Lilian could not help laughing, too.

"New Year's callers, after all," she said, to herself.

Mrs. Wyman had made the circle of waiting braves move somewhat away from the stove, so that she could cook ham and warm potatoes. Lilian returned to her table-setting. She placed a spoon-holder on the cloth, full of bright tea-spoons.

The inquisitive chief gave a genuine whoop of delight at sight of them. He sprang to her side and openly began putting them in his pocket.

This was too much. Lilian flew at him and tried to snatch them away from him. He scowled fiercely, and jabbered at her in excited gutturals.

At once she heard a great scuffling of feet in the kitchen. The other Indians, attracted by the sound, were coming to his rescue.

In they filed in formidable line.

"He shan't have them!" cried Lilian, struggling to prevent the last instalment going into his pocket. "He has my thimble and scissors already. Here," to the others, "your chief is stealing. But he can't have my spoons. You—" catching hold of the nearest one— "Jack! Ben! Harry!" (for as soon as she got one good look at the faces of her callers she knew them), "Jack—Ben—Harry! hold him! He's just a common thief!"

A roar of laughter followed.

"Good for you, Lilian!" cried Jack, flinging off his hat and blanket, and leaping on the offender's shoulders to pinion his arms. "He shan't have your spoons, Lilian. But allow me to present to you our cousin, Harold Wyman, just arrived from Wyoming. We found him at Uncle Abner's, come to spend New Year's with us."

Lilian, who had captured part of the spoons, blushed and dropped them on the floor.

"It's real mean of you to scare me so," she stammered. "Mother, did you know it was the boys?"

"Not until Jamie winked at me from the floor, and then it was all so ridiculously clear I could not help laughing aloud. I saw you were well over your first fright, so I thought I'd let the boys carry out their fun."

"My, but I'm hot!" ejaculated Ben. "Sis has good grit, hasn't she Harold?"

"Yes," cried Jack, "and she kept her promise about the rosebud china. Let's have dinner. All we lack now is the coffee, Lilian."

When the new cousin, and Uncle Abner's boys and the four teasing brothers were seated about the table, Lilian asked:

"Where did you get your toggery, Jack?"

"Oh, Uncle Abner's garret is full of all sorts of Indian traps. This morning when you were crying for callers—especially Indians—the thought struck us it would be lots of fun to give you your wish. We found Cousin Harold at Uncle Abner's, and he helped us out. He's been on a ranch for years. We knew you wouldn't recognize him. The rest of us kept in the background."

"If you hadn't been so scared, Lilian, you'd have known the ponies," said Jamie.

When they had nearly finished dinner, Lilian said:

"I'll write it all to the Deerfield girls. I don't believe they've had half as jolly a time as we have. Their calls will be just the poky, polite ones. But mine are genuine wild West."



[This Story began in No. 52.]

TRUDY AND KIT;

or,

What a Summer Brought Forth.

by EMMA A. OPPER,

Author of "Susanne," "Barbara and Dill," etc., etc., etc.

CHAPTER XVIII.

In the Depths of Woe.

Collin stood staring at Trudy. She had not loosened her clinching hold for an instant, and, before he had realized it, the last warning had been shouted, the plank had been withdrawn, and the Sandy Hook was moving off. And he stood on the pier.

Many emotions were rife in his good-looking, boyish face, but anger was chief among them.

"Trudy," he said, sharply, "what are you doing? What have you done?"

He looked after the moving boat.

Trudy tried to stop her shower of tears, and Collin could but look at her. It was a rare thing to see Trudy cry, and it was on his account she was crying.

"Well, what's the matter?" he demanded, gruffly enough. "You've got what you wanted, haven't you? What are you going to do now? What are you going to do with me? Tell me that!"

With a reckless laugh, Collin turned into the freight-office and threw himself down on a box in an unnoticed corner. And Trudy followed her prisoner.

"I saw you from up the beach, Collin," she said, "and I couldn't let you run away! How could I? That would have been the worst! How could you have wanted to, Collin?"

"The worst! Worse than what?" snapped Collin. His head hung in his hands, and his eyes were sullenly lowered. "The worst has happened. You'd see things plain enough if you stood in my place, Trudy, and you'd feel! Do you want me to tell you just how things stand?" Collin asked, fiercely.

"You know only too well! I've lost my place because I was a fool, and worse than a fool! That Grand View business is all over town. More than one fellow has said 'Grand View' to me and snickered. It's got around worse than the thing was, too! Gus Morey told me he heard we'd started to steal the best horse and buggy in Conover's stables and got snapped up at Buxton. I've lost my place, and do you think I can get another, with a thing of that sort hanging over my head? I guess not!

"I'll tell you the truth, Trudy," continued Collin. "I have tried two or three places—and it was for your sake I did it—before I made up my mind to clear out. I'd have done anything. I tried to get something to do at the Riggs House; and I went up to the sawmill and the canning factory; and I got the same answer everywhere. They'd all heard the story, and they said they didn't want a boy with a recommendation of that kind.

"Dolph Freeman's all right; it's all smooth enough for him," said Collin, grinding his heel. "I was bad enough, but I didn't do anything sneaking mean, the way he did. But he isn't going to suffer for it; not a bit. His father's got money, and Dolph can go on loafing around town and getting other fellows into trouble. He'll never get come up with.

"Well, I know it was my own fault, anyhow. Nobody could have got me into any trouble if I'd done the right way. But it's done, and look at me now. The whole town is down on me. And mother," said Collin, grimly—"mother's the worst! This thing has soured her till she hasn't a kind word or thought for me. She said she ought to turn me out of the house; that I was a torment and a disgrace to her, and she ought not to put up with me. I believe she'd be glad to be rid of me."

"Collin!" exclaimed Trudy, who was far from believing that.

"What else can I think? I do believe it! And if she thinks that way now, what will she think when she reads the note I left for her? I couldn't face her, and tell her I'd taken that money, but she knows it by this time. And I'd like to know how I'm going to see her after that! She won't believe I meant to put it back; she won't believe anything; she's down on me, and I can't stand it!

"I can't stay here with everybody against me and no way to turn. The best thing I can do, and the only thing, is to take myself off; and I'm going to do it. I don't know what'll happen to me, nor what'll become of me. But I'm going. You've stopped me this time, whatever you did it for. I'm not worth your worrying, Trudy; I'll tell you that. But I'll go yet."

Trudy stood looking at her captive in more hopelessness than she would admit to herself. She knew that this, Collin's first serious trouble, had overwhelmed him till he had despaired.

She could see plainly enough the weakness of his arguments, and she foresaw the misery into which he was ready and anxious, in his despondency, to plunge.

But how to make him see it? That was another matter, and one which staggered the faithful, anxious girl. To run away! What folly, and what sure ruin! But, if Collin would not see that hard truth?

Trudy's heart sank. She had gained her point, for once; but beyond that, which was little, would she prevail? Collin was young and headstrong and in the depths of woe, and what would, in spite of her, be the outcome, Trudy feared to think.

"Collin—Collin!" she was beginning, entreatingly, when hurrying steps on the pier-planks made her look up.

Rosalie Scott was coming towards them at a quick trot, looking this way and that, searchingly, till she saw Trudy.

"Well," she cried. "If I ever! What a girl you are! What were you after? If I ever saw such a runner! I knew you could row, and now I know you can run. I thought you'd seen a ghost, or something worse. You'd have run the other way, though. Anyhow," said Rosalie, dropping down on a second box to get her breath, "I thought I'd see what it was, and I didn't think you'd mind, if I did."

She looked from Trudy to Collin, with undisguised wonder. Collin only stared at her. Trudy smiled, but with quivering lips, and traces of her tears were plain.

"Why-y," Rosalie stammered. "Something's the matter!"

She was the picture of amazement and curiosity, and Collin could not help smiling. He was dazzled, too, by the gay apparition in the yellow-ribboned dress, the big, daisy-trimmed hat and the patent-leather shoes.

Neither he nor Trudy denied that something was the matter. Neither spoke.

"Well," said Rosalie, with the good-nature which was a part of her, though half-pouting, "I'm intruding, I suppose. I didn't think it was anything private, or—solemn."

Her bright eyes turned from one to the other, a funny twinkle in them.

Trudy could not speak, but Collin roused himself.

"I don't know what we're staying here for," he said, shortly. "I'd got started to take the boat, but Trudy stopped me. That's what she was running for. The boat's gone, and we'd better go. I don't know what Trudy's going to do with me now. Maybe she knows."

He got up, his bundle sagging from a nerveless hand and his face dull, and they turned up the pier.

"You are in trouble," said Rosalie, soberly. "I'm sorry I came. That's the way I always do, you know. I do things before I think. And I'm sorry for you."

Collin made a husky sound of acknowledgment. To Trudy, he muttered:

"I don't know where I'm going. I won't go home—I daren't."

And Trudy answered:

"Go to the Browns with me, then, Collin?"

But he shook his head.

CHAPTER XIX.

Mrs. Scott's Idea.

Softly humming, Rosalie walked a little apart and pretended to find great interest in the still water, the scattering row-boats and the few belated bathers along the shore.

For want of other occupation she took off her hat and swung it till the daisy-wreath was in peril. Trudy and Collin walked in silence.

But the active brain of Miss Rosalie Scott was by no means idle. She hummed, but she smiled, too; she swung her hat, but she had a thoughtful frown—not only that, a determined one.

Trudy was destined to see yet another remarkable instance of the impulsiveness without which Rosalie Scott would not have been Rosalie Scott, and which worked for good or ill as the case happened.

When they had covered the pier and had passed up the street as far as the Bellevue Hotel, had reached its broad entrance, she suddenly turned.

"Come in for a minute," she said—"both of you. Oh, don't look so scared—just for a minute! Trudy Carr has promised me a visit for a long time, anyhow, and—well, you'll have to come. Come!"

Rosalie was in earnest. She took them each by the hand and pulled them up the wide piazza steps, reiterating her commands. And Collin Spencer, who had had no notion of complying, found himself, before he could get his breath back, standing in one of the fine great parlors of the Bellevue Hotel, gaping in confusion at a long mirror and blue plush chairs.

"There, now, sit down," said Rosalie. She ran to a small knob in the wall and pressed it, and to the brass-buttoned boy who appeared said, "Please ask Mrs. Scott to come here."

She went to the door when he had gone, and stood with her back against it.

"You shan't get away. Sit down, I say. It's only a notion of mine, that's all. I know you won't care. Maybe it can't do any good, but it won't do any harm. I know something is the matter, and I—I'd like to have my mother hear about it. If you knew her! She's so good to everybody, and always does just the right thing, too. I've known her to help so many people and think nothing of it. That's the way she's made. I don't know what's the matter, but I know you got me out of an awful fix, Trudy Carr, and that my mother knows it, too, and—"

The door was pushed open.

"Why, Rosalie," said the newcomer, "your father and Uncle Angus are here. I thought you were to meet them at the boat?"

"I didn't, mamma," Rosalie answered. "This is Trudy Carr again, and—"

"Collin Spencer," added Trudy.

And Rosalie's mother, who had a face of sweet refinement, with clear gray eyes, and wore a handsome dark gown with billowy-lace falling from neck and sleeves, and had a pleasant voice and smile—Rosalie's mother shook hands with Trudy Carr and Collin Spencer, and sat down near them. And Rosalie brought a stool and perched herself between them.

"Now," she said, imploringly—"now do!"

Collin was getting every moment stiffer and redder. He felt like an intruder, and, despite these softening influences, made up his mind not to say a word. It was nobody's business but his. It was his own miserable affair. He neither asked help nor wanted it.

How, then, did the story get itself told? Collin supposed that Trudy must have started it, for he did not.

He sat bewildered by all this strange and unwelcome situation, while slowly, drawn out by questions and gentle comments, his trouble was told.

His first weak mistake, the disaster at Buxton, Trudy's attempt at righting matters and her failure, and all the dreary facts of the present condition of things. By degrees, the lady who sat with thoughtfully-lowered eyes and knit brows heard it all.

"Don't think it was my idea to tell you, ma'am," Collin ended, the blood mounting in his sturdy face.

"Doesn't mamma know that?" Rosalie cried, impatiently.

She had got her way, and she was highly satisfied.

"And don't think I'm asking you to do anything for me," Collin proudly persisted. "I don't know what you could do; I don't expect anything—I didn't want to come in."

"And she knows all that, too," said Rosalie, knocking down his protests like tenpins.

Her mother sat thinking.

"I wish I knew what to say," she said, sincerely, "or what to do. I should be glad to do something, believe me. I am deeply sorry for you, my boy. It seems to me that your case is a peculiarly hard one. I am glad I have heard your story, for I can give you my sympathy, if nothing more. You made a mistake; you were thoughtless and weak; yes, you did wrong. But—I can't help saying it—it seems to me that your punishment is too great. You have escaped nothing; the worst has come. The worst fault was not yours, and yet you are suffering most. At least, don't be ashamed of having told me," said Mrs. Scott, that ready sympathy of which her face spoke strongly roused.

"I wish I could help you," she declared. "Not only does your case deserve it, but Trudy Carr here"—she smiled brightly. "I feel as though I knew Trudy Carr. I have heard nothing but items concerning her since Rosalie first saw her. And that little adventure on the bay is not to be forgotten. Yes, I would help you gladly."

"There's only one way for me," said Collin. "If I could go back there to work, and show Mr. Conover what I can be and do, there'd be some chance for me; I could 'live it down.' But that's gone up."

"That is the only way, or the best by far," was Mrs. Scott's quiet agreement. "I wish it might be. I had an idea about it—I wonder—I want to do what I can. I might send a note to Mr. Conover." And then she added, with an impulsiveness much like Rosalie's own, "I will go myself. We'll go together. I have an idea, as I said. Come, it will do no harm to try."

Collin was getting used to bewilderments, to being hustled and managed like a baby instead of a tall, seventeen-year-old boy. One thing—he had not been remarkably successful at managing himself.

And when, ten minutes later, he stood with Mrs. Scott, her bright young daughter and Trudy in Mr. Conover's livery-stable, he kept a stiff upper lip and waited for what should come.

Mr. Conover came forward to meet the oddly-assorted four. For Collin Spencer he had only unsmiling surprise, and his glance at Trudy was puzzled. But he knew by sight the lady from the Bellevue Hotel, and he raised his hat with an inquiring face, and drew forward the only chair the stable boasted. Accepting it, Rosalie's mother wasted no time in getting to the point, and wasted no words.

"First, Mr. Conover," she began, "I must apologize for being an interferer, for that is what I am. My business concerns this boy. I have just now heard his story from the beginning."

"About the trick he played me?" said Mr. Conover, half doubting the interest of such a lady in such a case.

"That exactly; all about his foolish escapade and the result of it. About the effort of this little girl, Trudy Carr, to save him, and about the discovery and discharge. And, Mr. Conover, I want to ask nothing less than that you take the boy back into your service on a month's trial. I feel convinced that the consequences of his error are almost more than he deserves, and perhaps more than you realize, Mr. Conover. He was led into it by a bad companion, whom he has certainly dropped. First impressions go for something. I cannot but believe the boy himself is steady and trustworthy. And then the anxiety of this girl, who seems to have been such a friend to him—"

Mrs. Scott's voice was a little unsteady.

"And his position now is pitiable. The story has spread through the town in exaggerated forms. He has tried to get work elsewhere and on that account failed. I cannot see what is before the boy unless you can forgive and take him back, for it is here only, it seems both to him and to me, that he can redeem himself. I ask you to take him on a month's trial, and I wish to give bonds for his good behavior. I am Mrs. John Scott."

This, then, was Mrs. Scott's idea of which she had spoken. Surely a convincing one. She opened her purse, took five ten-dollar bills therefrom and handed them to the young livery-stable keeper.

Mr. Conover looked at her in astonishment, slowly rubbing his smooth-shaven head.

"I—Mrs. Scott," he said, with earnestness, "I don't want to take the money. I begin to see how it is; I see you're right. To tell the truth, I was afraid I'd been a little hard on the boy. I knew that young cur of a Freeman was to blame for it, and I was sorry on the girl's account and all; but I was hasty, I suppose. I shouldn't have done anything, though, about taking him back; but now that you've made me see it plainer yet, and if he's in such a bad fix as all that, why, I'll give him another chance," said the young man. "But never mind the money; I'll try him."

"Keep it," Mrs. Scott answered, "and if he does not do his best, it is forfeited. I think he will."

Poor Collin! Perhaps in all the course of his troubles he had known no sharper moment than that. He looked around the group. Several of the stable-hands had gathered, Sim Miles, with a broadly smiling face, being among them.

The tears sprung to Collin's honest blue eyes. Nor was he ashamed of them.

"I will do my best," was all he could say.

"All right; come around to-morrow, Spencer," said Mr. Conover, bluffly, seeing that the scene threatened to be rather a moving one, and he went back to his business.

CHAPTER XX.

An Important Letter.

His visitors turned away.

Rosalie, whose triumph was supreme, could not wholly control herself. She gave an occasional hop as they went.

Trudy's face shone, and her eyes were starry. As for Collin, he felt that silence was best.

"Go and tell your mother, Collin," Trudy whispered. "You won't be afraid to see her now."

"I'm going there," Collin answered—they stood at the corner of his street. "I'll go; and all I can say is, that I shan't ever forget what you've all done for me. You've saved me—that's what. I don't know what would have become of me. And you'll never be sorry for it."

And, choking somewhat, Collin Spencer turned down the street to his mother's home.

It seemed to Trudy that it was the strangest piece of good fortune in the world which had taken place. After all the dark worry her true young heart had known, she could hardly believe it. And yet a stranger thing was to happen then and there.

As they walked on, Trudy's eyes turned down the street and fixed themselves upon a figure coming rapidly towards them, or as rapidly as was possible. The figure, which was small and bent in the shoulders, limped. Rosalie saw it at the same instant.

"See! who is that?" she asked, in wonder.

"It's Ichabod," said Trudy—"why, it's Ichabod! And I left him sick abed. Whatever is the matter?"

Ichabod came hurriedly limping on. It became plain that he had seen them and was hastening to reach them; and Trudy ran forward.

"Why, Ichabod," she cried, in remonstrance, "if you didn't get up! Were you able? No; see how tired you are!"

Certainly Ichabod was. He leaned against the fence a minute, and then, giving it up, sat down on the grass beside it, pulling off his old hat and fanning himself.

Something else dawned upon Trudy. Ichabod was excited. That indeed seemed to be the greater cause of his exhaustion, for he sat blinking up at Trudy in a peculiar manner and tried vainly to speak.

Mrs. Scott and Rosalie had come up, and paused. Too courteous to smile, they looked their perplexity.

"What is the matter, Ichabod?" said Trudy, again. She began to feel some alarm. "What made you get up? What have you been doing?"

Ichabod, slowly and painfully, rose to his feet.

"I was calc'lating to git up. Didn't I say to ye I was? Didn't I say I was goin' to git up soon as ever I could? And what fer did I say? Why, I was goin' to ask a favor o' Mr. Doolittle—jest a leetle favor."

"Oh!" said Trudy, remembering.

She had forgotten the old man's queer talk about the box in the closet, and the papers in the box, and his odd eagerness concerning them.

"Seein' you—" continued the old man. "Well, I couldn't stan' it another minute arter that. I jest got up. I was kind o' weak in my legs to the fust, but I got thar. I got to Mr. Doolittle's office, and thar he was settin'. He knows me, Mr. Doolittle does, and I wan't afraid to ask that leetle favor of him."

Ichabod had got back his breath and his composure now. He covered his bald head with his hat, planted himself against the fence, his little, twinkling eyes fixed on Trudy with an intense gaze, and continued his story:

"Thar he set. And I walked in and I says to him, 'Air ye willin' to do sump'n fer me, Mr. Doolittle?' And says he, 'Yes I be, Ichabod.' And says I, 'It ain't goin' to take but jest a minute, Mr. Doolittle.' And says he, 'Go ahead, Ichabod.'

"Says I, 'I was lookin' in the closet of the garret bed-room up to Mrs. Spencer's house, whar I've been stayin', and I found a leetle box, shoved 'way back, as though it wan't no use, anyhow. And, kind o' hankerin' to know what 'twas, I broke it open. And thar was papers in it,' says I— 'and letters.

"'I can't read none myself,' says I— 'only jest a leetle; but I looked over them letters, and I worked and I figured, and I studied out a leetle here and a leetle thar, till I begun to suspicion sump'n. Sump'n awful quare—awful quare! And this here one,' says I, 'I've fetched down to ye, fer ye to jest look at. And if there ain't nothin' in it,' says I, 'why, all right, and thank ye fer yer trouble. And if thar is sump'n—' says I.

"And I handed him over that thar ole letter, and then I set still, and I had my ole eyes glued right onto his face, and I ketched my breath and I waited.

"'Well, I'll see, Ichabod,' says he. 'Ole letters are quare things, Ichabod,' says he; 'but I'll look at it.'

"And he looked. He looked it up and down two er three times, and then he read it clean through two er three times more. And then he took up his spectacles off'n the table, and he read it ag'in, and he looked jest as astonished as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Says he, 'I can't make it out. Reuben Wallace has been dead a year, and this is the fust breath o' evidence that he left any money, although everybody in this town has been clean up a stump about his not leavin' any. But this letter—dated two months afore he died,' says he, 'is from a coal merchant in New York, findin' that in the printin' up top o' the letter. And it makes reference to the sum o' forty thousand dollars invested by Reuben Wallace in his business. There's more in it,' says he; 'but that's the principal thing.'

"And he got up and stood thar, shakin' his head and lookin' as if a feather'd knock him down. And, says he, 'if this means anything at all, Ichabod, it means an awful lot! It means that Reuben Wallace was worth forty thousand dollars at the time of his death, and that that forty thousand dollars was invested with this New York coal merchant. Thar's one thing fer us to do, Ichabod,' says he, 'and that's to write to this man in New York and see what's the meanin' of all this 'ere! That's a simple thing, and I'll do it,' says he. 'I'll do it, this minute.' And down he sot and begun to write; and when he'd got done with that air old letter, I put it back into my pocket ag'in.

"And," pursued Ichabod, whose voice had grown shrill as ever, in excitement, "I come away and I set to lookin' ye up, to tell ye every word Mr. Doolittle said—every word. And I've been pretty nigh all over the town, and was jest thinkin' o' startin' up thar to the Browns, when I see ye."

Ichabod mopped his face and head with his handkerchief.

Trudy stood still, in a dazed condition, which allowed her neither to move nor speak; but Mrs. Scott, who had listened with close attention, though finding it hard to understand a tale which, for her, had begun in the middle, asked, with practical interest:

"And what is the name of the coal merchant in whose hands this money is placed?"

"Angus Pritchard," replied Ichabod, nodding his head several times.

He drew the letter from his pocket.

"Here 'tis, down to the bottom. Angus Pritchard, that's what 'tis."

"Angus Pritchard!" Mrs. Scott repeated, in a voice of utter amazement; and Rosalie stood now as stock still as Trudy. "Angus Pritchard is my husband's uncle—yes, and a coal merchant in New York. And he is at the Bellevue Hotel at this moment!"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]



WORK AND PLAY.

by KARL WINSHIP.

"Have you watered Prince this evening, Roswell?" asked Mr. Hofford, as his sixteen-year-old son came into the room at supper time and dropped into his seat at the table.

"Yes, sir," answered Roswell, sulkily.

"And brought in the wood and coal?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you may go to the village to-night."

"I don't want to go to the village."

For the first time Mr. Hofford appeared to notice his son's air of discontent, and he asked, kindly:

"What's the matter, Roswell? Are you sick?"

"No; I'm just tired out, that's all," replied the boy, giving the table-leg a little kick.

"Tired, are you?"

"Yes, I am. I am worked to death."

Mr. Hofford laughed pleasantly.

"You don't look as if you were in danger of dying. And I don't think you do more work than other boys of your age."

"I don't know about that," rejoined Roswell, in a discontented voice; "but I know I'm working from morning to night. I have to attend to everything in the way of chores, until I'm so tired that I can't read or study. And I never have any time for play."

"I am sorry for that," said Mr. Hofford, gravely, "because all boys ought to have time for play. I thought I saw you playing football yesterday?"

"Oh, I play some," admitted Roswell, "but nothing like I want to. I wish I had nothing to do but play, like Rollo there."

"You'd soon get tired of living a dog's life," said Mrs. Hofford, with an amused look.

"No, I wouldn't," said Roswell, confidently. "I never had enough play."

"Very well," said Mr. Hofford, with a queer smile. "To-morrow is Tuesday; suppose you start in and play."

"And not do any work?"

"Certainly not; no work for yourself, or anybody else."

Roswell looked at his father, as if disbelieving his ears.

"I mean it," continued Mr. Hofford. "I will tend to the horse and cow, Jennie will do the house chores and run the errands, and your mother will do the rest. You will have nothing to do but play, and I hope you will enjoy yourself."

"I'm sure I shall!" declared Roswell, joyfully.

When he opened his eyes the next morning it was bright daylight, and he sprang out of bed very hurriedly, forgetting the changed condition of affairs. Then, as recollection dawned upon him, he dressed slowly and went down stairs to breakfast.

There was no one there but his mother, who said "Good-morning!" pleasantly.

"My!" he exclaimed, glancing at the clock; "if it isn't ten minutes to nine! I'll be late for school."

"You are not to go to school," said his mother, quietly. "Going to school is not play."

"But I'll miss my promotion, if I don't go," pleaded Roswell, aghast at the thought.

"Can't help it. You must not do anything but play."

Roswell laughed.

"Very well," he said, lightly.

Then he finished his breakfast in silence and strolled out.

He walked around the yard for five or ten minutes, whistling shrilly; took a look in the barn at Prince and then set off to the village. It was almost deserted, the boys being at school—all but a few loaferish fellows, with whom Roswell did not care to associate.

About ten o'clock he returned home, got a book and read until dinner-time.

Somehow he did not have much of an appetite, and after dinner he took his fishing tackle and went off to the creek.

When he returned at dusk, he had a string of perch.

"Where's my fish-knife, Jennie?" he asked, as he laid the fish on the bench in the wash-house.

"Jennie will clean the fish, Roswell," called out his mother. "Catching fish is play; cleaning them is work."

"Pshaw!" said Roswell, impatiently.

He was rather proud of his ability to prepare fish for the pan.

At supper Mr. Hofford asked him how he was enjoying himself, and Roswell answered that he was doing very well. After supper, when the table was cleared, he got out a lot of traps and set to work on an electrical machine he was trying to make, but his father promptly checked him.

"That won't do, Roswell. Work is strictly forbidden."

"But this is for myself."

"No matter. It is not play. You had better go to the village and play."

Roswell got up angrily, put away the machine and went out. In an hour he came back, saying he had had a quarrel with Perry Gantley, and had a headache. So he went to bed.

The next morning he rigged up a swing in the woods back of the house, and amused himself for an hour, and then went fishing, but, as he had no luck, he hardly spoke a word at dinner-time.

During the afternoon he read for a few minutes, and then took a walk through the woods, returning so tired that he was glad to go to bed right after supper.

Thursday was simply dreadful. It rained all day, and Roswell read until his eyes ached. Then he tried to sleep, romped with Rollo awhile, and at last went to the barn.

Mrs. Hofford followed him presently, and found him currying Prince.

"Come, Roswell, this won't do," she said, quickly. "No work."

Roswell threw down the currycomb with an impatient exclamation, and returned to the house.

He did not make his appearance at all at supper, and Jennie reported that he was lying in bed, asleep. She supposed Mr. Hofford smiled, but made no remark.

Friday morning Roswell came down very early and Mr. Hofford met him coming in with an armful of wood.

"Here! What does this mean?" he asked, sternly.

"I'm going back to work," replied Roswell, flushing up, but laughing at the same time.

"It is not possible you are tired of play?"

"No, not tired; but—"

"But you think it is more fun when sandwiched between work?"

"Yes, sir."

"I am glad you have made the discovery for yourself," said Mr. Hofford, with a smile. "Fun or play is never thoroughly enjoyable unless we have earned the right to it by hard work. A perfectly idle boy or man is never happy, and no person knows the absolute pleasure in work until they are deprived of it, It is a good lesson to learn, my son, and I am glad you have learned it so early."



NEW YEAR'S DAY.

The aged and the young, man, woman, child, Unite in social glee; even stranger dogs, Meeting with bristling back, soon lay aside Their snarling aspect, and in sportive chase, Excursive scour, or wallow in the snow. With sober cheerfulness, the grandam eyes Her offspring 'round her, all in health and peace; And thankful that she's spared to see this day Return once more, breathes low a secret prayer, That God would shed a blessing on their heads.

—James Grahame.

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ROYALTY IN EXILE.

by THOMAS PARKE GORDON.

In olden times thrones were very unstable affairs, and kingdoms were overthrown in a twinkling. Readers of ancient history will recall many such instances of the downfall of earthly grandeur.

Alexander the Great overthrew Darius in the plenitude of his power; the Emperor Aurelian destroyed Palmyra and led Zenobia, the queen, in triumph to Rome, where she ended her days in peaceful retirement.

Rome, when mistress of the world, overthrew hundreds of monarchies, and killed or sent into exile innumerable kings. In the days of her decline, the people deposed their own rulers at such a rate that the imperial purple was finally put up at auction by the soldiery.

In later days, monarchies became more secure; but kingdoms were nevertheless overturned, and several royal rulers sent into exile, when not more severely punished. But, with passing years, revolutions became more rare, until Napoleon began his wars of conquest, and deposed kings as if they were playthings.

Since Napoleon's downfall, revolutions have become still more rare; yet monarchies are so many, and republican ideas are growing so rapidly, that scores of deposed rulers are in exile, pining for the days that will never return.

Perhaps the most notable is the Count of Paris, who recently paid a visit to this country. The count, it is true, has never reigned, so he cannot be said to have been deposed; but he claims descent from the Bourbon kings of France, and seeks to revive the ancient rule.

He is a resident of England, and is in easy circumstances. He has a rival for the throne in Prince Napoleon Bonaparte, who lives in luxurious exile in Switzerland.

Prince Napoleon's father was a brother of the great Napoleon, and he hopes that some day the people of France will recognize him as their ruler.

England gives refuge to another exile in Eugenie, the widow of Napoleon III, who resides at Chiselhurst, and who makes no pretensions to royal grandeur. Since the death of her son by Zulu assegais she has lived the life of a recluse.

Paris shelters the exiled Isabella, Queen of Spain, who takes her downfall philosophically. She is rich, and passes her time between Paris, Nice and Boulogne in social enjoyment.

In the same city lives Don Carlos, a pretender to the throne of Spain. He traces his descent from Carlos, the second son of Charles IV, born 1788.

The original Carlos began the insurrection business in 1825, and, after being repeatedly defeated and banished, died at Trieste in 1855. His son Don Carlos continued to make periodical attempts to regain the crown, but died in 1861, leaving no direct heir.

The present Don Carlos, the nephew of the above, has headed four insurrections and has many followers, but no one believes that he will ever be more than an aspirant.

Dom Pedro, the deposed Emperor of the Brazils, lives in Portugal, and is the most unhappy of ex-rulers. The death of his wife followed close upon his exile, and he longs to return to Brazil, if only to die. He has refused the gratuity offered him by the infant republic, and not being wealthy, the future looks rather dark for him.

When Italy was united, a number of petty sovereigns were deprived of their crowns and now wander around without any particular aim in life. Unlike an ex-President of the United States, an ex-king cannot go to work, and, if he has not saved any money, must depend on charity for a living, unless he can marry a rich wife.

Austria has taken care of several rulers of the Tuscan provinces, and the Italians are generous enough to see that none of them starve.

Paris is a notable refuge for royal exiles, and some of them are engaged in anything but kingly pastimes. A prince of Georgia drives a cab, and one of the best police agents is a scion of the royal house of Poland.

Among the curiosities of Paris is Orelie, King of Araucania. Originally a poor lawyer, with a taste for adventure, he made his way to Chili, and thence to a remote section of the republic, where the Araucanian Indians live. He won their good will to such an extent that they elected him king, and for several years he ruled over them. Then the Chilians started a war and Orelie I decamped. In Paris he still calls himself King of Araucania, and makes a precarious living by selling titles of nobility to gullible or vain people.

Another exile, more meritorious, is Francesco, King of Armenia and Prince of Jerusalem. It has been many years since Francesco's ancestors were driven by the Turks from the throne of Armenia, but there can be no doubt whatever of the royal antiquity of the family. Descended from a bold crusader, they held the kingly rank for centuries, until the rise of Mohammedan power in the East made them exiles. Russia, for many years, gave the titular prince a pension, but this was dropped about forty years ago, and since then the kings of Armenia have had a very hard time of it. The present king is a waiter in a small restaurant near Versailles. He is a quiet fellow, and does not parade either his pedigree or his misfortunes.

There can be no doubt that the number of royal exiles will increase with the passing years. The trend is all one way. Monarchies are giving way to republics all over the world, and once the people have the power in their own hands they will not relinquish it. Revolutions, however, nowadays are peaceful, and kings may thank their stars that they are no longer in danger of losing their heads along with their crowns.



A HAPPY NEW YEAR.

Nature has made no marked division between the new year and the old, and there is practically no difference in weather between the last week in December and the first week in January. Perhaps it would be more logical to have the year begin with the vernal equinox, but practically it makes no difference at all. The year begins on the first day of January in all Christian nations except Russia and her dependencies, and it is not likely that any change will be made in future.

Yet, although there is no natural division, custom has made one that we cannot help but notice. In the business and financial world the end of the old year marks a distinct epoch, and the first of January is the beginning of new accounts and new books. There is a general brushing up, so to speak, and a number of new rules enacted, even if they are never enforced.

There seems to be no reason why there should not be a moral brushing up, as well as a business one. On the first of January, why should not every one take an account of stock? Why not foot up all the good and bad done in the old year, and find out on which side the balance lies? If bad, it is a subject for correction; if good, it is a matter for congratulation.

It is not necessary for one to make the footings public, any more than a business man takes the outside world into his confidence, but a perusal may do a wonderful amount of good. Indeed, it is the only way by which one can learn to avoid a repetition of the errors of the old year.

The first of the new year is called "happy" doubtless on account of the good resolutions which inevitably spring from a contemplation of the past. It is the one day in the year when every right-minded person at least tries to do good, and it is an axiom that to be good is to be happy.

Another reason springs from the time-honored custom of calling and renewing old acquaintances, and thus reviving many happy memories.

Let no boy or girl be laughed out of making good resolutions on New Year's Day. To make a resolution and keep it for a single day is better than to make none at all, and it renders each successive resolution easier to make and keep. But good resolutions may be kept, and then, indeed, the new year will be a happy one.

Resolve, then, on New Year's Day to be something better and nobler than you have been in the old year, to correct some fault or develop some virtue; resolve to make some one's life brighter, or to do good in some way, however humble, and you will find your reward in a happiness equal if not superior to that which you have bestowed.



ICEBERGS.

by J.V. HAY.

It may sound strangely to the average reader to say that icebergs are more numerous in warm weather, but such is the fact. Of course they are formed in winter, but it takes the summer sun to set them adrift and send them floating on the ocean, a grand sight to look at but a fearful menace to vessels.

Icebergs are born every day in every month, but most of them remain in or near their native waters for a long time before they escape and wander to the great lanes of travel between here and Europe.

The bergs seen last summer are from two to ten years old—that is, they have had an existence individually for years, though the ice from which they are formed is much older, some of it possibly having been frozen first a thousand years ago.

Icebergs are born of glaciers, and four out of five of the floating bergs on the Atlantic come from Greenland. A glacier is a river of solid water confined in the depressions running down the mountain sides.

Soft and powdery snow falls upon the summits, and though some is evaporated, the yearly fall is greater than the yearly loss, and so the excess is pushed down the slope into the valleys which possibly at the time are covered with green and have afforded pasture lands for cattle.

The snow gathers in the high valleys and every day undergoes some degree of the change which finally transforms it into ice. Slowly, very slowly, in some cases only a foot every year, this frozen river flows downward. Nothing can stop it, nothing can even check it.

The process is the same in Switzerland and Greenland, only in Switzerland the glacier melts when it reaches the lower valley and feeds rivers; in Greenland the glacier slides into the ocean, breaks off and becomes an iceberg and floats away.

One of the incidents of an ordinary Alaskan cruise along the coast is to see the glaciers break off and fall into the water. They are far more beautiful than the finest of the glaciers of Switzerland, and in size they are so great that the largest Alpine glacier would make only a fair-sized nose, if it could be taken bodily and placed upon the face of one of the Alaskan giants.

At Glacier Bay icebergs are being born all the while. Muir Glacier, the largest that dips into the bay, presents a front of 5000 feet. It is 700 feet thick, five-sevenths of it being under water. It extends back for miles and miles.

Each day the central part moves 70 feet into the sea, the discharge every twenty-four hours being 140,000,000 cubic feet of clear ice. As this great quantity cracks into pieces from the glacier, the bergs of the North Pacific begin their life. The separation from the larger mass and the plunge into the sea cause terrific noises.

The interior of Greenland is a solid mass of ice. In fact, some people think that at about the central part of Greenland there is a high mountain, around whose sides there has grown through the centuries an enormous glacier, sending down in every direction branch glaciers that extend to the coast. It is known that the only part of the land which is not covered completely by ice is a narrow belt around the shore.

Crossing this belt at hundreds of places are the glaciers. Some are only a few hundred feet wide and 50 feet thick, while others are several miles wide and measure 1500 feet from surface to bottom.

All of these ice streams are making their way to the sea, and as their ends are forced out into the water by the pressure behind, they are broken off and set adrift as bergs.

Ensign Hugh Rodman, of the United States navy, in his report on the "ice and ice movements in the North Atlantic Ocean," explains many interesting things about ice and bergs.

Once the glacier extends into deep water, pieces are broken off by their buoyancy, aided possibly by the currents and the brittleness of the ice.

The size of the pieces set adrift varies greatly, but a berg from 60 to 100 feet to the top of its walls, whose spires or pinnacles may reach from 200 to 250 feet in height and from 300 to 500 yards in length, is considered an average size berg in the Arctic. These measurements apply to the part above the water, which is about one-eighth or one-ninth of the whole mass.

Many authors give the depth under water as being from eight to nine times the height above. This is incorrect, and measurements above and below water should be referred to mass and not to height.

It is even possible to have a berg as high out of water as it is deep below the surface, for if we imagine a large, solid lump, of any regular shape, which has a very small, sharp, high pinnacle in the centre, the height above water can easily be equal to the depth below. An authentic case on record is that of a berg grounded in the Strait of Belle Isle, in sixteen fathoms of water, that had a thin spire about one hundred feet in height.

Each glacier in Greenland, so far as any estimate has been made, is the parent each year of from ten to one hundred icebergs. When these bergs have plunged into the Arctic Sea, they are picked up by the Arctic current and begin their journey to the North Atlantic. But there are thousands of them afloat; they crowd and rub against each other and frequently they break into smaller masses.

Many go aground in the Arctic basin; others get to the shores of Labrador, where from one end to the other they continually ground and float. Some disappear there, while others get safely past and reach the Grand Banks.

According to Ensign Rodman, the ice of bergs, although very hard, is at the same time extremely brittle. A blow of an axe will at times split them, and the report of a gun, by concussion, will accomplish the same end.

They are more apt to break up in warm weather than in cold, and whalers and sealers note this before landing on them when an anchor is to be planted or fresh water to be obtained.

On the coast of Labrador, in July and August, when it is packed with bergs, the noise of rupture is often deafening, and those experienced in ice give them a wide berth.

When they are frozen the temperature is very low, so that when their surface is exposed to a thawing temperature the tension of the exterior and interior is very different, making them not unlike a Prince Rupert's drop.

Then, too, during the day, the water made by melting finds its way into the crevices, freezes, and hence expands, and, acting like a wedge, forces the berg into fragments.

Much of the ice encountered at sea is discolored, and often full of dirt and gravel, while not infrequently stones are found imbedded in it.

Along the shores of Labrador, where there is a large rise and fall in the tide, ice is brought into contact with the bottom, and mud and sea-weed are frozen in with it, while at times landslides precipitate large quantities of dirt and stones on its surface.

As the ice leaves the coast and comes to the southward, it brings these burdens with it, which are deposited on the ocean bottom when the ice melts. As this melting occurs to a great extent over the Grand Banks, it would seem that the deposit from the field ice would be greater than that from bergs.

It is hard to understand why bergs should have foreign substances frozen into them, as they are formed from snow deposited on the frozen surfaces in the interior of Greenland, and hence their thickness is added to from their upper surface.

It is possible that in their journey south in the Arctic current they accumulate more or less foreign matter by having it ground into their bottoms; but this does not seem probable, as it is hard to force gravel into ice and give it a permanent hold, while mud accumulated in this way would soon be washed out.

Then, too, the largest bergs find their way around the edges of the Banks, and do not cross, on account of their draught, for only an average-size berg crosses the Banks.



"1891."

by Rev. PHILIP B. STRONG.

Dear "1890" is no more! The year has gone like years before. With feelings foreign, sure, to none, I write an "1891."

What lofty vows, what high resolves, The wakened soul to-day revolves! Will they endure, as now begun, Through all of "1891?"

Oh, may more kindly words be said Than in the twelve-month that has fled; Far better, braver deeds be done Than then in "1891."

What hath this year of loss or gain? Who knoweth? What of boon or bane? Life's thread may bright or dark be spun, Ah, shrouded "1891!"

But faith is strong though sight is dim; We gladly leave the days with Him, And, trusting, wait the sands to run Of hopeful "1891."



[This Story began in No. 4.]

Schooner Sailing and Beach Combing;

or,

LEE HOLLAND'S ADVENTURES.

by EDWARD SHIPPEN, M.D.,

Author of "Cast Away in the Ice," "The Yacht Grapeshot," "Tiger Island and Elsewhere," "Jack Peters' Adventures in Africa," etc., etc.

CHAPTER VI.

Lee now began to feel hungry and tired, so he let the boat drift while he sat down and ate the lunch which the old woman had provided with such very different intentions; and after that was finished, he fell sound asleep in the stern-sheets, only to be awakened by the chill of the dawn. Sitting up, he saw that the Sound was covered by a dense mist, and all around him were flocks of wild ducks, settled upon the water, but which flew off as soon as he moved.

While he sat looking at the sky, growing brighter in the east, and trying to make up his mind in what direction Plymouth lay, he heard the dip of a paddle, and then he saw coming up through the mist a dug-out canoe, in which sat a venerable-looking old negro.



"Hillo!" said Lee.

The old fellow started as if he had been shot and peered about until he saw the boat.

"Hillo, sah! hillo!" he answered, and then paddled nearer. "Now I can't say as I rightly knows you, sah; an' I knows most everybody round here. Duck-shootin' maybe? Is you one o' de Talbots?"

"No; I'm not duck-shooting, and I'm not one of the Talbots."

"What you doin' out here in de cold mornin', den, boy? Dat boat come from some wessel, I see. An' dear knows it would be quare if you was a Talbot, an' I didn't know you. I belonged to old man Talbot onst."

"No, no, old man! I tell you I'm no Talbot. I've run away from a schooner above here, and I want to get to Plymouth."

"Laws a massy! Why, I runned away myself, afore de wah. Was fo' year in de Dismal Swamp, an' had a good time dere, too, honey. We had plenty o' possum an' chickens an' corn-meal toted by colored folks we knowed, an' put whar we could find it. An' we had sweet potatoes, an' simlins, an' water-millions, an' berries, an' grapes, an' wild plums, an' wild hogs, an' fish. Don't know as ever I'd 'a come out ef it hadn't 'a be'n de wah freed de slaves, an' I wanted to see de ole place."

By this time the old negro was alongside, and took out a cob-pipe, filled it, struck a light, and settled himself for a good talk, first telling Lee that he was going fishing, at which he made his living.

Before he could begin talking again, Lee asked him in what direction he ought to go to reach Plymouth.

"Why, honey, I'se a-goin' right dat way. My place for fishin' lays right in dat direction. You come along o' me."

And with that the old fellow made fast his canoe to the schooner's boat, and got in with Lee, taking one of the oars, so that they gave way together.

After pulling for some time, the old man sounded.

"Now here I is," he then said, "in my place for fishin'. Now you see de sun is scoffin' de fog, don't you? Well, you jus' keep de sun right in your eyes, an' pull away, an' in less dan two hours you'll be in Plymouth, for de tide is fa'r for you. I wish you well, honey! I done run away onst myself, but I believe I tole you about dat. Take some o' dis corn pone, and a piece o' dis cold bacon; you must want sumfin' in your stumic. So-long!"

"Can't you give me a drink of water?" said Lee. "I want that more than anything to eat."

"Yes, 'deed I kin!"

And then the old fellow rummaged in his canoe and brought out a black jug, stoppered with a corn-cob, pulled the latter out, wiped the mouth of the jug with his sleeve, and presented it to Lee, who took a good drink, thanked his black friend, and then settled down at the oars for a long pull.

Belts of fog and mist continued to lie upon the water, and after a time, and having taken several breathing spells, he was shut in by one of them, when he began to hear, carried over the water from a distance, the creaking of blocks and tinkling of iron, and the cries of drivers shouting at mules or horses, and other noises of a seaport.

Then the fog suddenly lifted, and he saw, quite a distance above him, the wharves and some houses and vessels, mostly big, three-masted schooners, loading lumber and tar and turpentine, just as he had been told by old Jake.

Then, for the first time, it occurred to Lee that if he appeared there alone, in possession of a ship's boat, he might be looked upon with suspicion and might have hard work to explain how he came there, and even might be held until he could clear the matter up.

So, rather than be suspected and detained, he determined to make his appearance by land, instead of by water, and ran the boat on shore, some way below the town.

Jumping out, he was about to give her a shove out into the stream, when he reflected that the tide was still flood and an empty boat would be sure to be seen and secured and his sudden appearance connected with her in some way; so he hauled her under a clump of bushes, made her well fast and walked up a marshy cattle-path toward the town.

In about twenty minutes he came out close to a wharf, where the work of the day was in full blast. A large schooner lay there, with "Traveler, of Boston," on her broad stern. She was taking, as a deck-load, some large, squared timbers, and just then had a big one hung by chains from a patent crane, which stood upon the dock.

A number of negroes were at work lowering it down, when suddenly something cracked and the most of them let go the winch.

The great timber must have come down on the deck with damaging effect if Lee, who had often seen such cranes used before, had not jumped to the safety-break, at the risk of being killed by the whirling winch-handles, and brought the beam to a stand before it could do any damage.

"Well done, my lad!" shouted a stout, bronzed man, from the vessel. "You just stay there and work those other three timbers down on deck, and I'll pay you for it. I'm short handed. But, stop; maybe you belong to some of these other vessels? No? Well, I'll be as good as my word. My mate's sick with this confounded North Carolina fever, and the second-mate's got some kind of 'fantods,' too, and is laid up, and I want to get away to-day."

"Send me out a drink of water and a piece of hard tack, sir, and I'll stop here till the timbers are on board."

"Steward," called the captain, "there's a boy out there on the dock; I want you to take him something to eat and drink. He's the one at the break. Now, bear a hand and sling another one."

While they were slinging it Lee managed to eat something, and in an hour the whole were safely on deck and securely chocked. Then the captain saw Lee still on the dock and beckoned him on board.

"Now, here's a half-dollar for you, my lad. Do you belong about these parts? Don't look as if you did. But, no matter; I s'pose you've run away from some vessel. Now, I'm bound to Havana with this load of lumber, and I'll ship you, if you like."

"I would rather ship in some vessel going north, sir."

"Well, maybe you can and maybe you can't. I'm going to haul out, right away. Go, or not go? What do you say?"

"Are you going home from Havana, captain?"

"I can't say. I will, if I get a charter. But, being short handed, I'd like to have a good, active, stout lad, like you, and will give you ordinary seamen's wages. Haven't been much to sea, have you?"

"No, sir; but I'm not a bad schooner sailor, and can reef and steer."

"Well, I don't want any shilly-shally! Say yes or no. I have my clearance, and here comes the tug to take me down the Sound."

"Well, yes, then."

And so it came about that Lee found himself, within half an hour, bound down for Hatteras Inlet and thence for Havana, when he had only started from home to go halibut fishing!

CHAPTER VII.

In a day or two after the vessel got to sea the mates got better and went to duty, and the skipper seemed to take a pleasure in abusing and worrying them, although it was evident from their appearance that they had suffered severely from the swamp fever, and had not been shamming, as the captain intimated.

In fact, the latter turned out to be a regular sea-tyrant, and Lee soon found that life under him would be intolerable.

The crew were a mixed lot, mostly Norwegians and Dagos, whom the captain had shipped at low wages. Some of them hardly understood a word of English; and before the week was out the captain almost killed a poor Portuguese by striking him with a belaying-pin because he misunderstood an order while at the wheel.

That night the second-mate talked to Lee during his watch, and asked him how he came to ship.

Lee told him his story.

"Well, my lad, my advice to you is to run away as soon as we reach Havana. The captain is also part owner, and he will never pay you any wages, if by any chance he can avoid it, while he is likely to do you harm if you cross him."

"Why do you stop on board?" asked Lee.

"Because he owes me several months' wages, and I cannot afford to lose it. But you mind what I tell you, and get away the first chance."

Among the crew of the Traveler, Lee had found a Cuban lad of about his own age, named Diego, whom Captain Bristol had inveigled into shipping as a cabin-boy, on a previous voyage to Havana.

He had been five or six months on board the vessel, and began to speak English pretty fluently, but in a broken way, and with many sailor expressions.

One evening, at sea, he came up to Lee and said:

"My name is Diego. What is your name?"

Lee told him.



"I came from Havana. Where did you come from?"

Lee related his story in a few words.

"Just the same with me," said Diego, when he had finished. "I've got no father, no mother; but I'll not stop here. The captain treats me like a slave. When we get to Havana, we go ashore, eh?"

Lee had for some time thought he had better get out of the Traveler, if he could only see his way to do so. But he said:

"Where would we go, and what would we do, Diego? I have to get a living, and would only have to look for another vessel to take me home, and that might not be so easy to get."

Diego smiled knowingly.

"You see, I've got an aunt, and she lives at Regla," he said. "She's a good old woman, but very poor. We can sleep in her house, though, till we find something to do."

Lee did not promise, although Diego returned to the subject several times. But on the morning that the vessel entered Havana the captain gave him a violent blow with his fist, because he was not quick enough in bringing him his spyglass from the cabin, and this determined Lee finally, and he went forward and told Diego he was ready to go at the first chance.

"All right," replied the Cuban; "I'll keep my eyes open and mouth shut."

It was a lovely morning as Lee stood forward and entered the first foreign port in which he had ever been, glancing up at the frowning Morro Castle at the entrance, close to which all vessels must pass, and seeing the great guns pointing at them from the embrasures in the old walls, the quaint turrets or sentry-boxes, painted in red and yellow, with the sentinels pacing up and down, with polished muskets and bayonets, and dressed in uniforms of white linen.

Then opened the view of the great harbor within, filled with shipping, and the town beyond, with houses having no chimneys and painted in white and red, and green and pink, with nodding palms and other tropical foliage growing—all strange enough to a lad who had been all his life north of Cape Cod.

When they had been boarded by the health officer and the custom house officials, the Traveler came to anchor, and for a time all were busy in furling sails and cleaning up the decks, while the captain took a boat and went off to see his consignees.

All day they lay quiet, as the captain did not return and there were no orders to begin to discharge, but toward evening a bumboat came off, with fresh bread, fruits and other things to sell to the crew.

In the bumboat was a boy of about Diego's age, whom he recognized as an old acquaintance and playmate, and who seemed very much surprised at seeing him on board the American vessel.

Diego went down and had a whispered talk with him, which resulted in his beckoning to Lee to come down. The second-mate was in charge of the deck, and if he saw them go he took no notice.

Lee had no clothes to take, as he had only two shirts—one flannel and one woven undershirt, which he had up to this time worn in turn, while he washed the other—and both were becoming well worn out.

In view of a chance of running away, he had put them both on, in spite of the heat of the day.

Diego's friend pushed them into a little cubby-hole under the half-deck of the bumboat, saying in Spanish, which Diego translated to Lee:

"Lie there, lads, and we'll put you on shore at Regla all right."

The place was hot and stuffy and there was hardly room to turn round, but they were so anxious to get away that they lay perfectly still for at least an hour.

Then the bumboat shoved off to return to the shore, and in fifteen minutes Lee stood upon foreign soil for the first time. Forlorn and strange enough he felt, too, and if it had not been for Diego, would have felt almost inclined to go back to the Traveler and her tyrant of a captain.

Every sight and sound which met him when he landed was different from any he had ever experienced before. Long drays, drawn by mules covered with tasseled harness and bells, and driven by half-naked negroes, groups of dark-complexioned men, with sashes round their waists and gay handkerchiefs on their heads, on top of which they wore felt or straw hats.

They talked with great energy and many gestures as they smoked their cigars. Diego said they were stevedores and other laborers who had just finished their day's work.

The streets were paved with small cobble stones, or else not paved at all, and the sidewalk was very narrow and elevated, more like a beach than a walk, and everybody seemed to take to the middle of the street.

Nobody took any notice of the two lads, for sailors were no rarity in those parts, and they worked their way along the narrow, crowded, noisy streets, sometimes jumping to one side to avoid a mule dray or some heavy burden, carried by a number of negroes upon their heads, the bearers singing in chorus to warn people out of the way.

Occasionally they met a lady dressed in white, with bare head and fan in hand, who had driven down in her volante to fetch a father or a husband from his place of business.

This vehicle struck Lee as being very odd. It was a sort of large, open gig, mounted on very high wheels and drawn by a horse at the end of very long shafts, which kept him several feet from the volante.

The horse was always ridden by a black postillion in gorgeous livery, glazed hat and cockade, and enormous boots, who cracked a whip with a noise like pistol-shots, to show that an important person was coming.

A number of times Lee stopped to look at the novel sights about him, but at last Diego said:

"Come on now, Lee. We're still some ways from my Aunt Dolores, and she always goes to bed with the chickens."

Trudging on, over the rough, slippery stones, they at last turned up a side street of poor habitations, most of them in sad want of soap and water, as well as paint and whitewash, and about half-way up the block came to an open door, at which sat a chocolate-colored, withered old woman, who was smoking a very long, thin cigar.

Diego stepped up to her and said, in Spanish:

"Dear aunt, do you not know me?"

The old woman stared at him a moment with her dim eyes, as she took the cigar from her mouth, and then she jumped up and exclaimed, in the same language:

"It is Diego! my Diego!"

And with that she flung her arms about him, hugged and kissed him, and talked at such a rate that all the neighbors came to see what had happened. At last Diego got clear of her, and turned to Lee, saying:

"She says they heard that I had gone off to the ends of the earth with a confounded Gringo Yankee, and I was gone so long she thought I must be dead."

Then he turned to the old woman and continued:

"Here is a Yankee friend of mine, who is a good fellow. We have had hard times, and I want you to let us sleep here to-night, and to-morrow we will look for something to do. We have had enough to eat for to-day, and so we only want shelter."

Old Dolores, Diego's aunt, was a washerwoman. She employed one or two girls during the day, but they had now gone home, and she was alone in the house; so she took the lads in and spread some sheets on ironing-tables in a back room, which opened upon a little court, with high stone walls, and there they lay down, and in spite of the numerous curious smells, and of the hardness of their beds, were soon asleep.

CHAPTER VIII.

Next morning the old woman had them up early, for she wanted to use their beds, and gave them some breakfast, consisting of very good coffee, without milk, fried plantains, very nice white bread from the baker's next door, and to each a little relish of salt bacon, which did instead of butter.

It was evident that this repast was considered a great treat by both Diego and his aunt. When they had finished, the latter said:

"Now, Diego, if you and your friend will take a basket of washed clothes over into the city, to the hotel for which I work, you will do me a favor."

"Why not?" answered Diego, who then explained to Lee what was wanted.

The old woman soon had the large, square basket packed and covered with a clean checked cloth, and then said:

"Here, Diego, take these coppers for the ferry-boat, and here are the lists and the bills. You will get the money and bring it back to me."

The boys set off at once, crossing the bay to the city in the balmy clear, tropical morning, so charming before the sun gains its full power, and having a long trudge before they came to their destination.

In this neighborhood Lee saw a very different state of things from that at Regla. They passed a great square, planted with palms and flowering plants, such as he had only seen in pictures heretofore. Then there were long ranges of public buildings and grand houses, with sentry-boxes in front of them, and sentinels pacing to and fro.

They also met frequently battalions and companies of troops, going to relieve guard or returning from early parade, stepping out briskly over the clean-swept pavements to lively airs played by the bands. Everything, at that hour, was life and bustle, for most of the business of the day is done in the early morning, that people may have time to take the "siesta" during the hot hours.

All these strange sights seemed to divert Lee's thoughts from the heavy basket which they were carrying, and he was still staring about when Diego stopped before a large, low, two-storied building, with a great arched entrance into a court-yard, around the four sides of which the building extended. Above the arch hung a sign, with "Hotel de los Estados Unidos," painted upon it.

"Well, I know what that sign means," said Lee; "and it's the first one I've seen which I did understand."

"Yes, here we are at last," replied Diego.

And they turned in and came out in the large court-yard, which presented quite an animated appearance.

A fountain was playing in the middle, surrounded by orange trees, bananas and flowering plants, in great green tubs. All around, the doors of sleeping rooms opened upon the court, while above, another set of doors opened upon a balcony, which was reached by steps below.

On the pavement of stone were many little tables, at which gentlemen and ladies were taking breakfast, and waiters in white jackets were bustling about and supplying their wants.

On the left, as the boys entered, was an office, with a half door and a shelf upon it, from which a clerk hailed them:

"Hi, muchachos, qui quiere?" (What do you want, you boys?)

"The clothes, senor," answered Diego, in reply, pointing to the basket, which they had deposited on the flagstones.

"Ah, that's all right! Are they from Dolores? There's a gentleman here who has inquired half a dozen times already about his clean things. He wants to leave to-day."

"What's his name? I have the lists here."

"What is his name? I never can remember these English and American names. But here he comes himself."

As he spoke, a tall, fine-looking man, of about forty, with light hair and complexion and wearing gold spectacles, came hurrying in from the street.

"Now, then, senor," said he, addressing the clerk, "are those my things? All right. Take them to my room, No. 17, on the balcony. The steamer sails for Ruatan this afternoon, before sunset, and I must send my baggage on board at once. Where is the servant you promised to engage for me?"

"Senor, the young man I hoped to get will not go on such an expedition as yours, and has backed out, at the last moment, after promising me he would be ready."

Lee and Diego both pricked up their ears at the word "expedition," and Diego took off his cap and said:

"Where might the gentleman be going?"

"I'm going to make some explorations, and to try to find some ruined cities in Central America. Not an easy task, for their situation is not precisely known, and many have been baffled in trying to find them. I want a young man who is a good traveler and handy, and who speaks both Spanish and English, so that he can act as an interpreter."

"But just where are you going, sir?"

"Why, to Ruatan, first—where I shall get my outfit, and engage some canoe hands and a cook; and then to Truxillo, for more precise information. I may go up the River Maugualil, or some other stream. It will depend upon what I hear."

Diego and Lee looked at each other as much as to say, "Why wouldn't we do? We must do something, and that at once; and here is a chance for travel and adventure, too."

Lee even forgot his design of returning North, and said to the gentleman:

"I am an American, sir, willing and strong, and ready for anything which will give me an honest living and a chance to see something new; and my friend here speaks Spanish, for it is his native tongue—and also English well enough. If you'll take us both, there is nothing to prevent us from going, for we have left our vessel."

The gentleman looked closely at their faces, and then answered:

"I don't see why I shouldn't try you—especially as I can't get any one else," he added to himself. "My name is Higley, and I am a professor in Coryale College. I have been sent out for the purpose I have told you, and expect to be gone from here for seven or eight months, or perhaps a year. Now, who are you?"

Lee told him their story, and the professor said, when he had finished:

"Very well, then. If you have no one from whom to get permission, I will trust you without reference. I expected to pay a faithful and competent man, who was willing to go with me, and encounter any danger or privations which we may meet, fifty dollars a month; and of course he would live the same as myself. Now, I'm willing to divide that sum between you two lads, if you do well and earn it."

This offer sounded very large to Diego and Lee, who neither of them had a copper of their own, especially when the excitement of discovery and adventure was to be thrown in, and they closed with Professor Higley's offer immediately, only stipulating that they were to go back to take old Aunt Dolores her money and bid her good-by.

"Well, go; but be sure to be back here by three o'clock at the latest, or I shall conclude you've changed your minds."

"Ah, it is settled at last," said the Spanish clerk. "Now that the gentleman has been suited, he will leave me in peace to smoke my cigar. These Americans and English have no idea of quiet, but must always be on the go," he mumbled to himself, as he turned into his darkened retreat.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]



PLANTS IN A ROOM.

There is a widespread belief that the presence of growing plants and cut flowers in a room is in some way prejudicial to those who sleep therein. This belief is probably due to the fact, learned at school, that plants give off at night carbonic acid, which is known to be deleterious to health.

A recent writer has published the results of some experiments made in a closed green-house, showing how fanciful are these fears. In this green-house there were 6000 growing plants, and the average of three experiments made early on three different mornings after the place had been closed for more than twelve hours exhibited only 4.03 parts of carbonic acid per 10,000.

We can judge by this experiment that from one or two plants the quantity of gas given off must be far too small for recognition, and certainly many hundred times less than that formed by a burning taper or given off by one pair of lungs.



A CORNER IN ALLIGATORS.

by GEORGE ETHELBERT WALSH.

"'Gator hides worth three dollars, and big ones four. That's our game, Jed, and we'll make enough in 'gator hunting to get that pony."

"You bet, for there's plenty of 'em down in Loon Lake—big ones, too."

"We'll have a regular corner in 'em. Come, let's get off."

The two young Southern hunters felt as if they had already captured a small fortune, and Stam—short for Stamford—made a rush for the house.

"Where's my gun? It's never in its place. Mother," raising his voice, "I can't find my gun anywhere. It's so provoking! Have you taken it?"

"And my game-bag is gone," echoed Jed, in an irritable voice. "We're in such a hurry, too."

"It's money out of pocket standing here looking for these plaguey things."

"Well, boys," replied Mrs. Fellows, appearing on the scene, "you have no one to blame but yourself. Nobody has touched your things, and they are just where you left them."

"Where is that?"

"You ought not to be told. You should be made to look for them."

"Oh, please tell us, mother, for we're in such a hurry."

"'Gator skins are selling high now," added Stam, opening his eyes, "and we know where we can get some big ones."

"That's no reason why you shouldn't be made to find your things. You must be cured of your careless habits in some way. This is a good time to begin."

"Oh, don't lecture us now, mother. Do it when we come back."

"Please tell us where we can find the gun and game-bag," pleaded Jed, putting an arm around his mother's waist.

Mrs. Fellows could not resist this appeal, and she directed the boys to the wood-shed, where they found the desired gun and game-bag standing near a pile of wood. The boys had left them there two days before after returning from a hunt, and the gun was somewhat the worse for rust and exposure.

Down by Loon Lake the great saurians were basking themselves in the hot sun, and the appearance of the boys among them made a slight disturbance along the edges of the water.

"These are only small ones," whispered Jed, with contempt. "We want some big four-dollar hides. Snag Creek's the place for them. The big fellows always hang out there."

The young hunters paddled their small skiff rapidly around the edge of the clear-water lake, and then shoved her gently up a narrow, muddy creek.

Enormous cypress trees lined either bank, and scores of buzzards were perched on the dead branches, watching the solitary skiff glide through the water. The buzzards seemed to know that they were protected by law, and they did not deign to jump from their roosts.

At the end of the creek was a smaller lake, or rather a small muddy pond, in the centre of which was an island which nearly touched the mainland at one end. Between this island and the land the big alligators basked in numbers, and Jed truthfully exclaimed, as he caught sight of the saurians:

"We've got a regular corner in 'em, sure! We'll land and pelt 'em like fun!"

The boys had only one gun between them, but they were both so excited that they enjoyed the anticipated sport as much as if each held one of the deadly weapons in his hand.

As the skiff touched the island, they leaped out of it together. Stam hurried up to a huge alligator and took deliberate aim before pulling the trigger; but, to his chagrin, the alligator still blinked at him after the hammer struck the cap.

The gun was so rusty from its two days' exposure that it refused to go off. Several caps were exploded with the same unsatisfactory result.

The boys began to worry and fume while the alligator eyed them menacingly.

Stam took the ramrod out and began to draw the load, but, before he could succeed, the alligator became aggressive. He winked at his comrades, snapped his jaws, and then waddled toward the young hunters.

"Look out!" Jed screamed, "he's coming for you! Get in the boat and draw the load there."

Both boys turned and ran for the skiff, but there was no skiff to be had. In the excitement they had jumped out of the boat and left it without securing it in any way, and the skiff had quietly drifted off.

The two boys were in a great predicament, and their fun gave place to fear.

"We're in for it now, Stam," gasped Jed.

"We'll have to swim ashore."

"We can't do that unless we get on the other side of the island. There are too many snags on this side. We'd get caught in them."

The boys walked around their narrow prison, and tried to frighten the alligators away; but they were unsuccessful in this attempt. Two or three curious alligators crawled up on the land to ascertain the cause of the alarm.

The boys set up a shouting, and threw sticks at the saurians; but the more noise they made, the more alligators assembled around the island. The backs and heads of several big ones could be seen swimming toward them from the adjacent shores.

Evidently the creatures knew intuitively that a feast was ahead of them, and each one was getting ready for his share.

"Oh, if this gun would go off!" groaned Stam.

"And if we had thought to tie that skiff," sighed Jed.

"It's all our fault; we were so careless."

"I'll never be so thoughtless again if I ever get out of this."

"But we can't. We'll be eaten up in less than half an hour. Oh, dear!"

The battle now actually began. The boys were forced to the extreme end of the island, and they had to fight or take to the water. Behind them was an enormous alligator—larger than any other two. The big fellow was floating about motionless, with more than half of his body out of water, and he seemed to think that he was sufficient guard for that side of the island.

The two hunters clubbed the approaching enemies and retreated gradually into the water. At first they almost cried in their terror, but, as they warmed up to their work, they felt that everything depended on their bravery. Stam used the butt end of his gun, while Jed swung a heavy club effectively.

But there was no fighting such determined enemies successfully. The boys had to jump around lively to escape the snapping jaws and thrashing tails.

At last they found themselves in water knee deep, with the alligators close upon them.

"It's no use," gasped Jed, throwing away his club. "Swim for your life. Make direct for the shore."

"I don't believe I have strength enough left," replied Stam, who was nearly exhausted in swinging the heavy gun.

"Well, keep together, and we'll die helping each other."

With this noble resolve the brothers ran out into the water as far as they could and then swam for dear life; but between them and the shore was the huge alligator guarding that side.

Before they were aware of their danger the boys were nearly upon the great saurian.

"We're lost!" whispered Jed.

"Ugh!"

The last exclamation was made by Stam, as the long tail of the alligator rubbed against his side. Both boys expected to see it swish through the water the next moment and dash the life out of them, but it did not move. Stam took a hold of it and twisted it viciously.

The alligator did not resent this familiarity, but was as motionless as ever.

"He's asleep!" Jed whispered. "We can get by him yet."

"No, he's dead," shouted Stam, "and he'll have to carry us ashore."

It took the brothers only an instant to realize their good fortune. The alligator was only the dead carcass of a big bull 'gator, which the sun had swollen and distended. It was so light that it could almost carry a man on its back without sinking. The boys threw an arm over either side of the carcass, and then with the other they began to paddle for dear life.

The pursuing alligators were close upon them, but, with their strange support, they easily held their own in the race.

They reached the bank in time, and, leaving the dead 'gator in the shallow water, they staggered up in the woods to a place of safety.

When they recovered their breath and strength they began a search for their boat, which they found at length drifting close into the shore.

Then they returned to the scene of their battle and recovered their gun. When they started home they towed with them the carcass of the alligator which had saved their lives.

Their corner in alligators was over with, and ever afterward they took good care to see that they were not cornered before they counted their gains in cornering the market in 'gator skins.

As Jed expressed it:

"We've got to get over our careless ways, if we're going to do anything with these 'gators. They don't make any allowances for forgetfulness, as mother does, and perhaps she shouldn't, either."

* * * * *

—"Decide not rashly. The decision made Can never be recalled. The gods implore not, Plead not, solicit not; they only offer Choice and occasion, which once being past Return no more." —Longfellow.



INTERNATIONAL LESSON—FOR JAN. 11.

I Kings 12: 25-33.

Subject—Idolatry in Israel.

by REV.G. E. STROBRIDGE, D.D.

GOLDEN TEXT.

"Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image" (Exod. 20:4).

INTRODUCTION.

Jeroboam reigned twenty-two years, beginning in the year 975 B.C. The extent of his territory was larger than that of the kingdom of Judah, over which Rehoboam ruled after the division. Jeroboam's portion, called the Kingdom of Israel, and comprising the northern portion of the land, was about the size of the State of New Hampshire.

Rehoboam first made an attempt to recover the allegiance of the revolted tribes, and sent his representative to take tribute from them, but he was promptly killed. Rehoboam then made preparations for war; but he was admonished to pursue this course no longer by the prophet Shemiah (1 Kings 12: 21-24).

Rehoboam then turned his attention entirely to his own kingdom, and for three years left off his former wild and sinful ways, and seemed to give promise of becoming a good monarch (2 Chron. 11: 17). He busied himself in fortifying his kingdom by a circuit of fifteen walled cities, thus protecting it on the south and west.

Three years of this devotion to a wise care of his kingdom was about all this young man could stand, and he went back to his dissolute ways, and the bad blood of his heathen mother manifested itself.

Continuing thus for two years, he was then attacked by Shishak, the King of Egypt, who was a friend of Jeroboam. Judah was invaded, and the thousand shields of gold which Solomon had made for the display of his wealth and power, and other treasures of the temple, were carried off. These shields Rehoboam replaced with shields of brass.

There was a war, on a larger or smaller scale, all the time between the two kingdoms, until in the reign of Abijah, the son of Rehoboam, Jeroboam was severely punished by an overwhelming defeat.

JEROBOAM'S FORTIFICATIONS.

"Then Jeroboam built Shechem in Mount Ephraim, and dwelt therein; and went out from thence, and built Penuel."

Jeroboam did not build Shechem. There had been a town there from the earliest times, but the meaning is that he rebuilt it, enlarged it, beautified it, and made it the capital city.

It was especially adapted for this, as it was right in the centre of the territory of the ten tribes and the leader of the revolt. It was the most ancient sanctuary in the land, and the ancestors of the Israelites had worshiped there long before they became a nation.

In 1 Kings 14: 17, we are informed that after a time Jeroboam left Shechem, and set up his capital in Tirzah, where he built a palace and other buildings on so grand a scale that the place became even a rival of Jerusalem (Sol. Song 6: 4).

After having established himself in Shechem, he began to give attention to the outlying territory, and, in order to protect it, he built a fortification at Penuel. The name of this place means "the face of God." It received this name from the meeting here of Jacob with the angel, and his wrestling with the angel (Gen. 32: 24-32). It is located on a little stream called Jabbok, and is twenty miles east of the Jordan. It was an important point, as it was situated on the road over which all the caravans passed first to Damascus and then on east to the countries of Babylon and Nineveh.

A fortress here would defend the kingdom of Israel from the attacks of Assyria on the east and north, and from Judah on the south.

THE KING'S APPREHENSION.

"And Jeroboam said in his heart, Now shall the kingdom return to the house of David.

"If this people go up to do sacrifice in the house of the Lord at Jerusalem, then shall the heart of this people turn again unto their lord, even unto Rehoboam, King of Judah, and they shall kill me, and go again to Rehoboam, king of Judah."

Now that Jeroboam is king, his troubles begin. Having settled the matter of protection against invasion by the building of the strongholds as just noticed, a more serious danger arose before him. It would seem that the people had no thought when they separated from the government of Rehoboam that they would also give up their religion. It was expected that Jerusalem should be still the religious capital, and the temple the place for all the people of both nations to worship.

But Jeroboam reasoned with himself that if the people of his kingdom went up to Jerusalem three times a year, as the law directed (Deut. 16: 16), to worship there, they would by this become alienated from him as their ruler, would learn to reverence the king who was of David's line as more rightfully their sovereign, and the result would be not only that they might change, such was the fickle temper of people in the east, but they might expel him and perhaps take his life.

It was a very natural course of reasoning, but he should have trusted in God. In I Kings 11: 38, the promise had been expressly made to him that on condition of his obedience, he should be protected and his throne should be firmly established. But he forgets this and goes on in the foolish fashion of all doubt and unbelief.

FALSE GODS SET UP.

"Whereupon the king took counsel, and made two calves of gold, and said unto them, It is too much for you to go up to Jerusalem; behold thy gods, oh, Israel, which brought thee up out of the land of Egypt,

"And he set the one in Bethel, and the other put he in Dan."

He reasoned that if there were to be two kingdoms, there must also be two religions: at least, the citizens of one kingdom should not get their religion from the worship and service held in another kingdom. On the face of it this looked like the very essence of wisdom. It was worldly wisdom, but it was religious folly because it was putting policy above principle.

After he had thought this matter over for some time, Jeroboam took some of his friends and counselers into the secret of his reflections, and they agreed with him. Thereupon he proceeded to establish home rule in religion as in everything else, and his whole course is an exhibition of great shrewdness. It is a pity that so bright an intellect had not been united with a better heart.

He set up objects of worship and established shrines for them at two places in his kingdom, Bethel and Dan.

Bethel was located in the tribe of Benjamin's territory, but had been taken as part of the land embraced in the revolt of the ten tribes. The name meant the house of God, and was so called by Jacob at the time of his vision (Gen. 28: 11-19.)

As long ago as Abraham's time, an altar had been built here (Gen. 12: 8.) Samuel had also judged Israel here (1 Sam. 7: 16.) It was, therefore, shrewdly selected, for the people of those days were readily and deeply impressed with the sacred associations of places, especially old places.

The other place, Dan, was in the extreme northern part of the land, so that the expression from Dan to Beersheba means from one end of the land to the other, north to south.

There was no city here at this time, but at a spot about four miles from where the city of Dan was afterwards located, there is a remarkable cave in one of the ridges at the base of Mount Hermon. This cave had been a sanctuary or place of worship from the earliest times (Gen. 14: 14.)

Having thus selected the localities, Jeroboam set up there the objects for their worship. It was not his intention so much, perhaps, to teach the people the worship of images—he would hardly have ventured to do that in its bald form—but it was his intention that these calves or oxen should be the symbols representing the presence of God just as the ark and the cherubim did in the temple.

They were made of wood and covered with plates of gold. The ox was an old object of worship. Aaron had set it up in the wilderness, and Jeroboam used almost the very words of Aaron so long before (Ex. 32: 4).

The Israelites were made familiar with this image in the decorations of the temple of Solomon, including colossal cherubim. Also the great molten sea of brass was supported upon oxen of the same material.

THE DAMAGING RESULTS.

"And this thing became a sin: for the people went to worship before the one, even unto Dan.

"And he made a house of high places, and made priests of the lowest of the people, which were not of the sons of Levi."

It was hardly to be expected that any other result than that of sin would come from this course. It was, to begin with, a violation of the second commandment, and if Jeroboam did not intend to teach Israel the worship of false gods, this was the result of it, and repeatedly he is spoken of in the Scriptures as the one that did cause Israel to sin.