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

[THE FEAST OF KING RED COAT.]

ONE OF THE OLD SAILOR'S YARNS.

BY W. J. HENDERSON,

Author of "Sea-Yarns for Boys," "Afloat with the Flag," etc.

It was a morning of yellow fog. The whole world appeared a sheet of shifting, silent ochre. Up beyond the bluff the sallow outlines of the houses faded upward into sinuous curves of restless mist. The sands of the beach looked like a reflection of the fog that wrapped the sea in its curtain of gold. The old pier jutted out an uncertain brown line with sparkles of silver along its wet columns, like the flashes of big guns seen through their own smoke. The swells loomed suddenly out of the yellow curtain with a quick flash of light along their crests, a curving of brown shadows in their hollows, and then a plunge into hissing fields of mellow foam. It was one of those blinding mornings of dead gold, when the fog hangs low over the earth, and the brilliant sun, shining in a clear sky above, forces its intolerable glory downward through the mist. The human eye is helpless on such a day, and seeks vainly for a moment's relief among the sombre shadows in the crannies of the ground. It was just the sort of a day to tempt the Old Sailor to sit on the end of the pier and try to look through the fog. So Henry and George walked down to the old meeting-place, and there they found him gazing into the water with a meditative countenance. As usual, he did not look up when he heard their footsteps, but broke into one of his silent laughs. The boys, without saying a word, sat down beside him, and presently he exclaimed:

"W'ich the same you is great navigators. 'Cos w'y, ye can steer straight fur this 'ere pier in thick weather without no obserwations wotsomever, relyin' on dead reckonin' an' general sagaciousness."

The boys held their peace; and presently their friend spoke again:

"But that are not so easy fur to do at sea. Leastways ef it was, Cap'n Philander Montgomery Boggs, of the Al Kamakh an' Kangaroo liner Queen O' Spades, wouldn't 'a' made Wakaufoo w'en he were a-steerin' fur Al Kamakh, w'ich the same are on the west coast o' Hindoostan, as any one can tell wot are bin there, an' this 'ere old sailor are him."

"Won't you please to tell us about that?" asked George.

"Wot d'ye s'pose I are a-doin'? Singin'?"

George looked so humble at this rebuke that the Old Sailor burst into another of his hearty, silent laughs, vainly tried to see through the fog once again, and then exclaimed:

"Pickle me in a tin box full o' oil fur a bloomin' sardine ef this here ain't the werry identical kind o' day wot it happened on. I were in Calcutter, w'ich the same it ain't no sort o' place at all. I landed there from a consid'able v'yage, an' had five hundred dollars a-comin' to me, an' I got 'em, too. So I laid out to have a good time in Calcutter. I staid there a month, an' at the end o' that interestin' period I didn't have nothin' left o' my five hundred 'cept a linen duster an' a black eye."

"Why, how was that?" exclaimed Henry.

"My son," said the Old Sailor, solemnly, "that 'ain't got nothin' to do with this 'ere yarn wot I'm a-tellin' of. An' also it ain't perlite fur to try fur to switch gentlemen off the course. Now where were I?"

"In Calcutta, sir," said George, with grave respect.

"An' not so werry good, too. Bein' as how I were on my beam ends, I made shift to see as how I could git afloat ag'in. So I walked down to the docks. Down in the big dry dock I see the Queen o' Spades jess ready to git out. I axed a few questions, an' I larned that she'd been undergoin' repairs an' were to sail fur Al Kamakh the next day, with a scratch crew. I'd bin in Al Kamakh oncet, an' I thort as how, not bein' a werry pertikler pusson, I'd jess as lief go there ag'in. So I went aboard the Queen o' Spades an' interjooced myself to Cap'n Philander Montgomery Boggs. An' he sez to me, sez he, 'Ye jess come right. My second mate he went ashore yistiddy, an' he never come back, an' now he can't come back nohow; an' you can have his berth ef you want it.' An' me wantin' putty much anythin', havin' nothin' to speak on 'ceptin' the linen duster an' the black eye aforesaid, I took that berth.

"The next day we got under way. The reg'lar run o' the Queen o' Spades were from Al Kamakh to Kangaroo, Australey, an' she'd bin a-repairin' at Calcutter 'cos there weren't no dock big 'nuff to hold her atwixt that an' London. She were called the Queen o' Spades 'cos she dug so many holes in the bottom o' Al Kamakh Bay a-goin' in an' out, she drawin' twenty-seven feet of water, an' the bay havin' only twenty-nine feet in the channel, an' it weren't much o' a channel at that. Fact is, the Al Kamakh an' Kangaroo line, owin' to the permisc'ousness o' their steamers about hittin' ground, were gin'rally knowed as the Overland Route. Howsumever that 'ain't got nothin' to do with this 'ere yarn wot I'm a-tellin' yer. Waal, we 'ain't got no such steamers here as them. W'y, the Queen o' Spades are six hundred and fifty feet long, an' are got four smoke-stacks, each one hundred feet high, an' big enough around fur to march a company o' soldiers through in full front. An' they don't carry only one mast jess fur signalling an' they make twenty-two knots an hour all the time, 'ceptin' goin' to harbors, w'en they sometimes don't make no knots at all; 'cos w'y, they're aground. An' the cabins is all full o' gold an' diamond fancy-work an' stained glass winders till ye'd think ye was in a palace. They has to have 'em like that 'cos the most passengers is Indian princes an' rajahs an' bunnias an' jampanis an' khitmatgars an' things goin' down to Australey to drink the waters for jungle fever; an' them fellers all has to have a floating palace, or else they go home an' start a new war with England, an' so Tommy Atkins has to git killed some more.

"Waal, we didn't have no heaven-borns aboard w'en we steamed out o' Calcutter, 'cos the ship'd bin a-repairin', an' were goin' back to Al Kamakh under a short crew—jess 'nuff to work her around—an' she were to git her reg'lar people w'en she got there. But she were all purwisioned, 'cos she were to sail right off from Al Kamakh. So we hustled her right out to sea an' turned her up to putty nigh twenty knots right off. Cap'n Philander Montgomery Boggs, sez he to me, sez he, 'We are a-goin' to make a werry fine passidge.' An' him bein' Cap'n o' the ship an' me second mate, I didn't say nothin', but I were putty pertickler sure that either him or the clouds in the nor'west was mistook. It turned out as how it were him. I've noticed that it gin'rally are that way. Clouds is seldom mistook. They gin'rally knows w'ether they be goin' fur to rain or blow, while sailor-men sometimes is out o' their course on that p'int.

"Waal, we hadn't bin to sea more'n a day w'en it come on to blow from the nor'west. I dun'no' but I've told ye that I bin to sea a good many years. Anyhow, I never seed it blow harder. It blowed so hard that the ship laid right over onto her side, an' then she slid off to leeward so fast that she couldn't be brought head to the seas. So the Cap'n decided that he'd have to let her run afore it, w'ich the same he done. An' w'en she was afore it, the wind would cut the tops off the seas astarn of her an' send 'em whizzin' over the deck in solid blocks o' flyin' water, an' they'd fall into the sea ahead o' her an' kick up back waves that rolled in over the bows jess as if we was a-takin' the seas head on. The water were three feet deep on deck all the time, an' the crew went about in the dingy. I 'ain't never seed nothin' like that in all my sper'ence at sea; but then ye can't most allus gin'rally tell wot'll happen in the Injun Ocean; 'cos w'y, it ain't no decent, ordinary ocean, but a sort o' heathen place, fit only fur razor-backs an' piccaroons.

"Howsumever, there we was a trollopin' off to the south-east at a rate o' speed that were puffickly disgustin'. The gale blowed itself out in about eighteen or twenty hours, an' the old man sez he to me, sez he, 'Now I reckon we'd better climb back to where we b'long.' So he puts her head due nothe. But bless ye! it went an' fell flat calm, an' then sot in with a yaller fog with sun behind it, jess like this here werry identical one this mornin'. The Cap'n he were putty mad, and he jess ordered full speed kep' up, 'coz he sez, sez he, 'I 'ain't got no more time fur to go buggaluggin' aroun' here,' jess like that, him bein' Cap'n Philander Montgomery Boggs o' the Queen o' Spades. Lookouts was doubled forrard, o' course, but we hadn't bin runnin' ahead fur more'n four hour w'en scrape, bump, biff! we was hard an' fast agroun'. The Cap'n he danced on one leg, an' talked Greek; but there we was. An hour later the fog lifted, an' wot d'ye think we saw?"

"Rocks and reefs all around you, with the sea breaking over them!" exclaimed Henry.

"Not so werry good," responded the Old Sailor. "The Queen o' Spades had run plumb straight into a small harbor, sort o' horseshoe shaped, with a long narrer p'int runnin' out on each side. There she were stuck fast in the sand, an' a werry consid'able number o' half-nakid savidges standin' on the shore a-grinnin' an' wavin' spears. Putty soon a big canoe started out from the shore an' come towards the ship. In the starn o' her there were a werry tall savidge wearin' a werry big red coat with one epaulet. Cap'n Philander Montgomery Boggs sez he to me, sez he: 'That are the chief, an' he are a-wearin' the coat o' some English ossifer wot's bin wracked here.' An' that bein' werry plain fur to see, I didn't say nothin' at all. Waal, w'en the canoe got close 'nuff we could see that them was the werry thinnest an' starvedest lookin' lot o' savidges ever knowed. W'y, their ribs stuck out so their sides looked like old-fashioned washboards, an' their faces looked like overgrowed English walnuts. They pulled up the canoe a few yards off an' made signs that they was hungry, an' they looked it. So the Cap'n, seein' that we was there thort as how we'd better make friends with 'em, an' he inwited the King—the feller in the red coat—to come aboard an' git some grub. The steward sot out a fine lunch in the first-cabin saloon, an' the Cap'n he showed the King aroun' while it were a-gettin' ready. We soon found out as how that there King could talk consid'able English, but he wouldn't tell where he larned it. Waal, I wish you could 'a' seed that there King eat. The steward put out a lunch for six, an' blow me fur pickles ef the bloomin' one-epauletted cannibal didn't eat it all, an' holler fur more.

"'Give poor savidge puddin',' sez he.

"'Look a-here, Kingsy,' sez the Cap'n, 'how long is it sence you filled your hold?'

"'Werry poor island dis,' sez the King—'werry poor. Eat nuts an' wild berries. Poor savidge werry hungry.'

"'Steward,' sez the Cap'n, 'fill him up solid. Give him some o' those doughnuts ye make fur the babbus in Al Kamakh.'

"Waal, byme-by the King got 'nuff, an' went ashore. He hadn't bin there an hour afore we seed a hull regiment o' savidges to work astarn o' the ship. They was drivin' logs down into the water, an' droppin' big rocks in an' shovellin' sand.

"'By the great hook block!' yells the Cap'n, 'they're a-buildin' a breakwater astarn o' us so's we can't git out o' this 'ere trap!'

"An' that were wot they was a-doin'. Nex' thing we knowed canoes commenced fur to come off ag'in, an' the hull of the King's court come aboard. There was Squilli Gee, keeper o' the Red Coat; Solo Primo, lord high berry-picker; Effie Tombi, nut-cracker to his Majesty; Toto Poto, lord high admiral o' the canoe fleet; an' Kala Poobi, secretary o' the palace. They was mostly joints, ribs, an' cheek-bones, them fellers, an' all they wanted was a square meal. Squilli Gee informed us most politely that ef we didn't feed 'em they would fill us full o' holes. So we fed 'em. Them fellers numbered jess thirty, an' they stowed away purwisions fur a dinner fur a hundred fust-cabin passingers. They went ashore, an' at six o'clock in the evenin' the King comes off ag'in, bringin' his wife an' fam'ly. There were jess eight o' his wife, an' the hull o' 'em weighed about 600 pounds. There was thirty-seven o' his fam'ly, all so thin that w'en they stood sideways ye couldn't see 'em. One o' 'em fell through a scupper into the sea, an' he were so thin he couldn't float; so he were drowned. An' wot d'ye s'pose the bloomin' King sez?"

"Why, what did he say?" asked George.

"'Let him go,' sez he; 'I got more on 'em now than I kin feed,' sez he, jess like that, him bein' a miseraceous savidge, with more ribs 'n a line-o'-battle ship. Waal, that there fam'ly o' the King's they could give the court p'ints on eatin'. Howsumever, the Cap'n he sez, sez he:

"'Steward, fill 'em all up full to the hatches. Byme-bye we'll get the hull island fed, an' then all on 'em'll go to sleep. Then we kin go an' knock over that there breakwater, an', ef the tide sarves, mebbe we kin git out o' this cussed trap.'

"That sounded all right, but it didn't work no more'n a tramp will. Them bloomin' savidges wouldn't go to sleep a bit. They kep' right on pilin' up stuff astarn o' us, an' we knowed that every rock they dumped in were a-makin' the channel wuss an' wuss. The nex' mornin', bright an' 'arly, off comes the King an' his blessed court fur breakfast. An' wot d'ye think?"

"What?" demanded both boys, eagerly.

"Them fellers was thinner than they was the day afore! Cap'n Philander Montgomery Boggs sez he to me, sez he, nothin'. 'Cos why, he were so knocked aback as he couldn't say any thin' 'ceptin' nothin', w'ich the same he said. An' I agreed as how there were nothin' else to be said.

"'Poor savidge werry hungry,' sez the King. 'Give poor savidge mutton-chop, beefsteak, veal-cutlet, ham an' egg, fried sausidge, liver an' bacon, quail on toast, poached egg, graham roll, and chocolate.'

"'Wee-ow-ow!' yelled the court, jumpin' up an' down an' lickin' its chops.

"'Look here, Kingsy,' sez the Cap'n, 'how long d'ye think this 'ere are a-goin' to last?'

"'Big ship; much grub; eat fur month,' sez the King, sez he.

"'An' wot'll ye do arter ye eat all we got aboard?' asked the Cap'n.

'Oh, poor savidge werry sorry then, werry sorry,' sez the King, sez he, lookin' fur all the world as ef he was a-goin' to cry; 'but have to eat sailor then.'

"'Wee-ow-ow!' sez the court, werry mournful.

"'May I never see blue water ag'in!" sez the Cap'n.

"'Werry likely you won't,' sez the King, an' with that he jess blubbered an' cried like a babby.

"Waal, them bloomin' beggars eat enough to sink a lighter, an' then they went ashore an' sent off the fam'ly. The steward he were jess about half crazy; an' the head cook he really were a ravin' lunatic, an' jess didn't do nothin' but dance around yellin' orders to cook things. Nex' day it were the same thing all over ag'in, and nex' day, too. All the time that one-epauletted King kept his gang a-workin' on that breakwater, an' inside o' a week it were puffickly certain the Queen o' Spades were shut up in that bloomin' little harbor fur to stay. Waal, to make sight o' land at the other side o' this 'ere yarn wot I'm a-tellin' ye, I'll say that this 'ere sort o' thing kep' a-goin' fur three weeks, an' then the steward he went to the Cap'n, an' he sez to he, sez he, 'There ain't more'n another three days' grub aboard.' An' the Cap'n, sez he, 'Arter dark to-night we'll put that into the boats an' go to sea, an' leave the Queen o' Spades here till we can send a gunboat arter her.' Half an hour later the King come aboard ag'in, an' he were so thin now that the red coat hung around him like a wet rag, w'ile his blessed court looked like a section o' picket-fence turned up on end. Them fellers was just wastin' away a-carryin' sich loads o' good grub. W'en the King see the Cap'n he went up to him with tears in his eyes, and sez he to he, sez he:

"'My dear, dear brother, poor savidge see man put food in boat. You go to go away at night. Don't. My canoes catch you, an' then we eat you all the sooner.'

"An' with those words the King commenced cryin' an' shakin' his head, an' the court set up another wee-ow-owin' like a convoy o' cats in a Noo Yawk aryway. Waal, we made up our minds we'd got to die, and yet none on us didn't want to die 'less he were obleeged to."

The Old Sailor paused as if overcome by his recollections, and George said, in a suppressed tone,

"But you didn't die, did you?"

"My son," answered the Old Sailor, "I ain't no ghost; I'm a peaceable, hard-workin' sailor-man. An' may I never live to see a four-horned grampus ag'in ef this 'ere ain't the circumstigious picooliarity o' our escape. The next mornin' the hull sea an' sky was a sickly green; the sun were a sort o' greenery-yaller; an' it were dead calm, with a big swell outside. The Cap'n sez he to me, sez he, 'We're a-goin' to have a fearful gale or a hearthquake or somethin'.' He hadn't more'n got them words out o' his mouth w'en we seed the hull island rockin' an' shakin', an' heerd a termenjous rumblin', like a freight train goin' past. 'Look! look!' yelled the quartermaster. An' lookin' w'ere he p'inted, we see astarn o' us a wave fifty feet high rollin' in from the sea. It come right on over old Kingsy's breakwater, an' pickin' the Queen o' Spades up as though she were a yaller chip, it carried her right over one o' the p'ints o' the harbor an' into the deep water outside.

"'Hooroar!' yells the Cap'n. 'Full speed ahead, an' we'll see w'ether his Royal Red Coat's canoes'll catch us now.'

"And off went the old Queen o' Spades at twenty knots an hour, and in two days we was in Al Kamakh."

"And well out of it," said Henry.

"I dun'no'," said the Old Sailor; "'cos why, the steam-ship company wanted to make Cap'n Philander Montgomery Boggs pay fur the grub he fed the savidges; an' w'en I left they was a-fightin' over it in the courts yet."

[SONG.]

BY MARIE L. VAN VORST.

Show me the place where the white heather grows,
Kind little fairies in bonnets of blue.
Why don't you tell, when they said that you knew?
Nobody knows!
Show me the place where my little dream goes—
(I wake in the morning the sky is so blue)—
They said that you sent it. I thought that you knew.
Nobody knows!
What have you done with my pretty red rose?
It fell like the down on the thistle I blew.
They said you bewitched it—oh, say, is it true?
Nobody knows!

[THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.]

THE ROSE FESTIVAL.

BY EMMA J. GRAY

eneath a most capricious sky Mabel stood sedately wondering whether or not she could wear her white tulle frock this afternoon and not have it forever ruined, when all in a moment the sun disappeared, the leaves of the trees rustled, and Mabel's hitherto sedate face saddened dolefully. Had not her mother happened near there surely would have been a shower of tears, for she had counted so very much on going to the festival. But mothers know how to manage, and putting her arm around Mabel's shoulders, she caressingly said: "Don't cry, whatever you do; wait for that when you know you cannot go; perhaps this afternoon will just glisten with sunshine, and then think of all the tears you'll have wasted! Why, only look here; there are cobwebs in the grass"—and Mabel's mother stooped to examine, thus making herself quite sure she was not mistaken—"and you know, dear, what they say, 'that cobwebs in the grass is a sure sign of a clear day.'" And so it was that Mabel's tears never really got beyond her eyelashes, and her long doleful face changed into blushes of sudden delight.

When the afternoon came, the cobweb test was proved true, for the dew fogs stole away in line and column, the warm, rich, gladsome sunshine leaped over hill, lawn, and road, and gave a tint of amber, purple, or rich red rose, according to the way the trees leaned or their stately branches swayed and curved.

The country was the majestic Berkshire section; and Mabel, who had but just entered her teens, was with her mother visiting her Aunt Lucretia in her country home.

Aunt Lucretia had no children, and didn't understand them very well, and Mabel's visit thus far had been rather unsatisfactory. But about two weeks before she was thrown all in a flutter because of an invitation to a Rose Festival, given by the daughter of "the richest man in the place"—so Aunt Lucretia explained, and with a positive shaking of her head from side to side, continued, "It would be an elegant affair, she knew, and she was much flattered that her niece had been remembered," etc. Besides Mabel, her aunt, uncle, and mother had been invited, the only difference in the character of the invitations being that to hers were added the rather informal words, "All the young people will personate favorite roses." And as she would surely be considered among the young people, and as the Cornelia Cook rose was Mabel's favorite, it took not a little ingenuity on the part of her mother and aunt to indicate this rose in her costume. But it was deftly, as also simply, arranged at last by fastening a bunch of these rose-buds on the top of each sleeve, edging the waist close to the neck with rose-buds also, and dropping a few at uncertain distances over the skirt—"as though she'd been caught in a shower of roses," was her uncle's pleasant criticism. So that it was no wonder, in consideration of the so far disappointing visit, dainty apparel, and the prospect of a gay party, that Mabel's blue eyes had looked anxiously for sunshine through the cloudy sky of the early morning.

It was shortly after three o'clock when the impatient Mabel stepped into the landau that was to convey her aunt, uncle, mother, and herself to the festival; and the horses, feeling the exhilaration of the charmed atmosphere, pranced and cantered along so rapidly that the few miles that lapsed between were soon over, and Mabel was at once bewildered with beauty and gayety. Already several emptied carriages had their wheels rolling towards home, while others had gone back of the broadly grand and altogether captivating gray-stone house to accept the hospitality of the stables graciously offered to their owners.

Just as Mabel was ushered into the bower of roses, which was the lawn's substitute for a reception-room, she overheard some one saying to her hostess:

"Queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done.
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one.
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.
The Red Rose cries, 'She is near; she is near!'
And the White Rose weeps, 'She is late!'"

"All right, papa, I'll come at once;" and then, with a bow, smile, and hand-clasp for Mabel, she added, "You come with me, for you are a stranger here, and we will lead the opening dance together." Then throwing her head back merrily, so that her curls touched her fathers arm, she laughingly continued: "What a papa—'the dances are done!' They haven't commenced; nor will they until I start them"; and with the gay raillery which her father so thoroughly understood, added, "I shall punish you by asking you to help mamma to receive, not only for yourself, but for me too."

And then, with a winning smile towards the incoming guests, following close one after the other, and seemingly a perfect prism of color—for so smart and catchy were their gowns, frocks, and parasols—she tripped off merrily, holding Mabel's hand tight meanwhile, to where the musicians were hidden behind the clump of tall snowball bushes, and a moment later the dances began.

It was a rare sight, a revel of beauty. The older folks watched from garden chairs, and seats made softly comfortable with the abundance of mellow-tinted rugs and downy dainty-covered pillows. The boys could only represent roses by wearing their favorites as boutonnières, but the girls' frocks, sashes, and broad-brimmed hats were very suggestive, and marvels of exquisite color.

All the roses came to the festival—the Austrian in its brilliant yellow, Jacqueminot in its deep red; even the little Primrose came, though it was a question as to her right; however, we were not sorry to see her, for the delicious lilac-colored costume was a pleasing contrast and a set-off to the others. The hostess personated a Moss-rose Bud. Her frock was pink tulle over the palest of pink satin. She wore a girdle of rose-buds, rose-buds around her neck and arms, and her Leghorn hat was encircled with the same flower. This hat she sometimes wore, but oftener than otherwise it was suspended from her arm by its pink satin strings, and in this respect her guests would often copy her.

During the afternoon the hostess filled her hat full of rose-buds, and somehow she managed to keep it replenished, notwithstanding that she gave to each of her older guests a bouquet, repeating while doing so, as she rapidly walked from one to the other:

"Gather ye rose-buds while ye may;
Old Time is still a-flying.
And the same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying."

There was a succession of archways on the lawn, built about ten feet apart—the frames, twelve feet high and six broad at their widest, being temporary, and only strong enough to support the various vines, mosses, and rose climbers with which they were covered. Through these arches various games were given, among them,

NAMING THE ROSES.

The musicians played something between a march and a reel, and immediately each boy signalled out the girl that matched his rose, and keeping time to the music, they walked through the first arch, and so on to the second, thus in rotation going through all. It was quite a long procession, for each couple kept about two feet back of the other. When all had thus passed through the last arch, they joined hands, thus forming a circle, and commencing with the first couple, entered the ring two by two. Two only being in at a time, when they came out the two that followed them in the march went in, and so on. When in the circle the boy asked the girl, "Which rose are you?" she answered. "Tell me, and I'll tell you." Oftener than otherwise his answer was, "I don't know," though once in a while he made a correct guess. When his answer was right, he asked the girl the language of her rose; but if he had made a mistake, he was obliged to leave the girl in the ring and stand under one of the arches; if the girl could not answer his question, she had to stand under an arch. If the boy left the ring before inquiring the roses' language, those forming the ring put the same question, and if the girl did not properly reply, she had to pay the same penalty as when not replying to the boy. When both questions were answered correctly, the boy and girl again joined the hands of the others forming the circle. When each couple has left the ring the game was concluded.

Among the rose-buds and their meaning are: White rose-bud, girlhood; red rose-bud, loveliness; white and red together, unity.

Another game was,

FINDING THE HARE.

The hare was nothing more nor less than a box made in exact copy of a hare, about six inches long. When opened it was found to be full of rose-colored and rose-flavored confectionery.

The company were told that a hare was hidden between two arches, and whoever found it was the owner. It was a most bewitching sight to see the merry hunt—such laughing faces, half hidden at times with long fluffy curls or broad-brimmed hats.

The florist had taken up a piece of sod, and underneath it, wrapped in white waxed paper, he laid the hare. When he replaced the sod, the hare's head was the only part left out, and the grass blades were so thick and long that it took considerable patience and sharp eyes to discover it.

The games closed with a visit to

THE PROPHETIC ROSE.

In the first archway was placed a huge rose made of tissue-paper of a deep red color, the petals being darker at the centre. The guests were told the darker petals belonged to the boys, and the girls should visit the rose first. Each girl in turn stepped towards the rose and broke off a petal. On the reverse side she read her fortune; for delicately pasted to the rose petal was a white one, and on this the girl's fortune was written. Everybody read their fortune aloud, for all were as interested to learn the future of their friends as their own. When the girls had finished, the boys followed in similar manner. Some of the fortunes were:

"Thou drawest a perfect lot."

"You will be wondrous happy."

"Mistress of the Manse."

"A curate—never slack in duty."

The last dance was the wreath quadrille, at which every one was presented with a wreath of moss-rose buds. The girls immediately bared their heads and put theirs on, while the boys hung theirs on their arms.

The games, dances, and all the merry play stopped at five o'clock, when under the trees was served a tempting and plentiful refreshment on tables but just large enough to seat from four to six people. The table covers were white satin damask bordered with natural roses, some with red roses, others with pink or yellow, while in the centre of each lay a solid triangle of roses, the same variety used for bordering.

Lemonade was served in rose-colored glasses; iced cakes were encircled with roses; some were left white, but others represented American Beauty or La France varieties, and the ice-cream and ices were in the prettiest of rose devices, one favorite being an overturned basket of Mermet roses.

When Mabel returned to Aunt Lucretia's she was very tired. "For, only to think of it, mamma, I was in everything. And wasn't you surprised to see me lead the dances?"

"I was glad, for Aunt Lucretia's sake. You were the stranger, and therefore had special honor."

COMING.

Coming soon the long vacation,
When we'll throw our tasks aside,
And on wings the dancing hours
O'er our gleeful heads will glide.
Coming soon the merry season,
When we need not even look
Oh! for weeks and weeks together
At the inside of a book.

AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]

BY MARION HARLAND.

CHAPTER XIII.

Six years had passed since Major Duncombe's sudden death. He was the most popular man in the county, and beloved by high and low, yet the gap made by his going was apparently filled.

Robert, the eldest son, inherited the homestead, and at his marriage, two years later, his mother went to live with her daughter Eliza, who had married a Richmond lawyer. By the terms of her father's will Emily Duncombe received a valuable farm, embracing the house that had been built for the overseer.

Robert Duncombe would gladly have retained Mr. Grigsby in his employ, but the thrifty Scotchman had other views for himself. For years he had been putting aside money for the purchase of a home for his family, and a small plantation a few miles back from the river happened to be for sale about the time Major Duncombe died. Mrs. McLaren advanced a considerable sum to make up the necessary amount for the purchase. At the date at which our story reopens the Grigsbys had lived for five years and a half in the comfortable brick house attached to the Oatley farm. Perfect June days had come again. Bees were riding the red clover-tops, and everything that could blossom had burst into bloom as the birds into song. The great fields of oats, from which the place took its name, ruffled before the breeze as green billows are rocked and crisped by sea-winds; the soft blue of the sky was unclouded, and heaven's own peace was upon the face of the earth.

Something—and much—of this was in Felicia Grigsby's mind as she rode dreamily through the familiar scenes the day after she had returned home "for good." That was the way her father put it, and she echoed it heartily. Not cheerily as yet. Aunt Jean had joined husband and child in the world that makes up for the losses and mistakes of this. Flea's new black dress told that the grief of parting with her best friend was still fresh in her heart. Mrs. McLaren's property was divided equally between her brother, her namesake niece, and her nephew David.

Nobody called him "Dee" now. The diminutive did not suit the stalwart youth of seventeen who rode beside his sister to-day, and did most of the talking for the first hour. He was tall for his years, and well knit together, with a frank face his sister thought handsome.

"You were disappointed that I didn't go to college," he was saying, "but I was cut out and made up for a farmer, and nothing else. The smell of a ploughed field is the sweetest perfume in the world to me. When I see my crops growing, I feel my soul growing with them. Where will you find anything in town equal to that, now?"

They were on the top of a hill overlooking the fertile river-lands backed by a line of forest. The noble James, full to the brim after the May rains, glittered in the sun, and made a golden rim for the picture.

"We have the 'sweet fields,' the 'living green,' and the 'rolling flood' of the hymn," said Flea, softly. "Our Virginia is a bonnie country. I am thankful that it is 'my ain countree.' Why, there are the roof and chimneys of the old house! I did not know they could be seen from here. How strange it seems that we should be living anywhere else! How much stranger that Miss Emily should be living there!"

"The house is twice as big as it used to be," replied David. "That fellow made it his business forthwith to alter it as much as he could. You can't make him madder than by speaking of it as 'Grigsby's', or, worse yet, the 'overseer's house.' It is 'Broadlawn' now, if you please, and the model place of the neighborhood. But the old name sticks to it, and all the closer because it frets him. I never speak to him. I cut him upon principle. I promised myself over six years ago to thrash him as soon as I got big enough, and I'm on the lookout for an excuse to do it."

"When the time comes, give him a lash or two in my name—there's a dear boy! All the same, he did us a good turn without meaning to. If he had been half decent with us we might have staid in the Old-Field school for years. When it and the Old-Field schoolmaster are things of the past nobody will believe that such abuses existed in a Christian community. I am sorry for the Tayloe children."

"Red-heads, all three of them," said David. "With tempers to match, so I am told. You wouldn't know their mother. She has broken terribly."

"Who can wonder at it? I'd like to ride around that way, if you don't mind: by the school-house and the spring, and by what was the Fogg place, and see the short-cut we used to take coming home from school. Heigho! How long ago it all seems!"

She said "Heigho" again, and with a sadder intonation, in crossing the bridge from which she had been shot. No other picture of the past haunted her so persistently to-day as the vision of the "Miss Em'ly" of her childish adoration. They visited the empty school-house, disused for two years. The shingles were warping and loosening like neglected teeth; the door hung by one hinge; the steps were rotting into holes. Flea rode up close to the door and looked into the deserted room. Benches were gone, and the teacher's desk and chair. She had seen Miss Emily there but once, yet she recalled more vividly than any other image that of the pretty girl in her blue riding-habit and cap, and how she had befriended the forlorn little victim of a tyrant's temper.

Since the incident of the arbor she had not spoken or thought of Miss Emily when she could help it. Memories such as those that visited her now took the sting out of what had happened there, and made her gentler in judgment. Far down in her heart the old-time tenderness awoke and stirred.

"You say she has changed very much?" she puzzled David very much by asking, as the horses turned in at the branch of the main road leading to the overseer's house.

David stared for a moment.

"Who is 'she'? Oh, you mean Mrs. Tayloe! More than anybody can believe without seeing her. Maybe we will see her as we go by."

"I hope not," said Flea, nervously. "I'd rather recollect her as she was at her best."

Nevertheless she brought the horse down to a slow walk in passing the gate; her eyes lingered wistfully upon house and grounds. The dwelling had been raised to two full stories; it was painted white and had green blinds; a porch covered with vines ran across the front and two sides. The turf of the yard was like green velvet, and three little negroes, two girls and a boy, dressed as for company, were picking up leaves and twigs about the front steps.

"Look at that, will you?" exclaimed David. "He is training them to be house servants. They are scrubbed within an inch of their lives, and put into their best clothes every morning, and put through a sort of drill out there. They mustn't speak, unless when spoken to, while they are there, and if they overlook a single straw or get their clothes dirty they are whipped. Will you look at the poor little rascals, now?"

The pickaninnies, the oldest of whom could not have been ten, drew up into a row, holding each other's hands, and as the riders were opposite to them, dropped a comical little courtesy all at once. They were as solemn as owls, and there was a mournful air about the whole performance that kept the young Grigsbys from laughing.

"I feel more like crying," Flea declared when they were out of hearing. "It is worse than dancing dogs and trained canaries. I sha'n't get their patient eyes and their every-day Sunday clothes out of my head for a week."

David's reply was checked by the patter of feet behind them. The boy they had seen was tearing up the road at the top of his speed.

"Please, ma'am! please, suh!" he panted, "mistes say you mus' please come back an' see her. She say to tell you marster done gone to de Cote-house for all day, an' she can' let you go by 'thout seein' her, 'pon no 'count."

Flea and David exchanged glances and turned their horses about. Mrs. Tayloe was leaning over the gate, waiting for them. David had said truly that they would never have known her. The auburn hair was faded to the color of a half-burned brick, and the gloss was gone; the blue eyes were sunken, yet seemed larger than of old in the thin face, and gave her the look of a hunted thing—a look that went to Flea's heart. She sprang from her horse into arms held eagerly to receive her.

"Miss Emily! dear Miss Emily!" The words were choked by a gush of feeling which she tried to cover up with a laugh. "Mrs. Tayloe, I mean!"

"Don't call me that, child. I wish I could be a girl again—like you!" holding her at arm's-length and gazing admiringly at the graceful figure and glowing face. "I saw you go by from the window, but I wouldn't have known you if your brother hadn't been with you. You've just got to stay to dinner. There's nobody here to-day to be afraid of. When the cat's away the mice will play."

She talked fast in a high, unnatural key. Voice and laugh had few familiar tones to the listeners. Flea hastened to say that their mother expected them home to dinner, and that their sister would come down the river early in the afternoon.

"She married a Richmond man, didn't she?" ran on the hostess. "Such a pretty girl as she was! Cecily! go tell your daddy to fix a nice snack on a waiter, and bring it out here for this lady and gentleman—you hear? and to be mighty quick about it. Sit down, both of you. It's a heap pleasanter here than in the house. Mr. Tayloe can't bear to eat out-of-doors, or I'd always have breakfast and supper on the porch. It's one of his hundreds of notions, and I daren't have so much as a biscuit eaten out here when he is at home. He was cut out for an old maid, and a fussy one at that. The very baby is afraid to cry where he can hear her. What a goose your pretty sister was to get married!"

"She doesn't think so," smiled Flea.

"Wait awhile, and you'll see. That is, if she tells the truth. Most women don't. I've got to the point where I don't care. How good-looking you are, Flea! Not exactly pretty, but stylish, and that's better. Beauty doesn't count for anything after a woman is married."

David had not sat down, and looked so uncomfortable while his hostess talked that his sister came to his help.

"You'd like to look at the garden and stable, I know, David. We will excuse you; but don't be gone long. I can stay but half an hour or so."

"I'll send for you when the snack comes," cried Mrs. Tayloe after him as he went down the steps; and to Flea, "Now we can have a comfortable, confidential chat."

David had said she had "broken." Flea thought that "frayed" would be the better word. The high, gay spirits had fled with youth and beauty. Her temper was quick, her husband's was violent. Their quarrels were the talk of the neighborhood, and a rumor was gaining ground that the wife was partially insane.

Grown-up Flea had never breathed to a living soul one word of what had happened in the summer-house six years ago. She was as loyal to those she loved as when the child had refused to tell how she got the scratch on her cheek. When flushed by heat or exercise a thin white sear, hardly wider than a hair, still showed the line the shot had taken. It was distinct now, and Mrs. Tayloe stroked it with a finger which was no longer plump and soft.

"I declare you'll carry that scar to your grave! What a game little thing you were! And how shamefully I treated you the last time I saw you! I was just crazy over that man—the biggest fool that ever lived. I've paid for it since! Oh, I've paid for it!"

A scarlet spot flashed out upon each cheek; her voice arose until it cracked.

"If I had only listened to you that day, I would have been a happier and a better woman. Poor, dear papa said I was bewitched, and I really think I was. Mr. Tayloe has quarrelled with my brothers, and not one of them ever comes near me. Robert told me once to provoke the man to strike me, and then my brothers would make the law step in. But there are the children, you see. I can't disgrace them."

"Dear Miss Emily," pleaded Flea, her eyes full of tears, "don't talk of these things. You are not well, and thinking of old times excites you. Where are the children? I want to see them. They must be a great comfort to you."

Mrs. Tayloe shivered at intervals, hysterically. She caught her breath at every other word.

"Comfort! They are a part of my torment. He will manage them to suit himself. Do you know that he whipped my little Lizzie when she was only a month old for crying with the colic? She was the oldest, you know, and her father said he couldn't begin discipline too early. He whipped her with a willow switch. My mother told him he was a brute, and he turned her out of the house—the house my father gave me!

"Set that down on the table here, Hampton, and you, Ned, tell Mr. David Grigsby that the snack is ready."

"He never eats between meals," said Flea, taking the chair Mrs. Tayloe pushed up to the table, "and I ought not; but I am so hungry, and everything looks so tempting, that I cannot refuse."

It was a lavish luncheon, and Mrs. Tayloe took a childish delight in pressing her delicacies upon the visitor.

"Hampton," she said, after a while, with a touch of her girlish vivacity, "go get a bottle of that shrub your master makes such a fuss over. I must have Miss Grigsby taste it. Here is the cupboard key."

When it was brought she went on with the same feverish gayety:

"He made it himself four years ago, and he gets stingier and stingier with it every year. It really is mighty good, though I wouldn't tell him so to save his life. He'd kill me if he knew I'd touched it."

"Don't have it opened—please!" begged Flea, checking the hand that held out the corkscrew to the butler. "I really would rather not drink it. I don't care for liquor of any kind."

Mrs. Tayloe shook her hand off with a shriek of laughter.

"I believe you are afraid of him to this day. Hampton won't tell on us. It isn't the first secret he and I have kept from our lord and master. Open it!" to the grinning man. "Now fill two glasses—one for Miss Grigsby and one for me. Take yours, Flea! I'll give you a toast. Single blessedness forever, and confusion to all husbands!"

Her elbow was grasped from behind as she lifted the glass above her head. Flea had set hers down, untasted, having seen who was coming up through the hall from the back door. At the same moment David Grigsby hurried around the corner of the house. He had had a glimpse of Mr. Tayloe as he rode into the stable-yard by way of a plantation road, and hoped to reach the porch in season to get his sister away without encountering him.

THE YOUNG FARMER DRAGGED THE MASTER DOWN THE STEPS.

The youth stopped short, confounded by what he saw. The wife tried to rise from the table, but was held down in her chair by the hand pressed upon her shoulder. The other hand did not relax the clutch upon her elbow. The sleeve of her dress had fallen back when she raised the glass, and David saw the flesh whiten under the cruel fingers. Flea gathered up her skirt and retreated to the steps, pausing there as if reluctant to leave her friend in the power of the angry man. His face literally blackened; his eyes were livid; the sneer that drew the corners of his mouth upward lifted the lips from strong sharp teeth like a hound's.

"So-ho!" he hissed between them. "This is what goes on while I am away!"

He got no further. David and Flea never agreed in their accounts of what happened next. The brother thought that the wife's struggle was to free herself from the savage grip upon her elbow. Flea saw the look of hate and fear with which the frantic woman dashed glass and liquor into her husband's face. He did not move so much as to wipe the red streams from his eyes. He spoke slowly and in deadly calm: "You have been taking a lesson from your distinguished visitor, have you?" glancing with his evil smile at the horror-stricken girl. "Let her take one in return from this!"

He raised his hand to strike her, but David saw the motion, and bounded up the steps.

The young farmer dragged the master of the house by the collar down the steps, thence along the gravel walk to the road. A blind instinct of what was conventional in such cases warned him not to beat a man on his own premises. Once upon the highway David stayed hand and whip no longer. Holding the elder and smaller man down upon the ground, he then and there paid off old and new scores. His whip was new and tough, the arm that wielded it was lusty. Every lash from David's whip cut through the light cloth of coat and vest, and cut the shirt into ribbons down to the skin.

Felicia Grigsby was a married woman with a David and a Jean of her own when she told me the story of her Old-Field school-days. Even then she was unable to describe without deep emotion the cruel scene I have just sketched.

"No," she said, in answer to my exclamation of indignant horror, "his wife did not leave him even after that. The act of infamous cruelty seemed to subdue her utterly. I never saw her again. I dared not visit her, and she never went beyond her yard gate, even to church. It was said she had fallen into a gentle melancholy. I am thankful, for her sake, that it was gentle. Her children loved her dearly. I hope they brought some balm to the wounded spirit.

"The youngest was ten years old when his mother died. The week after her burial her husband sold the plantation through a real-estate agent to my brother David. A month later he left the county and State, and removed to Louisiana. I hear that he has grown rich there on a sugar plantation. He says that the climate of Virginia did not agree with him. That was lucky for him—and for Virginia."

THE END.

[RICK DALE.]

BY KIRK MUNROE,

Author of "Snow-shoes and Sledges," "The Fur-Seal's Tooth," "The 'Mate' Series," "Flamingo Feather," etc.

CHAPTER XXXI.

A DESPERATE SITUATION.

f the many trying experiences through which our lads had passed since their introduction to each other in Victoria, none had presented so many hopeless features as the present. They were high up on a mighty mountain, whose terrible wilderness of rock and glacier, precipice and chasm, limitless snow-field and trackless forest, stretched for weary leagues in every direction; beyond hope of human aid; only a mouthful of food between them and starvation; with night so close at hand that near-by objects were already indistinct in its gathering gloom; without shelter; inexperienced in wood-craft; and one so badly injured that he lay moaning on the rocks, incapable of moving.

As all these details of the situation flashed into Alaric's mind he became for a moment heart-sick and despairing at its utter hopelessness. He was so exhausted with the exertions of the day, so unnerved by the strain and anxiety of the perilous hours just passed, and so faint for want of nourishment, that it is no wonder his strength was turned into weakness, or that he could discover no ray of hope through the all-pervading gloom.

Suddenly and as clearly as though spoken by his side, came the words: "Always remember that, as my friend Jalap Coombs says, 'It is never so dark but what there is a light somewhere.'" The memory of Phil Ryder's brave face as he uttered that sentence came to our poor lad like a tonic, and instantly he was resolved to find the light that was shining for him somewhere.

With such marvellous quickness does the mind act in an emergency, that all these thoughts came to Alaric even as he bent anxiously over his injured friend and began to examine tenderly into the nature of his hurts. As he lifted the left arm the sufferer uttered a cry of pain, and its hand hung limp. The other limbs were sound, but Bonny said that every breath was like a stab.

"One arm broken, and I'm afraid something gone wrong inside," announced Alaric at length; "but it might be ever so much worse," he continued, in as cheerful a tone as he could command. "One of your legs might have been broken, you know, and then we should be in a fix, for I couldn't carry you, and we should have to stay right here. Now, though, I am sure you can walk as far as the timber if you will only try. Of course it will hurt terribly."

Very slowly, and with many a stifled cry of acute pain, Bonny gained his feet. Then, with his right arm about Alaric's neck, and with the latter stoutly supporting him, the injured lad managed to cross the few hundred feet intervening between that place and the longed-for shelter.

Both Bonny's weakness and the darkness, which was now that of night, prevented their penetrating deep into the timber; but before the sufferer sank to the ground, declaring that he could not take another step, they had gone far enough to escape the icy blast that, sweeping down from the upper snow-fields, had chilled them to the marrow. This alone was a notable achievement, and already Alaric believed he could perceive a glimmer of the light he had set out to find.

Now for a fire, and how grateful they were for M. Filbert's forethought that had provided each one of his party with plenty of matches! Feeling about for twigs, and whittling a few shavings with his sheath-knife, Alaric quickly started a tiny flame, and with its first cheery glow their situation seemed robbed of half its terrors. An armful of sticks produced a brave crackling blaze that drove the black forest shadows to a respectful distance.

With Bonny's hatchet Alaric next lopped all the branches from the lower side of a thick-growing hemlock and wove them among those that were left, so as to form a wind-break. An armful of the same flat boughs, cut from other trees and strewn on the ground, formed a springy bed on which to unfold the sleeping-bags, that by rare good fortune had remained strapped to the lads' shoulders during all their terrible journey from the summit camp of the night before.

After making his comrade as comfortable as possible, Alaric hurried away into the darkness. He was gone so long that Bonny, who did not know the reason of his absence, began to grow very uneasy before he returned. When he did reappear, he brought with him a quantity of snow that he had gone back a quarter of a mile up the dark mountain-side to obtain. He wanted water, and not hearing or finding any stream, had bethought himself of snow as a substitute.

In each of the packs they had so fortunately brought with them was a handful of tea, for M. Filbert had insisted that all the provisions should be divided among all the packs as a precaution against just such an emergency as had arisen. Therefore Alaric now had the materials for a longed-for and much-needed cup of the stimulating beverage. To make it, an amount of the precious leaves equal to a teaspoonful was put into one of their tin cups while snow was melted in the other. As soon as this came to a boil it was poured over the tea-leaves in cup number one, which was allowed to stand for two minutes longer in a warm place to "draw."

While Bonny slowly sipped this, at the same time munching a handful of hard biscuit, which, broken into small bits, was all the food they had left, Alaric boiled another cup of water for himself.

From all this it will be seen that our one-time helpless and dependent "Allie" Todd was rapidly learning not only to care for himself under trying conditions, but for others as well.

As soon as Bonny had been thus strengthened and thoroughly warmed, Alaric made a more thorough examination of his injuries than had been possible out in the cold and darkness where the accident occurred. He found that the left arm had sustained a simple fracture, fortunately but little splintered, and also that two ribs on the left side were broken. For these he could do nothing; but he managed to set the broken arm after a fashion, bandage it with handkerchiefs torn into strips, and finally to place it in a case formed of a troughlike section of hemlock bark, which he hung from Bonny's neck by straps. Then he helped his patient into one of the sleeping-bags, encouraging him all the while with hopeful suggestions of what they would do on the morrow.

After thus making his charge as comfortable as circumstances would permit, the lad busied himself for another hour in collecting such a quantity of wood as should insure a good fire until morning. Then, utterly fagged out, he crept into his own bed, and lay down beside his friend.

When he next awoke daylight was already some hours old, the place where the fire had burned was covered with dead ashes, and Bonny lay patiently regarding him with wistful eyes.

"I am so thirsty, Rick," was all he said, though he had lain for hours wide-awake and parched with fever, but heroically determined that his wearied comrade should sleep until he woke of his own accord.

"You poor fellow!" cried Alaric, remorsefully. "Why didn't you wake me long ago?"

"I couldn't bear to," replied Bonny; "but now, if you will please get me a drink."

Only pausing to light a fresh fire, Alaric hastened away to the distant snow-bank, returning as speedily as possible with as much of it as their two tin plates would hold. A handful was given to Bonny to cool his parched tongue while the remainder was melting.

So small a quantity of water could be procured at a time by this slow process that in a very few minutes Alaric found he must go for more snow. As he went he realized how faint he was for want of food. "I wonder how much longer I shall be able to hold out?" he asked himself. "How many more times can I make this trip before my strength is exhausted?" A mental picture of Bonny begging for water, and he too weak to fetch it, caused his eyes to fill with tears, and a black despair again enfolded him.

At this moment the voice of the previous night came again to him: It is never so dark but what there's a light somewhere. "Of course there is," he cried, "and as I found it last night, why shouldn't I to-day?" Even as the lad spoke he caught its first gleam in the form of a rivulet of clear water that rippled merrily down from the snow only a few yards from where he stood. Hastening to this, the lad drank long and deeply.

On lifting his head from the delicious water, he could hardly believe his eyes as they rested on a solitary bird, that he knew to be a ptarmigan, crouching beside a bowlder. Hoping against hope and almost unnerved by anxiety, he flung a stone, and in another minute the bird was his. "Hurrah for breakfast!" he shouted, as he ran back to Bonny with his trophy proudly displayed at arm's-length.

Awkward as Alaric was at the business, he had that heaven-sent bird stripped of its feathers, cleaned, and spitted over a bed of glowing coals within ten minutes of the time he had first spied it, and a little later only its cleanly picked bones remained to tell of its existence.

Bonny was disinclined to eat, but he drank two cups of hot tea, that threw him into a perspiration, greatly to Alaric's satisfaction. As he also seemed drowsy, Alaric encouraged him to sleep, while he should go in search of more food and assistance, with one or both of which he promised to return before noon.

CHAPTER XXXII.

HOW A SONG SAVED ALARIC'S LIFE.

When Alaric made that promise he had no more idea of how it was to be kept than he had of what was to become of Bonny and himself. He only knew that active exertion of some kind was necessary to keep him from utter despair. Besides, it was just possible that he might discover and secure another bird, though not at all probable, as the one on which he had breakfasted was the first that he had encountered since coming to the mountain.

By the time he emerged from the timber the morning clouds had rolled away, the sun was shining brightly, and the whole vast sweep of gleaming snow and tumultuous rock, from timber line to distant summit, lay piled in steep ascent before him. It was a wonderful sight, but as terrible as it was grand, for in all its awful solitude there was no movement, no voice, and no sign of life.

Oppressed by the loneliness of his surroundings, and having no reason for choosing one direction rather than another, the lad mechanically turned to the right and began to make his way along a bowlder-strewn slope, where every now and then he came to the bleached skeletons of stunted trees, winter-killed, but still standing, and seeming to stretch imploring arms to their retreating brethren of the forest.

He had not gone more than a mile when there came something to him that caused him to halt and glance inquiringly on all sides. At the same time he lifted his head and sniffed the air eagerly, like a hound on the scent of game. He was certain that he had smelled smoke. Yes, there it came again; a whiff so faint as to be almost imperceptible, but the unmistakable odor of burning wood.

Facing squarely the breeze that brought it to him, the lad pushed forward, and a few minutes later stood on the verge of a little mountain meadow, sun-warmed and rock-walled on all sides save the one by which he had approached. Here the slope was so gentle that he started down on a run. He had thus gone but a short distance when he suddenly paused with his eyes fixed on the ground where he was standing.

He had been unconsciously following a path, faintly marked and hardly to be distinguished, but nevertheless one that he felt certain had been trodden by human feet. The discovery filled him with excitement, and he bounded forward with redoubled speed. Half-way down the slope, at a point commanding a lovely view of the flower-strewn valley, the trail ended at a crystal spring that bubbled from among the roots of a tall young hemlock. Other trees were grouped near by, and beneath them stood a rude hut built of poles and boughs, but having a rain-proof roof of thatch. Before it smouldered a log fire, from which rose the thin column of smoke that had directed Alaric's attention to the place.

Filled with exultation and wild with joy over his discovery, the lad gazed eagerly about for some sign of the proprietor or occupants of this lonely camp, and at length, seeing no one, he began to shout. Receiving no response, he entered the hut, and was surprised at the absence of even the rude comforts common to such a place. There was a heap of white goat-skins in one corner, and a quantity of meat, either smoked or dried, hung from a rafter overhead. A kettle and fry-pan lay outside near the fire, an axe was driven into the trunk of one of the trees, and, so far as Alaric could see, there was nothing else. But even these things were enough to indicate that this was a place of at least temporary human abode, and wherever its proprietor might be, he would return to it sooner or later. Then, too, Alaric believed it to be the camp of a white man; for though his knowledge of Indians was limited, it in no way resembled that of Skookum John.

"At any rate," he said to himself, "I must try and get Bonny here as quickly as possible, for he will be a thousand times better off in this place than where I left him."

So, with a lighter heart than he had known since his comrade's accident, Alaric started back over the trail by which he had come. Bonny was awake and sitting up when he reappeared, and the sufferer's face brightened wonderfully at the great news of at least one other human being, a camp, and an abundance of food so near at hand.

"Do you really think I can get there, though?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Alaric, "I know you can; for, as you said yesterday when we were looking at that precipice, it is something that must be done. We can't stay here without either food or shelter, and we don't dare wait for the owner of that camp to come back and help us move, because he may stay away several days. I know it is going to hurt you awfully to walk, but I know too that you'll do it if you only make up your mind to."

"All right, I'll try it; but, Rick, don't you forget that if I ever get down from this mountain alive, never again will I climb another."

As Alaric was doing up the sleeping-bags a familiar-looking baseball rolled from his, and caught Bonny's eye.

"If you aren't a queer chap!" he exclaimed. "What ever made you bring that ball along?"

"Because," answered the other, "it means so much to me that I hated to leave it behind, and then I thought perhaps it would be fun to have a game on the very top of the mountain. When we reached there, though, I forgot all about it."

"Yes," said Bonny, grimly, "we did have something else to think of. Ough! but that hurts."

This exclamation was called forth by the poor lad's effort to gain his feet, which he found he was unable to do without assistance.

Although Alaric carried both packs, and lent Bonny all possible support besides, that one-mile walk proved the most difficult either of the lads had ever undertaken. Brave and stout-hearted as Bonny was, he could not help groaning with every step, and they were obliged to rest so often that the little journey occupied several hours. At its end both lads were utterly exhausted, and Bonny was suffering so intensely that he hardly noticed the place to which he had been brought. The moment he gained the hut he sank down on its pile of goat-skins with closed eyes, and so white a face that he seemed about to faint.

When Alaric was there before he had mended the fire and set on a kettle of water, with a view to just such an emergency as the present. The water was still boiling, and so within three minutes he was able to give his patient a cup of strong tea that greatly revived him. Food was the next thing to be thought of, and Alaric did not hesitate to appropriate one of the strips of goat's flesh that hung overhead. Not being quite sure of the best way to cook this, he cut one portion into small bits, put these into the kettle with a little water, and set the whole on the fire to simmer. Another portion he sliced thin and laid in the fry-pan, which he also set on the fire. Still a third bit he spitted on a long stick and held close to a bed of coals, where it frizzled with such an appetizing odor that he could not wait for it to be cooked before cutting off small bits to sample. They were so good that he went to offer some to Bonny; but finding the latter still lying with closed eyes, thought best not to disturb him. So he sat alone and ate all the frizzled meat, and all that was in the fry-pan, and was still so hungry that he procured another strip of meat from the hut, and began all over again.

They had been nearly two hours in the camp before his ravenous appetite was fully satisfied, and by that time the contents of the pot had simmered into a sort of thick broth. At a faint call from Bonny, Alaric carried some of this to him, and had the satisfaction of seeing him swallow a whole cupful. Then, as night was again approaching, he helped his patient into one of the sleeping-bags, which he underlaid with several goat-skins, and sat by him until he fell into a doze. When this happened Alaric went softly outside and, to dispel the gathering gloom, piled logs on the fire until it was in a bright blaze. Sitting a little to one side, half in light and half in shadow, and having no present occupation, the lad fell into a deep reverie. How was this strange adventure to end? Who owned that camp, and why did he not return to it? What would he think on finding strangers in possession? Had any boy ever stepped from one life into another so utterly different as suddenly and completely as he? One year ago at this time he was in France, surrounded by every luxury that money could procure, carefully guarded from every form of anxiety, and dependent upon others for everything. Now he was thankful for the shelter of a hut, and a meal of half-cooked meat prepared by his own hands. He not only had everything to do for himself, but had another still more helpless dependent upon him for everything. Was he any happier then than now? No. He could honestly say that he preferred his present position, with its health, strength, and glorious self-reliance, to the one he had resigned.

Still there had been happy times in that other life. Two years ago, for instance, when his mother and he had travelled, leisurely through Germany, halting whenever they chose, and remaining as long as places interested them. Thoughts of his mother recalled the plaintive little German folk-song of which she had been so fond.

Muss i denn. Yes, that was it, and involuntarily Alaric began to hum the air. Then the words began to fit themselves to it, and before he realized what he was doing he was singing softly:

"Muss i denn, muss i denn
Zum Städtele 'naus, Städtele 'naus:
Und du mein Schatz bleibst hier—"

So engrossed was the lad with his thoughts and with trying to recall the words of the song running in his head that he heard nothing of a soft footstep that for several minutes had been stealthily approaching the fire-lit place where he sat. He knew nothing of the wild eyes that, peering from a haggard face, were fixed upon him with the glare of madness. He had no suspicion of the brown rifle-barrel that was slowly raised until he was covered by its deadly aim. But now he had recalled all the words of his song, and they rang out strong and clear:

"Muss i denn, muss i denn
Zum Städtele 'naus, Städtele 'naus:
Und du—"

THE STARTLED LAD SPRANG TO HIS FEET IN TERROR.

At that moment there came a great cry from behind him: "Ach, Himmel! Wer ist denn das!" and the startled lad sprang to his feet in terror.

[to be continued.]

[THE MANUFACTURE OF GUNPOWDER.]

BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS.

here would be no sense in having powerful war-ships, enormous cannons, and hard, tough projectiles to use in them, if we did not have improved powder to make them all effective. The high-grade powder used in warfare in these days is known in this country as "brown powder," because of its color. In Europe such powder has a dozen or more names, generally called after the men who have invented each kind. There are only two places in this country where the powder used in our big guns is made. One of them is the works of the E. I. Du Pont de Nemours & Company's plant on the Brandywine Creek, near Wilmington, Delaware, and the other is the works of the California Powder Company, near Santa Cruz, California. In both of these places the process is secret, and no one except those employed about the works is supposed to know exactly how "brown powder" is made.

All powder, whether it is intended for blasting, hunting, rifle-shooting, or warfare purposes, is made in the same general way, and so, in telling of a visit I recently made to the Du Pont Works, near Wilmington, I shall reveal no secrets if I describe the various mills and processes which practically all powder goes through before it is finished. Ordinary powder is composed of three ingredients—saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal, or nitrate of soda, sulphur, and charcoal. Powder intended for blasting is generally made with soda; powder intended for shooting is generally made with saltpetre. It takes a great deal more than these ingredients, however, to make powder. There must be a lot of small buildings, generally scattered about a ravine, through which a stream runs to furnish power to the mills. These mills are for the most part small, one-story structures, that look at first glance like tumble-down affairs, out in the woods. Closer examination shows that they are built for the most part of stone on three sides and wood on the fourth, and that they all have light wooden roofs. Still closer examination reveals that the floors are laid with big wooden pegs instead of nails, and that so far as possible all the machinery they contain is made of wood. All the shovels and other implements used by the workmen are of wood, and every man about the place wears shoes with wooden-pegged soles instead of shoes which have nails. Fancy these conditions in a beautiful wooded park, running for three miles along the picturesque Brandywine Creek, near Wilmington, and you can imagine something of the attractive external appearance of the Du Pont Works.

There is good reason for the use of wood instead of metal in the thirty or forty buildings which make up this plant. You may not know it, but, it is said to be a fact that there must be a spark to ignite powder. You may take a live coal, for example, and drop it into a dish of powder, and the result will be that the powder will simply burn rapidly. Strike a spark and let it come in contact with the powder, and there is an explosion. All powder-mill explosions, with their dreadful losses of life, are caused by sparks. It is to avoid sparks that wooden-pegged floors and shoes are required in the mills, and that wooden shovels and machinery are used. You can see how dangerous metal is about a powder-making plant when your guide takes a bunch of keys from his pocket to unlock a mill where the work is done for the day. He inserts the key in the padlock as slowly and as gently as if he were performing a most delicate surgical operation, one where life is at stake by the mere turn of the wrist. He turns the bolt as carefully as if the lock were made of an egg-shell, which he didn't want to break. Your life and his really are at stake, and neither he nor you can exercise too much care.

THE CHARCOAL-MILL.

There are two distinct stages in powder-making. The one is the part that is not dangerous of itself, and the other is the part that is dangerous—so dangerous, in fact, that the life of no one engaged in the work is safe. Still, so thorough are the precautions taken that the percentage of loss of life at this work is really very small, and one sees about the Du Pont Works men who have been employed there for thirty and forty years. The part of the manufacture that is not dangerous consists of the preparation of the ingredients that compose the powder. In one of these mills the charcoal is made. For the higher grades of powder only willow wood is used in making the charcoal. For blasting-powder almost any wood of good grain is used. The willow is grown largely on the grounds of the beautiful park, and the smaller limbs of trees are taken. Willow has an especially fine grain and texture, and this makes it valuable for powder manufacture.

In another mill the saltpetre is refined by boiling. The refined product is dumped into vats, from which it is shovelled into barrels to be taken to the mixing-house. The saltpetre in the vats is so pure and white that one might fancy that the roof had opened and an old-fashioned snow-storm had fallen inside the building, and the men who are shovelling it up resemble snow-shovellers, except that they are not bundled up. The sulphur is prepared in another place, and then the ingredients are taken to the mixing-mill, where they are weighed and mixed, and there the part of the work that is not dangerous ends.

THE ROLLING-MILL.

Near by the mixing-mill are the rolling-mills. Now we are close to danger. In the centre of this mill is a big iron saucer, probably six feet in diameter. The rim of the saucer is about eighteen inches high. Standing up in the saucer are two wheels. They seem to be about six feet in diameter also, and their rims about a foot broad. These wheels and this saucer do the rolling of the powder—that is, they grind the three substances that compose the powder into a new mixture. The wheels are swept around and around in the saucer, and they also turn on their own axes. It is as if they were kept rolling over and over, just as the wheels of a carriage roll, but also as if some power kept them turning about constantly in the small circle of this saucer. This mill is where wooden machinery cannot be used, and of course that makes it a very dangerous place.

The mixture of the ingredients of the powder is brought in and dumped carefully in the saucer. It is spread about smoothly by a workman, who, after this work is done, goes outside the mill, and does not come back until the powder is rolled thoroughly. The workman goes to a wheel a few feet away from the building and turns it very slowly. It starts the machinery that moves the wheels in the saucer. The greatest danger in rolling comes at this time. The rolling must be begun in the slowest possible way. The danger is that there may be a lump in the mixture in the saucer that will raise one of the wheels as it turns around and then drop it suddenly in the saucer, causing a spark. If this comes, away goes your mill and machinery, and possibly the workman's life with them. There are many of these rolling-mills in the Du Pont plant, because the owners act on the principle that it is not a good thing to carry all your eggs in one basket. Rarely is more than 150 pounds of powder rolled at one time, and it takes from three to eight hours to do the rolling, according to the grade of powder that is being made. The workman in charge will go to the door of the mill from time to time to look in, but he never steps inside until he has stopped the machinery and the rolling is done.

After the powder is rolled it is shovelled up and taken to a press-mill. It is put into a long wooden trough about two feet high and two feet broad, and packed between thin plates of aluminum. Pressure is applied by water-power to one end of the trough, and the powder is squeezed into thin slabs of hard dry cakes. After all the moisture is squeezed out, these cakes are removed, and one by one they are slipped down into a slot between some rollers, where each is broken up into bits that resemble the small stones that are used in making macadam roads. This breaking-up process makes a terrific noise, and when one thinks of the dangerous compound that is being handled, this noise is likely to cause a feeling of great fear in one who hears it for the first time. At this stage of the process it is difficult to restrain the impulse to take to one's heels and run out of hearing of the terrifying sound.

THE GRAINING-MILL.

After the cakes have been broken up into these bits of rough, dirty stone, the powder is taken to a graining-mill. This is really the most dangerous part of all the work. One man runs each of these mills. He cannot start the machinery in motion and go away, like the man who has charge of a rolling-mill, but he must stay in the place all the time, and feed the stones to the machinery that crushes them into grains of various sizes. He shovels the powder into a large hopper, big wooden wheels go around and around, and the powder passes between zinc rolls and through sieves of various sizes. It is a grewsome place. The machinery reminds one of the pictures that we have all seen of some of the contrivances they used to have in the days of the Inquisition with which to torture people, and it is hard to keep back a shudder as one looks at this work. Sometimes there is as much as a ton of powder at one time in the big hopper of this machine. In one of these mills at the Du Pont Works you will notice that the stone wall is eight feet thick on one side. This is on the side next to a press-mill. One side of the place is entirely of wood. This is toward the creek. The idea is to save as much property as possible in case of an explosion.

After the powder is broken up into grains it is taken in bags to another mill. This is known as a glazing-mill. It is here that the powder is polished and made shiny. There are several sheet-iron hoppers that resemble enormous barrels in this place. The powder is dumped into them, and they are turned over and over. A certain quantity of lamp-black is put into each barrel, according to the amount of powder each contains, and the barrel is turned until every grain has received a polish. The polish simply gives the powder a nice appearance. It adds no strength to the product, but it helps to keep out moisture, and it prevents the powder from losing some of its strength in damp weather. Every one knows how much better a pair of shoes look when they are polished, and how desirable it is at all times to have one's shoes kept in this condition. It is for that same reason that a polish is put on the grains of powder.

When the powder is polished, and separated by means of sieves again into grains of various sizes, it is ready for packing. It is then run into tin or wooden kegs, and is ready for storage in a magazine in a remote part of the grounds. The kegs are made in another part of the grounds, and painted in various colors, each color indicating the kind of powder the keg contains. It is then ready for shipment to the places where it is used. The powder that goes into cartridges for shooting purposes goes to the factories where cartridges are made, the blasting powder goes to the men who sell it, and thus it is carted off the place, and the mills go on making a supply to take its place.

The government powder is made in a general way in the same manner that ordinary powder is made. The chemical ingredients are somewhat different, of course, but it may be said that powder for use in cannons is simply of a finer grade than ordinary powder. It is what is technically known as a "slow" powder. That is, it ignites slowly, and burns more slowly than ordinary powder. Of course to the eye it goes off in a flash, like ordinary powder, but really it is slow in its explosion compared with ordinary powder. The object of this is to secure the full force of the power in the powder, and also to start the projectiles in cannon very slowly in their terrible journey of destruction. By using a slow powder there is less strain on the cannons and less danger of their bursting. There must be as little shock as possible to the cannons, when they contain such a terrible power as an ordinary charge of powder, and it is desirable that all of the powder should be used. Hence the need for "slow" powder. The government powder is packed in small cakes or prisms, with a little hole through the centre. These prisms look like the nuts used on the hubs of big wagons. A lot of them are put together in a package and stowed away in the cannon behind the projectile, and a spark is used to set the charge off.

One soon gets used to danger, and in going through a powder plant it is interesting to watch the men go about their tasks with as little concern apparently as if they were employed in a flour-mill. It is healthy work, aside from its danger, and for that reason it would be difficult to find a sturdier lot of men than those employed at this task. The men saunter about the place as if they preferred that sort of life to any other. In their manner there is no indication that they are oppressed by the possibility that some day they may be blown into bits. Most of them seem to be what are known as fatalists. One must die sometime, and a powder explosion provides a speedy and painless exit. They can get no insurance on their lives, but doubtless they console themselves with the thought that the percentage of the loss of life is small, much smaller than in many other kinds of hazardous employment.

These men may count with reason upon a long life, and a physician is rarely needed by any of them. They live in comfortable homes in the park where they are employed, and seem most contented with their lot. The Du Pont people have fitted up a delightful club-house on the grounds for their employees, and these find existence in their lot in life so attractive that they remain in it year after year, a contented and prosperous set of men.

[A PALM-LEAF FAN.]

BY CAROLINE A. CREEVEY.

When ministers preach sermons they take texts. We will make a text out of a palm-leaf fan.

Palms do not grow around Brooklyn, where I live; but the children of North Carolina, and further south, know their straight slim palmetto-tree, bearing a cluster of large frondlike leaves at the top, as we know a chestnut-tree. Indeed, one of the Southern States is called the Palmetto State, and has a palm-tree in its State emblem.

Small palms may be obtained at a florist's, and are fashionable parlor ornaments. But in a greenhouse they do not grow very large. In hot countries they sometimes reach a height of 150 feet. The bud at the top must not be broken off, else the tree will die; for, unlike Northern trees, palms do not branch, but continue always to grow straight up. As the leaves become old, they drop off, leaving curious scars on the trunk. New leaves grow one at a time from the apex. A maple-tree branches in all directions, and you may pinch off its buds anywhere without interrupting its growth. But it is rare to see a palm with even two branches. Such are called forked palms, referring to old-fashioned two-tined forks. Another curious thing about a palm is that it has no bark. My fan-handle is the natural stem of the leaf, and it has never had more bark than it has now.

Have you noticed a trunk of a hickory or chestnut tree which has been sawn straight across? There is a distinct centre, with rings of wood around it, growing larger and larger, all covered by bark. On such trees the outside ring of wood forms new every year, and if you can count the rings you can tell how old the tree is. When the tree is cut lengthwise into boards, these rings make beautiful grainings. A palm-tree has no apparent centre, no rings of wood, and no real bark. It is a very different kind of tree from the chestnut. There is wood, of course, in the palm trunk, else it would not be stiff enough to stand up so straight and tall. But the wood is in threads, long and slender, scattered without order through the trunk. The dots in the end of my fan-handle are the tips of threads of wood. If you were to see a palm sawn across you would find hundreds of similar dots. You cannot tell how old the palm is. The cut end of a cornstalk will show the same kind of structure, woody dots in soft juicy tissue. Grasses grow in the same way, and so do orchids, lilies, hyacinths, daffodils, iris, flag-root, cat's-tails, and many of our pretty spring wild flowers—-the yellow dog-toothed violet, lily-of-the-valley, Solomon's-seal, etc. Our grains—corn, wheat, oats, rye—are humble but useful members of this same grand division of Endogens. All other trees and herbs which have bark, wood, and pith, and which when long lived increase by additional rings of wood under the bark, are Exogens.

Next examine the spread-out part of our fan. Ridges start from a common centre, where the stem joins the blade, and radiate towards the circumference. These ridges are the paths for the veins, and all leaves whose veins run side by side are called parallel-veined leaves. A plantain leaf shows this plainly. A chestnut leaf has an arrangement of veins like a feather. There is a central midrib, from which veins spring, running across the leaf, joined irregularly with intertwining veinlets. These leaves are net-veined, and grow on exogens. The parallel-veined leaves of endogens often clasp and surround the stem, the upper leaf growing from within the lower. Even the seed of endogens grows differently from that of exogens. A grain of corn sends up one first leaf; so do lilies and grains. A squash seed sends up two first leaves. The first leaves of a seed are cotyledons, and the one-leafed seed is monocotyledonous, while two-leafed seeds are dicotyledonous.

Banana-trees are endogens, and produce such abundant fruit in their native soil that ground which planted in wheat would support two persons, if planted with bananas would nourish fifty. If you were cast away on a desert island you would fare better if the trees above you were endogens than if they were exogens. A grove of bananas and a cocoanut palm would support you better than chestnuts, hickories, oaks, and maples.

[JENSEN FALLS OVERBOARD.]

BY OSCAR KING DAVIS.

he United States Revenue-cutter Corwin was taking the court officials from Sitka to Juneau to hold court. There was to be a term to deal with the seizures of seal-poachers that had been made by the patrol fleet in the Bering Sea that summer. They were in a hurry, and the Corwin was doing her best. It was perhaps 4 o'clock in the afternoon of a dismal dull November day that the revenue-cutter rounded a point in Chatham Straits, and came plump upon a sleek little Columbia River fishing-sloop beating down the channel. Something in her trim suggested smugglers to the officer of the deck. The Captain was below with some of the court officials when the messenger from the Lieutenant reported. When he got on deck a quartermaster was already standing by the flag halyards, ready to send aloft the signal to the sloop to stop, and a boat's crew stood ready to clear away the dingy. The Captain took in the situation at a glance, and almost with one breath ordered the signal flown and the boat cleared away. The men in the little sloop had been watching with eyes of experience, and as the signal-flags fluttered from her spanker-gaff they swung their boat up into the wind and dropped the jib.

On the cutter the men were lowering the dingy, and the Lieutenant stood by the rail ready to go the moment his boat caught the water. Three sailor-men were in the boat, two at the fall-ropes and one in the middle with the oars and cushions. Jensen, the man at the after fall-rope, was a fine big Swede, broad-shouldered and stalwart. A drizzling rain was driving down from the mountains that line the Straits, and all the men were in their oil-skins and sou'westers. Jensen had added a great pair of rubber boots with long tops that reached up to his hips. The fall-ropes had begun to slip through the sheaves, and the dingy had started toward the water, when the eye-bolt at the stern, to which the lower block of the fall-rope was hooked, broke with a snap like a pistol crack. Instantly the stern of the boat fell into the water, but quickly as it fell the sailor-men were quicker. As they heard the snap of the breaking bolt and felt the boat begin to go out from under their feet, all three threw up their hands and grasped the wire stay that stretches between the davits. Two caught it with both hands, but Jensen missed with his right. The lurch with which the dingy fell had given him a twisting motion, and as he clung to the stay with his left hand he swung around until his arm could be twisted no further, and then he let go.

Instantly there was a tumult on the cutter, but it was not the crew of the Corwin that made it. The court officials from Sitka and their wives had come on deck to see the fishing-sloop examined, and the instant they saw Jensen fall and heard the splash of the water as he struck, they set up a shout of "Man overboard!" Then they began to throw things over to the sailor-man, who was rapidly drifting astern. The first signal to the fishing-sloop had been accompanied by an order to the engine-room to stop and back, but the Corwin was still under good headway when Jensen fell. As the dingy struck the water it turned bottom up, and all the oars and cushions and movable gratings in the bottom fell out and floated astern with the sailor-man. Added to these things were a lot of deck-gratings and things slung over by the excited Sitkans. Half a dozen life-buoys that were thrown over at the first alarm promptly went to the bottom. They had been cleaned and painted so many times that not even the heavy salt water would float them.

At the cry of "Man overboard!" Captain Hooper's orders were short and sharp. In response to them a boat's crew leaped at the big whaleboat. Almost in the twinkling of an eye it was in the water, and eight sturdy fellows were responding with all their might to the bo's'n's exhortations to "give way." But at the same time another crew had cleared away the Captain's gig, and the young Lieutenant who was to have boarded the suspected sloop from the dingy was placidly going about his errand in the gig.

It takes a long time to tell it, almost as long, perhaps, as it seemed to Jensen, but all this really occupied a very few minutes. The people from Sitka, hanging over the taffrail and wondering if the cutter would never begin to go astern, saw Jensen go down, and held their breath with the instant's fear that he had given up. But presently he bobbed up again, and then one, with a glass, made out that he had taken off his heavy oil-skin coat. He had his big sou'wester in his teeth, and was treading water. As he stood up out of the water he lifted one side of the heavy coat. He caught the air under it, when he dropped the edge of it again, and the man with the glass could see the coat float by itself. Then Jensen disappeared under the water again. He was down what seemed an interminable time, and they thought that surely this time he was gone for good. But he came up again, and this time he had his long rubber boots in his left hand. He caught his sou'wester in his teeth again, and, swimming with his right hand and holding his boots in his left, and pushing his coat with his brawny chest, he struck out comfortably for the whaleboat that was rapidly bearing down on him.

Before it reached him, however, there floated by one of the gratings that had been flung over after him. They were half a mile or more astern of the revenue-cutter, and the thick day prevented the nervous watchers on the Corwin from seeing what happened. But the bo's'n in the whaleboat saw Jensen grasp one end of the grating with his right hand and try to crawl up on it. Its buoyancy wasn't enough to stand the weight of the burly Swede and his heavy boots. His end sank, and the other end rose out of the water further and further as Jensen scrambled up. At last, with a smash, it turned end for end, and cracked the plucky sailor-man a resounding whack on the head. He went down as if he had been lead, and even the bo's'n in the whaleboat thought it was all up with him. But Jensen apparently was not born to drown. He was up again almost as soon as the grating was, and as the whaleboat dashed alongside he flung his big boots in and crawled over its side, helped by half its crew.

Then the whaleboat started back for the Corwin, and as it went along it stopped at intervals, and picked up the oars and cushions and seats and gratings and things that had been spilled out of the dingy, or flung over for Jensen. The water was desperately cold. A glacial current sets down the coast through Chatham Straits, and it was this ice-water that Jensen had been in for what seemed half an hour, but was really not half so long. His teeth chattered when he got into the whaleboat, and he needed something to warm him up. When the whaleboat returned to the cutter the court officials and their wives crowded along the rail, expecting to see a half-drowned man lying in the bottom of the boat. They saw only the boat's crew, and one extra man, not Jensen, standing up in the stern sheets, beside the bo's'n.

"Why, where's Jensen?" some one asked Captain Hooper.

"There he is," said the Captain, "pulling the bow-oar."

That was Jensen's way of warming up. He scrambled up on deck in his wet clothes and in his stocking feet, with his coat and rubber boots under his arm, saluted the Captain, and stood at attention. There was an ugly cut on his face where the grating had hit him.

"How did you fall?" asked the Captain.

"The bolt broke, sir," said Jensen, "and she went down."