CHAPTER IX

A MIDNIGHT BURYING

To play the rôle of eavesdropper, or “Peeping Tom,” was not exactly as

Hadley Morris would have wished. He hated a sneak; but his curiosity

regarding his uncle’s manœuvres was for the time too strong for his

ideas of what was really honorable, and instead of retreating up the

stairs to the loft again, he remained where he was and watched the old

gentleman with wide-open eyes.

Like most substantially built houses of that day, the Morris homestead

had a great stone and brick fireplace built into the end wall. To the

right of the fireplace was one of those ovens in which the pioneer

housewives did all their baking. The oven was like a safe built into

the side of the chimney, and had a smooth clay floor. Uncle Ephraim had

always kept the oven door fastened with an old-fashioned brass padlock.

The padlock now lay on the floor, and as Hadley continued to peer into

the wide kitchen from around the corner of the door-frame, he saw

Master Morris draw back from the mouth of the oven, holding a bag in

each hand. The bags were not large, but by the way his uncle carried

them the boy knew they were heavy, and when the old man stepped down

from the chair and laid them on the table, the listener heard a faint

chink as though of metal. “It’s gold!” whispered the boy to himself,

and his eyes opened even more widely at the thought.

Then for the first time Hadley saw that Master Morris wore his

waistcoat and coat, as though he were ready to go out of doors. He put

on his hat at once, stuck the half-burned candle in a lantern, and with

the latter swung over his arm and one of the heavy bags in each hand,

he left the house.

Hadley hesitated only a moment; then, curiosity still spurring him,

he ran lightly down the remaining steps into the kitchen and followed

his uncle out of doors without stopping for his own hat. The night was

mild and not at all dark, but the boy might have found some difficulty

in following the old man had it not been for the flickering lantern

which swung from his arm. This dancing will-o’-the-wisp led the boy

down behind the barns and cribs and directly into the orchard where the

branches of the gnarled old apple trees met and, with their fruit and

foliage, shut out most of the star-light.

Hadley crept near, cautiously, when he saw that Uncle Ephraim had

halted and set the light upon the ground. Soon he discovered that the

old man had been here before since he went to bed, for there was a

shovel and a heap of earth in plain view. He watched his uncle and saw

him drop the two bags into what appeared to be a rather deep hole, then

place a flat stone on top of them, and afterward fill in the hole with

the soil and stamp it all down with care. There was considerable soil

left then, and the old man carried this away, shovelful by shovelful,

and threw it into a ditch at the far edge of the orchard. Afterward

he replaced the sod which he had earlier removed, patting it all down

evenly with the flat of his shovel. The burying was completed, and

marking the spot well for future reference, Hadley ran back to the

house and climbed to the loft, and was nicely in bed again before the

old man returned to the kitchen.

But the strangeness of the whole matter kept the boy awake long after

he was sure his uncle had sought his own couch. He was unable to

compose his mind to sleep, and was glad when at length the cocks crew

to announce the gray light in the east. He rose and went back to the

Three Oaks without again seeing Uncle Ephraim, and tried to forget

the incident of the night in his work about the inn. But when he saw

Colonel Creston Knowles ride off with William toward the Morris farm

soon after breakfast, Hadley wished he had remained longer with his

uncle, and so been present at the interview which was about to take

place between the old man and the British officer.

Lillian avoided him that day, seemingly, and Hadley went about his

duties with much trouble at his heart. It was after noon when Colonel

Knowles and his henchman returned, and a glance at the officer’s face

told Hadley that the gentleman was in a towering rage. Evidently his

visit had afforded him little satisfaction.

Soon, however, something occurred which succeeded in driving this

mystery into the background of the boy’s mind. News from Philadelphia

had been scarce since his return from the Pennsylvania side of the

river; but after supper that evening a man rode up to the inn on a

fagged-out horse, and told them that the army under Washington was on

the move, and was marching toward Philadelphia, as it was believed Lord

Howe’s fleet would land troops to attack the city, where Congress was

then in session. The man obtained a fresh mount and rode on into the

east, having secret business in that direction.

That night, while Jonas Benson and Hadley sat together in the chimney

place of the inn kitchen, talking over the possibilities of the battle

which must occur before long, the heralding squeak of Lafe Holdness’

wagon axles reached their ears, the outer door being ajar.

“Run and open the gate for him, Had!” exclaimed Benson. “Mistress, put

down something to eat for a hungry man, and I warrant you Lafe will do

justice to it.”

His wife grumblingly expressed herself that a cold supper was good

enough for a man like Lafe Holdness; but she, nevertheless, obeyed her

husband’s request.

“Stan’ round ther, you!” From the yard the teamster’s voice could be

heard addressing the horses. “Ef ye want suthin’ ter eat, why don’t ye

stan’ still so’t I kin unbuckle this strap? Hello, Had Morris! is that

air yeou? I didn’t ’spect to see yeou ag’in this side o’ the river till

the war was over,” and the Yankee chuckled mightily and dug the boy

good-naturedly in the ribs.

“We heard to-night the army was on the move, Lafe,” Jonas said, coming

to the porch, and speaking low.

Lafe dropped for the moment his bantering tone and spoke seriously.

“There’s going to be something done purty soon, friends--somethin’ big!

There’s sure to be a battle. Howe’s fleet is comin’ up Chesapeake Bay

and General Washington will meet the troops he lands somewhere south of

Philadelphia; but we ain’t got much more’n ten thousand men all told.”

“How many sailed from York?” queried the innkeeper.

“Nobody knows!” returned Lafe, ruefully. “Them dispatches Had took over

ter Germantown didn’t give the exact figgers. But I’m out this way

sendin’ in all the scatterin’ men that hev’ got guns. There won’t much

happen hereabout until the two armies meet. And, speakin’ about Had,”

added Lafe, suddenly, “I’m wantin’ ter use him, Jonas.”

“Well,” remarked the innkeeper, with twinkling eyes, “he’s a pretty

valuable boy to me. I have to pay his uncle for him, too.”

“You’d oughter be called Judas Benson!” declared the Yankee. “You’re a

great feller ter haggle over the price of a ’prentice boy. I’m goin’

ter send him to the army--it’s at Philadelphia now.”

“And that means I’ll likely lose a good horse as well as the boy,”

grumbled Jonas.

“Don’t you think I’ve got anything to say about it myself?” demanded

Hadley of the Yankee.

“Not much. I’ve got orders for you,” he declared, nodding his head.

“See here.” He drew a battered wallet from his pocket, and in the light

of the innkeeper’s lantern selected a slip of paper from one of the

compartments. This he displayed before the wondering eyes of both Jonas

and Hadley. On the paper was written, in a rather cramped and formal

hand:

“Send back the boy from the Three Oaks Inn with any message.

“Cadwalader.”

“Why!” exclaimed the round-eyed innkeeper, “that’s the man who saved

you from the soldiers, Had--Colonel Cadwalader.”

“I reckon ye’ must ha’ got purty thick with Master Cadwalader, Had,”

said Lafe, tearing the paper into small pieces. “Let me tell yeou he is

in the General’s confidence as much as old Knox, or Colonel Pickering.

I got suthin’ important for yeou to take to headquarters, an’ if

yeou’ve had your supper yeou’d better saddle a hoss an’ git away with

it purty soon. The quicker ye start the sooner ye’ll ketch the army,

for it’s on the move.”

While he was speaking, Jonas Benson was already leading Black Molly

out of her stall, showing at once that his objections to the boy’s

departure had been but momentary. “He’s had his supper, and he can git

out right now!” he declared.

But Hadley waited long enough to go into the loft and put on the best

suit of homespun which he possessed, and encased his legs in long

riding boots with a pair of tiny spurs screwed into the heels. There

were no papers to take this time, for Lafe Holdness whispered the

message he had to send into the boy’s attentive ear. “An’ now good luck

to ye!” exclaimed the scout as the youth mounted into the saddle and

Jonas opened the stable door. “Nobody can take nothin’ from ye this

time, but mebbe it’s just as well if yeou dodge all armed men of airy

complection till ye pass Germantown.”

Black Molly trotted quietly down the inn yard toward the gate. Just

as she was going through this and her rider was about to give her the

rein, he was startled by a soft “S-s-st!” beside him. He turned his

head quickly and drew Molly down to a walk. A shadowy figure stood at

the end of the porch. In an instant Hadley recognized Lillian Knowles,

with a light shawl flung over her head and shoulders, and her hand

outstretched to him.

[Illustration: A FIGURE STOOD AT THE END OF THE PORCH]

“Hadley Morris!” she whispered, “if you are carrying anything--anything

you don’t want other folks to see--look out! There are others beside me

who know you are riding toward the ferry to-night.” And then, before he

could reply or express his astonishment at her warning, she disappeared

within the shadow of the porch. He heard the door close softly behind

her, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he started Molly on again and

turned her head toward the distant ferry, wondering if he ought to take

the girl’s words seriously and turn back for reinforcements.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

THE “DANDY FIFTH’S” LAST TRIUMPH

A MEMORIAL DAY STORY

By LAURA ALTON PAYNE

“We called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth

When we passed them on parade.”

A sharp, imperative rat-a-tat-tat on the class-room door almost at her

back startled the speaker, Sidney Dallas. She turned for an instant,

but that instant was enough to scatter her wits like chaff before the

wind. She paused--stammered--paused again, then repeated vaguely:

“We called--we called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth

When we passed them on parade.

We called--we called--”

But the words would not be coaxed back. Her mind was a perfect blank.

She was so confused that she did not see that the visitor who was being

ushered in by Bess Martin, and whose sharp knock had so disconcerted

her, was her own mother.

A hot flush of shame scorched her face, the crowd of attentive faces

before her began to waver, her knees grew weak, her feet cowardly, but

she made one more brave effort:

“We called--we called”--she repeated weakly and hurriedly, then stopped

short.

“But it would not come,” murmured mischievous Ted Scott, lugubriously.

Ted had been crowded to the front seat, which he shared with two other

boys. The boys snickered, and Sidney’s misery was complete. Never

before had she failed in a speech, or realized the humiliation.

All a-tremble she stepped off the platform, and with scarlet face and

tearful eyes passed down the aisle between the double row of visitors,

whose looks of sympathy her distorted imagination turned into looks

of derision at her distress. But the tears should not fall, and she

would not lower her head. As she reached her seat she caught a look of

amusement on the face of Myrtle Emmons, who sat at the desk immediately

behind her own. It was that that gave her the bit over her runaway

self-possession. Myrtle was somewhat noted for making fun of people.

She would show Myrtle how little she cared.

Disregarding Myrtle’s nudge, she concentrated her attention upon the

beautifully decorated school-room. It had been transformed into a

veritable bower, not with boughs of pine and cedar as in the Eastern

States, but with fragrant branches of catalpa with their great clusters

of snowy blossoms and with immense sprays of feathery asparagus. The

platform, as well as the teacher’s desk at the back of it, was banked

with potted ferns and palms and flowering plants. The beribboned

waste-basket formed a huge bouquet of feathery greenery, amidst which

tall, graceful sunflowers bowed their golden heads. That artistic touch

was her own, and she gazed at it with pride. Sunflowers and asparagus

adorned the pictures and caught up the folds of the large flag draped

gracefully over the front blackboard, and of the bright bunting

festooned around the walls.

Flags and sunflowers, sunflowers and flags--a combination so popular

that she should always associate the golden emblem-flower of her

State with the glorious emblem of her country. They had devoted more

time than usual to their decorations, for, the following Monday

being Memorial Day, they had turned their “last day” exercises into

a memorial service. Owing to the naval victory of scarce a month

previous, patriotism was at a white heat, and patriotic selections of

spirit shared the honors with tributes to the dead--both the Blue and

the Gray, sectionalism being forgotten in the new union of the North

and the South.

But it did not require recent victory to stir Sidney’s enthusiasm; she

was at all times intensely patriotic. As a small child, a mere babe,

she had listened enthralled to her father’s tales of the Civil War,

through many of whose terrible battles he had passed. She invariably

chose patriotic selections to speak. Such a deed as described in the

“Dandy Fifth” made her forget herself. And now, of all times, to fail

to-day! The school were singing softly:

“Cover them over--yes, cover them over--

Parent and husband, and brother, and lover:

Crown in your hearts those dead heroes of ours.

And cover them over with beautiful flowers.”

How she would love to lay a tribute of flowers upon the graves of the

Dandy Fifth’s many dead heroes! And, oh, shame! she had failed to give

them even the tribute of honor due them--failed miserably!

“Lying so silent by night and by day,

Sleeping the years of their manhood away.”

That meant the most of the Dandy Fifth. She could see the gaunt, silent

forms, fallen at their posts in that awful hour that “tried men’s

souls.” But theirs stood the test--stood it grandly.

“Swiftly they rushed to the help of the right,

Firmly they stood in the shock of the fight.”

Stood firm--firm? Did they not? Why, they made a glorious stand--none

braver in all the war, none more deserving of honor!--and she had left

them with their courage unproven, with the scorn of their comrades

upon them, before they had been given a chance to make their derisive

epithet a name to be proud of for all time. Oh, she could not bear it!

she could not bear it! She must save the honor of the Dandy Fifth.

The thought was electric. It shocked into full life the resolve already

half formed in her mind. Hastening up to Miss Mason she whispered a

request, which was smilingly granted. With a bright face Sidney hurried

from the room just as the next number was called. She meant to go

home, find the poem, then come back and redeem herself. She had but

three blocks to go, and that distance was covered with flying feet. To

her dismay she found the door locked. Of course, her mother meant to

attend the exercises. No doubt she was in the room all the time, and

had witnessed her failure. But--she must get in. She looked for the

key in its customary hiding-place when all the family were expected

to be absent at once; it was not there. Recent petty thieving in the

neighborhood had probably induced Mrs. Dallas to take the key with her.

Sidney was dismayed. She rushed from door to door, and from window to

window. All were securely fastened. She sat down on the porch to think

a moment. Perhaps she could get in through an upper window; she had

left her own window, which, fortunately, was over the kitchen, lowered

slightly and the screen unlatched. She could reach the spring through

the opening, lower it still more, then crawl through. Desperation lent

her strength to drag the long, heavy ladder from the barn and to raise

it to the low kitchen roof. A moment later she pattered over the flat

tin roof to the window--only to find further evidence of her mother’s

caution. It was closed and latched.

Then, in spite of her courageous soul and her fifteen years, Sidney

gave up to a tearful despair for a few minutes. Down upon the tin roof

she sat, huddled close up in the corner, and, bowing her head upon her

knees, wept silent tears of mortification. The thought that she would

have to leave the Dandy Fifth unhonored brought forth the bitterest

drops of all.

But--they did not give up. Neither would she. Something must be done.

She would go back to the school-house and get the key, come back and

get the book, then return and save the day for the Dandy Fifth if

possible.

It was a very tired, hot-faced girl that labored up the second flight

of stairs at the school-house. As she paused for breath a moment in the

upper hall she heard Rob Ellison stentoriously depicting “Sheridan’s

Ride.” In the room across the hall the “Fifth Graders” were singing

“Sherman’s March to the Sea,” and farther on the “Sixths” were sending

out a vigorous chorus of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Passing into the

library, a small room just across the hall, she sat down to cool off,

and at the same time to work up sufficient courage to face the crowded

room in search of her mother. She didn’t want to disconcert another

speaker by knocking on the door in order to call her mother out. She

glanced around the room. Right there in that corner was where she stood

when she rehearsed the “Dandy Fifth” to the elocution teacher.

Mechanically Sidney placed herself in the accustomed position, and

half unconsciously began to recite the poem in a low tone. To her

amazement and delight she went through it without a break. Whether

it was the effect of association, or whether her recreant memory had

suddenly chosen to return, she neither questioned nor cared, she was so

overjoyed. She tried it again, then a third time, all unconscious of

an interested listener beyond the closed door--Prof. Marlow, who stood

there smiling to himself as the speaker’s voice rose higher and higher

with returning confidence.

As Sidney finished with a triumphant flourish, he clapped his hands

softly, then opened the door to remark smilingly. “Well done, Miss

Sidney. Now, rally to the charge again, and march on to victory.”

Sidney blushed: she knew he had witnessed her failure. She felt that

explanations were in order.

Prof. Marlow held up a warning finger. “At the eleventh hour, Miss

Sidney,” he said, with a smile.

“It’s the twelfth hour that tells,” she retorted merrily, and passed

into the school-room. Prof. Marlow followed her. He was curious to see

how such a plucky effort would turn out.

Sidney was met with many swift glances as she entered, but her radiant

face showed no trace of her recent failure. A few moments later she

again faced the many expectant eyes, now no longer dreaded. No sudden

rat-a-tat-tat could scatter her wits again--no, not even a cannon’s

roar, for the Dandy Fifth’s honor was at stake. The audience greeted

her enthusiastically. It is human nature to admire courage even in

small things. Self was forgotten; every thought and feeling was centred

on the subject in hand--that famous regiment of young aristocrats, men

who knew not toil, who had never suffered want or endured hardship,

whose fastidiousness fastened upon them the scornful epithet, “The

Dandy Fifth.”

Her listeners saw it all: the old fort “somewhere down on the Rapidan”

that the Dandy Fifth was ordered to hold; the fierce onslaught of the

enemy along the whole line; the raging of battle day after day; how

gloriously the old fort, the “key of the whole line,” on which hung

the fate of the whole army, was held by the Dandy Fifth against all

odds--a brave, determined foe without and starvation within. The water

gave out; they fought on. Another day, and their rations were gone;

they fought on. One by one, they sank to “rest where they wearied

and lie where they fell.” A third day of fierce siege--a fourth,

then reinforcements fought their way through, inch by inch, to the

beleaguered men. And what a sight met their gaze!--a few gaunt-eyed

men behind the guns, and many, many more lying as they fell, in the

stupor of famine or ghastly and rigid in death. But the old flag

floated still!--and the “kid-gloved Dandy Fifth” had proved that white

hands are not incompatible with brave hearts. How their old comrades

cheered!--and cheered! And how proud they were to clasp those brave,

emaciated white hands!

Sidney’s little head might well have been turned by praise had it been

that kind of a head, she received so many words of commendation.

Ted Scott led the applause, and it was his hands that gave the final

appreciative clap. Even Myrtle Emmons congratulated her. “It was grand,

Sid,” she said, earnestly. “But how could you ever do it after breaking

down once? I never could, and I always break down. I was awfully sorry

for you, for, you see, I know how it goes. But, say, Sid! I thought I

couldn’t help laughing as you came down the aisle; old Mrs. Perkins

stalked along right behind you, her battered bonnet over one ear as

usual, and that ancient, solitary, stiff, bedraggled, black feather

sticking straight up. I always have to laugh when I see it, though, of

course, I oughtn’t.”

“So do I,” returned Sidney, with sudden cordiality. So she had

misjudged Myrtle, after all.

“But how could you do it?” persisted Myrtle.

Then out came the whole story, even to the tears, and they had a merry

time over it.

“And to think that I was the cause of it,” laughed Mrs. Dallas. “But I

am glad my little girl was brave enough to turn defeat into victory.”

“I don’t think it was really I, mamma,” said Sidney, slowly and

thoughtfully. “It was the Dandy Fifth.”

TO MAY

Though many suns have risen and set

Since thou, blithe May, wert born,

And bards, who hail’d thee, may forget

Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;

There are who to a birthday strain

Confine not harp and voice,

But evermore throughout thy reign

Are grateful and rejoice!

Delicious odors! music sweet,

Too sweet to pass away!

O, for a deathless song to meet

The soul’s desire,--a lay

That, when a thousand years are told,

Should praise thee, genial Power!

Through summer heat, autumnal cold,

And Winter’s dreariest hour.

Season of fancy and of hope,

Permit not for one hour

A blossom from thy crown to drop,

Nor add to it a flower!

Keep, lovely May, as if by touch

Of self-restraining art,

This modest charm of not too much,

Part seen, imagined part.

--_Wordsworth._

LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS

BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD

CHAPTER VI

A TRYING AFTERNOON

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

Polly Prentiss is an orphan who, for the greater part of her life, has

lived with a distant relative, Mrs. Manser, the mistress of Manser

Farm. Miss Hetty Pomeroy, a maiden lady of middle age, has, ever since

the death of her favorite niece, been on the lookout for a little

girl whom she might adopt. She is attracted by Polly’s appearance and

quaint manners, and finally decides to take her home and keep her

for a month’s trial. In the foregoing chapters, Polly has arrived at

her new home, and the great difference between the way of living at

Pomeroy Oaks and her past life affords her much food for wonderment.

“So you like your new friends, my dear,” said Miss Hetty. “They must be

banished to the shed now for their dinner while you and I eat ours. Do

you hear Arctura’s signal to us?”

There came a sound unlike anything Polly had ever heard; it was not

exactly a bell; she couldn’t imagine what it was. Miss Hetty held out

her hand with a smile, and Polly, still with Snip and Snap on her

shoulders, was led out of the library, across the porch hall to a big,

sunny dining-room. On the table, at Miss Hetty’s place, stood a strange

thing with three bronze cups upside down, a little one highest up, one

somewhat larger under it, and one still larger at the bottom; at least

that was the way it looked to Polly.

Arctura stood close to it with a little stick in her hand; she struck

the bronze cups as Polly looked at her, and again the musical sound was

heard.

“There, I reckoned you’d never heard anything like that!” said Arctura

as she beamed on Polly, and then took the kittens from the little

girl’s shoulders. “That’s a heathen invention, called a gong, brought

to Miss Pomeroy by her Uncle Pete. I hope you’ll relish your food; I’ve

got no time to sit down now,” said Arctura, and bearing Snip and Snap

in her arms she marched out of a doorway through which there was a

glimpse of the kitchen.

Arctura Green had never sat at the table with Miss Pomeroy in all the

years of her faithful service, but it was understood to be purely a

matter of choice on her part, and a few words were spoken now and then

to make this state of affairs clear to any chance visitor.

Polly ate her steak and potato and fresh bread and butter, sitting

opposite Miss Pomeroy, and only speaking in answer to questions.

She looked at the spotless white table-cloth with its rose and fern

pattern, at the shining glass tumblers, and the big glass water bottle,

at the fat silver tea-pot and sugar-bowl, and the slender spoons and

forks, at the knives, with mother-of-pearl handles, at the white plates

with dull blue figures that matched those on the platter, and at the

big bread plate with its gold rim. Then she looked at the buffet on

which there were all sorts of shining things.

“It is because everything is so wonderful in the house that they like

to stay here better than out-doors,” thought Polly, but in spite of

everything her eyes turned wistfully to the window. The sunshine

flickered and danced among the branches of the Pomeroy oaks, and Polly

gave a half sigh as she looked at it.

“Don’t you like your pudding, my dear?” asked Miss Hetty, and the

little girl turned quickly to her dinner again.

After dinner she followed Miss Pomeroy up the broad, shallow front

stairs to the pretty room which had been prepared for her. It

had a white bed, a white bureau, a white wash-stand, two little

straight-backed white chairs, and a white rocking-chair. A pink stripe

ran through the white near the edges of all these pieces of furniture,

and Polly thought it was the most beautiful bed-room that could

possibly be imagined.

“And here is your closet,” said Miss Hetty, as she opened a door, and

showed what seemed to Polly like a good-sized room, with shelves and

hooks. On the lowest shelf sat the big black enamel cloth bag, looking

old and forlorn.

“Now, you’d better take out your things and put them away in the closet

and the bureau, Mary,” said Miss Hetty, “and perhaps you’d like to lie

down and rest awhile; I am going to take my nap now. When you wish to

go downstairs you may, but I wouldn’t run out to-day, for the ground is

so damp. I dare say you’ll find plenty to amuse you in the house, and

you are free to go anywhere. I’m sure I can trust such a careful, quiet

little girl as you are.”

When the door that led into Miss Pomeroy’s room across the hall was

fairly shut, Polly executed a silent dance on the soft gray and pink

carpet.

“I guess Mrs. Manser’d think I was doing pretty well,” said Polly,

thrilling with pride. “I never was called ‘quiet’ or ‘careful’ before.

She’d hardly believe it. I must be growing like Eleanor pretty fast. As

soon as I’ve put away my things I shall lie right down on that bed. I

wonder how long I ought to stay on it. I suppose most probably Eleanor

would stay till she heard her aunt getting up; that’s what I’ll do.

Mrs. Manser said most likely Miss Pomeroy would give me tests. I shall

lie on that bed till I hear Miss Pomeroy if its--two hours,” said

Polly, firmly, mentioning the longest space of time which she could

conceive might be spent in sleeping by daylight.

Then Polly took the big bag out of the closet and proceeded to unpack

it. There was her other new gingham frock on top of everything else;

it had blue and white stripes, and was very pretty, Polly thought, as

she laid it carefully away in the lowest of the four bureau drawers.

Then came her little brown cashmere frock, made over from one which

had done service for six years as Mrs. Manser’s Sunday gown; it was

Polly’s Sunday best now, very brave with a little red piping around the

neck and sleeves, and at the head of the ruffle. This Polly hung in the

closet.

In the closet, too, went a very old and much-mended red frock which

was always nearly hidden by long-sleeved and high-necked aprons. There

were four of these, and two more new ones without sleeves. Polly was so

small that there had been plenty of room in the big bag for all these

things and for the little store of underclothes which went into the

third drawer. The aprons had the second drawer to themselves, and in

the top drawer there were Polly’s small handkerchiefs and one pair of

little white cotton gloves, freshly washed.

Polly took the bag back to the closet after removing the very last

thing, her work basket, which she put on the bureau, beside the fat

pincushion. Looking at this cushion reminded her of hidden treasures,

and diving into her petticoat pocket she brought forth Aunty Peebles’s

gift, and then the knife; these Polly placed on a table, which stood

near one of the two windows. Then, after looking about the room for a

moment with an air of much satisfaction, Polly slipped off her little

shoes, and folding her shawl about her shoulders after the manner of

Mrs. Ramsdell when ready for a nap, she turned back the white quilt,

and climbing sedately up on the bed, laid her head on the pillow and

clasped her little hands.

“I don’t feel sleepy,” said Polly, “but that doesn’t make any

difference. I’ve got plenty of things to think of. Perhaps Eleanor

didn’t always go to sleep. There are all those leaks in Manser

farm--they’ll get mended if I’m adopted. And this is a beautiful place,

and I’m not going to be lonesome, a great girl like me, if ’tis pretty

still here. I wonder what Miss Arctura Green is doing: and those

kitties, I wonder where they are.”

An hour or so later Miss Hetty held a consultation with Arctura in the

kitchen.

“I came down the back way so I should not wake that child,” said Miss

Pomeroy. “She hasn’t stirred since she lay down, I verily believe. Do

you think it’s natural for a little girl of her age to sleep nearly two

hours at this time of day?”

“Why, you see we don’t either of us know much about children,” said

Arctura, meditatively. “She looks pretty strong, but I notice her

appetite’s nothing extra, and probably she’s all excited up and tired

out. Seems to me, though, if she don’t stir by the end of another half

hour I should kind of make a noise in my room if I was in your place,

and wake her up gradual.”

At the end of another half-hour Miss Pomeroy opened and shut a window

in her room with vigor, and when she stepped across the hall to Polly’s

room, the little girl was putting on her shoes.

“Well, well,” said Miss Pomeroy, “you’ve had a nice, long nap. You

shall take one every day, my dear, if you like; I’ve no doubt it will

do you good.”

“Yes’m,” said Polly meekly, with a faint little smile.

“I don’t know as I shall let you sleep quite so long, always,” said

Miss Hetty, briskly, “for fear you won’t rest so well at night: but

we’ll see.”

“Yes’m,” said Polly again; and Miss Pomeroy never suspected that those

two hours on the bed had seemed like weeks to her little guest.

CHAPTER VII

THE FIRST MORNING

Polly slept soundly that night in her little white bed, and woke to see

the sun peeping in at her between the snowy curtains of her east window.

“Dear me!” cried Polly. “I ought to be downstairs helping Mrs. Manser

this very minute!” Then she clapped her little hands over her mouth and

lay very still, remembering where she was, and that Mrs. Manser and

all her old friends were nearly seven miles away, on Maple Hill.

“I believe I’d better not think about them just now,” said Polly,

winking fast, as she got out of bed. “Someway it makes me feel as if

I wanted to swallow every minute. Maybe I can do something for Miss

Arctura Green if I hurry and get dressed.”

But when she stole softly downstairs, wearing the old red frock covered

with one of her new white aprons, Polly stopped for a minute to look up

at the tall clock. Near the clock was a high-backed chair, and as Polly

heard Arctura’s voice and a strange one, she sat down in the chair to

wait until Miss Green’s visitor departed. She was sitting there when

Miss Pomeroy’s door opened, and down she came over the stairs.

“So you’re up before me, Mary,” said the mistress of the house as she

held out her hand to the little girl. Polly took the kind hand and

shook it vigorously up and down as she had seen grown people do. “For

she doesn’t want to kiss me, of course,” thought Polly, wistfully,

remembering Mrs. Ramsdell and dear Grandma Manser. “I expect grand

people like her don’t kiss little girls much.”

“I thought,” said Polly, when the ceremony was over, “that maybe I

could help Miss Arctura set the table for breakfast, but I heard her

talking to somebody at the porch door, so I sat down here to wait.”

Just then the door into the hall from the library burst open and

Arctura appeared with a much vexed expression on her flushed face.

“Morning, both,” she said, abruptly. “There, I knew you’d be down and

waiting! ’Twas old Jane Hackett kep’ me; she’s come spying out the land

already. I didn’t let her into the hall for fear she’d abide with us

all day.”

“S--h, Arctura!” said Miss Pomeroy, gravely, though her lips seemed

inclined to twitch a little. “How is Mrs. Hackett’s rheumatism to-day?”

“Thinks there’s a spell coming on, I believe,” said Arctura, looking

rather crestfallen. “Breakfast’s ready, all but the griddle-cakes; I

can’t sit down with you, for I’ve got them to fry.”

After breakfast, Miss Pomeroy sent Polly out on the broad piazza that

ran across the front of the house and the west side, to play with the

kittens.

“I have some plans to talk over with Arctura,” said she, “and then I

want a little talk with you before I start my letter-writing. Don’t

step off the piazza, for the grass is very wet. It rained in the night,

and I don’t wish my guest to take cold,” said Miss Pomeroy, with her

pleasant smile.

“I presume,” said Polly to Snip and Snap, as she dangled a string

alluringly just above their reach, and watched their wild jumps into

the air, “Miss Pomeroy is going to speak to me about my top apron

button not being buttoned; but I didn’t forget it till she came down.

I was going to ask Miss Arctura Green to fasten it for me. Probably

Eleanor had long arms that could reach; I expect she did. Don’t you

catch the bottom of this dress, mister,” said Polly, uplifting a

warning finger at Snap, whose attitude certainly justified firm, quick

measures, “for it’s just as tender!”

Meanwhile Miss Pomeroy and Arctura were having another consultation in

the kitchen.

“I don’t know just what to plan about little Mary,” said Miss Hetty,

doubtfully. “You see, I want to find out what she likes best to do, so

that I can tell what kind of a child she is. I want her to act her own

nature, but, of course, I must suggest things and ask some questions,

for she’s very shy.”

“M--m,” said Arctura, thoughtfully, “she handles her knife and fork

real pretty. I noticed it as I was in and out the two meals, yesterday

and to-day. You’d know she come of good folks, and I must say that

Manser woman’s brought her up well, though she’s a hatchet-faced piece,

if ever I saw one, and given to nagging, if I’m any judge. Supposing

you should ride off to the village without Mary this morning and let me

visit with her a little mite. She’s full as used to kitchens as she is

to parlors, I expect.”

“I believe that would be an excellent idea,” said Miss Pomeroy.

“Arctura, you are a very sensible woman.”

“Sho!” said Arctura but she turned quickly to the sink to hide a smile

of gratification.

“Now, Mary, you and I will have our little talk,” said Miss Pomeroy, a

few minutes later, and then to Polly’s great amazement, she sat down in

one of the big piazza chairs, and drew the child into her lap.

“I didn’t mean to forget that top-button,” said Polly, bravely, “but

you came downstairs sooner than I expected, and I can’t quite reach it,

so I was going to ask Miss Arctura to fasten it for me. I’m sorry I was

an untidy girl; ’tisn’t Mrs. Manser’s fault; she spoke to me and spoke

to me about my careless habits.”

“I’ve no doubt she did,” said Miss Hetty, dryly; “I presume she’d speak

to me about my placket-hook that’s generally undone.” As she said this

she buttoned Polly’s apron and gave her a pat which warmed the little

girl’s heart; and then Miss Hetty held her in such a way that Polly

could not see the kind, grave face.

“Now, my dear,” she said, slowly, “I suppose Mrs. Manser may have told

you that I had a little niece of whom you remind me.” Polly nodded

her head, and scarcely breathed. “I asked Mrs. Manser to let me have

you for at least a month,” said Miss Pomeroy, unsteadily, “to see--to

see if perhaps we might decide to be together as long as I live, my

dear. If you are as like my little Eleanor as I think you may be, in

many ways,” said Miss Hetty, after a pause during which Polly sat very

still, “I shall not be able to let you go, I am sure. I’m growing old,

Mary, and I need somebody to help me forget it. Eleanor would have done

it, I know, though I had not seen her often enough for her to care a

great deal about me, I’m--”

Polly turned quickly around as the voice faltered and stopped. She laid

her soft cheek against Miss Pomeroy’s with a little cry of sympathy.

“I will be just as like Eleanor as ever I can,” said Polly, earnestly,

“and I will love you every minute, and try to do everything you want.”

“I want you to have a good time,” said Miss Pomeroy, patting the brown

curls. “We are old-fashioned people here, and you may find it very dull

and quiet, my dear.”

“I shall like it very, very much,” said Polly, stoutly, and to herself

she said, “There! you can help Miss Pomeroy as well as the poor-farm

folks, Polly Prentiss, and if you didn’t do it, you’d be as selfish as

old Redtop!” Redtop was a rooster, resident at Manser farm, whose greed

and ugliness were by-words in the place of his abode.

“Now I must go to my letter-writing,” said Miss Pomeroy, briskly, after

a few moments’ silence. She had stroked Polly’s curls, with a far-away

expression, and then had given her a sudden kiss and set her down on

the piazza floor. “I’m obliged to do a good many errands to-day, and

I think perhaps I’d better not take you, though I should, generally.

Suppose you run out to the kitchen and see if you can help Arctura in

any way.”

CHAPTER VIII

A LITTLE COOK

Half an hour later, anyone who looked in at the windows of the Pomeroy

kitchen would have seen a pretty sight. Polly, mounted on a stool, was

beating a golden mixture in a white bowl, and Arctura, at the opposite

end of the long table, was stirring whites of eggs carefully into a

white batter in a yellow bowl.

[Illustration: POLLY WAS BEATING A GOLDEN MIXTURE IN A BIG WHITE BOWL]

“This is what I call solid comfort,” said Arctura, gayly. “I don’t know

when I’ve had such a helper as you are! Miss Hetty’s without the gift

when it comes to cooking. You wouldn’t believe it, but she’d be just as

likely to put the eggs right in after the butter, without beating ’em

separate, as any other way. Ain’t it singular?”

“I expect she writes beautiful letters, Miss Arctura,” said Polly,

loyally evading the discussion of Miss Pomeroy’s weak point.

“My, I guess she does!” said Arctura, heartily. “That’s it; we’ve all

got different talents. Hiram says he’d full as soon see me with a

pistol pointed at him as with a pen in my hand. The only way I ever

wrote a letter was by main strength, and I’d rather take a whipping any

time.”

“I guess it would be pretty hard work for anybody to whip you,” said

Polly, shrewdly, and Arctura laughed with much relish.

“’Twould now-a-days,” she said, as she gave the final stir to her

batter, “but I’ve been whipped in my time. I didn’t get my growth all

at once, you see. Is your cake ready for the pans? You wait till I show

you the cunning little brush I’m going to butter the tins with. I’ll

let you do yours next time, after I’ve once showed you how. You can’t

slight the edges or any spot, if you want the cakes to slip out right.”

When the heat of the oven had been tested and the little round tins had

been put in and the oven doors shut on them, Arctura selected a stout

testing straw from a pile on a high shelf above the kitchen sink and

seated herself, holding the straw erect in her hand like a tiny weapon.

“I always take this time for a breathing spell,” she announced,

motioning Polly to another chair, “for if I start in on a fresh job,

those cakes more’n likely’ll get burned; it only takes twenty-five

minutes to bake ’em to the queen’s taste.”

“Yes’m,” said Polly; then she looked eagerly over at Arctura. “Did you

ever see little Eleanor?” she asked, breathlessly.

“No, never,” said Arctura, and Polly felt a throb of disappointment.

“You see, Square Pomeroy didn’t depart this life till a year ago last

December, and he was kind of queer,” Arctura tapped her forehead

significantly, “the last few years, and ’twasn’t a cheerful place to

bring a child. And he’d hardly let his daughter out of his sight. About

once in six months I’d send her off to Shelby to see the twins for two

or three days, but I was always put to it to keep the Square satisfied

till she got back.”

“Was he cross?” asked Polly.

“Not to say cross,” replied Arctura, slowly, “but terrible decided and

unreasonable. Miss Hetty’s had her trials, and so’ve I; money isn’t

all.”

“No’m,” said Polly, soberly, “but it does a great many things, Miss

Arctura. Did you know how poor this town is? Manser farm leaks in

places, and the paint is all gone, and the ceilings drop sometimes,

pieces of them, I mean. But the town is too poor to help fix any of

those things. Uncle Sam Blodgett and Father Manser would shingle the

roof quick enough, though they aren’t as spry as once they were, if

only they could set eyes on the shingles,” said Polly, quoting freely

from her old friends.

“It’s a stingy town, I’m afraid,” said Arctura, shaking her head. “The

Square was the most liberal man in it, and Miss Hetty follows right

on, but most of the purse strings are drawn pretty close. Sometime

I’ll tell you a little story about the Square and me when I was your

age; you remind me to relate it to you. We haven’t got time now,” she

said, glancing at the clock, “for those cakes have got to come out in a

minute, and then I’ll have to fly around; dinner time always gains on

me, someway.”

“Do you know anything special I could do to please Miss Pomeroy?” asked

Polly, wistfully. “She’s being so good to me.”

“Let’s see,” said Arctura, meditatively. “Why, of course, she wants you

to enjoy yourself. I expect she’d be pleased to see you take notice

of things like the old shells and so on, and there’s the books; Bobby

admired to read, and she always said Eleanor was quite a hand for

stories, too. And you could go to walk with her, pleasant days, same as

Bobby did last winter. And she’d be glad to see you relish your food.”

“Oh, I do, Miss Arctura,” cried Polly. “I do, every single bite I take!”

“Well now, that’s good news,” said Miss Green, comfortably. “I can’t

think of anything else; you do all right so far as I know. I wouldn’t

worry, but just do my best every day as things come along. Now we’ll

take a look at those cakes.”

“She didn’t say a word about playing or running round,” thought Polly,

as Arctura rose to open the oven doors; “of course, she thinks I’m too

big now for those things, just as Mrs. Manser said. There’s a girl in

the village that’s most twelve, and she plays with a dolly, for I’ve

seen her. But she belonged to somebody, and that’s different, I guess,

from when you’re going to be adopted.”

Polly’s lips seemed inclined to quiver for a moment, but then her

cakes--the dozen golden brown cakes--were lifted from the oven and set

on the table, and in the rush of delight, at seeing the delicate tops

puffed up above the edges of the tins, the quiver changed to a smile.

“Arctura says you are a born cook,” said Miss Pomeroy at dinner time,

“and she has requested the pleasure of your company tomorrow morning

when she makes the pies.”

Polly dimpled with pleasure; she was eating steadily, just as much as

she could. Miss Pomeroy noticed her increased appetite with agreeable

surprise.

“Miss Arctura was very, very kind to me,” said the little girl,

sedately, “and I had a beautiful time, and Miss Arctura said if the

minister--the supply minister, that’s nothing more or less than a

bashful boy, according to her ideas--came to dinner Sunday, she should

set four of my cakes along with four of hers on the table for dessert

with the pudding.”

Miss Pomeroy suppressed an inclination to laugh, and told Polly she had

understood from Arctura that the cakes were a great success.

“But the minister is not a boy, my dear,” she added; “you must not

always take what Arctura says word for word. She used to call me her

little girl until I was more than thirty years old.”

Then Miss Pomeroy and Polly had a laugh together, though Polly could

not help feeling that Arctura was very brave indeed ever to have called

the tall mistress of Pomeroy Oaks her little girl.

After dinner came the two naps, or at least Miss Pomeroy’s nap and

Polly’s hour on the bed. Yesterday’s experience had taught Polly that

an hour’s nap would be considered enough for her, so at the end of that

time she got off the bed softly, and after making herself tidy for the

rest of the day, she stole softly downstairs. It was a mild afternoon,

and the big front door had been half opened so that the spring air

might blow through the screen.

“Of course, if she asks me if I’ve been asleep, I shall have to say

no,” said Polly, looking a little bit troubled as she stood at the

door, “but I don’t believe she will ask me. Of course, big girls that

want to be adopted can learn to go to sleep in the day-time, just as

grand grown-up folks do, and I shall learn as soon as ever I can.”

Polly stepped out on the piazza and walked softly up and down, sniffing

the air, and thinking how little fear she would have had of the damp

ground if she could have run out barefoot as she did so often at Manser

farm: and she gave a little sigh as she looked down at the shiny shoes

Miss Pomeroy had brought home for her that morning. But Snip and Snap

came racing up on the piazza from somewhere, ready for a frolic, and

Polly did not disappoint them.

Arctura appeared on the kitchen porch, collecting the milk pans that

had been sunning all day, and snapped her fingers to attract Polly’s

attention.

“Look here,” she called, “my brother, Hiram, is feeling real neglected

because you haven’t been nigh the barn since you came. Can’t you step

out and visit with him for a spell now? I’ll call you whenever Miss

Hetty wants you.”

Polly needed no second invitation. She was ready to go wherever anyone

wished, but, above all things, she had longed to see the barn, with

Daisy in it; and Hiram reminded her in some way of Uncle Sam Blodgett,

though she could not have told just how. Certainly the two men did not

look alike, for Uncle Blodgett was lean and wiry, with a long, thin,

nervous face, while Hiram was stout and ruddy, and never in a hurry

about anything.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

WOOD-FOLK TALK

By J. ALLISON ATWOOD

BOBOLINK AND THE STRANGER

Has it ever seemed strange to you why Bobolink should have two suits of

feathers so entirely different? Why, when he comes to us in the spring,

should he wear a beautiful black and white costume, and in the fall

put on his modest plumage of brown? It was not always so. The time was

when Bobolink wore his best spring plumage all year round; but that,

of course, was before his quarrel with Rough-leg. Rough-leg was one of

the hawk family and was really the most agreeable of them. He had never

been known to disturb the birds, but made his entire living by catching

mice. No wonder, then, that he was greatly provoked when, after he had

watched patiently for two hours in the hot sun with the vain hope of

catching Meadow-mouse, he learned that the latter had been warned by

Bobolink. Although generally good-natured, Rough-leg had a temper and

he was very angry at Bobolink for poking his bill into other folks’

affairs. He was even heard to threaten to dine upon Bobolink instead of

Meadow-mouse.

This, of course, was alarming news to Bobolink, yet he never regretted

saving Meadow-mouse, who had been one of his old neighbors for years.

Nevertheless, he was greatly worried at the threat and went South to

his winter home earlier than usual that year, for fear that Rough-leg

would catch him.

The next spring when he reached the Great Meadows again Bobolink

supposed that the whole matter had been forgotten. But no. There, on

exactly the same limb of the tall poplar, as if he had been waiting

all winter, sat Rough-leg. Bobolink was so frightened that he did not

stop at the Meadows, as had been his custom, but went straight North

many miles even past his summer home. Rough-leg had kept his eyes shut

and pretended not to see Bobolink when he arrived on the Meadows, but

in reality he was only waiting for a good chance to get his claws upon

him. So, of course, his disappointment was great when he opened his

eyes, to find that Bobolink had gone. Somehow this only made him more

determined, and he resolved to catch Bobolink if it took a year. To a

bird a year is a very long time. Rough-leg knew that Bobolink would

have to stop at the Great Meadow on his way south in the autumn, for

there he must get his food supply. Rough-leg would wait for him. His

feathers puffed out and his eyes blazed as he thought of revenge.

At length the hot summer drew to a close, and Bobolink bethought

himself of going South, for, of course, he could not remain where he

was all winter. But he shuddered as he thought of Rough-leg. He must

stop at the Great Meadows else he could get no food until he reached

the rice lands.

It would soon begin to get cold, and already the birds around him were

leaving. They seemed to enjoy the fact that he could not follow. That

mischievous little imp, Maryland Yellow-throat, especially took the

greatest delight in peeping out from his brier thicket and then calling

in his shrill voice, “Wintery, Wintery, Wintery,” just for the fun of

seeing Bobolink look round anxiously at the falling leaves.

And now Blackbird, usually among the last, was ready to go and would

soon be feeding lavishly on the reed seeds. They would not last long.

Bobolink was at his wit’s end. Then, as from the top of a reed he

looked wistfully at the dusky form of departing Song Sparrow, an idea

occurred to him.

That afternoon he disappeared. He was not seen on the next day nor

the next. At the end of the third day a very strange-looking bird

might have been seen hopping about in the thicket which Bobolink

had occupied. This newcomer was a modest fellow. He wore a plain,

brown coat without a trace of the tall, white collar such as adorned

Bobolink; and he talked very little. Indeed, his only note seemed to

be a dull, little chirp which no one understood. While folks in the

north country were beginning to wonder who this new comer could be, he,

too, disappeared. A little later the birds of the Great Meadow were

surprised to see what to them was a very odd-looking traveler. He was

no other than the brown stranger who had just left the north country.

No one remembered to have seen him before.

Rough-leg, who from his high lookout kept his eyes open for Bobolink,

saw the newcomer, but the modest plumage awakened little interest

in his mind. Blackbird, who always fed near the stranger, kept up a

sociable chat all the time, but he was unable to learn anything of

the other’s history. Indeed the latter, although polite, paid little

attention to his neighbors but went on busily about his food. He soon

became quite stout.

The fall had nearly passed. All the birds except Rough-leg, Blackbird,

and the stranger had gone South. The leaves had fallen and the reeds

turned to brown fagots. Rough-leg still kept up his weary look-out.

Occasionally he would launch himself from the now leafless poplar and

circle over the Meadows. The brown bird would bolt up nervously from

his feeding ground and Blackbird, thinking that it was he who had

disturbed him would flutter overhead, calling out heartily, “Don’t

mind me-e-e! Don’t mind me-e-e!” But in spite of Blackbird’s cheer the

stranger would start up every time Rough-leg’s shadow passed over the

meadow. But one day when the autumn wind murmured through the dry reeds

the brown bird had flown. A day later Blackbird followed.

Old Rough-leg still keeps up his watch. Every little while you can see

him launch out from the great poplar and circle above the Meadows as if

perchance Bobolink might be hiding among the reeds. But his search is

vain. Often, however, he sees the brown stranger, whom folks have since

named Reed Bird, but as he sails back to his favorite perch, he vainly

wonders what has become of Bobolink in his beautiful coat of black and

white.

Perhaps he would wonder still more if he knew that, although they

pass to and fro with each year’s migration, Bobolink and Reed Bird

have never met. Couldn’t the reader explain something of this to old

Rough-leg?

* * * * *

“The good are better made by ill,

As odors crushed are sweeter still.”

--_Rogers._

A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST

By Evelyn Raymond

CHAPTER VII

A Woodland Menagerie

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

Brought up in the forests of northern Maine, and seeing few persons

excepting her uncle and Angelique, the Indian housekeeper, Margot

Romeyn knows little of life beyond the deep hemlocks. Naturally

observant, she is encouraged in her out-of-door studies by her uncle,

at one time a college professor. Through her woodland instincts, she

and her uncle are enabled to save the life of Adrian Wadislaw, a youth

who, lost and almost overcome with hunger, has been wandering in the

neighboring forest. To Margot the new friend is a welcome addition

to her small circle of acquaintances, and after his rapid recovery

she takes great delight in showing him the many wonders of the forest

about her home.

* * * * *

“Hoo-ah! Yo-ho! H-e-r-e! This way!”

Adrian followed the voice. It led him aside into the woods on the

eastern slope, and it was accompanied by an indescribable babel of

noises. Running water, screaming of wild fowl, cooing of pigeons,

barking of dogs or some other beasts, cackling, chattering, laughter.

All the sounds of wild life ceased suddenly in the tree-tops as Adrian

approached, recognizing and fearing his alien presence. But they were

reassured by Margot’s familiar summons, and soon the menagerie he had

suspected was gathered about her.

“Whew! it just rains squirrels--and chipmunks--and birds! Hello! that’s

a fawn; that’s a fox! as sure as I’m alive, a magnificent red fox! Why

isn’t he eating the whole outfit? And--hurrah!”

To the amazement of the watcher, there came from the depths of the

woods a sound that always thrills the pulses of any hunter--the cry

of a moose-calf, accompanied by a soft crashing of branches, growing

gradually louder.

“So they tame even the moose--these wonderful people! What next!”

and as Adrian leaned forward the better to watch the advance of

this uncommon pet, the next concerning which he had speculated also

approached. Slowly up the river bank stalked a pair of blue herons, and

for them Margot had her warmest welcome.

“Heigho, Xanthippé, Socrates! What laggards! But here’s your breakfast,

or one of them. I suppose you’ve eaten the other long ago. Indeed,

you’re always eating, gourmands!”

The red fox eyed the new-comers with a longing eye and crept cautiously

to his mistress’ side as she coaxed the herons nearer. But she was

always prepared for any outbreak of nature among her forest friends,

and drew him also close to her with the caressing touch she might have

bestowed upon a beloved house-dog.

“Reynard, you beauty! your head in my lap, sir;” and dropping to a

sitting posture, she forced him to obey her. There he lay, winking but

alert, which she scattered her store of good things right and left.

There were nuts for the squirrels and ’munks, grains and seeds for

the winged creatures, and for the herons, as well as Reynard, a few

bits of dried meat. But for Browser, the moose-calf, she pulled the

tender twigs and foliage with a lavish hand. When she had given some

dainty to each of her oddly-assorted pets, she sprang up, closed the

box, and waved her arms in dismissal. The more timid of the creatures

obeyed her, but some held their ground persistently, hoping for greater

favors. To these she paid no further attention, and still keeping hold

of Reynard’s neck, started back to her human guest.

The fox, however, declined to accompany her. He distrusted strangers,

and, it may be, had designs of his own upon some other forest wilding.

“That’s the worst of it. We tame them and they love us. But they are

only conquered, not changed. Isn’t Reynard beautiful? Doesn’t he look

noble? as noble as a St. Bernard dog? If you’ll believe me, that fellow

is thoroughly acquainted with every one of Angelique’s fowls, and knows

he must never, never touch them. Yet he’d eat one, quick as a flash, if

he got a chance. He’s a coward, though; and by his cowardice we manage

him. Sometimes,” sighed Margot, who had led the way into a little path

toward the lake.

“How odd! You seem actually grieved at this state of things.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I love him, and I have a notion that love will do

anything with anybody or anything. I do believe it will, but that I

haven’t found just the right way of showing it. Uncle laughs at me, a

little, but helps me all he can. Indeed, it is he who has tamed most of

our pets. He says it is the very best way to study natural history.”

“H-m-m! He intends your education shall be complete!”

“Of course. But one thing troubles him. He cannot teach me music.

And you seem surprised. Aren’t girls, where you come from, educated?

Doesn’t everybody prize knowledge?”

“That depends. Our girls are educated, of course. They go to college

and all that, but I think you’d down any of them in exams. For my own

part, I ran away just because I did not want this famous ‘education’

you value. That is, I didn’t of a certain sort. I wasn’t fair with you

awhile ago, you said. I’d like to tell you my story now.”

“I’d like to hear it, of course. But, look yonder! Did you ever see

anything like that?”

Margot was proud of the surprises she was able to offer this stranger

in her woods, and pointed outward over the lake. They had just come to

an open place on the shore and the water spread before them, sparkling

in the sunlight. Something was crossing the smooth surface, heading

straight for their island, and of a nature to make Adrian cry out:

“Oh! for a gun!”

VIII

KING MADOC

“If you had one you should not use it! Are you a dreadful hunter?”

Margot had turned upon her guest with a defiant fear. As near as she

had ever come to hating anything she hated the men, of whom she had

heard, who used this wonderful northland as a murder ground. That was

what she named it in her uncompromising judgment of those who killed

for the sake of killing, for the lust of blood that was in them.

“Yes; I reckon I am a ‘dreadful’ hunter, for I am a mighty poor shot.

But I’d like a try at that fellow. What horns! what a head! and how can

that fellow in the canoe keep so close to him, yet not finish him?”

Adrian was so excited he could not stand still. His eyes gleamed, his

hands clenched, and his whole appearance was changed; greatly for the

worse, the girl thought, regarding him with disgust.

“Finish him? That’s King Madoc, Pierre’s trained moose. You’d be

finished yourself, I fear, if you harmed that splendid creature.

Pierre’s a lazy fellow, mostly, but he spent a long time teaching

Madoc; and with his temper--I’m thankful you lost your gun.”

“Do you never shoot things up here? I saw you giving the fox and

herons what looked like meat. You had a stew for supper, and fish for

breakfast. I don’t mean to be impertinent, but the sight of that big

game--whew!”

“Yes; we do kill things, or have them killed, when it is necessary for

food. Never in sport. Man is almost the only animal who does that. It’s

all terrible, seems to me. Everything preys upon something else, weaker

than itself. Sometimes when I think of it, my dinner chokes me. It’s

so easy to take life, and only God can create it. But uncle says it is

also God’s law to take what is provided, and that there is no mistake,

even if it seems such to me.”

But there Margot perceived that Adrian was not listening. Instead,

he was watching, with the intensest interest, the closer approach of

the canoe, in which sat idle Pierre, holding the reins of a harness

attached to his aquatic steed. The moose swam easily, with powerful

strokes, and Pierre was singing a gay melody, richer in his unique

possession than any king.

“Indeed, it’s not one other has a king for a bow man,” he often

asserted.

When he touched the shore and the great animal stood shaking his wet

hide, Adrian’s astonishment found vent in a whirlwind of questions

that Pierre answered at his leisure and after his kind. But he walked

first toward Margot and offered her a great bunch of trailing arbutus

flowers, saying:

“I saw these just as I pushed off and went back after them. What’s the

matter here, that the flag is up? It was the biggest storm I ever saw.

Yes; a deal of beasties are killed back on the mainland. Any dead over

here?”

“No, I’m glad to say, none that we know of. But Snowfoot’s shed is down

and uncle is going to build a new one. I hope you’ve come to work.”

Pierre laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh! yes.”

But his interest in work was far less than in the stranger whom he now

answered, and whose presence on Peace Island was a mystery to him.

Heretofore, the only visitors there had been laborers or traders, but

this young fellow, so near his own age, and despite his worn clothing,

was of another sort. He recognized this, at once, as Margot had done,

and his curiosity made him ask:

“Where’d you come from? Hurricane blow you out the sky?”

“About the same. I was lost in the woods and Margot found me and saved

my life. What’ll you take for that moose?”

“There isn’t money enough in the State of Maine to buy him!”

“Nonsense! Well, if there was I haven’t it. But you could get a good

price for it anywhere.”

Pierre looked Adrian over. From his appearance the lad was not likely

to be possessed of much cash, but the moose-trainer was eager for

capital, and never missed an opportunity of seeking it.

“I want to go into the show business. What do you say? would you

furnish the tents and fixings, and share the profits? I’m no scholar,

but maybe you’d know enough to get out the hand bills and so on. What

do you say?”

“I--say--What you mean, Pierre Ricord, keepin’ the master waitin’ your

foolishness and him half sick? What kept you twice as long as you

ought? Hurry up, now, and put that moose in the cow yard and get to

work.”

The interruption was caused by Angelique, and it was curious to see the

fear with which she inspired the great fellow, her son. He forgot the

stranger, the show business, and all his own immediate interests, and

with the docility of a little child obeyed. Unhitching his odd steed,

he turned the canoe bottom upwards on the beach and hastily led the

animal toward that part of the island clearing where Snowfoot stood in

a little fenced-in lot behind her ruined shed.

Adrian went with him, and asked:

“Won’t those two animals fight?”

“Won’t get a chance. When one goes in the other goes out. Here, bossy,

you can take the range of the island. Get out!”

She was more willing to go than Madoc to enter the cramped place, but

the transfer was made, and Adrian lingered by the osier paling, to

observe at close range this subjugated monarch of the forest.

“Oh! for a palette and brush!” he exclaimed, while Pierre walked away.

“What would you do with them?”

Margot had followed the lads and was beside Adrian, though he had not

heard her footsteps. Now he wheeled about, eager, enthusiastic.

“Paint--as I have never painted before!”

“Oh!--are you an--artist?”

“I want to be one. That’s why I’m here.”

“What! What do you mean?”

“I told you I was a runaway. I didn’t say why, before. It’s truth. My

people, my--father--forced me to college. I hated it. He was forcing me

to business. I liked art. All my friends were artists. When I should

have been at the books I was in their studios. They were a gay crowd,

spent money like water when they had it; merrily starved and pinched

when they hadn’t. A few were worse than spendthrifts, and with my usual

want of sense I made that particular set my intimates. I never had any

money, though, after it was suspected what my tastes were, except a

little that my mother gave.”

Margot was listening breathlessly and watching intently. At the mention

of his mother a shadow crossed Adrian’s face, softening and bettering

it, and as they rose to go home she saw that his whole mood had changed.

IX.

AN UNANSWERABLE QUESTION

It was weeks afterward when they were again surrounded by the many

wonderful inhabitants of the forest that Adrian mentioned his own

parents. Their talk drifted from vexing subjects to merry anecdotes of

his childhood, in the home where he had been the petted, only brother

of a half-dozen elder sisters. But while they laughed and Margot

listened, her fingers were busy weaving a great garland of wild laurel,

and when it was finished she rose and said:

“It’s getting late. There’ll be just time to take this to the grave.

Will you go with me?”

“Yes.”

But this was another of the puzzling things he found at Peace Island.

In its very loveliest nook was the last resting-place of Cecily Romeyn,

and the sacred spot was always beautiful with flowers, or, in the

winter, with brilliant berries. Both the master and the girl spoke of

their dead as if she were still present with them; or, at least, lived

as if she were only removed from sight but not from their lives.

When Margot had laid the fresh wreath upon the mound, she carefully

removed the faded flowers of the day before, and a thought of his own

mother stirred Adrian’s heart.

“I wish I could send a bunch of such blossoms to the mater!”

“How can you live without her, since she is still alive?”

His face hardened again.

“You forget. I told you that she, too, turned against me at the last.

It was a case of husband or son, and she made her choice.”

“Oh! no. She was unhappy. One may do strange things then, I suppose.

But I tell you one thing: if I had either father or mother, anywhere

in this world; no matter if either was bad--had done everything that

is sinful!--nothing should ever, ever make me leave them. Nothing. I

would bear anything, do anything, suffer anything--but I would be true

to them. I could not forget that I was their child, and if I had done

wrong to them my whole life would be too short to make atonement.”

She spoke strongly, as she felt. So early orphaned, she had come to

think of her parents as the most wonderful blessing in the power of God

to leave one. She loved her Uncle Hugh like a second father, but her

tenderest dreams were over the pictured faces of her dead.

“Where is your father buried?”

It was the simplest, most natural question.

“I--don’t--know.”

They stared at one another. It was proof of her childlike acceptance of

her life that she had never asked--had never thought to do so, even.

She had been told that he had passed out of sight before they came to

Peace Island and the forest, and had asked no further concerning him.

Of his character and habits she had heard much. Her uncle was never

weary in extolling his virtues; but of his death he had said only what

has been written.

“But--I must know right away!”

In her eagerness she ran, and Adrian followed as swiftly. He was sorry

for his thoughtless inquiry, but regret came too late. He tried to call

Margot back, but she would not wait.

“I must know--I must know right away. Why have I never thought before?”

Hugh Dutton was resting after a day of study and mental labor, and his

head leaned easily upon his cushioned chair. Yet as his dear child

entered his room he held out his arms to draw her to his knee.

“In a minute, uncle. But Adrian has asked me something and it is the

strangest thing that I cannot answer him. Where is my father buried?”

If she had dealt him a mortal blow he could not have turned more white.

With a groan that pierced her very heart, he stared at Margot with

wide, unseeing eyes; then sprang to his feet and fixed upon poor Adrian

a look that scorched.

“You! you!” he gasped, and, sinking back, covered his face with his

hands.

X

PERPLEXITIES

What had he done?

Ignorant why his simple question should have such strange results, that

piercing look made Adrian feel the veriest culprit, and he hastened to

leave the room and the cabin. Hurrying to the beach, he appropriated

Margot’s little canvas canoe and pushed out upon the lake. From her

and Pierre he had learned to handle the light craft with considerable

skill, and he now worked off his excitement by swift paddling, so that

there was soon a wide distance between him and the island.

Then he paused and looked around him, upon as fair a scene as could be

found in any land. Unbroken forests bounded this hidden Lake Profundus,

out of whose placid waters rose that mountain-crowned, verdure-clad

Island of Peace, with its picturesque home and its cultured owner, who

had brought into this best of the wilderness the best of civilization.

“What is this mystery? How am I concerned in it? For I am, and mystery

there is. It is like that mist over the island, which I can see and

feel but cannot touch. Pshaw! I’m getting sentimental, when I ought

to be turning detective. Yet I couldn’t do that--pry into the private

affairs of a man who’s treated me so generously. What shall I do? How

can I go back there? But where else can I go?”

At the thought that he might never return to the roof he had quitted,

a curious homesickness seized him.

“Who’ll hunt what game they need? Who’ll catch their fish? Who’ll keep

the garden growing? Where can I study the forest and its furry people,

at first hand, as in the Hollow? And I was doing well--not as I hope

to do, but getting on. Margot was a merciless critic, but even she

admitted that my last picture had the look, the spirit of the woods.

That’s what I want to do, what Mr. Dutton, also, approved: to bring

glimpses of these solitudes back to the cities and the thousands who

can never see them in any other way. Well--let it go. I can’t stay and

be a torment to anybody, and sometime in some other place, maybe--Ah!”

What he had mistaken for the laughter of a loon was Pierre’s halloo.

He was coming back, then, from the mainland where he had been absent

these past days. Adrian was thankful. There was nothing mysterious or

perplexing about Pierre, whose rule of life was extremely simple:

“Pierre, first, second, and forever. After Pierre, if there was

anything left, then--anybody, the nearest at hand,” would have

expressed the situation; but his honest, unblushing selfishness was

sometimes a relief.

“One always knows just where to find Pierre,” Margot had said.

So Adrian’s answering halloo was prompt, and, turning about, he watched

the birch leaving the shadow of the forest and heading for himself. It

was soon alongside and Ricord’s excited voice was shouting his good

news:

“Run him up to seven hundred and fifty!”

“But I thought there wasn’t money enough anywhere to buy him?”

Pierre cocked his dark head on one side and winked.

“Madoc sick and Madoc well are different.”

“Oh, you wretch! Would you sell a sick moose and cheat the buyer?”

“Would I lose such a pile of money for foolishness? I guess not.”

“But suppose, after you parted with him, he got well?”

Again the woodlander grinned and winked.

“Could you drive the King?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s all right. I buy him back, what you call trade. One do

that many times, good enough. If--”

Pierre was silent for some moments, during which Adrian had steadily

paddled backward to the island, keeping time with the other boat, and

without thinking what he was doing. But when he did remember, he turned

to Pierre and asked:

“Will you take me across the lake again?”

“What for?”

“No matter. I’ll just leave Margot’s canoe and you do it. There’s time

enough.”

“What’ll you give me?”

“Pshaw! What can I give you? Nothing.”

“That’s all right. My mother, she wants the salt,” and he kicked the

sack of that valuable article lying at his feet. “There, she’s on the

bank now, and it’s not she will let me out of her sight again, this

long time.”

“You’d go fast enough for money.”

“Maybe not. When one has Angelique Ricord for mére--U-m-m!”

But it was less for Pierre than for Adrian that Angelique was waiting,

and her expression was kinder than common.

“Carry that salt to my kitchen cupboard, son, and get to bed. No;

you’ve no call to tarry. What the master’s word is for his guest is

nothin’ to you.”

Pierre’s curiosity was roused. Why had Adrian wanted to leave the

island at nightfall, since there was neither hunting nor fishing to be

done? Sport for sport’s sake--that was forbidden. And what could be the

message he was not to hear? He meant to learn, and lingered, busying

himself uselessly in beaching the canoes afresh, after he had once

carefully turned them bottom side upwards: in brushing out imaginary

dirt, readjusting his own clothing--a task he did not often bother

with--and in general making himself a nuisance to his impatient parent.

But, so long as he remained, she kept silence, till, unable to hold

back her rising anger, she stole up behind him, unperceived, and

administered a sounding box upon his sizable ears.

“Would you? To the cupboard, miserable!” and Adrian could not repress a

smile at the meekness with which the great woodlander submitted to the

little woman’s authority.

“Xanthippé and Socrates!” he murmured, and Pierre heard him. So,

grimacing at him from under the heavy sack, he called back “Fifty

dollar. Tell her fifty--dollar.”

“What did he mean by fifty dollar?” demanded Angelique.

“I suppose something about that show business of his. It is his

ambition, you know, and I must admit I believe he’d be a success at it.”

“Pouf! There is more better business than the showin’ one, of takin’

God’s beasties in the towns and lettin’ the fool people stare. The

money comes that way is not good money.”

“Oh, yes. It’s all right, fair Angelique. But what is the word for me?”

“It is: that you come with me, at once, to the master. He will speak

with you before he sleeps. Yes. And, Adrian, lad!”

“Well, Angelique?”

“This is the truth. Remember--when the heart is sore tried the tongue

is often sharp. There is death--that is a sorrow--God sends it. There

are sorrows God does not send, but the evil one. Death is but joy to

them. What the master says, answer; and luck light upon your lips.”

The lad had never seen the old housekeeper so impressive nor so gentle.

At the moment it seemed as if she almost liked him, though, despite the

faithfulness with which she had obeyed her master’s wishes and served

him, he had never before suspected it.

“Thank you, Angelique. I am troubled, too, and I will take care that I

neither say nor resent anything harsh. More than that, I will go away.

I have stayed too long already, though I had hoped I was making myself

useful. Is he in his own study?”

“Yes, and the little maid is with him. No--there she comes, but she

is not laughin’, no. Oh! the broken glass. Scat! Meroude. Why leap

upon one to scare the breath out, that way? Pst! ’Tis here that tame

creatures grow wild and wild ones tame. Scat! I say.”

Margot was coming through the rooms, holding Reynard by the collar she

made him wear whenever he was in the neighborhood of the hen-house, and

Tom limped listlessly along upon her other side. There was trouble and

perplexity in the girl’s face, and Angelique made a great pretense of

being angry with the cat, to hide that in her own.

But Margot noticed neither her nor Adrian, and sitting down upon the

threshold dropped her chin in her hands and fixed her eyes upon the

darkening lake.

“Why, mistress! The beast here at the cabin, and it nightfall! My poor

fowls!”

“He’s leashed, you see, Angelique. And I’ll lock the poultry up, if you

like,” observed Adrian. Anything to delay a little an interview from

which he shrank with something very like that cowardice of which the

girl had once accused him.

The housekeeper’s ready temper flamed, and she laid an ungentle touch

upon the stranger’s shoulder.

“Go, boy. When Master Hugh commands, ’tis not for such as we to

disobey.”

“All right. I’m going; and I’ll remember.”

At the inner doorway he turned and looked back. Margot was still

sitting, thoughtful and motionless, the firelight from the great

hearth making a Rembrandt-like silhouette of her slight figure against

the outer darkness and touching her wonderful hair with a flood of

silver. Reynard and the eagle, the wild foresters her love had tamed,

stood guard on either side. It was a picture that appealed to Adrian’s

artistic sense and he lingered a little, regarding its effects, even

considering what pigments would best convey them.

[Illustration: HER PETS STOOD GUARD ON EITHER SIDE]

“Adrian!”

“Yes, Angelique--yes.”

When the door shut behind him, Angelique touched her darling’s shining

head, and the toil-stiffened fingers had for it almost a mother’s

tenderness.

“Sweetheart, the bed-time.”

“I know--I’m going, Angelique; my uncle sent me from him to-night. It

was the first time in all my life that I remember.”

“Maybe, little stupid, because you’ve never waited for that, before,

but were quick enough to see whenever you were not wanted.”

“He--there’s something wrong, and Adrian is the cause of it.

I--Angelique, you tell me--uncle did not hear, or reply, any way--where

is my father buried?”

Angelique was prepared and had her answer ready.

“’Tis not for the servant to reveal what her master hides. No--all will

come to you in good time. Tarry the master’s will. But, that silly

Pierre! What think you? Is it fifty dollar would be the price of they

tame blue herons? Hey?”

“No; nor fifty times fifty. Pierre knows that. Love is more than

money.”

“Sometimes, to some folks. Well, what would you? That son will

be havin’ even me, his old mother, in his show--why not? As a

cur’osity--the only livin’ human bein’ can make that ingrate mind.

Yes--to bed, ma p’tite.”

Margot rose and housed her pets. This threat of Pierre’s, that he would

eventually carry off the foresters and exhibit their helplessness

to staring crowds, always roused her fiercest indignation; and this

result was just what Angelique wanted, at present, and she murmured her

satisfaction.

“Good! That bee will buzz in her ear till she sleeps, and so sound

she’ll hear no dip of the paddle, by and by. Here, Pierre, my son,

you’re wanted.”

“What for, now? Do leave me be. I’m going to bed. I’m just wore out,

trot-trottin’ from Pontius to Pilate, luggin’ salt, and--” he finished

by yawning most prodigiously.

“Firs’-rate sign, that gapin’. Yes--sign you’re healthy and able to do

all’s needed. There’s no rest for you this night. Come--here--take this

basket to the beach. If your canoe needs pitchin’, pitch it. There’s

the lantern. If one goes into the show business he learns right now to

work and travel o’ nights. Yes--start--I’ll follow and explain.”

[TO BE CONTINUED]

* * * * *

“Believe not each accusing tongue,

As most weak people do;

But still believe that story wrong

Which ought not to be true.”

--_R. B. Sheridan._

THE MONTH OF FLOWER

By Julia McNair Wright

Neither age, learning, nor fortune are needed to enable one to love and

admire these gracious children of beauty--the flowers.

When the chill winds of autumn sound a knell for their departure, we

have a sense of loneliness and loss. As the winter passes we long for

the days when the blossoms shall come again.

The first tiny blossom of the star-flower; the first little tasseled

bloom on the birch; the first adder’s tongue, or violet, or broad,

white salver of the mandrake flower; the snowy banners of the dogwood;

the gray-white of the brave little plantain-leaved everlasting, fill

all hearts with delight.

The life object of the flower is the production of seed. All the parts

of the flower are in some way fitted to further that end. What is the

story of the flower?

The stem and branches having developed a certain amount of leafage, may

at length put forth blossoms. These spring, as leaves do, from the tips

or axils of the branches. In truth, a flower is a modified branch, and

all its parts are modified leaves. We will pass over this distinction

of science, and will consider the flower as we popularly think and

speak of it, the beautiful producer of seeds.

What is called a perfect flower we will examine in the common buttercup

of the fields. At the top of the stem we find a cup or calyx of five

narrow, separate green leaves, called sepals; these form the outer

wrapping of the bud, and maintain and protect the more delicate inner

parts of a flower. Within the calyx is the corolla--five glossy,

yellow, roundish petals, set in a circle; within this we have another

ring of downy, bright-yellow stamens, and still within these,

protected by all the others, certain yellow pistils, fewer and firmer

in texture than the stamens.

All of these four rings of parts are placed upon the fleshy, enlarged

top of the stem, which is called the receptacle. The yellow of this

flower is very yellow, and the stem and leaves are very green. The stem

and leaves of our buttercups are hairy; the whole plant is provided

with a sharp, stinging juice.

The buttercup, as we have seen, is made up of four circles, each

composed of several distinct parts.

A flower with several petals is called polypetalous.

Other flowers have but one petal; they are styled monopetalous. In

fact, in such one-petaled flowers a number of petals have simply grown

together. Let us take the morning-glory as an example. Pull off the

calyx; it comes off as a whole, but is cleft half way down into five

lobes, showing that it is truly composed of five united petals. Now

pull the corolla from another calyx cup; it comes as a whole, and is

not cleft as the calyx is, but it has five stripes, and at each stripe

the margin has a little point, and we can make out very plainly that

here are five prettily-pointed petals united into one, with a long tube

made of the claws, and a beautiful wide margin made of the banners.

Four-o’clocks, stramonium, Canterbury bells, phlox, and many other

flowers have these one-petaled corollas. Such corollas differ greatly

in shape, owing to the length and diameter of the tube and margin.

In the polypetalous corollas we have the rich splendors of roses,

from single to the fullest double, where cultivation has changed all

stamens and pistils into petals. The polypetalous tribe give us also

the lovely, perfume-filled chalices of the lilies; the peas, with their

many-colored banners; the charming violets, with their spurred petals;

the columbine, with its horns of plenty.

Color of some kind is one of the distinguishing features of blossoms.

Fragrance is another marked characteristic of plants, and is chiefly in

the flower.

There are plenty of scentless plants, yet the majority are full of

perfume. Some few have a very disagreeable smell. Fragrance in plants

comes from certain oils or resin laid up in different parts of the

plant, whether in the leaves, bark, wood, fruit, seeds, or blossoms.

In the month of May flowers crowd upon us in numbers so great that

we are at a loss for a time to study them. Even if April has been

cold, the matchless arbutus has found time to bloom above last

year’s protecting leaves and has passed away, leaving only a memory

of its fragrance and rosy beauty. The dandelions--jolly, popular,

child-beloved gold of the spring--have bloomed, and in May the grass is

covered with their delicate clocks; we still, in early May, find the

oxalis almost making a carpet for the pasture lands or sunny hillsides.

When the oxalis grows in damp shade its flowers and leaves are larger

and of a deeper color, but the blossoms are fewer. The leaf of the

oxalis is three-divided, like the coarser leaf of the clover.

Some hold that it was the oxalis and not the shamrock leaf which good

St. Patrick took to prove the possibility of Trinity--one in three.

Some think that really the oxalis and not the clover was the shamrock

of the ancient Irish.

May brings us an abundance of wild violets; the blue violets and the

beautiful tri-colored pansies come in April, but the blue violets

linger, growing larger and richer, while their cousins, the dainty

white and the branching yellow violets, appear in the cool, damp woods.

The wild violets are scentless, except for the spicy “woods odor” that

seems to hang about all wild flowers.

[Illustration: NATURE’S FAVORITES]

A much humbler flower than the violets greets us on the roadsides--the

bright yellow cinquefoil, its vine leaves, and blossom bearing

resemblance to the strawberry, so that the county people call them

“yellow-flowered strawberries.” Common as the cinquefoil is, it belongs

to a noble, even royal, family among flowers--the rose. It is a poor

cousin of the garden’s queen.

WITH THE EDITOR

For our name we have chosen YOUTH. This word is the fullest expression

of our ambition. It stands for that period of human life toward which

the very young folk look forward with pleasant anticipations, and the

old look back with something like regret. It contains the suggestion

of hope, vigor, and buoyancy--the ideal requisites of America’s young

folks. Surely we might have looked far for a more fitting title.

Although a new name to many, and therefore lacking in that esteem which

only long acquaintance can give, we have every reason to expect the

same generous greeting which we have heretofore received.

Indeed, beginning with this issue, we shall have with us many who have

known YOUTH in its earlier home. We offer them a hearty welcome and

promise to do our utmost to deserve a continuation of their stanch

support.

* * * * *

A great many well-meaning people seem to regard childhood and youth

in the light of an ailment. This is painfully apparent in their views

of juvenile literature. As they might forbid a particular diet to all

invalids, so, just as rigidly, they prohibit the reading of this or

that form of literature by those afflicted with youthfulness.

Like the doctors who deal with our physical bodies, these very earnest

people seldom agree among themselves as to the proper remedies and

measures of prevention.

What, most unfortunately, they do agree in, is that the best attention

must be given to the supposed ailment instead of to the individual boy

or girl. No young person should be allowed to read fairy stories, says

one. Nor stories without an immediate moral purpose, declares another.

Nor stories of adventure, insists a third.

Now, upon behalf of the young people themselves, we wish to enter our

most solemn objection to this kind of reasoning.

There are books, of course, which should not be read by young people,

but as a rule these same books should not be read by grown people,

either. They are essentially bad, and no one will defend them.

We admit, moreover, that no highly improbable fiction is healthy as

a regular diet. But we do assert that for a child of undeveloped

imagination--one who is inclined to take the world too literally--there

is, perhaps, nothing better than a well-written fairy-story. It tends

to awaken that faculty of the brain which gives life half its pleasure.

What, again, can better counteract the thoughtless cruelty of childhood

than such a story as Black Beauty? And yet, in the great essential of

possibility, Black Beauty is a fairy tale.

Finally, to one whose mind is over-perplexed by studies or who is

inclined to brood over the common occurrences of daily life, what can

bring happier relief than some stirring narrative of adventure? Such a

story at such a time, even if it has no moral aim, is not without its

moral result.

In short, each of these forms of fiction has its own special and

valuable function, and those who would make the best use of juvenile

literature must recognize the fact and avail themselves of the

principle.

EVENT AND COMMENT

Telephoning Without Wire

According to late newspaper accounts, one of the most striking efforts

in the direction of wireless communication is that of Mr. Nathan

Stubblefield, residing near Murray, in the State of Kentucky.

Mr. Stubblefield holds the theory that sound waves, as well as

vibrations of ether, can be conveyed from one point to the other

without the use of wires. To prove this, he has invented an apparatus

of apparently simple construction, consisting of a transmitter and

receiver. Its only metallic contact with any solid object is by means

of a wire rod, which is sunk into the ground at the desired point.

Through this the waves of sound are conveyed from the transmitter to

the ground, and from the ground to the receiver of the other station.

To show that water as well as land will conduct these vibrations, Mr.

Stubblefield established communication between a boat some distance

from the shore and a station on the land. From the boat, the strains of

a musical instrument playing on the shore could be distinctly heard and

recognized.

Mr. Stubblefield believes that it is only upon the question of

obtaining a high voltage that the unlimited application of his system

depends.

The many persons who have viewed his experiments are fully convinced

that Mr. Stubblefield will do much toward furthering the possibilities

of wireless communication.

The Oxford Scholarships

In the will of the late Cecil Rhodes, provisions were made, setting

aside $10,000,000 for the founding of free scholarships for the

benefit of students from the British colonies, Germany, and the United

States. Of these, the United States is to have two for each State and

Territory. The conditions of these scholarships are that the candidates

must possess the necessary educational qualifications, manly qualities,

a fondness for out-of-door sports, and an “exhibition during their

school days of moral force of character and instincts to lead and take

interest in their schoolmates.”

Mr. Rhodes’ purpose is to concentrate the scattered forces of the

Anglo-Saxon race, which, he believes, contributes the greatest

influence for good upon humanity.

Terms of Peace in South Africa

The Edinburgh _Evening News_ of April 12 has stated that Mr. Kruger, in

behalf of the Boers, desires peace on the following conditions:

Absolute independence will not be made an issue if otherwise a

satisfactory form of government can be reached.

The proclamation of banishment must be canceled, the confiscated

property restored to its owners, and all other property destroyed by

the British soldiers must be paid for by their government.

The recognition of both languages in the schools and courts.

The pardon of rebels and the release of political prisoners.

All prisoners of war are to be returned to South Africa on a fixed date.

The foregoing terms and conditions are to be carried out under the

supervision of one or more of the powers friendly to the Boer cause.

Negotiations have now reached such a point as to promise a speedy

termination of the war in South Africa.

General Miles’ Plan for the Philippines

In the recent correspondence between Lieutenant-General Miles and

the Secretary of War, the former asked for authority to take with

him to the Philippines ten Cubans and Porto Ricans, for the purpose

of illustrating to the inhabitants of those islands the beneficial

influence of the United States.

A representative group of Filipinos would then, on the return journey,

be brought to this country, to familiarize them with our civilization.

In this way it was hoped to establish a more amicable understanding

between the two peoples.

After a careful consideration of General Miles’ plan, the Secretary

of War stated his disapproval of it on the ground that it would be

impracticable.

The Decline of Great Salt Lake

The Great Salt Lake, which for a number of years past has been

gradually diminishing in size, is now causing some little apprehension

to the people of Utah. Although not well understood, it is thought that

the diversion of the streams which formerly fed this interesting body

of water, for the purpose of agriculture, is partly responsible for its

decrease. The cutting away of forests also is supposed to have had its

effect in diminishing the water supply of the region.

The Great Power House

The largest power house in the world is that recently erected in New

York City by the Manhattan Elevated Railroad. The total energy of its

entire system of engines is 1,000,000 horse-power. This is capable of

being converted into a force of 600,000 electrical horse-power, in

which form it will be used for propelling the trains of the elevated

railroad.

IN-DOORS

PARLOR MAGIC

By Ellis Stanyon

The first of this series of papers on Magic, commencing with the March

number, included directions to the beginner for Palming and the Pass.

PROGRAMME AND COIN.--The effect of this experiment is as follows: The

performer borrows a marked half-dollar from a stranger in the audience,

immediately handing it to a gentleman to examine the mark, date, and

other items. While this is being done, the performer obtains the loan

of a programme, which he tears in half, laying one half on his table.

The gentleman is now requested to place the coin in the half of the

programme held by the performer, who wraps it up and gives it to him

to hold. He now goes to his table for a piece of sealing-wax, which

he passes several times over the packet held by the gentleman, when

immediately it is transformed into a packet of three envelopes, made

from the programme, all gummed and sealed, one inside the other, with

the marked half-dollar in the smallest one. As the gentleman cannot see

how it is done, the performer repeats the trick for his benefit with

the other half of the programme, but the result is the same. This time,

however, the gentleman is requested to take the last envelope to the

owner of the money, that he may open it and satisfy himself that it

actually contains his own coin.

The six envelopes are now rolled up and given to the gentleman to hand

to the lady, to keep as a souvenir of the entertainment, but before

he has proceeded far the performer tells him he has dropped one of

them (he has not really done so), and, failing to find it, he very

naturally begins to count those in his hand, when he discovers to his

astonishment that he holds the programme restored.

* * * * *

_Explanation._--After the performer has borrowed the half-dollar, in

the act of handing it to the gentleman for examination he adroitly

changes it for one of his own, bearing the mark of a cross, which mark,

is, of course, taken for that of the owner of the coin. The performer

now asks for a programme, and while it is being procured he drops the

actual borrowed coin into the smallest of the three envelopes, which

are placed one inside the other and concealed by a book or some other

object on the table. To facilitate the introduction of the coin, a tin

tube, with a rather wide mouth, just large enough for the coin to pass

through, is placed in the smallest envelope. After this coin has been

introduced this tube is withdrawn, left in its concealed position, and

the envelopes closed.

The flaps of the envelopes are sealed with wax beforehand and prepared

with the best gum arabic, which is allowed to dry. They are moistened

with the tongue just before the performance of the trick, and, if cut

as in Fig. 7, can all be closed at once while lying on the table. This

packet is laid on the table under cover of the half of a programme used

in the second stage of the trick.

[Illustration: Fig. 7]

To begin, the performer palms a similar packet of envelopes containing

another half-dollar marked in exactly the same way as the one he handed

to the gentleman, and it is hardly necessary to say, having the same

appearance and bearing the same date. When rolling up the programme the

performer retains it and hands the gentleman the packet of envelopes;

and when going to his table for the wax leaves half of the programme

and the half-dollar thereon. By the time the first coin is taken from

the envelopes the packet containing the actual borrowed coin will be

dry and ready for use.

The remaining portion of the trick will now be understood. When the

performer goes for the other half of the programme he takes the packet

of envelopes with it and substitutes it as before, and the trick

proceeds as described. When collecting the six envelopes for the final

effect, the performer palms a duplicate programme which has been lying

on his table behind some object, and substitutes this as before when

giving the gentleman the envelopes to hand to the lady.

* * * * *

FILTRATED COIN.--Borrow a half-dollar from one of the company, wrap it

up in a handkerchief, and request some one to hold it over a glass of

water.

Presto! The coin is dropped into the glass and heard to jingle. When

the handkerchief is removed the half-dollar has disappeared, apparently

dissolved in the water. This very effective trick is accomplished by

means of a glass disc of the same diameter as a half-dollar. The modus

operandi is as follows: Borrow a half-dollar and while holding it in

your hand throw a handkerchief over it. Under cover of the handkerchief

exchange the coin for the glass disc which you have concealed in your

palm. Now get some one to hold the disc by its edges through the

handkerchief, directly over the glass of water. He naturally supposes

that he is holding the coin.

Pronounce your magical phrase, and command your volunteer assistant

to drop the half-dollar into the glass. It will fall with a jingle

similar to that of a coin, and will lie invisible at the bottom of the

glass. You may even pour off the water, but the disc, thanks to the

power of suction, will remain in the same position, firmly attached

to the drinking-glass. To complete the effect the genuine half-dollar

should then be produced from under the table or from the pocket of the

volunteer assistant.

THE OLD TRUNK

For the month of May we will award a year’s subscription to YOUTH

for each of the best three original puzzles submitted to us before

June 1st. The names of the successful competitors, together with the

prize-winning puzzles, will be published in an early number of the

magazine. Of the remaining puzzles, all of those which show merit will

also appear in the succeeding issues. This offer is open to every one.

The correct answers for the April puzzles are given below:

1. Herring, ray, carp.

Shark, perch, shad.

Sole, bass, eel.

2. Ericsson.

3. Monongahela.

Yukon.

Amazon.

Rhine.

Colorado.

4. James Russell Lowell.

5. Thou-sand.

6. Pear-bear.

(1) Deprive farewell of head and tail and leave expire; (2) the

usual covering of the head, and leave atmosphere; (3) on fire, and

leave whim; (4) distant, and leave a note in the musical scale; (5)

collections of regulations, and leave song; (6) an image of false

worship, and leave a verb of action; (7) employed for money, and leave

anger; (8) free from obscurity, and leave meadow.

When the above words have been correctly guessed and then beheaded and

abridged, their initials, when placed one above each other in the order

given, will spell the name of a well-known garden flower.

--O. T. M.

DIAMOND

1. a letter; 2. a bank; 3. women; 4. specimens; 5. a quarrel; 6. to

discern; 7. a letter.

--_Ruth._

SUBSTITUTION

Supply the objects described in the parentheses and read by sound:

If a great storm were (a body of water north-west of North America)

down on the British Isles, do you suppose you could ring a (city in

Ireland) and make the (body of water west of England) the (a watch

manufacturing town of the United States) the city of (the bark of a

kind of oak)?

--_Sidney M._

CHARADE

The first use sparingly.

The second treat kindly.

The third hold as a sacred trust.

The whole is a shy bird.

--_E. L. Barnes._

THE BOUQUET

In the following sentences there are eight flowers. Can you identify

them?

Alyar rowed his best, but Fox, a listless oarsman on most occasions,

won the race.

Can Nature be excelled on Easter day?

For the table of the Pope, onyx is brought from afar, but usually

unpolished.

“Hannibal,” Samuel remarked, looking up from his book of prose, “was

the world’s greatest general.”

ENIGMA

I am composed of twenty-one letters.

My 3-6-21-19-14-8-1 is sincere.

My 12-17-7-18-20-5 is a mineral.

My 9-2-3-10-4-17-11-1 is a bird.

My 16-13-20-19-15 is to mingle.

My whole is the name of a well-known song.

--_William Harris._

I am the first, and one of seven,

I live betwixt the seas and heaven:

Look not below, for I am not there,

My home is in the ancient air.

Come to my second, behold how fair

I am, how bright and debonair:

A pleasant vision and a beauty,

A thing of life and joy and duty;

My youth is changed. I live alone,

My views are crossed--my hopes are gone,

My whole is sorrow, grief, and woe,

My singing now is all heigh-ho.

--_Selected._

WITH THE PUBLISHER

YOUTH

An Illustrated Monthly Journal for Boys and Girls

=Edited by HERBERT LEONARD COGGINS=

=Single Copies 10 Cents= =Annual Subscription $1.00=

Sent postpaid to any address. Subscriptions can begin at any time and

must be paid in advance.

The publishers should be promptly informed of any change of address.

Remittances may be made in the way most convenient to the sender, and

should be addressed to

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY

923 Arch Street, Philadelphia, Pa.

_CHANGE OF NAME_

As most of our readers are aware, the name originally used for this

magazine was only temporary, to be continued until a better one might

be found. Many other names have been suggested, but none of them seemed

to be just what was wanted. A name that has been in our minds from the

beginning was YOUTH, but, for the reason that it had already been used

with another publication, we could not adopt it. We have now purchased

the right to use this name, and shall continue it henceforth. It has

the advantage of being a title of but one word, a short one at that,

and one that is catchy, suggestive, and easily remembered. We hope that

it will meet with cordial favor at the hands of all our subscribers.

_WELCOME TO OUR NEW FRIENDS_

We have not only purchased the right to use the name of YOUTH, but

we have also arranged to fill out with this journal the unexpired

subscriptions to the magazine formerly published at Buffalo, N. Y.

We hope that our new friends will not only be satisfied with this

arrangement, but that they will be so well pleased as to permanently

remain with us.

_MANUSCRIPTS_

The publishers of YOUTH will be glad to examine manuscripts submitted

for publication. They should, if possible, be type-written, with the

name and address of the writer appearing on the first page. Stamps

should be enclosed for their return if unavailable. Prompt attention

will be given to all manuscripts, and such as are found available

will be paid for upon acceptance, not upon publication. While all

manuscripts will be examined impartially, we shall, of course, be

disposed to consider with greater favor those submitted by our

subscribers, as we wish to encourage them as much as possible to

contribute to our columns.

_DATE OF PUBLICATION_

It will be noticed that, this month, the magazine reaches our

subscribers much earlier than any former issue. We now have everything

in such working order that we shall be able to do even better with

succeeding numbers. It is our intention to eventually have the magazine

in the hands of our subscribers by the first of the month.

_$100 PRIZE STORY_

In order to encourage our readers to literary effort, we have decided

to offer a cash prize of $100 for the best short story for young

people, from one to five thousand words in length, suitable for

publication in this magazine. Full particulars in regard to this offer

will be found in the advertising pages of this issue. The offer is

confined exclusively to subscribers of Youth, and we hope to see a

large number of stories entered from them for competition.

_TELL YOUR FRIENDS_

If you are pleased with YOUTH, we hope you will tell your friends

about it, and thus aid very substantially in increasing our circle of

acquaintances. In case you have any criticisms or suggestions, we shall

be very glad to receive them. YOUTH is published in the interest of its

subscribers, and while we have many ideas which we will carry out in

the immediate future, we would be glad, nevertheless, to receive the

criticism and advice of our subscribers. It is our purpose, as far as

possible, to meet their views.

_50c. FOR TWENTY-FIVE NAMES_

Anyone who will send us the names and addresses of twenty-five of his

friends, boys or girls, and fifty cents additional, will receive a

year’s subscription to YOUTH. The magazine will be sent to any desired

address. This is a very easy way for any person, young or old, to

obtain a year’s subscription. We wish the twenty-five names for the

sole purpose of distributing sample copies of YOUTH. They will be put

to no other use, so that no one need have any hesitation in sending the

list.

_AN EASY WAY TO EARN MONEY_

In order to increase the circulation of YOUTH as rapidly as possible,

we have decided to make some exceptional inducements to boys and girls

to obtain subscriptions. The work can be done after school hours,

and on Saturdays and holidays. The arrangement we make for doing the

canvassing renders the work very agreeable, and the commission offered

is so large that it cannot fail to be an inducement.

To such of our readers as would like to earn a considerable sum of

money with little effort, we suggest that they send us their names and

addresses, and we will at once forward full particulars.

Transcriber’s Notes:

A number of typographical errors have been corrected silently.

Irregular closing quotes were not modernized.

Archaic spellings have been retained.

Correct MacNair to McNair in Table of Contents.

Famous person and consistent through seven issue project.

Cover image is in the public domain.