This letter did more for Mrs. Morton's health than the doctor's tonic. She tied on her apron and set to making fruit cake and cookies and every delicious and indigestible compound she could think of that would stand packing and a four-days' journey. Chicken Little and Sherm spent their evenings making candy and picking out walnut meats to send. Dr. Morton made the nine-mile trip to town on the coldest day of the season to insure Ernest's getting the box on the very day before Christmas.

The family at the ranch had a quiet holiday week. The day after New Year's, Jane was invited to come to town and stay over night to attend an amateur performance of Fatinitza, a light opera the young people had staged for the benefit of a struggling musical society. Chicken Little was excitedly eager to go. Mrs. Morton deliberated for some time before she gave her consent. Marian and Frank and Sherm all teased in her behalf, before it was won.

Sherm drove her in, and Frank, having business in town the following day with a cattle buyer from Kansas City, volunteered to bring her home. Jane wore her Christmas present, a crimson cashmere with fine knife plaitings of crimson satin for its adorning. Frank lent her his sealskin cap and she felt very grand, and looked piquantly radiant, as she revolved for her mother's inspection before slipping into her big coat. Sherm, standing waiting, inspected her, too.

"Scrumptious, Lady Jane, you look like that red bird I've been trying to catch out in the evergreen by the gate."

Mrs. Morton shook her head disapprovingly. "No compliments, Sherm, Jane is just a little girl and she must remember that pretty is as pretty does. Don't forget, dear, to thank Mrs. Webb for her hospitality when you come away. Are you sure your ears are clean?"

"Oh, Mother, I'm not a baby!" Chicken Little protested indignantly. "You talk as if I were about five years old."

"My dear daughter, your mother will speak to you as she sees fit. Have you got the high overshoes? I think, perhaps, you'd better take Father's muffler. Sherm, have you both buffalo robes?"

Chicken Little relieved her feelings by making a little moue at Sherm. He winked discreetly in return.

"Why," she said disgustedly after they were started, "won't mothers ever let you grow up? I am a whole inch taller than Mother now, and half the time she treats me as if I didn't have the sense of a chicken."

"Well, you see you're the only girl in the family, and you've been the littlest chicken so long your mother kind of likes to shut her eyes to all those extra inches you've been collecting. By the way, Miss Morton, I don't notice that muffler your mother mentioned, and I think you'll be cold enough before we get to town to wish you had it."

"You don't suppose I was going to wear that clumsy thing? I can snuggle down under the robes if I get cold."

"No, I didn't suppose, so I brought the red scarf Mother gave me Christmas, for your ears. They'd be frosted sure without anything. Did you think your pride would keep you warm, Chicken Little?"

Chicken Little was inclined to resent this delicate attention; Sherm seemed to be putting her in the same class her mother had. But her ears were already beginning to tingle as they left the timber and got the full force of the wind on the open prairie. Sherm was swinging the bays along at a good pace. The cutter glided smoothly over the frozen snow. She submitted meekly while he awkwardly wrapped the muffler over her cap with his free hand. The soft wool was deliciously comfortable. She neglected, however, to mention this fact to him.

"Too stubborn to own up, Lady Jane?"

Jane stole a glance at the quizzical face turned in her direction. Then she evaded shamelessly.

"Sherm, don't you just adore to skate?"

* * * * *

Chicken Little was in a pulsing state of excitement that evening as she listened to the pretty, lilting music and watched gorgeously clad young people, many of whom she recognized, moving demurely about the little stage. To others it was merely a very creditable amateur performance; to Chicken Little, it opened a whole new world of ideas and imagining. She had been to a theatre but twice in her whole life, once to Uncle Tom's Cabin and once to a horrible presentation of Hamlet, which resulted in her disliking the play to the day of her death. She loved the light and color and harmony of it all. She delighted in it so much that she sighed because it would be so soon over.

"What are you sighing for, Jane? Don't you like it?" her hostess inquired.

Chicken Little gave a little wriggle of joy. "Like it? I just love it—it's like butterflies keeping house. Don't you wish everything was like that—pretty and gay, with all the lovers getting things straightened out right?"

"Dear me, Jane, do you get all that out of this poor little comic opera? I must have you come in to all our amateur things if you love music so."

"I don't love music so very much—I hate to practice. I shouldn't care for their singing very much by itself, it's seeing the actors and thinking how they feel—and their pretty clothes and——"

Mrs. Webb laughed.

"Chicken Little, I envy you—you are going to see so many things that most people shut their eyes to."

Jane studied about this, but she hardly liked to ask what things Mrs. Webb meant, because that lady seemed to expect her to know, and she felt she would appear stupid not to. She lay awake a long time that night; the music seemed to be splashing over her in little waves of melody. Even after she had once fallen asleep, she awakened to find her brain still humming the insistent measures. The next morning she went downtown with her hostess and met Mamie Jenkins in a store.

"Why, Chicken Little, I didn't know you were in town? Your brother didn't say anything about your being here."

"Frank? Is he in already?"

"Yes, I just saw him. Say, did you know a crowd of us are going out to his house to-night to an oyster supper?"

"No, who's going?"

"Oh, a lot of the town boys and girls, and Grant Stowe and me. John Hardy asked him if a crowd of us couldn't come out to-night and surprise your sister, and Frank said come along, he'd have some hot oysters for us. The boys have got a big bobsled from the livery stable. I bet we have a lovely time. Why don't you and Sherm stay in and go out with us—I guess there'll be room. Anyhow, you can always crowd more into a bobsled, it's more fun when you're packed in."

Mamie giggled expressively.

Jane was surprised to learn that Sherm had come in with Frank and she was also extremely doubtful whether her mother would approve of her waiting to come out with the party. John Hardy's crowd was one of the gayest in town and they were very much grown up. But her outing the previous evening had given her a taste for grown-up things; she was eager for the lark and resolved to tease Frank to let her stay in.

Frank studied the matter for several minutes, but finally consented rather reluctantly. He saw Sherm was also keen for the fun.

"All right, Sis, that set are pretty old for a kid like you and I'll have a time squaring myself with Mother. But you don't have many good times and Sherm's steady enough to look after you. They are planning to start early. I guess you'll get home by eight."

Frank left for the ranch about three o'clock to warn Marian of her surprise party. Mrs. Webb had insisted that Sherm stay with them for an early supper. The party had arranged to start at six. With a good team they should reach the ranch easily by eight, have two hours for merry-making, and get back to town by midnight.

The cold had moderated through the day; by five o'clock, the sky was leaden gray and it looked like snow. Some of the fathers and mothers were doubtful as to whether they ought to risk so long a drive. But the weather was ideal, if it only didn't snow, and there might not be another night during the holidays when they could all go.

The expedition had bad luck from the start. The livery man, disliking the weather prospects, had had an inferior team harnessed to the big sled. John Hardy and the other young men stood for their rights and after a long wrangle, succeeded in getting what they wanted. But this had consumed precious time. They drove out of the livery barn at six-thirty instead of six, as they had intended. Then two or three of the girls were not ready. One of the last called for, having sat with her wraps on for over three-quarters of an hour, had finally removed them and her party frock as well, in disgust, thinking the jaunt had been given up on account of the weather. By the time she had dressed herself afresh it was a quarter past seven. There was still one young man to be picked up at the hotel. He, too, had grown tired of waiting and had started out to hunt the sleigh. Ten minutes more were consumed searching for him. The clock in the schoolhouse tower was striking the half hour as the sleigh load passed the last house in the little town, and turned into the country road leading to the ranch.

Sherm pulled out his watch. "Whew, Frank and Marian will have a nice wait for us! We can't possibly make it till after nine."

The next two miles went with a dash. The moonlight was a dim gray half light instead of the silvery radiance they had counted upon.

"Those clouds must be beastly heavy—there is scarcely a star to be seen," ejaculated John Hardy, who was on the driver's seat with a sprightly girl of nineteen for his companion. "What'll you bet the snow catches us before we get home to-night?"

"I'll bet you it catches us before we get out to Morton's," retorted one of the other young men.

"Well, I'm glad I am taking my turn at driving going out, if that's the case. I shouldn't like the job of keeping the road on these prairies in a nice blinding snowstorm."

"Oh, that's just because you're a town dude," said Grant Stowe boastfully. "It is just as easy to follow a country road as a street in town if you only know the country."

"All right, Grant, if it snows, we'll let you drive home."

"If it snows?" exclaimed one of the girls. "I felt a flake on my nose this very minute."

The party surveyed the sky.

"Oh, you are just dreaming, Kate."

"Somebody blew you a kiss and it cooled off on the way," teased another.

"Just wait a minute, smarties. There—there was another!"

"Yes, I felt one, too!" exclaimed Mamie.

"You're right, it's coming." Sherm stared at the sky in some concern.

"Better whoop it right along, John," advised one of the young men thoughtfully.

"I am not so sure that we shouldn't be sensible to turn round and call this frolic off for to-night," John Hardy replied.

There was a chorus of No's.

"Nonsense, who's afraid of a little snow? Besides, we'd disappoint the Mortons and Jane's mother would be frantic if she didn't come. Don't crawfish, John Hardy."

"I'm equal to anything the rest of you are. I merely thought it might be rough on the girls, and occasion some alarm to other fond relatives in town, if we failed to get back to-night."

"Oh, stop your croaking!"

"There will be no trouble getting back."

"Of course not, the horses can find the way if we can't."

"Here, start something to sing and shut off these ravens!"

The crowd sang lustily for the next twenty minutes, then the snow began coming down steadily and the majority of the young people commenced to disappear under the robes and blankets.

"The pesky stuff is getting inside my collar!" exclaimed one of the men who had insisted upon keeping his head out.

"Why don't you tear yourself from the scenery and come under cover?" asked Mamie pertly.

"Yes, Smith, I'm only holding one of Mamie's hands. You may keep the other warm."

"He's not either. Don't you believe him, Mr. Smith," Mamie protested.

John Hardy spoke to the girl beside him. He had been watching the road ahead too closely for several minutes to do any talking.

"Hadn't you better go back with the others—there's no need for you to get wet and cold."

"Oh, I am all right—it isn't cold—very."

"I am afraid it is going to be—the wind is rising and it's coming right in our faces. We're a pack of fools to go!"

"We must be nearly half way there, aren't we?"

"I think so—I have never been out to the Morton ranch. Well, if worst comes to worst, I guess they'll keep us all night."

The crowd was beginning to quiet down. By the time they had covered two more miles the wind was blowing the snow in their faces with stinging force. John Hardy was having trouble to keep the horses in the road. They, too, recoiled from the snow drifting in their faces. He finally persuaded his companion to go back under the robes. Sherm volunteered to take her place.

"I don't like the look of things," said Hardy in a low tone as Sherm climbed up beside him. "Can you tell where we are?"

Sherm stared at the snow-covered waste ahead and tried to recognize some familiar land mark in the white gloom.

"Yes, I think so. That was Elm Creek you crossed some time back. We must be about half way from Elm to Big John."

"How far now?"

"Three miles."

"Can you see the time?"

"Nine-twenty."

"The dickens, we ought to be there!"

"It oughtn't to be long now. Let me take the reins—your hands must be cold."

"Just a minute till I start the circulation. I feel sort of responsible for this gang, because I got up this fool enterprise." Hardy clapped his hands together vigorously.

"It wouldn't be bad except for the wind!" Hardy said presently.

"That's the worst of Kansas, there always is a wind!" Sherm had not yet been entirely converted to the charms of the sunflower state.

When Hardy took the reins again, Sherm still peered ahead, watching the road. He had been finding something vaguely unfamiliar about the landscape, though this was not strange since neither house nor tree nor haystack was visible through the storm until they were almost upon it. Then it loomed up suddenly shrouded and spectral. This feeling of strangeness grew upon him and he felt uneasy.

"Stop the team a minute, Hardy." Sherm got down and went to the horses' heads, peering all about. He scraped the snow away with his foot and examined the ground.

He let out a shrill whistle of dismay, as he uncovered grass spears instead of the hard-trodden road bed.

"Say, Hardy, we're off the road. I thought so from the way the sled was dragging."

Hardy climbed hastily down with an exclamation that sounded profane. The boys in the sleigh also piled hurriedly out. They soon assured themselves of the sorrowful fact.

"What can we do?"

"Isn't there a house somewhere near where we can inquire?"

"What did you fellows go to sleep for when you were driving, anyhow?"

"You'll have to go back on your tracks till you find the road again."

Questions and offers of advice were numerous.

Sherm had walked a short distance back, exploring. He returned in time to hear this last remark.

"The trouble is, Grant, the snow hasn't left us any tracks. Two hundred yards back you can hardly see where we came."

The others began to wake to the seriousness of the situation.

"Haven't you any idea where we are, Dart?"

"Not the faintest notion, except that we are somewhere between Elm and Big John. Perhaps Jane might know. She usually has a sixth sense for direction.

"Chicken Little," he called, "do you mind getting out and seeing if you can tell us where we are?"

Chicken Little was on the ground with a spring before Sherm could help her. She strained her eyes through the gloom. She, too, examined the ground, then, accompanied by Sherm and Hardy, waded through the snow for several hundred yards in each direction, the men kicking the snow in the hope of finding the track. Finally, Chicken Little gave it up.

"I don't know a blessed thing more than the rest of you. But I have the feeling we must be near Charlie Wattles' place—you know that old darkey. You see the wind was right in our faces most of the way, and it isn't now. It's coming obliquely—course the wind may have changed. Let's try heading west a while—and see if we can find the road. Let me sit up there with you and Sherm; I might see something I'd recognize."

"Chicken Little, you'd freeze," objected Sherm.

"Not any sooner than you will, Sherman Dart."

"We can wrap her up in a blanket and she might help us—we have got to get out of this some way. It's ten o'clock."

They drove about slowly for half an hour, but they could find nothing that looked like a road. Some of the sleigh load were openly apprehensive and inclined to blame Hardy for their plight, but for the most part they were plucky and good-natured, trying to turn off their growing fear with jests.

Chicken Little glued her eyes to the dimness ahead.

Sherm suggested that they give the horses their head.

"They'll try to go back to town if we do, and I don't believe they could hold out—that off one is blowing pretty badly now. This snow is heavy as mud to pull through." Hardy looked dubious.

"Turn due west, Mr. Hardy—we can't be far from Big John."

Hardy obeyed and they drove another half hour, seeing nothing save the fluttering snowflakes and the snowy wastes opening out a few feet ahead as they advanced.

"Chicken Little, your theory is all right, but it doesn't seem to work," Sherm remarked regretfully.

In the meanwhile, time had also been moving along at the ranch. The big sitting room at the cottage was brightly lighted and glowingly warm from an open wood fire. By eight o'clock, coffee was steaming on the back of the kitchen stove, the extension table pulled out to its full length, was set with soup plates and cups and silver. Piles of doughnuts and baskets of apples and walnuts stood awaiting the sharp appetites the Mortons knew the cold ride would bring to them. Marian had the milk and oysters ready for the stew and sat down to rest a moment before the arrival of the guests. She hardly noticed the clock until the hand pointed to half-past eight.

"My, they're late!" she exclaimed.

Frank got up and went to the door. He encountered Dr. Morton just coming in.

"When did you say those youngsters were coming? It's snowing like fury." He paused on the porch to give himself another shake.

"I don't believe they'll try to come out to-night. I guess you've had all your trouble for nothing. I only wish Chicken Little and Sherm had come home with you."

Frank, being a good many years nearer to understanding the rashness of youth than his father, disagreed with him.

"I bet they tried all right, but they may have had to give it up. I wonder how long it's been snowing this way. I haven't been out since supper."

Dr. Morton sat and visited for a half hour, then said he guessed he'd better go back to Mother. She was worrying a little about her baby being out such a night.

"She needn't," he concluded, "even a child like Jane would have sense enough not to start on a nine-mile ride in such weather."

After his father had gone, Frank put on his coat and went down the lane with a lantern. He came back presently and sat down by the fire without saying anything.

Marian saw he was worried. "You don't think they've got lost, do you, Frank?"

"I don't know what to think. I hope Father is right and they had sense enough not to start. But I wish to goodness I hadn't let Jane stay in."

They sat there listening for every sound until the clock struck ten. Frank had twice gone to the door, imagining he heard sleigh bells. He got to his feet again at the sound of the clock.

"You might as well go to bed, dear. We sha'n't see them to-night, but I'll sit up till eleven myself to make sure."



Marian waited a little while longer, then took his advice. Frank sat by the fire and pretended to read until five minutes of twelve, then he, too, gave up the vigil as hopeless.

At ten minutes past two they both sat up with a start at the sound of sleigh bells. An instant later there was a vigorous pounding on the door.

Frank stared into the darkness for one confused instant, then leaped out of bed, and wrapping a dressing gown about him, flung open the door.

Twelve numbed and snow-covered figures stumbled into the room. Two of the men were half carrying one of the girls.

"Fire up quick, Frank, we're most frozen! And get some hot water!" Sherm exclaimed, suiting the action to the word by stirring up the coals of the dying fire and piling on wood.

It was not until a half hour later when they were warmed and fed, that the Mortons had time to listen to any connected account of the night's adventures. Frank had speedily summoned his father to prescribe for frosted cheeks and fingers and toes. Later, it was discovered that John Hardy had a badly sprained wrist. Marian and Mrs. Morton made the girls comfortable and finished preparing the belated oyster supper.

"I am glad we didn't lose this oyster supper altogether," said Grant Stowe feelingly. "I never tasted anything better."

"Same here," a half dozen laughing voices echoed.

"I wasn't so darned sure an hour ago that some of us were ever going to taste anything again," said John Hardy soberly.

"Things didn't look exactly rosy, specially when we got spilled out," one of the girls added.

"What, did you have an upset?" Dr. Morton looked as if this were the last straw.

"Yes, that's how Hardy sprained his wrist!"

"Chicken Little had just assured us that if we would drive a little farther west, we should surely find something, when we struck the sidehill and went over as neat as you please." Mamie enjoyed this thrust at Jane.

"Well, we found something, didn't we?" defended Sherm.

"I should say we found out how deep the snow was."

"Yes, and the sidehill made Jane sure we were near the creek, and then she saw the trees and——"

"Yes, and then she found it wasn't the creek at all, but the Wattles' place."

"Whew!" exclaimed Frank, "you didn't get over to black Charlie's? Why, that was three miles out of your road!"

"Yes, Frank, and you ought to have seen him. He was scared to death when we came pounding on his door in the middle of the night." Chicken Little giggled at the recollection.

"And there was a trundle bed full of pickanninies and they kept popping their heads up. They were so ridiculous—with their little pigtails sticking up all over their heads, and their bead eyes."

"Well, old Charlie warmed us up all right and started us back on the road again," said John Hardy gratefully.

"And there's another thing sure," said Marian, interrupting this flow of reminiscence, "you can't go back to town to-night, and you must be tired to death, all of you. Mother Morton, if you will take the girls over with you, Frank and I will make some pallets by the fire for these boys, and let them get some sleep."

* * * * *

The real sport of this excursion came the next day when Frank Morton hitched an extra team on in front of the livery horses and drove the party back to town himself, to make sure they did not come to grief again in the piled-up drifts. But Chicken Little and Sherm were not along. They watched them drive off with never a pang of envy.

"I have had enough bobsled riding to do me for this winter," said Jane wearily. Her evening at Fatinitza seemed a thousand years away.

"Ditto, yours truly!" And Sherm yawned luxuriously.



CHAPTER XVIII

AN APRIL FOOL FROLIC

Mrs. Morton and Marian were sitting by the great open fire at the cottage sewing for Jilly. Jilly herself had constructed a wonderful vehicle of two chairs hitched to the center table, and she was vainly trying to persuade Huz and Buz to occupy seats in this luxurious equipage. Lazy Buz, having once been dragged up into a chair, stayed put, though he looked aggrieved, but Huz had his eye on the braided rag rug in front of the fireplace. The moment Jilly's gaze was attracted elsewhere, he would jump softly down and curl up on the rug.

Marian had risen three times to restore him to Jilly because she mourned so loudly, but she finally began to sympathize with the pup.

"Let him be, Honey, you've got Buz for company. Huz doesn't want to play."

Jilly opened her mouth to wail. Then she suddenly changed her mind, climbed down, and going over to Huz began whispering vigorously into his ear. Her warm breath tickled Huz and he flopped his ear to drive away the annoying insect. Jilly beamed, calling joyfully to her mother: "Huz say ess, Mamma, Huz say ess."

"But Jilly, Huz can't talk."

"He nod he's ear, Mamma. Huz nod he's ear."

The unfortunate Huz went up into the chair once more.

Mrs. Morton glanced out the window where the March wind was whipping the bare branches of the cherry trees into mournful complaining. Eddying leaves fluttered from the heaps accumulated in fence corners or beneath the friendly shelter of the evergreens. A huge tumble weed went whirling down the road, passed on by each succeeding gust. In and out of the cedars, the robins were flying, prospecting for new nests. She pushed back her hair and sighed.

"It doesn't seem possible that April is almost here. Ernest has been gone nearly a school year. I am beginning to realize that I sha'n't see much more of my boy."

"But, Mother Morton, he is doing so beautifully and he likes the life. You couldn't keep him with you much longer, even if he were not in the academy. Besides, you still have Jane."

Mrs. Morton sighed again.

"That is the worst of this ranch life. Jane is growing so fast I shall soon have to be sending her away to school. If we only lived some place where she could be right with me till she finished her education."

"Oh, Mother Morton, I am glad she can't. It is the best part of a girl's education to go away from all the home coddling and have to rely upon herself. I wouldn't give anything for what I learned by being away from family and friends, and having to exert myself to make people like me, instead of taking it for granted."

"I don't doubt what you say is true, Marian, but Ernest is gone, and you don't know what a wrench it is going to be to send my baby away, too."

"Are you thinking of sending her next year?"

"I think I must, unless I can persuade Father to move to town for the winter so she can go to the High School. It isn't merely the studies—I am most dissatisfied with her associations here."

"I know—the Creek is certainly a little crude. Still I think Jane is pretty sensible. And she is learning a lot about human nature—human nature without its party clothes. It's good for her, Mother, if she doesn't get too much of it."

"What's good for whom?" Dr. Morton, coming in, was attracted by Marian's earnest tone.

"Jane, and the effect District Thirteen is having on her," Marian explained.

"I was just saying, Father, that she is getting too old to be associating with Tom, Dick, and Harry the way she is doing up at the schoolhouse."

"There you go again, Mother. You don't go about enough among the neighbors to know what good kindly people they are. Of course, they are plain, but the Tom, Dick, and Harry you complain of, are more wholesome than lots of more stylish youngsters I know. I wish you'd try to be a little more neighborly. I am constantly hearing little thrusts about our family being stuck up. Frank will bear me out in this."

Frank had followed his father and was warming his hands in the blaze.

"Oh, the Creek thinks the Morton family has a good opinion of itself, all right. But I have been thinking for some time that it wouldn't hurt us any to have some sort of a merry-making and invite all the neighbors in." Frank looked at Marian.

"What could we have, Frank?" Marian inquired, her brow puckered a little.

"Well, April Fool's Day is next Wednesday—why not get up a frolic for that evening?"

"Just for the young folks?"

"No, men, women, and children. Invite the families. Send out an invitation to the whole Creek. There will be a lot who can't come. Cook up plenty of stuff and we can play tricks—they won't need much entertaining. How would that suit you, Chicken Little?"

Jane had just strayed in to join the family group and was listening with interest.

"I think it would be bully."

"Jane, where did you pick up such a coarse expression? Father, that's just what I complain of. How am I to teach my daughter to be a gentle woman, when she is constantly hearing vulgar language?"

"Chicken Little is old enough to know better than to use such words, but she probably got that from Ernest or Sherm, if the truth were known." Frank laughed.

Chicken Little looked injured.

"Why, bully isn't a by-word—or strong language—and Ernest said it a lot. You never said anything to him about it's being vulgar."

"My dear daughter, can I never make you understand that little ladies may not do everything their brothers do?"

"I don't care, Mother, I'm sick of hearing about ladies, and if bully is so vulgar, I don't see why it isn't vulgar when a boy says it. You expect Ernest to be a gentleman, don't you, just as much as you do me to be a lady?"

"Come, Chicken Little, don't speak to your mother that way," Dr. Morton reproved her.

Mrs. Morton was more severe.

"You may go to your room and remain until you can address your mother respectfully, my daughter."

Frank's plan was carried out. There were no formal invitations issued. Frank and Dr. Morton and Jim Bart spoke to every neighbor they met for the next few days, inviting them to come to an April Fool frolic at seven on the evening of April first, and asking them to pass the invitation along to the other residents of Big John. Chicken Little and Sherm rode over to give Captain Clarke a special invitation, fearing he might not have become sufficiently used to Creek ways to come on the more general bidding.

The Captain was charmed and begged leave to send Wing over to help that evening. Wing delighted in every new experience he was having on the Creek. He grinned joyously at the prospect.

The entire Morton family entered into the preparations for this novel party with enthusiasm. Even Jilly and Huz and Buz caught the excitement of something unusual going on, and hung round, and got under everybody's feet, more successfully than usual. Jilly had the privilege of scraping icing bowls while Huz and Buz looked enviously on. They licked their sticky chops ecstatically when Jilly turned the bowl over to them after she had done her best with the big tin spoon. Her mother reproached her for letting the pups eat out of one of the family dishes, but Jilly couldn't see why her mother was so particular.

Mrs. Morton and Annie and Marian baked cakes and doughnuts and cookies and mince pies and custard pies, and roasted turkeys and whole hams, until pantry and cellar and spring house were all overflowing. It would be a never-ending reproach, if there should not be an abundance for all who might come, and no one could even guess how many would come.

"It looks like enough for a regiment," said Mrs. Morton wearily, dropping into a rocking chair on the afternoon of the thirty-first day of March.

"Yes, but country men do have such astonishing appetites. I am sure it would feed all Centerville for twenty-four hours. Of course, some of the things are not eatable," Marian replied.

They had carried out the April Fool idea as much as possible without spoiling the supper. Six nice brown doughnuts had wads of cotton concealed in their tempting rings. These were to be mixed with the good ones. Pickles just out of the brine, were to be put in the same dish with deliciously perfect ones. There was to be just enough of the false to keep the guests on the alert and make fun.

While they were sitting there resting, Frank and Dr. Morton came in from a trip to town. Frank tossed a package into Marian's lap with a laugh.

"These ought to do the work for somebody. I'd like to fool old Jake Schmidt. It would be worth ten dollars to see his face—he is such a screw about driving a bargain."

Marian untied the string and opened the parcel, revealing a handful of the most luscious-looking little cucumber pickles that ever lured the unwary.

"They certainly look all right," said Marian, "what's the matter with them—salt?"

"Feel them."

Marian picked one up gingerly as if she were afraid it might prick her or explode in her hand. Then she threw back her head and laughed merrily.

"Frank, they are just perfect. I never should have guessed it. You can fetch Jake all right with one of these. Let me know when you do, I'd like to be round to see the fun."

"Aren't you afraid you will hurt somebody's feelings with all these pranks? They don't seem quite dignified some way for grown up people."

"That's just why we want to have them, Mother. The Creek thinks the Morton family is entirely too grown up and stiff. They'll be good-natured, never fear."

That evening Chicken Little and Sherm put their heads together.

"We just must find some way to fool Frank—I sha'n't be happy if we don't." Chicken Little bit her lips and studied. "Can't you think of something, Sherm?"

"Not right off the bat, but if we keep our eyes open, we'll find a way. It would be jolly if we could do it before the crowd. They would so love to see Frank have to take his own medicine. Say, this party is going to be a Jim dandy!"

It had been decided to have the gathering at the cottage, as the big sitting room and the bedroom adjoining would hold more people than Mrs. Morton's parlor, sitting room, and dining-room all three. Further, the parlor, being separated from the other rooms by a short hallway, was of use only for some little group who wished to be by themselves. Sherm and Chicken Little were busy all day trimming up the pictures and the windows with evergreen and bitter sweet berries, mixed with trailers from the Japanese honeysuckle, which still showed green underneath where it had escaped the hardest freezes. Marian flitted in occasionally with suggestions, but the two did most of the work alone. Chicken Little began by giving Sherm precise directions as to how he was to arrange each branch and spray, but, presently, he began to try little effects of his own so much more charming than hers, that she called Marian in to see.

"You certainly have a knack for decoration, Sherm. I never dreamed you were artistic. Why didn't you tell us? That spray against the curtain is exquisite. Have you ever taken drawing lessons?" Marian was both surprised and interested to discover this unexpected talent in the self-contained lad.

"No, I have never taken real drawing—I used to copy little geometrical designs at school along with the rest."

"Well, you surely ought to have lessons. I shouldn't wonder if you had the making of an artist in you." Marian hurried back to her custards.

Chicken Little went on tying evergreen into ropes, but Marian had put several new ideas into her head.

"Do you want to be an artist, Sherm?"

"No, I want to be an architect."

"You never said anything about it before."

"What's the use of talking? Doesn't look as if I would ever get the education to be one now."

"Why, you can't tell. Even if your father can't send you, maybe you could work your own way—Mr. Clay has." Chicken Little looked troubled; Sherm's tone revealed a yearning she had not suspected.

"Yes, I could work my way if I had the chance. I guess Father is never going to be well again and——" He paused for a moment as if it were hard to go on. "Even if he lives, I may have to keep at work to support the family. Mother never says anything, and Father never told me much about his business—I don't know how much we have, but I'm afraid there isn't a great deal left."

There was a hopeless ring in his voice that hurt Chicken Little. She wanted to double up her fist and attack somebody or something in Sherm's behalf.

"I think they—your mother ought to tell you."

"Oh, Mother doesn't realize I am most grown—she—she doesn't think I amount to much I guess." The boy had been brooding; his manhood affronted because he had not been permitted to share in the family councils.

"Don't feel that way—she doesn't mean to leave you out, Sherm. You know it's awfully hard to write things and you have been away most a year."

"That's just it. I've been away most a year, and Mother doesn't even hint at my coming back!"

"But Sherm, she's so worried all the time about your father."

"All the same, I bet your mother wouldn't forget about Ernest if your father was ill. I am the only boy in the family and I know I could help, if they'd only trust me. It's being left out that hurts, Chicken Little. But forget everything I've said. I didn't mean to blab this way. I s'pose Mother's right—I can't even keep my own affairs to myself." Sherm shut his lips together tightly.

Jane tactfully changed the subject.

"I suppose you'd have to know a lot to be an architect."

"Yes, right smart—I'd need a college education, and then I'd like to go to Paris and study at the Beaux Arts."

"What's that?"

"Oh, it's a school for architects and artists. I don't know very much about it myself. The New York architect who designed the new court house at home told me I ought to go there, if I ever wanted to be a real honest to goodness architect. I had a talk with him one day. He said if I ever got ready to go, to write to him, and he would give me some letters to people in Paris."

"My, wouldn't that be grand to study in Paris? I most wish I was a boy—they can do such wonderful things."

* * * * *

The neighborhood gatherings began early. By half-past seven, hitching posts and trees and fence were all in use for the teams. Frank was pleased.

"If there is anything in numbers, this party is going to be a success. Sure you have plenty to eat?"

Marian groaned. "Frank, I am dead sure we have all the food we can possibly serve between now and midnight. I don't see how we are ever to manage."

"Don't worry, I'll impress about a dozen of the young folks as waiters—they will like nothing better. The boys each have one more pair of hands than they know what to do with. Look at the Raddon boys over by the fireplace. They have put their hands in their pockets, and taken them out, and dropped them by their sides, and picked up every bit of bric-a-brac on the mantel, and smoothed back their hair, and Heaven knows what else, during the last ten minutes. Hands are an awful responsibility! It will be a Godsend to them to give them something to do."

Chicken Little came out, after helping with wraps and seating guests, in a gale of merriment.

"Oh, Marian, do take a peep at Mrs. Brown. She has a purple skirt and a blue polonaise and a red bow on her hair, and she's got her hair banged in front and pulled back tight as can be behind."

"Hush, Jane, they're our guests."

"I know, and I didn't mean to be making fun—but Marian, she's a sight! And Jake Schmidt's wife and sister have the loveliest hand embroidered caps and aprons, with exquisite lace, that they brought from the old country, and some of the other women are sort of turning up their noses at them. I wish you'd go and say something extra nice to them."

Marian found her way to where Christine and Johanna Schmidt were shrinking into a corner, painfully aware that their festal dress was very different from their neighbors'. Marian asked after the children and said one or two pleasant things to make them feel at home, then, raising her voice a trifle so that the whole room might hear, she lifted a corner of Johanna's apron, exclaiming: "Where did you get this exquisite apron? I don't believe I have ever seen such a beautiful one. May I look at the lace?"

Johanna colored with pleasure. She forgot her shyness and explained eagerly. Marian did not leave her until she had made every woman in that part of the room admire both hers and Christine's old country handiwork, and they had promised to show her how to make the lace. There was no more smiling at their unusual dress. Others followed Marian's example in asking to be taught the beautiful craft. Old Jake himself, who had never before considered his women folk as amounting to much, was so gratified by the attention they were receiving, that he was more offensive than usual.

"Never mind," said Frank, "I'll fix Jake."

The early part of the evening passed in visiting and games. Supper was served at ten. There was a stir when the refreshments appeared. Word had gone about that there was to be some hoaxing in connection with the supper and everybody was firmly resolved not to be fooled. Marian allayed suspicion by starting them off with delicious coffee and rolls and cold ham and turkey. Having tasted these gingerly, and found them delicious, both young and old grew less wary. Chicken Little came in demurely with a great dish of pickles. The Creek loved pickles. It helped itself plentifully. Captain Clarke got the first taste of brine, but after one surprised grimace, he went on eating it heroically, while he watched the others. Old Jake promptly fixed his eye on a nice firm-looking green one. He lifted the fork awkwardly and attempted to take the pickle. The pickle slid from under the fork as if it had been greased. Jake was terribly afraid of being a laughing stock; he glanced slily around to see if any one had noticed. Frank was watching from the opposite side of the room, but Jake did not see him. He grasped the fork firmly in his great fist and speared the pickle as if he had been harpooning a fish. The pickle resented such violence. It shot out of the dish and half way across the room with old Jake, the fork still clenched firmly, gazing stupidly after it.

"April Fool, Jake!" called one of the men who saw the joke. Some one picked up the pickle and passed it from hand to hand. After that, people avoided the wooden pickles, but several took liberal bites of brine-steeped ones.

The fun was well under way by this time. So many people had been victimized that many refused the dainties they coveted, for fear of being deceived, only to find their next neighbor enjoying them. The guests began to try to catch each other, and the young men would get Marian to point out the traps. But, so far, Frank had escaped, though Sherm and Chicken Little had been plotting all day. They took Captain Clarke into their confidence, but even he failed, until he had the happy thought of getting Wing to help. Wing had been working busily in the kitchen assisting Annie.

Frank had steadily refused cotton wool doughnuts and sanded pie and every doubtful delicacy, but he was extremely fond of cup custard. When Wing approached him, urging that he be served now, Frank hesitated a moment, then said: "Just bring me a custard, Wing. And Wing, don't let anybody meddle with it."

Wing came grinning to the conspirators.

"Oh, dear," said Chicken Little, "I think the custards are all right."

Marian overheard. "Trust me, Chicken Little, I have one very special one for Frank—I didn't intend to have him crowing."

Wing bore in a most tempting custard. Frank inspected it carefully to make sure it had not been tampered with. In so doing he attracted the attention of those round him. He took a generous spoonful and made a hasty dive for the kitchen amid lively applause from the whole room.

"What was in it?" The Captain was still shaking.

"Mustard—Marian made it bad enough so he couldn't hide it!" Chicken Little was dancing up and down in glee.

"Wing, you rascal, I'd like to choke you." Frank was still sputtering.

Wing assumed a mournful expression. "Me velly sorry—nobody touch, samee you say."

It was the second of April before the last rattle of wheels died away down the lane.

"Well, Mother, I think it paid for the trouble," said Dr. Morton, as they were starting homeward, his arms laden with chairs.

"Yes, I guess, perhaps, I have been inclined to stand too much aloof. That little Mrs. Anderson is really a cultured woman. She comes from Maine. I asked her to come and spend the day Tuesday."

Marian's comment was brief.

"Frank, I am dead, but I'm glad we did it."

"So am I—put out the light." Frank was already half asleep.



CHAPTER XIX

SHERM HEARS BAD NEWS

"Sherm, don't you just love this room?" Chicken Little gazed about Captain Clarke's big library with a real affection. "I don't know why it is, but this room makes me feel the same way a sunset, or the prairie when it's all in bloom, does. I can't just tell you, but it makes me so satisfied with everything ... as if the world was so beautiful it couldn't possibly be very bad."

"I know—it's the harmony, like in music. The colors all seem to go together ... everything seems to belong. I like that, too, but it doesn't mean just that, to me. I see the Captain every time I step in here. It's a part of him—almost as if he had worked his own bigness and the kind of things he loves, into furniture and books and—fixings."

"Yes, there's so much room to breathe here—I s'pose being at sea so much, he had to have that. And he picked up most of these things on his voyages—he must have wanted them pretty bad or he wouldn't have carried them half around the world with him."

The young people had come over to the Captain's for supper. School had closed the day before, and Chicken Little was the proud possessor of an elaborate autograph album, won as a spelling prize. Captain Clarke had attended the closing exercises at her request. He had invited them over to celebrate, this evening. He declared he had never learned to spell himself and he wanted the honor of entertaining some one who knew how.

Chicken Little had brought the album along for the Captain's signature. "And write something, too, won't you? Something specially for me," she had begged winningly.

"Have they all written something—specially for you, Chicken Little? I should like to read them."

"I haven't asked very many people yet, just Mr. Clay and Grant Stowe and Mamie Jenkins' little sister—Mamie's in town you know. I asked Sherm, but he hasn't thought up anything."

The Captain glanced at Sherm and smiled whimsically. "Now, if I were as young as Sherm, I shouldn't have to think up things—the trouble would be to restrain my eloquence."

Sherm grinned and looked uncomfortable.

The Captain was merciful; he changed the subject.

"Isn't the middle of May a little early to close school?"

"No, it is the usual time. You see the older children have to help at home as soon as the weather gets warm."

"Of course. What are you going to do this summer?"

"Wish Ernest was home," Jane answered pertly, but there was a wistful look in her eyes.

Before the Captain could reply, Wing came to the door to announce a man to see him. The Captain was gone some time. When he returned, he explained that it was a buyer from Kansas City after his corn, and he should have to leave them to entertain themselves for a while.

"I'll tell you what you can do," he paused in the doorway as the idea occurred to him. "You two may rummage in the drawers of the cabinet. Take out anything you like the looks of. I think you will find a lot of interesting stuff there. Make yourselves at home."

They lingered, discussing the room for several minutes after his departure, then Jane went over to the cabinet.

"Come on—there are heaps of wonderful things here. He showed me some of them the day I ran off and came to see him on my own hook. That's a year ago! My, I feel as if it were a dozen—it seems as if I were just a little girl then."

"And now?" Sherm adored to set Jane off.

"None of your sarcasm, Mr. Dart." Then soberly: "Truly, Sherm, I know I'm a lot older. Things seem so different to me."

"I know you are, too, Lady Jane. I was only teasing you."

They had a beautiful half hour among the Captain's treasures. Sherm gloated especially over the prints—their wonderful composition and soft color.

"Say, the Japs know a thing or two, don't they? That wouldn't be my idea of what to put into a picture, but it's awfully satisfying." He held the print off and closed one eye to see the outlines more vividly.

"Sherm, you surely were intended for an artist." Chicken Little had gone on to the drawer below. "Oh, Sherm, I believe this is the drawer the Captain didn't show me before. Do you suppose he wants us to go through it?"

"He said all of them. What's in it?"

"Oh, sashes and scarfs and things. I thought maybe they used to belong to his wife."

Sherm lifted a Roman scarf of crimson and yellow and rich blue, and examined it admiringly. "It doesn't look as if this had ever been worn. I guess he wouldn't have told us to go ahead if there had been anything here he didn't want us to find. Say, Chicken Little, this would look dandy on you. Here, I'm going to fix you up for Captain Clarke to see."

Sherm shook out the glowing silken folds and proceeded to wreathe the scarf around Chicken Little's head, turban fashion. Her brown eyes glowed and the color in her cheeks grew deeper, as she met the admiration in Sherm's eyes. He was staring at her, enchanted at the result of his efforts. Jane moved restlessly.

"Hold still there, can't you? I want to try it another way. Didn't I see one of those sleeveless jacket affairs in there?"

Jane rummaged and brought to light a crimson silk Turkish jacket embroidered in gold thread. She noticed that it, too, seemed perfectly fresh.

"Sherm, I do wonder how Captain Clarke happened to buy all these woman's things. Do you suppose he bought them for his wife and she was dead when he got home with them?"

"I wonder. Perhaps we oughtn't to be handling them. See all those queer beads, and there's a bracelet! Isn't it a beauty? See, it is like silver lace. I guess those blue stones must be turquoises."

"Isn't it dainty? That must be the filigree work we read about."

Sherm was staring thoughtfully at the contents of the drawer. "One thing sure," he muttered, "he must have thought a heap of her."

Chicken Little had continued exploring. "Here's a photograph and two locks of hair in a little frame. Oh, Sherm, it's her! Yes, it must be, this is the same baby. I wonder why he doesn't have this on his bureau, too."

Sherm took the picture and stared at it so long that Jane grew impatient.

"What is it, Sherm? What's the matter?"

Sherm started, passing his hand over his forehead and eyes as if he were dazed.

"Funny, the face seems sort of familiar. I had such a queer feeling about it for a minute."

"I know why it looks familiar—there's a tiny bit of resemblance to you—not as much as in the pictures of the baby. I suppose the baby got it from the mother. Still, I think it looks like Captain Clarke, too, don't you?"

"Let's put these things back, Chicken Little. Poor little lady, I wonder what happened to her." Sherm laid the picture gently back in the bottom of the drawer and helped Jane fold and lay away the other things. They had both forgotten the Roman sash which still adorned her dark hair.

Captain Clarke, coming in soon after, started when he saw her and glanced at the cabinet.

"Dressing up, Chicken Little? That gew gaw was evidently intended by Providence for you. Won't you accept it as a present to keep that autograph album company?"

Chicken Little put her hand to her head in dismay. Captain Clarke must have thought she wanted it. She stammered awkwardly:

"Oh, Captain Clarke—I—couldn't take it. I oughtn't to have put it on."

Sherm calmly took the matter out of her hands.

"She didn't put it on, Captain Clarke. I'm the guilty party. I thought it would be so becoming to Chicken Little—her dark hair and eyes—you know. I didn't realize till we came across the picture that it belonged to your wife—and—you might not like to have us handle it."

"It was never Mrs. Clarke's," the Captain said evenly. "I bought it for her, but she"—he hesitated an instant—"she—died before my return. I told you to rummage the drawers, and that scarf is entirely too becoming to Chicken Little's bright eyes to be wasted in a drawer any longer. You will be doing me a favor, my dear.

"You seem to have an eye for color, Sherm. Juanita loved color, too, that is why I picked up so many gay things for her." Captain Clarke seemed to have formed a sudden resolution. He plunged his hand down among the rustling silks and brought up the picture. His hand trembled a little as he handed it to Chicken Little. "I have never shown you her picture before. She had eyes something like yours."

Chicken Little took the picture and tried to look as if nothing had happened. She described the scene to Marian afterwards. "O Marian, I felt as if I were standing in a story book. The Captain's face was as white, but he went on talking just as if I knew all about his wife, and—I do wonder! I felt so sorry for him. Sherm said he wanted to kick himself for being so thoughtless."

"Don't worry about it, Jane, and don't be trying to make a mystery out of what was merely a big sorrow. It must have been an awful blow to him to come home and find wife and baby both dead, but it happened years ago. I expect it did him good to talk to you and Sherm about it."

Chicken Little forgot about it after a few days, except when she went to the box where she kept the scarf. She always thought of the picture of the young mother and baby whenever she saw it.

"I don't believe I ever can wear it," she told Sherm.

"Oh, yes, you will, some of these days; the Captain would be hurt if you didn't."

* * * * *

Sherm hadn't heard from his mother for over a week when a neighbor came one evening and handed Dr. Morton a yellow envelope. "No bad news, I hope," he said.

It was addressed to Dr. Morton and read: "My husband died this morning. Break news to Sherm—he must await letter."

Sherm, too, was older than he had been a year before. He was coming up the lane whistling, swinging his supple young body along at a good pace, as if he enjoyed being alive. Dr. Morton watched him, dreading to have to tell him the bad news and wondering how he would take it. "It's a pity," he thought, "Sherm's a fine manly fellow and ought to have his education and a chance at life, and I am afraid this means more than losing his father."

He waited until the boy came up to him. He was still holding the telegram in his hand, but Sherm did not notice it until he spoke.

Dr. Morton's voice was very kind. "My boy, I am—afraid——" He got no farther. Sherm saw the telegram and understood. "Father?" he questioned. Dr. Morton nodded.

Sherm stood motionless, as if he were trying to realize that the blow he had so long dreaded, had fallen. Presently he looked up at the Doctor.

"There isn't any train before to-morrow, is there?"

"No, Sherm, and I don't think your mother expects—here, read the message."

Sherm's hand shook. He read the meager words through twice, then crushed the paper in his fist.

"I am going home to-morrow," he said doggedly. "I've got enough saved up for the railroad fare. He was my father—I haven't seen him for a year. They might have told me! I am not a child any longer!"

Dr. Morton laid his hand on his shoulder. "Don't, Sherm—don't add bitterness to grief. Your mother may not have known in time. Death often comes suddenly at the last in such cases. And, my boy, I would think twice before setting out rashly. Your mother asks you to wait for her letter—she must have some good reason. The message was sent this morning. There will probably be a letter to-morrow."

"I don't care whether there's a letter or not, I'm going." There was a hard look on the boy's face.

Chicken Little came running up, with Jilly panting alongside. "My, we had a good race, didn't we, Jilly Dilly? Why—what's——" She stopped short at sight of their grave faces.

Dr. Morton told her.

She stood a moment awestruck; Chicken Little had never had death come so near her before. Then she turned to Sherm, her face so full of tender pity that his face softened a trifle.

"Don't worry about me, Chicken Little," he said gruffly, "I am all right. If you'll help me knock my things together after a while, I'll be grateful. I guess I'll take a—walk—now." His voice broke a little at the last.

He did not wait for an answer, but walked hurriedly away. Jane gazed after him, undecided whether to follow or not. Dr. Morton divined her thought. "I wouldn't, dear. Let him have it out alone first—you can comfort him later on. I want you to help me persuade him not to rush off before he receives his mother's letter. I must say I don't blame Sherm for resenting his mother's attitude. I think she is making a big mistake."

Dusk came and the darkness closed round while Chicken Little strained her eyes in vain for Sherm. It was almost ten before he came back. She was standing at the gate watching for him. The rest of the family had gone to bed. "Chicken Little can comfort him better than any of us," Dr. Morton had told his wife. "He will be glad not to have to face any of the rest of the family to-night."

"You shouldn't have stayed up, Chicken Little," Sherm called, as soon as he caught sight of her. "I forgot I asked you to help me—I'd have come home sooner if I'd remembered. The duds can wait till morning—I can get up early." He spoke quietly.

"Do you think you ought to go, Sherm?"

Sherm's eyes smouldered. Jane could not see him very distinctly, but she could fairly feel his determination.

"It's no use talking, I'm going!"

They went up the walk in silence. The lilacs and the white syringia in the borders were in bloom. She hoped Sherm did not notice the heavy fragrance—it was so like a funeral. He did not say anything till they got to the foot of the stairs.

"Thank you, Jane, for—for waiting." His voice broke pitifully.

When Dr. Morton discovered the next morning that Sherm was not to be moved from his purpose, he decided to go into town early and see if by any chance there might be another telegram or a letter. Letters from the east sometimes came down by a branch line from the north. There was nothing, and he finally resolved to telegraph Mrs. Dart as to Sherm's state of mind. Sherm was to come later in the day with Frank in time to catch the evening train, which was the only one that made close connections at Kansas City. It was late afternoon before he received a reply. The message was emphatic. "Sherm must await letter."

"Mrs. Dart evidently knows her own mind," thought the Doctor. He drove a little way out of town and waited for Frank and Sherm. Chicken Little was with them. He gave the boy this second message, explaining what he had done. Sherm read it over and over, as if he hoped in some way to find a reason for his mother's decision lurking between the lines.

At length he said stolidly: "I'll wait till to-morrow. Perhaps the letter will come to-night."

They talked it over and Sherm and Chicken Little went on to town with the light buggy to wait for the mail, while Dr. Morton and Frank drove home.

There was a handful of letters in the box. Sherm took them out hastily.

"I guess this is it," he said, stuffing one into his pocket. "And here's three for you."

"Three? Whoever from?" Jane held out her hand. "Ernest and Katy—and here's another with an Annapolis postmark. Who do you suppose?"

Sherm glanced over her shoulder. "That's Carol Brown's handwriting."

"Carol?—writing to me? How funny!"

They hurried out to the team.

"Let me drive while you read your letter, Sherm."

Sherm shook his head. "Read yours first—this will keep."

"The idea—I wouldn't be so piggy selfish."

"Please, Jane, I'd rather get out of town before I tackle it."

"Sherm, I wish I could——" She didn't need to finish. Sherm understood.

"Read Carol's first," he said.

She read it with a beaming face. Sherm was looking at her without seeing her. She started to tell him the contents of the letter, then suddenly stopped. She couldn't rejoice over being asked to a hop when Sherm was in such trouble. Laying the letter in her lap, she took up Ernest's. Sherm noticed the movement and, remembering, asked her what Carol had to say.

She handed him the letter. He read it through absently. The houses were thinning along the road. The prairie stretched ahead of them in solitary sweeps of tender green, dappled with flowers. Jane reached for the reins.

"Read your letter, Sherm."

He obeyed in silence. Chicken Little kept her eyes on the road ahead. A sharp exclamation from Sherm startled her:

"God, it can't be true!"

Sherm swearing? She looked at him in amazement. The boy was not swearing; he had cried out in utter agony. He dropped the letter on the floor of the buggy and buried his face in his hands.

"Sherm, Sherm, what is it?" Chicken Little was frightened.

He did not answer. He did not seem to have noticed that she had spoken. She reached over and touched him. "Sherm! Sherm!" He shook off her hand impatiently.

Chicken Little hesitated a moment, then flicked the horses into a swift trot. She must get him home. Perhaps he was going to be ill. The boy did not move or look up for miles. When the horses splashed through the ford at Elm Creek, he roused himself and looked dully at Jane.

"Sherm, please tell me. It will make it easier for you to tell somebody, and I'm worried to death."

He stooped and picked up the letter. Smoothing it out, he thrust it into her hand. "Read it." He took the reins.

Chicken Little ran over the letter hurriedly. It bore a date some days previous.

* * * * *

"My Dear Boy:

"Dr. Jones has just told me it can be only a question of days now. I have been studying whether to send for you or not. Father settled the question for me. He said he wanted sorrowfully to see you, but in view of the things that must be told you, it would be too painful an ordeal for all of us. He said to tell you you were very precious to him—as precious as if you had really been his own son."

* * * * *

Chicken Little gave a little cry. "Sherm, what does she mean?"

"Read it all."

* * * * *

"For, Sherm, you are not our own. If Father could have lived, we never intended you to know this—at least not until you were a man and had made a place for yourself. But Father's illness is leaving us penniless. Sue's husband has offered Grace and myself a home with them, but he thinks you must be told the truth—that it is only fair to you. We took you when you were about two and a half years old under very peculiar circumstances. It was while we were still living in New York, and Sue was a tot of five. We were going up to my father's in Albany and were a little late. Father told the hackman to drive fast; he'd give him an extra dollar if he'd catch the train. The man had been drinking and drove recklessly. He was just dashing round the corner to the station—the train was already whistling—when he knocked down, and ran over, a woman with a child in her arms. The child was pitched to one side and escaped with a few bruises. The woman never regained consciousness. You have probably guessed that you were that child. We could never find out who she was, though we advertised for several weeks. We decided to bring you up with Sue, and when we moved to Centerville, soon after, no one knew you were not our own child. We had you baptized Sherman after the great general who had just won his way to notice then. I have saved the clothing you wore, and a brooch and wedding ring of your mother's. I will send them to you, together with a hundred dollars, which is all I can give you to start you on your way." The remainder of the letter was filled with her grief over parting with her husband, and her separation from Sherm himself.

Chicken Little swallowed hard—something seemed to be gripping her by the throat.

"And your father isn't your father, Sherm?—or your mother or Sue or Grace?" The tragic extent of what had happened was dawning slowly upon Jane.

Sherm's lips trembled.

"No, I—haven't any father—I've never had a father!... I haven't got anybody.... I haven't even got a name that belongs to me!" Sherm's voice grew shriller and shriller till it broke with a dry sob.

Chicken Little slipped her hand into his and the boy clung to it spasmodically, as if that slim, brown hand were all he had in the world to cling to. The tears were raining down Jane's cheeks, but Sherm's eyes were dry and burning. The team trotted along evenly. They turned mechanically into the stable yard when they reached the ranch. It was growing dusk.

Sherm helped her out, saying: "Will you please tell them, Chicken Little? I won't come in just yet."

She ran to the house and poured out her tale. Her father hurried to the stable. Sherm was not there. Jim Bart, who was milking in the corral near by, said he had saddled Caliph and gone off down the lane. Dr. Morton talked it over with Frank and they decided that Sherm had done the wisest thing possible in going for a gallop.

"He doesn't mean to do anything rash or he wouldn't have taken Ernest's horse," Frank declared.

But as hour after hour went by, the family grew more and more anxious. At eleven o'clock, Frank saddled Calico and tried to find him. He returned some time later in despair.

"You might as well try to look for a needle in a haystack. Poor lad, I have faith he will ride the worst of it off and Caliph is a pretty steady little beast now. He'll bring him home."

A few moments after his return, a messenger came from Captain Clarke, saying that he had been wakened by Caliph neighing at the gate and had gone out to find Sherm dazed and apparently completely exhausted. He had got him to bed where he was sleeping heavily. Captain Clarke was afraid they must be worried. He would care for him till morning, but he would be glad to have some inkling of what had happened so that he might know what to say to the boy when he waked.

Dr. Morton got out his medicine case and went back with the man.



CHAPTER XX

THE CAPTAIN FINDS HIS OWN

Chicken Little climbed the hill of sleep painfully that night, and slept late the following morning in consequence. While she was eating breakfast, Frank came in with two tear-stained, dusty letters, which he had found in the bottom of the buggy.

"Is this the way you treat your correspondence, Sis?"

"The idea—it's Ernest's and Katy's letters and I never read them. Sherm's trouble drove them clear out of my mind."

"Evidently, one is torn part way open, and the other hasn't been touched."

"Hurry up and tell us what Ernest has to say. I was wondering why he hadn't written." Mrs. Morton paused expectantly.

"He says a lot of things," replied Jane, skimming rapidly through the letter. "He says they are going to start on their summer cruise next week and the boys are tickled to death to go, though they're probably just going to cruise around to Navy yards and see dry docks and improving things. He says that it's rumored that Superintendent Balch is going away and Old Rodgers is coming back as superintendent. And this year's class graduated three Japs—the Japanese government sent them over. He gives the names, but I can't pronounce them. One is I-n-o-u-y-e."

"Skip the Japs and give us the rest." Frank was waiting to hear the news.

"That's about all that would interest you."

"My dear, anything concerning Ernest interests me," protested her mother.

"But it isn't about Ernest; it's about Carol Brown."

"Well, what is it?"

"Oh, nothing much—he just took a fancy to my picture and asked Ernest a lot of questions." Chicken Little folded the letter and hastily slipped it back into the envelope, devoutly hoping her mother wouldn't demand to see it. She tore open Katy's. Before she had read two lines she gave a little cry of delight.

"Oh, Mother, do you think I could? Oh, wouldn't it be just too wonderful? Oh Mother, you must say Yes!"

"Jane, what are you talking about? Calm yourself and tell me." Mrs. Morton looked up over her spectacles severely.

"Why, she says her mother wants me to come and live with them next year and go to the High School and that Alice and Dick want me to come there. And, perhaps, I could stay part of the time at one house and part at the other, and for me to tell you and let you be thinking about it, and Alice and Mrs. Halford are both going to write you all about it, and—oh, Mother, wouldn't it be too wonderful?"

Mrs. Morton looked both surprised and worried. "It is certainly most kind of them all, but I shall have to think the matter over."

"Well," said Frank, "that doesn't have to be settled to-day. Jane, Marian wishes to know if you want to go over to the Captain's with her to see Sherm. She is going to start in a few minutes."

Chicken Little jumped to her feet. "I'll be ready in a jiffy!"

Sherm had still not wakened when they arrived. He had roused once toward morning; Captain Clarke had spoken to him, telling him where he was, then he had dropped quietly off to sleep again.

Captain Clarke asked Chicken Little a good many questions.

"I should like to see that letter," he said.

"It's in his coat pocket. I tucked it in—I was afraid he'd lose it."

Dr. Morton, who was still there, sat for several minutes in a brown study.

"I think," he said presently, "that under the circumstances we should be justified in reading it without waiting for Sherm's permission." He looked at Captain Clarke.

The latter nodded assent.

Both read it and discussed it briefly. Still Sherm did not waken.

"I believe I'll drive over to Jake Schmidt's while I am waiting—I have an errand with him. Marian, don't you want to ride over with me?"

"Captain Clarke," said Jane rather timidly after they had gone, "would you mind showing me that picture of your baby again?"

Captain Clarke rose and brought the photograph. Chicken Little studied it carefully, then glanced up at the Captain. Sherm certainly was like the picture—as much like it as a boy who was almost a man grown could be. Should she dare to ask him? Chicken Little felt herself growing hot and cold by turns. Her heart was beating so she thought the Captain must surely hear it. One minute she was sure she didn't dare, the next, she remembered Sherm's broken-hearted words about not belonging to anybody, and she was sure she could screw her courage up—in just a minute. Captain Clarke helped her out. He had been observing her restless movements for several minutes and was wondering if she could possibly have guessed what was in his own mind.

"Out with it, little woman, what's troubling you?"

Chicken Little got up from her seat and went and stood close beside him. "I want to say something to you awfully, only I am afraid you—won't like it," she said earnestly.

"My dear child, don't be afraid of me."

Chicken Little summoned up her resolution.

"I wanted to ask—to ask you, if you wouldn't adopt Sherm. You see he looks like your little boy would have looked, and he hasn't got anybody or any name, and he isn't going to want to live hardly, I am afraid. And I thought.... You don't know how fine Sherm is. He's so honorable and kind—so—so you can trust him. I just know you'd be proud of him after a while."

Chicken Little was pleading with eyes and voice and trembling hands. The Captain gazed at her a moment in astonishment, then he tenderly drew her toward him.

"Chicken Little, I doubt if Sherm would agree to that. But if he is willing, I should be proud and happy to call him my son. But don't get your hopes up—I fear Sherm is too proud to let us find any such easy solution of his troubles. But we'll find a way to put him on his feet, you and I—we'll find a way, if it takes every cent I have!

"I think perhaps the first thing to do, Chicken Little," he continued after some pondering, "is to try to find out something about Sherman's real parentage. It hardly seems possible that a comfortably dressed woman could have disappeared with her child without making some stir. I am in hopes, by getting somebody to search through the files of two or three of the leading New York newspapers immediately following the day of the accident, we might secure a clue. I shall write to Mrs. Dart at once for particulars, and then send to a man I know and pay him to make a thorough investigation."

They were so interested discussing what could be done, that Sherm entered the room before they knew he was awake. The boy was calm, but looked years older, and very white and worn. Captain Clarke greeted him cheerfully.

"I hope you rested. Jane tells me you had a staggering day yesterday. Chicken Little, would you mind telling Wing to serve Sherm's breakfast?"

As soon as she disappeared, he gripped the boy's hand, saying confidently, "I don't wish to talk about your trouble just now and I have no words to comfort you for your loss, lad, but I want to tell you not to begin to worry yet about your identity. I believe we shall find a way to get track of your people and that you will find you have an honorable name, and, possibly, a living father to make up a little for the kind foster-father you have lost."

"I don't see how we could—after all these years."

"Will you leave the matter to me for a few days? And Sherm, make an effort to eat something for Chicken Little's sake—she is worrying her heart out over your trouble. You have some good friends right here—don't forget that. Dr. Morton watched by you all night. Brace up and be a man. I know you have it in you, Sherm."

Letters came to Sherm in a short time from Sue Dart, from Dick and Alice Harding, and from Mrs. Halford, who painstakingly wrote him all the details of his supposed father's last days. She evidently knew nothing of his not being the Dart's own son. Sue's letter seemed to comfort him a little. He did not show it to anyone, even to Chicken Little. He confided to her, however, that the folks were sending his things to him the next day. They had already broken up the home and were going back to Chicago with Sue the following week.

When the express package arrived, Sherm took it straight to Jane.

"You open it," he said.

Chicken Little took his knife and cut the string and folded back the paper wrappings carefully. It seemed some way as if she were meeting Sherm's mother.

The quaint little old-fashioned garments were musty and faded. A frock of blue merino braided in an elaborate pattern in black lay on top. There was a cape to match, and a little cloth cap. Beside these lay a funny pair of leather boots with red tops—almost like a man's—only, oh, so tiny!

Chicken Little hardly knew whether to laugh or cry at these.

"Oh, Sherm, did you ever wear them? How you must have strutted! I can fairly see you."

Sherm smiled and took them up tenderly. Did he, too, feel as if there were another presence haunting these relics of his childhood?

The tiny yellowed undergarments came next, all made by hand with minute even stitches. A pair of blue and white striped knitted stockings was folded with these, and last, at the bottom, a little pasteboard box appeared, containing a ring, a brooch, and a flat oval locket on a fine gold chain.

Sherm examined the ring first. Inside was inscribed William-Juanita. May 1860.

The brooch contained a lock of dark hair under a glass; the whole set in a twisted rim of gold. The locket held miniatures of a white-haired man and woman with foreign-looking faces. Both Sherm and Chicken Little looked these over in silence. Presently Sherm sighed, then laid the trinkets all back in Chicken Little's lap.

"I don't see anything there that could help much," he said hopelessly.

Chicken Little slowly folded up the little garments and laid them neatly back in their wrapping. Her brow was puckered into a frown.

"I am trying to think where I have heard that name Juanita—some place lately. I don't remember ever to have known anybody by that name. It's Spanish, isn't it?"

"I guess so, but what you're thinking of is the song, 'Juanita.'"

"Oh, I expect it is. Sherm, do you mind if I take these things over and show them to Captain Clarke? He said he would like to see them when they came."

"No, take them along. If you'll wait till I get the feeding done, I'll go with you."

"All right, let's take Calico and Caliph."

Sherm lingered out on the veranda while Chicken Little displayed the contents of the package to the Captain. He examined each little article of clothing for some identifying mark.

"There doesn't seem to be anything to help on those," he said, disappointed. "Let's have a look at the jewelry."

Chicken Little unwrapped the ring from its layers of tissue paper, and handed it to him. Captain Clarke took it, regarded the flat golden circle intently for an instant, then turned it to read the inscription.

A pained cry broke from his lips. Chicken Little glanced hastily up to find him holding the ring in shaking fingers, staring off into vacancy. "Juanita!" he whispered, "Juanita!"

Chicken Little touched his hands in distress.

"Captain—Captain Clarke, what is it?"

He looked down at her with a start. "I—it is——Excuse me a moment, Chicken Little."

He walked into his bedroom with the ring still in his hand and closed the door.

Chicken Little waited and waited, not knowing whether she ought to go and tell Sherm what she suspected. It seemed too strange to be possible. And if it were true, surely Captain Clarke would want to tell him himself. Perhaps she oughtn't to be there. She rose softly and slipped out to Wing in the kitchen. After a time she heard Sherm get up from his seat on the veranda step and go into the library. Immediately after, the bedroom door opened and she heard the murmur of voices. She left a message with Wing and running quietly out to Calico, untied him, and rode home in the twilight.

* * * * *

"You needn't ever say again, Ernest Morton," she wrote to her brother the next evening, "that E. P. Roe's stories are too goody-goody and fishy to be interesting. He can't hold a candle to what's happened to the Captain and Sherm. I have to go round pinching myself to believe it is really so. I am almost afraid I will wake up and find it isn't, still. Do you remember the picture of the Captain's little boy that looked like Sherm? Well, it was Sherm. I can hear you say: 'What in the dickens?' So, I'll put you out of suspense right away. The Captain's boy was not dead, only lost, and he is Sherm or Sherm is he, whichever way is right—I'm sure I don't know. You see the Captain went off on a long voyage and got shipwrecked and was gone ages and ages. And Juanita's father and mother were way off in California—they used to be Spanish. That's what made them so foreign-looking in the locket picture. Well, nobody knows exactly what happened. When the Captain got back to New York and hunted up the boarding house where she had lived, they said she had left six months before to go to her parents in California. Captain Clarke wrote to California and found that her father was dead and her mother hadn't heard from Juanita for months, and didn't know anything about her coming home. Wasn't it dreadful? He paid detectives to hunt her up, but they never found the slightest clue. The Captain thought she'd gone off and left him on purpose—that's what made him such a woman-hater—and so sad all the time. You wouldn't know him now. He looks like Merry Christmas all the year round. You should see him gaze at Sherm. Marian says it makes her want to cry, and Mother says it is the most wonderful manifestation of Providence she has ever known. It seems to me Providence would show more sense not to muddle things up so in the first place. Sherm is as pleased as can be to find he really is somebody, and he's awfully fond of the Captain, but you see he'd got so used to loving the Darts as his own folks that he can't get unused to it all of a sudden. He choked all up when he tried to call Captain Clarke 'Father,' and the Captain told him not to. There's heaps more to tell, but Mother has been calling me for the past three minutes."

* * * * *

"No wonder Sherm feels dazed," said Dr. Morton two evenings later, watching the boy, who was making a vain pretense of playing checkers with Chicken Little.

He was so heedless that she swept his men off the board at each move, to Chicken Little's disgust. Sherm usually beat her when he gave his mind to the game. Presently, she picked up the board and dumped the checkers off into her lap.

"A penny for your thoughts, Sherm."

"I was just wondering if Captain—Father—would find out anything more in New York."

"How long will he be gone?"

"I guess that depends on whether he gets track of anything new. After he comes back we're going to Chicago to see—Mother."

"Oh, I am so glad. It will make you feel a lot better to have a good visit with them all."

"Yes, and he told me I might buy back the old home for her if she wants it—if I'd only known last week, she needn't have sold the place. And the Captain—Father—says he will give me some money to put out at interest so she'll have enough to live on comfortably. He says he owes her and Father a debt he can never repay for bringing me up."

Chicken Little was thoughtful. "Sherm, he seems to have plenty of money, maybe you can go to college and to the Beaux Arts, too."

"He said I could have all the education I wanted."

"Will you go to college next year?"

"Yep."

"O dear, it will be awful here unless Mother lets me go to Centerville."

"Don't fret, she is going to."

"How do you know?"

"She told Marian so last night."

Chicken Little got to her feet and shot two feet into the air with a whoop of joy. "Goody! Goody!! Goody!!!"

"Save a little breath, Jane. I know something better than that. Promise you won't tell—your mother would skin me if she knew I were giving away her cherished plans."

"Don't be afraid, she just wants me to act surprised, and I can do it a lot better if I know about it before hand."

"Well, she's coming on at Christmas time for a visit in Centerville, and she's going to take you on to visit Ernest."

"Sherm, truly?"

"That's what she said."

Chicken Little gave an ecstatic hop. "Sherm," she exclaimed presently, a new idea striking her, "I can go to that hop with Carol!"

"Carol?" Sherm sat up a little straighter. "What do you mean?"

"Don't you remember that letter I got from Carol? You don't remember a single thing about it, do you? He wrote to ask me if I wouldn't come on some time and go to a Navy hop with him. He said he was asking me in time so I couldn't promise anybody else."

"It strikes me Carol is getting mighty fresh."

Chicken Little stole a surprised glance at Sherm.

"I don't see anything fresh about that—I think it nice of him to remember me so long. My, I used to think Carol was the most wonderful thing. I hung a May basket to him the last spring we were in Centerville."

"You did? Why, I thought I got yours. Who hung mine?"

"Gertie. I guess she won't mind if I tell—it's been so long."

Sherm whistled. After a little he inquired rather sheepishly:

"Say, Chicken Little, you don't like Carol best now, do you?"

Chicken Little looked up hastily. She was disgusted to feel her face growing hot. "Why, Sherm—I haven't seen Carol for four years. I don't know what I should think of him now." Then, seeing the hurt look in Sherm's eyes, she added: "I guess I'd have to like him pretty awfully well, if I did."

* * * * *

Captain Clarke was gone two weeks and he had added only two facts to those they had been able to piece together. He had accidentally run across an old friend. This friend had supposed him dead all these years, and could scarcely believe his own eyes when he saw him. From him, he learned that his wife had also believed him dead before she would consent to leave New York. This friend told him he had suspected that her money was running low and had offered to help her, but she refused. He thought, after hearing the Captain's story, that she must have had barely enough left to take her home, and that this explained why she was walking to the wharf instead of taking a hack, the day she was run down.

Sherm stayed on with the Morton's until the following week when he set out with his new-found father to visit his adopted family. Youth recovers readily from its sorrows. It was almost the old Sherm who raised his cap to Chicken Little as the train got under steam and slid away from the long wooden platform.

"O dear!" she exclaimed, "seems to me I haven't done anything this whole year but see somebody off. I think it ought to be my turn pretty soon."

"Have a little patience, Humbug," said her father, "your turn is almost here. It is hard for me to realize how fast my baby is growing up."

Chicken Little liked the sound of those words—"growing up." There was something magical about them. They lingered in her mind for days.

One hot Sunday afternoon late in June, she arrayed herself in an old blue lawn dress of Marian's that trailed a full inch on the floor at every step. She coiled her hair high on her head and tucked in a rose coquettishly above her ear. Highly gratified with the result of her efforts, she swept downstairs in a most dignified manner to astonish the family. Unfortunately the family—Father and Mother, and both pups, were taking a siesta. She went over to the cottage; a profound silence reigned there also. She rambled around restlessly for a few moments, then, taking "Ivanhoe" and a pocketful of cookies, went out into the orchard. It was hot even there. The air seemed heavy and the birds contented themselves with lazy chirpings. She swung herself up into her favorite tree and began to munch and read.

But she did not read long. The charm of the green world around her was greater than the pictured world of the book. Chicken Little fell to making pictures of her own—dream pictures that changed quickly into other dream pictures, as real dreams sometimes do. As she stared down the leafy arcades between the rows of apple trees, she saw an immense ball room hung in red, white, and blue bunting and filled with astonishingly handsome young men in blue uniforms. Ernest was there. And a tall, curly-headed Adonis, who looked both like, and unlike, the good-natured, plump Carol of Old Centerville days, was close beside her. But when the supposed Carol spoke, it was certainly Sherm's voice she heard, and it was Sherm's odd, crooked smile that curved the dream midshipman's lips. Chicken Little recognized the absurdity of this herself and laughed happily. A bird on a bough nearby took this for a challenge, and burst into an ecstasy of trills.

"Pshaw," she whispered to herself, "I wonder what it would really be like." She kept on wondering. She felt as if she and the orchard were wrapped about with a great cloud, like a veil, and that beyond this, all the wonderful things that must surely happen when she grew up, were hidden. The twilight was falling before she stretched her cramped limbs and slid down the rough tree trunk. She picked up her neglected book, which had fallen to the ground unnoticed, and said aloud, with a little mocking curtsey:

"Your pardon, Sir Walter, but I made a romance of my own that was—nicer."

Then she tucked the slighted author under her arm and flew to the house before the pursuing shadows. Chicken Little was growing up.

THE END



Every grown-up will remember the time when

"Chicken Little"

was a most wonderful tale with which to open wide the eyes of children.

Many a fond mother will be glad to know of another "Chicken Little" just brought to light in handsome book form under the alluring title

CHICKEN LITTLE JANE

A DELIGHTFUL STORY BY LILY MUNSELL RITCHIE

Little folk will at once fall in love with this new "Chicken Little" of the far western prairies—the same being an affectionate nick-name given to a dear little girl and always used when she was very, very good—but when she misbehaved it was "Jane"!—just Jane!

This book is illustrated and decorated with unusually attractive pictures by Charles D. Hubbard. Cloth, $1.25

Britton Publishing Company—New York



Of all the charming books that may come forth this year, none will be more welcome than

GEORGINA'S SERVICE STARS

By Annie Fellows Johnston

TO BE PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER 1st

In it will be found a new story of beloved Georgina whose Rainbow adventures led into her tenth year. Now she is older—sweet sixteen, if you please—and Richard, her playmate of childhood days, is a grown man of seventeen—and as devoted as ever. Of course he got into the great war enough to give Georgina a second star to her service flag; her father, being a famous surgeon, his star is rightfully at the top. But watch out for Richard! (Beautifully illustrated. $1.50 net.)

AS USUAL—FOR ALL THE FAMILY

GEORGINA of the RAINBOWS

Now selling in beautiful popular edition, 60 cts.

Britton Publishing Company—New York



LITTLE STORIES FROM THE SCREEN

By WILLIAM ADDISON LATHROP

Filling a long-felt want of thousands who desire to know the methods of the top-notch moving picture writer, this celebrated photo-dramatist has sanctioned the use of eighteen of his best synopses, and one full scenario, representing a wide range of successful productions participated in by world-famous stars familiar to millions. Each Synopsis is accompanied by one or more actual scenes of the finished play in which twenty-five screen favorites are pictured in their strongest acts.

Cloth—Highly Illustrated—$1.25 net

UNCLE BILL'S LETTERS TO HIS NIECE

By RAY BROWN

Here's as gay a little gift as any girl could wish. Bright, sparkling and joyous—letters from a matter-of-fact old uncle who talks to his young niece straight from the shoulder, exactly as he might to a boy.

Uncle Bill gives facts about moonlight, becomes violent over athletics, taboos snobbery, takes a fling at heredity, and touches up a few complexions.

The result is extravagantly and deliciously funny—Just the Book for an Ingenue.

Cloth Decorative Cover and Jacket—60 cents net

Britton Publishing Company—New York



OVER THE SEAS FOR UNCLE SAM

By ELAINE STERNE, Author of "The Road of Ambition"

Miss Sterne is Senior Lieutenant of the Navy League Honor Guard, which has charge of entertainment and visitation in behalf of sick and wounded sailors sent home for hospital treatment. Their experiences, such as may be published at this time, now appear in book form. This book brings out many thrilling adventures that have occurred in the war zone of the high seas—and has official sanction. Miss Sterne's descriptive powers are equaled by few. She has the dramatic touch which compels interest. Her book, which contains many photographic scenes, will be warmly welcomed in navy circles, and particularly by those in active service.

Cloth—Illuminated Jacket—$1.50 Net

AMBULANCING ON THE FRENCH FRONT

By EDWARD P. COYLE

Here is a collection of intensely interesting episodes related by a Young American who served as a volunteer with the French Army—Red Cross Division. His book is to the field of mercy what those of Empey, Holmes and Peat have been in describing the vicissitudes of army life. The author spent ten months in ambulance work on the Verdun firing line. What he saw and did is recounted with most graphic clearness. This book contains many illustrations photographed on the spot showing with vivid exactitude the terrors of rescue work under the fire of the big guns.

Cloth—16 Full page Illustrations—$1.50 Net

Britton Publishing Company—New York

THE END