Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

OAKLEIGH.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER I.

It was a large house, standing well back from the broad highway that leads from Brenton to Pelham, so far back, indeed, and at the end of such a long shady drive, that it could not be seen for some few minutes after turning in from the road.

The approach was pretty, the avenue winding through the trees, with an occasional glimpse of the meadows beyond. The road forked where the trees ended, and encircled the lawn, or the "heater-piece" as the family called it, it being in the exact shape of a flatiron. The house stood on high ground, and there were no trees very near.

It was a white house with green blinds, solid and substantial looking. The roof of the piazza was upheld by tall white columns, and vines growing at either end relieved the bareness. On the southern side of the house a small conservatory had been added. On the other side the ground sloped to the Charles River, though in summer one could see only the water from the upper windows, because of the trees which grew so thick upon the banks.

This was Oakleigh, the home of the Franklins, so named because of a giant oak-tree which spread its huge branches not far from the back of the house.

As to the Franklins, there were five of them, and they were all assembled on the front porch.

Though it was the last day of April, spring was unusually early for Massachusetts this year, and the day was warm and clear, suggesting summer and delightful possibilities of out-door fun.

Edith, the eldest, sat with her work. It was unusual work for a girl of barely sixteen. A large old-fashioned basket was on the floor by her side, with piles of children's clothes in it, and she was slowly and laboriously darning a stocking over a china egg.

The children had no mother, and a good deal devolved upon Edith.

Jack and Cynthia, the twins, came next in age, and they were just fourteen. They looked alike though Jack was much the taller of the two, and his hair did not curl so tightly as Cynthia's. She sat on the steps of the piazza. Her sailor hat was cast on the ground at her feet, and her pretty golden-brown hair was, as usual, somewhat awry.

It was one of the trials of Edith's life that Cynthia's hair would not keep smooth.

Jack lay at full length on the grass, sometimes flat on his back, staring at the sky, sometimes rolling over, the more easily to address his sisters.

Jack had a project in his mind, and was very much in earnest. Cynthia, of course, was already on his side—she had known of it from the first moment the idea popped into his head, but Edith had just been told, and she needed convincing.

Janet and Willy, "the children," were playing at the other end of the porch. They were only six and five, and did not count in the family discussions.

"There's money in it, I'm sure," said Jack; "and if I can only get father to agree with me and advance some money, I can pay him back in less than a year."

"Papa hasn't much money to spare just now," said Edith, "and I have always heard that there was a good deal of risk about raising chickens from an incubator."

"My dear girl," returned Jack, with an air of lofty authority, "allow me to say that you don't know much about it. I've been reading upon hens for two days, and I find that, allowing for all risks—bad eggs, inexperience, weasels, and skunks, and diseases, you're sure to make some profit at the end of a year. Now, I'm late in thinking of it, I know. To-morrow is the 1st of May, and I couldn't get more than three hatches this summer, but that would probably pay the cost of the incubator. I can get a first-rate one for forty dollars, and I can buy one 'brooder.' If I bought one I could make the others like it."

"But your eggs?" said Edith. "You would have to pay a great deal for eggs."

"Eggs would be about five or six dollars a hundred, and it takes two hundred to fill the machine. I should want to get a fine breed, of course—Brahmas, or Cochins, or Leghorns, probably, and they cost more; but, you see, when they begin to lay, there comes my money right back to me."

"When they do," said Edith, sceptically.

"Edith, don't be so mean!" cried Cynthia. "Jack wants to begin to make money, and I think he's right. I'm going to help him all I can, and we want you to be on our side to help talk over papa. He is always telling Jack that he'll soon have to begin to work, and now here's a chance."

"Papa wants Jack to make some money to help support us when he is old enough, but he wants him to finish his education first, of course. And I am sure he doesn't want him to lay out a lot of money, as he would have to do in raising hens."

"That's just like a girl," said Jack, scornfully. "Don't you know that there's always a lot of risk in anything you undertake, and you've got to take the chances? There are very few things you don't have to put money into."

"Of course, for a grown man. But a boy of your age ought to work for a salary, or something of that sort—not go investing."

Cynthia stirred uneasily. She knew this was just the wrong thing to say to Jack. Unfortunately, Edith was so apt to say the wrong thing.

Jack sprang to his feet. "There's no use arguing with girls. I may be a 'boy of my age,' but I've got some sense, and I know there's money in this. I'm not going to say another word about it to anybody until father comes home, and I can talk it over with him."

And Jack walked off around the corner of the house, whistling to Ben and Chester, the two big setters, to follow him, which they did with joyful alacrity.

"There!" exclaimed Cynthia, "now he's gone off mad. I don't see why you said that, Edith."

"Said what? I'm sure it is true. The idea of a boy of his age—"

"There you go again. Jack may be young, but he is trying awfully hard to help papa, and you needn't go twitting him about his age."

"I'm sure I never meant to twit him," said Edith; "and I think he's awfully touchy. But it is half past four, Cynthia, and time to go meet papa. Won't you be sure to brush your hair and put on a fresh neck-tie or something? You do look so untidy. That skirt is all frayed out around the bottom."

"Oh, bother my hair and my neck-tie, and everything else!" cried Cynthia, though with perfect good-nature. "Edith, you make such a fuss! Shall I go meet papa?"

"No, I'll go; but I wish you would order the horse. Now, Cynthia, don't forget your hair, will you? Papa hates to see you untidy."

For answer Cynthia banged the screen-door as she disappeared into the house and walked through the wide hall, humming as she went.

"What shall I do with these children?" sighed Edith to herself, as she laid down the stocking, mended at last, and prepared to put up her work. "I'm sure I do the best I can, and what I think our mother would have liked, but it is very hard. If Cynthia only would be more neat!"

A loud crash interrupted her thoughts. At the end of the piazza, where the children had been playing, was a mass of chairs and tables, while from the midst of the confusion came roars of pain, anger, and fright.

"What is the matter?" cried Edith, running to the scene, and overturning her work-basket in her flight.

It took several minutes to extricate the screaming children, set them on their feet, and ascertain that no bones were broken.

"Get the red oil!" shrieked Janet; "that naughty boy has killed me! I'm dead! I'm dead! Get the red oil!"

"It's no such a thing!" shouted Willy. "I didn't do it, and I'm dead, too. Ugh! I'm all bludge. Get the red oil!"

Cynthia had witnessed the scene from the window, and appeared just in time with the bottle of red oil, the panacea for all the Franklin bumps and bruises.

"What were you doing, you naughty children?" said Edith, as she wiped the "bludge" from Willy's lips, and found that it came from a very small scratch, while Janet was scarcely hurt at all.

"We were only playing cars, and Willy would ride on the engine, and made it topple over, and—"

"It's no such a thing!" interposed Willy. "Girls don't know nothin' 'bout steam-cars, and Janet went and put her feet on the back of my chair, and—"

He was interrupted by a blow from Janet's small fat fist, which he immediately returned in kind, and then both began to scream.

"Yon are both as bad as you can be, and I've a good mind to send you to bed," said Edith, severely, shaking Janet as she spoke.

Janet cast herself upon Cynthia. "Edith's horrid to us! She is so cross. Cynthia, don't let her send us to bed. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hit Willy; I'm sorry we upset the chairs; I'm sorry for everything."

"Well, here comes the horse, and I must go," said Edith. "Oh, look at my basket!"

And it was indeed a sight. Spools, scissors, china eggs, stockings, everything lay in wild confusion on the floor.

"Never mind. I'll pick them up," said Cynthia. "Don't bother about them, Edith. The children will help me. Come along, Willy and Janet. Let's see which can find the most spools."

Edith looked back doubtfully as, having put on her hat, she got into the carriage. What would her basket be like when she next saw it? But it was kind of Cynthia, and how much better Cynthia managed the children than she did. What was the reason? She was thinking it over, when she heard her name called loudly from behind, and, pulling in the horse quickly, she waited, wondering what had happened now.

Cynthia came flying down the avenue. "Edith! Edith! Wait a minute! I forgot to tell you. Don't say anything to papa about Jack's scheme, will you? Let him tell."

"Oh, Cynthia, how you frightened me! I thought something dreadful was the matter."

"But don't, will you, Edith? Promise! You know—well, Edith, Jack can explain it so much better himself."

Cynthia was too kind-hearted to tell Edith that she would spoil it all if she said anything first, but Edith knew that was what she meant. A sharp reply was on her lips, but she controlled herself in time.

"Very well," she said, quietly, "I won't."

And then she drove on, and Cynthia went back to the house satisfied.

Edith had a quick, impatient temper, and it was not an easy matter for her to curb her tongue. Her mother had died five years ago, when she was but eleven years old. Then an aunt had come to live with them, but she had lately married and gone to South America, and now there was no one else, and Edith was considered old enough to keep house and look after the children.

The road wound through the woods, with here and there a view of the river, leading finally into the old New England town and forming its main street.

Tall elm-trees shaded the approach to the village, and fine old houses, with well-kept lawns in front, were to be seen on either side.

The horse that Edith drove was by no means a fine one, and the old buggy was somewhat unsteady and rattled alarmingly. In other words, the Franklins were poor, but they had hosts of friends; and as Edith entered the village she nodded right and left to the various people she met. Every one liked the Franklins, and the family had lived at Oakleigh for generations.

As she reached the station the train came in. A throng of carriages filled the broad space in front, and Edith was obliged to draw up at some little distance from the cars. Presently she saw her father coming towards her, and with him was an odd little figure, the sight of which made Edith's heart sink with apprehension.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" she exclaimed to herself, "if there isn't Aunt Betsey!"

Then she shrank back into the corner of the buggy, and watched the amused glances that were cast upon her relative by all who saw her.

Miss Betsey Trinkett, of Wayborough, was Edith's great-aunt, and constituted one of the largest thorns in her side. She was old, she was odd, she was distinctly conspicuous; and Edith disliked above all things to be conspicuous.

Miss Betsey trotted along the platform by her nephew's side, quite unconscious of the tumult she was raising in the breast of her grandniece. She was dressed in a short, scant velveteen gown that might have belonged to her grandmother, and a large bonnet of the same date, from which hung a figured lace veil. A gay shawl was folded about her slender shoulders, and Mr. Franklin carried her carpet-bag with the silver lock and key.

She waved a welcome to Edith with a mitted hand, and Edith, recovering herself, nodded in response.

"How do you do, Aunt Betsey? What a surprise!"

"Yes, my dear, I like to surprise you now and then. I came up to Boston town on business, and your father insisted upon my coming out to see you all. In fact, I knew he would, so I just popped my best cap and my knitting into my bag, along with some little things for you children, and here I am."

And she stepped nimbly into the buggy, followed by Mr. Franklin.

"We shall be a 'Marblehead couple,'" he said, as he balanced himself on the seat and took the reins.

Edith detested "Marblehead couples," otherwise driving three on a seat, and she hid herself as much as possible in her corner, and hoped that people would not know she was there.

Miss Betsey chatted away with her nephew, and in time the three miles were covered, and they turned into the Oakleigh drive. Edith had recovered somewhat by this time, having been engaged in scolding herself all the way from the village for her uncordial feelings.

The others welcomed Aunt Betsey most cordially. Her carpet-bag always contained some rare treat for the little ones; and, besides, they were a hospitable family.

"But come with me, girls," said Miss Betsey, mysteriously, when she had bestowed her gifts. "There is something I want to consult you about."

She trotted up the long flight of stairs to her accustomed room with the springiness of a young girl, Edith and Cynthia following her. She closed the door behind them, and seating herself in the rocking-chair, looked at them solemnly.

"Do you remark anything different about my appearance?"

"Why, of course, Aunt Betsey!" exclaimed Cynthia; "your hair!"

"Well, I want to know! Cynthy, you are very smart. You get it from your great-grandmother Trinkett, for whom you were named. Well, what do you think of it?"

Edith had hastened to the closet, and was opening drawers and removing garments from the hooks in apparently a sudden desire for neatness. In reality she was convulsed with laughter.

Cynthia controlled herself, and replied, with gravity, "Did it grow there?"

Miss Betsey rocked with satisfaction, her hands folded in her velveteen lap.

"I knew it was a success. No one would ever know it, would they? My dears, I bought it to-day in Boston town. The woman told me it looked real natural. I don't know as I like the idea exactly of wearing other people's hair, but one has to keep up with the times, and mine was getting very scant. Silas said to me the other night, said he, 'Betsey, strikes me your hair isn't as thick as it used to be.' That set me thinking, and I remember I'd heard tell of these frontispieces, and I then and there made up some business I'd have to come to Boston town about, and here I am. I bought two while I was about it. The woman said it was a good plan, in case one got lost or rumpled, and here it is in this box. Just lay it away carefully for me, Cynthy, my dear."

The old lady's thin and grayish locks had been replaced by a false front of smooth brown, with puffs at the side, and a nice white part of most unnatural straightness down the middle.

"You see, I like to please Silas," she continued. "I'll tell you again, as I've told you before, girls, Silas Green and I we've been keeping steady company now these forty years. But I can't give up the view from my sitting-room windows to go and live at his house on the other hill, and he can't give up the view from his best-room windows to come and live at my house. We've tried and tried, and we can't either of us give up. And so he just comes every Sunday night to see me, as he's done these forty years, and I guess it'll go on a while longer."

They were interrupted by the sound of the tea bell.

Miss Betsey hastily settled her cap over the new front, and they all went down stairs, Cynthia pinching Edith to express her feelings, and longing to tell Jack about Aunt Betsey's latest.

But they found Jack having an animated discussion with his father, his thoughts on business plans intent.

Cynthia anxiously surveyed the two, and she feared from appearances that Mr. Franklin did not intend to yield.

[to be continued.]

LIFE IN A LIGHT-HOUSE.

BY A. J. ENSIGN.

A cold biting west wind was blowing. The sea close under the beach was smooth and steel blue, and the breakers reared their white crests slowly, falling in dull booms of muttered thunder. Beyond the rollers a wide expanse of ice-hard gray water swept away to the iron line of the horizon, where strange shapes of writhing billows tossed against the glow of the rising moon. Half a dozen stars of the first magnitude swam in moisture in the zenith, and far away in the west a smudge of black cloud, touched on its lower edge with blood red, kept the record of the swift winter sunset.

"It will blow from the south'ard and east'ard afore mornin', an' it'll snow," said the light-house keeper, as he peered out into the growing gloom, pierced as it was by the rays of the lamp which he had set burning half an hour before.

"Ay," said his assistant, "an' we'll have fog, too, I'm thinkin'."

"Well, get steam up for the siren, an' stan' by fur trouble afore dawn."

The predictions of both men came true. Before two o'clock in the morning the wind had shifted to the southeast, and was blowing a gale. Great tangled masses of brown cloud were flying across the sky at terrific speed, and in and out of the rifts shot the red moon flaming like a comet. The breakers no longer reared and fell slowly, but hurled themselves in shrieking masses of foam upon the stricken beach. A yelling as of ten thousand evil spirits surrounded the caged lantern; but the great yellow light blazed out its warning upon the black waters. But not for long; for out of the southeast swept the impenetrable gray fog that no light could pierce. Then the hoarse moaning blast of the steam-siren sent its cry of warning out over the raging waters. At four o'clock the gale was terrific, and ever and anon the shriek of a steam-whistle told that some vessel was groping her way toward the entrance to the harbor. Suddenly the whistle burst into a series of rapid screams.

"Wake up, Tom!" shouted the assistant keeper, who was on watch. "There's a tug out yonder that's parted the hawser of her tow."

The keeper sprang to his feet and listened to the despairing screams of the whistle out in the fog.

"You're right!" he exclaimed. "And whatever's gone adrift'll be ashore in less than an hour. They'll never hear those whistles at the station with the wind in this quarter."

He jumped to the telephone and called up the life-saving station a mile above.

"There's a tug off here," he said, "and she's lost her tow."

"All right," came the answer; "we'll look out for 'em."

TAKEN ASHORE IN A BREECHES-BUOY.

Half an hour later a big three-masted coal barge, which thirty years earlier had been an English bark, was in the breakers half a mile above the life-saving station; but owing to the sharp lookout for her, all her people, three men, a boy, and a woman, were taken ashore safely in the breeches buoy. At sunup the other barge, which had been in tow of the tug, was seen three miles offshore hove to under her leg-of-mutton canvas. She was picked up by an incoming steamer, and towed into the harbor.

That is a sample of the experience of a light-house keeper whose light is on the land. He has a comparatively comfortable berth; but all lights are not so pleasantly situated. Some are situated at considerable distances from the shore, on dangerous reefs. Most of the houses so situated are built on iron-screw piles, like those at Thimble Shoals, Virginia, Fowey Rocks, Alligator Reef, and Sombrero Key, Florida. These houses stand on iron legs, which are screwed down into the rocks on the bottom, and the keeper's only means of leaving his confined dwelling is by the boat, which swings at davits, as it would aboard a ship. It has been found that a light-house built in this manner will stand the shocks of heavy weather much better than one made of solid masonry. The storm wave of the Atlantic Ocean travels at the rate of about thirty miles an hour, and when one of these waves, towering from fifteen to thirty-five feet, strikes an obstacle, such as a light-house, it deals a blow whose force can be measured only in hundreds of tons. The iron-screw pile-house, however, is elevated far enough above the level of the sea to escape the blows of the waves, which meet with no greater resistance than that offered by the slender legs of the structure.

Let us imagine the experience of a keeper of one of these lights in a great storm. It is September. All day the sea has been deathly calm, but with a slow swell of ominous breadth and weight. The sky has been of a dead gray color, and has seemed to hang so low that one might almost reach it from the top of the lantern. Toward night the wind begins to come in fitful gusts that moan around the light-house like the voices of warning spirits. The keeper goes out on the balcony and looks anxiously around the horizon. He knows that they are in for a bad night, and he knows that even iron-screw light-houses have been carried away in great gales. But he goes calmly and carefully about his work. He sees that the boat and all other objects outside the house are well secured. He sees the lamp well supplied with oil and trimmed wicks. He gives the lenses and reflectors a few more affectionate rubs, and as the sun goes down fire-red into a crimson sea he lights the wicks and goes down to his supper.

The gusts of wind outside increase in number and in force. Strange shriekings and moanings break from the crannies of the light-house. It is blowing half a gale now, and the sea is beginning to rise. Fiercer and fiercer become the blasts. The light-house begins to vibrate like a fiddle. A strange humming, as of the giant strings of some enormous Æolian harp, is added to the shriller screams of the wind. It is the gale singing through the iron legs and braces of the structure. And now a squall more violent than any that have preceded it comes yelling across the sea. It tears the foaming crests off half a dozen waves, and sends them swirling down to leeward in shivering sheets of snowy spoondrift. With fearful force the blast strikes the light-house, at the same time hurling some of the spoondrift against its weather side with a crash. What was that? Did the whole building sway?

The keeper shuts his lips tightly and goes up to look at the lamp. It is burning brightly. He descends again, and puts on his oil-skins and sou'wester. Waiting for a lull in the gale, he bolts out upon the balcony, hastily closing the door behind him. For a moment he stands, clinging with all his might to the iron railing, while the mad wind seems to try to strip his clothing from him. How the building trembles under the furious assaults of the wind! What an awful roar the conflicting elements make around its iron walls! The keeper's eyes are half blinded by the driving rain and salt spray. But he can see by the light of the faithful lamp above him towering walls of black and shining water sweeping down out of the fathomless darkness beyond as if to engulf his little refuge. They rush forward and disappear within the circle of gloom below the light, and the next instant he hears them hissing and shrieking around the sturdy iron leg.

There! There is the monster wave of all, heaving its mighty crest twenty-five feet, so that the keeper sees it level with his eyes as he gazes, fascinated. It is coming, it is coming. Ah, it is too big to pass the reef without breaking. See! It has toppled over, and goes boiling under the gallery in a wild mass of ghostly foam. The keeper shivers a little, shakes his head, and goes back to his warm room, muttering a prayer for the safety of the sailors on the sea. You and I would mutter one for our own, perhaps, if we stood on a swaying balcony above a storm-torn ocean.

Before morning the keeper hears the report of a gun. He knows too well the meaning of that sound. It is a signal of distress. He rushes out on the balcony again, and sees the dim form of a dismasted ship driving upon the reef. What can he do? Not a thing. He calls up his assistants, and they helplessly watch the vessel strike. They hear the cries of her people. They see the waves burst over her in great clouds of seething spray. Suddenly one of the men utters a shout.

"See! There's a spar driving down on us with some one on it."

A RESCUE FROM THE LIGHT.

Now the keeper and his assistants can do something, and they move with the rapidity of men whose wits are accustomed to the emergencies of the deep. Projecting from one side of the house is an iron arm, at the end of which hang a block and tackle. This is used for hoisting supplies from the boat which brings them off. Quickly a line is fastened around the hook at the bottom of the tackle. This is to give the shipwrecked mariner something by which to hold. The broken and half-buried spar sweeps down toward the light-house. Two men are clinging to it with the strength of despair. The tackle is lowered, and as the spar drives against one of the stout iron legs of the light-house one of the two men catches the rope, and is quickly hauled up to the gallery. At once the tackle is lowered again, and the other man is hauled up. Half blind, half drowned, staggering with exhaustion, they are taken into the house where warm drinks and dry clothing revive them. Then they sit beside the stove and tell the dreadful story of the wreck, while the howling of the wind, the thunder of the seas, and the swaying of the house remind them all that the storm still rages without.

Finally the great gale ends, and gradually the sea goes down. The shipwrecked seamen are anxious to reach land, and the light-house keeper, upon whose stores two extra mouths make serious inroads, is willing to have them go. Late in the afternoon of the third day they see smoke on the horizon. By-and-by the smoke appears to rise from a little black speck. Gradually the speck grows larger, and at length it assumes the outlines of a small steam-vessel.

RECEIVING SUPPLIES IN CALM WEATHER.

"That's her," says the keeper. "Now you'll be able to get ashore."

"Is it the tender?" asks one of the wrecked sailors.

"Yes," says the keeper. "She was due here just about the time the gale set in."

It is the stanch little light-house tender, whose duty it is to visit the various lights in her district, and replenish their supplies. Many a rough time she has at sea, and many a narrow escape; but the pressing necessities of the keepers of the isolated lights embolden the captains of tenders to brave many dangers. The tender is alongside the light-house in due time, and the tackle which so lately saved human lives hoists up boxes of provisions, cans of oil, and other articles. The two shipwrecked sailors are put aboard the tender to be landed at the nearest port, and in a short time the little vessel is once more a smudge of smoke upon the horizon.

And so let us bid good-by to the light-house and the keeper. We know now that he is a brave and faithful fellow, who, if need be, will lower away his little boat, and pull to the rescue of those in danger. We know that in spring and in summer, in autumn and in winter, in calm or storm, in clear weather or in fog, in health or in sickness, he will be found always at his post, always at his duty. We know that when the skies are clear, and the sea smooth, and the stars bright, the lamp will burn and send its gentle yellow rays out upon the inky waters to guide the mariner over the trackless sea. We know that when the gray curtain of the fog hides the light, the hoarse scream of the steam-siren or brazen clang of the fog-bell will echo over the water, and warn the sailor against hidden dangers. For always and everywhere the light-house keeper is a brave, honest, faithful man; humble, indeed, but the reliance and the guide of "those who go down to the sea in ships."

This Department is conducted in the interest of Amateur Photographers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor Camera Club Department.

PAPERS FOR BEGINNERS, No. 6.

SIMPLE DEVELOPMENT.

A girl who was taking her first lesson in developing said that developing was dozens of "whens" and "ifs," and one must learn them all at once or else spoil all one's plates.

Our first directions for development will not be with the kind of pictures which the beginner usually takes, but the kind he ought to take, and which are simplest and easiest to develop. These are time landscape pictures.

By time pictures is meant those which are taken with a short-time exposure instead of with a drop-shutter in bright sunlight. The day for making a successful time picture is when the sky is slightly clouded and the light soft, so that there are no deep shadows.

The picture being made, and everything ready for development, remove the plate from the holder and lay it face up in the tray. Turn the developer—which is ready in the glass graduate—quickly over the plate, taking great care that the whole surface is flooded instantly. If the developer is not applied uniformly patches will appear on the negative which print darker, the dark spots being where the developer did not reach the plate as quickly as it did the other parts.

As soon as the developer has covered the plate, move the tray gently to and fro, tipping it this way and that, but not enough to expose the plate. In about a half-minute the high lights will begin to appear. The high lights are those parts of the plate which have been exposed to the strongest light, and which will show white, or light, in the printed picture. The sky, which has reflected the strongest light, will appear first. It will show as black patches here and there at one edge of the plate.

By the time the sky is well out other objects will begin to show, those which were in the deepest shadow will be the longest coming out. After the image is well defined on the plate, lift it carefully from the tray and look through it toward the light, holding rather near the lantern so as to see if the detail is out.

To explain what is meant by detail, we will suppose that there is a mass of shrubbery in the picture. If this part of the picture is developed far enough, the lights and shadows and the forms of the bushes will show when the plate is looked at against the light, but if the glass is clear there is no detail, and the development has not been carried far enough. It must be put back in the developer and allowed to remain longer.

When the plate has been sufficiently developed, which will be in from three to five minutes, the yellow color will begin to fade, and the outlines, which have been quite sharp, will grow dim. At this point, if one looks at the plate the picture can be quite distinctly seen on the back.

Take the plate from the developer, rinse it thoroughly in clean water, and place it, film side up, in the tray of hypo solution, which is made by dissolving 1 oz. of hyposulphite of soda in 4 oz. of water.

This bath, which is usually called the fixing-bath, though the proper term would be clearing-bath, removes from the negative the sensitive silver salts which have not been affected by light or by development, and makes the image permanent. After the plate has remained in the clearing-bath for five minutes it will be found on looking at the back of the plate that the yellow color has almost entirely disappeared, leaving on the glass the clear image of the landscape. The plate should remain in the hypo for ten minutes, so that the salts of silver may be thoroughly dissolved, or the plates will look streaked, and will not make satisfactory prints.

The plate must next be washed to remove all traces of hypo. Hypo stains the negative, and if not thoroughly washed out is apt to form again in crystals and ruin the negative.

An hour is long enough to wash the negative in running water, and two hours, with four or five changes of water, where there is no running water. When the negative has been washed long enough, take a small wad of soft cotton, and holding both plate and cotton in the water wipe the film gently with the cotton to remove any dirt which may have settled in the film. If one has no drying-rack set the plate on a shelf, with the film side toward the wall to avoid the settling of dust in the film.

When the negative is dry, place it in an envelope, number and mark it, and place it in some place where it may be found without trouble.

BILL TYBEE AND THE BULL.

YARN OF A WHALEMAN ON SHORE.

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

"And didn't yeou never have nothin' more to do with whalin'?" asked Farmer Joe.

"Oh, well," Handsome answered, "I never said that I gave up whaling for good and all. You know, sailors never know when they're well off."

"Waal," said Farmer Joe, "it 'pears to me that this 'ere's abaout a good time to tell us some more on 't."

"Did I ever tell you about going whaling on shore?"

"Git aout!" exclaimed Farmer Joe.

"You don't believe it, eh? Did you never hear of Amagansett, Long Island? That's where all good whalemen go when they get to be too old to go to sea. They have their boats there, and when a whale heaves in sight off shore they put right out through the surf, and generally there's one dead whale in those parts when they come back. But it isn't about that I'm going to tell you, because chasing whales in boats is all the same whether you start from shore or a ship. But down there's where I met old Bill Tybee."

"Who were he?" asked Farmer Joe.

"He was a very old sailor, who'd quit the sea, and was running a sort of express business. That is, he had a horse and wagon, and used to cart things for people. He was a great old chap, I tell you, and the yarns he used to tell would have scraped barnacles off the back door of the North Pole. His horse was so old he couldn't move at any pace except a sort of dog-trot, and the wagon rumbled and squeaked like a fife-and-drum corps. One day I said to Bill that I'd like to know why he didn't get a new horse and wagon, and then he told me a regular hair-twister. I'm going to tell it to you, and I'm going to tell it just the way Bill told it to me."

Handsome shifted his seat a foot or two, took a round turn around his foot and tested the splice which he had been making, and then screwing his face up in imitation of "old Bill Tybee," he began.

"Git a new hoss an' waggin, hey? I ain't no dude. Nex' thing I 'spect you'll be wantin' me to run a tally-hoo coach to take beach-combers out a clam-diggin'. New hoss an' waggin! Say, I had 'em oncet, an' I don't want 'em no more. I got all the trouble I want now, without havin' a cantankerous young colt a tryin' to jump fences with me an' the waggin. Say, I'm goin' to tell you 'bout the new hoss an' waggin I had oncet, an' then I leave it to you, if you was me an' I was you, would you try it on some more. 'Bout two year ago come Thanksgivin' I got so sot up in bizness that I bought Farmer Hiram Smoggs's brown colt, that were jes seven year old that fall, an' his one-hoss farm waggin wot Fin Dooley had jes painted redder'n a new can-buoy on the starboard side o' a ship channel. I gave him this 'ere hoss an' waggin wot I'm a-drivin' now to boot. Werry good. I got aboard my new waggin, and h'isted my whip, an' whistled the 'Star-Spangled Banner,' and sez I, 'Thar, gol bust ye, you're in commission, ye wall-sided hooker,' sez I. Then I got under way fur my fust cruise. It were plain sailin' gittin' out o' the harbor, an', as the weather were fair with a stiddy wind, I let the colt go along under plain sail. Waal, I hadn't gone more'n a couple o' cable lengths w'en ole Widdy Moriarty she comes down to the sea-wall on her place, an' sings out to me. So I hove the colt to, an' I axes her, 'Wot's up, mate?' An' she says she wants me fur to take a box o' heggs down to the Fraser Bellew's grocery store. So I filled away on the colt, an' luffed up alongside o' the sea-wall, an' made him fast to a pile wot were stickin' up. I got the heggs, an' stowed 'em right forrard in the forepeak o' the waggin. I got aboard, an' filled away on my course ag'in.

"Werry good. Nex' I war hove to by Pete Maguff, a cullud man, who put a bar'l o' maple syrup aboard. Then Jim Penn he puts in a bar'l o' flour fur me to take back to ole man Bellew 'cos 'twarn't the right kind. Them two bar'ls pooty nigh filled up the whole waist o' the waggin. Howsumever, w'en Hank Mosher axed me to take a bar'l o' apples aboard I carkilated I could git her under the break o' the tailboard, an' I did. Pussonally, I war now usin' the box o' heggs fur a bridge, an' were a-steerin' the colt from there. Bein' loaded right down to the Plimsoll's mark, I didn't go to crackin' on sail, but let the colt go along under his lower tops'ls like. All right, sez you. But allus keep a bright lookout fur squalls, sez I. Werry good. I hadn't logged off more'n half a knot w'en Farmer Powley's ten-acre pasture were on my starboard hand, an' his black-an'-white bull, Napoleon Bonyparty, were standin' plum in the middle o' the same. Now w'en that 'ere bull seed that 'ere red waggin he knowed it warn't the ole merchant hooker wot he'd seed me a-steerin' up an' down that road so long. Nope; he med up his mind it were a foreign cruiser, an' sez he to hisself, 'This are where I shows 'em wot kind o' a coast-defense ram I are.' So he blowed one whistle, hooked on, an' come down the field under forced draught, turnin' up a mos' terrible starn wave o' dust on account o' the pasture bein' werry shallow water. I hailed him, an' told him it war me, but he couldn't hear nothin'. All he could do war to see a red waggin. So, seein' that he war a-goin' to ram, I ups an' I lets fall to'gallants an' royals onto the colt, an' away we went dead afore the wind at a twelve-knot gait. The bull didn't stop fur to jump the fence. He jes went through it. Now it were a starn chase right up the hill.

"Werry good. But afore I'd got fur I heard a thump, an' lookin' round I seed Hank Mosher's bar'l o' apples'd bounced out over the starn, an' were a-rollin' down the hill at a ginerally lively gait. Gosh! You'd ort to see the bull clear that bar'l. Say, flyin'-fish would have to take lessons from him. Waal, havin' lightened ship by losin' some o' my cargo I reckoned I'd make better speed; but I didn't seem to gain werry much onto the bull. He follered me right slap inter town, an' then there war a sort o' grand general mixification, sich as never war seed afore or sence.

"Fust place, everybody begin fur to yell. One sez murder, an' another sez fire. Wimmen screeched an' boys hollered, an' the bull he bellered louder'n any on 'em. Jehosaphat Book, the cullud dominie, he run out an' tried to jump inter the waggin. Jes at that minute the bar'l o' flour give a bounce up in the air. The head o' the bar'l fell out, an' the bar'l, flour, an' all came down over Jehosaphat's head. Afore he could git it off the bull war there, an' he jes picked up Jehos an' his bar'l an' fired 'em right through the winder o' the school-haouse. Jehos landed in the middle o' the floor, an' comin' out o' the bar'l he war all white. The chillen set up a yell, 'Ghost! ghost!' an' afore the teacher knowed wot'd happened school war out. Jehos picked hisself up, an' saw hisself in the lookin'-glass. Then he let out a squeal an' started fur the street. He thort he'd turned white.

"But that warn't the wust of 't. That there bar'l o' apples a-rollin' down-hill had fetched up ag'in the feet o' Blind Billy Bunker's team o' mules, an' they'd started off on a dead run with bar'l hoops a flappin' round their legs. They came into town a quarter o' a mile astarn o' me, and jes in time to meet Jehos w'en he come out in the street all white. He scared them mules so bad that they stopped right in their tracks, an' Billy Bunker war shot off the seat o' his waggin an' out into the road on his head. He got up an' made a grab fur the fust thing that he could feel, an' it were Jehos. Billy war so mad that he punched Jehos's head an' Jehos punched back, an' there was the cullud minister, all white, a-fightin' in the middle o' the street with a blind man. An' the sheriff he came along an' arrested 'em both, an' Jedge Sooter fined Jehos five dollars fur disturbin' o' the peace, w'en he'd ort to have fined the bull.

"But that warn't the wust of 't. All this time me an' the bull was still a-goin'. Somebody'd hollered fire, an' somebody else'd run off to the fire-engine house, an' told 'em that they'd got to come quick or the whole bloomin' town'd go. Jes then the red waggin hit a stone in the middle o' the street, an' she pitched so hard she hove her tailboard right up into the air an' overboard. That tailboard were jes as red as anythin', an' w'en the bull seed it soarin' in the air like a ole-time round shell with a navy time-fuse, he jes got clean crazy. He ketched it onto his horns, an' lowerin' his head scraped up about two tons o' dust, an' hove dust an' all right through the big front winder o' Jeremiah Boggs's book an' newspaper store. The firemen seein' all the dust, thought it war smoke, an' they comes up with their engine an' lets drive a stream o' water a foot thick right through the hole in the winder, an' completely sp'iled the whole shop.

"But that warn't the wust of 't. Jeremiah's brindle bull-dog were asleep under the counter, an' that there stream o' water hit him ca-plum in the middle o' the back. He let out one yell, an' out o' the shop he went an' down the street all drippin' wet an' squealin' like a pig. Everybody wot seed him hollered 'Mad dog! mad dog!' An' then ole Willum Henry Peet, the constable, he got clean rattled, an' pulled out his rewolwer an' beginned to shoot all over the country. As me an' the bull was still a-goin' I didn't see that, but I could hear it. Waal, Willum Henry's shootin' started up some other folks, an' putty soon there war a whole rigimint o' people out in the street a-shootin', an' not hittin' anythin' 'ceptin' winders, w'ich the same they busted forty-seven. The firemen findin' they'd made a mistake, an' there warn't no fire, said as how Jeremiah'd sent out a false alarm, an' they started to lick him. Some o' his friends come to help him, an' in five minutes there war a reg'lar riot right out in front o' his store.

"All this time me an' the bull war still a-goin'. I didn't seem to gain much onto him, so I set the royals an' the stu'ns'ls onto the colt, although it were werry stormy weather, an' I made up my mind that if somethin' didn't carry away I'd be able to hold him right where he war. I had to keep goin' right straight ahead. 'Cos w'y: if I'd 'a' put the helm hard over fur to turn a corner, I'd 'a' rolled the deck-house right off'n my red hooker. Waal, a leetle furder up the street we comes to Peanut Brewer, with his black horse a-standin' dead still. He'd balked, an' Peanut war sittin' on top o' a load o' hay a-sayin' bad words at him. Mrs. Mehitabel Saggs's little boy come out with a big fire-cracker to set off under the hoss an' make him start. At that werry minute Pete Maguff's bar'l o' maple syrup on my waggin' give a jounce, and went by the board over the port rail. That there bar'l rolled right under Peanut's hoss jes as the fire-cracker busted. It sot fire to the bar'l, an' she blazed right up. 'Now,' sez Peanut, 'my ole black hoss'll start,' sez he. An' so he did. He started an' went jes fur enough to pull the waggin' right over the fire, an' then he stopped. Waal, sir, Peanut had to jump fur his life, fur that load o' hay blazed up in half a second. The fire company war on the dead run fur home w'en they seed the blaze, an' down they come at their finest gait, with Jeremiah Boggs an' his gang astarn o' them, keepin' up a permiskious fire o' stones, sticks, an' termatter cans an' sich things. Jes then Jeremiah's dog come around the corner with forty boys a-chasin' him an' yellin' 'Mad dog.' He run right under Peanut Brewer's black hoss, an' that started him. Yaas, sir, he got right up onto his hind legs, an' away he went down the street licketty-split, pullin' a load o' hay on fire. By that time everybody in town were putty nigh crazy, an' the President o' the village had telegraphed fur the militia to come."

"ALL THE TIME THE BULL WERE ATTENDIN' STRICTLY TO BIZNESS."

"All the time the bull were attendin' strickly to bizness. The colt war all covered with foam, an' I made up my mind that afore long he war a-goin' fur to give out, an' me an' the bull would have to settle the question atween ourselves, in w'ich case the bettin' would all 'a' bin in favor o' the bull. So I kinder considers a little, an' all on a suddint I recommembered them heggs. I yanked the top off'n the box, an' diskivered that most o' the heggs was scrambled—raw—but still scrambled. Howsumever, there was a few that wasn't. So I took one o' them an' hove it at the bull. It hit him smack on the middle o' the forehead. Waal, if he'd been mad afore, he war crazy now. He let out a roar that made my bones rattle, an' he opened out his last link o' speed. Now he commenced fur to gain on me, hand over fist; so I made up my mind to do somethin' desprit. I put the helm hard a-starboard, an' steered the colt into a narrer channel wot led right down to the bay. The bull he tried to cut short goin' round the corner, an' he run into the lamp-post, w'ich the same he knocked clean down into Parker's basement, where Johannes Pfeiffenschneider, the cobbler, works, an' scared Johannes so that he sp'iled Miss Beasley's Sunday shoes, an' lost putty nigh all his trade.

"Down at the foot o' the street war Mark Rogers's oyster sloop Betsey Jane, lyin' alongside o' the wharf. On the wharf war about ten million oyster shells, all piled up. 'Now,' sez I to myself, sez I, 'here's where I've got to stop the bull.' I steered the colt right straight at that reef o' shells, trustin' to our speed an' our shaller draft to carry us right over. There war a smash, crash, biff! an' over we went. Then I jumped up, grabbed the box o' scrambled heggs, an' hove 'em straight in the bull's face. Waal, gol bust me if that there bull didn't look like the gran'father o' all omlets. He was clean blinded fur a minute, an' he kicked out with all four legs in the middle o' the reef, till the air war white with flying oyster shells. He kicked so many of 'em into the bay that Mark had to dredge out a new channel. Then he got his eyes clear a minute an' he seed me a-laffin'. He jes made one jump, an' he got under the waggin' with his head. The next thing I knowed I war in the bay. That there bull jes picked up waggin', colt, an' me, an' he hove us straight off the dock an' into the bay."

"And what happened after that?" I asked.

"Waal, we had to swim out, o' course. It killed the colt, that cold bath arter bein' so heated, an' the waggin' was busted into kindlin' wood. An' the bull? Oh, yaas, the bull. Waal, he was puffickly satisfied, an' he went up along the side o' the road an' eat grass jes as if he'd never did nothin' else in all his life. Now, my son, you know w'y I don't git a new hoss an' waggin. I bin there, an' w'en I bin to a place wot's not to my likin' I knows enough not to go back. Git ep!"

SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

LOST IN A MOUNTAIN BLIZZARD.

Tired as were the occupants of that lonely camp after a day of exhausting climbing through the timber, their slumbers were broken and restless. The uncertainties of the morrow, the peculiar nature of the road they had yet to travel, and the excitement consequent upon nearing the end of their journey, which none of them believed to be over fifty miles away, all combined to render them wakeful and uneasy. So they were up by the first sign of daylight, and off before sunrise.

As there were now but three dogs to a sledge, the load of the one driven by Serge was divided between it and the one that brought up the rear in charge of Jalap Coombs. A few sticks of dry wood were also placed on each sledge, so that in crossing the upper ice-fields they might at least be able to melt snow for drinking purposes.

"Now for it!" cried Phil, cheerfully, as they emerged from the scanty timber, and shivered in the chill blast that swept down from the towering peaks above them. Between two of these was a saddlelike depression that they took to be the pass, and to it the young leader determined to guide his little party.

"Up you go, Musky!" he shouted. "Pull, Luvtuk, my pigeon! Amook, you old rascal, show what you are good for! A little more work, a little more hunger, and then rest, with plenty to eat. So stir yourselves and climb!"

With this the long whip-lash whistled through the frosty air, and cracked with a resounding report that would have done credit to the most expert of Eskimo drivers, for our Phil was no longer a novice in its use, and with a yelp the dogs sprang forward.

Up, up, up they climbed, until, as Phil remarked, it didn't seem as though the top of the world could be very far away. The sun rose, and flooded the snow-fields with such dazzling radiance that but for their protecting goggles our travellers must have been completely blinded by the glare. The deep gulch whose windings they followed held in summer-time a roaring torrent, but now it was filled with solidly packed snow from twenty-five to one hundred feet deep.

As they advanced the gulch grew more and more shallow, until at length it was merged in a broad uniform slope so steep and slippery that they were obliged to cut footholds in the snow, and at frequent intervals carve out little benches two feet wide. From one of these to another they dragged the sledges, one at a time, with rawhide ropes. Even the dogs had to be assisted up the glassy incline, on which they could gain no hold. So arduous was this labor that three hours were spent in overcoming the last five hundred feet of the ascent. Thus it was long past noon when, breathless and exhausted, the party reached the summit, or rather a slope so gentle that the dogs could once more drag the sledges.

Here, at an elevation of nearly five thousand feet above the sea, they paused for breath, for a bite of lunch, and for a last look over the way they had come. From this elevation their view embraced a sweep of over one hundred miles of mountain and plain, river and forest. It was so far-reaching and boundless that it even seemed as if they could take in the whole vast Yukon Valley, and locate points that common-sense told them were a thousand miles beyond their range of vision. Grand as was the prospect, they did not care to look at it long. Time was precious; the air, in spite of its sunlight, was bitterly chill, and, after all, the mighty wilderness now behind them held too many memories of hardship, suffering, and danger to render it attractive.

So, "Hurrah for the coast!" cried Phil.

"Hurrah for Sitka!" echoed Serge.

"Hooray for salt water! Now, bullies, up and at 'em!" roared Jalap Coombs, expressing a sentiment, and an order to his sailor-bred dogs, in a breath.

In a few moments more the wonderful view had disappeared, and the sledges were threading their way amid a chaos of gigantic bowlders and snow-covered landslides from the peaks that rose on both sides. There was no sharp descent from the summit, such as they had hoped to find, but instead a lofty plateau piled thick with obstructions. About them no green thing was to be seen, no sign of life; only snow, ice, and precipitous cliffs of bare rock. The all-pervading and absolute silence was awful. There was no trail that might be followed, for the hardiest of natives dared not attempt that crossing in the winter. Even if they had, their trail would have been obliterated almost as soon as made by the fierce storms of these altitudes. So their only guide was that of general direction, which they knew to be south, and to this course Phil endeavored to hold.

That night they made a chill camp in the lee of a great bowlder; that is, in as much of a lee as could be had where the icy blast swept in circles and eddies from all directions at once. They started a fire, but its feeble flame was so blown hither and thither that by the time a kettle of snow was melted, and the ice was thawed from their stew, their supply of wood was so depleted that they dared not use more. So they ate their scanty supper without tea, fed the dogs on frozen porridge, and huddling together for warmth during the long hours of bleak darkness were thankful enough to welcome the gray dawn that brought them to an end.

For three days more they toiled over the terrible plateau, driven to long detours by insurmountable obstacles, buffeted and lashed by fierce snow-squalls and ice-laden gales, but ever pushing onward with unabated courage, expecting with each hour to find themselves descending into the valley of the Chilcat River. Two of the dogs driven by Serge broke down so completely that they were mercifully shot. The third dog was added to Jalap Coombs's team, and the load was divided between the remaining sledges, while the now useless one was used as firewood. After that Phil plodded on in advance, and Serge drove the leading team.

The fourth day of this terrible work was one of leaden clouds and bitter winds. The members of the little party were growing desperate with cold, exhaustion, and hunger. Their wanderings had not brought them to a timber-line, and as poor Phil faced the blast with bowed head and chattering teeth it seemed to him that to be once more thoroughly warm would be the perfection of human happiness.

It was already growing dusk, and he was anxiously casting about for the sorry shelter of some bowlder behind which they might shiver away the hours of darkness, when he came to the verge of a steep declivity. His heart leaped as he glanced down its precipitous face; for, far below, he saw a dark mass that he knew must be timber. They could not descend at that point; but he thought he saw one that appeared more favorable a little further on, and hastened in that direction. He was already some distance ahead of the slow-moving sledges, and meant to wait for them as soon as he discovered a place from which the descent could be made.

Suddenly a whirling, blinding cloud of snow swept down on him with such fury that to face it and breathe was impossible. Thinking it but a squall, he turned his back and stood motionless, waiting for it to pass over. Instead of so doing, it momentarily increased in violence and density. A sudden darkness came with the storm, and as he anxiously started back to meet the sledges he could not see one rod before him. He began to shout, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of hearing an answering cry. Directly afterwards Serge loomed through the driving cloud, urging on his reluctant dogs with voice and whip. The moment they were allowed to stop, Husky, Luvtuk, and big Amook lay down as though completely exhausted.

"We can't go a step further, Phil! We must make camp at once," panted Serge. "This storm is a regular poorga, and will probably last all night."

"But where can we camp?" asked Phil, in dismay. "There is timber down below, but it looks miles away, and we can't get to it now."

"No," replied Serge; "we must stay where we are and burrow a hole in this drift big enough to hold us. We've got to do it in a hurry too."

So saying, Serge drew his knife, for the outside of the drift close to which they were halted was so hard packed as to render cutting necessary, and outlined a low opening. From this he removed an unbroken slab, and then began to dig furiously in the soft snow beyond.

In the meantime Phil was wondering why Jalap Coombs did not appear; for he had supposed him to be close behind Serge; but now his repeated shoutings gained no reply.

"He was not more than one hundred feet behind me when the storm began," said Serge, whose anxiety caused him to pause in his labor, though it was for the preservation of their lives.

"He must be in some trouble," said Phil, "and I am going back to find him."

"You can't go alone!" cried Serge. "If you are to get lost, I must go with you."

"No. One of us must stay here with Nel-te, and it is my duty to go; but do you shout every few seconds, and I promise not to go beyond sound of your voice."

Thus saying, Phil started back, and was instantly swallowed in the vortex of the blizzard. Faithfully did Serge shout, and faithfully did Phil answer, for nearly fifteen minutes. Then the latter came staggering back, with horror-stricken face and voice.

"I can't find him, Serge! Oh, I can't find him!" he cried. "I am afraid he has gone over the precipice. If he has, it is my fault, and I shall never forgive myself, for I had no business to go so far ahead and let the party get scattered."

Serge answered not a word, but fell with desperate energy to the excavating of his snow-house. His heart was nigh breaking with the sorrow that had overtaken them, but he was determined that no other lives should be lost if his efforts could save them. The excavation was soon so large that Phil could work with him, but with all their furious digging they secured a shelter from the pitiless poorga none too soon. The sledge was already buried from sight, and poor little Nel-te was wellnigh smothered ere they lifted him from it and pulled him into the burrow.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

COASTING FIVE MILES IN FIVE MINUTES.

In spite of their faintness and weakness from hunger and exhaustion, Phil and Serge were so stimulated by the emergency that within half an hour they had dug a cavity in the great drift sufficiently large to hold the three dogs as well as themselves. The excavation was driven straight for a few feet, and then turned to one side, where it was so enlarged that they could either lie down or sit up. Into this diminutive chamber they dragged their robes and sleeping-bags. The shivering dogs crept in and curled up at their feet. The sledge was left outside, and the opening was closed as well as might be by the slab of compacted snow that had been cut from it. Poor little Nel-te, who was numbed and whimpering with cold and hunger, was rubbed into a glow, comforted and petted, until at length he fell asleep, nestled between the lads, and then they found time to talk over their situation. For a while they had no thought save for the dear friend and trusty comrade, who, alive or dead, was still out in that terrible storm, and, as they believed, lost to them forever.

"I don't suppose there is the faintest hope of ever seeing him again," said Phil. "If he went over the precipice he must have been killed, and is buried deep in the snow by this time. Even if he did not, and is still wandering somewhere in this vicinity, he must perish before morning. Oh, Serge, can't we do anything for him? It makes me feel like a cowardly traitor to be sitting here in comfort while the dear old chap may be close at hand, and perishing for want of our help. And it is my fault, too! The fault of my inexcusable carelessness. It seems, old man, as if I should go crazy with thinking of it."

"But you mustn't think of it in that way, Phil," answered Serge, soothingly. "As leader of the party it was your duty to go ahead and pick out the road, while it was ours to keep you in sight. If either of us is to blame for what has happened, I am the one. I should have looked back oftener and made sure that he was still close behind me. Now there is nothing we can do except wait for daylight and the end of the storm. We have our parents, this child, and ourselves to think of first. Nor could we accomplish anything even if we tried. The storm has doubled in fury since we halted. A foot of snow must already have fallen, and to venture a single rod outside of this place would serve to lose us as certainly as though we went a mile. We mustn't give up all hope, though. Mr. Coombs is very strong, and well used to exposure. Of course, if he has gone over the precipice there is little chance that we shall ever see him again; but if he escaped it, and has made a burrow for himself like this one, he will pull through all right, and I feel sure we shall find him in the morning."

"Why haven't we dug places like this before?" asked Phil. "It is actually getting warm and comfortable in here. We might have had just such a warm cave every night that we have been in the mountains and spent so miserably."

"Of course we might," agreed Serge, "and we would have had, but for my stupidity in not thinking of it sooner. While I never took refuge in one before, I have often heard of them, and ought to have remembered. I didn't, though, until this storm struck us, and I knew that without shelter we must certainly perish."

"If you hadn't thought of a snow-burrow," said Phil, "it is certain I never should. It is snug, though, and if only poor Jalap were with us, and we had food and a light of some kind, I wouldn't ask for a better shelter. I can understand now how an Eskimo stone lamp, with seal oil for fuel, and a wick of moss, can give out all the heat that is needed in one of their snow huts, and I only wish we had brought one with us."

After this the boys grew drowsy, their conversation slackened, and soon all their troubles were forgotten in sleep. Outside through the long hours the gale roared and shrieked with impotent rage at their escape from its clutches. It hurled its snow legions against their place of refuge until it was deep buried, and then in a frenzy tore away and scattered the drifted accumulation, until it could once more beat directly upon their slender wall of defence. But its wiles and its furious attacks were alike in vain, and at length its fierce ravings sank into whispers. The poorga spent its force with the darkness, and at daylight had swept on to inland fields, leaving only an added burden of millions of tons of snow to mark its passage across the mountains.

When the boys awoke a soft white light was filtering through one side of their spotless chamber, and they knew that day had come. They expected to dig their way to the outer air through a great mass of snow, and were agreeably surprised to find only a small drift against the doorway. As they emerged from it they were for a few minutes blinded by the marvellous brilliancy of their sunlit surroundings. Gradually becoming accustomed to the intense light, they gazed eagerly about for some sign of their missing comrade, but there was none. They followed back for a mile over the way they had come the evening before, shouting and firing their guns, but without avail.

No answering shout came back to their straining ears, and there was nothing to indicate the tale of the lost man. Sadly and soberly the lads retraced their steps, and prepared to resume their journey. To remain longer in that place meant starvation and death. To save themselves they must push on.

They shuddered at the precipice they had escaped, and over which they feared their comrade had plunged. At its foot lay a valley, which, though it trended westward, and so away from their course, Phil determined to follow; for, far below their lofty perch, and still miles away from where they stood, it held the dark mass he had seen the night before, and knew to be timber. Besides, his sole desire at that moment was to escape from those awful heights and reach the coast at some point; he hardly cared whether it were inhabited or not.

So the sledge was dug from its bed of snow and reloaded: the dogs were harnessed. Poor little Nel-te, crying with hunger, was slipped into his fur travelling-bag, and a start was made to search for some point of descent. At length they found a place where the slope reached to the very top of the cliff, but so sharply that it was like the roof of a house several miles in length.

"I hate the looks of it," said Phil, "but as there doesn't seem to be any other way, I suppose we've got to try it. I should say that for at least three miles it was as steep as the steepest part of a toboggan slide, though, and I'm pretty certain we sha'n't care to try it more than once."

"I guess we can do it all right," replied Serge, "but there's only one way, and that is to sit on a snow-shoe and slide. We couldn't keep on our feet a single second."

They lifted Nel-te, fur bag and all, from the sledge, tightened the lashings of its load, which included the guns and extra snow-shoes, and started it over the verge. It flashed down the declivity like a rocket, and the last they saw of it it was rolling over and over.

"Looks cheerful, doesn't it?" said Phil, firmly. "Now I'll go; then do you start the dogs down, and come yourself as quick as you please."

FOR A MOMENT THE SENSATION WAS SICKENING.

Thus saying, the plucky lad seated himself on a snow-shoe, took Nel-te, still in the fur bag, in his lap, and launched himself over the edge of the cliff. For a moment the sensation, which was that of falling from a great height, was sickening, and a thick mist seemed to obscure his vision.

Then it cleared away, and was followed by a feeling of the wildest exhilaration as he heard the whistling backward rush of air, and realized the tremendous speed at which he was whizzing through space. Ere it seemed possible that he could have gone half-way to the timber-line trees began to fly past him, and he knew that the worst was over. In another minute he was floundering in a drift of soft snow, into which he had plunged up to his neck, and the perilous feat was successfully accomplished.

Poor Serge arrived at the same point shortly afterwards, head first, and dove out of sight in the drift; but fortunately Phil was in a position to extricate him before he smothered. The dogs appeared a moment later, with somewhat less velocity, but badly demoralized, and evidently feeling that they had been sadly ill-treated by their driver. So the sledge party had safely descended in five minutes a distance equal to that which they had spent half a day and infinite toil in ascending on the other side of the mountains.

When Nel-te was released from the fur bag and set on his feet he was as calm and self-possessed as though nothing out of the usual had happened, and immediately demanded something to eat.

After a long search they discovered the sledge, with only one rail broken and its load intact.

"Now for a fire and breakfast!" cried Phil, heading towards the timber, as soon as the original order of things was restored. "After that we will make one more effort to find some trace of poor Jalap, though I don't believe there is the slightest chance of success."

They entered the forest of wide-spreading but stunted evergreens, and Phil, axe in hand, was vigorously attacking a dead spruce, when an exclamation from his companion caused him to pause in his labor and look around. "What can that be?" asked Serge, pointing to a thick hemlock that stood but a few yards from them. The lower end of its drooping branches were deep buried in snow, but such part as was still visible was in a strange state of agitation.

"It must be a bear," replied Phil, dropping his axe and springing to the sledge for his rifle. "His winter den is there, and we have disturbed him. Get out your gun—quick! We can't afford to lose him. Meat's too scarce in camp just now." Even as he spoke, and before the guns could be taken from their moose-skin cases, the motion of the branches increased, then came a violent upheaval of the snow that weighted them down, and the boys caught a glimpse of some huge shaggy animal issuing from the powdered whiteness.

"Hurry!" cried Phil. "No, look out! We're too late! What? Great Scott! It can't be. Yes, it is! Hurrah! Glory, hallelujah! I knew he'd pull through all right, and I believe I'm the very happiest fellow in all the world at this minute."

"Mebbe you be, son," remarked Jalap Coombs, "and then again mebbe there's others as is equally joyful. As my old friend Kite Roberson useter say, 'A receiver's as good as a thief,' and I sartainly received a heap of pleasure through hearing you holler jest now."

[to be continued.]

STORIES OF AMERICAN LITERATURE.

BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT.

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

HE DISTINGUISHED THE CALL OF ANIMALS.

Late in the eighteenth century the village of Cooperstown lay almost in the midst of the primeval forest, which extended for miles around. Here the future novelist James Fenimore Cooper had been brought while yet an infant by his father, who had built the family mansion, Otsego Hall, in this secluded spot, far from the highways of travel, designing to make it the centre of a settlement of some note, if possible. Here, as the boy grew older, he learned wood-lore as the young Indians learned it, face to face with the divinity of the forest. He knew the language of the wild animals, and could distinguish their calls far across the gloomy spaces of the wood; he could follow the deer and bear to their retreats in dim secluded recesses; he could trace the path of the retreating wolf by the broken cobwebs glistening in the early sunlight; and the cry of the panther to its mate high overhead in the interlacing boughs of the pines and hemlocks was of a speech as familiar as his own tongue. When he was thirsty he made a hunter's cup of glossy leaves and drank in true Indian fashion; when fatigued, he could lie down and rest with that feeling of security that only comes to the forest-bred; when thoughtful, he could learn from the lap of the waves against the shore, the murmur of leaves, and the rustle of wings those lessons which Nature teaches in her quiet moods.

These experiences and impressions sank into Cooper's heart, and were relived again long after in the pages of his romances with such vividness that they are plainly seen to be real memories.

Leaving his home while still a young boy, Cooper went to Albany to study under a private tutor, and in 1803 entered Yale College, which, owing to some trouble with the authorities, he left in the third year of his course. It was now decided that he should enter the navy, and he left New York in the autumn of 1806, being then in his fifteenth year, on a vessel of the merchant marine. There was then no Naval Academy in America, and a boy could only fit himself for entering the navy before the mast; his ship, the Sterling, visiting Portugal and Spain, carrying cargoes from port to port, and taking life in a leisurely manner that belonged to the merchant sailing-vessels of that day. It was a time of interest to all seamen, and Cooper's mind was keenly alive to the new life around him. The English were expecting a French invasion, and the channel was full of ships of war, while every port on the southern coast was arming for defence. The Mediterranean was yet subject to incursions of the Barbary pirates, who would descend under cover of night upon any unprotected merchant-vessel, steal the cargo, scuttle the ship, and carry away the crew to be sold as slaves to the Tripolitan and Algerian husbandmen, whose orchards of dates were cultivated by many a white person from across the Atlantic, held there in cruel slavery.

The waters of the Mediterranean were full of merchant-men of all nations. Here, side by side, could be seen the Italian, French, and English sailor, while the flags of Russia, Turkey, Egypt, and Greece dotted the farther horizon.

HIS PLACE WAS ON THE DECK AMONG THE SAILORS.

Cooper passed through all these stirring scenes, known to those around him only as a boy before the mast, but in reality the clever student and observer of men and events. His work was hard and dangerous; he was never admitted to the cabin, though an equal, socially, to the officers of the ship; in storm or wind or other danger his place was on the deck among the rough sailors, who were his only companions during the voyage. But this training developed the good material that was in him, and when, in 1808, he received his commission as midshipman, he entered the service better equipped for his duties perhaps than many a graduate of Annapolis to-day.

Cooper remained in the navy three years and a half, seeing no active service. He finally resigned his commission, and passed several succeeding years of his life partly in Westchester County, New York, and partly in Cooperstown, and having no ambition beyond living the quiet life of a country gentleman.

It was not until 1820, when he was in his thirty-first year, that he produced his first book or novel of English life, which showed no talent, and which even his most ardent admirers in after-years could not read through. It was not until the next year, 1821, that a novel appeared from the hand of Cooper which foreshadowed the greatness of his fame, and struck a new note in American literature. American society was at that time alive with the stirring memories of the Revolution. Men and women were still active who could recall the victories of Bunker Hill and Trenton, and who had shared in the disasters of Monmouth and Long Island. It is natural that in choosing a subject for fiction he should turn to the recent struggle for his inspiration, and American literature owes a large debt to him who thus threw into literary form the spirit of those thrilling times.

His first important novel, The Spy, was founded upon a story which Cooper had heard many years before, and which had made a profound impression upon him. It was the story of a veritable spy, who had been in the service of one of the Revolutionary leaders, and whose daring and heroic adventures were related to Cooper by the man who had employed him.

Cooper took this old spy for his hero, kept the scene in Westchester, where the man had really performed his wonderful feats, and from these facts wove the most thrilling and vital piece of fiction that had appeared in America.

The novel appeared in December, 1821, and in a few months it was apparent that a new star had risen in the literary skies. The book made Cooper famous both in America and Europe. It was published in England by the same publisher who had brought out Irving's Sketch-Book, and it met with a success that spoke highly for its merit, since the story was one telling of English defeat and American triumph. It was put into French by the translator of the Waverley novels, and before long versions appeared in every tongue in Europe. It was regarded not merely as a tale of adventure in a new department of story-telling, but it was generally conceded to be a fine piece of fiction in itself, and its hero, Harvey Birch, won, and has kept for himself, a place hardly second to any creation of literature.

Cooper had now found his sphere, and his best work henceforth was that in which he delineated the features of American history during the struggle for independence. His greatest contributions to literature are found in the short series of novels called "The Leatherstocking Tales," and in his novels of the sea. "The Leatherstocking Tales" consist of five stories, in which the same hero figures from first to last. The series began with the publication of Cooper's second novel, The Pioneers, but the story of the hero really begins in the fascinating pages of The Deerslayer, where he is represented in the first stage of his career.

The series grew much as Tennyson's Idylls of the King grew, the same man being introduced in different parts of his career, though each separate book did not follow in exact order from the author's hand. The success of The Pioneers was remarkable. Thirty-five hundred copies were sold before noon on the day of publication, and although, perhaps, the least powerful of the "Tales," it was read with the same interest that had been given to The Spy.

In the new novel Leatherstocking was first introduced as the philosopher of nature, ignorant of books, but wise in the lore that is taught by the voices of Nature. It is a story of the primitive life of the frontiersmen of that day, and their occupations, interests, and ambitions form the background to the picture of the hero, Leatherstocking, who embodies the author's idea of chivalrous manhood, and whose creation is one of the noblest achievements of fiction.

The scene of The Pioneers was laid in the vicinity of Cooper's boyhood home, and all the exquisite pictures wrought into the setting are vivid and lifelike illustrations of the little frontier village, where man received his sustenance first hand from Nature, and where all his surroundings partook almost of the simplicity of the first ages of the world. It was an appropriate theatre for the actions of that rustic philosopher Leatherstocking, and there is a vein of tender reminiscence through the book that must always give it a charm apart from the rest, though in itself it is the least perfect story of the series.

The story of Leatherstocking begins in The Deerslayer, though it was not written until twenty years after the publication of The Pioneers. The scene was laid on Otsego Lake, and the character of Leatherstocking was drawn as that of a young scout just entering upon manhood. The next year, 1841, came The Pathfinder, having for its background the shores of Lake Ontario, with which Cooper had become familiar during the winter there in the service of the navy.

In these two books Cooper reached the highest point of his art. Leatherstocking appears in The Deerslayer as a young man full of the promise of a noble manhood. And this ideal character is developed through a succession of stirring adventures, the like of which are to be found only in the pages of Scott. Side by side with Leatherstocking stand those pictures of Indian character, which became so famous that the Indian of that day has passed into history as represented by Cooper.

The Pathfinder carries Leatherstocking through some of the most exciting episodes of his adventurous career, and belongs to the same part of his life as The Last of the Mohicans, published sixteen years before, the scene of which is laid near Lake Champlain. The Last of the Mohicans takes rank with The Deerslayer and The Pathfinder in representing Cooper at his best. In these three novels we see Leatherstocking as a man in the prime of life battling with the stirring events that were making the history of the country. All the story of the war of the white man with nature, with circumstances, and with his red brother in civilizing the frontier, is told in these books. It is the romance of real history, and Leatherstocking had his prototype in many a brave frontiersman whose deeds were unrecorded, and whose name was never known beyond his own little circle of friends.

In The Pioneers Leatherstocking has become an old man who has sought a home in the forest to avoid the noise and strife of civilized life, and he closes his career in The Prairie, a novel of the plains of the great West, whither the old man has gone to spend his last days. It is the story of a lonely life of the prairie-hunter of those days, whose love for solitude has led him far from even the borders of the frontier, and whose dignified death is a fitting ending to his noble and courageous life. It is supposed that this end to Leatherstocking's career was suggested to Cooper by the ever-famous Daniel Boone, and some of the incidents of the story read like real life. One of Cooper's most famous descriptions—that of the prairie on fire—occurs in this book—a scene excelled only by the description of the panther-fight in The Pioneers, or the combat between Deerslayer and his foe.

Cooper began his series of sea novels by the publication of The Pilot in 1824, and stands as the creator of this department of fiction. He was the first novelist to bring into fiction the ordinary, every-day life of the sailor afloat, whether employed on a merchant vessel or fighting hand to hand in a naval encounter. Scott's novel, The Pirate, had been criticised by Cooper as the evident work of a man who had never been at sea, and to prove how much better an effect could be produced by one familiar with ocean life he began his story, The Pilot.

COOPER READING TO AN OLD SHIPMATE.

The period of the story is the American Revolution, and the hero was that famous adventurer John Paul Jones, introduced under another name. It was such a new thing to put into fiction the technicalities of ship life, to describe the details of an evolution in a naval battle, and to throw in as background the vast and varying panorama of sea and sky, that Cooper, familiar as he was with ocean life, felt some doubt of his success. In order to test his powers, he read one day to an old shipmate that famous account of the passage of the ship through the narrow channel in one of the thrilling chapters of the yet unfinished work. The effect was all that Cooper could desire. The old sailor got into such a fury of excitement that he could not keep his seat, but paced up and down the room while Cooper was reading; in his excitement he was for a moment living over again a stormy scene from his own life; and the novelist laid down the manuscript, well pleased with the result of his experiment. The Pilot met with an instant success both in America and Europe. As it was his first, so it is perhaps his best sea story. In it he put all the freshness of reminiscence, all the haunting memories of ocean life that had followed him since his boyhood days. It was biographical in the same sense as The Pioneers, a part of the romance of childhood drafted into the reality of after-life.

Red Rover, the next sea story, came out in 1828. Other novelists had begun to write tales of the sea, but they were mere imitations of The Pilot. In the Red Rover the genuine adventures of the sailor class were again embodied in the thrilling narrative that Cooper alone knew how to write, and from its first appearance it has always been one of the most popular of the author's works. In these pages occurs that dramatic description of the last sea fight of Red Rover, one of Cooper's finest achievements.

Cooper's popularity abroad was equalled only by that of Scott. His works as soon as published were translated into almost every tongue of Europe, and were sold in Turkey, Prussia, Egypt, and Jerusalem in the language of those countries. It was said by a traveller that the middle classes of Europe had gathered all their knowledge of American history from Cooper's works, and that they had never understood the character of American independence until revealed by this novelist.

PRIZE-STORY COMPETITION.

FIRST-PRIZE STORY.

Betty's Ride: A Tale of the Revolution.—By Henry S. Canby.

The sun was just rising and showering his first rays on the gambrel-roof and solid stone walls of a house surrounded by a magnificent grove of walnuts, and overlooking one of the beautiful valleys so common in southeastern Pennsylvania. Close by the house, and shaded by the same great trees, stood a low building of the most severe type, whose time-stained bricks and timbers green with moss told its age without the aid of the half-obliterated inscription over the door, which read, "Built A. D. 1720." One familiar with the country would have pronounced it without hesitation a Quaker meeting-house, dating back almost to the time of William Penn.

When Ezra Dale had become the leader of the little band of Quakers which gathered here every First Day, he had built the house under the walnut-trees, and had taken his wife Ann and his little daughter Betty to live there. That was in 1770, seven years earlier, and before war had wrought sorrow and desolation throughout the country.

The sun rose higher, and just as his beams touched the broad stone step in front of the house the door opened, and Ann Dale, a sweet-faced woman in the plain Quaker garb, came out, followed by Betty, a little blue-eyed Quakeress of twelve years, with a gleam of spirit in her face which ill became her plain dress.

"Betty," said her mother, as they walked out towards the great horse-block by the road-side, "thee must keep house to-day. Friend Robert has just sent thy father word that the redcoats have not crossed the Brandywine since Third Day last, and thy father and I will ride to Chester to-day, that there may be other than corn-cakes and baron for the friends who come to us after monthly meeting. Mind thee keeps near the house and finishes thy sampler."

"Yes, mother," said Betty; "but will thee not come home early? I shall miss thee sadly."

Just then Ezra appeared, wearing his collarless Quaker coat, and leading a horse saddled with a great pillion, into which Ann laboriously climbed after her husband, and with a final warning and "farewell" to Betty, clasped him tightly around the waist lest she should be jolted off as they jogged down the rough and winding lane into the broad Chester highway.

Friend Ann had many reasons for fearing to leave Betty alone for a whole day, and she looked back anxiously at her waving "farewell" with her little bonnet.

It was a troublous time.

The Revolution was at its height, and the British, who had a short time before disembarked their army near Elkton, Maryland, were now encamped near White Clay Creek, while Washington occupied the country bordering on the Brandywine. His force, however, was small compared to the extent of the country to be guarded, and bands of the British sometimes crossed the Brandywine and foraged in the fertile counties of Delaware and Chester. As Betty's father, although a Quaker and a non-combatant, was known to be a patriot, he had to suffer the fortunes of war with his neighbors.

Thus it was with many forebodings that Betty's mother watched the slight figure under the spreading branches of a great chestnut, which seemed to rustle its innumerable leaves as if to promise protection to the little maid. However, the sun shone brightly, the swallows chirped as they circled overhead, and nothing seemed farther off than battle and bloodshed.

Betty skipped merrily into the house, and snatching up some broken corn-cake left from the morning meal, ran lightly out to the paddock where Daisy was kept, her own horse, which she had helped to raise from a colt.

"Come thee here, Daisy," she said, as she seated herself on the top rail of the mossy snake fence. "Come thee here, and thee shall have some of thy mistress's corn-cake. Ah! I thought thee would like it. Now go and eat all thee can of this good grass, for if the wicked redcoats come again, thee will not have another chance, I can tell thee."

Daisy whinnied and trotted off, while Betty, feeding the few chickens (sadly reduced in numbers by numerous raids), returned to the house, and getting her sampler, sat down under a walnut-tree to sew on the stint which her mother had given her.

All was quiet save the chattering of the squirrels overhead and the drowsy hum of the bees, when from around the curve in the road she heard a shot; then another nearer, and then a voice shouting commands, and the thud of hoof-beats farther down the valley. She jumped up with a startled cry: "The redcoats! The redcoats! Oh, what shall I do!"

Just then the foremost of a scattered band of soldiers, their buff and blue uniforms and ill-assorted arms showing them to be Americans, appeared in full flight around the curve in the road, and springing over the fence, dashed across the pasture straight for the meeting-house. Through the broad gateway they poured, and forcing open the door of the meeting-house, rushed within and began to barricade the windows.

Their leader paused while his men passed in, and seeing Betty, came quickly towards her.