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(Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by James Elverson, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.)

Linda’s Crazy Quilt.

BY FANNIE WILLIAMS.

“Oh, dear!” sighed Linda Trafton, turning over the pages of a closely-written, school-girlish letter, which her brother Fred had tossed into her lap, on returning from the post office. “I do wish I could get silk pieces enough to make a crazy quilt. Cousin Dell writes all about hers, and it must be very pretty.”

“Crazy quilt! That’s about all I’ve heard for the last six months! I should think you girls had all gone crazy yourselves!” ejaculated Fred.

“Why, Fred!” was Linda’s only answer to this outburst.

She was a very sweet-tempered little maid, with soft, brown hair and soft, brown eyes, that matched in color as exactly as eyes and hair could match, and gave her a look of being—as indeed she was—too gentle to dispute, or even to argue, with anybody, least of all with Fred, who was fifteen, and three years her elder, and always took a tone of great superiority toward his little sister.

Still, he was a pretty good sort of brother, as brothers go; and, in Linda’s eyes, he was a prodigy of cleverness.

So, whenever they happened to differ in opinion, and Fred expressed himself in this vehement style, she only looked at him in a deprecating way, and murmured:

“Why, Fred!”

“Well, I should like to know,” continued Fred, “what could be more idiotic than the way you spend your time, you girls, fitting those ridiculous, catty-cornered pieces of silk together, and working them all over with bugs and cobwebs and caterpillars, and little boys in Mother Hubbard dresses! You may well call ’em crazy quilts! I don’t believe there was ever anything crazier, unless it was the lunatic who first invented them!”

“Why, Fred!” said Linda, again. “Now, I think they are too pretty for anything!”

“Pretty!” snorted Fred. “They’re made out of the last things that you’d suppose anybody would ever think of putting into a bed-quilt. I can’t get a chance to wear a neck-tie half out before somebody wants it. Kate Graham spoke for my last new one the next day after I bought it. And I hardly dare to put my hat down, where there’s a girl around, for fear she’ll capture my hat-band!”

By this time, Linda was laughing outright.

“Oh, you are so funny, Fred! But you only just ought to see Kate Graham’s crazy quilt. I know you couldn’t help calling it lovely. She has got pieces of ever so many wedding dresses in it; but I don’t know who would give me any. Aunt Mary never will get married, nor Cousin Susie, nor our Bridget, unless Pat hurries up with his courting—and there’s nobody else. Besides, they are all making

crazy quilts of their own. I would start one with papa’s old silk handkerchief and his Association badge, if I thought I could ever get pieces enough to finish it; but I don’t see how I could.”

“Bess Hartley told me that she was going to send off somewhere and get a lot of pieces that are put up to sell. You get a whole package of assorted colors for a dollar,” suggested Fred.

“Oh, that would make it cost too much! Mamma would not let me do that,” said Linda, shaking her head. “She says it is well enough to use up odd bits of silk in that way, if one happens to have them; but she doesn’t think it right to spend money in such a manner, instead of using it for better purposes—and I don’t suppose it is.”

“Well, I am sure I don’t know what you are going to do,” was Fred’s consoling observation. “You’d be as crazy as the rest of the girls if you began to piece a quilt; and I don’t know but you will go crazy if you can’t.”

With which conclusion, Fred walked off whistling, and left Linda to read her Cousin Dell’s letter over again, and wish that Patrick O’Brien would propose to Bridget, if he was ever going to, so that she could get married, and have a new silk dress for her wedding.

However, Linda was not the girl to fret and worry after things which were unattainable.

Fred would have his joke, but she was not going to make herself unhappy just because she had not the materials for making silk patchwork, as Dell and the rest of her girl friends were doing. There were plenty of other pleasures and amusements within her reach, and the one that she enjoyed most of all came in her way, as it happened, the very next morning.

“OH, MRS. BURBANK! WHAT BEAUTIFUL PIECES!” CRIED LINDA. “WHERE DID THEY ALL COME FROM?”

Her father said to her, as he rose from the table after breakfast:

“Linda, would you like a ride, my dear? I am going to drive over to East Berlin, and I will take you along, if you would like to go.”

“If I would like it! Why, papa, you know there isn’t anything that I like so much as a good, long ride with you!” cried Linda, dancing with delight, as she ran off to get ready for the drive.

For it was indeed a “good long” ride to East Berlin—fifteen miles at least—and

the day was just as fresh and bright and lovely as a day could be in the fresh and bright and lovely month of May.

The young grass was emerald green along the country roads, the apple trees were all in sheets of bloom, hill-sides were fairly blue with bird-foot violets, and sweet spring flowers were smiling everywhere.

Linda was so full of happiness that she could scarcely keep from singing in concert with the birds that trilled and chirped among the trees on either hand, as the pleasant road led through a piece of woodland.

But the woods came to an end abruptly where the trees had been cut off, and where some men with ox-carts were hauling away the long piles of cord-wood. Then there were fields of plowed ground on each side of the road, and then a long stretch of rocky hills and old pastures, and presently some houses came in sight.

Old, weather-beaten houses they were—a dozen, perhaps, in all. Two or three had once been painted red, and still displayed some dark and dingy traces of that color; but most of them were brown, and some had green moss growing on their broad, sloping roofs—roofs which were two stories high in front, but came down so low at the back that a lively boy might reach them from the ground with very little effort, only the place did not look as if anything so young or so lively as a boy had been seen there for at least twenty years.

Still, it was a pleasant place. There were thickets of lilac and mock-orange bushes around every house, and old-fashioned lilies and roses growing half-wild along the fences.

There were flagged walks leading up to all the doors, with borders of evergreen box, which had once been trim, and still was quaint and pleasing; there were old gardens, where everything was “all run out,” but where the bees and birds appeared to find congenial homes; there were gnarly old apple-trees, with bending, twisted branches that touched the ground and made the most enticing rustic seats.

Withal, there was a calm and stillness brooding on the place that filled one’s fancy with sweet thoughts of olden times and—

“Whoo-oo-oop! Hip, hip, pip, hoo-ray!”

“Good gracious!” cried Mr. Trafton, starting from his pleasant reverie, and clutching at the reins which lay loose upon his knee. “Good gracious! What’s that?”

“It’s a boy!” said Linda, with a quite disgusted accent.

Unquestionably, it was a boy—and a boy of the most aggressively modern type, clad in garments of the very latest cut, from his flannel yachting-shirt to his canvas “base-ball” shoes—a boy with a look as well as a voice, which proclaimed him all alive.

His close-cropped head was bare, and his white straw hat came spinning over the stone wall and into the middle of the road, as if impelled by steam-power, before the boy himself scrambled over, giving vent to another whoop, which would have done credit to a Comanche gone mad.

The whoop and the hat together were enough to startle almost any horse; and, although Mr. Trafton’s fine roadster, “Billy,” was pretty well trained, the combined effect was a little too much for his nerves. He gave a sidelong leap and started to run. His master checked him sharply, and veering from the road, he ran the wheels into a deep rut, and over went the buggy with a crash!

Linda screamed, as she was pitched headlong into a thicket of sweet-fern which grew along the roadside; but the bushes broke her fall, and, beyond the fright and a scratched hand, she received no injury.

Her father was equally fortunate, and, as Billy had recovered from his momentary panic and did not run, the accident appeared, at the first glance, to be nothing serious.

The boy who had caused it came forward, with a look of trepidation upon his countenance, exclaiming:

“I’m awfully sorry, sir; I didn’t mean to frighten your horse. I was down behind the wall and didn’t see you coming, or I wouldn’t have thrown my hat so. I was only scaring a squirrel.”

“He must have been pretty thoroughly scared,” said Mr. Trafton, drily.

However, the boy’s bright face wore an expression of such honest regret that he added, with a good-humored accent:

“Well, well, I was a boy myself once. You must be more careful another time, my lad.”

“That I will, sir.”

And as Mr. Trafton began to raise the overturned buggy, the boy took hold and helped him.

On getting the vehicle righted, they found that one wheel was broken so badly as to need repairs before the journey could be continued, and Mr. Trafton surveyed the damage with grave concern.

The boy gave a low whistle, and murmured:

“Here’s a state of things!”

“I don’t see what I’m going to do,” remarked the gentleman. “There’s nobody in this region who could mend that wheel, I suppose?”

“Oh yes there is!” cried the boy, brightening up. “Doran’s blacksmith shop is only a little ways down the road; you can get the wheel fixed there. I’ll go along and hold up this side of the buggy; and I’ll pay the bill, sir, as I caused the damage.”

Mr. Trafton looked at him approvingly, but answered:

“You need not do that, my boy. The bill won’t amount to much; but the job may take some time—and where can I leave my little girl? I suppose you would not care to wait in the blacksmith shop, Linda?”

Before Linda could reply, the boy said, looking at her frankly, and not at all abashed:

“She can stay with my grandma while you’re having the wheel fixed. Mrs. Deacon Burbank is my grandma; she lives right here, sir,” pointing out the house.

“And where do you live?” asked Mr. Trafton, who took a liking to Mrs. Deacon Burbank’s grandson, for all his annoyance at the trouble which that lively youth had caused him.

“I’m staying with grandma this summer,” said the boy; “but I live in Boston when I’m at home. My name is John Burbank.”

“Well, John, you will have to take Linda to your grandma, for I cannot leave Billy standing here with this broken buggy.”

“All right, sir; I’ll be back in a minute, and help you down to Doran’s.”

So saying, John Burbank led the way, and Linda followed, to the nearest of the brown old houses—a big, broad-roofed domicile, with wide, double doors and narrow windows, and with two great cherry trees in the front yard, looking like two great drifts of snow, they were so thickly covered with white blossoms.

A border of red and yellow tulips, gay daffodils, and “crown imperials,” edged the narrow walk which led from the front gate around to the side door, where they were received by a surprised old lady in gold-bowed spectacles, to whom John presented his companion, with the following concise account of the accident which occasioned her unexpected appearance:

“Grandma, here’s a girl, and her father is out there with his team, and they’ve just had a break-down, and it was all my doing; but I didn’t mean to! I scared the horse, hollering at a squirrel. I’ve got to go and help her father get the buggy down to Doran’s, and she’s going to stay here till it’s fixed, and her name’s Linda. I don’t know what her other name is.”

“Linda Trafton,” supplemented Linda, as the boy paused to catch his breath.

“Johnny,” said the old lady, speaking as severely as a stout old lady with dimples in her cheeks and a twinkle in her eyes could be expected to speak, when addressing her only grandson—“Johnny, I do declare for ’t, you air the worst boy! What under the canopy will you go to cuttin’ up next? Come right in, my dear,” she said to Linda, “and make yourself to home. Johnny, you run along and help the gentleman; and tell Mr. Doran your gran’ther will pay the bill.”

“Oh, I’m going to pay it myself, grandma, with my own pocket-money, if the gentleman will let me; but he says he won’t.”

And Johnny was off before he had done speaking.

“I declare for ’t,” said his grandmother, “that boy is a regular Burbank; jest exactly what the deacon used to be at his age—always into suthin’. I knew the deacon when he wa’n’t any older than Johnny, an’ I remember jest how he used to act. Take off your things, my dear, and make yourself to home.”

She took Linda’s hat and sacque, and

carried them into the spare bed-room, where there was a great “four-poster” bedstead, with blue-and-white chintz hangings and a blue-and-white spread; and then she came and sat down by Linda, and asked her a great many questions about the break-down, and about her father and mother and herself, but she was such a nice old lady that Linda did not mind her being a little inquisitive.

In return, she gave Linda quite a complete history of her own family, and told her a number of entertaining stories about Johnny and Johnny’s father, and about the deacon when he was a boy. Finally, she looked at the queer old clock on the kitchen mantle-shelf, and remarked:

“It’s time I was gittin’ my dinner over to cook, and I guess I shall have to leave you to amuse yourself a little while, my dear. You might go out an’ look ’round the garden, if you want; or maybe you’d ruther go up in the garret, an’ look at Johnny’s picture-books an’ things. He likes to stay up there, when it rains so’t he can’t go out.”

“Oh, I should like that, of all things!” cried Linda, delighted. “I do love a real old-fashioned garret, with all sorts of old things in it!”

“Do you now? Well,” said Mrs. Burbank, beaming over the gold-bowed spectacles, “our garret is full of old truck, an’ you can go up there an’ rummage ’round all you’ve a min’ to.”

She opened the door of a narrow staircase, with steep and well-worn stairs, and told Linda that was the way to the back chamber over the kitchen, and when she got up there she would see the garret stairs; and she guessed Linda could find the way up alone. She was pretty hefty herself, and she didn’t travel up and down stairs any more than she could help.

Linda very quickly found her way to the garret, which proved to be indeed a veritable treasury of “old truck;” and her brown eyes opened wide with ecstasy as she caught sight of a real, genuine spinning-wheel, stowed away under the low, sloping roof.

Then she discovered a smaller wheel, with a motto carved around its rim in quaint lettering, which Linda studied over a long time before she made it out—“Eat not the Bread of Idleness.” She learned afterward that this was a flax-wheel, on which Deacon Burbank’s mother used to spin the thread to weave her linen sheets.

Beside the flax-wheel stood a superannuated chest of drawers, with dingy brass handles, which had once, no doubt, been a fine piece of furniture.

Then there were broken-down chairs, with straight, stiff backs; queer, cracked jugs and bottles, and painted teacups with the handles broken off; and funny old spelling-books and school-readers, all inscribed, in beautiful handwriting, on their yellow fly-leaves:

“John Burbank, his book.”

Linda knew that the John Burbank who had learned his lessons from these old books must have been the deacon “when he was a boy,” and not her young friend, Johnny.

There were several old-fashioned wooden chests among the treasures of this delightful garret, and Linda hesitated to open them at first; but finally she called to mind that she had been given permission to “rummage” as much as she pleased.

One chest, painted green, stood near the narrow window, which threw a checkered square of sunshine upon the garret floor, and as Linda raised the cover she gave a little scream of rapture, for it seemed almost as if she had found a broken rainbow, there was such a glitter of gay colors in the sunlight.

“Oh! oh!” she cried, “what lovely, lovely pieces for a crazy quilt!”

For the old chest was nearly filled with scraps of silk and satin of every shape and size, from bits not over an inch wide to the large, three-cornered pieces, of which there seemed to be a great number, left in cutting trimming-folds “on the bias,” as Linda knew, for she had seen many such remnants proudly displayed by those of her girl friends who happened to be in the good graces of Miss Cranshaw, the village dressmaker. But such brocades and stripes, such “plaid” and “watered” and “figured” silks, such brilliant shades of color as she found among the contents of that chest, her eyes had never looked upon before.

“I wonder if these are pieces of Deacon Burbank’s mother’s dresses?” thought

Linda, as she turned them over, exclaiming, every other minute, “Oh, how pretty!” or “Oh, what a beauty!” for every new piece that she took up seemed prettier than the last. “Why, she must have had as many as Queen Victoria. Why don’t they wear such colors now? Most of the silk dresses that Miss Cranshaw makes are black, or brown, or sage-green, or some other sober shade; but these are all so bright. Oh, what a lovely blue!”

“It is a handsome piece of silk, ain’t it? That was the dress Miss Polly Newcome wore to the inaugeration ball at Washington, ’most forty years ago. They don’t have no such silks in these days.”

Mrs. Deacon Burbank had mounted the garret stairs with footsteps far from noiseless, being, as she said, a “hefty” old lady; but Linda had been too much absorbed to notice her approach until she spoke.

“Oh, Mrs. Burbank! What beautiful pieces!” cried Linda. “Where did they all come from?”

“Why, they come from all ’round, my dear,” said Mrs. Burbank, sitting down with Linda, beside the green chest. “You see, my girls used to take in dressmakin’, when they was young, and the pieces kinder gathered an’ gathered. The girls used to keep the silk pieces separate, thinkin’ they might do suthin’ with ’em sometime; but they never did. They was always too busy to do much putterin’ work. So the pieces have laid there ever sence the girls left home. They all got married, many a long year ago, my girls. Cecilia went to New York, and Evaline lives down in Pennsylvaney—she’s got to be quite an old woman herself now; and Nancy Jane, she’s layin’ in the cemetery over to East Berlin, with her own little girl buried ’long side of her,” said the old lady, sighing. “But they used to be called the best dressmakers there was anywhere round these parts; folks used to come from as far off as Tolland County to have their nice dresses made by the Burbank girls. Miss Polly Newcome went to Washington the winter that her father was elected to the Senate. She was a great beauty, Miss Polly was, an’ they made everything of her in Washington. But my girls had the makin’ of all her new clothes, ’fore she went. This was a dress she wore to a grand dinner-party that was given to her father, Senator Newcome.”

And the old lady picked out a scrap of marvelous brocade, with silver-white roses on a wine-colored ground, and smoothed it on her knee.

“This was the one she wore to the President’s reception”—selecting a bit of rose-colored satin, striped with sky-blue velvet; “and this,” she continued, smoothing out a long strip of changeable silk in green and ruby tints, “was another dinner dress. Here’s a piece of plaid silk that was made up for Squire Harney’s wife, when she was goin’ to Europe; and here’s a piece of Mrs. Doctor Thorne’s dress, that she had made on purpose to wear to a grand party over in Tolland.”

This last was a good-sized square of bright yellow silk, with polka-dots of mazarine blue.

Linda, looking at the gorgeous fabric with admiring eyes, exclaimed:

“I never saw such pieces in all my life! They would make the loveliest crazy quilt!”

“What kind of a quilt, my dear?”

“A crazy quilt,” said Linda, laughing. “Haven’t you ever seen one, Mrs. Burbank? Fred says the person was crazy who first invented them; but I think they’re just as pretty as they can be. It takes a great many pieces of silk, though, to make a bed-quilt, and some of the girls only make sofa-pillows and such things.”

“Oh, you mean patchwork. The land!” said Mrs. Burbank, “I used to make silk patchwork more than sixty years ago. It was all the style then, but I didn’t s’pose they ever done it now.”

“Oh, yes; it is all the style now,” said Linda, with a smile.

“Do tell! I want to know if you like to piece patchwork?” said the old lady, looking over her spectacles at Linda’s girlish face, with its gentle eyes and frame of soft, brown hair. “I declare for’t, you look just as my Nancy Jane did when she was your age! If you want them pieces, child, you can have ’em; I ain’t got any use for ’em, and don’t s’pose I ever shall have. I’m too old to piece patchwork, myself—my eyesight ain’t what it used to be.”

For a moment Linda was speechless with delight, but finally she found her voice, and cried out:

“Oh, Mrs. Burbank! All those lovely crazy pieces! Do you really mean to give them to me?”

“Of course I do, and I’m real glad to see ye so pleased, my dear. Them silk pieces have laid in that chest years an’ years, doin’ nobody any good; an’ they shan’t lay there no longer, if they can make a little girl so happy.”

And the good old lady looked happy herself as she opened another chest, and, taking out an old pillow-case of home-spun linen, began to fill it with the wondrous “crazy pieces.”

When she had crowded them all in and tied the bag with a piece of twine, she said:

“Now, you can take ’em right along with you, an’ whenever your father happens to come this way ag’in, he can bring me back the piller-case, for it was one of Mother Burbank’s, and I shouldn’t want to lose it. I declare for ’t!” she added, “I forgot all about your father, child, I got so took up with lookin’ over them pieces. He’s got the buggy mended, an’ he’s come back after you, so you must come right down. I want you an’ he should have dinner ’fore you go; it’s all ready.”

And happy Linda went down to the kitchen, where she found her father and Johnny, and Deacon Burbank, who had just come home to dinner.

Mr. Trafton was hungry, and quite willing to take dinner at the deacon’s, instead of waiting till they arrived at East Berlin.

They all became very well acquainted in the course of the meal, and Mr. Trafton promised to bring Linda to see Mrs. Burbank, whenever he came that way.

“And I will bring my crazy quilt and show it to you, when I get it done, Mrs. Burbank,” added Linda.

Whereupon Johnny spoke up, and said:

“If you don’t get on with your crazy quilt any faster than my sister does with hers, you won’t ever get it done!”

And Linda told him that sounded just like Fred!

Johnny carried the pillow-case out to the buggy and tucked it under the seat; and Linda could think of nothing but her crazy pieces all the way to East Berlin.

When she got home and showed them to Fred, he declared they were the jolliest, craziest lot of pieces he had seen yet!

And when Linda’s quilt was commenced, all the girls went wild over it; but she laughingly refused to tell them where her pieces came from.

She made a great mystery of the matter, asserting, in reply to all inquiries, that hers would be a crazy quilt with a history, and nobody should know anything about it until the quilt was finished.

A crazy quilt with a history is no trifling piece of work, and the girls have not yet heard the story.

DAVY’S TURN.

BY FLORENCE B. HALLOWELL.

“Never mind! It’ll come my turn some day, and then I’ll pay you boys up; and you’ll be sorry enough for all the mean things you’ve done to me,” and Davy Potter stooped to pick up the books which one of a group of a dozen boys had pushed from his arm.

The school-house yard was muddy from recent rains, and the books were so wet and dirty that Davy took out his pocket handkerchief to wipe them off.

“What’ll you take for that handkerchief, Dave?” asked Fred Bassett. “It’s a beauty, and no mistake.”

There was a loud shout from the other boys, and universal attention was directed to the little square of faded calico Davy was so industriously using.

A hot flush rose to the boy’s thin, freckled face; but he made no reply, except to mutter under his breath something which the boys could not catch.

But there was a bitter, vindictive feeling in his heart as he followed his persecutors into the school-house. He did not understand why all the wit—if wit it could be called—should be leveled at him; why he should be the target for every poisoned arrow, simply because he was poor, ugly and always at the bottom of his classes. He thought it unjust and cruel, and longed with all his heart for the time to come when by some real good luck he would have a chance to “pay the boys up.”

He knew that if he ever needed assistance in any such work, he could rely on old Sim Kane to help him; for the old man—a half-witted creature who earned a miserable livelihood by doing odd jobs of wood-sawing and cleaning for charitably-disposed people—had good reason, also, to hate the boys of the Prickett school, and long for revenge.

Davy lived with an aunt, who gave him a home as a matter of duty, and regarded him as a burden and a nuisance, often treating him so unkindly that he was made very unhappy, and spent as little time with her as possible.

He tried honestly to be dutiful and obedient; but he couldn’t help forgetting occasionally to wipe his feet before entering the kitchen, and sometimes he let the fire go out, or forgot to feed the chickens. Then he was severely reprimanded, of course, and told that he was ungrateful, as well as stupid.

But in the woods he was free to do as he liked, and there was no one to scold or find fault with him, and he had many dumb but affectionate friends there among the squirrels, rabbits and birds.

So he always took his way to the woods every Saturday as soon as he had cleaned up the yard about his aunt’s house, filled all the water-buckets, cut the kindling for the kitchen stove, and attended to the dozen or more other chores Miss Potter required of him.

He never shirked the least of them, no matter how anxious he was to get away; for he had been so frequently told how much he owed to his aunt, that he believed he could not do too much for her.

It was while exploring the depths of the woods, one day, that he discovered the secret retreat of the “Mystic Nine,” a club of nine boys who disappeared from the village regularly every Saturday morning during the spring, summer and fall, and remained away until sunset, often returning with torches to have a street parade after dark, or with a bag of plump birds for a grand “fry” in the kitchen of some indulgent mother.

That they had a hiding-place of some sort, where they held meetings and ate the generous lunches they carried with them, all the boys outside the nine felt sure; but none of the Mystics ever answered any questions concerning it, and threw out vague but impressive warnings as to the terrible fate that would befall any one whose curiosity led him to seek to penetrate the secret they guarded so closely.

Davy stumbled upon it quite by chance. Following the trail of a bird with a wounded wing, he found himself in a part of the wood he had never been in before, and came suddenly upon a great pile of brush a dozen feet high, behind which was the entrance to a deep cave in a rocky hillside.

He entered, and found it well furnished with rough blankets, a table, an oil stove, and many other things necessary to the comfort and convenience of nine boys. A large window in the roof, which was carefully covered with brush, afforded a means to obtain light, when that given by the mouth of the cave did not prove sufficient, or when bad weather made it necessary to drop the canvas which did duty as a door.

Davy, afraid of getting into trouble, kept his discovery to himself, but he made frequent stolen trips to the cave, and resolved that some day he would use his knowledge for the purpose of obtaining his revenge.

He had a vague plan in his head to guide about fifty of the roughest boys in the village to the cave, and thus give the secret to every one, and he fully determined to let this be his form of revenge, when, being called upon to read in class, he was forced to use the wet, soiled books.

His thoughts were directed so much to this subject that his lessons were recited even worse than usual, and as a result he was kept in to study for an hour after the close of school.

When he was at last free to go home, and left the school-house, he found that poor old Sim was in the hands of his enemies. The Mystic Nine had placed him in his own dilapidated hand-cart, and were wheeling him down one of the side streets as fast as they could go, shouting and laughing at his frenzied cries of distress and the ludicrous picture he presented, as he clung to the side of the cart, the brim of his torn straw hat flapping in the wind, and an old scarf of bright scarlet silk, which he cherished as his dearest earthly possession, streaming out behind.

Davy felt very sorry for the old man,

but did not dare interfere. He could only wait until the boys, becoming wearied of their sport, ran the cart into a shallow pond and went off to seek other diversion.

Old Sim was almost helpless with fright and exhaustion, and when Davy waded into the pond and pushed the cart out on dry land again, he threw his arms about the boy’s neck, and clung to him, sobbing and moaning like a child.

It was all Davy could do to comfort and quiet him, and to persuade him to go home, so apprehensive was he that another attack would be made on him. But Davy finally succeeded in convincing him that there was no further danger, and the old man went scuffling off to the miserable shanty he called home.

The next day was Saturday, and as the weather was clear and bright, Davy resolved to spend the whole morning in the woods. But his aunt found so much for him to do that it was nearly noon before he was able to get away.

As usual, he divided his lunch with the birds and squirrels, and then lay down under a tree to read a book he had brought with him.

But it failed to interest him, and his mind persisted in dwelling upon the unkindness with which he was so systematically treated, both at home and at school.

“I wonder if it will ever be any different?” he thought, as he sprang to his feet at last. “If I only could get to the head of the grammar class just once, they might treat me better. But of course there is no use in thinking of that, for there’s no chance of it.”

He strolled through the woods, his steps turning unconsciously in the direction of the secret cave.

He had almost reached it, when he suddenly became aware of where he was, and started to retrace his steps, fearing the boys would come out and discover him there.

But scarcely had he turned when, to his amazement, he saw old Sim Kane come rushing toward him from the direction of the cave.

The old man’s face was pallid with excitement, and he was swinging his long arms, and muttering and laughing to himself in a way that made Davy’s blood run cold.

“Sim! Sim! what’s the matter?” he cried.

But the old man paid no attention to him, and not pausing to question him again, but sure there was trouble of some sort at the cave, Davy ran toward that secret retreat.

His ears soon told him what the trouble was. The great pile of brush which concealed the entrance to the cave had been set on fire!

Terrible was the vengeance which the half-demented old man had taken on his boyish persecutors.

Davy, with a loud cry of horror, and forgetting in that awful moment all his own wrongs, seized a stout branch, and rushed upon the pile of brush without a moment’s hesitation.

The entire mouth of the cave was a mass of flame, and it was no easy matter to scatter the burning brands, so intense was the heat.

But Davy fought the fire right and left, with a wild energy far beyond his strength and years, and at last the mouth of the cave was clear, and the fresh air could enter it again.

Then, exhausted, faint, and suffering most intense agony from a dozen terrible burns, the brave boy sank to the ground.

At first he was scarcely conscious, but presently he became aware that some one was bending over him, and opening his eyes, he saw Fred Bassett’s face, so full of pity, admiration and kindness that poor Davy scarcely recognized it.

“We didn’t deserve this good turn of you, Davy,” said the boy. “But I can’t tell you how thankful we are to you. But for you we would have been suffocated inside of ten minutes. It was that old Sim who set the fire. We were busy at the back of the cave, making it deeper, and didn’t know anything about the fire until we heard the old man shout at us from the window overhead. He was half mad with joy, and was just about to light the brush on the window. He must have fired the pile in front in twenty places. There was no use in trying to get out. It was like a wall of fire. I tell you, we all thought our time had come. It was just awful.”

“I’m glad I came when I did,” said Davy, gently. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to help me home. My feet are so

badly burned I don’t believe I can take a step.”

“As if we’d let you even think of walking!” exclaimed Fred. “We’ll rig up a litter in short order.”

So Davy was carried into the village in state by seven of the boys, while the two others went on ahead to tell Miss Potter what had happened and engage the services of a doctor.

And it was not until his wounds were all dressed, and he was lying quietly in bed, with Fred Bassett and Tom Harper sitting beside him, that Davy happened to think that the “turn” for which he had waited so long had come at last, and he had failed to take the revenge he had so ardently desired.

But he never regretted this, for he never had to complain again of unkind treatment from either his aunt or his schoolmates. For Miss Potter, in taking care of her young nephew during the three weeks he was confined to the house, found good qualities of head and heart the existence of which she had never before even suspected, and she made up her mind that she had thought Davy a burden because she had never really understood him.

As to the boys—well, they made a hero of Davy, and the “Mystic Nine” became the “Mystic Ten,” by the admission to membership of the shy, freckled-faced boy who was always at the bottom of his classes.

And affection and encouragement brightened up Davy’s wits so much that he ceased before long to occupy that unenviable and lowly position, and astonished his teacher by his rapid progress.

No punishment was ever meted out to old Sim; but it is scarcely necessary to say that the boys were careful to let him severely alone after that memorable Saturday on which Davy became a hero.

THE BLIND GIRL AND THE SPRING.

BY SYDNEY GREY.

Yes, it is true that I am blind (it was not always thus),

But oft it comes into my mind how God can comfort us.

For if, of some good gift bereft, we bend before His will,

He ever has a blessing left which should our sorrows still.

This very morn I found it so; scarce had the day begun,

Ere with small, pattering, restless feet that hither swiftly run,

The children came in joyous mood, and shouted, “Spring is here!”

And when they led me through the wood, I knew that she was near.

I felt her breath upon my cheek, and while we walked along,

A thousand times I heard her speak the rustling leaves among,

In tones as though a harp had thrilled beneath an angel’s touch,

And all my soul with rapture filled: yet when I said as much,

The others laughed and whispered low, “Nay, nay, it is the wind!”

To them perhaps it might be so; but, ah! if folks are blind,

They learn in every sound that floats around their pathway dark—

The breeze, the brook, the glad bird-notes—some hidden voice to mark.

Therefore, when spring begins to don her garments fresh and gay,

Because I cannot look upon her beauty day by day,

Nor see the pointed crocus flame above the garden mold,

Nor watch the snowy tips that frame the daisy’s heart of gold;

Because unto my longing eyes may never be displayed

The changeful glory of the skies, warm shine and soothing shade,

Nor the great sun’s far-reaching rays which crown the day with light,

Nor yet the star-lit purple haze that comes before the night;

She breathes the tender tale to me, in accents clear and plain,

Until I nearly rend the veil and see it all again.

And though I’m blind, I know quite well, when to the woods we go,

The place to find the wild bluebell, and where the lilies blow;

Shy violets tell me, as I pass, their buds are at my feet,

And through the lengthening meadow-grass run murmurs soft and sweet.

Oh! I thank God that He doth bring such daily joy to me,

For even I can welcome spring, like happy girls who see.

How to Make A Canvas Canoe,

(Concluded.)

BY E. T. LITTLEWOOD.

The covering is best made of what is known as “crash,” strong and close. It must be wide enough to go completely under the canoe, and can be had about 5 ft. wide, which will be quite wide enough. Seven yards of it will be sufficient.

To put on the canvas, turn the canoe over. Lay the canvas with the centre line along the keel. Stretch it well by pulling at each end, and tack it through the middle at the extreme ends with a few tacks in a temporary manner. Put in temporary tacks along the gunwale at moderate intervals, stretching slightly, and endeavor to get rid of all folds.

Begin in the middle and work toward the ends, and always pull straight away from the keel, and not along the gunwale. Then put in a second set of tacks half way between the first set of tacks on one side, pulling fairly tight. Then, on the other side, put in tacks opposite to the latter, pulling as tightly as possible.

The best way to do this is to seize the canvas with a pair of pincers, so that on pulling you can get the head of the pincers just over the gunwale, when they can be used as a lever to give an extra pull. A tack may then be put in on the outside of the gunwale; half-inch galvanized tacks will do.

Now remove the temporary set of tacks. To get rid of folds, which will not occur along the keel, but along the gunwale, keep bisecting the distance between two consecutive tacks by another tack, so that the canvas is equally loose on each side of it, always now pulling the canvas as tightly as possible.

In this way the folds will disappear, and the canvas be stretched tight and well-fastened to the gunwale. Leave that portion within a foot of each end untacked.

Next cut away all that portion which projects beyond the stem and stern-post; turn the edges in, and tack along the edges at moderate distances.

Bisect these distances, and these again, till you have a very close row of tacks, as in Fig. 12. Pull fairly tight, but not too tight, and do not use pincers for this part; quarter-inch tacks will be best.

The ends may be cut out and put on, lapping the edges over the side, as shown in Fig. 12, and enough canvas will be left to fill the part along the sides of the well, into which the canvas should be tacked with a fine row of tacks, afterward being stretched over the gunwale. The canoe will now be completely covered in except the well.

Before putting on the top, however, give the lower part outside a good coating of boiled linseed-oil. This will be most of it absorbed into the canvas. The same may be done afterward with the top.

When this is dry—that is, after two or three days—give another good coating of the same. Then paint the canoe according to taste. Two coats for the bottom will be advisable, and paint which will stand water well should be used. It would be well to paint the framework with one coat before covering.

Make a stretcher (Fig. 13) for the feet, of half-inch board, and slips to fit it into (Fig. 10), with stops on the floor. Also, a backboard of half-inch board, to correspond (Fig. 14). Each piece in the latter may be 18x4 inches. They should be nailed into two cross-pieces behind, so as to form a hollow for back, and should be placed two inches apart, to allow a space for the spine.

I prefer myself to fit in the backboard by means of stops on the floor and back of the well, making it keep one position, and that at a considerable slope, and have not found a swinging backboard so comfortable as some appear to have done.

For the paddle, for which I think about 7 feet 6 inches long over all is a good length, take a light, clean piece of yellow pine, or fir, 1½x1¼ inches, not more, and 6 feet long. In the ends of this cut slots 6 inches long, each to receive two pear-shaped pieces of very light half-inch plank, 1 foot 3 inches by 8 inches. Nail them through with copper nails, if possible. The blades should be at right angles to the thickest direction of the handle.

Before nailing in, shave down the handle from an oval of 1½x1¼ inches for 2 feet of the middle to an oval of about 1⅛x⅞ inches near the beginning of the blades.

The handle should have its full thickness at the beginning of the blade, but should be well tapered off along the blade, so as to be quite thin at its middle, where it ends. It should have its full breadth across the breadth of the blade. The blade itself may be shaved off thinner toward the edges.

I do not think that for ordinary purposes any strip of copper or tin need be put round the blade, and the weight is increased by using.

The great thing about a paddle is that it should be as light as possible, and, if it appears able to stand it, it may be reduced still further. It may be painted or varnished, all but two feet in the middle. I find no rings on the paddles necessary.

A short strip nailed outside the gunwale in the middle of the canoe is a good thing; it prevents wear from the paddle, and forms something to catch hold of in lifting the canoe.

A short outer keel is also a good thing at each end to prevent wear; but in making holes for the nails through the canvas into the keel care must be taken to turn in the edges round each hole, to tack with a close circle of tacks, and paint well, so as to render the place water-tight.

An apron is seldom wanted, but may be made of canvas rendered waterproof with boiled oil, if desired.

It is well to fasten some inflated bladders in each end, so as to make the canoe a diminutive lifeboat, in case of an upset or of a hole being knocked in her.

The canoe will now be ready for launching. The owner should learn to put her carefully into the water and take her out by himself—to carry her on his shoulder.

Superfluous wood may be cut from the central parts of the shapes, and also from along the keel toward the ends before covering. The floor forms a considerable item in the weight, consequently this should be made no wider or thicker than necessary. In paddling, learn to reach well forward and back, with a good swing of the body from side to side.

Such a canoe as described will be found to wear well, and one made by myself for a friend two years ago is now in use, and quite water-tight.

HOW THE PARTRIDGE DRUMS.

“When I first came to Canada,” says a writer from that locality, “I found there were various opinions as to the method of making the sound. One man, who read a great deal, but rarely went into the woods, said that the sound was produced by the bird’s voice. Some of the hunters told me that the bird struck its wings on the log, and others that it struck them together over its back.

“I did not give much heed to the bookman’s explanation, for all the woodmen laughed at it. I soon learned to discredit also the idea that the bird thumped the log with its wings, because whether it stood on a stump or a stone, a rotten log or solid timber, the sound was always the same. Lastly, I did not believe that the wings were struck together, because, when a pigeon or rooster strikes its wings together, the sound is always a sharp crack. At length, after watching the bird carefully, I came to the conclusion that it drums by beating the air only.

“It is not an easy matter to get sight of a partridge when he is drumming, but I managed to do it by crawling on my hands and knees toward the bird, lying still while he was quiet, and only moving forward when he renewed his noisy courtship; for it is only to woo and win his mate that Sir Ruffled Grouse indulges in these musical exercises.

“In this way I contrived to come within twenty feet without alarming him. Through the alder thicket I could just see his shapely form, strutting about like a turkey cock; then for a moment he stood upright, with his feathers lying close.

“Suddenly his wings flashed, and at the same moment I heard the loud thump. Then for a few seconds he stood looking about as though nothing had happened; but presently came a second flash and thump, and others followed at lessening intervals, until at last the serenade rolled a way like the galloping of horses or the rumbling of distant thunder.”

FROGS AND TADPOLES.

BY E. S.

It is very interesting in the spring to watch the gradual development of a frog from the egg, through the tadpole stage of its existence, till at last it assumes its final form.

The old frogs emerge from their winter hiding-places in the mud, early in the spring, and during April their eggs may be found floating on almost every stagnant pond.

A group of these eggs in their early stages of development looks like a mass of clear white jelly, containing numbers of black specks, each of which is really the germ of the future tadpole.

In order to watch the development, a group of the eggs should be taken and put in a shallow vessel of water, which, if kept in the house, should have a bell-glass, or some other covering, over it, to keep out the dust.

The jelly-like mass which envelopes the future tadpole is so clear that all its changes can be easily watched.

First the head appears, then a flat tail, and in course of time the nostrils, mouth and large eyes, till at length the completed tadpole bursts open its gelatinous covering, and apparently not in the least embarrassed by its new surroundings, begins swimming briskly about, looking for something to eat.

The time occupied in hatching varies in different countries, according to the climate, from four days to a month.

The following stages are even more interesting, especially for those who can take advantage of the transparency of the parts to watch the circulation of the blood through a microscope.

The body of the tadpole gradually gets broader, while the tail gets thinner and thinner, till it finally disappears altogether; but before that happens, its place has been taken by two hind legs, which first appear under the skin and then gradually push their way through.

The fore legs next appear, and so on through all the stages of development, till in a longer or shorter time, according to the amount of warmth, light and food it can obtain, the complete frog appears.

But woe betide the unfortunate tadpole which, first of the shoal, attains to the dignity of possessing limbs, for so ferocious are the later ones, and so jealous of their precocious little brother, that they almost always fall upon him, and not content with killing, never rest till every morsel of him is eaten.

And unless several of the tadpoles assume their final change about the same time, this proceeding is repeated till their numbers are very considerably diminished, or, as sometimes happens, till only one survivor is left, who, having helped to eat all his brethren, instead of meeting with his deserts, is allowed to live on in peace, till some day, in the course of his walks abroad, he, in his turn, is snapped up as a delicate morsel by some hungry snake or water-fowl.

BE HONEST AND TRUE.

BY GEORGE BIRDSEYE.