"Oh, fire-works!" says Bob.

"Oh, tell us truly about it!" says Tom. "Where did you buy it? Let's have some for the Fourth!"

"Children," said the Professor, "I have told you the truth about it. It's gas. It's carbureted hydrogen. I found it in the pond. 'Carbureted hydrogen' is its science name. Its poetry name is 'Will-o'-the-wisp,' and there's another name besides."

"I should think two names were enough for nothing," says Bob.

"What'th the other name?" said Pip.

"Ignis fatuus," said the Professor. "It means 'Cheating-fire.' Sometimes this gas, rising to the top of the water in bubbles, takes fire (by what they call spontaneous combustion, or by mixing with some other gas, or in some other way), and then, as one bubble after another takes fire and goes flickering along, it looks as if some one were walking through the woods with a lantern."

"And thath how it cheat-th, isn't it?" said Pip. "But I don't thee how it is thet afire. Perhapth, now—perhapth it's the fire-flyth!"

"Oh, good for you!" said the Professor; and he chased her round the table, and caught her, and kissed her.

"Well, how did you ever get it with that tumbler?" said Tom.

"Well, easy enough. First, I filled the tumbler with water. Then I laid the saucer over the top. Then I plunged the whole under the water, holding tumbler and saucer with both hands firm, and turned them over in the water, and drew them out. The saucer, as well as the tumbler, was then full of water, and though the tumbler was upside down the water couldn't fall out."

"What hindered it, I'd like to know?" said Bob.

"Atmospheric pressure," said the Professor, pushing the words out slowly. "The whole atmosphere weighs down on the water in the saucer and balances the water in the tumbler and keeps it in."

"It had all leaked out before you reached home, anyway," said Bob.

"The gas pushed it out," said the Professor, "I told you how I stirred up the bottom of the pool. It was all covered with dead leaves. These as they rot give out gas, but it cannot easily escape from the bottom, and stays down among the leaves and slime till it is stirred up. Then the little bubbles of gas come popping up, and as they mount I am ready with my tumbler and saucer. I slip them both softly into the water a little way off, draw out the saucer, slide the inverted tumbler over the bubbles before they break; and the gas mounts into the tumbler, each bubble of gas displacing a little water; then over more bubbles, and more and more, until all the water in the tumbler is out and the gas is in its place; then I fill the saucer with water again, slide it under the tumbler, and bring it home."

"Come to your luncheon, children," cried nurse. "The pudding will be cold."

"Oh, wait a minute," said Tom. "You said the gas drove out the water in the tumbler. Why don't it drive out the water in the saucer?"

The Professor looked puzzled.

"Well, it would in time, I suppose. But you see, its nature is to push upward, because it's light——"

"Oh, now, it pushes the same every way," said Tom.

"There's something we don't know," said Bob.

"Oh, yeth, I am afwaid we don't know it all," said Pip.

"Well," drawled the Professor, "I don't know, only I guess it's because the water is too dense—too close together, for one thing; and the same atmospheric pressure that kept the water in keeps the gas in, for another."

"There, I do believe that's it," said Pip. "Oh, how nice it did pop off! Like a vewy small fwier-cracker a great way off. Now let's have some pudding. Apple and sago! Just the nithest pudding in the world!"



One day an ant went to visit her neighbor; She found her quite busy with all sorts of labor; So she didn't go in, but stopped at the sill; Left her respects, and went back to her hill.



FOUR CHARADES.[A]

BY C. P. CRANCH.

I.

When swiftly in my first you glide along, Naught ruffles up the temper of your mind; All goes as smoothly as a summer song, All objects flit beside you like the wind.

But if you should be stopped in your career, And forced to linger when you fain would fly, You'll leave my first, and, very much I fear, Will fall into my second speedily.

Till in some snug and comfortable room Your friends receive you as a welcome guest, You'll own that Winter's robbed of half his gloom, When on my whole your feet in slippers rest.

II.

MY FIRST.

I sunder friends, yet give to laws A place to stand and plead their cause. Though justice and sobriety Still find their safest ground in me, I spread temptation in man's way, And rob and ruin every day.

MY SECOND.

Success and power are in my name, Men strive for me far more than fame. One thing I am unto the wise, But quite another in fools' eyes, Through me the world is rich and strong, Yet too much love of me is wrong.

MY WHOLE.

My first and second when they meet, As lawyers' fees, my whole complete. And yet my first too oft enjoyed, Is sure to make my second void. My whole is good and bad by turns, As every merchant daily learns.

III.

My first the stout Hibernian wields On banks and streets and stubborn fields, To earn the bread that labor yields.

My second is a name for one Whose youth and age together run, A leader all good people shun.

My whole in summer-time is sweet, When youths and maids together meet Beneath some shady grove's retreat.

(So simple is this short charade, That I am very much afraid You'll guess at once, without my aid.)

IV.

When I was a little boy, how welcome was my first; When tired of play I went to bed, my lessons all rehearsed. How soundly all the night I slept, without a care or sorrow, And waked when sunshine lit the room, and robins sang good-morrow.

When I was a little boy, what joy it was to see My second waiting at the door for Willy and for me; And how we trotted off to bring ripe apples from the farm, And piled our bags on Nellie's back, nor felt the least alarm.

But when I was a little boy, I had an ugly dream, A huge black bear was in my bed, I gave a dreadful scream, And roused the house; they brought in lights, and put my whole to flight, Since then I made a vow to eat no supper late at night.

[A] The answers will be given in the "Letter-Box" for May, 1878.



WISE CATHERINE AND THE KABOUTERMANNEKEN.

BY HOWARD PYLE.

In old times, there was once a quaint little dwarf, who was known as the Kaboutermanneken of Kaboutermannekensburg.

In the very ancient times of good King Broderic and Frederic Barbarossa, he constantly lived above ground, and many times was seen trudging along through the moonlit forest with a bag over his shoulder. What was in the bag nobody exactly knew, but most people supposed it to be gold.

The Kaboutermanneken was a peppery little fellow, and at the slightest word his rage would fire up hotly. Since he was quite able, small as he was, to thrash the strongest man, he was very generally avoided.

It is a well-assured fact that, as churches increase, dwarfs and elfin-folk diminish; so, at last, when the town of Kaboutermannekensburg was founded, and a church built, the Kaboutermanneken was fairly driven to the wall, or, rather, into the ground, where he lived in the bowels of the earth, and only appeared at intervals of a hundred years. But, upon the last day that terminated each of these series of a hundred years, he would re-appear in his old haunts, and, I believe, continues the practice to the present day, in spite of railroads, steam-engines, and all the paraphernalia of progress, so destructive to fairy lore.

I.—THE GOLDEN CUP.

Once upon a time, after the Kaboutermanneken's visits had become events of such rarity, there lived a worthy wood-chopper, who had a daughter named Catherine; a pretty little maiden of sixteen, and yet the wisest woman in the kingdom of Kaboutermannekensburg. Shrewd as she was, she had yet the best, the kindest, and the most guileless heart in the world; and many a sick man, troubled woman, and grieved child had cause to bless her and her wisdom. One winter, when labor was cheap and bread expensive, the wood-chopper, whose name was Peter Kurtz, chopped his hand instead of the stump he was aiming a blow at, and, in consequence, rendered himself unfit for work for many a day. During his sickness, the whole care of the family devolved upon Kate; for Peter's wife had died nearly two years before; so it was Kate who tended the baby, dressed Johann, mended Wilhelm's small-clothes, and attended to the wants of her father; for in those days a sick man was more complaining than a child two years old. Beside these acts of labor, she had to cook the meals, wash the dishes, sweep the house, run of errands, chop the wood, make the fire, and many other little odd duties of the kind; so that, upon the whole, her time was pretty well occupied.

There seemed a probability now, however, that one of these duties would be dispensed with, namely, cooking the meals; not that there was any indolence upon Catherine's part, but because the necessary materials were not forthcoming. Indeed, the extent of the larder at present consisted of half a bowl of cold gravy, and about a quarter of a loaf of bread.

When Catherine, that cold morning, inspected the woeful emptiness of the cupboard, she wrung her cold blue hands in despair; but, wring her poor little hands ever so much, she could not squeeze good bread and meat out of them; something must be done, and that immediately, if she would save the children from starving. At length she bethought herself that many rich people of Kaboutermannekensburg were fond of burning pine-cones instead of rough logs, not only on account of the bright, warm and crackling fire they produced, but also because of the sweet resinous odor that they threw out, filling the house with a perfume like that which arose from the censers in the cathedral.

It was woeful weather for Catherine to go hunting for pine-cones. The snow lay a good foot deep over the glossy brown treasures, and she herself was but thinly clad; yet the children must have bread. Not having eaten any breakfast that morning, she slipped the remnant of the loaf into the basket to serve as lunch, and then started to face the wind toward the forest.

Bitterly cold blew the wind from the bleak north; tearing through the moaning pine forest, that tossed and swayed before the tempest, gnawing Catherine's nose and fingers, and snatching up, as it were, handfuls of snow, and hurling them in a rage through the air. Poor Catherine was nearly frozen, yet she struggled bravely on through the drifting snow. Suddenly she caught sight of a quaint little cottage that she had never seen before, much as she had traveled this portion of the forest; but a more welcome sight still was the gleam of a cheery fire within, that illuminated the frost-covered panes with a ruddy glow.

Catherine, stumbling, sliding, struggling through the drifts, reached the cottage at last, raised the latch, and entered a door-way so low that even she, small as she was, had to stoop her head in passing.

"Shut the door!" shrieked a shrill voice, with startling abruptness; and, for the first time, Kate perceived a very little old man seated in a very large chair, and smoking a very long pipe. A great beard reached below his dangling feet and touched the floor.



"May I warm myself at your fire, kind gentleman?" said Kate, dropping a courtesy. The little old man grunted without looking at her.

"May I warm myself at your fire, sir?" repeated Kate, in a louder voice, supposing he must be deaf.

"I heard you!" growled the old dwarf, with sudden rage. "You don't suppose I'm deaf, do you? I said yes. You don't want to argue, do you?"

Kate murmured her thanks, feeling much astonished and very uncomfortable at the old gentleman's conduct. Thus they sat in silence for a long while, the little old man smoking like a volcano. At length:

"Are you hungry?" said he, abruptly.

"Yes, sir," said Kate, bethinking herself of her bread.

"So am I!" said the old man, shortly, at the same time resuming his smoking. Removing his pipe after another pause, "I haven't had anything to eat for one hundred years; I feel kind of empty," said he.

"I should think so," thought Kate to herself; then, after regarding him in silence for a few minutes, she said, timidly, "I—I have a—a piece of bread in my basket, sir, if you would like to have it?"

"Like to have it? You speak as though you had no sense. Of course, I should like to have it! Why didn't you offer it to me sooner?"

Kate, in spite of her hunger, that had recommenced gnawing her, now that she was warm, handed him the piece of bread. The old man seized it ravenously, opened his mouth to an astonishing extent, bolted the large morsel as one does a pill, and then resumed his smoking as though nothing of any note had occurred. Kate regarded him with silent astonishment.

"What are you doing out in this kind of weather?" said the old man, suddenly.

"I came to gather pine-cones to sell in the town," said Kate.

"You're a fool!" snapped the old man. "How do you suppose you can gather pine-cones in twelve inches of snow, not to mention the drifts?"

"Nevertheless, sir, I have to get the children something to eat, and father——"

"Oh! don't bother me with that story!" said the old man, impatiently. "I know all about it. Your father's Peter Kurtz, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir."

"Umph!" grunted the dwarf. Then, after another pause, "go to the closet yonder, and take one of the cups there, in return for the bread you gave me."

"Indeed, sir," said Kate, earnestly, "I do not care for any return for——"

"Do as I tell you!" bellowed the dwarf, in a fury.

Kate crossed the room, opened the cupboard, and—what a sight met her eyes! All the dishes, bowls, cups and saucers were of pure gold.

"Take one of the cups?" said Kate, in breathless doubt.

"That's what I said, wasn't it?" snarled the dwarf. "You are just like all women, never contented with what you receive."

Catherine was far too wise to answer foolish abuse with useless excuse; she silently took one of the beautiful cups and put it in her basket. She was so overcome that she did not think of any word of thanks until she had reached the door; then, turning: "May heaven bless you, sir, for——"

"Shut the door!" screamed the dwarf.

Kate hurried home, but before reaching the town she wisely covered the cup with snow, that no gossiping neighbor might catch sight of it; for she well knew that gossip was like the snow-ball that the little boys start rolling from the top of a hill—small in the commencement, but sure to grow before it ends its course.

"Where have you been all this time?" whined Peter.

When Kate recounted her adventure, her father could hardly believe her, and when she had carefully removed the snow from the cup, he could hardly believe his eyes. He placed it upon the table, and then, sitting down in front of it, he examined it with breathless astonishment and delight.

The cup was of solid gold, heavy and massive; carved upon it in bold relief was a group of figures representing a host of little elves at a banquet. So exquisitely were they engraved that they appeared actually to move, and it seemed as though one could almost hear their laughter and talk. A glittering, carved golden snake, curled around the brim of the cup, served as a handle; its eyes were two diamonds. After Peter Kurtz had feasted his eyes upon this treasure for a long time, he arose suddenly, and, without saying a word, wrapped up the cup in a napkin, drew his cowl more closely around his face, and, taking his staff, prepared to leave the house.

"Where are you going, father?" said Kate.

"I am going," said Peter, "to take this cup to our master, the Baron von Dunderhead; that will be far more to our advantage than selling it to some petty goldsmith or other."

"Take care what you do, father!" said Kate, quickly. "I foresee that danger will come of it, if you fulfill your intention."

"Bah!" said Peter, and, without deigning another word, he marched out of the house; for Peter, like a great many men in those days, had a very poor opinion of the feminine intellect, and a very good opinion of his own. So off he marched boldly toward castle Dunderhead.

When Peter presented the golden cup to the baron, with a low bow, that nobleman could not find sufficient words to express his admiration. He sighed with rapture, and examined the cup from every side with the utmost minuteness.

"Give this worthy man," said he, "four bags of guilders; money is nothing to the acquisition of such a treasure of beauty."

Here Peter secretly hugged himself, and chuckled at his daughter's warning. Meanwhile, the baron examined the cup with huge satisfaction. Suddenly turning to Peter, "Where is the saucer?" said he.

"The saucer?" repeated Peter, blankly. "Please you, my lord, it never had a saucer!"

"Never had a saucer?" repeated the baron. "You don't mean to tell me that such a cup as that was ever made without a saucer to go with it!"



"Nevertheless, my lord, I have no saucer," said Peter, humbly.

"You are deceiving me," said the baron, sternly. Then, fixing his eye upon poor Peter, "Where did you get that cup?" said he, abruptly. "Me-thinks you are rather a poor man to possess such a treasure."

"Oh, good my lord!" cried poor Peter, "I will tell you the whole truth. An old man in the forest gave it to my daughter Kate."

"Do you expect me to believe such a story as that?" exclaimed the baron. "You stole it, you thief!" he roared, at the same time seizing Peter by the collar. "Ho! guards! Arrest this man, and throw him into the dungeon," cried he to his attendants.

"Mercy! mercy, my lord!" cried poor Peter, falling on his knees. But the guards dragged him off in spite of his cries, and popped him into a dungeon, where he was left to meditate over his folly in not heeding his daughter's advice.

II.—THE GOOSE THAT WAS TO LAY THE GOLDEN EGG.

Catherine waited anxiously for her father's return, but her fears told her all when night came and he came not.

After she had put the children to bed, having given them each a piece of bread, which she had borrowed from a kind neighbor, she threw a shawl around her head and started off in the direction of Castle Dunderhead, where her fears told her only too plainly her father was. The bars of the dungeon windows came upon a level with the ground, like those of a cellar.

"Father!" murmured Catherine.

"Oh, Kate!" was the response, followed immediately by the sound of violent crying, and Catherine knew her father was there. "Oh, Kate! if I—I had but l-listened to you!" sobbed the poor fellow; for, now that the discovery was too late to avail him, he felt perfectly sure of his daughter's superior intelligence. Then, with much sobbing, he recounted all the particulars of his interview with the baron. "Can't you do something to get your poor old father out?" continued he.

Kate was thoughtful for a moment. "I'll try, father," said she, at length; and, bidding him a hasty adieu, she hurried off. She ran, without stopping, to where the little cottage stood in the forest; but, as you have already probably guessed, the old man was the Kaboutermanneken, his day's visit was over, and he had descended once more into the obscurity of the earth; consequently Catherine, much to her perplexity, could not discover the little cottage. After vainly seeking for some time, she at length saw the hopelessness of her task, and wended her way sorrowfully homeward. She lay awake nearly all night, vainly cudgeling her brains for some plan by which to deliver her father from his confinement. At length an idea occurred to her, and, smiling to herself, she turned on her pillow and fell asleep until the sun shining in her eyes awakened her. Then, arising, she donned her best frock and neatest cap, and proceeded to the Castle Dunderhead. She was directly presented to the baron.

"My lord!" said she, falling upon her knees.

"Well, my pretty damsel," said he; for Kate looked very sweet in her saucy cap.

"My lord," continued she, and the tears rose to her eyes as she spoke; "you have my father in custody."

"Ha!" exclaimed the baron, frowning,—"Peter Kurtz?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Bring forth Peter Kurtz!" cried the baron to the guard, and soon Peter made his appearance, crying like a good fellow. "Now that I have you confronted with each other," continued the baron, "where did your father get that cup?"

"He did not get it, my lord; an old man in the forest gave it to me," answered Catherine.

"Humph!" grunted the baron. "Your father has taught you prettily."

"My lord," resumed Catherine, "I came to buy my father's liberty."

"Ha!" cried the baron, eagerly, "have you brought the saucer?"

"No, my lord." The baron's countenance fell. "But, if you release my father, we have a goose at home that I will give you, and every egg it will lay for you shall be of pure gold." The baron's countenance lifted again. "This, my lord, I offer you."

Peter's eyes had been opening in wide astonishment as Kate proceeded.

"Why, Kate," exclaimed he, "I don't know about——"

"Be quiet, father!" said Catherine.

The baron thought Peter's exclamation arose from his regret at parting with such a treasure; so his eagerness arose in proportion.

"Can you swear to the truth of this?" asked the baron.

"I can!" said Kate, firmly.

Peter could contain himself no longer.

"Why, Kate! how can you——"

"Be quiet, father!" interrupted Catherine, again.

"He shall have his freedom," cried the baron, eagerly, "and the cup to boot."

"We do not want the cup, my lord," answered wise Catherine.

"Yes, but we do!" cried Peter; for, as the prospect of his pardon increased, respect for his daughter's wisdom diminished in direct ratio.

"You shall have it!" cried the baron; "release him, guards!"

"One thing more," said Catherine; "a proclamation must be issued stating that you will never arrest my father again in connection with this affair."

"It shall be done!" said the baron; upon which he dismissed them both with the golden cup, which Peter had accepted in spite of his daughter's protestations.

That same afternoon the proclamation was issued, and Catherine carried a large gray goose to Castle Dunderhead.

"Father," said she, when she returned, "since you have accepted the golden cup, you must leave this place, for the baron will always look enviously upon you. Had you left it with him he would have paid no more attention to you, but now it is different."

"Why so?" said Peter; "hasn't the baron given his promise that he will never arrest me or mine again? And about that goose——"



"Never mind the goose, father," interrupted Kate. "I say again that every egg the goose lays shall be of pure gold."

"Well, I'm sure I don't understand it," said Peter, testily; "and, moreover, I am not going to leave Kaboutermannekensburg. The idea of your trying to teach me wisdom!"

"No, I could never do that," murmured Kate, with a sigh.

"No, I should think not, indeed!" said Peter, pompously.

The baron could not make enough of his goose. He had a splendid pen made for it, of ebony inlaid with silver, the nest was of purest eider-down, and a special page was appointed to escort it every morning to the water and back. It was fed upon sweet herbs and sponge-cake; it grew enormously fat; and, as time went on, its voice, its appetite, and its healthy condition increased to an astonishing extent. Only one thing troubled the baron, and that was it did not lay. Every day he himself went to the nest expecting to find the much-looked-for golden egg, and every day he did not find it. So matters continued for a long time.

One morning, as Kate and her father were at breakfast, a squad of soldiers, headed by the high-sheriff, marched into the house.

"Peter Kurtz and Catherine Kurtz, you are to consider yourselves under arrest," said the sheriff.

"But the baron has issued a proclamation that he will never arrest me again," said poor Peter.

"You are arrested," continued the sheriff, without paying the slightest attention to Peter, "in the king's name, upon suit of the Baron von Dunderhead, for obtaining goods under false pretense."

Catherine said never a word—not even "I told you so"—but submitted, whilst poor Peter cried like a very child.

They were thrown into separate dungeons, in default of bail. Not many days elapsed, however, before they were brought forth to be tried by the grand tribunal.

The king sat upon a chair of state, with a learned judge at each side, to decide the extraordinary cases that were brought before him.

Peter and Catherine were led up to the bar, the latter calm and collected, the former weeping bitterly, and continually crying, "if I had but minded her! if I had but minded her!"

This doleful cry, which was continued in spite of the violent vociferations of "order in the court!" at length aroused the king's curiosity, and he inquired what he meant. Amid many sobs, Peter contrived to tell the king the whole story. "Had I minded," said he, in conclusion, "when she advised me not to take the cup to the baron; had I minded when she advised me not to receive it back again; or, had I minded when she advised me to leave Kaboutermannekensburg, I had never gotten myself into this trouble—miserable wretch that I am!" Here he commenced sobbing afresh with great vehemence.

The king put on his spectacles and looked at Catherine. "Faith!" said he, "thou art much wiser than most girls of thy age, and—ahem! very pretty, too, I vow!" Then, turning to the baron, "Prefer your charge, baron," said he. Hereupon the baron told how Catherine had given him the goose for her father's freedom and the golden cup, and how she had sworn that every egg it should lay would be of pure gold.

"Well," said the king, "did she forswear herself?"

"N-no, not exactly," hesitated the baron.

"I said that every egg it laid for you should be of pure gold, did I not?" said Kate to the baron.

"Yes, you did," snarled the baron, whose anger was commencing to boil.

"And I say again," said Kate, calmly, "that every egg it lays for you shall be of pure gold."

"Well, then, what is the matter?" said the king, scratching his nose in great perplexity.



"Why, your majesty," bellowed the baron, losing all control of himself, "it is a gander!"

The king burst into a roar of laughter.

"Faith!" said he, turning to Kate, "thou art the shrewdest maiden in the world." Then, to the baron: "The maid was right, and every egg the goose lays shall be of pure gold." And so Baron Von Dunderhead and his case were dismissed.

Catherine had made a great impression upon the king, both on account of her shrewdness and beauty; so, being a jolly monarch, he conceived the notion of marrying her to the heir apparent. The heir apparent had no objection, and so the ceremony was consummated with great state.

Even to this day the good folk of the kingdom of Kaboutermannekensburg look back with longing to the time when Catherine the Wise was queen, and ruled not only her husband, but his kingdom also.

As for Peter, he was appointed lord chief justice, for one did not have to be very wise to be a judge in those days.



Open the snowy little bed, And put the baby in it; Lay down her pretty curly head, She'll go to sleep in a minute.

Tuck the sheet down round her neck, And cover the dimples over, Till she looks like a rose-bud peeping out From a bed of sweet white clover.



HOW THE STONE-AGE CHILDREN PLAYED.

BY CHARLES C. ABBOTT.

Not long since I wandered along a pretty brook that rippled through a narrow valley. I was on the lookout for whatever birds might be wandering that way, but saw nothing of special interest. So, to while away the time, I commenced geologizing; and, as I plodded along my lonely way, I saw everywhere traces of an older time, when the sparkling rivulet that now only harbors pretty salamanders was a deep creek, tenanted by many of our larger fishes.

How fast the earth from the valley's slopes may have been loosened by frost and washed by freshet, and carried down to fill up the old bed of the stream, we will not stop to inquire; for other traces of this older time were also met with here. As I turned over the loose earth by the brook-side, and gathered here and there a pretty pebble, I chanced upon a little arrow-point.



Whoever has made a collection, be it of postage stamps or birds' eggs, knows full well how securing one coveted specimen but increases eagerness for others; and so was it with me, that pleasant afternoon. Just one pretty arrow-point cured me of my laziness, banished every trace of fatigue, and filled me with the interest of eager search; and I dug and sifted and washed the sandy soil for yards along the brook-side, until I had gathered at least a score of curious relics of the long-departed red men, or rather of the games and sports and pastimes of the red men's hardy and active children.



For centuries before Columbus discovered San Salvador, the red men (or Indians, as they are usually called) roamed over all the great continent of North America, and, having no knowledge of iron as a metal, they were forced to make of stone or bone all their weapons, hunting and household implements. From this fact they are called, when referring to those early times, a stone-age people, and so, of course, the boys and girls of that time were stone-age children.

But it is not to be supposed that because the children of savages they were altogether unlike the youngsters of to-day. In one respect, at least, they were quite the same—they were very fond of play.

Their play, however, was not like the games of to-day, as you may see by the pictures of their toys. We might, perhaps, call the principal game of the boys "Playing Man," for the little stone implements, here pictured, are only miniatures of the great stone axes and long spear-points of their fathers.

In one particular these old-time children were really in advance of the youngsters of to-day; they not only did, in play, what their parents did in earnest, but they realized, in part, the results of their playful labor. A good old Moravian missionary, who labored hard to convert these Indians to Christianity, says: "Little boys are frequently seen wading in shallow brooks, shooting small fishes with their bows and arrows." Going a-fishing, then, as now, was good fun; but to shoot fishes with a bow and arrow is not an easy thing to do, and this is one way these stone-age children played, and played to better advantage than most of my young readers can.

Among the stone-age children's toys that I gathered that afternoon, were those of which we have pictures. The first is a very pretty stone hatchet, very carefully shaped, and still quite sharp. It has been worked out from a porphyry pebble, and in every way, except size, is the same as hundreds that still are to be found lying about the fields.

No red man would ever deign to use such an insignificant-looking ax, and so we must suppose it to have been a toy hatchet for some little fellow that chopped away at saplings, or, perhaps, knocked over some poor squirrel or rabbit; for our good old Moravian friend, the missionary, also tells us that "the boys learn to climb trees when very young, both to catch birds and to exercise their sight, which, by this method, is rendered so quick that in hunting they see objects at an amazing distance." Their play, then, became an excellent schooling for them; and if they did nothing but play it was not a loss of time.

The five little arrow-points figured in the second picture are among those I found in the valley. The ax was not far away, and both it and they may have belonged to the same bold and active young hunter. All of these arrow-points are very neatly made.

The same missionary tells us that these young red men of the forest "exercise themselves very early with bows and arrows, and in shooting at a mark. As they grow up, they acquire a remarkable dexterity in shooting birds, squirrels, and small game."

Every boy remembers his first pen-knife, and, whether it had one or three blades, was proud enough of it; but how different the fortune of the stone-age children, in this matter of a pocket-knife.



In the third picture is shown a piece of flint that was doubtless chipped into this shape that it might be used as a knife.

I have found scores of such knives in the fields that extend along the little valley, and a few came to light in my search that afternoon in the brook-side sands and gravel. So, if this chipped flint is a knife, then, as in modern times, the children were whittlers.



Of course, our boys nowadays would be puzzled to cut a willow whistle or mend the baby's go-cart with such a knife as this; but still, it will not do to despise stone cutlery. Remember the big canoe at the Centennial, that took up so much room in the Government building. That boat, sixty feet long, was made in quite recent times, and only stone knives and hatchets were used in the process.

I found, too, in that afternoon walk, some curiously shaped splinters of jasper, which at first did not seem very well adapted to any purpose; and yet, although mere fragments, they had every appearance of having been purposely shaped, and not of accidental resemblances to a hook or sickle blade. When I got home, I read that perfect specimens, mine being certainly pieces of the same form, had been found away off in Norway; and Professor Nilsson, who has carefully studied the whole subject, says they are fish-hooks.

Instead of my broken ones, we have in the fourth illustration some uninjured specimens of these fish-hooks from Norway. Two are made of flint, the largest one being bone; and hooks of exactly the same patterns really have been found within half a mile of the little valley I worked in that afternoon.

The fish-hooks shown in our picture have been thought to be best adapted for, and really used in, capturing cod-fish in salt water, and perch and pike in inland lakes. The broken hooks I found were fully as large; and so the little brook that now ripples down the valley, when a large stream, must have had a good many big fishes in it, or the stone-age fishermen would not have brought their fishing-hooks, and have lost them, along this remnant of a larger stream.

But it must not be supposed that only children in this by-gone era, did the fishing for their tribe. Just as the men captured the larger game, so they took the bigger fishes; but it is scarcely probable that the boys who waded the little brooks with bows and arrows would remain content with that, and, long before they were men, doubtless they were adepts in catching the more valuable fishes that abounded, in Indian times, in all our rivers.

So, fishing, I think, was another way in which the stone-age children played.



THE MAN WHO DIDN'T KNOW WHEN TO STOP.

BY M. M. D.



A very fair singer was Mynheer Schwop, Except that he never knew when to stop; He would sing, and sing, and sing away, And sing half the night and all of the day— This "pretty bit" and that "sweet air," This "little thing from Tootovere." Ah! it was fearful the number he knew, And fearful his way of singing them through. At first, the people would kindly say: "Ah, sing it again, Mynheer, we pray"— [This "pretty bit," or that "sweet air," This "little thing from Tootovere"]. They listened a while, but wearied soon, And, like the professor, they changed their tune. Vainly they coughed and a-hemmed and stirred; Only the harder he trilled and slurred, Until, in despair, and rather than grieve The willing professor, they took their leave, And left him singing this "sweet air," And that "pretty bit from Tootovere;" And then the hostess, in sorry plight, While yet he sang with all his might, Let down the blinds, put out the light, With "Thanks, Mynheer! Good-night! good-night!"

My moral, dear singers, lies plainly a-top: Be always obliging, and willing—to stop. The same will apply, my dear children, to you; Whenever you've any performing to do, Your friends to divert (which is quite proper, too), Do the best that you can—and stop when you're through.



PUCK PARKER. BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.

"Boom-er-oom, a boom-er-oom, a boom, boom, boom! Zim-er-oom, a zim-er-oom, a zim, zim, zim!"

It was a familiar sound, that of the great bass-drum. Puck Parker and Snarlyou and Kiyi had all heard it, time and time again. These little friends lived in Paris during the late war between Germany and France, when the German army was besieging the city, and soldiers were always marching about to the sound of the drum. This morning all three of them were at the kitchen door that opened into the corridor, which led into the court where you had a view of the street. Snarlyou was a little white Angora cat, and she puffed out her tail and waved it angrily over her back as she snarled fiercely at Kiyi, who was a little Prussian pup. Unlike the army he represented, he was getting the worst of the fray, and stood yelping in a cowardly way behind the scraper. Puck was doing all he could to encourage the dog by waving his porridge spoon at him, but it was of no use.



Puck Parker was a fat-faced little boy, who was leaning over the little gate in the kitchen door. He had been very naughty this morning, having run away with Kiyi, giving his nurse, Augustine, a regular hunt for him. She found him at last, wandering quite independently in beautiful Park Monceaux, a favorite resort for nurses and babies, where she had often gone with him before; and she could have forgiven him easily enough for running away, had he not sprawled himself upon the walk and kicked and screamed so that she could scarcely get him home.

This Augustine was a peasant woman, and when a little girl she had tended the sheep in the mountains of Auvergne, wearing the picturesque peasant-costume and carrying her distaff with her. She now had two children of her own, and every morning early before they were up she would kiss them good-bye, leaving them in her sister's charge while she went to take care of the little American boy, of whom she became very fond. She would often tell stories to him and sing funny songs.

As we have said, Puck was leaning against the little gate which had been placed across the door to keep him from running away, though it was of no use now, for he was big enough to climb over it. Augustine, to punish him for his naughtiness, as well as to guard against such a thing happening again that morning, had undressed him, knowing that he would not be likely to run away with nothing on but his little shirt.

At first, Puck was at a loss for amusement, and so wandered disconsolately upstairs into his mamma's room. She was seated at his papa's writing-desk, while in front of her lay lots of little cards, like this, "Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Parker, P.P.C."

Some of these she put into small envelopes, directed to people that she knew, and the rest she shut up in her card-case.

"What are those?" asked Puck.

"These are cards," said his mother, "which your papa and I are sending to our friends, to let them know that we are going away from the city. The letters 'P.P.C.' in the corner stand for 'Pour prendre conge,' which is French for 'To take leave.'"

"Is oo doin away," asked Puck, "an' me too?"

"Yes, you are going with us," replied his mother.

"Den me wants some tards, too," said the little fellow; and Mrs. Parker, taking a number of blank cards, wrote upon them, "Puck Parker, P.P.C."



Cramming his mother's work-basket upon his comical little head, he seized his cards and trudged away to distribute them among his friends. If he could only have gone out-of-doors, he could have found friends enough to have given them to; but he knew that Augustine would not relent so soon, and so contented himself with carrying them down to Snarlyou and Kiyi. But they were both out in the court, and would not come to him, even when he dropped porridge on the steps to tempt them.

Puck did not have many opportunities to distribute his cards, for the next day, while he was at dinner with his father and mother, they all heard a sound which went

"Boom-er-oom, a boom-er-oom! A boom! boom! boom!"

It sounded as if some one was playing an immense bass-drum, a long way off, and playing very slowly.

"Listen!" Puck's father explained. "It is time we were off; there are the cannon again, outside of the city."

And so that very afternoon they left Paris. Can you guess how? Not by the railway, or by boat, or by omnibus, or by any ordinary means of travel. Guess again—something queer this time. Not perched on the back of a dromedary, or sent by express labeled "This side up with care, C. O. D.," or telegraphed, or shot through the air in a bomb-shell, though the last is something like it. Yes, you are right now; they did go by balloon.

There were Puck and his father and his mamma, and an accomplished aeronaut to guide the balloon, which was one of the best kind, and, as the professor said, perfectly easy to manage. You know, perhaps, that during the siege of Paris it was almost impossible for any one to leave the city unless he went up in a balloon, and floated off above the besieging army. A great many persons escaped from Paris in this way.

Poor Augustine was very sorry to lose little Puck, who gave her one of his cards when he bade her good-bye; and Kiyi set up a doleful howl when they all left the court, as though he knew he should never see them again.

When everything was ready, the balloon rose into the air, and Puck nestled down in his mother's arms and watched the ground and the roofs of the houses sink away beneath him. That is, he looked over the side of the car once, and saw them falling; but it made him dizzy, and he did not try it again. His mother saw the sick look about her little boy's mouth, and said, pleasantly:

"Isn't it nice? It's better than having wings. And then you can make believe you are in a big ship; see all those ropes stretching away up there; they look just like rigging."

Puck gave a quick, frightened glance up, then shuddered and said, faintly:

"Yes, it's awful nice; but me's 'fraid, and so cold."

The cold was, indeed, intense; and his mamma wrapped Puck as warmly as she could in a shawl, and held him tightly, and very soon he was fast asleep. When he awoke, he found that his mother was also asleep, and his father was holding him. He had forgotten all about the balloon while he was asleep, and so looked dazed and startled when he opened his eyes; and his father, to keep up his failing courage, sang cheerily:

"Up in a balloon, boys, Up in a balloon, All among the little stars That twinkle round the moon."

"Don't see any stars crinkle," said Puck; "nuffin but ugly gray fog."

His mother awoke just then, and she caught her breath with a gasp as she looked up, for all the rigging of the imaginary ship had disappeared, and a dense fog was folded close around them. The balloon seemed, too, to have met with a new current of wind, for it was rushing along with fearful velocity, whither,—even the professor himself could not guess. Looking downward, they saw the same impenetrable fog, and the professor concluded to let the balloon drift on in its course for a while.

Presently, Puck exclaimed: "Mamma, don't oo hear ze bears g'owl?" For some time, the others had heard a low menacing grumble. It sounded like the roar of machinery, with the falling of a heavy trip-hammer at regular intervals, and it seemed possible that they were in the vicinity of a manufacturing town. There was a little light in the eastern horizon, and Puck suddenly exclaimed, "T'ere's anoder b'loon!" It was the full moon, instead, that rose majestically, and the fog seemed to be disappearing. Looking down, the professor thought he could see the land, and he allowed the balloon to slowly descend. By and by, they could all see that the ground was marked with white streaks and spots, which they supposed to be snow.

Lower and lower sank the balloon, and still Puck's bears continued to "g'owl."

Suddenly, the professor uttered an exclamation of horror—only two words, "The sea!" But they sounded like a sentence of doom to the travelers. They were floating over a wide and angry sea!

The professor threw overboard a bag of ballast, and the balloon darted upward again into space. Where were they? Was it the Bay of Biscay, the North Sea, the English Channel, or the open Atlantic?

Very soon, the balloon began to descend again. The roar of the waves was louder than ever, and they beat the same tune that the great bass-drum and the cannon had played:

"Boom-er-oom, a boom-er-oom! A boom! boom! boom!"—

for they were striking against a rocky wall, and the white cliffs of Dover rose ghostly in the moonlight before them.

The professor threw overboard his last bag of ballast; Puck hid his face in his mother's dress, while she, in the presence of that mighty danger, sang a hymn. Mrs. Parker was one of the singers in the choir of a church at Paris, and her voice had been much admired; but she had never sung before as she sang now. Her voice was sustained instead of drowned by the roar of the sea, and was re-echoed back from the rocky cliff marvelously clear and pure, as she sang "Save me, O God, from waves that roll."

Slowly the balloon seemed to climb that sheer, chalky precipice, frightening the sleepy sea-gulls from their nests, but never grazing against the wall, as it seemed as if it inevitably must. Slowly it reached the summit, paused a moment poised over the edge, then swept landward a little way, when the guide-rope (which had been dragging in the water) caught on the rocks, and it stopped. The professor opened the escape-valve, and they alighted from the car, and then walked to the brink of the abyss and, silently and solemnly, looked down.

This was the last of aerial navigation that any of the party ever indulged in. The professor packed up his balloon and went to the United States to exhibit it. Puck Parker left one of his "P.P.C." cards in the car of the balloon, and his parents were glad enough to get to a land where they did not forever hear the "Boom-er-oom, a boom-er-oom, a boom, boom, boom," and the "Zim-er-oom, a zim-er-oom; a zim, zim, zim."



EASTER EGGS.

BY CLARA W. RAYMOND.

Dear Grandpa Lee, with little Grace, Followed the path-way to the mill; Bright daisies starred the shady lane, And now and then a bird would trill.

Once, when a birdling spread its wings, She said, "All things are fair and gay,— The sky so blue where birdie sings!" Said grandpa, "This is Easter Day."

Thus happily they onward went, Till Grace cried, "There is little Kate, And Frank and Nellie, too—and oh! Nell's swinging on the garden gate!"

As Grace and grandpa came in sight, The little ones to meet them sped,— Their eager, prattling lips apart, Eyes flashing bright and cheeks rose-red.

"Oh, grandpa! in the hedge we've found Four Easter eggs, all colored blue; They're in the sweetest little nest; We want to show our prize to you!"

Said grandpa, "Touch them not, my dears; Those eggs God dyed with colors rare; The mother-bird will soon come back, And guard her nest with loving care.

"These Easter eggs, in leaf-hid nests, Imprison countless song-birds bright, That soon will break the tinted shell And rise and sing in joyous flight."



A VISIT TO A LONDON DOG-SHOW.

BY LAURA SKEEL POMEROY.

Some years ago I went to see a great dog-show at the Alexandra Palace, in the north of London.

My friend Charley, a bright boy who knows the way all over this part of the city, was my escort. We concluded to go to the show by the underground railroad, and at half-past one o'clock we were at the station called South Kensington. We bought our tickets there, and passed through gateways where men in uniform examined our tickets, allowing but one person to pass at a time, then descended two long flights of stone steps, and went down, down, into the subterranean station.



Although it is nearly forty feet below the surface, daylight is let in from above at this station, as in many of the others on the line.

Before and behind us we could see the great black-mouthed tunnels, through which the trains were constantly passing.

When our train arrived we quickly found seats in a car, or carriage, as they call them here, and were soon rushing along underground.

Now and again we came out into the open air for a while; soon we were at Bayswater, then at King's Cross, at which station we got out of the car and climbed up the iron stairs to the earth's surface again.

From King's Cross to Alexandra Palace was a ride of about twenty minutes more, this time on a railroad which ran, for some distance, above the surface of the earth. We sped above the tops of smoky houses, by sooty walls, through egg-shaped tunnels, beyond all these to the open country, where were smooth green grass, groups of picturesque trees, and tangled hedges.

The train stopped at the station called Muswell Hill, on which is built the new Alexandra Palace—a large red-brick building at the top of the hill. It is not so extensive as the Crystal Palace at Sydenham, but, like it, is covered over with glass, and contains tropical plants, many palm-trees, several theaters and lecture-rooms, and a large bazaar with gay booths, at which you can buy almost anything you wish for.

As we approached the central part of the hall, a deafening chorus of dogs, yelping, barking, growling and howling, assailed our ears. The stalls in which the dogs were chained were arranged to form several aisles. They faced each other, with a wide passage-way between, for the crowd of spectators. The stalls were open, and each one had from one to five animals chained in it.

The persons who exhibited dogs numbered one thousand and thirty-nine, and, as each exhibitor sent several of his animals, you can roughly estimate the immense number of dogs brought together.

It made my heart ache at first to see the poor creatures jumping and pulling at their chains. Some looked worried and excited, and some of them seemed bored to death, surly and contemptuous, as if saying, "Go away, or I will bite you if you stare at me a moment longer;" and some were sulky and turned their backs, hiding their noses in the straw.

The little puppies slept unconsciously through it all, while the mother dogs struggled with their chains and barked furiously.

There were greyhounds,—great, tall, slender creatures, that looked as if they could run a mile a minute,—deer-hounds, beautiful pointers, setters, retrievers, and otter-hounds. These last were dangerous, and were kept in wire cages. There were bull-terriers, fox-terriers, spaniels, white and black Newfoundlands, shepherd dogs, mastiffs, and fierce bull-dogs that looked as if they would be glad to eat you without ceremony.

There was every variety of lap-dog, and among them the tiniest little Italian greyhound,—not more than eight inches long. This last was like a porcelain toy dog, and looked brittle, as if its thin legs would snap if much handled. I did not think it a pretty pet; it seemed too fragile to play with.



A very different creature was a Siberian greyhound, about four feet and a half tall, with long, wolf-shaped nose, and covered with bluish, short, curly hair.

The pet dogs called "pugs" had short, black noses, turned up in about as much of a curl as their tails. Their faces were sooty-black, and shone as if polished with a brush. They curled up their black lips, showing two small, very white teeth, with the tip of a pink tongue hanging out of the mouth, the most comical, and at the same time, the ugliest little beasts one ever saw.



They were straddled upon showy velvet cushions, with their fore-paws wide apart, and their round, black eyes looking straight at you, snarling all the time, but not changing their position, being too fat and lazy to move.

All the black-and-tan terriers had their ears so cut as to make them very sharp and pointed.

There were beautiful spaniels of all shades, and little Maltese terriers. One of these was a perfect beauty. Its hair was like spun glass, of a bluish, pinkish gray, snow-white in the partings. When it trotted about, it looked like an opal, or a piece of live Venetian glass. Its name ought to have been "Jewel," for it looked like one.

The King Charles spaniels were very like lovely English blondes, with their golden-brown ears hanging like long curls on each side of their innocent, milk-white faces. They had soft, hazel eyes, of melting tenderness, like those of the prettiest little girl-baby.

Most of these lay upon handsomely embroidered cushions, with the dog's name neatly worked in front. One fairy-like specimen had the name "Pixie" worked in silver letters on a sky-blue velvet ground. Another tiny creature looked like a snow-white ball of floss silk, rolled up in a basket of quilted blue satin.

Ladies' maids were seated in chairs beside these dainty pets, with ivory-handled brushes and tortoise-shell combs, to arrange their curls; for many of them wore each a little top-knot curl, tied with a scarlet, pink, or blue ribbon, as best became the wearer's complexion.

I could think of nothing but a dancing-school exhibition or a children's ball, where nurse-maids sit by their charges, to keep their pretty finery in order. So choice were some of these doggies that they were covered with glass cases, open at the top.



The grandest of all the dogs—the one I would have liked best to have—was a fine St. Bernard, of a tawny color, with white spots, and a grand, noble head. He sat up on his haunches and allowed every one to come and pet him, lifting his big, honest paw, as if to shake hands with the little children, and wagging his tail slowly back and forth in a very dignified manner. What deep brown eyes he had, and what a soft, warm breast!

The Prince of Wales sent two black and brown Thibet mastiffs from the north of India. They had long, black lips, and wore a very stern, dark expression. The Princess of Wales, also, sent a snow-white Russian wolf-hound.

Some of the dog-stalls were labeled "dangerous," and I wondered that many of the persons who poked at the inmates with their canes were not bitten, for every little while you would see a sudden falling back of the crowd, and hear a sharp growl from some angry animal who was being teased, or was impatient to go home.

The bloodhounds were the fiercest and most sullen-looking of all. They did not join in the general barking and uproar, but kept their heads buried in the straw. Once, as we were watching them, away off in a remote end of the building, an acrobat began his performance of walking on a rope and jumping through rings, high up in the air. Then these hounds suddenly lifted themselves erect, and, fixing their sharp eyes on that little red and blue speck of a man suspended in the air, set up a loud, long, unearthly howl, which all the other dogs took up, and for a few minutes the sounds shook the whole palace, like the roar of all the wild beasts of the forest.

By and by four o'clock came, and the owners of the dogs came in to take them home. How glad they were to see them! They jumped up, rolled about, licked their keepers' hands and faces, whining and yelping for joy. One dog, who had not been sent for, was jealous to see his neighbor petted. He growled at every loving caress, and sat snarling in his corner, discontented and sour, till he saw his own master, when he broke into a howl of intense delight and tugged furiously at his chain.



When the big hampers were brought to confine the dangerous ones, and the collars and chains were being unfastened, what a rollicking, rushing time it was! The glad creatures jumped and galloped all the way to the station.

The train was full of dogs—they were everywhere. Eager to be off, they were hurrying up and down the platform, dancing about the ticket offices, racing over trunks, for all the world like boys let out of boarding-school going home for the holidays.

We saw their impatient faces pushing out of every car-window, their tails wagging out of every door.

A gentleman in our carriage had two little mites of terriers in his overcoat pockets. One, he said, was a Skye, and the other a Yorkshire, terrier. Little Skye was tired and sleepy, and showed just the tip of his nose and one ear above the pocket; but little Yorkshire was perfectly wild with fun. He had on a small brown blanket, bound with scarlet braid, which his master said was his new Ulster coat.

He began his pranks by putting his nose in Charley's pockets, looking for a shilling. Not finding one, the gentleman sent him into his own coat pocket, whence, after burrowing and tugging for a while, out he came, with a coin between his teeth, which he held tight and would not give up. His master said that when the dog found a piece of money he went alone to the cake shop, and the baker would give him a cake, which he would run home with and eat up immediately, being particularly fond of sweets. He was two years and a half old, ten inches long, with yellowish hair, which hung in a fringe over his mischievous black eyes. He was elastic as a ball of wool, and looked very much like one.

But we had to part company with him at King's Cross Station, where his owner put him in his pocket again, and bade us good-bye. We could see the tip of the little tail wagging till we lost sight of him in the distant crowd.

It would take a long time to even mention all the handsome dogs, and many of the young readers of ST. NICHOLAS will not need to be told more about them, as there have been several dog-shows in America since the time when Charley and I saw the one in the Alexandra Palace at London. The boys and girls who visited any one of the dog-shows held recently in New York, Boston, and other American cities, will no doubt remember many interesting and curious sights. But they did not have a greater treat than Charley and I had, all for the small price of one English shilling.



MERRY RAIN.

BY FLETA FORRESTER.

Sprinkle, sprinkle, comes the rain, Tapping on the window-pane; Trickling, coursing, Crowding, forcing Tiny rills To the dripping window-sills.

Laughing rain-drops, light and swift, Through the air they fall and sift; Dancing, tripping, Bounding, skipping Thro' the street, With their thousand merry feet.

Every blade of grass around Is a ladder to the ground; Clinging, striding, Slipping, sliding, On they come With their busy zip and hum.

In the woods, by twig and spray, To the roots they find their way; Pushing, creeping, Doubling, leaping, Down they go To the waiting life below.

Oh, the brisk and merry rain, Bringing gladness in its train! Falling, glancing, Tinkling, dancing All around,— Listen to its cheery sound!



DRIFTED INTO PORT.

BY EDWIN HODDER.

CHAPTER V.

A CATASTROPHE.

Blackrock School could never be the same again to Howard. Although he had "the answer of a good conscience" in regard to the matters implied against him, he could not but feel that, whereas he once could challenge all the world against holding a suspicion of his integrity, now there might be many who were in a state of doubt as to whether he were trustworthy or not.

He grew dull and somber, and, although he had the satisfaction of knowing that no cloud of distrust hovered over his home circle, he could not shake off that uneasy feeling which haunted him, and which none know how to appreciate save those who have been wrongfully suspected.

It was the early summer season, and the time was coming round for those school sports which usually sink everything else into forgetfulness. The cricket matches were planned, the bathing and boating season had commenced, the woods were green with summer verdure. In former years Howard and Digby always had thrown themselves heart and soul into all the sports, as leaders of the school. But now neither took much interest in things of the kind. Digby was morose and sullen, while Howard was sad, and unusually depressed.

I have said that the bathing season had commenced at the school, notwithstanding the fact that the weather was so changeable as to be one night as cold as October, and the next morning as hot as July. But I have not yet described the bathing-place, and, perhaps, I should have done so at the commencement of the story, as it accounts for the somewhat singular name of the school.

The river ran just at the end of the school grounds, within a stone's throw of the favorite lounging-place of the boys, under the elms. The river bank at that part was very steep, and just under the clump of trees a huge black rock, fern-grown and slippery, stretched out into the river. At one side of this rock the bank shelved down, gradually and evenly, into a large basin or hole, partially overhung by the trees, and quite out of the rapid current of the river.

This was the bathing-place, and it was one of the best I have ever seen. The boat-houses were about half a mile down the river, and bathing and boating were two of the special features of Blackrock sports. The Doctor maintained (as every sensible person ought), that while cricket and foot-ball are desirable, swimming is essential, and he laid it down as a rule that everybody should learn to swim, and that on no account should a boy be allowed to enter a boat until he was a sufficiently good swimmer to get safely to shore, should his boat be upset.

Monday morning was as bright and warm as the previous evening had been cold and miserable. Lessons were studied in the grounds instead of in the class-rooms, and when the breakfast bell rang, there were not a few who were talking about the forthcoming bath and the evening row.

At prayers, Digby was absent. Not for the first time, within the recollection of many; but as he had not sent in any excuse for non-attendance, Howard and McDonald, who occupied the rooms next to his, were asked if they knew what had become of him. Neither of them did, but McDonald remarked that he was up earlier than usual, which was not considered at all remarkable, as the morning was deliciously warm and bright.

The Doctor looked displeased, but no further notice was taken before the boys, although he had made up his mind to administer a serious caution to Master Digby for irregularities, which latterly were becoming so frequent as to call for special notice.

The time for bathing was fixed for an hour after breakfast, the doctor holding that while the weather was unsettled, and the water cold, bathing was more beneficial a little while after a light meal than before.

A rush was made to the clump of trees, and a pell-mell scamper down the steep bank. When Mr. Featherstone, one of the masters, came up two minutes after with some of the older boys, amongst whom were Martin and Howard, he was surprised to hear his name called loudly by several of the boys.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Digby Morton's clothes are on the bank," cried Aleck Fraser, excitedly, "but we can't see him anywhere."

Mr. Featherstone had all his wits about him. He knew the rough stepping-places up to the head of the Blackrock, from which he could scan the river up and down. In a moment he was standing on the rock, carefully taking within his view every yard of ground within range; but he could see nothing of Digby.

"Martin Venables," he shouted from the rock, "run to the house, and ask the Doctor to come here at once. Howard and Aleck hurry down to the boat-house, and inquire about Morton. Send the boatman up at once with boats and men. McDonald and Marsden, go up to the meadow-dell and search. Look sharp, all of you!"

Swiftly sped the boys on their exciting errands, while Mr. Featherstone remained upon the rock, and the other boys with hushed whispers talked together in little groups, or looked into the water-holes with half-averted eyes.

Howard and Martin were the first to return, both flushed with anxious excitement. Then came the Doctor, sadly out of breath, and much distressed.

"But Digby is a good swimmer, is he not?" asked the Doctor.

"Few better in the school," answered Mr. Featherstone. "I don't like to think of the worst, but there are strong eddies in the pool this morning, and the river runs at a furious rate after the heavy rain. My fear is that he left the pool, and was caught by an eddy, and swung upon the rocks. In that case he may have been rendered insensible, and so have been drowned."

The boys returned one after another, and each unsuccessful. The boatmen soon arrived.

"Have you heard or seen anything this morning of Mr. Digby?" asked the Doctor of Mason, the manager of all the boating arrangements of the school.

"No, sir; but my man, who was agoing out to see after his lines, about six this morning, said as how he see something dark floating down the river, but he didn't pay much heed to it, till he called it to mind when the young gentlemen came down just now, and said as how Mr. Digby were missing."

"Then, should we not commence the search low down the river?" asked the Doctor.

"'Taint no manner of use," answered Mason; "with the current runnin' like this, he'd be ten mile away and more, by this time, if it was him, or more likely out at sea, as the tide would have met the river by this time. But you see, sir, it mightn't have been him after all, for there's lots o' snags and things floating down this morning after last night's rain."

But Dr. Brier would leave no stone unturned. Messengers were sent on horseback to every town and village on either side of the river, for twenty miles down; the river was dragged; boatmen were sent out to search; everything that could be done was done. But the afternoon came and no tidings. Messengers were sent early to Mr. Morton. All the towns and villages around were in excitement, but nothing came of it, and by evening the conviction was borne home to every heart, too clearly for hope to set aside, that Digby Morton was dead.

CHAPTER VI.

A BREAK-UP.



Pacing up and down the river bank in a terrible excitement, or sitting in some solitary place with his eyes staring vacantly, or with head buried in his trembling hands, through which the tears would trickle, a man might have been seen haunting the neighborhood of Blackrock. It was Mr. Morton, so altered that those who knew him best almost failed to recognize in him the same man.

Let us not inquire too narrowly into the causes of this remarkable change.

It was not until all hope with regard to the recovery of Digby's body was abandoned, that it was so strikingly apparent. At first there was the rebellious cry from his heart, "It cannot be true; it shall not be true," and then a gentler and more subdued frame of mind ensued, as he prayed, "Oh that it may not be true," until at length it was useless to hope against hope, and the strong man bowed down his broken heart, as he said, "O God! it is true."

And what of Ethel?

It was her first loss, poor child, and her first contact with a great appalling sorrow. She was perplexed and stunned with the dreadful blow. She seemed utterly alone now; whether or not she really could have relied on Digby in the past for advice and guidance, does not matter—she felt she could, and now this source of reliance had gone. Her father was changed, so changed that he seemed almost a stranger, and now in this crisis of her need she felt that he could yield neither help nor sympathy to her, while she was impotent to minister to him.

It was well for Ethel that at the time of her sad visit to Blackrock, Madeleine Greenwood was there, for in her she found a companion of her own age, and a comforter as well as friend.

As the time drew near for Mr. Morton to return to Ashley House, the attachment which had sprung up between the two girls became closer and more intimate, and when Ethel returned to Ashley House, it was a very great satisfaction to her to have Madeleine with her for a lengthened visit, a concession which Mr. Morton could not deny to her earnest entreaties.

The clothes of poor Digby, his books and school treasures, were packed up and sent away. The Doctor held a funeral service with the boys on the Sunday after the catastrophe, and addressed them briefly, but with great earnestness and emotion, on the loss they had sustained, and the awful suddenness of death, urging upon all the necessity of preparation, as none knew the day nor hour when the change would come.

A week later a marble column was raised upon the spot where the clothes were found, bearing this simple inscription: "In loving memory of D. M., who was drowned while bathing, June 18, 18—, aged 17 years."

On the evening of the day when the stone was raised, Martin and Howard sat together beside it.

Howard was very pale, and looked as if he had gone through a severe illness. He sat for some time gazing at the monument, until a tear dimmed his eye.

"My good fellow," said Martin, "why do you give way to so much useless regret? You are so morbidly sensitive that you seem to blame yourself as though you had been guilty of poor Digby's death."

Howard made no reply to his friend's remark, and for some moments remained quite silent. Then he said; "Martin, I shall never forgive myself about poor Digby. I fear I have wronged him."

"You wronged him? What do you mean?"

"I mean that in that miserable affair about the miniature, I reflected the blame in some degree upon him; I could not at the time help thinking that he knew something about it, and I fear I caused a wrong suspicion to rest on him. It is useless to give way to regret, but I do so wish I could speak to him just once again, to say that I now feel that I wronged him by my suspicions."

"Are you quite satisfied in your own mind, that you did wrong him?" asked Martin.

"Yes; something has happened which I have not mentioned to a soul, and shall not, except to you. Since poor Digby's death, I have lost my overcoat. I wore it on that cold Sunday night, and afterward hung it up in my room. I should not have missed it, but that I had left in the pocket my Bible—you remember the one, it was given to me by my father when I first left home for school. I have searched everywhere for the coat, and cannot find it. It is a great loss to me, for I would have parted with anything else in the world rather than lose that Bible."

"Have you not mentioned it to my uncle?" asked Martin, his face taking on a sharper look.

"No; he is worried and sad as it is, and I hate the idea of reflecting upon fellows in the school. It will turn up in time, perhaps, but I can't help thinking that there must be some thief in the school, and that the coat has gone where the miniature went."

"I really think it would be well to tell the Doctor," said Martin.

"Well, I may do so yet; but we break up next week, and if the truth should not be discovered, every boy will leave with a suspicion resting upon him,—for this is not confined to the twenty,—and it will do the school a great injury. But I tell it to you, Martin, because as I shall not return after this term, you know, you can keep your eyes open in case anything should turn up about it."

"What a wretched break-up we are having, altogether!" said Martin, after a little pause, in which he was thinking whether to take Howard's view of the case, or to still persuade him to make the matter known. "A break-up of Mr. Morton's home; a break-up of the Doctor's health, I fear, for all this anxiety has distressed him sadly; and a break-up of our little fraternity here, for now that you are going, and Digby gone, and Aleck Fraser is on the move, our 'set' will never be made up again. I hope, though, that our friendship will not be broken up."

"It never shall, if I can help it," said Howard; "and now while we are talking about it, will you promise to write to me, and tell me all about the school, as long as you stay in it, and about the Doctor, and Mrs. Brier, and especially all about yourself?"

The promise was duly made, and unlike many promises of a similar nature, was faithfully fulfilled.

The day before the breaking up, Dr. Brier asked Howard to speak with him in the library.

"My dear Howard," said the Doctor, putting his hand on his shoulder, "I cannot let you leave the school without telling you how deeply I regret parting with you. Your conduct has always been exemplary, and your influence beneficial in the school. I am sorry that the clouds have gathered round us so darkly lately, but some day we shall see through them, if we cannot at present. I want you to know that throughout, I consider you to have held a manly and a Christian course, and you have my unqualified approval of your conduct, as you have my sincere belief in the uprightness and integrity of your character. God bless you, my dear lad, wherever you go, and make those principles which have distinguished you in your school-life, useful to the world, in whatever part of it your lot may be cast! And now I wish to give you this little present, as a token of friendship, and let it serve as a reminder to you, that as long as I live, I shall be glad and thankful to serve you."

It was a handsome set of books the Doctor gave him, and more than all his other treasures of prizes and friendly presents, was this one preserved, for it assured him that the Doctor, who never said what he did not believe, regarded him with the same trust as ever.

CHAPTER VII.

A LETTER, AND A FATAL CHASE.

Three months had passed since the break-up at Blackrock School, and Martin had faithfully fulfilled his promise to keep up a brisk correspondence with his old friend. But no letter gave Howard a keener pleasure, than the one from which the following extracts are taken, and which will connect the history of events:

TO HOWARD PEMBERTON.

MY DEAR OLD CHUM: Every day I seem to miss you more and more, and I only wish the time had come for me to throw off school and take my plunge, as you have done, into the great stream of life. I don't take an interest in anything now; even cricket is a bore, and the talks about forming for foot-ball fail to start me up. The Doctor evidently misses you, and very often inquires after your welfare. He is not himself at all. I think the end of last term shook him a great deal. Mrs. Brier is as she always was. I don't know what some of us would do without her.

Is not my cousin spending a very long time at Ashley House? I think I told you I was invited to go and see her there, and I could write you a dozen pages or more about the visit, if time allowed—but it doesn't. Madeleine and Ethel are as thick as thieves. I can quite believe that my cousin has cheered and helped them all very much in this time of their great trial, and I don't wonder at any girl loving her, for she is a first-rate companion, and as good as she is beautiful.

I had a long chat with Mr. Morton, and he appeared to be much interested in hearing me talk of poor Digby's ways and doings amongst us. But you hardly know sometimes whether he is awake or asleep when you are talking to him, for he keeps his head buried in his hands. He seems regularly smitten down, poor man! He is talking of going abroad for some months, and I think it will do him good. If he goes, it will only be upon the condition that Madeleine stays with Ethel. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to become a permanent resident there.

I don't know if you ever heard Madeleine's history. It is a singular one, like my own. Her father and my father were partners in business. A fire ruined them both; and, as you know, an accident on the railway occurred which proved fatal to both. My poor mother I never knew, and she knew nothing of these troubles; but Madeleine's mother had to bear them all, and the weight was too heavy; she died broken-hearted, the life crushed out of her by misfortune upon misfortune. So, up to the present time, Madeleine and I have been, to a very great extent, dependent upon others; and as our circumstances in life have been so strangely similar, we are more like brother and sister than cousins. I shall be very glad, for her sake, if she finds in the Mortons more than is ordinarily found in chance friends. And I shall be glad, for my own sake, when I can release the dear old Doctor from the burden with which he willingly shackled himself when he took me under his care.

I wish I could have a good long talk with you, my dear old boy, on this and a hundred other subjects; but I can't. And now I must knock off for to-night, as the Doctor has just sent for me. MARTIN VENABLES.

P. S.—I write in a violent hurry. The Doctor has read some extraordinary news in the paper just in from London. It is about the missing miniature, found on a prisoner. He will leave here for London by the 7.45 train in the morning. I want this to catch the post, so cannot write more, except that the Doctor wishes me to say he will be sure to see you before he has been long in London. M. V.

This postscript threw the little household at Rose Cottage into a great flutter at the breakfast table the next morning.

"What can it mean?" asked Howard. "Have you seen anything in the paper, uncle, to which it refers? I have not seen the paper for a week."

"'Pon my word, I don't know," said Captain Arkwright. "It can't be—yes, it may, though. Just wait a minute."

The Captain jumped up, snatched the paper of the day before from a side-table, and began to search for a particular heading, which, of course, was not on the pages he had first opened.

"Here it is!" he cried at length. "It is headed, 'A Fatal Chase.'"

"Let me see it," said Howard, almost trembling with anxiety, as he ran his eye hastily over the report.

It ran on this wise:

A robbery was committed a few days ago on the firm of Robinson & Co., of this city, a report of which appeared in our columns. From information received by the police, a person who had taken a passage on board the "Ariadne," for New York, was suspected, and warrants were issued for his apprehension. The arrest was made, but as the police were bringing the prisoner from the vessel to the quay, a violent struggle ensued. Police-constable Janson was hurled by the prisoner over the edge of the quay into the water, while he, quick as lightning, made a rush to escape. He fled as far as the end of the quay, and was making for the draw-bridge, where he would soon have gained the open road, when his foot caught in a rope, which threw him with fearful violence over the wharf into the pool. In falling, he appears to have come into collision with a boat, and when his body was recovered he was found to be quite dead. The deceased was a young man of powerful build, and had taken his passage under the name of James Williams; but no clue has been obtained at present as to his antecedents. Upon his person was found a bundle of bank-notes, a sovereign, and some silver, and in a side-pocket was a miniature portrait of a young lady, of very beautiful workmanship, set in gold and studded with precious stones. The police are making searching inquiries, and as it is thought that this valuable portrait must have been stolen, it is believed that it will lead to further discoveries.

How Howard got through his work at the office that day, he was at a loss to know, for nothing remained on his mind for a moment at a time, except the vague and curious report about the Fatal Chase, and the anticipated visit of the Doctor with further particulars. No sooner had the clock struck six, than he sped away from the office, trusting to his legs to carry him more quickly than the omnibus or car.

Before he had time to ask, "Any news of the Doctor?" a well-known voice was heard, and the outstretched hand of his old friend grasped his.

"Well, my dear boy, how are you? You see, I need no introductions. Here I am, quite at home in your family circle."

"And what news, Doctor Brier?"

"A great deal, satisfactory and unsatisfactory. But come and sit down, and I will tell you the whole story."

The whole story took a long time to tell, but it may be summed up in a few words.

The unfortunate man, who met his death so violently, was identified as a person who had once been in the employment of Messrs. Robinson & Co., ship-owners. The notes found upon him were traced as notes he had received in payment of a cheque forged in their name. But no information could be obtained as to his antecedents, nor the series of events that had brought his career to so pitiful a close. The greatest mystery hung about the fact of the miniature portrait; no clue of the faintest kind could be obtained as to how it came into his possession, but the Doctor had identified it, beyond the least shadow of a doubt, as the one stolen from Blackrock House.

It was necessary for the Doctor to remain in town for some days, and Mrs. Pemberton would not hear of his making a home anywhere else than at Rose Cottage. To this he was nothing loth; and to Howard, the presence of his old friend and master in the house, was a source of unqualified satisfaction.

Many a time they speculated about the strange secrets which lay locked up in that little miniature, and wished they could devise some means to extort them.

"But we must watch and wait," said the Doctor. "I seem to feel satisfied that we shall clear up the mystery some day."

The "some day" was very far ahead. Meantime, a verdict of "accidental death" was returned upon Williams. The miniature was formally made over to the Doctor, and when he had completed all the inquiries which could be instituted, and was nearly worn out with visits to and from the police and inquisitors generally, he bade adieu to the little circle of friends, and once more the veil, of which only a corner had been lifted, fell over the circumstances.

CHAPTER VIII.

LIKE SEEKS LIKE.

Howard Pemberton had thought often of his future, even in early school-boy days, and many a time he and Martin had talked together about the great battle of life, and how to fight it.

They both were indebted to dear old Doctor Brier for one thing; he had always insisted that the basis of all achievement worth achieving was in character, and that the basis of character must be a disciplined and educated sense of honor; the utter despising from the heart of everything mean.

Howard was certainly one of those of whom it might be predicted, that he was sure to succeed. And he accepted the responsibilities of success, and determined to make the best he could of his life. From his first start, he had thrown his heart into his business, and common figures, and dull routine, were to his mind invested with a power which could help him in his pursuit,—not the mere pursuit of making money, but of being something. Before a twelvemonth had passed, he had made himself master of every detail in his business; at the end of his second year, he was so invaluable that he was intrusted with duties which the firm had never before placed in the hands of any clerk; and, at the end of his third year, the period of which I now write, he had been told that on the retirement of the senior partner he would be taken into the concern.

I must, for the purposes of my story, relate some of the principal incidents, which in the three years that have elapsed, have helped to make up the true life of Howard.

In the first place, his friend, Martin Venables, has been his constant companion. Growing weary of school-life, and longing to plunge, as he had said, into the great stream of life, he had happened to mention his wish, on his visit to Mr. Morton, and that gentleman, having taken a great interest in Martin, had been successful in procuring for him a good government appointment, in an office where he found scope for honest labor, with vistas of future promotion, dependent upon his own exertions, and he was as happy as the day was long in his new sphere of work.

He took up his abode near to Howard, and scarcely an evening passed, except when he was at the Mortons, which they did not spend together. Madeleine was still at Ashley House "on a visit," but with a few intervals, it had lasted for three years, and Martin was a frequent visitor there, especially after Mr. Morton's return from Italy. A strong friendship had sprung up between the two, and Mr. Morton certainly looked forward as eagerly to the visits as did Martin.

And Howard, too, was a visitor at Ashley House.

At first, there was a great prejudice against Howard in the Morton family. Ethel could not bear to hear his name, for it was painfully associated in her mind with poor Digby's death.

But after a time, through the quiet influence of Madeleine's conversations about Howard and Martin's evident affection for him, this prejudice died away, and Martin was invited to bring his friend to Ashley House.

Acquaintance ripened into a true and earnest friendship, and, under the influence of the young people, Mr. Morton found sources of happiness which he never had dreamed life could yield to him; and even Mrs. Morton had so far thrown off her listlessness, as to be able to take an interest in their plans and purposes.

It was a lovely summer evening, toward the end of July, that the party of friends were all together upon the lawn; they had drawn the garden chairs up, and, after the game of croquet in which Madeleine and Howard had succeeded in beating Ethel and Martin, were prepared to devote the remainder of the evening to chat. Seeing this, Mr. Morton had put away his book, and drawn up his chair beside them, while Mrs. Morton, regardless of falling dews and rising damp, had followed the example of her husband.

"Now," said Mr. Morton, "short holidays, like this Saturday afternoon, are good; but are not long holidays better? And now that everybody is thinking of taking a trip somewhere or other, should not we 'do as Rome does,' and think of the same thing?"

"I suppose, sir, we all have been thinking of it, more or less, for the past year," said Martin; "and I for one must think of it seriously, for my holidays are fixed by official rules, and begin very soon."

"And yours, Howard?" inquired Mr. Morton.

"I can take a holiday now, or later," he answered. "But I do not generally get a month straight off, as these government officials do. However, I shall try for a longer holiday this year than I had last."

"Well, now," said Mr. Morton, drawing up his chair more closely to the group, "don't you think we might make up a party, and all go somewhere together?"

A burst of assents went up like a flight of rockets. It was just the very thing that all the young people wanted. And then began such a storm of questions; such a variety of wild and improbable suggestions; such a catalogue of countries as would take years to explore, and such merry banter and repartee, that even Mrs. Morton caught the enthusiasm, and threw herself into the proposal with a vigor that caused her husband to open his eyes wide in a gratified astonishment.

After discussing places, from Siberia to the Sandwich Islands, the votes were unanimous in favor of a tour to the North of Scotland, including Skye and the Shetland Isles.

(To be continued.)



THE THREE WISE WOMEN.

BY MRS. E. T. CORBETT.



Three wise old women were they, were they, Who went to walk on a winter day. One carried a basket, to hold some berries; One carried a ladder, to climb for cherries; The third, and she was the wisest one, Carried a fan to keep off the sun!



"Dear, dear!" said one. "A bear I see! I think we'd better all climb a tree!" But there wasn't a tree for miles around. They were too frightened to stay on the ground; So they climbed their ladder up to the top, And sat there screaming, "We'll drop! we'll drop!"



But the wind was strong as wind could be, And blew their ladder right out to sea! Soon the three wise women were all afloat In a leaky ladder, instead of a boat! And every time the waves rolled in, Of course the poor things were wet to the skin.



Then they took their basket, the water to bail; They put up their fan, to make a sail; But what became of the wise women then,— Whether they ever got home again, Whether they saw any bears or no,— You must find out, for I don't know.



ALWAYS BEHINDHAND.

BY M. D. K.



Supper was ready and waiting. Our guest had not arrived, but there was another train an hour later. Should the family wait for my friend, or should I alone, who was the personage especially to be visited? My father paced the floor nervously, as was his wont when he felt disturbed. He had the evening papers to read, and he never opened them until after tea. This was a habit of his. He was very fixed—or, as some express it, "set"—in his little ways. It was Bridget's evening out, and she had begun to show a darkened visage. Bridget was no friend to "company," and it was policy to conciliate her. So the family seated themselves at the table, and I sat near, waiting until brother John should be ready to accompany me a second time to the station.

"What about this young lady friend of yours, Nelly?" asked my father. "Is she one of the unreliable sort—a little addicted to tardiness, that is?"

"I am obliged to confess, papa, that at boarding-school, where I longest knew Jeannette, she was inclined to be dilatory; but that was years ago. It is to be hoped that she has changed since then."

"I should wish to have very little to do with a behindhand person," said my father, shaking his head very gravely.

"Oh, papa!" I remonstrated, "you will not condemn a dear friend for one single fault. Jeannette is beautiful and accomplished, sensible and good-tempered. Everybody thinks she is splendid."

"She may have very pleasant qualities, but I tell you, girls," he added with sudden emphasis, "that a want of punctuality vitiates the whole character. No one is good for much who cannot be depended upon; and what dependence is to be placed on a man who is not up to his engagements? In business, such a man is nowhere; and in social life a dawdling, dilatory man or woman is simply a pest. But mind, my child, I am not characterizing your friend; we cannot tell about her till we see."

The later train brought my friend. She was profuse in her regrets; she had been belated by a mistake in the time; her watch was slow. As she was pouring forth a torrent of regrets and apologies, I observed my father bestowing glances of evident admiration at the fair speaker, while the rich color came and went in her cheeks and her eyes kindled with animation. Truly, beauty covers a multitude of faults. Sister Bell, who was as punctual as my father, was appeased, and promised to take care of the tea-things and let Bridget go out. My father good-naturedly offered to regulate the halting watch by the true time.

To her chamber we went together, to talk as girls do talk when they meet in this way, after a long separation. Folding me in her arms, she told me all about her recent engagement to George Allibone; showed me her engagement ring, and her lover's photograph. It was a noble head finely posed, and a most engaging face, and my ready and cordial admiration was a new bond of sympathy. It took until nearly midnight to say all that we girls, aged twenty, had to say to each other; and this, in addition to the fatigues of travel, was accepted as an excuse for Jenny's tardiness at breakfast. She really had meant to be early.

But this was only the beginning. Throughout the whole three weeks of her visit, she was scarcely punctual in a single case where time was definitely appointed. She was late in rising, late at meals, late at church and for excursions, and, to our profound mortification, late for dinner appointments, even when parties were made especially on her account. She seemed sorry and mortified, but on each occasion she would do the same thing over again.

"What can she be doing?" my mother sometimes asked in perplexity, when my sister and I were ready and waiting.

"Doing her hair, mother," we answered, "and she will do it over until it suits her, be it early or late."

"Oh, these hair-works!" sighed my mother. "How much tardiness at church and elsewhere is due to over-fastidious hair-dressing! What is that line of good George Herbert's? 'Stay not for the other pin.' I think he must have meant hair-pins."

My sister and I sometimes agreed between ourselves to compel her to readiness by standing by, to help her in her preparations; but in vain. She must write a letter or finish a story before making her toilet. Why not accomplish the toilet first, to be sure of it—any time remaining, for the other purposes? She didn't like to do so. No philosopher could tell why. It is an unaccountable, mysterious something, rooted deep in some people's natures—this aversion to being beforehand. I have seen it in other people since the time when it so puzzled and troubled me in Jenny. It marred the pleasure of the visit most miserably. I was continually fearing the displeasure of my father and the discomfort of my mother. The whole household were disturbed by what seemed to them downright rudeness.

"Now, Jenny," I would plead, "do be early, dear, when papa comes with the carriage. It annoys him dreadfully to wait."

She would promise to "try."

"But pray, Jenny, why need you have to try. It is easy enough. For my part, I never will make any one wait for me. I go without being ready, if need be, or I stay behind."

I had come to talk very plainly to her, out of love and good-will, as well as, sometimes, from vexation of spirit. For the twentieth time she would tell me how truly she had meant to be punctual in some given case, and that she should have been so but that she was hindered when nearly ready by some unforeseen occurrence.

"But, my dear, unforeseen hindrances will often occur, and you must lay your account with them, and give yourself extra time. You will run the risk of meeting some great calamity by trusting, as you do, to the last minute."

And the calamity did befall her. Mr. Allibone spent a day with us. We were anticipating with great pleasure a second visit, when a telegram arrived requesting Jenny to meet him in Boston on the succeeding morning. A business emergency had summoned him abroad very suddenly, and he was to embark for Liverpool in the evening.

We all sympathized with Jenny in the startling effect of this sudden announcement, and offered her every sort of help when the hour for her departure was at hand. She had only to compose herself and prepare for the journey. Sister Bell would arrange her hair and bring her dress, and she would be spared all effort. She seemed grateful, but was sure she could be ready without troubling any one. She dreamed not how much she was, even then, troubling us, for we were beginning to tremble lest she should somehow manage to be late for this, her only train.

She kissed us all twice over when the hackman arrived at the door; but, suddenly glancing in the mirror and observing how ashen was her usually brilliant complexion, she declared against wearing the gray cashmere in which she was dressed, of a hue so like her face. George must not meet her thus. She seized her black silk, with which, in spite of remonstrances, she proceeded to array herself. There was time enough; the carriage must surely be too early. Alas! for the ripping out of gathers, in the violence of her haste, and for the loopings of her skirt, not to be dispensed with! Horses could not be made to do the work of five minutes in three.