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

A CARGO OF BURNING COAL.

BY AN OLD SHIPMASTER.

The reader may think that while coal must be a dirty cargo it is in other respects an innocent one; but there is no shipmaster who does not dread a long voyage with this kind of freight, for many a fine vessel has been lost owing to the coal taking fire through spontaneous combustion; therefore the greatest care is exercised in carrying it, and whenever the weather will permit, the hatches are opened in order to give the gases in the hold an opportunity to escape. The regular coal-carriers are fitted with ventilators set in different parts of the deck, and the holds of the vessels are kept pure and wholesome by turning the gaping mouths of a number of the huge funnels so that the wind will pour into and down them to the interior of the ship, and keep up a circulation by escaping through other ventilators that are turned in a contrary direction.

A good many years back, when I was an able young sea-man on board the bark Raleigh, I had an experience that was both exciting and strange. Our vessel was loaded with coal, and bound from Philadelphia to Australia. The run down to the equator had been a slow but pleasant one, owing not only to the mild, beautiful weather that we had held right along since sailing, but because the Raleigh had what was something of a novelty in those days, in the way of an excellent and kindly set of officers. We were what is called a "happy ship."

After reaching about the parallel of twenty degrees south we got a stress of weather for over a week, in which several of our sails were blown away and a number of our light spars were wrecked. All our live-stock of pigs and chickens were drowned, owing to the flooding of our decks, for we sat very low in the water.

On the day that we ran into pleasant weather again we started to take off the hatches, when a gassy, choking smell poured out of the opening. The cargo was on fire. There was only one thing to do—to replace the hatches, bore holes through them, and pump streams of water into the hold, endeavoring to drown the fire before it gained additional headway. All hands were called to the task, and for twenty-four hours we worked for our lives, the crew being divided into relief gangs so that the deck-pumps might be kept constantly going.

Before another morning came, however, we knew that the ship was doomed, for the decks grew hot under our feet, and through various crevices the weakening, nauseating fumes of coal-gas poured, overpowering us at times as we plied the pump-handles. The wind died away, leaving the ship becalmed, and over and around her hung a sickly blue pall of vapor. Then the order was given to provision the boats and desert the Raleigh. We pulled a little way from the vessel and rested on our oars, watching the noble ship. As long as she floated there we seemed to have something to cling to on the wide desolate reach of waters.

Shortly afterward the mainmast swayed like a drunken man, then with an awful crash it pitched over the side, dragging with it the foretop-gallant mast and the mizzen-topmast. Through the broken deck a column of winding sulphurous flame shot into the air. The pitch ran wriggling out of the seams of the Raleigh's planking, and fell hissing in little showers into the water alongside as the vessel rolled sluggishly on the swells. An hour later the bark was a mass of flames, and we pulled away to escape from the heat.

There were two boats, the Captain commanding one and the chief mate the other. Each had been provided with a chart and compass, and, in addition to these instruments, the two officers had carried away their sextants in order to navigate by the sun and stars. Into each boat had been stowed food and water, which it was calculated would last about ten days by putting all hands on short allowance; but it was hoped that before the provisions were consumed we would either be picked up by a passing vessel or successful in sailing to Rio Janeiro, distant from us something less than six hundred miles. The Captain's boat being the larger of the two carried the second mate, steward, cook, and eight seamen, while the mate's boat held the carpenter and four seamen—myself included among the latter.

The boats laid alongside of one another while the Captain and mate decided upon the course to be steered; then we separated, made sail to the southeast breeze that had set in, and stretched away into the northwest, the Captain's boat in the lead. The wind gathered strength from the southeast, giving us a following breeze for the port toward which we were steering, and both boats made good weather of the moderate sea then running, sweeping along at the rate of five knots to the hour.

All that afternoon the boats kept within sight of one another, and when night fell not over a quarter of a mile divided us. With the first flush of dawn we swept the expanse of waters, but nothing was to be seen. We were alone. Every little while during the day that followed we would scan the horizon, hoping to lift the long-boat's sail into view; but in vain. We never saw her again, or heard tidings of the twelve brave souls from whom we had parted only a few hours before. That she never reached port is certain; but what her ultimate fate proved, no one knows.

It blew up a gale of wind that afternoon, and I heard the mate say that the storm experienced during the week that was past had recurved, and that we would get it worse than ever on its back track. To prevent the boat from foundering, we unstepped the mast, made a span to it by securing a length of rope to each end, and to the middle of this bridle we bent the boat's painter. Then we dropped this sea-anchor over the bows, and rode to it, the strain upon the painter keeping the head of the boat to the seas that rolled down on us.

When night settled upon the deep it shut out one of the wildest sights of ocean-lashed waters that I had ever seen; but the darkness only intensified the terror, for in the blackness we would feel the frail boat swung with dizzy velocity up and up and up on some mountainous sea, as though she was never going to stop; then, while the great seething crest was roaring in a thousand diabolical voices about us, she would drop down, down, down with a motion that was like falling through space.

It might have been the middle of the night when, worn out from the labor of bailing without intermission for many hours, I threw myself down in the bows of the boat, and locking my arms around one of the thwarts to keep from being pitched about, I fell into an exhausted sleep. I don't know how long I slept, but I was brought to my senses by a sea bursting into the boat, and I found my legs wedged under the seat as I sat half suffocated on the flooring with the water up to my armpits. Looking aft, I could see by the phosporescent glow of the breaking seas that no shapes of men were visible against the background of sky. My companions were gone.

The gunwale of the boat was within a few inches of the water, and it needed only the spume of another wave falling in the boat to sink her. There was no time for indulging in grief over the loss of my shipmates—there was time only for work, and very little for that, if I was to save my life. Tearing off my cap, I used it as a bailer and worked desperately.

At last another morning came, and with it the gale broke; but I allowed the boat to remain hove to during that day and following night, so as to give the seas a chance to go down.

The second morning dawned clear and beautiful, with the ocean subsided into long even swells, and the wind settled down again to the regular trades. Most of the provisions had been ruined by the sea that had filled the boat, but I found two water-tight tins filled with pilot-bread that promised to supply my needs for some time to come. The fresh water in the boat-breakers had kept sweet owing to the bungs being in place.

I had opened one of the tins, and was sitting on a thwart making a breakfast from its contents, when, happening to look astern, I made out, not more than a mile away, the wreck of a small vessel. Everything about the foremast was standing below the cross-trees, but only the splintered stumps of her main and mizzen masts were to be seen above the deck, while the spars themselves, together with their gear, were hanging in a wild confusion over the side. I got in my drag, restepped the mast, set the sail, and bore down upon the wreck. As I drew close to her I expected to see some signs of her crew, for the vessel sat fairly high in the water, and looked seaworthy enough to be navigated into port by making sail upon the fore, and rigging up jury-masts on the two stumps abaft—plenty of material for such to be found in the raffle alongside. No evidence, however, of life showed itself when I rounded under the stern, reading the name Mercedes in large white letters. Letting fly my sheet, I caught the leeward chain-plates, and jumping on board with the painter, I secured the same to a belaying-pin, and looked about me.

I was at once sensible that there was some water in the hold by the peculiar motion of the vessel as she rose and fell to the seas that underran her; but at the same time it was apparent that there could not be anything like a dangerous quantity, otherwise the plane of the deck would have floated much closer to the surface of the sea. Without regarding the nationality of the name, it was clear to me that the vessel was either a Portuguese or Italian trader by the rainbow character of her paint-work, the slovenliness of the rigging, that was yet almost intact upon the fore, and, in spite of the drenching that she had received, the unmistakable evidences of dirt everywhere. There were no boats left, but whether they had been crushed in the wreck of the masts or had received the crew of the barkentine—for such I saw had been her rig—I could not tell.

Entering the cabin, I overhauled the four state-rooms it contained, finding in three of them nothing but such odds and ends as are peculiar to sailors' chests, and in the fourth room, which had been used as a pantry, quite an assortment of boxes and barrels of provisions, although there was proof that some of them had been broken into and rummaged quite recently.

Then I went on deck again and lifted off one of the main hatch covers. No cargo of any nature was to be seen, nothing but a mass of black oily water washing from side to side. It was plain that the vessel was in ballast, that she had sprung a leak in the last gale of wind, that her crew had become frightened, had given her up for lost, and taken to the boats. It was also clear that the leak had stopped itself in some manner—possibly when the old tub had ceased straining after the sea went down—and that if I could pump out the hull I might be able to put her before the wind by making sail on the fore, and so, with the favoring trade winds, let the Mercedes drift along to the port dead away to leeward.

A sailor is never idle long after laying out his work. First I emptied my boat of its water-breakers and provisions, then let it tow astern. Next I got an axe out of the boatswain's locker and chopped away the rigging that held the broken spars to the bark, then when the vessel was clear I squared the topsail-yard by the braces, ran aloft, cast off the gaskets that held the sail, descended to the deck, where I sheeted home the topsail as well as possible, and carried the halyards through a leading block to the capstan, on which I hove away until I had lifted the yard as high as my strength allowed. Next I ran up the jib, sheeted it down, and raced aft to the wheel. I put the tiller up, and the old bucket at once answered her helm. When I got her fairly before the wind I lashed the wheel, and seeing that she would steer herself, with only a little watching, I got to work at the pumps.

By the time night arrived I had sunk the water in the hold to half its original depth. Then I settled away the topsail and let it hang. The jib I left standing, knowing that it would help to keep the vessel out of the trough, even if it did little or no good in the way of forcing the bark ahead. The weather promised to continue clear and moderate, so I built a fire in the galley range, brought a quantity of stores from the pantry, and made a hearty meal. I "turned in all standing," as seamen say when they go to bed without undressing, and slept long and heavily.

The next morning I again set my topsail, and scudded away to leeward while I finished clearing the bark of water.

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon. I had gone up on the little top-gallant-forecastle to have a look at the Mercedes ground-tackle, when I made out, about two points on the bow, and less than a mile away, a ship's boat filled with men. They had discovered the bark, for they were pulling to get in her path. As soon as I appeared to them there was a waving of hats and a confusion of cheers and calls. By the time that I had settled away the topsail-halyards and pulled the jib down the boat was alongside, and her late occupants were tumbling over the rail. The first one to touch the deck was a fat little man, almost as swarthy as a Malay, and twice as dirty, who wore enormous gold hoops in his ears, and a dilapidated red fez upon a mop of greasy black hair. He rushed up to me so wild with excitement that he kept hopping up and down like a jumping-jack, while he smote his breast and screamed something in Portuguese.

I shook my head and said, thumping my own breast, "No speakee Portuguese; me American!"

At this he yelled, accompanying his words with such a tremendous smiting of his poor ribs that I thought he would beat them in.

"Me speakee Americano! Me Capitano! Me Capitano this sheep! How you come? me say!"

I saw how it was. I had picked up the crew of the Mercedes three days after they had abandoned the vessel to which they had just returned.

I held up my hand as a sign to the frantic, jabbering monkeys to keep silence, then I explained partly by broken English and the rest by signs how I had found the bark deserted, had pumped her out, and was trying to reach the coast of South America in her. I ended by telling the Captain that I was glad to see him, and to give him back his vessel.

He was so overpowered with gratitude and joy at such an unexpected and happy ending to his troubles that he flung his dirty arms around my neck and kissed my cheeks effusively in the fulness of his heart. I was an honored guest on board the Captain's "sheep" from that time forth, and several days later when, crippled and torn, the poor old Mercedes staggered into the beautiful harbor of Rio Janeiro, and I took leave of the uncouth but kindly and grateful sailor, he repeated his kissing act, and forced into my hand a small bag of gold pieces, representing probably all his savings, while he said,

"You take dees. Me love brave Americano sailor who save me sheep."

CARRIER-PIGEONS.

BY ANNE HELME.

In the middle of the square around which the Herald building is built in New York city is a carrier-pigeon house on a level with the roof. It is a square house, large enough for a good-sized play-house, and has a piazza, a porch fenced in with wire, where the birds can exercise until they have learned enough to be allowed to fly around the city, for pigeons require a great deal of exercise not only in flying, but in walking. Just notice the next time you see a flock of pigeons when they light on the ground, or on the roofs of buildings, how they walk up and down for a long time.

Great care is taken with the pigeons. Their pedigree is kept and they are all named. Then, too, a mark is stamped on their under wings, so there shall be no mistake, and by this means they have often been recovered and sent home when they have lost their bearings or have been stolen. The man whose duty it is to attend to them takes a personal interest in each and every bird.

THE INTERIOR OF THE PIGEONS' HOME.

At night, when they come home, he looks to see that all are there, and to prevent any strangers from mixing with his own particular flock. Pigeons are very homelike in their tastes, and rarely does a day pass that several strange birds do not join them. They are fed chiefly on cracked corn, but they require more water than food—and water is absolutely necessary to their health and happiness. The amount they consume is almost incredible—more than double that of other birds.

Their home instinct, which is, of course, their distinguishing characteristic, is very marvellous. So strongly developed is it that it is impossible to keep the older birds away, and the gift of a pair of old birds is a very thankless one, as they will inevitably fly home the moment they are liberated, although they may be carried miles and miles away, and in a covered basket. The birds chosen to carry the messages from the yachts or steamers are sent down the Bay for several days, so that they may prove how swiftly they can fly back, and each day are liberated, and a record kept of the time they make in getting back to the office.

When a newspaper tug starts down the bay for the yacht-races which are taking place just now, one of the principal articles taken aboard is the big basket filled with carrier-pigeons, and each bird has a brass band on its foot. At different times during the race messages are written on the thinnest of paper and made into small parcels. These are attached to the band, and the birds thrown up into the air. A pair are usually sent off together, as they fly better, it is thought, in that way.

For a moment they wheel about apparently dazed, poise themselves for perhaps a second, and then fly straight for home.

On one of these races from half an hour to thirty-five minutes was the longest time taken from the moment they were thrown into the air until they arrived at their destination, and the messages were taken from their feet. It was a beautiful sight, and a wondrous one, to see these birds arrive. Curiously enough, in some instances they brought back with them strange pigeons who had joined them on the trip, evidently much interested to know the outcome of the yacht-race. The strange birds did not stay at the cote after nightfall, and apparently felt themselves quite out of place with pigeons of such intelligence.

It is now well proved that carrier-pigeons can be used to good purpose, for the news of the yachts was by their aid conveyed much sooner to headquarters than otherwise would have been possible, and the question is now being discussed as to whether it will not be advisable for all ocean steamships to carry them, so that if any vessel were disabled at sea, and, as has often happened, met with no other steamer, by their means word might be sent back to shore. An interesting article on this very subject was published recently in one of the daily papers, giving an account of an experiment that was tried and with great success. Five thousand pigeons were put on board the Manoubia, sailing from Saint Nazaire, and at distances varying from one hundred to five hundred miles were liberated.

CARRIER-PIGEONS COMING TO THEIR COTE.

The results were beyond the most sanguine hopes, for within a shorter time than had been deemed possible they had all, almost without exception, returned to their pigeon-houses.

It would not mean a great addition, either in money or care, to have these birds on every ship that left the port, and certainly great good might be done and endless anxiety saved in many instances, if intelligence as to a disabled ship's whereabouts could reach her owners.

In order to make carrier-pigeons at home in any place they must be taken there very young. Even birds six weeks old will make their way back to the nest, the instant they are liberated, as distance is as nothing to them. One pair sent out to Wilmington, Delaware, were kept shut up for six weeks, fed and watered with the utmost care and regularity. The seventh week they were set free, and at once disappeared. Their owner telegraphed to their old home, and received an answer that the birds had arrived there before his telegram was received.

One pair of the pigeons, which were named Annie Rooney and McGinty, were given to a boy of eleven who lives in New York city. They were very young when they were given to him, and he determined to train them so that they would always make their home at his house. For six weeks he kept them in his room in a mocking-bird cage, and was very careful about the food and water. In the day-time he put the cage outside the window, and when it rained covered it with a cloth, for pigeons, while they use a great deal of water both to bathe in and to drink, do not like to be out in the rain.

When six weeks were passed he opened the cage door and fastened it so that the birds could go out. At first they were contented to poke their heads out of the open door, but finally, after a great deal of conversation (pigeons are great conversationalists), out they flew. They seemed hardly to know the use of their wings at first, and circled around in a dazed way, alighting on the top of a neighboring roof, where they apparently had again a great deal to say to each other. For twenty minutes they talked, then seemed to have made up their minds to try a long flight, for with one graceful swoop into the air, off they flew. Hours went by, and they did not return, and when it was nearly dark all hope was abandoned; but suddenly there was a whir of wings, and Annie Rooney came home. McGinty still was absent. Annie Rooney perched herself on her roost, every feather rumpled up most disconsolately, while the boy who owned them went to bed very low in his mind. At daylight next morning he was awakened by such a cooing as he had never heard before. Rushing to the window, there he saw McGinty, in the wildest excitement, and with his head almost buried in the little dish which held the drinking water.

McGINTY, ANNIE ROONEY, AND A GUEST.

From that day the cage was left outside, and the door taken off, so that the birds might come and go as they chose.

Then, alas! began their troubles. So pleased were they with their little journey into the world that they at once set out to explore the houses near by, and every day a note was sent in from some neighbor to the effect: "Extremely sorry, but your pigeons fly into my bedroom and knock down all the ornaments." "Your birds insist upon walking up and down under my bed, making most unearthly sounds; I am afraid of birds and cannot stand having them in my house." "Again your birds have flown into my windows, and are in the children's doll-house. They refuse to come out, and make such a hideous noise as to alarm the children."

These three notes were only samples of others, and after a family conclave it was decided the pigeons must be sent away. Summer was coming on, and it was finally concluded the country was the best place for them.

Their owner took them in a covered basket to a farm on Long Island, where they were put into a pigeon-house, and provided with water and food. The next day they were apparently happy, so with many regrets they were told good-by, and the boy returned to town.

It was a long journey—some hours—and it was rather a sad-faced youth who mounted the steps and told his mother he had left his birds in the country. It was then six o'clock in the evening. At ten minutes past six there was a great fluttering of wings, and lo and behold, Annie Rooney and McGinty had returned, and prouder and happier pigeons never were seen.

ON BOARD THE ARK.

BY ALBERT LEE.

CHAPTER VII.

It seemed to Tommy as if the Gopher would never get enough. The little boy had never before witnessed such voracity. By actual count he had seen seventeen plates of soup vanish into his neighbor's system, and yet there was no apparent ill effect. The Gopher threw each empty dish under the table, so that the pile of crockery was now so high in front of his chair that he could rest his feet on it.

"Really," said Tommy at last, "I never saw such a greedy thing as you in all my life."

"I can't help it," answered the Gopher, complacently; "the eating question is a most important one, and I'm afraid they'll all get up and say dinner is over before I've had half enough."

"It seems to me that you have had more than enough. And, besides, I have an aunt who says one should always arise from the table hungry."

"Never you mind that Ant," said the Gopher. "Ants don't count. They are so little they can't hold anything, anyhow. As for getting up from the table hungry, that is something I cannot understand. I always sit down hungry: and it would never do to be hungry at both ends of the meal, now would it?"

On reflection Tommy did not think it would, and as he had been more than half inclined at the outset toward the Gopher's view of the case, they soon agreed on this point. Then the little animal said,

"Thtsnawflyfnnyunsnt?"

"I can't understand you when you talk with your mouth full," replied Tommy.

The Gopher made a great effort, and swallowed so hard that his eyes fairly bulged. Then he said,

"That's an awfully funny one, isn't it?"

"What one?"

"The one next to you."

"Him?" said Tommy, pointing at the ex-Pirate.

"Um," continued the Gopher, nodding his head, for his mouth was full again. "Ain't he?"

"He is a very nice gentleman," remarked Tommy, for lack of anything more definite to say.

"What kind is he?" asked the Gopher.

"He's an ex-Pirate."

"A Pie Rat? Goodness, how he has changed!"

"Oh yes, he has changed," continued Tommy. "He is very good now. He has entirely reformed."

"I should say he had. His form is entirely different. I knew a Pie Rat once, but he was not at all like this one. He does not look like a Pie Rat at all."

"Oh yes he does!" exclaimed Tommy, eagerly, although he realized as soon as he had spoken that he had never seen any real active pirate. But he added, "He is all fixed up just like a real pirate."

"Well, he isn't," said the Gopher, dictatorially. "The Pie Rat I knew looked like any other rat, but he only ate pie. Does this one eat pie?"

"Did you say rat?" asked Tommy.

"I said Pie Rat," answered the Gopher.

"Well, you don't want to let him hear you say rat. You must say ex-Pirate; that means that he is not a pirate any more."

"That's just what I said," persisted the Gopher. "I said he did not look like a Pie Rat, and so he is not a Pie Rat, and that's all there is to it." Then he threw up his hands and shouted, "Oh my! look at that!"

Tommy glanced up toward the head of the table, and saw that the Lion was helping himself to fully half of what had been placed before him.

"What a lot he takes!" remarked the little boy, in surprise.

"Always," said the Gopher. "But it's the Lion's share, and I suppose he is entitled to it. I wish I was a Lion."

"I don't," said Tommy, hastily, for he felt that he much preferred a small animal like the Gopher for a neighbor to a possible Lion.

"Well, I don't really believe I would like to be a Lion, after all," the Gopher went on to say. "If I could make myself all over again, I should be part Elephant, part Camel, and part Giraffe."

"What a funny-looking creature you would be!"

"Oh, I would not mind that. I don't care much about appearances. Eating is what interests me."

"I should think so," commented Tommy.

"And then think of the advantages of such a combination," pursued the Gopher. "If I were part Elephant I should be as big as any animal; and if I were part Camel I should have four stomachs; and then I should want a Giraffe's neck. Just think of how long things taste good in a Giraffe's throat. Why, it's two yards long! And mine is only about half an inch. How many times better does a piece of pie taste to a Giraffe than it does to me?"

"I don't know," answered Tommy Toddles, very promptly.

"Well, I've figured it all out many a time," added the Gopher, "and I can tell you. A throat two yards long is twice thirty-six inches long, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"That's seventy-two inches. And if my throat is only half an inch long, the Giraffe's throat is one hundred and forty-four times as long as mine, and so the pie tastes one hundred and forty-four times as good."

THE LION CALLED THE ASSEMBLED MULTITUDE TO ORDER.

Tommy marvelled at the Gopher's proficiency in arithmetic, but his mind soon reverted to the question at hand, and he began to wonder how much better pie would taste if his own neck was one hundred and forty-four inches long. He was going to ask his neighbor for further information on the subject, but when he turned around toward the Gopher he saw that the little animal had in some way gotten possession of the soup-tureen, and had thrust his head into it, and was almost drowning because he could not get it out. And then, just as the ex-Pirate and Tommy had rescued the Gopher from a soupy grave, the Lion arose at the head of the table, and pounded loudly on the board and called the assembled multitude to order.

When silence had spread over the room, the King of Beasts announced that the Goat had eaten the passenger list and other important notices off the bulletin board, and that it was thus impossible for him as toast-master to know who was present and who was not, and so he could not call on any one by name to make a speech. He added, however, that any one who desired to make a speech might do so, or, instead of a speech, any animal could sing a song or tell a story. Having made this announcement, the Lion sat down again; and all the animals glared frowningly upon the Goat, who stroked his whiskers nervously and looked embarrassed, either because of these rebuking glances or possibly because of the antediluvian ink on the passenger list.

"I feel awfully sorry for that Goat," whispered the Gopher to Tommy.

"Why don't you get up and make a speech then, and distract the general attention?"

"I don't know any speech," answered the Gopher; "but I know a joke."

"Tell the joke," urged Tommy; and so the Gopher stood up in his chair, and took off his pink sun-bonnet, and said he wanted to tell his joke.

[to be continued.]

A STORY OF CORN-BREAD AND CROWS.

BY DORA READ GOODALE.

Two sportsmen one morning, right dashing to view
In velvet and buckskin from helmet to shoe.
Were passing the field where the river runs by,
When they chanced in the distance a figure to spy—
Such a figure as farmers, from time out of ken,
Convinced that in clothes is the measure of men,
Have fashioned in spring-time of brushwood and hay
For the cheating of Solons more crafty than they.
"Sir Scarecrow; behold him!" the first hunter cries—
"What a marvel of rags which a Jew would despise!
Here's a fig for the bird that so witless appears
When he's lived among Yankees a good fifty years—
If the fowl really flies that his corn-bread would miss
For a wooden-legged, broken-backed puppet like this!
Come, choose a few nubbins to roast on the spot,
While I pepper his crown with a capful of shot."
Now the farmer that morning was tilling his soil,
Flushed, ragged, and sunbrowned, and grimy with toil,
When pausing a moment, as all farmers will,
He spied our two friends coming over the hill.
"Good land!" quoth the rustic, "a nice thing it is
Fer two city fellers to ketch me like this!"
Then, dropping his hoe, he exclaims with a grin,
"Young chaps, I'll be blessed ef I don't take you in!"
So, urging his slow wits to cope with the case,
He jerks his old hat down to cover his face,
Stretches limb like a windmill that spreads to the breeze,
Draws his fists up like turtles and stiffens his knees;
Yet a tremor of fun through the homespun appears
As the sound of that parley floats back to his ears,
And the honest ears burn as it calls up the words
Which declare that in plumes is the making of birds!
One moment the huntsman his target surveys,
While his laughing companion is gleaning the maize,
When that fetich of bumpkins, that burlesque in bran,
Starts, twitches, grows limber, shouts, moves—is a man;
"Git enough fer a roast, while ye're gittin'," drawls he.
"Ef I ain't quite the blockhead you tuk me to be.
W'y, it's nater sence Adam to run arter clo'es,
But I'd go sort o' slow as to corn-bread an' crows!"

HOW REDDY GAINED HIS COMMISSION.

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

Part II.

When Reddy found himself in the water, he realized the impossibility of swimming to the shore, and began to struggle in an effort to reach the jam. This jam had its origin in a group of sandstone bowlders in the centre of the river, on the edge of the rapids. The river débris had collected and compacted about them into several square yards of solid surface. To the corporal and his fellow soldiers, now gathered on the shore and watching the swimmer, it seemed that the boy must be carried past to certain death.

They were about giving him up for lost when they saw him snatch at a branch attached to the edge of the jam and swing himself about, then reach a protruding log and climb out. Instantly he ran to the outer end of the log and reached his floating oar. With the oar he caught the prow of the boat, and swinging it within reach of his hands, drew it out of the water.

The soldiers gazed at the stranded boys in perplexity. There seemed no chance of rescuing them. They knew of no other boat nearer than the next government post, nor would a raft be of use at the head of the roaring fall. The stream was too deep for wading and too near the plunge for swimming. The corporal quickly mounted the mule and rode to the fort to report the lads' plight to the commanding officer.

As soon as possible an ambulance containing the officers and Mrs. Maloney started for the river. They brought some tools, a spare oar, and several coils of rope. A few moments later nearly all the men of the garrison not on duty lined the southern shore. Mrs. Maloney's worst fears seemed to be realized when she saw her son clinging helplessly to the snag in mid-stream. Her anguish was heart-rending.

"Ah, Teddy b'y!" she screamed, oblivious to the fact that he could not hear her voice above the roar of the water, "don't ye let go the tray, darlint! Howld on till hilp gets t' yez!"

But how to get to them, or to get anything to them, was a serious question. The soldiers were brave and willing men, but they did not possess the skill of river-drivers nor the appliances and tools of the craft. If the boys were only a mile farther up stream, clear of the rapids, a score of swimmers could take lines out to them; or, for that matter, the boys could swim ashore without assistance. The close vicinity of the snag to the plunging and tumultuous descent in the river made all the difference.

Experiment after experiment was tried. Several brave fellows in turn tied the end of the rope to their waists and swam out; but the current pulling at the slack between them and the shore drew them back. Another went far up stream and swam out, while the shore end of the rope was carried down by comrades at the same rate as the flow of the current. He succeeded in grasping the snag; but the instant he paused the titanic force of the water tore him away, burying him beneath the surface. He was drawn ashore nearly drowned.

The commanding officer was about to send to the fort for material for a raft and an anchor, when his attention was called to the boy on the jam. After the failure of the last attempt to rescue his friend, Reddy was seen to approach the boat and launch it. He then drew it to the end of the log previously mentioned, held it by the stern, with the prow pointed downward, and appeared to be looking for a passage through the submerged bowlders. Presently he turned towards his friends on shore, swung the oar over his head, stepped on board, and was quickly out of sight.

A cry of alarm went up from the soldiers when Reddy disappeared, and they with one accord started on a run down the shore. At the foot of the steep descent they found the brave boy paddling his skiff into a quiet eddy.

He was greeted with vociferous enthusiasm, and a dozen men shouldered him and the boat, and carried them back to the landing. There a line was attached to the stern of the skiff, and a strong man rowed out toward the snag, but the current dragged it back precisely as it had the swimmers. Captain Bartlett next ordered the boat to be towed a quarter of a mile up stream, and as it floated down and was rowed outward he directed the shore end of the line to be carried along with it.

It became quickly evident to the spectators that the skiff would reach the snag, and an involuntary cheer went up, Mrs. Maloney waving her apron and screaming with tearful joy. But through some blunder, or lack of skill, the original accident was repeated. The wherry dropped sideways against the tree and was swamped. This time, however, a line being attached, the skiff was drawn free, and swung back to the shore by the pull of the current. The man clung to the boat and was landed at the crest of the rapid.

The anguish of the poor mother at the failure of what had promised to be a certain rescue of her son was pitiful. She fell upon her knees, wrung her hands, and sobbed in abject despair. Reddy approached, stooped beside her, and placing an arm about her neck, said:

"Do not cry, Mrs. Maloney; I'm going to ask the Captain to let me go to Teddy, and I'll have him here with you in no time."

"No, no, child. Don't ye be dhrownded, too. Nothing can save me b'y now ahl the min have failed."

"But I mean to try it, Mrs. Maloney. Dry your tears and watch me do it."

Teddy Maloney on the snag in mid-stream was now suffering intensely. Seated upon a tree trunk barely ten inches in diameter, and kept from flipping down its slope by a rugged knot, his position was almost unendurable. For five hours he had clung there hatless and coatless, with his back to a broiling sun. Dazed by suffering and dizzied by the leaping, gliding, and wrinkling water that gurgled and pulled at his half-submerged legs, he was still conscious of the efforts being made for his rescue. He saw Reddy shoot the rapids, and with a growing conviction that he could not hold on much longer, he wondered why his boy friend did not come to his aid. "He is the only one in the whole crowd that knows anything about a boat. Why don't they let him do something?" thought poor Teddy.

As if in answer to this silent appeal, Redmond Carter at the same moment approached Captain Bartlett and begged permission to go for his comrade.

"But, Carter, how can you expect to accomplish what these older and stronger men have failed to do?" asked the Captain.

"They do not know what to do, sir. I was born on the Kennebec, sir. I have run barefooted on booms, rafts, and jams, and have boated in birch canoes, dugouts, punts, and yawls, and I can run a rapid, as you have just seen."

"A Kennebec boy, Reddy!" said the officer, for the first time using the boy's pet name. "I know what Kennebec boys could do when I was one of them. Yon may try it; but be careful."

Reddy sprang into the boat and began rowing up stream in the shore eddy. Reaching the desired distance he turned into the middle of the river, and changing his seat to the stern and using an oar for a paddle, he dropped down the current toward the snag. As he neared it, he saw Teddy's hands relax and his body sway slightly to the right.

"Hold on, Teddy!" he shouted. "Keep your grip! I'm right here!"

Gliding along the right side of the trunk he stayed the motion of the skiff by grasping it with his left hand.

"Tumble in, Teddy—quick!" he said.

Teddy obeyed, literally falling into the bottom of the boat, limp and sprawling between the thwarts.

DOWN, DOWN THE BOILING, FOAMING, ROARING DESCENT HE SPED.

Reddy let go the trunk, went towards the rapids, raking the crest at the same place he had taken it before. Down, down the boiling, foaming, roaring descent he sped, plying his oar with all his might, lest in turning a frothing Scylla he might be hurled upon a threatening Charybdis. His former success attended him.

Again the soldiers ran to meet him at the foot of the watery slope, filling the air with shouts as they ran. But the sight of Teddy lying senseless in the bottom of the boat, checked further joyous demonstration. He was tenderly lifted in stalwart arms and borne to a grassy knoll near by, where he was received by his anxious mother and the surgeon. Restorative treatment brought him back to consciousness, and he was taken at once to the fort. The wherry was again carried to the landing before the hay-camp, and the crowd of soldiers dispersed through the ravines and groves in the direction of their barracks.

Captain Bartlett accompanied Redmond Carter to the place where the mule and pony were picketed, and, saying that he would ride Puss to the post, ordered one of the men to saddle her, and entered into conversation with the boy.

"I think you are out of place in the army, Carter," said he.

"What, sir! Have I not always done my duty well?" asked Reddy, in dismay.

"Much better than the average soldier. But that is not what I mean. You seem qualified for something better than the position you occupy. You are not of the material from which the army is usually recruited. This slip of paper, found beside the orderly bench at the office," observed the officer, handing the boy his sketch of the Trojan horse with the accompanying Latin sentence, "shows that you have been a student. I do not know what accident brought you here, but I think school is the proper place for you."

"Nothing would please me better, sir, than to be able to return to school; but it is not possible at present."

"Are you willing to tell me how you come to be in the service?"

"Yes, sir; it is not a long story," replied the young soldier. "My father and mother died when I was too young to remember them, and I was left to the care of a guardian, who sent me to school, and afterwards to an academy, where I prepared for college. I passed my entrance examination to the Freshman class in June, and expected to go on in September; but the failure of companies in which my property had been invested left me destitute, and I gave it up."

"But you have relatives?"

"Lots of them; but they showed little inclination to help me. There had been some family differences that I never understood, and I was too proud to go begging for assistance. I shipped on a granite-schooner for Philadelphia. I was miserably seasick the whole trip, and was discharged by the master of the vessel without pay. Having no money I could not find food while looking for work. I obtained an odd job now and then, but soon wore my clothes to rags, so that no respectable establishment would think of hiring me. I slept on the streets, and frequently passed a day without proper food. One day I passed a recruiting-office, and it suggested a means of escape from destitution. I enlisted as a fifer, and was assigned to your company."

"And you have been with me ten months," said the Captain. "I suppose your relatives cannot trace you?"

"They might trace me to Philadelphia," replied Reddy; "but the trail becomes dark there. Even if they suspected I had enlisted—which is not likely—they could not find me, for the recruiting sergeant blundered in registering my name. He put me down as Redmond A. Carter, when he should have written it Raymond J. Corser."

"Not a rare mistake of the recruiting officer. So you are of the General Corser family?"

"He was my grandfather."

"Then you have only to communicate with your relatives in order to get out of the army. Yours is an influential family."

"I shall serve out my enlistment, sir. The army has served me a good turn, and when I am discharged I shall be in better condition to find employment than in Philadelphia."

"But what has become of your college aspirations?"

"It will still be possible to accomplish that. Sergeant Von Wald and I are studying together, and I think I shall be able to enter Sophomore. Poor boys have worked their way before."

"I have noticed Von Wald. Is he a scholar?"

"Please not to mention it, sir; he is a German university man. When I am discharged I shall have most of my five years' pay, and considerable savings on clothing not drawn. I expect it will amount to nearly eight hundred dollars."

For a few moments the officer said nothing, but gazed reflectively across the rushing and roaring river. At last he turned again toward the boy and asked, "How would you like to be an officer in the army, Carter?"

"I should like it above all things, sir; but it is not possible. While I might make a struggle single-handed through college, I could scarcely hope to secure an appointment to West Point."

"Still there is a way. The late Congress passed a law allowing men who have served two years in the army, and been favorably recommended by their officers, to be examined for appointment to the grade of second lieutenant. Yon have a little more than four years to serve. In that time you will have reached the required age, and Lieutenant Dayton and I can give you the necessary instruction. What do you say?"

"I'll make a hard struggle for it, sir, if you will afford me the chance."

Five years later Sergeant Redmond A. Carter passed a successful examination for a second lieutenantcy in the army, and was commissioned in the artillery under his proper name, Raymond J. Corser.

Edward Maloney, who excelled in physical rather than intellectual attainments, continued in the service, becoming at the time of his second enlistment first sergeant of Captain Bartlett's company.

OAKLEIGH

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER XIII.

During these early months of the year a change had come over Miss Betsey Trinkett's life. Silas Green had died.

Mr. and Mrs. Franklin went to Wayborough for the funeral, and found Miss Betsey quite broken.

"To think that the day was fixed at last," she said, "and he died only the week before. Well, well, it does seem passing queer, after all these years. It doesn't do to put a thing off too long. And yet, perhaps, it's all for the best, for if I'd given up and gone down there to live, I should have had nothing now to look at but the Soldiers' Monument, and I'd have felt real lonesome without the Merrimac."

And with this consolation the old lady took up her life again, and found it very much the same thing it had been before, with the exception of Sunday night. On that evening she would not have the lamps lighted, but would sit in her favorite window and look out across the valley at her beloved view, her eyes turned in that direction long after it became too dark to see.

Sometimes then she regretted that she had not yielded to Silas's arguments, and gone to live in the house in the village. It would have pleased him. And it seemed very lonely Sunday night without Silas.

After a while—it was a day or two after the communications came from Bronson—Mr. Franklin received a letter from his aunt. She was pretty well, but felt as if she had not heard from them for a long time. She would send Willy's present soon. Had Janet's been placed in the savings-bank? She had not heard from Janet since she sent it. Why did not the child write?

As nothing had come to Janet from Miss Trinkett, this caused some surprise.

"I am afraid Aunt Betsey has trusted to government once too often," said Mr. Franklin, "for evidently the package has gone astray. I wonder what was there besides the gold dollars?"

"Something to make it an odd-looking package, you may be sure, papa," said Cynthia.

Mr. Franklin inquired of the postmaster. That personage was a nervous little man, much harassed with the responsibilities and duties of his position.

"Something lost, Mr. Franklin? Now that's very strange. I can't think it's lost. Yes, I remember a number of odd-looking packages that have come for your family from Wayborough. There may have been one lately, though I can't say for sure. Let me see. I remember young Gordon coming for the mail one day, and getting—no, he didn't get one, he sent it—a money-order. Happen to remember it because he paid for it in gold. That's all I can safely say about anything, Mr. Franklin. There may have been a package. What did you say, miss? Stamps and postal-cards? Yes, yes." And the busy little man turned to the next comer.

Mr. Franklin left the office with a thoughtful face. He was a very impulsive man, too apt to say the first thing that occurred to him, without regard to consequences. Therefore when he got into the carriage and, taking the reins from Edith, drove hurriedly out High Street towards Oakleigh, he exclaimed:

"I am almost inclined to believe that Neal knows more about Aunt Betsey's present to Janet than any of us."

Janet, who was perched on the back seat, heard her own name mentioned, and proceeded to listen attentively. Both her father and sister forgot that she was there, and she took especial pains not to remind them of her presence.

"How do you mean, papa?" asked Edith.

"I think it is a remarkable coincidence, if nothing more. I had a letter the other day from young Bronson, stating that Neal owed him fifty dollars. The same night I had another letter from him, saying that he had received a money-order from Neal for the amount. We questioned Neal, and he would give no satisfactory answer as to where he got the money. The postmaster tells me that Neal paid for his money-order in gold. Aunt Betsey's present to Janet is missing; we all know that Aunt Betsey always sends gold. The postmaster seems to think that a package may have come through the office to us, though he is not absolutely certain of it. What more natural than to suppose that the gold Neal had was meant for Janet? He may have called for the mail that day, recognized the package from Aunt Betsey, and the temptation was too much for him."

"Oh, papa!" cried Edith, much shocked. "I can't believe that Neal would do a thing like that."

"I can't either," said her father, cutting the air with his whip in his impatience, and making his horse prance madly—"I can't either, and I am sure I don't want to! Let us forget that I said it, Edith. Don't think of it again, and on no account repeat what I said. The idea came into my head, and I spoke without thinking. I wouldn't have Hester know it for the world. But it is strange, isn't it, that Neal paid gold for his money-order. Where did he get it?"

"It is strange, papa, but indeed I think Neal is honest. I am sure—oh, I am very sure—that it couldn't have been Janet's."

"Then where did he get it?" repeated Mr. Franklin, with another cut of his whip.

"Perhaps Mrs. Franklin gave it to him."

"Of course she didn't," exclaimed her father, with irritation, "and I wish you would oblige me, Edith, by not calling my wife 'Mrs. Franklin.' If you do not choose to speak of her as the rest of my children do, you can at least call her 'Hester.' You annoy me beyond measure."

Edith turned very white as she said: "I am sorry, papa. Then I will call her nothing. I can't possibly say 'mamma' to her, and I don't feel like speaking to her by her first name."

"What nonsense is all this!" said Mr. Franklin. "I am thoroughly disappointed in you, Edith."

"I don't know why you should be, papa. I have nothing to do with it. If the Gordons had not come here this would never have happened. The money would not be missing, you wouldn't have had the letters from Tony Bronson, and I—oh, I would have been so much happier!"

"If you are not happy, it is entirely your own fault," said her father, sternly. "Now let me hear no more of these absurd notions of yours. I have too much to think of that is of more importance."

Edith wanted to cry, but she controlled herself. She was to drive with her father over to Upper Falls, where he had to attend to some business, and now she had made him seriously angry, she knew. She swallowed the lumps that rose in her throat, and presently she managed to speak on some indifferent subject; but her father made no reply, and they soon turned in at Oakleigh gates. Janet, the small, quiet person on the back seat, could scarcely wait to get home. She must find Neal at once.

But Neal was not easily to be found. She trotted up to his room, but he was not there. She went to the cellar stairs and called, but Neal had neglected his duties of late as partner in the poultry business; in fact, he had retired altogether, and the eggs reposed there alone. Janet was not allowed to descend the stairs because of her misdemeanors last year.

She went to the workshop, but all was quiet. Looking out from the upper window, however, she spied Bob in the pasture; perhaps Neal was with him. She went down and unfastened the big gate that opened into the barn-yard.

Country child though she was, Janet was sorely afraid of venturing through the barn-yard alone. Were there any pigs there? Yes, there were a great many. Janet detested pigs, ugly-looking creatures! And there were some cows also, and she had on her red jacket. She promptly laid it aside and made a bold rush through the yard.

On the whole, she rather enjoyed the excitement. She was alone, for Willy had gone to Boston with her mother, and Cynthia and Jack were at school. Janet felt herself enjoying an unlooked-for holiday owing to the illness of her teacher, and she was about to fulfil the proverb which tells of the occupation that is found for idle hands to do, though in this case it was an idle tongue.

The dangers of the barn-yard overcome, Janet pursued her way along the cart-road that led to the far meadow, and there, sitting on a rock near the river, she found the object of her search. He was whittling a boat while he pondered moodily about his affairs.

"Neal, Neal!" she called, breathless from excitement and haste, "I want to speak to you. What have you done with my present?"

"Where did you come from, you small imp?" said Neal, with lazy good-nature. Preoccupied though he was, he was fond of children, and particularly of mischief-loving Janet, and he was not sorry to have his solitude relieved by her coming.

"Where's my present?" repeated Janet; "I want it dreadful bad."

"Your present! What do you mean, young one? You don't suppose for an instant that I'm making this boat for you, do you?"

"Boat!" cried Janet, disdainfully; "I don't want any old boat; I want Aunt Betsey's present."

"I suppose you do. I would myself if I were so lucky as to own an Aunt Betsey. But I'm afraid I can't help you in that line, my child."

"Yes, you can," said Janet, tugging at his elbow; "you can too. You've got it. Papa said so."

"Got what?"

"Aunt Betsey's present. He and the postmaster man said you took it."

"Said I took it?"

"Yes. Come, Neal, give it to me. I don't want the gold dollars—you can have those—but I'd like the funny thing she sent with them. Aunt Betsey allus sends funny things. Come along, Neal. Give it to me."

"Did your father say I took that money?"

"Yes, he did. Didn't I say so lots of times? Edith said you didn't, and papa said you did. What's the matter with your face? It looks awful funny."

"Never mind what it looks like. Tell me what your father said."

"OH, I DON'T KNOW WHAT HE SAID, AND I'VE TOLD YOU TEN HUNDRED TIMES."

"Oh, I don't know what he said, and I've told you ten hundred times. Don't hold my arm so tight; it hurts. Let me go, Neal."

"I won't, till you tell me what he said."

"I'll never tell unless you let go. I'll scream, and people'll know you're killing me dead, and then you'll get punished."

She opened wide her mouth and gave a long, piercing shriek.

"Oh, hush up!" exclaimed Neal, roughly; "if I let go will you tell me?"

"Yes, if you'll give me that boat. I think I'd like it, after all."

Neal released her and thrust the boat into her hand.

"Now what?" he said.

"Oh, nothing much, except papa came out of the post-office and told Edith the postmaster man said maybe you'd taken Aunt Betsey's package, 'cause you gave him some gold dollars. And papa said it must have been my present,'cause you couldn't get gold dollars any other way, no-how, and papa was mad, I guess, 'cause his face looked the way it does when some of us chillens is naughty, with his mouth all shut up tight. There, that's all. Now, Neal, give me the thing Aunt Betsey sent."

"I haven't got it and I never had it. And now good-by to you, every one of you, forever! Do you hear? Forever! I'm not going to stay another minute in a place where I'm insulted."

He strode away, and Janet, frightened at she knew not what, sat down on a rock and began to cry. How very queer Neal was, and how queer his face looked! She wondered what he was going to do. Perhaps he was going down to the cellar to smash all the eggs. He looked that way.

She sat there awhile, but it was cool without the red jacket, left on the other side of the barn-yard—for although it was spring according to the almanac, there was still a sharpness in the air—and very soon she too went towards home. She had not found Aunt Betsey's present, after all, and she had nothing to repay her for her search but a half-made wooden boat and an aching arm.

And there were those pigs, still at large. She got through safely, but left the gate open, thereby allowing the animals to escape, and incurring the wrath of the farmer.

When she reached the house Neal was not to be found. There was no one at home, for Edith and her father had driven over to Upper Falls on business, after leaving Janet at the door. There was nothing to do but to go out and tease the good-natured kitchen-maid into giving her a huge slice of bread and butter and sugar. Mary Ann and Martha, the old servants, would never do it, but the youthful Amanda was more lenient.

"Where's Neal, 'Manda?" asked Janet, as she munched the delicious portion which was placed before her. They were in the pantry, beyond the sight of the other maids.

"I don't know. He came a-stalkin' past the kitching windies a little while ago, an' I heard him run up stairs an' down like a house a-fire, an' out the front door with a bang."

"Guess he's excited," murmured Janet, with her mouth full; "guess that must be it. He's gone off mad. We had a fight out in the pasture."

"La, child! What do you mean?"

"Oh, I'm not going to say any more, 'cept me and Neal, we fit a fight in the pasture. I made him awful mad," with another huge bite.

"La, child, you do beat everything! But there's Mary Ann calling me. Don't you take a bit more sugar. Now mind!"

But Janet, left to herself in the pantry, made a fine repast.

The family came home to dinner, with the exception of Mr. Franklin and Edith, and although Neal's absence was commented upon, no one thought anything of it. He frequently went off for a long day alone on the river.

When the meal was nearly over and dessert had been placed upon the table, Janet thought that she would announce what had taken place. She felt quite important at being the cause of Neal's disappearance.

"Guess Neal's awful mad with me," she said, suddenly. No one paid much attention. She would try again. "Guess Neal's awful mad with me 'bout what I said 'bout Aunt Betsey's present."

"What did you say about it?" asked Jack, who sat next to her. There was a lull in the conversation, and every one heard her reply.

"Oh, I told him to give it to me. I said papa said he took it, and he could have the gold dollars, but I wanted the funny thing. Why, maybe it was a doll or a purse or some other nice thing. Course I wanted it. My, though, Neal was mad!"

"What did you tell him, Janet?" asked Mrs. Franklin, in much astonishment; "that your father said Neal had taken your present? When did he say so, and what do you mean?"

"Goody, mamma, you're asking 'most as many questions as Neal did. Guess you're excited, like he was. I told him papa said he'd taken my present from Aunt Betsey. The postmaster man said so this morning. And Neal looked awful queer when I told him, and he hurted my arm awful bad. And then he went off and left me."

Mrs. Franklin became very white. "I think you will have to excuse me, children. I—I do not feel very well. I will go lie down. Jack, your arm, please."

Jack sprang to help her, and led her from the room. Cynthia only wailed to scold Janet for her idle chatter, and then followed.

"But it's true, Cynthia," her small sister called after her. "It's true, and you're real mean to say it isn't. You just ask Edith."

When Mr. Franklin returned and learned that his hastily uttered words of the morning had been repeated to his wife and to Neal, he was distressed beyond measure. "My dear, I never meant it," he said. "Hester, you must know that I could not really believe that Neal would do such a thing. It was impossible to help remarking upon the singular coincidence. I never thought the child would hear me. What shall I do with her? She ought not to have repeated what I said."

"Do nothing, John. Janet is not to blame; naturally, a child of her age would get it wrong. But oh, I am relieved to find you did not really think it! It gave me such a shock to hear that you thought him capable of such an action."

"Where is the boy? I want to tell him myself."

But Neal could not be found. Cynthia and Jack hunted over the place, looking for him in all his haunts. He was not on the river, for his canoe was in its place. He had not gone to the village, for no horse was out, and whether he had walked or driven, his sister would have met him when she returned from Boston. He could not have gone for a walk, for Bob had been left at home, and Neal never walked without Bob.

A horrible foreboding seized Cynthia. What if Neal had run away? But no; surely he would never do such a thing. The idea of her even thinking of it, when such a course would only make people believe that he had really taken the money. Cynthia scolded herself severely for having allowed the supposition to come into her mind. But where was he? As a last resource she called Janet to her and again questioned the child closely. They were standing on the drive in front of the house.

"What did Neal say to you, Janet, when he went off?"

"Oh, he was awful mad, I told you, Cynthia. He was just mad."

"But did he say anything?"

"Oh yes, lots. But I forget what."

"Can't you remember anything, Janet? Not one word? Did he say where he was going?"

"No-o," drawled Janet, "he just said— My, Cynthia, look at that bluebird! It's a real bluebird, sure's you're alive. Wish I could catch him."

"But, Janet, never mind the bird. What did Neal say?"

"Oh, he said good-by and he was going. Cynthia, I b'lieve if I had some salt to put on that bird's tail I could catch him. Mayn't I, Cynthia? Mayn't I get some salt and put it on his tail?"

"No, you can't!" cried Cynthia, stamping her foot. "I do wish you would tell me all Neal said."

"There, now, you're in an angry passion," observed her small sister, gazing at her calmly; "you've let your angry passions rise. You frightened that bird away, a-stampin' of your foot that way. Aren't you 'shamed!"

"Oh, Janet, never mind. Please tell me. Did he really say good-by?"

"Will you give me your coral necklace if I tell you all he said?" said Janet, who was ever prompt to seize an opportunity.

"Yes, yes! Anything!"

"Well, he said— Are you sure you mean it, Cynthia? I want the coral necklace with the nice little gold clasp and—"

"Yes, I know," groaned Cynthia. "I've only got one coral necklace, you dreadful child! Go on, do go on!"

"My, Cynthia! You're terrible impatient, and I guess your angry passions have riz again. Well, he said, 'Good-by forever; I'm going away;' and off he went."

"Was that all? Truthfully, Janet?"

"Yes, truthfully all. He said he wouldn't stay any longer 'cause he was salted, or something."

"Salted!"

"Yes, or 'sulted, or some word like that."

"Insulted, do you mean?"

"Yes, I guess so. And now where's the necklace?"

[to be continued.]

STORIES OF AMERICAN LITERATURE.

BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.