Harper's Round Table, May 5, 1896 - Various

There once lived in New York an Indian warrior by the name of Peter Twenty Canoes. Tommy Ten Canoes lived at Pokanoket, near Mount Hope, on an arm of the Mount Hope Bay.

He was not a warrior, but a runner; not a great naval hero, as his picturesque name might suggest, but a news agent, as it were; he used his nimble feet and his ten canoes to bear messages to the Indians of the villages of Pokanoket and to the Narragansetts, and, it may be, to other friendly tribes.

Pokanoket? You may have read Irving's sketch of Philip of Pokanoket, but we doubt if you have in mind any clear idea of this once beautiful region, from whose clustering wigwams the curling smoke once rose from the giant oaks over the many waterways. The place of it on the map is now covered by Bristol and Warren (Rhode Island) and Swansea (Massachusetts). It is a place of bays and rivers, which were once rich fishing-grounds; of shores full of shells and shell-fish; of cool springs and wild-grape vines; of bowery hills; and of meadows that were once yellow with maize.

Tommy Ten Canoes was a great man in his day. As a news agent in peace he was held in high honor, but as a scout in war and a runner for the great chiefs he became a heroic figure. There were great ospreys' nests all about the shores of old Pokanoket on the ancient decayed trees, and Tommy made a crown of osprey feathers, and crowned himself, with the approval of the great Indian chiefs.

Once when swimming with this crown of feathers on his head, he had been shot at by an Englishman, who thought him some new and remarkable bird. But while his crown was shattered, it was not the crown of his head. He was very careful of both his crowns after that alarming event.

Tommy Ten Canoes was a brave man. He was ready to face any ordinary danger for his old chief Massasoit, and for that chief's two sons, Wamsutta (Alexander) and Pomebacen (Philip). He would cross the Mount Hope or the Narragansett bay in tempestuous weather. He used to convey the beautiful Queen Weetamoc from Pocassett to Mount Hope to attend Philip's war-dances under the summer moons, and when the old Indian war began he offered his two swift legs and all of his ten canoes to the service of his chief.

"Nipanset"—for this was his Indian name—"Nipanset's bosom is his chiefs, and it knows not fear. Nipanset fears not the storm or the foe, or the gun of the pale-face. Call, call, O ye chiefs; in the hour of danger call for Nipanset. Nipanset fears not death."

So Tommy Ten Canoes boasted at the great council under the moss-covered cliff at Mount Hope.

He was honest; but there was one thing that Nipanset, or Tommy Ten Canoes, did fear. It was enchantment. He would have faced torture or death without a word, but everything mysterious filled him with terror. If he had thought that a bush contained a hidden enemy and flintlock, he would have been very brave, but had he thought that the same bush was stirred by a spirit, or was enchanted, he would have run.

Tommy Ten Canoes had been friendly to the white people who had settled in Pokanoket. There was a family by the name of Brown, who lived on Cole's River, that he especially liked, and he became a companion of one of the sons named James. The two were so often together that the people used to speak of those who were very intimate as being "as thick as little James Brown and old Tommy Ten Canoes," or rather as "Jemmie Brown" and our young hero of the many birch boats.

The two hunted and fished together; they made long journeys together; in fact, they did everything in common, except work. Tommy did not work, at least in the field, while James did at times, when he was not with Tommy.

When the Indian war began, King Philip sent word to the Brown family, and also to the Cole family, who lived near them, both of whom had treated him justly and generously, that he would do all in his power to protect them, but that he might not be able to restrain his braves.

Tommy Ten Canoes brought a like friendly message to Jemmie Brown.

"I will always be true to you," he said; "true as the north wind to the river, the west wind to the sea, and the south wind to the flowers. Nipanset's heart is true to his friends. Our hearts will see each other again."

The Indian torch swept the settlements. One of the bravest scouts in these dark scenes was Tommy Ten Canoes. He flew from place to place like the wind, carrying news and spying out the enemy.

Tommy grew proud over his title of "Ten Canoes." He felt like ten Tommies. He wore his crown of osprey feathers like a royal king. His ten canoes ferried the painted Indians at night, and carried the chiefs hither and thither.

There was a grizzly old Boston Captain, who had done hard service on the sea, named Moseley. He wore a wig, a thing that the Indians had never seen, and of whose use they knew nothing at all.

Tommy Ten Canoes had never feared the white man nor the latter's death-dealing weapons. He had never retreated; he had always been found in front of the stealthy bands as they pursued the forest trails. But his courage was at last put to a test of which he had never dreamed.

Old Captain Moseley had led a company of trained soldiers against the Indians from Boston. Tommy Ten Canoes had discovered the movement, and had prepared the Indians to meet it. Captain Moseley's company, which consisted of one hundred men, had first marched to a place called Myles Bridge in Swansea. Here was a garrison house in which lived Rev. John Myles. The church was called Baptist, but people of all faiths were welcome to it; among the latter, Thomas Willet, who afterwards became the first Mayor of New York. It was the first church of the kind in Massachusetts, and it still exists in Swansea.

Over the glimmering waterways walled with dark oak woods came Tommy Ten Canoes, with five of his famous boats, and landed at a place near the thrifty Baptist colony, so that his little navy might be at the ready service of Philip. It was the last days of June. There had been an eclipse of the moon on the night that Tommy Ten Canoes had glided up the Sowans River towards Myles Bridge. He thought the eclipse was meant for him and his little boats, and he was a very proud and happy man.

"The moon went out in the clear sky when we left the bay," said he; "so shall our enemies be extinguished. The moon shone again on the calm river. For whom did the moon shine again? For Nipanset."

Poor Tommy Ten Canoes! He was not the first hero of modern times who has thought that the moon and stars were made for him, and shone for him on special occasions.

In old Captain Moseley's company was a Jamaica pilot who had visited Pokanoket and been presented to Tommy, and told that the latter was a very renowned Indian.

"What are you?" asked the Pilot.

"I am Tommy One Canoe."

"Ah!"

"I am Tommy Two Canoes."

"Indeed! Ah!"

"I am Tommy Three Canoes."

"Oh! Ah! Indeed!"

"I am Tommy Four Canoes, and I am Tommy Five Canoes, and I am Tommy Six Canoes, and I am Tommy Ten Canoes."

"Well, Tommy Ten Canoes," answered the Pilot, "don't you ever get into any trouble with the white people, because you might find yourself merely Tommy No Canoes."

Tommy was offended at the answer. He had no fears of such a fall from power, however.

The old Jamaica pilot had taken a boat and drifted down the Sowans River one long June day, when he chanced to discover Tommy and his five canoes. The canoes were hauled up on the shore under the cool trees which over-shadowed the water. The Pilot, who had with him three men, rowed boldly to the shore and surprised Tommy Ten Canoes, who had gone into the wood, leaving his weapons in one of his canoes.

The Pilot seized the canoe with the weapons and drew it from the shore.

Tommy Ten Canoes beheld the movement with astonishment. He called to the old Pilot, "I am Tommy Ten Canoes!"

"No, no," answered the Pilot. "You are Tommy Nine Canoes."

Presently the Pilot drew from the shore another canoe. Tommy called again:

"Don't you know me? I am—"

"Tommy Eight Canoes," said the Pilot.

Another boat was removed in like manner, and the Pilot shouted, "And now you are Tommy Seven Canoes." Another, and the Pilot called again, "Now you are Tommy Six Canoes." Another. "Good-by, Tommy Five Canoes," said the Pilot, and he and his men drew all of the light canoes after them up the river.

Xerxes at Salamis could hardly have felt more crushed in heart than Tommy Ten Canoes. But hope revived; he was Tommy Five Canoes still. He was not quite so sure now, however, that the moon on that still June night had been eclipsed expressly for him.

The scene of the war now changed to the western border, as the towns of Hadley and Deerfield were called, for these towns in that day were the "great West," as afterwards was the Ohio Reserve. Tommy having lost five of his canoes, now used his swift feet as a messenger. He still had hopes of doing great deeds, else why had the moon been eclipsed on that beautiful June night?

But an event followed the loss of his five canoes that quite changed his opinion. As a messenger or runner he had hurried to the scene of the brutal conflicts on the border, and had there discovered that Captain Moseley, the old Jamaica pirate, was subject to some spell of enchantment; that he had two heads.

"Ugh! ugh! him no good!" said one of the Indians to Tommy; "he take off his head, and put him in his pocket. It is no use to fight him. Spell set on him—enchanted."

Tommy Ten Canoes' fear of the man with two heads, one of which he sometimes took off and put in his pocket, spread among the Indians. One day in a skirmish Tommy saw Moseley take off one of his enchanted heads and hang it on a blueberry-bush. Other Indians saw it. "No scalp him," said they. "Run!" And run they did, not from the open foe, but from the supposed head on the bush. Moseley did not dream at the time that it was his wig that had given him the victory.

Across the Mount Hope Bay, among the sunny headlands of Pocassett, there was an immense cedar swamp, cool and dark, and in summer full of fire-flies. Tommy Ten Canoes called it the swamp of the fire-flies. It was directly opposite Pokanoket, across the placid water. A band of Indians gathered here, and covered their bodies with bushes, so that they might not be discovered on the shore.

One moonlight night in September Tommy went to visit these masked Indians in four of his canoes. He rowed one of the canoes, and three squaws the others. On reaching the fire-fly cedar swamp the party met the masked Indians, and late at night retired to rest, the three Indian squaws sleeping on the shore under their three canoes.

Captain Moseley had sent the old Jamaica pilot to try to discover the hiding-place of this mysterious band of Indians. The Pilot had seen the four canoes crossing the bay from Pokanoket under the low September moon, and had hurried with a dozen men to the place of landing. He surprised the party early the next morning, when they were disarmed and asleep.

The crack of his musket rang out in the clear air over the bay. A naked Indian was seen to leap up.

"Stop! I am Tommy Ten Canoes."

"No, Tommy Five Canoes," answered the old Pilot; "and now you are only Tommy Four Canoes." Saying which, the Pilot seized the sixth canoe.

A shriek followed; another, and another. Three canoes hidden in the river-weeds were overturned, and three Indian squaws were seen running into the dark swamp.

"And now you are Tommy Three Canoes," said the Pilot, seizing the seventh canoe. "And now Tommy Two Canoes," seizing the eighth.

"And only Tommy One Canoe," taking possession of the ninth canoe. "And now you are Tommy No Canoes, as I told you you would be if you went to war," said the Pilot, taking according to this odd reckoning the Indian's last canoe.

But Tommy had one canoe left, notwithstanding the dark Pilot had taken his tenth. He was glad that it was not here. It would have been his eleventh canoe, although he had but ten. He knew that the Pilot was one of Moseley's men, the Captain who put his head at times in his pocket or hung it upon a bush. Poor Tommy Ten Canoes! He uttered a shriek, like the fugitive squaws, and fled.

"Don't shoot at him," said the old Pilot to his men. "I have taken from him all of his ten canoes; let him go."

Tommy had not a mathematical mind or education, but he knew that somehow he had no eleventh canoe, and that one of his ten canoes yet remained. And even the old Pilot must have at last seen that his count often was only nine. Tommy fled to a point on the Titicut River at which he could swim across, and then made his solitary way back to the shores of Pokanoket and to his remaining canoe, which did not belong to mathematics.

One morning late in September Tommy Ten Canoes turned his solitary canoe towards Cole's River, near which lived his boy friend, James Brown. He paddled slowly, and late in the dreamy afternoon reached the shore opposite the Brown farm. He landed and tied his one canoe to Jemmie Brown's boat, in which the two had spent many happy hours before the war.

The canoe was found there the next day; but Tommy Ten Canoes? He was never seen again; he probably sought a grave in the waters of the bay.

But he had fulfilled his promise. He had been true in his heart as "the north wind to the river, the west wind to the sea, and the south wind to the flowers."

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

XIV.—FROM BOB TO JACK.

Paris.

DEAR JACK,—Bon joor! That's French for how are you. It's wonderful how quick you get the hang of a language. We haven't been here more than a week, and I find myself thinking in French. When I waked up this morning the first thing I said was voilà, and when I got down to breakfast and the waiter brought me a chop with mushrooms on it, without having to think at all I said kerskersay, which is French for what on earth's that. What's more, I dream in French. I drempt the other night that Napoleon came back to life again and asked me to take dinner with him, and I went and kept up a conversation all through the evening with him in his own language. He kept calling me Mussoo Bobbee and I'd call him M. le General. He told me all about his battles, how he ran across the bridge of Lody with bullets just raining all about him, and lots of awful funny things about himself that made me roar with laughter. But the queer part of it all is that while I understood him perfectly well while I was asleep, the minute I waked up I couldn't translate a thing he'd said to me. That's the worst of dreams, but I'm glad I had that one, because I really feel now as if I'd met Napoleon.

I tell you, Jack, he was a great man that Napoleon. He wasn't big, but he covered the ground. Pop says he was the greatest man that ever lived except me and George Washington. He wasn't a Frenchman at all, only a Corsican. And he was a fighter right from the start. He used to make snow forts at school, and when it came to a snowball fight, Pop says he wasn't out of it a minute. He was fearfully brave, and if it hadn't been for the weather he'd never have been beaten at Waterloo. Somehow or other he couldn't fight in the wet, and every time he had the elements against him he got beaten. When he got to Moscow the Russians set fire to the town, and that beat him, and on the way back the snow just regularly froze him out, and then it rained at Waterloo, and that finished him.

They keep his memory very green here though, which I am glad of because he deserved it. He's got a tomb that's worth dying for to get. It's out back of the Hotel des Invalides under a great big dome, and it's so arranged that when the sun shines through two big stained yellow glass windows at the back it looks as if great rivers of glory were being poured on it; and all around it are the battle flags with cannon-ball holes in them, and altogether it makes you feel as if little chills were playing tag up and down your back.

Jules says it was a pity he didn't have two or three boys like me. That was all he needed, he said, to make France the biggest nation in the world. He says I'm very much like Napoleon in several ways. One is I wasn't born in France, another is that I don't seem to be able to keep still two minutes in succession, and always want to be doing something, but I guess he was only trying to be complimentary and make me feel good.

After we'd seen the tomb of Napoleon we went up the Eiffel Tower. It's a funny-looking thing, and I'd hate to have it fall while I was on top of it, because it's a thousand feet high, which is no fun if you're tumbling. Pop says it wasn't built according to rules. The rule is that there's plenty of room at the top, but with the Eiffel Tower there's hardly any; but, my, what a view you get! It was awful funny to look down on the city of Paris from that fearful height. The people looked like lady-bugs crawling along the sidewalk, and the one-horse fakirs looked for all the world like beetles, and it's given me a very different idea about birds from what I used to have. I used to wonder why birds were such fraid-cats, but I know now why it is. It must scare a bird like everything to be soring way up there in the sky and think he sees a nice fat luscious beetle for breakfast crawling along the street, and then pounce down on it and find out it's a horse and wagon worth fifty cents an hour. It really takes an eagle to stand a surprise like that. Pop bought some souvenirs on top of the tower, and I'll bring you home one of 'em when I come. It's a brass medal with a picture of the tower on it, and it cost two dollars. Pop says that's two cents for the medal and the rest for souvenir. When I asked him to buy it he said isn't that rather expensive? Not for me if you buy it, I said, and that made a man laugh, and he said to Pop that's a bright boy of yours, and Pop felt so proud he bought two of 'em. There was an artist on the first floor of the tower that drew your picture while you waited, for five francs. Pop had him make one of me, and it's fine. Aunt Sarah says there isn't much art in it, but Pop thinks differently. He says it's really a wonderful picture, it's so like somebody else considering I sat for it.

The elevators in the Eiffel Tower are wonderful. They run right up its legs, the way ants do us at picnics, only inside, and glorious to say they were made not only in the United States, but in Yonkers, where I was born, and going up in 'em makes you feel as if you were at sea, because they can't go up straight, the legs being bandy. At one time you'd have thought I was lying on the floor when I was only standing up straight, it got off the perpendicular so far. Pop asked why it was they didn't have a sign up telling people that these elevators came from Yonkers, and a man that knew all about it said it wouldn't do any good because the French people didn't know where Yonkers was, and besides they were exciteable, and wouldn't ride in a machine they thought wasn't French. "Let 'em walk then," said Pop. "It's too high up," said the man. "Well," said Pop, "as a walk it may be high up, but as a trick it's low down." And the man agreed with him, but he said: "It isn't my fault. Mr. Eiffel built the tower, I didn't. I'm only a green-grocer at Leamington." And then we all laughed, but Pop's kind of mad about it yet, because he's proud of Yonkers, and thinks people that do things ought to get credit for 'em.

After we came down from the tower I wanted Pop to take me up in a balloon they had flying about a mile away, but he wouldn't. He thought we'd had high living enough for one day, and, besides, Jules advised us not to go. He said every once in a while the balloon broke loose and landed in the desert of Sahara, which is very awkward to those who can't go a week without water and don't eat sand. And the walking is bad, so we didn't go.

To-morrow we are going out to the palace at Versailles in a big coach, and if I see anything worth telling about I'll drop you another line.

Yours ever
Bob.

[PRACTICAL GOLF.]

BY W. G. van TASSEL SUTPHEN.

(In Five Papers.)

II.—DRIVING.

All golf is divided into three parts—driving, approaching, and holing out—and of these three, driving, or free hitting, either with wood or iron, is by far the most pleasing. It is a delightful sensation to feel the ball slip away almost by itself as the club head swings through, and then to watch it describing its graceful curve of, say, one hundred and fifty yards through the air, or skimming like a swallow, straight and low over that dreaded bunker. Without driving, indeed, there would be very little golf, and happy is the man who may always count upon being both far and sure.

Now although style cannot drive a ball, there is still a right and a wrong way of going at the problem, and the first thing is to clearly understand the conditions of that problem. Let the player imagine himself at the centre of a circle, the radius of which is the length of his arms plus the club shaft, and upon whose circumference is resting the ball that is to be swept away. Remember, too, that it is to be a swing and not a hit, that the club head should be treated as though it were a bit of lead attached to a string, and consequently dependent for its effectiveness on speed and not on weight. Obviously, if the circle in which it swings is not perfect, if at any point the string is suddenly lengthened or shortened, the ball will either be missed altogether or the force will be imperfectly applied, resulting in a loss of power. Take a piece of lead and a bit of string, and try the experiment for yourself. It will at least show you how clearly distinct the golf swing is from the hit of a baseball bat, and how speed may become equivalent to weight.

It is customary to advise beginners to use clubs with very stiff shafts, but I am inclined to think that the reformed baseball-player will do better with a springy driver. With a very stiff club there is an irresistible inclination to hit at the ball, and this is exactly what you must not do. You must be able to feel the club head swinging at the end of the shaft, as though it were really the bit of lead on a string. The instant that you attempt to hurry that swing you throw it out of time and true, and the result is failure. Weight and brute strength may drive a baseball, but for the golf-ball it is speed and accuracy that are needed.

THE "ADDRESS."

Having determined, then, that the stroke shall lie a swing and not a jerk nor a hit, the first thing is to take up our position to the ball, technically called "addressing" it. Clubs are all about the same length, but they may vary in their "lie" or in the angle made by the club head and the shaft. Generally speaking, a tall player will need a more upright club than his shorter brother, in order that the sole of the club head may rest flatly on the ground.

It is a rough-and-ready rule that when the club is placed with its heel behind the ball the end of the handle should just touch the left knee of the player standing upright. Other authorities say that the club should be grounded with its centre and not its heel opposite to the ball. As a matter of fact, the difference of the inch involved amounts to nothing. You want to be far enough away to get in all the power of your swing and yet keep steady on your feet. No one can measure that distance for you; you must accustom yourself to take it without thinking about it.

As for the position of the ball, it should be just in advance of the imaginary line drawn from the left eye over the hands and down the shaft to the face of the club head. In other words, let left eye, hands, club shaft, and the striking face of the head be in the same plane, with the ball a quarter of an inch in front. This, again, should be arrived at instinctively. If you try to measure it by a foot-rule you will be wrong.

The proper position of the feet, or the "stance," is a question about which the doctors disagree. According to one authority, you should stand squarely opposite the ball, with both feet equally distant from the line of fire. Another teacher advises that the right foot should be slightly advanced in the old or "open" style. According to the modern school, the right foot should be drawn back two or three inches. Which is right?

As a matter of fact, good golf is possible in all three styles, but it is generally acknowledged that the last-named position is the most commanding of the three, and it is the one generally adopted by the modern school and the majority of professionals. But it should not be exaggerated, or the power will be gained at the expense of accuracy. The most important thing is that the "stance" should be absolutely firm. The "straddle" should be taken naturally, with the feet neither too far apart nor too close together.

BEGINNING OF FULL SWING.

The proper grip was illustrated in last week's paper. It is not the natural position for the hands when at rest, but experience has decided that it is the best for the swing. In particular the left hand should be well over the club, or freedom of motion is impossible. Get your grip by grasping the club as though you were about to strike a blow straight down upon an anvil, and then swing gently two or three times directly over the ball, describing a flourish that shall resemble an elongated eight. This is called the "waggle," and its purpose is to assist the hands to settle into position. Finally ground the club close behind the ball for an instant, and then swing back for the real business of the stroke. About an inch of the shaft should be left above the grip to give greater command over the club. The thumb may lie along the shaft or be wrapped around it, or one thumb may be around and the other along the handle. In any case the grip of the left hand must be absolutely firm and close so that there may be no possibility of the club turning at the moment of impact. The right hand may be comparatively loose, but, generally speaking, that hand will take care of itself. Finally, keep the left wrist as taut as possible, and remember that every inch that separates your hands on the shaft takes off yards from the length of the drive. Let the arms be naturally bent, and keep your hands low. The end of the shaft should point well below the waistcoat.

Coming now to the swing proper, it is a safe rule not to attempt too much at first. If you watch a professional making a full drive, you will see his body turn and his left heel come well off the ground, while the club will appear to wind completely around him. But if you attempt to imitate him you will soon find yourself in difficulty. Instead of turning your body, you will be inclined to sway it over the right leg; rising on the left toe will throw you off your balance, and you will only be able to get a long swing back by bending your wrists. Now all these things are wrong, and tend to inaccuracy and feebleness. The thing for you to do is to take a short or half-swing back, and trust to practice to lengthen it. It is very important that your up swing should be slow, so that the arms may go freely out from the body. "Slow back," as it is called, is a cardinal principle. Otherwise you are sure to make the swing too straight up and down. Let the swing finish itself out, as the fly fisherman does when casting, and let the return be swift and even. Keep your shoulders loose and your body firm, and as your swing lengthens your body will turn to accommodate it. But it must turn on its own axis, as does a rudder-post, and not sway from side to side after the fashion of a boom. And all the time you must have your eyes fixed upon the ball or you will never hit it cleanly.

END OF FULL SWING.

It is a poor practice to make one or two false swings, pulling up short just before reaching the ball. It is certain to get you in the bad habit of "nipping," or not following through after the ball. This after-swing is fully as important as the first part, although no one knows exactly why. Let the club swing through and with the arms freely flung out from the body.

Make your tees low. There is no advantage in perching the ball upon a pyramid of sand that resembles a chicken croquette, and it will incline you to "top" (hitting the ball above the centre instead of below it) from the ordinary lies of the green.

You will say that it is impossible to remember all these things, and you are right. But if you will read over what I have said with attention, it will help you to understand the few absolutely indispensable conditions upon which good driving depends. Here they are:

1. Stand firm.

2. Don't sway your body.

3. Keep the left wrist taut, and grip hard with that hand.

4. Ground your club close behind the ball before swinging.

5. Swing back slowly, letting your arms well out.

6. Follow through freely, and keep your eye on the ball.

[FOR KATY'S BIRTHDAY.]

BY CELIA CURRIER.

As I walked down the garden path
In the pleasant bright May weather,
I saw two busy robins
A-hopping there together.
They were talking low, with heads quite close,
But still I heard one say—
Mr. Redbreast to his mate—
"Katy's ten years old to-day."
"Dear me! ten years! how very old!
How wise the child must be!
I suppose, now, she could build a nest
Just as well as we.
"You know it isn't much to do,
As you and I have found;
Just lay the sticks, and weave the hairs,
And make it nice and round."
"She build a nest? you silly wife!
I'm astonished at your words!
She couldn't even catch a worm
To feed the little birds!
"She knows arithmetic and grammar,
Can read and write and sing,
But as for building nests like ours,
She isn't worth a thing."
Then the bees set up a humming
In the apple-tree close by,
And I watched them very closely
To see what I could spy.
And I listened, too, to hear,
If I could, what they would say,
And they said, just like the robins,
"Katy's ten years old to-day."
And then they seemed so very pleased,
They said, still buzzing gladly,
"So much to do in this great world,
We need her help so badly.
"We wonder which she would prefer,
To store the sweets or gather;
Because, you know, we'll let her do
Exactly what she'd rather."
Then up spoke Madam Queen Bee,
Clad in velvet, black, and gold—
Her dress was very charming,
But she was cross and old—
"She can knit and sew, I dare say,
And she knows the use of money,
But I'd rather have the smallest bee
When it comes to making honey."
So I left them buzzing earnestly;
They couldn't quite agree
Whether Katy was as useful
As the very smallest bee.
And I walked back to the door,
Where, upon the braided mat,
Sleeping soundly in the sunshine,
Lay the gray old pussy-cat.
Then, tearing round the corner,
Came the kittens, one, two, three—
Black Bess, and Star, and Dicky—
Tumbling headlong in their glee.
"Oh Mamma Cat, wake up!" they cried,
"Hear what we've got to say.
We know you'll be astonished,
Katy's ten years old to-day."
The old cat yawned and blinked,
Stretched herself upon the mat,
Sweetly smiled on Star and Dicky,
Gave Bess a gentle pat,
Said, "She sweeps and dusts the parlor,
And that is very nice,
But she isn't worth as much as you;
You know she can't catch mice."
I laughed a little softly;
It really seemed absurd
That, because she couldn't do their work,
The cat, the bee, the bird,
Should think her worth so little,
When her friends all join to say
They wouldn't part with Katy
For millions such as they.
So, ten happy years behind her,
Six times ten, we trust, to come,
We leave our little maiden
To make sunshine in her home.
That, I'm sure, is better far
(It can't be bought for money)
Than catching mice, or building nests,
Or even making honey.

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

BY MARION HARLAND.

CHAPTER VII.

Mr. Grigsby ate his supper alone that night, having come home very late. The younger children were in bed, the three elder busy with their lessons, when he entered "the chamber." His wife hardly waited for him to be seated and to light his pipe before plunging into the story of the reports.

"Bea's is fustrate, if I do say it—'Lessons very good. Conduct very good.' Dee's was 'Lessons indiffrunt. Conduc' good.' Flea—she says she lost hern on the way home. That's what makes me say what I do say 'bout that child. A-traipsin' 'bout the country 't all hours, an' come to look for the repo't her pa's got to sign an' sen' back to the teacher ter-morrer, 'taint nowhar to be foun'."

Flea did not lift her head during the tirade. Her slate was propped up in a slanting position by a book; her round comb had been pushed to the back of her head, and her shock of hair tumbled low upon her forehead. The terrible test sum already covered one side of the slate. At her father's voice the pencil stood still, although she did not look up.

"If she says she lost the paper, it is true. My lassie never tells a lie."

Flea dashed down the pencil and started up. Her eyes burned like live coals. "Father trusts me! I knew he would. I'll tell you just what was in the old report. It said: 'Lessons good—usually. Conduct——room for improvement!' There was a long ugly dash after 'conduct.' Now you know all there is to tell."

"Well, I declare!" from Bea, and "Did you ever?" from Mrs. Grigsby, were followed by Dee's drawling comment:

"It warn't fair, pa. Mr. Tayloe hates her because she's smarter than him. She's the bes' girl in school."

Flea burst into tears, sobbing so hysterically that her father put his arm about her and led her from the room. In five minutes he was back, and glanced over the table.

"Where is your sister's slate, Bea?"

He took it from her hand, and stood for a moment, running his eyes down the calculation that resembled an irregular staircase, his rugged face relaxing as he marked the erasures and smears telling of a weary fight with the task. He was at the door when Bea's prim pert tone arrested him,

"Mr. Tayloe will ask me to-morrow if anybody helped her, pa."

"I never knew you to be backward in tale-telling," rejoined her father, and went on his way.

Flea was in the dining-room, already half comforted. Her father had listened sympathizingly to the story of her hour's labor over the formidable sum, and encouraged her to persevere by predictions of her final success. He now lighted another candle and established her comfortably on one side of the table.

"I will read my newspaper over here," he said, cheerily. "Nobody shall disturb you. I am sorry to tell you, lassie, that there are mistakes in the work on that slate. I cannot tell you what they are, but I advise you to wash the slate clean and try to forget how you did the sum before. 'Rub out and try again,' is one of the best rules in such cases."

He copied upon the margin of his newspaper the figures written by the teacher before he gave back the slate, and when she had washed it, set down the sum again for her.

"You make prettier figures than Mr. Tayloe does," said Flea, gratefully, laying her cheek against the brawny hand.

She fell to work with fresh zeal. Now and then her father stole a pitying glance at her intent face, but he did not interrupt her. At half past ten Mrs. Grigsby's disapproving visage appeared at the door. Her husband shook his head authoritatively; she shut her teeth down upon the exclamation that was between them, and vanished. At eleven o'clock the premises were still, except for the occasional rustle of the newspaper and the continuous scratch of Flea's pencil. At half past eleven she laid down the pencil and rubbed her cramped fingers.

"Father, would it be helping me if you were to look at it, and tell me if it is right now?"

Both sides of the slate were covered with figures, so childish and unevenly rounded that the father's heart ached at the sight. In reaching the bottom of the second side he smiled and patted the head leaning against his shoulder.

"Well done, lassie! It was a tough fight, but you've won it. I am proud of you, my little heroine!"

He not only kissed her "Good-night" twice, but he went all the way up stairs with her, lighted her bedroom candle, looked to the fastenings of the windows, and, Flea strongly suspected, was within an ace of offering to help her undress.

Poor father! he had called her a heroine just because she had done a sum in long division!

The missing report did not come to light. The next morning being dry and sunny, the children went by the field path to school, purposely to look about the door of the haunted house to see if Flea could have lost the paper there. There was no sign of it. In case she could not find it, she was to give the teacher a note of explanation written by her father. Mr. Tayloe had not arrived when she got to the school-house, and she laid the note upon the Bible that was on his desk, where he could not help seeing it. He read it, drawing his brows together, but said nothing of the contents until the second class in arithmetic came up to recite.

"Felicia Grigsby!" was the first name called.

A subdued rustle ran through the school. By now the children had learned to understand when there was war in the pale eyes.

Flea stepped forward and offered her slate. The pale eyes snapped.

"Whose figures are these?"

"The sum was so rubbed that my father wrote it down for me again," said Flea, modestly and simply.

"That's a likely story. We'll talk more of it presently."

He went over the sum to himself, making a sort of humming noise without unclosing his lips. This "um-m-m-m!" was the only sound in the room. When he read the quotient, he snorted violently.

"Your father is a good hand at long division. You can tell him that I said so when you go home."

She met his eyes full. Slander of her father made her fearless.

"He did not help me to do that sum, Mr. Tayloe."

"Beatrice Grigsby! what have you to say of this matter?"

Bea stammered and blushed in giving the testimony upon which the inquisitor insisted. At last he drew out the admission that her father had sat with Flea in the dining-room all the evening, and let nobody else come in.

There was no color in the face Flea turned upon her sister, but plenty of fight in flaming eyes and working lips.

"Bea Grigsby! you know that father wouldn't have helped me! He only told me once that the sum was not right."

"Silence!" thundered the teacher, bringing down the ruler upon the desk. "What more help did you want than that? David Grigsby, come here, sir!"

Dee stumped up the aisle, settling stolidly into his hips at each step.

"What story do you tell? Your sisters give one another the lie in fine style."

"Flea never told a lie in her life," asserted Dee, sturdily. "Pa said so las' night."

"He has a better opinion of her than I have. How did he happen to say that?"

"Cause ma she didn't b'lieve Flea los' her report."

"Your 'ma'"—mimicking the witness's drawl—"has more sense than your 'pa.' Did you see him help your truth-telling Flea with her sum?"

"No, sir."

"You wouldn't tell me if you had, would you?"

"No, sir."

By the time the dogged reply left his lips he reeled under a crack of the ruler upon his head. Flea cried out once and sharply, and hid her face with her hands.

Mr. Tayloe addressed the school: "This girl has disobeyed me. She has tried to cheat me. She has lied outright. She also, as I believe, tore up her report to keep from showing it at home. She will stand for an hour on the dunce-stool with the dunce-cap on her head. She will not leave the school-room at play-time. She will stay after school for an hour for three days, and do, each day, a sum in long division as long as that her father did last night. The other girls to whom I gave the sum have had the honesty to confess that they could not do it. They will not be punished. They have neither cheated nor lied."

If the child had been as guilty as he said, the punishment would have been extreme. Some of the girls cried silently behind their books; the boys exchanged savage looks in the shelter of slates and atlases. Nobody was amused by the grotesque figure mounted upon a tall stool by Mr. Tayloe, and facing the school, a conical paper cap upon her head. Something in the livid, set face that gazed over and beyond their heads with blank, unseeing eyes, appalled the most thoughtless.

Bea shed becoming tears, and was pitied by all for her sister's misconduct. Dee got a terrible flogging for sulking and disrespect. When called up to recite, he stood with locked jaws and clinched fists, and would not answer a single question. Flea cast an agonized glance at the loyal little rebel as the blows fell thick and fast and his jaws were not unlocked. He would die under the lash, she knew, sooner than cry out now that his blood was up. She had the same in her veins, and she had not shed a tear.

It was a field-day long to be remembered in the history of the Tayloe reign. More lessons were missed through stupidity or lack of study than upon any previous day. During Flea's hour upon the dunce-stool Snail Snead and Tom Carter were thrashed, Emma Jones had a taste of the ruler upon her palm, and six girls were in tears from the sarcastic scoldings dealt out to them. There was no romping or jollity upon the play-ground when Mr. Tayloe went home for his luncheon, and little appetite for the "snacks" brought from home. One and all, the children had been forbidden to speak to Flea, left solitary on the front bench, but Dee sat on the floor at her feet, his head against her knee, like an ailing, devoted puppy.

The hour rolled heavily by, and the afternoon session began. Every lesson recited by Flea during that horrible session was without a flaw. It was not in child-flesh to feign cheerfulness or to appear indifferent. She looked obstinate and sullen. She was mad (in the Virginia sense of the word) through and through. Yet her brain did its work well. She had passed the red-hot stage of temper, and was now at the white heat that often makes the mind abnormally clear.

Two other children had been condemned to stay in, but their lessons were despatched in ten minutes, and Mr. Tayloe and Flea had the school-house to themselves. His watch was laid, as usual, upon the desk, and he glanced at it frequently while writing his letters. Flea busied herself with the sum he had written out for her, the identical sum she had done last night, and, therefore, easy work.

"Have you done it?" asked the teacher, as her pencil ceased its scratching.

"Yes, sir."

"Bring it here!" As he took it he said, rudely, "Go to the spring and bring me a bucket of water."

No girl had ever been ordered to fetch water for the use of the school or the master. It was the boys' business. Without a word, Flea took the big tin bucket and dipper from the window-sill and started to the door.

"Be quick about it!" was called after her.

She sauntered down the hill, insolent, reckless, and dangerous. She had had "tiffs" and tempers often before, but they were passing flurries that left no trace upon character. What had been done to her since she passed this spring on her way to school, less than seven hours ago, could never be forgotten or forgiven. The tinkle of the water into the trough, and the whispering among the grasses as it stole away to lower ground, irritated instead of soothing her. She kicked a stone into the ripples to change the sound, filled the dipper, drained it thirstily, and was about to brim it again, when Mrs. Fogg's wheedling whine made her look around. The old woman was watching her craftily.

"What you doin' totin' water, chile, like a nigger? Who set you 'bout that sort o' work?"

"The Old Harry!" said Flea, deliberately. Her eyes were black and deep; red fire burned behind and through them. "I told you that he lived up there!"—jerking her head backward in the direction of the school-house. "You'd better keep away, if you don't want to be scorched."

The old woman's laugh was like the rattling of pebbles in a gourd. "Lor' bless you, my sweet little lady! I ain't afeard of the Old Harry in broad daylight. They tell me he do treat you mighty mean, and that's a fac'. I wonder yo' pa stands it. I s'pose he daresn't cross the Major. The Major's mighty thick with the teacher. Ah well! the pore was made to be trompled inter the mire of the dus'. Thar's a day a-comin' when they'll have to answer for the deeds done in their bodies."

For the first time Flea detected a false ring in the snuffling cant. She started up the bank, lugging the heavy bucket; the water, plashing and trickling over the sides, wet her feet and ankles and angered her still further. Mrs. Fogg overtook her and seized one side of the handle.

"Lemme tote it fur you, deary! 'Tain't fitten work fur yo' pretty white han's. He mus' be a nimp o' the Evil One, sure 'nough, to let you be a carrier o' water an' a drawer o' wood, this yere fashion."

She was not to be shaken off, and they went together to the school-house door. There Flea nodded her thanks, lugged the bucket with both hands to the head of the room, and set it down upon a bench. She would not offer her tormentor what she had brought, as if she were his negro slave. In her absence her slate had been laid upon her seat. Both sides were bare! In fact, the teacher had found her work correct, and chose this ungracious mode of dismissing her for the day. She instantly concluded that he meant for her to do the sum over from the beginning. The match had touched the powder-magazine of temper. Rising to her feet she surveyed him with desperate eyes. He sat quite erect as he wrote, and worked his month oddly, compressing and loosening his lips, sometimes fast, sometimes slowly. Now he drew his eyebrows together, and then he would smile at what he was writing. He was comfortable and at peace with himself, this natty, prosperous, and powerful little man, whom she knew to be the vilest of the vile. If she thought that the blow would kill him, she would bring her big slate crashing down upon his skull. She could not kill him, but she could injure and mortify him.

"A TORRENT OF ICE-COLD WATER DELUGED HIM."

Quickly and easily she lifted the pail she had carried with difficulty just now. Wrath lent her strength. In a twinkling it was turned upside down upon the head of the unsuspecting writer; a torrent of ice-cold water deluged him, and as she let go the bucket it clattered down upon his shoulders, covering his head like an enormous cap.

It was the deed of a second. In another second Flea had cleared the school-house and was running for her life.

[to be continued.]

[RICK DALE.]

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XXI.

A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY.

The revenue-cutter whose appearance caused Alaric and Bonny so much anxiety had, indeed, been absent from Tacoma for two weeks, as the man in the sail-boat told them. On their first night in the Siwash camp she had gone to Port Townsend to turn over the captured smuggler Fancy to the Collector at that place. Knowing how important the testimony of her crew would be during the proceedings against her, the commander of the cutter intended to return to the upper sound and to institute a thorough search for them the very next day. Before he could carry out this plan news was received that an American ship was ashore near Cape Flattery, one hundred miles away in the opposite direction, and the cutter was despatched to her assistance.

Although the task of saving the ship was successfully accomplished, and she was finally pulled off the reef on which she had struck, it was nearly two weeks before the cutter was again at liberty to devote her attention to smugglers, with only a slight hope of finding those whom he so greatly wanted as witnesses; but thinking he might possibly gain some information concerning them from Skookum John, the commander of the cutter headed his vessel up the sound, steamed through Colros passage, and sent his third Lieutenant ashore in the yawl to make inquiries at the Siwash camp.

This officer found only women and children at home, but learned that the owner of the camp had gone to Tacoma. As he was about to depart without having discovered anything concerning those of whom he was in search, curiosity prompted him to glance into a hut that appeared newer and much neater than the others. Here, to his amazement and great satisfaction, the first object that caught his eye was the well-remembered canvas dunnage-bag that he had seen in Victoria, and which still bore the name of "Philip Ryder" on its dingy surface.

"Ho, ho! Master Ryder! So we are on your trail at last, are we?" soliloquized the officer. "This is a clew of which we must not lose sight, and so I guess I'll just take it along and hold on to it until we can return it to you in person."

Thus it happened that Alaric's bag was carried aboard the cutter, where its contents excited a great deal of curiosity, and that vessel was headed toward Tacoma in the hope of finding the lads, who were supposed to be with Skookum John.

The big canoe was discovered when in the very act of going about and standing back toward the city, as though to escape from the approaching cutter, and a full head of steam was instantly crowded on in pursuit. Great was the disappointment when, on overtaking her, she was found to contain only Indians. These, however, eagerly directed attention to a smaller canoe ahead, in which could be distinguished two figures, apparently those of white men, and the cutter renewed her chase.

Before she could overtake this second craft it was lost to sight behind a wharf, and a Lieutenant was hastily sent ashore in a boat to trace its occupants.

He found the empty canoe in charge of a yacht sailor, who said that those who had come in her were somewhere up on the wharf, and without waiting for further particulars the officer followed after them. When he reached the group of spectators assembled to witness the departure of the great steamer that was just moving out, he asked one of them if he had seen two persons running that way within a minute. One of them, whom he mentioned as being the younger, he described as being a tall, gentlemanly appearing and neatly dressed lad, while the other was a sailor.

Now the gentleman of whom he made inquiries answered that he had seen a number of persons running just as the ship's moorings were cast off. "There were a couple of young chaps," he said, "very ragged and dirty-looking, who ran aboard the last thing, as if afraid of being left. Then there was another couple who seemed in a great hurry, and ran shouting after a carriage that was just starting up town. They stopped it, got in, and drove off. One of them was, as you say, a very gentlemanly appearing lad, and the other was so evidently a sailor that I expect they're the two you are looking for."

"I shouldn't wonder if they were," replied the officer, delighted at having thus quickly discovered the trail. "Did you happen to hear them give the driver any directions?"

"Yes. The young chap said, 'Hotel Tacoma.'"

Thanking the gentleman for his information, the Lieutenant hurried away, boarded an up-town trolley-car, and a few minutes later stood in the office of the great hotel scanning its register. A single glance was sufficient, for the last two names on the page, so recently entered that the ink was hardly dry, assured him that his search was successful. They were both in the same handwriting, and read: Philip Ryder, Alaska. Jalap Coombs. Alaska. "Pretty smart dodge," chuckled the Lieutenant, as he walked away, "to hail from such an indefinite place as Alaska. This Philip Ryder is certainly a sharp chap. It is plain enough now that he left that bag in the Siwash camp as a blind to throw us off the track."

The Lieutenant then hurried back toward the cutter, to make report of what he had discovered to his superior officer. After listening to all he had to say, that gentleman decided to continue the investigation himself; and an hour later he, with his third Lieutenant, both out of uniform, appeared at the hotel, with a sailor bearing a canvas bag.

Going into one of the small writing-rooms, which happened to be unoccupied, the Commander wrote a name on a plain card and sent it up to Mr. Philip Ryder, with a request that the gentleman would consent to see him on a matter of business. Then, with the canvas bag on the floor beside him, he waited alone.

Inside of three minutes a bell-boy ushered into the room a well-dressed, squarely built youth, with a resolute face and blue eyes that looked straight into the Commander's.

"Mr. Ellery, I believe," he said, glancing at the card still held in his hand.

The Commander bowed slightly, and then asked, "Is your name Philip Ryder?"

"It is."

"Is this your property?" Here the Commander indicated the canvas bag.

The youth stepped forward to get a better view of the article, in question, started as though surprised, and then answered, "Yes, sir, I believe it is; but I must confess to great curiosity as to how it came here."

"Why so?"

"Because when I last heard of it it was on board a vessel that had just been seized by a revenue-cutter."

"Exactly; and that vessel was seized for smuggling by a cutter under my command."

"Pardon me, sir, but I think you are mistaken," objected Phil, "for I am intimately acquainted with the Commander of the cutter in question, while you are a stranger to me."

"I beg leave to say that I think I know what I am talking about," retorted the other, stiffly, "and I may as well inform you at once that I not only was, but am still, in command of the cutter that seized your smuggling craft some two weeks ago. I am here for the purpose of causing the arrest and detention of yourself and the mate of that vessel, both of whom will be wanted as witnesses for the government during the forth-coming proceedings to be instituted against Captain Duff."

"And I, sir," replied Phil, hotly, "beg leave to say that you don't know any more of what you are talking about than I do. Although I have sailed with Captain Duff and know him well, I am not a smuggler, and never have been. Moreover, I can summon witnesses this very minute who will identify me and certify to my character."

With this Phil stepped to the bell. "Go to number 20," said the youth to the bell-boy, "and ask the gentleman who is there to kindly step down here for a minute."

"And you, boy," thundered the Commander, his face flushed with anger, "find the gentleman who came here with me, and inform him that I desire his presence."

The Lieutenant was the first to arrive.

"Is this your Philip Ryder?" demanded the Commander, at the same time pointing to the youth opposite.

"No, sir, he is not," replied the Lieutenant, promptly.

"Who is he, then?" asked the other.

"Begging the gentleman's pardon, this is Mr. Philip Ryder, as I can swear," interrupted a fourth individual, who had just entered.

"Hello, Carncross! You here? And you know this young man?"

"Certainly I do, sir. I met his father, Mr. John Ryder—the famous mining expert, you know—at my father's house in San Francisco last winter, and came to call on him here as soon as I heard of his arrival in Tacoma. He and his son arrived on to-day's steamer from Alaska. He is also a friend of your friend Captain Matthews."

"What! Not Israel Matthews of the Phoca? You don't say so! Mr. Ryder, allow me to shake hands with you, and to offer my humble apologies for this absurd mistake."

At the end of an hour the revenue-officers were as puzzled as ever over the disappearance of the present owner of the famous Philip Ryder bag, and his companion; but suddenly Carncross exclaimed:

"I think I know what became of them! I remember now seeing the two chaps who came in that canoe run down the wharf and board the Alaska steamer just as she was starting for Seattle, and I'll warrant you that's where they are at this minute. Tough-looking fellows they were, too."

"In that case," said the Commander, rising, "I must be getting under way for Seattle as quickly as possible. I only wish that I might have you both down to dine with me this evening; but business before pleasure, and so I will wish you both a very good-night."

CHAPTER XXII.

TWO SHORT BUT EXCITING VOYAGES.

"I tell you, Rick Dale, that was a close shave," said Bonny, as the steamer moved away from the Tacoma wharf.

"Wasn't it, though! But it seems to me, Bonny, that smuggling must be one of the worst crimes a person can commit, judging from the anxiety those fellows show to capture us. I knew it was bad, but I hadn't any idea it was so serious."

"It does look as if we were wanted," admitted Bonny; "but we've thrown 'em off the track this time, so they won't bother us any more. Didn't we do it neatly?"

"Yes, we certainly did. But where do you suppose we are going now?"

"Haven't the least idea, and don't care. Maybe to China, maybe to San Francisco, and maybe to Alaska. Yes, I think this must be an Alaska ship, for I remember now seeing a big Eskimo dog taken ashore just as we came aboard, and Alaska is where they come from. If she is bound for Alaska, though, she'll stop at Port Townsend and Victoria on the way, and we must lie low until after we pass the first. It would never do to be put off there, for that's headquarters for the whole revenue business, and they'd scoop us in quick enough. I wouldn't mind Victoria so very much, though."

"I should," objected Alaric, who feared that the Sountaggs might have telegraphed from Japan to have him apprehended and forwarded to them. "I don't like Victoria, and neither do I want to go to any of the places you have mentioned."

"Very well," laughed Bonny, who, with a sense of freedom, had regained all his light-heartedness. "Just send word to the Captain where you want to go, and he'll probably be pleased to take you there."

For an hour or so longer the boys discussed their plans and prospects. Then, as it was growing dark and they were becoming very hungry, Bonny proposed to skirmish around and see what the chances were for obtaining something to eat. Bidding Alaric remain in hiding until his return, the young sailor sallied forth. In a moment he reappeared with the news that the ship was putting in at Seattle and was already close to the wharf.

"That's good," said Alaric. "Seattle is much better for us than Fort Townsend, or Victoria, San Francisco, China, or even Alaska. So I move we go ashore and try our luck."

This was what they were obliged to do, whether or no, for the ship was hardly moored before they were discovered by one of the mates, who chased them ashore.

"Whew-w!" gasped Alaric, after they had run to a safe distance. "It seems to me that working your way through the world consists mainly in being chased by people who are bigger and stronger than you are."

"Yes," remarked Bonny, philosophically. "I've noticed that. It's the same way with sparrows and dogs too; the strong ones are always picking or growling at those that are weaker. Being chased, though, is better than being caught, and we haven't been that yet. Now let's go up town and see about a hotel."

This mention of a hotel reminded Alaric of his previous visit to Seattle and the great "Rainier" away up on the hill-side in which he had spent the day. But Rainier dinners were not for poor boys, and with a regretful sigh he followed his comrade in another direction.

It is hard to say how our lads expected to obtain the meal for which they longed; but whatever hopes they had were doomed to disappointment, for after wandering about the streets a couple of hours their hunger was as unsatisfied as ever. Finally Bonny asked a policeman if there was not some place in that great city where a boy without one cent in his pocket could get something to eat.

"There's a free-soup kitchen on Jessler Avenue," answered the man, "but it's closed for the night now, and you can't get anything there before seven o'clock to-morrow morning. But what do strong young fellows like you want of soup-kitchens? Why ain't ye at work, earning an honest living? Tramps is no good, anyway, and if you don't chase yourselves out of this I'll run you in. See?"

Seven o'clock to-morrow morning! How could they wait? and yet there seemed nothing else to be done. Slowly and despondently the lads made their way back to the wharf on which they had landed, for even that seemed a better place in which to pass the long night hours than the unfriendly streets.

They eluded the vigilance of a night-watchman, and gained the shelter of a pile of hay bales, on which they stretched themselves wearily.

"I'd almost rather be in China, or even a well-fed smuggler," announced Alaric.

"Wouldn't I?" responded Bonny; "and won't I if ever I get another chance? I don't believe anything would seem wrong to a fellow as hungry as I am, if it only brought him something to eat. Even chewing hay is some comfort."

At length they fell into an uneasy sleep, from which they were awakened a few hours later by the sound of voices close at hand. In one of these they instantly, and with sinking hearts, recognized that of their relentless pursuer, the revenue-cutter's third Lieutenant. The other person was evidently answering a question, for he was saying:

"Yes, sir, I seen a couple of young rascals such as you describe chased off the Alaska boat by the mate. They started up town, but I make no doubt they'll be back here again. Such as them is always hanging around the docks."

"If they do come around, and you can catch them, just hold on to them, for they are wanted by the government, and there is a reward offered for them," said the officer.

"Ay, ay, sir; I'll nab 'em for ye if they comes this way again," was the answer, and then both speakers moved out of hearing toward the upper end of the wharf.

The poor, hunted lads, trembling at the narrowness of their escape, peered after the retreating forms. Then Bonny's attention was attracted to the lights of a white side-wheel steamer lying at the outer end of the wharf that seemed on the point of departure.

"Look here, Rick," he whispered, "this place is growing too hot for us, and we've got to get out of it. There's the City of Kingston, and she is going to Victoria or Tacoma, I don't know which. Either of them would be better for us than Seattle just now, though, because in Victoria the revenue folks couldn't touch us, and in Tacoma they won't be looking for us. What do you say, shall we try for a passage on her?"

"Yes," replied Alaric. "I suppose so, for it is certain that we must get away from here somehow. I hope she won't take us to Victoria, though."

So the young fugitives stole down the wharf in darkest shadows to where a force of men were busily at work by lantern-light, trucking freight up a broad gang-plank from the steamer's lower deck, and at the same time carrying aboard the small quantity that was to go somewhere else. Among this was a lot of household goods.

"Now," whispered Bonny, "we've got to be quick, for there isn't much more to be done. I'll run aboard with one of these trucks, while you grab a chair or something from that pile of stuff and follow after. Each of us must hide on his own hook in the first place he comes to, and if we don't find a chance to get together on the trip, we'll meet on the wharf at the first place she stops. Sabe?"

"Yes. Go ahead."

BONNY SEIZED A TRUCK, AND ALARIC A MATTRESS.

So Bonny boldly picked up one of several idle trucks that lay near by, and rattled it down the gang-plank with every appearance of bustling activity. As he trundled it aft along the dimly lighted deck he was greeted by a gruff voice from the darkness with:

"Get that truck out of here. Didn't you hear me say I didn't need any more of 'em?"

"Ay, ay, sir," answered the pretended stevedore, facing promptly about and wheeling his truck away. In a place where there seemed to be no one looking he set it gently down, and walked forward as boldly as though executing some order just received. Away up in the bows of the steamer he found a great coil of rope, in which he snuggled down like a bird in a nest.

Alaric was not quite so fortunate. He watched Bonny disappear with his truck in the dark interior of the boat, and then, taking a mattress from the pile of household goods, marched aboard with it in his arms. Walking aft with his awkward burden, he stumbled across the truck that Bonny had left in the passage and sprawled at full length. As luck would have it, the mattress, loosed from his grasp, struck the mate who was coming that way and nearly knocked him down.

Springing furiously forward, the man aimed a kick at the prostrate lad, called him a clumsy lunkhead, and ordered him to wheel the truck up on to the wharf.

There was nothing for it but to return to the wharf with the truck. Then, to his dismay, Alaric found that there was no freight left to be taken on board. The pile of household goods had disappeared. As he stood for a moment irresolute another gruff voice sang out to him to cast off the breast line and get aboard in a hurry if he didn't want to get left.

Alaric had no more idea than the man in the moon of what a breast line was; but he knew what to cast off a line meant, and, making a blind guess, fortunately did the right thing. By this time the gang-plank was hauled in, and obeying the order "Jump! you chuckle-head!" the lad took a flying leap that landed him on all fours on the deck. As he regained his feet the lad was ordered aft, but he managed to slip away before reaching the stern, and hid among the very household goods he had helped bring aboard.

Here, after lying for a while pondering over the strange fortunes by which every step of his path into the world of active life seemed to be beset, he fell asleep. When he awoke it was broad daylight, and he was being greeted by an angry roar from the gruff voice of the night before.

"Shirking, are ye, you lazy young hound? I'll teach ye!"

Picking up a bit of rope and whirling it about his head, the mate sprang toward the lad, who darted away in terror; nor did he stop until he found himself clear of the boat and running up a long wharf.

[to be continued.]

[IN THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES.]

HENRY THE EIGHTH.

(In Two Parts.)

BY MRS. LEW. WALLACE.

I.

ANNE'S CROWN.

here was once a King of England whose family name should have been Bluebeard, but it happened to be Henry Tudor, and a proud old name it was too. Born in 1501, Prince Henry was just eighteen when he came to the throne, and his subjects were well pleased to see an end to the long Wars of the Roses, because in him were united both lines, the White and the Red, and that meant peace. He had a most fortunate start—riches, power, health, friends. Life lay fair before; what would he do with it? His unpopular father's avarice had massed an immense fortune, and the son was quite ready to spend it. He was well educated, a bold huntsman and dashing rider, full of spirit and energy, and with a turn for letters and business. He must have had wonderful strength, for his armor weighed ninety-two pounds. It is in London Tower yet, is of German-work, silvered and engraved over with saintly legends and scroll-work, and the initials H. and K. for Henry and Katharine of Aragon.

The King was exceedingly attractive. An Ambassador from Italy, the land of beauty, wrote: "Nature could not have done more for him. He is much handsomer than any other sovereign of Christendom—a good deal handsomer than the King of France—very fair, and his whole frame admirably proportioned. He is fond of hunting, and never takes his diversion without tiring eight or ten horses, which he has stationed beforehand along the line of country he means to take; and when one is tired he mounts another, and before he gets home they are all exhausted. He is extremely fond of tennis, at which game it is the prettiest thing in the world to see him play, his fair skin glowing through a shirt of the finest texture."

HENRY VIII.

Bluebeard had six wives. The second is the one whose woful tale I have to tell. Early in his reign he married Katharine of Aragon, a noble Princess, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, whose girlhood had been spent among the orange gardens and tinkling fountains of the Alhambra.

She had a maid of honor named Anne Boleyn, a light-hearted damsel, skilled in music, singing delightfully, full of repartee, with a laugh gay as her costumes and dances. Her favorite dress was blue velvet starred with silver, a mantle of watered silver lined with minever, and on her little feet blue velvet shoes flashing each with a diamond star; around her head a gold-colored aureole of gauze above a fall of ringlets rich and rare. A toilet that well became her dimples, her fresh lips, her teeth like hailstones, and her witching glance. Tall and slender was she, a true daughter of the Howards, and so "passing sweet and cheerful" that every man who looked on her was her lover.

At the midnight ball given to the French Ambassador, the King chose her for his partner in the dance, and Mistress Anne's pretty head was wellnigh turned by the royal flatterer's whispers of sparkling eyes and twinkling feet and the fairest hand he ever touched, and then he kissed her.

Soon he began to write letters, beginning "Mine own Sweetheart," and sent her a jewel valued at fifteen thousand crowns. Then he would ride out to visit her in the chestnut avenues of Hever Castle, gallantly prancing along the greenwood, and sounding his bugle to announce his approach, for he went unattended.