Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

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VOL. III.--NO. 157. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, October 31, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

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[Illustration: "I AM YOUR SECOND COUSIN PHYLLIS."]

NAN.

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE,

AUTHOR OF "MILDRED'S BARGAIN," "AUNT RUTH'S TEMPTATION," ETC.


CHAPTER I.

"If a man had eight quarts of wine in one measure, and three in
another--"

Nan announced so much of a problem in her arithmetic, and then stopped
with a little groan of despair.

"Well?" said her cousin Marian, turning from the window.

"Oh dear!" sighed Nan, "what is the use of lessons, anyway? And if we
don't go down town soon, we won't be home in time for tea."

"What if we're not?" said the third inmate of the room, a boy of about
thirteen, who was lounging on the sofa. "But hurry up, Nan; there's no
use grumbling."

Nan planted her elbows rather more firmly into the table, clutched her
curly head with a pair of firm brown hands, and returned to the question
of the man and his wine. Marian watched the thin drizzling rain on the
garden beds, and Philip read his _Robinson Crusoe_, regardless of the
disorder of shells and minerals about him. For the matter of that, no
one of the three young people took special heed of his or her
surroundings. Marian did not care; Philip had a boy's feeling that he
could not help untidiness; and Nan had, after two years' residence
there, grown accustomed to the dingy shabbiness and vulgar disorder of
her step-aunt's house in Bromfield.

The room was a nondescript one, above a cheese and butter store. It was
half sitting-room, half parlor, and as long as Nan had known it the
furniture had been the same, except that the wear and tear of time had
made the chairs and table more rickety, the holes in the carpet more
dangerous to incautious walkers, and the drawers of the big sideboard or
press more uncertain in their way of moving in and out. The room
overlooked the main street of Bromfield, and, as I have said, was
directly above the store kept by Nan's step-aunt, Mrs. Rupert. A rather
dark corridor outside led to a rickety staircase. Below, was only a
small room off the store, and a kitchen, while above, the family were
crowded into three sleeping-rooms.

When Nan first came to live with the Ruperts she was painfully observant
of the things about her; but time had made many of the disagreeables
seem natural, although even now any one could read in the bright, sweet
face of my little heroine something more delicate and refined than her
surroundings.

Just what Nan Rolf looked like at thirteen it is hard to tell you.
Sitting at the table on this gray rainy day, she seemed to be the only
bright spot in the room. Marian was a head taller than Nan. She was a
pretty, rosy girl, in spite of her cramped life, and certainly would
develop into a handsome woman. But no one could have predicted anything
so definitely of little Nan. Her face was interesting, but not pretty;
the features were irregular, the hazel eyes were full of a certain
earnest sweetness, and though her mouth was rather wide, her smile was
bright and dimpling, and her teeth white and even. Perhaps if Nan's hair
had been in order, her clothes tidy and well-fitting, if she should
cross a room without awkwardness, she might have looked attractive to
any one. As it was, only those who cared to look a second time caught
the real spirit of the child's face, the fearless honesty in her glance,
the sweetness that made up for much lack of repose in her face and
manner.

Nan herself would have laughed gayly at the thought of any one counting
up her attractions, or, indeed, of their bestowing five minutes'
reflection upon her. Such as she was, she had grown up more like a
little wild flower, sharing what others around her had to offer, coming
in for scoldings and pettings, the former predominating, no doubt, but
never thinking much of her own individuality. Her step-aunt, Mrs.
Rupert, was a widow with four children, the eldest of whom was Marian;
and young as she was, Nan appreciated the kindness that offered her a
home when her parents died; for Nan had never seen her--indeed, had
scarcely heard of her, for the tie was not one of blood.

Mrs. Rupert's mother had married, a second time, Nan's grandfather,
himself a widower with one little girl, later Nan's mother. The
half-sisters had rarely met, for, before Mrs. Rolf was out of school,
her step-sister had made a marriage far beneath her, and removed to
Bromfield. Mrs. Rolf married, a few years later, a young lawyer, reputed
to be very well off in this world's goods; but she knew at the time that
he had quarrelled with his grandfather, from whom he had expected a
fortune. And so it chanced that little Nan came into the world, and had
lived her thirteen years in it, knowing no real relations.

When her mother's death left her a penniless orphan, Mrs. Rupert came
forward and took the child to her own home. Mrs. Rupert had made an
ineffectual effort, it is true, to reach some of Nan's paternal
relations; and even now the child was frequently puzzled by hearing her
aunt speak to others of her "having those belonging to her as rolled in
money."

Who or where they were Nan often wondered in a vague, childish way, but
could not tell. Her mother had died too suddenly to leave her any
directions, and her father Nan only remembered dimly. Keen as were her
instincts of refinement, and lonely as she often felt, yet little Nan
could look forward to no future which should be brighter than Marian's.
Philip was a boy; he, Nan liked to think, could go out into the world
and carve his own career; but for her, she felt sure, it could only be
the butter shop, the crowded little rooms, and the children always
needing to be cared for in some fashion from morning until night.


CHAPTER II.

"There!" exclaimed Nan, jumping up, "_that_ old thing's done at last.
Come on, Marian! come, Philip!"

"Don't knock everything over," growled Philip, slowly getting on his
feet, while Marian put on her hat and jacket before a cracked mirror
hung between the windows. Nan never required to see herself when she
dressed. She was only a minute getting into an old woollen coat, and
fastening a felt hat down over her wavy locks, after which she began a
vain search for her gloves.

"There's mother calling," exclaimed Marian. "It's for you, Nan."

Nan heard the voice sounding down the hall, and darted, out, while
Philip uttered another exclamation of disgust.

Nan never could overcome her dislike to the shop. She could hardly have
told you _why_ it was, but the butter and cheese and eggs in which Mrs.
Rupert dealt were unpleasant to her, and as she ran down the dark hall,
it was with a little shiver of dislike and of dread lest her aunt wanted
her to "mind" the shop during her absence. Marian rather liked to
perform this office, but Nan could never see any "fun" in it, and was
always ready enough to change places with her cousin on holidays when
they were all day at home. Before Nan reached the shop door she heard
voices in pleasant though shrill tones, and going in, was a little
startled by seeing a fashionably dressed young lady in earnest
conversation with her aunt.

It was a scene Nan never forgot; the twilight of the cold spring day was
just falling, and her aunt's stout figure, bending above a cheese, was
in strong contrast to that of her visitor, a tall, slender young lady
in a rich dress of dark silk, with beautiful furs, and long-wristed gray
gloves. She had a handsome, delicate face, a little disdainful in
expression, but very refined, and as Nan entered she turned lovely blue
eyes toward her.

Nan half drew back, with her hand still on the door.

"Come in, child," said her aunt, in her most excited tones. "Don't hang
back that way. Here's a lady wants particular to see you."

"To see _me_!" Nan gasped. She had never in her life had a special
visitor before, but the stranger made things easy at once for her. She
went up to little Nan, holding out her beautifully gloved hands.

"How do you do, my dear?" she said, in a soft, sweet voice. "I am your
second cousin Phyllis."

"You--I--" Nan began, and felt as if the little shop, cheeses and all,
was dancing about her. Could this beautiful lady be one of those who
were "rolling in money"?

"Yes, dear," said the lady again. "I have come especially to see you."
She turned to Mrs. Rupert, who was still standing with a knife plunged
into the cheese, and staring as hard as Nan could at the visitor.
"Perhaps I had better call again in the morning--there is so much to
say, and it is late now."

"Oh, 'm," began Mrs. Rupert. "I'm sure we'd be glad enough to see you
any time. Perhaps it might be as well to-morrow. Where was it you said
you was staying?"

"At Mrs. Grange's," the lady answered, looking again at little
bewildered Nan. "My name is Miss Rolf, and I live at Beverley." The name
made Mrs. Rupert's heart jump. Beverley was the town in which Nan's
grandfather had lived and died. Surely this meant _something_; just
what, Mrs. Rupert hardly knew.

"Well, Nan Rolf!" she said, as soon as the lady had departed. "There's
fortune in the wind for you; just you wait and see."

"Oh, Aunt Lydia!" exclaimed Nan. "I wonder _what_ it can be?" But Mrs.
Rupert could say no more; she could only look wise and shake her head,
while Nan darted away to give Marian and Philip her wonderful piece of
news.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




THE SLIGHTED STRANGER.

A STORY FROM PLUTARCH.

BY LILLIE E. BARR.


  Athens was keeping holiday; with song and rose
  Her fair youths lounged beneath her porticoes
  Discussing Sophocles, or Cæsar, or the place
  Sparta and Corinth took in the last race.

  The circus held a crowd of idlers bright and gay
  With expectation eager, as to-day
  Each had his favorite horse or wrestler, each was wise,
  And knew exactly who would win the prize.

  The proud Athenians, with insolent disdain,
  Sat by themselves; the Spartans, poor and plain,
  Took lower places; they but came to see
  The races run, or hear some tragedy.

  Each waited for the moment, some with jest and gibe,
  And some, like the Athenians, with still pride,
  As sure of nothing wonderful, but quite content
  To pass all blunders with a calm contempt.

  Just then into the crowded circus slowly came
  An aged Lydian, with long wandering lame.
  He bowed to the Athenian youths; they surely knew
  He was their guest, and what to him was due.

  But no one said, "Be seated," and all coolly saw
  The slighted stranger to the Spartans go;
  _They_ rose with one assent the aged man to meet,
  And every youth cried, "Stranger, take my seat!"

  Then with the dignity that years and wisdom give,
  The old man answered, "Long may Sparta live
  To teach Athenian youths 'tis not enough to say,
  "Give place to age, honor the head that's gray"--

  "'Tis not enough to know what it is right to do,
  Unless the action make the precept true;
  Old Athens to young Athens nobly preaches,
  But Sparta _practices_ what Athens teaches."




THE BATTLE IN THE DARK.

HOW GENERAL JACKSON RECEIVED THE BRITISH.

BY GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON.


When the British succeeded in taking Lieutenant Jones's little gun-boats
on Lake Borgne, and making a landing, after the manner described to you
two weeks ago, they supposed that the hardest part of their work was
done. It was not far from their landing-place to New Orleans, and there
was nothing in their way. Their army numbered nearly twenty thousand
men, and the men were the best soldiers that England had. Many of them
were Wellington's old veterans.

[Illustration: GENERAL JACKSON AT NEW ORLEANS.]

It seemed certain that such an army could march into New Orleans with
very little trouble indeed, and everybody on both sides thought
so--everybody, that is to say, but General Jackson. He meant to fight
that question out, and as the Legislature and many of the people in the
city would do nothing to help him, he put the town under martial law,
and worked night and day to get together something like an army.

On the 23d of December, 1814, the British arrived at a point a few miles
below the city, and went into camp about noon. As soon as Jackson heard
of their arrival he said to the people around him, "Gentlemen, the
British are below; we must fight them to-night."

He immediately ordered his troops forward. He had made a soldier of
everybody who could carry a gun, and his little army was a curiously
mixed collection of men. There were a few regulars, in uniform; there
were some Mississippi troopers, and Coffee's Kentucky and Tennessee
hunters, in hunting-shirts and jean trousers; there were volunteers of
all sorts from the streets of New Orleans--merchants, lawyers, laborers,
clerks, and clergy-men--armed with shot-guns, rifles, and old muskets;
there were some criminals whom Jackson had released from prison on
condition that they would fight; there was a battalion of free negroes,
who were good soldiers; and finally there were about twenty Choctaw
Indians.

With this mixed crowd Jackson had to fight the very best troops in the
British army. Only about half of his men had ever heard a bullet
whistle, and less than half of them were drilled and disciplined; but
they were brave men who believed in their General, and they were about
to fight for their country as brave men should. When all were
counted--backwoodsmen, regulars, city volunteers, negroes, Indians, and
all--the whole army numbered only 2131 men! But weak as this force was,
Jackson had made up his mind to fight with it. He knew that the British
were too strong for him, but he knew too that every day would make them
stronger, as more and more of their troops should come.

The British camp was nine miles below the city, on a narrow strip of
land between the river and a swamp. Jackson sent a gun-boat, the
_Carolina_, down the river, with orders to anchor in front of the camp
and pour a fire of grape-shot into it. He sent Coffee across to the
swamp, and ordered him to creep through the bushes, and thus get upon
the right flank of the British. He kept the rest of his army under his
own command, ready to advance from the front upon the enemy's position.

But no attack was to be made until after dark. The army was kept well
out of sight, and the British had no suspicion that any attack was
thought of. They did not regard Jackson's men as soldiers at all, but
called them a _posse comitatus_ of ragamuffins--that is to say, a mob of
ragged citizens--and the most they expected such a mob to do was to wait
somewhere below the city until the British soldiers should get ready to
drive them away with a few volleys.

So the British lighted their camp fires, stacked their arms for the
night, and cooked their suppers. They meant to stay where they were for
a day or two until the rest of their force could come up, and then they
expected to march into the town and make themselves at home.

Night came on, and it was exceedingly dark. At half past seven o'clock
there came a flash and a roar. The _Carolina_, lying in the river,
within a few hundred yards of the camp, had begun to pour her broadsides
into the British quarters. Her cannon vomited fire, and sent a
hail-storm of grape-shot into the camp, while the marines on board kept
up a steady fire of small-arms.

The British were completely surprised, but they were cool-headed old
soldiers, who were not to be scared by a surprise. They quickly formed a
line on the bank, and, bringing up some cannon, gave battle to the saucy
gun-boat.

For ten minutes this fight went on between the Americans on the river
and the British on shore, then Jackson ordered his troops to advance.
His columns rushed forward and fell upon the enemy, again surprising
them, and forcing them to fight on two sides at once. Coffee, who was
hidden over in the swamp, no sooner heard the roar of the _Carolina_'s
guns than he gave the word to advance, and rushing out of the bushes,
his rough Tennesseeans and Kentuckians attacked still another side of
the British position.

Still the sturdy British held their ground, and fought like the brave
men and good soldiers that they were. It was too dark for anybody to see
clearly what was going on. The lines on both sides were soon broken up
into independent groups of soldiers, who could not see in what direction
they were marching, or maintain anything like a regular fight. Regiments
and battalions wandered about at their own discretion, fighting whatever
bodies of the enemy they met, and sometimes getting hopelessly entangled
with each other. Never was there so complete a jumble on a battle-field.
Whenever two bodies of troops met, they had to call out to each other to
find out whether they were friends or foes; then if one body proved to
be Americans and the other British, they delivered a volley, and rushed
upon each other in a desperate struggle for mastery.

Sometimes a regiment would win success in one direction, and just as its
enemy on that side was driven back, it would be attacked from the
opposite direction. Coffee's men were armed with squirrel rifles, which
of course had no bayonets; but the men had their long hunting-knives,
and with no better weapons than these they did not hesitate to make
charge after charge upon the lines of gleaming bayonets.

The British suffered terribly from the first, but their steadiness was
never lost for a moment. The mad onset of the Americans broke their
lines, and in the darkness it was impossible to form them again
promptly; but still the men kept up the fight, while the officers, as
rapidly as they could, directed their detached columns toward protected
positions.

Retreating slowly and in as good order as they could, the British got
beyond the range of the _Carolina_'s guns by nine o'clock, and finding a
position where a bank of earth served for a breastwork, they made a
final stand there. It was impossible to drive them from such a position,
and so, little by little, the Americans withdrew, and at ten o'clock the
Battle in the Dark was at an end.

Now let us see what Jackson had gained or lost by this hasty attack. The
British were still in a position to threaten New Orleans. They had not
been driven away, and the rest of their large army, which had not yet
come up, was hurrying forward to help them. They had lost a great many
more men than Jackson had, but they could spare men better than he
could, and they were not whipped by any means. Still, the attack was
equal to a victory for the Americans. It is almost certain that if
Jackson had waited another day before fighting he would have lost New
Orleans, and the whole Southwest would have been overrun.

For by making this night attack he showed the British that he could and
would fight, and they, finding what kind of a defense he meant to make,
made up their minds to move slowly and cautiously. They waited for the
rest of their force to come up, and while they were waiting and getting
ready, Jackson had more than two weeks' time in which to collect troops
from the country north of him, to get arms and ammunition, and to throw
up strong fortifications. When the British made their grand attack on
the 8th of January, 1815, they found Jackson ready for them. His army
was increased, his men were full of confidence, and, best of all, he had
a line of strong earth-works to fight behind. It is commonly said that
his fortifications were made of cotton bales, but that is an error. When
he first began to fortify, he used some cotton bales, and some sugar
which it was thought would do instead of sand; but in some of the early
skirmishes it was found that the sugar was useless, because it would not
stop cannon-balls; while the cotton was worse, because it took fire, and
nearly suffocated the men behind it with smoke. The cotton and sugar
were at once thrown aside, and the battle of New Orleans was fought
behind earth-works. In that battle the British were so badly worsted
that they gave up all idea of taking New Orleans, which, a month before,
they had believed it would be so easy to capture.




"TO COVENTRY."

BY ADA CARLETON STODDARD.


It was down at the old Towle dam that the trouble began, on a still
Saturday when the clouds hung close and soft and gray, threatening rain.
It was just the right kind of an afternoon for fishing, so the four
lively boys who went climbing about over rocks and decaying timbers to
drop a line every now and then in some dark, inviting nook, agreed
without a shadow of doubt.

"There ain't a place on the Duxnekeag stream where the trout like to
stay so well," remarked Wat Emerson, in a satisfied under-tone.

Mel Berry glanced fondly toward the edge of the stream where a dozen
nice trout strung on an alder twig were anchored in a shallow pool.

"We never come here that we don't get a good mess," said he. "See, Wat,
I'm going to try 'em down there."

"I was just going there myself," said Clint Parsons, who had been
quietly winding up his line.

"You didn't say so."

"But I meant to all the same."

"Well, it's my chance, of course, now," said Mel, with quite a little
air of victory; "I said so first."

So he did; and so, without another word, he baited his hook daintily and
went forward. There was an aperture in the earth-work of the dam, over
which a timber had fallen, and this upon another, leaving a space
scarcely wide enough to admit the head and shoulders of a good-sized
boy; but Mel stretched himself flat and wormed himself partially under
the timber, and dropped his hook down into the still, shadowy water
below. It was seized on the instant. Mel, startled and joyful, caught a
glimpse of what seemed to him the largest fish he had ever seen. He
pulled on his line, gently at first, and then with all the strength he
could muster. The water was splashed into foam.

"Grab hold of my feet, boys!" yelled Mel in great agitation. "He'll have
me in head first. He's a whale--a reg'lar whale; but I'll get him if the
hook holds on, and it ought to--it's my biggest one."

The hook held; the boys, who were watching, almost wild with excitement,
seized Mel's feet; there was a short, sharp struggle between fish and
boy, and then a shout as Mel, red-faced and triumphant, emerged from his
voluntary imprisonment.

"Hooray! I've got him! Look, boys! I'll bet a six-pence he'll weigh over
three pounds. He pulled like a savage."

"Wouldn't wonder," said Clint, as they all gathered around to take a
good look at the fish, which was truly an unusually large one. "I'm glad
you've got him, Mel, but I wish 'twas me, because I've promised Judge
Holden's wife a mess, and I've only got seven. She said she'd give me a
dollar for a good big string."

"Well, I wouldn't sell this catch for a good deal more'n one dollar,"
returned Mel, and he held up for an admiring view the fish with its
shining speckled sides. "He's quiet enough," said he, "since I rapped
him with my jackknife handle."

"Isn't he a beauty?"

Yes, he was a beauty, but the boys didn't care to say so more than once
or twice, and presently Mel carried his prize off to where his string of
trout was floating, and placed it with the rest. But the afternoon's
luck seemed to have turned with the taking of the large fish, for during
the next hour scarcely a nibble rewarded the patience of the anglers.

"This never'll do," said Clint Parsons at last. "I'm going up the stream
a little ways. Don't any of you fellows come."

He set off over the stones on his bare brown feet, with his fishing-rod
across his shoulder, turning as he went a merry brown face back toward
the group on the old dam.

"I wouldn't sell _my_ fish," said Mel, shaking his line gently, "but
Clint is always thinking of money."

"He has to," returned Eb; "his folks are awful poor since his father
died, you know. But I like him, though, first-rate."

"So do I. He's smart as chain-lightning, too, and he's always ready to
help a fellow when he gets stuck on one of those doubled-up, mixed-up,
complex, compounded, connected-by-the-word-'of' fractions."

"And you're the fellow that's always getting stuck," laughed Eb.

Only Mel said nothing, though he frowned slightly as he went on drawing
his hook carefully back and forth through the water. In truth, he and
the boy who had just disappeared behind a clump of alder were not always
on the best of terms. At this moment there were some very bitter
thoughts afloat in Mel's mind. It seemed to him that Clint, who had
lived in Barham but little more than a year, was surely usurping his own
place in the hearts of his boy friends, as he had already done in his
classes at school.

Mel spoke at last, beginning to wind up his line. "The fish won't bite
here now," said he. "We might as well go down the stream, since Clint
has forbid us going up."

"He was only in fun," said Eb; but all the same, having first assured
themselves that their trout were safe, and likely to remain so, they
strolled off down the stream, fishing as they went.

No doubt the fish had become wary, for our three friends met with little
success. Clint was waiting for them when they returned, standing on the
highest point of the old dam, and he swung his straw hat vigorously as
soon as he discovered them.

"I've got one to match yours," cried he to Mel, displaying, as he spoke,
his string of trout, to which he had added four or five, one of them an
uncommonly fine one. "Isn't _he_ a beauty, now?"

"Larger than Mel's, _I_ think," said Eb, examining the fish critically.
"That string ought to fetch more than a dollar, Clint."

Mel came up at this moment with a very black face. "I think this joke's
been carried far enough," said he. "I came pretty near losing all the
rest of my fish by means of it. You left the stringer loose."

Clint turned upon him like a flash. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"You know well enough what I mean," cried Mel. "My fish is gone, and of
course I know this is the one. Eb and Wat'll say so too, won't you,
boys?"

"I thought it looked larger than yours," said Eb, his eyes growing big
with amazement, "but I don't know."

"Well, _I_ know," said Clint, slowly, "that I caught this fish in the
deep hole under the big willow, and I thought then 'twas a mate for
Mel's."

"Pretty close mate," said Mel, with a little sneer.

"It's well played, Clint," laughed Wat, "but you see you can't fool me.
You'd better own up, now, like a good boy."

Clint's face glowed with sudden fire. "I've told you the truth, whether
you believe it or not," said he. "But Mel can have my fish if he wants
it."

[Illustration: "THE THREE WALKED AWAY UP THE PATH."]

"No," said Mel, briefly; "if it's worth taking, it's worth keeping.
Come, boys, let's go." And then the three walked away up the path which
led through the woods to the highway, leaving Clint standing alone there
with clinched hands and a swelling heart, and tears of angry
mortification burning in his eyes.

And that was how the boys of Barham came to send Clint Parsons to
Coventry.

"When he's a-mind to own up, and say he's sorry and won't do such a
thing again," said they, "we'll take him back."

But there wasn't the least danger of Clint's confessing, if indeed he
had anything to confess. He went about his daily duties as usual, and if
his merry whistle was a whit less merry because of the changed
atmosphere, made manifest by averted eyes and cold side-glances and
covert allusions to "that scaley trick," not one of the forty boys in
Barham knew it.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the next Saturday, just a week after the loss of the big trout,
when old Davy Parmalee came to saw wood for Mr. Berry; and Mel, for want
of anything more important to occupy his attention, went out to watch
him work and talk with him a little. And Davy was quite ready to rest
his saw in the log and himself on it.

"Now did any o' ye boys be down to the old dam a-fishing last Saturday a
week?" he asked. "Did any o' ye hook a big trout and drop him again?"

"No-o," said Mel, catching his breath. "I don't think any of us did."

"Well, I found sech a one floatin' front o' my camp in an eddy, a Sunday
mornin'," said Davy, "an' I guessed likely 'nough one o' ye boys lost
him. He was a whopper, I tell ye, and hooked through the jaw. Must 'a
ben somebody lost him. Anyhow, he made me a good solid breakfast."

"I wouldn't wonder," said Mel; and then he stood studying the earth at
his feet for a long, long time.

"Davy," said he at length--"Davy, if you won't tell anybody else what
you've just told me, I'll give you a pound of the best tobacco we've got
in the store."

And the old man answered, briskly puffing away at his black clay pipe,
"I ain't no call to tell it nowhere's I knows on; an' I won't ef ye say
so. I'll be gretly obliged to ye for the 'backer, too."

"For it might have been somebody else that lost the fish," Mel reasoned
with his conscience. "Anyhow, I can't own up 'twas mine--the boys would
all be down on me so, and puff Clint Parson's up to the sky.
I--can't--do--it. I don't believe 'twas mine anyway--I don't!"

So he passed it by and kept the secret; and so time went on, bringing
the long summer vacation to a close.

"We ought to do something out of common to-morrow to end up with," said
Mel, who, with a baker's dozen of his chums, was eating early apples on
the shady side of Mr. Gerry's orchard wall. "What shall it be?"

"We might go fishing," said somebody.

"Mel won't; he's afraid of losing his biggest trout."

"No, I'm not," said Mel, quite soberly. "I say, fellows, what if Clint
Parsons didn't take that fish after all?"

"Then I'd say we'd used him awfully mean," declared Wat Emerson, tossing
a sops-o'-wine core over the wall. "And we'd be a set of scoundrels, and
you'd be the biggest one amongst us, Mel."

"But he did, didn't he?"

"Looks about like it," answered Mel. "Say we go up on Tank's Island and
cook our own dinners. Uncle Ben Sperry's bateau'll hold us all, and
there's a sandy bottom at the head of the island--just the place for a
swim."

"But it isn't half a mile from the Falls."

"Well, there isn't any danger; let's go."

"Don't tell any of the other fellows," said Mel; "the bateau won't hold
any more."

But next morning they found the party was to be increased by two,
because Mel could not withstand the pleadings of his small twin
brothers.

"Both of 'em won't take up much room," said Mel; "and mother's put in
some extra food for them."

The day was fair as a late summer day could be; and the boys made the
island without a bit of difficulty. It was much less than half a mile to
where the Meduxnekeag tumbled over a high rocky ledge, and the current
set strongly in that direction; but there were six pairs of stout arms
working at the oars and paddles, and the bateau went straight from the
mainland to the island. When it was reached and the boat made fast, the
boys immediately set about kindling a fire; and then they scattered
around to wait while Eb prepared dinner, which he did with scarcely a
mishap.

Eb had just announced that everything was ready, when they all heard a
loud ringing call:

"Help! Help, here! Help!"

"It sounds--like Clint Parsons!" cried Wat; and just at that moment it
seemed to Mel Berry that his heart stopped beating.

"Oh, boys!" he screamed, "where are the twins! I haven't thought-- Oh,
Eb!"

But Eb was already running with all possible speed down the island to
the spot where the boat had been left; and after him presently raced a
crowd of wild-eyed boys, each of whom felt instinctively that the boat
was gone, the Berry twins were gone, and that the boat and the Berry
twins had gone together.

It was just as they expected. As they reached the shore they saw the
boat swinging with the current far down the stream, and only a short
distance above the Falls. It was making no progress, however, and the
boy whose cry for help they had heard was standing erect in the bow; and
very soon the boys on the island saw that a line was attached to the
boat and made fast to a large old elm-tree on the river-bank.

At that moment a cheery voice came over the water:

"All--right! Haul--us--ashore!"

"It _is_ Clint," cried Eb, throwing off his vest in a hurry. "Boys, I'm
going to take my swim now."

He plunged into the stream, followed by one boy and another until there
was a line of bobbing heads between the island and the shore. As soon as
they reached the mainland they went plunging along the bank until they
came to the elm-tree, and there they seized the tow-line and began
pulling in the bateau hand over hand, aided now by a pair of oars at the
other end of the line.

How they worked!--worked with set teeth, and scarlet, sweaty faces,
because the heavy boat pulled so hard against the stream. But they
gained slowly; the line slackened, and coil after coil was twisted about
the elm-tree; it was at any rate only a question of time. So the moment
came when Clint Parsons, brown-faced and bare-footed, as on that
memorable Saturday afternoon, handed the Berry twins out of the bateau,
and stepped out after them, and every boy on the bank there stood
breathless, and wondered in his heart what Mel would do and say.

They had not long to wait. Mel's face flamed, and he hesitated, but only
for an instant, before he caught Clint's hand.

"Oh, Clint," he cried, chokingly, "how can I ever thank you! To think of
it all, and now you've risked--Oh, Clint, you've risked your life--" and
then he broke down, and began to cry, because he could not help it.

"No," said Clint, as the other boys gathered around with eager
questions, "I didn't risk my life. I wasn't really in any danger. I saw
the boys just about as soon as they got the boat adrift--you see, I was
picking rocks in Mr. Barrow's pasture there--and I didn't know what to
do until I remembered seeing this tow-line hanging up in the granary. So
I got it as quick's I could, and swam out, and headed the boat off. I
nearly missed it, and I'm as glad as any of you that I didn't. But I'd
have been safe enough anyway. It wasn't any risk. The twins were having
a nice time," Clint laughed, looking down at the brace of black-eyed
six-year-olds. "They didn't think much about the Falls."

"But without you they would have gone over," and Mel shuddered at the
horrible thought.

"Never mind; they're all right now, and don't say anything more about
it."

"I've got more'n that to say," said Mel, suddenly and steadily. "I
suppose you'll all hate me, but I can't help it; I've tried to tell you
time and again, but I couldn't, I was such a coward. Boys, Clint didn't
take my fish, and I've known he didn't ever since the week after I lost
it. Old Davy Parmalee found it floating in the stream, and I hired him
not to say anything about it. And--and I hope you'll forgive me, Clint,
and all of you."

Clint's sun-browned face was all aglow. "I'm glad you've told," said he.
"I knew you would some time. But I never would myself, though I knew,
because I was going across lots by your father's back yard the day you
and old Davy were talking about the fish."

"Oh, Clint!"

"Why didn't you tell?"

"You wouldn't have believed, me if I had," said Clint, with a sunny
smile. "So I waited for Mel to get ready to tell. I knew he would some
time."

"I feel like a dreadful wretch," said Mel, trying to laugh, but making a
miserable failure of it, "and I'm--"

"I'll tell you what," put in Eb Gerry, "let's shake hands all around and
call it square, and never say another word about it."

"Agreed."

So that was the way it ended. The boys shook hands until their arms were
lame, and laughed and cheered uproariously; and Clint got leave of
absence for the rest of the day, and they all went back to the island
again--all but Mel, who had, he said, to go home with the twins.

But the boys thought there was something more in the wind, and they were
sure of it when Mel met them as they were going home with a score of
boys harnessed into his father's carriage, which was fairly covered with
green waving boughs. And into the carriage, in spite of all his
remonstrance, the merry crowd lifted Clint Parsons. And they trotted
away with him in triumph to the village, where everybody laughed and
cheered them, though a good many people didn't quite know what it was
all about.

So they brought Clint back from Coventry with a coach and a good many
more than four; and I do not know that there are two better friends in
Barham this minute than Clint Parsons and Mel Berry.




MARK OUTRIGGER MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE.

BY EDWARD I. STEVENSON.


Few guides among the Rocky Mountains are more popular than Mark
Outrigger. On the occasion I am going to tell you about, he, with his
brother Julius, had been conducting a party of Eastern surveyors through
one of the most difficult passes to Fort L----. Upon the evening before
a stray wapiti, badly spent, if not wounded, by the pursuit of some
far-distant sportsman, had staggered across the very path of the party.
The condition of the splendid creature was too much of a temptation for
Mark, in spite of the hour of the day. Hastily shouting out to his
brother a rendezvous where he might be looked for to rejoin them in the
morning, Mark bounded up and along the hill-side after the staggering
quarry.

But the wapiti was by no means so utterly exhausted as Mark had
imagined, and was, moreover, plainly husbanding its strength. But a
capital opportunity for a shot presently offered. The young hunter came
to a stand-still, and embraced it. The wapiti leaped up, plunged wildly
a few feet further into a tangle of furze, and then dashed headlong down
into a little ravine which the tangle outlined. Mark sped after, leaped
down the precipitous descent in turn, and there found his unhappy victim
breathing its last, after a gallant but vain struggle against fate. Mark
drew his knife and ended its sufferings.

It was dark enough by this time. Mark was thoroughly tired out. He
decided not to do anything until morning, but make himself comfortable
as best he could. He clambered up out of the shallow ravine, where a few
ripples did duty for a little stream, and having walked some distance
along the rocky slope above to a sheltered spot between two bowlders, he
lit a roaring fire, cooked his supper, so opportunely overtaken, and
slept the sleep of a very tired man.

When morning came, his first waking thought was about the dead wapiti.
It would be a load that elk, and at least a five-mile tramp over a rough
road lay ahead of him. He turned down to the ravine, and followed the
tinkling brook. Presently, beyond a little point, the dead animal
appeared, but, utterly to Mark's consternation, it lay there in the very
act of being most critically examined by a third party--a grizzly bear
of splendid size and wonderfully unamiable countenance. Mark used to
continue the story somewhat as follows:

"Well, sir, I do declare that for once I was dumfounded! I really didn't
know whether to get ready for a scrimmage with him so early or not. I
hadn't met with many grizzlies then, and never before or since with so
old and big a one. As he sat there on his hunkers sniffing the wapiti's
carcass he looked the size of an elephant. I could see plain as you
please the long claws on his pads, and likewise his big red tongue when
he licked the wapiti's head once or twice. As to his teeth, I didn't
look for them, but I was pretty positive they were all there. And, you
see, unless a man fires at a grizzly from out of his parlor window,
there is generally no place to take to if things happen to go contrary.

"All of a sudden what does the great ugly beast do but get up from his
squatting position, and begin to drag the elk a few yards further down
the ravine. Now that was just going a little too far. Me to lose my
game, after all my trouble in fetching it down! I'm not quite a
good-humored-enough fellow for that, so I drew up, took a pretty fair
aim at his shoulder, and let fly.

"Of course his back was three-quarters to me when I fired. My ball just
nipped him enough to let him know I was there--'twas a kind of a
visiting-card. Down fell the wapiti and round the bear whisked,
surprisingly spry for so lumbering a creature. With his red eyes and the
dashes of red blood from the wapiti's carcass, he made a bad-looking
brute to stand facing a man, I can tell you. He caught sight of me
directly, even standing there like a stone man amongst the lot of dwarf
trees and bowlders. Then he shook himself and snarled, and started
straight up the ravine for me.

"I won't say that I stood my ground, or anything about not being afraid.
I ran back a little off the edge of sand and stones and was exceedingly
scared. The bear came panting and growling and lumbering up, snapping
his teeth, which I could see plain enough now. I let fly for the second
time, taking for a mark the white horseshoe on his breast.

[Illustration: MARK OUTRIGGER IN THE CLUTCHES OF THE BEAR.]

"To this day I can't ever think of what happened just as I fired that
shot without a shiver. A mole, or some other burrowing little beast, had
dug a part of his tunnel right under my right foot. At the minute that I
fired my foot went clean down through the roof of his house, poor
fellow, and my ankle turned. I fell sidewise, my gun going off in the
air as I threw out my arms, dropping the piece at the same second.
Before I could wrench out my foot or struggle round into any sort of a
position to defend myself, or grasp my gun to tackle him with the stock
of it, the bear was at my side.

"He seized me in his jaws just here--see?--gave me a horrible shake, and
then dropped me. I thought I felt every bone in it crunched in the bite.

"I can't truthfully say that I recollect thinking of anybody or
anything, unless that it was certainly all over with me, and that my
knife was so twisted round in my belt that it seemed as if I never could
get it out. Meanwhile the bear, after that first crushing bite, stood
still, breathing straight down into my face and growling like an old
lion. He had one of his paws planted flat on my chest--like this, and
standing completely over me from the waist downward.

"But by this time I had gripped my knife firmly underneath me. So I
dragged out my arm and whipped the blade, point upward, into his body,
as near to where his heart would be as I could judge. My eyes I kept
tight shut; and until this movement, mostly under him, I had not
stirred. I wrenched myself out at the same time from under his great
paw, and fairly rolled two or three feet beyond him.

"Such a howl of fury and torment as he gave when he felt me moving and
then got the benefit of the stab! I knew that it would be a very short
matter after this for one or the other of us. Torn and bleeding all
over, with his teeth snapping around my head and his claws tearing into
my flesh--you can see the marks to-day--I fought as I believe never a
hunter fought before, dodging his blows and striking at him again and
again. Once I got up on one knee--an awful sight I must have looked--and
gave him a stab across his face that left him only one eye for the
battle.

"But the next second down I went, flat and breathless, struck full on
the side by his huge paw. I managed to give a last rip, as wild as you
please, with my knife. 'It's all up surely with me this time,' I
recollect saying to myself, in a very dim sort of fashion. I lay there
unconscious, bleeding from twenty wounds, and utterly in my enemy's
clutches.

"How long this state of affairs lasted I've no means of telling. About
half an hour, maybe. But it appeared to me that I had been dead and
buried a week when gradually I began to feel myself a living man. After
a few seconds more, in which everything seemed black and spinning around
me, I was able to keep my eyes open a bit.

"'Well, I'm not killed yet, I guess,' thinks I, 'after all, unless
there's a Rocky Mountains in t'other world as well as in this one.' Just
then I felt the blood on my hands and neck. 'Good gracious! that bear!'
I thought in a jiffey. I propped myself up weakly on my elbow, and gave
a very cautious glance first on one side, then on the other--and lo!
there a couple of paces off lay a pile of fur without motion or sound.
The bear it was. My very last blow had saved my life by penetrating
exactly to his heart, and over he must have plumped just at the minute I
did.

"How I stanched my wounds and gashes and contrived to join my brother
Julius and the rest of the party I can't detain you to describe here.
Enough to say that I did, with both my pelts too, though the bear's was
badly gashed, of course. If, however, you've a mind to come into the
house yonder, I'll give you one of the biggest bear's claws that you
ever saw in your life, and you can have a breastpin for your little girl
made out of it."




[Illustration: "CLEAR THE TRACK!"--FROM THE PAINTING BY J. C. BROWN.]




THE ANT COUNTRY.

BY JULIA K. HILDRETH.


Of late years scientific men have been calling our attention to the
habits of certain familiar animals and insects, about which we believed
we knew all there was to know. We could hardly believe, for instance,
that common black ants are a very enlightened and intelligent nation;
that they have a queen, who governs them, a body of soldiers who protect
the community, nurses whose sole business it is to take care of and feed
the little ones, and a class of workers who provide the food and build
the dwellings for the ant people.

It is also a curious fact, which some of our readers may not know, that
ants keep cows, very much as human beings do. The cows in this case are
certain small green bugs, no larger than the head of a pin, which live
upon the leaves of a plant like the blackberry. Instead of milk, these
ant cows give a sweet fluid like honey, of which the ants are very fond.

The ants keep these cows upon their proper leaves, treating them very
kindly, and driving off all insects that might do them harm. They watch
them constantly, and at certain times in the day milk them, and carry
the milk, or rather honey, into the common dwelling, where it is stored
up for future use.

All these facts any child may learn with very little trouble; and there
is hardly any more interesting occupation than watching a hill of these
active little people, taking care not to disturb them. Among other
experiments, place a small piece of cake a short distance from the hill,
and observe what follows. First, one ant, who appears to be exploring
the neighborhood, comes upon the cake. He will stop, approach it more
closely, touch it with his feelers, and after he has satisfied himself
that it is fit for use, bite off as large a piece as he can carry.

Now follow him carefully on his homeward journey. He will almost always
be sure to meet a companion out upon a similar expedition. The loaded
ant will permit the other ant to touch and smell of his prize. He will
then lay his load aside for a moment, and you will notice the two
putting their heads close together as if conferring over a great secret.

It is not known how these little creatures manage to communicate their
thoughts to each other, but they evidently have the power to do so in
some manner; for you will see the two ants rub their heads together and
then separate, the loaded one continuing on to the hill, while the other
one goes straight toward the rest of the cake. He has no doubt received
accurate directions, perhaps like--"The sweet stuff, such as I have
here, lies beside the round stone, to the left of the alder bush, near
the brook. There is plenty of it, and only one of those great human
beings in sight. But he appears to be asleep, so you need not mind him."

The ant who is hurrying toward the cake will probably meet with others
of his tribe, and the same rubbing of heads will take place between
them, after which the whole of them will hurry toward the cake. Very
soon there will be hundreds of these little fellows running backward and
forward with pieces of cake in their jaws, and if the lump you have
placed upon the ground is not too large, they will soon carry every
morsel of it away.

If you chance to see any number of ants climbing up or down a shrub,
such as a blackberry or rose bush, you may be sure that the ants have a
cow pasture somewhere upon it. If you carefully follow one of the
climbers, he will lead you to the spot. There you will see a dozen or
twenty very small bugs quietly feeding upon the leaves. You will notice
that the ants seem to be very busy among them, touching this one,
pushing that one, and altogether appearing to take a great interest in
their herd. The cows do not seem to suffer in the least. They look fat
and lazy, and appear to regard the ants very much as real cows do human
beings.

You may perhaps be fortunate enough to see a fight between ants. I say
fortunate, because you may watch an ant-hill a whole day and not
perceive a single dispute between the inhabitants. Ants, though very
brave, are, like all brave people, not quarrelsome. They never seem
jealous or ill-tempered, and it must be some very grave cause which sets
two ants of the same tribe fighting. A fight with them is a very serious
matter, since it always means death to one or both parties.

The combatants are never interfered with by the rest of the tribe. They
evidently consider it a matter between the two who are fighting, and the
duel is allowed to go on to the end. Ants in their battles use legs and
jaws. The latter are enormously powerful for the size of the creature;
as powerful in proportion as if a man were provided with a pair of steam
shears, and could cut off iron bars two inches thick. They grasp each
other with their jaws, pulling and hauling with all their strength. Once
having taken hold they never let go. The end of the fight is generally
the gradual exhaustion and death of both rivals. Often, however, one of
the ants will pull the other apart, that is, tear off his head, which he
bears triumphantly away with him. Where he puts it, or what he does with
it, remains for some sharp-eyed observer to determine, for no one has
ever yet found out.

The hill-ants, as they are sometimes called from the shape of their
nests, are fond of building in the woods, and especially under fir and
hemlock trees, because the needle-like leaves which fall to the ground
afford convenient material for the construction of their homes. These
little hills are full of passages and chambers, which communicate with
each other. It is difficult to examine them, as they fall to pieces if
the nest is opened.




THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[1]

[1] Begun in No. 146, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

BY W. L. ALDEN,

AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," "THE CRUISE OF THE 'GHOST,'" ETC., ETC.


CHAPTER XII.

Joe was alone on the St. Lawrence in the middle of the night, and with a
sprained wrist, which nearly disabled him so far as paddling was
concerned. Worse than this, his comrades had disappeared, and there
could not be the slightest doubt that their canoes had floated away with
them while they were sound asleep. What chance had he of finding them?
How could he get ashore, with his sprained wrist; and what probability
was there that the three boys thus carried away in their sleep would
escape from their dangerous situation without any serious accident?

As these questions presented themselves to Joe his first impulse was to
admit that he was completely disheartened and to burst into tears. He
was, however, far too manly to yield to it, and he immediately began to
think what was the best thing that he could do in the circumstances.

The water was perfectly smooth, so that there was really no danger that
the runaway canoes would capsize, unless their owners should start up in
a fright, and not fully understand that their canoes were no longer on
solid land. Neither was there much chance that they would be run down by
steamboats, for the steamboat channel was near the south shore of the
river, a long distance from the sand-spit. Joe remembered how fast the
tide had risen the day before, and he calculated that the missing canoes
must have been afloat about half an hour before the water reached the
place where he was sleeping. They would naturally drift in the same
direction in which the _Dawn_ was drifting; and all that it would be
necessary for Joe to do in order to overtake them would be to increase
the speed at which his canoe was moving.

There was a scarcely perceptible breeze blowing from the south. Joe got
up his mainmast and set his sail. Light as the breeze was, the canoe
felt it, and began to move through the water. Joe steered by the stars,
and kept the _Dawn_ as nearly as possible on the course which he
supposed the other canoes had taken. He had no lantern with him, and
could see but a little distance ahead in the dark, but he shouted every
few moments, partly in order to attract the attention of any of the
missing canoeists, and partly in order to warn any other boat that might
be in the neighborhood not to run him down.

After sailing in this way for at least an hour, and hearing no sound
whatever but his own voice and the creaking of the canoe's spars, Joe
was startled at perceiving a black object just ahead of him. He avoided
it with a vigorous movement of his paddle, and as he drifted close to it
with the wind shaken out of his sail he saw to his great delight that it
was a canoe.

It was the _Sunshine_, with her canoe-tent rigged over her, and her
commander sound asleep. Taking hold of her gunwale, Joe drew the two
canoes together, and put his hand gently on Harry's forehead. Harry
instantly awoke, and hearing Joe begging him as he valued his life to
lie perfectly still, took the latter's advice, and asked, with some
alarm, what was the matter. When he learned that he was adrift on the
river he sat up, took down his tent, and getting out his paddle, joined
in the search for Tom and Charley.

"They must be close by," said Harry, "for all three canoes must have
floated away at the same time. Tom and Charley sleep sounder than I do,
and if I didn't wake up, it's pretty certain that they didn't."

Presently Charley's canoe was overtaken. Charley had been awakened by
the sound of Harry's paddle and the loud tone in which Harry and Joe
were talking. He was sitting up when the _Dawn_ and the _Sunshine_
overtook him; and having comprehended the situation in which he found
himself on awaking, he was making ready to paddle ashore.

There was now only one canoe missing--the _Twilight_. Harry, Joe, and
Charley took turns in shouting at the top of their lungs for Tom, but
they could obtain no answer except the echo from the cliffs of the north
shore. They paddled up the river until they were certain that they had
gone farther than Tom could possibly have drifted, and then turned and
paddled down stream, shouting at intervals, and growing more and more
alarmed at finding no trace of the lost canoe.

"She can't have sunk, that's one comfort," exclaimed Harry, "for the
bladders that Tom put in her at Chambly would keep her afloat, even if
he did manage to capsize her in the dark."

"He took the bladders out yesterday morning, and left them on the sand
just in the lee of his canoe," said Charley. "Don't you remember that he
sponged her out after we landed, and that he said that he wouldn't put
his things back into her until we were ready to start?"

"I remember it now," replied Harry. "And I remember that I did the same
thing. There's nothing in my canoe now except my water-proof bag and my
blankets. But they're not of much consequence compared with Tom. Boys,
do you really think he's drowned?"

"Of course he isn't," cried Joe. "We'll find him in a few minutes. He
must be somewhere near by, and he's sleeping so sound that he don't hear
us. You know how hard it is to wake him up."

"Tom is a first-rate swimmer, and if he has spilled himself out of his
canoe, and she has sunk, he has swum ashore," said Charley. "My opinion
is that we had better stay just where we are until daylight, and then
look for him along the shore. He's worth a dozen drowned fellows,
wherever he is."

Charley's advice was taken, and the boys waited for daylight as
patiently as they could. Daylight--or rather dawn--came in the course of
an hour, but not a glimpse of the missing canoe did it afford. The tide
had already changed, and the top of the treacherous sand-spit was once
more above water, and not very far distant from the canoes. As soon as
it was certain that nothing could be seen of Tom on the water, his
alarmed comrades paddled toward the north shore, hoping that they might
find him, and possibly his canoe, somewhere at the foot of the rocks.

They were again unsuccessful. While Joe sailed up and down along the
shore, the two other boys paddled close to the rocks, and searched every
foot of space where it would have been possible for a canoe to land, or
a canoeist to keep a footing above the water. They had searched the
shore for a full mile above the sand-spit, and had paddled back nearly
half the way, when they were suddenly hailed; and looking up, saw Tom
standing on a ledge of rock ten feet above the water.

"Are you fellows going to leave me here all day?" demanded Tom. "I began
to think you were all drowned, and that I'd have to starve to death up
here."

[Illustration: "HOW IN THE WORLD DID YOU GET UP THERE?"]

"How in the world did you get up there?" "Where were you when we came by
here half an hour ago?" "Where's your canoe?" "Are you all right?" These
and a dozen other questions were hurled at Tom by his excited and
overjoyed friends.

"I was asleep until a few minutes ago," replied Tom. "I got up here when
the tide was high, and I had hard work to do it, too."

"What's become of your canoe? Is she lost?" asked Harry.

"She's somewhere at the bottom of the river. I tried to turn over in her
in the night, thinking she was on the sand-spit, but she turned over
with me, and sunk before I could make out what had happened."

"And then you swam ashore?"

"Yes. I saw the north-star, and knew that if I could swim long enough, I
could find the shore. When I struck these rocks I was disappointed, for
I couldn't find a place where I could land until I got my hands on this
ledge, and drew myself up."

"Unless Tom wants to stay where he is, we'd better invent some way of
taking him with us," remarked Joe.

"He'll have to get into my canoe," said Harry.

"How deep is the water where you are?" asked Tom.

"It's anywhere from six feet to sixty. I can't touch bottom with the
paddle, so it's certain to be more than seven-feet deep."

"Then, if you'll please to give me room, I'll jump, and somebody can
pick me up."

Tom jumped into the water, and had little trouble in climbing into
Harry's canoe, the water being perfectly quiet. The fleet then paddled
back to the sand-spit, where they landed and breakfasted, while Tom
dried his clothes by the fire.

Every member of the expedition except Joe had lost something, and poor
Tom had lost his canoe and everything except the clothes which he was
wearing. As long as the water continued to be smooth Tom could be
carried in either Harry's or Charley's canoe, but in case the wind and
sea should rise it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to keep
the canoe right side up with two persons in her. Quebec was still at
least twenty-five miles distant, and it would take nearly a whole day of
very hard work to paddle a heavy canoe, with two boys in her, only one
of whom was furnished with a paddle, twenty-five miles, even in the most
favorable circumstances. Moreover, Joe's sprained wrist made it
impossible for him to paddle, and the wind was so light that sailing to
Quebec was out of the question.

It was therefore decided that Harry should take Joe in the _Sunshine_
back to the Jacques Cartier, and leaving him to walk to the nearest
railway station, should return to the sand-spit and join Tom and Charley
in paddling down to Quebec, Tom taking Joe's canoe. Although the boys
had originally intended to end their cruise at Quebec, they had become
so fond of canoeing that they would gladly have gone on to the Saguenay
River and, if possible, to Lake St. John; but now that Tom was without a
canoe, no one thought of prolonging the cruise.

Quebec was reached by the fleet several hours after Joe had arrived
there by the train. He was at the landing-place to meet his comrades,
and had already made a bargain with a canal-boat man to carry the canoes
all the way to New York for five dollars each. As the _Sunshine_ was
fitted with hatches which fastened with a lock, and as it would be
necessary for the Custom-house officer at Rouse's Point to search her,
Harry wrote to the Custom-house at that place, giving directions how to
open the lock. It was a padlock without a key, one of the so-called
letter-locks which can be opened by placing the letters in such a
position that they spell some particular word. Harry had provided the
canoe with this lock expressly in order to avoid trouble at
Custom-houses, and in this instance the plan proved completely
successful, for the officer at Rouse's Point was able to unlock the
canoe and to lock it up again without a key.

The boys spent a night and a day at Quebec, and, after seeing their
canoes safely started, they took the train for New York. As they talked
over their cruise on the way home they agreed that canoeing was far more
delightful than any other way of cruising, and that they would go on a
canoe cruise every summer.

"As soon as I can afford it I shall get a new canoe," said Tom.

"Will you get a 'Rice Laker'?" asked Harry.

"Of course I will. My canoe was much the best boat in the fleet, and I
shall get another exactly like her."

"There's no doubt that you are a genuine canoeist, Tom," said Charley.
"You've had lots of trouble with your canoe because she had no deck, and
at last she sank and nearly drowned you, because she had no water-tight
compartments; but for all that you really think that she was the best
canoe ever built. Is everybody else convinced that his own canoe is the
best in the world?"

"I am," cried Joe.

"And I am," cried Harry.

"So am I," added Charley; "and as this proves that we are all thorough
canoeists, we will join the American Canoe Association, and cruise under
its flag next summer."

THE END.




HOW TO MAKE A TOOL CHEST.

BY AN OLD BOY.


Carpentering is such a useful, healthy, and pleasing employment that
boys will do well to learn the use of tools for convenience in making
their own toys, traps, sleds, etc., even if they are never called upon
to do some little "job" for their mothers.

Of course if a boy can afford to buy a full set of tools and chest, this
particular article will have but little interest for him, as it is
especially intended for those who must begin on an economical scale.

The tools absolutely needed, and which can be purchased for the least
money, are: a handsaw, about 20 inches long, which can be used to cut
crosswise as well as lengthwise of the wood; a tenon-saw, about 12
inches long, for cutting dovetails, and also across the grain of the
wood; a smoothing-plane, about 8 inches long by 2-1/2 inches broad; a
mallet; a joiner's hammer; a two-foot rule of box-wood; a set square;
two chisels, one an eighth of an inch broad, and the other
three-eighths; a screw-driver; a marking gauge; a gimlet; a brace, with
four or five bits of different sizes; a medium-sized gouge; and a
bench-dog to hold the wood on the bench when it is being planed. With
this assortment of tools the amateur carpenter will get on very well,
and he can add to the stock as he grows more expert in the business.

Do not make the mistake of undertaking a too elaborate piece of work at
first, for it is only by practice that you can come anywhere near
perfection; but let your first work be to make a box for your tools, and
see how neat a job you can make of it. You will want one about 2 feet
long, 21 inches broad, and 10-1/2 inches deep, for which the following
material will be required: 12 feet half-inch pine-wood 11 inches wide,
one pair of hinges or butts, 12 screws half an inch long, lock and key,
glue, and brads.

Cut the wood into pieces, as follows: For the sides, two pieces 24-1/2
inches long; for the ends, two pieces 21-1/2 inches long; for the lid,
two pieces 24-1/2 inches long; for the bottom, two pieces 24 inches
long. These dimensions should be marked off on the board with a rule and
pencil before they are cut. The sides and the ends should be planed on
both sides, and the top and bottom edges planed true and square. The
breadth of the wood will be 10-1/2 inches.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

[Illustration: FIG. 3.]

The best joint is the "dovetail." Fig. 1 shows the side with the
"dovetail" cut; Fig. 2, the end with the points cut; and Fig. 3 shows
the joint finished.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.]

To make the joint: on one of the sides of the box mark off lines with
the square 2 feet apart; also mark off lines 23 inches apart, and call
these lines A and B, as in Fig. 4. Mark on the line A points every inch
and half-inch alternately; on the line B mark off a point seven-eighths
of an inch from B, and then points for every six-eighths of an inch.

[Illustration: FIG. 5.]

Now draw lines from the points on line A to the points on line B, as
shown in Fig. 5. Cut with a tenon-saw from C to D and from E to F,
treating each dovetail in the same way. With a chisel cut the piece out
so as to form a dovetail, as in Fig. 1. The pins are now to be drawn to
correspond with the dovetails, which can be done by placing the
dovetails just made over the end of the short sides, or ends, and
marking them with a pencil. When this is done, make lines 20 inches
apart; cut the pins down to this line with the tenon-saw. In cutting the
pins, cut outside the pencil lines. The space can then be cut out with a
chisel.

When all the pieces have been done in this manner, they should be coated
with thin glue, and then hammered well together. When dry, the
projecting ends of the pins and dovetails may be trimmed off with a
chisel. This is called the "shell" of the box.

The bottom is to be put on next. Plane the two pieces 24 inches long by
11 inches wide, and fit them neatly in the shell. They should be nailed
from outside the box.

[Illustration: FIG. 6.]

The lid pieces are planed up next so as to fit _outside_ the shell. Fig.
6 is the box when finished. A is a piece of wood two inches deep, nailed
on the lid to keep it square on the box; B B is a beading of wood nailed
on the box to make a strong base; and also to protect the edges from
chipping.




[Illustration: A SPLENDID TEAM.]




[Illustration]

WILD-DUCKS.


  Pretty pair of wild-ducks
    Upon the water clear
  To and fro softly go,
    Whilst heron fishes near.
  I wonder if they see two eyes
    Peep at them where they pass.

  For Humphrey sly, with gun close by,
    Is crouching on the grass;
  They _may_ not see, but--oh, dear me!
    I hope they'll fly away.
  With might and main, to come again
    Quite safe another day.




OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.


With this number Volume III. of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE reaches its
conclusion. Next week we shall begin Volume IV.

It has given us very great pleasure to learn from the little people who
have written to the Post-office Box how delighted they have been with
the beautiful pictures, fascinating serials, droll sketches, and amusing
short stories which HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE has brought them so regularly.

We have tried to forget nobody. The big brothers have found tales of
adventure and experiments in science for their special entertainment.
The young ladies have been provided with useful hints for the
work-table, and suggestions for novel and pretty things in home
decoration. The wee tots have had silvery jingles and funny rhymes. The
keen-witted little fellows and the clever girls who like to crack such
nuts have had plenty to do in making or solving the puzzles which have
been given in every number. Occasional pieces of music have tempted the
little pianists and vocalists of the future. The Wiggles continue to
stimulate the skill of little artists.

Nothing has gratified the publishers more than their success in
satisfying careful parents and teachers who desire to furnish their
young folks with wholesome, sprightly, and interesting reading. The
private letters which they have received from many sources, as well as
the unanimous verdict of the press, encourage them to persevere in
making YOUNG PEOPLE better and better, so that the future may be as
brilliant as the past has been promising.

The Post-office Box is a very popular department with all our readers.
Its columns are open to all, and are lovingly and carefully edited from
week to week. It affords the children an opportunity to see and hear how
life is conducted in different places. To older eyes it presents
captivating pictures of child life, and of the delights of children
everywhere--in the city, on the farm, abroad, in school, on the lonely
outpost in the far West, and around the mother's knee in the happy home.

The Exchange Department is educational, and while it assists our young
readers in adding to their collections, it enables them to learn
something practically of geography and history, and puts at their
disposal one more resource against idleness and the mischief it bring in
its train.

Our next volume will be brighter and more attractive than any which has
preceded it. We have many good things in store, and we shall spare
neither pains nor expense to make HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE the leading
weekly periodical in the world for English-speaking children.

The price--$1.50 per year--places it within the means of all. We hope
our present subscribers will try to obtain new ones. Boys and girls can
do this by simply showing the paper to their friends. Our list is a very
long one now, but we wish to make it longer, for the larger the number
of subscribers, the fuller of entertainment and instruction, of beauty
and fun, can we afford to make YOUNG PEOPLE.

Let everybody, therefore, join hands with us, and help along. The
beginning of a new volume is a good time to subscribe.

       *       *       *       *       *

  SCENERY HILL, PENNSYLVANIA.

     I am a little boy nine years old. I have three little sisters;
     their names are Margie, Jessie, and Nellie. Margie is six years
     old, Jessie is five, and Nellie is three. I live at West
     Alexandria, Penn. My papa is a school-teacher, and I go to school.
     Now I am on a visit at my auntie's, and have been for the last
     three months. They have no little boy here, so I have plenty to do
     and a little time to play. I have made a Noah's Ark out of stiff
     paper. My auntie is helping me make the animals. We take the paper
     double, gum the pattern on, leaving the head or back joined, and
     when done they will stand upright. I have been taking YOUNG PEOPLE
     two years, and like it very much. Auntie gave it to me for a
     present. I did not like the way "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" ended.

  W. S. H.

       *       *       *       *       *

The kind lady who sends us this story of her pet squirrel will always
find a corner ready for her in the Post-office Box. We have not
forgotten about the motherly hen of which she wrote us once before--the
hen who spread her warm wings over a brood of kittens. The Postmistress
thinks she never heard of anything prettier than the incident in this
letter about the squirrel who tucked her naughty baby in under the maple
leaves:

OUR PET SQUIRREL.

     One summer morning, several years ago, we found a gray squirrel
     sitting on the arbor by the door, and though a stranger to our
     house, she was not at all disturbed by our presence, but seemed
     quite at home. All day she played on the trees and fences, coming
     nearer and nearer, as if to show us that she was not at all afraid,
     but quite used to society. In a few days my little boy and she had
     become good friends. She would sit on his knee and eat nuts and
     biscuit, but all the while watching him with her bright eyes ready
     to spring away, for notwithstanding her pretty gentle ways she
     never permitted any one to touch her. She certainly feared being
     captured; and I have no doubt she had been a pet, and kept in a
     cage, and had run away to taste the sweets of liberty. So we never
     interfered with her, and after a while she went to housekeeping in
     a cozy corner under the roof of the lodge, and one happy day out
     she came with three little squirrels. Oh, what frolics that mother
     and her children had! Such racing and chasing across the lawn, and
     over the fences, and up in the trees, springing from branch to
     branch, and sitting up so cunningly, to eat their treasures of nuts
     and seeds! They, were very naughty too, and would peep into the
     nests of the robins, and the old birds would chase them, and whip
     them with their wings.

     The young squirrels never became tame, but the mother grew more and
     more familiar, and very saucy she was too. When the servants came
     down in the morning, she was always waiting for them by the kitchen
     door, impatient for her breakfast; and she would run back and
     forth, jump on the table, and tease the cook until she gave her
     something to eat. She was very fond of sweet-potatoes, and would
     help herself liberally, and would carry off the end of a loaf of
     bread half as large as herself.

     As the young ones grew up they made nests for themselves, but they
     were never half as wise as their mother, and gave us lots of
     trouble--filling up a pipe-hole with sticks and straws, gnawing
     their way into the loft, and tearing into shreds everything their
     pretty hands could hold or their sharp teeth destroy, and racing
     over the roof at "peep of day" like a troop of tiny cavalry.

     One pair made a home in the crotch of an old apple-tree, and raised
     a little family. One afternoon we found that a little one had
     strayed into a tree close by the window; it was after sunset, and
     bedtime for squirrels, but the little thing had nestled down
     between two of the branches, and would not move. The young mother
     was greatly distressed; she pushed and pulled, but no, the little
     one would not stir. After a while she ran away, and returned with a
     bunch of maple leaves in her mouth, which she spread over the baby,
     patting them down with her hands; this she did many times until the
     little truant was closely covered, and then ran off to where her
     good children were safely curled down for the night. When we came
     down in the morning the leafy coverlid was off, and the little one
     gone.

     But no matter how cunning were the young squirrels, the dear old
     mother was always our favorite. Many little families she raised in
     the corner under the roof; but after three years of her happy life
     a swelling came on her throat, and she could not eat. She must have
     suffered very much; and she would come to us many times a day as if
     for relief, but all we could do was to talk to her, and call her
     pet names.

     One day she came into the hall and jumped on my little boy's knee:
     for the first time she allowed him to stroke and caress her. She
     was very gentle, and did everything but talk; and it seemed as if
     we ought to have understood that it was her farewell. We offered
     her food, but she was very weak, and at length went away, and we
     never saw her again. No doubt she left us to die. Dear little
     Bunnie! I wonder if you knew how much we loved you!

  F. T. C.

       *       *       *       *       *

  STOCKPORT, NEW YORK.

     I saw the comet, for the first time, about two weeks ago. I think
     that there is something very funny about them--the way that they
     rise and set, just like suns with a tail. My father says he thought
     when he was a boy that they were angels flying with all their glory
     spread out behind them, and again that they were a world on its way
     to destruction. There is a parish school here. I go to it. I study
     arithmetic, geography, spelling, reading, writing, and then there
     is a catechism class which I belong to. There is the Agassiz
     Association, which I belong to also. The teacher, Mr. H., is
     president of this. But I must stop now. So good-by.

  ROBBIE V. R. R.

If you were not a nineteenth-century boy, Robbie, but instead had lived
three or four hundred years ago, you would have been terribly afraid of
so splendid a comet as the one which we have all been gazing at lately
with so much wonder and delight. In the Middle Ages the appearance of a
comet was thought to be a sign of some dreadful evil which would shortly
come to pass, and old and young were thankful when the mysterious orb
was no longer to be seen in the sky.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BRANDY STATION, VIRGINIA.

     I have a little sister named Emily, and one day she was very
     thirsty, and she put her hands around the pitcher and said, "You
     sweet water!" We have three little cousins visiting us now; we have
     a very nice time playing together. My brother Frankie was very
     proud of his letter. We are going to commence school very soon now.
     We have had a good many peaches this year, not in our orchard, but
     out on the farm. Good-by, for dinner is ready.

  RENA L. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

  FARLEY, VIRGINIA.

     I see all the little boys and girls are writing about their pets. I
     have a pet dog; he is an immense dog. His color is chestnut brown.
     I am trying to tie him, but his neck is so big that every time I
     tie him he slips the collar off. I tied it so tightly that it
     choked him, but he slipped it. I wish somebody would tell me how to
     tie him. The pet duck I told you of before takes care of a pet
     chicken that belongs to my sister Rena.

  FRANK S., JUN.

I could never have the heart to tie so splendid a dog. I would allow him
his liberty if I were you, Frank. But if any of the boys can think of a
way to help you, they may write to the Post-office Box and give their
method. Only never tie any poor animal so tightly that you choke him. We
would not like such treatment ourselves.

       *       *       *       *       *

  WALTON, NEW YORK.

     DEAR POSTMISTRESS,--I thought I would write to you, and tell you
     about a nice visit we had from friends. Cousin Temple and I played
     cars with my blocks, and when we got tired of playing cars we
     played circus with a tin cow and a horse on springs, and then we
     picked up leaves, and Temple got a whole bagful of them to carry to
     Michigan with him. I send a Wiggle to you. Good-by.

  HELEN R. S.

You must have had grand times, dear, especially playing circus. I hope
nothing was broken. Your Wiggle came safely.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LAMBERTVILLE, NEW JERSEY.

     I thought I would tell you about my pet, but he is dead now. He was
     a cat, and the nicest cat I ever had. He played hide-and-seek with
     me, and tag, and a good many other things. We think he was
     poisoned. I have a brother who takes your paper, and I take it to
     school, and the teacher reads the stories to the boys and girls. I
     like Jimmy Brown's stories ever so much. I would like him to come
     and see me.

  MARY R.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA.

     I am a little girl. I live out in the country during the summer;
     papa has a lovely summer home there. We have lovely flowers all
     around our house. I have a pet cat; if I sit down to my lunch, she
     will come and sit beside me, and will cry until I give her her
     lunch, and then she will come up and rub against my skirts, as
     much as to say, "Thanks." I have also a dog. We have hot-houses
     with lovely rare plants in them.

  JULIA L.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CLIFTON, STATEN ISLAND.

     We have written to YOUNG PEOPLE once before, and our letter was not
     printed. We have ten dolls and four cats, which latter mamma thinks
     are entirely too many. They are quite a happy family--grandmother,
     mother, and two kittens--one of which we found in the garden, and
     it makes quite a nice playmate for the other. We send you two
     Wiggle pictures; they are the first we have tried. We like Jimmy
     Brown's stories very much, and wish he would write oftener.

  LAURA and MARION L. Q.

The Wiggles were duly given to our artist. I agree with your mamma that
four cats are three too many, but I do not expect that you will think as
I do.

       *       *       *       *       *

The rhymes which follow were "made up" by a little woman of six, and I
think they are very good for one so young:

IN THE BARN.

  Once Nellie said to Susie: "It's no fun
  Playing in this very hot sun,
  Let's go and play with little Rover--
    She is nice, with her puppies all;
  You take your shade hat out of the clover,
    And I will take my parasol."

  Then all at once, as they said this,
  Came walking along their Uncle Bliss.
  "Why, children, where are you going this hot day?"
  "Oh, we are going into the barn to play."
  "Then, children, I must say good-day--
  I hope you'll have fine fun among the hay;
  Though I must go, I'll send down Joe,
  And you and she will have fun, I know.
  Tell Rover to take care of you,
  Don't let the calf eat up your shoe;
  Now once more I say adieu,
  And come each and give a kiss
  To your old loving Uncle Bliss."

  They went to the barn and opened the door.
  There they saw Rover curled up on the floor,
  She wanted them to see her puppies three,
  And held out her little black paw.
  Suddenly they heard a noise--oh, where were the boys?--
  In came walking the oxen and all the cows,
  Which frightened the children so they hid in the mows;
  The dog then did bark and sent them away,
  And the children came crawling out of the hay.
  Then, as the day grew dim and dark,
  And the little dog had ceased to bark,
  They said to each other good-night,
  And hurried to bed by candle-light,
  And soon were tucked all snug in bed,
  And on top of each pillow lay a little head.

  J. W. K.

And here is another verselet by a six-year-old:

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.

     I have a little sister Agnes six years old, who wrote this verse
     about a cat we had, called Romeo, and I think it is so good that I
     hope you will print it with this letter in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

  MAUD.

  There dwelt once in a Brooklyn town
    A little cat with fur;
  Sometimes he would lick himself,
    And sometimes he would purr;
  His breast was as white as snow,
  And this cat's name was Romeo.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our next letter is from a wide-awake little fellow who will remember
when his hair is gray how he saw the President driving through Boston
streets. Who knows but that O. D. may one day himself be a Governor or a
President. I am very sure that a good many future statesmen are among
the boy readers of YOUNG PEOPLE:

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS.

     I saw the President last Wednesday when he came to Boston. He rode
     in a carriage drawn by four white horses. By his side sat Governor
     Long, and in the front of the carriage was the President's son. The
     escort was two companies of lancers. All the way down Dover Street
     the people were packed; it was nothing but cheers all the way. The
     President was then driven to the Common; a salute was fired as he
     went through the Charles Street gate. He staid on the Common for
     about one hour. As he came up Beacon Street there were people all
     along the State-house railing. I never saw so many people in my
     life. The Governor kept talking to the President all along Beacon
     Street. The President was tired, I think, of having to bow so many
     times, for he bowed every time the people cheered.

     The procession then went down School Street into Washington Street,
     and into Dock Square. The best thing of all was when it stopped on
     Commercial Street. He called a bootblack up to his carriage, shook
     hands with him, asked him his name, and where he lived.

     Do all boys and girls know how envelopes are made? Well, I will
     tell you. First 350 sheets of paper are put in a press. Then a
     knife in the shape of the envelope is put upon the paper; then the
     knife is pressed through the paper, and when they are taken out of
     the press they are in the shape of an envelope. Next they have to
     be gummed, then folded, and then they are ready for use.

  O. D.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ZELIENOPLE, PENNSYLVANIA.

     I never have seen a letter in YOUNG PEOPLE from this place, so I
     thought I would write one. I was eleven years old the 20th of
     August; it was on Sunday, and I was born on Sunday. I have two
     sisters and one brother. His name is Willie, and for a long time he
     called himself Wibbo Pitto. He is four years old. He often says he
     wishes it was the day for HARPER'S "LUNG" PEOPLE to come. I have a
     dear little sister almost two years old; her name is Mary. She puts
     an _o_ to nearly everything. Our horse's name is Billy, and she
     calls him Billo. My other sister's name is Lizzie, and she is nine
     years old. I was at the Centennial at Hannastown, Westmoreland
     County, in this State, on July 13. One hundred years ago it was
     burned by the Indians. I have an uncle living there now. I am
     taking music lessons now, and my teacher says I play very well.
     Papa gave me HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for a New-year's present, and I
     like it very much. I like to read the Post-office Box.

  BLANCHE C.

       *       *       *       *       *

  GREEN BAY, WISCONSIN.

     Will you please tell me if I can get the back numbers of "Mr.
     Stubbs's Brother," and how much they will cost, from No. 127 to
     133, both inclusive, and from 136 to 140, both inclusive? And
     please tell me what a girl who is fourteen years old, and goes to
     school five days in the week, can do to earn money. Please answer
     through your paper, and oblige

  MARY E. B.

You may procure the numbers you mention by writing to Messrs. Harper &
Brothers. They will cost 48 cents.

I would advise a girl of your age to study hard, and prepare herself to
earn money in future, rather than to try to earn it while going to
school. You might earn some, however, as a young friend of mine did, by
crocheting little sacques and socks for a store. She did this in leisure
moments, and was very well paid. If you know how to darn and patch very
neatly, you might do that on Saturday afternoons for some busy
housekeeper, who would pay you for your work. If I knew more about what
you have learned to do, I could give you better advice.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tell you what to make for Christmas, Daisy, Belle, and Theo? I am glad,
dear little girls, that you are beginning thus early to think what
pretty and useful gifts you may contrive.

One needs a great deal of time to make presents, which must, of course,
be secrets from those they are intended for until the happy day arrives.
Half the pleasure of Christmas consists in its beautiful surprises.

No gifts are more highly prized than those young people make with their
own hands. It is so delightful, as one looks at a pretty or a useful
thing, to see and feel that weeks and weeks ago a dear and loving child
put her own occupations aside that she might give a token of affection
to a darling mother or a sweet elder sister.

It is always a good plan to find out what people would like or are in
need of. If you listen, you may some morning hear mamma say, "How I wish
I had a pretty breakfast cap or a little shawl to throw over my
shoulders." Perhaps papa will wish, as he is cutting the leaves of his
magazine with his pen-knife, that he had a proper paper-knife. Grandma
may be in want of a work-basket to hold her knitting. Alice may greatly
desire a music-roll. Brother Artie, who often takes little journeys,
would find a use for a pretty contrivance which you could make of
burlaps and work with worsted--a sort of dressing-case to hold combs,
brushes, and razors, the whole rolling up and taking a very little space
in his travelling-bag.

For little children no more useful present can be thought of than a
scrap-book. I have seen some very lovely ones, in which all the pages
were filled with the advertisement cards and pictures which you are so
fond of collecting. I heard of a puzzle scrap-book not long ago. A young
lady made it by cutting out and pasting in order the enigmas, square
words, diamonds, and conundrums which she found in the papers and
magazines taken at her house. This sort of scrap-book would please a
bright, quick-witted boy, and by means of it a family could find a great
deal of fun on a winter evening.

How could you make a paper-cutter? Very easily if you know how to paint,
as many of you do. Take a smooth slender piece of white-wood, and paint
on it a bunch of violets, an ivy leaf, or something else that is pretty.

It is sometimes very pleasant for the boys and girls in a family to form
a little club, and adding what money they have, join together in making
a nice present to papa or mamma. Remember, dears, it is not the cost of
a gift that makes people value it; it is the love it shows on the part
of the giver.

Next week I will tell you of two or three other pretty things.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO NEW READERS.--We wish to call the attention of our new readers to a
little matter which, while very small indeed to each of them
individually, becomes an affair of importance to the Messrs. Harper &
Brothers, who receive many hundreds of letters every day. All letters
should be fully prepaid at the rate of three cents per half-ounce. No
letter containing writing, even if only a signature, is carried by the
Post-office Department from one city or town to another for one cent, or
for two cents. Three cents is necessary on the very shortest letter, and
if not paid in full by the sender, the deficiency must be made up by the
receiver. Please pay attention to this when writing to the publishers of
your favorite YOUNG PEOPLE.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

FOUR WORD SQUARES.

1.--1. A tree. 2. A period of time. 3. Low. 4. To perceive.

2.--1. A rustic. 2. A thought. 3. Not distant. 4. Gloomy.

  NEPTUNE.

3.--1. An animal. 2. Liquors. 3. To gather. 4. To look closely.

4.--1. A bird. 2. Anger. 3. A monster. 4. To lament.

  AUBERY.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.

THREE DIAMONDS.

1.--1. A letter. 2. A vessel. 3. An Asiatic peninsula. 4. Minstrels. 5.
Wants. 6. A Latin root meaning skill. 7. A letter.

  NEPTUNE.

2.--1. A letter. 2. A small and busy insect. 3. A surgical instrument.
4. A boat. 5. A poetic friend of Mr. Pickwick. 6. Stiff. 7. An article
useful in cold weather. 8. A poisonous reptile. 9. A letter.

  C. F. H.

3.--1. A letter. 2. An abbreviation. 3. Savory. 4. Figurative. 5. More
refined. 6. A fish found in the Severn River. 7. A letter.

  VOGIENE.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.

ENIGMA.

  First is in learn, not in school.
  Second in smart, not in fool.
  Third is in fast, not in slow.
  Fourth is in buzzard, not in crow.
  Fifth is in crayon, not in chalk.
  Sixth is in run, not in walk.
  The whole is the name of a river known
  To all who its course on the map have shown.

  C. W. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 154.

No. 1.

        L                J
      T U N            P A P
    T E N O R        P A N E D
  L U N A T I C    J A N I T O R
    N O T E D        P E T I T
      R I D            D O T
        C                R

        N
      N I P
    N E G R O
  N I G G A R D
    P R A T E
      O R E
        D

No. 2.

  T W O    N E W    H A T
  W E D    E W E    A W E
  O D E    W E N    T E N

No. 3.

Saratoga.

       *       *       *       *       *

The answer to "Who Was He, and What Did He Invent?" on page 816 of No.
155 is George Stephenson.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from E. C. DeWitt, Charles
H. Weigle, Aubery, Lulu Laidlaw, "W. H. Eat," Edward F. Stewart, Henry
Berlan, Jun., A. G. C. B., Frank D. Brewster, A. Bloomingdale, Robin
Dyke, Eva Richie, Lou Fairley, Ambrose Edgewood, "Junebug," Roy Dodd,
Michael T., Abe Secor, Carrie F., "Rose-in-Bloom," "Lodestar," "Two
Dromios."

       *       *       *       *       *

[_For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover._]




[Illustration: REBUS.]




ENIGMA.

(_From the German._)

  Above a dull gray sea behold
    A bridge of opal gleaming bright;
  Ere one swift moment could be told
    It sprung up to its giddy height.

  The mightiest ship, with tallest mast,
    Beneath its arch could issue free.
  No foot across it e'er hath passed;
    Approach it, and it seems to flee.

  It rises where the streams abound,
    And falls when'er the floods are laid.
  Now tell me where that bridge is found,
    And who its mighty arch has made.

       *       *       *       *       *

MINING UNDER THE OCEAN.

Mines under the earth are, indeed, interesting places to visit, but
mines under the sea are more wonderful still. In England the latter are
quite common, and great mineral riches have been extracted from rocks
beneath the rolling ocean.

The St. Just Cornish mining district, on the borders of the Atlantic,
has been long celebrated for the peculiar position of its mines, which
extend thousands of feet under the bottom of the sea. The Botallack Mine
extends some three thousand feet below the level of the ocean, and in
what is called the Crowns the excavations have been carried upward of
half a mile out under the water, which distance has been gradually
increasing, in consequence of the ore dipping rapidly away seaward. The
rocks under the sea have been worked away so close in some places that
only a few feet of rock remain to keep out the waters of the Atlantic.
Even in the finest weather the rolling of the pebbles with the swell of
the ocean can be heard with greater distinctness than on the beach
itself, and during great storms the noise is so appalling that, although
certain that there is no real danger, the workmen are often anxious.

A writer who was once underground in the same mine during a storm says:
"At the extremity of the mine-workings little could be heard of its
effects except at intervals, when the reflux of some unusually large
wave projected a pebble outward, bounding and rolling over the rocky
bottom; but when standing beneath the base of the cliff, and in that
part of the mine where but nine feet of rock stood between us and the
ocean, the heavy roll of the large bowlders, the ceaseless grinding of
the pebbles, the fierce thundering of the billows, with the crackling
and boiling as they rebounded, placed a tempest in its most appalling
form too vividly before me to be ever forgotten. More than once,
doubting the protection of our rocky shield, we retreated in affright,
and it was only after repeated trials that we had confidence to pursue
our investigations."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES.

"WHAT! _ALL_ THAT FOR GRANDPA?"

"NO, DARLING; IT'S FOR YOU."

"OH, WHAT A LITTLE BIT!"]





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, October 31, 1882, by Various