CHAPTER V.

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[Illustration: "ONWARD WITH HER PRECIOUS BURDEN, THROUGH SHOT AND

SHELL".]

ST. NICHOLAS.

VOL. V.

JULY, 1878.

No. 9.

[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]

THE GIRL WHO SAVED THE GENERAL.

BY CHARLES H. WOODMAN.

Far down the Carolina coast lies the lovely island of St. John, where

stood, one hundred years ago, a noble brick-built mansion, with lofty

portico and broad piazza. Ancient live-oaks, trembling aspens, and

great sycamores, lifted a bower over it to keep off the sun. Threading

their way through orange-trees and beds of flowers, spacious walks

played hide-and-seek around the house, coming suddenly full upon the

river, or running out of sight in the deep woods.

The owner of this place was Robert Gibbes. With his beautiful young

wife he kept an open hall, and drew to its doors many of the great and

noble people of the times; for he was wealthy and cultured, and she had

such charming manners that people loved her very presence. The great

house was full at all seasons. Eight children had already come to this

good couple, and seven little adopted cousins were their playmates--the

orphan children of Mrs. Fenwick, sister to Mr. Gibbes. He himself was a

cripple, and could not walk. In a chair which ran on wheels he was

drawn daily over the pleasant paths, sometimes by the faithful black

servants, sometimes by the still more devoted children, who tugged at

the rope like so many frisky colts. In their careless joy he forgot his

own sufferings, and would laugh heartily when they deserted him and

hid, with shouts, behind the great trunks, until every tree in the park

seemed to cry out "Papa!" and "Uncle Robert!" The loveliness of the

spot, and the happiness of its dwellers, suited well its name of

"Peaceful Retreat," by which it was known through all the country.

But in those troublous times it could not always remain "peaceful." In

the spring of 1779, the British took possession of all the sea-board.

General Prevost marched up from Savannah and laid siege to Charleston.

The beautiful city was about to fall into the enemy's hands; all night

the men had toiled in the trenches, the women had prayed on their knees

in their chambers, expecting every moment to hear the besieging cannon

roar through the darkness. At daylight the next morning the housetops

were thronged with anxious watchers; but as the sun came gloriously out

of the sea, it shone upon deserted fields; not a tent was to be seen.

Hearing that General Lincoln was hastening on with his army, Prevost

had struck his tents in the night, and was retreating rapidly toward

Savannah. He crossed the Stone Ferry, and fortified himself on John's

Island, as the island of St. John's was often called.

For weeks now the noise of musketry and heavy guns destroyed the quiet

joy at "Peaceful Retreat." The children, in the midst of play, would

hear the dreadful booming, and suddenly grow still and pale. The eldest

daughter, Mary Anna, was a sprightly, courageous girl of thirteen. She

had the care of all the little ones, for her mother's hands were full,

in managing the great estate and caring for her husband. The children

never played now in the park, unless Mary was with them; and when the

frightful noise came through the trees, they ran to her as chickens to

a mother's wing.

After a time, the enemy determined to take possession of this beautiful

place. A body of British and Hessians quietly captured the landing one

midnight, and, creeping stealthily onward, filled the park and

surrounded the house. At day-break, the inmates found themselves

prisoners.

Then came trying days for the family. The officers took up their

quarters in the mansion, allowing the family to occupy the upper story.

They may have been brave soldiers, but they certainly were not

gentlemen, for they did everything to annoy Mrs. Gibbes, who bore all

her trouble nobly and patiently. Little Mary had entire charge of the

smaller children, which was no easy task, for they were continually

getting into some sort of trouble with the troops.

John's Island was less than thirty miles from Charleston, and when the

American officers in the city heard that "Peaceful Retreat" had been

captured by the British, they determined to rescue it from the enemy.

Two large galleys were immediately manned and equipped and sent to the

plantation, with strict orders not to fire upon the mansion.

Sailing noiselessly up the Stono River, at dead of night, the vessels

anchored abreast the plantation. Suddenly, out of the thick darkness

burst a flame and roar, and the shot came crashing through the British

encampment. The whole place was instantly in uproar. The officers in

the house sprang from bed, and hastily dressed and armed. The family,

rudely awakened, rushed to the windows. A cold rain was falling, and

the soldiers, half-clad, were running wildly hither and thither, while

the officers were frantically calling them to arms. Mary woke at the

first terrible roar and fled to her mother's room. The excitable negro

servants uttered most piercing shrieks. The poor little children were

too frightened to scream, but clung, trembling, to Mary.

Mrs. Gibbes was in great distress. She knew not, at first, whether it

was an attack by friends on the camp, or an assault on the house by the

enemy. She ordered the servants to cease their wailing and dress

themselves. Then her husband and the children were prepared; and, while

the cannon bellowed in quick succession and the noise around the house

grew louder, the father and mother consulted what was best to do. It

was now evident that the attack was by their own friends, and its

object was to dislodge the enemy. But Mr. Gibbes did not know that the

house would not be fired on, and he advised instant flight. He was

carried to his chair, and the whole household sallied forth from a back

door.

The scene was terrific. The night was pitchy dark, and when, just as

they stepped out, a sheet of flame belched forth from the vessels, it

seemed to be almost against their faces. The roar shook the ground.

The troops were too busy saving themselves to notice the fugitives, and

they pushed on as rapidly as possible.

No one was sufficiently protected from the rain. Little Mary had the

hardest part, for nearly all the children were in her care. The mud was

deep. Some of the little ones could walk but a short distance at a

time, and had to be carried--Mary having always one, sometimes two, in

her arms. Several of the servants were near her, but none of them

seemed to notice her or her burdens. The last horse had been carried

off that very day; there was no escape but on foot.

Suddenly, a ball came crashing by them through the trees! Then a charge

of grape-shot cut the boughs overhead. They were exactly in the range

of the guns! It was evident they had taken the worst direction, but

there was no help for it now--it was too late to turn back. In her

agony, the mother cried aloud on God to protect her family. Mary hugged

closer the child in her arms, and trembled so she could hardly keep up.

Another crash! The shot shrieked past them, striking the trees in every

direction. The assault was fierce, the roar was incessant. The

frightened family rushed on as swiftly as possible toward a friend's

plantation, far back from the shore; but it was soon seen that they

would not have strength to reach it, even if they were not struck down

by the flying shot. The Americans were pouring their fire into these

woods, thinking the enemy would seek refuge there. The wretched

fugitives expected every moment to be the last. On they pushed through

mud and rain and screaming shot.

Soon they found they were getting more out of range of the guns. They

began to hope; yet now and then a ball tore up the trees around them,

or rolled fearfully across their path. They reached one of the houses

where their field-hands lived, with no one hurt; they were over a mile

from the mansion, and out of range. The negroes said no shot had come

that way. Unable to flee further, the family determined to stop here.

As soon as they entered, Mrs. Gibbes felt her strength leaving her, and

sank upon a low bed. Chilled to the bone, drenched, trembling with

terror and exhaustion, the family gathered around her. She opened her

eyes and looked about. She sprang up wildly.

"Oh, Mary!" she cried, "where is John?"

The little girl turned pale, and moaned: "Oh, mother! mother! _he's

left_!" She broke into crying. The negroes, quickly sympathetic, began

to wring their hands and wail.

"Silence!" said Mr. Gibbes, with stern but trembling voice. The tears

were in his own eyes. The little child now missing was very dear to

them all, and, moreover, was deemed a sacred charge, as he was one of

the orphan children of Mr. Gibbes's sister, intrusted to him on her

death-bed.

The wailing ceased; there was silence, broken only by sobs, and the

master asked:

"Who is willing to go back for the child?"

No one spoke. Mr. Gibbes turned to his wife for counsel. As the two

talked in low tones, Mrs. Gibbes called her husband's attention to

Mary, who was kneeling with clasped hands, in prayer, at the foot of

the bed. In a moment, the little maid rose and came to them, saying,

calmly:

"Mother, I must go back after baby."

"Oh, my child," cried the mother, in agony, "I _cannot_ let you!"

"But, mother, I must," pleaded Mary. "God will care for me."

It was a fearful responsibility. The guns yet roared constantly through

the darkness; the house might now be in flames; it might be filled with

carnage and blood. Mrs. Gibbes turned to her husband. His face was

buried in his hands. Plainly, she must decide it herself. With

streaming eyes, she looked at Mary.

"Come here, my child," she called through her sobs. Mary fell upon her

mother's neck. One long, passionate embrace, in which all a mother's

love and devotion were poured out, and the clinging arms were opened

without a word. Mary sprang up, kissed her father's forehead, and sped

forth on her dangerous mission of love.

The rain had now ceased, but the night was still dark and full of

terrors, for through the trees she saw the frequent flashes of the great

guns. The woods were filled with the booming echoes, so that cannon

seemed to be on every hand. She flew on with all speed. Soon she heard

the crashing trees ahead, and knew that in a moment she would be once

more face to face with death. She did not falter. Now she was again in

the fierce whirlwind! All around her the shot howled and shrieked. On

every side branches fell crashing to the earth. A cannon-ball plunged

into the ground close beside her, cast over her a heap of mud, and threw

her down. She sprang up and pressed on with redoubled vigor. Not even

_that_ ball could make her turn back.

She reached the house. She ran to the room where the little child

usually slept. The bed was empty! Distracted, she flew from chamber to

chamber. Suddenly she remembered that this night he had been given to

another nurse. Up into the third story she hurried, and, as she pushed

open the door, the little fellow, sitting up in bed, cooed to her and

put out his hands.

With the tears raining down her cheeks, Mary wrapped the babe warmly

and started down the stairs. Out into the darkness once more; onward

with her precious burden, through cannon-roar, through shot and shell!

Three times she passed through this iron storm. The balls still swept

the forest; the terrific booming filled the air.

With the child pressed tightly to her brave young heart, she fled on.

She neither stumbled nor fell. The shot threw the dirt in her face, and

showered the twigs down upon her head. But she was not struck. In

safety she reached the hut, and fell exhausted across the threshold.

And the little boy thus saved by a girl's brave devotion, afterward

became General Fenwick, famous in the war of 1812.

FORTY--LESS ONE.

BY JAMES RICHARDSON.

Over by the tangled thicket,

Where the level meets the hill,

Where the mealy alder-bushes

Crowd around the ruined mill,

Where the thrushes whistle early,

Where the midges love to play,

Where the nettles, tall and stinging,

Guard the vine-obstructed way,

Where the tired brooklet lingers;

In a quiet little pool,

Mistress Salmo Fontinalis[A]

Keeps a very private school.

Forty little speckled beauties

Come to learn of her, each day,

How to climb the foaming rapids,

Where the flashing sunbeams play,--

How to navigate the eddies,

How to sink and how to rise,

How to watch for passing perils,

How to leap for passing flies,--

When to play upon the surface,

When beneath the stones to hide,--

All the secrets of the water,

All brook learning, true and tried;--

"That's a good-for-nothing skipper;"

"That's a harmless yellow-bird;"

"That's the flicker of the sunshine,

When the alder-leaves are stirred;"

"That's the shadow of a cloudlet;"

"That's a squirrel come to drink;"

"That--look out for him, my darlings!--

He's a fierce and hungry mink;"

"That's the ripple on the water,

When the winds the wavelets stir;"

"That--snap quick, my little hearties!--

That's a luscious grasshopper."

[Illustration]

So the clever Mistress Salmo

Gives her counsel, day by day,--

Teaching all the troutly virtues,

All life's lessons, grave and gay.

Well she knows the flashing terror

Of King Fisher's sudden fall!

Well she knows the lurking danger

Of the barb'd hook, keen and small!

Well she tries to warn her pupils

Of all evils, low and high!

But, alas! the vain young triflers

Sometimes disobey--and die!

What was that which passed so quickly,

With a slender shade behind?

What is that which stirs the alders

When no ripple tells of wind?

What sends Mistress Salmo darting

Underneath the stones in fear?--

Crying, "Hide yourselves, my darlings!

Our worst enemy is near!"

"I am bound to understand it,"

Says one self-proud speckle-side;

"When I see the danger's real,

Then, if need be, I can hide."

So he waits alone and watches,

Sees the shadow pass again,

Sees a fly drop on the water,--

Dashes at it, might and main.

"Missed it! Well," he says, "I never!

That's the worst jump made to-day!

Here another comes--now for it!"

Splash! He's in the air--to stay!

When the alders cease to tremble,

Silence comes and sun-glints shine,

Mistress Salmo Fontinalis

Calls the roll,--just thirty-nine!

[Footnote A: Brook-trout.]

[Illustration]

HOW THE WEATHER IS FORETOLD.

BY JAMES H. FLINT.

In former times, the chief herald of the weather was the almanac, which

ambitiously prophesied a whole year of cold and heat, wet and dry,

dividing up the kinds of weather quite impartially, if not always

correctly.

But the almanac, good as it was now and then, and the weather-wise

farmers, correct as sometimes they might have been, were not always

able to impart exact information to the country; and they have been

thrown quite into the shade of late, by one who is popularly known

under the somewhat disrespectful title of "Old Prob," or "Old

Probabilities." He has become the Herald of the Weather to the sailor,

near the rocky, dangerous coasts; to the farmer, watching his crops,

and waiting for good days to store them; to the traveler, anxious to

pursue his journey under fair skies; and to the girls and boys who want

to know, before they start to the woods for a picnic, what are the

"probabilities" as to rain.

Every one who reads the daily paper is familiar with the "Weather

Record," issued from the "War Department, office of the Chief Signal

Officer," at Washington. These reports give, first, a general statement

of what the weather has been, for the past twenty-four hours, all over

the country, from Maine to California, and from the Lakes to the South

Atlantic States; and then the "Probabilities," or "Indications," for

the next twenty-four hours, over this same broad territory. The annual

reports of the Chief Signal Officer show that in only comparatively few

instances do these daily predictions fail of fulfillment.

The reason these prophecies are so true is a simple and yet a wonderful

one. The weather itself tells the observer what it is going to do, some

time in advance, and the telegraph sends the news all over the country,

from the central signal office at Washington.

We shall see, presently, how the weather interprets itself to "Old

Probabilities." Although it has proved such a fruitful subject of

discourse in all ages, yet I am afraid many people who pass remarks

upon it do not really think what the weather is made of. Let us examine

its different elements.

The atmosphere has weight, just as water or any other fluid, although

it seems to be perfectly bodiless. We must comprehend that the

transparent, invisible air is pressing inward toward the center of the

earth. This pressure varies according to the state of the weather, and

the changes are indicated by an instrument called a barometer.

Generally speaking, the falling of the mercury in the tube of the

barometer indicates rain, and its rise heralds clear weather. Sometimes

the rise is followed by cold winds, frost and ice. What these changes

really indicate, however, can be determined only by comparing the

barometric changes, at certain hours, in a number of places very far

apart. This is done by the Signal Service. Observations are made at

about one hundred and forty stations, in different portions of the

country, at given hours, and the results are telegraphed at once to

Washington, where our faithful "weather clerk" receives them, reasoning

out from them the "probabilities" which he publishes three times in

every twenty-four hours.

But the atmosphere varies not only in weight, but also in temperature.

The thermometer tells us of such changes.

Besides this, the air contains a great amount of moisture, and it shows

as much variation in this characteristic as in the others. For the

purpose of making known the changes in the moisture of the atmosphere,

an instrument has been invented called a "wet-bulb" thermometer.

We are thus enabled to ascertain the weight or pressure, the

temperature, and the wetness of the air, and now it only remains for us

to measure the force, and point out the direction, of the wind. This is

done by the familiar weather-vane and the anemometer. The vane shows

the direction, and the anemometer is an instrument which indicates the

velocity of the wind.

It is by a right understanding of all these instruments that the signal

service officer is enabled to tell what the weather says of itself; for

they are the pens with which the weather writes out the facts from

which the officer makes up his reports for the benefit of all

concerned. Thus, however wildly and blindly the storm may seem to come,

it sends messengers telling just where it arose, what course it will

take, and how far it will extend. But it tells its secrets to those

only who pay strict attention.

The system of danger signals, adopted by the United States Government,

has proved of great benefit to shipping. All along the coasts are

stations, at which plainly visible signals are displayed, to warn

ship-captains of approaching storms. The reports of observers at the

stations are required to give all instances in which vessels have

remained in port on account of official warnings given. In these cases

danger was avoided, and statistics show that disasters to shipping have

been considerably fewer since the introduction of the cautionary

signals.

The agricultural interests of the country also have been greatly

benefited by the daily bulletins sent to every farming district in the

land by the Weather Department. These bulletins are made from

telegraphic reports received at appointed centers of distribution,

where they are at once printed, placed in envelopes, and addressed to

designated post-offices in the district to be supplied. Each postmaster

receiving a bulletin has the order of the Postmaster-General to display

it instantly in a frame furnished for the purpose.

The bulletins reach the different offices, and are displayed in the

frames, on the average, at eleven o'clock in the morning, making about

ten hours from the time the report first left the chief signal officer

until it appeared placarded at every center of the farming populations,

and became accessible to all classes even in the most distant parts of

the country.

The information given on these bulletins has been found especially

valuable to those farmers who take an interest in the study of

meteorology, or the science of weather, and the facts announced are so

plain, that any intelligent person may profit by them. For instance,

each bulletin now announces, for its particular district, what winds in

each month have been found most likely, and what least likely, to be

followed by rain. Attention given to this one simple piece of

information will result in increasing the gains and reducing the losses

of harvesting.

Warnings of expected rises or falls in the great rivers are made with

equal regularity, telegraphed, bulletined in frames, and also published

by the newspapers, at the different river cities. These daily reports

give the depths of water at different points in the rivers' courses,

and thus make it easy for river shipping to be moored safely in

anticipation of low water, when ignorance might lead to the grounding

of the boats on sand-bars or mud-banks. The notices of the probable

heights which freshets may reach, are followed by preparations upon the

"levees" and river-banks, to guard against overflows.

The United States Signal Service is a branch of the army. No one is

admitted to it who is under twenty-one years of age. Every candidate

has to undergo before enlistment an examination, the chief subjects of

which are spelling, legible hand-writing, proficiency in arithmetic,

and the geography of the United States, physical and political.

Successful candidates are regularly enlisted in the army, as

non-commissioned officers, and go through a course of very systematic

instruction in military signaling and telegraphy. They are assigned

afterward to different posts, where they are required to make

observations and report the same by wire three times a day, to the

commanding officer at Washington. These observations are made by means

of the instruments I have described, and include the different

appearances in the sky; and at all the stations they are made at the

same hour, according to Washington time. The telegraph gives to the

Herald of the Weather and his aids the advantage of hearing from all

the hundred and forty-odd observers almost at the same time; and when

all this information has been gathered up, studied out, and

re-arranged, the same swift servant takes all over the country, again

almost at one time, the ripe results of the care and watching of more

than seven score persons separated by hundreds and even thousands of

miles from the central office.

I should like to describe the instruments fully, but must content

myself with telling you what remarkable things some of them do. The

self-registering barometer, for instance, is made to actually

photograph a storm; another is made to draw with a pencil, every hour,

figures that show the height of the column of mercury and the

condition of the atmosphere. Even the vane, or weather-cock, marks down

the direction and force of the wind.

The report of the chief signal officer for the year 1876 gives

some idea of the vast amount of labor performed by the service.

The Herald of the Weather never rests. As he says, "The duties of this

office permit little rest and less hesitation. Its action must be

prompt. * * * Its orders must issue, its signals of warning be given,

and its record thus made, sometimes when wisdom would delay, if

possible, and subsequent information show it had delayed rightly. It is

the simple duty of the office to act at each present moment as well as

it can with the information at that time before it. The reports to come

after can only give bases for future action, while exhibiting the right

and wrong of the past." These points should be borne in mind by those

who are disposed to find fault with some of the daily predictions about

the weather. If these predictions do not always come true, it is for

the reason given above. Each report must be made at a given hour.

Sudden changes may occur immediately after a report has been issued.

These changes cannot be waited for, and cannot always be foreseen. But

the general accuracy of the daily reports cannot be questioned, as

about eighty per cent of their predictions are known to have been

verified, and the average of failure grows less.

The method of arranging, comparing, and studying out the meaning of all

the different records of observations made at all the weather stations,

cannot be explained in a short article. But I may add that the weather

is, after all, not quite so capricious as its accusers have asserted.

And it has been found that all storms have certain "habits, movements,

and tracks." It is by applying these laws, and drawing conclusions from

them, that the prophet of the weather is able to tell so nearly what

kind of a day we shall have, and just about where and when the storm

will come.

Nearly all great storms have a rotary, or cyclonical character. The

little whirlwinds we often see on windy days, when the dust is caught

up and whirled around, are miniature examples of great storms which

sweep around immense circles. Almost all great rain, hail, and snow

storms revolve in this manner around a calm center where the mercury is

low in the tube of the barometer. Sometimes two or more cyclones meet,

and interfere with one another's rotary motions; and "when

interferences of this description take place, we have squalls, calms

(often accompanied by heavy rains), thunder-storms, great variations in

the direction and force of the wind," and irregular movements of the

barometer.

So then, considering all that the Herald of the Weather has to do, the

care and quickness with which it must be done, and the excellent

results he obtains, everybody who is at all interested in the changes

of the weather ought to be grateful to him for his faithfulness and

devoted attention to duty.

But why should the Government of the United States--that is to say, the

people as a whole--take the trouble and bear the cost of keeping a

small army of men to watch the weather all over the country, and to

telegraph their observations three times a day to Washington? Why

should the officials there take the trouble to compare these

observations and telegraph back to each locality what weather it may

expect, and what the weather will be elsewhere, so that you and I may

know when to stay at home, or when to take our umbrellas with us if we

go out?

Hardly. There are more important matters at stake. Most of you are old

enough to know that it is unexpected weather that causes most of the

trouble that the weather occasions. The farmer expects fair weather,

cuts his hay or grain, and a storm comes and spoils it. He looks for

rain, and lets his crop stand; the bright sun injures it, or he loses a

good chance to harvest it. The ship-master expects fair weather, puts

out from port, and his ship is driven back upon the shore, a wreck. He

expects a storm, stays in port, and misses the fair wind that would

have carried him far to sea.

Now, a very large part of these disappointments and losses may be

prevented, if one only knows with reasonable certainty what sort of

weather it is likely to be to-day and to-morrow; and that is just the

information the Weather Herald furnishes. The great storms usually come

slowly driving across the country--so slowly that the telegraph may

send word of their coming two or three days ahead. Thus the farmers may

know just what they may safely undertake to do; and so may the

ship-masters.

Since the farmers and seamen have learned to value the weather warnings

rightly, this service saves the country every year millions and

millions of dollars' worth of property, and, it may be, hundreds of

lives. Often a single timely warning has prevented losses that would

have amounted to more than the entire cost of the weather service from

the beginning until now. And possibly the yearly saving effected by

warnings of ordinary "changeable" weather, may together amount to more

than those in connection with great storms.

TOO MANY BIRTHDAYS.

BY FANNY M. OSBORNE.

The king of the island was the father, and the queen the mother, of the

little princess about whom this story is told. For many generations

there had been but one child born to the royal family; but goodness and

beauty being hereditary, these only children were beloved by all the

subjects of the realm; and although they ran a great danger of being

spoiled, they never were, but remained all through their lives as

simple, gentle, and unpretentious as though born to the humblest lot.

Of course, the event of the birth of one of these children had been,

from time immemorial, the occasion of the greatest and most sincere

rejoicing, and the enthusiasm of the people seemed even greater at each

repetition of these blessed anniversaries.

In this happy island crimes were almost unknown; and so generous and

confiding were the people, that they imagined all the world were as

good as themselves. It is not surprising, therefore, that when the

great physician Aigew came from a far distant land to attend the

grandfather of the little princess on his death-bed, no one in all the

island suspected that he was anything else than the best and kindest of

doctors. It is true that the former court physician, now displaced by

Aigew, had his doubts about his successor. But it is best not to

trouble ourselves with what we cannot understand; and whether or not

Aigew was as good as he pretended to be, the king and queen were

altogether pleased with their new doctor. Knowing him to be wise and of

great book-learning, they admitted him to the closest intimacy in their

private life, consulted him upon all questions of state, and accepted

his guidance and counsel as that of a superior being. It was to his

influence that the islanders owed their great birthday law, by which it

was enacted that, on each recurrence of the princess's anniversary,

every child in the kingdom was to be allowed his or her way, without

restraint, from sunrise until sunset; and, during the day, the use of

the word "no" was forbidden to all fathers and mothers and

nursery-maids, from one end of the island to the other.

Everybody thought this one of the best enactments of the reign. "What a

beautiful thought!" said they. "All the children in the land rejoicing

with their princess! When they are grown men and women, they will

always think of her with pleasure, for she will be associated with the

most delightful memories of their childhood."

It certainly did seem very charming at first. But the day after was

harvest-time for the great physician and his assistants, who kept

flying hither and thither post-haste.

Still, every one said it was a good law. It was true the children were

not quite so well next day; but then, what a fine moral effect! and

what a pleasant sight it was to see them all thoroughly happy for at

least one day in every year!

Now, just after the fourteenth birthday had been celebrated, Aigew was

called in to see to the princess. He gave her a little medicine, which

she took in the prettiest way, without jelly.

"That's a nice, good girl," said the grave doctor. "I have offered you

no birthday gift as yet; but it is in my power to give you anything you

wish. Say--what shall it be, sweet princess?"

"It is enough to give me your kind care," answered the princess.

"Everything else I have. The best part of all to me was the enjoyment

of the other children. Ah! how I wish I could have a birthday whenever

I choose!"

"Even that," said the doctor, "is possible," as he took something from

his bosom, smiling curiously to himself as he did so. "I give you this

little casket upon two conditions," said he. "One is that you are never

to mention the circumstance to a living soul; you are not even to speak

of it to me. The other I will tell you after I have explained the

nature of the gift. Inside this box are eighty crystal figures; each

one represents a birthday, and lies, as you see, in a separate

compartment. Begin at the right hand, and whenever you wish to have a

birthday, you have only to place one of these in your little mouth, and

it is here."

[Illustration: THE DOCTOR PRESENTS THE CASKET TO THE PRINCESS.]

The princess, trembling and faint from a strange perfume in the air,

took the box in her hand.

"But the other condition?"

"It is merely this: that no one but yourself ever tastes the contents

of the magical box. If any one should, the worst consequences would

follow; and, among others, all these birthdays, with all that they have

occasioned and all the presents that have been given in their honor,

will pass away and become as nothing. Remember this." And he was gone.

The princess examined her singular present with the most intense

interest. It looked wonderfully like a pill-box; but inside, lying in

the tiniest compartments, were marvelously small and beautiful figures

exactly like herself in miniature, except that, beginning at the right,

each one was a little older in appearance than the one preceding.

The next morning, before the rising of the sun, the little princess lay

awake, with the casket in her hand.

"Shall I? or shall I not?" said she. "I think I shall."

And the first figure from the right melted on her lips. The taste was

sweet; but that was soon forgotten in her surprise at the unusual

bustle which sprang up immediately in the city. Cannons were firing;

the populace was shouting, "Long live the princess!" and great vans

came thundering up to the entrance, laden with gifts. Yes, it was all

true; she might have a birthday whenever she chose. It passed off like

the fourteen that had gone before. On the morrow, another was

celebrated; another, after the interval of one day; and another in a

week from that; so that the whole kingdom was kept in a continual

uproar of festivity.

Dr. Aigew sent to his own country for many more learned doctors and

chemists. He built great laboratories, where, all day and all night,

pills and draughts and mixtures (of which I hope never even to know the

names) were zealously compounded. The huge chimneys sent forth black

clouds of physic-laden smoke, which began to hang like a pall over the

city. The fields, once yellow with corn, were now only cultivated for

the production of rhubarb and senna and camomile. The children of the

nation grew as yellow and bilious as Aigew himself. All the wealth of

the island was pouring into the coffers of the doctor. There were no

shops open but those of chemists and confectioners. No other trade had

an opportunity to flourish. The country was plainly going to ruin.

[Illustration: THE DOCTOR SUMMONS OTHER DOCTORS AND CHEMISTS.]

The old king saw but one way to save his people. He must send his

daughter away. This made him very sad, for he loved her dearly, and

could not bear to have her know the truth.

"What shall I do?" he asked the queen.

"It is quite plain," answered she. "Marry her."

This was easily done. The fame of her beauty and gentleness had reached

other lands; and a marriage was soon arranged between the little

princess and a handsome young prince, who was the son and heir of a

neighboring king.

In due time, the prince with his retinue started, in much pomp and

magnificence, to visit the bride; and he made such good speed, in his

impatience, that he arrived in the island several days before the time

appointed. Within the city gates, the cavalcade halted for a moment

that the prince might rest.

"I am very weary," said he to the chamberlain. "Call the first

gentleman-in-waiting, and ask him to tell the page to tell the butler

to send a servant with some wine. Or, stay! I'd like to taste the

national beverage, whatever it may be."

So the chamberlain told the first gentleman-in-waiting to tell the page

to tell the butler to tell a servant to ask some one for the national

beverage. The servant returned from a confectioner's shop, and told the

butler, who told the page, who told the first gentleman-in-waiting, who

told the chamberlain, that the people generally drank lemonade, but, on

account of the celebration of the princess's birthday, none was to be

had.

"There is some mistake!" cried the prince, who was tired and a little

cross, and very thirsty; "there is some mistake! The princess's

birthday will be the day after to-morrow, the date for which we were

invited. Go and find out the meaning of this riddle."

Soon the chamberlain returned, bringing the confectioner with him.

"My lord," says he, "this man tells so strange a story, that I have

brought him here lest you should suspect me of falsehood. He declares

that he has furnished confections, creams, and fruits for the

princess's birthday, forty-one distinct individual times."

"It is the truth, my lord," said the confectioner.

"It cannot be!" gasped the prince. "Make further inquiries. Tell the

chamberlain to tell the gentleman-in-waiting to tell the page to tell

the--ah! I am deathly faint. Forty-one, and I but twenty last month!"

Voices were heard and approaching footsteps. The chamberlain had

brought six reverend men, dignitaries of the town, all of whom

testified that on forty-one several occasions the birthday of the

princess had been celebrated.

"It is enough! In fact, too much!" cried the prince. "We return

immediately. This insult shall not pass unavenged."

So all the horses turned their heads where their tails had been; the

musicians changed their tune from "See, the conquering hero comes" to

"Take me home to die;" and the prince returned whence he came.

The king, his father, was not so wroth as the prince had expected.

"I have been wrong," said he. "The prince is 'O'er young to marry yet,'

while I have been a widower for many years, and perhaps should marry

first and set him an example. If the match proves unfortunate, I shall

not have so long to endure it, from the difference in our ages. From my

experience, he may learn wisdom. Yes, like a true father, I will

sacrifice myself. It is I who shall marry the lady. You say she is fair

and gentle, and only forty-one? I will sacrifice myself."

The other king and his court were much surprised when the news came

that the prince repudiated all thoughts of the marriage, and that the

father proposed to take his place as bridegroom. They were at first

disposed to be indignant; but then something had to be done, or the

kingdom would soon be ruined. And besides, the king was already on his

way; he was known to be of a fiery temper; he had at his command a

large and powerful standing army; and if he chose to make war, there

was no possibility of resisting him, for the soldiers of the island had

turned their swords into plowshares, and were engaged in raising senna.

[Illustration: DELIVERING THE PRINCE'S MESSAGE.]

The princess, as you may imagine, was not pleased with this change of

bridegrooms; but, used to obedience, she acquiesced in everything, and

told no one of the bitter tears she nightly shed upon her pillow. She

tried to be as cheerful as possible in presence of her parents, and

diverted her mind by having continual birthdays.

The bridegroom king halted at the gates of the town, with great

dignity. He, too, arrived on a different day from the one appointed. It

was a week later, at least. Age (the king was sixty, if he was a day)

travels with more care and deliberation than hot-headed youth.

While waiting for the gates to be opened, the king could not forbear

smiling at the horror of the young man when told of his bride's age.

"Forty-one is not so old," thought he. "Perhaps this is the very

confectioner's where they furnished the information, but could not

furnish any refreshment."

Turning to an attendant, he gave the order:

"Bring me from yonder house a draught of whatever is mostly used in the

city."

It was not the confectioner's house, as he supposed, to which he

pointed, but one of Aigew's laboratories. His majesty's commands were

carried thither; and the chemist, gray and wizen, came forth, bearing a

goblet filled with a dark liquid of peculiar odor. He bowed his knee,

and held it toward the king, who took it in his hand, sniffed his royal

nose suspiciously, and said:

[Illustration: THE CHEMIST PRESENTS THE BEVERAGE TO THE KING.]

"It has a disagreeable smell! What is it called?"

"Rhubarb and senna, your majesty; it is the only drink taken the day

after the princess's birthday. Merry-making and feasting, when indulged

in too freely, are necessarily followed by physic and fasting."

"I'll none of it," cried the king. "The princess's birthday! I thought

her birthday had passed weeks ago."

"Of that I know nothing," replied the chemist. "I only know that

yesterday we celebrated her seventy-second birthday. I am an old man,

as your majesty sees, and not likely to tell that which is false."

The king was purple with rage. He said but the one word "Home!" In a

few moments, he and his retinue had turned their backs, and they

speedily disappeared behind the hills. There was only left a cloud of

dust, and an occasional strain of "The girl I left behind me," borne

back upon the wind from the distance.

This last blow fell heavily on the father of the princess. He flew into

a rage; he had had too much of birthdays and bridegrooms, and

determined he would be a party to no more of either.

"Get you gone to a convent!" he cried to his weeping, frightened

daughter. "Don apparel suitable to your years, and offend my sight no

more!"

They placed upon the princess's yellow curls a beldame's cap, robed her

in a plain gown of black, and made ready to take her away.

"I cannot understand," thought she, "the cause of the misfortunes that

have befallen me and all the world. Can it be Dr. Aigew's casket?" She

took it from her bosom.

"I fear me I shall want no birthdays in the convent," said she, sadly.

"So there, little birds, take what is left."

As she strewed the sugary mites, the little birds caught them up and

flew away.

A sudden earthquake convulsed the land, a violent hurricane swept over

it. During these changes of nature, everything that had been affected

by the unnatural birthdays returned to its former state. All

remembrance even, connected with them ever so remotely, was wiped from

the memory of man.

I am not sure, but I think the prince did afterward visit the island,

and was much impressed by its quiet, sylvan life and the incomparable

beauty of the princess; and they do say----

[Illustration]

UNDER THE LILACS

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

CHAPTER XVI.

DETECTIVE THORNTON.

A few days later, Miss Celia was able to go about with her arm in a

sling, pale still, and rather stiff, but so much better than any one

had expected, that all agreed Mr. Paine was right in pronouncing Dr.

Mills "a master hand with broken bones." Two devoted little maids

waited on her, two eager pages stood ready to run her errands, and

friendly neighbors sent in delicacies enough to keep these four young

persons busily employed in disposing of them.

Every afternoon the great bamboo lounging chair was brought out and the

interesting invalid conducted to it by stout Randa, who was head nurse,

and followed by a train of shawl, cushion, foot-stool, and book

bearers, who buzzed about like swarming bees round a new queen. When

all were settled, the little maids sewed and the pages read aloud, with

much conversation by the way; for one of the rules was, that all should

listen attentively, and if any one did not understand what was read, he

or she should ask to have it explained on the spot. Whoever could

answer these questions was invited to do so, and at the end of the

reading Miss Celia could ask any she liked, or add any explanations

which seemed necessary. In this way much pleasure and profit was

extracted from the tales Ben and Thorny read, and much unexpected

knowledge as well as ignorance displayed, not to mention piles of

neatly hemmed towels for which Bab and Betty were paid like regular

sewing-women.

So vacation was not all play, and the little girls found their picnics,

berry parties, and "goin' a visitin'," all the more agreeable for the

quiet hour spent with Miss Celia. Thorny had improved wonderfully, and

was getting to be quite energetic, especially since his sister's

accident; for while she was laid up he was the head of the house, and

much enjoyed his promotion. But Ben did not seem to flourish as he had

done at first. The loss of Sancho preyed upon him sadly, and the

longing to go and find his dog grew into such a strong temptation that

he could hardly resist it. He said little about it; but now and then a

word escaped him which might have enlightened any one who chanced to be

watching him. No one was, just then, so he brooded over this fancy, day

by day, in silence and solitude, for there was no riding and driving

now. Thorny was busy with his sister trying to show her that he

remembered how good she had been to him when he was ill, and the

little girls had their own affairs.

Miss Celia was the first to observe the change, having nothing to do

but lie on a sofa and amuse herself by seeing others work or play. Ben

was bright enough at the readings, because then he forgot his troubles;

but when they were over and his various duties done, he went to his own

room or sought consolation with Lita, being sober and quiet, and quite

unlike the merry monkey all knew and liked so well.

"Thorny, what is the matter with Ben?" asked Miss Celia, one day, when

she and her brother were alone in the "green parlor," as they called

the lilac-tree walk.

"Fretting about Sanch, I suppose. I declare I wish that dog had never

been born! Losing him has just spoilt Ben. Not a bit of fun left in

him, and he wont have anything I offer to cheer him up."

Thorny spoke impatiently, and knit his brows over the pressed flowers

he was neatly gumming into his herbal.

"I wonder if he has anything on his mind? He acts as if he was hiding a

trouble he didn't dare to tell. Have you talked with him about it?"

asked Miss Celia, looking as if _she_ was hiding a trouble _she_ did not

like to tell.

"Oh, yes, I poke him up now and then, but he gets peppery, so I let him

alone. May be he's longing for his old circus again. Shouldn't blame

him much if he was; it isn't very lively here, and he's used to

excitement, you know."

"I hope it isn't that. Do you think he would slip away without telling

us, and go back to the old life again?"

"Don't believe he would. Ben isn't a bit of a sneak, that's why I like

him."

"Have you ever found him sly or untrue in any way?" asked Miss Celia,

lowering her voice.

"No; he's as fair and square a fellow as I ever saw. Little bit low,

now and then, but he doesn't mean it, and wants to be a gentleman, only

he never lived with one before, and it's all new to him. I'll get him

polished up after a while."

"Oh, Thorny, there are _three_ peacocks on the place, and you are the

finest!" laughed Miss Celia, as her brother spoke in his most

condescending way with a lift of the eyebrows very droll to see.

"And _two_ donkeys, and Ben's the biggest, not to know when he is well

off and be happy!" retorted the "gentleman," slapping a dried specimen

on the page as if he were pounding discontented Ben.

"Come here and let me tell you something which worries me. I would not

breathe it to another soul, but I feel rather helpless, and I dare say

you can manage the matter better than I."

Looking much mystified, Thorny went and sat on the stool at his sister's

feet, while she whispered confidentially in his ear: "I've lost some

money out of my drawer, and I'm _so_ afraid Ben took it."

"But it's always locked up and you keep the keys of the drawer and the

little room?"

"It is gone, nevertheless, and I've had my keys safe all the time."

"But why think it is he any more than Randa, or Katy, or me?"

"Because I trust you three as I do myself. I've known the girls for

years, and you have no object in taking it since all I have is yours,

dear."

"And all mine is yours, of course. But, Celia, how _could_ he do it? He

can't pick locks, I know, for we fussed over my desk together, and had

to break it after all."

"I never really thought it possible till to-day when you were playing

ball and it went in at the upper window, and Ben climbed up the porch

after it; you remember you said, 'If it had gone in at the garret gable

you couldn't have done that so well;' and he answered, 'Yes, I could,

there isn't a spout I can't shin up, or a bit of this roof I haven't

been over.'"

"So he did; but there is no spout near the little room window."

"There is a tree, and such an agile boy as Ben could swing in and out

easily. Now, Thorny, I _hate_ to think this of him, but it has happened

twice, and for his own sake I must stop it. If he is planning to run

away, money is a good thing to have. And he may feel that it is his own;

for you know he asked me to put his wages in the bank, and I did. He may

not like to come to me for that, because he can give no good reason for

wanting it. I'm so troubled I really don't know what to do."

She looked troubled, and Thorny put his arms about her as if to keep

all worries but his own away from her.

"Don't you fret, Cely, dear; you leave it to me. I'll fix

him--ungrateful little scamp!"

"That is not the way to begin. I'm afraid you will make him angry and

hurt his feelings, and then we can do nothing."

"Bother his feelings! I shall just say, calmly and coolly: 'Now, look

here, Ben, hand over the money you took out of my sister's drawer, and

we'll let you off easy,' or something like that."

"It wouldn't do, Thorny; his temper would be up in a minute, and away

he would go before we could find out whether he was guilty or not. I

wish I knew how to manage."

"Let me think," and Thorny leaned his chin on the arm of the chair,

staring hard at the knocker as if he expected the lion's mouth to open

with words of counsel then and there.

"By Jove, I do believe Ben took it!" he broke out suddenly; "for when I

went to his room this morning to see why he didn't come and do my

boots, he shut the drawer in his bureau as quick as a flash, and looked

red and queer, for I didn't knock, and sort of startled him."

"He wouldn't be likely to put stolen money there. Ben is too wise for

that."

"He wouldn't _keep_ it there, but he might be looking at it and pitch it

in when I called. He's hardly spoken to me since, and when I asked him

what his flag was at half-mast for, he wouldn't answer. Besides, you

know in the reading this afternoon he didn't listen, and when you asked

what he was thinking about, he colored up and muttered something about

Sanch. I tell you, Celia, it looks bad--very bad," and Thorny shook his

head with a wise air.

"It does, and yet we may be all wrong. Let us wait a little and give

the poor boy a chance to clear himself before we speak. I'd rather lose

my money than suspect him falsely."

"How much was it?"

"Eleven dollars; a one went first, and I supposed I'd miscalculated

somewhere when I took some out; but when I missed a ten, I felt that I

ought not to let it pass."

"Look here, sister, you just put the case into my hands and let me work

it up. I wont say anything to Ben till you give the word; but I'll watch

him, and now my eyes are open, it wont be easy to deceive _me_."

Thorny was evidently pleased with the new play of detective, and

intended to distinguish himself in that line; but when Miss Celia asked

how he meant to begin, he could only respond with a blank expression:

"Don't know! You give me the keys and leave a bill or two in the

drawer, and may be I can find him out somehow."

So the keys were given, and the little dressing-room where the old

secretary stood was closely watched for a day or two. Ben cheered up a

trifle, which looked as if he knew an eye was upon him, but otherwise

he went on as usual, and Miss Celia, feeling a little guilty at even

harboring a suspicion of him, was kind and patient with his moods.

Thorny was very funny in the unnecessary mystery and fuss he made; his

affectation of careless indifference to Ben's movements and his clumsy

attempts to watch every one of them; his dodgings up and down stairs,

ostentatious clanking of keys, and the elaborate traps he set to catch

his thief, such as throwing his ball in at the dressing-room window and

sending Ben up the tree to get it, which he did, thereby proving beyond

a doubt that he alone could have taken the money, Thorny thought.

Another deep discovery was, that the old drawer was so shrunken that

the lock could be pressed down by slipping a knife-blade between the

hasp and socket.

"Now it is as clear as day, and you'd better let me speak," he said,

full of pride as well as regret, at this triumphant success of his

first attempt as a detective.

"Not yet, and you need do nothing more. I'm afraid it was a mistake of

mine to let you do this; and if it has spoiled your friendship with

Ben, I shall be very sorry; for I do not think he is guilty," answered

Miss Celia.

"Why not?" and Thorny looked annoyed.

"I've watched also, and he doesn't act like a deceitful boy. To-day I

asked him if he wanted any money, or should I put what I owe him with

the rest, and he looked me straight in the face with such honest,

grateful eyes, I could not doubt him when he said: 'Keep it, please, I

don't need anything here, you are all so good to me.'"

"Now, Celia, don't you be soft-hearted. He's a sly little dog, and knows

my eye is on him. When _I_ asked him what he saw in the dressing-room,

after he brought out the ball, and looked sharply at him, he laughed,

and said: 'Only a mouse,' as saucy as you please."

"Do set the trap there, I heard the mouse nibbling last night, and it

kept me awake. We must have a cat or we shall be overrun."

"Well, shall I give Ben a good blowing up, or will you?" asked Thorny,

scorning such poor prey as mice, and bound to prove that he was in the

right.

"I'll let you know what I have decided in the morning. Be kind to Ben,

meantime, or I shall feel as if I had done you harm in letting you

watch him."

So it was left for that day, and by the next, Miss Celia had made up

her mind to speak to Ben. She was just going down to breakfast when the

sound of loud voices made her pause and listen. It came from Ben's

room, where the two boys seemed to be disputing about something.

"I hope Thorny has kept his promise," she thought, and hurried through

the back entry, fearing a general explosion.

Ben's chamber was at the end, and she could see and hear what was going

on before she was near enough to interfere. Ben stood against his

closet door looking as fierce and red as a turkey-cock; Thorny sternly

confronted him, saying in an excited tone, and with a threatening

gesture: "You are hiding something in there, and you can't deny it."

"I don't."

"Better not; I insist on seeing it."

"Well, you wont."

"What have you been stealing now?"

"Didn't steal it,--used to be mine,--I only took it when I wanted it."

"I know what that means. You'd better give it back or I'll make you."

"Stop!" cried a third voice, as Thorny put out his arm to clutch Ben,

who looked ready to defend himself to the last gasp. "Boys, I will

settle this affair. _Is_ there anything hidden in the closet, Ben?" and

Miss Celia came between the belligerent parties with her one hand up to

part them.

[Illustration: MISS CELIA BECOMES PEACE-MAKER.]

Thorny fell back at once, looking half ashamed of his heat, and Ben

briefly answered, with a gulp as if shame or anger made it hard to

speak steadily:

"Yes'm, there is."

"Does it belong to you?"

"Yes'm, it does."

"Where did you get it?"

"Up to Squire's."

"That's a lie!" muttered Thorny to himself.

Ben's eye flashed, and his fist doubled up in spite of him, but he

restrained himself out of respect to Miss Celia, who looked puzzled, as

she asked another question, not quite sure how to proceed with the

investigation: "Is it money, Ben?"

"No'm, it isn't."

"Then what _can_ it be?"

"Meow!" answered a fourth voice from the closet, and as Ben flung open

the door a gray kitten walked out, purring with satisfaction at her

release.

Miss Celia fell into a chair and laughed till her eyes were full;

Thorny looked foolish, and Ben folded his arms, curled up his nose, and

regarded his accuser with calm defiance, while pussy sat down to wash

her face as if her morning toilette had been interrupted by her sudden

abduction.

"That's all very well, but it doesn't mend matters much, so you needn't

laugh, Celia," began Thorny, recovering himself, and stubbornly bent

on sifting the case to the bottom, now he had begun.

"Well, it would, if you'd let a feller alone. She said she wanted a

cat, so I went and got the one they gave me when I was at the Squire's.

I went early and took her without asking, and I had a right to,"

explained Ben, much aggrieved by having his surprise spoiled.

"It was very kind of you, and I'm glad to have this nice kitty. Give

her some breakfast, and then we will shut her up in my room to catch

the mice that plague me," said Miss Celia, picking up the little cat,

and wondering how she would get her two angry boys safely down-stairs.

"The dressing-room, she means; _you_ know the way, and _you_ don't need

keys to get in," added Thorny, with such sarcastic emphasis that Ben

felt some insult was intended, and promptly resented it.

"You wont get me to climb any more trees after _your_ balls, and my cat

wont catch any of _your_ mice, so you needn't ask me."

"Cats don't catch thieves, and they are what I'm after!"

"What do you mean by that?" fiercely demanded Ben.

"Celia has lost some money out of her drawer, and you wont let me see

what's in yours; so I thought, perhaps, you'd got it!" blurted out

Thorny, finding it hard to say the words, angry as he was, for the face

opposite did not look like a guilty one.

For a minute, Ben did not seem to understand him, plainly as he spoke;

then he turned an angry scarlet, and, with a reproachful glance at his

mistress, opened the little drawer so that both could see all that it

contained.

"They aint anything; but I'm fond of 'em--they are all I've got--I was

afraid he'd laugh at me that time, so I wouldn't let him look--it was

father's birthday, and I felt bad about him and Sanch--"

Ben's indignant voice got more and more indistinct as he stumbled on,

and broke down over the last words. He did not cry, however, but threw

back his little treasures as if half their sacredness was gone; and,

making a strong effort at self-control, faced around, asking of Miss

Celia, with a grieved look:

"Did _you_ think I'd steal anything of yours?"

"I tried not to, Ben, but what could I do? It was gone, and you the

only stranger about the place."

"Wasn't there _any one_ to think bad of but me?" he said, so sorrowfully

that Miss Celia made up her mind on the spot that he was as innocent of

the theft as the kitten now biting her buttons, no other refreshment

being offered.

"Nobody, for I know my girls well. Yet, eleven dollars are gone, and I

cannot imagine where or how; for both drawer and door are always

locked, because my papers and valuables are in that room."

"What a lot! But how could _I_ get it if it was locked up?" and Ben

looked as if that question was unanswerable.

"Folks that can climb in at windows for a ball, can go the same way for

money, and get it easy enough when they've only to pry open an old

lock!"

Thorny's look and tone seemed to make plain to Ben all that they had

been suspecting, and, being innocent, he was too perplexed and unhappy

to defend himself. His eye went from one to the other, and, seeing

doubt in both faces, his boyish heart sunk within him; for he could

prove nothing, and his first impulse was to go away at once.

"I can't say anything, only that I _didn't_ take the money. You wont

believe it, so I'd better go back where I come from. _They_ weren't so

kind, but _they_ trusted me, and knew I wouldn't steal a cent. You may

keep my money, and the kitty, too; I don't want 'em," and, snatching up

his hat, Ben would have gone straight away, if Thorny had not barred his

passage.

"Come, now, don't be mad. Let's talk it over, and if I'm wrong I'll

take it all back and ask your pardon," he said, in a friendly tone,

rather scared at the consequences of his first attempt, though as sure

as ever that he was right.

"It would break my heart to have you go in that way, Ben. Stay at least

till your innocence is proved, then no one can doubt what you say now."

"Don't see how it can be proved," answered Ben, appeased by her evident

desire to trust him.

"We'll try as well as we know how, and the first thing we will do is to

give that old secretary a good rummage from top to bottom. I've done it

once, but it is just possible that the bills may have slipped out of

sight. Come, now, I can't rest till I've done all I can to comfort you

and convince Thorny."

Miss Celia rose as she spoke, and led the way to the dressing-room,

which had no outlet except through her chamber. Still holding his hat,

Ben followed with a troubled face, and Thorny brought up the rear,

doggedly determined to keep his eye on "the little scamp" till the

matter was satisfactorily cleared up. Miss Celia had made her proposal

more to soothe the feelings of one boy and to employ the superfluous

energies of the other, than in the expectation of throwing any light

upon the mystery; for she was sadly puzzled by Ben's manner, and much

regretted that she had let her brother meddle in the matter.

"There," she said, unlocking the door with the key Thorny reluctantly

gave up to her, "this is the room and that is the drawer on the right.

The lower ones have seldom been opened since we came, and hold only

some of papa's old books. Those upper ones you may turn out and

investigate as much as you----Bless me! here's something in your trap,

Thorny!" and Miss Celia gave a little skip as she nearly trod on a

long, gray tail, which hung out of the hole now filled by a plump

mouse.

But her brother was intent on more serious things, and merely pushed

the trap aside as he pulled out the drawer with an excited gesture,

which sent it and all its contents clattering to the floor.

"Confound the old thing! It always stuck so I had to give a jerk. Now,

there it is, topsy-turvy!" and Thorny looked much disgusted at his own

awkwardness.

"No harm done; I left nothing of value in it. Look back there, Ben, and

see if there is room for a paper to get worked over the top of the

drawer. I felt quite a crack, but I don't believe it is possible for

things to slip out; the place was never full enough to overflow in any

way."

Miss Celia spoke to Ben, who was kneeling down to pick up the scattered

papers, among which were two marked dollar bills,--Thorny's bait for

the thief. Ben looked into the dusty recess, and then put in his hand,

saying carelessly:

"There's nothing but a bit of red stuff."

"My old pen-wiper--Why, what's the matter?" asked Miss Celia, as Ben

dropped the handful of what looked like rubbish.

"Something warm and wiggly inside of it," answered Ben, stooping to

examine the contents of the little scarlet bundle. "Baby mice! Aint

they funny? Look just like mites of young pigs. We'll have to kill 'em

if you've caught their mammy," he said, forgetting his own trials in

boyish curiosity about his "find."

Miss Celia stooped also, and gently poked the red cradle with her

finger; for the tiny mice were nestling deeper into the fluff with

small squeaks of alarm. Suddenly she cried out: "Boys, boys, I've found

the thief! Look here, pull out these bits and see if they wont make up

my lost bills."

Down went the motherless babies as four ruthless hands pulled apart

their cosey nest, and there, among the nibbled fragments, appeared

enough finely printed, greenish paper, to piece out parts of two bank

bills. A large cypher and part of a figure one were visible, and that

accounted for the ten; but though there were other bits, no figures

could be found, and they were willing to take the other bill on trust.

"Now, then, _am_ I a thief and a liar?" demanded Ben, pointing proudly

to the tell-tale letters spread forth on the table, over which all three

had been eagerly bending.

"No; I beg your pardon, and I'm very sorry that we didn't look more

carefully before we spoke, then we all should have been spared this

pain."

"All right, old fellow, forgive and forget. I'll never think hard of

you again,--on my honor I wont."

As they spoke, Miss Celia and her brother held out their hands frankly

and heartily. Ben shook both, but with a difference; for he pressed the

soft one gratefully, remembering that its owner had always been good to

him; but the brown paw he gripped with a vengeful squeeze that made

Thorny pull it away in a hurry, exclaiming, good-naturedly, in spite of

both physical and mental discomfort:

"Come, Ben, don't you bear malice; for you've got the laugh on your

side, and we feel pretty small. I do, anyway; for, after my fidgets,

all I've caught is a mouse!"

"And her family. I'm so relieved I'm almost sorry the poor little

mother is dead--she and her babies were so happy in the old pen-wiper,"

said Miss Celia, hastening to speak merrily, for Ben still looked

indignant, and she was much grieved at what had happened.

"A pretty expensive house," began Thorny, looking about for the

interesting orphans, who had been left on the floor while their

paper-hangings were examined.

No further anxiety need be felt for them, however, Kitty had come upon

the scene; and as judge, jury, and prisoner, turned to find the little

witnesses, they beheld the last pink mite going down Pussy's throat in

one mouthful.

"I call that summary justice,--the whole family executed on the spot!

Give Kit the mouse also, and let us go to breakfast. I feel as if I had

found my appetite, now this worry is off my mind," said Miss Celia,

laughing so infectiously that Ben had to join in spite of himself, as

she took his arm and led him away with a look which mutely asked his

pardon over again.

"Rather lively for a funeral procession," said Thorny, following with

the trap in his hand and Puss at his heels, adding, to comfort his

pride as a detective: "Well, I said I'd catch the thief, and I have,

though it is rather a small one!"

CHAPTER XVII.

BETTY'S BRAVERY.

"Celia, I've notion that we ought to give Ben something. A sort of

peace-offering, you know; for he feels dreadfully hurt about our

suspecting him," said Thorny, at dinner that day.

"I see he does, though he tries to seem as bright and pleasant as ever.

I do not wonder, and I've been thinking what I could do to soothe his

feelings. Can you suggest anything?"

"Cuff-buttons. I saw some jolly ones over at Berryville,--oxidized

silver, with dogs' heads on them, yellow eyes, and all as natural as

could be. Those, now, would just suit him for his go-to-meeting white

shirts,--neat, appropriate, and _in memoriam_."

Miss Celia could not help laughing, it was such a boyish suggestion;

but she agreed to it, thinking Thorny knew best, and hoping the

yellow-eyed dogs would be as balm to Ben's wounds.

"Well, dear, you may give those, and Lita shall give the little whip

with a horse's foot for a handle, if it is not gone. I saw it at the

harness shop in town, and Ben admired it so much that I planned to give

it to him on his birthday."

"That will tickle him immensely; and if you'd just let him put brown

tops to my old boots and stick a cockade in his hat when he sits up

behind the phaeton, he'd be a happy fellow!" laughed Thorny, who had

discovered that one of Ben's ambitions was to be a "tip-top groom."

"No, thank you; those things are out of place in America, and would be

absurd in a small country place like this. His blue suit and straw hat

please me better for a boy, though a nicer little groom, in livery or

out, no one could desire, and you may tell him I said so."

"I will, and he'll look as proud as Punch; for he thinks every word you

say worth a dozen from any one else. But wont _you_ give him something?

Just some little trifle, to show that we are both eating humble pie,

feeling sorry about the mouse money."

"I shall give him a set of school-books, and try to get him ready to

begin when vacation is over. An education is the best present we can

make him, and I want you to help me fit him to enter as well as we can.

Bab and Betty, began, little dears,--lent him their books and taught

all they knew; so Ben got a taste, and, with the right encouragement,

would like to go on, I am sure."

"That's so like you, Celia. Always thinking of the best thing and doing

it handsomely. I'll help like a house a-fire, if he will let me; but,

all day, he's been as stiff as a poker, so I don't believe he forgives

_me_ a bit."

"He will in time, and if you are kind and patient he will be glad to

have you help him; I shall make it a sort of favor to me on his part,

to let you see to his lessons, now and then. It will be quite true, for

I don't want you to touch your Latin or algebra till cool weather;

teaching him will be play to you."

Miss Celia's last words made her brother unbend his brows, for he

longed to get at his books again, and the idea of being tutor to his

"man-servant" did not altogether suit him.

"I'll tool him along at a great pace, if he will only go. Geography and

arithmetic shall be my share, and you may have the writing and

spelling; it gives me the fidgets to set copies and hear children make

a mess of words. Shall I get the books when I buy the other things? Can

I go this afternoon?"

"Yes, here is the list, Bab gave it to me. You can go if you will come

home early and have your tooth filled."

Gloom fell at once upon Thorny's beaming face, and he gave such a

shrill whistle that his sister jumped in her chair, as she added,

persuasively:

"It wont hurt a bit, now, and the longer you leave it the worse it will

be. Dr. Mann is ready at any time, and once over you will be at peace

for months. Come, my hero, give your orders, and take one of the girls

to support you in the trying hour. Have Bab, she will enjoy it and

amuse you with her chatter."

"As if I needed girls around for such a trifle as that!" returned

Thorny, with a shrug, though he groaned inwardly at the prospect before

him, as most of us do on such occasions. "I wouldn't take Bab at any

price; she'd only get into some scrape and upset the whole plan. Betty

is the chicken for me,--a real little lady, and as nice and purry as a

kitten."

"Very well; ask her mother, and take good care of her. Let her tuck her

dolly in, and she will be contented anywhere. There's a fine air, and

the awning is on the phaeton, so you wont feel the sun. Start about

three, and drive carefully."

Betty was charmed to go, for Thorny was a sort of prince in her eyes,

and to be invited to such a grand expedition was an overwhelming honor.

Bab was not surprised, for, since Sancho's loss, she had felt herself

in disgrace and been unusually meek; Ben let her "severely alone,"

which much afflicted her, for he was her great admiration, and had been

pleased to express his approbation of her agility and courage so often

that she was ready to attempt any fool-hardy feat to recover his

regard. But vainly did she risk her neck jumping off the highest beams

in the barn, trying to keep her balance standing on the donkey's back,

and leaping the lodge gate at a bound; Ben vouchsafed no reward by a

look, a smile, a word of commendation, and Bab felt that nothing but

Sancho's return would ever restore the broken friendship.

Into faithful Betty's bosom did she pour forth her remorseful

lamentations, often bursting out with the passionate exclamation, "If I

could only find Sanch and give him back to Ben, I wouldn't care if I

tumbled down and broke all my legs right away!" Such abandonment of woe

made a deep impression on Betty, and she fell into the way of consoling

her sister by cheerful prophecies and a firm belief that the organ-man

would yet appear with the lost darling.

"I've got five cents of my berry money, and I'll buy you a orange if I

see any," promised Betty, stopping to kiss Bab, as the phaeton came to

the door, and Thorny handed in a young lady whose white frock was so

stiff with starch that it crackled like paper.

"Lemons will do if oranges are gone. I like 'em to suck with lots of

sugar," answered Bab, feeling that the sour sadly predominated in her

cup just now.

"Don't she look sweet, the dear!" murmured Mrs. Moss, proudly surveying

her youngest.

She certainly did, sitting under the fringed canopy with "Belinda," all

in her best, upon her lap, as she turned to smile and nod, with a face

so bright and winsome under the little blue hat, that it was no wonder

mother and sister thought there never was such a perfect child as "our

Betty."

Dr. Mann was busy when they arrived, but would be ready in an hour, so

they did their shopping at once, having made sure of the whip as they

came along. Thorny added some candy to Bab's lemon, and Belinda had a

cake, which her mamma obligingly ate for her. Betty thought that

Aladdin's palace could not have been more splendid than the jeweler's

shop where the canine cuff-buttons were bought; but when they came to

the book-store she forgot gold, silver, and precious stones, to revel

in picture-books, while Thorny selected Ben's modest school outfit.

Seeing her delight, and feeling particularly lavish with plenty of

money in his pocket, the young gentleman completed the child's bliss by

telling her to choose whichever one she liked best out of the pile of

Walter Crane's toy-books lying in bewildering colors before her.

"This one; Bab always wanted to see the dreadful cupboard, and there's

a picture of it here," answered Betty, clasping a gorgeous copy of

"Blue-beard" to the little bosom, which still heaved with the rapture of

looking at that delicious mixture of lovely Fatimas in pale azure

gowns, pink Sister Annes on the turret top, crimson tyrants, and yellow

brothers with forests of plumage blowing wildly from their

mushroom-shaped caps.

"Very good; there you are, then. Now, come on, for the fun is over and

the grind begins," said Thorny, marching away to his doom, with his

tongue in his tooth and trepidation in his manly breast.

"Shall I shut my eyes and hold your head?" quavered devoted Betty, as

they went up the steps so many reluctant feet had mounted before them.

"Nonsense, child, never mind me! You look out of window and amuse

yourself; we shall not be long, I guess," and in went Thorny, silently

hoping that the dentist had been suddenly called away, or some person

with an excruciating toothache would be waiting to take ether, and so

give our young man an excuse for postponing his job.

But no; Dr. Mann was quite at leisure, and, full of smiling interest,

awaited his victim, laying forth his unpleasant little tools with the

exasperating alacrity of his kind. Glad to be released from any share

in the operation, Betty retired to the back window to be as far away as

possible, and for half an hour was so absorbed in her book that poor

Thorny might have groaned dismally without disturbing her.

"Done now, directly; only a trifle of polishing off and a look round,"

said Dr. Mann, at last, and Thorny, with a yawn that nearly rent him

asunder, called out:

"Thank goodness! Pack up, Bettykin."

"I'm all ready," and, shutting her book with a start, she slipped down

from the easy-chair in a great hurry.

But "looking round" took time, and before the circuit of Thorny's mouth

was satisfactorily made, Betty had become absorbed by a more

interesting tale than even the immortal "Blue-beard." A noise of

children's voices in the narrow alley-way behind the house attracted

her attention; the long window opened directly on the yard, and the

gate swung in the wind. Curious as Fatima, Betty went to look; but all

she saw was a group of excited boys peeping between the bars of another

gate further down.

"What's the matter?" she asked of two small girls, who stood close by

her, longing but not daring to approach the scene of action.

"Boys chasing a great black cat, I believe," answered one child.

"Want to come and see?" added the other, politely extending the

invitation to the stranger.

The thought of a cat in trouble would have nerved Betty to face a dozen

boys, so she followed at once, meeting several lads hurrying away on

some important errand, to judge from their anxious countenances.

"Hold tight, Jimmy, and let 'em peek, if they want to. He can't hurt

anybody now," said one of the dusty huntsmen, who sat on the wide

coping of the wall, while two others held the gate, as if a cat could

only escape that way.

"You peek first, Susy, and see if it looks nice," said one little girl,

boosting her friend so that she could look through the bars in the

upper part of the gate.

"No; it's only an ugly old dog!" responded Susy, losing all interest at

once, and descending with a bounce.

"He's mad, and Jud's gone to get his gun so we can shoot him," called

out one mischievous boy, resenting the contempt expressed for their

capture.

"Aint, neither!" howled another lad from his perch. "Mad dogs wont

drink, and this one is lapping out of a tub of water!"

"Well, he may be, and we don't know him, and he hasn't got any muzzle

on, and the police will kill him if Jud don't," answered the sanguinary

youth who had first started the chase after the poor animal, which had

come limping into town, so evidently a lost dog that no one felt any

hesitation in stoning him.

"We must go right home; my mother is dreadful 'fraid of mad dogs, and

so is yours," said Susy; and, having satisfied their curiosity, the

young ladies prudently retired.

But Betty had not had her "peep," and could not resist one look; for

she had heard of these unhappy animals, and thought Bab would like to

know how they looked. So she stood on tip-toe and got a good view of a

dusty, brownish dog, lying on the grass close by, with his tongue

hanging out while he panted, as if exhausted by fatigue and fear, for

he still cast apprehensive glances at the wall which divided him from

his tormentors.

[Illustration: THE STRANGE DOG.]

"His eyes are just like Sanch's," said Betty to herself, unconscious

that she spoke aloud, till she saw the creature prick up his ears and

half rise, as if he had been called.

"He looks as if he knew me, but it isn't our Sancho; _he_ was a lovely

dog." Betty said that to the little boy peeping in beside her; but

before he could make any reply, the brown beast stood straight up with

an inquiring bark, while his eyes shone like topaz, and the short tail

wagged excitedly.

"Why, that's just the way Sanch used to do!" cried Betty, bewildered by

the familiar ways of this unfamiliar-looking dog.

As if the repetition of his name settled his own doubts, he leaped

toward the gate and thrust a pink nose between the bars, with a howl of

recognition as Betty's face was more clearly seen. The boys tumbled

precipitately from their perches, and the little girl fell back

alarmed, yet could not bear to run away and leave those imploring eyes

pleading to her through the bars so eloquently.

"He acts just like our dog, but I don't see how it _can_ be him. Sancho,

Sancho, is it truly you?" called Betty, at her wits' end what to do.

"Bow, wow, wow!" answered the well-known bark, and the little tail did

all it could to emphasize the sound, while the eyes were so full of

dumb love and joy, the child could not refuse to believe that this ugly

stray was their own Sancho strangely transformed.

All of a sudden, the thought rushed into her mind, "How glad Ben would

be!--and Bab would feel all happy again. I _must_ carry him home."

Never stopping to think of danger, and forgetting all her doubts, Betty

caught the gate handle out of Jimmy's grasp, exclaiming eagerly: "He

_is_ our dog! Let me go in; I aint afraid."

"Not till Jud comes back; he told us we mustn't," answered the

astonished Jimmy, thinking the little girl as mad as the dog.

With a confused idea that the unknown Jud had gone for a gun to shoot

Sanch, Betty gave a desperate pull at the latch and ran into the yard,

bent on saving her friend. That it _was_ a friend there could be no

further question; for, though the creature rushed at her as if about to

devour her at a mouthful, it was only to roll ecstatically at her feet,

lick her hands, and gaze into her face, trying to pant out the welcome

which he could not utter. An older and more prudent person would have

waited to make sure before venturing in; but confiding Betty knew little

of the danger which she might have run; her heart spoke more quickly

than her head, and, not stopping to have the truth _proved_, she took

the brown dog on trust, and found it was indeed dear Sanch.

Sitting on the grass, she hugged him close, careless of tumbled hat,

dusty paws on her clean frock, or a row of strange boys staring from

the wall.

"Darling doggy, where have you been so long?" she cried, the great thing

sprawling across her lap, as if he could not get near enough to his

brave little protector. "Did they make you black and beat you, dear? Oh,

Sanch, where _is_ your tail--your pretty tail?"

A plaintive growl and a pathetic wag was all the answer he could make

to these tender inquiries; for never would the story of his wrongs be

known, and never could the glory of his doggish beauty be restored.

Betty was trying to comfort him with pats and praises, when a new face

appeared at the gate, and Thorny's authoritative voice called out:

"Betty Moss, what on earth are you doing in there with that dirty

beast?"

"It's Sanch, it's Sanch! Oh, come and see!" shrieked Betty, flying up

to lead forth her prize.

But the gate was held fast, for some one said the words, "Mad dog," and

Thorny was very naturally alarmed, because he had already seen one.

"Don't stay there another minute. Get up on that bench and I'll pull

you over," directed Thorny, mounting the wall to rescue his charge in

hot haste; for the dog did certainly behave queerly, limping hurriedly

to and fro, as if anxious to escape. No wonder, when Sancho heard a

voice he knew, and recognized another face, yet did not meet as kind a

welcome as before.

"No, I'm not coming out till he does. It _is_ Sanch, and I'm going to

take him home to Ben," answered Betty, decidedly, as she wet her

handkerchief in the rain water to bind up the swollen paw that had

traveled many miles to rest in her little hand again.

"You're crazy, child! That is no more Ben's dog than I am."

"See if it isn't!" cried Betty, perfectly unshaken in her faith; and,

recalling the words of command as well as she could, she tried to put

Sancho through his little performance, as the surest proof that she was

right. The poor fellow did his best, weary and footsore though he was;

but when it came to taking his tail in his mouth to waltz, he gave it

up, and, dropping down, hid his face in his paws, as he always did when

any of his tricks failed. The act was almost pathetic now, for one of

the paws was bandaged, and his whole attitude expressed the humiliation

of a broken spirit.

That touched Thorny, and, quite convinced both of the dog's sanity and

identity, he sprung down from the wall with Ben's own whistle, which

gladdened Sancho's longing ear as much as the boy's rough caresses

comforted his homesick heart.

"Now, let's carry him right home, and surprise Ben. Wont he be

pleased?" said Betty, so in earnest that she tried to lift the big

brute in spite of his protesting yelps.

"You are a little trump to find him out in spite of all the horrid

things that have been done to him. We must have a rope to lead him, for

he's got no collar and no muzzle. He _has_ got friends though, and I'd

like to see any one touch him _now_. Out of the way, there, boys!"

Looking as commanding as a drum-major, Thorny cleared a passage, and

with one arm about his neck, Betty proudly led her treasure forth,

magnanimously ignoring his late foes, and keeping his eye fixed on the

faithful friend whose tender little heart had known him in spite of all

disguises.

"I found him, sir," and the lad who had been most eager for the

shooting, stepped forward to claim any reward that might be offered for

the now valuable victim.

"I kept him safe till she came," added the jailer Jimmy, speaking for

himself.

"I said he wasn't mad," cried a third, feeling that his discrimination

deserved approval.

"Jud aint _my_ brother," said the fourth, eager to clear his skirts from

all offense.

"But all of you chased and stoned him, I suppose? You'd better look out

or you'll get reported to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to

Animals."

With this awful and mysterious threat, Thorny slammed the doctor's gate

in the faces of the mercenary youths, nipping their hopes in the bud,

and teaching them a good lesson.

After one astonished stare, Lita accepted Sancho without demur, and

they greeted one another cordially, nose to nose, instead of shaking

hands. Then the dog nestled into his old place under the linen duster

with a grunt of intense content, and soon fell fast asleep, quite worn

out with fatigue.

No Roman conqueror bearing untold treasures with him, ever approached

the Eternal City feeling richer or prouder than did Miss Betty as she

rolled rapidly toward the little brown house with the captive won by

her own arms. Poor Belinda was forgotten in a corner, "Blue-beard" was

thrust under the cushion, and the lovely lemon was squeezed before its

time by being sat upon; for all the child could think of, was Ben's

delight, Bab's remorseful burden lifted off, "Ma's" surprise, and Miss

Celia's pleasure. She could hardly realize the happy fact, and kept

peeping under the cover to be sure that the dear dingy bunch at her

feet was truly there.

"I'll tell you how we'll do it," said Thorny, breaking a long silence

as Betty composed herself with an irrepressible wriggle of delight

after one of these refreshing peeps. "We'll keep Sanch hidden, and

smuggle him into Ben's old room at your house. Then I'll drive on to

the barn, and not say a word, but send Ben to get something out of that

room. You just let him in, to see what he'll do. I'll bet you a dollar

he wont know his own dog."

"I don't believe I _can_ keep from screaming right out when I see him,

but I'll try. Oh, wont it be fun!"--and Betty clapped her hands in

joyful anticipation of that exciting moment.

A nice little plan, but Master Thorny forgot the keen senses of the

amiable animal snoring peacefully among his boots, and, when they

stopped at the Lodge, he had barely time to say in a whisper, "Ben's

coming; cover Sanch and let me get him in quick," before the dog was

out of the phaeton like a bombshell, and the approaching boy went down

as if shot, for Sancho gave one leap and the two rolled over and over,

with a shout and a bark of rapturous recognition.

"Who is hurt?" asked Mrs. Moss, running out with floury hands uplifted

in alarm.

"Is it a bear?" cried Bab, rushing after her, egg-beater in hand, for a

dancing bear was the desire of her heart.

"Sancho's found! Sancho's found!" shouted Thorny, throwing up his hat

like a lunatic.

"Found, found, found!" echoed Betty, dancing wildly about as if she too

had lost her little wits.

"Where? How? When? Who did it?" asked Mrs. Moss, clapping her dusty

hands delightedly.

"It isn't; it's an old dirty brown thing," stammered Bab, as the dog

came uppermost for a minute, and then rooted into Ben's jacket as if he

smelt a woodchuck and was bound to have him out directly.

Then Thorny, with many interruptions from Betty, poured forth the

wondrous tale, to which Bab and her mother listened breathlessly, while

the muffins burned as black as a coal, and nobody cared a bit.

"My precious lamb, how did you dare to do such a thing?" exclaimed Mrs.

Moss, hugging the small heroine with mingled admiration and alarm.

"I'd have dared, and slapped those horrid boys, too. I _wish_ I'd gone!"

and Bab felt that she had forever lost the chance of distinguishing

herself.

"Who cut his tail off?" demanded Ben, in a menacing tone, as he came

uppermost in his turn, dusty, red and breathless, but radiant.

"The wretch who stole him, I suppose; and he deserves to be hung,"

answered Thorny, hotly.

"If ever I catch him, I'll--I'll cut his nose off," roared Ben, with

such a vengeful glare that Sanch barked fiercely, and it was well that

the unknown "wretch" was not there, for it would have gone hardly with

him, since even gentle Betty frowned, while Bab brandished the

egg-beater menacingly, and their mother indignantly declared that "it

was _too_ bad!"

Relieved by this general outburst, they composed their outraged

feelings; and while the returned wanderer went from one to another to

receive a tender welcome from each, the story of his recovery was more

calmly told. Ben listened with his eye devouring the injured dog; and

when Thorny paused, he turned to the little heroine, saying solemnly,

as he laid her hand with his own on Sancho's head:

"Betty Moss, I'll never forget what you did; from this minute half of

Sanch is your truly own, and if I die you shall have the whole of him,"

and Ben sealed the precious gift with a sounding kiss on either chubby

cheek.

Betty was so deeply touched by this noble bequest, that the blue eyes

filled and would have overflowed if Sanch had not politely offered his

tongue like a red pocket-handkerchief, and so made her laugh the drops

away, while Bab set the rest off by saying, gloomily:

"I mean to play with all the mad dogs I can find; then folks will think

_I'm_ smart and give _me_ nice things."

"Poor old Bab, I'll forgive you now, and lend you my half whenever you

want it," said Ben, feeling at peace now with all mankind, including

girls who tagged.

"Come and show him to Celia," begged Thorny, eager to fight his battles

over again.

"Better wash him up first; he's a sight to see, poor thing," suggested

Mrs. Moss, as she ran in, suddenly remembering her muffins.

"It will take a lot of washings to get that brown stuff off. See, his

pretty pink skin is all stained with it. We'll bleach him out, and his

curls will grow, and he'll be as good as ever--all but--"

Ben could not finish, and a general wail went up for the departed

tassel that would never wave proudly in the breeze again.

"I'll buy him a new one. Now form the procession and let us go in

style," said Thorny, cheerily, as he swung Betty to his shoulder and

marched away whistling "Hail! the conquering hero comes," while Ben and

his Bow-wow followed arm-in-arm, and Bab brought up the rear, banging

on a milk-pan with the egg-beater.

(_To be continued_.)

THE YANKEE BOYS THAT DIDN'T NUMBER TEN.

BY W. M. BICKNELL.

[Illustration]

'Tis morning, and no boy is seen

In all the street, with play and fun.

Ah! there comes Sam along the lane,

With searching eyes, and he is one.

[Illustration]

The road to school is lone for him;

What could a single fellow do?

But Ben appears just there away,

And he with book and slate makes two.

[Illustration]

Yet not enough for jolly sport;

It's plain more lads there ought to be.

Why, there is Tom, 'most out of breath!

And now, together, they are three.

[Illustration]

Then on they run and skip and frisk,

With eager looks that seek for more;

Dan trips along with joyous shout,--

Now reckon, and you'll find them four.

[Illustration]

They spring and hurry o'er the ground,

All brave to wade or swim or dive.

"Mother, there go the boys," cries Ed;

No sooner said than there were five.

[Illustration]

"Not half school-time," they all declare;

"No clock can cheat us with its tricks!

Upon the hill there's waiting Frank!"

Though short and small, yet he made six.

[Illustration]

O'er hedge and rocks and field they run;

"Hello!" cries Ben, "see, there is Evan!"

And now, as they rush on, we see,

Like wonders of the world, they're seven.

[Illustration]

As if a bird had carried word,

Like birds the boys thus congregate;

To join the rest leaped merry Will,

And, puffing, swelled the count to eight.

[Illustration]

Time quickly flew down by the shore,

When boys and raft had fun so fine.

But hark! Too plainly now they heard

The clock! That made the doleful nine.

[Illustration]

The crew had all put out from land,

And out put teacher, Mr. Glenn,

With swinging arm and noisy bell,--

No boy was he to make the ten!

THE BARBECUE.

_(The "Tolerbul" Bad Boy again.)_

BY SARAH WINTER KELLOGG.

Marley came bolting into Aunt Silvy's cabin. This is what he usually did

when things vexed him.

"It's mean!" he said, snatching off his large straw hat and wiping the

perspiration from his brow.

Aunt Silvy was peeling peaches for drying--great, luscious Indian

peaches, too, beet-red from down to pit.

"Seems like yer's al'ays fin'in' somethin' mean," she said, as the long

peeling dropped into the pan, and she proceeded to stone the peach,

which looked as though pared by machinery. "What's de matter now?

Somethin' 'bout de barb'cue?"

"Yes, the committee's been 'roun' here to see what Pa'd subscribe, an'

he signed for o-n-e shoat! Think how it'll look!--'Wm. Coleman, one

shoat.' An' the paper's goin' all over the county; everybody'll see

it,--General Bradshaw, and Mandy, and all the girls! If I couldn't give

anything but a mean ole shoat, I wouldn't put my name down 'tall."

"Neber had no sich puffawmances at yer granpaw Thompson's. He uster

su'scribe a heap er deaf an' dum' an'mals. I 'members one Foaf July he

su'scribed,--lem me see ef I kin 'member what all he did su'scribe. Thar

wus two oxes an' 'leven milk cows, an'--"

"I don't b'lieve it," Marley interrupted.

"It's de bawn troof," said Aunt Silvy, solemnly. "I 'members dar wusn't

nuff cows lef' ter git milk fer de white folks' coffee nex' mawnin arter

dat barb'cue. But, law, Mah'sr Mawley! dat wusn't haf' yer granpaw

Thompson su'scribed. Thar wus fou'teen fat shoats, an'--lem me see how

many tuckies; twenty-fou' tuckies, thutty-fou' Muscovy ducks, fawty

chickuns, sebenteen geese an' ganders, an'--"

Marley gave a long whistle.

"Well, if that isn't the biggest story that ever I heard sence I was

created!"

"He did so. I could prove it by yer maw, but her wus sich a little gal

when it happened, her's fawgot. I 'members we all didn't hab no geese

ter pick arter dat barb'cue, 'cept one ole gander; an' I 'members goin'

to de hen-house, an' seein' not a sol'tary human critter lef in dat dar

hen-house 'cept de ole saddle-back rooster. An', law! I fawgot de

hams,--a heap er hams,--more 'n a hundud; an' de sheeps--law! I dunno

how many sheeps dar wus."

"An' didn't he subscribe a team of mules an' a half-dozen negroes?" said

Marley. "An' I want to know where my gran'pa got all the wagons to haul

all the things to the barbecue? I reckon it would take fifty wagons to

do it; I'm goin' to ask Pa."

"Law! I wouldn't go pesterin' master 'bout it. I neber say yer granpaw

tuck um ter de barb'cue; I say he su'scribed um."

"Then he didn't pay what he subscribed?"

"Shucks! Mah'sr Mawley. I can't make yer un'erstan' nuffin. Yer neber

did know nuffin sca'cely."

"I know why they keep the Fourth of July. You don't, do you?"

"Of cou'se! Law, chile! I's 'scended from a Rev'lution cullud genulmon

what wus presunt at de fuss Foaf July dar ever wus."

Marley laughed and laughed at this till Aunt Silvy began to sulk. He

couldn't afford to have her offended; he wanted her to do something for

him. So he checked his laughter, and said:

"You know everybody in the county is invited to the barbecue."

"Ob cou'se. De suckit-riders gives it out at all de 'p'intments. Ev'ry

pusson's 'vited, cullud pussons an' white folks. Thar'll be a heap er

folks thar."

"Now, look yere, Aunt Silvy; you b'long to me, you know. You always

said--"

"Yer b'longs ter me, mow like; an' yer maw b'longs ter me, too. I nussed

her when she wus a baby, an' yer too. Law! I owns yer bofe."

"Well, then, I'm your boy, an' I want you to do somethin' for me."

"I'll be boun' yer does."

"I felt so 'shame 'bout Pa's one shoat, that I went out to the front

gate, an' when the committee came to go away, I tole 'em I'd bring

somethin' to the barbecue."

"Mussy! yer aint got nuffin ter take."

"If I had a 'coon-dog, I might catch a 'coon or a 'possum. Look yere!

can't you borrow Boston's ole Rum for me?"

Boston was Aunt Silvy's husband, and belonged on another plantation, and

Rum was Boston's 'coon-dog.

"Ob cou'se I kin. Bos'on's mighty good ter min' me. But, law! yer aint

'quainted wid ole Rum; yer couldn't manage him no more'n nuffin. 'Sides,

'coons an' 'possums aint good now tell arter pussimon-time. Folks ud

duspise yer 'coon an' 'possum, kase they's so poo'."

"Well, what can I take? I know Pa wouldn't let you bake me anything."

"Mussy, no! Law! yer oughter seed de roas'in' an' fryin', an' all de

gwyne-ons at yer granpaw Thompson's. One Foaf we all tuck--lem me see,

how many cheese-cakes an' tauts wus it?"

"But what can I take?" said Marley, impatiently.

"I reckons some fresh fish would tas' tolerbul good."

"That's just it," Marley cried, springing to his feet; and he went on

talking excitedly about a splendid cat-fish hole, and where he could

find perch, and how he could keep them alive, etc. At length he said:

"Pa says I can't go unless I take Sukey on behine me. I'd a heap rather

walk than go in that poor folks' way. Mandy Bradshaw ud be sure to see

us, an' she'd turn up her nose higher'n she did when I rolled the

mandrake-apple to her."

"Needn't turn up _her_ nose at a ha'f Thompson. I wus 'quainted wid de

Bradshaws when dey wus poo' es yaller dirt,--had jis fou' ole niggers,

an' dey wus mos' all womens an' childuns."

"But General Bradshaw's tolerbul rich now,--a heap richer'n Pa."

"He got rich hoss-racin'," said Aunt Silvy, contemptuously.

But Marley was thinking about the hardship that Sukey was.

"She's such a coward," he said, "in riding. She hol's on to me so hard

that she pinches like sixty, an' mos' tears my clothes off. An' if the

horse goes out of a walk, she hollers that she's goin' to fall off. I

don't want to go pokin' up to the barbecue like it was the first time I

ever was on horseback in my life. But I'll have to go that way, or with

Sukey clingin' to me an' hollerin'."

"Reckon I might pussuade her ter stay to hum."

"Oh no!" Marley said, warmly. "Sukey must go; she'd be so disappointed,

I'd a heap rather stan' Mandy's gigglin' than Sukey's cryin'. No;

Sukey's got to go if she rides on my head."

"I'll tell yer," said Aunt Silvy. "Bos'on's got leave to tote dat little

bay mule uv Patrick's over here fer me ter ride ter de barb'cue. Her

name's Jinny, an' her racks tolerbul easy. I kin take Miss Sukey in my

lap an' Barb'ry Allen on behine."

Marley thought this a capital plan, and went away to make his

preparations for the Fourth. He brought an immense cotton-basket from

the gin-loft, and nailed it against the side of the little log

spring-house, after having half sunk it in the branch that flowed

through the building. This is where he meant to put his fish to keep

them fresh for the barbecue. Of these he felt sure, for the plantation

lay along a noble "run," abounding with creatures. He captured his fish

in a way not sportsman-like--by nets and night-hooks; but then there was

need of expedition, for there were only two days to the Fourth. When he

went to look at his lines, he always took his rifle and Rover; he might,

per-chance, encounter some game. The first day he shot a red squirrel.

But the next day--oh, the next day! It was late in the afternoon when he

went to the run. He was about descending the bluff which overhung one of

his lines, when he saw something that made his heart stand still, and

then leap as though it would jump from his body. He was never so excited

in his life. There, with its nostrils in the water, was a strange

animal. In an instant, he knew it. Rover, too, knew it, and gave a low

growl. Quickly Marley put his hand on the dog's head, and whispered,

"Down, Rover, down! good fellow, down!" But the wary creature at the

drink had heard something. Two antlers were suddenly flung up, and a

face turned to windward. Marley, with his knee on Rover, hardly dared to

breathe, yet aimed his rifle. "Down, Rover! good dog, down!" he again

whispered. Then the sharp crack of the rifle broke the silence, and

Marley, on his feet, strained his eager eyes through the smoke. Was that

a fallen deer, or was it the shadow of cypress-knees? He and Rover went

running and leaping to the spot. Yes, he had killed a fine buck with ten

tines. He was a happy boy, you may believe. Here was a contribution to

the barbecue worthy of the glorious day. When he had turned the animal

over and over, and wondered where it came from, and how it happened to

be there alone, he left Rover to guard it, and hurried back for help to

get it home. He ran every step of the way. Then, mounted on black Betts,

and accompanied by Jim, he returned to the heroic spot, and there found

the faithful Rover and his dead charge. The game was strapped behind

Marley's saddle, and old Betts was made to go galloping back to the

house. Then, after everybody had looked at the deer, and handled it in

every possible way, and wondered about it, and Marley had told over and

over the story of the shooting, the game was dressed and put down in the

spring-house, to keep cool for the morrow, which was the Fourth.

Marley rose early the next morning, and waked Aunt Silvy by firing his

rifle into her cabin. Then he saw the shoat and venison put in the

wagon, and a barrel of spring-water, crowded with darting fishes. After

breakfast, he dressed-up in his best clothes, and stuck two

cotton-blooms--one white, the other red--in his button-hole. He did not

wear these for ornaments, as the cotton-blossom, which opens white and

then quickly turns crimson, is as large and coarse as a hollyhock, which

it somewhat resembles; but among the planters it is considered an honor

to display the first cotton-blooms.

He was early on the barbecue ground, located near a fine clear spring,

about which were hung a score of gourd dippers. He found the campers

already humming like a hive. There were coaches and buggies and

lumber-wagons, and scores upon scores of tethered horses and mules,

which had brought people to the scene; and other carriages and

riding-horses were momently dashing in. Whole families came on

horseback,--not infrequently three riders to a mule or horse. Streams of

negroes were pouring in, usually on foot. There were well-dressed

gentlemen and gay ladies, and a fair sprinkling of shabby people; and

Marley wondered where they all came from. In a short time after his

arrival, he caught sight of Aunt Silvy; he knew her by the faded pink

satin bonnet which she had worn ever since he could remember. She had

Sukey on her shoulder, and was tugging up the hill from the spring.

Boston had failed to bring over "pacing Jinny" for his wife to ride, so

the faithful negro had brought Sukey all the way on her shoulder. Marley

was quite touched when he realized this, and he made up his mind that

he'd take Sukey back behind him, if Mandy Bradshaw should giggle her

head off about it. Why should he care for her mocking more than for the

comfort of Aunt Silvy, his life-long friend? He went over, and offered

to escort Sukey around to see the sights, but she preferred to stay with

Aunt Silvy; so he felt free to wander where he pleased. And he pleased

to wander everywhere, and to see everything. He was greatly interested

in all the proceedings,--the spreading of the long, long tables under

the oaks and beeches; the unloading of the wagons; the clatter of

dishes; the great boiling kettles down by the spring, where negroes were

dressing shoats and sheep and great beeves--every animal being left

whole, but split to the back-bone.

[Illustration: GOING TO THE BARBECUE.]

Then there was a rostrum, covered with forest-boughs and decorated with

wreaths and flags, where the Declaration of Independence was to be read

and the oration was to be given. "Yankee Doodle" the band was playing

from it when Marley strolled by, and about it were the Washington

Rifles, in their pretty uniform of blue and white, waiting to open the

programme by a salute and some special maneuvering.

But to Marley the most wonderful and interesting of all the sights was

the barbecuing. There were long, broad ditches, floored with coals a

foot deep, over which the great carcasses of hogs and bullocks were laid

on spits, as on a gridiron. Beyond these trenches, great log-fires were

kept blazing, that the ditches might be replenished with coals. Ever and

anon, an immense iron kettle would be seen, borne between two negro men,

and filled with glowing coals. Such hissing and sissing as there was

above those lines of fire! What savory odors were in the air! How

important and fussy the cooks at the spits! How splendid the great

log-heap fires! How grand the high-mounting flames and the columns of

blue smoke! Marley was in a mood to enjoy it all, for "the committee"

had expressed special pleasure with his contribution; it was the only

game on the ground, and they were warm in their compliments of his

sportsmanship.

But after a while, Marley, in his strollings about the grounds, saw a

written placard tacked to a tree. Of course he read it, and then he

stood confounded by the revelation it made to him. Can't you guess what

it was? An advertisement for an escaped pet deer! He knew by the

description (the ten tines, the slashed ear, etc.) that it was the deer

he had shot. To have shot anybody's pet deer, and to know that it was at

that moment over the coals, would have been mortification enough; but it

was the name at the foot of the advertisement which carried to Marley's

heart the sorest dismay he had ever felt in his life. Whose deer had he

killed? Guess! Why, Mandy Bradshaw's! He was so chagrined, so bitterly

distressed, that he would have said he could never smile again. What was

he ever to do about it? Of course, there was but one manly thing to do:

confess the whole matter to General Bradshaw. But he felt sure he'd

rather die than do this. He went over to where Aunt Silvy was barbecuing

the deer, the most melancholy-looking boy, perhaps, that ever was at a

barbecue with a cotton-bloom in his button-hole. To her he told the

truth, and felt better the instant he had spoken it. But when he asked

her advice, she replied:

"I don't devize nuffin. Yer granpaw Thompson uster say thar neber wus no

use in devizin' nobody, kase a wise man didn't need no device, an' a

fool wouldn't take no device. But ef I wus yer, I'd jis go ter Mandy an'

tell her how it happen."

Marley saw that it must come to this, and wisely decided that the sooner

it was done the better. So he began to hover around Mandy, lying about

on the grass, sitting on stumps and logs near her, and sauntering back

and forth. Finally, he saw her standing alone, her girl mate having run

off after a yellow butterfly. He walked in a dizzy kind of way to her

side. He said, "Howdy, Mandy?" and she answered, "Howdy?" looking at him

with a question in her look.

Marley knew she was wondering what he had come for, and that he was now

committed to some sort of explanation. He blushed and blushed, till it

seemed to him he never could stop blushing.

"Don't be mad at me," he said, pleadingly.

"I'm not mad at you," she said.

"But you will be when I tell you. I didn't go to do it. I wouldn't have

done it for the world, but I thought it was a wild deer and shot it."

"Oh! you're talkin' 'bout my deer; you shot my deer?"

"Yes," said Marley, hoarsely. He thought he was going to choke to death.

"They are barbecuing it now. I never was so sorry in my life. I'll pay

for it, or I'll get you another, or I'll do anything in the world you

tell me to."

Mandy burst out laughing, and said: "How absurd to talk so about that

deer. But you wouldn't do anything I tell you. You wouldn't go up on the

rostrum there, an' stan' on your head."

"Yes, I would, if it would keep you from being mad at me," said Marley.

"Well, I'm not, mad at you. I don't care much about that deer; he used

to scare me nearly to death, and Pa was going to bring him to the

barbecue. You've brought him instead of Pa--that's all the difference. I

shouldn't have thought you'd have told about it when you felt so badly.

I reckon you're tolerbul plucky. Why don't you ever come over to see

brother Bob."

"Don't know; 'cause he never asked me to, I reckon."

"I know he'd like to have you. Look yere! He's got some Roman candles

he's goin' to fire off to-night; so you stop as you go home this

evening. It's right on your way. Can't you?"

"I reckon so," answered Marley, his heart throbbing with pleasure.

"Look here, Marley," Mandy added, suddenly. "Don't say anything about

that deer, and I wont tell; so nobody'll know anything about it."

"I must tell General Bradshaw. There he is coming this way now, to take

you to 'the stand.'"

"Well, tell him, and I'll ask him not to tell."

When Marley had "owned up," the General gave him a hearty slap on the

back, calling him a brave lad and a good shot, and promised Mandy never

to tell as long as he lived. When Marley spoke of the antlers, etc., he

was told that he should keep them.

Then they went up to "the stand," and not a boy in the assemblage felt

in a better mood than Marley for applauding the patriotic music, and the

old "Declaration," and Mr. Delaney's ardent oration. At every allusion

to the star-spangled banner, Marley cheered; and when the orator

apostrophized the national bird, perched with one talon an the Alleghany

and the other on the Sierras, dipping his beak now in the Atlantic and

now in the Pacific, preening his feathers with the mighty Lakes as his

mirror, our Marley shouted in a patriotic transport from a stump, and

threw up his cap, and threw it up till it lodged in a tree, and he could

toss it no longer. He shook it down just as the marshal of the day

announced that he would proceed to blow the horn for dinner, to which

everybody, rich and poor, bond and free, was most cordially

invited--ladies to be served first, then the gentlemen, then the colored

people. They would please form by twos, and march to the tables as the

band played "Hail Columbia!"

Then a great bullock's horn, decorated with our blessed colors, was

raised to the marshal's lips, and he blew and blew and blew _such_

blasts; and when he had ended, the multitude--especially the

boys--shouted such shouts as might have leveled the walls of another

Jericho, if horn-blasts and shouts could do such things in these days.

Then the people, in long, fantastic line, wound in and out among the

trees to the tables in the thick shade; and Marley walked beside Mandy

Bradshaw, keeping step to the spirited music, and feeling heroic enough

to charge an army.

BIRDS AND THEIR FAMILIES

BY PROF. W.K. BROOKS.

In this paper we will talk a little about the different ways in which

birds bring up their children, and will say something, too, about the

young birds themselves. There is almost as great a difference in the

domestic habits and customs of birds as in those of human beings.

You have all heard how the ostrich lays its eggs in the sand, where the

sun can shine upon them, and keep them warm, while the parent birds are

away in search of food during the middle of the day. The South American

ostrich (an engraving of which is given on the next page) makes use of

the warmth of the sun and sand in the same way. According to Darwin, the

mother does not show the least affection for her young, but leaves the

labor of hatching the eggs entirely to the father, who attends to it

very faithfully, but is, of course, compelled to leave the nest

occasionally in search of food, selecting the middle of the day for this

purpose, as the heat of the sun is then sufficient to keep the eggs from

growing cold.

[Illustration: SOUTH AMERICAN OSTRICH.]

I suppose most of you know that if a quantity of wet decaying leaves or

straw is raked together into a large pile, and covered up with a thin

layer of sand or earth, and then left exposed to the sun and rain, the

heat given off by the decay of the vegetable matter forming the inside

of the pile will be retained until, after a few weeks, the interior of

the heap becomes so warm that, when the mound is broken open, a thick

cloud of smoke and steam will rise from it. The mound-building

"brush-turkey" of Australia, New Guinea, and the neighboring islands,

has somehow learned this fact; and also, that the steady and equal heat

generated is sufficient to hatch its eggs. So, instead of making a nest

and sitting upon the eggs until they are hatched, this bird, which has

very large and powerful feet, scratches up a huge pile of decaying

twigs, leaves and grass, thus making a mound often six or eight feet

high, and containing enough material to load several wagons, in which

the eggs are buried. The young birds are not helpless when hatched, like

the young of most of our singing birds, but are quite strong and active,

and able to burrow their way out of the mound, and take care of

themselves immediately.

Some birds provide for their young in still another way. They neither

sit and hatch their own eggs, nor provide an artificial incubator; but

go quietly and drop an egg into the nest of another bird, and allow this

bird to act as a nurse, hatching the egg and finding food for the young

bird. The most notable example of this habit among birds is the case of

the European cuckoo. This bird never builds a nest, or shows the least

love or even recognition of its young. The cuckoo always selects the

nest of a bird much smaller than itself, and as its eggs are much

smaller than those usually laid by a bird of its size, they are no

larger than those which properly belong in the nest; so that the owners

do not appear to discover the deception put upon them, but treat all the

eggs alike. As soon as the young cuckoo is hatched he begins to grow

very fast, and as he is larger and stronger than the other nestlings, he

manages to get the lion's share of the food which the old birds bring to

the nest. It would seem as if robbing his foster brothers and sisters of

part of their nest, of the attention and care of their parents, and of

nearly all of their food, might be enough to satisfy the young cuckoo;

but it is not. He wants not part, but, everything--the whole nest, all

the care of the old birds, and all of the food--for himself; so, when

the old birds are away, he pushes himself under one of the little

nestlings, which is of course too small and weak to help itself, and

throws it out of the nest to die. In this way he murders all his

foster-brothers, and if any eggs are still unhatched he throws them out

too. He now has all the attention of the old birds to himself, for they

continue to treat him as affectionately as if he were really one of

their own children, and go on bringing him food, and attending to all

his wants, long after he has grown to be as large as themselves, or even

larger.

[Illustration: THE CUCKOO.]

We have two species of cuckoo in the United States, but each of them

builds a nest of its own, and rears its own young, although our

yellow-billed cuckoo is a very bad nest-builder, and is said often to

desert its young, leaving them to starve unless other birds take pity

upon them and bring them food. Most of our smaller birds are very

sympathetic during the breeding season, and are ready to give food and

care to any young bird which needs it, even if it is not one of their

own species.

Although our American cuckoos have not, as a general thing, the bad

habits of those of Europe, we have another very common bird which is

hatched and brought up by strangers. Every boy who lives in the country

knows the cow-bird, cow-blackbird, or cow-bunting, for it is called by

all these names. It is a small bird, a little larger than the bobolink

and of much the same shape. The male has a dark-brown head and a bright

greenish-black back and wings, but the female is so much lighter in

color that you would hardly believe that they belong to the same

species. These birds are very abundant in the spring and summer, and may

be seen in flocks flying and feeding in company with the red-winged

blackbirds. They are often found among the cattle and sheep in the

pastures and barn-yards, and they derive all of their common names from

this habit. Although nearly related to the orioles, which make such

wonderful nests, the cow-birds make none at all, but lay their eggs in

the nests of other birds, such as the blue-bird, chipping-bird,

song-sparrow, yellow-bird, and some thrushes and fly-catchers. Like the

cuckoo, this bird usually chooses the nest of a bird much smaller than

itself, but as its egg is not small, the deception is at once

discovered, and the birds whose nest has been selected for this purpose

are very much disturbed. It is necessary for the female cow-bird to find

a nest in which the owners have just begun laying, for if the owners

have no eggs of their own they will desert the nest, and if their own

eggs are somewhat advanced before the cow-bird's egg is laid, their own

young will hatch first, and the parents will then leave the nest to hunt

for food, thus allowing the cow-bird's egg to become cold and die.

When the female cow-bird is ready to lay her egg, she often has great

trouble in discovering a nest at just the right stage. She leaves the

flock and perches upon some tree or bush, where she can have a good view

of all that is going on. When she discovers a nest by watching the

actions of its owners, she waits for an opportunity when both the owners

are away, when she approaches it very stealthily, but quickly, keeping a

very sharp watch, to be sure that she is not observed. If she finds that

the nest is fit for her purpose,--that is, if the birds have laid only a

part of their regular number of eggs,--she drops one of her own eggs

into it, and then disappears as swiftly and quietly as she came. If she

is unable to find a suitable nest in her own vicinity, she goes in

search of one, examining every thicket and bush--sometimes for a long

distance--until she finds one. A gentleman once followed a cow-bird

along the shore of a stream for two miles before she succeeded in

finding a nest which satisfied her. Occasionally, two or more cow-birds'

eggs are found in the same nest. It is not known whether both of these

are laid by the same bird, but it is more probable that in such a case

as this two cow-birds have visited the same nest.

The egg of the cow-bird has one interesting and important peculiarity.

It is necessary, as we have seen, that this should be hatched before the

other eggs; for if it were not, the old birds would stop sitting and

allow it to become cold as soon as their own young were hatched. This

danger, however, has been provided against, since the egg of the

cow-bird needs only eight or nine days of incubation, while the eggs of

those birds in whose nests it is usually found require from twelve to

fifteen days. A short time after the young cow-bird is hatched, all the

other eggs disappear, and they may sometimes be found on the ground,

broken, at a considerable distance from the nest,--so far away that the

young cow-bird could not possibly have thrown them there. The way in

which they are removed from the nest is not known, as no one has yet

watched closely enough to say whether the parents themselves destroy

them, or whether the female cow-bird returns to the nest and removes

them, to give more room for her own young when hatched.

I have already said that the smaller birds are very much disturbed and

troubled when they find one of these eggs in their nest, and are very

apt to desert it and go to another place if they have not yet any eggs

of their own. Our common yellow-bird, however, is sometimes wise enough

to find a better way out of its trouble. It values its neatly finished

nest too highly to desert it, and it is not strong enough to lift the

big egg and throw it over the edge, so it gathers a new supply of hay

and hair, and makes a false bottom to cover up the egg. Then it makes a

new lining to the nest, and lays its own eggs upon that, so that the

cow-bird's egg does not receive any of the warmth from its body, and

never hatches.

[Illustration: EGG OF COW-BIRD.]

I have given you several reasons for believing that birds are able to

think for themselves; but I do not see how anything could prove this

more clearly than this expedient of the yellow-bird for saving its young

from destruction by preventing the hatching of the cow-bird's egg.

Before leaving the subject of birds'-nests, I must say a few words about

the immense number of birds which sometimes gather in one place for the

purpose of raising their young. The enormous flocks of wild pigeons,

which from time to time visit certain parts of the United States, have a

definite portion of the woods, often several miles in extent, where they

gather every night. This is called the "roost," and here they build

their nests and rear their young. There are so many at these roosts that

it is not always safe to go under the trees, for large branches are

often broken off by the weight of the birds and their nests.

If you wish to know more about these pigeon-roosts, you will find long

accounts of them in the books about birds, by those two celebrated men,

Wilson and Audubon. Audubon's account of a roost which he visited in

Kentucky is very interesting and well worth your reading. It is printed

in the first volume of his "Ornithological Biography," and also, I

believe, in the "Life of Audubon, the Naturalist."

In these books, and in the other works of Audubon and Wilson, you will

also find much instructive and entertaining information in regard to all

of our common birds. Most of our sea-birds are very wild, as they are

much hunted by man, and on this account they build their nests and rear

their young on inaccessible and uninhabited rocky islands, and the

number of sea-birds which gather upon these islands during the breeding

season is almost beyond belief; but the following account of Ailsa

Craig, by Nathaniel P. Rodgers (the "Craig" is a rocky island on the

west of Scotland), will give some idea of their abundance at such

places:

It was a naked rock, rising nine hundred and eighty feet abruptly

out of the sea. A little level space projected on one side, with a

small house on it. We could not conjecture the use of a habitation

there. The captain of the steamer said it was the _governor's_

house. We asked him what a governor could do there.

"Take care of the birds," he replied.

"What sort of birds?" we asked him.

"Sea-fowl of all sorts," he said. "They inhabit the Craig, and ye'll

may be see numbers of them. They are quite numerous, and people have

been in the habit of firing to alarm the birds, to see them fly."

He ordered his boy to bring the musket. The boy returned, and said

it had been left behind at Glasgow.

"Load up the swivel, then," said the captain; "it will be all the

better. It will make quite a flight, ye'll find. Load her up pretty

well."

The steamer meanwhile kept nearing the giant craig, which was a bare

rock from summit to the sea. We saw caves in the sides of the

mountain. We had got so near as to see the white birds flitting

across the black entrances of the caverns like bees about a hive.

With the spy-glass we could see them distinctly, and in very

considerable numbers, and at length approached so that we could see

them on the ledges all over the sides of the mountain.

We had passed the skirt of the Craig, and were within half a mile,

or less, of its base. With the glass we could now see the entire

mountain-side peopled with the sea-fowl, and could hear their

whimpering, household cry, as they moved about, or nestled in

domestic snugness on the ten thousand ledges. The air, too, about

the precipices seemed to be alive with them. Still we had not the

slightest conception of their frightful multitude. We got about

against the center of the mountain when the swivel was fired, with

a reverberation like the discharge of a hundred cannon, and what a

sight followed! They rose up from that mountain--the countless

millions and millions of sea-birds--in a universal, overwhelming

cloud, that covered the whole heavens, and their cry was like the

cry of an alarmed nation. Up they went,--millions upon

millions,--ascending like the smoke of a furnace,--countless as the

sands on the sea-shore,--awful, dreadful for multitude, as if the

whole mountain were dissolving into life and light; and, with an

unearthly kind of lament, took up their lines of flight in every

direction off to sea! The sight startled the people on board the

steamer, who had often witnessed it before, and for some minutes

there ensued a general silence. For our own part, we were quite

amazed and overawed at the spectacle. We had seen nothing like it

before. We had never witnessed sublimity to be compared to that

rising of sea-birds from Ailsa Craig. They were of countless

varieties in kind and size, from the largest goose to the small

marsh-bird, and of every conceivable variety of dismal note. Off

they moved, in wild and alarmed rout, like a people going into

exile; filling the air, far and wide, with their reproachful lament

at the wanton cruelty which had driven them away.

This is only one of these breeding-places, but most of the rocky,

inaccessible cliffs and uninhabited islands of the northern and southern

shores of both continents are visited, at certain seasons, by sea-birds

in equally great numbers.

No subject connected with the history of birds furnishes more

interesting material for study than that of instinct. Young birds of

different species show that they have very different degrees of

instinctive knowledge. Some are able to take the entire care of

themselves, and do not need a mother to watch over them; others, on the

contrary, are perfectly helpless, and need teaching before they can do

anything for themselves, except breathe, and swallow what is put into

their mouths. The young chicken, a short time after it leaves the egg,

knows how to take care of itself nearly as well as the young mound-bird.

It can run after its mother, use its eyes, pick up food, and answer the

call of the old hen; and it does all this without instruction. How

different it is in all these respects from the young barn-swallow! This

is blind, and unable to run, or even to stand, knowing only enough to

open its mouth when it hears the old bird return to the nest, and to

swallow the food placed in its open bill. Far from knowing by instinct

how to use its wings, as the young chick does its legs, it does not

learn this until it is well grown, and has had several lessons in

flying; and even then it flies badly, and improves only after long

practice. After it has learned to fly, it is still very helpless and

baby-like, and very different from the active, bright-eyed, independent

little chick of the barn-yard; and, indeed, the young of all the

_Rasores_, or scratching birds, such as the hen, the quail, the

partridge, the pheasant and the turkey. In the admirable picture of an

English pheasant and its brood, on page 610, you will see how very much

like young chicks the young pheasants are.

[Illustration: ENGLISH PHEASANT AND YOUNG.]

The scratching birds are not the only ones which can take care of

themselves at an early age. This is true of the running birds, such as

the ostrich; and the same is the case with many of the wading birds,

such as the woodcock; and among the swimming birds, there are several

kinds that take full care of themselves soon after leaving the shell.

[Illustration: MALLARD DUCKS.]

In the picture on the preceding page you have a pair of mallard ducks

with three young ones, which are all able to swim and dive as well as

their parents. You all know that, far from standing in need of

instruction, young ducks take to the water by instinct, even when they

have been brought up by a hen; and they know that they are perfectly

safe upon it, although the anxious hen tries in every way to restrain

them and to call them back. There are many ways in which some of our

young birds show their really wonderful instincts, but there is nothing

more curious in this respect than the habits of the little chickens,

which most of us have opportunities of noticing,--if we choose to take

the trouble. These little creatures, almost as soon as they are born,

understand what their mother "clucks" to them; they know that they must

hide when a hawk is about; they often scratch the ground for food before

they see their mother or any other chicken do so; they are careful not

to catch bees instead of flies; and they show their early smartness in

many ways which are well worth watching.

But, sometimes, a brood of these youngsters find something that puzzles

them, as when they meet with a hard-shelled beetle, who looks too big to

eat and yet too small for a playmate.

[Illustration]

RAIN.

BY EDGAR FAWCETT.

Oh, the Rain has many fitful moods

Ere the merry summer closes,--

From the first chirp of the robin-broods

To the ruin of the roses!

Through the sunshine's gold her glitter steals,

In the doubtful April weather,

When the world seems trying how it feels

To be sad and glad together.

Now and then, on quiet sultry eves,

From her low persistent patter,

She would seem confiding to the leaves

An extremely solemn matter.

Then, again, you see her from the sky

Such a mighty flood unfolding,

That you wonder if Old Earth knows why

It receives so hard a scolding!

Yet we learn to fancy, day by day,

As we watch her softly shining,

That she has no cloud, however gray,

But it wears a silver lining!

For in autumn, though with tears she tells

How the lands grow sad and darken,

Yet in spring her drops are tinkling bells

For the sleeping flowers to hearken!

And her tinted bow seems Love's own proof,

As it gleams with colors seven,--

Like a stately dome upon the roof

Of her palace, high in heaven!

SNEEZE DODSON'S FIRST INDEPENDENCE DAY.

BY MRS. M.H.W. JAQUITH.

The usually quiet town of Greenville was in a hurly-burly of excitement

on this Fourth of July morning, because of the great Sunday-school

picnic, which was to take place on a fine ground, two miles distant. In

the fervor of patriotism and the bustle of preparing for the

picnic-celebration, almost every house in the village resounded with

shouts and noises; and all the children were on the tip-toe of

expectation and delight. Deacon Ebenezer Dodson sat in the arm-chair in

the "spare room," staring out of the window, and trying to think up the

speech he was to make that day. For he had been chosen by the

town-committee to open the exercises upon the stand with an appropriate

oration; and though he had mused and muttered and studied over it, from

the day when he was first requested to "perform" until this eventful

morning itself, he had not yet succeeded in composing a speech which

satisfied him.

"The flies bother the horses so, I can't practice on it in the field,

and my only chance is o' nights," he had often explained to his wife;

but his nightly meditations on it had been disturbed by such foreign

remarks as this:

"I say, Eb" (that was her family name for him; away from home she always

said "Deacon"), "you haint gone off to sleep, be you? I should feel

masterly cut up ef my cake should be heavy, an' everybody on the grounds

will know it's mine from the marks o' my name I'm goin' to put on the

frostin',"--by which she meant her initials done in red, white, and blue

powdered sugar.

And again:

"Do you remember Mis' Deacon Pogue's pound-cake at the d'nation party

las' winter? She'd bragged on it to every livin' soul, an', when they

came to cut it, there was a solid streak of dough right through the

middle from eend to eend. She didn't happin to be 'round when 'twas cut,

an' I thought it was my duty to let her see a piece, so she'd know how

to better it next time, and she was so mad, she's turned up her nose at

me ever sence."

The Deacon here murmured something beginning "Ninthly," for he had

arranged his speech in heads; but she kept on with such inspiring

memories, that he had poor chance to get up that "Speech by Deacon

Dodson," the sight of which legend on the printed programme had aroused

in him a fixed determination to do or die. But it seemed to him, as he

sat there, that it would be die; for not one "head" could he call up

clearly, and ever and anon his wife would cry out for wood or water, or

to state some fact concerning her cake or chickens.

Just now her rusk was the all-absorbing topic of thought. More than

twenty times she had looked at the dough and reported its "rise" to the

unsympathetic Deacon, who was pumping his arms up and down, and trying

to disentangle his "firstly" and "secondly."

"The procession is going to form at nine o'clock punctial, and march to

the grounds, and so there's no use of dressing Bubby twice," Mrs. Dodson

had said, so that youth of three summers was wandering around in his

night-gown, and had taken so active an interest in the proceedings that

Mrs. Dodson had several times sent him to his father, complaining, "I

never did see him so upstroferlous before."

Sneeze--so called because he was named for his father, and it was

necessary to distinguish them--was hurried in from the barn; his ears

were boxed for "not bein' 'round to take care of Bubby," and then he was

sent with him to the barn.

Deacon had been duly badgered and pestered about household troubles. He

had helped to put on Bubby's shoes--now far too small--and tried to hook

Mrs. Dodson's dress--similarly outgrown. But he was at length

exasperated into saying:

"By George! I can't think of a word of my speech, you bother me so!"

"You fairly make my blood run cold to be sayin' sech words as that on

this Fourth o' July mornin', which you always said was nex' door to

swearin'!" replied his wife; but her stream of talk was frozen up for

the time, and they were at length dressed, packed, and rattling over the

stony hills in a lumber-wagon.

"Wal, this seems quite like Independence Day," she said musingly. "I

remember once goin' to a reg'lar picnic when I was about the bigness of

Sneeze there, an' we had an awful good time. Mother'd plegged herself to

git up somethin' that nobody else'd have, an' finally she made a lot o'

figger four doughnuts to stand for Fourth o' July, you know, an' Aunt

Jane, she that was a Green, Uncle Josiah's first wife, was kind o'

jealous 'cause people noticed them more'n her cookin', an' she said they

was shortened with toughening till nobody couldn't eat 'em. It come

right straight back to mother, an' they never spoke for better'n a

year--no, 'twas just a year, come to think, for mother took sick in bed

very nex' Fourth, an' then Aunt Jane confessed humble enough, and they

made up."

Sneeze had been listening, and while his mother paused for breath, he

asked, "What do we keep Fourth of July for, an' what makes 'em call it

Independence Day? I heard Reub Blake say that was the true name of it."

"Why, Sneeze, I'm 'shamed of you that you don't know that much. It is

because George Washington was born on that day, or died; which was it,

father? An' he fought for our independence. Besides, he never told a

lie, as it tells about in the spellin'-book."

"Yes, it was something of that natur'," said the Deacon; "you'll know

all about it to-day when we come to speak and make our orations."

"Yes, Sneeze, an' Cynthia Ann, your father is goin' to be a speaker on

the stage; but you mus'n't feel set-up over the other girls an' boys

whose fathers an' mothers aint app'inted as speakers an' on the table

committee. You must listen to what father says."

They promised faithfully, and this is what Sneeze would have heard if he

had kept his pledge; but to tell the truth, he was at that time going

around with another boy looking into the baskets, and speculating on the

length of time before dinner.

"Deacon Ebenezer Dodson, the first speaker on the programme, will now

address the assembly," announced the chairman in a stentorian voice,

after the procession had formed, marched, settled down, and were ready

for the "exercises of the day." The Deacon stepped forward, and, with

very evident shaking of the knees, with coughs and ahems, glancing to

the right of him and to the left of him, to the heavens above and the

earth beneath, with trembling voice he began:

"Firstly, my friends and fellow-citizens of this great country, this

institution which we have come here to celebrate was instituted a great

many hundred years ago,--leastways, if not quite so long, since this

institution was instituted all men are free and equal"--(a long pause);

"and since this institution was instituted in this great country, we

have Sunday-schools and can go to church." Another pause.

"Secondly, little children, friends and fellow-citizens of this great

country, let us all use rightly and not abuse the advantages of this

institution which has been instituted for us, and go to church and

Sunday-school, and--and--I see Deacon Pogue is waiting to make some

remarks, and my friends and fellow-citizens of this great country, I

will detain you no longer to dwell upon this institution, which was

instituted to--to--" Here somebody benevolently thought to cheer, and

the "Hip, hip, hurrahs!" were taken up so lustily by the small boys,

that the magnetic sound warmed the Deacon into "Thirdly;" but Deacon

Pogue had stepped briskly forward, and so with a bow, and "Good-by, my

friends and fellow-citizens of this great country," he descended to his

delighted wife, who received him with many proud and joyful

congratulations.

[Illustration: DEACON DODSON'S ORATION.]

Deacon Pogue was more ready and noisy, but spoke quite as much to the

point as Deacon Dodson. He was followed by several others, none of whom

could be omitted without giving offense, and at length, with a great

flourish, the chairman announced "_The_ orator of the day, Captain

Buzwell, from Thornton, who has kindly consented to honor us," etc.

He was a lawyer with a gift of tongues, and his first few words brought

all the hitherto indifferent assembly quietly near the stand. After a

few well-put anecdotes, he said: "But to come back to the subject in

hand: one of your eloquent speakers has called this Fourth of July an

'institution.' That was a novel and happy idea. It is an 'institution,'

and upon it are founded all of our institutions,--free schools, free

religion, free speech, free press, free ballots, free action: freedom

everywhere for all men free and equal is founded on this glorious

'institution,' the corner-stone of which was laid Fourth of July, 1776."

At this point so great was Mrs. Dodson's conjugal pride, and so fearful

was she that her husband was not attending to the speaker's flattery,

that she poked him with her parasol till the Deacon was "fain to cry

out," as Bunyan says. When quiet was restored, the speaker continued:

"Another gifted orator has said,"--and, quoting something from Deacon

Pogue's pointless remarks, he made them also seem full of meaning; and

so on through the list of "distinguished speakers," till each one felt

that he himself had spoken most effectively.

Having thus pleased and interested all parties, he followed with an

instructive, historical speech, to which Sneeze, doughnut and cheese in

hand, listened so intently, that he found out at last "why they kept

Fourth of July."

After the speech and "appropriate instrumental music by the band," which

consisted of a drum and a bass-viol, the people dispersed to amuse

themselves as they saw fit, till dinner should be announced.

Mrs. Dodson, as "Table Committee," was disposed to magnify her office.

She kept the Deacon standing guard over her basket till nearly all the

rest were emptied, having reserved conspicuous places on the table for

her goodies. Taking advantage of her rival's presence, smiling sweetly,

she said as she opened the basket, "Mis' Pogue, your vittles look so

nice, I'm real 'shamed to bring mine out at all."

"But all the while I knew she was proud as Lucifer over 'em, and thought

she'd throw me quite in the shade," Mrs. Pogue told her next neighbor

that afternoon. "Her big cards of rusk did look nice, but her mince-pies

had slipped over into the custards, and they had dripped onto her cake

so it looked just awful! and that red-headed Sneeze had squeezed her

jelly-cake into flap-jacks, most likely by settin' on the basket. I

never see anybody so cut up in my life; her face was redder than a

beet."

And Mrs. Dodson said to the Deacon that night, "I did feel despritly

morterfied over my squashed vittles, with Mis' Pogue a-lookin' on with

all her eyes."

But when "the orator of the day" ate of her rusk, and said, "Mrs.

Dodson, these rusk have a peculiar taste, just such as those my dead

mother used to make for me when I was a boy, and I want you to give me

the recipe for my wife," and he took it down in his note-book, there was

full compensation for all her trials.

When all had eaten all they could, the young folk and children swung,

played ball, or "chased the squirrel" with the delightful penalty of

kissing it when caught, or rambled about at will, while the mothers

gathered the dishes together, and exchanged recipes and confidential

remarks on somebody's cookin'.

By four o'clock the babies were fretful; children of Bubby's age

complained that their shoes and clothes were too tight; somebody

suggested going home. In vain the young people protested--an hour from

that time the grounds were deserted; the lumber of the stage, made

sacred by such oratory, had been gathered up with the seats and tables,

and where so much of life had been, all was silence.

A neighbor's hired man was riding home with the Dodsons, but as Mrs.

Dodson did not mind him, she at once began to congratulate her husband

on his maiden speech. "Cappen Buzwell said you made the best oration

there was made to-day, Deacon. Did you pay 'tention, Sneeze, an' hear

what he said 'bout your father's speakin'?"

The Deacon modestly put in a faint, "Now, mother, don't," but she

interrupted him: "Yis I shall, for it's so, father, an' I'm goin' to say

my say. Besides, he told me, with tears in his eyes, that my rusk tasted

just like his dead mother's. But ef you'd only seen him tryin' to eat

one o' Mis' Pogue's doughnuts as if they was real good, when I could see

they was half chokin' of him!"

"That there man from town did make a purty considerable speech," said

the Deacon; "not so hefty as some I've heard, but real instructing. It

made me feel as though I wanted to fight somebody--purty much as I used

to when I was a boy, and heard my father tell how he fit in the war of

eighteen hundred and twelve, and his grandsir in the Revolutionary war."

"I guess you wasn't in any o' them wars?" stated the hired man,

inquiringly.

"No; I wasn't born then, and o' course I couldn't; but my father used to

tell us about it on trainin'-day nights. Trainin'-day was a great time,

with its uniforms and feathers; my father was a sarjint, and we had

gingerbread and federal cake."

"Well," burst out Sneeze, "if ever I get a chance I'm goin' to be a

soldier, an' fight for my country, as George Washington did. I just wish

we'd have trainin'-day now, and that Fourth of July came every day.

Then, too, when I'm a man, I'm goin' to marry Eliza Johnson, for she--"

"Shut up, Sneeze!" put in Mrs. Dodson. "Little boys like you ought to be

seen and not heard; when your parents make speeches and rusk at Fourth

o' July celebrations that them that was good judges says was most

interestin', you had ought to be listenin' to their talkin' and learnin'

o' them. Here's Bubby a tunin' for somethin' to eat; give him one of

them rusk out of the basket, an' stop your nonsense."

Sneeze's face was as red as his hair, and not another word did he say;

but his dreams that night were a mixture of feathers, soldiers and

pound-cake, Eliza Johnson, mother and speeches, and thus ended his first

memorable Independence Day.

MEADOW TALK.

BY CAROLINE LESLIE.

[Illustration]

A bumble-bee, yellow as gold,

Sat perched on a red-clover top,

When a grasshopper, wiry and old,

Came along with a skip and a hop.

"Good-morrow!" cried he, "Mr. Bumble-Bee!

You seem to have come to a stop."

"We people that work,"

Said the bee with a jerk,

"Find a benefit sometimes in stopping;

Only insects like you,

Who have nothing to do,

Can keep up a perpetual hopping."

The grasshopper paused on his way,

And thoughtfully hunched up his knees;

"Why trouble this sunshiny day,"

Quoth he, "with reflections like these?

I follow the trade for which I was made;

We all can't be wise bumble-bees.

"There's a time to be sad,

And a time to be glad;

A time both for working and stopping;

For men to make money,

For you to make honey,

And for me to do nothing but hopping."

A BOY'S EXPERIENCE WITH TAR MARBLES.

BY C.S.N.

Almost all boys, at some period of their lives, devote their spare time

to playing with marbles, and I certainly was not unlike other boys in

this respect. My fondness for marbles began very early, and when I was

about seven years old led me into a curious experience, which I am about

to relate. A great rivalry for acquiring marbles had suddenly arisen at

that time among the boys of the town, and to possess as many of the

little round beauties as my oldest brother owned, soon became the desire

of my heart and the height of my ambition.

I had already obtained a large number, when one day I overheard my

oldest brother telling one of his schoolmates that he had made the

important discovery that marbles could be formed from coal-tar, of which

there was a large quantity on a certain street in a distant part of the

town. He did not condescend to explain the process of manufacture, but

he showed the marbles he had made,--black, round, and glossy. The sight

inspired me with ardent desire to possess an unlimited quantity.

My brother told me just where the coveted treasure was to be found, and,

in the afternoon, I started off, without confiding to any one my

intention, to find the spot and lay in a supply of the raw material,

which I could convert into marbles at my leisure. Delightful visions of

bags filled with treasure, dancing through my brain, hastened the rate

of my speed almost to a run, before I arrived at the goal of my hopes.

It was a very hot July afternoon, and I was in a violent heat; but the

sight of the heaps of coal-tar put all thoughts of anything unpleasant

quite out of my head; it caused me to forget also that I had on a suit

of new clothes, of which I had been cautioned by my mother to be

extremely careful.

I need hardly remark that I was not very well acquainted with the

substance I was handling, and my only idea of its qualities was, that it

could be molded into any shape I pleased. I was not aware that it has

all the qualities of ordinary tar,--melts with heat, and becomes the

toughest, stickiest, most unmanageable of substances with which a small

boy can come into contact.

I fell to work to collect what I wanted to carry home. I filled the

pockets of my pantaloons, and of my jacket, and lastly, when these were

stuffed to their utmost capacity, I filled the crown of my hat so full

that it would hardly go on my head. The place was at some distance from

my home, and I did not wish to have to return immediately for more.

With a heart filled with triumph, I started off toward home. By this

time I began to realize that the weather was not cool. It had been a

long walk, and I was pretty tired, but I was also in a great hurry to

begin making marbles, so I walked as fast as I could. After a little

time I began to be sensible of a disagreeable feeling of stickiness

about my waist, and a slight trickling sensation in the region of the

knees.

A cloud not bigger than a man's hand flitted across my horizon,--perhaps

coal-tar _might_ melt?

I resolved to ascertain; and, like the famous old woman with her "yard

of black pudding," I very soon found it was much easier to obtain what I

wanted, than to know what to do with it when I had it. A very slight

inspection of my pockets satisfied me that coal-tar was capable of

becoming liquid, and, if I needed further evidence, the sable rivulets

that began to meander down the sides of my face gave ample corroboration

of the fact. I tried to take off my hat, but it would not come.

I looked down at my new trousers with feelings of dismay. Ominous spots

of a dismal hue were certainly growing larger. I tried to get the tar

out of my pockets, but only succeeded in covering my hands with the

black, unmanageable stuff, which at that moment I regarded as one of

those inventions of the devil, to entrap little boys, of which I had

often been warned, but to which I had given no heed. If it was a trap, I

was certainly _caught_; there was no doubt of that. But I was not

without some pluck, and in my case, as in that of many another brave, my

courage in facing the present calamity was aided by my fear of another

still more to be dreaded.

[Illustration: "I LOOKED DOWN AT MY NEW TROUSERS WITH DISMAY."]

That I should get a whipping for spoiling my new suit, if I could not

manage to get the tar off, I was quite certain, and I had had no

permission to go from home, and on the whole the outlook was not

cheerful in that direction. Quite driven to desperation, I seated myself

on the ground, and tried to scrape off the black spots, which had now

extended to formidable dimensions; while I could feel small streams

coming down inside of the collar of my shirt, and causing rather

singular suggestions of a rope around my neck. My labor was all in vain.

I got a good deal off, but there seemed to be an inexhaustible quantity

_on_. I gave it up in despair, and burst into uncontrollable sobs. The

flow of tears thinned the lava-like fluid, and it now resembled ink,

which covered my face like a veil; but in the extremity of my anguish a

hope dawned upon me. I found that I could wipe off with my hand this

thinner solution, and if water would do it, water was plenty, and I

would wash it off. A cousin of mine lived not very far off, and I knew

that in the yard of her house there was a pump. Inspired by this idea, I

set off at a run, and did not slacken my pace until I reached the spot.

Here another difficulty met me. I could not reach the handle of the pump

so as to get the benefit of the stream from its mouth, and it was only a

complete shower-bath that would restore me to respectability. I set to

work to find a rope, and fastened together quite a complicated piece of

machinery, as I thought, by which I managed to pump the ice-cold water

upon my devoted head. The effect was not as immediate as I had hoped.

But I had faith if a little was good, more must be better.

Creak--creak--creak--went the pump-handle, which did more work that

afternoon than in half a dozen days' washing.

Creak--creak--creak! But the tar only became harder and harder, until I

was encased in sheet-armor, like the famous Black Knight. Presently, my

cousin Jenny, an especial friend of mine, hearing such continual

pumping, and becoming anxious for the family supply of water, came out

to see what was the matter. Seeing a small figure curled up under the

spout of the pump, drenched to the skin and black as Othello, she

stooped down to investigate the phenomenon. Oh, what was my despair when

she discovered who it was, and in what plight!

To say she laughed would be to give a feeble idea of the peals of

laughter that succeeded each other as she stood and looked at me. She

would try to control her merriment for a moment, only to break forth

afresh, until she was obliged to sit down from sheer exhaustion. Every

time she glanced at my woe-begone countenance, and drenched condition,

she would go into fresh convulsions of fun. At last she recovered breath

enough to inquire into my case, and to assure me she would do what she

could for me; but she soon found, to my despair, that what she could do

was not much to my relief. The clothes could not be got off, and

certainly they could never be got clean. She did manage, with a strong

pair of shears, to cut off the pockets in my breeches, and then, fearing

my mother would be alarmed, she bade me go home, and she would promise

to secure me against a whipping.

I fancy she thought this last promise would be easily kept.

Somewhat comforted, I took up my line of march toward the paternal roof,

but, as I went along, my heart began to sink again; visions of a rod,

with which my not too saintly character had made me somewhat familiar,

loomed up before me; but worse than all, the thought of my brother's

ridicule made my sensitive spirit quail. I thought I would evade all for

that night, however, by going quietly up the back stairs, going to bed,

and "playing sick." Fortune favored me. I reached the bedroom without

being seen; and, just as I was, with my hat on, for it could only have

come off with my scalp, I got into bed, and covered myself entirely up

with the bed-clothes. It was now dusk, and I felt for the moment quite

safe. Presently my aunt came into the room to get something for which

she was looking, and I could hear her give several inquiring sniffs, and

as she went out I heard her say: "I certainly do smell tar; where can it

come from?" An interval of peace followed, and then in came my mother.

"Tar? Smell tar? Of course you do; it's strong enough in this room.

Bring a light."

[Illustration: "I COVERED MYSELF WITH THE BED-CLOTHES."]

It was the sound of doom!

My mother soon came close up to the bed, and held the light so that it

fell full upon me as she tried to turn down the bed-clothing. Probably,

if it had not been for several previous scrapes in which I had been

involved, she would have been much frightened; but as it was, the sight

of her young blackamoor had much the same effect upon her as upon my

cousin. Her exclamations and shrieks of laughter brought every member of

the household successively to the room, and as one after another came

in, fresh zest seemed to be given to the merriment of which I was the

unfortunate victim.

But every renewal of the fun was an added agony to me, for I clearly

foresaw that it would be rehearsed by Jack and Tom to all the boys in

the neighborhood. Beside this, I was not in a condition to be hilarious.

Plastered with tar from head to foot; streaming with perspiration at

every pore; my clothes drenched; my hair matted together, and my straw

hat, soaked with water, fastened upon it, and falling limp and wet about

my eyes; I was not rendered more comfortable by the fact that I could

not move without taking pillow and bed-clothes with me, as, in my

desperate desire to conceal myself from view, I had become enwrapped in

the bed-clothing like a caterpillar in its chrysalis; and I was

conscious of a dim fear that if I sat up, with the pillow stuck fast on

the top of my hat, the sight of me might produce fatal results upon the

already exhausted family.

At last the point was reached where I thought patience ceased to be a

virtue, and I rebelled against being any longer made a spectacle.

I declared if they would all go away but mother, I would tell her all

about it. The crowd retired, commissioned to send up a crock of butter,

a tub of hot water, and a pair of shears. Maternal love is strong, but I

doubt if it was often put to a severer test of its long-suffering than

was that of my mother that night.

[Illustration: THE SHOWER-BATH.]

Suffice it to say that, after my clothes had been cut to ribbons, the

sheets torn up, my head well-nigh shaved, and my whole person subjected

first to an African bath of melted butter, and afterward to one of hot

soap-suds, I had had my fill of bathing for one day, and was, shortly

before midnight, pronounced to be tolerably clean.

P.S.--I never made any marbles of coal-tar.

DAB KINZER: A STORY OF A GROWING BOY

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER V.

During the week which followed the wedding-day, the improvements on the

Morris house were pushed along in a way that surprised everybody.

Every day that passed, and with every dollar's worth of work that was

done, the good points of the long-neglected old mansion came out

stronger and stronger; for Mrs. Kinzer's plans had been a good while

getting ready, and she knew exactly what was best to be done.

Before the end of the week Mr. Foster came over, bringing Ford with him,

and he soon arrived at an understanding with Dabney's mother.

"A very business-like, common-sense sort of a woman," he remarked to his

son. "But what a great, dangling, overgrown piece of a boy that is.

Still, you may find him good company."

"No doubt," said Ford, "and thus I can be useful to him. He looks as if

he could learn if he had a fair chance."

"I should say so," responded Mr. Foster, thoughtfully; "and we mustn't

expect too much of fellows brought up away out here, as he has been."

Ford gravely assented.

There was a surprise in store for the village people; for, early in the

following week it was rumored from house to house, "The Kinzers are all

a-movin' over to Ham Morris's."

And before the public mind was settled enough to inquire into the

matter, the rumor was changed into, "The Widder Kinzer's moved to Ham's

house, bag and baggage."

So it was, although the carpenters and painters and glaziers were still

at work, and the piles of Kinzer furniture had to be stowed around as

best could be. Some of them had even to be locked up overnight in one of

the barns.

The Kinzers, for generations, had been a trifle weak about furniture,

and that was one of the reasons why there was so little room for human

beings in their house. The little parlor, indeed, had been filled till

it put one in mind of a small "furniture store" with not room enough to

show the stock on hand, and some of the other parts of the house

required knowledge and care to walk about in them.

Bad for a small house, truly, but not so much so when the same articles

were given a fair chance to spread themselves.

It was a treat to Dab to watch while the new carpets were put down, one

after another, and then to see how much at home and comfortable the

furniture looked as it was moved into its new quarters.

Mrs. Kinzer took care that the house she left should speak well of her

to the eyes of Mrs. Foster, when that lady came to superintend the

arrival of her own household goods.

The character of these, by the way, at once convinced the village

gossips that "lawyer Foster must be a good deal forehanded in money

matters." And so he was, even more than his furniture indicated. Ford

had a wonderful deal to do with the settlement of his family in their

new home, and it was not until nearly the close of the week that he

found time for more than an occasional glance over the north fence.

"Take the two farms together," his father had said to him, "and they

make a really fine estate. I learn, too, that the Kinzers have other

property. Your young acquaintance is likely to have a very good start in

the world."

Ford had found out nearly as much on his own account, but he had long

since learned the uselessness of trying to teach his father anything,

however well he might succeed with ordinary people, and so he had said

nothing.

"Dabney," said Mrs. Kinzer, that Friday evening, "you've been a great

help all the week. Suppose you take the ponies to-morrow morning, and

ask young Foster out for a drive."

"Mother," exclaimed Samantha, "I shall want the ponies myself. I've some

calls to make, and some shopping. Dabney will have to drive."

"No, Sam," remarked Dabney; "if you go out with the ponies to-morrow,

you'll have my old clothes to drive you."

"What do you mean?" asked Samantha.

"I mean, with Dick Lee in them."

"That would be just as well," said Mrs. Kinzer. "The ponies are gentle

enough, and Dick drives well. He'll be glad enough to go."

"Dick Lee, indeed!" began Samantha.

"A fine boy," interrupted Dab, "and he's beginning to dress well. His

new clothes fit him beautifully. All he really needs is a shirt, and

I'll give him one. Mine are getting too small."

"Well, Dabney," said Mrs. Kinzer, "I've been thinking about it. You

ought not to be tied down all the while. Suppose you take next week

pretty much to yourself. Samantha wont want the ponies every day. The

other horses have all got to work, or I'd let you have one of them."

Dabney got up, for want of a better answer, and walked over to where his

mother was sitting, and gave the thoughtful matron a good, sounding

kiss.

At the same time he could not help thinking, "This comes of Ham Morris

and my new rig."

"There Dabney, that'll do," said his mother; "but how'll you spend

Saturday?"

"Guess I'll take Ford Foster out in the bay a-crabbing, if he'll go,"

replied Dabney. "I'll run over and ask him."

It was not too late, and he was out of the house before there was a

chance for further remarks.

"Now, he muttered," as he walked along, "I'll have to see old lawyer

Foster, and Mrs. Foster, and I don't know who all, besides. I don't like

that."

Just as he came to the north fence of his former residence, however, he

was hailed by a clear, wide-awake voice: "Dab Kinzer, is that you?"

"Guess so," said Dab; "is that you, Ford?"

"I was just going over to your house," said Ford.

"And I was just coming to see you. I've been too busy all the week, but

they've let up on me at last."

"I've got our family nearly settled," replied Ford, "and I thought I'd

ask if you wouldn't like to go out with me on the bay to-morrow. Teach

you to catch crabs."

Dab Kinzer drew a long, astonished sort of whistle, but he finished it

with, "That's about what I was thinking of. There's plenty of crabs, and

I've got a tip-top boat. We wont want a heavy one for just us two."

"All right, then. We'll begin on crabs; but some other day we'll go for

bigger fish. What are you going to do next week?"

"Got it all to myself," said Dab. "We can have all sorts of a good time.

We can have the ponies, too, when we want them."

"That's about as good as it knows how to be," responded the young

gentleman from the city. "I'd like to explore the country. You're going

to have a nice place of it over there, before you get through. Only, if

I'd had the planning of that house, I'd have set it back further. Not

enough trees, either."

Bab came stoutly to the defense of not only that house, but of Long

Island architecture generally, and was fairly overwhelmed, for the first

time in his life, by a flood of big words from a boy of his own age.

He could have eaten up Ford Foster, if properly cooked. He felt sure of

that. But he was no match for him on the building question. On his way

home, however, after the discussion had lasted long enough, he found

himself inquiring: "That's all very nice, but what can he teach me about

crabs? We'll see about that to-morrow."

The crab question was one of special importance, beyond a doubt; but one

of even greater consequence to Dab Kinzer's future was undergoing

discussion at that very hour, hundreds of miles away.

Quite a little knot of people there was, in a hotel parlor; and while

the blooming Miranda, now Mrs. Morris, was taking her share of talk very

well with the ladies, Ham was every bit as busy with a couple of elderly

gentlemen.

"It's just as I say, Mr. Morris," said one of the latter, with a

superfluous show of energy; "there's no better institution of its kind

in the country than Grantley Academy. I send my own boys there, and I've

just written about it to my brother-in-law, Foster, the New York lawyer.

He'll have his boy there this fall. No better place in the country,

sir."

"But how about the expenses, Mr. Hart?" asked Ham.

"Fees are just what I told you, sir, a mere nothing. As for board, all I

pay for my boys is three dollars a week. All they want to eat, sir, and

good accommodations. Happy as larks, sir, all the time. Cheap, sir,

cheap!"

If Ham Morris had the slightest idea of going to school at a New England

Academy, Miranda's place in the improved house was likely to wait for

her; for he had a look on his face of being very nearly convinced.

She did not seem at all disturbed, however, and probably her husband was

not looking up the school question on his own account.

That was the reason why it might have been interesting for Dab Kinzer,

and even for his knowing neighbor, to have added themselves to the

company Ham and Miranda had fallen in with on their wedding tour.

That night, however, Dab dreamed that a gigantic crab was trying to pull

Ford Foster out of the boat, while the latter calmly remarked: "There!

did you ever see anything just like that before?"