Chapter VII.
A council was held at the hotel, and a dozen different water routes were discussed. As the boys still wanted to carry out their original design of making a voyage to Quebec, they decided to take the canoes by rail to Rouse's Point, and from thence to descend the Richelieu River to the St. Lawrence. The railway journey would take nearly a whole day, but they thought it would be a pleasant change from the close confinement of canoeing.
As it would have taken three days to send the canoes to Rouse's Point by freight, the canoeists were compelled to take them on the same train with themselves. They went to the express office on Monday morning, and tried to make a bargain with the express company. The agent astonished them by the enormous price which he demanded, and Harry, who acted as spokesman, told him that it was outrageous to ask such a price for carrying four light canoes.
The man turned to a book in which were contained the express company's rates of charges, and showed Harry that there was a fixed rate for row-boats and shells.
"But," said Harry, "a canoe is not a row-boat nor a shell. What justice is there in charging as much for a fourteen-foot canoe as for a forty-foot shell?"
"Well," said the agent, "I don't know as it would be fair. But then these canoes of yours are pretty near as big as row-boats."
"A canoe loaded as ours are don't weigh over one hundred and ten pounds. How much does a row-boat weigh?"
"Well, about two or three hundred pounds."
"Then is it fair to charge as much for a canoe as for a row-boat that weighs three times as much?"
The agent found it difficult to answer this argument, and after thinking the matter over he agreed to take the canoes at half the rate ordinarily charged for row-boats. The boys were pleased with their victory over him.
At ten o'clock the train rolled into the Sherbrooke station. To the great disappointment of the boys, no express car was attached to it, the only place for express packages being a small compartment twelve feet long at one end of the smoking-car. It was obvious that canoes fourteen feet long could not go into a space only twelve feet long, and it seemed as if it would be necessary to wait twelve hours for the night train, to which a large express car was always attached. But the conductor of the train was a man who could sympathize with boys, and who had ideas of his own. He uncoupled the engine, which was immediately in front of the smoking-car, and then had the canoes taken in through the door of the smoking-car and placed on the backs of the seats. Very little room was left for passengers who wanted to smoke; but as there were only four or five of these, they made no complaint. The canoes, with blankets under them to protect the backs of the seats, rode safely, and when, late in the afternoon, Rouse's Point was reached, they were taken out of the car without a scratch.
There was just time enough before sunset to paddle a short distance below the fort, where a camping ground was found that would have been very pleasant had there been fewer mosquitoes. They were the first Canadian mosquitoes that had made the acquaintance of the young canoeists, and they seemed to be delighted. They sung and buzzed in great excitement, and fairly drove the boys from their supper to the shelter of their canoes.
Harry had a long piece of mosquito netting, which he threw over the top of his canoe tent, and which fell over the openings on each side of the tent, thus protecting the occupant of the canoe from mosquitoes without depriving him of air. None of the other boys had taken the trouble to bring mosquito-netting with him, except Charley, who had a sort of mosquito-netting bag, which he drew over his head, and which prevented the mosquitoes from getting at his face and neck.
As for Joe and Tom, the mosquitoes fell upon them with great enthusiasm, and soon reduced them to a most miserable condition. Tom was compelled to cover his head with his India-rubber blanket, and was nearly suffocated. Joe managed to tie a handkerchief over his face in such a way as to allow himself air enough to breathe, and at the same time to keep off the mosquitoes. Instead of covering the rest of his body with his blanket, he deliberately exposed a bare arm and part of a bare leg, in hopes that he could thus satisfy the mosquitoes, and induce them to be merciful. At the end of half an hour both Tom and Joe felt that they could endure the attacks of the dreadful insects no longer. They got up, and stirring the embers of the fire, soon started a cheerful blaze. There were plenty of hemlock-trees close at hand, and the hemlock boughs when thrown on the fire gave out a great deal of smoke. The two unfortunate boys sat in the lee of the fire and nearly choked themselves with smoke; but they could endure the smoke better than the mosquitoes, and so they were left alone by the latter.
GETTING BREAKFAST UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
The wind died down before morning, and the mosquitoes returned. As soon as it was light the canoeists made haste to get breakfast and to paddle out into the stream. The mosquitoes let them depart without attempting to follow them; and the boys, anchoring the canoes by making the ballast bags fast to the painters, enjoyed an unmolested bath. As they were careful to anchor where the water was not four feet deep, they had no difficulty in climbing into the canoes after the bath. Joe's mishap on Lake Memphremagog had taught them that getting into a canoe in deep water was easier in theory than in practice.
Later in the morning the usual southerly breeze, which is found almost every morning on the Richelieu, gave the canoeists the opportunity of making sail. The breeze was just fresh enough to make it prudent for the canoes to carry their mainsails only, and to give the canoeists plenty of employment in watching the gusts that came through the openings in the woods that lined the western shore.
About twelve miles below Rouse's Point the fleet reached "Ile aux Noix," a beautiful island in the middle of the stream, with a somewhat dilapidated fort at its northern end. The boys landed, and examined the fort and the ruined barracks which stood near it. The ditch surrounding the fort was half filled with the wooden palisades which had rotted and fallen into it, and large trees had sprung up on the grassy slope of the outer wall. The interior was, however, in good repair, and in one of the granite casemates lived an Irishman and his wife, who were the entire garrison. In former years the "Ile aux Noix" fort was one of the most important defenses of the Canadian frontier, and even in its present forlorn condition it could be defended much longer than could the big American fort at Rouse's Point. The boys greatly enjoyed their visit to the island, and after lunch set sail, determined to make the most of the fair wind, and to reach St. John before night.
The breeze held, and in less than three hours the steeples and the railway bridge of St. John came in view. The canoeists landed at the upper end of the town, and Harry and Charley, leaving the canoes in charge of the other boys, went in search of the Custom-house officer whose duty it was to inspect all vessels passing from the United States into Canada by way of the Richelieu River. Having found the officer, who was a very pleasant man, and who gave the fleet permission to proceed on its way without searching the canoes for smuggled goods, Harry and Charley walked on to examine the rapids, which begin just below the railway bridge. From St. John to Chambly, a distance of twelve miles, the river makes a rapid descent, and is entirely unnavigable for anything except canoes.
The first rapid was a short but rough one. Still, it was no worse than the first of the Magog rapids, and Harry and Charley made up their minds that it could be safely run. The men of whom they made inquiries as to the rapids farther down said that they were impassable, and that the canoes had better pass directly into the canal, without attempting to run even the first rapid. Harry was inclined to think that this advice was good, but Charley pointed out that it would be possible to drag the canoes up the bank of the river, and launch them in the canal at any point between St. John and Chambly, and that it would be time enough to abandon the river when it should really prove to be impassable.
Returning to the canoes, the Commodore gave the order to prepare to run the rapids. In a short time the fleet, with the Sunshine in advance, passed under the bridge, and narrowly escaping shipwreck on the remains of the wooden piles that once supported a bridge that had been destroyed by fire, entered the rapid. There was quite a crowd gathered to watch the canoes as they passed, but those people who wanted the excitement of seeing the canoes wrecked were disappointed. Not a drop of water found its way into the cockpit of a single canoe; and though there was an ugly rock near the end of the rapid, against which each canoeist fully expected to be driven as he approached it, the run was made without the slightest accident.
Drifting down with the current a mile or two below the town, the boys landed and encamped for the night. While waiting at St. John, Joe and Tom had provided themselves with mosquito netting, but they had little use for it, for only a few mosquitoes made the discovery that four healthy and attractive boys were within reach. The night was cool and quiet, and the canoeists, tired with their long day's work, slept until late in the morning.
Everything was prepared the next day for running the rapids, which the men at St. John had declared to be impassable. The spars and all the stores were lashed fast; the sand-bags were placed in the after-compartments; the painters were rove through the stern-posts, and the life-belts were placed where they could be buckled on at an instant's notice. After making all these preparations it was rather disappointing to find no rapids whatever between St. John and Chambly, or rather the Chambly railway bridge.
"It just proves what I said yesterday," remarked Charley, turning round in his canoe to speak to his comrades, who were a boat's-length behind him. "People who live on the banks of a river never know anything about it. Now I don't believe there is a rapid in the whole Richelieu River except at St. John. Halloo! keep back, boys—"
While he was speaking, Charley and his canoe disappeared as suddenly as if the earth, or rather the water, had opened and swallowed them. The other boys in great alarm backed water, and then paddling ashore as fast as possible, sprung out of their canoes and ran along the shore to discover what had become of Charley. They found him at the foot of a water-fall of about four feet in height, over which he had been carried. The fall was formed by a long ledge of rock running completely across the river; and had the boys been more careful, and had the wind been blowing in any other direction than directly down the river, they would have heard the sound of the falling water in time to be warned of the danger into which Charley had carelessly run.
His canoe had sustained little damage, for it had luckily fallen where the water was deep enough to keep it from striking the rocky bottom. Charley had been thrown out as the canoe went over the fall, but had merely bruised himself a little. He towed his canoe ashore, and in answer to a mischievous question from Joe, admitted that perhaps the men who had said that the Chambly rapids were impassable were right.
Below the fall and as far as the eye could reach stretched a fierce and shallow rapid. The water boiled over and among the rocks with which it was strewn, and there could not be any doubt that the rapid was one which could not be successfully run, unless, perhaps, by some one perfectly familiar with the channel. It was agreed that the canoes must be carried up to the canal, and after two hours of hard work the fleet was launched a short distance above one of the canal locks.
The lock-man did not seem disposed to let the canoes pass through the lock, but finally accepted fifty cents, and, grumbling to himself in his Canadian French, proceeded to lock the canoes through. He paid no attention to the request that he would open the sluices gradually, but opened them all at once and to their fullest extent. The result was that the water in the lock fell with great rapidity; the canoes were swung against one another and against the side of the lock, and Charley's canoe, catching against a bolt in one of the upper gates, was capsized and sunk to the bottom, leaving her captain clinging to the stern of the Sunshine.
[to be continued.]
"O NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WI' ME?"
[WHAT THE SHOWMAN DID NOT TELL.]
BY WILLIAM H. RIDEING.
When the showman came to our town, he told the audience a great many things as he passed from cage to cage in his combined circus and menagerie. He told them of the great wangdoodle, two of which were brought from South Africa in three ships, and he told them other stories, which made the very little people open their eyes and mouths wide, but which the intelligent boys and girls only smiled at.
He was a great humbug—there is no doubt about it. But one day I found him alone, and cornered him. Then he told me what he didn't tell to his audiences, and that was much more interesting than a great part of his lecture. When he found that I did not believe in the immense sums which, according to his posters, some of his articles cost, he said:
"But we do pay big prices for good curiosities, and no mistake, though our posters and show-bills do tell some pretty big stories. I once paid twenty-five thousand dollars for a baby hippopotamus, and if I could get another one to-day, I'd pay just as much, or more. A full-grown hippopotamus is pretty expensive too. That one over there cost us four thousand dollars. Elephants, as a rule, are not dear, and you can usually buy a fine specimen for about two thousand dollars. A giraffe costs all the way up from one thousand to five thousand; a tiger or a lion, about five hundred; a zebra, fifteen hundred; and a polar bear, about a thousand dollars. Polar bears," he added, meditatively, "are delicate. 'Why don't you dye him black?' said a fellow in the audience to me once. 'Because,' said I, 'he'll die quick enough.' They do like a good cold snap, with the thermometer away down below zero, the polars do.
"'Is the wild-beast trade a reg'lar business?'" he said, repeating a question of mine. "I should say it was, and more than one large fortune is invested in it. Some of it is done in Hamburg, a good deal in the sea-ports of Holland, some in Falmouth, and some in London. Probably more of it is done in New York than anywhere in Europe. There's a man in Falmouth who boards every ship approaching the English coast off the Lizard, and buys most of the curiosities the sailors have brought with them from the foreign lands in which they have been. But only a very small part of the whole supply comes through sea-captains and sailors. Expeditions go out into Africa and South America to hunt and capture the wild beasts of those continents, and there is one man whose last camp included ninety-two servants, seventy-two camels, twelve mules, twenty-seven horses, and three donkeys.
"This dealer is a Maltese, who, when a boy, used to knock about the docks, and seeing the strange animals on board some of the ships, promised himself that he would make wild-beast-hunting his trade when he became a man. He has lost more than one fortune, and is probably poor now. It's a wonder that he's alive; the business is full of dangers, and there is no certainty of profit in it.
"He usually goes from Alexandria to Suez, and down the Red Sea to Khartoum. The natives expect animal buyers, and nearly always have a stock to sell. 'Buy my little lion,' they will say, 'and I will throw into the bargain a young boy or girl.' The lions are carried in cages slung between two camels, and until the camels have become used to the growling of their burden they give the greatest trouble. Sometimes the natives are not friendly, and between their attacks and the ravages of fever, the expedition loses many of its men.
"The cost of such an expedition is not less than thirty thousand dollars, and while the buyer may double this sum in selling, he may lose all. Leaving Africa with a stock worth one hundred thousand dollars, it is not likely to be worth more than half that when it reaches Malta. The risk is so great that a monkey which can be bought for five cents in Africa is worth twenty dollars in New York, and the increase in the value of large animals is proportionate. You can buy a very good lion in Africa for the price that you would give for a monkey here."
The showman gossiped on in this way for some time, and had begun to be something of a bore, when a little man entered from a side door—to speak properly from one of the canvas folds of the tent, in the middle of which the showman and I were seated before a brazier of glowing coals. He was pale-faced and delicate-looking, but his dress was striking, consisting of a jaunty little velvet jacket, yellow corduroy breeches, and Hessian boots with enamelled leather tops.
"He," said the showman, "is Señor Delmonio, the Emperor of the Jungle, the greatest lion-tamer in the world." I had heard of this celebrity, whose name and portrait appeared in gigantic posters of the show, with the announcement that his services only had been obtained at an outlay of several thousand dollars a week. "Bill," he called out, "here's a gentleman interested in the business."
"What did you call him?" I asked.
"Well, you see," was the answer, "he's a Boston man, and his name is Bill Smith."
Señor Delmonio, or Bill Smith, came toward us and shook hands, and then quietly went to the back of a cage containing a pair of savage and uneasy lions. He was out of sight for a moment, but re-appeared entering the cage from the rear. The lions did not pounce upon him, as I shiveringly feared they would do. They curled themselves against the bars, and uttered low growls, as if they were anxious to avoid him; they sat on their haunches at his command, and leaped through hoops which he had taken into the cage with him; they showed docility, but it was with an unwillingness that made itself known in continuous growls.
This was a rehearsal, and when it was finished, the "Emperor of the Jungle," as quiet as ever, came back to where we were sitting. He seemed low-spirited.
"Yours is dangerous work," I said, not having any liking for those exhibitions in which the peril of the performer is what attracts the audience.
"Yes," he answered, with a sigh, "I suppose it will end badly for me some time; it usually does end badly. You see it's against nature. I know that very well. The beasts don't like it, and sooner or later they take their revenge on poor fellows who, like me, trifle with them. It's the whip alone that keeps them under control. If I dropped my whip while I was in the cage with them, they would fancy that I had lost my power, and they would attack me in a moment. How do I begin in training them? Well, the usual way is to make acquaintance with them from the outside, by doing chores around the cage, and getting them familiar with your face, and above all with your voice. It's pretty ticklish to enter the cage for the first time. I expected to come out bleeding, if not dying. But they behaved well, and I've not been afraid since.
"When they are accustomed to you and you to them," he continued, "the next thing is to teach them tricks, and this takes a good deal of time and a good deal of whipping. The lions are the smartest. You can train a lion to do the ordinary tricks, such as jumping through hoops and over gates, in about five weeks, and a lioness in about six weeks. The leopard is next in intelligence to the lion, and learns almost as readily. A tiger would take eight weeks to learn what the leopard learns in six, and a tigress would take nine weeks for the same work. The hyena is the stupidest, and you can't do anything with him in less than four months. The most difficult thing of all is to teach a wild beast to let you lie on it without eating you. I do this every night with one of the tigresses, but she don't like it one bit; it aggravates her inwardly.
"The great secret of wild-beast taming is to know when to use the whip and when not to use it. But as a matter of fact there is no such thing as really taming a tiger or a lion. A man may have some influence over it, but he is never quite safe with it. No wild beast has ever been actually tamed. A lion will tear you merely out of bad temper occasionally; but a tiger is more vicious, and will attack you from sheer love of blood."
It was now time for the exhibition, and I wished the showman and Señor Delmonio good-day. Some time afterward, when I again met the latter, he had abandoned the foolish business of trifling with the angry passions of wild beasts, and was devoting himself to the more sensible business of training horses.
THE LITTLE PIE-PLANT GATHERER.
[THE BARRINGTON TOLL-GATE.]
BY ELIOT McCORMICK.
Jennie Bartlett's father and mother had been suddenly called away for the night to Parnassus Centre, where Mrs. Bartlett's sister had been taken very ill, and Jennie was left to keep the toll-gate alone. It was not a difficult task, for scarcely any one travelled over the Barrington Road after nine o'clock, and those who did passed through the open gate without paying toll.
But even if it had been harder, Jennie would have been equal to it. She had lived at the toll-gate ever since she was a baby, and knew perfectly well what to charge, and how to make the proper change. Indeed, she often kept the gate for her father when he was at home, and people passing through would be apt to wonder how so bright and pretty a girl could grow up in so lonesome a place. Jennie, however, did not mind the lonesomeness. Her dearest wish was to go off to boarding-school; but so long as she was at home it mattered little to her that Barrington was three miles off on the one hand, and Leicester ten miles on the other, and that there was scarcely a house between. She even liked the solitude, and was almost sorry when the telephone connecting Barrington with Leicester made a connection by the way with the toll-gate. Before, they seemed to be out of the world, and the people coming through the gate were like visitors from another sphere; now, the frequent ringing of the call-bell reminded her that civilization was not so far distant, after all.
On this particular night there were not likely to be even the usual number of passers-by. It was dark and threatening. Looking out of the door about nine o'clock, Jennie could hardly see more than a hundred feet either up or down the road. It would be a bad night, she thought, for the gate to get accidentally shut; anybody coming along might run into it without warning; for that matter, people might run into the posts on either side. She hung a lantern on one post to prevent this accident, and going in the house, locked the doors and went to bed. The fact that she was alone in the house did not disturb her in the least, and in ten minutes she was fast asleep.
Some time in the night she was suddenly awakened by the ringing of the telephone bell. She listened confusedly to hear if it rang three times, which was the toll-gate signal, or oftener, to call up some of the other people on the same wire. Two of the connections she knew were in Leicester, the third was their own, the fourth was in the Barrington Bank, the fifth in the tannery, and the sixth in the central office at Barrington. In her bewilderment Jennie could not at first determine how many times it did ring; but at last she decided it was six—for the Barrington central office. That did not mean the toll-gate, and Jennie prepared to turn over for another nap, when a sudden thought aroused her. It was certainly after midnight, and the central office did not keep open later than twelve o'clock. The bank, too, was shut up, and so was the tannery; on the whole line she was probably the only person who could hear the bell. What if it should be something important! Indeed, it would hardly ring at that time of night unless it were important. Quickly jumping out of bed, she ran to the instrument, put the receiver to her ear, and called through the transmitter, "Hello! hello!"
A voice came back to her, so distinct that it seemed almost in the same room, saying, "Hello! is that the central office?" The tone was quick and sharp, and Jennie felt sure that something must have happened.
"No, sir," she called; "it's the toll-gate. I'm Jennie Bartlett."
"Tell your father to come here right away," the voice said; "it's very important."
Jennie felt a little sinking at her heart. "Father's away," she said, "and I'm here alone."
She heard the voice exclaim something in an impatient tone, and then the sound of two or three other people talking as though there was some doubt as to what could be done.
"Can I do anything?" she inquired, almost hoping that she could not.
Another conversation followed, which Jennie this time overheard; the speakers were no doubt nearer the telephone.
"Why do you want to let them get into Barrington at all?" one voice asked. "Why not stop them at the toll-gate?"
"To be sure!" said another. "If they get past the gate, like as not they'll turn down the Riverton road, and throw Allen off the track. They can't turn off before they get to the gate; we're sure of them as far as that."
"Tell the girl—" and then the speaker turned away, and Jennie caught only a confusion of sounds.
Presently she heard another "Hello!"
"Hello!" she responded.
"The Leicester Bank has been robbed," the voice went on, hurriedly, "by two men with a wagon and a white horse. They have driven toward Barrington, with Mr. Allen and two constables in pursuit, half an hour behind. You must—" Here the voice stopped as suddenly and completely as though it had had an extinguisher put over it. Even the hum of the electricity was checked, and Jennie knew enough about the telephone to be aware that in some way the connection had been abruptly cut off. It was in vain that she rang the bell and called "Hello!" No one answered. Jennie felt once more the old sense that she was out of the world. Leicester seemed all at once removed hundreds of miles away.
But what was it that she must or must not do? Why had not the connection lasted only a minute longer, when her instructions would have been complete? When were the robbers to be expected? Jennie made a little calculation. If they had been gone thirty minutes before any one started in pursuit, that would carry them, by fast driving, half-way to the toll-gate. If ten minutes had gone by before the telephone bell had rung, she might look for them within a quarter of an hour. What was she to do? The conversation which she had overheard came to her mind. "Stop them at the toll-gate," one of the voices had said. Very likely they would have told her to do that if the telephone had kept on. But how could a little girl arrest two armed and desperate men?
By this time she began to feel chilly. She could not go back to bed with this responsibility upon her, even though she did not know how to meet it; so, dressing herself, she opened the front door, and looked and listened. The night was darker than ever. A little space around the gate was lit up by the warning lantern. It would not help in stopping the burglars, she suddenly thought, to illuminate their way; so, going over to the light, she blew it out, and left the road in total darkness. That was at least one step toward the desired end.
All at once she thought of the gate. "How stupid!" she said to herself. "Why didn't I think of that before?" It was fastened back against the front of the house, but in a moment she had unhooked it and swung it around, until it stretched completely across the road. There was only a latch on the gate, but going in the house she brought out of one place a padlock, and from another a chain, with which she fastened it so securely that no ordinary strength could force it open. "They can't get through that," she said to herself; "and there isn't any way of getting around it." Then she went in the house, locked and bolted the door, rolled a bureau up against it, fastened all the windows, pulled down the shades, and waited in the dark for the sound of wheels.
It was not long before they came, but to Jennie every minute seemed an hour, while every rustling leaf outside sounded like a man's stealthy tread. When at last she heard them coming, far up the road, her heart stood still. Nearer and nearer they came. Would they not see the gate? she wondered. The horse still kept on; and instantly there was a sudden exclamation outside, a crash as though something had come into collision with the gate, the sound of splintering wood, and the noise of a plunging horse. Jennie did not venture to move; she dared not go to the window, but sat in the middle of the room, shaking with fear, and listening anxiously for what might happen next. Presently steps sounded on the planks outside, and in a moment there was a rap on the door.
Jennie remained perfectly quiet, though her heart beat so loud that she thought they must hear it outside. In a moment the knocking ceased.
"Folks asleep," she could hear one of the men say.
"Asleep, or dead, or run away," the other one growled.
"Shall we try the window?"
Jennie trembled all over, but the sash held firm.
"Oh, come on!" exclaimed his companion. "Don't let's waste time here; we can splice the shafts with the halter."
They moved off again, and Jennie breathed more freely. If the shafts were broken, it would be a work of some minutes to mend them, and the pursuing party might yet arrive in time. Mr. Allen, who Jennie knew to be the president of the Leicester Bank, had the fastest horses in the county, and ought to be able to make up at least ten minutes in ten miles. For a while there was quiet outside. The men were evidently working at the shafts, and only the stamping of the horse's feet gave any signs of life. Jennie began to get nervous, and to listen more intently for the pursuers' approach. By this time they could not be far off. Finally, unable to sit still any longer, she crept upstairs, and sitting down on the floor by the open window of the attic, ventured to look out. The white horse was quite distinctly visible as it stood by the gate, but the men, bending over the wagon, were hardly more than an outline. Presently they seemed to have finished, and backing the horse around, proceeded to hitch him in the shafts. Would the others never come? The gate was not yet opened, but Jennie began to fear that burglars would not find that a serious difficulty. Suddenly through the woods came the sound of horses' hoofs galloping as if for life. Did the men hear it too?
Apparently they did.
"Open the gate," she heard one of them say.
His companion went to it and vainly tried to pull it open. "It's padlocked," he exclaimed, after a minute.
The other muttered an angry oath. "Pick it!" he cried. "They've put up a job on us here. I knew we didn't cut that wire quick enough."
It was a minute before the burglar's skill could pick the lock, and by that time the pursuing wagon was dangerously near.
"Open the gate!" shouted the first man, pulling back his horse to escape its sweep.
The other pushed, and the great bar swung slowly back. But before it had opened wide enough to let them through, the other wagon had dashed in upon the scene.
"Stand where you are," Jennie heard Mr. Allen's voice call out, "or I'll shoot you down!"
What immediately followed Jennie did not see, for leaving the window, she rushed down-stairs, lit the lantern, rolled back the bureau, unlocked the door, and went out. When she had gained the road, the two burglars, captured and tied, were being guarded by the constables, while Mr. Allen was investigating the contents of the wagon, and making sure as far as he could in the darkness that all was right. At Jennie's approach he looked up.
"Ah!" he said. "Are you the toll-gate keeper's daughter? Just ask your father to step out here, won't you?"
Jennie smiled. "Father isn't at home, sir," she said.
"Oh, well, your mother, then, or any one who keeps the gate."
"Mother isn't at home either, sir; I am keeping the gate."
The gentleman looked at her in surprise.
"You!" he exclaimed. "What made these fellows stop here?"
"They broke their wagon, sir."
"How did they happen to do that?"
"The horse ran into the gate, sir."
"Was the gate shut?"
"Yes, sir."
"You don't usually shut the gate nights?"
"No, sir, but I did to-night."
He looked at her for a further explanation, and Jennie, who never liked to tell of her own exploits, was obliged to go on.
"They telephoned me about it from Leicester, sir," she said, briefly.
"Did they tell you to shut the gate?"
"No, sir; the telephone stopped before they got as far as that; these men cut the wire, and I had to think for myself what I should do."
"And you thought of that?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," she said, modestly.
"Well," he said, "you are a thoughtful little girl. You've saved me a great deal of money to-night, and I'll never forget it."
And he never did. The directors of the bank passed a vote of thanks, at their next meeting, to Miss Jennie Bartlett "for her prompt and efficient services in arresting the burglars who feloniously entered the bank building on the evening of September —, and abstracted the valuable contents of its vault"; and more than that, sent her a purse of money, with which she was able that winter to carry out her long-cherished plan of going to school. It was a disagreeable experience to go through, but Jennie will always date whatever success she has in the world from that night at the Barrington toll-gate.
Merrily, merrily dancing away,
Who is this dancing the long summer day,
Over the meadow and through the lane,
Then through the orchard, and then back again?
Who is this girlie that's dancing away,
Who but our own little Edith, I pray.
Swinging, swinging, swinging,
Here I sit and swing,
But I'm only resting,
Now each weary wing;
Very soon you'll see me fly,
Upward, upward, oh, so high;
Onward, onward through the air,
But I'll never tell you where.
Sleep, my baby, angel forms
Are bending now above you,
And mother dear is watching here,
Who'll always guard and love you.
Safe her baby boy she'll keep
When the night-fall brings him sleep.
Cuckoo, dear Cuckoo, has fallen so ill,
And here on the ground he is lying.
Oh, what shall we do the summer night through,
When our own darling cuckoo is dying?
At the earliest dawn we must send for the mole,
And tell him that cuckoo has left us,
He'll dig a deep grave where the willow-trees wave,
While we mourn the sad fate that bereft us.
The owl and the eagle, the parrot and dove,
Will watch while the nightingale's singing,
And solemn and slow, in tones soft and low,
The funeral song will be ringing.
