Author of "Helen's Babies."

Chapter VI.

THE BEANTASSEL BENEFIT.

Of the many boys who were curious about Paul Grayson's antecedents, no one devoted more attention to the subject than Benny Mallow. Benny was short, and Paul was tall; Benny was fat, and Paul was thin; Benny's hair was light, while Paul's was black as jet; Benny had light blue eyes, while those of Paul were of a rich brown; Benny always had something to say about himself, while Paul never seemed to think his affairs of the slightest interest to any one but himself: so, taking all things into account, it is not wonderful that Benny Mallow spent whole half-hours in contemplating his friend with admiration and wonder.

Still more, as Benny had been accepted by every one as Paul's particular friend, he actually was besieged with all sorts of questions, and to answer these without letting himself down in the estimation of the school was no easy matter, when he did not know any more about Paul than any one else did. One question, however, he settled to the entire satisfaction of every one but Napoleon Nott— Grayson was not an exiled prince. Benny was sure of this, because he had asked Paul if he had ever been on the other side of the ocean, and Paul had answered that he had not. Notty endeavored to make light of this evidence by showing how easy it would have been to spirit the mysterious person away from his royal home and to America while he was a baby, and therefore too young to know anything about it, but Will Palmer told Notty that it was about time to stop making a fool of himself, and the other boys present said they thought so too, at which Notty became so angry that he vowed, in the presence of at least a dozen boys, that when the truth came out, and all the boys wanted to borrow his copy of The Exiled Prince: a Tale of Woe, he would not lend it to them, even if it were to save them from death; he would not even let them look at the cover, with its picture of the prince and the name of the publisher.

Meanwhile Mr. Morton had continued his visits to the prisoners and to the poor of the town, and out of school hours he had so interested the boys in some of the suffering families of worthless men or widowed women, that it was agreed by the whole school that the teasing of any of the boys of these families about the holes in their trousers, or provoking fights with or between them, should entirely stop; indeed, as this suggestion came from Bert Sharp, who was fonder of fighting than any other boy in the town, the school could not well do otherwise.

The boys went even farther: when one day old Peter Beantassel, whose family was always on the verge of starvation, spent on drink the accidental earnings of a week, and then fell into an abandoned well and was drowned, it was decided by the school to give an exhibition for the benefit of Mrs. Beantassel and her six children. Mr. Morton was delighted, and promised to secure a church or hall without expense to the boys, and to collect enough money from the public to pay for printing the tickets. The boys at once began work in tremendous earnest; they were for a fortnight so busy at determining upon a programme, and studying, rehearsing, selling tickets, and exacting promises from people who would not purchase in advance, that there was but little playing before school and during recess, blackberry hedges were neglected, and the trout in the single brook near the town had not the slightest excuse for apprehension.

Paul Grayson entered into the spirit of the occasion as thoroughly as any one else; he volunteered to recite Longfellow's "Psalm of Life," and when the farce of Box and Cox was about to be given up because no boy was willing to dress up in women's clothes, and be laughed at by all the larger girls, for playing the part of Mrs. Bouncer, Paul volunteered for that unpopular character, and saved the play. But this was not all. There were to be some tableaux, and as Mr. Morton had been asked to suggest some scenes, particularly one or two with Indians in them, and was as fond of pointing a moral as teachers usually are, one of his tableaux, to be called "Civilization," was a scene in the interior of an Indian's wigwam. The squaw, who had just been killed, was lying dead on the floor; her husband, with his hands tied, stood bleeding between two soldiers, while between father and mother stood the half-grown son, wondering what it all was about. As all of the boys wanted to see this tragic picture, all of them declined to take part in it; Joe Appleby had been heard to remark with a sneer that only very small and green boys cared to look at Indians, so he was asked to take the part of the wretched son himself; but he said that when any one saw him making a fool of himself by browning his face and dressing up in rags, he hoped some one would tell him about it: so Grayson, as the only other tall boy who had dark hair that was not cut short, was cast for this part also, and offered no objection. As for the bleeding chieftain, Napoleon Nott fought hard to pose in that character, and was quieted only by being allowed to play the dead squaw, which all the boys told him he ought easily to see was the more romantic part, besides being one in which he could by no chance make any mistake.

The place selected for the entertainment was the lecture-room of the Presbyterian church, and the boys had therefore to give up their darling project of devoting half an hour of the evening to amateur negro minstrelsy, for one of the deacons said that while he sometimes doubted that even an organ was a proper musical instrument for use in sacred buildings, he certainly was not going to tolerate banjos and bones. This decision was a great disappointment to Benny Mallow, who had been selected by the managers to perform upon the tambourine, but in the revision of the programme Benny was assigned to duty in a tableau as a little fat goblin, and this so tickled his fancy that he did not suffer long by the disappointment.

At last the eventful night arrived. Some of the boys did not leave the lecture-room at all after the last rehearsal, not even to get their suppers, for fear they should be late, and those who reached the room barely in time to take their parts had all they could do to squeeze through the crowd that blocked the doors and filled the aisles. The spectacle of so crowded a house raised the boys to a high pitch of excitement, which was increased by various peeps from the curtains that served as dressing-rooms at the Beantassel children, who by some thoughtful soul had been provided with free seats in the extreme front bench; there they were, all but the baby; they had been provided with clothing which, though old, was far more sightly than the rags they usually wore, and although they did not seem as much at ease as some others among the spectators, their eyes stood so very open, then and throughout the evening, that even Joe Appleby, who had reluctantly consented to pose, in his best clothes, with gloves, cane, and high hat, as Young America in a tableau of "The Nations," agreed with himself that the exhibition was rather a meritorious idea after all, and that even if the boys did as badly as he knew they would, he was glad it was sure to pay.

But the boys did not do badly; on the contrary, the general performance would have been quite creditable to adults. The opening was somewhat dismal; it was announced to consist of a duet for two flutes by Will Palmer and Ned Johnston. The boys had practiced industriously at several airs in order to discover which would be best, and at last they supposed they had fully agreed; but when seated Ned began the "Miserere" from Trovatore, while Will started "The Old Folks at Home," and each was sure the other was wrong, and would correct himself, which the other in both cases failed to do, and finally both boys retired abruptly, amid considerable laughter, and fought the matter out in the dressing-room.

Paul Grayson soon restored order, however, by his rendering of the "Psalm of Life." He had a fine voice, and he spoke the lines as if he meant them; so gloriously did his voice ring that even the boys in the dressing-room kept silence and listened, though they had heard the same verses a hundred times before.

PAUL AS A CHIEF'S SON.

Most of the performances that followed went very smoothly, although Benny Mallow, who played the Hatter's part in Box and Cox, caused some confusion by laughing frequently and unexpectedly, because Paul's disguise as Mrs. Bouncer affected him powerfully in spite of the efforts made by Sam Wardwell, as the Printer, to restrain him. The tableaux pleased the audience greatly; even that of "Prometheus," with Ned Johnston as the sufferer, and Mrs. Battle's big red rooster as the vulture, brought down the house.

But the great tableau of the evening was the teacher's "Civilization." When Paul Grayson had understood fully what the scene was to be, he refused so earnestly to have anything to do with it that the boys were startled. They did not excuse him from taking the part of the young Indian, however; they pleaded so steadily that at last Paul consented, but in worse temper than any one had ever seen him before. No one could complain of the manner in which he acted on the stage, however. When the curtain was drawn he was seen standing beside his dead mother, and shaking a fist at the soldiers; in color, dress, pose, and spirit he seemed to be a real Indian, if the audience was a competent judge; then, when the applause justified a recall, as it soon did, the drawn curtain disclosed Paul clinging to the wounded brave as if nothing should ever tear him away.

Napoleon Nott saw all this, although, as the Indian boy's mother, he was supposed to be dead beyond recall. Suddenly he felt himself to be inspired, and when the curtain was down he flew into the dressing-room and exclaimed, "I've got it!"

"Be careful not to hurt it," said Canning Forbes, sarcastically.

"I've got it!" declared Notty, without noticing Canning's cruel speech. "Grayson is an Indian, a chief's son. You don't suppose he could have made believe so well as all that, do you? That's it. I knew he was a great person of some sort. Sh—h! he's coming."

Somehow the boys who had been able to peep out at the tableau did not laugh at Notty this time. Paul, in his Indian dress, had greatly impressed them all before he left the dressing-room, and certainly his acting had been unlike anything the boys had seen other boys do. The subject was talked over in whispers, so that Paul should not hear, during the remainder of the evening, with the result that that very night at least six boys told other boys or their own parents, in the strictest confidence, of course, that there was more truth than make-believe about Paul Grayson as an Indian. And the parents told the same story to other parents, the boys told it to other boys, and within twenty-four hours Paul Grayson was a far more interesting mystery than before.

[to be continued.]

"HAPPY AS THE DAY IS LONG."—From an Etching by W. S. Coleman.

THE PARASOL ANTS AND THE FORAGING ANTS.

BY CHARLES MORRIS.

Was there ever such a prattler as the warm-hearted little brook that ran by the foot of the garden of Woodbine Cottage? To be sure, it had good reason to be jolly, for the sunlight buried itself in its bubbles till they sparkled like diamonds; and a hedge of roses overhung it, and dropped crimson leaves that floated away like fairy boats on its bright surface; and broad-winged butterflies floated, like tiny ships of the air, above the happy stream. And away it ran, prattling and chattering, and picking its way through moss-covered stones that lifted above its surface, and tumbling hastily down in little cascades, as though it were in a desperate hurry to get on in the world, and altogether misbehaving itself just as any madcap little stream might when out on a frolic.

Its bank beyond the garden was bordered with the white and gold of daisies and buttercups, and the red and green of blossoming clover, in which Harry Mason was almost buried, only his bright cheeks and curly hair showing out of this verdant nest. As for Uncle Ben, he was gravely seated on the bank of the brook, holding his little friend Willie on his knee. The little chap was quite as grave as his big uncle.

"You neber tole us one word yet 'bout them soldiers an' cows an' tings, 'mong the ants, Uncle Ben," he earnestly remarked, "an' you knows you said you was goin' to tell us all an' all an' all about 'em. An' I don't think it's fair."

"Why, I certainly must have done so," replied Uncle Ben, with affected surprise. "You have surely forgotten. I shall have to leave this affair for Harry to settle."

"Then Willie is right," returned Harry, from his grassy nest. "You told us everything else about them, but you never said one thing about the cows or the soldiers."

"Everything else about them!" exclaimed Uncle Ben, with a sly smile. "Why, I know I did not say a word about the parasol ants, or the foraging ants, or the—"

"The parasol ants!" cried Willie, quite forgetting the cows and the soldiers in his surprise. "You doesn't mean, Uncle Ben, that they carries parasols—jes like mamma, now?"

Harry, too, had lifted himself up on his elbow, the light of curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

"They are the most comical things in the world," replied their uncle. "Just imagine now a great line of ants, marching along like a school of young ladies out on a holiday, each of them holding a piece of green leaf over its head like a parasol. It is not strange that people fancied that this was done to keep the sun off, and called them parasol ants."

"What do they do it for, then?" asked Harry, eagerly.

"Maybe them's the soldiers," suggested Willie; "maybe it's ant guns they's carryin'."

"We have not got to the soldiers yet," said his uncle, smiling. "These leaves are really used in building their nests. But the whole thing is very curious. The ants climb up the bushes, and run out on the leaves. There they cut, with their sharp jaws, a little round piece from the leaf. Then they pick this up, getting a tight hold on it, you may be sure, and away they scamper for the nest. But these ants are not the nest-builders; they are only like the laborers who carry bricks to the bricklayers. They drop their leaves beside the nest, and run back for more, leaving the real builders to finish the work."

"Regular little hod-carriers," suggested Harry. "But they don't build a nest of little bits of leaf, I hope?"

"Not exactly. The leaves are mingled through the earth to sustain the great domes which they erect. The houses which these tropical ants build are wonderfully different from the little ant-hills we see about here. They are not very high; it is true. The dome rises about two feet above the ground. But then it is more than forty feet across. One of them would reach nearly across our garden, like a great white swelling upon the face of the earth. They certainly need something to hold together the wet clay of their great domes."

"But our ants here live 'way down, 'way under-ground," remarked Willie.

"So do these," replied Uncle Ben. "The dome is only the roof of their house. They are famous diggers—I assure you of that. Talk about our miners, with their tunnels running deep into the mountains: why, their work is nothing in comparison with that of these little creatures. They make wonderful under-ground tunnels, which run out from the nest in all directions, and to incredible distances. No one sees these tunnels, however, unless they may happen to come to the surface in a very disastrous manner, as they sometimes do."

"How do you mean?" asked Harry, curiously. He had now crept out of his lair, and was seated quietly beside his uncle, with his feet hanging just above the stream.

"Why, in one case, in South America, they tunnelled through the bank of a reservoir. The first thing the people knew, the water was rushing out in a torrent. It was never discovered what was the trouble until the reservoir was quite empty, when they found that the parasol ants had caused the mischief."

"Well, I do declare!" cried Willie, laughing so heartily that he nearly tumbled off Uncle Ben's knee. "Wasn't that jes ever so cunning?"

"Why, you don't think they did it just a-purpose, for nothing but mischief, I hope?" asked Harry, with some indignation.

"I s'poses so," replied Willie, laughing to that extent that he dropped his hat into the stream. And then there was a lively scramble until it was rescued again from the merry waters, which were running away with it as fast as they could.

"You're such a comical little fellow," said Harry, as he shook the water from the dripping hat, and pressed it tightly down on Willie's head. "Anybody that can't laugh without shaking his hat overboard!"

"But that was so funny 'bout the ants lettin' the water all run away! don' know how I's to help laughin'," retorted Willie.

"There is another story told," continued Uncle Ben, "about a nest of parasol ants that dug a tunnel into a gold mine. The under-ground streams got turned into this tunnel, and the waters poured in until they flooded the mine. It cost thousands of dollars to pump the water out, and get the mine ready for working again. And the owners had first to send for a professional ant-killer, and destroy the ant nest, before it was safe to go on."

"A professional ant-killer?" repeated Harry, opening his eyes wide in surprise.

"Yes: there are persons who make a regular business of destroying these troublesome ants."

"Guess that can't be much trouble," said Willie, disdainfully. "Jes got to put your foot on 'em, an' smash 'em."

"I hardly think your foot would cover forty square feet of ground," remarked his uncle, lifting up the diminutive foot, and very gravely examining it. "And then there are the tunnels, running eighty or a hundred feet away in all directions. I am afraid this foot would not be quite large enough."

"I don't care," cried Willie, jerking his foot away. "I was thinkin' 'bout ants like what we have here."

"But how do they kill them, then?" asked Harry, looking up inquiringly into his uncle's face.

"They build a sort of oven over the doorway of the nest," was the reply. "In this they make a fire of charcoal and pungent herbs, and some negroes are stationed with bellows, driving the smoke and fumes from the fire down into the nest. When smoke is seen rising from the ground anywhere, they know that a tunnel opens in that spot, and they stop it up with clay. But it is no light task to kill out a nest of ants. The negroes are kept constantly at work with their bellows for four days and nights, driving down the smothering fumes. At the end of that time the oven is taken away and the nest opened, every tunnel being laid bare. If any ants are found to be alive, they are instantly killed, and all the openings are stopped up with clay, which is stamped down hard, until the whole nest is filled with it."

"Who would ever have thought that a nest of ants would be so hard to kill?" remarked Harry, reflectively.

"All that trouble jes to kill some ole ants," said Willie, getting down and walking away disdainfully. "Guess big men with their big boots could smash 'em easier 'an that if they wanted to."

"Are there other ants that make such tunnels?" asked Harry.

"Oh yes; some of the ants are wonderful diggers. There is a Texan species which on one occasion was found to have run a tunnel under a creek, fifteen or twenty feet deep and thirty feet wide, for the purpose of getting at the vegetables and fruits in a gentleman's garden on the other side of the creek."

"I think they should have been smoked out anyhow," said Harry.

"Guess I'd pulled eberyting 'fore the ants got over," suggested Willie.

"And what were those foraging ants you spoke of, Uncle Ben?"

"Jes neber mine them," exclaimed Willie. "You knows you was goin' to tell all 'bout the cows, an' you ain't eber goin' to tell one word. I b'lieves you's jes funnin' with us, Uncle Ben. I jes b'lieves that, now."

"Oh! you want to hear about the cows?" said his uncle, with a look of grave surprise. "Why, of course. The ant cows, you know, are everywhere. There is no trouble to find them."

A stray branch of a grape-vine had grown over the hedge, and stretched itself across the brook. Uncle Ben bent it down and examined it for a minute.

"Why, here they are now!" he exclaimed, pointing to some very small insects on one of the leaves, about which several ants were busying themselves. "These are the ant cows. And here are their keepers looking after them."

"Them little tings cows!" said Willie, with a look of utter disdain.

"You didn't expect to find them as big as our cows, I hope?" asked Harry.

"Their real name is aphis, or plant-louse," said Uncle Ben. "They suck the juices of the leaves. These juices become in their bodies a sort of honey, which they yield from certain pores. The ants are very fond of this honey-dew, and lap it up eagerly. And if you watch close you may see them patting or stroking the aphides to make them yield the honey faster. That is what has been called milking their cows."

"Well, that is very curious, I know," exclaimed Harry. "I am going to watch them after this."

"Each ant seems to claim certain cows as his own property," continued Uncle Ben. "And he will bristle up angrily if any other ant strays into his pasture fields. But that is not the whole story. They not only milk these cows, but they tenderly raise their calves. Some species of the aphis live on the roots of plants. Around these the ants make their nests, so as to have their cows in stables of their own. And they take the greatest care of the eggs and the young of the aphides, raising them as tenderly as they raise their own young. No human farmer could be more careful of his own stock of cows and calves."

"You 'mos' might as well say they's folks right out," ejaculated Willie, indignantly. "Anyhow, it's ole honey, an' it ain't milk at all."

"I am sure it is not the fault of the ants if their cows give honey instead of milk," replied his uncle, with an odd smile. "And I have certainly seen folks who were not as wise as the ants."

"But never mind the cows, Uncle Ben," persisted Harry. "I want to hear about the foraging ants. Where do they belong, and what queer things do they do?"

"They are a South American ant," was the reply. "They may be seen at certain seasons marching along the ground in a long column, much like an army. They have officers, too. These are large-headed ants that march outside the column, and keep it in order. It is an immense army they command, I can assure you—greater than that with which Xerxes in old times invaded Greece; for there may be millions of ants in the line. There is another species which does not march in column, but in a close mass, often covering from six to ten square yards of ground."

"But what are they after?" asked Harry.

"That's jes what I wants to know," observed Willie, whose curiosity had returned.

"They are after food," replied their uncle. "It is amusing to see the insects scampering off from their line of march. They seem to know the danger that threatens them, for scarcely a living thing escapes the sharp jaws of these fierce foragers. They send out side columns to search the ground and the bushes and low trees. When any insect is found, it is instantly surrounded and covered by these marauders, and torn to pieces, and carried off in fragments. But it is not in the trees and on the ground that they find their chief prey."

"Where, then?" asked Harry, his great blue eyes fixed with speaking interest on his uncle's countenance.

"In the houses. The foraging ants are a perfect blessing to the people of the villages, not a pest, as ants are in our houses. These warm regions, you know, have multitudes of insects that we never see. The houses are infested not only with rats and mice, roaches and fleas, but with snakes and scorpions, with huge spiders and with many other unpleasant things; so the village folks are glad enough to see the approach of the foraging ants. They throw open every door in their houses, unlock their drawers and trunks, and pull the clothes out on the floor. They then vacate the houses, and leave them to the ants, who soon stream in. Those who have seen them say that it is a wonderful spectacle. Nothing living escapes them. They search every hole, nook, and cranny. Here, dozens may be seen surrounding a great spider or scorpion; there, they chase sprawling long-legged creatures across the window-panes; yonder, hundreds of them may be observed dragging out a rat or a mouse which they have killed: even snakes can not escape from the sharp and poisonous bite of these bold foragers. It takes from three to four hours for them to clear out a house. They will not leave it until they are sure that not a living thing remains. Then they stream out again, carrying their prey with them; and the inhabitants gladly return, satisfied that they will have a month or two of comfort after this ants' house-cleaning."

"I do b'lieve you's half funnin' again, Uncle Ben," declared Willie, with an aspect of severe doubt. "How's little tings like ants goin' to pull out snakes an' rats? I'd jes like to know that!"

"But I forgot to tell you that these ants are much larger than any we have here. Some of the tropical ants are an inch long, and as large as a large wasp; so you may imagine that a whole army of them is not to be trifled with."

"Is it them that's the soldiers, Uncle Ben?" asked Willie.

"The soldiers? Oh, you want to hear about the soldiers—But, I declare, if there isn't the dinner-bell! Who would have thought that we had spent so much time over the ants?"

THE PLUMES OF CRÉCY.[1]

BY LILLIE E. BARR.

I was reading of kings and nobles,
Tourney and knightly gage,
Till the summer twilight faded
From Froissart's ancient page.
Then in the darkened parlor
I saw a fairer sight—
The brave old King whose valor makes
The shame of Crécy light.
He stood on the little hill-side,
Taller than all his peers,
Quite blind, but with eyes uplifted,
Hoary with many years.
Still wearing his golden armor,
Crowned with his royal crown,
Leaning upon the sword with which
He struck the Soldan down.
And high in his gleaming helmet
Three ostrich plumes, snow white—
From the Paynim's brow he tore them
In some Jabluna fight.
All scarred with Carpathian arrows,
His heart with Honor flames:
"Advance!" he cries, "and fight for France,
Bohemia, and St. James!"
But two of his knights staid by him,
And little did they say;
The blind old King talked with his heart,
And that was in the fray.
Alas! alas! He heard too soon
The sounds of shameful flight;
"Thank God," he sighed, "Bohemia's blind!"—
He would not see this sight.
"Now, friends, one more good deed I claim,
Last service for your lord:
I ask a soldier's grave, good knights;
I'll dig it with my sword.
My horse's reins tie fast to yours—
A friend on either hand—
Then ride straight on to where you see
The English archers stand."
They kissed their King most tenderly,
Then three as one they went
Down to the field of certain death
With proud and glad content.
They cut a path to where Prince Charles,
The King's son, stood at bay:
'Twas spirits, and not flesh and blood,
For honor fought that day.
The three white plumes above the gloom
Gleamed like a snowy wing;
Victors and vanquished paused to watch
The blind Bohemian King.
Pierced oft by arrows, stained with blood,
The Soldan's plumes still wave,
Until Bohemia's sword had cut
Honor's unsullied grave.
Next day, when English heralds sought
Over the fatal field
Trampled lilies and flags of France,
They found upon his shield
The blind old King of Bohemia,
Son and friends by his side;
But torn and stained the snowy plumes
That long had been his pride.
Then said the Black Prince over him,
"O knight, the bravest, best,
Thy plumes are dyed in hero's blood—
Henceforth they are my crest!"
And still they wave o'er England's crown,
And teach the young and brave,
When all is lost but honor, then
Valor digs Honor's grave.

JANUARY.

FEBRUARY.

MARCH.

APRIL.

MAY.

JUNE.

JULY.

AUGUST.

SEPTEMBER.

OCTOBER.

NOVEMBER.

DECEMBER.