CHAPTER VI

A GREAT MAN’S COUNSEL

Officers stood about in the hall of the house, as they did outside,

and many spoke to Colonel Cadwalader as he led his protégé in; but he

answered them but briefly. Evidently his pride had been touched by the

incident of the moment before, and he was struggling to keep his temper

in check. He was kindness itself to Hadley Morris, however.

“Have no fear of your reception by General Washington,” he whispered.

“The dispatches you bear will be sufficient introduction.”

But Hadley was afraid. Not, perhaps, that he feared any unkind

treatment; but in kind with most youth of his bringing up and station

in life, he looked in actual awe upon such a great man as the

Commander-in-Chief of the American forces. Nor did his fear lessen as

they entered the room.

Washington sat at a little deal table, which evidently at the moment

served him as a desk. In those days his headquarters were scarcely the

same twenty-four hours at a time. When he glanced up, seeing Colonel

Cadwalader, he arose to greet him, coming forward a pace to do this

with much cordiality.

“We have great need of you, Mr. Cadwalader,” the General said, waving

Hadley’s new friend to a seat near the little table. “You come from the

river?”

“Aye, General. But I can give you little news of a satisfactory

character, I fear. However, here is a young lad who bears something

which may prove of moment.”

Washington glanced swiftly at Hadley, who stood, plainly ill at ease,

and wringing his old cap in his hand. The brilliant, if travel-stained,

uniforms of the officers who surrounded the general contrasted oddly

with the patched and soiled garments the boy wore. He had ridden

away from the Three Oaks Inn in his stable dress, and he felt the

incongruity of his presence now more keenly than before.

“What does the young man bring?” asked Washington.

“Come forward, my lad,” Cadwalader Urged. “Give the General your

packet.”

With trembling fingers Hadley unbuttoned his coat and drew forth the

sealed papers. He knew all the time that those keen eyes were looking

him over. They seemed to penetrate even the wrapper of the packet.

[Illustration: HADLEY DELIVERED THE PACKET TO WASHINGTON]

“Where are you from, boy?” asked Washington.

“From--from the Three Oaks Inn,” stammered Hadley. In his own ears his

voice sounded from a long way off.

“And who gave them to you?” was the next query.

Hadley stammered worse than ever in trying to tell this, and John

Cadwalader took pity upon him. “So many strangers confuse the lad,

General. But he’s by no means a youngster without resources. From his

own story I reckon him a youth of action rather than of words,” the

colonel said, smiling.

“Egad!” exclaimed one of the amused officers, under his breath, “it’s

boys like him we want, then.”

Rapidly Cadwalader related the story of the injury to the dispatch

bearer at the Three Oaks Inn, of Hadley’s escape from the dragoons with

the papers, and of his adventures on the road; just as the boy had told

it to him in the carriage. Meanwhile General Washington had slit the

wrapper of the packet and unfolded the papers it contained. He nodded

now and then as Cadwalader’s story progressed, but at the same time he

glanced hastily over the papers.

“Ha! the boy has done us all a service,” the Commander said at length.

“These matters are most important. The papers come direct from New

York, gentlemen, and we have here at last a sure outline, I believe, of

His Lordship Howe’s intentions. It is well, my lad,” he said, glancing

again at Hadley, “that you let not the packet fall into the hands

of the enemy. Our work would have been put back some days,--perhaps

crippled. I must see more of you. You seem heartily in sympathy with

our country’s cause. Why have you not enlisted?”

“Egad, General!” exclaimed the same subordinate who had before spoken,

“I’ll set him to drilling myself if he’ll enlist. He’s a man’s stature

now, if not a man’s age.”

The boy flushed and paled by turns as he listened to this. “Come, speak

up, Master Morris!” exclaimed Cadwalader, encouragingly.

“I--I cannot enlist, if it please your honors,” the boy said. “My uncle

will not let me.”

“And who is this precious uncle of yours who’d keep a well-set-up lad

like you out of the army?” demanded the second officer.

“Ephraim Morris is his name, sir. We live hard by the Three Oaks,

across the river. I work for Jonas Benson, who keeps the inn.”

“We have record of this Ephraim Morris,” said a dark-faced man in the

corner, looking from under lowering brows at the boy. “As rank a Tory

as there is in all Jersey. I’d not put too much trust in what the boy

brings, gentlemen, if he’s Miser Morris’s nephew.”

The words stung Hadley to the quick. Unconsciously he squared his

shoulders, and his eyes flashed as he looked in the direction of the

last speaker. “My uncle refuses me permission to join the army, it is

true,” he said, chokingly; “but he has no power to change my opinions.”

For an instant there was silence. Washington flashed a glance at

Colonel Cadwalader.

“Master Morris,” Washington said, “we doubt not that you have good

reasons for not enlisting. But I believe you are in sympathy with us

and heed your country’s peril. You live in a community where you may be

of great benefit to us in the future. You have mentioned a man named

Holdness. You know him well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then deliver this note to him when next he passes the Three Oaks Inn.

He will return on the morrow or next day, I hear. Meanwhile be always

ready to serve the cause as you did last night, and, despite your

uncle’s prohibition against your joining the army, we shall count you

among our most useful servants. What say you, Mr. Cadwalader?”

The colonel bowed. “My mind exactly, General,” he said.

“This will pass you through the outposts,” the Commander said, handing

the two papers he had written to Hadley. “The colonel tells me you have

a horse not many miles from here. I wish you a safe return.”

Too disturbed to scarce know what he replied, young Morris got out

of the room, and not until he reached the open highway did he take a

free breath. And all the way back to the farmhouse where Molly had

been left, he grew hot and cold by turns as he thought of the awkward

figure he must have cut in the presence of the leader of the American

cause. It was mid-afternoon ere he recovered his horse and started for

the river. Molly had been refreshed and carried him swiftly over the

road to the regular ferry, where he had been unable to cross the night

before.

He met with no difficulty in passing the outposts and such scouting

parties of the American army as he met. There was no sign of British

soldiery upon this side of the river. He crossed the ferry at dark, and

three hours later rode quietly into the inn yard from the rear and put

Black Molly into her stall. Then he approached the house, wondering

what reception he should meet if Colonel Knowles and his daughter were

still sheltered there.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

[Illustration]

THE FRESHMAN BANQUET

BY HARRIET WHEELER

The bell was tolling for the vesper service. The students trooped out

of the various buildings and wended their way, more or less hastily,

towards the chapel. The last stroke had just ceased to vibrate as two

girls slipped into opposite ends of a rear seat and dropped down side

by side. As soon as it was safe, one of them pulled a note from her

pocket and stealthily tucked it into the hand of the other.

“Read it and hand it over to Nellie Gaines,” she whispered.

Edith Latta spread the note open on her lap and read:--

“Girls:--The Sophs have got news of our banquet, so we have changed

from the Watson House to the Goodwin. Everybody go down to Fanny

Berginrose’s right after chapel. The fish have come.”

Within ten minutes every member of the Freshman class had read the

note, and it is to be feared that during the next half-hour their

minds were less occupied with the services than with curiosity and the

thought of planked white fish.

Immediately after chapel the Freshman girls separated.

A party of Sophomore boys gathered behind the chapel and eyed the

retreating Freshmen suspiciously.

“There’s something up, fellows, sure,” said Bert Loranger. “We’d better

shadow the Freshies.”

“You and George go, Bert,” said Theodore Lathrop. “They’ll smell a

mouse if a crowd follows. We’ll go up to Chapin Hall and you can ’phone

us the news.”

The party separated, and George and Bert strolled down the path leading

through the campus toward town. The girls were in sight as they crossed

Pleasant Street and turned up Public Avenue. Bert slipped behind the

Parsonage and watched them cat-a-cornered through its bay window.

[Illustration: BERT WATCHED THEM THROUGH THE BAY WINDOW]

“They’re going to Fanny Berginrose’s!” he exclaimed.

“And there come two more Juniors, with another crowd of girls, down the

hill.”

“That’s all right,” declared George Nelson. “Come on down to Blake’s.

We’ll ’phone the fellows from there.”

The boys hastened over to the livery stable. “Hello, there, Ted! We’ve

tracked the girls to Fanny Berginrose’s. You know the scheme. Hurry

down.”

Ten minutes later a dozen Sophomores entered Blake’s, hot and

breathless.

“Everything’s moving,” said Bert Loranger. “We’ve ordered two ’buses.

We’ll go down to Fanny’s in a body and politely offer to escort the

Fresh-Ladies. Once in, we’ll drive them over to Rockton and across to

Freeville, and keep them going till midnight.”

As soon as the ’buses were ready the boys sprang in and started for the

Berginrose mansion. As they drew up in imposing array along the curb,

they stood up and, swinging their hats, gave the Freshman yell: “Siss,

bang! Boom-a-lang! Roar! Vive-la, Belmont! 1904!”

Long before that all the girls were watching them from the window.

“The Sophomores! What shall we do? Don’t let them in!” cried they in a

chorus.

Fanny stuck her head out the window and asked, “What’s wanted?”

“We’ve come to offer our services as escorts to the hotel,” said Ted,

bowing as gracefully as possible to a second-story window.

“They’re up to some trick,” whispered Edith Latta. “Anyhow, they still

think we’re going to the Watson House. That’s good.”

“Declined with thanks,” responded Fanny, slowly withdrawing her head

and closing the window.

The boys began to get out of the ’bus, and very deliberately surrounded

the house.

“I do believe they’re going to try to break in,” cried one of the

younger girls. “Call up the police.”

Fanny considered for a moment, but the sounds below dispelled her

doubt. Going to the ’phone, she called up the city marshal.

His laugh could be heard through the ’phone. “All right,” he shouted;

“I’ll be up with force big enough to quell all disturbances.”

In a few moments the officials appeared, followed by three Juniors.

Fanny let them in and bolted the door behind them.

“What shall we do, Mr. Appleton?” said the girls, surrounding the

marshal.

“Do! Jump into the ’buses and we’ll see that the drivers carry you

all to wherever you want to go. And at their expense, too,” he said,

chuckling at the thought. “Here, you boys,” to the Juniors, “no time

for coats.”

The girls put on their wraps. The marshal threw the doors open and

shouted, “The girls accept your offer. Clear the way!”

The girls followed the marshal into the ’buses. The Sophomores

surrounded them and attempted to climb over the wheels. But the

policemen, by some well-directed rib-poking with their clubs, were

enabled to free the ’bus. The three Juniors mounted to the drivers’

seats, and then, leaving a crowd of chagrined and disgusted Sophomores

on the sidewalk, the ’buses rattled down the street.

At the hotel the Freshmen boys greeted the new arrivals from the steps

and escorted them to the parlors.

“How in the world did you boys get over here?” asked Edith.

“Sneaked,” responded Addison Meyers, briefly. “Three or four of the

boys are putting themselves a good deal in evidence over at the Watson

House, just to keep up appearances. They’ll come later.”

Then the party proceeded to take sole possession of the second floor

of the hotel. There was a cozy little dining-room on that floor, just

large enough for their use. Their rather sudden descent upon his

establishment had evidently taken the landlord by surprise, and, red of

face and short of breath, he was now doing his best to catch up.

“I’m actually faint,” declared Belle Shephard, twenty minutes later. “I

hope the spread ’ll be ready on time. This terrible excitement makes me

hungry.”

Kauffman responded gallantly. “What, ho, landlord!” he said, rapping

vigorously on the door of the dining-room. Immediately a shuffling step

was heard within, and the door was opened but a few inches.

“Mein Herr, these ladies are ravenous. They demand planked white fish

or your life. How soon--”

“Planked white fish?” interrupted the landlord, in indignant

astonishment. “I give you not one white fish. I promised them not. For

so little money, it is not--” But Kauffman had suddenly shut the door

upon his protesting countenance, and turned to the group behind him.

“How’s this, His Excellency denies the white fish?”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” exclaimed Edith Latta, tragically grasping the two girls

within her reach, and drawing all eyes in her direction. “We forgot

to have them sent down. We were scared out of our wits and we forgot

everything.”

Jack Kauffman, who seemed to thrive on bad luck, made straightway for

the ’phone, his first resort in all such cases. He rang up Klumpf, the

baker.

“What about those fish? Are they done?”

A silence.

“How’s that? I couldn’t quite hear.”

“Taken? Who-- Say! what was he like? Tall, light hair, wore a spotted

vest and patent leathers. Well, I--”

Kauffman hung up the receiver with an impatient twang.

“I say, fellows and gentlemen, we’re done for. The Sophs have hooked

our fish. Jim Wilmore and that crowd--”

“Hello!” The door flew open suddenly, and Bill Winters, one of the

Juniors, burst in.

“Here’s something for you fellows. The Sophs sent it over to the Watson

House, thinking you were there.” As he spoke he handed what looked like

a letter to Jack Kauffman. “Looks as if they have taken your coats,” he

added.

“Coats!” exclaimed Crawford, in sudden surprise. “Why, I left mine in

the ’bus.”

“So did I, and I!” exclaimed several voices at once.

Kauffman read the letter.

“Ye green and verdant Freshmen are cordially invited to attend an

auction sale of coats, to be held in the lower hall of the Goodwin

immediately after the Sophomores partake of their white fish supper.

We would state privately that in the pockets of these garments will be

found many rare and valuable relics, such as autograph letters, signed

by your own classmates, unpaid laundry bills, etc. These will be sold

to the lowest bidder.”

Embarrassment and indignation were plainly visible on the faces of the

Freshmen, and both feelings were reflected in no small degree in the

countenances of the girls.

“White fish!” exclaimed Crawford, who was the first to recover from the

general consternation. “That explains it.”

“Why! How!” exclaimed the girls, who could not fully take in the

situation. Kauffman looked up with a grim smile that was not entirely

mirthful. “In other words,” he began, and his teeth seemed to cut each

syllable, “they have scooped our coats and obtained our planked white

fish under false pretenses. Now they propose to eat the fish under our

very noses and sell the coats at public auction. Can such things be?”

He looked about him upon the comical dismay of the group. Then a storm

of indignant protests filled the air.

“See here, Jack.” Crawford plucked Kauffman by the elbow and led him to

one side. There was a hurried consultation between the two and a sudden

decision. When it was reached Crawford slipped from the room and left

the hotel by the little street in the rear. Presently those nearest the

front windows became aware of some unusual commotion at the entrance to

the hotel, and, when somebody cautiously raised the window and reclosed

the inside blinds, the sound of Crawford’s voice was distinctly heard.

“Blame you fellows,” he was saying; “give me my coat. I left something

valuable in the pocket. It’s a mean trick, anyway.”

“What was it, Freshie?” came from a lower window in a taunting voice.

“Handkerchief?”

A laugh and a chorus of derisive responses sounded at once, some of

the latter expressing deep sympathy, others suggesting more or less

practical substitutes for the supposedly missing handkerchief.

The Freshmen above could see that Crawford was the centre of a rapidly

increasing crowd of Sophomores, to whom he continued earnestly to

appeal for his missing coat. There was a whine in his voice that none

of his classmates ever remembered to have heard before, and which

stirred the Sophomores to wonderful flights of sarcasm.

“What does he mean?” whispered Fanny Berginrose, in genuine perplexity,

to the girls about her. “He must know that that kind of talk will never

do any good. Catch me begging them for anything. John Kauffman, what’s

this all about. Why--where is John?”

Nobody knew. He had slipped away unobserved. So, also, had Addison

Meyers and Harry Bartlett. While the girls were still expressing their

wonder, sounds of cautious footsteps were heard upon the narrow back

stairs which connected the second floor with the kitchen. The door was

pushed open, and Kauffman appeared, bearing a great covered platter,

which was just all he could handle. But he was grinning. Behind him

were Meyers and Bartlett, ears deep in heaping armloads of coats.

Jack passed into the little private dining-room in which the spread

was now ready. For a few minutes there came sounds of protest and

explanation, and then Jack and the landlord came in together. Suddenly,

as if he had forgotten something, the latter went to the window and

gave a low whistle.

In a minute, Crawford, bubbling over with laughter, came up the stairs

two steps at a time.

“How was that, fellows, for an indignant Freshie?”

MR. NOBODY

There is a funny little man,

As quiet as a mouse,

Who does the mischief that is done

In everybody’s house.

There’s no one ever sees his face,

And yet we all agree

That every plate and cup was cracked

By Mr. Nobody.

’Tis he who always tears our books,

Who leaves our doors ajar;

He pulls the buttons from our shirts,

And scatters pins afar.

That squeaking door will always squeak

For, prithee, don’t you see,

We leave the oiling to be done

By Mr. Nobody.

The finger marks upon the doors

By none of us are made;

We never leave the blinds unclosed,

To let the curtains fade;

The ink we never spill; the boots

That lying round you see

Are not our boots--they all belong

To Mr. Nobody.

A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST

By Evelyn Raymond

CHAPTER IV

The Stranger’s Name

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

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

excepting her uncle and Angelique, the Indian housekeeper, Margot

Romeyn knows little of life beyond the deep hemlocks. Naturally

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

uncle, at one time a college professor. The cyclone from which they

barely escape with their lives appeals to her only as an interesting

phenomenon. Later in the same day, through her woodland instinct, she

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

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

neighboring forest.

Thrusting back the hair that had fallen over her eyes, Margot sprang

up and stared at the floundering mass of legs, arms, and wings upon

the wide lounge--a battle to the death, it seemed. Then she caught the

assailant in her strong hands and flung him aside, while her laughter

rang out in a way to make the stranger also stare, believing she had

gone crazy with sudden fear.

But his terror had restored his strength most marvelously, for he, too,

leaped to his feet and retreated to the furthest corner of the room,

whence he regarded the scene with dilated eyes.

“Why--why--it’s nobody, nothing, but dear old Tom!”

“It’s an eagle! The first--”

“Of course he’s an eagle. Aren’t you, dear? The most splendid bird in

Maine, or maybe Canada. The wisest, the most loving, the-- Oh! You big,

blundering, precious thing! Scaring people like that. You should be

more civil, sir.”

“Is--is--he tame?”

“Tame as Angelique’s pet chicken. But mischievous. He wouldn’t hurt you

for anything.”

“Humph! He would have killed me if I hadn’t waked and yelled.”

“Well, you did that surely. You feel better, don’t you?”

“I wish you’d put him outdoors, or shut him up where he belongs. I want

to sit down.”

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t,” she answered, pushing a chair

toward him.

“Where did you get it--that creature?”

“Uncle found him when he was ever so young. Somebody or something, a

hunter or some other bird, had hurt his wing and one foot. Eagles can

be injured by the least little blow upon their wings, you know.”

“No. I know nothing about them--yet. But I shall, some day.”

“Oh! I hope so. They’re delightful to study. Tom is very large, we

think. He’s nearly four feet tall, and his wings--Spread your wings,

sir! Spread!”

Margot had dropped upon the floor before the wide fireplace, her

favorite seat. Her arms clasped her strange pet’s body, while his white

head rested lovingly upon her shoulder. His eyes were fixed upon the

blazing logs, and the yellow irises gleamed as if they had caught and

held the dancing flames. But at her command he shook himself free, and

extended one mighty wing, while she stretched out the other. Their tips

were full nine feet apart and seemed to fill and darken the whole place.

In spite of this odd girl’s fearless handling of the bird, it looked

most formidable to the visitor, who retreated again to a safe distance,

though he had begun to advance toward her. And again he implored her

to put the uncanny monster out of the house.

Margot laughed, as she was always doing; but, going to the table,

filled a plate with the fragments from the stew, and, calling Tom, set

the dish before him on the threshold.

“There’s your supper, Thomas the King! Which means, no more of

Angelique’s chickens, dead or alive.”

The eagle gravely limped out of doors and the visitor felt relieved,

so that he cast somewhat longing glances upon the table, and Margot

was quick to understand them. Putting a generous portion upon another

plate, she moved a chair to the side nearest the fire.

“You’re so much stronger, I guess it won’t hurt you to take as much as

you like now. When did you eat anything before?”

“Day before yesterday--I think. I hardly know. The time seems confused.

As if I had been wandering, round and round, forever. I--was almost

dead, wasn’t I?”

“Yes. But ’twas Angelique who was first to see it was starvation.

Angelique is a Canadian. She lived in the woods long before we came to

them. She is very wise.”

He made no comment, being then too busy eating; but at length even his

voracity was satisfied, and he had leisure to examine his surroundings.

He looked at Margot as if girls were as unknown as eagles; and, indeed,

such as she were--to him, at least. Her dress was of blue flannel, and

of the same simple cut that she had always worn. A loose blouse, short

skirt, full knickers, met at the knees by long shoes, or gaiters of

buckskin. These were as comfortable and pliable as Indian moccasins,

and the only footgear she had ever known. They were made for her in a

distant town, whither Mr. Dutton went for needed supplies, and like

the rest of her costume, after a design of his own. She was certainly

unconventional in manner, but not from rudeness so much as from a

desire to study him--another unknown specimen from an outside world.

Her speech was correct beyond that common among school girls, and her

gaze was as friendly as it was frank.

Their scrutiny of each other was ended by her exclaiming:--

“Why--you are not old! Not much older than Pierre, I believe! It must

be because you are so dirty that I thought you were a man like uncle.”

“Thank you,” he answered, dryly.

But she had no intention of offense. Accustomed all her own life to the

utmost cleanliness, in the beginning insisted upon by Angelique because

it was proper, and by her guardian for health’s sake, she had grown up

with a horror of the discomfort of any untidiness, and she felt herself

most remiss in her attentions that she had not earlier offered soap and

water. Before he realized what she was about, she had sped into the

little outer room which the household used as a lavatory, and whirled a

wooden tub into its centre. This she promptly filled with water from a

pipe in the wall, and, having hung fresh towels on a chair, returned to

the living room.

“I’m so sorry. I ought to have thought of that right away. But a bath

is ready now, if you wish it.”

The stranger rose, stammered a little, but accepted what was in truth a

delightful surprise.

“Well, this is still more amazing! Into what sort of a spot have I

stumbled? It’s a log house, but with apparently several rooms. It has

all the comforts of civilization, and at least this one luxury. There

are books, too. I saw them in that inner apartment as I passed the open

door. The man looks like a gentleman in the disguise of a lumberman,

and the girl--what’ll she do next? Ask me where I came from, and why, I

presume. If she does, I’ll have to answer her, and truthfully. I can’t

fancy anybody not telling the truth to those blue eyes. Maybe she won’t

ask.”

She did, however, as soon as he reëntered the living room, refreshed

and certainly much more attractive in appearance than when he had the

soil and litter of his long wandering upon him.

“Oh! how much more comfortable you must be. How did you get lost? Is

your home far from here?”

“A long, long way,” and for a moment something like sadness touched his

face. That look passed quickly and a defiant expression took its place.

“What a pity! It will be so much harder to get word to your people.

Maybe Pierre can carry a message, or show you the road, once you are

strong enough again.”

“Who’s Pierre?”

“Mother Ricord’s son. He’s a woodlander and wiser even than she is.

He’s really more French than Indian, but uncle says the latter race is

stronger in him. It often is in his type.”

“A-ah, indeed! So you study types up here, do you?”

“Yes. Uncle makes it so interesting. You see, he got used to teaching

stupid people when he was a professor in his college. I’m dreadfully

stupid about books, though I do my best. But I love living things; and

the books about animals and races are charming. When they’re true,

that is. Often they’re not. There’s one book on squirrels uncle keeps

as a curiosity, to show how little the writer knew about them. And the

pictures are no more like squirrels than--than they are like me.”

“A-ah!” said the listener, again. “That explains.”

“I don’t know what you mean. No matter. It’s the old stupidity, I

suppose. How did you get lost?”

“The same prevailing stupidity,” he laughed. “Though I didn’t realize

it for that quality. Just thought I was smart, you know--conceit.

I--I--well, I didn’t get on so very well at the lumber camp I’d joined.

I wasn’t used to work of that sort, and there didn’t seem to be room,

even in the woods, for a greenhorn. I thought it was easy enough. I

could find my way anywhere, in any wilderness, with my outfit. I’d

brought that along, or bought it after I left civilization; so one

night I left, set out to paddle my own canoe. I paddled it into the

rapids, what those fellows called Rips, and they ripped me to ruin.

Upset, lost all my kit, tried to find my way back, wandered and

walked, forever and ever, it seemed to me, and--you know the rest.”

“But I do not. Did you keep hallooing all that long time? How did it

happen we heard you?”

“I was in a rocky place when that tornado came, and it was near the

water. I had just sense enough left to know the rocks would shelter me

and crept under them. Oh! that was awful--awful!”

“It must have been, but I was so deep in our cave that I heard but

little of it. Uncle and Angelique thought I was out in it and lost.

They suffered about it, and uncle tried to make a fire and was sick. We

had just returned home when we heard you.”

“After the storm I crawled out and saw you in the boat. You seemed to

have come right out of the earth, and I shouted, or tried to. I kept on

shouting even after you were out of sight, and then I got discouraged

and tried once more to find a road out.”

“I was singing so loud I suppose I didn’t hear at first. I’m so sorry.

But it’s all right now. You’re safe, and some way will be found to get

you to your home, or that lumber camp, if you’d rather.”

“Suppose I do not wish to go to either place--what then?”

Margot stared. “Not--wish--to go--to your own dear--home?”

The stranger smiled at the amazement of her face.

“Maybe not. Especially as I don’t know how I would be received there.

What if I was foolish and didn’t know when I was well off? What if I

ran away, meaning to stay away forever?”

“Well, if it hadn’t been for the rocks, and me, it would have been

forever. But God made the rocks and gave them to you for a shelter;

and He made me and sent me out on the lake so you should see me and be

found. If He wants you to go back to that home, He’ll find a way. Now,

it’s queer. Here we’ve been talking ever so long, yet I don’t know who

you are. You know all of us: Uncle Hugh Dutton, Angelique Ricord, and

me. I’m Margot Romeyn. What is your name?”

“Mine? Oh! I’m Adrian Wadislaw. A good-for-nought, some people say.

Young Wadislaw, the sinner, son of old Wadislaw, the saint.”

The answer was given recklessly, while the dark young face grew sadly

bitter and defiant.

After a moment, something startled Margot from the shocked surprise

with which she had heard this harsh reply. It was a sigh, almost a

groan, as from one who had been more deeply startled even than herself.

Turning, she saw the master standing in the doorway, staring at their

visitor as if he had seen a ghost, and nearly as white as one himself.

CHAPTER V

IN ALADDIN LAND

It seemed to Margot, watching, that it was an endless time her uncle

stood there gazing with that startled look upon their guest. In reality

it was but a moment. Then he passed his hand over his eyes, as one

who would brush away a mist, and came forward. He was still unduly

pale, but he spoke in a courteous, almost natural manner, and quietly

accepted the chair Margot hastened to bring him.

“You are getting rested, Mr.--”

“Oh! please don’t ‘Mister’ me, sir. You’ve been so good to me, and

I’m not used to the title. Though, in my scratches and wood dirt,

this young lady did take me for an old fellow. Yes, thanks to her

thoughtfulness, I’ve found myself again, and I’m just Adrian, if you’ll

be so kind.”

There was something very winning in this address, and it suited the

elder man well. The stranger was scarcely out of boyhood, and reminded

the old collegian of other lads whom he had known and loved. Wadislaw

was not a particularly pleasing name that one should dwell upon it,

unless necessary. Adrian was better and far more common. Neither did

it follow that this person was of a family he remembered too well; and

so Mr. Dutton reassured himself. In any case, the youth was now “the

stranger within the gates,” and therefore entitled to the best.

“Adrian, then. We are a simple household, following the old habit of

early to bed and to rise. You must be tired enough to sleep anywhere,

and there is another big lounge in my study. You would best occupy it

to-night, and to-morrow Angelique will fix you better quarters. Few

guests favor us in our far-away home,” he finished, with a smile that

was full of hospitality.

Adrian rose at once, and, bidding Margot and Angelique good-night,

followed his host into a big room which, save for the log walls, might

have been the library of some city home. It was a room which somehow

gave him the impression of vastness, liberality, and freedom--an

inclosed bit of the outside forest. Like each of the other apartments

he had seen, it had its great fireplace and its blazing logs, not at

all uncomfortable now in the chill that had come after the storm.

But he was too worn out to notice much more than these details, and,

without undressing, dropped upon the lounge and drew the Indian blanket

over him. His head rested upon great pillows stuffed with fragrant

spruce needles, and this perfume of the woods soothed him into instant

sleep.

But Hugh Dutton stood for many minutes, gravely studying the face of

the unconscious stranger. It was a comely, intelligent face, though

marred by self-will and indulgence, and with each passing second its

features grew more and more painfully familiar. Why, why had it come

into his distant retreat to disturb his peace? A peace that it had

taken fifteen years of life to gain, that had been achieved only by

bitter struggle with self and with all that was lowest in a noble

nature.

“Alas! And I believed I had at last learned to forgive!”

But none the less because of the bitterness would this man be unjust.

His very flesh recoiled from contact with that other flesh, fair as it

might be in the sight of most eyes, yet he forced himself to draw with

utmost gentleness the covering over the sleeper’s shoulders, and to

interpose a screening chair between him and the firelight.

“Well, one may at least control his actions, if not his thoughts,” he

murmured, and quietly left the place.

A few moments later he stood regarding Margot, also, as she lay in

sleep, and all the love of his strong nature rose to protect her from

the sorrow which she would have to bear sometime, but--not yet! Oh! not

yet! Then he turned quickly and went out of doors.

There had been nights in this woodlander’s life when no roof could

cover him. When even the forest seemed to suffocate, and when he had

found relief only upon the bald, bare top of that rocky height which

crowned the island. On such nights he had gone out early and come home

with the daybreak, and none had known of his absence, save, now and

then, the faithful Angelique, who knew the master’s story but kept it

to herself.

Margot had never guessed of these midnight expeditions, nor understood

the peculiar love and veneration her guardian had for that mountain

top. She better loved the depths of the wonderful forest, with its

flowers and ferns, and its furred or feathered creatures. She was

dreaming of these, the next morning, when her uncle’s cheery whistle

called her to get up.

A second to awake, a swift dressing, and she was with him, seeing no

signs of either illness or sorrow in his genial face, and eager with

plans for the coming day. All her days were delightful, but this would

be best of all.

“To think, uncle dear, that somebody else has come at last to see our

island! Why, there’s so much to show him I can hardly wait, nor know

where best to begin.”

“Suppose, Miss Impatience, we begin with breakfast? Here comes Adrian.

Ask his opinion.”

“Never was so hungry in my life!” agreed that youth, as he came hastily

forward to bid them both good-morning. “I mean--not since last night.

I wonder if a fellow that’s been half-starved, or three-quarters even,

will ever get his appetite down to normal again? It seems to me I

could eat a whole wild animal at a sitting!”

“So you shall, boy; so you shall!” cried Angelique, who now came in,

carrying a great dish of browned and smoking fish. This she placed at

her master’s end of the table and flanked it with another platter of

daintily crisped potatoes. There were heaps of delicate biscuits, with

coffee and cakes galore; enough, the visitor thought, to satisfy even

his own extravagant hunger, and again he wondered at such fare in such

a wilderness.

“Why, this might be a hotel table!” he exclaimed, in unfeigned

pleasure. “Not much like lumberman’s fare: salt pork, bad bread,

molasses-sweetened tea, and the everlasting beans. I hope I shall never

have to look another bean in the face! But that coffee! I never smelled

anything so delicious.”

“Had some last night,” commented Angelique, shortly. She perceived that

this stranger was in some way obnoxious to her beloved master, and she

resented the surprise with which he had seen her take her own place

behind the tray. Her temper seemed fairly cross-edged that morning, and

Margot remarked:--

Don’t mind Mother Angelique. She’s dreadfully disappointed that nobody

died and no bad luck followed her breaking a mirror, yesterday.

“No bad luck?” demanded Angelique, looking at Adrian with so marked a

manner that it spoke volumes. “And as for dying--you’ve but to go into

the woods and you’ll see.”

Here Tom created a diversion by entering and limping straight to the

stranger’s side, who moved away, then blushed at his own timidity,

seeing the amusement with which the others regarded him.

“Oh! we’re all one family here, servants and everybody,” cried the

woman, tossing the eagle a crumb of biscuit.

But the big bird was not to be drawn from the scrutiny of this new

face; and the gravity of his unwinking gaze was certainly disconcerting.

“Get out, you uncanny creature! Beg pardon, Miss Margot, but I’m--he

seems to have a special grudge against me.”

“Oh! no. He doesn’t understand who you are yet. We had a man here last

year, helping uncle, and Tom acted just as he does now. Though he never

would make friends with the Canadian, as I hope he will with you.”

Angelique flashed a glance toward the girl. Why should she, or anybody,

speak as if this lad’s visit were to be a prolonged one? And they had,

both she and the master. He had bidden the servant fill a fresh tick

with the dried and shredded fern leaves and pine needles, such as

supplied their own mattresses; and to put all needful furnishings into

the one disused room of the cabin.

“But, Master! When you’ve always acted as if that were bein’ kept for

somebody who was comin’ some day. Somebody you love!” she protested.

“I have settled the matter, Angelique. Don’t fear that I’ve not thought

it all out. ‘Do unto others,’ you know. For each day its duty, its

battle with self, and, please God, its victory.”

“He’s a saint, ever’body knows; and there’s something behind all this I

don’t understand. But, all the same, I wish my hand had shivered before

I broke the glass!” she had muttered, but had done his bidding, still

complaining.

Commonly, meals were leisurely affairs in that forest home, but on this

morning Mr. Dutton set an example of haste that the others followed;

and as soon as their appetites were satisfied he rose and said:--

“I’ll show you to your own room now, Adrian. Occupy it as long as you

wish. And find something to amuse yourself with while I am gone, for I

have much to do out of doors. It was the worst storm, for its duration,

that ever struck us. Fortunately, most of the outbuildings need only

repairs, but Snowfoot’s home is such a wreck she must have a new one.

Margot, will you run up the signal for Pierre?”

“Yes, indeed! Though I believe he will come without it. He’ll be

curious about the tornado, too, and it’s near his regular visiting

time.”

The room assigned to Adrian excited his fresh surprise; though he

assured himself that he would be amazed at nothing further, when he

saw, lying upon a table in the middle of the floor, two complete suits

of clothing, apparently placed there by the thoughtful host for his

guest to use. They were not of the latest style, but perfectly new, and

bore the stamp of a well-known tailor of his own city.

“Where did he get them, and so soon? What a mammoth of a house it is,

though built of logs. And isn’t it the most fitting and beautiful of

houses, after all? Whence came those comfortable chairs? And the books?

Most of all, where and how did he get that wonderful picture over

that magnificent log mantel? It looks like a room made ready for the

unexpected coming of some prodigal son! I’m that, sure enough; but not

of this household. If I were--well, maybe--Oh! hum!”

The lad crossed the floor and gazed reverently at the solitary painting

which the room contained. A marvelously lifelike head of the Man of

Sorrows, bending forward and gazing upon the onlooker with eyes of

infinite tenderness and appealing. Beneath it ran the inscription,

“Come Unto Me”; and in one corner was the artist’s signature--a broken

pine branch.

“Whew! I wonder if that fellow ran away from home because he loved a

brush and paint tube! What sort of a spot have I strayed into, anyway?

A paradise? Um! I wish ‘the mater’ could see me now. She’d not be so

unhappy over her unworthy son, maybe. Bless her, anyhow. If everybody

had been like her--”

He finished his soliloquy before an open window, through which he could

see the summit of the bare mountain that crowned the centre of the

island, and was itself crowned by a single pine tree. Though many of

its branches had been lopped away, enough were left to form a sort of

spiral stairway up its straight trunk to its lofty top.

“What a magnificent flagstaff that would make! I’d like to see Old

Glory floating there. Believe I’ll suggest it to the Magician--that’s

what this woodlander is--and doubtless he’ll attend to that little

matter. Shades of Aladdin!”

Adrian was so startled that he dropped into a chair, the better to

sustain himself against further Arabian-Nights-like discoveries.

It was a flagstaff! Somebody was climbing it--Margot! Up, up, like a

squirrel, her blonde head appearing first on one side, then the other,

a glowing budget strapped to her back.

Adrian gasped. No sailor could have been more fleet or sure-footed. It

seemed but a moment before that slender figure had scaled the topmost

branch and was unrolling the brilliant burden it had borne. The Stars

and Stripes, of course. Adrian would have been bitterly disappointed

if it had been anything else this agile maiden hoisted from that dizzy

height.

[Illustration: MARGOT UNFURLED THE FLAG]

In wild excitement and admiration the watcher leaned out of his window

and shouted hoarsely:--

“Hurrah! H-u-r-rah! H-U-R--!”

The cheer died in his throat. Something had happened. Something too

awful to contemplate. Adrian’s eyes closed that he might not see. Had

her foot slipped? Had his own cry reached and startled her?

For she was falling--falling! And the end could be but one.

CHAPTER VI

A ONE-SIDED STORY

Adrian was not a gymnast, though he had seen and admired many wonderful

feats performed by his own classmates. But he had never beheld a

miracle, and such he believed had been accomplished when, upon reaching

the foot of that terrible tree, he found Margot sitting beneath it,

pale and shaken, but, apparently, unhurt.

She had heard his breathless crashing up the slope and greeted him with

a smile and the tremulous question:--

“How did you know where I was?”

“You aren’t--dead?”

“Certainly not. I might have been, though, but God took care.”

“Was it my cheers frightened you?”

“Was it you, then? I heard something, different from the wood sounds,

and I looked quick to see. Then my foot slipped and I went down--a way.

I caught a branch just in time, and--please, don’t tell uncle. I’d

rather do that myself.”

“You should never do such a thing. The idea of a girl climbing trees at

all, least of any such a tree as that!”

He threw his head back and looked upward, through the green spiral, to

the brilliant sky. The enormous height revived the horror he had felt

as he leaped through the window and rushed to the mountain.

“Who planned such a death-trap as that, anyway?”

“I did.”

“You! A girl!”

“Yes. Why not? It’s great fun, usually.”

“You’d better have been learning to sew.”

“I can sew, but I don’t like it. Angelique does that. I do like

climbing and canoeing and botanizing and geologizing and astronomizing

and--”

Adrian threw up his hands in protest.

“What sort of creature are you, anyway?”

“Just plain girl.”

“Anything but that!”

“Well, girl, without the adjective. Suits me rather better,” and she

laughed in a way that proved she was not suffering from her mishap.

“This is the strangest place I ever saw. You are the strangest family.

We are certainly in the backwoods of Maine, yet you might be a college

senior, or a circus star, or--a fairy.”

Margot stretched her long arms and looked at them quizzically.

“Fairies don’t grow so big. Why don’t you sit down? Or, if you will,

climb up and look toward the narrows on the north. See if Pierre’s

birch is coming yet.”

Again Adrian glanced upward, to the flag floating there, and shrugged

his shoulders.

“Excuse me, please. That is, I suppose I could do it, only, seeing you

slip--I prefer to wait awhile.”

“Are you afraid?”

There was no sarcasm in the question. She asked it in all sincerity.

Adrian was different from Pierre, the only other boy she knew, and she

simply wondered if tree-climbing were among his unknown accomplishments.

It had been, to the extent possible with his city training and his

brief summer vacations, though unpracticed of late; but no lad of

spirit, least of all impetuous Adrian, could bear even the suggestion

of cowardice. He did not sit down, as she had bidden, but tossed aside

his rough jacket and leaped to the lower branch of the great pine tree.

“Why, it’s easy! It’s grand!” he called back, and went up swiftly

enough.

Indeed, it was not so difficult as it appeared from a distance.

Wherever the branches failed the spiral ladder had been perfected by

great spikes driven into the trunk, and he had but to clasp these in

turn to make a safe ascent. At the top he waved his hand, then shaded

his eyes and peered northward.

“He’s coming! Somebody’s coming!” he shouted. “There’s a little boat

pushing off from that other shore.”

Then he descended with a rapidity that delighted even himself and

called forth a bit of praise from Margot.

“I’m so glad you can climb. One can see so much more from the

tree-tops; and, oh! there is so much, so much to find out all the time!

Isn’t there?”

“Yes. Decidedly. One of the things I’d like to find out first is who

you are and how you came here. If you’re willing.”

Then he added, rather hastily: “Of course, I don’t want to be

impertinently curious. It only seems so strange to find such educated

people buried here in the north woods. I don’t see how you live here.

I--I--”

But the more he tried to explain the more confused he grew, and Margot

merrily simplified matters by declaring:--

“You are curious, all the same, and so am I. Let’s tell each other all

about everything, and then we’ll start straight without the bother of

stopping as we go along. Do sit down and I’ll begin.”

“Ready.”

“There’s so little, I shan’t be long. My dear mother was Cecily Dutton,

my Uncle Hugh’s twin. My father was Philip Romeyn, uncle’s closest

friend. They were almost more than brothers to each other, always;

though uncle was a student and, young as he was, a professor at

Columbia. Father was a business man, a banker or a cashier in a bank.

He wasn’t rich, but mother and uncle had money. From the time they were

boys, uncle and father were fond of the woods. They were great hunters

then, and spent all the time they could get up here in northern Maine.

After the marriage mother begged to come with them, and it was her

money bought this island, and the land along the shore of this lake

as far as we can see from here. Much farther, too, of course, because

the trees hide things. They built this log cabin, and it cost a great,

great deal to do it. They had to bring the workmen so far, but it was

finished at last, and everything was brought up here to make it--just

as you see.”

“What an ideal existence!”

“Was it? I don’t know much about ideals, though uncle talks of them

sometimes. It was real, that’s all. They were very, very happy. They

loved each other so dearly. Angelique came from Canada to keep the

house, and she says my mother was the sweetest woman she ever saw. Oh!

I wish--I wish I could have seen her! Or that I might remember her.

I’ll show you her portrait. It hangs in my own room.”

“Did she die?”

“Yes, when I was a year old. My father had died long before that, and

my mother was broken-hearted. Even for uncle and me she could not bear

to live. It was my father’s wish that we should come up here to stay,

and Uncle Hugh left everything and came. I was to be reared ‘in the

wilderness, where nothing evil comes,’ was what both my parents said.

So I have been, and--that’s all.”

Adrian was silent for some moments. The girl’s face had grown dreamy

and full of a pathetic tenderness, as it always did when she discussed

her unknown father and mother, even with Angelique; though, in reality,

she had not been allowed to miss what she had never known. Then she

looked up with a smile and observed: “Your turn.”

“Yes--I--suppose so. May as well give the end of my story first--I’m a

runaway.”

“Why?”

“No matter why.”

“That isn’t fair.”

He parried the indignation of her look by some further questions of his

own. “Have you always lived here?”

“Always.”

“You go to the towns sometimes, I suppose.”

“I have never seen a town, except in pictures.”

“Whew! Don’t you have any friends? Any girls come to see you?”

“I never saw a girl, only myself in that poor broken glass of Angel’s;

and, of course, the pictured ones--as of the towns--in the books.”

“You poor child!”

Margot’s brown face flushed. She wanted nobody’s pity, and she had not

felt that her life was a singular or narrow one till this outsider

came. A wish very like Angelique’s, that he had stayed where he

belonged, arose in her heart, but she dismissed it as inhospitable. Her

tone, however, showed her resentment.

“I’m not poor. Not in the least. I have everything any girl could want,

and I have--uncle! He’s the best, the wisest, the noblest man in all

the world. I know it, and so Angelique says. She’s been in your towns,

if you please. Lived in them, and says she never knew what comfort

meant until she came to Peace Island and us. You don’t understand.”

Margot was more angry than she had ever been, and anger made her

decidedly uncomfortable. She sprang up hastily, saying:--

“If you’ve nothing to tell I must go. I want to get into the forest and

look after my friends there. The storm may have hurt them.”

She was off down the mountain, as swift and sure-footed as if it were

not a rough pathway that made him blunder along very slowly. For

he followed at once, feeling that he had not been fair, as she had

accused, in his report of himself; and that only a complete confidence

was due these people who had treated him so kindly.

“Margot! Margot! Wait a minute! You’re too swift for me! I want to--”

Just there he caught his foot in a running vine, stumbled over a hidden

rock, and measured his length, head downward on the slope. He was not

hurt, however, though vexed and mortified. But when he had picked

himself up and looked around the girl had vanished.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

APRIL

FROM “IN MEMORIAM”

Now rings the woodland loud and long,

The distance takes a lovelier hue,

And, drowned in yonder living blue,

The lark becomes a sightless song.

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,

The flocks are whiter down the vale,

And milkier every milky sail

On winding stream or distant sea;

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives

In yonder greening gleam, and fly

The happy birds, that change their sky

To build and brood; that live their lives

From land to land; and in my breast

Spring wakens, too; and my regret

Becomes an April violet,

And buds and blossoms like the rest.

WOOD-FOLK TALK

By J. ALLISON ATWOOD

HOW OWL BECAME A NIGHT BIRD.

Why anybody, especially such a sociable fellow as Owl, should stay

indoors all day and go out only after the other birds are asleep, would

be hard to guess. Yet there is a reason, and a good one, too.

It was the third year after the king’s reception that Owl moved into

Birdland. He was a stranger to every one and, moreover, he seemed

reserved, seldom joining in any of the social functions. Indeed, he was

considered by many to be a wizard, so eccentric was he. Wren had once

remarked, Owl always seemed to have something on his mind. Whereupon

Brown Thrasher, with his usual sarcasm, replied that he didn’t think

that Owl had any mind. Of course, this created a laugh at Owl’s

expense, but he took it good-naturedly, for he knew that Thrasher’s

opinions were as airy as his flight.

Owl’s first great trouble was house hunting. He had been brought up and

accustomed to live in a hollow tree, and, if the truth must be told, he

was far too clumsy to build such a house for himself. No wonder, then,

that he was overcome with gratitude when Flicker offered him the one

which he had built the year before. Like all the woodpeckers, Flicker

was a good deal of a carpenter and always persisted in building himself

a new house each spring, even though it might be but a short flight

from his last year’s home.

Flicker had taken quite a liking to Owl, who always behaved like a

gentleman, but the real reason was because of Thrasher’s attempt to

tease him. Flicker and Thrasher were not very good friends. Many

years ago Thrasher had insinuated that Flicker wore a black patch of

feathers on his breast so that he might claim relationship with Meadow

Lark. This, of course, was not true, and Flicker, who, by means of the

red mark on the back of his head, could trace his ancestry back to the

great Ivory Bill, could well laugh at the accusation. Nevertheless, he

had always remembered it, and it was, therefore, with a double pleasure

that he let Owl occupy his last year’s house.

As for Owl, it mattered little as to the real reason of his getting the

house. So pleased was he that he even contemplated holding a reception

in his new home. But then, as he thought how plain and old-fashioned it

would seem to such a fastidious housekeeper as Oriole, his desire left

him.

Now, when Sparrow Hawk, who had just arrived in Birdland, learned that

Flicker had given one of his houses to Owl, he was very angry, for he

had wanted it himself. He resolved to outwit Owl. Being rather stupid

himself, he could not believe that Owl was really a bright fellow. So,

with this object in view, Sparrow Hawk chose a nice, quiet spot in

the nearby underbrush. Song Sparrow, who lived in the thicket, moved

to the other end. He had never been fully satisfied as to how Sparrow

Hawk received his name. However, Sparrow Hawk did not disturb him in

the least, but remained hidden in the brush. “When Owl goes out to

dinner,” thought he, “I’ll take possession of his house.” But Owl saw

through his plan with half an eye and remained at home. At night, as

soon as it became dark, he would slip quietly out and get himself a

very comfortable meal. Then he would go back chuckling to himself as

he thought of Sparrow Hawk’s plan. This went on for many days, and each

morning Sparrow Hawk would say to himself, “He must come out to-day or

he will starve.” Little did he know how Owl was getting ahead of him.

At length Sparrow Hawk became tired of hiding and flew up to Owl’s

door. He expected to find the latter dead from starvation, or at

least too weak to make any resistance. But when he saw Owl, plump and

healthy, puff out his chest with an angry snap of his bill, he changed

his mind and left in a hurry.

He was at a loss to account for Owl’s sleek condition. One day,

however, he overheard one of his neighbors say that he had seen Owl fly

out of his house late on the evening before.

Sparrow Hawk was more angry than ever. He saw that Owl had outwitted

him. He resolved to be revenged, yet he knew that he could not stay

awake all night to get possession of Owl’s house. Instead, he made up

a lot of scandalous stories about Owl, and even went so far as to say

that he ate other birds. At first Birdland would not believe these

stories about Owl, but, when finally they learned his queer habits,

they began to think that they must be true. So it happened that Owl

became confirmed in his night-going habits.

One time he stayed out later than usual, and it was daybreak when he

got near home. Instead of going in immediately, he remained in a nearby

pine tree. It was so much more pleasant outside than in the house. His

eyes had been troubling him of late, so he closed them. Then, before

he knew it, Owl fell asleep. Very soon the sun rose and all Birdland

was in a great bustle. Suddenly Chick-a-dee, who was searching for his

breakfast, gave a startled little shriek. Who was that in the pine

tree? It must be Owl. Blue Jay, too, was excited when Chick-a-dee,

breathless and with feathers in disorder, hurried to him with the news.

And so it spread. Everybody was indignant, for they remembered the

stories told by Sparrow Hawk. Owl, they thought, should be put out of

the way. This they whispered excitedly to each other as they surrounded

the tree. Flicker was the only one who had heard the news and would

not join the gathering. He sat on his doorstep watching them as they

silently approached Owl, and he trembled, for it would be a very easy

matter to kill poor Owl while he was asleep.

Sparrow Hawk was exultant. Now at last he would be revenged. Everybody

believed Owl to be a villain and wished to kill him.

But to tell the truth, the birds were afraid of Owl. Even Sparrow Hawk

hesitated about attacking him. Finally, it was planned that every one

should fly at him at once while he slept, unconscious of his danger. As

Flicker understood their plan, he became alarmed almost to distraction,

and then, as if on a sudden thought, his anxious voice rang out, “Wake

up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

For a moment the birds were speechless. Then, “Kill him! Kill him! Kill

him!” cried Sparrow Hawk, and at that instant they all flew at him.

Owl’s big eyes popped open and his feathers stood on end. So large did

he appear and so terrible did the snap of his bill seem that, for the

minute, his enemies stopped half way in their flight, and then, before

they could collect their scattered wits, Owl darted noiselessly into

his house.

It is very easy for us to understand now how all the scandals about Owl

were started and why he lives such a hermit’s life. We know, too, why

Flicker and Sparrow Hawk cannot get along together since the former

saved Owl’s life. To tell the truth, Flicker is not a bit afraid of

Sparrow Hawk, but when he sees him coming, hides behind a tree and

calls, “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” just to anger him. Sparrow Hawk

knows well that he would have little chance of catching Flicker, who

can dodge around the tree as nimbly as any squirrel, so his only retort

is to call out to an imaginary ally, “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”

LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS

BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD

CHAPTER III

MISS POMEROY COMES

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

Polly Prentiss is an orphan who lives with a distant relative, Mrs.

Manser, the mistress of Manser farm. Miss Hetty Pomeroy, a maiden

lady of middle age, has, ever since the death of her favorite niece,

been on the lookout for a little girl whom she might adopt. She is

attracted by Polly’s appearance and quaint manners, and finally

decides to take her home with her and keep her for a month to see if

the plan would be agreeable to both. If Polly, whose real name is

Mary, should fulfill her expectations she would then wish to adopt her.

Polly ran out of the room, and Mrs. Manser hurried through the house

to open the front door; she stepped out to the wagon to greet Miss

Pomeroy, and stood with the breeze fluttering her scanty front locks

till Polly reappeared.

“I don’t know as she’ll be what you want, at all,” said Mrs. Manser,

blinking up at the grave, kind face above her, for the sun shone in

her eyes. “I’ll leave you to find out what sort of a child she is, as

I told you the other day, for nobody can tell what will suit anybody

else. I’ve tried to bring her up well, but, of course, she hasn’t had

advantages, though she’s pretty bright in school, her teacher says.”

“I’m glad it’s vacation time,” said Miss Pomeroy, cheerily. “Polly and

I will have so much better chance to get acquainted with each other,

and become friends whether she stays with me always or not. Is she

pleased to go, Mrs. Manser?”

“I guess she realizes what a great chance ’tis for her, and how good

you are,” said Mrs. Manser, avoiding the direct gaze of the keen gray

eyes. She began to wish she had left unsaid a few things, with which

she had charged Polly’s mind. “Of course, ’tisn’t as if she had the

sense of a grown person,” she added, somewhat vaguely.

“I don’t know about that,” laughed Miss Pomeroy; “it seems to me that

little people have a wonderful amount of sense sometimes.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Manser, dubiously, “perhaps they have.”

Meanwhile Polly had run out to the shed, where the old people were

waiting to say good-by to her. They had been marshaled into a line by

Uncle Sam Blodgett, so that Polly might be hugged and kissed by each

in turn, without loss of time; but the line wavered and broke as the

little figure they all loved to see came flying in at the door. Poor

Bob Rust, from his humble stand at the rear, gave a strange, sorrowful

cry and turned to go out of the shed.

“Here,” called Polly, peremptorily, “I’ll kiss you first of all, on

your forehead, because I don’t like all your whiskers, you know,” and

the man stooped for his good-by, and then ran, stumbling, out of the

shed and away to the cow pasture.

“I said good-by to the cows and all the hens and the pigs when I

first got up,” said Polly, turning to her friends; “and I gave Prince

some oats and said good-by to him right after breakfast. Now, Uncle

Blodgett, it’s your turn.”

The old man swung her quickly up into his arms and gave her a hearty

kiss.

“Here,” he said, as he set her down, “you take this bunch o’ slippery

elm to keep me in mind, and you take this knife. One blade’s all right,

and ’twould be an extra fine article if the other blade was fixed up a

bit.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Polly, fervently, as she slipped her two presents

into her petticoat pocket, “you’re just as good as you can be. Perhaps

I shall come back here to stay, but, anyway, Miss Pomeroy would let me

come to see you all, sometimes, I’m sure.”

“I reckon you’ll never come back here,” muttered Uncle Blodgett to the

chopping block, “not to stay, if that Pomeroy woman has got eyes and a

heart.”

Mrs. Ramsdell pressed Polly fiercely to her breast, and then let her

go, after a searching look into the brown eyes.

“There, that’s over with,” she said, firmly. “One more thing gone,

along with all the rest.”

“But I shan’t forget you,” faltered Polly, whose eyes were getting very

misty indeed.

“Of course you won’t, dear child,” quavered Aunty Peebles, as she

folded Polly in her arms, and as she released the little girl she

pressed a tiny pin cushion into her hand, which speedily found a

hiding-place with the slippery elm and the bladeless knife.

Last of all came Grandma Manser, who smoothed Polly’s curls with her

trembling hands and could hardly bear to say good-by at all.

“If you get adopted, my lamb,” she whispered in Polly’s ear, “daughter

Sarah says it’s likely she can buy me something to hear with, and

Uncle Sam Blodgett’s promised to read to us now you’re going. But if

you aren’t happy at Miss Hetty’s, dear, you come back, and nobody

will be better pleased than I to see you; ’twill joy me more than an

ear-trumpet!”

Polly swallowed hard, and dashed something from her eyes as she

ran into the house. She said a hasty good-by to Father Manser, who

was washing his hands at the kitchen sink for the third time since

breakfast, and hurried out of doors with the big enamel cloth bag which

contained her wardrobe.

She courtesied to Miss Pomeroy, and gave a faint “good-morning, ma’am,”

in response to the cheery salutation from her new friend. Mrs. Manser

gave her a peck on the lips and a forlorn “Good-by, child, and be as

little trouble as you can to Miss Pomeroy,” and then Polly climbed into

the wagon.

In another minute the wagon was rolling quickly down the road, the

chorus of good-bys from old, familiar voices had hushed into silence,

and Polly, stealing a glance at the gray eyes so far above the brim

of her Sunday hat, felt that old things had passed away, and a new,

strange life stretched out before her.

“Let me see, Mary, you are ten years old, aren’t you? When does your

birthday come?” Miss Hetty asked suddenly, when they had gone a little

way down the hill toward the village. The voice was kind and friendly,

but the unwonted “Mary” which she must expect always to hear now, gave

Polly a homesick twinge.

“It’s come,” she answered, glancing timidly up at Miss Hetty. “I had my

birthday two weeks ago, and I was ten--if you please,” added the little

girl, hastily.

“I guess I was just as polite as Eleanor that time,” she thought, and

the idea that she had made a fair start cheered Polly, so that she

smiled confidingly at Miss Pomeroy, who smiled at her in return.

“You don’t look as old as that,” she said, kindly, but her voice had a

sober sound at which Polly took alarm.

“Yes’m. I’m small for my age,” she said, slowly, “but I’m real strong.

I’ve never been sick, not one single day.” And then she thought, “Oh,

dear! probably Eleanor was tall! I’m going to see if I can’t stretch

myself out the way Ebenezer did when he was little. I can lie down

on the floor in my room and reach my arms and legs as far as they’ll

go--What, ma’am?” said Polly, quickly, as she realized that Miss

Pomeroy was speaking.

“I was saying that I suppose you’re accustomed to play out of doors a

good deal,” said Miss Hetty, a little sharply, “for you have such rosy

cheeks. What are you thinking about, my dear?”

“I was thinking about Ebenezer, for one thing,” said Polly, truthfully.

“Yes’m, my cheeks are always pretty red.” Then she was seized with

dismay; probably Eleanor’s cheeks were white, like snowdrops. “They

aren’t quite so red when I’m in the house,” she ventured, bravely,

“and, of course, I shall be in the house a great deal now I’m getting

on in years.”

Polly felt that this phrase, borrowed from Mrs. Manser’s stock, was

most happily chosen. Miss Hetty made an inarticulate sound, and touched

up her brown mare, but all she said was, “Who is Ebenezer?”

“Ebenezer is Mrs. Manser’s cat,” said Polly, glad to be on safe ground,

“and he knows a great deal, Father Manser says. He is nearly as old as

I am, and he has caught forty-three rats to Uncle Blodgett’s certain

sure knowledge, and nobody knows how many more. He has eaten them,

too,” said Polly, gravely, “though I don’t see how he could ever in

this world; do you?”

“They wouldn’t be to my taste,” said Miss Pomeroy, briskly. “Who is

Uncle Sam Blodgett? I mean, is he any relation of yours?”

“Oh, no, ma’am; he isn’t any relation of anybody,” said Polly.

“His kith and kin have all died, he says, and he is a lonely old

hulk--that’s what he told me he was,” she added, seeing a look which

might be disapproval on Miss Hetty’s face. “He’s had adventures by land

and sea and suffered far and near, and it’s a tame thing for him to saw

and split now that his days are numbered.”

“Mercy on us!” ejaculated Miss Pomeroy. “Where did you ever get such a

memory, child?”

“From--from my father, Mrs. Manser said,” faltered Polly. Here was

a new cause of anxiety; evidently Eleanor’s memory had been quite

different from hers. Polly looked steadily before her, and set her

little mouth firmly. “Perhaps Arctura Green, that they’ve spoken of,

can tell me about Eleanor’s memory,” she thought, suddenly; “maybe I

can ask her about a good many things.”

Just then Daisy, the pretty brown mare, turned the curve at the foot of

the long hill, and they were in the main street of Mapleton.

CHAPTER IV

POLLY’S FIRST JOURNEY

“Now, I have some errands to do,” said Miss Pomeroy; “perhaps you’d

like to get out of the wagon at Burcham’s and see the new toys.”

“No, ma’am, thank you; I will stay here and hold the horse,” said

Polly, and, after a keen look at her, Miss Pomeroy drove to the butcher

shop and alighted, leaving Daisy in her charge.

“I guess that is what Eleanor would have said,” remarked Polly, in a

low, confidential tone to the horse, as she carefully flicked an early

fly from Daisy’s back; “and, truly, I don’t care a bit about seeing the

dolls or anything to-day. Of course, I mustn’t tell stories, trying to

be like Eleanor; I’ve just got to stop wanting to do things, so I can

tell the truth.”

As she faced this tremendous task, Polly sat so still and erect that

she looked like a stern little sentinel, and her motionless figure

attracted the attention of a number of people whom she did not see. In

a few moments Miss Pomeroy came out of the butcher’s and went across

the road to the post office. The butcher brought out a package in brown

paper and stowed it carefully in at the back of the wagon. Then he

stepped around to pat Daisy and speak to Polly. He was a red-faced,

hearty man who had lost two front teeth and talked with a slight lisp.

He and Polly had always been on excellent terms.

“How d’ye do, Polly?” he said, reaching up his unoccupied hand to grasp

the little girl’s; “thso this is the day you thstart in to live with

Miths Pomeroy? Well, you’re going to have a fine home, and she’ths an

exthtra good woman, when you get uthsed to her being a mite quick and

up-and-coming.”

“Mr. Boggs,” said Polly, anxiously, “you know I’m Mary Prentiss now.

You mustn’t please call me by my old name any more--not unless Miss

Pomeroy decides not to adopt me. I don’t suppose you ever saw Eleanor,

Miss Pomeroy’s niece that died? No, of course you couldn’t have.”

“I thsaw her when thshe came here, a year-older,” said Mr. Boggs, as

he turned to greet a customer; “just like mothst children of that age,

thshe looked, for all I could thsee. I reckon her qualitieths weren’t

what you could call developed then. Well, good-day to you, Miths Mary

Prentiths, and the bethst of luck,” he said, with a laugh and a low

bow as he gave Polly’s hand a final shake.

Just then Miss Pomeroy came across the road with her hands full of

papers and letters, and with a little white bag, which she put in

Polly’s lap as she took her seat. The bag had a deliciously lumpy

feeling, and Polly’s mind leaped to gum-drops in an instant.

“Open it and let us see what they are like,” said Miss Pomeroy, as she

gathered up the reins, which had slackened in Polly’s hands during the

interview with Mr. Boggs. “Chocolate creams and gum-drops. I suspect

you’ll like the chocolates best, but I am very fond of gum-drops; so

I’ll take one of those. One piece of candy is all I allow myself in a

day, so you may carry off the bag to your own room when we get there,

to keep me from being tempted.”

Polly took one bite of a big chocolate drop after Miss Pomeroy had been

served to her taste, and then she gave a little sigh of delight.

“I never tasted a chocolate cream before,” she said, slowly. “I don’t

suppose there’s anything else so nice to eat in all the world, is

there? I wish Aunty Peebles had some of these. I shall save her half;

that is, if you’re willing,” she added, hastily.

“I’m afraid they’ll be pretty hard and dry before you see Aunty Peebles

again,” said Miss Pomeroy, and Polly’s heart sank in spite of the

delicious taste in her mouth.

“I don’t expect she’s going to let me see Manser Farm again, till next

Christmas, probably, if she adopts me,” thought Polly. “Of course,

candy is good for ’most a year if you keep it carefully, but it does

begin to get a little hard. I know, because those two peppermints

Father Manser gave me yesterday were the last of the ones he bought for

Thanksgiving, and they were just a little hard, though, of course, they

were nice.”

“Maybe I could give some of them to the butcher to take to Aunty

Peebles, if--if he comes to Pomeroy Oaks,” ventured Polly, after a

short silence, during which Daisy was trotting along the road, out of

the village, past the square white church with its tall steeple, past

the tinsmith’s shop, on toward the meadows beyond which lay Polly’s

undiscovered country.

“He comes twice a week,” said Miss Pomeroy; “but wouldn’t you like to

send Aunty Peebles a little box of fresh candy by mail, some day, to

surprise her? You could put it in the post office, and Mr. Manser would

get it when he goes for the mail, and take it to her.”

“Oh!” said Polly, her eyes brimming over with gratitude; “oh, aren’t

you good! Why, Aunty Peebles hasn’t ever had anything from the post

office excepting once a year her second cousin from way out West sends

her a paper with the list of deaths in the town where she lives, and

sometimes there’s an ink mark to show it’s been a friend of her second

cousin’s family; but,” said Polly, shaking her head, “it ’most always

made Aunty Peebles cry when it came, and I believe she would rather not

have had it.”

“I should say not, indeed,” assented Miss Pomeroy; “just hear that

bird, Mary! He’s telling cheerful news, isn’t he?”

Polly hugged herself with sudden joy. Miss Pomeroy evidently liked

birds, or she would never have spoken in that way. “Probably she’ll

leave the windows open, so I can hear them when I’m reading and sewing

and doing quiet things, like Eleanor,” she thought, happily; but all

she said was, “Oh, yes’m; isn’t he glad spring has come, don’t you

believe?”

“I believe he is, my dear,” said Miss Pomeroy; “and now, if you look

ahead, you can see through the trees the roof of the house where you

are going to live for a little while, at any rate.”

“For always,” said Polly, firmly, to herself. “Miss Pomeroy’s good as

she can be, and there’s Grandma Manser’s ear trumpet, and Mrs. Manser’s

poor health, and all I’ve got to do is to learn to like to sew and read

better than to play, and to stay in the house and be quiet instead of

running wild outdoors. That isn’t much,” said Polly, scornfully, to

herself, “for a big girl like me.”

Past the rich meadows through which ran the little brook that joined

Ashdon River, over the wooden bridge that rumbled under her feet, along

the brook road beneath the arching willows, up the easy hill, and into

the avenue of stately oaks that gave Miss Pomeroy’s home its name,

trotted Daisy, carrying her mistress with the grave, kind eyes and

little, eager-faced Polly. The child gazed with awe and excitement at

the flying panorama, and gave quick, short breaths as the pretty mare

made a skillful turn and stopped before a porch over which was trained

an old grape vine. In the porch stood Arctura Green, Miss Pomeroy’s

faithful helper, and at the foot of the steps Hiram, Arctura’s brother,

waited to take Daisy, who rubbed her nose against his rough hand and

gave a little whinny of pleasure before she crunched the lump of sugar

which Hiram slipped into her mouth.

“Here we are, my dear,” said Miss Pomeroy, briskly, and Polly, feeling

as if she were sound asleep and wide awake all together, jumped out of

the wagon.

CHAPTER V

AT POMEROY OAKS

“This is little Mary Prentiss,” said Miss Pomeroy to Arctura Green, who

stood beaming down on Polly.

“Well, I’m glad enough to see you,” said Arctura, heartily, reaching

out her long arm and drawing the little girl close to her side;

“something young is just what we need here. We’re all growing old, Miss

Hetty and Hiram and I, and Daisy and the cows and all hands; we’ve got

a couple of kittens, to be sure, but they’re always busy about their

own affairs and don’t talk much, so they’re no great company.”

“Why, Arctura, I don’t know when I’ve heard you make such a long

speech,” said Miss Pomeroy. “I hope you have something good for dinner,

for Mary and I have had a long drive and a great deal of excitement,

and we shall be hungry pretty soon.”

“It’s only just turned half-past eleven,” said Arctura, releasing Polly

after a good squeeze against her big checked apron, “so there’ll be an

hour to wait. Where’s the little girl’s baggage, Miss Hetty?”

“It’s there in the back of the wagon,” said Miss Pomeroy; “a big black

bag.”

“If you please, I can carry it, Miss Arctura,” said Polly, stepping

forward to take the bag. “I’m real strong.”

“I want to know,” said Arctura, placidly. “Well, considering how many

times as big as you are I am, supposing you let me lug it upstairs for

you just this once. I shouldn’t know I was hefting more’n a feather’s

weight,” and she swung the bag jauntily as she marched into the house

after Miss Pomeroy, gently pushing the little girl before her.

Hiram stood looking into the house for a moment. His mouth had fallen

open, as was its wont in times of meditation. Hiram had what his

sister frankly called a “draughty countenance,” with a large-nostriled

nose, big, prominent ears, and bulging eyes, but the same spirit of

good-nature that illumined Arctura’s face shone from her brother’s.

“She’s a neat little piece,” remarked Hiram to Daisy, as he headed her

for the barn; “a neat little piece, if ever I saw one, but she looks a

mite scared, seems’s if. This is a kind of a quiet place for a young

one to be set down, no mistake, and there ain’t any passing to speak

of. Children like to see things a-going, even if they’re a-going by,

seems’s if. She gave me a real pretty smile, say what you’ve a mind

to,” he insisted, as if Daisy had expressed violent remonstrance.

The side porch led into a small, square hall; opposite the porch door

was one which Arctura opened, and Polly saw that it was at the foot of

a flight of stairs. Arctura and the black enamel cloth bag vanished

from sight as the door closed. In the hall stood a hat-tree with curved

mahogany branches, tipped with shining brass.

“Now, I hang my everyday coat and hat here,” said Miss Pomeroy,

suiting the action to the word, “and you’d better do the same. What’s

the matter, child?” she asked, at the sight of Polly’s face.

“These--these are not my everyday hat and jacket, Miss Pomeroy, if you

please,” said Polly. “My everyday jacket is a shawl, and my everyday

hat is a sunbonnet sometimes, and sometimes it isn’t--it hasn’t been

anything. These are my Sunday best, and they are used to lying in a

drawer on account of the dust--though I don’t believe there’s one speck

of dust here,” she added, politely.

“Arctura would be pleased to hear that,” said Miss Pomeroy. “I think we

may venture to leave the Sunday hat and coat here until after dinner.

When you go upstairs, you will find a drawer in which you can put them,

I’m sure.”

Then Miss Hetty led the way through a door at the left of the hall into

a big, comfortable room, the walls of which were lined with book-cases.

There was a bow window around which ran a cushioned seat; there were

lounging chairs and rocking chairs, and a long sofa; a great round

mahogany table covered with books and papers; and, best of all, a

fireplace with a bright fire burning under the black pot which hung on

the iron crane; and, guarding the fire, were two soldierly figures with

stern profiles.

“These were my great-great-grandfather’s andirons,” said Miss Pomeroy,

as she watched Polly’s eyes. “Suppose you sit down by the fire and get

warmed through, for there was a little chill in the air, after all;

and you might take a book to amuse yourself. I have to be busy with

something for awhile. Would you--I suppose you wouldn’t care to look at

the newspaper?” questioned Miss Pomeroy, doubtfully. “The child looks

so absurdly young,” she thought, “and yet she talks as if she were

fifty.”

“No’m, thank you,” said Polly; “I will just look at the fire and the

books;” so Miss Pomeroy opened another door that led into the great

front hall, and went out of the room. She left the door open, and

Polly could hear a solemn ticking. She tiptoed to the door and,

looking out into the hall, saw a tall clock with a great white face,

above which there was a silvery moon in her last quarter. Polly looked

at the slowly-swinging pendulum with shining eyes.

“That must be Mrs. Ramsdell’s clock,” she said, softly. “I mean her

father’s. She described it just that way, and she said its like was

never seen in these parts; no, it was those parts,” said Polly,

correcting herself, “for it was ’way off in Connecticut. Well, then,

there must have been two made alike, and Mrs. Ramsdell never knew it; I

guess I won’t tell her, for she might be sorry.”

Polly stood a moment in the doorway; she could hear the sound of Miss

Pomeroy’s voice in some distant part of the house. She tiptoed back

into the library. The carpet was so thick and soft that Polly knelt

down and rubbed it gently with her little hand; then she put her head

down and pressed her cheek against the faded roses.

“It feels like Ebenezer’s fur,” said Polly. “I wonder if Ebenezer will

miss me.”

Polly sat still for a moment with wistful eyes, and then hastily

scrambled to her feet as the door into the side hall opened partway and

Arctura stuck her head in.

“Here,” she said, dropping a struggling heap on the floor, “I thought

maybe you’d like to see these two little creatures; I call ’em Snip and

Snap, and I’ve had a chase to find ’em for you. There’s nothing they

can break in the library, so Miss Hetty lets ’em run wild once in a

while. I’ll just shut that other door.”

Arctura marched across the floor and shut the door into the front hall;

then she marched back toward her own quarters. “If I were in your

place,” she said, looking at the kittens instead of Polly, “I wouldn’t

make a practice of sitting on the floor. I don’t know as it’s any harm,

really, but a chair looks better for little girls.”

“Yes’m,” said Polly, with scarlet cheeks, as Arctura vanished with a

good-humored smile. “I expect she thought I was turning somersaults,

maybe,” said Polly to the kittens; “oh, dear!”

But the kittens were quite undisturbed by Arctura’s remarks. As Polly

stood still for a moment, they began an acrobatic performance which

always gave them keen enjoyment. Snip made a clutch for the hem of

Polly’s skirt in front at the same instant that Snap sprang upon her

from the rear. They secured a good hold on the pink gingham, and

clambered up to Polly’s shoulder as fast as they could go. There they

met and shifted positions with considerable scratching of their sharp

little claws, and descended, Snap in front and Snip at the back,

tumbling around Polly’s feet, and then scampering away from each other

sidewise with arched backs and distended tails.

[Illustration: THE KITTENS CLAMBERED TO POLLY’S SHOULDERS]

“Oh, you little cunnings!” cried Polly, forgetting all her troubles

in a minute. To the window seats flew Snip and Snap, and there they

swung back and forth on the stout curtain cords, and made dashes at

each other; then they were off to the seat of an old leather-covered

chair. Snip mounted to the top of the back and patted Snap on the head

with a paw whose claws were politely sheathed, as often as he started

to spring to his brother’s side. Over and under chairs and tables they

went, and Polly, full of delight, followed them, catching up one or the

other whenever she could.

At last the kittens grew tired of play, and when Miss Hetty opened the

library door they were comfortably seated on Polly’s shoulders, and

there was a sound in the room as of two contented little mill wheels.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

APRIL LEAVES

By Julia McNair Wright

Foliage is the most prominent feature of the plant world. Trunks and

branches are large and grand, the parti-colored flowers are, at first

glance, more beautiful, but the leaf is the most conspicuous part of

the vegetation. If flowers and leaves, and wherever is now a leaf we

should have a blossom, the eyes would soon tire of the glare of vivid

color, and we should long for the soft, restful green of leaves.

Early in April we find the leaf buds unfolding upon the sides of the

stems, or pushing up through the ground. Some of these buds are placed

opposite to each other upon the stem, others are set alternately,

others spirally, so that if you follow with a thread the placing of a

certain number of buds you will see that the thread has made a complete

circuit of the stem, and then another. Where the leaves are in a spiral

placement it is merely a whorl drawn out; where there is a whorl it is

merely a compressed spiral.

Let us look at a leaf blade. The woody fibre which makes up the main

stem and, bound into a little bundle, composes the foot stalk, spreads

out into a light, woody framework for the leaf. This framework is

usually in two layers, like the nervures in a butterfly’s wing. The

central line of the frame is called the mid-rib, the other parts are

styled the veins. Some of these veins are coarser and stronger than

others, as, for example, those which expand in the large side lobes

of the maple and oak leaves; other veins are as fine as spider’s web.

Every student of botany should make studies in venation, by soaking

leaves until the green part has decayed, then laying them on black

cloth, and brushing the pulp away gently with a fine brush, when

perfect specimens of framework will remain. It is this framework which

gives the form to the leaf.

Leaves were not created for beauty, but for use. Animals and plants

alike are indebted to the shade of foliage for much comfort, and for

some further possibilities of life and growth. You suggest, as another

use, the supply of food. Yes, the grasses and many herbage plants are

greedily browsed by animals; thus we owe to them indirectly our food

supply.

Yet we have not reached the most important function of the leaf. To

the plant itself the leaf serves as a food purveyor, gathering perhaps

the larger portion of plant food from air and moisture by absorption.

The leaf is also the main breathing apparatus of the plant; the leaf

spreads out to air and sunlight the food received by the entire plant,

and thus secures chemical changes in it similar to assimilation and

digestion. The leaf makes possible the circulation of the sap. Thus the

leaf serves the plant as throat, lungs, and stomach. What the human

being would be without such organs the plant would be without the leaf,

or some part modified, as in the cactus family, to serve the purposes

of the leaf.

So, when in April, we see the trees on all sides bursting forth in

verdant foliage, let us remember the manifold purposes of the leaf.

WITH THE EDITOR

The launching of a new magazine can fairly be compared to the

opening of a new house. In it there are various rooms--which we call

departments--to be opened and furnished.

Our house-warming was well attended. At our fireside were seen the

faces of young folks from all parts of the United States, from Canada,

England, and even far-off Hawaii. To please such a gathering it is

necessary to meet many requirements.

Although gratified by the praise which we have received in good

measure, and so encouraged to new ambitions, we, nevertheless, desire

the guidance of earnest criticism. In the spirit of mutual helpfulness,

then, we ask your opinion upon the departments already begun and your

advice as to the opening of others.

* * * * *

Young people starting out with the ambition to accomplish something of

importance in the world naturally place great stress upon the element

of originality. To them, at first glance, the world’s great discoveries

and inventions seem based upon a learning totally new--the sudden

flash of genius rather than the natural growth of knowledge. But a

closer study of each achievement, even of genius itself, will show

that in reality it is but the finishing touch upon work already nearly

accomplished.

For example, let us consider Darwin and Wallace. Important as were

their services, their greatness does not rest upon the element of

originality. The knowledge necessary for the construction of the

theory of evolution had been accumulating in the minds of men for

centuries. These two did but observe and utilize that knowledge.

Others, whose names have been forgotten, have, doubtless, worked just

as earnestly and just as intelligently. How many of us have ever

heard of Lamarck, or even of Charles Darwin’s grandfather. Yet each

of these men, separately, brought the theory of evolution almost to

the threshold of public belief. Their lives were spent in building the

foundation, while Darwin and Wallace, using their data, finished the

work thus made possible. The men whom the world remembers are the ones

who recognize these chances and make perfect use of the past.

To-day, we see several minds struggling to interpret the problem of

wireless telegraphy. Their experiments are going on before the eyes

of the world. It is no sudden stroke of genius. What is in its effect

a decided originality, is largely the ability to make practical

application of past labor. Our knowledge of electricity has been

accumulating. The step is certain. The telegraph, the telephone, and

the electric light have long since ripened. Soon we may know who will

give wireless telegraphy its finishing touch.

Let us remember, therefore, that the great opportunities of the present

lie, not so much in the shaping of new castles of imagination, as in

patiently and carefully building upon the foundations already laid.

EVENT AND COMMENT

St. Louis Exposition

An event which stands prominently before us is the Exposition to be

held in St. Louis in the summer of 1903. Its double purpose is to

portray civilization in its most advanced state and to celebrate the

100th anniversary of the Louisiana Purchase--the historic transaction

whereby the United States purchased from France the territory lying

between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains.

The ground area of the proposed fair is nearly 1200 acres and the

appropriation, raised by the united efforts of the city of St. Louis,

the State of Missouri, and the national government, will reach thirty

millions of dollars.

The principal departments are Education, Art, Manufacture, Machinery,

Liberal Arts, Electricity, Transportation, Agriculture, Horticulture,

Forestry, Mining and Metallurgy, Fish and Game, Anthropology, and

Physical Culture. Each of these is to be represented by a building and

the whole group will be arranged in a symmetrical fan-shaped figure.

Through the center of this, extending from what we might term the

handle to the outer arc, will be a boulevard six hundred feet in width.

Where this intersects the circumference, some sixty feet above the

general level of the grounds, will be the Art Palace. It is to be a

permanent building and will cost at least one million dollars.

As much as possible the exhibits will show the process of manufacture

and development of the articles displayed. Raw materials also will

occupy a prominent place. St. Louis is the commercial center of the

Mississippi Valley--one of the world’s great areas of production.

The Louisiana Exposition as planned should be most convincing that the

United States has well utilized the territory purchased in 1803.

Interior Heat

Professor T. C. Mendenhall has recently suggested that the internal

heat of the earth might be used as a source of power. In such an age we

are bound to be a little cautious in pronouncing anything impossible.

Experiments show that the temperature of the earth, as we descend into

its depths, increases one degree for every sixty feet. At this rate it

would be necessary to bore ten thousand feet to obtain the temperature

necessary to convert water into steam.

Professor William Hallock, of Columbia University, has already a plan

in mind. A few feet apart he would sink two parallel pipes into the

earth to the distance required. Both of these would terminate in a

subterranean reservoir which could be made by the explosion of dynamite

cartridges.

Then through one of the pipes a supply of water would be introduced

into the reservoir. Here, by the earth’s heat, it would be converted

into steam, and in this form conducted, by the other pipe, to the

surface, where it would be utilized.

Prince Henry

Although the name Prince Henry has been in our ears for several weeks

past, some of us may not know his relation in the royal family.

He is the second son of an emperor and the brother of the present

Emperor of the German Empire. He is a descendant of the line of

Prussian kings which included one of the world’s greatest generals,

Frederick the Great.

On one side his grandfather, William I, of Prussia, was the first

emperor of the modern German Empire. On the other, his grandmother was

Queen Victoria of England. His wife is the granddaughter of the latter

sovereign.

A Change In the Cabinet

On March 10, the Hon. John D. Long, Secretary of the Navy, tendered his

resignation from office. Mr. Long has been in the Presidential Cabinet

since 1897.

William H. Moody, who, like the former, hails from the State of

Massachusetts, has been appointed as his successor.

Mr. Moody is forty-nine years old, a lawyer by profession, and has been

a member of Congress for the past seven years. He will take up the

duties of his office on May 1.

The New States

Bills are now before the House of Representatives for the admission to

Statehood of our remaining Territories--New Mexico, Arizona, Oklahoma,

and Indian Territory.

This movement was favored as far back as 1896.

The chief objection raised at present is, that most of the inhabitants

are of Mexican and Indian descent and are unfit for the responsibility

of citizenship.

The Irrigation Bill

In the bill on irrigation recently passed in the Senate, provisions

were made for what is known as a Reclamation Fund. This is to be formed

from the proceeds of the sales of public lands and will be devoted to

the irrigation of the arid districts in the United States.

By means of such a movement it is proposed to reclaim and utilize a

great area of land which has heretofore been worthless to agriculture.

Methuen’s Defeat.

By a night attack made on March 7, 1902, General Delarey, with a force

of fifteen hundred Boers, captured, near Vryburg, several hundred

British soldiers, all their supplies and four guns. Among the prisoners

was General Methuen, the commander of the British.

Such a demonstration of reserve strength upon the part of the Boers

should make the British Government cautious in declaring the war in

South Africa to be at an end.

Photography In Colors

Mr. A. H. Verrill, of New Haven, Conn., has discovered a method in

photography for reproducing all natural tints and colors. He terms it

the autochromatic process. Its success is due to the paper used, which

is five times as sensitive to red and yellow light as ordinary paper,

and to the sharpness of the lenses. These latter were made under his

own direction.

[Illustration: IN-DOORS]

PARLOR MAGIC

By Ellis Stanyon

The first of this series of papers on Magic, commencing with the March

number, included directions to the beginner for Palming and the Pass.

Magical Production of a Coin.--Come forward with a coin palmed in the

right hand. Draw attention to the left hand, showing it back and front

as empty, and, as if in illustration of what you say, give the palm a

smart slap with the right hand, leaving the coin behind, and slightly

contracting the fingers so as to retain it; now show the right hand

empty, pulling up the sleeve with the left, which masks the presence of

the coin, then close the left hand and, after one or two passes over it

with the right hand, produce the coin.

* * * * *

A New Coin Fold.--Take a piece of paper four inches by five inches,

place a coin on it, and fold the top of the paper down over the coin

to within one inch of the bottom. Then fold the right-hand side of the

paper under the coin, treating the left-hand side in a similar way. You

must now fold the one inch of paper at the bottom, under the coin, and

you will, apparently, have wrapped it securely in the paper; but really

it is in a kind of pocket, and will readily slip out into either hand

at pleasure.

Allow several persons in the audience to feel the coin through the

paper, then take it from the left hand to the right, letting the coin

slip out into the left hand, which picks up a plate from the table. You

may burn the paper in the flame of a candle, and, dropping the ashes on

the plate, the coin is found to have disappeared.

* * * * *

To Vanish a Marked Coin from a Tumbler and Cause it to Appear in a

Small Box Wrapped in Paper in the Centre of a Large Ball of Wool.--For

this very surprising trick you will require to make the following

preparations:

Procure a tumbler having a slit cut flush with and parallel to the

bottom, which should be flat. The opening should be just large enough

to allow a half-dollar dropped into the tumbler to slip through into

your hand (see Fig. 6).

[Illustration: Fig. 6]

Obtain a small metal box large enough to take the coin easily, also a

flat tin tube just wide enough for the half-dollar to slide through it.

Place one end of this tube inside the box and close the lid on it,

keeping it in position by passing an elastic band over the box. You now

wrap the box in paper and wind a quantity of wool around it until you

get a large ball with the end of the tube projecting about one inch.

Place the ball thus prepared on the table at the rear of the stage, and

you are ready to perform. Show the tumbler, and draw attention to the

fact that it is an ordinary one by filling it with water, which can

be done by holding the forefinger around the slit. Empty the tumbler

and borrow a half-dollar, which has been marked by the owner, allowing

him to actually drop it into the glass. Cover the tumbler with a

handkerchief, shaking it continually to prove that your coin is still

there, and then place it down on your table, securing the coin through

the slit as you do so. Going to the back of the stage for the ball of

wool, you insert the coin into the tube and withdraw the latter, when

the action of the elastic band closes the box. Bring the ball forward

in a large glass basin and have the wool unwound, disclosing the box;

on this being opened the marked coin will be found within.

* * * * *

Coin, Wine Glass, and Paper Cone.--This very pretty and amusing table

trick consists in causing a coin placed under a wine glass, the whole

being covered with a paper cone, to disappear and return as often as

desired.

The following arrangements are necessary: Take a wine glass and, having

placed a little gum all around its edge, turn it over on a sheet of

white paper, and when dry cut away the paper close to the glass. Obtain

a Japanese tray and on it lay a large sheet of paper similar to that

covering the mouth of the glass, and stand the glass, mouth downward,

on it. Make a paper cone to fit over the glass, and you are ready to

present the illusion.

Borrow a penny and lay it on the large sheet of paper by the side of

the wine glass; cover the glass with the paper cone, and place the

whole over the coin. Command the penny to disappear, and, on removing

the cone, it will seem to have done so, as the paper over the mouth

of the glass, being the same color as that on the tray, effectively

conceals the coin. To cause it to reappear, you replace the cone and

carry away the glass under it. This can be repeated as often as desired.

To make the experiment more effective, use colored paper, which shows

up against the coin more than white.

* * * * *

The Pocket Vanish.--Take a coin in the right hand and make believe to

place it in the left, really palming it. The left hand is closed as

if it contained the coin and held away from the body. The right hand

pulls back the sleeve slightly, as if to show that the coin has not

been vanished in that direction. This movement brings the right hand

over the outside breast pocket, into which the coin is allowed to

fall unperceived. The coin is now vanished from the left hand in the

orthodox manner, and both hands are shown empty.

Should you desire to regain possession of the coin, have the outside

pocket made communicating with an inner one on the same side of the

coat; when, having shown the right hand unmistakably empty, you produce

the coin thence, in a magical manner.

* * * * *

To Pass a Coin Into an Ordinary Matchbox Held by One of the

Spectators.--Prepare a matchbox as follows: Push open the sliding

portion about one inch. Then fix between the top of the slide and the

back end of the box a coin, the greater part of which is overhanging

the box, the whole being out of sight of the casual observer. Arranged

thus, give the box to someone to hold, with instructions that when you

count three the box is to be closed smartly. This will have the effect

of jerking the coin into the box.

You may now take a duplicate coin by means of the “Pocket Vanish,” or

any other convenient method, counting “One! two! three!” when, acting

according to your instructions, the person will close the box, and the

coin will be heard to fall inside.

[Illustration: THE OLD TRUNK]

This department we believe is destined soon to become one of the most

popular features of the magazine. Not only shall we spare no pains upon

our part, but we also earnestly ask your co-operation in providing

puzzles of all shapes and descriptions to bewilder and tangle the

most ingenious of intellects. To each of the first three persons who

shall correctly solve all the following puzzles, we will give a year’s

subscription to Young Folks Magazine, to be sent to any desired address.

* * * * *

The following are the names of the first three persons to solve

correctly the puzzles in last month’s number and who are, therefore,

each entitled to a year’s subscription to Young Folks Magazine:

Amabel Jenks, Lawrence Park, Bronxville, New York.

Ethel Olive Bogert, 85 West 34th St., Bayonne, N. J.

Flora H. Towne, 178 Francisco St., Chicago, Ill.

Perfect solutions were also received from many other young people and,

as we offer the same inducement for this month, we hope to hear from

them again.

* * * * *

The correct answers are given below.

1. Feldspar.

2. Independence Hall.

3. Kinglet.

Bluejay.

Robin.

Blackbird.

Crow.

Woodthrush.

4. Alice in Wonderland.

5. Saratoga.

6. Beaver.

Bear.

Weasel.

Puma.

Deer.

Otter.

Seal.

Ferret.

Elk.

7. Donkey.

Turnkey.

Monkey.

Whiskey.

Lackey.

Turkey.

AQUARIUM

In each of the following sentences are three fish. Can you catch them?

With difficulty she found her ring among the array of carpets.

The multitudes harkened: the vesper chimes had sounded.

So, leaving Elba’s shore, they turned the ship’s keel homeward.

--Flora Linwood.

DIAGONAL

When you have guessed correctly the following eight-letter words and

placed them one above the other in the order given, the diagonal from

upper left to lower right-hand corner will spell the name of one of the

very first men to explore America.

An inscription.

A kind of force.

A system for conveyance.

Quiet.

Agreeable.

A species of monkey.

Kinship.

A charm.

--Warren Lee.

* * * * *

TWISTED RIVERS

The names of the following rivers do not run as smoothly as they might.

Can you straighten them?

Nnmgaahoeol.

Nkyou.

Zaanom.

Heirn.

Lodacoor.

--Burt L. Watson.

* * * * *

ENIGMA

I am composed of eighteen letters.

My 9-16-2 is that which covers the greater part of the world.

My 3-6-8 is an abbreviation and a title.

My 15-4-12-18 is something from which water is obtained.

My 1-10-15-4-17 is a gem.

My 11-7-13-18 is to quiet.

My 5-14-12-4 is part of a shoe.

My whole is a well known author.

--Edith Irene.

* * * * *

My number, definite and known,

Is ten times ten told ten times o’er;

One-half of me is one alone,

The other exceeds all count and score.

--Selected.

* * * * *

DOUBLE CROSSWORD ENIGMA

In bump not in hurt,

In deep not in dirt

In alas not in cry

In rare not in nigh,

A fruit and an animal here you find

If to think and to search you are inclined.

--Ruth.

Transcriber’s Notes:

A number of typographical errors have been corrected silently.

Archaic spellings have been retained.

Cover image is in the public domain.

"latter" was changed to "former" in the Wood-folk tale as it was incorrect.