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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65400 ***

[Illustration]

 YOUTH

 VOLUME 1  NUMBER 3
 1902
 MAY

 An ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY JOURNAL for BOYS & GIRLS

 The Penn Publishing Company Philadelphia




CONTENTS FOR MAY


  FRONTISPIECE                                                      Page

  WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE (Serial)  W. Bert Foster            77
      Illustrated by F. A. Carter

  THE “DANDY FIFTH’S” LAST TRIUMPH          Laura Alton Payne         86
      A Memorial Day Story

  TO MAY (Selected)                         Wordsworth                89

  LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS (Serial)            Elizabeth Lincoln Gould   90
      Illustrated by Ida Waugh

  WOOD-FOLK TALK                            J. Allison Atwood         97
      Bobolink and the Stranger

  A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST (Serial)         Evelyn Raymond            99
      Illustrated by Ida Waugh

  THE MONTH OF FLOWER                       Julia McNair Wright      107
      Illustrated by Nina G. Barlow

  WITH THE EDITOR                                                    109

  EVENT AND COMMENT                                                  110

  IN-DOORS (Parlor Magic, Paper III)        Ellis Stanyon            111

  THE OLD TRUNK (Puzzles)                                            113

  WITH THE PUBLISHER                                                 114


  YOUTH

  _An Illustrated Monthly Journal for Boys and Girls_

  SINGLE COPIES 10 CENTS        ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION $1.00

  Sent postpaid to any address

  Subscriptions can begin at any time and must be paid in advance

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  and should be sent to

  The Penn Publishing Company
  923 ARCH STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.

  Copyright 1902 by The Penn Publishing Company




[Illustration: WASHINGTON AND THE COMMITTEE OF CONGRESS AT VALLEY FORGE.]




  YOUTH

  VOL. I  MAY 1902  No. 3




  WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE

  By W. Bert Foster


  CHAPTER VII

  A Friend on the Enemy’s Side


 SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

 The story opens in the year of 1777, during one of the most critical
 periods of the Revolution. Hadley Morris, our hero, is in the
 employ of Jonas Benson, the host of the Three Oaks, a well-known
 inn on the road between Philadelphia and New York. Like most of
 his neighbors, Hadley is an ardent sympathizer with the patriot
 cause. When, therefore, a dispatch bearer is captured on the way to
 Philadelphia, he gives Hadley the all-important packet to be forwarded
 to General Washington. The boy immediately escapes with it, and,
 after many perilous experiences, finally makes his way across the
 river to the Pennsylvania side. On the road, Hadley, failing to give
 the countersign, is stopped by a foraging party of Americans; but
 by his honest bearing he wins the attention of John Cadwalader, a
 personal friend of Washington, just then journeying to the American
 headquarters. Under his protection, our hero speedily arrives at
 his destination, and there, in an interview with General Washington
 himself, he tells his story and delivers the dispatches, which,
 because of the impending crisis, are received eagerly by the head of
 the patriot cause.

The collie rattled his chain at the corner of the sheep pen, and from
a low growl changed his welcome to a bark of delight and frisked about
Hadley’s legs as the boy stopped to pat him. The house door across the
paved yard opened and the innkeeper’s voice cried: “Be still, Bose!
Who’s out there?”

Hadley went nearer and laughed. “What’s the matter, Master Benson?” he
asked. “Are the dragoons still about the place?”

At once the innkeeper plunged down the steps, and, reaching the boy,
seized him tightly in his arms. “Had! Had!” he cried, “why did you come
back to the Three Oaks? We thought you’d join the army for sure this
time.”

“Is the colonel still here?” asked Hadley, in haste, and drawing back
from the inn.

“Yes, he’s here,” grunted Jonas, “but he can’t do anything to you. The
dragoons are no longer at the Mills. Malcolm’s troop started for York
this morning. There’s something going to happen ’fore long, for the
British are stirring, and they say Lord Howe has sailed with his fleet.”

“I know,” said the boy, with some pride. “There’s going to be a big
battle, or something. Those papers I ran away with told all about Lord
Howe’s plans, and now our generals will be able to meet him.”

“Who told you?” Jonas asked, open-mouthed in astonishment.

“I heard General Washington himself say so,” declared the boy, and
then, having entered the wide inn kitchen, and, finding it empty, he
had to sit down and relate the particulars of his ride to Germantown,
and his brief interview with the Commander-in-Chief of the American
forces.

“I’ve heard of that Colonel Cadwalader,” Jonas said, drawing a long
breath, “and you were certainly lucky to make such a powerful friend,
Hadley. Why didn’t you join the army? You’d make a good soldier, and
perhaps get to be a captain, or something. Men rise quick from the
ranks now-a-days.”

“You know very well why I cannot enlist,” Hadley replied, gravely. “If
Uncle Ephraim should tell me I could go, I might feel as though I would
not be breaking my word by enlisting. But unless he says so, I don’t
see how I can do it, much as I would like.”

The innkeeper shook his head. “Ah, boy, there’s plenty of time yet for
you, after all, it’s likely. The struggle is bound to be a long one.
The king is sending over more troops, they say, and there’s a big force
marching from Canada. We’ll never give up till we’re free; but most of
us may be dead before freedom comes.”

Mistress Benson came in a minute later, and her delight at seeing
Hadley safe and sound again was sincere, although, as Jonas had
admitted to the boy’s private ear, she was none too sympathetic with
the patriot cause. She set before the boy a bountiful repast and made
him eat his fill. Then he retired to his usual couch in the loft of the
great barn and slept undisturbed until morning.

He was currying down Black Molly in the open door of the stable before
breakfast when Colonel Knowles chanced to stroll into the inn yard. The
Englishman stopped and stared at the stableboy with a lowering brow.
Hadley kept at work, whistling cheerfully, but a little amused at the
colonel’s evident surprise, and not at all sure what the outcome of
the meeting might be.

“Well, young man!” exclaimed the guest; “you certainly are a youth of
mettle to dare come back here after what occurred the other day. Do you
know who I am?”

“You are a guest of Master Benson’s, sir,” Hadley said, quietly.

“I am an officer in His Majesty’s army, sir.”

“But you are in the enemy’s country just now, Colonel Knowles,” the boy
said, softly. “The dragoons are no longer within call, and although
there are some Tories in the neighborhood, there are more men who hold
to the cause of the Colonies. I think I am safer to come back here than
you are to remain.”

“Humph!” grunted the colonel; but the words evidently impressed him.
After a moment of sullen silence he said: “They tell me your name is
Morris; is that so?”

“It is, sir.”

“Do you know a person named Ephraim Morris living in this part of the
country?”

“That is my uncle’s name,” declared the boy, and his interest grew, for
he remembered his conversation two days before with Mistress Lillian.

“How old a man is he?” demanded Colonel Knowles, with some eagerness.

“Rising sixty, sir. He is a farmer and lives not more than four miles
from here.”

“Well,” said the Englishman, turning finally on his heel, “you’re a
worthy nephew of such an uncle, I don’t doubt.”

“I’m afraid Uncle Ephraim would not agree with you,” Hadley called
after the gentleman. “He is a Tory.”

But Colonel Knowles paid no further attention to him, and the boy went
on with his work. But his mind ran continually on the interest the
colonel and his daughter evidently had in old Ephraim Morris. Mistress
Lillian herself appeared after breakfast, and while Hadley was clearing
up the entrance to the inn yard. Jonas Benson prided himself on having
everything about the inn as neatly kept as did his wife inside the
house.

“Hadley Morris!” the colonel’s daughter exclaimed, leaning over the
railing of the inn porch and looking at the youth with sparkling eyes.
“Has my father seen you? Mistress Benson told me you had come back and
that she was afraid father would be angry when he saw you. Aren’t you
afraid?”

“I’ve seen the colonel,” Hadley replied, smiling up at her. He
remembered the anxiety in her countenance when he had last seen her
looking from the inn window as he ran with the dispatches to escape the
dragoons, and he was not so much afraid of her as he had been earlier
in their acquaintance. “He wasn’t very pleasant, but the dragoons
aren’t in the neighborhood now and I guess he won’t try to do anything
to me. You see, m’am, most of the farmers are on my side.”

“You are a terrible rebel!” declared the girl, but she still smiled
down upon him. “Did you carry those dispatches ’way to--to that Mr.
Washington whom your people call ‘general’?”

“I went all the way with them and saw General Washington himself,”
declared the boy, proudly. “He is a mighty fine gentleman, and the
place where he stops was full of officers. All the American army are
not ragamuffins,” and his eyes twinkled as he thus reminded her of her
criticism of the American soldiery on a previous occasion. “Some of the
colonists know how to fight as well as hired soldiers.”

“And some of them know how to run,” Lillian cried.

“True. Would you have had me stand here and face that whole mob of
dragoons--to say nothing of your father?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you. I think you were very smart to get away on that
horse with the dispatches. And I’ll tell you what father said about
it,” she added, lowering her voice and glancing about her. “He said
that ‘if the rebel youth can fight so well and are such strategists, it
is no wonder that my Lord Howe and the other generals have so little
luck in bringing the uprising to a swift close.’ Now, aren’t you proud?”

Hadley flushed as she spoke. “I thought he was very angry with me this
morning.”

“Well, I think he is angry enough; but he seemed to admire your ability
to beat the dragoons and get across the river as you did. I heard him
and the officer in command of the troopers talking about it, and they
both wondered how you escaped them on the road to the ferry. Father
said he had almost caught you--he could tell by the sound of your
horse’s feet--when the sound suddenly stopped and you disappeared as
though the earth had opened and swallowed you. How did you do it?”

“You are an enemy,” the boy returned, with amusement. “I couldn’t tell
you that, you know. Anything else--”

“Tell me what sort of a man that uncle of yours, Ephraim Morris, is?”
she broke in, suddenly. “I spoke to father about him and he said he
must be the man he has come here to see.”

“Uncle Ephraim is an old man. He came from England years ago. He isn’t
liked very well. He’s a king’s man, you know--a Tory.”

“Oh! that’s something in his favor,” she declared.

“So I thought you’d say,” he replied, shouldering his rake and broom
and preparing to return to the stableyard. “I didn’t want you to have
too bad an opinion of Uncle Ephraim.”

“If he is the person my father is looking for I have a very bad opinion
of him, indeed, and his being for the king will make little difference
one way or another.”

Her words disturbed Hadley when he thought them over. Mistress Lillian
had seemed well disposed towards him personally, but she was also
bitter against his uncle, and Hadley believed Uncle Ephraim should have
warning of the colonel’s visit. So, immediately after his duties at the
Three Oaks were performed, Hadley set out to his uncle’s house.

The Morris pastures were the nearest to the Three Oaks Inn, and
crossing the road where he had so fortunately escaped the dragoons by
the aid of Lafe Holdness, Hadley struck into the open plain on which
his uncle’s cattle grazed.

The big pasture was dotted with clumps of trees, and while yet Hadley
was some distance from the farmhouse and its neighboring buildings,
he saw a band of young stock stampeding wildly from the vicinity of a
grove of dwarfed oaks not far away. The cattle, heads down and tails
in the air, plunged across the plain at a mad pace, and Hadley was
positive that they were not running without cause. The drove passed him
like a whirlwind, and in their wake came a loudly-yelping cur and a
person whom he very well knew, urging the dog on.

“Hold on there! what are you about?” cried Hadley, running forward.
“What are you chasing the cattle for? That brute of yours will kill
some of the stock.”

It was Lon Alwood, and it was quite evident by Lon’s expression of
countenance that Hadley was the last person he had expected to meet
just then. “Wh--why, I thought you had gone to join the army!” he
gasped.

“I’m right here to tell you to stop chasing my uncle’s cattle,”
returned Hadley, in disgust.

“Oh, you are, hey?” cried the other boy, with bravado. Then, to the cur
who had halted like his master at the appearance of Hadley: “Sic ’em,
boy--sic ’em!”

Hadley grabbed a clod, and as the dog started after the fleeing steers
he hurled the lump of earth with considerable force and it bounded
resoundingly from the canine’s ribs. The brute gave a yelp and took
refuge behind its master, its interest for the moment lost in the
inoffensive cattle. There it crouched and growled at Hadley, while Lon
fairly danced up and down in his rage.

“What you need, Had Morris, is a sound thrashing, and I’m going to give
it to you right now!” declared the young Tory.

“I wouldn’t try any thrashing, if I were you, Lon. You know you tried
it once, a long time ago, and I haven’t forgotten how to wrestle since
then.”

Hadley tried to pass on as he spoke, but young Alwood sprang before
him and barred his way. “You’re going to get thrashed right here and
now, Had Morris!” declared he, resentfully. “You haven’t got any gun
or pistol to help you out, and I’m not afraid of you. So look out for
yourself!”

Hadley saw no way of avoiding the struggle unless he took to his heels,
and he could not bring himself to do that. So he met his antagonist’s
charge to the best of his ability, and in a moment they were locked
together in a close, but far from loving, embrace, while the dog ran
around and around them, barking its approval of its master’s conduct.


  CHAPTER VIII

  UNCLE EPHRAIM DISPLAYS GREAT INTEREST

The boys had scarcely gripped each other when Lon realized that he was
now no better able to cope with his rival in a wrestling bout than he
was at their last encounter, months previous. The stableboy of the
Three Oaks Inn had been in perfect training every day of his active
life. Lon was lazy, and had to be fairly driven to work by his father.
He would much rather roam the woods with a gun and dog, or go fishing,
than do those tasks which fell to the share of the other lads of the
neighborhood, and leaping and running, and frolicking with his friends
in their off-hours, had not hardened his muscles as Hadley’s toil
hardened his.

The latter obtained a good hold on his enemy and, with a sudden
squeeze, almost drove the breath out of Lon’s lungs. The Tory youth
gasped as he felt this sudden strength. “Oh! oh!” he groaned. And then,
kicking frantically and endeavoring to beat his antagonist in the face
with his fists, cried aloud to the excited dog: “Sic ’im, sir! Go at
’im!”

The mongrel, as cruel as its master, plunged into the fray and grabbed
at Hadley’s leg. Fortunately, the stableboy wore high riding boots, and
instead of seizing the calf of his leg, the brute sunk its teeth in the
leather. The attack, however, brought Hadley to the ground, with the
dog chewing at the bootleg and snarling, and Lon Alwood on top. But the
under boy still hugged his human antagonist tightly to him, and for the
moment his brute enemy did little harm.

All the time Lon was encouraging the dog in his attack, but Hadley
would not strike him. “Call off the beast and fight fair, Alwood!” he
said. “Call him off and try it over again. This is no fair game.”

Lon’s only answer was a more desperate attempt to get his arms free
and so strike his enemy with more precision. But the unequal contest
was exhausting Hadley’s strength, and he knew he could not keep his
advantage for long. So, putting forth all his remaining energy, he
suddenly rolled Lon over and came uppermost himself. The dog yelped
loudly and let go the boot, for Hadley had managed to give him a
well-placed kick at the same moment, and while the brute was recovering
from this the boy broke away from Lon and sprang to his feet.

The dog seeing its master on the ground, growled savagely and leaped
for Hadley again--this time for his throat. But the boy was ready for
the attack, and the toe of his riding boot caught the animal under
the jaw and sent it backward with terrific force. Lon had secured his
footing, too, and seeing his canine friend so badly treated, came at
Hadley with redoubled fury. The latter caught him at arms’ length and
before Lon could secure any hold, threw him forcibly to the ground.

The dog happened to be in the way and his master fell flat upon him and
with sufficient force to break the animal’s spine. The dog’s almost
humanlike cry of agony shocked Hadley, and his anger was gone in an
instant. “Oh, the poor creature!” he cried, and as Lon got up, bleeding
at the nose and much bruised, Hadley knelt down beside the beast to
see how badly it was hurt. But with a few spasmodic jerks of its limbs
the dog lay still; its master’s fall had killed it.

Alwood, however, little interested in the death of the faithful
creature, was searching about the pasture, and suddenly finding a
smooth cobble, hurled it with all his might at the kneeling boy.
Fortunately, Hadley turned in time to see the action and dodge the
stone. He leaped up, and Lon turned tail and ran to escape merited
punishment for this cowardly act.

“That fellow hasn’t a spark of honor,” thought the victor of this
rather sanguinary encounter. “He can’t fight fair. I’m sorry I killed
his dog; but I don’t believe Lon thought of the poor brute at all.
He was just mad at me and cared nothing about it. I’ll have to watch
out for Lon Alwood, for he’ll seek to injure me without giving fair
warning, I know.”

His encounter with the Tory youth had detained him, until now it was
growing dusk along the edges of the wood which bordered the pasture.
He hurried on and soon arrived at the outbuildings and barns belonging
to his uncle. The cattle had come up to the barnyard and the cows were
being milked by the hired hands, while Ephraim overlooked the feeding.
If the old gentleman deprived himself of everything but the bare
necessities of life, he was careful that his stock was well fed.

The men were mostly lads from neighboring farms, who went home at
night, working for their monthly wage for Master Morris because there
was not enough to do to keep them busy at home. They cordially greeted
the miser’s nephew, for though they were nearly all from Tory families,
Hadley was popular with them. Ephraim Morris, however, had but a cold
welcome for the stableboy.

“Well,” he said, in an unpleasant voice, “what have you got to say for
yourself, Hadley?”

“About what, uncle?” demanded the boy.

“Oh, I’ve heard all about it. I let you work for that innkeeper and
this is what it comes to, hey? I thought so--I thought so! Hanging
around a place like that would spoil anybody’s morals. I’m surprised at
you, Hadley--and your mother was a good woman. And for you, who were
born a British subject on English soil yourself, to help these crazy
colonists along--”

“But I believe they are right, uncle, just as you believe the king and
the king’s men are right.”

“Pah! pah!” exclaimed the old man, savagely. “What does a boy like
you know of such matters? You have hung about that Jonas Benson, and
his inn, which is a hotbed of rebellion, so long that you talk like a
lawyer. It is ruining you, and I won’t have a nephew of mine--”

“But Master Benson pays you my wages regularly, doesn’t he?” demanded
Hadley, before the old man could say anything rash.

“Hem--well, I can say he does,” admitted Uncle Ephraim, and subsided
for a moment. Soon, however, he started on a new tack. “Who is this
English officer who is a guest at the inn, nephew?” he asked. “It is
said that he is a great man from York way. And to think that you should
oppose a gentleman and an officer of His Majesty’s army!”

“I don’t know how great a man he is,” Hadley returned. “He calls
himself Colonel Creston Knowles--”

The old man started and leaned forward so that his wrinkled face came
within the candlelight. Wonder, and an expression which seemed like
fear, slowly grew upon his countenance. “Who did you say he was?” he
demanded, his lean fingers clutching the edge of the table.

“Colonel Creston Knowles, uncle. His daughter, Mistress Lillian, is
with him. They have come into Jersey to find a family by our name, I
understand. Both of them have asked me about you, sir.” While he said
this, Hadley scrutinized Uncle Ephraim closely. The old man was much
disturbed, for he sat silent for several minutes and his face showed
plainly that he was the man Colonel Knowles was so anxious to see. “Who
is Colonel Knowles?” the boy asked, at length. “What does he want to
see you for? Is he--is he related to us in any way?”

“No, no!” snarled the miser. “He’s nothing to either you or me. I--I
don’t know him--I don’t know him, I tell you! Now, go to bed, and don’t
disturb me with your questions.”

Hadley cleared up the untidy kitchen as best he could, and then lit a
tallow dip at the single candle on the table, and obeyed his uncle’s
behest by mounting the stairs to the loft over the room. He went to bed
at once, for he was tired enough, but he could not sleep for thinking
of his uncle’s strange manner and words. There was some mysterious
connection between Colonel Knowles and the Morrises; but Uncle Ephraim
did not intend to admit it.

Hadley fell into a doze at last, but only for a short time. The squeak
of a door below aroused him, and after listening a moment and fancying
all sort of noises, as one will in the night when the house is still,
he crept out of bed, slipped on his outer clothes again, and tiptoed
to the head of the stairs to see if his uncle had himself gone to bed.
There was a faint light below, and the boy was confident that the
candle must be burning, for Uncle Ephraim would never leave a fire on
the hearth at this time of the year.

Carefully going down several steps in perfect silence, he managed to
get a view of the whole kitchen, including the fireplace, and what was
his astonishment to see Ephraim Morris standing upon a chair before
an old brick oven built high in the chimney, and which Hadley never
remembered seeing opened before. It was open now, however, and the old
gentleman had his head and shoulders thrust inside, as though reaching
for something concealed at the extreme back of the oven.


  CHAPTER IX

  A MIDNIGHT BURYING

To play the rôle of eavesdropper, or “Peeping Tom,” was not exactly as
Hadley Morris would have wished. He hated a sneak; but his curiosity
regarding his uncle’s manœuvres was for the time too strong for his
ideas of what was really honorable, and instead of retreating up the
stairs to the loft again, he remained where he was and watched the old
gentleman with wide-open eyes.

Like most substantially built houses of that day, the Morris homestead
had a great stone and brick fireplace built into the end wall. To the
right of the fireplace was one of those ovens in which the pioneer
housewives did all their baking. The oven was like a safe built into
the side of the chimney, and had a smooth clay floor. Uncle Ephraim had
always kept the oven door fastened with an old-fashioned brass padlock.

The padlock now lay on the floor, and as Hadley continued to peer into
the wide kitchen from around the corner of the door-frame, he saw
Master Morris draw back from the mouth of the oven, holding a bag in
each hand. The bags were not large, but by the way his uncle carried
them the boy knew they were heavy, and when the old man stepped down
from the chair and laid them on the table, the listener heard a faint
chink as though of metal. “It’s gold!” whispered the boy to himself,
and his eyes opened even more widely at the thought.

Then for the first time Hadley saw that Master Morris wore his
waistcoat and coat, as though he were ready to go out of doors. He put
on his hat at once, stuck the half-burned candle in a lantern, and with
the latter swung over his arm and one of the heavy bags in each hand,
he left the house.

Hadley hesitated only a moment; then, curiosity still spurring him,
he ran lightly down the remaining steps into the kitchen and followed
his uncle out of doors without stopping for his own hat. The night was
mild and not at all dark, but the boy might have found some difficulty
in following the old man had it not been for the flickering lantern
which swung from his arm. This dancing will-o’-the-wisp led the boy
down behind the barns and cribs and directly into the orchard where the
branches of the gnarled old apple trees met and, with their fruit and
foliage, shut out most of the star-light.

Hadley crept near, cautiously, when he saw that Uncle Ephraim had
halted and set the light upon the ground. Soon he discovered that the
old man had been here before since he went to bed, for there was a
shovel and a heap of earth in plain view. He watched his uncle and saw
him drop the two bags into what appeared to be a rather deep hole, then
place a flat stone on top of them, and afterward fill in the hole with
the soil and stamp it all down with care. There was considerable soil
left then, and the old man carried this away, shovelful by shovelful,
and threw it into a ditch at the far edge of the orchard. Afterward
he replaced the sod which he had earlier removed, patting it all down
evenly with the flat of his shovel. The burying was completed, and
marking the spot well for future reference, Hadley ran back to the
house and climbed to the loft, and was nicely in bed again before the
old man returned to the kitchen.

But the strangeness of the whole matter kept the boy awake long after
he was sure his uncle had sought his own couch. He was unable to
compose his mind to sleep, and was glad when at length the cocks crew
to announce the gray light in the east. He rose and went back to the
Three Oaks without again seeing Uncle Ephraim, and tried to forget
the incident of the night in his work about the inn. But when he saw
Colonel Creston Knowles ride off with William toward the Morris farm
soon after breakfast, Hadley wished he had remained longer with his
uncle, and so been present at the interview which was about to take
place between the old man and the British officer.

Lillian avoided him that day, seemingly, and Hadley went about his
duties with much trouble at his heart. It was after noon when Colonel
Knowles and his henchman returned, and a glance at the officer’s face
told Hadley that the gentleman was in a towering rage. Evidently his
visit had afforded him little satisfaction.

Soon, however, something occurred which succeeded in driving this
mystery into the background of the boy’s mind. News from Philadelphia
had been scarce since his return from the Pennsylvania side of the
river; but after supper that evening a man rode up to the inn on a
fagged-out horse, and told them that the army under Washington was on
the move, and was marching toward Philadelphia, as it was believed Lord
Howe’s fleet would land troops to attack the city, where Congress was
then in session. The man obtained a fresh mount and rode on into the
east, having secret business in that direction.

That night, while Jonas Benson and Hadley sat together in the chimney
place of the inn kitchen, talking over the possibilities of the battle
which must occur before long, the heralding squeak of Lafe Holdness’
wagon axles reached their ears, the outer door being ajar.

“Run and open the gate for him, Had!” exclaimed Benson. “Mistress, put
down something to eat for a hungry man, and I warrant you Lafe will do
justice to it.”

His wife grumblingly expressed herself that a cold supper was good
enough for a man like Lafe Holdness; but she, nevertheless, obeyed her
husband’s request.

“Stan’ round ther, you!” From the yard the teamster’s voice could be
heard addressing the horses. “Ef ye want suthin’ ter eat, why don’t ye
stan’ still so’t I kin unbuckle this strap? Hello, Had Morris! is that
air yeou? I didn’t ’spect to see yeou ag’in this side o’ the river till
the war was over,” and the Yankee chuckled mightily and dug the boy
good-naturedly in the ribs.

“We heard to-night the army was on the move, Lafe,” Jonas said, coming
to the porch, and speaking low.

Lafe dropped for the moment his bantering tone and spoke seriously.
“There’s going to be something done purty soon, friends--somethin’ big!
There’s sure to be a battle. Howe’s fleet is comin’ up Chesapeake Bay
and General Washington will meet the troops he lands somewhere south of
Philadelphia; but we ain’t got much more’n ten thousand men all told.”

“How many sailed from York?” queried the innkeeper.

“Nobody knows!” returned Lafe, ruefully. “Them dispatches Had took over
ter Germantown didn’t give the exact figgers. But I’m out this way
sendin’ in all the scatterin’ men that hev’ got guns. There won’t much
happen hereabout until the two armies meet. And, speakin’ about Had,”
added Lafe, suddenly, “I’m wantin’ ter use him, Jonas.”

“Well,” remarked the innkeeper, with twinkling eyes, “he’s a pretty
valuable boy to me. I have to pay his uncle for him, too.”

“You’d oughter be called Judas Benson!” declared the Yankee. “You’re a
great feller ter haggle over the price of a ’prentice boy. I’m goin’
ter send him to the army--it’s at Philadelphia now.”

“And that means I’ll likely lose a good horse as well as the boy,”
grumbled Jonas.

“Don’t you think I’ve got anything to say about it myself?” demanded
Hadley of the Yankee.

“Not much. I’ve got orders for you,” he declared, nodding his head.
“See here.” He drew a battered wallet from his pocket, and in the light
of the innkeeper’s lantern selected a slip of paper from one of the
compartments. This he displayed before the wondering eyes of both Jonas
and Hadley. On the paper was written, in a rather cramped and formal
hand:

 “Send back the boy from the Three Oaks Inn with any message.
 “Cadwalader.”

“Why!” exclaimed the round-eyed innkeeper, “that’s the man who saved
you from the soldiers, Had--Colonel Cadwalader.”

“I reckon ye’ must ha’ got purty thick with Master Cadwalader, Had,”
said Lafe, tearing the paper into small pieces. “Let me tell yeou he is
in the General’s confidence as much as old Knox, or Colonel Pickering.
I got suthin’ important for yeou to take to headquarters, an’ if
yeou’ve had your supper yeou’d better saddle a hoss an’ git away with
it purty soon. The quicker ye start the sooner ye’ll ketch the army,
for it’s on the move.”

While he was speaking, Jonas Benson was already leading Black Molly
out of her stall, showing at once that his objections to the boy’s
departure had been but momentary. “He’s had his supper, and he can git
out right now!” he declared.

But Hadley waited long enough to go into the loft and put on the best
suit of homespun which he possessed, and encased his legs in long
riding boots with a pair of tiny spurs screwed into the heels. There
were no papers to take this time, for Lafe Holdness whispered the
message he had to send into the boy’s attentive ear. “An’ now good luck
to ye!” exclaimed the scout as the youth mounted into the saddle and
Jonas opened the stable door. “Nobody can take nothin’ from ye this
time, but mebbe it’s just as well if yeou dodge all armed men of airy
complection till ye pass Germantown.”

Black Molly trotted quietly down the inn yard toward the gate. Just
as she was going through this and her rider was about to give her the
rein, he was startled by a soft “S-s-st!” beside him. He turned his
head quickly and drew Molly down to a walk. A shadowy figure stood at
the end of the porch. In an instant Hadley recognized Lillian Knowles,
with a light shawl flung over her head and shoulders, and her hand
outstretched to him.

[Illustration: A FIGURE STOOD AT THE END OF THE PORCH]

“Hadley Morris!” she whispered, “if you are carrying anything--anything
you don’t want other folks to see--look out! There are others beside me
who know you are riding toward the ferry to-night.” And then, before he
could reply or express his astonishment at her warning, she disappeared
within the shadow of the porch. He heard the door close softly behind
her, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he started Molly on again and
turned her head toward the distant ferry, wondering if he ought to take
the girl’s words seriously and turn back for reinforcements.


[TO BE CONTINUED]




  THE “DANDY FIFTH’S” LAST TRIUMPH

  A MEMORIAL DAY STORY

  By LAURA ALTON PAYNE


    “We called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth
      When we passed them on parade.”

A sharp, imperative rat-a-tat-tat on the class-room door almost at her
back startled the speaker, Sidney Dallas. She turned for an instant,
but that instant was enough to scatter her wits like chaff before the
wind. She paused--stammered--paused again, then repeated vaguely:

    “We called--we called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth
      When we passed them on parade.
    We called--we called--”

But the words would not be coaxed back. Her mind was a perfect blank.
She was so confused that she did not see that the visitor who was being
ushered in by Bess Martin, and whose sharp knock had so disconcerted
her, was her own mother.

A hot flush of shame scorched her face, the crowd of attentive faces
before her began to waver, her knees grew weak, her feet cowardly, but
she made one more brave effort:

“We called--we called”--she repeated weakly and hurriedly, then stopped
short.

“But it would not come,” murmured mischievous Ted Scott, lugubriously.
Ted had been crowded to the front seat, which he shared with two other
boys. The boys snickered, and Sidney’s misery was complete. Never
before had she failed in a speech, or realized the humiliation.

All a-tremble she stepped off the platform, and with scarlet face and
tearful eyes passed down the aisle between the double row of visitors,
whose looks of sympathy her distorted imagination turned into looks
of derision at her distress. But the tears should not fall, and she
would not lower her head. As she reached her seat she caught a look of
amusement on the face of Myrtle Emmons, who sat at the desk immediately
behind her own. It was that that gave her the bit over her runaway
self-possession. Myrtle was somewhat noted for making fun of people.
She would show Myrtle how little she cared.

Disregarding Myrtle’s nudge, she concentrated her attention upon the
beautifully decorated school-room. It had been transformed into a
veritable bower, not with boughs of pine and cedar as in the Eastern
States, but with fragrant branches of catalpa with their great clusters
of snowy blossoms and with immense sprays of feathery asparagus. The
platform, as well as the teacher’s desk at the back of it, was banked
with potted ferns and palms and flowering plants. The beribboned
waste-basket formed a huge bouquet of feathery greenery, amidst which
tall, graceful sunflowers bowed their golden heads. That artistic touch
was her own, and she gazed at it with pride. Sunflowers and asparagus
adorned the pictures and caught up the folds of the large flag draped
gracefully over the front blackboard, and of the bright bunting
festooned around the walls.

Flags and sunflowers, sunflowers and flags--a combination so popular
that she should always associate the golden emblem-flower of her
State with the glorious emblem of her country. They had devoted more
time than usual to their decorations, for, the following Monday
being Memorial Day, they had turned their “last day” exercises into
a memorial service. Owing to the naval victory of scarce a month
previous, patriotism was at a white heat, and patriotic selections of
spirit shared the honors with tributes to the dead--both the Blue and
the Gray, sectionalism being forgotten in the new union of the North
and the South.

But it did not require recent victory to stir Sidney’s enthusiasm; she
was at all times intensely patriotic. As a small child, a mere babe,
she had listened enthralled to her father’s tales of the Civil War,
through many of whose terrible battles he had passed. She invariably
chose patriotic selections to speak. Such a deed as described in the
“Dandy Fifth” made her forget herself. And now, of all times, to fail
to-day! The school were singing softly:

    “Cover them over--yes, cover them over--
    Parent and husband, and brother, and lover:
    Crown in your hearts those dead heroes of ours.
    And cover them over with beautiful flowers.”

How she would love to lay a tribute of flowers upon the graves of the
Dandy Fifth’s many dead heroes! And, oh, shame! she had failed to give
them even the tribute of honor due them--failed miserably!

    “Lying so silent by night and by day,
    Sleeping the years of their manhood away.”

That meant the most of the Dandy Fifth. She could see the gaunt, silent
forms, fallen at their posts in that awful hour that “tried men’s
souls.” But theirs stood the test--stood it grandly.

    “Swiftly they rushed to the help of the right,
    Firmly they stood in the shock of the fight.”

Stood firm--firm? Did they not? Why, they made a glorious stand--none
braver in all the war, none more deserving of honor!--and she had left
them with their courage unproven, with the scorn of their comrades
upon them, before they had been given a chance to make their derisive
epithet a name to be proud of for all time. Oh, she could not bear it!
she could not bear it! She must save the honor of the Dandy Fifth.

The thought was electric. It shocked into full life the resolve already
half formed in her mind. Hastening up to Miss Mason she whispered a
request, which was smilingly granted. With a bright face Sidney hurried
from the room just as the next number was called. She meant to go
home, find the poem, then come back and redeem herself. She had but
three blocks to go, and that distance was covered with flying feet. To
her dismay she found the door locked. Of course, her mother meant to
attend the exercises. No doubt she was in the room all the time, and
had witnessed her failure. But--she must get in. She looked for the
key in its customary hiding-place when all the family were expected
to be absent at once; it was not there. Recent petty thieving in the
neighborhood had probably induced Mrs. Dallas to take the key with her.

Sidney was dismayed. She rushed from door to door, and from window to
window. All were securely fastened. She sat down on the porch to think
a moment. Perhaps she could get in through an upper window; she had
left her own window, which, fortunately, was over the kitchen, lowered
slightly and the screen unlatched. She could reach the spring through
the opening, lower it still more, then crawl through. Desperation lent
her strength to drag the long, heavy ladder from the barn and to raise
it to the low kitchen roof. A moment later she pattered over the flat
tin roof to the window--only to find further evidence of her mother’s
caution. It was closed and latched.

Then, in spite of her courageous soul and her fifteen years, Sidney
gave up to a tearful despair for a few minutes. Down upon the tin roof
she sat, huddled close up in the corner, and, bowing her head upon her
knees, wept silent tears of mortification. The thought that she would
have to leave the Dandy Fifth unhonored brought forth the bitterest
drops of all.

But--they did not give up. Neither would she. Something must be done.
She would go back to the school-house and get the key, come back and
get the book, then return and save the day for the Dandy Fifth if
possible.

It was a very tired, hot-faced girl that labored up the second flight
of stairs at the school-house. As she paused for breath a moment in the
upper hall she heard Rob Ellison stentoriously depicting “Sheridan’s
Ride.” In the room across the hall the “Fifth Graders” were singing
“Sherman’s March to the Sea,” and farther on the “Sixths” were sending
out a vigorous chorus of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Passing into the
library, a small room just across the hall, she sat down to cool off,
and at the same time to work up sufficient courage to face the crowded
room in search of her mother. She didn’t want to disconcert another
speaker by knocking on the door in order to call her mother out. She
glanced around the room. Right there in that corner was where she stood
when she rehearsed the “Dandy Fifth” to the elocution teacher.

Mechanically Sidney placed herself in the accustomed position, and
half unconsciously began to recite the poem in a low tone. To her
amazement and delight she went through it without a break. Whether
it was the effect of association, or whether her recreant memory had
suddenly chosen to return, she neither questioned nor cared, she was so
overjoyed. She tried it again, then a third time, all unconscious of
an interested listener beyond the closed door--Prof. Marlow, who stood
there smiling to himself as the speaker’s voice rose higher and higher
with returning confidence.

As Sidney finished with a triumphant flourish, he clapped his hands
softly, then opened the door to remark smilingly. “Well done, Miss
Sidney. Now, rally to the charge again, and march on to victory.”

Sidney blushed: she knew he had witnessed her failure. She felt that
explanations were in order.

Prof. Marlow held up a warning finger. “At the eleventh hour, Miss
Sidney,” he said, with a smile.

“It’s the twelfth hour that tells,” she retorted merrily, and passed
into the school-room. Prof. Marlow followed her. He was curious to see
how such a plucky effort would turn out.

Sidney was met with many swift glances as she entered, but her radiant
face showed no trace of her recent failure. A few moments later she
again faced the many expectant eyes, now no longer dreaded. No sudden
rat-a-tat-tat could scatter her wits again--no, not even a cannon’s
roar, for the Dandy Fifth’s honor was at stake. The audience greeted
her enthusiastically. It is human nature to admire courage even in
small things. Self was forgotten; every thought and feeling was centred
on the subject in hand--that famous regiment of young aristocrats, men
who knew not toil, who had never suffered want or endured hardship,
whose fastidiousness fastened upon them the scornful epithet, “The
Dandy Fifth.”

Her listeners saw it all: the old fort “somewhere down on the Rapidan”
that the Dandy Fifth was ordered to hold; the fierce onslaught of the
enemy along the whole line; the raging of battle day after day; how
gloriously the old fort, the “key of the whole line,” on which hung
the fate of the whole army, was held by the Dandy Fifth against all
odds--a brave, determined foe without and starvation within. The water
gave out; they fought on. Another day, and their rations were gone;
they fought on. One by one, they sank to “rest where they wearied
and lie where they fell.” A third day of fierce siege--a fourth,
then reinforcements fought their way through, inch by inch, to the
beleaguered men. And what a sight met their gaze!--a few gaunt-eyed
men behind the guns, and many, many more lying as they fell, in the
stupor of famine or ghastly and rigid in death. But the old flag
floated still!--and the “kid-gloved Dandy Fifth” had proved that white
hands are not incompatible with brave hearts. How their old comrades
cheered!--and cheered! And how proud they were to clasp those brave,
emaciated white hands!

Sidney’s little head might well have been turned by praise had it been
that kind of a head, she received so many words of commendation.
Ted Scott led the applause, and it was his hands that gave the final
appreciative clap. Even Myrtle Emmons congratulated her. “It was grand,
Sid,” she said, earnestly. “But how could you ever do it after breaking
down once? I never could, and I always break down. I was awfully sorry
for you, for, you see, I know how it goes. But, say, Sid! I thought I
couldn’t help laughing as you came down the aisle; old Mrs. Perkins
stalked along right behind you, her battered bonnet over one ear as
usual, and that ancient, solitary, stiff, bedraggled, black feather
sticking straight up. I always have to laugh when I see it, though, of
course, I oughtn’t.”

“So do I,” returned Sidney, with sudden cordiality. So she had
misjudged Myrtle, after all.

“But how could you do it?” persisted Myrtle.

Then out came the whole story, even to the tears, and they had a merry
time over it.

“And to think that I was the cause of it,” laughed Mrs. Dallas. “But I
am glad my little girl was brave enough to turn defeat into victory.”

“I don’t think it was really I, mamma,” said Sidney, slowly and
thoughtfully. “It was the Dandy Fifth.”




TO MAY


    Though many suns have risen and set
      Since thou, blithe May, wert born,
    And bards, who hail’d thee, may forget
      Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;
    There are who to a birthday strain
      Confine not harp and voice,
    But evermore throughout thy reign
      Are grateful and rejoice!

    Delicious odors! music sweet,
      Too sweet to pass away!
    O, for a deathless song to meet
      The soul’s desire,--a lay
    That, when a thousand years are told,
      Should praise thee, genial Power!
    Through summer heat, autumnal cold,
      And Winter’s dreariest hour.

    Season of fancy and of hope,
      Permit not for one hour
    A blossom from thy crown to drop,
      Nor add to it a flower!
    Keep, lovely May, as if by touch
      Of self-restraining art,
    This modest charm of not too much,
      Part seen, imagined part.

                            --_Wordsworth._




  LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS

  BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD


  CHAPTER VI

  A TRYING AFTERNOON


 SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

 Polly Prentiss is an orphan who, for the greater part of her life, has
 lived with a distant relative, Mrs. Manser, the mistress of Manser
 Farm. Miss Hetty Pomeroy, a maiden lady of middle age, has, ever since
 the death of her favorite niece, been on the lookout for a little
 girl whom she might adopt. She is attracted by Polly’s appearance and
 quaint manners, and finally decides to take her home and keep her
 for a month’s trial. In the foregoing chapters, Polly has arrived at
 her new home, and the great difference between the way of living at
 Pomeroy Oaks and her past life affords her much food for wonderment.

“So you like your new friends, my dear,” said Miss Hetty. “They must be
banished to the shed now for their dinner while you and I eat ours. Do
you hear Arctura’s signal to us?”

There came a sound unlike anything Polly had ever heard; it was not
exactly a bell; she couldn’t imagine what it was. Miss Hetty held out
her hand with a smile, and Polly, still with Snip and Snap on her
shoulders, was led out of the library, across the porch hall to a big,
sunny dining-room. On the table, at Miss Hetty’s place, stood a strange
thing with three bronze cups upside down, a little one highest up, one
somewhat larger under it, and one still larger at the bottom; at least
that was the way it looked to Polly.

Arctura stood close to it with a little stick in her hand; she struck
the bronze cups as Polly looked at her, and again the musical sound was
heard.

“There, I reckoned you’d never heard anything like that!” said Arctura
as she beamed on Polly, and then took the kittens from the little
girl’s shoulders. “That’s a heathen invention, called a gong, brought
to Miss Pomeroy by her Uncle Pete. I hope you’ll relish your food; I’ve
got no time to sit down now,” said Arctura, and bearing Snip and Snap
in her arms she marched out of a doorway through which there was a
glimpse of the kitchen.

Arctura Green had never sat at the table with Miss Pomeroy in all the
years of her faithful service, but it was understood to be purely a
matter of choice on her part, and a few words were spoken now and then
to make this state of affairs clear to any chance visitor.

Polly ate her steak and potato and fresh bread and butter, sitting
opposite Miss Pomeroy, and only speaking in answer to questions.
She looked at the spotless white table-cloth with its rose and fern
pattern, at the shining glass tumblers, and the big glass water bottle,
at the fat silver tea-pot and sugar-bowl, and the slender spoons and
forks, at the knives, with mother-of-pearl handles, at the white plates
with dull blue figures that matched those on the platter, and at the
big bread plate with its gold rim. Then she looked at the buffet on
which there were all sorts of shining things.

“It is because everything is so wonderful in the house that they like
to stay here better than out-doors,” thought Polly, but in spite of
everything her eyes turned wistfully to the window. The sunshine
flickered and danced among the branches of the Pomeroy oaks, and Polly
gave a half sigh as she looked at it.

“Don’t you like your pudding, my dear?” asked Miss Hetty, and the
little girl turned quickly to her dinner again.

After dinner she followed Miss Pomeroy up the broad, shallow front
stairs to the pretty room which had been prepared for her. It
had a white bed, a white bureau, a white wash-stand, two little
straight-backed white chairs, and a white rocking-chair. A pink stripe
ran through the white near the edges of all these pieces of furniture,
and Polly thought it was the most beautiful bed-room that could
possibly be imagined.

“And here is your closet,” said Miss Hetty, as she opened a door, and
showed what seemed to Polly like a good-sized room, with shelves and
hooks. On the lowest shelf sat the big black enamel cloth bag, looking
old and forlorn.

“Now, you’d better take out your things and put them away in the closet
and the bureau, Mary,” said Miss Hetty, “and perhaps you’d like to lie
down and rest awhile; I am going to take my nap now. When you wish to
go downstairs you may, but I wouldn’t run out to-day, for the ground is
so damp. I dare say you’ll find plenty to amuse you in the house, and
you are free to go anywhere. I’m sure I can trust such a careful, quiet
little girl as you are.”

When the door that led into Miss Pomeroy’s room across the hall was
fairly shut, Polly executed a silent dance on the soft gray and pink
carpet.

“I guess Mrs. Manser’d think I was doing pretty well,” said Polly,
thrilling with pride. “I never was called ‘quiet’ or ‘careful’ before.
She’d hardly believe it. I must be growing like Eleanor pretty fast. As
soon as I’ve put away my things I shall lie right down on that bed. I
wonder how long I ought to stay on it. I suppose most probably Eleanor
would stay till she heard her aunt getting up; that’s what I’ll do.
Mrs. Manser said most likely Miss Pomeroy would give me tests. I shall
lie on that bed till I hear Miss Pomeroy if its--two hours,” said
Polly, firmly, mentioning the longest space of time which she could
conceive might be spent in sleeping by daylight.

Then Polly took the big bag out of the closet and proceeded to unpack
it. There was her other new gingham frock on top of everything else;
it had blue and white stripes, and was very pretty, Polly thought, as
she laid it carefully away in the lowest of the four bureau drawers.
Then came her little brown cashmere frock, made over from one which
had done service for six years as Mrs. Manser’s Sunday gown; it was
Polly’s Sunday best now, very brave with a little red piping around the
neck and sleeves, and at the head of the ruffle. This Polly hung in the
closet.

In the closet, too, went a very old and much-mended red frock which
was always nearly hidden by long-sleeved and high-necked aprons. There
were four of these, and two more new ones without sleeves. Polly was so
small that there had been plenty of room in the big bag for all these
things and for the little store of underclothes which went into the
third drawer. The aprons had the second drawer to themselves, and in
the top drawer there were Polly’s small handkerchiefs and one pair of
little white cotton gloves, freshly washed.

Polly took the bag back to the closet after removing the very last
thing, her work basket, which she put on the bureau, beside the fat
pincushion. Looking at this cushion reminded her of hidden treasures,
and diving into her petticoat pocket she brought forth Aunty Peebles’s
gift, and then the knife; these Polly placed on a table, which stood
near one of the two windows. Then, after looking about the room for a
moment with an air of much satisfaction, Polly slipped off her little
shoes, and folding her shawl about her shoulders after the manner of
Mrs. Ramsdell when ready for a nap, she turned back the white quilt,
and climbing sedately up on the bed, laid her head on the pillow and
clasped her little hands.

“I don’t feel sleepy,” said Polly, “but that doesn’t make any
difference. I’ve got plenty of things to think of. Perhaps Eleanor
didn’t always go to sleep. There are all those leaks in Manser
farm--they’ll get mended if I’m adopted. And this is a beautiful place,
and I’m not going to be lonesome, a great girl like me, if ’tis pretty
still here. I wonder what Miss Arctura Green is doing: and those
kitties, I wonder where they are.”

An hour or so later Miss Hetty held a consultation with Arctura in the
kitchen.

“I came down the back way so I should not wake that child,” said Miss
Pomeroy. “She hasn’t stirred since she lay down, I verily believe. Do
you think it’s natural for a little girl of her age to sleep nearly two
hours at this time of day?”

“Why, you see we don’t either of us know much about children,” said
Arctura, meditatively. “She looks pretty strong, but I notice her
appetite’s nothing extra, and probably she’s all excited up and tired
out. Seems to me, though, if she don’t stir by the end of another half
hour I should kind of make a noise in my room if I was in your place,
and wake her up gradual.”

At the end of another half-hour Miss Pomeroy opened and shut a window
in her room with vigor, and when she stepped across the hall to Polly’s
room, the little girl was putting on her shoes.

“Well, well,” said Miss Pomeroy, “you’ve had a nice, long nap. You
shall take one every day, my dear, if you like; I’ve no doubt it will
do you good.”

“Yes’m,” said Polly meekly, with a faint little smile.

“I don’t know as I shall let you sleep quite so long, always,” said
Miss Hetty, briskly, “for fear you won’t rest so well at night: but
we’ll see.”

“Yes’m,” said Polly again; and Miss Pomeroy never suspected that those
two hours on the bed had seemed like weeks to her little guest.


  CHAPTER VII

  THE FIRST MORNING

Polly slept soundly that night in her little white bed, and woke to see
the sun peeping in at her between the snowy curtains of her east window.

“Dear me!” cried Polly. “I ought to be downstairs helping Mrs. Manser
this very minute!” Then she clapped her little hands over her mouth and
lay very still, remembering where she was, and that Mrs. Manser and
all her old friends were nearly seven miles away, on Maple Hill.

“I believe I’d better not think about them just now,” said Polly,
winking fast, as she got out of bed. “Someway it makes me feel as if
I wanted to swallow every minute. Maybe I can do something for Miss
Arctura Green if I hurry and get dressed.”

But when she stole softly downstairs, wearing the old red frock covered
with one of her new white aprons, Polly stopped for a minute to look up
at the tall clock. Near the clock was a high-backed chair, and as Polly
heard Arctura’s voice and a strange one, she sat down in the chair to
wait until Miss Green’s visitor departed. She was sitting there when
Miss Pomeroy’s door opened, and down she came over the stairs.

“So you’re up before me, Mary,” said the mistress of the house as she
held out her hand to the little girl. Polly took the kind hand and
shook it vigorously up and down as she had seen grown people do. “For
she doesn’t want to kiss me, of course,” thought Polly, wistfully,
remembering Mrs. Ramsdell and dear Grandma Manser. “I expect grand
people like her don’t kiss little girls much.”

“I thought,” said Polly, when the ceremony was over, “that maybe I
could help Miss Arctura set the table for breakfast, but I heard her
talking to somebody at the porch door, so I sat down here to wait.”

Just then the door into the hall from the library burst open and
Arctura appeared with a much vexed expression on her flushed face.

“Morning, both,” she said, abruptly. “There, I knew you’d be down and
waiting! ’Twas old Jane Hackett kep’ me; she’s come spying out the land
already. I didn’t let her into the hall for fear she’d abide with us
all day.”

“S--h, Arctura!” said Miss Pomeroy, gravely, though her lips seemed
inclined to twitch a little. “How is Mrs. Hackett’s rheumatism to-day?”

“Thinks there’s a spell coming on, I believe,” said Arctura, looking
rather crestfallen. “Breakfast’s ready, all but the griddle-cakes; I
can’t sit down with you, for I’ve got them to fry.”

After breakfast, Miss Pomeroy sent Polly out on the broad piazza that
ran across the front of the house and the west side, to play with the
kittens.

“I have some plans to talk over with Arctura,” said she, “and then I
want a little talk with you before I start my letter-writing. Don’t
step off the piazza, for the grass is very wet. It rained in the night,
and I don’t wish my guest to take cold,” said Miss Pomeroy, with her
pleasant smile.

“I presume,” said Polly to Snip and Snap, as she dangled a string
alluringly just above their reach, and watched their wild jumps into
the air, “Miss Pomeroy is going to speak to me about my top apron
button not being buttoned; but I didn’t forget it till she came down.
I was going to ask Miss Arctura Green to fasten it for me. Probably
Eleanor had long arms that could reach; I expect she did. Don’t you
catch the bottom of this dress, mister,” said Polly, uplifting a
warning finger at Snap, whose attitude certainly justified firm, quick
measures, “for it’s just as tender!”

Meanwhile Miss Pomeroy and Arctura were having another consultation in
the kitchen.

“I don’t know just what to plan about little Mary,” said Miss Hetty,
doubtfully. “You see, I want to find out what she likes best to do, so
that I can tell what kind of a child she is. I want her to act her own
nature, but, of course, I must suggest things and ask some questions,
for she’s very shy.”

“M--m,” said Arctura, thoughtfully, “she handles her knife and fork
real pretty. I noticed it as I was in and out the two meals, yesterday
and to-day. You’d know she come of good folks, and I must say that
Manser woman’s brought her up well, though she’s a hatchet-faced piece,
if ever I saw one, and given to nagging, if I’m any judge. Supposing
you should ride off to the village without Mary this morning and let me
visit with her a little mite. She’s full as used to kitchens as she is
to parlors, I expect.”

“I believe that would be an excellent idea,” said Miss Pomeroy.
“Arctura, you are a very sensible woman.”

“Sho!” said Arctura but she turned quickly to the sink to hide a smile
of gratification.

“Now, Mary, you and I will have our little talk,” said Miss Pomeroy, a
few minutes later, and then to Polly’s great amazement, she sat down in
one of the big piazza chairs, and drew the child into her lap.

“I didn’t mean to forget that top-button,” said Polly, bravely, “but
you came downstairs sooner than I expected, and I can’t quite reach it,
so I was going to ask Miss Arctura to fasten it for me. I’m sorry I was
an untidy girl; ’tisn’t Mrs. Manser’s fault; she spoke to me and spoke
to me about my careless habits.”

“I’ve no doubt she did,” said Miss Hetty, dryly; “I presume she’d speak
to me about my placket-hook that’s generally undone.” As she said this
she buttoned Polly’s apron and gave her a pat which warmed the little
girl’s heart; and then Miss Hetty held her in such a way that Polly
could not see the kind, grave face.

“Now, my dear,” she said, slowly, “I suppose Mrs. Manser may have told
you that I had a little niece of whom you remind me.” Polly nodded
her head, and scarcely breathed. “I asked Mrs. Manser to let me have
you for at least a month,” said Miss Pomeroy, unsteadily, “to see--to
see if perhaps we might decide to be together as long as I live, my
dear. If you are as like my little Eleanor as I think you may be, in
many ways,” said Miss Hetty, after a pause during which Polly sat very
still, “I shall not be able to let you go, I am sure. I’m growing old,
Mary, and I need somebody to help me forget it. Eleanor would have done
it, I know, though I had not seen her often enough for her to care a
great deal about me, I’m--”

Polly turned quickly around as the voice faltered and stopped. She laid
her soft cheek against Miss Pomeroy’s with a little cry of sympathy.

“I will be just as like Eleanor as ever I can,” said Polly, earnestly,
“and I will love you every minute, and try to do everything you want.”

“I want you to have a good time,” said Miss Pomeroy, patting the brown
curls. “We are old-fashioned people here, and you may find it very dull
and quiet, my dear.”

“I shall like it very, very much,” said Polly, stoutly, and to herself
she said, “There! you can help Miss Pomeroy as well as the poor-farm
folks, Polly Prentiss, and if you didn’t do it, you’d be as selfish as
old Redtop!” Redtop was a rooster, resident at Manser farm, whose greed
and ugliness were by-words in the place of his abode.

“Now I must go to my letter-writing,” said Miss Pomeroy, briskly, after
a few moments’ silence. She had stroked Polly’s curls, with a far-away
expression, and then had given her a sudden kiss and set her down on
the piazza floor. “I’m obliged to do a good many errands to-day, and
I think perhaps I’d better not take you, though I should, generally.
Suppose you run out to the kitchen and see if you can help Arctura in
any way.”


  CHAPTER VIII

  A LITTLE COOK

Half an hour later, anyone who looked in at the windows of the Pomeroy
kitchen would have seen a pretty sight. Polly, mounted on a stool, was
beating a golden mixture in a white bowl, and Arctura, at the opposite
end of the long table, was stirring whites of eggs carefully into a
white batter in a yellow bowl.

[Illustration: POLLY WAS BEATING A GOLDEN MIXTURE IN A BIG WHITE BOWL]

“This is what I call solid comfort,” said Arctura, gayly. “I don’t know
when I’ve had such a helper as you are! Miss Hetty’s without the gift
when it comes to cooking. You wouldn’t believe it, but she’d be just as
likely to put the eggs right in after the butter, without beating ’em
separate, as any other way. Ain’t it singular?”

“I expect she writes beautiful letters, Miss Arctura,” said Polly,
loyally evading the discussion of Miss Pomeroy’s weak point.

“My, I guess she does!” said Arctura, heartily. “That’s it; we’ve all
got different talents. Hiram says he’d full as soon see me with a
pistol pointed at him as with a pen in my hand. The only way I ever
wrote a letter was by main strength, and I’d rather take a whipping any
time.”

“I guess it would be pretty hard work for anybody to whip you,” said
Polly, shrewdly, and Arctura laughed with much relish.

“’Twould now-a-days,” she said, as she gave the final stir to her
batter, “but I’ve been whipped in my time. I didn’t get my growth all
at once, you see. Is your cake ready for the pans? You wait till I show
you the cunning little brush I’m going to butter the tins with. I’ll
let you do yours next time, after I’ve once showed you how. You can’t
slight the edges or any spot, if you want the cakes to slip out right.”

When the heat of the oven had been tested and the little round tins had
been put in and the oven doors shut on them, Arctura selected a stout
testing straw from a pile on a high shelf above the kitchen sink and
seated herself, holding the straw erect in her hand like a tiny weapon.

“I always take this time for a breathing spell,” she announced,
motioning Polly to another chair, “for if I start in on a fresh job,
those cakes more’n likely’ll get burned; it only takes twenty-five
minutes to bake ’em to the queen’s taste.”

“Yes’m,” said Polly; then she looked eagerly over at Arctura. “Did you
ever see little Eleanor?” she asked, breathlessly.

“No, never,” said Arctura, and Polly felt a throb of disappointment.
“You see, Square Pomeroy didn’t depart this life till a year ago last
December, and he was kind of queer,” Arctura tapped her forehead
significantly, “the last few years, and ’twasn’t a cheerful place to
bring a child. And he’d hardly let his daughter out of his sight. About
once in six months I’d send her off to Shelby to see the twins for two
or three days, but I was always put to it to keep the Square satisfied
till she got back.”

“Was he cross?” asked Polly.

“Not to say cross,” replied Arctura, slowly, “but terrible decided and
unreasonable. Miss Hetty’s had her trials, and so’ve I; money isn’t
all.”

“No’m,” said Polly, soberly, “but it does a great many things, Miss
Arctura. Did you know how poor this town is? Manser farm leaks in
places, and the paint is all gone, and the ceilings drop sometimes,
pieces of them, I mean. But the town is too poor to help fix any of
those things. Uncle Sam Blodgett and Father Manser would shingle the
roof quick enough, though they aren’t as spry as once they were, if
only they could set eyes on the shingles,” said Polly, quoting freely
from her old friends.

“It’s a stingy town, I’m afraid,” said Arctura, shaking her head. “The
Square was the most liberal man in it, and Miss Hetty follows right
on, but most of the purse strings are drawn pretty close. Sometime
I’ll tell you a little story about the Square and me when I was your
age; you remind me to relate it to you. We haven’t got time now,” she
said, glancing at the clock, “for those cakes have got to come out in a
minute, and then I’ll have to fly around; dinner time always gains on
me, someway.”

“Do you know anything special I could do to please Miss Pomeroy?” asked
Polly, wistfully. “She’s being so good to me.”

“Let’s see,” said Arctura, meditatively. “Why, of course, she wants you
to enjoy yourself. I expect she’d be pleased to see you take notice
of things like the old shells and so on, and there’s the books; Bobby
admired to read, and she always said Eleanor was quite a hand for
stories, too. And you could go to walk with her, pleasant days, same as
Bobby did last winter. And she’d be glad to see you relish your food.”

“Oh, I do, Miss Arctura,” cried Polly. “I do, every single bite I take!”

“Well now, that’s good news,” said Miss Green, comfortably. “I can’t
think of anything else; you do all right so far as I know. I wouldn’t
worry, but just do my best every day as things come along. Now we’ll
take a look at those cakes.”

“She didn’t say a word about playing or running round,” thought Polly,
as Arctura rose to open the oven doors; “of course, she thinks I’m too
big now for those things, just as Mrs. Manser said. There’s a girl in
the village that’s most twelve, and she plays with a dolly, for I’ve
seen her. But she belonged to somebody, and that’s different, I guess,
from when you’re going to be adopted.”

Polly’s lips seemed inclined to quiver for a moment, but then her
cakes--the dozen golden brown cakes--were lifted from the oven and set
on the table, and in the rush of delight, at seeing the delicate tops
puffed up above the edges of the tins, the quiver changed to a smile.

“Arctura says you are a born cook,” said Miss Pomeroy at dinner time,
“and she has requested the pleasure of your company tomorrow morning
when she makes the pies.”

Polly dimpled with pleasure; she was eating steadily, just as much as
she could. Miss Pomeroy noticed her increased appetite with agreeable
surprise.

“Miss Arctura was very, very kind to me,” said the little girl,
sedately, “and I had a beautiful time, and Miss Arctura said if the
minister--the supply minister, that’s nothing more or less than a
bashful boy, according to her ideas--came to dinner Sunday, she should
set four of my cakes along with four of hers on the table for dessert
with the pudding.”

Miss Pomeroy suppressed an inclination to laugh, and told Polly she had
understood from Arctura that the cakes were a great success.

“But the minister is not a boy, my dear,” she added; “you must not
always take what Arctura says word for word. She used to call me her
little girl until I was more than thirty years old.”

Then Miss Pomeroy and Polly had a laugh together, though Polly could
not help feeling that Arctura was very brave indeed ever to have called
the tall mistress of Pomeroy Oaks her little girl.

After dinner came the two naps, or at least Miss Pomeroy’s nap and
Polly’s hour on the bed. Yesterday’s experience had taught Polly that
an hour’s nap would be considered enough for her, so at the end of that
time she got off the bed softly, and after making herself tidy for the
rest of the day, she stole softly downstairs. It was a mild afternoon,
and the big front door had been half opened so that the spring air
might blow through the screen.

“Of course, if she asks me if I’ve been asleep, I shall have to say
no,” said Polly, looking a little bit troubled as she stood at the
door, “but I don’t believe she will ask me. Of course, big girls that
want to be adopted can learn to go to sleep in the day-time, just as
grand grown-up folks do, and I shall learn as soon as ever I can.”

Polly stepped out on the piazza and walked softly up and down, sniffing
the air, and thinking how little fear she would have had of the damp
ground if she could have run out barefoot as she did so often at Manser
farm: and she gave a little sigh as she looked down at the shiny shoes
Miss Pomeroy had brought home for her that morning. But Snip and Snap
came racing up on the piazza from somewhere, ready for a frolic, and
Polly did not disappoint them.

Arctura appeared on the kitchen porch, collecting the milk pans that
had been sunning all day, and snapped her fingers to attract Polly’s
attention.

“Look here,” she called, “my brother, Hiram, is feeling real neglected
because you haven’t been nigh the barn since you came. Can’t you step
out and visit with him for a spell now? I’ll call you whenever Miss
Hetty wants you.”

Polly needed no second invitation. She was ready to go wherever anyone
wished, but, above all things, she had longed to see the barn, with
Daisy in it; and Hiram reminded her in some way of Uncle Sam Blodgett,
though she could not have told just how. Certainly the two men did not
look alike, for Uncle Blodgett was lean and wiry, with a long, thin,
nervous face, while Hiram was stout and ruddy, and never in a hurry
about anything.


[TO BE CONTINUED.]




  WOOD-FOLK TALK

  By J. ALLISON ATWOOD


BOBOLINK AND THE STRANGER

Has it ever seemed strange to you why Bobolink should have two suits of
feathers so entirely different? Why, when he comes to us in the spring,
should he wear a beautiful black and white costume, and in the fall
put on his modest plumage of brown? It was not always so. The time was
when Bobolink wore his best spring plumage all year round; but that,
of course, was before his quarrel with Rough-leg. Rough-leg was one of
the hawk family and was really the most agreeable of them. He had never
been known to disturb the birds, but made his entire living by catching
mice. No wonder, then, that he was greatly provoked when, after he had
watched patiently for two hours in the hot sun with the vain hope of
catching Meadow-mouse, he learned that the latter had been warned by
Bobolink. Although generally good-natured, Rough-leg had a temper and
he was very angry at Bobolink for poking his bill into other folks’
affairs. He was even heard to threaten to dine upon Bobolink instead of
Meadow-mouse.

This, of course, was alarming news to Bobolink, yet he never regretted
saving Meadow-mouse, who had been one of his old neighbors for years.
Nevertheless, he was greatly worried at the threat and went South to
his winter home earlier than usual that year, for fear that Rough-leg
would catch him.

The next spring when he reached the Great Meadows again Bobolink
supposed that the whole matter had been forgotten. But no. There, on
exactly the same limb of the tall poplar, as if he had been waiting
all winter, sat Rough-leg. Bobolink was so frightened that he did not
stop at the Meadows, as had been his custom, but went straight North
many miles even past his summer home. Rough-leg had kept his eyes shut
and pretended not to see Bobolink when he arrived on the Meadows, but
in reality he was only waiting for a good chance to get his claws upon
him. So, of course, his disappointment was great when he opened his
eyes, to find that Bobolink had gone. Somehow this only made him more
determined, and he resolved to catch Bobolink if it took a year. To a
bird a year is a very long time. Rough-leg knew that Bobolink would
have to stop at the Great Meadow on his way south in the autumn, for
there he must get his food supply. Rough-leg would wait for him. His
feathers puffed out and his eyes blazed as he thought of revenge.

At length the hot summer drew to a close, and Bobolink bethought
himself of going South, for, of course, he could not remain where he
was all winter. But he shuddered as he thought of Rough-leg. He must
stop at the Great Meadows else he could get no food until he reached
the rice lands.

It would soon begin to get cold, and already the birds around him were
leaving. They seemed to enjoy the fact that he could not follow. That
mischievous little imp, Maryland Yellow-throat, especially took the
greatest delight in peeping out from his brier thicket and then calling
in his shrill voice, “Wintery, Wintery, Wintery,” just for the fun of
seeing Bobolink look round anxiously at the falling leaves.

And now Blackbird, usually among the last, was ready to go and would
soon be feeding lavishly on the reed seeds. They would not last long.
Bobolink was at his wit’s end. Then, as from the top of a reed he
looked wistfully at the dusky form of departing Song Sparrow, an idea
occurred to him.

That afternoon he disappeared. He was not seen on the next day nor
the next. At the end of the third day a very strange-looking bird
might have been seen hopping about in the thicket which Bobolink
had occupied. This newcomer was a modest fellow. He wore a plain,
brown coat without a trace of the tall, white collar such as adorned
Bobolink; and he talked very little. Indeed, his only note seemed to
be a dull, little chirp which no one understood. While folks in the
north country were beginning to wonder who this new comer could be, he,
too, disappeared. A little later the birds of the Great Meadow were
surprised to see what to them was a very odd-looking traveler. He was
no other than the brown stranger who had just left the north country.
No one remembered to have seen him before.

Rough-leg, who from his high lookout kept his eyes open for Bobolink,
saw the newcomer, but the modest plumage awakened little interest
in his mind. Blackbird, who always fed near the stranger, kept up a
sociable chat all the time, but he was unable to learn anything of
the other’s history. Indeed the latter, although polite, paid little
attention to his neighbors but went on busily about his food. He soon
became quite stout.

The fall had nearly passed. All the birds except Rough-leg, Blackbird,
and the stranger had gone South. The leaves had fallen and the reeds
turned to brown fagots. Rough-leg still kept up his weary look-out.
Occasionally he would launch himself from the now leafless poplar and
circle over the Meadows. The brown bird would bolt up nervously from
his feeding ground and Blackbird, thinking that it was he who had
disturbed him would flutter overhead, calling out heartily, “Don’t
mind me-e-e! Don’t mind me-e-e!” But in spite of Blackbird’s cheer the
stranger would start up every time Rough-leg’s shadow passed over the
meadow. But one day when the autumn wind murmured through the dry reeds
the brown bird had flown. A day later Blackbird followed.

Old Rough-leg still keeps up his watch. Every little while you can see
him launch out from the great poplar and circle above the Meadows as if
perchance Bobolink might be hiding among the reeds. But his search is
vain. Often, however, he sees the brown stranger, whom folks have since
named Reed Bird, but as he sails back to his favorite perch, he vainly
wonders what has become of Bobolink in his beautiful coat of black and
white.

Perhaps he would wonder still more if he knew that, although they
pass to and fro with each year’s migration, Bobolink and Reed Bird
have never met. Couldn’t the reader explain something of this to old
Rough-leg?

       *       *       *       *       *

    “The good are better made by ill,
    As odors crushed are sweeter still.”

                             --_Rogers._




  A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST

  By Evelyn Raymond


  CHAPTER VII

  A Woodland Menagerie

 SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

 Brought up in the forests of northern Maine, and seeing few persons
 excepting her uncle and Angelique, the Indian housekeeper, Margot
 Romeyn knows little of life beyond the deep hemlocks. Naturally
 observant, she is encouraged in her out-of-door studies by her uncle,
 at one time a college professor. Through her woodland instincts, she
 and her uncle are enabled to save the life of Adrian Wadislaw, a youth
 who, lost and almost overcome with hunger, has been wandering in the
 neighboring forest. To Margot the new friend is a welcome addition
 to her small circle of acquaintances, and after his rapid recovery
 she takes great delight in showing him the many wonders of the forest
 about her home.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Hoo-ah! Yo-ho! H-e-r-e! This way!”

Adrian followed the voice. It led him aside into the woods on the
eastern slope, and it was accompanied by an indescribable babel of
noises. Running water, screaming of wild fowl, cooing of pigeons,
barking of dogs or some other beasts, cackling, chattering, laughter.

All the sounds of wild life ceased suddenly in the tree-tops as Adrian
approached, recognizing and fearing his alien presence. But they were
reassured by Margot’s familiar summons, and soon the menagerie he had
suspected was gathered about her.

“Whew! it just rains squirrels--and chipmunks--and birds! Hello! that’s
a fawn; that’s a fox! as sure as I’m alive, a magnificent red fox! Why
isn’t he eating the whole outfit? And--hurrah!”

To the amazement of the watcher, there came from the depths of the
woods a sound that always thrills the pulses of any hunter--the cry
of a moose-calf, accompanied by a soft crashing of branches, growing
gradually louder.

“So they tame even the moose--these wonderful people! What next!”
and as Adrian leaned forward the better to watch the advance of
this uncommon pet, the next concerning which he had speculated also
approached. Slowly up the river bank stalked a pair of blue herons, and
for them Margot had her warmest welcome.

“Heigho, Xanthippé, Socrates! What laggards! But here’s your breakfast,
or one of them. I suppose you’ve eaten the other long ago. Indeed,
you’re always eating, gourmands!”

The red fox eyed the new-comers with a longing eye and crept cautiously
to his mistress’ side as she coaxed the herons nearer. But she was
always prepared for any outbreak of nature among her forest friends,
and drew him also close to her with the caressing touch she might have
bestowed upon a beloved house-dog.

“Reynard, you beauty! your head in my lap, sir;” and dropping to a
sitting posture, she forced him to obey her. There he lay, winking but
alert, which she scattered her store of good things right and left.
There were nuts for the squirrels and ’munks, grains and seeds for
the winged creatures, and for the herons, as well as Reynard, a few
bits of dried meat. But for Browser, the moose-calf, she pulled the
tender twigs and foliage with a lavish hand. When she had given some
dainty to each of her oddly-assorted pets, she sprang up, closed the
box, and waved her arms in dismissal. The more timid of the creatures
obeyed her, but some held their ground persistently, hoping for greater
favors. To these she paid no further attention, and still keeping hold
of Reynard’s neck, started back to her human guest.

The fox, however, declined to accompany her. He distrusted strangers,
and, it may be, had designs of his own upon some other forest wilding.

“That’s the worst of it. We tame them and they love us. But they are
only conquered, not changed. Isn’t Reynard beautiful? Doesn’t he look
noble? as noble as a St. Bernard dog? If you’ll believe me, that fellow
is thoroughly acquainted with every one of Angelique’s fowls, and knows
he must never, never touch them. Yet he’d eat one, quick as a flash, if
he got a chance. He’s a coward, though; and by his cowardice we manage
him. Sometimes,” sighed Margot, who had led the way into a little path
toward the lake.

“How odd! You seem actually grieved at this state of things.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I love him, and I have a notion that love will do
anything with anybody or anything. I do believe it will, but that I
haven’t found just the right way of showing it. Uncle laughs at me, a
little, but helps me all he can. Indeed, it is he who has tamed most of
our pets. He says it is the very best way to study natural history.”

“H-m-m! He intends your education shall be complete!”

“Of course. But one thing troubles him. He cannot teach me music.
And you seem surprised. Aren’t girls, where you come from, educated?
Doesn’t everybody prize knowledge?”

“That depends. Our girls are educated, of course. They go to college
and all that, but I think you’d down any of them in exams. For my own
part, I ran away just because I did not want this famous ‘education’
you value. That is, I didn’t of a certain sort. I wasn’t fair with you
awhile ago, you said. I’d like to tell you my story now.”

“I’d like to hear it, of course. But, look yonder! Did you ever see
anything like that?”

Margot was proud of the surprises she was able to offer this stranger
in her woods, and pointed outward over the lake. They had just come to
an open place on the shore and the water spread before them, sparkling
in the sunlight. Something was crossing the smooth surface, heading
straight for their island, and of a nature to make Adrian cry out:

“Oh! for a gun!”


  VIII

  KING MADOC

“If you had one you should not use it! Are you a dreadful hunter?”

Margot had turned upon her guest with a defiant fear. As near as she
had ever come to hating anything she hated the men, of whom she had
heard, who used this wonderful northland as a murder ground. That was
what she named it in her uncompromising judgment of those who killed
for the sake of killing, for the lust of blood that was in them.

“Yes; I reckon I am a ‘dreadful’ hunter, for I am a mighty poor shot.
But I’d like a try at that fellow. What horns! what a head! and how can
that fellow in the canoe keep so close to him, yet not finish him?”

Adrian was so excited he could not stand still. His eyes gleamed, his
hands clenched, and his whole appearance was changed; greatly for the
worse, the girl thought, regarding him with disgust.

“Finish him? That’s King Madoc, Pierre’s trained moose. You’d be
finished yourself, I fear, if you harmed that splendid creature.
Pierre’s a lazy fellow, mostly, but he spent a long time teaching
Madoc; and with his temper--I’m thankful you lost your gun.”

“Do you never shoot things up here? I saw you giving the fox and
herons what looked like meat. You had a stew for supper, and fish for
breakfast. I don’t mean to be impertinent, but the sight of that big
game--whew!”

“Yes; we do kill things, or have them killed, when it is necessary for
food. Never in sport. Man is almost the only animal who does that. It’s
all terrible, seems to me. Everything preys upon something else, weaker
than itself. Sometimes when I think of it, my dinner chokes me. It’s
so easy to take life, and only God can create it. But uncle says it is
also God’s law to take what is provided, and that there is no mistake,
even if it seems such to me.”

But there Margot perceived that Adrian was not listening. Instead,
he was watching, with the intensest interest, the closer approach of
the canoe, in which sat idle Pierre, holding the reins of a harness
attached to his aquatic steed. The moose swam easily, with powerful
strokes, and Pierre was singing a gay melody, richer in his unique
possession than any king.

“Indeed, it’s not one other has a king for a bow man,” he often
asserted.

When he touched the shore and the great animal stood shaking his wet
hide, Adrian’s astonishment found vent in a whirlwind of questions
that Pierre answered at his leisure and after his kind. But he walked
first toward Margot and offered her a great bunch of trailing arbutus
flowers, saying:

“I saw these just as I pushed off and went back after them. What’s the
matter here, that the flag is up? It was the biggest storm I ever saw.
Yes; a deal of beasties are killed back on the mainland. Any dead over
here?”

“No, I’m glad to say, none that we know of. But Snowfoot’s shed is down
and uncle is going to build a new one. I hope you’ve come to work.”

Pierre laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh! yes.”

But his interest in work was far less than in the stranger whom he now
answered, and whose presence on Peace Island was a mystery to him.
Heretofore, the only visitors there had been laborers or traders, but
this young fellow, so near his own age, and despite his worn clothing,
was of another sort. He recognized this, at once, as Margot had done,
and his curiosity made him ask:

“Where’d you come from? Hurricane blow you out the sky?”

“About the same. I was lost in the woods and Margot found me and saved
my life. What’ll you take for that moose?”

“There isn’t money enough in the State of Maine to buy him!”

“Nonsense! Well, if there was I haven’t it. But you could get a good
price for it anywhere.”

Pierre looked Adrian over. From his appearance the lad was not likely
to be possessed of much cash, but the moose-trainer was eager for
capital, and never missed an opportunity of seeking it.

“I want to go into the show business. What do you say? would you
furnish the tents and fixings, and share the profits? I’m no scholar,
but maybe you’d know enough to get out the hand bills and so on. What
do you say?”

“I--say--What you mean, Pierre Ricord, keepin’ the master waitin’ your
foolishness and him half sick? What kept you twice as long as you
ought? Hurry up, now, and put that moose in the cow yard and get to
work.”

The interruption was caused by Angelique, and it was curious to see the
fear with which she inspired the great fellow, her son. He forgot the
stranger, the show business, and all his own immediate interests, and
with the docility of a little child obeyed. Unhitching his odd steed,
he turned the canoe bottom upwards on the beach and hastily led the
animal toward that part of the island clearing where Snowfoot stood in
a little fenced-in lot behind her ruined shed.

Adrian went with him, and asked:

“Won’t those two animals fight?”

“Won’t get a chance. When one goes in the other goes out. Here, bossy,
you can take the range of the island. Get out!”

She was more willing to go than Madoc to enter the cramped place, but
the transfer was made, and Adrian lingered by the osier paling, to
observe at close range this subjugated monarch of the forest.

“Oh! for a palette and brush!” he exclaimed, while Pierre walked away.

“What would you do with them?”

Margot had followed the lads and was beside Adrian, though he had not
heard her footsteps. Now he wheeled about, eager, enthusiastic.

“Paint--as I have never painted before!”

“Oh!--are you an--artist?”

“I want to be one. That’s why I’m here.”

“What! What do you mean?”

“I told you I was a runaway. I didn’t say why, before. It’s truth. My
people, my--father--forced me to college. I hated it. He was forcing me
to business. I liked art. All my friends were artists. When I should
have been at the books I was in their studios. They were a gay crowd,
spent money like water when they had it; merrily starved and pinched
when they hadn’t. A few were worse than spendthrifts, and with my usual
want of sense I made that particular set my intimates. I never had any
money, though, after it was suspected what my tastes were, except a
little that my mother gave.”

Margot was listening breathlessly and watching intently. At the mention
of his mother a shadow crossed Adrian’s face, softening and bettering
it, and as they rose to go home she saw that his whole mood had changed.


  IX.

  AN UNANSWERABLE QUESTION

It was weeks afterward when they were again surrounded by the many
wonderful inhabitants of the forest that Adrian mentioned his own
parents. Their talk drifted from vexing subjects to merry anecdotes of
his childhood, in the home where he had been the petted, only brother
of a half-dozen elder sisters. But while they laughed and Margot
listened, her fingers were busy weaving a great garland of wild laurel,
and when it was finished she rose and said:

“It’s getting late. There’ll be just time to take this to the grave.
Will you go with me?”

“Yes.”

But this was another of the puzzling things he found at Peace Island.
In its very loveliest nook was the last resting-place of Cecily Romeyn,
and the sacred spot was always beautiful with flowers, or, in the
winter, with brilliant berries. Both the master and the girl spoke of
their dead as if she were still present with them; or, at least, lived
as if she were only removed from sight but not from their lives.

When Margot had laid the fresh wreath upon the mound, she carefully
removed the faded flowers of the day before, and a thought of his own
mother stirred Adrian’s heart.

“I wish I could send a bunch of such blossoms to the mater!”

“How can you live without her, since she is still alive?”

His face hardened again.

“You forget. I told you that she, too, turned against me at the last.
It was a case of husband or son, and she made her choice.”

“Oh! no. She was unhappy. One may do strange things then, I suppose.
But I tell you one thing: if I had either father or mother, anywhere
in this world; no matter if either was bad--had done everything that
is sinful!--nothing should ever, ever make me leave them. Nothing. I
would bear anything, do anything, suffer anything--but I would be true
to them. I could not forget that I was their child, and if I had done
wrong to them my whole life would be too short to make atonement.”

She spoke strongly, as she felt. So early orphaned, she had come to
think of her parents as the most wonderful blessing in the power of God
to leave one. She loved her Uncle Hugh like a second father, but her
tenderest dreams were over the pictured faces of her dead.

“Where is your father buried?”

It was the simplest, most natural question.

“I--don’t--know.”

They stared at one another. It was proof of her childlike acceptance of
her life that she had never asked--had never thought to do so, even.
She had been told that he had passed out of sight before they came to
Peace Island and the forest, and had asked no further concerning him.
Of his character and habits she had heard much. Her uncle was never
weary in extolling his virtues; but of his death he had said only what
has been written.

“But--I must know right away!”

In her eagerness she ran, and Adrian followed as swiftly. He was sorry
for his thoughtless inquiry, but regret came too late. He tried to call
Margot back, but she would not wait.

“I must know--I must know right away. Why have I never thought before?”

Hugh Dutton was resting after a day of study and mental labor, and his
head leaned easily upon his cushioned chair. Yet as his dear child
entered his room he held out his arms to draw her to his knee.

“In a minute, uncle. But Adrian has asked me something and it is the
strangest thing that I cannot answer him. Where is my father buried?”

If she had dealt him a mortal blow he could not have turned more white.
With a groan that pierced her very heart, he stared at Margot with
wide, unseeing eyes; then sprang to his feet and fixed upon poor Adrian
a look that scorched.

“You! you!” he gasped, and, sinking back, covered his face with his
hands.




  X

  PERPLEXITIES

What had he done?

Ignorant why his simple question should have such strange results, that
piercing look made Adrian feel the veriest culprit, and he hastened to
leave the room and the cabin. Hurrying to the beach, he appropriated
Margot’s little canvas canoe and pushed out upon the lake. From her
and Pierre he had learned to handle the light craft with considerable
skill, and he now worked off his excitement by swift paddling, so that
there was soon a wide distance between him and the island.

Then he paused and looked around him, upon as fair a scene as could be
found in any land. Unbroken forests bounded this hidden Lake Profundus,
out of whose placid waters rose that mountain-crowned, verdure-clad
Island of Peace, with its picturesque home and its cultured owner, who
had brought into this best of the wilderness the best of civilization.

“What is this mystery? How am I concerned in it? For I am, and mystery
there is. It is like that mist over the island, which I can see and
feel but cannot touch. Pshaw! I’m getting sentimental, when I ought
to be turning detective. Yet I couldn’t do that--pry into the private
affairs of a man who’s treated me so generously. What shall I do? How
can I go back there? But where else can I go?”

At the thought that he might never return to the roof he had quitted,
a curious homesickness seized him.

“Who’ll hunt what game they need? Who’ll catch their fish? Who’ll keep
the garden growing? Where can I study the forest and its furry people,
at first hand, as in the Hollow? And I was doing well--not as I hope
to do, but getting on. Margot was a merciless critic, but even she
admitted that my last picture had the look, the spirit of the woods.
That’s what I want to do, what Mr. Dutton, also, approved: to bring
glimpses of these solitudes back to the cities and the thousands who
can never see them in any other way. Well--let it go. I can’t stay and
be a torment to anybody, and sometime in some other place, maybe--Ah!”

What he had mistaken for the laughter of a loon was Pierre’s halloo.
He was coming back, then, from the mainland where he had been absent
these past days. Adrian was thankful. There was nothing mysterious or
perplexing about Pierre, whose rule of life was extremely simple:

“Pierre, first, second, and forever. After Pierre, if there was
anything left, then--anybody, the nearest at hand,” would have
expressed the situation; but his honest, unblushing selfishness was
sometimes a relief.

“One always knows just where to find Pierre,” Margot had said.

So Adrian’s answering halloo was prompt, and, turning about, he watched
the birch leaving the shadow of the forest and heading for himself. It
was soon alongside and Ricord’s excited voice was shouting his good
news:

“Run him up to seven hundred and fifty!”

“But I thought there wasn’t money enough anywhere to buy him?”

Pierre cocked his dark head on one side and winked.

“Madoc sick and Madoc well are different.”

“Oh, you wretch! Would you sell a sick moose and cheat the buyer?”

“Would I lose such a pile of money for foolishness? I guess not.”

“But suppose, after you parted with him, he got well?”

Again the woodlander grinned and winked.

“Could you drive the King?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s all right. I buy him back, what you call trade. One do
that many times, good enough. If--”

Pierre was silent for some moments, during which Adrian had steadily
paddled backward to the island, keeping time with the other boat, and
without thinking what he was doing. But when he did remember, he turned
to Pierre and asked:

“Will you take me across the lake again?”

“What for?”

“No matter. I’ll just leave Margot’s canoe and you do it. There’s time
enough.”

“What’ll you give me?”

“Pshaw! What can I give you? Nothing.”

“That’s all right. My mother, she wants the salt,” and he kicked the
sack of that valuable article lying at his feet. “There, she’s on the
bank now, and it’s not she will let me out of her sight again, this
long time.”

“You’d go fast enough for money.”

“Maybe not. When one has Angelique Ricord for mére--U-m-m!”

But it was less for Pierre than for Adrian that Angelique was waiting,
and her expression was kinder than common.

“Carry that salt to my kitchen cupboard, son, and get to bed. No;
you’ve no call to tarry. What the master’s word is for his guest is
nothin’ to you.”

Pierre’s curiosity was roused. Why had Adrian wanted to leave the
island at nightfall, since there was neither hunting nor fishing to be
done? Sport for sport’s sake--that was forbidden. And what could be the
message he was not to hear? He meant to learn, and lingered, busying
himself uselessly in beaching the canoes afresh, after he had once
carefully turned them bottom side upwards: in brushing out imaginary
dirt, readjusting his own clothing--a task he did not often bother
with--and in general making himself a nuisance to his impatient parent.

But, so long as he remained, she kept silence, till, unable to hold
back her rising anger, she stole up behind him, unperceived, and
administered a sounding box upon his sizable ears.

“Would you? To the cupboard, miserable!” and Adrian could not repress a
smile at the meekness with which the great woodlander submitted to the
little woman’s authority.

“Xanthippé and Socrates!” he murmured, and Pierre heard him. So,
grimacing at him from under the heavy sack, he called back “Fifty
dollar. Tell her fifty--dollar.”

“What did he mean by fifty dollar?” demanded Angelique.

“I suppose something about that show business of his. It is his
ambition, you know, and I must admit I believe he’d be a success at it.”

“Pouf! There is more better business than the showin’ one, of takin’
God’s beasties in the towns and lettin’ the fool people stare. The
money comes that way is not good money.”

“Oh, yes. It’s all right, fair Angelique. But what is the word for me?”

“It is: that you come with me, at once, to the master. He will speak
with you before he sleeps. Yes. And, Adrian, lad!”

“Well, Angelique?”

“This is the truth. Remember--when the heart is sore tried the tongue
is often sharp. There is death--that is a sorrow--God sends it. There
are sorrows God does not send, but the evil one. Death is but joy to
them. What the master says, answer; and luck light upon your lips.”

The lad had never seen the old housekeeper so impressive nor so gentle.
At the moment it seemed as if she almost liked him, though, despite the
faithfulness with which she had obeyed her master’s wishes and served
him, he had never before suspected it.

“Thank you, Angelique. I am troubled, too, and I will take care that I
neither say nor resent anything harsh. More than that, I will go away.
I have stayed too long already, though I had hoped I was making myself
useful. Is he in his own study?”

“Yes, and the little maid is with him. No--there she comes, but she
is not laughin’, no. Oh! the broken glass. Scat! Meroude. Why leap
upon one to scare the breath out, that way? Pst! ’Tis here that tame
creatures grow wild and wild ones tame. Scat! I say.”

Margot was coming through the rooms, holding Reynard by the collar she
made him wear whenever he was in the neighborhood of the hen-house, and
Tom limped listlessly along upon her other side. There was trouble and
perplexity in the girl’s face, and Angelique made a great pretense of
being angry with the cat, to hide that in her own.

But Margot noticed neither her nor Adrian, and sitting down upon the
threshold dropped her chin in her hands and fixed her eyes upon the
darkening lake.

“Why, mistress! The beast here at the cabin, and it nightfall! My poor
fowls!”

“He’s leashed, you see, Angelique. And I’ll lock the poultry up, if you
like,” observed Adrian. Anything to delay a little an interview from
which he shrank with something very like that cowardice of which the
girl had once accused him.

The housekeeper’s ready temper flamed, and she laid an ungentle touch
upon the stranger’s shoulder.

“Go, boy. When Master Hugh commands, ’tis not for such as we to
disobey.”

“All right. I’m going; and I’ll remember.”

At the inner doorway he turned and looked back. Margot was still
sitting, thoughtful and motionless, the firelight from the great
hearth making a Rembrandt-like silhouette of her slight figure against
the outer darkness and touching her wonderful hair with a flood of
silver. Reynard and the eagle, the wild foresters her love had tamed,
stood guard on either side. It was a picture that appealed to Adrian’s
artistic sense and he lingered a little, regarding its effects, even
considering what pigments would best convey them.

[Illustration: HER PETS STOOD GUARD ON EITHER SIDE]

“Adrian!”

“Yes, Angelique--yes.”

When the door shut behind him, Angelique touched her darling’s shining
head, and the toil-stiffened fingers had for it almost a mother’s
tenderness.

“Sweetheart, the bed-time.”

“I know--I’m going, Angelique; my uncle sent me from him to-night. It
was the first time in all my life that I remember.”

“Maybe, little stupid, because you’ve never waited for that, before,
but were quick enough to see whenever you were not wanted.”

“He--there’s something wrong, and Adrian is the cause of it.
I--Angelique, you tell me--uncle did not hear, or reply, any way--where
is my father buried?”

Angelique was prepared and had her answer ready.

“’Tis not for the servant to reveal what her master hides. No--all will
come to you in good time. Tarry the master’s will. But, that silly
Pierre! What think you? Is it fifty dollar would be the price of they
tame blue herons? Hey?”

“No; nor fifty times fifty. Pierre knows that. Love is more than
money.”

“Sometimes, to some folks. Well, what would you? That son will
be havin’ even me, his old mother, in his show--why not? As a
cur’osity--the only livin’ human bein’ can make that ingrate mind.
Yes--to bed, ma p’tite.”

Margot rose and housed her pets. This threat of Pierre’s, that he would
eventually carry off the foresters and exhibit their helplessness
to staring crowds, always roused her fiercest indignation; and this
result was just what Angelique wanted, at present, and she murmured her
satisfaction.

“Good! That bee will buzz in her ear till she sleeps, and so sound
she’ll hear no dip of the paddle, by and by. Here, Pierre, my son,
you’re wanted.”

“What for, now? Do leave me be. I’m going to bed. I’m just wore out,
trot-trottin’ from Pontius to Pilate, luggin’ salt, and--” he finished
by yawning most prodigiously.

“Firs’-rate sign, that gapin’. Yes--sign you’re healthy and able to do
all’s needed. There’s no rest for you this night. Come--here--take this
basket to the beach. If your canoe needs pitchin’, pitch it. There’s
the lantern. If one goes into the show business he learns right now to
work and travel o’ nights. Yes--start--I’ll follow and explain.”


[TO BE CONTINUED]

       *       *       *       *       *

    “Believe not each accusing tongue,
      As most weak people do;
    But still believe that story wrong
      Which ought not to be true.”

          --_R. B. Sheridan._




  THE MONTH OF FLOWER

  By Julia McNair Wright


Neither age, learning, nor fortune are needed to enable one to love and
admire these gracious children of beauty--the flowers.

When the chill winds of autumn sound a knell for their departure, we
have a sense of loneliness and loss. As the winter passes we long for
the days when the blossoms shall come again.

The first tiny blossom of the star-flower; the first little tasseled
bloom on the birch; the first adder’s tongue, or violet, or broad,
white salver of the mandrake flower; the snowy banners of the dogwood;
the gray-white of the brave little plantain-leaved everlasting, fill
all hearts with delight.

The life object of the flower is the production of seed. All the parts
of the flower are in some way fitted to further that end. What is the
story of the flower?

The stem and branches having developed a certain amount of leafage, may
at length put forth blossoms. These spring, as leaves do, from the tips
or axils of the branches. In truth, a flower is a modified branch, and
all its parts are modified leaves. We will pass over this distinction
of science, and will consider the flower as we popularly think and
speak of it, the beautiful producer of seeds.

What is called a perfect flower we will examine in the common buttercup
of the fields. At the top of the stem we find a cup or calyx of five
narrow, separate green leaves, called sepals; these form the outer
wrapping of the bud, and maintain and protect the more delicate inner
parts of a flower. Within the calyx is the corolla--five glossy,
yellow, roundish petals, set in a circle; within this we have another
ring of downy, bright-yellow stamens, and still within these,
protected by all the others, certain yellow pistils, fewer and firmer
in texture than the stamens.

All of these four rings of parts are placed upon the fleshy, enlarged
top of the stem, which is called the receptacle. The yellow of this
flower is very yellow, and the stem and leaves are very green. The stem
and leaves of our buttercups are hairy; the whole plant is provided
with a sharp, stinging juice.

The buttercup, as we have seen, is made up of four circles, each
composed of several distinct parts.

A flower with several petals is called polypetalous.

Other flowers have but one petal; they are styled monopetalous. In
fact, in such one-petaled flowers a number of petals have simply grown
together. Let us take the morning-glory as an example. Pull off the
calyx; it comes off as a whole, but is cleft half way down into five
lobes, showing that it is truly composed of five united petals. Now
pull the corolla from another calyx cup; it comes as a whole, and is
not cleft as the calyx is, but it has five stripes, and at each stripe
the margin has a little point, and we can make out very plainly that
here are five prettily-pointed petals united into one, with a long tube
made of the claws, and a beautiful wide margin made of the banners.
Four-o’clocks, stramonium, Canterbury bells, phlox, and many other
flowers have these one-petaled corollas. Such corollas differ greatly
in shape, owing to the length and diameter of the tube and margin.

In the polypetalous corollas we have the rich splendors of roses,
from single to the fullest double, where cultivation has changed all
stamens and pistils into petals. The polypetalous tribe give us also
the lovely, perfume-filled chalices of the lilies; the peas, with their
many-colored banners; the charming violets, with their spurred petals;
the columbine, with its horns of plenty.

Color of some kind is one of the distinguishing features of blossoms.

Fragrance is another marked characteristic of plants, and is chiefly in
the flower.

There are plenty of scentless plants, yet the majority are full of
perfume. Some few have a very disagreeable smell. Fragrance in plants
comes from certain oils or resin laid up in different parts of the
plant, whether in the leaves, bark, wood, fruit, seeds, or blossoms.

In the month of May flowers crowd upon us in numbers so great that
we are at a loss for a time to study them. Even if April has been
cold, the matchless arbutus has found time to bloom above last
year’s protecting leaves and has passed away, leaving only a memory
of its fragrance and rosy beauty. The dandelions--jolly, popular,
child-beloved gold of the spring--have bloomed, and in May the grass is
covered with their delicate clocks; we still, in early May, find the
oxalis almost making a carpet for the pasture lands or sunny hillsides.
When the oxalis grows in damp shade its flowers and leaves are larger
and of a deeper color, but the blossoms are fewer. The leaf of the
oxalis is three-divided, like the coarser leaf of the clover.

Some hold that it was the oxalis and not the shamrock leaf which good
St. Patrick took to prove the possibility of Trinity--one in three.
Some think that really the oxalis and not the clover was the shamrock
of the ancient Irish.

May brings us an abundance of wild violets; the blue violets and the
beautiful tri-colored pansies come in April, but the blue violets
linger, growing larger and richer, while their cousins, the dainty
white and the branching yellow violets, appear in the cool, damp woods.
The wild violets are scentless, except for the spicy “woods odor” that
seems to hang about all wild flowers.

[Illustration: NATURE’S FAVORITES]

A much humbler flower than the violets greets us on the roadsides--the
bright yellow cinquefoil, its vine leaves, and blossom bearing
resemblance to the strawberry, so that the county people call them
“yellow-flowered strawberries.” Common as the cinquefoil is, it belongs
to a noble, even royal, family among flowers--the rose. It is a poor
cousin of the garden’s queen.




  WITH THE EDITOR


For our name we have chosen YOUTH. This word is the fullest expression
of our ambition. It stands for that period of human life toward which
the very young folk look forward with pleasant anticipations, and the
old look back with something like regret. It contains the suggestion
of hope, vigor, and buoyancy--the ideal requisites of America’s young
folks. Surely we might have looked far for a more fitting title.

Although a new name to many, and therefore lacking in that esteem which
only long acquaintance can give, we have every reason to expect the
same generous greeting which we have heretofore received.

Indeed, beginning with this issue, we shall have with us many who have
known YOUTH in its earlier home. We offer them a hearty welcome and
promise to do our utmost to deserve a continuation of their stanch
support.

       *       *       *       *       *

A great many well-meaning people seem to regard childhood and youth
in the light of an ailment. This is painfully apparent in their views
of juvenile literature. As they might forbid a particular diet to all
invalids, so, just as rigidly, they prohibit the reading of this or
that form of literature by those afflicted with youthfulness.

Like the doctors who deal with our physical bodies, these very earnest
people seldom agree among themselves as to the proper remedies and
measures of prevention.

What, most unfortunately, they do agree in, is that the best attention
must be given to the supposed ailment instead of to the individual boy
or girl. No young person should be allowed to read fairy stories, says
one. Nor stories without an immediate moral purpose, declares another.
Nor stories of adventure, insists a third.

Now, upon behalf of the young people themselves, we wish to enter our
most solemn objection to this kind of reasoning.

There are books, of course, which should not be read by young people,
but as a rule these same books should not be read by grown people,
either. They are essentially bad, and no one will defend them.

We admit, moreover, that no highly improbable fiction is healthy as
a regular diet. But we do assert that for a child of undeveloped
imagination--one who is inclined to take the world too literally--there
is, perhaps, nothing better than a well-written fairy-story. It tends
to awaken that faculty of the brain which gives life half its pleasure.
What, again, can better counteract the thoughtless cruelty of childhood
than such a story as Black Beauty? And yet, in the great essential of
possibility, Black Beauty is a fairy tale.

Finally, to one whose mind is over-perplexed by studies or who is
inclined to brood over the common occurrences of daily life, what can
bring happier relief than some stirring narrative of adventure? Such a
story at such a time, even if it has no moral aim, is not without its
moral result.

In short, each of these forms of fiction has its own special and
valuable function, and those who would make the best use of juvenile
literature must recognize the fact and avail themselves of the
principle.




  EVENT AND COMMENT


  Telephoning Without Wire

According to late newspaper accounts, one of the most striking efforts
in the direction of wireless communication is that of Mr. Nathan
Stubblefield, residing near Murray, in the State of Kentucky.

Mr. Stubblefield holds the theory that sound waves, as well as
vibrations of ether, can be conveyed from one point to the other
without the use of wires. To prove this, he has invented an apparatus
of apparently simple construction, consisting of a transmitter and
receiver. Its only metallic contact with any solid object is by means
of a wire rod, which is sunk into the ground at the desired point.
Through this the waves of sound are conveyed from the transmitter to
the ground, and from the ground to the receiver of the other station.

To show that water as well as land will conduct these vibrations, Mr.
Stubblefield established communication between a boat some distance
from the shore and a station on the land. From the boat, the strains of
a musical instrument playing on the shore could be distinctly heard and
recognized.

Mr. Stubblefield believes that it is only upon the question of
obtaining a high voltage that the unlimited application of his system
depends.

The many persons who have viewed his experiments are fully convinced
that Mr. Stubblefield will do much toward furthering the possibilities
of wireless communication.


  The Oxford Scholarships

In the will of the late Cecil Rhodes, provisions were made, setting
aside $10,000,000 for the founding of free scholarships for the
benefit of students from the British colonies, Germany, and the United
States. Of these, the United States is to have two for each State and
Territory. The conditions of these scholarships are that the candidates
must possess the necessary educational qualifications, manly qualities,
a fondness for out-of-door sports, and an “exhibition during their
school days of moral force of character and instincts to lead and take
interest in their schoolmates.”

Mr. Rhodes’ purpose is to concentrate the scattered forces of the
Anglo-Saxon race, which, he believes, contributes the greatest
influence for good upon humanity.


  Terms of Peace in South Africa

The Edinburgh _Evening News_ of April 12 has stated that Mr. Kruger, in
behalf of the Boers, desires peace on the following conditions:

Absolute independence will not be made an issue if otherwise a
satisfactory form of government can be reached.

The proclamation of banishment must be canceled, the confiscated
property restored to its owners, and all other property destroyed by
the British soldiers must be paid for by their government.

The recognition of both languages in the schools and courts.

The pardon of rebels and the release of political prisoners.

All prisoners of war are to be returned to South Africa on a fixed date.

The foregoing terms and conditions are to be carried out under the
supervision of one or more of the powers friendly to the Boer cause.

Negotiations have now reached such a point as to promise a speedy
termination of the war in South Africa.


  General Miles’ Plan for the Philippines

In the recent correspondence between Lieutenant-General Miles and
the Secretary of War, the former asked for authority to take with
him to the Philippines ten Cubans and Porto Ricans, for the purpose
of illustrating to the inhabitants of those islands the beneficial
influence of the United States.

A representative group of Filipinos would then, on the return journey,
be brought to this country, to familiarize them with our civilization.
In this way it was hoped to establish a more amicable understanding
between the two peoples.

After a careful consideration of General Miles’ plan, the Secretary
of War stated his disapproval of it on the ground that it would be
impracticable.


  The Decline of Great Salt Lake

The Great Salt Lake, which for a number of years past has been
gradually diminishing in size, is now causing some little apprehension
to the people of Utah. Although not well understood, it is thought that
the diversion of the streams which formerly fed this interesting body
of water, for the purpose of agriculture, is partly responsible for its
decrease. The cutting away of forests also is supposed to have had its
effect in diminishing the water supply of the region.


  The Great Power House

The largest power house in the world is that recently erected in New
York City by the Manhattan Elevated Railroad. The total energy of its
entire system of engines is 1,000,000 horse-power. This is capable of
being converted into a force of 600,000 electrical horse-power, in
which form it will be used for propelling the trains of the elevated
railroad.




  IN-DOORS


  PARLOR MAGIC

  By Ellis Stanyon

 The first of this series of papers on Magic, commencing with the March
 number, included directions to the beginner for Palming and the Pass.


PROGRAMME AND COIN.--The effect of this experiment is as follows: The
performer borrows a marked half-dollar from a stranger in the audience,
immediately handing it to a gentleman to examine the mark, date, and
other items. While this is being done, the performer obtains the loan
of a programme, which he tears in half, laying one half on his table.
The gentleman is now requested to place the coin in the half of the
programme held by the performer, who wraps it up and gives it to him
to hold. He now goes to his table for a piece of sealing-wax, which
he passes several times over the packet held by the gentleman, when
immediately it is transformed into a packet of three envelopes, made
from the programme, all gummed and sealed, one inside the other, with
the marked half-dollar in the smallest one. As the gentleman cannot see
how it is done, the performer repeats the trick for his benefit with
the other half of the programme, but the result is the same. This time,
however, the gentleman is requested to take the last envelope to the
owner of the money, that he may open it and satisfy himself that it
actually contains his own coin.

The six envelopes are now rolled up and given to the gentleman to hand
to the lady, to keep as a souvenir of the entertainment, but before
he has proceeded far the performer tells him he has dropped one of
them (he has not really done so), and, failing to find it, he very
naturally begins to count those in his hand, when he discovers to his
astonishment that he holds the programme restored.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Explanation._--After the performer has borrowed the half-dollar, in
the act of handing it to the gentleman for examination he adroitly
changes it for one of his own, bearing the mark of a cross, which mark,
is, of course, taken for that of the owner of the coin. The performer
now asks for a programme, and while it is being procured he drops the
actual borrowed coin into the smallest of the three envelopes, which
are placed one inside the other and concealed by a book or some other
object on the table. To facilitate the introduction of the coin, a tin
tube, with a rather wide mouth, just large enough for the coin to pass
through, is placed in the smallest envelope. After this coin has been
introduced this tube is withdrawn, left in its concealed position, and
the envelopes closed.

The flaps of the envelopes are sealed with wax beforehand and prepared
with the best gum arabic, which is allowed to dry. They are moistened
with the tongue just before the performance of the trick, and, if cut
as in Fig. 7, can all be closed at once while lying on the table. This
packet is laid on the table under cover of the half of a programme used
in the second stage of the trick.

[Illustration: Fig. 7]

To begin, the performer palms a similar packet of envelopes containing
another half-dollar marked in exactly the same way as the one he handed
to the gentleman, and it is hardly necessary to say, having the same
appearance and bearing the same date. When rolling up the programme the
performer retains it and hands the gentleman the packet of envelopes;
and when going to his table for the wax leaves half of the programme
and the half-dollar thereon. By the time the first coin is taken from
the envelopes the packet containing the actual borrowed coin will be
dry and ready for use.

The remaining portion of the trick will now be understood. When the
performer goes for the other half of the programme he takes the packet
of envelopes with it and substitutes it as before, and the trick
proceeds as described. When collecting the six envelopes for the final
effect, the performer palms a duplicate programme which has been lying
on his table behind some object, and substitutes this as before when
giving the gentleman the envelopes to hand to the lady.

       *       *       *       *       *

FILTRATED COIN.--Borrow a half-dollar from one of the company, wrap it
up in a handkerchief, and request some one to hold it over a glass of
water.

Presto! The coin is dropped into the glass and heard to jingle. When
the handkerchief is removed the half-dollar has disappeared, apparently
dissolved in the water. This very effective trick is accomplished by
means of a glass disc of the same diameter as a half-dollar. The modus
operandi is as follows: Borrow a half-dollar and while holding it in
your hand throw a handkerchief over it. Under cover of the handkerchief
exchange the coin for the glass disc which you have concealed in your
palm. Now get some one to hold the disc by its edges through the
handkerchief, directly over the glass of water. He naturally supposes
that he is holding the coin.

Pronounce your magical phrase, and command your volunteer assistant
to drop the half-dollar into the glass. It will fall with a jingle
similar to that of a coin, and will lie invisible at the bottom of the
glass. You may even pour off the water, but the disc, thanks to the
power of suction, will remain in the same position, firmly attached
to the drinking-glass. To complete the effect the genuine half-dollar
should then be produced from under the table or from the pocket of the
volunteer assistant.




  THE OLD TRUNK


For the month of May we will award a year’s subscription to YOUTH
for each of the best three original puzzles submitted to us before
June 1st. The names of the successful competitors, together with the
prize-winning puzzles, will be published in an early number of the
magazine. Of the remaining puzzles, all of those which show merit will
also appear in the succeeding issues. This offer is open to every one.

The correct answers for the April puzzles are given below:

  1. Herring, ray, carp.
     Shark, perch, shad.
     Sole, bass, eel.
  2. Ericsson.
  3. Monongahela.
     Yukon.
     Amazon.
     Rhine.
     Colorado.
  4. James Russell Lowell.
  5. Thou-sand.
  6. Pear-bear.

(1) Deprive farewell of head and tail and leave expire; (2) the
usual covering of the head, and leave atmosphere; (3) on fire, and
leave whim; (4) distant, and leave a note in the musical scale; (5)
collections of regulations, and leave song; (6) an image of false
worship, and leave a verb of action; (7) employed for money, and leave
anger; (8) free from obscurity, and leave meadow.

When the above words have been correctly guessed and then beheaded and
abridged, their initials, when placed one above each other in the order
given, will spell the name of a well-known garden flower.

                                                  --O. T. M.


  DIAMOND

1. a letter; 2. a bank; 3. women; 4. specimens; 5. a quarrel; 6. to
discern; 7. a letter.

                                                   --_Ruth._


  SUBSTITUTION

Supply the objects described in the parentheses and read by sound:

If a great storm were (a body of water north-west of North America)
down on the British Isles, do you suppose you could ring a (city in
Ireland) and make the (body of water west of England) the (a watch
manufacturing town of the United States) the city of (the bark of a
kind of oak)?

                                               --_Sidney M._


CHARADE

    The first use sparingly.
    The second treat kindly.
    The third hold as a sacred trust.
    The whole is a shy bird.

                      --_E. L. Barnes._


THE BOUQUET

In the following sentences there are eight flowers. Can you identify
them?

Alyar rowed his best, but Fox, a listless oarsman on most occasions,
won the race.

Can Nature be excelled on Easter day?

For the table of the Pope, onyx is brought from afar, but usually
unpolished.

“Hannibal,” Samuel remarked, looking up from his book of prose, “was
the world’s greatest general.”


ENIGMA

    I am composed of twenty-one letters.
    My 3-6-21-19-14-8-1 is sincere.
    My 12-17-7-18-20-5 is a mineral.
    My 9-2-3-10-4-17-11-1 is a bird.
    My 16-13-20-19-15 is to mingle.
    My whole is the name of a well-known song.

                         --_William Harris._

    I am the first, and one of seven,
    I live betwixt the seas and heaven:
    Look not below, for I am not there,
    My home is in the ancient air.
    Come to my second, behold how fair
    I am, how bright and debonair:
    A pleasant vision and a beauty,
    A thing of life and joy and duty;
    My youth is changed. I live alone,
    My views are crossed--my hopes are gone,
    My whole is sorrow, grief, and woe,
    My singing now is all heigh-ho.

                              --_Selected._




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Transcriber’s Notes:


A number of typographical errors have been corrected silently.

Irregular closing quotes were not modernized.

Archaic spellings have been retained.

Correct MacNair to McNair in Table of Contents.
Famous person and consistent through seven issue project.

Cover image is in the public domain.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65400 ***