The duchess bought the bird, and soon became very much attached to it. Carl took the greatest pleasure in its training, and in due time, little Tim—for that was his name—would come to him and peck at his fingers, and rub his little head on Carl's hand.

Carl was a natural musician, just as his father was, and would sometimes play on a flute which the old Tyrolese peasant had. Little Tim would imitate his tunes, and sometimes the concert was well worth hearing.

The old pastor provided the duchess with news. One day he gave her a French newspaper, and in the first column which she read there was a long list of the names of noblemen who had been beheaded. Among them she read the name of her husband, Henry Erlan. The newspaper fell from her hands, and she swooned away. A severe illness came on, and it was a long time doubtful whether she would recover. The old Tyrolese despaired of her life, and said,—

"The coming autumn may find her no more with us; but who knows what the good Lord will bring out of all this sorrow?"

II.

The old servant Richard, having rescued his good mistress from arrest, and probably from death, now formed the resolution to save his master too. He had not much time to plan, for he learned that the duke was to be beheaded the following week. It so happened that the son of his brother Solomon, the ferryman, belonged to the National Guard, and was stationed at the prison to guard it. If he could only secure him to engage in the enterprise, he felt that he could succeed. It was a difficult thing to get a word to say to any member of the National Guard. But old Richard had done many kind things for his nephew, and he succeeded in getting a note to him through the post office, appointing a time, when he was off duty, to meet him. Richard opened the whole enterprise freely to his nephew, and told him all the great injustice that had been done a noble family, and the sufferings through which the different members had passed.

The duke was informed that he was to be beheaded next day, and his door was marked by the prison-keeper as the room of a man who was to be executed the following morning. The good man knelt in prayer after the intelligence had been conveyed to him, and said,—

"To whom shall I go for help and courage, this last night of my life, but to thee, O Lord? Thou knowest best what will happen to me. If it be in accordance with thy will, permit me to see my wife and children again. If thou seest that it is not best for thy glory that I should live, then I will obey willingly. Thy will, not mine, be done."



That was a noble prayer. Scarcely had the last word fallen from his lips, when he heard somebody gently lifting the latch of his door, and inserting the key.

"Save yourself," whispered the person who entered, who was none other than old Solomon's son, to whom Richard had confided his enterprise. It was two o'clock in the morning, the very best time to accomplish his purpose.

"Put on these clothes," said he, as he unfolded a soldier's uniform; "take this hat, and here is a gun. As quickly as you possibly can, transform yourself into a soldier."

They escaped in safety from the prison, accompanied by the faithful Richard, and went as rapidly as they could towards the Rhine. They reached old Solomon's ferry house. The young man knocked gently at the window, and asked his father to come out as soon as possible and take the duke over the river.

"Are you not going to take your little girl with you?" said the old ferryman.

"What little girl?" asked the duke.

"Your little daughter, whom my brother has brought here this very day; and she is as sweet a child as I ever saw in my life. She lies asleep now in the corner of the room."

This was news which the nobleman did not expect to hear, and he was almost overcome with joy. But he had no time to spend in greeting, except to give his dear Lillie a kiss. Soon they were over the Rhine; but before reaching the bank on the opposite side, they were fired at by soldiers who had come in search of them. A bullet passed through the top of the duke's high soldier hat, but he was not harmed, and escaped in safety.

The great task for him to accomplish now was to find his wife and boy, though he had but little hope of ever finding them. Old Richard had enough money to buy the duke a horse; so the father mounted the horse, and took his little daughter on the saddle with him. They travelled over the mountains and through the vales, asking, whenever they met any person, to tell them if they knew of any strangers in that section of the country. But nobody gave any information.

Old Richard was yet with them, for he had still enough money left to buy a mule, and he rode beside his good master and Lillie until the 17th of July arrived, and that was Lillie's birthday. The duke determined that they three should stop and celebrate it by taking a little rest and a good meal in a cottage by the wayside. Having finished their dinner, they went out of doors and looked about the beautiful yard, which was all blooming with flowers. A bird cage was hanging by the side of the door, and the bird was singing the tune to these words:—

"Take courage, bird; Our Father says, In winter's storms And summer's rays You have no barns, You sow no wheat, But God will give you bread to eat."

Lillie was astounded at again hearing that sweet melody, and she exclaimed,—

"Father, father! that is the very tune which we were singing together the night that you were arrested."

The little bird went over it two or three times, and the father said,—

"You are right, my dear child. That is the melody—not a note is wanting. This is truly wonderful. I do believe that this bird has been taught to sing that song by Carl and your good mother. O, Richard, can you not find out how this bird came here?"

Richard said in reply,—

"I will do all I can, but I am afraid that it will be very difficult."

He made inquiries of the man who owned the bird, and who had furnished them with the dinner, as to where the bird came from. The Tyrolese replied,—

"I don't know where it came from, except that a young man who passed along the road, and who lives about three miles from here, sold it to me for a trifling sum one day. I was pleased with its appearance, because it was a beautiful bird, and the price was very low."

Then Richard said,—

"Can you not see that young man, and find out where he got it from?"

"I will do so if you wish," he answered.

Richard then told him to report as soon as possible what he had learned.

That afternoon, about five o'clock, the young man was brought to Richard and the duke, and inquiries were made as to where he got the bird. He said that he did not know where it came from exactly, except that it was found one day after it had escaped from somebody's cage. He did not know who owned it, or else he would have taken it to its owner.

"Where was it you found it?" said the duke.

"About ten miles from here, when I was going to see my mother, who lives a great many miles away."

"Do you know whether any strangers are in that neighborhood?" asked the duke.

"I heard my mother say that there were a lady and a little boy living some three miles the other side of her house, and that she was a very good woman."

"Did you ever see the boy yourself?" inquired the duke.

"Yes, I saw the boy going to school."

The duke, on making further inquiries as to his appearance, came to the conclusion that the boy whom he had seen was probably none other than Carl. He accordingly made his arrangements to go to the place of which the young man had spoken.

That night he reached the house where this good lady and her son were boarding. True enough, the duke and little Lillie were in the presence of the duchess and Carl. It was a happy meeting, far beyond my power to describe. Their gratitude to their heavenly Father for preserving them to each other knew no bounds. It was an hour of such happiness as is seldom permitted any one to enjoy.

They sat up late that night and recounted their experiences to each other, and then the duke revealed the secret of his coming to that house; that it was a canary bird which had been the instrument of his finding her and Carl. They spent a few days in great happiness there, and made a bargain with the man who owned the canary bird which had escaped from Carl's cage to get it back again.

Two years passed on, and peace and quiet were again restored to France. The duke and his family were permitted to return to his castle, and the government made him ample reparation for all the losses that he had incurred. They took with them their little canary bird, which had lost none of its sweet notes by the lapse of time.

One day a magnificent new piano arrived from Paris, and after tea the duke said,—

"Now we will try the piano in our own quiet home. What shall we sing?" asked he.

The duchess, and Carl, and Lillie all answered with one voice,—

"We must sing our bird song."

"Take courage, bird; Our Father says, In winter's storms And summer's rays You have no barns, You sow no wheat, But God will give you bread to eat."



THE SHEEP AND THE GOAT.

Not all the streets that London builds Can hide the sky and sun, Shut out the winds from o'er the fields, Or quench the scent the hay swath yields All night, when work is done.

And here and there an open spot Lies bare to light and dark, Where grass receives the wanderer hot, Where trees are growing, houses not; One is the Regent's Park.



Soft creatures, with ungentle guides, God's sheep from hill and plain, Are gathered here in living tides, Lie wearily on woolly sides, Or crop the grass amain.

And from the lane, and court, and den, In ragged skirts and coats, Come hither tiny sons of men, Wild things, untaught of book or pen, The little human goats.

One hot and cloudless summer day, An overdriven sheep Had come a long and dusty way; Throbbing with thirst the creature lay, A panting, woollen heap.

But help is nearer than we know For ills of every name; Ragged enough to scare the crow, But with a heart to pity woe, A quick-eyed urchin came.

Little he knew of field or fold, Yet knew enough; his cap Was just the cap for water cold— He knew what it could do of old; Its rents were few, good hap!

Shaping the brim and crown he went, Till crown from brim was deep. The water ran from brim and rent; Before he came the half was spent— The half, it saved the sheep.

O, little goat, born, bred in ill, Unwashed, ill-fed, unshorn! Thou meet'st the sheep from breezy hill, Apostle of thy Saviour's will, In London wastes forlorn.

Let others say the thing they please, My faith, though very dim, Thinks He will say who always sees, In doing it to one of these Thou didst it unto him.



FROM BAD TO WORSE.

Come, children, leave your playing, And gather round my knee, And I'll tell you a little story: Away across the sea, In a meadow where the mosses And the grass were frozen brown, Three little maids sat milking One day as the sun went down— Not cows, but goats of the mountain; And before their pails were full, The winds, they pierced like needles Through their gowns of heavy wool. And as one hand, then the other, They tried to warm in their laps, The bitter weather froze their breath Like fur about their caps. And so, as they sat at their milking, They grew as still as mice, Save when the stiff shoes on their feet Rattled like shoes of ice.

At last out spoke the youngest As she blew on her finger-nails: I have planned a plan, sweet sisters: Let us take our milking-pails, And go to the side of the mountain As fast as we can go, And heap them up to the very top From the whitest drifts of snow; And let us build in the meadow Where we will milk our goats at night A house to keep us from the cold, With walls all silver white.

We will set the door away from the wind. The floor we will heap with moss, And gather little strips of ice And shingle the roof across.

Then all the foolish maidens, They emptied their pails on the ground, And bounded up the mountain-side As fast as they could bound, And came again to the meadow With pails heaped high with snow, And so, through half the night, the moon Beheld them come and go.

But when with the daybreak roses The silver walls shone red, The three little foolish maidens Were lying cold and dead. The needles of the frost had sewed Into shrouds their woollen coats, And with cheeks as white as the ice they lay Among their mountain goats.

ALICE CARY.



MY STORY.

Many years ago, when the sky was as clear, the flowers as fragrant, and the birds as musical as now, I stood by a little mahogany table, with pencil and paper in hand, vainly trying to add a short column of figures. My small tin box, with the word Bank in large letters upon it, had just been opened, and the carefully hoarded treasure of six months was spread out before me. Scrip had not come into use then; and there were one tiny gold piece, two silver dollars, and many quarters, dimes, half-dimes, and pennies. For a full half hour I had been counting my fingers and trying to reckon up how much it all amounted to; but the problem was too hard for me. At last I took pencil and paper, and sought to work it out by figures.

"What are you doing, Gracie?" pleasantly inquired my father, entering the room with an open letter in his hand.

"O, papa! is that you?" I cried, eagerly turning towards him. "Just look—see how much money I've got! John has just opened my bank. It is six months to-day since I began to save, and I've more than I expected."

"Yes, you are quite rich."

"So much that I can't even count it. I've done harder sums in addition at school; but somehow, now, every time I add, I get a different answer. I can't make it come out twice alike."

"Where did you get that gold piece?"

"Why, don't you know? You gave it to me for letting Dr. Strong pull out my big back tooth."

Father laughed.

"Did I?" said he; "I had forgotten it. But where did you get those two silver dollars?" he inquired.

"O, grandmother gave me this one. It's chicken money. She gave it to me for feeding the chickens every morning all the while I staid there; and the other is hat money. Aunt Ellen told me if I'd wear my hat always when I went out in the sun, and so keep from getting sun-burned, that she would give me another dollar; and she did."

"Where did the remainder come from?"

"Mostly from you, papa. You are always giving me money. These two bright, new quarters you gave me when you looked over my writing-book, and saw it hadn't a blot. How much is there in all?" I earnestly asked.

Father glanced at the little pile, and smilingly said,—

"Seven dollars and ten cents. That's a good deal of money for a little girl only nine years old to spend."

"And may I spend it just as I please?"

"Certainly, my dear; just as you please. It's a great thing for little people to learn to spend money wisely."

Saying this, he seated himself by the window, and drawing me towards him, placed me upon one knee.

"Gracie, dear, I have just received a letter from grandmother. She proposes that I come to Vermont and bring you; that I remain as long as business will admit, and leave you to pass the summer just as you did last year. How would that suit?" fixing his kind dark eyes full upon my upturned face to read my changing thoughts.

"O, I should like it very much!" I quickly exclaimed, clapping my hands with delight. Then I reflected a moment, and a shadow fell over my prospective happiness.

"On the whole, papa," I said, earnestly, "I think I had better go, and not stay any longer than you can stay. I am all the little girl you have, and you are all the parent I have, and we should be very lonely without each other."

I felt his warm, loving kiss upon my cheek as he folded me to his heart, and a tear fell on my forehead. For two years I had been motherless; but a double portion of pity and tenderness had been lavished upon me by my indulgent father. He was a New York merchant of ample means. Our home was elegant and tasteful.

The home of my father's only surviving parent, my doting grandmother, whom we were designing to visit, was a plain, unpretending farm-house, snuggly nestled up among the hills of Vermont. There were tall poplar trees and a flower-garden in front, a little orchard and a whole row of nice looking out-buildings in the rear. There was no place on earth so full of joy for me. The swallows' nests on the barn; the turkeys, geese, and chickens; the colt, lambs, and little pigs; in short, everything had an ever-increasing attraction, far exceeding any pleasures to be found within the limits of the crowded city.

The prospect of another visit to Woodville filled my heart with intense delight.

A week passed, and on one of the sunniest and freshest of June mornings we started for Vermont. I was exceedingly fond of travelling in the cars, and it seemed as if a thousand sunbeams had suddenly fallen upon my young life. The train left New York, and we found ourselves rapidly whirling past hills, forests, towns, and villages. Sometimes we were flying through dark, deep cuts, then crossing streams and rich green fields and meadows.

We expected to reach grandmother's that evening. I had written to inform her of our coming. One hour after another passed. The day was declining, and the sun was slowly sinking in the west.

"How much longer have we to go?" was the question I had asked for the fiftieth time at least.

"About another hour's ride, Gracie," smilingly answered my father. "I think we shall reach Woodville about eight."

The cars continued to hurry on till we were within a few rods of the station.

The bell was ringing its usual warning, and the bell from a train from behind was beginning to be heard. We had commenced to switch off, to allow the express train to pass. But by some carelessness or miscalculation our train was a minute too late. Father and I were comfortably occupying one of the front seats of the rear car; and I was in a state of impatient excitement to reach our destination. But there came, in an instant, a stunning, frightful crash; and I was thrown violently forward. What followed for the next ten minutes I do not know.

I think I must have been in a semi-unconscious state, for I have a dim recollection of strange sounds, confusion, anxiety, and terror. Strong hands seemed to pull me out from under a heavy weight, and gently lay me down. I felt dizzy and faint. I opened my eyes, and light came gradually to my darkened vision. A gentleman stood over me with his fingers upon my wrist. A kind, sunny-faced old lady was wetting my head.

"Are you much hurt?" she tenderly inquired, gazing upon me in undisguised anxiety.

"What's the matter? Where am I?" I cried, springing up and gazing wildly around.

In a moment my eye caught sight of the broken rear car. There were several wounded and bleeding people about me. I saw the front cars emptied of passengers, who were actively employed in caring for the injured. I comprehended in an instant that there had been an accident.

"My father! my father!" I cried.

"You shall see him soon," soothingly answered the gentleman by my side. "Drink this;" and he held to my mouth a glass of something pleasant and pungent. I drank its entire contents. I think it helped to quite restore me. I ran wildly about in search of my missing parent. There was a little group of men and women a short distance off. I hurried towards it, and recognized Peter, my grandmother's man, who had come to meet us at the station.

"Where is my father?" I said in a voice hardly audible from terror, seizing Peter's arm.

Before he could reply, I saw father, white and motionless, upon the ground.

"He is dead!" I shrieked, springing towards him, and convulsively throwing my arms about him.

"He is stunned, not dead, my child," said the physician, kindly drawing me away, to minister to him. "We hope he will soon be better."

In spite of his soothing words and tones, I read the truth in his face; that he feared life was almost extinct.

"O, what can I do? Save him! save him! You must not let him die! you must not!"

"My poor child, I will do all I can," replied the physician, touched by my distress.

But no efforts to restore my father to consciousness availed anything. There was a deep, ugly cut on one side of his head. No other external injury could be found; yet he had not spoken or moved since he was taken out from the broken car.

The accident had occurred but a few rods from the station; and as grandmother's house was scarcely a mile distant, Peter strongly urged that he should be taken there at once. Accordingly a wagon was procured. The seats were taken out, and a mattress placed upon the bottom, and father was carefully laid upon it; and Peter drove rapidly home, while I followed with the doctor in his buggy. A man had been sent in advance of us to inform grandmother of our coming. She met us at the door with a pallid face, but was so outwardly calm, that I took courage from beholding her.

Father was laid upon a nice, white bed, in a little room on the ground floor; and again every means for restoring him was resorted to. Still he remained unconscious.

The hours went on. The old family clock had just struck two, and we were watching and working in an agony of suspense.

I had not left my father's bedside, till the low, indistinct conversation between the doctor and grandmother, in the next room, fell upon my ear.

"There is life yet," said he. "I thought once he had ceased to breathe."

"And you are quite sure he does?" she inquired.

"Yes. I held a small mirror over his face; and the mist that gathered upon it proves there is still faint breathing."

I shuddered and ran out to them.

"You think he will die!" I cried, seizing grandmother's hand with desperate energy.

"I cannot tell, dear Gracie. His life, like yours and mine, is in the hands of God. We cannot foresee his purposes. We can only submit to his will."

Saying this, she returned with the doctor to the sick room, and I was left alone.

The prospect of being deprived of my only surviving parent almost paralyzed me. I looked out of the open window. It was a calm, clear summer night. The moon shone out in all its glory and brilliancy, and the stars twinkled as cheerily as though there was no sorrow, suffering, or death in the world.

I sprang towards the door and closed it, and then threw myself upon my knees, and poured out my great anguish into the pitying ear of the heavenly Father.

"O, good, kind Father in heaven, do hear and quickly answer me. Do save my own dear papa from death. Mother, Bessie, and little Fred have all gone to live with thee; and he is all I have left. Do, I entreat thee, help him to get well; I will be more kind, and generous, and obedient than I have ever been before, and will try to please thee as long as I live."

I arose comforted and strengthened. Returning to my father's room, I saw the doctor with his fingers upon his wrist again.

"A faint pulse," he said, turning towards grandmother.

Another hour passed. The breath was perceptible now, and the doctor looked more hopefully.

Morning came, and the glad sunlight streamed in through the windows. Father remained in a deep stupor, but manifested more signs of life than at any time since the accident. He had moved slightly several times, and as the hours went on his breathing became more natural and regular.

Suddenly he opened his eyes and gazed feebly around.

"Father, dear father, are you better?" I cried in a choking voice.

He smiled faintly, then closed his eyes again, and sank into a sweet, refreshing slumber.

Another day came, bringing joy immeasurable to all of us. Father was conscious and rallying fast, and before night the doctor assured us all danger was past. The weeks went on.

June went out and July came in. We had been nearly a month in Woodville; and how different my visit had resulted from the season of perfect happiness I had so ardently anticipated!

Father was gradually regaining his former health; and although the wound on his head was but partially healed, he was pronounced doing admirably by the attentive physician.

He was now able to go out, and we took many long rides together, keenly enjoying the beautiful scenery and the pure air. As strength increased, the necessity of returning to his business pressed upon my father, and the first week in September was appointed for our departure.

On the last Sunday of our sojourn in Woodville, grandmother and I went in the morning to church. There had just been a fearfully destructive fire in one of the neighboring towns, and a large number of people were homeless. The minister announced that at the close of the afternoon service, a collection would be taken up for the sufferers, and he strongly urged a generous contribution from his parishioners.

I had hitherto paid little heed, when in church, to what the minister said; but since the dreadful accident and father's almost miraculous recovery, I had been far more thoughtful and attentive than formerly. My heart went out in deep sympathy and pity for the poor men, women, and children who were made houseless in a single night, and I ardently longed to do the little in my power to relieve them.

So, during the intermission between the services, I took out the money I had brought with me, and which father had told me I was free to spend as I pleased. I tied it up in my handkerchief. There was too much for my pocket-book to conveniently hold, for it was all of the carefully hoarded treasure of my bank. It was my design to put it into the contribution-box.

Grandmother did not go to church in the afternoon; but father decided to go, and I accompanied him. After the services were over, two men arose and began to pass round the boxes to collect money for the people whose homes had been burned. As I beheld one of them coming slowly up the aisle, stopping at every pew, I was in a flutter of excitement. It was a novel thing for me to put money into the contribution-box, and my heart beat violently.

I drew out my handkerchief from my pocket, and hurriedly began to untie the knot. But my usually nimble fingers were provokingly slow to act now; and I pulled and pulled away, but to no purpose. The knot obstinately refused to yield. The man with the box had nearly reached our pew, and I began to fear I should lose the chance to give.

"Don't let him slip by me," I whispered so loudly to father as to cause at least a dozen persons in the adjacent seats to stare wonderingly at me. "I've something to put in."

Another prodigious effort, and the knot yielded.

The man passed the box first to father, and he put in a bill. He glanced at me, evidently thinking a child would hardly have money to give, and was about to go on; but I looked beseechingly towards him, and he stopped and extended the box to me. In an instant the entire contents of my handkerchief were emptied into it—as much money as my two chubby hands could hold.

Father looked down upon me, and a half-amused smile flitted over his face, as he beheld my unexpected act.

After we had returned home, father sat down by the window in an easy chair, and calling me to him, placed me upon his knee.

"Gracie, dear," said he, smilingly, "tell me how it happened you put so much money into the contribution-box. It must have taken nearly all you had."

"It was all I had, papa. It was the money I saved in my bank, and you told me I could spend it just as I pleased."

"O, yes, dear; I am glad to have you; only it was a good deal for a little girl."

"I gave it because I wanted to please God," I replied with earnest solemnity. "That dreadful night, when we all thought you would die, dear papa, I promised God I would be a better girl than I have ever been before. I would be more kind, generous, and obedient, and would try and please him all my life, if he would only let you get well; and I gave my money to-day because I am so glad and grateful to him."

"Precious child," said he tenderly and with much emotion, drawing me close to him, "and I am glad, and grateful too, for the rich gift of my dear little daughter."

SARAH P. BRIGHAM.



THE WAY TO WALK.

As I tramped over a stony path, One cloudy morning early, I learned the only way to step, To keep from being surly.

Don't hurry, and stride, and come down hard Upon the rolling pebbles, But lightly step; and that's the way To charm all kinds of rebels.

Don't hurry, and stride, and come down hard, Even on troublesome people; But carry your feet, and tread on air, As though you lived on a steeple.

There are rolling stones in every path, And rocks with jagged edges, Which, if we gently touch, may turn To flowers and bending sedges.

M. R. W.



[Decoration]

CAMELS.

The Bactrian camel may be at once known by the two humps upon its back, which give the animal a most singular appearance.

This species is a native of Central Asia, China, and Thibet, and is generally as useful in those countries as is the dromedary in Arabia, being employed for the saddle, for draught, and burden. It is, however, chiefly employed for the second of those purposes, and is of the greatest service to its owners.

The vehicle to which this camel is generally harnessed is a rude cart of wood, ingeniously put together, without a particle of iron, and, after the fashion of such structures, shrieking, creaking, and groaning as the wheels turn on their roughly-made and ungreased axle. The drivers, however, care nothing for the hideous and incessant noise, and probably are so accustomed to it, that they would not feel at home with a cart whose wheels moved silently. The mode of harnessing is precisely that which so simple a vehicle requires. From the front of the cart projects a pole, and to this pole are hitched a pair of camels by a yoke that passes over their shoulders. In fact, the entire harness is nothing more than a wooden yoke and a leathern strap.

In spite, however, of the rude machine to which they are attached, and the great loss of power by the friction of the badly-fitted wheels, the animals can draw very heavy weights for considerable distances. A burden of three thousand pounds' weight is an ordinary load for a pair of camels, and a peculiarly strong yoke of these animals will draw nearly four thousand pounds' weight. This camel is commonly yoked in pairs.

For the plough the camel is never employed, not because it is not sufficiently strong for the task, but because it does not pull with the steadiness needed to drag the ploughshare regularly through the ground.

Sometimes, however, the Bactrian camel is employed as a beast of burden, the bales being slung at each side, and the water-skins suspended below the belly. When the animal is employed for this purpose, a kind of pack-saddle is used, somewhat similar in shape to that which has already been described in the history of the one-humped camel, but necessarily modified in its structure. The owner of the camel takes great care not to overload his animal, as he is afraid of injuring the humps, and thereby detracting from the value of the camel.



In Persia the camel is employed for a very singular purpose. There was, and may be now, a corps of the army which is called the camel artillery. It consisted of a number of camels, each fitted with a peculiar saddle, which not only accommodated the rider, but carried a swivel-gun of about one pound calibre. These weapons had a greater range than the ordinary Persian matchlocks, and, owing to the rapidity with which they could be transferred from spot to spot, formed a valuable branch of the artillery.

When the enemy saw that a detachment of the camel artillery was about to attack them, their usual device was to reach such a position as to force the camels to traverse wet and muddy ground, in which they were sure to slip about, to lose all command over their limbs, and sometimes to lame themselves completely by the hind legs slipping apart.

Camels were especially serviceable for this purpose, because they are wonderfully sure-footed when the ground is dry, almost rivalling the mule in the certainty of the tread. The Arabian camel is notable for his sure tread, but the Bactrian species is still more remarkable in this respect. Owing, in all probability, to the elongated toe, which projects beyond the foot, and forms a kind of claw, the Bactrian camel can climb mountain passes with perfect security, and in consequence of this ability is sometimes called the mountain camel.

It is as serviceable in winter as in summer. The soft, cushion-like feet, which slide about so helplessly in mud, take a firm hold of ice, and enable their owner to traverse a frozen surface with easy security. In snow, too, the Bactrian camel is equally at home; and the Calmucks would rather ride a camel than a horse in the winter, because the longer legs of the former animal enable it to wade through the deep snow, in which a horse could only plunge about without finding a foothold. No greater proof of the extreme utility of this animal can be adduced than the fact that a body of two thousand camels were employed in conducting a military train over the "snow-clad summits of the Indian Caucasus" in winter time, and that throughout the space of seven months only one camel died, having been accidentally killed.

Although the camel has so strong an objection to mud, it has none to water, and will wade across a river without hesitation. It can even swim well when the water is too deep to be forded; but it does not appear to have much power of directing its course, or of propelling itself through the water with much force. Indeed, it may rather be said to float than to swim.

In point of speed it cannot approach the Arabian dromedary, although it is little inferior to the ordinary camel of burden. About two and a half miles per hour is the average pace at which a pair of Bactrian camels will draw a load, varying in weight from three to four thousand pounds; and if they travel over a well-made road, they can do their thirty miles a day for many successive days. In countries, therefore, which are adapted to its habits, the camel is far superior to any other beast of burden, whether for draught or carriage.

One great advantage of the camel is, that its feet are so tough, that they can pass over rough and stony places without suffering, and that therefore the animal does not require the aid of shoes. In an ordinary march, the constant attention to the shoeing of horses and cattle entails great labor, much watchfulness, and often causes considerable delay, so that the peculiar formation of the camel's foot, which neither requires nor admits of an iron shoe, is of exceeding value in a forced march. In some places a leathern shoe is fixed to the camel's foot, but is really of little use.



The very worst time for the Bactrian camel is the beginning and end of winter, when frost and thaw occur alternately. At such times of the year the snow falls thickly, is partially melted in the daytime, and at night freezes on the surface into a thin cake of ice. Through this crust the feet of the camel break, and the animal cuts its legs cruelly with the sharp edges of the broken ice.

For the cold weather itself this species of camel cares little, passing its whole time in the open air, and feeding on the grass when it is caked with the ice formed from the dew. Indeed, it bears a severe winter better than either horse, ox, or sheep, and has been observed to feed with apparent comfort when the thermometer had sunk many degrees below zero. In some places—such as the country about Lake Baikal—the camel is partially sheltered from the cold by a thick woollen cloth, which is sewn over its body; but even in such cases its owners do not trouble themselves to furnish it with food, leaving it to forage for itself among shrubs and trees of higher ground, or among the reeds and rushes that grow on marshy land and the banks of rivers.

Almost the only disease among the Bactrian camels is an affection of the tongue, which is covered with blisters, so that the poor animal cannot eat, and dies from starvation.

The fleece of the Bactrian camel ought to weigh about ten pounds, and is used for making a coarse and strong cloth. In the summer time the hair becomes loose, and is easily plucked off by hand, just as sheep used to be "rowed" before shears were employed in removing the wool. The camel in the Zooelogical Gardens may be seen in the summer time in a very ragged state, its fleece hanging in bunches in some parts of the body, while others are quite bare. The price of the wool is about six cents a pound.

The skin is used for making straps, ropes, and thongs, and is seldom tanned. It is thought to be inferior to that of the ox, and is in consequence sold at a comparatively cheap rate, an entire hide only fetching about two dollars. The milk is used for food, but is produced in very small quantities, the average yield being only half a gallon. The flesh is eaten, and when the animal is fat is tolerably tender, and is thought to resemble beef. If, however, it be in poor condition, the meat is so tough and ill-flavored, that none but hungry men, armed with good teeth, can eat it. The price of a good Bactrian camel is about fifty dollars.

The weight of a full-grown animal is about one third more than that of the average ox—that is to say, about twelve hundred pounds. The average height is seven or eight feet, and the animal generally lives about thirty-five or forty years.

Dissimilar in external appearance as are the Bactrian and Arabian camels, their skeletons are so alike, that none but a skilful anatomist can decide upon the species to which a skeleton has belonged. The legs of the Bactrian species are rather shorter in proportion than those of the Arabian animal, and in them lies the chief distinction of the two species. Indeed, many naturalists deny that there is any real difference of species, and assert that the two animals are simply two varieties of the same species.

The specimen in the Zooelogical Gardens is called "Jenny" by the keeper, and has rather a curious history, being associated with one of the great events of the present century. During the late Russian war her mother was taken from the enemy in the Crimea, and was unfortunately killed. The deserted little one ran about among the soldiers, and was adopted by the corps of Royal Engineers, who towards the end of 1856 presented her to the Zooelogical Society. Both the camels are fed upon the same diet, and eat about the same quantity.

J. G. WOOD.



WHAT SO SWEET?

What so sweet as summer, When the sky is blue, And the sunbeams' arrows Pierce the green earth through?

What so sweet as birds are, Putting into trills The perfume of the wild-rose, The murmur of the rills?

What so sweet as flowers, Clovers white and red, Where the brown bee-chemist Finds its daily bread?

What so sweet as sun-showers, When the big cloud passes, And the fairy rainbow Seems to touch the grasses?

What so sweet as winds are, Blowing from the woods, Hinting in their music Of dreamy solitudes?

Rain, and song, and flower, When the summer's shine Makes the green earth's beauty Seem a thing divine.

MARY N. PRESCOTT.



COUNTING BABY'S TOES.

Dear little bare feet, Dimpled and white, In your long night-gown Wrapped for the night, Come let me count all Your queer little toes, Pink as the heart Of a shell or a rose.

One is a lady That sits in the sun; Two is a baby, And three is a nun; Four is a lily With innocent breast, And five is a birdie Asleep on her nest.



THORNS.

"Deepdale is a delightful place to visit." So thought little Nellie Harris when she went there to see Cousin Rose. All day long they wandered over the farm with Uncle John, first to feed the chickens, then to the well so dark and deep Nellie shuddered when she looked far, far down into it, and held tight to Rose for fear of falling. Uncle John turned the windlass to let Rose and Nellie see the bucket rise all dripping from its watery bed.

One morning after Nellie's return to the city, Rose was walking alone in the garden.

The flowers were charming, for the dew was not yet off their delicate petals; and they were so fragrant that little Rose's nose was put close up to a great many, to find which it was that smelled so very sweetly. First she was sure it was a great cabbage-rose that nodded at her from its stalk, but soon after she was surer that it was a little bed of pansies, or "Johnny-jump-ups," which turned all their bright little faces to the sun, like a family of newly-washed and clean-aproned children just starting for school. Soon, however, she was surest that it was a patch of mignonette under the pear tree, which, though it looked so plain and humble with its little bits of blossoms, was pouring out the richest perfume.

"Oh, it is you, is it?" said little Rose. "Mamma read to us yesterday that perfume was the soul of flowers. I guess you have got the biggest soul of them all, if you are so little."

Pretty soon Rose began to think of something more substantial than bird-songs, sunbeams and flowers. There were very nice raspberries, red and ripe, over beyond the currant-bushes, and her mamma allowed her to pick them in that part of the garden, for she knew how delightful it is for little folks to eat their fruit just where they pick it from the bushes.

Little Rose went around into the lower walk, where she could see the raspberries. A good many had ripened over-night, and hung on the long, waving stems, waiting to be picked.

There was a short way to them, right across between two great branching currant-bushes. She saw it was guarded by long briar-stalks with sharp thorns all along their sides, but it was so much nearer than to go around the long row of currants. "Mamma says we must not be afraid of trials and discouragements in our way," Rose said. She was very fond of quoting things she heard said or read, and applying them to her own experience.

"I guess I can get through. Little girls must be brave!" And she pushed boldly into the middle of the space between the bushes. But there she caught fast, and could not go a step farther. One great, strong branch of thorns was stretched across her foot, the sharp points sticking fast in her stocking, and hurting her flesh cruelly if she tried to move it. Another one caught hold of her little garden-shawl and pulled it away back off her shoulders. She pulled and twitched with all her might, but could not get it loose. On the other side her little bare elbow was torn and bleeding from a scratch, while her dress was held as fast as if a hundred invisible hands were pulling at it. There she was. She could not get on nor back. There was nothing to be done but to call for her mother. This she did so loudly that everybody in the house came rushing to see what was the matter. Dolly and Hannah, leaving their dish-washing in the kitchen, got there first, and setting to work soon had Rose out, but with scratched hands, arms and feet and two great rents in her dress.

"How in the world did you come in there among the briars?" asked mamma, after they were in the house again and Rose became comforted a little.

"It was the nearest way to the raspberries," she answered.

"The nearest? Yes; but not the best. It would have been far better to go around by the path."

"I heard you tell Cousin Lucy the other day that folks must never mind if there were thorns in their way," said little Rose, almost sobbing again, for she had thought that at least her mother would praise her courage and philosophy.

Her mother smiled, but presently looked grave.

"My darling," she said, "it is true we must not mind thorns if they are in the path of duty. But when they grow in any other path, we have a right—indeed, we ought—to avoid them if we can."

"But wasn't I in the path of duty when I tried to get the raspberries, mamma? You said that I might pick all that grew down there."

"You were not doing wrong in trying to get them."

"Isn't that the same as duty?"

"Not exactly. Would it have been wrong for you to do without them? Or would you have been to blame for going by the path?"

"Oh no," said Rose; "it would not have been wrong, for nobody said I must get them, or that I must go through the currant-bushes."

"Then you see it was not duty."

"Please tell me exactly what is meant by duty, mamma."

"Duty is not only something which we may do, it is something which we ought to do, and which it would be wrong to neglect. It is not simply permission, but obligation. Is that plain?"

"Yes, mamma. I understand now. I was permitted to pick the berries, but I was not obliged to do it or else do wrong. But if you had sent me to pick them for you, it would have been duty."

"And do you think that in that case it would be right to go through the thorns?"

"No, mamma; I see now. It is right to take the plainest, easiest way when we can."

"Yes, my dear. We must not be afraid of thorns if our path leads over them. But if we leave the true path and foolishly try to push ourselves through unnecessary obstacles, it is not bravery or fortitude, but vanity and silly rashness."



UNDER THE PEAR TREES.

Under the pear trees one August day, In the long-ago and the far-away, Four little children rested from play,

Cheering the hours with childish chat, Now laughing at this or shouting at that, Till a golden pear fell straight in Fred's hat.

"I'm lucky," he cried as he hastened to eat The mellow pear so juicy and sweet; "If I tried for a week, that couldn't be beat."

Then Tom and Jenny and Mary spread Their hats and aprons wide, and said, "We can catch pears as well as Fred."

Then long and patient they sat, and still, Hoping a breeze from over the hill Their laps with the golden fruit would fill.

Till, weary of waiting, Tom said with a sneer, "I could gather a bushel of pears, 'tis clear, While idly we wait for a windfall here."

Then up the tree he sprang, and the power Of his sturdy arm soon sent a shower Of yellow fruit as a golden dower.

It was long ago, that August day When four little children rested from play Under the pear trees far away.

And the children, older and wiser now, With furrows of care on either brow, Have not forgotten the lesson, I trow—

The lesson they learned on that August day, That for having our wishes the surest way Is to work, and in earnest, without delay.



THE CAVE OF BENTON'S RIDGE.

The cave was a large opening in a ledge of rocks, about half a mile from the village of M——, and had for years been a favorite resort for the boys on the holidays.

'Twas at the close of school, on a bright June day, when, with a rush and a shout, out came a bevy of boys from the school-house, and over the wall with a bound were half a dozen before the rest had emerged from the open door. The first ones took their way across the fields to the cave, and had thrown themselves down on the rock at the entrance, and were busily talking, when the last comers arrived.

"We've planned to have a time Saturday; if Miss Walters will take the botany class for a walk, we'll come here and have supper, and go home by moonlight," said Fred Manning. "How does that strike you?"

"Count me in," said Phil Earle. "I second the motion," said Arthur Ames. "Where shall we go to walk?" said another; "this is nearly far enough for some of the girls."

"Pooh! no! we can get some nice pitcher-plants, if we go to Eaton's meadows; we haven't been there for ever so long," said Phil.

All agreed it would be fun, and Phil was deputized to ask Miss Walters, and with her complete the arrangements.

"It's Thursday now; and I'll ask father if we can't have some of the hay they are making down in the lower field, to put inside the cave; for we must fix up a little," said Arthur. Willie Eaton said his mother would make them a jug of coffee; and as he lived near, he would run round that way at noon, and put it in the spring, so as to have it nice and cool. For one of the attractions of this place was a lovely spring, that bubbled and sparkled among the ferns, just under the rock where the cave was.

Fred and Phil began to lay the stones for the fireplace; for though it was not cold on these bright June nights, still a fire was one of the grand features of the occasion.

They all worked, some brushing out the cave with bushes, some getting old wood in piles to burn, rolling stones for seats, etc., until it was time for them to go home, when, with merry shouts, off they ran down the rock, and over the fields, home.

Next morning Phil called for Miss Walters, and on the way told her of the plans for Saturday, into which she entered heartily, and wanted the boys to stay a few moments after the morning session, to perfect the arrangements.

At recess she called the girls of the botany class to her, and said,—

"Girls, can you go on Saturday to walk? The boys have invited us to take supper at the cave."

"O, yes!" "O, yes!" "Yes, indeed!" "Splendid!" answered half a dozen voices.

"We will meet here at two o'clock; and you must dress for the meadows. I believe the boys are mostly web-footed, by the way they take to such places; however, we do find the best specimens there. Another thing—the boys are to furnish eggs and coffee, they say; and each of you can bring what is most convenient."

Off went the girls, eager to plan and discuss the welcome project.

Saturday came—a bright, cloudless day. All were at the school-house at two, or before, and set forth, looking like strollers, as they were.

They did not make many collections on the high land; but when they entered the meadows, they soon found a variety of pretty grasses.

"Fudge!" said Ella Barton; "I'm not going to get any of that old hay—would you, Miss Walters?"

"No, certainly not, if I did not want the trouble of carrying it; but I think them very lovely to put with branches of bayberry, as they form such a pretty contrast of color with the delicate pearl-gray berries and brown branches; and if you add a few bunches of bright red arum berries, you have a pretty, fadeless winter bouquet."

"Where can we get the bayberries?" said Fred, coming up.

"In most places near the salt water. In the town where my home is, there are acres and acres of it; and may be at Thanksgiving time I can send you some to distribute, or, better still, you might make up a party, and come down. I'll promise you a fine tramp, plenty of berries, and perhaps my mother will let you taste of her Thanksgiving pies."

Off went Fred's hat high in the air. "Hurrah for the pie! I'll certainly go, if you'd like to have me."

Miss Walters laughed, and said nothing would give her greater pleasure than to welcome the whole party.

"O, Miss Walters, what's this lovely flower?" "Come here, come here!" "O, how lovely! here's plenty more!" "And here, and here," were the exclamations of several of the advancing stragglers.

All who were with Miss Walters hastened forward; and there, in a wet, treacherous-looking place, grew patches of a most delicate lilac-colored or light purple flower.

"O, that's Arethusa," said the teacher; "it is very beautiful." Rubber boots only can get at them; and two or three boys soon returned with hands full, which they distributed. Miss Walters said they could not stop to analyze any that day, but some of each kind must be put in the botany box, for the class to work with at some future time. As they walked along, Miss Walters told them that the flower was named after Arethusa of Grecian story, who was changed by Diana into a fountain, to escape from the god of the river where she was one day surprised by him while bathing.

They had not gone far when Phil and two of the girls came running up with hands full of the Sarracenia, or pitcher-plant.

"What fine specimens!" said Miss Walters.

"O, I know where they grow!" said Phil. "I always go for them every year, just over that old fence, in a boggy place. I like them better than almost any of the plants, they are so curious. But where's a basket?"

"Here, Amy!" called Bessie White; "can't you let me put my small lunch in your big basket with yours, and let Phil have mine for a specimen basket?"

This arrangement being satisfactorily made, they moved along, one of the girls telling the new comers of the Arethusa and its name. And it was decided that all Miss Walters might tell them concerning the flowers should be written down, for the benefit of all, as they were often separated, searching for specimens.

In the next meadow they came upon beds of Menyanthes—an ugly name, and its common one of buck-bean is not much better. They could find but few perfect specimens of the pretty white velvety flowers, with their yellow and brown anthers, as it was rather late for them.

They found Pogonias and buds of Calopogon,—pretty pinkish flowers,—both of which Miss Walters told them were closely related, and, indeed, belonged to the same family as the Arethusa. This was the Orchid family, which contained a large number of beautiful but strange plants, about a dozen of which were common in New England.

On the edge of an overgrown ditch near by they found very nice specimens of Andromeda.

"See," said Miss Walters, "how white and lovely these bells are, in spite of the cold wet places where it is compelled to grow. It is named after Andromeda, famed in Grecian myths, a victim to her mother's pride of beauty. Her mother had dared to compare herself to the sea nymphs, for which they, enraged, sent a huge monster to ravage the coast. To appease the nymphs, her father thought he must sacrifice his daughter; so he chained her to the water's edge; but as the monster approached, Perseus, assisted by the gods, killed him, delivered Andromeda, and afterwards married her."

The party now turned from the meadows on to higher ground. Houstonias and violets, with here and there Potentilla, covered the ground, the last so called because it was supposed to be powerful in medicine, potens, from which it is derived, meaning powerful.

The Saxifrage on the rocks, derived from Latin words, indicating its manner of growth.

Anemones, or wind flowers, were not entirely gone; so named because it was formerly thought the flowers only opened when the wind blew.

Specimens multiplied. Each little group found something new.

Trilliums, remarkable for having leaves, sepals, petals, and seed-vessels in threes; Smilacina, with its clean, green leaves, and white flowers, grew plentifully about them; Streptopus, meaning twisted foot, called so because its foot, or pedicel, is twisted.

About five o'clock they began their homeward walk, which took them round through some grand old pine woods. At last they came to their resting-place. All were more or less tired; and glad were they when they saw the black mouth of the cave open invitingly before them. Some threw themselves on the rock outside, some went in and rested on the fragrant hay that Arthur had piled on the floor.

After resting a while in the cool shade, Phil said, "I have a bright thought that rhymes with 'light.'"

"Is it the opposite of 'loose'?"

"It is not 'tight.'"

"Is it what you are sometimes?"

"It is not 'bright.'"

"O, I meant a 'fright'!"

"Thank you; it is not 'fright.'"

"Is it what we are all wishing for?"

"It is a 'bite.'"

This was greeted with a shout, and committee number one, self-appointed, started for the baskets. Others arranged the table with boards and rocks put outside the cave door. The eatables were soon temptingly arranged. The jug of coffee and bottle of milk, with rubber mugs, were placed under Arthur's care; and he soon had as much as he could do to pour the refreshing draughts.

The girls had little to do, the boys doing the honors in fine style. Very merry they grew over the good things; and so intent were they trying to sell the last at auction, that they never noticed a large cloud that had overspread the sky, until a few drops of rain fell upon the table.

"Here's a pretty go!" said Fred. "Run, Miss Walters; and, girls, get into the cave, and we'll clear the tables."



Busy hands quickly disposed of all the articles to be kept dry, and the boys were glad to get into the friendly shelter. Down came the rain, heavily rolled the thunder, and for a little while the lightning was vivid. Soon the rain began to find its way into the cave.

"This will not do. Where's the table, Fred? We must have up a storm door," said Phil.

"All ready to slide right up," said Fred. "Arthur, will you get the chandelier ready? for it will be rather dark when the door is up."

Arthur crept on his hands and knees to a little crevice in the inner part of the cave, and drew out a tin box, with four holes in the cover. The girls gathered around, and were much amused to see him take out his four candles. These he stuck into the holes of the box; and lighting them, he placed them on a shelf prepared expressly for the occasion.

Never were boys and girls more happy. They were enjoying excitement without danger or discomfort. They sang, played games; and when the rain had nearly ceased, some of the boys ran out and lighted the fire. They had kept the wood dry. Then turning the table on its side, they put out the candles, and had the full benefit of the fire-light. For a while conundrums were the order of the day; then they drew lots to determine who should tell the first story. It fell to Millie Gray, who, with timid modesty, demurred; but the penalty threatened for default was so great, that though she had never told a story in her life, she thought she had better begin now. Attentively they listened, waiting for her to begin. Presently she commenced.

"There was, once upon a time, a beautiful little girl, with blue eyes and golden hair."

"O," interrupted Fred, "can't we have this one with black eyes and red hair, or brown eyes; I'm tired of blue eyes and yellow hair."

"No, no, no," said Arthur; "I like blue eyes. Go on, Millie." With a blush—for her own were blue, and she knew what Arthur meant—she continued.

"Well, I like to oblige all parties," replied Millie. "Suppose we say her eyes were black and blue; but if any one else interrupts, I'll have them committed for contempt of court, and they shall be bound over to keep the peace."

"Which piece?" Fred was beginning to say, when Arthur jumped up and placed his hand over Fred's mouth, saying, "Consider yourself bound over, sir."

"Well, this little girl lived in a deep forest, in a little bit of a house, with no one for company but her grandmother and a little yellow dog.

"The grandmother was just as cross as she could be, and poor little—let's see, what shall I call her?"

"Odahbeetoqua," suggested Fred. "I suppose she was descended from the Indians."

"Yes," said Millie, very seriously, "that was her name; but nobody called her by it all at one time; they said Daisy, for short.

"Well, one day little Daisy felt so sad and lonely, and her grandmother had been so cross, that she said to the little yellow dog,—

"'Tip, let's run away. I'm tired of staying here. Granny is so cross, I cannot stand it another minute.'

"'Yes, indeed. I'll go with you, Daisy,' said Tip, wagging his tail; 'for this morning, when I was licking up a bit of butter off the floor, she kicked me, and hit me over the head with a broom, and threw a stick of wood after me as I indignantly left the premises, and wounded my feelings very much.'

"'But then, Tip, suppose we should get lost in the woods, and die of starvation, and bears should eat us up.'

"'Trust to me, Daisy,' Tip replied. 'I will lead you safely out of the wood, and see that nothing hurts you.'

"Just then a woman came to the door, and said, 'I have heard your conversation. Come with me, and you shall both live in a nice house, where you can play all day, and have fine clothes, and plenty to eat.'

"'Ah, wouldn't that be pleasant!' said Daisy; and she was just preparing to go with the woman, when she stopped suddenly, and said, 'But who will get wood for granny's fire? and who will pick berries for her? She'd die if we should leave her alone. No, I can't leave her. She's very cross; but then, she is sick all the time, nearly, and I won't go.'

"'O, yes, do!' said the woman. 'I have a lovely white pony, as gentle as a kitten, that you shall have to ride, and beautiful dresses. You'd better come.'

"'Thank you,' said Daisy; 'I'd like to go with you. You may take Tip. Perhaps he'd like to go, but I won't leave grandmother; she'd die if I did.'

"No sooner had Daisy finished speaking, than the woman turned into a beautiful fairy, the shanty turned into a palace, granny turned into a queen, Daisy into a lovely princess, with black and blue—I mean heavenly—eyes, and Tip turned into a beautiful prince, all dressed in embroidered green velvet; and down on his knees he fell at the princess's feet, vowing love and fidelity untold.

"The fairy spread her wings over the young couple, saying, 'Behold the reward of unselfishness!' and vanished, leaving them in all their bliss."

Millie's story was greeted with shouts of applause and flattering comments.

The boys were about renewing the fire, when Miss Walters announced that it was seven o'clock.

"O, don't go yet!" shouted Phil from the wood-pile. "We've wood enough for an hour yet. Seven o'clock's awful early."

"Don't go, don't go!" came from a chorus of voices; and Miss Walters, who only cared for their comfort, said she would stay if that was the general wish, or would go with any of the girls that were in haste to get home. No one made any movement to go, and she was quietly led back to her throne on the hay, at the entrance of the cave.

A song was proposed, and Miss W. led them in the sweet words of "In the Beauty of the Lilies," the boys coming out strong with the chorus. Then two girls sang a duet very sweetly. Another hour glided swiftly away, when Miss Walters said, "Phil, your fire burns low; push the blazing ends for a final blaze, so we may get all our things; for we must go now."

Everything arranged, they bade good by to the hospitable cave, then marched down the hill, the boys whistling "When Johnny comes marching Home."

On they trudged, dropping various members of their little party as they turned off to go to their homes. All agreed they had had a delightful day.

F. E. S.



THE HAUNTS OF WILD BEASTS.

In crossing the forests which lie about that singular system of ponds and lakes that occupy the northern interior of the State of Maine, the tourist and hunter will often come upon well-beaten paths, running through the woods, trodden hard, as if by the passage of myriads of feet; and this in a region rarely, or never, entered by man. They are the paths of wild beasts—bears, lynxes, wildcats, the moose, and the carribou,—along which they pass from lake to lake, in pursuit of their food, or upon hostile forays. When two lakes adjoin each other, with no more than a mile or half a mile of forest between them, there will nearly always be found, across the narrowest part of the isthmus, a path of this sort, more or less worn, according as the locality abounds with game, or the lakes with fish.



One of the widest and most used of these that I have ever seen, led from the bank of Moose River up to the low shores of Holeb Pond, in one of the not yet numbered townships near the Canada line—so near that the high, dingy summit of the "Hog's Back" was plainly visible to the north-westward. Starting out from between two large boulders on the stream, which at this point is broken by rips, it runs crooking and turning amid clumps of hazel and alder, till lost to view in a wide flat, covered with "high bush" cranberries, but lost to sight only, however; for its tortuous course still continues beneath the thick shrubs, until at a distance of two hundred rods it emerges on the pond.

Happening to cross it a year ago last autumn, in company with Rod Nichols (my comrade on these tramps), the idea suggested itself that a good thing might perhaps be done by setting our traps along the path. For where there were so many passing feet, some of them might without doubt be entrapped.

Rod thought it was the "beat" of some bears, or "lucivees," while I inclined to the opinion that otters or "fishers" had made it.

So we brought up our traps,—half a dozen small ones, which we used for sable and otter—from the dug-out (canoe) down on the stream, and during the following afternoon set them at different points in the path, between the border of the cranberry flat and the river. Then drawing our canoe up out of the water, we encamped on the stream about a mile below the path, and waited for the game.

Our stock of deer meat had got out. We had to content ourselves, both for supper and breakfast, the following morning, with a couple of hares—lean as usual. Who ever saw a fat hare?

Old hunters are always telling the young sportsman about the marvellous properties of shaving-soap made from hare's tallow and cedar ashes. The flesh has about as much taste and nutrition in it as—so much paper pulp, for want of a better comparison to express its utter lack of flavor. But during the forenoon we managed to shoot four partridges. These we first parboiled in our camp kettle, then broiled on coals. They made us a comfortable dinner; and towards sunset we again paddled up the stream, to visit the traps.

Coming near where the path strikes out from the river, we drew up the dug-out, and followed in to the place where we had set the first trap. It was gone; but the grass about the spot was beaten down, and the bushes broken. And on looking around, we discovered a trail leading off through the weeds. Following this for ten or a dozen rods, we came to a large, rough stone; and near it lay the trap, shattered and bent, with the springs broken, and the jaws gaping and powerless. The stone, too, looked newly scratched, as if from heavy blows. The trap had evidently been beaten upon.

"Some large animal," said I.

"Bear, probably," said Rod. "They will frequently smash up a small trap to get it off their feet."

Whatever it was, the creature had freed himself and gone. Rod picked up the broken trap, and we went back, and on to the next.

This one was just as we had placed it—not sprung. So we kept on to the third, which was sprung, but empty, with little clots of hair clinging to the teeth. The hair looked like that of a sable; but he, too, had escaped.

The fourth was sprung and drawn out of the path. We crept cautiously up, and lo! we had a contemptible little musquash (muskrat)—skin not worth a shilling. He was busy as a bee gnawing at his leg. In a few minutes more he would have been at liberty—minus a foot. If left any length of time after being caught, they will frequently gnaw off the leg in the trap. For this reason, those who make a business of trapping them set their traps under water, well weighted. They will then drown in a few moments, and may thus be secured.

The last two traps were not sprung.

"A big thing this!" muttered Rod. "Had our labor for our pains. Too bad."

We were near the edge of the cranberry flat; and just as Rod was bemoaning our poor luck, a slight crackling out in the thick cranberry bushes came to our ears.

"Hark!" whispered Rod; "something out there. The bear, perhaps."

Standing on tiptoe, we peeped quietly over the tops of the bushes, now laden with the green cranberries. Off some seventeen or eighteen rods, something was slowly moving. We could see it plainly—something which, at first sight, looked like the roots of an old dry pine stump, a great mass of stubs and prongs.

"A moose!" exclaimed Rod, in an eager whisper. "A moose browsing the cranberries! Quick with your rifle! Together now!"

We both fired. The huge animal, fully nine feet in height beneath his antlers, bounded into the air at the reports, with a wild, hoarse cry, which I can compare to nothing I have ever heard for hideousness. In a frightful way it resembled the neigh of a horse, or, rather, the loud squeal of that animal when bitten or otherwise hurt—bounded up, then fell, floundering and wallowing amid the cranberries, uttering hideous moans.

As quickly as we could for the thick and tangled bushes, we made our way out towards the spot. The fearful struggles stilled as we drew near. Our aim, at so short a distance, had been thoroughly fatal. A great opening in the bushes had been smashed down, in the midst of which lay the moose, with its large nostrils dilated, gasping and quivering. But its great ox eyes were set, and rapidly glazing. The bushes were all besprinkled and drenched with blood. One bullet had struck and broken the skull into the brain; that was Rod's. Mine had gone into the breast, striking the lungs,—probably, from the profuse bleeding.

"A pretty good shot!" exclaimed Rod, looking upon the slaughter from a purely business stand-point. "Moosehide is always worth something. So are those antlers. A noble set—aren't they? All of four feet broad across the top. Pretty heavy to lug; we can put them in the canoe, though."

"Then there's the meat," said I.

"That's so," cried Rod, smacking his lips. "No more rabbit's broth for us at present. O, won't we have some grand moose steaks! Do you hear that, old boy? How does that strike your fancy? Come, let's skin him, and cut him up. I long to behold some of that surloin broiling! Rabbit meat, indeed!" and Rod whipped out his hunting-knife, and fell upon the carcass with the zeal of a hungry bald eagle.

In a few minutes we had stripped off the skin. Rod then wrenched off the antlers, cut out the muffle (the end of the nose), and also about a hundred weight of what he considered the choicest of the meat. The rest of it—nine or ten hundred pounds—we could only leave where it had fallen. It would be of no use to us, so far from the settled lands.



To carry our spoils down to our canoe, we had to make two trips; for the antlers alone were as much as one could take along at once. We had gone back after them and the hide.

"Too bad," remarked Rod, "to leave all this flesh here to rot above ground."

"I doubt if it be left to rot above ground," said I. "There are too many hungry mouths about for that."

"Right there," said Rod; "and that makes me think we might use it to lure them, and to bait our traps with. Drag it out to the path, and set the traps round it."

The idea seemed a good one. So we cut the remains of the carcass in two. Whole it was too heavy to be moved. Then, fastening some stout withes into them, we dragged the pieces, one after the other, out to the path, and left it at the place where the path entered the cranberry bushes. This done, we set the traps about it,—the remaining five,—and then went back to the canoe with the antlers and skin.

"Made a very fair thing of it, after all," remarked Rod, as we floated with the current down to our camp. "Tell you what, old fellow, these steaks are not to be sneezed at. More than ordinary pot luck just at this time."

It is needless to say that we fully satisfied our taste for venison that night, or that our breakfast next morning was merely a repetition of supper. Such things are to be expected in the wilderness. Suffice it to add, that we neither overate nor overslept, but were up betimes, and off to examine our traps considerably before sunrise. We did not go up in the canoe on the river, but walked along the bank through the woods.

"We may surprise a bear or a lynx at the carcass," said Rod.

So, as we drew near the place where we had left it in the path the evening before, we made our way amid the brush with as little noise as possible. A small hollow, overrun with hackmatack, led up towards the spot. We crept along the bed of it, in order to approach unobserved. Pausing a moment to listen, the clank of a chain came faintly to our ears, then a growling, worrying noise, heard when two creatures, jealous of each other's rights, eat from the same piece.

"Game!" whispered Rod.

Climbing quietly up the steep side, we peeped out from amid the green boughs. We had got up within nine or ten rods; but intervening bushes partially hid the carcass. Something was moving about it, however—something black. The trap chains were rattling. Then a big black head was raised, to growl; and as if in reply came a sharp snarl from some animal out of sight. The black creature darted forward; and a great uproar arose, growling, grappling, and spitting, at which there flew up a whole flock of crows, cawing and hawing; and the noise increasing, there sprang into the air, at a single flap, a great yellow bird, uttering a savage scream.

"An eagle!" whispered Rod; "and that black creature's a bear, I guess. Can't see him just plainly. Growls like one, though. Fighting with some other animal—isn't he? Some sort of a cat, by the spitting."

"Shall we fire on them?" said I.

"No; let 'em have it out," said Rod. "One of them will be pretty sure to get chewed up, and the other won't leave the carcass. Besides, the cat's in the trap, I reckon, by the rattling." For the jingling of the chain could still be heard over the howling they were making. But ere the fight had lasted many seconds, a suppressed screech, followed by a crunching sound, told ill for one or the other of the combatants. "The cat's got his death hug," muttered Rod.

Presently the bear—a great, clumsy-looking fellow—came out into view, strutted along, scrubbing his feet on the grass, like a dog, and went back to the carcass. The eagle and the crows had come back to it. They flew before him.

"Keep your eye on the eagle," whispered Rod. "I would like to get him. It isn't a 'white head.' Never saw one like it."

The great bird circled slowly several times, then stooped, almost touching the bear's shaggy back with its hooked talons. At that the bear raised his ugly muzzle, all reeking from his feast, and growled menacingly. This was repeated several times, the bear warning him off at each stoop, and sometimes striking with his big paw. Finding the bear not inclined to divide with him, the eagle, with one mighty flap of his wings, rose up to the top of a tall hemlock standing near, and perched upon it. We could see the branches bend and sway beneath his weight.

"I'll have him now," muttered Rod, poking the muzzle of his rifle out through the boughs. "You take the bear. Ready! now!"

We blazed away. With a wild shriek the eagle came tumbling down through the hemlock. Rod ran out towards him, and I made up to the bear. Old Bruin was merely wounded—an ugly flesh wound; and not knowing whence it came, he had flown at the dead lynx,—for such it turned out to be,—and was giving him another hugging. Seeing me, he started up, to rectify his mistake, probably; but I had put in another charge, and instantly gave him a quietus. Just then Rod came up, dragging the eagle.

"Never saw one like it," exclaimed he. "I mean to take it down to Greenville."

After skinning the bear and the lynx, we gathered up the traps, and went down to our camp. Together with the spoils of the moose, we had now a full canoe load, and stowing them in, went down the river that afternoon. Two days after, we arrived at Greenville, at the foot of Moosehead Lake. There we fell in with a party of tourists—from Boston, I believe. They pronounced Rod's "big bird" to be a golden eagle.

C. A. STEPHENS.



WORSHIP OF NATURE.

The green earth sends her incense up From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewy cup, She pours her sacred wine.

The mists above the morning rills Rise white as wings of prayer; The altar curtains of the hills Are sunset's purple air.



A HUNTING ADVENTURE.

Tired of the heat and confusion of the city, my friend Clarke and I left New York one fine morning for a hunting excursion on the prairies.

At Galena, on the Mississippi, we went aboard a steamer which conveyed us to St. Paul. Here we fitted out for the trip, and finally, at Sauk Rapids set our foot for the first time on the prairie.

From the Mississippi, at Sauk Rapids, we struck about north-west across the prairie for Fort Garry, a Hudson Bay Company's fort, at the junction of the Assiniboine and Red River, where we replenished some of our stores; and thence we travelled through the Sioux, or Da-ko-tah country, until we reached Turtle Mountain.

Our party consisted of Clarke and myself, two French Canadians, whom we had engaged at St. Paul, and a half-breed, whom we had met on the frontier before reaching Fort Garry.

One evening, before camping at the base of Turtle Mountain, Clarke and I gave chase to some buffalo, and I killed one, which I proceeded to cut up at once by removing the tongue and undercut of the fillet. The meat I tied to the thongs of my saddle, placed there especially for that purpose, and I rejoined the camp before nightfall. Clarke came back shortly afterwards, having killed his buffalo in three or four shots, and after a long chase. This had delayed him so much, that he lacked time to cut up his animal; so he marked the spot as well as he could by its bearings with Turtle Mountain, and he rode homewards to the camp, intending to go on the following morning, and get the meat for home consumption.

We cooked and ate our dinners, and rolling ourselves up in our buffalo robes, we slept most soundly. The following morning, Clarke went out and fetched his pony, which was picketed near the camp, saddled it, took his rifle and hunting-knife, and then off he started to look for the dead buffalo of the previous evening, cut it up, and bring home some of the meat.

I remained in camp; and as my wardrobe was rather dilapidated from constant hunting, and the limited number of clothes I had with me, I proceeded to mend my trousers, which were worn through just where it might naturally be expected they would first give way. This I could only do by shortening the legs of the garment. However, the end justified the means in this case.

These repairs, with other necessary work about our rifles and guns, occupied the morning very pleasantly; and about midday I went up the hill behind our camp, where a small bluff, or headland, projected from it over the vast grassy plain. I took my telescope with me, as every traveller in those wild regions should always do, when spying out either the fatness of the land or the possible surrounding dangers. Far and wide my eye fell over the gentle undulations of the prairie, but no deer or buffalo could I see.

No; instead of quietly feeding game, I discovered my friend Clarke, some three or four miles from camp, galloping at the top of his horse's speed towards us, and five Indians in hot pursuit of him.

Knowing his danger, I of course ran down the bluff as hard as I could to the camp, and holloaed to the men to make haste and come to the rescue. I then ran for my pony, which was picketed at a short distance from our tent; but he was difficult to catch, or had drawn his peg out of the ground. At any rate, I could not get hold of him; so I gave him up, and seizing my rifle, darted off as hard as I could to meet my friend.



The men also turned out with their guns; and soon afterwards Clarke rode up, both he and his pony looking much distressed. Clarke was as white as a sheet, and his pony was completely blown. The Indians sheered off on seeing us ready with our rifles. So no shot was fired; for they never came within range.

I then asked Clarke what had happened; and I give you his story of the affair.

On leaving camp in the morning, he had gone in search of the dead buffalo of the previous night. He soon found the carcass; and wishing to bring home the meat, he got off his pony, tied the animal to the horns of the buffalo,—as you are always taught to do in the Indian country,—and straightway began to cut off the pieces of meat which he wished to bring back to camp. Whilst so employed, he thought he saw another herd of buffalo not far away; so he finished cutting off the meat, and rode towards the new herd, on murderous thoughts intent.

He stalked the herd for some distance, until he thought himself tolerably near, when he looked round the corner of a hillock, and then to his horror found he had been carefully approaching five Indians, who were congregated round a dead buffalo, their horses close by, and the men occupied in cutting up the beast.

Before he could turn to flee out of sight the Indians discovered him. They were Sioux, and at war with the whites. Instantly they jumped on their horses and gave chase, fired, no doubt, with the noble zeal to hang a white scalp in a Sioux lodge. Off went Clarke as hard as his little pony could carry him, the Indians shouting behind, and brandishing their guns in the air as they became excited by the chase, whilst he was thinking of the probability that existed of his scalp returning to camp, or dangling at the saddle-bow of one of these bloodthirsty savages.

Clarke supposes that he was five or six miles from camp when the chase began; and he recollected well throwing the cover away from his rifle, in preparation for a fight should his pony fall, or the Indians catch him through the superior speed of their animals.

Imagine the horrible feelings of a young fellow galloping away from five wild redskins, who not only desire to kill him then and there, but have, further, the sportsman-like anxiety to strip his scalp, and hang the dearly-beloved trophy in some filthy lodge, where it will gradually dry up, and remain the most valued heirloom in the family of the "Big Snake," or the "Screeching Eagle," or some other no less happily-named Sioux.

Their horrible shrieks ring in his ears, whilst he anxiously measures with his eyes the distance betwixt himself and his bloodthirsty pursuers; he endeavors to estimate his chances of escape, and longs for the protection of the camp, as Wellington longed for night or Blucher, knowing that if he falls he will be shot, or tomahawked and scalped, in the course of a couple of minutes.

No wonder, then, that poor Clarke did look as if he had seen a ghost, or encountered something even much worse; nor do I believe that during his subsequent army service he was ever much nearer a horrible death than during the few minutes which that pursuit lasted.

To conclude the account of this adventure, we covered his return to camp with our rifles, as I mentioned in the earlier part of this story; and you may conceive that we kept a very strict watch in the camp during the night, fearing lest the Sioux should either stampede us with an increased number of their friends after nightfall, or try to carry off our horses, and leave us deserted in the midst of the prairie. However, the night passed off quietly; and often since then have Clarke and I talked over this memorable adventure.



One step and then another, And the longest walk is ended; One stitch and then another, And the largest rent is mended. One brick upon another, And the highest wall is made; One flake upon another, And the deepest snow is laid.



NEARLY LOST.

"I know what I shall do!" exclaimed Walter Harrison to about a dozen other boys, his schoolfellows, who were standing round him. "I shall just tell 'old Barnacles' that my father and mother wish me to have a holiday this afternoon, and he can't say 'no' to that. It's the simplest and best way. If you all agree to it, we shall get a holiday all around. Who'll go in for my plan?"

"I will! and I! and I!" responded nearly all the boys.

The facts of the case were simply these: There were taking place in a park close by a series of athletic sports, and this afternoon the admission was free to any one who chose to go. Of course all the boys in Mr. Jackson's school were mad to see the sports; but by the time the school was out the best fun would be over, and the majority of the boys guessed pretty shrewdly what would be the result of asking their parents to let them stay away. The grand idea was to induce the master to give a general holiday, but the question was how that desirable end was to be brought about. It had been suggested to stay away bodily, without so much as saying, "With your leave or by your leave;" but as such a course carried a certainty of punishment in its train, it was universally rejected. Another idea, which had received some favor, had been to trip up the poor half-blind schoolmaster, quite by accident, and by rendering him incapable obtain the desired holiday, but there had been a majority found to protest against such cruelty; and now Walter Harrison had suggested his plan. But although most of them were inclined to adopt it, there were two who resolutely refused to do so.