CHAPTER XXIII.

CALLED TO THE HELM.

While Washington was busy planting trees at Mount Vernon and making

excursions to see his Western lands, the country was like a vessel which

had no captain or pilot, drifting into danger. During the War for

Independence, one of the greatest difficulties which Washington had to

overcome was the unwillingness of the several States to act together as

one nation. They called themselves the United States of America, but

they were very loosely united. Congress was the only body that held

them together, and Congress had no power to make the States do what they

did not care to do. So long as they all were fighting for independence,

they managed to hold together; but as soon as the war was over and the

States were recognized as independent, it was very hard to get them to

do anything as one nation. Every State was looking out for itself, and

afraid that the others might gain some advantage over it.

This could not go on forever. They must be either wholly independent of

one another or more closely united. The difficulty was more apparent

where two States were neighbors. Virginia and Massachusetts might manage

to live apart, though in that case troubles would be sure to arise, but

how could Virginia and Maryland maintain their individual independence?

The Chesapeake and Potomac seemed to belong to one as much as to the

other; and when foreign vessels came up the stream, was each State to

have its own rules and regulations? No. They must treat strangers at any

rate in some way that would not make each the enemy of the other.

These two States felt this so strongly that they appointed a commission

to consider what could be done. Washington was a member of the

commission, and asked all the gentlemen to his house. They not only

discussed the special subject committed to them, but they looked at the

whole matter of the regulation of commerce in a broad way, and agreed to

propose to the two States to appoint other commissioners, who should

advise with Congress and ask all the States of the Union to send

delegates to a meeting where they could arrange some system by which all

the States should act alike in their treatment of foreign nations and of

each other.

That was exactly what Congress ought to have been able to do, but could

not, because nobody paid any attention to it. Nor did this meeting,

which was called at Annapolis in September, 1786, accomplish very much.

Only five States sent delegates, and these delegates were so carefully

instructed not to do much, that it was impossible for the convention to

settle affairs. Still, it was a step forward. It was very clear to the

delegates that a general convention of all the States was necessary, and

so they advised another meeting at which all the thirteen States should

be represented, and the whole subject of the better union of the States

should be considered.

This meeting, which was the great Constitutional Convention of 1787, was

held in Philadelphia, and to it Virginia sent George Washington as one

of her delegates. He was heart and soul in favor of the movement. It was

what he had been urging on all his correspondents for a long time. He

was at first reluctant to go back into public life after having so

completely retired; but as soon as he saw that it was his duty to accept

the appointment, he set to work to qualify himself for taking part in

the deliberations of the convention. Probably no one in America

understood better than he the character of Americans and the special

dangers through which the country was passing; but several, no doubt,

were better informed about the practical working of government and about

the history of other confederations. He had never been very much of a

reader of books, but he had been a member for many years of the Virginia

House of Burgesses, and so knew how government was carried on on a small

scale, and now he began to read diligently and to compare accounts of

ancient and modern political unions. He made abstracts of them, and, in

fact, went to work as if he were at school, so in earnest was he to

learn this important lesson.

On May 9, 1787, Washington set out from Mount Vernon in his carriage for

Philadelphia. He was a famous man and could not go to the convention

without attracting attention. So, when he reached Chester, in

Pennsylvania, he was met by General Mifflin, who was then Speaker of the

Assembly of Pennsylvania, and by various public men, who escorted him on

the way. At the ferry across the Schuylkill, where Gray's Ferry Bridge

now is, he was met by a company of light horse, and so entered the city.

One of his first errands was to call on Benjamin Franklin, who was

President of Pennsylvania, as the governor was then called. No doubt

they talked long and earnestly about the work before them, for they were

the two most eminent men in the convention.

Washington was made the presiding officer of the convention. For four

months it met from day to day, engaged in the great work of forming the

Constitution under which we are now governed. There were many long and

earnest debates; and the members felt the importance of the work upon

which they were engaged. At last, the Constitution was formed. It was

not satisfactory to everybody, but the members all agreed to sign it and

recommend it to the country for adoption. George Washington, as

president of the convention, was the first to set his name down; and

there is a tradition that as he took the pen in his hand he arose from

his seat, considered a moment, and then said:

"Should the States reject this excellent Constitution, the probability

is that an opportunity will never again be offered to cancel another in

peace; the next will be drawn in blood."

Washington, as president of the convention, was directed to draw up a

letter, stating what the convention had done, and send it with the

Constitution to Congress. This he did. He was not entirely satisfied

with the Constitution, as he wrote to Patrick Henry: "I wish the

Constitution which is offered had been more perfect; but I sincerely

believe it is the best that could be obtained at this time. And, as a

constitutional door is opened for amendments hereafter, the adoption of

it, under the present circumstances of the Union, is, in my opinion,

desirable."

[Illustration: CRAB-TREE STAFF PRESENTED BY BENJ. FRANKLIN TO GEN.

WASHINGTON; NOW IN THE STATE DEPARTMENT LIBRARY AT WASHINGTON.]

He said at first that he should not say anything for or against the

Constitution. If it were good, it would work its way; if bad, it would

recoil on those who drew it up. Perhaps he thought it was not becoming

in those who discussed its parts and finally signed it, to do anything

more than send it out and leave the people to do what they would with

it. But he could not keep silent long. Everybody was debating it; the

principal members of the convention were defending it; there was danger

that it would not be adopted, and soon Washington, in his letters, was

using arguments in support of it. There is no doubt that his name at the

head of the paper did a great deal toward inducing people to accept it.

It was more than a year before enough States had adopted the

Constitution to make it the law of the land, but as time went on, and it

was more certain that the new government would go into operation, the

question arose as to who should be the first President of the United

States. It can hardly be called a question; at any rate, it was answered

at once by all. Every one named Washington, and his friends began to

write to him as if there could be no doubt on this point. The most

distinguished advocate of the new Constitution, Alexander Hamilton, who

had been one of Washington's aids in the war, wrote to him:

"I take it for granted, sir, you have concluded to comply with what

will, no doubt, be the general call of your country in relation to the

new government. You will permit me to say that it is indispensable you

should lend yourself to its first operations. It is to little purpose to

have introduced a system, if the weightiest influence is not given to

its firm establishment in the outset."

[Illustration: SUGAR-BOWL BELONGING TO A DINNER-SET PRESENTED TO MARTHA

WASHINGTON BY GENERAL LAFAYETTE.]

Washington was by no means elated at the prospect. On the contrary, he

was extremely reluctant to be President. He was not old; he was

fifty-seven years of age when the election took place, but his hard life

as a soldier had broken his constitution, and the cares and anxieties he

had undergone had made him feel old. "At my time of life," he wrote to

Lafayette, "and under my circumstances, the increasing infirmities of

nature and the growing love of retirement do not permit me to entertain

a wish beyond that of living and dying an honest man on my own farm. Let

those follow the pursuits of ambition and fame who have a keener relish

for them, or who may have more years in store for the enjoyment." He was

perfectly sincere in saying this. He knew that some people would not

believe him, and would assert that he was only saying all this to get

the credit of humility; but his best friends believed him, and to one of

these he wrote: "If I should receive the appointment, and if I should be

prevailed upon to accept it, the acceptance would be attended with more

diffidence and reluctance than ever I experienced before in my life. It

would be, however, with a fixed and sole determination of lending

whatever assistance might be in my power to promote the public weal, in

hopes that, at a convenient and early period, my services might be

dispensed with, and that I might be permitted once more to retire, to

pass an unclouded evening, after the stormy day of life, in the bosom of

domestic tranquillity."

There never was any doubt about the people's choice. Every vote was cast

for Washington.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration: BEARS EATING CORN: "THIS WAS REALLY THOUGHTFUL OF FARMER

JONES, EH?"]

[Illustration]

TODDLEKINS AND TROT.

BY ANNA M. PRATT.

"Dear Toddlekins," said little Trot,

"May I talk to you a while?"

"Why, yeth, of courthe," said Toddlekins,

With a bashful little smile.

"Now, Toddlekins," said little Trot,

"If we should meet a bear"----

"Good graciouth me!" said Toddlekins,

"You give me thuch a thcare!"

"If we should meet a bear," said Trot,

"Would you let me save your life?"

"Oh merthy! Yeth!" said Toddlekins,

"But I will _not_ be your wife!"

[Illustration]

OUR ADVENTURE AT THE FLUME.

BY W. L.

A dark, solemn-looking place it was, and although Fred and I were as

dauntless explorers as Stanley or Greely, our courage began to ooze away

as we looked in at the gloomy flume from which issued the cold and

sluggish water. We had come upon the ruined archway of an old mill,

still standing with crumbling walls above the slow-moving waters of its

former busy tail-race. The low, dark archway was overhung with birch,

witch-hazel, and thimbleberry; and as we peered into its blackness,

suggestions of dragons and serpents, castle-dungeons and witches'

caverns and monsters' dens came into our minds already sufficiently full

of wild, boyish fancies and strange imaginings.

Fred "double dared" me to go in, and I was foolish enough to think that

no boy of spirit could refuse a "double dare." So, cutting weapons from

the sapling birches, we stepped into the cold and repulsive-looking

water. B-r-r-r!--what a shiver it gave us!

It was late in the afternoon. The shadows that lay in the deep ravines

along the mountain-side looked strange and weird; and as we stepped

within the gloom of the archway, a blue heron, gaunt and ungainly, with

its twisted neck and long, dangling legs, flew down the creek, uttering

its harsh and dismal cry.

Neither Fred nor I was feeling remarkably lion-hearted; the call of the

heron had brought our hearts almost into our mouths; and just then, as

we stood hesitating and peering in, something moved in the darkness

beyond us, and a black object that seemed, as Fred said, "as big as an

eagle" flung itself out of the shadows full into our startled faces.

[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE TO THE FLUME.]

Panic-stricken, we turned to fly. The bottom of the pool was slippery,

the roof of the archway was low; Fred's feet flew up, my head received a

sudden bump, and both of us went down in six inches of water.

With a shriek of terror from each valiant explorer thus stricken down by

the magic spells of the goblin of the den, we scrambled to our feet,

dripping and disheartened, and made for the light; and as we did so we

caught a glimpse of our assailant skimming away in the twilight--neither

goblin, witch, nor monster, but only a harmless and equally frightened

black bat.

[Illustration]

THE CRAFTY CRAB

There once was a crafty young Crab

Who always went round in a cab

He wished no one to say

That he walked the wrong way

But his coachman the secret did blab

MORRA.

BY SUSAN ANNA BROWN.

[Illustration]

Among boys and girls there is a constant demand for new games, and many

are invented every year, which are in fashion for a few months and then

disappear altogether.

But almost every successful game is an adaptation of some old amusement

that was enjoyed centuries ago. Tennis, base-ball, marbles, and many

other common sports have been played for ages, in one form or another,

while most games of cards can be traced back to the sixteenth century.

Many games which seem very simple and hardly worthy of the name require,

in reality, considerable skill and dexterity. This is especially true of

the game of Morra, which is played enthusiastically in Italy by persons

of all ages.

Almost any day, in walking along a Roman street, a little group may be

discovered gathered about a pair of Morra-players. From the noise and

excitement, a foreigner would conclude that a quarrel of some sort was

going on; but if he pause and join the company, he will see that the

chief actors are all interested in the progress of the game, and that

the loud screams which the players give at brief intervals are nothing

more dangerous than the simultaneous calling out of numbers. He will

also see that their eyes are fixed too earnestly on each other to notice

the increasing crowd of spectators, and that both have their left hands

constantly raised, and that at each shout the right hands are thrown

violently forward. This is the old, old game of Morra which is referred

to by Cicero, and other writers of his day. On many ancient monuments

are found carvings which represent Morra-players. It was played on the

banks of the Nile in the time of the Pharoahs; and in spite of its

simplicity it is still a standard amusement around the Levant.

Perhaps some of the boys and girls on this side of the water would like

to try it; but I shall warn them that, although it seems easy enough, it

will require considerable practice to become at all proficient in it.

The two players are placed opposite each other, and simultaneously each

throws out the right hand with some of the fingers extended, while the

rest are doubled over the palm, at the same instant shouting out the sum

of the fingers which he guesses are extended on his adversary's hand and

his own. Of course, knowing how many he has put up himself, the only

point is to guess the number of his adversary and instantly add it to

his own, a process which requires some practice and experience, as an

experiment will soon show, beginners often making amusing mistakes; as,

for instance, saying "ten!" when they themselves have only one or two

fingers up, or "four!" when the whole hand is extended.

If both guess correctly, or incorrectly, neither makes anything, but if

one happens to hit the right number when his adversary misses, he scores

one, by extending one finger on the left hand, which is held up

constantly, that no unfair count may be recorded. The game is usually

five, but sometimes "double morra" is played, the score being ten. In

this case, at the end of the first five, the hands are brought together

with a slap, to indicate that the second half is begun. This slap is

also given at the completion of an ordinary game.

The great point is to play as rapidly as possible and exactly in unison,

as otherwise an opportunity is given for unfair advantage.

A very old Latin proverb describes an honest man as, "Trustworthy enough

to play Morra in the dark"; and it is a very good description, for one

who has no honor about trifles can never be trusted in graver matters.

[Illustration]

THE KELP-GATHERERS.

[_A Story of the Maine Coast._]

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

CHAPTER XIII.

ON THE OLD COW'S BACK.

Once more in the boat's stern with his steering paddle, Perce Bucklin

gazed eagerly over the bobbing heads of the twins, who were rowing, and

reported his observations, as they approached the castaway on the back

of the "Old Cow."

"It's nobody I can make out," he said, when near enough to recognize, as

he believed, any person he knew. "But that isn't a yachting-cap he has

on; it's a handkerchief tied around his head. The sun on the water

dazzles me or I ---- Boys," he suddenly exclaimed, "it isn't a man!

It's a boy!"

And he shouted, "Hello, there!"

The castaway returned the hail, and as the boat came nearer, cried out:

"That you, Perce Bucklin?"

Then Perce uttered an ejaculation of the greatest astonishment:

"Boys, it's Olly Burdeen!"

"No!" "Jingo!" "You don't say!" exclaimed the twins, who wouldn't

believe him until they turned their heads and saw for themselves.

"Hullo, Olly!" called Moke.

"How did you ever get there?" asked Poke.

"Pull, boys!" said Perce impatiently, as they held their oars while

looking around. "He must have been aboard the yacht,"--for as yet Olly

made no answer. He was in fact too much agitated with joy and gratitude,

after his long hours of suffering in mind and body, to make any coherent

explanations.

The dory came dancing over the waves.

"Where's the yacht?" Perce demanded.

"I don't know anything about any yacht," answered the miserable, happy

Olly, stepping down to the water's edge to meet his deliverers.

"Hasn't the Susette been lost?" Perce inquired.

As he was still some little distance away, and the waves were dashing on

the rocks, all Olly understood was something about the Susette being

lost.

It gave him a shock, with which, however, came a gleam of consolation.

Mr. Hatville, then, had not returned home.

I will do Olly the justice to say that he could not under any

circumstances have rejoiced at such a disaster as the wreck of the

yacht; yet it was some comfort to think that the loss of the watch had

not yet been discovered.

"I haven't heard of it!" Olly said in a shaky voice.

"Then how in the world did you get where you are?" inquired Perce, and

as Olly was too much overcome by his feelings to answer at once, he

continued: "We concluded you must have been aboard of the Susette.

Where's the best place to take you on?"

"Right here," said Olly. "But I've a boat, too, around on the other

side. I'd like to save that."

"A boat!" Moke exclaimed. "Then why in the name of common sense----"

"Why didn't you go ashore?" cried Poke.

"It leaks, and I haven't any oars nor anything to bail with. It was all

I could do to get over here in it, without sinking. I was on the

"Calf's" back till the waves began to break over it this morning."

Here a sob caught poor Olly's voice, at the recollection of all he had

gone through.

"On the 'Calf'!" said Perce. "How did it happen? But never mind about

that till we get you out of your scrape."

The dory pulled around the "Old Cow," while Olly scrambled over the

back, picking up on his way the second thwart, which he had used to

paddle with, and afterward in making his signals of distress.

On the seaward side was a cleft in the rock, into which he had propelled

his dory on the top of a wave, and where, leaping to the ledges, he had

held it by the painter while the wave went out. There it was still,

jammed high up in the chasm, where the buffets of the tide had left it.

Olly alone could never have got it out without waiting for the next tide

to help him; it was all his companions could do to loosen and lift it

from those rocky jaws. This they did, after effecting a landing on the

little islet; while Olly, who acknowledged himself half starved, ate

some of the provisions they had brought, and between mouthfuls told his

surprising story.

One very important particular, however, he took care not to mention, so

that no light was thrown upon the mystery of the watch which had found

its resting-place in Perce Bucklin's pocket.

It would be hard to say whether this was a disappointment or a relief to

the finder. He had so fully persuaded himself that there was some

connection between the watch picked up on the beach and the human being

cast on the rock, that he could not easily give it up, even after

discovering who that human being was.

True, Olly was not a very probable owner of such a timepiece. Yet that

was not an impossible thing; at any rate, he might know something about

it. Perce was anxious to solve the riddle, even if it should be at his

own cost; for he had no wish, as I have said before, to keep what

belonged to another.

"I didn't know you in that suit of clothes, Olly," he said, as they were

getting the boat out of the crevice, "and with that handkerchief on your

head! I never saw such a change in anybody,--did you, boys?"

"He looks as pinched as if the lobsters had been nipping him," said

Moke.

"And as blue about the gills as a turkey-gobbler," said Poke.

"I lost my hat overboard last night," said Olly, "I tied on my

handkerchief this morning after I got tired of waving it. I thought you

would be more apt to see the board. Wasn't I missed? Wasn't anybody

looking for me?"

"No," Perce replied. "The young lady with the nose--the tall one--said

you went with the yachters."

"She!" exclaimed Olly, who still had feelings left that could be hurt by

such evidence of Amy Canfield's utter indifference to him. "She knew

better than that."

"Mrs. Murcher knew better," said Perce. "She thought you had gone home

to show your new suit to the folks. Did the boarder make you any other

present?"

"Wasn't that enough?" returned Olly, munching a cold boiled egg.

"It will do for a beginning," said Perce. "But with such a suit as that,

it seems as if you ought to have a handsome--watch-chain; needn't mind

about any watch," he added with a laugh, intending thus to make a jest

of his remark if Olly didn't take it in earnest.

Poor Olly tried to smile with his pinched, empurpled face; at the same

time casting down his eyes in some alarm, to see what there was about

his dress to put such a notion into Perce's head.

"Olly doesn't feel like joking," observed Moke.

"Neither would you, I guess!" exclaimed Olly, glad to change the

subject. "All night on the rocks except when I was paddling or swimming

for my life. No fire, not a mouthful to eat, not a wink of sleep! I got

wet through a second time, getting over here from the 'Calf,' in a

sinking boat. I can't tell you how it made me feel, boys, to see your

fire on the beach last night, and again this morning! Why didn't you see

me? I tried the handkerchief, and then the board, but I thought you

never would look!"

"We were too far off," said Poke.

"We were too busy minding our own business," said Moke.

"That reminds me, the seaweed is waiting for us," said Poke. "Hurry up,

boys!"

Perce was the last to leave the island; and he himself got wet up to his

waist by a wave, in preventing the boat from being dashed upon the rocks

after the others were aboard.

He did not care for a little salt water himself. But he thought of the

watch in the pocket of his trousers. That, however, would probably not

be much hurt by a few additional drops after what it had been through

already. As far as he was concerned, the mystery had not been cleared

up, at all, as he had expected it would be, by the rescue of the

castaway.

If Olly had frankly told his entire story, how gladly would Perce have

taken the treasure-trove from his pocket and held it out to him,

exclaiming: "Here is your watch, boy!" gladdening his eyes with the

sight. But as it was, both were silent on the subject which now filled

both their minds.

Olly had already learned from his companions that their only reasons for

thinking the yacht had been wrecked, was the fact of its not having

returned the night before, and the appearance, that morning, of a human

form on the outlying rock,--excepting always the very private reason in

Perce Bucklin's trousers-pocket.

Mr. Hatville was then most likely still undrowned; and now that his own

life was saved, Olly began to study how he should shirk the

responsibility of his guilty borrowing,--in his troubled thoughts

looking every way except the right way, and inventing plausible

fictions, where nothing would avail like the simple truth. He sat in the

stern of his companions' dory, leading his own in tow by the painter;

dejected and silent, and more than once thinking he would watch for a

chance, when nobody was observing him, to drop overboard the watch-seal

and the fragment of chain which he still carried in his vest.

CHAPTER XIV.

OLLY HAS A BAD DREAM.

Long before the rescuers and the rescued reached the shore with their

leaky boat in tow, the excitement among Mrs. Murcher's boarders in

regard to the yacht had been allayed by a telegram. The adverse wind of

the evening before had caused the Susette to put into Portland; whence

some of the party were to return by rail that morning.

[Illustration: "THE CASTAWAY RETURNED THE HAIL, AS THE BOAT CAME

NEARER."]

So said the message; in consequence of which, interest in the unknown

individual on the back of the "Old Cow" languished somewhat, until the

arrival of the little party on the beach. Then it went up to the

bubbling point again; and there was the liveliest effervescence of

curiosity to know how Olly Burdeen, the faithful, unromantic chore and

errand boy, had met with so wonderful an adventure.

Accompanied, or preceded, by those who had gone down to see him

disembark, he mounted with slow, miserable, anxious feet the piazza

steps.

There all the other ladies came out eagerly to meet him, and pressed

around, marveling and questioning; and Mrs. Murcher, flushed from her

molding-board, held up both her doughy hands.

"Why, Olly! where _have_ you been?" said one.

"In his new suit of clothes!" said another.

"The first time he ever wore them!" exclaimed a third.

And one laughed; the one of all whom Olly most dreaded to have see him

in that plight.

It was not an ill-natured laugh by any means; and she would have helped

it if she could. But Amy Canfield had a merry disposition. And Olly

after his night of terror and fatigue, still oppressed with a horrible

anxiety, humbled, drooping, rolling his distressed eyes in fear of

encountering Mr. Hatville's, with the handkerchief still on his head and

his new clothes torn at the knees,--it must be owned that Olly did look

ridiculous.

"Why, Amy!" said Mrs. Merriman, "how _can_ you laugh?"

"It's so funny!" replied the tall brunette; "and I'm so glad he is

rescued," she added, discreetly. "We all were so anxious, thinking the

Susette had gone on the rocks; and it was only our Olly after all."

"What _has_ happened to you, Olly?" cried Mrs. Murcher, amazed to the

end of her doughy fingers.

"I just went out to take a little row, last evening," murmured the

forlorn Olly. "I lost one oar; it got tangled in the kelp, and a wave

wrenched it out of my hand. Then I broke another, and the wind blew me

off shore."

"And you've been all night on the 'Old Cow'?" said the good landlady.

"Worse than that," said Olly. "I was on the 'Calf.' And a part of the

time in the water. I guess if anybody had been there on the 'Calf's'

back in my place--alone--such a night!--waiting for the tide to rise and

cover 'em--I guess they wouldn't have thought it much of a joke!" And

Olly's voice broke.

"It must have been terrible, Olly! Do forgive my laughing!" said Amy,

relenting. "How did you get to the 'Old Cow'?"

Olly faltered forth more of his wretched story, which was listened to

with many an expression of surprise and sympathy, for he was rather a

favorite with Mrs. Murcher and her lady boarders.

He had wished to go directly home to Frog-End, and had tried to induce

the boys to carry him over in the ox-cart. But they were in haste to

resume their work, which had been too long interrupted already; and they

could not see why he should object to returning to the boarding-house.

After all, he thought to himself, the dreaded inquiry regarding the

watch might as well be met first as last.

The kindness he met with made him feel more miserably remorseful and

apprehensive than ever, for he knew that it was lavished upon him

because his friends were still ignorant of what might at any minute now

come to their knowledge.

He was really worn out with the long, fearful strain on his mind and

strength, and he was quite willing to accept Mrs. Murcher's advice that

he should go at once to bed and "take something hot."

The nucleus of the boarding-house was, as we have said, an old

farm-house, which accounted for its not very sightly situation, there in

a hollow of the hills. Besides the spacious addition, the original

building remained, and at the end of the upper corridor was the old

attic, with two or three steps descending to the door.

Olly's room was there, and there he was soon in bed, with ample leisure

to think over the terrible part of his experience which was happily

past, and the part which was unhappily to come.

He had not ventured to ask about the yachting party, lest something

concerning the watch should come out. But he had accidentally overheard

some one speak of the Susette having run into Portland. Everything else

was uncertain. But, thankful for a reprieve however brief from the

impending catastrophe, he ate the steaming gruel Mrs. Murcher brought

him, sank into a state of stupor, and was soon rehearsing in dreams his

dire adventures.

He was having a distressing conversation with a dog-fish of enormous

size. The monster came up out of the sea, and resting its elbow on the

"Calf's" shoulder, and its face on its hand,--a face and attitude

grotesquely suggestive of Mr. Hatville,--accused Olly of having one of

that gentleman's eyes in his pocket, although there were two spectral

eyes as big as watches in the speaker's head, at the moment. The dispute

was growing frightfully loud, when Olly cut it short by kicking the

dog-fish, or Mr. Hatville, or whoever it was, back into the sea, and

immediately woke.

CHAPTER XV.

IT WAS NOT A DOG-FISH.

It is generally a very good way to get out of trouble, to wake, and find

it a dream. But that did not serve Olly's turn this time. The voice was

still heard, louder and louder, not in the sea, as he had fancied, but

behind the door which separated his garret from the corridor.

"I paid two hundred and forty dollars for that watch, and fifteen

dollars for the chain, let alone the seal, and I want to know who has

them!"

It was Mr. Hatville's voice pure and simple, without any fishy element

about it. At the same time a good pair of boots, such as no dog-fish

ever wore, were tramping excitedly across the floor. Poor Mrs. Murcher's

anxious, protesting voice was heard in reply, but not loud enough for

Olly to make out the words.

"I hung it up when I was changing my clothes, and then went off and

forgot it!" burst forth the male voice again. "But I supposed it would

be safe here. I didn't know you had thieves in your house, Mrs.

Murcher!"

"I haven't, sir! unless they are among your own friends," the landlady

answered, in a higher key than before. "I don't believe it is stolen. It

must be somewhere!"

"Of course it's somewhere!" the boarder retorted--"somewhere in some

rogue's keeping. I'd like to see the fellow who dared to lay hands on

it--the best time-keeper I ever saw! Stem-winder; chronometer movement;

heavy, fine gold case! I had it regulated down to the finest point; it

was losing only about a second and a half a month."

Other voices here joined in; the corridor appeared to be filling with

boarders, all excited by the news of Mr. Hatville's loss.

"No," said that gentleman; "I wasn't at all anxious about it; only, when

I found we couldn't get back last night, I was vexed to think it would

run down. I wouldn't have had that happen for five dollars. Where's

Olly?" he demanded. "_He_ must know something about it."

Olly trembled in his bed. He would have preferred just then to take his

chances with a whole school of dog-fishes, of the largest size, rather

than confront the wrathful owner of the watch.

"I don't think he knows anything about it," said Mrs. Murcher, now

quite near Olly's door. "He has been away all night; he has had a

terrible time out at sea--in the sea--and on the rocks. Don't disturb

him! He's fast asleep."

"If he hasn't slept for a week, and can't sleep again for a fortnight,"

cried Hatville, "I'll have him up and see if he knows anything about

that watch."

"Let me speak to him!" said Mrs. Murcher. "You've no idea how weak and

tired and worn out he is. I've got him into a perspiration, and now if

it is checked, I shall expect nothing in the world but that he will have

a fit of sickness, and may be never get over it."

"It ought not to check an honest boy's perspiration, to tell what he

knows about my chronometer," Hatville muttered, while Mrs. Murcher,

stepping down the two or three stairs that led to the old attic, opened

Olly's door.

"Sh!" she whispered gently, motioning Mr. Hatville back. "He's so sound

asleep! It's such a pity to wake him, poor boy! But I suppose I must."

Oily lay with his back toward her, with his head and face covered by the

sheet. His perspiration hadn't ceased, by any means; he felt that he was

fast dissolving in a clammy feeling of abject fear.

"He's in such a beautiful, dewy, childlike, innocent sleep" said the

motherly Mrs. Murcher, laying her hand softly on his brow. "Just the

thing he needs; better than all the medicine in the world!" She was

tempted to add, "or than all the watches!"

Still Hatville did not relent. Without strongly suspecting Olly of

taking the watch, he was yet determined to pursue his investigations,

even if he broke the most beautiful, dewy, childlike, innocent slumber

on earth.

"Shake him!" he said.

So Mrs. Murcher shook, gently at first, then more and more vigorously,

saying, "Olly! Oliver! Olly Burdeen! Oliver Burdeen!" more and more

loudly in his ear, until he suddenly sprang up with a muttered cry.

"Stop that boat! stop that----she's running on the 'Old Cow'! Oh,

boys!--where am I?"

And, appearing to recognize Mrs. Murcher's presence for the first time,

he rolled up his eyes and sank back with a groan on the pillow.

CHAPTER XVI.

A BAD AWAKING.

"He's delirious!" whispered the landlady.

"He's dreaming," replied the boarder.

"Olly! Wake up a minute! What's become of my watch?"

"Watch?" repeated Olly, still disguising his real fears in a

well-feigned fictitious terror. "What watch? I thought I was in the

water again!"

His voice trembled, though not altogether from that more remote cause

which he desired to impress upon the minds of spectators.

"My watch, which I left hanging in the case beside my bureau when I went

yachting yesterday," said Hatville, as much imposed upon as the

sympathizing Mrs. Murcher herself. "What has become of it?"

"Your watch?" Olly repeated, with a bewildered air, as if beginning

dimly to comprehend the question. "How should I know? I've been away.

I've been wrecked. Haven't they told you?"

"You haven't the watch, _have_ you?" exclaimed the landlady.

"His watch? Mr. Hatville's? Of course I haven't! What should I have his

watch for?"

The brunt of the inquiry thus met, Olly felt that he was acting his part

very well, and took courage. Then somebody in the corridor whispered to

Mr. Hatville, who immediately asked:

"What boy was that who came here to the house for you last evening?"

"Boy? I don't know of any boy!" said Olly.

"You remember, Amy; you showed him upstairs," said Mrs. Merriman.

"I know the one you mean; one of the Frog-End boys!" exclaimed Mrs.

Murcher. "He said he and some friends of Olly's were camping on the

beach, and they wanted him to join them. It can't be that _he_ took it!"

"Who showed him upstairs? You, Amy?" cried Hatville.

It was a moment of fearful suspense to Olly, who remembered what Perce

had said of coming to invite him to their picnic, and learning that he

had either sailed in the yacht or gone home to show his new clothes. He

stopped breathing to hear Amy's reply, in clear, silvery tones, from the

farther end of the corridor.

"Yes; I showed him up, and pointed out Olly's room. Mrs. Murcher thought

Olly was there, trying on his new clothes."

"But he wasn't," said Mrs. Murcher. "And the boy came downstairs again

in a very few minutes."

"Where was he during those few minutes?" Mr. Hatville demanded. "Did you

watch him, Amy?"

"I? No, indeed! Why should I take the trouble to watch him?" cried Miss

Canfield.

"What was to prevent his going into my room," Hatville inquired, "and

taking the watch?"

"Nothing that I know of." The silvery accents faltered. "I don't know

but I am to blame, Mr. Hatville!"

"Oh, no! It wasn't your business to watch strangers who gain admission

to the house," said Hatville.

"But I did something which I see now was very indiscreet," Amy

exclaimed. "It was growing quite dark in the passage, and I opened the

door of your room to let in more light. I knew you were not there, and I

had no idea your watch was. I am very sorry."

[Illustration: "'SHAKE HIM,' SAID MR. HATVILLE."]

"You are very frank," replied Hatville. "But don't blame yourself. Of

course, you had no idea of putting temptation in the way of a rogue."

"No; and I can't believe he was a rogue--such a fine, honest-looking

face as he had!" Amy exclaimed. "But I had no business to open your

door."

Olly overheard this conversation with strangely mingled feelings of envy

and remorse, of fear and guilt. How admirable was Amy's prompt

confession of her fault, and how readily it was forgiven! Why couldn't

he have had a little of her courage, owned his folly, and thrown himself

upon Mr. Hatville's mercy! His implied denial had now cut him off from

that only noble course; and he saw no way to disentangle the web in

which he had involved both himself and his friend.

"Wasn't it the same boy who came here again this morning?" asked Mr.

Merriman. "He had discovered Olly on the 'Old Cow,'--though nobody knew

it was Olly; and he came to get oars and a spy-glass."

"Yes," said one of the other ladies; "and he came upstairs to look from

the windows. He might have gone into your room then, Mr. Hatville."

"But if he had stolen the watch the night before, would he have shown

his face here again this morning?" argued the landlady, who had been

too much bewildered by what had occurred in her house, to take much part

in the previous conversation.

"He might have done just that thing," Hatville replied, "in order to

brazen it out, and make a show of innocence. But most likely he saw the

chronometer then, and, having had time to think about it, he watched for

a chance to take it this morning, when it was supposed I might have been

lost in the yacht."

That seemed very probable; and Mrs. Murcher was obliged to admit that

there had been no other stranger about the place, to her knowledge,

except the messenger who brought Mr. Hatville's telegram. He, however,

had not got out of his buggy.

"That same boy is on the beach now, gathering seaweed," said Mrs.

Merriman. "At least, he was there a short time ago."

"That's good news!" cried Hatville, gayly. "Who'll go with me and point

him out? We'll interview this seaweed-gatherer, who does a little side

business in other people's watches!"

And Olly could hear his boots departing in haste through the corridor

and descending the stairs. One or two ladies went with him to identify

the supposed culprit; while others remained to discuss this last

exciting revelation.

"Such a bright, interesting boy!" said one; "I shouldn't have believed

it of him!"

"I thought him a young hero!" cried another, "to leave his work and

start off to the rescue!"

"Well!" said a third, "I thought so, too. He certainly organized the

whole thing; and it seems strange to me that he should have shown so

much zeal to save the life, perhaps, of the very person whose watch he

had just taken!"

"You can't tell much from a boy's looks, or his actions either, as to

what he may do when exposed to temptation," was the rather severe

rejoinder of the first speaker.

"Not unless you know him pretty well," added one of the others.

"As we know Olly, for instance," observed some one else. "I actually

believe Mr. Hatville at first suspected he had taken it."

"Absurd!" "Preposterous!" "Nonsense!" chorused all together. All which

Olly overheard with feelings which can hardly be imagined by anybody not

actually suffering what he suffered then.

Had the lady boarders spoken harshly or suspiciously of him, he might

have hardened his heart. But their kind words made him bitterly regret

that he had not kept his good reputation by frankly owning the fault,

which, if discovered now, must convict him of dishonesty.

And to a boy like him,--not a bad boy at heart, by any means, as I trust

you all understand,--it was a terrible thing to know that another was

accused of downright theft, in consequence of his own foolish and

cowardly conduct. And that one a friend,--a friend, too, who had just

rescued him from danger and distress! Poor Olly almost wished he had

been left to perish; that he had never reached the back of the "Old

Cow," or been seen or heard of again.

All this he kept to himself, and lay with his face turned to the wall,

thinking of the probable result of the charge against Perce Bucklin, and

of retribution falling upon himself; when Mrs. Murcher came and pulled

the coverlet carefully over his shoulder, and shut the door again gently

as she went out, leaving him, as she supposed, to sleep.

"Of course they can't prove anything against Perce," he tried to console

himself by thinking; for he was utterly ignorant of the astounding

evidence that was to free him from the last shadow of suspicion, and fix

the guilt on his friend.

(_To be continued._)

THE AMBITIOUS KANGAROO.

They held a great meeting a king to select,

And the kangaroo rose in a dignified way,

And said, "I'm the one you should surely elect,

For I can out-leap every beast here to-day."

Said the eagle, "How high can you climb toward the sky?"

Said the nightingale, "Favor us, please, with a song!"

Said the hawk, "Let us measure our powers of eye!"

Said the lion, "Come wrestle, and prove you are strong!"

But the kangaroo said, "It would surely be best,

In our choice of a king, to make leaping the test!"

WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

BY HENRY ECKFORD.

SEVENTH PAPER.

Great was the surprise of scholars, both Hindoo and European, when

certain students of old languages claimed that the letters of the

Sanskrit, the classical language of India, were originally derived from

an alphabet, akin to the Ph[oe]nician, used by a great branch of the

great race of peoples who are called Shemites, or Semites, after one of

the sons of Noah. (The Jews, Arabs, Philistines, Hittites,

Ph[oe]nicians, and Aramaeans are Semites.) Those students believe that

the wonderful peninsula of India, which, as far back as traditions go,

has been crowded with men of various colors and different tongues,

received a Semitic alphabet under two forms by two different roads, and

perhaps at periods far apart. They believe that there was a land road

and a sea road. They trace one alphabet by land, through Bactria and

Cashmere, from one fierce and intelligent nation to another; and they

believe that they have traced a second alphabet from Arabia to India by

way of the Red Sea. The nation that carried the latter alphabet is

supposed to have been the Sabaeans, an ancient people of Arabia, who were

once as powerful in the Southern seas as the Ph[oe]nicians, their

kindred, were in the Mediterranean.

Perhaps the word Sanskrit means nothing to you, but it is the name of an

important old Oriental language. Sanskrit stands in very much the same

relation to many Eastern languages as Latin does to the languages of

Italy, Spain, and France. In the last century, William Jones, a Welshman

of marked genius, went, like many young Britons, to India to advance his

fortunes under the British mercantile government of that land. It was he

who first called the attention of Europe to Sanskrit. Since his day much

of its poetry and legends has been read, many of its fables and dramatic

works have been translated. The word Sanskrit means polished and

perfected; and polished and perfected its alphabet certainly is. It is

the most complete and most carefully devised alphabet of all those that

we know. Sanskrit writing is very solid and handsome in appearance,--a

stately script worthy of holding the decrees which mighty monarchs

issued from courts magnificent with all the splendors of the Orient.

There are not twenty-two letters as in the Ph[oe]nician alphabet, nor

twenty-six as in ours--there are forty-seven! Instead of beginning with

A, the Sanskrit alphabet begins with K. Why? Because K is a letter

spoken from the throat. Indian grammarians carefully noted in what parts

of the throat and mouth the different sounds of their language were

made, and, for convenience, they systematized their ample alphabet on

this admirable plan. They put their fourteen vowels by themselves as

broad, open sounds which were shorter or longer; and, taking the

consonants, they placed first on the list those which are spoken from

the throat, then those spoken from the palate, then those spoken from

the roof of the mouth nearest the brain, then those spoken from the

teeth, and finally those spoken from the lips. The list of consonants

starts with those uttered low down in the throat and ends with those

uttered from the lips; added to these are the soft and flowing

consonants called semi-vowels--Y, R, L, and V; and after these come the

sibilants, or hissed letters, and the letter H,--forty-seven in all.

The Indian grammarians who devised this complete and scientific system

must have had ears almost as sharp as those of the boy in the old story

who was said to be able to hear the grass growing. They distinguished

between a number of consonants containing a sound of N,--between

"twangs" very slightly differing in sound; and they placed them also in

the order of their utterance, beginning with an N uttered from the

throat and ending with one spoken with the tongue close to the lips. Our

language has two or three different N sounds, but our alphabet does not

distinguish them. The French language also has several N sounds not

indicated by the alphabet, so that one can not hope to speak French

intelligibly, still less accurately, without practice with teachers who

can render the different N sounds. The Spanish alphabet tries to

indicate a second N by putting a mark over the N--thus, N. Then, too, we

have three sounds for which our alphabet has but one letter, S; while

the Sanskrit alphabet has three letters, one for each sound of S. In the

alphabet, as in many other matters, the more enlightened nations of

India put to shame the most advanced nations of the Western World.

Did you ever notice how, in our script, or written characters, for the

sake of clearness and to keep some letters distinct from others, we have

gradually come to write some of them with tall heads above the upper

line, or with long tails below the lower line? And still we are

constantly mistaking an l for a badly crossed t, and a g for a j or a y;

while some letters that do not go above or below the line, such as m, n,

i, w, u, and r, are constantly confounded in rapid writing. We are so

used to this confusion that we seldom think of it, and we fail to wonder

why some arrangement is not generally agreed to, which would do away

with it. By remembering this fact, you will avoid the mistake of

thinking because our alphabet, written or printed, is so good, that it

could not be better. There is great room for improvement in both

departments; in the printed form, the difference between n and u, for

instance, is none too great; while in writing hardly one person in ten

thousand distinguishes them from each other,--which letter is meant must

be guessed by the reader. But the men and women who set up type and

correct proofs are much bothered by these defects in our alphabet.

The difficulty of having changes made in existing alphabets is very

great, yet this is not necessarily a disadvantage. Much insight into the

origin and gradual improvements of sets of letters has been gained by

studying the order in which the several letters stand. The order varies

greatly in different nations, and varies slightly at different epochs in

the same nation. In taking the Ph[oe]nician letters, the Greeks dropped

some, used others for slightly different sounds, and added a few to

express sounds that were important to them or that did not exist in the

Ph[oe]nician. But this was done very gradually. It never has been easy

to induce people to change and improve their alphabets.

But there is another reason why men have refused to change the order of

letters by inserting a new and useful letter in the place where it

naturally belonged. The Greeks and many other peoples used the letters

of the alphabet for numerals. We use our own numbers without stopping to

think whence they came. The cumbersome system used by the Romans, and

called after them, consisted of strokes (I-II-III-IIII) to indicate the

four fingers, and two strokes joined (V) to represent the hand, or five

fingers. Ten was a picture of two hands, or two V's (X). Among the

Etruscans the half of one, or, as we put it, 1/2 was >, which we think

stood for a forefinger crooked in order to denote the half of one

finger. But when the Etruscans and Greeks worked at the higher

mathematics or attempted hard sums in arithmetic, they are much more

likely to have used letters, in order to avoid the clumsiness of these

numerals; in other words, they used what looked like a kind of algebra.

We know that they tried to simplify the Roman numerals at Rome by making

four and nine with three strokes instead of four, by placing an I

before the V and an I before the X (IV and IX).

Our use of the numerals which we call "Arabic" is comparatively recent,

and it is believed that the Arabs got these numbers from India several

centuries after the Koran was written, or about eight hundred years

after Christ. But the fact that the Greeks and others used the letters

of their alphabets for numerals, caused the order in which they were

written to remain fixed. If _alpha_ stood for 1, _beta_ for 2, _gamma_

for 3, _delta_ for 4, and so on up to ten, then a newly coined or newly

adopted letter could not be inserted without great confusion; it had to

be tacked on to the end of the alphabet. So, when scholars find in

inscriptions letters, adopted from another alphabet, which stand out of

their natural order, they can make a shrewd guess at the century in

which the inscription was made. Suppose an alphabet, which is also used

for numerals, loses a letter in the course of time, because there is

very little or no use for it; then that letter is still of service for a

numeral, and it can not be dropped as a number, though it drops out as a

letter. When it is found still employed as a numeral, it reveals some of

the history of the alphabet to which it once belonged. These are only a

few of many methods of determining the age of a given inscription. Old

coins are very useful in settling what the alphabets of various nations

were at different epochs.

Our own numerals are extremely convenient for ordinary arithmetic.

Algebra, in which letters stand for numbers, is useful for abstract

reasoning in mathematics; it treats of the properties of numbers in

general. Whether the Indian numerals were originally part of some

ancient alphabet, or a series of shortened signs originally somewhat

like the Roman numerals that we still use, is not really decided.

There was a curious fashion among certain grammarians and mathematicians

of Old India which may be mentioned here. They liked to increase their

own importance by making knowledge hard to attain; as it imposed on

their pupils, and even more on the outside world. They also wished to

exercise the memories of their pupils, and keep them mindful of certain

numbers and dates by means of memorizing words. In works on arithmetic

and prosody, they deliberately wrote out long words which meant nothing

if looked at as parts of a sentence, but stood for so many numbers if

the reader had the clew. If such a grammarian wished to write the number

twelve by this method, he would write down "moon, eyes"; because there

is one moon and two eyes. If he wished to signify the number 1486, he

would write "moon, seas, mountains, seasons"; because in India people

believed that in the world there were _one_ moon, _four_ seas, and

_eight_ mountain chains, and _six_ seasons during the year. So ingenious

were they in hiding plain things under an artificial system! The

priestly rulers of Egypt, also moved by pride and the desire to seem

learned, began at a remote period to make the hieroglyphics as hard as

possible to understand. For a given word they would always choose as

little known and seldom used a character as they could think of. And

doubtless this did render them objects of greater reverence in the eyes

of pupils and of common folk.

But to return to the numbers that we call Arabic and the Arabs call

Indian. The numbers used by the peoples of India who wrote in Sanskrit

were very like the figures 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 0, that we use

to-day. Even closer resemblances will be found if one goes back to the

earliest forms of our numerals; for, during the last thousand years, our

numbers have undergone some slight changes. We took them, as you have

heard, from the Arabs, who did not employ them much before 800 A. D.;

and the use of them did not penetrate into Europe by way of Italy and

Spain until four centuries later. Together with these numerals, the

Arabs learned from India how to do sums by algebra. For algebra, though

an Arabic word, is a science of which the Arabs were ignorant before

they reached India. How long the Indians of Hindostan had used this

system of notation along with their alphabet, we can not yet determine;

but it is quite possible that the old grammarians who improved the

Sanskrit were enabled to fashion its alphabet into so scientific an

order of groups because this separate system of numerals existed at even

a more remote period, and had been found handier than the signs of the

alphabet. Not using their letters as numerals, they could marshal them

on the best system they were able to devise, as we, too, have been able

to do with our alphabet ever since we got the Indian numerals from the

Arabs.

It may be said that the invention of these numerals and of algebra for

the higher mathematics stamps the old Hindoos as one of the most

wonderful races of the world.

(_To be concluded._)

[Illustration: "THIS SEAT RESERVED."]

THE BROWNIES AT LAWN-TENNIS.

BY PALMER COX.

One evening as the woods grew dark,

The Brownies wandered through a park,

And soon a building, quaint and small,

Appeared to draw the gaze of all.

Said one: "This place contains, no doubt,

The tools of workmen hereabout,

Who trim the vine, and shape the tree,

Or smooth the walks, as chance may be."

Another said: "You're quite astray,

The workmen's tools are miles away;

Within this building may be found

The fixtures for the tennis ground.

A meadow near, both long and wide,

For half the year is set aside,

And marked with many a square and court,

For those who love the royal sport.

On afternoons assembled there,

The active men and maidens fair

Keep up the game until the day

Has faded into evening gray.

And then the racket, net, and ball

Are stowed away for future call."

[Illustration]

"In other lands than those we tread,

I played the game," another said,

"And proved my skill and muscle stout,

As 'server' and as 'striker-out.'

And all the rules can quote as well

As those who print them out to sell;

The lock that hangs before us there

Bears witness to the keeper's care,

And tramps or burglars might go by,

If such a sign should meet the eye.

But we, who laugh at locks or law

Designed to keep mankind in awe,

May praise the keeper's cautious mind,

But all the same an entrance find,

And for the present evening claim

Whate'er is needed for the game."

Ere long, the path that lay between

The building and the meadow green,

Was crowded with the bustling throng,

All bearing implements along;

Some lugging stakes or racket sets,

And others buried up in nets

Until their feet alone they showed

Beneath their loose and trailing load.

To set the posts and mark the ground

The proper size and shape around,

With service-line and line of base,

And courts, both left and right, in place,

Was work that caused but slight delay;

And soon the sport was under way.

And then a strange and stirring scene

Was pictured out upon the green.

[Illustration]

Some watched the game and noted well

Where this or that one would excel.

And shouts and calls that filled the air

Proved even-handed playing there.

With anxious looks some kept the score,

And shouted "'vantage!" "game all!" or

To some "love, forty!" "deuce!" to more;

But when "deuce set!" the scorer cried,

Applause would ring on every side.

At times so hot the contest grew,

Established laws aside they threw,

And in the game where four should stand,

At least a dozen took a hand.

Some tangled in the netting lay

And some from base-lines strayed away.

Some hit the ball when out of place

Or scrambled through unlawful space.

But still no game was forced to halt

Because of this or greater fault.

And there they sported on the lawn

Until the ruddy streaks of dawn

Gave warning that the day was near,

And Brownies all must disappear.

[Illustration]

A MATTER-OF-FACT CINDERELLA.

BY MRS. ANNIE A. PRESTON.

"Oh! what a fine carriage, and what handsome horses! They are as gay as

the coach and horses of Cinderella!" and the bright-faced little girl,

with a glory of spring sunshine illuminating her glossy hair, clasped

her bare brown hands in delight.

"It dashed by so quickly, I had not time to notice it," replied Grandma

Eaton, looking over her glasses down the turf-striped country road after

the rapidly departing carriage. "I wonder whose it can be? There! it has

stopped. What is that for, Ella, child?"

"I don't know, Grandma, dear; but I think something about the harness

has given way. See! the horses are dancing and prancing. The gentleman

has jumped from the carriage. He has taken something from his pocket. It

looks like a knife. Oh, yes!"

"I had good eyes once, but they have served their day," sighed Grandma

Eaton.

"The horses are quiet, now," went on Ella, who had not once taken her

observant eyes from a spectacle so unusual for that quiet neighborhood.

"Now the strap is mended, I think, and everything is all right," added

the child with a little sigh of regret; and as the gentleman drove

swiftly on, she left the window and skipped out to the edge of the road,

to see the fine horses prance away.

"I guessed rightly, Grandma, dear!" cried Ella as she came running back

from the scene of the accident. "It was a broken strap, for here is a

piece, almost torn in two, that was cut off. And here is a penny I found

right under it; a bright, new penny--as yellow as gold!"

"This is no penny," said the woman, taking the shining coin in her own

hand and looking at it closely; "it is an eagle. I know an eagle when I

see one, although I have not had one of my own for many a day."

"Ten mills make one cent, ten cents make one dime, ten dimes make one

dollar, ten dollars make one eagle! A golden eagle! Oh, how much good it

will do us!" exclaimed the little girl as she glanced at her

grandmother's thin shawl and at the scant belongings of their humble

home.

"We are not to think of that," said Grandma Eaton, speaking so decidedly

that a flush overspread her thin, worn face. "The coin belongs to the

gentleman who just dropped it; and I do not doubt that a way will be

opened for it to be returned to its owner. Those who seek to do right

seldom lack opportunity. Cinderella's horses and carriage pass this way

too seldom to escape notice, and probably some of our neighbors will be

able to tell us to whom they belong."

But all the men in the quiet, out-of-the-way neighborhood had been at

town-meeting that afternoon, and none of the women folk, excepting

Grandma Eaton and little Ella, had seen the fine sight. They would have

remembered it almost as the figment of a dream, had it not been for the

bright ten-dollar gold piece laid away in cotton in Grandma Eaton's best

china tea-pot, on the top shelf of the parlor cupboard.

On the very next Monday morning after this episode, that same

glossy-haired, blue-eyed Ella, with grandma's thin shawl pinned about

her shoulders, made one of a bevy of girls who, with arms full of books,

slates, and lunch-baskets, were drawing near a plain little brown

school-house, standing in the shade of a tall, plumy pine-tree on a

sandy hillside that was supposed to be exactly in the center of the Pine

Meadow school-district.

"Oh, there's a fire in the school-house!" cried Lizzie Barber; "and I'm

glad, for my fingers are cold. I was in such a hurry I forgot my

mittens."

"We don't often find a fire made on the first day of school," said Abby

Wood, "because the committee-man has to go for the teacher."

"He must have kindled it before he started away," said Ella, "because it

has been burning some time. I can tell by the thinness of the smoke."

"That is just like you, Ella Eaton," put in Angelina Brown. "You're

always pretending to know things by what you see that no one else would

ever think about. Can't you be obliging enough to look through the walls

and tell us who is there? Perhaps school has begun."

"I have no way of telling that," laughed Ella, good-naturedly; "but, no

doubt some of the boys are there to make first choice of the seats."

"The boys must have climbed in at one of the windows," whispered Ella.

"Let us serenade them to let them know we are here."

And she began one of their familiar school songs in a clear, ringing

voice, her companions at once joining in with the melody.

By this time they had crossed the waste of sand, and were at the

school-house door; but, on trying to enter, they were surprised to find

the stout hasp and padlock as secure as it had been through all the long

vacation.

Immediately heavy footsteps were heard hurriedly crossing the

school-room, one of the small windows was thrown up with a bang, and a

stout, rough-looking, tangled-haired, shabby fellow scrambled out in

great haste. He cast his eyes sharply about, made a rush at the group of

affrighted little girls huddled together upon the broad door-stone,

grabbed Ella's lunch-basket with one hand, and Angelina's dinner-pail

with the other, cleared the low rail fence near by at a running jump,

and was lost to sight in the woodland at the end of the field.

As the ruffianly tramp ran in one direction, the little girls, dropping

all their wraps and traps, and seizing hold of hands, ran almost as fast

in the other.

How far they might have gone, had they not been turned about by meeting

the committee-man and the pretty young lady teacher, it would be hard to

say.

The girls were sure a grim, weather-beaten tramp would be found under

every desk, and two or three in the wood closet, and they could not be

persuaded to enter the school until a thorough search had been made.

It was not so bad as that; but what they did find was a broken window, a

fragment of bread, the teacher's chair split into kindlings and nearly

burned, and a large bundle of expensive silks and laces.

The intruder had apparently either fallen asleep by the fire and

overslept himself, or, not supposing that school was to begin so early

in the season, had intended to make the secluded building his

hiding-place for the day.

"There was a burglary committed at Willinotic night before last," said

Mr. Stiles, the committee-man, "and I fancy these are a part of the

spoils. A large reward is offered for the detection and identification

of the robbers; so, girls, it will be to your advantage to remember how

that fellow looked."

"I shall never forget him," said Lizzie; "he was the tallest man I ever

saw."

Abby was sure he was short. Angelina fancied he was lame; and Ella

remembered he had a bent nose. They all agreed that he was fierce and

horrid, and were equally sure they should know him if they should ever

see him again.

[Illustration: "THE GOLD PIECE WAS LAID AWAY IN GRANDMA EATON'S BEST

CHINA TEA-POT."]

The affair made a great local excitement; and when the goods were

identified as belonging to the great Willinotic dry goods firm of Clark

& Rogers, the girls who had enjoyed such an experience with a real

burglar were the envy of all the boys in the community.

But time sped on, the nine-days' excitement had become but a memory in

the dull routine of school duties, and June had arrived with its roses,

when one day word came from Clark & Rogers, asking Mr. Stiles, the

committee-man, to bring the little girls who had encountered the

burglar, to Willinotic, to see if they could pick him out of a number of

men who had been arrested while undermining a railway culvert some days

before: "There is a tall one, and a short one, a lame one, and one with

a bent nose," the letter said; "so it seems that there is a great deal

of material upon which the little women may exercise their memories."

"I am so glad my mother sent to New York for my gypsy hat," said

Angelina. "My mother finished my blue dress last night," said Lizzie;

and while Abby was telling what she expected to wear, Ella ran on ahead,

fearing that she might be questioned upon the same subject, for she knew

very well that nothing new, pretty, or fresh would fall to her lot. A

thought of the gold eagle did cross her mind; but she bravely put it

away from her.

And neither could the dear old grandmother help thinking of the gold

piece when she heard that Ella had been summoned to Willinotic; but she,

too, resolutely conquered the temptation, saying to herself:

"My grandchild shows her good breeding in her gentle manners and speech,

and they are better than fine clothes."

The day at Willinotic was a unique experience for the bevy of little

country girls. They enjoyed the hour's ride on the railway and the fine

sights in the handsome streets of the large town; but the grand,

white-marble court-house, where they were taken, filled most of them

with a vague alarm. The sultry summer air drew cool and fresh through

the long corridors, and they almost shivered as they were given seats in

a lofty room, from which the glaring sun was studiously excluded.

Through the half-open doorway they caught glimpses of the grave,

gold-spectacled judge at his high desk; the black-coated lawyers seated

at their long table in front; the witness-stand with its railing; and a

pale-faced prisoner sitting beside an officer.

"There is going to be a thunder-shower," said Angelina, "and I know I

shall be frightened to death."

"Let's all take hold of hands," said Abby Wood. "I never felt so

lonesome in all my life. I'm going back to the depot for fear we shall

be left."

"I'll go with you," said Lizzie. "I don't remember anything about the

old tramp, only that he was short--and I wish I hadn't come."

"Why, Lizzie Barber," cried Angelina, "you have always said he was the

tallest man you ever saw! How Mr. Stiles will laugh!"

"Well, I shan't stay to be laughed at!" half sobbed Lizzie. "Come,

Ella."

"We must not leave this room, where Mr. Stiles told us to stay until he

came for us," said Ella, so resolutely that her companions sat down

again, although Abby whispered to Angelina:

"The idea of our minding a little girl like Ella, just as if she were

the school-teacher herself!"

Happily, Mr. Stiles appeared in time to prevent another outbreak,

saying:

"Come, Angelina. You may as well go in first."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Angelina. "I wish Mother had come!" And she was led

away into the great court-room.

One by one Mr. Stiles came for the girls, until Ella was left alone. She

curled herself up like a kitten in one of the large arm-chairs, and

silently took in her unaccustomed surroundings with keen enjoyment.

"Come, Ella," said Mr. Stiles kindly. And she followed him slowly into

the court-room, hearing some one whisper lightly as she passed:

"So there is another one. I wonder if her testimony will carry as much

weight as that of her mates. It was foolish to expect such children, and

girls too, to identify any one."

As Ella cast a slow, thoughtful look about the room, her blue eyes

suddenly dilated, and, leaving Mr. Stiles's side, she walked straight up

to one of the lawyers, who regarded her curiously, when, dropping a

quaint little courtesy that her grandmother had taught her, she said

modestly:

"Excuse me, sir,--perhaps I ought not to tell you here, but perhaps I

may not see you again,--and I found your gold eagle."

"What did you say?" asked the gentleman kindly. "How do you happen to

know me, little girl? And what was that about a gold eagle?"

"I do not know you, sir; but Grandma says one may speak to a stranger on

business. I saw you that day--Freeman's meeting-day, it was, you

know--when you drove through North Damesfield, and a strap in your

harness broke. When you took out your knife to mend it, you dropped a

gold eagle, and I picked it up. Grandma has it at home in her china

tea-pot, and will be ever so glad I saw you, for ten dollars is a great

deal of money to have in the house--when it is not your own."

It was a funny little episode to happen in the crowded court-room, and

the lawyers all turned to listen; and the grave judge, from his high

seat, looked kindly down upon the little girl, while a smiled tugged at

the corners of his mouth and hinted of granddaughters at home.

"How do you know it was I who lost the money?" asked Mr. Gorden, with

twinkling eyes.

[Illustration]

"Why, I saw you, sir, and I could not help knowing you again."

"How was it, Mr. Gorden?" asked the judge, as if this diversion was not

altogether unwelcome; and the lawyer replied:

"I did drive through North Damesfield, on Freeman's meeting-day, by the

old turnpike, to avoid the mud by the river road. The harness did break,

and I feared for a time that I might have trouble with my horses; I had

purchased them only two days before. I did make a new hole in the strap

with my pocket-knife, and I surely on that day lost a ten-dollar gold

piece. I thought, however, that it was stolen from me at the miserable

little tavern where I had spent the previous night. I am so glad to find

myself mistaken, that I gladly give the gold piece to my little friend

here, who, it seems to me, has a better claim to it than I have."

"Oh, sir, I thank you, but, indeed, I do not think Grandma would let me

take it, because, really, it doesn't belong to me at all."

"It does, if I choose to give it to you, my child," said the gentleman,

smoothing her glossy curls. "And now, do you think you will be so sure

of the fellow who gave you such a sorry fright, and stole your dinner,

as you were of me?"

"Oh, yes, sir! If he is here, I shall know him. I saw him plainly." And,

turning about as she was told, she faced the half dozen prisoners, with

a little shiver. "That is the one," she said at once; "the one with his

hands in his pockets. His nose is bent just a little to one side, you

see. And, oh! sir! if you look at the thumb on his right hand you will

see that the end has been cut off; and that the nail grows sharp and

long, like a claw. I saw it when he snatched my lunch-basket, but I have

never thought of it since. I seemed to see it again when I saw his

face."

"That is an interesting little point, showing the association of ideas,"

said one of the lawyers in a low tone to another; and the prisoner whom

the little girl designated was ordered to take his hands from his

pockets. He refused doggedly at first; but, seeing that it was of no use

for him to resist, he withdrew them, and, holding up his peculiar thumb

in a defiant way, he muttered:

"The girl saw my thumb when she came in, and spoke about it because she

wants to get the reward."

"The prisoner kept his hands in his pockets ever since he entered the

court-room," said the sheriff.

"Not continually, I think," said one of the lawyers; and Mr. Gorden

suggested:

"It may be well to put this child's memory to another test." And,

turning to Ella, he asked kindly, "Are you often in Willinotic, little

girl?"

"I was never here until to-day, sir," she answered.

"Do you think you would know my horses if you saw them on the street?"

inquired Mr. Gorden.

"Yes, sir," said Ella, "I am sure I should know them anywhere."

"She will have her match this time, I fancy," said one of the lawyers to

another in a low voice; "of course she is not prepared for the variety

of teams to be seen on our main street."

A great deal of curiosity was felt in regard to this third test of the

womanly little girl's memory, and the court took a recess, lawyers,

judge, Mr. Stiles, and all the school-girls going to the deep balcony

of the court-house.

Ella seemed simply unconscious that the eyes of the whole party centered

upon her as she leaned against the railing, holding her hat in her hand,

while the wind lifted her curls and brought the color back to her pale

cheeks.

There were, indeed, many fine carriages and horses. Ella was closely

observant, but not confused. She did not appear to notice one team more

than another until ten minutes had passed; then the color went out of

her cheeks again, her eyes opened wide, and she exclaimed:

"There they come, sir! up the street--the gray with a sorrel mate. It is

a different carriage, but the very same lap robe. You had it spread over

a white fur one when I saw you."

"Very true," said Mr. Gorden. "Your three tests of memory are

unimpeachable; and now, will you be so kind as to tell us how it happens

that your memory is so much more retentive than that of most children of

your age?"

"I suppose, sir," said Ella, as the others gathered about to listen, "it

is because my father used to teach me that it was rude and useless to

stare long at any person or anything. He said I must train my eye to see

everything at a glance, and we used to amuse ourselves by looking at

pictures in that way. It is just like a game; and one can play at it all

alone, too. I have kept it up because I live alone with my grandma out

on the old turnpike, and I seldom have any one to play with. I only had

one good look at you, sir, but I saw your black eyes, your gray

mustache, and the look in your face that can be stern or can be very

kind."

At this, Squire Gorden's brother lawyers all laughed in concert and the

grave judge smiled, for they all were familiar with the look which the

little girl had so artlessly described.

The thief confessed his crime later.

"I noticed how that blue-eyed girl looked at me that morning at the

school-house," he said, "and I felt, somehow, as though she would know

me if she ever saw me again."

The burglar was sent to prison; and Ella not only was given the gold

eagle she had found, but she also received the reward for identifying

the thief. And she won so many warm and helpful friends that day at the

court-house that her grandmother used often to say: "That was really a

Cinderella coach and pair to you, dear. And you are a matter-of-fact

Cinderella yourself, though you have no fairy godmother, such as she

had."

"But I have you, dear Grandma," said Ella, "and you're worth a dozen

fairy godmothers. So I'm luckier than the other Cinderella, after all!"

[Illustration]

A T-party

She Twirled upon her Tip-Toes light,

Tossed back her Tangled Tresses bright,

And cried "I'm Truly Tired of play,

I'll have a Tea-party To-day!"

She set The Table 'neath a Tree,

With Tempting Tarts,

and Toast,

and Tea.

Ten Tiny cups upon The Tray,

Ten plates

and spoons in Trim array,

Ten Twinkling Tapers

Thin and Tall,

And Then The feast was ready all.

The Thrushes Trilled and Twittered sweet,

The Turf was Tender 'neath her feet.

Her Tidy cap with lace was rimmed

Her Tasteful gown was Tucked and Trimmed

"Now here am I and here's The Treat!" she cried "But who is There

To eat?

I'm very Thirsty for my Tea, I Think I'll be The company."

And sipping now and Tasting Then

She ate and drank for all The Ten!

WORK AND PLAY FOR YOUNG FOLK.--XVI.

VENETIAN MARQUETRY; OR, A PERFECT IMITATION OF INLAID WOOD-WORK.

BY CHARLES G. LELAND.

There are few persons who have not admired marquetry, or the sort of

mosaic work made by sawing out pieces of wood of different colors and

fitting them into one another. This is effected in three ways. The first

is by simply sawing out squares, diamonds, crosses, or any pattern of

which all the pieces are alike and can be fitted together. The designing

of these is a very interesting exercise. I may briefly say that it can

be done by drawing cross lines at equal distances, like those of a

chess-board, and tracing similarly-sized pieces from them. The Arabs and

Moors excelled in such designing and work.

[Illustration: DESIGN FOR A PATTERN IN ONE COLOR.]

The second kind of marquetry is made with a fret, or "jig," or scroll

saw. One of these may be had for a few cents, but a good equipment for

the work costs from fifty cents up to any price, according to the scale

on which the pupil wishes to work. Any hardware dealer will procure a

complete outfit, and there are now so many books of instruction and of

patterns for the work, that it is hardly necessary for me to explain it

more in detail. In a few words, it consists in taking two pieces of very

thin board, of different colors, fastening the two together, drawing a

pattern on a piece of paper, gumming it on to one surface, and then

sawing the two out. Of course, if it be neatly done, one piece will fit

into the other. Thus, if one be black and the other white, the black

pattern will fit into the white ground, and the white pattern into the

black ground.

The third kind of marquetry is made with veneers, which are sheets of

wood almost as thin as paper, and as the process of making it is rather

difficult for amateurs, I shall not describe it here.

But there is a fourth, and far easier process, called Venetian

Marquetry, which has never, to my knowledge, been fully noticed in

print; though it is so obvious a method that I dare say many have used

it. Much of the old marquetry was made of white wood stained with dyes.

Venetian Marquetry is a very perfect imitation of this, not to be

distinguished from the sawed-out patterns. It is made as follows:

Take a thin panel, or board, of holly or any other nice white or

light-yellow wood. Pine may be used when no other can be had, though it

is, from its softness, the worst for the purpose. Draw a pattern on it.

This may be done by tracing. Then with a knife-wheel, mark out in the

wood the entire outline of your pattern, cutting in to the depth of at

least one tenth of an inch. (A knife-wheel is like a pattern-wheel; that

is, it is a little disk, or flat wheel, not larger than a three-cent

piece, set in a handle; but the edge of a pattern-wheel is like the

rowel of a spur, in sharp points, while that of the knife-wheel, or

cutting-wheel, is thin and sharp. It must be very strongly made.)