remaining three. As soon as quiet was restored,

however, Mrs, Kinzer remarked:

"I think Hamilton should have consulted me about it; but it's too late

now. Anyhow, you may go and put on your other clothes."

"My wedding suit?" asked Dab.

"No, indeed! I mean your old ones; those you took off night before

last."

"Dunno where they are," slowly responded Dab.

"Don't know where they are?" repeated a chorus of four voices.

"No," said Dab. "Bill Lee's black boy had 'em on all yesterday

afternoon, and I reckon he's gone a-fishing again to-day. They fit him

a good sight better'n they ever did me."

If Dabney had expected a storm to come from his mother's end of the

table, he was pleasantly mistaken, and his sisters had it all to

themselves for a moment. Then, with an admiring glance at her son, the

thoughtful matron remarked:

"Just like his father, for all the world. It's no use, girls. Dabney's

a growing boy in more ways than one. Dabney, I shall want you to go

over to the Morris house with me after breakfast. Then you may hitch

up the ponies, and we'll do some errands around the village."

[Illustration: DAB GIVES DICK HIS OLD CLOTHES.]

Dab Kinzer's sisters looked at one another in blank astonishment,

and Samantha would have left the table if she had only finished her

breakfast.

Pamela, as being nearest to Dab in age and sympathy, gave a very

admiring look at her brother's second "good fit," and said nothing.

Even Keziah finally admitted, in her own mind, that such a change in

Dabney's appearance might have its advantages. But Samantha inwardly

declared war.

The young hero himself was hardly used to that second suit as yet, and

felt anything but easy in it.

"I wonder," he said to himself, "what Jenny Walters would think of me

now? Wonder if she'd know me?"

Not a doubt of it. But, after he had finished his breakfast and gone

out, his mother remarked:

"It's really all right, girls. I almost fear I've been neglecting

Dabney. He isn't a little boy any more."

"He isn't a man yet," exclaimed Samantha, "and he talks slang

dreadfully."

"But then he does grow so!" remarked Keziah.

"Mother," said Pamela, "couldn't you get Dab to give Dick the slang,

along with the old clothes?"

"We'll see about it," replied Mrs. Kinzer.

It was very plain that Dabney's mother had begun to take in a new idea

about her son. It was not the least bit in the world unpleasant to

find out that he was "growing in more ways than one," and it was quite

likely that she had indeed kept him too long in roundabouts.