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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 67106 ***

 YOUTH

 VOLUME 1      NUMBER 7

 1902
 SEPTEMBER

 _An_ ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY JOURNAL _for_ BOYS & GIRLS

 The Penn Publishing Company Philadelphia




[Illustration: CONTENTS FOR SEPTEMBER]


 FRONTISPIECE (The Penn Cottage)                                   PAGE

 THE PENN COTTAGE                          Allen Biddle             237

 WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE (Serial)  W. Bert Foster           239
 Illustrated by F. A. Carter

 IN THE FLORIDA EVERGLADES                 William A. Stimpson      246

 AUDUBON AT BIRD ROCK                                               249

 A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST (Serial)         Evelyn Raymond           250
   Illustrated by Ida Waugh

 THE FLOWERLESS PLANTS                     Julia McNair Wright      257
   Illustrated by Nina G. Barlow

 WHIP-POOR-WILL                            Geo. E. Winkler          259

 LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS (Serial)            Elizabeth Lincoln Gould  260

 WOOD-FOLK TALK                            J. Allison Atwood        268

 WITH THE EDITOR                                                    270

 EVENT AND COMMENT                                                  271

 OUT OF DOORS                                                       272

 THE OLD TRUNK (Puzzles)                                            273

 IN-DOORS (Parlor Magic, Paper VII)        Ellis Stanyon            274

 WITH THE PUBLISHER                                                 275

 ADVERTISEMENTS                                                     276




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

 Remittances may be made in the way most convenient to the
 sender, and should be sent to

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

 Copyright 1902 by The Penn Publishing Company




[Illustration: THE PENN COTTAGE.]




YOUTH

VOL. I SEPTEMBER 1902 No. 7




THE PENN COTTAGE

BY ALLEN BIDDLE


“Pitch upon the very middle of the plat where the town or line of
houses is to be laid or run, facing the harbor of the great river, for
the situation of my house; ... the distance of each house from the
creek or harbor should be, in my judgment, a measured quarter of a
mile; or, at least, two hundred paces, because of building hereafter
streets down to the harbor.” Such were the instructions which William
Penn, founder of Philadelphia, gave to his commissioners, William
Crispin, John Bezar, and Nathaniel Allen, for the building of what is
now known as Penn’s Cottage.

It was in 1681 that the great Quaker completed the negotiations for
the grant of Pennsylvania, and in the next year the first work of the
building of the Proprietary House was begun. The plat chosen for its
site was the one bounded by Front, Chestnut, Letitia, and High streets,
the last now being named Market. In the place of the little cottage and
its surrounding yard there is, to-day, one of the most thickly-built
portions of Philadelphia. But the true centre of the city, at one time
radiating from this point, has now, owing to the growth of two hundred
years, moved a mile to the westward.

According to one tradition, the Penn or Letitia House was the first
brick building erected in Philadelphia; to another, it was the first
house to have a cellar. The name, “Letitia,” was given to it by Penn
himself, as the house was intended eventually to be the portion of his
daughter, Letitia. It is from this source, too, that Letitia Street
gets its name.

One of the most interesting stories of this little structure is that
the bricks and most of the finer building materials used in its
construction were brought over from England. More recently doubt has
been thrown upon this statement by the discovery that even at that time
quite as excellent a quality of brick was being made in Philadelphia.

Despite its diminutive size, the cottage required what, to-day, would
be an unusual time in its building, and it was well into the year
1683 before it was ready for the house-warming. Quaint, angular,
and comfortable in appearance, it faithfully reflects the spirit
of Philadelphia’s early people. True to the founder’s ideal in the
laying-out of the city, the house, too, is characterized by economy
of space and absence of mere ornament. Doors, windows, sills, and
sashes--everything, in fact, except the gabled roof, is plain and
rectangular.

From the front door, we enter its largest room, serving, perhaps, at
one time as dining hall, sitting-room, kitchen, and library. On its
plain, bare walls we now see collections of old wood cuts, illustrating
events which occurred in the time of the founder, including
reproductions of Benjamin West’s painting of that famous treaty with
the Indians which “was not signed and never broken.” Above the door
hangs an old print of the wampum belt which was presented to Penn by
the Indians upon that occasion. Near by are facsimiles of the charter
of the Province of Pennsylvania, granted by Charles II, and also the
first charter of the city of Philadelphia, granted in 1691. In the
further corner to the left is an ample fireplace before whose glow we
can readily recall to our imagination the serene features of the great
founder surrounded by his family.

From this room, extending to the rear of the building, is a short
hallway, on either side of which is a room so small that we wonder what
could have been their function in the Penn household. Quaint and cozy
as is the little mansion, we can scarce believe it to have been the
home of one who owned our whole great State of Pennsylvania.

In the year 1684, after a stay of twenty-one months, Penn was forced
to return to England to protect his proprietary interests, as they
were at that time threatened by the plans of Lord Baltimore. In
his absence, the proprietorship fell upon his cousin, Markham, the
Lieutenant-Governor, who then took up his abode in the Letitia House.
Later, according to the wish of Penn, who desired that his house be
devoted to public service, it became the State House. It is hard to
imagine such a dignified body as was undoubtedly the provincial council
meeting in the tiny brick cottage. What a contrast it makes with
Independence Hall, or the great capitol now at Harrisburg!

In after years, when other houses had grown up on all sides, the little
cottage fell into obscurity. At one time, even, it was thrown open as a
public inn, and the little room which at one time held the Penn family
circle now became the haunt of the wayfarer and the chronic idler.
But, recently, folks of the great State have come to think more of the
little house and to recognize gratefully the part which it played in
their history. They have lifted it from its late dingy surroundings
and, as if to put before it the city’s best, have placed it on the west
bank of the Schuylkill, overlooking Fairmount Park. Here, far away from
the city’s centre, with its face toward the broad, green valley of the
river, the little mansion rests patiently, as if waiting until the city
shall again closely encircle it in its westward growth.

As would have been the wish of the great Quaker, the door is still left
hospitably open, and citizen and stranger alike may freely enter the
house of him who founded their State. Here, daily, come many pilgrims.
The Schuylkill, too, winding placidly down from its hills, loiters
gently in its course through the picturesque valley, as if to catch a
momentary glimpse of the quaint old house.

[Illustration]




WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE

By W. Bert Foster


CHAPTER XVI

From Germantown to Valley Forge


SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

 The story opens in the year 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 American cause. When, therefore, he is
 intrusted with a message to be forwarded to the American
 headquarters, the boy gives up, for the time, his duties at
 the Three Oaks and sets out for the army. Here he remains
 until after the fateful Battle of Brandywine. On the return
 journey he discovers a party of Tories who have concealed
 themselves in a woods in the neighborhood of his home. By
 approaching cautiously to the group around the fire, Hadley
 overhears their plan to attack his uncle for the sake of the
 gold which he is supposed to have concealed in his house.
 With the assistance of Colonel Knowles, who, although a
 British officer, seems to have taken a liking to Hadley,
 our hero successfully thwarts the Tory raid. No sooner is
 the uncle rescued, however, than he ungratefully shuts the
 door upon his nephew. Thereupon Hadley immediately returns
 to the American army and joins the forces under that dashing
 officer, “Mad Anthony” Wayne. In the disastrous night
 engagement at Paoli our hero is left upon the battlefield
 wounded. In this condition he is found by his old friend,
 Lafe Holdness, the American scout, who treats the wound so
 skillfully that our hero is enabled to return home. But not
 for long. No sooner is he strong enough to ride than he
 again sets out for the army, which is just then preparing
 for that terrible winter at Valley Forge.

Hadley slept that night at a friendly farmer’s, some miles to the north
of Germantown. A large force of British were quartered about where
Washington’s army lay the first day the boy had crossed the river
and made his way to the Commander-in-Chief’s headquarters with the
dispatches so nearly lost by the wounded courier. As far as he could
learn, the Americans still rested at Skippack Creek, to which locality
they had retired after the enemy entered Philadelphia.

He made a long detour the next morning to avoid the Germantown
outposts, but fell in with a foraging party of Continentals before
noon, and was near to losing his horse. But he was not so afraid of
these marauders now as he had been the night he was halted on the
Germantown road and his dispatches seized. So, after an argument with
these fellows and the mention of Colonel Cadwalader’s name, he got
away, with directions regarding the shortest path to headquarters. He
was halted a good many times before he found the Pennsylvania troops;
but the pickets saw that he was a recruit and let him through without
trouble.

He found John Cadwalader with General Wayne, and was able to obtain
speech with him without dismounting from his horse, as the officers
were about starting on a tour of inspection through the camp. “And you
want to see more fighting, do you, my lad--and your wound not healed
yet?” said the colonel. “What good d’ye think a wounded man will be to
us?”

“But I’m all right on horseback, and I’ve brought my horse,” Hadley
declared.

“I wish we had more such fellows--and as eager to fight, Colonel,” said
General Wayne. “He’s but a boy, too!”

“And how about the promise to your mother, Master Morris?” queried the
other officer.

“My uncle has cast me off for carrying dispatches, and for being in
the Paoli fight, where I got wounded,” the boy said, sadly. “I can do
nothing for him now. So I have come to do what I can.”

“Well, well. I will speak to His Excellency about you. There is a
certain long-legged Yankee hereabout who, if I mistake not, has been
inquiring for you through the camp.”

“Lafe Holdness!” exclaimed Hadley.

“The same. He said he knew you had got away from Philadelphia; but
where you had gone was another matter, and one of which he was not
cognizant. Now, Master Morris, you will find your friend, Captain
Prentice, somewhere to the west of here. Keep near him and then you
will be near me. When the propitious moment comes to present you to the
Commander-in-Chief, I shall want you in a hurry.”

The officers rode on, and Hadley sought out Captain Prentice. “My
faith, Hadley!” was the captain’s exclamation, “but we’re a pretty pair
of winged birds.” His own arm was still in a sling, but he had taken
active command of his company again.

“You can scarcely call me winged,” said Hadley, “for the ball went
through my leg.” He climbed down from Molly and allowed a soldier to
take her away. He could scarcely walk, having been so many hours in the
saddle; but Captain Prentice made him welcome and saw to it that he had
a bed for a few hours, where he slept away much of his weariness.

At this time Washington’s forces lay about twenty miles from
Philadelphia and fourteen from Germantown. For some days the
Continentals had been resting after the arduous campaign which had
followed the landing of the British troops. The officers were planning
some important move; but the army was kept in ignorance of its nature
until the night of the 3d of October. Then the columns were put into
motion quickly and took the road to Germantown. It was to be a night
march to surprise the enemy, and never did Hadley Morris forget it.
He and his friend, Captain Prentice, were both mounted--the latter
on a sorry nag which his orderly had picked up somewhere--and there
might have been some ill-feeling expressed among the other officers
of the infantry over Prentice’s riding had he not been wounded. But
those fourteen miles were hard enough for both the captain and Hadley,
despite the fact that they were not obliged to tramp through the heavy
roads.

Before the head of the column was half way to Germantown, the night
fog began to gather, and before daylight it was so thick that it was
almost impossible to clearly distinguish figures moving a rod ahead.
Just at daybreak, however, despite the fog which had enveloped the
whole territory, sharp firing broke out ahead. The troops were rushed
forward, and the British, who at first had supposed the firing to be
but a skirmish between outposts, were quickly being driven back by a
solid phalanx of Americans.

After the first surprise the enemy formed and stood their ground; but
the attack of the Americans was so desperate that they would surely
have been overwhelmed in a short time had it not been for two things.
Howe, hearing early of the battle, rushed forward reinforcements and
came in person to encourage his soldiery. And the other thing which
stayed the Americans, beside the smother of fog, was the imposing
mansion belonging to Master Chew, which, occupied by the British, was a
veritable fort, and withstood every effort of the attacking force.

It was a stone building, and with its doors and lower windows
barricaded, and a strong force of the enemy using the upper casements
to fire from, it soon became the pivotal point on the battlefield. The
British kept up a destructive fire upon the American lines from the
house, and, in spite of the fog, the casualties were considerable.
Attempts again and again were made to capture it. The American lines
could not go past, and it guarded the way to the British front.

And, with the long delay occasioned by the obstinate defence of the
Chew house, the elements themselves seemed to be arrayed against
the Americans. The fog became so dense that the men could not see
each other a few paces apart, and only the spurts of red flame ahead
betrayed the whereabouts of the enemy. The Continental troops grew
bewildered; aids were unable to find the officers to whom they were
sent with messages from the commanders. There were shoutings and
reiterated commands in the fog, but the files did not know where their
officers stood and became bewildered and unmanageable.

General Washington’s plans were disarranged. The Americans had fought
bravely and, without doubt, were on the eve of a decisive victory.
But an alarm was created--the tramp of a regiment of American troops
brought up from the rear was thought to be the approach of a flanking
force--and the men who had fought so tenaciously during the day
retreated in disorderly confusion.

Added to the general depression caused by this defeat was the fact that
half the Maryland militia was reported to have deserted before the
battle. It was the beginning of that awful winter when naught but the
extraordinary virtues of George Washington himself kept the semblance
of an army together. The American forces were rapidly becoming a
disorganized mob, and the fault lay with Congress, which numbered in
its group few of the really great and unselfish men who had once met in
Philadelphia to approve of and sign the second greatest document in our
history.

The period had now arrived when men of the second rank had come
to the front in charge of the uncertain affairs of the struggling
Colonies. Dr. Franklin was in Paris and John Adams joined him during
the winter, for the purpose of watching Silas Deane, who was a bitter
foe of Washington, and had sent over the infamous Conway to hamper and
embitter the great man’s very existence. Jay, Rutledge, Livingston,
Patrick Henry, and Thomas Jefferson were employed at home, and Hancock
had resigned from the governing house. Samuel Adams was at home in New
England for most of that winter; and men much the inferior of these
had taken their places--men who lacked foresight and that loftiness of
purpose and love of country which had, earlier in the war, kept private
jealousies and quarrels in check.

Without an organized quartermaster’s department, the soldiers could
not be properly clothed or fed, and the warnings of Washington were
utterly disregarded by Congress. The troops began to need clothing
soon after Brandywine, and by November they were still in unsheltered
camps without sufficient clothing, blankets, or tents. Hadley Morris,
suffering with the rank and file, saw them lying out o’ nights at
Whitemarsh, half clad and without protection from either the frozen
ground or the desperate chill of the night air. Forts Mercer and
Mifflin had fallen, and there was little cheer brought to these poor
fellows by the news that Burgoyne had actually surrendered to General
Gates and that the British army of invasion which had started so
confidently from Canada was utterly crushed.

December came, and snow followed frost. The British were snug and warm
in the “rebel capital.” Well fed, well clothed, spending the time in
idleness and amusement, the invaders were secure of any attack from
the starving, half-clothed men who, with Washington at their head,
crawled slowly over the Chester hills toward the little hollow on the
bank of the Schuylkill. There was gold in plenty at the command of
General Howe, and for this gold the farmers about Philadelphia were
glad to sell their grain. And who can blame them for preferring the
good English gold to the badly-printed, worthless currency issued by
the American Congress?

The ten redoubts from Fairmount to Cohocksink were stout and well
manned. There was little danger of the Continentals attacking them, for
the hills were already whitening with the coverlet of winter. The river
was open, supplies and reinforcements were on the way from across the
ocean, and the British had nothing to fear. So they gave themselves up
to ease and merriment. And fortunate for the cause, then trembling in
the balance, that they did so, for had they then conducted the campaign
against Washington’s starving troops with vigor, the “rebellion” would
never have risen in history to the dignity of a “revolution”!


CHAPTER XVII

A PERILOUS MISSION

To-day, after the passing of a century and a quarter, the Chester hills
are much as they were on that chill winter’s day when the straggling
lines of ragged, almost barefooted men marched along the old Gulph
road. It is a farming country still, and although the forest has been
cut away, in places the woodland is now as thickly grown as then. Here
and there along the route the admiring descendants of those faithful
patriots have erected monuments to their name; yonder can still faintly
be defined the outlines of the Star Redoubt; there stands the house
which was the headquarters of General Varnum, who commanded the Rhode
Island troops; to the left of the road as one travels toward Valley
Forge, is the line of breastworks running through the timber, which has
been felled and grown up thrice since the axes of the Continentals rang
from hill to hill.

One night they rested on the toilsome march near the old Gulph Mills,
where the road passed through the deep cut between wooded heights:
then on again, the various brigades separating and following different
roads to the places assigned them. But the roads were, many of them,
ill-defined, the timber was thick, the fields rugged. Little wonder
that Baron de Kalb described the site chosen for the winter quarters of
the American army as a wilderness.

Nevertheless, the situation selected for the encampment was a good
one. In some of the towns, perhaps--Trenton, Lancaster, Reading, or
Wilmington--there would have been shelter for the troops; but there
were many objections to each place named. Had clothing and supplies
been abundant, the little army might have harassed the British all
winter long, and even shut them up completely in Philadelphia when
the spring opened. If the officers quarreled with the commander for
his obstinacy in choosing this position, the men set to in some
cheerfulness to build shelters. They were not afraid of hard work, and
they had suffered enough already from the cold and storms to appreciate
the log cabins which went up as if by magic on hillside and in hollow.

On the bank of Valley Creek, near its junction with the Schuylkill,
stood a stone cottage (as it stands to-day) of two small, low-ceiled
rooms on each of its two floors. Behind it was a “lean-to” kitchen,
in the floor of which was a trap which was the entrance to a secret
passage which, when the house had been erected, led to the river, being
a means of escape should the stone house be attacked by Indians. When
Washington selected this house for his headquarters at Valley Forge the
secret passage had long since been walled up and the entrance chamber
was simply a prosaic potato cellar. The house itself was meagrely
furnished--not at all the sort of a headquarters that Lord Howe enjoyed
in Philadelphia.

Some distance up the creek, beyond the forge which lent its name
to the valley, were the headquarters of big Major-General Henry
Knox, of the artillery, and near him was the young French Marquis,
Lafayette, but then recovering from the wound received at the battle
of the Brandywine--also a Major-General, and trusted and loved by the
Commander-in-Chief to a degree only equaled by the latter’s feeling for
Colonel Pickering. General Woodford, of Virginia, who commanded the
right of the line, was quartered at a house in the neighborhood of Knox
and Lafayette.

Up on the Gulph road, the southern troops, lying nearest to
Washington’s headquarters, were commanded by that Southern-Scotsman,
Lachlin McIntosh, and strung along within sight of the road were
Huntingdon’s Connecticut militia, Conway’s Pennsylvania troops,
Varnum’s Rhode Islanders, and Muhlenberg, Weeden, Patterson, Learned,
Glover, Poor, Wayne, and Scott on the extreme front of the embattled
camp. Hadley Morris, still with Wayne’s division, messed with Captain
Prentice, but found himself often attached to “Mad Anthony’s” personal
staff in the capacity of messenger, for the Quaker general occupied
a house in a most exposed quarter, some distance beyond the line of
defences, and was in constant communication with the Commander-in-Chief.

Hadley, indeed, scarce knew whom he served. At first his wound had
incapacitated him from participating in much of the work which fell
to the lot of the rank and file, and, as he rode one of the fleetest
horses in the American camp, he came to be looked upon as a sort of
volunteer aide, for he had never been regularly mustered into the
service. He often saw Lafe Holdness in the camp, and was not surprised,
therefore, one day, when he had been sent post-haste to General
Washington with some papers from Wayne, to find the Yankee in the front
room of the Potts’ cottage in close conversation with His Excellency.

Hadley never entered the presence of the great man without, in a
measure, feeling that sense of Washington’s superiority which he had
experienced when first he saw him, and he stood at one side now, ill
at ease, waiting for a chance to deliver his packet. The Commander had
a way of seeing and recognizing those who entered the room without
appearing to do so--if he were busily engaged at the time--and suddenly
wheeling in his chair and pointing to the boy, said in a tone that made
Hadley start:

“Is this the young man you want, Master Holdness?”

“I reckon he’ll do, Gin’ral--if he can be spared,” Lafe replied, with
the usual queer twist to his thin lips. “He’s gettin’ more important
around here than a major-gin’ral, I hear; but ef things wont go quite
ter rack an’ ruin without him for a few days, I guess I’ll take him
with me on this little ja’nt.”

Hadley blushed redly, but knew better than to grow angry over Lafe’s
mild sarcasm. His Excellency seemed to understand both the scout and
his youthful friend pretty well. “I have a high opinion of Master
Morris,” he said, kindly. “Take care of him, Holdness. It is upon such
young men as he that we most earnestly depend. Some of us older ones
may not live to see the end of this war, and the younger generation
must live to carry it on.”

Hadley did not think him austere now; his eyes were sad and his face
worn and deeply lined. Not alone did the rank and file of the American
army suffer physically during that awful winter; many of the officers
went hungry, too, and it was whispered that often Washington’s own
dinner was divided among the hollow-eyed men who guarded his person and
sentineled the road leading to the little stone cottage.

Lafe nodded to the boy and they withdrew. On the road outside the scout
placed his hand upon Hadley’s shoulder. “Had, that’s a great man in
yonder,” said he, in his homely way. “You ’n’ I don’t know how great
he is; but there’ll come folks arter us that will. He’s movin’ heaven
an’ airth ter git rations for this army an’ they aint one of us suffers
that he don’t feel it.”

[Illustration: “HADLEY UNTIED HIS HORSE.”]

Hadley untied his horse and they went on in silence until they came
to the sheds behind an old country inn not far from headquarters.
Here Holdness had left his great covered wagon and team of sturdy
draught horses. Despite the condition of affairs in the territory
about Philadelphia, the scout retained his character of teamster and
continued to go in and come out of the city as he pleased. How he
allayed the suspicions of the British was known only to himself; but,
evidently, General Washington trusted him implicitly.

Hadley, as they drove slowly through the camp, gave Black Molly over
into Captain Prentice’s care. Not until they were beyond the picket
lines of the Americans entirely did Holdness offer any explanation
of the work before them. “We’re goin’ ter stop at a place an’ take a
load of grain into Philadelphy,” he began. “I ’greed ter do this last
week. I aint sayin’ but I’d like ter turn about an’ cart it inter
aout lines; but that can’t be. The man ’at owns it is a Tory an’ he’s
shippin’ his grain inter town so as to save it from the ’Mericans. He’s
got his convictions, same’s we’ve got ourn; ’taint so bad for him to
sell ter them Britishers as it is for some o’ these folks ’t claim ter
have the good of the cause at heart, an’ yet won’t take scrip fer their
goods.”

When they came to the farmer’s in question the great wagon was heavily
loaded with sacks of grain. Hadley, who had so plainly seen the need
of such commodity in the American camp, suggested that they take a
roundabout way and deliver the sacks of grain to their friends instead
of to the British, without the Tory being any the wiser. “And spile my
game?” cried Lafe, with a chuckle. “I guess not. Reckon His Excellency
wouldn’t thank us for that. I’m wuth more to him takin’ the stuff into
Philadelphy than the grain would be. We’re goin’ in there to git some
information. Hadley, my son--this ain’t no pleasure ja’nt.”

“But what can I do?” queried the boy.

“What you’re told--and I reckon you’ve l’arned that already with
Gin’ral Wayne. A boy like yeou can git ’round ’mongst folks without
being suspicioned better’n me. It’s whispered, Hadley, that them
Britishers contemplate making a sortie on aour camp. You know the state
we’re in--God help us!--an’ if the British mean to attack we must know
it and be ready for them. Every crumb of information you can pick
up must be treasured. I’ll take ye to Jothan Pye an’ you can be an
apprentice of his. He kin git you access to the very houses in which
some o’ them big bugs is quartered. If plans are really laid for an
attack, you’ll hear whispers of it. Them whispers yeou’ll give to me,
sonny. D’ye understand?”

Hadley nodded. He understood what was expected of him; also he
understood that the mission would be perilous. But he had been in
danger before, and he did not lack some measure of confidence in
himself now.

The huge wagon rumbled on toward the British lines. When they were
halted, Lafe managed to give such a good account of himself that he
was allowed to pass through with little questioning, for the grain
was assigned to the quartermaster’s department. Hadley was simply
considered a country bumpkin who had come into town to see the sights.
Soon the old scout and the boy separated, Hadley making his way swiftly
to the Quaker’s habitation near the Indian Queen, where good Mistress
Pye welcomed him warmly.

Friend Pye was a merchant and dealt in such foreign
commodities--particularly in West India goods--as were in demand among
the British officers. As previously noted, the Quaker had lived so
circumspectly in the city throughout the war that his loyalty to the
king was considered unshaken by his Tory neighbors, and yet he was so
retiring and so worthy a man that the Whigs had not considered him a
dangerous enemy.

If anybody noted, during these cold days of middle winter, that Friend
Pye had a new ’prentice boy, it was not particularly remarked. The
gossip of the camp and, indeed, all conversation was tinged with
military life and happenings. Friend Pye’s young man carried goods to
the Norris house where My Lord Rawdon--that swarthy, haughty nobleman,
both hated and feared by all who came in contact with him--was
quartered, and even to Peter Reeves’ house on Second Street, where Lord
Cornwallis held a miniature court. Hadley was, in his new duties, quick
and obliging. The British officers often remarked that, for a country
bumpkin, Pye’s apprentice was marvelously polite and possessed some
grace and gentleness. But all the time Hadley Morris was keeping both
his eyes and ears open, and when Holdness came to the Quaker’s house
under cover of the night, he told him all he had heard and seen, even
to details which seemed to him quite worthless.

“Ye never know how important little things may be,” Holdness had told
him. “It’s the little things that sometimes turn aout ter be of th’
greatest value. Stick to it, Had.”

But, one day, Hadley experienced something of a shock--indeed, two
of them. He was walking through Spruce Street, carrying a bundle
with which his employer had entrusted him to deliver at an officer’s
residence, when a carriage came slowly toward him. It was a very
fine coach--much finer than any he had observed in Philadelphia thus
far--and it was drawn by a pair of magnificent horses. The horses were
bay, and before many moments the boy, with a start, recognized them.
His eyes flew from the handsome team to the coachman, perched on the
high seat.

The bays were the same he had seen so often while Colonel Creston
Knowles was a guest at the Three Oaks Inn, and the driver was William,
the silent Cockney. The coach window was wide open and Hadley could
see within. There, on the silken cushions, was seated Mistress Lillian
herself! The boy stared, stopping on the edge of the walk in his
surprise. Of course, he might have expected to find the British officer
and his daughter here, yet he was amazed, nevertheless.

But he was evidently not the only person astonished. Lillian saw him.
She leaned from the carriage window and, for an instant, he thought
she was about to call to him. Then she glanced up at the driver’s seat
and said something to William. At once the bays began to trot and the
carriage rolled swiftly past. But Hadley had looked up at the driver,
too, and for the first time saw and recognized the person sitting
beside William on the high perch.

William was gorgeous in a maroon livery: the person beside him was
in livery, also, and evidently acted as footman. But, despite his
gay apparel, Hadley recognized this footman instantly. It was Alonzo
Alwood, and as he gazed after the retreating carriage, the American
youth was conscious that Lon had twisted around in his seat and was
staring at him with scowling visage.

[TO BE CONTINUED]




In the Florida Everglades

By William A. Stimpson


“Good-by, fellows; don’t expect me back before supper time.” Waving his
hand to his friends, Alfred Whyte pushed the bateau into the water,
took his seat in the centre, and with a few strong, even strokes of the
paddle sent the frail craft out of sight around a bend in the stream.

It was on the edge of the Florida Everglades, those low, marshy tracts
of swamp land that cover the whole of the lower end of the peninsula.
Two New York boys, Willard King and Marvin Stebbins, had homesteaded a
claim in the heart of the morass and were engaged in growing tomatoes
for the northern markets. Alfred, a former schoolmate, was spending a
few weeks with them in their southern home.

The piece of land upon which the two northerners had settled was about
fifty acres in extent. It rose, island-like, from out the midst of
the network of little creeks and streams that crisscrossed in every
direction and made a veritable land-and-water spider’s web of that part
of the State.

The tomato plants were set out in February and now, the first of April,
the tomatoes had begun to turn red and were large enough to be picked.
They had to be handled very carefully, wrapped in tissue paper, and
packed in light wooden crates, so as to permit the process of ripening
to be completed on the trip north. Picking and packing them was tedious
and took considerable time. Both the young truck farmers had their
hands full, and when a flock of wild ducks flew overhead on their way
to the feeding grounds half a mile further inland, they merely directed
a passing glance upward and then, stifling their sportsmen’s instinct,
turned to their work again.

All the morning the wild fowl could be heard thrashing about in the
tall grass at the lagoon, and both King and Stebbins were sorely
tempted several times to slip up stream in the hope of bagging a
couple. But the steamer on which they intended shipping their produce
sailed from Lincoln, fifteen miles east, the next afternoon, and by
working persistently until dark they could hardly get their crop ready
for an early start on the following morning for the river town.

“If neither of you fellows can spare the time to go duck shooting, why
can’t I paddle up there and try a shot or two?” asked Alfred, late in
the afternoon.

“All the reason in the world, Al,” replied King. “No one except a
native, or a person who has lived here as long as we have, can traverse
this swamp in safety. Why, before you reach the lake where the ducks
are you will pass eight or ten little streams, any one of which you are
just as likely to enter as to keep on up the main channel. We’re afraid
you’ll get lost, Al. Don’t you think so?” he asked, turning to Stebbins.

“But I’ve been all around there with you fellows,” explained Alfred,
trying in vain to conceal his disappointment. “I’ve been up to the
lake, too, and I know the main stream perfectly well. I’m going to try
it, for I must have some roast duck.”

Both the boys tried to dissuade him from the undertaking, but he
was insistent, and finally they gave a reluctant consent. Realizing
fully his lack of acquaintance with the swamp, Whyte paid particular
attention to his surroundings as he paddled on, fearing that he might
turn into one of those little side streams of which King had warned him.

Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw the ducks. Paddling noiselessly,
scarcely rippling the water as he passed through, he got within range
of the flock without alarming them. Bang! bang! went both barrels of
his twelve-bore, and at the reports the ducks rose from the water with
a loud whirr. One bird was wounded and lagged behind the others. It
fluttered along a hundred yards or so, then sank in a clump of marsh
grass, took wing again, but went less than ten yards, when it turned a
somersault in the air and dropped.

A few strokes of the paddle carried the bateau close to where the bird
had fallen, but when he reached the spot Whyte found that a stretch
of marsh lay between the edge of the water and his prize. He tried to
reach the duck with the paddle but could not do so. It was a fine, fat
bird, as he could plainly see, but it lay beyond his reach.

“Just my luck,” he muttered, after several unsuccessful attempts to
reach the bird. “I wonder if those hummocks will hold me,” noticing the
tufts of thick, coarse grass that dotted the morass in every direction.

The hummocks looked firm enough to bear his weight, so pushing the prow
of the boat as far into the edge of the bank as he could, he stepped
out and tried the first one. It was solid and unyielding. Certain,
then, that his plan was a feasible one, he sprang to the next hummock
and on until he had the bird in his hand. In returning, he rested too
much weight upon one of the tufts of thick grass. The treacherous mud
gave way, his foot slipped, and down he went into the black ooze up to
his thighs.

With an exclamation of impatience, he endeavored to withdraw his feet
and legs. They stuck fast. He tried a second time, but the mud held
him as in a vise. Putting forth all his strength and seizing several
blades of the long, coarse grass within his reach, he tried his best
to extricate himself, but to his dismay he found the sticky mud to be
as unyielding as quicksand. What was worse, when he ceased his efforts
he discovered that he had sunk deeper in the mire and was now embedded
nearly up to his breast.

Thoroughly frightened, he remained perfectly passive and began to
think. He realized that he was in a serious predicament, held a
prisoner, as he was, in the black, slimy mud of the swamp, and it
was cold there, too. His gun lay within reach, and, resting the arm
lengthwise, he made another attempt to release himself, but his efforts
were unavailing. The gun sank in the ooze, and in extracting it he
found that his exertions had caused him to sink several inches deeper.
The top of the mud now reached to his armpits.

He glanced at the sun, and, seeing it low in the west, was comforted.
King and Stebbins, becoming alarmed at his non-appearance, would soon
be setting out to look for him, he thought, if they were not already
doing so. His eyes wandered towards the opposite bank, and he was
struck with its unfamiliar appearance. Instead of the low, flat marsh
that lined that side of the stream, as he well knew, he was looking
upon a patch of higher land similar to the one upon which King and
Stebbins had their home. It dawned upon him then for the first time
that he had left the main channel.

As the realization of his true position came home to him, hope died.
Thinking that he was somewhere along the stream, he had felt sure of
rescue, but his discovery altered the situation completely. How far out
of his true course he was he had no way of knowing, and the thought of
the awful days and nights that would pass while he stood there dying,
if the mud did not eventually bury him and make his death even a more
horrible one, was far from pleasant.

Frantically he struggled to free himself, but he was held fast as
though he had been shackled in irons, and his struggles only left him
exhausted. Great beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. His mouth
was dry and parched and his head began to swim. He felt that he was
losing his reason, but he pulled himself together with a herculean
effort. His legs and feet were cold and numb, and the keen night wind
nipped his ears and nose cruelly. The mud under his arms had begun to
freeze, and unless he kept breaking it continually with his hands, a
stiff crust would form at the top.

He racked his brain to devise some plan of escape from his terrible
position, but could think of nothing except to shout. That, he
supposed, would only be a waste of energy, but he must do something.
Gathering himself together, he essayed to call, but his mouth was so
parched that his voice did not penetrate further than ten yards. He
tried again, and this time found himself shouting louder. Again and
again he shouted until his voice echoed and re-echoed through the
everglades.

As the sounds died away his ear caught a faint call that seemed like
an answer to his own. Flushed with hope, he shouted again and then
strained his ears to listen. But silence, broken only by the twittering
of the night birds, reigned about him.

Once more he shouted, and again he thought he heard a reply, or was it
an echo of his own voice? The ordeal was too much for him, and with a
groan his head drooped and he lost consciousness.

With King and Stebbins the time passed until sundown before they
realized how late it was, and then they dropped their work and looked
along the stream in the direction taken by their guest.

“It is nearly seven o’clock, Marvin,” remarked King, consulting his
watch. “Al said he would be back by supper time, and here it is an hour
after. I believe he’s lost.”

“If that’s the case, we must find him before dark, or he’ll have to
stay in the swamp all night,” said Stebbins.

Both young men were hurrying towards the boat landing as they spoke.
“Maybe he’ll row around there a week before he finds his way out,”
declared King.

Stepping into the remaining boat, they both seized a paddle and sent
the light skiff whirling along towards the lake, keeping a sharp
lookout for any signs of the missing boat. “He promised not to go
further than the lake,” said Stebbins, as they reached a point where
the stream began to widen. “Let’s course over some of those creeks back
there,” indicating a part of the swamp in the rear of their island
home.

The boat’s prow was accordingly turned in that direction, and they
had proceeded but a few yards when King’s ear detected a faint call
somewhere in the distance. It was so low and indistinct that he was
unable to tell from what direction it came, but shouted loudly in
answer.

“Did you hear anything?” asked Stebbins, whose hearing was not so keen.

“I thought I did,” answered King, “and shouted in the hope that it
might be Alfred. He’s certainly out of the channel and is calling us.
Halloo! halloo! we’re coming! Where are you?” he shouted.

The boys rested a moment or two and listened for a reply. None came.
“We don’t know which way to go,” said King. “Let’s go south on a
venture.”

“Call again,” said Stebbins, after they had been paddling for a few
minutes. King did so, and in answer came a faint shout that both boys
heard. “We’re right, keep on straight ahead,” said King, excitedly.
“Where are you?” he called, but they did not receive any further answer.

They paddled an eighth of a mile along this course, calling constantly
without seeing anything of the person for whom they were looking.
“Strange he doesn’t answer us,” remarked Stebbins, thoughtfully. “I’m
afraid something’s happened to him.”

King said nothing, but kept peering ahead into the gathering
gloom. Darkness had fallen by this time and objects were hardly
distinguishable. Rounding a bend in the stream, they suddenly saw a
boat--the one in which Alfred had rowed away--drawn up on the bank.
With a shout the boys pushed ahead with rapid strokes. “Alfred, where
are you?” they called. As there was no response, they backed water, and
bringing their bateau to a stop, looked with blanched faces into the
empty boat.

“Where can he be?” muttered Stebbins.

“Look there! look there!” exclaimed King, rising in the skiff and
nearly upsetting it.

Stebbins followed the direction indicated, and saw what appeared to be
a man’s head upright on the ground.

“It’s Alfred, and he’s fast in the mud,” exclaimed Stebbins, grasping
the situation. “He’s dead!” he groaned.

Without further words, the boat was driven to the bank, and, stepping
on the very hummocks that had supported Whyte, they reached his side.
“Quick, Stebbins, get your paddle under his left arm; I will do the
same on my side,” said King, and, working together, they succeeded in
raising the apparently lifeless form from its position. In another
moment they had placed the unfortunate youth in the boat beside them,
and while one sent the skiff skimming towards home, the other rubbed
and chafed the cold hands and feet. At last they were rewarded by
seeing the eyes open and feeling the heart beat faintly.

By the time the party reached the house, Whyte was himself again, but
so weak and sick that he had to be carried from the landing and put
to bed. A doctor was brought from Lincoln the next day and left some
medicine and a few directions, but Alfred’s robust health and good
constitution did more for him than all the pills and powders, and in a
few days he had recovered from all traces of his terrible experience,
except the memory of it. That will stay with him always.




Audubon at Bird Rock


An interesting account, showing the numbers in which birds often live
together, is the following, written by Audubon. The great ornithologist
was, at the time of writing, visiting Bird Rock, a little granite
island in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, so named from its only inhabitants,
birds, mostly of a species called Gannet.

“About ten, a speck rose on the horizon, which I was told was the Rock.
We sailed well, the breeze increased fast, and we neared the object
apace. At eleven, I could distinguish its top plainly from the deck,
and thought it covered with snow to the depth of several feet. This
appearance existed on every portion of the flat, projecting shelves.
Godwin (the guide) said, with the coolness of a man who had visited
this rock for successive seasons, that what we saw was not snow, but
Gannets. I rubbed my eyes, took my spy-glass, and in an instant the
strangest picture stood before me. They were birds we saw--a mass of
birds of such size as I never before cast my eyes on. The whole of my
party stood astounded and amazed, and all came to the conclusion that
such a sight was of itself sufficient to invite anyone to come across
the gulf to view it at this season. The nearer we approached, the
greater our surprise at the enormous number of these birds, all calmly
seated on their eggs or newly-hatched brood, their heads all turned to
the windward and toward us. The air above for a hundred yards, and for
the same distance around the Rock, was filled with Gannets on the wing,
which, from our position, made it appear as if a heavy fall of snow
was directly above us. The whole surface (of the island) is perfectly
covered with nests, placed about two feet apart, in such regular order
that you may look through the lines as you would look through those of
a planted patch of sweet potatoes or cabbages. When one reaches the
top, the birds, alarmed, rise with a noise like thunder, and fly off in
such a hurried, fearful confusion as to throw each other down, often
falling on each other until there is a bank of them many feet high.”

This was in 1833. If Audubon could visit the island now, how he would
find the “snows” melted. There is to-day not a single Gannet nesting on
the top of the rock. On the ledges and in the crannies about its sides,
the birds still dwell in great numbers, even in thousands, but not in
the countless myriads of the past.




A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST

By Evelyn Raymond


CHAPTER XVIII

In the Hour of Darkness


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. But finally, after many weeks, the uncle decides,
 because of reasons which will be known later, that it would
 be better for Margot if Adrian left them. Accordingly,
 he puts the matter before the young man, who, although
 reluctant to leave his new friends, volunteers to go. Under
 the guidance of Pierre Ricord, a young Indian, the lad sets
 out for the nearest settlement. After many adventures,
 including a narrow escape from the dangerous rapids, in
 which the travelers lost the canoe and nearly all their
 possessions, the two reach Donovan’s, their destination.
 Here they separate, Adrian going straight to New York and
 the home which he left seemingly so long ago. We leave him
 on the threshold of his father’s city mansion, wondering
 what welcome there will be for the prodigal. Pierre returns
 to Peace Island, where, with Margot and her uncle, we again
 take up the story.

“No sign yet?”

“No sign.” Margot’s tone was almost hopeless. Day after day, many times
each day, she had climbed the pine-tree flagstaff and peered into the
distance. Not once had anything been visible, save that wide stretch of
forest and the shining lake.

“Suppose you cross again, to Old Joe’s. He might be back by this time.
I’ll fix you a bite of dinner, and you better, maybe--”

The girl shook her head and clasped her arms about old Angelique’s
neck. Then the long repressed grief burst forth in dry sobs that shook
them both, and pierced the housekeeper’s faithful heart with a pain
beyond endurance.

“Pst! pouf! Hush, sweetheart, hush! ’Tis nought. A few days more,
and the master will be well. A few days more, and Pierre will come.
Ah! but I had my hands about his ears this minute. That would teach
him--yes--to turn his back on duty--him. The ingrate! Well, what the
Lord sends the body must bear, and if the broken glass--”

Margot lifted her head, shook back her hair, and smiled wanly. The
veriest ghost of her old smile it was, yet, even such, a delight to the
other’s eyes.

“Good. That’s right. Rouse up. There’s a wing of a fowl in the
cupboard, left from the master’s broth--”

“Angel, he didn’t touch it, to-day. Not even touch it.”

“’Tis naught. When the fever is on the appetite is gone. Will be all
right once that is over.”

“But, will it be over? Day after day, just the same. Always that
tossing to and fro, the queer, jumbled talk, the growing thinner--all
of the dreadful signs of how he suffers. Angelique, if I could bear
it for him. I am so young and strong and worth nothing to this world,
while he’s so wise and good. Everybody who ever knew him must be the
better for Uncle Hughie, Angelique.”

“’Tis truth. For that, the good God will spare him to us. Of that be
sure.”

“But I pray and pray and pray, and there comes no answer. He is never
any better. You know that. You can’t deny it. Always before, when I
have prayed, the answer has come swift and sure; but now--”

“Take care, Margot. ’Tis not for us to judge the Lord’s strange ways.
Else were not you and me and the master shut up alone on this island,
with no doctor near, and only our two selves to keep the dumb things in
comfort. Though, as for dumbness, hark yonder beast!”

“Reynard! Oh! I forgot. I shut him up because he would hang around the
house and watch your poor chickens. If he’d stay in his own forest,
now, I would be so glad. Yet I love him--”

“Aye, and he loves you. Be thankful. Even a beastie’s love is of God’s
sending. Go feed him. Here--the wing you’ll not eat yourself.”

They were dark days now on the once sunny Island of Peace.

That day when Mr. Dutton had said, “Your father is still alive,”
seemed now to Margot, looking back, as one of such experiences as
change a whole life. Up till that morning she had been a thoughtless,
unreflecting child, but the utterance of those fateful words altered
everything.

Amazement, unbelief of what her ears told her, indignation that she
had been so long deceived, as she put it, were swiftly followed by a
dreadful fear. Even while he spoke, the woodlander’s figure swayed and
trembled, the hoe-handle on which he rested wavered and fell, and he,
too, would have fallen had not the girl’s arms caught and eased his
sudden sinking in the furrow he had worked. Her shrill cry of alarm had
reached Angelique, always alert for trouble and then more than ever,
and had brought her swiftly to the field. Between them they had carried
the now unconscious man within and laid him on his bed. He had never
risen from it since; nor, in her heart, did Angelique believe he ever
would, though she so stoutly asserted to the contrary before Margot.

“We have changed places, Angelique, dear,” the child often said. “It
used to be you who was always croaking and looking for trouble. Now you
see only brightness.”

“Well, good sooth. ’Tis a long lane has no turnin’, and better late
nor never. Sometimes ’tis well to say, ‘Stay, good trouble, lest worser
comes,’ eh? But things’ll mend. They must. Now, run and climb the tree.
It might be this ver’ minute that wretch, Pierre, was on his way across
the lake. Pouf! but he’ll stir his lazy bones, once he touches this
shore! Yes, yes, indeed. Run and hail him, maybe.”

So Margot had gone, again and again, and had returned to sit beside her
uncle’s bed, anxious and watchful.

Often, also, she had paddled across the narrows and made her way
swiftly to a little clearing on her uncle’s land, where, among giant
trees, old Joseph Wills, the Indian guide, and faithful friend of all
on Peace Island, made one of his homes. Once Mr. Dutton had nursed
this red man through a dangerous illness, and had kept him in his old
home for many weeks thereafter. He would have been the very nurse they
now needed, in their turn, could he have been found. But his cabin was
closed, and on its doorway, under the family sign-picture of a turtle
on a rock, he had printed, in dialect, what signified his departure for
a long hunting trip.

Now, as Angelique advised, she resolved to try once more; and, hurrying
to the shore, pushed her canoe into the water and paddled swiftly away.
She had taken the neglected Reynard with her, and Tom had invited
himself to be a party of the trip; and in the odd but sympathetic
companionship Margot’s spirits rose again.

“It must be as Angelique says. The long lane will turn. Why have I been
so easily discouraged? I never saw my precious uncle ill before, and
that is why I have been so frightened. I suppose anybody gets thin and
says things when there is fever. But he’s troubled about something.
He wants to do something that neither of us understand. Unless--oh! I
believe I do understand. My head is clearer out here on the water, and
I know, I know! It is just about the time of year when he goes away on
those long trips of his. And we’ve been so anxious we never remembered.
That’s it. Surely it is. Then, of course, Joe will be back now or soon.
He always stays on the island when uncle goes, and he’ll remember.
Oh! I’m brighter already, and I guess, I believe, it is as Angelique
claims--God won’t take away so good a man as uncle and leave me alone.
Though I am not alone. I have a father! I have a father somewhere, if I
only knew--all in good time--and I’m growing gladder and gladder every
minute.”

She could even sing to the stroke of her paddle, and she skimmed the
water with increasing speed. Whatever the reason for her growing
cheerfulness, whether the reaction of youth or a prescience of
happiness to come, the result was the same; she reached the further
shore flushed and eager-eyed, more like the old Margot than she had
been for many days.

“Oh! he’s there. He is at home. There is smoke coming out of the
chimney. Joseph! Oh, Joseph! Joseph!”

She did not even stop to take care of her canoe, but left it to drift
whither it would. Nothing mattered, Joseph was at home. He had canoes
galore, and he was help indeed.

She was quite right. The old man came to his doorway and waited her
arrival with apparent indifference, though surely no human heart could
have been unmoved by such unfeigned delight. Catching his unresponsive
hands in hers, she cried:

“Come at once, Joseph! At once.”

“Does not the master trust his friend? It is the time to come.
Therefore, I am here.”

“Of course. I just thought about that. But, Joseph, the master is ill.
He knows nothing any more. If he ever needed you, he needs you doubly
now. Come, come at once.”

Then, indeed, though there was little outward expression of it, was
old Joseph moved. He stopped for nothing, but leaving his fire burning
on the hearth and his supper cooking before it, went out and closed
the door. Even Margot’s nimble feet had ado to keep pace with his long
strides, and she had to spring before him to prevent his pushing off
without her.

“No, no. I’m going with you. Here--I’ll tow my own boat, with Tom and
Reynard--don’t you squabble, pets--but I’ll paddle no more while you’re
here to do it for me.”

Joseph did not answer, but he allowed her to seat herself where she
pleased, and with one strong movement sent his big birch a long
distance over the water.

Margot had never made the passage so swiftly, but the motion suited her
exactly; and she leaped ashore almost before it was reached, to speed
up the hill and call out to Angelique wherever she might be:

“All is well! All will now be well--Joseph has come.”

The Indian reached the house but just behind her and acknowledged
Angelique’s greeting with a sort of grunt; yet he paused not at all to
ask the way or if he might enter the master’s room, passing directly
into it as if by right.

Margot followed him, cautioning, with finger on lip, anxious lest her
patient should be shocked and harmed by the too-sudden appearance of
the visitor.

Then, and only then, when her beloved child was safely out of sight,
did Angelique throw her apron over her head and give her own despairing
tears free vent. She was spent and very weary; but help had come; and
in the revulsion of that relief nature gave way. Her tears ceased, her
breath came heavily, and the poor woman slept, the first refreshing
slumber of an unmeasured time.

When she waked, at length, Joseph was crossing the room. The fire
had died out, twilight was falling, she was conscious of duties left
undone. Yet there was light enough left for her to scan the Indian’s
impassive face with keen intensity; and though he turned neither to the
right nor left, but went out with no word or gesture to satisfy her
craving, she felt that she had had her answer.

“Unless a miracle is wrought, my master is doomed. Oh, the broken
glass--the broken glass!”


CHAPTER XIX

THE LETTER

From the moment of his entrance to the sick room, old Joe assumed all
charge of it, and with scant courtesy banished from it both Angelique
and Margot.

“But he is mine, my own precious uncle. Joe has no right to keep me
out!” protested Margot, vehemently.

Angelique was wiser. “In his own way, among his own folks, that Indian
good doctor. Leave him be. Yes. If my master can be save’, Joe Wills’ll
save him. That’s as God plans; but if I hadn’t broke--”

“Angelique! Don’t you ever, ever let me hear that dreadful talk again.
I can’t bear it. I don’t believe it. I won’t hear it. I will not. Do
you suppose that our dear Lord is--will--”

She could not finish her sentence and Angelique was frightened by the
intensity of the girl’s excitement. Was she, too, growing feverish
and ill? But Margot’s outburst had worked off some of her own
uncomprehended terror, and she grew calm again. Though it had not been
put into so many words, she knew both from Angelique’s and Joseph’s
manner that they anticipated but one end to her guardian’s illness. She
had never seen death, except among the birds and beasts of the forest,
and even then it had been horrible to her; and that this should come
into her own happy home was unbearable.

Then she reflected. Hugh Dutton’s example had been her instruction, and
she had never seen him idle. At times when he seemed most so, sitting
among his books, or gazing silently into the fire, his brain had been
active over some problem that perplexed or interested him. “Never
hasting, never wasting” time, nor thought, nor any energy of life. That
was his rule, and she would make it hers.

“I can, at least, make things more comfortable out-of-doors. Angelique
has let even Snowfoot suffer, sometimes, for want of the grooming and
care she’s always had. The poultry, too, and the poor garden. I’m glad
I’m strong enough to rake and hoe, even if I couldn’t lift Uncle as Joe
does.”

Her industry brought its own reward. Things outside the house took on a
more natural aspect. The weeds were cleared away, and both vegetables
and flowers lifted their heads more cheerfully. Snowfoot showed the
benefit of the attention she received, and the forgotten family in the
Hollow chattered and gamboled in delight at the reappearance among them
of their indulgent mistress. Margot herself grew lighter of heart and
more positive that, after all, things would end well.

“You see, Angelique dismal, we might as well take that broken glass
sign to mean good things as evil; that uncle will soon be up and
around again, Pierre be at home; and the ‘specimen’ from the old cave
prove copper or something just as rich, and--everybody be as happy as a
king.”

Angelique grunted her disbelief, but was thankful for the other’s
lighter mood.

“Well, then, if you’ve so much time and strength to spare, go yonder
and redde up the room that Adrian left so untidy. Where he never should
have been, had I my own way, but one never has that in this world; hey,
no. Indeed, no. Ever’thin’ goes contrary, else I’d have cleared away
all trace long sin’. Yes, indeed, yes.”

“Well, he is gone. There’s no need to abuse him, even if he did not
have the decency to say good-by. Though, I suppose it was my uncle put
a stop to that. What Uncle has to do he does at once. There’s never any
hesitation about Uncle. But I wish--I wish--Angelique Ricord, do you
know something? Do you know all the history of this family?”

“Why should I not, eh?” demanded the woman, indignantly. “Is it not my
own family, yes? What is Pierre but one son? I love him, oh, yes! But--”

[Illustration: “WHERE IS MY FATHER?”]

“You adore him, bad and trying as he is. But there is something you
must tell me, if you know it. Maybe you do not. I did not, till that
awful morning when he was taken ill. But that very minute he told me
what I had never dreamed. I was angry; for a moment I almost hated him
because he had deceived me, though afterward I knew that he had done
it for the best and would tell me why when he could. So I’ve tried to
trust him just the same and be patient. But--he may never be able--and
I must know. Angelique, where is my father?”

The housekeeper was so startled that she dropped the plate she was
wiping and broke it. Yet even at that fresh omen of disaster she could
not remove her gaze from the girl’s face nor banish the dismay of her
own.

“He told--you--that--that--”

“That my father is still alive. He would, I think, have told me more;
all that there may be yet to tell, if he had not so suddenly been
stricken. Where is my father?”

“Oh, child, child! Don’t ask me. It is not for me--”

“If Uncle cannot and you can, and there is no other person,
Angelique--you must!”

“This much, then. It is in a far, far away city, or town, or place, he
lives. I know not, I. This much I know: he is good, a ver’ good man.
And he have enemies. Yes. They have done him much harm. Some day, in
many years, maybe, when you have grown a woman, old like me, he will
come to Peace Island and forget. That is why we wait. That is why the
master goes, once each summer, on the long, long trip. When Joseph
comes, and the bad Pierre to stay. I, too, wait to see him, though I
never have. And when he comes, we must be ver’ tender, me and you, for
people who have been done wrong to, they--they--pouf! ’Twas anger I was
that the master could put the evil-come into that room, yes.”

“Angelique! Is that my father’s room? Is it? Is that why there are the
very best things in it? And that wonderful picture? And the fresh suits
and clothing? Is it?”

Angelique slowly nodded. She had been amazed to find that Margot knew
thus much of a long-withheld history, and saw no harm in adding these
few facts. The real secret, the heart of the matter--that was not yet.
Meanwhile, let the child accustom herself to the new ideas, and so be
prepared for what she must certainly and further learn, should the
master’s illness be a fatal one.

“Oh, then, hear me. That room shall always now be mine to care for. I
haven’t liked the housewifery, not at all. But if I have a father and
I can do things for him--that alters everything. Oh! you can’t mean
that it will be so long before he comes. You must have been jesting. If
he knew Uncle was ill he would come at once, wouldn’t he? He would, I
know.”

Poor Angelique turned her face away to hide its curious expression, but
in her new interest concerning the “friend’s room,” as it had always
been called, Margot did not notice this. She was all eagerness and
loving excitement.

“To think that I have a father who may come, at any minute, for he
might, Angelique, you know that, and not be ready for him. Your best
and newest broom, please, and the softest dusters. That room shall,
indeed, be ‘redded’--though uncle says nobody but a few people like you
ever use that word, nowadays--better than anybody else could do it.
Just hurry, please, I must begin. I must begin right away.”

She trembled so that she could hardly braid and pin up her long hair
out of the way, and her face had regained more than its old-time color.
She was content to let all that was still a mystery remain for the
present. She had enough to think about and enjoy.

Angelique brought the things that would be needed and, for once,
forebore advice. Let love teach the child--she had nought to say. In
any case, she could not have seen the dust, herself, for her dark eyes
were misty with tears, and her thoughts on matters wholly foreign to
household cares.

Margot opened the windows and began to dust the various articles which
could be set out in the wide passage, and did not come round to the
heavy dresser for some moments. As she did so finally, her glance flew
instantly to a bulky parcel, wrapped in sheets of white birch bark, and
bearing her own name, in Adrian’s handwriting.

“Why, he did remember me, then!” she cried, delightedly, tearing the
package open. “Pictures! the very ones I liked the best. Xanthippé
and Socrates, and oh! that’s Reynard. Reynard, ready to speak. The
splendid, beautiful creature; and the splendid, generous boy, to have
given it. He called it his ‘masterpiece,’ and, indeed, it was by far
the best he ever did here. Harmony Hollow--but that’s not so fine.
However, he meant to make it like, and--why, here’s a note! Why didn’t
I come in here before? Why didn’t I think he would do something like
this? Forgive me, Adrian, wherever you are, for misjudging you so. I’m
sorry Uncle didn’t like you, and sorry--for lots of things. But I’m
glad--glad you weren’t so rude and mean as I believed. If I ever see
you, I’ll tell you so. Now, I’ll put these in my own room and then get
to work again. This room you left so messed shall be as spotless as a
snowflake before I’ve done with it.”

For hours she labored there--brushing, renovating, polishing; and when
all was finished she called Angelique to see and criticise--if she
could. But she could not; and she, too, had something now of vital
importance to impart.

“It is beautiful’ done, yes, yes. I couldn’t do it more clean myself,
I, Angelique, no. But, ma p’tite I hear, hear, and be calm! The master
is himself! The master has awoke, yes, and is askin’ for his child.
True, true. Old Joe, he says, ‘Come! quick, soft, no cry, no laugh,
just listen.’ Yes. Oh, now all will be well!”

Margot almost hushed her very breathing. Her uncle awake, sane, asking
for her. Her face was radiant, flushed, eager, a face to brighten the
gloom of any sick room, however dark.

But this one was not dark. Joe knew his patient’s fancies. He had
forgotten none. One of them was the sunshine and fresh air; and though
in his heart he believed that these two things did a world of harm,
and that the ill-ventilated and ill-lighted cabins of his own people
were more conducive to recovery, he opposed nothing which the master
desired. He had experimented, at first, but finding a close room
aggravated Mr. Dutton’s fever, reasoned that it was too late to break
up the foolish habits of a man’s lifetime; and as the woodlander had
lived in the sunlight, so he would better die in it, and easier.

If she had been a trained nurse, Margot could not have entered her
uncle’s presence more quietly, though it seemed to her that he must
hear the happy beating of her heart and how her breath came fast and
short. He was almost too weak to speak at all, but there was all the
old love, and more, in his whispered greeting.

“My precious child!”

“Yes, Uncle. And such a happy child because you are better.”

She caught his hand and covered it with kisses, but softly, oh! so
softly, and he smiled the rare, sweet smile that she had feared she’d
never see again. Then he looked past her to Angelique, in the doorway,
and his eyes roved toward his desk in the corner. A little fanciful
desk that held only his most sacred belongings and had been Margot’s
mother’s. It was to be hers, some day, but not till he had done with
it, and she had never cared to own it, since doing so meant that he
could no longer use it. Now she watched him and Angelique wonderingly.

For the woman knew exactly what was required. Without question or
hesitation, she answered the command of his eyes by crossing to the
desk and opening it with a key she took from her own pocket. Then she
lifted a letter from an inner drawer and gave it into his thin fingers.

“Well done, good Angelique. Margot--the letter--is yours.”

“Mine? I am to read it? Now? Here?”

“No, no. No, no, indeed! Would you tire the master with the rustlin’
of paper? Take it, else. Not here, where ever’thin’ must be still as
still.”

Mr. Dutton’s eyes closed. Angelique knew that she had spoken for him,
and that the disclosure which that letter would make should be faced in
solitude.

“Is she right, Uncle, dearest? Shall I take it away to read?”

His eyes assented, and the tender, reassuring pressure of his hand.

“Then I’m going to your own mountain top with it. To think of having a
letter from you, right here, at home! Why, I can hardly wait! I’m so
thankful to you for it, and so thankful to God that you are getting
well. That you will be soon; and then--why, then--we’ll go a-fishing!”

A spasm of pain crossed the sick man’s wasted features, and poor
Angelique fled the place, forgetful of her own caution to “be still as
still,” and with her own dark face convulsed with grief for the grief
which the letter would bring to her idolized Margot.

But the girl had already gone away up the slope, faster and faster.
Surely, a letter from nobody but her uncle, and at such a solemn time,
must concern but one subject--her father. Now she would know all, and
her happiness should have no limit.

But it was nightfall when she, at last, came down from the mountain,
and though there were no signs of tears upon her face, neither was
there any happiness in it.

[TO BE CONTINUED]


    The heights by great men reached and kept
      Were not attained by sudden flight;
    But they, while their companions slept,
      Were toiling upward in the night.

                               --_Longfellow._




STATE FLOWERS

The following are the “State flowers,” as adopted by the several
States. In Maine, Michigan, and Oklahoma Territory the decision was
made by the Legislature, in the other cases by the votes of the
scholars in the public schools.

Alabama, goldenrod; Arkansas, aster; California, California poppy;
Colorado, columbine; Delaware, peach blossom; Idaho, syringa; Iowa,
wild rose; Maine, pine cone and tassel; Michigan, apple blossom;
Minnesota, moccasin flower; Missouri, goldenrod; Montana, bitterroot;
Nebraska, goldenrod; New Jersey (State tree, maple); New York, rose
(State tree, maple); North Dakota, goldenrod; Oklahoma Territory,
mistletoe; Oregon, Oregon grape; Rhode Island, violet; Vermont, red
clover; Washington, rhododendron. In Kansas, the sunflower is usually
known as the State flower.

       *       *       *       *       *

The largest bell in the world is the great bell at Moscow, at the foot
of the Kremlin. Its circumference is nearly 68 feet, and its height
more than 21 feet. It is 23 inches thick in its stoutest part, and
weighs 433,722 pounds. It has never been hung.




THE FLOWERLESS PLANTS

By JULIA McNAIR WRIGHT


The year around and the world around, journey the plant pilgrims. Among
those perennials which are found in all latitudes and seasons are the
lichens and fungi. In September, while we wait for fruits and seeds to
finish ripening, let us make small studies in these related groups in
the vegetable sub-kingdom called the thallogens.

This sub-kingdom, one of the chief divisions of the vegetable kingdom,
is known as the class thallophytes. It contains the simplest forms of
vegetable life. Its chief groups are the fungi and algæ, the lichens
being related to both, as if algæ and fungi had united in one plant,
dividing and somewhat changing the characteristic of each.

At any period of the year you can find lichens in abundance. They
cover ragged rocks, dress up old roofs, walls, fence rails and dead
stumps, especially delighting in the north side of trees. If we examine
them through a magnifying glass, we shall see that they are made up
of cells, laid side by side like little chains of beads, or of cells
expanded into short tubes or threads lying like heaps of tiny fagots.
Instead of seeds, lichens have a fine dust, called spores, from which
they develop.

Lichens are exceedingly long-lived and excessively slow of growth.
The lily attains its lovely maturity in a few months; the oaks, elms,
pines, become great trees in twenty or thirty years; the humble lichen
often lives forty or fifty years before it is old enough to complete
its growth by producing spores. Botanists say that the life of a lichen
is fitful and strange, and is practically indefinite as to duration.
Lichens simply live on and on.

Some lichens have been known to live nearly fifty years without seeming
to grow; they appear to dry up, and nearly vanish; then, suddenly,
from some cause there is a revival of growth--they expand again. Small
and insignificant as these lichens are, they often outlive those
longest-lived of trees, the cedar of Lebanon and the California redwood.

The condition of lichen existence is water, for from moisture alone,
in dew or rain, they secure their food. The carbon, oxygen, ammonia,
hydrogen, in air and rain, afford them their nourishment. The lichen
generally refuses to grow in foul air laden with noxious gases. In the
impure air of cities few appear, but they abound in the open country.
They absorb by all the surface, except the base by which they are
fastened to their place of dwelling. They have no roots, and simply
adhere to bare rocks, sapless wood, even to naked glass, from which
they can receive no nutriment whatever.

In comparison with what is known of plants in general, our knowledge
of lichens is yet very limited. They seem to be made chiefly of a kind
of gelatin which exists in lichens only. Humble as they appear, they
have always been of large importance in arts and manufactures. They
produce exquisite dyes--a rich, costly purple, a valuable scarlet, many
shades of brown, and particularly splendid hues of blue and yellow are
obtained from these common little growths, which in themselves display
chiefly shades of black, gray green, varied with pink, red, and orange
cups, balls, and edges.


FUNGI

While not so abundant as lichens, the fungi are well known everywhere.
We cannot claim, as for the lichens, that they are harmless, for many
are a virulent poison: others have a disgusting odor, and nearly all
are dangerous in their decay. On the other hand, many of them are
a useful, delicious food, and nearly all are beautiful when first
developed. Their variety, also, is very fascinating.

[Illustration: THE FLOWERLESS PLANTS]

In a walk of less than two miles in a wet summer, may be found twenty
different kinds of fungi--some no larger than a pea, some eight inches
in diameter. They may be round, oval, flat, cup-shaped, horn-shaped,
cushion-shaped, saucer-shaped; they are snow-white, gray, tan, yellow,
lavender, orange, dark brown, pink, crimson, purple, and variously
mottled, scaly or smooth as with varnish. Placed on a large platter
among dark green mosses, they will be, for one day, a magnificent
collection.

One large, egg-shaped variety, growing in pairs, is of a purple shade,
very solid, and when broken open seems filled with glittering matter
like iron or steel filings. Another tan-colored, plum-shaped fungus,
firm and smooth, is of a nearly royal purple within.

September is a good month for the study of fungi, especially after
the early fall rains, when the woods and pastures will be found
well-filled, not only with brilliant, useless, or poisonous varieties,
but with delicious edible kinds. Popularly, people call the edible
specimens “mushrooms,” and the rest “toadstools,” the number of
poisonous or of edible instances so named depending rather upon the
amount of knowledge of the collector than upon the real qualities of
the fungi, for many denominate as “toadstools” what others know to be
an excellent food.

Many varieties not usually eaten are wholesome, and many which human
beings reject, other animals thrive upon. One large, brown “toadstool”
of the woods is, at this season of the year, the chief food of that
epicure, the wood-tortoise.

In general a fungus may be defined as a thallophyte without any
chlorophyl or leaf-green in its composition. Among the brilliant colors
displayed by fungi no green or blue can be found.

The most popular and most useful fungus is the table mushroom. This
rarely ever grows in the woods, in shade, on wet lands, or on decaying
stumps. It prefers the open, breezy, well-sunned pastures, where the
grass is kept short by the grazing of sheep or cattle. Early in the
morning or shortly before sunset, the dainty white or cream-colored
buttons, borne on snow-white stalks, push up through the soil and
gradually expand until the discs are flat or slightly convex. From two
to six inches is the diameter, seldom more than three.

Varieties of the pasture mushroom are few and can readily be learned.
The mushroom is composed of stem and cap; the stem is finger-shaped,
with the roundish end in the earth. About half way up is usually a
ring of the covering skin, where, in the button shape, the veil of the
mushroom was attached.

This veil extends over the cap and is left at the edge of a little
frill; it can be easily stripped off. Under the veil the flesh is
ivory-white, and is smooth and firm.

The under side of the cap is laid in plaits, called gills, from their
resemblance to fish gills. They never grow fast to, or down upon, the
stem, usually stopping short off, about one-tenth of an inch from its
juncture with the cap. Mushrooms are cultivated in gardens or cellars.
They grow from spores or little finger-like lengths, called spawn,
which are produced by the spores. Mushrooms turn black or purplish
after the first twenty hours of growth. When the gills have taken this
dark hue, the mushroom is unfit to eat.

Some fungi grow in very wet places; the woods are likely to be full of
them after a few rainy days. They are all short-lived.


INDEPENDENCE

Although not new to some of our readers, we think the following
anecdote, illustrating one phase of Benjamin Franklin’s character, will
bear repeating:

Not long after he began editing his newspaper, Franklin’s free manner
of criticism called forth the disapprobation of many of his patrons.
One of them in particular felt so greatly moved as to make it his duty
to tell him so. “The doctor listened with patience to the reproof, and
begged the favor of his friend’s company at supper on an evening which
he named; at the same time requesting that the other gentlemen who were
dissatisfied with him should attend.

“When the guests arrived, the doctor received them cordially, and his
opinions were thoroughly criticised and much advice given. Supper
was at last announced and the guests invited into an adjoining room.
The doctor begged the party to be seated, and urged them to help
themselves: but the table was only supplied with two puddings and a
stone pitcher of water. Each guest had a plate, a spoon, and a bowl.
They were all helped, but none of them could eat. The doctor took
freely of the pudding, and urged the others to do the same; but it was
out of the question. They tasted and tried in vain. Upon inquiry, they
learned that the pudding was made of sawdust.

“When the facetious host had made sure that they could not eat, he
rose and addressed them thus: ‘My friends, anyone who can subsist upon
sawdust pudding, as I can, needs no man’s patronage.’”

The doctor’s life has proved his statement. The person who can adapt
himself to all circumstances and deny himself when necessary can attain
true independence.




WHIP-POOR-WILL


    When the ev’ning shadows lengthen
      Down the hill and ’cross the vale,
    And the trees are imaged darkly
      Where the river glimmers pale;
    Then I love to sit and listen,
      While the air is warm and still,
    To a voice from out the poplars,
      Crying softly, “Whip-poor-will!”

    Slowly, slowly creeps the twilight
      From the east unto the west,
    Till it fills the peaceful valley,
      Sends the forest folk to rest;
    All except a noisy fellow
      In the poplars near the mill,
    Whose demands are most insistent
      For the punishment of “Will.”

    Soon the vale is dark and lonely,
      Closed in sleep each drowsy eye;
    Through the clouds the stars are peeping
      For their watch tower in the sky;
    Only winds that whisper softly,
      In the poplars by the mill,
    Listen to the night-bird calling,
      Till the daybreak, “Whip-poor-will.”

                          --_Geo. E. Winkler._




LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS

BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD


CHAPTER XVI

IN THE BARN


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. In the meantime Miss Pomeroy
 has inwardly decided that she will keep Polly with her,
 but as yet she has not spoken to the little girl of her
 intentions.

While the old people at Manser Farm were reading Polly’s letter, the
little girl herself was listening with a sober face to a piece of news
which had come to Miss Pomeroy. It was eight o’clock--past Polly’s
bed-time--but she was so anxious to finish the wonderful story of the
Snow Queen that Miss Hetty had offered to read the last pages aloud.
She had reached the end only a moment before Hiram brought the mail.

“Bobby--my little nephew--is coming here to spend Sunday on his way to
see another aunt, his mother’s sister,” said Miss Pomeroy, looking up
from her letter to Polly, who stood waiting to say good-night. “I’m
very glad, Mary, for I am sure you two children will enjoy each other,
you are both so quiet and fond of books. Perhaps we can persuade Bobby
to make us a longer visit on the way home.”

That night and the next morning Polly stretched in Ebenezer’s fashion
until her little arms and legs ached. She made up her mind that she
would lose no opportunity for the next three days of performing this
gymnastic exercise or of hurrying on her growing likeness to Eleanor in
other ways.

She sat for hours with Miss Pomeroy, sewing patchwork and listening to
stories of the old curiosities in the Indian cabinet that stood in the
parlor. They were interesting stories, but the room was kept very warm
because of Miss Hetty’s rheumatism which was troublesome just then, and
Polly’s head grew hot and tired as she sat quietly in the little chair
at Miss Pomeroy’s side. She ate as much as she possibly could at every
meal, and she did not speak of going out to walk in the afternoons
after her hour on the bed.

“I shall be glad when I get over this stiffness, so we may have our
walks together again,” said Miss Pomeroy, when Friday night came. “I’m
afraid if it were not for me, Mary, you would not have enough outdoor
air. But I am glad you are so contented in the house, for it is very
pleasant to have a little companion while I am obliged to keep still so
much of the time.”

Polly smiled affectionately at her, but the little girl’s heart was
heavy. She was listless in her movements except when under some one’s
eye, and felt a strange indifference to the things which had always
delighted her.

“I guess I’m getting just exactly like Eleanor in some ways,” she
said to herself many times a day. “The brook calls and calls me just
the way it did at first, but my legs feel so queer and my head is so
funny. I don’t seem to care so much about paddling in the water now.
Miss Arctura says it is too cold in the woods yet, anyway. She says
her brother John’s wife caught her death once, neglecting to use her
judgment when a cold spell came in April. Oh, dear. I wish Bobby had
been here and gone away! S’posing he doesn’t ’prove of me. Wouldn’t
that be dreadful!”

Hiram was Polly’s stay and comfort in this trying time. Arctura--the
truth must be told--had suffered more or less from a grumbling
toothache ever since her afternoon in the woods. Arctura objected to
going to the dentist “on principle,” she said, though Miss Pomeroy had
never been able to understand just what she meant by that. Hiram was
the only person who ventured to brook the subject to his sister, and
his advice was sharply scorned.

“Don’t you think you’d ought to have that tooth pulled, ’Tura?” Hiram
had mildly asked as he washed his hands at the noon hour on Thursday,
and Miss Green had turned upon him with swift contempt.

“Better have my legs removed next time they get a mite overtired and
ache a little, hadn’t I?” she said, severely. “Go and have all your own
teeth out whenever you want, but just leave mine alone, if you please!”

Polly had overheard this dialogue as she entered the kitchen on an
errand, and she could hardly believe her ears.

“But, ’Tura’ll be all right soon as the weather warms up again,” Hiram
had explained to Polly in the barn at milking-time. “She ain’t been
quite herself the last day or two; toothache appears to upset her more
than anything else in this world. I saw her grinding her jaws together
yesterday morning, and I knew ’twas that old left-hand wisdom of hers
at it again. She’s got a roasted raisin in it now, I know by the way
she mumbled at me when I went in for the milk-pail, but I dursn’t refer
to it. We’ll just step kind of easy for the next twenty-four hours and
it’ll be all clear weather again. She hasn’t got any real malice in
her, ’Tura hasn’t.”

“I think she’s just as kind as she can be,” said Polly, warmly. But
it was a sober little face at which Hiram smiled broadly down when he
arose from the milking stool.

“You stay here while I take this in,” he said, cheerily, “and I’ll
fetch out a lantern so we can run through ‘On Linden’ far as we’ve
gone. You said old Marm Hackett was with Miss Hetty, I believe?”

“Yes,” said Polly, “and she told me to run out for a while as she
had something to lay before Miss Pomeroy. Do you think she’s a very
pleasant old lady, Mr. Hiram?”

“Well, now, let’s see if I’ve ever heard anybody speak of her that
way,” said Hiram, cautiously. “I guess I’d better consider it while I’m
carrying off the milk.”

Polly knew that his opinion agreed with hers, and she gave a little
laugh as he swung out of the barn with the pail of milk. When he
returned with the lantern she was standing in the middle of the barn
floor and made a sweeping courtesy to him as he entered.

“That’s good,” said Hiram, setting down the lantern and seating himself
on the lowest stair of the flight that led up to the loft. “That’s
first-rate. How would it be if you should make two of ’em--one to the
left and one to the right? In case folks were seated promiscuous--that
is here and there,” explained Hiram, “it would be fair to all parties.
That’s it--that’s the way to do it!” and he clapped his hands as Polly
greeted an imaginary audience. “Nobody’s going to feel left out with
that beginning. Now for it.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Polly, with a wide sweep of her arms, “the
piece that I am about to speak to you is ‘Hohenlinden,’ by Mr. Thomas
Campbell.”

“Little louder, if you please,” said Hiram, in a disguised voice,
“there’s a couple of old ladies at the rear that don’t want to miss a
word.”

    “‘On Linden, when the sun was low.’”

said Polly, in a clear, loud voice--and as she spoke, she stooped and
indicated the position of the sun with her right hand--

    “‘All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
    And dark as winter was the flow
      Of Iser, rolling rapidly.’”

The rapidity of Iser’s flow was shown by Polly’s two little arms, which
swung back and forth from her shoulders as fast as she could possibly
move them.

“That’s prime!” said Hiram, approvingly. “Seems as if I could see old
Iser right before me. Now, the next verse.”

    “‘But Linden saw another sight,’”

said Polly, flushed with pleasure, shielding her eyes with her hand and
gazing anxiously about the barn.

“First-rate!” cried her instructor. “I tell you, little Mary, you’ve
got the real spirit for reciting! Now that gesture had never come into
my mind, and yet there ’tis, fitting in complete. I make no doubt
Linden folks were out looking just that way, bound to see, yet scared
of what would meet ’em. Now for the drums!”

    “‘When the drum beat at dead of night,’”

said Polly, valiantly belaboring her right palm with the clenched
fingers of her left hand.

    “‘Commanding fires of death to light
      The darkness of her scenery.’”

“There’s not a bit of fault to be found with that,” said Hiram, as he
received the lantern from the hands of his pupil, who had seized it
and swung it wildly about when the “fires of death” were lighting. “Of
course, the lantern will be behind you the night of the entertainment,
ready for use.”

“Of course,” said Polly. “Now comes the best verse of all, I think, Mr.
Hiram:

    “‘By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,’

I shall have a candle and the tin horn that night, you know--

    “‘Each horseman drew his battle-blade--’”

Uncle Blodgett’s gift was drawn with a fierce flourish--

    “‘And, furious, every charger neighed
      To join the dreadful revelry.’”

The verse ended with an indescribable sound, and Hiram drew his hand
across his mouth before he spoke in answer to Polly’s questioning eyes.

“I call that a pretty fair neigh,” he said, encouragingly. “I don’t
know as I’d go so far as to say ’twould deceive anybody into thinking
there was a horse right on the spot, but it’s improving in its quality
all the time, I notice.”

“I’m so glad,” said Polly, “because, you see, I can’t make the roars
and other noises for the ‘dreadful revelry’ the way you can, and I
wanted to do something.”

The next two verses finished Polly’s recitation for that evening.
Hiram had promised to assist with “the hills with thunder riven” and
the “red artillery.” The thunder was to be made with a pair of wooden
dumb-bells, and the “red artillery” was a little old lantern with a red
glass front which would dart about Polly’s figure in Mr. Green’s hand.

“That was an extra good rehearsal,” said he, as the little girl sat
down beside him on the stairs. “Now, we’ll learn the next verse, shall
we, and call it we’ve finished for the night?”

When the next lines, with their “furious Frank and fiery Hun,” were
pronounced perfect, Polly begged for a story.

“Just a little bit of a short one, Mr. Hiram, before I go to bed,” she
said, coaxingly, “and I don’t care whether it is true or not.”

“That being the case,” said Hiram, soberly, as they sat close together
with the lantern at their feet, “I’ll relate a little circumstance
that a man once told me. It’ll give you something to think about, but
I shouldn’t want to say how true ’tis, for it seems a mite improbable.
This man said that a friend of his out West somewhere had always had
trouble with the chimney in his parlor--I would say with the draught of
it up from the fireplace. He had it tinkered off an’ on for years, and
finally he decided he’d have the old contraption torn down and a bran’
new chimney put up.

“Someway the mason made a mistake and got the new chimney on wrong side
up, and the draught was a powerful one, and, first they know, rain,
hail, snow, and what-all were drawed right down into the room, making
dreadful work.

“They sent for the mason, of course, and he took the chimney down and
put it on again right side up, and then the draught was so powerful
that it drawed a braided rug and a pair o’ tongs and a three-legged
stool and a number of other articles right up the chimney.

“Then they saw something had got to be done, so they put a poultice--a
flour poultice, I understood him to say--on the jamb of the fireplace,
and that drawed down so it balanced and counteracted the draught, and
after that the chimney gave perfect satisfaction.”

Polly had stared at the narrator when he began the story, but as he
progressed she covered her mouth with both hands for fear she should
laugh out and interrupt him.

“Mr. Hiram,” she cried, as the storyteller rose, chuckling, and began
to close the barn for the night, “next to Mr. Hans Christian Andersen’s
I would rather hear your make-believe circumstances than anybody’s that
ever I heard!”

“Compliment number two,” said Hiram, as they stepped out of the barn,
side by side. “You’d better be looking sharp or you’ll have me all
stuffed out with pride before you know it, young lady.”


CHAPTER XVIII

A DREADED VISITOR

Nobody but the kittens knew that Polly dreaded the coming of Eleanor’s
twin. She told them all about it Saturday morning as they sat in her
lap, cuddled up into a warm heap under the gray shawl that Arctura had
wrapped about her.

Arctura’s tooth had not quite stopped its grumbling and she had firmly
declined Polly’s aid in the kitchen that morning.

“I’ve got some bothersome cooking to do,” said Arctura, without the
smile which might let in a draft of air on the convalescent jaw, “and
I’d best be alone, for my nerves are sort of jumpy along with a pain
I’ve been enduring in my head without speaking of it, for some days.
The air’s mild enough for you to sit out on the piazza and watch for
Miss Hetty and Bobby, if I wrap you up well. It’s getting ready to
rain again to-morrow, and then I have hopes of some fair, warm weather
when it clears off finally.”

Miss Pomeroy’s rheumatism was much less troublesome than it had been
for some days, and Hiram had helped her into the low basket phaeton an
hour before.

“I expect she’s ’most home now,” said Polly to the kittens, with a
little shiver, “and she’s bringing that boy--that Bobby--home with her.
He’s going to stay till Monday morning. You needn’t be frightened, Snip
and Snap, for he’s a boy that just likes to read; he wouldn’t do the
things to kitties that the Higgins boys do--things with strings and
spools, till the teacher stopped them. And, anyway, you’ve got lots
of places to hide, where nobody could get you. But I can’t hide. I’m
obliged to be right out where he can see me, and tell whether I’m like
his sister Eleanor that died, and maybe change Miss Pomeroy’s mind
after all, and lose Grandma Manser her ear-trumpet, and the money for
the leaks and shingles and everything!”

Polly buried her face in the old shawl for a minute, and then sat up
straight with a little gasp.

“I hear the phaeton!” she whispered, squeezing the kittens in her
excitement. “I hear it coming over the bridge--fast!”

Snip and Snap objected to squeezing. They struggled under the shawl
and dashed out over Polly’s knees, clutching wildly at the fringe.
They looked up at her cannily with arched backs, and then scurried off
toward the barn.

As the phaeton came around the curve of the driveway, Polly stood up,
clasping her hands under the old shawl. She heard Arctura bustling out
of the kitchen to the porch, and moved slowly along to stand beside
her. In a moment more she found herself solemnly shaking hands with
a boy who had jumped into the phaeton and then politely helped Miss
Pomeroy out.

“This is my nephew Bobby,” Miss Hetty was saying. “And this is little
Mary Prentiss.”

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Polly, lifting her
brown eyes to meet a pair of very large blue ones which gazed at her
through spectacles.

“How d’you do?” said the boy, pleasantly. “Haven’t you got about
through with my hand?”

He laughed as he said it, and so did Polly, but when the hand-shaking
stopped they stood looking at each other awkwardly until Arctura broke
the ice.

“You two children step out to the dining-room, while Miss Hetty goes
and rests after her ride,” said Arctura, cordially. “I’ve set a tray
with two tumblers of milk and some crullers on the buffet, and you can
stand up and eat on to it, so’s not to scatter the crumbs. I never
saw the time a boy wasn’t ready to eat, and Mary here’s got a most
excellent appetite of her own. Dinner won’t be ready for nearly two
hours yet.”

“Thank you,” cried Bobby. “You’re a trump!”

“Seems to me you’ve thickened up a little since last time,” said Miss
Green, cautiously guarding the entrance to the cavern wherein dwelt her
wisdom tooth, as she acknowledged this commendation. “I suppose you’ll
drop into the kitchen along in the afternoon while Miss Hetty and Mary
are taking their naps? I don’t see my way clear to sitting down at
dinner for a talk with you, for I’ve been having a little neuralgy and
the air in the dining-room seems kind of chilly after the kitchen.”

“Do you take a nap every day?” asked Bobby, curiously, as he and Polly
drank their milk and ate the crisp crullers. “I s’pose girls like to
do that kind of thing, but I’d rather read all night than waste time
sleeping in the daylight. I’ve never known any girl very well except my
sister. I’m afraid of them, they’re so queer.”

“Oh, they’re not half so queer as boys, I’m sure!” asserted Polly, with
much decision. “I guess if you knew the Higgins boys that I’ve been to
school with, you’d say so. I never could get those boys to play house
with me once! They said it wasn’t any fun.”

“Well, ’tisn’t, you know,” said Bobby, without a moment’s hesitation.
“Of course, nothing happens when you play house, no adventures--no
accidents--no anything.”

“No accidents!” echoed Polly, in amazement. “I should think it was a
pretty dreadful accident to invite four dollies to tea (cut out of a
newspaper, they were, beautiful ones, Uncle Blodgett did them for me),
and find you had burned up every biscuit to a crisp while you were
setting the table. I mean they had burned themselves up! Don’t you like
to play any make-believes?”

“Yes, I like some,” admitted the boy, frankly, “but you wouldn’t like
my kind, and I call yours pretty slow.”

“What kind of make-believes do you like best?” asked Polly, as she and
the dreaded guest sat together in the library at dusk. Miss Pomeroy was
entertaining Marm Hackett in the parlor, much to the old woman’s rage,
she having desired a talk with the newcomer, for whom she had prepared
a list of searching questions.

“I like the kind of make-believes that are in books,” said the boy,
staring into the fire. He sat on the hearth-rug with his legs crossed
in a position of tantalizing comfort. Polly sat in a straight-backed
chair and viewed him with envy. She would have liked so much to be
beside him on the rug with her hands clasped over her knees and her
chin resting on them. And he had not felt obliged to take any nap. She
had heard him talking to Arctura while she lay on that hot bed.

“‘Treasure Island’ is a mighty good make-believe,” remarked Bobby,
after a short silence. “I shouldn’t have had any objections to living
that story right along.”

“I’ve never read it,” said Polly, with a little sigh. “I’ve never read
much of anything till now. Is ‘Treasure Island’ as beautiful as the
‘Snow Queen’?” she asked, doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem as if it could
be.”

“Beautiful isn’t the word for it,” said Bobby, turning his spectacled
eyes toward her for a moment. “It’s wild, and murderous in places, and
it carries you along with it. So does ‘Kidnapped.’ That’s what you want
of a book. I never can make up my mind whether I’d rather have been
David Balfour or Napoleon. If I had my choice, I believe I’d have to
draw lots.”

“There are places in the woods where Miss Arctura and I went one day
that would be splendid for make-believes, I should think,” ventured
Polly, anxious to please this remarkable boy. “There are rocks that
you could hide behind and jump out at me. I shouldn’t be a bit
afraid--truly, I shouldn’t!”

“We’ll see,” said Bobby, “only to-morrow’s Sunday, you know, and, of
course, we have to go to church--and, anyway, I couldn’t be as fierce
about it as if you were a boy. I couldn’t knock a girl over, or pitch
into her and wrest her sword from her grasp. That’s where the fun comes
in.”

“I thought they said you didn’t care much about play,” said Polly, much
surprised.

“I don’t care for ball, or marbles, or any of those things,” said
Bobby, scornfully. “I’d rather read, any day. But there’s a fellow at
home, George Rogers--just twelve, my age, you know--and he and I play
a robber band piece that we’ve made out of different books. I can tell
you it’s worth seeing. Only, I suppose, ’twould scare a girl blue.”

“It would not scare me blue.” said Polly, shaking her curls. “I should
like it!”

“Eleanor never minded it,” said the boy, softly, to himself, but
Polly heard him, and her heart beat high with hope as he took off his
spectacles, rubbed them for a minute with a big, white handkerchief,
and then adjusted them carefully to his nose, as Uncle Blodgett always
did when preparing to read the newspaper.

“Perhaps he’ll think I’m something like Eleanor, after all,” said Polly
in her heart. She hesitated for a moment and then leaned over until her
head was almost against the boy’s shoulder, as he sat gazing into the
fire.

“Do you like ‘Mary’ for a name?” she asked, scarcely breathing the
words.

“Why, yes, I don’t know but I do,” said the boy, turning to face her.
“But what are you whispering for? I can tell you what I don’t like--I
despise ‘Bobby’ for a name! It’s just like baby talk--but I’m afraid
of hurting Aunt Hetty’s feelings if I say anything about it. Next time
she comes over to our house, I’m going to get grandfather just to
suggest to her that it’s time to give up nicknames when a boy’s all but
in his teens. He can do it all right. Maybe she’ll bring you over. I’d
like to show you George Rogers, and we could do our act for you.”

“Perhaps I shall be in school then,” said Polly, feeling highly honored
by this invitation, “there are only two weeks more vacation.”

“You’re not going to school next term,” said Bobby. “I know, for Aunt
Hetty told me. She wants to get you more ‘chippered up,’ Arctura says.
Isn’t Arctura an old dear? Did she ever tell you what the children
used to sing about her nose when she was a young one? It’s funny, and
she says she never minded, but I’d have soon stopped them if I’d been
there.”

“She never told me,” said Polly, with a glance of admiration at the boy
who spoke so valiantly while he looked so mild, “I’d like to hear it.”

“Her nose is pretty prominent, of course,” said the heir of the
Pomeroys, reluctantly, “and she says it got its growth before the rest
of her. And when they’d see her coming they’d sing out:

    “Hark! hark!
    ’Tura’s bark!
    ’Spose her nose
    Came out o’ the Ark!”

“How mean!” cried Polly, indignantly.

“That’s what I say, but she laughed like everything when she told me
about it,” said the boy. “She says her voice was hoarse and queer
because she was always having coughs and colds. She seemed to think it
was a good joke.”

“That’s because she’s so good-natured,” said little Polly.

“I say, let’s act a charade to-night and make Aunt Hetty guess it.”
said the boy, after staring at the old andirons in silence for a few
minutes. “I know a fine one that I’ve just thought up, and I’ll tell
you how to do your part. George Rogers and I are always making them
up, and then our families try to guess them.”

Polly assented with mingled joy and fear. Bobby pressed Arctura into
his service to collect materials for this impromptu entertainment, and
at seven o’clock Miss Pomeroy sat in the library, waiting for the first
syllable. The door that led into the little porch hall was open, and
Arctura and Hiram were seated side by side just over the threshold of
the dining-room.

“I don’t want to sit in the library along with your aunt, for it gets
het up so with that fire,” Miss Green had explained to the actors.
“Hiram and I will sit outside where we can see all, and yet keep
comfortable.”

The children had exchanged a glance of perfect understanding and some
amusement, but loyalty to the faithful Arctura kept them silent.

A moment after the tall clock had given its seven silvery strokes, the
door into the front hall burst open and in rushed a strange figure. He
was wrapped in a blanket with a bright red border, tied about the waist
with a blue and green plaid shawl. In this belt were two carving knives
and a hammer. A feather duster waved above the boy’s head, its handle
imparting a peculiar stiffness to the action of his neck. A brown
calico mask was drawn over his face. In each hand was an old hatchet.

“Never you fear, Miss Hetty,” came Arctura’s voice from the porch hall,
as this extraordinary figure began to caper about the room, uttering
discordant yells and brandishing the hatchets, “there isn’t a weapon in
his outfit that would cut a string. Mercy on us, keep away from me!”
she shrieked, as the calico mask turned in her direction.

Presently Polly appeared with a little basket on her arm, walking along
with eyes cast down. There was a wild whoop from the figure in the
blanket, a shrill cry from Polly, and the two rushed from the room,
leaving the audience to reflect upon what they had seen.

“Looked like murder to me,” said Hiram, chuckling, “but I suppose that
ain’t the answer.” Just then Bobby stuck his head in the door.

“We think it’s only fair to you,” he said, bowing to his aunt, and
casting a glance beyond her into the darkness where sat the Greens, “to
tell you that there were three syllables to the first act--there’ll be
two to this next one--and one to the last.”

“Three syllables--that settles it--murder’s only got two,” remarked
Hiram, solemnly. “Well, I’ve guessed wrong the first time. Got any
light on it, Miss Hetty?”

“I’m not sure, of course, Hiram,” said Miss Pomeroy, with a laugh, “but
I have the glimmer of an idea.”

Hiram’s chuckle ended abruptly as the door opened to admit Polly,
bearing a slate, on which was drawn an irregular-shaped object, from
the top of which a long line curved off to one edge of the slate.

“I call that a pin-quishion,” said Hiram, meditatively, “or else a
balloon. I don’t know which. It’s first-rate for either one.”

“It isn’t,” said Polly; then she blushed, shook her head, and ran out
of the room, to be received by her partner in the hall with a good deal
of reproach.

“I seem to be sinking in deeper every time,” said Hiram, in a loud
voice, intended to reach the other hall. “Murder--quishion is the
nearest I’ve come.”

“In this next scene you’ve got to pretend you’re all English,” said the
boy, pausing on the threshold before he and Polly entered, “for that’s
the only way we can make it come out right.”

“Pretty short notice for a man that’s never been thirty miles from
home,” said Mr. Green, in a melancholy tone.

The actors paid no heed to him. Polly put her little right hand to her
ear and assumed a listening attitude, while the boy fell prone upon his
stomach, and, raising his head, began to squirm over the floor, making
a strange sound suggestive of tightly-shut teeth and breath drawn in
and let out with all possible force. At last he squirmed out of the
door, followed by the listening Polly.

There was a sound of animated dialogue in the hall, and then just as
Hiram had made the doleful announcement that all was lost as far as his
guessing was concerned, in came the boy and girl, hand in hand.

“We can’t do the whole word,” announced Bobby, “for we’ve decided we
don’t either of us draw well enough. But all I can say is, it’s on the
map. Now, have you guessed? You have, Aunt Hetty, I know you have!”

“I’m not at all certain,” said Miss Pomeroy, cautiously. “Could it
be--Indianapolis?”

“I knew you’d guess,” said the boy, delightedly. “Wasn’t it pretty
good? Indian--apple--’iss. ’Twas her idea, thinking of dropping the h
off hiss, because her Uncle Blodgett told her once that was the way
English people talked.” He looked with appreciation at Polly, as he
gave her this generous tribute. “Wasn’t it bright of her?”

“I move we clap the whole company,” said Hiram--and the entertainment
closed in a burst of applause, while the two actors made their very
best bows to the audience.

[TO BE CONTINUED]


[Illustration: “GOOD BY”

SPEEDING THE UNFORTUNATE WHOSE SCHOOL OPENS FIRST]




_Wood-Folk Talk_

By J. ALLISON ATWOOD


WHY BIRDS MIGRATE

There are very few people who really know why birds migrate--that
is, fly south in the fall, and then return to us in the springtime.
Some say that they cannot stand the cold, and so escape it by going
south where it is warm all winter. Others believe that at the end of
summer the birds have eaten all their food, so they have to go to
some locality where the insects and other dainties have not all been
devoured. Both of these explanations seem reasonable until one has
learned the real cause.

A great many years ago, hundreds and hundreds in fact, birds stayed all
year round in the same place they had built their nests, and, no doubt,
they would do so now if they had their choice. But as it is, they no
sooner feel the first breath of winter than they hurry away as if
pursued by some enemy. And that they have some reason to fear, I’m sure
you will agree when you have heard it.

It was a very cold winter. Most of the birds had to move out of their
summer homes. Brown-thrasher and Song-sparrow had been forced to give
up their thickets, all the undergrowth being dead. Thereupon the former
grumbled much because Flicker was so well sheltered from the cold.
In the summer time, Thrasher had been among the first to make fun of
the carpenter for building such a peculiar house, but now he looked
longingly at him as he disappeared within the comfortable-looking
hollow limb. Kingfisher, too, was regarded with more respect as he
took shelter in the long tunnel which he had made during the previous
summer. But as for those most unfortunate birds who had built on the
ground, as Bobolink and Meadowlark, they, indeed, were very much put
out, for their houses were entirely covered with snow. Still, it is
very probable that everyone would have stayed north all winter had not
something far more dreadful occurred.

On the evening of the winter’s heaviest storm, the birds had all
gathered under an evergreen to sleep. Among them were Flicker and
Kingfisher, for they, much to Thrasher’s delight, had been driven from
their homes on the day before by those improvident fellows, Squirrel
and Muskrat, who thus obtained houses far better than any they could
have built for themselves. The wind was whistling frightfully, and each
one had his head tucked under his wing for warmth. Suddenly Bobolink
stood upright and peered out anxiously into the darkness. His keen ear
had caught some other sound than the harsh wind and spluttering snow.
In an instant Bobolink was alert. Then he saw something that, even cold
as he was, made him shiver. Before him, gliding on noiseless wing,
was a gigantic white object. Its large yellow eyes gleamed terribly
in the dark, and Bobolink was all but paralyzed with fear. Then, in
desperation, he called out loud enough to wake his neighbors. They,
too, saw the dim white form and scattered like leaves before the wind,
just as the huge monster swooped down among them. Barn-swallow, in his
haste to get away, caught his tail on a twig and made a great tear
right in the middle of it. So badly was it torn that the feathers have
never grown in properly, as we can see even to this day. But he was too
frightened then even to know it.

For hours afterwards the terrified birds hid as best they might in the
dark woods. Then, when at length, he thought the danger past, Bobolink
gave a chirp, as if to let his whereabouts be known. After a time the
other folks answered his call, and in this way they soon collected,
every one of them still trembling with fear. Then, although it was
midnight, they prepared to flee. So dark was it that there would have
been great danger of getting lost had not Bobolink suggested that they
keep up chirping as they flew, and in this way be able to hold together.

In such a manner and at such a time the birds made their first journey
south. When once they reached the warmer lands they scattered, for they
had learned that to remain in flocks was dangerous. But what was more
important, they had learned that they could migrate at night, and that
it was the safest way, as then they could not be seen by their enemies.

Hear them chirp as they fly overhead some night in the spring or fall.
That was Bobolink’s idea, and it was a good one, too. It keeps them
from separating in the darkness.

None of the Woodfolk ever learned who the white stranger was. Some
thought him a ghost or spirit, but all of them fear even the thought
of him. No wonder they have never since dared to stay north during the
winter. Of course, the larger ones, like Hawk or Crow, do not always
leave, for they are not afraid of the stranger. But all of those who
first saw him on that dreadful night have always migrated. Indeed, poor
Bobolink is still so fearful of the “white spirit” that he never feels
safe until he has flown all the way to South America.

But how do they know when the stranger is coming? Ah! that is what has
puzzled so many of us. Have you ever noticed in the winter the little
slate-colored fellow with a white breast, who comes to us just before
the snow season? It is Snowbird, of course. He, too, lives in the
north, but not so far away as the white enemy. At the first sign of
danger he hastens south to warn his friends. Then, remaining between
the Woodfolk and the enemy, he keeps a close watch all winter. There
can be little danger to the birds as long as Snowbird is there to warn
them. But how cold it must be for him? Indeed, some folks say that is
what has made his bill and feet so pink just as our hands and noses
grow red from the cold. But he is courageous. He stands guard between
his friends and the terrible white danger, even during the heaviest
snows. So you see that it was not without reason that folks gave him
the name, “Snowbird.” Few of the birds would brave the cold as he does.

But when spring comes! How eager they all are to get back, for they
know now that the enemy has fled to the far north. It is a race to see
which of the Woodfolk will be the first to reach his northern home.
Occasionally they arrive too early, Blackbird, Robin, and Bluebird
first, of course, and then a warning from Snowbird sends them scurrying
south again. The thought of the white spectre still terrifies them.

But this does not often happen, and for the most part when we hear them
exulting on their arrival we know that they are here to stay. Just
listen how Blackbird chuckles as he passes over our heads, for he knows
that he will be the first to get home. Kentucky-warbler is a very slow
flyer, yet he dreads to be the last. His mind is always on his favorite
feeding-place, and he fears that Blackbird will find it. That is why he
calls after him, “Greedy! greedy! greedy!”

And the white spirit? Oh, yes! That is only Snowy Owl. He lives in the
far north and comes down to us only in the very cold weather, when snow
covers the ground. When we see the great white fellow with his large
yellow eyes, we can hardly wonder why the Woodfolk were so frightened.
But the truth of it is that Snowy Owl, unless very hungry, would not
harm the birds at all, for he lives mostly upon the small four-footed
animals. What a pity it is that our birds leave us in the winter,
some of them to go all the way to South America, just because of a
superstitious fear for an arctic visitor who would not harm them if he
could! If we could only explain to them, what a blessing it would be to
both of us!




WITH THE EDITOR


As we look forward to the opening of school it is with feelings of a
mixed nature. There is undoubtedly among some of us a lack of that
ardor with which we hailed vacation. Nevertheless, none of us can fail
to anticipate gladly the greeting of old friends and the return to that
life which, though routine in its nature, will, in after years, be
regarded as the brightest period of our existence.

In school, as in any other path of life, we can only get the most out
by putting the most into it. The amount we accomplish, therefore, is
determined in a great way by our powers of application. The boy or
girl who can bring to bear his whole mind upon his lesson is bound to
accomplish more than one who devotes a much longer period of time to
broken study. Our great desire, then, if we wish to make the most of
our school life, is to concentrate.

But this power of application is not only the secret of success in
the school-room. Anyone who has cultivated it has taken an important
step in their life, whether it be dedicated to study, business, or
profession.

We are often brought into contact with persons not otherwise gifted,
who continually surprise us by the amount they accomplish. Could we
but make a study of them we would see that the greatest part of their
ability lies in this same power of concentration. On whatever they
undertake they put their whole mind. What appears to be a wonderful
versatility is merely the ability to do one thing at a time, and to do
it well.

Even in athletics, where success often comes to those who are
apparently not making the most of themselves otherwise, it is this same
power which excels. Should many of the young folks who have become
proficient in athletics at the expense of their studies, concentrate
upon their lessons as closely as they do upon their exercise, they
would have become intellectual leaders as well.

Now, as the new period of our school life approaches, let us meet it
with a full realization of its value to us. Then only will we be able
to reap its full benefit. The secret of accomplishing the most and
making the best of our time is by concentrating upon our task. Whether
it be our lessons, our work, or our play, we can succeed only by
bringing to bear upon it our whole mind and strength. Then, too, it is
only when we have made our school days days of accomplishment that we
can derive the fullest enjoyment from our vacation.




Event and Comment


The Coronation

The coronation ceremonies of King Edward, postponed from June last and
threatened with frustration, took place on August 9th in Westminster
Abbey. Here were assembled no less than 7,000 people, including the
nobility and clergy, together with foreign princes, ambassadors, and
rulers from various quarters of the globe. Among them were nearly 100
Americans, all more or less prominent.

In the midst of such an assembly the climax of the event came when the
venerable Archbishop of Canterbury placed the jeweled crown upon the
king’s head.

Thereupon the electric lights throughout the Abbey sprang into
brilliant existence, illumining the magnificent apparel and glittering
jewels of both participant and spectator, and giving an effect of
splendor which, according to one who beheld it, has never been equaled.

       *       *       *       *       *

While on this side we are all too much interested in our own country to
join in the chorus of “God Save the King” with any great enthusiasm, we
can, nevertheless, wish King Edward VII a long and successful reign.


The Great Rifle

What is, without doubt, the most formidable gun ever constructed is the
one recently built at the Watervliet Arsenal for the defence of New
York harbor. While its calibre is but 16 inches, smaller than many guns
already in use, its range is 21 miles, or half again more powerful than
its nearest rival.

The length of the new gun is 49 feet 2 inches and its weight 126 tons.
It throws a projectile whose length is 5 feet 4 inches.

The cost of firing a single shot is $1,000.

Eighteen other such guns are to be constructed and placed at such vital
points along our coast as New York, San Francisco, Boston, and Hampton
Roads.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is something about these large rifles which appeals to and
fascinates nearly every one of us. We all wish to see the series
completed and distributed. But, further than that, let us hope that
such terrible engines of destruction will never be turned upon a human
foe.


The Seven-masted Schooner

Almost simultaneously with the completion of the great rifle at the New
York arsenal, came the launching of the “Thomas W. Lawson,” the first
seven-masted schooner ever built.

Differing from our usual idea of a sailboat, the new ship is
constructed almost entirely of steel. So manageable are the six
powerful steam engines which control the sails, spars, anchors, and
rudder, that this, the largest sailing vessel afloat, requires a crew
of but sixteen men.

The length of the “Lawson” is 403 feet, and she carries a cargo of
8,100 tons.

There is a system of electric lights and telephones throughout, while
the cabins are heated by steam.

The “Lawson” will be used at first as a collier on the Atlantic coast,
where her owners expect she will make a great profit.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is to this application of steam and electricity to sailboats that we
may look for strides in that science, which has probably advanced less
than any other in the past two thousand years--the science of sailing.


Preservation of the “Buffalo”

The Secretary of the Interior has announced plans for the perpetuation
of the American bison or “buffalo.” For this purpose he has secured an
appropriation of $15,000 to build a wire corral at Yellowstone Park.
Here the bison, both wild and tame, will be protected in every way. At
present there are but twenty-two bison in the park, but this number
will be greatly increased by purchase in the near future.

A numerical estimate of the pure-blooded bison now in existence gives,
in the United States, 968, mostly tame, and in Canada, 600, all of
which are wild.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no place where the old adage, “Put not off until to-morrow,”
can be better applied than in the protection of our wild animals. If
the American bison is to be preserved, it must be to-day.


Fire Damp

Fire damp and carelessness, perhaps, upon the part of one of the
miners were responsible for the terrible disaster which again brought
Johnstown, Pa., into prominence. Over a hundred lives were lost in the
perilous “Klondike dip.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Although it always seems a little heartless to point to any good
resulting from such a catastrophe, it is probable that it will lead to
a more careful inspection of our mines and greater precaution against
that terrible explosive, fire damp.




[Illustration: ·OUT·OF·DOORS·]


The tennis doubles of the Round Robin Tournament at Westchester drew
forth most of the country’s best players.

The hottest contest was between the champions, Ward and Davis, and
Whitman and Ware, which, after four sets, resulted in a draw with the
score 2 all.

The Wrenn brothers then took to the court, and after playing Ward and
Davis in a set which ran as high as 10 all, finally defeated them.

At the end of the tournament the standing was: Wrenn brothers won 4,
lost 0; Whitman and Ware won 3, lost 1; Ward and Davis won 2, lost 2;
Little and Alexander won 1, lost 3: Clothier and Ogden won 0, lost 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the Henley meet, in England, the race for the Diamond Sculls was the
most interesting event to the Americans in spite of the fact that it
resulted in a defeat for our candidate, C. S. Titus.

After winning from Scholes, the Canadian, and Fields, one of the
English oarsmen, Titus was defeated by Kelley, although the time made
in the last race was 20 seconds slower than that of the one in which
Titus defeated Scholes.

       *       *       *       *       *

The all-around championship in athletics was decided this year at
Celtic Park, Long Island. Gunn, of the Buffalo Y. M. C. A., in winning
first place, showed great improvement over his last year’s form. Second
to him in the number of points won was Merrill, of the Milwaukee
Athletic Club, while the third place fell to Prinstein, the great
jumper and hurdler.

       *       *       *       *       *

Golf players of this country were somewhat surprised at the result of
the National Golf Tournament at Glenview, Chicago.

The two-year national champion, Walter J. Travis, was defeated by E.
M. Byers, of Pittsburg, the former Yale individual champion. Later,
however, Byers, himself, was defeated by L. N. James, of Chicago.

       *       *       *       *       *

In spite of the fact that England will not try for America’s cup this
year, the yachting world is more active than usual. In the race of
the New York Yacht Club for seventy-footers, Cornelius Vanderbilt’s
“Rainbow” showed her superiority over August Belmont’s “Mineola,”
winning by one minute and ten seconds.

The German Imperial Yacht Race, too, aroused much interest among the
Americans, because of the fact that the boats finishing second and
third, the “Meteor” and “Navahoe,” were both built in this country.




[Illustration: THE OLD TRUNK]


Answers to August Puzzles

 1.  Y O U T H
     O C H R E
     U L T R A
     T U T O R
     H E A R T

 2. Eagle, heron.
    Kite, wren.
    Sparrow, redbird.
    Lark, robin.
    Rhea, thrush.
    Hawk, loon.

 3. Washington, Lincoln.

 4.        S
         C A R
       C A M E L
     S A M P S O N
       R E S E T
         L O T
           N

5. THE ESCAPE

“=K=amby says =E=dith is worse. =Y=ou asked me to write if she began to
fail, and =I= am complying with your request. =S=o, if the =U=nion of
the =N=orth can spare you, come. =D=o not delay, for =E=dith is very
ill. =R=emember, she is waiting for you.

    “=M=ost sorrowfully,
    “=A=djutant =T=homas.”

Capital letters spell: “Key is under mat.”

The first five perfect solutions were received from

  Charlotte Copp.
  Mary Folsom Pierce.
  Warren Raymond.
  Flavius Lentz.
  Alice Burr.


ENIGMA

I am composed of ten letters.

My 8-2-3 is a vehicle.

My 9-4-7 is a meadow.

My 5-10-6-1 is a money compensation.

My whole is a place of Divine worship known in ancient and modern times.

                                                    --_Martha E. Evans._


DIAMOND

       .       A consonant.
     . . .     A young blossom.
   . . . . .   Something we all eat.
 . . . . . . . A day of the week.
   . . . . .   A term for father.
     . . .     A period of time.
       .       A consonant.
                    --_S. Lillian C._


SOME LARGE NATIONS

   1. A scheming nation.
   2. A surprising nation.
   3. A fanciful nation.
   4. A nation that goes no farther.
   5. A nation that ends.
   6. A reflective nation.
   7. A nation that ordains.
   8. A nation that foretells.
   9. A nation that personifies.
  10. A most destructive nation.
  11. A nation that names.
  12. A nation that specifies.
  13. A nation that kills.
  14. A nation that crowns.
  15. A nation that points out.
  16. A nation that grows.
  17. A mistaken nation.
  18. A reproachful nation.
  19. A nation that wanders.
              --_Margaret P. Boyle._


HIDDEN ORCHESTRA

 Nebotneroolcritopmoiavindnrmbusvilosa.
                          --_Julia E_--.




[Illustration: IN-DOORS]

PARLOR MAGIC

By Ellis Stanyon


Disappearing Handkerchief.--Obtain a small red silk handkerchief, also
a loose piece of silk of the same color, about one and a half inches
square. Keep this piece at the corner of the handkerchief between both
hands until you have succeeded in getting it into small compass, taking
care that the small piece is at the top. Retain the handkerchief in
the right hand, and with the left hand pull up the right sleeve. Now,
with the right hand pull up the left sleeve, but leave the handkerchief
in the bend of the left arm, where it will be hidden by the folds of
the sleeve, taking care, however, that the small piece of red silk
protrudes from the closed right hand, deluding the spectators into the
belief that the handkerchief is still in your hand--for do they not
see the corner of it? Now, rub the hands together and roll the piece
into a small pellet, and palm it between the bend of the thumb and
first finger. Slap your hands together, and show both sides. Care must
be taken not to spread the thumb and fingers too much while showing
the hands, as this would reveal the piece of red silk. This showing of
hands should be studied before a mirror, as it is upon the apparent
naturalness of pose that many such tricks depend. Afterwards, while
turning to the table, the real handkerchief can be palmed or got
rid of, whichever may be necessary to the performer’s version of the
trick. This is the most effective illusion, and will deceive even the
conjurors.

[Illustration: Fig. 13.]

Another clever disappearing trick with a handkerchief is the
following:--Take a piece of flesh-colored thread, and place it about
the right hand, in the manner depicted in the illustration (Fig. 13).
The dotted lines represent the thread on the outside of the hand. With
this simple device a handkerchief can be apparently placed in the
left hand, when in reality it is stuck between the loop in the right
hand. Vanish a handkerchief in above manner from the left hand, and by
grabbing the air with your right hand you reproduce the handkerchief.




WITH THE PUBLISHER


YOUTH

An Illustrated Monthly Journal for Boys and Girls

Edited by HERBERT LEONARD COGGINS

 =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.

The publishers should be promptly informed of any change of address.

Subscribers who have not received their magazine regularly will please
notify the publishers.

Remittances may be made in the way most convenient to the sender, and
should be addressed to

=THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY= 923 Arch Street, Philadelphia, Pa.

       *       *       *       *       *

_GREETING_

As the end of vacation draws near, YOUTH wishes to assure its friends
that it is in the best of health, both physically and mentally. The
long summer, usually so trying to periodicals, has in no way fatigued
its energies. On the contrary, it has strengthened them. Each day we
have been making many new friends, more even than we had anticipated,
so that now, encouraged by this generous support, we meet the coming
season with a new vigor.


_A NEW FEATURE_

Beginning with this issue, Mr. Allen Biddle will contribute to YOUTH
a series of short articles on “Quaint Philadelphia.” As Mr. Biddle
has made a specialty of juvenile writing, and is also well versed in
Philadelphia’s early history, we believe that the new feature cannot
fail to prove of interest to our young readers.


_TO OUR READERS_

Our recent encouraging experience has shown us that there is no
surer way to increase our circle of acquaintances than through our
present friends. During the past months many of our readers have taken
advantage of the Special Subscription Offer which appears on this page,
and in this way have obtained for themselves very complete libraries.
Others, induced by our liberal cash premiums and by means of our easy
arrangements for obtaining subscriptions, have proved of great service
to us in enlarging our list, besides making for themselves a very
considerable sum of spending money. Should any of our readers who have
not already made use of these offers be inclined to aid us, we should
be glad to forward them full particulars as to the premiums and the
methods of undertaking the work.


_50c. FOR TWENTY-FIVE NAMES_

Anyone who will send us the names and addresses of twenty-five of his
friends, boys or girls, and fifty cents additional, will receive a
year’s subscription to YOUTH. The magazine will be sent to any desired
address. This is a very easy way for any person, young or old, to
obtain a year’s subscription. We wish the twenty-five names for the
sole purpose of distributing sample copies of YOUTH. They will be put
to no other use, so that no one need have any hesitation in sending the
list.


_SPECIAL SUBSCRIPTION OFFER_

In order to make it a substantial object for our subscribers to
interest themselves in extending the circulation of YOUTH, we have
decided to make the following special offer:

For every new subscription sent us we will send, free of all cost,
one of any of the books named in the accompanying list. These books
are the latest and best stories of the most popular writers for boys
and girls. They are beautifully illustrated and handsomely bound. The
regular price of each book is $1.25. This is an exceptional opportunity
for any one to add to his library with little effort, and we trust that
a very large number of our subscribers will quickly avail themselves
of this special offer. This, of course, does not apply to those taking
advantage of our other subscription offers.

  Earning Her Way                   By Mrs. Clarke Johnson
  Her College Days                  By Mrs. Clarke Johnson
  A Maid at King Alfred’s Court     By Lucy Foster Madison
  A Maid of the First Century       By Lucy Foster Madison
  A Yankee Girl In Old California   By Evelyn Raymond
  My Lady Barefoot                  By Evelyn Raymond
  Dorothy Day                       By Julie M. Lippmann
  Miss Wildfire                     By Julie M. Lippmann
  An Odd Little Lass                By Jessie E. Wright
  An Every-day Heroine              By Mary A. Denison
  Uncrowning a King                 By Edward S. Ellis, A. M.
  At the Siege of Quebec            By James Otis
  In the Days of Washington         By William Murray Graydon
  On Woodcove Island                By Elbridge S. Brooks
  Under the Tamaracks               By Elbridge S. Brooks
  The Wreck of the Sea Lion         By W. O. Stoddard
  The Young Financier               By W. O. Stoddard
  True to His Trust                 By Edward S. Ellis, A. M.
  Comrades True                     By Edward S. Ellis, A. M.
  Among the Esquimaux               By Edward S. Ellis, A. M.
  The Campers Out                   By Edward S. Ellis, A. M.
  The Young Gold Seekers            By Edward S. Ellis, A. M.
  Andy’s Ward                       By James Otis
  Chasing a Yacht                   By James Otis
  The Braganza Diamond              By James Otis
  The Lost Galleon                  By W. Bert Foster
  Exiled to Siberia                 By William Murray Graydon
  The Lost Gold Mine                By Frank H. Converse
  A Cape Cod Boy                    By Sophie Swett
  Making His Mark                   By Horatio Alger, Jr.
  The Young Boatman                 By Horatio Alger, Jr.
  The Odds Against Him              By Horatio Alger, Jr.




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The regular weekly features are “What is Going On,” “Current Thought
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Denver, Colo._

FOR ILLUSTRATED PAMPHLETS




=Bird Manna=,

the great secret of the canary breeders of the Hartz Mountains in
Germany, is as necessary to canary birds as is seed. It is a stimulant
that prevents their ailments and keeps them in health and song.
They won’t even stop singing during the critical season of shedding
feathers. No trouble to get birds to eat it as they are very fond of
it. Ask your druggist for Bird Manna, or send us 15 cents and we’ll
mail it to you.

[Illustration]

The Philadelphia Bird Food Co.’s


=Bird Bitters=

is a medicine for sick birds and gives quick relief. Infuses new
life and vitality into the household pet. A few drops mixed in the
bird’s drinking water brings out the song almost immediately. Get a
bottle of Bird Bitters from your druggist and see how quickly the bird
will recover from its illness. There are numerous imitations of Bird
Bitters. Be sure to ask for the Philadelphia Bird Food Co.’s Bird
Bitters so that you get the genuine. 25 cents. Mailed for the same
price.

 The Philadelphia Bird Food Co.
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BOOK ON CAGE BIRDS.

Hints on treatment and breeding of all kinds of cage birds, with
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an aviary. Over 150 engravings and a colored frontispiece, showing
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THE POULTRY DOCTOR.

By John E. Diehl, American Poultry Assoc. Judge, one of the highest
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A BOOK OF THE DOG.

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THE DOMESTIC CAT.

Another book by John E. Diehl. Invaluable to owners of cats. Describes
different breeds and varieties, and states how to keep and rear them.
Tells about their various diseases and remedies. Publisher’s regular
price was 50 cts., but our special price is 25 cents.


BOOK ON POULTRY.

116 pages, with lithographic plate of group of different fowls in
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THE TOY DOG.

The last book written by John E. Diehl. Illustrated with about 50
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many different varieties of toy dogs. How to select, breed and manage
them. Mailed for 25 cts.


☞ The entire series of six books will be sent, prepaid, to any address
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BUY, READ AND THEN RECOMMEND

[Illustration: PUSSY MEOW

S·LOUISE PATTESON]

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A CAT

 By S. Louise Patteson. With an introduction by Sarah
 K. Bolton. 12mo. Attractively bound in cloth and fully
 illustrated. Price, net, 60 cents; by mail, 70 cents.

Here is a book that is a fitting companion to “Black Beauty” and
“Beautiful Joe.” There are few books that have had so wide or deserved
a circulation as these. Almost every parent has read them to children
over and over, and when the children are able to read they read them
again. “Pussy Meow” is another classic for children dealing with the
cat.--_The Philadelphia Inquirer._


For Sale by all Booksellers, or by the Publishers

=George W. Jacobs & Co.=, Philadelphia

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=STAMMERING CURED=


[Illustration: THE LEWIS PHONO-METRIC INSTITUTE, DETROIT, MICH.

_The only building ever erected at any time during the world’s history
exclusively as an institution for the cure of Stammering._]

[Illustration: Geo. Andrew Lewis Principal and Founder, who stammered
for more than twenty years.]

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Refer by permission to Hon. Wm. C. Marbury, Mayor of Detroit, Rev.
Robert Stuart MacArthur, D.D., L.L.D., Pastor Calvary Baptist Church,
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Arbor, Mich., Prof. Robert Irving Fulton, Ohio Western University,
Delaware, Ohio, Dr. Robert L. Randolph, Johns Hopkins University,
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Additional references furnished on request. Our 200-page book, “The
Origin and Treatment of Stammering,” sent FREE to any address for six
cents in stamps to cover postage. Ask also for a FREE sample copy of
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THE LEWIS PHONO-METRIC INSTITUTE, 65 Adelaide Street, Detroit, Mich.




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...By... WILLIAM PITTENGER


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THE STONE METHOD

[Illustration]


 The Clothes do not make the man. Of course the tailor
 does his part, but he must have a foundation on which to
 build. =The Stone Method= fills out every flabby muscle,
 straightens the stooping figure, making it erect, alert,
 self-confident. If you are not as vigorous as a young
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 proof of the value of our system of physical training. We
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 Physical Culture to men and women in every part of the
 world. It requires only 10 minutes time each day in your own
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 two hours. The exercises are rational, moderate, and are
 taught by an instructor thoroughly versed in physiology, and
 who has been prominent in athletics for 32 years. Does not
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Transcriber's Notes


A number of typographical errors were corrected silently.

Cover image is in the public domain.

Added major heading “Advertisements” to separate main body from
advertisements.

“Advertisements” was added to the Table of Contents.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 67106 ***