Here is another bit. It is like an egg, for the meaning is wrapt in words just as an egg hides in the shell. "The tell-tale body is all tongues." What does the tongue help to do? Will no one know that you are cross unless you say, "I am cross this morning?" Can I find it out although you do not say a word? Yes, indeed; that puckered mouth and ugly little scowl tell, all too quickly, and even if I could not see your face, that little jerk and twist would tell the story. Do you not know when the dog is sick or tired, or full of fun? yet, his bright eyes, eager little nose, lively body and whisking tail, tell no more surely than your own face and body.

"The tell-tale body is all tongues." Mr. Emerson, we think that is true.

"How can I be beautiful?" Every boy and girl, man and woman, wants to know that. Here is Mr. Emerson's beauty recipe: "There is no beautifier of complexion, or form, or behavior, like the wish to scatter joy and not pain around us." Do you suppose that recipe will work? Think of the most beautiful people you know. Ah, I knew some one would say "mother." Do you not think these people are those who try very hard to make others happy? I know very many beautiful people who would have remained very plain had they sought only to please themselves.

We want to try Emerson's rule for becoming beautiful, so it will not do to forget that "There is no beautifier of complexion, or form, or behavior, like the wish to scatter joy and not pain around us."

"Every man takes care that his neighbor shall not cheat him. But a day comes when he begins to care that he does not cheat his neighbor. Then all goes well." Yes, Mr. Emerson, that is the only way to have things go well,—following the Golden Rule.

"You cannot hide any secret. 'Tis as hard to hide as fire." Perhaps you think that it is not so; but you just try how long you can keep a secret that even your dearest friend does not know. I should not wonder if Emerson were right once more.

"There is much you may not do." True again. We do not need Emerson to tell us that. "You must not do that, you must not do this," the little folks hear so often, that sometimes they wonder what they may do.

But we would like to have him tell us what things last longest.

He is all ready to tell whoever wants to know, "Beauty is the quality which makes to endure. In a house that I know, I have noticed a block of spermaceti lying about closets and mantel-pieces for twenty years together, simply because the tallow-man gave it the form of a rabbit; and I suppose it may continue to be lugged about unchanged for a century. Let an artist draw a few lines or figures on the back of a letter, and that scrap of paper is rescued from danger, is put in a portfolio, or framed and glazed, and, in proportion to the beauty of the lines drawn, will be kept for centuries." And there are beauties of heart, mind and character, that do not meet the eye, but are none the less powerful in "making to endure."



THE OLD MAN AND THE NERVOUS COW.

BY R.E.

"There was an old man who said 'How Shall I 'scape from this horrible cow? I will sit on the stile, And continue to smile, Which may soften the heart of the cow.'"

The old man was walking thoughtfully through the field, with his hands behind him, when the nervous cow saw him. She wasn't ordinarily a bad-natured cow, but she was mad just then. An aggravating fly had been biting her half the morning, and, just as she was drinking at the brook, a frog had jumped up with a cry and bitten her nose. These things had completely unsettled her nerves.

She was ready to run at anything, and the old man being the only living thing in sight, she plunged toward him.



What could he do? He was a short, stout old man, and could not run very fast, and, though he tried his best, he only just managed to reach the stile and plump down on it, all out of breath, as the cow neared him.

Then he suddenly remembered reading somewhere that if you looked right into an animal's eyes, it would run away from you.

"Ah!" thought he, "I'll look straight at her, and if I smile at the same time, she wont have the heart to hurt me."

So he put on a smile (of course it was not a very beautiful one, for he was in a hurry, but it was the best he could do), and stared straight into the cow's eyes. She saw that smile, and it so touched her that she stopped short. Then she sauntered back a little way, but the thought of that aggravating fly, and that awful frog, was too much for her poor nerves, and turning around, she dashed madly on again.

In another minute, the poor old man—cane, little legs, smile and all—was up in the air.

He alighted in the top of a hickory-tree. One branch grazed his eye, two ran into his legs, while another held his smile stiff and straight.

Thus he stayed until an eagle caught sight of him, pounced right down, and flew off with him to her nest, which was on a huge rock that rose straight up into the cold air and made the summit of a mountain.

When the old eagle plumped the little old man down into the nest, just imagine, if you can, how astonished the eaglets were! They opened their beaks as well as their eyes, and cried out:

"What's this, mother? What is this?"

"Oh! it's only a man," cried the old eagle. "I found him roosting in the top of a tree. Don't know how he got there. Suppose he was trying to fly, and couldn't. Tell us how it was, old man."

"Can he talk?"

"Talk!" said the eagle. "Of course he can talk. And he can tell stories, too, I warrant you. So, if you like, you may keep him to tell you stories."

"Oh, wont that be nice! Tell us a story, right off," they all screamed, jerking the old man down into the nest.

"But it's so dirty here," said he, looking around, with his nose turned up a little. "Let me sit on the edge of the nest, wont you?—and I'll tell you all the stories you want."

"You'll fall over.".

"Oh no, I wont. I'll hold on with my cane and my legs. Now just shut your beaks, so you wont look so savage, and listen."

So the old man perched himself on the edge of the nest. The eaglets took hold of his coat with their beaks, to keep him from falling; and he told them the story of "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves"; and when that was ended, another, and then another.

He didn't eat much supper that night, for they hadn't any convenience for cooking. And he didn't sleep well, either, for whenever one of the eaglets woke up in the night, it always pinched him with its beak, to make sure he was there. So he resolved to get away as soon as he could.

But he didn't seem to have any chance; so there he stayed and told stories till he longed to wring the necks of the gaping birds that kept asking him for more.

Now, all this time the cow had been getting more and more nervous. Every day she thought of the poor old man and his meek little legs and his sweet old smile, and just how his coat-tails looked as he went up; till at last she laid her head down on a tuft of grass by the brook, and cried—regularly boo-hooed.

Having thus relieved her feelings, she became calm, and, rising, said:

"I'll go to his house and find out how and where he is, if I can."

So off she started. But the house was shut up, and there was no one there except the cat.

Very much frightened the cat was, too, when the cow pushed up the pantry window with her horns, and bellowed:

"Where's your master?"

"I don't know," said the cat, retreating to a far corner, with his back up. "I haven't set eyes on him since last Sunday."

"Oh dear!" sighed the cow, dropping the window with a crash that broke out two of the panes of glass. "What shall I do?"



"What's the matter with you?—and what do you want of the old man?" asked Tabby, bounding out through one of the broken panes.

The cow told him.

"Well," said Tab, stroking his whiskers reflectively, "I guess I'll go with you and help you look for the good-natured old creature."

So they journeyed on, asking everybody they met about the old man. But nobody knew, until finally they came across an old crow who knew everybody's business.

"An old man?" said he. "The eagle took an old man the other day. Did he have very slender legs?"

"Yes, yes!" said the cat and the cow together.

"And a sweet smile on his face?"

"Yes, yes!" cried the cow. "He went up with that smile, and it has been haunting me ever since," and she burst into a flood of tears.

"Well," said the crow, "he's in the eagle's nest telling stories to the eaglets, and if he isn't tired of the business by this time, I'm mistaken."

"Where is the nest?—and how can we get there?"

"Up at the very top of the mountain yonder. Go straight ahead, and you can't miss it."



So straight ahead they went till they came to the rock where the eagle's nest was. Then what should they do? They could hear the old man's little, thin voice telling stories to the birds, but they knew he wouldn't dare come where the cow was, even if he could clamber down that steep rock. At last, Tab suggested that the cow should hide herself, while he climbed up into the nest and persuaded the old man. So the cow hid, and puss scrambled up to the nest and carefully poked his head in.

"Ah, master!" he whispered; "climb down the rock to-night, and I'll show you the way home." And he disappeared.

This visit braced up the old man's courage, and when the mother-bird came home he calmly told her he thought he'd sleep at the foot of the rock that night; and she unsuspectingly took him in her talons and dropped him gently on the ground.

As soon as she had gone, the old man looked all about him, and called "Tabby, Tabby," very softly. Tabby came out from under the roots of a tree and bounded on his shoulder, and told him how sorry the cow was, and how she was waiting in a thicket ready to carry him home, if he wanted to go.

Of course he wanted to go, and in less than a jiffy the cow had come out from her hiding-place, had cried a little, and had taken the old man on her back, and started full speed down the mountain, with the cat tearing after her.

It was a long way to the old man's house, and they reached it just tired out. Of course, they got something to eat, and then they went to bed and slept right through two days; but on the morning of the third day they got up as merry as crickets, and, after a hearty breakfast, they agreed to live together for the rest of their lives. And they have lived ever since in perfect harmony.



THE RAID OF THE CAMANCHES.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "WE BOYS."

Fred Hart, who was the eldest son of a country clergyman, and preparing for college at Whitford Boys' Academy, was known at that classical institution as a "dig," because he "dug" into his books and studied hard. His room-mate, Neal Howe, an orphan, dependent upon his own exertions, was styled a "digger;" and as both lads were rather dark, it was but a step for those wicked upper-story boys to stigmatize them, "Digger Indians!"

This term was gradually extended to include all the boys in the second story, for they were all hard students. The "Diggers" retaliated mildly by styling their upper-story neighbors, "Camanches."

The Camanches perpetrated all sorts of schoolboy atrocities on the Diggers, but, above all things else, they burned for a pillow-fight. In vain they challenged the Diggers to combat. Those law-abiding savages declined, though well aware of thereby falling into contempt on charge of cowardice.

Unmistakable indications were soon apparent that the Camanches meditated an attack.

The north wing was intended to be fire-proof, and each story was separated from the main building by iron doors which usually were fastened back by staples. The Camanches reasoned that these doors might be as effectual in shutting off teachers as fire; and the staples in both the second and third stories were one day withdrawn, so that these doors could be easily closed.

Scouting parties reported that the Camanches were getting ready the war-paint,—i.e., the burnt cork,—and one ferocious savage had intimated that they should spare neither age nor sex.

A council was immediately held in Fred Hart's room, and Fred unanimously chosen chief.

"If they're determined on a pillow-fight they shall have it," resolutely remarked that warrior.

The Diggers proposed using their own pillows as reserve arms only, and the next day any number of this tribe might have been seen scouring the village on mysterious errands, which the housewives would have explained as an effort to buy up old pillows.

"All's fair on the defensive," said Chief Fred, and each Digger ripped open one end of his pillow, poured in a little mucilage, and then basted it up, in accordance with the liberal views boys always entertain concerning "basting."

At a little after nine o'clock, when the lights had been extinguished, and a teacher made the nightly rounds, a Camanche scout quietly closed and bolted the iron doors and relighted the hall lamps. Then, with hair-starting war-whoops, the savages began dropping down through the trap-door, which opened from one hall to another in the capacity of fire-escapes.

The Diggers, peacefully studying in their rooms, were summarily ordered into the hall to battle. Every man protested, but the Camanches refused to parley. Then, seizing their weapons, the assailed marched forth to the field of carnage.

Thwack! went the blows of the Camanches.

Thwack! the Diggers.

Thwack! the Camanches.

Thwack! the Diggers.

A stir among the Camanches and then a wild affray.

Crack! crack! go the Diggers' bastings. Crack! feathers fly over the heads and into the eyes of the Camanches, and there many of them stick. The Camanches realize the disadvantages of unprovoked assault with no rules of warfare agreed upon beforehand.

Here and there a Camanche drops his arms and flies to the farther end of the hall, only to fumble unavailingly at the fastenings of the iron door, while a victorious Digger belabors him with the weapon he has just cast aside.

All at once there is descried in the dim light of the hall the boots and never-to-be-mistaken striped pantaloons of Captain Hale swinging through the trap-door!

Captain Hale is drill-sergeant and professor of gymnastics. He has seen years of army service, and is thoroughly imbued with the military spirit. The boys are more afraid of him than of the president and entire board of trustees,—as afraid as they would be of old Nick, himself, in boots and striped pantaloons.

In a flash every Digger had disappeared into his own room and locked the door after him, and the Camanches are left alone, gasping among their feathers, the captain in their midst.

There is a moment of bewilderment followed by a wild stampede toward the iron door, but the Captain has cut off the retreat.

"Young gentlemen, you will remain and clear up the hall. Williams, go to the coal-cellar and bring up the two-bushel basket."

Williams is "nobbiest" of third-story boys, bravest of Camanche warriors, but Williams doesn't dare refuse to go for that basket. During his absence his fellow-savages express strong doubts as to his ever re-appearing upon the battle-field, but he does return, like Regulus to his barrel of spikes.

The Captain has borrowed a number of brooms and dust-pans from the Diggers who, to a man, had retired and been snoring sweetly.

"Now, gentlemen, clear up these feathers!" orders the Captain, as if he was crying, "Forward, march!"

Clearing up those feathers was a tedious and trying process. Any one who has ever chased a worn-out but still lively feather up and down a long hall can imagine the scene with hundreds of them flying about.

"They're the meanest lot of feathers,—pretty much all fuzz," said one exhausted brave.

When the last handful had been crowded into the basket, Williams attempted opening the door.

"No; you're to make your exit the same way you made your ingress," announced the Captain.

Williams stared blankly at the trap-hole in the ceiling.

Dropping down through a trap-door and going up through the same, with no visible means of support but the floor, are naturally different exercises.

"You're fertile in expedients; can't you devise some good way of getting out?" coolly asked the Captain.

"We might stand on each other's shoulders," suggested one small savage, whom the blood-thirsty Williams afterward confessed he longed to scalp at this juncture.

"Very well, do so," ordered the Captain.

Then one of the noble savages stood under the trap-door while one by one the others sprang upon his shoulders, caught the edges of the opening above, wriggled, writhed, contorted his limbs, and finally succeeded in drawing himself up to his own story, while all down the hall, on either side, there appeared at the open ventilators over the doors the eyes of pairs of miserable Diggers, and for every Camanche that wriggled up there resounded a succession of groans.

The Camanches thought, with a thrill of exultation, that the Captain would be obliged to proffer his shoulders for the last man, and would then be left pondering alone, like the goat in the well. That would be something of a revenge, at any rate.

But when only one boy remained, who, to the exasperation of the entire tribe, was the identical small savage who had proposed going up in that ridiculous style, the Captain quietly opened the iron door, and he and the small savage retired with dignity.

The Captain, who had his "good streaks," never reported the Camanches, but they manifested a disposition thereafter to settle quietly upon their own reservation and cultivate the peaceful arts, and they always treated their neighbors, the Diggers, with respect, though unmingled with affection.



SOLIMIN: A SHIP OF THE DESERT.

BY SUSAN COOLIDGE.

I asked a party of children once the meaning of the word "desert," and all but one shouted out, "rice pudding and oranges!" having in their minds the dinner which we had just eaten. That one, who was older than the rest, said, rather shyly, "A big piece of land, aunty, isn't it?" but even he didn't know how big,—or that there is a difference in spelling between the dessert which people eat and the desert which sometimes eats people, closing its jaws of sand, and swallowing them up as easily as a boy swallows a cherry.

The biggest desert in the world is in Africa, and is called the Sahara. It is almost as large as the Atlantic Ocean, but instead of water it is all sands and rocks. Like the ocean, it is visited with storms; dreadful gales, when the wind scoops up thousands of tons of sand and drives them forward, burying and crushing all they meet. And it has islands, too—small green patches, where springs bubble through the ground, and ferns and acacias and palm-trees grow. When a traveler sees one of these fertile spots afar off, he feels as a tempest-tossed sailor does at sight of land. It is delightful to quit the hot, baking sun, sit in shadow under the trees, and rest the eyes, long wearied with dazzling sands, on the sweet green and the clear spring. Oases, these islands are called. Long distances divide them. It is often a race for life to get across from one to the other. Sometimes people do not get across! In 1805, a caravan of 2,000 persons died miserably of heat and thirst in the great desert, and the sand covered them up. Do you wonder at my saying that the desert eats men?

Now, you will be puzzled to guess what sort of ship it is which swims this dry ocean. It is the camel—an animal made by God to endure these dreadful regions, in which no other beast of burden can live and travel. I dare say many of you have seen camels in menageries. They are ugly animals, but very strong, swift and untiring. With a load of 800 pounds on his back, a camel will travel for days at the rate of eight miles an hour, which is as fast as an ordinary ship can sail. More wonderful still, he will do this without stopping for food or water. Nature has provided him with an extra stomach, in which he keeps a store of drink, and with a hump on his back, made of jelly-like fat, which, in time of need, is absorbed into the system and appropriated as food. Is it not strange to think of a creature with a cistern and a meat-safe inside him? A horse would be useless in the desert, where no oats or grass can be had; but the brave, patient camel goes steadily on without complaint till the oasis is reached: then he champs his thorn bushes, fills himself from the spring, allows the heavy pack to be fastened on his back again, and is ready for further travel.

Now you know what sort of a ship it is that I am going to tell you about. It was a camel, named Solimin. He was of a rare and valuable breed, known as "herie," or coursers, because they are so much swifter than ordinary camels. Solimin's master, Ahmed, was a poor man. He never could have afforded to buy a full-grown camel of this rare breed; and Solimin had become his through a piece of good fortune. When a little foal, Solimin was found in a lonely place in the desert, standing over the dead body of his mother, who had fallen and perished by the way. Led to the brown tent which was Ahmed's home, the orphan baby grew up as a child of the family, lay among the little ones at night, and was their pet and plaything all the day. The boys taught him to kneel, to rise, to carry burdens, to turn this way and that at a signal. The girls hung a necklace of blessed shells around his neck, saved for him the best of the food, sang him songs (which he was supposed to enjoy), and daily kissed and stroked his gentle nose and eyes. As he grew big and strong, the pride of his owners grew with him. Not another family of the tribe possessed a herie. Once and again, Ahmed was offered a large price for him, but he rejected it with disdain.

"Would I sell my son—the son of my heart?" he said. "Neither will I part with Solimin. By the Prophet, I swear it."

Of all the dwellers in the brown tent Solimin loved best Ahmed himself, and his eldest son, Mustapha. With them he was docile as a lamb; but if strangers drew near, or persons he did not like, he became restive and fierce, screamed, laid back his ears, and kicked with his strong hind legs. A kick from a camel is no joke, I can tell you. All the desert guides knew Solimin, and, for his sake, Ahmed was often hired to accompany caravans. Nay, once, at Cairo, Solimin was chosen to carry the sacred person of the Khedive on a day's excursion up the Nile bank, which event served the tribe as a boast for months afterward.

It was the year after this journey to Cairo that Ahmed met with a terrible adventure. He and Mustapha, making their way home after a long journey, had lain down to sleep away the noontide hours, according to the custom of desert travelers. Their camels were tethered beside them, all seemed secure and peaceful, when, sudden as the lowering of a cloud, a party of Arabs, belonging to a wild tribe at enmity with all men, pounced upon them. Ahmed and his son defended themselves manfully, but what could two men, surprised in sleep, do against a dozen? In five minutes all was over. The assailants vanished in a cloud of dust, and Ahmed, who had been struck down in the rush, recovered his senses, to find camels, baggage, belt, money, everything gone, and Mustapha wounded and motionless on the earth beside him.

Ahmed thought him dead. They were alone in the desert, a hundred miles from home, without food or water, and with a groan of despair he sat down beside his son's body, bowed his head, and waited until death should come to him also. An Arab believes in fate, and gives up once for all when misfortune occurs.

But Mustapha stirred, and Ahmed at once sprang up. There was nothing he could do for the poor boy, except to chafe and rub his hands; but this was something, for presently Mustapha revived enough to speak.

"Are they gone?" he asked.

"Yes, the accursed ones, they are gone, with all our goods and with Solimin! The Prophet's curse light upon them!" And passing from despair to fury, Ahmed threw sand upon his head, and flung himself on the ground in helpless rage. Mustapha joined in with groans and lamentations.

When the father and son grew calmer, they began to discuss their situation. Ahmed knew of a small unfrequented oasis, about twenty miles away. It was their only chance of safety, but could they reach it?

"I think I can walk," declared Mustapha, tying up his wounded leg in a fold torn from his turban. But he limped sadly, and his tightly pressed lips showed pain as he moved. He was faint with hunger beside. Neither of the men had eaten since sunrise.

Suddenly Mustapha uttered a joyful cry, and lifted something from the earth.

"The Prophet be praised!" he cried. "My father, here is food. The robbers have dropped a bag of dates."

Sure enough, there it lay, a heavy bag of dates, shaken off from some camel's pack during the struggle. Heavy as it was, and hard to carry, Ahmed would fain have had it larger. It was their safety from starvation. A handful of its contents satisfied hunger, and gave them strength to begin their walk. What a walk it was! Poor Mustapha lay down every half-hour from pain and weakness; the sand was heavy, the darkness puzzled them. When morning broke, they had not accomplished more than half the distance. All through the hot day-time they lay panting on the ground, eating now and then a date, tormented with thirst and heat; and when evening came, they dragged themselves to their feet again, and recommenced their painful journey. Step by step, hour by hour, each harder and longer than the last, moment by moment they grew more feeble, less able to bear up, till it seemed as though they could no longer struggle on. At last, the morning broke. Ahmed raised his blood-shot eyes, seized Mustapha's arm, and pointed. There, not a hundred yards away, was the oasis, its trees and bushes outlined against the sky.

Poor Mustapha was so spent that his father had to drag him across the short dividing space. It was a small oasis, and not very fertile; its well was shallow and scanty, but no ice-cooled sherbet ever seemed more delicious than did its brackish waters to the parched tongues of the exhausted men.

All day and all night they lay under the shadow of the cactuses and the acacia-trees, rousing only to drink, and falling asleep again immediately. Shade, and sleep, and water seemed the only things in the world worth having just then.

The second day they slept less, but it was nearly a week before they could be said to be wide-awake again. Such a pair of scare-crows as they looked! Ahmed was almost naked. The robbers had taken part of his clothes, and the desert thorns the rest. Haggard, wild, blackened by the sun, they gazed at each other with horror; each thought, "Do I look like that?" and each tried to hide from the other his own dismay.

They could never tell afterward how long they remained at the oasis. It seemed years, but I suppose it could not have been more than weeks. All day long they looked wistfully toward the horizon, in hopes of a caravan, but the caravan never came. Slowly the dates dwindled in the bag; slowly the precious water diminished in the well; a little longer, and starvation would be upon them. They scarcely spoke to each other those last days, but sat each by himself in a sort of dull despair. At night, when they fell asleep, they dreamed of food, and woke in the morning to feel themselves still hungry. It was horrible!

Then came a morning when they rose to find the hard desert outline, which they knew so well, vanished and gone, and in its stead a smooth, shining lake, fringed with trees and dotted with feathery, fairy islands. So near it seemed, and so real, that it was as though they heard the ripple of the water and the rustling of the wind in the tree-boughs. Mustapha stared as though his eyes would burst from his head; then he gave a wild cry, and was rushing away; but his father held him fast.

"Stay, my son! Stay, Mustapha! It is no lake,—it is a device of Satan. What you behold is the mirage, spread by devils for men's destruction."

"Let me go!" shrieked Mustapha, writhing and struggling.

But even as he strove, the soft water-outlines shifted and trembled; the lake rose in air, melted, and sailed off into curling mists; the trees, the whole fair picture, dissolved, and the well-remembered sands and black rocks took its place. With a cry of horror, Mustapha slid through his father's arms to the earth, hid his face, and cried like a child.



Next morning, only one date was left in the bag. Ahmed put it in his son's hand with a mournful look.

"Eat, my son," he said; "eat, and then we will die. Allah il Allah!"

A long silence followed; there seemed nothing more to say. Suddenly, from afar off, came to their ears the tinkle of a bell.

Mustapha raised his head.

"Is it the mirage again, my father?" he asked. "For it seems to me that I hear the bell from the neck of Solimin, our camel."

Eagerly they listened. Again the bell tinkled, and, looking through the bushes, they saw, floating toward them, as it seemed, the form of a gigantic camel. Soundless and still, it moved rapidly along. Behind, but much farther away, other forms could be seen, still dim and indistinct, veiled by the mist of driving sand.

Suddenly Mustapha gave a start.

"My father," he cried, in an excited whisper, "it is Solimin! I do not mistake! What other camel ever resembled Solimin? Do you not see his lofty hump,—his arched neck? Does not the bell tinkle as with the voice of home?"

Then, half raising himself, he gave, with all the power of his voice, the well-known call.

Solimin—for it was indeed he—paused as the sound caught his ears, and snuffed the wind. Again came the call; he wheeled, plunged, threw his rider, dashed forward, broke through the bushes, and in a second was on his knees before his old master.

"Up, up, my father! there is no time to lose!" cried Mustapha, grown stronger in a moment. "Up, up! for the robbers are close upon us!"

In fact, wild cries and clouds of dust showed that the foe had taken the alarm, and were hurrying on. But already Ahmed and Mustapha were mounted, and Solimin, like a ship at full sail, was speeding away with them. And where was the camel could overtake him, even when he was loaded double? Fast and swift his long, swinging trot bore them onward, and before two hours were gone, all traces of the pursuers had disappeared behind them, and they were free to turn their course toward the brown tents where rest, and food, and welcome had waited so long for their coming, and where, after a little time, their hardships and sufferings seemed to them only like a bad dream.

As for Solimin, he hardly could be more tenderly treated or beloved than before this adventure; but if the freshest water, the prickliest furze,—if bowls of sour milk;—if a triple necklace of shells,—if brushing and grooming,—if soft pats from childish fingers, and sweet names murmured in his ears by girlish voices can make a camel happy, then is Solimin the happiest of heries. Solimin no longer, however. His name is changed to "The Blessed," in memory of the day when, like a stately ship, he came over the desert sea, and bore his starving masters to home, and life, and liberty.



BELINDA BLONDE

BY LAURA E. RICHARDS.

Belinda Blonde was a beautiful doll, With rosy-red cheeks and a flaxen poll; Her lips were red, and her eyes were blue, But to say she was happy would not be true; For she pined for love of the great big Jack Who lived in the box so grim and black. She never had looked on the Jack his face, But she fancied him shining with beauty and grace; And all the day long she would murmur and pout, Because Jack-in-the-box would never come out. "Oh, beautiful, beautiful Jack-in-the-box! Undo your bolts and undo your locks! The cupboard is shut, and there's no one about; Oh, Jack-in-the-box! jump out, jump out!" But alas, alas for Belinda Blonde! And alas, alas for her dreamings fond! There soon was an end to all her doubt, For Jack-in-the-box really did jump out!— Out with a crash, and out with a spring, Half black and half scarlet, a horrible thing; Out with a yell and out with a shout, His great goggle-eyes glaring wildly about. "Alas! alas!" cried Belinda Blonde; "Is this the end of my dreamings fond? Is this my love, and is this my dear, This hideous, glowering monster here? Alas! alas!" cried Belinda fair. She wrung her hands and she tore her hair, Till at length, as the dolls who were witnesses say, She fell on the ground and she fainted away.

MORAL.

Now all you dolls, both little and big, With china crown and with curling wig, Before you give way to affection fond, Remember the fate of Belinda Blonde; And unless you wish to get terrible knocks, Don't set your heart on a Jack-in-the-box.



THE LONDON DUST-MAN

BY ALEXANDER WAINWRIGHT.

There he goes! A dusky gloom hangs over the roofs of great London City; a similar gloom fills my room and seems to have touched all the furniture with smoky age, and as I look down from the window into the gloomy street, I see him coming along slowly, and crying in a voice like a plea for help in affliction: "Dust-oh!—dust-oh!—dust-oh!—dust-oh!"

Not one of the many citizens who are passing notices him, or finds anything strange in that plaintive cry. The people who live in the city see him day after day, and remember how, in their childhood, they had terrifying notions of his weakness for kidnapping and other mysterious wickednesses. They know better now, and hurry past him with scarcely a glance; but to the American visitor he is something of a curiosity.



When the London fog is gray we cannot see him very far off, for he, too, is gray from head to foot with ash-dust, and as he approaches us he comes out of the mist like a phantom, though in reality he is a substantial, square-built, deep-chested fellow, shod with enormous Bluecher shoes (the soles of which are bright with nails), and clad in a loose blouse and trousers, that are tied up about the knees. The blouse is open at the chest, and is lifted to the waist by his big, brown hands, which are tucked in his trouser pockets, and his head is covered by the kind of hat that sailors call a sou'wester. His only ornament is a pair of ear-rings; and with his head thrown back he saunters along the street by the side of his cart, repeating in measured tones his cry, "Dust-oh-oh! dust-oh!"

Now and then he stops at a house, and his mate—he has a mate, who is as much like him as pea is like pea—descends into the cellar, bringing forth the ashes and refuse that have accumulated in twenty-four hours, and when the cart, which is a square, box-like affair, is filled he starts for home with his load.

What a queer home it is! It is on the outskirts of the city, far away from the finer streets and buildings. A large space of ground is as gray and dusty as an African or Western desert, and is broken by mounds of ashes, some of which are only a few feet high, while others are almost as high as houses,—quite as high, in fact, as the dismal little shanties on the edge of the reservation in which the dust-man and his fellows live. Other carts and other dust-men are constantly coming and going, dumping one load and then returning to the city for another, and as soon as a load is dumped it is attacked by a crowd of men, women and children, who with shovels, rakes and hooks, turn it over and over, and raise stifling clouds of dust.

The reader may think that the collections made by the dust-man are valueless, but such is not the case.

There are more than 300,000 inhabited houses in London, consuming more than 3,500,000 tons of coal a year, and besides the ashes from this great quantity of fuel, the dust-man gathers the other refuse of the houses. He is employed by a contractor, who agrees with the corporation to remove the ashes, etc., out of the city, and the contractor divides every load into six parts, as follows: Soil, or fine dust, which is sold to brick-makers for making bricks and to farmers for manure; brieze, or cinders, sold to brick-makers for burning brick; rags, bones and old metals, sold to marine-store dealers; old tin and iron vessels, sold to trunk-makers for clamps; bricks, oyster and other shells, sold for foundations and road-building; and old boots and shoes, sold to the manufacturers of Prussian blue.

Sometimes, much more valuable things than these are found, and the reader may remember the romance that Charles Dickens made out of a London dust-man—"Our Mutual Friend."

It is in sifting the different parts of a load that the men, women and children, are employed; they are as busy as ants; mere babies and wrinkled old dames take a part in the labor, and all of them are so covered with dust and ashes that they are anything but pleasant to contemplate, though, as a rule, they are useful, honest, and industrious members of society.

"Dustie" is what the Londoners familiarly call the dust-man, and only a few know in what ignorance and poverty he lives. One would think that he would work himself into a better occupation, but his family have been dust-men for generations, and the generations after him are not likely to change.



HUCKLEBERRY.

BY FRANK R. STOCKTON.

More than a hundred and sixty-eight years ago, there lived a curious personage called "Old Riddler." His real name was unknown to the people in that part of the country where he dwelt; but this made no difference, for the name given to him was probably just as good as his own. Indeed, I am quite sure that it was better, for it meant something, and very few people have names that mean anything.

He was called Old Riddler for two reasons. In the first place, he was an elderly man; secondly, he was the greatest fellow to ask riddles that you ever heard of. So, this name fitted him very well.

Old Riddler had some very peculiar characteristics,—among others, he was a gnome. Living underground for the greater part of his time, he had ample opportunities of working out curious and artful riddles, which he used to try on his fellow-gnomes; and if they liked them, he would go above-ground and propound his conundrums to the country people, who sometimes guessed them, but not often.

The fact is, that those persons who wished to be on good terms with the old gnome never guessed his riddles. They knew that they would please him better by giving them up.

He took such a pleasure in telling the answers to his riddles, that no truly kind-hearted person would deprive him of it, by trying to solve them.

"You see," as Old Riddler used to say, when talked to on the subject, "if I take all the trouble to make up these riddles, it's no more than fair that I should be allowed to give the answers."

So, the old gnome, who was not much higher than a two-year-old child, though he had quite a venerable head and face, was very much encouraged by the way the people treated him, and when a person happened to be very kind and appreciative, and gave a good deal of attention to one of his conundrums, that person would be pretty sure, before long, to feel glad that he had met Old Riddler.



There were thousands of ways in which the gnomes could benefit the country-folks, especially those who had little farms or gardens. Sometimes Old Riddler, who was a person of great influence in his tribe, would take a company of gnomes, under the garden of some one to whom he wished to do a favor, and they would put their little hands up through the earth and pull down all the weeds, root-foremost, so that when the owner went out in the morning, he would find his garden as clear of weeds as the bottom of a dinner-plate.

Of course, any one who has habits of this kind must eventually become a general favorite, and this was the case with Old Riddler.

One day, he made up a splendid riddle, and, after he had told it to all the gnomes, he hurried up to propound it to some human person.

He was in such haste that he actually forgot his hat, although it was late in the fall, and he wore his cloak. He had not gone far through the fields before he met a young goose-girl, named Lois. She was a poor girl, and was barefooted; and as Old Riddler saw her in her scanty dress, standing on the cold ground, watching her geese, he thought to himself: "Now I do hope that girl has wit enough to understand my riddle, for I feel that I would like to get interested in her."

So, approaching Lois, he made a bow and politely asked her: "Can you tell me, my good little girl, why a ship full of sailors, at the bottom of the sea, is like the price of beef?"

The goose-girl began to scratch her head, through the old handkerchief she wore instead of a bonnet, and tried to think of the answer.

"Because it's 'low,'" said she, after a minute or two.

"Oh no!" said the gnome. "That's not it. You can give it up, you know, if you can't think of the answer."

"I know!" said Lois. "Because it's sunk."

"Not at all," said Old Riddler, a little impatiently. "Now come, my good girl, you'd much better give it up. You will just hack at the answer until you make it good for nothing."

"Well, what is it?" said Lois.

"I will tell you," said the gnome. "Now, pay attention to the answer: Because it has gone down. Don't you see?" asked the old fellow, with a gracious smile.

"Yes, I see," said the goose-girl, scratching her head again; "but my answer was nearly as good as yours."

"Oh, dear me!" said Old Riddler, "that wont do. It's of no use at all to give an answer that is nearly good enough. It must be exactly right, or it's worthless. I am afraid, young girl, that you don't care much for riddles."

"Yes I do," said the goose-girl; "I make 'em."

"Make them?" exclaimed Old Riddler, in great surprise.

"Yes," replied Lois, "I'm out here all day with these geese, and I haven't anything else to do, and so I make riddles. Do you want to hear one of them?"

"Yes, I would like it very much indeed," said the gnome.

"Well, then, here's one: If the roofs of houses were flat instead of slanting, why would the rain be like a chained dog?"

"Give it up," said Old Riddler.

"Because it couldn't run off," answered Lois.

"Very good, very good," said the gnome. "Why, that's nearly as good as some of mine. And now, my young friend, didn't you feel pleased to have me give up that riddle and let you tell me the answer, straight and true, just as you knew it ought to be?"

"Oh yes!" said the goose-girl.

"Well, then," continued Old Riddler, "remember this: What pleases you will often please other people. And never guess another riddle."

Lois, although a rough country girl, was touched by the old man's earnestness and his gentle tones.

"I never will," said she.

"That's a very well-meaning girl," said Old Riddler to himself as he walked away, "although she hasn't much polish. I'll come sometimes and help her a little with her conundrums."

Old Riddler had a son named Huckleberry. He was a smart, bright young fellow, and resembled his father in many respects. When he went home, the old gnome told his son about Lois, and tried to impress on his mind the same lesson he had taught the young girl. Huckleberry was a very good little chap, but he was quick-witted and rather forward, and often made his father very angry by guessing his riddles; and so he needed a good deal of parental counsel.

Nearly all that night, Huckleberry thought about what his father had told him. But not at all as Old Riddler intended he should.

"What a fine thing it must be," said Huckleberry to himself, "to go out into the world and teach people things. I'm going to try it myself."

So, the next day, he started off on his mission. The first person he saw was a very small girl playing under a big oak-tree.

When the small girl saw the young gnome, she was frightened and drew back, standing up as close against the tree as she could get.

But up stepped Master Huckleberry, with all the airs and graces he could command.

"Can you tell me, my little miss," said he, "why an elephant with a glass globe of gold-fish tied to his tail is like a monkey with one pink eye and one of a mazarine blue?"

"No," said the small girl, "I don't know. Go away!"

"Oh," said Huckleberry, "perhaps that's too hard for you. I know some nice little ones, in words of one syllable. Why is a red man with a green hat like a good boy who has a large duck in a small pond?"

"Go away!" said the small girl. "I came here to pick flowers. I don't know riddles."

"Perhaps that one was too easy," said Huckleberry, kindly. "I have all sorts. Here is one with longer words, divided into syllables. I'll say it slowly for you: What is the dif-fer-ence between a mag-nan-i-mous ship-mate and the top-most leaf-let on your grand-mo-ther's bar-ber-ry bush?"

"I haven't got any grandmother," said she.

"Oh, well! Any grandmother will do," said Huckleberry.

"I can't guess it," said the small girl, who was now beginning to lose her fear of the funny little fellow. "I never guessed any riddles. I'm not old enough."

"Very well, then," said Huckleberry, "I'll tell you what I'll do. Let's sit down here under the tree, and I'll tell you one of father's riddles, and give you the answer. His riddles are better than mine, because none of mine have any answers. I don't put answers to them, for I can never think of any good ones. I met a boy once, and told him a lot of my riddles; and he learned them, and went about asking people to guess them, and when the people gave them up, he couldn't tell them the answers, because there were none, and that made everybody mad. He told one of the riddles to his grandmother,—I think it was the one about the pink-eyed monkey and the wagon-load of beans—"



"No," said the small girl; "the elephant and the gold-fish was the other part of the pink-eyed monkey one."

"Oh, it don't make any difference," said Huckleberry, "I don't join my riddles together the same way every time. Sometimes I use the gold-fish and elephant with the last part of one riddle, and sometimes with another. As there's no answer, it don't matter. I begin a good many of my best riddles with the elephant, for it makes a fine opening. But, as I was going to tell you, this boy told one of my riddles to his grandmother, and she liked it very much; but when she found out that there was no answer to it, she gave him a good box on the ear, and that boy has never liked me since. But now I'll tell you a story. That is, it's like a story, but it's really a riddle. Father made it and everybody thinks it's one of his best. There was once a fair lady of renown who was engaged to be married to a prince. And when the wedding-day came round—they were to be married in one of the prince's palaces in the mountains—she was so long getting dressed—you see she dressed in one of her father's palaces, down in the valley—that she was afraid she would be late, so as soon as her veil was pinned on, she ran down to the stables, threw a wolf-skin on the back of one of the fieriest of the chargers, and springing on him, she dashed away. She wasn't used to harnessing horses, and was in such a hurry that she forgot all about the bridle, and so, as she was dashing away, she found she couldn't steer the animal, and he didn't go anywhere near the prince's palace, but galloped on, and on, and on, every minute taking her farther and farther away from where she wanted to go. She couldn't turn the charger, and she couldn't stop him, though she tore off pieces of her veil, and tried to put them around his nose, but it was no good. So when the wedding-party had waited and waited and waited, the prince got angry and married another lady, and nobody knows where the fair lady of renown went to, although there are some people who say that she's a-galloping yet, and trying to get her veil around the charger's nose. Now, why was it that that fair lady of renown never married? Answer: Because she had no bridal. You can say either bri-d-a-l or bri-d-l-e, because they both sound alike, and if she had had either one of them, she would have been married. This is a pretty long riddle, but it's easier than mine, because it's all fixed up right, with the answer to it and everything. You like it better than mine, don't you?"

The small girl did not answer, and when Huckleberry looked around, he saw that she was asleep.

"Poor little thing!" said Huckleberry, softly, to himself. "I guess I gave her a little too much riddle to begin with. Her mind isn't formed enough yet. But it's pretty hard on me. I wanted to teach somebody something, and here she's gone to sleep. I wish I could find that goose-girl. If father could teach her something, I'm sure I could."



So he went walking through the fields, and pretty soon he saw Lois, standing among her geese, who were feeding on the grass.

Huckleberry skipped up to her as lively as a cricket.

"Can you tell me," said he, "why an elephant with a glass globe of gold-fish tied to his tail is like the Lord High Admiral of the British Isles?"

"Was the globe of gold-fish all the elephant owned?" asked the goose-girl, thoughtfully.

"Yes," said Huckleberry. "But I don't see what that's got to do with it."

"Then the answer is," said Lois, without noticing this last remark, "because all his property is entailed."

"Well, I de-clare!" cried Huckleberry, opening his eyes as wide as they would go, "if you didn't guess it! Why, I didn't know it had an answer."

"I wish it hadn't had an answer," said the goose-girl, suddenly stamping her foot. "I wish there had never been any answer to it in the whole world. It was only yesterday that I promised Old Riddler that I would never guess another riddle, and here I've done it! It's too bad!"

"I don't think it is," cried Huckleberry, waving his little cap around by the tassel. "It's all very well for father not to want people to guess his riddles, because they've got answers and he knows what they are. But I would never have known that any of mine had an answer if you hadn't guessed this one. If you had had a riddle like this one, wouldn't you have been glad to have some one tell you the answer?"

"Yes, I would," said Lois.

"Well, then, my good girl, remember this: If a thing gives you pleasure, it's very likely that it will give somebody else pleasure. So let somebody else have a chance, and the next time you hear a riddle that you think the owner has no answer for, guess it for him, if you can. Good-by!"

And away went Master Huckleberry, skipping and singing and snapping his fingers and twirling his cap, until he came to a wide crack in the ground, when he rolled himself up like a huckleberry dumpling, and went tumbling and bouncing down into the underground home of the gnomes.

"Get out of the way!" said he to the gnomes he passed, as he proudly strode to his father's apartments. "I'm going to make a report. For the first time in my life I've taught somebody something."

When Huckleberry left her, the goose-girl stood silently in the midst of her geese. Her brow was overcast.

"How's anybody to do two things that can't both be done?" she exclaimed at last. "I'll have nothing more to do with riddles as long as I live."



HOW SIR WILLIAM PHIPS FOUND THE TREASURE IN THE SEA.

BY S.G.W. BENJAMIN.

There is scarcely anything more exciting to the imagination than tales of hidden treasure, especially treasure lost at sea. The mystery, the wonder, the adventure, the tragedy, the seemingly boundless possibilities connected with riches lost by shipwreck or war, and yet not gone beyond the hope of recovery, have given rise to a multitude of romantic stories, some of them pure fictions, but many founded more or less on fact.

I have known several cases in which treasure lost by piracy or shipwreck has been recovered after a century or more. Some years ago a company of men from Boston made two cruises to the shoals of the Silver Key on the Bahama Banks, a spot noted for shipwrecks. They had some clue to a treasure-laden ship which had foundered there long ago. The first trip was unsuccessful, but on the second voyage the wreck was found. Divers, armed with modern apparatus, spent several days in the quest, but in vain, until, finally, just as the last diver was about to give the signal to be drawn up, he leaned against what seemed only the barnacle-encrusted end of a beam; but suddenly it gave way, and numbers of golden doubloons rolled out at his feet. Considerable sums rewarded further search in the sand-filled and decaying carcass of the old ship; but exactly how much was realized is known only to the discoverers, who kept the matter secret, and thus evaded paying a great part of the share due to the British crown, in whose dominion the treasure was found.

To Boston also belonged, some two centuries ago, the celebrated treasure-hunter, William Phips. He was one of twenty-one sons, and was born at Woolwich, Maine, in 1651. Of a bold, adventurous spirit, his first and last passion was to follow the sea, although until he was eighteen years of age he was forced to tend sheep. He then apprenticed himself to a ship-carpenter for four years, taking a trip down the coast now and then, and watching his chance for the next move. He is said to have been inspired by an idea that celebrity and fortune were to be his destiny; and when his apprenticeship was over, he went to Boston and worked at ship-building for a year, until he had the good luck to win the favor of a rich widow. Her he married, and, with the increase of means thus obtained, Phips launched into various enterprises, which did not always turn out well. But he never lost faith in his guiding star, and often told his good wife that "he should yet become commander of a king's ship, and owner of a fair brick house in the Green Lane of Boston"—at that time the Beacon Street of the plucky little town.

Ten years went by, and Phips seemed but little nearer the realization of his dreams than while tending sheep on the hill-sides of Maine, when the prospect suddenly brightened in an unexpected quarter. This was the time when Spanish and Portuguese galleons were crossing the ocean laden with silver from Potosi and diamonds from Brazil. Pirates and privateers scoured the seas to rob the treasure-ships, and great expeditions were sent out by England in war times for the same purpose. The imaginations of men ran riot during this feverish state of things, and people were ready to believe almost any yarn "spun" in the forecastle.

Phips was just the man to be moved by such tales, and, when he learned of a certain rich wreck on the Bahamas, he at once fitted out a small vessel and went in search of it. He found and recovered the treasure, but the amount was small, being only large enough to whet his appetite for more.

While at the Bahamas, he was told of another Spanish vessel, wrecked off Puerto Plata more than fifty years before, with a much larger treasure. His means not being sufficient for this expedition, Phips sailed for England and made direct application to the Admiralty to aid him in his search. So ably did this true son of the sea represent his cause, that he was given command of the "Rose Algier," a ship mounting eighteen guns and carrying a hundred men. Thus Phips's first dream came to pass; he was now captain of a king's ship, with a roving commission.

The exact position of the wreck was unknown, and the untrustworthy character of the crew added great difficulties to the undertaking. It should be remembered, also, that diving-bells, diving-armor, and the like, were then unknown. But the courage and indomitable perseverance of Phips now came into play, and he had a capital chance to show the stuff of which he was made.

Soon after they had sailed, the crew came aft, armed, and determined to force Phips to yield to their wishes, which probably were that they should all turn pirates. Without giving them time to deliberate, Phips flew at their leader, hurled him to the deck and dispatched him on the spot—a deed so prompt and daring that it awed the mutineers into submission for the time. One who has never seen a mutiny at sea can form but little idea of its desperate character, and the rapidity of action and unflinching nerve required where men are shut up alone on the wide ocean with a quarrel so deadly in its nature that no compromise can be thought of for a moment, and no quarter can be allowed with safety to him who gives it.

But the next plot to seize the ship was even more dangerous. The "Rose Algier," being in need of repairs, was taken to a cove in a small uninhabited island, and careened on one side in order to reach the damaged place. Most of the stores were moved on shore, the ship was hove down, and a bridge was laid between the deck and the land. Under the pretense of pastime, most of the crew now betook themselves to the woods, and there plotted to return at seven in the evening, seize the ship, force Phips and eight faithful men on shore, leave them there to perish, and themselves sail away on a piratical cruise. But the carpenter was one of the few who stood by the captain, and yet they could not risk putting to sea without him. They sent for him, therefore, on some pretext, and, having him in their power, offered him the choice of instant death or of joining his fortunes with theirs. He begged for half an hour to think about it, and said that at any rate he should have to return on board for his tool-chest. They granted his request, and sent two men with him to watch his movements. Soon afterward, he was suddenly taken with a pretended cramp or colic, and in great seeming agony rushed into the cabin for medicine; there he found Phips, and in a few rapid words revealed the plot. In less than two hours the mutineers would be marching on the ship. Not an instant was to be lost. Immediately the guns were loaded and trained to command the shore and all the approaches to the stores; the bridge was taken in, and when the mutineers appeared they found themselves caught. In tones of thunder, Phips bade them not to stir or he would mow them down with his batteries; nor did they dare to disobey. The bridge was again laid down, and the eight loyal men brought back the stores to the ship. When all was safely on board again, the mutineers were told that they were to be left to the fate they had intended for their commander. In despair at so terrible a prospect, the miserable men threw down their arms, and protested their willingness to submit if Phips would but relent and not sail away without them. After a long parley, he agreed to let them come on board, they having first given up their arms. But, with such a crew, further search after the treasure was useless. Phips, therefore, sailed for Jamaica, changed the crew, and again weighed anchor for Hispaniola. There he was lucky enough to find an old Spaniard who told him that the wreck was somewhere about a reef a few leagues north of Puerto de la Plata. Phips immediately went to the spot. But his search for the wreck was long and unavailing, the season was changing, and the "Rose Algier," now but half manned and in unseaworthy condition, was unfit to prowl around a dangerous reef in the hurricane season. So, without having accomplished the object of so much exertion and anxiety, Phips was obliged to return to England, a baffled but not a discouraged man.

Very naturally, it was impossible for our adventurer to obtain another English ship-of-war, although he received much credit for the courage and skill shown in controlling the mutineers, and one would conclude that the treasure of the old Spanish galleon would after this have remained at the bottom of the sea, the exclusive possession of the sharks, the turtles and the barracudas. But with rare pertinacity Phips returned to the charge, and at last persuaded the Duke of Albemarle and several other wealthy noblemen to his views. They formed a company and obtained a patent from King James II., giving them the sole right to all wrecked treasure they might find during a certain number of years. Then they fitted out a ship and tender, the latter to cruise in coves and shoal water, and Phips invented several rude contrivances, for dragging and diving, far inferior to the means now used for such purposes. Thus prepared, he sailed once more for Hispaniola. There a small, stout boat was built, and with it and a crew of Indian divers the tender was despatched to the reef where the wreck was said to be. The tender was anchored in good holding-ground at a safe distance from the reef, and the men then rowed slowly in the boat around it, carefully examining the depths below for signs of the wrecked galleon. The waters in the West Indies are very clear, and during a calm objects can be seen at a considerable depth. The rocks were of singular form, rising nearly to the surface, but with sides so steep that any vessel striking them would be liable to go down many fathoms below the reach of the most expert diver. The only hope was that the wreck might have lodged on some projecting ledge. But the closest observation, long continued, failed to reveal any sign of the object so eagerly sought, although the water was perfectly calm.



At length; a curious sea-plant cropping out of a crevice in the sides of the reef caught the eye of one of the crew, and he sent down an Indian to bring it up. When the diver returned to the surface he reported that he had seen a number of brass cannon lying tangled among the sea-weed on a ledge. That was enough. Inspired with the greatest enthusiasm, diver after diver plunged below to be the first to discover the treasure, and ere long one of them brought up an ingot of silver worth several hundred pounds. Transported with success they left a buoy to mark the spot, and made all sail to carry the glad tidings to Phips. He would not credit the tale until he had seen the ingot, when he exclaimed, "Thanks be to God, we are all made!"

Every man was at once enlisted in the service of fishing for the treasure. The bullion was discovered first; after that, in the bottom of the hold, the sea-miners found the coin in bags, which had been so long under water that they were encrusted with a stony shell, hard as rock. This was broken with crowbars, revealing gold, jewels, and "pieces of eight," in glittering abundance. The last day's work brought to light twenty massive silver ingots, and the whole amount recovered was somewhat over three hundred thousand pounds, a sum equal in the values of our time to five millions of dollars. Nor was this all the riches concealed in the wreck; but Phips was obliged to return to England before completing the business. Provisions had run low, and the presence of so vast a treasure on board had stimulated the cupidity of the crew to a dangerous degree, so that each day of delay in reaching port was full of hazard. Every precaution was taken to guard the treasure, but what probably prevented the crew from rising was the promise Phips gave them, when matters had become most suspicious, that they should each receive a share of the profits in addition to his wages, even if his own portion were thus swallowed up. Phips reached England without mishap, thus bringing to a successful termination one of the most daring exploits of its sort that were ever attempted.

When the profits were divided, Phips received as his share a sum that would now be equal to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The Duke of Albemarle presented Mrs. Phips with a magnificent gold cup worth fifteen thousand dollars, and King James expressed great pleasure at the honesty and ability of Phips in the conduct of such a difficult undertaking, and as a reward for bringing such a treasure into England granted him the honor of knighthood, and offered him important employment in the royal service. Fortune had indeed smiled on the shepherd-boy of Maine.

But Phips was never ashamed of his humble origin, nor in all his wanderings did he forget his native land. And now, instead of remaining to enjoy further honors near the throne, he returned to his family, bearing the important commission of High Sheriff of New England. He now built the brick house on Green Lane which he had promised his wife fifteen years before. The name of this Street was eventually changed to Charter Street, in memory of his efforts to have the charter of the Massachusetts colony restored.

Sir William Phips afterward engaged in the wars between the American colonies of France and England, and at the head of an expedition of eight ships captured Port Royal. A subsequent enterprise against Quebec failed from a combination of causes, some of them beyond the control of Phips. After this Sir William went again to England, where he was appointed Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the New England colonies; and his return home with these new honors and titles was made the occasion of a day of solemn thanksgiving.

His governorship having ceased, Sir William Phips sailed for England, and was meditating a fresh expedition in search of shipwrecked treasure when he was taken suddenly ill, and died at the age of forty-five. While his adventurous career affords us little hope that any of us will ever, like him, discover shipwrecked wealth, it gives us a fine example of what perseverance combined with intelligence, courage and honesty can accomplish in the face of great difficulties; for it was a union of all these qualities which enabled Sir William Phips to wrest fortune and honors from the ocean depths.



SOME FISHING-BIRDS OF FLORIDA.

BY MRS. MARY TREAT.

All along the St. John's River, during the winter, may be seen birds catching fish for a living. They are more numerous here in winter than in summer, because, upon the freezing of the waters at the North, they flock to Florida to carry on their fishing in the St. John's, which, never freezing, contains an abundance of fish.

The belted kingfisher comes close to the house, where I can watch him fishing as I sit at the window. The river is five miles across here, and for several yards from the shore it is quite shallow, so that a wharf two hundred and fifty feet long was necessary to make it easy to launch our small rowboats. A railing extends along the side of the wharf, and upon this railing the kingfisher perches, watching for his prey.



He understands fishing much better than most boys, for he seldom misses his game. He takes his position on the railing, and fixes his eyes upon the finny tribes below, and when a fish that suits him comes within his range, he dives into the water and brings it up with his stout beak, and then beats it upon the railing to make it limp and tender before swallowing.

It is not so very surprising that he is such an expert fisher, for during the winter it is his only occupation; he has no family to look after now, and he is so very selfish and quarrelsome that he will not allow any of his brothers to fish near him. He considers the whole length of the wharf his fishing-post, and his brothers must not trespass upon his grounds; if they do, he chases them away with a rattling, clanging noise, enough to frighten any fisher not stronger than himself.

In the spring he takes a partner in his business, for now it is time to raise a family, and he knows he can never do this alone. He is very good and kind to this partner, and helps her dig a hole in a clayey bank for the nest, and then takes his turn in sitting upon the eggs. After the eggs are hatched, they both catch fish to feed the young until they are old enough to feed themselves.

The American flamingo, with his gorgeous scarlet feathers, is a superb fellow. He is very shy, and peculiarly afraid of man. On account of its fine apparel, it has been more closely pursued than almost any other bird. It does not go north like some of the herons, but Audubon says it has occasionally been seen in South Carolina. Its constant home, however, is in the southern part of Florida and along the Gulf coast.

Like the herons, of which I told you in ST. NICHOLAS for May, 1877, the flamingoes are sociable, and live in flocks. They have webbed feet, which give them an advantage over the herons in enabling them to swim as well as to wade. I have never been able to get near enough to these birds to gain any personal knowledge of their habits.

The nest of the flamingo is a curious affair; usually built in a marshy, muddy place, in the form of a mound. It is made of sticks and grass and mud to the height of two or three feet, with a hollow in the middle to hold the eggs. The male is said to assist in the construction of the nest, but this is probably mere conjecture, for I think no one living at the present time has been able to get near enough to these birds to watch their habits, and their nests can be reached only with great difficulty.

The female lays two white eggs about the size of those of a goose. It is said that she sits astride the nest in an ungainly fashion, and that the young, as soon as they are hatched, take to the water like young ducks.

If a law only could be passed to protect these birds, what a grand sight the waters of Florida would soon present! These great, brilliant, scarlet birds, dallying and playing in the water, or wading near the shore in quest of game, would be a sight never to be forgotten. Can it be possible that Florida does not care for such glorious creatures, and will allow, year after year, these marauders from the North to kill them without a single protest? Unless something is done for the protection of these splendid creatures, they must soon become extinct; for their range is quite limited, and I fear the boy and girl readers of ST. NICHOLAS, by the time they grow to men and women, can only read of these as "gorgeous birds of the past."

Almost every morning, the osprey, or fish-hawk, comes in front of the window and fishes in the shallow water near the house. He does not seem to be as expert as the kingfisher. I have seen him dive a dozen times or more into the water before bringing up his prey. He sails around and around in the air; at last fixing his eyes upon a fish, he swoops down, making the water splash around him. His feet are large and powerful, and he arranges his long toes in the form of a scoop as he plunges into the river; this scoop is his fishing-tackle with which he brings up his finny food.

I think I should not like to be an osprey, for he seems to have such a hard time to get a living, and yet he is an honest, well-disposed laborer. After he has succeeded in catching a fish, a bald eagle often swoops down from some tall tree, where he has been watching him, and by main force compels this honest fisher to give up his hard-won prey. The eagle is considerably larger than his victim, being about three feet in length, while the osprey is only about two feet.

It is quite a grand sight to see these two large birds wheeling through the air—the osprey trying to elude the eagle, diving first one way and then another, until at last, when he sees the unencumbered eagle must overpower him, in a fit of desperation he lets the fish drop, and the eagle catches it before it reaches the water, and carries it to some retired spot where he devours it.

And now the poor defrauded osprey must go to work and catch another fish before he can have his dinner. Here you see the bald eagle with his ill-gotten prey.



Great flocks of ducks often come to fish in the shallow water close to the shore. I suppose the reason that they come so near is that they find smaller fish here than in the deep water; and another reason, they are never shot at near the shore, for no fire-arms are allowed to be discharged within the town limits, except under the penalty of five dollars for each discharge.

This place, in winter, corresponds to a northern watering-place in summer. There is a warm sulphur-spring here, and people come from all quarters for health and for amusement. At first the great numbers of birds all about attracted many sportsmen, but I am very glad to tell you that the Florida people did not like this reckless shooting of birds in their midst, so they made this beautiful little place—Green Cove Spring—a city, and elected a mayor and a marshal, and other officers, to keep the men straight, and to protect the birds.

So this is why the birds that live about this little city are so tame, and why the ducks come so close to us; they have learned that they are quite safe from guns here.

Several species of ducks may sometimes be seen in one flock, fishing together in perfect harmony. It is quite astonishing how long they can stay under water, and when they come up their feathers are not wet at all.

The most beautiful of these fishing-ducks is the hooded merganser. Its plumage is most elegant, and it has a large thick tuft or crest of feathers covering the whole head, which gives it a sort of military look; and, indeed, it seems to be a commander, for it leads all of its relatives. It sometimes stays so long under the water that I begin to fear something has happened,—that an alligator, or some other huge beast, has got hold of it; but it always makes its appearance after a while, often at quite a long distance from where it went under.



NAN'S PEACE-OFFERING.

BY KATE W. HAMILTON.

"Just wish I was properer, and everything—so there!" said Nannie, sitting discontentedly down upon the green grass by the road-side, and surveying herself with a pair of very serious brown eyes.

It was a forlorn little self, surely, with wet dress, muddy shoes, inky apron, and crumpled sun-bonnet.

"Aunt S'mantha'll think I'm dreadful. She says I never have any forethought; but I have lots of after-thoughts, and I s'pose folks can't have both kinds. It don't do any good, either. Oh dear!"

There was a whistled tune coming up the road. Tommy Grey was attached to it, but the whistle seemed much the older and more important of the two, and was first to reach the tree where Nannie was sitting. When Tommy caught up with it, he stopped in surprise.

"Hello, Nan Verling! Is that you?"

"I suppose so, but I wish it wasn't," answered Nannie, dolefully.

"What for?" questioned Tommy, in still further astonishment.

"'Cause I wish I was somebody else that wasn't all wrinkled and mussed up. I don't see how folks can keep nice and have good times, anyway," declared Nan, in a burst of confidence. "You see, I just helped sail boats in the brook, and I didn't know my dress was wet a bit till I came away; and then Lizzie Sykes tagged me, and course I had to tag her back again. I don't know what made her run right through the mud, where I couldn't catch her without getting my shoes all muddy. Should think she might have known better! My old ink-stand at school is always upsetting itself, and it had to spill on my clean white apron this afternoon. Then my sun-bonnet—"

"Looks as if you'd hung it up in your pocket," suggested Tommy.

"Well, I didn't; I only rolled it up for a rag-baby when we played keep house at recess. I s'pose it's bad for bonnets, but it made the beautifulest kind of a baby," said Nannie, a little ray of enthusiasm gleaming through her despondency. "But Aunt S'mantha doesn't 'preciate such things," she added, mournfully.

"No," answered Tommy, sympathetically. "She'll scold, may be?"

"P'r'aps so. May be she'll send me to bed without any supper."

"Whew! That a'nt any fun, I tell you!" declared Tommy. "Why, a fellow just tumbles and tumbles, and gets hungrier and hungrier, and wonders what the folks have got for supper, and looks at the stars, and tries to say 'Hickory-dickory-dock' backward, and wishes it was morning. It just feels awful!"

"I didn't ever try it, and I don't s'pose I could stand it," said Nannie, shaking dejectedly the curly head in the flopping sun-bonnet. "I've a good mind not to go home at all, but just run away off somewhere, and be a foundling. Foundlings have pretty good times, 'cause I've read about 'em in books. They get adopted by some great lady in a big house, and grow up rich, and get to be real handsome."

"I don't believe you would," declared Tommy, more honestly than politely.

Nan meditated a minute, and then said, with a sigh:

"Well, I guess I'll have to go home, then."

"Scoldings don't last very long, anyway," urged Tommy, consolingly.

"But if you sort o' think you oughtn't to have done things, and did ought to be more careful—and everything—it makes it seem more worse, you know," remarked Nannie, in a hesitating, half-penitent way. "'Cause I do like Aunt S'mantha."

"Yes," admitted Tommy, knitting his brow over the complications of the case, and searching his own experience for a suggestion of relief. "If you only had something nice to carry home to her—something she wants. Once I got wet as a rat playing round the pond, but I'd caught two fish—reg'lar tip-top trout—and I took 'em home to mother; held 'em up where they'd be seen first thing, you know. And she said, 'What nice fish!' and didn't scold a wink."

"I couldn't catch anything if I tried a week, and Aunt S'mantha wouldn't care, anyway. Why, she's a real grown-up woman, and could have tea-parties and make molasses candy every day if she wanted to! I don't believe she wants anything, unless it's ban—bananas—whatever that is. I heard her say she'd like some, this morning."

"Bandanas?" questioned Tommy, with brightening eyes.

"Y-e-s, I guess so," answered Nannie, rather doubtfully.

"Ho! I know what they are as well as anything. Why, they're silk handkerchiefs—red and yellow, with spots on 'em."

Nannie's hand dived into her small pocket, and re-appeared with two nickels and a copper.

"Do you guess I could buy one at Carney's store for 'leven cents? 'Cause I haven't got any more."

"I s'pose so. Why, yes; handkerchiefs a'nt much 'count, you know. I always lose mine—only they a'nt bandanas. I guess women-folks think more about 'em, though," said Tommy, with the air of one superior to such trifles.

Nannie was convinced, and started from her seat with a little sigh of relief.

"I'll go and buy her one, then. And I think you're a pretty good boy, Tommy Grey," she added, gratefully, as she trudged down the road, leaving Tommy to take up his whistling and his homeward route again.

It was quite a long walk to the store—the store, because the village only boasted one. That did not matter much to the inhabitants generally, as the town was so near. Bentleyville and Bentley were connected by a straggling line of houses that made it hard to tell where the village ended and the town began. Ambitious young villagers took advantage of this to talk about "we city people," while the older ones contentedly spoke of themselves as "plain country-folks."

Nannie did not care in the least which she was, neither did she greatly mind the walk, though the feet that had done so much running began to grow tired. If only she could carry a peace-offering to Aunt Samantha! That would make all right, and her small world bright again, she was sure.

"I can't have any candy or slate-pencils for ever so long; but I don't care, 'cause I do like her, and she'll know it—course she will if I buy her a handkerchief; and she wont think I got all mussed up on purpose," she soliloquized.

It required some heroism to pass by the fresh pop-corn balls at the store door, and to turn away from the boxes of figs without a second glance; but Nannie did both, and, walking straight to the counter, made known her errand.

"Bandanas? Yes, a prime lot of 'em," said bustling little Mr. Carney, bringing out his whole stock.

His small customer, standing on tiptoe to reach the counter, gravely examined them. Would Aunt Samantha like a red one or a yellow one best, she wondered. It was a perplexing question to decide. If only she could take her one of each! And that reminded her to ask the price.

"Seventy-five cents apiece," said the old gentleman briskly.

"Seventy—five—cents!" repeated Nan, faintly.

"Yes, sissy; cheap at that, too."

"I—thought—I didn't know," stammered Nannie, in a sore disappointment. Then rallying her faltering courage, she asked: "Don't you ever sell any for 'leven cents?"

"Eleven cents? Bless me, child! Why, they cost—Oh! may be you mean cotton ones? Look a little like these."

Nan nodded, glad to think it even probable that she had meant anything.

"Well, I don't keep that kind, you see," explained Mr. Carney, condescendingly.

Discouraged and forlorn, the little woman turned away. She walked until she was quite out of sight of the store, and then paused to meditate. What should she do? It seemed dreadfully hard to give up her plan now when she had thought it all nicely settled. There were plenty of stores in Bentley; some of them might sell handkerchiefs for eleven cents. She glanced dubiously along the road leading to the town, and noticed that the sun was nearly out of sight behind the hills.

"But it stays light ever and ever so long after the sun sets," she murmured, "and it didn't seem a bit far when I rode to town with Aunt S'mantha. I guess this store is most part way. Anyhow, I just must have a bandana!" she added, as she once more caught sight of her soiled apron and muddy shoes.

She straightened her sun-bonnet, and started resolutely forward again. She had grown to feel that the proposed purchase was in some way a reparation due to Aunt Samantha, and she could not give it up. On and on trudged the tired little feet, aching wearily at last, but never hesitating nor turning back. It seemed a long way, though.

"Wonder if I wont ever and ever come to where the houses get thicker," she murmured. "When I keep a store I'll build it on the edge somewhere, so folks wont have to walk so far to get to it."

After a time, the buildings did nestle more closely together, and, somewhat comforted, she stopped a moment to rest. But she started suddenly to her feet as a light flashed upon her from an opposite window. People were really beginning to light their lamps, and the daylight was almost gone.

Weariness was forgotten in the thought that night might fall before she could return, and she ran as fast as her light feet would carry her—so swiftly and so far that she had nearly passed a small store without seeing it.

She checked her steps at this discovery, and entering, asked, breathlessly:

"Oh,—please,—have you any ban-banners?"

"What? any what?" demanded a severe-looking lady, coming forward and eying Nan suspiciously through her spectacles.

"Bandaners,—handkerchiefs," explained Nannie, less confidently.

"Bandanas? No; I don't keep them," responded the lady, very stiffly.

"Should think she might have been more p'lite, if I didn't call it right," commented the young traveler as she hurried along the street once more. "Here's another." This time there was only a boy in attendance. He was head of the establishment when the proprietor went to supper, and he enjoyed his important position.

"Do you keep ban-ban-banners?" asked Nannie, growing confused again.

"Which? I hope you don't mean any disrespect to the flag of your country, ma'am?"

"No sir; I mean handkerchiefs," said Nannie, innocently.

"Ah! yes, I understand. I think we have the article in question."

A number of the red and yellow silks were produced, and while the brown eyes scanned them in some perplexity, the mischievous young clerk surveyed the comical little figure before him, and gravely asked:

"Is that quantity sufficient for the exercise of your predilections? or would you like an additional supply?"

"I would like 'leven cents worth," stammered Nannie.

"Eleven cents worth of silk handkerchiefs? That's a novelty now!" laughed the boy. "Why, you see that wouldn't be a seventh part of one of these bits of magnificence,—not a scrap large enough for a respectable doll. We really couldn't do it, ma'am. The owner of this establishment has a nonsensical way of always selling his handkerchiefs whole."



Then, at sight of the disappointed little face, his fun yielded to an impulse of kindness, and from a far-away corner he produced an old box with the dust of disuse lying thickly upon it. It contained some small cotton handkerchiefs, gayly printed, with border, pictures and verses, in bright colors. Nannie's eyes brightened. They were much prettier than the others, she thought, and they were only ten cents! She wavered uncertainly between a pink and a blue one, and finally appealed to the clerk for advice.

"Which is the nicest? Couldn't really say, ma'am. If you want it for winter use, the blue would probably match best with your nose; but if you keep it specially for fits of weeping, the red might be nearest the proper tint."

Nannie looked at him solemnly, but not understanding him in the least: she decided upon the blue one, and turned away with the precious package in her hand. It was certainly growing late. The rosy glow had all vanished from the west, and one star was peeping out dimly.

"A good deal after supper-time," murmured Nannie, anxiously. Then, glancing down a side street, she caught sight of a baker's sign. It was but a few steps, and she was very hungry, so she determined to invest her remaining cent in a piece of gingerbread. Eager to be on her homeward way she walked rapidly, and this did not suit the fancy of a large dog in a neighboring yard. He bounded toward the fence, barking furiously, and in a moment Nannie discovered that he had pushed open the gate and was upon the street. She fled at full speed away beyond the shop and down another street. At last a corner hid him from view, and he did not follow her. She dared not retrace her steps for fear of meeting him, and she abandoned all hope of a visit to the bakery. There must be other ways back to the road, though, she thought, and she wandered up one street and down another without coming to any building that looked familiar. She had lost her way entirely, and grew more and more bewildered as she wandered. The stars came out thickly in the sky, and it seemed to her that she had been traveling for hours. Finally she found herself in a quiet, unfrequented part of the town, and then the brave little heart failed utterly, and frightened, homesick, and terribly weary, she sank down by the road-side, sobbing bitterly. She did not hear the sound of wheels, nor notice the horses drawn up beside her, until some one called:

"Hello, little one! what's the matter?"

She had heard that neighborly voice too often not to recognize it now, and she sprang up in wild delight. "Oh, Captain Hoyt! Take me home! Oh, please sir, wont you take me home?"

"Home, chick-a-biddy? Why, who—little Nan Verling, I declare! Well, if it isn't lucky that I didn't sell my apples till late to-day, and am just going out! How in the world did you get there?"

"I lost my way," faltered Nannie, trying hard to conquer her tears when she was safely in the wagon. "I came to buy a bandana handkerchief for Aunt S'mantha."

"Bandana? Well, she'll need it, and a few cambric ones thrown in, if she don't know where you are at this time of night," declared the captain, whipping up his horses.

He was quite right; Miss Samantha was nearly frantic. She had sent to every house in the village, and had learned from Tommy how her love of neatness and carelessly expressed desire for bananas had together worked mischief. But as a visit to the store revealed the fact that Nannie had been there and had gone, Miss Samantha could think of nothing but that most improbable resort,—the pond; and she had gathered a party with ropes and lanterns, when Captain Hoyt drove up and deposited the small maiden in their midst.

"I've got the handkerchief, Aunt S'mantha! and I'm so glad; but my clothes are all spoiled, and I'm so sorry," began Nannie.

"Clothes, child! Do you think I care so much more for your clothes than for you that I want to hear about them first?" exclaimed Miss Samantha, with an embrace so long and close that Nannie was quite astonished.

"I didn't know," she answered.

And Miss Samantha said not a word, for she thought if the child really did not know, there must have been something wrong somewhere. She smiled a little grimly when she saw the wonderful handkerchief, but she laid it away as if it were a treasure. Nannie had a nice supper and a good night's sleep, and felt quite bright when Tommy looked in upon her the next morning.

"I had an awful time; but your way is a real good one, Tommy, 'cause she didn't scold a bit," she informed him, confidentially.

"But I guess,—I s'pose,—anyhow, mother says that the best way to please folks is to do as they want you to, instead of buying 'em things," said Tommy, feeling that, as he had led her into trouble, he was in honor bound to give her the benefit of the moral that had been impressed upon him.

"Y-e-s," answered Nannie, rather vaguely.

But, as the weeks went on, and Aunt Samantha grew so much more gentle that she couldn't help being more careful not to trouble her, she thought that handkerchief must be a very precious article.



THE TOWER-MOUNTAIN.

BY GUSTAVUS FRANKENSTEIN.



III.

I wandered about for what seemed to me days and days, but always cautiously, and never without some hope of escape. At length, becoming weak, I suppose, I missed my footing from a ledge of rock and fell to a great distance. I was stunned and bruised, but soon recovered; and considering the course I must have come, and this last terrible descent, I felt almost sure that I was far below the surface of the earth, and that I must try to go up, and must search and search until I should find some way of ascending. I accordingly moved on, with greater care than ever, and soon found that I was in a sort of rocky passage which rose at a slight inclination. I need not say how this discovery revived my spirits, nor how I was cheered yet more when, after a time, I came to a level surface again, and discovered that beyond it the passage continued as before, but much widened.

Keeping close to the wall of rock on my right, I slowly ascended in what seemed to me a spiral curve. Sometimes I would take a step to the left, to ascertain if I still had a barrier on that side; by which I found that there were many openings in the wall on that side, probably similar to the one through which I had reached this apparently continuous passage.

Up, up I went, gaining courage though feeling weaker and weaker. Having the wall on my right for so long a time, and seeming to be always ascending, I began to think that I was in a sort of circular honey-combed cavern.

It must be borne in mind that my progress was exceedingly slow, consequent upon the necessity of feeling my way, step by step, apprehensive of going over the brink of a precipice in some moment of undue confidence. How many times I lay down to sleep, how many times I rose to continue the task, I cannot tell; but, having been immured so long, without food and without light, I began to feel stealing over me a weariness of exhaustion which required the utmost power of the will to battle.

All this time I kept ascending. Suddenly the passage seemed to open wide, and, all at once, a bright light shot into the cavern. For the moment I was blinded; a painful sensation struck me across the brows; but I determined to behold the light at whatever cost. I opened my eyes; and now, the shock of the dazzling brightness having passed away, I saw the most beautiful effect I had ever beheld in my whole life.

A ray of sunlight fell in a round spot, bright and warm, on the wall at the left. It entered by a small aperture higher up—in the wall at the right. For a moment I looked around. I stood in a vast, rock-bound chamber—an immense hall—faintly illuminated by reflection from the direct sun-ray which fell upon a vein of quartz, and sparkled, lively with flitting rainbow-colors. I could see the openings in the inner wall, many of them a hundred feet high, nearly all very narrow, and for the most part vertical. On the right, the wall was unbroken, with the exception of the little hole, through which the blessed sunlight streamed, in the pit of a broad, deep, conical sort of depression. Far behind me, I could just make out the mouth of the passage from which I had emerged into this spacious chamber, and before me the opening into another also adjacent to the wall on my right.

I felt now more assured than ever, for I was certainly above-ground. For a moment, I forgot my forlorn condition, and paused to admire the splendor of the scene. A few minutes only, and it was gone. I lingered. Should I wait to see this lovely sight renewed? Twenty-four hours must elapse before the sun's return to the same position. But would it come to the same point again on the morrow? I knew it could not, and that the least deflection from its course that day would allow no ray to fall into the darkness of that mysterious dungeon. I knew, further, that it was either morning or evening, about nine or three o'clock, by the direction of the beam of light. This fact was immensely encouraging; my heart throbbed rapidly; the blood came tingling to the finger-ends; I felt a warmth, an energy, a hope, an animation of spirits I had not known for a long time. It had all along been but one unending night, when often I would wonder whether, outside, under the broad blue sky, it was then night or day; but now I knew that it was day.

I soon reached the passage which I had seen ahead of me, and found it in some places not more than two or three feet wide. The ascent became steeper, though not at all difficult, except at one place, where for about ten yards I was obliged to use both hands and feet to make sure of not slipping back.

About two hours after passing this point the air seemed to change; there was a warmth and fragrance to it which was very grateful; I fancied also that I could see somewhat indistinctly.

"Surely," I thought, "this seems like coming to daylight."

Warmer and sweeter grew the air; I could see the wall of rock on my right; and then I suddenly encountered a volume of air blown toward me, as if the sweetest perfumes of the earth were mingled in that breath of air. I knew I was coming to the light! Another turn, and there before me were the grand snow-capped mountains suffused with the last rosy flush of the setting sun!

]

Oh, indescribable glory!

For a moment, my eyes swept over the horizon,—I was far above the earth,—then back to the beauteous snow in its sunset splendor. The rosy tinges lifted and vanished, and a cool twilight glow rested on the mountain summits. I looked upon the plain below. Far beneath, it lay in the evening shadow with its thousand fading tints of tropic foliage, with one spot of blue, almost immediately below, in all that mass of verdure—the lake. I knew then that I was almost exactly above the cave I had so long inhabited. And Pippity—Grilly—were they there now?

I was about to call with all my might; but what ear could hear at that great distance?

Three thousand feet at least of space separated my friends from me. How could I get down that almost perpendicular rock, and how could they get up to me? How could they know that I was there?

And now the specter of starvation rose up before me in strongest force. Should I try to find my way back again?—once more attempt the darkness? No! no! Too precious was the daylight. It would not do. And what could be gained? I could not possibly live to reach the bottom!

The twilight rested serenely on the encircling range of mountain snow, then faded sweetly from the darkening sky.

The stars are beacons of hope and faith. Under them I lay down and slept.

It was a refreshing slumber that I had beneath an unclouded sky, and when I awoke it was early dawn. The cool air was grateful; and so charming seemed all nature that I forgot my hunger and the isolation of my position. I began, too, to examine the situation. I had emerged from the cavern into open day by reason of the sudden termination of the wall which I had had so long on my right. There was left the inner wall as before, now exposed and forming the exterior of the mountain. I stood on a platform of rock about four feet square. Beyond was an angle in the wall, and just then a step to a higher grade of flat rock also. Then a considerable steepness of the narrow floor, and a bending to the left, when it was lost to view behind the mass of perpendicular rock. As the sun rose, I looked down toward the lake, which seemed to lie almost directly beneath, so nearly perpendicular was the mountain on that side. About six or seven hundred feet below me, I observed a bird flying from point to point up the mountain. Soon it disappeared from view. It had flown to the other side. Presently it re-appeared, still circling and rising, now perching at one point, and now at another higher up, then passing out of view again. At length it seemed to come more directly upward; it rose more rapidly, and was continually in sight.