Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

A THRESHER THRASHED.

BY DAWSON STEARNS.

"Talk about catching fish," remarked Walter Clay, in a phlegmatic and yet rather sarcastic style, "it seems to me that Katie has caught one now, if she never did before."

The youth addressed showed that he was more hot-tempered than his companion, as his cheeks flushed and his eyes danced angrily for an instant when the comprehension of his friend's double meaning flashed upon him.

"Oh, stop punning, and look out for that line, quick!" was the sharp reply.

"Better mind your helm, or you'll have your boom gybe, if this lovely fish doesn't gybe it for you, my boy," retorted Walter, as his attention was more closely called to the line he was paying out, as he stood near the weather-bow and watched carefully ahead.

The boys were in a cat-boat of comfortable build, heading toward the mouth of Long Island Sound, close-hauled on the port tack, Brentons Reef Light-ship a mile or more off on the weather-quarter, and a breeze so true and sternly that they felt no uneasiness about getting back to Newport before sundown if they devoted most of the afternoon to sport. The boat was named the Katie, and was owned by the young man at the helm, Harry Main, who had chosen the name and had it painted in neat letters on her stern with the consent of one who did not hesitate to acknowledge the flattery of the compliment. Hence his companion's good-natured play upon it, as well as intimation of the important aspect of the present occasion.

The Katie was a very weatherly craft, as well as a good sailer, and was highly prized by her young owner; in fact, she was a prize. The boat had been built to his special order by one of the most experienced of cat-boat constructors, after many long consultations with his fidus Achates and constant chum Walter, as well as the benefit of professional advice, and the sanction of his father, who footed the bills in redemption of a promise made if Harry attained a certain record at his college examinations. The record had been made through faithful work, the prize had been earned, and the boys were now right heartily enjoying the fruit of their labors in the summer vacation. Little wonder that their good fortune was envied by many, and that their popularity was in no small degree enhanced by the nautical tone acquired through their amateur sailorizing, while their manliness was increased, lung power developed, brains brightened, complexions enriched, and muscles toughened by the glow of such healthful exercise and invigorating pastime.

That morning the boys had started out for bluefish, their boat equipped with outriggers to facilitate the handling of the lines, as is customary; and with reefed sail, to prevent the gaining of too much headway, they were making a fair catch, when a tremendous splashing in the water ahead and rapidly nearing them attracted their attention. It was soon seen that the commotion, whatever it might be due to, was frightening away the fish, and indignation took the place of satisfaction on the part of the fishermen. Watching the disturbance in the water as it drew nearer, the boys could soon make out that it was caused by some monster of the deep, and presently resounding slaps on the surface of the Sound could be plainly distinguished with the creature's tail, making a noise and splashing as though a massive plank were dropped flat side into the water fairly from a height. This was done not only once, but many times, the reports sometimes resembling gun-shots, and indicating that more monsters than one were causing the racket.

"Whales fighting!" suggested Harry.

"No; not big enough; they're closer than you think," said Walter, as he stood with his hand shading his eyes, intently watching them.

"Not sharks, eh? Horse-mackerel, I guess, or sturgeon," rapidly conjectured Harry.

"Great Scott! No, old man—threshers, as you're a sinner!" concluded Walter, decisively. "And there's a whole school of 'em. Look out for your lines!"

But even as the truth flashed upon him his caution was too late, for one of the threshers dashed alongside, sweeping it clear of lines and leaving them afar off, as the school proceeded to gambol in a new direction.

"This is interesting, but I don't think it will pay as well as bluefish," remarked Walter; and even as he spoke another line on the opposite side went with a snap, as the fish scurried off with a vindictive splash of his mighty caudal appendage.

"Let's make it pay!" ejaculated Harry, quick to resolve.

"Capital idea, my boy! Will you kindly elucidate your proposition?" inquired Walter, as he ruefully gathered in some wreckage of bluefishing gear.

"Why," said Harry, "let's make over to Brentons Reef Light-ship, and see if we can't get some shark hooks and bait from the crew, and capture one of the beggars."

"We might try it," said Walter, contemplatively. "Those piratical splashers certainly have assumed too much audacity to suit my equanimity, and they deserve to be punished. Well, get her around, and we'll run over to the light-ship and see."

It was always the quick brain of Harry that planned such expeditions, and as the Katie made good time on her course he eagerly pictured the heroic effect of capturing a thresher and towing it to port. Walter Clay, always willing for any sort of adventure that was not too reckless for a fair chance of safety, and warranted not to get "rattled," but preserve his good-nature and presence of mind under all circumstances, carefully arranged the details of the proposed venture. The men on the light-ship happened to have just such gear as was required for the purpose, and willingly lent it, including a cable's-length (120 fathoms) of stanch half-inch hemp line coiled in a tub, and a big shark-hook with several feet of chain, as well as some chunks of salt pork for bait. They likewise informed the boys that the threshers were probably the same school that had been reported the day before as greatly interfering with the fishermen off on Montauk Shoal.

Specimens of the genuine thresher-shark indeed these creatures were—those Alopias vulpes, or sea-foxes, the dorsal lobes of whose tails are nearly as long as the rest of their bodies, and are used in splashing the surface of the water to aid in securing their prey of small fish. Exceedingly grotesque in appearance they seemed sometimes, the upper lobe of the long tail curving upwards and resembling in form the blade of a scythe. One of the men on the light-ship said he had always heard them called "swingle-tails," and also volunteered the information that the biggest he had ever seen was one caught at Marion, Massachusetts, in November, 1864, which measured thirteen feet long and weighed about 400 pounds. Some people believed that they attacked whales, but he had seen them all up and down the North Atlantic coast, as well as in the Mediterranean and off California, and "in all his going to sea he had never found a whale yet that wouldn't laugh at a thresher." The most damage they did was to fishermen's nets and lines.

The threshing and splashing of the fish had attracted the attention of a great flock of gulls as the boys headed the Katie once more toward the scene of activity; and in the bright sunlight, with the glinting slippery bodies of some of the threshers almost constantly visible, the spray flying, and the bead-eyed sea-birds fluttering and watching overhead, the picture was rather a thrilling one. They were both determined enough in their intentions, yet when they actually arrived upon the scene and a thresher of apparently abnormal size rushed to meet them with a resounding slap of his tail upon the surface of the water that sent the foam flying skyward and seemed like a laughing defy to their plans, even the cool-blooded Walter began to feel a little excitement.

This selfsame thresher lost no time in making good his challenge, but swallowed the bait, and ran off with it away to windward so rapidly that it seemed as if he were going to tow the boat, which was again got full and by on the port tack. Walter was now paying out the line as slowly as he could, with a turn under a belaying-pin, as he made the first remark recorded in this sketch. But it soon became evident that something would have to be done if they did not wish to be towed to sea, so Harry ported his helm to let the boat fall off and endeavor to check the creature in its mad career. As the wind came more abeam, however, so did the shark, and instead of making leeway, the attraction to windward was so powerful that the situation looked almost dangerous, and as if the only way to counteract the shark's tow-line was to let it over the stem with a free sheet. It was just a question, however, whether even then the boat might not be drawn astern, and Walter was actively considering the advisability of cutting the line, when all at once the fish took a turn and once more made toward them.

"Head her up again, quick!" shouted Walter. "Down your helm. He's coming!"

The boat had fortunately way enough to bring her quickly up into the wind as Harry shoved his tiller hard over to starboard and hauled in his sheet, then jumped to help his friend get in the slack of the line as the infuriated monster dashed toward them. He was not a moment too soon. Had the boat not changed direction and forged ahead a little the wildly rushing thresher would have struck it a terrific blow on the port-quarter. As it was, he passed the boys with a leap clear out of water that sent a tremendous splash of spray in their faces, and just missed the boom as he dived astern. It was a thrilling moment; but, indeed, the whole affair, from the time the shark first swallowed the bait, seemed to have happened in less time than one could tell it.

"By jingo!" cried Walter. "What's he going to do next?"

They had not long to wait for a reply. Circling around to seaward, the thresher repeated exactly the same manœuvre, this time a streak of bloody foam following in his wake. The boys had all they could do to handle the boat in consonance with the shark's movements. As he madly rushed ahead, the line began to smoke from its friction with the rail at the velocity it paid out, and Harry again had to leave his helm to bail water and pour it upon the hempen coils, so quickly snaking out, with the threat of possible disaster when the tub should be emptied. Walter's hands were burned and blistered and raw in spots from contact with the flying line, in a vain endeavor this time to grasp it and get a turn around a pin. The fish went too fast. The boys looked at each other, too excited to speak, as they glanced at the rapidly emptying tub and the flying streak of blue foam ahead. Another instant and the line was all paid out. The last coil of it swirled over the side as they both grasped the tub with all their might to see if they could hold it. The end of the line was made fast to the tub. It might have been a dangerous thing to do, for if the line had parted under the strain, and hit one of them a blow with its rebounding end, it would have been a severe one. But fortunately this shark felt the check, and with a mighty splash he turned again and made back towards them.

"Haul in and coil down for all you're worth!" commanded Walter, as he heaved a sigh of relief, and applied his bleeding hands vigorously to getting the slack of the line inboard again.

The shark did not come toward them so directly as before, and the boat had not so much way on, so that they were able to finally get the line taut and a turn taken beneath a pin again. The strain was maintained anxiously for a few minutes, when the thresher took another sudden rush for their port-quarter. With all the vigor acquired by his momentary rest he leaped again clear out of water, and as the boys rapidly hauled in the line a strange thing happened. The strain came suddenly upon the leaping thresher, and brought such a snapping jaw upon his jaws that he actually turned a complete somersault in the air before he sank again beneath the surface astern, and as the line paid out once more the sweat streamed from the faces and bodies of the daring fisher-lads.

"We can't keep this up," said Walter, as he hugged his sore hands.

"What can we do?" questioned Harry.

The question was answered by the tooting of a naphtha-launch's whistle. The crew of the light-ship had been watching the Katie through glasses, and divining their predicament, had hailed a passing yacht, which promptly sent the launch to see the fun and assist if necessary. The assistance was gladly welcomed, and after a spirited pull and a vast amount of powerful splashing in his dying agonies, the thresher was finally got alongside and the death-blow given with a boat-hook. The boys sailed back to Newport with jubilant hearts, and their prize in tow. He was a monster of his species, measuring nearly fourteen feet from tip to tip. And the sea-gulls followed them home with cheering screams!

[THE SUMMER ANGEL.]

Everybody knows what the funny man in the daily newspapers means by the "summer girl."

She is supposed to be a giddy and frivolous creature who wears mannish or boyish clothes. She is not a fine young woman. If she has noble and womanly traits, she is supposed to pack them away carefully in tar-paper and camphor with her furs for winter use at home.

Sometimes she is amusing. Often she is pretty and bright. She is always stylish.

It was such a description that happened to fall into the hands of a real summer girl who sat leaning against a rock basking in the sun at a mountain resort, and it set her to thinking.

She had been coming to this same place ever since she could remember, and the people of the little village on the mountain-side had seen her growing, like a tall rare flower of the conservatory, taller and handsomer each year. They had watched her pass their doors, but they had not known her.

It happened that she had been reading a description of the summer girl as wearing just such a hat and gown as hers—"nobby," and "fetching," and "chic." She had the same piquant face, and was said to pass like an annual vision of beauty before the delighted eyes of the poor mountain folk whom she had seen all her life and did not know.

This was all, but it startled her. It was as if the writer had known her—from the outside. Of course he didn't know her true heart and her refined inward nature, else he wouldn't have made her talk slang and paint her face. No, it was only an accidental likeness. But it set her to thinking, and while she thought her eyes happened to fall upon the door of a log cabin upon the mountain-side beneath her. The cabin was unpainted, poor, and shabby.

An old woman sat at the door sewing. A lame boy was coming up the walk from the village of the summer cottagers. He carried two empty pails in his hands, and he limped. He had been carrying milk to the summer people—probably to her own home.

She suddenly realized that she had always seen this boy here, and that he seemed never to have grown. He looked now as he had looked certainly for seven years. For the first time in her life this pathetic little crippled figure stood out before her as a real living, human person; not only a part of the summer landscape, like a gnarled and stunted tree, but a living, breathing, suffering, human creature, who was patiently living his poor life, carrying buckets of milk down the mountain, and trudging slowly back, day after day, year after year.

What was his name, his story? How came the ugly hump upon his narrow back? Were the people in the log cabin his own kindred? Were they good to him?

Why had she never wondered before, and found out? So in the breast of a real, sweet womanly summer girl awoke a new interest in the humble people of the mountain.

When she finally rose and started homeward she took the long foot-path leading past the mountaineer's door. She paid the old woman, who still sat patching, a real visit, and when she left she was asked to call again. So began the first of a number of humble friendships.

The "boy" with the hump she discovered to be forty years old, but he was still a child, for the illness that had deformed his body had laid a blight upon his mind too. Ho could carry the milk-buckets and bring the cows, and he could sing. He could even remember from summer to summer, and after a while he knew who it was who sent him pictures of beautiful things and a warm coat, and had been teaching him slowly to learn to read. Indeed, it was he who first called her the "summer angel," but he only half knew what he was saying. She looked like his ideal of an angel, and she came every summer. And the name, once given, clung to her.

So, in one instance, began to develop one of the sweetest types of the summer girl. She is not the one the funny man likes to describe, but there are many of her, and her number is growing.

In many poor little country villages the coming of the sweet, healthy, and helpful summer girl means the coming of new life and new interests to the village folk, who know the great world only through its summer representatives. There are more girls than boys who go to summer towns, because many boys have duties in the city.

If every summer-girl would resolve that to some one, at least, she would come as a summer angel, brightening and helping, what joy would the season bring? Her helpfulness may be of any kind whatever. It may be lending books or papers to such people as scarcely ever have them, or reading to some old person in a busy household.

A dozen wide-awake clever girls who are banded together can accomplish wonders. They can get up tableaux in the hotel parlor or farm-house sitting-room, charging from ten to twenty-five cents admittance to raise money to buy a horse for the old coachman, whose horse has just died. They might even help to cure a lame horse or dog on his own account, if they are real summer angels. They can send magazines all the year round to special "shut-in" people whom they discover.

They can have a very good time among themselves too. They can compare and exchange specimens of pressed wild flowers or sea-weeds or shells. They can write to the Round Table, and tell what they are doing, and perhaps their letters, if they are fairly well written, and show a serious purpose, will be printed. Then others may join the "summer sisterhood," and form small circles in out-of-the-way places.

Ruth McEnery Stuart.

[THE CARE OF A DOG.]

BY JAMES STEELE.

here are dogs and dogs, of course, and while some members of the canine family are gifted with the capacity of looking after themselves, because they cannot help it, and to all appearances thrive well when combating hardships, a good dog is worth all the care and trouble that his master may choose to expend upon him. This article is not intended to tell how to rear delicate dogs, but simply to give an idea how to make your canine friend and companion more happy and contented, and to give him a start in life.

END VIEW OF HOUSE.

In looking to his comfort, the first thing to take up is the dog's home. Every one is familiar with the little house to which is attached a poor, unhappy specimen of the dog tribe, with a heavy collar about his neck and a jangling chain that admits of a few feet of freedom and is suggestive of confinement. Now, bear this in mind, no dog is happy when chained up; thus we take up the kennel first.

Dogs are liable to many ailments that afflict human beings. Rheumatism is a common disease with them, and they suffer from cold and heat and lack of shade and warmth quite as much as they suffer from lack of proper food and drink. Thus a dog owner is responsible for his dog's health, and this means a great deal, for if a human being's good spirits depend upon the way they feel, surely a dog's do also.

A kennel's first essential should be dryness; next, warmth and ventilation. To secure all this, the floor of a dog-house should always be raised off the ground. Especially is this true where the dog is young or in the state of puppyhood. Dampness is his foe. A good idea is to have the dog-house elevated at least six inches, and have the opening front upon the exercising yard, where the dog can have plenty of room to play and jump about without being hampered by a fraying, dangling chain.

Although we learn from the old adage that "dogs delight to bark and bite," this is not true. The dog is naturally gregarious, and loves companionship of his own kind. Therefore, two dogs are happier than one. If they are allowed to be together continually, each appears to adapt himself to the other's disposition, and it is only those who seldom meet their kind that love to fight.

We will suppose that a kennel is to be built for one dog, for instance. He should have a yard of at least fifteen feet square to run about in, and opening on this should be a dog-house with two entrances, that could be shut in case of cold weather.

DOG-HOUSE AND YARD, WITH WIRE FOR HITCHING.

Fleas are the great enemies of a dog's comfort. The poor beast, whose thoughts and actions are interrupted constantly by a desire to scratch or nibble fruitlessly at the irritating little enemy to peace, is to be pitied. A great deal can be done, in constructing a dog-house, to do away with the pest. If possible, the floor and sides of the house itself should be made of good red cedar. For some reason, dogs domiciled in houses made or lined with this wood are almost entirely free from fleas, and this is a good thing to keep in mind.

It does not pay to give a dog hay or straw to sleep on, and old carpets or blankets should not appear in any well-regulated kennel. Appended are diagrams and drawings of a house and yard for one dog. It can be enlarged or diminished, as may be necessary.

There is not space in this article to go into the subject of dogs' diseases and ailments. If a dog is ill, he needs a physician as much as you or I. In his puppyhood he is liable to distemper and mange—the childish diseases that carry off so many of his kind. But once safely through them, if he is well looked after, he can count upon a happy existence of from ten to twelve years if his master is kind and considerate.

Now let us suppose that the dog or dogs, whose proper care and bringing up we are to treat of, are of that intelligent and useful class known as sporting or hunting dogs, setters or pointers, and there are no finer kinds to have about even if their owner does not possess a gun or lives far from a game country. It is these dogs' first and natural instinct to have their attention arrested by the peculiar scent that attaches itself to game birds and animals. Most sporting dogs have to be taught to discriminate and to learn that chickens and sparrows are things to be left alone, however.

Now, to bring up a dog successfully his master should study the animal's character and individuality, and adapt himself to him the way a teacher should try to adapt himself to a pupil's natural gifts. There are ambitious dogs, bright dogs, lazy dogs, and dunces, and to make anything of the last requires both time and patience. It is a good dog's natural instinct to endeavor to please his master; he is conscious of the encouragement of praise, and knows well when he has not done his duty. It is firmly believed by many that dogs have a conscience, and proof is not wanting to substantiate this theory.

Truly, a dog has many attributes that we must admire—affection, constant and lasting; a sense of duty and responsibility; a devotion that triumphs over fear and pain; and a loyalty that never swerves. He may admit of friends and acquaintances, but if he is a proper dog he knows but one lord and master, and but one person does the well-brought up dog serve with all his heart.

LEARNING TO LOCATE A BIRD WITHOUT FLUSHING IT.

Let us take a puppy and bring him up in the way he should go. He comes to you a little, good-natured, roly-poly thing, with a wide grin and an uncertain gait, and absolute unconsciousness that he may be of any use or value, the same as a child. You can do almost anything with him if he is a bright puppy. He can be taught to fetch and carry in a dozen lessons. It is his instinct to chase a ball and to tear everything to pieces with his sharp little teeth. His one idea is to have a good time and eat more than is good for him. But now we must take care of his health first, and then show that if he chases a ball it is not to chew it up, but to bring it back to you; that he must not tear things to pieces, for fear of a punishment, and that if he eats things he should not, he is filled with a consciousness that he is doing wrong. No puppy should ever feel hungry. With an old dog it is different; he has stopped growing. It is better to have a dog that has attained his full growth underfed than to give him all that he can eat. Milk and bread, or a little corn meal and a little finely chopped meat, should be given to a puppy, and plenty of it; but if you would have a healthy, wide-awake, grown-up dog, feed him sparingly. One meal a day is all-sufficient; more than that is unnecessary to his health. Prepared dog's food, made in the way of biscuit, is easy to procure. One of these a day, broken up into small bits, will keep a dog in excellent condition. Once a week he may be given a small amount of cooked meat or a mess of porridge and potatoes. Occasionally a bone for him to gnaw on should be given him as a tidbit, but no mess of scraps or chicken bones or fat-inducing things should be allowed him under any circumstances, unless he has been working hard in the field and is in for a day's work on the morrow. A dog should have all the water that he wishes to drink, and it is a good thing to have in the bottom of the pan a small bit of sulphur as large as the end of one's thumb.

By every means his acquaintance should be cultivated, and it should be impressed upon his mind that to his owner he owes everything. If possible, feed him yourself. Give him to understand that you are the one who lets him have his liberty, and whose whistle he must obey.

Never be too familiar with a young dog. He must have a certain respect, not necessarily a fear of you; but he must learn to obey. Any intelligent puppy will learn his name in a few lessons. Once you have given it to him, never change it. Mind you this—when he has once recognized you as being his master, his one idea is to please you and to deserve a pat on the head and a word of praise. Never tussle with him with a stick, and never deceive him under any pretence. More dogs have been spoiled by their masters not playing fair with them than one could reckon. Be honest with your dog, and he will be honest with you.

PLAN OF KENNEL.

If you possess a gun, and your dog is of that kind which has inherited the scent for game, the first thing to teach him is to fetch and carry—that is, to retrieve—and this without chewing or mutilating the object which he brings. A way to break a dog of this is to take an old glove, put a few tacks with the points extending outward, and fill it full of cotton. He will find that by picking it up gently he can carry it without discomfort, while if he attempts to worry it the consequences are not agreeable. This lesson is much better for him than any amount of whipping, and he will remember it much longer.

If you wish to shoot over your dog, the next thing is to make him find the bird. To do this, the best way is to procure a live quail, which can easily be had from any bird-fancier; put it in a small cage and show it to the pup, warning him not to touch it. Then conceal the cage in a copse of fern or grass, and bring him carefully in that direction. Never let him nearer than within four or five feet of it; then speak to him encouragingly. Under the influence of your words, he will become all attention, and a dog thus properly broken will never "flush a covey," unless he runs into, them by accident or when he is carried away by excitement, under which circumstances he will show contrition.

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[1]

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER VII.

Inside, Greenway Court was not devoid of comfort, and even of luxury. The main hall was open to the roof, and, like all the rooms in the house, the rafters were left bare, and the walls roughcast in a sort of brown plaster not unpleasant to the eye. In every room there was a huge fireplace with great iron fire-dogs. In some of the guest-chambers were the vast curtained beds of the period, but in Lord Fairfax's own room was a small iron bedstead that he had used in his campaigns when a young man. His library communicated with his bedroom, and was by far the most luxurious room in the whole quaint building. It was lined with books from the floor to the low ceiling—George had never seen so many books in all his life before. There were also a few portraits and one or two busts. Over the mantel two swords were crossed—one a cavalry sword, and the other a delicate rapier, such as officers in the foot-regiments used at that day. George's eyes fell upon them as soon as he and the Earl entered the room.

"The sword was the one I had the honor to use in my campaigns under Marlborough, and the rapier"—here Lord Fairfax smiled a little—"I had concealed about me when I entered Boucham in disguise."

After supper was over, Lance showed George into a room with one of the gigantic four-posters in it. The floor was covered with bear-skins, and Billy was instructed to roll himself up in them for a bed, which he did with much satisfaction, with Rattler on top of him, as soon as George was in bed, which was not long in being accomplished.

Next morning George was up and around early, looking about the place. He had never seen the mountains before, and was deeply impressed by their grandeur.

The scenery was even more striking in the blaze of the morning light than he had supposed. On every side, beyond the valley, giant peaks rose into the blue air, covered with vegetation to the very top. He understood then the profusion of bear-skins in the house, and thought what fine sport might be had in tracking big game through the deep gorges and dark forests of the region. Lance came up to him as he stood on the broad stone steps drinking in the wild beauty of the scene, and inhaling the keen sharp air, so unlike the softness of the lowland atmosphere.

"There is great sport hereabouts, Lance," cried George.

"Yes, sir; bears and Injuns, mostly—and rattlesnakes in season. Did you ever eat bear-meat, Mr. Washington?"

"No," answered George; "but I have been told it is fine. And how about the Indians?" he asked, smiling.

"Injuns and rattlesnakes have their seasons together," answered Lance, with a grim smile, in reply. "They and their French friends generally keep pretty close this time of year. I don't know which I would rather receive—the French and Injuns coming as friends or enemies. Sometimes half a dozen of 'em turn up, usually in the summer, the French always pretending to be traders, or something of that sort, and they bring two or three Injun bucks with them—to carry their luggage, they say: but who ever saw an Injun carrying anything but a firelock—if he can get one? They always profess to belong to a peaceable tribe; but that's all in my eye, sir. They hang about for a day or two, asking for fresh meat or vegetables, and making out that they don't know how to get across the mountains, and all the time the French are drawing maps in their note-books, and the Injuns making maps in their heads; for, Mr. Washington, your Injun is full of horse-sense about some things. He can't look ahead, or plan, or wait—all the Injuns in North America couldn't have taken Bouchain—but for killing people quick and sure, I don't know of any soldiers quite so good as Injuns. The French, sir, have a regular plan in all their expeditions here. The last party that turned up got me talking about the way we had repulsed the redskins—for we have stood a siege or two, sir. For answer I took the Frenchmen inside the house. I showed them that we had water, the source of which was hidden; I showed them a regular magazine, all bricked up in the cellar, and an arsenal next my lord's room, and another cellar-room full of dried provisions; and then I showed them two swivels, with a plenty of suitable shot, and I said to them, very plain spoken:

"'If you come to Greenway Court, you'll have to bring artillery with you; you can't starve us out, and to take it will cost you more than it comes to.'

"So I think the Frenchies know better than to trouble us. But I am not so sure of the Injuns. They have not good heads on their shoulders about campaigns, and they don't see that it is not worth their while to trouble us; and I would not be surprised any night to find a lot of skulking savages around here, trying to burn us out."

George was deeply interested in this account, but at that moment breakfast was announced, and he went in-doors.

The large low hall was used as a dining-room, the table being drawn close to the fire. Lord Fairfax was already there, and breakfast was soon despatched.

"I hope, George," said the Earl, as they rose from the table, "that you have the excellent habit of learning something every day. As a beginning, you may have Lance's services every morning for two hours to teach you fencing—not only with the rapier, but the sword exercise on horseback and afoot. It is not only well for you, as you intend entering a military life, to know this, but it is the finest exercise possible for the muscles and the eye, and also in the art of keeping one's temper. I shall expect you to become proficient in this noble art."

"I'll try, sir," was George's modest answer.

Lord Fairfax then led the way to the room which Lance had called the arsenal. Here were all manner of arms; quaint old arquebuses and matchlocks, every sort of pistol then in use, fowling-pieces, and on a rack in a corner two dozen serviceable modern muskets, shining and polished, and evidently ready for use; then there were rapiers and small-swords and broadswords and claymores and strange curved Turkish scimitars. George's eyes glittered with delight as he examined all these curious and interesting things. Presently Lance entered, and Lord Fairfax left the room. George soon found that this room and its contents were the old soldier's pride. He had some interesting story to tell about every weapon in the collection, but George cut him short with a request to begin his fencing-lesson. Lance took down the foils and masks, and, while examining them, said, "Mr. Washington, what do you think is the first and greatest thing a man must have to learn to be a good fencer?"

"Courage," replied George.

"Courage is necessary; but no man ever learned fencing by being courageous."

"Swiftness, dexterity, keeping your eyes wide open—"

"All of them are necessary too, sir; but the great thing is good temper. If you lose your temper and fly into a passion, your adversary has you at his mercy. I never saw a man with an ungovernable temper that I couldn't knock the blade out of his hand in five minutes."

George's face fell at this.

"I am afraid, Lance," he said, "that I have a very quick temper, and a very high temper."

"Do you let it run away with you, sir?" asked Lance, passing his foil through his fingers.

"Sometimes," answered George, dejectedly; "though I have never fallen into a passion before my mother, or any woman, since I was a little boy, because it is certainly not gentlemanlike to be violent where ladies are—'tis a gross insult to them, of which I would not be guilty."

"Well, sir," continued Lance, still critically examining his foil, "if you can do so much out of respect for ladies, I should think you could do a little more out of respect for yourself, and keep your temper always."

The red blood poured into George's face at this, and his angry eyes seemed to emit blue sparks. Lance, who was really nothing but a servant, daring to speak to him like that! He straightened himself up, and, in a manner that showed he had not belied himself, fixed on the old soldier a look of concentrated rage. Lance returned the look steadily. Though nominally a servant, he was a tried and trained soldier, and not to be awed by the wrath of this splendid stripling. As Lance continued to gaze at him the expression in George's face slowly changed; the color died away, leaving him paler than usual, and his eyes softened. He said nothing, but after a pause, which meant a struggle and a victory over himself, he held out his hand for the foil. Lance, with a respectful bow, handed it to him, and began the lesson.

The old soldier found his pupil just what might have been expected—powerful, alert, with a wonderful quickness of the eye, and of great natural grace and agility, but impetuous and passionate, and quite unable to stand on the defensive. His temper rose, too, at the first lunge he made, and although he controlled it perfectly as regarded his words, never showing the slightest chagrin in his language, yet Lance could see that his pupil was angry from the beginning. It placed him at an immediate disadvantage. His foil flew out of his hand when he determined to grip it the hardest, and for the first time in his life he attempted a manly exercise and failed in it. This did not sweeten his temper, and when the lesson—a long one—closed, he was mortified and vexed to the last degree. Nevertheless, he thanked Lance, and, seizing his jacket and hat, rushed out of doors, feeling that he must be alone with his wrath and chagrin. Lance put up the foils and musks with a queer look in his eyes.

"He will learn something besides the use of the sword in fencing," he said to himself.

Outside, George pursued his way along a path up the mountain-side, his rage cooling, and growing more and more ashamed of himself. He thought highly of Lance, and was troubled at showing before him so much anger over a trifle; for trifle it was he realized. An hour's brisk walking brought his pulses down, and he presently retraced his steps down the mountain. He was not in the mood to observe much, though he walked back rather slowly. He reached the house at one o'clock, just as Lord Fairfax came out of his study to dinner. The table was laid as usual in the hall. Behind the Earl's place stood Lance, while Billy's head just peered above George's chair.

"And how did you get on with your fencing-lesson?" was Lord Fairfax's first question.

"Very poorly, sir, I am afraid," answered George, blushing a little. "I lost my temper, and felt as if I were fighting instead of exercising, and so I did not succeed very well."

Lord Fairfax laughed one of his peculiar, silent laughs.

"You are not the first young man who has done that. When I was a youth I was a very ungovernable one, and I remember chasing a fencing-master, who was giving me a lesson, through the streets of London until I came to myself, and was glad to call a hackney-coach and hide. A skilful adversary will very often test your temper in the beginning, and make some exasperating remark, which, in effect, renders your sword-arm powerless; for an angry man may be a fierce swordsman, but he can never be a skilful one."

George's eyes opened very wide indeed. He glanced at Lance, but the old soldier wore a perfectly impenetrable front. So that was why Lance made so free in his remarks! George reflected some moments, and came to the private conclusion that one could learn a great deal more in fencing than the art of attack and defence.

In the afternoon saddle-horses were brought, and Lord Fairfax and George started for a long ride over the mountains. Although the Earl was not, and never had been, so familiar with the woods and fields, and the beasts and birds, and every living thing which inhabited them, as his young companion, he displayed stores of information which astonished and delighted the boy. He explained to him that the French and the English were engaged in a fierce contest for a great empire, of which the country around them was the battle-field; that the lines of demarcation, north and south, were very well defined; but that neither nation would commit itself to any boundaries on the east and west, and consequently the best part of the continent was in dispute. He gave George the geography of the country as it was then understood, and showed him what vast interests were involved in the planting of a single outpost of the French. For himself, the King had granted him all the land between the Potomac and the Rappahannock, and as far west as his Majesty's dominions went, which, as Lord Fairfax said, with a smile, were claimed to extend to the Pacific Ocean. Only a small part of these lands had been surveyed. He felt anxious to have the tract across the Alleghany Mountains surveyed, as it was of importance to guard against the advance of the French in that direction. He asked George if he had ever studied surveying, and on George's saying that he had given considerable time to it, and was fond of it, the Earl told him that there were fine opportunities for a surveyor in this new country, and it would be a good profession for George, provided he did not succeed in his ambition to join the army or the navy.

"I will join either one, if I can, sir, in preference to any other profession," was George's reply.

They reached home at dark, and found the cheerful welcome of a roaring fire in the great hall awaiting them. At supper Lance, with a great flourish, handed a dish to Lord Fairfax which George thought the most uninviting he had ever seen—huge lumps of something burned black; but the aroma was delicious. Seeing Lord Fairfax take one of the black lumps, George courageously followed his example, and, attacking it, found it perfectly delicious.

"Bears' paws generally taste better than they look," remarked Lord Fairfax; and George remembered that Lance had told him there would be bear meat for supper.

The evening was spent in the library, the Earl reading and writing. He pointed out a smaller table than his own, in a corner, saying, "That is for you to read and write at, and to keep your books and papers on." George found writing materials on it, and, seating himself, wrote a long letter to little Betty, and then wrote in his journal for his mother, describing Billy's expedition, and that the boy was safe with him. He then took a volume of the Spectator, and soon became absorbed in it. Presently Lord Fairfax, who was watching him with pleased eyes, asked,

"What paper interests you so much, George?"

"I will read it to you, sir, if you care to hear it," George replied.

Lord Fairfax liked to be read to, and listened very gravely to the reading. George laid down the book when the paper was finished, saying: "There is no name at the end of it, sir. Most of them have Mr. Addison's or Captain Steele's or Mr. Arbuthnot's or Mr. Pickell's or some other name at the bottom, but this has none."

"I wrote that paper," remarked the Earl. "I had the honor of contributing several papers to the Spectator; but while appreciating the honor, I did not seek the notoriety of an author, and so, except to a few persons, my writings are unknown."

George nearly dropped the book in his surprise, but he regarded Lord Fairfax's attainments with greater respect than ever.

THE DAILY LESSON IN ARMS AT GREENWAY COURT.

The next day and the next and the next were passed in much the same way, only that George no more lost his temper in fencing or in any other way. The instant he became cool and self-controlled he learned the science of the sword with great rapidity. Every morning for two hours he and Lance practised—sometimes in the arsenal, sometimes out-of-doors, when they would go through the sword exercise on horseback.

Every day George grew fonder of the old soldier. He was a man of great natural intelligence, and could talk most sensibly upon every subject connected with the profession of arms. One thing he said remained fixed in George's mind, and was recalled many years afterwards at a very critical time. They were one morning at the stables, which were directly at the back of the house, and were resting after a bout on horseback with swords.

"Whenever there is a regular war against the Injuns, Mr. Washington, the British troops will have to learn a new sort of fighting. Before this they have never had to fight an enemy they could not see; but when it comes to fighting Injuns in a country like this, where there is a man with a gun behind every tree and rock, and where a thousand men can march so that when you look at the path you would think less than a hundred had passed over it, and when you are fighting an enemy that has no ammunition-wagons or baggage-wagons or anything that travels on wheels—I say, Mr. Washington, there will be a good many British soldiers that will bite the dust before they find out how to fight these red warriors—for warriors they are, sir. And though it is not for me, that never was anything but a private soldier, to talk about officers, yet I know that the English officers have got more to learn about fighting in this country than the men have."

The hour came when all this returned to George with terrible force.

Within a few days after his arrival he had an opportunity to send his letter to Betty and his journal to his mother. He was very anxious to know how his mother would act on hearing of Billy's having taken French leave. But it must be admitted that Billy was of small value to anybody except George; and although Madam Washington, when she wrote, denounced Billy's disobedience, laziness, and general naughtiness in strong terms, she promised amnesty when he returned. George read this part of the letter to Billy, whose only comment was very philosophic.

"Missis ain' gwi' trouble me, but I spect mammy and daddy will gimme a whuppin'."

The prospect of the "whuppin'" did not affect Billy's happiness, who, having much to eat and little to do, and the presence of Rattler and his loved "Marse George," had all that was essential to his happiness.

The life was so altogether new to George, and the companionship of Lord Fairfax so unlike any he had ever known before, that the boy's mind grew and developed more in the weeks he spent at Greenway than in all his previous life. For the first time he was treated as a man by a man, and all at once it made a man of him. He began to think and act like a man instead of a boy.

Lord Fairfax did not join him in his sports and hunting expeditions, but he delighted to hear of them when George would return after a hard day's tramp over the mountains in search of game. Proud was he the day he returned after having shot his first bear—a splendid black specimen, measuring over five feet from snout to tail. Old Lance, who had become a skilful trapper, took the skin off, and cured it so cleverly that not an inch of it was lost. This trophy George intended for his mother.

Every evening he spent in the library with Lord Fairfax, reading. Sometimes it was a book of his own choice, and sometimes he read aloud to the Earl, whose eyes were beginning to fail. Many of the books thus read were classical authors and scientific treatises, neither of which George had any natural fancy for. But he had the capacity to learn something from everything, and the most valuable lesson he got from his varied reading was the vast number of things of which he was ignorant compared with the small number of things he knew. This made him perfectly modest at all times.

As for Lord Fairfax, he felt himself daily growing more passionately fond, in his quiet and restrained way, of the boy. He began to look forward with apprehension to the time when he must again be alone—a feeling he had never had before. He would gladly have kept George with him always, and provided for his future; but he knew well enough that Madam Washington would never give up this noble son of hers to anybody in the world. And so the two lived together, drawing closer and closer to each other, each of a silent, strong nature—the man of the world wearied of courts and camps, and the boy in his white-souled youth knowing nothing but the joy of living and the desire of living rightly, and both were happy in their daily and hourly companionship.

[to be continued.]

[CROSSING THE XUACAXÉLLA.]

BY CAPTAIN CHARLES A. CURTIS, U. S. A.

III.

rank dropped flat upon the earth, and began to work his way to the cabin, taking every advantage of the inequality of the ground to screen himself from observation. The opposite bank of the stream being lower than ours, there was little danger of his being seen by the Indians, unless some of them were in the branches of the cotton-woods. I saw him arrive safely, and received a signal from Mr. Hopkins through a back window. An instant later Mr. Baldwin looked out of the back door and raised his hat. I was glad to see that his college career was still a possibility.

Retracing my steps to the ambulance and escort, I caused the animals to be grouped in charge of the driver and two soldiers, and with the rest of the detail moved in the direction of the ranch buildings.

It had become so dark that we might possibly have passed over the open space without being seen, but, for fear of accidents, we covered it on all-fours. The first persons I met were Baldwin and Frank, who took me to Mr. Hopkins. The ranchman greeted me with the assurance that the arrival of my party was a Godsend, and had probably saved their scalps.

I learned that the men at Date Creek, including Baldwin, numbered seven; that three were in the stable and four in the house. These buildings stood the same distance from the stream, and forty feet apart. The bank of the creek was perpendicular for nearly a mile either way, standing fully twelve feet above the surface of the water; but there was a notch with a sloping descent, midway between the buildings, down which the live-stock was driven to water. This slope afforded the only practicable point of attack, unless the Indians chose to move by one of the flanks over a long level.

Mr. Hopkins said he had crept out to a shrub on the edge of the precipitous river-bank to the left of the slope, just before my arrival, and had seen on the opposite shore a small party of men moving through the willow bushes to our left. He believed it was a flanking party intending to make a feint from that direction, and enable the main body to charge through the notch in the bank. Believing the repelling force to number but seven, the Indians could but count upon the certain success of such a movement. Their flanking party must be met, and to meet it would reduce the defenders of the slope to a number not worth considering.

I was convinced that Mr. Hopkins's inferences were correct; but in order that no mistake should be made, I sent two veterans in frontier service, Privates Clary and Hoey, to reconnoitre both flanks. They were gone half an hour, and returned with the information that no demonstration was being made towards our right, but that a dozen or more men had gathered on the opposite shore at a point where they could cross and turn our left flank.

Preparations to meet this movement were begun at once. Sergeant Frank was sent to the ambulance with orders for the men left in charge to bring in the animals, two at a time, and fasten them in rear of the stable and stack. This was easily accomplished in the darkness. The ambulance was left in charge of Vic.

While this was going on and I was overlooking the construction of rifle-shelters on the flanks, Sergeant Henry approached and asked if he could not be of some use. Something in the tone of the boy's voice showed me he felt he had been neglected, while his brother had been kept busy.

"What would you like to do?" I asked.

"Does a soldier choose his duty, sir?" was the reply, uttered with some dignity.

"Not usually, Sergeant, it is true. I have a very important thing for you to do—something for which I was just intending to look you up. Go and find Clary, and tell him to help you carry several armfuls of hay from the stack to the right of the slope. Make a heap, so that when it is lighted it will illuminate the approach from the creek. Ask Mr. Hopkins if he has any kerosene or other inflammable stuff to sprinkle on the hay and make it flash up quickly. Then throw up a shelter in which you can lie and be ready to light the hay when signalled.

"Yes, sir. Thank you. I'll attend to everything."

Not more than ten minutes had elapsed when the boy sergeant returned and reported that the bundle of hay was placed and a shelter constructed.

"Mr. Hopkins has one gallon of axle grease," said he, "two quarts of spirits of turpentine, and a pint of alcohol."

"Excellent. Mix the alcohol and turpentine, and sprinkle the liquid and grease on the hay. Then place yourself in the shelter, and when you see a light flash from the west window of the house light your bonfire."

"I'll do so, sir," and the boy ran away in the darkness.

Eight men were placed in each building, three on the threatened flank and two on the other. An hour had passed after completing our preparations, when we became aware of a considerable force approaching from the left. In fact, the enemy took pains to have us know of this movement by breaking into whoops, which we recognized to be those of the terrible Apaches. Not a sound came from the creek. I strained my eyes in that direction, eager to catch sight of any movement through the water toward the slope. The pool before the notch in the bank was calm, and the reflection of the starlit sky could be seen in its surface. On the shore beyond nothing was visible in the black darkness beneath the pendulous branches of the willows. At last I saw the fixed reflections of the stars in the surface of the pool diffuse themselves into myriads of sparkling atoms. A considerable body of Indians must be in the water, but none were in sight. Yes; they were crossing in two columns, to the right and left of the notch, concealed by the high shore, and would shortly unite and charge up the slope. I sent Baldwin to the stable to tell the men there that the Apaches were coming, and to be on the alert.

The whoops of the flanking party redoubled, and were accompanied by a desultory firing, which the three men opposing them answered in the same way. Then I saw the sparkling water of the pool cut off from my sight, and knew that a body of men stood on the slope between us and the creek.

"Frank, show the light. Men, ready!"

EVERY RIFLE IN THE HANDS OF THE WHITE MEN IN THE TWO BUILDINGS SPOKE.

The lantern flashed from the window, quickly answered by a flash on the bank, and a mass of red flame threw its luminous tresses skyward, bathing the whole scene in light. In the notch, half-way up the slope, stood a momentarily paralyzed group of nearly a hundred painted warriors. Every rifle in the hands of the white men in the two buildings spoke, and instantly the notch emptied itself pell-mell of its living throng. Only a few prostrate bodies showed the Apaches had been there.

With the discharge of firearms a silence immediately fell upon the scene in marked contrast to the shrieking and yelling of a moment before. The bonfire burned low, and went out. Once more we were in darkness.

We believed the Indians would make no further demonstration; for the manner of their late reception had shown them that the ranch had been re-enforced. We waited nearly an hour, and then placing two-thirds of our force on the crest of the river-bank, where they could command the opposite side, I took the remaining third and forded the stream. We scouted the bosque to some depth, and right and left for a considerable distance. The Indians had gathered their dead and departed. Returning to the ranch, sentinels were posted, the ambulance run in by hand, the stock fed, and a midnight meal cooked.

While sitting by the camp-fire, listening to the sizzling of the bacon and sniffing the aroma of the coffee, Mr. Hopkins introduced me to his men and guests, and I heard an explanation of the tracks and blood at Soldiers Holes.

Early that morning three gentlemen who had passed the night at the ranch started for Prescott. They were a Mr. Gray, a Scotch merchant of La Paz; Mr. Hamilton, a lawyer of the same place; and Mr. Rosenberg, a freighter. When near the Holes, Mr. Hamilton, who was riding in advance, was shot by Indians concealed in the sage-brush. Mr. Rosenberg's mule was wounded, and plunged so that his rider fell to the ground. Mr. Gray, seeing the plight of the freighter, rode to his side, seized him by the collar, and aided him to leap to a seat behind him.

It is probable that this act of generous daring might have ended in the death of both men, but for a diversion caused by the sudden appearance of the military express-man. He came up a slope from a lower level, and taking in the situation at a glance, let fly three shots from his breech-loading carbine that caused the Indians to lie low. The three men rode to the ranch, and Mr. Hopkins and his three men accompanied them to bring in the body of Mr. Hamilton. The Indians did not begin to concentrate at the creek until after the burial.

Supper being over, the boys and I were getting into our blankets for the rest of the night, when Mr. Baldwin, who had been getting ready to depart, came near to bid us good-by.

"I seem to take frequent leave of you these times, Lieutenant," said he.

"Yes; and your farewell ride with the Whipple mail seems to be anything but monotonous. I think the Anabasis would be a more suitable subject for study on this route than the Memorabilia."

"'Hence they proceeded one day's journey, a distance of five parasangs, and fell in with the barbarians,' might well be said daily of this trip."

"Hadn't you better travel with me the rest of the way?"

"I think this is the last we shall see of the Apaches; they do not range south and west of here. Good-by, sir."

"Good-by, until we meet at Tysons Wells."

The next morning, when the boys, Vic and I, were taking our seats in the ambulance, Mr. Hopkins and his men, Mr. Gray and Mr. Rosenberg, approached us mounted. They informed me that all were going to La Paz.

"The Injins are gettin' a little too thick here for sleepin' well arter a hard day's work," said the ranchman. "Think I'll stay away till Uncle Sam thins 'em out a leetle more."

"Can I obtain a five or ten gallon keg of you, Mr. Hopkins?" I asked. "Ours was accidentally smashed on the road."

"Haven't a keg to my name, Lieutenant. One way 'n' ernuther all been smashed, gin way, or lent."

The ride from the ranch to the edge of the desert plain was twelve miles, a portion of it over a rugged ridge. To the point where we were to ford the creek was two miles, and there the hired men, pack-mules, and ranch cattle turned off on the Bill Williams Fork route to the Rio Colorado.

Once on the level of the Xuacaxélla our team broke into a brisk trot, and we rolled along with a fair prospect of soon crossing the ninety miles between the Date Creek Mountains and La Paz. Messrs. Gray, Rosenberg, and Hopkins soon turned into a bridle-path which led into a mine. Before taking leave of us Mr. Gray told me that my camping-place for the night would be at the point of the third mountain spur which jutted into the plain from the western range.

We had not travelled long before we realized our misfortune in having smashed our water-keg. Each individual in our party had a three-pint army canteen, which had been filled when we forded the creek in the early dawn. These were to last us until evening through an exceedingly sultry day. Frank, Henry, and I did our best to overcome our desire for water, but the younger boy could not refuse Vic a drink when she looked up with lolling tongue to the canteens.

The men were the greatest sufferers, unless I except their horses. Long before mid-day their canteens were empty, and their mouths so dry that articulation was difficult, and they rarely spoke.

At five o'clock we arrived opposite the third spur, where we found a wand sticking in the ground and holding a slip of paper in its cleft end. It proved to be a note from Baldwin, saying that this was the place to camp, and the Black Tanks were on the southern side of the spur, two miles distant.

We were too thirsty to spend time in examining the scenery. The boys and I were quickly out of the vehicle, the horses and mules were relieved of bridles, saddles, and harness, and all but two men, who were left to guard the property and collect fuel for a fire, were on the way to water. Closely followed by Vic, the boy sergeants and I preceded the men and stock. We passed through a leafless and almost branchless growth of the giant cactus, succeeded by a thick underbrush of mezquit, which put off our view of the height until we turned sharply to the right. Then we saw before us a long irregular range, apparently three thousand feet in height, which had been cleft from summit to base as if by a wedge. In this rent we found water—water deposited in a natural reservoir by the periodical rainfalls in millions of gallons—a reservoir never known to be dry.

Private Tom Clary, bearing a camp-kettle and coffee-pot, had outstripped the men driving the stock, and overtook us as we began the ascent into the cleft. Climbing the dike which enclosed the main deposit, we descended to the cistern, filled our cups, and swallowed the contents without taking a breath. When we dipped up a second, Tom Clary looked into the depths of his cup with knitted brows.

"Whist, now, b'ys!" he exclaimed. "Look into the wather! It's aloive with wigglers of ivery variety. They're as plinty as pays in a soup."

"Ugh! And we are full of them too, Tom," said Henry, looking into his dipper with narrow-eyed anxiety.

Pausing in the act of taking a second drink, I looked into my cup, and saw that it contained myriads of animalcula and larvæ, which shot and zigzagged from side to side in the liveliest manner.

"Will they hurt us, Tom?" questioned Henry.

"I rickon they've got the worst of it, Sergeant, laddy; but I think I'd fale a bit aisier if I was blindfolded or takin' a dhrink in the dark. I prefer me liquid refrishmint with a little less mate, not to minshin its being less frisky."

We had come to the tanks with fresh towels, intending to wash off the dust of travel. We now used one of them to strain the water, and were astonished to see that each quart left behind it a plump teaspoonful of animalcula. The water was sweet, but, after discovering the life in it, we drank sparingly.

As we pursued the narrow path to camp in single file, we noticed Vic a considerable distance to the right, scouting and nosing about in an earnest manner. Evidently she thought she had made an important discovery, for she several times looked in our direction and barked. But we were too hungry to investigate, and soon she disappeared from sight.

When we reached the ambulance the boys put a few cakes of hard bread in their pockets, and taking their shot-guns, went out to look for some "cotton-tails" while supper was being prepared. Believing we were well out of the range of hostile Indians, I did not object to their going alone. They passed a considerable distance beyond the growth of Cereus giganteus, over a level stretch covered with knee-high bunch-grass and desert weeds, without seeing a hare. Pausing on the brink of a shoal, dry ravine, they stood side by side, and rested the butts of their guns upon the ground. Just then a shout of "Supper! supper!" came from the group near the camp-fire.

"Hate to go back without anything," said Frank. "Strange we don't see a rabbit now, when we saw dozens on the way to the tanks."

"That was because we didn't have a gun," said Henry.

"You don't believe the rabbits knew we weren't armed then and know we are now?"

"Hunters tell bigger stories than that about 'Brer Rabbit.' Not one has bobbed up since we got a gun."

Suddenly, from the flat surface of the plain, not twenty yards beyond the ravine, where nothing but bunch-grass and low shrubbery had been seen before, sprang up sixteen Indians to full height, as startlingly as so many jacks-in-a-box.

[to be continued.]

[A BATTLE ROYAL.]

You ought to have seen the terrible row we had in my room last night,
The elephant plush and the calico cat and my new little pug had a fight,
And though an elephant's great and strong, and a cat has powerful claws,
My little pug-dog came out on top with the aid of his teeth and paws.
The trouble arose in the simplest way; the cat was asleep on a chair.
And the elephant plush was standing about, and sniffing the cool night air,
When Puggy rushed in, as he sometimes does, for a romp on the bed with me,
And tripped on the trunk of the elephant bold, and over and over went he.
He turned two somersaults up in the air, as he tripped on the elephant's trunk,
And then went bang 'gainst the pussy-cat's chair with a really horrible bunk.
He bunked so hard that the chair slid back, with a bang on the side of the door,
And the calico cat, with a hiss and a scat, came tumbling down to the floor.
And it happened as puss came tumbling down old Puggy lay down just below;
He'd tumbled right flat on his poor little back, a picture of trouble and woe—
And the pussy kerflop came down on top of my new little live little pup,
And then came a mighty old struggle in which the cat was just chewed all up.
Pug snapped and he yawled and he rolled and he kicked, but the calico cat held fast;
And they slid o'er the floor in a mad embrace, until, pretty near the last,
They came to the elephant made of plush, with celluloid tusks, so rare,
Who silently stood, as I said before, a-sniffing the cool night air.
And of course when they rolled underneath his legs, the elephant came down too—
And oh, the row, the terrible row, I'm sure would have startled you.
Those three bold friends of my nursery days now got in a terrible plight,
But the small live pug, with his teeth and his paws, soon had much the best of the fight.
And now to-day I am gathering up from all parts of the nursery floor
Small pieces of cotton and calico shreds and samples of plush galore.
There are eyes and ears and tails and trunks from my bed to the wash-stand rug
That tell of the glorious victory that was won by my brave little pug.
As for Puggy himself, he's still romping away, and he hasn't a scar to show;
Nor does he remember, as far as I see, that terrible scene of woe.
And the only effect of his fight at all is he seems to be twice as fat,
Which may come, I cannot with certainty say, from swallowing part of the cat.
Carlyle Smith.

[PUBLIC-SCHOOL BOY AFLOAT.]

BY RICHARD BARRY.

o the passengers on the ferry-boats crossing between New York and Long Island City, through the sweeping tide of the East River, a view is given of a trim-looking craft lying just astern of the old battle-ship New Hampshire, moored to the Twenty-eighth-street wharf. She is very much dwarfed in appearance by the towering top sides of the three-decker, and during the winter months the deck-house that stretches above her bulwarks makes her look as if her days of freedom to plough the main were past and gone.

The vessel is the St. Mary's, the nautical training-ship connected with the public-school system of New York city. From the first of November to the middle of April she is indeed nothing but a floating school-house, and the long shed on her deck is divided into recitation-rooms, equipped with blackboards and chalk and benches, and presided over by uniformed teachers.

All this sounds dry enough, even if it is connected with a ship; but the scholars are very different in appearance from the lads who attend the public-schools, although they are drawn from the same sources. Every boy is togged out in the uniform of a naval apprentice, and he is very proud of his ship and of the name on the ribbon of his cap.

Life on a sailing-vessel, that depends entirely upon the wind for her motive power, is very different from the life on board a steamer or one of the steel cruisers of Uncle Sam's new navy. No boy who has ever read any of Marryat's stories, or those from the pen of Clarke Russell, but has been filled with a desire to try the sea for himself, and if he is able-bodied, and a boy with a good record and a desire to learn, he can step back, as it were, into the time when Marryat's or Russell's heroes lived and had their adventures. He can live on board the St. Mary's the life of the sailor-boy of the old school, and find extant all its pleasures and excitements. Indeed, it is not all school-work and blackboard and chalk; there are long months of cruising in blue waters, and strange countries to be seen, and a chance also for a fine occupation, and good paying positions awaiting him at the end of his term of service.

To begin at the beginning, let us see how the New York boy, who has known nothing but the streets and the crowded houses, can accomplish all this, and how he goes about it, and what he learns and sees.

In the first place, it must be well understood that the St. Mary's is not offered by the government as a floating reformatory for bad or unruly boys, or to help careless parents to get rid of them. It is exactly the reverse, and this is now well known.

Application for admission to the Nautical School must be made to the chairman of the executive committee of the Board of Education, or made in person to the Superintendent on board the St. Mary's herself.

But to state a few of the requirements before the papers are signed and the school-boy becomes a sailor. The applicant must be between the ages of sixteen and twenty years. He must be of average size, sound constitution, and free from all physical defects. This means that a rigid examination is enforced, and the boy is measured and given tests of strength to prove that he is worthy by nature to put on the blue suit of service.

He must show testimonials of good character, and, of course, must have been influenced to enter by a taste for a seafaring life, and he must come to a decision of his own free will. The examination, outside of the physical one, is very simple. He must be able to read and spell, to write legibly, and to know enough of arithmetic to figure simple sums up to and including percentage. Lastly, as the boy is not of age, his parent or guardian must sign the necessary papers. Once enlisted, he is maintained at the expense of the city, but has to come provided with numerous articles necessary to a sailor. The list includes two pairs of black leather shoes, rubber boots, one black silk hand-kerchief, one strong jack-knife, tooth-brushes, clothes-brushes, and hair-brushes; thread, needles, wax, tape, and buttons, and many other things to keep him comfortable.

The blue uniform and the canvas working suit are given to him, and only thirty dollars are required to defray the expense of clothing and bedding for the two years' cruise.

SAIL-MAKING ON THE "ST. MARY'S."

The winter's school term, which begins in November, ends on April 1, when the boys are given a vacation of ten days and bid their farewells. Upon their return to the ship they find the temporary deck-house taken down, and they are put to work rigging the ship and preparing for what they have so long been looking forward to—the summer's cruise.

About April 20 the yards are all up, and the St. Mary's is all-a-taunt-o and ready to go to sea. Now for a month, they cruise in the waters of Long Island Sound, learning to handle ship, and then when they have thoroughly learned their stations and the duties assigned to them, they set sail for the far countries and foreign ports which most of them are anxious to visit.

The writer remembers being in the harbor of Southampton, England, upon one occasion when the St. Mary's came into port. It made his heart beat with pride to see the beautiful vessel (just as if she had sailed out of the past history of the good old days) come sweeping in from the Channel. All her white sails were set when she first was sighted, and the nimble little sailors aloft began to take them in one by one as she drew up to her anchorage.

The flag flying at her peak is the most beautiful thing to an American to be seen in foreign countries, and proud indeed was the writer to turn to an English friend and explain what the trim craft was, and to tell that the crew were New York boys, and Americans every one.

A LESSON IN FURLING SAIL.

Soon after she dropped her anchor and trimmed ship a boat was lowered away, and it came dashing up to the pier. It was a pleasure to look at the brown, healthy faces, and to notice the well-kept cadence of the stroke pulled by the strong young arms.

Leaving one of the officers on shore, the lads pulled back to the ship, looking curiously at the town, and longing perhaps for the liberty which would be allowed them on the morrow.

Engaging a boatman to row us off, the author and his English friend were soon alongside the school-ship, where the former explained that he was a New-Yorker, and was asked to come on board.

Although she had been at anchor only an hour or so, all the running gear was being neatly stowed away, and the loose ends flemished (i.e., coiled down flat) on the deck. But a word as to the vessel herself:

The St. Mary's was an old United States sloop-of-war, the type of a vessel, modernized a little, that had won honor and glory for the country. The Wasp was such a one as this, and every one knows what she did during the war of 1812. The other craft that stung the English so badly when commanded by Lawrence, the gallant little Hornet, was about this type—a sloop-of-war—also. Although the St. Mary's was very peaceful looking, because she lacked the rows of black carronades along her sides, still it required but little stretching of the imagination to change her into a man-of-war.

We spoke to a little wiry youngster, who told us he lived in "West Twenty-thoid" Street, and asked him how he liked being a sailor. The grin that accompanied his answer—"It's bully good fun"—convinced us that he, at least, was happy, and had rightly chosen his calling. In fact, we did not see an unhappy face amongst the crew, and this speaks volumes.

The St. Mary's had stopped at the Azores, on the voyage out, where the boys had had fine times, according to account, and where the people had been looking forward to their coming, for they generally touched there on their cruises. Of course I had to explain to my English friend that these boys had nothing to do with the regular navy, but were intended for the merchant service, unless they wished, of course, to change it for life on board one of the new cruisers. Every one of them hoped to be an officer some day, and there is no reason, if they attend to duty, why this hope should not be fulfilled, for a better training for positions of command could not be had.

WINTER WORK ON BOARD THE "ST. MARY'S."

One of the officers told us of a little adventure that had happened upon one of the former voyages, which not only showed the spirit of the St. Mary's crew, but also proved that most of the lads had profited by New York's being surrounded by water. One of the boys, a little fellow, had fallen off the boat-yard into the water. The tide had swept him quite a distance from the ship before his cries were heard. When "man overboard!" was shouted, in half a jiffy a score or more of the crew had plunged headlong from the railing and bowsprit after him. In fact, it looked as if the whole ship's company was going for an impromptu swim. Two of the rescuers laid hold of the drowning boy and kept him afloat, while the rest paddled about like a flock of ducks. It took some time for the boat that was hurriedly manned to pick them all up, as the tide had carried some of them quite a distance out. But they were all taken aboard safe and sound, and, as everybody writes when telling of a rescue from "a watery grave," "none the worse for their wetting."

From Southampton the St. Mary's was bound to Cherbourg, France; then to Lisbon, Portugal; Cadiz, Spain; and Gibraltar.

I could well imagine what fun the boys were going to have at the last named place, thy strongest fortress of the English, and the "key of the Mediterranean," as every one says again when speaking of it.

It is from here that the lads always write the longest letters home, for there is much to tell about; and no matter how many times they visit the port afterwards, when in command of their own vessels, perhaps, they will never forget their first sight of the great frowning rock, and their visit to the hidden guns and casemates. In the harbor they find all sorts of strange sailing-craft of the Mediterranean, and hear the jargon of tongues of the multitude of foreign mariners that meet here from all quarters of the globe.

On the return voyage they stop at the Madeira Islands, and thence, setting sail, they make for home, arriving in Long Island Sound about, the last of August. Now, until the middle of October, they spend the time in practical exercises, cruising to and fro in calmer waters; and in the middle of October the St. Mary's returns to her dock in the city.

A leave of two weeks is granted the boys, and it is easy to imagine what heroes they are to their younger brothers and to their old companions who have spent the hot summer in the city.

When they return to the ship on the first of November they find the topmasts housed, the yards taken down, and the deck-house in position for the winter's term of schooling, which begins at once. During the cruise at sea the whole time has been taken up with the study of seamanship and the practice of professional branches of knowledge. They have learned to tie knots, to hand, reef, and steer, and may be pardoned a slight roll in their walk and a tendency to indulge in nautical phraseology.

The boys whose second cruise it has been are found positions on board the American vessels who receive a subsidy under the postal-subsidy bill, for all such are required to be officered by Americans, and to carry a "cadet" for each thousand tons burden. This enables the graduates of the school to step at once into a paying situation, where their education will be of great advantage to them. Maybe some of them make up their minds to go into the navy, or others decide that they are not cut out for the sea, and take up some life on shore; but no matter what they do, they cannot but be benefited by what they have learned and seen.

The first-year boys and the new recruits begin to take up their studies, which are those taught in the common schools—geography, history of the United States, English grammar, arithmetic, algebra, and last, but not least, theoretical navigation. Ship's routine is followed in their daily life, but there is plenty of time for play and skylarking.

When a boy has been graduated from this school, if he has paid attention to his duties and his studies, he is competent to navigate a vessel, he understands thoroughly dead reckoning, and he knows how to find the latitude and longitude by the sun, moon, planets, or stars, and besides this, he knows the duties of a seaman from beginning to end. There is nothing for him to learn about the handling of a sailing-vessel, for he has taken his trick at the wheel, he has learned the rule of the road, and how to give proper orders. He can heave the lead like an old hand, and has had plenty of practice in handling small boats under both oars and sails. The American sailor has proved himself often indeed to be the best afloat, and the lad from the St. Mary's is qualified to take first rank.

During the war of the rebellion many of the commissioned officers were drawn from the ranks of the merchant marine. Had the St. Mary's then been in existence, her boys would have given accounts of themselves, and there is no question that, should at some future time a war arise, there would be places aplenty for them to make use of the knowledge they have gained, or to win laurels in the service of their country. Not long ago a big sailing-ship, returning home from a long cruise, had the misfortune to lose, by death and accident, all of her officers fit to navigate and command her. On board at the time was one of the St. Mary's lads, only nineteen years of age, and the command and responsibility of bringing the great ship safely to port fell upon his shoulders. I am glad to state that he did not fear or shirk the responsibility, and that the grown men under him knew at once that they had a commander who was familiar with his business, and who could be trusted in any emergency, for they encountered severe storms after the boy Captain had assumed command.

The officers of the school-ship are all graduates of Annapolis and appointed by the government, and the petty officers are made up of old men-of-war's men, a few of whom are on board as assistant instructors. The boys, however, fill some of these positions themselves, and thus early assume the duties which teach them how to get on with men who are compelled to obey their orders.

If a boy has a taste for the sea, and his parents have no objections to his selecting it as a calling, he can find out a great deal about the world and not a little about himself by spending two years on board the school-ship St. Mary's.

[THE TRANSFERRED FLAG.]

BY JAMES BUCKHAM.

Frigate and schooner in conflict dread,
Banners throbbing at each mast-head;
England's jack in the smoke and reek,
Stars and stripes at the schooner's peak.
Clash and roar of the awful fight;
Sabres gleaming like shafts of light;
Crack of pistols; a musket's boom;
Shouts and groans in the drifting gloom.
Overhead, in the murk, the flags
Toss, with their edges torn to rags,
Lash at each other, and writhe and snap—
Silken musketry, clap on clap!
See! On the Yankee yard-arm stands
A daring middy, with outspread hands!
He bends, he leaps—and without a slip,
Catches the yard of the British ship!
Up, up, he climbs, till, the cross-trees past,
He reaches the top of the swaying mast.
Then, with a slash of his knife, he throws
The British flag to his country's foes.
Lo! from his bosom, like flame unfurled,
He draws the banner that rules the world,
And nails it there, with its crimson bars
And gleaming glory of unstained stars!
Quick was the brain that conceived the thought,
And brave the deed that the sailor-boy wrought;
Bright he his name on history's roll,
And far the flash of his hero-soul!

[SEED-SOWING.]

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

Gardening is said to come natural to Japanese boys and girls, but there is no reason why our amateur gardeners should not rival them.

Spring has been well named the "mother of the flowers," for then indeed nature wakes. The previously hard soil softens, gentle showers fall, the long sunny days follow one after the other, and serious mistake must indeed have been made at the time of planting if the cheerless winter garden is not readily transformed into beds and bowers of delicate richest color, and bewilderingly beautiful flowers do not send lavish and grateful odor.

An important matter, however, is the preparation of the soil, and another quite as important is to sow seeds late and not early. Then, too, attention must be given to their size and construction. Some seeds are round and tiny, such as the portulaca. These are scattered over the ground and gently mixed by the hand into the soil, while others must be planted, really embedded in the earth, such as sweet-pease. Again, other seeds have a shell-like covering, which must be removed before sowing, and others must be placed in the earth in a special direction. We have all heard of the boy who wondered why his beans didn't grow. On investigation he learned they were growing as fast as possible, only they would have bloomed and borne in China, for he had planted them upside down. Seeds such as the verbena must be planted lengthwise, and there are others which must be soaked before planting at all.

Young gardeners should commence with the easiest-raised plants, and wait until experience and study will lend a hand with the more difficult. And do not forget that the world is full of kind people who will gladly tell you what you do not know.

After sunset is the best time for seed-sowing. When they are sown, gently water, and then cover with an old piece of carpet. This is to keep the ground in a more equal temperature. Every evening pick up the carpet and examine the earth. Keep it moist—not wet—and when the seeds are sprouted replace the carpet with paper. To prevent this blowing, put stones on its outer edges. When the tender shoots are positively strong, hardy enough to withstand violent winds and hot suns, remove the paper. Keep on watch for the unexpected—such as insects, for example, which must be picked off. Weed carefully, and water when necessary.

Beginners may be sure of success if they sow any of the following seeds: Sweet-alyssum and candy-tuft, both of which have delicate white blossoms, and bloom freely from June to October; asters, which are very hardy, and whose colors are without number and exceedingly showy; balsam—or, as usually called, lady's-slipper, both double and single, is an old-fashioned favorite; morning-glories are beautiful, and fine to cover an unsightly pole or unpainted fence; mignonette and pansies will be sweet, while zinnia, portulaca, and marigold will lend brilliance.

[A NATURALIST'S BOYHOOD.]

MR. WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON'S START.

BY BARNET PHILLIPS.

am enjoying a book, a picture, a statue, or say a piece of music. I know these to be the finished works of the man or the woman, but I invariably hark back to the boy or the girl.

What I want to discover is the precise time, in the lives of certain boys and girls, when the steel first struck the flint, the spark flew, and out streamed that jet of fire which never afterwards was extinguished.

I was reading an article entitled "Professor Wriggler," written by Mr. William Hamilton Gibson, which appeared in Harper's Young People, in the number of October 31, 1893. I need not tell you that both old and young, at home and abroad, delight in reading what Mr. Hamilton Gibson has written, because he was not alone the most observant of naturalists, but a distinguished artist and a sympathetic author.

THE LATE WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON.

He thus filled a peculiar position in the literary and artistic world which is seldom given to any one man to fill. Besides being a naturalist from his boyhood, he was able to write better than most people what he wished to write, and to illustrate his articles in a way that was unique. Mr. Gibson's death a few days ago, therefore, has closed the career of a man who had the ability to interest a large number of people not only in natural history, but in art and literature.

The news of Mr. Gibson's death came to me suddenly, and as I was reading it I recalled an interesting talk I had with him less than a year ago about his work early in life and the way he got his start. I had been reading one of his articles to a lady, who, when she heard the name of the author, said:

"Why, I knew Mr. Hamilton Gibson long ago. When he was a lad he painted a lovely drop-curtain for us. He could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen then."

The next time I met Mr. Hamilton Gibson I asked him about this drop-curtain. "Do you remember it?"

"Certainly I do. We had a temperance society at Sandy Hook, Connecticut, and we gave a grand entertainment. I made the drop-curtain. It represented a wood. There was a rock in the foreground, and a Virginia-creeper was climbing over it."

"Was it an original composition?" I asked.