He had two teachers, the priest and the military professor. It seemed as if everything was to be learned. There was arithmetic, he learned to make figures. A round, blue dot stands for one.

Five of them make five, and ooooo-o (five and one) is six, and in that way it runs up to ten. If he wanted to say "twenty" he made a flag, and for forty he made two flags.

Just imagine such a multiplication table as this: Five times four is one flag. Flag times flag is one plume. Flag times plume is one purse! Let's see; a purse, then, would equal 8,000. Yes, and if he wanted to write 4,000 he would draw only half a purse. All the examples in their arithmetic were worked by such tables as these.

Then there were lessons in time. He had to learn that five days make a week, four weeks make a month, and eighteen months make a year; and as all that footed up only three hundred and sixty days, they threw in what they called the five unlucky days that belonged to no month, to fill up before they commenced a new year. And then he found another arrangement for doing what we do with our leap-year, for, once in fifty-two years they put in twelve and one-half extra days, which is something like setting the clock ahead when you find it is too slow by the town bell or the fire alarm.



He learned that this kind of calendar had been in use a long time, and was the result of careful study and calculation by the wise priests of the olden time; and, when he wanted to know how long, he counted up the bundles of reeds which represented centuries, and found that it had been in use over four hundred years. And all this, you must remember, was before San Salvador was discovered by Columbus. Then he had to study all about the naming of the years and the cycles. How, if this year was "one rabbit," next year would be "two cane," the third "three flint," the next "four house," and these four elements, representing air, water, fire, earth, would be thus repeated up to thirteen, and then they would commence at one again, so that the fourteenth year would be "one cane," etc., and in four of these cycles of thirteen they would reach a cycle of fifty-two years, or, as they called it, a "bundle," and as the twelve and one-half days additional would end one cycle of fifty-two years at midday, and the next at midnight, they bundled two of these together and called it "an old age." The number fifty-two was an unlucky number, and these old Mexicans believed that at the end of a cycle of that number of years, at some time, the world would be depopulated, the sun put out, and, after death and darkness had reigned awhile, it would all begin afresh with a new race of people.



So, when a cycle or bundle was completed, all fires were extinguished and not rekindled during the five unlucky days. Household goods which could no longer be of any service, dishes, household articles, etc., were broken; every one gave up all hope, and abandoned himself to despair while awaiting the expected ruin.



On the evening of the fifth day of sorrow, the priests gathered the people together in a procession and marched to a temple, about two leagues from the city. Here they would sit like bumps on a log until midnight, and then, when the constellation which we call the Pleiades came exactly overhead, the danger was over. Two sticks were rubbed together over the breast of a captive who had been selected for the sacrifice, until fire was produced by the friction, the funeral pile was lighted, the body burned, and messengers, many of whom could run long distances, at the rate of seven or eight miles an hour, would light their torches and spread the joyful news of danger averted, while carrying the "new fire" into all parts of the empire. Then would follow a regular old-fashioned frolic, something like a centennial,—a jollification few had ever seen and most would see but once in a life-time. There must be no drunkenness, however; that was a high crime, in some instances punished by death. If the intemperate party, man or woman, was over seventy years of age, however, no notice was taken of it,—they were old, and had rights and privileges not granted to younger members of the community.



Master M. had much to learn about deities. At the head of these stood one, infinite, supreme ruler, "the unknown God," and next beneath him came Tezcatlipoca, the "son of the world," supposed to be the creator of the earth, Huitzilopotchli was the god of war, a sort of Mars, but with very much more name. Then there was the god of air, Quetzatcoatl, who controlled vegetation, metals, and the politics of the country. Here is something Master M. was taught to believe of him:

When this god, whom we will call Q, was on earth, vegetation was so wonderfully prolific that a single ear of corn was all a man could carry. Everything the people needed grew spontaneously. Cotton grew more beautifully tinted than the dyers of the present time could color it. Richest perfumes loaded temperate breezes, and everywhere the gaudiest-colored birds filled the air with most entrancing harmonies. Q had some little difficulty, however, with the rest of the gods, and was obliged to leave his little paradise. When he embarked in his wizard snake-skin canoe on the shore of the gulf, he told his friends that his descendents would one day return and bless the land as he had done, and that they would be like him,—tall, fine looking, with dark hair, white skins, and flowing beards. Alas! this belief was in no small degree the cause of their ruin; for the invading Spaniards quite nearly answered this description of Q's descendants.



There were thirteen of the principal deities, as Master M. learned, each of whom required sacrifices more or less horrible. For instance, there was the "soul of the world," I forget his other name. He must be propitiated now and then. A year before the fatal day, a tall, beautiful, well-formed, unblemished captive was selected to play the part of this god for one year. He must have all these qualifications to make the resemblance as perfect as possible. He was now treated as a god. Everything he could wish, everything it was thought could possibly conduce to his pleasure, comfort, or happiness, was furnished without stint. He slept on the softest of couches in the most gorgeous of chambers; his raiment was profuse and expensive, and the whole surroundings were, as far as possible, in keeping with his high and holy estate. Birds and music, flowers and rare perfumes pleased every sense, and everything, save liberty, was his. This happy-go-lucky sort of life continued until the day fixed for the sacrifice. Then joy gave way to sadness, pain, death! Stripped of his costly raiment, he was taken by a procession of priests to a royal barge, thence across a lake to a temple about a league from the city, where, as he mounted the weary steps of the huge edifice, he flung aside the garlands of flowers and broke the musical instruments which had been a joy to him in his past days. At the summit of the temple, in full view of the assembled multitude below, he was barbarously put to death by a priest, in order to propitiate the cruel god to whom the temple was dedicated. And Master M. was taught that the moral of all this savagery was, that human joys are transitory, and the partition between sorrow and happiness is a very thin one, or words to that effect.

Master M. learned that there were many other inferior gods, each of which had festivals, sacrifices, etc., proportioned to his rank and power; that nearly every hour of the day was dedicated to some god or other; but I cannot tell you all he learned of these strange deities.



He studied the history of the temples, and learned why they were four or five stories high with the stairs on the outside, and why he had to go entirely round the temple to find the next flight of stairs as he went up or down; and why each story was smaller than the next lower, and learned that some of these buildings were over one hundred feet square and as many feet high, and had towers forty or fifty feet high on their summits; and all about the everlasting fire which burned on the tops of these temples, and that there were so many of these that the whole country for miles around was always brilliantly illuminated.

I must pass over a long period in the life of Master M. with the mere remark that he graduated in both his military and religious classes with the highest honors, and acquitted himself to the most perfect satisfaction of both the alfalquis, or priests, and the teachcauhs, which is nearly the same as our word teachers.

Master M. had, for a long time, cherished a hope that some day he might press the throne as king of Mexico. So, like the Yorkshire lad who begged salt of a stranger eating eggs near him, so as to have the salt ready in case any one should ask him to accept an egg, he prepared himself fully for the possible emergency, and became not only a military general, but a leading alfalqui.

And then he married. I have not room to give you the whole picture, but here is the way it was done.

A lady whose position in society required her to negotiate the match, having previously made all the necessary arrangements, one evening, hoisted the happy damsel on her back, and accompanied by four young women (I have drawn only one) each bearing a torch, headed the joyous procession and marched to the house of Master M., where she dropped her cargo of precious humanity. Then the alfalqui asked them if they were mutually agreed on matrimony, and of course, they said "yes," when he proceeded to tie their clothes together. Then two old patriarchs and two good old grandmothers (one of each of which I have copied for you) delivered little sermons suited to the occasion. The new couple walked seven times round a blazing fire, partook of a feast with their friends, heard a final sort of a "ninety-ninthly and to conclude" parting word from the four old people, and then, just as all married people do, went to housekeeping, and having their own way as much as possible. One thing they could not do. There was no law of divorce to appeal to then; death was the only judge who could entertain the question of separation.



Master M. will now disappear, to re-appear as the Emperor. In the year "ten rabbits," or A.D. 1502, the monarch died, and the electoral college selected Master M. to supply his place. In the household of each monarch there was an electoral board of four nobles, whose duty it was, on the death of the ruler, to elect his successor from among the sons and nephews of the crown. Having done this, and so notified the successor, they selected four nobles to fill their own places, and vacated their electoral chairs. Master M. when waited upon to be notified of his election to fill his uncle's place, was very busy sweeping down the stairs in the great temple dedicated to the god of war!

Four years after becoming emperor, Montezuma, to appease the gods, made a sacrifice of a young gentleman captive by transfixing him with arrows. This, you see, was in the year "one rabbit." It is recorded that in this year the rats overran the country so completely that the inhabitants had to stand guard at night with blazing torches to prevent their devouring the grain sown in the fields.

With the last picture, I take pleasure in introducing to you Master M. in his new position as Emperor of Mexico, seated in the royal halls.

For further particulars, read "The Conquest of Mexico," by Prescott.



A LONG JOURNEY.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

"We sail to-day," said the captain gay, As he stepped on board the boat that lay So high and dry, "Come now, be spry; We'll land, at Jerusalem by and by!"

Away they sailed, and each craft they hailed; While down in the cabin they bailed and bailed; For the sea was rough, and they had to luff And tack, till the captain cried out "Enough!"

They stopped at Peru, this jolly crew, And went to Paris and Timbuctoo; And after a while they found the Nile, And watched the sports of the crocodile.

They called on the Shah, and the mighty Czar, And on all the crowned heads near and far; Shook hands with the Cid—they really did! And lunched on top of the pyramid!

To Afric's strand, or northern land, They steer as the captain gives command; And fly so fast that the slender mast Goes quivering, shivering in the blast!

Then on to the ground with a sudden bound, Leaps Jack—'t was a mercy he wasn't drowned! The sail is furled, the anchor hurled, "We've been," cry the children, "all round the world!"

By billows tossed, by tempests crossed, Yet never a soul on board was lost! Though the boat be a sieve, I do not grieve, They sail on the ocean of "Make-believe."



THE LITTLE RED CANAL-BOAT.

BY M.A. EDWARDS.

The morning sun had not mounted high enough in the sky to send his rays into Greta's room, when she was awakened by a noise. She listened. It was the sound of a boat grating against the side of the canal. Who could be coming to their back door so early? She sprang out of bed, and ran quickly to the open window. A disappointment awaited her. It was only her father's boat, which the maid-servant Charlotte was pushing along, slowly making her way to the landing-stairs.

"Where have you been so early, Charlotte?" called out Greta.

"Are you there, youngsters?" said Charlotte, looking up at the two bright faces at the window; for the little Amelia had been roused by her sister's wild jump from the bed, and had also run to the window.

"Bad Charlotte, to wake us so early!" cried Amelia.

Charlotte laughed. "You wouldn't think me bad, Minchen, if you knew all the good things I've been buying at market. Have you forgotten your cousins are coming to-day, all the way from over the sea? I'm sure they'll be hungry enough."

"What you got?" asked Amelia (usually called Minchen).

"Fine Beemster cheese, sweet butter, fresh salad, and plenty of fruit. And there are lots of good things at the bottom of the basket. I'll leave you to find out what they are." And Charlotte made the boat fast, and carried the heavy basket into the house.

It was not necessary for Charlotte to remind these little girls of the cousins who lived in the city of New York, in the far-off land of America. For the last month little else had been talked of in the Van Schaick mansion besides the expected visit of the Chester family. Mrs. Van Schaick and Mrs. Chester were sisters, and this was but the second visit the latter had paid her old Holland home since her marriage. On the first visit her children were not with her; but now Mr. Chester was coming, and the two boys. Many were the wild speculations the girls indulged in with regard to Americans,—what they would look like, and what they would say and do.

Great, then, was their surprise, when the travelers arrived, to find that their aunt Chester was very like their mother in appearance and dress. Mr. Chester did not in the least resemble their father, but he was not unlike many other men they had seen, and he did not dress in wild-beast skins. As for the boys, Greta poured her tale of woe into the ears of the sympathizing Charlotte. "They are just like English boys!" she said, contemptuously. Greta had often seen English boys, and there was nothing uncommon about them.

This was soon forgotten, however, when Greta discovered what pleasant companions the boys were, and that they could put the Dutch words together almost as correctly as Greta herself. Will Chester, who had reached the dignified age of thirteen, had felt much troubled at the thought that he would have "only girls" to play with at Zaandam, especially as Greta was a year younger than himself. But when the two girls, instead of bringing forward their dolls and tea-sets with which to entertain their visitors, produced from their treasures two good-sized toy canal-boats, fully equipped with everything a canal-boat needed, he admitted to himself that girls who liked to sail boats might be good for something.

Secretly, however, he thought that a canal-boat was a poor kind of vessel to have, and wished his cousins owned such beautiful ships as he and Martin had; for among the last things bought before leaving New York were two little sailing-vessels—the "America" and the "Columbus." Mr. Chester said Holland was full of water, and these were proper toys to take there.

The two canal-boats, being precisely alike, were distinguished from each other only by their names. Greta's had "Wilhelmina" painted on the side in black letters, while Minchen's had "Gouda" in red letters. They were similar to American canal-boats in shape, and of a dark red-brown color. Will thought them stumpy and heavy-looking; and he did not admire the red sails with crooked gaffs, and smiled at the blue pennants, stretched out on stiff frames that turned with the wind. But when Greta showed him a tiny windlass on the deck, by means of which she easily raised and lowered the mast, he came to the conclusion that a Dutch canal-boat was not to be despised.

"I do this when we pass under bridges," she explained.

"Where are your mules for drawing your boat?"

"My boat sails!" she said, proudly. "If there is no wind, I drag it along myself. That is the way we do in our country."



The American vessels were now unpacked and displayed. When the girls saw these sharp-prowed, graceful ships, with their tapering masts and pretty sails, their eyes glistened, and they declared that never before had they seen anything so lovely. Their, pride in their canal-boats suffered a woful downfall. The boys proposed to try all the vessels on the canal at the back of the house, but Greta objected.

"Mother never lets us go there to sail our boats," she said. "It is a dirty place, and she is afraid we will fall in. But there is a beautiful stream by the mill where we are going to-morrow, and there we can try our boats, and see which goes the fastest."

"Let us take a walk, then," said Martin. "I want to look at this queer place."

The Van Shaicks lived in Zaandam, and it is indeed a queer place to American eyes. It is a large town, with but two streets, one on each side of the Zaan River; but these two extend for a long distance, and are crossed at frequent intervals by canals, so that Martin soon got tired counting the little bridges the children passed over in their walk. Will was not quite sure whether the brick-paved street was all road-way or all sidewalk.

"I don't see any carriages," he said, after studying this matter for some time.

"People don't ride much here," said Greta. "There are plenty of carriages in Amsterdam."

"How do you get about, then?"

"On our feet and in boats. Look at our fine river, and there are ever so many canals! What do we want with carriages?"

"It must be jolly going everywhere in boats," said Will. "I should like that!"

"We have some very pretty boats," said Greta, much pleased. "Oh! wouldn't you like to go fishing? I'll ask father to take us some day soon. I saw a net in the market-boat this morning."

"Well, if that isn't funny!" cried Martin, with a burst of laughter. Will joined in the laugh, and Greta looked around in vain to discover the cause of their merriment.

"Looking-glasses on the outside of the houses!" explained Martin, pointing to one opposite. "I guess they're put there for the girls to look in as they walk along," he added, mischievously. "They can't wait to get home to admire themselves."

Sure enough, there was a mirror outside the window, set at such an angle that the persons inside the house could see who was passing up and down the street. And there was a mirror on the next house, and the next.

"Why, they are on all the houses!" said Will.

"To be sure!" said Greta. "What is there funny in that? And the girls don't look in them any more than the boys, Mr. Martin. Don't you ever want to know what is going on in the street?"

"Of course I do."

"How are you going to do it without the looking-glass to tell you?"

"Use my own eyes, to be sure!"

"Whose eyes do you use when you look in a glass?" said Greta.

Martin looked puzzled, and had no reply ready; and Will thought his cousin Greta very clever, although she was a girl, and a year younger than himself.

But Martin soon recovered his composure.

"What lots of flowers!" was his next comment. "They are everywhere, except in this brick pavement, and nothing could grow here, it is so clean."

"And such pretty houses in the gardens!" said Will.

"But they are so small," said Martin, "It would take a dozen of them to make a New York house."

"My goodness!" said Greta, turning her head back as far as she could, and looking at the sky. "How do you ever see up to their roofs?"

"Divide Martin's twelve by four, and you will come nearer the truth," said Will, laughing. "But, at any rate, the houses are pretty—painted green and yellow, with red-tiled roofs."

The next thing the boys observed was the loneliness of the streets. In America a town of twelve thousand inhabitants would have more of an air of bustle, they said. Will liked the quiet, "for a change," as he expressed it, and because it made him feel, somehow, as if he owned the place. Martin declared it to be his opinion that the people kept out of the streets for fear that their shoes would soil them, and that accounted for the almost spotless cleanliness everywhere.

The streets were not deserted, however; for, at intervals, there were row-boat ferries across the river, and occasionally a man or woman would be seen in one of these boats.

There were also a number of children, and some women, in the streets. These apparently belonged to the poorer classes. Hats and bonnets were scarce among them, though all the women, and many of the little girls, had on close-fitting muslin caps. They wore short, loose sacques, and short dress skirts, made up without trimmings. The boys were dressed in jackets and baggy trousers. All wore clumsy wooden shoes.

The Van Schaick family followed the French fashions, as we do in America; the difference between the two countries being that here every one attempts to follow the prevailing style, while in Holland this change of fashion is confined to the wealthy; the middle and lower classes preserving the same style of costume from generation to generation.

A good many of the children in the street were carrying painted iron or stone buckets, with a tea-kettle on the top. After proceeding some distance up the street, Will and Martin saw some of them coming out of a basement door-way, still with the buckets in their hands; but clouds of steam were issuing from the tea-kettle spouts!

"What place is that?" asked Will.

"It is the fire-woman's," said Greta.

"And who and what may she be? I have heard of water-women, sometimes called mermaids, but never before did I hear of a fire-woman."

"She don't live in fire," said Greta; "she sells it. What do the poor people in your country do in summer without a fire-woman? Come and look in."



By this time they had reached the place. Over the door was the sign "Water en vuur te koop."[1] It was not necessary for the children to go inside. They could see the whole apartment through the wide-open door-way. An old woman stood by a stove, or great oven, with a pair of tongs, taking up pieces of burning peat and dropping them into the buckets of the children, and then filling their tea-kettles with boiling water from great copper tanks on the stove. For this each child paid her a Dutch cent, which is less than half of one of ours.

[Footnote 1: "Water and fire to sell."]

"I understand it," said Will, after they had stood at the door some time, amused at the scene. "This saves poor people the expense of a fire in the summer-time. They send here for hot water to make their tea."

"Yes," said Greta, "and for the burning peat which cooks the potatoes and the sausage for their supper."

"Why don't they use coal?" asked Martin. "It is ever so much better."

"No, the peat answers their purpose much better," said Will. "It burns slowly, and gives out a good deal of heat for a long time."

"And the smell of it is so delicious," added Greta.

A little further on; the children came out on an open space, which gave them a good view of the surrounding flat country, and of the wind-mills that stand about Zaandam—a forest of towers. It was a marvelous sight. Hundreds of giant arms were beating the air, as if guarding the town from invisible enemies.

Greta was proud and pleased that her cousins were so impressed with the great numbers of towers and the myriads of gigantic whirling spokes.

"My father says there is nothing grander than this in all Holland," she said. "There are four hundred of them, and more, but you can't see them all from here. Do you see that mill over yonder? That is my father's, and we are going there to-morrow."

The boys could not distinguish one tower from another at that distance.

"What kind of mill is it?" asked Will.

"A flour-mill."

"Are all these flour-mills?"

"Oh no! There are saw-mills, colza-oil mills, mustard-mills, flax-mills, and other kinds I don't remember."

It was now nearly supper-time, and the little group returned home.

The next morning, the whole party—four grown-up people, four youngsters, and four boats (the "Wilhelmina," the "Gouda," the "America," and the "Columbus")—were all taken up the Zaan River in a row-boat for about three miles, and then up a small stream to the mill where they were to spend the day.

The first thing in order was the inspection of the mill, which was unlike anything they had ever seen in America. The tower was of brick. It was three stories high, over a basement. In the basement were the stables and wagon-house; over this was the granary, and flour and meal store; above this were the bolting-rooms, the ground wheat running through spouts to the store-rooms below. On the next floor above were the mill-stones, and the simple machinery that turned them. And, above all, at the very top of the tower, was the main shaft of the great wings outside. These wings caught the winds, and compelled them to work the machinery with such force as to make the strong tower tremble. There were balconies around the first and third stories of the mill. It was quite a picturesque object standing among low trees on a pretty, quiet stream, the banks of which were higher and more uneven than was usual in that part of the country.

The miller lived in a small house near the mill with his wife and his little daughter Hildegarde, the latter of whom was near Greta's age.

The boys did not take as much interest in the miller's house as their parents took; but when they were shown into a large outer room, and were told it was the cow-stable, they had no words with which to express their astonishment. They would have said it was the show-room of the place. There was not a speck on the whitewashed walls; the pine ceiling was so clean it fairly glistened; there were crisp, white muslin curtains at the windows. The raised earthen floor was covered with pure white sand, arranged in fancy designs. There were some small round tables standing about, and on them were ornaments of china and silver, and a variety of knick-knacks.

During the summer the cows were in the pasture day and night, but in the winter they occupied this room. Then the tables were removed, but the place was kept very neatly. This was necessary, for the stable adjoined the house, and the party passed into the barn through a door in the cow-stable.

All except the two boys. Will hung back and motioned to Martin not to go into the barn.

"I am tired of this sort of thing," he said. "Let us go and sail our boats."

"Very well," said Martin, "I'll call the girls."

"No," said Will; "there are too many of them. They'll only be in the way. They'll have a good time together, and we'll have some fun by ourselves."

Martin seldom dissented from Will's decisions, so the two boys went back into the house to get their ships, and passed out of another door to the bridge and across the stream. They had gone but a short distance when Martin, who had seemed very thoughtful, stopped opposite the mill.

"There is a man in the balcony," he said. "I'll ask him to call to the girls to come. It isn't fair to go without them. You know Greta thought so much of sailing her boat with ours."

"Nonsense," said Will. "She has got other company now. I don't believe they know how to manage their boats, and we will have to help them. Girls always have to be taken care of."

"But," persisted Martin, "you said that Greta was real smart and a first-rate fellow—girl, I mean."

"She is well enough for girls' plays; but what can she know about boats? Come along!"

Martin said no more, and the boys proceeded for some distance up the stream.

"If we go around that bend," said Will, "we will be out of sight of the mill, and can have our own fun."

Around the bend they found a bridge, and a little way above this the stream widened into a large pool, the banks of which were shaded by willows. There they launched the schooner "America" and the sloop "Columbus" with appropriate ceremonies. The sails and the rudders were properly set for a trip across the pool. The ships bent gracefully to the breeze, and went steadily on their course, the little flags waving triumphantly from the mast-heads. They moved so gracefully and behaved so beautifully that Martin expressed his sorrow that the girls were not there to see them. Will made no reply, but he felt a twinge of remorse as he remembered how Greta had looked forward to this sail as a great event. He tried to quiet his conscience with the consideration that it was much better for her not to be there; for she would certainly have felt mortified at the contrast between their pretty vessels and the poor canal-boats.

The boys crossed the bridge, and were ready for the arrival of their vessels in the foreign port. Then they started them on the return voyage and recrossed the bridge to receive them at home.

This was done several times, but at last there was an accident. Will's schooner, the "America," from some unknown cause, took a wrong tack when near the middle of the pool, and going too far up, got aground upon a tiny, grassy island. She swayed about for a minute, and the boys hoped she would float off, but soon the masts ceased to quiver. The "America" had quietly moored herself on the island as if she intended to remain there forever. What was to be done? The longest pole to be found would not reach the island from either bank, or from the bridge, and the pool was deep. Will began to think it was a pretty bad case.



"What a beauty!" "Isn't it just lovely!" "Pretty! pretty! pretty!"

These exclamations came respectively from Greta, Hildegarde, and Minchen, and had reference to the "Columbus," which was gliding up to the bank where the boys stood, with its sails gleaming in the sunshine, while it dipped and courtesied on the little waves. The girls were coming around the bend. Greta and Minchen had their canal-boats, and Hildegarde carried a great square of gingerbread.

"That's the most beautiful thing I ever saw!" cried Greta. In her admiration of the vessel, she had forgotten her wounded dignity. For she had arranged with Hildegarde that, after giving the boys their share of gingerbread, they should walk proudly and silently away.

As Greta had broken the compact by speaking, Hildegarde entered upon an explanation: "We have been down the stream looking for you—" But here she was interrupted by a frown from Greta, who suddenly recollected the slight that had been put upon them.

"Naughty boys to run away!" said little Minchen. "You sha'n't see my boat sail!"

"My ship is aground on that island," said Will, willing to change the subject. "I have no way of getting her off. I wonder if the boat we came in is too large to be got up here."

"The boat was taken back to Zaandam," said Hildegarde, "and our boat is away, too."

"The 'America' will have to stay where she is, then," said Will, trying to speak cheerfully.

"Pretty ship is lost! Too bad!" said Minchen, pityingly. Then brightly: "I'll give you mine!-may be," she added in a doubtful tone, as her glance fell lovingly upon the boat she was hugging under her arm.

Meantime, Greta had been studying the situation. She now turned to Will. "I can get your ship off," she said. "Take care of my boat till I come back, and don't sail her on any account. I wont be gone long."

She handed her boat to Will, and was around the bend in an instant; and it was not very long before the anxious group heard the sound of her rapid footsteps returning. Will thought she had gone to the mill to get some one to help them, but she came back alone, and all she brought with her was a large ball of cord.

Martin and Minchen asked her twenty questions while she made her preparations, but she would not reveal her plans, although it was evident from the way she went to work that she had a very clear idea of what she intended to accomplish.

In the first place, she said the whole party must go further up the bank, so as to get above the "America," which was on the lower edge of the little island. When they had gone far enough, she tied one end of the cord to the rudder-post of her canal-boat. Then she turned the cunning little windlass, and slowly up went the mast to its full height. The next thing was to unfurl the sail, set it properly, and set the rudder,—all of which she did deftly and correctly, making Will feel ashamed of what he had said about the ignorance of girls.

She placed the boat on the water. The sail filled, and off went the "Wilhelmina" with a slow, true, steady motion, her red sail glowing in the sunshine, and her stiff little pennant standing straight out in the wind. As the boat crossed the pool, Greta played out the cord carefully, so as not to impede its motion. When it reached the other side and had gently grounded on the shelving shore, Greta gave the line into Will's hand.

"If you will hold this," she said, "I will go across the bridge."

"Don't trouble yourself to do that," said Will, "I will go over."

"No," said Greta, "I wish to go. I am captain of my own craft, and I know how to manage my 'Wilhelmina.'"

"I had no idea she was so pretty," said Will. "She is a true, stanch little sailer."

"She don't show off until she is on the water," said Greta, smiling, "and then she sails like a real boat. Do you know what I am going to do when I get to the other side?"

"I can guess. You will send your boat back to me from below the island while I hold this end of the cord. That will bring the line around my ship and pull her off."

"I thought of that, but it is too risky. If anything should go wrong with my boat, the line might get tangled; or there might be too great a strain, and the ship would come off with a jerk and be tumbled bottom upward into the water. I intend to untie the cord from the boat, and you and I must walk slowly down toward the 'America,'—I on that side, and you on this. We must hold the cord low so as to catch the mast under the sail, if we can."

"All right," said Will.

Greta walked quickly down the bank, across the bridge, and up the other side until she reached the "Wilhelmina." Placing the boat on the bank for safety, she took the cord off, and, holding it firmly, walked slowly down toward the island. Will did the same on his side of the pool. The cord went skimming over the surface of the water, then it passed above the tops of the long grass on the island. This brought the line on a level with the top-sail. This would not do; for a pressure up there might capsize the schooner. Both of the workers saw that they must slacken the line a little to get it into the proper place. Now was the critical time; if the line was too much slackened it might slip under the vessel and upset it that way. Gently they lowered it until it lay against the mainmast below the sail.

"Take care!" screamed Will to Greta.

"Go slow!" screamed Greta to Will.

Gently they pulled against the schooner, and, inch by inch, she floated off into the open water.

"Hurrah!" shouted Will, as the "America" gave herself a little shake, and, catching the wind, sailed slowly and somewhat unsteadily for the home port, which, however, she reached in safety. "Wind up the cord!" shouted Greta, just in time to prevent Will's throwing it aside. He wondered what further use she had for the cord. It might go to the bottom of the pool for aught he cared, now that the ship was safe. But he wound it up as directed. It would have been quite a grief to the thrifty little Dutch girl if so much fine cord had been wasted.

Thus ignominiously came in the stately ship "America," which Will had set afloat with such pride! And it is doubtful whether she would have come in at all, but for the stanch Dutch canal-boat that he had regarded with a good deal of disdain.

If Will had been a girl, he would have exhausted the complimentary adjectives of the Dutch language in praise of his cousin; but being a boy, he only said, "Thank you, Greta."

The children remained at the pool until called to dinner; and after that meal, they went back again and stayed until it was time to return to Zaandam, so fascinated were they with sailing their vessels. These changed hands so often that it was sometimes difficult to tell who had charge of any particular boat, and a good deal of confusion was the result. In justice to the "America," it must be stated that she cut no more capers, and was the admiration of all.

Will had his faults, and one of these was the very high estimate he placed on his own opinions. But he was generous-hearted, and he admitted to himself that Greta had shown more cleverness than he in the "America" affair. "She was quicker, anyway," he thought. "It is likely that plan would have occurred to me after a time, but she thought of it first. And it was good of her to help me; for she knew that I went away so as not to play with her." It was not pleasant to him to know that a girl had shown herself superior to him in anything he considered his province; but he magnanimously forgave her for this, and he said to Martin, after they were in bed that night:

"I've pretty much made up my mind to give my schooner to Greta. I believe she thinks it the prettiest thing ever made."

"If you do that," said Martin, "I'll give my sloop to Minchen."

This plan was carried out, and the girls were more delighted than if they had had presents of diamonds. But they insisted that the boys should accept their canal-boats in exchange, the result of which was that the Chesters, on their return to America, produced quite a sensation among their schoolmates. For American-built vessels could be bought in many stores in New York, but a Dutch canal-boat, with a red sail, and a mast that was raised and lowered by a windlass, was not to be found in all the city.



THE BUTTERFLY CHASE.

BY ELLIS GRAY.

Dear little butterfly, Lightly you flutter by, On golden wing. Drops of sweet honey sip, Deep from the clover tip, Then upward spring.

Over the meadow grass Swift as a fairy pass, Blithesome and gay; Toy with the golden-rod, Make the blue asters nod— Off and away!

Butterfly's dozing now, Golden wings closing now,— Softly he swings. Tiny hands fold him fast, Gently unclose at last,— Fly, golden wings!

Quick! for he's after you, With joyous laughter new,— Mischievous boy! Swift you must flutter by; He wants you, butterfly, For a new toy!



HOW TO MAKE A TELEPHONE.

BY M.F.

What is a telephone?

Up go a hundred hands of the brightest and sharpest of the readers of ST. NICHOLAS, and a hundred confident voices reply:

"An instrument to convey sounds by means of electricity."

Good. That shows you have some definite idea of it; but, after all, that answer is not the right one. The telephone does not convey sound.

"What does its name mean, then?" do you ask?

Simply, that it is a far-sounder; but that does not necessarily imply that it carries sounds afar. Strictly speaking, the telephone only changes sound-waves into waves of electricity and back again. When two telephones are connected by means of a wire, they act in this way,—the first telephone changes the sound-waves it receives into electric impulses which travel along the wire until they reach the second telephone, here they are changed back to sound-waves exactly like those received by the first telephone. Accordingly, the listener in New York seems to hear the very tones of his friend who is speaking at the other end of the line, say, in Boston.

Still you don't see how.

It is not surprising, for in this description several scientific facts and principles are involved; and all boys and girls cannot be expected to know much about the laws of sound and electricity. Perhaps a little explanation may make it clearer.

The most of you probably know that sound is produced by rapid motion. Put your finger on a piano wire that is sounding, and you will feel the motion, or touch your front tooth with a tuning-fork that is singing; in the last case you will feel very distinctly the raps made by the vibrating fork. Now, a sounding body will not only jar another body which touches it, but it will also give its motion to the air that touches it; and when the air-motions or air-waves strike the sensitive drums of our ears, these vibrate, and we hear the sound.

You all have heard the windows rattle when it thunders loudly, or when cannons have been fired near-by. The sound waves in the air fairly shake the windows; and, sometimes, when the windows are closed, so that the air-waves cannot pass readily, the windows are shattered by the shock. Fainter sounds act less violently, yet similarly. Every time you speak, your voice sets everything around you vibrating in unison, though ever so faintly.

Thus, from your every-day experience you have proof of two important facts,—first, sound is caused by rapid motion; second, sound-waves give rise to corresponding motion. Both these facts are involved in the speaking telephone, which performs a twofold office,—that of the ear on the one hand, that of our vocal organs on the other.

To serve as an ear, the telephone must be able to take up quickly and nicely the sound-waves of the air. A tightened drum-head will do that; or better, a strip of goldbeaters'-skin drawn tightly over a ring or the end of a tube. But these would not help Professor Bell, the inventor of the telephone we shall describe, since he wanted an ear that would translate the waves of sound into waves of electricity, which would travel farther and faster than sound-waves could.

Just when Mr. Bell was thinking how he could make the instrument he wanted, an important discovery in magnetism was made known to him—a discovery that helped him wonderfully. You know that if you hold a piece of iron close to a magnet the magnet will pull it, and the closer the iron comes to the magnet the harder it is pulled. Now, some one experimenting with a magnet having a coil of silk-covered wire around it, found that when a piece of iron was moved in front of the magnet and close to it without touching, the motion would give rise to electric waves in the coil of wire, which waves could be transmitted to considerable distances.

This was just what Mr. Bell wanted. He said to himself, "The sound of my voice will give motion to a thin plate of iron as well as to a sheet of goldbeaters'-skin; and if I bring this vibrating plate of iron close to a magnet, the motion will set up in it waves of electricity answering exactly to the sound-waves which move the iron plate."

So far, good. But something more was wanted. The instrument must not only translate sound-waves into electric impulses, but change these back again into sound-waves; it must not only hear, but also speak!

You remember our first fact in regard to sound: it is caused by motion. All that is needed to make anything speak is to cause it to move so as to give rise to just such air-waves as the voice makes. Mr. Bell's idea was to make the iron plate of his sound-receiver speak.

He reasoned in this way: From the nature of the magnet it follows that when waves of electricity are passed through the wire coil around the magnet, the strength of the magnet must vary with the force of the electric impulses. Its pull on the plate of iron near it must vary in the same manner. The varying pull on the plate must make it move, and this movement must set the air against the plate in motion in sound-waves corresponding exactly with the motion setting up the electric waves in the first place; in other words, the sound-motion in one telephone must be exactly reproduced as sound-waves in a similar instrument joined to it by wire.

Experiment proved the reasoning correct; and thus the speaking-telephone was invented. But it took a long time to find the simplest and best way to make it. At last, however, Mr. Bell's telephone was perfected in the form illustrated below. Fig. 1 shows the inner structure of the instrument. A is the spool carrying the coil of wire; B, the magnet; C, the diaphragm; E, the case; F, F, the wires leading from the coil, and connecting at the end of the handle with the ground and line wires. Fig. 2 shows how a telephone looks on the outside.



So much for description. You will understand it better, perhaps, if you experiment a little. You can easily make a pair for yourself, rude and imperfect, it is true, but good enough for all the tests you may want to apply.

For each you will want: (1) a straight magnet; (2) a coil of silk-covered copper wire; (3) a thin plate of soft iron; (4) a box to hold the first three articles. You will also want as much wire as you can afford, to connect the instruments, and two short pieces of wire to connect your telephones with the ground. (Two wires between the instruments would make the ground-wires unnecessary, but this would use up too much wire.) The magnet and the coil you will have to buy from some dealer in electrical apparatus. They need not cost much. A small cigar-box will answer for the case.



In one end of the box cut a round hole, say, three inches across. Against this hole fasten a disk of thin sheet-iron for the vibrator or "diaphragm." For a mouth-piece use a small can, such as ground spices come in, or even a round paper box.

Now, on the inside of the box, place the magnet, the end carrying the coil almost touching the middle of the diaphragm, and fix it firmly. Then, to the ends of the copper wire of the main coil fasten two wires,—one for the line, the other for the "ground-wire."

This done, you will have an instrument (or rather two of them) very much like Fig. 3. A is the mouth-piece; B, the diaphragm; C, the coil; D, the magnet; E, E, the wires.

The receiving and sending instruments are precisely alike, each answers for both purposes; but there must be two, since one must always be hearing while the other is speaking.

When you speak into the mouth-piece of one telephone, the sound of your voice causes the "diaphragm" to vibrate in front of the magnet. The vibrations cause the magnet's pull upon the diaphragm to vary in force, which variation is answered by electrical waves in the coil and over the wires connected with it. At the other end of the wire the pull of the magnet of the speaking telephone is varied exactly in proportion to the strength of the electric impulses that come over the wire; the varying pull of the magnet sets the diaphragm in motion, and that sets the air in motion in waves precisely like those of the distant voice. When those waves strike the listener's ear, he seems to hear the speaker's exact tones, and so, substantially, he does hear them. The circumstance that electric waves, and not sound-waves, travel over the wires, does not change the quality of the resulting sound in the least.

I think you now understand Bell's telephone.

The telephones of Edison, Gray, and others, involve different principles and are differently constructed.

One invention very often leads to another, and the telephone already has an offspring not less wonderful than itself. It is called the speaking-phonograph. It was invented by Mr. Edison, one of the gentlemen, just mentioned.

Evidently, Mr. Edison said to himself: "The telephone hears and speaks; why not make it write in its own way; then its record could be kept, and any time after, the instrument might read aloud its own writing." Like a great genius as he is, Mr. Edison went to work in the simplest way to make the sound-recorder he wanted. You know how the diaphragm of the telephone vibrates when spoken to? Mr. Edison took away from the telephone all except the mouth-piece and the diaphragm, fastened a point of metal, which we will call a "style," to the center of the diaphragm, and then contrived a simple arrangement for making a sheet of tin-foil pass in front of the style. When the diaphragm is still, the style simply scratches a straight line along the foil. When a sound is made, however, and the diaphragm set to vibrating, the mark of the style is not a simple scratch, but an impression varying in depth according to the diaphragm's vibration. And that is how the phonograph writes. To the naked eye, the record of the sound appears to be simply a line of pin points or dots, more or less close to each other; but, under a magnifier, it is seen to be far more complicated.

Now for the reading. The impression on the foil exactly records the vibrations of the diaphragm, and those vibrations exactly measure the sound-waves which caused the vibrations. The reading simply reverses all this. The strip of foil is passed again before the diaphragm, the point of the style follows the groove it made at first, and the diaphragm follows the style in all its motions. The original vibrations are thus exactly reproduced, setting up sound-waves in the air precisely like those which first set the machine in motion. Consequently, the listener hears a minutely exact echo of what the instrument heard; it might have heard it a minute, or an hour, or a year, or a thousand years before, had the phonograph been in use so long.

What a wonderful result is that! As yet, the phonograph has not been put to any practical use; indeed, it is scarcely in operation yet, and a great deal must be done to increase the delicacy of its hearing and the strength of its voice. It mimics any and every sort of sound with marvelous fidelity, but weakly. Its speech is like that of a person a long way off, or in another room. But its possibilities are almost infinite.



ONLY A DOLL!

BY SARAH O. JEWETT.



Polly, my dolly! why don't you grow? Are you a dwarf, my Polly? I'm taller and taller every day; How high the grass is!—do you see that? The flowers are growing like weeds, they say; The kitten is growing into a cat! Why don't you grow, my dolly?

Here is a mark upon the wall. Look for yourself, my Polly! I made it a year ago, I think. I've measured you very often, dear, But, though you've plenty to eat and drink, You haven't grown a bit for a year. Why don't you grow, my dolly?

Are you never going to try to talk? You're such a silent Polly! Are you never going to say a word? It isn't hard; and oh! don't you see The parrot is only a little bird, But he can chatter so easily. You're quite a dunce, my dolly!

Let's go and play by the baby-house: You are my dearest Polly! There are other things that do not grow; Kittens can't talk, and why should you? You are the prettiest doll I know; You are a darling—that is true! Just as you are, my dolly!



DAB KINZER: A STORY OF A GROWING BOY.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

Between the village and the inlet, and half a mile from the great "bay," lay the Kinzer farm. Beyond the bay was a sand-bar, and beyond that the Atlantic Ocean; for all this was on the southerly shore of Long Island.

The Kinzer farm had lain right there—acre for acre, no more, no less—on the day when Hendrik Hudson, long ago, sailed the good ship "Half-Moon" into New York Bay. But it was not then known to any one as the Kinzer farm. Neither was there then, as now, any bright and growing village crowding up on one side of it, with a railway station and a post-office. Nor was there, at that time, any great and busy city of New York, only a few hours' ride away, over on the island of Manhattan. The Kinzers themselves were not there then; but the bay and the inlet, with the fish and the crabs, and the ebbing and flowing tides, were there, very much the same, before Hendrik Hudson and his brave Dutchmen knew anything whatever about that corner of the world.

The Kinzer farm had always been a reasonably "fat" one, both as to size and quality, and the good people who lived on it had generally been of a somewhat similar description. It was, therefore, every way correct and becoming for Dabney Kinzer's widowed mother and his sisters to be the plump and hearty beings they were, and all the more discouraging to poor Dabney that no amount of regular and faithful eating seemed to make him resemble them at all in that respect.

Mrs. Kinzer excused his thinness to her neighbors, to be sure, on the ground that he was "such a growing boy;" but, for all that, he caught himself wondering, now and then, if he would never be done with that part of his trials. For rapid growth has its trials.

"The fact is," he said to himself, one day, as he leaned over the north fence, "I'm more like Ham Morris's farm than I am like ours. His farm is bigger than ours, all 'round; but it's too big for its fences, just as I'm too big for my clothes. Ham's house is three times as large as ours, but it looks as if it had grown too fast. It hasn't any paint, to speak of, nor any blinds. It looks a good deal as if somebody'd just built it there and then forgot it and gone off and left it out-of-doors."

Dabney's four sisters had all come into the world before him, but he was as tall as any of them, and was frequently taken by strangers for a good two years older than he really was.

It was sometimes very hard for him, a boy of fifteen, to live up to what was expected of those two extra years.

Mrs. Kinzer still kept him in roundabouts; but they did not seem to hinder his growth at all, if that was her object in so doing.

There was no such thing, however, as keeping the four girls in roundabouts, of any kind; and, what between them and their mother, the pleasant and tidy little Kinzer homestead, with its snug parlor and its cozy bits of rooms and chambers, seemed to nestle away, under the shadowing elms and sycamores, smaller and smaller with every year that came.

It was a terribly tight fit for such a family, anyway; and, now that Dabney was growing at such a rate, there was no telling what they would all come to. But Mrs. Kinzer came, at last, to the rescue, and she summoned her eldest daughter, Miranda, to her aid.

A very notable woman was the widow. When the new railway cut off part of the old farm, she had split up the slice of land between the iron track and the village into "town lots," and had sold them all off by the time the railway company paid her for the "damage" it had done the property.

The whole Kinzer family gained visibly in plumpness that year,—except, perhaps, Dabney.

Of course, the condition and requirements of Ham Morris and his big farm, just over the north fence, had not escaped such a pair of eyes as those of the widow, and the very size of his great barn of a house finally settled his fate for him.

A large, quiet, unambitious, but well brought up and industrious young man was Hamilton Morris, and he had not the least idea of the good in store for him for several months after Mrs. Kinzer decided to marry him to her daughter Miranda. But all was soon settled. Dab, of course, had nothing to do with the wedding arrangements, and Ham's share was somewhat contracted. Not but what he was at the Kinzer house a good deal; nor did any of the other girls tell Miranda how very much he was in the way. He could talk, however, and one morning, about a fortnight before the day appointed, he said to Miranda and her mother:

"We can't have so very much of a wedding; your house is so small, and you've chocked it so full of furniture. Right down nice furniture it is, too; but there's so much of it. I'm afraid the minister'll have to stand out in the front yard."

"The house'll do for this time," replied Mrs. Kinzer. "There 'll be room enough for everybody. What puzzles me is Dab."

"What about Dab?" asked Ham.

"Can't find a thing to fit him," said Dab's mother. "Seems as if he were all odd sizes, from head to foot."

"Fit him!" exclaimed Ham. "Oh, you mean ready-made goods! Of course you can't. He'll have to be measured by a tailor, and have his new suit built for him."

"Such extravagance!" emphatically remarked Mrs. Kinzer.

"Not for rich people like you, and for a wedding," replied Ham; "and Dab's a growing boy. Where is he now? I'm going to the village, and I'll take him right along with me."

There seemed to be no help for it; but that was the first point relating to the wedding concerning which Ham Morris was permitted to have exactly his own way. His success made Dab Kinzer a fast friend of his for life, and that was something.

There was also something new and wonderful to Dabney himself in walking into a tailor's shop, picking out cloth to please himself, and being so carefully measured all over. He stretched and swelled himself in all directions, to make sure nothing should turn out too small. At the end of it all, Ham said to him:

"Now, Dab, my boy, this suit is to be a present from me to you, on Miranda's account."

Dab colored and hesitated for a moment; but it seemed all right, he thought, and so he came frankly out with:

"Thank you, Ham. You always was a prime good fellow. I'll do as much for you some day. Tell you what I'll do, then. I'll have another suit made, right away, of this other cloth, and have the bill for that one sent to our folks."

"Do it!" exclaimed Ham. "Do it! You've your mother's orders for that. She's nothing to do with my gift."

"Splendid!" almost shouted Dab. "Oh, but don't I hope they'll fit!"

"Vit?" said the tailor. "Vill zay vit? I dell you zay vit you like a knife. You vait und zee."

Dab failed to get a very clear idea of what the fit would be, but it made him almost hold his breath to think of it.

After the triumphant visit to the tailor, there was still a necessity for a call upon the shoe-maker, and that was a matter of no small importance. Dab's feet had always been a mystery and a trial to him. If his memory contained one record darker than another, it was the endless history of his misadventures with boots and shoes. He and leather had been at war from the day he left his creeping clothes until now. But now he was promised a pair of shoes that would be sure to fit.

So the question of Dab's personal appearance at the wedding was all arranged between him and Ham; and Miranda smiled more sweetly than ever before upon the latter, after she had heard her usually silent brother break out so enthusiastically about him as he did that evening.

It was a good thing for that wedding that it took place in fine summer weather, for neither kith, kin, nor acquaintances had been slighted in the invitations, and the Kinzers were one of the "oldest families."

To have gathered them all under the roof of that house, without either stretching it out wider or boiling the guests down, would have been out of the question, and so the majority, with Dabney in his new clothes to keep them countenance, stood or sat in the cool shade of the grand old trees during the ceremony, which was performed near the open door, and were afterward served with the wedding refreshments, in a style that spoke volumes for Mrs. Kinzer's good management, as well as for her hospitality.

The only drawback to Dab's happiness that day was that his acquaintances hardly seemed to know him. He had had almost the same trouble with himself when he looked in the glass that morning.

Ordinarily, his wrists were several inches through his coat sleeves, and his ankles made a perpetual show of his stockings. His neck, too, seemed usually to be holding his head as far as possible from his coat collar, and his buttons had no favor to ask of his button-holes.

Now, even as the tailor had promised, he had received his "first fit." He seemed to himself, to tell the truth, to be covered up in a prodigal waste of nice cloth. Would he ever, ever grow too big for such a suit of clothes as that? It was a very painful thought, and he did his best to put it away from him.

Still, it was a little hard to have a young lady, whom he had known before she began to walk, remark to him: "Excuse me, sir, but can you tell me if Mr. Dabney Kinzer is here?"

"No, Jenny Walters," sharply responded Dab, "he isn't here."

"Why, Dabney!" exclaimed the pretty Jenny, "is that you? I declare, you've scared me out of a year's growth."

"I wish you'd scare me, then," said Dab. "Then my clothes would stay fitted."

Everything had been so well arranged beforehand, thanks to Mrs. Kinzer, that the wedding had no chance at all except to go off well. Ham Morris was rejoiced to find how entirely he was relieved of every responsibility.

"Don't worry about your house, Hamilton," the widow said to him the night before. "We'll go over there as soon as you and Miranda get away, and it'll be all ready for you by the time you get back."

"All right," said Ham. "I'll be glad to have you take the old place in hand. I've only tried to live in a corner of it. You don't know how much room there is. I don't, I must say."

Dabney had longed to ask her if she meant to have it moved over to the Kinzer side of the north fence, but he had doubts as to the propriety of it, and just then the boy came in from the tailor's with his bundle of new clothes.



CHAPTER II.

Hamilton Morris was a very promising young man, of some thirty summers. He had been an "orphan" for a dozen years, and the wonder was that he should so long have lived alone in the big square-built house his father left him. At all events, Miranda Kinzer was just the wife for him.

Miranda's mother had seen that at a glance, the moment her mind was settled about the house. As to that and his great, spreading, half-cultivated farm, all either of them needed was ready money and management.

These were blessings Ham was now made reasonably sure of, on his return from his wedding trip, and he was likely to appreciate them.

As for Dabney Kinzer, he was in no respect overcome by the novelty and excitement of the wedding. All the rest of the day he devoted himself to such duties as were assigned him, with a new and grand idea steadily taking shape in his mind. He felt as if his brains, too, were growing. Some of his mother's older and more intimate friends remained with her all day, probably to comfort her for the loss of Miranda, and two or three of them, Dab knew, would stay to tea, so that his services would be in demand to see them safely home.

All day long, moreover, Samantha and Keziah and Pamela seemed to find themselves wonderfully busy, one way and another, so that they paid even less attention than usual to any of the ins and outs of their brother.

Dabney was therefore able, with little difficulty, to take for himself whatever of odd time he might require for putting his new idea into execution.

Mrs. Kinzer herself noticed the rare good sense with which her son hurried through with his dinner and slipped away, leaving her in undisturbed possession of the table and her lady guests, and neither she nor either of the girls had a thought of following him.

If they had done so, they might have seen him draw a good-sized bundle out from under the lilac-thicket in the back yard, and hurry down through the garden.

A few minutes more and Dabney appeared on the fence of the old cross-road leading down to the shore. There he sat, eying one passer-by after another, till he suddenly sprang from his perch, exclaiming: "That's just the chap. Why, they'll fit him, and that's more'n they ever did for me."

Dab would probably have had to search along the coast for miles before he could have found a human being better suited to his present charitable purposes than the boy who now came so lazily down the road.

There was no doubt about his color, or that he was all over of about the same shade of black. His old tow trousers and calico shirt revealed the shining fact in too many places to leave room for a question, and shoes he had none.

"Dick," said Dabney, "was you ever married?"

"Married!" exclaimed Dick, with a peal of very musical laughter. "Is I married? No! Is you?"

"No," replied Dabney, "but I was mighty near it, this morning."

"Dat so?" asked Dick, with another show of his white teeth. "Done ye good, den. Nebber seen ye look so nice afore."

"You'd look nicer'n I do, if you were only dressed up," said Dab. "Just you put on these."

"Golly!" exclaimed the black boy. But he seized the bundle Dab threw him, and he had it open in a twinkling. "Anyt'ing in de pockets?" he asked.

"Guess not," said Dab; "but there's lots of room."

"Say dar was!" exclaimed Dick. "But wont dese t'ings be warm!"

It was quite likely, for the day was not a cool one, and Dick never seemed to think of pulling off what he had on before getting into his unexpected present. Coat, vest, and trousers, they were all pulled on with more quickness than Dab had ever seen the young African display before.

"I's much obleeged to ye, Mr. Kinzer," said Dick, very proudly, as he strutted across the road. "On'y I dasn't go back fru de village."

"What'll you do, then?" asked Dab.

"S'pose I'd better go a-fishin'," said Dick. "Will de fish bite?"

"Oh, the clothes wont make any odds to them," said Dabney. "I must go back to the house."

And so he did, while Dick, on whom the cast-off garments of his white friend were really a pretty good fit, marched on down the road, feeling grander than he ever had before in all his life.

"That'll be a good thing to tell Ham Morris when he and Miranda come home again," muttered Dab, as he re-entered the house.

Late that evening, when Dabney returned from his final duties as escort to his mother's guests, she rewarded him with more than he could remember ever receiving of motherly commendation.

"I've been really quite proud of you, Dabney," she said to him, as she laid her plump hand on the collar of his new coat and kissed him. "You've behaved like a perfect gentleman."

"Only, mother," exclaimed Keziah, "he spent too much of his time with that sharp-tongued little Jenny Walters."

"Never mind, Kezi," said Dab. "She didn't know who I was till I told her. I'm going to wear a label with my name on it, when I go over to the village, to-morrow."

"And then you'll put on your other suit in the morning," said Mrs. Kinzer, "You must keep this for Sundays and great occasions."

When the morning came, Dabney Kinzer was a more than usually early riser, for he felt that he had waked up to a very important day.

"Dabney," exclaimed his mother, when he came in to breakfast, "did I not tell you to put on your other suit?"

"So I have, mother," replied Dab; "this is my other suit."

"That!" exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer.

"So it is!" cried Keziah.

"So it isn't," added Samantha. "Mother, that's not what he had on yesterday."

"He's been trading again," mildly suggested Pamela.

"Dabney," said Mrs. Kinzer, "what does this mean?"

"Mean!" replied Dabney, "Why, these are the clothes you told me to buy. The lot I wore yesterday were a present from Ham Morris. He's a splendid fellow. I'm glad he got the best of the girls."

That was a bad thing for Dabney to say, just then, for it was resented vigorously by the remaining three. As soon as quiet was restored, however, Mrs, Kinzer remarked:

"I think Hamilton should have consulted me about it; but it's too late now. Anyhow, you may go and put on your other clothes."

"My wedding suit?" asked Dab.

"No, indeed! I mean your old ones; those you took off night before last."

"Dunno where they are," slowly responded Dab.

"Don't know where they are?" repeated a chorus of four voices.

"No," said Dab. "Bill Lee's black boy had 'em on all yesterday afternoon, and I reckon he's gone a-fishing again to-day. They fit him a good sight better'n they ever did me."

If Dabney had expected a storm to come from his mother's end of the table, he was pleasantly mistaken, and his sisters had it all to themselves for a moment. Then, with an admiring glance at her son, the thoughtful matron remarked:

"Just like his father, for all the world. It's no use, girls. Dabney's a growing boy in more ways than one. Dabney, I shall want you to go over to the Morris house with me after breakfast. Then you may hitch up the ponies, and we'll do some errands around the village."



Dab Kinzer's sisters looked at one another in blank astonishment, and Samantha would have left the table if she had only finished her breakfast.

Pamela, as being nearest to Dab in age and sympathy, gave a very admiring look at her brother's second "good fit," and said nothing.

Even Keziah finally admitted, in her own mind, that such a change in Dabney's appearance might have its advantages. But Samantha inwardly declared war.

The young hero himself was hardly used to that second suit as yet, and felt anything but easy in it.

"I wonder," he said to himself, "what Jenny Walters would think of me now? Wonder if she'd know me?"

Not a doubt of it. But, after he had finished his breakfast and gone out, his mother remarked:

"It's really all right, girls. I almost fear I've been neglecting Dabney. He isn't a little boy any more."

"He isn't a man yet," exclaimed Samantha, "and he talks slang dreadfully."

"But then he does grow so!" remarked Keziah.

"Mother," said Pamela, "couldn't you get Dab to give Dick the slang, along with the old clothes?"

"We'll see about it," replied Mrs. Kinzer.

It was very plain that Dabney's mother had begun to take in a new idea about her son. It was not the least bit in the world unpleasant to find out that he was "growing in more ways than one," and it was quite likely that she had indeed kept him too long in roundabouts.



CHAPTER III.

Dick Lee had been more than half right about the village being a dangerous place for him with such an unusual amount of clothing over his ordinary uniform.

The very dogs, every one of whom was an old acquaintance, barked at him on his way home that night; and, proud as were his ebony father and mother, they yielded to his earnest entreaties, first, that he might wear his present all the next day, and, second, that he might betake himself to the "bay," early in the morning, and so keep out of sight "till he got used to it."

The fault with Dab Kinzer's old suit, after all, had lain mainly in its size rather than its materials, for Mrs. Kinzer was too good a manager to be really stingy.

Dick succeeded in reaching the boat-landing without falling in with any one who seemed disposed to laugh at him; but there, right on the wharf, was a white boy of about his own age, and he felt a good deal like backing out.

"Nebber seen him afore, either," said Dick to himself. "Den I guess I aint afeard ob him."

The stranger was a somewhat short and thick-set but bright and active-looking boy, with a pair of very keen, greenish-gray eyes. But, after all, the first word he spoke to poor Dick was:

"Hullo, clothes! where are you going with all that boy?"

"I knowed it! I knowed it!" groaned Dick. But he answered, as sharply as he knew how: "I's goin' a-fishin'. Any ob youah business?"

"Where'd you learn to fish?" the stranger asked. "Down South? Didn't know they had any there."

"Nebbah was down Souf," was the surly reply.

"Father run away, did he?"

"He nebber was down dar, nudder."

"Nor his father?"

"'T aint no business o' your'n," said Dick; "but we's allers lived right heah on dis bay."

"Guess not," replied the white boy, knowingly.

But Dick was right, for his people had been slaves among the very earliest Dutch settlers, and had never "lived South" at all. He was now busily getting one of the boats ready to push off; but his white tormentor went at him again with—

"Well, then, if you've lived here so long, you must know everybody."

"Reckon I do."

"Are there any nice fellows around here? Any like me?"

"De nicest young genelman 'round dis bay," replied Dick, "is Mr. Dab Kinzer. But he aint like you. Not nuff to hurt 'im."

"Dab Kinzer!" exclaimed the stranger. "Where did he get his name?"

"In de bay, I spect," said Dick, as he shoved his boat off. "Caught 'im wid a hook."

"Anyhow," said the strange boy to himself, "that's probably the sort of fellow my father would wish me to associate with. Only it's likely he's very ignorant."

And he walked away toward the village with the air of a man who had forgotten more than the rest of his race were ever likely to find out.

At all events, Dick Lee had managed to say a good word for his benefactor, little as he could guess what might be the consequences.

Meantime, Dab Kinzer, when he went out from breakfast, had strolled away to the north fence, for a good look at the house which was thenceforth to be the home of his favorite sister. He had seen it before, every day since he could remember; but it seemed to have a fresh and almost mournful interest for him just now.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed, as he leaned against the fence. "Putting up ladders? Oh yes, I see! That's old Tommy McGrew, the house-painter. Well, Ham's house needs a new coat as badly as I did. Sure it'll fit, too. Only it aint used to it any more'n I am."

"Dabney!"

It was his mother's voice, and Dab felt like "minding" very promptly that morning.

"Dabney, my boy, come here to the gate."

"Ham's having his house painted," he remarked, as he joined his mother.

"Is he?" she said. "We'll go and see about it."

As they drew nearer, however, Dabney discovered that carpenters as well as painters were plying their trade in and about the old homestead. There were window-sashes piled here and blinds there, a new door or so ready for use, with bundles of shingles, and other signs of approaching "renovation."

"Going to fix it all over," remarked Dab.

"Yes," replied his mother; "it'll be as good as new. It was well built, and will bear mending."

When they entered the house, it became more and more evident that the "shabby" days of the Morris mansion were numbered. There were men at work in almost every room.

Ham's wedding trip would surely give plenty of time, at that rate, and his house would be "all ready for him" on his return.

There was nothing wonderful to Dabney in the fact that his mother went about inspecting work and giving directions. He had never seen her do anything else, and he had the greatest confidence in her knowledge and ability.

Dabney noticed, too, before they left the place, that all the customary farm-work was going ahead with even more regularity and energy than if the owner himself had been present.

"Ham's farm'll look like ours, one of these days, at this rate," he said to his mother.

"I mean it shall," she replied, somewhat sharply. "Now go and get out the ponies, and we'll do the rest of our errands."

If they had only known it, at that very moment Ham and his blooming bride were setting out for a drive at the fashionable watering-place where they had made the first stop in their wedding tour.

"Ham?" said Miranda, "it seems to me as if we were a thousand miles from home."

"We shall be further before we get nearer," said Ham.

"But I wonder what they are doing there,—mother and the girls and dear little Dabney?"

"Little Dabney!" exclaimed Ham. "Why, Miranda, do you think Dab is a baby yet?"

"No, not a baby. But———"

"Well, he's a boy, that's a fact; but he'll be as tall as I am in three years."

"Will he ever be fat?"

"Not till after he gets his full length," said Ham. "We must have him at our house a good deal, and feed him up. I've taken a liking to Dab."

"Feed him up!" said Miranda, with some indignation. "Do you think we starve him?"

"No; but how many meals a day does he get?"

"Three, of course, like the rest of us; and he never misses one of them."

"I suppose not," said Ham, "I never miss a meal myself, if I can help it. But don't you think three meals a day is rather short allowance for a boy like Dab?"

Miranda thought a moment, but then she answered, positively: "No, I don't. Not if he does as well at each one of them as Dab is sure to."

"Well," said Ham, "that was in his old clothes, that were too tight for him. Now he's got a good loose fit, with plenty of room, you don't know how much more he may need. No, Miranda, I'm going to have an eye on Dabney."

"You're a dear, good fellow, anyway," said Miranda, "and I hope mother'll have the house all ready for us when we get back."

"She will," replied Ham. "I shall hardly be easy till I see what she has done with it."



CHAPTER IV.

"That's him!"

Dab was standing by the ponies, in front of a store in the village. His mother was making some purchases in the store, and Dab was thinking how the Morris house would look when it was finished, and it was at him the old farmer was pointing in answer to a question which had just been asked.

The questioner was the sharp-eyed boy who had bothered poor Dick Lee that morning.

At that moment, however, a young lady—quite young—came tripping along the sidewalk, and was stopped by Dab Kinzer with:

"There, Jenny Walters, I forgot my label!"

"Why, Dabney, is that you? How you startled me! Forgot your label?"

"Yes," said Dab; "I'm in another new suit to-day, and I want to have a label with my name on it. You'd have known me, then."

"But I know you now," exclaimed Jenny. "Why, I saw you yesterday."

"Yes, and I told you it was me. Can you read, Jenny?"

"Why, what a question!"

"Because, if you can't, it wont do me any good to wear a label."

"Dabney Kinzer," exclaimed Jenny. "There's another thing you ought to get?"

"What's that?"

"Some good manners," said the little lady, snappishly. "Think, of your stopping me in the street to tell me I can't read."

"Then you mustn't forget me so quick," said Dab. "If you meet my old clothes anywhere you must call 'em Dick Lee. They've had a change of name."

"So, he's in them, is he? I don't doubt they look better than they ever did before."

And Jenny walked proudly away, leaving her old playmate feeling as if he had had a little the worst of it. That was often the way with people who stopped to talk with Jenny Walters, and she was not as much of a favorite as she otherwise might have been.

Hardly had she disappeared before Dab was confronted by the strange boy.

"Is your name Dabney Kinzer?" said he.

"Yes, I believe so."

"Well, I'm Mr. Ford Foster, of New York."

"Come over here to buy goods?" suggested Dab. "Or to get something to eat?"

Ford Foster was apparently of about Dab's age, but a full head less in height, so that there was more point in the question than there seemed to be, but he treated it as not worthy of notice, and asked: "Do you know of a house to let anywhere about here?"

"House to let?" suddenly exclaimed the voice of Mrs. Kinzer, behind him, much to Dab's surprise. "Are you asking about a house? Whom for?"

If Ford Foster had been ready to "chaff" Dick Lee, or even Dab Kinzer, he knew enough to speak respectfully to the portly and business-like lady now before him.



"Yes, madam," he said, with a ceremonious bow. "I wish to report to my father that I've found an acceptable house in this vicinity."

"You do!"

Mrs. Kinzer was reading the young gentleman through and through as she spoke, but she followed her exclamation with a dozen questions, and then wound up with:

"Go right home, then, and tell your father the only good house to let in this neighborhood will be ready for him next week, and he'd better see me at once. Get into the buggy, Dabney."

"A very remarkable woman!" muttered Ford Foster to himself as they drove away. "I must make some more inquiries."

"Mother," said Dabney, "you wouldn't let 'em have Ham's house?"

"No, indeed; but I don't mean to have our own stand empty." And, with that, a great deal of light began to break in on Dabney's mind.

"That's it, is it?" he said to himself, as he touched up the ponies. "Well, there'll be room enough for all of us there, and no mistake. But what'll Ham say?"

It was not till late the next day, however, that Ford Foster completed his inquiries. He took the afternoon train for the city, satisfied that, much as he knew before he came, he had actually learned a good deal more which was valuable.

He was almost the only person in the car. Trains going toward the city were apt to be thinly peopled at that time of day, but the empty cars had to be taken along all the same, for the benefit of the crowds who would be coming out, later in the afternoon and in the evening. The railway company would have made more money with full loads both ways, but it was well they did not have one on that precise train. Ford had turned over the seat in front of him, and stretched himself out with his feet on it. It was almost like lying down for a boy of his length, but it was the very best position he could have taken if he had known what was coming.

Known what was coming?

Yes, there was a pig coming.

That was all, but it was quite enough, considering what that pig was about to do. He was going where he chose, just then, and he chose not to turn out for the railway train.

"What a whistle!" Ford Foster had just exclaimed. "It sounds more like the squeal of an iron pig than anything else. I——"

But at that instant there came a great jolt and a shock, and Ford found himself suddenly tumbled, all in a heap, on the seat where his feet had been. Then came bounce after bounce and the sound of breaking glass, and then a crash.

"Off the track!" shouted Ford, as he sprang to his feet. "I wouldn't have missed it for anything, but I do hope nobody's killed."

In the tremendous excitement of the moment he could hardly have told how he got out of that car, but it did not seem ten seconds till he was standing beside the conductor and engineer, looking at the battered engine as it lay on its side in a deep ditch. The baggage car, just behind it, was broken all to pieces, but the passenger cars did not seem to have suffered very much, and nobody was badly hurt, as the engineer and fireman had jumped off in time.

"This train'll never get in on time," said Ford to the conductor, a little later. "How'll I get to the city?"

"Well," replied the railway man, who was not in the best of humors, "I don't suppose the city could do without you overnight. The junction with the main road is only two miles ahead, and if you're a good walker you may catch a train there."

Some of the other passengers, none of whom were very much hurt, had made the same discovery, and in a few minutes more there was a long, straggling procession of uncomfortable people marching by the side of the railway track, under the hot sun, The conductor was right, however, and nearly all of them managed to make the two miles to the junction in time.

Mr. Ford Foster was among the very first to arrive, and he was likely to reach home in very fair season in spite of the pig.

As for his danger, he had hardly thought of that, and he would not have missed so important an adventure for anything he could think of, just then.

It was to a great, pompous, stylish, crowded, "up-town boarding-house," that Ford's return was to take him. There was no wonder at all that wise people should wish to get out of such a place in such hot weather. Still, it was the sort of a home Ford Foster had been best acquainted with all his life, and it was partly owing to that that he had become so prematurely "knowing."

He knew too much, in fact, and was only too well aware of it. He had filled his head with an unlimited stock of boarding-house information, as well as with a firm persuasion that there was little more to be had,—unless, indeed, it might be scraps of such outside, knowledge as he had now been picking up over on Long Island.

In one of the great "parlor chambers" of the boarding-house, at about eight o'clock that evening, a middle-aged gentleman and lady, with a fair, sweet-faced girl of about nineteen, were sitting near an open window, very much as if they were waiting for somebody.

Such a kindly, motherly lady! She was one of those whom no one can help liking, after seeing her smile once, or hearing her speak. Whatever may have been his faults or short-comings, Ford Foster could not have put in words what he thought about his mother. And yet he had no difficulty in expressing his respect for his father, or his unbounded admiration for his pretty sister Annie.

"Oh, husband!" exclaimed Mrs. Foster, "are you sure none of them were injured?"

"So the telegraphic report said. Not a bone broken of anybody but the pig that got in the way."

"But how I wish he would come!" groaned Annie. "Have you any idea, papa, how he can get home?"

"Not clearly," said her father, "but you can trust Ford not to miss any opportunity. He's just the boy to look out for himself in an emergency."

Ford Foster's father took very strongly after the son in whose ability he expressed so much confidence. He had just such a square, active, bustling sort of body, several sizes larger, with just such keen, penetrating, greenish-gray eyes. Anybody would have picked him out, at a glance, for a lawyer, and a good one.

That was exactly what he was, and if any one had become acquainted with either son or father, there would have been no difficulty afterward in identifying the other.

It required a good deal more than the telegraphic report of the accident or even her husband's assurances, to relieve the motherly anxiety of good Mrs. Foster, or even to drive away the shadows from the face of Annie.

No doubt if Ford himself had known the state of affairs, they would have been relieved earlier; for even while they were talking about him he was already in the house. It had not so much as occurred to him that his mother would hear of the accident to the pig and the railway train until he himself should tell her, and so, he had made sure of his supper down-stairs, before reporting himself. He might not have done it, perhaps, but he had come in through the lower way, by the area door, and that of the dining-room had stood temptingly wide open with some very eatable things ready on the table.

That had been too much for Ford, after his car-ride and his smash-up and his long walk. But now, at last, up he came, brimful of new and wonderful experiences, to be more than a little astonished by the manner and enthusiasm of his welcome.

"Why, mother!" he exclaimed, when he got a chance for a word, "you and Annie couldn't have said much more if I'd been the pig himself."

"The pig?" said Annie.

"Yes, the pig that stopped us. He and the engine wont go home to their families to-night."

"Don't make fun of it, Ford," said his mother, gently; "it's too serious a matter."

Just then his father broke in, almost impatiently, with, "Well, Ford, my boy, have you done your errand, or shall I have to see about it myself? You've been gone two days."

"Thirty-seven hours and a half, father," replied Ford, taking out his watch. "I've kept an exact account of my expenses. We've saved the cost of advertising."

"And spent it on railroading," said his father, with a laugh.

"But, Ford," asked Annie, "did you find a house?—a good one?"

"Yes," added Mrs. Foster, "now I'm sure you're safe, I do want to hear about the house."

"It's all right, mother," said Ford, confidently. "The very house you told me to hunt for. Neither too large nor too small, and it's in apple-pie order."

There were plenty of questions to answer now, but Ford was every way equal to the occasion. His report, in fact, compelled his father to look at him with an expression of face which very clearly meant, "That boy resembles me. I was just like him at his age. He'll be just like me at mine."

There was really very good reason to approve of the manner in which the young gentleman had performed his errand in the country, and Mr. Foster promptly decided to go over, in a day or two, and settle matters with Mrs Kinzer.

(To be continued.)



HOW WILLY WOLLY WENT A-FISHING.

BY S.C. STONE.

One day, on going fishing Was Willy Wolly bent; And, as it chanced a holiday, Why, Willy Wolly went.



Now, Willy Wolly planned, you see, To catch a speckled trout; But caught a very different fish From what he had laid out!

In view of all the fishes,— Who much enjoyed the joke, With many a joyous wriggle And finny punch and poke,—

Young Willy Wolly, leaping A fence with dire design, Had carelessly left swinging His fishing-hook and line.



How Willy Wolly did it, He really could not tell, But instantly he had his fish Exceeding fast and well!

He hooked the struggling monster Securely in the sleeve; And, all at once, he found it time His pleasant sport to leave;—

'T was not a very gamy fish For one so large and strong, That Willy Wolly, blubbering, Helped carefully along.

The giggling fishes crowded to The river bank to look, As Willy Wolly, captive, led Himself with line and hook!



When Willy Wolly went, you see, To catch a speckled trout, Why, Willy Wolly caught himself! And so the joke is out.

His mother saved that barbed hook, And sternly bid him now No more to dare a-fishing go, Until he has learned how!



CRUMBS FROM OLDER READING.

BY JULIA E. SARGENT.

III.—THOMAS CARLYLE.

"Shakespeare says we are creatures that look before and after. The more surprising, then, that we do not look around a little, and see what is passing under our very eyes."

So writes Thomas Carlyle.

Although he politely says "we," when speaking of people in general, that part of the "we" known as Thomas Carlyle certainly keeps his eyes wide open. So wide, indeed, that much that is disagreeable comes under his notice, as always will be the case with those who choose to see everything.

I once watched the round, red sun as it crimsoned the sparkling waters in which it seemed already sinking. When, at last, I turned my dazzled eyes away, all over lake and sky I saw dancing black suns. Perhaps it is through dwelling long on one idea that Carlyle sees only spots of blackness on what others call clear sky. The great want of that foggy, smoky city where he lives is pure, health-giving light, and this we also miss in his writings, which, like London, have not enough sunshine.

But, whatever people may say, when Carlyle speaks the world is quite ready to listen.

Who is Thomas Carlyle?

He is a Scotchman, a philosopher, an essayist, an historian, a biographer, and an octogenarian.

What has he done to be so famous?

He has written twenty books. But you might live to be an octogenarian yourself without meeting twenty persons who would have read them all. It would not be a hard matter, though, to find those who have read one of his books twenty times; perhaps this very green-covered book with "Sartor Resartus" on the back.

What does it mean, and what is it all about?

It means "The Tailor Re-tailored," and Carlyle says it is a book about clothes. But you need not look for fashion-plates; there are none there. You will hear nothing about new costumes; for this book is full of Carryle's own thoughts, clothed in such words that you will surely enjoy the book.

Hear how he tells us that nothing that we do is really "of no matter," as we so often think:

"I say, there is not a red Indian hunting by Lake Winnepeg can quarrel with his squaw but the whole world must smart for it: will not the price of beaver rise?"

You think it would not make much difference if the price of beaver should rise? Let us look at the matter. First, Mr. B. Woods, the trader, must pay a larger price for his beaver, and therefore must sell for more to the firm of Bylow & Selhi. These shrewd gentlemen do not intend to lose on their purchase, so they pay a less sum to Mr. Maycup, the manufacturer. This reduction in his income causes Mr. Maycup to curtail family expenses. So his subscription to ST. NICHOLAS is discontinued, and the youthful Maycups are overwhelmed with grief, because of that unfortunate quarrel which raised the price of beaver.

But why should the price change because of that?

Really, Mr. Carlyle should answer you. Perhaps the Indian in his quarrel forgets to set his traps, or the whole neighborhood may become so interested in the little affair that beavers are forgotten.

"Were it not miraculous could I stretch forth my hand and clutch the sun? Yet thou seest me daily stretch forth my hand and clutch many a thing and swing it hither and thither. Art thou a grown baby, then, to fancy that the miracle lies in miles of distance, or in pounds avoirdupois of weight; and not to see that the true miracle lies in this, that I can stretch forth my hand at all?"