So it was settled that Ralph should remain in Cuba during the two months which would probably elapse before the return of the Cristoval Colon to Santiago. His mother (for he could not have endured to think of Mrs. Weston in any other light) would be comforted by the knowledge that he was in such good hands. And then how much he would have to tell her when he should go home!

Captain Weston was greatly pleased with the plantation and its management. He had seen much of Cuba, but never anything of this kind which appeared so satisfactory. He walked and rode with the planter, smoked his cigar with him, and admired his kind treatment of his slaves.

After a tarry of two days, he returned to the city, accompanied by the planter and Ralph.

As the latter mounted the side of the Cristoval Colon, he met a merry welcome from the tars, some of whom threw out sly innuendoes in their sailor style about pearls and pearl-divers, but he did not permit their harmless jokes to annoy him.

After a pleasant visit, Mr. Arthur returned to the plantation; but Ralph did not accompany him, as he desired to remain some days with his father during the vessel's brief stay in port.

He was not a boy who was afraid of work, and now, putting on his everyday rig, he applied himself with a light heart to the duties of the ship, lying stoutly back upon the slack of the tackle, while the sailors hoisted the heavy articles of the cargo, or running aloft to loose the sails for drying after the drenching night dews, and assisting to furl them at evening.

"That boy is smart," old Jack Evans would say to his shipmates. "He is the best fellow for a captain's son I ever fell in with; he is always looking for something to do."

CHAPTER XVI.

OLD JACK SEES A REMEMBERED FACE.

One evening, when Ralph went into the forecastle, he found Jack alone there. The old sailor had just been overhauling his sea-chest, and had in his hand the baby's shoe which he had so long carried for good luck.

"I was just looking at it," he said, "because to-day I came across the father of that identical baby. I hadn't seen him for about sixteen years, but I knew him in a minute. He was puffing his cigar, just as he used to do about the decks of the Moro Castle."

"What!" exclaimed Ralph, "the very man? Oh, how I wish I had been with you! Who is he, and where does he live?"

"That I don't know," replied Jack. "Of course, he didn't know me, and I hadn't a very good chance to introduce myself. He was jabbering with a lot of other Spaniards on a corner, with his caramba and his como esta usted, so that I didn't feel like going up to him with a yarn about a baby's shoe. Which way he went I don't know, for I had to get back to the ship."

"When was it?" asked Ralph, with great earnestness.

"It was while I was ashore this noon."

"Why didn't you tell me?" said the boy. "I would have gone right ashore. But, no—I couldn't have found him without you. Dear me! I wish I could have been with you."

"Why, my lad, it's of no consequence," said Jack. "You seem to think more of it than I do."

"But I want to see him," replied Ralph. "I wonder if he is about here every day?"

"Likely enough," said Jack. "But I didn't think you cared anything about the matter."

"Well, I'm thinking of that baby's shoe," answered Ralph. "It seems so queer—the way you got it, and the way you have kept it."

"I know that's odd," said Jack. "I suppose my keeping it is all nonsense."

"No, it isn't," said Ralph. "I don't think it is, I'm sure."

"You believe a little in old shoes, then?"

"I believe in that shoe, Jack. I mean to go ashore with you, and have a good look for that man."

"But we shouldn't stand much chance of finding him," replied Jack. "I've been here in Santiago a number of times, but this is the first time I have run across him here."

Ralph looked anxious and excited; but he saw that Jack felt somewhat surprised at the interest he took in the matter, and so restrained himself.

"After all," he thought, "it may have nothing to do with me. Just a baby on its passage to the United States. But, then, it was going to Philadelphia, and it was a boy baby; and I must have been a baby at the same time. I wonder what Jack would say if he knew what I am thinking of?"

It would be strange, he thought, if he were really to get track of himself in such a way—the first of the tracks being made by that tiny shoe in Jack's chest. And then he reflected how improbable it seemed, when there were so many babies in the world, that he should have been that baby.

"I almost hope the thing will never come to light," he said to himself. "Perhaps it is better not to know."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]



IN A MENAGERIE.

There is a distinct individuality among tigers, as among ourselves, some being gentle and tolerably tractable, while others are fierce, morose, and not to be trusted.

In Mr. G. Sanger's menagerie, at Margate, England, there are two tigresses which are of exactly opposite characters. Both go by the name of "Bessy," there being an extraordinary lack of originality in the nomenclature of animals.

The difference may be partly owing to the accident of birth, one having been captured while young, and the other born in a menagerie.

One might naturally imagine that the latter would be the better tempered of the two, she never having known the freedom of savage life. But, in accordance with the invariable rule, the "forest-bred" animal is the tamer, those which have been born in captivity being always uncertain in their ways, and not to be trusted.

Now, "Bessy the First" is forest bred. The head keeper, Walter Stratford, has the most perfect confidence in her, and can take any liberties with her.

After I had paid several visits to the menagerie, I thought that she began to recognize me, and therefore cultivated her acquaintance. Now, as soon as I enter the house, Bessy tries to attract my attention, expects to be patted and stroked, her ears to be pulled, and her nose rubbed, just as a pet cat would do.

One day I had an unexpected experience with her. Nearly the whole of the end of the room is occupied by a huge cage, in which Stratford delights in putting all sorts of incongruous animals.

There are several varieties of monkeys, a porcupine, a goat, some rabbits and guinea-pigs, a few geese and ducks, four cats, a coati-mondi, two raccoons, a jackal, a little white Pomeranian dog named Rose, two pigs, and other animals.

Thinking that the goat would like some fresh grass, I went to the lawn, gathered a large handful, and brought it to the goat.

Not a blade of that grass did she get. I had hardly held the grass to the bars when Rose flew at it, drove the goat away, and literally tore the grass out of my hands. Three times did I fetch grass before the goat was allowed to eat a blade of it. Ever since that time I have always furnished myself with a good supply of grass before visiting these animals.

On one occasion I stopped as usual at Bessie's cage, and noticed that she stared fixedly at the grass. So I said, jokingly:

"Why, Bessy, you cannot want grass. However, here it is if you want it."

So I put my hand into the cage, and was much surprised by seeing her gently scrape the grass out of my hand with her huge paw. Then she lay down, gathered the grass between her paws, and licked up every particle of it.

When she had finished it, she looked appealingly in my face as if asking for another supply; so I brought a fresh handful, the whole of which she took in the same dainty way.

Meanwhile Rose was performing the most extraordinary antics at the end of the room. She had seen me bring in the grass, and naturally imagined that it was intended for her. What with disappointment, and what with jealousy, she was simply frantic, barking, yelping, jumping up and down, scratching at the bars of the cage, and expressing her outraged feelings in the most ludicrous fashion. Now I always give Bessy her allowance of grass first, and then take another portion to Rose and the goat.

It is a rather remarkable fact that the carnivora are much more eager for the grass than are the deer, camels, antelopes and other vegetable feeders.

As to "Bessy the First," she is so fond of Stratford, and places such reliance on him, that when she has cubs she will allow him to enter the cage, take away the cubs and hand them about among the visitors. In fact, she is quite pleased to see that her offspring attract so much attention.

Very different is "Bessy the second." She never had a very good temper, but was not considered to be a very dangerous animal, until an event occurred which completely altered, or, at all events, had an evil influence upon her character.

Nearly two years ago, three young lion cubs were in the next cage to hers. One day she seemed to be seized with a sudden frenzy, smashed the partition between the cages, flew at the cubs, and killed two of them in a moment.

The whole attack was so quick and unexpected that Stratford had only just time to save the life of the third cub. Since that time she has been carefully watched, for when once a lion or a tiger has broken through a cage it is apt to repeat the operation.

"Bessy the Second" is restless, morose and suspicious, and if any of the animals make a sudden movement, she starts up, stares at them through the bars, and often sets up a series of roars, which have the effect of causing every lion and tiger in the place to roar for sympathy, so that the noise is deafening.



STORIES OF DUMB CREATURES.

—Says a naturalist: "We came to a large piece of timber, and while passing through it, I had my first experience with the honey-bird of South Africa. This curious little bird is, in size and plumage, about like an English sparrow, and gets his name from the fact that the little fellow, who is very fond of honey, being unable to obtain it for himself, will lead men to the places where the wild bees have hidden their stores of rich, wild honey. Whenever this bird sees a man, he will fly close to him, hovering around, uttering a twittering sound; then he will go off in the direction of the place (generally a tree) where the honey is, flying backward and forward in a zigzag fashion. Then back he will come, twittering in the same manner, as if to say, 'Come along: I'll show you where it is.' These actions are repeated until the tree is reached, when the bird will indicate it very plainly by flying to it and hovering around it. If the distance is great (and sometimes the honey-bird will lead a person who is willing to follow a distance of ten miles); he will wait on a tree until the follower comes up, and will then continue his business of piloting. He is very persistent, and will do his best to draw any one on; but if the party is not posted about honey-birds, and refuses to follow, or goes in the wrong direction, the bird will leave, probably in search of some person who will appreciate his efforts to provide him with sweetmeats. While the bees are being smoked out, and the honey taken up, the bird will hover in the vicinity until the job is done, when of course his reward comes in the shape of a feast on the fragments that are left. If he knows of other hives, just as soon as one is disposed of he will lead the way to another, and I have, since this time, known as many as four trees taken up by a party in one day. When the honey-bird has shown one tree, if the hunters are satisfied with that, and refuse to follow him further, he leaves them; but I have never heard of an instance in which the bird misled any one in regard to finding honey. It frequently happens, however, that a honey-bird will lead a person into very dangerous places, and unless the hunter keeps his eyes about him when following this bird, he may run right into a lion, a venomous snake, or some other equally undesirable acquaintance."

—A correspondent of a New Orleans paper writes: "Dick was only a big toad. The boys found him beside the road one day last summer when the June roses were in bloom, and triumphantly deposited him in one of the flower-beds, 'to eat the bugs and things off'n the pinks and pansies and rosemary; and, besides, you know, mamma, the other boys will throw stones at him.' That settled it, and Dick (as they gravely informed me they had named him) was left to enjoy his flowery home. Occasionally, when cutting flowers, I noticed the exceeding tameness of the little creature, and was often assured by the boys, 'Our Dick is the very best toad in town.' However, I noticed nothing uncommon until two or three weeks after they had brought him home, when I was attracted by their peals of laughter, and presently heard them calling, 'Dick, Dick! come, Dick!' I slipped out and peeped around the corner of the house, and beheld a most comical sight—one of the boys down on his knees, holding out his hands and calling to the toad, which was gravely hopping toward him, making a peculiar little noise, until he reached the outstretched hand, into which he hopped and sat contentedly blinking his bright, bulging eyes. After this I noticed the strange pet more closely, and found he would always come promptly when his name was called, and seemed very grateful when presented with a worm or bug. He would come at any kindly call, but showed greatest preference for eight-year-old, mischievous Teddy, into whose hand he would always hop, and whom he would hop around after as long as he would walk around the flower-bed where Dick made his home, but never beyond its limits. And such pansies, pinks and other sweet posies I had there!—no cut stem or bitten leaves. Dick ate all the floral enemies up that ventured there. When the cold days of autumn came upon us, he left us, and we have seen him no more. What is the moral of this? Nothing—only that kindness and mercy shown to even so humble a creature as a toad will bring pleasures and a sure recompense."

—Writing from Tecumseh, Mich., a correspondent sends this: "A few years ago our house was infested with a large number of rats, which had taken up their abode in a recess of the cellar that had formerly been used as a landing-place for a dumb-waiter, but was now filled with odds and ends of every description. We had endeavored to rid ourselves of these pests, but all our attempts were in vain, and they held their daily matinees as usual. On hearing more of a commotion than common, one afternoon, I softly opened the cellar door, and, to my amazement, saw nine rats, one of which had mounted a box containing potatoes, while the others were stretched out in a line leading to their den—the recess before mentioned. Now comes the most curious part of my story: The rat that stood on the box of potatoes would push a potato over the edge, then the rat in line nearest the box would roll the potato to his neighbor, and so on with each one till the potato was safely stowed away. I watched them for some time, and, seeing the potatoes disappearing rather rapidly, I dispersed the earnest workers by a stamp of my foot."



PUZZLEDOM.

NO. CCCLXXVII.

Original contributions solicited from all. Puzzles containing obsolete words will be received. Write contributions on one side of the paper, and apart from all communications. Address "Puzzle Editor," GOLDEN DAYS, Philadelphia, Pa.

ANSWERS TO LAST WEEK'S PUZZLES.

No. 1. Calendar.

No. 2. B E S T O W E P A U L E S A C R E D T U R B I D O L E I N E W E D D E D

No. 3. Wise-acre.

No. 4. C A L A B O O S E A N I M A B L E L I M E R O D A M E N D E B A R D S O B O E O L D S E E

No. 5. Mark Tapley.

No. 6. M O C H E S O T I O S E C I C U T A H O U D A H E S T A T E S E A H E N

No. 7. Good-humored.

No. 8. F A I R S A B N E T S I N T A I L S R E A L L I E D S T I L E T T O S S L I T H E R S E T E E D O R S

No. 9. Byrnehc, Pygmalion, Traddles.

No. 10. G R A T I S R E V E S T A V E N E R T E N U R E I S E R I N S T R E N E

No. 11. Cover-shame.

No. 12.

H U M E C T A T I O N P O L I A N I T E B A T T E N S S E T A E D O R O

NEW PUZZLES.

NO. 1. NUMERICAL.

When trees and fields complete Their garbs of green; When birds and flowers sweet Again are seen, And airy zephyrs murmur by, My 5, 4, 3 and 6 soars high.

Oh! how I'm in a state Of agitation, 6, 1 and 2 I get An inspiration. 'Twill be in vain—in vain my lay, For spring will then have flown away.

Villanova, Pa. VILLANOVA.

NO. 2. SQUARE.

1. The young of the great black-backed gull. 2. To come. 3. Carves. 4. Granters. 5. To entirely destroy (Obs.) 6. To grow smaller.

Rochester, N.Y. EGERTON.

NO. 3. CHARADE.

Prime not, ye fair ladies, or gentlemen wise. To disbelieve what for your fortune will prove; Next total, not gold, should select as a prize, Three, friends, to the right, and marry for love.

Danville, Va. ALEDA.

NO. 4. PENTAGON.

1. A letter. 2. The pulp of fruit. 3. A shrub of the genus Corylus. 4. The Brazil nut. 5. Deep blue colors. 6. Contrite. 7. A detached bastion (Fort.) 8. To admit extension. 9. Rigid.

Haverhill, Mass. PYGMY.

NO. 5. MUTATION.

Like a hawk that pounces on its prey, Swift as lightning on a summer day, Through the stillness of the air you came, Without life, and more—without a name. Man has called you whole—perhaps you are Dross ejected from some brilliant star! But methinks the spheres their place will yield ERE TO TIME your mystery is revealed.

Newark, N.J. DEMOSTHENES.

NO. 6. SQUARE.

1. Gaps. 2. By reason of this. 3. A fleet of vessels. 4. A sort of flying fish. 5. A title addressed to a lady. 6. The principal gold coin of ancient Greece.

East Brady, Pa. ST. ELMO.

NO. 7. CHARADE.

Come here, my second—lose no time; First lively, don't procrastinate; Although, my all, I'll spare no pains To render you less obdurate.

My all! Yet truly as a last I've learned to look upon my boy: Most true it is, 'tis but a one From sad distrust to life of joy!

First dame, indeed, I would not be Held in my second's inmost thought; Transmuted by love's magic power, My all my last is, without doubt.

Woburn, Mass. GLEN COTTAGE.

NO. 8. HALF SQUARE.

1. Concise. 2. Birds resembling thrushes. 3. A poisonous substance composed of minute fungi. 4. Forms. 5. Kinds of liquor. 6. An iron chain (Obs.) 7. Exists. 8. A letter.

Boston, Mass. PI ETA.

NO. 9. NUMERICAL.

The whole is a thing that drives away harm, Defined by dear Webster as "a charm;" My 5, 6, 2, 3, 3 is by the same called "not much;" My 6, 7, 8, a "vassal," "subject," "person," or such: My 5, 2, 3, 1 is "taste," "savor," or "a sailor;" My 1, 2, 4, 3 of a coat is oft shortened by a tailor.

Now I think you have all you require to solve this numerical; If not, I will tell you the whole relates to nothing clerical.

N.Y. city. ATELLO.

NO. 10. SQUARE.

1. Barley-water. 2. A small particle. 3. A fine white powder or earth, without taste or smell. 4. A paved way. 5. To convey or transfer. 6. Tidier.

Chicago, Ill. U. REKA.

NO. 11. ANAGRAM.

TOM, THESE MEN CRITICISE COMMON RATES.

The law's strong arm and stern decree Are turned against monopoly; Justice and equal rights for all Be ours though the heavens fall!

Hazleton, Pa. P. O. STAGE.

NO. 12. INVERTED PYRAMID.

Across: 1. The process of analysis by means of standard solutions (Analyt. Chem.) 2. Little tufts. 3. Species of walls made of stiff clay. 4. To steal (Obs.) 5. A letter.

Down: 1. A letter. 2. A pronoun. 3. To surpass. 4. To impair seriously. 5. A case in which the relics of saints were kept. 6. To produce. 7. A pronoun. 8. A bone. 9. A letter.

Hoboken, N.J. JUNIUS.

Answers will appear in our next issue; solvers in six weeks.

SPECIAL.—GOLDEN DAYS Puzzlers' Directory for each of the first correct solutions to Nos. 1, 3, 5, 7, 9 and 11.

SOLVERS.

Puzzles in "PUZZLEDOM" No. CCCLXXI were correctly solved by E. C. Lectic, Maud Lynn, Demosthenes, Barnyard, Skye Buckeye, Gemini, Egerton, H. S. Nut, Jr., Will O' the Wisp, F. Aitchell, Col. O' Rado, Dorothy Doolittle, Grepwic, Cricket, P. O. Stage, Sub Rosa, Fairplay, Alcyo, Tunie H. S., R. M'Bride, Jo Jo, Khimo, Lorrac, Billy Bluebottle, May Le Hosmer, O. Pal, Vladimir, F. Arce, Nue Norton, J. H. Mowbray, U. Reka, Sim Sly, Clarence W. Chapin, Reklaw, Io, Tom B. Stone, Toodlewinks, Jo Ram, Craftsman, Fly, Alpheus, Chinook, Puzz L., Teddy, Wm. H. Deucker, Annie Gramme, W. T. Anderson, C. R. Irving, Jr., Bennie Knowels, Monte Christo, V. G. Ohnja, H. U. T., Alphonzo, B. L. Under, Bryx, J. I. C., Harry S., Jno. Bopp, Cale and Harry Allen, J. Evans, Alpha Sigma, Liberty, Brooklyn Boy, Jno. Beck, Howard H. Geiger, Earnest Fleet, Washingtonian, Annie A. Powell, Dick Ens, C. H. Sweetzer, Panama Derby, Orpheus, Jno. Fitzgerald, Henn, Reidsville, Mahdea, A. B. Y. Nomis, H. C. Williams, Mas Ten, Panama Hat, Tidal Wave, Primrose, Geo. W. Phinney, J. F. Ireland, Laf A. Yette, Freddie Geib, R. O. Chester, A. B. Williams, Lucrezius Borgers, Lackawanna, Laeno, Whisk, Effie W.McConkey, C. B. A., Puer and Swamp Angel.

COMPLETE LIST.—E. C. Lectic.

The specials were awarded as follows:

No. 1. Cricket, La Porte, Ind. No. 3. Clarence W. Chapin, Akron. Ohio. No. 5. E. C. Lectic. Chicago, Ill. No. 7. Alcyo, New York city. No. 9. Jo Ram, New York city. No. 11. E. C. Lectic, Chicago, Ill.

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[->] A new Serial Story, entitled

Three Young Silver Kings!

BY OLIVER OPTIC,

Will Begin Next Week.

* * * * *

NATURE'S SCULPTURE.

BY GEORGE WALDO BROWNE.

Perhaps the strangest public work ever suggested by man was that of Dinocrates, whose scheme was to cut and carve Mount Athos into the form of a gigantic man, holding in one hand a town, in the other a cup to receive the drainage of the mountain before it reached the sea.

His king, Alexander the Great, declined to accept his plan; though, amused at his extravagant notion, he gave him a permanent place in his attendance.

A small village in Northern Italy to a wonderful extent fulfills the wild dream of the Macedonian architect, the houses being grouped in such a manner upon a broken eminence of land that from a certain point a striking resemblance to an upturned human face is outlined. In addition to a chin, nose and brow, a white chimney lends an eye to the profile, while a line of bushes at the crown has the appearance of shaggy locks.

Allowing that a vivid imagination has much to do toward perfecting these faces of nature's sculpture, and that a range of hills or coast line will lend itself to almost any fancy we choose, there are in different localities stones and cliffs bearing a remarkable resemblance to the human countenance, individual peculiarity sometimes being easily traced in these grave omens.

As the voyager approaches Rio Janeiro, he sees in the distance, apparently rising from the sea, lonely and majestic, a massive stone head, with the profile of the Iron Duke of England, the brow, the nose, the chin, each feature perfect in its outline.

St. Vincent, of the Cape Verde group, has a huge volcanic rock which requires no grievous strain of the imagination to transform into the figure of George Washington in a recumbent position, the profile, the hair and even the collar frill being reproduced with remarkable clearness.

Rising grimly from the whirlpool of waters beating fiercely the rugged western extremity of Santa Catalina Island, in the West Indies, is an isolated block of basaltic rock, many feet in height, bearing a marked likeness of a human face. It is known as "Morgan's Head," from a fancied resemblance to that noted free-booter.

Among the countless rocks fringing the coast of Norway is one forming a striking picture of a horse and rider about to plunge into the surf, fifteen hundred feet below. This gigantic illusion, to the fanciful minds of the old bards presented the image of Odin as he disappeared before the advance of Christianity.

In Iceland, overlooking one of its picturesque valleys, is a bluff surmounted by a colossal head, covered by a stunted growth looking not unlike a cap with frills. Before this august image the worshipers of Odin were wont to bow in serious reverence.

The rugged coast of England has several of these faces of nature. Off the Cornish point are seen the Great Lions, and lower down the shore the Armed Knight. There is also the Old Man, the Old Dame, Duke's Nose and Witch's Head.

Not the least remarkable of these freaks is the Old Man of the Mountain, who uprears his gigantic form amid a sea of cliffs and rugged heights, in the heart of that region known as the "Switzerland of America"—New Hampshire.

"What doth thy anxious gaze espy? An abrupt crag hung from the mountain's brow! Look closer; scan that bare, sharp cliff on high; Aha! the wondrous shape bursts on thee now— A perfect human face—neck, chin, mouth, nose and brow!"

A face of granite that alone kept watch and ward over the country long ere the foot of man pressed its soil. In the grave, philosophical outlines is traced a resemblance to Franklin's countenance. At the base of this singular mountain lies a sparkling sheet of water, called the "Old Man's Mirror."

More beautiful and wonderful than any of these grave images is the Maid of the Kaaterskill Falls, in the Catskill Mountains. With the mellow light of sunset falling obliquely upon the thin layer of water flowing over a sharp ledge worn and fretted by the continual wear of the current for ages, rock and spray together making up the illusion, is to be seen the fairy-like form of an Indian maid, with flowing hair and robes. So clearly does she appear that the beholder has at first the startling conception of gazing upon a living being, suspended in the waters.

Indian tradition says that this maid of the mist was once the beloved of the Great Spirit; but herself falling in love with a Mohawk brave, she perished here, fleeing from her angry master.



MONUMENT PARK.

The formations from which this takes its name are among the greatest curiosities to be seen in Colorado. Pen cannot well describe them. They consist of a series of curiously shaped natural monuments, which have been formed from sandstone rock solely by the action of the weather, a thin strata of iron on the top having protected these particular pieces and preserved them.

No accurate estimate can be made of the thousands of years this work of the elements has been in progress. There are perhaps a hundred of the peculiar formations of different sizes and shapes, some of which are really fantastic.

The Garden of the Gods is also a remarkable freak of Nature, partaking somewhat more of the grand and imposing.

It is a secluded spot, hemmed in by great rocks stood up on edge and on end. They are some of the more marked of the numerous evidences on every hand here of a grand upheaval some time in the past.

Imagine tremendous flat rocks, large enough to cover a quarter of an acre of ground, standing up on edge, 330 feet high, and you will have some idea of what forms the chief wonder of this garden.

G. B. G.



BACKLOGS MADE OF STONE.

It will surprise many persons of the present day to be told that the "backlog" of which we read so much in old-time stories was a large stone, a porous stone being preferred if possible. This stone was buried in the ashes, and on top was placed the "back stick." The back stone in those primitive times played a very important part in the economy of early housekeeping. Matches were not then invented. Flint, steel and tow were the only means of lighting a fire or a lamp. Imagine for a moment the Bridget of to-day thus engaged, with the thermometer ten degrees below zero in the kitchen. The stone, together with the ashes with which it was covered, served to retain fire and heat through the night, and all that was necessary in the morning was a little kindling and gentle use of the indispensable bellows, and a fire was as readily made as at the present day.



MAMIE'S LETTER TO HEAVEN.

BY J. W. WATSON, AUTHOR OF "BEAUTIFUL SNOW."

An humble room in a tenement house, Four stories above the street, Where a scanty fire, a scanty light, And a scanty larder meet; A woman sits at her daily toil, Plying the needle and thread; Her face is pallid with want and care, And her hand as heavy as lead.

There she sits with her weary thought, While the tears drop full and fast; There she sits and stitches away, With her memory in the past; Beside her, perched on her little stool, Sits Mamie, a six-year-old, Who says she is never hungry at all, And never admits she is cold.

There she sits and chatters away, Not seeing her mother's tears; "Mamma, 'tis a month since winter came, And I think to me it appears That the Lord will never find us out, If He's anything to give, Unless we can, some way, let Him know The street and the number we live.

"You see, mamma, last winter He passed, While papa was sick in bed; He doesn't know we are here, mamma, And He doesn't know papa is dead; And so it happened all winter long We didn't have anything nice, And so I think it would only be fair If He came this winter twice.

"Do you 'member, mamma, that little, old man Who gave me the bright, new cent? Well, it wouldn't buy much to eat, mamma, And it would not pay for the rent; So I bought a sheet of paper, mamma, And I've written a letter in print— It's written to heaven direct, mamma, And I've given Him just a hint.

"Shall I read it aloud to you, mamma? Yes! Well, this is what I have said: 'Dear Lord, my name is Mamie St. Clair, And dear, darling papa is dead; I live forty-four in the street they call Fourth, And the cold of the winter is here; My mamma is poor, and I go to school, And I hope you will send this year.

"'I hope you will send mamma a new dress Of something that's warm and nice, A paper of flour, some loaves of bread, And a couple of pounds of rice; And dear, loving Lord, do, if you feel rich, You could send her some shoes to wear, And two or three pounds of beef for soup, Or anything else you can spare.

"'I've heard my dear mamma say many a time That a chicken would do her much good, And so, dear Lord, if chickens is cheap, A chicken also, if you could; With three pails of coal, if it isn't too much, And some stuff for mamma's lame knee, And oh, my dear Lord, pray don't think me mean, But a dear little dolly for me.'

"That's all, my dear mamma, and now let me run And send it to heaven at once, For if He don't get it by Christmas time, He surely will think me a dunce." The letter was posted, the letter was scanned, With numberless grins by the men Whose duty it was to assort all the waifs That came from the wonderful pen.

"Now where's the dear Lord?" said one of these men; "That's me," said another, quite grave. "Here's a letter, then!"—tossing the missive to him, "And a twopenny stamp you will save." The letter was opened, the letter was read, There were very few tearless eyes; The reader looked round on the silent group, And then, with a nod, he cries:

"Now, boys, there is something in this that I like— It's nature right straight up to win, And we've all of us got to be lords right here— So here is my dot to begin." The dollars flew down on the table like snow, They came from the crowd's great heart, A letter was written by proxy and signed, The proposer to play the part.

And so it came off upon one winter night That there happened this strange affair; A tapping came soft at Mamie's door, And a very old man stood there; He was clad from his head to his feet so warm, And his beard it was long and white. "Good-even!" he said, as he pushed in a box Then vanished quite out of their sight.

They were speechless, and only could stare at the box Directed to Mamie St. Clair, From "The Lord in Heaven." What did it all mean? And a letter beside was there— A letter from heaven read: "Be a good girl, And never do anything ill; Love mamma as well as you do to-day." And a fifty-dollar bill.

If I wrote from now till the crack of doom, I could tell no more than this. It was all packed down in that wonderful box, And the dolly—oh, gracious! what bliss! And in time that letter to heaven direct Sent many and many a friend, And perhaps a new papa—who knows?—may be sent By heaven itself, in the end.



Striking out for Themselves.

BY F. H. SWEET.

"Reckon we'll get 'em burned out by Tuesday week, Tom, and be ready for Pylant's oranges. Suppose the old fellow will want us to take pay in town lots, though."

"He'll get left if he does;" and the lad by the fire removed the skillet of fried bacon from the coals and put the coffee-pot in its place. "I'm willing to work out a five-acre lot, but don't want any towns. Say, Dave, what do you think of the party going to Punta Rassa?" he added, as he thrust a stick into the bean-pot to see what prospect there was for an early supper.

"Well, from what I hear, I fancy there is plenty of good land to be homesteaded in that section, and if we didn't have a good job here, I'd be for joining them. I begin to feel a little anxious to have some land where we can be starting trees of our own."

"Same here; but the land will come in good time, and while we've got a week's rations of bacon and hominy ahead, I shan't kick against luck. But grub's ready."

Both lads fell to with a relish. Beans seemed to be the central dish at almost every meal, and yet they somehow never seemed to tire of them.

They had encountered a good many hard knocks since leaving their Western home, but were evidently none the worse for them.

Dave Freeman, the son of a hard-working Kansas farmer, had come South to better his prospects, and with a deep but unexpressed longing to help the home folks.

At Flomaton, or Pensacola Junction, as it is now called, he had fallen in with Tom Byrne, an Indiana boy, and the two had soon become fast friends.

By getting occasional jobs along the way, and not infrequently "tramping it," they had reached their present quarters, near Panasofkee, in Sumter County.

Here they had taken a contract from a "papertown" proprietor to clear five acres of land for seventy-five dollars.

This was a low figure, as the ground was full of palmetto roots, and not only were the trees to be cleared from the land, but all stumps to be burned out.

The boys already had been at work over two months, and hoped that another week would complete the job. On the first, their employer was to commence gathering his oranges, and they expected several weeks' employment with him.

Although the work of clearing was very hard, the boys were rugged and hearty, and thoroughly enjoyed their novel surroundings.

After finishing their beans, they put away the few dishes, and began the round of their stumps. Here and there one was dying out, and new fuel had to be piled around it. As one stump burned out, it was dragged from its hole and placed against the roots of another.

And so, from one stump to another, adding fuel to this or dragging that away, their faces covered with soot, and looking more like negroes than white folks, the boys darted around, shouting gleefully to each other whenever one of the tall pines burned through and came crashing to the ground.

A little to one side, and out of reach of the fires, the boys had built a little six-by-ten shanty, where they kept their belongings and occasionally slept. More frequently, however, they slung their hammock between two pines, near the camp-fire.

At first, the peculiar roar of the alligators from the swamp near by had disturbed their rest, but they very soon got accustomed to it, and also to the startling challenge of a large bat, which is apt to frighten strangers by its sudden appearance and shrill cry.

A few days before the boys finished their contract, a party of surveyors stopped at their shanty to get a drink of water, and to see if they could get them for a couple of days.

As the pay offered was good, the boys were glad to accept it, and five minutes were sufficient to put their few belongings into the shanty and to nail up the door.

It took the party some hours to reach their destination, and as soon as they had partaken of a lunch, they began to survey a site for a new town.

The boys had seen a great many "paper towns" since they came to Florida, but as a rule had taken little interest in them. They were usually ventures of men who did not have money enough to make their speculations a success.

Tom and Dave were put to work carrying chain, and very soon became interested in the talk of their companions.

The spot chosen was a very beautiful one—a sloping hillside gradually narrowing into a strip six or seven hundred yards wide and running between two of the most picturesque lakes the boys had ever seen.



From the talk of the surveyors they learned that a number of them were railroad men, and that they were endeavoring to buy at nominal figures all the choice lands along the line of the new road before the settlers became aware of its value.

They discussed their plans before the boys without reserve, and it soon became evident to the latter that the future of this hillside could bear no comparison with the other paper towns they had seen. A number of very wealthy men were interested in it, and they proposed to make it the winter home of themselves and friends.

"You see, gentlemen," said one of the men to his companions, as he pointed across the strip of land to the slope on the other side, "the road will wind around the lake, across the neck of land, and along the western side of the lake to the right, and then in almost a bee-line toward Palatka. Ten years from now, and this hillside for forty miles will be a succession of orange groves. Near the depot we shall have a limited number of business lots, while the balance of the land will be surveyed into large orange grove and villa tracts. It will be specified in each deed that no cheap buildings shall be erected. It is not a mere speculation, as there are already a dozen or more men who will begin elegant residences as soon as the land is surveyed."

"Do you know, professor, who owns that point jutting into the lake? It is a fine building site."

The speaker was a tall, sharp-featured man of middle age, whom his friends addressed as doctor.

"No," answered the professor, "but I think a man named Pylant is the owner, and that the twenty acres beyond belong to a Dutchman in Eustis. However, we do not wish to make inquiries at present. They saw us when we came out, and should we go back now and value their land, they will put on four prices. Our policy is to go back as though we were disappointed in the land, and by the time we return next week they will offer it at our own figures. We can probably get it for two to four dollars an acre. It is thirty miles from any town, and as Pylant got it from the government, four dollars will be a big price to him."

"And in twelve months it will be worth as many hundred," said the doctor.

Tom and Dave looked at each other curiously, and wondered how they would feel if they owned a few acres on this hillside.

At the end of the week—for the two days' work had lengthened into five—the boys were paid fifteen dollars, and told they would be soon wanted for several months, should they care to return.

Everything was found safe at the shanty, and the boys went to work at the stumps with a will. At the end of the third day, the last root was reduced to ashes, and then Dave set to work to prepare a supper suitable for such an occasion. Fried quail (which they had snared), orange slump, pineapple shortcake, baked beans and a pot of steaming coffee graced the table (or rather box), while by way of dessert a pillow-case full of oranges, picked up in a neighboring grove, stood by the side of the banqueting board.

Next morning the boys went to see Mr. Pylant.

"So you've cleaned it up, have you?" he exclaimed, as the boys told him their errand. "I saw last week it was most done. Reckon you'll want a little money and the rest in land. Sharp boys! know land is best—goin' up, goin' up all the time."

"But if you please, Mr. Pylant, we'd rather have the money," said Dave, quietly.

"Money!" exclaimed the "cracker," in astonishment. "Why, boys, in one year there'll be a city on that land, and you'll be rich. The lots I let you have for thirty dollars'll be worth a fortune."

"We don't want any lots," replied Dave, decidedly. "We intend to get some land when we can, but we must have it large enough to put out a good grove on."

"Well, I'll sell you a five-acre lot near the village for two hundred dollars, and you can work it out."

"Too much," answered Dave. "We want cheaper land, and are willing to go a longer distance from town."

"But that's cheap," expostulated Pylant, who began to fear he would have to pay out money. "How far would you be willin' to go for land?" he added, as another idea seemed to strike him.

"Not particular, if the land is good and price low."

"Then I've got the identical place for you," cried Pylant, his face brightening; "splendid land, and on a beautiful lake."

"How far?"

Pylant hesitated.

"Mebbe it's twenty miles or so," he at length said, slowly; "but it's good, and I'll let you have it low."

"Twenty miles is a long distance from town," said Dave, dubiously; "but what'll you take?"

Fearing he would lose the sale, Pylant lowered the figures he had mentally fixed upon, and said, quickly:

"If you take the twenty acres, you can have it for three dollars and a half an acre. I reckoned on sellin' to the party here last week, and I 'lowed to myself I'd ask five dollars. But, somehow, they didn't seem to take to it."

"Well," said Dave, slowly, as though hesitating, "I reckon we'll take it. Can you fix up the deed now?"

"Right off!" answered Pylant, quickly, fearing the boys might change their mind. "Here are the other five dollars I owe you."

Ten minutes later, Dave and Tom were the owners of the coveted twenty acres.

For the next two weeks the boys worked in the orange grove and added another thirty-five dollars to their fund.

Their living cost very little, and they now had nearly fifty dollars between them.

Feeling comparatively wealthy, and with the prospect of, perhaps, weeks of idleness before them, if they remained where they were, the boys concluded to remove to their new possession.

Provisions enough to last two months were purchased, and with these, and with a miscellaneous collection of kettles, axes, and other tools, the boys set out.

Although the load was packed and strapped to their backs in the most convenient manner, it took two days to complete their journey.

The third was spent in making a camp and looking up the stubs which marked the boundaries of their twenty acres.

Like most of the high pine land in Florida, their tract was free from palmetto, and consequently much easier to clear than the low pine they had previously been at work upon.

Four weeks passed, and they had heard nothing from the surveying party.

Nearly three acres were cleared, and the boys were already calculating how many orange and lemon trees they would put out.

One morning, as Tom was digging a hole under the roots of a lofty pine, preparatory to setting it on fire, he was greeted with a surprised:

"Why, boys! What are you doing here?"

And he looked up to meet the keen eyes of the doctor.

"Clearing up our new purchase," answered Tom, quietly.

The doctor's shrewd face broadened into a smile.

"I see," he said, pleasantly. "But how much are we to pay you boys for outwitting us? I saw Pylant yesterday, and was told that you had the land. The old man was nearly crazy, when one of us said we would be willing to go as high as twenty dollars an acre."

"I reckon we don't care to sell at present," said Dave. "Our twenty acres wouldn't make much difference to you, who own as many thousand around the lakes."

The doctor and his friends laughed good-humoredly.

"That's right, boys," said the one called professor; "hold the land for an advance. It will come sooner than you expect, perhaps. But we shall want your services for the next three months, to help our surveyors; so be at our camp in the morning."

After this the boys could not complain of loneliness. A few weeks of surveying outlined the streets and blocks of the new town; a sawmill was quickly under way; buildings went up rapidly, and here and there were displayed the new goods of enterprising young merchants.

The fame of the new town spread through the surrounding country, and every day brought new arrivals, seeking work; and soon hundreds of axes could be heard on the hillside, clearing the land and making ready for the numerous young groves to be put out in the spring.

Dave and Tom had all the work they could do, and utilized the evenings and odd moments in burning the trees and stumps on their land. By the first of February they had five acres cleared and fenced, and ready for trees.

Believing the best to be the cheapest, they sent to one of the nurseries for three hundred and fifty budded trees. They took especial pains in setting them out, and in due time had as thrifty a young grove as one could wish to see.

The trees cost them all the money they had earned and most of what they had laid aside; but when they looked at their beautiful young grove, they were more than satisfied.

Before the end of the year the proposed railroad was built, and its advent made a tremendous rise in the value of land.

The boys had had many excellent offers for their land before, but invariably declined to consider them. As the depot had been built very near them, they knew their place must advance rapidly.

However, shortly after the erection of the depot, they received an offer of seven thousand dollars for the unimproved ten acres, and after a short consultation, decided to accept it. Dave had not seen his people for nearly two years, and was anxious to visit them. Tom, who was alone in the world, was to remain and look after their grove.

So a few weeks later saw Dave walking up the lane to the old homestead. Knowing how particular his father was, he was greatly surprised at the thriftless look of everything. A man was hobbling across the yard as he approached, and Dave saw with dismay that the haggard face belonged to his father.

Their meeting may be imagined, and Dave soon knew of the broken leg and the long, hard winter following it, with no one to look after things and unpaid bills accumulating rapidly.

"A sorry home-coming, my boy," said his father, with a wan smile.

But Dave's story quickly changed the aspect of things. The bills were paid; pinching want was a thing of the past.

And then Dave talked and argued until his parents agreed to return with him and spend the winter in Florida, and give that genial climate a chance to make his father well and strong again.



[This Story began in No. 21.]

JACK STANWOOD;

or,

FROM OCEAN TO OCEAN.

BY JAMES H. SMITH.

CHAPTER XIII.

I BREAK JAIL THROUGH NO EFFORTS OF MY OWN.

I was handed over to the custody of a little man, with big, staring eyes, and a magnified head of hair that made him look like a gun-swab. This was Mr. Janks, the jailor.

He stood looking at me for some moments, swinging a bunch of keys on his finger, and then said, mournfully, "So, you've come, have you?" which made me think that he must have dreamed of my coming.

Then he took up a small lamp, and, after examining me from head to foot as if I were some strange animal, he gave vent to a dismal groan, and asked me if I was hungry.

Receiving a negative answer, he groaned again, and beckoned me to follow him.

He led the way along a damp and chilly stone corridor, lined with little iron doors, which I needed no one to tell me belonged to cells, and I followed him very readily. My previous notions of prison treatment included the immediate ironing of the culprit to the extent of several hundredweight, and, finding myself mistaken, my spirits rose accordingly.

He stopped before one of the little doors near the end of the corridor, and, opening it with a large key, ushered me into an apartment about eight feet square.

This was my cell. The walls and ceiling were whitewashed, and the only furniture was an iron bedstead, covered with two coarse, gray blankets.

Mr. Janks waved his keys around as if to welcome me to this abode, and then, instead of going out and leaving me to my reflections, he leaned up against the door and groaned once more.

"The wickedness of these boys!" he said, passing his hand through his hair, and apparently addressing the ceiling. "Why do they ever come here? Why did you come here?"

I hastened to explain that I did not come of my own accord, and so far from wishing to be in jail, if he would only have the kindness to open the door, I would promise him to make my exit, and never return.

"And so young!" continued Mr. Janks, without paying any attention to my remarks, and still apostrophizing the ceiling. "But it's allus the way! The younger they are, the worse they are!"

Then he launched forth into a description of the number of bad boys who had passed through his hands, and endeavored to draw a parallel between their case and mine, but, I think, with poor success.

He kept up this monologue for at least ten minutes, while I sat on the couch and listened with anything but pleasurable emotions.

At the end of that time he came to a sudden stop, and went out slowly, groaning dismally.

When the sound of his footsteps had died away down the corridor, I surrendered myself to my thoughts. And how I did think!

What had been all my trouble compared to this? In prison! The thought was horrifying!

I felt now that I would not dare return home—for who would not shrink from me as a malefactor?

Besides, I was extremely dubious as to my impending fate. I was not afraid of being convicted of larceny, unless Mary Jane Robinson perjured herself; but I was desperately afraid of Mr. Barron.

I knew he took the Lancaster Examiner, and should he see my name in it, I felt certain he would pounce down on me, and then—well, something terrible would certainly happen.

The sky looked very dark and cloudy just then, and you may easily imagine how bitterly I regretted my foolishness in running away.

I lay awake for an hour or more thinking in this fashion, and then I fell into a fitful slumber.

How long I slept, I don't know; but when I awoke it was with a strange feeling that I was not alone—that some one was in the cell with me.

I was wide awake in an instant, and my heart beat so loudly that I fancied I could hear it.

I listened intently, and presently heard a light "pitapat," as if some one was walking across the floor; and while I was trying to muster up courage to call out, there was a sharp click, a flood of light illumined the cell, and I saw that the intruder was a man.

He was standing near the opposite wall, and in his hand he held a lighted wax taper, with the aid of which he was taking a survey of the room.

As he turned slowly around, I saw that he was young, rather good-looking, and well-dressed, and at the same time he saw me.

He started, and with an exclamation of alarm, dropped the taper.

In an instant, however, he recovered the taper and himself, and advanced toward me.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "And how did you get here?"

I related, in a few words, who I was and how I came to be incarcerated.

He laughed lightly when I had finished, and said:

"I suppose you wonder how I came here. Look!"

I looked, and saw an aperture in the wall about two feet square.

"I came through that," he said, laughing softly at my evident astonishment. "My cell is on the other side. Now, I am going to escape from this jail, and I want you to go with me."

I know now that his reason was to prevent my giving an alarm; but I thought then that it was because he took pity on me.

And I joyfully accepted his offer, although I couldn't imagine how he was to manage it, and I made a remark to that effect.

"Easy enough," he said. "You have only a lock on your door, while there's a dozen bolts on mine. That's why I dug through, expecting to find the cell empty. However, it is all right. Take off your shoes."

I did so, and then my companion put out the lights, having first opened the door with what looked like a piece of wire.

Then he whispered to me to keep hold of his sleeve, step cautiously and not let my shoes fall, and then we moved out into the corridor, now black as Egypt.

My guide also seemed to be in his stocking feet; but where his shoes were I couldn't imagine.

We moved along slowly, but steadily, my guide seeming to know the way, and presently he opened a door with only a slight creak, and then whispered in my ear:

"We are in the lodge. Don't breathe."

Again we moved on and again stopped, and from one or two sharp clicks I judged him to be trying to open another door.

Suddenly he drew me forward. I felt a rush of cold air, and the next instant I was out of jail.

"Wait!" said my companion.

And he closed the wicket gate, and locked it noiselessly.

"If they find the gate open, they'll smell a rat," he remarked. "Now then, my boy, come on."

CHAPTER XIV.

I BECOME A WANDERER AND FALL INTO LUCK.

I kept closely by his side, and for half an hour we moved along, keeping in the shadow of the houses, until we reached the outskirts of the town.

"Now then," said my companion, speaking for the first time, "put on your shoes."

I did so, and very glad I was to do it. At the same time he reached down and drew off his stockings, and then I saw they had been drawn on over his boots.

Then he took my hand, and we walked along steadily and swiftly for an hour, until the lights of Lancaster had faded in the distance, and not until then did my companion fall into a walk and conversation.

"What did you say you were in for?" he asked.

"For nothing," I answered, promptly.

This seemed to amuse him greatly.

"Of course not," said he, after an outburst of laughter. "I never saw a prisoner in my life who wasn't innocent!"

I attempted to explain, but he wouldn't listen.

"No matter—it's not my business. It was forgery with me—ten years at the least; and I couldn't stand that, you know."

"Certainly not," said I, not knowing what else to say.

Then, by way of turning the conversation, I inquired how he came to be provided with tools to effect his escape.

He looked at me suspiciously for a moment, as if he suspected me of some hidden motive in asking the question, and then, apparently satisfied with the scrutiny, he informed me that his friends had sent him pies every day for two weeks past.

"Pies?" I exclaimed, in open-mouthed wonder.

"Yes, pies," he said, gravely. "Don't you see? Nothing but the crusts. Inside were keys, saws and a jimmy."

"A jimmy?"

"Yes—here it is. That came in four pies."

He took from his coat-pocket four pieces of steel, and in an instant fitted them together into a bar about two feet in length.

"Not much to look at, is it?" said he; "but it is a crowbar, chisel, hammer and wrench, all in one. It only took me two nights to cut into your cell."

"And how did you know your way out in the dark?" I asked.

"Because I came in that way, and I always keep my eyes open. Hello!"

"What's the matter?" I asked, in some alarm, as he came to a sudden halt.

"Nothing much," he answered; "only that I must leave you here. I don't know where you are going, and I don't propose to let you know where I am going. Besides, it is much harder to follow two than one, and there is no use of us both being captured."

"Captured?" I repeated, in dismay. "Do you think the officers will follow us?"

"Do I think so? I know they will."

I was so terrified that my teeth chattered, at this announcement, and he noticed it.

"Don't get too scared, young one," he added, consolingly. "They won't look for you half as much as they will for me. If you travel right straight on, and keep out of their clutches for a week, you'll be safe."

"But I haven't done anything," I said, tremblingly.

"Oh, yes you have," said he, with a laugh. "You have broken jail, and that means a year at least, if you're caught."

I was so overwhelmed at this dread piece of news that I could only lean up against a convenient fence and stare at him.

"Come, come!" he cried, impatiently, "brace up! They haven't got you yet. If you go straight through this cornfield you will strike a road that will take you to Columbia. Good-by!"

Before I had time to reply, he had plunged into the woods on the right of the road, and I was left alone.

I was terribly alarmed, and lost no time in making my way through the cornfield; and when I found the road, I sped along it at a rapid gait. Fear lent me wings, and I fancied every bush an officer.

It was a warm but pleasant night, and the moon was just rising. I calculated that it must be about midnight, and I determined that I would put many a mile between me and Lancaster before daybreak.

So I set off at a dog-trot, and I kept it up until I saw the sun rising over the eastern hills.

By that time I must have gone about twenty miles, and I was completely tired out, and very glad to crawl into the shelter of some neighboring woods and lie down to rest.

Before I knew it I was asleep, and I did not awake until late in the afternoon.

I was stiff and sore, and at the same time ravenously hungry. The first two ailments wore away as I started again on my journey, but the latter increased until I determined to brave anything rather than suffer any longer.

The first house I came to was a small yellow frame, close to the road, with a yellow dog chained on the porch, and a woman frying ham in the kitchen.

"Please, ma'am," said I.

"G'way!" said she. "Here, Tige!"

"Please, ma'am—"

"G'way, I say! We don't want no tramps hookin' everything they kin lay their hands on!"

"Please, ma'am," I persisted, mildly, "I am not a tramp. I want something to eat"—the woman started to unchain the dog—"for which I am willing to pay."

"Come right in," said the woman, with a broad smile. "I declare I couldn't have the heart to turn anybody away hungry. Tramps bother a person so that I get kinder suspicious, but I could see right away you were different from the general run."

While she was talking she was busily engaged in setting the table with fried ham, potatoes, bread and butter and coffee, and I lost no time in falling to. I paid a quarter for it when I had finished, and got away as quickly as possible, as I feared the arrival of some of the men folks, who might have their suspicions aroused.

All that night I traveled on and slept in the woods again. Not to enter into particulars, it is sufficient to say that I kept this up for a week, until I found myself in the vicinity of Williamsport, and by that time I judged myself to be reasonably safe.

So I boldly entered that city in broad daylight, had a bath and my hair cut, a complete change of underclothing, and enjoyed a day of rest.

When I started out again, the next morning, I had recovered my usual spirits, and took to the road, determined to keep going as long as my money and strength held out. I had twenty-five dollars of the former and an unlimited supply of the latter.

All that day I tramped on steadily enough, buying both my dinner and supper for trifling sums; and, when night came on, I thought it would be just as well to camp in the woods again.

For that purpose I left the road, and, plunging into the forest on my left, I soon came to a secluded spot, near a ravine or gully, and there I made myself a bed of dry leaves.

On this I lay down, and was fast drifting into the Land of Nod, when I was aroused by a sound something like the rattling of tinware.

I promptly sat up and listened. Again I heard the rattling, and as it evidently come from the ravine, I arose and began an investigation.

Peering over the edge of the gully, I saw at the bottom, about fifteen feet below, a bright light, and the rattling sound again smote my ears.

By this time my curiosity was excited to the utmost, and, catching hold of a small sapling, I leaned far over the edge to observe the why and wherefor. As I did so, I felt the sapling giving away, and I made a desperate attempt to recover myself.

It was no use. Down went the sapling into the ravine and I along with it.

CHAPTER XV.

I MEET AN ECCENTRIC DOCTOR AND ENTER INTO HIS SERVICE.

The sapling and I fell directly on a fire of branches, from which came the light at which I had been gazing.

I was slightly stunned, but I scrambled to my feet just as a heavy hand was laid on my collar, and a gruff voice said:

"Vell! here's a precious go!"

I looked up, and saw that the voice and hand belonged to the same person—a short, stout man, with sallow complexion and glistening black eyes. His dress was a curious compound of broad, glazed hat and blue shift of a sailor and the flashy check vest and pantaloons of a peddler.

"Vere did you come from, anyhow," he demanded, before I had finished my survey, "a-busting down on a chap vithout varning, and a smashing of his pots and kettles?"

"Pots and kettles?" I repeated, inquiringly.

For answer he pointed indignantly to the ground, and then I saw what damage my descent had caused.

A rusty coffee-pot, a little dish and a skillet were scattered among the embers of the fire.

"That's vot you did," said he, resentfully. "Here vos I, a-cooking my supper and a-thinking of just nothink at all, when all of a suddent down you come, like a cannon-ball, and avay goes everythink! It was werry aggerwating because it was nearly done."

"I assure you, sir," said I, very contritely, "that I had no intention of falling on your fire or your supper."

Then I explained the cause of my sudden descent, and wound up by offering to pay for the damage.

By this time the man had entirely recovered his temper—if he had ever lost it, which I very much doubt—and smiled kindly.

"Vell, vell, there ain't much harm done except putting my supper back half an hour. Put up your money, my boy, and join me."

Then he righted the utensils, and whistling a lively air, prepared the meal anew. And this he did with an adroitness that proved the task to be by no means an unusual one.

Within half an hour, he had made a pot of coffee, a pan of biscuits and a savory stew, and we were soon discussing this supper very amiably together.

After supper he washed out the dishes and utensils in a brook near by, and lying at full length on the ground, composed himself for a smoke.

All this time I had been regarding him in silence, but with considerable curiosity, and I had about made up my mind that he was a gipsy, on his way to join his tribe, when he startled me by saying, abruptly:

"Look 'ere!"

I intimated that I was all attention.

"Who are you?" he asked, bluntly.

"Jack Wood," I answered, promptly, although a trifle nervously.

"My name is Miles Norris," he rejoined, after a long pause. "I'm a wender of physics and knickknacs."

"A doctor?"

"Not exactly," he replied, rising on his elbow and winking at me significantly. "I cures people as hasn't got nothink the matter vith 'em and thinks they has."

This sentence was too deep for me to fathom, and on my intimating as much, he condescended to explain.

"I go round the country selling my own medicines, which is Norris's Golden Balsam, wot cures all kinds of pains, cuts and bruises, whatsomedever they may be; fifty cents a bottle, small bottles twenty-five. Then there's the Lightning Toothache Drops, wot cures that hagonizing malady in one second, or money refunded—twenty-five cents a bottle. And finally, 'ere we 'ave the Great American Tooth Powder, which makes the blackest teeth vite in less'n no time, and makes the gums strong and 'elthy—ten cents a box. And each and every purchaser is presented vith a book containing fifty songs, all new and prime, free gratis and for nothink! Valk hup, ladies and gentlemen; who'll 'ave another bottle?"

During this recital, Doctor Norris gradually assumed a professional demeanor, and near the close he rose to his feet, and gesticulated as if addressing a large audience.

But at the close he suddenly cooled down, and assuming his recumbent position, said, listlessly:

"Now you know me."

"Certainly," said I; "but then I do not see—"

"I hunderstand," said he. "You don't see no Balsam, nor Drops, nor Powder?"

"I do not."

"And you vonder vere they are?"

"Yes."

"Your surprise is werry natural," said Doctor Norris, with great gravity. "I am out of those inwaluable medicines at present, but ven I get to my laboratory, I shall roll 'em out wholesale."

"Then you make them?"

"In course. I couldn't trust anybody else."

Then, after a pause, he added, slowly:

"I don't know but that I might let you into my secrets if— What did you say your name was?"

I repeated my alias, and told my fictitious history.

"So you ain't got nothink to do?"

"Nothing."

"How would you like to work for me?"

"Doing what?"

"Selling my medicines."

"Done!" cried I, joyfully.

"Hold hup!" said he, quickly. "I ain't quite certain. Can you patter?"

"Can I what?"

"Gab, I mean—talk? Are you good on that?"

"I think I am," I answered, modestly.

"And 'ave you got plenty of cheek?"

"Oh, yes! Why?"

"Because you'll need it. You wouldn't be afraid to stand hup before a big crowd and blow away about the Balsam, or the Powder, nor yet the Drops—hey?"

I assured him that the prospect did not dismay me in the least.

My companion then brought the conversation to a conclusion very summarily.

"Then, Jack Wood," said he, "you're my man!"

Then he rolled over and went to sleep, and although somewhat astonished at the suddenness of the doctor's resolution, I thought his action a good one, and I rolled over and went to sleep, also.

CHAPTER XVI.

TREATS OF MY EXPERIENCE AS A PHYSICIAN—I REACH THE MISSISSIPPI.

I awoke at sunrise, or rather Doctor Norris awoke me by a vigorous dig in the ribs with the point of his boot, and told me that breakfast was ready. I arose at once, washed my face, combed my hair, and then astonished the doctor by the vigor of my appetite.

During the meal he confided to me his plans for the future. He had laid out a route through Butler and Beaver counties to the State line, and thence through Ohio until winter set in.

"I make enough in summer to lay hup in winter," he explained. "It's an 'ealthy and hinvigorating life, and I like it. I've traveled over nearly all the States between the Atlantic and the Mississippi, 'ave 'ad my hups and downs, and I wouldn't change places with a king."

I rather doubted whether the doctor knew very much about kings, that he could afford to speak so positively, but I felt that it would be neither polite nor prudent to disagree with him.

"I dare say I shall like the life very well," I said, quietly. "But—what am I expected to do?"

"You'll be my assistant," said the doctor, in a lofty voice, as if he was announcing my appointment to a cabinet position.

Then he went into details, and explained that I was to assist him in concocting and selling the wonderful remedies of which he was the inventor.

This duty included filling bottles, pasting on labels, carrying his baggage, making his fires, and several other minor matters which he could not recall just then.

"Ve'll camp out like this most of the time," he added. "Hotels is hexpensive, and I never stops at 'em, unless it's raining or I'm going to sell in the town. You von't mind that, vill you?"

I was more than delighted at the prospect, and I said so.

"This man," I told myself, "is evidently a great traveler, and he is going West. If I stick to him my fortune is made."

It did not take the doctor long to pack up his traps, and, dividing them between us, we journeyed along very agreeably.

When we arrived in Butler we went to a hotel, and there, in the seclusion of our room, the doctor manufactured three dozen bottles of the balsam, as many of the toothache drops and twice as many boxes of the tooth-powder.

At this distance of time I cannot recall the ingredients of these justly celebrated remedies, but I can cheerfully testify to their harmlessness.

The balsam was composed of two or three simple aromatic oils, the toothache drops was merely a diluted essence of the oil of cloves, and the wonderful tooth-powder chalk powdered and scented.

The labels for the various compounds the doctor carried in his oilcloth bag, and the bottles, boxes and various ingredients he purchased at the village drug stores.

I am almost ashamed to tell you what enormous profits he made on his sales, and will only mention that he once told me that the bottle and label formed nine-tenths of the cost of the Golden Balsam, which retailed at one dollar.

In these days the street vender of physic is an ordinary sight, but a quarter of a century ago he was almost unknown outside of the largest cities.

After being a month in the company of Doctor Norris I easily understood why he followed such a life. In the town of Butler two days' sales netted him sixty dollars, and he made nearly as much in Beaver.

He was not always so successful, but, taking one week with another, I judged that he cleared at least fifty dollars, which was a bank president's salary in those days.

His methods were such as are in use among this class of gentry all the world over.

Having prepared his stock in trade, he would gravely walk down the main street, followed by your humble servant.

Halting on the most prominent corner, he and I would arrange the boxes and bottles in attractive pyramids on the top of a box or a barrel, taking as much time as possible, so as to attract the attention of the passers-by.

Having achieved this object, the doctor would mount on a soap-box, so as to raise himself above the crowd, and begin his harangue.

He always began gravely, and not until he had made several sales did he venture on a joke or a witticism, although he had a plentiful stock of cheap wit, such as crowds delight in.

Another thing: When he spoke in public he used excellent English, and the cockney dialect entirely disappeared. He never explained this to me, but I suppose he was like an actor on the stage when addressing a crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he would say, in calm and measured tones, "Shakespeare has said, 'Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it!' and he was right. Medicinal drugs are pernicious, even when given by a practiced physician, but when administered by quacks, it is little short of murder. Now, in my medicines I do not give you strange and deadly drugs. The articles I use are all known to you" (this was strictly true), "the mode of preparation only being a secret. No pain, no danger in their use, absolutely harmless to the smallest child, yet so powerful that the most deadly ailments yield to their power."

Thus the doctor talked on for fifteen minutes, taking the crowd into his confidence in a learned and fatherly way, until some fellow bashfully thrust forward a coin, and then the money rolled in.

The doctor was now in his element; he was witty, he cracked jokes, he told stories, and even indulged in snatches of song, and he rarely failed to hold his audience until his stock was exhausted.

This operation sometimes consumed three or four hours, and sometimes his eloquence was wasted. But at all times he was cheerful and polite, and good and bad fortune seemed alike to him.

I thought then, and I still think, that he was a remarkable man; and I am sure that he treated me very kindly. He paid me a very liberal salary of ten dollars a month, and whenever he had an unusually good day, gave me an extra dollar.

All of this money I carefully stowed away in my belt for a rainy day, which I felt sure would come. And my experience did not deceive me.

After leaving Pennsylvania, we traveled through the small towns of Ohio until near the middle of December, as it was a very open winter, and it was nearly Christmas before the cold and snow drove us into winter quarters in Toledo.

The doctor intended to treat himself to a three months' rest, and for that purpose hired two rooms and kept bachelor's hall, and invited me to keep him company.

I received no wages; but as he was to bear all expenses, I willingly agreed to the arrangement.

These three months were absolutely uneventful, and about the first of April we started out again.

The doctor had laid out a new route for this season. We traveled across country by stage to Keokuk, Iowa, intending to travel up the river as far as St. Paul, and then work eastward thorough Wisconsin and Michigan, and close the season at Detroit.

But we never carried out our programme. My cruel fate pursued me—or was it punishment for my foolishness?—and at Davenport I was once more cast adrift.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]



INTERNATIONAL LESSON—FOR MAY 29.

Exodus 14:19-21. Golden Text—Isaiah 43:2.

Central Subject—THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA.

BY REV. D. P. KIDDER, D.D.

INTRODUCTION.

According to Jewish tradition, it was seven days after the Passover that the Israelites passed over the Red Sea.

Before they left they were directed by God to ask (not "borrow," as it is in our version) of the Egyptians jewels of silver and gold, and other articles that would be of service to them.

It was customary thus on the eve of a journey, or at the close of a term of service, to ask gifts. The practice corresponded to the asking of backshish, still so common in the East.

The Egyptians, it seemed, readily and generously granted the request of the Israelites and supplied them abundantly. Thus, in some slight measure, they made return for the long years of unrequited service which the Hebrews had rendered to Egypt's land and Egypt's king.

While the Egyptians were bewailing their dead, the children of Israel, having finished hurriedly their Passover feast, started on their journey of escape. Leaving Rameses, the western part of Goshen, they assembled at Succoth—"place of tents"—so called because it was a camping place for caravans going east, then and now. They were, perhaps, four days gathering at this spot, about two millions of people all told.

The next point which they reached was Etham. This was a district of country just on the edge of the desert. From this point there were three routes to Palestine. The Israelites, by divine direction, took the most southern.

They were at first surprised at this order of march; but it was the only safe one for them. The most northern would have taken them right through the country of the warlike and hostile Philistines, and the middle route (after passing the great wall which stretched from Pelusium on the Mediterranean Sea to the Gulf of Suez) would have brought them right out upon the desert.

Several days had elapsed since the Israelites started on their flight. Pharaoh already missed them. His important works were brought to a standstill; there was no one to make or handle bricks, and the loss of so large and so efficient a body of workers was severely felt.

A reaction takes place in the mind of the king; he charges himself with folly in letting the people go, and resolves to pursue them. He learns, also, that they have not yet got out of the land of Egypt, and he thinks that by the fact that they have turned south, and not gone directly to the east, they are confused, and he plans to catch them when they are hemmed in by the mountains and the sea.

With six hundred of his swiftest chariots he at once sets out after them, leaving orders, doubtless, for other chariots as well as foot soldiers to follow as soon as possible.

The Israelites were in the greatest alarm; there was no visible means of escape. They could go no further south, for the mountains were in front of them; they could not turn to the right for the same reason; the Egyptians were in their rear, and the Red Sea was before them. They were in a trap. This is what Pharaoh expected. The strategy on which he had reckoned (ver. 3) had worked admirably.

THE PRESENT HELP IN TROUBLE.

"And the angel of God, which went before the camp of Israel, removed and went behind them; and the pillar of the cloud went from before their face, and stood behind them:

"And it came between the camp of the Egyptians and the camp of Israel: and it was a cloud and darkness to them, but it gave light by night to these: so that the one came not near the other all the night."

It is singular that this blind king should so soon forget that there was a God in Israel, and that he was to come into collision again with that Being who had so often foiled, and finally, in the death of the first-born, had utterly crushed him.

But none are so blind or so heedless as the obstinate and the unbelieving. It will be seen that the battle that is soon to follow will end as before—in the defeat of Pharaoh, and, as some think, his death.

We have in this "angel of God" the same being that we have met so often before, who talked familiarly with Abraham and Jacob. He is the one who afterward came in the form of the flesh, and is called Christ.

This time His symbol was a cloud, and at night a pillar of fire. In such a large host as that of the children of Israel were at this time, it would be necessary that there be some elevated central object, so that those of the people scattered widely, in caring for the flocks and other like services, should not lose the location of the camp.

Some such arrangement was early found important in caravans crossing the deserts, so that it was customary to carry a round grate with fire, held aloft on a pole. The ancient Persians and some other nations carried a sacred fire in silver altars before their armies.

At night this cloud over the camp of the Israelites was illumined by some strong internal fire, so that the host dwelt amid the darkness of the desert as in a city brightly lighted. It was a marvelous miracle.

This cloud now changed its position as the Egyptians came near to the Israelites. It stood between the two hosts. Over the Egyptians it was a dense fog that cut off all their vision so that they could not tell what the Israelites were doing, while to the latter it was as though it had caught and held the rays of the setting sun, and poured a brilliant glory all over and through their encampment. The Egyptians, thinking that the rising sun will disperse the fog, wait for morning.

THE ISRAELITES ENTER THE RED SEA.

"And Moses stretched out his hand over the sea; and the Lord caused the sea to go back by a strong east wind all that night, and made the sea dry land, and the waters were divided.

"And the children of Israel went into the midst of the sea upon dry ground: and the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand, and on their left."

While the Egyptians were thus waiting, the Israelites were busy; they were making the best use of their time. They were making their escape by the way last of all thought possible—even the bottom of the sea!

The crossing was made in the neighborhood of what are now called the Bitter Lakes. This was then most probably the head of the Red Sea.

It was at a time of the year when the tide would help the action of the wind. If there were shoals or flats at the place where the crossing is supposed to have occurred, as there are now at Suez, the wind and the tide clearing a passage there would leave deep water on both sides of the passage-way, and this most probably is the meaning of the expression that the waters were a wall to them on either side.

"They were a defense; not necessarily perpendicular cliffs, as they were often pictured. God could make the water stand in precipices if He should so choose, and such a conception is more impressive to the imagination, but it is certain that the language of the text may mean simply that the water was a protection on the right and on the left flanks of the host. Thus, in Nahum 3:8, No (Thebes) is said to have the sea (the broad Nile) for the rampart and a wall—that is, a defense, a protection against enemies. It is true that in poetical passages the waters are said to have stood 'as a heap' (Exod. 15:8; Psa. 78:13); but so they are also, in the same style, said to have been 'congealed in the heart of the sea,' and the peaks of the trembling Horeb are said to have 'skipped like rams, and the little hills like lambs' (Psa. 114:4). Of course these expressions are not to be literally and prosaically interpreted."



The wind thus prevailed all night, to keep the passage open until all the Israelites had crossed and the pursuing Egyptians had got well into the sea.

THE ENEMY FOLLOW CLOSELY.

"And the Egyptians pursued, and went in after them to the midst of the sea, even all Pharaoh's horses, his chariots and his horsemen.

"And it came to pass that in the morning watch the Lord looked unto the host of the Egyptians through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians.

"And took off their chariot wheels, that they drave them heavily; so that the Egyptians said, Let us flee from the face of Israel; for the Lord fighteth for them against the Egyptians."

Surrounded by darkness and enveloped by the fog, the Egyptians did not know that they were rushing into the midst of the sea. It is not said that Pharaoh went in, and yet as the post of the king is usually represented on the ancient monuments as leading his soldiers—marching at their head—it may be, as some think, that his chariot led those six hundred chariots, and that he perished with them.

"The chariots of Egypt were very famous. According to Diodorus Siculus, Rameses II had twenty-seven thousand in his army. The processes of manufacture of chariots and harness are fully illustrated by existing sculptures, in which also are represented the chariots used by neighboring nations."—Rev. H. W. Phillot.

At this point the movements of the Egyptians are very much impeded. Shortly after midnight, the fog changed into a storm cloud, blazing with lightning and growling with thunder. This was terrifying to the Egyptians in the extreme, as they were not accustomed to thunderstorms, and scarcely ever saw rain.

"Showers of rain also came down from the sky, and dreadful thunder and lightning, with flashes of fire. Thunderbolts also were darted upon them; nor was there anything which God sends upon men as indications of His wrath which did not happen at this time."—Josephus.

Psalms 77:15-20 refers to this storm. Although the Israelites went through dry-shod, the pursuing chariots sank in the mire, were buried in the sand, and in some cases the wheels were wrenched off, so that the superstitious Egyptians recognized the fact that the God of Israel was fighting against them. They therefore began to retreat. In the meantime the children of Israel had an abundance of time to make good their escape.

"Before the captivity, the night (between sunset and sunrise) was divided by the Israelites into three watches—the first watch, the middle watch and the morning watch. It appears that the Israelites had the space of two watches, at least (or eight hours), for effecting their passage."—Murphy.

THE OVERTHROW OF PHARAOH'S HOST.

"And the Lord said unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand over the sea, that the waters may come again upon the Egyptians, upon their chariots and upon their horsemen.

"And Moses stretched forth his hand over the sea, and the sea returned to his strength when the morning appeared; and the Egyptians fled against it, and the Lord overthrew the Egyptians in the midst of the sea.

"And the waters returned, and covered the chariots, and the horsemen, and all the host of Pharaoh that came into the sea after them; there remained not so much as one of them."

After the fugitives had safely gained the farther shore, and while the Egyptians were still struggling in the middle of the passage, through the gray of the dawn they saw the majestic form of Moses rise upon the opposite bank. They saw him stretch forth that terrible rod—that rod which had left so many deep scars upon the fair land of Egypt—and immediately the wind ceased, its strong pressure was relaxed, the sudden swell of the tide caught the waters, and they, as if impatient of restraint, leaped again to their wonted channel, burying the hopeless and helpless enemy.

"A sudden cessation of the wind at sunrise, coinciding with a spring tide (it was full moon), would immediately convert the low, flat sand-banks, first into a quicksand, and then into a mass of waters, in a time far less than would suffice for the escape of a single chariot or horseman loaded with heavy corselet."—Canon Cook.

The destruction was as complete as it was sudden. Not one escaped. The disaster was overwhelming, crushing. The Egyptians never again disturbed the Israelites during all their after wanderings.

THIS WAS THE LORD'S DOINGS.

"But the children of Israel walked upon dry land in the midst of the sea; and the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand and on their left.

"Thus the Lord saved Israel that day out of the hand of the Egyptians; and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the seashore.

"And Israel saw that great work which the Lord did upon the Egyptians; and the people feared the Lord, and believed the Lord, and his servant Moses."

There was only one explanation of this event, and that was the Lord wrought it. There could be no room in the mind of any of the children of Israel to doubt that God was with them. Repeatedly had they seen their enemies baffled and discomfited; now they saw them destroyed. What folly to contend with such a God! Would it be possible for these people thus delivered ever to doubt God? ever to distrust Him? ever to disobey Him? It would seem not.

They had every reason to believe Him, to be grateful to Him, to love and serve Him devotedly. Without lifting a finger, they, an unarmed people, with not a soldier in all their ranks, nor a weapon worthy the name, had triumphed over a chosen detachment of the finest army in the world at that time, led, too, by a king who was familiar with battles and accustomed to victories.

Josephus says that, after the passage of the sea by the Israelites, a west wind set in, which (assisted by the current) drove the bodies of the drowned Egyptians to the eastern side of the gulf, where many of them were cast up upon the shore. In this way, Moses, according to him, obtained weapons and armor for a considerable number of Israelites.



WHAT THEY DO WHEN IT RAINS.

By Carrie Cathcart Day.

"Where do you go, Sweet, happy bird, When wild winds blow And storms are heard? Do you not dread the rushing rain, And wish the sky was bright again?"

"Tweet oh! I fly To nestlings near— To hush their cry, And soothe their fear; And o'er them all my wings I fold, To keep them safely from the cold."

"Where do you run, Dear little duck? Is the rain fun, And best of luck?" "Oh, yes! Quack! quack! I swim in glee, It never pours too hard for me!"

"Of course, good sheep, You do not care— Out-doors you keep Through foul and fair; Your coat is surely thick enough To shield you from a tempest rough?"

"Baa! baa! baa! baa! I let the geese Have all the wet; For should my fleece All soaking get, 'Twould be too heavy for my play— So to my shed I skip away."

"Why do you croak So long and loud, Queer froggie folk, When comes a cloud?" "Cree-crake! cree-crake! Because our pollywogs, we know, When ponds are full will nicely grow!"

"But, bumble-bee, Your gauzy wings, It seems to me, Are flimsy things; Should they get drenched, 'twould spoil them quite, And you'd be in a sorry plight!"

"I crawl beneath A lily bell— A lovely sheath That suits me well, And when—buzz! buzz!—the sun I greet, The roses all are fresh and sweet."

"Well, surely you, My little lad, Feel very blue In weather sad? You mope and fret and whine and frown, To see the torrents driving down!"

"Oh, ho! oh, ho! You do not know; For thus, you see, My trowsers go Up to my knee; I make believe to wade and splash In puddles nice, with Puss and Dash, And we pretend the shower pours As hard within as out of doors!"



JACK-A-DANDY.

BY HELEN WHITNEY CLARK.

We children had been wishing for a tame crow ever since reading Dickens' charming description of his pet raven. There were no ravens where we lived; but Brother Tom said crows were just as good, and could be taught to talk, too.

And one day, when we were playing "Here we go round the mulberry bush" in the woods near the house, little Ikey, our colored washerwoman's boy, came along with a live crow in his hands.

Of course we were curious to see and examine the wonderful bird, and we crowded around Ikey, who seemed bewildered at being the object of so much attention.

"Where did you get him?" "What you going to do with him?" "How much will you take for him?" asked Tom, Josie and Fred, in one breath.

But Ikey only grinned, as he answered each in turn.

"Got him out of his nest in a post-oak. Dey was more of 'em, but I couldn't git ony dis one. I'm a-gwine to raise him if mammy'll let me. But I mout sell him, if I git a good chance."

The opportunity was not to be lost, and in a very few moments Ikey was trudging homeward with a handful of coppers and two nickels—all the change we could raise among us, and we proudly carried our new-found treasure to the house.

"Mercy on us!" cried mamma, holding up her hands. "What on earth have you got there?"

"A crow," we told her. "And we're going to tame him, and teach him to talk."

"Nonsense!" said mamma. "You don't suppose I'll have a crow about the house, to kill the young chickens and eat up the eggs!"

But we begged and pleaded, till at last she gave her consent to let us keep it.

"It'll be a great torment," grumbled grandma. "It's a young bird, and you'll have to feed it like a baby."

But we did not mind the trouble. Indeed, it was more of an amusement to us to feed our pet on scraps of meat and bits of bread. It opened its mouth so wide, and cried "Caw-aw-aw!" in such a satisfactory way.

Ikey had instructed us as to the manner of feeding.

"Jess you peck it on de head, an' it'll open its mouth like it does fur de ole birds," he explained.

And we found his advice was good.

We named our pet "Jack-a-Dandy," and he grew and throve so much that he was soon able to procure his own food, which consisted of crickets and other insects.

He was so tame that we could allow him perfect freedom, without any fear of his deserting us.

As he grew older, he used frequently to fly into the top of a tall post-oak near the front door, from which he would circle around and around the house, then alight on the ground, and come hopping in the door, with a cheerful "caw! caw!" as if asserting that there was no place like home.

"He's better than Dick Hardy's tame squirrel," Tom used to say, "for that has to be kept in a cage."