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

HEROES OF AMERICA.

"MAD ANTHONY" WAYNE AT STONY POINT.

BY THE HONORABLE THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

ne of the heroic figures of the Revolution was Anthony Wayne, Major-General of the Continental line. With the exception of Washington, and perhaps Greene, he was the best General the Americans developed in the contest; and, without exception, he showed himself to be the hardest fighter produced on either side. He belongs, as regards this latter characteristic, with the men like Winfield Scott, Phil Kearny, Hancock, and Forrest, who revelled in the danger and the actual shock of arms. Indeed, his eager love of battle and splendid disregard of peril have made many writers forget his really great qualities as a General. Soldiers are always prompt to recognize the prime virtue of physical courage, and Wayne's followers christened their daring commander "Mad Anthony," in loving allusion to his reckless bravery. It is perfectly true that Wayne had this courage, and that he was a born fighter; otherwise he never would have been a great commander. A man who lacks the fondness for fighting, the eager desire to punish his adversary, and the willingness to suffer punishment in return may be a great organizer, like McClellan, but can never become a great General or win great victories. There are, however, plenty of men who, though they possess these fine, manly traits, lack the head to command an army; but Wayne had not only the heart and the hand but the head likewise. No man could dare as greatly as he did without incurring the risk of an occasional check; but he was an able and bold tactician, a vigilant and cautious leader, well fitted to bear the terrible burden of responsibility which rests upon a commander-in-chief.

Of course at times he had to learn some rather severe lessons. Quite early in his career, just after the battle of the Brandywine, when he was set to watch the enemy, he was surprised at night by the British General Grey, who attacked him with the bayonet, killed a number of his men, and forced him to fall back some distance from the field of action. This mortifying experience had no effect whatever on Wayne's courage or self-reliance, but it did give him a valuable lesson in caution. He showed what he had learned by the skill with which, many years later, in 1794, he conducted the famous campaign in which he overthrew the Northwestern Indians at the fight of the Fallen Timbers.

Wayne's favorite weapon was the bayonet, and, like Scott, he taught his troops until they were able in the shock of hand-to-hand conflict to overthrow the renowned British infantry, who had always prided themselves on their prowess with cold steel. At the battle of Germantown it was Wayne's troops who, falling on with the bayonet, first drove the Hessians and the British light infantry; and at Monmouth it was Wayne and his Continentals who first checked the British advance by repulsing the bayonet charge of the guards and grenadiers.

Washington, the great leader of men, was prompt to recognize in Wayne a soldier to whom could be entrusted any especially difficult enterprise, which called for the exercise alike of intelligence and of cool daring. In the summer of 1780 he was very anxious to capture the British fort at Stony Point, which commanded the Hudson. It was impracticable to attack it by regular siege while the British frigates lay in the river, and the defenses were so strong that open assault by daylight was equally out of the question. Accordingly, Washington suggested to Wayne that he try a night attack. Wayne eagerly caught at the idea. It was exactly the kind of enterprise in which he delighted. The fort was on a rocky promontory, surrounded on three sides by water, and on the fourth by a neck of land, which was for the most part mere morass. It was across this neck of land that an attacking column had to move. The garrison was six hundred strong. To deliver the assault Wayne took nine hundred men.

The American army was camped about fourteen miles from Stony Point. One July afternoon Wayne stalled, and led his troops in single file along the narrow rocky roads, reaching the hills on the mainland near the fort after nightfall. He divided his force into two columns, to advance one along each side of the neck, detaching two companies of North Carolina troops to move in between the two columns and make a false attack. The columns themselves consisted of New-Englanders, Pennsylvanians, and Virginians. Each attacking column was divided into three parts; a forlorn hope of twenty men leading, which was followed by an advance-guard of one hundred and twenty, and then by the main body. At that time commanding officers still carried spontoons and other old-time weapons; and Wayne, who himself led the right column, directed its movements spear in hand.

It was towards midnight when the Americans began to press along the causeways toward the fort. Before they were near the walls they were discovered, and the British opened a heavy fire of great guns and musketry, to which the Carolinians, who were advancing between the two columns, responded in their turn, according to orders; but the men in the columns were forbidden to fire. Wayne had warned them that their work must be done with the bayonet, and their muskets were not even loaded. Moreover, so strict was the discipline that no one was allowed to leave the ranks, and when one of the men did so an officer promptly ran him through the body.

No sooner had the British opened fire than the charging columns broke into a run, and in a moment the forlorn hopes had plunged into the abattis of fallen timber which the British had constructed just without the walls. On the left the forlorn hope was very roughly handled, no less than seventeen of the twenty men being either killed or wounded; but as the columns came up both burst through the timber and swarmed up the long sloping embankments of the fort. The British fought well, cheering loudly as their volleys rang, but the Americans would not be denied, and pushed silently on to end the contest with the bayonet. A bullet struck Wayne in the head. He fell, but struggled to his feet and pushed forward, two of his officers supporting him. A rumor went among the men that he was dead, but it only impelled them to charge home more fiercely than ever. With a rush the troops swept to the top of the walls. A fierce but short fight followed in the intense darkness, which was lit only by the flashes from the British muskets. The Americans did not fire, trusting solely to the bayonet. The two columns had kept almost equal pace, and they swept into the fort from opposite sides at the same moment. The three men who first got over the walls were all wounded, but one of them struck the British flag. The Americans had the advantage which always comes from delivering an attack that is thrust home. Their muskets were unloaded, and they could not hesitate; so, running boldly into close quarters, they fought hand to hand with their foes and speedily overthrew them. For a moment the bayonets flashed and played: then the British lines broke as their assailants thronged against them, and the struggle was over. The Americans had lost a hundred in killed and wounded. Of the British sixty-three had been slain and very many wounded, every one of the dead or disabled having suffered from the bayonet; for Wayne's troops did not fire at all. A curious coincidence was that the number of the dead happened to equal exactly the number of Wayne's men who had been killed in the night attack by the English General Grey.

There was great rejoicing among the Americans over the successful issue of the attack. Wayne speedily recovered from his wound, and in the joy of his victory it weighed but slightly. He had performed a most notable feat. No night attack of the kind was ever delivered with greater boldness, skill, and success. When the Revolutionary War broke out the American armies were composed merely of armed yeomen, stalwart men of good courage, and fairly proficient in the use of their weapons, but entirely without the training which alone could enable them to withstand the attack of the British regulars in the open, or to deliver an attack themselves. Washington's victory at Trenton was the first encounter which showed that the Americans were to be feared when they took the offensive. With the exception of the battle of Trenton, and perhaps of Greene's fight at Eutaw Springs, Wayne's feat was the most successful illustration of daring and victorious attack by an American army that occurred during the war; and, unlike Greene, who was only able to fight a drawn battle, Wayne's triumph was complete. At Monmouth he had shown, as he afterwards showed against Cornwallis, that his troops could meet the renowned British regulars on even terms in the open. At Stony Point he showed that he could lead them to a triumphant assault with the bayonet against regulars who held a fortified place of strength. No American commander has ever displayed greater energy and daring, a more resolute courage, or readier resource, than the chief of the hard-fighting Revolutionary Generals, Mad Anthony Wayne.

ONE BRAVE BOY OUT OF A THOUSAND.

Robert Bain recently prevented a serious accident in Public School No. 23, at Marion, near Jersey City. There were sounds of panic from the room beneath his class-room, and no one can tell how many children might have been injured but for his cool head and quick thinking. He did what any bright American boy should have done, but what scarcely one boy in a thousand would have done.

The two lower floors of the Marion Public School are occupied by the classes of the Primary Department, and the top floor is occupied by the Grammar Department. The building is heated by steam. One of the radiator valves was broken off the other day. While waiting for a chance to repair the break, the janitor carefully turned off the steam at this radiator, and fitted a tight wooden plug in place of the broken valve. Some very foolish person, either for the sake of a joke or from a habit of meddling with things without asking leave, turned on the steam. The radiator was in one of the class-rooms of the upper primary floor—that is, the middle floor of the building.

The wooden plug was shot out of the radiator with a report like a pistol shot at a quarter past ten o'clock in the morning. Every child in the room rushed screaming toward the sliding-door leading to the stairway. So fierce was the impetus of the crowd that the door was twisted off its tracks and turned half-way around. Miss Agnes Carlen, the teacher, was unable to control the children, for they had swept past her before she really understood what had happened. She stood helpless, half fainting, fearing that the heavy sliding-door would fall and crush her pupils. Meantime great clouds of steam came hissing from the radiators.

With a great clattering of many feet the frightened boys and girls swarmed down the stairway, looking for places of safety. Forty of them ran out into the school-yard, but forty more were kept in-doors by Miss Searle, the principal of the Primary Department, and her aids. At the moment of the explosion and panic the boys and girls of the Grammar Department on the top floor were almost panic-stricken. They heard the loud report beneath them, the hissing of steam, the screams, and the swift trampling feet. Every one was scrambling up from his desk, when Robert Bain jumped out into the aisle, and cried:

"Keep your seats! There's no danger if you stay where you are!"

Those words stopped the rush like magic. Seeing Bain's coolness and courage, all the others were ashamed to show themselves cowards. It was not so much the words he uttered as his manner in saying them that swayed the crowd. His tone not only showed that he was not frightened, but the order rang out sharply and confidently, as if the boy knew he would be obeyed. A few moments later Miss Emma Johnson, the teacher in charge of the class, learned all about the accident on the floor below, and told the children of it. There was, of course, no possible danger of panic now.

What would have happened if young Bain had not spoken at the right moment? Very likely the children would have rushed out, like Miss Carlen's pupils, before they could be checked. A steep stairway lay before them, and probably many of them would have been badly hurt, if not killed, in the wild downward flight. An accident somewhat like this, in the Greenwich Avenue Public School in New York many years ago, had the most serious consequences.

Robert Bain is fourth sergeant in one of the two cadet companies of the Marion Public School. He was very happy, but also full of blushes, when Mr. Du Rie, the principal of the school, complimented him before all his friends. If every boy who reads of his brave act will make up his mind to keep cool in any panic near him, he will have paid the best possible compliment to Robert Bain.

THE TROLLEY BIKE OF 1900.

BY N. FREDERICK CARRYL.

"A letter, Uncle Tom! From the New Jersey Consolidated Traction Company, as sure as I live. Now we can start any minute."

"Right you are, my boy," said the brisk old gentleman of close on sixty.

Joe heaved a big, contented sigh—not considered a very healthy proceeding, by-the-way—and made a short speech. "Uncle Tom," said he, "it may surprise you a little to hear that father has decided he must stay home and attend strictly to business for at least a month. By that time my vacation will be at an end. Now I have set my heart on this trip, but who can I get for a comrade?"

"Well, Joe, what do you say to the idea of taking your old uncle along?"

"Why, Uncle Tom, you dear man, you are the very next best to father. My! What a jolly time we will have!"

Joe's father and I had arranged it so that he could stay at home, believing, as well he might, the boy was safe in my hands.

Since all traction companies are owned by States (and, of course, subdivided into counties), it is a comparatively easy matter to get permits to use the company's trolley-wires, have your meter inspected, locked, and dated.

The universal application of electricity to the bicycle, tricycle, and other road vehicles—not by batteries, which are still too heavy or short-lived for long trips, but by the trolley-wire and connecting track—is of very recent date. Minor difficulties still exist, and should anything serious happen, I am mechanic enough to hope to repair damages.

Our machine was a very simple affair—after all is said and left unsaid. At first glance it looked not unlike an ordinary tandem—as in fact it was, but with a very much wider tread forward, where the electric motor was handily placed and most effective in operation. The treadles remained connected, but could be operated in the forward direction only. Coasting, with the pedals as foot-rests, whether going down hill or driven at high speed by the motor, was thus possible and easy. The electric head-light was supplied from the same source as the motor, viz., the trolley overhead wire. Of course we had a kerosene lamp to use when disconnected from the street current. Since 1896 the overhead trolley has been abolished in large towns and cities in favor of the underground method of electrical connection, while the overhead system is still used (as so much cheaper for long distances) in the country, between towns and all distant points.

We used a light bamboo pole, built up of five three-foot sections, to reach the overhead wire. Inside was the connecting wire leading to the starting, stopping, or reversing switch, thence to the motor. Another wire, leading from the motor, passed through a light hinged shaft, upon the end of which was a two-foot metal wheel, thus completing the circuit with the rail. The current passed through a reduction coil before reaching the motor, and was thus brought down to the proper resistance at which the motor was built to run, otherwise a burned-out apparatus would be the certain result.

This was not the first time I had handled the Fleetwing, having made any number of short trips, none exceeding a hundred miles. Joe's route was: Starting at Jersey City, New Jersey, we were to cross the State, and keep as near directly West as the trolley-wire would take us, taking in Chicago (now the first city in population in the United States) and other important Western cities, with Denver our turning-point.

Joe kissed his mother, gave his father's hand a hard shake, jumped up behind me, and we were off. Look back once more, my boy; a mother's tearful eyes no longer see you, but your image is always in her heart!

We had been sadly mixed without our good map of all the trolley-roads. They cross and recross, and seem to shoot out in every direction in the eastern part of New Jersey.

AT THIRTY MILES AN HOUR.

On a good straight road at last, with a clean run of thirty miles before us! How we do spin! The motor hums not unlike a swarm of angry bees. For a bright June morning the weather seems a trifle cool. A light overcoat in summer? Well, just face a mild westerly wind, early in the morning, sitting quietly on an electrically propelled bike at, say, thirty miles an hour, and you will find an overcoat is not to be sneezed at, or, rather, some sneezing will result if you try to do without it.

Space will not permit to give you many details of our trip, which caused two weeks to pass so quickly. Mishaps we had, repairs to make, but the same machine was bringing us nearer home each minute. Two o'clock now; by six we are due in New York.

A Chicago chap—we met him—seemed rather smart and all that, had a contrivance for working an air-ship by trolley-wire. His scheme was to sail along near enough the ground to drop a trailer on the street wire, and so obtain a current to run his aerial machine.

"My son," said I, "how do you expect to make a complete circuit with but one wire?"

"That is part of my invention," said he.

Whether he made a success of it or not I have no means of knowing, but I liked the idea.

We crossed the Pavonia bridge from Jersey City to New York on time, had just reached the terminus when the Express Air-ship Maxim rose from the depot at Union Square and headed for Albany, looking very much like an immense shooting-star.

The railroads have had a severe setback since Maxim has perfected his aerial engines and light machinery. Freight they still carry, but railway passenger traffic has fallen off to a marked extent, even with trains running at one hundred miles per hour.

Who would care nowadays to spend an hour and a half in the cars between New York and Albany when the Maxim will do it in forty-five minutes!

Strange creatures, to me, these women. I have never married. Joe's mother wept when we left, and I am blamed if she is not crying this minute. "What!"

"You too, Joe? I—"

OFF WITH THE MERBOY.

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.

CHAPTER III.

UNDER WATER.

sn't that interesting?" asked the Merboy when he had finished.

"Very," returned Jimmieboy. "But I don't see how it proves that the Porpoise knew any more than the Professor. Did he know why men have chins and why boys are noisy?"

"I don't suppose he did," returned the Merboy; "but even if he didn't his ignorance wasn't any greater than that of the Professor, while the Professor had to admit that there wasn't anything he could tell the Porpoise that the Porpoise hadn't heard before. That proved that the Porpoise knew quite as much as the Professor did; and the fact that the Porpoise knew how to get the Professor home while the Professor didn't, showed that the Porpoise knew more than he did. That simply proves what I have already said, that sea creatures know more than land creatures—even Porpoises, and they know less than any other kind of fish."

"It looks true," said Jimmieboy. "But I hardly believe it, though."

"Well, you'd better," retorted the Merboy. "Why, people of your kind say themselves that fish is good for their brains. Why should this be so if fish weren't what I've said they are?"

"That's so!" Jimmieboy answered, convinced at last. "But it seems queer."

"That's because you don't understand it," said the Merboy, patronizingly. "If you were a fish you'd understand it, but being a boy you can't be expected to. It's simple enough. You people on land are kept so busy all day long earning your living that you don't have time really to study. On the other hand, we sea people don't do anything but swim about all day and think. Didn't you ever notice me up there in the aquarium lying perfectly motionless in the water with my eyes gazing off on both sides of me with a far-away look in them?"

"Often," said Jimmieboy. "And I've wondered every time what you really were doing. Were you always thinking at those times?"

"Always," said the Merboy. "Always studying out something."

"And did you ever find out anything?" queried Jimmieboy.

"Yes," said the Merboy. "I've found out everything; but," he added, hastily, "don't ask me to tell you everything now because these Dolphins are a little skittish, and I've got to keep my mind on them or we'll be upset."

Here one of the Dolphins, to show how skittish he could be when he tried, stood erect on his tail, and then took a header deep down into the water, and in a moment Jimmieboy found himself clinging in alarm to the Merboy's arm.

"Don't do that!" cried the Merboy, "or you'll surely upset us."

"I was afraid he'd drag us under," panted Jimmieboy, releasing his hold.

"Drag us under?" repeated the Merboy. "Why, my dear boy, we are under. We've been driving under water for ten minutes now. In ten more we shall be on the ocean's bottom."

Jimmieboy pressed his lips as tightly together as he possibly could. If, as the Merboy had said, he was under water and headed directly for the bottom of the sea, he was not going to run any risks by opening his mouth and getting it full of sea-water, which he knew from experience was not the pleasantest-tasting stuff in the world. He was a cautious boy too, Jimmieboy was, and he had a distinct recollection of having heard his father warn a friend of his at the sea-shore one summer's day not to open his mouth too widely when he was in bathing, for fear he might take in the ocean at a gulp, which would be a dreadful thing to do.

"Don't make such fearful faces," said the Merboy, noticing Jimmieboy's efforts to squeeze his two lips into one. "You'll frighten the whales."

"Mwime mfwaid mgetting mwater in m' mouf," mumbled Jimmieboy.

"Excuse me," said the Merboy, looking at him as if he thought he was crazy. "I never studied that language, and I don't know what you are trying to say; open your mouth and speak English."

"Mwime mfwaid," mumbled Jimmieboy again, meaning to say "I'm afraid."

"Whoa!" cried the Merboy, reining in his Dolphins. "Now look here, Jamesboy," he added, severely, as the carriage came to a stop, "I won't take you any further if you don't stop that. My relatives down here have been very anxious to meet you, because I've written to them several times telling them all about you; but I can tell you just one thing. If you are going to make faces like that, and talk with your lips tight closed and your voice way down in your boots, not to mention the horrible language you are using, they won't have anything to do with you, and they'll think I got you out of a circus instead of at your home. What's come over you all of a sudden, anyhow?"

Poor Jimmieboy didn't know what to do. He had no wish to offend the Merboy or to frighten whales or to prove unpleasant to the Merboy's friends, but he also did not care to get a mouthful of salt water.

Fortunately at this moment a Porpoise, who was on duty as a policeman in that neighborhood came swimming up, attracted, no doubt, by the somewhat angry tones of the Merboy.

"What's the matter here?" he said, frowning with his left eyebrow and using his right eye to look pleasant, for if everything was all right he wanted to look pleasant, while the frown was for use in case there was danger of a disturbance.

"Nothing, Mr. Policeman," answered the Merboy, nodding familiarly at the Porpoise. "I am afraid my little friend here isn't feeling very well, and I was only trying to find out what the trouble was."

"IS HE TAKEN THIS WAY OFTEN?" ASKED THE PORPOISE.

"He does look kind of queer like, doesn't he?" said the Porpoise, gazing at Jimmieboy's lips. "He looks to me as if he were trying to swallow his teeth. Is he taken this way often?"

"Never saw him like this before," said the Merboy, anxiously. "It's something new for him to keep his mouth shut up so tight, and I can't understand it."

"Perhaps—" the Porpoise began; "but no," he added, "I was going to say I'd arrest him for being disorderly, for he certainly is out of order, but I'm afraid the judge would fine me. I lost my last month's pay for arresting a shark by mistake. Some shark swallowed a whole school of whitebait last week, and as the teachers of the school complained about having their business mined I had to arrest some one. These sharks are all alike, you know, and I got hold of the wrong one, and the judge let him off and made me pay the damages. I'm afraid we couldn't make out a case against this young man."

"No; and we shouldn't try it if we could," said the Merboy. "I don't want to get him into trouble. He's my friend."

"Well—say," said the Porpoise. "I'll tell you how we can find out what's the matter. There's a bureau of information about two hundred and thirty fathoms up the street. They know everything there. You might drive up there and find out what ails him."

"That's a good idea," said the Merboy. "Who is in charge of the bureau?"

"Nobody. It just lies there at the side of the street. You'll find the most interesting information in the top drawer. You can't miss the bureau, because it's the only one in the ocean, and it has brass knobs on it, and a brush and comb on the top of it. So long."

"Good-by," said the Merboy, as the Porpoise with another curious glance at Jimmieboy swam away. Then the Merboy, turning the Dolphins' heads in the direction of the bureau, started them along. "I shall feel very badly if this is a case of lockjaw," he said to himself. "His parents would drive me out of the house, and I don't think I'd be likely to get as nice a place anywhere else."

"M-mwi a-went wot wock-waw," mumbled Jimmieboy.

"Don't say another word or you'll drive me crazy," returned the Merboy. "This is simply awful as it is, but when you talk it's worse than awful, it is horrific. Ah, I fancy this must be the bureau," he added, drawing up alongside of a beautiful piece of furniture that stood at the road-side and looked very much like a bureau. "Hold the Dolphins, Jimmieboy, and I'll get out and see if there's any information to be had in regard to your case."

[to be continued.]

MISS APPOLINA'S CHOICE.

BY AGNES LITTLETON.

Part II.

Miss Appolina Briggs was somewhat of a power in the Reid family. She was a cousin of the fathers of Millicent, Joanna, and Peggy, their fathers being brothers, and for many years when they were boys she had made her home with their parents. She now, however, had a house of her own.

She was very wealthy, very aristocratic, and very eccentric. Kind-hearted and charitable, she preferred to do good in her own way only.

A month or two ago Miss Briggs had informed her relatives that she intended to pass the summer in England, and that it was barely possible that she would ask one of her young cousins to accompany her. Which should be the fortunate one she should not decide until a week before the date fixed for sailing. That would be time enough, she said, for no preparations would be necessary. All the girl's wants could be supplied on the other side.

This proposition sounded very attractive, for Cousin Appolina was generous even though she was so peculiar, and there was no doubt that in addition to having the pleasure of the trip, a well-stocked wardrobe would fall to the share of the lucky recipient of her favor.

As Peggy had said, there was not much probability that she would be the one honored. She had a habit of making all sorts of speeches in Miss Briggs's presence which did not please the good lady at all. And yet no one knew. It would be just like Cousin Appolina's unexpectedness if she were to veer suddenly around and decree that Margaret, as she always called her, should be the one to go to England.

Consequently, suspense and excitement ran high in the Reid family, and in the intervals of study, fair work, and poetry-making there was much discussion as to which of the three should be Miss Appolina's choice.

She herself had gone to Washington for a few weeks, and the family breathed more easily for a time. When so much depended upon it the girls were greatly afraid of doing something to offend their cousin, which might very easily happen, and in that case she would sail alone with her maid!

In the mean time preparations for the fair continued, and at last the day arrived. Millicent, having convinced herself that this would be the best means of securing the recognition of her powers as a poetess that she wanted, the recognition which had hitherto been denied her by unfeeling editors, had been reeling off verse by the yard.

Each poem had been printed in the form of a little fancy booklet, at considerable expense to the author, it is true, but the girls had plenty of pocket money, and Millicent had eased her conscience with the thought that her object was charity as well as recognition, and each copy that was sold would bring in twenty-five cents to the fair. She had raised the price since the poems came home—she had no idea that they would look so attractive, she said. They would be sure to sell.

Peggy had helped her with a readiness that would have appeared suspicions if Millicent had not been too much absorbed in sentiment to notice it. She had accompanied her cousin to make arrangements for having the poems printed, and had inspected them on their return, and now the morning upon which the fair was to open she offered to carry the box which contained them to an office in the neighborhood, and have them sent to Sherry's, where the fair was to be held, by a district telegraph boy.

"It is much better than ringing for a messenger-boy to come to the house," she said, "for then no one can find out in any way who 'Pearl Proctor' is. I shall be on hand when the box arrives so that I can hear what people say, but you had better not come until afterwards, Mill, for your face would be sure to give it away."

The fancy articles, including Miss Briggs's slippers, had already been sent.

Joanna went to school, longing for the morning to pass that she might get to the fair herself. She and one of her friends were to manage the "fish pond," while Millicent was to be an aid at the flower-table, and Peggy would assist in selling some of the fancy articles.

Peggy left the package at the office, and then hailed a car, that she might not fail to reach the fair in time to witness its arrival. She looked forward to having some rare sport. She only wished that she could take some one into her confidence, for it is always so much more fun to laugh with a comrade than to laugh alone. However, a laugh is valuable at any time.

So thought Miss Peggy as she made her way along Thirty-seventh Street in her new spring hat and gown, her eyes dancing with anticipation.

The poem on Cousin Appolina had been tucked into the box along with the rest, but very much underneath. In that way Peggy felt confident that it would escape observation at the fair, and yet be among the poems to give Millicent a shock when they came back.

"For of course no one is going to buy those silly things," said Peggy to herself; "and I hope it will be a good lesson to Milly. Such conceit as hers in regard to that poetry I never saw, and it ought to be taken down."

She found the rooms in a state of disorder. Various fashionable dames who had the fair in charge were running about in a vain attempt to bring some degree of order out of the confusion, and Peggy's coming was hailed with delight.

"Oh, Peggy Reid! Just the person I want. Peggy, dear, do hold the end of this scarf while I fasten it here."

"Peggy, just see if you can find the tack-hammer."

"Peggy, you have just come, and can see things with a fresh eye. Tell me the effect of this drapery."

But notwithstanding all these calls upon her, Peggy managed to be conveniently near the door when a messenger-boy appeared, bearing a box addressed, in a printed hand, to Mrs. Pearson, who had charge of the fair. Peggy took the box, dismissed the boy hastily, and carried it to Mrs. Pearson.

"Something else? Oh, do open it, Peggy! I am so busy," exclaimed that lady, precisely as Peggy hoped she would do. She opened the box—that which she herself had so carefully tied up not long before.

On the top lay a type-written card, which read, "Sent by one of the congregation, who hopes that they may bring twenty-five cents apiece." Beneath were a number of little booklets.

"Why, Mrs. Pearson, do look! Somebody has sent some poems to sell," cried Peggy, in tones of great surprise. "A member of the congregation, and they are signed 'Pearl Proctor'! Who in the world can it be?"

Several people gathered about.

"How very funny! One of the congregation? Who do you suppose it is? I wish I had time to read them," said Mrs. Pearson. "They are certainly a novelty at a fair. Twenty-five cents she values them at? The lady is modest. But take care, girls," she added, in a warning whisper, approaching two young women who were laughing immoderately over one of Pearl Proctor's productions, "you must be careful! No one knows who wrote them, and the person may be in the room watching us at this very minute. It will never do to hurt her feelings."

"Oh, but, Mrs. Pearson, if you could only read this! It is the funniest thing I ever read, and the best part of it is, it isn't meant to be at all."

"Never mind, don't laugh. I beg of you! How did they get here, Peggy?"

"A messenger-boy brought them," returned Peggy promptly, feeling very glad that Millicent was not here to see the effect they produced. She was almost sorry that she had urged her to send them. After all it seemed a shame to make fun of the poor dear.

"Well, do be careful, girls," said Mrs. Pearson, as she moved away.

An hour or so later Millicent herself walked into the rooms. She looked very lovely, for her beautiful golden hair had twisted into little curls and waves, the morning being somewhat damp, and there was an unusual sparkle in her dreamy blue eyes. It was very exciting to have one's poems actually for sale.

The first thing that met her gaze was a large sign placed above a small table. Upon the table lay the array of booklets, while the sign read thus:

"A NOVELTY! POEMS BY PEARL PROCTOR.

A MEMBER of THE CONGREGATION.

Twenty-five Cents Each."

She did not have sufficient courage to walk boldly up with the air of a stranger and inspect the wares thus offered for sale, so she turned aside and began to talk to some of her friends, asking what she could do to help.

"My dear," said Elsie Pearson, flying up to her, and speaking in a whisper, "I am so glad you have come! I must tell you the greatest joke in the world. Somebody has sent a lot of poems to the fair to sell! Did you ever hear of anything so delicious? Mamma says we ought not to laugh, for the person who wrote them may be in the room, but it is too awfully funny not to laugh the least bit, and I know you are safe."

Millicent smiled stiffly. "Are they funny poems?" she asked. "You seem to find them amusing."

Elsie would have noticed her tone if she had not been so excited and in such haste.

"They are not meant to be," she said, aloud, as she moved away. "That is the best part of the whole thing."

Millicent, left alone, felt as if she could cry with pleasure. How perfectly outrageous it was in that odious Elsie Pearson to talk in such a way! The only comfort was that Elsie was anything but intellectual, and would not know good poetry when she saw it. She would probably fail to see any beauty in Tennyson.

Peggy had watched this conference from across the room; and she now came quickly over to her cousin. "Look out, Mill," she said in a low tone, "you will have to be awfully careful that no one catches on. If I were you I wouldn't stay so near the poetry table."

Peggy, already deeply regretting her joke, wished to spare her cousin as much as possible. But her good intentions were frustrated by Mrs. Pearson.

"Millicent," said that lady, "we have had some new wares sent in; something I never saw before at a fair. Poems, my dear. Just think of it; and by a member of the congregation! We can't imagine who wrote them, and of course they are perfect trash" (this in a low voice), "but we will have to do our best to sell them, so I want you to take charge of that table. You won't mind changing, I know. And try not to let the people laugh at the poems. They are absurd, I know, judging from one I picked up. It was about a moth or an ant or something. I am not sure that it was not a Croton bug," and with a laugh at her own wit Mrs. Pearson led Millicent to the poetry table, and established her behind it.

It was now twelve o'clock, the hour at which the fair was to be opened to the public.

Two or three hours later the sale was in full swing. A great many people came, for it was in every respect a fashionable function, and it was considered quite the thing to be seen there. People bought largely also of every variety of article—except poetry. That seemed to go a-begging.

There was always a crowd about the table, but no one felt inclined to purchase. The little booklets were picked up, read, dropped again, with laughter and comments, until Millicent felt that she would gladly sink through the floor.

Even her own mother came, criticised, and moved on, with a whispered question to Millicent as to what member of the congregation could have been so conceited and so senseless as to do such a thing as this.

Millicent's head ached, and tears filled her eyes, and she thought the climax had been reached when Elsie Pearson, picking one up at random, said, laughingly:

"Just listen to this, Milly! It is the gem of the whole collection. I can't help it if the 'member of the congregation' does see me. She deserves to be made fun of." And Elsie in a whisper read the following:

"TO THE MARCH WIND.

"Loud and shrill, loud and shrill,
List to the wild March wind!
And the heart of the mariner trembles
As he sails his rudder behind.

"My dear, the 'member' is a little mixed! Does she mean the mariner sails behind the rudder, or the rudder sails behind the mariner? Did you ever, Millicent? I don't believe she knows which part of a ship the rudder is. And this is the second verse:

"And the bell on the bleak beach bellows.

"(There's alliteration for you. Fancy a bell bellowing!)

"And the fog-horn lifts its voice,
And the mariner goes to an early grave,
He has no other choice.

"Oh, Milly! isn't it funny? Why don't you laugh?"

"I am laughing," said Millicent, in a hoarse voice; "it makes me perfectly hysterical," and she hid her face for a moment in her handkerchief. Fortunately Elsie was at that moment called away.

Millicent found to her cost, as the afternoon wore on, that the climax had not been even then.

Joanna had come late to the fair, detained by school and luncheon until four o'clock. She had found no one at home, not even her mother, but she had heard from the maid a piece of news which caused her heart to bound with excitement and consternation.

Cousin Appolina had returned very unexpectedly from Washington!

Joanna decided that she must tell Millicent as soon as she reached the fair, so that the slippers might be removed at once. It would be better to be on the safe side, although it was extremely improbable that Cousin Appolina would visit the fair the first day of her return.

But just as Joanna came out of the front door Miss Briggs herself drove up in her carriage, and learning that no one was at home in either of her relatives' houses, but that all had gone to the fair, concluded to betake herself there also, and forthwith invited Joanna to get in and drive with her to Sherry's.

Joanna, nothing loth, accepted the invitation, feeling rather glad on the whole that her cousin had returned in time, for she would be sure to spend her money freely, and Joan was greatly interested in the success of the sale. And, alas! she forgot all about the worsted slippers!

They presented their tickets, and entered the room just as Millicent had buried her face in her handkerchief upon hearing the remarks of Elsie Pearson. When she emerged therefrom the first thing that met her astonished gaze was the tall and never-to-be-forgotten form of Cousin Appolina Briggs, and her heart sank with apprehension. For a moment the works of her unappreciated genius were forgotten. Her one thought was "slippers!"

"Oh, that I had never sent those horrible slippers!" she said to herself despairingly. "It will be just my luck to have her see them, and would serve me right, too, for having given away a present. Yes, she is going that way! Oh, if I could only make Peggy or Joan come here! They could go and buy the slippers before she gets there."

But Peggy and Joan were not forth-coming. The latter, full of business, had lost no time in retiring behind the screen which formed the "fish-pond," and was already baiting the hook with ardor, and queerly shaped packages, and Peggy had not yet seen her cousin, and supposed her to be safe at Washington.

But Miss Briggs was not one to remain long unnoticed. She was of commanding height and noble breadth. When she entered a room the rest of humanity seemed to grow smaller by comparison. Her voice was deep and had a penetrating quality which caused it to be heard at the unusual distance, and the gold lorgnette, without which she was never seen, and which she was in the habit of raising constantly to her short-sighted and somewhat prominent eyes, flashed and glittered in the light.

Truly Miss Appolina's was a presence calculated to make itself felt. And Peggy felt it, and she heard the voice, and a tremor that seemed like fear filled her naturally courageous heart. She looked at Cousin Appolina, and she looked at the poetry table. There was yet time. Leaving abruptly a customer who was on the verge of making an important purchase, who only needed a word of advice from Miss Peggy Reid as to which was the prettier, a centre-piece embroidered in yellow, or a table-cloth done in greens, she flew to the side of Millicent.

"The poems!" she gasped. "Have any of them sold?"

"Not one," said Millicent, "but oh, Peggy; there is Cousin Appolina!"

"I know," returned Peggy, breathlessly, as she turned over the booklets—"I know! That's just it!"

"But the slippers, Peggy! Go and get them. I don't dare."

"The slippers! They are nothing to the poetry. Oh, where is it?"

And she tossed the poems hither and thither, looking first into one, then into another.

"Oh, where is it?"

"What do you mean, Peggy? Don't waste time over the poetry. Do please go and buy those slippers! Give any price. There, she is getting to that table now! It is too late!"

There was a lull in the noise at that moment, and Miss Briggs's clear deep tones could be distinctly heard by the two culprits.

"I want a pair of knit slippers. I make a great many myself, but I never seem to have any for my own use. How much are these red and gray ones? A dollar and a half? Give them to me, please, and never mind about the change. I have not examined them thoroughly, but if they do not suit me I will give them away."

It was too late. She had bought her own slippers. Millicent hoped that the gold lorgnette would be smashed to atoms before the lady reached her home; that her spectacles would lose themselves; even that the world would come to an end before Miss Appolina found an opportunity to examine those red and gray worsted slippers. That she would recognize them Millicent felt no doubt, for they were knit in a fashion peculiar to herself, the two colors forming a little plaid.

Meanwhile Peggy had tossed about the poems with no result. She had only succeeded in bringing to the top those that had hitherto lain in safe insignificance at the bottom.

Now she stood by the table as if turned into stone, and awaited the approach of an avenging fate. The day of practical jokes was over for her.

"IS NOT MILLICENT CAPABLE OF SPEAKING FOR HERSELF?"

She knew, she felt absolutely confident, that just as surely as Cousin Appolina had chosen the slippers of her own make, just so surely would she pounce upon the poem that Peggy had written about her.

Miss Briggs drew near.

"Well, girls!" she said, in her great deep voice, the gold lorgnette raised to her eyes—"well, girls, you did not expect to see me back so soon, did you? Washington became insupportable. Too many odious-looking people. I could not endure it. What have we here?" staring at the sign, "'Poems by Pearl Proctor, a member of the congregation'? And who may she be? Proctor—Proctor? I don't remember the name in New York. Proctor is a Boston name. Who is it, Millicent?"

Millicent trembled.

"I—I—" she faltered.

"You!" thundered her cousin. "Never! What do you mean?"

"Milly didn't mean to say that," interposed Peggy. "She was probably going to say she couldn't tell who it is. It is an assumed name, we suppose, Cousin Appolina."

"Is not Millicent capable of speaking for herself?" inquired Miss Briggs, severely. "Since when did she lose the power of speech?"

The girls shook in their shoes, and held their peace.

"What are these things?" continued this terrible person, picking up the poems disdainfully, and again putting her lorgnette to her eyes: "'Ode to a Firefly,' 'Sonnet on the Caterpiller,' 'Some Lines to a Beggar Child.' Faugh! Who is the fool that is guilty of all this? But—but—what have we here?"

It had come, then! For this is what Miss Appolina read, but not aloud:

"Who is a dame of high degree?
Who's always scolded little me?
Who is a sight strange for to see?
Miss Appolina B.
"Who cannot with her friends agree?
Who loves to feed on cakes and tea?
Who prides herself on her pedigree?
Miss Appolina B.
"Who'll soon set sail across the sea?
Who will not take her cousins three?
Who is an ancient, awful she?
Miss Appolina B."

Miss Briggs looked from one to the other of the girls. The hum of the fair went on.

"I will buy all of these poems," she said in a voice which filled their souls with terror; "count them, and tell me the amount. And I wish to see you both to-morrow morning at ten o'clock."

Wondering, Millicent obeyed.

Peggy turned and fled.

[to be continued.]

SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XIX.

A BATTLE WITH WOLVES.

The remainder of the journey up the Tananah was uneventful, but so long that the new year was well begun ere the sledge party left it and turned up the Gheesah branch, which flows in from the east. An Indian guide, procured at the last village by the promise of a pound of tobacco for his services, accompanied them on their four days' journey up this river, and to the summit of the bleak wind-swept divide, five hundred feet above timberline. This gave the dogs a hard pull, though Jalap Coombs insisted upon lightening their load by walking; nor from this time on would he again consent to be treated as an invalid.

The summit once passed, they plunged rapidly down its farther side and into the welcome shelter of timber fringing a tiny stream, whose course they were now to follow. Their guide called it the Tukh-loo-ga-ne-lukh-nough, which, after vain attempts to remember, Phil shortened to "Tough Enough." Jalap Coombs, however, declared that this was not a "sarcumstance" to the names of certain down-East streams among which he was born, and to prove his assertion began to talk glibly of the Misquabenish, the Keejimkoopic, the Kashagawigamog, the Kahwcambejewagamog, and others of like brevity, until Phil begged him to take a rest.

That night, while the camp was buried in the profound slumber that followed a day of unusually hard work, and the fire had burned to a bed of coals, the single long-drawn howl of a wolf was borne to it with startling distinctness by the night wind. As though it were a signal, it was answered from a dozen different directions at once. The alert dogs sprang from their snowy beds with bristling crests and hurled back a challenge of fierce barkings; but this, being an incident of nightly occurrence, failed to arouse the tired sleepers.

Within a few minutes the dread howlings had so increased in volume that they seemed to issue from scores of savage throats and to completely encircle the little camp. If was as if all the wolves of the forest, rendered desperate by famine, had combined for a raid on the supper of provisions so kindly placed within their reach. Nearer and nearer they came, until their dark forms could be seen like shadows of evil omen flitting among the trees and across the open moonlit spaces.

The dogs, at first eager to meet their mortal foes, now huddled together, terrified by overwhelming numbers. Still the occupants of the camp slept, unconscious of their danger. Suddenly there came a rush, an unearthly clamor of savage outcry, and the sleepers were roused to a fearful wakening by a confused struggle within the very limits of the camp and over their recumbent forms. They sprang up with yells of terror, and at the sound of human voices the invaders drew back, snapping and snarling with rage.

"Timber wolves!" shouted Serge. "Your rifle, Phil! Quick!"

Emboldened by this re-enforcement, the dogs advanced to the edge of the camp space, but with low growls in place of their former defiant barkings.

Phil was trembling with excitement; but Serge, steady as a rock, was throwing the No. 4's from the double-barrel and reloading with buckshot, at the same time calling to Chitsah to pile wood on the fire, and to the other Indians not to fire until all were ready. Jalap Coombs seized an axe, and forgetful of the bitter cold, was rolling up his sleeves, as though he proposed to fight the wolves single-handed. At the same time he denounced them as pirates and bloody land-sharks, and dared them to come within his reach.

"Are you ready?" cried Serge. "Then fire!" And with a roar that woke the forest echoes for miles, the four guns poured their contents into the dense black mass, that seemed just ready to hurl itself for a second time upon the camp.

With frightful howlings the pack scattered, and began to gallop swiftly in a wide circle about the fire-lit space. One huge brute, frenzied with rage, leaped directly toward the camp, with gleaming eyes and frothing mouth. Ere a gun could be levelled, Jalap Coombs stepped forward to meet him, and with a mighty swinging blow his heavy axe crushed the skull of the on-coming beast as though it had been an egg-shell. Instantly the dogs were upon him, and tearing fiercely at their fallen enemy.

With the first shot Phil's nervousness vanished, and as coolly as Serge himself, he followed with levelled rifle the movements of the yelling pack in their swift circling. At each patch of moonlit space one or more of the fierce brutes fell before his unerring fire, until every shot of his magazine was exhausted.

"NOW," CRIED SERGE, "ALL MAKE A DASH TOGETHER!"

"Now," cried Serge, "we must scatter them. Every man take a firebrand in each hand, and all make a dash together."

"Yelling," added Jalap Coombs.

"Yes, yelling louder than the wolves themselves."

The plan was no sooner proposed than adopted. Musky, Luvtuk, big Amook, and the rest, inspired by their master's courage, joined in the assault, and before that fire-bearing, yelling, on-rushing line of humanity and dogs the gaunt forest raiders gave way and fled in all directions.

The whole battle had not lasted more than five minutes, but it resulted in the death of nineteen wolves, six of which were despatched by the sailor-man's terrible axe after the fight was over, and they, more or less wounded, were slinking away toward places of hiding. But the dogs found them out, and they met a swift fate at the hands of Jalap Coombs.

As he finally re-entered the camp, dragging the last one behind him, he remarked, with a chuckle: "Waal, boys, I ruther guess our boat's 'high line' this time, and I'm free to admit that this here wolf racket beats most kinds of fishing, for genuine entertainment, onless it's fishing for sharks, which is exciting at times. I'm pleased to have met up with this school, though, for it's allers comforting to run across fresh proofs of my friend old Kite Roberson's knowingness. He useter say consarning the critters, Kite did, that wolves was sharks and sharks was wolves, and that neither of 'em warn't no fit playthings for children, which it now seems to me he were correct, as usual."

"He certainly was," replied Phil, who, leaning on his rifle, was thoughtfully regarding the shaggy beast that Kite Robinson's friend had just dragged into camp. "But aren't these uncommonly big wolves? I never knew they grew so large."

"They don't generally," answered Serge; "but these are of the same breed as the great Siberian wolves, which, you know, are noted as being the largest and fiercest in the world."

"I don't wonder now that the dogs were frightened," continued Phil, "for this fellow looks twice as big as Amook—and he's no puppy. But, I say, Serge, you're an awfully plucky chap. As for myself, I must confess I was so badly rattled that I don't believe I should have even thought of a gun before they were on us a second time."

"If they had made a second rush, not one of us would be alive to talk about it now," remarked Serge, soberly; "and it was only the promptness of our attack that upset their plans. In dealing with wolves it is always safest to force the fighting; for while they are awful bullies, they are cowards at heart, like all bullies I ever heard of."

"Captain Duff, for instance," said Phil, with a reminiscent smile. Then he added, "Anyhow, old man, you got us out of a bad scrape, for it isn't every fellow who would know just how to deal with a pack of wolves, especially when awakened from a sound sleep to find them piling on top of him."

"I don't believe it was quite as bad as that," objected Serge. "I expect only the dogs piled on top of us when they were driven in. By-the-way, did you know that four of them were killed and several others badly hurt?"

"No, I didn't," cried Phil, in dismay. "What ones are killed?"

"Two from my team, one from yours, and one from Chitsah's."

"Oh, the villains!" exclaimed the young leader. "Another victory like that would cripple us. Do you think there is any danger of them coming back?"

"Not just now; but I shouldn't be surprised to hear from them again to-morrow night."

"All right. I'm glad you mentioned it. Now we'll see if we can't have an interesting reception prepared for them."

"Pizen?" queried Jalap Coombs, who had lighted his pipe, and was now complacently watching the skinning of the dead wolves, which had been undertaken by the three Indians.

"Worse than that," answered Phil, significantly.

By the time the Indians had finished their task and breakfast had been eaten the usual starting-hour had arrived. Two of the wolf-skins were allotted to the guide, who was to leave them at this point, and he set forth on his return journey with them on his back. Rolled in them were the single dried salmon, which would form his sole sustenance on the journey, and the cherished pound of tobacco, for which he had been willing to work so hard. In his hand he bore an old flintlock musket, that was the pride of his heart, not so much on account of its shooting qualities, which were very uncertain, as by reason of its great length. It was the longest gun known to the dwellers of the Tananah Valley, and consequently the most valuable, for the Hudson Bay Company's method of selling such guns was to exchange one for as many marten, fox, or beaver skins as could be piled from stock to muzzle when it stood upright.

"I hope the wolves won't attack his camps," remarked Phil, as they watched the lonely figure pass out of sight on the back trail.

"Him no camp," declared Kurilla.

"But he must. Why, it's a four days' journey to his home."

"No. One day, one night. Him no stop. Wolf no catch um. Yaas."

And Kurilla was right, for the Indian would push on over mile after mile of that frozen solitude without a pause, save for an occasional bite from his dried salmon and a handful of snow to wash it down, until he reached his own far-away home.

CHAPTER XX.

CHITSAH'S NATURAL TELEPHONE.

Seventeen green wolf-skins formed a heavy sledge-load, especially for the weakened dog teams, but fortunately Jalap Coombs's feet were again in condition for walking, and snow on the river was not yet deep. So it was determined to carry them at least for the present. On the evening following that of the encounter with wolves, Phil, leaving the work of preparing camp to the others, unpacked the Eskimo wolf-traps of compressed whalebone that he had procured at Makagamoot. He had twenty of the ingenious little contrivances, and wrapped each one in a strip of frozen wolf meat that he had saved and brought along for the purpose. When all were thus prepared he carried them about a quarter of a mile from camp, and there dropped them at short intervals in a great circle about it. He knew the dogs would not stray that far, since their experience of the night before, and so felt pretty certain that the traps would only find their way to the destination for which they were intended.

The first blood-chilling howl was heard soon after dark, and a few minutes later it was apparent that wolves were again gathering from all quarters. Then the anxious watchers caught occasional glimpses of dim forms and sometimes of a pair of gleaming eyes, that invariably drew a shot from Phil's rifle. Still, the wolves seemed to remember their lesson, or else they waited for the occupants of the camp to fall asleep, for they made no effort at an attack.

As time passed, the wolf tones began to change, and defiant howlings to give place to yelps and yells of distress. Soon other sounds were mingled with these—the fierce snarlings of savage beasts fighting over their prey. The traps were doing their work. Those wolves that had eagerly gulped them down were so stricken with deadly pains that they staggered, fell, and rolled in the snow. At the first symptoms of distress others sprang upon them and tore them to pieces, at the same time battling fiercely over their cannibal feast. So wolf fed wolf, while the night echoed with their hideous outcries, until finally the survivors, gorged with the flesh of their own kind, slunk away, and after some hours of bedlam quiet once more reigned in the forest.

So Phil's scheme proved a success, and for the remainder of that night he and his companions slept in peace. At daylight they visited the scenes of wolfish feasting, and found everywhere plentiful evidence of what had taken place; but this time they gathered in neither rugs nor robes, for only blood stains and bones remained.

For another week did the sledge party journey down the several streams that, emptying one into another, finally formed the Conehill River, or, as the gold-diggers call it, Forty Mile Creek, because its mouth is forty miles down the Yukon from the old trading-post of Fort Reliance. As the first half of their long journey drew toward a close they became anxious as to its results and impatient for its end. When would they reach the settlement? and could they get there before their rivals who had followed the Yukon? were the two questions that they constantly asked of each other, but which none could answer.

Phil grew almost despondent as he reflected upon the length of time since they left old Fort Adams, and gave it as his opinion that the other party must have reached Forty Mile, long since.

Jalap Coombs was firm in his belief that the other party was still far away, and that his would be the first in; for, quoth he: "Luck allers has been on my side, and I'm going to believe it allers will be. My old friend Kite Roberson useter say, speaking of luck, and he give it as his own experience, that them as struck the best kinds of luck was them as worked the hardest for it, and ef they didn't get it one way they was sure to another. Likewise he useter say, Kite did, consarning worriments, that ef ye didn't pay no attention to one 'twould be mighty apt to pass ye by; but ef ye encouraged it by so much as a wink or a nod ye'd have to fight it to git red of it. So, as they hain't no worriments hove in sight, what's the use in s'arching for 'em?"

As for Kurilla, whenever his opinion was asked, he always grinned, and returned the same answer:

"You come pretty quick, mebbe. Yaas."

So each day of the last three or four brought its fresh hope; at each succeeding bend of the stream all eyes were strained eagerly forward for a sight of the expected cluster of log huts, and each night brought a disappointment.

At length one evening, when Phil, who had pushed on longer than usual, in an effort to end their suspense, was reluctantly compelled by gathering darkness to go into camp, Chitsah suddenly attracted attention to himself by running to a tree and pressing an ear to the trunk. As the others stared a smile overspread his face, and he said something to his father, which the latter instantly interpreted.

"What!" cried Phil, incredulously. "He thinks he hears the sound of chopping?"

"Yaas," answered Kurilla. "Axe chop um white man. Plenty. Yaas."

"I too can hear something," exclaimed Serge, who had imitated Chitsah's movements, "though I wouldn't swear it was chopping."

"Hurrah! So can I!" shouted Phil, after a moment of intent listening at another tree. "First time, though, I ever knew that the public telephone service was extended to this country. The sound I heard might be a train of cars twenty miles away or a woodpecker somewhere within sight. No matter. If Chitsah says it's chopping, it must be, for he ought to know, seeing that he first heard it with the aid of the tree-telephone. So let's go for it. We can afford to travel an hour or two in the dark for the sake of meeting the white man who is swinging that axe."

"Of course we can," replied Serge.

"Ay, ay, sir!" answered Jalap Coombs.

"Mebbe catch um. Yaas," added Kurilla, sharing the general enthusiasm.

An hour later, as they rounded a projecting point, Phil uttered an exulting shout. A cluster of twinkling lights shone dead ahead, and our travellers' goal was won.

"Let's give them a volley," suggested Serge. "It's the custom of the country, you know."

So the guns were taken from their deer-skin coverings, and at Phil's word of command a roar from double-barrel, flintlock, and Winchester woke glad echoes from both sides of the broad valley, and from the rugged Yukon cliffs beyond. Then with cheers and frantic yelpings of dogs, the sledge brigade dashed on toward the welcoming lights.

"Hello the camp!" yelled Phil, as they approached the dark cluster of cabins.

"On deck!" roared Jalap Coombs, as though he were hailing a ship at sea.

"Hello yourself!" answered a gruff voice—the first hail in their own tongue that the boys had heard in many a week. "Who are you? Where do you come from? And what's all this racket about?"

"White men," replied Phil, "with dog-sledges, up from Yukon month."

"Great Scott! You don't say so! No wonder you're noisy! Hi, boys! Here's the first winter outfit that ever came from Yukon mouth to Forty Mile. What's the matter with giving them a salute?"

"Nothing at all!" cried a score of voices, and then volley after volley rang forth, until it seemed as though every man there must have carried a loaded gun and emptied it of all six shots in honor of the occasion.

Men came running from all directions, and before the shooting ceased the entire population of the camp, some three hundred in number, were eagerly crowding about the new-comers, plying them with questions, and struggling for the honor of shaking hands with the first arrivals of the year.

"Are we really the first to come up?" asked Phil.

"To be sure you are. Not only that, but the first ones to reach the diggings from any direction since navigation closed. But how did you come? Not by the river, I know, for when I heard your shooting 'twas away up the creek."

"We came by the Tananah and across the Divide," answered Phil. "There is another party coming by way of the river, though."

"Hark to that, boys! One train just arrived and another coming! I tell you, old Forty Mile is right in it. Daily express from all points; through tickets to Europe, Arup, and Arrap; morning papers and opera-houses, circus and theaytres. Looks like the boom had struck us at last. But say, stranger, what is the news from below?"

"New steamer on her way up the river, with saw-mill, mining machinery, and best stock of goods ever seen in Alaska," replied Phil, quick to seize the opportunity, and anxious to make his business known while he still had the field to himself. "We have come from her, and are on our way to San Francisco to send up a new stock for next season. So we have only stopped to take your orders and find out what will be the most acceptable."

"Hurrah!" yelled the crowd, wild with excitement. "Send us a brass band," shouted one. "In swaller-tails and white kids," added another. "What's the matter with moving the Palace Hotel up here?" suggested a third.

"Come, fellows, let up," cried the man who had been the first to welcome the new arrivals, and whose name was Riley. "We mustn't keep these gentlemen standing out here in the cold any longer. I reckon they're hungry, too, and wondering why we don't invite 'em to grub. So, men, just come into my shebang and make yourselves at home. There isn't much to it, but such as it is it's yours, so long as you'll honor yours truly."

"No, come with me," cried another voice. "I've got beans, Boston baked, fresh from the can." "I've got molasses and soft-tack," and "I've just made a dish of scouse." "Come with us," shouted others.

"No, you don't!" roared Mr. Riley. "They're my meat, and they are going to bunk in with me."

[to be continued.]

TYPICAL AMERICAN SCHOOLS.

ANDOVER.