"I don't believe I can keep from screaming right out when I see him, but I'll try. Oh, wont it be fun!"—and Betty clapped her hands in joyful anticipation of that exciting moment.

A nice little plan, but Master Thorny forgot the keen senses of the amiable animal snoring peacefully among his boots, and, when they stopped at the Lodge, he had barely time to say in a whisper, "Ben's coming; cover Sanch and let me get him in quick," before the dog was out of the phaeton like a bombshell, and the approaching boy went down as if shot, for Sancho gave one leap and the two rolled over and over, with a shout and a bark of rapturous recognition.

"Who is hurt?" asked Mrs. Moss, running out with floury hands uplifted in alarm.

"Is it a bear?" cried Bab, rushing after her, egg-beater in hand, for a dancing bear was the desire of her heart.

"Sancho's found! Sancho's found!" shouted Thorny, throwing up his hat like a lunatic.

"Found, found, found!" echoed Betty, dancing wildly about as if she too had lost her little wits.

"Where? How? When? Who did it?" asked Mrs. Moss, clapping her dusty hands delightedly.

"It isn't; it's an old dirty brown thing," stammered Bab, as the dog came uppermost for a minute, and then rooted into Ben's jacket as if he smelt a woodchuck and was bound to have him out directly.

Then Thorny, with many interruptions from Betty, poured forth the wondrous tale, to which Bab and her mother listened breathlessly, while the muffins burned as black as a coal, and nobody cared a bit.

"My precious lamb, how did you dare to do such a thing?" exclaimed Mrs. Moss, hugging the small heroine with mingled admiration and alarm.

"I'd have dared, and slapped those horrid boys, too. I wish I'd gone!" and Bab felt that she had forever lost the chance of distinguishing herself.

"Who cut his tail off?" demanded Ben, in a menacing tone, as he came uppermost in his turn, dusty, red and breathless, but radiant.

"The wretch who stole him, I suppose; and he deserves to be hung," answered Thorny, hotly.

"If ever I catch him, I'll—I'll cut his nose off," roared Ben, with such a vengeful glare that Sanch barked fiercely, and it was well that the unknown "wretch" was not there, for it would have gone hardly with him, since even gentle Betty frowned, while Bab brandished the egg-beater menacingly, and their mother indignantly declared that "it was too bad!"

Relieved by this general outburst, they composed their outraged feelings; and while the returned wanderer went from one to another to receive a tender welcome from each, the story of his recovery was more calmly told. Ben listened with his eye devouring the injured dog; and when Thorny paused, he turned to the little heroine, saying solemnly, as he laid her hand with his own on Sancho's head:

"Betty Moss, I'll never forget what you did; from this minute half of Sanch is your truly own, and if I die you shall have the whole of him," and Ben sealed the precious gift with a sounding kiss on either chubby cheek.

Betty was so deeply touched by this noble bequest, that the blue eyes filled and would have overflowed if Sanch had not politely offered his tongue like a red pocket-handkerchief, and so made her laugh the drops away, while Bab set the rest off by saying, gloomily:

"I mean to play with all the mad dogs I can find; then folks will think I'm smart and give me nice things."

"Poor old Bab, I'll forgive you now, and lend you my half whenever you want it," said Ben, feeling at peace now with all mankind, including girls who tagged.

"Come and show him to Celia," begged Thorny, eager to fight his battles over again.

"Better wash him up first; he's a sight to see, poor thing," suggested Mrs. Moss, as she ran in, suddenly remembering her muffins.

"It will take a lot of washings to get that brown stuff off. See, his pretty pink skin is all stained with it. We'll bleach him out, and his curls will grow, and he'll be as good as ever—all but—"

Ben could not finish, and a general wail went up for the departed tassel that would never wave proudly in the breeze again.

"I'll buy him a new one. Now form the procession and let us go in style," said Thorny, cheerily, as he swung Betty to his shoulder and marched away whistling "Hail! the conquering hero comes," while Ben and his Bow-wow followed arm-in-arm, and Bab brought up the rear, banging on a milk-pan with the egg-beater.

(To be continued.)



THE YANKEE BOYS THAT DIDN'T NUMBER TEN.

BY W. M. BICKNELL.



'Tis morning, and no boy is seen In all the street, with play and fun. Ah! there comes Sam along the lane, With searching eyes, and he is one.



The road to school is lone for him; What could a single fellow do? But Ben appears just there away, And he with book and slate makes two.



Yet not enough for jolly sport; It's plain more lads there ought to be. Why, there is Tom, 'most out of breath! And now, together, they are three.



Then on they run and skip and frisk, With eager looks that seek for more; Dan trips along with joyous shout,— Now reckon, and you'll find them four.



They spring and hurry o'er the ground, All brave to wade or swim or dive. "Mother, there go the boys," cries Ed; No sooner said than there were five.



"Not half school-time," they all declare; "No clock can cheat us with its tricks! Upon the hill there's waiting Frank!" Though short and small, yet he made six.



O'er hedge and rocks and field they run; "Hello!" cries Ben, "see, there is Evan!" And now, as they rush on, we see, Like wonders of the world, they're seven.



As if a bird had carried word, Like birds the boys thus congregate; To join the rest leaped merry Will, And, puffing, swelled the count to eight.



Time quickly flew down by the shore, When boys and raft had fun so fine. But hark! Too plainly now they heard The clock! That made the doleful nine.



The crew had all put out from land, And out put teacher, Mr. Glenn, With swinging arm and noisy bell,— No boy was he to make the ten!



THE BARBECUE.

(The "Tolerbul" Bad Boy again.)

BY SARAH WINTER KELLOGG.

Marley came bolting into Aunt Silvy's cabin. This is what he usually did when things vexed him.

"It's mean!" he said, snatching off his large straw hat and wiping the perspiration from his brow.

Aunt Silvy was peeling peaches for drying—great, luscious Indian peaches, too, beet-red from down to pit.

"Seems like yer's al'ays fin'in' somethin' mean," she said, as the long peeling dropped into the pan, and she proceeded to stone the peach, which looked as though pared by machinery. "What's de matter now? Somethin' 'bout de barb'cue?"

"Yes, the committee's been 'roun' here to see what Pa'd subscribe, an' he signed for o-n-e shoat! Think how it'll look!—'Wm. Coleman, one shoat.' An' the paper's goin' all over the county; everybody'll see it,—General Bradshaw, and Mandy, and all the girls! If I couldn't give anything but a mean ole shoat, I wouldn't put my name down 'tall."

"Neber had no sich puffawmances at yer granpaw Thompson's. He uster su'scribe a heap er deaf an' dum' an'mals. I 'members one Foaf July he su'scribed,—lem me see ef I kin 'member what all he did su'scribe. Thar wus two oxes an' 'leven milk cows, an'—"

"I don't b'lieve it," Marley interrupted.

"It's de bawn troof," said Aunt Silvy, solemnly. "I 'members dar wusn't nuff cows lef' ter git milk fer de white folks' coffee nex' mawnin arter dat barb'cue. But, law, Mah'sr Mawley! dat wusn't haf' yer granpaw Thompson su'scribed. Thar wus fou'teen fat shoats, an'—lem me see how many tuckies; twenty-fou' tuckies, thutty-fou' Muscovy ducks, fawty chickuns, sebenteen geese an' ganders, an'—"

Marley gave a long whistle.

"Well, if that isn't the biggest story that ever I heard sence I was created!"

"He did so. I could prove it by yer maw, but her wus sich a little gal when it happened, her's fawgot. I 'members we all didn't hab no geese ter pick arter dat barb'cue, 'cept one ole gander; an' I 'members goin' to de hen-house, an' seein' not a sol'tary human critter lef in dat dar hen-house 'cept de ole saddle-back rooster. An', law! I fawgot de hams,—a heap er hams,—more 'n a hundud; an' de sheeps—law! I dunno how many sheeps dar wus."

"An' didn't he subscribe a team of mules an' a half-dozen negroes?" said Marley. "An' I want to know where my gran'pa got all the wagons to haul all the things to the barbecue? I reckon it would take fifty wagons to do it; I'm goin' to ask Pa."

"Law! I wouldn't go pesterin' master 'bout it. I neber say yer granpaw tuck um ter de barb'cue; I say he su'scribed um."

"Then he didn't pay what he subscribed?"

"Shucks! Mah'sr Mawley. I can't make yer un'erstan' nuffin. Yer neber did know nuffin sca'cely."

"I know why they keep the Fourth of July. You don't, do you?"

"Of cou'se! Law, chile! I's 'scended from a Rev'lution cullud genulmon what wus presunt at de fuss Foaf July dar ever wus."

Marley laughed and laughed at this till Aunt Silvy began to sulk. He couldn't afford to have her offended; he wanted her to do something for him. So he checked his laughter, and said:

"You know everybody in the county is invited to the barbecue."

"Ob cou'se. De suckit-riders gives it out at all de 'p'intments. Ev'ry pusson's 'vited, cullud pussons an' white folks. Thar'll be a heap er folks thar."

"Now, look yere, Aunt Silvy; you b'long to me, you know. You always said—"

"Yer b'longs ter me, mow like; an' yer maw b'longs ter me, too. I nussed her when she wus a baby, an' yer too. Law! I owns yer bofe."

"Well, then, I'm your boy, an' I want you to do somethin' for me."

"I'll be boun' yer does."

"I felt so 'shame 'bout Pa's one shoat, that I went out to the front gate, an' when the committee came to go away, I tole 'em I'd bring somethin' to the barbecue."

"Mussy! yer aint got nuffin ter take."

"If I had a 'coon-dog, I might catch a 'coon or a 'possum. Look yere! can't you borrow Boston's ole Rum for me?"

Boston was Aunt Silvy's husband, and belonged on another plantation, and Rum was Boston's 'coon-dog.

"Ob cou'se I kin. Bos'on's mighty good ter min' me. But, law! yer aint 'quainted wid ole Rum; yer couldn't manage him no more'n nuffin. 'Sides, 'coons an' 'possums aint good now tell arter pussimon-time. Folks ud duspise yer 'coon an' 'possum, kase they's so poo'."

"Well, what can I take? I know Pa wouldn't let you bake me anything."

"Mussy, no! Law! yer oughter seed de roas'in' an' fryin', an' all de gwyne-ons at yer granpaw Thompson's. One Foaf we all tuck—lem me see, how many cheese-cakes an' tauts wus it?"

"But what can I take?" said Marley, impatiently.

"I reckons some fresh fish would tas' tolerbul good."

"That's just it," Marley cried, springing to his feet; and he went on talking excitedly about a splendid cat-fish hole, and where he could find perch, and how he could keep them alive, etc. At length he said: "Pa says I can't go unless I take Sukey on behine me. I'd a heap rather walk than go in that poor folks' way. Mandy Bradshaw ud be sure to see us, an' she'd turn up her nose higher'n she did when I rolled the mandrake-apple to her."

"Needn't turn up her nose at a ha'f Thompson. I wus 'quainted wid de Bradshaws when dey wus poo' es yaller dirt,—had jis fou' ole niggers, an' dey wus mos' all womens an' childuns."

"But General Bradshaw's tolerbul rich now,—a heap richer'n Pa."

"He got rich hoss-racin'," said Aunt Silvy, contemptuously.

But Marley was thinking about the hardship that Sukey was.

"She's such a coward," he said, "in riding. She hol's on to me so hard that she pinches like sixty, an' mos' tears my clothes off. An' if the horse goes out of a walk, she hollers that she's goin' to fall off. I don't want to go pokin' up to the barbecue like it was the first time I ever was on horseback in my life. But I'll have to go that way, or with Sukey clingin' to me an' hollerin'."

"Reckon I might pussuade her ter stay to hum."

"Oh no!" Marley said, warmly. "Sukey must go; she'd be so disappointed, I'd a heap rather stan' Mandy's gigglin' than Sukey's cryin'. No; Sukey's got to go if she rides on my head."

"I'll tell yer," said Aunt Silvy. "Bos'on's got leave to tote dat little bay mule uv Patrick's over here fer me ter ride ter de barb'cue. Her name's Jinny, an' her racks tolerbul easy. I kin take Miss Sukey in my lap an' Barb'ry Allen on behine."

Marley thought this a capital plan, and went away to make his preparations for the Fourth. He brought an immense cotton-basket from the gin-loft, and nailed it against the side of the little log spring-house, after having half sunk it in the branch that flowed through the building. This is where he meant to put his fish to keep them fresh for the barbecue. Of these he felt sure, for the plantation lay along a noble "run," abounding with creatures. He captured his fish in a way not sportsman-like—by nets and night-hooks; but then there was need of expedition, for there were only two days to the Fourth. When he went to look at his lines, he always took his rifle and Rover; he might, per-chance, encounter some game. The first day he shot a red squirrel. But the next day—oh, the next day! It was late in the afternoon when he went to the run. He was about descending the bluff which overhung one of his lines, when he saw something that made his heart stand still, and then leap as though it would jump from his body. He was never so excited in his life. There, with its nostrils in the water, was a strange animal. In an instant, he knew it. Rover, too, knew it, and gave a low growl. Quickly Marley put his hand on the dog's head, and whispered, "Down, Rover, down! good fellow, down!" But the wary creature at the drink had heard something. Two antlers were suddenly flung up, and a face turned to windward. Marley, with his knee on Rover, hardly dared to breathe, yet aimed his rifle. "Down, Rover! good dog, down!" he again whispered. Then the sharp crack of the rifle broke the silence, and Marley, on his feet, strained his eager eyes through the smoke. Was that a fallen deer, or was it the shadow of cypress-knees? He and Rover went running and leaping to the spot. Yes, he had killed a fine buck with ten tines. He was a happy boy, you may believe. Here was a contribution to the barbecue worthy of the glorious day. When he had turned the animal over and over, and wondered where it came from, and how it happened to be there alone, he left Rover to guard it, and hurried back for help to get it home. He ran every step of the way. Then, mounted on black Betts, and accompanied by Jim, he returned to the heroic spot, and there found the faithful Rover and his dead charge. The game was strapped behind Marley's saddle, and old Betts was made to go galloping back to the house. Then, after everybody had looked at the deer, and handled it in every possible way, and wondered about it, and Marley had told over and over the story of the shooting, the game was dressed and put down in the spring-house, to keep cool for the morrow, which was the Fourth.

Marley rose early the next morning, and waked Aunt Silvy by firing his rifle into her cabin. Then he saw the shoat and venison put in the wagon, and a barrel of spring-water, crowded with darting fishes. After breakfast, he dressed-up in his best clothes, and stuck two cotton-blooms—one white, the other red—in his button-hole. He did not wear these for ornaments, as the cotton-blossom, which opens white and then quickly turns crimson, is as large and coarse as a hollyhock, which it somewhat resembles; but among the planters it is considered an honor to display the first cotton-blooms.

He was early on the barbecue ground, located near a fine clear spring, about which were hung a score of gourd dippers. He found the campers already humming like a hive. There were coaches and buggies and lumber-wagons, and scores upon scores of tethered horses and mules, which had brought people to the scene; and other carriages and riding-horses were momently dashing in. Whole families came on horseback,—not infrequently three riders to a mule or horse. Streams of negroes were pouring in, usually on foot. There were well-dressed gentlemen and gay ladies, and a fair sprinkling of shabby people; and Marley wondered where they all came from. In a short time after his arrival, he caught sight of Aunt Silvy; he knew her by the faded pink satin bonnet which she had worn ever since he could remember. She had Sukey on her shoulder, and was tugging up the hill from the spring. Boston had failed to bring over "pacing Jinny" for his wife to ride, so the faithful negro had brought Sukey all the way on her shoulder. Marley was quite touched when he realized this, and he made up his mind that he'd take Sukey back behind him, if Mandy Bradshaw should giggle her head off about it. Why should he care for her mocking more than for the comfort of Aunt Silvy, his life-long friend? He went over, and offered to escort Sukey around to see the sights, but she preferred to stay with Aunt Silvy; so he felt free to wander where he pleased. And he pleased to wander everywhere, and to see everything. He was greatly interested in all the proceedings,—the spreading of the long, long tables under the oaks and beeches; the unloading of the wagons; the clatter of dishes; the great boiling kettles down by the spring, where negroes were dressing shoats and sheep and great beeves—every animal being left whole, but split to the back-bone.



Then there was a rostrum, covered with forest-boughs and decorated with wreaths and flags, where the Declaration of Independence was to be read and the oration was to be given. "Yankee Doodle" the band was playing from it when Marley strolled by, and about it were the Washington Rifles, in their pretty uniform of blue and white, waiting to open the programme by a salute and some special maneuvering.

But to Marley the most wonderful and interesting of all the sights was the barbecuing. There were long, broad ditches, floored with coals a foot deep, over which the great carcasses of hogs and bullocks were laid on spits, as on a gridiron. Beyond these trenches, great log-fires were kept blazing, that the ditches might be replenished with coals. Ever and anon, an immense iron kettle would be seen, borne between two negro men, and filled with glowing coals. Such hissing and sissing as there was above those lines of fire! What savory odors were in the air! How important and fussy the cooks at the spits! How splendid the great log-heap fires! How grand the high-mounting flames and the columns of blue smoke! Marley was in a mood to enjoy it all, for "the committee" had expressed special pleasure with his contribution; it was the only game on the ground, and they were warm in their compliments of his sportsmanship.

But after a while, Marley, in his strollings about the grounds, saw a written placard tacked to a tree. Of course he read it, and then he stood confounded by the revelation it made to him. Can't you guess what it was? An advertisement for an escaped pet deer! He knew by the description (the ten tines, the slashed ear, etc.) that it was the deer he had shot. To have shot anybody's pet deer, and to know that it was at that moment over the coals, would have been mortification enough; but it was the name at the foot of the advertisement which carried to Marley's heart the sorest dismay he had ever felt in his life. Whose deer had he killed? Guess! Why, Mandy Bradshaw's! He was so chagrined, so bitterly distressed, that he would have said he could never smile again. What was he ever to do about it? Of course, there was but one manly thing to do: confess the whole matter to General Bradshaw. But he felt sure he'd rather die than do this. He went over to where Aunt Silvy was barbecuing the deer, the most melancholy-looking boy, perhaps, that ever was at a barbecue with a cotton-bloom in his button-hole. To her he told the truth, and felt better the instant he had spoken it. But when he asked her advice, she replied:

"I don't devize nuffin. Yer granpaw Thompson uster say thar neber wus no use in devizin' nobody, kase a wise man didn't need no device, an' a fool wouldn't take no device. But ef I wus yer, I'd jis go ter Mandy an' tell her how it happen."

Marley saw that it must come to this, and wisely decided that the sooner it was done the better. So he began to hover around Mandy, lying about on the grass, sitting on stumps and logs near her, and sauntering back and forth. Finally, he saw her standing alone, her girl mate having run off after a yellow butterfly. He walked in a dizzy kind of way to her side. He said, "Howdy, Mandy?" and she answered, "Howdy?" looking at him with a question in her look.

Marley knew she was wondering what he had come for, and that he was now committed to some sort of explanation. He blushed and blushed, till it seemed to him he never could stop blushing.

"Don't be mad at me," he said, pleadingly.

"I'm not mad at you," she said.

"But you will be when I tell you. I didn't go to do it. I wouldn't have done it for the world, but I thought it was a wild deer and shot it."

"Oh! you're talkin' 'bout my deer; you shot my deer?"

"Yes," said Marley, hoarsely. He thought he was going to choke to death. "They are barbecuing it now. I never was so sorry in my life. I'll pay for it, or I'll get you another, or I'll do anything in the world you tell me to."

Mandy burst out laughing, and said: "How absurd to talk so about that deer. But you wouldn't do anything I tell you. You wouldn't go up on the rostrum there, an' stan' on your head."

"Yes, I would, if it would keep you from being mad at me," said Marley.

"Well, I'm not, mad at you. I don't care much about that deer; he used to scare me nearly to death, and Pa was going to bring him to the barbecue. You've brought him instead of Pa—that's all the difference. I shouldn't have thought you'd have told about it when you felt so badly. I reckon you're tolerbul plucky. Why don't you ever come over to see brother Bob."

"Don't know; 'cause he never asked me to, I reckon."

"I know he'd like to have you. Look yere! He's got some Roman candles he's goin' to fire off to-night; so you stop as you go home this evening. It's right on your way. Can't you?"

"I reckon so," answered Marley, his heart throbbing with pleasure.

"Look here, Marley," Mandy added, suddenly. "Don't say anything about that deer, and I wont tell; so nobody'll know anything about it."

"I must tell General Bradshaw. There he is coming this way now, to take you to 'the stand.'"

"Well, tell him, and I'll ask him not to tell."

When Marley had "owned up," the General gave him a hearty slap on the back, calling him a brave lad and a good shot, and promised Mandy never to tell as long as he lived. When Marley spoke of the antlers, etc., he was told that he should keep them.

Then they went up to "the stand," and not a boy in the assemblage felt in a better mood than Marley for applauding the patriotic music, and the old "Declaration," and Mr. Delaney's ardent oration. At every allusion to the star-spangled banner, Marley cheered; and when the orator apostrophized the national bird, perched with one talon an the Alleghany and the other on the Sierras, dipping his beak now in the Atlantic and now in the Pacific, preening his feathers with the mighty Lakes as his mirror, our Marley shouted in a patriotic transport from a stump, and threw up his cap, and threw it up till it lodged in a tree, and he could toss it no longer. He shook it down just as the marshal of the day announced that he would proceed to blow the horn for dinner, to which everybody, rich and poor, bond and free, was most cordially invited—ladies to be served first, then the gentlemen, then the colored people. They would please form by twos, and march to the tables as the band played "Hail Columbia!"

Then a great bullock's horn, decorated with our blessed colors, was raised to the marshal's lips, and he blew and blew and blew such blasts; and when he had ended, the multitude—especially the boys—shouted such shouts as might have leveled the walls of another Jericho, if horn-blasts and shouts could do such things in these days.

Then the people, in long, fantastic line, wound in and out among the trees to the tables in the thick shade; and Marley walked beside Mandy Bradshaw, keeping step to the spirited music, and feeling heroic enough to charge an army.



BIRDS AND THEIR FAMILIES

BY PROF. W.K. BROOKS.

In this paper we will talk a little about the different ways in which birds bring up their children, and will say something, too, about the young birds themselves. There is almost as great a difference in the domestic habits and customs of birds as in those of human beings.

You have all heard how the ostrich lays its eggs in the sand, where the sun can shine upon them, and keep them warm, while the parent birds are away in search of food during the middle of the day. The South American ostrich (an engraving of which is given on the next page) makes use of the warmth of the sun and sand in the same way. According to Darwin, the mother does not show the least affection for her young, but leaves the labor of hatching the eggs entirely to the father, who attends to it very faithfully, but is, of course, compelled to leave the nest occasionally in search of food, selecting the middle of the day for this purpose, as the heat of the sun is then sufficient to keep the eggs from growing cold.



I suppose most of you know that if a quantity of wet decaying leaves or straw is raked together into a large pile, and covered up with a thin layer of sand or earth, and then left exposed to the sun and rain, the heat given off by the decay of the vegetable matter forming the inside of the pile will be retained until, after a few weeks, the interior of the heap becomes so warm that, when the mound is broken open, a thick cloud of smoke and steam will rise from it. The mound-building "brush-turkey" of Australia, New Guinea, and the neighboring islands, has somehow learned this fact; and also, that the steady and equal heat generated is sufficient to hatch its eggs. So, instead of making a nest and sitting upon the eggs until they are hatched, this bird, which has very large and powerful feet, scratches up a huge pile of decaying twigs, leaves and grass, thus making a mound often six or eight feet high, and containing enough material to load several wagons, in which the eggs are buried. The young birds are not helpless when hatched, like the young of most of our singing birds, but are quite strong and active, and able to burrow their way out of the mound, and take care of themselves immediately.

Some birds provide for their young in still another way. They neither sit and hatch their own eggs, nor provide an artificial incubator; but go quietly and drop an egg into the nest of another bird, and allow this bird to act as a nurse, hatching the egg and finding food for the young bird. The most notable example of this habit among birds is the case of the European cuckoo. This bird never builds a nest, or shows the least love or even recognition of its young. The cuckoo always selects the nest of a bird much smaller than itself, and as its eggs are much smaller than those usually laid by a bird of its size, they are no larger than those which properly belong in the nest; so that the owners do not appear to discover the deception put upon them, but treat all the eggs alike. As soon as the young cuckoo is hatched he begins to grow very fast, and as he is larger and stronger than the other nestlings, he manages to get the lion's share of the food which the old birds bring to the nest. It would seem as if robbing his foster brothers and sisters of part of their nest, of the attention and care of their parents, and of nearly all of their food, might be enough to satisfy the young cuckoo; but it is not. He wants not part, but, everything—the whole nest, all the care of the old birds, and all of the food—for himself; so, when the old birds are away, he pushes himself under one of the little nestlings, which is of course too small and weak to help itself, and throws it out of the nest to die. In this way he murders all his foster-brothers, and if any eggs are still unhatched he throws them out too. He now has all the attention of the old birds to himself, for they continue to treat him as affectionately as if he were really one of their own children, and go on bringing him food, and attending to all his wants, long after he has grown to be as large as themselves, or even larger.



We have two species of cuckoo in the United States, but each of them builds a nest of its own, and rears its own young, although our yellow-billed cuckoo is a very bad nest-builder, and is said often to desert its young, leaving them to starve unless other birds take pity upon them and bring them food. Most of our smaller birds are very sympathetic during the breeding season, and are ready to give food and care to any young bird which needs it, even if it is not one of their own species.

Although our American cuckoos have not, as a general thing, the bad habits of those of Europe, we have another very common bird which is hatched and brought up by strangers. Every boy who lives in the country knows the cow-bird, cow-blackbird, or cow-bunting, for it is called by all these names. It is a small bird, a little larger than the bobolink and of much the same shape. The male has a dark-brown head and a bright greenish-black back and wings, but the female is so much lighter in color that you would hardly believe that they belong to the same species. These birds are very abundant in the spring and summer, and may be seen in flocks flying and feeding in company with the red-winged blackbirds. They are often found among the cattle and sheep in the pastures and barn-yards, and they derive all of their common names from this habit. Although nearly related to the orioles, which make such wonderful nests, the cow-birds make none at all, but lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, such as the blue-bird, chipping-bird, song-sparrow, yellow-bird, and some thrushes and fly-catchers. Like the cuckoo, this bird usually chooses the nest of a bird much smaller than itself, but as its egg is not small, the deception is at once discovered, and the birds whose nest has been selected for this purpose are very much disturbed. It is necessary for the female cow-bird to find a nest in which the owners have just begun laying, for if the owners have no eggs of their own they will desert the nest, and if their own eggs are somewhat advanced before the cow-bird's egg is laid, their own young will hatch first, and the parents will then leave the nest to hunt for food, thus allowing the cow-bird's egg to become cold and die.

When the female cow-bird is ready to lay her egg, she often has great trouble in discovering a nest at just the right stage. She leaves the flock and perches upon some tree or bush, where she can have a good view of all that is going on. When she discovers a nest by watching the actions of its owners, she waits for an opportunity when both the owners are away, when she approaches it very stealthily, but quickly, keeping a very sharp watch, to be sure that she is not observed. If she finds that the nest is fit for her purpose,—that is, if the birds have laid only a part of their regular number of eggs,—she drops one of her own eggs into it, and then disappears as swiftly and quietly as she came. If she is unable to find a suitable nest in her own vicinity, she goes in search of one, examining every thicket and bush—sometimes for a long distance—until she finds one. A gentleman once followed a cow-bird along the shore of a stream for two miles before she succeeded in finding a nest which satisfied her. Occasionally, two or more cow-birds' eggs are found in the same nest. It is not known whether both of these are laid by the same bird, but it is more probable that in such a case as this two cow-birds have visited the same nest.

The egg of the cow-bird has one interesting and important peculiarity. It is necessary, as we have seen, that this should be hatched before the other eggs; for if it were not, the old birds would stop sitting and allow it to become cold as soon as their own young were hatched. This danger, however, has been provided against, since the egg of the cow-bird needs only eight or nine days of incubation, while the eggs of those birds in whose nests it is usually found require from twelve to fifteen days. A short time after the young cow-bird is hatched, all the other eggs disappear, and they may sometimes be found on the ground, broken, at a considerable distance from the nest,—so far away that the young cow-bird could not possibly have thrown them there. The way in which they are removed from the nest is not known, as no one has yet watched closely enough to say whether the parents themselves destroy them, or whether the female cow-bird returns to the nest and removes them, to give more room for her own young when hatched.

I have already said that the smaller birds are very much disturbed and troubled when they find one of these eggs in their nest, and are very apt to desert it and go to another place if they have not yet any eggs of their own. Our common yellow-bird, however, is sometimes wise enough to find a better way out of its trouble. It values its neatly finished nest too highly to desert it, and it is not strong enough to lift the big egg and throw it over the edge, so it gathers a new supply of hay and hair, and makes a false bottom to cover up the egg. Then it makes a new lining to the nest, and lays its own eggs upon that, so that the cow-bird's egg does not receive any of the warmth from its body, and never hatches.



I have given you several reasons for believing that birds are able to think for themselves; but I do not see how anything could prove this more clearly than this expedient of the yellow-bird for saving its young from destruction by preventing the hatching of the cow-bird's egg.

Before leaving the subject of birds'-nests, I must say a few words about the immense number of birds which sometimes gather in one place for the purpose of raising their young. The enormous flocks of wild pigeons, which from time to time visit certain parts of the United States, have a definite portion of the woods, often several miles in extent, where they gather every night. This is called the "roost," and here they build their nests and rear their young. There are so many at these roosts that it is not always safe to go under the trees, for large branches are often broken off by the weight of the birds and their nests.

If you wish to know more about these pigeon-roosts, you will find long accounts of them in the books about birds, by those two celebrated men, Wilson and Audubon. Audubon's account of a roost which he visited in Kentucky is very interesting and well worth your reading. It is printed in the first volume of his "Ornithological Biography," and also, I believe, in the "Life of Audubon, the Naturalist."

In these books, and in the other works of Audubon and Wilson, you will also find much instructive and entertaining information in regard to all of our common birds. Most of our sea-birds are very wild, as they are much hunted by man, and on this account they build their nests and rear their young on inaccessible and uninhabited rocky islands, and the number of sea-birds which gather upon these islands during the breeding season is almost beyond belief; but the following account of Ailsa Craig, by Nathaniel P. Rodgers (the "Craig" is a rocky island on the west of Scotland), will give some idea of their abundance at such places:

It was a naked rock, rising nine hundred and eighty feet abruptly out of the sea. A little level space projected on one side, with a small house on it. We could not conjecture the use of a habitation there. The captain of the steamer said it was the governor's house. We asked him what a governor could do there.

"Take care of the birds," he replied.

"What sort of birds?" we asked him.

"Sea-fowl of all sorts," he said. "They inhabit the Craig, and ye'll may be see numbers of them. They are quite numerous, and people have been in the habit of firing to alarm the birds, to see them fly."

He ordered his boy to bring the musket. The boy returned, and said it had been left behind at Glasgow.

"Load up the swivel, then," said the captain; "it will be all the better. It will make quite a flight, ye'll find. Load her up pretty well."

The steamer meanwhile kept nearing the giant craig, which was a bare rock from summit to the sea. We saw caves in the sides of the mountain. We had got so near as to see the white birds flitting across the black entrances of the caverns like bees about a hive. With the spy-glass we could see them distinctly, and in very considerable numbers, and at length approached so that we could see them on the ledges all over the sides of the mountain.

We had passed the skirt of the Craig, and were within half a mile, or less, of its base. With the glass we could now see the entire mountain-side peopled with the sea-fowl, and could hear their whimpering, household cry, as they moved about, or nestled in domestic snugness on the ten thousand ledges. The air, too, about the precipices seemed to be alive with them. Still we had not the slightest conception of their frightful multitude. We got about against the center of the mountain when the swivel was fired, with a reverberation like the discharge of a hundred cannon, and what a sight followed! They rose up from that mountain—the countless millions and millions of sea-birds—in a universal, overwhelming cloud, that covered the whole heavens, and their cry was like the cry of an alarmed nation. Up they went,—millions upon millions,—ascending like the smoke of a furnace,—countless as the sands on the sea-shore,—awful, dreadful for multitude, as if the whole mountain were dissolving into life and light; and, with an unearthly kind of lament, took up their lines of flight in every direction off to sea! The sight startled the people on board the steamer, who had often witnessed it before, and for some minutes there ensued a general silence. For our own part, we were quite amazed and overawed at the spectacle. We had seen nothing like it before. We had never witnessed sublimity to be compared to that rising of sea-birds from Ailsa Craig. They were of countless varieties in kind and size, from the largest goose to the small marsh-bird, and of every conceivable variety of dismal note. Off they moved, in wild and alarmed rout, like a people going into exile; filling the air, far and wide, with their reproachful lament at the wanton cruelty which had driven them away.

This is only one of these breeding-places, but most of the rocky, inaccessible cliffs and uninhabited islands of the northern and southern shores of both continents are visited, at certain seasons, by sea-birds in equally great numbers.

No subject connected with the history of birds furnishes more interesting material for study than that of instinct. Young birds of different species show that they have very different degrees of instinctive knowledge. Some are able to take the entire care of themselves, and do not need a mother to watch over them; others, on the contrary, are perfectly helpless, and need teaching before they can do anything for themselves, except breathe, and swallow what is put into their mouths. The young chicken, a short time after it leaves the egg, knows how to take care of itself nearly as well as the young mound-bird. It can run after its mother, use its eyes, pick up food, and answer the call of the old hen; and it does all this without instruction. How different it is in all these respects from the young barn-swallow! This is blind, and unable to run, or even to stand, knowing only enough to open its mouth when it hears the old bird return to the nest, and to swallow the food placed in its open bill. Far from knowing by instinct how to use its wings, as the young chick does its legs, it does not learn this until it is well grown, and has had several lessons in flying; and even then it flies badly, and improves only after long practice. After it has learned to fly, it is still very helpless and baby-like, and very different from the active, bright-eyed, independent little chick of the barn-yard; and, indeed, the young of all the Rasores, or scratching birds, such as the hen, the quail, the partridge, the pheasant and the turkey. In the admirable picture of an English pheasant and its brood, on page 610, you will see how very much like young chicks the young pheasants are.



The scratching birds are not the only ones which can take care of themselves at an early age. This is true of the running birds, such as the ostrich; and the same is the case with many of the wading birds, such as the woodcock; and among the swimming birds, there are several kinds that take full care of themselves soon after leaving the shell.



In the picture on the preceding page you have a pair of mallard ducks with three young ones, which are all able to swim and dive as well as their parents. You all know that, far from standing in need of instruction, young ducks take to the water by instinct, even when they have been brought up by a hen; and they know that they are perfectly safe upon it, although the anxious hen tries in every way to restrain them and to call them back. There are many ways in which some of our young birds show their really wonderful instincts, but there is nothing more curious in this respect than the habits of the little chickens, which most of us have opportunities of noticing,—if we choose to take the trouble. These little creatures, almost as soon as they are born, understand what their mother "clucks" to them; they know that they must hide when a hawk is about; they often scratch the ground for food before they see their mother or any other chicken do so; they are careful not to catch bees instead of flies; and they show their early smartness in many ways which are well worth watching.

But, sometimes, a brood of these youngsters find something that puzzles them, as when they meet with a hard-shelled beetle, who looks too big to eat and yet too small for a playmate.



RAIN.

BY EDGAR FAWCETT.

Oh, the Rain has many fitful moods Ere the merry summer closes,— From the first chirp of the robin-broods To the ruin of the roses!

Through the sunshine's gold her glitter steals, In the doubtful April weather, When the world seems trying how it feels To be sad and glad together.

Now and then, on quiet sultry eves, From her low persistent patter, She would seem confiding to the leaves An extremely solemn matter.

Then, again, you see her from the sky Such a mighty flood unfolding, That you wonder if Old Earth knows why It receives so hard a scolding!

Yet we learn to fancy, day by day, As we watch her softly shining, That she has no cloud, however gray, But it wears a silver lining!

For in autumn, though with tears she tells How the lands grow sad and darken, Yet in spring her drops are tinkling bells For the sleeping flowers to hearken!

And her tinted bow seems Love's own proof, As it gleams with colors seven,— Like a stately dome upon the roof Of her palace, high in heaven!



SNEEZE DODSON'S FIRST INDEPENDENCE DAY.

BY MRS. M.H.W. JAQUITH.

The usually quiet town of Greenville was in a hurly-burly of excitement on this Fourth of July morning, because of the great Sunday-school picnic, which was to take place on a fine ground, two miles distant. In the fervor of patriotism and the bustle of preparing for the picnic-celebration, almost every house in the village resounded with shouts and noises; and all the children were on the tip-toe of expectation and delight. Deacon Ebenezer Dodson sat in the arm-chair in the "spare room," staring out of the window, and trying to think up the speech he was to make that day. For he had been chosen by the town-committee to open the exercises upon the stand with an appropriate oration; and though he had mused and muttered and studied over it, from the day when he was first requested to "perform" until this eventful morning itself, he had not yet succeeded in composing a speech which satisfied him.

"The flies bother the horses so, I can't practice on it in the field, and my only chance is o' nights," he had often explained to his wife; but his nightly meditations on it had been disturbed by such foreign remarks as this:

"I say, Eb" (that was her family name for him; away from home she always said "Deacon"), "you haint gone off to sleep, be you? I should feel masterly cut up ef my cake should be heavy, an' everybody on the grounds will know it's mine from the marks o' my name I'm goin' to put on the frostin',"—by which she meant her initials done in red, white, and blue powdered sugar.

And again:

"Do you remember Mis' Deacon Pogue's pound-cake at the d'nation party las' winter? She'd bragged on it to every livin' soul, an', when they came to cut it, there was a solid streak of dough right through the middle from eend to eend. She didn't happin to be 'round when 'twas cut, an' I thought it was my duty to let her see a piece, so she'd know how to better it next time, and she was so mad, she's turned up her nose at me ever sence."

The Deacon here murmured something beginning "Ninthly," for he had arranged his speech in heads; but she kept on with such inspiring memories, that he had poor chance to get up that "Speech by Deacon Dodson," the sight of which legend on the printed programme had aroused in him a fixed determination to do or die. But it seemed to him, as he sat there, that it would be die; for not one "head" could he call up clearly, and ever and anon his wife would cry out for wood or water, or to state some fact concerning her cake or chickens.

Just now her rusk was the all-absorbing topic of thought. More than twenty times she had looked at the dough and reported its "rise" to the unsympathetic Deacon, who was pumping his arms up and down, and trying to disentangle his "firstly" and "secondly."

"The procession is going to form at nine o'clock punctial, and march to the grounds, and so there's no use of dressing Bubby twice," Mrs. Dodson had said, so that youth of three summers was wandering around in his night-gown, and had taken so active an interest in the proceedings that Mrs. Dodson had several times sent him to his father, complaining, "I never did see him so upstroferlous before."

Sneeze—so called because he was named for his father, and it was necessary to distinguish them—was hurried in from the barn; his ears were boxed for "not bein' 'round to take care of Bubby," and then he was sent with him to the barn.

Deacon had been duly badgered and pestered about household troubles. He had helped to put on Bubby's shoes—now far too small—and tried to hook Mrs. Dodson's dress—similarly outgrown. But he was at length exasperated into saying:

"By George! I can't think of a word of my speech, you bother me so!"

"You fairly make my blood run cold to be sayin' sech words as that on this Fourth o' July mornin', which you always said was nex' door to swearin'!" replied his wife; but her stream of talk was frozen up for the time, and they were at length dressed, packed, and rattling over the stony hills in a lumber-wagon.

"Wal, this seems quite like Independence Day," she said musingly. "I remember once goin' to a reg'lar picnic when I was about the bigness of Sneeze there, an' we had an awful good time. Mother'd plegged herself to git up somethin' that nobody else'd have, an' finally she made a lot o' figger four doughnuts to stand for Fourth o' July, you know, an' Aunt Jane, she that was a Green, Uncle Josiah's first wife, was kind o' jealous 'cause people noticed them more'n her cookin', an' she said they was shortened with toughening till nobody couldn't eat 'em. It come right straight back to mother, an' they never spoke for better'n a year—no, 'twas just a year, come to think, for mother took sick in bed very nex' Fourth, an' then Aunt Jane confessed humble enough, and they made up."

Sneeze had been listening, and while his mother paused for breath, he asked, "What do we keep Fourth of July for, an' what makes 'em call it Independence Day? I heard Reub Blake say that was the true name of it."

"Why, Sneeze, I'm 'shamed of you that you don't know that much. It is because George Washington was born on that day, or died; which was it, father? An' he fought for our independence. Besides, he never told a lie, as it tells about in the spellin'-book."

"Yes, it was something of that natur'," said the Deacon; "you'll know all about it to-day when we come to speak and make our orations."

"Yes, Sneeze, an' Cynthia Ann, your father is goin' to be a speaker on the stage; but you mus'n't feel set-up over the other girls an' boys whose fathers an' mothers aint app'inted as speakers an' on the table committee. You must listen to what father says."

They promised faithfully, and this is what Sneeze would have heard if he had kept his pledge; but to tell the truth, he was at that time going around with another boy looking into the baskets, and speculating on the length of time before dinner.

"Deacon Ebenezer Dodson, the first speaker on the programme, will now address the assembly," announced the chairman in a stentorian voice, after the procession had formed, marched, settled down, and were ready for the "exercises of the day." The Deacon stepped forward, and, with very evident shaking of the knees, with coughs and ahems, glancing to the right of him and to the left of him, to the heavens above and the earth beneath, with trembling voice he began:

"Firstly, my friends and fellow-citizens of this great country, this institution which we have come here to celebrate was instituted a great many hundred years ago,—leastways, if not quite so long, since this institution was instituted all men are free and equal"—(a long pause); "and since this institution was instituted in this great country, we have Sunday-schools and can go to church." Another pause.

"Secondly, little children, friends and fellow-citizens of this great country, let us all use rightly and not abuse the advantages of this institution which has been instituted for us, and go to church and Sunday-school, and—and—I see Deacon Pogue is waiting to make some remarks, and my friends and fellow-citizens of this great country, I will detain you no longer to dwell upon this institution, which was instituted to—to—" Here somebody benevolently thought to cheer, and the "Hip, hip, hurrahs!" were taken up so lustily by the small boys, that the magnetic sound warmed the Deacon into "Thirdly;" but Deacon Pogue had stepped briskly forward, and so with a bow, and "Good-by, my friends and fellow-citizens of this great country," he descended to his delighted wife, who received him with many proud and joyful congratulations.



Deacon Pogue was more ready and noisy, but spoke quite as much to the point as Deacon Dodson. He was followed by several others, none of whom could be omitted without giving offense, and at length, with a great flourish, the chairman announced "The orator of the day, Captain Buzwell, from Thornton, who has kindly consented to honor us," etc.

He was a lawyer with a gift of tongues, and his first few words brought all the hitherto indifferent assembly quietly near the stand. After a few well-put anecdotes, he said: "But to come back to the subject in hand: one of your eloquent speakers has called this Fourth of July an 'institution.' That was a novel and happy idea. It is an 'institution,' and upon it are founded all of our institutions,—free schools, free religion, free speech, free press, free ballots, free action: freedom everywhere for all men free and equal is founded on this glorious 'institution,' the corner-stone of which was laid Fourth of July, 1776."

At this point so great was Mrs. Dodson's conjugal pride, and so fearful was she that her husband was not attending to the speaker's flattery, that she poked him with her parasol till the Deacon was "fain to cry out," as Bunyan says. When quiet was restored, the speaker continued:

"Another gifted orator has said,"—and, quoting something from Deacon Pogue's pointless remarks, he made them also seem full of meaning; and so on through the list of "distinguished speakers," till each one felt that he himself had spoken most effectively.

Having thus pleased and interested all parties, he followed with an instructive, historical speech, to which Sneeze, doughnut and cheese in hand, listened so intently, that he found out at last "why they kept Fourth of July."

After the speech and "appropriate instrumental music by the band," which consisted of a drum and a bass-viol, the people dispersed to amuse themselves as they saw fit, till dinner should be announced.

Mrs. Dodson, as "Table Committee," was disposed to magnify her office. She kept the Deacon standing guard over her basket till nearly all the rest were emptied, having reserved conspicuous places on the table for her goodies. Taking advantage of her rival's presence, smiling sweetly, she said as she opened the basket, "Mis' Pogue, your vittles look so nice, I'm real 'shamed to bring mine out at all."

"But all the while I knew she was proud as Lucifer over 'em, and thought she'd throw me quite in the shade," Mrs. Pogue told her next neighbor that afternoon. "Her big cards of rusk did look nice, but her mince-pies had slipped over into the custards, and they had dripped onto her cake so it looked just awful! and that red-headed Sneeze had squeezed her jelly-cake into flap-jacks, most likely by settin' on the basket. I never see anybody so cut up in my life; her face was redder than a beet."

And Mrs. Dodson said to the Deacon that night, "I did feel despritly morterfied over my squashed vittles, with Mis' Pogue a-lookin' on with all her eyes."

But when "the orator of the day" ate of her rusk, and said, "Mrs. Dodson, these rusk have a peculiar taste, just such as those my dead mother used to make for me when I was a boy, and I want you to give me the recipe for my wife," and he took it down in his note-book, there was full compensation for all her trials.

When all had eaten all they could, the young folk and children swung, played ball, or "chased the squirrel" with the delightful penalty of kissing it when caught, or rambled about at will, while the mothers gathered the dishes together, and exchanged recipes and confidential remarks on somebody's cookin'.

By four o'clock the babies were fretful; children of Bubby's age complained that their shoes and clothes were too tight; somebody suggested going home. In vain the young people protested—an hour from that time the grounds were deserted; the lumber of the stage, made sacred by such oratory, had been gathered up with the seats and tables, and where so much of life had been, all was silence.

A neighbor's hired man was riding home with the Dodsons, but as Mrs. Dodson did not mind him, she at once began to congratulate her husband on his maiden speech. "Cappen Buzwell said you made the best oration there was made to-day, Deacon. Did you pay 'tention, Sneeze, an' hear what he said 'bout your father's speakin'?"

The Deacon modestly put in a faint, "Now, mother, don't," but she interrupted him: "Yis I shall, for it's so, father, an' I'm goin' to say my say. Besides, he told me, with tears in his eyes, that my rusk tasted just like his dead mother's. But ef you'd only seen him tryin' to eat one o' Mis' Pogue's doughnuts as if they was real good, when I could see they was half chokin' of him!"

"That there man from town did make a purty considerable speech," said the Deacon; "not so hefty as some I've heard, but real instructing. It made me feel as though I wanted to fight somebody—purty much as I used to when I was a boy, and heard my father tell how he fit in the war of eighteen hundred and twelve, and his grandsir in the Revolutionary war."

"I guess you wasn't in any o' them wars?" stated the hired man, inquiringly.

"No; I wasn't born then, and o' course I couldn't; but my father used to tell us about it on trainin'-day nights. Trainin'-day was a great time, with its uniforms and feathers; my father was a sarjint, and we had gingerbread and federal cake."

"Well," burst out Sneeze, "if ever I get a chance I'm goin' to be a soldier, an' fight for my country, as George Washington did. I just wish we'd have trainin'-day now, and that Fourth of July came every day. Then, too, when I'm a man, I'm goin' to marry Eliza Johnson, for she—"

"Shut up, Sneeze!" put in Mrs. Dodson. "Little boys like you ought to be seen and not heard; when your parents make speeches and rusk at Fourth o' July celebrations that them that was good judges says was most interestin', you had ought to be listenin' to their talkin' and learnin' o' them. Here's Bubby a tunin' for somethin' to eat; give him one of them rusk out of the basket, an' stop your nonsense."

Sneeze's face was as red as his hair, and not another word did he say; but his dreams that night were a mixture of feathers, soldiers and pound-cake, Eliza Johnson, mother and speeches, and thus ended his first memorable Independence Day.



MEADOW TALK.

BY CAROLINE LESLIE.



A bumble-bee, yellow as gold, Sat perched on a red-clover top, When a grasshopper, wiry and old, Came along with a skip and a hop. "Good-morrow!" cried he, "Mr. Bumble-Bee! You seem to have come to a stop."

"We people that work," Said the bee with a jerk, "Find a benefit sometimes in stopping; Only insects like you, Who have nothing to do, Can keep up a perpetual hopping."

The grasshopper paused on his way, And thoughtfully hunched up his knees; "Why trouble this sunshiny day," Quoth he, "with reflections like these? I follow the trade for which I was made; We all can't be wise bumble-bees.

"There's a time to be sad, And a time to be glad; A time both for working and stopping; For men to make money, For you to make honey, And for me to do nothing but hopping."



A BOY'S EXPERIENCE WITH TAR MARBLES.

BY C.S.N.

Almost all boys, at some period of their lives, devote their spare time to playing with marbles, and I certainly was not unlike other boys in this respect. My fondness for marbles began very early, and when I was about seven years old led me into a curious experience, which I am about to relate. A great rivalry for acquiring marbles had suddenly arisen at that time among the boys of the town, and to possess as many of the little round beauties as my oldest brother owned, soon became the desire of my heart and the height of my ambition.

I had already obtained a large number, when one day I overheard my oldest brother telling one of his schoolmates that he had made the important discovery that marbles could be formed from coal-tar, of which there was a large quantity on a certain street in a distant part of the town. He did not condescend to explain the process of manufacture, but he showed the marbles he had made,—black, round, and glossy. The sight inspired me with ardent desire to possess an unlimited quantity.

My brother told me just where the coveted treasure was to be found, and, in the afternoon, I started off, without confiding to any one my intention, to find the spot and lay in a supply of the raw material, which I could convert into marbles at my leisure. Delightful visions of bags filled with treasure, dancing through my brain, hastened the rate of my speed almost to a run, before I arrived at the goal of my hopes. It was a very hot July afternoon, and I was in a violent heat; but the sight of the heaps of coal-tar put all thoughts of anything unpleasant quite out of my head; it caused me to forget also that I had on a suit of new clothes, of which I had been cautioned by my mother to be extremely careful.

I need hardly remark that I was not very well acquainted with the substance I was handling, and my only idea of its qualities was, that it could be molded into any shape I pleased. I was not aware that it has all the qualities of ordinary tar,—melts with heat, and becomes the toughest, stickiest, most unmanageable of substances with which a small boy can come into contact.

I fell to work to collect what I wanted to carry home. I filled the pockets of my pantaloons, and of my jacket, and lastly, when these were stuffed to their utmost capacity, I filled the crown of my hat so full that it would hardly go on my head. The place was at some distance from my home, and I did not wish to have to return immediately for more.

With a heart filled with triumph, I started off toward home. By this time I began to realize that the weather was not cool. It had been a long walk, and I was pretty tired, but I was also in a great hurry to begin making marbles, so I walked as fast as I could. After a little time I began to be sensible of a disagreeable feeling of stickiness about my waist, and a slight trickling sensation in the region of the knees.

A cloud not bigger than a man's hand flitted across my horizon,—perhaps coal-tar might melt?

I resolved to ascertain; and, like the famous old woman with her "yard of black pudding," I very soon found it was much easier to obtain what I wanted, than to know what to do with it when I had it. A very slight inspection of my pockets satisfied me that coal-tar was capable of becoming liquid, and, if I needed further evidence, the sable rivulets that began to meander down the sides of my face gave ample corroboration of the fact. I tried to take off my hat, but it would not come.

I looked down at my new trousers with feelings of dismay. Ominous spots of a dismal hue were certainly growing larger. I tried to get the tar out of my pockets, but only succeeded in covering my hands with the black, unmanageable stuff, which at that moment I regarded as one of those inventions of the devil, to entrap little boys, of which I had often been warned, but to which I had given no heed. If it was a trap, I was certainly caught; there was no doubt of that. But I was not without some pluck, and in my case, as in that of many another brave, my courage in facing the present calamity was aided by my fear of another still more to be dreaded.



That I should get a whipping for spoiling my new suit, if I could not manage to get the tar off, I was quite certain, and I had had no permission to go from home, and on the whole the outlook was not cheerful in that direction. Quite driven to desperation, I seated myself on the ground, and tried to scrape off the black spots, which had now extended to formidable dimensions; while I could feel small streams coming down inside of the collar of my shirt, and causing rather singular suggestions of a rope around my neck. My labor was all in vain. I got a good deal off, but there seemed to be an inexhaustible quantity on. I gave it up in despair, and burst into uncontrollable sobs. The flow of tears thinned the lava-like fluid, and it now resembled ink, which covered my face like a veil; but in the extremity of my anguish a hope dawned upon me. I found that I could wipe off with my hand this thinner solution, and if water would do it, water was plenty, and I would wash it off. A cousin of mine lived not very far off, and I knew that in the yard of her house there was a pump. Inspired by this idea, I set off at a run, and did not slacken my pace until I reached the spot. Here another difficulty met me. I could not reach the handle of the pump so as to get the benefit of the stream from its mouth, and it was only a complete shower-bath that would restore me to respectability. I set to work to find a rope, and fastened together quite a complicated piece of machinery, as I thought, by which I managed to pump the ice-cold water upon my devoted head. The effect was not as immediate as I had hoped. But I had faith if a little was good, more must be better. Creak—creak—creak—went the pump-handle, which did more work that afternoon than in half a dozen days' washing.

Creak—creak—creak! But the tar only became harder and harder, until I was encased in sheet-armor, like the famous Black Knight. Presently, my cousin Jenny, an especial friend of mine, hearing such continual pumping, and becoming anxious for the family supply of water, came out to see what was the matter. Seeing a small figure curled up under the spout of the pump, drenched to the skin and black as Othello, she stooped down to investigate the phenomenon. Oh, what was my despair when she discovered who it was, and in what plight!

To say she laughed would be to give a feeble idea of the peals of laughter that succeeded each other as she stood and looked at me. She would try to control her merriment for a moment, only to break forth afresh, until she was obliged to sit down from sheer exhaustion. Every time she glanced at my woe-begone countenance, and drenched condition, she would go into fresh convulsions of fun. At last she recovered breath enough to inquire into my case, and to assure me she would do what she could for me; but she soon found, to my despair, that what she could do was not much to my relief. The clothes could not be got off, and certainly they could never be got clean. She did manage, with a strong pair of shears, to cut off the pockets in my breeches, and then, fearing my mother would be alarmed, she bade me go home, and she would promise to secure me against a whipping.

I fancy she thought this last promise would be easily kept.

Somewhat comforted, I took up my line of march toward the paternal roof, but, as I went along, my heart began to sink again; visions of a rod, with which my not too saintly character had made me somewhat familiar, loomed up before me; but worse than all, the thought of my brother's ridicule made my sensitive spirit quail. I thought I would evade all for that night, however, by going quietly up the back stairs, going to bed, and "playing sick." Fortune favored me. I reached the bedroom without being seen; and, just as I was, with my hat on, for it could only have come off with my scalp, I got into bed, and covered myself entirely up with the bed-clothes. It was now dusk, and I felt for the moment quite safe. Presently my aunt came into the room to get something for which she was looking, and I could hear her give several inquiring sniffs, and as she went out I heard her say: "I certainly do smell tar; where can it come from?" An interval of peace followed, and then in came my mother. "Tar? Smell tar? Of course you do; it's strong enough in this room. Bring a light."



It was the sound of doom!

My mother soon came close up to the bed, and held the light so that it fell full upon me as she tried to turn down the bed-clothing. Probably, if it had not been for several previous scrapes in which I had been involved, she would have been much frightened; but as it was, the sight of her young blackamoor had much the same effect upon her as upon my cousin. Her exclamations and shrieks of laughter brought every member of the household successively to the room, and as one after another came in, fresh zest seemed to be given to the merriment of which I was the unfortunate victim.

But every renewal of the fun was an added agony to me, for I clearly foresaw that it would be rehearsed by Jack and Tom to all the boys in the neighborhood. Beside this, I was not in a condition to be hilarious. Plastered with tar from head to foot; streaming with perspiration at every pore; my clothes drenched; my hair matted together, and my straw hat, soaked with water, fastened upon it, and falling limp and wet about my eyes; I was not rendered more comfortable by the fact that I could not move without taking pillow and bed-clothes with me, as, in my desperate desire to conceal myself from view, I had become enwrapped in the bed-clothing like a caterpillar in its chrysalis; and I was conscious of a dim fear that if I sat up, with the pillow stuck fast on the top of my hat, the sight of me might produce fatal results upon the already exhausted family.

At last the point was reached where I thought patience ceased to be a virtue, and I rebelled against being any longer made a spectacle.

I declared if they would all go away but mother, I would tell her all about it. The crowd retired, commissioned to send up a crock of butter, a tub of hot water, and a pair of shears. Maternal love is strong, but I doubt if it was often put to a severer test of its long-suffering than was that of my mother that night.



Suffice it to say that, after my clothes had been cut to ribbons, the sheets torn up, my head well-nigh shaved, and my whole person subjected first to an African bath of melted butter, and afterward to one of hot soap-suds, I had had my fill of bathing for one day, and was, shortly before midnight, pronounced to be tolerably clean.

P.S.—I never made any marbles of coal-tar.



DAB KINZER: A STORY OF A GROWING BOY

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER V.

During the week which followed the wedding-day, the improvements on the Morris house were pushed along in a way that surprised everybody.

Every day that passed, and with every dollar's worth of work that was done, the good points of the long-neglected old mansion came out stronger and stronger; for Mrs. Kinzer's plans had been a good while getting ready, and she knew exactly what was best to be done.

Before the end of the week Mr. Foster came over, bringing Ford with him, and he soon arrived at an understanding with Dabney's mother.

"A very business-like, common-sense sort of a woman," he remarked to his son. "But what a great, dangling, overgrown piece of a boy that is. Still, you may find him good company."

"No doubt," said Ford, "and thus I can be useful to him. He looks as if he could learn if he had a fair chance."

"I should say so," responded Mr. Foster, thoughtfully; "and we mustn't expect too much of fellows brought up away out here, as he has been."

Ford gravely assented.

There was a surprise in store for the village people; for, early in the following week it was rumored from house to house, "The Kinzers are all a-movin' over to Ham Morris's."

And before the public mind was settled enough to inquire into the matter, the rumor was changed into, "The Widder Kinzer's moved to Ham's house, bag and baggage."

So it was, although the carpenters and painters and glaziers were still at work, and the piles of Kinzer furniture had to be stowed around as best could be. Some of them had even to be locked up overnight in one of the barns.

The Kinzers, for generations, had been a trifle weak about furniture, and that was one of the reasons why there was so little room for human beings in their house. The little parlor, indeed, had been filled till it put one in mind of a small "furniture store" with not room enough to show the stock on hand, and some of the other parts of the house required knowledge and care to walk about in them.

Bad for a small house, truly, but not so much so when the same articles were given a fair chance to spread themselves.

It was a treat to Dab to watch while the new carpets were put down, one after another, and then to see how much at home and comfortable the furniture looked as it was moved into its new quarters.

Mrs. Kinzer took care that the house she left should speak well of her to the eyes of Mrs. Foster, when that lady came to superintend the arrival of her own household goods.

The character of these, by the way, at once convinced the village gossips that "lawyer Foster must be a good deal forehanded in money matters." And so he was, even more than his furniture indicated. Ford had a wonderful deal to do with the settlement of his family in their new home, and it was not until nearly the close of the week that he found time for more than an occasional glance over the north fence.

"Take the two farms together," his father had said to him, "and they make a really fine estate. I learn, too, that the Kinzers have other property. Your young acquaintance is likely to have a very good start in the world."

Ford had found out nearly as much on his own account, but he had long since learned the uselessness of trying to teach his father anything, however well he might succeed with ordinary people, and so he had said nothing.

"Dabney," said Mrs. Kinzer, that Friday evening, "you've been a great help all the week. Suppose you take the ponies to-morrow morning, and ask young Foster out for a drive."

"Mother," exclaimed Samantha, "I shall want the ponies myself. I've some calls to make, and some shopping. Dabney will have to drive."

"No, Sam," remarked Dabney; "if you go out with the ponies to-morrow, you'll have my old clothes to drive you."

"What do you mean?" asked Samantha.

"I mean, with Dick Lee in them."

"That would be just as well," said Mrs. Kinzer. "The ponies are gentle enough, and Dick drives well. He'll be glad enough to go."

"Dick Lee, indeed!" began Samantha.

"A fine boy," interrupted Dab, "and he's beginning to dress well. His new clothes fit him beautifully. All he really needs is a shirt, and I'll give him one. Mine are getting too small."

"Well, Dabney," said Mrs. Kinzer, "I've been thinking about it. You ought not to be tied down all the while. Suppose you take next week pretty much to yourself. Samantha wont want the ponies every day. The other horses have all got to work, or I'd let you have one of them."

Dabney got up, for want of a better answer, and walked over to where his mother was sitting, and gave the thoughtful matron a good, sounding kiss.

At the same time he could not help thinking, "This comes of Ham Morris and my new rig."

"There Dabney, that'll do," said his mother; "but how'll you spend Saturday?"

"Guess I'll take Ford Foster out in the bay a-crabbing, if he'll go," replied Dabney. "I'll run over and ask him."

It was not too late, and he was out of the house before there was a chance for further remarks.

"Now, he muttered," as he walked along, "I'll have to see old lawyer Foster, and Mrs. Foster, and I don't know who all, besides. I don't like that."

Just as he came to the north fence of his former residence, however, he was hailed by a clear, wide-awake voice: "Dab Kinzer, is that you?"

"Guess so," said Dab; "is that you, Ford?"

"I was just going over to your house," said Ford.

"And I was just coming to see you. I've been too busy all the week, but they've let up on me at last."

"I've got our family nearly settled," replied Ford, "and I thought I'd ask if you wouldn't like to go out with me on the bay to-morrow. Teach you to catch crabs."

Dab Kinzer drew a long, astonished sort of whistle, but he finished it with, "That's about what I was thinking of. There's plenty of crabs, and I've got a tip-top boat. We wont want a heavy one for just us two."

"All right, then. We'll begin on crabs; but some other day we'll go for bigger fish. What are you going to do next week?"

"Got it all to myself," said Dab. "We can have all sorts of a good time. We can have the ponies, too, when we want them."

"That's about as good as it knows how to be," responded the young gentleman from the city. "I'd like to explore the country. You're going to have a nice place of it over there, before you get through. Only, if I'd had the planning of that house, I'd have set it back further. Not enough trees, either."

Bab came stoutly to the defense of not only that house, but of Long Island architecture generally, and was fairly overwhelmed, for the first time in his life, by a flood of big words from a boy of his own age.

He could have eaten up Ford Foster, if properly cooked. He felt sure of that. But he was no match for him on the building question. On his way home, however, after the discussion had lasted long enough, he found himself inquiring: "That's all very nice, but what can he teach me about crabs? We'll see about that to-morrow."

The crab question was one of special importance, beyond a doubt; but one of even greater consequence to Dab Kinzer's future was undergoing discussion at that very hour, hundreds of miles away.

Quite a little knot of people there was, in a hotel parlor; and while the blooming Miranda, now Mrs. Morris, was taking her share of talk very well with the ladies, Ham was every bit as busy with a couple of elderly gentlemen.

"It's just as I say, Mr. Morris," said one of the latter, with a superfluous show of energy; "there's no better institution of its kind in the country than Grantley Academy. I send my own boys there, and I've just written about it to my brother-in-law, Foster, the New York lawyer. He'll have his boy there this fall. No better place in the country, sir."

"But how about the expenses, Mr. Hart?" asked Ham.

"Fees are just what I told you, sir, a mere nothing. As for board, all I pay for my boys is three dollars a week. All they want to eat, sir, and good accommodations. Happy as larks, sir, all the time. Cheap, sir, cheap!"

If Ham Morris had the slightest idea of going to school at a New England Academy, Miranda's place in the improved house was likely to wait for her; for he had a look on his face of being very nearly convinced.

She did not seem at all disturbed, however, and probably her husband was not looking up the school question on his own account.

That was the reason why it might have been interesting for Dab Kinzer, and even for his knowing neighbor, to have added themselves to the company Ham and Miranda had fallen in with on their wedding tour.

That night, however, Dab dreamed that a gigantic crab was trying to pull Ford Foster out of the boat, while the latter calmly remarked: "There! did you ever see anything just like that before?"



CHAPTER VI.

That Saturday morning was a sad one for poor Dick Lee!

His mother carefully locked up his elegant apparel, the gift of Mr. Dabney Kinzer, the previous night, after Dick was in bed, and, when daylight came, he found his old clothes by his bedside.

It was a hard thing to bear, no doubt, but Dick had been a bad boy on Friday. He had sold his fish instead of bringing them home, and then had gone and squandered the money on a brilliant new red neck-tie.

"Dat's good nuff for me to w'ar to meetin'," said Mrs. Lee, when her eyes fell on the gorgeous bit of cheap silk. "Reckon it wont be wasted on any good-for-nuffin boy. I'll show ye wot to do wid yer fish. You's gettin' too mighty fine, anyhow."

Dick was disconsolate for a while, but his humility took the form of a determination to go for crabs that day, mainly because his mother had long since set her face against that tribe of animals.

"Dey's a wasteful, stravagant sort ob fish," remarked Mrs. Lee, in frequent explanation of her dislike. "Dey's all clo'es and no body, like some w'ite folks I know on. I don't mean the Kinzers. Dey's all got body nuff."

And yet that inlet had a name of its own for crabs. There was a wide reach of shallow water inside the southerly point at the mouth, where, over several hundred acres of muddy flats, the depth varied from three and a half to eight feet, with the ebb and flow of the tides. That was a sort of perpetual crab-pasture, and there it was that Richard Lee determined to expend his energies that Saturday.

Very likely there would be other crabbers on the flats, but Dick was not the boy to object to that, provided none of them should notice the change in his raiment. At an early hour, therefore, Dab and Ford were preceded by their colored friend, they themselves waiting for later breakfasts than Mrs. Lee was in the habit of preparing.

Dick's ill fortune did not leave him when he got out of sight of his mother. It followed him down to the shore of the inlet, and compelled him to give up all idea, for that day, of borrowing a respectable boat. There were several belonging to the neighbors, from among which Dick was accustomed to take his pick, in return for errands run and other services done for their owners; but, on this particular morning, not one of them all was available. Some were fastened with ugly chains and padlocks. Two were hauled away above even high-water mark, and so Dick could not have got them into the water even if he had dared to try; and as for the rest, as Dick said, "Guess dar owners must hab borrowed 'em."

The consequence was that the dark-skinned young fisherman was for once compelled to put up with his own boat, or rather his father's.

The three wise men of Gotham were not much worse off when they went to sea in a bowl than was Dick Lee in that rickety little old flat-bottomed punt.

Did it leak?

Well, not so very much, with no heavier weight than Dick's; but there was reason in his remark that "Dis yer's a mean boat to frow down a fish in, w'en you cotch 'im. He's done gone suah to git drownded."

Yes, and the crabs would get their feet wet and so would Dick; but he resigned himself to his circumstances and pushed away. To tell the truth, he had not been able to free himself from a lingering fear lest his mother might come after him, before he could get afloat, with orders for some duty or other on shore, and that would have been worse than the little old "scow," a good deal.

"Reckon it's all right," said Dick, as he shoved off. "It'd be an awful risk to trus' dem nice clo'es in de ole boat, suah."

Nice clothes, nice boats, a good many other nice things, were as yet beyond the reach of Dick Lee, but he was quite likely to catch as many crabs as his more aristocratic neighbors.

As for Dabney Kinzer and his friend from the city, they were on their way to the water-side at an hour which indicated smaller appetites than usual, or greater speed at the breakfast table.

"Plenty of boats, I should say," remarked Ford, as he surveyed the little "landing" and its vicinity with the air of a man who had a few fleets of his own. "All sorts. Any of 'em fast?"

"Not many," said Dab; "the row-boats, big and little, have to be built so they'll stand pretty rough water."

"How are the sail-boats?"

"Same thing. There's Ham Morris's yacht."

"That? Why, she's as big as any in the lot."

"Bigger, but she don't show it," said Dab.

"Can't we make a cruise in her?" said Ford.

"Any time. Ham lets me use her whenever I like. She's fast enough, but she's built so she'll stand most anything. Safe as a house if she's handled right."

"Handled!"

Ford Foster's expression of face would have done honor to the Secretary of the Navy, or the chairman of the Naval Affairs Committee in Congress, or any other perfect seaman, Noah included. It seemed to say: "As if any boat could be otherwise than well sailed with me on board."

Dabney, however, even while he had been talking, had been hauling in from its "float and grapnel," about ten yards out at low water, the very stanch-looking little yawl-boat that called him owner. She was just such a boat as Mrs. Kinzer would naturally have provided for her boy,—stout, well made and sensible,—without any bad habits of upsetting, or the like. Not too large for Dabney to manage all alone, the "Jenny," as he called her, and as the name was painted on the stern, was all the better off for having two on board.