Harper's Young People, October 31, 1882 / An Illustrated Weekly
Date: 2019-06-03T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's periodicals; American

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Young People, October 31, 1882

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Title: Harper's Young People, October 31, 1882

Author: Various

Release date: June 3, 2019 [eBook #59666]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, OCTOBER 31, 1882 ***

NAN.
THE SLIGHTED STRANGER.
THE BATTLE IN THE DARK.
"TO COVENTRY."
MARK OUTRIGGER MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE.
THE ANT COUNTRY.
THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.
HOW TO MAKE A TOOL CHEST.
WILD-DUCKS.
OUR POST_OFFICE BOX.

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.

"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.

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."

"THE THREE WALKED AWAY UP THE PATH."

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."

"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.

ew 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.

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."

"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]

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."

"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 2½ 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 10½ 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 24½ inches long; for the ends, two pieces 21½ inches long; for the lid, two pieces 24½ 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 10½ inches.

Fig. 1.

Fig. 2.

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.

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.

Fig. 4.

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.

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.

A SPLENDID TEAM.

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.]

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."

CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES.

"What! all that for Grandpa?"

"No, Darling; it's for you."

"Oh, what a Little Bit!"

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Begun in No. 146, Harper's Young People.

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Table of Contents

- NAN.

- Chapter I.

- Chapter II.

- [to be continued.]

- THE SLIGHTED STRANGER.

- A STORY FROM PLUTARCH. BY LILLIE E. BARR.

- THE BATTLE IN THE DARK.

- HOW GENERAL JACKSON RECEIVED THE BRITISH. BY GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON.

- "TO COVENTRY."

- MARK OUTRIGGER MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE.

- THE ANT COUNTRY.

- THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[1]

- Chapter XII.

- the end.

- HOW TO MAKE A TOOL CHEST.

- WILD-DUCKS.

- OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

- OUR PET SQUIRREL.

- IN THE BARN.

- PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS. No. 1. FOUR WORD SQUARES.

- No. 2. THREE DIAMONDS.

- No. 3. ENIGMA.

- ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 154. No. 1.

- No. 2.

- No. 3.

- ENIGMA.

- MINING UNDER THE OCEAN.

- FOOTNOTES:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE